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Hit and Run

“You have arrived,” said the Uber app voice. “Your destination is on the right.”

The map on my iPhone showed only coordinates. No physical address. I craned my neck, looking up and down the dark sidewalk. This was the part of Uber’ing that stressed me the most: finding the address and passenger without getting rear-ended, honked at, or flipped-off by other drivers, especially in San Francisco where a love-hate, tug-of-war relationship between locals and Uber/Lift drivers thrived.

I drove slowly until my headlights swept across a shadow and then the reflectors on a bike.  A man dressed in black pants and a dark hoodie stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, eagerly waving me over.  Damn. A bike. No way.

I pulled to the curb and quickly got out of my car to tell the man that his bike wouldn’t fit in my Mazda 3.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to call for a bigger Uber.”

“Please,” he said, grabbing his helmet and backpack that lay at his feet. He lifted the road bike by its frame and approached.  “Can’t we at least try to fit it in the trunk?”

I heard the desperation in his voice and sighed. One of the cashiers at the Chevron station near my house had offered some advice when I told him I’d signed up to drive for Uber until I found a real job. I imagined the cashier shaking his head, saying, “No way! Tell the guy that your son just called and needs you to return home immediately. Or say that you just realized you’re almost out of gas. His bike is not your problem.”

I shook my head. “I’m really sorry but it’s not going—”

“I’ve had an awful night. Please.”

Damn.

 “All right. Let’s try.” I opened the trunk, and just as I expected, the space was too small. We both stared silently at the trunk, as if hoping, by magic, it would expand to accommodate the bike.

“Can you remove the tires?” I asked.

“I don’t have any tools. Plus the frame is bent. Can we try the back seat?”

“I don’t want oil or dirt to smudge the seats or carpet.  Or rip the fabric.” I knew I sounded whiny, but a tear in the fabric would mean I’d be unable to drive until I could have the fabric repaired.  And that wouldn’t be a cheap repair. Plus, no Uber’ing, no money. No groceries. No chance of paying my PG&E bill.

“Can we try, please? I’ll be really careful. I just got hit by a car and the driver took off.  Didn’t even stop to see if I was okay.”

I scratched my scalp as I tended to do when flustered. It wasn’t unreasonable for me to decline. Surely he could find another way to get home. But if it were my sons stranded and potentially injured, I’d hope that someone would help them.

“Okay. But please watch the seats.”

I opened the back door as cars zipped by and reached across to grab the front wheel rim, which I now saw was indeed misshapen. We pulled and pushed the bike across the back seat and managed to turn the wheels to shut the doors. Given there was no room in the back, the man sat beside me.  It often made me nervous when a solo male passenger, especially large men, sat up front with only the emergency brake and gear shift separating us. But this guy was skinny enough that I could hopefully fend him off if needed.

“Thank you, again,” he said, setting his backpack and helmet on the floor at his feet.

“No problem.”

The car filled with his sour body odor. It reminded me of the years of driving my sons and their friends around the San Francisco Bay Area after they’d been biking or skateboarding. A bunch of laughing, taunting, smelly teenagers. Now that my sons had their own cars and driver’s license, I rarely drove them and their friends. It was one of my mom-jobs I greatly missed.

We drove a couple of blocks when I heard the man begin to softly cry.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“No need to apologize. I completely understand.”

His crying continued until we merged onto the highway heading to Concord. Then he sighed and said, “So how are you? How’s your night going?”

 “A lot better than yours.” I laughed nervously.

He wiped his eyes and chuckled. I’d made him smile, I thought, happily.

“So, a driver just hit you and drove off?” I asked. “What an asshole.”

“Thank God I was wearing a helmet. It’s ruined now.”

“Better the helmet than your head.”

He nodded and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“I’m glad you weren’t badly injured. Do you always ride your bike at night?” I asked, looking back and forth between him and the road. Bay Area drivers were maniacs. The advent of texting just upped the stakes.

“Not usually. My boss and I were finishing a project and he asked me to work late.”

We speculated on the character defects needed to knock someone off their bike and leave the scene without checking to see if he or she was still breathing.

“How’s your head?” I asked. “You’ll want to make sure you don’t have a concussion.” As a former high school diving coach, I’d learned to take concussions seriously, to watch for signs and always err on the side of caution.

“I think I’m okay. But my mom is home.” After a beat, he added, “Yes, I’m a thirty-five-year-old man who still lives with his mother.”

I laughed and said, “No judgement here. My sons could very well be living with me until they’re forty or fifty. California is expensive.”

The conversation soon landed on the uneven recovery of the economy and the upcoming 2016 presidential election. Wanting to avoid any and all prickly confrontations with Republicans, I tested the water. I loved politics.

“It’s an interesting time. I never imagined we’d have a person like Trump running for president.”

“He won’t win,” the man said. “Surely people can’t vote for a man who brags about molesting women.”

“Let’s hope not. Sadly, he’s making George Bush look good.”

Our conversation devolved into an entertaining volley of reasons why Trump was the devil-incarnate. When I pulled in front of his house, I clicked the “drop off” button on the app. Since neither of us appeared eager to say goodbye, I turned off the car and we continued one upping each other with “And did you hear about this?” until we were interrupted by the ping of another Uber request.

“Well, it was really fun talking to you, despite the circumstances,” I said. “I’m glad I was the driver who got your call and that I could help.”

He opened his door and we pulled the bike from the car.

“Thanks, again. I really appreciate the ride.”

“No worries. Be sure to watch for signs of a concussion. Google it if you don’t know what to look for.”

A block from his house, I parked at the curb to inspect the backseat. I didn’t want the next passenger to sit in a grease spot and file a claim against me if they discovered a stain on their clothes. Everything in my life, since being laid off and going through my savings, had revolved around avoiding further financial setbacks. Luckily the fabric and carpet weren’t damaged: no smudges or tears. I brushed off some lint and rolled down the windows to air out the stale body odor.

As often happened after six or more hours of non-stop driving and a lively conversation with a passenger, I suddenly hit a wall of exhaustion. Hopefully this next trip would be only a short distance, not to San Francisco or Berkeley, which would add another hour to my already long shift. Before I tapped on the navigation button, I clicked “Stop New Requests”.

I always felt a tinge of panic when I headed to my final ride before signing off. I’d think about movies where the retiring detective insisted on taking one last call, and it was always this final call that he faced his all-time, career worst, life-or-death situation.  I’d think about my younger sister’s reaction when I told her of my plans to drive for Uber. As a veteran police officer in Louisiana, she’d experienced many threatening situations. In my mind, I’d hear her response: “Oh, Marie. I consider myself a brave person, but I’d never drive for Uber. You have no idea who’s getting into your car. Please be careful.” I’d hear my friends say, “You’re crazy to drive at night.” I’d hear the guy at the Chevron station say, “Never drive past ten. It’s not worth the ten or twenty extra dollars to have some drunk asshole vomit in your car or worse . . .”

As I followed the directions to my next stop, I did what I’d do every shift when these scary thoughts entered my mind: I simply decided not to dwell on the possibilities. So far, ninety-five percent of the passengers I had picked up were nice, and the rest were a pain in the ass but not really threatening. So far, I hadn’t picked up that game-changing ride, and hopefully, I never would.

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THEN THERE WAS LARRY

Alluvium Books is thrilled to announce the audiobook release of

THEN THERE WAS LARRY, a memoir by Marie Estorge.  

Marie is the bestselling author of Storkbites: A Memoir and Confessions of a Bipolar Mardi Gras Queen (penned under Marie Etienne) and her debut novel, In the Middle of Otherwise. THEN THERE WAS LARRY is a real-life cautionary tale of deception and scandal. Marie offers a unique and razor-sharp look at duplicity and betrayal among friends and lovers in her newest memoir.

Dating is an iffy business at best. Being set up by a close friend usually offers some reassurance, but what happens when this close friend and boyfriend are not who they claim to be?

Headlines about the arrest of a well-regarded community member for charges of child pornography and abuse are disturbing in the collective sense. When the person charged and sentenced to 15 years turns out to be a man you’ve dated, the blow is sharp and personal. The questions and shock, the shame, reverberate at length. Infused with empathy, insight, and humor, Then There Was Larry is an exploration of how well do we really know anyone? How can we trust that people are who they seem? As this quirky yet disturbing chronicle of a woman unraveling the layers of frayed friendships and a scandal from the past is revealed, the previously dismissed red flags reveal darker secrets.

Praise for THEN THERE WAS LARRY:

In THEN THERE WAS LARRY, Marie Estorge delves unapologetically into the universal themes of love and betrayal with the keen eye of a surgeon’s scalpel; dissecting, slicing, juxtaposing the truth against the backdrop of loyalty, friendships, and the unconscionable versus the forgivable. Sit down. Strap yourselves in. Enjoy the ride. ~ Regina Louise, author of Someone Has Led This Child to Believe

It’s cliché but I truly couldn’t put THEN THERE WAS LARRY down. It manages to be dark and funny at the same time. It’s premise, the narrator’s unsuspecting relationship with a convicted sex offender, adds a new dimension to the #MeToo movement conversation. ~ Christine S. O’Brien, author of Crave: A Memoir of Food and Longing

Then There Was Larry is an eye-opening cautionary tale for women everywhere. Marie Estorge’s story is not an unusual one when it comes to sexual predators as there are thousands who are victimized each year. Marie Estorge shares her story with self-effacing humor and stark honesty. I connected with Marie, nodding my head in agreement the further I delved into this memoir.  ~ N. N. Light

“Like all of Marie Estorge’s books, THEN THERE WAS LARRY keeps you turning the pages.” ~ Peggy Vincent, midwife, author of Baby Catcher: Chronicles of a Modern Midwife 

In July 2020, Marie Estorge released her debut novel, IN THE MIDDLE OF OTHERWISE, under the imprint Alluvium Books. Her essays and writing have appeared in the SF Chronicle, Diablo Magazine, East Bay Times and other publications.   

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In the Middle of Otherwise

Book Cover with a novel

New review by N.N. Light’s Book Heaven (December 2, 2020):

Jenny, overcome with grief over the accidental death of her toddler son, decides today is the day she’s going to kill herself. She has nothing to live for… or does she? When she meets insurance salesman Brodie, she wonders if the universe is telling her something. Can Jenny find meaning and purpose or will she carry out her own suicide?

In the Middle of Otherwise is a powerful piece of fiction. Told from two polar opposite POV’s over the course of one day, this story casts a new light on human frailty. From the first page, I was hooked. The character-driven plot moves at a nice easy pace with emotional narration. My heart went out to both Brodie and Jenny, for different reasons, of course. Marie Estorge has a gift for drawing the reader into the story and engaging the reader until the very last page. There’s a clear message of redemption here which I loved. The ending tugged at my heartstrings. If you’re looking for a story you won’t be able to stop reading, pick up In the Middle of Otherwise. Highly recommend!

Rating: 5 stars

“In the Middle of Otherwise depicts a tale of people whose lives take dramatic turns for the worse. Marie Estorge unfolds their compelling stories of endurance and redemption in the face of daunting odds. The ending, both deft and clever, will make you happy you read this book.”  – Paul De Lancey, author of Beneficial Murders and Following Good Food Around the World.

Alluvium Books and Marie Estorge are thrilled to announce the release of IN THE MIDDLE OF OTHERWISE

Told over the course of one day and set in the suburbs of San Francisco, IN THE MIDDLE OF OTHERWISE, is a story of Brodie Marshall and his stalker, Jenny, whose lives collide one morning over a lost wallet.

Brodie Marshall has one day left to sell five life insurance policies and earn a desperately needed ten thousand dollar bonus. But Friday starts with a head-on collision with a tree during an early morning jog and the discovery that his Stanford-bound daughter has brought Gatorade spiked with vodka to school and forged his signature. Meanwhile, with her husband away on business, Jenny decides that today she will end her life. After suffering from the guilt and loss over a back-over accident where she fatally struck her son two years ago, she feels she has nothing in her life worth living for.

As Brodie and Jenny’s stories weave together, the real stakes are revealed. This story layers complexity upon complexity, building to a sense of urgency and inevitability.

 Buy Now

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Girls Just Want to Have Fun

A gaggle of teenagers stood in front of the Walnut Creek Cheesecake Factory as I slowly pulled past the crosswalk and parked. A boy in a varsity hoodie noticed my car and rushed over.

“Uber?” he asked. I nodded. “Let me get my friends.”

The kids parted as he walked a drunk girl to my car. Her chestnut hair was wild and tangled. She could barely stand, so he half carried, half dragged her. Another girl hugged her friends and waved goodbye. She followed the boy and the drunk girl. She looks annoyed. I thought of my high school friends and how their evenings were often cut short or ruined when they had to deal with a drunk and obnoxious Marie.

The boy and the friend wrestled the drunk girl into the backseat. The girl was slurring, “I don’t want to go home. I’ll give you a blow job for twenty dollars.”

Her friend sighed and said, “Shut up.”

Ignoring her friend, the girl reached for the boy’s arm and said, “I’ll let you do me the butt if you want to.” Have some self-respect, I thought, feeling sorry for the stupid girl.

“Quit talking now,” her friend said. She hugged the boy goodnight, and he rejoined the group, relieved, no doubt, to drop this problem off on someone else.

The drunk girl began mumbling about wanting the boy to like her and the things she was willing to do to make that happen. As she curled into a fetal position in the back seat and quieted, I looked at her friend seated next to me. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s just not feeling well.”

I rolled my eyes. I could smell the alcohol. That was more than a case of food poisoning or flu.

“I need to pee,” the girl suddenly said.

“Don’t pee in my car.”

“She won’t,” the friend assured me.

“Seriously, I really need to pee.”

“No, I’m serious. You pee in my car and I’ll drop you off right here.”

Her friend twisted around and said, “Just hold it and don’t talk.”

Minutes went by. I looked in the rearview mirror. The girl had fallen asleep. I followed the directions to a familiar subdivision and pulled up in front of the house.

“Can you help me carry her to the front door?” her friend asked.

A new ride request pinged and I accepted.

“Sure, but I’ve got another call to get to.”

We opened the back door, and the girl didn’t stir.

“Can you hold her feet and pull while I grab her arms,” I asked.

The girl was much heavier than she looked. We managed to lift and pull her out of the car but just as I began to pivot and step up on the curb, I heard gurgling. Immediately, vomit spewed forth, landing on my arms. I gagged and lost my grip. It was like watching in slow motion as the girl slipped from my hands, and in turn, the friend, unable to bear the weight alone, lost her hold. Neither of us could catch the girl in time. We watched her fall to the curb and cringed at the gruesome sound of her skull hitting the cement.

“Oh, shit,” the friend and I said in unison. The girl was splayed out, half on the curb and half in the street. We bent down and gently poked her arm to wake her. There was no reaction.

“Run and get your parents,” I said.

“It’s not my house. Her grandfather lives here.”

“Well, go get him. Hurry.”

I considered calling 911 but figured I’d leave that decision to her grandfather. A couple of minutes later, a man in old-fashioned pajamas rushed over.

“Ellie,” he said, kneeling down beside the girl. She didn’t respond. He looked at me and at his granddaughter’s friend. “What happened to her?”

“I’m just the Uber driver. She was already drunk when I picked up her and her friend. She fell and hit her head as we were helping her out of the car.”

The friend didn’t say anything.

“Do you think you could move her foot?” I noticed it had landed too close to my back tire and I worried I might run it over when I pulled away from the curb. “I have another pickup and need to get going.”

“Could you please wait,” asked the grandfather.

“Sure. Let me cancel the ride.”

While I cancelled the next ride and signed off from the app, the grandfather called 911. I stood next to him trying to figure out if I could be held liable or sued for dropping her and possibly contributing to a serious injury.

“We should turn her on her side so that she doesn’t choke on her vomit if she starts throwing up again,” I said.

“Good idea,” said the grandfather.

Within minutes, a fire truck, an ambulance, and a police cruiser had arrived. The friend, grandfather, and I answered the same questions, over and over: What was our relationship to the girl? How long had she been unresponsive? Had she been drinking? Who gave her the alcohol? Had someone called her parents?

The father finally showed up and struggled getting out of his sporty BMW. Judging by the smell of booze and his red, puffy face, he was also intoxicated. I was surprised he’d risk driving when he knew there’d be police. By now, the girl had been placed on a gurney and was in the ambulance. She still hadn’t responded to the medics.

“Unless I’m still needed,” I said. “I’m going to get back to work.” In truth, I was done driving for the night, but I wanted an excuse to leave. The police officer, the father, and the grandfather nodded. The friend was texting and didn’t look up. This story, hopefully a cautionary tale for their teenage friends, would be the headlining gossip at school on Monday. Surprisingly, no one asked for my name or contact information. I knew they could track me down via the Uber app if needed, but I prayed I wouldn’t hear from any of them ever again.

Next time, I told myself as I headed home, don’t pick up drunk teenagers. Call 911. It was too risky for both me and the kid. I hoped the girl would be okay and this experience would scare some sense into her. In the following days, I was relieved not to hear or read about a fatality of a local high school student.

Photograph by Oscar Keys

I Am Woman!

By Marie Estorge

Christmas is my favorite holiday of the year. I love the excessive displays of twinkling lights and tacky lawn ornaments, the colorful presents with their hidden gems, or not, the merriment and the parties, the traditional songs even though I’m not religious, homemade beignets with my sons, and the plaid-skirted tree decorated with the ornaments we’d collected over the years.

On this particular Christmas Eve, I had just started my Uber shift. I’d filled the gas tank, cleaned off the bird droppings that peppered the exterior of my red Mazda, and packed energy bars, cough drops, and chewing gum for the evening.

As I approached the address of my first passenger and pulled to the curb, I smiled at the lights strung on the balconies of the street-facing apartments. A young man in a grey coat glanced at my license plate and I waved. I’d barely put the car in park when he opened the door, ignored my greeting, and buckled himself into the back seat. His phone rang immediately. Judging by his end of the conversation, he was late for a holiday party. I too had been invited to a holiday party, but I needed to earn a hundred dollars to buy groceries for our Christmas dinner. There would be no gifts this year, unless someone surprised me with a huge tip.

“So,” he said, after his call ended. “You’ve got nothing better to do on Christmas Eve than drive for Uber?”

I looked in the rearview mirror and smiled politely. “It looks like that, doesn’t it.”

We didn’t say anything else as we headed toward Oakland. As he climbed out of the car at his destination, I wished him a nice evening. The door simply slammed with no response from Mr. Bah Humbug. Where was the holiday spirit? I wondered, heading to my next pickup and hoping the evening wouldn’t be one unpleasant passenger after another.

The next few six hours I drove laps around the Bay Area, from San Francisco to Mill Valley, to Moraga, back to Oakland, and so on. The saving grace of the evening was seeing all the holiday lights and knowing I’d be able to buy a turkey and all the fixings. When I got sleepy, I sucked on cherry flavored cough drops or chewed gum. Between rides, I ate my energy bars and made a few bathroom stops. My younger son, a sophomore in college, texted me around ten p.m. to ask how the night was going and if I would be home soon. My Uber app pinged, and I quickly texted, Going fine. Heading to my last fare. See you soon.

I arrived at an address in a sketchy residential area of Concord and texted the client to say I’d arrived. I glanced out of the windows, looking from side to side for potential dangers. As a middle-aged, single female Uber driver, I had now visited areas around the San Francisco Bay Area that I’d purposely avoided throughout my thirty years of living in Northern California.  The first time I drove out to Bay Point, rudely nicknamed by some as Gun Point, I was terrified of being caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting.

Shortly after my text, a burly guy opened the front passenger door. I preferred for solo riders, especially men, to sit in the back, but I never insisted. Once a male passenger had laid his hand on my arm when he was thanking me for the ride. He waited a beat but probably saw the terror on my face and left without incident.

“Marie,” the guy now asked, lowering himself into the seat. “Beverly?” I asked, confused by the name on my app.

“That my mom.” Another middle-aged man and a boy emerged from a house. “Can you wait for her? She should be out in a sec.”

 A couple of minutes later, a sullen woman trudged down the sidewalk. Her pace seemed deliberately slow.  She opened the back door and said in a smoker’s voice, “Go without me. I don’t want to go.”

 “Come on, mom. Just get in,” said the man seated in the back.

 “No.” She shut the door and then started walking back toward the house. We all sat there in silence watching her.

“Should I go?” I asked.

“If you could hold another second,” said the man sitting beside me. He rolled down his window and shouted for his mom to get in the car. She turned around and they had a stare-off. Finally, she returned to the car and slid into the back seat. Immediately, the stench of cigarettes and tension in the car was palpable. I started the trip and glanced back at the woman. From all appearances, she was one angry, exhausted person. If she were my mom, I would have let her stay home instead of potentially ruining everyone’s evening.

As we drove toward their destination, I fielded the typical questions: How long have you been driving? Do you like it? Isn’t it scary being a woman picking up strangers? I gave my usual answers: there were benefits and drawbacks to the gig. Ninety-five of the people I encountered were nice, but some made the experience less than pleasant. Some were downright scary or rude. I liked the flexibility, the immediate cash, and enjoyed meeting interesting people.

“You have a nice voice,” said the mom. “I bet you can sing really pretty.”

I smiled, happy that she was defrosting.

“Uh, no. In fact, I have a terrible singing voice.”

“I doubt it,” she said, coughing loudly.

“Believe me. I’m not being modest.”

“Prove it,” she said.

The song that immediately came to mind, a favorite from my childhood, was a Helen Reedy classic. I sang, “I am woman, hear me roar. In numbers too big to ignore.”

I looked back at her and said, “See?”

“You weren’t joking,” she said, “Your singing is terrible.” We all started laughing. I couldn’t believe this was the same woman I’d picked up a couple of miles earlier.

“Let’s hear you do better,” I teased. Pretty soon we were all daring each other to showcase our voices.  The man sitting beside me was the only one who refused to participate.  When we got to their destination, before opening her door, the woman said, “Thank you for the ride. You made my night.”

“Mine as well. Merry Christmas.”

I rated them five stars and thought about the expression, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” This worn expression fitted this family perfectly. I’d made assumptions based on their neighborhood, demeanor, and appearances, especially the mother. I loved fun surprises. It felt like tearing into a box wrapped in recycled newspaper and finding a delightful gift inside.

Marie the Elder

I turned the corner of the hospital corridor and looked at the patient in the room where I was expecting to see my former mother-in-law. The white-haired woman who lay swaddled in bedding, surrounded by IV bags and equipment looked too old and emaciated to be Marie. I asked at the nurse’s station where I could find Room 2012. She pointed to the frail lady across the hall.

It had been seven years since I’d last visited Marie and Carl in Coronado. Work and a lack of funds, had initially, kept me away. Then in the past four years, she’d lost Carl, a son, and a daughter-in-law. She’d had a stroke, cancer, and a series of other ailments that made her disinclined to receive visitors, especially during Covid. When her son called to say that Marie was in the hospital and it was okay for me to visit, I was thrilled. He forewarned me that her dementia was getting worse. She might not live much longer. Yet, the frail Marie I found possessed a memory much sharper than I expected.

“Hi, Marie,” I said, walking cautiously into the room. Sick people, especially in hospitals, make me nervous and queasy. “It’s Marie.” She used to joke that she was Marie the Elder, and I was Marie the Younger. Standing next to her bed, I recognized her beautiful blue eyes. Her mischievous, warm smile came into focus. She pretended to recognize me as well, but I think it took a few minutes for her memory to catch up. I’d gained weight. My hair was completely blondish-grey now.

“Marie,” she finally said. “I’m so pleased to see you.”

She reached over with her left hand (the right side of her body was still paralyzed after the stroke) and brought my hand to her lips. I supposed in lieu of a hug and a kiss, this was her new greeting.

She asked about my sons. We scrolled through my phone looking at recent pictures from my nephew’s wedding. She asked if I’d remarried, and I said no. I told her I’d gotten a kitten. She said cats were often easier than husbands.

“What are you doing for fun,” she asked. I told her I mainly just work a lot. Still diving. She recalled coming to one of my practices and said she was always so proud of my courage. I mentioned my writing. She said, “Remember when you wrote about walking around a parking lot naked?” Nothing came to mind. Who could she possibly be confusing me with? Then I knew what she was referring to.

In 2009, I was in San Diego to speak at a writer’s conference. Marie and Carl had offered to babysit my sons. After an early dinner, she shooed the boys off to the adjacent room to watch television with grandpa. Seated knee to knee on the sofa, she said that she’d read my recently published memoir, twice, and that much of what I’d shared had shocked and saddened her. Specifically, the rape incident on the gravel parking lot of my college football stadium—or as she later described, me walking around a parking lot naked. We all have had these types of experiences, she said, but it was best not to air them publicly. I knew she meant well. Her mores were from a bygone generation. She recalled other subjects from the memoir that she deemed inappropriate. I felt attacked and rejected. Humiliated. Horrified that in an hour I’d be giving a keynote speech and they too might judge me harshly. I started crying and excused myself to go to the bathroom.

Marie had always been supportive of my writing and my life choices. She’d come with me to a memoir class in San Francisco and applauded after I’d read a very personal essay. She loved to share stories of her former marriages and lovers and her childhood, especially memories of her mother whom she adored. When I divorced her stepson, she assured me that she would always be my mother-in-law. What we had was special and she wasn’t willing to give it up. To receive her disapproval now was unexpected and hurtful. We didn’t talk for months after this visit, but I finally returned one of her calls after she pleaded not to let what she had said ruin our friendship.

The nurse entered the room, tested her glucose level, and noted that Marie hadn’t touched her dinner. I offered to feed Marie the yogurt and she accepted a few spoonfuls. Then she began talking about her regrets, her biggest being staying in an unhappy marriage. I knew she and Carl had struggled. They were so different—him a Baptist and she a Presbyterian, him a teetotaler and she not. I had invited her to live with me and my sons once when she had called to say she needed to leave him but didn’t know where she would go.

The conversation moved on to her son who had died. She began crying and reached for my hand. I had never seen her cry. I wondered if she lay in her hospital bed, her mind a swirl of memories and regrets. We held hands for a while, quietly, and then she released me and laughed at herself. Before I left, she reached for my hand again and kissed it.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you,” I said. “You will always be my favorite mother-in-law,” I teased to prompt a smile.

Marie passed away a few months after this visit. The loss feels surreal. I keep expecting her to call to invite my sons and me to visit her. In my mind, I see us sitting on their front porch, holding hands, and laughing about life—its constant twists and turns.

Confessions of a Bipolar Mardi Gras Queen

It’s been thirteen years since the original, hardcover publication of CONFESSIONS OF A BIPOLAR MARDI GRAS QUEEN by Marie Etienne . Now, I’m thrilled to introduce the newly designed cover for the paperback edition. If you missed reading this follow-up memoir to Storkbites: A Memoir, now is your chance.

The beautiful model for the cover was my neighbor and babysitter Kylie. Wearing the costume that I wore from my Berengaria of Navarre days, Kylie looked like a queen. I shot 800 + pictures at a park in the San Francisco East Bay on a sunny day. Children stood around the park watching Kyle swing as I snapped photos. Some young girls would say, “Are you a real princess?” “I want to be a princess like you when I grow up.”

CONFESSIONS OF A BIPOLAR MARDI GRAS QUEEN is filled with true stories that swing between hilarity and devastation. One of nine children growing up in a wealthy family in Southern Louisiana, Marie Etienne spent decades risking everything in her search for happiness, sanity, and love. As an adult, her increasingly erratic behavior mirrored the drama of her childhood.

At 43, recently diagnosed with bipolar and on the brink of suicide, Marie’s last-ditch hope was to come to terms with her deep-rooted feelings of fear, shame, and resentment by facing who she really was, who she wanted to be, and what she was willing to do to make her life worth living. Marie’s story reveals the unstoppable drive of one woman determined to stop the cycle of abuse.

Twelve Questions for Marie Estorge

Amy Schorr asks Marie Estorge, author of IN THE MIDDLE OF OTHERWISE, 12 questions

Amy: The title of your book IN THE MIDDLE OF OTHERWISE is quite intriguing. Would you please tell us about it?

Marie: My day job is accounting and during a hectic financial close, my colleague said, “Here we are in the middle of otherwise.” I immediately thought, otherwise – a state one finds oneself in if one doesn’t heed advice, follow a process, do what is needed, or take necessary precautions. I asked her if I could borrow that saying for the title of my novel. It was a perfect description of my two protagonists’ current situation.

Amy: Describe the two main characters and where they came from.

Marie: Brodie is an insurance agent who has until midnight to sell five life insurance policies to earn a desperately-needed $10,000.00 bonus. He hasn’t told his wife or daughter about their precarious financial situation, but they will soon learn. Brodie is a nice guy and he means well. He just doesn’t follow through or stay on top of his business.

Jenny is a grieving mother, who two years prior, backed her car over her son. This fatal accident has destroyed her once-happy marriage. She is desperate to obliterate the pain and guilt that consumes her.

Brodie and Jenny’s stories collide when, on the day of her son’s fatal accident, she finds Brodie’s wallet at the edge of her driveway and begins writing him anonymous letters. The letters become sort of a lifeline for her since she and her husband have stopped communicating.

Amy: You obviously had material for your two memoirs (STORKBITES and CONFESSIONS OF A BI-POLAR MARDI GRAS QUEEN) from your personal life. Where did you get your idea for this novel?

Marie: I attended an author event once and when asked how she decided what to write about, the author, Vendela Vida, said, “Write what you fear most.” I thought of a time I nearly backed over my son. My friend was supposed to be watching him while I packed up the car and backed out of her garage. A second before I took my foot off the brake to press on the gas, I saw these blond wisps of hair just above the rear window. Unlike Jenny, I was lucky. My son escaped what would have been a horrible accident. Brodie, the other protagonist in my novel, finds himself in dire financial straits (of his own making), and I’ve been there. I’ve felt his fear, his shame, and his defeat, and I know how scary those situations can be.

Amy: During the storytelling process, do you ever get writer’s block? How do you break through it?

Sometimes, I find myself stuck when I’m starting the next chapter. When this happens, I pull some of my favorite books from my shelves and read the opening sentences of random chapters. Usually, this will trigger an idea of what needs to happen next in the story. A trick that has also helped me is to end a writing session in the middle of a scene. If I know what’s going to happen next, I won’t avoid sitting down to write the next time.

Amy: Does writing energize or exhaust you?

Marie: Both. When I’m in the middle of a scene and can barely type fast enough to keep up with my mind, it’s very invigorating. After 6 or 8 hours of writing, however, I’m left completely exhausted. I’ve concentrated so hard, often holding my breath through crucial scenes, that when I step away from my desk, my throat is sore. I try to remind myself to breathe!

Amy: What is the most difficult part of your artistic process while writing?

Marie: Rejection. Envy. Insecurity. Fear. I have been told no in so many ways—some kind and some awful rejections. Luckily, I’ve heard yes, as well. When I’m feeling discouraged and wondering if anyone will want to read anything I’ve written or whether I have any talent, I will remind myself that there could be a yes right around the corner. If I don’t continue forward, I will never reach that yes.

To get over these humps, I’ll sit on the floor of my office, pluck books off the shelves, and read passages from some of my favorite books until I’m feeling inspired and hopeful again. I will comb through Poets & Writers and Writer’s Digest, looking for inspiration.

Admittedly, I often find myself envious when reading about friends’ success on social media. I fear that I’m wasting my time and will never make a living at writing. But I remember how much I enjoy the writing process: fleshing out ideas, figuring out how my characters will react in a situation based on their background and circumstances, reworking a sentence until it flows, and thinking of unique metaphors.

Amy: What is your writing kryptonite?

Marie: Getting feedback from people who hate my writing style and voice. I want complete honesty from people whom I’ve asked to read and critique my work, but I also know that a writer should be selective about whom they trust with their work. Nasty, personal comments in the margins of a manuscript can set me back weeks, even months. Some comments, though on the surface feel rude, are actually helpful and funny: “I’m falling asleep here…is something going to happen?”

Amy: What would you tell your younger writing self?

Marie: Read constantly and widely across genres. Study how your favorite authors craft sentences and paragraphs. Just get the first terrible draft written, then focus on fleshing out the characters and story. The delete button is your friend.

Amy: What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?

Marie: Enrolling in small writing classes of vetted, serious writers led by an experienced writer/editor. Some of the most helpful feedback I received was sitting around the living rooms of old San Francisco Victorians. The biggest waste of money: Paying a former “well-connected” editor $16,000 to edit my manuscript. Or $10,000 to a publicist who “lived next to Oprah.” I’ve found that English teachers make excellent, affordable editors. Also, get recommendations from other writers. A post on Facebook about me needing an editor led to the most amazing collaboration.

Amy: What’s your favorite under-appreciated novel?

Marie: Joseph Heller’s Something Happened, and Dave Eggers’ Your Fathers, Where Are They? And the Prophets, Do They Live Forever. I LOVED these books—they are so smart and strange.

Amy: If you didn’t write, what would you do for work?

Marie: Am I too old to be an Olympic Springboard diver? Probably. I’d love to teach writing or accounting at a community college or coach diving again. Make art and purses. Design furniture.

Amy: What does literary success look like to you?

Marie: Success would mean that I can afford to write full time because my work is valued by readers and acknowledged by the industry. I’m invited to literary events where I meet some of my idols. I’m asked to share my knowledge with other authors. Friends, family, and strangers will send a quick note to say how much they enjoyed my book.

Revisiting the Past

One of the few upsides to Covid-19 was that my California employer allowed me to work remotely from Louisiana for the summer. In the last 25 years, I hadn’t spent more than a week at a time visiting my family. My college-aged son was studying from our home, so I left him in charge of the house and drove across the southern states with my computers and makeshift office.

After a Sunday afternoon of swimming, one of my sisters and I were heading back to her house when we decided to drive through our old neighborhood. We turned onto Canterbury Street and approached the first house that my parents had built, the house where I lived in until age 5. There was a man, presumably the newest owner, working in the front yard.

“Stop and roll down the window,” I said to my sister.

I waved the man over, and as he stood near the window, I said, “My father built this house. We used to live here.”

We chatted briefly and he invited us to look inside the house. They had remodeled since purchasing it. As we walked up the driveway to the back door, my sister mentioned that I was visiting from California. The man said, “Oh, you’re the one who wrote that book about your family.”

“Storkbites,” I said. “Yes.”

“Well, my wife read it and really enjoyed it. But she said that I didn’t need to read it.” My sister and I exchanged a confused look.

We entered the house through what looked like a converted garage but had been our playroom and now theirs. The room held a lot of memories—laughter as well as tears. Sometimes, kids can be really cruel to each other. We crossed the threshold into the large family room where the couple had painted the dark wood paneling a lighter, less dungeonous color. The man introduced us to his wife. She told us they had sold their previous house to another one of my six sisters. We also realized that my nephew had taught their son cello lessons. What a small world, we agreed.

We toured the backyard first. The husband pointed to our old merry-go-round now sitting in the neighbor’s yard. The fiberglass horses were missing as well as the awning.

“They’re fixing it up,” he said. I thought about the hours of fun my siblings and I spent riding the horses, going round and round.

We headed to the swimming pool area. I pointed at a room that sat above and to the right of the pool. “My brother and his friends used to jump from that roof into the pool. They were quite the dare devils.” 

We reentered the house and I noticed a bookshelf with owl figurines. I asked if they collected owls, and indeed the wife did. I told them that my father was also an owl enthusiast. His collection had grown to hundreds by the time he died. I laughed to myself because as I visited my various sisters’ houses this summer, I noticed  they all had part of my father’s huge collection displayed around their homes.

Our tour took us through my parent’s master bedroom to a door leading to a maze of bedrooms and halls. At the first bedroom, the woman pointed to a missing chunk of wood from the door jam. “These gouges were left over from the chains that your father installed on the doors,” she said. Her husband asked, “Why would your dad lock you kids in your rooms at night?”

I looked at my sister and said, “To keep us from leaving our bedrooms so we wouldn’t disturb our mother.” When spoken aloud, it sounded cruel and bizarre, like something out of a movie. “I guess we’re lucky the house never caught on fire in the middle of the night.” The energy in the hallway flattened like a punctured tire.

“Well,” he said, “here’s the room you called the Dark Room.” He opened the door to reveal a large, windowless closest lined with shelves. The room looked like a catchall for decorations and not-ready-to-discard household items.

I told the couple how my sister and I shared the dark room. It was the only paneled room in the house that had been painted at the time. In an effort to learn my ABCs, I had taken my mother’s black marker and written the alphabet in large letters across the paneling. I remembered how I proudly showed off my cleverness, singing the letters as my mother and I stood in the room. When fury settled on her face, I knew I would be yanked out of bed that night for a spanking.

“Yep, she was not very amused,” I said.

One feature of the house I hadn’t remembered but loved now was the abundance of large windows in the children’s bedrooms. I imagined my siblings waking up to the morning sun, awaiting their mug of coffee-milk that my mother delivered to us to kick-start our day.  

The tour ended in the kitchen. My mother had loved the color pink. We had pink bathrooms, pink metal fencing around the swimming pool, and a pink Formica kitchen. The owners had renovated the kitchens and bathrooms, removing all evidence of her infatuation.

My sister and I thanked the owners for the tour. The wife said she had invited another one of my sisters to visit the house, to see the changes she and her husband had made to our childhood home. My sister had politely declined. The woman wasn’t sure why she wasn’t curious. I knew why. For some, the past isn’t safe to revisit. They would prefer to let the memories remain buried.

I, conversely, am always ready to uncover something curious or unknown about my family. I’m like an archeologist, constantly gathering and unearthing information from any available source. For decades, I have studied our past and tried to piece together all that makes us who we are today. It helps me to develop theories of why we behave the way we do. To have empathy for those who treated us with less kindness and care than we deserved, to understand that perhaps their behavior was a result of the hurt they themselves had endured. To learn from the past and to move forward.