Streaming through the windows, headlights flash as they pull into the driveway. I become suddenly alert, glancing at the clock. It’s 12: 45. She told me she would be home by 12: 15. We had both agreed there would be no exceptions. Why was she home so late? Nervousness passes through my body as I contemplate getting off the couch.
Trying not to act paranoid, which I am, I stay seated and change the channel with the clicker. A door slams shut outside. Finding an action movie, I act engrossed in whatever I’m watching. The colors all seem to blend together because my mind is on my daughter. The side-gate clangs shut, she’s coming in through the back. She isn’t trying to sneak; she always comes this way, right? The back door slowly slides open and shut as she enters the house.
She makes a straight line for the bathroom, where she spends the next five minutes fiddling about. I admit it; I’m a paranoid mom. But, she’s not doing well in school. She has her same attention thing, where she only does things she enjoys. I’m just glad she’s taking two English classes; she’s always been good at those. She does her work; it just doesn’t get turned in.
She’s not lazy, but un-motivated by the pay-off the school system has to offer her. So, she finds her rewards elsewhere, where she can see the result. That’s what bowling and lacrosse are for. She’s on varsity teams for both, of course she’s fine. She has to be. The bathroom door opens.
The Essay on Car Gym Time Door
... the freezing cold longer. Hopping into my car and shutting the door figuring I will be much more comfortable, which wasn't ... while I was sleeping and super glues my eyes shut. I knew I had to get up to go ... my keys, and my cell phone." I slam the door and fly out the house getting everything in about ... the car sitting about twenty feet from my front door. Getting into my car is the worst part of ...
“Hi mom” she murmurs, trying to get by quickly. “Wait,” I say, calling her back. “What?” she returns resentfully. “How was your evening?” I inquire, trying to gather something from her. “Fine. I’m going to bed, I’m tired.” She looks at me.
A rush of guilt falls over my body as I catch myself looking at her eyes from redness. “Goodnight,” I say, hoping she won’t realize what my plan had been. “Come give me a kiss.” As she comes over I find myself smelling strongly, as if I was searching for something. She turns and heads off to bed after kissing my cheek. Did I just smell drugs? Did her hair have a faint reflection of marijuana? Were her pupils big? I lost myself in the whirlpool of questions, which kept spinning, in my mind. I knew the answers.
Soon after she’s retired to her room a flavor of India comes through the vents. She has her incense going again, like she does every night she writes. She usually fiddles on her computer or my laptop for 20 minutes before going to bed. I question the incense.
She’s probably back there smoking pot under my very nose. I get up quickly and pace to the back of the house. I open her door quickly, but the room is dark. A haze has gathered on the ceiling as the smell rolls into the hallway. A lump in the bed rolls over and manages a quite rumble. “What?” the lump grumbles as I flick on the light.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but realize the stupidity only after the question is posed. “Trying to sleep,” it responds, agitated. I turn the light off and creep backwards, not saying a word. What would I say? Sorry, I thought you were smoking pot? None of that would work! Returning to the television, I lose sight of what I’m watching once again. It’s hard to trust her. She’s lied so much in the past.
About grades, where she’s going, what time she ” ll be home. She never seems to be on the same level as us. We never know what’s going on. There’s a line between being too inquisitive and over-protective. I honestly believe that my problems are wrapped around the thought of losing her. I don’t want her to go anywhere.
I want her to stay at home and study at the community college. I want her to begin riding again, to get her “A” rating. But, I’m chasing a dream created by a twelve-year old girl. She drove the ideas of making it big into my skull. Her heart was in it then. She actually cared.
The Term Paper on Heart Transplant 2
Cardiac transplantation, also called heart transplantation, has evolved into the treatment of choice for many people with severe heart failure (HF) who have severe symptoms despite maximum medical therapy. Survival among cardiac transplant recipients has improved as a result of improvements in treatments that suppress the immune system and prevent infection. Definition A heart transplant, or a ...
Sometime between then and now she’s lost her spirit. It was before the accident so I know that wasn’t the cause. Honestly, I think she lost it the day Pokey died. Most people don’t know everything that happened that day. She lost two horses: Pokey, who died: and Allan, whom we had to return due to a structure problem.
He later became a very expensive pasture ornament for Cassie, who we had bought him from. The cold that night was much stronger than the thermometer read. The wind and rain, as if from a horror movie, stood no chance against the freeze that would follow. Something chilled through her body and froze a part of her heart. It’s never thawed.
She doesn’t care; it’s that simple; there’s nothing I can do about it, either. Maybe someday, through her writing, the emotions of that girl will shine through. But for now, the only thing keeping her heart from stopping is the anti-freeze that shoots through her veins. She’s tattered and worn; sick of the bull everyone around seems to feed her.
It hurts, because no matter what I do, I’m not making anything better. Everything I say sends her farther and farther away. The distance between our points is growing immensely with every encounter. I guess I need to depend on the fact that others tell me that she’s an overall good kid. When company is around she, smiles and jokes accordingly.
But looking into her soul, you can always see that her spirit is broken. She has no twinkle of youth that shows the dreams of all children, just a deep, dark pit that she will soon fall into. My body aches at the images of how this will end for her. I’m lost in the chaos: it overwhelms us all. But maybe, someday, I’ll be able to understand and help her. But whatever I do, I cannot lose her..
