They said it was called hillbilly golf. My aunt called it hillbilly horseshoes. My cousin and her husband just called it horse balls. So people at the family Fourth of July celebration played that, beach volleyball (no live frogs in the sand this year, but there was a mummified one), euchre and a gin-rummy/Phase 10-like game called sticks. A few brave souls went swimming in the pond; the water was warm, but the breeze was cool, so most of us stayed out. (Traditionally, the Fourth family celebration is a scorcher of a day—people dress in as little as possible.)

When I woke up this morning, my husband wasn’t there. I sat up quickly, nearly fell over standing up—head rush. The clock said it was well past time for the alarm. Had I even heard him getting out of bed?

There were wet towels on the floor. And when the blood stopped pounding in my ears, I could hear him clacking at the computer. I hung up the towels and went downstairs to kiss him good morning.

“I didn’t even hear you get up,” I said.

“Really? You’re the one who told me to get out; I was snoring.”

My neighbor Elaine looked tired today, and it had been forever since we talked, so I invited her over for a drink. We sat on my deck and drank spiked icy lemonade for an hour. She told me her daughter might never move closer to home. I know it hit her hard when Tess moved away, but there had been talk of moving closer—within an hour or two—after her husband finished law school. Elaine herself had never moved more than 30 minutes from any of her family. She had thought it would be the same with her daughter.

Limbo feels like this. Staying up till the wee hours, sleeping six hours, filling your days with internet searches and mindless computer games when searching for jobs you can’t have gets too depressing. What you do get to do isn’t even your work, a bit like ghostwriting. You seem to have a vague recollection of having places to go, people to go with, but that’s been centuries ago, when your days involved your own work, senses of accomplishment. And now your life is waiting. You aren’t even sure on what, but you’re pretty sure it has to do with paper.

Janine didn’t get have nearly as many crushes in high school or college as her friends thought she did. She kept pretty quiet about her love life—not that there was much of one to talk about—but when asked, she always had a different boy picked out for the role. And to blush while talking, all she had to do was consider what they’d think if they were mind-readers.

She ran into Lois, a college pal, yesterday, but she had no who the guy she asked about was—one of Janine’s fibs. But she thought she faked it well.

The young man eyed us, unblinking and unflinching, measuring us in turn. My sister, talking to me, barely spared him a glance. The gentleman sitting behind me stared ahead. I met his eye a moment longer than he probably expected me to. I decided he was not imagining each of our responses should he suddenly reveal that he was strapped to a bomb. Nor was he looking for a friendly face to sit next to; he didn’t want conversation with a stranger. And he wasn’t guessing what procedure each of us was waiting on in the outpatient surgery waiting room.

Every garage sale we went to yesterday had the same little-kid smell—a combination of grape juice, baby powder, Cheerios and cleaner. Even the garage sales without toys reeked of daycare. I bought three books, a purse, a hand blender that had never been used, and a designer fleece shirt that I plan to sell on Ebay. I stuck a dryer sheet in each of the books and the purse. I Febrezed the sweater. And an hour later, I threw my clothes in the washer with Method Sweet Water detergent and I showered, because (argh!) I smelled like garage sale.

The little boy, maybe two and a half, toddled confidently after the man in the green ball cap, carrying a cooler and a couple collapsible chairs over his shoulder. The boy stopped to look both ways before entering the parking lot, hectic with vans driven by parents dropping their kids off at the pool on this scorcher of a day. The man never looked back, clearly unaware that his son was following him. Another man from the same reunion was following the boy.

When they came back, boy on his dad’s shoulders, they met a panicked aunt at the sidewalk.

Susan watched the kids playing in the little water playground. There were sprinklers scattered around this 16’ x 16’ section, and a contraption that filled buckets and dumped them on the kids huddled underneath, eyes cast down, waiting for the next splash. The mushroom waterfalls looked the most refreshing—gentler water—though a tot running after his dad through the water avoided the runoff of the mushrooms. Maybe even that much was too much for him. And no one had yet dared the red ring with painful-looking sprays forming about twenty radii, just waiting for someone to disruptively burst through.

Tonight, Harry Potter movie #5 opens. (Technically, tomorrow morning, but since I’ll still be in “today” mindset, I’m calling it tonight.) It’s a weekday night, which may hamper a number of moviegoers. Ohio has recently regulated teen driving so that the rules change for them after dark or after a certain hour, so even though a lot of Harry Potter fans can now drive (far more than at the time of the last movie release), they still can’t go to the midnight showings without an adult to drive. It’s probably become a game of “who do I know who’s 18?”

She showed up at our Thursday group, five minutes late, very nearly trembling. Todd and Ian got up and got her a chair and a cup of tea. She introduced herself as Lynn, and I knew where I recognized her from—the diner on Fourth. She’d struck me as looking a bit lost, uncertain—a bit like a newborn fawn.

“Lynn was in a car accident three years ago. I tried to get her to come with me for months, but her husband always insisted that she was fine, that she didn’t need support for an injury she didn’t have.”

If you were to stage Hamlet in a modern setting, how would you deal with Ophelia? Would you let the audience see what truly made her mad? Surely today’s jaded audience wouldn’t believe it was being dumped by the prince (who even her father warned her away from), whether she was pregnant or not. Many scholars have argued that the reason she went mad was because she was pregnant by him, or even that she merely slept with him.

So, what was her poison? Alcohol? Cocaine? Crystal meth? Ketamine? LSD? Or was she bipolar, perhaps?

What would bring on Ophelianess?

Opening night, HP #5. We arrive (tickets pre-purchased the week before) at the midnight showing two hours in advance. They’ve already let people into the theater, which is not quite half full. Some are in costume. The best are handmade quidditch robes, complete with Gryffindor patches. Lots of school uniforms with black graduation robes and sticks for wands. One group wore what appeared to be special-order screen printed tees with character names on the back. Another group came in with plain black tees decorated with duct tape; standing all together, they spelled H-A-R-R-Y on the front, P-O-T-T-E-R on the back.

They decided to play Scrabble in front of the fan, with a pitcher of icy lemonade on hand in the fridge. In their skivvies they stretched out on the living room floor, untan flesh stark against the blue carpeting. They were both horrible spellers—she wasn’t even sure why she had Scrabble in her game collection—so they cheated a lot, eventually even looking up words based on the letters on their racks. About halfway through, she went to slice some fruit while he poured more lemonade, and they discussed what to do about dinner.

They never finished the game.

When Poppy was a baby, she rolled around to get places. She didn’t crawl until after she’d learned to walk. And she didn’t really learn to walk until after she’d learned to run. She went from rolling around on the floor to standing up and running all over the house. It’s like she was more about the momentum than about the coordination.

Things haven’t really changed for Poppy. She’s twenty-nine and still running everywhere—she graduated with an art advertising degree, and immediately opened her own ad business. Sometimes her family jokes that she never really did learn to walk.

They had a housekeeper/nanny, Brenda, in from about ten in the morning till Kevin got home around six. She watched the kids when they weren’t in school, and did the cleaning when they were. This allowed Theresa to shut herself up in the study all day and write. She was determined to have a successful sophomore novel, though the odds were against it. It had taken a while for the kids to get used to Mommy being home, but not really home. So far, the heroine was a remarkably unremarkable mother of three. Gee, how’d she come up with that?

Jack liked to buy women things. For his mother, he bought the jewelry he always thought his father should have showered her with. For his sister, the latest gadgets for her kitchen, because she liked to pretend that she could cook. For his secretary, daisies Mondays and some other kind of flower, depending on the season, Wednesdays. His three nieces had their college books paid for every term. He frequently treated homeless women to meals at his favorite café. His wife got just about anything she wanted—jewelry, gadgets, the works. And his girlfriends did, too—well, except a commitment.

“I’m not cut out for this,” I muttered, grabbing my niece by the back of the shirt for the eighth time, pulling her back to my other hand which held her coat.

She squealed gleefully. I tried to remember the last time I had enjoyed such a sensation that I squealed. Too long ago, obviously.

“Izzy, we need to go get your mommy at work. Let’s put on your coat.” None of this was new to her. My sister-in-law’s car had been in the shop for a week.

“Cookie,” she demanded.

“No,” I answered, bristling. “You’re being bad. No cookie.”

I’d like you to hire me on a complete leap of faith that I can do what I say I can do—I’m an editor. I can tell you what works, what doesn’t, whether to sign on an author or not, what verbs don’t cooperate with the subject, when you’ve jumped tenses, and when you’ve misspelled “separate.” I will show you why your characters are flat, your tone inconsistent, and your plot and setting weak and ill researched. I know lots of strange, random information. Did you know that the balding gene comes from your mom’s side, not your dad’s?

She wore a bright pink blazer. Her hair was short, blond, very neat and professional looking. Her lipstick—a more modest pink than her jacket—had been recently reapplied. “Mrs. Braun,” she greeted eagerly, at least having the wherewithal not to smile for her camera and crew.

“Go away. Please, I’ve asked you all to go away.”

“Mrs. Braun,” she persisted, even as Mrs. Braun shut the door. “Mrs. Braun, can you tell us how you’re feeling tonight after learning that—”

But Mrs. Braun had no comments. How could she, this town’s former mayor, comment on such absurd accusations against her husband?

My name is Jennifer Riesely. But try getting anyone besides my parents to call me Jenny now. Oh no. Now, I’m Ginny Weasly. My friends and siblings are all Harry Potter buffs, and they all thought it was great how my name sounds a bit like hers. And I have the misfortune of being born with red hair. Well, kind of misfortune.

People used to consider that unlucky, you know. Once upon a time, it was thought that babies with red hair was a telltale sign that their parents had had sex during the mother’s period. How crazy is that?

Clarice paid for the motel room in cash--$35. She suspected that her room number would be marked as needing some sort of repair and that the money would go straight into the greasy-haired clerk’s pocket. She tried not to think of Psycho as she unlocked her room and relocked it with the two deadbolts and the chain lock once she was inside. But she was in the middle of nowhere, without even a cell phone. Tentatively, she picked up the room’s phone’s receiver and was relieved to hear a dial tone.

He wouldn’t stop here to look for her.

Georgia hated public bathrooms, ever since grade school, though she could never point to any sort of trauma that would lead to such an attitude. She also felt an urge to clean her bathroom after having more than three guests at a time, though she recognized this as, of course, ridiculous. She wasn’t concerned about any sort of contamination, and couldn’t explain what she thought she was cleaning off.

There was an insane month in second grade where she refused to drink from the drinking fountain immediately after a boy. She knows why, but she feels too silly to say.

He sat against the wall and watches. They must be catching an early morning flight. She goes into the restroom with a cosmetic bag and bottle of contact solution. He, with a computer bag over his shoulder, has already gone and returned with a cup of coffee when she comes out. Nothing for her, though, which seems strange. But when they come closer, he can see she’s been crying.

He shuffles after them a little ways behind. The man gets in line with her, and just before going through security, they kiss, clinging. She’s sobbing. His heart breaks for them.

Things that are lost:

keys
bills
nail clippers
games
fizz
adventurers
jobs
opportunities
love
world-altering ideas, realized in the moment between
asleep and awake
innocence
souls
good humor
patience
Wednesdays
train of thought
data
eyesight
hearing
sensitivity
the remote contol(s)
power
wars
fingernails
joy
skin cells
shoes, on the side of the road
Barbie shoes
lens caps
game pieces
owner’s manuals
things done while incredibly drunk
packs of Post-It tabs
rings
pets
people
the ability to reproduce
what you just had in your hand five minutes ago
eyeglasses
holiday decorations
bottles of vanilla
Easter eggs the Easter Bunny allegedly hid

Sharon’s lips were chapped. Raw. She licks them when she gets self-conscious, and bites them when she’s nervous. I’m not sure what was making her so eager to gnaw her lips off today, but I haven’t seen her this bad since she was an intern. These levels of anxiety are supposed to be reserved for her patients.

Sharon kept walking the other way when she saw me coming. This is something with her marriage; she’s my sister-in-law and seems to think that I’ll always take my brother’s side, though we’ve enjoyed many laughs over what an ass he can be.

Two little girls (Nadia and Kari) stood in the middle of the street and threw the softball back and forth. They both had dark hair and a dark complexion—both daughters of an Indian mother and Caucasian father. Their neighbor Molly had just hopped on her bike to go home for dinner, and they were losing interest in only throwing to each other, and though they wouldn’t admit it, they weren’t sorry to see Molly go. They called her a friend, but really she was just a girl from the neighborhood who they assumed ought to be considered a friend.

I spend my afternoons and evenings (1-8) sitting at the Goodwill in the drop-off room. There are carts there—big canvas laundry carts or the multi-shelved carts they use in restaurants—that I unload boxes of stuff into/on. I do a general sort: clothes, electronics, toys, accessories, books, useless knick-knacks. Mostly clothes.

Most people wash things before they bring them in; they wipe cobwebs off furniture that was in the attic and wash their clothes. But every now and then there’s a bag of clothes that’s like they just decided instead of doing laundry, they’d take it all to the Goodwill.

I have spent more than my whole book budget for the year. I didn’t even consider the seventh Harry Potter when I spent the last of it, so I spent an additional twenty-some dollars. I went to a big bad chain store with its deep discounts to get my book. The party was rather pathetic, but there really aren’t any local independents anymore that I know of, except Christian “bookstores.” (Do they count, if only a quarter of the store is book space?)

But I digress…

Going into my favorite coffeeshop was dangerous, given that it’s also a used bookstore…

This book insults my intelligence. The author substitutes withholding information for providing clues, and what clues are provided are painfully easy to guess. He also switches points of view every chapter, presumably to offer the reader a glimpse of simultaneous and related events, but really, it could all be done from one person’s point of view without losing momentum or mystique (which is all bogus anyway). I am tempted to refuse to finish reading it; I never would have accepted it for publication.

Truly, turning this book into a movie may be the only thing that makes this plot salvageable.

She tucked one foot under her as she sat down on the porch swing. She’d always loved porch swings. There was something quaint about them. And now she finally had one.

She curled her hands around her cup of tea, rocking herself with the tip of her canvas shoe. The cicadas were everywhere. She couldn’t even hear the radio inside the house, though it was just in the parlor, just inside the front door.

A month ago she’d been enjoying lightning bugs. Tonight the cicadas. Before long, she’d be curling up in front of her fireplace while it snowed outside.