First Chapter of My Novel

Ok -- I've shared this with Cheri@BlogThisMom. I thought it was time to share this with you. It's something that I've written and tinkered with for a long time (there is no universal law that things get better with time). I just wanted to do something with this.

I have Chapter Two drafted. I've drafted Chapter Three ten times.

Please let me know what you think. As Nick Lowe says, "You gotta be cruel to be kind."

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Morning.

The early sun filtered in through chiffon curtains and filled the room with a soft light. This was her room, where she grew up. The room was tidy, it wasn’t very different from when she left, went to college, got that first job in the city, married too soon, and then, of course, got divorced. This was the place where she dreamed, imagined, and had an occasional good cry. It was the place where she planned her life. And she was a planner. She had planned her road to perfection and thought that she had done such a good job of following that plan. How wrong she had been. Perspectives change. You get swept into the pace of life and fail to notice that your heart is moving in another direction. You start with a preconceived notion of what is important, follow it blindly and then realize that there’s something better out there.

She glanced around the room. Her bookshelf was a confused collection of interests: Mark Twain, Danielle Steele, Hunter Thompson, Jack Kerouac, Franz Kafka, Ernest Hemmingway. A purple feather boa draped over the side. A picture of the University of North Carolina Women’s Soccer team in crazy celebration after winning the National Championship. The Wealth of Nations, in hardcover, wedged between Black Beauty and Breakfast of Champions. A souvenir shot glass remembering San Francisco cable cars. A harmonica, yoyo, and Mardi Gras beads sitting on the shelf in front of "Analysis of Variance," "Advanced Linear Regression Analysis," "Differential Equations," "Option Valuation under Stochastic Volatility," and, of course, Richard Bookstaber’s "Options Valuation & Investment Strategies." A framed picture of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue.

She settled back, closed her eyes, and listened to the sounds coming from downstairs. That would be the kid. Happy sounds. Good, no issues. Grandpa was probably with her, cuddling, tickling and watching cartoons. He will entertain them. Everything was okay when Grandpa was around. Perhaps he’d take them into the city. He loved the Central Park Zoo and was always looking for an excuse to go there.

Her mom must be up. She’ll make pancakes. The kid loves pancakes. Of course, if she makes them, the kid will say that she wanted waffles. But before any cooking, she’ll first come upstairs to say good morning and ask if her daughter felt like having something to eat. But she doesn’t feel like eating. Her appetite hadn’t returned, even though she stopped the chemo several weeks ago.

She wasn’t getting thin, she was downright skinny. She thought of how she looked in the mirror. How could this happen her body? She was skin and bones. The muscle tone was gone – the muscle was gone. She had been an athlete all her life. Despite a challenging career, she maintained a good training schedule: weight training four times a week, running one day and swimming the next. People called her an “animal,” they said she was a “machine.”

Getting sick wasn’t in the plan. Josh’s bubba used to say, “Man tracht und der gott lacht.” People plan and G-d laughs. She only now started to understand what that meant. She didn’t plan on getting sick. And when she first got the news, she chose not to believe it. Lung cancer? She never smoked a day in her life. They must have confused her with somebody else. It just wasn’t possible.

Once she accepted the diagnosis, she attacked her illness like she attacked everything in her life. Head on. Thank goodness they caught it early. She went to the doctor, started treatment, and continued to juggle the kid, her training and her career. She refused to accept that she was losing her strength but she didn’t have the stamina to keep up appearances. The stress first appeared in her face. Her eyes became dark and shallow. She lost weight. Although she chose not to talk about her illness, it became clear to those around her that something was seriously wrong.

She eventually told her closest friends and asked them to keep her confidence. She had to tell her partners. Her absences became more frequent and she began to lose focus. When she started to make mistakes, some of her partners reacted in anger, they asked why. She made an appointment and met with the management committee.

She was nervous about the meeting, nauseated by the thought of facing this group of old insensitive men. But it was not what she expected. They expressed heartfelt concern for her. They promised their support. When Joe, the hard-edged managing partner who lost his wife of 30 years to breast cancer, started to sniff, she went up to give him a hug. They cried and the other six members of the management committee got out of their chairs to join in. Somebody farted, they laughed, passed around a box of tissues, and went back to work.

A short time after, it got to the point where she couldn’t go to work. Not only was she incapable of working, she couldn’t deal with the work environment. It was with the best of intentions, but word got out. All eyes were upon her. She would walk down the hall and sense that they were talking about her. It’s not that they were bad people or that they intended to hurt her; they just couldn’t help it. It was all so unbelievable. Her presence was a reminder of how fragile life can be. It was as if her illness caused others to feel that they themselves had narrowly escaped tragedy. As if misfortune had skipped over them and landed on her. It was like seeing a terrible car accident, the witnesses had to talk about it to relieve their own anxiety. They now treated her differently. They treated her as if she were sick and crushed her with their kindness. For some one like her, it was tough to accept empathy and she couldn’t bear pity. She met once again with the partners, negotiated a buyout and the firm announced that she was “leaving to pursue other interests.” She lied to her colleagues, telling them that she wanted to spend more time with the kid and that she planned to do some “consulting.”

It was ok to be home with the kid. It was different. As a former career woman, being a homemaker presented new challenges. It was an opportunity to add another dimension to her relationship with the kid. She threw herself into the role, trying to make up for the all the time that she had been away. It wasn’t long before she realized that, given her health, she didn’t only have trouble taking care of the kid, she was having trouble taking care of herself. One sad morning she looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. She sat on the bathroom floor and cried. That’s when she decided it was time to go home to Mom.

She opened her eyes, looked across the room, and stared at the cork board above her desk. A long time ago, Mom created a shrine to her daughter, an artful collection of memories that retraced her daughter’s life. Colorful pins that she had received at soccer tournaments. A certificate for winning the sixth grade spelling bee. Pictures of her and Suzie, her “growing up” best friend, the sister she never had: their first day of kindergarten - a Polaroid of the two of them holding hands as they entered the classroom on the first day of first grade; their first swim meet - Suzie took top honors; High School Prom; the day that she decided on a career - standing in Battery Park with the Statue of Liberty behind them.

Dad took that picture at the Statue of Liberty. It was their reward for having the two highest grades in high school calculus. They took the day off from school and Dad took them to see Ms. Liberty and go shopping in SOHO. But Dad insisted that they walk down Wall Street. They went to the World Trade Center to see the options trading. She thought it would be boring but it was the most exciting thing that she had ever seen: the frenzy, hustling, bustling, yelling, screaming. She had no idea of what was going on, but it all looked so exciting and she wanted to stand on that floor.

Suzie’s wedding picture, she was maid of honor. Her wedding picture, Suzie was maid of honor. Her wedding....

She closed her eyes and though about Josh. She met him while attending law school at NYU. He was in a graduate theatre program at the Tisch School of the Arts. He was so, “hawt.” It was just a few months before graduation. They enjoyed a torrid romance, explored SOHO and the art scene. They ate great food at cheap restaurants. They would take walks late at night and, on the way home, stop for a Chipwich at the deli.

She admired him. He used another yardstick to measure success. He had the courage to do what she didn’t. She wasn’t willing to take risks. She needed to know that she could support herself comfortably, stand on her own two feet. She didn’t want to depend upon a man. It was her passion, it defined her. She lived to work. Sure, she loved the kid, she was generous about the way that she provided for her. But she lived to work.

He worked to live. At any one time, he would hold multiple part-time hourly jobs so that he could sustain a modest existence, pay for acting class, voice lessons, and have the flexibility to attend auditions. He had a passion about things. He loved to cook and would come up with the most wonderful menus. It was fun to see him in the kitchen, throwing around ingredients and making a huge mess. But there was a deep intelligence underlying his passion. His menus were not arbitrary but a carefully constructed structure of color and flavor. He didn’t “spoon out the chow,” he decorated the plate. This was a man who could spend 20 minutes deciding on tomatoes - touching, feeling, smelling – selecting vegetables was an erotic, total body experience. He was also a mass of contradictions. He could argue about the right type of wine to use in Coq au Vin while chomping down a Big Mac. He could discuss Kerouac while watching Looney Tunes. He thought Bugs Bunny symbolized America’s role in a hostile world. And he could speak beautifully about the freckles on her nose when they made love.

They got married. Although she made enough money to support the both of them, he insisted upon keeping his odd jobs. He didn’t need to work quite as much, but he worked enough to pay for his never ending classes and have some walking around money. His odd jobs had gotten to be an embarrassment. She was an up and coming associate at a major investment bank when he was working at Starbucks. When people asked her about her husband, her colleagues would jump in to say that he was a British lawyer. Her faced would flush as she quickly explained that this was their idea of joke and that her husband was a “barista” and not a “barrister.” Then her colleagues would look at one another, in feigned disbelief, and say, “That’s not what you told us.” It wore her down. When she found herself telling clients that her husband was a lawyer, she found a new job.

Moving to a smaller firm didn’t resolve the issue. She felt resentment about his lack of concern over household finances. In anticipation of her rising personal income, she made financial commitments – a condo, a car, insurance, maintenance – and found that despite her well above-average earnings, money was tight. He didn’t seem to notice. She tried to talk to him about it, but he wouldn’t engage. So they did the next logical thing, they had the kid.

She didn’t want her child to grow up in the city, so she bought a house in New Jersey. He never wanted to live in New Jersey and hated the fact that he needed to commute into the city to attend auditions. Although they had some help with the kid, he had to quit his part-time jobs to be more of a “house Dad.” It became more difficult to schedule auditions. He felt trapped and got grumpy. She felt resentment over his grumpiness, his inability to recognize her financial contribution, and her heart began to wander. Worst of all, he was no longer her best friend. She began to view him as an obstacle.

She now shared her confidences and frustrations with the guys at work. He was aware of this, felt isolated and withdrew. That only made the feelings of isolation mutual. Rather than work on their marriage, they just gave up. It was difficult for the both of them to stay involved after their divorce – they loved one another too much. He went out to LA for pilot season and never came back. She felt that he was running out on her child. He said that he didn’t fit in with the life that she was providing their child and didn’t want to be in the way. He was just young and stupid. She asked him to relinquish his parental rights and was shocked when he quietly agreed. He sent money, but she didn’t bother to deposit the checks. He sent gifts to the kid, remembered her birthday and special milestones. He even remembered her birthday and sent his best wishes in a creative and joyful way. They never talked. There was too much sadness and pain.

None of that seemed to matter now. It was pride that kept her from telling him about her illness. But for the longest time she wanted him to be here with her. He lived and she wanted to feel the strength of his spirit around her. She didn’t know how to say it. She was incapable of admitting her vulnerability.

How could the freedom to love someone cause so much misunderstanding and pain? She had a theory: Love is a lot more than hormones, more than what you feel in your heart. Love is making a choice and committing that choice, especially during difficult times. Love is personal sacrifice for the sake of the common good. Love is the willingness to overcome doubt, particularly when it feels so much better to surrender to dark thoughts. You don’t only love with your heart. The heart wanders. You don’t only love with your mind. The mind wanders. You love with your whole person, that’s what keeps you on track. Love is running a marathon. A large part of running marathons is training. You never stop training. You train every day. And when you're running a marathon, you get ready to hit the wall - a moment in time when you're just exhausted, sick and ready to give up. And when you hit the wall, you tell yourself to keep going because that’s what you’ve committed to do. It's not romantic, pleasurable or logical. You just keep going. And if you keep going, just like a marathon, the joy eventually returns.

You can run a marathon by yourself. That’s where love gets tricky. You can’t love by yourself. It is not sole-sacrifice, it is not service, it is not dependence. It takes two committed individuals coming from some place of strength to make love happen. You need two people running that marathon, but committed to finishing. It’s said that we have six senses. Love transcends those senses, it is what you feel, think, hear, see, smell, and taste. Love is as much a choice as it is a feeling. It is the physical and the spiritual. It’s the ability to remain faithful to that choice in the face of adversity that deepens love.

She felt responsible for their divorce. She had put up a wall and willingly given up the opportunity to feel his love. She paused. It didn’t matter now. The loss, the pain, the sadness, the anger, it just didn’t matter. For her, there was only the now.

She smiled. For him, there was the future. It was going to be okay. She knew that he would make the right decisions and that it would all work out. She had faith in him. It will be all right. It was odd that now, so much after the fact, she was finally in a position to make things right. It would be all right. She chuckled.

There was the sound of footsteps, Mom was coming up the stairs. She thought about the warmth of her mother’s smile.

It was a beautiful Spring morning. She could hear the “chak, chak, chak” of the automatic sprinkler. The grass would be so green. The flowers would be in bloom. The sun would be so warm.

She could hear her mother stop just outside her door. She would be listening at the door, wonder whether her daughter was up. She heard Mom call downstairs, telling her father to keep the noise down. A lot of good that would do.

It was time. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. As she breathed in, she thought about the sun, the flowers, the trees. As she breathed out, she prayed that her child would cherish G-d’s gift of nature and the blessings that he brings to our doorstep every single day. She breathed in and thought about all the times that she had denied her husband and her child the gift of her presence, the gift of her heart, and the gift of her simple acknowledgment that she needed them. And as she breathed out, she prayed that they would find the root of happiness. She breathed in and thought about the Spring, the flowers, and the beautiful day. And as she breathed out, she thought about the time that she and Josh had walked through a field of wildflowers. She breathed in and thought the first time that she held her child and that Josh was standing at her side. She breathed out and prayed that the two of them would share something special, the way it was meant to be. She breathed in and thought, “G-d is near.” She breathed out and thought, “All is good.” She smiled.

And then she died.