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May 23, 2004 Inspiration can burn unsteadily, then quickly dim. Yet, if you choose to let it light your path, however brief, this choice may last a lifetime. Such was the case with Sandy Newman when she set out to reveal her secret. A secret that she had closely held in the watch pocket of her soul for nearly thirty years. A secret that she long ago convinced herself could only be shared after the last flicker of her life. ‘How to proceed?’ she had pondered and erased the ideas from her mind’s drawing board thousands of times. How to be sure that your secret will only be revealed after you have departed the world of the living? How to be certain that your last earthly act would be completed after you are gone? Even now as she was preparing her proclamation, she wondered if this could provide the final rest and peace that she had assured herself it would. Her mind drifted again, floating on a layer of pain medications as she tried to focus her efforts to her task. As she drifted, a picture of her best friend, Janice Haskell, formed in mind. With this, her weakened body was filled with an energy reserve that she did not know she had. The radiation treatments had taken so much of what was left of her, now a full two weeks after she had discontinued them, that it was a struggle to think of any action that required more than waiting for what she had been told would most likely come at the end of this week. This unexpected reserve of sullen strength was the harbinger that she had been waiting for. From deep inside her ravaged body a signal was sounding; the signal of a distant railroad-crossing gate that was about to close. She knew it was now or never, move or be closed off. She reached for the phone. Her unsteady movements swept her to that distant day. A muffled cry for help that had sounded as if it had come from under water. Is that Janice? She could remember walking unsteadily down a dimly lit flight of stairs. Yeah, she had been drinking that day, they all had been. The frat house party had lasted past dawn. The alcohol stained memories still caused her to feel as if she need to grab the handrail. Did that voice really sound like Janice? She was almost certain that she had also heard someone say, “What goes around comes around,” followed by a sound that did not come back as human. It was that sound that caused her feet to stop moving toward the door to a downstairs bedroom, toward her best friend. She was afraid. she could still feel her unsteady hand reaching to her chest to slow her breathing. She wanted to cry out and run at the same time. Even now, thirty years later, she was paralyzed with fear at the thought of opening that door until long after she heard the back door to the apartment close and a car leave the courtyard. When she opened the door, later, so much later, the room was empty. In eight days, it would be September 30th, Janice’s birthday. Janice would have been 53 years old if she had lived. But her life was swept away in what had been confirmed by the police as an unfortunate accident. Yet, she was always certain she had seen something at the edge of Linda’s glances toward her or heard whispers in the moments after a pause when words linger and a question almost forms, but is swept away as the next sentence begins. Was Janice really in that basement room and did Linda…? Sandy knew that if she so much as hinted about what she had thought she heard that night, that Linda would see right through her best façade and find out every thing including if she had told anyone else. And if Linda thought she had told anyone else, she was certain their would be other “accidents”. She knew she could never stand up to Linda. She was filled with self-loathing. Janice had been her friend, her best friend. “Hello, Lum’s Chinese food. Can we make custom fortune cookies?” The blackest soul longs for concealment. Yet once released from the prison of self imposed bondage that soul can begin again to soar. Free from its chains to blackest lies or perhaps bondage from even darker fears. The constant fear of discovery. From this prison, there is no pardon. Linda Stevens tipped the deliveryman, closed the door, and excitedly pulled the glittering ribbon from the gold box. Inside, she was puzzled to find four fortune cookies nestled in gold satin. She picked the cookie up that had a neatly printed band on it which read ‘open first,’ cracked it open, and pulled out the white slip of paper. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ She frowned as she reached for the one marked ‘open second.’ It read , ‘As you sow, so shall you reap.’ She started to tremble as she read the third. ‘What goes around comes around.’ A bead of sweat trickled past her temple as she reached for the fourth. Blackmail? “That bitch,” she said in a deep prolonged growl that did not sound quite human. Not now when so much was going right. The election, next month! Who else knows? She cracked it open, and reached for the white slip of paper. It was empty. An inspiration is a moment that flickers, but if you grab it, it may last a lifetime. Sandy Newman, I am certain, is still smiling. ------------ About the author: Kim Gibson-Boles lives on the North Oregon Coast with his wife and daughter. Kim is the Author of Firefighter a Practical Guide to Getting the Job You Want. Email: firetrainer@consultant.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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