Woven in the Blood is a work in progress by
Lisa Parsons. It tells the story of Jonothan,
a museum curator who decides to search
for his birthmother after the death of his
parents in a house fire.
Lisa Parsons
Woven in the Blood
Chapter 1
The blazing light in Dr. Cantor's eyes blinded him for a moment, but Jonathan
continued to talk.
“My job really sucks. That SOB, my boss, is terrible.”
“You haven't mentioned this before,” said the doctor.
Her diploma from medical school hung above her desk and was surrounded
by photos of a Tibetan monk and an outdoor sculpture garden at Yale. The corner
office had windows that looked out over a park in NW Portland and was furnished
with antiques covered with colorful fabrics and pillows.
“Renee is starting to get on my back about every little detail of the exhibitions
I am planning,” said Jonathan, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“How does that make you feel?” asked Dr. Cantor, making a few notes in his
chart.
The mid afternoon sunshine shone onto Jonathan's face and he covered his eyes
With his out stretched palms. He unbuttoned his linen sportcoat and slipped it off.
'It makes me feel like she doesn't trust my judgement,” said Jonathan, crossing
and uncrossing his legs.
“How is she treating the other curators?” said Dr. Cantor playing with the
top button on her white silk shirt.
“Well, my friend Steve Graham has been complaining of the same thing.
He's only been at the museum for three years, though.”
Jonathan pointed to the window and walked over and put the bamboo shade down
so that it blocked out the sun. He glanced around the room and his eyes lit on
a book of poems by T.S. Elliott. He thought about the upcoming reading
at Reed College by Thomas Lux.
“Yes, go on.”
“Ever since the director's death last month, Renee's been on edge. She's
been conducting a search for a new director and I suspect that she's interested
in taking over the position herself,” he said slouching down in the over stuffed chair.
“What are you planning to do?”
“I might talk to the other curators and try to get a sense of what's really going on.”
“What else is going on in your life now?”
“I've been having some disagreements with my parents.”
“How do you feel about that.”
“Not very good. I'm really tired of dealing with all of these problems with people.
I don't know why all of this is happening at the same time,” he said playing with
the cuff on his blue dress shirt.
“Well, we only have five more minutes left, so you'll have to finish up pretty soon.”
“Yes,yes. I've been talking to my parents about searching for my birth parents,
but every time I bring up the issue of my background they become quite hostile.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“It makes me feel very angry and a little powerless,” He said clutching his knuckles
until they turned white.
Jonathan felt the heat of the fall day make his face and hands damp. He took out
a handkerchief and wiped his forehead and hairline.
“Hum. Have you investigated the options for searching for your birth parents?”
“I've heard that the Children's Aide Society does searches for the adoptees they
have placed. They did a search for a friend of mine from work.”
“Are you prepared for all of the possibilities of the out come? What do you
expect your birth parents to do for you if you find them?”
Jonathan looked down at his hands in his lap. He felt a lump form in his throat
and hesitated for a moment or two.
“I've read some of the books written by adoptees and have thought about what
I would do if they refuse contact or if one of them were seriously ill or dead.”
“In my practice I've dealt with a number of adoptees who have searched for their
birth parents. They usually realize in the end that the parents that raised them
will continue to be most important to their lives.”
“Well, I've heard that too. But I'm an only child, and I would like to meet my
birth parents and possible brothers of sisters. And now, with my parents getting
older I start to worry about being alone.”
“I think you need to have a talk with your parents. We'll have to stop now.”
“I feel as if I just got into this issue.”
“Yes, we can get more in depth with this next time.”
Jonathan pulled on his jacket and picked up his black bag and slung it over
his shoulder. He gave the doctor a forced smile and opened the door
to the office and lumbered down the stairs to the lobby below. The ceramic
sculpture on the table in the waiting room looked as if it came from the early
1970's, while the minimalist painting on the back wall had a date of 2000.
The front door creaked as he pulled it open. The office had been a house built
in the 1940's and made into offices in the 1990's. It was well constructed, but
spots of peeling paint made it look like it had contracted a case of leprosy.
Jonathan walked up the street to his car. His appointment had taken over
the greater part of his lunch hour and he needed to get back to the museum.
Returning late from lunch was just another thing for Renee to get upset about.
Chapter 2
As Jonathan walked into the back door of his parent's house he heard the sound
of the printer going on his father's computer in the den. He made his way
through the large, light filled white and blue kitchen with touches of yellow
in the form of several watercolor paintings done by his mother. Tiles on the
kitchen counters had been modeled on designs brought from the old country
by her grandmother.
“Hey, there son. You've got a slow Saturday?” said his father patting him on
the back.
“Oh, ya. I just couldn't stay away.”
“How's life treating you?” said his father.
“Pretty well. What are you working on?” asked Jonathan as he entered the den
and watched pages coming out of the printer.
“Oh, just a story I've been revising for the last couple of weeks,” said Timothy
Flanagan, a tall, lanky, retired school teacher wearing khaki shorts and a red
long sleeved tee shirt. His large hands passed through his rumpled grey hair
as he looked down at his work. He had been a high school English teacher for over
thirty-five years and now spent his time writing short stories and poetry since
his heart attack in May.
“Oh, is that the one you were telling me about last time I was here?”
“Yes, I'm planning to send it in to the next contest at Glimmer Train in August.”
“Let me have a look at it when you're ready. I'll edit it for you. You know I'm
good at that. You taught me everything I know.”
The den was really an old parlor that had been converted into a more casual
space in the 1980's. It had a bank of windows that faced out onto a porch
and the garden beyond where Timothy and his wife Karen liked to sit in the
after noons. The sofa was covered in a rust colored flowered chintz and two large
leather chairs faced it with a mahogany coffee table in between. Karen's
photos and several Japanese inspired sumi ink paintings hung on the walls
painted a sunny yellow color.
“Where's Mom?”
“Oh, she's either in the dark room or out in the garden. Why don't you hunt
her up. We might be able to get her to make us some lunch?”
Jonathan decided to check the dark room first and clambered down the stairs
to the basement. His eyes had to adjust to the space lit only with a red hanging
light and the light of the enlarger that his mother was working on in the corner
of the room.
“Hi. How's your work going?” said Jonathan reaching over to kiss his mother's
cheek.
“Honey, you're just in time to see this great image. I'll be ready to put it
into the developer in a second. What was that I heard your father say
about my fixing lunch? Maybe you could make sandwiches or a salad.”
“Sure, I'll make a salad. Do you have any shrimp?”
“There's some in the freezer. Here's the image. Want to watch it develop?”
The black and white image slowly came into view. Under the red light
it looked like a group of children at an outdoor market.
“Remember, I told you I took some photos on our vacation in Guatemala last
spring.
“Nice composition. Good work.”
“Well, I'll work on another print later.”
Jonathan wound his way up to the first floor and passed by his father's massive
desk on the way to the kitchen. It was filled with sheets upon sheets of printed
paper.
“How long has it been since you changed the battery to the smoke alarm?
I could do it for you.”
“Oh, I'll get around to it next week. Don't worry about it son.”
The room was filled with stacks of paper and letters and newspapers. Even the
floor had piles of magazines in spots around the fireplace.
“I'm almost ready to stop. Does your mother want some help?”
“I,m going to make salads. You can make some iced tea.”
Jonathan took out the lettuce, shrimp, avocado, onion, and tomatoes and
Started to make three salads. His father came in and made some iced tea
in a large round pitcher with an angular handle.
“Tim, what do you think of this image?”
“Great. Did you take that in Guatemala?”
“Sure. It turned out a lot better than I expected. I think I'll do a whole series.
Maybe I could do a book. What do you think Jonathan?”
“Ya, I think Graphic Arts might be interested. I could give them a call if you like.”
Jonathan took the salads out to the porch. The lilac bush over head cast some
shade over half of the table. He watched as his parents sat down at the glass
topped table while he slowly poured iced tea into blue tumblers, his hands
shaking slightly.
“There's something I've been thinking about for awhile that I'd like to discuss
with you.”
“What is it Jonathan?' asked his father taking a sip of tea.
“I've been thinking about searching for by birth mother.”
His mother shot his father a glance and silently mouthed something. Jonathan
began to fidget in his chair and took a deep breath.
“Why at this stage in your life do you want to find her. You've never been
interested before. Does this have something to do with Melanie? You know,
I never really liked her,” said his mother.
“No, it doesn't have anything to do with Melanie. It's just that you're getting
older and I'm getting older and I'd like to find out if I have any siblings.”
“We're getting older! That makes me feel really great. You have your cousins.”
“I've never gotten along with any of them. They're only interested in business
and besides they are all working blue collar jobs. I can't relate to them.”
“Well, I think you ought to think about this hard before you do anything.
I don't want you to get hurt. What if you found out something terrible.,”
said his mother tears welling up in her eyes.
“Don't upset your mother son.”
Jonathan felt his stomach lurch and glanced down at the floor.
“What are you afraid of?” asked Jonathan.
“I've heard some things from people about the results of these searches. Your
mother could be a criminal or be insane. Do you want to find out something
like that?” said his mother.
“I was thinking that you two would be supportive. You have always told me
to search for the truth.”
“I didn't really mean all of that,” said his father.
“I think you did mean it,” said Jonathan choking on his salad.
He picked up his plate and glass and stood up. He glanced at his mother
and shook his head.
“I'm going to take off.”
“Why don't you stay awhile. You could stay for dinner and spend the night.
I like it. I'd like to read the end result when you get it finished. I really would, but I think (I'm probably way wrong about this), I'd open with a little more excitement. Where you write that the boss is an SOB, that he is terrible, would it be more interesting to say what it is that is terrible, I mean instead of saying he's terrible. I'm certainly no one to give advice, but that's just the feeling I got when I started reading it. But it's very, very good, as good as any novel beginning, and I hope to read more. Mike Gibbs
My second book is about a boy who has Asperger's Syndrome and is bullied to the point to where he shoots up his school. I have divided the excerpts from it into three parts: Before, during and after the shooting.
As deafness, illness, and demonic forces close in around him, Ludwig van Beethoven must summon his faith and genius to complete the Missa Solemnis—a sacred masterpiece he believes could bring divine light into a darkening world.
Soldier's Gap is a non-traditional mystery with literary elements. The high school principal is brutally murdered, but Deputy Sheriff Dave Jenkins's search for meaning and love is a much more significant theme.
"Murder isn't usually this fun
