101 Words

The wheels of Joan’s stroller wobble as she pushes her way over the worn-out carpet. She pauses by the hallway bookshelf, looks down at the loaded shelves, and takes a few seconds to catch her breath.

Thirty copies of Abroad Horizons sit there, abandoned—much like Joan. Fading spines hold well-thumbed pages in place; suncream-smudged fingerprints still visible. The scribbled notes, once significant, bind the disappearing memories of her youth. Locations have merged in her mind; the only order now remaining, alphabetical.

She shuffles on and flops heavily into her high-backed chair, thankful that she has survived one more treacherous journey.

What she should have done was get back to work.

Pick up the blaring phones.

Check the eighty-seven orders in the queue.

Administer shots to the patients lined up.

Answer questions about cough syrup from a mother at the counter.

Instead, she reached into the pocket of her white coat and fished around for the three little pills.

Oxycodone.

Diazepam.

Soma.

Examined them in her palm.

Without thinking, she popped them into her mouth and swallowed hard. A sigh escaped as her shoulders fell.

The fluorescent lights began fading in and out.

Soon the lights—and her pain—would be gone.

My heart finally stopped; my soul ascended.

My hit barely made it past the pitcher, but I made a home run.

In my teenage bed, I enthusiastically lost my virginity.

I graduated last in my class but still became a doctor.

I reconstructed Maria Smith’s face after it was destroyed by an abusive husband.

A brilliant, elegant woman agreed to be my wife.

After a twenty-hour labor, my beautiful daughter was born.

My son blessed me with a squealing blond-haired grandson. Love at first sight.

Four hundred friends came to my funeral.

Reliving these moments, repeatedly, is my experience of heaven.

Father Peter developed cancer, so Bridget Duffy, the church cleaner, used her life savings for a pilgrimage to Our Lady at Lourdes. On her knees for twelve hours, she pleaded for a miracle. Knees wrecked, exhausted, and incoherent, she continued her prayers throughout the flight home, mumbling, hands clasped, “God’s will…Mother Mary…with grace…heal.”

Sister Maud greeted her at the Dublin airport. “Sadly, Father Peter passed away on Thursday last.”

Bridget wept.

“But, Mary O’Leary is walking again, Grace McFarlane has recovered her sight, and Father Peter left you 10,000 euros in his will.

Bejesus, you did well, girl.”

Emma Anderson reflected on how far she’d come.

She’d been on the other end of this interaction seemingly not long ago: an ambitious, bright-eyed girl who naively believed university had equipped her for the real world.

Sixteen rejections before Covington and Associates hired her. Then, her first six months entailed picking up coffee and Mr. Covington’s suits.

“…which is why I want to work for Anderson and Associates,” the applicant concluded.

No more than twenty, the candidate’s bright eyes twinkled with ambition—the same ambition she’d once had. She earmarked the application.

Emma Anderson wondered how much time she had left.

The leaf was brown, brittle, rough around the edges. He lifted it tenderly from the skirt which pooled in Rose’s lap. He had already forgotten the words they just shared, allowed them to vanish into the breeze.

He offered her the leaf. “Time’s changing.”

She took it from him. The rough edge chafed her finger, which she touched to her tongue.

A gust shook more leaves from their branches.

He took her fingers into his and asked if she was sure.

She nodded, withdrew her fingers, and allowed the changing wind to whisk her from him, the object of her frustration.

Paris, 1978. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him, enjoying the warmth of her body through the thin cotton dress. Holding the umbrella high, he allowed the rain to trickle inside his collar so she would stay dry. In the middle of the wet pavement, she stopped, kissed him, and whispered, “I love you.”

Edinburgh, 2018. Head bent against the rain, she scowled sideways from inside her fur-lined hood. “Asshole…showed you the forecast…spent a bloody fortune on this haircut…”

He pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his cagoule and thought of Paris.