Inspirational Women's Fiction Sampler

by April Geremia

You’re at the age where you’re likely on the precipice of your life, and unless you have the benefit of wisdom from someone who has your best interests at heart, I fear you’ll make mistakes. After all, the decisions you make in your life now will affect you for the rest of your life. The knowledge of this compelled me to fight hard to find a way to send you this letter.

  My love for you breaks boundaries you can’t begin to understand.

  I want to tell you things, things about my life that will make you see yours differently, but I can’t do it all in one sitting because I simply don’t have the strength. This will require patience and trust on your part and I pray that you open your heart and view my letters for what they are: a mother’s attempt to reach out to her son to express her love and pass on her wisdom. I’ll send you letters as I can and I pray you read them with an open heart for this message comes from a place of love. I’ll start the story before you were born because I want you to understand where you came from and how much you were wanted.

  Your father and I met in 1957 and we were madly in love. He was a handsome man; the light amber eyes you inherited from him set him apart from most men as I’m sure yours do. That, combined with his tall lankiness, attracted me to him instantly and once we started talking to each other, I realized he possessed a charm few men do. I fell in love with him in an instant and was pronounced Grace McKeon two short years later.

  We led a happy life, he serving our country in the Army, while I tended to our home. Then one day in 1960, I told him I was with child and I’ve never seen him happier. He took me in his arms and danced with me right there in our living room. I absolutely beamed, secure in the knowledge that he would make a good, loving father to the child growing inside of me.

  Times could not have been better, and as my belly grew, so did our love for each other and for our unborn child. But then six months before your arrival date, my Ted was ordered to a place called Vietnam. I can still hear his subtly panicked voice telling me it would be a short war, and that while he doubted he would be back for your birth, he would come soon after that and we would begin our lives together as a family.

  On the day the ship pulled away from my heart and steamed into the sea, I feared I would never again see your father. But I knew I’d been given two gifts. The first was the undying love of a good, decent man, and the second was the child of that man.

  I walked back home that day alone and pregnant, clinging to the belief that things were going to be all right.

  But they weren’t. There was a battle on the southernmost part of Vietnam, and your father, along with fourteen other men, died fighting in it. It was that moment, that devastating loss of my love that altered the course of my life. I’m sure you understand this, Joshua—when you lose someone you love, it shuts down a part of you, makes dark what was once light. But it’s this feeling, this sense of despair that I hope to help you overcome.

  Our landlord, once he realized I had no way to pay the rent, allotted me thirty days to find someplace else to live. Your father and I hadn’t saved much money, and it was impossible for a woman in my condition to find work. I conserved what little money I had, staying at a questionable motel and eating mostly beans and potatoes that I cooked on a hotplate, but eventually the money ran out. I was almost eight months pregnant.

  The wind and cold were harsh the day I become homeless, but I found a barrier in the form of a large truck parked underneath a bridge that led to a place called Bell Island. I sat next to the truck, huddled in my dress and coat, which would no longer close over my swollen belly, drinking the coffee I’d bought with my last dime. I closed my eyes and pretended I could feel the warmth on my bare hands. When the driver found me huddled there, he told me I had to move on, that he was going across the bridge to Bell Island. He asked me if I wanted a ride. At that moment, all I could think about was the warmth of the truck and so I said yes, and that’s how we came to live on the island. I’ll always wonder what would have happened if I had refused that ride.

  The truck driver was a kind man, and after I explained my situation, he told me about the Malleys. He said they were the wealthiest people on the island, and if I knocked on their door and ask for help, they wouldn’t turn me away because they were decent people.

  The truck strained against the steep hill, and when it finally reached the top I saw the Malley’s cottage. It sat alone on the hill, surrounded by nothing but the gray, choppy sea. The driver wished me luck and then left me there on top of that hill, and in my condition, I had no choice but to knock on the door and ask for help. There was no way I could have managed to walk back down that precipitous hill.

  That well-meaning truck driver pushed me toward a fate I could not have predicted.

  The gray house with the white wraparound porch looked so warm in contrast to the cold, hard sheets of rain that were now pelting down around me. I stood at the edge of the walk for quite some time worrying and wondering what to say and trying to decide what I would do if they refused to help. Then a loud boom of thunder cracked open the sky, and I scurried up the soggy sand path and banged wildly on the door.

  When I first saw Edith Malley, I felt certain I’d be turned away. Her stingy features retreated even further when she saw me, wet and dripping, but then her expression changed considerably once she saw that I was pregnant. The change happened so quickly I thought I had imagined the face that was ready to push me back into the cold rain. Yet when I think of Edith now, it’s that hardened stance that first materializes in my mind instead of the warm friendly woman she became that night.

  Once her features softened, she pulled me inside, fed me warm food and gave me some dry clothes. She spoke softly to me, reassuring me that everything was going to be all right until I fell asleep next to the warm fire.

  When I woke up the next morning to a toasty house, food to satisfy my constant hunger and the kindness of two complete strangers, I felt like I had wandered into a fairytale. I remember that morning as if it were yesterday. My eyes opened slowly, afraid to break the spell, but the smell of brewing coffee and eggs overpowered my urge to stay put. I pushed myself off the sofa, which was difficult in my condition, stretched and peered out the window. The ocean was close enough to touch, and it appeared as if angels themselves had flown down from heaven and sprinkled diamonds across the shimmering water. I had the distinct feeling you would be born in that gray house by the sea.

  I followed the scent of morning things into the kitchen where I found Edith wearing pink hair rollers and a floral apron scrambling eggs over the stove. The kitchen looked a mess: dirty dishes filled the sink, dingy dishtowels were waded up and thrown into a pile, and the pantry overflowed with dusty cans and bags. It was different from what I’d seen of the rest of the house. When I woke that morning, my rumpled blanket and dented pillow had been the only things out of place in the room. The rug had been freshly vacuumed, evidenced by the tracks streaking across it, and the draperies were neatly pleated and tied back against the wall. Three perfectly spaced Life Magazines covered the rectangular coffee table. It was the room of an organized woman.

  “For crying out loud,” Edith shrieked before she turned to find me standing in the kitchen doorway. The heavy smell of burnt eggs filled the room, and Edith, now calmer, picked up the frying pan and tossed it into the crowded sink. “How about some toast?”

  I nodded, unsure of how to thank her for her generous hospitality, and at the same time fearful she would feed me and then toss me out into the cold. Edith stretched her tight mouth into a smile and began searching the pantry for some bread. When she pulled it out, it was green with mold. I was beginning to think I would never get to eat but then she found another loaf in the freezer, separated the slices with a knife and pushed them down into the toaster.

  A small, tawny man, who turned out to be her husband, Edgar, entered the kitchen and stopped short when he got a whiff of the burned eggs. “Why do you insist on cooking, Edith? You’re going to burn down the house one day.” He winked
at me and poured two cups of watery brown coffee. He set one of them down in front of me and then shrugged, as if to apologize for his wife’s inadequacies in the kitchen.

  Starving, I realized the only way I would get a hot meal was to cook it myself and so I offered. Edith was hesitant, but Edgar quickly jumped at the chance and shooed her out of the kitchen.

  Now, I’m not a bad cook, but I’ve never had people so excited about one of my meals until that day.

  “I do believe these are the best eggs I’ve ever tasted,” Edgar said between mouthfuls.

  Edith, who had a habit of holding her fork daintily and chewing her food endlessly even at the age of thirty-six, nodded in agreement.

  I remember blushing, assuming they were simply being kind to a woman who was down on her luck, so it came as a great surprise to me when they offered me a job as their cook. In an instant, I felt as if my life had been handed back to me. Here I was, about to give birth to a fatherless child with no money or skills to speak of. The night before, I had been trudging through the rain, wet and hopeless, and then magically, I had everything I needed. I quickly accepted their offer before they could change their minds.

  They showed me to a room at the east end of the cottage that was to be mine. It was a small room, just large enough for a twin bed and bureau. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful but there would be no room for a crib and I said so.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Edith said stepping around me into the room. “We’ve got an old crib set up in another room.” She noticed my surprise. “Our son’s old crib,” she said.

  She took me by the elbow and led me down the hallway toward two doors, and when we entered the one on the right, I saw a crib standing in the corner of the large room. I looked longingly at the queen sized feather bed on the other side of the room and thought about how much more comfortable I would be there. I wondered why, if no one else slept in the house, they had given me the small room with the tiny bed. Edith quickly explained that their bedroom was next door and they would feel uncomfortable with my sleeping so near. I nodded, understanding their position, but still feeling uneasy because I wouldn’t be able to sleep in the same room as my child. But then I scolded myself. After all, these kind people were giving me a new start in life.

  My days quickly became routine. I would rise at 5 a.m. in order to prepare Edgar’s breakfast. He had started a shipping company a few years earlier and was in the habit of working very long hours. Many times, after he left for work, I would lay back down and prop up my feet, which were getting more difficult to stand on for long hours as the pregnancy matured. Edith usually came out of her bedroom about nine. With the exception of preparing Edith’s lunch, I typically had the day to myself and would spend it resting or reading until about four when it was time to start dinner.

  They insisted that I take my meals with them and most of the time the conversation centered on the anxiously awaited child inside of me. They never did treat me like hired help, except for later on when Edith began to get her spells. I quickly learned to look for the signs: a loss of appetite, a tendency to sleep more and sometimes headaches. I attributed it to a woman’s monthly pains and kept my distance from her during those days.

  Things went well for the next couple of weeks until one day I was standing over the stove pouring milk into some homemade mashed potatoes when a great flood of water poured out from between my legs. The doctor had explained to me that when this happened, you would be arriving soon. I set down the milk and ran to the living room to tell Edgar and Edith. They joined me in a blissful panic, and soon the three of us were racing around the house looking for the things I would need at the hospital.

  And then the moment came, a pain so intense I knew there would not be enough time. All the panic left my body, and somehow I knew what to do. I instructed a hesitant Edith and an overconfident Edgar how to deliver my baby. And you, my darling Joshua, were born.

  You were a beautiful baby, with the same amber and gold speckled eyes as your father, and a smile that made strangers on the street stop and stare. The instant I saw you, I was sure I’d been put on this earth to be your mother. You immediately became a part of me, an extension of my very being. I knew by the way you looked at me, with trusting eyes and a hope-filled face, that you would have the power to change the world.

  The Malleys welcomed you into their home as easily as they had me on that stormy night, although at times, I longed for it to be just you and me. I’m aware of how ungrateful that sounds considering everything they did for us, and at the time, I was ashamed of those feelings.

  But knowing what I do now, I think they were perfectly justifiable.

  The first night of your life, I went to sleep in my tiny, narrow bedroom after I put you in your crib the endless distance down the hall. I’ll never forget that solitary walk back to my bedroom after putting you to bed. My arms literally ached for you, and I cried, feeling strangely like I’d just left a piece of myself behind. But the Malley’s had made it perfectly clear that I was never to sleep in the queen sized bed in your room because it would interfere with their privacy.

  I was exhausted from my first day of motherhood, so when you woke up in the night, hungry and needing your mother, it wasn’t me who comforted you and lulled you back to sleep, but Edith, who was in the next room and could hear your cries. I woke up confused the next morning when the sun pushed past my eyelids and into my dreams because I knew you were much too young to sleep all night without milk. I hurriedly threw on my robe and ran down the dimly lit hallway. When I reached your room, it was empty. Fearing the worst, I started to whimper and instinctively put my hand on my abdomen, your home only one short day before.

  Edgar found me, slumped over and crying in the empty room of my newborn son.

  “You silly girl,” he laughed. “Joshua is with us. Has been all night.”

  Dumbfounded, I peeked around the corner and into their bedroom and saw Edith sitting on the edge of the bed looking perfectly content with you in her arms holding a bottle to your mouth.

  Now, in all my days on this earth, I have tried to live up to the name my dear mother gave me, and behave with grace and dignity, but when I saw you in Edith’s arms, my own arms became heavy and needing, and so without thinking, I grabbed you from her and fled the room without saying a word.

  That was the last night you slept in the crib so far away from me I couldn’t hear you call to me in the night. From then on, we slept curled up on that narrow bed and I endured the head shaking and disapproving stares of Edith and Edgar every day after that.

  Looking back, I do believe that’s when things started to go so terribly wrong. What was once a comfortable arrangement between the Malleys and I became tense and untrusting. I forever had a sense of fear, of misgiving about them, even though they seemed to quickly forget the incident and resumed their friendly, if vaguely detached, ways. It was as if a madman sat on my shoulder day after day urgently whispering dread and unease into my ear.

  I need to stop here and make something clear. The Malleys never treated you with anything other than total love and adoration. I never had any misgivings about their feelings toward you. If anything, I often felt I was in the way of what they would have considered the perfect family. If only I hadn’t been there. The problem for them, I imagine, was you wanted nothing to do with their fantasy.

  No matter how hard Edith tried, how many gifts or pieces of candy she gave you, you remained my little boy, solely and completely.

  As you grew, so did my love for you, as did Edith’s frustration because you wouldn’t embrace her into your world as you had me. The house swelled and expanded with raw emotions until I was sure it would self-combust into a lethal mixture of complete peace and unanswered dreams. You see, the Malleys lost a son to crib death years before, but it took me some time to realize this because Edith always spoke of Alan as if he were still alive. Curious as to his whereabouts, I asked Edgar, but he made it clear that the subject was off limits. Edith had co
nfided in me one day that she’d had an affair and Alan was the result of it, and at the time, I concluded that was the reason for Edgar’s reluctance to speak of him.

  After you were born, Edith began to call you Alan at times and she began to act strangely. I worried about our safety and went to Edgar, and it was then that he told me about Alan’s death and how Edith had been having spells since. He assured me she was harmless. I then understood why she so wanted to be a part of your life, and it touched me at the time. I wondered if I wouldn’t react in the same way if something were to happen to you.

  When you were three and had lost most of your baby fat, you resembled a short version of your father. Your amber eyes sat deep in your head, very much the way an older man’s does, and it made you appear wise and knowledgeable beyond your years. You grew taller than your playmates, and I took out more hems than I care to remember. You developed an easy smile, much like your father’s, and even carried yourself in the same upright, proud way that my dear Ted had. But I’ve always taken secret pride in the fact that you have my hair. For me, the wild, unruly brown curls were an enemy, something to be battled and conquered. I’ve straightened my hair, ironed it, and cut it short, but it always springs up, doing whatever it wants. On you though, I’m sure it’s a blessing.

  So it came as a shock to me then, looking at the spitting image of my Ted every day, that I once again fell in love.

  I met Leo Browning at the Bell Island sandcastle contest one spring morning. Every year, the island hosted a sandcastle contest that brought entrants from all over the country. I’d never attended one, so I didn’t know how seriously people took it which is why I entered you, a three-year-old boy. The night before the big event, you were so wound up I thought you would never go to sleep. You insisted on sleeping with your yellow plastic shovel and bucket to make sure you wouldn’t forget them in the morning.

  The next day, the sun pushed through the early morning clouds, determined to give us a grand day for the contest. You and I, each barefoot and enjoying the feel of the cold sand between our toes and the sun’s intermittent warmth of our shoulders, strolled confidently down the walk toward the beach where the contest was to be held.

  You clutched the shovel and bucket in one of your tiny, sticky hands and held on anxiously to mine with the other, tugging, urging me to get there faster. When we walked over the last dune before the beach, we both sharply sucked in our breaths. Me because I’d realized my mistake, and you because you saw the possibilities in your shovel and bucket.

  It seemed as if every grain of sand on the beach had been molded and configured into some elaborate structure. There were castles four feet high, some had moats, towers, kings, queens, even lions guarding the well-constructed gates. Obviously, some people had been at work for hours or possibly since the night before. I immediately wanted to turn to you and apologize for entering you in a contest you couldn’t possibly win, but when I knelt down and put my hands on your shoulders, your eyes were shinning with excitement.

  “Maybe I’ll build one like that,” you said, pointing to a particularly elaborate sandcastle.

  I knew in your boyish mind, your castle would look as good as any of the others so I decided to let you compete. On the way to our assigned roped off area, I said a quick prayer that the judges would be kind. Then I sat, banished to my beach towel in the corner of our square, while you gathered and patted the sand into wet, lumpy mounds. On more than one occasion, I rose to help pile the shapes on top of one another, or to get another plastic cup of seawater but you insisted on finishing your creation by yourself. You piled and shaped for hours until you finally stood, your skin now honey brown, and announced that you were finished. Hesitantly, I walked to the corner of our square and raised the red flag that would summon the judge.

  Now, I’d been watching him while you worked, his slightly slouched posture, blonde, wind-tangled hair that scandalously hung over his collar and the dark, heavy glasses he wore on the edge of his nose. I could tell from the reactions of the other entrants he was a hard judge. He didn’t smile much, and I feared the worst as I watched him mentally register our red flag, and then scrunch together his thin eyebrows when he saw your sandcastle. You stood there, hands on your slim, bony hips, crusted sand on your brown curls, and waited for the judging to begin.

  He approached you seriously, as he would any other contestant, shaking your hand and introducing himself. Then he stepped over the ropes and stood silent for a moment staring at your lumps and piles of wet, gooey sand. I help my breath, and just as I was about to take him aside and ask him to be kind, he spoke.

  “I see you’ve put a lot of work into his.”

  Relieved, I let out a sigh.

  “Yes sir, I did,” you said proudly.

  He walked around to the back of the castle, all the time nodding, eyebrows scrunched and taking notes. “A fine job,” he said. “It’ll be tough to beat this one.”

  I was so busy watching your chest swell with pride and accomplishment that I almost didn’t see it. I did a double take, and when I looked at the judge a second time, there could be no mistake. The man had winked at me. I don’t know if I fell in love with Leo that day, or in the days and months that followed, but I grew to love him as much as I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.

  Leo told me from the beginning of our relationship that in four months his job would take him to the West Indies for a year to teach English to a group of village schoolchildren, but that didn’t hamper my feelings for him. If anything, it made them stronger, more urgent. It was as if that knowledge pushed us together with such force, such intensity, we couldn’t deny our feelings. We both felt, knew with certainty that the love we shared was special, a gift not to be squandered, so we grew close at a much quicker rate than most couples do. It was as if we were in a race, the contest of our lives to uncover every secret, open every door to each other’s souls before the fated departure.

  But as much as we both dreaded the day he’d leave, we knew unquestionably that he’d return.

  We told each other things about ourselves, dug out memories and laid them out for the other to see, to examine with curious eyes. I told him about Ted and how it was so hard for me to completely let go and revel in our newfound love. He assured me he understood, that he had come close to marriage himself, but it hadn’t worked out.

  “You were engaged before?” I asked when he stopped speaking.

  He nodded.

  “When? What happened?”

  He looked out at the ocean for some time, and when he turned to face me, his eyes had clouded. “I don’t want that time in my life to ruin the happiness I feel now.” He took my hands in his. “Can I promise to tell you about it another time?”

  I so wanted to erase the pain I saw on his face, in his eyes, that I quickly agreed and put the question, the subtle doubt, away in the outer reaches of my mind.

  We were mismatched, Leo and I. He skated the outskirts of hippie with his over the collar hair and casual attire. I liked to think of him as an intellectual. He taught English at the University on the mainland and had a preference for worn tweed jackets and blue jeans. At first glance, one might think, as I had, that he was bookish and inept in social situations, but that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. Leo had a way of making people feel comfortable, at home.

  I, on the other hand, was a study in manners and conservatism. The sixties, that era so many people loved, quite frankly scared me to death. Living on the small island sheltered me from most things. I never saw a protest or met anyone who used drugs, but I knew those things went on just on the other side of the bridge. I was fascinated by Jackie Kennedy, with her smooth hair and couture suits, and I did my best to straighten my hair and mold it into the bouffant style she wore, but on most days, I looked like I’d just gotten out of bed. I was a fine seamstress though and prided myself on dressing just like her with the hats and gloves. So, when Leo and I strolled along the boardwalk, him slouched in his wrinkled jeans and jac
ket, and I dressed primly in a suit and pill hat, most people did a double take.

  But we were in love, Leo and I, so we didn’t mind. He, like me, was a lover of art and we spent many an evening strolling through the mainland’s Museum of Fine Art and discussing the points of this painting or that one. Many times I’d be focused on a painting, when something would urge me from it, pulling me back to the room. On those occasions, I’d look at Leo, who would have his amber eyes fixed on me with an expression that could only be described as deep love.

  The Malleys didn’t take to Leo as I had, and when he came to call, they kept their polite distance no matter how hard he tried to make conversation. It always felt odd, the strain in the room when he was around, like the kind that occurs when a high school boy picks up his date. I explained away their odd behavior, certain that in time they would learn to love Leo as much as I did.

  Most of our dates occurred at night, after you were tucked safely into bed, because the Malleys were strict with my hours and I couldn’t leave until dinner was eaten and the dishes were cleaned and put away. Leo understood this and occasionally even dropped hints that I wouldn’t have to work around their schedule for much longer.

  The times you did spend with Leo happened on Sundays, my day off. He would pick us up with a picnic basket in hand, and the three of us would tromp across the dunes and down to the beach where Leo would spread his blanket on the sand so we could sit. Every Sunday the food would be a surprise. One week it was Greek, the next week, Indian, and the next Thai. Leo felt there was more to the world than Bell Island, and told me on more than one occasion that he wanted us, all of us, to experience it together. He talked about his job in the West Indies and promised me there would be exotic places for us to explore together.

  Normally, talk so frivolous and adventurous would have scared me, cause me to break things off with him immediately, but there was something in the way Leo spoke, a confidence maybe, that made me want to be a part of his adventures. And so every Sunday we sat with plastic cups of wine, Kool-Aid for you of course, an exotic meal and talked about how different our lives would be. It was intoxicating, absolutely addicting.

  And then one Sunday as the sun peeked in and out of the clouds while you, now three-and-a-half, drove your toy cars through the sea grass in the distance, Leo changed everything. He reached over and pulled on a curl that had refused to stay ironed that day.

  “You should let it grow wild,” he said, leaning into me with his warm, yeasty breath. He offered me a sip of his wine—I’d finished mine—and held the cup as I closed my eyes and swallowed the sweet red juice.

  I self-consciously touched my hair, unsure of what to say. His voice had taken on a husky quality that took me by surprise. “Do you think?” It was all I could manage because at the mere suggestion of intimacy, my throat had closed up and my voice threatened to crack.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “As the wife of a world traveler, I think it would be suitable.” He brought forward a blue velvet box, and without even taking the time to open it, I said yes. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him tightly, never wanting to let go of the man who had managed to erase a little of the pain your father left in my heart.

  We planned our future that day in the sun, with you playing only a few feet away, oblivious to the magnitude of changes about to occur in your life. Leo would go to the West Indies as planned and we would wait for him. He would be gone for a year, and when he returned, we’d marry and travel to Europe or perhaps Asia. The world was ours, he announced to me that day, and we would explore it hand in hand.

  And this moment, this small trinket of time, is what I want for you, my Joshua. What I had then, of trusting in Leo, in the world, that’s what I want you to experience in your own life. Let yourself feel what I did that day and memorize it. And then look for it in your own life. And Joshua, when you find it, promise me you won’t ever let it go.

  But as happy as I was that day, as fulfilled as I imagined myself to be, something was missing. There was another piece to the puzzle of joy that I’ve only come to know in the past few years. I want to talk to you about this, too because it’s infinitely more important than the things I’ve written about so far in this letter.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.