In order to keep my eggs clean, I line my laying boxes with shredded paper. I shred some of my own, and I occasionally bring home shreds from the office. Imagine my surprise when I went to gather eggs and found one egg with the name of my employer on it! I just had to get the picture ...
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Coming Soon
Clink . . . clink . . . "Cheers," Martin Willock said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. In truth, he was as nervous as he'd ever been, even though he was seated with family. His awkwardness wasn't as apparent to his wife and daughter as it was to himself, but it affected his tone and delivery to the point that Liz looked sharply up at him. "Sounds like you are signing your own death notice, Martin," she said, holding up her glass. She held eye contact for a moment, swirling the champagne in the glass. "Can't you put a bit of emotion into it, for Ashley's sake, if nothing else?" Warm bread rolls cooled on the table between them. "I'm sorry," Martin said, faltering. He hadn't meant it to come across that way. "I'm a bit overwhelmed and I guess it didn't come across so well. You know, maybe we should ask about our order or something. It's been twenty min—" "Cheers to you, Martin," Liz said politely, sighing heavily while bringing the glasses together again. "I can be pretty insensitive sometimes. I'm overwhelmed, too. If anyone should be apologizing, I think it should be me. It's just so hard for me to relate to—" "—to all I've been through," Martin completed with a forced smile. "It was hard for me, too. Remember that." A waiter seated an elderly couple in the booth across the wood-planked walkway and the Willock couple waited politely until the two were comfortable and the waiter left to seat others. It was an awkward moment where both had volumes to speak, but there was no room for words within the boundaries of public acceptability. They hadn't come to make a scene, and neither was the type to upset the established equilibrium. Things had been a bit a bit tense between them lately, to say the very least. "That's a beautiful little child you have there," the elderly woman spoke snodding graciously toward Ashley. "She reminds me of my own granddaughter, perfect in every little way." "Thanks," Liz said courteously, pulling Ashley close. "She's our little angel." "Well, she has a wonderful mom and dad, I can tell," the old woman assured, her smile beginning far behind the gaps between her teeth. Liz looked quickly at Martin. He could tell she was uncomfortable with the praise, so he picked up the menu and made it very visible, even though they'd already ordered some time earlier. Another waiter appeared, to serve the elderly couple a small plate of warm rolls, occupying them for the moment. Liz could have offered him a hundred dollar tip for the deed. "She thinks you're wonderful, Martin" she giggled, sipping her drink. "I heard her say that. May I have more champagne?" "I heard," Martin said dryly, refilling her glass. " She said we were both wonderful parents." "Unnerful rents!" Ashley acknowledged, waving a half-eaten roll in the air. "Unnerful!" "See?" Martin said, sipping his champagne. "Even Ashley agrees. From the mouths of babes come wonderful words." "Turrrrrrds," Ashley mimicked, laughing, a twinkle in her eyes. She leaned over and threw up onto the floor. "Great!" Martin groaned, trying to not look directly at it, or anyone else in the immediate area. The elderly woman did not look so enthused now that this slight imperfection had been so publicly revealed. "I'll get it," Liz offered, sliding across the vinyl seat. "It's just a little—" "Don't bother," a handsome young waiter interrupted, stooping to tend to the mess. "Happens all the time." Liz knew better, but didn't object to the service. "You enjoy your meal," the waiter said out of habit, smiling pleasantly. . . . yeah, whenever it shows up . . . Martin kept that thought to himself. The waiter moved on, and Liz followed him with her eyes. Martin let that go, too, wondering if Liz cared that the guy was probably as queer as they come. The seafood restaurant was small, but cozy and impeccably clean, as if the staff feared a visit from the health inspector was imminent. Or, perhaps, Martin thought cynically, they’d just had one. The wait staff was as pleasant, efficient and as unobtrusive as they were when Martin and Liz first patronized the establishment a year earlier. The decor was the same, the menu hadn't changed, those just might be the same breath mints on the front counter, and Martin even recognized a face or two. The
similarities were uncanny, and he tried to recall if the same elderly couple occupied the adjacent booth then as they did now. The old woman was scrutinizing them again. Martin stared back rudely until she finally looked away, but only after pursing her lips and offering a hostile frown of disapproval. Uncle Elmer, seated directly opposite her, chewed his food with inexorable regularity, ignoring his companion with a thoroughness Martin envied. "She seems to think we're child abusers," Martin scowled, jerking a thumb toward the old woman, "just because Ashley threw up all over the place." "Oh, now Martin," Liz said with a scolding tone, "you're just overreacting. Ashley didn't throw up all over the place, as you say. It was just a little spit-up. I'm sure the nice woman doesn't—" "Then I wish the old bat would just mind her own business!" Martin spat, a bit louder than intended. Uncle Elmer stopped chewing long enough to look up at his companion who, in turn, hid behind a cloth napkin while dabbing her lips and forehead. Elmer went back to his bread roll, no longer interested. Liz struggled with her anger and came close to transforming the small scene Martin made into a much larger, uglier one, but spotted the approaching waiter at the last moment. "Here comes our food," she said instead, tendons of anger straining her tone. "Can we try to have a pleasant meal, Martin?" "Is everything okay here?" the waiter asked, setting a large tray on the table. It was obvious that Liz was upset, and he glared at Martin with undisguised disdain. This was the same waiter Liz couldn't keep her eyes off of earlier, and Martin wondered how appealing he'd look with scalding hot clam chowder running down his pretty-boy face. "We're fine," Martin answered cordially, "just a little misunderstanding. You know, one of those husband-wife kinda things." The waiter didn't look satisfied with that, and looked at Liz for confirmation while spreading food out before them in no big goddamned hurry. "We're okay," Liz confirmed, looking him in the eye. "Right, Ashley?" There was no response from the child, and her wide eyes spoke volumes of truth. "Well, at any rate, enjoy your meal." He looked directly at Liz. "And if you need anything, don't hesitate to holler. Anything at all." Fucking faggot! Martin stared at his bowl of clam chowder with deliberate focus, his fists clenching beneath the table. These fits of anger mystified and dismayed him, but they were far beyond his ability to control. His chest tightened, and he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. "Thanks," Liz answered. She could see that Martin was upset, and hoped the waiter would leave before Martin made another scene. She didn't watch him walk away this time. "Good chowder?" she asked, after Martin finally took a taste. "Very good," Martin replied cheerfully, as if nothing had happened between them. "It's as good as I remember it being last time, if not better. How's your hamburger?" "Haven't tasted it yet," Liz said, cutting up Ashley's food. "But Ashley sure likes hers. She won't even wait until I get it all ready for her." "Good stuff?" Martin asked, topping off the two champagne glasses. "Yummy!" Ashley giggled, sounding more like her exuberant self now that the hostility at the table was gone . . . or lurking unseen beneath the surface. "Yummy dummy!" "I think you mean tummy, you silly-willy," Martin laughed. "Mommy, me willy, daddy say," Ashley giggled. She stuffed a wad of hamburger bun into her mouth. "Willy, willy, willy!" "Don't talk with your mouth full, Ashley," Martin reminded, a bit more sternly than necessary. He looked over at Liz. "I'm sorry, I don't understand why these little things bother me so much." "You know," Liz said slowly, averting her eyes, "you might want to think about seeing a psychiatrist. I know you had severe head trauma in the accident, Martin, but it might be more an emotional thing than a medical thing. "Please don't get mad," she was quick to add, looking directly at him now, "it's just a suggestion, not an accusation." "I understand," Martin assured, smiling, catching Liz off-guard. "But I think it's a medical thing. I'm sure it will get better. I've noticed some improvement over the past few months. It takes more to set me off now than it did then." Liz looked doubtful, but said nothing. She ate her hamburger silently. The elderly couple across the walkway stood and shuffled away quickly. A group of bus boys rushed up immediately after to clear their vacated table. "What were we fighting about, anyway?" Martin asked, pushing his empty bowl away and grabbing a bread roll. "Seems like we do that a lot lately, and this was supposed to be a fun night out for everyone." "It's not important now," Liz said, skirting the issue. Bringing it all up again would have unpredictable results, and might even trigger more conflict. She pushed her plate away as well. "Not hungry?" Martin asked, eyeing her half-eaten burger. "Not really," she answered. "I ate a big lunch today." A bus boy turned and cleared their table. Ashley hovered over her plate protectively, and the bus boy displayed wisdom beyond his years by leaving it alone. "Cute kid," he said, smiling cordially before turning back to the other table before anyone had time to acknowledge his gracious comment. Liz wished they had held out for a window seat, even though it would have probably meant an additional twenty-minute wait. It had been a clear April day, with none of the usual cloudy sogginess associated with life in the Pacific Northwest. She was sure it was a splendid evening out; maybe she could take a walk out under the trees later, provided they didn't get home too late. Their five-acre lot sat at the end of a long dirt road, ten miles from Castle Rock, Washington, the town they ate in now. Liz inherited the property when her parents perished in a traffic accident in Seattle. The lot was perfect and private, with a picturesque view of the Cascades and only 20 miles from Mt. St. Helens, as the crow flies. Located between Silver Lake and the South Fork of the Toutle River, Camp Toutle was a sparcely populated settlement that took hold when the loggers moved on. There
were still plenty of trees in the area, and Studebaker Creek wound through the back acre of their property, attracting a wide variety of wildlife. It was a perfect place to raise a child, but as they were miles away from everything, even the smallest errand required a substantial drive. Liz drove sixty-plus miles a day to and from work. The dinner had been Martin's idea, and his invitation surprised her. Martin wasn't the type to leave the property much, especially since the accident. He was comfortable working on the computer or sitting out on the back porch with Ashley, counting different bird species or watching elk at the back of the lot. Elk were plentiful in the region, and some were bold enough to peek in through the house windows on occasion. Martin loved the solitude, and never seemed to miss the hustle and bustle of life
in the big city. Liz did on occasion, however, and this surprise dinner trip to Castle Rock broke up some of the monotonous quietude of rural living. "Thanks," she said, sipping her champagne again. "For what?" "For inviting us out to dinner," Liz answered. "We don't get out much anymore." "I know," Martin agreed. "And it's good that we do, or else we might all grow long white beards, adopt a hermit mentality and become reclusive." "I don't think that would happen," Liz smiled. "I still have to get out and go grocery shopping. Between that and work, I don't think we could lose touch with society." "We could grow our own food," Martin countered. "Get on that organic, happy-crap home-grown bandwagon." "But I'd still have to work," Liz reminded. "How else would we support ourselves?" Martin had no answer and Liz fell silent, wishing she could retract that last question. Martin didn't feel strong or stable enough to get back into the workplace, and was very sensitive on the issue. No matter what Liz said on the subject, he took it as a personal jab, as criticism, as a prod to get him out into the work force again. Feelings would be hurt and if they were not handled carefully, a full-scale argument would result. This time, fortunately, Martin's mind was elsewhere. "I brought you here to relax and talk," Martin started, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the table. "How are you doing, Liz? I'm talking about Joshua now. The subject doesn't come up much." "Better," Liz said shakily, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the champagne glass. "I'm doing better, Martin. That was nine months ago . . . funny, we could have had another baby by now." Yeah, but how could that ever happen when you won't even touch me? Martin said nothing. Liz had only made love with him twice in that period of time, and that was yet another sore subject between them. It amazed him how they could come to the dinner table fully armed, with weapons aimed directly at one another and hold a polite, civil conversation—one that could escalate to full-scale war with any slip of the tongue or the slightest misunderstanding. He could sense the mental missiles arming and pivoting toward her, and issued the equivalent of a "stand down" order.
It just wasn't worth it—not now, not here. "Losing the baby so close to term was hard," Liz said, "especially when I wasn't sure if you were going to make it, or not. Your doctors prepared me for the worst, and social workers tried to sign me up for every welfare and coping program available. "When I lost Joshua, I became convinced I would lose you, too. I wasn't ready to be forced into the role of a single mom. The fact that you are still here and Ashley still has a daddy . . . that has made all the difference." "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to Joshua's funeral," Martin said sadly, with genuine feeling. "It's so hard for me to visit the grave site, because I remember so little of it all, of the pregnancy, of his little wiggles and jabs. He was sure a strong, active little tyke. "My doctors didn't tell me we lost the baby," he continued, pausing a moment after his voice broke, "until . . . until two months l-later, and I thought they meant Ashley. I'll never forget that fear." "It's the same fear I felt when SoundView called me that first night," Liz remembered. "It's not a thing I want to experience again." A comfortable silence swelled to occupy the space between them. "Can I get you anything else?" It was the handsome waiter again, but his presence didn't bother Martin this time. "We're finished eating, thanks," Martin said. "Just enjoying some good conversation." "Very well." The waiter placed the check on the table and made a very visible show of checking his watch and looking up to where folk were waiting to be seated. He pointed to the check. "Would you like to me take this now?" "No," Martin answered calmly, forcing a thin smile. "We're having such a good time we're gonna sit here for awhile longer. We'll take care of it up front when we leave. If we're still here when you're getting ready to close, just tap me nicely on the shoulder." The waiter left with no comment. Martin decided they would leave him no tip. He and Liz giggled at one another. They both knew Martin was kidding, but the waiter would have to deal with that one for as long as they continued to sit and take up space. Ashley was asleep against her mother's shoulder. "These holes in my memory are what really bother me," Martin said, turning his attention to Liz again. "It's scary. I can actually sense a vacancy; there are times when I'll try to follow a line of thought and it will just fizzle away into nothingness. I can't remember the accident, and my memory is very spotty when trying to recall events several months before and after the trauma. Like I said, I barely remember feeling Josh inside you. I try to imagine what your swollen tummy must
have looked like, but the mental images aren't clear. I don't even remember the love making that spawned his brief, sheltered life. "I feel robbed of that, and so much more," he added, frowning into his champagne glass. "And you're mad about it?" Liz guessed. "I don't know, Liz. I just don't know. Part of me wants to scream, 'Yes, I'm madder than hell about it!' But another part asks 'mad at whom?' I don't know how I feel about it anymore. Robbed. Let down. Passed by. Those are words that come to mind." "It was an accident, Martin," Liz said, reaching out to grab his hands. "An accident. They happen all the time to many good people. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one's trying to rob you of anything, and no one feels let down." "In my heart," Martin started, "I know that. But there are gaping holes in my head where there should be warm memories, threaded thought processes, connectivity. "I need more RAM," he added as an afterthought. "Ram?" Liz asked. "Like the animal? The nurses told me you mumbled about RAM while you were still in the coma, and even for some time afterward. Martin, I sincerely hope you aren't thinking about—" "Nothing of the sort," Martin interrupted, waving off her worry. "RAM is an acronym for a computer's random access memory. The more memory you have, the more efficiently and quickly the computer operates. Without RAM, the computer is a box of wire and circuit boards that can turn a fan and spin a hard drive, but that's about it. "I know I'm boring you with all this, Liz, but there's something I've not told you about when I was . . . when I was gone. I haven't told you because I haven't quite figured out how to tell you--how to explain it in non-technical terms. But it's very important and was one of the most haunting elements of my initial recovery. It still surfaces occasionally to this very day." Liz folded her hands on the table and shifted position nervously, careful to not disturb the sleeping child. Martin could see the uncertainty in her expression. "I-I-I don't know what to expect," Liz stammered, "but go ahead and tell me. If it gets too technical, I'll ask you to slow down." "Or suggest again that I visit a shrink," Martin quipped, sipping more of the champagne. When there was no response from Liz, he cleared his throat, looked around self-consciously, then began to talk. "When I first became aware of my environment and of myself as an . . . an entity," he started, picking at his nails, "I didn't know who—or even what—I was. I didn't know where I was; I didn't know what had happened; and I had few coherent memories. I knew I had a wife, but I couldn't remember your name or picture your face, or even assign a definition to the label. I knew I was shackled down and couldn't move, but wasn't aware of too much else." "You told a nurse that I had you committed," Liz smiled. "You were restrained for awhile because you insisted on ripping the IV lines out of your arms and trying to get out of bed, despite your broken bones." "I could do all that, even with the severe shoulder, hip and leg breaks?" "You sure could," Liz affirmed, hoping they could move the subject along. It brought back a multitude of ugly, unpleasant memories. She'd never seen anyone so determined, yet so completely helpless. "You were pretty drugged up; I don't know if you felt any of it." That was a lie, and they both knew it. Liz knew she would never forget the way he screamed when he threw himself out of bed and landed on his broken shoulder. Martin, fortunately, had no recollection of any of it. "They told me that I'd been in an accident," Martin continued, "but I was not able to comprehend that. I can still remember looking at the picture of Ashley mom set by my bed and wondering who the lucky parents were. "My body was shattered, broken and useless. I couldn't feel many of my extremities, and had lost all sense of time. I knew I was there—somewhere—and just assumed that's where I would always be. It never occurred to me that I was there to recover and that I would someday resume a normal life, because I couldn't even remember what a normal life was. "There were these people," he said, calming himself with a sip of champagne, "these awful people, and they kept hurting me, poking me, twisting parts of me, sticking things into me. They did so with smiles and gentle reassurances. I just knew they were coming to disconnect me." "Disconnect you?" Liz asked. "You weren't on life support then, Martin, only in the beginning." "I know. That's not what I meant." The waiter approached the table, prepared to make some sort of inquiry, but he changed course indignantly and kept walking after catching Martin's eye. "I think I know where you are going with this," Liz guessed after the waiter passed. "It has something to do with computers, right?" "It had to," Martin answered. "It was inevitable. Like I said, I didn't know who—or even what—I was. I knew I couldn't feel parts of myself, and that some parts of myself weren't working properly. I couldn't go to the bathroom or feed myself on my own. I had seizures and violent reactions that were beyond my ability to control. "I saw myself as a collection of soldered circuit boards, a power supply and several accessories. In effect, I reduced myself to a personal computer, because that's what I could understand—that’s what I could relate to. I didn't know the medical reasons why I couldn't feel or move my right leg, but if I pictured my right leg as a disk drive, I could begin to analyze the situation. Maybe the power supply wasn't connected; maybe there was a faulty ground; maybe a circuit board was cracked; maybe
the drive controller needed to be replaced. "I could build computer systems from the ground up in my previous life," Martin continued, "and that's what I grasped onto to rebuild myself. My heart was the power supply, my brain the motherboard, my motor system the controller, my blood vessels soldered circuits. By thinking this way, I was able to isolate what was and wasn't working. I could mentally trace each nerve, each blood vessel, each circuit. "And it worked. Using this tracing technique, I was able to find and activate some of my undamaged extremities. I was able to divert 'juice' to where it was needed. Since I wasn't capable of complex thought, the 'on/off' binary thought process simplified the entire complicated ordeal, reducing it to logical equations with only two possible answers." "For instance, could I move my left leg? Yes or no? Was there feeling, yes or no? Was there a likelihood of physical damage, yes or no? Was it a power supply problem, a motherboard problem, a controller problem, or a circuit problem? "This diagnostic process occupied me, drove me, compelled me to recover." "And that's exactly what your doctor said, Martin," Liz concurred, amazed at this new information. "He told me several times that anyone else would have probably died, but there was something going on upstairs, something mysterious and beneficial that seemed to be in control of your healing processes. He said you were a fighter, too tough to die." "I was just too mystified to die," Martin chuckled, "too preoccupied with this new challenge, this rebuilding process. I refused to let things shut down." Ashley jumped involuntarily and started crying, startled by something she saw or heard in sleep. Liz took a minute to console her. "It's time to go," Martin said. "I think we've outstayed our welcome." "Thanks again for the treat," Liz said, putting Ashley's coat on. "Sorry it started out on such a sour note." "Me too," Martin said, sincerity evident in his voice. He lowered his tone. "Maybe we can go home and make it a special night? You know, like the good old days." Liz stood and helped Ashley slide out. Bus boys milled about impatiently at a distance they probably considered to be discreet. Marty's question was never acknowledged until much, much later that night. | ||||
