wc 2181-49 words ove the NANO GOAL! /NaNo/Writing Doodle - Lester Santos Christmas

Christmas Santos Style

"Lester, you know I hate it when I have to play wingman," I said. "It is even worse because it is Christmas time.  This should be a season of good will and doing unto others. Don't you have any friends?"

"Bro, please.  There's no one like you.  This is a tradition. You don't want to be the first one to break tradition do you?  It's just once a year and Noel will be there," he said. "It isn't like it costs you anything. Besides, I have matching t-shirts for all of us."

"I hate you right now." I picked up a piping bag full of chocolate whipped creme frosting and aimed it at some dark chocolate cupcakes.  Why do people want maraschino cherries on these things? I had about six dozen cupcakes to decorate for the next day and about four dozen chocolate, chocolate chip cookies to bake off before I went home. It was already five o'clock and I had at least two more hours of work before I could knock off for the day.  I needed to be back at the bakery no later than three a.m. in order to get a start on the bread for the next business day. "One of us has a job."

"I work.  I just make sure I have enough time to play. I work hard. I play harder." If I wasn't his brother, he'd probably wiggle his eyebrows at me. It is sad when you can pretty much predict a pick up artist's moves and patterns.

Me? I never play. I work, go home, sleep, rinse and repeat, six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year.  When you own your own business, no matter how big it is, it consumes you all of the time.  Even when you are doing something with friends or family, you are thinking about the next time fruit will come in seasonally or if there is someone form the local trade school who can intern for free for a couple of months.  You're never really with the rest of the group. You know?

"What do the t-shirts say this year?" I asked.  Last year there was a picture of Betty Boop wearing a Santa's Elf outfit.  The caption said, "Naughty is the new nice." He hadn't ordered them in time and mine was too tight.  It kept coming untucked.  I was self conscious the whole night.

"You're gonna love it," he said.  He opened the bag he had under his jacket.  The shirt was a forest green with a fancy script and the silhouette of a sleigh and some reindeer.

"What does it say? I don't want to get too close to it and get flour all over it." I strained my eyes trying to make out the lettering, but it just wouldn't come into focus.

"You'd know if you ever wore your glasses," he said.  "Fine.  It says, 'Be naughty.  Save Santa the trip.' Pretty great, huh?"

"Sure.  Naughty. Christmas. Great. 

"Don't hate the player.  Hate the game." He reverted back to the stupid grin he used whenever he thought he was getting away with something; the girls had always liked it, I knew it for what it was.

Actually right now I wanted to hate our mother.  Hortencia Maria Santos had a lot to answer for.  She gave birth to three sons all with different fathers, not that that's a crime.  She actually named us for them.  Sort of.  Mom was with a guy in a Père Noël suit one Christmas when she was in France. Unfortunately, Mom couldn't spell pere like the French and so it became Pear Noel Santos.  Little wonder he preferred the name Noel to Pear.

Based on that logic, Mom should have named Lester Less is More because evidently his father had less than more in every department.  And he was a handsome stranger, and that almost became his name. Mom did pity Les and she gave him Lester Guapo.  Guapo the Spanish for gorgeous or handsome.  I don't know why she did that.  It has fed his ego ever since.  

"I don't like playing the game." I never had, but I did like the bar and the eggnog drinks that Noel made. It was the one time of year we actually spent more than fifteen minutes together, even if there were strangers around.

"Right. You do just fine."This is the time of year the chubby chasers come out en mass.  You'll probably get mobbed.  Come on, man, you've got the beard, the belly, and you always smell like gingersnaps.  You know you'll have a good time at the party. I'll let you go to bed early and if  you play your cards right you won't be alone."

"I'll go to your party just to see Noel and I'm only gonna stay for about an hour, eat, and leave."

"Fine.  Just promise you'll come.  I promised everyone you'd be there for pictures. I'm bringing a printer for the pictures so everyone has a keep sake."

Perfect.

"Leave the shirt and don't let the door hit you on the ass when you leave."

"See you at seven.  I owe you, bro." He grabbed a handful of slightly burned cookies off of the counter.  He didn't turn around to wave good-bye, just raised his hand as he walked out of the shop.

No shit he owed me.  He has owed me ever since he was a kid and I stopped the school bullies from shaking him down for his lunch money. I don't even know what he did to piss them off, but one black eye was all it took for me to do what the playground attendants refused to do - stand and look intimidating.  I never even said a word.  Three years is a big difference when you're in grammar school.

Noel owns a little bar where every day is Christmas.  He wanted to trade on his name and it gave him something to break the ice with customers.  He only had to decorate for one holiday and he can update the ornaments every year when they go on sale.  I make cookie dough for him in bulk, he freezes it and bakes it off as he needs it.  His toddies are amazing.  Butter and rum are perfect partners and you can improve almost any recipe if you add one or the other.

Lester offered to name the place when Noel was talking about going into business the North Pole.  He claimed he could get a discount on some good, used, stripper poles that had been painted to resemble candy canes. He thought it would add a touch of class to the joint.

Strippers, Lucite heels, and Jingle Bells.  The combination just spells class, doesn't it? It spells peace on earth and good will toward men to me. I think Noel bought one of the poles and had it installed in his bedroom, but I never go over to his place so I have no idea.

I got to the party a little after eight, freshly showered and in the requested t-shirt, fresh jeans, and boots. Next year, I'm asking him to make sure the shirts have long sleeves.  Winter in Trenton doesn't always mean snow, but it can be cold enough. Because I have a low threshold to cold, I grow a beard most winters.  It was full but not long.  Too long and the beard needs its own hairnet at the bakery and I'm just not into the look or feel of it.

"Dude, are you hooked up?" Noel asked.  

"Sure.  You can do a sound check with Lester whenever you want to see if I'm broadcasting."

At one point, Lester thought it would be funny to record the women's naughty lists to see if there was anyone he wanted to date.  Noel had agreed and fronted the money for the equipment.  This was the fifth year I'd done it.  Does it make me a heel? Yeah, it does.  But the women at the party all know Lester and Noel and so they know something is up. If they didn't know, they'd learn fairly quickly. 

Noel handed me a goodie bag and escorted me to my throne for the night.  "Ladies, the man of the hour is here.  The only real and true Santa to ever live in Trenton, New Jersey. He's available to hear about just how naughty you've been this year."

I smiled on cue because I had to.  I also cursed my mother under my breath because my father was a department store Santa Claus who was nice to her until the season was over.  Department of Children and Family Services had a hard time tracking down a middle aged, white, overweight man with a great laugh.  So she gave me the only name she thought she could, Santa.  It was that or the Candy Man because that was how he referred to himself.  "Little girl, come sit on the candy man's lap and get a peppermint stick."

"You can't really be Santa," a Hooters wanna be said.  "You aren't old enough and your skin is too dark."

I reached into my back pocket and withdrew my wallet and offered to show anyone who wanted to see it that my name was indeed Santa Santos.  After all of the oohing and ahhing over the validity of my license, I finally got it back into my pants.

I unzipped my jacket to display the theme shirt. I rolled my head from side to side in a vain attempt to crack it, rotated my shoulders a couple of times in each direction, and hoped that no one would pass the unspoken five minute rule. If you can't tell me everything about me you want me to know, in under five minutes, you don't need to tell me.

When Lester decided he wanted to have his own annual Christmas party featuring me as Santa, I called him on it.  

"Why can't I just bake for you?"

"Bro, look at you.  You look just like the man. You don't have enough grey hair yet, but I can either take you for some highlights or we can spray some glitter in until you get older."

"You do know what a jack ass you are, don't you?"

"I'm just looking to spread Christmas cheer."

"As long as you don't spread Christmas STDs."

He put his hand in front of his crotch. "Don't even say anything like that.  Do you have some salt I can throw over my shoulder for luck?"

"Or any Christmas bab-"

"No.  You can't even joke about a holy condom.  That's how each of us got here." 

He searched my cupboards for a salt shaker. I placed a ramekin of the kosher stuff in his hand. "Use as much as you want.  I'll sweep it up later." 

"Which shoulder?"

"I don't know.  Toss a little over each one.  Maybe you should find an alter and do a ritual to keep the fertility goddess away."

"Good idea.  I'll get right on that. Got any broken cookies I can eat?"

"Careful, don't eat too many of those," I said.  "You'll look like me if you do." I patted my stomach.  I'm not as heavy as I was when I first opened the bakery, but my abs aren't flat and I don't have the time to go to the gym.  

He looked at me and said, "You really think I'll ever let that happen? Sorry.  Just shooting my mouth off."

According to Mom there was a ritual and she'd used it but did something backward each time.  Then again, Mom had a boyfriend who was cheap and would use a condom, turn it inside out and use the other side.  Brilliance wasn't something Mom looked for in her boyfriends.

"Whatever, Les. Look I need to get back to work.  When's the party."

And so was born the Annual Santos Family Reunion and Christmas Fiesta.  Noel provided the location and liquor.  I provided the baked goods and played Santa to any of the party goers.  Les was in charge of the guest list.  

In under an hour and a half, I interviewed no less than twenty-three girls.  Some of the girls had just one naughty thing to confess to Santa and got ejected by Lester pretty quickly.  The ones who had extensive lists full of any number of naughty tricks were taken to the back room by Noel for further interrogation.

After the last brunette climbed down and got her complimentary eggnog flavored condoms and peppermint dental dams, I finally got to go the buffet and eat before I went home.

A short blond with spiky hair recommended the bagel bites.  What says Christmas party like catering from the Costco frozen food department.  At least they weren't serving corn dogs this year.

"So, Santa, what do you want for Christmas?"

“Someone to rub my feet when I get home,” I said.  I put three of the bagel wonders on my paper plate.  The egg rolls were already gone.  There were only about six pot stickers left.

“That’s all?” she asked.

“Pretty much.  I don’t need anything. Nice of you to ask, Shelly.”

“How did you know my name?” she asked.

I raised an eyebrow at her.  “You were just on my lap. I’m good with names and faces.”

“Wow. I feel like a fool.” She looked down and blushed.  “So if I give you a foot rub, will that put me on the naughty list or the nice one?”

“Right now, the nice list.”

“If I rub anything else?”

I didn’t say anything, just smiled.  “Want to find out?”

wc1059 /NaNo/Writing Doodle

The house was cleared of the superfluous things that had always occupied it. There was no sign my grandmother had ever lived in it, much less raised two generations of xxx here.  

I spent hours filling holes in plaster, reframing doors, and pulling up the ancient carpet.  When I was a kid, the wood floors were considered dated, so she covered them with a sage green carpet that was warm on my feet and didn't squeak when I traipsed to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  The color original  of the floorboards was warm and polished to a high sheen; there's nothing quite like real wood.  The laminates might be the rage, but in total truth, they just don't hold a candle next to the real thing.

Grandma wanted a full house inspection done before the house was sold.  She didn't want any issues for the next owner to contend with.

"Bernie, if you treat people honestly and with integrity, you can never go wrong," she said.

While it was true, I was the one having a hard time with her selling the house.  It was the one constant in my life.  So little changed about it that when times were tough, I knew it would always be there waiting for me.  Sure, my bedroom had morphed and changed over the years and the last several it served as her craft and computer room, but there was still enough floor space for me to use if I really needed to sleep here.

My dad had a crew double check the plumbing, ensuring there were no leaks and all the drains worked correctly. The crew that came to check the electric installed additional gfi plugs in the kitchen.  Ground fault interupts weren't the standard seventy or eighty years ago when the house was built, but it is something people do expect now.  for safety reasons, there was no reason not to.

There was an elm tree in the back of the house where I carved my initials as a kid.  My dad and uncle had, too.  Their initials were much higher on the trunk than mine were; I was so afraid of hurting the trunk when I carved mine you almost couldn't see them in a week.  I wonder if they're still there?

While I mowed the yard and put fertilizer on it, Grandma put vanilla on each of the incandescent bulbs.  In the nineteen-seventies there had been a theory among real estate agents that the smell of vanilla made a home smell homey. I also knew that the only reason we ever had frozen cookie dough in the house was because she always baked at least two or three dozen cookies at every open house.  again the goal was for the house to smell like home.  

I still bake cookies like Grandma, from freezer to the oven to the waiting hordes.  Come to think of it, it's also how I bake bread.  There seems to be a pattern here.

Grandma rented a U-Haul for all of her furniture so the house could be staged by a professional using rented furniture.

"Why don't you just leave your stuff out?" I asked.  Everything looked comfortable and fitted well into the space available.

"To get top dollar, it needs to be as current as possible.  People these days don't have an imagination.  If it isn't staged correctly, no one will think it is a place worthy of making a life." She sighed. "People used to walk through a house and envision what their things looked like.  The work they wanted to do on a place so that could put their own mark on it.  Really make it their own.  Now they want upscale cookie cutter."

She had drawn the line at remodeling the kitchen.  The cabinets were original and had been custom built for the space and were cherry wood.  The butcher block counter tops got replaced about every twenty or twenty five years, but that was her only concession.

She rented stainless steel appliances to make the place feel more trendy and upscale but that was as far as it went.

Why rent them?  Because they weren’t going to be part of the contract when the house was sold, but people get upset if they look at a house that doesn’t have appliances.  Her old Maytag refrigerator still worked just fine and her Kenmore oven was more than adequate, but both were white.

After all of the work was done and the final pillow had been plumped she said, “I just don’t think I can keep it this nice during open house season.”

“Stay with me after tonight,” I said.  “There’s a spare bedroom. And I’d love the company”

Actually, Grandma would get the main bedroom and I’d take the spare. 

She closed her eyes and nodded. "This is just so much more work than I thought."

"Do we want to pack your bag tonight or do it tomorrow?"

"Tonight. In fact, I don't want to leave so much as a dirty sock out where someone can see it or a used tissue."

The small duffel contained the bits and pieces she had to have and the next day I'd come back and bring even more.  Whatever it took, she had said over and over.  She wanted a fresh start in Boca complete with a pool boy named Pablo and frozen adult beverages by the pool every afternoon.

"I'll meet  you at the house at dinner time," I said. "What do you think about Chinese chicken salads with almonds and cranberries?" I needed to change some sheets, get clean towels for the bathroom, and clear some drawer space for her before she arrived.

"You're good to me, kid," she said.  

"Bernie, I don't want to kick you out of your bedroom," she said.

"Grandma, it's the better bed," I said. "I don't mind the other at all."  The spare room had a futon sofa; not great as a sofa or as a bed - the mediocre of both worlds.

She looked at the room, spic and span, and as free of dog hair as was possible without getting rid of the dog.  

"What can I do for you?" she asked. "You've done so much for me lately." 

"Nothing to do," I said. "Except maybe set the table for dinner."

!!!

word count 1059

wc4255 /NaNo/Writing Doodle - warning - depressing

~~~ fiction ~~~ not based on anything factual ~~~~

"I know why psychics are usually wrong and why no one is allowed to see their own future.  It would be so painful or overwhelming we wouldn't live our lives fully," my dad said.

"You think so?" I asked. "Do you want me to adjust your pillows or get you another blanket?" I needed to do something. I hate hospital rooms.  I didn't even like to see my sisters in law when they'd just delivered their babies.  I was always afraid whoever I was visiting would die while I was there and I'd be blamed for time immemorial.

Why do all flowers in a hospital smell like death? Their sickeningly sweet smell is more pungent than the smell of funeral wreathes, twice as expensive, and half as long lived.  Between the smell of the dying carnations and the pine disinfection(sp) cleaner, I couldn't wait to leave the place.  

I found a course on the internet on how to become psychic in one month, only thirty minutes a day.  I was never going to waste my money and sign up for it.  I thought it was a lark and thought it might be something to talk to my dad about.  From the time I was in junior high, we struggled to talk.  It was hard if there wasn't a sports game on or one we could rehash together.  We never talked of the past and we never talked about the future.  Pretty much we limited our conversations to sports, animals, and the weather.  All very vanilla subjects that wouldn't cause any miscommunications or hurt feelings.

"I know so," my dad said. "I wouldn't have tried if I had know how hard having you was going to be."

Me?  I was the ultimate good girl. "I wasn't that bad, was I?" I asked.  "I thought I was the easy one." I couldn't remember being any worse than any of my friends.  Of all of us I didn't smoke, drink, or ever miss my curfew. My grades were mediocre if I wasn't interested in the subject, but strong enough for state college.  

My brothers? They came home whenever they wanted. No one blinked an eye when they stayed out all night or when Grant got his first tattoo. My dad didn't bat an eye when George got his girlfriend pregnant and he wouldn't marry her; he passed out chocolate cigars to everyone he knew.  After they broke up, he sued for visitation rights to see Melinda so she could have a strong sense of family.  When Sandy was sixteen, he drove on a patch of black ice and totaled my mom's brand new SUV.  There was never a word said.

He grimaced and I knew how much an actual smile cost him.  My dad never smiled.  Never looked to the sunny side of the street. Never thought things would work out in his favor.  Ever. He knew the harder he worked the luckier he'd get.  But he worked his way through all of his kids growing up, getting educations, moving away.  Even starting our own families. Except for me.  I owned two cats, just dumped my boyfriend of six months, and was looking into foreign adoption.

"You." He pointed his index finger into my chest.  "You were the hardest of the lot. For me,  you were the worst."

This was a blow.  If I'd been standing, I would have fallen.  As it was, this felt like a blow to my gut.  It, however, confirmed my own self esteem issues and all of the fears I'd harbored ever since I could remember.  

I wanted him to deny it or lie.  But John Alexander believed in telling the truth all of the time and to never lie. Just this once it would have been nice for him to break the fucking rules.  Just once and let me think that I was his favorite, maybe in the top three?  For a few minutes he could have fed me the lie that I was the one he invested his hopes and dreams in.  The one who made him proud.  Instead I was the worst of the six kids.  His only daughter and he apparently at the worst hated me, at best he resented me.  Everything about me. Tolerated me at family gatherings, nothing more. Ignored me if I was the only other person in the room.

"Why was I so bad?" I asked. I always had good grades.  I never got in trouble.  I used to win citizenship awards at school.   This had to be a joke, right?  I spent my whole life looking for his approval, even if it was for something small.  

If it had been a joke or someone with a camera came out to tell me it was all a lie, I might have laughed in another five or ten years.  But this was a hospice for people who didn't have the resources to die at home, or who didn't want to.  Though his room, such that it was, was private, there was no place for a camera to be hidden and Dad didn't have the resources to buy and install one of those little spy jobs.  

"You aren't mine," he said. He turned his head to face the wall.  He didn't meet my eyes.  Maybe he couldn't.

"So you have hated me for over thirty years because your wife cheated on you?" I asked. "Hardly fair to punish a child for the sins of the adult."

"Who said Rebecca cheated on me?" The words were harsh, fierce even.  When he invoked that tone, no one was ever allowed to cross him.  Things hadn't changed.  He now stared at the ceiling.  "She never cheated on me.  She loved me."

Unless there was a phone line to the Pearly Gates, I couldn't talk to my mother.  She'd been in a ski accident three years before, broken her neck and died. Doubt that she worshiped him? Idolized him?  No.  I knew that was true.  They always seemed to be very much in love.  

"In that case you cheated and the fruits of your labor, as it were, came to live with you?  Why didn't you leave your wife instead of have an affair?"

"Lindsey, you don't know what you're talking about. You're just spouting bullshit and we both know it."

"Do we?  Really, Dad? Or is it John?"

He didn't answer. He just squeezed his eyes closed and turned inward, a place he lived more than with anyone else. "Just leave.  I'll not explain it to you."

Great.  The man I thought of as my father, the one who picked me up from band practice, corrected my homework, taught me to drive, and gave me away when I got married wasn't going to talk to me.

My brothers had already made the pilgrimage to say good-bye to my father.  He'd said whatever he needed to say to each of them, their wives, and their children.  I was the last one to have a private audience. I was also the last one to be called; no one had breathed a word my direction that he was sick. If Keith hadn't called me to ask about coordinating my hotel with his, I don't think the facility would have notified me.  I probably wouldn't have even known about the funeral until I saw it in the paper.

I couldn't let my parting shot be bitter.  I didn't want to have regrets about my final words to him.  I loved him my entire life.  I had his work ethic and his sensibilities.  The morning after I talked to Keith, I called the office and talked to my boss.

"Sheila, I know this is last minute, but I need to take some time off," I said. I twisted the phone cord around my index finger while I waited for her response.

"It's not a good time, Lindsey.  You know that," she said.  "I can't grant you time off right now."

I said nothing.

After about a minute she said, "Next month, I'll see about rearranging the work schedule and getting you a couple of days."

The tears I'd let build up began to fall.  Slowly at first and then more and more quickly.

"That doesn't work for me," I said.  "If you can't give me the time off, I'm afraid I'm going to have to quit."

Sheila laughed.  "You can't be serious.  Nothing is that important."

"This is.  I'm sorry to leave you in a bind.  I have to do this." I made sure I was taking deep breaths because hyperventilating right now wouldn't have done me any favors.

"What? You're going to quit, just like that? This job is too important to you."

"In the end, it's just a job, Sheila.  I'm sorry.  It is out of my control.  When I get back, I'll pick up my things." I kept my voice as even as possible.  I never let anyone see me in a weak moment, be sentimental, or let them get the upper hand.  The Alexanders are made of stern stuff.  Sterner than most of the rest of the world. "Or you can mail them to me."

"Did someone die?"

"I don't need to tell you that.  If you can't respect me enough to understand just how important this is, well, you weren't the person I thought you were. I have to go.  Good-bye, Sheila." I disconnected the call.  In five years, the only time I took off was for my mother's funeral and then I was back to work in under a week because Sheila had an important client meeting and the project I was working on was vital to getting their business.  I didn't even take time off for medical appointments. I performed a hit and run on my own life. Never there for anyone long enough for them to matter or make a difference.  Just there long enough to move the business forward because that's what all of the Alexanders do, always did.

I had the presence of mind to change my work extension to go back to the main switchboard, and my work cellphone message went back to the company default. There was no reason to take it, I wouldn't be conducting any business for the foreseeable future anyway.  In under ten minutes, I put my packed bag in the trunk of the car, locked my house up, and started the long drive to see my father. 

My personal cellphone message indicated that calls wouldn't be returned and not to leave a message of any kind.  It didn't stop my boss from calling it every ten minutes.  Finally, I turned it off and tossed it into the bowels of my purse. 

Six hours of silence, self talk, self doubt, and what if games later, I found the hotel.  The only room available was next to the elevator and the vending machines on one side, the other was the hotel laundry.  At least I wouldn't be kept up all night by headboards banging against the communal wall.

After I registered and unloaded my bag into the room, I fished my cellphone out of my purse.  I called Keith, he and his family were at the other end of the hotel in a deluxe suite.  You pays your money and you takes your chances.  I could have tried to parlay my situation into a better room for the next day, but that would have taken energy I didn't have.

"Hey, Linds. How was the drive?" he said. "No, Lynn, you can't have a snack right now. You just had lunch. Sorry about that.  How was the drive."

I may love my brother, but when he's distracted, he's distracted and there's no getting his attention back.  

"Dinner?" I asked.

"We'll meet you in the lobby in three hours," he said. "No, Peter, you no crayons on the wall."

If we'd all been musical, or at least been able to hold a tune, we could have been our own band.  There were enough of us to be our own basketball team; I was always the alternate.  Relay races, depending on who was allowed to run, we did amazing things on the track. Conversations?  Not a strong suit.  It was a family thing.

There are no good conversations when sixteen people are involved.  The table was a chaotic symphony of noise, avoidance, and partial conversation.  If I was to ever find out what was going on, it wasn't going to happen during toddler time.

Sylvia reached across the table and squeezed my hand, "Lindsay, how are you holding up?"

That is one of the world's most loaded questions next to "How are you?" No one ever really wants to hear the answer.  They want to hear the word fine so they can proceed with their own agenda.  

Would Sylvia have understood if I told her I'd been blind sided for thirty-six hours?  Didn't she understand that my mother was the glue that held us all together? That she bridged all the communication and distance gaps? That she was the one who made sure birthdays were remembered? She made sure letters and emails were forwarded? She was the hub and now that she was gone, there was no place for the spokes to be.  The wheel that was our family was now irrevocably broken, in pieces by the side of the road.

I squeezed her hand back.  "Fine. I'm doing fine." Emotionally it was a lie.  Physically, I had my health and I had made the drive safely and in good time.

"If you ever want to talk," she said, "I'm always here for you."

Another lie.  This one was hers.  She might have physically been there, but she had no interest in me.  I couldn't further her career, lived too far to watch her kids, and had never done anything prestigious she could brag about.  

I nodded.  "Thank you. The kids look good."

Now she had something she could talk about that interested her.  She blathered on about Cathy and Raquel and how smart they were. I have no idea if any of it was true, but it didn't really matter. I attempted to make approving noises in appropriate places, and must have done a credible job because I didn't need her to repeat herself until we got to dessert.

"What?"

"I asked if you have funeral clothes with you?" she asked. "Or if you want to go shopping with me tomorrow."

He's not dead yet.  He can't die right now.  We have unfinished business.  We have things to talk about.  He doesn't know I want to adopt a baby.  He has no idea I was going to go to France next summer and see their wine country.  That I had taken immersion French lessons for two years so I wouldn't sound like a dumb American when I landed; it was something my mom and I planned to do before I turned forty and forty was right around the corner. 

He didn't even tell me he was sick.  I knew he had a prostate problem years ago, but I had no idea it had turned into cancer. How could I?  The boys never emailed unless it was a generic Hallmark card at Christmas, and the only present we ever exchanged were donation cards to the local charity du jour. Presents were for kids and none of us needed anything.

"No one said he was that close." If a whisper gets more attention than a scream, they haven't had dinner with my clan.  

 "If I were smaller, I could lend you the extra black dress I brought," she said. She was making it sound like we were going to go some place fancy and it was a celebration. "But my stuff will bag on you."

"I'm more tired than I thought," I said.  I scooted my chair away from the table and walked to the head where Jason was sitting.  I handed him forty dollars to cover my portion of dinner and the tip. 

"Lindsey, you don't need to do that," he said.  "Keep the money. Are you really leaving now?"

"Yeah.  I didn't get any sleep last night and it has been a long day."

"Breakfast here tomorrow?"

I smiled. "No."  I don't do children under the age of sixteen without coffee and if I came to breakfast there wouldn't be enough coffee in the world to keep me civil.

"We'll call your room after we get back then," he said.  "Night, kid."

I waved at the table.  No one but Jason and Lindsey even realized I had gone.

I bypassed the hotel and returned to the hospice.  I probably wouldn't have another chance to see the man I'd always thought of as my father alone ever again.  What was worse, finding out he wasn't my father or that he was dying? 

Definitely it was his dying.  No matter what he told me, he was always my father.  The most important man in my life, even though I didn't realize it until just now.

There was so much we hadn't said.  So many things we could have shared.  Very little of that was now possible now, if at all.

Dad's room was about two doors down from the nurses' station.

"Hi, I'm Lindsay Alexander.  John's daughter," I said by way of introduction to the charge nurse. "Do you have a minute?"

"Shift change is in about thirty minutes, can you wait?" the redhead asked.

No.  I want to get a status update right now and find out the actual truth about what is going on.

"Just tell me if he's in pain," I said.  He always reminded me of the lion with the thorn in his paw, he suffered the little things poorly but rewarded the caregiver exorbitantly   I kept an oversize over stocked first aid kit in my car to this day, because you never know when a bandage can make a difference to someone.

"Alexander?" She tapped several keys without meeting my eyes.  "Why?  Did he ask for medication?"

For true pain, he never did.  The low grade stuff, aspirin was his cureall. "No.  I just got here.  I wanted to know what I might be walking into."  

"Cisco just checked on him according to these notes, says he's sleeping."

"Maybe I should just come back then," I said.

"No.  Go on back and sit with him.  Talk to him.  Even if he's asleep he can hear you."

I opened the door as quietly as I could and snuck into the room. In the shadows my father's shrunken profile looked peaceful and calm.  The blankets were tucked in around his body and it looked unnaturally neat and tidy.  All my life he was a loud snorer who thrashed.  It was easier to change the sheets on his bed and start fresh than remake a bed he slept in since almost everything was in a tangle on the floor by morning.

There was a small chair near his chair, the kind all institutions specialize in: too small, flat cushions, highly uncomfortable.  But it was that or sit on his bed. If I took the bed, it would jar him and he'd wake up. Better to sit in the side chair for a few minutes.

There was nothing I could think of that was worthy of saying this late in the game.  Anything I said would just be babble and not comforting babble. Did I want someone cluttering my rest with their disjointed dissertations on piffle?  Probably not, but I won't know for sure for a very long time.

The only sound in the room came from the monitors flashed numbers and charted things.  If I needed to know, I could tell his blood pressure, his temperature, and heart beat.  And that every few seconds there was a spike on a graph.  Watching the monitors was trance inducing, mindless, and peaceful. Before I knew it, I was stiff and sore.  According to my watch it was a little after midnight.  Someone had covered me with a thin, blue blanket.

"Margie, I'm sorry.  I'm so, so sorry," my dad said.

"What?" His words startled me out of my lazy doze to attention.

"Margie, forgive me.  Please?  Please? God, forgive me."

"Dad, who is Margie?" I leaned over his bed to see if he was awake or dreaming.  

"I didn't mean to.  I didn't mean to do it.  I'm so, sorry.  Will you forgive me?" Tears leaked out the corner of his eyes. 

Before I could engage my father in a conversation, an orderly walked in.  His name badge announced that he must be Cisco.  He stood next to me and whispered, "Tell him you forgive him and that you love him. Go with it."  

I took my father's hand and kissed it, because it felt like the right thing to do.  "Of course I forgive you.  There's never been anything to forgive."

He took a deep breath and said, "I did my best, but it wasn't good enough.  She would have been better off with you. Been happier. Blossomed the way you wanted her to. I failed all of us, especially her. And it was all my fault.  Mine."

Who was he talking about now?

"I'm sure you did the best you could."

Cisco whispered, "You're doing just fine.  He needs to unburden something and he wants to do it with you. He never talks to anyone for more than about two minutes. Whatever this is, it is important. Probably for both of you."

I looked for a tissue box.  For what this place was going to cost, I wanted it to be the soft kind that absorbed tears.  I knew it was going to be scratchy and leave my eyes and nose raw if I used more than one.  Tomorrow I'd need to buy a box of better stuff to share with the rest of the family.

"I can't look at her without seeing you.  She looks more and more like you every day. And because of that, I can't escape the reminders and I hate myself a little more every day.  God, forgive me."

I never did get around to taking a drama class, but had plenty of drama in a couple of the realtionships I'd been in.  Go with it? Ok.  Here goes nothing. "There isn't anything to hate yourself about. I know you did the best you could and God has already forgiven you, John.  Everything is as it should be. She did just fine. You did a great job. You know that. I'm proud of you."

"Really?"

"Really. I love you so much." Why is it that I wanted to say Daddy when I was almost forty and I didn't think he thought he was talking to a daughter anyway?  I hadn't called him Daddy since I was about six or seven. Did the boys ever call him Daddy? Or is that just a little girl thing?

We held hands for two hours.  Sporadically I ran my thumb over the top of his hand.  If it comforted him, I don't know, I hoped it did. It soothed me.  His tears had stopped.  He didn't speak again. Talking about anything, even the weather, might have encouraged him to stay awake and he looked exhausted.  Better that we both rest.

I smoothed his hair and kissed him on the forehead before I went to the bathroom.  When I got back, he was gone.  His face looked more peaceful than I'd ever seen it. When I saw it, I just knew.  

They say, whoever they are, that most people choose when to die and with whom to die.  People who die alone in the dark are lonely, afraid, or think they are unworthy.  People who die with someone with them, in the daylight know how loved they are. If I hadn't left, would he still be alive? Had he been waiting for me to leave so he could make his exit?

"Oh, Dad." I dashed the tears out of my eyes with the back of my hand.  There had been enough tears for one night.  I had been trained from an early age not to cry; twice in one night was more than enough for any Alexander to exhibit.  Keep the emotions bottled up inside where they couldn't hurt anyone.  Someone should embroider that on a pillow since it is the family credo.

Cisco and the redheaded charge nurse knocked on the door frame. 

"He's gone," I said.  "He's gone and I wasn't here. I missed it. I missed his last words."

"You were here," Cisco said.  "I turned the monitors off about half an hour ago so you wouldn't wake up."

That explained why it was so quiet. At least I hadn't abandoned him at the end.  Maybe this meant he trust me or Margie enough to be with me/her when he passed.

"Do you need some more time with him?" the redhead asked.

About twenty more years would be nice.  "No.  I'll get going. I should probably sleep in a bed for at least an hour."

When they called the mortuary to pick him up I had no idea.  Whether or not they called Justin, the eldest, as soon as they knew I didn't know.  It didn't matter to me.  I had come when called, done what was expected and needed, and would be home for the fallout, if there was any.

~~~

word count: 4255

wc 1340 /NaNo/Writing Doodle/Did I shave my legs for this?

"Romance is dead," Bernard said to me over his stack of pumpkin waffles.

"You are just becoming jaded," I said.  "Just because you didn't catch the bouquet at the wedding doesn't mean romance isn't dead.  People write about true love and romance all of the time so it must happen to some of them." Just not Bernie and Bernie.  But we have each other and our dogs, that is enough. for now.

He took a deep breath and said, "I really, really want that to be true. I want prince charming to whisk me away in his carriage and lavish me with gifts. I want him to take me all of the fabulous places I see in the magazines, and I don't mean just for happy hour.  And I want him to be hung like a horse. Oh and I want him to love me for my mind and not my body."

So did I. Sort of.  Kind of.  Maybe.  In all actuality my life is pretty decent.

Sure I've had to fire Vic as my friend and I had to get a restraining order against Grady, but other than that things weren't too bad.  And then there was the issue in civil court with Daniel about changing his lease in the middle without provocation. And needing to look for yet another place to live, but I did get to keep Louie.

As for romance?  Now I just get excited for other people's excitement.  It is easier and I don't risk anything. I'm great at being their cheerleaders and later at bringing the tea and sympathy.

"Love is kind of like playing the lottery," I said.  "It's a fifty fifty proposition."

"I don't think that's quite the odds for the lottery, Bern." Bernard lifted the small bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's original pancake syrup and drizzled it all over his waffle stack.

Did he need more syrup? Those waffles were kind of sweet on their own. Not to mention the powdered sugar on the waffles and the whipped cream. Not my body, my life, or my blood sugar.  He was over twenty-one and free, he was entitled to make his own decisions.

"When I'm sad I eat sugar." He licked his lips.  "What? I go to the gym and then I get happy again."

"I'm not saying anything," I said.  I forked another piece of waffle, plain, and brought it to my mouth.  I lowered my fork again thinking about whether or not I was really hungry. "Hey, let's play the lottery! what do you say?"

For one dollar, I could easily take a chance and see how the chips would fall.

"Scratch card?" he asked.

"Why not.  Cheap, easy, and fun. Plus there's a better chance to win," I said.

"Sounds like my last five relationships: cheap, easy, and fun."

"In that case, maybe we should go for a bigger pot.  Maybe invest a couple of bucks and see what happens," I said.

"A little of each.  Why not look for fun when we look for love?"

"Sure, why not?  The odds are fifty-fifty." What the heck, another bite of waffle wasn't going to kill me. At least not today.

"Not in my world.  They publish the actual statistics on the back of the scratcher cards and it is something huge like I don't know, one in a couple hundred thousand might win, like, five bucks."

"Nah.  Gambling is easy. You win or you don't. Just like the toss of the coin. Fifty-fifty." Sure I knew that there were more involved statistical elements involved than that, which explains why I didn't major in business but liberal arts. 

"Let's make an occasion out of it," I said.  "We'll buy the tickets together when we leave and we'll go some place for happy hour and see if we've won."

"The waiters have to be cute," he said.  

"Naturally."

"Let's do it the day after the tv drawing and we'll check the tickets together against the published winning numbers.  We'll be in a great place to celebrate if we win and if we don't, well, we can drown our sorrows."

"Perfect."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Zeus's."

Zeus's had a piano lounge and a great happy hour.  It was very up scale and I'd always heard good things about it.  

"Done."

"Oh, and Bernie, we should both dress accordingly to celebrate!"

"I won't embarrass you, I promise." I would have to go shopping to find something that he deemed appropriate, but if it was good quality and not trendy, I'd be able to wear it at least a couple of seasons. Yeah, an investment in myself while I gambled for different things.

The dress, the perfect dress, was a vintage Diane von Fürstenberg. wrap dress. Yellow base with a graphic black design over it. I paired it with a chunky black onyx necklace, matching bracelet, and tiny patent leather clutch. The dress camouflaged things that weren't perfect but made the rest of my curves look pretty darned good. 

After I got done with basic and even some advanced level grooming, I think it was the best I've looked on purpose for years. 

I was ten minutes early to meet Bernard at Zeus's.  Despite the accolades for the place, the neighborhood was marginal and the parking lot looked a little rough.  I double checked my lipstick in the rear view mirror before I got out of the car.  I didn't have any on my teeth.  Good.

I didn't want to sit in the car listening to the radio until Bernard got there.  I've been caught more than once lip synching to whatever was on the radio.  Unfortunately the last time it was a Justin Bieber song and I didn't think I'd ever live that down.

At the bar I ordered a Tom Collins: tart, refreshing, perfection in a glass.  I plunged the straw up and down in the glass as I waited. Straws are a single girls' best friend when she's in a bar.  It gives her hands something to do while she looks around trying not to look board or on the prowl.  and if she is on the prowl, well, there are things you can do with a straw if you want to send a message.  

As I glanced at my compatriots, I realized I was the only woman. Sure I was up to par with their dress code, but somehow it didn't make me feel better.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, Bernard blew in the door.  His hair was damp and his clothes were tussled.  On his way across the bar to me, he must have kissed six or seven different men.  "It's been a great day," he said. 

Of course we were in a gay bar.  Why would I have thought we'd go somewhere else?  Especially since Chris and Vic were the ones who had raved about this place. If I had realized, well, I might have dressed differently. 

"I shaved my legs for this?" I muttered the words.  I needed to anyway, but for some reason I had kind of hoped I might see someone and strike up a Conversation.  At least I hadn't bought new lingerie to go with the dress.

"Something to celebrate?"

He gave me a wicked smile.  "Always."

He motioned to the waiter.  "I'll have what she's having."  

"Tom Collins?" he asked.

"I'll answer to that if you whisper it nicely," Bernard said.

"I get off in an hour, honey," the waiter said.  He winked at Bernard who blushed.

Bernard turned to me and said, "I am lousy at making up my mind, easier if I go with the crowd."

Good thing he wasn't a girl or he probably would have gotten pregnant in high school.

After his drink arrived, I removed the scratcher tickets and a quarter from my purse.  He brought out the three powerball tickets and a computer printout with the winning numbers.  

We didn't win. Not a thing.  Not a single thing.

But we will try again the next week.

~~

word count 1340