HE'S MY VALENTINE!

It’s always wonderful to know that somebody loves you, any time of year, not just for Valentine’s Day.

HONEY LOVES ME!

            Honey only tells me how much he loves me twice a year.  In July he gives me a birthday card and in December he gives me a Christmas card.  These cards always drip with so much sappiness I wonder if I should have a shot of insulin to counteract the sugar surge!  Actually, I’m usually astounded how sentimental he is in his choice of gift cards.  But through the rest of the year, I only hear how much he cares through the testimony of others, like that time I battled with a semi on Fraser Highway.

            It was a rainy day in May and I drove my 2007 Hyundai Sonata from Langley, where we live, to Abbotsford, where my family doctor is located.  I needed my regular diabetic check-up and to have my prescriptions renewed.  My appointment was in the morning and I had planned to visit a fabric store out there afterward.  I asked Honey if he wanted to go along for the ride and maybe browse through the Abbotsford Value Village store.

            “No,” he said.  “I’m still clearing out the back yard and taking another load to the dump.”

            So I went by myself.  After my appointment, and after wandering through the fabric store without buying anything, I realized it was eleven thirty and I needed to decide about lunch.  Should I eat in Abbotsford, or drive straight home?  I favoured eating out, but not by myself, so I called my sister-in-law, Jeannette, who lives there.

            “No,” she said.  “I’m babysitting grandkids right now.  Maybe next time you come out.”

            Thinking about lunch had made me hungry.  On my lonesome, I stopped at a Subway restaurant and had a quick sandwich before heading for home.  Rain still splattered my windshield and the roads were wet.  Traffic was light heading west on Fraser Highway, in the same direction as I was, but heavier going in the opposite direction.  Most of the highway has just one lane in each direction.

As I approached the red light at the intersection with 240^th Street, I slowed down.  But the light turned green so I then accelerated through the intersection and up the following incline, past a long line of traffic going in the opposite direction.  They had been stopped at the light.  As I topped the hill, I was still doing less than the posted speed limit of eighty kilometres per hour.  Right at the top of that hill, there was a lumber yard on my right.  That was the exact destination of a semi, which had been sitting in the opposing traffic and suddenly decided to make a left turn across a solid yellow line right in front of me.

With my heart in my throat, I slammed on my brakes.  I could feel my car skidding on a wet surface.  I fleetingly realized I had nowhere to go.  The semi was in front and to the right of me.  A line of traffic was to my left.  I knew I would hit the semi, which was pulling a flat deck.  I was terrified I was meeting my demise, that I might be beheaded, or that I would be so mangled my newly restored limbs would have been for nought.  Looming in front of me I saw the huge tires at the back of the tractor.  My whole body shook as metal in front of me crunched.  I felt my car being pulled along with the semi.  And then everything stopped and I saw nothing but a huge expanse of white.

At first I thought I had died, but that white light I saw hurt like hell.  My whole face stung.  Then the white slowly deflated and I realized it had been the air bag.  I looked out past the pushed up and crumpled hood of my car to see that the semi had proceeded further into the lumber yard and it had pulled me to the side of the road in the process.  There was either steam or smoke coming up from the motor of my car.  I tried to turn the ignition off, but the key wouldn’t turn.  I didn’t know if my car would catch fire or not.  I had urgent thoughts of needing to get names and phone numbers from witnesses.  I groped for a notebook and pen from the glove compartment.  My arms moved fine.  My legs were still there and I could feel them and they weren’t broken.  Why had nobody come to see if I was all right?  Maybe they thought I was dead.  I opened my car door to go look for witnesses.

A woman ran up to me before I could get out.  “Don’t move!  Don’t move!” she ordered.  “I’m a nurse.  Don’t move.  First responders are on their way.  I called 9-1-1.  Can you see okay?  Did you bang your head?  Do you think anything is broken?”

Very kindly, she was trying to save me from hurting myself by keeping me still.  She said she had been travelling in the opposite direction and had seen what happened.  Just then, another woman walked up to my car and said she had been behind me and had seen everything.  I asked the second woman if she would write down her name and number and collect any other names of witnesses for me.  She did.  Several men came over to my car and I asked one to get me the licence plate number on the back of the truck that hit me.  As he was doing that, the driver of that truck confronted me.

“What the fuck do you think you were doing?  Were you on your phone, or texting?  You had no business accelerating like that!”  He was yelling at me like it had all been my fault.  I just stared at him.  I didn’t have the energy to argue.  Thankfully, just then a firetruck arrived with sirens and lights, and the first responders had everyone else move aside as they tended to me and turned off the motor of my car and then sprayed it with fire retardant.

Within another minute or two, an ambulance arrived and the firemen tending to me gave way to the paramedics.  I was walked over to the ambulance and my vitals were checked.  Pulse, blood pressure, blood sugar, temperature.  I was asked if I’d been unconscious and I said no.  I was asked to state what happened.  By then I was beginning to feel some injuries from the air bag and seat belt; a fat lip, neck and breast abrasions, and a very sore and swollen left hand.  The paramedics told me they were very happy I was alive and talking as they had been expecting to recover a dead body, or bodies, when called to the collision of a car and a semi.  At least I’d be able to tell Honey I’d made somebody happy.

The policeman entered the ambulance and asked to see my driver’s licence.  I asked if he wanted my statement about what had happened.  “No need.  There were plenty of witnesses and they all said the same thing,” he told me.

I was then transported to the Langley Memorial Hospital and left in the emergency waiting room for my turn to see a doctor.  It was from there that I kept trying to call Honey.  I thought he should know I would need a ride home, probably at some late hour.  I called Honey on the land line.  There was no answer.  I called him on his cell phone.  No answer.  I called both phones again and left a message.  “I’m not seriously hurt, but have been in a car accident and I’m at the ER in Langley. Call me on my cell phone as this is an emergency and I will answer it.” You see, I don’t usually answer calls on my cell phone.  I just have it for emergencies.

By then, I was really feeling the need for support, or at least someone to share my misery.  I called my cousin, Penny, and asked her to keep trying to call Honey at both the house, and on his cell.  When she asked me where this had happened I had trouble remembering the cross street, but a woman sitting in the chair across from me said, “It was just west of 240^th  Street.  I saw it happen.”  It’s a good thing it’s such a small world.

That’s when I thought I would buy myself a bottle of water and take some acetaminophen for the painful throbbing in my left hand.  I looked over toward the vending machine by the door, and who do I see entering with a worried look on his face, but Honey!  He turned his head and spotted me sitting there and broke into a very wide grin, like he was actually happy to see me.  I stood up as he approached and then he grabbed me in a very close hug.  I almost cried as I was so relieved that he was so relieved to find me in one piece!

“Did Penny reach you on your cell phone?” I asked.  “Where were you that you got here so fast?  I only called her two minutes ago.”

He sat down beside me and explained.  “I don’t have my cell phone.  It’s at home.  As I was coming back from the dump there was a traffic line-up on Fraser Highway and I saw a tow truck loading what looked like your car onto a flat deck.  I did a quick U-turn but the tow truck had just pulled away.  Fortunately, there was still a cop there directing traffic.  I asked him where the driver of that car was, how badly hurt you were.  I said you were my wife.  All he would say was that the driver had been transported to Langley Memorial.  I came right here!”

“Oh,” I said, thankful that he was beside me.  He asked about my injuries and then about how I managed to total my car.  Since he asked me those things in the right order, I explained everything.  After about an hour of Honey playing dutiful husband, I could see him getting restless.  He looked like a farmer who’d been working in the rain and mud.  Knowing I could be waiting for hours yet to see a doctor, I told Honey to go home and I would use my cell phone to call him when I needed a ride.  He was very reluctant but eventually agreed.

“I guess I could run home and have a quick bath.  You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

I assured him I wasn’t going to die that day, but did tell him I wasn’t going to be cooking him any supper.  He’d have to fend for himself.  It wasn’t until eight o’clock that night that I was ready to go home with my newly purchased, medically approved wrist support.  In the meantime, Honey had returned and brought me a sandwich because he knows I’m diabetic and needed to eat something.

He told me while he was home, he’d had a phone call from Shirley, a friend of ours, to tell him two of our friends had died, and there was a celebration of life for one on Sunday, if we wanted to attend.  We went on Sunday, and as I entered the Elks Club lounge sporting my fat lip and wearing my wrist support, a number of people wanted to know how I was and what had caused the accident, and wasn’t it wonderful that I wasn’t the third death?

Talking about Honey, our friend Shirley said to me, “You know that he really, really loves you?  He was so upset when I talked to him on the phone.  He had trouble explaining what happened and he wasn’t thinking straight, he was just so worried about you.  He said he had to go, that he needed to get back to the hospital and see if you were okay.  He really, really cares, you know?”

So there you have it, testimony from someone else that Honey loves me, even if it isn’t my birthday or Christmas!  How much luckier could I be in this small world of mine?

____________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE WEATHER

Here are two poems that are weather related.  Last week was winter here in Langley, B.C. and this week has hints of spring.

INSIDE, OUTSIDE

Charcoal sky lowers and looms

As icy north winds blast the landscape

Pets cower undercover

And people walk inclined

January threatens

Forcing the favoured inside

While freezing the forgotten outside.

________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

WINTERMELT

It rains outside

And people hide

Curtains drawn

The TV on

The phone is dead

So is the head

People apart

With dormant heart

Rain is pelting

Winter melting.

________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

THE CURSE OF WINTER WEATHER

This poem is for all those tired of windy, winter weather!  I wrote it before my husband retired, but it still seems to happen like this sometime every winter.

 HIGH NOON

When this doesn’t work and nor does that

And I’m upset

And ready to spat

When Honey’s at work and I’m alone

And can’t even use

My cordless phone

When the power’s out and life’s on hold

I sit in the dark

And creeping cold

Ready to scream, ready to shout

This hassled life

What’s it about?

Why am I here and where’s the smart

Of spending hours

Stuck at “Start”

When nothing works unless it’s wired

Into a system

Old and tired

That can’t sustain a windy day

So heaven help us all

I pray

God keep the branches on the trees

And off the wires

Thank you, please

Just guide me through this darkest hour

Bless my life

With light and power

And let me see to set each clock

That I might live

Past twelve o’clock, twelve o’clock, twelve o’clock …

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_______________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Christmas time means different things to different people.  When I was going through a difficult time, I wrote the following poem to explore what Christmas meant to me, trying to meld my knowledge of life after death, spirituality and Christianity.  It was read on the air at CKWX by Roy Jacques in 1985, and he said it lit up the switchboard.  Then in 1986 it was published by The Aldergrove Star.

I wish everyone the very best at this time of year, whatever your beliefs may be!

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS 

In times gone past the King proclaimed

“In charge of hearts

J.C. is named!”

“In charge of hearts?” asked poor J.C.

“What does my King

Expect of me?”

As poor J.C. was just a ghost

Did he deserve

This honoured post

The King then took J.C. aside

And said to him

“You cannot hide

The planet Earth has need of Thee

Since how to love

They do not see

They fight, they hate, they rob and kill

The planet Earth

Needs more love still

Your heart is big enough, my Son

I know your heart

Won’t let you run

Go forth, J.C., and teach of love

That it’s the law

From up above

I’ll give you angels and all men

Go forth and teach of love

My Friend”

But just a ghost, J.C. knew not

How he could help

A world distraught

A ghost you know, can only be

A feeling that

No one can see

Or thoughts that people won’t believe

Would planet Earth

This ghost receive?

J.C. went forth to do his best

It would take years

To pass this test

In little places here and there

J.C. found hearts

That sought to care

But just a few J.C. had found

Though he had searched

The world around

He tried to touch all hearts with love

They’d love a bit

Then push and shove

He tried to teach the world with thought

They’d think

But still went forth and fought

This planet Earth he loved for years

But no one listened

Through their tears

With sadness in his heart one day

He told his King

There was no way

That he could teach the world to love

“They can’t see ghosts

From up above

They don’t believe the things I say

There has to be

A better way”

The King agreed, perhaps this chore

Was more than he

Had thought before

There had to be a better plan

For teaching love

To Earthbound man

“We’ll have to call the Council soon

We’ll meet with them

Full moon in June

There’s one in charge of how to teach

And many minds

Knows how to reach

There’s one in charge of church and prayer

He can inspire

Some to care

There’s one in charge of Kingdoms, too

He’ll know which Kings

Will trust in you

There’s one in charge of words to write

He’ll know which words

For Earth are right

Because I gave you hearts, J.C.

You need not work alone

You see?”

And so it was the Council came

Together

All these ghosts just came

They thought, they talked, they made a plan

To show the Earth

A loving man

So all mankind could understand

That through the Cosmos

That’s the Plan

A ghost would go to Earth, you see

(Of course you know,

They picked J.C.)

And live inside a body, too

That could be seen

By me and you

Then he would live this thing called love

That guides

The Universe above

And he’d be killed by man’s own hand

So all mankind

Could understand

When he arose and was not dead

That ghosts are people

Not to dread

For life is always evermore

If man could see

He’d cry no more

That was the Plan the Council made

That was the part

That J.C. played

Now once a year humanity

Attempts to love

As did J.C.

The ghost of Christmas is J.C.

And Jesus Christ

Still lives for Thee.

_______________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

A LITTLE CHRISTMAS ROMANCE

The following story was written in response to a prompt that was pulled from a jar in the early days of The Ram’s Head Writers’ Group.  The original document is dated 2003.  It is one of the stories included in my collection called “Love Found”, published as an ebook on Kobo.

CHARDONNAY, YOGURT AND JOHN DEERE

            Tammy wandered from the kitchen toward the living room with her coffee mug in hand and spotted a white envelope on the floor by the front door.  Someone had pushed it through the mail slot since she had retired the night before.  Picking it up and turning it over, she saw it was addressed “To Chardonnay and Yogurt”.  She smiled, realizing it was meant for herself and her five year old son, Donovan.

            Opening the envelope, she read the loving sentiment on the front of the Christmas card and then opened it up.  Inside were five crisp hundred-dollar bills.  The card was simply signed “John Deere”.  Tammy had no idea who had delivered the card.  This was the third year in a row she had received one.  Each time there were five hundred-dollar bills inside.  Each time it arrived the week before Christmas.  Each time it was signed by someone calling himself “John Deere”.  There was no postmark on the card, so she knew it was hand delivered.  But of course, there was no return address on it, either.  She had no idea who was being so kind and generous.

            Tammy folded the hundred-dollar bills and put them in the pocket of her jeans.  Then she took the card and placed it in lone display on the mantel over her fireplace.  It would probably be the only card they received.  She and Donny had come to this town with Donny’s father four years ago, when he had found work here.  The job didn’t last any longer than the three previous ones had.  And this time the relationship didn’t last either.  Donny’s father had left them just before Christmas three years ago.  He had taken his truck, his clothes and the wide screen T.V., leaving them with no transportation, no money, and the unpaid bill for the television.

            She had been devastated, two weeks before Christmas and alone with her son in a town that wasn’t home and where she knew no one.  But a kind neighbor had seen the T.V. departing with the suitcase in the truck and had come over that night to ask if they were all right.  He was the older man who owned the house across the street.  His name was Jack Davies, and he lived alone. 

He had told her about a temporary job opening for the holiday season at a grocery store in town, and about his daughter who babysat toddlers still in diapers.  So in spite of the bill for the television, life without Donny’s father turned out better than anticipated.  That was the first Christmas the card had arrived addressed to “Chardonnay and Yogurt”.  The money had been a godsend and she and Donny had survived.  The job turned out to be permanent, and because she was a single Mom, the store gave her day shifts during the week so she could put Donny in daycare while she worked.

            Jack had become a good friend, always willing to help Tammy settle into a new town.  He told her where she could find a family doctor, and where the swimming pool was located.  And he always made time for Donny’s questions and Donny wanting to play.  She had learned he was forty-two, a widower for eight years.  He was only twelve years older than Tammy, not so much older after all.  She had told Jack about the Christmas cards and asked if he knew who would do such a thing, but he had said he didn’t know, that she should just enjoy the windfall.  Maybe, she thought, the cards were meant for a previous tenant who had moved without leaving a forwarding address. 

            Life for Tammy and Donny slowly turned into a reliable routine they both counted on.  Donny thrived in daycare with other children.  Tammy enjoyed her job, meeting many people during the day.  And life at home for the two of them was bearable.  They didn’t have a lot, but they weren’t starving.  She could afford the rent and utilities on the small house they now called home, even after paying for her divorce.  The landlord had supplied a lawn mower so during the summer they were able to enjoy the big back yard and she and Donny could kick a soccer ball around.  And this past summer, she had saved enough money to buy a small used car.  It was a great time-saver in getting to work and back, and made bringing home the bacon much easier.  She parked her little red hatchback in the driveway at the side of the house.

            It was Saturday, and Tammy thought she would go Christmas shopping today, now that she had some extra money.  She would buy a small frozen turkey for Christmas dinner, and a bottle of Chardonnay for her, and some of Donny’s favorite frozen yogurt.  She smiled to herself, realizing she could afford to buy Donny his first two-wheeler this year, to put under the tree.  Putting down her coffee mug, she went to open the living room drapes as she heard her son stirring in the back bedroom.  She pulled the cord and then stood transfixed at the wintry scene outside.  The road and lawns and trees were covered in a blanket of snow, and the white flakes were still coming down.  Thick, wet and puffy flakes, typical of a west-coast winter, had quietly brought the outside world to a stop.  There wasn’t yet even a single tire track down the road or a footstep on the sidewalk.

            “Wow!  Mom, can I go outside to play in the snow?” Donny asked excitedly as he came and stood on the sofa in front of the window, looking in reverence at the winter wonderland outside just waiting for his tracks of exploration.

            “Breakfast first though,” she countered as she headed for the kitchen.  She would have to clean off her car and do some shoveling herself if she wanted to go shopping later.  The main roads would be cleared, if she could get to one.  Now she wished she hadn’t parked her car so far into the driveway. 

            Dressed in winter clothing, she and Donny trekked through the snow on the front lawn, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other.  Then while he put his energies into building a snowman, she cleaned off her car and started shoveling the driveway.  Puffing after clearing five feet of a thirty-foot stretch, she stood and leaned on the rake to catch her breath.  Looking across the street, she saw Jack walking towards her, dressed in a parka and a baseball cap, with thick work gloves on his hands.

            “Hey, Tammy, hold on there.  You don’t have to shovel your driveway.”

            “What do you mean?  I can’t afford to hire someone, and Donny isn’t big enough

 yet for that chore.”

            “Actually, my girl, nobody has to shovel.  My lawn tractor in the garage also has a snowplow.  I’ll clean off my driveway and then come over and do yours.  It’ll only cost you a hot chocolate when I’m finished.  Do we agree on the price?” he asked, smiling down at her.

            “Of course,” she smiled back.  “Ice cream or marshmallows on top?” she asked, looking up.  That’s when she noticed the logo on his hat.  “You have a John Deere hat?” she questioned.

            “They gave me the hat when I bought the tractor three years ago.  And I’ll have

marshmallows, of course,” he said, winking as he turned and headed toward his garage.

            Later, while Tammy warmed some milk to make hot chocolate for three, she used a blank sheet of fancy notepaper and wrote out an invitation that read:

            Deere John,

You are warmly invited to join us for an early dinner at 4:00 p.m. on December

 25^th, at our home.  We do hope you can join us.

            Sincerely,

            Chardonnay and Yogurt

___________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

A TIME TO MOURN

I had meant to post the following short, short story in time for Remembrance Day, but I forgot.  My bad.  This story was published by Polar Expressions in the anthology “The Stand” in 2017.

PARADE OF SORROW

            Cora’s left hand pulled her collar closer around her neck.  Her right hand gripped her umbrella tighter, struggling against the cold and wet November gusts assaulting her.  She stood on the sidewalk in the little town of Aldergrove, waiting for the somber parade of war veterans, determined to remember the fallen.  She came every November eleventh, part of the meager crowd that still honoured the dead instead of following the siren call of holiday shopping.

            She remembered the first time she came, proud and eager to see her ten year old son marching in his uniform as a Navy League Cadet.  He had joined because his friend belonged.  He’d been so proud to receive his uniform and meticulously kept it cleaned and ironed.  When the cadets passed by, she had seen him marching tall and sure, confident he knew where he was going and how to get there.

            Even though they had moved away and his life went in other directions, the self-discipline and integrity he acquired as a cadet never left him.  He was an honour student and he worked part time.  He saved his money and bought a car.  He was a man long before he reached the age of majority.

            In his final year of high school, he joined the military as an officer cadet.  In return for the four years of university he would subsequently serve as an officer for five years in the Royal Canadian Horse Artillery, minus the horse.  Big machinery had long since replaced the equine component of the army.

            No sooner had he graduated from high school than Cora’s son was gone, swallowed by the army at the Royal Military College in Kingston.  She remembered him telling her his training stipulated that his comrades in arms were now his family.  As a mother, she’d been dispensable.

            Oh, he came home on leave once or twice a year, still in touch with family and old friends.  When he graduated as a second lieutenant, Cora had been both proud and tearful.  Proud her son had accomplished so much.  Tearful for she knew the drum he marched to would lead him further away.

            And it did.  To a base at Shilo in Manitoba.  To a danger zone in Bosnia.  Back home to Kingston.  To Afghanistan.  To Kandahar.  To a forward operating base outside the wire fence.  To an improvised explosive device.  To death.  To a ramp ceremony.  To the air force base at Trenton and a ride in his casket down the highway of heroes.  To the military cemetary in Ottawa.

            Now Cora stood in the rain, waiting for the vets.  Waiting to remember her son.  Waiting for another chance to grieve.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

FAMILY SKELETONS

Every family has its skeletons.  This story is for Riley.

LOST AND FOUND

            I had a cousin once, till I was six.  We were the same age.  Her name was Riley.  Riley Weiss.  I loved playing with Riley.  And then she disappeared.  I heard my Mom and Dad talking.

            “Harry needs to take care of his own children,” my Dad said of his brother.

            “They’re not ours.  We have two children of our own to raise.  We don’t have room for two more,” my Mom said.

            “They’ll be better off if they’re adopted,” Dad said.

            They were talking about Riley and her baby brother, Raymond.  They were the two youngest in a family of five children, the only two sired by my uncle.  It was 1957 and jobs were not plentiful.  The family had nothing, and the nothingness couldn’t bind them together.  My uncle left and went his own way.  His common-law wife left with her two oldest, both boys.  The middle child was her daughter.  She lived with other relatives temporarily, and later joined her mother and brothers.

            I didn’t know what being adopted meant, but I did know that nobody wanted Riley.  What would happen to her and her brother?  Who would look after them?  I went to bed hugging my doll and crying for Riley.  And then I cried for me.  What would happen if nobody wanted me or my little brother?

            As the years went by, the names of Riley and Raymond disappeared from the family lexicon.  They were never mentioned.  Pictures of them were non-existent.  Uncle Harry was still my father’s brother, but we never saw him.  We moved away from Surrey, and moved back, and moved away, and moved back a second time.

            In 1964 I was thirteen and just starting grade eight in junior high school.  Leaving music class one day, a girl with a pretty skirt and sweater set, and short curly hair, moved in front of me and stopped me from leaving the room.

            “Is your name Lisa Weiss?” she asked.

            “Yes.”

            “Did you have a cousin named Riley?” she asked, looking at me with eyes that pleaded for me to remember.

            “Why?  Do you know her?” I asked this girl, as devastating memories flooded back.  My heart was racing.

            “Um.  I’m Riley,” she choked, starting to cry
.

            “But….but, your name is Pearl,” I stammered, trying to make sense of what I was hearing.

            “I got to pick a new name when I was adopted.  Because I had a new last name, I got to pick a new first name, too.  My name is Pearl Bailey now,” she told me, as both of us were wiping tears from our eyes.

            “What about your brother?  Do you know what happened to Raymond?”

            “We were both adopted by the same couple.  But he was a baby and he doesn’t know he’s adopted,” she told me.

            “Oh, my God.  Can I tell the family?  Tell them your new name and where to find you?”  I just couldn’t imagine losing her again .

            “No!  Not yet.  I don’t want to get in trouble.  I can’t have them phoning me or anything.  Maybe I shouldn’t have told you!” she panicked, and started to leave.

            “Wait!  It’s okay.  I won’t tell anybody if you don’t want me to,” I said, putting my hand on her arm to stop her leaving.

            “Oh, I don’t know what to do.  I want to see my brothers.  I want to see Grandma.  Do you know where they are?”

            I told her that as far as I knew, her half-brothers had moved to Prince Rupert with their mother.  And I told her that her half-sister had moved up there as well.  As the hope in her eyes started to fade, I hurriedly told her that our paternal grandmother lived nearby.  Her head lifted eagerly.

            “Could you ask her if she wants to see me?” Riley asked, her eyes beseeching me.

            “You want to see Grandma?  You don’t want to see your Dad, or your Mom?” I asked.

            “No.  Never!  They gave me away.  They’re not my parents!  Why did they give me away?”

            “I don’t know, Riley.  I don’t know.  I heard your Dad didn’t have work.  We don’t see him.  He has a new wife.  And more kids.  But we don’t see them.”

            “Oh.  He has more kids?  But he didn’t want me?” she asked, with a little girl’s frail voice.

            Seeing the haunted look in her eyes and the bleak slump of her shoulders, I put my books down and reached out and hugged her.

            “I wanted you, Riley.  I wanted you.  I would have kept you if I could.”

            As she disengaged from my hug, she said, “I’ll give you my number, and you can give it to Grandma.  She can phone and ask for me, but she has to ask for Pearl, not Riley.  My name is Pearl now.  And don’t tell anybody else, not even your parents.  Okay?”

            Taking her number, I gave her my promise, crossing my fingers behind my back.

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By Lisa A. Hatton