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The fact that the guy was so eager to make a cash deal with a seventeen-year-old, no parents in sight, probably should have been my first hint that something was amiss. Not to mention that he showed up with a three-day scruff of beard, wearing camo and flannel and smelling of weed. But teenagers are kind of famous for doing dumb things, so why should I be an exception?

It had been a day. My schedule was packed full of AP classes and extracurriculars and a part-time job. I was the very picture of a mature, overachieving Good Girl; I even went to church every Sunday and volunteered at the Goodwill. "The sky's the limit for you, Lindy Lou!" my dad used to say.

And yet. And YET. My parents treated me like I was five years old half the time, wanting to know where I was going and who with and when would I be home, and who's driving, and "there won't be any drinking or drugs there, RIGHT???" Jesus fucking christ, we were high school seniors stuck in a tiny southern town half of us would never escape – of course there was drinking. And drugs. But I dutifully shook my head, innocent eyes wide, and swore we were just going to watch TV at Tanya's or hang out at the diner (both of which were technically true...).

I was so tired. Tired of my parents micromanaging me, tired of being told to "handle your money right," meaning everything I earned should be put away for college instead of enjoyed, tired of hearing about what a lucky girl I was to have a sister like Hazel - the perfect daughter, perfect student, now perfect mom...

It was time to shake things up a little.

So instead of going home after school ("Hi Mom, just letting you know I'm heading to the library for a while – I'll be home by dinner!") I walked the opposite way, toward downtown, where I'd seen a For Sale sign on an old beat-up F-150 truck sitting in someone's driveway.

"$3500 OBO" the sign said, with a phone number beneath that. The number wasn't local, but hey, people move around.

"Yeah?" said a gruff voice on the other end.

"Hi, I'm calling about the truck – I'd like to take a look at it. When are you available?"

"You there now? Gimme ten minutes." The line went dead.

I sat on the front steps to wait for him to get home. A few minutes later a shiny black Honda motorcycle pulled up to the curb and the driver hopped off with a big friendly smile on his face, shook my hand, and said his name was Dave.

"Let's get you in this baby!" he said, pulling out a key on a plain ring with a little charm on it shaped like South Carolina, like you'd buy at one of the gift shops at the beach. I unlocked the door and climbed up into the gray cloth driver's seat. It felt great. I was up high enough to see over the long faded-red hood, and when I turned the key the rumble of the engine sounded like power and felt like freedom.

"Great, huh?" he said, grinning. "Let's take it around the block – you gotta try it before you buy it, right?"

Dave jumped into the passenger seat and off we went. I'd only ever driven my dad's car, and the one they used in driver's ed, and this was a lot bigger, but I felt like I could handle it. I wouldn't be parallel parking anytime soon, but I could get around town. And next year to college! I'd just load all my belongings in the back and ride off into the sunset! Just me and Clifford – that's what I was going to call him, like Clifford the big red dog from the book.

I offered $1,500 to hold it, all the cash I'd taken out of the bank. He shuffled his feet and crossed his arms and made a show of thinking hard about my offer. "You got Venmo? I could do it for $3,000 if you seal the deal right now."

I'm Gen Z, of course I have Venmo, I thought. A little voice in the back of my mind said maybe this wasn't the best idea, but also I was in love and couldn't imagine walking away and leaving Clifford behind. We had bonded. He was mine.

Dave set the title up against the driver's side window, signed it over, and filled in the bill of sale section. "You just take that to the DMV and get yer registration and title in your name. And a new tag. You can keep this one on to drive there, just don't get pulled over. Park out of sight. I'm moving out of state so I won't need it no more."

He held out one hand to shake and the other holding the title, patted his pocket where he'd tucked the cash I gave him, and drove off.

I was halfway to Tanya's house – on my way to show off my new baby – when the clanking started. And then a grinding sound. And then... smoke started coming out from under the hood. I pulled over, shut the engine off and got out, not sure what to do next other than pace in frantic circles.

Pulling out my phone, I leaned against the passenger-side door – I didn't want to be seen if anyone I knew passed by – and hit redial to get Dave back again. It rang a few times and went to a generic voicemail message. I clicked off. Tried again. Same result.

Holding in my tears and panic, I hit the third speed-dial on my favorites list.

"Hey, Lin – what's up?"

"Hazel, I need a huge favor. And you can't tell Mom and Dad."

After hearing a quick version of the afternoon's events, my sister went into HyperEfficiencyMode - within five minutes she had a neighbor watching her kids, a tow truck headed to my location, and was on her way to pick me up.

Once Clifford was out of sight, being dragged behind a blue truck with "Ragan's Wreckers" in white script on the door, Hazel waved me into her passenger seat.

"Where are we going?"

"To the garage, nitwit. Your car, your mess. I'm just the paid cleanup crew. You'll be paying me in babysitting."

Ok, that was fair.

Ten minutes later we pulled into a gravel lot, got out of the minivan and went inside. I could see Clifford up on a lift in the back. My sister told the guy at the desk which vehicle we were there about, and he said someone would be with us in a few minutes.

"Hazel!" A guy a little older than my sister, so maybe early thirties, came out of the back wiping his hands on a rag. "This your little sis?"

"Yep, this is Lindy. Lindy, this is Scott. Only mechanic in town who won't fuck you over if given the chance."

"Haze, you flatter me! Truth is, this burg has enough junkers I don't have to make mountains out of molehills to make a living. Like the one we just towed in. Ms. Lindy, please tell me you didn't pay actual money for that thing. Please??" He put his hands together in a prayer position.

I covered my face with my hands and mumbled, "Yeah, I did... Is it that bad? I did a test drive! Everything felt great! I didn't think..."

"You didn't think, alright," Hazel snorted, but Scott cut her off.

"Hey, come on! Don't forget how we met—" He chortled and gave Hazel a look.

"Ok but that wasn't the same..." Hazel glared at him with humor in her eyes. "Lindy how could you buy a used car without getting it checked out?"

"I don't know, I didn't think... I guess I just trusted him and got attached to Clifford really fast..."

"You call it CLIFFORD?" she yelped through a burst of laughter.

"Anyway... what happens now?"

Scott put his hands in his pockets. "Well...you should try to get your money back. He really screwed you. This truck needs a new head gasket and oil pump, four new tires, not even sure yet what else. Someone pulled a couple of fuses to keep the warning lights in the dash from coming on. He put sealants and heavy oil in to get through the test drive so you wouldn't notice anything wrong. Any twenty-year-old vehicle is going to have problems, but this one's a real turd rolled in glitter."

###

I called the cell number over and over, getting voicemail every time, until about the tenth time I got an "out of service" message instead. Burner phone.

After we went back to the house where Clifford had been parked and knocked on the door for a while, different days and times of day, a neighbor finally came out to see what was going on.

"Nobody's lived in that house for about...six months? I wondered whose truck was parked in the driveway – thought maybe someone was moving in – but I guess they was just borrowing the driveway and nobody knew to complain." With an exaggerated shrug, she waved goodbye and shut her door.

The license tag was registered to a Ms. Shelly Owens, who had left her Mazda 3 hatchback in the long-term parking lot at the Greenville-Spartanburg International Airport while she visited her parents in London. The title was real, but finding a random dude named David Collins, no phone, no email, no address, was an exercise in futility. Also there was the whole "paid in cash" thing.

To make a long story short, I owe my sister free babysitting for literally the rest of my natural life – for the rescue, for helping me work out a payment plan with Scott, and for making sure my parents didn't kill me when I eventually had to tell them I'd bought a car – but in the end Clifford did get me to college the next year.

Turns out I really was the luckiest girl in the world to have a sister like Hazel.

Author's note: please forgive mechanical vagueness, inaccuracies, and general implausibility. My cars have all been angels. Also the excessive use of ellipses and dashes, because that's just how I write and always have and does not indicate the use of GenAI, which is despise with the power of a thousand suns.

I'm dreaming about work again. This is my canary in the coal mine.

The first time it happened was back in the mid nineties when I ran a tax-prep office - during the height of the season I'd always start dreaming about returns with impossible numbers of dependents, and clients who didn't bring any ID, and running between six different desks because all my staff had called out.

A decade later I was working at the university for a tyrannical, micromanaging director who had me in literal tears in the office on a regular basis (super embarrassing when you're in your forties!). Twice a year we had extra-busy periods when I was responsible for making sure our events were organized to perfection, and I routinely cried on my husband's shoulder in the morning before managing to pry myself out of bed to begin the day.

Then I got a different job, and life got good. I enjoyed what I did, and even busy times didn't rattle me too much.

Fast forward to now and I'm in a new, highly demanding job, wrestling circular systemic problems and staff with unfortunate habits needing to be retrained. I'm reading and answering work emails at all hours. I'm having to scold myself out of the urge to get on the computer and deal with office issues over the weekend. And this morning I woke up exhausted from an all-night mental rehash of overdue, nonsensical budget issues. But the job isn't the problem.

Two years ago I could have done this job standing on my head. With one hand tied behind my back. While riding a unicycle. The challenges would have been stimulating and energizing and I'd have enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment from every little win.

Then my mom came to live nearby.

Before Covid she was healthy as a septuagenarian could be. After 18 months alone in her house, sitting in her recliner staring at the TV, she became a different person - and that person is fading away day by day, right before my eyes. She gets confused about small things. Her short-term memory is failing. She falls frequently, often requiring a trip to the ER to make sure nothing is broken. She forgets to eat. A medication dispenser with an alarm isn't sufficient to remind her to take her pills - she just turns the alarm off and sets the pill box aside. Some days she doesn't leave her armchair from breakfast until bedtime.

She doesn't require a lot of my actual physical time. The facility where she lives delivers meals - if she remembers to call and order them - and she has an aide who comes in for an hour in the morning to make sure she's up and clean and has everything she needs. I visit a couple of times a week, run her errands and take her to doctor appointments, and sometimes she calls at dinnertime or 11:00 or 3 a.m. and says, "I'm on the floor..." and I have to get dressed and drive over there and try to lift her back in her chair or into bed.

But every time my phone rings now I freeze. Because I don't know - is she out of detergent, or has she broken a bone? Is the aide calling because Mom needs a prescription picked up, or do I need to stop what I'm doing right now and get over there? Is that "unknown caller" spam, or an EMT?

And even when I'm not dealing with her errands or appointments or other needs directly, part of me still is. Part of me always is.

So next time I'm at the store, I'd better buy that coalmine canary some treats and a new toy to keep her energy and spirits up, because we've still got work to do.

"Don't go blindly through life! Let me use the power of the tarot to show you the way. Call me now for your free reading!" implored a light-skinned black woman with a mediocre Jamaican accent, cards spread before her on the table.

Bonnie took two long strides across the room and flipped the TV switch to OFF before the announcer could insist she "Call 1-800-355-3765." She rolled her eyes and grumbled, then took a deep breath. It was a shame really – "Cleo" could have done so much more with her life, and karma... well, karma would have her way.

Her new client would be here any minute, so she lowered the lights, lit a few candles and a stick of incense, pulled shut the accordion-style door that hid her kitchen, and stepped into her shoes. For some reason unpolished toenails struck a note of inauthenticity with the public. So odd. She wondered momentarily what color Cleo had her toenails painted, then let it go.

The knock on her front door was firm, almost aggressive. She peeked around the curtain and noted the large, two-tone Ford pickup directly in the center of her driveway. It was getting dark, and the neon OPEN sign toward the front of her shaggy lawn was flickering a bit. She'd have to check into that.

Before he could knock again, Bonnie opened the front door with a bright welcoming smile on her face. "Mr. Walters? Such a pleasure to meet you. Please come in." He did, a mix of caution and menace in his aura. She took charge immediately, to make sure he didn't get the idea that he could.

"Sit." She indicated the chair directly across from hers – smaller and less plushly comfortable, but that wouldn't do him any harm. "Tell me why you are here."

"Don't you already know? You're supposed to be the psychic! Har har!" He brayed with laughter, but the insincerity in it made her wince.

"I have mystical skills and knowledge of the arcane, but only God knows all. What is it you seek here?"

"I heard...they say you can do stuff. Magic stuff." The man paused uncomfortably, as though realizing he was still not answering her question, and not wanting to irritate her so much she'd throw him out, because there was something he wanted that possibly only she could provide. If even she could.

Bonnie sat regally in her chair, back straight, holding his gaze but saying nothing. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I want... I need something to keep my kids with me. Like the... you know how the Mormons over in Utah marry a bunch of women and have a big bunch of kids and they're supposed to still be together when they get to heaven? They call it sealed. They're sealed to each other like glue."

"I have heard of this. You could become a Mormon."

"Well," he drawled, "that there's the problem. I'm pretty sure heaven's not where I'm going. And I don't know what the other place is like but I don't wanna be hanging out with a bunch of druggies and criminals and creepers for all eternity. I wanna be with my family. I want them sealed to me like glue. They're mine. I created them. They came from me and I want them to stay with me forever."

Walters was sitting completely still, other than his eyes, which shifted their gaze back and forth between her and the room behind her. He'd given up trying to hide his anxiety. That was good.

"Mr. Walters, sir – of course you wish your family to stay close to you! But what you are asking... committing your sweet young children to following you into eternal damnation – is this really what you want?"

She felt as much as saw the anxiety leave him and a stubborn belligerence take its place. She'd unintentionally goaded him into digging in his heels, and cursed her own need to question him, to give him the chance to take back what he'd said.

What he was saying was outrageous. Apart from whether or not it was possible, just the thought – his desire – was horrific. Bonnie's mind spun, knowing she had to play along. She had to provide the answer he was looking for, because if she turned him away he might go to someone else. He might do something worse.

It was time for a tactic she had never had to resort to before – something she kept in her back pocket as a "just in case" plan. Were the circumstances less dire she would have felt guilty, but not today. Today she was going to pull a Cleo.

She stood. "Well then, Mr. Walters. That is a powerful spell you are requesting. I have never heard tale of such a thing being done – perhaps all those who tried before have failed."

"Maybe you just ain't in the loop," he muttered with a smirk. "Maybe I should find another witch."

"'Ain't in the loop,' you say? Sir, I come from one hundred generations of pure Romani blood. I know all. I see all." She hoped he was too rattled to remember the beginning of their conversation when she asked why he had come. "The magical world is a small, close family without secrets. But we are a proud people too, proud of our power and our abilities to assist those such as yourself. If someone had ever done what you ask, I would know."

She moved to the workbench and began to sort through boxes and jars and dozens of ingredients contained in the small built-in drawers below. "But you have come to the right place. Because all the power of my foremothers rests in my hands, and my own on top of that, and if anyone in the world can give you what you ask, it is I."

Walters' eyes had glazed over as he focused on her words, so she wrapped a pebble of rose quartz in a cloth and smashed it loudly with a mallet. He startled and she smiled slightly to herself. "When this concoction is done, you will take it home and place it under the bed of each family member for no less than twenty-four hours. You will then apply it to your third eye"—she touched the middle of her forehead as she said this—"your throat, your heart, and your solar plexus. You will do this for seven days."

As Bonnie spoke she gathered and mashed ingredients – the rose quartz powder, lavender, honey, cinnamon, lemon oil, dried garlic, and salt. She whisked them all together in a bowl and then poured the concoction into a blue glass bottle and stoppered the top with a cork. She returned to the table, where Walters was sitting quietly, gazing at her with anticipation and awe. She swirled the bottle, held it out toward him and then pulled it back.

"This here is powerful, powerful magic – you can change your mind any time before the seventh day of anointing."

He shook his head hard. "I won't." He wanted that bottle so badly he was practically drooling.

Bonnie reclaimed her chair, keeping the bottle on the table close to her, and wrote a very large number on a clean piece of note paper. She slid the paper to Walters with a meaningful look. He met her eyes for a moment, alarmed, then dug a worn leather wallet out of his back pocket. He peeled a few bills off the thick stack, returned them to the billfold, and handed the rest to her. She counted them, quickly but carefully, and slid the bottle across the table.

After Walters mumbled his thanks and skittered out the door, Bonnie kicked off her shoes, turned the TV back on, and settled into her recliner. "Darkness cannot drive out darkness," she spoke aloud to the empty room. "Only light can do that."

Trigger warning for one vague allusion to some kind of childhood abuse.
<----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------->

"Is it dangerous? I've heard stories..."

"You have nothing to fear, child. I am experienced in the ways of the spirits and have set many wards and protections around this place so that only those invited may enter. Now place one finger lightly on the planchette and hold the other hand above your head, palm out. Focus your mind on the loved one you wish to speak with."

Carrie did as she was told, and fixed her brother's face in her mind. Her brother... her twin... the only person who knew everything. The only one who could ever understand. Of all the losses, this one was the only one that tugged at her heart, that brought her to tears of grief almost daily. The reality of moving on without him was still a cloudy, impossible puzzle, but knowing he was OK might be a step in the right direction.

She'd driven past this shop a hundred times, and often smirked to herself wondering what kind of chump paid good money to a "psychic" who worked out of a shabby brick ranch-style house sitting at the back of a half-acre of lawn that displayed a black-on-white PSYCHIC READINGS sign next to a gigantic neon one that read OPEN. But when she discreetly asked around, quizzing a co-worker who was into astrology, and the Stevie Nicks wanna-be behind the counter of the witchy shop near campus, they both said that Bonnie Rowland was the real deal.

Bonnie was making some unintelligible humming and muttering sounds, and Carrie slid her gaze around the room. It was just what she had expected – a "grandma shabby" living room with afghan blankets draped over couches and chairs, a worn braided rug, and a dining room table covered in a shiny black-and-red cloth. The bookshelf against the wall held tarot decks, incense and incense burners, feathers, bones, and all manner of weirdness.

"Are you there?" Bonnie's shout startled Carrie out of her reverie. "Tell me your business! What is your name and why have you come here?"

The planchette under her forefinger began to move back and forth, left to right, in a long oval swoop. Carrie cut her gaze to Bonnie's hand, touching the other side of the light wooden pointer, hoping to determine if she were pushing it. She could almost see light between the planchette and the other woman's finger, the contact was so delicate.

"T," Bonnie intoned as the letter became visible through the window of the planchette. Carrie gasped. "I" came next, then "M." Had Bonnie done a google search on her before she arrived? But all she'd provided was her first name.

The planchette returned to the center of the board. "Tim, do you have an answer to Carrie's question? Do you have a message for her?"

"F. R. O. M. D. U. S. T. T. O. D. U. S. T."

"Tim, are you ok? Are you in a good place?" Carrie heard her own words come out in a hoarse whisper.

"F. R. O. M. T. O."

"From to? From, to..." Was it a clue? A code? "Timmy, tell me what happens now. Are you ok? Am I?"

"H. E. R. E. ... W. A. T. C. H. I. N. G. ... F. R. O. M. D. U. S. T."

The planchette swiftly zoomed to the corner of the board where "Bye" showed through the little window, and back to the center of the board. Carrie hadn't noticed the buzz of energy humming through the planchette until it was gone. It was just a little piece of wood again now.

Bonnie spoke a few formal words about closing the channel of communication, blew out the candles, and nudged an iPad with a payment screen toward Carrie. "Is yours a religious family?"

"Is my... no. No, not at all. 'From dust to dust' is from the bible, right?"

"It is. This message had many layers. I hope you found what you were seeking today."

Carrie had not.

She had more questions than ever as she drove away. Why would Tim tell her "from dust to dust"? That was something about ending up back where we started, made of dust – did he mean his body was dust now? Was that good or bad? She didn't really understand the coming from dust part – our souls came from God or something if you believed in that, and our physical bodies came from...they were created by...

That's right! You've almost got it, don't let that train of thought derail! Har har!

Carrie screamed and slammed on the brakes, skidding across the shoulder of the road, narrowly missing the gulley just beyond it.

Raucous laughter rang in her head, in a voice she hadn't heard in almost two decades but recognized instantly. Hands shaking, she put the car in park and turned it off. Her breath came in panicked gasps and her face was wet with tears she hadn't realized she was shedding.

For fuck's sake, girl, you never did have no sense of humor. Thought maybe gettin' a few years on you would change that. Life's full of crap and plenty of it's worse than me, so quit yer yammering.

"This is not real, this is not happening, you are not here! I'm just stressed, and that psychic lady's incense made me high or something. I just need some sleep. My imagination is running away with me. Everything is fine. Psychics are frauds, I was stupid to go there but everything is just fine."

Heh heh you go on and think that if you want, but it don't change that we're together again now and I'm not going nowhere. Dust to dust, get it? Back to where you came from.

"But I'm alive, you fuckhead! I'm not dust!"

Nice language, girlie. Watch yourself. I know you're alive. But your brother did the dust-to-dust dance – he returned to the dusty old coot that made him, get it? Now you called him to you. He's part of me again and you called him. We're what you call a package deal now! Psychic lady closed the channel between you and the spirit you called, but you didn't call me...

As the voice burst into laughter again, Carrie sobbed against the steering wheel. The flashing lights of a patrol car pulling in behind her reflected on the control panel, and she raised her head to look.

This is gonna stay our little secret, you hear me? Just like the other thing always was. You remember what I said would happen if you told back then. And they'll think you're batshit crazy if you tell anyone about this now. Good little girls keep their daddies' secrets. We'll be just like two peas in a pod again.

A knock on the driver's-side window made her jump. "Ma'am?" came a voice.

Carrie tried to lower the window and realized the button didn't work with the engine off. She opened the door halfway and turned up the corners of her mouth in a courteous smile. "Good afternoon, Officer. Is there a problem?"

"That's what we're checking on, ma'am. Is everything ok here? Do you need a tow truck?"

"Oh! No, completely fine. I just pulled over for a moment to...to take a phone call. Everything's just fine. This little girlie don't need nothing you got to offer!" Carrie slapped her hands over her mouth in horror.

"Uh... we're just doing our job, ma'am." He paused, looking into her face intently. "Are you certain you're alright?"

"Thank you. So much. Officer. I'm. Definitely. Fine." Slowly, mentally inspecting each word before allowing it out of her mouth, she followed the reassurance with the brightest smile she could muster. "I'll be on my way if that's alright." Inside her mind the rough and raucous laughter was making it hard to think clearly.

The trooper nodded, touched the brim of his hat, and said, "Drive safe out there," before returning to his patrol car.

She watched him in the rear view mirror, then tilted it down to view her own face for a moment. She looked like herself, just stressed and scared, except...her eyes. They were alive in a manic, electrical way, with an oily green light shifting around and across them. Carrie grabbed the trash bag hanging from the gearshift knob just in time to catch the contents of her stomach as it rose up and out.

Several deep breaths, a sip of water that she spat out on the pavement beside her car, and a twist of the ignition later, she was pulling back into traffic. She moved over to the left lane, made a U-turn at the first red light, turned into the driveway of the shabby brick ranch house at the back of a half-acre of lawn, and banged her fist on the psychic's front door until it opened.

Marriage is like a grown-up version of Choose Your Own Adventure.

Even if you feel like finding and choosing each other was predestined, the rest of it isn't. Sliding that ring on your finger is nothing like pulling down the security bar on a roller coaster seat - ready for wild and exciting ups and downs, good times and bad, that are carefully planned out for you in advance.

Oh hell no.

Every single day could theoretically go a hundred different ways - but most won't, and after a while you'll find that they're varying tones and shades of the same color - a color you and your partner jointly chose to paint your life together.

A friend once told me a story about her wedding day. She was in the bridal suite getting ready, and her best friend sat down with an actual literal pad and pen and said, "OK, you need to make the list now."

"What list?"

"The list of things you want to change about him."

"I...don't want to change anything about him. I like him the way he is - that's why I'm marrying him."

Her friend was sincerely confused. Because "change him into the person you want" is the color she thought marriage was. And she's certainly not alone. A lot of women - and maybe some men - follow this same philosophy.

So you go into the marriage with a plan: a plan to change him.

Whatever he does or says or doesn't do, you automatically run a mental check on - "Is this ok? Is this what I want him to do/say/think? Or do I need to shift him in another direction?" Because when you're hammer, everything looks like a nail.

"When's the last time you went to the gym? You're getting a beer belly."

"What if we didn't go to your mom's house for dinner every Friday?"

"You look so much better in blue, I bought you some new shirts and donated those nasty gray ones."

"Here, eat some veggies instead of another hot dog."

"Have you ever thought about playing golf or tennis? I've heard that's where all the good business deals are made."

Your marriage becomes a puzzle - or a battlefield. Points to score, wins to gain. You paint your life battleship gray.

What if, instead, you chose to seek out everything that's already good and right - even just a little bit? Find the happy silver lining in every cloud?

What if you decided every day should be an adventure - challenge each other to take fun risks, go somewhere you've never been, do or eat or read or wear something new? What would your life together look like then?

What if you decided to paint it the color of silliness, or appreciation, or kindness?

After doing any of those things for a while, your life looks different. You feel different. You respond differently to situations. Your partner is a slightly different person than they were when you started out.

You can even try one way for a while and then try something else, like painting a yellow room green - maybe you'll like it, maybe you'll change it back. It's ok to change your mind. It's fun to try new things!

But whether through action or inaction, your marriage - your life - is a reflection of the choices you make along the way--just as colors are created by the reflection of the light.

Oubaitori (桜梅桃李) is an ancient Japanese idiom that comes from the kanji characters for the four trees that bloom in the spring: cherry, plum, peach, and apricot. Each flower blooms at its own time, and the idiom conveys the idea that people grow and bloom at their own pace. It serves as a reminder to focus on one's own growth and development, rather than comparing oneself to others.

SPRING:

"Mom, you are not taking me seriously." I could see her trying to hold in a smile, which made me even madder.

"I'm taking you very seriously, Maggie munchkin." Now she did smile. "But I guarantee you are not the last fourteen-year-old on the planet without a boyfriend."

"Well I'm the only one I know." I crossed my arms in front of me and made the sulkiest possible face. "Is it so much to ask to want my own mother to have a little sympathy for my humiliation? Everyone at school is probably laughing their asses off at what a loser I am."

"You can't be worried about what other people think about your life." She leaned in with her face comically squinched up and a finger raised for emphasis. "The only opinion that matters is your own."

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. "That's stupid."

SUMMER:

My maid of honor fluffed my veil and bit her lips to hold back tears. She had always been a mush, crying at the drop of a hat.

I passed her a tissue box. "Would you fucking stop that? If anyone should be crying about this it's me!" That was more true than Tasha knew, and for a totally different reason than she thought—but I wasn't going to explain, not even to my best friend.

"I can't help it. You look like a fucking fairy tale. Which makes sense since you're about to get hitched to Prince Charming till death do you part."

Of course she meant that in a good way, but the idea of spending the next fifty years with Brad made me ill. He might look like Prince Charming, in a very well-bred, chiseled, Ivy-League sort of way. But he didn't reveal his real self around my friends. He was polite and jovial and considerate in a studied way that actually kind of spooked me. Like he was two different people.

This is your dream, I reminded myself. It was all I'd ever wanted—someone to love me. Someone to belong with. To be part of a couple, to have a partner to share life's joys and challenges. If not Brad, then who? I was 24 years old—not a kid anymore. My friends were already married and having families. What if this was my last chance? What if Brad was the only one who ever asked? Marriage to him might be challenging, but better than being alone forever—a failure, a laughingstock.

AUTUMN:

I carefully fit the cardboard backing into the picture frame and flipped it over. Hanging it on the nail I'd pounded into the wall beside my front door—with my own hammer, my own box of nails, from the little gray toolbox I'd decorated with colorful stickers—felt like a declaration of freedom.

Displaying my divorce decree—the final page with signatures, of course—prominently in a fancy frame, instead of burying it in a file cabinet in a dark corner somewhere, felt like a slightly childish act of defiance, but I didn't care. If my friends thought it was inappropriate, maybe I needed some new friends. Tasha would approve. The kids would laugh—grown now and making their own choices, they didn't like their father much more than I did. Becka and Mark were both warm and free-spirited, with a level of emotional intelligence that hadn't come from either of their parents. I don't know where they got it from but I was grateful, because they had raised me as much as I had them, and I was so much better for it.

The townhouse was a new construction. Pristine. Untouched. It smelled of fresh paint and lemon oil. Within the bounds of its frame and floorplan, it was a clean slate, to do with as I wished—just like my life. I needed no one's permission. I was done putting everyone else's opinion ahead of my own.

It was my turn.

WINTER:

I awake to the smell of coffee and the raised voices and laughter of a friendly argument in progress. The other side of my bed is empty; I slide my hand across the cool sheets and wonder idly if Riley would be back or if I should get up and investigate the kitchen ruckus. My rumbling tummy decides for me, and I pull on a flowy kimono and slip into the bathroom. After splashing water on my face, I pat my skin dry with a towel and smile into the mirror in wonder. It's like looking at pictures of your friends when they were children—but in reverse.

The generous amount of silver "wisdom sparkles" in my hair make me laugh out loud as I turn this way and that to check out different angles in the light. I resolve once again never to dye them. The laugh brings out every crinkle around my eyes and mouth. I'm proud of those crinkles—evidence of years of joy.

I pad down the stairs to find the kitchen full of food and people. The argument turns out to be about which variation of the Munchkin card game is the best. Riley hands me a plate full of eggs and turkey bacon and toast, and a mug of coffee, and I settle into my favorite seat at the end of the long table, where I can see the whole room. Jody hugs everyone before leaving for work. Sara and Kim decide that second breakfast is better justified if they take a nap first, and drift back to their room.

Riley refills our coffee cups and takes a seat at the table. We survey the chaos—the dishes, the piles of books, the clutter, the dog toys—and grin at each other. "You ever worry about bringing people over here, or what our parents would think if they could see how we live?" they ask.

"Nope, I don't give a rat's ass. I love this life. I love this house and the people in it. I even love the mess. I've got way better things to do with my time than worry about what anyone else thinks of me."

Confession time --

All the stories in that entry were true... except the last. I'm not really in therapy, I made that one up. I've thought about it though, for exactly the reason I said. So I only lied a little.

Did anyone notice???

The house makes no sense.

When Sarah and Charlie walk in, Charlie yells up the stairwell to see if there are any bats and murderers or vampires or whatnot. That stairwell is on a hallway - go to the end, turn left and go to the end again, and there's a door with a flight of stairs leading to the attic.

Huh?

I noticed this after the story was mostly polished up and I didn't want to have to rethink it all or take away Charlie's silly line. So I left them both and wondered if anyone would say anything.

No one did

Age 4:

Getting downstairs was easy. Then I put the coins in the vending machine and the quart of milk popped out at the bottom. I had to ask for help getting home though, because our apartment was on the twelfth floor and I couldn't reach the elevator button.

Age 9:

I don't like taking the bus to where Mom works. It's two towns over, and the bus goes through the VA hospital and a lot of old men get on just to take a ride and I'm scared of them. I don't want them sitting next to me but sometimes they do. But I have to do it because I need a haircut and Mom wants me to go to the shop near her office because they know her there. Other times I have to meet her there for some other reason, and the bus is the only way. So I try to look tough, like don't mess with me. People always say I look sweet and cute though. I'll keep trying.

Age 13:

I convince my parents to let me skip out on the family beach vacation and stay home alone. They convince me that having the teenager next door "check on me at night" isn't the same as being babysat. I go with her to her job babysitting two little kids down the street, and she introduces me to Saturday Night Live.

Age 21:

College graduation seems like making a big deal over nothing, and I tell all my parents and step-parents not to come. It's only an accomplishment to celebrate if it's difficult, if there was some doubt I could achieve it. Why do they want to drive six hours to sit in a giant, hot, crowded stadium to watch me walk across a stage for three seconds? So stupid. I might not even go.

I go, and don't mind at all that nobody is there cheering for me. Mom mails me a Congratulations Graduate card and writes on the inside, "Don't tell anyone I said this, but I'm proud of you." Weird.

Age 37:

"Oh hell no - no wedding, no dress, no cake, none of that. I don't want a bunch of people staring at me and making a fuss. We're going to go to Vegas, do an Elvis drive-through or something, do a little gambling and come home. No big deal."

Age 55:

I read with detachment (and the curiosity of a former psych major) about the effect that social isolation caused by Covid-19 is having on people. I miss my visits with

off_fleek_geek but other than that I'm perfectly content working remotely, having groceries delivered, not running errands or going to stores or restaurants (ok I kind of miss restaurants - but for the physical experience, not being out around other people), and not seeing anyone in person other than my husband. I don't really have any friends anyway. I could do this indefinitely.

Age 59:

"I never thought I'd end up in a therapist's office, but ta-daaa, here I am. Just getting introspective in my old age, I guess, haha."

"And what made you decide to take the leap and meet with me? You mentioned your mother had moved nearby and you're seeing her a lot more than you have in recent years?"

"She did, and we are, but it's fine. There's always room for one more little thing, one more errand, it's no biggie. And once in a while she can't get up from a fall, usually at night, so she'll call me to come help. But I'm done working by that time, so it's fine. It's why we convinced her to move here."

"That's all fine? You're sure? Ok... then what did bring you in today?"

"I've just been thinking - other than my husband and literally one other person, I don't seem to form close relationships. Not like other people I know who have friend groups and big social circles, and BFFs they've known for decades. And I have no idea why."

(Content warning for F-bombs)

“HELLOOOO!” shouted my idiot brother as he peered up the narrow staircase. “Any ax murderers hiding up there? Bats? Vampires?”

“Shhhhhh!” I hissed at him, and blew out a hard breath of frustration.

“God, you’re always such a chickenshit,” he scoffed. “I’m just fucking around.” Charlie jumped up and extended his arms and legs to suspend himself between the walls of the narrow hallway.

“Yeah, you’re good at that,” I grumbled. “And get your feet off the walls, asshole. You’re going to leave marks!”

He jumped back down. “Jesus, Sarah! Have you ever had a moment of stupid fun in your whole life? It’s like you were born a middle-aged librarian.”

I barely heard his grousing, my attention absorbed elsewhere. Down that hall behind him were two small bedrooms, a bathroom with ancient fixtures that included an actual claw-foot tub, and a small door at the far end that opened on a steep staircase that led to the attic.

Charlie knew none of this—he was practically a baby when we left this house, too young to remember anything about it.

Much too young to remember the night invisible hands had tried to drown me in that bathtub.

###

My ancient Mazda rumbled up the right-hand lane of the interstate, CD player booming The Cure through staticky speakers. Charlie slouched in the passenger seat, his phone six inches from his nose and thumbs tapping away. Probably playing a game.

“So I was thinking...” I started, eyes on the road. My brother’s eyes slid in my direction for a moment so I continued. “Our old house is kind of on the way to Rochester. I want to stop there real quick.”

“Seriously? Why?” I didn’t answer right away so he continued. “You just want to look at it or something? Whoever lives there now is going to think you’re a freak. Which you are.”

I busied myself changing the CD, and then cautiously changing lanes long enough to pass the truck in front of me. Charlie was outright staring at me now, so I had to respond. “Nobody lives there. Nobody’s lived there in years. I checked.” After a pause I added, “There’s just something I need to do.” My little brother’s eyeroll was practically audible, but his attention returned to his phone.

As we rolled up I-95 to 9-W and across the Bear Mountain Bridge, I experienced an overwhelming sense of deja vu. I knew for a fact I’d never made this drive before; I’d definitely never parked alongside the curb in front of the old brown clapboard house I hadn’t lived in since I was ten; even the incredulous look my brother shot me as I entered the code into the lock box hanging from the doorknob and slid the key into the deadbolt felt familiar.

###

“Ok, so no waking up the vampires and boogy-boogies. What ARE we doing here?”

I barely heard him. My feet were moving of their own accord, carrying me down the hallway toward the open door where a drip-drip-drip sound echoed against pale-blue tiled walls.

The cold chills and vivid flashback memories I anticipated never came. It was just an old bathroom—four walls interrupted by a small window in one, the floor a black-and-white checkerboard of hexagons. The tub was just a tub, white porcelain with gray metal peeking through the worn patches on the rim where decades of hands had rested.

Upping the ante, I raised first one sneaker-clad foot and then the other, climbing into the big clawfoot tub and sitting down. Charlie’s gaze from the doorway met mine, his expression puzzled and wary. Before either of us could speak, a loud THUNK came from above our heads, like the sound of a heavy dresser being toppled over. I let out a small shriek, and Charlie jumped backward about two feet and then tried to recover his cool and catch his breath at the same time.

“You said there was nobody here!” he hissed at me in a stage whisper.

I shook my head slowly. “There isn’t.”

We stared at each other, momentarily frozen, as the thunk was followed by a scraping, dragging sound.

Leaping out of the tub and out of the bathroom, I took a hard right turn and raced to the end of the hall. I flung open the attic door and took the stairs two at a time. They ended at a hole in the attic floor where I popped up like the target in a whack-a-mole game, and spun around to view the small space in its entirety.

It was empty. Dust motes floated in the dim light, but the plank floor held not so much as a cardboard box or forgotten hanger.

I wasn’t surprised as much as ... disappointed.

“Where are you?! I know you’re here! Show yourself, damn it! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

“Sarah?” The low, hesitant voice was my brother’s.

Striding deliberately to the center of the floor and inspecting all four corners, the ceiling, the floor, I spoke again. “Why me? What the FUCK was that all about?”

“Sarah, are you ok?” Charlie half whispered.

I took a deep breath and let it out again, listening to the silence and watching the dust motes dance in a sunbeam. “Yeah. Better than ever. Let’s hit the road.”

###

“You really are a freak.” This time Charlie was smirking as he said it.

I grinned at him. “Yep.”

The Mazda purred as I flew up the entrance ramp onto the highway, settled into the left lane, and sped toward our new life.

I prefer to be at least a little subtle with Idol prompts. I want them clearly identifiable, but as an "aha!" peeking out from the middle of the piece, not dropped on the reader's head like a brick. And yet.

And yet perhaps this is one of the many ways in which I myself am a gloriously damaged soul. I say gloriously because I've reached an age where I have lost all shame, all desire to hide pieces of myself in fear of the disapproval or dislike of others. I say damaged because who among us is not? Often our damage, our flaws, our brokenness is what most clearly distinguishes us from the flat, dull grayness that is "most people."

When I was eight or ten I announced to my family that I would never be having children. Probably Grandma (I do remember this happened at her house) had said something about "when you have little ones of your own."

My mother wailed, "What on earth did I do to make you think being a parent is so terrible?" But that wasn't it at all. They misunderstood. My fault - I had skipped over cause and gone right to effect.

I would never have children because nobody would ever love me. At so young an age it didn't occur to me that I could have children without a husband - babies were made by mommies and daddies together, after all. And it was a clear and obvious fact that I would spend my life alone.

Obvious to me, at least. The message had been made quite clear. Always.

I hope my mother doesn't have any memory of this. There's so much she doesn't remember these days, and so much we remember completely differently. As she enters her twilight years, I don't want to be the cause of anything that brings her sorrow or regret for things that can't be unsaid, undone.

She did the best she could. That's all any of us can do. It's our one shared trait, universal amongst humans: our imperfection. We all fail. We're all broken.

And there can be beauty in that brokenness. Some turn theirs into righteous anger, others into determination to create change, others into art.

And some into love.

I do, in fact, have love in my life now after all. And determination, and occasionally things I like to think are art. Also cats. No children.

And no regrets.

Reasons I should not join this mini-season of LJ Idol:

I'm smack in the middle of my busy season at work
In another month I'll have two editing projects running concurrently (something I try hard to avoid but sometimes I just can't say no to a project)
I haven't written anything longer than a FB post since last time I played... five years ago?? Longer? It was still on LJ, I remember that.
My husband will whinge and pout about being an "Idol widow"
The things I think about these days - and thus will likely write about - are boring AF
If I don't have time or energy to clean my house or work out, how can I have the time/energy to do this?

Reasons I'm going to play anyway:

FOMO
It's been literally life-changing in several previous seasons - maybe lightning will strike once again, in some totally unexpected way (but really, mostly FOMO)

So yeah - I'm in.