Excerpt: Immaculate Deception Chapter Three

Excerpt from Immaculate DeceptionBy Sherry Morris
This book won the Romantic Times Book Reviews Magazine Reviewers Choice Award for 2007 Best Small Press Paranormal Romance  Chapter Three
He stopped in front of the door. I heard music seeping out. The "Donna" song. My bladder was really full. As soon as I turned the doorknob, I felt the wind swarming like a whirlpool of summer gnats. I tried to shut it quick but it was too late. I was standing in Momma's lavender bathroom. Dream over. Back to my sucky reality. Sigh. These connected dreams were really bizarre. I sure did like Mr. Jones. If only he were real. A draft wafted in from the open window. Momma always left her bathroom window cracked, even in the middle of winter. She had this suffocation phobia or something, always needed fresh air. Hey, wait a minute. How did I get in her bathroom? I fell asleep in the basement closet. Jeeze, now I was sleepwalking. What next? I did what needed to be done, washed my hands and stared into Momma's magic mirror, the full-length one on the back of the bathroom door. Momma had always said she needed a cushion to sit on when forced to sit in a hard chair because "I don't have any padding in the back". Oh yes, she did. So I figured her magic mirror must do a liposuction reflection. I stood sideways, hoping to see magic. Nope. Apparently, it only worked for Momma. Gosh, Tammy was right, I did look like crap. Well, I had been in a major auto accident, I didn't have my own clothes and furthermore, I really could use a day of beauty. But with all the sleep I'd over-caught up on, you'd think my face would be rosy and taut. But no. A yellow-green bruise blanketed my forehead and seven scabby little slashes radiated through both blond eyebrows and continued to the tip of my nose. My skin was a tapestry of irritated red and pasty white, with a zit forming on my chin. Great. I heard the doorbell chiming incessantly. I inhaled deeply and then shuffled into the living room. Kneeling on the leather couch in front of the picture window, I peered through the heavy gold drapes. Two vehicles were parked in front. One in the driveway, one on the street. The mourners had arrived. I ran my fingers through my curls as I stumbled down the steps and opened the front door. Mr. Meddlestein said, "Oh good, you're here. We thought we'd gotten the time wrong. Well, move aside, it's hot out here." Furrowing my brows into a scowl, I turned, opened the basement door and then stepped out of the way, onto the first stair leading back up to the living room. I said, "Down there," and pointed down. Seventy-ish Roddy Meddlestein, Esquire, ever tall and dapper in his three-piece linen summer suit, led the way, followed by his missus. Retired District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Chief Bubba Wrigley removed his football cap before stepping onto the landing. He ran his fingers through his thick white mane. He looked great. I wasn't sure how old he was because as Daddy always said, "Black don't crack". I couldn't get used to Daddy being gone. A Jack Nicholson look-alike, Doctor "Farts" Goldfarb, took up the rear. Disheveled thinning salt-and-pepper hair, wild eyebrows and thick-framed eyeglasses. He was a semi-retired proctologist, back in the days when specialists actually called themselves such. The new politically correct term would probably be gastroenterologist. Dr. Goldfarb worked on Tuesday mornings as the medical consultant at Heavenly HMO. Yep, that's how I acquired my job there. These three gentlemen were Daddy's buddies from the Sportsman's Club, a group of old geezers that went deer and wild turkey hunting every year on property they jointly owned in Virginia, up on Mount Storm. As soon as Farts cleared the top basement step, I shut the door behind him and locked it. Felt great. I sighed and unlocked it. Stumbling out the front door, I stopped by the first azalea bush. Its new green growth hadn't shed the brown remnants of the big spring blossoming. I realized that I didn't have my Suburban with me. A flashback from the accident quickened my pulse. Well, I imagined I'd not be driving that vehicle again. I wondered what they did with it after sweeping the debris into a dustpan. Great. Now I'd have to haggle with the auto insurance company. Fun. Okay, so how was I getting home? I went back inside my parents' house and grabbed the fluorescent orange goody bag. Well, let's see here, I had three dollars, one dime, six pennies and another dime left. I didn't think a cab would take my Hilton Honors American Express Card. But I did wanna go home. Oh did I wanna go home. What to do, what to do when your foot is stuck in the glue? Boy that was a stupid old rhyme. One of Perry's probably. I heard the herd climbing the stairs. I moved out of the way and sank into the leather tub chair. It had been Daddy's favorite. He'd slung his old arthritic knees over it and curled up into many a nap there. One by one, they each shook my hand and offered deepest sympathies. I noticed Farts—um, Doctor Goldfarb—wandering through the kitchen. I asked Mr. Meddlestein, "What's he looking for?" "The booze and grub. Where's the buffet set up?" All eyes eagerly anticipated my response. I felt my face go flush. "I'm very sorry. This is all so sudden…and horrific. My sister Tammy had ordered KFC and I thought that Daddy would have wanted something home-cooked with love for his special send-off so I shooed the guy away." Doctor Goldfarb hollered from the kitchen, "Nathan loved KFC. That would have been very appropriate. What got into you, girl?" It always amazed me how the hard-of-hearing could detect a whisper in another room but never answered when you asked them to do something. One of Momma's sore spots with Daddy. Roddy Meddlestein chimed in, "Damn, an extra crispy fried chicken leg would hit the spot now." Chief Bubba Wrigley said, "Would you believe it's not fried? Yessiree, I know the secret. It's pressure cooked. Saw that on the cable television one night. Hey, Meddlestein, did you see the fly-fishing tournament last Sunday?" Farts Goldfarb rummaged through the kitchen, slamming cabinets. I bolted up and went to see what he was doing. He'd found a partially used bottle of vodka and was pouring some into a tea-stained tumbler. Two saltine crackers were disappearing into his mouth. I shook my head and went back to face the butt holes, um…mourners. Farts followed me. As we returned to the living room, Mrs. Meddlestein said, "I've got a brisket in the crock pot and a lemon cake. You all are welcome to come over to our house." A tall, elegantly dressed African American woman had come in the front door. The three caballeros leered as they sized her up and guffawed to each other. Mrs. Meddlestein greeted the lady. "The body is downstairs, dear. I don't believe we've met. I'm Gloria Meddlestein. I've lived across the street from Nathan for thirty-six years. And what is your name? How did you know Nathan?" As the new arrival proceeded downstairs with the interrogator, Chief Bubba Wrigley called out, "Ain't no food or cocktails here, cheap-assed party." My stomach knotted up. Teardrops singed my cheeks. I escaped into Momma's bedroom and shut the door. I lay down in her mattress dip and rubbed my hands back and forth on her lavender chambray bedspread. I rubbed and rubbed until my hands felt fiery. I really needed to blow my nose. I glanced at the bedside stand and noticed Momma's big beige leather pocketbook. Momma always had tissues. I stretched across the bed and reached out. I lay still for a moment and then rose up and scooted over and picked it up. I plucked a folded sandwich of tissues out of her purse and blew and blew. I wiped my eyes with a fresh one. I picked up the pocketbook and lifted it back onto the nightstand. It was heavy. Momma always had a heavy purse. Lots of loose coins, a paperback novel, scarf, letter opener for protection, keys… That's it! I'll borrow Momma's car. I eased the purse straps on my shoulder, threw the snotty tissues in the black and gold metal wastebasket and headed down the hall. I marched right by the geezers and out the door. Down the steps and into the driveway, I trekked past a vintage hospital scrubs-colored green pickup truck, no doubt belonging to Doc Goldfarb. Blocking the driveway on the street was Chief Bubba Wrigley's shiny blue Ford Crown Victoria, duly equipped with the police package. And under the carport, there she was, Momma's fiftieth anniversary edition Corvette. I pressed the automatic key and heard the locks disengage. I opened the big wide door. Putting Momma's purse in first, I then slid my body into the low seat. I shut the door and locked it. I slipped the key into the ignition and turned on the accessory power. The sound system kicked in, picking up the CD track that Momma had last listened to. The Bee Gees hit song from the sixties, "I've Gotta Get a Message to You". For a fleeting moment, I listened hard, trying to hear if she was trying to send me a message through the song. Then I realized how foolish that was. I remembered hearing about the teenagers who used to think if they played the Beatles' pop songs backward there were secret messages. It was hot. Really hot. I cracked the windows and lowered the volume. Since I couldn't go anywhere, blocked in by the other cars, I reclined the driver's seat and closed my eyes. My arid mouth annoyed me. I licked my lips. Gum, yeah, gum. I dug around in Momma's purse and extracted a pack of cinnamon gum. One piece remaining. I unwrapped it and sucked on the powdery cinnamon. I chewed. Momma always popped her gum. She was great at it. It was a trait that I hadn't inherited. She was also a great cruncher. She nibbled in fives. Bite, crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch…bite, crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch. Great molars, my momma had. Oh Momma. How did it come to this? I can't believe they really locked you away. So what if Mrs. Meddlestein saw you waving Daddy's cane and yelling at him. She didn't see you hit him. And neither did Perry. I didn't notice a bump on his head before he died. I don't know why Daddy would tell me that you killed him. None of this makes sense. If Perry locked you up in a mental hospital, then you could not possibly have murdered Daddy. I wouldn't be one bit surprised if he staged the whole thing to set you up. Why? I shrugged my shoulders. Ouch. Daddy had always manipulated people and situations for his own amusement. To think that I believed every word out of his mouth until I was thirty-six years old. He had told me Tammy had uterine cancer. I cried and cried and regretted all of the stupid sibling rivalry. We had squandered our time together. I was terrified to lose my sister. I tried to call her, she wouldn't pick up the phone and talk to me. I made a mix tape CD for her, all of the songs I loved that were upbeat and happy. I mailed it to her with a Get Well card. I prayed for her three times a day. Two weeks later, I bumped into her at Bella Hair. She was having her hair straightened. I asked her if that was a good idea, worried it might make it fall out quicker when she underwent chemotherapy. She laughed in my face and told me she most certainly did not have any type of cancer. When I confronted Daddy, he had told me to wise up. Why did Daddy lie to me about such a horrific thing? The only reason I could come up with was for his own amusement. Or maybe he wanted me and Tammy to get along better and assumed it was my fault we didn't. I loved my sister. And I always believed that deep down she loved me too. I should go see Momma. They did allow visitors at the mental hospital, didn't they? I checked the time on the little clock on the dashboard. Eight fifty. They probably wouldn't let me see her, let alone check her out at this hour. Or? Maybe I was just trying to chicken out. I couldn't deal with another family crisis just now. I'll go tomorrow. I always heard the general prison population was rough on cops. Surely they hadn't put Momma with criminals. They also wouldn't think a sweet old lady used to be a Secret Service agent. After all, she'd been a registered nurse for the last thirty years. I was so glad when she changed careers. I couldn't have survived the pain of losing Momma if she had to take a bullet for the President. And look at poor Jim Brady. He was just a press secretary and now he was paralyzed because he was with President Ronald Reagan when a nut tried to assassinate him. Jim took a bullet for the Commander-in-Chief. Wonder what it would be like to be a presidential press secretary. I could do that. Well, had I an education, I could do it. But I didn't. So a good union job in the file room at Heavenly HMO was where I toiled. Daytime, nighttime, Saturdays too, we open our doors— No, that was the old "Citizen's Bank of Maryland conveniently yours" jingle. I only had to work weekdays and sometimes on Saturday mornings. Not bad. Not bad at all. Old Bully next door was barking up a thunderstorm. He instigated a chain reaction. The call of the wild commenced doing the stadium wave around the cul-de-sac. I opened one eye and then squinted the next one open. I watched in the rearview mirror. The mourners were shaking hands, slapping backs and—yes!—they were leaving. I ducked back down and peeped in the sideview mirror. As soon as Bubba's navy blue Crown Victoria squealed out of the oil-stained concrete driveway, I popped the seat upright. As I buckled the safety belt, I watched Roddy and Gloria Meddlestein's front door close. I moved the seat forward. Momma was six inches taller than me. Didn't inherit her height either. I didn't mind being five foot two. It was fun being little and cute. Sometimes anyway. But not when I needed a baking dish from the top kitchen shelf or when I was reaching for the latest How To Find A Literary Agent and Get Published book from the top shelf at the bookstore. Did those people even realize that some of us had short arms to go with our short legs and coupled together, we couldn't reach the top shelves? The last time I had been in there, I had tiptoed and stretched and had been able to yank one down, scraping my wrist on one of their little shelf signs. When I had turned around to walk to a comfy chair, I had noticed the stepstool. After kicking it, I had plopped down and opened the book. I remembered moaning dramatically as soon as I'd realized it was written by hoity-toity Fifth Avenue New York literary agent extraordinaire, Miz Tiffany Crigler-Hufnagle. She'd sent me a form rejection on my one-page query letter, seeking representation for my first completed romantic suspense novel, Hundred Dollar Bill. It was no different from the other eighty-odd rejections I'd received. A poor-quality photocopied Dear Author letter. I have personally considered your proposal and I am afraid it does not sufficiently excite me. I am much too busy with all of my celebrity authors to be bothered with a nobody. The writing is not strong enough to be commercially marketable. The characters didn't come to life. Lots of luck finding representation elsewhere. The writing isn't strong. The characters didn't come to life. How the hell could she tell that from a one-page query letter? She hadn't even seen the manuscript. That's okay. It was business. I just needed to find the right agent to match-make me with the acquisitions editor at a publishing house who would adore my characters. If I would have been able to attend the writers' conference last week, I could've pitched my book live and in person to both an agent and an editor. And since my submission finaled in the writing contest, all the agents and editors there would have been chasing me down the red carpet, begging at my Cinderella-slippered feet. Well, if I won they would have. All I knew was I made it into the top ten in the suspense category. I'd probably get the scores in the mail. But I'd never get the mail if I didn't get across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and home. I started the engine, turned up the music, shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway, halfway into the Meddlesteins'. I shifted into overdrive and let the horses run down the block, to a rolling stop at the corner. Oh yeah Momma, you do know how to select an automobile. There was no residual rush hour traffic tonight, it was after nine and the moon rose fast. I turned up the volume and stretched my back. Shoot! My driver's license was in my wallet in the bag behind the wrought iron railing in the living room at my parents' house. I'd better be mindful of the posted speed limit. Shoot! A sea of red lights. I slowed to a stop. Well, either there was an accident or they had raised the bridge again and it was stuck open. What imbecile designed a drawbridge on the Capital beltway? And just who was that important that we needed to inconvenience thousands of commuters so that his or her yacht could pass through this section of the Potomac River? Could be an accident. I called this area of the beltway the Wilson Triangle. Cars traveled two thousand miles across the country and by some misalignment of the planets and underwater craters, they crapped out on this bridge. Then the bridge was shut down for hours. I had gotten caught on it once. On my wedding day. I had missed it. The whole thing. That was back in the days before cell phones. My groom Joel had thought I stood him up at the altar. Tammy had suggested it, surely enough. By the time I had arrived at the United Methodist church in Maryland, it had been locked up tight. I turned up the music. So that's what brought up this memory, the Bee Gees love song "Too Much Heaven". It had been our song. The first song Joel and I danced to at one of Tammy's wedding receptions. I sure didn't get too much heaven. I interlaced my fingers and positioned my thumbs side-by-side. Here is the church. I unfolded my index fingers. Here is the steeple. Open the doors and see all the people. I pulled my hands apart and sat on them. The church was empty. Well, my church had been empty by the time I had gotten there, four hours late. Nobody left skulking around but Daddy. I hadn't even been sure that he would've walked me down the aisle. He was opposed to the marriage. He and Momma had paid for my eighty-dollar wedding gown. I had slapped the rest of the wedding expenses on my charge cards. Poor Perry had needed their help with the down payment and closing costs on his move-up house. Apparently he also needed them to pay off his home equity loan on the first house so the sale would go through. Tammy had wanted to make a career change and they had paid her tuition to become a personal trainer. My parents couldn't have paid for my wedding. They had had to help my siblings out, they were such good children. I knew this because Momma and Daddy had told me so. Every time I called or visited. And besides, Tammy never wasted money on a big church wedding. Yeah, she always got her potential moneybag grooms drunk or high and eloped before they sobered up. Of course there would be a wedding reception after the deed was done, the bills no doubt footed by Momma and Daddy. And it had been Daddy there at the church, waiting to tell me I told you so. "Your groom took off for the Poconos without you. But he won't be crying in the champagne glass bathtub. The best man and your sister Tammy are kissing him and making him all better." Ouch, did that hurt. Daddy always did have a way of humiliating and embarrassing me, the way he told the truth as he interpreted it. So that was how my last great romance had ended. Considering how easily that scumbag had consoled himself, the wedding day traffic jam had probably been a fortunate twist of fate. I eyed the clock. Nine twenty-one p.m. I could be here for a while. So I cut the engine, unbuckled and reclined the seat. My eyes blinked in the darkness. Red taillights. Red sparkles. Beautiful red sparkles. Music. Another song by the Bee Gees, the brothers Gibb, "Technicolor Dreams". They wrote and recorded it in 2001 but it was in the style of the big movie musicals of the thirties and forties, back when their dad was an orchestra leader and their mum a girl singer. I loved the clarinet solo. Just like the song I danced to with that guy in my dream. My recurring dream. Please recur. Please recur…please recur. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~The car door opened. "Hello, Cinderella." I couldn't control my smile. "Hey you, step right into my dream again." "Actually it'd work better if you stepped outa the car." So I did. A valet climbed in and drove off. My man offered his arm and we strolled down the cobblestone boulevard.  "Gee, the stars are beautiful tonight. Hey, look up there. Can you see that really bright one?" Dream guy pointed. I tore my eyes away from his amazing-to-me, handsome face and followed his arm, gazing up. "Yes, I see it." "That's Venus, the planet of love." A smoky haze surrounded it. "Look! A shooting star!" I jumped up and down and then silently launched into a wish. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight. I wish to find my momma safe and sane. I wish peace in eternity for my daddy. I forgive him for his sins. He did not know that he was hurting me…all of us. He meant well, in his own weird way. I wish that my sister Tammy stops being so narcissistic and lives happily ever after. I wish that my brother Perry finds peace within himself and loses sufficient weight to get off his blood pressure medication and insulin. I wish that he also finds a life partner to adore him. I really, really wish that my brother and sister will put the past behind us, forget about all the childish rivalries and look at me as a friend. A grown-up woman, with my own interests and fascinating qualities to admire and respect. And oh, by the way, keeper of the stars, if it's not too much trouble, I'd like to sell my novel and live happily ever after underneath the bedclothes with the dream man. Amen. My dream man said, "I'm going to transport you from Mercury to Mars, love." All right, I'll play along. "Why not Venus?" "Too many women." I winked at him. "Good, I'll have you all for myself then." I thought for a moment. "But I don't have a spacesuit. I won't be able to breathe. And the temperature will freeze me or burn me, whichever way it goes in space." My author's brain played around with the idea. If we were going toward the sun, it would be hot. I didn't know if Mars had a sun or not. I guessed it was cold there. Darn, I wished I had a better education. Not that I was ever too interested in astronomy. Just still jealous of Perry and Tammy talking our parents into carte blanche for their career needs. I sighed. I needed to let go of this jealousy and anger and forgive everyone. It was the only way I would be able to heal my Swiss cheese heart. Staring at Venus, I heard music. The "Donna" song. Well, at least I won't suffocate or freeze solid this time. * * * * *I woke up to honking. It was dawn on Wednesday, back in the real world. The traffic was moving. I started the engine and inched along. They had replaced the old drawbridge with this wider one. The additional lanes hadn't helped one bit when it got stuck open. Unbelievable that Congress hadn't approved something more practical, like building it high enough so any ship could pass under it. The traffic jam finally opened up once I got over the bridge and passed the first two Virginia exits, Mount Vernon and Alexandria. I sailed on home with the sunrise.  "Ouch." The Corvette bottomed out on the speed bump in my neighborhood. It didn't actually hurt me but I dreaded looking under the front of the car. I turned into my concrete driveway and shifted to park. I stepped out and peeked underneath. What a relief, no damage. I trudged up to the garage and punched seven–seven–one–five into the keypad. I had lost the remote in the accident. The door wheezed and squealed open. I needed to get the chain oiled or something. My roommate's car wasn't there. Not that I'd ever even seen it or the roommate for that matter. Ashley had answered my ad via email and that's how we communicated. If not for the oil-stained floor on the left side of the garage and the seven hundred bucks she electronically deposited into my checking account every month, I'd say she was all a figment of my imagination. She lived in the basement and went in and out through the French doors in the backyard. There was a fire grade door between the first floor and the basement. I kept it closed but unlocked in case of fire or some other emergency. I didn't even know if she was neat or not. Didn't care either. Ideal roomie. She was gone most of the time, driving the tour bus for one of the big rock bands of the seventies. The grandpas played stadiums and state fairs, something like two hundred gigs a year. But Ashley was a writer wannabe, a songwriter. That was what clicked it for me, when she mentioned that. Another soul in a sucky job like mine, aspiring to be a writer. We had developed a nice relationship via email. We'd gossip about the neighbors, discuss major weather events, talk politics and we'd even touched on religion. So far there didn't seem to be anything we couldn't chat about. I noticed mail stacked on a shelf next to the potting soil. That was sweet, Ashley brought it in. Must've been piling up out in the common box on the corner. I grabbed it and went back out to the Vette. I drove her in the garage and proceeded back outside. I punched in the close code and the door did just that. I fumbled around on Momma's key ring and felt clever. Clever and relieved I had the keen forethought to give Momma a key to my house, just in case. I ascended the steps to the stoop. I opened the door, shuffled in and shut it behind me. Be it ever so humble and all that important stuff but it felt so good to finally be home again. I meandered into the kitchen and tossed the mail along with Momma's purse and keys onto the granite island. I washed my hands and then popped a store-brand diet cola out of the fridge. Good and cool, all the way down. I opened the off-white cloth vertical blinds on the wall of French doors and let the morning sunshine flood in. I sifted through the week's mail. My fingers trembled as I ripped the side of an envelope from the writers' organization. I shook out the white paper and shook my head. I'd come in dead last in the romantic suspense category. Oh well. What was it that the other authors often said? Something like making it to the final round of the contest was honor enough. Agents and editors would look favorably upon this distinction. I tossed the letter on the counter. My heart sank, recognizing two of the self-addressed stamped envelopes that I'd sent to literary agents in New York. I'd never once gotten an invitation to submit my work to them back in one of these. I always received form rejection letters instead. In the only request I ever got by snail mail, the agent used her own envelope. Must've liked my stamp. I always got the pretty ones, hanging up on racks on the post office walls. I bought the Reston branch out of the Cary Grants. They weren't making him anymore. Limited editions, those were. I carefully ripped open a letter from the District of Columbia Department of Health. I'd ordered a certified copy of my birth certificate. I needed it to apply for a passport. I'd need a valid passport when I was taking the UK by storm on my book tour. I just had to sell my novel to a publisher first. Maybe I'd be escorted around by one of those handsome Englishmen or even a Scot. Their soft-spoken accents just melted me. Not the working-class cockneys imitated in American movies, nor the hoity-toity royal accent. But the cadence in between. Like my dream boy. He sounded, well, like he was born in England to a nice proper but not royal family and perhaps they'd immigrated to the United States when he was a young man, as his accent wasn't overpowering but smooth and attractive. Momma had taken me down to the Department of Motor Vehicles when I was sixteen to get my driver's license. She wouldn't give me my birth certificate. She'd said, "You'll lose it. I'll keep it in a safe place." So I'd never actually even seen it. A couple of weeks ago, I snuck and applied for one. Forty-two years old, sneaking and doing things behind my mother's back. I grinned. So here it was, typed and official. Orpha Donna Payne, female, date of birth, May 1, 1964, singleton. Mother's maiden name, Chloe Sue Lambert, age 41, born in Shrew, North Carolina. Father's name, Nathan Lucifer Payne, age 50, born in Sacramento, California. Usual occupation, physician. Other children born to this mother, two. I read the last line again. Other children born to this mother, two? What was that all about? No wonder Momma didn't want me to see this! She had had two babies before she had me? I had two more siblings! Where were they? Who were they? Why didn't she ever tell me? I tasted a cool swig of soda and stared out the back door. The mixed-color flowers—cardinal climbers, blue morning glories, red sunflowers and white pineapple lilies—in the pots on the deck looked great. Ashley must've watered them. Gosh, I was lucky to have her. My mind was racing at the news. I didn't want any new siblings. The two that I had were bad enough. I shook my head. Okay, I'm just going to slip the certificate back in the envelope and stash it in the metal filing cabinet and pretend I have never ever seen it. I held the first self-addressed stamped envelope up to the light. I could see the outline of a small slip of paper. I carefully ripped the end of the envelope off, not the one with the stamp on it. I squeezed it and a wisp of white paper floated out. It was a piece of notepad, folded in half, embossed with the fancy-pantsy New York literary agent's name and Broadway address. Dear Author, Excuse the nature of this form response. I am overwhelmed with submissions and obligations to my clients preclude me from considering your work. If I did have the time to answer you personally, I would encourage you to buy my book, Writing the Wright Way. This would be a big step in your long and winding journey toward your dream. Regards, Juanita Wright Me thinks Juanita Wright is a tad bit full of herself. Her loss. Perhaps the other one had better news. I opened the second self-addressed stamped envelope. I removed my one-page query letter, along with the first page of my manuscript, which I had begun to slip in so they could get a feel for my voice. Scribbled on the query letter, in purple ink, gel pen probably, was Amateur. I moaned. My head throbbed over my left eyebrow and the pain zipped around to my right ear. This guy didn't even bother to include a form letter. What, was my query and page one so repulsive that he had to eradicate them from his office? He couldn't even shred them? I swiped the envelopes, rejection letters and birth certificate and stomped into the living room to my desk and filed them. I tallied up the two new query rejections. Eighty-seven down. Never lose hope, Donna. The one agent who believed in me was bound to come. And odds were, he or she was right around the next plot twist. Back in the kitchen, I swallowed two aspirins, washing them down with the diet soda. Daddy always told me that aspirin plus caffeine was the quickest headache cure. He was a great diagnosticator. One of his silly terms. Daddy always knew precisely what ailed me and would have me on the proper antibiotic before I saw our family doctor. Momma worked as a private duty nurse at the Washington Hospital Center, on their exclusive 6–D ward, where people of wealth went. Anyhow, they dispensed medicine in little brown pillboxes and she'd bring the leftovers home in her pocket. So we always had a bolus of antibiotics on hand. Daddy had always bragged about his pioneering organ transplant research. Too bad his patients had lost a dedicated physician when he lost his vision in the early seventies. And now I'd lost my daddy. A lump of mucus gagged my throat. I was so sick of crying. Loping out to the living room, I plopped down in the chair at the desk built into a niche in the corner. My Men Out of Uniform calendar screensaver was half-blue and frozen. Of course it had to be the lower half of the screen that was blue. My favorite, Mr. July, Firefighter Johnny, was cut off at his six-pack. I sequentially pressed the Ctrl, Alt and Del keys, holding them down. Nothing happened. I tried again. Zip. So I turned the power off and then back on. I had been surfing when Daddy had called last week and then I had rushed out, leaving the computer on. Yes, it booted fine. I clicked to check my email account. I was happy to see the little magnifying glass on the envelope icon. I was receiving mail. Just one message, from my roomie Ashley. SUBJECT: Are you okay? Donna, Where are you? What happened? Your boss Cynthia came by the house this morning. She was just "checking in". I wasn't dressed, so I talked to her through the door. I peeked out at her from the peephole in the front door and man, she looks mean. So I found out about the accident. BTW, the real purpose of her visit was to inform you to report back to work immediately. Your accident sounded horrific! I called the hospital and they said you'd been discharged, so I figured you must be okay. Post me ASAP and let me know if I can help with anything. Oh I stuck your mail on the shelf in the garage. Please don't be mad at me for coming upstairs. Cynthia was ringing the bell incessantly and that song you have on your chimes was driving me nuts. I thought maybe you'd locked yourself out or something. I didn't touch any of your stuff. By the way, your house is beautiful. How do you keep it so clean? We're headed west, this leg of the tour starts in California and heads up through Oregon, Washington and into British Columbia, then through Canada, down through New York, Pennsylvania and home for almost a week. Maybe we can hook up then? See you in September, Ashley I clicked the reply button and began typing. SUBJECT: Re: Are you okay? Hi Ashley, Other than I feel like I was pummeled by an airbag, impaled on a deer, thrown through the windshield and pitched down a hill, I'm just dandy. The antler didn't do any damage to major blood vessels or nerves but it nicked a muscle. They repaired it and stitched me up. My lovely supervisor Cynthia probably found out about it because the hospital called for verification of insurance coverage. They kicked me out after four days anyway. Ashley, my father died yesterday. Or was it the day before? I'm all fuzzy. Let's see. According to the little date and time icon on my computer, today is Wednesday, August 2 already. He died Monday afternoon. July 31. August Eve. He had a heart attack. There was a long delay before help arrived. Well, no, they sent a fire truck and those guys did CPR and used the shock thingy on him. But by the time the ambulance arrived, they pronounced him dead. My brother is ranting that my mother murdered him. He had her admitted to a mental hospital. Four days before Daddy's cardiac arrest. So how the heck did she get an opportunity to do him in? As if my eighty-three-year-old mother could have escaped from the hospital. Perry (my brother) is the one with the mental deficit. Oh it's been awful. My sister set Daddy's coffin up in the basement, one of those eight-sided Dracula boxes! But he's not inside. There was a fake Irish wake and his friends were just horrible. I borrowed Momma's car and came home. I was stuck on the Wilson Bridge all night. Has that ever happened to you? Hope you're having a great time on the road again. It was sweet of you to worry. Of course I'm not mad at you for coming upstairs. I only wish I'd been here to finally meet you face-to-face. Thanks for letting me know about Cynthia's visit. Yes, she is mean. Write when you get an internet connection. Hey, how's your love life? Oh thanks for bringing in the mail and watering my flowers. Donna I clicked send, took a shower, dried off and went to bed naked. My throbbing head and the sun pouring in through the skylights interfered with slumber time. I stumbled to the bathroom and swallowed one more aspirin and two tiny pink and white Benadryl capsules. Washed them down with water though, the last thing I needed was more caffeine to keep me awake. I wasn't taking Benadryl because of an allergic reaction and I wasn't tormented with sinus congestion. But I knew there was a side effect to Benadryl that caused drowsiness and it usually knocked me out. Momma had taught me about it. There were many nights when she couldn't turn her mind off and she relied on Benadryl. Now I was doing it. I crawled back under the covers. Of course, the phone rang. I checked the caller ID Payne, Perry. I growled and answered. "Hello?" "Oh-Donna, Saint C's just called. They're booting Chloe out if someone doesn't come and sign a financial contract. The cashier's office is open until four. Can you make it in time?" I snarled my face into a ferocious sneer. Too bad we didn't have video phones. "No way!" "But you've gotta go down and pay. Just give them a credit card or something. We can't have her loose on the streets." "Oh so you admit that she didn't escape and kill Daddy then. Momma is not a deranged murderess and she does not belong locked up at the cuckoo's nest! And why do you always think that I'm a billionaire? You're the big important judge. I just do peon cog-in-the-wheel work, because I have no education, because there was no money for my college, because you needed it. And sweet pretty Tammy." My brother fired right back at me. "If someone dies or is injured because they let a mental patient loose, then the cops will go after you for not making arrangements. You will be the responsible party, Oh-Donna." I hyperventilated. Something ugly and nasty from deep inside of me spat out. "Don't you threaten me." I threw the phone. I heard a crack as it smacked my bedroom window. "No!" Shaking all over, I stumbled across the midnight blue carpet and dragged the broken off-white plastic mini blinds back to inspect the glass. Good, I didn't break the window. I went to the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom and popped one more aspirin, just because. I couldn't stop thinking about poor Momma. Oh what was it like in the mental hospital? Was the room cold and barren? Was she locked up in a ward with a dozen screaming women? Was she frightened? Did she have her pain medication for her back? Oh Momma, I've got to get you out of there. Well, now if what Perry says is true, if nobody pays your bill, then they will release you. That will work. That is one way to spring you from the hokey- pokey. But then what? Do they just shove you out the front door and lock it behind you? What would you do on the streets of Anacostia? An elderly white lady would not blend in with the neighborhood. Wait, don't you still have some friends there from the old days? Could you walk to their house? Do you have your purse? Could you pay for a cab ride home? Wait, I have your purse, with the keys, wallet and all. Tears of guilt flowed down my cheeks. I was drowsy, the Benadryl was finally kicking in. I'll come and get you, Momma. But tomorrow. I can't drive like this. Back in my bedroom, I turned on some soothing-sounds music, waves. I jabbed my finger on the cooler button on the thermostat and then dropped my body onto the queen-sized four-poster bed. I stared up at the crocheted lace canopy and listened to the waves lapping the shore. I heard the rush and whirr as the air conditioner kicked on. I tried to conjure up a beach at midnight… I felt the sand under my toes. A strong summer wind blew off the ocean. The foamy tide lapped my calves. Bells rang, a soothing little echo. A saxophone melody materialized. Sounded like, wait, I knew this one. Something from the forties. "Sentimental Journey". Who made it famous? Right. Doris Day and the Les Brown band. I smelled marshmallows. No, I really did. I turned around. Down the shoreline, I detected a flicker. An irresistible flickering. Like a magnet, it propelled me. I blinked my eyes at a campfire. And there he was.  Buy Amazon Kindle Buy eBook at Smashwords