You’re sitting in a public place minding your own business. Than someone appears who captures your interest.

Is it possible to look at them and have their life open before your eyes?  You will find the answer in . . .

Shadow On Her Dreams

     I awoke a few minutes after ten on Saturday morning. Sleeping late on the weekend was a luxury I enjoyed. However, on this particular morning, waking up late was more a detriment than an asset, for I had to pick up my boss at the airport by noon and already I was running late.

     I felt lethargic. The past week hadn’t been very exciting—lots of routine stuff at work—and I guess the dullness of the week had followed me into the weekend. But I had to clear the cobwebs from my mind and get my butt in gear or my boss would have my head if I kept him waiting.

     Not wanting my name, Chuck Harding, to be mud, I managed to roll out of bed and trudge toward the bathroom. I washed up, dressed, and headed to the kitchen.

     I ate a little breakfast, some toast and oatmeal, and dragged myself to my Toyota Camry parked in the garage, backed out, and headed toward O’Hare Airport. After parking the car, I crossed the street and entered the main lobby of Terminal 3. There were people everywhere, rushing in all directions.

     I took the escalator to the second level. As I got off, I looked at a large sign overhead that read, “Gates 16 to 21.” Following the arrows, I entered a large waiting room surrounded by passenger boarding areas. I spied the “Arrival/Departure Board and searched for Flight 222. “Oh hell,” I muttered. “The flight’s going to be over an hour late. Now what do I do?”

     Already bored out of my mind, I needed to find something interesting to occupy my time. At twenty-two years old, disenchanted with everyday life and the monotony of my job as an assistant copy editor at the local rag, The Daily Sentinel, I needed to spice up my life.

     I saw an empty seat in the center of the room. I sat down and attempted to make myself comfortable. On the table beside the seat was a copy of the Chicago Tribune, dated April 3, 1976. I reached over to pick it up, but pulled my hand back. The last thing I needed was another boring newspaper playing a part in my life. So I leaned back and began to daydream.

     “Flight 253 from Seattle now arriving at Gate 17,” blasted through the overhead speaker. Startled, I lunged forward in my seat. I rubbed my eyes and struggled to escape from my trancelike state.   

     Pulling myself together, I got up, and walked into open area in front of the restrooms. All of a sudden, a noisy, fast moving, pushy mob emerged from Gate 17 and charged toward me. I made a quick evasive move to keep from being trampled and stood on the sidelines scanning the faces in the crowd.

     One, in particular caught my attention. “She’s beautiful,” I whispered. Her long black hair, highlighted with red tones, flowed over her shoulders accentuating her delicate facial features. Her dark complexion presented a striking contrast to the bright yellow dress she wore. A shiny gold pendant engraved with her name, “Bonita,” dangled about her neck. With perfect posture, she strutted toward me. She appeared to be on a mission. 

     As she came closer, our eyes met. I smiled and she smiled back, a soft accepting smile. She gave the impression of being happy, yet her eyes seemed to have tears in them. She’s been crying. But why? I thought. She appears too confident and driven—a woman with a dream—yet perhaps a dream on which a shadow has been cast.

     She moved past me and descended down the escalator. I went back to my seat and began to fantasize about this elegant woman. She intrigued me. I wanted to know more about her. Then I began to drift off. As I did, visions of her life appeared before me—her meager beginnings, needs, aspirations, and conflicts—her story. Where these images came from, eluded me. But I could see them and, in time, would come to treasure them forever.

     The pictures, at first murky, became clear. A sterile Chicago hospital waiting room served as the backdrop. A short muscular man, with graying, uncombed hair, and shabby clothing, in complete disarray, paced back and forth. Showing signs of stress and lack of sleep, as he peered through the room’s window into the darkness of the night, Luis stammered, “They said it wasn’t possible, that it couldn’t happen. Told us we were too old to have our first child. Me, fifty, and my Maria, forty-five. Too risky at her age, the doctors had informed us. What have we done?” Tears ran from his eyes as he collapsed onto a couch and within seconds fell into an uneasy sleep.

     The hours slipped by. The morning sun cast a glow upon the room. Luis tossed and turned on the couch. The rays of the sun touched his face. Dazed, he sat up, looking around the room as if lost. At that moment, a doctor came around the corner and approached him. 

     “It’s a girl, a beautiful baby girl. Mother and daughter are doing fine. Your wife is back in her room,” Dr. Grayson said. “She’s asking for you.”

     “Gracias, gracias,” Luis exclaimed in ecstasy. Then, he jumped to his feet, threw open the doors of the waiting room, raced down the hospital corridor, and burst into Maria’s room yelling, “Maria, Maria, mi àngel.”

     Maria’s eyes met his. No words had to be spoken. Their “gift” may have arrived late, but they felt enormous love for the “little one” who had entered their lives. She was their dream and they had great plans for her future. They called her Bonita, a Spanish name meaning beautiful and lively.

     The pretty infant became an attractive child—her black, silky hair hanging to her waist, her clear olive complexion sparkling with happiness. The girl’s feet never touched the ground, as she danced through her youthful years.

     The Romano’s, a family of modest means, struggled and sacrificed to give Bonita the things they never had. But she grew up too fast for Luis and Maria. They realized their child, now a beautiful young woman, would soon be leaving home to build a life of her own. 

     Maria, sitting in a worn-out, green armchair in the living room, whispered over and over again, “Where have all the years gone? Where have they gone?” She gazed across the room at Luis who’d fallen asleep on the couch. He looked old and tired, his skin dry and wrinkled. With adoring tenderness in her heart, she watched him—the man she cared for so much. Then her eyes shifted to a picture of Bonita, clad in a cap and gown, on the coffee table. Tears came to her eyes, tears of happiness, as she thought about her seventeen-year-old daughter, now a high school graduate.

     Meanwhile, Bonita, dressed in her nightgown, sat on the edge of her bed. She felt troubled and confused. With the lights in her bedroom off, she stared into the darkness of the night. The warm summer wind blew through the open window and caressed her hair causing it to flutter about her face and shoulders. Her eyes became misty and tears began to roll down her cheeks. “What do I do? How do I tell them? I love them, but I’m going to hurt them. But I have to be me,” she sobbed.

     Her thoughts flashed back to the conversation her family had earlier in the evening.  After they’d finished dinner, Luis leaned back in his chair. “Mi àngel,” he sighed, looking at Bonita with love in his eyes. “Your mother and I have worked hard and sacrificed to give you the best life we could. You are the center of our world.” He paused and looked at Maria to get a sign he should continue.

     Maria smiled and Luis went on. “Mi chiquita,” he mumbled, “Your mama and I have talked. To have a future to be proud of and to bring honor to our family, you will go to college and become a teacher. You will make a difference in the lives of children. We love you.”

     Bonita did not say a word, for it wasn’t polite to interrupt the head of the house when he spoke. Her eyes met her mother’s eyes. They sparkled, for she agreed with her husband’s vision of their daughter’s future.

     Upon returning to her room, Bonita fell on the bed, placed her head on the pillow, and began to cry. Over and over again, she muttered, “I love them. I love them.” They’ve been good to me. I’ve had everything in life I could’ve hoped for, but I don’t want this. How do I tell them? Confused, she rubbed the tears from her eyes and fell into a restless sleep.

     The morning came and with it a bright sunny day. Bonita rolled over and looked at the rays of the sun dancing across the ceiling of her room. A smile erupted on her face. “I will go to college. I will teach. They want me to do this and I owe it to them,” she sang out with enthusiasm in her voice. 

     Summer faded into fall. A jovial mood pervaded the Romano’s house. However, when school began, the once cheerful atmosphere turned into a tense nightmare. Bonita didn’t study unless coerced—using any excuse she could find to avoid this chore—and, therefore, earned dismal grades in her classes.

     Living at home complicated matters. She stayed away until late each evening because she feared facing her parents and the questions they would ask about how she fared in her studies. Everywhere she turned, obstacles appeared in her path to happiness. The few friends she had began to avoid her because she became argumentative in their presence.

     One afternoon, Bonita sat alone at the coffee shop on campus wondering how she would survive her life’s dilemma. Her head buried in her hands, she didn’t notice the tall, handsome young man who sat down across from her.

     Jesse Vasquez had been attracted to Bonita since grade school. He liked to think of himself as her boyfriend, but he, too, had been pushed from her life by her unhappiness.

     “Bonita, what’s wrong? You look awful. Do you want to talk?” he asked in a gentle manner.

     Bonita burst into tears. Through her sobs, she gasped, “I don’t want to do what I’m doing. I don’t want to become a teacher. I don’t even know if I want to be in college.”

     Jesse leaned across the table and wiped the tears from her eyes with his handkerchief. “Then why do it?” he asked. “Drop out. Do something else.”

     “I can’t. It would kill them,” she murmured. 

     “Kill who?” Jesse retorted.

“My parents,” Bonita whimpered. “They want me to be something I’m not. I can’t be a teacher. I can’t concentrate on my classes. I can’t get the grades to succeed. Maybe I don’t want to. But, in any case, it’s not working out.” 

     “Explain this to them. Be honest,” Jesse said in a low, calming voice.

     “I have tried to hide my failure from them, but sooner or later they will find out. It will destroy them, especially Papa. He has a dream, but I can’t be part of it.”

     Jesse stared at her. “What about you? Do you have a dream?”

     Bonita looked at him, her soft eyes glowing through the tears, and whispered, “Yes.”

     Several days passed before Bonita got up the courage to confront her parents. The words didn’t come easily as she explained the way she felt and what she desired out of life. 

     Her parents paid close attention to each word spoken for they loved their daughter. With some hesitance, Bonita elaborated on her dream. “Ever since my childhood, I’ve envied people who could draw and, most of all, those who created clothing. I want to be an artist, a fashion designer. I know I can be good, maybe not the best, but I can be happy.”

     Tears came to Maria’s eyes, as she listened. Luis appeared

stunned by his daughter’s revelation. The pain her parents felt could not be translated into words, but neither could the love they had for their only child—their “gift.” 

     Luis spoke for both of them. “Bonita, I’m not a young man and I don’t understand why you want to do this, but your mother and I will not stand in your way.”

     Had they given her their blessing? Maybe not. However, they did grant permission for Bonita, the pride of their life, to pursue her goal at the Seattle Academy of Fashion and to face the world on her own terms. And so, one dream died that fall day in 1974, but a second dream came alive—a dream, however, on which a shadow was cast.

     The picture I’d envisioned again became blurry and images faded. Two years had passed since Bonita left to pursue her desire to become a fashion designer, and now she had come home.

     I left the airport and went on with my life. However, the vision of a gorgeous, but sad, young woman, who managed to smile at me, remained fixed in my mind for years to come.

     Now thirty-two, my life had taken many circuitous and wonderful turns. As a feature writer for a major national publication, World Magazine, I came into contact with many interesting and wonderful people. 

     As I sat at my desk, pondering my next assignment, my editor, Tom Warrick, stuck his head through the door. “Chuck, I’ve got one hell of an interview for you—a fashion designer who conquered her fears and rigid upbringing to become a rising star in the industry. Today, 4:00 p.m., main conference room,” he barked.

     At 3:55, I made my way to the building’s main conference room on the second floor. Upon entering, an attractive young woman stood up from the conference table and greeted me. Dressed in a stunning purple dress, she looked at me and smiled, a soft pleasing smile. My heart melted as we sat down across from each other, and I began Bonita Romano’s interview.

     There had been a reason I saw the vision and story of this beautiful young woman ten years earlier at the airport. For in my heart, I knew that meeting had not been a coincidence. I believed someday we would be reunited and today our paths did cross again, with shadows removed from both our dreams.

Copyright © 2013 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

You meet the perfect person. The one you have searched for your entire life.

 

You dream of a heavenly future together. However, things do not always work out the way you want them to, as is the case in . . .

 

 

Eye On (ion) You

 

The train pulled into the station causing me great elation, as I waited in anticipation,

For you, the woman of my dreams, for whom I had great admiration, the wonderful addition to my life—an absolute sensation.

 

Weeks of being apart caused me great frustration, as you traveled with your delegation, across the nation.

Your determination to be a leader was an inspiration to all those you met, as your enthusiasm propelled you without limitation.

 

I wanted to throw myself into your arms, with no hesitation, and share with you the realization of the loneliness I felt during our separation.

In my heart, my perception was that you felt the same way about me and would welcome the occasion to embrace the moment without reservation.

 

I met you two years ago at my son’s high school graduation. As I sat in celebration of his accomplishments, our eyes meshed—in flirtation.

You were everything I had ever dreamed of, my passion in life. At the ceremony’s conclusion, I made my way toward you, hoping to make a lasting impression.

 

But as I crossed the aisle to make my introduction, you disappeared with energization into the crowd—gone—leaving me in complete disorientation.

With my heart pounding and emotion heightened, I searched for the vision of you, my future, in an effort to form a possible association.

 

I drifted through the horde with the intention of seeing you again and hoped for a warm interaction, one where I would not experience humiliation.

Losing my concentration, I forgot where I was going. My miscalculation forced me into a group of people heading toward the exit, and I tripped over my own feet falling into the procession.

 

As I tried to gain my balance to correct my indiscretion, a hand grabbed my arm improving my stabilization, which lessened my tribulation.

I looked up to show my appreciation for the help provided me in improving my condition and stared into your eyes, my beautiful obsession.

 

However, today, as you approached me from the train, it seemed to be with apprehension. And as I attempted to get your attention, your mind appeared to be going in a different direction.

On your face, you displayed a sense of contemplation, but of what was beyond my imagination. I struggled to maintain my composure amid this manifestation.

 

Our eyes met, but yours were void of any recognition of me, as I stood in isolation focusing on our future together falling apart without explanation.

In desperation, I called out to you, trying to inspire communication, but my words were blurred by another train rattling into the station.

 

I bent my head in an effort to recover from the depression engulfing me, but then, out of nowhere, an explosion rocked me into oblivion.

People raced in every direction, screaming for help and protection from the nightmarish event that gave birth to the train platforms horrible transformation.

 

Blood everywhere, covering everybody—an unwanted transfusion. Finding you would be my only salvation. But you were not there in the moment’s confusion.

What had I done to deserve being drawn into this act of mutilation? Could I fix the situation? “Oh God,” I howled. And then, out of the smoke emerged a she-devilish protrusion.

 

She spoke in soft, alluring tones, “Emersion from life into the flames of Hell is your fate. Your dedication to me exceeded my expectation.

You may think I am an illusion, a figment of your imagination, but I am real and you are mine, for I have taken your soul as confirmation.”

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

In our lives, we have many dreams and desires. Some are attainable. Others are not.

One of those that may elude us is finding that special person in our life. We give it our best effort, but it never happens, and so we live . . .

A Life Unfulfilled

     I sat alone in the living room of my apartment, thinking about what my life might have been like had I been able to leave my comfort zone that day in the airport over forty years ago. But I couldn’t. I gazed out the window into a sky of soft, fluffy clouds and reflected back on my life that fateful day.

     Awakening a few minutes after nine on Saturday morning, I felt restless and bored, even before the day began. The sun peeked through the bedroom window and cast a wispy shadow on the room. It danced in a mysterious way that intrigued me. In my blasé state of mind, little things tended to catch my attention.

     I managed to roll my “aging” thirty-year-old body out of bed and trudged toward the bathroom. After washing up, I dressed and ate a small breakfast of oatmeal and some fruit. Then dragging myself to my new 1975 Chevy Malibu, parked in the carport across from my townhouse, I backed out and headed toward Sacramento International Airport.

     I wasn’t going anywhere or meeting anybody. I just wanted to get away from it all—to dream about fascinating places I may never visit and interesting people I may never meet.

     After parking the car, I crossed the street and entered the main lobby of Terminal B. It bustled with excitement. People rushed in all directions. The incessant chatter of the public address announcer made the scene even more chaotic.

     I stared at a large sign overhead and muttered, “Gates 18 to 23.” I walked up the stairs and entered a large waiting room surrounded by passenger boarding areas. I saw what looked like a comfortable, black leather couch near the center of the room. Moving toward it, I dropped my lethargic body onto a not so soft cushion. I leaned back, tried my best to get comfortable, and began to daydream.

     “Flight 233 from Denver now arriving at Gate 19,” blasted through the overhead speaker. Shaken from my world of dreams, but still somewhat dazed, I rubbed my eyes and made my way back to reality.   

     Regaining my composure, I stood, stretched my shaky legs and gazed at my surroundings. All of a sudden, a noisy, fast moving, pushy mob emerged from Gate 19 and charged toward me. I made a quick evasive move to keep from being trampled and stood on the sidelines scanning the faces in the crowd.

     I found myself eyeing a graceful young woman coming toward me. “She’s beautiful,” I whispered. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders accentuating her delicate facial features. Her dark complexion presented a striking contrast to the white lace dress she wore. Though she appeared to be little more than five feet tall, the way she carried herself projected a confidence, which made her seem taller. 

     As she came closer, our eyes met. I smiled and she smiled back. She looked so sure of herself, so successful, so perfect. She had the beauty of an actress and the composure of a princess.      

     She moved passed me and descended down the stairway. I thought about following her and trying to gain her attention. But if I did, what would I say? I didn’t have a clue. So I just went back to my seat and began to fantasize about this elegant woman.

     Between announcements, the airport sound system blared an array of music I tried to block out. Then one piece caught my attention, my favorite song—Johnny Mathis’ “Misty.”

                                             “Look at me,
                                             I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree;
                                             And I feel like I'm clinging to a cloud,
                                             I can't understand
                                             I get misty, just holding your hand.”

     I wanted so much to take her beautiful hand in mine. But I couldn’t, and I knew it would never happen. My eyes became misty, as I continued to listen to the song’s lyrics.

                                             “Walk my way,
                                             And a thousand violins begin to play,
                                             Or it might be the sound of your hello,
                                             That music I hear,
                                             I get misty, the moment you're near.”

     Yes, I should’ve run after her to tell her how I felt. But I didn’t move from my seat. I just sat there, as the song flowed from the ceiling speakers.

                                             “Can’t you see that you're leading me on?
                                             And it's just what I want you to do,
                                             Don't you notice how hopelessly

                                             I'm lost
                                             That's why I'm following you.”

     However, I didn’t follow her. I couldn’t muster up the courage to do so. So I reclined in my seat and lamented a love lost, as the music echoed through my head.

                                             “On my own,
                                             When I wander through this wonderland alone,
                                             Never knowing my right foot from my left
                                             My hat from my glove
                                             I'm too misty, and too much in love.”

     My head fell to my chest. Tears filled my eyes. Without the strength to fulfill my desire, my longing would remain just another dream in a life unfulfilled.

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

As Halloween approaches, we reflect on the strange things that have happened in our lives. Sometimes these are real. At other times, they are just pranks or figments of our imagination.

But how do we know which is witch? You may soon find out in . . .

The Which Of Westwood

“The Story Unfolds”

     She came crashing through the front door, with the energy of a bull running through the streets of Spain. Swinging her arms, she hit me in the chest. I felt the pain run into my stomach. I screeched, “Slow down young lady. If you don’t kill me, you’re liable to kill yourself.”

     “Huh, what’re you talking about?” she queried, somewhat out of breath.

     “Didn’t you feel your arm slam into my body?”

     “No. But I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to go.”

     “You just came in. Where do you have to go?”

     “To Westwood.”

     “Why? That’s where you’ve been all day. It’s almost five. Dinner is at six.”

     “I’ve just got to go.”

     “That won’t do. You tell me now, or you’re not going.”

     “Later. I’ll tell you later,” she stammered,

     “What did I just say?”

     “I’ll be back by six.”

     She threw her backpack on the floor next to the china cabinet and left—slamming the front door in my face before I could utter another word. I stood there stone-faced, frozen in place.

     That was ten years ago. Melody was fourteen, in the ninth grade—a teenager with a mind of her own. She listened to little I had to say, but somehow received every message I sent.

     She never told me what happened that day and, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I didn’t ask. She graduated second in her class at Westwood High, which was an accomplishment cheered by friends and family alike, and was accepted at Bridgemont University, six hundred miles from home.

     During her time at college, we frequently talked on the phone. However, she made excuse after excuse to avoid coming home for a visit and never invited me to see her. This behavior left me wondering if I’d ever see her again. Four years after she left home, she earned a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature and then entered the teaching credential program at the college.

     I thought about what she might do after she completed the program. Then one day in late April, the phone rang. I’ll never forget the date—April 23. When I answered it, I was somewhat surprised to hear Melody’s voice.

     “Hello, Mom.”

     “Melody, how are you? I haven’t heard from you in weeks. You didn’t return my calls.”

     “I’m so sorry, Mom, but I’ve been very busy.”

     “Busy? Doing what?”

     “Packing.”

     “Where are you going?” Oh, my God! The same question I asked ten years ago.

     “Not going. Coming.”

     “Coming?” I asked, somewhat afraid of the answer I might get.

     “To Westwood,” she said softly.

     “But why?” This was the same discussion we had when she was fourteen.

     “Because I have to.”

     Oh, my! This is going nowhere again. Another open door slammed in my face. Just as I began to feel totally frustrated and confused, words came pouring out of her mouth.

     “Mom, I’ve been offered a teaching position at Westwood High—a dream come true.”

     “That’s wonderful, darling. Tell me more.”

     “I’ll be teaching English. I start the fourth of August, with a two-week orientation. School begins on August 18.”

     “Which grade?” I inquired.

     “Ninth.”

     But that was when it happened, I thought—the answer I’d never received.

     “Well, that’s great, Melody. I’m so happy for you.”

     “Thank you. This is what I’ve always wanted—to teach young people to understand the importance of the English language.”

     “When will I see you?”

     “Soon. The term ends in two weeks and then I have a month internship at a high school near the college. I’ll let you know the exact date, when I find out a little bit more about my schedule.”

     “This is fantastic news. In my wildest dreams, I never believed you’d be coming back.”

     “But I am, Mom. I’m coming home.”

      The wait was killing me. Each day I’d stare at my phone, waiting for it to ring. And then one morning, as I made breakfast, the bell chimed. I reached for it on the counter, pressed, “YES,” and muttered, “Hello.”

     “Hi, Mom,” Melody said cheerfully. “Can you pick me up at the airport next Thursday? My flight arrives at two o’clock.”

     “Yes, certainly. Two o’clock. I’ll be there. What airline?”

     “Southwest, Flight 1236. I’m coming home.”

     Little did I know what the future held for me? In a follow-up email, I agreed to meet Melody outside the terminal housing Southwest. When I arrived, I saw her standing by the curb dressed in a white blouse and black slacks, with a Cheshire cat grin on her face.

     I pulled up to the curb. She opened the passenger side door, tossed her backpack into the back seat, and jumped into the front seat beside me. “Hi, Mom,” she squealed.

     “Hello, Melody. You look great, dear. But where’s the rest of your luggage. You are moving here. This isn’t just a visit?”

     “Oh, no. I’ve shipped the rest of my stuff. It’ll be here Monday. Couldn’t carry it all.”

     “So, tell me about your new job at Westwood High.”

     “Which job?”

     “You have more than one?” I asked in disbelief. “I thought you were going to teach English.”

     “Well, yes and no.”

     “Okay, which is it, yes or no.”

     “I can’t tell you now. When I have all the details ironed out, I’ll talk to you about them.”

     “Why are you being so evasive?”

     “I’m not. Just don’t have enough information to share now. So you’ll have to wait until I do.”

     “Okay, but it better be soon.” I put the car in “Drive” and headed toward the freeway. Twenty-six minutes later, we rolled up to the house. I grabbed Melody’s backpack from the backseat and we went in. A new episode in the life of Melody and Mona Majic had begun.

     Our new relationship seemed similar to the one we had in her teenage years, yet stranger. At times, when she came into the room, an eerie aura surrounded her. She seemed to have a dark side that I couldn’t quite pinpoint—one that emerged from time to time and then disappeared into the recesses of the daughter I wanted her to be. And those were the fun times.

     I decided not to pressure Melody about school and her teaching position. Yet I noticed changes in her. She died her hair jet-black. Not what you’d expect from a beautiful redhead. And her clothing became drab, at first, and then pitch-black—her skirt, blouse, and boots, all alike.

     This troubled me so much I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I sat by the front door on this blustery October day and waited for her to come home from school.

     Just as I was about to drift off into Neverland, she came crashing through the door. Swinging her arms, she hit me in the chest. I grimaced and shouted, “Slow down Ms. Teacher. If you don’t kill me, you’re liable to kill yourself.”

     “Huh, what’re you talking about?” she queried, somewhat out of breath.

     “Didn’t you feel your arm slam into my body?”

     “No. But I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to go.”

     “You just came in. Where do you have to go?

     “To Westwood.”

     “Why? That’s where you’ve been all day. It’s almost five. Dinner is at six.”      

     “I’ve just got to.”

     “That won’t do. You tell me now. You may be an adult, but you still live under my roof.”

     “Later. I’ll tell you later,” she stammered,

     “That’s what you always say, but you never do,” I lamented.

     “But I will. I promise.”

     “Which excuse will you use next time? The same one or will you be more creative?”

     “Witch . . . one . . . would . . . you . . . like . . . me . . . to . . . use? she asked, drawing her words out in such an eerie fashion, it made me shake. “I’ll . . . be . . . back . . . by . . . six.”

     She didn’t give me a chance to answer. She threw her backpack on the floor next to the china cabinet and left. History had repeated itself and I didn’t know why.

The Witch Of Westwood

“The Story Concludes”

     Melody was never an easy child to deal with. If you didn’t do it her way, she became disgruntled and would stare at you, making you feel quite uneasy. Now a teacher in her third month at Westwood High, she had a habit of avoiding answering any question I’d ask her about work. Although answering questions had always been a hurdle keeping us apart, I never got used to it. It still made me very uneasy and I didn’t think she could be comfortable with the situation either. Living together was at times nightmarish.

     I wanted to prove to her I was a caring parent and that I had an interest in what was happening at school. Yet I didn’t want to be too intrusive. However, I did want a response to my questions. She was an adult now and should understand that what she was doing was unacceptable. I wondered if she was doing this on the job, too, but knew if I asked, she wouldn’t answer.

     Halloween was three days away—a time for kids and others to select a costume fitting for the occasion. However, Melody already had started to dress the part over a month ago. I’d gotten used to her red hair dyed black and the black garments and boots she’d wear to campus everyday. That being said, this was something which I had trouble accepting.

     I had just gotten home from the store, when I heard a crash come from Melody’s room. I raced down the hall, grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it. It was locked. ”Melody!” I yelled. “Are you all right?” No response. “Melody, please answer me.”

     That was a foolish request. Why would she respond to me now? She never does. Assuming she was all right, I let go of the doorknob, turned, and began to walk away. And then, the door opened. I spun around and saw something I wished I hadn’t seen—Melody standing straight up like a statue in a ghoulish, mystery museum.

     “Helloooooooooo, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm . . .”

     I had no idea how to respond. Where was my daughter? Who was this monster?

     “Helloooooooooo, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm . . .”

     Totally spooked, but knowing I had to say something, I pulled myself together and muttered, “Hi, Melody.”

     “What . . . are . . . you . . . staring . . . at, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm?”

     My tongue was so twisted in my mouth, nothing came out.

     “Answer . . . me, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm.”

     The shoe was on the other foot. Only I wanted to answer, but couldn’t. I was breathing so hard I thought I’d have a heart attack. I couldn’t catch my breath.

     “If . . . you’re . . . not . . . going . . . to . . . speak . . . to . . . me, . . . Mommmmmmmmmm, . . . I’m . . . going . . . back . . . into . . . my . . . room.”

     Before I could say anything, she was gone. I heard the door lock. I couldn’t believe what had happened. Who was she? She wasn’t my daughter. At her worst, my daughter was still human. This thing wasn’t. What did this witch do with my daughter? I began to sob uncontrollably.

     The next thing I knew, my alarm clock startled me out of a sound sleep. How I’d gotten into bed was beyond me, but I was there. I hit the alarm “Off” button, rolled out of bed, washed up, dressed, and headed into the kitchen.

     There on the counter was a note. It read, “Dear Mom, I had a lot to do at school today, so I left early. See you about five. Love, Melody.” The note was so normal, I began to feel the experience I thought I’d had was only a terrible dream.

     Since I work from home as a medical transcriber, I have the freedom to do what I want when I want to. And today, I just wanted to unwind from the harrowing ordeal I’d experienced. So I did a little work and then puttered around the house doing some things I never seemed to have time to do. I carried my cell phone in my pocket so I wouldn’t miss a doctor’s call, if they had a question about something I’d transcribed. I kept it on vibrate.

     As I bent down to pick a piece of paper up off the living room carpet, my vibrating phone made me tingle all over. Not a bad feeling after what I’d been trough. I pressed the “YES” button, and . . .

     “Mommmmmmmmmm, . . . I . . . need . . . you.”  Silence. “Come . . . to . . . Westwood . . . nowwwwwwwwww.”

     Before I could say anything, the caller, who I assumed was Melody, hung up. I was trembling so hard, the phone dropped out of my hand onto the carpet. I looked at the time on my watch. It was almost five. That’s when Melody said she’d be home. But if that was her on the phone, she obviously wasn’t coming. And why in the world did she want me to come to Westwood?

     Maybe I should go there. Melody could be in trouble. She’s a new teacher. They don’t know all the rules of the game. I’m her mother. She’s my only child. I could help her.

     I put on my jacket and went to the door. It wouldn’t open. But why? I yelled. “Help me! My door is stuck.” Nobody answered.

     I heard people on the street. I screamed, “Please help me! I need to go to Westwood. My daughter needs me. Still, no response. My phone, resting on the carpet, began to vibrate. It jumped. As it did, I grabbed it and pressed, “YES,” but nothing happened—nobody spoke to me. “I’m here,” I chanted. And then what came out of the phone unnerved me.

     “Mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . help . . . me.” Silence. 
“They’re . . . making . . . me . . . wear . . . this . . . terrible . . . black . . . costume.” Silence. 
“And . . . my . . . red . . . hair . . . is . . . missing.” Silence. “I’m . . . so . . . scared.” Silence. “Mommyyyyyyyyyy, . . . pleasssssssssse . . . help . . . me.”

     I was rattled beyond belief. I shook so hard I fell over onto the couch. I dropped the phone back on the carpet. It was still on. Out of its speaker came . . . “Mommyyyyyyyyyy.” Silence. “Why . . . don’t . . . you . . . love . . . me . . . anymorrrrrrrrrre?”

     “But I do love you,” I responded emphatically. “I really do.” And then everything went black.

     The next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing a man and a woman, dressed in long white coats.

     “My daughter, Melody, is in trouble. She needs my help. Help me,” I pleaded.

     “Calm down,” Mona. “What would you like me to do?” the gentleman in the white coat asked.

     “My phone, my phone. Get my phone. I need to talk to Melody.”

     “Mom, it’s me, Melody. Let me help you sit up.”

     “Oh, Melody, what a nice Halloween costume you have on. It’s much more appropriate than the black one. White suits you better, dear. And your hair is red again. You look so good.”

     “Thank you, Mom.”

     “Are we home or are we at Westwood?”

     “Westwood is your home, Mom.”

     “No, it isn’t. It’s the school where you teach.”

     “No, it’s the care home where I work as a physician assistant (PA).”

     “I don’t understand.”

     “When I was fourteen, Dad left us, Mom. You couldn’t handle it and slipped into your own world. It wasn’t real, but it was yours. Grandma and grandpa found you a good place to live, here, where you could be helped. They took care of me. I graduated high school and then went to college to become certified as a physician assistant.”

     “You’re a doctor?”

     “Not exactly. But I do a lot of the things they do, under a doctor’s supervision.”

     “Why here?”

     “Westwood Sanitarium had an opening for a PA. I applied and they offered me the job.”

     “Why here?”

     “Because you were here . . .”

     “Because I was here?”

     “Yes.”

     “I love you, Melody.”

     “I love you, too, Mom.”

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.