Brigit's Flame September Week Two
Eternal moments
by JellybeanChiChi
The following is my entry for Brigit's Flame September Week Two. The prompt was eternal. Thanks to Ruth and Margaret for Beta work.
Some moments become eternal. Not to everyone, but to those who hold the moments close to their hearts. They may not be memories and moments to relish, but they are moments not to be forgotten.
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… Tension filled the 9 year old as she thought about what was her next move. Preparing a meal with her mother could become a cruel deviation of a game show. Make the wrong move and you don’t get a parting gift; you get swatted with a wooden spoon.
A wrong move like over-beating the heavy cream.
“WATCH WHAT YOU’RE DOING!” the mother screamed. “Look at that! It’s curdled! You over-beat the cream and now it’s ruined. GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”
She had to learn how to cook and prepare correctly, or that moment would play over and over.
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… Usually the gymnasium was a wasteland during a girls basketball game. But tonight, the successful boys teamed played immediately after the not-so-successful girls team. There were four minutes left in the game. The high school junior knew fellow students, parents and boosters filled the gymnasium. All she wanted to do was make a basket; it would be great to make her first basket ever in front of so many people.
The incoming pass came to her. She stormed with the ball to the basket. It bounced once on the backboard, and two points were secured.
She cheered. Until her teammate grabbed her by the shoulders. “YOU MADE A BASKET FOR THE OTHER TEAM!”
Be careful what you wish for. Deflated, she wanted to dive under the bench.
“Well, kid,” the coach said, with a hand on her shoulder and a smile on his face, “I got to tell you, that was a hell of a perfect lay-up.”
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… “We don’t know her name,” said the sister, who wore the habit of religious community founded by Mother Teresa - Sisters of Mercy. “But she still needs love. She deserves love, especially since her life is so fragile.”
The 21 year old was among a group of teens and young adults who visited the Mother Teresa Center for Malnourished Children. She lifted the girl from the crib.
She couldn’t have been more than 20 pounds.
“How old is she?” another visitor asked.
“We believe she is 6 years old,” the sister replied.
Her condition was severe, and the sister said all that could be done was to hold and love her. The 21 year old regarded the child. Her skin was parched and leathery from dehydration, making her skeleton prominent. Her hair was patchy, and flakes covered her scalp where there was no hair. She was limp, almost lifeless.
Except for her eyes.
They were open. They reminded everyone she was alive. And she was in pain.
She was a 6 year old who was suffering.
The visitor held her for an hour. The child never said a word as she was rocked and soothed. Sometimes her eyes focused on the woman holding her. Other times, they would be unfocused or looking away.
But then it was time to go.
When the sister put the child back in the crib, a single tear streamed down the child’s face.
She was crying.
And so was the 21 year old.
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… He bounded into her office comically, which made the 23 year old automatically smile. They left for dinner and a movie. It wasn’t a date, just two longtime friends spending time together.
After the movie, they stood outside his house, and lingered around chatting as they had for the past six years. They stood close, like good friends would.
Then they looked at each other. Was it a date?
They leaned in for the kiss.
And they bumped their heads unceremoniously.
They laughed at their familiarity and their total lack of coordination to create something more.
It wasn’t a date.
She watched him continue to laugh about the situation as she drove away.
She didn’t want to laugh about it. She wanted to cry about it.
She loved their connection. She believed they loved one another and just needed the courage to show it.
Apparently he didn’t find moving forward necessary. But more importantly, apparently she didn’t have the courage to ask, “Why not?”
She felt like a coward.
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… “Come on. Give me a blow job.”
She couldn’t believe the words came out of his mouth. The Irish-themed establishment was packed inside and out on St. Patrick’s Day. And she and her coworker stood outside waiting for a mutual friend to return from the restroom.
She smoked a cigarette and that’s when her coworker smiled and whispered those seven words in her ear.
“Dude, what the hell?” said asked incredulously. Did she hear him right?
“What?” he replied, his accent bearing his Irish brogue and his smile showing his boldness and inebriation. “I just wanted you to blow cigarette smoke in my face. You know - a blow job. I miss the smoke since I quit.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, clearly embarrassed.
At that moment, their friend returned. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, our friend here can’t take a joke,” he said. “Excuse me ladies, I’m needing to find a loo.”
When he left, she took another long drag of her cigarette. “Son of a bitch.”
Her friend laughed. “You OK?”
She blew out the smoke. “I can’t believe I’m 24 and the first guy who asked me for a blow job was a priest.”
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… When in a Third World country, cameras always bring children out of the woodwork. Two girls saw the 25-year-old foreigner and begged for her to take their photo. Their clothes were worn, obviously handed down several times over.
It was not an unfamiliar proposition, and one happily taken. Afterwards, the giggling girls asked where the visitor was from. Kneeling on the ground, they watched the woman take a stick and draw a map in the dirt of the United States and Central America.
“Nosotros estamos aquÌ,” the visitor said as she pointed to the north central part of Guatemala to explain their present location. Then she pointed to the area she lived. “Yo vivo en Florida.”
They weren’t that impressed but they seemed dying to ask a question. “Tu sabes Brenda y Brandon?”
90210. They wanted to know if I knew the brother and sister from the 1990s show. They watched the show every Sunday on a small, beat-up television at a friend’s father’s shop.
“Donde esta Beverly Hills?” one child asked, sounding out “Hills” as “Heels.”
The visitor smiled. Why break the mood? She pointed to California and told the girls the duo lived there. They reveled in the information.
How do you tell two 7-year-old giggling, Guatemalan girls that Brenda and Brendan didn’t really exist?
You don’t. You just tell them Brenda could be a real bitch.
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… She remembered what her friend told her when she first kissed the man she loved. “I felt that first kiss from my lips to my toes. Absolute electricity. That’s when you know.”
But her kiss came out of nowhere. She talked about heartache and started to cry. He held her.
And then the 28-year-old man kissed the 25-year-old woman.
After the shock subsided, she melted into the kiss and embrace.
But she couldn’t say she felt electricity. Instead, the kiss simply felt comfortable.
Maybe initial electricity was overrated. If she played her cards right, there might be plenty of time for electricity. For now, she sought comfort and unexpectedly received it.
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… “The head is crowning,” the obstetrician said.
During labor of her firstborn, she had already puked six times. Her nerves were on edge. Her husband hadn’t puked, but his perspective couldn’t be pretty.
“So, do you want to touch your baby’s head?” the perky, young doctor said to his patient.
“What?” she said. “Don’t I have to wait?”
Both the nurse and the doctor laughed. “Just give me your hand, hon. I’ll guide it so you can feel the baby’s head.”
She tentatively placed her right arm between her legs. He gently took her hand and placed it to her vagina. She felt the top of the baby, which sported a full head of hair.
“Holy shit,” she said.
The nurse and doctor had a good laugh at the reaction. She looked at her husband with a nervous look. He gave her one back.
No getting out of this parenthood thing now.
Holy shit indeed.
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… “Oh my God,” she said, fumbling with the chain on the door to the pool. “How did he get in the pool?”
The 16 month old was floating on his back. He wasn’t moving. She and her husband jumped in the pool. He reached the baby first. They got him out, and he immediately started CPR. She watched as he begged the blue-faced baby to breath. She turned her head to the opposite side of the pool where the baby’s older brother stood next to an opened sliding glass door.
The baby spit and let out of a meek cry. The paramedics were there quickly. She was pushed aside as they worked on her baby. She followed them to the ambulance and was told to follow in her own car. She turned away, bawling her eyes out. The paramedic took pity and grabbed her arm. “Come with us.”
Days later she and her husband laid in bed and stared at the ceiling. The held each other’s hand in silence. The baby was safe.
All was over, except the worrying.
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… On a good day, when nature was not being overly-aggressive, Haiti was difficult. It possessed an environment so ruptured that the only sign of life from its ground could be moisture from silent tears shed by the abused earth.
As she watched the news about Hurricane Ike and how it ravaged Haiti, she recalled her visit to the nation 11 years prior. At 26, she traveled there. It was not the first Third World country she visited and it wouldn’t be her last. Yet, friends joked she would smuggle a couple of Third World kids in her luggage upon her return.
But she wouldn’t. Not because she was unaffected by the site of children without proper clothing and with swollen bellies, but because her place was to be a voice on behalf of the children and inspire others into action.
She befriended many children in that orphanage, especially one little boy who never spoke a word. One day, while watching some kids play in the yard, she heard a baby crying.
It was her little friend. She wasn’t sure if he was crying because he was hot, his tummy hurt or just because he instinctively missed his mama.
No matter what, it prompted her to say, “Come here, baby.” She sat and held him. He relaxed and slept for a half an hour. He woke with a smile and was off and running again.
Now at 37, after having three children of her own, she still thought of that little boy, especially when news centered on turmoil in Haiti. His photo stood in a shadow box hanging on the wall next to the sofa.
She did her job. Her stories prompted a response.
Yet guilt plagued her.
“Why didn’t I bring him home with me?”
For her, that was an eternal question.
END