Val Zeeran clasped the Bronco's steering wheel with one hand while she swiped at the tears on her cheeks with the other. Moisture overflowed her gray eyes faster than she could clear them. A highway rest stop, set in a thicket of trees, came into her blurred view, and the danger of driving while crying urged her into the exit lane. She pulled into the parking lot and turned off the motor.
Propping her elbows on the steering wheel and splaying her fingers through short, dark curls, she bowed her head and let the sorrow wash over her. Eventually, she fumbled blindly for the overhead visor, flipped it down, and yanked tissues from the attached holder. Get a grip, woman, she thought. You're thirty-five years old and acting like a baby. When her tears ended, she dried her face and peered at her surroundings through swollen eyes.
Weathered wooden picnic benches squatted among the trees in a loose semicircle looped around a bright yellow cement-block building. Squares of tan, crisscrossed slats enclosed the restroom entrances on opposite sides of the building, with oval signs identifying "Ladies" on the left and "Men" on the right.
Val appeared to be the only visitor to the rest stop. She trudged toward the Ladies sign, passed the slatted wood, and entered the green door. Overhead fluorescent tubes lit the plain white interior, illuminating three stalls opposite the door and two sinks against the left wall, with a mirror above them.
Val used a toilet, then washed her hands at a sink. She looked into the mirror with a grimace at her mournful appearance, then her anger flared. Dammit, Marti, you should be here with me. We were supposed to be on this vacation together.
She flung cold water on her face, dried it roughly with paper towels ripped from their holder, and went back outside. Fidgety with nervous energy, she angled through the tables and stomped along the perimeter of the tree-covered area. Near the highway's edge, a patch of fuzzy brown material dangled from a cable that stretched between the I-beams. She was too wrought up to be curious, but her trek took her closer to the material. She gazed down at it, taken aback for a moment by its childlike shape. A lump formed in her throat when she recognized it as a teddy bear.
Marti collects teddy bears . . . Forget about Marti!
The bear's covering had retained most of its brown coloring and fuzzy texture, but a clump of cotton stuffing, gray and lumpy, spilled from a burst seam. Val surprised herself by untangling the bear from the cable and pulling it close to her body. She walked to the nearest picnic table and laid the bedraggled bear on its top. Then she swung her legs over the attached bench and sat down.
Poor Teddy. Where's the child who cared about you? Did she get angry and throw you away? Like Marti did to me? Val's gut wrenched. She was as much to blame for their separation as Marti, maybe more so. But that didn't stop the hurtful thought.
She settled her forearms on the table and stared at her clasped hands. Marti would want to take the bear in and heal its wounds. Like she healed me. Old memories reeled slowly across the screen of her mind-taking her back five years . . .
Loneliness drove Val to the poetry club meeting. Her partner, Erin, had often dragged her to the monthly meetings where a few professional, but mostly amateur, poets met. The members discussed poetic form and function, read their original works to each other, and tried to be supportive while honestly critiquing each other's efforts. Following the meetings, they socialized over coffee and donuts.
But six months ago a drunken driver had ripped Erin and her poetry from this earth, and Val had struggled ever since to cope with a world dimmed by her partner's loss. Now here she sat at the Poetry Club, thoroughly engrossed. A woman about her own age, with long, blonde hair and sensitive brown eyes, was reciting a poem that dove directly into Val's soul.
The world turns dim and cheerless
When the sun begins to set;
Predicting nightfall, with its dreams
Of sorrow and regret.
You brought your light to my life,
And spread sunshine from above;
You led me from destructive paths
And helped me learn to love.
Then left me, heart forsaken—
Oh! How could you e'er forget?
How desperately I need you, when
The sun begins to set.
Achingly touched by the poem, Val almost forgot to applaud and barely heard the critique that followed. Afterward, the club members and guests moved toward the back of the room where a few tables held refreshments. Val remained hunched over in her chair, staring at the floor, yearning for her lost lover.
"Would you like some coffee?" The unexpected voice startled Val, and her body jerked as her gaze leaped upward. She knew the stark loneliness she was feeling must be etched on her face, for she saw the blonde poetess hesitate. Then the woman spoke again. "Sorry, if I'm disturbing you . . ."
Read the rest of The Broken Teddy Bear at Khimairal Ink Magazine.
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