Ashes of Foreverland by Tony Bertauski Page A

her eyes still spoke them, the creases on her forehead were very clear.
    Look what you do to me.
    Alex lifted her hand halfway to her head before stopping. She thought the voices were beginning to swarm, but it was just the lawnmower. That strange crowd of voices, young voices like children, still came in waves. If she listened for them, they were always there, in the distance. The doctors had no explanation, just to be patient.
    Hank came back into the kitchen and asked for a corkscrew. Madre refused to let him open the wine. They argued while he pulled the cork out.
    Cheese and crackers were served and nearly gone when Samuel finished mowing. Madre’s worry lines had faded in the warm glow of red wine. Now there was just laughter, and a warm feeling infused the room, like sunshine beamed from the light fixtures. The last time Alex felt like that she was very young, before she was saddled with worry and declarations.
    A sunbeam sliced through the window; a heavy cloud of dust danced in the light when she noticed the distant chatter, like a crowd on the other side of the fence, the garbled words muffled in the trees. She paused at the sink and looked into the backyard until the voices faded.
    Samuel had turned the yard into paradise. Almost everything was blooming yellow, her favorite color. Butterflies and bees and dragonflies came to visit and never seemed to leave. And the scent of her favorite shrub filled the kitchen, violet flowers in full bloom.
    Lilac.
    â€”—————————————
    H ank dropped the last card on the pile and they added up the points. Alex wrote down the scores while Madre gathered the cards to shuffle. Samuel excused himself to find another bottle of wine.
    â€œWhen are you going to start writing?” Hank asked.
    â€œWhen I’m ready.”
    â€œWell, how long does that take?”
    â€œI’ll know.”
    â€œYou know what they say about getting back on the horse?”
    â€œWear a helmet?”
    Hank bellowed laughter like a distant relative of Santa. Madre arranged the cards all in one direction, tapping the deck on the table, and began the ritual of shuffling exactly seven times. She placed the deck in front of Hank.
    â€œWhatever happened to the piece you were working on, the one on animal abuse?”
    â€œHank.” Madre knocked on the deck. “More cards, less talk.”
    He nodded and dutifully cut the deck. Madre began dealing. Alex didn’t answer. She didn’t want to talk about writing or hospitals or accidents. She caught Samuel’s cards before they slid onto his chair, and waited for his return.
    â€œWhat’s done is done, Alex,” Hank said. “You can’t fix the past.”
    A cantankerous old fart, Hank liked politics and drama. Not the usual modus operandi for someone that grew up in the country. If you’re not pushing buttons, he once said, you’re not living. Hank insisted that stones were not meant to sit and rest, but to turn over to see what was hiding beneath. Sometimes that meant you had to throw a few.
    â€œI’m not trying to fix the past, Hank. Just leaving it where it belongs.”
    â€œBut you’re not writing. Sounds like the past is still in the present.”
    â€œStop,” Madre hissed. “Talk is over, old man.”
    â€œI’m just saying.” He gave his patented shrug and leaned back with a slight smile. It was the equivalent of a boxer taunting an opponent with his chin. “Alex is a writer. She’s not writing. So is she Alex?”
    â€œBones don’t heal overnight,” Alex said.
    â€œOr maybe they’re not broken.”
    â€œYou still limp.”
    He patted his hip. “That’s hard living, chica .”
    Alex bristled. He only called her chica when he was bored, his way of saying she hit like a girl.
    â€œYou could get it fixed,” she said.
    â€œIt’s not