
Susan Hayden
July 2023

Susan Hayden is a multigenre writer on a scavenger hunt for love, magic and home in a disappearing landscape. Her work has been published in numerous anthologies including Beat Not Beat (Moon Tide Press), Los Angeles In the 1970s/Weird Scenes Inside the Goldmine (Rare Bird Books), I Might Be the Person You Are Talking To (Padua Playwrights Press), and The Black Body (Seven Stories Press). Hayden is the creator/producer of Library Girl, a monthly literary series in its 14th year at the Ruskin Group Theatre. She is the recipient of the Artist In the Community/Bruria Finkel Award from Santa Monica Arts Foundation. The proud mother of singer-songwriter Mason Summit, she lives in Santa Monica, CA with her husband, music journalist Steve Hochman. Now You Are a Missing Person (Moon Tide Press) is her first published book.
BUT WHAT ABOUT ODETTA?
our son asked,
when I told him
his father was missing
in the snow.
She was his favorite singer,
this was to be her final tour.
She was seventy-seven.
He was eleven.
We had tickets to see her
in concert that night,
had been planning it
for months.
He cried when I told him
we couldn’t go.
Our son was used to
his father taking off
to the woods
or the rocks,
some river or slope.
He could be late,
get lost sometimes
or snowed in
but he’d always find us
and catch up to whatever
we had planned.
Our son asked if his father
could just meet us
at McCabe’s
when he got home.
But I had to say “No,
this is more serious.”
I needed to drive
to Mountain High
while listening to
car-radio news updates.
I needed to wait there
for my husband,
for his father
to be found,
one way or the other.
Our son asked,
when I got home,
if he could sleep
in the bed with me.
He knew they’d called off
the search
and his father was
still missing.
“When will he be back?”
he asked repeatedly.
I lit a candle,
turned out the lights.
From the bed,
when I looked up at
the ceiling,
I could have sworn
I’d seen the shadow
of a skier,
climbing uphill.
Our son was half-asleep
when I said,
“I don’t have
a good feeling
about this.”
I held him in my arms
for hours. Only
these days,
when he tells the story,
he doesn’t even remember
my being there.
In the middle of the night,
I knelt in the kitchen
singing an Odetta song,
“Hit or Miss,”
trying to find comfort in
her rejoicing.
And finally, I stood over
the trash can,
tore up
the concert tickets.
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THE LAZARUS PHENOMENON
You’re convinced your dead husband has entered the kitchen.
You’re packing snacks for a beach day with your adolescent son.
You’re on vacation so you let him eat Goldfish and read People magazine.
You’re allowing him to curse without having to put quarters in the Swear Jar.
You’re hallucinating your dead husband, who appears to be on a mission.
You’re aware that reunions can be a struggle for separated families.
You’re cringing when he announces a full day of planned adventures.
You’re fearless when you say, “We already have other plans.”
You’re not alarmed when he picks up a chair, throws it across the room.
You’re either flat-out numb or not afraid of his anger anymore, or both.
You’re reminded of a dual character he once played on The X Files.
You’re sure it was a Monster-of-the Week story in an episode called Lazarus.
You’re back to believing that the dead can come to life.
You’re thinking of that man in Malaysia who awoke for two hours after he died.
You’re proud to be able to say to your dead husband, “I’m the one in charge now.”
You’re positive he never could listen to anyone when he was alive.
You’re learning that homecomings with the deceased rarely have happy endings.