Time to Regroup

Time To Regroup

Gabriel Denison Chandler

The cuff was so beautiful, all vivid Scottish imagery. She could not raise her eyes to the grim surroundings of the prison basement, but kept her gaze on the Scottish thistles twisting around his wrist. He was a young and handsome officer, and appeared embarrassed he had to leave her in a cell, especially after her involuntary flinch when the men threw themselves against their doors as she was escorted past.

The door swung shut with an ominous clang, and she was left in a room of cold concrete to contemplate her situation. “I am my mother’s daughter,” she thought, surveying the dismal surroundings. “How did I ever end up here?”

Actually, it started with her husband.

On the morning he had announced he was moving out of their home together, into the home of their lawyer, her mind had simply stopped. It came to a screeching halt; how could that happen? This was a man with whom she had built three businesses and raised two children. It was unthinkable.   

She was ushered out of her own home, and watched men carry her things out of the house and into moving trucks, and drive away. Allegedly these things were not hers anymore. He took the cars, but left an old truck. He took the business, saying he wanted nothing. He took the pets, then called the police to investigate the mysterious disappearance of the pets. The police noted an absence of pet food, which had gone with the rabbit, the donkey, the two cats and the dog. She was charged with Attempted Neglect, for not knowing of the animal’s whereabouts, or having food available in case they turned up. The suspicion was that perhaps the animals had met some bad end, since it was also reported she had mental problems. His betrayal was overwhelming; he left no stone unturned.

She had cried until she was sick, and then started living in the truck.  It was summer, and the hot Ponderosa pines created a wonderful clean fragrance where she parked in the woods. The space wasn’t cold, it almost felt devotional when the wind tickled the tops of the pines, and set the aspens dancing.  She went to work every morning, wondering if there was really a purpose for her anymore, wondering what would become of her.   

During the peaceful days she spent in the forest, she thought of ways to rebuild. She liked being married. She decided to get married again. She posted in a dating site, decided to collect her things and move over the mountains and through the woods, ready to start again. Her heart ached, but the sun shone, and the promise of the future yawned before her. She packed her truck, gave notice at her work, and leaped on the long highway, off to discover a life of her own.

Then the truck burned up. At the top of a mountain pass, she noticed the truck slowing, and not responding to acceleration. Then black smoke began billowing from the floor. Opening her door to inspect the cause of the smoke, she discovered yellow flames licking around the bottom of the truck.  She grabbed her purse and jumped out, while the truck burned like a torch in the middle of the road, in an area lacking cell service, with cars stopped on both sides. 

“So far,” she said, as the tires began to explode one by one, “it’s been a hell of a year.” The firemen came eventually, and their fountains of water gushed through the hoses and reduced the torched truck to steaming rubble. It was then she remembered all her clothes, laptop, coat and briefcase had been in the truck. So, hitching a ride to a friend’s house, she tried to think. Now the setback was more severe, she would need time to regroup. This bitter pill must be softened and sweetened. 

A couch was provided, friends brought clothes, she was able to use the computer in the house. She stabilized over the next few weeks, and began dating.   She rented a room, moved out of her truck. She began to teach piano. She found part time jobs, purchased a small car. Slowly, the days relaxed, stretched and took on a semblance of normality.  It seemed strange, making decisions for herself, when previously it had always been “the family,” “the budget,” “our marriage.” Now there was only One: herself. She liked the climate in her new home, not so much snow as before, and she was surrounded by friendly people. 

 The year was great. She remarried. The upswing of events was so thrilling, she was filled with the promise of the future, the thought that her life could continue, she would rise again. She made pasta, packed lunches and picnics, planned outings, took up photography. Her days were rich and full, full of hope and dreams. She and her new husband went to the gym together.   

Then came the trial. It did not go well. She was found guilty, and given a prison sentence. Everyone had said this would not happen, but it did. In prison, she taught yoga and meditation, and tried to be useful. She was not a favorite, with at least one guard, resulting in a great deal of punishment and solitary confinement. So she read many books, freshened her cell with orange peels, and made plans for business to run upon release. 

When she came home, things had changed.  There was .23 cents in the bank account, and her new husband addicted to meth. She took his phone away, sent him back to work, and sat down to regroup. It was becoming her greatest skill set.