101 Words

There’s a shoebox in the closet near the bathroom. The running shoes that once occupied the box are long gone. Today, it has things I bought when she would spend the night. There’s a pink loofah and the coconut-scented body wash she liked. Her almost-empty deodorant and cologne remind me of the night we met. A toothbrush and paste that kept her smile bright and breath minty fresh. A hairbrush with a few strands of hair still tangled in the bristles. The last item in the shoebox—a diamond ring. Like her, it’s beautiful, but she will never wear it.

I reached out for his hand, the one that wielded the lead pipe that had broken my nose an hour earlier.

“I need your strength,” I said.

He didn’t take it right away. Later, he would move closer, inch by inch. He would lie next to me. Would be the reason I slept while breathing through a narrowed nasal cavity.

He would never say he was sorry, but I didn’t expect that from an eight-year-old. It would be added to the sum of things done for my children that hurt me but helped them. Never, ever, would that equation balance.

It was starting to hurt. She made the appointment while gritting her teeth. Three weeks later, after a lengthy wait in reception, a smirking medical assistant escorted her to an examination room. Of course, a man who checked in after her had been seen sooner. She sat, seething, on the narrow table. The doctor wagged his finger and declared, “You really should have come in sooner.” Using sharp steel tools, he extracted the chip lodged in her right shoulder and set it carefully atop her left. The emotion she experienced thereafter was not relief, but dismay over the absence of throbbing.

I stare at the screen, knowing I can’t afford everything on my wish list. I triple-check my choices, weighing options.

Fewer hobbies? I uncheck karate and singing, but keep painting, hiking, and reading.

How important are looks, really? Green eyes. A chiseled jaw. Above-average height. I can spring for that.

Advanced options: He needs to be smart. And kind. That is non-negotiable. But I can live with basic empathy, and romance is overrated anyway.

I reread the terms. Love isn’t guaranteed, but he’ll be programmed for commitment. It’s enough.

I sign the agreement and hit submit. Two weeks until delivery.

Two kittens: one black, one Siamese, born in an alleyway. They’re hiding and afraid. Rescued: crammed in cages, stacked on cages in a shelter overburdened. Astrid, the Siamese, gets sick.

My fiancé and I adopt her. She’s sweet and lovely but needs medication daily. Vi’s also sick; they’re good company.

“She’ll need a friend for when you’re cancer free,” I say.

When I learn she has a missing sister, my mission becomes clear. My search leads to a glass box where Kora has waited for 8 months. She stares accusingly.

Reunited, they rub heads. “Some stories end happily,” Vi says, smiling.

Raymond knelt on one knee, reached into his pocket, and smiled.

A cacophony of noise erupted around Raymond. He ignored it, only preparing to listen for Sandra’s reply. The room was humid, warm, and filled with odors.

Sandra stared down at the man who was in a stance of adoration.

“Sandra,” Raymond whispered. “I know this is only the second time we have met, but for me, it was love at first sight.” He brought his clenched hand out of his pocket. “I want to be with you, forever.”

Sandra barked once and gobbled the wishbone treat out of Raymond’s hand.

The boat’s sudden heel puts a rise in my stomach. That wind—out of the east—is an omen. It snaps at the mainsail, ushering a deep sough in the rigging.

Night is coming, yes, but the storm will arrive sooner. And it holds a different darkness. The Pelican, twenty-four feet in length and twelve at the beam, is a sturdy craft, but she’ll be tested.

Running cocaine, despite its evils, has been good to me. Paid the mortgage. Fed the kids. No matter what, I’ll get that rock in the hold past the looming breakers and authorities who’d destroy everything.