Sandra: A Healing Reimagining of the Babysitter from Hell

By April D. Scheffler

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Rose Medicine Collaborative
• Release date: Aug 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087883250

Book preview

Sandra

A Healing Reimagining of the Babysitter from Hell

April D. Scheffler

Contents

Dedication

Part I

Alex

Sandra

Alex

Sandra

Alex

Sandra

Alex

Sandra

Part II

Alex

Sandra

Part III

Alex

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Alex

Part VII

Part VIII

Afterward

Part IX

Sandra

The End

Author’s Recommendation for Related Content

Acknowledgments

SANDRA. Copyright 2019 by April D. Scheffler. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or repro- duced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Cover design and artwork by Jennifer Cunningham.

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Dedication

April, I dedicate this to you.

May we continue this journey of awareness, acceptance, friendship, and healing that’s really only just begun.

Part I

Besides, the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside of us. What matters is the part we choose to act on.

– Sirius Black, Order of the Phoenix

Alex

Ihum along to Tears for Fear’s recent release Everybody Wants to Rule the World on the FM dial—humming because I hurt my own ears when I try to sing. I pull up to the curb, downshifting with a bit of a hitch that makes me wince inwardly in embarrassment. I stop the mental chatter and reframe the self-talk. Honestly, I am getting much better at a stick shift. It’s just taking time—a little more than I would have liked. I need to give myself some slack.

With the engine now off, the Texas Panhandle summer heat is quickly invading the car with impressive speed. The back of my neck is getting damp, so I pull my hair back into a ponytail using the hair tie that’s on my wrist routinely for that purpose. Ugh, the heat always makes me feel gross and causes me to flirt with the idea of cutting my hair into a pixie. I take the moment to squint against the sunshine at my destination—a small, clappard house. A sigh I didn’t know I had building within me escapes. I look at myself in the rear- view mirror for a quick pep talk. I see the small wrinkle precursors starting to develop in the corner of my eyes. I wish I didn’t care. Still, I look much younger than my 35 years, as I’ve often been told. So there’s that.

Yep, I say aloud, giving myself some affirmation, We can do this. I don’t know why I often say we instead of I. I suspect it’s the adult in me nudging the inner child towards the right direction. Lends the voice more weight, gives her a sense of community, provides a false sense of positive peer pressure. I can’t help but smile and shake my head at myself. Oh what a strange creature I’ve become. But if one survives, one evolves. And I’ve had to do my share of adapting.

I grab the grocery sack next to me with resolve and open the car door. As I briskly walk up the drive, I see flashes of gold in the front room’s picture window. I hear a bark of a woman’s voice and the gold disappears.

Sandra

Jessica and Michael must have heard something outside for they stop watch- ing TV and turn in their seats to look out the front window. Sure, the couch had long ago turned lumpy and out-of-style but that sure as hell didn’t give them any reason to be standing on their knees on the cushions. I snap, Get off the damn furniture like that! as I make my way painfully into the living room where they are. They quickly oblige, as children should. I’m silently pleased with my- self on their obedience. I run a tight ship here. But something else washes every other thought from my mind at the moment. Pain. My knees, always hurting, are doubly so today. Is a storm building? Weather always seems to make the pain worse. If so, it only mirrors the storm building on the inside as well. The fucking kids have been getting on my last nerve. They want to go outside, they don’t want that for supper, they want to watch something different on TV. God!

The aluminum storm door squeaks its protest as it is swung open, and there stands a young woman. Alexandra. The sight of her, as always, prompts two opposing feelings at the same time. Pride for one. She’s a competent adult and beautiful. I birthed her. Anyone who could lay claim to kinship with her would be proud to say so. But, secondly, something else not nearly so pretty. If I’m honest with myself, although I rarely can be because it hurts to think