Francesca G. Varela's Blog, page 21

Freedom – A Short Story, Part 3 (The Finale)

Have you read part 1 and part 2?

I finished my last forkful. Mom held the door open and Jacinta stepped cautiously onto the muddy sand. The three of us walked barefoot toward the rising ocean. My feet and Mom’s turned pink. Jacinta’s faded to a colorless off -white. We followed the shoreline to the barn and the fields. The sand was so cold it burned. Gusts of wind flew so fast that we had to shout to be heard over them.

“It reminds me a little of Portugal, on the north coast where we would go sometimes in the summer.” Jacinta rubbed her arms.

“Are you homesick?” Mom asked.

“I miss my family, yes. But Portugal… that is where I was born, I’m una Portuguesa, but I have spent most of my life abroad. Always moving, always new. I never felt I was tied to any one place.”

“It’s like you’re at home everywhere,” I said, walking backward to face her.

“Or nowhere.” Jacinta laughed. She looked down at the crooked outlines of her footsteps. “But, you know, there is freedom to that mentality.”

“And now you’re going to San Diego,” Mom said.

“Well we aren’t sure. There’s a chance we’ll stay here. I think that’s what Ryan wants, secretly.”

“But do you like being a nurse?” I asked her.

“It’s sometimes difficult, but I do love it, yes.”

“Then you should go. Ryan doesn’t want to hold you back. And neither do we. Right, Mom?”

I expected her to tremble with a whistling, throaty laugh and say something to get back at Jacinta for keeping Ryan from us for so long, like, “Then why’d he marry her?” But instead she shook her head no and walked ahead. The tail of her oversized coat flowed behind her, like the beige sails of the older boats in the harbor. Her forehead glowed orange in the falling sunlight. The sun illuminated her wrinkles, her thick brow bone, her silver earrings with the turquoise jewel that Aunt Jane had brought back from a weekend trip to Arizona.

We reached the barn just as it was starting to sprinkle again. Raindrops echoed against the tin roof. The barn smelled musty, like wood and dried horse poop. Apple, Spirit, and Oriole breathed heavily as we approached their stalls. Jacinta offered her hand to Spirit’s wide black nose. Spirit closed his eyes and lowered his head, and Jacinta stroked the white circle of fur on his forehead.

Mom scooped a bundle of hay from the plastic storage container. I rubbed Apple and Oriole’s ears. They looked at me sadly like they knew I was thinking of leaving them. I grabbed the other shovel to help with the hay. Jacinta hovered near Spirit. She began to hum.

“What’s that you’re humming?” Mom asked.

“When we were living in Spain for a little while we would play with the neighborhood kids. We were near the countryside, and we would follow them to the end of a dirt road where there were two white horses. Every year, they said, on the horses’ birthday the kids sang to them the Spanish birthday song: estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey David, hoy por ser día de tu santo te las cantamos aquí. And the horses, they would become very excited. We were there for six months only, but we got to sing with them once.” Jacinta faced us. Her bangs were crooked and frizzy from the wind. “Oh—do you need help?”

“No thanks, dear,” Mom said.  “Margaret and I have our routine down. Don’t know what I’ll do without her.”

I imagined it. I imagined Dad out on his fishing boat for another three weeks, sweaty but cold, falling asleep to distant metal creaks as he stared at the family portrait he kept beside his bed. I imagined Mom at home, wide and bulbous in her chair, squinting at the TV; I imagined her turning down customers who needed a guide because she was too big to ride anymore; I imagined her hunched over, catching her breath and brushing away flies as she shoveled hay; I imagined her halfheartedly rinsing dishes, the carpet left un-vacuumed.

I’d always thought Ryan would be back in town before I left. I never realized Mom would have to be alone.

I kissed each horse on the nose, whispered goodnight in their ears. We closed up the barn and stood for a moment beneath its overhang. The rain had returned. Everything smelled like mud, like metal, like the fir trees on the hill above the ocean. Jacinta and I ran onto the sand. The wind pelted us with water, blown from the tips of waves and from the sky itself. Our feet were buried by the high tide; by the foamy, speckled, freezing sea. My blouse clung to my skin and I clenched my teeth. Jacinta shivered with her shoulders high and stiff. Mom walked behind us as we jumped through the rain. Her eyes followed us carefully, like an adult watching children.

By the time we reached our house the downpour had slowed again. Dad sliced store-bought key lime pie, and we ate, still wet, on the floor in front of the TV.

Later that night, when everyone else had gone to bed, I stepped silently into the kitchen and tucked my college application deep into the trash. It would be less noticeable there than in the recycling. I thought about ripping it up for good measure, but that seemed too loud—Jacinta was sleeping right there, on the fold-out couch in the living room. The envelope was smeared with coffee grounds and pie frosting. I shut the lid, turned away from it, and went back to my room. It took me an hour to wipe the moldy scent of the trash from my nose. It took two more hours for me to fall asleep.

Jacinta and Ryan stayed with us for a month and a half. Then they rented a moving truck and drove down to San Diego. After that life was normal and quiet. Dad divided his life between land and sea. Mom and I worked with the horses. I had almost saved enough money to rent a studio apartment in town.

One particularly stale, windless day I checked the mailbox and found a stack of bills, a Capella’s summer catalogue, and an official looking envelope. It was addressed to me. I ripped it lopsidedly open as I walked back to the house. It was an acceptance letter to the university.

“Mom! Mom!”

She didn’t answer, so I rushed out to the barn. My feet pounded hollowly against the earth. I ran down the path, across the sticky sand. My cheeks felt thin and elastic from smiling. Mom was brushing Spirit’s coat with a round, soft brush.

“Mom.” I bent over and laughed thoroughly. “I got in.”

“Oh, Margaret.” She hugged me with the brush in hand. Her body was soft and still. She smelled like the warmth of horses.

“I’m not really sure if I want to go anymore,” I mumbled, unwilling to pull away. I tightened my arms around her stomach. “I even threw the application away—”

“I know. I could see it poking through the side of the bag,” she said. “Now, I don’t want to hear any of it. You’re going.”

We both laughed. I felt Spirit’s breath on my arm. I felt Mom’s heartbeat on my chest and the morning sun on my back. I heard the distant exhale of falling waves.

“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “You can always come home again.”

Tagged: Author, Books, Fiction, Life, Prose, Random, Thoughts, Writing

Freedom – A Short Story, Part 2

Have you read part 1?

     There was already a car in the driveway. It was blocking the carport, so I had to park on the street. I leapt over the dirty streams of rainwater bustling along the curb toward the house.

Even though it was afternoon, the automatic solar lights lining the lawn had lit up already. One bulb was burnt out. The grass around it was tall and seeded. Dad had just gotten back two days before, and he only had two weeks to fix things up before his next fishing charter left.

From the doorway I heard voices and running water. The popcorny smell of rice mixed with the dusty, perfumed air that blew out from the dryer vent. Two pairs of shoes were arranged next to the doormat.

I jogged to my room and slid the envelope under my desk. No reason to tell Mom I hadn’t mailed it yet. I brushed my hair, put on mascara, and headed down.

“Are they here already?” I called as I rounded the corner to the kitchen. The air felt warm, and my armpits began to sweat.

Ryan’s wife was standing next to the refrigerator, holding a plastic wine glass. I was surprised by how short she was; how young-looking. Her cheeks were wide, her forehead was coated with stylish bangs, and her lips were painted a dark burgundy. I’d expected her to be wearing a scarf and sunglasses, like in their Canary Island honeymoon pictures, but she wore a white sweater and jeans.

Ryan hadn’t changed since he graduated high school—six years later and he still looked thin, slouchy, unshaven, and too pale from the neck up. I wondered if he’d shown her any old family pictures. I wondered what she had expected of me.

“Marge,” my brother said with a breathy laugh.

He hugged me tightly against his chest. I realized how much I had missed him.

“God, how long have I been gone?” he said. “You look positively elderly. My god. Oh, so—finally—this is Jacinta. Jacinta, my sister Margaret.”

She didn’t rush toward me and coo “Marg-ar-et!” in an overly sharpened accent, or kiss me on both cheeks, as I had expected her to. Instead she issued a brief hug and looped a lock of brown hair behind her ear.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you,” she said with her vowels slightly drawn-out. “You look so much like your mother.”

I glanced over at Mom in her frilly, pale-pink t-shirt. She had worn that same shirt to all of my parent-teacher conferences, to my solo in the high school choir, and to birthday dinners at Golden Cove—the one nice restaurant in town. It was the closest she ever came to dressing up. I wished she would really dress up for once, but I knew she wasn’t just being lazy.

When I was younger I used to invite her on shopping trips with friends. Maya’s mom was usually the one to take us to the outlet mall. The closest was an hour away, but it was worth it.

“Want to come, Mom?” I asked as I laced up my sneakers. “Maya’s mom said you and her can shop together while the rest of us walk around.”

“No, no, that’s alright, honey.” She hunched over the hall table and began digging through her plain, black purse.

“Are you sure? Look what you’re wearing,” I said with a giggle.

Mom turned toward me. I ran my eyes exaggeratedly over her outfit.

“I know, I’m out of style. But I don’t mind dressing simply. I’m old. You go on and buy whatever you want.” She handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

“Dad already gave me my allowance yesterday,” I said. A car engine rumbled in the driveway.

“I know. Go on, they’re here. Have fun.”

I tucked the money in my cheap, glittery shoulder bag and kissed her on the cheek. I understood, then, that Mom just wanted me to have more.

“You all look very similar,” Jacinta went on. “All of you have the same nose or something.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, nodding. I leaned against the counter. Our kitchen was too small for so many people. The creaking wooden cabinets and yellowing appliances weren’t meant to be seen; they weren’t meant to be beautiful. I wondered what Jacinta thought.

There was a moment of silence. Ryan started telling us about his two years in Europe, even though he’d kept us updated through phone calls, and we’d heard his stories before. He told us about the hostels he slept in; the money he made working as a bicycle-deliverer for a German florist, a cashier at a French market, and a stock boy at a Portuguese bakery; about the trains he took to explore the continent.

“And that was where I met Jacinta, on the train to Portugal. She was sitting right across from me, reading this book in English, and I started talking to her. I would say we hit it off.” He laughed. “So, she got me a job at her cousin’s bread shop. At his Padaria, that’s what they call them.”

“Now, you’re gonna have another ceremony here, right?” Dad asked, thick, nasally. “So the whole family can come and see?”

“Of course,” Ryan said, and he loudly slurped his wine. “I told you, the ceremony in Portugal was just so Jacinta’s family could be there, and so it could be in her family’s church.”

“I still would’ve loved to be there. The pictures looked beautiful,” Mom said.

She had been furious the day Ryan called us. We’d all sat on the couch, listening to his voice rise over speakerphone: he was in love and would be married in a week. “That’s why he’s kept on extending his trip,” Mom muttered after we hung up. “He was only supposed to be gone for six months! She’s trapped him there in her Portuguese lair. ”

But she’d let him free.

Ryan grinned at Jacinta. “We’ll do another ceremony out on the beach over the summer.”

“I just love the beach,” Jacinta said, smiling. “I’ve always wanted to live on the coast.”

They spoke more about Europe and about Jacinta. She was a registered nurse and had published two short stories in a Portuguese literary magazine. She had lived in South Africa, Thailand, Australia, Turkey, and half of Europe with her big family; five sisters and two brothers. Her parents worked in the Portuguese government. That was why they’d moved around so much.

“Well we’re happy to have you here, Jacinta,” Dad said, emphasizing the ‘h’ sound at the beginning of her name. “Hope you don’t mind sleeping on the couch, though. Ryan’s old bed’s too small for two people.”

“And too smelly,” I added. “Mom’s kept it exactly the same this whole time.”

“We’re so happy to have our son back to use it, after he’s been off wandering for what, two years? Two years, Ryan,” Mom said. She put down her knife and turned toward the refrigerator, where he was standing. “About time you came home. And now we’ve got another one who’s itching to leave. Margaret’s on this kick that she wants to transfer to four-year college. One of the state schools.”

“Seriously, Marge, just save yourself some time and go hop across Europe. You’ll learn a lot more,” Ryan said, smiling.

“How would you know? You never went to college,” I said.

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m just kidding. Wait, so, Mom, do you not want your daughter to go to college? Really?”

“I just don’t think she needs to. She has the horses under her belt, she’s practically running the thing by herself. Good pay, too. Why’s she gonna trade that in for some desk job? And pay all that tuition?”

“I just want to have options,” I said steadily. Because, if I

But then the food was ready. It was only four o’clock but we ate dinner anyway—pan-fried salmon, white rice, baked potatoes, and Caesar salad. We served ourselves in the kitchen and ate in the dining room.

When we’d all sat down, Ryan held up a forkful of salmon. “This yours, Dad?”

“From a few months ago. It’s been in the freezer,” Dad said as his jaw bulged.

“Right, I forgot. It’s not even salmon season.”

“Can’t forget that stuff if you want to come back on the boat.” Dad rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

Ryan nodded. His eyebrows furrowed and he stared at his plate.

“You—uh—you all got a plan yet?” Dad asked. “Know what you’re gonna do?”

“Well, honestly, we’ve been thinking of California. Near San Diego.”

None of us spoke. Mom had left the TV on in the other room. A male newscaster murmured, and then a commercial came on. It spurted twinkly music.

“It’s far, and it’s expensive, but Jacinta has a friend there who can get her a job at one of the hospitals,” Ryan added.

“And what are you gonna do?” Mom asked him. She folded her hands together and placed them on the table. Her lips were tightening with what I recognized as fear.

“I don’t know yet,” Ryan said. “I’ll think of something.”

Forks and knives clanged against plates. The rice was still a little tough, the salmon stringy. It smelled soggy and yeasty.

Why was Ryan allowed to travel the world, and move to another state, but they made me feel guilty just for going away to college?

I suddenly wanted to jump up from the table, knock over the display cabinet in the corner—full of Mom’s glass sculptures and figurines she bought at thrift stores along the Oregon coast—and run outside, out the sliding glass door to the grassy beach path. I wanted to escape. I wanted to visit Aunt Jane again, to eat in the Portland restaurant where she’d ordered a strawberry daiquiri and slid it over to me. “You look twenty-one. And, hey, one year makes no difference.” She winked. “It’ll be our little secret.” Then we both sat there with our matching drinks, and sipped them delicately through neon straws. I imagined others staring at us—at me—admiring my slender waist and my piercing eyes; the black eyeliner Aunt Jane had drawn on for me.

I glanced at Mom. Her cheeks were red with the effort of chewing.

“Tell me, Margaret, what do you do with the horses?” Jacinta asked. She squinted and covered her mouth as she swallowed a bite.

I cleared my throat. “People ride them on the beach. They pay to rent the horses. Sometimes I guide them when they don’t know how to ride.”

“And tell her about the other thing,” Mom said to me. She waved her hand in emphasis.

“Oh, and sometimes we do therapeutic rides for kids with special needs. Half-price. We just stick around here, behind the house. It’s more so they can be around the horses than to actually ride them.”

Jacinta’s eyes remained unblinking. I wanted to look away, but I thought it might be rude. I thought maybe she was staring at me so she wouldn’t have to lock eyes with Mom.

“That would look very good on a college application,” Jacinta said. Her voice grew softer with each word. “They like that stuff; community service, volunteering—”

“Hey, the sun! Finally.” Mom pointed at the sliding glass door; the rain had stopped. Powerful sunlight blossomed between lingering black clouds. The sky was a wave of fiery light. “Margaret, why don’t we show Jacinta the horses after dinner?” Mom said.

“Ryan and I’ll clean up,” Dad offered.

Check back next week for the finale, Part 3! 

Tagged: Author, Books, Fiction, Life, Nature, Prose, Random, Thoughts, Writing

Freedom – A Short Story, Part 1

Mom wanted to read it before I sent it away, but I wouldn’t let her.

“It’s okay, Margaret, you can admit it,” she said, staring violently at the sealed envelope in my hand. The chair groaned as Mom sat up. “You begged them to get you out of this small town, didn’t you.”

“No, I wrote about the horses,” I said. “About all I’ve done with the business. About our bond.” I shivered in the doorframe, one foot exposed to the air.

“I hope you know how much those horses love you, honey,” Mom said.

“I know, Mom.”

By the time I shut the door she had already turned up the TV. I could hear it outside, even from the coffee-stained seats of the car. The muffled game show applause dissipated as I turned the key in the ignition.

Mom’s Hottest Hits of the 90’s tape turned on with the deep click of the engine. I slammed my finger into the power button. The cassette had been stuck in our broken stereo since I was in elementary school, and it always started up with the car. It was the only thing to listen to—even the radio didn’t work—but I preferred silence, or at least the sound of sloshing, stale liquid in an old McDonald’s cup.

Of course there was always the ocean, but I didn’t hear it anymore. It was like my own breathing. I only noticed if I listened for it.

Visitors heard it, like Aunt Jane. She liked to say the waves held her tight all day, all night long, swimming in her ears, calming her nerves.

“Takes me back to the old days, on Dad’s boat,” Aunt Jane said. “The fresh air, the crisp wind. The picnics up on the hill by the lighthouse. I always loved it here.”

“Why’d you leave us, then?” Mom asked.

Aunt Jane never responded. She just scrunched up her lips and patted her hair like she always did, her cheeks flushing red. Then she grabbed the tapestry pillow next to her on the couch and asked how Grandma was.

But I knew why. I knew why Aunt Jane had left—same reason I was on my way to the Post Office.

Aunt Jane worked in a lawyer’s office up in Portland. I’d stayed with her for two weeks the previous summer. She lived on the second highest floor of a newly built apartment building overlooking the river. Although she didn’t brag about it around my mom, I knew Aunt Jane had made it. She bought designer purses at the mall, and vacationed in Florida once a year; she toured local vineyards on the weekends, and drank wine with friends as they watched the sunset. She was husbandless and childless at age forty-five, but few would pity her for it. I certainly didn’t. Her life sounded much more exciting than staying in town to start a family, like my parents had. I wanted to see what was beyond the Oregon coast; to become worldly and cultured and well-off. If I stayed in town, I would end up just like my parents.

Driving to the Post Office felt lazy. I usually walked, but it was raining and I didn’t feel like getting my hair wet. Ryan and his wife were coming over for dinner. I wanted to look decent—someone had to.

The ocean lingered beyond the cliffs like an impassable concrete slab. It absorbed pale swaths of rain, stacking grey upon grey until I could barely see the horizon. Near the edge of the cliff sat an ancient house that served as town Post Office. Behind its broken, mossy shutters, the windows were dark. I parked the car with the engine still running and ran to the door. It was locked.

I realized it must’ve been one of those state holidays where the banks and Post Office are closed and they don’t deliver mail. There was a slot in the door to slide letters through after hours, but that could’ve been dangerous. What if it got wet, or stepped on, or the sixty-dollar application fee was stolen?

There were three twenty-dollar bills folded in the envelope. I hadn’t asked Mom for a check because she would’ve shaken her head, handed me one, and said, “You’re wasting it. You’ve already got your associates degree. You’ve got a job. You can save up and get out of the house soon enough, if that’s what you want.” Why did she have to make me feel guilty for growing up? I was twenty, and it was about time I moved out.

I ran back to the car, shielding my hair with my hands, and drove home.

Check back next week for Part 2!

Tagged: Author, Books, Fiction, Life, Prose, Writing

Connecting with Cottonwood Trees

I admit it. I ate leaves at recess. Okay, I chewed on them and spit them out afterward, but, to a third grader, that counted as eating. My best friend and I gathered browning leaves from the grass and took large, savage bites out of them, enjoying the rough, papery texture and the bitter crunch. They could well have been poisonous, but we figured one bite wouldn’t hurt us. We were right; looking back, I realize we were eating Cottonwood leaves.

When we weren’t eating leaves at recess, we were catching them. On windy fall days we stood at the edge of the fields where a row of tall, yellowing trees shook. Their leaves fell slowly through the air, turning in small circles. We ran, laughing, with our arms stretched in waiting. As the leaves floated closer to our welcoming palms, we grasped at them giddily. It was a rare occurrence to actually catch one, but when we did, we celebrated the chosen leaf, and kept it in one of our pockets for the rest of the day.  I didn’t have a name for those trees, at the time, but, looking back, I realize we were catching Cottonwood leaves.

One summer we went to the river almost every day. It was the best spot along the river, where a wide, clear stream ran into the dark rapids. The stream was lined by blackberries and a tangle of wild, spider-strewn grasses. While my brother stacked rocks to engineer dams and waterfalls, I waded through the shallow water, chasing minnows and crawdads. The first step into the water was always a shock, especially in the morning when the sun was still low. By lunch it was warm enough to plunge into the river. We floated on our backs or on inner-tubes, watching the sky move between the trees. These were good days. We ate peanut butter sandwiches, Cheetos, and fruit-snacks while we sat on the sand. We threw rocks into the water for my dog to fetch, and she plunged her whole head to the bottom to retrieve them. Sometimes I wandered upstream alone, as far as I could go without losing sight of my mom, and I built my own castles out of those slimy, mossy rocks. Often I would pick one up to find it encased in lacy leaf-skeletons. I recoiled from them; I didn’t want to touch them. They were dead. Dead, drowned leaves that had fallen from the waving trees above the water. Looking back, I realize they were Cottonwood trees.

I realize that all my life I’ve known them, and all my life I’ve loved them.

Tagged: Childhood, Life, Musings, Nature, Personal, Philosophy, Prose, Random, Thoughts, Writing

The Path To Publishing: How I Became a Published Author

I decided what I would do with my life on a fall afternoon thirteen years ago. I was slouched over the thin plastic desk of my third-grade classroom, my hand tight from grasping my pencil. Behind the single sheet of paper provided for the assignment I had stapled four more; there was just too much to write about. In large, slanted handwriting I created a story of spaceships, of mysterious giant bouncy balls, of herds of intelligent space goats, of a fruity drink called Moonrock Rumble. When I had finished I proudly drew crayon illustrations and glued it to my research poster on the planet Neptune. That was the day I realized how fun writing stories was, and how organically they came from me. That was the day I decided to become an author.

There was no reason to wait. From that point on I regularly wrote short stories ranging from fairytales to random nonsensical ramblings. I wrote in diaries and journals, and I started many uncompleted novels. By my Junior year of high school I had finally finished one. It was a realistic fiction novel called Autumn. I googled “how to get a book published”. It seemed the process began with query letters: send them out to literary agents, who will hopefully request the manuscript—and hopefully accept it. Then they work their magic by contacting publishing companies and securing you a contract. So I sent query letters to about five literary agents. When they all turned me down, I wasn’t surprised. That’s how the industry works, right?

Nonetheless, I was ready to move on. After I graduated high school in 2011, I decided to write something new. An idea had been culminating in my mind for the past year or so, and it was finally time to write it out. Six months later I had finished writing Call of the Sun Child. I let my mom read it, but otherwise it was unseen and unedited before I sent out query letters. This time I queried small, independently owned publishing companies along with literary agents. Unlike larger companies, small presses often publish new writers, even if they aren’t represented by an agent. The responses were promising.

Besides the ten or so expected no’s, two literary agents and two small presses requested the full manuscript. I was both thrilled and terrified. The months of waiting to hear back from them was torture, and so too were the responses. To be so close and then turned down was much worse than an outright denial; especially when I knew that it was my writing, my characters, my whole being that they were rejecting, and not just the superficialities of a query letter.

Just the day before Homebound Publications offered me a contract I had been turned down by the other small press. I was sure Homebound would likewise reject my book; I was ready to give up. But then I screamed and cried and jumped through the hallways, slapping my hand against the wall. Because, on a fall day a year and a half ago, I heard what I had been waiting for since third-grade—that I going to be published. That I was, officially and for all time, an author.

Tagged: Author, Books, Childhood, Life, Personal, Publishing, Random, Thoughts, Writing