Drawing in a heavy breath, I glance around the apartment, trying to piece together the last odds and ends to pack. I loathe the entire moving process, and this isn’t even my move. The previous renters, Jake’s brother and brother’s girlfriend, set their hands on a cluttered counter-top. The room is bare save for this last space. My brother-in-law picks up a stack of books, raising them indefinitely. Cadence climbs the stairs to the loft, her clumsy shoes catching on the carpeted steps, as I snatch up a plastic bag and hold it open. My brother-in-law places the books inside with unusual care. I peak at the titles and smirk at my discovery. Two of the books are in a series very beloved to him, the only books I’ve known him to read in the last few years.

A set of bangs course down the angled staircase. My hands forget to hold the bag. My body spins towards the sounds. My daughter is tumbling end over end down the steps. If you have ever seen a movie where time slows at a critical moment, then you will understand how it happens. I am stuck in water, trying to run in an atmosphere that won’t allow it. Her shoe catches on the last stair, pulling her knee in an odd direction as her little body propels down. I have to catch her before she lands, before her leg hits the ground in that position, but my arms won’t move fast enough.

Suddenly, my brother-in-law’s girlfriend is there, and somehow Cadence’s leg is okay. I pull her into my arms. My lungs still haven’t had a chance to breath and neither have hers. She inhales, letting the air out in frightened sobs. Her head buries into my collarbone. She’s okay this time, but I worry every fall will end in horror.

The receptionist glances at me, and then back at his computer screen tapping the keys with slender manicured fingers. “You’re really late,” he chides, his eyebrows raised like I’ve committed a cardinal sin.

“Yeah.”

He taps away, asking questions and rarely prying his eyes from the monitor. Cadence grabs at the glass tabletop he uses as a metro-modern desk. Her fingerprints smudge over the recently cleaned surface.

“Okay, just follow me. You’ll be down this way. Oops. No, we’ll just put you in here.”

He closes the door on Cadence in me. We seem to be in the room designated for laser treatments. An assistant raps on the door, and looks over my bare back. Soon another assistant and the doctor arrive. They poke and prod, until it’s decided. Bye-bye back moles.

Moles are such disgusting things, or they can be. I’ve been waiting years to get rid of one particular one. I barely feel the needles of anesthesia. They stick me four times; the one in the arms hurts worst. It’s a small price to pay. They shave and punch, but I could fall asleep. The light touch of their fingers is soothing, just like a massage. I don’t even mind when the door is left open.

Why didn’t I do this earlier?

It feels like bands of tape are draped across my eyelids, preventing them from lifting more than halfway. My body is telling me to sleep, and my mind is demanding I return to something else in the morning.  I set my new book aside, not even one sentence read. It’s been like this for weeks, possibly months. I’ve lost track. I distract myself with new books, home improvement shows, and furniture window shopping, but it hasn’t helped me forget. All it has accomplished is to lower my expectations of what can be done. The plans I’ve mentally cataloged seem barbaric.

I am the mad scientist, raging over a table of fused body parts and electrical wiring, trying to jump-start something that may seem beautiful only to me. It leaves me to wonder if my creation is a monster. It’s burgled bones, in truth, are pieces of a book, my first. I try to move on, to let it go, but it is always eating its way back into my thoughts. I can’t let it disappear. I can’t forget it. I can’t move on, not until the effort has pounded me into submission. I cling to the hope that maybe it will emerge a butterfly.

A new bit of fiction has been posted below the navigation bar.  Take a look at Ella-Mental.  More soon to come!

Swinging the door wide, I invite my dad and little sister inside. Dad saunters in with his toothy smile. The corners of his mouth lower one degree as his arm sweeps over my furniture.

“You need to get new couches.”

Well, I was happy to see him. The couches are faux leather manufactured in a pale khaki color. Long splits peel along the cushions, revealing crumbling foam beneath, but what more can you expect for $25? I mumble about our plans to furnish the new house. I lead them to my laptop. It’s preloaded with pictures of our prospective house. Dad examines each photo, asking detailed questions.

“So, at what your paying per square foot, my house would be worth $1,000,000.”

I struggle to explain the area, but my voice trails away. He doesn’t seem to be listening, and I’m tired of defending all my decisions to him. It’s now the point where I’d like him to stop asking questions and just be glad for me. I wave to his back as he braves the snow to his truck. It feels like the end of an interrogation, and I’m not disappointed to see him go.

The pen sweeps my signature onto the line next to Jake’s.  His handwriting is all lines and points, a formula of mathematical precision.  He glances over my shoulder as I round off the last “r”.  I imagine the slight shake of his head that I know so well.  My signature is not so pretty.  It loops and swings in a tall, fourth grade fashion.  I fill in the date and time slots and hand the document back to our real estate agent.  She smiles, a gesture that seems rehearsed, her cherry suit bringing ruddy cheeks aglow.  The feeling that I’m signing my life away left at some point last night.  Now, it’s the beginning of the end for apartment life, and it brings a measure of peace.

No need to coop Cadence into our allotment of rooms all day.  She will be able to run and play in a field of grass, the mountain view checking in on her, and the silence of the bluffs replacing the old street sounds.  It seems after years of paying for shelter, I am coming home at last.

We’ll run a little wild with the new freedom: splurging on new furniture, adopting a pet, and blasting our music.  I’m left to wonder how long before our thumping sub-woofer turns the neighbors against us, and if I’ll care when it does.

“Is it night, night time?”

Cadence is bundled in a blanket on the sofa, her cold limbs recovering from playing in the bath too long. She nods her head, grunting an “uh-huh.” I hand her to Daddy for an exchange of kisses. She reaches out for me in a gesture that joyed me when she learned it. Now I smile when my title pass from her lips: “Mommy.” Every time she says it, I am overwelmed with a glee that only seems appropriate for hyperactive teenagers.

A stuffed kitty dangles from her choke hold as I carry Cadence into the dimly illuminated room. She wanders to her ball, drops it, and crawls into bed. Her hand gathers the covers over her legs and waves bye-bye to me. Holding her ear, she shimmies her shoulders under the covers. A timid “no” follows my retreat, but that is all. The door clicks shut behind me; on the other side is sweet silence. I never thought it would be this easy.

My two nieces are tucked as close behind me as their bulging backpacks will allow. We’re trapped behind a family on the moving walkway; the three young children ahead have impeded our progress by darting from one sliding handrail to the other and standing in front of the stroller wheels to ogle Cadence. Cadence views them uneasily, but the long plane ride full of squealing and wiggling has fatigued her. She makes no complaint.

The distracted mother clears the left side. A few moments pass before I notice my escape route. I rally my nieces and plunge through the narrow space, until the stroller stops. The mother’s carry-on is blocking an inch of the stroller wheel. I excuse myself, but she doesn’t seem to hear. Bending over the stroller, I nudge her carry-on until there’s just enough room to squeeze pass. The mother notices me, apologizing and dragging her item to the rail. I rush on.

A childish voice carries over my shoulder. I glance behind to find a niece missing. Her lithe, five-year-old form dodges around a man and races to us. Satisfied everyone is present, I stop, and wait for the walkway to end. Little metal teeth eat the belt. I raise my foot in anticipation. The stroller handle digs suddenly into my gut. I feel first one niece, then two, pile into my back. We find ourselves backing up on the walkway to give us room. It seems the stroller wheels are stuck on the metal teeth. The walkway is driving us forward, and the stroller is keeping us back. A few business travellers are gaining on us, peering with irritation to see what the problem is.

With faces red and embarrassed smiles we lift the stroller over the teeth and speed towards baggage claim.