Jill Nov 14 - Prelude (follow up after receiving feedback)

Note: I added exposition to the chapter. Would like to know if after reading it, does it create a curiosity to want to read more? Thanks :)

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Before the narrator takes over the story, I want to pop in to tell you how the whole thing started. I'm going to take you back to when It all began on Friday, November twenty-four, in the year two thousand and seventeen ...

I’m in the kitchen of John’s house on Alameda Island. The beach is only a few blocks away. Alameda Island is pricy nowadays. This was John's house before I met him and it's still his house. It's a 1960’er with three bedrooms. He bought it decades ago when he first became a teacher and rented out the rooms to pay off the mortgage.

You are probably asking why my name was never put on the ownership? It’s a long story; one I don’t want to get into right now. No, we’re not officially married and yes, we have two boys. It”s complicated, okay? Anyways …

I was in the kitchen when I heard John’s voice. He was sitting in the living room on the big comfy recliner with his heavy laptop on his lap. He asks me something in a volume I could barely hear.

So, I shout back, “Can’t hear you. I’m in the kitchen.”

“Allison, I'm checking the bank account online. Looks like there's been a fraudulent charge.”

Crap. I just remembered what that is. But I tell him, “I doubt it. It's probably something we charged.” He scrutinizes the account every chance he gets. “John, it was probably a medical charge. You know how they use their medical group name instead of Dr. So and So.”

“No, this is not a medical expense. I don't recognize the …”

I am pulling vegetables out of the fridge. The zucchinis are rubbery, but I’ll use them anyways. “How did your lecture go today?”

“Fine. It says here, Energy Power Organization”

I have frozen chicken breasts thawing out on the counter. I like this house. It has a charming rectro look to it. The cupboards are painted pale yellow. “You solved it. That’s the gas and electrical bill.”

The floor is black and white linoleum. John will take care of necessary repairs but nothing that he considers cosmetic. He’s fugal. He sees it as being practical.

He tells me, “Not unless they changed their name. No, this is different."

“I'm going to do a wash. I can wash your old knapsack.”

“You can't wash that. It's canvas. The wash will destroy its waterproofing.”

I knew he'd say that. “It's old and shabby. You got that thing when Recreation Co-Op first opened up in the 1970’s.”

“Just leave it. I like it the way it is. I’ll be outside mowing the lawn.”

The lawn is the size of a postage stamp. Why he uses a mower, is beyond me. A weedwhacker would have done the trick.

Here comes Michael. “I got the mail, Mom. There's a large envelope for you. It's from Energy Power Organization.” Crap, John walked into the kitchen and heard that. Michael always had a tendency to blab. Such a goody-goody.

“Shall I open it, Mom?”

“No, that's ok, Michael. I'll take care of it.”

I reach for it with my chicken-greasy fingers. John tries to take it but I raced for it first. “Let me see that,” he says. I place the envelope on the counter away from him.

“Allison, what’s this?”

Here’s my opportunity to come clean. “Oh, no wonder that name sounded familiar. It must be the information package.”

“Not another Workshop? You spend more time at workshops than you do at home.”

“You're exaggerating. I've only gone on a few.”

“It seems like every week you're taking one. What day is this one? I'll probably need the car.”

“Don't worry. I won't need the car.” I’m cutting up an onion. My eyes are watering. I’m squinting to protect them.

“Good, it's on the island.” He’s eyeing the envelope. I purposely lean into the counter blocking his access to it.

“Well, not exactly. I'll be flying.” John has that frown he has when he’s not happy. I can’t wash my hands because he’s blocking my way to the sink. Besides, I’d rather stay put and continue to block him from reaching for the envelope. I wipe my eyes on a sleeve.

“Flying? Where in blazes is it?”

I tell him as calmly as I can, “Mexico.”

“Mexico?!”

“Yeh, we're going to Mexico!” That’s Sammy, our free spirited and youngest one.

“When are we going? I've got a class assignment I have to finish.” That's Michael again, our most studiest.

He calms the boys down. “No, we are not going to Mexico. Your mother has crazy notions.”

John seems peeved. “Of all places, it has to be Mexico, Allison? San Franscisco is filled with craziness. Why can't you take a workshop in the city? Better yet, my school has a wonderful selection of specialty courses. What is the workshop? Another one of your woo-woo waste-of-time, money grabbing workshops, I suppose.”

“John, I wasn't counting on you coming. I know you said before you hate Mexico. You've travelled to so many countries digging rocks. So, what's wrong with …” I’m opening the envelope with my chicken-onion greasy fingers.

“First of all, I'm not digging rocks. With my earth science geological survey teams, we have made some remarkable discoveries. Some pertaining to the magnetic field, soil compositions, earthquake predictabilities …”

“So, what's wrong with Mexico?”

“Never mind. You wouldn't understand. It's beyond explanation. Allison, you don't need to roll your eyes.”

“John, according to the pamphlet, it takes place in a little village near Puerto Vallarta. It'll be paradise. Where's Puerto Vallarta?”

“Can we come?” That’s Sammy. He’s chopping at the bit, hoping I say yes.

But I have to tell, “Sorry, Sammy, I'm going alone.”

“Allison, you can't be going by yourself?” John is such a worrywart.

“I'll be fine.”

“You still didn't tell me, what is the workshop?”

“You wouldn't understand.” I’m putting the pamphlet back in the envelope with its other papers.

“Let me see that.” Crap, he yanks the papers out of my hand. “It explicitly states you are to find your own accommodations and transportation. Allison, I can’t let you do that.”

“Sure, I can. Other people do it.”

“You're a woman, travelling alone to a foreign country. You don't speak Spanish. Nor do you have any experience travelling internationally.”

“Of course, I've travelled internationally.”

“Ha, hopping back and forth between Canada and the U.S. is nothing compared to a foreign culture, foreign language. You're too naïve. Anything can happen to you.”

“It's ok, John. I'll be ok.” I get out the cast iron frying pan. Gees, this thing is heavy.

“Where will you stay?”

As I pour a looney-coin-size dab of olive oil in the pan I tell him, “I'll figure it out when I get there.”

“Oh, for Pete's sakes, how are you going to do that when you can't even speak their language?”

I’m taking my time with frying the chicken. “I know a bit of French, Isn't Spanish similar? I'll get by.”

“You think you'll magically speak Spanish when the plane hits the ground? Allison, don't go.”

“I already committed. I gave them my deposit.”

“Mom, I can smell something burning.” That’s Michael again. Turning the chicken around in the pan, I glance over to John. Oh boy, he shoves a kitchen chair with a bit too much force. He's not taking this well.

“Allison, get your deposit back. You're not going!” He shoves the chair again. “That's final!” Crap, he's really pissed. He just stammered away to the backyard with a bottle of Gunrock lager.

Crap, what am I going to do now?