Fiction: The New Guy

David stared at the doorway where Caroline had just disappeared, though his mind was full of a vague buzzing. He had a daughter?

He searched his memories, turning them over and exposing them to the light.  Caroline had shown up that night in Memphis, just before he left the country. David could still see her tear-stained face, her lower lip trembling. He had expected her to beg him to stay, to cry, anything. Instead, she had thanked him for the loan that saved her farm, and then walked away.

Had she been carrying his daughter then? 

A wave of anger snaked over David's skin. Why hadn't Caroline told him? She could have called! Or emailed. Hell, even a good old fashioned handwritten letter would have done the trick. Anything. He would have come right away, would have done his duty. He would have met his responsibilities.

...And he was lying. All the anger drained away, and David put his head in his hands.

Back then, if Caroline had told him that she was pregnant, he would have run very fast and very far. He would have hit the road and never looked back, considering himself lucky to have dodged the responsibility.  He even remembered telling her, one summer night long ago, that he never wanted to settle down, that he wanted to spend his days doing as he pleased, with nothing to hold him back.

That was who he was.

"I'm not that man anymore," David whispered to the sunny bedroom, and the curtains waved gently in the direction of the door.

"Coming?" Caroline smiled at him from the doorway, mentioning him to follow. He stood up, made sure his jeans were buttoned, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He wondered what kind of person his little girl was.

Time to find out.

Remembered: Cleaning House

Prompt: Think of a time that you “cleaned house.” Consider the subtext—we’re not writing about Windex here. We’re writing about relationships. Or feelings. Or a captured moment in time.

It's at this time of the year that I mourn a bit. Sorry if I upset anyone.


I finally made myself clean off the shelf in the closet one day a few years ago. I pulled everything that I hadn't wanted to see onto the floor. I opened the special box that I had purchased just for the occasion. I placed the tissue box next to me. Then I went through the pile, and I cried as I laid each item gently into the box.

The sonogram pictures.

The sonogram videotape, each tiny heartbeat visible, so fierce.

A small hand painted box containing a tiny hat and a small gold ring; a birth gift for a child who never saw it. I think that she would have liked that ring.

A silk rose, white. It was placed on my hospital room door to let the nurses know.

The birth/death certificate, signed by the doctor on December 9, 2003.

I placed all these painful memories in that special box, running my hands over them, reading them, touching them. As if I could turn back time for that moment and have it turn out differently.

Then I closed the box, but not my heart.