She lives to Listen

           
         One hundred year old renowned author Alice Bainbridge hated it when she was referred to as a "master storyteller."  In her mind it always felt a little dishonest and a lot pretentious.  
        So when her caregiving grandson, Eddie, brought in the mail one cold Chicago January morning, and announced to her that she was to be honored in a month at the Midwest Writers' Conference as a "master storyteller," Alice wasn't sure she would go.
         "First of all, Eddie, I don't need any more awards.  I mean, if they give me a plaque, what would I do with it?  You'll just have to throw it out when I die.  That's just a waste of a good piece of wood."
          "Come on, Alice, it's something to look forward to," Eddie said.
          "Second of all," Alice said, hearing Eddie all too well, "if I accept, who's to say I'll live until February? And if I don't, you'll have to spend a lot of time making phone calls and cancelling my appearance. A complete waste of your time. Let's skip it."
           Eddie looked at his grandmother and decided he'd give her all the details before reminding her of the only reason she would want to go. "The invitation says 'Alice Bainbridge is being given a lifetime achievement award for all fifty-six of her novels and in honor of the 80^th anniversary of the publication of her first known work, Bedtime, A Comedy of Sorts, and in special recognition of her newest novel, "Revelation, Remorse, and Restitution" which has earned the prestigious Book of the Year commendation.' Isn't that nice?"
           "Yada, yada, blah, blah, blah, zis-coom-bah, la-de-da." Alice said, bored and exhausted by the idea. "Forget it, I'm too tired."
           "We're going," Eddie said.
           "Not interested," Alice said, closing her eyes, laying her head on the back of her wheelchair, and acting as if she were about to nod off to sleep or worse.
           "Don't act like you're dying on me, Alice.  I know you can hear me.  You don't want to go pick up the award, fine.  But, listen, a lot of storytellers'll be there.  A lot."
            Alice opened her eyes and picked her head up off the back of her wheelchair. "You think they'll share?"
            "Some will, some won't. Those who will might even bring copies with them. Of course, I don't know how good they'll be... But the whole room will be full of storytellers.  Who else goes to a Writers' Conference?"
            "Where's it being held?"
            "Northwestern University in Evanston."
            "Fine. If I make it to February, I'm in. Now let me get some sleep."

When February rolled around, Alice was very much alive and very excited to attend, although she continued to complain to Eddie about having to waste time receiving the award up until the moment he wheeled her on to the stage in University Hall.

"If the emcee gets too long winded, I'm going to fake my death." Alice whispered to Eddie.

"Understood. Now be nice.  These people are here to honor you."

"Well, I'm not here to be honored." 

As Eddie wheeled her to the front of the stage, Alice was met by Jaime Ranier, a well-known mystery writer, who would be presenting Alice her award. As Jaime bent down to hug her, Alice shot a glance at Eddie.  

Jamie began." As you all know, we have come here today to honor a great novelist and playwright, a woman who, through her writing, has given the world many cathartic moments.  Her power as an author has spanned decades. She has made us laugh.  She has made us cry.  She has made us care." 

Alice looked at Eddie.  She seemed ready to slump over in her chair.  Eddie tried to signal her to be patient.  Alice rolled her eyes as the emcee continued to drone on about her writing.

"From her first published work, we have felt Alice's pain and witnessed her resilience."  

Alice closed her eyes, winced and was suddenly motionless. For a moment, the audience thought she had nodded off or perhaps even...

But Alice was quite alive and quite awake. When she closed her eyes, she drifted back to being a little girl.  She thought of the first book she had ever published. It was not Bedtime, A Comedy of Sorts.  Not even close.
Alice was six when she published her first book, and she had called it Alice’s Silly Book. She had created it out of colored construction paper. It was a small book, no more than eight pages, tied together on the edges by a bit of colored yarn.  As she sat on stage, grimacing, Alice strained to think of a single line from it, but the memory of it all was too painful.

Alice shook off that memory and moved on to something more pleasant. She opened her eyes slowly, glowing at the thought of her high school days and her ambitions to someday write down something of consequence to her. The crowd misunderstood, convinced Alice was responding to Jaime Ranier’s kind words. But Alice hadn’t heard the flattery. She was too old for it.

Jaime Ranier was finally winding down. She picked up Alice's award and as she gently placed it on the old woman's lap, she said, "and so I present to you, Ms. Alice Bainbridge, Master Storyteller of the Year." 

The crowd applauded and Alice nodded, signaling for the microphone.  As Eddie held it in front of her mouth, the crowd became very still. 

"Be nice," Eddie whispered.

Alice coughed, but her voice became stronger as she went on.  "Thank you all for the nice plaque,” Alice began, scanning the room before continuing. "I’m honored to be in a room full of writers and strivers. To be honest, when I was a little girl, I dreamed of a day like this." Alice paused to catch her breath.
People started to applaud, but Alice shook her head. "But as I got older, I realized how foolish that was.  I realized the goal of writing was not to be recognized, but rather, to recognize ourselves in others.  To realize that the stories we tell and the stories we hear are what unite us and help us better understand the human condition. To love, to fear, to want, to give,  to receive and all feelings in between. From my first days as a writer, regardless how painful the memories, I came to understand who I am a little better, just as through reading and listening to others I understand a bit more of myself and the world I will soon be leaving."

She coughed again and seemed to choke up a bit, her eyes filling with tears. Many in the audience shifted in their seats.  Alice realized this and recovered, "I'm almost done. Just one more thing. I'm going to have my grandson wheel me over to that table." She shakily pointed her right index finger towards her left. "If anyone would like to speak to me, I'd appreciate it.  As you can tell, I'm not much of a talker, but I do know how to listen.  In fact, when I'm dead, which can't be too far down the road, I'd much prefer to be remembered not as a Master Storyteller, but as a Master Story Listener. So if anyone wants to stop by and tell me a story, maybe some seminal event you've had or maybe something you've just made up, I'd love it. Because listening to good stories is pretty much what's keeping me alive. Thank you again."
      With that, the crowd burst into applause.  A number of people exited to the adjacent exhibit hall, where vendors were handing out pens and other swag.
      But as Eddie brought Alice over to the table, many people lined up to speak to her.  Some came to congratulate her and tell her how much they enjoyed her books.  Alice was polite but short with them.  Her time and energy was limited and she was looking to be inspired, not praised.  After the third person had congratulated her, Alice began yawning. Eddie bent down and asked her if she wanted to go home.  Alice whispered to him,  "At this point I'm thinking about drifting off further than that."
        "Stop it," Eddie said playfully.
        "All right then, I'm not leaving until I hear a good story, Eddie. But if I don't hear one soon, I'm shuffling off this mortal coil!"
        Eddie shook his head at his grandmother then looked at the people in line.  None of them knew it, but it was up to at least one of them to keep her alive.

          ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Alice Goes Home

         Alice waved at Eddie as Jill left the table.  The co-ed talking to Eddie gave a look of disappointment, then walked over to apologize to Alice.
         “I’m sorry I took so much of his time.  It’s just that Eddie’s so interesting.”

         Alice looked at Eddie in a grandmotherly way and said, “Yes, my grandson’s a real charmer.  I’m sorry I have to drag him away from you, but I’m tired and it’s time to leave.”

         Eddie blushed a little, both at the young woman who had no idea or interest in who his grandmother was, and also at Alice.  He had been attentive during some of the stories, but listening wasn’t Eddie’s greatest skill.  He much preferred to talk.

         “It’s nice meeting you, Susan,” Eddie said as the twenty-something shook his hand, smiled and walked away.

         “You’re fifty years old, Eddie.” Alice said when the student was outside of earshot.

         “She wanted to talk.”

         “About what?”

         “Something about her parents not respecting her life choices. I don’t know.  I did most of the talking.”

         “You know you might just learn something if you listened more. Let’s go home.”

         “Great.  I’m starving.  Was that Jill Nagel you were talking to at the end?”

         “Yes.”

         “That selfish…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Did she apologize?”

         “No. She wants me to finish a book she wrote. Health issues prevent her from doing it on her own.”

         “Of course, you turned her down.”

         “No, I just listened.”

         “Why?”

         “Lifelong habit, I guess. May as well keep an open mind.”

         Eddie shook his head. “Why?”

         “Let’s just get out of here.”

         As Eddie wheeled her out of the Hall, he asked her about the stories she had heard and if she had been moved by any of them.

         “Oh, my God, yes.” Alice said, “So much pain.  Every time I come to these events, I think of the “Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.”

         “Remind me.”

         “Coleridge?”

Again Eddie had a blank look on his face.

“It’s an epic poem about a sailor who kills an albatross for no go reason and spends the rest of his life stopping one out of every three people he meets so he can tell them the story and be temporarily relieved of the pain of the experience.”

         Eddie still didn’t understand.

         Alice continued. “Everyone needs to tell their story. By letting it out, vocalizing it, or writing it down, we all feel better, for a little while.  Then the pain comes back and we have to tell it again.

“I don’t need to tell anyone my stories,” Eddie said.

“So what were you talking to that young girl about just now?”

“I was telling her about getting thrown out of Rutgers Law School forty years ago.”

         “Did she ask you about it?”

          “Okay, okay, I get it.  It just takes me a minute, that’s all.”

Eddie stopped pushing the wheelchair.  He looked around and saw what he was looking for.  “I have to go to the bathroom before we get out of here.  Let me push you somewhere you won’t get bumped and I’ll be back in a minute.”

         “No problem. But I’ll probably be asleep when you get back.” Alice said, as Eddie wheeled her against the wall, near the entrance to the men’s washroom. 

         As he left her, Alice closed her eyes and thought about all she had heard that day.  There was so much to digest.   Yes, she was exhausted, but she was also exhilarated.  It had been worth the effort to sit and listen.  As it always was. She marveled at people’s abilities to open up. The women and men who had suffered abuse and had been wounded by relationships.  The young woman who had had the affair with the married man, the transgendered woman who had learned to “kill” those who had bullied her growing up. The racism the woman from Stanford had endured because she didn’t recognize what a phallic symbol was.  The woman mistreated by her drug addled, controlling boyfriend.  The pacifist who beat herself up for a moment of anger. All of these stories echoed in her mind, and she felt sadder, wiser and more in love with living than ever.

         Still, she was extremely tired.  She drifted to sleep and slumped in her chair.  Almost immediately, a writer who had been walking by ran over to her, fearing that she might be in distress.

         “Excuse me, Ms. Bainbridge, are you all right?” It was Erin Neuman, one of the authors Alice had spoken to less than an hour before.

         Oh, yes, dear, I was just dozing.” Alice said.

         “I thought maybe…”

         “You thought I had stopped breathing.  I understand.  It’s why my grandson tries to never leave me alone when we’re out in public.  As soon as I drift off, someone feels compelled to call 911.”

         “Well, thankfully, I didn’t do that.  I was just checking.”

         “I’m fine, dear. Just tired.” Alice said.

         “Do you mind if I wait with you until your grandson comes back?”

         “Yes, if you’d like and you have the time.”

         “I do.”

         “You’re the author who recognized the pain in my face when I was thinking about my experience as a six year old, aren’t you?”

         “Well, I saw the pain in your face, but I don’t know what it was from.” Erin said.

         “Would you like to tell the story?”

         “Only if you want to tell it.” Erin said.

         “I was six and I’d written my first book.” Alice began. “It was handmade and, of course, I had no publisher. It was just something that I had started to do when I had l first learned how to write.  I’d called it Alice’s Silly Book and I had written short stories, more notes really, about silly things that had happened to my friends and me in our short lives.  One day I told my friends about it, and they demanded to see it.  Sort of not believing me, and also somewhat concerned, I suppose, that they might be in the book or not in the book, for that matter.  When I went home, I quickly added a few notes and returned to my friends.  When they saw that it was written on colored construction paper and sewn together at the binding with yarn, they laughed and laughed.  Then, they each took turns tearing it up until it was in shreds on the ground.  Embarrassed, I laughed with them, concerned that I had done something foolish by what I had tried to do.  They all seemed to think so, and as I looked at the remnants of the colored paper and yarn scattered on the grass, I was somewhat ashamed of myself and ashamed of my friends for making me feel ashamed.  I’ve relived that story thousands of times in my head, and, to be honest, have rarely ever mentioned it to anyone.  It feels good to tell you now.”

         Erin rubbed her eyes and looked at the old woman.  She bent down and hugged her and whispered, “I wish I could have been there.  I wouldn’t have laughed.  I would have protected you and that book.”

         “Thank you, dear,” Alice said, tears in her own eyes.  “I believe you would have. We writers have to stick together.”

         “Yes, “ Erin said, just as Eddie was coming out of the bathroom.

         Eddie looked at the two tearful women and asked if everything was all right.

         “Yes, Eddie,” Alice said, “Erin and I were just going over old wounds.”

         Eddie was about to talk about his own old wounds when his cell phone went off.  It was Jamie Ranier.

         “Hello?” Eddie said into the phone, pausing.  “I understand.  I’ll be right there.” As he put his phone back in his pocket, Eddie explained, “It was Jamie Ranier. She says you accidentally forgot your plaque and I should run back and get it.  I wanted to tell him that it was okay with you if…” Eddie looked at Erin and continued, “…if they mailed it to you, but she said it would be better if I could come get it now.”

         “I can wait with Alice, Eddie.” Erin said.

         “Great. Thanks, I’ll be back in a minute.”

         Just then, Eddie Jamie Ranier came echoing through the Hall.  She was a considerable distance away, but she was walking as quickly as she could, holding the plaque.

          Eddie walked quickly to meet Jamie halfway.

         “Thanks,” Eddie said, when Jamie handed it to him.

         “No problem,” Jamie said, “I’m sure she wouldn’t want to leave without it.”

         “No, I’m sure she wouldn’t want to do that.” Eddie said.

         As he turned to return to where Alice and Erin were waiting, Eddie heard a loud scream and saw a rush of people surround Alice’s wheelchair.  Eddie and Jamie raced to the commotion.  When they arrived, a number of people were on their cell phones, each calling 911.  In the middle of the authors sat Alice, motionless and apparently not breathing.

         “Alice,” Eddie said sternly, but in a shaky voice, “Stop it!  Come back. Come back.”

         By the time the paramedics arrived and packed her into the ambulance, it seemed clear that Alice was gone.  Tears were running down his face as Eddie climbed into the ambulance. “Not yet, Alice, not yet.” He kept saying, whispering in her ears, then shouting it, then sort of saying it in a voice that only the paramedics seemed to hear.

         The EMT personnel kept checking Alice’s vital signs and didn’t seem to offer much hope.

         Eddie looked down at his grandmother one last time and said, “Come on, Alice, not yet, not yet. Please.”

         A sudden beep of the heart monitor broke the silence.

         Alice’s eyes flickered and she said, “I feel bad for Kathy.”

         “What?” Eddie said, wiping the tears from his face, grateful Alice was alive, but wondering what form of delirium he had fallen into.

         “She loved Tommy, but he was throwing basketballs at her while she was on the roof.  She could have been killed. I mean, ‘you only have to fall once and you’re dead.’”

         “What?”

         “It’s’ a story I heard today. I’ll tell you all of them when we get home.”

         And she did.