The Transformation Of Amy Lunaro: Chapter Twelve. {fiction}
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Amy was up early the next morning, and before she could think, so she didn’t have to, she sprinted down to the beach barefoot in her sweats, running for half an hour to the soundtrack of the breath of the water and the breath of her lungs.
But when thoughts of James and his new family caught up with her and began to flood the bowl of her mind, she stopped, losing her life-force. Her knees went jelly-like and she fell into the sand.
Dammit, she thought. She sat there caked in sweat and sucking in breath, fighting salty tears as the great tears of the earth rose and fell before her. Sometimes, just like hers, they felt like waves of sorrow, sometimes joy. Fuck. It.
She rose and stripped to nothing and hurled herself into the icy late October water.
“Ay yi yi yi!!” she shrieked, as the thoughts of James were ripped from her mind and sank to the ocean floor. She bolted upward from the shock, laughing as she nearly ran across the water to get back to the shore.
She hadn’t laughed alone, she thought, since she was a child. What a true expression of joy.
She ran up the wooden steps naked, shivering, clutching her sweats, and stood, head tossed back to the sky under the hot outdoor shower.
The inside of the house felt lonely, she wanted to be outside, where the world was alive, she wanted to be in the bustle of others. So she dressed herself with actual care and went to Al’s, the heartbeat of the island.
Pumpkins lined the porch, and a little girl, whose face was painted with whiskers and a black triangle of a nose, sat with her legs swinging from the hammock. She stared at Amy as she sucked on a juice box.
“Good morning,” she said to the girl.
“Meow,” the girl replied.
She got a coffee for herself and then thought to get an Earl Grey for Leanne, just in case she was home.
Deep into Fall, the crowd was thinning out to locals, carpenters and fishermen in plaid and Dickies. They had extra scruff on their faces to protect them from the chill of their outdoor labor, they drank coffee in to-go mugs and thumbed through the papers.
And they all knew each other, it seemed, since birth. They spoke a low, familiar, abbreviated language to one another.
“Chuck.”
“Dan.”
“Martha?”
“Yep.”
“Linda?”
“Same.”
“Ya motha?”
“Betta.” And then Chuck grunted, and Dan tapped Chuck on the back with a newspaper and that was how they said Goodbye.
She was beginning to recognize faces, and they began to recognize her too.
“Hi,” a ginger-bearded, kind-eyed man her age had said as he held the door open for her. “Thank you,” she’d said, and one nod from a venerable white-haired farmer to whom everyone seemed to pay special homage made her chest soar a bit.
The girl at the register told her her name was Mara. “I like your necklace, Mara,” she’d said, entranced once again by the gleaming pentagram.
“Oh, thanks. Are you one of us?” she asked, pushing her horn-rimmed black glasses up her button nose with a newly painted purple nail.
Something stirred in Amy. “I’m not, not one.”
Mara winked. “Well, welcome to the Lovin’ Coven,” she said. “Drinks are on me.”
Amy beamed like she’d won the lottery.
By the time she got to Leanne’s, she nearly skipped down the path.
She knocked gently on the door. Leanne opened it in a long white nightgown and a grey shawl over her shoulders, her white hair fell nearly to her waist.
“You’re up with the larks,” she said. She looked Amy up and down, taking her in.
Amy had brushed her hair and pulled it back into a low bun. She’d even applied concealer and mascara and a trace of red lip liner. The red of her lips pronounced the blue of her eyes, they hadn’t shone in as long as she could remember.
She’d put on a white silk blouse, tucked it into jeans that hadn’t fit in over a year, and slipped on leopard print flats.
“Well, I’ll be damned, if it ain’t the Queen of England,” Leanne said.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked, scooting Amy in through the door past Norman, who slept in front of the fire in the living room. She ushered Amy to the puzzle table in the kitchen, where she’d replaced Van Gogh with a Scrabble game.
The man on the radio was reading the results of the Bluefish Derby and forecasting a record chilly Halloween.
“I brought you Earl Grey,” Amy said.
“Thanks, honey. But I don’t drink that. I’m old. I know what I like and what I don’t. Had a few years to figure it out.” Then she gave Amy a swift pat on the back. Leanne always touched her like she didn’t want to get attached. A noncommittal touch that pulled away as soon as it made contact.
Amy jumped a bit beneath her fingers. “Now doesn’t that feel betta, to treat yourself betta,” she asked.
“Yes,” Amy agreed, sitting down at the table and crossing her legs, folding her hands, feeling… dignified.
“I play myself, but you’re welcome to replace me,” Leanne said nodding at the game board.
Amy assessed the letters.
“Oof,” she said.
“Well, you’re the writer, right? Make some magic.”
She planted a room temperature glass of water in front of Amy.
“Elixir of the Gods. Drink up.”
“Thank you.” Amy moved the tiles around and scrunched her face.
“How was the moon circle?” Leanne asked.
“I didn’t go.”
“Ah, honey, that’s too bad.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why? What you gonna do, avoid life your whole life and call it a life?”
“No.”
Leanne chugged her water and banged the empty glass down on the table, the Scrabble tiles rattled. “You asked about my daughter, right?”
“Yes,” Amy said, sipping her coffee. “I did.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. But know I’m not in the business of flinging around what’s sacred. I don’t know why people don’t keep the sacred sacred.”
Amy thought of her late mother, she saw her delicate, small round face. She had a perfect angelic face and tiny beautiful hands. She looked down at her own hands, so similar, they could be her mother’s. She began to massage the right palm with the left thumb, and then she switched.
“Shelly. Her name was Shelly. She’s no longer among us. In the flesh anyway.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“That won’t bring her back. The only thing that would bring her back is if she hadn’t drunk five glasses of wine and gotten in her car on North Road five years ago. Hit that big oak tree, the one that forks like a choice. Like, you can go this way, or you can go that way.
Every thought and every single choice we make matters, you know. It creates the whole path. Everything. Every single little thing, matters.”
Amy lifted her chin. She stared right back at Leanne and directed her heart right to hers. “I’m still sorry, I still mean that.”
Leanne cocked her head, and thought for a moment. She was quiet.
“Alright. Well, in that case, I’ll take it. I just don’t take empty sorries.”
“I get that.”
“And I don’t like to dwell in the past.”
“I know,” said Amy.
“But you wanna do something for me better than a sorry?”
“Yes,” Amy said.
“Live ya fucking life, kid. And take great care of it. Live while you can. Live for Shelly. Live for your mother. Live, goddammit.”
Amy straightened her spine and held her head up taller. She breathed in deep through her nose.
“I am trying, Leanne.”
“Eh,” Leanne said. “It’s not really about trying. It’s a choice like that tree. You think too much. You tell too many stories. Right now, all you have is stories. You know who sits around thinking and talking about the past? Old people and dead people. And they’re allowed. That’s all they have. You?
You don’t get to do that. Look at you.” Leanne pointed to the mirror above the oven. Amy looked up in it. She could see her face for the first time since she could remember. And she had forgotten all about, and given up hope, of seeing it again. There you are, she thought. I had really missed you.
“Life isn’t something you’re talking about, honey, it’s something you’re living. You gotta use that body. You gotta use that heart. You gotta use those hands.”
“Don’t let the past steal one more moment from the present.”
Florence was singing Shake it Out on the local radio. Amy wasn’t resisting what Leanne was saying anymore. She was only resisting dancing. Her body was loving all this recent dancing. How had she gone so long without it?
“I won’t,” Amy promised.
“Great. You’ve decided to really be here. That’s great. You’ve accepted the invitation. So if you wanna be a real human, you have to have relationships with other humans.”
“Okay,” Amy placed the letter L on the board.
“Okay then. So today’s the day you join the land of the living. And you stop making excuses. Perfect timing. Because Jack Fletcher is at the Farmer’s Market.”
“Oh God.” Amy’s face went pale and her foot stopped tapping to Florence.
“Yep. Every Saturday morning. Right around the corner. Selling his wares. Although most gals just buy a cucumber just to look at him. I suggest you and your fancy shoes huff it on over there and make some mother-loving contact. Otherwise it’s just gonna be a fantasy. And those are dangerous.
They’ll rob you of your whole life. Nothing beats experience.”
“I’m not ready,” she said.
“Well, when will you be ready?”
“I don’t…”
“That’s a trick question. If you’re alive right now, you’re ready. Let’s start this story.”
“Damn you,” Amy said. “You’re going to be the death of me.” She placed the letter E.
“If it’s the death of that small limited dried up self, well, then it would be my honor.”
“Ugh,” Amy groaned and rolled her eyes.
“Norman, help me,” she cried to the cat in the other room.
“That selfish asshole only helps himself.” Then she called, “God bless you, Norman.”
“Listen, I’m telling you. This is what humans do. They practice being human with other humans.”
“Danny said being a human is practicing love,” Amy said.
“Yeah, that’s right. Smart girl. For yourself and others. And if you love your Self, you’ll forgive her for the past, let her have a real life, a real adventure, and another chance at love.”
Amy placed the letter A.
“Love is not easy, kid. That’s why most people give up on it after they lose it. But it makes you real. The hard stuff, the heart stuff, that makes you real. This is your moment. This is the place some people close off forever, after the hurt. This is the place where you get to choose to get back up again.
To stay open and feel the pain and feel the fear and let it all happen anyway. You stay where you are forever, or you move forward now. Your choice.”
“I’ve decided that’s what I want.”
“What?”
“To move forward. To be real. I want to be a real person with real relationships and a real life. And be a human.”
“It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, being a goddamned human. I remember when they went to the moon the first time. I watched it on my little TV. I was sitting there thinking that was far easier than being down here with all these crazy people.
The moon, with not a soul around? That’s the easy shit. Down here on earth? Well, god damn. This takes courage.”
“Ha,” Amy laughed. “Maybe that’s why I’ve put it off for so long. But it’s true. And you told me I had to figure out what I wanted.”
“You sure do, if you want to get anywhere in life.”
“I want that. And I want…” Amy licked her lips and then bit down until she felt sensation. “Intimacy.”
“Ah, yes,” Leanne said. “To touch and be touched. In every single way. That’s what we’re here for. You know what I wish for you? One of those moments where you go, ‘I don’t care anymore what anyone else does or thinks, I’m just gonna be myself’.
That’s the moment it all comes together. After it all falls apart. It’s the sunrise. The clarity. It’s the ‘Holy shit, this is my one life and I’ve gotta fucking live it’ moment. It’s the Billy Joel My Life moment. It’s the Sinatra My Way moment. Then you shake it all off and get clear again.
And from there on out, the only advice you take is from God. No one else’s worried, fearful, jealous, or angry projections move you. Just your own heart. Just you and God, running the show. Your show. It’s Your. Fucking. Show.
Those are the moments we start to live again. Where we make some real decisions and act on them and un-stick ourselves and move the river and see that there was nothing ever to fear except not living our true purpose. You get rid of all the bullshit holding you back and suddenly you’re you again.
And suddenly, what does Cohen say? Suddenly, every breath you take is Hallelujah.”
“Well, that sounds amazing, but I think I have to know who I am, to feel like me again.”
Leanne rose from the table and Amy rose too, placing the last letter, P, on the board. Leanne looked down.
“Exactly,” she said.
“Ah, you just have to remember. And I don’t think you have anything better to do than remember who you really are. And you find out through experience. That’s how you know who you are. That’s how the world knows who you really are. Action. It’s not in the talk, it’s in the walk.”
“Gotcha,” Amy said, petting Norman by the fire as they walked out.
“Now, no offense, but get the hell out of here. I want to take my bath.”
Amy’s leopard feet stalked slowly down the stone path, taking a left toward the Farmer’s Market. She felt like she was going to throw up. She stopped in the street and looked back at Leanne, who shot an arm up in a wave.
“It’s time to go live a new story, honey!” she called.
“I think I’m going to barf,” Amy said.
“That’s good! That’s the feeling you get when you leave your comfort zone! Follow the barf feeling!”
“Thank you. I owe you.”
“No, kid. The only thing you owe anyone is your happiness. Your misery, that serves nobody. Your joy? That serves the world. May your cup run over, my child.”
This is an ongoing series from a forthcoming fiction novel by Sarah Durham Wilson of DOITGIRL.
Tune in weekly for the next chapter in ‘The Transformation of Amy Lunaro’.
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