Deserved

By Nancy Granata

Awoken in the middle of a nightmare, a young nurse soon discovers her body has become host to a dream persona that escaped from the dream wanting to have a real life. In a bizarre twist, that same night the nurse accidentally has a hand in the death of her own sister and is faced with telling the truth or letting her sisters abusive husband take full blame. Uncertainty creeps into the nurses mind and she begins to suspect the dream intruder may have also played a role in her sisters death. Neither able to rid themselves of the other, the situation between the nurse and her dream cohabitant, takes some unexpected turns until finally spiraling into a spider web of lies and guilt. Who will actually get what they deserve?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504916387

Nancy Granata

A self-bio is difficult for me and writing it in third person means I have to call myself ‘she’ and isn’t that weird? If I had 10,000 ‘great me’ things to write about, writing a bio would still be difficult for me. Okay, the author is a senior. Not one in high school, but one who qualifies for discount movie tickets and free coffee sometimes on senior fast-food day. She is retired from the insurance industry, alarm clocks and daily rush hour traffic. Now living in the mountains, she and her husband have come to love the peace and beauty that accompany mountain living. The author spends her free time now doing what most retired folks do, venturing into things they never imagined themselves doing. She considers herself a poet at heart and over her lifetime has written many poems; happy, sad, serious and silly. Her ideas for book writing include children’s books, several available on the AuthorHouse website as well as Amazon.com. Try “The Prefect Porch for Witch Watching”. It’s sweet and you only need to be able to sing a little. In writing “Deserved” the author attempted to go where she’s not gone before by writing a fiction novel with some rather unusual eerie twists. She leaves you to wonder, who’s in your dreams?

Book preview

Chapter 1

Unfinished Dream

Ceeeeelie has a secret, I know Ceeeeelie’s secret; Ceeeeelie Wainwright took an axe, gave that demon fifty whacks.

Get away from me! You have the wrong Cecile Wainwright! Get away!

But Ceeeeelie, there is no escape from the spider web of madness. You can’t get away. Here spider, spider. Here spider, spider. Come see Ceeeeelie.

Stop it! Keep those nasty things off me! Get ’em off!

Tee-hee, Ceeeeelie, sooner or later everyone gets exactly what they deserve! Golden rule at loony school; when you’ve been good, you get very very good but when you’ve been bad, you get horrid!

The first ring jarred Cecile from a dead sleep and instantly the dream was lost to her inherent dread of the incoming call. Late night calls were notoriously bad. She awoke muddled, caught in the transitional fog between half-awake and half-asleep, unable to make a complete connection with either but having the uncanny awareness of being in both at the same time. Her body was drenched with dream panic sweat accompanied by such fierce pounding in her chest that no amount of grogginess could keep her from knowing something evil had found its way into her sleep. The clinching validation that identified evil was the skin-crawling sensation it had left behind.

Double-shift exhaustion had been stealing dreams from the twenty-nine year old nurse for months. She had succumbed to the thievery but not without resentment. Sleep deprivation had forced change upon every part of her life, none to her liking, but dream loss happened to be an especially bitter one. Dream interpretation had always been a fascination and was one of few pleasures in her life. Prior to the grueling hospital schedule Cecile had kept detailed accounts in her treasured dream journal presently wedged between her nightstand and bed, covered with a thick layer of dust. The book’s neglected sight was a sore reminder she’d lost her recall ability and hadn’t put any effort into trying for a long time. That was, until this dream; a dream so terrifying it left nightmare hangover. This was a dream she wanted back with a chilling sense of urgency.

~

There is no escape. Their mother read in her witchiest storytelling voice as she held the book up to show the evil witch’s picture. Once you drink my magic potion you will turn into tasty nibbles for my prehistoric insects to feast upon. Her eyes glanced from the page to the empty pillow noting that four-year-old, Cecile, and three-year-old, Alicia, had scooted to the middle of the bed pulling the blankets completely over their heads. Girls, girls, what’s going on? What are you doing? She asked. I thought you wanted this for tonight’s bedtime story?

We don’t! Both girls cried out at the same time. It’s too scary.

Katherine Wainwright closed the book as she tried to peel the covers back. You can come out now. No more reading tonight. There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just a make believe story.

Being food for insects is scary! Cecile insisted as she and Alicia poked their heads out from under the blankets. It would be a mergency if you were about to be feasted on. Alicia’s head bobbed up and down in agreement.

Their mother smiled warmly. The word is pronounced, emergency, and I agree, it would be a scary emergency if you were about to be feasted on. But it’s just a fairytale story. We’ve read lots of fairytale stories.

Not with witches and magic potions? Cecile interrupted with a wide-eyed worried stare.

Mrs. Wainwright took each daughter by one hand and squeezed both with motherly reassurance. Her voice was soft with love. There’s no magic potion that can turn a person into pet food if that’s what you’re worried about. You have to go shopping at the store to buy pet food. Remember seeing the pet food isle? She paused to see if her explanation was enough to resolve any worry and was relieved to see both girls were wrinkling their noses with thoughtful expressions of acceptance. How about we put this book away until you get a little older and understand make believe better? And it might just be a good night for a sleep together? What do you think?

Cecile and Alicia squealed at the same. A sleep together! Thank you, mommy, thank you.

Is that what this was about? You girls hid under the covers pretending you were scared of the story so you could sleep together?

No, mother, no. Cecile insisted. We aren’t pretending. Mergencies aren’t pretend things, they’re serious.

"Good night, girls. There will be no emergency tonight. Mrs. Wainwright went to the door and turned the light off as she left. Ten minutes and then I want it quiet in here."

Twenty-five years had passed and the story had been forgotten. The only thing from that night that had followed Cecile into the present was learning the correct enunciation of the word, emergency. As charge nurse of the ER she had come to know the word well. To her own surprise, emergency room care had replaced her once-upon-a- time dream-job goal and turned out to be her true dream job. Trauma care was the exact right fit for Cecile. The work required a nurse with her exemplary skills and training and in return it filled her need to be needed. There was a time when she jumped at working extra shifts but at present too many shifts had taken its toll. Off time was so precious she now dreaded even answering the phone for fear the hospital was calling her back to work. Cecile’s dread had nothing to do with the job itself, everything to do with the six-month hiring freeze.

All nurses were working killer hours but Cecile more than most. She fit all the ‘call first’ requirements; unmarried, no children and qualified to work any place the hospital needed extra hands. Mostly she was called back to the ER but she had such broad experience she was number one on every ward’s want list. She also had a personal set of nursing standards known to everyone at the hospital that never allowed her to say no when they called, so they called often.

When the demanding schedule first started Cecile hadn’t considered herself a victim but rather welcomed the filled hours of her empty personal life. Now those personal hours, even empty, would have been more than welcomed back. She had reached complete work burnout. Even the extra income meant nothing.

Her appearance red flagged the most noticeable damage done by the double-shift abuse. Her six-foot-one stature had gone from shapely thin to string-bean shapeless. Clothing bagged in the bust and butt emphasizing she lacked an identifiable waistline that even nursing smocks no longer hid. The gold sparkle in her green eyes had been stolen by the two obvious lack-of-sleep thieves, bloodshot and baggage. Both telltale visuals were exaggerated by washed out skin tone and the now glaring skeletal curve of her high cheek bones.

Cecile was well aware the weariness showed. For the first time in her life she was using makeup concealer and overdosing on get-the-red-out eye drops. Her top priority was to never frighten a patient or cause them to question her nursing ability but under the liquid mask, she had times of questioning herself. Routine things now required step-by-step thinking and strong black coffee was mandatory throughout every shift. On more than one occasion she’d even used stay-awake stimulants, something she was not proud of. Taking such pills went totally against her own nursing codes but always on her mind was the one thing that frightened every minute of every shift. She knew exhausted people could make fatal mistakes and not even be aware they were doing it. That fear didn’t make pill taking right but in her mind it justified the need.

~

Impervious to the sleep daze, Cecile’s sixth sense was sending a clear message. The evil entity, whatever it was, had more than just traumatized her sleeping world. It had escaped from the dream and now existed in both dimensions. The dual presence was unmistakable. An atmosphere void stifled Cecile’s breathing, taking her breaths away before she could catch the air for her own lungs and a gaudy perfume scent had leached onto her wet skin and was beginning to seep up through the covers. The specter’s nearness had a magnetic energy pulling her close, keeping them together as one unit while at the same time moving them further away from the realm of sleep. There was no misconception about what the subliminal intruder wanted. It wanted a permanent host into the waking world. Forewarned by her inner psyche that she had unleashed an insidious predator, a panic siren wailed in Cecile’s semiconscious, warning her she had to finish the dream right then and put the evil back where it came from or she would never have another chance.

In the tiny space of silence that comes between the end of one ring and the start of another, the passing of time hung suspended as Cecile tried to force the return of her dream. Her mind searched itself for the place dreams are stored but the harder she tried to find that place, the further the dream seemed to slip away. Her feverish ideas on how to regain dream status quickly expanded into illusive chimera most of which came and went in the same flash. The concept of walking back through a door marked REM sleep was as short lived as winding back the hands on the clock so the dream could revert to where it had been earlier.

Cecile’s neck muscles tightened. Increased anxiety knotted in her throat and swallowing went to a trickle. The putrid perfume stench had worked its way into her nostrils shocking her senses with smelling-salt brutality. She fought the stimulant all the while hearing a sing-songy voice in her head coaxing "wake up now, Ceeeeelie, time to wake up."

Get away from me. You have the wrong person, the wrong person. She instinctively fought. "My name is not, Ceeeeelie. My real name is, Cecile, not, Ceeeeelie!"

~

All her life Cecile had hated nicknames. By way of experience she grew up associating nicknames to be the equivalent of name-calling; hurtful and mean. Since first grade she’d been taller than every child in the class making her self-conscious and shy. Her legs were so long her knees bumped the underside of her desk, sometimes raising it off the floor if she moved even slightly. The entire classroom would quickly erupt into Floating Desk giggles which she pretended not to hear by appearing engrossed in her workbook. But she always heard. Sometimes on the school bus kids would yell goodbye, Floating Desk when she was getting off. "My real name is, Cecile." She would call back but no one seemed to notice. They had moved on to throwing paper wads at each other and sharing leftovers from lunch boxes. She wanted them to care, to know that name-calling was mean, but as the doors on the bus closed it was clear no one cared what her name was. The next day she would still be, Floating Desk.

Even before first grade Cecile had been bothered by people that couldn’t just use a person’s real name. If they didn’t know, all they had to do was ask. No one ever asked. They just assumed whatever name they called her was what she would answer to. The auburn color of her long hair drew a lot of names. Rusty, was common and then there was, Ginger, and even, Brown Sugar. A woman at their church one time said Cecile’s hair was the color of fresh ground cinnamon and after that, every Sunday the same woman would call her, Cinnamon. Cecile would start to say, "My real name… but her mother would nudge her before she finished and she would make a crooked smile and politely shake the lady’s hand. The church lady had a pet name for Alicia, too. She called Alicia, Daffodil, because her hair was a golden honey blond color. Cecile would start to say, Her real name…" but then her mother would nudge her and so, as the years passed, the girls hid their displeasure with the ridiculous names. One Sunday around the ages eight and nine, the girls learned the lady had moved away and that night they secretly celebrated in Cecile’s bedroom with popsicles, raisins, chocolate milk and a bag of cheese chips. The end had finally come to the names, Cinnamon and Daffodil.

There was one name exception that Cecile considered the norm and never fused about. Alicia’s baby talk version of, Cecile, was Ceil. Cecile had been called that for so long it never ranked as a nickname but no one else was ever allowed to call her that except Alicia. Eleven months separated the sisters and it was inevitable they became best friends. Alicia was more outgoing and got along with lots of people but for Cecile, Alicia wasn’t just her best friend, she was her only. Although they never shared the same class rooms, they were inseparable every place else. Size wise, it was logical that Cecile became ‘big sister protector’ but much of the time it was Alicia that defended Cecile. Alicia didn’t like name-calling either and she didn’t hold back what she thought of it when classmates were being unkind.

In junior high Cecile had been dubbed ‘Sally Short’ by some classmates who jokingly gave her the name of a character in a book who was her same height, six-foot-one. Of any nickname she’d ever been called that was the one she hated most. Maybe the kids hadn’t meant it as mean but when you’re in seventh grade, taller than most of the teachers, the name-calling hurt. Sally Short stuck for five more years and the scar from it was permanent. Even now if she ran into anyone from the past who called her, Sally, it would bring fire to her green eyes. Only one other thing made worse flames of hate, her feelings for her brother-in-law. She triggered the same reaction from him brought about by a long ongoing tug-of-war over her sister. Cecile wanted to ‘save’ Alicia from Dan Damon and he wanted to ‘own’ her. Cecile had two descriptive terms for Dan Damon, neither of which she ever considered name-calling. One was, Devil Dan; the other, Jack the Ripper. She never thought either reference was unkind because she truly believed he was a mutation of the two.

Being the butt of tall jokes had made Cecile a person that kept to herself, not unfriendly but unsocial. She’d never even been on a date. Up until Alicia met and married Danny, the sisters lived together in the house they’d been raised in and neither had a social life. Both were more focused on grades and career goals. During Cecile’s second year in college, Alicia’s first, their parents were killed in a car crash while on a trip. The loss of their parents was life changing, especially for Cecile. Immediately her goal of becoming a doctor was gone. The cost was not doable with both girls in college at the same time. Without hesitation she set her sights on a nursing degree so there would be enough money to enable Alicia to also reach her goal. Alicia’s degree in journalism never happened. She dropped out of college to marry smooth-talking Devil Dan.

The disappearance of Alicia in Cecile’s life made her work harder to become better than the best nurse in all of Colorado. And she pretty much was. Her education, experience, commitment to the profession and skills earned her several nursing excellence awards and over the years, many job offers. Around the Denver hospital scene Cecile’s admirable reputation was well known.

~

Come on, Ceeeeelie, wake up. Stop fighting it. You can’t put me back. I don’t want to go back so stop trying to find a way. Not going to happen so wake up.

Instantly Cecile’s mind began a subliminal search to put a face to the familiar sounding voice that was calling her, Ceeeeelie, but the moment of wanting to confront the name-caller was short-lived. More important was reaching the crucial dream destination. That goal was slipping further out of reach fast enough and she sensed a force working against her. The harder she fought to return to the dark, the stronger the push toward the light. Drugged with exhaustion made it seem that the state of REM sleep should be extremely easy to obtain yet no matter how hard Cecile tried, she couldn’t overpower the resisting energy. As defeat began to appear more and more inevitable, she fell easy prey to the cocoon of helplessness.

A second rush of fear snaked through her veins, a fear she hadn’t felt since kindergarten when the bully twins had terrorized her into believing boogiemen lived in little girls’ closets. It seemed like only yesterday, all those nights shivering under the covers, holding her breath too scared to move, listening with all her might for the teeniest sound from her closet. The sudden return of past demons squeezed out what little air was left in Cecile’s lungs and paralyzed her limbs just as it had done in the ‘boogieman’s going to get you’ days.

Panic forced her into making one last attempt to reach dream sleep. She lay motionless, careful not to disturb even one thing about the way the bedding was rumpled over the top of her, hoping if everything remained exactly as it had been she could fall into the same sleep trance she’d come from. Beneath the floral quilt spread her heartbeat was undetectable. Not even an eyelid fluttered. The only movement was a slow trickle of perspiration that ran back from her temple, behind her ear, through her neck hairs and soaked into the already wet pillow case. With clenched teeth she remained perfectly still but all efforts failed. Any chance of recovering the dream was gone.

Cold chills goose bumped her skin and her stomach nervously whirled with souring fury. The upheaval in her stomach confirmed that leaving the dream unfinished carried serious consequences; dread was an unmistakable perception of things to come. Deep inside there was a driving force to not give up on the sleep effort but at the same time her psyche was now warning she must stay connected with reality to save herself. Save from what she didn’t know, but took the warning to mean survival.

~

Save me, save me! Standing in the middle of her parent’s dining room table trembling and pale, shouting spider, spider, save me, was six-year-old, Cecile. Somebody come save me!

Cecile, honey, it’s just a daddy longlegs. It’s not going to hurt you. Her father said rushing to her rescue. Climb down off the table, please. It’s okay.

Her knees were locked. The sight of the spider was paralyzing. She heard her father’s voice and knew he had come to help her but she couldn’t move. I’m afraid! She cried. Don’t let him get me! He’s going to get me!

Honey, don’t yell. Alicia is sleeping and you’ll wake her. We’ve talked about this many times, Cecile. You don’t have to be afraid of spiders. You’re bigger than them and you can run faster and can even step on them so you don’t have to be afraid.

Cecile was emphatic. I’ll never like spiders, daddy! I don’t care if I’m bigger and faster! I’m never going to like them! Never! Never!

He’s not going to get you. Look, he’s way down on the floor and you’re on top of the table. Calm down, okay? How about I put him outside in the garden where he belongs? Daddy longlegs are good for gardens.

Vacuum him, daddy, please vacuum him! If you put him outside he might come back in and get me.

If I put him outside he can go home to his family. Wouldn’t you like for him to go home to his family?

No! Vacuum him and put a tissue wad in the hose like mommy does so he can’t come back out!

Amidst a slight chuckle her father tried one last time. How about you help me put him outside? Then you’ll see how harmless he is and you won’t have to be afraid anymore.

I’m not getting off the table until you vacuum him! Do it, daddy, do it! Call mommy, she knows how.

You don’t want to grow up being afraid of spiders. Cecile, sweetheart, you can’t climb on top of a table when you’re an adult. Think how silly you would look if you were in a restaurant. You have to learn to be brave. Fear is something you have control over. Always remember that. How about we get some books from the library and learn the bad spiders from the good and …

No! She shrieked, shaking her head. No pictures. They make bad, bad dreams! The webs are traps and you can’t get away.

No, no, webs are how spiders catch their food. It’s nature’s way.

I don’t want to be spider food! Cecile screamed. Get him!

I’ll take care of it. Her mother hurried into the room with the canister vacuum in hand. Still too fragile for what you are trying to do. She whispered to her husband as she sucked the daddy longlegs up with the end of the hose and jammed a tissue in to plug it up. Going back to the garden talk doesn’t work. Right now the vacuum is what works. Has to be from your side of the family? Her mother added.

Not so fast. I’ll take blame for passing her the Wainwright Curse but not the arachnophobia.

She’s never going to get over either, is she? Mrs. Wainwright said with a worried look.

Probably not. Walt Wainwright answered. But out of negatives can come positives. I’m sure she’ll somehow make good use of both.

Exactly as her parents thought, both conditions had followed Cecile right to the present. The Wainwright Curse made her honest to the bone and she couldn’t do anything about it. She literally suffered the inability to lie without lip quivering and repeated eye blinking. The unwanted tattletale gene had no consistent hereditary pattern for who would or wouldn’t inherit it; unlucky if you did, lucky if you didn’t. Alicia was a lucky. The curse had missed her which meant growing up one sister could fudge her way out of most anything while the other couldn’t dodge even the smallest bullet. Having the curse you couldn’t even tell a tiny white lie to avoid hurting someone’s feelings. Not that either of the sisters were prone to fibbing but now, being an adult, Cecile wished sometimes she could. It was tough being a nurse and never being able to fudge the truth even a little for the sake of kindness.

As for her arachnophobia, she still freaked at the sight of anything with a lot of legs and considered them a bad omen but had gotten over climbing on furniture. She did have small canister vacuums in every closet in the house including one in the garage. Next to each vacuum was a can of hairspray. Cecile hated bug spray chemicals in the house but had no problem stiffening a spider with hair spray and then sucking him quickly up with a vacuum.

~

Cecile forced her eyelids open searching the dark for one tangible thing that ensured Earthly sanity but her mind was locked on a vision of its own. For one surreal moment she was mesmerized by the sight of a free standing wooden door so tall its top was lost in the clouds and so long it seemed to stretch around Earth with no end. In both directions the endless door separated night from day. She was awestruck by the spectacle until something even more bizarre seized her full attention. On the dark side she saw the image of herself pushing with all her might to open the door. On the light side, her identical self was pushing with all her might to keep the door closed. Cecile was stunned by the mental picture, unsure if she was the one frantic to wake up or the one trying to make her stay to finish the dream? Equally chilling, the uncertainty, was it the evil from the dream that was meant to go back or was the destiny into the nightmare tomb intended to be hers?

Instantly Cecile squeezed her eyes tightly shut as she tried to erase the scene from the blackboard of her mind. What she knew that moment for certain, her childhood fear and this nightmare fear were one in the same. Sweat pooled between her breasts. Her empty lungs screamed for life but the weight of the bedspread seemed to have doubled and inhaling was impossible. She tried to sit up but there was not one cell in her body that could move.

Chapter 2

Genetic Unknowns

The second ring shattered the doom of night terrors and broke entirely through with the reality she’d been woken by a late night phone call. A splitting headache exploded behind her eyes. For one second the silence that followed was intense. Then a blast of cool bedroom air stung her sweat-soaked hairline and the scream of silence was broken by one last cold shiver. Cautiously, Cecile inched her head to the side, barely peeking over the rumpled bedspread waiting anxiously for night focus to give her comfort. Few things ever unnerved the experienced hospital nurse but the lingering sense of foreboding had her nervously searching the dark corners of the bedroom still half expecting to see the imagined fiendish face of her childhood boogieman. There was no visual sight of an intruder, no sign of being anywhere but in her own bedroom and in her own bed. Even so, she didn’t take what she saw as positive proof she was safe. Perfectly still, she listened for even the slightest whish of air movement and continued to take refuge under the secure feel of the blankets. It wasn’t until she heard the familiar thumps of Good Fella’s tail slapping against the hall wall right outside the bedroom door that she began to sob with relief. She was awake and sane and knew it all had been nothing more than a bad dream.

The shaggy mixed-mutt was never allowed in the bedroom but that moment he was more than welcome. Come here, Fella, come on boy. She cried making kiss kiss sounds with her lips. Come to me. It’s okay, come here. She braced for the pounce and slobbery greeting but the giant grey mop didn’t come and the hall was now eerily quiet. Normally Fella stayed at the door once he knew she was awake because he connected her being awake to his time to eat. She called louder, puzzled that his tail was now silent. Come here, Good Fella. What’s the matter with you? I said you can come in so what are you waiting for? Come on, boy. Finger brushing stands of wet hair away from one ear, she was shocked to hear the happy-go-lucky hound growling at the end of the hall. He never growled at anything nor had he ever had anything to growl at.

Cecile silently pondered the likelihood of someone being in the house. Good Fella’s looks were deceiving. His size was ominous but he was a gentle love mutt that belonged in a cartoon movie. Without knowing the giant dog’s true nature, his size was enough deterrent to keep trouble out. At least in the five years she’d had him no one had ever risked an encounter. She pushed the blankets away from her shoulders and whistled softly. Come here, Fella. What are you growling at? Come in here right now. He responded with another vicious sounding growl. Cecile flinched. Instant intruder elimination meant the mad-dog attack mode was aimed at her. Bad dog! She scolded. I don’t know what your problem is but I’ve had enough horror show for one morning! Go back to your own bed right now! Bad dog, growling at me! Go away you bad dog! Go! Bolstered by her own rationalization there was no one else anywhere in the house, it was the moment of daring Cecile needed. She peeled back more bedding, flung her arm at the nightstand and switched on the small table lamp. The pale yellow stream brought another rush of tears.

~

Just me; don’t be scared. Cecile exclaimed, dropping her school backpack on the sofa as she headed toward the kitchen. You can smell chocolate cake half a block away. I’m surprised you haven’t been cake mugged. Where’s the batter bowl?

Sorry. I already washed it. Her mother answered. You’ll have to settle for the frosting beaters, one each. Sit down and tell me how your day went while I melt the chocolate.

Cecile grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and parked herself in the end kitchen chair. Thanks, mom. Nothing is as good as your special fudge frosting. She swallowed a mouthful of apple. I’ll wait until Alicia gets home to pick a beater.

I’ll be so glad when the two of you get back in the same school. I like when you are on the same school bus and watching out for each other.

Next year. Ooohlala, you had your hair done today. Very nice! Daddy loves it in a French twist like that. You must have a hot dress-up date tonight? Cecile took another bite of apple.

Your father has an ad layout presentation tonight with his bosses, starting with dinner first. I have to look glamorous.

You always look glamorous, mom. Appears you had a reddish tint put on today which really compliments your green eyes. I should know, red and green.

Thank you. It’s nice to have daughters I can cheat on my hair color with. You girls give me a nice selection.

Cecile smiled. Now if you’d only grow another seven or eight inches taller so I could borrow some of your foxy clothes.

Oh honey, I think you’re perfect just the way you are and someday being tall is going to pay off big time. You’ll see. And I don’t wear foxy clothes to which I’ll add, as conservative as you dress, you would never borrow from my closet even if we wore the same size.

I was joking, mom. I wouldn’t wish you or anyone else this tall. And you do wear foxy clothes. You’re very stylish. The kids at school always say they wish their mothers dressed like Katherine Wainwright.

Oh for sure; what, in jeans?

You look sharp in jeans, mom. Plus you always wear cute glitzy shirts with rhinestones on them and people call that, foxy.

Mrs. Wainwright took a clean spatula from the utensil drawer and scooped the butter from the measuring cup into the pan where the chocolate squares were slowly melting in with sugar. We can find rhinestone glitzy in your size if that’s what you’d like?

Wouldn’t that be cute? I could walk around like a rhinestone telephone poll. No thanks. I’ll stick with conservative boring.

Honey, I know you think…

Mom, stop please. I don’t just think it. I’m reminded every day. Kids at school are now calling me Sally Short and they think it’s funny. Can we talk about something else?

Who is Sally Short?

Totem-pole Cecile Wainwright is Sally Short. It’s a book thing. Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it.

Sorry. I’m sure it will pass quickly. Silly names usually do. So other than Short Sally, how was school today?

Very funny, mother. Actually school was kind of fun today. Miss Beal gave us an assignment for history class to make family trees. As best we can, of course. We have two weeks to see what we can find about our ancestors. Would you tell me more about Grandma Wainwright? I barely know a thing.

That’s a strange sounding project for a seventh-grade history assignment. Somebody might find out they were related to Ivan the Terrible and, what’s your term, freak out? Mrs. Wainwright continued to stir vigorously as she added milk and white corn syrup to the fudge-like mixture.

That’s a stretch, Ivan the Terrible. Cecile argued. Miss Beal just wants us to trace back a little bit and learn something about our own heritage. I think it’s kind of neat. She took another bite. We aren’t related to Ivan, are we?

Her