January Exercise

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anonymous user
Registered: 12-31-1969
January Exercise
7
Tue, 01-08-2002 - 7:50pm

January Exercise


Nine Lives

“I was walking in the crosswalk when the driver hit me from behind.”

Seventeen times I’ve told her and seventeen times I’ve seen her type it into the high-end laptop computer she takes with her everywhere.

Social services don’t screen their social workers for intelligence anymore, I’ve found. They ask the same questions over and over. And when you’re through with one, you start all over with the next one, like they don’t share the notes they take when you’re talking with them.

“Then what happened?” she asks.

“I flew up and hit my head on his windshield. Then lost consciousness.” I’ve repeated the words of the medical doctors so many times I can actually picture the event, even though the last thing I remember was screeching tires on the pavement outside the A&W. It was a clear day, no snow, no black ice, and no reason for that stinking truck to be driving through the crosswalk. Speeding through the crosswalk.

“And where was your son?” she asks, still typing in my words to the previous question.

“Inside the restaurant, playing with the dragon toy he got with his kids meal.” It was a pretty good quality toy too, for a kid’s meal prize. He flew it around the table and pretended it breathed fire on the fries and ketchup. It kept him so busy that he didn’t think to eat his meal – and when you’re as hungry as we are most days, that’s something pretty astonishing.

“Who was watching him when you were outside?” she persists.

Ah, the cincher question. The one they use to determine parental responsibility and suitability. The one they used as an excuse to take my seven-year-old son away from me. Like if you go away for one second you’re a bad parent. Like if you take a bath and the kid is watching TV in the next room, they get all huffy about supervising children. If you send the kid to school without lunch because you don’t have anything for the kid to take but crackers and mustard, they get all huffy about proper nutrition. Like they’ve all got super happy shiny families, yeah right.

“I can’t remember,” I reply. I have another one of my screaming headaches, the ones where a shrill voice in my head shrieks in my ears nonstop for hours and hours, and I drop my can of Coke on the social worker’s carpet. My hands don’t always cooperate with my brain now.

It happened on September 24th, a Wednesday. I remember this clearly because I had checked the calendar that morning to find out how many more days I had to stretch the Mr. Noodle and Oreos until the welfare check came. Dylan had been bugging me to go to A&W because they had this cool dragon toy that had come out, a toy based on a movie that his god dad had taken him to see. I think it was called Dinosaurs, or maybe Jurassic Park, I don’t know, I don’t keep track of kid movies. Steve had tucked my boy on the back of this hotwired motorcycle – borrowed, not stolen, he assures me – without even a helmet for my boy, but he tells me the theater was only four blocks away so nothing would happen. Now I know what can happen in less than four blocks.

“Can you still not hold things for long periods of time?” she asks as the custodian mops up the stain below my chair.

“Huh?” I watch the thick cloths soak up the Coke. The light brown stain snakes across the fibers until nearly all the cloth was stained.

“Do-You-Still-Drop-Things?” she asks like I’m in kindergarten. I nod.

My social worker picks up the phone. “I want more brain scans and motor movement tests…. Not Monday, today!… Fine, 3 pm.”

She turns to me and smiles. Her halogen desk lamp reflects off her shiny perfect white teeth and my headache grows worse.

“Honey,” she begins. I hate when people call me honey. “We need to do more tests, to determine how your brain injury is progressing, okay?”

My brain injury. They don’t call me retarded or handicapped, they call me a person with a brain injury. And Social Services says a single mom with a brain injury can’t take care of her child, so they took Dylan away form me and placed him in a foster family. The cycle starts again. I know all about how it works, with living with foster families, the beatings, the yelling, the rules, the drinking, and the suicide. The feeling you’ll never be good enough to go home, the feeling home will never be good enough to move back to.

“You can just wait outside my office and someone will come at 2:30 to take you for testing.” She sets her laptop aside and closes the file folder she never even looked at. Apparently our interview is over.

Testing. Yes, please, more testing. When they first brought me to the hospital they shaved my head to do brain scans. MRI. ABC. NFL. Something like that. My hair has started growing back all fluffy, I can’t do anything with it. I look like the freak I know I am inside.

“Can I call Steve to let him know I’ll be late?” I ask her like I’m eight years old.

“Who’s Steve?” she asks, returning to her laptop and typing away.

Steve was Dylan’s father’s twin, and only a few years older than me. Other than hotwiring vehicles and occasionally driving without a license, Steve was a pretty good guy. He treated Dylan real good – took him to movies, brought him the latest toys, and watched him when I was high. Sometimes he even brought us food, to get us through till the cheques came. He gave me the cash to go to A&W the day of my accident.

“And what can you tell me about Dylan’s father?” she asks.

Only the same thing I’ve told social workers for the last eight years.

Dylan’s father was another story, much different from his twin. Dylan’s father wore tight jeans and heavy metal band shirts. He feathered his hair. My mother brought him home and introduced him as her boyfriend. He was, like, ten years younger than her. He had a problem with me, said I dressed too sexy, said I was asking for trouble.

He trafficked heroin most days, and robbed banks for kicks. He’d been out of jail only two days when he trapped me alone in the room I shared with the broken washing machine.

When I told my mother what her boyfriend had done to me she threw me out of the house.

“I can’t have no liar livin under my roof. Get out!” she screamed, reeking of cigars and vodka.

Steve found me shivering outside the 7-11 that night. He took me to his place so I could have a shower. I ended up living there most of two years. He brought me milk and multivitamins when I found out I was pregnant. “I’m gonna be an uncle, that’s so cool!” he said. I didn’t bother to tell my mom I was pregnant. Steve told his twin, and let’s just say Dylan’s father wasn’t exactly a proud papa.

“How long had you been living with your mother?” my social worker asks, as she sips tea from her chunky stoneware mug. I have another Coke now, in a tumbler that resembles a toddler’s sippy cup.

I’d only been living with my mom for four weeks and she had brought home eight different men that she called boyfriends.

Social services had told me mom had cleaned up enough for me to go back and live with her. I was sixteen and had been in foster care since I was five. I actually got a little excited to be living back home with my mom. When I saw the state of her place, I begged my social worker to send me back to foster care.

“How did you get back on your feet?” she asks me.

Steve was the biggest help. He didn’t exactly work much so he could watch the baby when I went to work at Reitman’s. Yeah, it was a crappy retail job but it put food on the table. Then Steve got a real job and I got pregnant, so I had to quit my job and go on welfare. I lost the baby at seven months but then I got pregnant again. Lost that one too. Dylan has been my only for seven wonderful years.

She glances at the oversized digital clock on her desk. “We’ve run over. Call your friend and then look for the aide to take you to your medical tests. Thank you for spending time with me, Monica.”

She stands and extends her hand. I stand and drop my sippy cup, but it doesn’t spill this time. I clasp her hand for a second before my arm twitches free. I use my other arm to pull it down into place. She leaves the room and I call Steve.

Then I go to yet another anonymous waiting room to wait for yet another series of tests. I catch my reflection in the mirrored closet door. Every hair on my head is three months long and stands out like the bristles on a designer hairbrush. I could use the bags under my eyes to shoplift cigarette cartons. My clothes come from Salvation Army.

How did I get like this?

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iVillage Member
Registered: 09-24-2003
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 12:10pm

Hello Eyewrite! (m)


Wow! Good use of all the ingredients for this exercise.

I give you hearts for MRI, ABC, NFL,every hair on my head 3 mos. long, and bags under my eyes to shoplift cigarette cartons. Great descriptions!

I have some questions. As I read the story "the voice" sounded uneducated, if that was your intent, good job. Four lines caught me a bit.

Dylan has been my only for seven wonderful years. (ironic?)

I watch the thick cloths soak up the Coke. (carpet?)

The cycle starts again. (I would leave out--show, don't tell)

How did I get like this? (her inner dialoge seems very aware of what has made her who she is, maybe something like--"My life was a wreck before that damn truck hit me. Is that me or the ghost of me in that mirror?" If she is to have some sort of awakening as she sees what she's become.) I hope that makes sense.

You have TONS going on in this story, will you expand it? Very visual, and the characters feel real.

Good job, eyewrite! kat

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 12:58pm

Thanks for reviewing...


Yes, the voice was intended to sound uneducated.

>Dylan has been my only for seven wonderful years. (ironic?) - hmmm, wonderful indicates ironic, so I suppose so :)

> I watch the thick cloths soak up the Coke. (carpet?) - I was thinking of the rags/cloths the custodian was using to clean up the Coke, but carpet is a good idea.

>The cycle starts again. (I would leave out--show, don't tell) - I agree

>How did I get like this? (her inner dialoge seems very aware of what has made her who she is... If she is to have some sort of awakening as she sees what she's become.) - I know I have to work on my endings.

>You have TONS going on in this story, will you expand it? - perhaps, yes. The piece may be too short to support so many characters and so much time.

This story is based on a chatty girl on the Greyhound bus at Christmas. She shared her sad 24 years of life in a succint two-minute presentation. I just knew I had to write about it.

Again, thank you for your comments. It's great to get feedback from others :)

Have a great day, Eyewrite

Avatar for countrygal23
iVillage Member
Registered: 03-26-2003
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 3:24pm

Hi Eyewrite (m)


What a tough subject to write about,I liked your descriptions. I must admit that I was rather confused and felt really sad for your character.

I wondered if you might consider changing the title and also give the reader a hint that this is something you overheard. I cheated and read your remarks to Kat, so then it like rang a bell and made more sense.

I'm glad you shared this with us.

Maria

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iVillage Member
Registered: 03-26-2003
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 7:13pm

Eyewrite, I really enjoy your writing (m)


there was so much that was good in this story--the voice, the details, all the emotions. Terrific dialogue. The mother-kid stuff in this was just beautiful. I really enjoyed it, but it left me dissatisfied. (oh, here she goes. Brace yourself). One problem I have is that it reads like part of something longer; I didn't get a sense of movement and resolution in this. At the same time there was a huge amount of material in this; it was awesome, but I found myself thinking, hey, eyewrite, slow down, simplify, be selective. It happened at around the point where you introduced the motorcycle riding brother, and I felt that the tightness and subtlety that I admired so much in the beginning started to fray. I felt that we were going off-topic even more with the information on Monica's mother. I know this is partly to make the story fit the topic, but maybe you could rethink how much of this moves the story forward.

But I loved reading it. btw, check your email here at ivillage.

your fan, e.

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 7:50pm

Thanks Maria, for your comments...


though it certainly won't due to be confusing my readers so they have to read little notes to get it. I admit this story sort of rolled out all on it's own. I was feeling great emotion when I finished the story and posted for comments before it had been through a good ole Eyewrite nitpicky edit.

Title can be replaced... couldn't think of a good one.

As I noted to Kat, this is a fiction story based loosely on a poor girl's life story, as told to me on the Greyhound bus at 6:45 am on New Years Eve. It's been haunting me, so I knew I had to write about it (inserting the necessary details about dragon, computer, etc.)

Sounds like my story needs the brillo pad... maybe scissors... or to be expanded, to carry the weighty topic.

Have a great day,

Eyewrite

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 7:58pm

Thanks for your most excellent notes, e...


I did wonder if I had too much jam packed into one poor little piece. I'm usually a champion of Strunk's "omit needless words", and like to pare things down, but this story wrote itself and I really wanted some early feedback on the idea before I engaged in serious editing and rewriting.

Tightness and subtlety in the beginning? Thank you! :)

Too big a topic for a small piece. Time to roll up my sleeves and rework this story. Slash-and-burn! Watch out for flying embers!

Thank you again for your great critique. Maybe I'll see you at the Chat tonight, in eek, an hour.

:)

Eyewrite

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-25-2003
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 8:42pm

Great story, eyewrite (m)


This is a super story and I think the others have given you very helpful feedback for your rewrite. My heart went out to Monica with all of her unfortunate luck. All in all, Monica was a great character and one a reader could connect with. I liked the way you filled in her background throughout the story and tucked in the specified items from the exercise.

Thanks for posting your story!

Mac

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 11:55pm

Wow, I really loved this story(m)


The character was so well defined. I could really feel her anger, bitterness--even confusion--trying to cope with the system, her injury, and struggling to get her kid back. Sad that life with Steve was the best she'd ever known, isn't it.

Really terrific story.

Linda

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
In reply to:
Wed, 01-09-2002 - 11:57pm

Thank you for reading...


you always give good feedback. I hope I return the favour.

Have a good night, Eyewrite

iVillage Member
Registered: 06-22-2003
In reply to:
Thu, 01-10-2002 - 8:50am

Your story made me want to...


go out and changing the world. I did some social work and I was disappointed by the whole process. The resources need to be given so help can be given.

Anyway, I thought your story was excellent and you should aim to get it published. I especially liked how you showed us her "brain injury" with things like the Coke, and confusing things like MRI and NFL. Thanks for sharing!

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