Talking To Myself

By Kate Bridger

Lyn is a 55-year-old divorcée returning to the workplace after many years working in her home. Cait is in her early twenties, and just beginning her working life. Forced together in a shared office, their friendship begins on a somewhat reluctant footing but, over time, a deep and fulfilling connection develops.

Cait's fresh approach to life reminds Lyn about her own forgotten youth and how her duties as a wife, mother and 'mature' adult prevented her from fully taking stock of her innate strengths and weaknesses. As the 'grownup' version of Cait, Lyn has learned many lessons about love and life and yet soon realizes that, despite the accumulation of grey hair and wrinkles, some things never change. When she experiences a brief moment of love and infatuation her own behaviour is not very different from a concurrent romantic journey Cait is also suffering through.

During their brief time together Lyn learns her son is gay and that—in her opinion—her daughter is frittering her life away; she reconnects with an old boyfriend only to be hurt a second time; and then, one day, she discovers her time may be running out. Throughout these trials and tribulations, Cait is by her side helping her to build stronger bonds with her grownup children, teaching her to stop being the victim in love and allowing her to accept her physical and emotional weaknesses.

At the same time, Cait sheds some of her edgy youthful cynicism, develops her self-confidence and self-worth—enough to find love with a good man for a change—and comes to appreciate she is, in fact, in charge of her own destiny. She brings humour, compassion and her unique brand of wisdom to their intimate conversations, many of which take place over a glass of wine in a cosy downtown pub. And, when a crisis occurs in Lyn's life, Cait sweeps in to take charge.

Although the two women recognize the similarities between their life stories, their likes and dislikes and even their physical traits, it is not until Lyn is gone that Cait realizes exactly what their connection had represented.

Philosophically, the story of Lyn and Cait shows us that although Fate deals out the deck of probabilities, it is the choices we make in our lives that provide the possibilities. Cait holds the reins on her journey. She doesn't have to remain trapped in either the track she's already walked or the footsteps that preceded her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Bridger
• Release date: Oct 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9780986922824

Kate Bridger

I was born in England in the mid-1950s and, with my parents and two sisters, moved to Canada in 1968. We settled in an isolated community a couple of hours north of Ottawa where I completed high school in the nearby town of Deep River before attending the University of Toronto.I graduated with a degree in Landscape Architecture but soon found my real passion lay in the graphic arts and publishing. In the early ‘80s I was Art Director for Hamilton Cue Magazine—this was back in the day when ‘paste’ literally meant getting messy with dollops of contact cement or hot wax, and when ‘cut’ often required the precision of a scalpel-wielding surgeon. The digital age has since made those antiquated production processes completely redundant.I took a break from working in print media when my husband, two small children and I left the city and moved to a remote pulp and paper town in Northern Ontario. The winters were long and nasty and the summers were short and buggy; there was plenty of time to pursue new interests. Having always enjoyed working with fabrics, I began making wall hangings for my children’s rooms. When their walls were amply covered, I fine-tuned my techniques, tested the marketplace and developed the art form that I have remained committed to ever since.We moved to Nelson, British Columbia, in 1994. Two years later, I opened an art and furnishing gallery downtown which, for the next decade, brought all my design, art, marketing and business skills together under one umbrella. I loved it! It was during those years that my decorating consulting business began which, eventually, led to my writing and publishing my first book, Nest Building: A Guide To Finding Your Inner Interior Designer.I closed Redfern House & Gallery in 2006. Since then—while exploring a variety of other vocations, including retail, ad sales and real estate, as well as travelling and successfully launching my two sons into the world—I have continued to work with my Fabric Art and, in 2013, I published The Fabric Of Nelson, a collection of over 80 pieces of my work depicting life in and around Nelson.I have always enjoyed writing and the computer/Internet age provided me with the opportunity to test the waters by blogging on a variety of topics ... from home décor and job hunting to art and social media. But, there’s always been a novel percolating inside me—two, in fact—and eventually I had to write them.I published Talking To Myself in 2014 and now I’m ready to launch my second novel, Dear Teddy. Both tales are about love and relationships and they both draw heavily on life experiences ... mine or those of people I’ve been around.As an old-school publisher and layout artist, my steepest learning curve has involved coming to terms with e-books and e-publishing. After decades of fixed print media where every font, image or heading remain exactly where you placed them, it is challenging to come to terms with the movability and fickleness of e-book text and layout. Smashwords has, of course, been my guide and resource guru throughout the journey.

Book preview

Talking To Myself

by Kate Bridger

Copyright 2014 Kate Bridger

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for purchasing Talking To Myself. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting my hard work.

Characters and locations within this story are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons or places is probably inevitable, but not intentional.

The meaning of the name, Arella, is important; it means: Messenger from God; Angel

Table of Contents

Prologue

Back To Work Everyone!

Teaching A Young Dog Old Tricks

Tenuous Relationships

Flight Of The Boston Fern

Declarations Of Love

Confessions & Calamari

Cait Takes Charge

Non-Returnable Christmas Gifts

A Road Trip

Hospital Rules

Searching For Lyn

Epilogue

###

Interview with Author, Kate Bridger

A Bit About Kate Bridger

Excerpt from Kate Bridger's upcoming novel, Dear Teddy

Prologue

I don't remember being a carefree child, or how it felt to be a teenager, or what I was like in my twenties, thirties and forties. What I mean is, I remember places and people and significant events, but I don't remember what it was like to be me back then. Was I funny, sad, smart-assed, kind, miserable...? It's as if I coasted through my life just doing what was expected of me but paying little or no attention to my own role in the whole thing.

What was I really like? I've often wished I could go back and meet myself and find out where this tired, lonely, older version of me came from. Perhaps I was always this way. I certainly don't remember becoming this. I only remember being it.

Here they come. I hear them again. I've never heard bats in real life, but I imagine this is what they would sound like. It's a frightful noise and, much as I cringe when I hear it, I know there is nothing I can do. Screech ... screech ... screech ... they're getting closer. Every few hours they come. They hover beside me for a few minutes before the squeals stop and then they flutter around the plastic moon that's hanging above my bed. The high-pitched sounds resume as they slowly retreat. Fortunately, I drift off easily after they leave and I return to my dreams and musings. It's as if they take all my pain away with them.

The nurse wheels her meds trolley down the corridor to her next patient. The wheels need oiling. They sound like screaming bats gossiping with one another in the darkness.

The bed-ridden woman alone in the cardiac care unit remains still and peaceful for quite some time after the nurse leaves and then, all of a sudden, she gasps and her eyes open wide. She looks startled, perhaps horrified, ... and then, just as suddenly, she isn't. Her body relaxes and her eyes lose their intensity and focus as it becomes apparent there is nothing more for them to see here.

Goodness! That was such a sharp pain. It felt like I'd been stabbed in the chest, but it only lasted a split second. Now I feel nothing but warmth and softness—it's really quite lovely, like snuggling up in a warm quilt on a lazy Sunday afternoon with the sun streaming in through the windows. It's the kind of warmth that seeps right into the bones. Someone must have turned on all the lights. It's so very bright in here although it doesn't seem to bother my eyes. It's a beautiful light; I've never seen anything quite like it and I can't help but stare at it. I feel it drawing me in and I feel no urge to resist.

Suddenly there's a shadow hanging over me. How annoying. It looks like the silhouette of a woman. Do I know her? Why is she standing here blocking my light?

It's OK, dear, there's nothing to fear any more.

Well, well, well ... the shadow speaks.

I want to ask her if we've met before and why she won't move out of the way but I can't feel my lips move. I'm not sure if my voice works either.

Yes, we've met. My name's Arella. The first time was a long time ago. You were very young. You don't remember, do you? Hey, that's all right, I won't take it personally! Look, I heard what you said down there ... you know, about wanting to know who you were when you were younger. I can take you there if you want. We should go quickly, though, before you move into the light forever. Would you like that? Just for a little while...

Back To Work Everyone!

Cait

Oh come on, you people … do you really have to ruin my day almost before it's started! It's a typical Tuesday morning right after a long weekend and here I am stuck in the slowest line-up on earth. What is it with old people? Ask them more than two simple questions in a row and they get completely tongue-tied and confused.

Will that be a large, tall or super coffee?

While fumbling in her oversized purse, the lady at the front of the line responds:

Oh, just a small one will be fine.

We only have large, tall or super, replies the young barista behind the counter while twiddling his pen between his thumb and forefinger in a contrived casual fashion. He's probably only about nineteen. He has heavily gelled dark hair deliberately combed to stick to his forehead and cover his right eye. Above the left eye, his eyebrow is pierced with a gold ring dangling from it. God, that would be annoying, you'd think. Now he's playing with it, feeding it through the hole in his eyebrow over and over again.

I'll have the smallest of those large ones you just said, replies the lady somewhat less confidently than before.

The server rolls his eye—the one that can be seen beneath his bangs—and immediately launches into his next round of multiple-choice questions:

Will that be 2% or skim … strong, medium or insipid?

Did he really say 'insipid'?

Umm, I'll have skim, I think … no, no, make that 2%.

Are you sure, ma'am?

Yes. Yes I think I'm sure.

The lady starts pulling coins out of the deepest recesses of her handbag one at a time.

How much will that be? she asks.

We're not done yet, he says looking at her like she's completely lost her mind.

Did you want any flavouring? he asks.

Umm, well, coffee is the flavour, isn't it?

Ma'am, you can have vanilla, hazelnut, gingerbread, chocolate-chili …

Chili? she shrieks. Chili … whatever will they think of next!

Taking this as a decision made, the young Cyclops moves to the final part of his interview:

Will that be for here or to go? Do you have a customer courtesy card? How will you be paying for this?

Eventually, money is handed over the counter and the transaction appears to be complete.

Why won't this woman get out of the way? She's standing there staring at the lad. What is she waiting for?

Eventually he looks up at her again and asks, with an audible sigh, was there something else?

Where – is – my – coff - ee? she shouts, one laboured syllable at a time.

At the end of the counter, he shouts back as if he were speaking to a certified moron … like, duh, it's obvious, isn't it?

Finally, she re-packs her bottomless purse, stuffing in her wallet, various scraps of paper, a lipstick, used tissues, a small toy giraffe and her reading glasses. With great effort, she zips up the bag, finds a shoulder to sling it on and heads towards the other end of the counter … at last.

Wait! cries the now exasperated server, don't forget your ticket!

She comes back again looking completely overwhelmed, sad and befuddled. He hands her the small yellow ticket with a number on it and she bravely sets forth once more.

Thank God that's over. The line starts moving at last. I'm only one away from the front now. The guy ahead of me is a professional. He knows how to order coffee properly. He speaks the language fluently.

Moments later—just as I'm about to place my own order—there is a loud and piercing shriek from the corner of the café. It's that lady again.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY COFFEE? she screams, it tastes like hot chili peppers. Are you trying to poison me?

She's staring accusingly at the one-eyed barista and all remaining eyes in the room are now turned towards her. She is flustered, red and slightly mad looking.

That's what you asked for, ma'am, he replies calmly as he hands me a ticket for my tall skim milk gingerbread latté to go.

Free at last, java in hand, I cross the street, open the heavy glass doors of my office building, run up two flights of stairs, burst through the metal fire door at the second floor, and careen towards my partly obscured desk. It's there somewhere, I know it is, buried beneath a precarious mountain of primary coloured file folders, partly used notepads, carelessly strewn pens and markers and a ridiculous, half dead plant. It's a Boston fern or some such thing and, despite my uncharitable feelings towards it, it's taking over my workspace. Soon the girl at reception will be telling my visitors to look for me behind the first bush on the right. I blame the window behind my desk for letting in too much natural light and encouraging this annoying weed to thrive. Well it's not welcome here. This is an office—my office—not a shelter for leafy orphans.

I work for a small publishing firm and we produce a monthly 'lifestyle' magazine. We write all sorts of unimportant stuff about diets and fashion and raising children and relationships and trendy travel spots. Occasionally when the publisher, Jeff, gets some kind of bee under his bonnet, we print something of substance. For example, we recently ran an article about the growing number of female panhandlers on our street corners and, a few issues before that, Jeff got it into his head to write an editorial about Canada's role in Afghanistan. Most of our readers probably skimmed over those articles, but that's not my problem. My job is to lay out the pages of the magazine and make them look nice no matter what they contain. I love my job.

I started here just a few months ago. Originally I was hired as a typesetter but, when the graphic designer quit unexpectedly, I offered to fill in until they found a replacement. So far, thank God, they haven't.

As I am taking the first sip of my coffee, the door to the office opens to reveal our friendly office messenger, Marnie. She's standing at the threshold with one hand on her ample hip and the other propping the door open.

Cait, Jeff wants to see you in his office right away.

Marnie's our front desk person, although why they call her that I don't really know; she's more of an all-over-the-office person and is rarely found sitting at the front desk. Most of her time is spent checking up on the production schedule, chasing delinquent sales reps whose clients haven't paid their accounts, overseeing support staff and, most importantly, keeping us all current with the latest office gossip and goings-on. Probably her most challenging role is to keep track of Jeff; he's like a child and constantly needs to be reminded about meetings, when to eat and the names of the people who work for him.

She's only a few years older than me, but her soft plumpness makes her seem far more mature and motherly. She's the kind of person you feel you could spill your guts to and she'd stay by your side and comfort you and vow to keep it secret and then promptly go and tell the first person she ran into! Gotta love her though; how else would we know what's going on in this place? Our various offices are scattered over three floors and I rarely run into anyone from the other departments. We e-mail back and forth sending messages instantly through the floorboards and plaster walls so there's really no need to actually get up to go and see someone in person.

I'm feeling so pressured at the moment. It's always like this after a long summer weekend. People show up at work still stuck in wish-I-were-on-vacation mode, too busy shaking the sand out from between their toes to really care about deadlines. But our production schedule doesn't make allowances for this so there's always some catching up to do after three days off spent golfing, fishing, or reading magazines like ours at the beach.

Cait! Now! bellows Marnie once more.

OK, I'm coming, I yell back.

I pick up a notebook and pen, just in case, and make my way up to Jeff's office on the top floor.

Jeff's fundamentally a nice guy. I'd guess he's somewhere in his mid to late thirties. He's single, moody and notoriously inconsistent which can make him a real pain to work for. His vision for the publication changes as often and as unpredictably as the weather. One day we're supposed to be a serious socially responsible publication, and the next day he wants a light, entertaining, waiting room read; one day the sales people are urged to get out and knock on doors to drum up business, and the next day they're told to stop wasting time roaming the streets and use the Internet more effectively.

Despite his whims, confusing directives, unkempt hair, wrinkled clothes and dirty fingernails, I really admire Jeff's passion and creativity. He's probably a bit bi-polar—when he's hot, he's hot and when he's not, he's definitely not. He alternates between bursts of energy, during which he spews forth great story ideas and design suggestions with such conviction, urgency and spittle that it is difficult to keep up with him, and other times when he seems to have run out of steam and he becomes lethargic, monosyllabic and often not very kind. During those darker periods, everyone is 'incompetent', 'useless' and 'dispensable'. He fires staff randomly and regularly—particularly the sales reps—but he usually rehires them before the end of the day.

Working in this kind of slightly whacky environment isn't everyone's cup of tea. My predecessor couldn't take it after eight months on the emotional roller coaster known as Jeff. I think she was a bit bi-polar herself so if Jeff and Claire were out of synch, the office was a horrible place to be. Of course, if they were in synch, it could be pretty dreadful too. One day, after her third pay cheque bounced, Claire never came back from lunch and no one's heard or seen her since. I wish her well but I'm really glad I got her job and, so far, most of my pay cheques have squeaked through with no problem—touch wood.

I arrive on the third floor and find Jeff, as usual, looking like he just fell out of bed and pacing up and down his office. He pauses only briefly to acknowledge me.

Cait, good to see you. Don't you look healthy and tanned. Did you have a good weekend? Listen, I forgot to tell you last week that I've finally found a replacement for Claire.

Oh.

You'll be relieved, I'm sure. You've done a great job filling in. I'm going to need you to train this new person.

Oh.

She's worked in publishing before, but that was quite some time ago.

Oh.

I think you'll like her. She reminds me of you in a way.

Finally, I have a chance to get in more than an 'oh':

Jeff, I really like doing this job. I thought that maybe you'd decided not to look for anyone else. I'm happy to continue the way it is now.

Like I said, Cait, you've really held down the fort for us and I'm very grateful. But I think we need a slightly more experienced and mature person. I really want this magazine to be more substantial, more significant. Baby boomers still rule and we rely on their readership and advertising revenue to support us—maybe more than ever, in fact. They're pretty much all that's left in the market that still prefers printed matter over e-zines. They like to hold pages in their hands and flip through them, dog-earing as they go. I think they still like going to the mailbox and getting something other than a bill for their efforts. This new person gets that.

Realizing that this is a fait accompli … for now, I simply ask when this new person will be starting.

Well, that's the best part, says Jeff, smiling from ear to ear, she starts today!

Lyn

OK. I've got my keys, wallet, lucky lipstick … what else do I need? Perhaps I'll take a book to read at lunchtime. Do I get a lunch break? Ah well, I'll soon find out. God, it's been ages since I went to work for someone else. Got to admit, I'm excited but frightfully nervous. Jeff, the publisher, seemed a bit off the wall. He was sweating throughout the interview. I think he's a bit nervous about having an old lady working in his office—probably bad for his image!

Damn! Where's my list? I'm going shopping after work and I want to pick up that book on desktop publishing for idiots because I rather suspect I'm going to feel like one—an idiot, that is. What on earth am I going to have for supper? I guess I can always have an omelet and toast or something. There's still half a bottle of red on the counter … somehow I think I'm going to need that later tonight.

I've already spent over an hour trying to decide what to wear. This is my fifth and final attempt. I started out with a grey tweed suit—the one I usually wear to client meetings and funerals—but it made me look too upper management for a production position.

Next I threw on a pair of casual slacks and a long sleeved cotton T-shirt. A brief look in the mirror told me I looked as if I was on my way to a picnic.

My third effort was a dark blue wrap-around jersey dress with three-quarter length sleeves. I thought it looked fine, but when I added high heels I looked like a flight attendant and, when I tried flats instead, I looked like a housewife preparing to host a book club.

The fourth ensemble was a pretty summer skirt in a floral print with a white cotton blouse. It didn't look bad until I realized that if there was any light behind me, the skirt was completely see-through—God, I wish I'd known this two weeks ago when I went to my neighbour's birthday party!

So, finally, here I am wearing a brown tweed trouser, brown suede shoes with a low heel and a lightweight knit top in red with brown detailing around the neck and cuffs. It looks OK with the addition of a chunky gold necklace and matching dangly earrings. It's not too flashy, but it's not bag-lady drab either. Besides, I really don't have any more time or energy to waste on this.

OK, Mr. Trebek, you be good while I'm gone. Try not to shred all the furniture. How do I look? You're purring; that's a good sign. Come here …

I bend over to give Mr. Trebek a gentle belly rub before picking up my gargantuan purse, turning off the lights and heading for the door. Good old Mr. Trebek, he's been with me ever since my divorce fifteen years ago. He's a lovely grey and white tom with soft fat paws that cleverly conceal his vicious claws. I've provided him with a scratching post massaged with catnip, but he still prefers to work out his frustrations and self-manicure on my couch.

One last mirror check and quick good-bye to Mr. T and I'm on my way.

I'm early—I'm always early.

I don't want to get to the office before everyone else and have to hang about looking as lost as I feel. I've probably got time to get a coffee. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll pop into that coffee shop on Rhodes Street. I'll just be a normal, everyday working woman getting herself a cup of coffee in one of those disposable cups with a plastic top. Nice change from my usual 'World's Greatest Mom' mug and a store-bought cookie at the kitchen sink.

Will that be a large, tall or super coffee?

I already told him I wanted a small latté, why is he asking me if I want a large one! He's a bit strange looking. Perhaps he's one of those handicapped people on a special work programme. His hair is really long on one side and it completely covers his right eye; perhaps he's trying to hide a hearing aid or some unfortunate deformity.

A small one will be fine, thank you.

I am trying to answer all his questions and enunciate clearly for him. It think it's great that he's been given a job, but I can tell some of the people waiting in line behind me are getting a bit impatient.

Finally, after it appears we've sorted everything out, he takes my money and … and then nothing. For goodness' sake, have they even bothered to train this guy? Now he's looking at me as if I'm the deficient one.

Where – is – my – coff - ee? I say it really slowly and look directly into his left eye in case he's lip-reading.

Oh, down there. OK, I've got it. I gather up my belongings and begin to saunter down to the other end of the counter.

Wait!

Shoot, I forgot the pick-up ticket and he's yelling at me again.

There was a time when going out for a cup of coffee was a relaxing and pleasant experience. You sat at a cosy little table and a polite and smiling person wearing a crisp white apron would walk over and take your order in two questions or less.

Anyway, that's my first test of the day and now I really need a sip of coffee. I can't get that stupid plastic lid to fit properly; maybe I'll just stand here against the wall out of the way and drink it here.

Oh my God! What the hell is this? It tastes like the little bastard has put chili powder in my coffee.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY COFFEE? I scream.

Now everyone is looking accusingly at me for yelling at the handicapped boy. Only a few hours into my day and it's already falling apart.

Forget it, it's disgusting anyway and I'm not about to order something else. I chuck it into the nearest bin and leave.

Up the stairs to the second floor. It's the desk on your right, says some friendly jeans and T-shirt clad young man in the lobby.

Now that I'm no longer early, I'm late. I'd hurtled out of the coffee shop but then I couldn't find the piece of paper with the address of the office on it. I thought I'd put it in my pocket, but it wasn't there. After upending my purse on a bench, I found it stuck to an empty gum wrapper. I've not been to the inTuit offices before. My interview with Jeff had taken place over lunch at a small bistro near my house.

Never mind, I'm here now.

Parting the leaves of a disproportionately large plant perched on the desk in front of me, I peer over and see a lovely young girl sitting behind it. I say lovely because she's really quite pretty, or would be if she weren't looking down at the floor wearing a sulky expression on her face.

Hi, I'm looking for Cait, I say confidently accompanied by my most endearing smile. It's the kind of smile that says, hey, I don't care if you're miserable. This is my first day at my new job and you're not going to spoil it for me.

I'm Cait, she states flatly.

And then she looks up and, for a split second, it's as if she recognizes me.

I'm Lyn.

"You're that lady! You're that lady in the coffee shop this morning."

You were there? I ask.

Yeah, waiting at the back of the line, waiting for you to get your act together.

Well, young lady, it appears I have got my act together now because here I am.

I don't mean to sound testy but I can't help it. What a cheeky little thing she is. Who does she think she's talking to like that?

Clearly smarting from the sting in my tone, Cait immediately switches gears and turns on her customer-service voice:

So, how can I help? she asks sweetly.

I start work here today, I reply. I'm the new production manager. I was told to come up here and meet the person who's been filling in. She 's supposed to be training me. Maybe I should go and talk to Jeff first?

For the second time today, a young person is rolling their eyes at me as if I were a complete and utter imbecile.

No, no need to bother Jeff. Looks like we're gonna be working together, says Cait as though she had just been asked to lop off a limb. I'm the one who's going to be showing you around.

OK, well, let's get started, shall we? Where will I be sitting?

Officially, I suppose this'll be your desk eventually, replies Cait, perhaps for now, you could use the empty one by the window. Is that OK with you?

As if I had a choice.

Sure. That'll do for now.

Day one, Lyn, don't ruffle too many feathers.

For the next two hours Cait patiently, and somewhat patronizingly, explains how the production department works on a typical issue of the magazine.

At the beginning of the month, all editorial for the following month is supposed to be in. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. Anyway, I start on the layouts. Some are formatted, you know, regular columns that are the same each month so you use a template. Special features need more work though. Jeff often has ideas about what he wants or, if he doesn't, he's quick to tell you what he doesn't want after he sees a couple of mock-ups. It all depends on what kind of mood he's in. All the layout work is done on this computer and no one but me has access to it.

"It's a big change from my