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hilswriting-blog · 8 years ago

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Any Minute Now

Short fiction by Hilary J. MacDonald

The clock is ticking away with waves of clicks and tapping coming from fingers hitting keyboards. You could almost cut the tension in the air with a knife as everyone in the room scrambles to finish their work for the day. When the clock nears 5pm, the clicks and tapping start turning into shuffling of papers on desks and muffled footsteps on the carpet floor. As they start to leave one by one, sometimes in groups, I wish them a good evening from my desk and that I’ll see them again in the morning.

Those were the days. Back when I worked as a secretary for an advertising company in New York during the 60s and 70s. It was the simple 9-5 life. There was nothing special about it, but it was all I needed. My husband and I have four children so he also worked to make ends meet. It was tough at times, but by the grace of God we were able to get through it.

Roger and I are still happily married. In fact, he should be back any minute. He goes to the store every few days to pick up basic things like the milk. Sometimes it feels like he’s gone forever. Don Draper keeps me company while I wait though. He’s on the television everyday being an example of how not to live my life like mad men. But even he has some good qualities about himself.

One of our daughters comes to visit us regularly which is very nice of her. She doesn’t have to do that. She helps me be more active and do things around the house like puzzles! She also brings the extra groceries that Roger doesn’t get. Every once in a while she brings my favorite pie: lemon meringue. It’s been a few days since she’s visited though, or anyone even. It’s starting to get lonely, but Roger should be back any minute now.

___

The burning lights fade out and a thunderous applause roars from the audience. “That’s a wrap!” echoing throughout the room. Everyone is feeling the same sense of accomplishment as we wrap up the last scene for the day. Cameramen are collecting their cables while the models and host exit the stage. The audience is starting to clear out one by one, sometimes in groups. I see if I can assist the members on set before we all go home for the evening.

Those were the days. In the heat of the Los Angeles sun, in the midst of the 1960s. The hustle and bustle of the Hollywood life was an everyday norm for me. I met my husband, Rich, on the set of our jobs at one of the Hollywood studios. He was impossible to resist with looks like his. We got married and shortly after had a daughter; the rest is history.

Rich should be back any minute. He’s gone to get milk. However, the lovely Bob Barker is keeping me company, telling me to “come on down!” for a chance to win my dream vacation. Though, I would never be able to go because I’m pretty much stuck in this lazy boy recliner. I live vicariously through the contestants on the screen and can only imagine the amazing time they will have on their awarded vacations. My dream vacation would be going to Greece. The food, the salty breezes blowing through my hair, the crystal blue water. An old fart like me can dream.

Our daughter, Samantha, hasn’t visited for a few weeks now. I don’t know what happened because she used to visit Rich and I all the time. She has a busy life that she needs to focus on – I don’t blame her for not wanting to just watch the television with me. Samantha never liked me being glued to that darned thing anyways. Mmmm, she always brings the best pies when she visits though.

I hear a rustling coming from the hallway outside of the family room.

“Hey honey,” I call out because Rich should be back any minute now.

___

ER nurses burst through the door rolling a stretcher with them. All I hear is multiple people yelling for doctors as they steer the victim into the emergency operating room. With the clipboard attached to the stretcher in my hand I try to record the jumbled details about this patient. Running to my desk I let the clipboard go, swinging wildly, as I go to page for a doctor to come immediately. I record the patient’s information and wait behind the desk to get out of the way. Almost instantly one doctor comes flying down the hall and stops at my desk. Our eyes lock for what feels like an eternity. I can’t focus on the words he’s saying so I just point to the operating room where the nurses took the patient. He gives a flirty grin and runs off. That was the day I met Alex. So gentle and graceful in his job as an ER doctor, always with such passion. This I saw when our eyes locked that very day. I worked as an ER receptionist during the 60s-70s at a hospital in Seattle, alongside Alex. Within a year of seeing each other we got married, settled down, and had twins. We both took less shifts at work so we could put more of our time and effort into raising our children.

But those were the days. Our children are now grown up and it’s just Alex and I. Alex is still such a great man and tries to take care of me the best that he can by running little errands like getting the milk. Actually, he should be back from the store any minute. I’m happy here in my lazy boy recliner watching Derek “McDreamy” Shepherd woo the ladies of Grey’s Anatomy. I have definitely found my McDreamy. Mine is loyal and dear to me. My daughter is also very loyal and dear to me. She does the favor of visiting us every once in a while, but it’s been a long time since I last saw her. To make life seem a bit more exciting she gets me doing things like trying to knit or helping bake my all-time favorite, lemon meringue pie. The recipe we follow uses milk, but Alex should be back any minute now.

I hear a rustling coming from the hallway outside of the living room.

To my surprise, a woman pokes her head in. I thought it would be Alex who should be back from getting the milk, but it’s this strange woman. Scared, my immediate response is to tell her to get out. A concerned look spreads across her face as she still stands there holding crumpled up newspaper. I become confused when she doesn’t leave.

“Vivian, it happened again, didn’t it?” she spoke softly while she was occupied with that newspaper. Even more confused I stare at her with a blank expression. A discerning sigh comes out of her.

She comes over, places the newspaper on the table, and sits down on the footrest in front of me. We make deliberate eye contact.

“Vivian, I’m Sherry, your–“

“You’re my daughter. Yeah, yeah, I know, Sherry.” I snap at her out of embarrassment that she thinks I don’t even know who my own daughter is.

“No, I’m your caretaker, Vivian.” I sit there, still, with that blank expression. “I come here, to your house, every day to care for and assist you. I understand that this is probably going to be hard for you, but your memory has been declining over the years, and lately it has gotten worse. Your therapists say you’re suffering from short-term and now long-term memory loss; symptoms of dementia. This started around five years ago after the accident.” She takes another sigh and she places her smooth hands over mine. “I’m sorry that you have to go through this again, Vivian. Your husband was involved in a hit-and-run accident while he was out getting milk… and he passed away.”

Feelings of rage, grief, and disarray boil up inside me, and I can’t hold them back. “Where is– my daughter?! I need her. Where?! I need to– talk to her right– now!” I managed to get out gasping for breath between words. Tears rolling down my face.

“You don’t have any children, you miscarried when you were 21. I try to keep you away from that TV because the therapists say that with your recollection issues you start confusing what your actual memories are with what you’re watching on TV.”

After the silence of me being stunned, Susan gets up, takes the newspaper and starts wrapping the glass candle holder that was on the table.

“Don’t touch my stuff! What are you doing?” This imposter is getting on my nerves.

“Your memory has gotten so bad that you can’t take care of yourself anymore. I’m helping you pack your belongings so you can move to a 24-hour care home. I know you’ll love it there, Vivian. There’s gonna’ be different caretakers so I won’t be able to make you your lemon meringue pies anymore, but they have dessert after every meal, every single day. You’ll love that.” She has such sincerity in her voice. This calms me a bit. Sandra takes the ball of newspaper she’s holding into the other room.

“Lemon meringue pie. Yeah, that would be nice,” I think as I struggle to get out of my recliner and walk over to the window.

I draw back the walnut-coloured curtains of the living room window. Before me is the drizzling rain falling from an ominously clouded sky. Children are running down the street with their toys headed for cover. A cat jumps off of our fence scrambling underneath a shed; a young man opens an umbrella and holds it above his lady as they lock hands and continue strolling along.

My left hand wipes tears away and I feel the cold metal of my wedding band graze my face. Delightful thoughts scatter through my mind. My hands rest on the window pane as I stare down the street, searching for the familiar. A smile cracks through my lips.

Leonard will be back any minute now.

The End.

#fiction #short fiction #short story #sad

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hilswriting-blog · 8 years ago

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Thoughts

By Hilary J. MacDonald

The taste of caffeinated blackness has left my mouth, immediately replaced by a rush of unbound, limitless thoughts. Thoughts popping up so fast I can’t capture them all. Memories of my childhood; yesterday’s breakfast; cats; the sexy date I went on last week; the color of some guy’s cool blazer – all rushing through my mind at once. Thoughts that distract me, limiting my capabilities. There’s a feeling inside the pit of my stomach needing to be filled with a sense of accomplishment. Wait, that’s hunger. These thoughts have distracted me so much that I forgot to simply eat. Let the procrastination of eating begin.

Ah yes, my favorite sweet.

Sweet victory my roommate offers me in the form of those Pillsbury Doughboy® cookies with little heart icons in them. I take six. My mouth is bursting like fireworks during the Chinese New Year. Happy and bright flavors going on all at once. Again, the memory of childhood springs up to when my mom would bake these cookies, or when I made the totally adult decision to eat a full tray of them in one sitting – and to this day still believe that it had no negative effects on me. The taste of water washes everything away creating a clean slate. A clean slate that could maybe help me focus on what I should be doing. However, the need for a new kick causes me to reach for some chips left on my desk. Like, who doesn’t need their whole sodium intake for the day? Every bite arid. My mouth is drying out like wet dirt in the heat of the sun. But I can’t help but to think about one thing: how much I want another cookie. I can smell the aroma that they left behind, and it takes me to a warm place.

Literally.

I have decided to curl up in my bed after a long, busy week. This may not be a good idea because I’ll never get anything done like this, but I try to work through the inevitable comfort. The smell of these freshly washed sheets make me not want to leave. Not even for cookies. Now all I can picture in my mind are bed sheets hung from a clothesline subtly blowing in the breeze. Fabric delicately mimicking the movement of the invisible air. This reminds me of the apple scented laundry detergent my mom uses which could make me sleep for days.

That would be nice right about now.

Home would be nice right about now.

A new scent is taking over. The scrunched up look on my face could tell it all. It’s kind of like the smell of onions that doesn’t leave your hands no matter how much you try scrubbing it out. A scent that seems quite out of place. I know what it is. Being so caught up in my mind I forgot to bring my dishes from lunch out to the kitchen. It’s like my mind can only focus on one thing at a time – the unimportant things. That’s okay. You can almost blame that on the ADHD because I –––

-*CRASH!!!*-

The sound splits the air like sudden thunder crackles on a quiet night. Heart rate now fast as lightning. What the heck was that?! It turns out that I have failed to place my ruler in its proper spot and it came crashing down like it knew just when the perfect time would be to interrupt me. A ringing of metal dancing through the air. Hair still standing up on the back of my neck. As I was saying before that nuisance, I can try to blame my past experiences of struggling to get things done on my ADHD. It’s better than trying to explain the rollercoaster that my thoughts go on.

With my room now back to silence, I can hear the slight murmur of my roommate’s music with occasional elephant stomps coming from upstairs. This followed by the crunch of chewing on these chips: a sound that’s deceivingly loud. The furnace turns on every once in a while, which is strangely comforting. The deep lulling fills the void of silence knowing that warmth will soon follow. Now, this is an environment I can focus in. Pen strokes scratching away on paper; a sound that is not uncommon for an artist. All these sounds together creating their own, unique symphony.

Snoring.

Bothersome snoring.

Hearing my breathing reminds me of snoring. The endless, constant pattern reverberating into the dark of night, causing corrupt ideas to run through my mind. Monotone singing is coming from the annoyances upstairs; it’s been going on for days. God knows what they’re doing. The furnace turning on and off makes the water pipes creak and crack. The aggravating, repetitive ticks of my roommate’s music is still audible. This “unique symphony” is obviously one a child would write – and not a prodigy child either. Sounds that were, a few minutes ago, calming now noticeably disturbing. To my left is a bedside table which holds the answer to escaping this raunchy medley. My earplugs. Thank goodness. I tune out the sounds around me and, again, try to push through the deafening thoughts in my head.

Red ink.

There’s red ink everywhere. I ask myself why I used a red pen to write with in my notebook. Red means it’s important, the color of the blood of my enemies, and it catches my eye. Maybe I chose this obtrusive color as a subconscious decision so that I could get this done faster. Smudges graze the paper after falling victim to the cursed left hand. Messy, but meaningful. The lack of lined pages causes my writing to go off in all different directions. My mind definitely has a lack of lined pages. I see the Christmas lights sparkling in the reflection of my mirror which brings a great comfort. My eyes pick up the soft light bouncing off of the tinted paper of my notebook.

I look around to see my room.

It’s like my room resembles what my mind looks like: a jumble of random objects spewed over every surface imaginable. There’s art crumpled up in the corner whereas more art is neatly stacked on the opposite side of the room; those dishes I mentioned before, which escaped my mind again until now; a separate clothes pile for both “used but clean” and “kind of dirty;” stashes of leftover chocolate from Christmas trying to get my attention. I see the ‘baby chick’ yellow color on my wall. I glance down at my notebook so I don’t have to see that sickly color any longer. My dimly lit computer is sitting on my desk, waiting for me to use it when I’m done of this. It’s been waiting for a while. Beside that is the calendar with my entire schedule on it; the best stress inducer invented to this day. Reminded of my procrastination, I immediately have the familiar feeling that I’m never going to get this done. Doubting myself. My notebook still has so much empty space. The red ink starts to quickly fill the pages again, attempting to relieve me of these thoughts.

I feel a breeze.

My toes are sticking out from under the blankets chilling me up the spine. I move around to readjust the blankets so I can survive the Antarctic temperatures of my room. Pen in hand, gripping it so hard that I can feel blisters coming on, while my hand continuously brushes the smooth paper as it glides along with the words being formed. Comfortable in the fluffy blankets of my bed, my eyes become heavy, weighed down by the task in front of me. A sudden pain hits my face as I try to wake myself up. That definitely helped. My hand continues to move vigorously over the page, feeling tired but hopeful. As I’m getting so close to finishing this, I can’t stop the feelings of doubt and thoughts of failure flooding my mind.

I always had trouble with writing – putting thoughts from my mind down onto paper. Either I get distracted or I doubt myself into thinking I can’t do it. Feelings like I can’t accomplish something great, feeling like I can’t be successful. I always handed assignments in late, and I have no idea why. Maybe I was just not confident enough. But how could a bodacious genius not be confident? Thoughts were placed in my head, from either myself or others, that I didn’t deserve to do well. But I’m testing myself. Proving to myself that yes, I can create something I’ve never successfully done before, let alone be proud. In doing this, I am really trying to break these thoughts. I’m attempting something new and I will feel good about it.

I place my pen in the middle of my notebook with a sense of accomplishment.

That’s it.

All of a sudden my head shoots up and my hands slam down with the realization that this isn’t just a thought. I have done it. I have created the first writing piece that I am proud of. I’ve managed to turn all these thoughts into something useful. And no, I won’t be handing this in late. The feeling of accomplishment hits me like the slap in the face I gave myself earlier. I have actually finished it, and damn, does it ever feel good.

#writing #creative writing #thoughts #creative nonfiction #adhd #self doubt #victorious

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