Page 6 of It All Began at Dixieland

“I don’t remember any of that, so it doesn’t count. As an adult with intact cognitive functions, I refuse to form new memories that include you standing outside that…that…saloon door and hearing my poop plop as it hits the water.”

Laughter draws my attention away from my mom, who is unimpressed with me right now, to an older woman standing a few feet from me, amusement dancing in her blue eyes as she grins my way.

“First time staying at this hotel?” She asks, her voice rough, no doubt from cigarette use, but comforting in its warmth.

“Yes.”

“The bathroom doors take some getting used to.”

I scoff. “There will be no getting used to it. Those aren’t even doors. It’s the equivalent of despair. All hope is lost, might as well lose the bottom half of this wooden barrier. And who needs locks? Don’t hog all the sorrow for yourself, let it waft out so those unfortunate enough to be staying with you can suffer with you.”

She laughs harder and it makes me like her.

“Page Andrews.” She extends a hand toward me but at the sound of her name my entire central nervous system shuts down.

“Uh…”

“Huh. I think you broke her.”

The older woman laughs and shifts to extend her hand to my mom instead. “I get that reaction a lot at these events.”

“Oh, are you an author like my daughter?”

“MOM!” I screech, my brain coming back online. “Page Andrews is an author. She is a master of her craft. A beautiful sorceress enslaving thousands and thousands of willing souls with her words alone. I, on the other hand, am an ogre that has tricked a handful of people into giving me their money in exchange for a few poorly constructed sentences, mediocre sex scenes and some fart jokes.”

“Holy shit. Are you Tacy Ellen?” My knees buckle, hearing my name leave the precious lips of one of my favorite writers of all time. I drop to the floor, rest my head on the handle of my cart and breathe deeply as black spots dance around the edges of my vision.

“Mom,” I whisper, waving my hand to bring her closer to me. “I’m dying. I’m hallucinating and it can only mean the end. I love you and pa. Remember me.”

“She’s even better in person. Hold on.” I vaguely hear my idol on the phone as I prepare to meet my maker. I hope he doesn’t hold my browser history against me. The porn is for research purposes and so are the toys. I can’t write authentically without firsthand knowledge. God, forgive me for the Kitty Crusher, it was a gift from Mallory. Blame her, smite her.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

“Tacy. Get up.” I shake my head. Why would my mother ask me to expend the last of my energy in standing when I’m about to die? “Tacy. There is a woman with purple hair running toward us. Get. Up.”

I look up at the urgency in her voice and do indeed see a middle-aged woman with bright purple hair flowing behind her as she does a damn good impression of Usain Bolt down the hallway, dodging people and their carts left and right. I find the strength to stand in my final minutes and brace for impact.

“TACY ELLEN!” I catch the woman when she flings herself at me. My eyes drift to Page Andrews, so lifelike for a hallucination, and she shrugs with a grin.

“Tacy, meet Wren Phillips.”

“Shut. Your. Nonexistent. Bathroom. Door.” I murmur in disbelief. I wonder if my hallucinations are so real because of my creative genius. Like Picasso. Robin Williams. Chris Farley. Efa Blevins.

“I can’t believe it! I love your books. I’ve read every single one.”

“Even the bovine motorcycle club with cud whores?” Mom is as flabbergasted as I am.

Wren nods excitedly, “Friesia and Sahiwal are my favorite characters! And Red Angus, God, he’s a great cud whore, you love to hate him and all his drama.”

“People actually read your books.” Wren, Page, and I stare at my mom with our mouths hanging open.

“You didn’t think anyone read my work? Why would you come to a book signing with me?” I’m not offended, at least, I don’t think I am. They support me whole-heartedly; however, mom and dad don’t understand the premise of most of my romantic comedies. But I have readers, from all over the world, that do. I didn’t give any thought to what my parents thought of my burgeoning career.

“I knew you had readers, you were making money somehow, I just never…I’m so proud of you.” Her lower lip wobbles and I drop Wren and wrap my arms around my mom, squeezing her tight.

“Hold me, Page, I’m overwhelmed by all the love!”

I pull back from my mom with a watery laugh, watching Page roll her eyes affectionately at Wren. I can’t believe they are both standing here in front of me, talking to me, and they read my books!

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