First Quarter: First Place Winner
DEAD WOMEN DON’T THROW PARTIES
by Lisa Fary
On my left, sun-coaxed daisies waved at the sun, while on my right, snow spatter clung to ice blasted trees.
I stared out the window at the daisies in the garden, wanting so badly to be out there with them and the heat and the humidity and the palmetto bugs, instead of in this room with it’s vinylhide chair, rattling A/C, and sickeningly close smell of urine. The television screen flickered in the corner of my vision as Mom switched from the travel show about Maine back to the food channel, where a violently thin woman with an impossibly large head made risotto.
“What about Chef Ed? Does he still cater?” Mom asked. “I want trays of lumpia and ponset.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” I stifled the urge to sigh the same exasperated sigh she always had when her baby girl asked for something impossible like a pony. That pony is still a lot more likely than her getting lumpia and ponset. The woman could barely even choke down solid food anymore. “I’ll check.”
This party planning was my own fault for turning her television to a cooking show upon my arrival this morning. The perky brunette chef combined with the reality of a goopy oatmeal breakfast had set Mom down this road again. It didn’t take much, though. A makeover show yesterday had gotten her on about what she wanted to wear to the party.
“You should wear the diamond pendant Dad bought you for your thirtieth anniversary,” I’d suggested.
“Oh, no!” she’d shaken her head, the tip of the crocheted cap jiggling. “That’s way too fancy. I’ll wear that marijuana choker your brother made.”
“It’s called hemp, Mom.”
And now, ponset and lumpia. I should look up Chef Ed anyway, get an order for the house and sneak some into the hospice for Mom. Maybe a bite or two would make her happy.
“If we can’t do that,” she continued, “we can always order a big sandwich. Everyone loves a six foot sub.”
“With garlic pickles,” I added.
“With garlic pickles!” she agreed, smiling and jabbing her finger at me.
The orderly knocked on the open door, cheerfully announcing, “Lunchtime!” Mom rolled her eyes and stuck out her chin. How many times had I made that same face at something she tried to make me eat?
Mom let the orderly pull the wheely table up to her chest and even managed to feign interest in the tray he placed in front of her. She sweetly thanked him, then the second the orderly’s back was turned, Mom stuck her tongue out at the meal.
Who wouldn’t? Lentil soup and a roll, applesauce on the side. I’d had school lunches more appetizing. Shouldn’t every meal around here be treated like it could be the last?
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Mom muttered, spooning the soup into her mouth.
Hospice is like the Mafia: there’s only one way out. Did Mom even realize where she was? She was planning a party, kept talking about the things she was going to do when she got out. If she didn’t know this was a hospice, I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her. And if she did know. . . well, then what was she doing?
The remote fell to the mattress while she fiddled with her lunch; I snatched it and flipped back to the Maine show. A snowy jetty topped with a lighthouse filled the screen. DVDs were definitely on the list to bring tomorrow. South Pacific. Maybe something with Gene Kelly.
“You used to want to live there,” Mom said, inclining her head toward the screen, which had moved from the lighthouse to lobsters. She pushed the tray away, roll untouched, lentil soup three quarters full. “Whiskey,” she said.
“What?”
“I want whiskey at my party,” said my mother who hadn’t had a drink since that mai tai in Key West ten years ago. “Doctor Whosit said he could write a prescription for a shot if I wanted. I’ve been wanting one lately, too. I’ve never even had whiskey. Is that weird?”
“Who cares?” I replied. “It’s your party. What else do you want that you’ve never had? Should I order a male stripper for you?”
She choked out what constituted her laugh these days. “No stripper at the party. But, if you could get one in here, that would be nice.”
I looked at the party list. “OK, ponset, lumpia, a big sandwich, that hemp choker, and whiskey. Anything else you want? Want to have the party in Maine?”
“No, I hate the snow,” she said, eyes on the television. “I just want everyone to have a good time, you know? I don’t want people bored or crying in my house.”
Bored or crying. Suddenly, Mom’s intentions with her party planning were clear.
“You should wear that diamond pendant to the party,” she said. “It would look nice on you.”
I gazed back out the window at the daisies, doing their best to stand up straight and stay bright in the pounding summer sun, waiting for night to fall so they could finally rest.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lisa Fary is the founder of PinkRaygun.com. She’s angry that it's almost 2010 and she still doesn't have a hovercraft, but will accept a jetpack as consolation. That jetpack had better be pink with a rhinestone monogram.
JUDGE’S COMMENTS:
This story immediately caught my attention. This author has a definite knack for bringing the reader into the scene. The use of description convinces you of the "reality" of the scene, without overwhelming you with detail. Within the strong setting, the impression of the characters begins to grow on the reader. The author does not make the mistake of trying to dump all the information about each character on the reader all at once; instead, you get to know the characters as they evolve in the course of the story. Little details like the type of food the mother thinks she would like add a sense of realism to the story. This gives the impression of an author who is, in some respects, writing about what she knows (wouldn't be surprised if she's had a relative in a nursing home), but it doesn't come across as "I'm writing about my life and pretending it's fiction." Finally, the story builds to a nice conclusion-it grows logically out of the course of the story, without being an obvious "Ah! Now here's the moral/punch line/revelation" moment.