Between These Pages

Praise for BETWEEN THESE PAGES

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The first half of the book was good, but the second half actually contains the majority of my favorite stories. The first half is especially geared toward women, but there were a lot of thrills and horror in the second half of Between These Pages, making it enjoyable to a wide variety of tastes.

Cathy MacKenzie is one of my favorite personalities when it comes to writers. I’ve always thought she had a crazy side, but she’s managed to put her insanity into a bottle and pour it into a book for us to read.

With respect to the other authors I’ve reviewed, Between These Pages is probably the best book by an independent author that I’ve read over the course of this year.  It was well-written and contains a lot of interesting topics.

Between These Pages was an excellent read.

—Joshua Hicks, July 2013

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Not all of the stories are good but enough are great to make up for it, making this a very readable collection. I started off not particularly engrossed, but by about half way through the stories became sharper. They more often ended with a satisfying twist, or an ambiguity that was thought provoking rather than simply baffling.

Perhaps it is because the author ordered the stories by the age of the protagonists, and older characters naturally have more depth and pathos. Or perhaps because the elements of infidelity, troubled relationships, and murder go from being repetitive to genuine themes as each story adds a new layer.

—Psyche Skinner, reviewer on Goodreads, September 12, 2013 (4 out of 5 Stars)

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Catherine can create a fabulous story out of some of life's very mundane experiences, a rare ability limited to a few bestselling authors such as Stephen King and Joyce Carol Oates. I recommend all of her short story collections to readers always on the prowl for a cornucopia of delicious reads.

—Robert L. Arend, August 2013

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BETWEEN THESE PAGES

A Collection of Short Stories

2012-2013

by Catherine A. MacKenzie

Copyright ©2013

Catherine Anne MacKenzie

Published by: MacKenzie Publishing

June 2013

Contact the author at:

Email:

Mail to:writingwicket@gmail.com

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License Notes

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, real places, locations or situations is purely coincidental and unintended.

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Introduction

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In my opinion, the stories in this book are some of the best I have written. Although a writer/editor I very much respect advised that one of the stories is simply an awfully unworthy story that I should walk away from, it is included because I like it and have had some good reviews on it.

These stories were written in 2012 and the first part of 2013. Some have been published previously, and others will be soon published in an upcoming anthology.

Several of these stories are on the sappy side. Despite the fact they don’t really fit in with the others, they are included here especially for my mother, who recently asked me, Can’t you write anything happy?

It was suggested I separate these stories by the age of the main characters, which I have attempted to do, although the first story is slightly ambiguous.

Life has seasons:

Childhood - Spring

Early Adulthood - Summer

Middle Age - Fall

Old Age - Winter

I hope you enjoy this book.

Cathy

June 2013

Table of Contents

1.  Collecting Knocks 

2. Doorbells and December

3.  Away with the Fairies

4.  Night Candy

5.  Island Lovers

6.  The Party

7. Balloons, Chocolates, and Flowers

8.  Rearview Mirror

9.  Hourglass

10. Quota

11. Between the Good and the Bad

12. The Mannequin

13. Molly Mulligan

14. Afterward

15. Trapped in the Swallow

16. Tart Thorns among Silken Threads

17. Footprints in the Snow

18. Blood Dreams

About the Author

-1-

Collecting Knocks

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Seven knocks on the door this year. Last year when I was six, there were six knocks. The year before that, five. Next year, there will be eight. I’ll be eight then, you know. Eight years old; eight knocks.

But for the rest of this year, the number will remain at seven. I count the knocks every time, for the raps on the heavy wood door tell me I’m still alive. And when I hear that extra knock, I know I’m a year older.

I open my eyes, but I only sense the dark. He might let me out once a week to see daylight. Time passes slowly, and the days meld into each other.

I might go mad before I hear eight knocks.

Mad. That’s an involved word for a seven-year-old. Mad can mean different things: insane or angry. I know mad. I’ve grown old before my time, and I’ve been both insane and angry.

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I allow the sun to seer into my eyes even though the brightness almost blinds me. I’m a child, not knowing the difference between right and wrong. I keep my eyes wide open and exposed to the light, wondering how long I can keep it up. Can someone be blinded by the sun, even if it isn’t during an eclipse?

Come here, Agatha, Mom calls. Time to go.

I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back into that hell-hole. Mommy keeps insisting and yelling for me to listen. Get back right now, she screams.

I avert my eyes from the sun and look at Mommy, peering at her like I did that sun, except there’s no warmth from her spreading over me. She glares back while I stand defiantly, my hands on my hips and my lips firm.

You can’t expect me to run to you with arms outstretched in love, not when I’ve had this taste of freedom. I’m going to run, and I dare you to chase. Your clutches have been broken, and I’m set free.

I streak off, where or to whom I have no idea, but I must flee. This is my chance at freedom. This time it will work.

The sun continues its reign over me, beckoning me to race, just as one end of a rainbow entices me to seek the prized pot of gold at its other end. I dart and fly, my little legs propelling me as fast as they can take me.

I hear Mommy in the distance, just as I hear eight knocks.

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Time passes too slowly—yet before I know it, it’s gone. The knocks come and go, and the sun continues to shine upon that elusive pot of gold.

He’s back the next day. And the next.

Eight knocks. He releases the clasp and knocks again. That’s my cue to push open the tiny door so he can insert my daily food ration. I snatch the edge of the plate, careful to not let the food slide off, and I fill my mouth before he realizes he’s made a mistake and grabs it back. The hinged door collapses over the opening and closes the space with blackness, but I’ve seen the plate and its contents and am able to easily eat.

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There are serpents in the water. I see them while I’m swimming away from shore. They catch up to me too fast—suddenly—before I’m aware what’s occurred. I let them entwine themselves about me, resigned to my fate.

I’ll never escape.

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Food arrives in buckets, but I lean into them and rid myself of the past like a scourge that’s suddenly revealed itself to me. I hunch over and puke out my guts several more times. There’s nothing left in me, and I float off into oblivion. Surely that old sun will take care of me and warm my insides, even though I’m blinded by the light.

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The three knocks startle me, not at first, of course, because I don’t know there will only be three until the fourth doesn’t come. And I wait for the fifth...and the sixth before giving up when I hear voices. So many of them, like a chorus of birds chirping in the trees above me as if God has materialized to gather them all together for a performance to wow a special audience.

Perhaps that audience is me. The knocks remain at three, and after some shouting, the door opens. Not the teeny trapdoor but the big door. The light pouring into the room blinds me as the sun never did. And when we get outside, I’m forced to shield my eyes from the rounds of flashes.

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That’s how I picture my release from this hell-hole—when the authorities break down the door and flashbulbs burst before my face. When I can face the sun every day and wonder whether I’ll be blinded, yet not care about blindness because I’m blind now, and I might as well be blind and free instead of hidden away from life without the sun.

But I still see.

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-2-

Doorbells and December

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"Granny, do elves only come out at Christmas?"

Yes, sweetie. They’re busy working through the year. Then they show their faces in December with all the toys they’ve built.

Kevin’s eyes widened while staring at his grandmother. But where do they live? How come we don’t see them?

They live at the North Pole, Granny said. She reached down and wrapped her arms around her six-year-old grandson. It’s a place far away.

Sharon envisioned the curiosity spinning in his mind. Positive she knew his next question before he did, her heartbeat quickened and her stomach churned.

Do you think she’ll come home this year? Maybe that’s where she lives. In the North Pole.

Kevin was small for his age and sickly. He didn’t get out much to play with other children, and holidays were even more difficult because of his illnesses. Although he wasn’t as seriously ill as children forced to live in a bubble-world, he still had to be careful of germs and common ailments. Something as minor as a runny nose might put him in bed for several days. After numerous tests and consultations, the doctors agreed he should outgrow the condition by his teens.

Remembering the circumstances surrounding Kevin’s premature birth, Sharon let out an unexpected sigh. She kissed the top of his sandy-coloured head and hugged him tighter than she had anticipated.

Granny, that hurts. Kevin out of her arms. He looked up at his grandmother before his eyes darted toward the tree.

The green pine was a tree Kevin and Sharon had picked out the prior week. Kevin had watched in awe as the man with the axe separated the upper bushy part of the tree from the bottom, leaving a sad, barren stump.

We had fun picking out that tree, didn’t we? Granny said.

Kevin’s eyes drew back to his grandmother. Yes. It was the tree I wanted, wasn’t it, Granny? Thank you.

Kevin always remembered his manners. Sharon smiled. She had raised him into a fine young lad, and he’d be even finer once he reached his teens and his health improved.

Sharon’s eyes watered when she remembered her daughter. Miranda, where are you? Not an hour passed that Sharon didn’t think of her, and when a new day dawned, Sharon hoped that would be the day she’d reappear. When night drew into its mundane blackness and her daughter hadn’t returned, Sharon shed tears. She kidded herself. Something untoward had happened to her daughter and she wasn’t coming home—ever. Miranda had left of her own free-will, perhaps with the intent of being away for a few days or perhaps hitch-hiking to Ontario to stay with her favourite cousin. Something bad had happened along the way, something unexpected that even Miranda had no control over.

But if that were the case—if Miranda had been murdered—how come her body hadn’t been found? Had she been killed and buried in a remote location never to be discovered? If she had been kidnapped, where was the ransom note? Or had she been kidnapped by someone so evil that she was held against her will and forced to perform unspeakable acts?

Or had she disappeared into the wild blue yonder with no intention of ever re-surfacing?

She thought back to the day her seventeen-year-old daughter left without a word. At first, Sharon thought she had slipped down to the hospital’s coffee shop for a donut and drink, but when the long hands of the hospital’s round clock headed toward eight o’clock, she knew something was amiss. The security guard told her not to worry, that her daughter was a teenager. She’d return when she was ready.

Sharon knew the situation was more serious than that. It was three weeks after the baby’s birth, and by then, they all knew something was wrong with him. Miranda had flitted around the hospital like a captive bird—in the room one second, out of the room the next. Kevin had been small, just under five pounds, so she had recovered quickly from childbirth.

Sharon understood Miranda feeling overwhelmed. A child was the last thing Miranda, a child herself, wanted or needed. Sharon knew the uneasy medical prognosis added an extra burden on the young mother.

Her daughter had given her an immense, drawn-out embrace just before she disappeared into the elevator. I love you, Mommy, she had said.

Sharon, not paying much attention at the time, replied in the same manner. Later, she regretted not having been more alert. She should have known something was up. Mommy? When was the last time Miranda had called her Mommy?

Granny, you okay? Kevin asked.

Oh, sorry, sweetie. Just thinking.

What about?

Nothing, really. She smiled. Oh, just about you. And how cute you are, you little rascal.

I’m not a rascal. I’m a little boy. Kevin’s blue eyes flashed and his lower lip curled in a pretend pout before he broke out into a wide grin. I love you, Granny.

I love you, too, little squirt.

Kevin smiled. His eyes darkened. So, Granny, do you think this might be the year? You didn’t answer me.

The year? The year for what? She knew what Kevin meant. Why did she answer the question with another question? She had done so for a couple of years, ever since he was old enough to understand his mother had run off and deserted him.

You know. The year that Mommy might come home.

Mommy. The very same word that Miranda had used just before she left. Kevin sounded just like her.

I don’t know, sweetie. Don’t get your hopes up, okay.

Sharon wished she hadn’t told him the truth about his mother, but she didn’t want to begin his life with lies. The truth was better, no matter whom it might hurt, even a six-year-old. She had watered down the story, making it sound less horrific than it was: a mother deserting her own baby. She supposed she did lie, in effect, but a child as young as Kevin didn’t deserve the whole truth. She’d gradually tell him the entire story—unless Miranda reappeared, of course.

But, Granny, I miss her.

I know, sweetie. I do, too.

How does a six-year-old miss something he never had? How does a child of that age even know what a mother is?

Sharon caressed his arm. Kevin, I told you your mother had problems. She was young. Too young to have a baby. Then when she found out you were sick, well...she just overreacted. She did love you. I know she did.

But you got stuck with me. Did you want me? Kevin looked up at his grandmother, his eyes teary and his lips ready to pout again.

Kevin, of course I wanted you. You bring more joy into my life than you can imagine. I wouldn’t take away these past years even if I could.

It was Sharon’s turn for her eyes to glisten. How could a child his age be that perceptive? Granted, he was almost seven. But still. Kevin should be playing with building blocks and colouring books and crayons, not mulling over grownup problems.

Sharon remembered when her husband, Henry, was alive, and how vibrant a couple they had been. Their life had been perfect. They enjoyed being parents, and Miranda was a beautiful child who never gave them any problems. The problems began later.

Memories of how she and Henry had sat at the kitchen table and read the morning paper together flashed in front of her. Henry enjoyed reading the obituaries.

I bet that’s another suicide, he would say. Another family in ruins because of a thoughtless, selfish mind.

Sharon would poo-poo him. Oh, get real, Hen. No woman in her right mind would commit suicide by causing a car accident.

Then explain to me those deaths we read about. Those cars that cross the centre line for no apparent reason. The weather’s fine, yet they crash. And the car that crosses, the driver dies. Suicide, I tell you.

Women don’t commit suicide by crashing their car. Women take pills.

You, maybe. Maybe some women. But there’s too many unexplained car accidents with sole occupants. Not just women either. Men, too.

Sharon hadn’t believed her husband at the time, not until