567. Imagine the Eyes 2

Zoe: The overwhelming feeling, image in my mind, and I suppose this goes back to the last days on Hyneria, of the things I saw there, not with the old and infirm, but with the young, young mothers and their children, the fear in their eyes, the constant grey and gloom and rain and those huddled mothers holding their young to their chest as if in the holding their children would be protected and seeing those faces, of the children, small faces within blankets peering out as I imagine owls from a tree, baby owls, hungry, eyes wide, waiting for their mother, waiting for food, waiting for their world to be right, their belly full and this is their entire world, hunger and warmth or lack thereof and this is the image I cannot shake, of the rain, of me, of my child, holding on in a gale only with our hands, me trying to pull him to me, he looking with fear, the fear of not understanding, seeing me, his world entire and feeling, sensing, fearing, as our grip slips, of this entire world slipping away and all I can see is his face, his eyes, those owl eyes in the night and the rain loosens my grip and in the wind, he slips away, my hand empty, my soul collapsing in on itself like a black hole and the feeling is beyond shame, beyond worthlessness, beyond any ability to define it since I've never had occasion to feel this way before. And this is why I cannot let go, I cannot accept the choice, why I must fight and will fight and I must win and will win because this is the soul of a mother, this is me, all that I am and without this, this fight, this will, this essence, I am nothing. Can you somehow, someway, understand?

Von: Yes.

566. Outtake #7: Imagine the Eyes

Zoe: Von, I don't want to die.

Von:

Zoe: The idea that I won't see my baby, that I will never know my child, that my child will never know me, a child that already will never know his father . . .

Von:

Zoe: Ceru was strong, strong to the end. I have no idea how he did it. I stand at the edge and I feel the bitter wind and I am terrified. The drugs they give me have no effect. My hand trembles uncontrollably. I can't sleep. The nightmare is not a dream, it is my life, what is left of it.

Von:

Zoe: For the first time, I find no comfort in words. There is a gulf. I stand on one side and those with words stand on the other. I am in the rain, they are in the house. I am tied to the stake, they are sipping snizzle in the comfort of their routine. We die alone. You can hold my hand, hold it to the last heartbeat, but death is single file and the fear and horror and terror is to each alone.

Von:

Zoe: I cannot accept being pushed over the edge.

Von:

Zoe: This is my baby. I give it life. I am the mother. I will be the mother. My child will know my touch. My child will have a mother. I do not expect you to understand the bond between mother and child.

Von:

Zoe: I need your help.

Von:

Zoe: This hospital is killing me. This planet is toxic. I feel it in every breath, needles in the lungs, razor cuts in the ocean.

Von:

Zoe: Get me out of here.

Von:

Zoe: Feel this (she places his hand on her belly). Feel that?

Von:

Zoe: Get us out of here Von.

Von:

Zoe: You know what it is like to lose a child. Imagine what life would be like for a child to lose both parents, to never know either one. Now, imagine, one day, the question comes, and it will come.

Von:

Zoe: Did you do everything possible? (pause)

Von:

Zoe: Imagine not the words, not the question, but the eyes, innocent, big and wide and wet in a small head looking into your soul. Imagine that moment between the question and answer. Imagine that bottomless gulf. That day will come.

565. Doors

Von drew breath, hand on door, eye down the hall. Evenly spaced, metal door after metal door, sober gateways to individual realities, portals between this life and the next, confessionals of love withheld, rectangular antiseptic boxes, vibrating with silent cries, prayers sent forth as smoke into the sky, of eyes that saw what eyes can't see. With warm hand upon cold handle, Von entered.

Walking as one before alter, tone hushed in silence not silent, head bowed by the weight of respect, the air felt electric, alive as only life feels before death premature, when temporal hands hold the power of Janus and the chest feels ocean deep and about as murky and dark and cold. She looked magnificent, auburn hair on fire and turquoise eyes polished, skin china white delicate, hands female tender, efforted smile authentic and pure as the heart that beat for two.

"Morning," said Von. "You look wonderful."

Zoe smiled. "You know, Ceru was not a very good liar either."

564. Autumn Wheat Dogs

Em swung her bare feet off the bed and with hands anchored on the edge of the mattress, lifted herself to the cold floor. She wore no makeup, her hair tied behind her head, uncombed. Plain of face as plain of gown, she walked to the window, lips slightly parted in the sight before her wide eyes.

Without sound, two young girls laughed and danced, hands in leash, pulled forth by tongues wagging as dogs in cool weather pull forth in unbridled joy, eyes flashing, tails as flags, hunches lean in sprint. Em watched the girls in ballet, skirts twirling, smiles quick and easy, leashes tangling and untangling, a choreograph of innocence where steps are light and the hour is an eternity.

Still, she stood, Em. Still of body, still as night, still as the heart of parent before child on stage, the kind of stillness one only knows to know after the stillness is gone. She watched without blinking, without moving, without thinking. Green grass, autumn wheat dogs, white dresses.

Round the tree they ran, ponytails bouncing with kite bows, a touch of color, timbre resonant. The fall sky, cloudless faded blue, domed. Harder they ran, the dogs, playing in harmony with their masters, hearts pure, hearts loved and from within flowed without, witnessed in visage, known in countenance.

Statue quiet, the scene played within Em's mind, memories flickering celluloid matching the vision enacted before the stage of her window. Floating, the feeling felt, floating above the girls, watching over them as the wind in the tree.

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563. My Hands are Cold

Yul was in the shower. For what seemed like a long time. Rog fiddled with breakfast, poured another cup of brew, buttoned and unbuttoned his shirt, made faces in the mirror and still, the shower showered on. Bored, he noticed his comm, blinking.

the scene shows rog picking up his comm, listening. his face changes expression, the comm drops from his hand. in slow motion he sprints to the bathroom. the door is locked, something she never does. rog yells, no response, only the steady sound of the shower. he yells her name again. still no response. with all his might he rams the door with his shoulder.

Through the mist of steam, a shape behind the glass, not moving, not standing.

the camera is in the bathroom and the sound of the shower is louder, we do not see yul, but the door. we hear the muffled shoulder and see the door give, almost exhale and contract between blows. the door gives way and we see rog, we see the moment of realization on his face. yul is lying on the shower floor, a small trickle of blood flowing from her mouth to the drain. he picks her up, limp in his arms, crook of knee in crook of elbow, her wet-haired head held tight against his chest, the shower cascading down upon them both like rain. the camera focuses on rog's face and the gamma rises, skin mutes pale and one can't tell what is water and what are tears.

"Baby, hold on." His head bends back, eyes upward, bare muscled arms and chest ripped in the holding, straining within as without. "This is not gonna happen." Rog blinks, waiting on an answer, eyes still cast upward. "Do you hear me. This is not gonna happen."

scene fades with rog standing, eyes upward. the sound of the shower fades into the soundtrack, which starts faint and grows: The Killers' Human

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562. A Grandson

As the nurse propped her auburn locks under another pillow Zoe watched the door over her rotund belly as one watches the ocean over the dunes. Life moved within her, a son to be were the words and still she could not believe it, for it had never occurred to her until she met Von, until she saw the eyes of the eyes she knew, that her child was not to be a child, but a grandchild.

The door, upon which, upon the other side, faint as her heartbeat, were words uttered, the kind of words one didn't need to hear to know. Von was there and another and where one spoke the other listened and the muted tones felt as lazy waves lapping, melodic, soothing, gentle in the way one is gentle when there is nothing to be done, nothing that can be done. She watched the door with the peace of decision made, of gift purchased and wrapped, of anticipation, as Ceru would often say in the quiet of exhaustion, of giving, within the effortless natural flow. She would give as he had given and she would give what no other could, and she would give not to get but as the natural unfolding of right and true, of love.

He would argue and she would smile. And in her eyes he would know the word could not stand against the true heart and then there would be silence and just looking and then tears and holding hands she would begin to talk, to tell the tale he had not heard, to pass the history of the baby's father, the history he would need to know, would want to know. So she watched the door. Knew that it would open. Knew that he would walk in heavy. Knew that he would leave light, in light.

He kicked, the grandson. She smiled as her hand traced the curve. And then the door opened.