Novel Journey Critiques ~ Week 8

Remember, our suggestions are just that—suggestions. The wise author will use discernment and pick up what works for him/her and ignore what doesn't.

We've each been edited/critiqued by professional editors, best-selling authors, etc. and no one has been tougher on us than us. Our hope is you and this author, who bravely subbed his/her work, will benefit.

Our critique code is as follows:
( ) = suggest deleting
[ ] = sugges adding
** = comments
gws=goes without saying
rue=resist the urge to explain
im= interior monologue

Original Chapter

PROLOGUE

If I had known that children break on the inside and the cracks don't surface until years later, I would have been more careful with my words.

If I had known that some parents don't live to be grandparents and watch grandchildren grow, I would have taken more pictures, listened more and been more careful with my words.

If I had known that couples can be fragile and seek strength from one another and want from one another that which they are unprepared to give or unwilling to take, I would have been more careful with my words.

If I had known that teaching lasts a lifetime, that students have tragic lives, yet speak as if all is well, I would have been more careful with my words.

If I had known that my muscles and organs and bones and skin are not lifetime guarantees that when broken, snagged, unstitched or unseemly, can be returned for replacement, I would have been more careful, more respectful and kinder to the shell that prevents my soul from leaking out.

If I had known that I would live over half my life and have to look at photographs to remember my birthday party when I was four, adjusting my party hat so that my father could take the picture that sliced the moment out of time; if I had known, if I had known, I would have been more careful with my life.
Leah B.
Discharge Statement
4 August

Chapter One

I was cruising the well-stocked aisles of Catalano's Supermarket when I lost my sanity buying frozen apple juice.

Like a one-armed, mechanical robot, I picked up and returned can after can of juice to the freezer case. "Okay, this one's four cents an ounce cheaper than this one. but this one's. . ."

My rising agitation would have been reflected in face had it not been almost paralyzed by the cold air swirling around it. Suddenly, though later even my therapist found this a difficult buy-in, I had one of those near-death, out-of-body experiences of watching myself staring at cans of apple juice. And the rational me, separated from the wing-nut me, still pondering the perplexities of juice, said. "Let's get her out of here before she topples head first into the freezer case and completely humiliates herself."

I walked away, abandoning my cart which was parked near the case, a lone testament to my struggle.

That was my epiphany for sobriety. Apple juice. Go figure.

###

When I announced I was entering a rehabilitation treatment program, Carl looked as if someone might be approaching him with a rope and a fast horse. He had the same narrow-eyed, forehead-furrowed expression that looked remarkably like the one greeting me in the mirror every morning.

Only his face hadn't screamed, "hangover."

The week before I was to appear for my one month tour of The Brookforest Center, the land of locked doors without alcohol, my husband Carl and I went out for dinner. Finding a restaurant that didn't serve alcohol or require standing at a cash-registered counter lined with paper-hatted teenagers was quite the challenge. Fortunately, Carl Andrew Bauer, Management Consultant, was quite adept at problem-solving. We met at International House of Pancakes.

So, during one of my last public meals before lockdown, I found myself impatiently awaiting my blueberry cheese blintzes, wondering if the blintz machine had broken. The waitress, Elouise, had finally arrived with the carafe of coffee half a lifetime after I ordered it. I thanked her, but she continued to stand her post. I realized that she was more interested in our conversation than in finding the culprit responsible for delaying our order.

I leaned toward her as if on the brink of revealing tabloid information. "Elouise," I whispered, "what's the likelihood of finding cups for the coffee?"

Her crimson lips puckered as if they'd just been pried off a lemon. She puffed her chubby chapped cheeks and toddled off to what I hoped was the holy grail of lost coffee cups.

Carl carefully placed his knife, fork and spoon atop his white faux-cloth napkin. Past experience reminded me he would leave them there until his food arrived. The utensils would never touch the table. They would move from their napkin cocoon into his butterfly mouth, no germ-laden opportunities in between. It was a ritual I'd come to expect at every meal away from home. So, while he orchestrated his dining concerto, I attempted to explain my addiction to the man who, oddly enough, used to tell me I was never satisfied.

"Carl, pretend someone asks if you want to spend gobs of money on something that will disappear in minutes, or be smashed repeatedly on the head with a wooden baseball bat, or vomit profusely with great predictability, or find yourself in bizarre places under weird circumstances you won't remember…"

Elouise was now hovering dangerously close, her brown tray gently seesawing near my head. My head, not Carl's. She nodded as she transferred her cargo of blintzes and whole wheat pancakes and, finally, coffee cups to our table. I wondered how long she'd been listening or if I'd soon be sharing tales with her in group therapy.

"So, anything else ya'll need?" With one hand, Elouise wedged her tray on her left hip and plunged her other hand into her rubber-banded tassel of platinum hair braids. She produced a golden #2 pencil with a flair David Copperfield would have applauded.

Sure, I thought, place my order for love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. But, since Elna Mae was clearly not in the business of feeding souls, I said, "No, thanks."

Car's attention shifted to his plate. He meticulously lifted each round, identically sized golden pancake with his fork and swirls his buttered knife around in figure eight patterns, so precisely the Olympic committee would have awarded him a score of 9.5—at least if the judge from China cooperated.