Novel Journey Critiques

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. If you think we're wrong, please comment. We don't mind at all.

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

Original Chapter

Prologue
“Hurry, hurry! The head . . . crowning.”

Slap, slap. Someone running. Flip flops? Rubber soles?

“Shh!” Another voice, male this time, “don’t alarm . . . .”

“Paging Dr. Oglethorpe. Please return to nursing station nine.” Tinny voice. Crackling.

Loudspeaker?

She squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried to concentrate on the words being whispered around her, but they got mixed up with other hospital sounds – announcements, bells, and doors whooshing open. Was something wrong? Was her baby in trouble? A clammy hand grasped hers and squeezed it hard.

“Breathe, Traci, breathe.” Mom’s voice? Where was Tom?

She heard a voice scream. Hers?

The pains came close now. She had no relief. She felt something bulky between her legs. Some kind soul mopped her forehead and whispered “Just a few more minutes, Little Mother. Hang on.”

A face masked in green hovered over her. Green again. A bell chimed signifying the birth of a baby. It was the last thing she remembered.

Chapter One

Nineteen Hours Earlier

Good grief, how much longer do I have to do this?

Traci Michaels glared at the bottom step leading up to her condominium. A ragged sigh caught in her throat. Multi-colored pebbles encrusted in concrete glinted back at her in the hot Arizona sun. Threads of sweat oozed from under the hairs at the nape of her neck and trailed their way down her back like the erratic edges of a jigsaw puzzle. She tried to get rid of them by scrunching up her shoulders and twisting her thrown back head. She could put the grocery bags down and wipe the wetness away with a hand. But if she did, would she be able to pick them up again?

The wet rivulets tickled her skin and reminded her of fingernails skipping lightly on a blackboard. Like the time that Samantha girl tapped a staccato sound on one in the high school newsroom to draw attention to herself. Why, on God’s green earth, had that memory surfaced? Maybe to escape? To remember happier times? Oh, God, please help me. Please get this agony over with.

She heard herself groan as she hefted the bags bulging with groceries from the wire granny cart, as her mom laughingly called it, and rested them on her bulging stomach, then started counting. One, two, three . . . . She paused to grip the green metal rail at step number eight. Thankfully, the rail was shaded from the intense heat of the sun by the feathery branches of a tree, so it was only warm to her touch. The tree that Tom planned to trim because its branches obscured the view of his beloved mountains. The letter from the United States government had come the same day he’d bought the long-handled trimmer. Their lives switched immediately from tree trimming to chaos. Like so many other chances, he never got the chance to trim the tree. She took a deep breath sucking in hot, dry air, and felt a nudge inside her belly. Maybe Michaela hates stairs as much as I do. Her curled her lips into a sneer and forced her foot up the next stair.

Finally eighteen. Hating stairs to begin with, she had compulsively counted them when she first moved in. Now she was glad. Counting gave her a goal, just as marking the days off the calendar helped her focus on Michaela’s impending birth. She laughed inwardly at her compulsiveness. Tom would have teased her about that. Tom would have, if he could have. Tom is gone. And I am all alone.

The plastic bags slipped from her fingers onto the green-painted cement porch. She stood for a few seconds gripping the porch rail until the dizziness passed.

Her legs shook from the weight she carried in front of her. She fished in her purse for her key. Her fingers grasped the metal ring, and she realized she was sobbing. Tears plopped onto the package of chicken that had escaped to lay at her feet forming a puddle of pink condensation. Will this ever end? There was no sense praying or asking God her question. He hadn’t stopped
Tom from dying, and he certainly hadn’t comforted her since.

The green metal door finally swung open. Green. Why is everything in my world green? She gathered the bags up and sucked in the chilled air like a guppy gulping food granules from the surface of the water. The sudden relief from heat in the air-conditioned room dried the sweat and tears to a film on her clammy skin. Still trembling, she collapsed in the room’s only chair that would accommodate her bulk. Staring at the pale green walls, she wept openly. For what, she wasn’t sure. For loneliness, for love lost, for the life she carried inside of her?

Tugging off her shoes, she rubbed her swollen ankles until her fingers ached, but no relief came. Why had she worn tennies when flip flops would have allowed her puffy feet to expand? She heaved herself out of the chair, pushing on the padded arms with sweaty palms, then transferred her hands to the beach ball-sized protrusion below her tender breasts knitting her fingers under her expanding belly to support it. Her knees locked for a moment and almost snapped from the effort. Maybe she should call Mom to come over. Or maybe just go to bed. She recalled Nana’s frequent complaining about her bones aching. As a teenager, she had scoffed at the old lady’s whining. Now, she wondered if it was possible for bones to ache. The tiredness she felt seemed to penetrate beyond her muscles to the core of her bones. Suddenly, Michaela kicked so hard Traci almost doubled over. Just one big kick, like an announcement, a declaration.

She was more than exhausted. If only Tom were here, he’d know what to do. There were plenty of American soldiers in Iraq without wives and children waiting at home.