Tag: character sketches

A to Z Challenge: Mandy

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Character sketches that are fictional, but based on real people, like us.

Mandy covered her auburn hair with a scarf and stepped out into the sunny spring day. She had just gotten a color that really suited her and she wasn’t about to let it fade with sun exposure. Looking good was worth what it cost in routine hair appointments. It was a way of letting the world know she cared.

The cancer diagnosis a year ago had sideswiped her. She had almost gotten back on her feet after the death of her husband, all the trauma, the loneliness, getting used to a different life without him in it. Facing off with cancer was like being asked to do it all over again, only it was her own life she had to worry about this time.

As if chemo hadn’t been bad enough, the toxic treatment gave her kidney failure so now she was going to dialysis three times a week. And because she had a cancer that was treatable but not curable, she was not a candidate for a kidney transplant. At times it seemed as if the world was against her, but she presented a whole different image to that world. It wasn’t going to see her go down. She was waging war against every negative aspect of her life. Her attitude was her number one weapon.

Her first step was to more closely match her energy level with her living environment. She sold her two story home and moved into a condo on the edge of town. No one there did their own yard work. There were no steps to climb. Her condo had windows with gorgeous views and the light streamed in and lifted her soul every morning.

She accepted her thrice weekly trips to dialysis as part of her life, like showering and eating. She decided they would be rest days, for reading, napping and whatever else she could manage. She was tired on those days but recovered by the following morning. Her in between days were full of times with friends, her grandsons, and getting to know her new neighbors.

The project of “feathering her new nest” had been so fun. She and a friend had searched the furniture stores until they found exactly the pieces that fit her rooms, matched the vibe she wanted and were comfortable and practical. Their efforts had created spaces that were inviting and filled with warmth, and pleased her. She chased happiness and peace, and all who walked into her living room felt she had caught a great deal of both.

In the name of hanging on to things loved, she had stayed with the church of her childhood. It was 30 miles away but it was worth it to her because she had purpose there. She was a musician and loved playing for the weekly services. It was there she felt comfortably challenged and appreciated.

At this stage of her game, she was making good choices, and she knew it. There were no guarantees for her longevity but her strategy was to hope for medical advances. Just last week she had heard of a medical trial for her diagnosis that made her pulse quicken. If she could get accepted for that she would really be in the fight with a new weapon, and that sounded good, really good…

A to Z Challenge: Fade

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Character sketches that are fictional but based on real characters, like us.

We were standing around the operating table, gowned and masked, working on a late evening emergency case – a young guy who flipped his motorcycle. The doctors were calmly discussing vacation plans. I was stabilizing a leg while they did major reconstruction on it.

“I’m going to Wisconsin. We have a fishing cabin up north. It’s one of those out of the way places on this great lake. Going catch a musky.”

“Oh yeah?” the other doc said. “Where exactly?”

“Probably Hayward.” I said, deciding to join the conversation.

“You know the place?”

“It’s my hometown. I grew up there. I’m due for a vacation there too.”

“Well, what are the chances of that?” He said.

And so began my acquaintance with Fade. He wasn’t the doctor. He was the guy whose leg I was holding.

After surgery he was one angry young man. His leg was in traction with pins at the knee and the ankle. He was on his back in bed and would stay that way for quite a while. He was lucky that walking again was even a possibility, but the sudden change in his plans didn’t make him feel lucky. Formerly cute, popular, and definitely on the cocky side, he was now in pain and trying to learn how to manage a bedpan. He was my patient, on my primary care unit, which meant that we were going to be spending a lot of time with each other.

At first he was in no mood to have visitors but it didn’t take long for his room to be named “the party room”. His group of close friends started showing up often, regularly breaking visitor rules. Fade would charm his way out of trouble with whoever was in charge. He was so sweet when he wanted to be, and almost abusive when he stopped caring. I never knew which guy I’d be dealing with when I went in the room. But, things were working in my favor – I was young and fairly good looking.

One day I arrived on the unit and noticed an unusual smell. I imagined it was coming from Fade’s room, and even thought I saw a bit of smoke seeping out from under his door. Laughter sounded from inside, and when I opened the door I saw it was indeed a party taking place. His friends were sitting around the bed and Fade was there in the middle, smoking weed. Pain medicine, he called it. I had to agree he looked pretty comfortable, but it was still illegal in California, our state at the time. I wasn’t sure what the Catholic nuns who ran the hospital would think of it either. Turned out they were way ahead of their time, agreed with him, and allowed it. I became familiar with that smell.

Over time, the adaptability of youth worked it’s magic. Fade got used to us as we cared for him. We were his encouragers and were able to develop solid friendships with him. He healed and walked out of the hospital eventually, a more thoughtful, careful and experienced young man. It was a long time before I heard from him again, but that’s another story.

A to Z Challenge: Evelin

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Character sketches that are fictional but based on real characters, like us.

She seemed perfectly content to sleep in friend’s living rooms, on their couches – a few nights in one place, then switch. She was content to walk everywhere, or hitch a ride when it was offered. She was actually proud of her ability to wander about at night and not get mugged or in trouble. She felt zero obligation to be in school. It was a distraction to the rest of her life. In fact, she so enjoyed being known as “tough” and independent that, to this day, I don’t know why she decided to come home with my daughters. Maybe it was the colder weather and the thought of a bed that could be hers if she wanted it.

Seeing my daughter’s friends at school or youth gatherings I always assumed that they had home lives that were some variation of our own. Not so. I wasn’t aware of how abnormal we were, until meeting people like Evelin and hearing their stories. I seldom heard the parental version. I tried to imagine what I would have done with a girl who went into the garage with a lit candle and ended up setting her motorcycle on fire. Kicking her out probably wouldn’t have been my first remedy, but then again, maybe it wasn’t the first time.

We cleared out an enclosed breezeway and put bunk beds and a dresser next to the sauna. The room had windows and it’s own door to the outside. What more could a tough girl want?

She was quiet, polite and really quite good looking, although I don’t think she knew it. She didn’t try to look beautiful, feeling more comfortable with a style somewhere between grunge and Goth, covering it all with a long man’s raincoat. The coat probably came in handy in her late night wandering. She did have six toes on her feet but you wouldn’t have noticed unless you stopped and counted. Who does that?

Evelin wanted a job for spending money and decided to work the late shift at a fast food joint a good two miles from our house. She was the closer and in charge of spraying the grease off the floors – at 2 am when they shut the drive thru window. It wasn’t a particularly safe area of town and the thought of her walking home at that hour gave me shivers up the spine. I decided to set the alarm and drive down to get her. She hated it. She hated me for “pampering” her and making her soft. How did I know that? She left me a note saying so.

Part of the terms of her residence with us was that she go to school again. She was enrolled at a different school than my daughters were, so afternoons were spent in the car waiting at one school and then the other. We often would wait at Eve’s school until it emptied out and discover that she hadn’t been there.

She was a mystery to me. I think she would have liked knowing that, because maybe being a mystery is as good as being tough. I wouldn’t have guessed she would turn things around and become an architect with two beautiful children, one of whom has six toes on his feet. And that’s another story…

A to Z Challenge: Della

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There was no denying that Della was strange, in fact, that was why I was attracted to her in the first place. She was pretty, she was rich, and she presented herself as a prisoner. There had to be adventure somewhere in this mix, I thought, and there was.

I met her in church, of all places. She was “allowed” to come, as she put it, but she didn’t usually stay around to chat or go out for lunch. She had to get back before he noticed her absence and got irritated. She had a very nice car, and classy clothes. Her hair always looked perfect, her glasses were clean and sparkly and her teeth were beautiful. Her husband was a dentist.

She had been a dental hygienist and had worked for him several years before they became “a thing” and got married. I was never quite certain if she had loved him or just been overwhelmingly impressed with his story. He had escaped Egypt when the country turned on its royalty and had come to the United States for a new life. He went back to school to update his dental credentials and set up his own business. For a while, they worked well as a team. She had a son from a previous marriage and it was a relief when she no longer had to be a single mom. And even more of a relief when she quit working and started keeping house.

I should say “keeping mansion”. That would be a much better description of her new job of helping design and build one of the most ostentatious houses, in the most ostentatious part of town. I was only in it once, but what I saw was right out of a fairy tale. I think her husband must have had the royal palace in mind, complete with double, sweeping staircases leading up to his Egyptian room with tapestries, reclining cushions, and one of those crazy middle east tea pots. I think it was staged by National Geographic.

I saw it all on the night she left him.

There were three of us that night. I had a friend who was even more involved in Della’s story than I was. I was the one who had not yet met her abusive husband, so it was my name that went on the storage unit she had me rent. My name went on the U-Haul rental. In her customary dramatic way, she was hiding her tracks, certain that he would come looking for her.

“He’s going out of town, but I’m never sure he won’t surprise me and show up or change plans. If all is well, I’ll open the gate at 11:30 and you can drive in real slow and quiet. Wear dark clothes.” Everything but the ski masks and lock picks. I was worried we’d get taken for burglars and the neighbors would call the cops.

It took us an hour and a half to get her selected items out and packed in the truck. She didn’t take much. She didn’t take anything she thought would make him angrier than he would already be when he found her gone. She took the dog – a hefty Rottweiler, and her car. It was a bit of a challenge getting everything to fit in the storage unit but we were done before dawn.

She was sure he would look for her in every conceivable place, and possibly be violent if he found her. She had to have a place to hide that he wouldn’t think of, someplace humble, ordinary, and unconnected with anyone he would ever suspect. A place where the car could be kept out of sight. A place where she and the dog could hang out indefinitely.

Yep, my house. What was I thinking?

A to Z Challenge: Chance

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He had ridden his bike for 20 minutes in the sweltering heat so his dark skin was wet with tiny droplets, which he quickly dispatched with the bottom of his T-shirt.

“How ya doin?” he said with an enthusiasm she could hardly imagine him having. She noticed he was sniffing in the direction of the kitchen. “Cookin’ up somethin good tonight?”

He was a pretty good cook himself, an expert actually, at the kind of food he liked best. When he was given free reign in the kitchen there was usually a lot of tasty fried chicken, and a lot of greasy pans to wash.

But he wasn’t there for the kitchen. The piano was where he was headed. He slid to the middle of the bench and started chording and doing small riffs with a rhythm right out of a black church choir. That’s where he had taken a job, at the St. Stephen’s African Methodist Episcopal Church. Too many names to even fit on the sign.

He had started experimenting with the keyboard after coming to a small hymn sing in the park near his home. His name was Chance, and that’s what she had offered him, a chance to learn. He was short for his 13 years of growing, and there was one hand that hadn’t grown normal fingers, not that it kept him from learning the chords he was taught. He loved playing on the black keys – his fingers had no trouble landing on those.

“You going to teach me to read notes today. We got to work on that. They want me to be able to play printed music and I’m fakin’ it now.”

He could listen to a tune and play it accurately after one go. With soul. But he wasn’t familiar with a lot of church music and had to hear it played first. That’s what she did for him. “Wish I could do like that Miss Allie. Let me hear that verse part again.” But no matter what the lesson was, he would end up playing his favorites, quickly tiring of practicing notes on lines and spaces.

He would make it look so easy, going up and down the keyboard with chord progressions that were not the usual, but so compelling. She had told him that the piano was in the percussion family of instruments – hammers hitting strings inside a box – but his brand of percussion was foot on the pedal. It felt like the room was moving, and more than once she had to remind him to go easy. He had broken the inner workings of the sustain pedal once already.

He sang too. Quite well.

It was the beginning of a long acquaintance that branched out into lots more than music. Not all of it was easy or pleasant, but his optimism and bravado rarely failed him. Well, there was that one time…

A to Z Challenge: Bruce

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Character sketches that are fictional but based on real characters, like us.

Probably in his 50’s, reasonably fit and with greying hair and beard that would be classified as distinguished, there was something unconventional about him that made him attractive, at least to women and children. It was probably that he didn’t mind talking to them, and didn’t mind topics of conversation that women and children might actually find interesting. He had men friends too, of course, but men were often busy during the day and Bruce, well… I’m not sure that he had a busy time.

I think he envisioned himself as a gentleman farmer, with ambitious ideas of working his little acreage into a productive garden, with fields of hay and grain to support his herd of milk cows, several horses, and a pig or two. But in reality he was not a particularly wise farmer. It was his good luck to have married a woman who doubled as a farmhand. He dreamed, she did.

A gentleman farmer always has other, more important pursuits however, and Bruce’s pursuit was writing. I always attributed his interest in people to his need for characters to put in novels. His writing was also how I came into the picture – that, and living on the adjacent farm. We shared a fence.

Bruce was a friendly neighbor. His daughters were good babysitters too, and his wife was nice enough to let me come over and buy fresh milk. I wasn’t particularly happy when he wanted to keep his angry bull at our farm. It was in the pasture in front of our house where it terrorized me and the children. On the other hand, he did occasionally drive his horse and wagon over and offer us rides, which we thought was pretty cool. The relationship felt reciprocal.

One day Bruce was sitting in my kitchen, in his farmer outfit of bib overalls and flannel shirt, discussing a manuscript he was working on. By the way, he wanted to know, would I mind doing some proofreading for him? I didn’t mind at all, in spite of the fact that I was raising two small children and working shifts at the local hospital. He was a real writer. He had a manuscript, whereas I was only wishing I had one. Being a proofreader for Bruce would be one step closer to the world of writing. At the very least I would be keeping my grammar skills current.

His manuscript was not finished, but more of a work in progress, and Bruce began inviting me over to the farm to help him work on the next chapters. He had his writer’s loft, accessible only by ladder, a place of pride complete with typewriter, his writing library and reference books, and a bed where he evidently got all his best ideas for plots. His description of it had the same flavor of excitement that my younger brothers used when describing their treehouses or forts in the hayloft. It was his hideaway, where he went when his wife was out milking the cows or weeding the garden.

“I’ve got some ideas for this chapter. Come and see what you think.” he would say. Right, I thought. Your kids are in school, your wife has taken a second job to support the farm, and you want me to join you in your hideout… No, just not going to happen, in the interest of maintaining good neighborly relationships. Mind you, Bruce would have been horrified to know I had second thoughts about joining him to work on the next twist in his novel, and I would have been embarrassed telling him. There was just a faint creepiness about the whole thing.

And as it turned out, I never had to tell him. But that’s another story.

These writing exercises are part of the April A to Z Blogging Challenge. Can I write a post for every day of the month except Sundays? I don’t know, but this is my 10th year (kind of a special landmark), so I have to give it a try.