Prologue

A Chapter by CarmenT

Francine, a famous writer discovers her grandchild is a writer like her.

When Lydia came home from her first day of kindergarten, she was excited. Her little hands were always moving and her rumpled curls would always bounce. She was an eager little girl. At the time she got home, she gave my husband Edward a hug and then she gave me a hug. We always groaned when she did that but a good groan. The type of groan you make when someone you love hugs you. It was true. We did love and care for our granddaughter.
    Lydia Rose Bennett was our granddaughter. Olivia Bennett, my daughter -her mother- passed away a year after Lydia was born. We decided to take care of her since her father was sent to jail a few months before her birth. Her father, Mason Wood, never really knew his daughter very well. He was still in jail after Lydia was in kindergarten. When she was born Olivia didn’t really like the thought of her daughter having the last name of her father especially since he was in prison so she gave Lydia her maiden name.
    Before Olivia could even think about getting settled in, she wasn’t feeling so well. She went up to her bed with some Tylenol and fell asleep. About two weeks later she felt even worse and Edward took her in to the hospital. We didn’t know of the disease she had and the doctors didn’t seem to know either. The doctors still continued to take care of her. I dropped by every day to see my daughter because I knew she wasn’t going to last long after this. Edward usually stayed home with Lydia and watched over her. Occasionally, I would watch Lydia while he goes to see his daughter.
    One day we all decided to stay home and see what happens to Olivia before bothering her anymore. Lydia stayed at our house for the time while Olivia was in the hospital. She had brought all of her toys over to play with.
    Suddenly the phone rang. I grabbed it, sweating. “Hello?” It was the hospital. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I was going to have heart failure. Closing my eyes, I waited for those two words. They never came.
    Instead, the nurse said, “Olivia’s not doing so well.” Those words also hurt. They stung my heart like bees. I tried to find Edward in the room as my tears blurred my eyesight. I dropped the phone and ran around the house trying to find him.
    “Edward!” I screamed. “EDWARD!” Instead of waiting for his lazy self, i ran out the door with tiny Lydia under my arm.
    When I got to the hospital, Lydia was lying peacefully in her bed except she looked way different from the last time I had seen her. Her face and lips were drained of color. Her body was slim and skinny, almost too skinny. Her hair was matted to the sides of her face. My husband was sitting in a chair. His head was in his hands and his head was doing a strange up and down motion like he was... sobbing. Before that time I had never seen him cry before, not once.
    She was still breathing the whole day. At eight p.m. the nurse asked us to please leave because we had already stayed past visiting hours. That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about my only daughter. I was still awake at three in the morning and that’s when I got the call. Again I sobbed but even harder than I had the day before. Edward hugged me and Lydia hugged me too. Her soft, curly hair nestled against my cheek. My cheeks had tear stains on them. I’m sure Lydia had no idea what was going on but she could see that I was upset and I was proud of her for that.
    Before dinner, the night of Lydia’s first day of kindergarten, I went into her room to call her for dinner. When I peeked in, I could see her talking to herself. Her hand was moving around with a crayon in it. She was drawing a picture. Trying not the disturb her I tiptoed a few steps closer and I was amazed. She was writing. And not just any normal writing, a five-year-old does. A whole page filled with writing was beneath her little hands. She eventually saw me standing behind her and I asked her what she was doing.
    “Writing,” she replied. How did she know all of that on her first day? At that second I realized this was no ordinary child that struggled with reading and writing until second grade. She was a writer like me.

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