Five Word Friday #2

Well, so far I've done the first two Five Word Friday's on Thur. and Sat. respectively. I'm nothing if not consistent. One of these days we'll actually get to it on Fri. Anyway, this week continues Michael and Kyra's adventure (see Five Word Friday #1) - and it's a long one! The words for today (picked at random from Velvet Verbosity's write up on the 100 word challenge for Hour - thanks VV!) are: crazy, whipping, smiles, glowing and relationship. Enjoy! And feel free to join in - just leave me a note with the link to your FWF post.

-----------------------------------------

Maybe I’m not so crazy after all, I think to myself as I linger at the door of the daycare. The entire first week I left Kyra at the Sunrise Daycare she cried when I laid her in the doughy arms of the well-fed proprietor, Mrs. Kice. It killed me. Since she had been born, for the first 4 months of her life, we had never been apart. I held her every chance I got, marveling at her little toes and fingers, watching and noting as her umbilical cord dried up and fell off (I still have it in a jar beside my bed), getting lost in those huge, dark blue eyes. I packed up the house while she was asleep, or while grandma and grandpa were there to hold her. Her mother may have abandoned her, but I was going to be damned if I would let her feel that loss – if there was anything I could do about it. On the way out here she rode in the front seat so I could at least interact with her, tickle her toes or something.

Thus it was like absolute torture, like somebody whipping my heart with a cat o’ nine tails, when I placed her in the caregiver’s arms for the first time and she started screaming.

“Oh, now there,” said Mrs. Kice. “We’ll be fine won’t we?

I stood there arms half outstretched, heart pounding, stomach sinking, half wanting to snatch her back and run. Knowing I couldn’t if I wanted to build any sort of life for us. My savings will only last so long.

“There now, there now,” cooed Mrs. Kice, looking at my daughter but speaking just as much to me, “ this is normal. Nobody wants to leave their daddy, do they, but we’ll be fine. We’ll be just fine, won’t we Kyra?”

I stepped forward and Mrs. Kice looked up suddenly. I looked intently into her eyes, trying to convey how important my daughter was to me, how difficult it was to leave her and that I would rip her limb from limb if she hurt my daughter in any way. She blinked a couple of times then looked away, so maybe something got through after all. Then I bent down and kissed Kyra on the forehead and eyes and started crying myself as I tasted the salt of her tears. I didn’t straighten up until I had turned away.

“Take good care of her,” I choked.

“I will, Mr. Samuels, I will,” assured Mrs. Kice.

I left then, not trusting myself to stay any longer. My heart shrank with every step I took away from my daughter, squeezing into a tight little ball of pain.
She cried every day I dropped her off for the entire first week, Monday through Friday. Somehow it never mattered that she was quiet and seemed content when I came to pick her up in the afternoon. I only remembered the crying.

Today marks the beginning of her second week with Mrs. Kice, and my first day on my new job. There is a nursery (the plant kind) about two miles from our apartment. Ironically it is Mrs. Kice who directed me to it, so I guess I have her to thank for more than just caring for my daughter.

Today I place Kyra in Mrs. Kice’s ample arms and instead of crying she looks up into Mrs. Kice’s face and smiles. Smiles! I am stunned.

“There’s my pretty little girl,” Mrs. Kice smiles back, “Did you miss me, huh? I missed you, yes I did.”

Kyra smiles again, gurgles and reaches for a lock of Mrs. Kice’s hair which is hanging down within reach. I can’t help but smile too.

“There now, Mr. Samuels,” Mrs. Kice says, looking up at me, “didn’t I tell you I’d be taking good care of her.”

“Yes, Mrs. Kice, you did. Thank you.”

“Oh, it ain’t no trouble at all. She’s a joy, she is.”

“Well, I certainly think so. Look, I’ve got to go. Don’t want to be late on my first day.”

Mr. Kice holds Kyra up facing me. “Wish your daddy luck on his first day, Kyra.” Kyra coos and gurgles. I smile and step forward to kiss her on her cheek and nuzzle her neck for a second, breathing in that gentle baby smell as if I could carry it with me for the day.

I turn to head out the door. “Thanks again, Mrs. Kice. I’ll see you guys later.” Mrs. Kice waves Kyra’s hand bye-bye at me, and I blow her a kiss. “Be good, baby girl.”

With that I am out the door. I walk to work with a bounce in my step and a smile on my face. For the first time in months I feel light, as if a great burden has been lifted from my shoulders. Maybe we’ll make it after all. I mean, she smiled! I feel as if my face must be glowing with the memory. The pavement seems to fly beneath my feet and before I know it I’m at my new job.

A bell jingles as I open the front door and my nose is caressed by the scent of a thousand flowers and plants. How a plant nursery has thrived in this area I don’t know. Perhaps, like me, others feel that plants offer the only bright spot in a concrete jungle.

“Well, if it isn’t the plant whisperer. And right on time. Good.” Mr. Jackson, my new boss is pointing a spray bottle in my direction. He is a big black man, an incronguous dark note in a sea of green. When I say big I do not exaggerate. He is at least 6’4”, maybe 400 lbs, with eyes that smile even when his face does not, a voice that rumbles like the sea, and fingers that could tickle a butterfly without bruising it.

I actually came into the shop last Monday thinking to get a plant for the apartment – tulips as it turned out. He was working on an orchid at the time. Finicky plants, orchids. This one was heading down hill.

He heaved a hefty sigh when he saw me. “No matter what I do I can’t get this one to grow. I’m about ready to give up and let it go. But then, you’re not here to hear my woes, are you? What can I do for you, sir?”

“Just looking for a plant for my apartment. Flowers maybe.”

“Potted or stem?”

“Oh, potted definitely.”

“Flowers are this way. Follow me.”

And with that we were off into a wild riot of color and scent. I wished I could have just transplanted the whole thing to my apartment, but with a tight budget and no job prospects in sight I knew I had to limit myself to one for now.

“You live around here?” he asked.

“Yeah, I just moved in to the Royal Crown apartments, a couple miles away.”

“I know ‘em. Misnamed if ever anything was,” he chuckled. “Where’d you move from?”

“Suburb of Chicago. Naperville?”

“Wow, that’s quite a ways to move to end up in a place like the Royal Crown. You by yourself?”

“Just me and my daughter. We just needed to start afresh, you know?”

“Mm-hmmm,” he replied and didn’t push the issue, for which I was grateful. As nice as he was, I wasn’t sure I was up to explaining my life story to a stranger. By this time I had chosen my tulips.

“Well, you’ve certainly got taste,” he said. “You do know that tulips require a bit of work to keep going.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m pretty good with plants.”

He looked thoughtful for a couple of seconds, raising one eyebrow as he seemed to consider something, then led me back towards the front of the store and the cash register. I was looking at his failing orchid while he checked me out, automatically counting out the cash. The soil was dark with damp.

“You know,” I said to him, “I think you may be drowning your orchid. If you let the soil dry out a bit, and then just mist the leaves every now then, they’ll probably do a lot better.”

“You think?” He frowned, perplexed.

“Yep. This particular orchid doesn’t like a lot of water.”

“Well, I’ll give it a try. Nothing else is working, that’s for certain. Hey, can I have your phone number for our reward program – I have a feeling you’ll be coming back for more eventually.”

I smiled and gave it to him and he handed me my change.

“Well, take care of those tulips now, y’hear? We’ll see you around.”

“Thanks,” I replied and headed off to pick up Kyra.

The rest of the week was a big lump of disappointment. Nobody seemed to be hiring. I filled out application after application in the hope that something would open up soon, but nobody gave me much hope that it would. Thursday evening I arrived home with Kyra, tired and dejected and looking forward to a relaxing evening hanging out with her. My eyes were immediately drawn to the red light blinking on my message machine. I had a message?! My heart started racing with excitement. Who had called me? I pressed the button with trembling fingers.

“Hi Michael, it’s Mr. Jackson from the Concrete Jungle Nursery. Well, anyway, I’m calling ‘cause you’re a genius! I did just what you said and my orchid’s flourishing now! I’m going to start calling you the plant whisperer, you know, like the horse whisperer? Well, I was wondering if you might be interested in a job with us. You obviously know a lot about plants, and I need someone to help out around the store. If you’re interested why don’t you come in tomorrow, Friday, and we can talk about it some more. Sound good? Well, anyway, I’ll shut up now and let you go. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”

I think my neighbors could hear the thumping of my heart! A job! Yeah! I didn’t know how much it would pay but at least it was a beginning. And doing something I loved! Kyra cooed and I smiled down at her and gave her a kiss.

“I think Daddy just got a job, cutestuff.” She smiled.

Needless to say I went in to see Mr. Jackson the next day as soon as I had dropped Kyra off with Mrs. Kice. He offered me a job at $15 per hour, more than I had hoped I’d get, and asked if I could start at 9am the following Monday. I splurged on lunch in celebration of my new job and our new beginning in California before picking Kyra up early so I could spend the rest of the day with her.

Mr. Jackson’s basso rumble brings me back to the present. “You still with us, PW?”

PW? Oh, yes. Plant whisperer. I smile.

“Yeah, I’m still with you. Just remembering everything that’s brought me here.”

“Well, don’t be daydreaming on my dollar,” he said, not unkindly. “You and me have work to do. C’mon, let me show you around.”

And so began a long and fruitful relationship.

Five Word Friday #1

If you couldn't tell, I enjoy the challenge of working within limits, so I am starting Five Word Fridays just for fun. It is mostly for my own pleasure but others are welcome to join in if they want. The basic idea is to pick five words at random (I had my wife give me five unrelated words, without explaining why I wanted them) and then write a story or poem or whatever, using all five of those words in whatever order they were chosen. Today my words were, in order: light bulb, flower, baby, avidly and picturesque. If you join in, leave me a note at the end of this post with a link to your entry. And here is mine.
------------------------

The light bulb flickers sporadically above me, bathing the room in a lurid glow. There are water stains on the roof and walls in one corner, testament to some catastrophe or another. The close air stinks of mildew, stinging my nostrils and the back of my throat. I cannot see it, though, so I suspect it’s under the carpet. The faucet in the bathroom drips precisely every 13 seconds (yes, I’ve timed it), a dim but constant accompaniment highlighting the dilapidation. The only amelioration of the squalor is the fact that there are no rats. That and the flowers on the table in a terracotta pot. They are tulips with bright orange pointed leaves like flames, with golden throats and pale green stems and leaves. They are the only bright spot in an otherwise dingy existence – the only thing at which I seem to have exhibited a talent.

I came to Los Angeles from the Midwest. It doesn’t matter where in the Midwest – there’s nothing left for me there any more anyway. Besides, it’s all the same. I was lured by the promise of palm trees and beaches and a glamorous new life for me and my baby. Well, I guess there is a (stunted) palm tree outside the apartment. And beaches if we can afford the bus. The glamorous new life has yet to materialize.

I know what you’re thinking. “ Poor girl, having a baby out of wedlock, forced to leave her home.” You would be wrong. It’s the other way around. My wife, Emily, was devastated when she found out she was pregnant. She wanted to concentrate on her career and couldn’t be bothered with distractions. We figure a condom slipped or something. Who knows? She blamed me and spent the long, long months of her pregnancy furious at me. I barely convinced her to keep the baby – her first thought was abortion. I was actually pretty excited. I had always wanted to be a father and avidly fought for the right to make that dream a reality, even if it was a surprise and a tad inconvenient. After all, when are children really convenient? We began to part ways during those 40 weeks. She took my excitement and my desire for the baby as lack of support for her devastation. I suppose, in a way, it was. I understood that she needed to grieve the loss of the life she had expected, but she never moved beyond that to acceptance and excitement. She gradually distanced herself emotionally and physically from me, growing more sullen and uncommunicative the larger her belly grew, as if the child within her were a barrier between us rather than a sign of our union.

I suppose, given all of that, that I should have seen what was coming next. But I didn’t. I spent her pregnancy making excuses for her, believing that once she held her child in her arms all this resistance would melt away. I went to every doctor’s visit (though looking back I realize that’s the only way I got her to go – what did she care for the baby’s health?), exhausted myself caring for her every need and whim. She refused to go to the baby shower my mother threw for her, so I went instead, providing plausible excuses for her absence. I single handedly prepared our home for the arrival of our child. The day she went into labor I could barely contain myself. Labor progressed faster than I expected as if she just couldn’t wait to get this unwelcome intrusion out of her. 18 hours after her first contraction Kyra Janelle Samuels was born. Emily refused to hold her or breastfeed her, so I doted on my daughter, holding her, giving her a bottle, cooing and talking to her, or just gazing at her as she slept in my arms. One of the nurses, with a frown towards my wife, taught me how to change her diapers and so I was launched into the adventure of fatherhood. Emily and Kyra were released the next day and I carefully drove them back home. While I held Kyra up to show her her new home Emily went upstairs and packed a suitcase. The first intimation I had that something was terribly wrong (yes, I know. Duh!) was when the doorbell rang and I opened it to find a stranger on the front step.

“I’m here for Emily,” he said, his face and voice carefully devoid of expression.

“What do you mean? She just came home from the hospital.” I gave a nod to Kyra by way of explanation.

“Yes, I know,” he replied with a small smile, “and she called me to come and pick her up.”

“Pick her up? Where is she going?” It still hadn’t hit me.

He sighed. “Look, if she didn’t explain, I’m not going to. Is she here?”

I was saved from having to answer by her arrival at the door with her suitcase.

“Hi Jason. I’m ready.” She gave him a quick kiss on the lips. I frowned, finally understanding. “Will you take this to the car,” she asked handing him the suitcase. “I’ll be right there.”

He quickly grabbed the suitcase and took it to his car which was parked in the driveway, busying himself with putting it in the trunk.

“What’s going on?” My voice was cold.

“Look, Michael, don’t make a scene, okay? We’ve been drifting apart for months, ever since we found out, so don’t pretend like this is a surprise. I just don’t want anything to do with that,” she gestured with her chin at Kyra, a sneer of utter disgust on her face. I think I’ve never hated her so much as in that moment. All over my body my skin tingled with heat.

“That,” I growled, “ is our daughter. And I am your husband.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve found someone new. Look,” she put a finger on my lips as I started to object, “nothing you can say is going to make me change my mind, okay? Jason doesn’t want kids and that’s about all I care about right now. You’ll be getting divorce papers sometime next week, according to my lawyers.” She was already walking down the steps and along the sidewalk as she said this last. Ice rimed the pit of my stomach.

“Emily,” I blurted, but she put up a hand to forestall me without even breaking her stride or looking back. Forlorn, I watched as she got in the car and they pulled out of the driveway. It was the last time I ever saw her.

The following Tuesday, as promised, Emily’s lawyers stopped by with the divorce papers. I was tempted not to sign them, just to make it difficult for her. But by that time word had spread and everywhere I went people pointed and muttered with pity in their voices. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I could see the expressions on their faces and I couldn’t stand it anymore. Only four days after Kyra’s birth and Emily’s departure I knew I couldn’t stay there much longer, that Kyra and I were going to move. So, I signed the papers and started looking for a place to move to.

I considered several places all over the U.S. New York, Charleston, Miami, Saint Louis, Seattle. One by one, though, they all dropped off the list. New York seemed to busy, too tightly packed. Charleston, I was told was an uncomfortable place to live if your family hadn’t been there for generations. Miami seemed too gaudy from what I could see. Saint Louis too close. Seattle too drizzly. Los Angeles seemed perfect. It had as many people as New York but was spread out over a much larger area. It was temperate and sunny. Every photo I could find made it look so picturesque, a veritable paradise of sunny beaches and cool breezes where dreams were made real and Kyra and I could start a new life together, anonymous and unknown. Perfect.

Kyra’s cries snap me out of my reverie. With a sigh I get up, grab a disposable bottle of soy formula (she’s allergic to milk), turning off the flickering light as I go into the bedroom.

“Hey, cutestuff,” I coo as I pick her up and give her a kiss. Despite everything that’s happened I wouldn’t change a second of anything that brought her to me. She quiets and snuggles into my the crook of my neck and shoulder. I hold her for a minute, relishing her closeness, her baby smell, until she begins to root. Laying her gently in the middle of the bed, I lie down next to her, snap off the lid of the bottle and slip it into her pursed lips. She groans contentedly as the first of the formula rushes into her mouth and I eventually fall asleep to the soothing rhythm of her sucking.