Carry On

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Updated: 06/27/05.

Carry On

by H.B. Huisinga

The following short story was submitted on October 2, 2004 for inclusion in the Wisconsin Book Festival's 24 Hour Contest. The task was to write a short story of up to 1,500 words in 24 hours about a given picture.

My mother passed away fifteen years ago from a battle with lung cancer. I prayed for her to get well, but, there came a point when I couldn't hold on to my selfishness any longer. I believe there is a battle raging somewhere I can't see, and my mother’s presence was desperately needed.

I'd lost the one person that had the power to kiss and make it feel better. No matter what. I loved my mother so much, that it never dawned on me to be a "bad" kid, or any other kind of kid at all. I was simply my mother's daughter.

I was thrown into a living arrangement with my aunt. Dishes lived in different cabinets. The toilet seat felt different. The carpet in the hallway between my aunt’s bedroom and my own was too soft, too cushiony.

I didn't drink, didn't smoke, and I didn’t do drugs. My mother taught me better than that. I wasn't promiscuous, but I thought about it every day. Not the sexual part, but the intimacy swirled around it. I didn’t feel so much betrayed by her death as I did a lost sheep in a forest full of predators.

I grieved my way through college, and found a job with a newspaper ghosting an editorial column for Mr. Head Honcho. When I wasn’t ghosting, I did the research for his column. Mr. Honcho asked once how I could write so passionately. I smiled shyly, shrugged my shoulders, and then slinked back to my desk. I didn't want him to know the real reason. It was my mother.

I pretended every blank screen was her ear waiting to hear my news. She wanted to know what I’d had for breakfast, how my aunt was holding up, and if I was going after my dreams. I found myself ghosting columns so quickly that Mr. Honcho was getting a little jealous. This, too, I told my mother's ear.

I became so involved in writing to my mother through this most impersonal piece of machinery that I lost site of what my life was. Instead of spending all those years reaching for my dreams, I'd spent them crying over my past. At some point, I heard tinny speakers feed back to me that I'd squandered my time.

I began to take an interest in myself. Making sure my cloths were fresh and ironed, my hair styled, and I took the time to remember myself. I began to smile more, and saw its reflection in those around me. My mother would have been proud.

My new found respect hadn't been lost on Mr. Honcho, either. He began to greet me warmly and ask about my weekends. He'd put aside his jealousy, and I was grateful that my re-birth into the world had been received well.

Yet there was something missing. The intimacy. The moment at which you connect to another human being and know what they want is harmonious with what you desire. I longed for the acceptance and comfort in a pair of eyes attached to another brain seeking out the very same things in myself.

Then it happened. A bouquet of white daisies was smiling a good morning back at me from my desk. I quickly quelled my excitement, thinking there must have been a mistake. I opened the card, and recaptured my excitement ten fold.

The flowers, the card proclaimed, had been sent by Jack Anders to Vanessa. I was so excited that I forgot for a moment I didn't know any Jack Anders. I called the florist and made sure they had delivered correctly, and they had. For the first time in my life, I forgot my mother was gone.

I was alive with the electricity of mystery. Just who was this person? I rushed home to find the answer waiting. Jack Anders was a fan of Mr. Honcho's and our boss told him I ghosted several of the columns he liked. I returned his call, and Jack asked me to the drive-in the following Friday.

In all the excitement, I never once thought to write my mother. I lost myself in finding the right outfit, the right shoes, the right make-up and hairstyle. I labored through my Friday at the grind, not being able to concentrate on anything.

Jack picked me up for dinner, and we had a wonderful time full of conversation and flavor. He kept edging his hand across the table to touch me while we ate. I was attracted to Jack immediately.

Not once between the restaurant and the drive-in did Jack ever let the conversation lapse. It was the most I’d heard myself laugh since... well, since before my mother passed away.

This was my first drive-in and the light hadn't completely faded from the sky. Even with a crowd, I noticed everyone cuddled up on blankets in front of their cars, or tucked warmly together in front seats, and the sound of happy children drifted up from the make-shift playground beneath the movie screen.

I was beyond nervous through the first feature. Jack and I clumsily smiled at each other every so often. Love was in the air, and it was getting harder to ignore as the darkness wore on.

At intermission, Jack offered to get us drinks. I watched him disappear around the concession stand and presumed he was visiting the little boy's room.

Once he'd left my view, I felt comfortable to mend all those things you can't do in front of your date, and I took the time to look around Jack's car to get to know him better.

The inside was immaculate, and smelled of his cologne. A manly smell that wasn't too heavy or too unique. The receipt for the movies was the only piece of paper I could see, and in fact, it was the only anything I could see that didn't come with the car as it rolled off the dealer's lot.

I eventually became bored with my surroundings and looked to the concession stand to find Jack. Still not there. I waited a few more seconds until I was positive Jack wasn't going to be back in time.

I got out of the car, and greeted the steamy lovers next to me with an uncomfortable laugh. I made my way to the concession building, and was surprised to find the bathrooms on the opposite side from where Jack had disappeared.

I walked the short distance past the concrete side of the building, and the first thing I noticed was metal tongue and groove siding that precluded the Christmas lights on the attendant's building from interfering with the movie. Two steps beyond that I had a clear view of the inside of the attendant’s station, and Jack's back through the window in the door. The attendant's arms were around his shoulders. In shock, I turned around and ran back to the car.

I focused on the movie screen and pretended not to notice when Jack joined me five minutes later. He didn't excuse his lateness, and I didn't ask. We sat in a dark silence through the second movie after which, he drove me home.

At the door to my building, I thanked Jack for a wonderful evening. I returned to work the next Monday heavy hearted. Jack called several more times, but I didn’t answer. I'd liked Jack, but I didn't want to be hurt again. Several months passed, and I waded through my depression alone, again.

I found myself outside the copier alcove one day when I heard Mr. Honcho laugh. I don't know why I stopped, but I did. He was telling some girls about being bored in his life and needing inspiration. He'd arranged for this guy to ask out a homely girl, and show her a good time. He emphasized "good" with a tonal quality best reserved for a slimy car salesman. Mr. Honcho then let out a laugh, and ended with the punch line. The guy had been so attracted to the girl that he'd decided to refrain from Mr. Honcho's deal altogether. The laughter continued as he told the girls the guy had tried to ask her out again, but the girl refused to take his calls.

I walked back to my desk in a stupor. Maybe I'd been too quick to assume their embrace had any romantic inclinations at all. In any event, I never made contact with Jack again. I was too embarrassed.

I think about him from time to time and wonder what might have happened. Would I have asked about the attendant? Would I have always wondered about their embrace even if he had explained?

Then I think about Mr. Honcho and wonder why some people never grow up. I’d felt like the kid that busted the chair in the cafeteria during lunch time, and spent the next year being teased about their weight

I wish I could tell my mother, and let her kiss it all away.