Kiss the Joy as it Flies

by Sheree Fitch

Overview

With all the wisdom, humor and joy we've come to expect from Sheree Fitch, Kiss the Joy As It Flies, first published in 2008, marked the well-loved author's move from children's literature to adult fiction.

Set in the fictional Maritime town of Odell, with a cast of exasperating but lovable characters, Kiss the Joy As It Flies promises to be a remarkable debut and a reader's favorite. Panic-stricken by the news that she needs exploratory surgery, forty-eight-year-old Mercy Beth Fanjoy drafts a monumental to-do list and sets about putting her messy life in order. Among other things (hide the vibrator!), she's determined to finally uncover the identity of her secret admirer; reconnect with long-lost friend and rival Teeny Gaudet; and, most importantly, get her hands on the note her father left before committing suicide all those years ago. But tidying up the edges of her life means the past comes rushing back to haunt her and the present keeps throwing up more to-do's. Between fits of weeping and laughter, ranting and bliss, Mercy must contemplate the meaning of life in the face of her own death. In a week filled with the riot of an entire life, nothing turns out the way she'd expected.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781771087056
Publisher:	Nimbus Publishing
Publication date:	07/31/2018
Edition description:	10th Anniversary ed.
Pages:	402
Product dimensions:	5.25(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.89(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

In a green room on the fourth floor of the Odell Medical Clinic, Mercy Beth Fanjoy studied her toenails. They were pink. Geranium pink.

She was naked. It was Tuesday.

As she gazed at the bare bum of the boy in the Norman Rockwell calendar, her universe tilted sideways and quaked. It was as if a fault line formed and cracked through all four chambers of her heart. She inhaled deeply. Vapours of rubbing alcohol, iodine, and antiseptic soap stung her nostrils. She clutched her stomach. The pompom balls of cotton in the glass jar on the cabinet bloomed into small clouds — momentarily floating before her like the ones in the sky that very morning. Mercy blinked in an effort to regain equilibrium, as if rapid eye movement and facial twitching might stop the alarm bells ringing in her head or whisk away the unpleasant news: exploratory surgery within the fortnight.

It was a much too beautiful day and Mercy Beth Fanjoy, at forty-eight, was much too young and robust to seriously entertain the idea of death. But there she sat: naked, shivering, thinking of Lord and Lady Baden Powell and the Girl Guide motto. Be prepared. It flashed in neon, a rusted hotel vacancy sign creaking inside her head. Be prepared. The words triggered the smell of wood smoke and canvas, of pine needles and outdoor latrines. The soundtrack of an old summer camp song filtered into the room. Voices of diabolical ten-year-olds echoed in her inner ear:

The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out.
They go in your ears and out your snout.
Dodo dodo dodo dodo dodo do- do- do- do- do.

"Well, I'll be cremated," she wailed, silencing the creepy chorus. She clapped three times and clasped her hands as if in prayer. Swinging her legs back and forth, she watched her pink toes pendulum-sweeping the floor.

Perceptions shift when the world rolls over on its belly. Illusions about oneself shatter. "Some Girl Guide I turned out to be. Be prepared? For this? Well, I certainly never bargained for terminal disease and premature death, not even after my mother's cancer scare. No, not even then, not really. I would not entertain such morbid thoughts, I told myself and then I banished Death from my mind, yes I did. Suffering? Banished. Death? Banished." Mercy's voice rattled around the empty room. "I quit smoking. I've exercised moderately. I've avoided trans fat. And yet, here I am, very possibly a malignant woman." This was the moment the outwardly competent, ordinarily composed, solidly built Mercy Beth Fanjoy disappeared. Her replacement was a quivering human jellyfish blob of angst.

"So we'll see what's there when we get in there. How's that? No need to worry until we have to," Dr. Wiggins wheezed in his phlegmy voice, wiping his hands on a paper towel as he re-entered the room. Mercy hurriedly covered herself, tying a paper Johnny shirt around her midriff as Wiggins turned away. With his left foot, he pressed the pedal of a chrome waste can in the corner. The lid slapped open, briefly exposing the contents within: rubber gloves, razors, syringes, cotton swabs, Q-tips, tongue depressors, bloodied strips of gauze, and crumpled wrappers from bars of chocolate.

The lid clamped shut with a nasty twang. Wiggins flashed Mercy a slight, reassuring smile and tried to straighten his stooped shoulders. Then he shuffled towards her, stopped, and reached for her hand. Calmly, step-by-step, he explained The Procedure.

"You're just kidding around!" Mercy wanted to say. "You've made a mistake, haven't you? Dr. Wiggins? Well, haven't you? Ever? Once?" Ordinarily, Mercy was an impossibly hopeful type. But today, even she was cognizant of her own denial. Today, even her hopes were dashed.

Wiggins droned on while Mercy stared blankly at his face.

"Worry? Who, me?" she interrupted. "Waste of time."

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" he asked kindly.

Mercy blinked. "Pardon me?"

Wiggins grunted and reached for a leather-bound medical book. "It's called laparoscopic surgery. Mercy, are you listening?"

Mercy nodded like a bad actor playing an eager student in a medical television show. "Excuse me. But. What. Exactly is. A. Laparoscope. Dr. Wiggins?" she asked, her eyes widening then narrowing, her brow pleating. Wiggins pursed his lips, twisted his mouth from side to side, then thoughtfully reached for his pencil and prescription pad. He began to draw.

Walter Wiggins, beloved but overextended physician, loving father and faithful husband (on the second go-round), fly fisherman and amateur magician, had cared for Mercy since childhood. He detected the razor edge of panic in the way she'd suddenly lowered her voice and chewed off her words. As he sketched, he bit down on the side of his tongue. He turned the pencil sideways and shaded parts in. His paunch, like a pregnant woman's in the last trimester, heaved up and down. The high-pitched train-whistling congestion in his chest alarmed his patient.

For a few seconds, Mercy forgot about herself and scrutinized Walter Wiggins; the wiry hair growing out of his ear lobes, his nose a map of broken blood vessels, huge hands that belonged more to a carpenter than a healer, but hands ever competent and sure. Other than the raspiness, Mercy concluded Wiggins appeared normal: Old. Tired. Overweight. Busy. Kind. Possibly a recovering alcoholic. She waited as he put a few finishing flourishes on what, after all the effort, she expected to be a masterpiece of anatomical genius. Wiggins turned the pad around and displayed a crude diagram of a laparoscope and, beside it, an etching of her pelvic region. The drawing looked to Mercy like a distorted game of hangman, but she was flattered he'd made her so slim.

"The problem area is behind and to the left here," said Wiggins, tapping the paper. He circled her navel with red marker as he continued his explanation, creating a perfect bull's eye. His language turned technical; his words were few, his voice robotic.

"I see," said Mercy from time to time. "I see. Sharp instruments, lasers, and lights are involved." Dr. Wiggins didn't laugh at her feeble attempt at humour. Usually, he was a jovial sort. This sudden stoniness unsettled her.

"You can get dressed now, Mercy," said Wiggins. He patted her shoulder then left politely.

"Sweet Jeezuz," she whispered. This one utterance seemed to pop a cork of inhibition. A volley of oaths followed in a sentence that contained every profanity Mercy Beth Fanjoy knew. The swearing was uncharacteristic but the talking to herself was habitual. Ever since she'd read Oral Speakman's Anxiety Busters: Voicing Our Fears Aloud, Mercy's nattering to herself had actually increased because she was no longer ashamed of the tendency. After all, self-help author Oral Speakman reassured her and his millions of readers that "audible self-talk is not abnormal. In fact, solo singing and dancing with mops and other household implements is beneficial for many who live alone and even for some who live with others." Mercy had purchased the book on a recommendation from Dr. Goldbloom, the family therapist she'd visited just twice. The therapy had encouraged a horrific eruption of hives, but the book was an excellent find. She only wished now she hadn't skipped the chapter "Old Age, Decay, Suffering, and Death."

Mercy crossed her arms and hugged herself, and began rocking back and forth. "There, there," she whispered, as if trying to soothe a lost child. "It will be okay." Her voice broke as she told herself this necessary lie.

CHAPTER 2

Mercy hopped off the examining table and scanned the room, as if searching for a way out. She squinted at the eye chart, reading it line by line, then inspected several framed crayon drawings and a poster entitled "Your Inner Ear." She marvelled at the sensuality of the language used in the naming of parts.

"Utricle, cochlea, vestibule, superior canal," she whispered. "The bony labyrinth," she said slowly, with an accent. For a second she envisioned a sacred holiday destination, a miniature Stonehenge in the chambers of the auris interna. Her mind, it seemed, had a mind of its own. She paced heel to toe in a semicircle and halted directly in front of a floor-to-ceiling shelving unit. Dragging her finger through the greasy film of dust, she wrinkled her nose and clucked in disapproval. Years back, she'd been the one scouring this office with scalding water and baby shampoo. At home, in her middle bottom dresser drawer, she still had a stash of old business cards.

From the highest shelf, a papier mâché dragon scowled down at her menacingly. Below it, a bobble-headed ceramic doctor grinned from his perch next to a needlepoint pillow that warned: Do No Harm. Weak-kneed, Mercy swivelled around, rushed to the sink, and splashed cold water on her cheeks, drying off with a scratchy paper towel.

Hundreds of children stared out at her from years of school photos haphazardly thumb-tacked onto a corkboard above the doctor's desk. In the upper-right-hand corner, beside a flapper baby — a bald five-month-old wearing a rosebud hair band — Mercy spotted her one and only child. Belle, twenty years ago, aged eight. Mercy kissed her own index finger and reached out to touch Belle's face. The picture fell. Mercy snatched it up, and cupped her daughter in the palm of her hand.

In the photo, Belle was missing a front tooth. Her hair was plaited in the long black braids Mercy had tied with perfect red satin bows. Belle's wide smile didn't match the shyness in her eyes. Had she been able, Mercy knew her daughter would have hidden underneath the uneven fringe of bangs across her forehead. With great care, Mercy pinned Belle's picture back on the wall. A nail popped and the board swivelled sideways, threatening to fall. Mercy tried to save it and crashed backwards, catching the glass jar full of cotton swabs and rescuing the corkboard, but the pictures cascaded in a slow-motion avalanche to the floor.

Stooping to her knees, she gathered up the thumbtacks first, then sorted the mess of pictures according to size. Some were no bigger than postage stamps. Her hands were shovels; the picking was slow and awkward. Were she a person of faith, a believer, a person who prayed, it would have been an opportune moment to do so. Something like a sob hiccupped in Mercy's throat and chest. She issued a long sigh and began chewing at her lips, determined not to cry. This was no time for weakness.

Mercy normally considered any activity that was not useful a kind of indulgence. She reconsidered, just then. Just what was the appropriate reaction when exploratory surgery might be the most exciting up-and-coming event in your life? A sudden urge to scream overwhelmed her. She pinched her nostrils and coughed. The impulse passed.

"Bust this anxiety, Oral," she griped, and finished gathering up the pictures. She stood up — too fast. A wave of wooziness slammed her. Her legs buckled. She plunked herself back down and thrust her head between her knees. The dizziness lifted, blood rushed to her head.

Fumbling blindly for the blood pressure kit and the small rubber-nosed reflex hammer on the table above her, Mercy hauled the paraphernalia into her lap. Two months of training as a nurse's aid had given her some rudimentary first aid skills that came in handy from time to time. With the confidence of Florence Nightingale, she wrapped the sleeve over her bicep, velcroed it in place, slipped in the small black football-shaped pump, plugged in the stethoscope, and squeezed. As she suspected, her blood pressure was low. She didn't bother testing her reflexes. Her legs jounced around like two crazed jackhammers. Worried she might be going into shock, Mercy scrubbed her hands together fast and hard and slapped herself on first the right cheek, then the left. This only resulted in making her cheeks sting. Then Mercy remembered a fear-busting strategy from Oral Speakman. "Pretend to be two other very talented people rolled into one instead of yourself, and feel the infusion of energy and greater confidence! Dream you are Ella Fitzgerald and Frankie Sinatra combined! Sing!"

"Well, what the hell," muttered Mercy. She began belting out a jazzy version of "O When the Saints." She snapped her fingers. Starting to feel exhilarated, singing with gusto and zest, she stood. Solo dancing, graceful and half-naked, she thumb-tacked the pictures back onto the corkboard in a stunning sun-shaped collage.

CHAPTER 3

The people in the overcrowded waiting area down the hall lifted their heads from their reading. What was that ungodly sound? they each silently wondered, not looking at one another, but shifting to attention, like a pack of beagles on alert. A man wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt beneath a herringbone tweed blazer paused while composing a text message on his BlackBerry. The receptionist stopped filing.

"What's that sound?" a three-year-old finally asked his mother. He wore striped overalls over a red T-shirt and miniature sneakers. "Is someone getting a vathhhinATION?" he asked, his voice rising in alarm.

"No honey, I think it's somebody ..." His mother's voice trailed off. The others watched her, hoping for an answer, waiting for enlightenment. What on earth was that sound? In the earnest pause that followed it was clear she was a mother wondering whether to lie or tell the truth. She listened again, her platinum head tilted to the left, fidgeting with her earring as if it were a listening device. At last, with a ladylike guffaw, she blurted out, "... somebody ... singing! At least, trying to."

The waiting room erupted in laughter. Then someone's cell-phone rang — to the tune of "Yellow Submarine" — and they quickly turned from one another and returned to themselves.

Mercy, oblivious of the laughter and goodwill she'd help spread in that wallpapered waiting room, continued her improvised scat. Oral Speakman's anxiety-busting strategy actually worked. Her spirits were lifted. With Speakman-like verve she bellowed, vocalizing and visualizing all her worries tied in a balloon that floated up and away, bobbed in an endless blue sky and disappeared, her negative thoughts vanishing into the ether. Creative visualization was something she'd always considered somewhat ridiculous, although she recently conceded (for Belle's sake) that, indeed, happy thoughts might have a placebo effect for some. In any event, there was nothing to lose now.

She glimpsed herself in the mirror and tossed her hair over her shoulder, tucking the few strands of grey behind her ears. She stifled a laugh. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, and Mercy saw herself as if for the first time. She was alive. Her giddy frame of mind dissolved.

On the projector screen inside her head, Mercy envisioned herself melting like the Wicked Witch of the West into a thick waxy puddle that swirled into the eye of a hurricane. Snowflakes burst forth from that Cyclopean eye, flying like doves whose feathers morphed into trembling ashes on the tip of a burning cigarette. The ashes spiralled and she whirled off into ... Nothingdom. Utter blackness. That was it, she thought. Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down.

She paced the room, her heart thumping in her ears. For the first time in her life Mercy felt not just doomed but damned. Stretching back on the examination table, she studied the polka dot holes on the ceiling tiles. What if she'd been wrong all this time? What if hell was not just here on earth but a real place, like some believed? An underground Grand Canyon filled with fire? Mercy began to sweat. There was a stabbing in her heart, as if a miniature pitchfork had hold of it and was sending electromagnetic shocks through her entire body. Hell. Hades. Inferno. Since adolescence, she had never given the notion a second thought. Theologically and politically, Mercy had long ago declared herself an underdogmatist. This was an original Mercy Beth Fanjoy word, one she coined herself in her weekly column:

Underdogmatist: Anyone who lives on this planet is an underdog. Anyone who doesn't belong to any other ism, subscribe to dogma of any other ideological stance, or know what they believe from day-to-day. There is consistency in inconsistency. Self comes first. After that, one's greatest gifts must go to serve the greatest needs. No church. No party. No comfortable certainty. (O Me of Little Faith. "Mercy's Musings," OO, June 90.)

Mercy had supporters. "It would make the world a better place if we were all underdogmatists. I agree with you!" That one was signed by "your secret admirer and most loyal fan." But Mercy also received hate mail for the column: "When you don't know where you stand, you don't stand for a thing! That's when Satan slips in sideways. He preys on wishy-washies like you. Pathetic. Selfish! Underdog. Woof. Woof." That letter was signed by "a conservative of great conviction."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Kiss the Joy As It Flies"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Sheree Fitch.
Excerpted by permission of Nimbus Publishing Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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