Celebrate the holiday season with a surprise reading of Liz’s new book to be released in December.
Excerpt from Mira’s Awakening Chapter 10
Girl’s Night Out
“You and Mira have been friends for a long time, I hear?” Devan asks.
“Yeah. We met in elementary school, but our paths never crossed that often until middle school,” she smiles at me fondly.
“And we became inseparable!” I add. “We went to school together, we lived walking distance from each other, and we did theater together during our school years.”
“Did you ever compete for parts?” Devan inquires with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
We both laugh uproariously at the absurdity of the question.
“God no! Look at us! We are complete opposites in every way. Even our voices suit different parts. I’m an alto. She’s a soprano. So, we never competed, but we blew the house down when we got to play opposite each other.” Tess smiles down at me again. “She got all the girly roles. I got all the kick ass roles. It worked.”
“It’s true,” I confirm as I wrap an arm around her. “Tess is the Rizzo to my Sandy!”
Wesley sniggers while Devan stares in confusion. “I don’t get it.”
“Shameful. Just shameful.” I shake my head. “First, I find out you’ve never seen Supernatural, and now Grease?”
“Not sure we can be friends with him anymore,” Lara finally chimes in, the alcohol seeming to bring her back to life again.
“Hey, give the man a shot. Everyone can be taught and he seems like a smart guy,” Tess says with tentative approval.
“Thanks?” Devan quips.
“Yeah,” Lara agrees. “He might look like Danny Zuko but he has the brains of… Ummm…”
“Stone,” Tess and I say in unison. We both developed huge crushes on the character after seeing the musical City of Angels. Stone is sexy and smart and a little dangerous. Yes, please.
“You’re comparing me to a rock? Is that your way of calling me a blockhead or something?”
“No, silly,” Lara giggles sloppily, “he’s a character from the musical City of Angels. He’s a private investigator. It’s a compliment!”
“Do me now! Do me!” Wesley begs.
“Seymour!” Lara shouts with a giggle.
Wesley frowns. “For real? That dorky little dude in Little Shop of Horrors?”
“She’s kidding, Wesley,” I reassure him. “No, I bet when you’re sober you’re more like a Nathan Detroit.”
Wesley perks up. “Who’s that?”
“From Guys and Dolls,” Tess and I explain, again in unison.
Tess looks around thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, we could typecast the leads right here at the table.” She points to Devan. “Sky Masterson, the charming, dashing gambler, out to win the heart of the heroine.” She points to Wesley. “Nathan Detroit, the charismatic, irresistible comic relief.” She points to Lara. “She’s without a doubt an Adelaide.”
Lara nods proudly, clearly accepting the compliment. Adelaide is, after all, a bombshell. Of course, knowing Tess, she’s attributing the character’s flightiness and high-pitched voice to Lara as the most obvious comparison.
“And my dear friend here is the sweet, strait-laced, God-fearing Sarah Brown.”
Bowing my head in mock appreciation, I revel in how she loves to tease me this way, mostly because of how much she believes it! It’s true I’m more conservative than, say, pretty much the entirety of San Francisco…but that’s not saying as much about me as it does about the city! Still, finding ways to contradict her perception and shocking her to speechless is one of my greatest pleasures in life.
“What about you?” Wesley asks Tess.
“Tess is an Ellen from Miss Saigon,” I interject.
Tess gasps in affront. “What? No I’m not! She’s a whiny bitch!”
“Nuh-uh! Her husband’s the whiny bitch! She’s kick-ass! She’s like, ‘You’re not taking my husband from me, you cow! I don’t care if you boinked him first and he was super depressed you were dead, but you actually weren’t! You had his baby? Whatever, we’ll just take him from you then.’ Wham, bam, bam!” I imitate badass chick karate moves.
Lara giggles while Tess stares at me like I’ve lost my marbles.
“I don’t think that’s quite how it went!” Lara says.
“Last time I checked, Ellen didn’t kick Kim’s ass. Sadly, there are no ninjas in Miss Saigon. Or, maybe you saw some cracked-out interpretation of the musical without me somewhere along the way?”
I shrug.
“Sorry. I’m not an Ellen. I’m an Oolie,” Tess says with finality.
I nod my head in agreement. “Oh, yeah, you’re definitely an Oolie.” I turn to Devan. “She’s also a character from City of Angels. She’s a tough-as-nails smart-ass, just like my girl,” I say affectionately, giving her a little squeeze. “No backsies on the Ellen comparison. That one stands, too, because she’s strong as hell.”
“OK, one more. Do Nicolas,” Wesley requests.
“That’s easy. Lara, can you guess what I’m thinking?”
“Yep.” She hiccups. Then burps. “Henry Higgins!”
I wink at her.
“Hey,” Devan exclaims, “I actually know that one! The professor in that movie… What was the name again? My mom made me watch it once. Oh, yeah! My Fair Lady!”
“Well done,” Tess says patronizingly as she pats him on the arm.
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Mira’s Awakening: An Excerpt from the Prologue
Prologue: The Twenty-First Day
“Are you ready?” she asks.
Ready? Am I…ready? That has to be the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. I don’t actually know this woman but it doesn’t matter. I despise her.
I’ll admit, my hatred was set in stone the moment I knew what she was here to do, so she never actually had a chance. But then, she seriously had to ask me if I was ready? For God’s sake! Don’t they get training in this kind of thing?
I can’t bear it. She disgusts me. I imagine her as an adult from a Charlie Brown cartoon, trombone riffs replacing her words and protecting me from their meaning.
Strange how the brain works. I’m aware that I’m experiencing the psychosomatic symptoms of trauma and can acknowledge that my mind is shielding me from her words. You’d think that understanding how the brain works would make me stronger in this type of situation. Nope. Doctorate degree be damned. What good was all that education if I can’t even apply it to myself? Story of my life, I guess.
Am I ready? No. No, of course not. Who the hell would ever be ready for something like this? This might be just another day for her, but it’s my worst nightmare.
God, I’m exhausted. I can’t take it anymore, so I flip my switch and fade to gray.
Every one of my senses is dull to the point of obscurity. I try to respond to her question; try to turn my head; try to make eye contact. I fail. I’m a million miles away: so far removed from everything and everyone in the room that I give up completely, surrendering to the sorrow once more. I’m underwater, sinking slowly to the black depths of the San Francisco bay. And at the moment, I really don’t care that I’m drowning.
Is this really happening? It feels surreal, as if I have been living in a bad dream for twenty-one days. Maybe I have been. If this were only a nightmare, I could wake up and everything would be fine. I would tell him about the nightmare over breakfast, and we would laugh about it in relief. Eventually. It might take a while to learn to joke about it. After all, some nightmares take a few days to shake off; some take a lifetime.
I would recover in time, though, because in this new reality I would wake up, roll over, and he would be there: warm, healthy, and whole! I would hold him closer than ever and he’d smile sleepily. Then, of course, he’d fall right back to sleep (because that man can sleep), but I’d be in his arms so it would be OK. I’d let him sleep in every day for the rest of our very long lives together if only he would wake up now.
Just wake up. Please?
I’m tired. So tired. Sleep has been a disorienting thing lately. Actually, it has been a terrible tease. No matter how horrific the day was or how little I slept, the next morning began with a little reset button. A clean slate. Each day I woke cold and alone, yet with ineffectual hope that today would be the day he would recover and all would be well.
Sometimes the hope stemmed from the fogginess of sleep. In sleep, my mind could journey to the glorious fantasy world it created to escape from this torment. When I woke, I was granted a moment or two of contented bliss. Bliss! Imagine that, at a time like this! Until reality set in and I remembered. Then I would get to the hospital. “No change.” “Worse condition.” “No hope, sorry. But, you never know, so…maybe?” “No. No chance at all. Prepare yourself.” (As if there was a way to prepare for this!)
Some days were different. I would wake fully aware of my circumstances but with hope that today would present the miracle we all prayed and prayed and prayed for. It was easy to get out of bed the mornings I woke with hope. I could eat without forcing it down. Hell, I would even smile every now and again! I believed I would get to the hospital and his beautiful, knowing eyes would finally open. He would grin and complain about the hospital food. Oh, to hear him complain about something! Knowing him, he’d turn it into a quip about bureaucratic conspiracies that would have me rolling my eyes.
I didn’t wake with hope today; no reprieve from the sorrow. It was as if my subconscious grieved all night long…no chance to forget. My emotional roller coaster of recurring hope, desperation, faith, and despair has now come to a screeching halt. Today I face my new reality. Am I ready?
This morning was a devastating prelude to the worst day of my life. I opened a text message from an unfamiliar number, innocently believing it to be more words of support from one of Peter’s friends. Of course, I could not have been more wrong about this particular text.
I don’t know who sent me that hateful message but it jolted me to this state of eerie existential acceptance I’m stewing in now. It’s a little scary, if I’m being honest with myself (or, at least, it would be if I weren’t too numb to care), because in it lies emptiness. I’m in a sensory deprivation chamber and there is no door, all thanks to a single text message begging me not to murder my husband. Warning me I would regret the consequences. Who does something like that?
Anyone with the correct knowledge of his situation would never say anything so heinous! Not if they had cried and agonized and prayed alongside me, had met with the doctors, had heard the news become bleaker each day, had felt my despair in finally accepting the doctors’ advice. No. That person, whoever it was, understands nothing. Nothing.
How long have I been sitting here? I feel several sets of eyes burning into me. I can’t look at the nurse. At anyone. I know who’s here. The blurry blobs across the room are my mom and stepdad Brice. I can’t bear the sight of them so I won’t try bringing them into focus. They’re grieving because they loved him, too, so one look at them would push me over the edge.
My best friend Tess and her husband, Rick are here. I can’t see them. Wait, are they here? I saw them this morning, didn’t I? Yes. I remember, they were at my house right after I got the nasty text. Tess swore up a storm and then deleted the message so I wouldn’t be tempted to read it again. Rick stomped around the house like a raging bull. I was hugged so fiercely I thought I might burst. Maybe they didn’t come to the hospital? I can’t remember.
The blurry blob sitting next to me is the social worker. I know that much. The doctor insisted she be here. A social worker? Really? That feels odd to me. I thought social workers just did things like removing kids from abusive households and such. But I studied psychology, not social work, so what do I know about it?
I can’t even look at Peter anymore. I’ve been doing that for three weeks and it hurts too much today. Instead, I stare at our intertwined hands. That’s the only thing I can see clearly. His fingertips are black. Black! I hide them under my hand so I don’t have to look at them. There. That’s better. But his hand feels different. It’s still big and callused in the same way, but now it’s just…stiff. And it isn’t as warm as it once was. And it doesn’t embrace mine anymore.
God, I hate the smell in here! I’ve been smelling it every day for three weeks. For twenty-one days. And if I never do it again, it will be too soon. And the soap! It’s noxious and nauseating. It doesn’t resemble flowers or fruit or spice. It reeks of medicine and dying, and when I inhale it makes me want to gag and rage and cut off my hands and toss them in a meat grinder. Why didn’t I just bring my own soap from home? I would feel better if I didn’t smell like this. Or not. Who am I kidding?
The social worker touches my shoulder. Touch is good. It always pulls me from my meanderings. And given that this is the worst woolgathering episode I’ve experienced in a lifetime of introverted withdrawals, I’m grateful for it.
I slowly drag my gaze from our hands to try to focus on her. Success. I have tunnel vision and now this stranger next to me gets all my attention. All that I have to give, anyway. She has the kindest smile. My eyes cloud at the goodness and compassion radiating from hers. Empathy. I wonder if she’s lost someone, too? Yeah, she has. It’s written all over her face.
She isn’t pretty per se. Dark, messy hair. No makeup. No defining features. Yet she exudes kindness. She looks like she does this all day every day and I’m convinced she must be the strongest person in the world for it.
I wonder how anyone can do her job and remain a functioning human being? Maybe she’s a raging alcoholic outside work hour or she moonlights as a stripper or she battles to the death in an underground fighting club to manage the stress. Whatever the case, good for her! The fact that she’s sitting next to me and telling me with her eyes that I’m not alone makes her the most beautiful person in the world. If she can be strong, so can I. Right?
Am I ready? No. And I refuse to say I’m ready, because I will never be ready. Still, I manage a small whisper in the general direction of the nurse. “Go ahead.”
The nurse blob glides to the machine. The noises stop. She disappears.
“Mira, why don’t you tell me about him?” the social worker asks.
So I do. I tell her how incredible he is. I murmur stories of how we met, how we fell in love, and how brilliant and talented and loved he is. Was.
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Excerpt from Coming Alive Chapter 2: Heebie Jeebies
“That’s right, Uma! Someone did the reading last night!” I turn my back to her. “Incoming!” I fling the lollipop right into the outstretched hands of the young woman. The class whoops as Uma blushes in pleasure.
Beaming, I raise my hands. “Score!”
Two boys in the back mock-bow to my greatness, so I grant them a curtsy.
“OK, OK. As Uma so astutely explained, negative reinforcement is not the same thing as punishment! They are actually opposite concepts. This is probably the most misunderstood principle in the field of Applied Behavior Analysis. If all of you leave my class today understanding the term, I win at life. I’m depending on you, people! No pressure… Who can give me the definition of negative reinforcement?”
Four students raise their hands. Good sign! Some semesters I hear crickets chirping when I ask this question. “Robert! Go!”
Robert takes a deep breath. “OK, I think I got this. Negative reinforcement is the removal of an aversive stimulus that…increases the likelihood a specific behavior will occur in the future. Like, if you have a headache, you take medicine and the headache goes away. Because it took the pain away, you will take the medicine again in the future. Wait. Was that right?” He winces and gives me an adorably hopeful look.
My thirty students look like babies to me, but they’re adults. Technically anyway! I scan the room to find a sea of beanies, long hair, Ugg boots, fuzzy pajama pants, and ratty T-shirts, but they’re all beautiful to me.
“A nice summary and a perfect example. I like how you put the definition in your own words. It’s one thing to memorize the scientific definition, but another to truly understand it. This is an applied science, people! We apply it!”
I grab another lollipop to toss. “Incoming!”
The candy bounces off Kelly’s head before smashing on the floor.
“Oops! My bad. You OK, Kelly?” I ask.
She laughs and waves a dismissive hand in the air.
Maybe I should switch to gummy bears? Oh, well.
I clap my hands. “Speaking of applied science, let’s apply it now! Break into groups of four and come up with some examples for each principle of reinforcement and punishment. Each team with correct responses gets an extra five points added to their next quiz grade… Just saying…” I give a cheeky grin and wiggle my eyebrows as my students get into formation to begin the activity.
I plop down on the desk with a sigh and flip open my laptop. Is it ridiculous that simply remembering to tally participation points is the hardest part of my job? I need a teacher’s assistant! Nicolas has one for his statistics classes and he always looks so put-together. Of course, he would look immaculate and organized in a hurricane. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to kindergarten wearing cardigan sweater with a briefcase and collating file folder in hand. As for me, it’s like pulling teeth to remember what happened ten minutes ago!
OK, think. Who said what again? Damn. Damn, damn, damn!
Now I’m tired. Again. Why is it that every class feels like a performance? It isn’t that I wear a mask—my enthusiasm for my field and affection for my students are quite genuine. It’s just that my energy has an on-and-off switch. It brings me back to my theater days as a kid. Regardless of my mood or level of exhaustion, I knew the show must go on and I would always give it my all until the curtain went down. God, I miss those days! And they certainly taught me how to pull myself together despite whatever emotional rollercoaster I was on.
Having something to focus on is the key. At home, my son is my tether; at school, it’s my students. They are walking, talking reasons to get out of bed in the morning. Combined with sheer will, knowing they depend on me has helped me get through even the hardest days.
Over the years, the intense, stabbing emotional agony has faded. The pain is more like a dull roar now. It’s always there but I can usually function through it. It’s kind of like the difference between standing under or standing next to Niagara Falls. It’s certainly less painful to stand next to it, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t ignore Niagara Falls.
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Excerpt from Mira’s Awakening, Ch 8: Like a Buoy
Mira: Eleven Years Old:
I’m sailing with my dad on a small boat in the San Francisco Bay. It’s my first day in an actual sailboat, and it’s exciting! I love hanging out with Dad when it’s just us. He makes me feel special. He’s funny and he teaches me things that I can brag a little about later. Well, it feels like bragging but that isn’t the right word.
I’m shy and it’s hard for me to talk to most people, so it’s nice to have something interesting to say when someone in my class asks me what I did that weekend. Dad taught me how to ski when I was just five years old, and now I’m really good at it! People seem impressed when they know I learned so young.
Of course, there was that one time when I was really little, maybe seven or so, that I took a turn too wide and fell partway down a cliff. But then I stopped. The snow was very powdery, and there was a tree right in my path that stopped me from falling all the way.
I remember lying there on my back, looking down to the bottom of the cliff. I couldn’t move for fear that I would lose the security of the big, beautiful tree holding me in place. I could see all the way down to the bottom, and it was a long, long way down. There was a snow plow down there and some kind of truck. I remember thinking how odd that was…and how small it looked. I could see to either side of me: pretty much just snow. Weird that I fell right here. Right where this tree could catch me. I couldn’t see the trail at all, and I didn’t dare try to look because that might move my body around too much.
I didn’t know how far I fell, and I couldn’t see the trail I fell from, but I could hear. I could still hear my dad. I was scared, but I remember thinking, as long as I can hear my dad, I’ll be OK. He told me he was coming to get me. That was good because I knew Dad wouldn’t lie to me. Sure enough, I felt his big, strong hand reach out for me, grab me by the back of my ski jacket, and pull me straight back up the trail within seconds.
Dad brushed the snow off my snowsuit. He congratulated me on not losing a single ski or pole, instructed me on how to take cleaner turns, and told me to keep going down the ski run. So I did. Much, much more carefully, though.
Dad also taught me how to ice skate; he taught me how to sand down and restain wood furniture; he taught me a few tap dancing moves, too! I want to do theater like he does if I can ever get the courage to audition. Then I’ll always have something to talk about! I won’t just stand there, staring at the floor waiting for my brain to start working. I don’t know why I freeze up when people talk to me. I just do. Until I’m really comfortable with them, that is. But even then, sometimes I’d rather just be quiet and say nothing.
It’s a windy day, and he has his hands full, teaching me the ropes and helping me practice sailing terms. He shows me where things are in the boat and teaches me how to tie off. The most common thing he has me do is move from starboard side to port side, to compensate for the direction the wind is blowing. It’s really picking up and making the little boat a challenge to handle.
Not sure if he gives me the wrong direction, if I go the wrong direction, or if the wind is just too powerful for it to matter. Whatever the reason, in an instant and with no time to brace myself, I’m suddenly flung violently into the water.
I barely have time to register what happened before instinct kicks in. I’m a good swimmer and can do things like handstands and somersaults underwater at our local pool. I’m strong. Plus, my dad made me put on a life vest before we got anywhere near the water. So, my body just swims me up to the surface without even a thought.
But when I get to the surface, the precious air I need is nowhere to be found. I can’t emerge from the water! Reaching my hand out, I hit an immovable barrier instead of the air. It hurts to do it, but I open my eyes underwater to orient myself, then rear back in terror at what I find. White. No blue sky. All I see is white. Everywhere! I push at it, but it’s no use. Panic sets in and my mind goes into overdrive.
Not only did I fall into the water, the entire boat capsized. And it’s on top of me! I’m caught under the sail and I can’t see where it ends! And I’m going to die.
I retreat inside my head, something I am very used to doing when things get bad. I don’t even try to help myself. I don’t try swimming in a different direction for fear I’ll swim the wrong way. I don’t think to swim down deeper so I can see the end of the sail. No. I’m frozen in place. No way out. Until there is.
A big, strong hand grabs my life vest and yanks me hard to the side. Within a few seconds, Dad has me free from the sail and breathing again. And I’m safe, and I’m OK. But I’m also not. Shock sets in and I’m still completely in my own head.
On some level, I’m aware and grateful that Dad just saved my life. I’m also aware that I was in mortal danger and I did nothing to save myself. Nothing! I feel shame that I didn’t act. That I froze in the face of danger. I didn’t even move! What does that say about me? I’m a coward, of course. I already knew that!
I dimly process another small boat coming out to help us, pulling us on board, and towing our boat to their nearby dock. I’m shivering and someone hands me a towel. I dimly process a nice teenage girl hugging me and trying to comfort me in my obvious distress. I see everything through a cloud, drifting through the rest of my day. I barely speak. I barely think. In my head, I’m still stuck under the sail and I stay there for a very, very long time.
