Monday, February 6, 2017

Serial Fiction: Mistake 10

~*~
Mike didn’t answer his phone. After an hour, and two sets of complimentary soft drinks, three bowls of a trendy salty snack mix and a silver bowl of cool water for Norma Jean, Mr. Rollins packed us into one of the hotel’s black Lincoln Town Cars, gave the chauffeur verbal instructions and handed Perry written directions to give to a charter boat captain.
I was so darned sleepy. You’d think that I’d be alert and bug eyed after my Rip Van Winkle act. I had not slept well last night. I cried for my momma. Little girl Oh-Donna did. And I’m still raw over the loss of Daddy. What’s it been now, two weeks? Ten days? Little Orphan Annie. The tune played in my head, “Tomorrow”, as I leaned my head against the door window in the backseat of the Town Car. Tammy was seated with me, her mind engrossed in Cosmopolitan magazine. My puppy sprawled on the floor, with her big drooly face in my lap. She was snoring. I petted her gently.
Yeah Annie girl, I hear ya. You think tomorrow will be a better day. I sure hope it is. Can’t be much worse than today. I tried so hard to drift off to sleep. Momma says...said... I just can’t get used to her being gone. Momma told me that we grow and heal in our sleep. So I really should try to get some sleep on the ride down to the Keys. To make my head thingy better. But I really yearned for some music to pull me into one of my special dreams. I missed Ashley so much. My debonair dream weaver. If only they were real. If he were real.
I had enjoyed a fantastic dream during my coma. Ashley had turned out to be my roommate. I do have a roommate, but I’ve never met him. Her. I assumed it was a female. Ashley Jones answered my house sharing ad via e-mail. She/he is a song writer wannabe that drives a cross country bus for one of the grandpa pop groups from the seventies. She’s/he’s on the road so much that our paths haven’t crossed yet. I assumed she was a girl, but then my dream weaver came out of the basement and he took me on the bus. We arrived at Make Believe Island. He was gonna write songs, I was gonna write novels and we would make beautiful music and babies together. In a cute little orange bungalow on the other side of Make Believe Island, where Momma moved to with her secret agent lover Mike.
She told me Mike was my real father. Not Daddy, Dr. Nathan Payne, the sociopath who raised me. Perry’s father. Like father, like son, like adopted daughter Tammy.

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