My name is Hollis (Part One)

We suffer losses, and it is such a Hobson’s Choice as to which one is the deeper cut. Those losses caused by death final and fatal and the ghosts that haunt from that place. Or those losses that linger and will not die and have the good grace to become ghosts.  – Charissa Grace White

Mr. Jankowski is addicted to licorice.  I flip open my notebook to page 10.  117 Spring Lane.  No name Jankowski: seen twice.  Last time on April 19 wearing pea green pants, a long denim shirt worn through at the elbows and horrible sandals.  Should not wear sandals, I had written, toe nails like machetes.  Refer to Dr. Goldberg, retired podiatrist, 402 Briar Patch Ct.  Then I added, addicted to licorice.  No one should eat that much licorice.  Refer to Dr. Bowman, retired physician, 223 Bluebonnet Circle.

I put my notebook back in my pocket and chewed my pencil a little while I surveyed my street.  Ms. Phillips had already brought out her trash.  By now she was sipping her Clamato juice and dancing to Julio Iglesias’ greatest hits.  She had been a prima ballerina and still donned pink tights, a black leotard with plunging back and a thin pink belt to exercise three days a week.  “At 81,” she said, “I deserve the weekends off.”

I like to visit her on Mondays.  She makes a pan of chocolate covered marshmallow cookies every Sunday and allows herself only one: her devotion being too great and her leotard too form-fitting to annihilate the pan.  She told me if I don’t come over, she’ll have to throw them down the disposal and no 11-year-old with a heart would ever allow such deliciousness to meet such a horrible end.  So, I make sure I’m there to do my part.

Booth Brantford lives two doors down from No name Jankowski.  I visit him on Tuesdays.  He lives in a two-bedroom ranch and the way he ties back his curtains make his house look like it’s winking.  He was married for 65 years to Barbara Ann McClusky.  She died last year, two days after Christmas and one day before their 66th wedding anniversary.  He’s been a mess since.  All he eats are microwavable meals, when he eats, and he’s worn the same sweater for five months now.  Barbara Ann knitted it for him before she died and he can’t part with it.  At least it’s been washed, but a navy blue snowflake sweater in mid-June is alarming.

When I visit he tells me about how they met and when he felt his love starting for her. He said it’s like a seed of longing was planted in the center of his heart.  As is bloomed, he realized he couldn’t be without her.  He found himself dreaming of her silken hair and how her slender shoulders would feel beneath his heavy hands.  How he could sit for hours watching her, already having memorized the slightest details of her frame and face, like how her right eye had more green specks than her left and how the birthmark at the nape of her neck reminded him of four-leaf clover.  It wasn’t really.  Just a reminder of one.

He likes to show me pictures too.  They had four children together.  Two didn’t live much past birth: one had a lung disorder; the other was taken by rheumatic fever.  The two that were left are grown now.  The oldest is a lawyer in Brooklyn, who, according to Booth, sold his soul for a condo in Manhattan.  The other is a playwright with an addiction to sadness.  They never visit, which doesn’t seem to bother Booth, but it bothers me and I’m sure it would bother Barbara Ann.

On the other side of me live Marty and Irene Buchanan.  They are transplants, like many on my street.  They’d spent most of life in Dallas in the restaurant business. Morty was the sole-proprietor of Mort’s BBQ Pit.  At the height of their smoked empire they had six locations and even bottled and sold their own sauce.  He told me what was in it once, but I’d been transfixed by a spider spinning its web (that’s not learned, you know; they hatch knowing how to do it) and missed the last three secrets to the sauce.

I think Irene was truly beautiful.  She has the softest looking skin that creases in places it should:  around her mouth for having laughed and around her eyes for having cried.  Her cheeks are perfectly round and always rose-colored.  I know it’s natural because she doesn’t wear makeup, Morty wouldn’t hear of it.

They never had children; she miscarried nine times.  The doctors never did discover what was wrong, so she took it that she was.  She named each of them and collected seashells for them, neither of which she told Morty.  He’d scream and yell about the nine vases of strategically placed and meticulously chosen shells around their home.  He didn’t know, couldn’t have known really, that they were shrines to his children.

She’d told me once about a friend of hers who had lost a baby.  Every year on the anniversary of his death she’d release 16 butterflies, one for every week of his life.  Irene couldn’t understand it.  God had already taken him so far away.  Why would she let the butterflies go too?  I thought of answering her question, but knew it was the sort you asked not expecting an answer.  The answer was in the slump of her shoulders and the wetness of her eyes.  I saw that too.

My house is in the exact middle of our street, which is perfect for me.  A noticer.  I live with my grandparents, Nan and Pop, in a retirement community in Florida.  I’ve been here for four years, after cancer took my mother and booze took my father.   Nan and Pop are special and not in the way the kids at school call me special.  They say it as a bad thing when I know it to be good.

Nan was a therapist, so she’s always encouraging me to talk about my feelings, which sometimes I do, but mostly I don’t.  I think she wants to try to right with me the wrong she feels she did my father. “Hollis, you know you can tell me anything, right?,” she always asks after she gulps a little of the air lying around.  She gets a look a little like a crappie I once caught and waited too long to put back in the water: eyes too wide, cheeks sucked in.  It pains her to say my name, I know; it reminds her of my father since Pop became Hollie long ago.

Nan makes me breakfast every morning: fluffy sourdough French toast with a little vanilla and a lot of cinnamon; thick-cut smoked bacon, which she always arranges in a heart on my plate; sausage links; a grapefruit half with a piranha-teethed spoon; strawberry pinwheels and, when I’ve been really good or she’s really sad; steel-cut oatmeal swirled with raspberry jam and chunky peanut butter.  Pop has eaten this way for nearly ninety years.  He thinks things like high cholesterol and heart disease are eventualities of a life well-lived and tells any doctor he meets just that. “When death comes knocking, I hope it’ll let me finish my French toast,” he says.  And he has every confidence that it will.

Like most of the homes here, ours is a ranch.  It’s painted a slate blue, that reminds me of my mother’s eyes, with big white shutters.  There are flower boxes beneath every window, some with berry-colored impatiens and others with miniature roses, and a red door with a silver-plated knocker.  Hanging outside the kitchen window are Nan’s wind chimes.  She gets lost in a sea of bubbles when they play, washing the same dish again and again.  Sometimes, when the wind is sleeping, I run my finger lightly across the front of them anticipating their canorous pings and tings.  The sound is soothing, just like Nan says.

My room is the best room in the house (for obvious reasons).  Nan said I could do whatever I wanted to the walls and even volunteered to help me paint.  On one wall, I have a Scrabble board with the word combinations needed to make a 2,044-point move using the SOWPODS dictionary and the word sesquioxidizing (it’s not in the normal dictionary, but it should be).

I’ve always been into words.  They fascinate me really.  At age 6, I started reading the dictionary.  I started with the letter a, which is an obvious beginning, and have continued since then.  I study and memorize seven words a day, since people smarter than me say that that’s the magic number.  By my calculations, that’s about 12,775 words to date, give or take.  But, when I feel like I’m going at a snail’s pace, I let myself pick a word from elsewhere, like the SOWPODS dictionary (I know it’s a little renegade, but it seems to work) to let the color back in.

On another wall, I have a painting of Einstein, which I did myself, and one of my favorite quotes of his: The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing.  Actually, it doesn’t really look like Einstein; it looks more like Amos Slade from The Fox and the Hound.  But whatever.

On the third wall, is a painting of my house.  The house where I lived with my parents before Mom got sick and Dad got lost.  Nan and I had a picture to paint by, although I didn’t need one.  I even remembered to put in the tulip garden Mom had planted and her garden maker: what is for you will not pass you.  She spent hours out there, especially once she found out the cancer had come back.  I think that’s why those flowers bloomed long after they should have died, like she did.  I think they lived off her tears.

Untitled-1(1)

  One thought on “My name is Hollis (Part One)

  1. February 8, 2015 at 12:08 pm

    Dani, this is an amazing story. I started crying during the paragraph describing what Nan makes for Hollis every morning for breakfast. I’m not sure why that touches me so much but I can’t think of it without tearing up. If there’s going to be a part 2, I can’t wait.

    • March 18, 2015 at 10:45 pm

      You are a love, Karen. Thank you for reading. And I do hope there will be a part 2. I do.

  2. February 8, 2015 at 12:47 pm

    Oh Sis…

    Ohhhhh

  3. February 8, 2015 at 12:51 pm

    Dani this is beautifully written and left me so sad…

    Can’t wait for part 2.

    • March 18, 2015 at 10:48 pm

      Thanks, sweetie. I hope there will be one ❤

  4. February 8, 2015 at 1:14 pm

    This needs a Love option. Delightful word choices painted a vivid scene I’ll not soon forget.

    • March 18, 2015 at 10:51 pm

      I truly appreciate your kind words, Judy. Thank you 🙂

  5. February 8, 2015 at 1:39 pm

    Such a beautifully heart-breaking yet heart-warming story. Looking forward to part 2.

    • March 18, 2015 at 10:53 pm

      Thank you, Jackie dear.

  6. February 8, 2015 at 2:54 pm

    Lovely. I^ve nominated you for the Virtual Blog Tour Award, and hope you’ll accept. Details in my latest post.

    • March 18, 2015 at 11:02 pm

      That’s so kind of you, Catherine. Thank you.

      Blessings to you,
      Dani

  7. February 8, 2015 at 5:21 pm

    Dani, This is so awesome! Please continue to use your amazing gift in ways that touch our hearts and minds!

    • March 18, 2015 at 11:06 pm

      Thank you, Stephen. It means so much that you stopped by 🙂

  8. February 8, 2015 at 9:11 pm

    Beautiful, Dani. I can’t wait to read more.

    • March 18, 2015 at 11:07 pm

      Thank you, Annie.

  9. TheMomCafe.com
    February 8, 2015 at 9:48 pm

    I want more! Your words have exquisite taste to them, do you know that? I could read you for HOURS…. I want more. I’m sad, intrigued, and ready to dive deeply into connecting with Hollis. Oh what a gem. I can surely tell already.

    Part 2?

    I love this.

    • March 18, 2015 at 11:12 pm

      I’m really hoping there will be a part 2, Chris. I’d love to reconnect with Hollis. I miss him. I miss all of them.

      Squeezes, dear one,
      Dani

  10. February 9, 2015 at 7:02 am

    Oh Dani,
    This was absolutely mesmerizing and found myself reading it with so many parts of my body. My brain loved the words you chose, the cadence of your paragraphs and the breezy way it must sound when you read it out loud.
    But, this isn’t a story to be read only by the brain. My heart and my stomach and insides jumped in head first and soaked in the feelings and the characters and the nuances and WOW! I already love Hollis and am imaging what she (?) might look like. We saw all of the characters through her eyes…I wonder how the characters see Hollis.
    LOVE!
    Michelle

    • March 18, 2015 at 11:17 pm

      Lots to think about here, Michelle. They’re still unfolding. They all are.

      Thank you for reading, love, and for championing my heart and words.

  11. February 9, 2015 at 10:33 am

    Dani, your words weave a three dimensional heart picture, evoking emotion, senses, memory and wonder. I hope there will be much more!

    • March 18, 2015 at 11:20 pm

      Oh, I hope so, too, Jane. Squeezes, dear one ❤

  12. February 9, 2015 at 5:07 pm

    You are a beautiful writer and this story is amazing and left me in tears ❤

  13. February 11, 2015 at 7:30 am

    Poignant, picturesque and resonant, Dani. The characters and the setting were real enough to touch! I can’t wait for more! Love, Gracie

    • March 18, 2015 at 11:39 pm

      Oh, thank you, Gracie. It means so much coming from you.

  14. February 12, 2015 at 12:22 pm

    Ditto all of the above. And more. You have an amazing gift of perception and the ability to articulate the poignant nuances of life. Keep it up, my friend. xoxo

    • March 19, 2015 at 12:00 am

      So much love to you, Ginny girl ❤

Heart connections happen through comments. Please leave yours here.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: