Lounge of Tomorrow

Way back in Community College (Fullerton College), in my first semester there (Fall 1985), I took a Writing Class - a 100 level course. Not only did I meet the love of my life, but I also wrote a story that touched me - it was actually a pretty deep catharsis and it was the writing of this story a couple of years after the incident that I finally dealt with my feelings of the incident.

We recently found the book that the story was published in (just something the college puts out every year). Today, I scanned it, OCR'ed it and captured the text.

So I thought I would share it with you. I will warn you that it is a tear-jerker. I hope you enjoy.

Becka

Rebecca Lynn Young was born September 22, 1980. She wasn't given the most auspicious beginnings: Her father, having recently skipped bail on grand-theft, forgery and kidnapping charges, was nowhere to be found (which was just fine with most of us). Her mother (my sister) was a mixed-up kid of twenty-four, on probation for misdemeanor child-stealing. She had spent most of her life getting into and out of trouble and just plain running scared. She was just too innocent and needed someone to show her the way. But still, she was smart and she was strong.

After her birth, Becka and her mother came to live with her grandmother and me. At this point in my life, the last thing I wanted was to be a surrogate father, so I made myself scarce. The first couple of months were a real nightmare. My mother, always short of temper and patience, was constantly annoyed by the situation and seemed to yell about everything. But soon I decided to brave the storm and find out what a neat toy a baby could be. On one particularly hectic November Saturday, Becka was crying for attention and her mother and grandmother were having another confrontation. Out of curiosity, I thought I would see what I could do: just how good was I at playing peek-a-boo? Within minutes, Becka and I were having quite a moment, laughing and carrying on with not a care in the world.

Over the next few months, this became a routine between us. At first, it was done in secret when nobody was looking, out of my fear of "getting caught." But soon I didn't care if anyone saw; if Becka and I could share a moment together, then that's what we did. At a family get-together around Christmas, I was spied playing with Becka. The family joined together to kid me to be careful or Becka might start thinking I was her father. I scoffed at their suggestions, telling them that even a baby knows that her sixteen-year-old uncle is not her father.

July 7 of 1981 had gone along just like any other day. I was approaching the end of another routine work day at my mother's company where I had taken summer employment. Suddenly, I heard my mother from across the office talking on the phone, asking questions in a panicked tone. After listening to her say, "I’ll meet you at the hospital," I heard her go running out the door. I was left there confused, but I was determined to not stay that way. I hurried home in time to see the fire truck that came with the ambulance start to pull away. Stopping it, I demanded to know what was going on. The fireman calmly explained that there had been an accident and gave me directions to the hospital. As I tore down the street in my truck, he futily warned me that the family did not need another accident.

When I found the family in the nurses' lounge, I was finally briefed on the situation; Becka had somehow got hold of a plastic bag and it had lodged in her throat, causing her to asphyxiate. As we spoke, the doctors had her in surgery, trying to revive her lifeless body. After many tense moments spent trying to calm her hysterical mother, the head surgeon walked in with a grim look on his face and simply said, "We did all we could."

From the funeral, which I attended in a daze, I cannot remember a word that was said or even who was there. But an image that will be locked in my mind forever was the sight of that casket. While it was pretty, white with silver trim, it was small. Small enough to hold an innocent nine-month-old baby.

My Becka.