Happy??? What am I supposed to do with that?

The Character Project has been on hiatus since the end of June and I can't wait until we're back in September. Over the summer I continued to write -- I have been working on another project that is coming along better than I had hoped -- but I have missed the weekly challenges.

Some weeks the stories came easily. I would read the prompt and connected immediately with the character. Other weeks I would read the assignment over and over and nothing would come to me.

Week 12 was one such challenge. We were asked to write about Paula who was happy. Happy? What am I supposed to do with happy? Conflict makes for a much better story.

It took five days for me to get anything from Paula. Here is the story she finally told me.

packing up dreams

“You did what?”
“I booked two plane tickets to Europe,” Peter said with a grin. “Now, our flight leaves in six hours so we need to be at the airport in three. That gives you two hours to pack so you better get moving.”
Peter hustled Paula towards the stairs and followed her with an empty suitcase in hand. As she headed up to their room Paula’s mind was reeling.
“Peter, we simply cannot go away for ten days. What about the kids?”
“Your sister will be here in an hour. She is staying here at the house and looking after everything while we are gone.”
“You asked my sister to watch our three kids?” Paula was shocked.
“No, she offered and I accepted.” Peter headed over to the closet and started looking through the clothes hanging in front of him. “You are going to need at least two dresses for sit-down dinners. Does the black one and the purple one sound alright with you?”
Paula nodded so he brought the two dresses back to the suitcase and began to lay them flat at the bottom of the garment bag.
“Peter, I can’t just pick up and leave work. People count on me.”
“I called Janet three weeks ago and told her all about the trip. She agreed on the condition that you send her a postcard from Paris.”
“You called my boss? Does everyone know about this trip except me?”
“Yep.” Peter chuckled and moved over to the dresser where he started rifling through Paula’s neatly folded clothes. “The hotel in Paris has a pool. Do you want your one-piece or your two-piece swim suit?”
“Peter — Stop,” Paula walked over to him and grabbed his hand. “We really cannot afford a ten-day trip to Europe. “
Peter stopped and wrapped his wife tightly in his arms. “Please relax and trust me sweetheart. Everything has been taken care of.”
With a quick kiss on the top of her head he released her and headed to the en suite bathroom. She heard him searching through the vanity drawers and collecting various bottles in the shower.
“How long have you been planning this?” she asked with a giggle.
“Four years.”
“Excuse me? You have been planning this for four years and you never told me!”
Peter emerged from the bathroom with Paula’s bright pink toiletries case and dropped it into the suitcase. “Do you remember when I quit smoking?”
Paula nodded.
“You told me that I should take the money I had been spending on cigarettes and bring you to Europe.”
“I was kidding.”
“Well, maybe you were but it was a damn fine idea. Since then I have been putting my cigarette money into a secret account every week. Three months ago I had finally put enough away so I called a travel agent and bought the tickets.”
Paula sunk down and on the bed and stared at Peter; she shook her head unable to speak. Peter crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside her.
“Do you remember the night we met twenty years ago?”
“Of course I do…”
“We went to that little cafe on Sycamore Street and you told me about how you were going to go to Europe when you finally finished your degree. You had it all planned out.”
Paula smiled. “I had been dreaming of heading to Europe since I was thirteen. And then I met you….”
“Exactly. You met me and we got married. We bought a house and we each got jobs. Then the kids came and now it is twenty years and three kids later and you never left the continent.”
“I love my life,” Paula said squeezing his hands in hers. “I love the kids and my job. I have no regrets.”
“I know you don’t.”
Peter stood up and headed over to the dresser and pulled out two pairs of blue jeans to put in the suitcase.
“You have been a fabulous wife and an amazing mother and you have been the woman I always dreamed of. But in the back of my mind I always felt guilty that you never lived your dream.”
“I had new dreams,” Paula protested.
Peter smiled and looked at the woman who had been the centre of his life for as long as he could remember. “I know, and I love you for that. But when I sat in that coffee shop twenty years ago I fell in love with an amazing, vibrant woman and I promised myself that I would help to make all of her dreams come true.”
Paula stood up and headed to the closet. She pulled down a black blouse and a denim skirt and brought them over to the suitcase.
“I love you,” she said looking up at him with tears in her eyes. After twenty years he was still the man she fell in love with sitting at that same coffee shop on Sycamore Street.

Gracie is ten

It seems crazy to be typing that title. Gracie -- my baby -- is ten. (Of course now that she is ten she would like to be called Grace instead. As her mother I have permission to continue calling her Gracie.)

Gracie is my firstborn. I remember bringing her home from the hospital and spending hours just staring at her as she slept in my arms. She slept in a lot of people's arms -- between me, Paul and my parents I am sure there were days that her little body barely touched her crib or her bouncy-seat.

As I have shared in other posts my road to motherhood was a long and difficult one. Paul and I had been told by doctors that we may never have children before embarking on a number of fertility regimes. We were blessed. We named her Grace for that reason. We wanted a constant reminder that this little person was our gift from God.

Gracie is the spitting image of me. No one ever questions that she is my daughter. Her personality is also a lot like mine: she is a type A perfectionist that spends far too much time worrying about things she can't control. It drives me insane partly because it is something I understand far too well.

She is a beautiful child. She is a talented artist -- she gets that from my mom-- drawing pictures that amaze both Paul and I. She designs clothing and has recently starting sewing. I have no doubt that she will be an artist one day. She is a fabulous dancer even without any formal training and she shines when she has a chance to perform (even though she worries herself almost sick beforehand).

Grace feels things more deeply than anyone I know. When she is happy or excited she has a look of joy on her face that is contagious. But she also feels pain more deeply. She is frequently out of money because she has given all of her savings to a worthy cause: breast cancer research, combating child labor in Pakistan or supporting orphans in Haiti. For her birthday each year my parents adopt an endangered animal at the Toronto Zoo in her name. This year my mom asked if she wanted something else. Grace was horrified: "Nana, the komodo dragon needs us!" She can't help herself. She will give her last cent to make someone's (or something's) life better.

She is painfully loyal. When she was three she refused to try blueberries. She told me that she really liked raspberries and felt that eating blueberries would be a betrayal. I had no words to argue with that.

She can't pick a favorite -- not a color, not a food or even a favorite moment from a trip. She would feel that she was betraying all of the others and gets teary-eyed if she even tries. Since then I have learned to ask: "tell me three things that you really liked about your day" so she does not have to pick one as superior to the others.

When she was little I used to pray that God would toughen her up a little bit. At seven she would get so sad about every squabble with a friend or B on her school work. I was -- and still am -- petrified of the hurts and disappointments that face as she gets older. However, as the years passed I stopped praying that prayer. Grace's ability to feel things so deeply is one of the things I admire most about her. As her mother I can never protect her from the world but I can be there to hold her hand or give her a hug whenever she wants one.

Gracie I love you dearly. You are my gift from God and He blessed me more than I ever could have imagined when you came into my life. Your momma loves you.

Week 18: Felicia

In week 18 we were asked to tell a story about Felicia who has accidentally dialed the wrong phone number, but the person who answers sounds familiar. Immediately the person recognizes Felicia, but because Felicia made the call she is too embarrassed to ask who it is. Using only dialogue, figure out who the person is.

The character was to be one of our characters from previous weeks and since Quinn was still on my mind I tied one more story into the Marcia Mayville arc.


hello cranton creek

“…and to re-cap our top story, actress Marcia Mayville was found dead in her home last night. She was 28.”

Felicia hit the mute button on the television, grabbed her cordless phone and her fingers began dialling a familiar number before her brain could catch up. It had been almost ten years since she last called Mike May but at this moment the time and distance seemed irrelevant. She needed to talk to him and tell him how sorry she was to hear about Marcie.

“Hello?” the voice on the other side of the line sounded strangled and broken.

“Hi. I hope this isn’t a bad time… I just heard the news on television and I am in complete shock. I am so, so sorry.”

“Felicia? Is it really you? How long has it been? It’s gotta be at least ten years. Are you coming home for the funeral? It is the day after tomorrow and I know it would mean a lot to Mike to see you there.”

Mean a lot to Mike? Wait, who was she talking to? There were only a handful of numbers from Cranton Creek that could be stored in her brain. Which one had she dialled? The voice was one from her past and hauntingly familiar but who did it belong to…?

“Have you seen him today?” Felicia asked the man on the line hoping to pick up clues.

“The whole town has seen him. You know Cranton Creek; people have been cooking up a storm since the news hit. At last count there were fifteen casseroles and twelve pies in Mrs. May’s freezer and there is no sign that the deliveries will stop anytime soon. There has been a steady stream of people in and out of that house all day,” the man on the line said with a chuckle.

“Sounds like nothing back home has changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” the voice said and Fiona was struck by the anger and remorse.

“Are you OK?” Felicia still had not zeroed in on the man’s identity but it did not take a psychic to know he was hurting.

“I feel like I have just been punched in the gut. I haven’t cried since I was a kid but I have broken down about a dozen times since yesterday.”

“I know that feeling.”

“It is like I am going through the motions, you know?” he continued. “I have been with Mike almost 24/7 since he heard and we drove back together yesterday.”

Felicia’s mind began to review a revised list of possibilities: males around Mike’s age who had escaped Cranton Creek. It narrowed the field considerably.

“We turned off the radio during the drive trying to avoid the radio reports. The speculations are rumours are making me sick,” the man said with a bite in his tone.

“I totally understand. I was watching the news re-cap and during the full three minutes of footage there was not one second where they showed the real Marcie,” Felicia agreed. It did not matter who was on the telephone line, anyone in Cranton Creek was sure to feel the same. “They showed her playing a druggie in a movie, they showed her playing a university student on television and that horrible clip of her walking into rehab but not a second of that report showed her being Marcie.”

“I loved her you know,” the voice said quietly. “After all of these years, I don’t know why I am telling you this but it’s true. I have loved her since she was six years old. It doesn’t matter that she never loved me back.”

“I know Quinn,” Felicia said quietly. The confession was the only clue she ever would have needed. Everyone knew that Quinn loved Marcie. It was the worst-kept secret in Cranton Creek. “I’ll catch a flight tomorrow. I promise.”

We first met Quinn last week in Troika.
Marcia Mayville made her first appearance in The Dailies.

Week 17: Troika

In week 17 we got a picture of a young man named Mike. We were told that he had just received some news that would change his life. We could decide if that news was good or bad.

When I started writing about Mike I found it easier to get into the mind of his best friend so I decided to tell the story from Quinn's vantage point.

This story is the second of three vignettes surrounding the life and death of Marcia Mayville.


troika

Mike squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists. He felt his cell phone drop out of his hand as his entire body began to shake.

“Mike, you OK man?” Quinn looked up from his laptop but Mike stayed silent. He looked over at his friend as if trying to respond but even as he tried to will his mouth to speak the words did not come.

“Mike…” Quinn stood up slowly and took a cautious step towards forward. “What is it man? What did they say?”

“It’s Marcie…” he lowered himself down into a nearby chair and let his head fall into his hands.

Quinn closed his laptop and went to the kitchen to get some water. As he filled the glass he felt helpless and confused. Getting a glass of water in a situation like this was something his mother would do and in the absence of another strategy it seemed like a logical step.

He brought the glass into the living room, laid it down on the table beside Mike and sat down on the coffee table facing his oldest friend. They had been inseparable since they were five years old and there was nothing Mike could say that would shock him or drive him away.

“What did she do this time? Shit, is she in rehab again? That fuckin’ industry is killing her.” As he thought about the last few years he felt the anger rise in his belly.

Marcie Mae was Mike’s twin. As an only child Quinn was often jealous of that bond that his best friend shared with his sister but the pair had always included him in their schemes. Almost every fond memory from Quinn’s childhood involved the three of them riding around their small town on bicycles or tearing around the backwoods playing explorer. Marcie always dreamed of finding something bigger… something more.

When she turned eighteen she picked up and left in order to follow her dreams. Everyone in town seemed shocked but Mike and Quinn had seen it coming for years. And now, little Marcie Mae had made good on her dreams: she was a star with all of the fame and the heartache that came with it.

Mike had always been proud of her. Hell, he and Quinn sat in the front row for every community theatre production and they took it upon themselves so start the standing ovation each time Marcie had a curtain call. They collected movie posters, magazine articles and memorabilia from each of her shows but Quinn also knew that Mike had lost countless hours of sleep worrying about his other half. First it was the drinking, then the disastrous relationship with the rock star and finally the stint in rehab.

Mike and Quinn had been hopeful at first and travelled to L.A. to greet her when she was released from the thirty-day program. She looked like herself again and Quinn could not decide if he was happier to see her or the look of joy and relief that had returned to his best friend’s face. On her first day home they rented a car and the three of them drove around Hollywood following a beat-up map of the stars’ homes. For a few hours Quinn felt like a kid playing explorer again with his two best friends.

“Mike… talk to me man. What happened?”

“She’s dead…” Mike’s voice was so quiet Quinn barely heard the words. He wanted to ask him to repeat it but he knew that uttering it even once had ripped his heart out.

“She tripped and hit her head. My mom wanted to tell me before we heard it on the news.”

Quinn felt the air leave his lungs but could not summon the strength to draw in another breathe. For a moment the world stood still.

Mike stood up suddenly and turned on the television before Quinn could stop him. As the screen flickered a picture of Marcie Mae filled the screen. Quinn tried to grab the remote from his hand but Mike jerked away transfixed by the image and the caption. “Marcia Mayville: Dead at 28 years of age”

week 11: Marcia Mayville

We had a choice in week 11 to revisit a previous character or to work with the following prompt.

Name: Marcia Mayville
Profession: Actress
Age: recently deceased.
Opening line: “I’d like to dispel a few myths about death. The first being that it is not the end. Not that I am any great expert. I’ve only been dead a week.”

I was at a loss for five days. Lisa had not yet told me her story and none of my other characters seemed all that keen to tell me more about themselves. Marcia was also pretty quiet until Friday night when I had a very clear picture of her as a young actress watching the dailies on set. The rest of the story came together as I wrote it.

Marcia will be a secondary character in two more stories (again I will move out of the chronological order and post the Marcia stories together).

Enjoy!


the dailies

I’d like to dispel a few myths about death. The first being that it is not the end. Not that I am any great expert. I’ve only been dead a week and I am not yet sure where I am. I seem to be in a holding pattern waiting to move to the next phase but I am not scared. Rather I feel a sense of excitement like I am waiting to embark on a huge adventure.

Last week when my head hit the cold, hard cement I knew immediately that my time on earth was over. A tremendous explosion rocked me to my very core and suddenly I was free of my body, able to witness the action like a movie-goer watching a scene from my latest movie.

When my agent arrived an hour later to find my empty corpse floating in the swimming pool chaos ensued. Firefighters and ambulance attendants pulled me from the water trying to breathe life back into my lungs. My loyal assistant sat on the ground huddled in a ball and sobbing quietly, ignored by the photographers snapping photos over the fence and by my agent who was cursing his cell phone battery for dying on the most important day of his career.

With my body empty and nothing left to see my spirit simply floated away and a week later I am still here – hovering in the in-between.

I can still see glimpses of what I have left behind. The director who never returned my telephone calls started working the talk-show circuit telling the world that he was devastated by my passing – by a career cut short and talent never realized. The man who walked out on me and broke my heart now cries crocodile tears for the cameras bemoaning the love he has lost. Magazines that criticized me as a hack with no fashion sense now feature my face on their front covers trying to capitalize on my death to garner subscriptions. Celebrity bloggers wait with baited-breath for news of a failed tox-screen to titillate their followers.

In life I was an up-and-coming character actress. In death I am a full-blown super-star. Tripping on a pool noodle and cracking my skull was the best thing that ever happened to my career.

Before the accident I was known in the industry for being a serious actress. I arrived early on days when I was filming and I always knew my lines when I showed up on set. I never missed a screening of the “dailies” when the director the reviewed raw footage shot the day before to see where changes could be made. I was a rarity but I learned a lot from the shots of other actors who shared my scenes trying to understand their reactions to my lines, the development of supporting characters in the same plot.

It is ironic that the after-life I now enjoy is much like the dailies. As I wait to see where my spirit will end up I review scenes from the present and my past. I can observe how other characters in my life have been affected by my actions and choices.

I have not been allowed to choose the reels I have been shown – rather they pop up in front of me at random. I have been able to watch the images of my parents cry tears of joy when I came into the world 28 years ago juxtaposed with my mother’s sorrow when she was told of my passing. I have seen my father’s worry as the Hollywood-machine cast his baby girl as a down-and-out drug addict and his pride when the industry recognized me with an award for that same role. I have been thrilled to see the joy I brought my family as they celebrated my accomplishments and I have cringed to see their shame when the media blasted photos of a drunken fight with my ex on an L.A. street corner.

I always expected that my life would flash before my eyes as I travelled from one world to the other. What has surprised me is that I am not the star of that production: the truly compelling parts were the reactions to my drama.

Week 10: Spring Sale at the Stitch and Bitch

So, the Lisa tales are done --for now. This week I started to work on her full story so there is definitely more to come!

In Week 10, we were asked to go back to re-visit a past character and tell a follow-up story with a spring theme. I decided to go back and check on Hammond. Hammond, a divorced mailman with a secret crochet hobby, was our first writing prompt. (read his story here) This story is one of my favorites and almost wrote itself once I sat down at the keyboard. Some weeks I really struggle with the writing prompt but Hammond has always been very co-operative when I decide to tell his story.

spring sale at the stitch and bitch

“Let me get that…”

Hammond rushed forward to hold open the door and bowed from the waist with flourish gesturing for the small, white-haired woman to go ahead and enter the store.

The older lady smiled and thanked him with a giggle. “Oh Hammond, you are such a gentleman.”

“Thanks Mrs. Grant. Glad to see you out today. There are lots of big sales: time to stock up!”

Hammond took a deep breath as he entered the store and let the door close behind him. The Stitch and Bitch was his favourite shop and it had become a haven for him after his divorce. As the only male patron who came in regularly, the older ladies had all wanted to take him under their wing which made him somewhat of a celebrity.

His crochet work was no longer an embarrassment. In fact, the ladies at the store found it charming and each week he would bring in a stack of dishcloths that he had made to pass out to his new friends. When he arrived they would give him a little hug and ask him about his health and his job. They all commented on how he looked too thin and many of the women had pulled him aside to try to set him up with a daughter, grand-daughter or niece that they were just sure he would love.

“A man can’t live too long on his own,” they had told him. Or “look at you, you are fading away. You need a woman at home to make you a proper meal.” At first he had made excuses but eventually he caved in to their wheedling and started to go on some blind dates. For the first time in a long time he had felt that he may have something to offer a wife.

The store was incredibly busy as he entered and all of his friends were milling around the bins of wool for the Annual Spring Sale. Knitting and crocheting were most popular in the winter and as the warm weather arrived the older wool stock was put on clearance to make room for lighter-weight cotton fibres.

Hammond was working on some new crochet projects but he still wanted to get some of the sturdy polyester yarn that he used to make dishcloths. The ladies at the store loved them after all and they looked forward to seeing him arrive with a few new ones each week.

As he headed to the back of the store he heard his name several times and he stopped to hug or shake hands with a few of the ladies along the way.

“Hi Mrs. Thompson! Thanks for the baking you left me last week. No one makes brownies like you do.”

“Mrs. Phelps, I am glad you liked the dishcloth I made you. Yes, I have a few left. I will bring one in for you next Saturday.”

“Mrs. Carnegie, what in the world are you making with all of that grey wool? I just saw a picture of your grandson last week, he can’t possibly be that big yet!”

“Suzette has my special order arrived? Super, I will be over in a minute to get it I just have to pick up a few things first.”

Finally he found his way to the back of the small boutique and selected a few balls of the sturdy fibre he had been working with for so many years.

“Hammond?”

He looked up slowly. The voice was so familiar yet so surprising…. Madeline.

There she was. His ex-wife was standing across from him at The Stitch and Bitch. He worried for a quick moment knowing that the legions of old ladies around him would not be kind to the woman who had broken ‘their Hammond’s’ heart.

“Wow… Madeline…. what are you doing here?”

She chuckled quietly. “I took up crocheting after our divorce. It turns out that I was right about one thing. No one makes a better dishcloth than you do. “

Too surprised to respond he just nodded his head and continued to stare at her.

“You look well,” she continued after an awkward pause. “You look …happy.”

“I am. I really am. The ladies here are wonderful and they spoil me with home-cooked meals and all the baking I can handle.”

She nodded at the four small balls of yarn in his arms. “I thought you would have needed more than that. It’s a sale. You should stock up!”

He looked down nervously at the beige yarn he had selected. “I don’t do as many dishrags as I used to. I have taken on a new project lately so I don’t have as much time.”

As if on cue Suzette held up two balls of baby pink cotton and called over to him. “Hammond it’s here and this cotton is even softer than we had imagined.”

The color drained from Madeline’s face as she stared at him.

“I’m making a layette – well three so far. My wife and I are having a baby girl. Suzette is the baby’s grandma.”

Madeline stammered a goodbye and congratulations as an excited Hammond rushed over to the counter look at the pink cotton with a pack of twittering old ladies. It appeared that Hammond now had a new life and she was the one who was left behind.


Once again, I encourage you to visit The Character Project and browse through the stories that have been posted. New entries are posted Sundays at 2:30 and I always look forward to reading what the other writers have come up with.

Week 15: The Elevator

In week 15 we were asked to take two characters that we had created over the past weeks and have them meet in an elevator which was stuck between floors. Since Lisa was still spinning around in my head she was my first choice.

The second character took some time to appear. In the end Margaret stepped onto the elevator and the story moved from there. Margaret has appeared twice so far. She first showed up in a nursing room in spiders, sex and the modern senior and then a few weeks later Alfred told his grandson about 'Maggie' who was his first love.

I wondered initially what these two ladies had in common but they surprised me.


a conversation between floors

“Shoot, I have to get this,” Jason looked apologetically at Lisa as she hit the up button on the elevator. He tried to juggle his briefcase and reach for the cell phone in his pocket without spilling his unopened coffee cup.
With a sigh Lisa reached over and grabbed the hot cup to give Jason a free hand. “Look, we are going to be late. I’ll go up ahead to the office. You take your call and meet me up in suite 510 when you are done. “
“Thanks,” he said blowing her a kiss as she stepped onto the elevator.
Lisa walked to the back wall of the small car and leaned against the mirror before noticing that she still had both coffee cups. Great, she thought, I am only a few weeks pregnant and I am already getting absent-minded.
“Thirsty?”
Lisa looked over at the older lady standing on the other side of the elevator and smiled. “No, just tired, really tired. I...”
Before she could finish her sentence the two ladies were shaken by a sudden stop of the car and a flash of the lights overhead.
“Are you OK?” Lisa asked the older lady who was clutching elevator rail in an effort to stay balanced.
“Oh, I’m fine dear. How are you?”
“I’m good.” Lisa crouched down to put her purse and the coffee cups on the floor before crossing the elevator to open the emergency panel. It was an old building with a beat up phone and she lifted the receiver to see if she could get help. After a few minutes chatting with the security guard downstairs Lisa hung up the phone and turned to her companion.
“Well, good news and bad news. The bad news is that it will take at least 30 minutes to get someone here to fix the elevator.”
“Oh dear, the good news...?”
“We have two fresh cups of hot coffee. Can I help you down to the floor? We may as well get comfortable.”
The older lady smiled and laughed. “Thank you dear. My name is Margaret and coffee sounds delightful.”
“Hi, Margaret. I’m Lisa.”
The older lady chuckled quietly as she settled down on the floor and stretched out her thin legs. “My daughter Rose is going to be having a fit downstairs. She is always telling me how busy she is and about all of the things that she has to re-arrange just to take me out of the nursing home for a few hours. I almost feel sorry for the repairman who has to listen to her while trying to get the elevator running again.”
“Jason will be on his case too. He had a really busy day planned today and already had to move two meetings just to get here for this appointment, let alone an extra half hour while they spring me from the elevator.”
The two women laughed and toasted with their paper cups.
“So, what brings you out today, Lisa?”
“I’m pregnant,” Lisa said looking down at her cup.
“I am sensing that may not be the best news,” Margaret said quietly. “I don’t mean to pry but I am a stranger on an elevator and completely impartial. Who better to tell your secrets too? Plus, I have been around the block a few times myself.”
Lisa looked up with a grin. “I think I’m more shocked than anything. Jason, the baby’s father, is thrilled. I wasn’t planning to have a baby for a few more years and now I feel like I am in a run-away cart that is heading downhill and picking up speed. Everything is out of control.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll get married I guess,” Lisa said with a shrug. “Jason is a nice guy and he’ll be a great dad. He has been wanting to get married for a while now and I’ve been stalling. My mom will be thrilled to see me married to a successful lawyer but will be horrified that I’m ‘knocked up’.”
Margaret cackled.
“In my day, a woman in your situation was either sent away to live with relatives out of town or wearing an off-white dress at an altar within the week. That’s what happened to me.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes,” Margaret said with a smile. “I was in love with a lovely man named Alfred but his parents hated me. It broke my heart when he moved away to take another job and I poured out my heart to a very nice boy named Peter who had always had a crush on me. “
Lisa smiled as the other woman blushed and she gave her a light poke with her elbow encouraging her to go on with the story.
“Peter was a dear man and was so kind to me. At first I was just trying not to hurt his feelings but before I knew it, I realized that I was a little sweet on him too. We had not known each other for very long but one night we went out and one thing lead to another.... Well, I guess I don’t have to explain it to you.”
Lisa laughed at the teasing. “Did you marry him?”
“Oh yes. Peter was not the sort of man who would have stepped away from his responsibilities. When I told him about the baby he went right to my parents and asked for my hand. We eloped to Niagara Falls the next day and I had Rose seven months later.”
“Were you happy?” Lisa stared at the other woman intently. Margaret saw desperation in her eyes: like a drowning woman watching for a lifeboat.
Margaret reached over and put her hand on Lisa’s knee. “We were married for fifty years and I loved him dearly.”
Lisa took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she confessed. “I don’t know if I can just get married and live happily ever after.”
“You don’t have to my dear. It’s a different world than when I was in your shoes. Maybe it was easier for me not having to choose. Looking back I don’t know what I would have done if I would have been given an option.” Margaret shook her head. “I don’t envy you.”
Once again the lights flickered and Lisa and Margaret felt the elevator begin to move.
As the doors opened the women looked out to find Rose and Jason waiting frantically on the ground floor and Margaret gave Lisa’s had a squeeze.

***
I have decided that I am going to write Jason and Lisa's full story if only for myself -- and for the four or five of you who have been asking what happens to her. Jon and Margaret will both play important roles in the full story. If you are interested in the larger story add a comment below or on my facebook page and I will be sure to e-mail you a copy when I finally get a reasonable draft together.