by Tara K Ross
FADE TO WHITE BY TARA K. ROSS
Illuminate YA Fiction is an imprint of LPCBooks
a division of Iron Stream Media
100 Missionary Ridge, Birmingham, AL 35242
ISBN: 978-1-64526-263-3
Copyright © 2020 by Tara K. Ross
Cover design by Megan McCullough
Interior design by AtriTex Technologies P Ltd
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For more information on this book and the author, visit: www.tarakross.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.
Brought to you by the creative team at LPCBooks.com: Tessa Hall, Linda Yezak, Brian Cross, and Lucie Winborne
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ross, Tara K.
Fade to White / Tara K. Ross 1st ed.
Printed in the United States of America
Praise for FADE TO WHITE
Relatable, raw, and real, Fade to White is impossible to put down. Tara K. Ross addresses mental health topics with sensitivity and care. Fans of Kasie West and Sarah Dessen will rejoice over this fresh new voice in young adult fiction.
~Sara Ella
Award-winning author of The Unblemished Trilogy and Coral
Fade to White is an achingly relatable and intimate read that will crack open your heart and let the light in. Powerful and affecting, Thea Fenton›s journey towards hope and healing is one that sticks with you long after the end.
~Kim Chance
Author of Keeper and Seeker
This heartfelt novel is a gift to society. As today’s young people seek to understand and be understood, they will find great satisfaction in the story’s relevance and relatability. Ross has a way with words and a keen sense of the human soul.
~Laura Gallier
Author of The Delusion Series
Tara K. Ross keeps the pages turning and the heart feeling full in her YA debut. Fade to White is a journey of a girl who learns about her strength and purpose by embracing the concern and empathy she has for others. It’s the story of a girl with the kind of heart that the world surely needs now. Tara K. Ross is a writer to watch and will be on my list of favorites for years to come!
~Nicole Quigley
Author of Like Moonlight at Low Tide
Honest and vulnerable, Fade to White is a story that I keep thinking about. With a plot that keeps pages turning and a cast of characters who feel like friends, Ross has given us a pure and dignified look into the life of a teen who is facing her mental illness. Without a hint of exploitation or sensationalism this author has given her reader the gift of seeing Thea Fenton’s humanity.
~Susie Finkbeiner
Author of All Manner of Things and Stories That Bind Us
Tara K. Ross has found the perfect blend of cleverly crafted prose, delightfully flawed characters, and brilliantly unique plots that makes her a standout new voice in YA fiction.
~Taylor Bennett
Author of Porch Swing Girl
Tara Ross’s Fade to White is the missing piece that has been so needed in YA fiction now. Readers will not help but fall in love with the main character and relate to her struggles and anxiety. In such a poignant way, the book tackles topics such as self worth, suicide, anxiety, and self-harm. This was the book I needed back in high school, and this is the book high schoolers need now. I can’t wait to see what else this author writers in the future. Keep an eye on her. She’s one to watch.
~Hope Bolinger
Author of The Blaze Trilogy and Dear Hero
In Thea Fenton we find a character that is both satisfyingly hilarious and painfully relatable, and through her story, we hear a message that is desperately needed by generations both young and old in the midst of these strange and unsettling times. This is a story of hope, and it’s one not to be missed.
~Maile Silva
Co-host of The Stories Between Us Podcast
Tara Ross has captured the struggle young adults go through with precision and compassion. Grab a cup of tea and enjoy this one.
~Melony Teague
Author of A Promise to Keep
Humorous yet touching. Fade to White is sympathetic and convincing—a reminder of the inner demons we all carry. The book is not a magical quick-fix, but it speaks of tangible hope. It is a gateway to countless important conversations about how mental health affects people and communities.
~Ilana Reimer
Writer and editor of Love is Moving Magazine
With a witty and deep writing style, Tara K. Ross has crafted a book that could not come at a better time. Young adult readers will instantly relate to Thea, and the elements of teen suicide, family strife, and the struggle of finding yourself coalesce to create a much-needed message of hope.
~Rachelle Rea Cobb
Author of Follow the Dawn
For David,
who unconditionally loves and nurtures
God’s light within me.
In memory of my grams, Mary Catherine (Love) Davies
July 11, 1922 - February 21, 2020
Our brokenness has no other beauty but the beauty that comes
from the compassion that surrounds it.
Henri Nouwen
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Note from the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Acknowledgements
Discussion Questions
A Note from the Author
Fade to White is a story that I needed to write for my own mental health. Five years ago, when I first started this book–typing out a scattered mess of words–I used my own experiences with anxiety as a starting point. For months, I couldn’t leave home without a constricted heart, unsettled stomach, and a duffel bag full of emergency supplies in the event of an impending natural disaster. Writing within the confines of my less-fearful home seemed like a good alternative. It was safe. It made sense. Until it di
dn’t.
You can’t get rid of mental illness by pretending it doesn’t exist. It doesn’t go away with a round of medicine and a day in bed. It ebbs and flows and never really disappears. That doesn’t mean you can’t improve. Like most physical illnesses, you need to address the underlying causes if you want to really heal.
I realized this only after much coercion from loved ones. I tackled my anxiety with a holistic mindset. I considered my biological state in partnership with my doctor, I attended group counseling for the cracked-porcelain state of my headspace, and I surrounded myself with friends who didn’t require explanations or put out their own DIY solutions. It helped. But there was still something deeper that wasn’t being addressed.
I was afraid of everything – from being T-boned on the road to having my pimple called out by the coffee shop barista. I was beyond irrational, but if you hinted at my crazy, I’d guilt you into recanting your claims through tears and lies. I was a wreck. I wasn’t healing even with all the bio-psycho-social factors considered. Then, one night while journaling, I had a moment of clarity. It was a simple truth I’d known since I was a teenager but had forgotten. Most, if not all, of my fears were lies.
This is where faith came into my healing and why it needed to be a part of Fade to White and Thea’s story.
As a character, Thea shares only a few of my life experiences, but many of my ebbs and flows. She is not based on one person, but rather encompasses a radiant group of young people I have journeyed with over the past ten years. The actual details of Thea’s life are fictional, but the emotional highs and lows are real. Her story tackles heavy themes on purpose. Life is never perfect, and we are not expected to be perfect within it. Sometimes as Christians, we forget this truth.
Fade to White is a story I needed to write for my own mental health, but I sincerely hope it provides more than personal catharsis. Maybe it will allow for laughter within the struggle. Maybe it will inspire someone to write down their own story. Maybe it will build compassion and empathy for mental illness. If nothing else, I pray it will remind someone they are not alone and that there is hope within their brokenness.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of suicide | mentions and descriptions of self-harm |mentions of depression | mentions of suggestive sexual comments
CHAPTER ONE
The first time it happens, I feel as if I am dying. My body and mind are suffocating. I am alone with no hope of escape.
It starts with a story in the newspaper.
I’m on autopilot and half asleep as I sit at the breakfast table and pick at my maple oatmeal. Dad slouches across from me, unshowered and still wearing his housecoat. He drags his fingers through his mat of salt-and-pepper hair and rubs his unshaven face.
At his end of our well-loved oak table, he has neatly stacked piles of newspaper sections. I sift through the only messy heap, the outcasts, and find the section of Ridgefield Local News. He glances up from the Toronto Financials and shoots me some serious cut-eye.
Eyebrows raised, I stare back. “What?”
“If you’re going to read the paper, don’t waste your time on that fluff.” He emphasizes fluff like a curse word.
Somebody’s grizzly today. Staying up most of the night to watch TV likely didn’t help.
Against my better judgment, I poke the bear. “Yeah, because waking up to stock market figures would be a much more entertaining start to my day.” I spoon in a mouthful of oversweetened mush and hide a smirk by burying my face in the local news.
Dad gives his paper an irritated shake. “Some people are very interested in this year’s financial forecast. Like your brother.”
He just had to bring the newly coated golden child into the debate. “Tom probably has to write a paper about it. No, wait. It’s November. He’s just sucking up for another tuition infusion.”
Dad’s pottery mug drops like a coffee-spilling gavel. Note to self: do not taunt the grizzly before his morning coffee.
Dang it, Thea, why does your mouth always work faster than your brain?
Chastising myself has become a habit lately, as though I’m priming myself for what I deserve to be told out loud. Nevertheless, I muster my best I’m-an-idiot-but-still-your-little-princess expression.
Unlike some teenagers, I’m all too aware of my neurological gaps. My poorly connected frontal lobe is to blame—at least, that’s what Mom keeps telling me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I mess up more often than I’d like. If it weren’t for Mom’s medically derived empathy, I’d be more damaged than I am. Dad, however—well, he’s old school, and he believes every teenager needs a good lecture once in a while. Or, in my case, once a day. And they wonder why I’m anxious?
He clears his throat and with his authoritative voice booms, “If it were not for the Fenton men’s interest in—”
Mom’s quick footsteps come toward us from the rear hallway. Save me, Mom.
“Can we please try to pretend like we enjoy each other’s company this morning?” She whisks past us en route to our front entry, her lavender body spray offering a respite from Dad’s morning breath. “And you should be thankful she’s reading more than abbreviated slang and GIF quotes.”
He glares toward the hall. His forehead wrinkles. “GIF?”
“Graphic animations, Dad. Like social media’s way of showing emotions.” I push back my chair so I can get up and grab my phone from the charger. And it’s empty. “Has anyone seen my phone?” Please tell me I didn’t leave it in my bag again. It’ll be dead for sure.
“Your purse would be my guess.” Mom picks it up from the bench and holds it out to me.
Even if my phone isn’t there, I’ll take the momentary delay from Dad’s lecture. I almost skip to the hall to retrieve my bag. I dig through the jumble of loose papers and cosmetics and pull out the lifeless phone. “Thank you.” I lean over to kiss Mom’s cheek while she applies lipstick in the front mirror. “Oh, and thanks for the purr-fect wake-up call.”
“You can thank Woolie. It was all his idea. You forgot to put him in the basement again. He woke up everyone with his attempts to meow his way into your room.” She gives me a warning glance as she purses her lips at her reflection. “Be glad Tom’s alarm had already gone off; otherwise, he’d have thrown that poor cat out the window.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to remember to lock him up.” Odds are I’ll forget. Again. Which will cause my brother to ream me out next weekend, but I know that’s what she wants to hear.
I return to the kitchen, plug my cell into the communal charging station, and sit back down. The oven clock reads seven forty-three. Lots of time.
Dad’s mug is still stationed firmly on the table, so I fire my sweetest grin across at him. “Consider this bonding time, Dad. If I’d remembered to charge my cell, I wouldn’t even be reading The Ridge.”
He tries to avoid my tooth-and-gums expression, but I can tell the grizzly has become more polar, cold and quiet if kept at a distance. I pick up the paper and read out the headlines with exaggerated interest. “Oh look, Mom,” I call out, “‘New Hospital Expansion is a Go.’”
She murmurs something from the hallway.
“And here ya go, Dad. ‘Tax Scam Uncovered through Local Tip.’”
He glares over the top of his paper with the classic Fenton family furrow of annoyance. My own forehead tenses in return. Just because he is an accountant doesn’t mean all financial news and happenings are intriguing to him, but come on. I’m trying to engage with him. He could meet me halfway at least.
Mom jets into the kitchen with an unnecessary level of focus on attaching her magnetic name tag to her scrubs. Despite her makeup, dark circles skirt her eyes–—a sure sign of another sleepless night and unresolved argument with Dad. Without looking toward the table, she picks up her lunch bag and travel mug from the counter, then storms out to the front entry. No wonder Dad is crab-tastic.
My parents enjoy a less than ideal marriage, but on most days they hide their riffs and resentment fro
m Tom and me. Or maybe it was more hidden from Grams. Since her funeral this past summer, our home no longer rests on eggshells. She was our foundation and moral compass, and now their marital spats seem to occur frequently and without check. Mom’s usual plastered-on enthusiasm has turned into a shoulder-hunched trudge. And Dad looks like part of him has disappeared. And judging from the odor wafting its way from him to me, it’s the part that cares about personal hygiene.
I continue to read with an artificial sweetness that rivals a preschooler’s plea for candy. “Oh, and this is big news for Ridgefield, ‘Fatal Fall from Southern Ridge.’” I stop. The content is anything but cheerful, so I read on silently instead. Teen girl loses life at Hawk Point Ridge. Slippery hiking trails and high winds noted. Identity withheld at family’s request.
Some promising small talk begins between my parents, but I no longer care. Fell from cliff’s edge at highest point.
“James, when is your first appointment today?”
“Uh, not until around ten,” Dad says.
“Can you drive Thea to school?”
Park gates were closed.
“She can walk.”
“I told her I could drive her last night, but I need to leave now.”
No witnesses.
“Well, she can leave now if she wants a ride.”
“Thea, your father is too lazy to drive you, even though he has the time. If you want a ride, we need to leave now.”
Substance abuse has not yet been ruled out.
“Lazy?” Dad pushes back his chair. “Who worked until—”
“Thea? ... Thea, do you hear me?”
Still under police investigation.
My phone starts to ding rapid-fire. The discourse between my parents heightens. A familiar tension fills my chest. The oatmeal churns in my stomach. Did one of them just say my name? The room is brighter. Too bright. I peer in the direction of the front window. Where is the window? The usual California shutters and collection of white cupboards blur. All I see are pewter knobs. I swing my head over to Dad and his dark housecoat. His silhouette is turned toward Mom, but his features are barely visible. What is happening? He is less than three feet from me. Why can’t I see his face? The haze thickens. Am I fainting? But there are no stars, no darkness—just light. Endless, blurring, white light.