Ripples
by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff
Copyright 2011 Thomma Lyn Grindstaff
Smashwords Edition
Cover Design by Thomma Lyn Grindstaff
Photography by EastWestImaging
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Author’s Note
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events, or persons living or dead, is wholly coincidental.
This collection of short stories is based on stories published on the author’s creative writing blog. They have been arranged in chronological order to enhance reader enjoyment and to complement Heart’s Chalice, the novel from which they grew.
Acknowledgements
First of all, thanks to my readers. You're the reason I do what I do.
I’d like to thank my dear friend Ann Pino for encouraging me to try my hand at flash fiction. You rock, Bunnygirl! And thanks to Thom Gabrukiewicz for hosting Three Word Wednesday and for making me smile with his kind comments on my stories.
Contact
Why Ripples?
Consider these stories an introduction to the characters who populate my novel Heart’s Chalice, also available on Smashwords. Chronologically, many of these stories take place before the main action of the novel, but others enhance and complement the larger story and its specific time frame. The novel, Heart’s Chalice, is the waterfall, and these short stories are its ripples.
* * * ~~~ * * *
The Book that Changed Everything (1976)
When recess finally came, Laurel pulled Charlotte’s Web out of her tote bag when nobody was looking and stuck it in the waistband of her pants. She didn’t want the other kids to catch her reading. Once, mean old Billy Garner had caught her with a book and called her all kinds of names she’d never heard before until she finally lied and told him she was just looking at the pictures.
Thank goodness he’d gone away. Mean boys had cooties, and Laurel didn’t want to catch cooties.
Laurel hid in a gully on the edge of the playground while the other kids played dodge ball or duck-duck-goose. If anybody noticed she was gone, they didn’t try to find her. The gully was comfy and the grass soft. While the other kids screamed at each other, Laurel read and went to another world.
She heard footsteps and looked up. Peering into the gully was Nate Arrowood, the boy who sat behind her in class. He had brown hair and eyes the color of chocolate, her favorite food. His smile was nothing like Billy Garner’s. Nate had a please-like-me smile that trembled around the edges. But when kids made fun of him, he never cried. Laurel knew how that felt, to have a smile most kids didn’t like.
It was okay that Nate had discovered her secret spot, but Laurel didn’t want anybody else to find it. Especially not Mrs. Hinkle, their first grade teacher. If she knew about Laurel’s spot, she might make her play stupid games with the other kids, something that would make Laurel dread recess instead of looking forward to it.
Laurel put a finger to her lips. “Ssh.”
Nate nodded. Then he climbed into the gully and sat beside Laurel. He was holding a book, tucked against his other side where she couldn’t see its title. Was he afraid she’d make fun of him? Maybe he, like Laurel, could read books instead of just looking at the pictures.
Or maybe not. Her stomach went all quivery and she gazed down at her book, wishing it was hidden in her waistband and hoping he wouldn’t turn out to be like Billy Garner.
“What are you reading?” Nate asked.
She showed him Charlotte’s Web, and he laughed so hard he rolled around in the gully.
Laurel stood up, preparing to jump out. “What’s so funny?”
Nate handed his book to her. It was Charlotte’s Web, too. This time, they laughed together. Laurel sat back down and stretched her legs out in front of her.
Surely Nate was too nice to have cooties. And this was the best recess she’d ever had.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Mental Traveler (1978)
While Aunt Sophie worked, Laurel sat nearby on a stool. Her legs weren’t long enough to touch the floor, so she dangled them back and forth. For the last couple of weeks, every time Laurel had come over, Aunt Sophie had been working on the waterfall painting, the last in her Mountain Series. Today, she’d said she would finish it.
To Laurel, it looked finished already. But Aunt Sophie insisted it needed another smattering of cloud color here, another brush stroke for foliage there. The waterfall seemed so real that Laurel couldn’t help but wonder if she’d get her hand wet if she put her hand into the painting. Well, sure she would, but not with water. She’d also make a hole in Aunt Sophie’s painting. And she sure didn’t want to do that.
So she waited. Laurel and Aunt Sophie could spend hours talking and giggling. But they didn’t have to. They felt so comfortable together that they hardly needed to talk at all. Like now.
With her paintbrush, Aunt Sophie added more foam to the waterfall, then she turned from the canvas. “Voilà!” she said. “What do you think?”
“Is it finished?”
“Well, there’s always one more brush stroke I could do, but...” Aunt Sophie studied the canvas.
“It looks so real.” Laurel had seen waterfalls on television, though not in real life. “Is it somewhere you’ve been?”
Aunt Sophie studied Laurel as closely as she’d studied the painting a moment before. “No, but–”
“What?” Aunt Sophie was acting funny again, and Laurel wondered just how much she and Aunt Sophie had in common. Sometimes, in what she thought of as waking dreams, Laurel saw things which came true later. But she felt weird saying anything about it. Mom would think she was crazy, and even though Aunt Sophie was what Mom called a “free spirit,” maybe Aunt Sophie would, too.
“Well, let’s just say I’m a mental traveler,” Aunt Sophie said.
“You mean, you dreamed this up.”
Instead of replying, Aunt Sophie peered at Laurel again, then she bustled around, putting up her brushes and paints. Laurel lost herself in the waterfall. She fancied she could hear the sound of the water gushing down. Even the rocks looked real, lubricated with green moss and the water’s flow.
But the painting had changed. The field of view was bigger, and instead of just the waterfall, the creek, and the rocks in the creek bed, there were two tall cedar trees rising from an area covered with fallen leaves and ground cedar.
Had those things been there before? Laurel didn’t think so. A painting couldn’t paint itself, and Aunt Sophie had put most of her supplies up. Laurel left the stool for a closer look and spotted two people lying down between the trees.
It was her and Nate. Only older. Maybe old enough to drive. And smooshing their lips together.
“Ewww,” Laurel exclaimed. Yeah, Nate was her best friend, but she wasn’t about to do that kissyface stuff with him.
Aunt Sophie turned from her supply cabinet. “What’s the matter?”
“There’s big trees, and well...”
“Saint Nicholas, maybe?” Aunt Sophie’s eyes sparked with mischief.
“No. Two people smooching. How could I miss something like that?”
“I don’t know.” Aunt Sophie was wearing what Laurel thought of as her Mystery Smile.
“What do you see when you look at the painting?” Laurel asked.
“Only what I painted.”
Laurel’s mind whirled with wonder, but when she tried to translate the wonder into questions, they wouldn’t come. Maybe the questions were impolite.
And sure enough, when Laurel looked at the painting again, all she saw was the waterfall, the creek, and the rocks in the creek bed.
Sometimes Ian, Nate’s big brother, took her and Nate on picnics in the mountains, and Laurel would love to see a waterfall like that someday. But she was glad she didn’t have to look at her and Nate smooshing their lips together anymore. Everybody knew boys had lip cooties. Even nice ones.
Aunt Sophie kissed Laurel’s cheek. “I’m calling the painting done now.”
* * * ~~~ * * *
Flint (1983)
At Aunt Sophie’s funeral, Uncle Jerry gave Marie a jewelry box tied with gold ribbon. Sophie had wanted Marie to have it. The box held not jewelry but the key to a better life. Marie wouldn’t open it yet. She’d wait until tonight.
Like Marie, Sophie had second sight, but unlike Marie, Sophie had been happy. Not that Marie asked for much. But it would be nice if Bill would come home after work and eat supper with her and Misty Laurel instead of spending half the night at Fred’s, working on antique cars.
And Misty Laurel was no comfort. If Marie hadn’t given birth to her, she would never guess, from Misty Laurel’s personality, that she’d sprung from her loins. Misty Laurel had inherited second sight from Marie, but she sure hadn’t inherited Marie’s practicality. Misty Laurel lived with her head in the stratosphere. Her whole world was music and books. Who knew how she’d get along in life at all.
Aunt Sophie’s head had also been in the stratosphere, but at least she’d made money off her folly. She’d been an artist, a painter acclaimed for her innovation, and she had a husband who adored her. She got along fabulously with her two sons, better all the time as they grew up. That’s all Marie wanted, really. To get along better with those she loved.
But somehow, she could never manage it.
During supper, Misty Laurel looked at Marie oddly while they ate. Bedtime came, and Bill wasn’t home. But maybe this would be the last night Marie would sleep alone.
She put on her nightgown. Sitting cross-legged on the vast expanse of king-sized bed, she untied the bow on the box, then lifted the lid. Panic choked her, and she paused. What if this wasn’t what she thought? Maybe it was Aunt Sophie’s opal broach.
But no. From the box, Marie lifted the seeing rock, a polished piece of flint with rounded edges. As a child, Aunt Sophie had found it up on the mountain. Throughout the years, she’d seen her dreams on its surface, then slept with the rock under her pillow each night. And all her dreams had come true.
In its polished surface, Marie saw her own face. It looked older than its years. Grooves of worry framed her mouth, frown lines pulled her brows together. She imagined a less weary face, belonging to a person who deserved good things. She tried to rearrange her features accordingly, but the frown lines only grew deeper.
Perhaps it would take a while to get the hang of this. It had been so long since Marie had been happy, she’d forgotten what it felt like. What it ought to look like.
She tucked the seeing rock under her pillow and switched off the lamp. Her pulse throbbed in her neck. Reaching under her pillow, she cupped the rock in her hand and visualized Bill beside her, imagined Misty Laurel heeding her advice. Most of all, she envisioned not being lonely. Not having disappointment gnawing on her guts every waking hour.
The edges of the rock grew sharp. Pain blazed through Marie’s hand, and she pulled it out from under her pillow. Blood, a shadow among shadows, dripped onto her blanket. She must have cut her hand on the rock, but how?
She was no longer alone in bed.
The seeing rock had worked. Bill was here.
But why was he hunching on the foot of the bed like he’d collapsed into himself?
She touched him, leaving a bloody handprint on his back. “Come and lay down.”
The figure turned. It was Aunt Sophie. Marie made out the rough outline of her head and torso, but everything else was shrouded in shadow—her limbs, her face. The only things visible were the opal near her throat, which glowed like a prism, and her eyes, which were now an unearthly shade of blue, such as an astronomer might see when he looked at Neptune through a telescope.
Aunt Sophie spoke in a voice more mournful than any schmaltzy piece Misty Laurel could play on the piano. “Perhaps I should have saved the seeing rock for your daughter.”
Since when did Marie’s visions speak? But how dare Sophie say Misty Laurel was more worthy. “What are you talking about? Misty Laurel’s just a kid. She knows nothing about life.”
“She knows more than you think,” Aunt Sophie said. “She knows that no rock can work magic.”
“What are you talking about?” Marie asked. “It worked for you.”
“Inspiration can reside anywhere. In rocks and trees. In cloud formations. In love. I saw beautiful scenes on the surface of this rock. I painted them, and despite my life’s ups and downs, I lived them every chance I got, every chance I could make. But those dreams didn’t come from the rock. They came from me.”
“So the rock didn’t do anything for you at all.” Marie burst into tears that blurred her vision. When she could see again, the foot of the bed was empty.
The front door opened, then closed. Bill was home from Fred’s. Marie wouldn’t go to greet him. If he came in, she’d pretend to be asleep. But he’d probably be settled on the couch before too long.
Marie switched on her lamp and threw aside the pillow. The rock’s surface was now filled with tiny cracks, and it had split in half. One of the shards was tipped with blood. Nothing to see but cold, wounding flint. Like her life.
Marie threw the split rock—and the gift box and bow—into the trash. After she cried herself into a restless sleep, the air grew heavy with Aunt Sophie’s sigh.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Message (1986)
Laurel and Nate would have loved to spend time outdoors, but since it was dark and chilly, they went to his house. Nate’s mom had shut herself in her room and his dad was slumped on the couch wasted on booze, but at least they’d leave Laurel and Nate alone.
“Come on.” Nate’s excitement danced against Laurel, lessening her lingering disquiet from last night’s dream. Perhaps it hadn’t been a dream but a message from her second sight.
If only she could remember more.
She followed Nate downstairs to the rec room. Nobody used the rec room except them, but they didn’t play pool or ping pong. They preferred making out. The pool table wasn’t empty today, though. In its center was a huge chocolate cake. Written on top in gloppy white icing was “Happy Sweet Sixteen With Love.”
A smile broke through on Laurel’s face. “Oh, Nate. Thank you so...”
He dug in one of the pool table’s corner pockets and pulled out a small velvet box. Opening it, Laurel gasped. A silver-heart shaped locket glittered on a filigree chain. No wonder Nate had been working at the garage so much lately.
She hugged him, loving the feel of his tall, rangy frame. As he fastened the delicate clasp, she warmed at the touch of his fingers on her neck. “It’s beautiful,” she said, leaning back into him. “I’ll wear it forever.”
Laurel opened the locket. Its separate halves—two empty hearts—brought back the clammy feeling from her dream, and she shivered.
Gently, Nate turned her to face him. “Are you okay?”
She no longer saw his face. The rec room was squished around the periphery of her sight. Front and center was a waterfall and two tall cedar trees. The scene reminded her of Aunt Sophie’s painting from years ago.
But she was seeing it through somebody else’s eyes, somebody inexpressibly sad and lonely.
Laurel’s tears spilled over. No, this isn’t me.
“Hey, what’s this?” Perplexed, Nate touched her cheek.
“It’s okay. It’s just that–” Laurel groped in front of her like a blind woman, desperate to tear her way out of the vision.
Nate took her hands in his. His fingers were chilly. “What do you see?”
“Nothing.” He’d only worry, and Laurel couldn’t explain it to herself, much less to him.
Mercifully, the vision faded, and once more she saw Nate, the pool table, and the cake. Perhaps the vision had come to remind her of how lucky she and Nate were.
That desperate, anonymous someone. Laurel hoped she’d never experience that again.
Nate put his arms around her and stroked her hair. “Hold me,” she said, cuddling close. “Hold me like you’ll never let me go.”
* * * ~~~ * * *
When Pigs Fly (1986)
“I know the perfect picture,” Laurel said. “Come on.” She led Nate into the house, and they found Mom sitting in the living room, reading a magazine.
Mom set her magazine aside. “Hi, kids.”
Laurel and Nate replied in unison.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, Mrs. Nave.”
Nate took a seat on the couch, and Laurel approached Mom. “Look what Nate just gave me for my birthday.” She held out the silver, heart-shaped locket she wore around her neck. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Mom touched it, then moved her hand away. “It’s sweet.”
Rolling her eyes, Laurel joined Nate on the couch. The locket was infinitely better than “sweet,” but she wouldn’t argue. “It needs a picture. Of Nate.”
“Well, I should think you have lots of those,” Mom said.
“Yeah, but I need one where his face is small enough to fit. Remember the picture you took of me and Nate standing by his car? When he got his license?”
Mom thought a moment, then nodded. “It should be in the envelope with the rest of that roll of film.”
“So where’s the envelope?”
“In my bedroom.” But Mom made no move to go get it. Instead, she studied Laurel and Nate as though she’d pressed them into a slide and put them under her mind’s microscope.
Something about the locket had gotten under Mom’s skin.
Laurel took Nate’s hand and gave him a sidelong glance. He looked much calmer than she felt. Was it grace under pressure? Goodness knew he’d had plenty of opportunities to perfect that quality over the years.
“Don’t you think you two are a little young to be so serious?” Mom asked.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. It’s a locket, not an engagement ring.” Mom didn’t have to know that Laurel and Nate had talked about getting married when they were old enough. Maybe once they were out of college.
“You’ll be out of high school before you know it.” Mom fixed her gaze on Nate. “Have you thought about what you want to do with your life?”
Laurel squeezed Nate’s hand. I’m sorry, she thought at him. He squeezed her hand back. It’s okay, his squeeze said. This was her mom, after all. And parents could get nosy. Maybe Nate appreciated a nosy parent. His parents wouldn’t care if he tried to hitchhike to the North Pole on a polar bear.
“Well, Mrs. Nave,” Nate said, “Laurel and I are going to Southern Mountain State University, and you know I like to write stories–”
“Stories are no way to make a living,” Mom said.
As Laurel nibbled on her tongue, Nate patiently said, “I want to become a science fiction novelist. And while I’m working on that, I plan to support myself by teaching.”
“Teaching doesn’t make money. You’re a smart young man. You ought to talk to Misty Laurel’s dad about studying law.”
Nate was as likely to become a lawyer as he was to become the Abominable Snowman. “But writing is Nate’s dream,” Laurel said.
“He has to face facts and live in the real world,” Mom said. “Dreams aren’t going to put food on the table.”
“Nate will give up his dream when pigs fly.”
Mom pressed her lips together, and the three of them sat in awkward silence. Laurel shifted uneasily, and Mom drummed her fingers on the arms of her recliner. Nate, on the other hand, didn’t twitch.
Finally, Laurel asked, “So will you get me that picture?”
Mom stood up as though it took all her effort and headed out of the room.
“Your mom doesn’t think I’m good enough for you,” Nate whispered, lowering his chin to his hand.
“No, you’re perfectly fine,” Laurel said as she gently rubbed his back. “It’s just that Mom doesn’t have any imagination.”
* * * ~~~ * * *
Alchemy (1986)
On her sixteenth birthday, Laurel had a hard time saying goodbye to Nate when he left for the evening. At least the silver, heart-shaped locket he’d given her was no longer empty. Nate had cut and fit the picture Mom had found. It rested near Laurel’s heart, where it belonged.
Still, she dreaded looking inside. When Nate had first given the locket to her, she’d had a vision while examining its empty halves. She had seen a waterfall in the forest through somebody else’s eyes: an anguished person whose heart, hermetically sealed, shed tears of blood.
No. Laurel mustn’t think about that. Maybe the person had been Mom, or a symbol of Mom. She was sad a lot of the time, though she tried to hide it from Laurel. But Laurel wouldn’t let her life turn out like Mom’s. Laurel had her dreams, and she had Nate. She let out a deep breath and grasped the locket for reinforcement.
It grew hot in her hand. Gasping, she tried to release it, but couldn’t. Pain raged as the locket sealed itself to her palm. Smoky gray surrounded her sight, then eclipsed her vision entirely, though she could still feel her bedroom carpet underneath her feet.
The phone rang. Laurel reached in its direction but knocked the receiver off her nightstand. Nate’s voice reached her, sounding tinny and light-years away. “Laurel? Are you there?”
Laurel groaned. She didn’t know where she was. Her body was in her bedroom, yes, but her mind—her sight—was cloaked by smoke.
The locket. It must be the key. As it burned in her hand, tears streamed down her cheeks. Laurel brought the locket closer; briefly, silver glinted, but taking the place of the lines in her hands were the branches of trees moving in high wind. The silver of the locket transformed into the fur of a creature. Briefly, it looked straight at Laurel, its eyes glowing blue fire. Before Laurel could identify it, the creature scampered behind a tall tree.
The tree branches became still. An unearthly hush fell over the forest. A giant shadow blotted out the sky. The shadow separated and became birds of prey with hooked beaks. The air filled with the roar of their flapping wings as they dived down. Laurel shrieked and fell onto her bed. But they flew away from her, toward a figure she didn’t recognize.
Somehow, she’d held onto the locket, which throbbed in her hand like a living thing. It was no longer silver but deep blue, like lapis lazuli. Against her palm, it began to crack like an egg. No—the birds of prey! She didn’t want one of those monsters hatching in here. Gasping, Laurel tried to fling the thing from her, but she still couldn’t let go of it. Helplessly, she goggled as a network of cracks spread over its deep blue surface. She didn’t want to see what would emerge from the egg, but she couldn’t look away.
But nothing crawled out. Instead, the blue flaked off, and every piece that fell revealed a patch of glimmering gold. And the scorching heat became a warm glow.
“Laurel!” came Nate’s voice from the receiver.
Dazed, she looked at the locket. It was now completely gold. Her sight remained framed with the smoke of vision. Despite the pain lingering in her hand, Laurel tried to open the locket. Why was the clasp so tight? She pulled as hard as she could manage, but the locket wouldn’t open. And her hand had changed. Nate’s high school class ring, which she wore on her third finger, was gone.
This was no longer her hand. It belonged to a more mature person. The grief-stricken one who sat in the woods? No. Couldn’t be. Laurel—or whoever she had become—felt no grief. She was bathed in radiant joy.
Nate’s voice reached Laurel again. “Are you hurt? Please, tell me what’s the matter.”
The smoke receded from Laurel’s sight and the locket was silver again, as though it had never been any other color. And blessedly cool. It opened easily—with Laurel’s own hand—and inside the locket was Nate’s face, exactly where it should be.
There was no pain in Laurel’s hand whatsoever. And no mark from where the hot locket—rock? egg?—had scorched her.
She snatched the telephone receiver off the floor. “I’m here.”
“What on earth is going on?” Nate asked. “Did you fall?”
“I...” Laurel didn’t know what to say.
“Did you see something? You sounded scared.”
“Honestly, I saw lots of things,” Laurel said. “But I don’t think the vision was bad.” Everything in her reinforced this conviction, though she had no idea why that should be. Parts of the vision had frightened her half to death. But ultimately, had it been bad?
With her deepest awareness still permeated with joy, she didn’t think so.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Brothers (1986)
Nate stamped snow off his boots and knocked on Ian’s door. The run-down apartment complex, nestled near snow-capped mountains, was eerily quiet. When Ian didn’t answer, Nate knocked again, only to wait more long, chilly moments. It didn’t bode well.
He hoped he wasn’t too late to see his brother.
Putting his ear to the door, Nate listened. From inside came the sound of shuffling feet and a clatter of aluminum cans hitting the floor, punctuated by slurred curses. Nate let out a long breath. His relief surpassed his disappointment, but just barely.
Nate heard Ian fumbling with the knob, and the door swung open. A one-hundred proof smell rushed out at Nate like the wind howling outside. He would hold his nose, but he didn’t want Ian to rag on him as a goody-goody.
“Hey, kid.” Ian flopped onto the filthy, orange couch, one arm dangling off the side. Oh, he looked so like Dad.
“Where’s Melissa?” Nate asked, though he already knew. If Laurel hadn’t told him, the living room would have. Reeking clothes lay piled in a dust-coated recliner. Crushed beer cans and whiskey bottles cluttered the floor. Brownish stains spotted the faded gray tile.
“Huh?” Ian goggled at Nate, barely lucid. “Oh, Melissa. Gone to her momma’s. She ain’t coming back. And I’m blowing this joint, too.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. Just somewhere.”
“Well, I’ll drive you,” Nate offered. “I got my license last month.”
“I can drive myself.” Shakily, Ian stood, then picked up a jacket from the floor. He shrugged into it and dug in its outer pockets. Then he scrabbled around in his jeans pockets, front and back. His face contorted, and he bellowed a fresh string of curses. Finally, he pulled his keys from an inside pocket in his jacket.
No way was Nate letting Ian on the road. “I’m calling you a cab.”
“Screw you.” Ian headed for the door. He tripped over a lamp cord and fell, sprawling on the floor. With a self-righteous expression, he hauled himself up, making a great show of dusting himself off.
Nate thought of Ian as he’d been ten years ago, before he’d gotten so messed up. Ian had pushed Nate in his swing and built him a tree house. They’d caught lightning bugs together, then set them free.
Nate went to the phone. Yes, a dial tone. Thank goodness it hadn’t been cut off. He called a cab for Ian. When he turned back around, Ian’s lips were curled in a dreamy-drunk smile.
“Maybe I’ll go to Florida,” he mused. “All that sunshine.”
It would take more than sunshine to help Ian.
When the cab came, Nate swallowed past the lump in his throat. He’d never see his brother again. Laurel had said that, too, though she couldn’t tell him why. Perhaps Nate and Ian’s paths were diverging too far to come together again.
It made a sad kind of sense. Nate wasn’t about to follow in his big brother’s footsteps.
Undaunted by whiskey breath or body odor, Nate grabbed Ian in a hug. “Take care, big guy. I love you.”
“Yeah. You too, kid.” Ian patted Nate’s shoulder clumsily, then tottered out the door.
Heck, for all Nate knew, Ian had been evicted and didn’t want to tell him. Nate would clean this place up. Throw away the junk, give to charity what he could salvage.
Before he got started, he’d call Laurel.
She picked up on the first ring. “Nate.”
He smiled through his tears. Not all the sunshine in Florida could light him up as much as her voice. “You were right.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m glad you got to say goodbye.”
* * * ~~~ * * *
It Won’t Pass for Flowers (1986)
Laurel kept her hand on Nate’s knee as he drove them to the trailhead. Nate’s brother, Ian, had moved to Florida six months ago. No one had heard a word since. Since it was Ian’s birthday today, Laurel knew he was weighing heavily on Nate’s mind.
When Laurel and Nate were little kids, Ian had brought them to the mountain for summer picnics. So when Laurel had suggested she and Nate honor Ian by spending time on the mountain, Nate had lit up as though she’d flipped a switch.
“Let’s explore,” he said as they parked at the trailhead. “See what we find.”
Sounded great to her.
They got out of Nate’s car and hiked up the trail. Everywhere Laurel looked was a riot of green, every shade imaginable. The mountain laurel, her namesake, was in bloom, delicate blossoms in light pink and white which looked like wedding bouquets.
They reached the area of the forest where they’d picnicked with Ian years ago. They’d never been farther than this. A dirt trail rose, parallel to the creek branch. “Let’s go that way,” Laurel said.
“You have a good feeling about it?”
“I think we’ll run up on something interesting.”
Grinning, Nate picked a laurel blossom and tucked it tidily behind Laurel’s ear.
They hiked on. The trail got steeper, and Laurel wiped sweat off her forehead. If she and Nate kept at this hiking thing, they’d get in better shape. But they were moving on at a pretty good clip. Too good a clip. Nate tripped on a tree root, pitched forward, and broke his fall with his hands.
Laurel caught up to him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I–” he began. His gaze riveted on the brush that lined the trail. “Oh crap.”
Laurel looked. A skunk hunkered with its head lowered and its tail held high. She’d heard somewhere to talk to skunks to calm them down. But what should she say to a skunk?
“Run!” Nate cried.
That was the last thing they should do. “No, no, we need to–”
Before Laurel could finish, Nate scrambled to his feet, kicking up dirt and making one heck of a racket.
She who hesitates is lost. The skunk let loose. Laurel had smelled skunks before, but always from a distance. This skunk was only five feet away. Oh, the stench! It soaked their bare legs and arms, and the front of their shorts and tank tops. Laurel got some of the spray in her mouth and gagged.
“Blargh!” She spat, then clutched at Nate so hard she pulled him down. They tumbled on the trail and landed in the brush. The skunk waddled away as fast as it could go. Laurel and Nate would be lucky if they didn’t get poison ivy. That would be just peachy: the mother of all itches on top of the the mother of all stinks.
Nate roared, his eyes bulging. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he puked on the edge of the trail. Laurel tried breathing through her mouth, but that was even worse. She gagged again.
She flopped back onto her butt. Silence, except for the rustle of branches in wind.
Then Nate brayed laughter. Disbelieving, Laurel turned to look at him. He rolled back and forth on the trail, howling and stinking, stinking and howling. She began to laugh, too, so hard that her tears flowed. She crawled over to Nate and they held each other, shrieking laughter into each other’s reeking shoulders.
When Nate could talk, he said, “Yup, we ran into something interesting, all right.”
“It never occurred to me...” Laurel shrugged, still giggling. Sometimes her premonitions and feelings threw her for a loop.
Or made her stinky.
But something told her to keep hiking. Just a little farther.
“Let’s go back and get rid of this smell,” Nate said. “I’ve got baking soda and hydrogen peroxide–”
“No, let’s go on.”
“What?” he said, goggling at her. “You want to get sprayed by a battalion next?”
She smiled. “Trust me.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, then nodded.
Yup, Nate’s a keeper.
They hiked on up the trail. A faint roar reached Laurel’s ears. Big water. Her entire face broke into a smile. “I was right,” she said, as much to herself as to Nate.
“What?”
“There is something wonderful up here.”
“Wonderful sounds better than interesting.”
“Come on.” She ran up the trail. The roar got louder; the creek branch grew narrower. The ragged brush by the side of the trail became a tangly laurel thicket.
Laurel crested a hill, followed by Nate. And into her view came a waterfall, eight feet high and majestic as water frothed and foamed down into the creek branch. It looked like the waterfall from Aunt Sophie’s painting, the waterfall from Laurel’s own visions. She wobbled, feeling as if she’d fulfilled some sort of prophecy. She grabbed onto a nearby laurel tree to steady herself.
“You okay?” Nate asked, catching up to her.
“Look,” she said, pointing at the waterfall. “A shower.”
Nate chuckled. “If only we had some soap.”
They splashed into the creek branch. Laurel reveled in the water rushing against her legs almost as much as she thrilled to Nate’s warm hug.
No matter how many skunks on their trail, love didn’t stink.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Ghost Flowers (1986)
“Thank goodness we didn’t run into a skunk,” Laurel said. She and Nate were hiking up the hill that led to the waterfall.
Nate grimaced. “I bet I’ll have that smell in my nose even when I’m a hundred.”
They reached the waterfall; its sound eclipsed Laurel’s giggle. Holding hands, she and Nate climbed down the bank to the creek branch.
Eight feet high, foaming and burbling, the waterfall roared with gusto since it had rained every day this week. Today, though, only a few wispy clouds skiffed like faded chalk marks across the summer-bright sky.
On the other side of the creek branch stood two cedar trees. Ground cedar made a web of soft, green tendrils that spread from tree to tree. Sprinkled on top were last autumn’s crushed leaves, and through them poked waxy white forms that curved like question marks.
“Look at that,” Laurel said, pointing. “Think they’re some kind of fungus?”
Nate’s gaze followed the direction of her finger. Then he tugged at her hand. “Let’s go see.”
Laurel was wearing sandals, and the creek branch, usually shallow, was running high today. But the water would feel good on her feet. Stepping on the largest rocks she could see, she followed Nate across.
The waxy white growths weren’t fungi but flowers. Five of the oddest flowers Laurel had ever seen. Leafless, with white blossoms and stems, they appeared translucent and strangely penitent as they bowed their heads in the shade of the cedar trees.
“Well, what do you know,” Nate said. “I haven’t seen those in years.”
“Amazing. What are they?” Laurel squatted on the ground and peered at them more closely.
“Ghost flowers. They have a really weird life cycle. I saw them once, when I went picnicking with Ian.” Nate’s voice was tinged with sadness; he still missed his older brother.
Laurel wanted to reply, but intense emotion choked her, and the mist of vision framed her sight. Instead of smoky gray, the mist gleamed silver. That had never happened before. Though she still saw the flowers, their whiteness grew so bright that she’d swear they would glow in the dark, as if it were midnight instead of high noon.
Joy spread throughout Laurel, so exquisite that it hurt. Tears stung her eyes. With a trembling hand, she reached for the flowers.
“No, no,” Nate said, from beside her. “Don’t–”
Laurel plucked two of them. At the urgency in Nate’s voice, the silver that edged her sight disappeared. She turned her head. His hand was extended as though to stop her. Too late. “What?”
Nate frowned at the flowers Laurel held in her hand. What had happened to them? They’d been firm when she’d picked them, but now, only seconds later, they felt gooey, like melting candles that had cooled only slightly.
Aghast, she stared at them. The flowers now seeped dark fluid from mottled bruises. The mist of vision encroached her sight again. The mist was the same dark color as the bruises. She gasped, dropped the flowers, and burst into tears.
Nate pulled her to him. She sobbed and sobbed, not understanding what hurt so much. “I killed them.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” He hugged her. When she stopped crying, he explained, “You can’t pick ghost flowers. They’re extremely frail. If you even touch them, they bruise.”
“I just feel so bad, and I don’t know why.” Laurel wiped her eyes. “Like I destroyed something sacred.”
Nate looked perplexed, but he picked up the dying flowers and tucked them under the soft fronds of ground cedar near his foot. Then he put his arm around Laurel’s shoulders. “Goodness, honey.” He didn’t seem to know what else to say.
Though it was warm, Laurel shivered and snuggled close to Nate. For a moment, she closed her eyes and lost herself in the sound of the waterfall. Then, trying to recapture the joy she’d felt, she focused her gaze on the three remaining ghost flowers, unmarred and unearthly white. In the sight of them, she found not joy, but peace.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Mentor (1986)
One more time, and Laurel would be satisfied. Well, almost. She wouldn’t be fully satisfied until after the competition was over, when—hopefully—she’d won.
Sitting at the spinet piano in the living room, Laurel began Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in b flat minor, playing smooth legatos and sharp staccatos. At the point where the orchestra—or during the competition, her professor—would join in, the accompanying music swelled in her mind along with the notes that flowed from her fingers. Laurel had practiced the accompaniment nearly as often as she’d practiced the piano solo.
Half-humming, she closed her eyes and let the music transport her. But an image came, and she stumbled. Four stern-faced judges watched her. She opened her eyes. The judges were still there. She played not on her spinet but on a grand piano in a competition room at the university. She’d played here many times before. Except then, her sight hadn’t been framed with the smoke of vision.
Laurel sometimes had visions while playing, though none had ever hit her during recitals or competitions. But this vision... something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what. Doggedly, she played on several more measures before she figured out the problem. Though the music sounded in her head, the piano was silent. She played with more force, but the keys thudded flatly like they were dead. Nervously, she glanced at the judges. They nodded and gestured for her to continue.
They acted like they could hear her.
She throttled back to pianissimo. Now, she could hear the music. But the judges covered their ears and winced as though they found her soft notes painful. Crazy. To keep the judges comfortable, Laurel kept her volume at mezzo-forte to fortissimo, not hearing any sounds except the music in her head. Before long, she reached the cadenza. Her performance—and hopefully this weirdo vision—would be over.
No such luck. She and the piano began spinning. First slowly, then faster. It was like being on the Scrambler, the amusement park ride which had, in junior high, made her puke out her guts. She stopped playing. Her stomach roiled and her mouth watered. She spat out a wad of leaf-litter.
Leaf-litter?
The concrete floor and the block walls had changed to dirt, rocks, and crushed leaves. As Laurel spun, she fell farther into the earth. The piano vanished. A tremendous roar rumbled her eardrums. It reminded her of the waterfall at her and Nate’s special place on the mountain, though that waterfall was nowhere near this loud.
Trying not to vomit, Laurel glanced up, her sight still framed by dark smoke. This isn’t real. But she couldn’t keep from screaming for help. Someone was up there, at the periphery of the hole down which she was being sucked. One of the judges? Laurel peered more closely. The creature didn’t look human. All she could see was shadows in seemingly infinite shades of gray and blazing blue eyes, the pupils of which were crossed as if the creature were looking inward.
Laurel screamed. She fell faster and hit something hard. The linoleum floor. Opening her eyes, she scrabbled to a sitting position in the living room. There stood her spinet piano. The vision was over. Swallowing her gorge, she began to cry.
Footfalls. Coming closer. Mom ran to Laurel, then squatted beside her. “Misty Laurel, what on earth’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. I saw...” Then Laurel bit her tongue to keep from babbling. She’d never told Mom about her visions. Mom already thought she was a few cards short of a full deck. Why encourage that?
But Mom put her arm around Laurel’s shoulders. “Tell me,” she insisted.
Laurel spilled out the details of what she’d seen.
Mom shook her head, and Laurel regretted saying a word. Now Mom would say that she was nuts.
But she didn’t. “Misty Laurel, I guess it’s time I told you. This power is only going to get stronger as you grow older, and you’re going to need help, somebody to talk to. I had Aunt Sophie, but I guess you’re stuck with me.”
Laurel goggled, wondering if maybe she was having yet another vision. “What are you talking about?”
“I have second sight. I see things which aren’t real, but which usually, in some way, come true. But not in the way I expect. And...” Mom’s brow puckered as she paused. “I think my visions are more literal than yours.”
Laurel reeled at the thought of Mom having visions at all. But she always seemed to have surprises up her sleeve. “Why do you think I saw what I saw?”
“You’ve been practicing too much. Putting pressure on yourself. Why don’t you have a bite to eat? Or you might want to take a hike–” Mom pursed her lips. Hikes always led to Nate, and Mom disapproved of Nate more and more these days. Too much of a dreamer, she said.
Mom had to be wrong about the meaning of what Laurel had seen. If Mom’s visions were as literal as she was practical, then she wouldn’t be much good at interpreting Laurel’s wacky head trips.
But for all their differences, Laurel had found in Mom someone who understood what having visions was like. Someone who could advise her. Mom was an unlikely mentor for something so out-of-this-world, but there it was, and Laurel would have to make the best of it.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Talent Show (1986)
Walking onto the makeshift stage, accompanied by meager applause, Laurel repressed her urge to take a bow before sitting down at the piano bench. Bowing before performances was as normal as breathing. But bowing was for recitals and competitions, not high school talent shows.
Swallowing her nervousness—why should she be nervous here, when she wasn’t nervous in front of a panel of judges?—she began to play Andante Con Variazioni, from Beethoven’s Sonata No. 12. It had been just her luck to come out here after a comedy skit. Laurel figured the audience was looking at her as though she’d just landed from another planet.
But Nate wouldn’t be.
She focused on the brown wood of the piano. Like her piano at home, this one was an upright. But unlike her piano, this one was slightly out-of-tune. No matter. She would pretend, as best she could, that it was one of the Steinway grands at the university.
As she transitioned from the first variation to the second, the audience, who had been laughing uproariously moments earlier, shifted in their seats and shuffled their feet. Laurel loved Beethoven’s music, but apparently, he wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
She wished she could kick her own butt for picking such a long piece. Why had she let Nate talk her into this? All she played was classical music. Not exactly the kind of thing to generate enthusiasm from an audience who was into Whitney Houston and Tiffany.
The sound of shuffling feet receded. A good sign? Or maybe they’d all gone to sleep. But as she started the third variation, she no longer saw the piano’s brown wood. The lights on the stage had intensified. Laurel was bathed in their heat. A concert grand piano loomed in front of her, and from her fingers flowed music she’d never heard before. Whose music? It was classically-influenced, but funky. Modern.
Original.
While playing, she moved with the music as though it were a running stream. How could she be doing this? Laurel had never composed a piece of music in her life, and she always sat straight on the bench. Now, though, she dipped and swirled, blazing with confidence and the power of the music.
Teasing the keys, she glanced slyly at the audience, and they burst into spontaneous applause and cheers. Only they weren’t the same audience. Some of them wore black t-shirts with a stark, white sketch of a woman at a piano. Others had rings in their noses and tattoos on their forearms. And this wasn’t the gym at Watauga High School. This was...
A stadium?
She couldn’t stop playing even if she’d wanted to, and she didn’t want to. Her arms were bare; her long-sleeved blouse gone. Slim silver jewelry adorned her fingers and one wrist. Into her peripheral vision swung a long lock of dark hair, streaked with red. To her shock, she opened her mouth, and sang, “The sleeper must awaken.”
Awake. Like nothing she’d ever experienced. Laurel had always been too shy to sing. Her voice was weak. But not anymore.
This couldn’t be real. It was framed by the misty haze of vision.
The mist dissipated, and the brown of the upright piano came back. Laurel’s fingers faltered. She had been playing the piece from her vision, yes, but the music had gone, and she couldn’t remember a note of it. Where had she left off in the Beethoven piece, before the vision had come? The fourth variation? The fifth?
Before she could think of what to do, the gym erupted in applause. People rose to their feet, clapping heartily. Laurel pulled her hands off the keyboard and stood on shaky legs. Teachers and classmates gazed at her, rapt.
Where was Nate?
Finally, she found him, sitting toward the left of the gym, his expression mystified and radiant. He must be as befuddled as she.
Her dream was to become either a concert pianist or a professor of piano. Maybe both.
But a rock star? Laurel wouldn’t have thought she had it in her.
The thunderous applause continued, and Laurel scurried offstage. Whatever had happened, she shouldn’t own it. It hadn’t been hers.
Maybe, someday, it would be.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Dreams (1986)
If only Laurel could give Nate a hint. But as Mom said, second sight wasn’t an exact science.
They sat on the soft ground between the cedar trees. The waterfall’s roar was louder here, but they didn’t mind. It seemed a part of their conversation.
“If it helps, I believe in you,” Laurel said.
“But what if I just plain suck?” This morning, Nate had gotten a rejection from Ad Astra, a well-known science fiction magazine.
“You don’t suck. Remember, you got acceptances from both Vortex and Neutrinos.”
“But they’re small potatoes. They’d publish anything.”
“That’s not true,” Laurel said, caressing his knee. “You’re running yourself down again. Stop it.”
The worry-lines in Nate’s forehead smoothed a bit. “Sometimes your faith in me is what keeps me going.”
Laurel picked up a twig and drew random designs in the leaf-litter. With his talent and hard work, surely Nate would build a name for himself as a science-fiction author. From her second sight, she got glints and glimmers of a future for herself in music. But for Nate, all that came through was a question mark.
That wasn’t so weird. Laurel’s visions couldn’t be forced. Nate understood that, in theory, but oh how he angsted, in practice! To his mind, it meant he was destined to fail. If he was this hard on himself at sixteen, he’d drive himself nuts at thirty.
He scooted toward the rightmost cedar tree. “Let’s forget about it and chill out.”
“Sounds good.”
Nate reached the tree and leaned back against it. Laurel moved toward him, then she stopped. The periphery of her sight filled with haze. A vision. But of what? Nate, the tree, the waterfall, the creek branch. Everything was the same.
No, something was changing. As Laurel watched, carvings slowly manifested on the tree’s trunk, above Nate’s head: his and Laurel’s initials, surrounded by a heart and emblazoned, in Nate’s handwriting, with “forever.”
Dimly, Nate’s voice registered. “What’s going on?”
He moved toward her, and the carvings on the tree disappeared. The haze framing her sight whirled in and obscured her view of everything: Nate, the tree, the creek branch. She flopped back on her bottom and looked wildly around. No matter where she tried to focus, it was the same. Nothing but gray. It reminded her of the night she and Nate had hiked in thick fog, unable to see more than five feet in front of them.
The gray disappeared so rapidly that the afternoon sunshine stung her eyes. She groaned and sat back on her bottom.
“Are you okay?” Nate asked.
Laurel didn’t know what to think. She joined him at the tree and snuggled in his arms. “Yeah. I just...” Should she tell him what she’d seen? If the carvings happened, they should be done in their own time. And the fog... who knew? Maybe it meant “be patient.”
“What did you see?” he urged.
She couldn’t tell him. He’d worry too much, and worrying about mystery—trying to dissect it—only led to more mystery. And Nate didn’t want mystery. He wanted answers.
We’ll find out what Nate’s future holds. Together.
“It was all jumbled up,” she said. “But let’s just say you’re stuck with me.”
He squeezed her close. “That’s the most important thing of all.”
* * * ~~~ * * *
Artifact (1986)
Hiking to the waterfall, Nate spied something poking out of the dirt off the trail. It looked like a rock, but it was oddly curved and glimmered with a dusky sheen like polished hematite. He stopped and prodded the dirt around it with the tip of his boot.
Laurel stopped, too. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Nate squatted down and began digging with his hands.
Laurel sat down beside him. “Looks like a rock to me.”
“That’s what I thought at first, but there’s something weird about it.” He kept digging. Before long, he pulled the object out. It wasn’t a rock but a piece of dark wood, smoothly shaped like a thick crescent moon. On it had been carved a strange face, visible not only from the front but also on its sides, in profile. It wore a half-smile, and its eyes were slitted as though in deep thought.
Nate turned the figure over and over in his hands. He’d bet it was old. Part of the fun of hiking was that you never knew what you’d find. Ghost flowers. Mushrooms or weird fungi. Once in a great while, an arrowhead.
But running across an artifact was quite an event.
“Wow,” Laurel said. “Can I see it?”
He handed her the figure.
She examined it with a slow smile that showed her dimples. “It reminds me of you.”
“Huh?” That was the last thing Nate had expected to hear. Laurel was like hiking. You never knew what she’d say. And he loved her for it.
“Look at its face,” she said. “So serene.”
Nate couldn’t help but chuckle, and he touched her leg affectionately. “I think it looks sleepy.”
She giggled. “Sometimes you’re sleepy, too.” Then her expression sobered, and she put her hand on his. “But you’re the steadiest, kindest person I know.”
“Well, I’m glad you think so.” Nate didn’t think of himself as serene, but he knew about steady. Steady was a matter of survival in his turmoil-tossed household.
“Really, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” To his surprise, tears had sprung to her eyes.
“Fight with your mom this morning?” he guessed.
“Yeah. She gets so mad at me, no matter what I say. And I’m sick of it.” Her head was down, but Nate could tell she was crying.
He pulled her to him. Yeah, Mrs. Nave could be pretty hard on Laurel. Laurel’s mother meant well, but the two of them were just so different that finding common ground was tough, and misunderstandings arose all too frequently.
“Well, don’t worry,” Nate said. “You can say anything in the world to me.”
Laurel hugged him tightly, crying so hard she couldn’t speak. He held her as close as he could.
When she calmed down, he pressed the figure into her hand. “Here. Keep this.”
She looked at him, surprised. “But it’s yours. You found it.”
“Yeah,” Nate said. “But I found it for you.”
* * * ~~~ * * *
Dinner (1986)
Holding the pizza box high in the air, Nate opened the door to the rec room with his other hand. Laurel went in, and he followed. The smell of the pizza—extra pepperoni, extra cheese—made Laurel’s mouth water. She hadn’t eaten anything since this morning, before school.
They pulled chairs up to the pool table. As Nate opened the box, Laurel heard the sound of footsteps. Crap. Usually, Nate’s parents gave Laurel and Nate a wide berth. But not always. This was probably Nate’s mom, Alice. Nate’s dad stayed too drunk to negotiate the steps down to the rec room.
The door opened, and Laurel was proved right. “Mind if I join you?” Alice asked, as though in challenge.
Nate stood and indicated the chair he’d been sitting in. “Come on in, Mom. You can have my chair.”
“Are you sure?” His mom’s gaze glinted like the wet surface of a jagged rock in the creek bed.
Laurel’s heart twisted in sympathy for Nate. Alice was in one of her moods. Laurel hoped things wouldn’t get ugly, though she knew Nate wouldn’t raise his voice.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Nate pointed to the pizza. “Look here. Pepperoni.”
Standing by the chair Nate had offered, Alice scowled. “You got the pepperoni because you know I hate it.”
“No, Mom. I–”
“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You planned it all out, to keep me from eating with you.”
Laurel’s fingertips went cold, and her heart knocked in her chest. The walls of the rec room pressed on her. She wanted nothing more than to leave. Dare she suggest that she and Nate go to her house? No, that would make things worse. She needed to stay out of this.
What could Nate say? He didn’t dare point out to Alice that she’d eaten pepperoni before and liked it. He didn’t dare point out that he and Laurel hadn’t even been thinking about her when they got the pizza, that they’d assumed she would keep to herself as she usually did. Any of those comments would provoke a hateful response and ratchet up the confrontation.
Neither rhyme nor reason had any place in Alice’s world. Oh, the hate in her heart! But no, Laurel reminded herself. It wasn’t about hate. Alice was sick. But that could be hard to remember when she was being so nasty.
Nate closed the pizza box and handed it to Laurel. Then he faced his mom. “Okay, what kind of pizza do you want? I’ll order one for you, and we can all eat together.”
Wow. Laurel wouldn’t have thought to answer her in that way.
“Do you have money?” Alice snarled.
“Sure do.” Nate pulled his wallet from his pocket and showed her.
Alice sputtered, unable to find anything else on which to hang a tirade. Muttering to herself, she clambered back up the stairs from which she had come.
Laurel felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. With shaking hands, she handed the pizza box back to Nate. The thought of eating made her feel sick.
Nate took the box, then grasped her hand in both of his. “It’s okay, honey.” Then he got a piece of pizza and took a bite. Chewing slowly, he sat with a sad, faraway gaze until Laurel gently touched his hand. He came back to himself and smiled at her.
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