A short letter to my readers.
First, I need to apologize. Real life got in the way of this story. First my wife had a life threatening accident. Then a sibling collapsed and was on a death watch for a while. He's better now, but not out of the woods yet. Then my wife had another accident, not life threatening but very painful. Happily, she's on the road to a full recovery.
And the dog ate my homework.
Seriously, when you spend as much time in emergency rooms and intensive care unit waiting rooms as I did, you think about a lot of things. I started writing as a goof, telling my wife I could do a better story than some I had read. She urged me to go ahead, I might like it. And I did. The better part is still up for debate.
I don't have a laptop, so as I sat in those rooms I wrote in spiral bound notebooks. I bought three seventy page single notebooks, thinking that would last. I filled thirteen.
"I Thought She Made You Up" consumed six of the notebooks. Three more stories took the rest, but I'm not posting them until I finish this series.
Looking over the way I had finished this story, I found it lacking. Justice was not done to Wiley, and he's such a complex character I didn't want to short change him. I threw every thing out and started over. Starting with this installment, look for another chapter every four to seven days until I'm done, and I envision at least three more if I get the continuity right. Go back and read the first two, its been a while.
I changed categories, the poor boy is nowhere near ready for marriage, so I'll give you the details of his romance. Not much romance in this one, but I'll get to it.
Once again, thanks for reading and especially your comments and votes.
QHML1
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I did something I never do.
I turned off the radio, disconnected the Ipod, and listened to the sound of silence.
Music was and is my life. We all have a personal soundtrack to our lives. We're almost always within listening distance of a radio, CD, Ipod, some guy in the park with a slightly out of tune guitar, or a live band.
A song will start playing and you think, "That's what was playing at my sisters' wedding, my uncles' funeral, while I lost my virginity, or when she dumped me, when I found out I was going to be a father, etc." Music and memories are so intertwined we take them for granted. We don't have to watch, or read, or focus on anything. All we have to do is let the music wash over us.
And just this minute, I wanted to be one of the unwashed masses.
I didn't want to remember any song that would remind me of Sandy's betrayal. Too much respect for the music.
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I learned how women could betray you at an early age, and my mother taught the lesson.
I was thirteen, had been playing the guitar for two years, and had a habit of sneaking into my parents' room when they weren't around to listen to their records. They had a killer stereo, and excellent headphones. I would kick off my shoes, pick the albums, load the turntable and lie back. I would carefully straighten the bed and put everything back exactly, but I think they knew.
It was a Saturday morning in June. I was listening to the Beatles, "In My Life", off the Rubber Soul album I think, when my grandmother burst into the room, yelling at the top of her lungs.She had been calling for me but I didn't hear her because of the headphones. She was crying.
I knew something was wrong. She was a strong woman, the only time I saw her cry was when my grandfather died, so I scrambled up.
"Wiley, why didn't you answer the phone? Never mind, come with me right now."
"Gram what's wrong? Why are you crying? Is something wrong with Dad?"
I assumed it was my dad. He worked in a factory with a lot of machinery and was always talking about someone getting careless and being injured. My Mom stayed at home, so he worked a lot of Saturdays for the overtime. It was worth it to him so Mom could stay home with my little brother Chip. He was four, and the plan was for her to return to work when he entered school.
"No, child. It's your Mom, she and Chip were in an accident. I don't know all the details, but your Dad wants you at the hospital."
Dad was already there when we got there. I could see the tracks of tears but he was composed by then.
"How's Mom? How's Chip?" Gram and I pretty much said in unison.
He looked me in the eye. I had always admired his directness, but not today. He took me by my hand, something he almost never did. I never knew if it was shyness or upbringing, but he didn't touch much. Mom had to virtually sit on his lap to get attention. There was no doubt he loved us, he told us often.
"Son, you're mother is dying. They were hit over by the high school, a big rig lost his brakes on Simpson Hill and ran through the red light. You need to go in and see her now. She's unconscious, but maybe she'll hear you say goodbye."
I pretty much went into shock. Gram led me in. You almost couldn't recognize her with the bandages and tubes. She was on a ventilator, the machine keeping her alive. I held her hand and talked to her. To this day I don't remember what I said but it had Gram crying pretty hard. As soon as I left they turned the machines off, She just simply stopped breathing. They only left her as long as they did at my fathers' insistence.
Outside the room I saw my father talking to a doctor. He had him by the arm and wouldn't let go.
"If he needs blood my family will give it. Tell us what to do."
Chip was in a bad way. He had lost a lot of blood, and was still losing it as fast as they pumped it in him. they were running low, something about having a rare blood type, AB something.
The doctor agreed to take our blood if the types matched.
"Of course they'll match, we're his blood kin. and no, I don't remember our blood types."
He arranged for a quick test. A very odd expression was on his face when he came back.
"I'm sorry, none of you are a match. We've contacted the Red Cross and we're giving him plasma to hold him over. We're doing all we can, don't give up hope."
My Dad jumped up, indignant.
