Showing posts with label Defining Moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Defining Moments. Show all posts

Sunday, December 15, 2013

The Black Cat Story: For All the Kitties

This is not the funny today, folks.
Every once in a while there's a story in the news about a dog or a cat that overcomes a tragedy; and the public at large rallies around that one animal offering a home and money to care for it. An animal they had never known.
There are countless creatures in shelters across the country, each one having suffered a loss. Each one has lost a home. Are they any less valuable or fascinating only because we don't know what they've gone through?

So, today is a story about one of these souls.  It could be the same story as any one of the animals in your own local shelter.

Okay, take a breath...

Let me start out by telling you that the black cat in my didn't make it.  I don't want you to read this story thinking there's a happy ending that's not coming.  Especially since it's going to be a very long story.

A Long Story

Since I left radio last year, my employment status has varied quite a bit.  Rather than give you details which may change yet again in the next few months, let me just explain that one of my current jobs is as a weekend/fill-in jock at a radio station in the next county over.  It's not a great job; but it looks good on my resume, and during a period when a lot has changed on that resume, having *this* on it for a solid twelve months is not a bad thing.  Make no mistake, this is not a glamorous radio job.  I am the lowest totem on the pole.  This is the job you take when you're starting out in radio, not the one you take after twenty years in the business. It is a lonely, lowly job.  The people are nice, but since I work weekends, I almost never see them.  Also, since I work weekends, I am alone and  justified in my worry about being vulnerable to not-so-stable radio "fans". 

It is for that reason that I checked all the doors in the building to make sure they were locked and secured before I buried myself in a studio, solitary and oblivious to the outside world.
I was checking the last door, the back door, when I saw him.  A black cat huddled against the cold.  In the middle of the yard.
Odd.  Most animals would seek shelter on a day that threatened snow.  This one was out in the stark elements.

I cracked open the door.  He did not bolt at the sound.
I called out, "Hey buddy!"
He turned his head slowly, his eyes full of pain and sadness.
"You okay, buddy?"
He was not okay.

Get him safe, I thought to myself.  Get him warm.
Well, I also thought to myself, I can't bring him in here.
I'll call the humane society!

But first, I thought I should probably make sure the cat didn't have a collar.  Make sure he was really in need of help and wasn't, say, perched on top of some prey and that I had completely misread the situation.
I ventured out in the cold.
"Hey buddy.  You okay?"
As I approached, he mreowed mournfully.
"Just taking a look atcha, buddy.  Can I come over there?"
I kept a safe distance, kept talking softly, circled him as he continued to mrow sadly at me.  His white feet were dirty.  I don't know why I thought it, but I was pretty sure dirty feet on a cat was bad.  My heart sank. 
Throughout my cursory inspection, the cat never hissed which told me he would accept help if I would give it. 
He was not wearing a collar.
"Hang on, buddy.  Let me see what I can do for you."

Food, is what I was thinking.  I did a mental inventory of the contents of my purse.  I had a protein bar; would he eat it?  The staff refrigerator had a strongly worded notice on its front warning against stealing food that belonged to someone else.  I ignored it and threw open the door.  A half gallon of milk caught my eye.  I poured some onto a paper plate, warmed it a few moments in the microwave, and headed back outdoors.

"Hey, buddy.  Do you want some milk?  Are you hungry?  I brought you something.  Are you okay?  Will you let me come over and give you this?"
Just babbling.  Calming myself as much if not more than calming the cat.
I held the plate between us expecting a warning hiss the closer I got, but it never came.  Only that mournful meow.  He sniffed enthusiastically as I set the plate next to him.  Very slowly and with visible effort, he unfolded his legs from underneath himself and moved over to accept the milk.  He lapped it up as if he hadn't eaten in days.

While he ate, I made phone calls.

Turned out the local humane society couldn't come collect a stray cat at the radio station because the building is in a section of town regulated by another district.  But when I called the appropriate district, the man told me he was only allowed to pick up dogs, no cats.
WTH?
He then proceeded to spout his frustration with the current political climate between his district and the county humane society which was resulting in my predicament.  When he began suggesting that I appear at the next county board meeting and share my experience in order to facilitate change, I stopped him. 
"I don't live in this county.  I don't vote here.  I'm not interested in the politics going on.  My only concern at this moment is finding help for this one cat.  If you can't help me, what are my options?"
The man gave me some suggestions, I thanked him for his time, and began dialing.

What I learned with every call was that I'd have to contain the cat somehow.  No one would even drive to me unless the cat was either indoors or in a cage.  The moment of truth was upon me.  Would I risk my safety attempting to move a stray, injured/sick animal into a building with no guarantee that anyone would in fact ever come to remove him from the building once he was in it; or, would I leave him where he was because there wasn't anything I could really do for him?

I should have given it serious consideration.  I should have measured all the consequences of my choice.  But I didn't.  There never really was a choice; I knew I could never leave him there.  I could not do nothing.
I stepped lightly toward this soul, speaking softly, calming us both.  I slid my hands around his body and lifted him from the ground.  As I disturbed his matted fur, the smell hit me.  Manure.  For just a moment I was holding every barn cat I'd ever lost.  My dad was great about hiding a lot of the truth about barn kitties from me, but once in a while I'd find one in the cattle pen.  The cats would climb in there to warm up next to the cows and, well, not come out.  I never appreciated until this moment the patience and kindness my mother showed me by letting me bring these dirty, broken critters into her house.  And she always helped make up a bed of old towels in the mud room to keep them warm and comfortable until they eventually passed away... usually while I was a school. 
I tucked the black cat under my arm.
"It's okay, buddy.  I'm gonna get you somewhere warm.  Get you some help."

I put him in the women's bathroom with some more milk and closed the door.

Now.
To actually find that help I promised.

I called The Husband.  "Hi honey.  I did something silly."
I gave him a short version of the story I just told you.  And I know exactly what he was thinking as I told it.
First, he worried that I might have been exposed to rabies.
Second, he worried that I might want to bring the cat home.
I immediately assured him that neither of those was a possibility.

This wonderful man of mine decided he would drive across the county to bring me our cat's pet carrier so I could take this stray wherever it needed to go.  No need to hunt for a shelter that could come collect him; no worry about waiting for help that might not come for hours... or even days.

Good lord.  It had never occurred to me I might have to tend to this cat until the following Monday.
See how I didn't consider all of the possible consequences?

The Husband said he'd pack up the cage and some cat food.  He'd come right away.
I picked a good man, I tell you.  I did.

When I checked on the cat, I found him hiding behind the toilet sitting in a puddle of his own urine.  He stood and wobbled over to me, meowing softly.  He stopped in front of my feet.  I don't know if he was waiting to be pet or picked up, but he stood there and waited.
I would have loved nothing more than to cuddle him, reassure him with my touch; but he was oh so smelly and now... he was soaked in pee.

While I waited for The Husband, I went back to my phone list starting with the nearest shelter and talked to a gal named Sam.  "I know you can't come pick up this cat, but can I bring him to you?"  The answer was yes.  Blessed day!  Thank you, I'll be there this afternoon.

I managed to get some work done between peeking in on the cat and looking out to the parking lot for The Husband.  When he arrived, he wrangled the cat into the cage for me.  The Husband was amazed at how subdued the cat was and finally felt reassured that I had not been scratched or bit by this very, friendly creature.
"Thank you for supporting your silly wife," I told him.
"Not at all!  Honey, this is the kind of stuff that made me fall in love with you."

Before I took my precious cargo to the humane society, I walked to the houses next door to the radio station and let them know I'd found a cat.  None of them owned a black cat, and no one knew of another neighbor who did.
No collar.  No one to claim him.  I felt okay taking him out of the neighborhood.  And can I tell you... how did he get a coating of manure on his feet and belly?  There is no farm near the station.  He was probably dumped out here.
How lucky that he had dragged himself into the radio station's backyard.  How lucky that I had been paranoid enough to check the doors when I first arrived and saw him huddled out there.  How lucky that I had parents who, when I hauled various injured and sick cats into our house, allowed me to believe that it was the right thing to do.

So, I talked to and soothed my new furry friend as I drove to the humane society.  He answered with intermittent mrows.  The gal at the shelter took the carrier from me, promised to return it after she had found a cage for the cat, and asked if I'd like to say goodbye before she took him in the back.
"Good luck, buddy.  They'll take good care of you here."

The drive back to the radio station was lonely.  The carrier was empty.  And very smelly.
I cleaned up the women's bathroom.  There were several urine puddles.  I threw away all the paper plates and wrote a note to the owner of the milk apologizing for taking some without asking first.

And then I had a thought.
"Hey Sam," I said over the phone, "if it turns out that the cat belongs to some little old lady who can't afford the fee to take him home, call me.  I might be able to help."
Sam took my phone number and let me know that the cat was an older unneutered male, and he didn't have an ID chip.  So, chances are good he was someone's barn cat and no one was going to come around looking for him.  And if I know farmers, no one was going to pay to get a barn cat back from the shelter.

I called during regular business hours a couple days later to check up on him and learned sadly but not surprisingly that my new furry buddy had not survived.  I choked out a thank you to the lady on the other end of the phone, and she thanked me back for caring enough to try to help.

Because they took him in, because they kept him warm and comfortable and perhaps helped him find his way to the Rainbow Bridge, and because I had loved so many barn cats, I sent a Christmas check to a humane society in the middle of a political mess in a county where I can't vote.

For the kitties.
For all the barn kitties Young Roses couldn't save.
For all the kitties I've ever loved.

Friday, February 03, 2012

"It makes a difference for this one." - A Single Starfish, by Loren Eiseley

While this story stands pretty strong on its own, the short story, "A Single Starfish" by Loren Eiseley may add to your appreciation of what this story means to me.


One year ago, when I was still reeling after the loss of my sister, and still raging at the cancer that robbed her of a good and purposeful life, the local paper did a story on a retired couple who started up a cancer support group.  This all-volunteer support group raises funds to help cancer patients with their bills and medical expenses.  All the money they raise ends up in the hands of these clients in the form of vouchers or a check made out directly to the utility company or to a landlord for rent.  No one gets cash.  They get whatever it is that they need.
Most important, I know my five dollar donation is going to end up in the hands of someone fighting cancer.  No administrative suit is going to peel off his percent and send it on down the line.

I fell in love with them immediately.  I wanted to help.  I wanted to give them money.
You guys, I wanted to crochet them something.  (You know me.  That means it's special.)

So I called them up out of the blue.
I introduced myself as Roses from the radio station.  In case they'd heard of me. 
Said I wanted to help, but I didn't know how.  I didn't have the kind of schedule that would allow me to volunteer at events or anything.
We talked for a good long time on the phone.  They talked mostly, I nodded a lot and kept saying, "That's what I like about you guys.  I've been looking for you."

After attending one of their meetings, I asked if they'd mind if I wrote a PSA (public service announcement) for their group. 
Mind?  You can do that?  Yes, please!
So, I did.  Wrote a script, voiced the commercial, got my boss's permission to run it on the station free of charge, and I put it in the stack to rotate with the other PSAs.  I e-mailed copies to other area radio stations, so there wasn't even any cash spent on postage. 
It's what I could do.  It cost me nothing.  It cost the radio station nothing because with everything digital, no additional materials were consumed, and it would run where there weren't any other commercials scheduled; it would fill time that would have been unpaid anyway.

Some people bake cookies.  I produce radio announcements.

That's where my contribution ended.  It took a couple days, and it was done.

That was last summer.
I feel odd still attending their meetings while having nothing more to offer.  I like to go because they share stories about the people they help.
Like the woman who couldn't work through the summer while taking chemo treatments, needed just one month's rent before she would be able to go back to work.  Done.
And the mother of two who had to choose between a prescription for herself or food for her children.  Didn't have to choose anymore.
The family of the 4-year-old boy with brain cancer who didn't have to worry about gas money to see specialists half a state away.

Every month, they have new stories to tell.
And I cry each time because I know this group has made a difference for each one of these people.

***

This past Tuesday, there was a message for me at work from this retired couple.  Could I please call them as soon as I could?
I figured it was something about the logo we'd discussed at the last meeting or maybe something I'd posted on Facebook.  Whatever.
Instead, it was a client story they wanted to share.  It goes something like this:

Monday afternoon, they'd gotten a call from a man living in his van.  He had once beaten stage 4 lymphoma, but it was back.  His cash was gone because he'd spent the last of it on a major van repair.  (He had to live somewhere, right?)  On the 5th of the month, he'd get a few hundred dollars from government assistance, but before he could receive it, he was required to meet with a case worker in the next town. The problem was he wouldn't be able to make the appointment because he was almost out of gas. The guy had nothing.  He just needed to hang on for a few more days before some cash came in.  But he wasn't going to make it. And... he even spent the last minutes left on his TracPhone to call the cancer organization.

Within hours, this couple verified his last known address, his medical condition, his story.
They met him at a gas station and filled his tank with gas, bought him minutes for his phone, then drove with him to the grocery store to buy him decent food... fresh fruit, a salad... and out of their own pocket paid for a bucket of chicken from the deli and potato wedges.
"This is the first hot meal I've had in a long time," the man told them.
He also said that as soon as his check came on the 5th, he'd pay it all back.
"No.  You won't.  We won't let you."

So, why did they feel the need tell me this story before the regular meeting when they'd share it with everyone?
"We wanted to call you right away because this guy had nothing, had nowhere to turn.  But he heard your PSA on the radio yesterday.  That's why he called us."

***

The one lousy PSA that I thought wasn't enough.
Was everything to this man.

***

They waited on the phone while I wept.
"I have to tell you something," I said between sobs.  "Your PSA rotates with a couple dozen other PSAs.  Meaning once every 24 times or so that a PSA plays, it's gonna be yours.  Yesterday, your PSA came up a lot.  I thought that was really odd.  But now I know why."
"So he could hear it."
"Because he needed to hear it."

It made a difference... for this one.

Friday, May 28, 2010

My Mom Rocks

This is not really a sad post. Even though my mother died one week ago today, this is more of an “Oh Roses, you have an awesome family” post.
And at the end, you will feel a great desire to send me a rock. But, please don’t.   :-)

It began with a niece. She questioned why Barnless Brother had a pile of rocks arranged on his property near the road.
“He sells them,” was the answer.  True story; people pay him a dollar per rock, sometimes more for bigger ones, and use them for yard decoration.
“Who would pay money for a rock?” she then asked.
“You’d be surprised.”

Of course, all of us aunts and uncles regaled her with stories about growing up on the farm, picking up rocks from the fields, chucking them onto a flatbed wagon, then dumping the wagonload of rocks into a remote spot in the woods.

“Can you believe we just threw them away?” Barnless Brother remarked in disbelief. “All that money we could’ve had…”

The niece simply shook her head.

***

When I arrived at the farm last Sunday, my oldest sister (who I will call Army Sister since her husband is an Army chaplain, currently in Afghanistan) told me the pastor had met with the family earlier to hear stories about Mom that he could use during her funeral sermon.

“We told him he needed to talk with you," she said to me. "You got to be home with Mom all by yourself while we were in school. We thought you would have some stories.”

So, the pastor asked me at visitation if I had anything to share.
“Well,” I began as my two sisters listened in, “we didn’t do anything special really. But after everyone left for school, Mom and I would jump on the beds…”
"You did?" asked Army Sister with a wistful look in her eyes.  “Did you really?”
“… and then we’d go into Roofless and Barnless Brothers' bedroom and eat the candy they had hidden…”
“What? No, you didn’t,” my two sisters began to chuckle.
“… and at naptime, Mom would read me to sleep with selections from my sisters’ diaries.”
“Oh! She did not! You’re making that all up!”

Then, I told Pastor this story.
(Well, look there.  It's a rock.)
Apparently, my siblings had never heard this story.  Barnless Brother, who I found out had been in charge of replacing that window, had never known how it had gotten broken nor how dangerous the incident had been.

Pastor gasped at all the right places as I told the story, but his only response was, “Wow. So, you didn’t jump on the beds? That’s too bad, because I could totally see your mom doing that.”

***

Several of my best friends drove in for visitation. One high school friend asked to see my dad.
As Dad shook his hand, my friend declared, “You nearly killed me working on your farm!”
“I did?” Dad smiled. “Did we have you out hoeing beans?”
“No, picking up rocks!”
Dad was tickled pink.
(Look! More rocks!)

***

The church was filled. Immediate family waited in the church narthex for the procession. It was hot, and it was sad. Hearts were hanging heavy. Trying to be strong for each other.

Across from me, Pastor was taking deep breaths, preparing to enter the church. I spied a stray thread poking up from the tassel hanging down his back. A small thing, really. The longer I stared at that thread, though, the more I realized I had to fix it.
Because we'd be looking at it through most of the service.
So, in front of Dad and my siblings and The Husband and boys and nearly a dozen aunts and uncles, I stepped forward to lay it flat. A quick flick was all it would take.
But as I smoothed it, it unraveled!
“Oh no!” I whispered to no one in particular, “I made it worse!”
I hurried back into place as Pastor turned around and smirked at me. Then he came over and made like he was adjusting my ponytail.
(He thanked me later for lifting some of the tension.)

***

The service was beautiful.
My mother’s seven grandsons, dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties were her pallbearers. They were handsome.
Pastor, who lived next door to my parents, choked as he spoke about how Mom played with his own children. He preached on how we are never forgotten, never forsaken.
He said, “She was not forsaken the day she was washing dishes and… dare I say which child it was?”
I smiled and quietly nodded once my consent.
“… the day Roses was mowing the lawn…” and told the whole story about the lawn mower and the rock.

We wondered later if he had decided to tell that particular anecdote only after I'd tugged on his tassel.
It was an uplifting sermon. We smiled, we laughed, we cried.
Every time he turned his back to the congregation during prayers, we all saw that long stray thread pointing off to the side.
And sometime in the middle of the service, one of my aunts pulled my ponytail.  (I strongly suspect it was one of these.)
It was perfect.

***

That evening, Dad, us five kids, and the grandkids all walked into town for ice cream cones. On the way home, we stopped at Mom’s grave. Flowers from the funeral blanketed the fresh earth.
Army Sister sank her fingers into the patch of dirt and pulled up a small stone. “Hey, Dad, is this about the size of the hole Roses put in the window?”
“No,” I answered for him, “it was bigger.”
And suddenly, we all were searching the ground for a fist-sized rock.

By the time we walked away from Mom's gravestone, there was, placed among the flowers, a small pile of five stones. One for each of Mom’s children.

Mom rocks.

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

Nobody told me there'd be days like these.

**Rough evening here at the Ack! Thbbbt! household. Pardon me while I purge some sadness. Tomorrow morning's post will be pretty frickin' happy, though.***

Two decades ago, I was a camp counselor.
I liked it so much I went three/four years in a row.

One year, one of my campers came to me with his camera.
"The camp leader told me that sometimes you guys go to town. Can you buy me some batteries?"
"Some counselors go to town. I don't," I told him.
"But, I need batteries. They said you can go."
"I'm sorry. I don't leave camp until you guys do."

And, we left it at that.
I was sure I told him I would NOT be going to town.
He was sure he told me he needed batteries and I was the only one who could get them for him.

Then came Friday night.
Friday night when everyone dresses up nice and has a fancy meal together. The last night before everyone goes home. Friday night... when everyone takes pictures of everyone.

Again, he came to me with his camera.
"Did you get me any batteries?"

I looked at his camera that Friday night.
And realization pierced my heart.
I looked into his eyes. I saw all of his new friends there. All of his friends that he didn't get one single picture with all week because he had no batteries. Friends that he wouldn't get a picture with tonight.
"No," I choked. "I'm sorry. I didn't."

He walked away. Didn't say a word.

The tears were streaming before I could think. The other counselors standing there had no idea what had gone wrong. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I ran to my bunk and wailed into my pillow.
I had blown it.
He had only asked me for one thing. And I blew it.
I had ruined his entire summer camp because I could have gone to town and gotten batteries. If I didn't want to go, I could have asked one of the other counselors to pick up a pack.
I did nothing.
I blew it.

My heart broke into a million pieces that night.
Eric. His name was Eric.
Holy crap. I still frickin' remember his name.

The next day, someone had thought to take the batteries out of their own camera and let him borrow them. We got a nice group photo after breakfast, and I saw Eric the rest of the morning snapping shots of his friends and their families as they left.
I was glad he got some pictures.
I was glad someone came through for him.

But, I never forgot that sinking feeling. It hurt as if it had happened to me.
How could I disappoint someone so badly?

***

Nobody told me that's how I'd feel nearly everyday as a parent.
Over one stupid schoolpaper that disappears from the kitchen table.
Soccer shoes and shin guards that end up in the wrong family vehicle and head 8 miles away from the practice field.
An old toy that no one played with for three years that got donated to Goodwill the week before the boys spied the dumb thing in an old home video and sudden wanted to play with it.

It breaks my heart. It hurts like hell. It never gets easier.
Do you know this feeling?
How come no one ever tells you how hard being a mom is going to be?

***

I just Googled Eric and found his Facebook page.
He has lots of pictures on it.

***Monday Morning update***

After a restful night's sleep, Younger Son woke up feeling just fine with life even though we never did find that school paper.
I, on the other hand, lost three hours of sleep with a pain in my heart wondering where that paper went.

***Monday evening update***

He had left it at school.
Thbbbt!

Thursday, August 02, 2007

The Last One

I met him somewhere between the ages of 18 and 20.
He was the first one to ever break my heart.
Shattered it.
As I watched him walk away from me, never to be seen again, I wept.
And could not stop.

***

I was working my way through college at the grocery store.
The sun was starting to set.
Just a few more hours before closing time.

I had, by this time, decided that my specialty as a cashier would be to make eye contact with everyone to come through my check-out. To make each customer smile before they left.

I was kinda full of myself.

Until he walked into my lane.

He was an old guy.
Seventy? Seventy-five years old?
Old.
Had just a handful of groceries in his shopping cart.
Very quiet.
Moved slow.

I greeted him enthusiasically, and got a half-hearted mumble in return.
Not a grumble. A mumble.
He was not grouchy/old.

He was sad.

Bubbly me spewed some nonsense about the sun shining and birds singing.
And got nothing.

Quietly, slowly, he said to me, "My wife died a couple weeks ago."

My smile vanished.
My heart sank.

"I'm sorry."

"It's been... hard."

I nodded stupidly and rang up his few purchases.
The last thing on the conveyor belt was a cherry pie from the bakery.
As I rang it up, I could see through the plastic window on the box that the pie had slid to one side and broken.

"Oh, your pie is ruined," I told him. "Let me get you another one."

"You can't," he choked. "It was the last one."

I begged him to let me go look for another, maybe there was one in the back that hadn't been put out yet, just let me please go look.

I looked.
There weren't any cherry pies anywhere.

"But there are plenty of others. Can I bring you an apple? Or a blueberry?"

"No. I really wanted cherry. My wife used to make the best cherry pie, and I just thought... I just wanted... I don't want any other one."

Oh God.

I watched him walk away.
Only, I didn't see him pushing a shopping cart.
I could clearly see him in an empty kitchen serving one lone slice of broken pie.
Quietly eating it with a shaky hand.
Thinking of all the pies his wife had made.
Swallowing hard while tasting this last one.
Tears falling onto his plate.

His lovely wife.
He didn't want any other one.

***

I never did see him again.
I couldn't possibly know, but I imagine he joined his wife shortly after finishing that pie.

The last one.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Tears, and a Clown

Our high school, like a LOT of high schools, put on a production of "Our Town".
Why not? No scenery.
Some chairs, two step ladders, you're done.

I, along with a lot of my friends, auditioned.
Everyone had some part to play.
Rehearsals were like playing house in a small town with only my bestest friends living in it.

Our director was a small woman with a big personality.
She could make the biggest trouble makers behave.

Even Bob.
Bob also had a big personality.
Only Bob was a teenager and didn't know when to turn it off.
Bob was like a big, clumsy puppy, running around trying to get affection and approval.

Bob played the father of the female lead, Emily.
A mature father figure. Ha!

If you are familiar with "Our Town", you know it's a three act play following the lives of Emily and George, two young people growing up, growing old, and dying in a small town.

Emily dies.
I played Emily.

There's a scene after Emily is dead that she attempts to relive just one day in her life.
It is a tragic, emotional scene in which she realizes how much time we all waste not living, not enjoying, not being with those we love while we have them.

In this scene, Emily realizes that her little brother, who had died young, is still alive and getting ready for school upstairs. She turns toward the staircase, arms outstretched, longing to hug him and appreciate him once more. Just once more.

Early on in rehearsals, our director made it very clear to me that she expected the audience to weep at this scene.

I said, yeah, yeah, sure.

After one particular practice when I had been goofing off, cracking people up (it's what I do), she told me, "You need to take this seriously. I expect every person who sees this play to cry. They deserve that. It is up to you."

"I can't do that," I told her. "I feel stupid."
She grabbed my shoulders and made me face her. "You will do this."
And when I smirked at the floor, she gave me a little shake until I met her eyes. "You must. Otherwise, I have picked the wrong person to play Emily."

Could I?

Could I really?

From then on, I gave it a little more honest attention.
When others were feeling goofy, I tried not to crack a smile.
When others had to be serious, I was serious for them, too.

Maybe it was the days ticking away till opening night, but there seemed to be a little less horsing around. A little more effort.
A little more weight.

But not Bob.
Bob refused to cut his hair for the play. (Nice, "Dad". Your hair is longer than mine.)
Bob continued to bounce around backstage like a hyper puppy.

Meanwhile, I focused on that one scene.
That one motion.
That one moment when I turn to the stairs, reaching for a brother I hadn't appreciated in life and now it was too late.
I figured, if I could nail that, I'd have it.

I practiced at home.

I made my friends watch me and tell me if my face was right.

Finally, my best friend (who was playing Emily's mom) stopped in the middle of practice and muttered to me quietly, "Cut it out. You're making me cry."
"But..." I sputtered. "It's only me!"
"I know!"

Hello.
I had it.

I had it!

***

Dress rehearsal was surprisingly quiet.

Even Bob (who managed to hide his hair in a ponytail under his suit collar) whispered his jokes and tiptoed while he pranced around.

But it was only a ruse.
This day, he was going to be funny.
You know, to lighten everyone up.

This day, he was going to stand off-stage at the top of the staircase.
And when I turned, arms outstretched to my long-dead little brother, Bob would be standing there, out of site of the director, reaching back for me.

Ha. Ha.
Funny, eh?

But, having worked with Bob for weeks, I was not surprised.
Nor was I distracted. (I am the Ice Queen!)

Because when I turned, tears streaming down my face, I hit Bob with Emily's look of complete loss and heartbreak. Utter despair.

Bob's smile faltered.
He looked back at me confused.

And as the scene continued without a hitch, I could hear his bewildered voice backstage.
"She's crying! She's crying!"

Even as I went on and spoke my lines, in my head I was thinking, "Up yours, Bob."

Later, my friends told me Bob had run from one person to the next backstage muttering, "She's crying!"
To which my friends replied, "We know, Bob. She's been doing it for weeks. Shut up."

But, my favorite report later was how Bob ran up to C-man backstage. "C-man, dude, she's crying!" and C-man looked up wordlessly with tears on his own cheeks.
(Luv ya, C!)

***

That could have been enough.
But it wasn't the best.
Not yet.

The director was pleased with my progress.
She couldn't wait for a real audience.
She couldn't wait for me to feel what it would be like.

I don't remember how many nights the play ran.
Probably only two.
But I remember my own family didn't come to see it until the last night.
And then, eh, kinda only because I begged them to.

So, no big deal.

Everything went as well as expected.
I could hear the satisfying sound of sniffles as I spoke alone on stage.
The curtain fell.
We took our bows.

And as the audience filed out, I leapt off the stage to find my folks who had been sitting near the back of the auditorium.
Floating on that post-production euphoria.
Greeting people I knew as I went.
"Hi!"
"Hey! You made it!"
"Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it."

And finally coming up behind my mom and my sister.
"Hey!" I bubbled. "What did you think?"

But when they turned around, they didn't say anything.
In fact, my mom had a hard time trying to smile at me. Like half her face wouldn't move. Like she was having a stroke.
And my sister was blowing her nose and dabbing at her bloodshot eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Are you okay?!?" Oh god. Did something happen?

Did someone die?!

My sister threw her arms around me and hugged me... hard.
"You were really good!" she sobbed loudly.
"What?"
Confused, I looked at Mom, but she couldn't speak. She only sniffed, tried to smile again, and nodded. She wasn't having a stroke. She was trying hard not to cry any more.
"Cut it out!" I said. "It's only me!"
My sister sniffed. "I know!"

I had made my own family weep.
I had moved them.
They, who knew me better than anyone.
They, who knew I was a big goofball and never took anything seriously.
I had touched them and made them feel something big.
They had felt the loss that Emily felt.
They got it.

This time, when I started to cry, I wasn't acting.