These are two “chapters” I wrote for a project in school. We wrote a sequal for Sharron Creech’s book “Walk Two Moons” by making up/ adapting a character and writing chapters in their voice. My character is an old senile man named Walter who has a bit of alzheimer’s. Enjoyy.

CHAPTER ONE:

People are people. It’s as simple as that, really. People are different in the same way; we are all happy sometimes, and sad other times, and we all breathe. All these people on this here bus are definitely people.

    The automobile has been chugging along this road for a while now. It’s really not a good place to take a nap. I don’t remember what I’ve been doing for the past two days, other than napping, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Looking out the window reminds me of watching a movie. The boxed screen flicks from scene to scene. This movie is about love, I think. The birds in the window are singing with each other, and what better to sing about than love? Ah, love…

    The screen starts whipping from scene to scene too quick for my dear old head to handle, so I set it back on the head rest. Maybe I could finish the movie later.

    I wake up with a start. Where am I? This isn’t my house… and who are these people? I’ve never seen them before in my life. I whip my head around to look at all these new faces. Why are my cheeks wet? I pull my sleeve over my hand and scrub my eyes. No more crying. When I return to my exploration of the faces, I find someone I recognize. Across the aisle, a pair of deep green eyes stare into mine. Nova…

    ”Sir, are you all right?” Ask the green eyes. I spread a grin across my face like butter. The grin felt right at home, I’m sure. My face is a nice face, a face that a grin should love to call home. Welcome home, grin.

    ”What are we doing here, girly-woo?” I ask, my voice swaying in pitch in a way that always made my Nova giggle wildly. The grin ran off when it noticed that my response did not get its usual giggle or even a grin in return.

    ”Nova, what’s wrong with your grinning face, pumpkin patch?” I bellow, the words bouncing off the walls of the bus and causing a few folks to turn their heads. The green eyes blink in response. I try to summon up my grin, but it is still running scared.

    ”I’m sorry, what are you talking about? Who is Nova?” whispers the green eyes. When I look even deeper into those eyes, reality hits me like a speeding freight train, or… a flying brick… or… or a bus load of people who are all different in the same way and who are all trying to get to different places together.

    I stand up, my cheeks wet again, and I possibly murmur an apology. I bobble down the aisle. The view of reality from a few moments earlier is being tugged away. My eyes seek out an empty seat, and upon finding one, my old, tired body drops down into it. I look down at my moccasin-covered feet, two different socks sticking out of them, and feel myself relax a bit. Then something coming down the aisle towards me catches my attention, but not for long. I have time to think about the pretty trees outside of the window, maple trees, I think, and the little child at the front of the bus. I wonder where my Christmas sock was, and for a second I wonder what I was doing away from home. Then I look up again and see the green eyes. Such nice eyes they are, but somehow different than I remember…

    ”Sir,” begin the green eyes cautiously, “are you all right?” I wonder why in the world she might think otherwise. I look down to examine myself. Heck, I think I look pretty healthy, except for my belly. I promptly stick out a finger and poke it. Then, realizing that green eyes was staring at me, I look back up.

    ”What did you say, lovie?” I ask, and take a better look at her. Yes, definitely something different.

    ”Are you okay? Did I say something?” she asks, and touches my arm lightly. I look at her hand, and then at her face.

    ”Oh… oh, my. Well… my oh my.” is my only response. This is probably why she continues to stare into my eyes, and then slides into the seat next to mine. I’m glad for the bout of clarity, but feel an aching in my heart because of it. This girl with these pretty green eyes is not my Nova. Not mine at all.

    ”Do you know where you are?” She asks me, and when I nod she pats my hand. Green eyes is a nice girl. “What’s your name?”

    ”Walter,” I tell her, “Walter Allen Watercresse. And you are?” I stick my hand out nearly the whole way across the small space between us. A smile plays on her lips and she slides her hand in mine, her arm barely extended.

    ”Millie,” She replies, and we shake hands.

    ”So what are we doing here on a bus, my girl?” I asked her, returning slowly to my bubbly old self.

    ”Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, most likely doubtful about trusting her personal life with an old man whose mental state is questionable. I understand. Kids these days. I turn away from the green eyes and look out the window. The movie is different now. The scenery has been replaced, and the lights dimmed. I suppose we’ve been sitting here a while in silence, green eyes just looking at me, and me watching the new movie. I decide it isn’t too interesting, so I start talking. I don’t know if I was talking to her, or if I was just talking to myself. Or maybe I wasn’t talking to either of us.

    ”The sock was gone one morning,” I tell her. She doesn’t stir. 

    ”Just, ya’ know, not there. I suppose the drying machine ate it, as it does sometimes. You can’t blame it, though; it’s in its nature. Eating socks, I mean. It couldn’t have known that this wasn’t just any old sock. Anywho, the Christmas sock was just gone one morning. And Nuttah said she would knit me another, but I told her not to bother. It wouldn’t be the same, ya’ know, girly?” A nod in response, and I continued. “Nuttah always bothered me about wearing just the one sock, but I told her not to worry her head about it. I like it better this way. One sock. One Nuttah. Just right.” Green eyes stare into mine. Blink. I stop talking because I lose track of what it was I was talking about in the first place. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes.

    ”Who is Nuttah?” Ask the green eyes after a long bout of silence. I had long forgotten what I had told her minutes prior.

    ”My wife,” I answered flatly. She just looks at me for a while.

    ”And where is she?” she asks softly, possibly already anticipating the answer. The green eyes look soft and sad. Probably a lot like what mine look like.

    ”My Nuttah. My wife. She’s… not here anymore.” The green eyes close and turn towards the floor. She pats my hand again, but I don’t feel it much, really. My eyes glaze over and stare out into space. And then I can’t stop the words from pouring out. “My daughter Nova. I thought… you remind me of her so much. I can see her in your eyes. They’re both gone. She… she died… in a car. In my car. She was fifteen. Only a girl, ya’ know? Life can be cruel, sweetheart. Life can be cruel.”

    I lose my train of though and begin to look around. A woman who I don’t remember seeing before is sitting across the aisle from us, clearly listening to what I had been talking about. Her short black hair dances lightly on her cheek on account of the wind coming through the open window. It looks like a little ballerina, I think. I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at the little ballerina, but now I realize that there is something else on the woman’s cheek. A tiny drop of water. It rolls slowly down her cheek and almost reaches her chin before a hand comes out of nowhere and swipes it away. Then it is replaced by another. I feel like I’m watching myself during the events of my story, and a drop of water slowly glides down my cheek as well.

    My eyes meet the green eyes again, and her voice in my head tells me to keep talking. Or someone’s voice. “My wife, Nuttah was driving my Nova to school in the morning. Nuttah was already fifty-three years old. It was five days after Christmas. And it has snowed, so the roads were slippery I suppose…” Deep rattling breath. “They slid off of the road, and hit a tree. And it when I got the call at work, it was as if everything stopped. People looked at my differently from then on. As if they were wondering how I could have let that happen to my family. The world is cruel, sugar. Very cruel.” She nodded again. Although she was surely not much older than my Nova had been, she obviously knew how cruel indeed it could be.

    ”At the hospital, they told me my Nova was already gone. And I remember crying in front of all those people in the waiting room. But they were crying too, or they would be, so no one stared. My Nuttah died in surgery a few hours later. The waiting room was peach, and there was white carpet. The ceiling light was yellow, and the lady at the counter was pudgy and wore a sad smile for the entire time I was there. There was a door… a door…” My words tapper off, and I lay my head back against the head rest.

    Green eyes sighs. She sets her head lightly down on my shoulder.

    The doctor walked out into the waiting room and pulled off his mask. He wasn’t smiling, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. When he did look up I could see perfectly the message that he was sent to deliver. “Her last words were, ‘a turtle always knows where its home is.’” He had said, in a soft voice that was obviously well practiced. But it didn’t help. What does that mean? Where was my home, now?

    ”What did you say you’re here on this bus for again?” I mumble, and then wonder if the words were even understandable. But they must have been, because after a few seconds she tells me, “I didn’t say.” I smile a bit and close my eyes. “Well, my dear,” I say in a serious tone, “A turtle always knows where its home is.”

CHAPTER TWO

I don’t know where I’m going. I mean, I know where the bus is going. I just don’t know where I’m going. Far from my home, I’m sure. Far from the graves of my family. Far away from everything I know. I guess I’m going to the moon.

    Don’t go thinking that I’m trying to escape, though. I miss my wife, and I miss my daughter, but I know that I’ll see them soon. And I know that they wouldn’t want me to be miserable. So I think of them often, but not mournfully. I’m not running away from their graves. Not running away from the place that they died. I’m running towards something else. I got onto this here bus in order to try to really live the remainder of my life. I wanted to see Old Faithful. And now I have. I wanted to see the Black Hills. Now I have. Everything seems so clear and simple to me right now, although I know it won’t last for long.

     Right now my head is resting against the cool window. This is my normal position for early mornings because I am usually the only one awake. I think well in the morning, when there isn’t much to distract me. So it’s been my usual routine for a while to wake up before the sunrise and sit to watch it. I can barely make out the purplish-blue coming over the horizon in the distance, but I decide to step outside.

     We are in Idaho, a town called Orofino. There isn’t much to do here, but the bus stopped last night to let us have a rest. I walk out of the bus and prop myself up against the tire. I face the sunrise which is now red-orange. I can feel my midday haziness sweeping over me like a blanket. My thoughts are becoming more transparent, but I still know that it’s a beautiful sunrise.

     A noise from behind me wakes me from my light doze. A woman walks down the steps of the bus and sets herself down next to me in the dirt. I stare at her cream colored pants, which will surely be light brown when she stands up.

     “What are you doing up so early?” the woman whispers, pushing a strand of her stringy black hair behind her ears. I stare into her eyes, trying to recall her name which I probably heard many times before.

     “Enjoying a wonderful sunrise, pumpkin head!” I said in a voice far from a whisper, and smiled at her. A stirring is heard from the bus, and she turns her head towards the noise worriedly, but I wave it off. “If you could be so kind as to tell me your name, again, darling, I would love to invite you to get some coffee.”

     Looking back at me, the woman replied, “Chanhassen.” I smiled and hoisted myself up, using the side of the bus to steady myself. Then I offered my hand out to her, both of us knowing perfectly well that I wouldn’t be much of a help getting her on her feet.

     “Well then, Chanhassen, would you care for some coffee?” I asked, my voice carrying a little farther than she probably would like. She smiles, nods, and stands up. We walk a few blocks down the street to a coffeehouse and can smell the brew from outside on the curb. I take a deep breath and try to get my heart to slow down. A small walk is a lot for a little old man.

     After getting our coffee, mine black and hers with sugar, we take a seat at a small booth. I face her and fiddle with the sugar packets. I stack them, unstack them, stack them again, and then unstack them.

     “You know,” she says, “it’s strange how close the lot of us have gotten. We’re so different. I would never have thought that we have so much in common.” She smiles. I smile back and take a big gulp of my coffee. It burns the back of my throat but I don’t mind that much.

     “Do you remember when you were telling that story to Millie? Last week. You told her about your wife… and your daughter. Do you remember?” She asks in a soft voice. Although I don’t remember exactly what had been discussed, I nod my head. She sighs and a sad smile appears on her lips.

     “And do you remember me crying?” she questions, and I nod, expecting her to continue, but she just looks down into her coffee mug.

     “You found my story heart wrenching, did you, deary?” I raise my eyebrows and her sad smile grows wider but sadder.

     “I know about loss. A lot about it. I know how it feels. I know how you must have felt. Your story just reminded me about myself, and that jerked loose the tears.”

     “I don’t believe you could have possibly known how I felt, darling.” I said with a voice full of experience but completely free of skepticism. “Do you have a husband? Any children?” I ask. 

     “Both, yes. My daughter’s name is Sal,” she replied.

     “A living family, bumble bee? What have you lost?” I stop playing with the sugar packets and look into her eyes. She seems at a loss for words, or possibly trying to figure out whether or not she should explain it to me. “You can tell me,” I assure her.

     “I was pregnant. A little bit ago. But I lost the baby.” She looked deep into my eyes, which I felt glaze over, but I forced myself to focus. “And before you tell me that I hadn’t ever met my baby and couldn’t possibly have loved it; let me remind you that you have never been a mother!” She says hurriedly. I stare at her a while, taking in all of the features, marks, and bumps of her face.

     When I realized that she was waiting for an answer of some sort, I said, “I wasn’t planning on telling you that, cupcake. And I truly am sorry for your loss.” Short and sweet, because I’m not sure what to tell her. I tried to think of comforting words, but drawing a blank, just let my mouth hang open. I remember back all those years ago when I had first lost my daughter. Words really had no effect on me. She looked appeased, and the sadness of her smile was fading. Then I finally came up with something that would be sure to help.

     “If you plan to start a flood, then take out the dam. But if the dam never existed, then all you can do is try to escape the waters.” I say in a sing song voice and tack on a smile to the end. She just stares at me. I seem to get this reaction a lot, but I’m sure that my words could help her if she took them to heart. A person can find help and encouragement in anything if they look at it the right way. After a few moments of silence, possibly the awkward kind, she takes a deep breath.

     “So, let’s not dampen a lovely morning with such sad talk,” she concludes, closing the subject, and putting on a smile. The sun was now fully in the sky, and we are both finished with our coffee, so we decide to head back to the bus.

     While we walk the few blocks back to where the bus is stopped, she tells me more about her miscarriage. It devastated her. I can understand the feeling, even though it is true that I never was, nor will be, a mother.

     All the passengers are surprisingly awake back at the bus, and we are planning to head out in a few minutes. I walk over to the bus driver, have a brief conversation with him, and then walk back the way I had come. I stroll into a small store near where the bus is parked and skim my eyes along all of the clothing. Looking out of the big window at the front of the store, I see everyone boarding the bus. I grin and begin to whistle to myself.

     A few minutes later, after more browsing, I glance out the window again in time to see the bus backing out of the space that it had been crammed into. I walk out of the store as the bus passes me by slowly. I see many shocked faces peering out the windows at me, probably wondering how on earth they could have left Walter behind. I chuckle to myself and wave, trying to make it clear to them that I was perfectly happy being left behind.

     I continue to wave as the bus passes me completely, gets on the road, and disappears out of sight. I trust that the driver will have told everyone by now that it was my choice for this to be my final stop of the trip, and that I wish everyone the best. I begin humming again and walking down the sidewalk, crossing my feet every step and letting my arms hit my thighs.

     A turtle always knows where its home is.

(I realize you won’t exactly understand the plot, but oh well.)

Thanka ya for reading

Megan