I don’t awaken so much as I suddenly surface, as a drowning swimmer emerges gasping from the depths, and when my mind is once again calmly bobbing along on the sea of consciousness I realize that it was a dream-echo of his voice - my physician's voice - that has abruptly woken me up.

I’m sorry...sorry...so very sorry...

I lie in my narrow bed thinking that it really isn’t what he said earlier today that still disturbs me so, disturbs me enough to have broken my sleep, but rather the tone in which he said it. For such a gruff and often patronizing man, the almost palpable sorrow emanating from him was surprising, and far more frightening for its sincerity.

Emma, I am so very sorry, but I need to tell you something important…

Despite the gravity of his words, I would have actually preferred that he’d delivered them with a joke, with a smile, with a heartily fake har har, accompanied by a too-hard slap on the shoulder. The truth would have been so much easier to disbelieve that way, even if I knew the joke was a lie. I'm just joshin’ ya, har har. You’re fine.

A soft, steady ploik-ploik-ploik of water dripping onto the fire escape outside of my window tells me that it’s still raining. The clock on my bedside table - an immutable glowing red in the darkness - displays the time, only five minutes past midnight, yet I doubt that there will be any more sleep left for me to slip back into tonight. As it sometimes happens when I awaken swiftly - which isn’t often these days, and never on the mornings I have to work, unfortunately - I am completely and utterly alert, my body strumming like a plucked chord, filled with an energy that I don’t normally possess during the day. Were I to get up and put this rare gift of vigor to good use I could get a lot accomplished, but as it happens there is nothing for me to achieve just now, no dirty dishes to wash, no emails to write, not even a lover to turn and sweetly murmur to in hopes of enjoyably wiling away the nighttime hours under the sheets…no, nothing pressing that needs done at this very moment, except for me to lie here and just breathe.

The test results came back, Emma…we’d hoped we’d gotten it all, but we were wrong…

(Har har…just kidding, har har)

With the musical backdrop of the rain drumming down on the metal staircase outside, a sound I always used to love to fall asleep to, my hand creeps up under my nightshirt, almost of its own accord. With one fingertip I begin to trace the topographic map that is my body. I don’t bother with anything below my waist; my feet and legs have always held their own without complaint even back when I used to have the energy to run five miles a day, and except for utilitarian reasons for me to swipe at it with a washcloth or toilet paper, the junction between my thighs might as well be a dead zone for all the desire I possess lately to feel anyone’s touch down there, even my own.

No, instead, my finger traces my belly, grotesquely swollen due to my meds, and then lingers, slows, as it rises upward along one of the long ridges of scar tissue over the top of my ribcage. I force my finger to continue, to feel what is no longer there, because although it’s been a few months now, it is something that I have yet to acknowledge in the mirror. I just couldn’t make myself look.

Turns out there was lymphatic involvement…metastasis…brain, liver, and lungs…

(Har har…no, not really, har har)

The scar my finger feels is bumpy but fairly straight, and though it is night and very dark in my room, I still know that the tissue has yet to fade from an angry red to the resigned silvery white it would become were it given the time. The scar even feels angry; I can feel the heat of its indignation under my fingertip as I tentatively touch down in exploration. The scar’s mirrored twin to the left is half an inch shorter, but no less ugly in its reddened, outraged form. My chest, once an unblemished valley between two gently rolling hills, has become a stark, ravaged plain.

I abruptly move my finger away. That the battle has been lost on this destroyed field is too hard to admit just yet.

It is my recommendation that the chemo be discontinued at this time; it is doing you far more harm than good...

(Just messin’ with ya, har har)

It rained the day - six months ago - when they told me that the lump I’d found in the shower wasn’t just a benign little hitchhiker under my skin. It was raining four weeks later on the morning they wheeled me into the bright white room where they put me to sleep and removed my need to ever again wear a bra. It rained the first day of my chemotherapy, when I’d taken a bus and arrived too early at the clinic, forced to wait outside for it to open, breastless, thirty-one years old, and dripping wet because I’d forgotten my umbrella.

It has rained all day today, and shows no signs of stopping.

This is purely speculation on my part, but in answer to your question, I’d have to say anywhere from six weeks to six months... You might, ahem, take this time to get your affairs in order. I’m so sorry, Emma.

(Har har...you can take a joke, right?)

I roll over onto my side, pull the covers up to my chin, and try to go back to sleep. Instead I spend the rest of the night contemplating how much I used to like the rain.

It started with a book.

It was a silly thing, really. I couldn't find Susie's favorite book, the pop-up of her favorite nursery rhyme, Jack and Jill. I was sure I'd placed it on her nightstand after reading her to sleep the night before, but it was nowhere to be found. I convinced a crying Susie that the Three Little Pigs would do the trick, bundled her into the car and dropped her at daycare.

Such a silly thing.

Once I was at work, the missing book quickly passed out of my mind. I had meetings to attend, projects to lead and people to manage. Wherever Jack and Jill were, they could wait until I'd delivered on my cost saves and updated the stakeholders.

My mind was still on the latest metrics report when I breezed into the daycare that night.

"Hi Mrs. Simmons," Veronica greeted me. "What can I do for you?"

I paused. Veronica had worked at the daycare for years, so it seemed like an odd question.

"Is Susie ready to go?" I asked.

A puzzled look crossed her face. "But Mr. Simmons picked her up an hour ago. Said you'd called and were running late so he was doing pick up duty."

I pasted a fake smile on my face. "That's right, but I finished up early and thought I'd beat him here. Guess I'm too late."

I kept my smile in place until I was safely in the car. Then I frantically dialed John. He answered on the second ring.

"Is everything OK?" I asked. "Did something happen at work?"

"Everything's fine," he replied. "Why?"

"You left work early and picked up Susie. I figured something bad must have happened."

He was silent.

"John? Are you there?"

"Is this a joke?" I could hear suspicion in his voice.

"No. Seriously, is something wrong?"

"Stop playing, Caroline. You called me and asked me to pick her up early. If your plans changed, you should have called back."

"I didn't call you. Are you telling me that you got a call to pick Susie up early? Are you sure it wasn't Veronica?"

"No, it wasn't Veronica. It was you. You told me that the metrics dashboard wasn't going to be ready for review until late and asked me to get Susie. So I did."

I paused. He was right, I had found out at 3:15 that the dashboard wouldn't be ready on time. But the team had stepped it up and finished earlier than anticipated. Had I called him and then forgotten?

"Well, thanks for getting her. I'm on my way home, see you in a few minutes."

First the book, now this. Maybe it was time for a vacation.

John didn't bring up the daycare fiasco at dinner. After a quiet meal, I gave Susie a bath and put her to bed.

"Mommy, can you read me Jack and Jill?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, honey. Mommy still hasn't found the book. How about Little Red Riding Hood?"

Susie pointed to her nightstand. "But I want Jack and Jill."

My eyes followed her finger. There was Jack and Jill, exactly where I'd left it the night before.

I read it to her on automatic, not hearing the words or her exclamations at the pop-up figures. I turned out the light as she drifted off to sleep.

"John, did you put Susie's book back on her nightstand?"

He didn't look up from the basketball game he was watching. "What book?"

I let the matter drop. It was just a silly thing.

The next couple of days were back to normal and I put the book and daycare issue into the "bad day" category. I'd been under a lot of stress and hadn't been getting much sleep. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that was a bad combination.

Then things started happening at work.

They were little things. My stapler was missing, then it was back on my desk. A meeting that I'd set up weeks ago was suddenly cancelled at the last minute - from my e-mail. I left at night and got to my car - only to find my car keys were in my desk drawer. Each time I laughed it off.

Until Cheryl cornered me in the ladies room.

"Caroline, is everything OK?"

I concentrated on washing my hands. "Everything's fine. Why do you ask?"

She watched me as I grabbed a paper towel.

"It's me. Cheryl. You know, your best friend? Don't you think I've noticed the things that have been happening?"

A forced laugh echoed through the empty stalls. "Yeah, it's been a crazy couple of weeks, hasn't it? But the process improvement project is almost over. Life should calm down after that." I tossed the paper towel in the trash and moved towards the exit.

She blocked my path.

"It's more than stress and you know it. Have you seen a doctor?"

"And say what? That I've forgotten a few things? Come on. I'm thirty-two years old with a husband, a young child and a stressful job. I don't think he's going to see anything to worry about."

"I think you need to see somebody. Just to make sure."

The door opened and two more women came in.

"Thanks for your concern, but this might not be the best place for this conversation. I'll catch you later, Cheryl."

Dodging around her, I exited before she could make any more comments.

I managed to avoid Cheryl over the next few days, but I couldn't avoid my problems. On Tuesday, I put Susie to bed in her Winnie the Pooh pajamas; the next morning, she was wearing Cinderella. I packed a sandwich for my lunch on Wednesday night; when I opened my lunch bag on Thursday, it contained a cup of soup.

I started writing myself notes. My desk looked like a Post-it note factory had exploded. When that didn't work, I turned to color-coded notes until my office looked like it had been decorated by a cubist flower child.

When I ran out of gas on the way home from picking up Susie, I realized I had a problem.

John was the perfect husband, accompanying me to the doctor, then taking me to be poked and prodded. He sat next to me when the doctors said there wasn't anything physically wrong, emphasizing the word "physically." He took over more and more of the housework and parenting as the antidepressants the doctors prescribed numbed my senses.

And he was there when I finally checked myself into the psychiatric facility.

I told myself that I was doing it for Susie. After all, what kind of mother could I be if I couldn't even remember the simplest things?

After a couple of days, I noticed something strange. I wasn't forgetting anything. At first, I put it down to the new medicine cocktail I was on. Then I decided to try an experiment. I stopped taking the medicines.

Since I was the perfect patient, nobody watched to see if I actually swallowed them. I palmed my medicines and later flushed them down the toilet.

And I still didn't forget anything.

I didn't lose a slipper. Didn't miss a therapy session. Remembered every conversation I heard in the hall. Worried that it might be a temporary remission, I stayed quiet and counted the days until John's first visit. I imagined how excited he'd be to find out that I was cured, that it had been stress-induced after all.

On the day of his visit I stood at the window overlooking the parking lot, waiting for him to arrive. My heart leapt as his blue Tahoe pulled in. He got out and walked around to the passenger side. I watched as he helped Cheryl out of the car.

Then gave her a kiss.

They walked towards the building, hand in hand. My husband and my best friend.

The pieces fell into place. And for the first time since it all started, I went a little crazy.

I ran to the nurse and hysterically told her the whole story - how my husband and my best friend had set me up, how they were secret lovers and this was their way to get me out of the picture. How they'd engineered everything until even I thought I was crazy. And how my problems disappeared once I was in the hospital, even after I quit taking my medicine.

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have mentioned the medicine thing. And I probably shouldn't have tried to strangle John when he walked through the door.

Now I'm in a wing with tighter security. Every time I tried to explain the conspiracy to my doctor, he upped my medicines and added a new diagnosis. I entered with mild depression; last I heard, I'm now bipolar with a paranoid personality disorder. I stopped explaining myself before they could transition me to anything worse.

John and Cheryl still come to visit. They pretend that they're only friends, but we all know better. I've learned to hide my anger. That's another rule of the mental hospital that I learned - strong emotions bring stronger sedatives.

So I distract myself when they visit, remembering the times when I would read Jack and Jill to Susie. On really bad days, I imagine that John and Cheryl are Jack and Jill, and picture how nice it would be if he "fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after." Such a silly thing, really.

Small consolation for my life they stole.

I felt his hand tighten around mine. His warmth drew me towards him, and just that touch, that strength, it enveloped me. I knew what was coming, the words were etched upon the doctor's face. Words he had said a hundred times before, words no doubt he would say countless times again. Words that could hurt more than daggers, shatter lives and tear families apart. Cancer. From the moment I felt the lump, I knew this would be the course of things.

"The biopsy has confirmed that it is a tumour, and yes, unfortunately, it is malignant…"

The words sounded hollow, distant, but they were words I knew, and had expected, and the world was spinning, and I was in Marcus' arms and the talking was in another room half a world away. And the tears slid silently in salty streams though tangled hair.

****

"I love you."

"Mummy, I love you too!"

"Chloe, mummy is going away for a few days, but daddy will still be here, he will look after you, and I," I held her little hands in mine. All of a sudden, she seemed so tiny, "and I’ll be back real soon."

"Why, mummy? Don't go."

"I have to princess," I felt my throat tighten around the words, "but I'll be back soon, I promise."

And my little Chloe, she looked at me with those blue eyes, filled with wonder, filled with hope, filled with the future. She threw her little arms around me, and the tears slid silently in salty streams through tangled hair.

****

"You're beautiful."

Marcus sat beside me on the sterile wheelable bed, his fingers gently touching my hair. I looked down in bemusement at the flimsy blue gown that looked anything but elegant. Beautiful? I suppose at time this these comedy will always lighten a situation!

He took his gaze away from that far away place, and looked back at me.

"You really are." His eyes held mine for just longer than a fleeting moment, and we were again those young lovers of ten years past. "Maybe I don't tell you so often as I should."

"I love you." I meant those three words so utterly, so completely; our first kiss, our wedding vows, our whole lives together. And he knew, and he held me to his chest. And for that moment our lives were as one, and the tears slid silently in salty streams through tangled hair.

****

"Welcome back."

I could hear a smile behind the words. I left my eyes closed. The world seemed to throb from somewhere neither inside nor outside of me. As I slowly opened my eyes I felt an emptiness, a sadness. Every time I had visualised this moment, it was relief I'd imagined. And this? This was not that.

"Welcome back, beautiful."

His voice carried all the relief that I should be feeling. The throbbing world was settling and I let my face reply to his words with a smile. I looked into those eyes I knew so well, and they brimmed with emotion, but somehow, it was I who was a world away.

And then I felt the pain, and I traced the shape of my body beneath the sheet. The pain of what was not there. I heard a nurse saying something about rest and visiting hours. I felt Marcus' gently kiss on my forehead, and I felt myself inwardly recoiling from his soft touch. I turned my face into the pillow and the tears slid silently in salty streams through tangled hair.

****

We drove in silence.

Marcus would glance over at me. I kept my focus out of the window, somewhere just beyond the horizon, another world away.

"The consultation for the reconstruction is next week." I heard the words as I spoke them, so matter-of-fact, it sounded like somebody else.

"I've booked two weeks off work. We're gonna make it through all this. There's a world out there waiting for us." Marcus had a gift with words, but my attention was slipping again as we neared the house.

Chloe slipped from her grandma's arms and ran towards the car as I opened the door with outstretched arms.

"Mummy!" Her embrace collided with me at about knee height and I gently crouched and held my little princess in my arms. I wished I had been healed enough to swing her up and give her a real hug. But all I could do was hold her to my empty chest while the tears slid silently in salty streams through tangled hair.

****

"I love you."

"I love you, too." As I spoke the words I grasped at the meaning that existed within them, about who we were and what that meant.

He laid his head on the pillow next to mine, and his eyes reflected everything that I had once known. His fingers gently touched my hair, and then my neck. I wanted to pull myself away, away from his touch, away from what we used to be.

And as he held me close to him, I was numb and cold. His touch was so soft, but I was empty, and the tears slid silently in salty streams through tangled hair.

She hung up. She was gone. The click, to hear it, had sounded like it was for the last time but it could've been his imagination. Clicks and phones don't care. Cold pieces of metal that warmed only gradually against James' cheek, leaving an imprint of numbers because he'd held it so tightly against his ear as if it would bring him closer to her. Make her understand that it would hurt her less this way.

James had waited until she'd hung up first, waited through that long, breathless silence till he knew she'd taken the phone away from her ear. There he remained, straining, still, in case she whispered one more thing but she never did. She never had. He wondered if she knew that he did this. He'd never admit it even though she'd be the only one to understand because he knew she did it too.

Millimetre by millimetre the phone slid down his face into his palm and James stared at the still blinking “Call Ended” notification with her name above it. Her name.

She had cried for him because he couldn't. He wanted to be the kind of man she deserved, the kind of man who could love her the way she was meant to be loved, but he wasn't. He couldn't be that man. God knows he'd tried. He'd tried for months, maybe years, to let her inside his walls but they didn't open for her. Wanting her wasn't enough. And the harder he tried the further away she seemed to get.

It was better this way. He couldn't hurt her if she stayed away from a fool like him.

------------------

She walked by his table, looking around for an open seat and not noticing him sitting there. She had a backpack and James wondered if she was coming back to the dojo again or if she'd been turned off of karate. She'd come once before. She'd done well, for her first time. More than that. She'd studied the sensei's demonstration quietly and intently and he could see her practising small, slow punches, her hand at her side, as she walked across the crowded students' lounge.

Karate wasn't an easy thing to pick up and new people came and went through their dojo all the time. All the sensei were male, most of the members were male, and the club taught in the militaristic, traditional Japanese style. Not exactly the most inviting kind of training. The people who stayed usually stayed forever.

She had found a table. James made up his mind and wandered over.

“Karyn, right?”

She looked up, startled.

“You walked right by me,” James explained, “Can I join you?”

She remembered him, after all. Her eyes caught his and her face creased into a warm, open smile.

“Sure.”

She hoisted her feet off the chair she'd been using as a footrest so he could sit down. She remembered his name, too. James was used to silences in conversations when he failed to come up with anything to say since he usually played the listener, but the gaps felt natural, here. They were less of a lapse than a pause. A space for breathing. He thought that she might be a listener, too.

He watched her more closely that night during karate training, watching her watch everything around her as though she were a scientific observer, absorbing every detail.

She was used to learning, he thought.

------------------

Karate had always been a space of solace for him. He'd been training since he was young so its movements and patterns were natural and familiar. From the moment he bowed at the entrance to the dojo till the time he bowed again to leave it, he entered into his training mode. Karate mode. He didn't have to think about anything else. Didn't have to worry about school, about money, about job applications, relationships: nothing.

None of that seemed to matter when he was too tired to breathe, when all of his energy was being put into not getting hit, or when he was practising kata, the forms that combined techniques and stances into a powerful dance of spirit, strength, and grace.

James had always loved karate for the sense of strength and calm it gave him while he trained, but more than that, he loved it because it taught him how to be a better man. Karate had always found a way to shove his weaknesses in his face. You couldn't cheat in karate. It kept him humble.

He'd dated a girl in his last dojo and that had been a mistake. He'd been so distracted by her. He could always feel her disappointment when he went off to practise by himself during a break, or when he didn't watch her as she was practising her line drill, or sparring. He knew she wouldn't have stayed if he hadn't been there. It made coming to karate more like a burden. Her expectations got higher and higher the more he pulled away, as if being denied his attention made her desire for it grow. Finally James broke it off, unable to reconcile his need for solitude with her need for attention.

Karyn watched him, too. But somehow she knew that the dojo was different. She didn't need him there, sometimes didn't even want him there. The focused intensity that he'd seen in her the first day was more than just a one time thing. It didn't disappear when she mastered the basic skills. It didn't disappear after she'd gotten her first belt level. It didn't disappear when she got hit again and again by a jerk black belt during a sparring session.

She wasn't here at the dojo for any other reason than to train. She watched him because she was learning from him. And that made him want to train even better, so that she might see that it was important to him to do it the right way. He didn't need her there to want to train like a black belt should, but when she was there she inspired him into it, even when he wasn't in the mood.

------------------

“Are you coming over?” James asked at the end of the party.

She nodded. It was a cold December night and he pulled her close against the icy wind. The only sound was the snow, crunching underfoot. Too tired for conversation, he put on the TV. Some cartoon. Her strong fingers worked at his neck and through his hair and he drifted off.

When he woke up, her fingers were still in his hair and his arms were around her waist. She was still awake. Her smile was the same as it always had been. Perfectly happy just to see his face. He had always wondered at it. Had never understood why it seemed so easy to please her, wondered when she'd discover something that turned her away.

------------------

Embarrassment flooded through him and he rolled away, the cold air hitting him hard. James bent his head hiding his eyes and hurriedly started to dress. Karyn sat up. Watched him for a moment. Stood up.

“Where are you going?”

He couldn't look at her. “Home.”

“Why?” She asked, relentless.

“Because I'm embarrassed,” he mumbled, trying to get his damn socks on without falling over.

She pulled his arm so he would turn to face her and he stared down at the floor. She reached up and, palm to his cheek, turned his face to hers.

“James.” Her voice, gentle and firm, pulled his reluctant eyes to hers. Her beautiful eyes. “I don't care. I really don't. OK?”

He wanted to get out of there so badly, to get home and pretend it hadn't happened, but he'd never really been in control, once he'd met her. Her smile caught him. Reassured him. Kept him.

He was safer here than at home, he realized. Safer than he'd ever been.

------------------

The feeling of claustrophobia had come over James so slowly that he hadn't noticed it for a long time. But, there it was. He knew Karyn could sense it too. He wondered if she felt it for herself or in sympathy for him.

She hadn't demanded anything more from him yet the pull of his new job had taken over, requiring he be free of any other commitments and he wanted to be the guy who could go anywhere, do anything for his new career. He liked his job. Enjoyed the challenge, looked forward to advancing and being recognized. The spaces Karyn fit in were getting smaller and smaller and that did not do her justice.

James knew she could sense even the smallest bit of distance. He could see her distress and he hated to be the one that caused it. It had gone on for too long already and he couldn't be the one she needed anymore.

She deserved far better than he could give her.

------------------

No calls, no texts, no emails. James only saw her at the dojo and for the longest time they didn't even look at each other. Under the shelter of calmness found within the dojo's hard, disciplined training, little by little the achy walled off part of his heart she'd found her way into started to ease.

Years passed and though at first they'd find each other in the darkness on the coldest of nights, things slowly resolved into a friendship. They'd talked many times and had agreed it was too complicated to start anything. For the most part, they even managed to keep their distance.

But James had never forgotten her smile. And suddenly, there it was again.

Morning rose on a small island beach. The sky was thick with receding storm clouds, distant sounds of thunder and an uneasy sea suggesting violence at its passing. Palm trees lay thrust about at the edge of a small jungle, their trunks twisted and snapped from powerful winds and high waves. Bits of wood planks lay scattered along the desolate shoreline. Soft waves caressed them with every flow, brushing foamy fingers over the beaten and battered surfaces.

“Sasha!” A young girl wandered along the sand, her voice ringing like a clear bell on the early morning. She was no older than six, dressed in a knee length skirt and frilly shirt. The girl’s blue eyes scanned over the area around her, a chubby face creased in worry and concern. Her hands were clutched before her, wrapped tightly around a small silver dog whistle. She walked slowly, searching for someone, a friend she had lost in the storm.

Her skirt flowed with the wind but seemed untouched by the sprays of water that splashed over her. Driftwood planks rose in number as she walked over the sand, following the water’s edge. The girl seemed not to notice, again her voice cutting through the morning air.

“Sasha, come here girl!” The child paused, bare feet not sinking into the wet sand as her eyes fell upon the scene of a shipwreck. Unaffected as if she had not even seen it, she raised the dog whistle to her lips and blew, summoning her beloved pet, yet receiving nothing more than the calls of wild gulls in answer.

She moved through the wreckage, climbing over large chunks as if they were rocks over the shore. The broken bow of the ship, what might have been a large yacht, loomed before her. Again she raised the whistle to her lips, the sound floating unheard to her own ears, a silent summons. Her eyes stared into the ship, unseeing of the ruined craft. It was a ghost to her, not existing in her world. Clothing lay about the shipwreck, personal items such as notebooks and pictures littered the ground, wet and ripped by the waves.

Near her feet, the hand of a woman stretched over the sand. The flesh was grey and lifeless; a tiny crab perched upon the back. The arm led beneath a large plank which hid the body from view. Nothing moved here other than sea life. To nature, this was a new home. Suggestions of other such finds hid among the wreckage. Half swallowed by the water, a shoed foot rested exposed to the angry sky, its owner submerged from view.

“Sasha, please come! Mama said we’ll be home soon!”

The child continued onward, leaving the unknown woman’s body behind. No footprints were left in her wake, the sand lay undisturbed at her passing. She paused as the sound of distant barking called to her. Her eyes lit up with glee, laughter catching in her throat. She grinned and broke into a run, skipping over rocks and driftwood. Laughter broke from her mouth as she saw a large collie bound from the water ahead of her.

The water did not affect Sasha. Her fur seemed perfectly dry, fluffy and gleaming as if she glowed with an otherworldly light, for the sun’s light was shadowed by clouds. The dog’s excited barking mimicked that of her owner’s happy laughter.

They met inside the shadow of the shipwreck, the girl dropping to her knees and hugging the excited creature. Washing onto the shore beside her, the drowned, ragged form of a similar animal was found by the gulls that descended upon it in a chorus of song. The girl nor her friend noticed their surroundings, lost in a different world where such sadness could not reach them.

“You made it, Sasha,” the girl cheered happily, burying her face in the dog’s chest. “I was so afraid you were lost. But you’re here now.”

She stood, one hand buried into the dog’s neck fur, the other falling to her side, a glint of silver landing in the sand as the dog whistle was discarded. A sea gull landed near, hopping over the sand to snatch up the shining metal, carrying it to nearby nests.

“Now let’s go find Mommy and Daddy!”

Laughing, she raced over the sand, Sasha bounding beside her, barking at the gulls that seemed not to sense them. Behind them, another body washed onto the shore as the sea relinquished the soul. The clouded blue eyes of a young girl stared toward the sky, skin and lips pale, her life long lost. The ragged remains of a ruffled shirt and knee length skirt clung wet to her body. Calls of gulls echoed over the sands as they settled around her, unknowing of the spirit that now joined them upon the island.

Laura lay back in her prison bunk and smiled. Later today she would be released. Four years was a long time to dwell in a place so very alien to her comfortable past. Her background had been one of privilege and old money. Her mother had doted on her. Her father, however, was disappointed and voiced his impatience. Her school reports were unsatisfactory. The comments made by most of the teachers intimated that Laura was extremely talented, but would not buckle down and make the most of her intelligence.

Her teens were one long list of escapades, with the police regularly returning her to her home with warnings about the company she was keeping. But Laura loved the excitement.

After her mother died from cancer, Laura grew more and more restless at home and, at aged 18, she moved out – cutting off all entreaties to finish her education. With the money she had inherited from her mother, she bought a small apartment near the High Street. Her father, exasperated beyond endurance, made a new will. In the event of his death a Trust Fund was to be created for Laura, which would allow her to draw on the small amount of interest for the rest of her life. It stipulated that her brother, Richard, would inherit the entire property portfolio, plus the bulk of his father’s vast fortune … and he made sure that she got a copy. Of course, this was just a scare tactic to try and bring Laura to her senses, but unfortunately his private plane went down in a freak thunderstorm and he was never able to reverse a decision made in the throes of anger with his wayward daughter.

Richard and she had never gelled as brother and sister - he considered her a spoiled brat - so his decision was that the Trust Fund interest was sufficient for Laura’s living expenses if she wasn’t overly extravagant. “You’ll never get another penny of Dad’s money,” he smirked.

“Is that so?" said Laura. And she believed he meant it from the depth of his rotten soul. She felt aggrieved and, no longer wanting to be associated with what was left of her family, she changed her name legally.

***

It was several years after her father’s death that Laura met Mike. She loved him from the very moment she saw him. Stuck in a job with no chance of profitable promotion, he wasn’t what you’d call a handsome catch in the accepted sense of the word. His nose was slightly crooked, and his hair was wild; but there was something wonderfully captivating about him – his air of danger. She loved him for that. And Mike loved her right back. In her he had his perfect foil. He told her that he would make it up to her for the loss of her family inheritance. “Anger is for idiots,” he told her. He believed in the adage ’don’t get mad, get even.’ Together they would cut a swathe through honest endeavour and moneyed privilege.

So began their life of crime.

***

Laura set up a banking account at the same branch as her brother Richard. The bank was situated next to the barber shop in the High Street – not too far from her small apartment. At Mike’s suggestion, she requested a large safety box in the strong room. She explained to the bank manager that she had inherited some valuable family jewels and ornaments, and was worried about keeping them at home. He was a chatty man, gossipy by nature, and was most interested in Laura’s private business. Upon learning that she had a guaranteed monthly income from private means, he was most happy to arrange the monthly payments for all the utility bills of her home and for the rental of one of the larger strong boxes. He thanked her profusely for her esteemed custom.

Over the following weeks Mike would supply her with trinkets of gold and precious gems, which she deposited in her box at the bank. The serious-faced young clerk who took her down into the vaulted area was always very deferential to her. He made her feel quite grown up. The vault had an air of sanctity about it. It resembled a sepulchral holy of holies, devoutly reverential, and wholly devoted to worshipping the wealth and treasures of the rich. The clerk and she conducted their business in virtual silence, broken only by the whirring of a CCTV camera in the corridor leading to the actual strong room. The strong room itself didn’t have a camera, thus enabling the box holder to conduct their deposits and withdrawals with absolute discretion.

The routine was always the same. The clerk accepted her proffered key and then used both his key and hers to open the locker containing her strongbox. He would then return her key and leave, coming back only when Laura pressed the buzzer. He would then lock away her box, using both keys again.

***

Some months into their affair Mike bought her a stylish straw hat adorned with a corded red ribbon. She loved it. For Laura, deeply in love, this meant more than any of the jewels, precious ornaments and money he had given her to deposit in the strong box.

On the day that Mike successfully carried out ‘the big one’ he whisked Laura off to lunch at one of the nicest restaurants in the High Street. He promised he’d tell her all about it that evening.

After lunch Mike and she walked toward the bank. He had brought along a camera and he told Laura that he needed some shots of the bank, but the photographing needed to look innocent. He positioned her in front of the window to the barber shop next door. He then cheekily popped into the salon and asked one of the barbers to come out and take a shot of them together. The barber couldn’t stop smiling, and Laura found it infectious. She happily stood smiling at the camera lens, arm in arm with the love of her life. She later took the film in to be developed and was told it would take 24 hours. She could barely wait. This was the first photograph they had ever had taken together. She was so happy. In fact, that was the last time she ever felt truly happy.

***

That evening Mike rushed in and grabbed all his belongings. He was sweating profusely and said that he was returning to his own flat so as not to implicate her. He explained to Laura that he had got stupidly greedy and had been rumbled on some petty fraud at work – a stupid folly - but typical of his reckless attitude to danger. She could have killed him for messing up their heist. He was planning to go on the run, but needed to first go home to get his passport. He begged Laura to stay calm and, firmly placing her strongbox key into her hand, he made her promise to keep it safe at all costs. “We’ve got enough, Laura,” he said, ’more than enough.” He vowed to get in touch with her when he felt it was safe, and then suddenly he was gone.

She heard of his being shot by the police on the news that evening. It was reported he had brandished a gun. The shock of that lie nearly killed her. All she could hear was Mike begging her to keep calm and keep hold of the key. But what did it matter any more?

It was some months before she felt controlled enough to collect the developed photographs. She hurriedly looked through for the one and only photograph she had ever had taken with Mike. Her hands were trembling. When she found it, she thought she would faint on the spot. Unknown to her, Mike had arranged for one of the other barbers to hold up a large placard in the window behind them. On it were the words MARRY ME LAURA.

***

When Laura ‘accidentally’ knocked over a certain off-duty firearms officer with her car going at high speed, failing to stop at the scene, she knew exactly what she was doing. ”˜Don’t get mad, get even.’ He would be crippled for life. Good! It was worth every year spent in prison.

On arrival at the prison her clothing and jewellery had been taken from her until such time as she had served her sentence. She requested that they please place her straw hat on top of the clothing so that it didn’t get squashed. The only possession Laura had opted to keep with her was a single photograph. Now, after four years of being caressed, kissed and constantly handled, the photograph was looking old and tatty. That didn’t matter to Laura, though. She had a negative at home.

She wept when she arrived home. The apartment was cold and … very empty. She now lovingly placed the photograph on her dressing table. She took off her beloved straw hat and tenderly ripped open the stitching on the ribbon at the back of the bow, removing the key secreted inside. How generous of the prison service to keep it safe for all these years.

***

When the bank manager saw her he greeted her profusely. “Well, well,” he said. “We haven’t seen you for a very long time young lady. Have you been abroad?”

“I’ve been away, yes. But I’m now back for good.”

“Good, good,” he said. “Well, we have someone new on the vaults now,” he added. “The clerk you were used to is dead, you know.”

She stood stock-still and he mistook her stony expression for shock.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. But, you know, he was a real bad’un. He stole literally millions of pounds worth of paper from one of our highly valued clients. Right out of his safety deposit box! We’ve worked out that at some point he must have switched keys when leaving the safe room and made a copy in wax, returning the right key to our client when he locked away his box. We’ve changed the procedure now so don’t worry. The client was livid, of course, but he should have at least taken a note of the numbers. Tax cheats! Yes, indeed, that rotten little thief will never know the trouble he caused. He was shot trying to resist arrest, silly boy. You know, we still don’t know how he got all those bonds out of the bank without being seen. Somewhere out there is an absolute fortune in easily redeemable and non-traceable bearer bonds and he’s probably hidden them where they will never be found.”

“Is that so?” said Laura.

Patrick hugged Justine, then stood and looked at his sister.

"Justine, you be good for your Aunt Meg. Meg, if you need anything, just call the number on the fridge."

"I know Patrick, say hello to Ingrid for me."

Justine handed him a card for her mom. He carefully put it in his jacket pocket so it would get crumpled. Traffic on the way to the hospital was light and for a wonder he found a parking space right out front. He picked up a coffee at just inside the door and followed the familiar route to Ingrid's room.

He got to the corridor and saw the day nurse just leaving Ingrid's room. He could see the tears streaming down her face and he knew. The coffee fell out of his hand and he found himself on his knees in the puddle of scalding liquid.

"Mr. Constance, Patrick!" The nurse was trying to get him up into a chair. Someone else was on his other arm. He didn't care.

"I'm so sorry," the other person was saying. Patrick looked at him, but couldn't remember his name. He was a palliative care nurse. "She was telling me a story about Justine, then she said she was tired. I just went out for a moment to get a drink. When I came back she was gone."

"It's OK," Patrick said, "It's OK."

"Is there someone we can call?" the nurse asked, "You shouldn't drive right now."

"Ingrid's minister," Patrick said. Then, "I want to see her." The two looked at each other and the nurse nodded.

"Just for a minute," she said, "While I call Reverend David."

Patrick walked into the room and looked at the dozens of get well cards that Justine had made for her mother. There were more in a scrapbook beside the bed. One for every visit to this room while the light of his life slowly lost her battle with cancer. He took the card out of his pocket and placed it on her hands. She looked like she was sleeping. She looked like she wasn't in pain anymore. She almost looked like the woman Patrick had loved for far too short a time.

"Hello Patrick," Pastor Dave walked into the room. "I am really sorry."

"I know."

"May I say a prayer?"

"Ingrid would want you to."

"Loving God," the minister began and Patrick felt his stomach clench. He shut out the rest of the prayer.

After, the minister gently led him away from the room. Patrick gave his keys to a woman that he recognized from the days when he went to church with Ingrid. Reverend Dave drove him home in silence. The woman pulled in beside him and handed his keys back.

"How do I tell Justine?" Patrick asked.

"Tell her the truth."

"Will you come in, please?"

He opened the door and Meg gasped when she saw Patrick with the minister. Justine ran up and hugged him like she always did. Patrick didn't think he could hurt more, but his heart broke as he held his daughter. He tried to say the words, but they came out broken and unintelligible. It was the minister who finally explained the coming of death into Justine's young life.

It was after Justine had been put to bed that Patrick said goodnight to the minister.

"Ingrid wanted you to do the service. She said you had talked and you knew what to do."

"That's true," Reverend Dave said, "But I don't want to force myself on you."

"It's what she wanted."

"Here's my card," the minister said, "My home number is on the back. If you need something, call."

He shook hands like he was hugging Patrick, then he left.

"Oh little brother," Meg said, "I'm so sorry." She closed the door and led him to the kitchen. He put the card on the fridge beside the others.

"What am I going to do?"

"Keep breathing, keep putting one foot in front of the other. Trust God."

"Don't talk to me about God," Patrick said, "I don't want to hear anything about God."

*****

Patrick held Justine's hand through the funeral service. He didn't remember any of the words, only the feel of his daughter's tiny warm hand in his. At the cemetery they put the obscenely small box of his wife's ashes in the hole. He threw a handful of dirt into the hole and the tears pricked at his eyes. He forced them back with an iron will. He was not going to cry in front of his daughter.

“Is Mommy in that box?” Justine asked looking at him with her blue eyes.

“No,” Patrick had to stop and take a deep breath. “No, Justine, that's just what is left of her. She's out there somewhere.”

“Is she lost? Can we help her come home?”

“She isn't lost. Nothing we really love is ever lost.” Patrick had to take another breath and push the tears back. He could feel the weakness at the back of his eyes. It was trying to claw its way out. He wanted to howl and tear his clothes. “She can't come home. You can't come back. She's with God.”
He felt a bitter acid in his stomach at the G word. It was a cop out, but Ingrid had given an iron-clad faith in the big guy to Justine.

“Say hi to God for me Mommy.” Justine threw some dirt into the hole, then brushed her hands off. “I'm going to talk to Molly, OK Dad?”

“OK,” Patrick said. He watched her run off. Her blond hair floating behind her. He wanted to call her back and hold on to her and make sure that she was safe. Instead he looked back at the hole. “You can fill it in now, “ he told the funeral director. She just nodded and a man in overalls quietly shovelled the dirt into the hole. It didn't take long. Patrick wanted to let the tears flow, but the traitorous weakness mocked him by keeping his eyes as dry as the dirt covering his wife and lover's grave.

It should be raining, he thought, the heavens should have opened and the whole world should be deluged. Let the clouds weep the tears that he couldn't. He heard the squeals of Justine and Molly playing. He envied them at the same time that he felt bereft of company.

“If you need anything, just call.” The minister from Ingrid's church handed him yet another card. Reverend Dave, it said. Patrick was sure he had twenty of them lying around the house.

“Give one to Justine,” he said. Then he thought how ungracious he sounded. “Thanks for all your help.”

“I heard what you told Justine,” Reverend Dave said, “about nothing loved ever being lost. Remember that.” He patted Patrick's shoulder and ambled off toward Justine. Patrick watched him kneel in the grass to talk to her. She took the card and ran arrow straight back to Patrick.

“Can we go home?”

“Sure thing Justine”

They walked back to the limousine he'd rented, not certain of his ability to drive, not wanting to put anyone else at risk. The driver was leaning against the door waiting for them. He didn't say anything, but opened the door for Justine and closed it behind Patrick.

The ride home was lost in the fog of grief that threatened to overwhelm Patrick. Justine sat beside him and chattered about the service and the other people who were there. The fog followed him into the house. He couldn't remember talking to people, though he was sure he must have said something in response to their endless words of sorrow and support.

“Justine wanted spaghetti,” Patrick's sister was saying to him. So I made her some. It's ready if you would like some. Patrick became aware of the awful void inside hm. No amount of spaghetti would ever fill it.

“Sure, thanks.” He was aware that she was shepherding the last of the people out the door before she went out herself. He followed the garlic and tomato smell to the kitchen as if he could get lost in his own house. Yet he felt lost.

“Hi Daddy,” Justine said, “You need to eat something.” She was echoing what she had heard every other woman in the house tell him. She pulled him into a chair and climbed into his lap. She whispered in his ear, as if her words were the secret of the universe. “I know Mommy's with God, but I'm still sad. The minister said it was OK to cry. Is it?'

Patrick looked into his daughter's eyes and saw the same dry pain that he knew was in his.

“Yes,” he said “It's OK to cry.” The floodgates opened and he saw her tears as he felt his. Then she clung to him with all the strength of her eight year old arms. He felt her wet face against his and their tears and their grief and their love mixed.

Never again would Patrick smell spaghetti sauce without feeling an echo of those tears prick his eyes.

Lauren sat in front of her mirror. The face that looked back at her was not her own. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had been a normal, happy eighteen year old with limitless options ahead of her. She would never have dreamed that she would see this sad, depressed girl staring back at her from the mirror. She could see the tears starting to roll down her face and drip from her chin.

"Lauren, are you ready?" Her mother shouted. Lauren didn't reply. She heard the bedroom door open behind her and could see her mother's reflection dressed in black in the mirror.

"I'm not going."

"You know you will regret it later if you don't go." Lauren had heard this many times before, but later didn't matter. In her eye's her life had ended on that fateful day four weeks ago. She started to sob.

---

It had been a beautiful July evening. Lauren and her twin brother Jake had been out celebrating their eighteenth birthday. They had always been very competitive with each other since they were small children, whether that was school exam results, sports, or simply vying for their parent’s attention. The past year had been spent in fierce rivalry over who would pass their driving test first. Lauren was overjoyed when a week before their birthday she won the contest. Her prize, Jake kindly informed her, was to drive home after their night out.

While Jake had been the dare devil, Lauren had always been the sensible twin. Their birthday celebrations were no exception. While Jake and their friends partied like there was no tomorrow, Lauren didn't drink, knowing she would have to drive home.

Lauren and Jake had left their friends and got into their car. They were only a few minutes from home when the unthinkable happened. A lorry skidded through a red light and collided with their car. The police and paramedics were on the scene within minutes, they fought hard to revive Jake, but he had been pronounced dead on arrival at hospital.

Unaware of her brother's fate, Lauren had been trapped by the tangled metal of the car for over an hour while before she was cut free from the wreckage. Her parents were told to prepare for the worst as she was rushed in for emergency surgery, but Lauren was strong and wouldn't give up without a fight. The following days were spent drifting in and out of consciousness, to Lauren everything felt hazy and dream like, if only she could just wake up from this nightmare.

Jake's funeral was arranged. Her parents were keen for Lauren to go, to say goodbye to her brother, but the consultant doctor said it was out of the question. The chaplain at the hospital suggested that when Lauren was a bit better a memorial service could be arranged.

After two weeks in hospital, the doctors were pleased with Lauren's physical progress, but a little unhappy about her mental state. Once a lively, bubbly girl, she had totally withdrawn, she hardly spoke and she refused to eat. It was her mother's suggestion that being at home away from this sterile environment may help. After three weeks confined to a hospital bed Lauren was back at home.

---

"Lauren, darling, don't get upset, but today is not about you, it's about Jake. Come on, its not too late to get ready." Making her feel guilty had always been a sure fire way for Lauren's mother to get her way.

Lauren arranged the black, feathered band in her hair. She leaned closer to the mirror. The scars on her face were healing well, and with a covering of make up were hardly noticeable. She reached down to the metal handles of her wheelchair and pushed herself backwards, her black dress hanging limply from her knees where her legs used to be.

The church organ began to play. Lauren couldn't help but smile when she realised that it was not a traditional hymn, but the introduction to 'November Rain' by Guns n' Roses, Jake's favourite band. Her mother squeezed her hand tighter. The service was perfect for Jake. The readings were from his favourite books. The hymns were his favourite songs. Lauren had not realised until now how well her parents had known her brother.

After the service many of the congregation came to share their condolences with Lauren and her family. She sat alone in front of the church. She tried to hold back the tears but couldn't. Father Geoffrey handed her a handkerchief.

"Its alright to cry." He began. "Is there anything you want to talk to me about."

"All of them said that I was lucky to survive, but I don't feel lucky. I wish that it was Jake sat here in this chair, and not me." The priest listened in silence. "Its all my fault. If I had driven home a different way, if we had got a taxi home, if I hadn't passed my test. Jake is the lucky one, he doesn't have to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, he doesn't have to put on layers of make up to hide the scars, he doesn't have to spend every waking second feeling guilty, he doesn't have to live with this feeling of emptiness, this feeling of being ripped apart from the inside. I don't have a life, I don't have a future, all the things that I had planned to do, that we had planned to do, I can’t go travelling around the world next year, I won't be able to go to university, no one is going to want to marry me, I will never be able to have children. Why did it have to be Jake that died and not me?"

"I could tell you that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes things happen that seemingly have no reason. What I can tell you is that you wanted to survive. There were many times when you were in that hospital bed and you could have just given in, but you didn't. You have a fighting spirit. You are a survivor. You still have your life ahead of you, your options may be more limited than before, but make the most of this second chance at life."

---
Lauren sat in front of her mirror. She emptied the bottle of pills onto the table in front of her. She had been planning this moment since before she left the hospital. She looked at the girl who stared back at her, and saw a glimmer in her eyes. Was it hope? Was it fighting spirit? She thought of the priest's words. She put the pills one by one back into the bottle, contemplating the future.

I walked into the small room and placed a box of donuts next to the coffee machine. The metal and plastic school chairs were haphazardly strewn all across the room abandoned by their previous occupant. I was early because I had to be. I really didn’t expect anyone else for at least another thirty minutes. The first thing I needed to do was to get the coffee pot going. Digging in the drawer reviled the last two packets of coffee; one regular and one decaf. Hopefully nobody would notice if I mixed them together.

After the coffee machine started, I began collecting the chairs. The first ten of them I placed in a large circle and the rest were stacked on top of each other and against the wall. With the room ready, I grabbed my briefcase and sat in the chair where I could monitor the door. The chair I always sat in on Thursday nights. The chair that put my back to the giant windows.

I opened my briefcase to take out a pen and legal pad. There were stacks files staring up at me from inside my briefcase. Files that I had memorized a thousand times over, files for all the members of my Thursday night group. I flipped the pages back on my legal pad and began reviewing last week’s group session. What seemed like seconds later, I heard the door open. I knew, without looking up, that Weldon and Susan had arrived. They were always the first ones there. I stood as Weldon walked towards me and Susan grabbed a cup of coffee for her and her husband.

"Doc." Weldon shook my hand. "Good to see you."

"Mr. and Mrs. Batty." I replied.

"Weldon and Sue." He corrected me with a smile.

"How are you two doing?" I asked Weldon but kept an eye on Susan.

"We’re getting by. Getting stronger every day!" He replied, but the slight jerk in Susan’s shoulders told me another story.

The door opened again and two more couples walked into the room; Mike and Cindy along with Barry and Tina. Handshakes and hugs abounded as the three couples spoke about things like the weather and the price of gas. The large clock on the wall slowly clicked its way to the top of the hour and the couples began taking their seats. With just a few seconds to spare, Clair and Sean burst into the room.

"Sorry we’re late!" Clair said as she quickly grabbed her seat.

"No problem.", 'You're not late.", "Barely beat the clock.", came a few of the replies.

I stand up and look at the four couples seated around the circle. I can a few worried glances toward the empty chair beside me.

"Welcome, everyone, to our Thursday Night Survivors meeting."

"Uh, Doc?" whispered Tina. "Do you think we should wait for Mary Beth?"

"People deal with grief in different ways." I continued our ritual. "And this group is no exception. The death of a loved one is a terrible burden to bear, but much more so for parents who have lost a child. Today is the husband’s turn."

To my left, Mike and Cindy stood. "I'm Mike and this is my wife, Cindy. Our son, Billy, committed suicide on March 14, 2009." As they sat, Weldon and Susan stood. "I'm Weldon and this is my wife, Sue. Our daughter, Nancy, committed suicide on July 22, 2010."

"I'm Barry and this is my wife, Tina. Our daughter, Becky, committed suicide on August 9, 2008."

"I'm Sean and this is my wife, Clair. Joey killed himself on December 14, 2009."

Everyone sat and looked from the empty chair to me and back to the chair.

"My son, Seth," I started, "came to me with a secret. He was gay. It was March 11, 1997 when he told me. I didn't understand it. I thought it was a lifestyle choice. I thought he made himself gay to rebel against his conservative, religious father."

All eyes were on me. Even though I had been their therapist for years, they had never heard me say a single thing about my personal life. The thoughts of the missing Mary Beth drifted away.

"We fought. Oh, how we fought! I accused him of everything under the sun; drugs, sex, alcohol...I kept trying to make sense of it all, to explain away why he was doing this to me. He kept trying to explain how it wasn’t his fault and how he needed my support." I shook my head.

"I didn't listen. Instead, I kicked him out of my house and stopped paying for his college. He had no job and no scholarship. So he left school and started living on the streets. I thought I was giving him tough love. I thought I was doing what’s best for him to help get him out of this 'choice' he made.

"He did get involved in drugs then. Another lifestyle choice, I thought. He attempted to call me, but I wouldn’t answer his calls. I was a sales executive for a large oil company and when he came by my office, I had a standing order for security to keep him out.

"I never thought it through, really. I forced him so far out of my life, I don’t know how he was supposed to let me know he 'chose' to be straight again.

"I remember it like it was yesterday when the police showed up at my office. When I saw them there, I was furious. There was no way I was going to be harassed by the police for something my son did."

Tears began streaming down my face.

"When they told me that he had jumped, it didn’t sink in. Jumped what? The deputy finally told me point blank that my son had jumped from the overpass into traffic. I needed to identify the body. And there was a note. It said:

All I ever wanted was to make my dad proud. I couldn’t do it. I’m so sorry, Dad. I love you.

"That was June 10, 1998. My next real memory was waking up in a hospital on suicide watch myself. It was a group like this one that saved my life ”“ convinced me to live. I went back to school and got my Psychology degree so I could help others they way I was once helped.

"Not a day goes by that I regret what I did to my son. I know that it was me that pushed him off that bridge. But when I felt like I couldn’t handle it, I reached out to my group and they helped.

"Mary Beth couldn’t stand the pain anymore."

Cerebral Deterioration

"David!" my mother yelled. "When are you coming down from that attic?"

With a deep sigh I reply, "In a little bit. I promise."

She yells again, "Don't take too much longer! We'll be having lunch soon and you're not coming down to the table full of dust."

"Ok mom."

Sighing again, I continue looking around the attic in search of any kind of information on my grandfather. I'm a freshman in high school and am working on my first attempt of a report for my history class. I know that this assignment will set the tone for the rest of my time in school. I am choosing to do the report on him because I remember my father saying something about my grandfather being in a war. He’s always telling me I should ask my mother about it, but she is constantly being distracted with my little sister. When I finally get a chance to ask her, she quickly dismisses me with a wave of her hand. I go back to my father who was sitting in his office. As I approach him, he takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He tells me before I can even ask anything, "I think there's some stuff in the attic, in an old box. Maybe you can find some answers there."

So, that's why I'm here, in this cob-web filled storage space and doing old fashioned research; no Wikipedia, no Google, no Bing! There are just hand written records and old newspaper clippings. The wood creaks a bit underneath my sneakers as I walk across the floorboards. I take my flashlight and find the string that hangs down from the ceiling and pull it. It helps illuminate this claustrophobia inducing space as I am no longer relying on just a small window to brighten it.

I now see an old record player and a small box next to it labeled, ”˜RECORDS’ in bold black letters. A record cover lays on top of the box titled; ”˜D-Day by Nat King Cole’. I continue looking around. I get closer to the window, open it, and feel a warm summer breeze flow, giving me a short breath of fresh air. I notice an unlabeled box. I sit Indian style and open it up, dust flying through the air. I see old newspaper clippings of my grandfather's achievements and military awards; one with a ribbon that is colored with green, red, white & black stripes. A medal is attached to it with the words; "European, African, Middle Eastern Campaign" engraved on it as well as many more great medals. I run across a journal with my grandfather's name embossed on it, Richard Moore.

I begin to read about how he met my grandmother and the time they spent together before he was drafted into the military. So many entries, so many stories, but one specifically caught my attention the most. The date wasn't completely clear; I could only read the month and year 'April, 1944'. It read;

"I will never forget the day that changed my life forever. I found myself surrounded by sand and an Acacia tree-filled garden they call a desert. War wasn't about the scenario being ideal. It was about adapting to the terrain and circumstances. My spotter and I lay in shrubbery, our eyes swiftly moving across the ravaged war zone. Planes flew overhead as sirens heeded their warning. He tells me where to aim as bombs explode and gun fire rings out all around us. Before I know it, there is a flash of bright light that blinds me and then a loud explosion. That defining sound was the last thing I heard before I blacked out. As I regained consciousness, my head aches and I hear only ringing in my ears. I look to my left and see my spotter, my best friend Ross, wounded. He is disabled from the explosion. My leg throbs from shrapnel that has pierced my flesh, but I know I must continue with my objective. I find the man that has wreaked havoc across many nations, including my own. I place him in my cross hairs, pray that my aim will be perfect, and then fire. Through my scope I watch him fall. Over the radio I report back to headquarters. At that point they give me a pick up location. I get my partner, trepidation motivates our wounded stride. Once we reach the convoy, we receive confirmation of our success. Our celebration is minimized due to our physical suffering. We finally arrive at the base where medics promptly begin tending our injuries."

The sound of footsteps interrupts my reading. I realize it's only my mother. She has a glass of water in her hand. She says, "Here sweetie. I figured you would need this.” She hands it to me and I drink up almost half of it in only a few gulps.

"Thanks mom!"

She smiles at me. She looks at what I've been reading then rifles through the box a little and says, "Ah, your grandfather's war stories." Her smile lessons, face becoming somber. She sits down next to me and continues, "There's something I've been meaning to tell about your grandfather. He's been forgetting stuff lately." I interrupt her, "Don't we all forget stuff? You forgot a bag of groceries in the back seat of the car last week." We both giggle at the memory. "Well son, he's forgetting a lot more than just a bag of groceries. He's developed Alzheimer's." She pauses for a few seconds then continues, her voice a bit broken. "He doesn't remember us. Not me past the age of two; not his grandchildren. He thinks your grandmother is still alive. He waits for her replies to his letters that he sent to her during the war, decades ago."

She wipes away a tear from her eye. I reach into the box and pull out an old letter to my grandfather from my grandmother. I look up at my mom and ask, "Do you think that if we give Grandpa one of these, it might make him happy…even if only for a little bit?"

She smiles and says, "David, I think that's a great idea."

We head downstairs. I wash up before I head to the car where my mother waits for me. Once we reach the nursing home where my grandfather now lives, my mother hesitates getting out of the car. Her hands are gripping the steering wheel. She sighs deeply then tells me, "Okay, let's go hun." We check in and wait for the nurse to bring us to my grandfather. Once we reach his room, I look around, noticing the old memorabilia hanging on the walls. He faces the window, sitting in a lazy-boy chair. I look at my mom as we hear ”˜G.I. Jive’ playing in the background. She does her best to keep her composure. She clears her throat and says, "Dad," he turns around slowly with a dazed look as she continues; "This is David your grandson."

He looks confused, "My grandson? You must have me mistaken for someone else." He smiles softly, "I only have a daughter. She's two. Cutest little thing."

Mom knows not to fight the disease. She goes on, "He's here to bring you a letter from your wife."

His eyes perk up, becoming young again. "I have waited so long for this letter, thank you young man." He hands me a bottle of coke from the small fridge next to his seat.

I open the cola and think, is there an expiration date for our memories? A ”˜use by’ date stamped somewhere on our cerebral cortex to notify us of when our mind's eye will go blind? No longer able to recapture our own personal history, just as Grandpa is now not capable of remembering his accomplishments during the war and the difference his actions made. There are no stories to share about my mother growing up as the verisimilitude of life after war becomes non-existent in his mind.

My mom and I sit with him for a while as he reads the letter. I take a gulp of my soda to fight back any sad emotions, to stay strong for my mom who could no longer hold back hers; tears flowing from her eyes.