Serial Fiction: Mistake 17
As soon as Tammy closed the door to our handicapped accessible room, I leapt out of the wheelchair, clutching my purse and plopped down on the double bed closest the window wall. I hugged the bag to my chest. My heart. Mike’s manuscript. I had to make it work. I must figure out the changes his editor wanted and get it sold. As one dejected, rejected writer to another, I had to do this for him. So that his life’s labor wasn’t for naught.
Perry switched on the T.V. and assumed the position, propped on the other bed, with both pillows behind his bald head.
Tammy carried her pretty little designer suitcase into the bathroom. She soon emerged dressed in cerulean spandex as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. “I’ll be down at the gym. You guys wanna join me?”
Wow, Tammy was actually inviting us? I’d love to work out with my sister. Bond with her while sweating on the treadmill. Hmm...I didn’t pack anything but dress clothes, since we came for Momma. For Momma’s funeral. I fought the tears welling again.
Perry grunted, “It’s not my thing.” he flipped through network news, “Leave It To Beaver”, “Sponge Bob Square Pants”, the latest Avril Lavigne music video, then settled on “Judge Judy”. “Oh-Donna you go. It’ll be good for you.”
“I can’t go, because I’m supposed to be disabled.”
Tammy said, “I’m a certified physical therapist Donna. I can show you some upper body exercises, tone your floppy arms up for ya.”
She just had to insult me. I glared at her and then fetched Norma Jean’s chrome dishes from my pink rolling duffle bag. I poured kibbles from a zip locked bag and served her fresh water from the bathroom. I set both bowls in the huge walk-in closet. I squatted on the floor and patted her back as she gulped.
Maybe I can get a rollaway bed and set it up in here. The other two would love that. Keeping Oh-Donna stashed in the closet. But wait. The big walk-in closet under the stairs at Little Mount Vernon, my parent’s house, is where I had my first special dream. There was music playing. I remember, I was pulled into the dream by Mr. Ashley Jones. Umm...yum. Ashley. My debonair dream weaver.
I could hear a melody faintly emanating from the guest room next door. Country music. “Islands in the Stream”. I felt dizzy. I laid down on my back. Norma Jean licked my hand. The closet swirled. Phone books, an ironing board and hangers danced around me. I experienced forward propulsion into the beautiful raspberry and turquoise swirls.
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