Jaspur's She Stories

  The roof over her head was precarious. The custody case was over.  From start to finish barely 5 months.  $20,000 in lawyer’s fees and as usual, no one really wins.  For her, there was a cathartic maneuvering in the process that fed her tendency to obsess, to ruminate on the trauma and survival mode of the last 15 years of her life.   She had poured all the details of the marriage from start to finish into a 90-page PDF file.   The timeline of their life together took 3 pages. The supporting evidence of her efforts and his minimizing those efforts on the remaining pages: Appendix A, Appendix B, Appendix C, and so on….   She had spent every waking, non-working non-sleeping minute for four solid days on all the proof she could muster.    She had sought a lawyer to force him to have more possession of their son recognizing some of her scheduling needs, he in turn counter petitioning for full custody. No one would really read that PDF doc...

  They were best friends.   She, awkward and pale with tousled brown hair and mouth full of large, wayward teeth.   Her bestie, caramel and statuesque with a headful of tiny and tightly wound ebony ringlets.   They had met the previous year, sharing the same class at school.   They shared a love for music and fashion.   Late 1970s funky town and funky prints.   In the small, southern California beach town they lived in she could walk the six blocks from the little house she shared with her mom…to the apartment that her bestie shared with her parents.   This was the era of sleep over parties, dress up fashion shows, and disco dreams. Caramel because she came from a white mom, and a black dad.   The mom was striking, a hint of strawberry in her wavy hair.   Her dad was tall.   SO TALL.   If she stood next to her friend’s dad, the top of her head barely reached his belt line.   It wasn’t hard to believe that had been a bask...

  They sat across the room from each other.   Her with a baby nursing calmly, him in an armchair across the room.   These late-night discussions, disagreements if you wanted to call them by what they really were…happened regularly.   She sighed heavily, her anger at the rotation of days for the last few years.   Slowly she just said, “It HAS to be better than this.”   This can’t be what it is.   They’d been married almost 15 years and she was holding 3-month-old baby number four at her breast.   As usual, she was having a hard time understanding why her home and family were so, so difficult to manage. She sunk into the couch and into the baby and glared his way.   “It, it just HAS to be better than THIS.”   The years of torture had built up.   The accusations from him of indifference and him constantly telling her she was looking for reasons to be angry, storming through her memory.   He glared back, he was condescendin...

    They both fell into separate beds, allowing exhaustion to take over.   It had been a marathon day.   She herself hadn’t slept more than 4 hours in a row since she had stepped off the airplane 2 days earlier.   Grandma, in her early 80s, had endured the long road trip to see her son’s decline.   The sunlight had brought the 8:00am meeting.   They all knew what the meeting was for.   As his only child, she had won a spot on this particular committee.   Grandma was invited in as well.   He had married his longtime girlfriend, about two years earlier, was the only other invitee.   She arrived at the hospital at 7:55 with her entourage in tow.   Somehow, the wife’s sister and nephew were also ushered into the small room for support.   It was made clear as the meeting began that she as his daughter, and wifey would be the decision makers in the room.   Everyone else was just there to support.   The conversation...

              They faced each other, outside standing near the park bench.  It was the first time they disagreed, the first real decision as a married couple, that needed to be made.  And they disagreed.      Funny thing was, by the time she was a teenager she had decided she wouldn't even have children.  Her relationship with her mother and father, contentious.  Her family, non traditional, dysfunctional even.  With cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents states away there wasn't much to bond with nearby.  She didn't particularly value or look up to her own parents.  They certainly didn't seem very happy or satisfied with their own lives.  Why would she inflict a similar dreary existence on a another person?  The idea of staying single and childless fit into her idea of the path of her life.   But her teenager self seemed a lifetime away.  Now, she had been married all of o...

…..Back at the hospital it was clear that there was nowhere to go from here but down.  The monotone of the breathing machine and the beeping of the heart monitor was the background music as she sat by his bedside.  She rubbed lotion on his dry, cracked feet.  She massaged his swollen hands.  The doctor came in and announced that the following morning, there would be a meeting to determine whether or not life support should continue.  She had an odd feeling that you were really "an adult" to attend a meeting like that.   With the doors closed and having her dad all to herself, she told him about his grandchildren...how they were full of life and how blessed she felt to be their mother.  She sang to him.  "How Great Thou Art" and "Where Can I Turn for Peace" two of her favorite hymns.  No response, but at least he seemed comfortable and not in pain.   Her father was the oldest of 3.  His mother had been married 5 times, and had 3...

She turned the radio on in the rental, to make sure she stayed alert for the 45 minute drive to the hospital.  It was well past midnight and therefore ironic that Anna Nalick's 2 am was playing on the radio: . .he turned 21 on the base of Fort Bliss "Just a day," he said down to the flask in his fist Ain't been sober since maybe October of last year Here in town you can tell he's been down for awhile But my God it's so beautiful when the boy smiles  ... Forever after, that song would remind her of her father.  That particular night, she was doing exactly what the song suggested...just trying to breathe.  She was in the last stretch of road from the major city she flew into, to the smaller town where her dying father lay.  The verse of the song pricked her; her father likely adopted his drinking habits from his service in the Air Force, during the Vietnam Conflict.  He'd lied about his age, and enlisted at 16 years old.  By the start of Vietnam, he'd al...