Stories by C.R. Johnson Ronica Black Barbara L. Clanton Geonn

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Khimairal Ink
Stories by
C.R. Johnson Ronica Black
Barbara L. Clanton Geonn Cannon
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Publisher
Claudia Wilde
Managing Editor
Carrie Tierney
Assistant Editor
C.A. Casey
Cover Photo/Headers
Lariel
Layout/Story Art
T.J. Mindancer
Khimairal Ink
In This Issue
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HH
Happy Birthday to Us
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HH
6
Normally I Like the Rain
True
Claudia Wilde
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Vital Signs
ISSN 1939-3393
Khimairal Ink Magazine
is published January,
April, July, and
October.
C.R. Johnson
Ronica Black
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Who Needs Donuts Anyway? HH
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HH
Carrie Tierney
Barbara L. Clanton
Geonn Cannon
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Contributors
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Khimairal Ink
appy 4th of July to our American readers!
We are celebrating a fourth of July of sorts
as this is our fourth July issue of Khimairal Ink.
Our original idea was to offer writers an online
outlet for their short story writing skills. Thirtyone writers, forty-four stories and poems later
this idea appears to have been successful.
Along the way, several of our authors have
newly published books and our illustrator
is enjoying a very successful art career. I’m
even in print with our latest Zerthynia’s Tales
book. Our ad spaces are a popular means of
advertisement and submissions have soared.
Khimairal Ink pages are filled by new and
creative authors. I’d like to thank all the
readers and contributors for making this idea so
successful. If you’re a new reader, check out our
back issues and see where all this began:
http://khimairalinkmag.wordpress.com/backissues/
We have four exciting new contributors in this
issue. C.R. Johnson’s “Normally I Like the Rain”
reminds us of the frailties of life and death while
Ronica Black’s “True” shows how life goes on
even thought we don’t like our circumstances.
“Who Needs Donuts Anyway” by Barbara L.
Clanton offers a glimpse of a teenager facing
a life-altering future. In “Vital Signs,” Geonn
Cannon examines how one copes with a
disability and still lives life to the fullest.
Enjoy!
Claudia
Join us for the October 2008 issue featuring . . .
Games With Chance by Andi Marquette
Iz‛s Story by Doreen Perrine
Who‛s In Charge? / Silent Journey by DeJay
Communion by Fran Walker
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Khimairal Ink
appy birthday to us. No one is more
surprised than we are to be celebrating
Khimairal Ink’s fourth birthday. Our little experiment has turned into a respectable little zine.
We’ve even hit the big time—we’re listed in
The Black Hole (http://www.critique.org/users/
critters/blackholes/sightdata.html).
No longer are we praying we get enough
stories for the next issue. We had to return to
our original schedule of four issues a year so
authors won’t wait forever to see their stories in
print. Even so, we’ve filled the next two issues
and are accepting stories for the April 2009
issue. Yep. I think we’ll have our fifth anniversary issue ready before the end of 2008.
Khimairal Ink is a success because of our great
and loyal readership. Thank you a thousand
times over. But we wouldn’t be where we
are today without all the authors who finally
have an ongoing outlet for their short stories
about lesbians and for those authors who have
stretched their writing horizons to submit to us.
We’re just as excited to publish an author’s
first story or be the first to pay an author for
a story as we are to receive submissions from
established authors from outside the lesbian
fiction genre such as Tyree Campbell, Stephen
D. Rogers, Amy Sisson, and Brenda Cooper.
Now kick back and celebrate our fourth July
issue with us. The entertainment is on us.
Carrie
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Khimairal Ink
f I were to turn my face toward the clouds I
would feel this mist as a cool caress; instead
I keep my eyes on the face of the angry gentleman in the white Buick so insistent upon going
around me onto the street beyond.
“I have an appointment.” His voice is deep
with frustration and a bit of anger. His eyes glow
with self importance. Does that self image come
with the accumulation of decades, I wonder?
I estimate his age at approximately seventyeight, weight close to two hundred and forty on
a tall frame, barrel chest and nicotine stains on
his hands but no smell of smoke. There’s a slight
tremor to his hands and a cane along his thigh
at the center of the seat. Walking any distance
in this rain will not be comfortable for him.
I don’t move.
The rain has gathered to drip off the brim of
my cap in a steady rhythm: 20cc’s per minute.
There is a chill of it along my nape where my
collar gaps as I duck my head to speak into the
car window.
This conversation is circular. He’s informed
me of his pending appointment for the third
time, as if I am an idiot. “Yes sir.” I nod, water
finding its way past my hair and seeking new
territory between my shoulder blades. I wish I
had grabbed my rain gear, but it hadn’t been
raining just over an hour ago when I’d been
paged. “I understand. If you’d like to park in the
East lot and walk through the building, you may
do so. Or, if you wish, you may wait here until
the road opens and it is safe to proceed.” Three
times I’ve said these same words in exactly the
same quiet tone.
I should be bored with this.
I should be pissed.
I should be sending this guy away with a terse
comment and get back into the rig out of the
rain.
I do not want to get back in that rig.
“74, we need you in the ER. Copy?” The voice
is in stereo, the remote at my shoulder echoed
at a greater volume from the loudhailer in the
light bar off the rig. I reach inside my jacket to
key the mic, the chord moving a bit along my
back reminding me of a snake.
“74 copy. Need a replacement for traffic @
Drury and Fallwood to comply.” My own voice
now over the loudhailer. I don’t speak loudly, but
it carries. No feedback.
The man in the Buick narrows his eyes at me.
He’s gonna try to make a break for it and
go around. It’s in the set line of his jaw, in the
superior nature of his seat on the wide leather
padding Buick built just for him. I forestall him
with a hand to the A post and lean into the
window. “Sir, this roadway is closed for safety
reasons. When the helicopter leaves, we will
reopen it. In the meantime I ask you to either
wait here or move into the East lot. I cannot and
will not allow you to pass until it is safe to do so.”
The sour look on his face simply deepens.
“It’s just sitting there, not even running!” he
complained. “I’m not gonna hit it! I’ll go around
for Christ’s sake! This is ridiculous!”
I’m fully aware of the chopper. I know it has
sat there neither loaded nor running for the last
twenty minutes. I know why, though I had left the
controlled chaos of the ER twelve minutes ago
as soon as I’d turned over my run sheets and
briefed the air crew. I knew only one of those
documents would be making the flight. I knew it
in my bones, but now my head was catching up.
I didn’t want to think about that. I had left that
behind as I left it to my supervisor to schmooze
with the admin and air crew. I was here, in the
rain, and there was nothing else for me to do
in the here and now but to stop traffic and not
think: a good plan. I decided to stick with it.
“No sir, It’s not.” I wanted to hear the rotors.
I wanted to not wonder why I was being called
back down there and clenched my teeth on the
belief it just meant someone was too lazy to read
my run sheets. I looked at the beads of rain on
the glasses of the man in the Buick; at the darkened swatches of his shirt and the upholstery.
I straightened and took my hand from its place
on the A post. “You’re getting wet. Please roll up
your window and wait until it’s safe to pass.”
The look he shot me might as well have been
a shouted obscenity, but he sealed his window
and I took four steps backwards into the center
of the slot the rig didn’t block. When he flipped
me off I didn’t even blink. I used to be surprised
when the elderly did rude or vulgar things. I’m
not anymore. I didn’t care. I was alone in the
chill sound of the rain waiting to hear the rotors.
It had been too long.
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“91-74. Ten twenty two. Remain on station.”
Voices always sound lonely off the loudhailer in
the rain; hollow and apart.
Mine was no exception. “Ten four.” I’d done
good; found a spot where my body was more
valuable than someone else’s whim. I had managed to buy myself a little peace.
I glanced down the hill at the sound of a muffled
shout. There were more cars below; a cruiser’s
lights cutting through the mist in strobes of piercing white, red, and amber. The officer in the gap
down there was yelling at the driver of a Honda.
I could guess why. The airship sat forlorn and
inanimate on the helipad not two hundred yards
down slope of my own multi-hued flashers. I
wished it on its way.
Over the radio came one terse call. “Loading
now.” There would be no response from those
of us on perimeter.
I turned back to face the cars lining the blocked
lanes. The man in the Buick glared. There
were now four other cars behind him, waiting. I
scanned the cars lining the side of the road that
faced onto the pool and park. The faces of little
kids and some adults peered through the foggy
glass to catch a glimpse of the scene below.
There is excitement in their expressions. Their
eyes are large with anticipation, with curiosity
and questions. I know what they are seeing. I
know what they can’t see. I can’t look at them
for very long. It makes me think too much, and I
don’t want to think.
When I hear the whine of the turbine starting,
when the pitch of that sound begins to both climb
and deepen, I scan the perimeter to make sure
no one on foot is getting close. The rain helps.
They stay in their cars. In the window of a small
Nissan is a young toddler, his face pressed
against the glass as his pacifier is worked furiously between pudgy lips. His eyes are round
and very blue.
I look away.
The rotors are whipping the air into a froth
below and I can hear the change in the echo
as the ship begins to lift and angle up and over
the road, away from the buildings. Its path takes
it over my shoulder and then in an arc north
east. I look below. Law enforcement is moving
toward their cruisers. “Med Flight1, dispatch. Off
the deck with one for Regions @ 1123hrs. ETA,
twenty-seven minutes.” The words boomed
out over the rain soaked intersection, the pilots’
report picked up as both the radio in the rig and
on my hip scanned. There would be no catching
the response from the dispatch in the cities: the
distance too great for ground communications.
I shook my head and shoulders as I reached
for the door, water sheeting off me as more
gathered. It was senseless, a way only to delay
getting back into this rig and the stench of
trauma that yet clung to it. I climbed into the
cab and let the echo of blood and fear and loss
wash over me because there was nothing else
to do.
The silence inside the cab was punctuated by
the patter of rain and the soft flow of radio traffic
as each unit went ten eight. I switched off the
external speaker and glanced at the roadway.
The old man in the Buick continued to glare. I
put the rig into gear and rolled toward the ER
entrance, shutting down the lights and calling
in to dispatch to report this rig ten eight from
traffic control/ten six at the ER. I still had
paperwork to do and this rig wasn’t ready for
service. The diesel’s clatter had a calming effect
as I finished my three point turn and whipped
tight around the corner toward the ER entrance.
The high center of gravity made the van wallow
like a galloping hippo in the tight turn, but there
was no one in the back to worry about. There’s
a difference in how you handle a rig when it’s
loaded and when it’s not. A little kid waved, smiling shyly from a rain streaked window. I waved
back. I think I smiled. Reflex.
The bay area was full of vehicles, 270 was in
the bay, doors wide, cot missing. I ran 271 up
onto the side walk about twenty feet back and
left it running. The route was clear for us to take
270 out if we needed. The big box was our
primary rig, and closer into being in service than
the van. 271 was our transfer rig, a van, sleeker,
more fuel efficient, lighter and faster without the
dualies or the interior room. They carried identical gear, were laid out much alike, 271 was just
a tighter fit and took drifts better in blizzards.
I’d spent what seemed like years of my life
in both rigs: Ten years, to be precise. I’d seen
different iterations of each rig, we were on our
fifth version of 270, and third of 271, had a third
rig at the base (272), and they were talking a
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forth now that we kept a chopper and flight crew
at the airport. For a town of 6000, we sure as
hell worked our asses off. I guess being the
only ALS company within a hundred miles and
belonging to the only level one trauma institute
in the cities had something to do with it. The rigs,
the uniforms, the way we worked, it all set us at
a high standard of care, but blood and distress
smell the same no mater what you’re wearing,
and the stench in this rig was bad. I climbed
out and hopped down relieved for a seconds’
respite and the relatively clean wash of rain and
diesel fumes as I walked through the open bay
door.
My clipboard and run sheets were where I’d
left them in the ambulance bay along with the
other rig. The spray of a hot water hose rumbled
out of the module of the type three filling
the bay. A half heard shout called my name in
greeting from within. I waved at the two inside
scrubbing; used sign to inform them of the other
rig’s location and walked out of the path of the
spray. I was wet enough.
My partner was scrubbing down the cot, a
bucket of hot water and Buecoupe already
mixed and a mop in the wringer, waiting. She
tossed me a smile as I walked in, nodded toward
the transformer cage where I prefer to write my
reports. It was warm there, and out of sight of
everyone, including the surveillance cameras.
“It’s cleaned. So’s your pen,” she shouted over
the din. “I’ll get Scooby and scrappy doo to start
on Bravo . . .” I could’ve kissed her for that small
kindness, but even as I started to thank her,
she interrupted me, her eyes grave behind the
smile. “Elliot’s looking for ya.”
I nodded, knowing what she didn’t want to say,
yelled a ‘thanks’ over the sluicing whoosh of the
hose and continued on past the transformer box
where I snagged my clip board and pen and
on to the double doors leading into the service
hall.
The relative quiet here was like a hammer.
Too much can escape you in that kind of quiet.
I hurried through into the relative chaos of the
hospital’s emergency area where the families
were beginning to gather. Tiny knots of
distressed and bereft persons, some alone
while others clung tightly to one another, formed
an unintentional obstacle course through which
I threaded my way. I was suddenly very conscious of my soaked uniform jacket and the
numb stares I now drew.
One woman, near my own age, met my eyes
with a bare and desperate longing too deep for a
soul to survive. She stood over a weeping man,
her husband, slowly stroking his back while she
looked out onto a world she no longer recognized. I knew her. She had a seventeen year
old daughter and a three month old grandson.
I’d taken the daughter north on a transfer four
months ago due to pre-partum bleeding . . .
A flash of silver off to the side and my eyes
darted to catch and catalogue. One of the big
fish in the aquarium, flat, round, and oblivious.
I watched it dart after something I couldn’t see
from this distance and wondered what the hell
Elliot needed.
. . . Amazing what the mind will do to protect
itself.
I kept walking as the knowledge took up
residence. I don’t like to be caught still by
revelations. Movement gives me the illusion of
will.
As I turned the corner I spotted Elliot. Covered
in dust, his uniform bloodied and torn, he was
being herded into x-ray: his hands swollen, the
right one deformed. There was a firefighter
beside him in much the same shape, though his
turn out gear had survived intact. Elliot saw me
and nodded me over, his expression lost behind
thick glasses.
As they strode into imaging I followed, closing
the door behind. He hung back to close in, his
back and my lack of height affording us each a
modicum of privacy within the small anteroom.
“Say . . . I need for you and Terri to cover as duty
crew the rest of this shift for me if you could.
Allen and I are both pretty banged up. Would
you do that for me please?” He didn’t meet my
eyes as he spoke. He never did. Just as he
always used more words than necessary to
convey his thoughts. He preferred a roundabout
approach to life that had taken me years to learn
to ignore.
“Of course.” I looked at his hands as he spoke.
The gravel had been sharp, the deformities
abraded and white with dust.
“They took out the mom. You knew that, right?”
This is why he’d been asking for me. He didn’t
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want me to hear from one of the others. They
were young: too young to understand what had
happened. Still invincible in shiny new gear, still
pumped with the adrenaline of the be-knighted,
they would have been examining each step of
the run, each angle. They would have been
feasting on their own pride. I’d been there once,
a decade ago.
After a decade, pride is a waste of my time.
“I guessed.” My voice sounded normal. What
an amazing thing, to feel nothing. What a truly
disturbingly inhuman thing . . .
He was watching me, those oblique glances
taking in every nuance. He knew me well enough
after all these years to think he knew when I
needed prodding. I don’t suffer prodding well.
“The passenger is going out by ground to St Jo’s.
You’ll be leaving in about a half hour. Fractured
pelvis and bilateral femur fractures. We had her
in MAST. They’re still up. She was unresponsive
when we were digging her out, but she’s been
pretty oriented since so the docs aren’t really
worried. I’d watch it with her though.”
I nodded. He was saying things I already knew.
What else was he working up to?
“Transfer rig isn’t back in service yet. She’s
gonna take awhile.” The rigs are always “she.” I
wouldn’t trust a rig that wasn’t.
Silly, huh?
“Go ahead and take 270. We’ve still got the
third in town too so we’ll be covered.” His face
twitched into a mask of thought. Here it comes.
“I want you to take Jeffers with you and FTO him
on the run. He needs the experience.”
I didn’t react to that. Why should I? Babysitting is part of my job and the new kid had to get
wet sometime. Of course, this particular new kid
was all ego and had neither life experience nor
labial governance . . . This was his first big MVA.
He was going to be insufferable.
Elliot looked at me more closely, actually meeting my eyes. He has nice eyes, grey but slightly
bewildered. “He screws up; I want you to step
on him. I’ve already had a few words with him
myself.”
“Not a problem.” I didn’t really care for the scrutiny. “Any family going with?” This was a one
way trip. Terri and I would be listening to Jeffers
blow wind out his face all the way home. Lovely!
Now I needed to know if I had to muzzle him for
the route north. In three weeks the kid had managed to piss on and off virtually every member
of the crew. If I don’t kill him, he’ll be lucky.
“Her dad.” Elliot was back to scanning the
cinderblock walls. There was apparently some
interest in the call box. His eyes remained
glued to the light there. “He’s in with her now.
Ask Sandy for an estimate on the times. Should
be soon. She has the insurance info on all
three . . .” He was drifting. There was still sweat
beaded on his forehead.
“Get those hands taken care of,” I said, wanting
out of this room, out of this place. “Can’t hold a
brew till ya do.” An old jab, but true. Once he got
a crew lined up as our second he’d peel off that
uniform, climb into sweats and tip a few back
until he was blind and numb. I didn’t blame him.
I didn’t emulate him either. I step outside myself
in other, less socially accepted ways . . .
“Christ, isn’t that the truth!” The laugh he managed was weak, but it was there. We’ve been
doing this too long. Today we both seem old with
the weight of it.
Leaving was what I wanted now. I turned to go
but a stage whisper from him slowed me.
“Try not to kill him, okay?”
I looked back at Elliot, at the half cocked smile
he was giving the call box, and felt a pang
of genuine fondness. He began to chuckle in
earnest when I raised a brow and grinned. He
was still laughing as the door closed softly
behind, I could hear it as I strode down the hall.
The ombudsman and mental health had
arrived. The families were gathered in a tighter
grouping in the waiting area—all but the one
mother and her husband. They remained as
before, silent. Her eyes staring strait ahead as
the MD spoke softly in tones of careful neutrality
and compassion. I didn’t have to hear the words.
What he didn’t say was echoed in her face. She
was seeing the truths he wouldn’t give; looking
out on a life now framed by the unthinkable. Her
daughter’s chances of physical survival were
slim. The girls’ mind, however, had already
opted out. It had been approximately twelve
minutes from impact to retrieval from beneath
all that gravel. Her skull had been depressed,
her face sheared loose beneath the skin. CSF
had pooled in the creases of the head block with
blood and emesis as I’d worked her en-route.
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She’d had a weak, irregular pulse. Her breathing had been spontaneous. The catalogue of
injuries continued on far below the chin . . .
I do not want those eyes on me.
I stuck my head into cube 3 and caught the
nurse’s eye. Sandy flagged me in, began a quick
verbal rundown of the patient’s condition and
handed me a sheet with insurance info. The conversation was brief. Not once did we really look
at one another. As she spoke my eyes assessed
the young woman on the ER bed, watched the
interaction she shared with her parents.
She was tiny, almost lost in the volume of the
inflated MAST. Two lines were running TKO,
one in each AC. One unit of normal saline was
nearly dry, the other held 500cc’s. I’d be locking
off one of the sites on the way. The morphine
they’d given her would complicate assessing
her LOC and play hob with her respiratory drive.
We’d be bagging her the whole way. She’d
taken a hell of a hit when the car had slammed
into those gravel trucks.
I allowed myself a moment to picture the scene:
the crushed and buried Nissan, the trajectories
of the driver and the infant as they were ejected.
“How long till we can roll?” They’d be waiting for
the CT scan. As soon as it was read we’d have
road to cover.
“About ten minutes I would think. They have
the radiologist on-line.” She was writing up the
physician’s cert. It was quiet; the pandemonium
of the previous hour now spent off into an
exhausted calm all too familiar. The rest of the
docs and nurses had wandered back to their
usual places on the floor or in the specialty
departments. Some would be taking a moment
of quiet in hiding.
I realized as my eyes scanned the room, that
I was looking for something . . . someone and
shook my head in disappointment. She wouldn’t
have stuck around, her emotions too raw to be
exposed and stay together if I walked up on her.
She wasn’t like me, couldn’t shut down, shut off
like I did. She worked in a stable environment
where politics never rested and no one watched
your back. Not acceptable.
It sucked to be the other woman.
How the hell had I ever gotten into a spot where
a married woman held my heart anyway?
Moron.
Picking up the paperwork, I tossed a nod to
Sandy. “I’ll be in the bay.” I left without speaking
to my new patient. There’d be plenty of time for
introductions and questions.
The family had been led away to the chapel.
As I passed the waiting area, it was now
occupied by a young kid with a towel wrapped
around his foot. There was blood seeping
through the pale peach bundle and a tall, sourfaced woman sat beside him, scowling. She was
filling out the forms for admission, and even as I
glanced around, Sandy emerged from the cube
to head in their direction.
Not my problem.
I went through the double doors of the access
corridor with purpose.
And there by the grating where we kept the O2
cylinders, wrapped like a little girl in her own
arms, stood a tall, shadowed figure I couldn’t
mistake if I tried. Half of me wanted to turn around
and give her the privacy I know she wanted, the
other half knew why she’d parked herself here.
This was my area of the ER, the gear here was
for the use of EMS and cleaning only. I didn’t
even slow down.
“Hey Nat.” I wanted her to know it was me. I
shouldn’t have doubted she already did.
“Baby didn’t make it.” She had straightened,
and wasn’t allowing the tears in her eyes to fall.
“I heard.” I bent to pick up a new E-cylinder,
signed it out on the clip board, and tucked it
under my arm like a football. “You alright?”
She shuddered, rubbing her upper arms. It
was cold in the passageway, dark and it smelled
of old wet mops and solvents. “God this is
an awful place.” She wasn’t talking about the
passageway.
“It’s just a place, Nat.”
“You’re taking out the transfer?”
I nodded, wondering where this was going.
“I’m here until eleven-thirty. Come find me?”
We were going to the cities, a five hour round
trip if we pushed it, and we would. That brought
us back for clean up and restocking some time
around eight oclock. She’d be charge, which
meant she was going to be working the ER. I
nodded agreement.
She’d grown very still, her eyes down, locked
onto something below my waist. A look down
showed I was scuffed and covered in wet clay
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dust from the pile we’d been digging in. “You’re
boots need to be shined,” she said quietly, then
walked away in the direction of the ER.
She was right, they did. I hit the grab bar on
the exit with more attitude than I really needed,
pissed at myself, at life, at death, who knew. I
was just pissed. That was something I couldn’t
really afford right now, so I swallowed it.
The rigs had been switched. They had the
cradle and locks out of the transfer rig. The
sound of a mop had replaced the hose and the
shouts of the three at work echoed in the concrete
cavern. Terri was re-supplying the first in bags.
She didn’t look pleased. I could guess why.
She looked up when she spotted movement.
I signed for eight minutes, mouthing the words
since I am loath to shout. With a roll of her eyes,
she angled her head toward the rig where male
voices could be heard in outrageous claims.
The face she pulled was perfect.
I grinned. Jeffers may think he’s god’s gift,
but slime mold wasn’t appreciated even when
it came gift wrapped. It was going to be a long
transfer.
My job now was paperwork. I took up residence at the transformer box and began filling
out an incident report. As I settled in, my foot
kicked at something out of place, something that
crunched and slid aside. Not thinking, I glanced
down. There, next to the wall as close to the
doors as possible to be out of the way, lay the
crushed and bloodied remains of an infants car
seat. Stained white with gravel dust, streaked
red and brown and an unlikely black, it bore
little resemblance to its former shape. The white
background with its happy pattern of rainbows
and suns and bouncing baby lambs lay in mute
testimony to former promise.
I took a moment to let that simple picture
inhabit me as the sound of rain pattered over the
thumps and comments as 271 was cleaned.
Then I turned back to my work, picked up my
pen, and began to write.
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Khimairal Ink
tap my pencil against the desk and read the
statement again.
I am attracted to women who are taller than
me.
Nervously, I flip through the test looking for
another blank question to focus on instead but
there isn’t one. The test is complete save for this
one question. The one I’ve skipped over again
and again.
I turn back to the first page and stare at the two
empty bubbles. One says true one says false.
I read it again.
I am attracted to women who are taller than
me.
I’m thirteen years old but I’m smart enough to
know that this test is geared toward boys. I can
tell by a few of the other questions, ones asking about erections and nocturnal emissions. I
know this particular question isn’t meant for me.
And yet it is.
Because I want to answer true. Because I am
attracted to women who are taller than me.
The pencil is tapping again. Faster and faster.
An excitement flutters in my gut as I think over
my little secret. I clench my jaw, a recent habit
I’ve picked up and continue to do despite the
headaches that sometimes follow. I look up and
stare at the cinderblock wall directly in front of
me. It’s been painted thickly with white, again
and again, the seams nearly gone, covered in
layers of paint. The room I’m in is small, the desk
worn and covered in years of graffiti. I have a
bed and a desk and a small closet. The girl sharing the room with me has the same. Her name
is Jessica and she wants me to be afraid of her.
She cusses, has ugly scars on her wrists and
throws things. She writes Sex Pistols on everything she owns.
I’ve been here ten days but it feels like ten
years. I have been put in this place for running
away from home. I am thirteen years old and I
am alone. The question on the test mocks me
just like everything in this place does. I know if
I answer the question the way I want they will
keep me here longer. I have taken test after test.
They are looking for things that are wrong with
me.
I know answering the question the way I want
is wrong. My being attracted to women is wrong.
Everyone says so. The preacher, my mother,
kids at school.
Everything about me is wrong.
I stare at the question. I realize I can’t be
me, because being me means I’m attracted to
women. What am I going to do?
I clench my jaw again and get angry. It’s my
father’s fault I’m like this. If he would just call me
every once and awhile. Talk to me, tell me he
loves me. I am 3,000 miles away and he doesn’t
call. My brothers have him all to themselves and
I hate them for that. My mother yells at me saying that I look just like him, that I am just like
him, no good, a liar and a cheat.
How can I be like him when I don’t even know him?
I grip the pencil hard and scribble in the true
bubble. Now everyone will know. To hell with
them all.
Someone in the main room screams and I hear
the staff yelling and giving chase. It’s Lance.
Lance falls in love with a different girl every day
and when they don’t return his love he hurts
himself. This morning he was smitten over
Jessica. She cussed at him.
I look out my door which is propped open.
Lance is squealing on the floor, a plastic butter
knife in his hand, three staff members on top
of him. A fourth staff comes running up with a
syringe. I turn away and hastily erase the true
bubble.
I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here.
I scribble in the false bubble. I sit back in my
chair and close my eyes waiting for Lance to
stop screaming.
Please god make him stop. Please god make
me okay.
My mind goes back to my middle school.
Someone else is screaming. Her name is
Tiffany and she’s in all of my honors classes.
She’s nice but the girls beating her up in the
locker bay aren’t. There are three of them and
they are all punching her calling her a dyke.
No one knows what to do. These girls are in
a gang; they have tattoos and high bangs and
wear lots of eye makeup. Tiffany is crying and I
yell at them to stop. The bell rings and the other
girls watching wander slowly back to class. The
gang girls ignore me and bash Tiffany’s head
into her combination lock once then twice. She
collapses to the floor.
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Khimairal Ink
The biggest gang member stalks up to me.
She stabs a darkly painted fingernail into my
chest. She’s dressed in men’s khaki pants and
a dark blue t-shirt, they’re baggy like boys. Why
is she calling Tiffany a dyke when she’s the one
dressed like a boy?
“Don’t you fucking tell or we’ll fucking kill you.”
She looks me up and down with disapproval.
“Dyke.”
They leave. Tiffany is bleeding and moaning.
Her eye glasses are destroyed. I bend to hold
her hand and a teacher runs up and drops to her
knees. She starts yelling at me but I can’t hear
her. My ears are clouded with static.
I get up and walk away.
I don’t want to go back to school but I don’t
want to stay here either. I want to run. Far and
fast. Far and away.
I close my eyes.
Tiffany is now blind in one eye.
I look like a boy.
I hate the kids at school and they hate me.
I am attracted to women.
I relate to no one.
I am scared.
I want to run and this time I won’t get caught.
“Are you finished?” She gently knocks on the
door and smiles. Tina. My counselor. I hand over
the test. I am in love with her and I know it is
wrong but nothing has ever felt so right. At night
all alone in this place I dream that she comes to
take me away. That we go to a place where I can
just be me and she loves me regardless.
They are all I have. My dreams.
She scans through the test and I blush hoping
she won’t notice the erasure marks. She lowers
the paper and closes the door. When she touches
my face my skin bursts into flames.
She kneels in front of me. “They’re letting you
go home tomorrow.”
Panic floods my veins. Suddenly I don’t want to
leave. I am used to this place, I have a routine,
I have her.
She sees the fear in my eyes. “Listen. You
have to find a way. You have to find a way to get
through. You have to go to school.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.” Tiffany is blind and
I did nothing and the gang girls want to kill
me and I want to kill them. The boys make fun
of me and I hate them back. My mother doesn’t
understand, she only overreacts. My step father
rules with an iron fist and my mother bows to his
every command.
I hate home.
I can’t.
“You must.” She touches my face again. “Go
to school and stay out of trouble. I know you
don’t understand but you have to do this for
your own sake.” She holds my hand. “You are
special. Different. Beautiful.”
A tear slips down my cheek. “I’m strange.”
She laughs softly. “No. You’re you. And you
are perfect.”
I look into her eyes, wanting to get lost inside
her. “I love you.”
She smiles. “I know. I love you too.”
“You do?”
“Of course. If I could take you home and raise
you myself I would.” She squeezes my hand.
“Which is why I’m begging you to listen. If you
keep running away you will end up back here or
worse. Your life will be taken from you, figuratively and maybe even literally.”
“But I can’t do it. I can’t be who they want.”
“Just get through. Do what they want for now.
Go to school. Be you on the inside. Go to the
places in your mind. Make your drawings. And
then one day you’ll be free. And you can be who
you want. Do what you want. Don’t let anyone
take that day from you by running away.”
More tears come. I nod. I know I have to
leave. I know I have to face my life, there is
no escape.
“Okay,” I say. She wipes my tears away.
“Okay.” She stands and pulls me up for a hug.
She kisses my hair.
“It’s going to be okay now,” she whispers.
“Promise?”
I look into her eyes. She’s taller than me.
“Promise.”
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J
amie kept her eyes closed as she sat
against the old oak tree in the school courtyard soaking up the early afternoon sun. Her
best friend Todd sat on one side and her girlfriend Cortney sat on the other with her bare
arm mashed against Jamie’s. Jamie wished the
moment would never end. Nobody at school
knew that she and Cortney were going out or
that Todd was gay, too and Jamie wasn’t
interested in being the poster child for gay
sophomore girls at Petersville High School.
“Jamie?” Cortney nudged her with her arm.
Jamie was exhausted, as usual, and couldn’t
find the strength to answer. She groaned when
Cortney’s warm arm disappeared.
“Jamie, wake up.” Cortney’s voice was insistent.
“What’s wrong with you? Todd, help me.”
Jamie wanted to wake up, but she couldn’t
crawl through the fog in her head. The last thing
she remembered was Todd yelling, “Oh shit,
her eyes are rolling back in her head. Get Mr.
Moore.”
J
amie opened her eyes, but the bright lights
made her slam them shut again. Her brain
felt like mud. She put a hand over her eyes and
opened them slowly. She whispered, “Mom?”
“Yes, honey, I’m here.”
Her mother clasped her hand.
“Where am I? What happened? I’m—” she
swallowed against the Sahara Desert that
had become her throat, “—thirsty. Can I get
a Coke?” She opened her eyes and saw her
mother standing over her, brown eyes wide with
concern.
“There’s my girl. You’re okay now.” She turned
away from Jamie and said, “Todd, get some
water, please.” She faced her daughter. “Honey,
you’re in the hospital.”
Jamie struggled to sit up, but only got half
way. “Hospital? Why?” She took the glass of
water from Todd and registered his worried
expression. It was then that she noticed the
tube sticking out of her arm. She lifted her arm
to inspect it more closely. “What happened?”
She took a sip of the water and the world
righted itself somewhat, but what she really
wanted was a Coke. A Coke always made her
feel better. Well, for a little while at least, until
she got that weird feeling again and she wanted
another soda. She realized that her mother had
been talking the whole time she was basking in
the glory of sweet carbonated beverages.
“What’d you say, Mom?”
Her mother patted her hand. “The doctor said
you have an insulin deficiency.”
“A what?”
“Mrs. Brennan,” Todd interrupted, “I don’t think
she can understand anything right now. She’s a
little confused.”
Her mother sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re
right. I’m not even sure I understand this
myself.” She paced back and forth as if trying to
figure out what to say. Jamie hoped she’d grow
up to be as pretty as her mom. They both had
the same short dark hair and soft brown eyes.
“Understand what?”
Her mother and Todd exchanged a long
glance. “Well, honey, they think you might have
diabetes.”
She stared at them. “Like Grandpa?”
“Well, I think it’s a little different than
Grandpa’s. They call it juvenile onset diabetes.
That’s what Dr. Marcus said, anyway.”
“Dr. Marcus was here?”
“Yes, he came all the way here to look after his
favorite patient.”
Jamie took another long drink of water. She had
been so thirsty lately, she drank soda constantly. And her bladder seemed to be so small
that she had to pee all the time. She closed her
eyes as a wave of exhaustion washed over her.
“Can I have a Coke?” she asked behind closed
eyes. “And where’s Cortney?” She didn’t try to
hide the irritation in her voice.
Todd took her hand. “Cortney, uh, had to go
home. And, sweetie, you can’t have a Coke. The
doctor said you shouldn’t drink sodas anymore.
Right, Mrs. Brennan?”
“That’s right.”
No more Cokes? What was that all about?
Jamie opened her eyes and found Todd hovering over her like a worried mom. Todd was so
good looking with his unkempt sandy brown hair
and always-twinkling hazel eyes. Even when
he was worried about her, he was sweet. “You
should have a boyfriend, Todd,” she blurted.
“You’re so cute.”
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Khimairal Ink
His face turn red. “Uh, thanks, sweetie, but
we’ll talk about that some other time, okay?” He
patted her hand as if to say, “Not now, dork! Your
mother’s here.” Oh, right, she wasn’t supposed
to say anything about being gay in front of her
mother. Oops. Her mother didn’t even know
that Cortney was more than a friend. No, moms
didn’t usually want to know about stuff like that.
“Where’s Dad?” Jamie turned her attention
back to her mom.
“Oh, he’s on his way. As soon as he heard his
baby girl had fainted at school, he dropped
everything. He should be here any minute.”
“I fainted?”
Todd squeezed Jamie’s hand. “You don’t
remember?”
“No, the last thing I remember was eating
lunch with you and Cortney and then I felt kind
of weird and just wanted to sleep. Wait, I think
you yelled at me or something.”
Todd laughed. “So you don’t remember Mr.
Moore shouting, ‘Call 911! Call 911!,’ and then
the ambulance ride?”
“No way! Ambulance ride?” Her mother helped
her sit up in the hospital bed. “Oh, man, my first
ambulance ride and I was passed out. Dang.”
Jamie smiled when Todd laughed at her. He
said, “You’re crazy. Do you know that?”
Jamie nodded and then took another sip of
water. Water sucked. Maybe when everybody
left, she’d sneak out and find a soda machine.
Where was her jacket, she had change in one
of the pockets.
“Oh, and you weren’t exactly passed out in the
ambulance,” Todd added.
“I wasn’t?”
“Uh, no, apparently you punched one of the
EMTs.”
“No way!”
“Yes way. They had to restrain you.”
“Oh, my God. Is the EMT okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. You weigh all of what,
ninety-nine pounds? You don’t pack much of a
punch.”
“Mom, what happened to me? Am I . . .
okay?”
Her mother put on her best everything-is-going-to-be-okay face. “We think so, honey. Dr.
Marcus said your blood sugar was too high and
you had a reaction. This is probably why you
haven’t been able to put on any weight. And he
said that lots of kids live with diabetes and have
a pretty normal life.”
Jamie didn’t want to say it out loud, but
her life had been far from normal to this point.
Cortney . . .
“Todd, where’s Cortney?”
“I told you, sweetie, she had to go home.”
“Oh.” Jamie leaned back against the pillows
and closed her eyes. Even though her brain was
still muddy about being in the hospital, the fact
that Cortney wasn’t there came through loud
and clear.
J
amie leaned against the oak tree with Todd
on her right and Cortney on her left. Three
weeks had passed since her fabulous fainting act
in the courtyard. She took out her glucose meter
and pricked the side of her finger. Squeezing her
finger, she watched as a small bubble of blood
oozed out. She swabbed the blood onto the tab.
Within seconds her glucose level popped up on
the digital screen.
“What’d you get, sweetie?” Todd looked over
from his side of the tree.
“Seventy.”
“Is that good?”
“Yeah. Well, no, it’s too low, but I’m about to
eat anyway, so I’ll be okay.”
“When do you have to check your sugar—?”
“Shooting up again, Jamie?” Sean Manfred
shouted and laughed with his entourage of
friends in tow. Marcy Dunbar, one of the girls
in the group, hit him on the arm and told him
to shut up. Jamie could never figure out why
someone as nice and as cute as Marcy would
hang out with a low-life like Sean.
Cortney said quietly, “Don’t listen to them,
Jamie. They’re jerks.”
Jamie put her glucose meter away. “I know.
I can’t hide, right? I mean, if I don’t check my
sugar levels I could go back to feeling rotten
again. I mean, Dr. Marcus said that diabetes
could wreck my heart or kidneys or eyes. Some
people go blind. I’m freakin’ fifteen. I don’t want
to go blind.”
Todd put an arm around her and pulled her
into a quick hug. “We know, sweetie, we know.
Don’t we Cortney?”
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Khimairal Ink
Cortney patted Jamie’s leg as if she were a
puppy. “Yeah, we know.”
Todd pulled his arm back and Jamie couldn’t
help wishing that Cortney would put her arm
around her, but they were at school and that
couldn’t ever happen. Especially not now with all
the attention on the girl that fainted. She hated
the way everybody stared at her as if they could
catch it. And her teachers tiptoed around her as
if she were made out of glass or something. All
the attention made her feel like an idiot, but, like
her mom said, “You have an illness and you’re
taking care of it. You shouldn’t feel ashamed or
embarrassed.” Thank God she had Todd. And
Cortney, too.
J
amie pulled the insulin needle out of the port
in her stomach and put the needle back in
the plastic box. The port made taking the shots
a lot easier because she didn’t have to put
the needle directly into her skin. “Thanks, Mrs.
McDougall.” She handed the box to the school
nurse.
“No problem, kiddo.”
Jamie turned to go and the nurse called after
her, “Hey, Jamie, your friends can come in here
while you’re doing this, you know.”
“Thanks, but, uh, they’re a little squeamish
about the needles.”
“A lot of people are. Have you spoken with
your doctor about getting an insulin pump? It
just hangs off your belt.”
“Well, I think it’s like really expensive and Dr.
Marcus wants to see how the injections work out
first.” And the thought of having the pump
attached to her 24-7 didn’t sound like fun,
either.
“Sounds like a plan. See you tomorrow. Same
time, same place.”
Jamie stepped out of the nurse’s office and
linked arms with Todd. “Thanks for waiting.”
They headed toward the courtyard.
“No problem, sweetie. Anything for my best girl.”
“People are gonna start talking about us, you
know.”
“What?” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Two
queers walking together?”
Jamie laughed. “Yeah, or one queer and one
drug addict.”
“Would you cut that out? No one thinks you’re
a drug addict.”
“Then how come everyone calls me druggie?”
Todd held the door to the courtyard open so
Jamie could pass through first. “Because they’re
morons. At least Cortney and I know you’re the
awesomest chick on campus.”
“Phht.”
“Oh, that was ladylike.”
They settled in against their usual tree in the
busy courtyard and Jamie said, “Yeah, well,
Cortney’s been avoiding me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s not here, is she?”
Todd nodded. “Oh. You’ve got a point there.”
“I swear ever since I fainted that day—right
here I might add—she’s been weird. And she
never even asks me about my glucose readings
or hangs around when I have to do my insulin. I
think she’s embarrassed by me.”
Todd picked at a blade of grass and remained
silent.
Jamie nudged him. “You know something,
don’t you?”
He put both hands up in defense. “I didn’t say
anything.”
“What do you know?”
“Girl, I can’t believe how well you can read me.
Okay, I didn’t want to say anything, but Cortney’s
been hanging around with Heather again.”
“Fair-weather Heather? The Heather that
broke her heart? That Heather?”
“I’m sorry.”
Jamie picked up a stick and threw it as far as
she could. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I—c’mon, don’t kill the messenger. Oh, shit.
Speak of the devil,” Todd said under his breath.
Cortney walked up with a stack of books
clutched to her chest. “Hey guys.”
“Hey,” Jamie and Todd said at the same time.
“Look, I, uh, have a lot of studying to do, so I’m
just going to go to the library. Okay? Catch you
later?”
Jamie saw fair-weather Heather standing at
the doors to the library, looking in their direction.
She took a deep breath and sighed. “How about
never?”
Cortney looked confused. “What?”
“Look, girls,” Todd said springing to his feet,
“this has been swell, but I’m going to check out
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Khimairal Ink
the guys playing basketball and dream. See you
later, sweetie.”
“Bye, Todd.” Jamie watched him retreat. She
wished she could go with him. She looked down
at her feet. “Cort, maybe we shouldn’t . . .”
When Cortney didn’t respond, Jamie knew
she’d been right. Cortney didn’t want to be with
her anymore. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Cortney shuffled her feet. “Jamie, I’m sorry. I .
. . I just don’t know how to be there for you.” The
silence grew wide between them. “Listen, I think
we should see other people.”
Jamie couldn’t form words around the lump
in her throat so she just hugged her knees and
nodded. Cortney walked away.
T
he bell finally rang to end the worst day of
her life. No, the day she fainted and found
out she had diabetes—that was the worst day.
This was the second worst. Jamie flung herself
out of her seat and trudged toward her locker.
Dr. Marcus said she should check her blood
sugar two hours after eating, so she usually
checked it right after school, using her locker to
shield the glucose meter from her classmates.
But today she just didn’t feel like checking it. In
fact, she’d had enough. She didn’t want to be a
diabetic anymore. It was a royal pain in the ass.
Once you managed to slog through one day,
you woke up and had to live another one full
of shots and glucose tests and stupid girlfriends
who freak out and then walk away.
Jamie slammed her locker shut and decided
that she didn’t want to take the bus home,
either. Donuts. That’s what she wanted. The
donut shop was only about a half mile away in
the strip mall near the high school. Oh, a small
part of her knew she shouldn’t do it, but a bigger
part demanded her old life back because this
whole diabetes thing was freakin’ unfair.
Standing in line at the donut shop, she felt
dizzy, but she didn’t care. And she told herself
that she didn’t even care that Cortney decided
to go “see other people.” Whatever.
Jamie paid for a dozen jelly donuts, her favorite
from her former life, and headed out the door.
She made her way around the side of the building and plopped onto the cold sidewalk. She
ripped open the box and took a huge bite of one
of the donuts. The dough and powdered sugar
and sweet jelly filled her senses and made her
feel like an addict finally getting the drug she
craved. The first bite took forever to get down
because she’d taken way too much in her
mouth, but she persevered because there were
eleven and a half more donuts to go.
She held the donut up to her mouth for a
second bite, but angry tears forced her to put
it down. She hid the tears streaming down her
face behind her hands. When she could finally
breathe without crying, a voice startled her back
to reality.
“So what do I do when that donut spikes your
blood sugar so high you start to get all wonky?”
Jamie looked up startled by the interruption
from her misery and saw Marcy Dunbar standing over her.
“What?” Jamie wiped at her eyes embarrassed
that this cute girl, a fellow tenth grader, had seen
her having a mental breakdown.
“That donut.” She gestured to the half-eaten
jelly donut in Jamie’s hand. “I don’t think that’s
on your new list of things to eat, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” Jamie rolled the donut in a
napkin and threw it at the trash barrel.
The pretty blonde leaned against the building
and slid down next to Jamie. “I’m Marcy. You’re
Jamie, right?”
“Yeah. That’s me. The freak of the tenth grade.”
Jamie kept her head down. “Did somebody send
you here to watch me self-destruct?”
Marcy laughed softly. “No. I was two people
behind you in the donut shop.” She held up a
plastic bag. “Coffee for my mom. I heard you
crying when I came outside, and I just wanted
to make sure you were okay.”
Jamie smiled in spite of herself. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“You have better things to do than to babysit
me.”
“I can’t think of a single thing, actually.”
Jamie looked up and found herself caught
in a pair of crystal blue eyes. She couldn’t tell
whether she got dizzy from the half-eaten donut
or from Marcy sitting so close.
Marcy smiled in a way that made Jamie’s
cheeks grow warmer. Jamie dropped her head
in embarrassment, but Marcy reached over,
cupped her chin, and made her look up again.
22
Khimairal Ink
“Jamie, you’re not a charity case to me.” Jamie’s
chin felt cold when Marcy let go. “Look, I know
you and Cortney broke up at lunch and I figured
you could use somebody to talk to.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Don’t freak. It’s cool. I’m, uh, into girls, too.
And, well, Heather has a big mouth so that’s
how I heard about you and Cortney.”
Jamie couldn’t think of a single thing to say
except, “Oh.”
They sat in silence on the cold concrete for an
eternity until Jamie finally said, “I’d have to give
myself an insulin shot.”
“What?”
“The answer to your question. If I didn’t put
myself into a diabetic coma with those donuts,
then I’d have to get the blood sugar down with
insulin.”
“Oh, okay. And what about the flip side? What
if your blood sugar’s too low?”
“Give me a piece of candy or juice or something.”
Marcy nodded as she absorbed the information.
“Hey, do you think I could hang out with you and
Todd at lunch sometime?”
Jamie couldn’t believe that someone would
actually want to hang out with the tenth grade
freak, the sophomore druggie. “Um, I guess.”
“You say that like you’re not sure.”
“I just don’t know why you’d want to commit
social suicide like that.”
Marcy looked off into the distance. “Well,
maybe, I, uh, have reasons of my own.”
Jamie watched Marcy’s cheeks turn scarlet.
“Oh,” Jamie said with understanding.
Marcy placed her hand on top of Jamie’s. She
smiled shyly and said, “Is this okay?”
Jamie felt her face flush. She answered by
lacing her fingers with Marcy’s. “Are you sure
you know what you’re getting into?”
“Yeah, I think I do. Now, how about we get rid
of these donuts, okay?”
Jamie handed the box over with her left hand,
still clutching Marcy’s with her right. “Yeah, who
needs donuts, anyway?”
“C’mon.” Marcy tossed them in the trash
barrel. “My mom and I live in the apartment
complex right behind the donut shop. Do you
want to come over?”
Jamie’s instant smile almost split her face.
She nodded and let Marcy lead her home. The
second-worst day of Jamie’s life had just made
a miraculous comeback. She snuck a peak at
the beautiful blonde who held her hand
and knew she wouldn’t need donuts anymore,
because out of nowhere she had found something so much sweeter.
Toe to Toe: Standing Tall and Proud
A collection of stories dedicated to women who overcome adversity, jump over
major hurdles, beat the odds, stand for what they believe in. Women whose
stories inspire all of us to be strong and confident as we make our way in this
challenging world.
“The Night of the 18th” by Milagros Silva
“Sweet Baby Dyke” by Renée Strider
“Jumping Over My Head” by Lori L. Lake
“Kissing On the Ferris Wheel” by Meg White
“Excerpt from The Trees in the Field” by J. E. Knowles
“Dream Frigate” by Olga Godim
“Diamond Dust” by T. J. Mindancer
From Nuance Books
http://www.bedazzledink.com/nuance
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25
T
Khimairal Ink
he cart just barely had enough clearance
on either side for her to stand and shelve
the books. Cheryl Paxton pushed it carefully
to where she needed to be, her neck slightly
craned to keep an eye on the one odd wheel that
kept trying to angle her to the left. She stopped,
kicked the brake into place and slipped between
the cart and the shelf. She took as many books
as she could comfortably hold against her side
with one arm and made sure they were in
alphabetical order.
She had shelved half the top row of the cart
when someone politely tapped her on the
shoulder. Cheryl half-turned, the regular
“eager-to-please” smile already in place before
she recognized her guest. Her lips pulled into
a genuine smile and she said, Kelly! What are
you doing here?
I finished up early and they let me take the rest
of the day off. Can we talk?
Cheryl looked at her watch, then at the books
on the cart.
Never mind, Kelly said. When can you get
away for lunch?
Fifteen minutes, Cheryl said. I can take a halfhour.
That’s fine. I’ll meet you outside.
Cheryl nodded and watched as Kelly disappeared down another aisle. She and Kelly Yost
had been partners for almost three years. Kelly
worked on the mainland, so their lunches
together were rare treats. She shelved the rest
of the books as quickly as she could, returned
the cart to the check-out counter, and told her
boss she was going to take lunch. She pulled
on her blazer, despite the fact that it wasn’t
terribly cold outside, and pushed through the
glass doors into the lobby.
Three concrete steps led straight down,
but Cheryl moved to the left and followed the
sloped wheelchair ramp. She let her hand trail
along the dark green railing and stopped at the
edge of the building. A small man-made pond
was hidden behind the library, a lovely gem set
into the rolling green hillside. Benches ringed
the edge of the water, one every ten feet or so,
and Kelly had claimed the nearest one for their
lunch. Her back was to the library, so Cheryl took
the opportunity to watch her for a moment.
Kelly was a slender blonde, athletic in high
school and still dedicated to keeping in shape.
Today, she wore baggy blue jeans with bleach
stains and a plain white T-shirt underneath an
open Oxford shirt. Her hair was done up in a
sloppy ponytail, a few strands clinging to the
collar of her shirt as she turned and set out their
lunch.
She had carried it in the denim backpack that
now stood open between her feet. Sandwiches
in Ziploc bags held down a stack of napkins, and
two bottles of orange juice stood to one side like
sentries.
Cheryl finally pushed away from the building and rounded the edge of the bench. Kelly
looked up and smiled. Cheryl paused; the smile
was normal, but there was something else
behind it. She sat carefully, bracing herself for
the bad news she assumed was coming.
Hi, Kelly said. She nodded at the food. Turkey
or ham and Swiss?
Turkey, thank you, Cheryl said. She had just
started to ask about chips when Kelly brought
the tube out of the pack. You know me too well.
She wrapped her fingers around the tube and
used it to pull Kelly to her. They kissed and
Cheryl smiled against Kelly’s lips. I missed you.
I missed you, too, Kelly said. She fiddled with
the edge of her sandwich bag and said, Cheryl,
there’s something I need to talk with you about.
Cheryl was looking down to open her sandwich
bag. She pulled out a triangle-shaped wedge
and checked to see if there was mayo on it.
Kelly put a hand on Cheryl’s shoulder to draw
her attention. I need to talk to you about something, she said again.
Anything.
Kelly shifted on the bench so that she was
facing Cheryl. She left her sandwich bag in her
lap and took a moment to think about her words
before she said, I’ve been thinking a lot about
us.
You want to break up, Cheryl said.
Kelly hesitated and looked out at the pond. I
met someone.
Cheryl waited for the other shoe to drop.
She’s Hearing.
Cheryl closed her eyes and scratched the
bridge of her nose. Kelly put a hand on her
shoulder to try to get her attention, but Cheryl
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Khimairal Ink
ignored her. Finally, she opened her eyes and
took a breath. Have you been out with her?
We had dinner. Just dinner. I told her I was in
a relationship . . .
Cheryl held up a hand to stop her. She folded
her Ziploc bag over her sandwich and tucked it
into the pocket of her coat. Thank you for lunch,
she said, hoping her hands weren’t shaking.
Kelly said, Cheryl, wait. Cheryl refused to
look at her, so she spoke. “Cheryl! Don’t go.
Please!”
Cheryl wasn’t completely deaf; she could
vaguely hear, in her right ear, the hum of Kelly’s
voice behind her. She ignored it. She climbed
the gentle slope to the parking lot and passed
a garbage can. She spun around and fished
Kelly’s sandwich out of her pocket. She could
see Kelly in her periphery, watching her from the
bench as she hurled the bag into the trash. Then
she turned around again, stormed up the handicapped ramp and went back into the library.
The other librarian, a septuagenarian named
Amelia Judah, looked up. How was lunch? she
signed, the words coming slowly in her arthritic
hands.
Shitty, Cheryl said, snapping her hands as
she breezed past the check-out counter. She
grabbed the cart that was again half-filled with
checked-in books, pushed it away from the desk
and went back to work. Anything to keep her
mind off Kelly Yost.
T
hat night, Cheryl drove home mentally cursing Kelly the entire way. She kept her hands
white-knuckled on the steering wheel, her eyes
focused on the task of driving. She worked her
jaw back and forth, tapped her thumb against
the hard rubber of the wheel and her knee jogging up and down as she impatiently waited at
stop signs for other drivers. She pulled into her
apartment block, took her bag from the backseat and went upstairs to her apartment.
She locked the door behind her, left the lights
off and finally slumped to the floor next to the
kitchen counter. She pressed the heels of her
hands into her eyes, took a deep shuddering
breath and began to cry.
She had met Kelly three years ago. Kelly had
been a regular at the library, always asking for
recommendations. Cheryl had been surprised to
see how well she could sign, and Kelly revealed
that she had been trained in sign for her social
work. Their relationship had grown steadily until
Kelly admitted she hadn’t read half the books
that Cheryl recommended to her. That had just
been an excuse to talk to her.
Their relationship had seemed solid, but
there had been evidence it wouldn’t last. They
would be in the middle of a conversation when
Kelly would suddenly turn around and start doing something else, and times when arguments
had come to a complete stop because Kelly’s
“hands were tired.” She had been a lazy signer,
a selfish lover . . . but they had good times
together. They had loved each other. And now
it was over.
Cheryl wiped her eyes, determined not to cry a
single tear more than necessary for Kelly Yost.
A three-year relationship required tears, but she
refused to let herself be depressed by Kelly
leaving.
She pulled herself up and went into the kitchen
to make herself something for dinner. Something
light. Her lunch had been a few bites of Kelly’s
sandwich, but she still wasn’t very hungry. She
found the remains of a salad in the fridge, sniffed
it to make sure the dressing hadn’t gone bad,
and decided to risk it. She carried the tray into
the living room, sat down on the couch in the
light of a single lamp, and ate while staring at
the wall.
So Kelly was gone. It wasn’t the end of the
world. In fact, if she made a list of the ten worst
things that could have happened that day, Kelly
breaking up with her wasn’t even in the top five.
She kicked off her shoes, curled her feet underneath her and settled back against the cushions. “Good riddance,” she said aloud, making
the sign for “go” with her hands. She speared a
baby tomato and popped it into her mouth.
A
melia’s eyes brightened as Cheryl opened
the Styrofoam container and presented it
like a game-show model. “Oh! What is this?”
Cheryl put the slice of chocolate cake down on
the desk and said, I’m sorry I was such a bitch
yesterday. Forgive me?
“Oh, dear,” Amelia said. She hugged Cheryl
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Khimairal Ink
and stepped back so she could read her lips.
“Did you have a fight with Kelly?”
Cheryl pushed her hand into her hair and
ruffled it a few times. She sighed, shrugged, and
said, We broke up. She met someone else.
“Oh, no!” Amelia said. She put her hand over
her heart and said, “Are you okay?”
Fine! Fine. But I wanted to apologize to you for
being such a brat. So . . . cake.
“Is it from Coffee Table Books?”
Cheryl scoffed as if it was a stupid question.
“Of course, of course.” She picked up the
plastic fork and cut off the front corner.
She took a bite, moaned, and shook her head.
“I really doubt this can be fat-free and still taste
this good, but I don’t want to know.”
Cheryl laughed and said, Enjoy it. I’ll take care
of the check-outs.
“Bless you, dear.”
Cheryl went out to the check-out counter. There
was a row of books waiting to be checked-in, so
she fished them out of the bin and started scanning them. She was halfway through the stack
when a teenager approached the counter.
“Good morning,” Cheryl said. She held out her
hand, took the books from the customer and
said, “Do you have your library card?”
The kid handed it over, Cheryl scanned it
and saw his name appear on the screen. She
scanned his books and a due-date receipt
snaked out of the machine. She tore it off and
handed it to him with his card. “They will be due
back on the fifteenth. Thank you!”
The next customer in line stepped up and
Cheryl froze when she saw that it was Kelly. Her
face went hard and she said, What are you
doing here?
“Cheryl, I don’t want this to be a fight. Can we
please talk?”
No. If you don’t have a book to check out,
please . . . She moved down the counter and
smiled at the next person to be checked out.
Kelly followed her and Cheryl made a point to
ignore her as she went through the ritual.
Kelly waited until the stranger was gone and
said, I didn’t mean to hurt you.
Then breaking up with me is a very strange
thing to do, Cheryl said.
Kelly put her head down on the counter. When
she looked up, Cheryl had walked out into the
main part of the library. Kelly hurried after her.
“Wait,” she said, even though she knew Cheryl
wouldn’t hear her. She put her hand on Cheryl’s
shoulder and spun her around. “Do you think I
wanted to do this to you? Do you think I planned
to fall for someone else?”
What you planned doesn’t matter. I’m happy
for you. Really, I am. I wish you all the happiness in the world. But I don’t want to justify it. I
don’t want to be the bigger person. I just want to
hate you for a little while. Okay?
Kelly deflated a bit, but finally nodded. Will you
give me a call when you’re ready to talk?
Cheryl leaned against the new releases shelf
and stared at Dean Koontz’s smiling face on the
back of a book. She slowly signed, We’ll see.
All I’m asking is for you to think about it.
I know. I need to think about it. You dropped a
bombshell on me and I need time to recover.
I understand. Okay. I’ll leave you alone.
Cheryl nodded and watched Kelly back away.
She finally turned around and pushed through
the glass lobby doors. Amelia was standing at
the office door, the empty Styrofoam container
in her hands. She dumped it and the fork in the
trash and said, Are you okay?
I will be, Cheryl promised.
C
heryl turned on the computer and, as she
waited for it to boot up, went to the bedroom
and changed into her pajamas. She sat down at
the keyboard and tucked her bare feet under
the desk. A vent was hidden there, and warmed
her feet as she opened the instant-messaging
system. The little icons on the side revealed
Kelly was online, so she began typing.
“Kelly. It’s me.”
“Who is me?”
Cheryl frowned. Her online name was CPaxton.
Hard to get confused about that.
“What do you mean? It’s Cheryl.”
“Oh! I’m not Kelly. I’m using her computer. Let
me go get her.”
Cheryl bristled and lifted her fingers from
the keyboard. A few seconds later, another
message appeared.
“Cheryl?” And then a minute later, “Cheryl, are
you still there?”
She signed off, closed the message window
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Khimairal Ink
and shut down her computer. She had tried.
But it was almost eleven. For the new girlfriend
to be using Kelly’s computer, she would have
to be pretty comfortable. Comfortable enough
that she was probably spending the night. She
crawled under the covers even though it was an
hour before her usual bedtime, pulled one of the
pillows over her head and tried to shut out all the
light of the world.
C
heryl sat on a small stool in the children’s
section of her library. Her knees were tight
against her chest and her back was stooped
forward as she tried to stay eye-level with
the kids. To her right, Heather Grady held up a
picture book so the kids could see the pictures.
She was reading a book Cheryl had memorized
in her first weeks volunteering with the reading
group, so she signed without needing to see the
page.
Heather was a petite redhead in bleach-stained
overalls and a blue gingham shirt. Her hair
was done in pigtails and she had marked six
freckles on her face with a red pen. Everyone
at the library called her “Wendy” after the iconic
restaurant chain, but her character’s name was
Deb O’Nair. She turned the page and Cheryl
glanced to make sure she was at the right part
of the story.
Davey put his backpack on the floor and he
filled it up with all kinds of goodies. Apples . . .
oranges . . . he even put in a couple of his favorite toys, just in case. He knew he would have to
take a lot of stuff. Running away was not easy,
so he was prepared for the absolute worst.
Two children, a boy and a girl, in the back of
the room were moving their heads slightly back
and forth. They would look at the pictures in the
book, then watch Cheryl’s signs so they could
keep up with the story. She tried to keep her
signing slow enough that they wouldn’t miss
anything when they were looking at the drawings.
When they finished the story—and Davey was
safely back at home with his parents--the parents
came forward with coats and hats. A few kids
thanked Heather for the story as they were ushered out. Heather closed the book and returned
it to the shelf as Cheryl started rounding up the
chairs the kids had been sitting in. When she
looked up, she saw that Heather was speaking.
She waved her hands to get the other woman’s
attention and then pointed at her ears.
Heather closed her eyes and touched her forehead. “God, I’m sorry,” she said.
Cheryl made an “it’s all right” gesture with her
hands.
“I was saying that it’s really great having you
sign. I’ve always felt bad that Micah and Lisa
couldn’t join in on story time.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Cheryl said. She hated her
voice, knew it had to sound awful since she
had been deaf for her entire life. She used it
sparingly, but sometimes there was no alternative. “I’m happy to do it. I love kids.”
“Oh, I do, too!” Heather said. “Making the time
to come down here is tough, and I’m dog tired
at the end of a reading-group day, but it’s worth
it to see them smile or he—” She nearly tripped
over the word and covered by coughing into her
hand.
“Hear them laugh?” Cheryl supplied with an
understanding smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have
to . . . “ She made the sign and then said, “ . . .
tiptoe around me.”
“Sorry. I’m always putting my foot in something
or, you know . . . “ She pushed her hair out of
her face and said, “I need to change into street
clothes. Deb O’Nair would never be caught
being this flatfooted.”
Cheryl laughed and said, “I’ll never tell anyone
your secret.”
“I appreciate it.” She glanced in the mirror
next to the doorway and licked her thumb.
She started to scrub at her cheek and said,
“Damn.”
Cheryl saw her lips move in the reflection.
“What’s wrong?”
Heather shook her head. “Nothing. It always
takes forever to take these freckles off, and I
have to be home in half an hour. I hate driving in
this make-up.”
“One minute,” Cheryl said. She hurried to the
counter, took out the bag of baby wipes and
brought them back to the kid’s section. Heather
turned to her and Cheryl gently scrubbed at the
red spots.
“I appreciate this.”
Cheryl shook her head and waved it off. “I
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would hate for Prince Charming to see you and
not ask you out because of some silly spots.”
Heather laughed. “Well, you don’t have to
worry about that too much.”
“Oh, you’re married?”
“No,” Heather said. “I’m . . . not really
looking for a relationship right now. Happy
being single.”
Cheryl looked dubiously at her and said, “So it
gets better?”
“Better?”
“I broke up with my partner last week.”
Heather said, “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.”
Cheryl waved her off. It was still painful, but
what she missed most was the intimacy. The
closeness they had shared. Sitting on the couch
together, reading or doing a crossword puzzle.
She missed that like a physical ache. She
finished with the make-up and made a “ta-da”
gesture with her hands.
“Thank you. You saved me a bit of embarrassment.”
Cheryl waved her off. “Happy to help.”
They walked to the front door together. Cheryl
looked at the check-out counter and saw Amelia
sign, New blood?
Oh, shut up, Cheryl signed back.
Heather was holding the door open for her.
“What was that?”
Cheryl shook her head and mouthed,
“Nothing.”
Heather hooked her bag over her shoulder
and pulled her pigtails free. Her hair hung down
to her shoulders in gentle waves. She leaned
against the railing and said, “So. Partner, huh?”
Cheryl nodded.
“So if I told you that I wasn’t interested in Prince
Charming . . . you wouldn’t turn me in to the
library board?”
Cheryl shook her head, not understanding.
“I’m looking for Miss Right,” Heather said. “I
didn’t say anything because . . . well . . . people
get kind of uptight about that sort of thing when
their kids are involved.”
“Ah. Too true.”
Heather shuffled her feet on the ramp and
said, “So, I guess I wouldn’t be too far out of
line if I were to ask you for a date? It’s not too
soon after your break-up, is it? I mean, I would
understand if . . . “
Cheryl waved her hands and interrupted, “I
would love to.”
“Really?” Heather said.
“I’m sick of eating by myself, in my apartment,
and I don’t like going to restaurants alone.”
Heather smiled. “Well, I’m happy to be your plusone until you decide you like my company.”
Cheryl nodded. “Great. I’ll call you.”
“Do you have my number?”
Cheryl opened her mouth to reply and Heather
put a hand to her forehead. “God. Stupid me.
Um . . . “
“Amelia interprets for me. She’ll call you.”
Heather exhaled. “Sorry. Thank you, yes, I’ll
do that. So, do you have my number?”
Cheryl gestured at the library door. “I have
everyone’s number.”
Heather grinned, and the skin around her eyes
wrinkled. “I think that came out more ominous
than you anticipated.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Cheryl said. She bit her
bottom lip and watched Heather walk to her car.
She turned and went back into the library with a
bit of a spring in her step.
T
wo weeks later, the kids gathered in the
children’s section for another reading group.
Heather, in full Deb O’Nair gear, settled on
the bench and said, “Hi, kids! How is everyone
today?”
The kids replied in typical child fashion, screaming that they were “GOOD!” Heather pretended
to be blown back by the force of their reply. She
wiped her hand across her forehead and said,
“Whew, I guess you guys are doing okay, then,
huh? I am Deb O’Nair, and today we are reading
a book called . . . “ She flipped up the book on
her lap and read the title with an ominous voice,
“The Monster at the End of This Book. Ooo. By
Jon Stone, illustrated by Mike Smollin. Joining
me as always . . . well, you may have known her
as Miss Paxton the librarian, but that’s not her
real identity.”
Cheryl kept signing, but raised her eyebrow at
Heather.
Heather grinned evilly. “Oh, no. This is Deb
O’Nair’s super special best friend . . . Patty
Coates!”
Cheryl gaped and feigned a punch at Heather’s
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Khimairal Ink
arm. Heather stuck her tongue out between her
teeth and said, “Okay, kids, are you ready to
read about the Monster with Grover?”
“Yeeeeees!”
“Okay, then! Let’s get started.” She opened the
book and began to read aloud while Cheryl
signed along. Cheryl watched Heather’s lips
and occasionally let her attention drift down to
her hands. Occasionally when Heather had one
hand free, she would unconsciously sign the
word she was saying. When she finished the
book and said good-bye to the kids, Cheryl said,
You’re doing very well. Heather frowned. With
your signing.
Heather looked down at her hands in surprise.
She was trying to learn sign, through online tutorials and a video Cheryl had loaned her. I didn’t
even notice. Did I do it through the whole story?
Just now and again. She took Heather’s hand
and kissed the knuckles. It’s okay, though. I think
it’s cute.
Heather smiled and said, I had a great teacher.
Cheryl threaded her fingers with Heather’s and
said, “So, tonight. Feel like dinner?”
“Your choice.”
“Gail’s,” Cheryl said. “I’m in the mood for
seafood.”
Heather said, “Okay. I’ll come by and pick you
up after work. It’ll give me a chance to change.”
Cheryl looked at Heather’s blue overalls, her
freckles and pigtails. Change? she said. But you
look so hot!
Heather laughed. “You be careful or I really will
wear this to the restaurant.” She leaned in and
quickly pecked the corner of Cheryl’s mouth.
“Six?”
Cheryl nodded. She took the stack of books
from Heather and went to work shelving them.
She looked up in time to see Heather disappear
through the front doors of the library. She smiled
and slid another book into place.
T
hat night, Cheryl led Heather up the stairs to
her apartment. Heather unlocked her door,
reached in to turn on the outside light and then
closed the door again. She smiled at Cheryl. “I
had a good time.”
“I did, too.” Cheryl signed as she spoke, as
Heather had requested. She was still getting
the hang of carrying out an entire conversation
in sign.
Heather asked, Same time Thursday?
I have to work Thursday, Cheryl signed slowly.
How about Friday?
“Friday is fine,” Heather said. She smiled and
said, “How am I doing?”
Very well, Cheryl said truthfully.
May I ask you something personal?
Of course.
Heather hesitated. Is it going to be a problem?
That I’m Hearing?
Why would it?
She shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I just
keep getting worried that you’ll meet someone
else that it’s easier to be with.”
You mean a deaf woman? Heather shrugged
and looked at her feet. Cheryl reached out and
touched her chin, lifting it until they were looking into each other’s eyes. “I’ve been with deaf
women, I’ve been with Hearing women. All that
matters are their mouths.”
“Their mouths?”
Cheryl smiled and stepped closer. She moved
her hand from Heather’s chin to her cheek as
she leaned in to kiss her. Heather parted her
lips just as Cheryl leaned in to kiss them. Their
tongues met and Cheryl moved her hand to the
collar of Heather’s shirt. She balled her hand in
the material and pulled Heather closer, gently
urging her tongue forward. She felt the vibrations
as Heather moaned and slipped her hand around
her waist. She hooked her thumb in the belt
loop and pulled back, nuzzling her lips against
Heather’s cheek.
She said, “Yes. Their mouths.”
“Oh,” Heather said with a smile. “And I have a
good one?”
“One of the best.”
Heather kissed Cheryl’s cheek and stepped
back. You should go while you still can.
Okay. Thank you for dinner.
It was my . . . She hesitated. “Pleasure.”
Cheryl showed her the sign, and Heather
repeated it. Thank you.
You’re showing progress.
I have a good incentive.
Cheryl threaded her fingers around Heather’s
and whispered, “One of these nights, I think I will
show you a few private signs.”
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Khimairal Ink
“Oh, really?” Heather said. She leaned in and
bumped her nose against Cheryl’s.
“Yes. A whole library.”
Promises, promises, Heather said.
They stepped toward each other once again
and kissed. Heather ran her hands up into
Cheryl’s hair and pulled her head back. Cheryl
moaned and kissed the inside of Heather’s wrist.
“I should go,” she mouthed against the warm
skin.
Then go, Heather said with a smile. She
released Cheryl’s waist and stepped back. I’ll be
online tomorrow. Usual time?
Definitely.
Bye, Cheryl.
Good-bye, Heather.
Cheryl walked down the stairs and looked back
as she unlocked her car with the remote. Heather
was leaning against the apartment door, watching her. Cheryl waved good-bye and got into the
car. She flashed her headlights, backed out of
the spot and drove to the edge of the parking
lot. In the rearview mirror, she saw that Heather
had finally gone inside. She smiled and pulled
out into traffic.
Heather’s signing wasn’t the only thing showing progress. Their relationship, Cheryl’s life . . .
everything seemed to be right on track for once.
She braked at a stop sign and tightened her
hands on the steering wheel. She had thought
breaking up with Kelly was the end of the world.
A beautiful, loving woman who was fluent
with sign language and also happened to be a
lesbian? What were the odds of finding someone like that on a tiny island like this? She had
felt Kelly was her one shot at love.
Now, Heather had opened her eyes. Had
shown her that nothing was impossible. She
rolled through the intersection with a smile. She
owed Heather a lot; she just hoped she would be
able to pay it all back. With interest.
32
Khimairal Ink
C.R. Johnson
Leading a spotty life of misadventure, C. R. has degrees and practical experience in everything from
electronics (she’s a navy veteran) to healthcare; working rigs for over a decade as a medic, teaching for
the state she lives in and training medics in both BLS and wilderness rescue techniques. As she aged,
she chose to try out the cleaner, less insane angle of healthcare and got a degree as a respiratory
therapist and learned that less insane and cleanliness are subjective. She encourages all to breathe
deep and enjoy. She now writes and lives in her own head which she keeps in the land of the great
white north.
Ronica Black
Ronica Black spends her free time writing works that move her, with the hope that they will move others
as well. She is a firm believer in “that that does not kill you makes you stronger.” Each step she takes
in life is a journey meant to be experienced. Whether it be a smooth step paved with green grass, or a
rocky one marred with boulders. She keeps stepping, keeps experiencing and keeps writing. She’s an
award winning author with four books currently published by Bold Strokes Books. In Too Deep, Deeper,
Wild Abandon, and Hearts Aflame. She also has several short stories published with Bold Strokes
Books in Stolen Moments, Lessons in Love and Road Games. She was also published in Ultimate
Lesbian Erotica 2005. For more on Ronica please visit her website at www.ronicablack.com or visit her
publisher’s website at www.boldstrokesbooks.com
Barbara L. Clanton
Barbara L. Clanton is a native New Yorker who left those “New York minutes” for the slower-paced
palm-tree-filled life in Orlando, Florida. She currently teaches mathematics at a college preparatory
school in the Orlando area. When she’s not teaching, playing softball, tiling her floors, or evicting possums from the engine block of her RV, “Dr. Barb” plays bass guitar in a local band called The Flounders
with her partner of eighteen years who plays the drums. Her ultimate dream is to one day snowbird
between upstate New York and central Florida. Barb’s writing credits include two young adult novels
forthcoming from Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC. Out of Left Field: Marlee’s Story is due out in December, 2008 and Art for Art’s Sake: Meredith’s Story is due out in March, 2009. Visit her website at
www.BLClanton.com.
Geonn Cannon
Geonn Cannon discovered the real life Squire’s Isle in 2004 and has taken advantage of it’s fictional
counterpart ever since. He lives in Oklahoma with two cats, but dreams of living in the Pacific Northwest (Like they say in Spokane: Near Nature, Near Perfect). His first novel, On the Air, was published
in 2007 and two other novels - Gemini and World on Fire - will join the list in late 2008 and early 2009
respectively. For more information, visit his website at www.geonncannon.com.