Heroic Instincts

In the novel I just edited (yet again), my main character encounters life-threatening danger.

It’s a fight or flight situation, an opportunity for heroic valor and lightning-fast reflexes. If this was fantasy, action, or sci-fi, she would kick ass and take names.

But it’s historical women’s fiction, and there’s a third option, one that I discovered from personal experience.

She freezes and stares.

They say you should write what you know. And I know this response to danger.

I’ve never had to dodge an asteroid or jump from the path of a speeding train, but in my moment of mortal peril, I failed.

I’d been out late babysitting, a house down the street with two adorable little girls who went to bed early, giving me the chance to raid the fridge for stuffed olives and watch TV. I think I even fell asleep.

The parents returned, handed over a wad of cash, and I walked home – maybe midnight, soon after.

As an aside, not once since my children were born have I stayed out past midnight. These must’ve been young, fun parents. Exhibit A: midnight revelries. Exhibit B: stuffed olives.

I was maybe fourteen, old enough to be responsible for little kids, young enough not to take advantage of a house all to myself – before the bad teenage behavior set in. Rule was, I had to check-in with my sleeping parents when I got home.

So, I walked into their bedroom and said, “Hey – I’m home.” No one stirred, so I said it again, louder.

What happened next will forever scar my memory.

With a highland warrior’s bellow, my step-dad leaped from the bed, both feet hitting the floor, and grabbed the baseball bat that stood by the headboard.

He swung it overhead, screamed “Arrrrgghhhhh!” and charged.

“It’s me!” I wanted to say. “Don’t hit me!”

I wanted to run, certainly, dodge the bat, wave my hands in surrender, ANYTHING, but I couldn’t move or talk. My body ignored my brain’s signals and turned into a useless statue.

Fortunately, my mother popped up and yelled, “That’s Jessi. Put that ******* bat down.”‘

And he did, without smacking me into left field. It happened so fast. I still couldn’t move. I’d have been busted leather and red seams if not for my mother, the only heroine in this story.

So, next time you’re in need of a hero, don’t call me. But you could try my mom.

– by Jessi Waugh

Cover Photo by Craig Adderley on Pexels.com