Camp Stories

This week's post is a shameless plug for one of my favorite non-profits: NaNoWriMo ... specifically, their summer time "camp" style equivalent, Camp NaNoWriMo.  Now, I know NaNo has a bad reputation in the publishing world.  The reason I'm such a fan is because of the spirit of NaNo; the idea that you need to stop putting off writing as something to do "one day" and to just do it.

In all honesty, I was half way through my first novel when I discovered NaNo, so I like to think I'd be a novelist without it.  BUT, I also think NaNo gave me confidence I didn't have before.  After that first year, writing 50,000 words in a month, I didn't just dream of writing a novel, I knew I could.

Of course, the main problem the publishing industry has with NaNo is the hordes of people who finish that first draft and think they're suddenly a literary genius, and I have to agree with them there.  Every first draft needs revising ... lots of revising ... and critique partners, beta readers, whatever you want to call them.  And then more revising.

Now that I've gone off on that tangent, I'm happy to announce that I'm participating in Camp NaNo this April.  You can set your own word count goals for Camp NaNo, so I set mine at 30,000 - just enough to make good progress on my current work-in-progress.

Hence, the prompt this week:  Camp stories.  It doesn't have to be your typical summer camp.  Maybe you went to music camp, ballet camp, or even writing camp.  Whichever kind of camp you attended, share your stories! (Or, of course, your fiction. Have fun!)

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My response:

I got back to the dorms and headed straight to my bed without even pulling off my leotard and tights.  We only had two hours until afternoon classes - it had taken me about fifteen minutes to eat, and now I had one hour forty-five minutes to sleep.  I wasn't going to miss one second of shut-eye if I didn't have to.

My bed was soft, and I buried my head in my pillow.  I could feel the slight bulge in my stomach from my lunch.  Hopefully I would digest while I slept, and Madame Pinion wouldn't notice in class.  Still, I knew I was lucky.  My mom and dad were both tall, thin beanpoles, so what do you expect their offspring to be?  Bony.  There's no nice term for it, I was as skinny as an anorexic runway model, no matter what I ate.  Thank heavens!  I love to eat almost as much as I love ballet.  Almost.  But I'm sure I'd starve myself if I had to ...

I shut my eyes, and the only sound I could hear was the beating of my heart.  Thump ... whoosh.  Thump ... whoosh.  Thump ... whoosh.  It felt strong.  I felt a surge of pride.  I'd been working hard, dancing ten to eleven hours a day for the past six weeks, and my body reflected it.  I was strong.  Flexible.  Capable.  And I had a good shot at one of the solo slots for the final performance. 

Thump ... whoosh.  Thump ... whoosh.  I let my mind go blank, so I would fall asleep.  Thump ... whoosh.  Then there was something else.  My body jerked, and I groaned at being snapped back to consciousness.  The sound was soft and hissing.  My mind cleared.  Sobbing.  Gasping and sobbing.  It came from the communal bathroom.  I rolled my eyes and relaxed into my mattress.  Was it really my problem?

Stupid conscience.  It wasn't about to let me sleep.  I rolled back out of bed and padded towards the open door.  The sobbing got louder.  I started to wonder who it was and sifted through the faces who'd sat next to me at lunch, drinking diet cokes and picking at romaine lettuce with no dressing.  I stopped at the door and peered in.

Sasha.  Of course, it would be Sasha, the one girl in my dorm I'd rather kick in the face than console.  She sat with her back against the wall, legs pulled up in front of her, her face buried in her hands, still in her leotard and tights, like me.  Her body shook with sobs, her chest heaving ... unlike the rest of us, Sasha actually had a chest.  We wouldn't have cared at all, if she hadn't flaunted it in our faces and used it to get Marcel  to favor her.

I didn't have shoes on, so it was possible she hadn't heard me coming.  I leaned back out of the bathroom, contemplating my escape.  Her sobbing paused.

"Go ahead.  Laugh.  I know none of you will be sad to see me go!"

"Go?"  The word popped out without any thought on my part, but an image flashed in my mind: Marcel calling Sasha over after morning class and telling her Madam Pinion needed to speak to her.

Sasha didn't look up, but her shoulders shook again with silent sobs.  "Oh what do you know!  Your acceptance was never probational!"

"Probational?"  I'd heard of that, but no one I'd talked to had mentioned being on probation.  Everyone here was good - you had to be, just to get accepted.

Sasha looked up, her eyes bright with tears, cheeks flushed.  "I'm too fat, you idiot!  'Lose ten pounds' they tell me, and I haven't eaten anything in months!  And now it's 'Well, it seems ten pounds wasn't enough ...'  Those skanks!"  Then her anger melted into misery, her eyes rolled back, and she turned her back to me, rolling into a ball on the bathroom floor.

I realized my mouth hung open and shut it.  I felt like I ought to say something ... but what was there to say?  Five minutes ago, I would have cheered to hear she was leaving.  Now the thought made me sick to my stomach ... my perfectly flat stomach, complete with protruding ribcage.

I didn't have anything to say, but there was something I could do.  I went to find the rest of the girls and make sure they steered clear of the dorm until Sasha had a chance to pack up and leave.  The last thing she needed was us gawking at her.  And I could get myself something else to eat - my stomach was already rumbling.

Tarantulas!

I tend to get my prompts from things going on in my life.  Today, I took my girls to swimming lessons that the local pool offers for free during spring break ... to 6 to 12-year-olds, but not to their 3-year-old little brothers.  So, I did what any modern mom would do in this situation: I bribed him with a new app on my kindle to sit still and quiet and not fling himself fully clothed into the pool after his sisters.

It worked like a charm.  That is, until a group of tarantulas crawled across the screen.  He didn't have a problem with the lady bugs, the bees, or even the cockroaches, but he could not bring himself to "touch" the tarantulas on the screen.

Between that and a conversation I had with a friend about how we liked to scare ourselves as kids, I decided that, even though it's not October, let's do something creepy this week.

Prompt:  What sends shivers up your back?

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My response:

The clock on the wall read eleven forty-five when the movie finally ended.  I sighed.  Tonight definitely did not turn out like I'd pictured.  Tasha had to get herself grounded for breaking curfew last week, so she was jailed up at home.  I'd even called her mom and pleaded my case: My parents are both out of town on business, and I just need someone to be at home with me, so I'm not alone.  She was very sympathetic, but she made it quite clear that Tasha was still in leg irons for the next two weekends.  No dice.

Brandon said he'd come over, at first, but when he found out my parents would be gone, he got all fidgety.  "I like your parents.  I want them to keep liking me.  Did they say I could come?"

"Well, not exactly ..."  What they'd said, exactly, was that Tasha was welcome, but no one else, especially Brandon.

"If one of them were to come home and find me there, would they be mad?"  He looked me right in the eye, and I was trapped.  Why did I have to pick such a good boy for a boyfriend?!  He was lucky he was hot, or this would be reason enough to dump him.

So I ended up alone in the basement, half-eaten box of pizza on the coffee table, empty quart of ice cream next to it.  I switched off the TV.  The house was starkly silent, without even the ticking of a clock to soften it.  I took a deep breath.  There was no reason I should let this freak me out.  No one but Tasha and Brandon knew I was alone tonight.  I'd lived in the house all sixteen years of my life, and no one had ever broken in.  It was just another night.

I gathered the pizza and ice cream boxes into my arms and headed towards the stairs.  I flipped off the switch to the living area, and a blanket of darkness fell.  I swallowed hard, reaching purposefully towards the switch for the stairwell.  I should have known better.

Light restored, I started up the stairs to the main level of the house.  I flipped on the next light before turning off the stair light behind me.  Then I glanced around.  The kitchen/living area of the house was mom's pride and joy.  In the daytime, bright sunlight streamed in through large windows.  Mom loved natural light.  How was it I'd never noticed how creepy it was at night?  In each window, my reflection stared back at me.  I couldn't see out, but I knew anyone standing outside could see in.  I flipped the switch back off. 

There must have been a full moon; shadows stretched across the lawn from the deck to the old swing set.  I fixed my eyes to the old lilac bush.  It moved.  I gulped. 

The wind howled against the house, and I nearly jumped out of my socks.  Then I realized that was why the bush was moving.  I shook my head, laughing nervously, and headed towards the kitchen.  Just then, lightning flashed, painting the image of the windows across the tile of the kitchen floor.  My heart stopped.  In the light from the sliding glass door stood a silhouette - the shadow of a man.  My eyes leaped up to the door.  No one was there.  From the size of the shadow, he would have to be right there, standing in front of the door.  But there was nothing there.

My nervous laugh rose again in my throat, but it didn't even make it to my mouth.  I swallowed it down.  I should have put the leftover pizza in a Tupperware, but who has time for that when there's an axe murderer in your backyard?  I tossed the empty ice cream box into the trash, remembering as it hit the bottom that I shouldn't throw away the spoon inside.  Oh well.  If I lived through the night, I'd fish it out.  I tossed the pizza box into the fridge and slammed the door, just as another flash lit the room.

My eyes flew to the spot on the tile where the man's shadow was.  In the strobes of light, like an old-fashioned movie, I saw the shadow lift it's hand to the door handle. 

I screamed.

I had to get to my room. I turned and ran out the back of the kitchen, up the stairs to the third floor.  Behind me, the glass of the kitchen door shattered.

Stolen Bitcoins

I've really struggled this week to come up with a prompt.  I finally called over my shoulder to my husband to throw out an idea.  He immediately responded, "Stolen Bitcoins.  How do you steal something that doesn't exist?"

So it's that simple.  Steal something that doesn't exist.  Bring out your criminal mastermind.  :-)

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My response:

Emma lay on the packed, gritty dirt, her cheek pressed against the muck, eyes barely fluttering.  The soft flickering of the fire played across her face.  The long sleeves of her shirt were dirty and torn where her hooded attackers had held her, her ribs and hips sore from the pummeling they'd given her, but the sad state of her body was the last thing on her mind.

The soft thrumming, the flicker of power in her gut, was gone.  True, she'd only had it for the last three days, since her sixteenth birthday, but now, without it, she felt empty.  Sure, three days ago, she would have done anything to get rid of it.  Suddenly shorting out every electronic device she touched, accidentally melting her bicycle chain, and giving her boyfriend third degree burns when she kissed him seemed more like a curse than a gift ... but if the old woman was right, and she would be able to learn to control it ... to help others, not hurt them ... maybe it wouldn't have been so bad.

Not that it was an issue anymore.  The hooded figures had hidden behind her car after practice tonight, jumping out and dragging her into the woods.  The chanting somehow kept her new powers from harming her attackers, and in the end, the spark slowly faded and disappeared. 

Tears slipped down Emma's cheeks into the dirt.  As soon as she felt up to it, she would walk out of the woods and back to the school.  Hopefully someone was still there.  If not, she could drive home, where she would tell her mom about the attack and the beating ... but never about the part that mattered.  If she told the police someone had stolen her magic ... well, how could you steal something that doesn't exist?

Child of the Mist

I started reading CHILD OF THE MISTS, by Kathleen Morgan, the other day.

 

I have been enchanted by Scottish brogue and images of the beautiful landscape every since.

 

I mean, seriously, look at this place ...

 

It's right out of a fairy tale!

 

Ok, I admit my enchantment with Scotland is entirely romantic, as I have never been there, but I have been next-door in England, and across the waters in Ireland.  I have to say, that is some of the most beautiful country I've ever seen.

 

And with scenery like this, who wouldn't be inspired?

 

Well enough talking.  There's your prompt for the week.  Enjoy!

***All pictures stolen from Google Images: Scotland***

And one more, just for fun!

 

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My response:

"Well, it's a fine little lad!" the old woman crooned as Lady Anne's moaning came to an end.  "A lad to grow and take his Da's place one day!"

Silence dropped over the birthing room, from the serving girls standing ready to the Lady herself, lying prone on the bed.  Not a breath stirred the air.

Lady Anne's matronly sister, Erin, broke the silence.  "God grant he may."

Lady Anne reached up to Erin's elbow.  "Please, Erin, is there any news?"

Erin turned a grim face to Anne, wiped the sweat from her brow with a practiced sweep of her cloth, and sighed.  "I don't know what men fear more - having an army outside the castle walls or a woman in the birthing room.  We've not heard anything, but I will find out for you what I can."

Erin dropped her rag on the pillow by Anne's head and moved quickly across the room, slipping out the door.  She closed the heavy door behind her, then a chill ran down her back.  Lady Anne had gone into labor nearly a half a day ago, in the evening, when MacDuffle's army showed up outside the castle gates.  Since then, they hadn't had any news.  The men folk of the castle had better things to worry about.

Erin scanned up and down the hallway.  For all she knew, the walls had fallen, and McDuffle's men were already roaming the hallways, though if they were, their first stop would have been to find Lady Anne.  Lady Anne's husband, Gregor Cambell, had grown old and waited long for a wife to bear him a son.  His first two wives had died in childbirth, taking their small sons with them.  He had sworn off marriage until his steward warned him that having an heir was the only hope for a peaceful succession.  Lady Anne was too young for him by far, but their alliance joined two houses, and now, Gregor Cambell had a son.

Erin slipped noiselessly through the hallways and out the front door of the castle.  She expected to hear the sounds of battle, clanging metal, shouting, but only distant, muffled thudding came to her ears.  Men stood watch on the walls of the castle.  At least her first question was answered.  The MacDuffles had not breached the wall, at least.

Erin strode forward and climbed the stairs.  Gregor's brother, Roden, met her at the top.  His face was set in a frown, and he limped towards her like a bear towards a deer.  Even with the wound he took yesterday, Erin knew Roden would prefer to be on the field of battle.

Up on the top of the wall, Erin could hear the battle.  Still, it wasn't as loud as she'd expected.  The thick mists muffled the clang of steel on steel, and the men were too weary to continue their full throated battle cries.  Grunting and panting, they continued their struggle.

Roden stared into Erin's eyes.  "Well, Lass, what news have ye?  Tells us straight!"

Erin shivered in the cold.  She hadn't bothered to put on her cloak, and her velvet dress alone wasn't enough to ward off the Highland chill.  "It's a lad, Roden, a strong little lad."

The words were barely out of her mouth when Roden opened his.  A roar echoed above the wall and over the green hills.  "Hail, Gregor Cambell, and hail his new-born SON!"

The men around them on the wall picked up the cry, and it moved forward, into the battle, as each man repeated it in turn.  Roden's laughter followed it through the mists.  The news was like a potion, infusing each man with strength and vigor.  The fighting resumed, but even Erin could see the change that had taken place.  I didn't surprise her at all, two hours later, when Gregor Cambell himself came to the birthing room to announce their victory ... and to see his new son.

First Kiss!!!

I feel silly for missing the most obvious prompt for this month ... but it's not over yet, so I didn't entirely miss out!  Whether you celebrated Valentine's Day or Single's Awareness Day this month, I think you can appreciate how hard it is to write a kissing scene. 

(It's almost as awkward as the time I got back from studying at Stanford Hopkins Marine Station, and my grandpa asked me what I'd studied, then turned all shades of red when I told him about mixing sperm and eggs and watching embryo development ... Hint: Don't say "sperm" or "egg" to your grandfather!)

And yet ... I think we all know the thrills of reading a well-written first kiss.  Think of PRINCESS ACADEMY: PALACE OF STONE by Shannon Hale.  She does it masterfully.  Think of when Harry Potter and Ginny first kiss.  And no, I'm not going Harlequin romance - I'm thinking MG/YA here!

So, without any further ado, the prompt for this week: First Kiss!!!

Enjoy!

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My response:

President Kennon stood, his secretary and guard following him out the door.  Lyndi gave Emmaleen a smile and left after them.  Soon only Aarek was left in the conference room.  His chair leaned back against the wall, and his legs stretched out in front of him.  His hands dangled from the armrests.

Emmaleen shifted in her chair.  Everyone else was so pleased with the information she'd brought back.  Only Aarek sat with his head down, frowning.  Emmaleen opened her mouth, then closed it again.  The silence between them was thick, like the atmosphere of a gas giant, and just as smothering.

Suddenly, Aarek leaned forward, flinging his body out of his chair.  He turned and strode towards the door without even meeting Emmaleen's gaze.

"Wait!  Aarek ..."  Much to her surprise, he stopped.  Emmaleen slipped out of her chair and rounded the table to stand in front of him.  "You don't seem very happy.  I mean ... this could mean the end of the war ... that peace is just a few weeks away, if that.  But you ..."

Aarek lifted his gaze to hers, his gray eyes flashing, "You could have been killed."

Emmaleen blinked.  "What?"

"Don't give me that!" Aarek shook his head.  "You know very well the risks you took, the situation you were in.  You're lucky to have made it out alive!"

Silence settled again, marred only by the sound of Aarek's labored breathing, as if he'd just finished a race.

Emmaleen pushed her shoulders back, lifted her chin.  "And you wouldn't care if I had.  What do you care if a traitor dies ..."

Aarek moved like lightning. His hands reaching out, cupping Emmaleen's face.  He pressed his lips to hers and held them there, trembling.  Then he let go.

Emmaleen hadn't moved - hadn't twitched a single muscle.  She stared at Aarek with wide eyes and realized she was holding her breath.

Aarek's eyes never left hers.  "I would care, Emmaleen.  Believe me, I would care."

He turned, and the doors swept open in front of him.  Just like that, he was gone, and Emmaleen learned to breathe again.

**** I haven't written much about my work in progress on this blog, but I couldn't resist this time.  I'm only on chapter four of this book, and this scene may or may not make an appearance later on in my manuscript, but I'm getting so excited about where it is going that I just couldn't resist!****

Dinnertime!

I attended a writing conference last year and got to participate in a session put on by Miriam Forster, author of CITY OF A THOUSAND DOLLS and coming this fall, EMPIRE OF SHADOWS.  She writes fantasy, and her workshop was on world building.

I'm going to steal something she talked about in her workshop, and that is: World building is important no matter what kind of novel you're writing.  Sure, everyone looks at fantasy writers when you mention world building because they are creating their whole world in their novel, but world building is just as important for non-fantasy.  If you're writing historical fiction, for instance, you need to keep your details true to the time period.  Your character can't go jump on a bike if bikes hadn't been invented, yet.  Even contemporary novels will feel more real with good world building.  A character in London, England is going to have a very different setting than one in Guatemala.

Miriam talked about two different kinds of world building.  There is World Building - where you decide on/create the setting - and world building - the little details that cement  your character in the world you've created.  What are they walking on?  Dirt paths? Pavement?  A yellow brick road?  What kind of house do they live in?  An apartment? A mansion? A hobbit hole?  What are they wearing?  Eating? All of these little details build the world around your character and help your reader to visualize it.

So, the prompt this week is: Dinnertime!  What is your character eating?

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My response:

My hammock swayed gently in the breeze, and now that the sun had dipped down below the mountains, the oppressive heat had lifted.  I was finally starting to think I might actually enjoy camping.  Then Mom called me back to reality.  It was dinnertime.

I dropped my tablet back into the hammock, vaguely wondering how long the battery would last and hoping it would be long enough to finish my new book.  A few trees away, my mom had set up the card table.  A wrought iron grill straddled half of a fire in a pit surrounded by stones.  I still didn't understand why people would choose to leave their homes and head up into the hills to sleep on the ground and cook our dinners over fire.  Wasn't that disrespectful to the men who invented central air conditioning and glass top stoves?

"Here Jenna!  Enjoy!"  Mom handed me an aluminum plate with a lump of tin foil on it.  "Take the hot pad, too, it's been in the fire."

I hated to admit I had almost tried to take the plate without it, but as I sat down, I could feel the heat radiating through the thick pad.  Mom had all the cooking stuff set up on the table, so I sat in one of the chairs set up around the fire.  Dad and Brax were already there.  Brax had covered his mystery meal in ketchup, and Dad's was covered in barbecue sauce.  I used my fork to peel back the tin foil.  The first thing I spotted was cauliflower.  That wasn't very promising.  It looked like my mom had taken a bag of frozen, chopped vegetables, slapped a hamburger patty on top, and left it at that.  I poked the meat, and a small rivulet of red juice slipped out, pooling at the bottom of the veggies.  Great.  Even if they had been edible before, they definitely weren't now.

I looked up.  Brax was shoveling the food into his mouth.  From the looks of his hiking boots, which had been brand new this morning, he'd really worked up an appetite.  I sighed and set my plate across my knees.  Lounging in a hammock didn't take a lot of effort, but I was still hungry.  Not hungry enough, though, to settle for this mess.  I picked at a few of the vegetables, then stood up.  Quickly, so neither of my parents could see what was left on my plate, I swept it into the garbage sack Mom had tied to the table.  I headed towards the car, and the stash of food in the trunk.

"Mom, didn't you say you brought stuff for S'mores?" 

Redemption

I just finished reading THE KITE RUNNER by Khaled Hosseini.  I know, I'm way behind the curve on this one, but I don't read a lot of contemporary.  I might have never picked it up if I hadn't found it it a pile of books my friend loaned me.

Let me say right off that, if you're considering reading it, it does contain some graphic scenes, due to sexual abuse, so be warned.

Being completely honest, I put the book down and asked myself, "Why did I read that depressing bit of fiction, anyway?!  What was the point?!"  Lucky for me, I was born with an analytical mind and it immediately started mulling over the book.  You know what I found?

Redemption.

Redemption is the reason I LOVE Les Mis.  I could write a whole series of essays about the theme of redemption in that book.  I get so aggravated when someone calls Javer the "bad guy" of the story, because they obviously don't understand his character.  But the underlying theme of redemption just lights up my life.

And that's what I found in THE KITE RUNNER.  Here is the story of a child who makes a mistake (a perfectly understandable mistake, considering his age, temperament, and circumstances), but who is given, in the end, a shot at redemption.  It's actually quite beautiful.

So, the prompt for this week is: Redemption

(Disclaimer - I realize that writing a good piece of fiction with the theme of redemption is probably worth of a whole lifetime of effort, and asking for a short piece written in fifteen minutes is a lot.  Don't worry.  Just let your imagination go and work out which direction you would take it in.)

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My response:

My sneaker tapped lightly against the white tiles of the floor, and the sound echoed through the hallway.  The Health and Welfare building was simple and spare in decorations, other than the bulletin board in front of the door that was plastered in fliers. 

I sat next to a woman who smelled sweet, like the addiction I had worked so hard for so long to kick.  I hated the cravings the smell awoke in me, and I wondered how long I would have to sit here.  She and I were the only people in the hallway, and we sat on opposite ends of the wooden bench.  I snuck furtive glances at her, wondering if I looked like she did.  Ratty, blond hair that hung to her shoulders and looked like it hadn't been combed in days.  Sunken, dark eyes and sallow, papery skin.  Her lips were pressed tightly in a line, and she coughed every few minutes so hard it made my own chest hurt.  Her fingers trembled, and I knew she was itching for a smoke.  We both wore jeans and sneakers with t-shirts, but I had a thin, fleece jacket on.  I'd brushed my hair into a pony tail that morning and put on a bit of make-up.  My hands didn't tremble on the strap of my purse in my lap, and my lungs were clear. 

Her presence made me uncomfortable.  No matter how much I told myself I'd changed, I was always one choice away from falling back down.  I pulled a piece of gum from my purse - remembering my manners and offering one to the other woman, which she declined with a sharp shake of her head - and put it into my mouth, savoring the clean, fresh bite of peppermint.

A social worker stuck her head out the door and called the woman's name.  She disappeared.  My leg stopped tapping.  I took a deep breath.

Another social worker opened the door.  A young man with short, black hair and a baby face dressed in khakis and a polo.  My heart sunk.  I was hoping for a woman.  They were always a bit more sympathetic.

He led me to a small cubical, and I shuddered to think who might listen in to our conversation.  He didn't give me time to worry about it, but launched right into his interview.

"Mrs. Mallory, I received your petition for custody yesterday, and I have to say I was surprised.  I've been working with these children for the past five years, and I've never seen hide nor hair of their grandma.  How do you explain that?"  He sat back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest.

The blood pounded behind my eyes, and I swallowed hard.  "I didn't know they existed, Sir, until a week ago."

His look was disbelieving, but he didn't stop me or move to throw me out, so I went on.  "You see, I was only fifteen when I had Cambell, and I wasn't a very good mother.  I ... I ... "  I could hear the voice of my therapist in my mind telling me to tell it simply, accept the facts, state them clearly, and let them stand.  It was my past, and there was no skirting the truth.  "I left her.  I left her with my uncle 'cause my parents didn't have money to take care of her, and I ... well ... I wasn't in a place where I could take care of her myself."

He gave me a slow, appraising nod.  "I've read your own record - of course not your JV, that's closed, but it's significant that you have one - and you had a number of arrests for possession after you turned eighteen, but our records of you end about ten years ago.  You must have left town when you were twenty-two or thereabouts.  Where have you been?"

"I lived in LA for a few years.  I thought someone would discover me, someday, like every other stupid girl in that city, but it never happened.  Then one morning I woke up in the alleyway next to a church.  I had no money, barely enough clothes to cover my body, no drugs, and no friends to help me."  I offered a small smile, hoping he would understand.  "That was my rock bottom.  And I've spent the past seven years climbing out of that dark hole.  I went into the church and found Father Matthais.  He helped get me into a women's shelter.  He got me a job in a warehouse.  He encouraged me to take classes at the community college, and I worked real hard to graduate.  I got a bachelor's in accounting, and then my masters.  It took me longer, because I had to work at the same time, but I did it, and I've got a good job that I've had for the last six months.  I provided my transcript, a copy of the acceptance letter, and Father Matthais's contact information with the petition yesterday ... did you get them?"

He pressed his lips together.  "I did.  I took the liberty of calling Father Matthais and also the college.  Honestly, if you were one of my cases, I would consider you a success.  But you weren't my case, Cambell was, and now her three kids are.  You've been honest with me, so I'll be honest with you.  I don't like it.  I have those kids placed with a solid foster family who is considering taking all three of them.  Do you really have any idea what it would be like to take on three small kids?  Six, three, and eight months?  Are you up for something like that?  Last time you had a baby in your arms, you left her and took off.  That was seventeen years ago.  It took  you seventeen years to wonder what happened to your baby and come back.  How can I be sure you won't do the same to these three kids?"

I opened my mouth to object, but no words came out.  Seventeen years.  He was right about that.  It had taken me seventeen years to come back, and I only came back now because my sister had tracked me down because she thought she owed it to me to tell me my daughter was dead.

I closed my mouth again to stop my jaw from trembling, stifled a sob, and lifted my eyes to his.  "I am their grandmother.  For their mother's sake, for the sake of everything I should have done for her, I have a duty to my grand kids.  And I will fill it." 

He wasn't the only one surprised at the determination in my voice.  I hadn't thought I had it in me.  Apparently I was wrong.

Slowly, he nodded.  "Well, we'll file this petition with the court, and you'll have a hearing with the judge, and we'll go from there."

I heard the words, but the meaning took a minute to sink in.  "You mean, I'm going to get them?"

He shook his head again, but his smile betrayed him, "If they have a grandmother who loves them, the judge will most likely grant custody.  Yes.  You're on your way to getting your grand kids.  Would you like to go meet them?"

I couldn't answer through my tears, but I didn't need to.