Script:
Minutes pass, I take slow, careful breaths, that is, when I think to. If I don't make the effort by breathing, well, ceases. What's happening to me? Still too freaked out to feel much of anything but numb, I lift my gaze once more to the mirror and stare at the hollow opening at the top of my nightgown. Off white hovers in front of the black tiles surrounding the bathtub behind me. No head, no trace of my flesh appears in the reflection anywhere. The mirror is tormenting me, mocking me. If not for the memory of how much work I put into hanging the bastard thing myself, I'd smash it. This is just too, I shake my head. No, I can't really be seeing this. I mean, come on, I'm not sure how I can win a staring contest with emptiness. My butt isn't even numb from the cold porcelain edge of the tub I've been sitting on for who knows how long. Like a fatal car accident I don't want to watch but can't help but stare at, I remain transfixed on the mirror while rising to my feet. When I lift my arm, an empty sleeve floats into view in the reflection. I keep reaching, fingers outstretched toward the lying thing in front of me. A second before contact, a soft knock at the door makes me jump back and cringe, like I've been caught with a boy in my bedroom at 15.
Script:
It was an atypical warm and humid fall day without the breeze that usually accompanies an autumn day in New England. Because the morning started off cool, I was appropriately dressed in my new corduroy jumper that I was excited about wearing, along with my wool knee socks. I was dying to get home and change into summer clothes, possibly for the last time of the year. After the letdown of not being able to buy Penny Candy, we selfishly decided to see if Greta was home. Maybe she'd have some sort of treat and would be willing to share. Farmer McDowell would typically be napping, so we took advantage of the situation and stopped by for a visit. Much to our disappointment, she wasn't home either. Maybe she went out someplace with her sister. Though whose idea it was has been debated over the years, I argue that it was Karen who suggested we cut through the farm and take some apples along the way. Knowing it would do no good to say no, and even more afraid I would get the hairy eyeball from my mother if I decided to go home by myself, I half-heartedly decided to go along with her. By this time in September, a good deal of the apples have fallen from the trees. Being at their peak of ripeness, it doesn't take more than a light breeze, or even just walking under the tree and moving a branch, to coax them to fall. Some just fall because that's what apples do when they're ripe. With every thud I heard, it sounded like someone was walking up behind me. This took the joy out of stealing the forbidden fruit. It wasn't long before paranoia set in, and I wanted to hightail it out of there. Besides that, it didn't take more than a half-dozen apples to fill my Mary Poppins lunchbox. I called out to Karen to tell her I was ready, but she didn't answer, and she was nowhere to be seen either. I was reminded of my favorite movie, at the time, The Wizard of Oz, and was half-expecting the trees to come to life and start throwing apples at me. My imagination was only allowed to run wild for a few short moments, though. Finally, I heard a voice from somewhere high up. Linda, I'm up here! Come on up! Karen was calling me from the forbidden treehouse.
Script:
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, I'm tired, let's go now. We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. How much do I owe you? She asked, reaching into her purse. Nothing, I said. You have to make a living, she answered. There are other passengers, I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held on to me tightly. You gave an old woman a little moment of joy, she said. Thank you. I squeezed her hand and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver? Or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware, beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
