A Short Story for Halloween

Here, in its entirety, is a short story, presented for your enjoyment on Halloween.

Forgetting

©2006 Noreen Braman


When Sandy forgot how to bowl, everyone though it was hilarious. She stood in the lane, staring at the pins, a look of dazed horror on her face. She threw her ball, tripped over her own feet and fell in the gutter. Afterward, she told everyone that she had just forgotten how to bowl. For the rest of the night she was the team’s comic relief, as she tried to remember what has once been so easy. No one would believe that there was suddenly a blank space in her brain; it was as if she had never picked up a bowling ball in her life. Her husband and her friends just continued to laugh.
It wasn't so funny when she forgot how to drive.

The lines on the highway were passing in a steady rhythm as Sandy headed for home. She kept her minivan in the center lane, hoping to avoid both tractor-trailers and cars entering the road. The three-lane highway was mostly straight in western Jersey — with only an occasional gently sloped curve here and there.

Sandy drove along, singing along with the radio. As she steered the van over a small hill, she began to have an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. At first it was just a twinge, then it grew into a gnawing fear, not unlike the feeling she would get on the slow, steady uphill climb at the beginning of a roller coaster ride. Then, she could close her eyes, hang on tight and endure the terrible feeling of uncontrolled flight until the ride finally came to a stop.

She watched as the lines on the road passed faster and faster, even though the speedometer told her she was still doing 55. Her gaze was magnetically drawn down to the pavement, as the white painted strips disappeared under the van. She watched the rest of the road peripherally, a kind of tunnel-vision view that made the highway surreal and distorted. As she approached a curve in the road she was seized with the feeling that her van wasn't going to negotiate the turn, but instead go crashing through the railing and down the embankment. She struggled to maintain control of the wheel. In her mind she pictured the van rolling over and over, faster and faster. She tried to assure herself that her speed was still only 55, but when she looked down at the dashboard the numbers and gauges seemed to be in a foreign language, spinning around in a dizzying whirlpool.
She fought the urge to press the accelerator all the way to the floor, struggling to make her rigid arms steer around the curve. Trees that lined the sides of the road seemed to tower over the lanes, curving so sharply they almost touched each other over the roof of her van. The other cars on the road flew by her at suicidal speeds, nearly missing crashing into her as they flashed by, arms gesturing and faces grimacing at her.

Her feet were suddenly dancing around the pedals, and she was unsure which was the brake, which was the gas. The car lurched across the road as she recognized a rest stop sign. She screeched to a stop and yanked the key out of the ignition, dropping it on the floor of the car, as if it were burning hot.

She called Garver. "What do you mean, you can't drive anymore?" Garver's voice was a low growl of impatience. "You've been driving for years. This isn't funny Sandy."
"Do you think I'm enjoying this? I don't know what's going on, but if you don't come and get me, then I'll be here all night."

Sandy got back into the van to wait. Her hands trembled as she tried to light a cigarette. She had been hiding her return to smoking for weeks and Garver would be furious, but, how much angrier could he get?

The familiar feeling of the cigarette calmed Sandy as she sat watching traffic. The unending lines of vehicles swept past her in a steady rhythm. As they sped by, the momentum distorted the cars, elongating them into cartoon images. Their shapes became more and more fluid until there seemed to be nothing on the road but an undulating river of molten metal. Sandy blinked her eyes and shook the image out of her head. That was all Garver had to hear. Forgetting things, and seeing things.

She put her head back on the seat and thought of Garver — his lean, tan body striding through the parking lot, his face scowling. Sandy tried to remember Garver's smile, she was certain he had smiled recently, but she just couldn't picture it. In fact, she was having the greatest difficulty remembering the color of his eyes. She took a long, slow drag on the cigarette and then tossed it out the window. It rolled on the blacktop, still smoking.

How disgusting, she thought. Who would throw out a lit cigarette so close to the grass? She opened the van door and followed the cigarette as it slowly rolled. When she finally caught up with it, she stomped on it, grinding it into the pavement.

She knew it would be a while before Garver arrived, especially with the evening traffic. She wandered into the restaurant, surprised at how seedy the roadside eatery was. Long ago, when she was a child, stopping at a rest area was a highlight of a long car trip. It served as a kind of tourist meeting place, with cars from all states lined up in the lot. there were maps and postcards and huge bathrooms full of sweaty women and screaming babies.

Now, Sandy wasn't certain that a trip to the bathroom was a wise idea. Several men in dirty clothing milled around the doorway as she went in. The restaurant itself was dark, with flickering fluorescent lights. The guy behind the counter didn't wear a paper hat, or even an apron.
Sandy stood at the counter and looked up at the plastic-encased menu. The pictures of the Highway Hamburger and Trucker's Special were so faded the lettuce looked yellow and the tomatoes were an unhealthy shade of pink. Sandy traced the letters, trying to read the faded words. Like the cars on the highway, the print on the menu seemed to be moving, flowing like a river right off the page.

"Well," The voice startled Sandy. She looked up. This close, she could see how badly the counterman needed a shave.

"I can't make up my mind," she said. ”Just give me a sandwich.” The counterman pointed to a rolling cart behind her that served as a kind of salad-less salad bar. Rows of sandwiches in wax paper covered half of its surface.

Unwilling to try and read the menu any more, Sandy nodded her head, and took one marked with a huge “B” for bologna. She stared at the lettering all the while she paid for it, picked a table and sat down.

It occurred to Sandy that perhaps the ink had seeped through the paper, into the sandwich, oozing through the bread and had settled into the meat, making it dark and foul. She was immediately nauseous, and she left the table, looking for the bathroom.

The feeling of sickness overcame her fear of the bathroom, and she burst inside looking for a place to throw up.

Inside the door, a young woman with missing teeth was sitting on the floor, facing the wall. She was talking to herself.

"Come on, come on," she whispered as she ripped open the sleeve of her shirt. Sandy stood fascinated as the woman tied a piece of cloth around her upper arm and pulled it tight. Sandy saw the glint of a needle, and the nausea came back as she watched the needle plunge into the woman's arm. Her involuntary gasp made the woman look up.

"What are you staring at," she hissed, waving the needle in Sandy's direction. "Maybe you're looking to take my stuff."

Sandy backed up against the sink. "No," she said, " I don't do that...I mean I don't want yours... hey, do what you want!"

The angry glint in the junkie's eyes faded and she smiled a toothless grin.

"What does it do for you anyway?" Sandy asked her.

"It makes me forget," she answered, "Just makes me forget."

Forget what, Sandy wondered as she watched the woman slowly gather up her ragged belongings. Then without warning, she whirled on Sandy, hitting her full in the face with her bag. There was something heavy inside and it knocked Sandy unconscious.

The sound of dripping water became louder and louder until Sandy opened her eyes. As she tried to sit up, she was instantly aware of pain- pain in her eye, pain in her mouth, and intense pain in her arms.

She struggled to clear her vision and looked down at her arms. They were covered with puncture wounds, each oozing a dark drop of blood. A bloody, broken hypodermic needle lay on the floor beside her. As she struggled to her feet, she realized that her shoes were gone, as well as her jacket and her bag. What the hell happened to me, she thought.

She squinted in the mirror, trying to focus her thoughts. Her brain was kicking out images that didn't make any sense. Something about her van, something about someone shooting drugs, something about a rotten sandwich … Just as quicly as the images flashed into her mind, they faded into oblivion.

She stumbled out of the bathroom, noticing how dark it was outside. It seemed very funny that it was so dark, and she began laughing out loud. She pushed open the door to the parking lot, and still laughing, started looking for her car, shewas sure she had a car.

None of them looked familiar — Sandy tried to remember what color it was.

Down at the end of the parking lot there were two tractor-trailers parked. That's my car, she thought. She staggered across the lot, and climbed up into the cab of the one with the interior light on. A man was sitting in the driver's seat, reading a newspaper.

"Garver!" she shouted, throwing herself on top of him. God, it had been so long since he held her...
The trucker pushed Sandy off him.

"Hey lady, you're nuts!" he said, but Sandy didn't hear him. She threw herself on him again, kissing him hard in the lips. Already she was forgetting his coldness, his meanness. If she could forget, so could he. Suddenly, he responded to her, clutching her roughly and tearing at her clothes. The interior light went out.

Hours later, Garver stood with the police in the dark parking lot. The coroner's van had already picked up Sandy's nude body from the pavement.

"Looks like she stabbed herself repeatedly with that needle – must have shot enough stuff to make her out of her mind, I’m sorry." The police officer looked away from Garver. They had already searched the building carefully and found traces of blood in the bathroom, along with the broken hypodermic needle. The bruises on Sandy's arms spoke for themselves. Forensic testing would soon match up the blood officially, blood that would be strangely clean of any drugs, but full of other mysterious things that the lab technicians would forget about.

"I was just so mad at her," Garver said, "I couldn't believe her that she forgot how to drive. I had no idea she was doing this — how did she hide it from me?" He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, still not believing how this could have happened.

The cop shrugged; nothing that happened at these highway rest stops surprised him anymore. And now, with even a former governor claiming he participated in sordid activities that went on there, his hands had been full dealing with curious and stupid gawkers poking their noses where they shouldn’t, and getting into trouble.

Several hundred miles away, a trucker was racing as fast as he dared away from New Jersey. He was still in shock over what had happened, what he had done –that woman, she had been crazy- all over him one minute, and screaming for help the next. Accusing him of making all those bloody marks on her arms. Blood that had smeared all over him and his truck. At least he thought it was blood — already, his memory of what happened was getting foggy. It would be the first of many memories to evaporate as he headed down a suddenly unfamiliar highway, slowly beginning to forget.

The Dark Side of the Year

Daylight savings time has ended for another year, bringing with it the crushing weight of darkness at 5:30 PM. I dread this end of the year because it marks the beginning of a period of lethargy for me that is hard to fight. Now, especially that I work in a cubicle that has no direct access to outside light, if I don’t make an effort to get outside during the day, it is quite a shock to my system to head to my car at night in a darkened parking lot, often with the moon shining above. My body just screams at me, get home and get to bed!

I can’t imagine what it is like in more northern climes where the days are even shorter than they are here. I think if I lived in one of those places, I might actually fall into a state of hibernation. I must resolve this year to get outside everyday, if only for a few minutes, and get some sunlight on my retinas. I need to look into purchasing one of those sunlight light bulbs, although I am afraid of becoming addicted to it, like the person on “Northern Exposure.”

There may be a ray of hope for me this year. Recently, genetic tests revealed I have a sleep disorder. Quite possibly, it is the cause behind my years of fighting fibromyalgia and other things. I’ve been placed on a medication to regulate my sleep, and so far, the results have been nothing short of miraculous. I’ve stopped all pain medications and I am no longer afraid to drive my car at certain times of the day (I was falling asleep at the wheel). I wake up without the alarm clock, and can actually get out of bed without dragging myself. I am hoping that this sudden improvement in my overall health may counteraffect the loss of light at this time of year. Who knows, I may even grow to like it!

More on Women and Math and Science

The president of Harvard may have resigned, but his unsupported remarks about women have genetically inferior abilities in math and science are still resonating in society. So ingrained is this notion, that it can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Tell women that they are not good at math and they won't be. Why this should come as a surprise, is baffling to me. As a famous poem says, "Children learn what they live." The expectations of their parents, friends, teachers and society can determine a child's eventual successes or failures just as much as innate intelligence.

However, since this stereotyping is still so ingrained, it it good to know that there are researchers working to scientifically prove them wrong. I would like to think that my expectation of my own children - both my daughters and my son, helped them all find their career paths - two of my children in the sciences, one in mathematics.

To read more about the current research that is debunking the "math is hard for girls" myth, see:
http://www.cnn.com/2006/EDUCATION/10/19/women.math.ap/index.html

Free Will, Violence and Vengeance

I read about, and saw on YouTube, the recent “freespeech” statement by a parent who lost a child at Columbine. In reaction to the killings at the Amish school, he stated that the reason for all of these school shootings and other violence and terrorism is because evolution is taught in school and abortion is legal.

My heart breaks for this man, and I realize that he needs to rationalize what happened to his child in whatever way he can live with. However, in my mind, his reasoning is flawed and overly-simplistic. What he is trying to say is that the world needs more God in it, and that god must be in line with his particular Christian point of view. It is this thinking that has, over the centuries, sparked most of the terrible violence humans have visited upon one another. Religious conversion by conviction or force has never done anything to reduce the amount of violence in the world. Basically, in every conflict, each opponent, if not specifically believing that God is on their side, has believed that what they were doing was for the good of society. Society as they interpreted it.

I wish there was a magic solution to ending the increase in school violence, and for that matter, world violence. It is easy to think, if only this or if only that. It is comforting to be able to find an identifiable source of blame, holding that source responsible for invoking actions of a vengeful God. Me, I can’t ever envision a God or Deity that would send a gunman into a school of Amish children because somewhere else there was an abortion performed. I cannot believe that an angry Deity sent planes full of innocent people and terrorists crashing into the Twin Towers. Why wouldn’t the angry God punish the evil doers? To think like this is to believe that ultimately, the people who have perpetrated these heinous acts are really not responsible for what they do. To use a Christian comparison, it would be equivalent to saying that Judas was not himself responsible for the betrayal of Christ, but was compelled to do it. The theological argument, no matter what your belief system might be, is, do humans have free will or not?

In American society, there may be a heightened tolerance or expectation of violence – from a glorification that dates back to the Revolution. The reasons for it are probably as complicated and varied as the personalities of the 3 billion people that now occupy our borders. No one sweeping change in medical practice or educational curriculum is going to change that. It is up to each individual to be responsible for his or her own actions, to pass morals and beliefs on to offspring, to obey the civil laws of the land, respect and tolerate the rights of others. When you consider how much free will that involves, and how much temptation exists in the world you see just how difficult a place the human race is in.

I suggest, for those of you so inclined, to pray.

Coughing Up a Lung

I am disappointed to report that even with my exhaustive search of the internet, I cannot determine if it is really physically possible to cough up a lung. It doesn't stop the use of the expression, however, and from the cough that I continue to have today, it seems plausible to me.

I should congratulate myself. Coughing is the number one reason that people seek medical attention. For the first time in my life, I won't have a medical professional tell me, "wow, I've never seen this before,"

If you try to determine yourself the source of your cough, you will confront subjects from lung cancer to allergies. You will find out that there are dry coughs, wet coughs, productive coughs and chronic ideopathic coughs. In some cases, the cause of your cough has nothing to do with your lungs or sinuses, but rather, is being caused by acid reflux. Generally, the only thing that comes out of all this info is, if you are coughing up blood, its a bad thing. Coughing up a lung, spleen or small animal just doesn't surface as a reliable symptom of any disease. Even though, you can swear to your doctor you saw something small and furry scurry away from you in the midst of your coughing fit.

And nowhere is there a report of a person coughing his brains out. However, I am convinced this happens. If not the entire brain, at least some cells. If the brain tissue is not actually expelled by coughing, the cough itself surely causes a power grid meltdown in the brain. Last week, after one particularly long, involved coughing spell, I could not, no matter how I tried, remember what day it was.

So, today, after another sleepless, hacking, sweaty night, I am going to the doctor. However, I now know not to tell him silly nonmedical things like I am coughing up a lung, or coughing my brains out. I won't have to. If I'm lucky, I'll cough right there in his office and he can see the little animals for himself.

Teaching An Old Dog New Tricks

Zelda is my “no time” dog. She entered the house as second dog to a fairly well trained older dog. That older dog had come into the family as second dog to a professionally well trained dog. I’ve figured out, that just like birth order of children, the timing of a dog’s arrival in your life directly affects its eventual behavior.

Dog #1, Gypsy, came into my life when I was single and living in an apartment. She became the center of attention for me and my then-boyfriend (soon to be husband). She had a gentle loving nature to begin with and took readily to the private obedience classes I took her to. After we married and had children, she was a gentle and trustworthy companion.

Dog #2 arrived as my youngest child turned 9, with dog #1 still holding her own as a noble senior citizen. Dog #2 was a stray and because he so resembled our older dog, the kids begged to keep him as her baby. In fact, Baby became his name. His first months with us were tumultuous. He was a runner, and I spent a lot of time chasing him all over the neighborhood. He tried to be feisty, once growling and baring his teeth in such a frightening way that I locked him in the bathroom out of fear. But, as he got older he calmed down a bit, and when Gypsy passed away, he enjoyed years as First Dog. However, he could never be trusted off leash or alone with garbage.

During his time as First Dog, I got divorced and the kids and I moved into a different place. For a while, Baby reverted to puppy behavior, and chewed some furniture and soiled some carpets. He was, however, a devoted companion to the parrot I had acquired, and sometimes the two of them would greet guests at the door together. A few years later, the parrot left us and Baby became diabetic and fragile. It was at this time the my high school aged-middle daughter began campaigning for a “puppy of her own.” I resisted as long as I could, but eventually, a sad story of strays on a junkyard ushered in the arrival of dog #3 – Zelda.

At this point, all three of my children were in high school, and I was working full time. Zelda became our first “crate-trained” dog – a technique necessitated by the fact that she and Baby would be alone in the house most of the day. And Zelda proved to be the most challenging and least trainable of all –destroying anything she could pull into her crate, including cable wires, and basket of laundry. Eventually, she too calmed down a bit, and was given the run of the house with Baby. However, she was a worse runner than he ever was, and the entire family spent many hours chasing her around the neighborhood. Rain, sleet and foot deep snow didn’t stop her.

Eventually, Baby succumbed to the diabetes, leaving Zelda to reign as Top Dog. I had also gotten another bird, however, no companionship developed. To this day, Zelda still throws herself madly at the bird cage anytime the bird makes any big noise or movements. We now keep a chair in front of the bird cage. We also keep extra furniture on the couch, to keep her from jumping up on it and using it as a launching ramp to crash through the picture window because a squirrel or a cat or a rabbit has the nerve to be anywhere within sight. She has forgotten all her social manners as far as other dogs go, and cannot go to the dog park.

All three of my children are now in college, and many evenings and weekends, it is me, Zelda and the bird, circling around each other in the house. Zelda, at 5, continues to be like a puppy, following me with toys all the time. Well, except if there is an animal or person passing the house, or there is a thunderstorm or loud noise. That’s when the completely insane barking and jumping and running ensues. Some people might think that this is just her personality – a high strung escape artist with tons of phobia and a love of garbage. But I know better. As I said at the beginning, she is the “no time” dog. My kids hardly spent time with her, and I ended up being the feeder, walker, brusher, and poop patrol. All those nice professional training skills I used with Gypsy, and sort of used with Baby, have been forgotten with Zelda. And she is a young, healthy, good-natured dog. She is going to be with me a long time. We both have time on our paws.

So, last Sunday, Zelda had a private obedience evaluation. I met the trainer at an agility training facility, and knew that Zelda would just love to jump those hurdles and climb those ladders, if she could just learn about it. As expected, her problems right now are anxiety in new places, and an inability to pay attention. But I’m told there is hope. With some work, attention and patience, I can teach this old dog new tricks. And maybe even Zelda too. Stay tuned.

Today's Diagnosis - There IS a Frog in My Throat

Yesterday, after declaring I was "sick as a dog" and finding out, through exhaustive Internet research, that I really wasn't - I mentioned that perhaps the expression "frog in the throat" would better describe my current malady.

Well, this expression has a more interesting history. Some sources say the origin of the phrase came from a practice by Medieval doctors, who, believing that the secretions from a frogs skin had curative properties, would place an actual frog in the throat of a sufferer. Other sources disagree, citing a much more colorful reason for the expression. Since medieval people regularly drank water from ponds and streams, that water could include lots of extra ingredients, including frog eggs. These eggs would hatch in the stomach, and when the frog would try to crawl out through the throat, it would cause a choking sensation and cough.

Still other sources say that it really was just a simple comparison - those suffering from throat problems would become hoarse, and the croaking sound they made was compared to the croaking sound of a frog. In fact, an old English word, "frogga" actually does mean to be hoarse.

Not to be outdone by English medieval physicians and folklore, America has its own claim to the expression. Apparently, during the days of snake-oil salesmen and magic elixers and salves, there actually was a product called "Frog in the Throat" sold to aid coughs, pain and hoarness.

So, today's diagnosis, considering all the hours I spent coughing and choking last night, is that I really do have a frog in my throat. I'll be spending the rest of the day trying to coax it out.

Sick As a Dog ... Or Not

I am home from the office today, sitting around in my sweats, sniffling, coughing and aching. My eyes are so watery, I can't quite see clearly. Yes, I'm a lovely sight.

So I wrote my daughter an e-mail in which I told her that I was sick as a dog today. Somewhere in the back of my clogged head came the nagging question of where that expression started. After sneezing all over my keyboard ( note to family members- stay away from the computer today) I did an Internet search on the term.

While not as exciting as some of the expression that have biblical roots, the expression just seems to be one of many involving dogs. For some reason, perhaps their constant proximity to humans and our constant observation of their behavior, we've developed idioms for one extreme, "living a dog's life" to the other, yes, "sick as a dog."

Apparently, we are so well acquainted with canines, that we are often witnesses to instances of doggy sickness - mostly of the vomit type, mostly caused by their "eat first - figure out what it was later" attitude. Cats too are capable of vomit, but for some reason, "sick as a cat" doesn't invoke the same picture. And "sick as a horse" just doesn't work, because for some reasons, horses cannot physically throw up.

So what did I learn from all this exhaustive and frankly, disgusting research? Technically, today, I am NOT sick as a dog. Not in the strict sense of the origin of the expression being based in dogs' frequent gastrointestinal adventures.

No, I'm just coughing, sneezing, aching and feeling miserable. Quite possibly, I may have a frog in my throat.

Now, where did that expression come from?

More on "Seasoned Women"

Check out my recently published content on AC:
Gail Sheehy, Seasoned Women and Me

High and Dry in Jamesburg

So, I am sitting at my desk at work, when my phone rings. It is my son, calling from home, in Jamesburg. He is about to get ready to go to work, but there is no water coming from any of the taps in our entire house. My first thought, of course, did I pay the bill? My second thought, there is a broken main somewhere under the house, spewing millions of gallons of water into my crawlspace. Either one required a phone call to NJ American Water to figure out what was going on.

I called their emergency repair line, and after being placed on hold for 10 minutes (listening to the sound of running water- whose idea was that?) I finally got through to someone who informed me that this was a scheduled shut off in my area to install a new water main. I should have gotten a notification in my mailbox. When I said that I did not, she began reading off all the streets. The streets on either side of mine. The streets perpendicular to mine. My street was nowhere to be found on the list, therefore, no one had let us know.

I'm very happy I got to take my shower early before they shut things down. My son was not so lucky, and I suppose, his coworkers even less lucky. I hope there is enough water in the dog's bowl to hold her all day - maybe when I get home I can put her out in the yard to lap up some of the rainwater from the grass.

American Water says the water will be back on after 4 pm. We shall see. If it isn't, I may be sending my son to your house for a shower.

OK! I fixed the typo!

I fixed yesterday's title from "Mysterious Bankng Rituals" to Mysterious Banking Rituals." However, now that I think of it, it was probably a more accurate spelling the first time around. Because,obviously, for me, there is no "I" in banking.

Mysterious Banking Rituals

Today, I needed to make a deposit to my checking account, pronto, as my balance was circling the drain. Normally, I conduct all my business at the ATM, but for some reason, I had left my card at home, necessitating a trip inside the bank.

I wrote out my deposit slip, asked for a certain amount of cash back, and approached the teller. First she tells me that even though the deposit slip clearly indicates "cash taken" from the deposit, she could only deposit the checks, and I would need to make the withdrawal from the ATM. I told her I didn't have my card, she replied that she could do it for me. So, I corrected the deposit slip and waited for my money.

"Oh," she says. "I can't give you the money." My account, circling the drain as I said, did not have enough funds in it to cover the withdrawal. "But," I protested, "When I deposit checks through the ATM, there is a courtesy amount ready for withdrawal immediately, and the rest of the deposit when the checks clear." The teller shook her head in agreement, then proceeded to tell me that I was correct, I could go and make the deposit at the ATM and get cash back.

"But I don't have my card," I repeated. "Then I can't give you any money," she replied, "only deposit the checks. Maybe they will clear by tomorrow."

Now, am I the crazy one, or do you agree that this entire transaction made no sense. If I had conducted the process through the ATM, I could have taken out cash against my deposit. However, INSIDE the bank, with HUMAN assistance, I had to walk away empty-handed.

So right now, my wallet is circling the drain.