Kissing Jeeves: Part III (& final installment)
If you missed it and are so inclined:
Again, realize this was written by me when I was fifteen. I am leaving it unedited. But I am also inserting observations (likely unwelcome by my 15-year-old self, but such is life, fifteen-year-old-self) in italics.
editorial note: this next paragraph was viciously scribbled out, but I was still able to read & record it. Not sure why it was visciously scribbled out... apparently even my naive 15 year old self was embarrassed by it...
After he had left me, I noticed a small square of paper left on the dresser beside my bed. It was addressed to me in Jeeves' impeccable writing. I opened it. It read: "I love you."
back to un-scribbled out story.
My mother came to call on me later that day. After talking to me a little and abusing my uncle quite a bit, she was assured of my ability to remain with my uncle. But she still had that same disapproving look about her as she talked with me. I felt helpless. It made me a bit sicker than I was. Jeeves came up with dinner and although I was weak with hunger, I had to refuse. I felt dizzy. Jeeves' wavering face looked slightly concerned above me, cooly holding the dinner tray.
a feat of acrobatics, when your face can hold a dinner tray.
This caused me to break down and really cry again. I knew that I couldn't walk the restroom, but I needed to. Jeeves seemed to sense it as well. He set down the tray, pulled aside the sheets, and carried me in my white nightgown. I couldnt' even kneel by myself, so I sat in his lap, his arms circled about my waist, as I was sick.
Wow. I'm gettning a little heart-achy, transposing this.
I was sicker than I could ever have imagined possible. Jeeves looked slightly stunned and self-reproachful.
I wonder why. Did he blame himself somehow?
I was crying. He picked me up and held me against his chest. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. "What is it?" He asked, looking at me.
"My mom," I said, exhaustedly.
"She thinks I am disobedient but I try so hard...." I broke off crying again. He cuddled me closer and rocked me back and forth, like a child being rocked to sleep. His suit was wet with my tears, and warm with my breath. He walked, with me, back to my room. He sat with me, on the edge of the bed, and rocked me until he thought I was asleep. He then kissed me, and whispered "I love you," in my ear.
and that is the end. Good Job, Fifteen-year-old-Sarah... we have appropriately made the transition from strange romantic interest to father figure.
To those of you who find this a little disturbing and are wondering if 15-year-old-Sarah had “daddy issues,” the answer is…. A resounding yes. And to those people who might continue this trend of thought & wonder if this lead to heartache later, the answer is absolutely yes. We all have lessons to learn & truths to absorb, along with sometimes hurt.
But the point is, I have now shared a piece of my heart with you all. This connects us, helps you feel who I am as a writer. This is why I am posting these stories and poems from my childhood. I am certain that, in any and every novel I publish, this particular piece of heartache will inform my writing. You’ll see it in Lightning Tree (Maggie & her foster father, a bit of it in how Henry cares for Maggie, etc.)
I don’t feel I can keep these stories to myself anymore. Sharing vulnerability is what writers do… if we’re any good, anyway. Go ahead and analyze me, if you want, but I hope you will also laugh. My hope is you enjoy reading it not only for the writing and the story, but also for my heart.