Healing through story

Month: August 2024

shortfiction24 – estranged no more

Jack spends a few days at Diane’s house recovering from prostate removal surgery. An unexpected visitor brings possible healing to a long-estranged family member.

This is #8 in the ongoing Jack and Diane series of stories, which originated in November of 2021. As I have said before, I have no plan, no story arc, for the series. Each story has arisen from the prior ones, the characters not willing to fade away.

You can read the first seven stories here.

Estranged No More

Bob Gillen

Diane Somers idled her old Volvo 142S in front of the hospital entrance. She slid out of her seat as a hospital volunteer pushed Jack Marin’s wheelchair out to the curb. 

Jack managed to stand on his own, hang onto the door, and slide into the Volvo. A few curse words ensued. Diane thanked the volunteer, got Jack’s seatbelt secured, and climbed in. 

“Ready?” she asked Jack.

“So ready. Wait, do I need to tip the volunteer?”

Diane grinned. “Not necessary.”

Jack squirmed to adjust himself in his seat. “My doc had said two or three days in here after the surgery. It took five days for them to release me.”

“It was a big surgery,” Diane said. “You were on the table for five hours.”

“Yeah. They had some job removing my monster prostate.”

“Your doctor said it was thirty five grams.”

“More like twenty pounds, I think.”

Diane laughed. “Let’s get you home.”

Jack enjoyed seeing the familiar sights as they drove to Diane’s house. He squinted into the bright sun and moved the sun visor down. A piece of paper fell into his lap. He reached for it. A photo. “This looks like you with your husband and Margaret.”

“Wait till we stop for a red light and I’ll take a look.”

At the next light she glanced at the photo. “Yeah. Me and Frank, and Margaret.Frank must have put it there.”

“I’ve only been to your place a few times,” Jack said. “I don’t think I saw any pictures of your family.”

Diane sighed. “I have one picture in my bedroom. Our wedding picture. I like to think about beginnings, not endings.”

“Nothing in between?” Jack asked.

“I put all the photos away when Margaret alienated herself from me.”

Diane pointed. “Put the photo back in the visor.”

As the traffic light changed, she said, “I set you up in the spare bedroom…and cleared the couch. You should be comfortable for a few days till you get your strength back.”

She backed into the driveway to position the passenger side near the front door. Jack pulled himself out of the seat and stood holding onto the door. Diane came around and supported him.

“Let’s try the couch for a while,” Jack said. “I could use a dose of TV.”

Diane got him settled on the couch, set a blanket over him, and tucked a pillow behind his head.

“How about a sandwich?” she asked. “A turkey club?”

“Sounds good. Washed down with a beer?”

She handed him the TV remote and headed to the kitchen.

Jack rested his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I could sure use a shower but I think I should wait till tomorrow.”

“No worries,” Diane called from the kitchen. “I’ve got room deodorizer.”

“Funny.”

Diane came in with a luscious sandwich and a sweet pickle slice on a plate, a cold longneck in her other hand. 

“This looks great,” he said. He reached for the bottle and took a long swig, a smile breaking across his face.

“Beats hospital meals, I hope.”

“It does, but you know, their food wasn’t that bad. A turkey dinner one night, meatloaf and mashed potatoes another night. Not bad at all.”

Jack devoured the sandwich. “How about another beer?”

“Let’s take it easy,” she said. “You’re still on meds. Why don’t you take a nap?”

Jack nodded, leaned back, and promptly fell asleep.

The following morning, after a breakfast of bacon and eggs in bed, a home health physical therapist named Molly showed up to assess Jack’s condition and start him on some core-building exercises.

“I know you’d rather stay in bed, but we need to re-build your strength after the surgery. Are you in any pain?”

“My lower back hurts,” Jack said.

“We can work on that.” Molly put Jack through a series of PT exercises while he was lying down.

“Now let’s get you up to a standing position.”

Diane handed her a walker she had rented for Jack till he got stronger.

Jack tried to sit up and swing his legs off the bed.

“Oh…oh, sweet Jesus!” he cried. “I can’t do this.”

Molly stepped forward with the walker. “Hold on to this, roll your legs off the bed, pull yourself up.”

Jack grimaced, cursed. On the third try he got to a sitting position on the side of the bed.

“Can you stand?”

Gripping the walker, Jack hoisted himself to an upright position. “Standing is easier.”

Molly helped Jack walk through the living room and into the kitchen.

Standing against the counter, she had him move up on his toes, then back on his heels, ten times.

“I want you to do this twice a day,” she said. “And I’ll leave you with a page of exercises to do. I’ll be back in two days.”

“This isn’t too bad,” Jack said. “It’s the getting out of bed that hurts like hell.”

“That will get easier as you build your core.”

Later that afternoon, after a nap, Jack watched TV from the couch. Diane brought him a cold beer. She sat, leaned gently against him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty shitty, overall.”

He sipped the beer. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

Diane had stocked the guest bathroom with adult disposable underpants. Jack dragged himself to the bathroom. He struggled to get his pants off and change the paper underpants. “Taking these big-kid underpants on and off is a real pain,” he called out.

Diane cracked the door, handed him a package. “I also bought you men’s pads. You can change them without taking your pants off.”

“Brilliant,” he said.

“We girls been down this road before.”

Later, at dinner, Jack devoured chicken tacos, rice and beans. “You’re spoiling me. I won’t be able to do this when I get back to my own house.”

Jack lowered his head into his hands. He sighed deeply. “This isn’t how I pictured my life going.”

“It is what it is,” Diane said. She rubbed his shoulder.

“Lying in the hospital bed all I could think of was how fucked up my life is now. After my wife died, I mourned for a year, then found a routine. It wasn’t much, but it worked for me. Now…that’s all in the wind. I can’t travel any distance because of the incontinence. I can barely get out of bed. Instead of walking, I’m teeter tottering. I could never pass a DUI test.”

Diane smiled. “Relax. It’s only been a week. You’ll get there.”

She got up and cleared away the dinner dishes. “How about watching a movie?”

Jack smirked. “If I can stay awake…”

The following morning Jack pushed himself to get up from his bed and use the walker to move to the kitchen table. Diane stood at the stove in her robe, flipping buttermilk pancakes. 

Jack poured a mug of coffee and sat at the table. “You are clearly spoiling me.”

“It feels good to have someone else in the house. I’ll feel lonely when you go back to your own place.” She set a plate of pancakes in front of Jack. “Syrup’s there if you want it.”

The doorbell rang.

“Huh.” Diane said. “Who could that be?”

“Expecting any packages?”

Diane shook her head as she stepped to the door.

A woman stood in the door, backlit by the morning sun.

Diane peered at the figure. “Margaret?”

“Mom.”

Diane stood frozen for a moment. 

“Have you been driving dad’s Volvo?” Margaret pointed to the driveway.

“A mission of mercy.”

“Can I come in?”

Diane stepped aside. “Of course. Forgive my shock.”

Margaret entered the house. She wore jeans, a loose sweater, her hair in a long ponytail.

“Who is it?” Jack called from the kitchen.

Margaret whipped around at Diane. “That’s a man’s voice.”

“Come in and meet Jack.” Diane walked into the kitchen.

Margaret followed her. She stood staring at Jack. A man at her mom’s kitchen table. In his pajamas. Eating breakfast. 

“Jack, this is my daughter Margaret. Margaret, Jack.”

“We’ve met,” Jack said. “At the cemetery last month.”

Margaret said nothing. She glared at Diane.

“Do you want coffee?”

Margaret shook her head.

“How could you?”

“How could I what?” Diane said.

“You kept dad’s terminal sickness from me three years ago. Now you have a guy living in with you and you didn’t tell me.”

Margaret turned, ready to storm out. Jack stood, awkwardly, and reached out to her.

“Please stay,” he said.

Margaret said, her back to Jack, “Why? More lies. She’s replacing my dad already. I’ve had enough.”

Diane flared in anger. She threw a dishtowel down on the table. “Hold on. You chose to stay away from me for these three years. Now you show up out of the blue and begin making judgements on me and Jack.”

“I can see what this is,” Margaret said, turning back to face Diane.

“No,” Jack interrupted. “You’re not seeing what this is.” He grimaced in pain as he moved, and quickly sat down.

“Margaret, I don’t know what brought you here today.” Her anger softened. “But I am thrilled that you’re here. Can you sit and talk with us for a few minutes?”

Margaret glared at both of them, then slowly sat, hanging her purse over the back of the chair. Diane put a cup of coffee in front of her.

Margaret had estranged herself from Diane since her father’s death three years ago. The separation had sat heavily on Diane’s heart, carrying her husband’s loss alone until she met Jack.

Diane spoke. “Let’s clear the air about Jack. He is someone I am seeing. We met on a dating app maybe six months ago. We have both lost spouses. Both retired. Both looking, quite tentatively, to have someone in our lives. Jack is here because he’s recovering from surgery and needs support for a few days till he can go back to his own place.”

Jack leaned on the walker. “I had my prostate removed because of a carcinoma. I was on the table for five hours. Your mom is helping me. I can barely get out of bed. I am fumbling all over the place. And I am now incontinent from the surgery.”

“TMI,” Margaret said, holding a palm up in Jack’s direction.

“Just putting it all out there,” Jack shrugged.

Diane spoke, “We are moving slowly in our relationship. And as to intimacy, that’s none of your business.”

Margaret spoke softly to Jack, “When I saw you at the cemetery with my mom, I figured it was something serious. She wouldn’t bring just anyone to dad’s grave.” 

Diane had taken Jack to Frank’s grave on Margaret’s birthday a month ago. One of the three times each year she visited the grave. Watching from a distance, Margaret had tried to talk to Jack while he strolled around the cemetery. Jack had refused, saying he did not want to get in the middle of the two and their difficult relationship. It was later that Diane had told him, you’re in the middle, or you’re out. Your choice. Jack had chosen to continue his relationship with Diane.

“And speaking of your dad,” Diane said, “it was his decision, not mine, not to tell you how serious his illness was. He didn’t want you suffering through his last weeks. I brought you in only when he said he was ready to see you.”

Margaret began crying. She rubbed away tears. “I could have sat with him in those last weeks.”

Diane also began crying. “We wasted these three years. I could have told you this if you had listened…if you had not stayed away.”

She stood and hugged Margaret’s shoulders. Margaret put a hand on Diane’s arm. “I couldn’t deal…”

“You’re here now.” She pulled Margaret to a standing position and hugged her hard. Both sobbed deeply. 

Jack sipped his coffee. 

After the two women had eased their sobbing, Jack said, “It’s good to see you two together. But the pancakes are getting cold. Margaret, please sit and eat with us.”

Margaret sat, grabbed a couple of napkins to wipe her eyes and nose. Diane reached for another plate.

“But I’m curious,” Jack continued. “What brings you here, Margaret? Why today?”

Margaret smiled, met Diane’s eyes. She set her hands over her belly. “I’m pregnant.”

***

shortfiction24 – talking an old man down

Travis ditches school for one more day on the water before fall turns to winter. He encounters an old man languishing in the marshes. Is the old man there to die?

I first posted this story in June of 2020. This is a revised version with more depth of feeling, I hope, Please enjoy the story.

Talking an Old Man Down

Bob Gillen

Blowing off a school day in mid October, Travis steered his small boat down the creek and out toward the open bay. A last day of freedom on the water before the seasons changed, before fall slipped into winter. A light breeze carried the sharp, sweet smell of wood smoke from nearby chimneys. A brilliant blue sky dotted with white cloud specks offered the perfect backdrop.

Travis moved east, passed under the railroad trestle that intersected the bay, and swung south. He soon eased up to a narrow beach accessible only by boat. Tiny black snails littered the sandy bottom at the shore’s edge. He tilted his outboard motor out of the water to keep the propeller from striking the bottom. He slipped off his sneakers, rolled his pants legs up to his knees, and hopped out of the boat into the clear, warm water.

All summer Travis had spent hours scouring the bay’s beaches and marshes for treasure, anything useful washed up or adrift. The best thing he had ever found was a varnished oar.

Today’s scrounging yielded nothing but a shredded nylon rope. He pushed the boat off the beach, left the motor tilted up, and used an oar to pole his way parallel to the beach till he reached the narrow channel he knew snaked through the marsh that filled the center of the bay.

Travis took in the slight odor of decay underlying the salty smell of marsh grasses and tall reeds. The tide ran high. He had a few hours till he needed to worry about getting caught in the shallows.

A swarm of flies surviving from summer flitted frantically around the boat. His oar sent up a billow of sand every time it touched bottom. A horseshoe crab glided by under his boat, dodging his oar. A battered rowboat appeared, stuck deep in the marsh grass. A quick glance told him there was nothing to be salvaged from the wreck.

Fifteen minutes later Travis rounded a curve in the narrow channel. The grasses here grew straight up over his head. He spotted a boat up ahead. Bigger than his. A tiny cabin, looking like an afterthought, stood at the bow. 

Got to be something useful on this boat, Travis thought. He edged his own boat closer. He spied an outboard engine on the stern. “Oh wow! A motor!” he said aloud. He poled closer. 

Stopped cold. 

Sitting on a tattered beach chair in the back of the boat was an old man. 

An old man with his back to Travis. Dozing?

“Hello,” Travis called out. The man jumped, shaking his boat, ripples playing out into the channel. He turned to look at Travis.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus. “Beat it. Keep moving.”

Travis ignored the old man’s hostility. “Sorry to startle you. I’m just moving through the channel.”

“Well, move on by.” The old man gave a sharp gesture toward the channel.

Curious and confused, Travis moved closer to the old man. He got a better look at his boat. White paint faded, peeling in places. Barnacles and sea grass adhering to the boat under the waterline. A dented outboard motor tilted up out of the water.

“Did you run out of gas?” Travis asked.

A croak. “I said, keep moving.”

Travis hesitated. He couldn’t leave the old man stranded. Could he? “I can spare some gas, or tow you out of here.”

“How many times do I have to say, get lost?” The old man turned his back, wrapped his arms around himself.

Travis felt an uneasy vibe. He poled his boat closer to the old man’s. 

“Are you hungry? I’ve got a couple of sandwiches I can share.”

Silence, broken only by a screeching gull.

Travis noticed that the propeller on the old man’s motor was missing.

“Where’s your propeller?”

The old man pointed toward the marsh grasses.

“It fell off? I can help you find it.”

“I don’t want to find it. I threw it in there.” He waved towards the marsh. “It’s gone.”

Travis let his boat nudge up against the old man’s boat. He gripped it to hold the two together. 

The old man turned, glared. “Don’t touch my boat.”

Travis could see at least a week’s worth of gray stubble on the old man’s sunburned face. His shabby clothes hung loosely on his frame. Cigarette burns dotted the edge of the old man’s boat. 

“You look hungry.” Travis dug out a sandwich and offered half to the old man. “It’s only peanut butter and jelly.”

The old man looked at the sandwich. Pushed Travis’s arm away.

“What are you going to do?” Travis asked. “The tide will be going out soon. You’ll be stuck in here.”

The old man shrugged.

Travis shook his head. “You’re weird. You going to sit here till you die?”

The old man looked hard at him. A single tear rolled down his craggy cheek.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

That silenced Travis. He wants to die out here?

Travis continued to hold the two boats together as they bobbed gently.

“When was the last time you ate?”

The old man ignored the question.

“You going to die hungry, or do you want the sandwich?”

“What do you care?”

Travis stared at the soggy sandwich in his hand. “Not sure I care either way…I guess I never gave any thought to dying. It must be hard. But I don’t think I would want to die hungry.”

“Come back in a few days. I’ll let you know… if I’m still breathing. Otherwise, you’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

Travis could think of nothing to say for a few moments. Then, finally, “This is an awful place to die.”

“Not so bad. Water, open sky, quiet.”

“Won’t people miss you? Look for you?”

The old man shook his head. “No one cares.”

“Where do you live?”

“The south end of the bay.”

“Do you have family?”

“One son… lives three states away. Haven’t seen him in years.”

“No one else?”

“No one.”

“Neighbors?”

“None worth a damn.”

Travis waved a few flies away from his sandwich. He  bite into it, wiping stray grape jelly off his face.

“Why are you here?” the old man asked. “Isn’t today a school day?”

“I ditched.”

“Won’t they look for you?”

“They’ll call my mother. Get her voicemail.”

“What will she do?”

“Not much. Cry about how hard life is, how much she sacrifices for me.”

“My mother was like that too.”

“School sucks.”

“No argument there.”

“Today is my last day out on the water before I have to haul my boat out for the winter.”

“So you came in here to mess with me.”

The boy smiled. “It’s quiet in here. Peaceful. Away from everything.”

“So maybe not a bad place to die, huh?”

“I guess… how are you going to do this?”

“Sit here till death finds me.”

Travis once again offered his sandwich.

“Do you want half?”

The old man hesitated, stared at the sandwich. “If I eat it, it’ll take me longer to die.”

“Yeah, so…a few more minutes enjoying this.” Travis waved his arm up to the sky.

“Peanut butter?”

Travis said, “Yeah.”

“What the hell.” His hand trembled as he took the sandwich and stuffed it in his mouth.

“Why not die at home?”

The old man opened his arms to the marsh. “Why not here?”

“I got no answer for that.”

The two ate in silence for a few moments. 

“Am I supposed to talk you out of it? We have a suicide hotline at school. They try to talk you down.”

“You called the hotline?”

“Once. Mostly to see what it was like.”

“You wanted to die?”

“Not really. Just got sick of everything. Wanted to see if someone had a better idea.”

“And?”

“Nothing better. Just stuff about my future… about hurting my mom.”

“Was that enough?”

“Not really. I mean, I’m not depressed or anything. I just get tired sometimes.”

“I didn’t know kids felt like that.”

“I get tired of trying to figure things out.”

“What do you have to figure out at your age?”

“Girls.”

“Ah. Yeah, I get that.”

The old man finished his sandwich and wiped his hands on his pants. “So… are you going to beat it and leave me to die?”

Travis had no answer.

“This is what I want, buddy.”

“Really?”

The old man closed his watery eyes, drifted into silence once more. A silence that seemed to fill the entire marsh.

The old man’s eyes popped open. He turned to face Travis. “Want to know the truth, kid?”

“I guess so.”

A hoarse whisper broke from the old man. “Dying scares the shit out of me.”

“You said you want to sit here till you die.”

“Yeah, I said that.” The old man stared down at his feet. “I got nothing to live for here. I lost my pension. No one cares if I live or die. He pointed to the sky. “But the thought of the other side. I mean, shit, who knows what it’s like.”

“Do you believe in heaven?”

The old man took a deep breath. “What is that, really? Sit and stare at the clouds day after day after day? I don’t want that.”

“It’s supposed to be happiness…forever,” Travis said.

“Look, I’ve been sitting here for two days. I thought it would be a peaceful way to go. And… I am bored out of my skull. And when I die? More boredom. Only it will never stop.”

Travis felt his boat pulling away from the old man’s boat. He had to grip more tightly to keep the two together. 

“Tide’s shifting, isn’t it?” the old man said.

“Feels like it.”

“You don’t want to get stuck in here.”

Travis nodded. “I’ve got some time yet.”

“Don’t waste your time on me, boy.”

The marsh grass rustled as the afternoon breeze picked up. Gulls screeched off in the distance.

“Should I get someone to come in here for you?”

“No…not till I’m gone.”

Travis couldn’t bring himself to leave. “Let me take you home. Your boat can stay here. It’s a piece of junk anyway.”

The old man grimaced. “You takin’ a shot at my boat?”

“No offense, but it’s older than you are… and more messed up.”

“You think I’m in better shape than my boat? Thanks for the compliment.”

Travis laughed.

The old man smiled.

“I could help you fix it up,” Travis said.

“She looks like hell, but she’s tight and dry.”

“The bottom is covered with barnacles. It would have to be hauled and scraped. And it needs a good paint job.”

“More work than I want to do.”

“I could come weekends. Once my boat is out of the water, I won’t work on it till spring. I’ll have time.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know… I love working on boats. We could fix yours up pretty easily. Together.”

The two locked eyes. “And maybe it would keep you from dying.”

The ebbing tide increased its pull on Travis’s boat.

“Look, I gotta get out of here or I’ll be stuck till the next high tide.”

The old man said nothing.

“Come with me. Get in and we’ll tie your boat to mine.”

“Get going. I want to stay.”

“You just said you’re scared of dying.”

The old man smirked. “You were listening.”

“I always listen…at least outside the classroom.”

 “You got any more sandwiches?”

“You’ll have to get in my boat to find out.”

The old man cracked a thin smile. “A tough negotiator.”

He leaned over from his chair and gripped the edge of Travis’s boat. His feeble legs kicked the chair aside as he swung into the smaller boat. Travis held the old man’s arms. 

Travis took a length of rope from the floor of his boat, tied one end to a cleat on his stern, and tied the other end onto the old boat’s bow cleat.

Then he let go of the old man’s boat, felt the towline go taut, and began poling the boats out through the narrow channel, south toward deeper water on the old man’s side of the bay.

The old man said, “How about that sandwich?”

Travis handed over a sandwich. “What color can we paint your boat?”

“Whatever’s on sale.”

The old man chewed the sandwich while Travis stared at him. Did I just talk him down? Cool. 

“Not what you expected today, huh, kid?”

“Nope.” Travis grinned. “It sure beats Social Studies.”

***

© 2024 Bob Gillen

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