Chapter Thirty-seven: Not so fortunate me

From the “Work in Progress” blog series

An aftermath of Ted’s death. An unmovable neck. Once again, I was stiff as a brick.

I called Archie’s office, and, fortunate me, Genevieve said, “How about a bright and early time tomorrow morning?”

The time was before bright and much too early to drop Trace at school. Fortunate him, he got to go with me. All the way, he listed grievances.

“I didn’t get to eat. I’m thirsty. I didn’t have time to brush my hair.” 

He frantically ran his hand across his head. That was more than I could bear since the last time Trace cared about his appearance was never.

I pulled into the small parking lot outside Archie’s first-floor office, rummaged through my purse, and held out a brush and comb to him. “All yours,” I said. 

He thrust his hand at them dismissively, slapping the brush and comb against the dashboard. They ricocheted onto the floor mat. 

“That’s enough.” I spoke to the windshield because I couldn’t turn my head. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Trace, but I’m aching here. I need Archie to help me.”

He silently reached for the brush and comb, placing them in the console between us. 

“I also need coffee,” I said. “If you want something, follow me. If not, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Chocolate milk and a Krispy Creme,” he said, opening the car door. 

Caffeine percolated through my veins, Trace hummed with sugar, and we walked, compatibly, if not companionably, to the small office complex. Trace pushed open the glass doors to the lobby as Trudy Stillman, a neighbor, and her daughter Vivian, an accomplished swimmer, a year or so older than Trace, stepped out of Archie’s office.

I waved at them, but Trudy was busy asking about every detail of the treatment Archie had given her daughter. Vivian’s singular response: “He says stop when I feel pain.”

Trace, not willing to be ignored, called out, “Vivian, did you need your neck cracked too?” 

That stopped mom and daughter and Trace pointed at me. I turned my body, not my frozen neck, toward Vivian. She giggled at Trace. Trudy grimaced at me. 

“My shoulder tightens up, and Dr. Mellon loosens it for me,” she said, as if treatment was routine. She was already becoming an elite athlete and already being treated regularly by Archie—and how many others? 

Archie appeared, Trace barreled into the office, and Trudy said, “Take care, Julie.”  I gingerly followed Trace inside, while Trudy peppered Vivian with questions again. Vivian, on repeat, said “Mom, I already told you that.”  

Archie pointed to an open storage closet. “Trace, there’s some medicine balls and foam rollers, if you want to use them.” Then he bent down so they were face to face and said, “I’m sorry about your dad,” and gently touched Trace’s shoulder. 

Trace didn’t speak but gave a quick nod. Archie said, “Go for it.”

And Trace did. 

“Thank you,” I said as Archie motioned for me to follow him into his large and immaculate treatment room. 

I hadn’t tried anything Archie had suggested, including getting massage at The Sunshine Center, so on my way to the treatment table, I wanted to get ahead of him. “What’s it like,” I said, “to deal with kids who might someday be Olympians?”

“The body is straightforward. The rest can be complicated,” he said. He reached for me and helped me lie back on the table. Once again, he unlocked my neck. 

“How so?” I said, taking a breath. 

Archie picked up my chart and a pen. I sat up, relieved to move my head side to side. 

“Even in young athletes,” he, said, “there’s a thin line between dedicated and obsessed. Dedicated athletes withstand ups and downs, losses, and injuries. Obsessed ones can’t.”

“How do you know the difference?” 

He jotted a few notes before he spoke.

“I don’t always,” he said, “until I see the impact on the body. With even the smallest things, obsessed athletes push themselves beyond working hard to harming themselves to get results.” 

He stepped toward the door, quietly tapping my chart against his hand.  I tried to imagine the Olympians and wannabes he treated, those angling for a chance or trying to extend their careers, those hoping injury wouldn’t cost them success or celebrity.  I stood up and felt staticky, like a signal was there, but I couldn’t quite tune in. 

“But,” I said. 

“I share what I know about the body’s limits and strengths. I try to pay attention to the person and their dreams, so they’ll be honest with me.” He opened the door. “I don’t always succeed,” he said as he stepped out.

Did he with Vivian? I thought of Trudy’s insistence and Vivian’s non-responses. The fuzzy feeling was still there. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I left the room too. 

On the floor, between a set of waiting-room chairs and a water stand, Trace was on his back, a white foam roller supporting him. 

“If you won’t use The Sunshine Center,” Archie said, “you could at least try the roller.” Point made, he nodded at Trace. “Stretching on it every day would make a big difference.”

Every day? I started to object. Then I remembered Margarita at The Sunshine Center hell bent on grabbing up her magazines. Obsessed, for sure.  

“Great,” I said. 

“Take one home,” Archie said.

Trace clapped his hands. “Yes,” he said.

That cemented it. Our gloomy morning was clearing out.  

Trace high-fived Archie with his right hand, secured the foam roller under his left arm, and headed out the office door. 

Archie moved behind Genevieve’s desk—it was still too early for her to be in—and I said, “Ted’s girlfriend, Margarita, worked at The Sunshine Center, did you know that?”

“I knew they had a new hire,” he said, “not about her and Ted. She left a message saying an injury—from her time on some team—had flared up, but she never came to see me.”

What team? What injury? I didn’t have time to ask. It was time to get Trace to school.

Instead, I said, “She moved away after Ted.”  

He looked at his list of appointments and then at me. “I remember Genevieve telling me she called the Center to offer Margarita an appointment and the receptionist telling her Margarita had gone off to reinvent herself. Or maybe it was that she didn’t want to be caught by the past so was becoming someone new. Something like that.”

“I have no idea what that means,” I said. 

“It was more than I needed to know,” he said. 

Then the phone rang. “Take it,” I said and waved good-bye. He took the call.

In the lobby, Trace was ramming the glass door open with the foam roller. “Be careful,” I started to say, but he was through it without harming anything before I could speak, so I just followed him out.  

I was the one who needed to be careful, not Trace. Oh, what if I’d realized that? 

Please leap with me. 

“Chapter 37: Not So Fortunate Me” is from It’s More Complicated Than That, a novel I am revising. It’s the first fiction I’ve included in the Work-in-progress blog. 

It feels odd to give you one chapter and little description of the novel, but I’m not including it here to focus on how it was written or to say much about its place within the novel. I want to show you how a chapter can be more than a chapter—how it can be a refresh option for a book. 

I had hoped the novel was done. I gave it to a reader and her comments/responses convinced me that it was not. Ugh. 

My choice: Dive in for another extensive revision or let the project sit and move on to something else?

For me, writing is a revising, but the process has inherent questions: Why am I doing it? To accomplish what? Is it (or will it be) worth it? It’s one thing for me to know a piece of writing is not working, but quite another to be unsure, not clear, that I can ever make it work. One opportunity in revision is to revisit or clarify or confirm what is at the core of a work—and I felt if I was going to do more with this novel, I needed to re-affirm that (and be able to believe in it). 

How to do that? I looked for what interested me—and Chapter 37 came to me. I knew it wasn’t well structured, but it felt fresh, and I liked Archie. There were good fictional reasons for me to take this chapter apart and make it new, but the fact that I wanted to work on it was a huge consideration. I was not sure I had any more to give the book—so the first thing I had to do was find a reason for staying with it. Making a new chapter for Archie was my catalyst. I began to chip away—writing and revising the chapter multiple times—until Vivian and her mother appeared. Then I had a way for Archie to talk about athletes and a way for him to reveal he’d had a phone message from Margarita. 

For every chapter, I ask why is it there? For Chapter 37, I learned it was for Archie to tell Julie something that she starts to get—hence that staticky feeling—but doesn’t. And there will be consequences to that. 

For me, revision can also be a bridge-building process—a way to connect chapters to each other and that is true for Chapter 37. What Archie inadvertently reveals to Julie about Margarita will spark actions and events that will lead her to the killer and reason for Ted’s death. 

Writing and re-writing Chapter 37 is also helping me to bridge the needs of the book to my desires and motivations. I needed to clarify if or how I wanted to revise the work. I knew if was going to keep working on it, I had to rekindle my interest and find a new way into revising it. Realizing how much work the book needed, I struggled.  Really? There’s that much to do? 

Revising Chapter 37 offered a side benefit—the chance to reconnect with and even like the book again.

I picked a chapter from the middle of the book to restart the revision process—and it gave me the chance to see the book from a new vantage point. Now I have a direction that will help me to shape the next 150 pages and how Julie will solve the mystery of Ted’s murder. Before I decide to let a piece go, I can ask--Is there a new or another way in? Something I’m curious about or would like to know? A way to refresh the work? 

I’m glad I’m giving the novel another chance.

Originally, my focus was on probability—how likely was it that I could make the book work? But through Chapter 37, I’m asking what is possible for this book?

Final Note: Does the chapter work? Now, I’ll also read for that.

Instagram: @cindyshearer2

Artwork by Neil Freese. Images by Klara Kulikova, I.am_nah, and Vino Li, courtesy of Unsplash.