Maybe one day I really will be able to take a shuttle right to you.
Aunt Bernie interrupted my thoughts. “Did you open it?”
I nodded.
“Did you get the scholarship?”
I nodded.
“Good. Do you want to go?”
I nodded.
“If it’s what Emma wanted for you, then it’s what I want for you too.” I watched her crochet needle bob, in and out, making an intricate pattern out of a simple piece of yarn, never dropping a stitch.
Walter Cronkite signed off, “And that’s the way it is. August 12, 1977.”
35
m-e-t-a-m-o-r-p-h-o-s-i-s
metamorphosis (n.)
a change of form, shape, structure; transformation; a marked or complete change of character; the form resulting from such change
On my last afternoon in Shepherdsville, Aunt Bernie and I headed out to the end-of-summer church picnic, the final supper before crops and school called everybody to their tasks.
Ray and Trixie were expected to arrive and have a bite with us. Then I’d head off with them to get settled in before the school year began.
I had packed up my clothes in your suitcase, Mama, leaving my church dresses behind in the closet, tucked behind old moth-eaten coats. I had carefully folded up the map of the world from the wall in your old room and tucked it on top of my clothes. Aunt Bernie had said I could bring it with me if I liked.
My dictionary and spelling trophy went into a grocery bag. All the words I’d written and dropped into its cup were tucked into the pockets of my jeans. The box on the mantel had been the last thing I took before I left the farmhouse. Maybelle stayed in the barn, waiting for my return next summer.
I helped Aunt Bernie set up food on banquet tables that had been lugged up to the field next to the church. People arrived, mingling and surveying all the goodies, piling plates sky-high with barbecued chicken, potato salad, pies, cakes, casseroles, and watermelon.
Reverend Love and Mary entertained a long line of folks who gathered round hoping to hold Charity. Faith sat on a picnic table, huddled over her guitar. Jason, along with Matt, Missy, and Lerman, listened at her feet on the grass. Even Leann Shank and Loretta wandered over to join them.
Evangeline introduced her younger sister, Celeste, from Atlanta, who’d moved up to Shepherdsville to live with Evangeline for a while. Celeste had a laugh as deep and rich as Evangeline’s.
“I hear you helped Evangeline to make this a more colorful place, Dulcie.” She giggled with Aunt Bernie. “Those robes! Aren’t they something?”
Aunt Bernie caught Celeste’s drift. “Well, I have to say, Len and Lou and the entire tenor section look divine in lavender.”
Evangeline smiled, a bit wicked. “Don’t they just?”
When everyone had settled, I got the box from Littleton Funeral Home out of Aunt Bernie’s car, along with my Bible bag. Aunt Bernie saw me leave. We exchanged a glance across all the heads. She knew what I was off to do. She’d asked ahead of time if I wanted for her to come with me, but it was something I wanted to do by myself.
I walked along the fence line, the Bible bag thumping against my thigh, the Bible and the treasure I’d found in its pages a comforting weight as I walked.
You see, I hadn’t been sure what I wanted to say, Mama, but I wanted the words to be right.
The night before, I’d thumbed through my dictionary, trying to find the right word—the last word—to give you before I left.
I’d even paged through Aunt Bernie’s Bible, something I hadn’t done much of since I’d arrived in Shepherdsville. After I’d finally settled on the one word that made sense, a small piece of yellowed paper folded into thirds had fallen out of the Bible, into my lap. When I opened it, I saw that it was in your handwriting, Mama.
It was the letter Aunt Bernie had told me about—the one you wrote her after you left Shepherdsville. After all this time, Mama, to have your words, to hear your voice as I read them, was to get you back for just a moment. I let my eyes travel the page, and they landed on my name.
. . . I call her Dulcie, which means “sweet,” and she is. Promise me that if anything ever happens, you will watch over her, Bernie.
I hope you know, Mama, that Aunt Bernie kept her promise.
That last afternoon, out in the field behind the church, I climbed over Bean’s repaired fence, using the split rails like a ladder. I made my way to the other side, careful not to drop the box. The sun was low in the sky, everything touched with gold light, sprinkling jewels of sparkles across the water. I watched the swans for a bit as they waltzed on the surface of the pond. I fed them bits of stashed cornbread wrapped in a napkin from the picnic. The cygnets grabbed the crumbs willy-nilly while Mr. Cobb looked on, swimming nearby, gliding, keeping watch. Evangeline warned me that when it was time for the cygnets to fly in the fall, they might not return—I might not see them again.
I held the box in front of me. You didn’t have any kind of proper send-off, Mama. I wanted you to have a place of your own. The swan’s pond is the most peaceful place I know of, and Bean said it would be all right with him. Evangeline’s idea that everybody should have a place where they can visit and talk with their loved ones rang true to me.
But mostly I thought of the words you’d written in the letter to Aunt Bernie and how you’d said that the most important thing was forgiveness.
The best way I know how to love, Bernie, is simply to forgive.
I opened the Littleton Funeral Home box, then placed each word from my spelling cup into it. The very last word—the word I’d decided on the night before—was the word I whispered as I slid the box into the water. I stood at the edge of the pond, by the cattails and reeds, and watched the box disappear.
When I had almost drowned at the pond, something inside had made me fight and kick to rise to the surface. I see now how you were drowning too, Mama, and didn’t have the fight anymore to rise up out of it. If the best way to love is to forgive, then I forgive you for not being able to save yourself.
• • •
Ray found me at the pond.
“Bernie told me you’d be back here.” He looked around. “This is a good place. A real good place.”
We stood silently for a moment, letting the sun dapple the water with shimmers. Then we headed back over the fence. Ray vaulted the split rails neatly. He took my hand to help me over, and then didn’t let go. As we walked through the field, hand in hand, our feet swishing through the grass along the fence line, I could hear Faith singing, her voice carried on the breeze.
Down in the valley,
Valley so low;
Hang your head over,
Hear the wind blow.
Trixie and Ray waited in the car while I said my good-byes. Faith did it quick, like she was yanking off a Band-Aid. She bumped my hip with hers. “See you in the funny papers.”
She walked away, back to Reverend Love and Mary. She took the baby from Mary and waved Charity’s little hand at me. Jason and the others waved from the field. Even Loretta.
Evangeline took my face in her hands but didn’t say a word—she didn’t need to.
As a surprise, Aunt Bernie and Evangeline gave me a quilt they’d made from crocheted squares and swatches of your old choir robe, Mama, to put on my new bed at Ray’s place.
Aunt Bernie lugged a giant wicker picnic basket of food over and had Ray put it in the trunk.
“Aunt Bernie, that’s too much food,” I said.
“Well, it might have to last you until you come for Thanksgiving. Doesn’t look to me like that Trixie can boil water. You’re likely to starve to death.”
She grabbed me and held me something fierce. She whispered into my ear, “You come back to me, you hear.”
I slipped into the backseat. Reverend Love leaned in the window and said, “Take care.” He slapped the roof of the car twice above my head.
As Ray drove down the pike, something made me turn around and look thr
ough the rear window. In the looming twilight, I could make out above the trees, behind the church, a swan sailing in the sky, wings outstretched, gliding and swooping, a line of cygnets practicing behind.
Mr. Cobb was teaching his babies how to fly.
I hoped what Reverend Love told me was true, Mama—that swans ferry souls to heaven. That is my true prayer.
Amen.
That was the last word that went into the box with you—the only fitting word I could find in Aunt Bernie’s Bible.
“Amen.”
Webster’s definition: “May it be so! May it be so!”
I watched until the swans disappeared from view. Then I turned and faced the road ahead.
Acknowledgments
I am incredibly thankful to Beach Lane Books, and to all those who contributed their marvelous assistance, reading, and guidance. Heartfelt gratitude goes to my endlessly supportive editor, Allyn Johnston, for her extraordinary faith in this book.
Many thanks to Aimée Bissonette for insight and advice.
I owe a particular debt to the kindred spirits, fellow writers, and faculty of the MFAC program of Hamline University, especially Jane Resh Thomas, who allowed me to believe I could write the map of my heart, and Gary D. Schmidt, for encouraging me to see what was on the other side of the fence.
My deepest appreciation to my Ohio family for providing inspiration for this book and lighting the path home, particularly to my brothers, Mark and Joe, for walking alongside me.
And most of all, my love and thanks to my husband, Steven, and to my children, Remmer and Sophie, for the gift of their belief and enthusiasm. Thank you for standing under the vast starry sky and wishing with me.
If you or someone you know needs help, call 1-800-273-8255 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also text HOME to 741741 for free, 24-hour support from the Crisis Text Line.
About the Author
Ann Schoenbohm wrote her debut novel, Rising Above Shepherdsville, while earning her MFA in writing for children and young adults from Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota. Born and raised alongside farms in Clark Country, Ohio, she has fond memories of eating sweet corn straight from the fields. These days, she lives in the Twin Cities with her husband and two children, all excellent spellers. She makes a mean cherry pie and is happy to share the recipe—with or without the salt. Visit her at annschoenbohm.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Ann Schoenbohm
Jacket illustration copyright © 2019 by E. B. Goodale
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Schoenbohm, Ann, author.
Title: Rising above Shepherdsville / Ann Schoenbohm.
Description: First edition. | New York : Beach Lane Books, [2019] | Summary: “In 1977, after her mother’s suicide, twelve-year-old Dulcie Louise Dixon is sent to live with her aunt and must rise out of her grief and find her voice again with the help of some surprising new friends”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016048802| ISBN 9781481452830 (hardback) | ISBN 9781481452854 (e-book)
Subjects: | CYAC: Grief—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Suicide—Fiction. | Aunts—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Death & Dying. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Emotions & Feelings. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Suicide.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S33652 Ri 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016048802
Rising Above Shepherdsville Page 19