Afflictions: Cautionary Tales

By Sandy Raschke

Affliction: The cause of continued pain of body or mind, as sickness, losses, etc.; an event or instance of grievous distress; a pain or grief.

 

These fifteen cautionary tales are about ordinary people encountering unusual problems: a woman diagnosed with a rare disease that requires a DNA transplant; an elderly woman whose strange malady robs her of the joy of baking cookies for her neighbors; a young card dealer who meets a suicidal woman on his first paid vacation; an abstract painter and sculptor deeply in thrall to a model; a bully who refuses to take "no" for an answer; a real estate broker who thought she had married a wealthy man. And others—a conniving thief who begs his mother for money; a young girl growing up in a dysfunctional family; a widow trying to run an apple farm by herself...and more.

 

Afflictions are universal to humankind and have been since the beginning of time. Almost everyone has been touched at one time or another by an affliction, sometimes of one's own making, sometimes through the deliberate acts of others, sometimes by chance, mistake or accident.  Some people take pleasure in hurting others in order to feel powerful, while others derive satisfaction by helping those in need. Some people learn from adversity and are able to cope with the realities and vagaries of life; others surrender and wallow in their pain. Some obtain wisdom, while others can't or won't. But, as these stories reveal, there is always a chance to overcome that which afflicts us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandy Raschke
• Release date: May 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224228522

Book preview

The Old Woman

Every morning at 10:30 a.m., she walked by the café. I usually took a coffee break about then and sat on a stool at the cash register, in front of the window facing the street. She was old, I don’t know how old, but she was hunched, her hair an unkempt gray cut short, and she carried a tote bag—one of those freebies you get when you donate to an animal non-profit—in her case, a tiger on the front and snow leopard on the back. She always wore the same outfit: loose gray slacks, a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, a short gray jacket and black, laced walking shoes.

Hundreds of people walk by my café every day, but this woman had become an obsession to me. I could set my clock by her—both when she walked by and when she walked back, always at noon.

Had she been shopping? Taken a trip to the library? Did she work part-time nearby? Or was she just out for the exercise? There were times I wanted to rush out the door and invite her in for a hot beverage—not everyone likes coffee.

And then, surprise. On Tuesday it was raining and windy, so windy the umbrellas people carried were useless. The rain splashed against the door in big splats and within an hour, had overflowed the curbs. I had never seen anything like it in my five years here. It was as if our little part of the world was being viciously cleansed.

The old woman came through the door and nodded at me, as if she knew me—and maybe she did. Maybe she had been looking as intensely at me as I was at her. She sat at the first little table in front of the window. I handed her a menu and she smiled.

I saw then she wasn’t old, but worn. Her face was etched with lines, her eyes a pale watery blue, her face sharply-angled, her lips thin and bluish-gray. She had that tentative look, as if she were anxious about something.

I gave her a few minutes then asked what she wanted.

A pot of oolong, if you have it, and a cinnamon roll.

Back shortly, I said and put together her order. I could have had Angelica, my partner, handle it, but I was curious and, besides, Angelica was baking pies.

~~~

Ellie’s Café isn’t your usual coffee shop/diner. We open for breakfast at 6 a.m., and close at 2:30 p.m. We serve traditional breakfast items: all manner of eggs, pancakes, French toast, etc., until closing, but lunch? It might sound strange, but no burgers or other fast food, no grilled anything, no salads or sandwiches. Ellie’s Café is known for its stews: fish, pork, beef, vegetable, and chicken, accompanied by thick slabs of homemade sourdough, rye or cornbread, and sweet butter.

The fish stew is Italian—cioppino, with shellfish in a rich garlicky tomato and wine sauce; the pork stew is pozole—Mexican and spicy; the beef stew is goulash—peppery Hungarian; and the chicken stew is my concoction, like chicken pot pie but without the crust and, if the customer prefers dumplings, we’ll make them. Angelica bakes fruit and cream pies and we keep ice cream in the freezer and serve it on top of the pie or by the dish.

~~~

When we first opened, about half of our customers looked at the lunch menu and left. Then a young reporter from the local newspaper showed up, ordered the cioppino, and gave us a glowing review. Shortly after the review came out, several customers ventured in and we started getting publicity on Yelp. And now the lunch crowd sometimes stands in line waiting for a table—but not today.

I set the pot of tea and the cinnamon roll on the table. Can I get you anything else? I asked.

She looked up at me and gave me a tentative smile. Yes, a new face. She sipped her tea. Good, she said then took a bite of the roll. "Hmm. Fresh out of the oven?"

I nodded yes. I see you walk by the café every morning, I said. But this is the first time you’ve come inside.

Yes, she said. I was curious, cold, and getting wet. I usually do my daily shopping at Ben’s Specialties down the street and go home. She finished the cup of tea and poured another. How old do you think I am?

That struck me as odd. I don’t think it’s my place to guess.

Her pale blue eyes studied me. I won’t be offended, Ellie. Go ahead.

How did she know my name?  Uh, okay. I’m not too good at this: seventies, maybe?

She rifled through her tote bag and pulled out a small leather portfolio. She took out a photo and handed it to me. That was me three years ago, before the disease struck.

I studied the photo: of a young honey-blonde haired woman with jade green eyes, the classic cheekbones of a fashion model, and full lips. ‘This is you?" I said, trying not to reveal my shock.

It was, she said, taking a sip of tea. It took me a long time to accept my affliction. I left my job as a booking agent for models, and traveled thousands of miles, from New York City to Washington State, in a motor home I bought. I didn’t want anyone to see me. But when I got here, first Seattle, then Bellevue, and finally Chehalis, I had matured—figuratively and literally. From thirty-three to what most people think is the seventies. I’ve accepted my fate but, when the occasion arises, I visit a medical center to see if there’s been any progress in battling this rare disease.

You have great courage, I said. Has there been any progress?

Gene therapy. She finished the roll. I haven’t told you my name, have I?

I shook my head.

Lacey Corcoran. I was a child model and did a number of commercials for toys and cereal then, as a teenager, I modeled clothing and also hair designs. At eighteen, the agency let me go. I wasn’t tall or skinny enough and found work as a clerk for a booking agent. When the owner retired, I bought the agency and ran it until the disease struck.

What do the doctors say about current therapies?

I need a donor—sort of like a bone marrow donor for people with cancer—but the specialists will extract DNA instead, inject it into a host cell and transfer it to wherever it’s supposed to go. I don’t know the science behind it but they said I have a twenty percent chance the gene therapy will turn back the clock and restore me to my thirty-plus years.

Twenty percent? Not too good, I said and immediately wanted to retract my statement.

Don’t feel embarrassed, Lacey said. That’s exactly what I told the doctors at the three medical centers I visited, after they gave me the cost of the treatment.

Which is?

She scooped up the last morsel of her cinnamon roll. $1.5 million. And I no longer have insurance, obviously.

So what will you do? I asked.

"Look for a foundation that provides funds for people with odd and rare maladies. Or open a Go-Fund-Me account."

So there’s hope?

There’s always hope, she said. Would you be interested in donating your DNA, if I get funded?

Her request startled me. And she could tell, I’m sure, as my eyes almost bugged out of their sockets.

I’d have to know more, I said. Is there a particular reason why you think I would be a good donor?

We have similar looks—rather you look similar to me when I was in my twenties. She laughed. I was looking at you, too, when I passed by each morning on my way to the store.

I felt my cheeks burn. You saw me, I said.

Oh yes... I saw your curiosity. To be honest, I’ve been looking at a lot of women, potential donors, from New York City, across the U.S. and now Washington, from Seattle to Bellevue until I came here and found this town most charming. She looked at her watch. Goodness, the time just flew. And it stopped raining. What do I owe you?

I filled out the check. $4.00.

Lacey handed me a $5 bill. Keep it, she said. You have a business to run and I’ve taken up too much of your time. She stood up.

Come back anytime, I said. And let me know what happens with the proposed treatment.

I will, she said and held out her hand. Thank you for listening to me and for the great service.

Her handshake was firm and I looked into her eyes. They seemed full of hope... and also something else.

She left the café and I went back to my perch behind the cash register. The lunch crowd was about to arrive. Angelica had just sliced up a lemon meringue pie and put it in the pie keeper behind me.

What was that about? she asked.

A woman claiming to be afflicted with a degenerative disease, I said. She had quite a story to tell.

You don’t believe her?

Sorry to say, no. When she came in she was wearing gloves, which she took off to drink her tea and eat the cinnamon roll. We shook hands before she left. Her hands looked youthful and her grip was strong. Then because we were so close, I looked at her face. She was wearing contacts, and heavy makeup that made her look older than her thirty or so years.

How could you tell? Angelica asked.

My mother sent me to a modeling school when I was fourteen and we were taught how to apply makeup to make us look older, especially to potential agents. Lacey, if that’s her real name, apparently knew how to do the same, but made herself into an elderly woman. I shook my head. I wonder what she expects to gain from her charade.

You think she’s a con artist?

I’m not sure. Maybe she has emotional problems and is trying to garner sympathy.

Perhaps, Angelica said and went back to cutting up a strawberry-rhubarb pie.

And I wondered if I was being too harsh in judging this woman I’d met only once.

~~~

The next day, the sun came out and dried up the rain-soaked streets. Angelica and I took care of the morning rush and at 10:30 a.m., there was a lull and I sat at the cash register drinking coffee and waited for Lacey Corcoran to walk down the street in her costume and tote bag. But she never showed. Nor did she walk in the opposite direction at noon.

Had I spooked her? Or was she telling the truth and found someone else to provide their DNA, and a foundation to pay for the gene therapy?

~~~

I thought I would never find out and let it go, until a few months later, when I saw an article in our online community weekly: "Woman who set up a Go-Fund-Me page, arrested for fraud after claiming she needed money for gene therapy to cure her rare illness. Over $750,000 had been collected from donors in New York City to Seattle when the Bellevue police, acting on a tip, arrested Ms. Sally Kerides for soliciting donations from local stores and other establishments in the Seattle-Tacoma and Centralia areas. When examined by specialists in Bellevue, it was determined she had no rare illness and had used artful means to make herself look older. Go-Fund-Me has arranged to return the money to the donors, and Ms. Kerides, a former model and sometimes stage actress has agreed to plead guilty and will be sentenced in a Bellevue court in September."

I turned to Angelica and showed her the article. She never asked me for money but suggested I might donate my DNA. I wonder who the tipster was.

Angelica gave me a curious stare and a twisted smile then pulled out a large apple pie from the oven. My guess is someone who also saw through her makeup.

The Crutch

That night, like all nights since April 5, 1998, she slept like the dead and woke up at 7:00 a.m., inhaling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Since the age of twenty-five, she had been taking sleeping pills every night and drinking a large cup of coffee each morning to shake the sleep out of her. Now, before leaving for work, she sat at the kitchen table, calculator in hand and wondered how many of those little green pills she had taken over the past fifteen years.

She keyed in the numbers: One sleeping pill a night for fifteen years equals 5,475 pills. She sat back and shook her head. It sounded like a lot, but divided by 90, that was about 60 refills in fifteen years with a $10 per bottle co-pay. $40/year didn’t seem like a big deal.

So if money wasn’t the problem, why was she thinking of ending the crutch she had relied upon to help her to sleep through the night?  Curiosity—to see if the black void lifted when she slept without drugs? And why was she continuing to take them anyway? The trauma happened fifteen years ago. Shouldn’t she have gotten over it by now?

Starting tonight she would taper off and take one pill every other night, then three times a week for a month, then done—a steady