Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes
Page 42
“Go home, hang tight and wait. I’ll give you a call when I hear something.”
I drove to Violet’s, later wondering how I had gotten there. I remembered getting in my car and staring at the steering wheel for what seemed like forever, and then I was in Violet’s driveway, still staring at the steering wheel.
This couldn’t be happening.
Violet waited for me at the door, having seen me pull into the driveway, actual proof I did drive. I looked into her anxious face, not sure what to say.
“How bad is it?”
I told her everything then asked, “Can I go take a nap? I'm so tired, I’m about to fall over.”
She sent me to Ashley’s room. I snuggled down into bed in the Pepto-Bismol colored room and fell asleep, so numb I barely felt the tears falling down my cheeks.
Hours later, I heard a rustle of noise. I squinted into the assaulting late afternoon light. Ashley stood next to the bed, watching me.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said, still groggy from sleep.
“You look like Sleeping Beauty,” she whispered.
“Thanks, Ash. Come snuggle me.”
I laid on my side and she climbed in, pressing her back into my stomach. I nuzzled her wispy-fine hair and inhaled the scent of baby shampoo. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pulled her closer.
“Tell me a story, Aunt Rose.” She clasped her hands over mine. The tenderness of the gesture poked my heart, reminding me that if I were convicted of Momma’s murder I would spend years in prison. I would never have children.
“A story?” I asked, trying to refocus as fresh tears burned my eyes.
“About a princess and a prince.”
I spun an elaborate tale about a prince lost in the woods, but rescued by a princess galloping by on her goat. The princess then helped the prince, who had lost his pet frog, which they found in the company of a rabbit family in a carrot patch. When the frog was found, the prince returned to his castle and the princess left on a quest to find the fabled, yet much coveted, magic red shoes.
“That’s not like the princess stories on TV,” she said, giggling.
“No, it’s not. But don't let other people tell you who you’re supposed to be. You just be you, even if you don’t do things like everybody else.”
She turned, and reached her hand to my cheek. “Like you, Aunt Rose? You’re not like everybody else.”
Looking into those deep blue eyes, I realized it was time to take my own advice. For better or worse, I was me. I had visions of people, whether they—or I—wanted them. I had to accept them and learn to make the best of it. And just as suddenly, I realized I had lost a lot of living, twenty-four years’ worth, squandered in my fear, embarrassment, and self-pity. I didn’t want to go from one prison to another without living at least a little. If I was going to jail, I planned to fit in all the living I could first.
I smiled into Ashley’s sweet little face and felt a vision coming, as if on cue. This time I accepted it and without my usual resistance, the vision lasted longer than any I’d ever had before. I was in the funeral home. Violet was crying and leaning into Mike. They stood next to a casket with an open lid. I walked slowly toward it, fear gripping my heart. I was short since I was looking through Ashley’s eyes and I couldn’t see over the side. Mike picked Ashley up and I stared down into the casket.
It was me.
I looked peaceful and serene lying in the casket, like I was taking a nap. Violet stood next to Mike, openly sobbing now. I felt nothing as I watched, a void of any feeling, as though I was already dead. I glanced around the room and saw a sign on an easel with my picture on top and wording underneath.
Rose Anne Gardner
Born October 8, 1986
Died June 12, 2011
Then I was back on Ashley’s bed, looking into her smiling face.
“I’m going to die,” I whispered.
“Like Snow White?” Ashley asked in excitement. “Are you going to eat a poisoned apple?”
“I don’t know,” I said, the corners of my mouth lifting into a sad smile.
“Will your prince come wake you up, Aunt Rose?”
“No, Ashley, that’s make believe. Princes don’t do that in real life.”
“Hmm…” she said, lying on her back.
I was grateful she was four years old and didn’t comprehend the meaning of my words.
I was gonna die.
Suddenly, prison looked pretty good.
Chapter Twelve
There’s something freeing about knowing the date of your death. All your fears of living vanish away. Worried you’ll be in a car wreck? Afraid you’ll fall off a roof and plummet to your death? Unless it was June twelfth, I had nothing to worry about.
It was also strange, like somewhere a big digital display counted down the moments until I died. I didn’t know the time, but I knew the day. I had less than a week left and I was done frittering my life away.
Where did I start? What did I do? The list, of course. All the things I’d always wanted to do but was too afraid to try. Twenty-three tasks left to accomplish in five days. Why was I wasting time in Ashley’s bed?
I scrambled up, kissing Ashley on the forehead. “Aunt Rose has to go home, Ashy!”
When I bolted down the hall, Violet looked like I had just announced plans to join the circus. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” I said, grabbing my purse.
“What? You can’t go there! What if someone tries to break in again?” Her voice rose in panic.
I drove to Violet’s, later wondering how I had gotten there. I remembered getting in my car and staring at the steering wheel for what seemed like forever, and then I was in Violet’s driveway, still staring at the steering wheel.
This couldn’t be happening.
Violet waited for me at the door, having seen me pull into the driveway, actual proof I did drive. I looked into her anxious face, not sure what to say.
“How bad is it?”
I told her everything then asked, “Can I go take a nap? I'm so tired, I’m about to fall over.”
She sent me to Ashley’s room. I snuggled down into bed in the Pepto-Bismol colored room and fell asleep, so numb I barely felt the tears falling down my cheeks.
Hours later, I heard a rustle of noise. I squinted into the assaulting late afternoon light. Ashley stood next to the bed, watching me.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said, still groggy from sleep.
“You look like Sleeping Beauty,” she whispered.
“Thanks, Ash. Come snuggle me.”
I laid on my side and she climbed in, pressing her back into my stomach. I nuzzled her wispy-fine hair and inhaled the scent of baby shampoo. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I pulled her closer.
“Tell me a story, Aunt Rose.” She clasped her hands over mine. The tenderness of the gesture poked my heart, reminding me that if I were convicted of Momma’s murder I would spend years in prison. I would never have children.
“A story?” I asked, trying to refocus as fresh tears burned my eyes.
“About a princess and a prince.”
I spun an elaborate tale about a prince lost in the woods, but rescued by a princess galloping by on her goat. The princess then helped the prince, who had lost his pet frog, which they found in the company of a rabbit family in a carrot patch. When the frog was found, the prince returned to his castle and the princess left on a quest to find the fabled, yet much coveted, magic red shoes.
“That’s not like the princess stories on TV,” she said, giggling.
“No, it’s not. But don't let other people tell you who you’re supposed to be. You just be you, even if you don’t do things like everybody else.”
She turned, and reached her hand to my cheek. “Like you, Aunt Rose? You’re not like everybody else.”
Looking into those deep blue eyes, I realized it was time to take my own advice. For better or worse, I was me. I had visions of people, whether they—or I—wanted them. I had to accept them and learn to make the best of it. And just as suddenly, I realized I had lost a lot of living, twenty-four years’ worth, squandered in my fear, embarrassment, and self-pity. I didn’t want to go from one prison to another without living at least a little. If I was going to jail, I planned to fit in all the living I could first.
I smiled into Ashley’s sweet little face and felt a vision coming, as if on cue. This time I accepted it and without my usual resistance, the vision lasted longer than any I’d ever had before. I was in the funeral home. Violet was crying and leaning into Mike. They stood next to a casket with an open lid. I walked slowly toward it, fear gripping my heart. I was short since I was looking through Ashley’s eyes and I couldn’t see over the side. Mike picked Ashley up and I stared down into the casket.
It was me.
I looked peaceful and serene lying in the casket, like I was taking a nap. Violet stood next to Mike, openly sobbing now. I felt nothing as I watched, a void of any feeling, as though I was already dead. I glanced around the room and saw a sign on an easel with my picture on top and wording underneath.
Rose Anne Gardner
Born October 8, 1986
Died June 12, 2011
Then I was back on Ashley’s bed, looking into her smiling face.
“I’m going to die,” I whispered.
“Like Snow White?” Ashley asked in excitement. “Are you going to eat a poisoned apple?”
“I don’t know,” I said, the corners of my mouth lifting into a sad smile.
“Will your prince come wake you up, Aunt Rose?”
“No, Ashley, that’s make believe. Princes don’t do that in real life.”
“Hmm…” she said, lying on her back.
I was grateful she was four years old and didn’t comprehend the meaning of my words.
I was gonna die.
Suddenly, prison looked pretty good.
Chapter Twelve
There’s something freeing about knowing the date of your death. All your fears of living vanish away. Worried you’ll be in a car wreck? Afraid you’ll fall off a roof and plummet to your death? Unless it was June twelfth, I had nothing to worry about.
It was also strange, like somewhere a big digital display counted down the moments until I died. I didn’t know the time, but I knew the day. I had less than a week left and I was done frittering my life away.
Where did I start? What did I do? The list, of course. All the things I’d always wanted to do but was too afraid to try. Twenty-three tasks left to accomplish in five days. Why was I wasting time in Ashley’s bed?
I scrambled up, kissing Ashley on the forehead. “Aunt Rose has to go home, Ashy!”
When I bolted down the hall, Violet looked like I had just announced plans to join the circus. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” I said, grabbing my purse.
“What? You can’t go there! What if someone tries to break in again?” Her voice rose in panic.
