Jessica Lost Her Wobble, page 1
Jessica Lost Her Wobble
J. Schlenker
Binka Publishing
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Epilogue 3
Reader’s Guide
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2013 by J. Schlenker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Photo Designed on www.canva.com Bike at Beach By IOFOTO
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locales and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental or fictionalized.
Created with Vellum
To my husband, Chris, who continuously encourages me to write.
At one time Yogananda was meditating with his disciples. After a while he opened his eyes and began to laugh, saying: "It is such a joke that Divine Mother is playing on you all. You think this so real!" Then he looked at the disciples sitting around him, and he said with tears in his eyes: "But I feel sorry for you all, because to you, it is yet real. Don't take it so seriously."
Paramahansa Yogananda
“[...]the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Prologue
HE PLACED THE receiver back on the hook. How odd. Could it be a prank? No, the phone call was too official. Besides, none of his friends played jokes. No one he could think of knew about his past with Jessie. The call was definitely legitimate.
But why would a doctor contact him about Jessie? It had been decades since he last saw her. The doctor’s tone was serious, and he simply stated that the matter concerned his ex-wife, asking if they could talk.
After all this time, he owed nothing to Jessie. He was sure they had settled what had been between them long ago. He was happy and content with his new life, and he wished the same for Jessie. He had no way of knowing if this were the case, though. He had lost track of her not long after they had parted ways. Maybe she had remarried. If so, why was she still using his last name? He struggled with whether to go or just to ignore the call. But his curious nature was getting the better of him.
Should he tell his wife about the call? Carol knew that he had once been married to Jessie. He kept no secrets from her. No, he would go and see what it was about and then tell her. That wouldn’t be keeping a secret if he told her after the fact. He reasoned he would have more to relate to her if he waited until after the visit. Telling her beforehand would only cause her to worry. The whole matter might be nothing. He let out a sigh. The appointment was tomorrow. He would sleep on it.
The glow of the moon that night came through the bedroom window and lit up Carol’s face. Over the years she had aged little. What few lines she had, dissolved into childlike innocence with her retreat into sleep. He wondered if time had been so kind to Jessie. He was deluding himself. He knew it hadn’t been. A pang of guilt shot through him as he wrapped his arm around his wife’s curved belly. Usually after making love he would pass out, but tonight was different. Instead of sleep he counted his blessings, one by one. But Jessie kept creeping into the picture. All the possible scenarios he could think of played over and over in his mind before exhaustion won out.
1
JESSIE GRABBED her usual chocolate bar and cola and set them on the wooden counter. Its indented surface had seen better days. Day after day, people placed their customary purchases on this aged, worn structure. The oak, long ago absent of grain, had absorbed into its essence an ever so faint odor that came from every hand throughout the years that had ever stroked its exterior. It was not an unpleasant smell. It was a scent that said, I know each one of you and what you will slide across my surface. I have ingested you into my skin. I know the routine. You are routine.
If nothing else, Jessie exemplified dull routine habits — bad ones. The junk food was the least of it. For the zillionth time, she told herself it was time to give up her sorry habits, her old life, and start anew. That had been the plan all along in coming to the island. That was three years ago, not that it mattered. Time stood still here
It was a day like any other, yet there was a taste of change in the air. Today would be the beginning of a breakthrough. Jessie knew it as well as she knew her own name.
The owner of the store, Mr. Roberts, was in the back helping Mrs. Gibbons. Like the wooden counter, Mrs. Gibbons, too, had seen better days. Jessie looked back and smiled at Mrs. Gibbons and tried not to show impatience. No one on the island showed impatience or annoyance of any kind. It was one of those unspoken rules of paradise. That was the kind of place the island was, a paradise — a fantasy of the mind. Each resident made it into what they wanted.
Mrs. Gibbons personified the definition of whimsical. Short and boxlike in stature, she looked like something out of a cartoon. Gold-rimmed, sparkly glasses teetered on the tip of her nose. She painted her lips red in the center like a porcelain doll. When she smiled back at Jessie, the pale ends of her lips curving upward were nearly invisible. Mrs. Gibbons raised her eyelids, which didn’t even come close to the umber penciled on eyebrows.
She wore one of those typical brightly colored, flowered shirts that one finds on an island. Force of gravity and a thin shirt indicated she had forgotten to wear a bra. It was a blessing to the viewer she wasn’t well endowed. Mrs. Gibbons finished her fashion repertoire off with neon red shorts, exhibiting knobby knees. The low-heeled ochre sandals she wore displayed chipped crimson toenails which matched her shorts. And as for Mrs. Gibbons’ leathery tanned blue veined legs, well, you had to give her credit. Jessie wished for such a blithe attitude. She gave Mrs. Gibbons another smile, for good measure.
It was easy to forgive the fashion transgressions of a woman of eighty-something years, who had recently lost her husband. There was a lot of forgiveness on the island. Other than the paradise factor, to forgive, to be forgiven, and mainly to forget was why people came here. There were a lot of inhabitants like Mrs. Gibbons. Everyone referred to them as locals. Jessie fit somewhere in the void, between local and tourist.
Before the island, Jessie had lived in New York City. Aggravation was a way of life there. She could relate to Mrs. Gibbons and creatures like her, having been on the wrong end of the aggravation and pity stick before moving here. Jessie saw Mrs. Gibbons and other misfits of society as kindred spirits and sympathized.
Annoyance, aggravation, criticism, or irritation of any kind was unfathomable, behaviors you left behind when you came here. Such attributes were akin to hitting a child. Even before Jessie came to the island, she never let such sentiments surface. She showed few emotions. It was the professional opinion of Dr. Linn, her therapist, that Jessie needed to emote.
Jessie had replied that she didn’t know how. The doctor had interpreted it as she didn’t know the meaning of the word and looked at her like she was stupid. That’s how Jessie perceived it. Even though, he was from somewhere in Asia, he had a better command of the English language than she did. Jessie didn’t know how to show emotion, at least in public. To Jessie, two or more people meant public. She let it go. Why explain? Explaining would only create those emotions she was uncomfortable with.
While Jessie hovered over the counter, she fingered over the packs of gum. It passed the time while she waited. She never purchased gum. She wasn’t a gum chewer. Her ex had a habit of chewing it after he smoked, Juicy Fruit if her memory was correct. She remembered. Why pretend that she didn’t remember even the tiniest little thing he did? There were big irritations and small irritations. His smoking was a big irritation. The gum chewing was minor.
Mr. Roberts smiled and looked her way. “Jessie, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“No hurry,” she replied as she scanned the magazines. Jessie had time. All she had these days was time. Like Mrs. Gibbons, it was becoming more about comfort and taking life at a slow pace.
For Mrs. Gibbons, the comfort thing happened after her husband’s funera
That was how Jessie felt now — unnecessary. She should ditch her bras. What a peculiar way to describe one’s life — unnecessary. That was something she could remember her mother saying. Or was that her imagination? No, she remembered her mother saying, “I feel so unnecessary today.”
While Mr. Roberts was in back assisting Mrs. Gibbons, a young blonde girl, wearing a pink shirt and jeans, entered the store.
Jessie’s mother loved the color pink. Pink roses were her mother’s favorite flower. She had a garden full of every variety of pink rose. Jessie did her best to hold onto the pleasant memories.
Jessie felt the young girl’s eyes on her. She envied the girl's youthfulness but more so her straight hair. Every strand was in place falling in a perfect pattern down her back. Jessie pushed her own defiant caramel curl that fell over her right eye behind her ear. The move was counterproductive since it exposed more freckles. Jessie preferred to call them freckles. God forbid they were the age spots her aunt had warned her about. Aunt Agatha had been a big proponent of skin as white as a pearl and warned against too much sun; advice Jessie disregarded. Maybe she imagined the spots — just something her aunt had put in her mind. The impression had lingered there, the way her mother’s feeling, of being unnecessary, had somehow lodged in her brain.
Jessie looked down at the magazine. The word UNNECESSARY glared out at her in big bold letters. Startled, she let out a small shriek, catching the attention of Mr. Roberts and the girl. Mrs. Gibbons was oblivious. Jessie looked up and said, “Sorry.” She looked back down at the magazine. She refocused. It said in big, bold letters, “Necessary Items for Every Woman’s Closet.” It was just her imagination.
It was the same with the age spots — just her imagination. Besides, she had to push her nose up against the mirror to see them. Maybe they weren’t there at all. Maybe she should ditch the mirror with the bras.
Funny, how all the negative thoughts of others took up permanent residence in her psyche. Jessie chanted a silent mantra, think only pleasant thoughts. It was her new exercise in changing her life, in breaking those bad habits. She had read a magazine article about how to change your life with positive thoughts. After reading the article, she decided that was to be her new mantra, think only positive thoughts.
She looked back at the blonde. What must the young girl be thinking? She had to be in her early twenties, maybe her daughter’s age. Jessie was now pushing the mid-forty envelope. People had always thought her younger, but those days were getting further apart. There had been a lot of days when she had seen young guys looking at her, some even flirting. She chalked up no flirtations to little, if any, new guys on the island. The tourist season would bring them back. That was a positive thought.
Now, she was Mrs. or ma’am. Ma’am was a turning point that every woman dreaded. She still wore a ring. She didn’t mind being a Mrs.
There had been no reason to take the ring off. Jessie had lost weight since coming to the island. She didn’t own a scale, but her clothes were looser. She reasoned that when her finger got skinny enough, the gold band would just fall off. That would save her the trouble of the momentous decision to remove it.
Eating wasn’t a big pastime on the island, except for fish fries. Jessie remembered all those late night dinners she had in New York. On the island, she often skipped dinner. Usually, she was in bed an hour after sunset, turning the pages of a magazine or a mystery novel until she fell asleep. She avoided romance novels. They were fantasy, something Dr. Linn had told her to get over. Dr. Linn was big on facing reality.
The blonde’s quick stare penetrated Jessie’s very soul. Only pleasant thoughts, she told herself. Jessie knew everything the blonde was thinking.
She admired Jessie’s carefree hair, natural curl with different streaks of colors running through it. It had touches of the rainbow — crimson and tinges of blonde from the sun. The blonde thought Jessie a natural island being, a legged mermaid, and wanted to emulate her.
The blonde had worked at the makeup counter in a department store in New York. It started out as a summer job, but her boss kept asking her to stay. What she lacked in makeup skills, she made up for with an outgoing personality. Her supervisor had said that she had a way of making women feel good about themselves after their makeovers. Her customers felt on top of the world and wanted to exploit this new sense of well-being. That caused them to buy more makeup. Before coming to the island, she promised her boss one more month. She didn’t want a makeup counter to be her career.
The blonde thought some women just looked good without makeup. On some days, she just wanted to tell them so. Even though she was a talker, she did her best not to let errant thoughts slip to customers as she worked on commission and therefore, needed to sell the make-up.
Island life was different. It had taken an hour just for her hair, and another for her makeup to get it just right so it wouldn’t be over or under done. Then the breeze and negative ions coming from the ocean disintegrated all her hard work. She planned on putting makeup behind her when her samples ran out. It was just one of those customs she still adhered to for the moment.
She was young, and her moments had become wherever the wind took her. Before her alias as a makeup technician, she had subscribed to the beatnik scene, which required no makeup. She was a creature of extremes. Her father had suggested some time at the island as a place of transition and reflection. Her father had a yogic way of thinking. Behind the make-up counter, it was all about image. Even at her young age, she realized it was mere facade. Here, the makeup had to become a part of you, something that people didn’t notice. So why wear it at all?
She looked over at Mrs. Gibbons. She thought how adorable she was while contemplating how to tone her down. She was midway through the makeover process before she commanded her mind to halt. She reasoned it would be sacrilege to take away her old lady island charm. She had been here two days. It was like entering an alien world. She could feel transition in the sea air already.
The blonde looked back at the woman at the counter. What was her age? Early thirties she thought. She saw her look back. All that natural beauty, and yet, there was a sadness about her. She felt like reaching out to her. She didn’t know why.
Mr. Roberts, after attending to Mrs. Gibbons, made his way over and rang up Jessie’s purchases.
“So, how have you been Jessie?” he asked. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’m fine, and how is your family?”
“Everyone is as well as could be expected. Cork will be home from college on Thanksgiving. Myra and I are looking forward to that.”
He didn’t bother to look at the prices. He knew them by heart. Just a month ago, Cork would have waited on her before making his way back to school. Jessie put a dollar bill down and took her change, declaring a bag wasn’t necessary.
Mr. Roberts had known her for over a decade. He had known her children. His was a generational store, one of the first stores on the island, a landmark, to which everyone came. She had remembered old Mr. Roberts behind the counter on their first summers here. She knew old Mr. Roberts name was Carl. His son, the one waiting on her, was Carl, Jr. Jessie guessed him to be maybe ten years older than herself. He had reminded her plenty of times to call him Carl, but she just couldn’t kick the habit of calling him Mr. Roberts.
Before making her way out of the store, she looked up, giving a less than confident smile to both Mr. Roberts and the girl who was now trying on sunglasses. If Jessie emoted anything, it was not having confidence.
The girl must have been visiting a relative since it was off-season. They got few tourists this time of year. Jessie had heard nothing. She had been such a hermit as of late. It had been two weeks since she did any grocery shopping. Nor, had she been to the laundromat for a good bit either. That was the place to hear the latest gossip. Even paradises had to have some excitement. She listened to the gossip but didn’t gossip herself. She never knew any gossip to contribute, and even if she did, she didn’t like making judgments. That didn’t apply in her case. Jessie indulged in self-criticism. It was something that Dr. Linn had pointed out to her. She didn’t need a therapist to tell her that. Jessie feared she was the topic of conversation at the laundromat, or maybe they found her boring. She pushed it out of her mind. She tried to leave the judgment back in New York.
