Looking for the Sun Door

By Tracy R. Franklin

With Looking for the Sun Door, Tracy R. Franklin combines her poetry with short fiction and shows us what it means to be broken, whole, and pasted together. With her poetry, she uses her confessional style to explore the universal challenges of trying to understand one’s relationship to oneself, to others, and to the ineffable source of existence itself. With her fiction, she examines the human soul in resiliency and weakness, fulfillment and need.

History: Two sisters share the same home life and become mirror images of one another.

Meditation: Is hope an illness? One woman tries hard to believe it is.

The Drive: Two people do nothing in a car except live.

Beautification: A lonely little girl experiences spirituality instinctively. She comforts herself the same way.

Bankruptcy: A morally bankrupt man has to pay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas-Jacob Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Sep 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301060153

Tracy R. Franklin

Tracy R. Franklin is a poet, short story writer, and essayist. Her first complete collection of poetry, Angst, Anger, Love, Hope, was released by JMS Books LLC in November 2010. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband and their two children, and works hard to call attention to the issues faced by those with invisible illnesses.

Book preview

History

My mother had the most beautiful collection of nightgowns in the world. When my sister and I were very small, I would beg to be allowed to look at them, and my mother would obligingly allow me to empty her lingerie drawers into the middle of her bedroom floor. I could spend hours running my hands over the shimmering satin, the intricate lace, the gauzy chiffon. Some gowns had rosettes sewn along scooped collars, and some gowns came with delicate embroidery and see-through robes.

Every now and then my mother would take a minute to watch, sitting on the bed and laughing. On those days she would often let us play dress up. We would delicately hold up the skirts of our gowns so as not to trip, and we would stumble across the carpet with heads held high. My sister was too small to form definite impressions, but I was not. I remember that with the hem of such finery flowing behind me, I felt like the most beautiful princess in the world. I felt like it was right and good that I was my mother’s daughter, and I knew that I would one day be a good and beautiful shimmering queen as well. I hadn’t yet realized that beautiful and good could exist independently of one another.

They were dragging the lake today. I stood on the north shore about 50 yards away from the police officers and firefighters and tried to drink my coffee so I’d have something to do. I was surprised to see that the recovery boats trawled backward, and that the hooks attached to them were lowered from the bow and not the stern. Everything about this process would have fascinated Carrean. I made a mental note to tell her about it if we didn’t find her in the murky water.

Drinking coffee and watching the recovery effort clearly wasn’t enough to keep my mind in the present. My tangled memories began to play themselves out, and I had no choice but to let them, good and bad.

"I-ree-nee, Ca-reen, come on, called my mother, I can’t afford to be late. It takes twenty minutes to get to the mall, I told Grandpa to expect you at six, and I’m meeting Oswald at seven." We were going clothes shopping for the new school year. My sister, who normally didn’t like to waste her time shopping, was even a little excited; she was a sixth grader now and going into middle school.

"I told you, I’m just Karen. That’s how all my friends say it and that’s how I like it." My younger sister Carrean was never afraid of talking back to our mother, but this time it didn’t matter. Mom was too rushed to care, and I loved my name as it was. Irene with three syllables was so special as to be almost sacred to me.

Which one is Oswald? I didn’t know what kind of boyfriend he was.

He’s the blond-haired man who gave me the funny dangling earrings. His presents aren’t as good as some of the presents I get from other friends of mine, but he’s very nice-looking and he takes me to some really nice places.

Oh. He was medium. Medium was okay. I liked Mom’s medium boyfriends a lot more than her best boyfriends. After all, Mr. Richter was a best, and he’d given me the creeps even before I grew boobs and he started staring at me.

My father had been quite a bit older than my mother. He’d died of a stroke shortly after my younger sister was born, and to hear my mother tell it, had left us almost indigent. Much later in life, I learned that the filing with our county Register of Wills said otherwise.

My mom may have begrudged the estate my father left her, but she did not begrudge the name. I am the widow of Carlton McElroy, she would say when she was inevitably left off the guest list of one or another showings or receptions. Who do they think they are?

Although I was only two when my dad died, it was impossible to grow up without understanding something of his personality. His library collections implied that, though he was not Greek, our father studied the mythology and culture of the ancient Greeks and Romans passionately. Our father gave Carrean and me our Greek names. Hers means maiden. Mine means peace.

My mother always told us that she liked my father’s choices and felt no need to argue with him. He simply had more of a feel for that kind of thing than I did, she would say.

Carrean and I have nearly identical first photos. Our mother is smiling straight into the camera, the baby she holds swaddled and tilted slightly forward for display. Her hair is twisted into a beautiful updo, one small, curled strand bouncing against the side of her face. Our father leans over mother and child, his arms around his wife, his eyes focused on his child. He is only weakly smiling; mostly, his face reveals his happiness in an expression of wonder.

Our house was full of Carlton McElroy. His pedigree is painted on the wall of the library in the form of a sprawling family tree, most of which was probably recorded before his birth.

No matter how often my mother redecorated, objects that had belonged to my father filled every room. Lenore McElroy was not sentimental; my dad had been a masterful collector.

Had he merely been adept at acquiring items of value, even items sure to increase in value over time, I’ve no doubt that my mother would have sold them off as she felt the need. She did so with many of the articles of his estate. But my father had gathered historic objects of beauty, whimsy, and practicality. My mother was smart, and she knew that she could never build a collection so grand had she twice the money. She was materialistic, but these were the material goods she craved.

One of the less expensive items Mom kept around as a conversation piece was an old Victor Victrola with a cabinet full of 78-rpm records. When we were little, Mom would sometimes let Carrean and me take turns cranking the handle on the side of the machine. We would revel in the snaps and pops that came out of the speaker before the music started. Most of the 78s were made for newer machines and would wear down the needle if played too often, so most of the discs were off limits most of the time.

But when we were allowed to listen, Mom would listen with us and we would all pantomime the songs and laugh. One of our favorite songs was Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey? I was well past puberty before I understood what a fine-toothed comb was for. When Carrean and I were small, we’d simply kick in time with the music and laugh as we pretended to comb our hair.

It had never occurred to me to question Mom’s clothing choices when she took me shopping. Not so with Carrean, but Mom never made it easy for her. Now, we’ll go to the larger department stores first, and if we don’t find anything, we can—

Whoa! Carrean was staring at a small shop nearby. Its window display dummies were wearing ripped stockings, neon tutus, and baggy sleeveless t-shirts.

Oh, no. My mother’s voice was firm. We’re going for trendy, not trashy.

They’re not showing anything.

It doesn’t matter; I said no.

And we were off to the nearest sedate department store to spend the afternoon trying on what my mother saw as more appropriate fare.

Mom had a heavy hand in choosing our jeans, our