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Martin
Copyright 2016, 2017 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for my children: alive, in heaven, and those who could have been.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Thoughts while falling asleep.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Draft Number One: Nothing yet.
Draft Number Two: Corrected a few typos and consistency errors. Mostly pleased.
Draft Number Three: Nothing, yet.
It’s been a while.
It was late evening in the early winter of 2015. I was snoozing, caught up in a rare moment of relaxation, stuck between full sleep and semi-consciousness.
Images and words and sounds and sensations mixed: the random things one dreams about when asleep, or when falling asleep.
And then there was something with a story. At first I thought it was one of those self-directed things: when you know you’re dreaming, and you start exploring and don’t wake up, and find strange and wonderful things. But it was more of a type of incident-slash-reunion.
No matter what it could be called, I experienced it with great interest.
I was walking down a hallway rather slowly. I was old and probably in a nursing home, yet still able to move by myself although it was slow going.
As I moved along, a young man appeared by my side.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
Mom? And then I realized: this is Martin, my son.
My son ... had My Love and I gotten married and had we chosen to have children.
“You okay, Mom?”
I checked him out.
His height was difficult to determine because I saw mostly his face and his upper body. He had my broad long forehead, my long face, my misshapen features. He had some of his father in his face and in his smile. His personality was more expansive than those of his parents: open and friendly without being aggressive; good-natured and a good sport. Not that his parents were not: we were, and are, eager to connect with others, but tend to be rather reserved.
I admired my son the way I admire my one living child: the sweetness of his profile and his forehead, the delicate protrusion of his eyebrows and nose, the smoothness of the skin that we all share in our tiny family.
The most I could see was to his waist. Below that, something was different, because his arms were stretched out a bit ahead of him. I’m guessing his legs or feet or thighs or all of the above were not healthy, and he needed assistance in order to walk.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m okay.”
He smiled like both of his parents. “I would actually exist if you and Dad had actually ... you know. You killed me by not doing it.” He said this last sentence with a teasing smile, sotto voce just like his father would have, and with the dark irreverent sense of humor we all shared.
I said, “I’m sorry, Martin. We wanted to. We were enjoying the chase. Too much, I now realize.”
“Aaaaand you didn’t have me. But that’s okay. I’m here anyway.”
Something about that seemed highly understated and made me wonder what was ahead for both of us.
We moved along in a companionable silence.
I reached out to help him when something happened -- I don’t know what; he might have fallen or tripped. But he said, “I’ll be okay. I can do it myself.” As I waited for him to re-appear, words came to mind from a book or magazine: Ask the disabled if they need assistance; don’t assume that they do.
I admired his independence but would do anything for him and give my life for him, the way I would for my other children.
And I thought of them all: my living child; the twin who I believe was with us for a while inside me and then left; the other children I would have had, if I had married at a young age and if circumstances would have allowed for more than two or three.
I looked at Martin, thinking about asking him about them all.
He smiled at me again, in some way telling me with his face how everyone was doing.
He moved away, into the distance, and I could almost see the others waiting.
But it was not time to join them.
He said as he returned to them: “I’ll see you later, Mom. I'll see you again.” Did he add something else? With a serious face? Maybe something like, “Soon. So you’ll understand.” Was his face serious as he looked back for a moment ... checking me out, then smiling a bit, perhaps triumphantly? Maybe yes to all of the above.
I was about to slip further into sleep, but I still felt a sweet smile on my face.
Martin, Revisited
Copyright 2016 -- 2019 Christina M. Guerrero
INTERMEDIATE DRAFT
PROLOGUE, FIRST SECTION - Martin - Thoughts while falling asleep. Which led to a short story. Which led to a novel.
CHAPTER ONE - The English Rose - Martin in love.
CHAPTER TWO - The Mooch Message - You may think words don't matter. But they do.
CHAPTER THREE - Congratulations - Time to celebrate. Or is it?
CHAPTER FOUR - The Heart Of Man - Who we are.
INTERLUDE NUMBER ONE - Turning A Writing Project Into A Novel - A few things to consider
CHAPTER FIVE - The Dead Thing - The green spaceship theory.
CHAPTER SIX - TBD
CHAPTER SEVEN - TBD
CHAPTER EIGHT part one - Their Children, Again - Life as a child.
CHAPTER EIGHT part two - Their Children, Once More - Growing up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN- A Scent Of Roses - Pondering infinity.
IN PROGRESS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Spirit Of A Good Man - Don't underestimate people. You'd be surprised what they're capable of.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - G-Rated Swear Words - What pays the bills is not easy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - His Place Full Of Space - What makes a place a home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Hallelujah - In search of the truth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Recovery - The body, soul, and spirit need time to recover from injustice.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - A Bit Of Heaven - The holidays are difficult for some.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Who's The Hero? - Looking for hope.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - Zombie Caleb And The Holidays - Dealing with flashbacks.
CHAPTER UNKNOWN - The Mystery Of Spasiba - Are babies paying attention?
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