Margo: 5: Worry & Waiting

Dinner was delicious and dessert devoured.  Margo excused herself after helping to clean the kitchen and retreated to her room.  She had to get down to business.  She had to start writing.  Ideas filled her head and she wanted to write them all down before she forgot them. 

Knowing she had two months to send off her story was not a comfort to Margo.  She gave herself a new deadline.  Two weeks to write the draft, one week to edit, and another week to forget about it and take a breather.  Margo found it always helped to lay aside her writings for a bit of time and allow her mind to wander away from the story line and its characters.  Reading a story after a resting period never failed to show Margo errors she had made and it gave her a good distant perspective on the quality of the read.  No sense in submitting a story that bored herself.  The last month would be her safety net.  Margo wanted to make sure her story was mailed and received weeks before the actual deadline.  

Today was Thursday.  Her two weeks of drafting would begin tomorrow morning bright and early.  School would be an inconvenience she would fit in around her writing schedule.  Margo's brain slipped into a devious gear.  She wondered if she could fain sickness for the next three weeks.  Her father would probably fall for whatever ailment she concocted but she knew she wouldn't get past her mother's sixth sense for more than a day.  Being sick in the Manley house included either having a fever or vomiting.  If her mother didn’t have either one of those to go on, well then, sickness had obviously been imagined.

Margo quickly gave up the idea of faking sickness.  It would be too much trouble to worry about and her focus had to remain on her story.  Holed up in her bed all day trying to write would be extremely difficult.   Like always, school would have to be endured.  

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Four days into writing, Margo's brain did the unimaginable.  It went completely blank and for two long days, writer's block took over.  Margo would begin to write, but before she got halfway through a paragraph the topic would dissolve.  It was as though she had summed up the entire thought in two sentences and no more could be said about it.  Margo could and had written pages and pages about the most insignificant things; words had never left her.  Never.  Until she needed them!

The few pages she had written were read over and over again, with hopes that the rhythm of the words would somehow kick her brain back into proper functioning order. It did not help.  She stared at her bedroom walls.  Shot wads of paper into a waste basket.  Read through her thesaurus.  Nothing was helping and Margo began to panic.  By day three of her 'blackout', Margo was a bundle of anxiety.  She had to get help.    

The evening was quiet and dinner had been over for an hour.  Margo knew that by now her father had settled into the den, his quiet sanctuary.  Settled in a back corner, the den was probably the quietest place in the house.  The floor, covered with thick rugs, offered insulation against noises and noise makers.  Della Manley topped the list of noise makers.  Bookcases lined one wall while a love seat and one reclining chair occupied the opposite.  A small lamp and radio sat on a table near the chair.

Margo stuck her head in the den and looked at her father.  Settled in his recliner, the day's paper in hand, Walter Manley was in his own blissfully quiet world.  This is often how Margo pictured her father: slippered feet in the air and a large white square of the daily news shielding his head and torso.  His hands were the only thing you could really see of him.  Once coarsened with manual labor, his hands had softened a bit over time.  After eighteen years of cleaning and stocking shelves at the local co-op, Walter gladly accepted a management position six years ago.  It was an achievement the whole family was proud of.

Margo loudly cleared her throat.  She hated to bother him during his quiet time but she was desperate.  Lowering the paper a tad to peak over, Walter looked to see who was seeking his attention.  He smiled at his daughter.  She queried if she could join him and his assent led her to take a place on the love seat.

"What do you have there?"  Margo had her writing materials in hand and an anxious look on her face.  

"Papa, you know I'm writing a story.  It's what I have written so far."  The look on Margo's face betrayed her worry to her father.  

"So why do you look like you have just been asked to make a speech in front of the entire town?"   

Margo wobbled out a small smile and explained her fears.  She was already behind her writing schedule and if she couldn't finish her story, she had no chance to win the scholarship.  Her shoulders were tight with the heavy burden she had placed upon herself.  

Folding the newspaper and returning the recliner to its original position, Walter Manley leaned toward his daughter and frowned, a concerned look on his face.  "Well, that sounds serious now, doesn't it?"

A tear slipped from Margo's eye and she sniffed as she wiped it away.  His daughter's display of worry was troubling.  Realizing she had come to him for help, Walter would do his best to save Margo from the dreary cloud that hovered so closely.

Walter turned on the radio.  The sweet rhythmic sounds of the blues filled the quiet room.    The crooner's voice, slow and mellow, sang about his woes and how he would leave them all behind him.  Margo listened to the music and felt a bit of tension leave her body.  She would never understand the power music could have over a wearied soul.  It was like ice slowly melting under the warmth of the sun.  

"May I have this dance?"  Her father had stood up and reached his hand out to her, waiting.  

Margo's eyes widened a bit and she looked up at her father.  He was serious. A smile was on his face and his hand was already reaching for hers.  She stood slowly, smiled sweetly, and put her hands into her father's.  Dancing was not an activity the Manley's did often so their father-daughter dance was more of a sway back and forth.  It was enough. 

"Margo, you have got yourself all worked up over this story.  You need to just breathe for a minute.  You don't know what the future holds."  Walter knew his daughter's hopes were in more than just winning a contest.  He quietly reminded her where her hopes should belong.

"The Lord knows, Margo, the Lord knows.  You just need to trust Him."

Margo's head dipped forward, resting lightly on her father's chest.  Her shoulders dropped low releasing days of pent up tension.  Her father was right.  She had worked herself into knots over this story, placed her entire future into its success.  No wonder her brain had hit the off switch.

The song ended and an announcer started pitching the latest advancements in hair regrowth.  For the first time in days, Margo laughed and then her father joined in.  The conversation at dinner that evening had been centered around their banker's surprising new head of hair.  Toupees should never make a sudden appearance.  They are disarming and create either fits of inappropriate laughter or the most awkward eye-averting conversations.  Della's quip for the night had been, "Go bald or go home!" 

Margo hugged her father and thanked him.  Gathering her story in her hands, she quietly left the den as he father returned to the paper.  All was well.

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Standing in front of the mailbox drop, Margo's hands began to sweat.  This was it.  It was time to send off her story.  The last few weeks had flown by so quickly.  She was truly happy with the final results; the story just seemed to flow together once her writer's block had ended.  

Margo slipped the envelope into the slot, exhaled deeply, and opened her hand.  Dropping into the blue metal bin of the postal service, her story began its journey.  All Margo could do was wait.