Midnight Moon – “The Middle” Part I

“The Middle”

Do you believe in miracles? I do.

I entered the world small and barely breathing during an early September afternoon. And with a companion, too: my twin sister, triumphant and vibrant with life.

So happy my parents were with their bounty: a set of twins! However, Fortune frowned upon them and rendered me deformed. No, not in a way that made people stare shamelessly. No—this dysfunction was steeped in subtlety. It existed inside of me.

I nearly died numerous times before my first birthday. The left ventricle of my heart never formed correctly—a condition called hypoplastic left heart syndrome; infants endure procedure after procedure before they can lift their heads, aided by the oracle of technology. Back then, such boons were not available, and the news descended from doctors’ mouths like an atom bomb.

When I flash back to the moment the stalwart Dr. Gregory Armstrong stood wearily before my shaken parents, surgical cap in his hands, my parents’ solidarity jumps out at me. Hands are linked, bodies are close. You would never know that two years later, my father would have resumed the affair that spawned three children with another woman. Thinking of that makes me wistful.

“If she doesn’t have surgery,” Dr. Armstrong informed them, “she will die. Her heart is severely malformed, and it will be a miracle if she lives past a month of age without swift action.”

My mother attempted to swallow her tears but could not. She broke down into heart-aching sobs. The thought of her precious daughter dying…inconceivable. My father nodded resolutely and told Dr. Armstrong to do everything in his power to save me.

* * *

I stand in the gallery of Audbone Heights Medical Center while a long-haired (in a surgical cap, mind you) and focused Gregory Armstrong amends my inauspicious heart with the Norwood procedure, which, at the time was fairly new. My father, versed in the discipline but sobered by the sight of his own child under the knife, observes. My little body appears blue and pitiful under the illumination. I cannot watch for long.

Later on, I hover a moment over myself in recovery. I brush a finger over my newborn fist, wishing I could feel my own skin. As a rule, I never get to touch my past, just to observe.

* * *

The plate flies over my head and shatters against a wall. Luckily I am a mere shade in this scene so the possibility of getting maimed remains low.

It is 1988. My mother carries my little sister Gretchen on her hip to her seat while the rest of us cower at the dinner table, listening to my parents argue. I didn’t know then what the pictures in my head meant, only that they scared me. My mind foretold my hospitalization, but how could I verbalize this? Outside of the family, others believed I was odd, despite Jessica and Claudia-Michelle’s fervent defense.

“I know you’ve been with her, Robert!” my mother exclaimed, banging a pot of pasta. “I can smell her on your breath.”

“How dare you accuse me of being unfaithful without any proof, Irene?” my father demanded. “It’s not my fault if you’re feeling insecure.”

At the sound of metal hitting metal, six-year-old Gretchen jumped. Danie frowned into her spaghetti. Jessica tried to calm her, bolstering the rest of us. Eric sat red-faced, inwardly cursing his parents for not being nice to one another.

But Claudia-Michelle. She’s staring at me.

With the dubious pleasure of hindsight, I now understand not only the development of myself but also that of my sisters and brother. Jessica formed into the tough tomboy because she had a great deal to protect and Eric felt, being the only boy, he had to be as tough as she was; Claudia-Michelle, gentle and sophisticated (and fierce when circumstance allowed), learned to appreciate the brief beauty of things in life and the care and respect they required. Danie refused to be lumped with her sickly twin and flourished with her vitality. Gretchen struggled with the awkwardness the inattention brought. My life impacted all of theirs; many a night there were with them bouncing around in a waiting room for me.

My seven-year-old face hurts to take in; inside of me, my heart fought to pump as infection started to overtake it. My glassy eyes fluttered with the effort to stay conscious.

Claudia-Michelle rose to her feet. “Mama!” she yelled, voice hoarse with fear and urgency.

The scene blurs; Mama rushed into the room just as my seven-year-old self collapsed into Claudia-Michelle’s arms. I can barely see past the tears before I close my eyes and move on.

* * *

Later on, Dr. Armstrong faced my parents (less than united) about my newest problem. I had an infection of my heart, and the shunt was becoming ineffective. There existed two options: transplant or death.

My father threw his hands up in frustration. I press my lips together, trying not to be angry when he suggested that the transplant is too much of a long shot. He worked in the profession, watching as hope failed for transplant patients and they died without a new organ. His assertion is steeped in reason, in logic.

“No,” Mama disagreed, eyes damp but voice firm. “We will manage. Get m’ija a new heart, Greg. She hasn’t come this far to fail now.”

Dr. Armstrong, that bullish giant with the gentle hands, nodded. He wasn’t merely interested in the positive stats and the good press; he genuinely wanted me to pull through. I believe if my parents had disagreed with the transplant option he would’ve placed me on the list himself.

“I am glad we both agree,” Dr. Armstrong said quietly. However, there resonated a bit of reproach for my father. A little amusing from this end.

* * *

Oh yes. I can’t leave out the heart. It has a story of its own.

The donor had been a vibrant ten-year-old girl who had died in a tragic car accident while visiting family in New York. Her name was Ella, and she lived in a suburb in Pittsburgh with her two sisters, mother and father. She played softball and loved Mark-Paul Gosselaar. Her health was exquisite, and her blood type matched mine. And the heart? The atria and ventricles were perfect, like they had been carved by gods while the embryo flourished inside of her mother.

I’ve visited Ella several times. She was lovely, a precocious redhead that reminds me of Jessica. She had freckles that she hated and blue eyes inherited from her mother. I am not so egotistical that I believe I deserved her heart. Every time, whether she’s sighing over Zack Morris’s smile on the TV screen, catching her breath after clearing home plate, or fighting for her life in an ambulance going at light speed, I thank her for the gift. She will not be disappointed.

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Midnight Moon – “A Gifted Christmas” Scene Two

To all of you out there, I hope you have had a restful Merry Christmas and Happy Holiday!

Don’t dread going back to the norm too much, and I’ll try not to as well 🙂

______________

II

Sophia Flannery, better known as Sophie, peered at the adults before her. She barely knew them; this event marked the first time the thirteen-year-old had seen all of them since she entered the world in a hospital in Asteria, blessed by the Crown Princess. Judging from what her world had taught her, the people that formed this group were diverse and precious.

The aforementioned Princess now stood at her twin’s elbow, fighting to calm the nerves that Miyori Arashi made awry. Aurora Sanford, Sophie knew, possessed a strength of mind that rivaled a monk; from the whispers, the furtive looks in certain directions, Sophie figured something had sent her off-stride that went deeper than a parlor trick from the resident magician.

The rest of the adults continued the dinner preparations; Moira-Selene Thomas, her lifesaving talents momentarily unnecessary, laid out the silverware with unerring precision. Megami Takumi Hill, radiant in green sheath dress aimed to make Jamie Cook, her date, drool (and certain others burn with jealousy), arranged the table decorations with panache. Sophie’s eyes swept over them and did not stop until she spied Daniella Thomas holding two wineglasses by their stems in one hand and gesticulating with the other. Kaneshi Tsukimori appeared to be the other person in this exchange but held up his end rather poorly. He seemed distracted. He and Aurora both?

“A pretty girl like you does not need to be thinking this heavily at such a moment.”

The melodic voice of her aunt Bridget resembled the presence of the Gifted Nine in its rarity; ever since Bridget suffered the loss of her husband–Sophie’s uncle–she flirted with the outskirts of familial attention; she visited sporadically and never lingered. That made her touch on Sophie’s shoulder ever the more precious.

“I’m just wondering is all,” Sophie responded idly.

“Wondering what, my sweet?”

“Why they’re so sad. It’s Christmas. They should all at least be stumbling around on spiked eggnog.”

Sometimes Bridget forgot her niece’s level of perception; so long had she endeavored to protect Sophie that she had neglected to prepare her for the dissolution of her innocence. She hadn’t had time to prepare herself.

Bridget followed Sophie’s olive green gaze. Ah, she mused. She knew the shadow hanging in the background of this scene–she could almost see the flash of black hair so dark it was blue.

“As much as I wish I could explain to you,” Bridget murmured, “you’ll understand more than I would like by the time the night is over.”

Before Sophie could implore her aunt to elaborate, Isabelle entered the room, blanketing everyone in her gentle peace. Samantha, Gretchen, and Melanie tiptoed in behind her all carrying side dishes, while Miyori stumbled into the room with more than a few battle lumps and the inanimate ham. Jessica escaped virtually unscathed–status quo for the Warrior.

“I believe it’s time to eat,” Isabelle announced.

In the back of the room, the aforementioned Detective Michael O’Lara held up a bottle of wine. “And drink,” he added, earning a few chuckles.

As hostess, Isabelle only sat when her guests were seated; she initiated the passing of the food and only received when everyone else had a helping. She smiled at the exultation expressed over plates; her smile only dimmed when she noticed subtle signs of suffering.

Her gazed locked with Bridget’s. Not yet.

“So Mo’s gonna be the DD tonight, right?” Eric teased Mick.

“Believe it or not, I can hold my liquor better than some,” Mick rejoined. His light eyes flicked in Moira-Selene’s direction.

“I cannot help that my post graduate education did not include Keg Standing 101,” Moira-Selene quipped. “I believe drinking is a pasttime better partaken in the privacy of one’s own home. Men are gentler devils under their own roofs.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if it’s coming out of her ass or if she’s quoting Shakespeare,” Danie remarked, already on a second glass of wine. Jessica rolled her eyes.

“All right, gemelas,” Isabelle chided. “It’s Christmas. Save the quarrelling for Boxing Day.”

Danie leveled a jesting violet stare upon her twin. “At midnight I’m coming after you with a Nerf bat.”

“That’s if you can find me.”

Danie sat back abruptly with revelation, eyes dancing. “Oh hermana–are you staying at Mick’s tonight?” She whistled bawdily, making her sister blush.

Gretchen sipped on wine. “Good thing someone’s getting some.”

Samantha frowned. “Gretch, I don’t know why you’re complaining. I know you’ve been having fun with your–” Samantha bit off the rest of her sentence; she could feel the phantom kick from Isabelle. Sophie watched her intently.

“Your floatation device,” Samantha finished lamely.

Megami giggled. “I love when they’re waterproof!” Evident it was then what Jamie gave her for Christmas.

Despite themselves, the adults engaged in mildly mischievous conversation; Sophie, so observant of the looks that passed between her mother and aunt, hardly noticed the subject matter.

Finally, after the meat had nearly been reduced to bones, Bridget gave a nod and rose from her seat.

When she returned, she hefted a canvas framed in gilt that nearly dwarfed her. Conversations dropped off as the attention fell upon this new occupant.

“I know we agreed not to exchange gifts,” Bridget said to the quiet room, “but I believe we can make an exception for this one.” Her hazel eyes hovered on the solemn man before her. “Kane?”

Kane looked up, dark eyes wide and slightly startled. He could barely speak as Bridget presented him with the painting done by his late sister’s hand. The colors sizzled with their warmth. The touch of the artist was deft, showing skill along with care. The movement of the two figures conveyed a pause in combat, the climax of a man and woman sparring: the searing of the man’s left ring finger and the golden eyes betraying the show of power.

“It’s called The Marking,” Bridget explained.

Danie placed a hand over her heart. “The day in Victoria Field when we fought…”

“Where–?” Kane choked out.

“She asked me to keep it for her,” Bridget responded. “It’s been in a storage unit this whole time. I found it two weeks ago.” Kane raised his eyes to hers. “It’s yours, Kane. I know you’ve been missing her lately.”

Kane nodded silently, awed by his gift from the sister thought he had long lost. After a moment, he murmured, “Arigatou gozaimasu.”

After a beat: “Could someone explain what the hell is going on?” From Mick O’Lara.

Moira-Selene all but smacked her own forehead.

Laughter entered again as Angelia, who had been supervising at the time, attempted to explain the context of the picture. Blushing glances passed in-between Kane and Danie; some of the heaviness in his heart had disappeared and it showed in his eyes. Even Aurora seemed a little lighter.

Sophie understood, wrapped up in that moment, the spirits of Christmas and Sakura Tsukimori were vital in this room, and they were as welcome as life.

Midnight Moon – “Men Are From Mars…”

I wrote this one back during my freshman year of college when I was dating Mr. Shameless and before I conceived Midnight Moon in this overactive brain of mine. I haven’t decided to Moira-Selene’s love interest is going to be quite yet. The best part about this, for me as I read it, is how the characters interact with one another.

_______

“Men Are from Mars, and Women Want to Kick Their Asses”
 

PART I

Moira-Selene would never understand men, no matter how long she lived.

Sure she was the smartest girl in the Thomas family (aside from Jessica, of course), but she could never figure the puzzling mind of a man. No book or magazine could relax the permanent crease she had in her forehead because of her new boyfriend. She realized this, and quite dejectedly so, as she sat in the living room of the apartment she shared with her sister Danie and her cousin Jennifer. The clock blazed the numbers of eight, four, and nine, and Moira realized that her Saturday night was shot.

“I’d stop waiting by the phone if I were you,” Danie muttered from behind Cosmopolitan magazine with her raven hair in a deep conditioning. “He’s not going to call.”
“Whoever said I was waiting on him to call?” Moira-Selene inquired defensively.

Danie lowered the magazine, its cover proclaiming one hundred and one sex positions, and raised one perfectly arched eyebrow as if she were Dwayne Johnson’s long-lost younger sister. “Hello?!” she trilled. “Look at the eager, I’m-gonna-win-the-Publisher’s-Clearing-House-Sweepstakes look on your face! I know that look.” She paused with a reflective expression. “Sometime ago, I had that look on my face, too.”
Moira-Selene rolled her eyes. “Danie,” she began patiently, “if I may recall, I think a certain roommate of mine was shooing everyone away from the phone last night to make sure she got a call from a certain, oh, what’s his name again?”
If Danie’s hair hadn’t been wrapped up in the towel, she would have tossed it nonchalantly over her shoulder, but she lifted the magazine back to eye level instead. “We’re not talking about me, here. We’re talking about you.” Danie threw the pillow at her. “Now get away from the damn phone. Make some cookies or something. I’m hungry.”
Gee, what a loving sister she was.

But Moira-Selene heaved herself from the couch and walked into the kitchenette, hearing Jennifer’s giddy voice drift in. Even though Danie could be a bit brash, she had a good idea. Making cookies would take her mind off Duo, and then she could think clearly. With resolve, she turned to the pantry to take out the ingredients. That was when the phone rang. Her heart galloped, and she stalked out of the kitchenette to answer it.

“I’ll get it!” Danie sang out, diving for the phone as if it were a life preserver. Moira-Selene watched with hopeful, wide eyes. “Hello?” The longest pause in the world. Then Danie grinned. “Oh hi Danny! I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.” She gave Moira a look that said, Go away, the phone is mine.

Aw, damn. Toll House, here Mo comes.

Moira-Selene drifted back into the kitchen. She retrieved a huge bowl and a wooden spoon. After throwing together the ingredients, she whipped them into a frenzy until her arm screamed at her. When she stopped, she found herself crying softly into the cookie batter.

Moira dropped the bowl onto the counter despondently. What the hell had made her like this?

Oh. Yeah. Right. Gotta go back and explain…

*              *              *

Ten months ago, Moira-Selene Eleanor Thomas had been a single woman. If anyone had brought it to her attention, she’d badger them with a long, verbose explanation about how she and members of the opposite gender were not compatible, and the ones with fully functioning brain cells opted to go for the silly, blond-haired type.

Then Jennifer would get all pissy like someone gave her Suave shampoo instead of Pantene, and she’d have to amend her statement: they went for the dumb girls—no matter what hair color they had. And then they understood.

“But Mo,” Gretchen said on one occasion as they were at Belvidere’s, “not all guys are hormonal football game-watching, beer-guzzling, Playboy-perusing freaks.”
“But a lot of them are,” Samantha broke in, sipping water.

“Some of them are sweet,” Gretchen insisted.

“Do you include your last five boyfriends in that category—the ones that cheated on you, if I may recall?”
After Samantha said that, Gretchen sighed and returned to her own water. Moira-Selene knew that Gretchen’s love life wasn’t exactly the best in the world, but she did have a point. There were exceptions to every rule.

“You just gotta show those guys who’s boss,” Danie declared. “Be confident. Don’t them step all over you.”
“Yeah, but no one likes to be bossed around,” Gretchen pointed out.

Danie held her hand out, bent at the wrist as if she were expecting some rich businessman to kiss it, and prepared the table for another Daniella Thomas enlightenment. “I didn’t say ‘boss him around,’” Danie said. “There are many ways to get a man to do what you want him to do.”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “Danie, holding out on sex only works sometimes. Sometimes that backfires, and he goes looking for other bestial opportunities—if you know what I mean.”
Danie laughed like a Southern debutante with magnolias up her butt and a huge rock on her finger. “Samantha, Samantha. You don’t hold out on him forever! There’s this thing called teasing. And then you…”

Moira-Selene shook her head wordlessly and tuned Danie’s Dear Abby moment out. She felt slightly disillusioned and even more confused. Ever since she had left home when she was sixteen she wondered if there would be anyone for her. And even more, how would she go about finding him?

Zeus was about to answer her, loud and clear.

*              *              *

When Moira-Selene and her missing amour had met, Moira-Selene had been shopping with Gretchen and her friends Christine and Megami. Gretchen had tricked her into going shopping for a new bathing suit since the California weather warranted one.

“Do not try on a one-piece!” ordered Gretchen as Moira came out of the dressing room. “If you get that, I will get Jennifer to make it a bikini.”
“Teeny weeny itty bitty yellow polka-dot bikini!” exclaimed Christine and Megami at the same time. They fell into laughter and Moira shook her head.

Gretchen tossed a sky blue number at her that would have had Justin Timberlake in cardiac arrest. “Try this one on. I wanna see it on you.”
Moira peered at the two pieces of scant fabric in her fingers. “I don’t think Barbie could wear this, Gretch.”
“Well, not with that so-called ‘anatomically correct’ body.” Gretchen pushed her into the dressing room. “Now put it on! No one’s around but us. I promise.”
Moira disappeared into the fitting room, half-wondering what the hell had gotten into her. She was the demure one, the one who opted for class instead of flash. And now Gretchen had pressured her into squeezing into something that she could have cleaned the bathtub with. What was the world coming to?

Moira nearly fainted when she saw her reflection.

Is that me? Is that woman me?

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Moira panicked. She could see the drool pooling at men’s feet already. She couldn’t go out there in that bathing suit. There was no way. Over her dead body!

“MOIRA-SELENE ELEANOR THOMAS…”
Gretchen was going to make a scene if she didn’t get out there, so Moira stepped out of the fitting room. Gretchen fell into silence. Megami looked stunned.

“Nice pecs, mate,”Christine retorted.

Before Moira could say anything, a loud voice broke the silence.

“Damn! Look at that hottie!”
Moira was suddenly glad that she hadn’t eaten or drank anything yet.

Frozen in disbelief, Moira stared at the young, long-haired man with her mouth open wide. Gretchen leaped up and ushered Moira back into her fitting room, jerking the curtain shut. Gretchen turned her older sister around and helped her with the strings. Quickly, they got Moira back into her regular clothes. After sharing a knowing look, they paused to listen to the conversation outside, peeking out from behind the curtain.

“Hey, where did that girl go?” the guy asked. Apparently he hadn’t left.

“Um, she’s gone, mate,” Christine lied, talking loud enough so Moira and Gretchen could hear. “You just missed her.”
“Yeah,” added Megami.

“You know her?”
“No!” Megami and Christine said in unison.

Meanwhile, Gretchen sighed and shook her head. “This little shopping trip was a disaster,” she whispered.

“You had good intentions, Gretch,” Moira whispered. “I know you didn’t intend on a warm-blooded American male happening by just as I was in that bathing suit.” She gathered all the bathing suits up. “But I’ve got to take care of this. If I don’t, he’ll never go away.”
Gretchen could only watch, flabbergasted, as Moira opened the curtain and stepped out casually into store. Megami and Christine halted in their Three Stooges-caliber lying. The guy grinned impishly at Moira.

“Well, I must say, the bathing suit looks better on you,Ehe commented flirtatiously.

Moira tilted her head and gave him an expression Jessica would have been proud of. “Oh? Like a muzzle would look better on you?”
Christine snickered loudly. She turned sharply and dragged a red-faced Megami away as the guy’s smile faded. Gretchen was still slightly openmouthed.

“Oh, so you’re one of those types,” the guy said.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Moira said, standing straight. “But I do know this: I do not associate with guys who find interest in me solely based upon my physical appearance.” Then she added, “And I know you’re of that type. So if you will, please get out of my way.”
But the guy was persistent. He remained firmly in front of Moira with his arms crossed. Even though his expression was slightly serious, there was a twinkle in his eyes.

“Not until you tell me your name,” he persisted.

Knowing that she was two steps away from punching him, Moira mustered up her patience. “The only thing I am going to tell you is that it would be wise to get out of my way.”
Was he laughing? Was the guy actually laughing at her?

Something inside her snapped. She thrust the bathing suits on a nearby rack and crossed her own arms.

“Are you getting out of my way or what?” Moira demanded.

“Not until I get what I want,” the guy told her, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

He was never going to move. She stepped to the right. So did he. She stepped to the far left. So did he. She snorted with anger and grabbed his arm. He began to grin, only to realize that he was sailing over her shoulder in air. When he fell to the ground with a big whoosh, Gretchen, Christine, and Megami all went slackjawed. Moira did a Danie-like hair toss and stalked off past a startled sales associate.

“Ay, mate! She bloody near broke that bloke in half!” marveled Christine.

Gretchen sighed once again as Megami led the two of them away from the recovering guy. “Why do I have a feeling this is far from over?”

To Be Continued…

¡En Español! – “Santa Daniella” Act One, Scene Two

Santa Daniella
La Historia de Danie Thomas (Tomas)

LOS PERSONAJES
El personaje principal, Daniella
Sus hermanasJessicaClaudiaMoira, y Gretchen
Las amigas de Gretchen, MegamiMelanie, y Cristiane (Christine)
Sus padres quienes son divorciados, Irene y Roberto (Robert)
Sus tías, Elisa (Elizabeth) y Rebeca (Rebecca)
Sus primas, Casandra (Cassandra), Samantha, y Jennifer
El fotógrafo de LibreAidan Bloom

La editora de LibreMelissa Buckley
Su hermanoEric
Su mejor amigaCharlene
La amiga nueva, Miranda
La esposa nueva de Roberto, Maria (Mary)
Las hijas de Daniella quienes son gemelas, Shannon y Abigail
Los padres nuevos de las gemelas, Victoria y Harlan Taylor

ACTO UNO

ESCENA SEGUNDA
(En la cocina, Irene, la madre de Danie, está hablando con sus hermanas. El pastel de cumpleaños está encima de la mesa. Dice, “¡Feliz cumpleaños a Claudia, Moira, Danie, y Gretchen!”)

Rebeca: Este pastel me parece muy bien, Irene. Las chicas van a enamorarlo.

Irene: Eso fue mi intención. (Suspirando) Mis hijas necesitan un buen cumpleaños. Espero que este pastel nos ayude.

Elisa: Estoy de acuerdo, hermanita. Honestamente, Irene, yo creo que debiste abandonar ese…ese hombre hace mucho tiempo.

Irene: Yo sé eso, hermana. ¿Pensaste que nunca lo pensé? Yo espero que no. Soy una mamá más mejor que eso.

Elisa: Hermanita, no pienso que tú eres una mamá mala. Nunca pensé que tú eras una mamá mala. Tus hijas te quieren por siempre. Lo sé.

(Irene la da una sonrisa pequeña y empieza a preparar el desayuno.)

Elisa: Por supuesto, el hecho que Jessica te había defendido es prueba que tus hijas caminarían encima del océano para tú.

Rebeca: O darían su padre un puñetazo a la nariz…

(Irene se ríe.)

Irene: ¿Qué hora será?

Elisa: Serán siete y media, yo supongo.

Irene: Ay, tengo que despertarse a mis hijas—

(Un grito viene de arriba. Las risas tontas vienen después. Irene deja caer su cuchillo.)

Rebeca: ¿Qué fue eso?

Irene: No sé, pero—

(Danie anda en la cocina con una cara roja. Está muy enojada.)

Irene: ¿Daniella, qué pasó?

Danie: ¡Esas mocosas destruyeron mi dormida! ¡Pu…pu…pusieron una serpiente de un jardín en mi cama!

(Unos momentos luego, tres chicas andan en la cocina. Dos de las chicas tienen pelo negro y la otra tiene pelo castaño rojizo. La chica con el pelo castaño rojizo la mira con ira a Danie.)

Moira: ¿Qué está pasando aquí?

Claudia: Oímos algo que nos despertamos. ¿Todas están bien?

Irene: Pues…tu hermana… Tu hermana está teniendo dificultades con las amigas de tu hermanita.

Danie: (Más enojada) ¡Esas mocosas!

Jessica: (La chica con el pelo castaño rojizo) Hermanita, ¡¿está loca?! Son las siete en la mañana. ¡Tú puedes despertarse los muertos!

Danie: (Mirando con ira a Jessica) ¡Tu hermana menor y sus amigas pusieron una serpiente de un jardín en mi cama!

Jessica: (Suspirando) Daniella. Tranquilízate. O te estrangularé.

Danie: (Gritando) Tú no me estrangularías. (A Irene) Mamá, ¡haz algo!

Jessica: ¿Qué yo dije? Mira, hermanita, tú necesitas tranquilizar.

Irene: ¡Gretchen! ¡Ven aquí ahora!

(Silencio. Gretchen viene en la cocina con Megami, Melanie, y Cristiane.)

Irene: Chicas, ¿pusieron una serpiente en la cama de Danie?

(Más silencio.)

Irene: (Severamente) Gretchen—

Gretchen: (Tranquilamente) Si, Mama. Pusimos una serpiente en la cama de Danie.

Danie: Yo voy a morirte—

Jessica: Daniella Elizabeth—

Danie: ¡No me digas lo que hacer!

Jessica: ¡Yo puedo decirte lo que hacer si yo quiera!

Claudia: ¡SILENCIO!

(Todas no hablan.)

Claudia: Gretchen, pide perdón a Danie. Danie, acepta su disculpa. Y Jessica, no la digas lo que debe hacer por una vez en tu vida. Para el amor del Dios, ¿podemos tener un cumpleaños decente?

Moira: Claudia tiene un punto.

(Silencio.)

Gretchen: Lo siento, Danie.

Danie: Acepto.

Irene: Bueno. (Pone su brazo en torno a los hombros de Danie y Gretchen.) Yo espero que podamos divertirnos.

Jessica: Ellas habrán divertirse.

Claudia: Jessica…

Midnight Moon – Happy Birthday, Danie and Moira-Selene

In honor of Danie and Moira-Selene’s birthday, on September 2nd, I wrote this story. Moira-Selene closely resembles me in temperament  so it’s not surprising that she feels uneasy about birthdays. Danie, of course, arms herself with a wearisome itinerary and alcohol.

Gotta love being a twin 🙂

The Fall Girl


September 2, 2009

You don’t have to be a clairvoyant to know a birthday will reek of mild embarrassment. It’s a fact of life that permeates through time and space. And it usually wears a sombrero.

That feeling that comes over you when you are dining in a restaurant when, all of a sudden, the room is alive with singing, clapping, felicitations in a different language (depending on the kind of restaurant). Sympathy. That poor person, uneasily, uncomfortably in the middle of the chaos. You feel sympathy, but deep inside you’re glad it’s not you. And if you are the one in the middle of the whirlwind, well, nothing more than the ground swallowing you whole will suit the moment.

When it comes to birthdays, I think of them like I do a tempestuous thunderstorm–I would rather cover my head and wait for it to pass.

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