Lucia's Fantasy World

Chapter One

Lucia McFate relished her diary’s friendship. She wrote into it the joys she cherished, the hurts she desired to escape, plus she added her life’s melancholy (a historical word for sad she’d found in a dictionary, shelved next to biographies in her school library).

This morning, satisfied she’d expressed her profoundest thoughts and truest feelings, she abandoned her diary, closed her sketch pad and capped her pen.

Lucia rose from her white-poster bed, locked her diary and hid it under a gray shoe box in her bedroom closet. She dropped the key into a pencil cup atop her dresser. Her secrets now tucked away from the world, except she knew they existed, and where.

She closed her closet door and stretched out atop her Amish-sewn bedspread. When she breathed in and out without effort, her mind relaxed. After her struggle to write one sentence last week, she’d collapsed, exhausted, panting for breath and scared to worry Mother. Today, she battled prior helter-skelter failures to add multiple paragraphs. Periodically, her right hand pressed her chest to encourage slow and regular healthy breaths.

While always fearful to repeat her failure to write, she maintained her refusal to substitute a pencil for her diary pen even if mistakes and guilty regret remained without the ability to erase. She wished to be both expressive and honest. She never envisioned herself to be happy if every diary word she wrote could be later scrubbed from eternity because she’d written it in pencil.

Lucia thanked her unknown doctors for repeated inhales and exhales that didn’t cause her to wheeze. In addition, she allowed the joy of no eighth grade homework sink in since all classes had been paused until January for her school’s Christmas winter break.

She rose from her bed when she heard Mother drop what sounded like a pot lid. Lucia strode to the kitchen to find it empty.

Bright sunlight streamed through the living room window to greet Lucia’s entrance. Gloom swirled within her when she glimpsed three wrapped presents piled against the sofa’s side.

Lucia pursed her lips.

Mother sat to her right on an armed living room chair. Lucia said, Good morning, Mother.

Mother raised her eyebrows and lifted her gaze from the half-inch high sewing pattern packet that rested on her lap. She mumbled, All summer frocks. Nothing fashionable.

With no desire to be a substitute mannequin or agree to Mother’s complaints, Lucia edged three steps toward the window before Mother asked, Finished with homework already?

Yes, Mother. Lucia expected her response to be greeted with a graceful nod and it was. Whether it was the Regency romances Mother read or her own upbringing, Lucia knew not. However, she’d been taught to be concise and not inundate Mother with frivolous detail like a school holiday recess explanation.

One example fresh in Lucia’s mind happened last year. After being chastised she was no longer a toddler, Lucia gave up referring to Mother as Mommy.

While Lucia had grown an inch and regained ten pounds to her weight, she believed Mother hadn’t noticed.

Lucia remembered Mother cried when, in a tantrum, Lucia said that if she lived with a daddy like her friend Johnny, they’d have a Christmas tree. After Mother wiped away her tears, she promised that, if Lucia obeyed Mrs. Emma, the Boy Scouts would the next year deliver a fresh, six-foot Christmas tree from their sales lot.

This became Mother’s first broken promise, not her last. Four yuletide repeats deepened the scar on Lucia’s spirit. Especially hard on her was when her older brother, living with their father’s grandparents, called to say he’d helped string cranberries and popcorn on their house Christmas tree.

Lucia’s tree decorations, crafted at school, remained stored in a clear plastic box next to the shoebox that hid her locked diary. No stored ornament ever removed or dusted to decorate neither an apartment Christmas tree nor outside door wreath.

The closest Lucia got to a Christmas tree of her own were the green-colored pictures she drew, folded, and stuffed behind her second diary’s last page.

To maintain a semblance of peace today, Lucia plopped onto the sofa and reached her right hand forward to snag an outdated travel magazine Mother had brought home from work.

Bored to re-read year-old stories half-memorized, she tossed the magazine onto the living room coffee table. Lucia rotated her shoulders to gaze through the windowpane’s corner frost swirls to see a red-colored pickup and two black sedans with Iowa license plates parked on the snowplowed street.

Lucia always remembered her mother’s words after the Spring Valley Chamber of Commerce erected a forty-foot spruce tree in their town square when she was four- or five-years-old. After her first viewing, the multi-colored light reflection from the strung bulbs circled Lucia’s mind for three nights as she lay in her bed.

She wrote Mother’s breakfast words into her diary that this tall spruce was their special, secret Christmas tree. Later that afternoon, Lucia wrapped a picture drawn for Mother in shiny red paper and carried it with her on their trip to the town square drugstore. When she tried to put Mother’s wrapped drawing under the outdoor Christmas tree, Mother yanked Lucia’s arm away.

A sullen Lucia that Christmas obeyed Mother and slid the flat, wrapped picture-frame-sized package under the puffy green living room chair with the blue blanket. When she later recorded her action, a teardrop fell onto her diary page and blotted the ink.

Distracted from her yesterday thoughts by one black sedan pulling away from the outside curb, Lucia crossed her fingers before she spoke. Mother, can I ask a question?

Mother removed a pencil from between her lips. Lucia, the proper way to say that is: ‘Mother, may I ask a question?’

Yes, Mother. Lucia had learned obedience, joined with politeness, offered the best way to get from Mother what she wanted. I’ve saved my summer babysitting money. If we find a six-foot tree on sale at the Boy Scout lot, may we take it home? It’s not too far and I’m sure I can carry it.

Sorry, dear. You need to save that for an eighth grade graduation dress. I can’t sew anything that complicated. Besides, even a live tabletop Christmas tree wastes too much money.

Lucia stood. She’d be sadder if she hadn’t expected Mother’s rejection. Lucia edged closer to the window. Yesterday, Johnny had asked her by telephone to go sledding.

Dear, you'll catch cold if you press your nose to that window.

Lucia completed a half-pivot towards Mother after she’d caught a glimpse of Johnny. She announced, Johnny's coming.

What about playing with girls from school? You must have girl classmates who could be or are your friends.

They're mean. Say I'm puny, make fun of my black hair, and pull it back to tease me about this mark on my neck below the ear.

Dress patterns scattered across the living room floor as Mother jumped to her feet. Don’t you ever think you’re not special?

As Mother edged toward her, Lucia braced herself for one of Mother’s rare emotional releases.

Mother squeezed Lucia’s arms against her torso. An unescapable fullness filled Lucia’s lungs. If she squirmed, Mother would tighten her embrace. Johnny will rescue me. Lucia’s faith in her friend rewarded when the front door buzzer rang.

Mother relaxed her bear hug. You should invite Johnny up today. You’ll both catch pneumonia on a day like today.

Lucia shook her head. She’d promised Johnny to keep his secret about why it was hard for him to climb the two flights of stairs to the door that opened into Lucia’s apartment.

He has a new sled and we want to try a bigger hill.

Don't forget to tie your scarf and zip your boots.

Lucia didn’t have to be reminded twice and, on her descent to meet Johnny, she accented her freedom by grabbing the railing’s corner post and swinging her body twice at each stair landing.

Johnny’s quick smile to welcome Lucia bared his teeth and widened the gulf between his chilled cheeks.

The apartment building’s outside door banged behind her.

On their way, the Red-Flyer sled Johnny pulled bumped against unshoveled snow clumps higher than the iced sidewalk.

We should go to a different hill, said Lucia.

Johnny, his hair buried beneath an ear-flapped black cap with Velcro closures, twisted his frown-stretched lips toward Lucia. They’re too far and my mom says she can’t give us a ride.

A disappointed Lucia agreed to Johnny’s rationale. She’d heard of a park filled with planted Christmas trees and dreamed to visit. However, she slowed her pace when Johnny coughed.

Sorry, he said.

Is last summer’s new metal brace cold on your leg?

Naw. Johnny’s voice emphatic. Doctor told me to wear tights or a fancy compression sleeve before I tighten the metal brace. Tried tights, but when other boys saw, they laughed at me.

Lucia sighed. Others are so rude.

Do you think we’ll meet classmates?

If ones are there, we can slide away from them.

Mom gave me a flip phone to call her or the police.

Cool. Her raised spirits at Johnny’s new cellphone dulled as they walked past the Boy Scout Christmas tree lot. To not be sad, she averted her gaze to Johnny. Say, do you think next summer we can picnic at Steve Dennis Park, next to that museum?

Johnny shook his head. There’s no real museum. It’s but an old haunted house.

Lucia suggested Dennis Park because she longed to walk through the seven acres of planted Christmas trees. How do you know the park house is haunted?

Been there. Spooky. A rich old lady collected weird things and they’re in every room, not just hidden in a dusty attic.

How’d you climb up into the attic? Lucia cut short her question to eliminate any reference to Johnny’s brace. Still, she chastised herself for not thinking before she spoke.

They built this four-person elevator, well, three people if one person sits in a wheelchair.

The elevator size unimportant to Lucia, except to convince her Johnny hadn’t been insulted by her question, even if shortened.

She relished their conversation. It allowed their walking time to seem shorter. And to not stare at Johnny’s braced leg, she maneuvered to walk on his left side.

Past a stone-stacked wall no higher than Lucia’s waist, she spied the sledding hill straight ahead. It appeared crowded. Three elm trees provided downhill obstacles to unobservant sled riders.

Once inside the park that had been the estate of a German beer brewery, the morning’s sun-sparkled front-yard snow abruptly changed. Sleds either chewed up the sparkles or packed it into ruts.

Let’s hurry, urged Lucia. She wanted to join the pre-lunch sledding frenzy before the rowdy teenagers with six-person toboggans arrived in the early afternoon.

Do you want to go first? Johnny asked.

You go. It’s your sled. I’ll wait here.

After Johnny positioned his sled in front of his body, hopped twice on his stronger left leg, and lunged forward to join rider, sled and hill, Lucia’s arms hugged her breast, though not as tight as Mother had earlier.

While Lucia waited, she enjoyed the peace she created by shutting out the joyous and frightening yells that surrounded her.

She tried to envision what new things existed for her next park hill drawing. The drawing didn’t have to depict reality. Her last drawing included uncrushed blooming snowdrop flowers. If they existed, likely around an elm tree base, snow boots or sleds had crushed their gentle white petals into the frost-encrusted black soil.

When Johnny panted alongside her and extended his right hand with his sled’s rope, her daydreams ended.

Your turn.

Lucia grabbed the rope, turned the sled, and lay face down on the board slats. With elbows bent, her hands propelled her and the sled forward. Increased speed followed a slow start. A lean to the right helped her miss one sledder and an elm tree. She yelled as her maximized speed plowed her into a fourteen-inch snow pile, previously the lowest ball in a three-tiered snowman.

She stood; carried the sled for seven yards before she dropped it, and grabbed the rope to complete her uphill slog.

You did great, gushed Johnny.

Lucia wiped the back of her right hand across her lips. This new sled of yours is very fast. Missed the tree, but not the body of that old snowman.

Johnny labored to smile after a grimace. Waxed it last night.

With what?

White candle wax. You know, those little candles they use to offer prayers to dead family members or saints.

Lucia wiped the image of stolen votive lights from her mind and extended the sled rope grasped in her right hand. Next.

After Johnny repeated his two hops and a lunge, he and his sled sped toward the hill’s bottom.

On his way up, Lucia noticed he trudged at a slower gait.

You okay? she asked when he slouched in front of her after her downhill return.

Lost my breath. That’s all. I’ll be okay.

Lucia hesitated to leave Johnny by himself. He’d panted on their first sled excursion, but on this third trip he sounded hoarser. You have your phone?

He nodded.

I’ll be quick. Noticed a faster track three paces to the left.

And, right she was. Halfway down the hill, the sled rocked sideways. Lucia braced herself for a spill. While a superfast method to return to Johnny, her awkward toss off the sled had the possibility of causing a sprain or fracture, especially of the elbow.

Safe at the hill’s bottom, Lucia grabbed the sled’s rope and tried to jog uphill. She slipped; fell flat on her face. Her scarf proved handy to wipe the snow off her forehead, nose, and chin.

Embarrassed, but not feeling any pain, she traipsed uphill at a pace slower than her usual march. When she spotted Johnny sitting, she forced faster steps.

Lucia gazed at Johnny. What’s the matter?

My leg hurts.

She noticed tiny sweat beads on his forehead. Did you hit your leg on your last ride?

Johnny patted his right knee. He raised his glove to hide a grimace. Not exactly. First, I felt a burning sensation . . . .

Lucia tried not to show her rapid, shallow breaths. Slow. Air in. Air out. Slow. Air in. Air out. She gazed at the sky. White clouds hung motionless in the bright blue sky. With a silent count to five, she redirected her attention to Johnny.

And, if that’s the first, what’s the second?

He gritted his teeth with no effort to disguise. Leg nerves still burn. Now higher. Above the brace.

You can call your mother.

Tried. Went to voice mail, twice. An urgent plea sprang from his eyes. Do you think you can pull me if I sit on the sled?

She gazed at the sled near her feet. I’ll try.

Lucia bent forward, tipped the sled and placed it alongside Johnny.

Even with Johnny using his hands to raise his body, their effort to slide him onto the sled failed. Once, because she pulled the sled away as she believed his painful shouts indicated she’d stabbed the sled runner or the sled’s side into his body.

She kneeled on the snow to think of a better approach.

When Johnny quieted, Lucia scrambled to her feet.

Ready to try again, Lucia smiled to encourage Johnny’s next effort to sit on the sled.

Chapter Two

Johnny’s scream pained Lucia’s ears.

Her leg muscles recoiled, then stiffened. As an infant, when she’d lived with brother Nathan, she’d heard him scream, but never the frightening wail Johnny let fly from stretched lips.

Johnny’s left hand grabbed a sled board before his second scream drowned out the echoes of his first wail. His piercing cry scared her. Within her surgically-repaired heart, ever-quickening heartbeats reached a crescendo within seconds, then steadied.

Thank God, whispered the voice in Lucia’s skull.

A baritone voice behind her shouted, You’re doing it wrong.

Lucia’s hands dropped the sled rope she grasped before she raised her mitten-clad hands to both ears. Thus protected against a second shout, she twisted left to learn who’d yelled at her.

A boy she knew as Omar ran towards her. A green parka broadened Omar’s shoulders as his boots kicked up snow sprays. Above his parka, black hair strands escaped his woolen knit cap.

When no second shout accompanied his approach, Lucia dropped her right hand and mitten from her ear.

Halfway to her, in a lower-pitched voice, Omar said, You need to slide the sled under from behind, not from the side.

Why? The abrupt snap to her voice issued a challenge Lucia didn’t intend. I mean, I’ve never been in this predicament before. Have you?

She waited in silence until Omar arrived to answer her question. No, but how to help the injured is described in the Boy Scout wilderness survival guide.

Omar leaned forward and shifted his attention to Johnny’s upward gaze.

Lucia stood silent as Johnny asked Omar, You a Boy Scout or just pretending to be one?

Not pretending. Ask my leader at the Christmas tree lot.

The mention of Christmas trees cascaded unexpected excitement through Lucia’s heart and recirculated it through her veins. She scolded herself. Her unselfish goal of seconds ago that transcended self to assist Johnny now buried by an enlarged personal vanity. Johnny suffered in true pain, not her.

Lucia touched Omar’s left shoulder. Tell me what I . . . ah, we should do.

Did he hit a tree or fall?

Lucia shook her head. He wears a right-leg brace.

Johnny interjected, My leg hurts real bad. That’s all.

Omar’s right hand rubbed his chin. Thought all this might involve your spine. He gestured at Lucia to pick up the sled. Okay then. Johnny, angle your arms behind your hips, wider than the sled’s width, and then lift your butt.

Johnny grimaced as he complied.

Lucia, slide the sled forward under Johnny, beginning with his feet. I’ll kneel next to him and raise his legs once the sled’s front nears. We’ll then stop.

Lucia did as instructed.

Now, said Omar, his hands under Johnny’s legs, Let’s rest a moment before you and I move to shove our hands under his armpits. We’ll then raise his shoulders and pull his butt and legs onto the sled.

Omar gazed at Johnny. Keep your legs stiff and shout for us to stop if you can’t stand the pain.

Johnny nodded.

Together, the three worked successfully to slide Johnny onto the sled. Then, with Johnny onboard and sitting upright, Lucia and Omar both grabbed the sled rope to drag the sled away from the sledding hill to the closest street corner.

Shouldn’t we call 9-1-1? Lucia asked. Don’t think we can pull him on this sled all the way to his house.

I’m fine, can sit here until my mom comes, replied Johnny. I’ll keep trying to call her. So far I’ve left two messages.

Omar nodded in Johnny’s direction. He gazed at Lucia. I’m five minutes late for my scheduled tree shift. Are you staying?

Yes . . . and thanks.

Lucia tugged her neck scarf tighter to blunt the freshened breeze. Passersby gawked at her and Johnny, but not one inquired if either of them needed help.

After twenty minutes, Johnny’s mother arrived. Her glazed eyes and trembling lips rekindled the fear that Lucia’s cardio system had experienced earlier. Yet she wouldn’t be rude and quiz Johnny’s mother about his brace or a prior illness.

Oh, Johnny. Mortification jumped from his mother’s words. What happened? You said you felt better.

Lucia sensed a strong emotional outpouring encrusted within the words, softly spoken with the intent not to accuse.

I’m better now, replied Johnny. Lucia and Omar helped.

With reddened eyes, Johnny’s mother glanced in Lucia’s direction. Thank you. Thank you.

Lucia tried to be humble with a muttered, Just hope he’ll be well. She felt guilty to be the only one to accept the praise. Omar should be told, and she’d do it. She gazed at the mother’s sedan. Its hazard lights blinking. Can I help?

Great. If I support him, will you help him turn?

What’s this I’m to do? Turn? Which way?

Wait, said Johnny’s mother. She grabbed Johnny’s right hand. Stand on your good leg like we’ve done before. My arms will be under your shoulders.

She gazed at Lucia. He’ll sit on the seat and we’ll help him rotate his lower body until he’s all in.

Although Lucia understood her role, her arm and leg movements started totally awkward. At one point, she pinned herself between Johnny’s legs and the car’s door.

Lucia’s dilemma solved when she followed Johnny’s mother’s spoken directions on how, and in which way, to step.

Within two minutes, a calm Johnny rested, belted on the sedan’s front seat. After his mother closed the front passenger door, she offered her appreciation to Lucia. Thank you again. Johnny’s problem flared before and a day in bed and the doctor’s prescription should relieve my son’s pain.

What problem? Lucia asked.

"He’s had an infection. Nearly killed him. Must hurry home and recheck the doze