The Great and Terrible: No Monsters Like Hers

On an overcast Monday morning in December, I masked a boatload of stress with a carefree smile and carried a breakfast tray into my father’s bedroom. “Tell your appetite to prepare for greatness,” I called as orange juice sloshed over the rim of its glass. “I made my specialties. Burnt toast and rubbery eggs.”

“Thank you, sweetheart, but I’m not hungry.”

At the first sight of him, my carefully crafted expression wavered. More fragile by the day.

He lay in bed, propped on a mound of pillows, his lower half draped by a faded pink and white comforter my mother purchased ages ago. One of the few mementos we possessed of the woman we missed with every fiber of our beings. Once I’d owned her favorite ring, but I’d done the unthinkable and misplaced it. The loss still haunted me.

Dad’s attention shifted to the window, where muted sun rays streamed in. “A storm is brewing,” he intoned.

“I’ll hunt down some candles in case the power goes out,” I replied as cheerfully as I was able. Our generator died last month, and I hadn’t yet raised enough funds to repair it. “How are you feeling today?”

He pursed his lips. “Like I’ve been chewed up and spit out.”

“So much better than yesterday. Excellent.” Oh, how I hated lung cancer. In only four short months, the awful disease had ravaged the once ox-strong man, rendering him a shell of his former self.

As I set the tray on the nightstand and organized my father’s plethora of medications, sunken brown eyes beseeched me. I stifled a groan, knowing what was coming next.

“You shouldn’t have to be my nurse and do my chores and wait tables at a crappy diner,” he grumbled. “All to pay my bills.”

Bingo. “Daddy, please don’t⁠—”

“You’ve got to let me go, Rye.” More desperate by the heartbeat, he reached out with a frail hand and clasped my wrist in a weak grip. “I know you’ve got no desire to return to college. Why not attend trade school? Those jobs are always in high demand. Think of it. Class in the mornings and fancy dates at night. Nothing would make me happier.”

We rehashed this conversation at least once a week. “First, I will never let you go. Second, I like what I’m doing now.” But he wasn’t wrong about having no desire to return to college. I’d struggled to pick a major and switched from creative writing, to business administration, to fine arts.

My talents began and ended with bringing to life the hideous dragon-esque monsters my mother wove into the fantastical fairytales at bedtime. The elaborate stories had centered around a hero king with power beyond imagining who died in battle but somehow lived on, helping his people defeat the evil beasts left behind. An artist at her core, she’d dreamed of writing and publishing a children’s book filled with her one of a kind sketches. I wished she had. I’d do anything to read it. My obsession with the beasts persisted to this day.

In high school and college, I’d failed almost every creative assignment. Paint sunflowers—F. I’d created a bouquet of monster faces. Mold a vase—D. I’d shaped a winged monster able only to hold a single flower between its fangs. Sketch yourself—A-. Honestly, that had been a shocker. The teacher praised my ability to recognize my “inner trauma.”

When my father’s diagnosis came in, I’d entertained zero qualms about packing up and heading home to tend to the family farm while he recovered. A decision I did not regret. “As for dating,” I said, picking up the conversation where I’d left off, “no thank you. Something about me makes guys uncomfortable.” They never relaxed in my presence. But then, I never relaxed in theirs, either.

“It’s your eyes.” Dad sighed. “They see too much. Your mother dealt with the same problem.” Affection tinged his voice. “The right man will welcome your deep dives into the innermost recesses of his heart.”

My chest constricted. I was eight years old when Mom vanished. Daddy took me with him to plow the soybean fields after I’d begged to ride my favorite tractor. We returned hours later to find the house ransacked, blood splattered about, and Sandra Shaker missing, never to be seen or heard from again.

Dad and I had both adored the loving homemaker who’d made everything better, and we’d been ill prepared to deal with her absence. Or the unknown. What happened to her? Everyone believed she was dead, but a part of me still clung to a sliver of hope.

Tears singed my eyes. “I miss her.” Don’t make me miss you, too.

“She was a special lady, that’s for sure. And so are you.” His hand fell away, flopping onto the mattress, but his expression remained staunch. “Attend a play date with your city friend, at least. What’s her name? Jeanie?”

“Jeanette. But she isn’t my friend. She was an assigned study partner.” We’d gotten along about as well as witches and water.

“You’ve got to face facts, sweetheart. People need people, and I’m not getting out of this life alive. Every time I see a doctor, the prognosis is worse. You’re wasting your future here.”

“No. No!” I reiterated with more force. “I love you. Not one second with you is wasted.” He’d always been there for me, providing everything I needed. More than shelter and sustenance, he’d given me unending support. Despite being a wreck himself, he’d comforted me after Mom’s disappearance. How could I do any less for him now?

He shook his head, exasperated. “Stubborn as a mule. That’s what you are.”

I humphed at him. “Guess I’m not just my mother’s daughter.”

His echoing humph reminded me of pre-cancer Dad.

“Take your meds and eat your breakfast,” I said, “and I’ll go on a date with the next guy who asks.” A moot point since no one ever asked. For a while I’d thought Theo, a frequent customer at the diner, might do so, but he’d stopped coming in weeks ago, ending our mild flirtation.

No big deal. People left me. That’s what they did.

Well, hello there, abandonment issues.

Inner shake. I handed my dad a tiny paper cup with pills piled on top of each other, then bent over to kiss his brow. “Gotta run. I’ve got ravenous animals to feed.” And yeah, a host of other responsibilities to complete. “I love you,” I repeated. “Remember that.”

His shoulders rolled in. “I love you, too, Rye.”

Before he could say anything else, I strode from the room. Only after I closed the door with a soft snick did I let my smile fall. How much time did he have left? How much, how much?

Whatever the answer, I wasn’t going to wallow. I’d meant what I’d said. Responsibilities called.

Raising my chin, I kicked into high gear and readied the candles, as promised. After donning a hat, gloves, and an old coat, I made my way outside, abandoning the warmth of the farmhouse to enter the chill of winter.

One hour bled into another as I restocked feed loaders, fed the pigs and chickens, gathered eggs, filled water troughs, set out hay bales, checked the herds for problems, tended the greenhouse vegetables, and mucked stalls. All the while, the empty heated pool where I had adored swimming throughout my childhood mocked me. So did three hundred acres of neglected soil.

Planting season was only four months away. But how was I supposed to complete a task that required machinery I couldn’t afford to fix?

Bit by bit, the sky darkened, bringing with it a cold breeze. Guess my father’s prediction had legs. I inhaled deep and detected the crisp scent of coming rain. Oh, yeah. There’d be a storm.

Mist formed in front of my face as I exhaled, momentarily shielding my vision. Wait. A pig had escaped the pen. Argh! I took off in a sprint.

As I wrangled the little darling, the first smattering of raindrops fell. I checked the clock on my cell and groaned. I’d worked too long and now had less than half an hour to shower, change, and drive to Emerald City Clucks, where I served “the Wickedest Chicken Sandwich in the Midwest” while sporting two dark braids, a blue and white gingham pinafore dress, requisite white undershirt, and a pair of silver slippers, reminiscent of the book rather than the movie. When you lived in Ozworld, Kansas, there was no escaping The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

According to local history, a housewife in the fifties claimed to be transported by tornado to and from a fantastical land. No one had believed her, but everyone had hoped to cash in. A vote to change the town name passed. For a while, the gambit had paid off, bringing in a flood of tourists. If only the tale continued to draw the masses.

Once inside the house, I checked on my father. He slept, but not restfully. At least he’d taken a few bites of the toast. An improvement from yesterday when he’d eaten nothing.

A barbed lump grew in my throat. I hated to leave him, but I couldn’t afford to stay. We’d taken out a second mortgage on the farm to pay for medication and treatments. Either I paid the bill or we lost our home. I just, I needed Daddy to keep fighting long enough to reach remission.

With a heavy heart, I quickly dolled up and hit the road. Maybe I would receive a large tip tonight. Considering the number of punches I’d taken lately, something was bound to go right for me. Please.

I set a tub of dirty dishes on a cluttered table and rubbed my aching back. At twenty years old, I felt ancient. Tending the farm and working at the diner seven days a week were taking a toll. Not that I was complaining (more than a little.) To help my dad, I’d do this and more. Even accept a third job, if necessary. And it just might be.

“We’re closing early tonight,” a harried voice called from the kitchen. “Meteorologist says the storm is getting worse. Why don’t you buss the table, sweep, and go. I wanna get home to Darla and kids and batten down the hatches.”

My boss, James, was a former marine. He did the cooking, and I did the serving. Usually two other waitresses assisted, but he’d released them hours ago due to slow business.

“Sir, yes, sir.” I welcomed the chance to be with my dad.

“You make something in tips at least?”

Tone drier than desert sand, I told him, “Oh, yes. A grand total of seven dollars. I’m a bona fide nillionaire now.”

He snorted. “Nil. Funny.” Thunder boomed, reverberating in the air and erasing any good humor.

Picking up the pace, I cleared the remaining dishes, fished a rag from the pocket of my uniform, and sprayed the tabletop with cleaner. Swiping the surface free of debris, I glanced out the wall of windows overlooking the parking lot. A single streetlight showcased the heavy rainfall pelting the asphalt. The storm had raged most of the evening, keeping the usual customers away.

Ready to be done, I grabbed the broom and dustpan to clear the yellow “brick” floor. The perfect complement to the rest of the diner. Booths looked as if they’d grown straight from trees, courtesy of the mural covering the walls. The forest scene also depicted flowers with teeth, and horned, flying horses, all surrounding an injured scarecrow, a crying lion, and a frozen tinman wielding a crimson-stained ax. Amazingly detailed artwork created by my mother, and the main reason I’d come here looking for a job.

Sandra Shaker had been—was?—a talented artist. She’d painted all kinds of images throughout the town, but few others remained. They were either worn from weather or just painted over in favor of something new.

A new spear of lightning flashed, dancing shadows over the colorful depiction. The trio came alive, the scarecrow seeming to wink, the lion to laugh, and the tinman to scowl. It was super creepy, and I loved it. Mom possessed a talent like no other.

Guaranteed, she would want me home with Daddy, not mooning over images I’d see again tomorrow. I picked up the pace, finally completing my task, then rushed the tub of dirty dishes to the kitchen. James was in the process of hanging up his apron, his wizened features tight with concern.

“You want me to wash these before I go?” I asked, motioning to the array of plates, cups, and silverware.

“Nah. Don’t worry about it.” Another crack of thunder boomed, and he paused to exhale. “I’ll scrub everything tomorrow morning. You just get on home.”

“Thank you.”

We donned our coats and exited. James locked up, and I raced into the torrent. By the time I sealed myself in the cab of my old beater of a truck, I was soaked to the bone and shivering. More lightning flashed. More thunder boomed. The icy cold made my fingers feel like sausages, so it took me a couple of tries to buckle in and fit the key in the ignition. Please don’t stall as usual.

It stalled.

“Come on, come on. Yes!” The engine sputtered to life as James exited the lot in his SUV.

I cranked the heater. With the windshield wipers operating at warp speed, I eased onto Main Street. Thankfully, there were only a few miles to go. Usually a ten-minute drive. But fifteen minutes passed, and I barely reached the halfway point. Visibility was shot, forcing me to travel at a crawl.

At the twenty-minute mark, my nerves frayed, and the muscles in my back grew as tight as a lid on a new jar of pickles. Violent wind blustered with increasing force, rattling the truck. I white-knuckled the steering wheel. Better to pull over until the storm lessened. Otherwise I might end up in a ditch.

I parked at the edge of Main Street in the lot of a little white wedding chapel with flickering Christmas lights. There were no other cars nearby.

On my own. Doing my best to stay calm, I whipped out my cell and keyed up my father’s number.

Dang it! Straight to voice mail. Hopefully Daddy was sleeping through this and not racked with worry for me. Stress wasn’t good for him.

Wait. I craned my neck, peering out the window. Was that… No. No, no, no. But also yes. A telltale green tint spread through the pitch-black sky. My stomach dropped. Anyone who’d grown up in this part of the country knew that particular shade heralded a tornado.

A high-pitched whistle escalated into a rolling howl, and I sucked oxygen between my teeth.

I needed inside that chapel. Now!

The front door blew open, as if in welcome, banging into the frame. In a rush, I stored my phone in a coat pocket, threw off my seatbelt, and launched outside. Or tried to. The gale-force sealed the driver’s door shut. Fine. I wiggled out the passenger side.

Icy raindrops pelted my cheeks as I slogged forward, fighting the wind with every step. Up ahead, shutters slammed against windows, the harried clack, clack, clack mocking my snail’s pace. I persevered, drawing from a surprise reservoir of strength, reaching the chapel’s doorway. The squall intensified until it sounded as though a train barreled in my direction.

Heart thudding, I chanced a glance over my shoulder. My eyes widened. A massive cyclone aimed straight for me, gobbling up everything in its path. Electrical poles. Road signs. Even buildings.

Forget finding a cellar. I raced deeper inside, determined to dive into the nearest closet or bathroom.

The floor shook with great force, sending me tumbling to my knees. Glass shattered, shards flying in every direction. Go, go, go! I crawled forward.

With a great lurch, the entire structure spun like a top. Around and around I twirled, pitched this way and that, thumping into pews. Sharp pains tore through different parts of me, one after the other. My lungs emptied. Something warm and wet dripped into my eyes.

Desperate, I dove for a door. A heavy wooden podium slammed into my torso, knocking me backward and pinning my arm against a wall. Agony consumed me, detonating a piercing scream.

Darkness flooded my mind, and I willingly floated into the abyss.