[stylist] Flirting with Monday chapter 7

[Barbara Hammel]

Oh my goodness, I remember being that sick about twelve years ago!  It seems 
just like yesterday when I think of how quick that headache came on and how 
sick I was.
Barbara

If wisdom's ways you wisely seek, five things observe with care:  of whom 
you speak, to whom you speak, and how and when and where.

--------------------------------------------------
From: "Shelley J. Alongi" <qobells at roadrunner.com>
Sent: Tuesday, September 22, 2009 1:15 AM
To: "NFBnet Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Subject: [stylist] Flirting with Monday chapter 7

> Chapter 7
>
>
>
> I climbed down the eight foot ladder from the locomotive, glad to have a 
> three hour break. My head pounded, my eyes ached, my nose and teeth and 
> jaw surrounded by what felt like a thousand bolts of pain.
>
>
>
> "hey you," a cheerful voice piped up beside me. Right then I thought it 
> was my angel from heaven. But I shied away a bit like Vincent in a sulky 
> mood.
>
>
>
> "What's the matter?"
>
>
>
> She caught up with me, the subtle fragrance of flowers surrounding her. I 
> headed relentlessly toward the station. Judy kept pace beside me, not 
> saying anything. I pushed open the station door. The lights flickered. The 
> simple murmur of human voices crashed against my throbbing head in painful 
> waves. I found the nearest bench and dropped onto it in relief. Judy 
> joined me. I put my hands over my eyes.
>
>
>
> "Glenn," she said with concern. "You don't look very well at all."
>
>
>
> She put her hand on my shoulder. I didn't have the strength to push her 
> away.
>
>
>
> "Let's tell John your conductor you're not finishing the route," she said 
> matter-of-factly.
>
>
>
> "No." I insisted. "I have a break. I can sleep for a while. I'll feel 
> better."
>
>
>
> "You're not finishing your route," she insisted as if I were five years 
> old and she was my mother. My shoulders sagged, I buried my face deeper in 
> my hands. Judy rubbed my shoulder.
>
>
>
> "What's wrong," she asked now, backing off, somehow knowing she was 
> invading some unspoken personal space.
>
>
>
> "headache," I said.
>
>
>
> "You have more than a headache. You look sick and pale and exhausted and 
> troubled. You just look miserable. I'm driving you to the doctor. Where's 
> your insurance card?"
>
>
>
> "You have to go to work," I insisted weakly, knowing she was right about 
> all of it.
>
>
>
> "no," she said reassuringly, "Not today. I came down here for lunch and I 
> saw your train get in so I came out to meet you. I've got time." Her 
> explanation halted any of my other excuses. "Come on, Glenn," she said 
> gently. "You're not fit to finish that shift. You're not concentrating. 
> Your eyes are red. Don't endanger yourself or anyone else. Come on, 
> Glenn," she said as if coaxing a child to do the right thing, "where's 
> your conductor. We'll tell him you're not finishing your route."
>
>
>
> I don't know that I could have stopped Judy from driving me to the doctor 
> in my own car, and then driving me back home and settling me on my own 
> couch with a blanket and pillow. She was a source of comfort that day, 
> even if I didn't want to admit it. We waited at the urgent care for a long 
> time and then they told me I had acute sinusitis and sent me home with 
> medication and told me to drink plenty of fluids and inhale steam and rest 
> and call out of work. I wasn't going to be much interested in that for a 
> while said the overly cheerful doctor as he looked at my x-rays.
>
>
>
> I remember Judy covering me and removing my shoes, caressing my head. I 
> couldn't quite push her away though I wanted to. Closing my eyes helped 
> the headache and the medicine was starting to put me to sleep. Judy knelt 
> beside me for a long time as if invoking some kind of prayer. I curled up 
> only glad not to be confirming signals with John. There hadn't really been 
> any question about me not finishing the shift. I'm not even sure how I got 
> through the first part of it. The headache wasn't so bad in the morning, 
> but by the time we got to the middle of the route pain had exploded behind 
> my right eye, making its way down through my cheek and jaw, slowly, 
> insidiously robbing me of my strength. Now, hours later, under the first 
> dose of medication and the first steam treatment, my discomfort was 
> easing. I just wanted to sleep.
>
> I turned my head to look at Judy.
>
>
>
> "Thank you," I said wearily.
>
>
>
> "you're welcome," she said, her fingers cool on mine. "I will leave you to 
> yourself. I'm going to walk to the bus stop," she said and go back to the 
> station. I'll call you tomorrow," she squeezed my hand, I turned away, 
> easing my distressed head. She rubbed my shoulder and made her way quietly 
> out of my house. I didn't want her to come back, and at the same time I 
> didn't want her to go away. She had probably saved my life and many 
> others. I shuddered to think of it.
>
>
>
> I awoke to feel something warm on my face. I was in my bed. I must have 
> gotten up in the middle of the afternoon and gone to bed. I felt a little 
> bit better, my head didn't hurt so much, I could breathe. I coughed a 
> little, I could taste the post nasal drip in the back of my throat. It was 
> better than the awful pounding fury of a headache keeping the rhythm of a 
> freight train moving along at high speed. The thing on my face whimpered, 
> it was warm. I reached out a hand and felt a head, a pair of ears. 
> Vincent. Vincent my year old puppy had crawled up on my pillow. I didn't 
> usually let him do that, but I didn't move to push the puppy away. I would 
> just have to deal with it all later. Vincent whimpered.
>
>
>
> "Hi," I said, groggy from medicine and sleep. I rested my hand on the 
> dog's sleek wiry smooth fur. The warm bundle breathed under my hand, his 
> tongue flicked out and he licked me under my right eye. I laughed a little 
> and shifted under my blanket. I still couldn't quite contemplate getting 
> out of bed. But nature called and so I moved quietly to leave the comfort 
> zone, surprised that my head did not protest as I stood to my six foot two 
> inch height and stretched. Vincent jumped down on the floor and pranced 
> about. Something about Vincent always had a way of lifting my spirits. I 
> don't know what it was; maybe he was just always happy. I did my business 
> and decided to explore things. The house lay sleeping, the curtains 
> slightly open to a quiet, gentle day. I looked up at a train clock on the 
> wall between my living room and dining room. The time flashed 3:30 pm. I 
> looked out the window, to the small expanse of yard I hardly had time to 
> cultivate. Working fifty-plus hours didn't leave much time for gardening. 
> In my little town in Oregon I had at least had a garden of some sort but 
> here there was hardly time for that. I coughed and remembered why I wasn't 
> at work today. Thank God I could draw sick pay. I sat back in my chair, 
> watching the ceiling fan blades whir, the air cooling my face. My bare 
> feet felt the cool tile, I stretched. The dull pain that had wakened me in 
> the morning warned me of the impending headache and I sighed. I found the 
> medicine on the dining table. I swallowed it with some water and sat back, 
> waiting for relief. The refrigerator motor whirred into life, the clock 
> ticked on the mantle, Vincent's paws pattered gently as he came in the 
> kitchen to find me. I leaned my head on my hands, rubbing at my eyes, not 
> really willing to get up and go to bed, comfortable here, existing in a 
> fog. If I sat still my head wouldn't protest so much so I let the silence 
> surround me and my mind drift. It drifted as it was accustomed to doing 
> lately to the woman who was slowly turning my life upside down. The 
> amazing thing I thought as the fog deepened and my head eased, was that I 
> was letting her in one slow step at a time. Take this morning for 
> instance. It seemed that Judy always showed up at the right time, or at 
> least out of nowhere. This morning I remember her saying that she had come 
> down to the station for lunch. Something in the back of a foggy head 
> wondered if sometimes she just came down to see me. That conversation 
> seemed to have taken place so long ago. It was funny how sometimes she 
> just appeared out of nowhere. She appeared one day, said hello, then we 
> were having coffee, she was comforting me when my train hit a pedestrian, 
> then she was inviting me to her new Year's party. Here she was again today 
> appearing it seemed out of the blue, like an angel at the right time.
>
>
>
> After I took her to dinner and paid that time, I didn't see Judy till her 
> New Year's party. At the Thai restaurant after the meal I gave her my 
> card.
>
>
>
> "Here's my phone number," I said. "Call me and leave the details about 
> your New Year's day party. You can tell me before that, but just call me 
> and leave them. I'll write them down on my calendar."
>
>
>
> Judy had smiled at me.
>
>
>
> "Goody," she had said almost like a child. "I'll do that. Bring a dish 
> with you if you like, or just show up.
>
>
>
> Being in Judy's house had been like being in a whirlwind of activity. 
> There was food and drink and Judy flitting around introducing everyone to 
> everyone else. I sat in awe of her sparkle. I held my own court 
> eventually, when people found out what I did for a living they had all 
> kinds of questions and I had all kinds of answers. I could tell them 
> stories of being in far off places across country, people I had met, train 
> stories, near misses, but mostly of looking out the windows and seeing 
> endless beautiful scenery, especially the mountains. There was something 
> comforting about mountains. Despite myself, I found that I enjoyed the 
> evening very much.
>
>
>
> The whirlwind ended around 10:00 pm everyone had to go to work the next 
> day, Everyone but me. I had taken an extra vacation day. I lingered on her 
> porch. She had a swing on her porch, a shelf with some nice green plants. 
> She pointed to the swing and we sat down on it.
>
>
>
> "You must be exhausted," I said, looking at her face for signs of 
> weariness. I was awake, I knew I didn't have to get up early tomorrow so I 
> could just relax.
>
>
>
> "A little bit," she said. "But I'm fine. I always enjoy these parties."
>
>
>
> "Yes, you look like you do," I said, just relishing the quiet. "You don't 
> mind if I sit here for a few minutes do you?"
>
>
>
> "Not at all," she said. "I am not going to be sleepy for a while anyway. 
> I'm off work till Monday I took a few extra vacation days."
>
>
>
> "I'm off till Monday," I said. "Looking forward to the weekend."
>
>
>
> "What are you going to do during the weekend?"
>
>
>
> "I don't know," I said truthfully. "I'm not all that exciting. I might 
> clean up after Vincent and Magnet. I'm going to go and get some supplies 
> to build an enclosure in the back yard." Just little things."
>
>
>
> Silence passed between us for a few moments. I looked up at stars shining 
> like little colorful dots in the sky.
>
>
>
> "Hey," she said suddenly remembering something, "did I see you go into the 
> kitchen and do some dishes?"
>
>
>
> "I just put some things away," I said, "and loaded your dish washer."
>
>
>
> "Wow," she enthused, "You're something! You do trains and dishes. I'm 
> impressed."
>
>
>
> "I do other things besides trains," I said. "I like to cook. I didn't see 
> any of the rice left I brought."
>
>
>
> "Good," she said. "And the spaghetti with Italian sausage? Does it pass 
> muster?"
>
>
>
> I thought about it for a minute. Everything had been stunningly delicious. 
> I nodded.
>
>
>
> "You see," she gushed, her voice inflected with happiness, "I told you 
> you'd like it. I'm glad you came, Glenn."
>
>
>
> Judy's hand lay on her knee. I very tentatively reached over and put my 
> fingers on it. She took my hand, holding it gently. I looked at her. She 
> was a serene harbor in what for me had been a very hectic world. I sat 
> there just enjoying it for a moment. She turned my hand in her's, 
> inspecting my fingers, her gaze lingering on my class ring.
>
>
>
> "You graduated from my high school," she said suddenly.
>
>
>
> "I graduated from high school in Oregon," I said. "You went to high school 
> in Oregon?"
>
>
>
> "Yeah," she said. "I did. I spent some time there. My parents were 
> military, I went there for a year. I was a freshman the year you 
> graduated." She looked at my class ring again, her hand warm on my skin. 
> My heart began to lurch with a familiar dread and anticipation. I could 
> feel another layer of defense crumbling. I sat still for a moment letting 
> the wave of distress come over me, and then relaxed as it subsided. I 
> grasped her hand a little bit tighter.
>
>
>
> "What's wrong, Glenn," she said seeing the storminess in my eyes. "You 
> look a little upset."
>
>
>
> "I'm not upset," I said quietly. But I couldn't tell her about Elizabeth 
> and my little girl. Not today. I just wanted to enjoy the moment. It was 
> so calm. Judy looked troubled.
>
>
>
> ""Please," I said. "Just let me sit here for a minute. It's so peaceful 
> here. I need to be here."
>
> Judy sat on the swing with me for a few more minutes. The swing rocked 
> gently back and forth, calming my reluctance. Eventually Judy was going to 
> ask me what was wrong and I was going to have to tell her. But I would try 
> to hold off as long as I could. It was silly really, but I wasn't ready to 
> tell her about Allison May.
>
> "Why don't you come to my place on Sunday," I ventured, "we could watch a 
> movie and you could meet Magnet and Vincent. Eventually we'll have a third 
> dog to put in the mix. I don't want any more than three. That's enough 
> with my hours and trying to keep peace in the family." I laughed a little, 
> it really was a family. "I'll make dinner."
>
>
>
> Judy sat back, her face quiet. She had decided not to push whatever was 
> troubling me to the surface.
>
>
>
> "Glenn," she said. "I would love that. I just want you to know," she said, 
> holding both my hands now, "I know that something is up you keep pulling 
> away from me. But I'm not going to force you to tell me anything. I'm just 
> going to be your friend and enjoy your company. You're very calming to me. 
> I have a very hectic life. Even if I don't see you that much when I do 
> it's peaceful."
>
>
>
> "Okay," I said, squeezing her hands, feeling bad about not being able to 
> tell her anything, but happy she was willing to let things lie for the 
> moment. "What time do you want to come over on Sunday?"
>
>
>
> She thought about it. Then she got up and I followed her. She walked me to 
> the front porch and her wooden gate.
>
>
>
> "Three o'clock," she said firmly. "I have church in the morning then I'll 
> go over in the afternoon. Send me directions to your house. I don't' even 
> know where it is."
>
>
>
> The phone rang, interrupting my memories. The sound of the electronic tone 
> stirred up my headache. I groaned. I would have to answer the phone to 
> stop it from making me feel so ill.
>
>
>
> "Glenn?" a woman's voice questioned. "Glenn you're at home." A note of 
> surprise filled her voice with the question. I sat there for a moment, 
> searching my memory through the haze of medicated relief, trying to 
> identify the caller. I turned my hand to see the digital readout on my 
> phone.
>
>
>
> "Debbie," I said. "I didn't recognize you."
>
>
>
> "I would hardly recognize you, sweetheart, not with the way you're 
> sounding right now. What's wrong? You are home today? You have the day 
> off?"
>
>
>
> Debbie was my friend, the lady who had sold me Magnet six months earlier. 
> Magnet and Vincent were getting along nicely, we were going to throw 
> another puppy in the mix.
>
>
>
> "I called to let you know that I was in the area today if you wanted me to 
> bring angel buy late evening. I can put her in the car with me when I come 
> out to your neck of the woods. I have to drop off some proofs."
>
>
>
> I sat back in my chair and sighed. I really didn't want company but if she 
> was going to be in the area. My eyes started to feel as if there was a 
> great pressure building behind them. I didn't know if I could make it that 
> late.
>
>
>
> "Not today," I suddenly said. "I'm home, sick. I have a very bad sinus 
> infection," I explained, "I'm just on my way back to bed."
>
>
>
> "Oh," she cooed, "poor baby!"
>
>
>
> Debby was a ball of energy on most days, today was no exception. I sat 
> silently, not encouraging her responses.
>
>
>
> "Glenn, I'm glad to see someone made you stay home, I'm sure it wasn't 
> you."
>
>
>
> I laughed despite myself. I didn't have the energy to tell her about this 
> morning's adventure with Judy. I hadn't told Debby about Judy, I wasn't 
> going to do it now.
>
>
>
> "Tomorrow you think?" she continued without asking any more questions.
>
>
>
> "Probably. I hope so. Call me in the afternoon. I'm ready for her," I 
> explained patiently. "Just not today. Give her hugs and kisses."
>
>
>
> "I will," she said. "DO you need anything tomorrow?"
>
>
>
> I thought of Judy asking me the same question. I was lucky to have such 
> people asking after me, but right now all I wanted was to go to sleep and 
> escape my mounting discomfort. I refused politely and ended the 
> conversation. I retreated to my room and curled up, hiding not only from 
> my illness, but my changing feelings. Part of me was worried about having 
> to tell the truth to Judy eventually, and yet part of me wanted to do 
> that. It would be a secret relief.
>
>
> Shelley J. Alongi
> Home Office: (714)869-3207
> **
> NFBWD "Slate and Style" editor
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
>
> **
> To read essays on my journey through the Chatsworth train accident, 
> Metrolink 111 or other interests click on 
> http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/smshowauthorbox.cgi?page=&author=AlongiSJ&alpha=A
>
> updated September 13, 2009
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for 
> stylist:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/poetlori8%40msn.com
>