A Thorn in the Flesh
by Edna C. Horning
Theodora’s boredom was approaching stupefaction, and the girl saw no help for it. School would not launch for another three weeks, most of her closest friends were enjoying last-chance, end-of-season family getaways, and the hottest, driest August on record had recast the great outdoors as holding pens for hell.
But this slough, she conceded, was inevitable. Nothing else in her existence to date could rival the fevered excitement of her sister’s engagement and wedding festivities in the recent spring and early summer. It had unfolded like an endless prom beginning with the engagement party at the Tarantella Club, the teas and showers given in Olga’s honor by friends and neighbors, the gifts arriving almost daily from fine shops in town, the wedding itself and the lavish reception: all had left the bride’s younger sister, a first-time bridesmaid, giddy.
And throughout, Olga had sincerely solicited Dora’s input about the myriad details and decisions: dates and dresses, food and flowers, music and ministers.
Or, rather, minister. The bride’s family, while not noticeably religious, had nonetheless not entertained the idea of holding the ceremony anywhere except the church they intermittently attended if nothing more interesting intervened.
But Kendrick, Olga’s fiancé, was atheist — or maybe it was agnostic, Dora couldn’t recall which — and had balked at an overly religious venue. And it had been Dora who suggested having a minister officiate at the rolling rural estate where the reception would be held, and everyone came away more or less happy with the compromise.
The seventeen-year old adored her sister but feared that their relationship would inevitably change now that Olga was a married woman. They had always gotten along famously, a contrast to the sullen resentment that characterizes some sibling relationships, and were, indeed, considered paragons of familial affection. However, there had been a time, years previous, when such an outcome might have seemed in doubt.
A photo still perched on the living room piano, the first taken of the two together, pictured Olga holding baby Dora on her lap, and Olga’s expression was unmistakably hostile. She scowled her displeasure at the realization that this new daughter signaled an abrupt end to her favored, only-child status.
But someone somewhere — or so family folklore held — must have waved a magic wand which banished all animosity and transformed them into fast friends. Olga had helped Dora learn to drive, apply makeup, and affect a British accent so convincing she landed the part of Lady Bracknell in the school play. Could it now withstand youthful passion? Leaving the parental home? Extended absences? Babies to come?
Face up, Dora stretched out on her bed and studied the ceiling. If she squinted, she could almost make the shape of the water stain resemble a bouquet like those she and the other attendants had carried except, of course, that theirs had not been mottled gray but a vibrant sunset coral that set off the mint green dresses to perfection.
Charting the plaster quickly palled. Dora recalled a conversation she’d had with Ken not long after he and Olga became engaged. Dora liked Ken well enough, although he occasionally tended to know-it-all-ism, and when the TV program they were watching mentioned “astral projection,” piquing Dora’s curiosity, she asked Ken what it meant. He had a degree in psychology, albeit the industrial subset, and thought he might be able to cast some light on the subject.
He snorted, called it balderdash that no fool would waste time on, and exhorted Dora to “not get suckered by all that paranormal hooey.” At this scabrous review, Dora dropped further inquiry, but a term one of the reporters had used stuck with her: out-of-body experiences.
There had been occasions, like Charlie Brown pining for the little red-haired girl, when Dora also longed to know what an absent loved one was doing “right now this very minute.” So why couldn’t she at least try to see where her sister was and what she was doing “right now this very minute?” Even if there was no result, what would be the harm?
Dora squirmed into a more comfortable position, crossed her arms just below her midriff, and closed her eyes. She decided the best strategy was not to force her thoughts in a particular direction but rather let them slowly drift and then meekly follow wherever they led. Authenticity was the goal.
For several disappointing minutes nothing happened, but Dora was patient. Relaxation deepened, and eventually she felt as though she was slowly moving. But where? Up? Down? Sideways? Dark, ameboid images that visually populated the margins expanded and contracted to no discernible pattern or rhythm before finally morphing into something more ordered, more plausible, something snowy-white centered with a burst of color. A table? A table with flowers?
A shapely woman was sitting at the table with her back turned, her identity hidden, and in her mind’s eye Dora continued floating closer. She leaned forward and, when the woman’s profile came into view, Dora laid a hand on her shoulder.
It was Olga.
A delighted Dora smiled broadly but kept her eyes closed for fear the vision would vanish if she opened them. It was comforting, reassuring, and she wanted it to prolong it as much as possible.
* * *
“Hello?”
“Dora!!” Olga gasped. “Is everything at home all right? Has there been an accident? For God’s sake, tell me!”
The ringing of the house phone and the panic in Olga’s voice had extinguished the trailing remnants of Dora’s soothing apparition. A moment passed before she could collect her thoughts enough for a response.
“No,” she replied in genuine puzzlement, “nothing is wrong. We’re all fine. Mom and Dad went out a little while ago, and I’m alone right now. Why would you think something’s wrong?”
“Oh, thank God!” Olga breathed, her voice minimally less distressed. “Ken and I were having dinner at a favorite restaurant when I plainly felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned to see — and it was you! You looked right at me, smiling and making eye contact, and then you said, ‘I miss you so much!’ I left the table immediately to find a secluded spot where I could call.”
Dora asked, “Olga, are you wearing a daffodil-colored dress and Ken a light blue pullover with a darker blue blazer? And is your table decorated with miniature pink carnations and located a little away from the rest, almost in a corner and near a window?”
Silence. Then, “Yes.”
“And were the two of you discussing an Alaskan cruise as a possible vacation next summer?”
Longer silence. Then again, “Yes. But how did you know?”
“Well,” Dora speculated, “I’ve missed you so much I just had to see you. I apologize if I scared you. I certainly didn’t mean to.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Olga replied casually. “But maybe Ken’s the one you need to apologize to.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he saw you as well. Heard you, too. I’m guessing he’s still white as a sheet.”
* * *
Dora returned to her bed after the conversation ended. She reached for her stuffed elephant and tossed it upward repeatedly, deftly catching it with her bare feet each time. It had been her favorite when she was growing up and been a gift from Uncle Allen, whose cosmological views, if heated familial conversations were any indication, essentially lined up with Ken’s. The mind is no more than the brain, the brain no more than souped-up protoplasm, and when the body dies, all else defined as personhood dies with it: memory, agency, intentionality. Nothing remains except a black void.
As a young child trying her best to drink in the wisdom of her elders and betters, Dora could scarcely grasp the basics of what Uncle Allen asserted, but she feared, with her limited understanding, that he might be right. No one could best him, and he usually had the last word. So, admittedly, a little bit like Ken.
However, yet another elder and better was Dora’s current AP English teacher, whom she adored. Mrs. St. John had on her desk a proverb burned into a small wooden plaque readable only when someone stood next to her. It asserted, “A thorn of experience is worth a wilderness of words.”
“Well, no wonder you turned white, Ken,” Dora said aloud. “Even a small thorn can cause a lot of bleeding. And last longer than you expect.”
Copyright © 2025 by Edna C. Horning
