Part I: If You Asked Me To

There’s something about him – his quietness, some insecurity, or maybe it’s not insecurity at all but the sign of a confident man.  Perhaps it was the way he placed his hands together, not in an arrogant way, but one of quiet reflection. I instantly liked him.

“If you asked me to…” his voice is rhythmic as if he’s humming a song. A few moments later, after I turn and face the man who spoke the words he continues, “… I wouldn’t mind helping you with your bags?”

Bashfully smiling, I glance down at my three bags and answer, “I would love that. Thank you.”

He effortlessly hoists the duffle bag over his shoulder, and wheels the two other bags forward. We take long strides towards what looks like a golden cart.

Casually, I add to the conversation we already had about my bags and say, “I’m not a light packer.” Throwing my black gloved-hands over my face with embarrassment, I provide more explanation saying, “I’m only here for the weekend.”

He chuckles at me, and nods his head as he places my bags on the yellow gleaming luggage trolley. In a quiet voice he whispers, “I’ll tell you a little secret.”

“Okay,” I answer matching his tone as if we were spies on a mission to save the world.

“Most people aren’t.”

My face flushes as I giggle.

“If you want to check-in, I can take these to your room,” he instructs me as blonde wispy hair bounces on the top of his head.

“Right!” I answer in agreement.  I don’t know why I didn’t head straight to the lobby desk of the hotel.  This isn’t my first trip travelling alone and for sure, I know what the standard protocol is. But it’s my first trip in some time, going solo.

I’ll blame the flight. A gusty north wind blowing up the Atlantic Ocean made for an erratic, bumpy, and all around turbulent flight.  In the last few seconds before we touched down, my table dropped in front of me as if our plane were asking me, one last meal?

At various times while airborne, all I saw were the backs of people’s heads that ricocheted right to left, and up and down.  Sudden surprised gasps punctured the cabin air as we were jostled. Finally our landing gear skidded along the runway. As a tribute to the dramatic flight we already had the pleasure to experience, we lurched forward in a final crescendo as if it were a last attempt by the pilot to stop the plane before we ran out of pavement!

Thinking about the whole ordeal again, my hands shake. I walk towards the counter in my Miu Miu suede boots, Calvin Klein winter jacket, and hang onto my Coach handbag. I leave my gloves on as they were a gift from someone I love immensely, were expensive, and given at a difficult time in my life last month. Also, I have a tendency to lose things. The joke between us was this: we should have strings attached to your jacket, so you don’t lose them.    

I laughed, nodded in agreement and said, I’m sure you’re right.

***

I’ve checked in, received my room key, and spin around to see the bellhop with the nametag that said “Evan” on it speaking to another guest.  As I approach him I notice his robust frame, and guess him to be a man in his 30’s. His head is slightly tilted as he speaks calmly to an elderly woman in a black fur coat and carrying a white miniature poodle. Her eyes twinkle at him and with a wave of her hand she says, “thank you,” as I arrive.

Evan turns around to me and says, “All set?”

“Yes,” I announce proudly holding my swipe card to my room. Flipping the envelope open as if I’m about to announce the winner of a prize I say, “I’m in 1104.”

“Ok,” he says. He glances down at my bags and scoops the duffle bag from the cart, and proceeds to wheel the other two bags behind him. Glancing back at me he says, “The elevators are this way.”

Once inside the elevator he asks, “What brings you to New York?”

“Oh,” I stall.

The whole story? Part of the story? No story?

I decide to keep it to the basics.  “A little escape, from the dreariness of life,” I answer.

“Ah,” he says. “I understand that. Do you have plans while in New York?”

“Not really. Maybe do some shopping.” I laugh throwing my head back. “Assuming I can get anything else in my suitcase.”

Evan smiles at me. I may have even heard a gurgle of laughter. It’s hard to tell though. He’s probably afraid to laugh. Friends told me that when they first met me, I made them feel uncomfortable. It was the way I dressed, and the way I carried myself. They believed I lacked a sense of humor because I seemed sooooo proper. After they got to know me though, they learned quickly, I wasn’t a serious person.

Ding! The elevator breaks into our conversation.

As we walk down the long corridor together Evan says, “You should see a show. I’ve head New York has a couple,” he says as his forehead scrunches together in mock amusement at his own joke, and with a small trace of a smile.

When we arrive at my front door, I tap the swipe card to the lock and watch as the light switches from red to green with a click. I glimpse up at him and say, “Perhaps I will.”

When I push the door open, we’re greeted with heat that is stifling!

From behind me I hear, “Holy Sh–! That’s hot!”

I lose control at the almost unfiltered comment and near-oops on his part-; and also the blatant honesty.

He catches my eye and says, “I said holy shoot, that’s hot.”

“Yup, that’s what I heard.” I bend forward in laughter.

He quickly heads towards the thermostat and says, “If you asked me to, I’d turn the thermostat down, and open a window so you can breathe in here?” I know it’s a rhetorical question, because he’s already taken care of the thermostat and is now pulling a window open.

My eyebrows are  squashed together. I can’t stop laughing. I wave at him and say, “Yes, please!”

With the window open a cool breeze rushes through the room. It calms my laughing.

I tilt my head at his lingering grin. My smile remains too.

In a burst of electronic energy my phone splashes through the moment and breaks the quietness between us.

Evan walks towards the door and waves a hand at me. I begin rummaging through my bag searching for my cell. My eyes flicker at my wallet.

TIP!!! TIP!!!

Shit!

I turn around and frantically wave at Evan trying to get him to stop while saying, “Hello?”

As I approach the door, my face is flush. I pull my wallet open. Evan touches my arm gently and whispers, “Next time.”

“Sorry, can you hold on?” I say to the familiar voice at the other end of the line.

“You were so helpful.” I stare at Evan’s green eyes.

With a calm smile, Evan shifts and says, “I never minded.”

“You made me laugh.” I stagger over my words.

He doesn’t know. Evan doesn’t know there’s only one other person who’s been able to make me laugh in the last month, and I have him on hold.

“Good.” He says as he disappears through the door.

With nothing left to say, and Evan gone, I close the door and say into my phone, “Hi, honey.”

The Building Blocks of Her Dystopian World

Red flames burst out of the trash can in front of me. My fingertips are stretched out towards the orange-red heat and it licks them with warmth. Penniless and homeless, you can understand the dilemma I now face.  I can’t write a single word with no home, and no computer or laptop. Or for that matter, anything remotely technologically advanced. Even if I did have a computer device of some sort, no home, means no electrical outlet.

Even paper is hard to come by.

And pens.

And food.

Six sizes too big, the men’s full length black jacket hangs down and drags along the ground through the snow. The wool mitts I wear are peppered with small holes as if moths have taken special delight in chewing each part of the tattered cloth as if they were picking at a scab. There’s a pungent odor that drifts around me of rotting food, sweat, and alcohol.

Sixty-five years of age and this is my life. I had a husband at one time. Until he trotted off down the rainbow road with a blond bombshell, double-D, named Misty with bosoms the size of Texas.  On occasion a few years ago, before I lost everything, I would bump into them at the grocery store or coffee shop, and every time I saw them a part of Misty’s silky white breast popped out of whatever shirt she was wearing. (Even, if it was a sweater.)

But I can’t blame Misty. It was inevitable. I was a leech. I was barely able to financially support myself most of the time we were married. Combined with this, my struggles with depression where it became a situation of I-can’t-raise-one-foot-to-get-out-of-the-bed made me the worst sort of wife. When I was able to hold a job for some time, I would inevitably change them at whiplash speed in pursuit of some other opportunity that I felt may offer more challenges. Later in life, I hoped for a career as a freelance writer.

Let’s put it this way – that didn’t end well.

Writing, I believed, was my thing.

“Who saz u can be h’re, Cyndie?” He says with shoulders rolled forward and a bowed head as he staggers towards me.

All I need is one strong gust of wind, and he’ll be knocked off his feet and I can run away.

Dear God,

Did you hear me? One strong gust of wind?

“It’s Cynthia,” I say with my chin raised. Dwight’s the zip code bully to GRBG CAN. It seems only courteous that if Dwight’s going to force me to move somewhere else, he can at least have the decency to remember my name.

“I DUN’T CAREZ WH’ATZ YOUR NAMEZ!” He screeches at me.

Joe, Fred, Nancy, and Sandra who were warming their hands around the fire bend their heads forward and quickly glimpse up at me. But no one says a word to him. I can’t blame them.

Dwight is unpredictable at the best of times. He’s killed people before and he’s never been caught by the police. Poor Greta writhed around on the concrete as a knife protruded from her gut. She hopelessly placed a hand over the wound as sticky redness oozed from it. Anguished moans poured from her mouth. Tears streamed down the sides of her cheeks. She pleaded with me to help her, but I did nothing.   If I did anything, Dwight would end my life too. He said so.

I have a snappy line that spins in my mind that I want to say, but decide for the rest of the residents in the area it might be best to leave it unsaid.

I nod in the direction of Dwight and say, “I’m going.”

With that I slowly turn around and begin walking away.

“You’re nuttin!” He trudges behind me. The sound of his slow-moving words, shuffling feet, and his drunken words that are still somehow true – forces me to quicken my pace, and I hurry along putting some distance between us. Not because I’m afraid, but more out of annoyance.

After some time, I pass under a concrete bridge and something glistens on the sidewalk. I bend forward to pick it up, and let out a whoop of, “My lucky day! I found a toonie! I can go for a coffee.”

“Nah, that’z  mine!” He shouts from behind me.

I stare at Dwight frozen, wondering how the heck he managed to catch up to me, and why I didn’t hear him. Good god, even his breathing is loud.

I glance hastily at the two dollar coin and then back to Dwight. Surely, I can out run him. But then I begin to wonder what my life will be like if I decide NOT to hand him the coin. I could leave this city but I would need to walk. As well, there’s a good chance my situation would be the same and possibly worse, because some of those people around the garbage can are my friends, and they’ve helped me before.

Dwight continues a slow trot, odd lumbering motion towards me. When he arrives I have the coin in the palm of my hand and say, “Here you go, Dwight.”

I pull my coat tighter around me to block out the frigid December wind that drifts up my coat, and rips through my thin clothing stinging my skin. Protected a little more from the chill, I quietly ask, “Any chance I can stay at your garbage can tonight as I gave you the coin I found?” I glance away from him for only a second to do a sweep of the ebony streets to make sure nothing worse lives in the shadows than the man who already stands before me.

“No!” He screams spitting the word at me as his face reddens.

Jolted by his cry, I leap back from him! Surprised my eyes widen, and I quietly wonder, oh Christ! I’m going to be killed over a two dollar coin!

Red and blue lights suddenly begin a quick blink around us. Two muscular young police officers exit the cruiser and they assuredly march towards us. Dwight’s head bounces up instantly when he sees the lights and the men. He shouts, “Nah problem, offic’r.” Not even a second later, he wobbles down the street at a sad slow run.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” They ask me when they arrive. Four eyes skim across me as they do a quick assessment of where I belong, and what my story is. I tug at the collar of my coat. I don’t understand it. When I don’t want to be invisible, I am. And when I do want to be invisible, I’m not.

“Ye-yes officers, than-thank you.” I stutter at the two men. There’s a rush of an intensifying sense of doom. My eyes get misty.

MISTY!

I can’t escape that woman!

One of the officer’s face scrunches at me. “Mrs. Sandringham?” He murmurs.

My thoughts are broken and I’m back on 59th Street in front of the policemen. Squinting at the whisperer of the old name I used before, I answer uneasily, “Yes. But I don’t go by that name now.”

“Cynthia? You were married to Bert Sandringham?” He says. “It’s Jack. I shoveled your driveway, when I was a kid.”

This has never happened to me before. I’ve lived on the streets for a couple of years now, and I’ve never run into anyone I knew. After my divorce, I moved to another city a couple of hours away to start again. Things didn’t quite work out for me. This is where I had my final chance – and where I became homeless. I’d cut ties with family and friends mostly because I was delinquent in fostering relationships. My fault. When things got bad, I couldn’t reach out to anyone. Too embarrassed.

This kid, Jack…He’s a good boy. Sweet boy. He was nice to me, and my husband. And his parents, they were great.

I smile at the man before me. “Of course, Jack! Yes, I remember. How are your parents? David and Sue, was it?”

“Yeah! They’re doing great.” He says smiling. A moment later, his eyes scan my clothing again and his mouth drops open. He pulls his hat off, runs his fingers through his hair, and quietly asks as if he’s embarrassed, “Do you have somewhere to go tonight?”

I throw my head back. Laughing I say, “Well, I had a garbage can! But Dwight owns it, and he doesn’t like me much!”

Stunned Jack stares at me. The other officer, his partner, says, “There’s a shelter a few blocks from here. It’s a good one, run by a church. We can take you there.”

Jack’s mouth gapes at me. Then his words come out earnestly, “Yeah, really nice. Give you a hot meal, and somewhere to sleep tonight. Father Patrick – he’s a really good guy.”

I’m kind of hurt young man Jack didn’t laugh at my joke. I think I’m funny most of the time. His serious tone and desperate pleas causes puddles to form in my eyes. For the first time in a long time, someone cares about me.

The young man in front of me is a good kid. With no other options in front of me, and afraid of Dwight returning after the officers leave, I whisper, “Sure.”

“Great!” Jack beams. As we walk back to the cruiser Jack asks, “Do you still write?”

“Not these days.” I reluctantly answer.

“Oh right!” Jack answers as he nods his head, and his cheeks turn pink.

There it is again, that awkward silence.

Jack says, “I really liked your stuff when I was a kid. That you read to me. That fairytale you wrote, about the little girl, who only wanted to be smart.”

“Oh my, you remember that story?” I ask in a hushed tone of disbelief. “That was what, twenty years ago?”

“Something like that.” Jack says. “After you read that story to me, I buckled down and got my grades up. I was an honor roll student from grade ten onwards.”

I’m flabbergasted. I can’t speak. I mumble to myself only, “Maybe I should.”

Jack pulls the door open for me. Then he leans in and says, “I can bring you some paper and pens tomorrow.”

“That would be great.” I answer. Before I get into the car, I stare in the direction of the road Dwight wobbled down.

“Get me the paper, and I’ll tell you a story about a man named Dwight, and the murder of a homeless woman named Greta.” I say as my lips smack together in renewed anger at the death of my friend at the hands of the garbage can bully.

Jack’s jaw clenches. He gives me a tight smile and nods.  “If you do this Mrs. Sandringham, you can’t live on the streets.”

“Oh, I know. Maybe it’s time to find a home again.” I answer. “See if I can get my pension now that I’m 65. Clean stuff.” I give the kid a wink.

Jack roars with laughter.

“And after I write, The Murder of Greta Stonewall, I’ll write another story about a hero cop who saves an old woman from the streets.”

Jacks grins at me and says, “I can’t wait to read it.”

Mind Maze

“It’s not you.” He announces with the sound of annoyance in his voice mixed in with concern for my well-being.

I don’t say anything. I’m pretending I can’t hear him. The hairdryer buzzes in my ear with a high-pitched rumbling sound as heat burns my scalp. The hot air tosses long strands of brown bits in all directions.

When I’m done, I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is windswept. Of course, windswept summons a romanticized vision of some breathtaking brunette beauty with silky hair. The beauty’s strands of tresses would be swirling around in all directions as if some fairy godmother placed each piece perfectly in the air; it would be the godmother’s final attempt to win over a passerby who may be doubtful of how utterly gorgeous the woman is.

I glance at myself through the mirror. Perhaps hurricane-swept hair is a better combination of words.  Frizzy, dry, and poufy hair tops my head. It stands tall, but also wide, making it nearly impossible to see my ears. I attempt to push some hair back behind my right ear and the rebellious brown strands instantly bounce out as if they are shouting, YOU WILL NOT CONTROL ME!

No kidding.

I huff at myself. Dark circles form underneath my eyes. It’s quite nice. Now I look like a raccoon that’s having a bad hair day.

I mumble, “I miss the days when I could wash my hair and go. No blow drying. No straightening required.  Just wash my hair, tie back with an elastic, and go!”

“Then don’t do it.” He says.

My eyebrows pull together in confusion.

Well – maybe it’s more annoyance.

I don’t want to go down that road – that road we’ve travelled down on so many mornings. Then again, I need to provide some explanation. Otherwise, I’m just a crazy woman with a scent-phobia.

I stumble on my words. As I begin to say them, I know it’s not going to be enough. But I say the words anyways. “I have to blow dry my hair. It gets the smell of shampoo and conditioner out.”

My eyes shift to the large assortment of products that stand at attention on my counter: the Aloe Vera moisturizer is next to the unscented moisturizer; strawberry perfumed deodorant sits beside the odorless one.  I stare down at the Moroccan oil that I slather through my hair on weekends. The hair product makes my locks a little softer, and smooths out the overwhelming waves that I adorn on my head that’s reminiscent of a 1960 bouffant hairstyle that I wear Monday through Friday.

But the Moroccan oil – it’s scented. So, it rests on the counter. Waiting for the weekend, when I can tip the bottle back, drizzle some on my fingertips, and run it through my hair.

Ahhhh….My brain purrs.

Oh my god. I’m a scent addict!   

My husband rolls his eyes at me and says, “There’s no smell of shampoo in your hair.”

Stubbornly, I counter his argument with an intelligent and well thought through statement of: “Yes, there is.” With my well-articulated response that a five-year-old could have said behind me, I reach below my cabinet and pull out my hair straightener, and set it to 440.

He edges over to me and sticks his nose towards my head and announces, “I can’t smell anything.”

I shift. Then I say, “Well, the hair dryer got rid of most of the scent. But the Flat Iron will get the rest out.”

My husband throws his hands up in the air, grabs his shirt, and begins tugging it over his head.

I do believe I won that argument.

Beep, beep, my Flat Iron chants to me. On its command, I reach down with my right hand and wrap my fingers around the hairstyling instrument, and use my left hand to grab big chunks of hair that I quickly run through the plates of the device. Within seconds, my nose twitches at the familiar whiff of singed hair.

Tired of the routine, tired of worrying about everything, I stare down at the woman I see in the mirror. I wish I could shut up the voice in my head. And it’s just in my head. No one has ever said anything to me at work. But I exaggerate everything. One sneeze, over yonder, four floors down from where I sit, and perspiration will gather around the back of my neck instantly as my breathing becomes more shallow and I wonder, oh no…. Is someone having an allergic attack because of some scent I’m wearing?

I worry about smells: fruit scented deodorant, orange perfumed hand cream, or lavender-laced cosmetics.

But it’s not only scented products. Oh no, my mind has had some fun in taking things to a whole new level. Because once you’ve removed all scents from your life, you only have what’s left. And sometimes what remains is that “wet dog” smell because Fido wanted to be affectionate just before I left to go to work, and brushed up against me and it leaves a lingering reminder that yes, I do own a dog!; or a chemical smell will sometimes ooze from new clothes I purchased when they heat up because of the sun. Then there’s also the worry that my fragrance-free deodorant will fail at work, and then my perfume for the day will be Eau de B.O.

I blink at myself.

Hair is slightly flattened. (Still frizzy, but I found my ears!) No makeup. (Oh lord, I can’t even think about it.) Black pants. Grey shirt. Blue circles under my eyes.

I’m ready for work!

I stare down at the Flat Iron. I flip the power button off, and yank the cord out of the wall. Before I walk away, I bounce my head back into the bathroom where my Flat Iron sits on the counter. I pull it away from everything so that it’s not touching my makeup bag, hairbrush…well, anything.

Because you know, I don’t want to burn the house down.

As I start to walk away, there’s a twitching that begins in my fingertips, and before I know it, I’m spinning around again to check the Flat Iron one more time.

I don’t have a problem.

I’m being careful. This is one of those times you can’t make a mistake. My Flat Iron can touch something like the plastic on my hairbrush causing it to heat up, and it could ignite, and because no one’s upstairs right now, no one will know there’s a fire until it’s too late, and our whole house will be engulfed in fiery red flames.

Yeah.

I’m just being careful.

My fingertips begin to twitch. I spin on my heel. I’m standing at the top of the stairs in my home. I have two choices:

 Option 1: I can go and check the Flat Iron again. But I’m certain I turned the power button off, I remember I pulled the cord out of the wall, and I know it had already started to cool down because I placed my hand on the straightener for several seconds and it was warm – but not hot.

Option 2: I can go downstairs, get my bags, walk out the front door, and get on with my day.

I take a deep breath, and turn around as a voice quietly says, Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..

Then, I begin my descent.

Ruins

There’s no wall where one should be and the roof is missing.

White clouds of breath dance in front of me. It proves my existence – even if no one else sees me. Wind lifts my hair stretching it out in all directions as dampness envelopes me. It causes a tingling sensation to creep slowly down my back. My shoulders roll forward and I tuck my tummy. It’s as if my body believes if it recoils, it may escape the cold and dampness.

My eyes search for something.  Against a tumbling wall, I see a place where I might take shelter for the night; the dilapidated remnants of a fireplace.

I step lightly over a broken wooden chair moving in the direction of the square enclosure. For a moment, I imagine parents and children gathered around a yellow-orange fire in that spot where they would talk, laugh, eat and sing songs. But I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’ve only seen it in movies.

The warmness of the imagined family heats me from within, and fends off the dampness and cold. It even works a little to stomp out the pain in my belly from not eating for a few days.

I tuck myself into the fireplace, peel off my jacket, and stretch it out across my body. Above me the man in the moon winks at me, and he, my only friend tonight, watches over me as my eyes slowly close to the world around me.

Into The Shadows: The Case of Maggie Shetland

It was February 10th, 1998 when the phone rang. When Diane Liscom answered it, Maggie Shetland’s voice was on the other end of the line, and it came across joyfully bubbly like champagne. It was consistent in terms of the woman’s character. Maggie’s words were concerning in that the call was meant to reassure her friend, Diane in a casual way, that she would be leaving for a little while but that her friend shouldn’t worry.

Maggie promised she would be back.

When Diane hung the phone up with “Mags” as her friends called her, she didn’t realize she would be the last person to speak with her.

Nearly twenty years later, there are no leads in what happened to Maggie Shetland.

To say the case has gone cold would imply there were leads to begin with. The phone call was the last contact anyone ever had with Maggie. Her bank account and credit cards have never been used. There were no additional calls to her family, or other friends. Even her car vanished.

She was the young woman who disappeared without a trace.

Occasionally, the police thought they had a lead. Someone remembered seeing Maggie briefly in a gas station, but when the security cameras were reviewed, Maggie did not appear in any of the footage.  Over the years there were other sightings of the woman, and sometimes of the car, but they never came to fruition.

In dark corners and hushed voices, some people said they were certain Maggie made the call under threat by a killer. That way maybe police wouldn’t look for her body for some time. Others said that Maggie may have simply walked away from her life in order to start a new one. Still other people would propose perhaps Maggie had simply driven off a cliff accidentally, or maybe on purpose.

But none of this is consistent with what we knew about Maggie. There was no nervousness in Maggie’s voice when she spoke to her friend. If she were under threat, would there not be some wavering, some pause – that indicated something was wrong?

Maggie was well loved by her family and friends. Every year she was one of the prime organizers for the local hospital cancer telethon.  She ran races for various charities and had an active social life. She was unmarried, but her marital status didn’t seem to be of concern to her according to family and friends.  If she ever considered suicide, she never appeared depressed.

Her friend Diane was under suspicion by police for years, and willingly agreed to a lie detector test and past it.  An old friend since childhood, Diane also participated in searches for Maggie in woods, and across various cities, and scoured the neighborhood with photos of Maggie in the hopes that someone would remember something.

Diane also willingly worked with the police turning over whatever information she had about her friend. One of the pieces she provided to the officers was an answering machine tape that accidentally recorded the last conversation between Diane and Maggie.

But what Diane hadn’t realized was that there was something else on that tape. Maggie’s voice came across clear and calm as Diane reported to the police. However, when the tape was reviewed recently, an officer with a keen ear noticed other sounds: the sound of wooden wheels turning and horse’s hoofs trotting, and words spoken in Latin in the background. A linguistic expert was consulted, and the man stated he thought it sounded like a marketplace where people were negotiating price for the purchase of fruits, vegetables, dishes, and pottery.

For this reason, police officers investigated a local Amish town.  When asked if the Amish people spoke Latin, the elders insisted they did not. Furthermore, no evidence of Maggie Shetland was ever found in the community.

Recently, some information came forward from an anonymous source. It was something that a friend recalled Maggie said to her as a joke. She referred to her car as a Shadow Car that allowed Maggie to be transported to other places.

I am a reporter, and I rely on facts. For this reason, I needed evidence.

In the last year of Maggie Shetland’s life, there were four separate occurrences where a mystery woman saved people in the area: a teenager who nearly drowned in a river almost 100 miles away from where Maggie lived; a two-year-old boy who was found walking down a street at 4 AM in -25 degree Celsius temperatures; and an unconscious woman was pulled from her burning house by another woman as reported by firefighters and police at the scene.

When I reviewed the witness reports of the heroic woman in each incident, several witnesses described her with dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, possibly Hispanic, standing around 5 feet 5 inches, and with a muscular build. In reviewing photographs – this is very similar to Maggie.

The final incident, Maggie couldn’t walk away from. It occurred on December 19th, 1997 when a woman pulled a man from his fire-engulfed single engine plane when it crashed in a field in -35 degree Fahrenheit temperatures. When the man woke a week later, doctors informed him that he was very lucky. The police found the plane the next day and it was a blackened carcass. If the woman hadn’t pulled him out he would have died from the fire, hypothermia, or his wounds.

The man insisted on meeting his savior and pleaded to local media outlets to run his story. To no avail, the woman would not come forward. But one particular newspaper wanted the big story. They offered a Security Officer at the hospital $300 to give them the tapes from that night. The guard did it.

Shortly after, the newspaper found an image of the woman on the video and also found her license plate. It wasn’t long before they tracked it back to Maggie Shetland and the newspaper released it to the world. The man who crashed his plane and wanted to meet the woman that saved him, found out her identity the same way as other residents in the city: through the newspaper.

Two months later, Maggie was missing. Did Maggie Shetland decide to walk away from it all, annoyed by the ever-present light that was cast in her direction by an unethical newspaper? Was she suffering from depression and decided to end it all?  Or after helping so many, was she randomly caught by a person who meant to harm her?

What would you say if I told you the first three incidents all happened in the same night, in different cities, and were hundreds of miles away from each other? Your next question to me would be: if the hero woman was Maggie Shetland, how is that possible?

I would answer you and say, that it’s not. It’s impossible for a single person to save multiple lives when the victims are located hundreds of miles away from each other – unless of course, she’s Superwoman.

For those of you who think Maggie Shetland may have committed suicide because the newspaper released her name, here’s one last piece of information for you. After her name was released to the public, Maggie voluntarily went to visit the man in the hospital. The man tearfully, through cracked words, apologized for what the newspaper had done to her, and said that he only ever wanted to thank her in person.

Maggie with a wave of her hand, and bright smile, consoled him and said that it wasn’t his fault and said quite emphatically, it’s not a big deal. Before she left, she wished him a speedy recovery and announced that she would see him again as she was a volunteer for the hospital cancer telethon.

Maybe Maggie Shetland never left?

Perhaps, she is the the quiet woman, who travels along the road in her Shadow Car saving lives amongst us.

Part III: Love is losing…

Love is when you’ve lost someone such as a parent, sibling, grandmother, grandfather, uncle or aunt, or a friend, and you cry and cry, until the well of tears has been emptied. After a few hours of wandering dark hallways staring endlessly into nothingness, the well has had time to fill up again, and the tears flow rapidly again down your cheeks.

Whether the passing of a loved one was expected, or unexpected, it really doesn’t matter. Even if you can’t summon any tears in the first few days, rest assured they will come days, weeks, or sometimes months later.

But everyone is different. So maybe you don’t shed a tear. You just wander aimlessly among other people in the world.

Because when you love someone like that, they are completely irreplaceable. You will never share a coffee, a joke, or have the chance to argue with them again. Your time with them is over. You miss everything about them: their non-stop yodeling, their endless talking, or the way they practiced tap dancing while doing the dishes. Or perhaps, it was the fact that they were the best at charades and kicked your butt on so many occasions you’ve lost track.

Yeah, it’s crazy what you’ll miss.

And it’s the blackness of it that will sometimes send those who loved them spiraling into darkness themselves. Friends and family rally around the sad wanderer from the sidelines, but the wanderer don’t see them.

Then someone says to the wanderer, maybe you need to talk to someone?

After months, or sometimes years of not getting past the death of a loved one, the wanderer begins to think, maybe their right?  

So, the wanderer visits a counsellor and she gives them the language of grief. What it means, what’s normal, and what should be cause for concern. Now that the wanderer has the grief dialogue they know they’re not alone, and it’s not so bad. And the wanderer knows someday, they’ll get past it.

The wanderer begins slowly at first to notice other things. They notice their friends who babble on about work and their relationships, and who bring an extra spring in their step about life. And the wanderer knows these people have been their hidden cheerleaders.

And the wanderer is grateful. Grateful for those that are still around: mothers and fathers, sisters or brothers, uncles and aunts, husbands and wives, daughters and sons, and friends. These people were the selfless ones that dragged them to movies, shopping, coffee, or for a drink at the local pub. They were the ones quietly pointing out: look, there’s still so much to do.

While you still miss the other person who left, the wanderer loves these other people and knows they’re lucky to have them in his/her life. Not wishing to waste time with those who remain, the wanderer keeps the memories of those who are gone alive, while slowly stepping back from the darkness, and turning towards the light.

Love is….

Part II: Love is…

Love is when a foul egg scent emits from your body either in quiet stealth mode or explosively loud and this is typically followed by either people denying there is anything wrong as they continue to make casual conversation; or if they are family or close friends, there will be an acknowledgement of what just happened with groans and snort-filled laughter.

But no one really cares, because we all do it, and you’re loved anyway.

Even if you do smell – just a little.

Love is…

Part I

Love is when you’ve been particularly neglectful in trimming your eyebrows and plucking them and the gap between the two eyebrows have unified and become one. Wayward hairs arch forward here and there, as if they are reaching to shake a passerby’s hand.

And somehow, your husband or wife, never seems to notice.

***

Love is when you get an unrelenting flu bug that knocks you flat into you bed and you stay there for hours without the ability to so much as raise your head. (In an annoying deal of a bad hand of the cards of fate, you got the one strain that was not contained in the flu shot you got months earlier.)

When the moment arises when you MUST use the washroom you push the pause button and hold it a little longer because it seems the effort will deplete what remains of your energy. Eventually though you rise, and stammer your way into the bathroom and do your business as quickly as possible as your bed is beckoning you to return to it.  In a swirling world of dizziness, you stumble back towards in the direction of your soft duvet, when your husband bursts into the room carrying in one hand a glass of water, and in the other one a bottle of Gatorade. You hear in rushed words that sound that they are said far away, even though he is close by, that he’s going out to get soup for you and crackers.

Back in your bed finally, he hands you the water and you take a few sips of it, and pops the Gatorade open as well. Once you’re safely snuggled in your bed, he rushes out of the room, turning the light off behind him with his cape flying behind him in his quest to locate soup and crackers.

You roll over on your side and mumble, my hero…

Some of My Favorite Things

Memories of my life drift in my mind like the snow that spirals along sidewalks, roads, and that dances on rooftops. It’s odd the moments that I remember fondly, and the ones you think I would, I can barely recall.

It seems what I should remember are the highlights: graduating from University, or getting married.  But while these were important pivotal moments, they are nothing in comparison to the time my father skipped work (he worked almost every day of the week) to take my brother and I tobogganing. Dressed in snowsuits we climbed up a hill located in Fonthill, ON  and then flew down again on a wooden toboggan. It was special to me, because it was such a rare event.

Or the very first time my Mom and I paid $2 to see Casper in theater.  When we drove back home I looked over at my mother who was giddy from the experience and recounted the story and how wonderful it was with a smile spread across her face. I believe the last movie she saw in theaters up to that moment was Love Story.

Then there was a Valentine’s Day where I was still stinging from the pain of my father dying when I felt isolated and alone, even though I wasn’t. My husband and I had driven to a small town called Merrickville that’s about 45 minutes from Ottawa.  A picturesque and quaint town that bustles with tiny shops and restaurants we make our way there a couple of times a year, in a quest to purchase the most delicious and diverse selection of fudge that my palate has ever had the joy to experience.

After we made our purchase we found a quiet little restaurant called the, Yellow Canoe and had soup and a half-sandwich. There was something about the quietness, the smallness, the gentleness of the place that suddenly made me feel reflective of the moment, and I realized how grateful I was to be there with my ever-supportive husband.

My husband had not purchased long-stemmed roses for me, or written a poem describing me as a wonderful Wonder Woman. It was hot soup and half-sandwich. And it was beautiful. Even though I’m fairly certain I cried a couple of times as I talked about missing my Dad, it sticks out in my memory as by far, my favorite Valentine’s Day.

Finally, there was the time I got my favorite birthday present. It didn’t come wrapped in gold lined wrapping paper with dazzling diamonds embedded in it.  It didn’t come from Canada Post, or UPS. It wasn’t something that was purchased at the store, or something that someone spent many anxious nights racing to finish in time to complete by a specific date.

It came in the format of an email, and with a click of a mouse, I saw a few words written…It was a wish from my brother for a happy birthday with a few additional words written about how much he loved me.

My brother rarely remembered my birthday and when he did, would send his wishes late. The fact that he remembered on the right date even though he was facing so many challenges in his own life, and with his note of love included, it made it even more special.

At this time of year, I’m reminded of the simple experiences and gifts that have made my life exceptional. It is the rare and golden moments I’ve shared with family and friends that have brightened my life. On the eve of Christmas I will keep this in the forefront of my mind as I remember what Christmas should mean to me.

How To Rule the World

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Thin, brown hair tops his head. On Jacob’s face rests his black-rimmed glasses allowing him to read the gospel on a sunny, fall day on a brown bench overlooking water. With a book placed in his hands he reads the lines with the utmost concentration. There are truths written in the book and if he follows each step, HE WILL RULE THE WORLD!  

Father is disappointed in him, mother too. He is twenty-four years old and is a failure in most aspects of his life both professionally and personally. An unfinished degree; a degree that is a blatant reminder of its incompletion in the way he left when he woke one morning in his fourth year and decided not to write the scheduled exam that day. He opted instead to pack his knapsack with clothes, and booked a last minute ticket to one of the oldest cities in Europe: London.

The cost for the ticket and the first few months of expenses was paid through a part time job that he held while attending University. His parents funded his tuition and living expenses, and his part-time job was his “play” money. Turns out, he was good at penny-pinching and had socked away quite a bit in the “play fund.”

His parents didn’t seem to mind footing the bill for his education given that he ranked in the 95th percentile on the Law School Admissions Test, and had an overall GPA of 3.8. The combination of the impressive LSAT score and GPA meant he had his pick of law schools.

A genius, his mother beamed at him with pride.

He was the genius who carelessly walked away from it all.

A phone call this morning with Mom, she asked again, did you plan to leave all along? To just quit?

The answer comes swiftly to him as she’s asked the same question so many times: No, I didn’t. I just didn’t know if I wanted to become a lawyer anymore. Or, if I ever did. He says as his voice trails off in remorse.

It occurs to him suddenly, she might not have known that last part. He never mentioned it before.

It’s what you always talked about Jacob! We just supported you in what we thought you wanted to do! She says in a shrill voice with exasperation.

Mom’s working day would have just ended. She works as an Executive Assistant at the General Hospital. He can see her standing in the kitchen as he remembers her when he lived at home. She would be wearing high heels, a skirt, and a blouse as she clutches her cell phone to her ear with arms folded in front of her, defensively. The blazer she wore to work would be flung aside on a nearby couch. The knife she used to dice vegetables until Jacob called, lies on the cutting board. It sits there ready for her to resume the preparation of dinner once their call is over. She loved onion and garlic and threw it in most foods and for that reason, the combination of the aroma of these two vegetables would linger in the air of his childhood home.

I know. I know… He says in short spurts with an edge of frustration.

The late autumn sun is cool and with the breeze, it gives him a chill as he wonders: why did I want to become a lawyer?

Mom is right. He was the first one who talked about law school.

Why?

He knows the answer, but is too embarrassed to admit it.

He knew it would make his parents happy. And he always tried to make them happy. But after he left, he wanted to do things differently.

And he did. 

London. Five feet six inches, short, blonde, bob haircut, blue-eyed Elsie breathed into his ear the first night he arrived in the city as he stumbled his way into Adventure Bar.

Elsie.

Sure, he had been with other women. There was Victoria, his long-time girlfriend during University. He saw Victoria in first year astronomy class. Vibrant red hair, freckles dotted her nose, green eyes, and a voluptuous figure. Their first time in his dorm room he remembers well; he grabbed her breasts as his lips opened and his tongue searched for hers.  Initially, he couldn’t get enough of her; legs tightened around him encouraging him to finish. The warmth of Victoria’s breath on him as moans escaped over his lips, drenched in sweat, and he was left satisfied.

But she was less satisfied, and he knew it. In their second year they began arguing over little things: movies, dinner locations, and how often they should get together.  As Victoria became unhappy, she piled on some weight. Her curvy figure became a little heavier as his wandering eye watched other women, comparing.

And he told her. Was it a jerk move? Of course it was. Eventually, sex diminished and was assigned to the Saturday night chore list:

  • Do laundry.
  • Have sex.

In their fourth year, Victoria dropped twenty pounds. While his eyes continued to drift and he flirted with other women, she found a new guy. The guy was his best friend, Gavin. Embarrassingly, as he danced and mingled with other women at Dance Bar 21, Gavin and Victoria snuggled close together in a corner booth one night. He watched them as they talked and laughed into the early morning hours.

He noticed it, but he thought she would never leave him.

He was wrong.

The ultimate comeuppance came on Valentine’s Day – when she sobbed and said: we’re not right for each other. At the time, he didn’t understand why she was crying. She was ending it, not him. The answer so elusive before is clear to him now. It was despite all of his neglect and unkind words, she loved him.

Yes, she was better than him. Happily married for a year now, Gavin told him they are expecting their first child. He’s still friends with them.

Shortly after Elsie and Jacob meet they take the adventure back to his hotel room. What a night it was. Elsie’s soft, red lips on his mouth as she worked her way down his neck; moving down lower still to his chest, abdomen, thighs.  Lips that moved lower still. Elsie was his first one night stand.

What an adventure it was.

Jacob snaps himself back to reality. A small half-smile crosses his lips, eyebrows raised, and he realizes that the solution to, How to Rule the World, is not to spend your days fantasizing about women you’ve been with, or women you may want to be with.  Sex, is the downfall to ruling the world.

As he cracks the spine and turns the page he reads these words….

***

Introduction

If you purchased this book you are on a wayward spiral to nowhere. I am here to help.  Owning the world will take some time.  But if you read each chapter and follow each step, world dominance will be yours.

First off, let’s debunk some myths. There are at least a half dozen websites and books that will offer self-help advice. They would advise you to do some, if not all, of the following:

  • Do something you love because money will follow. (Who hasn’t heard that one? )
  • Be hard working.
  • Be Diligent.
  • Be a Leader.
  • Be Action-Oriented.
  • Be POSITIVE. NOT NEGATIVE.
  • Be Honest.
  • Be Modest.

The list goes on and on. But, you get the idea. Ultimately, if you are an all-around good person then, good things will follow.

I am here to tell you – its rubbish. Don’t believe a word of it.  The best thing you can do for yourself is to make YOU the top priority. This will sometimes be to the detriment of family and friends. But, those people are a means to an end. USE THEM.  When they stop being useful it’s time to find new family and friends.

And never, EVER, should you give too much time, money, and commitment to anyone as this will slow you down in your quest to rule the world. It’s a cold world out there baby, and you’re the only one who will take care of you.  Family and friends will be the debris left on the path to ruling the world. Debris is a natural by-product of such a large quest.

Now, I want to provide the following outline of topics to be covered in each chapter. This will give you an understanding of how this book is organized. Please feel free to grab a pen and make notes in the margins. Or, you could buy some of that 3-hole lined paper that we used in high school. Then, you can put all your hand written notes in a binder, flagging the ones that are the most important to you.

I think I just dated myself. Or, you can use one of those fancy laptop, iPad, iPod, tablet thingy’s to take notes. Whatever, you want.

Ok, here is what will be covered:

  • The Art of Manipulation
  • YOU FIRST. Then, use, use, use them….
  • How to be a Successful Arrogant Man/Woman (This is a gender-neutral book.)
  • Buffering Yourself Against the Fall-Out (Should one eventually occur)
  • Disclaimer

Ok, so you now have the general outline of the topics covered in each section. There is one last point I want to make before we get started. I would ask that you NOT apply any of the principles to your life until you’ve read the COMPLETE book. That is – READ THE COMPLETE BOOK. You will not be successful in ruling the world until you’ve read everything from start to finish.

Did Gru from Despicable Me start off with only a half a plan to steal the moon? No, I didn’t think so.

Oh wait. That’s the movie where Gru ends up taking care of those three little girls and becomes a father, right?

He’s a bad example.

Darth Vader. YES! He’s a good example! He built the Death Star!

No, wait…he’s the dark, robotic guy that pretends to be all evil until the end of the trilogy and then he becomes a big mushy pushover.

Don’t use him either.

The Emperor in Star Wars. There’s a guy who built a plan and implemented it completely! Sort of. It didn’t end well for him. But then, he didn’t have this book. So, PLEASE READ THE COMPLETE BOOK.

And, we’re off…..

Chapter 1 – The Art Of Manipulation

Manipulation should be taught to all children at an early age. (Parents, are you listening?) You can be the parents of the Supreme Ruler of the World. But, you’re responsible for coaching them on the best methods to manipulate. It is a necessary skill that can be taught to toddlers, used by your child throughout their school years, when they are teenagers, and finally as full-fledged serpentine adults. Parents, this will truly benefit you in the long run.

Ok, so how do you manipulate people? Here’s an example. Kids, listen up.  (Parents – now would be a good time to whip up breakfast, lunch, or dinner for your mini Dr. Evil child. A.K.A. I NEED YOU TO STOP READING HERE. THANKS.)

Kids, here we go. If your parents demand that you clean your room and you are blessed with a little brother or sister, you can take full advantage of your over-eager younger sibling who idolizes YOU for no other reason except YOU were born first. (Sorry, second, third, fourth child etc. – life has dealt you crappy cards in your attempt to rule the world. You were born later. It’s tough out there. I can’t help everyone. You’ll have to figure out how to manipulate your older sibling(s) on your own.)

Anyways, to YOU the first born, here are a few ideas:

  • Tell little Timmy or Suzie that you are going to study group to work on a school project that is due tomorrow. Throw your hands up in the air, stomp your feet and say, Mom and Dad are being COMPLETELY unreasonable on insisting that I clean my room first before I leave! It’s a project! It’s not like I’m going to a movie! I’m going to fail! (It doesn’t matter that you’re in kindergarten and you don’t know what a study group is. If you don’t know, pipsqueak doesn’t know either.)

When little Timmy/Suzie offers to clean your room – go to that movie instead. You receive extra points if you conveniently leave your allowance money behind thereby, the chump parents of your friends have to pay your way. Everyone else wants to see the movie too. What are the parents going to do? Not take you? You’re only a kid! It’s not your fault Mom didn’t give you money. Someone else will pay. I promise. (Did you see that? That was 2 manipulations for the price of one.)

  • Oh god, my stomach! My tooth! I am so sick and Mom and Dad STILL want me to clean my room! Who makes a sick kid clean their room? 

Here are a few other ideas for illnesses that you can tell little Timmy or Suzie:

  1. I’ve had diarrhea for three hours. (Trust me on this – no one’s going to check.)
  2. I’ve had a headache since last Tuesday. (There’s no verifiable way to validate this statement.)
  3. I stubbed my toe.
  4. I have a hang nail.
  5. Just pick something already!

Add tears, people are suckers! Then, you are permitted to sprawl out on the couch, order some delicious buttery and salty popcorn, and secretly begin hatching your next diabolical plan.

Now, some people would suggest that you just beat up Timmy or Suzie to make them clean your room. But, alas, that is truly diabolical. You don’t want to be a thug. And here’s why. Being a thug requires work. You will expend great energy in physically throwing punches, keeping someone in a headlock and then subsequently, plotting how NOT to get caught by your parents/teachers/police officers.

Being a thug is a huge waste of energy and time. Besides, with a little brother or sister, if you start early you will be able to manipulate them for life. As well, being a brute is not a transferable skill in the workplace. It will get you fired, arrested, or both.

Never underestimate the importance of brain power versus physical power.  Your brain will help you think of new and interesting ways to manipulate people. I believe that potential candidates in job interviews should be tested on the ability to manipulate other people as I’m certain it will do wonders for a company’s profits. A company made up of people who are the Jedi Masters of Manipulation are guaranteed to increase profits for the business.

I can see it now. A customer says, “I can’t believe you ran out of cream! What kind of an incompetent run coffee shop runs out of cream?”

The Cashier says, “Oh, are you certain that’s what’s really bothering you? It sounds pretty ridiculous to be so angry because we ran out of cream five days ago, and we still don’t have any?”

Customer: “Well, I did find out that I have to spend $2,000 to fix my fence because the 110 kilometer winds we had last weekend ripped a section of it apart.”

Cashier: “That’s terrible! You poor man! (Or, you poor woman!) But, we just serve coffee and donuts. Maybe you want a donut to go along with your coffee to cheer you up?”

Customer: “Actually, a donut would be nice.”

Cashier: “Ok. Let me add that to your order. That will be $8.”

Customer: “But, what about the fact that you haven’t had any cream for five days?”

Cashier: “We have milk. You can put that in your coffee. And with the donut now, it’s loaded with fat. You can’t afford to put cream in your coffee and have a donut today, or for the rest of the month. You’re in really good shape, and I wouldn’t want to ruin that.”

Cashier is assigned double points as the man no longer cares that he doesn’t have cream for his coffee, she sold him a donut, and he now believes he’s got the same body as Superman. (Or ladies, Superwoman! Or, Wonder Woman! Now that I think about it, some women might want to have the same body as Superman. Whoever’s body you admire most is the one you have. You have a phenomenal SUPER HERO body. Go Girl!)

My body is more in keeping with Baymax myself; and I like it that way. But, I digress….

Now, if manipulation is done well and over many years, you have a very good chance of controlling other people. How? Because, if you are VERY GOOD at manipulation, people will never know that they were/are manipulated. They will constantly be doing things for you and will not have a clue as to the reason why.

When you start manipulating people early in life it means patterns are established in terms of how one person interacts with another person. (You can probably also call this behaviour).   If someone starts by being your sucker (oops, I mean helpful sibling!) it will be very difficult for them to break the learned pattern unless they have a lot of money and can afford counselling to realize:

1) They have been manipulated in the past.

2) They are able to identify new situations where you are manipulating them.

3) They are able to stop themselves from being manipulated again by you.

By then, they will have paid more money on counselling than it would have cost if they just let you use them. At the very least, isn’t it better that a family member benefits in taking a younger sibling’s money and time, versus that of an outsider, such as a counsellor?

Yes, I thought so too.

(PARENTS – SKIP THIS PART TOO!)

Now, manipulation and owning people – how does that help you rule the world? This is easy. Even if someone is considered above you such as a grandmother, father, mother, aunt or uncle you can still own them.  Here’s an example. If your father says you can’t go to the University of Windsor because you live in Ottawa and it has two completely acceptable Universities and living away will be too expensive, than counter his arguments. Provide him with real examples as to why the University of Windsor is the best University, like, EVER!!!

If you have no real reasons as to why the University of Windsor is superior to all other Universities, make shit up. Convincingly. Puff your chest out and flap your arms around for emphasis.

You can say, But Dad! Windsor has the best English Program! Did you know that Jane Austen went to Windsor University? Manipulation comes into play because he will want the best for his kid.   As well, if you lied to him before and never got caught, he will fall for the new lie too.   Guaranteed.  As well, once you are there, even if University is too expensive Dad will be on the hook. He would never drag you away from your education.

Your Dad won’t have a clue that Jane Austen wasn’t Canadian, continues to be a well-known British author who wrote Sense and Sensibility and Emma (to name just a couple of her books)  and sadly, died almost two hundred years ago.

It will work. Trust me.

Manipulation and lying are synonymous together. It’s like the Easter Bunny and chocolate. Santa Clause and presents. Bacon and eggs. You get my point.

Thanks for reading this chapter.

P.S. I know the real reason you want to go to Windsor is because you don’t want Mom and Dad to “pop in” for an unexpected visit and catch you blowing your tuition and rent money on alcohol-loaded-all-night-parties.

How do I know this?

Because.

I wrote the book.

***

Jacob thinks about his own life.

He wishes he told his parents that he had doubts about Law School. The doubts began in his third year when he felt an overwhelming sense of trepidation about pursuing a career as a lawyer after speaking with friends who were articling at law firms.

Stories told from his friends painted a dismal picture of what his future life would be like: long hours at work that would leave him with little time for family and friends. Divorce amongst the lawyers in the firms was rampant.

Then, there were the ethical dilemmas in law that would appear no matter what area of law he chose to practice in. Sure, lots of money and prestige came along with being labelled a “lawyer”, but he didn’t really care about the title.

All in all, he didn’t want that life. He wanted an easier life. A more adventurous life. Or, a creative life. As it turned out, he wanted any other life: except to be a lawyer.

But, he couldn’t watch the crushing disappointment in his parent’s faces when he told them he didn’t want to do it anymore. They were so proud as they bubbled with joy and announced to everyone that would hear it, how brilliant their son was, and how he was well on the road to becoming a successful lawyer.

It was a weasel-way; to cut and run with no explanation. Jacob only called his parents to tell them he had skipped his exams and was in London, when his plane landed on the tarmac. Safely on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, his parents could do nothing else but hiss at him through the phone.

Then, there was Victoria. In the summer between second and third year he should have ended it.  He became less attentive, more argumentative, and knew they were drifting apart. He used her so he didn’t have to be alone, for sex, and his fear of ending their relationship.

Gavin is so much better to Victoria: stroking her hair without even thinking about it, wrapping his arms around her waist, and he constantly snuggles close to her whenever he can. But, more importantly, he always looks at her as if he is in awe; still, two years later. They taught him what love should look like.

Is he sorry? Sorry that he wasn’t brave enough to tell people the truth and deal with the aftermath of being honest. Instead, he slinked away as a snake hidden in long grass after devouring its prey. But as he sits on the bench overlooking the River Thames two years later, he’s only sorry about how he did things – not that he did them.

Jacob’s life is this impossible, reckless mess. But one day at a time, one step at a time, with the odd step backwards for self-reflection allows him to improve, change, and hopefully – become a better person.

CHAPTER 2

YOU FIRST Then, use, use, use them