Madness
A Novel
By J. L. Vallance
Text copyright © 2014 J. L. Vallance
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published by J. L. Vallance
Cover by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design.
www.maeidesign.com
Edited by Tanya Keetch, The Word Maid
http://www.facebook.com/TheWordMaid
Other Books by J. L. Vallance:
Deep Into the Soul
Revelations of the Soul
Destruction of the Soul
Corruption of the Soul, A Guild Series Novella
Redemption of the Soul
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
A Note from J. L. Vallance
For Paulette and Jessica.
For tolerating my madness—day in and day out. And loving me in spite of it.
“Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. . . You don’t give up.”
Anne Lamott
Prologue
Warm, bright rays of sun beamed through the streaked glass, creating a prism of light across the laminate wood floor. The muffled sound of dinging bells and shouting voices cascaded through the closed door, registering somewhere in the far corners of my exhausted mind. I reached a hand up, running it through my hair, pausing when I felt the choppy ends. My once hip-length, chestnut brown hair was a thing of the past—as was my relative sanity.
The noises in the hall grew louder as the door opened, the large, stocky frame of my father limbering into the room, accompanied by the psychologist that had been following me since my admission, which may or may not have been a week ago. Time seemed to stand still within the walls of this place. Her blond bob moved with her as she turned her head to the mental health worker sitting in the corner of the room, the one that had been assigned to watch over me. That’s what happens when you roll in with suicidal ideation. I had blown well past ideation and settled firmly into the attempt column.
“We’ll call for you when we’re finished,” she dismissed, and the young man stood, smiling faintly at me as he walked out of the room. It wasn’t a friendly smile, it was a pity smile. He pitied me and my situation. He could shove his pity up his bright and happy ass for all I cared. I didn’t want, need, or deserve anyone’s pity. “Francesca, your father has come in today to see if we may have some success—”
“I don’t want to talk,” I interrupted, turning away. I didn’t want to look at my father anymore. I couldn’t embrace the look on his face any longer. He wasn’t angry. His face was lined with exhaustion, his eyes dulled and rimmed with deep plum circles.
My father was a silent and stoic man; he rarely displayed any emotion. But when he did, it was of gale force. And as he walked into that room, as he looked at me lying in that bed, his face held a maelstrom of emotions. But the one that stood out more than the rest: disappointment. I knew him well enough to know that it wasn’t with me, it was with himself. And goddamn if that didn’t make me loathe myself even more.
As he fought every day for life, going every week for chemo treatments, trying to beat a second bout of the big, nasty C (you know the thing no one ever wants to think of, speak of, dream of—he’s living it for the second time), I decided to willingly lie down and throw my life away. I made the choice to end my life. Instead of fighting, instead of being strong and brave, I ran. I didn't really want to die; I just wanted everything to fade away. And for a few brief moments, it did.
All it took was a few strategic cuts, the warm blood began to drain around me, and I started to feel light and free, as if all of the profound and suffocating sadness was leaving me. That was until they found me, called for a squad, and got me into the ER. That was a nightmare to wake up to. It was a rough couple of days of getting medically stable, of staring into the sad and confused eyes of my family, of refusing to speak to anyone about why I would do something so horrific. And then they shoved me off to the psych unit. And I fucking resented them for it.
“Francesca, this is not what we discussed,” she soothed.
“I don’t give a good goddamn what we discussed,” I snapped.
“Frankie,” my dad said in his semi-authoritative tone, stepping around her. “Please?”
I closed my eyes to the pain, releasing a long and shaky breath as a tear sneaked out of my eye. “Can we have a few minutes alone?” I asked without opening my eyes.
“I’ll be right outside the door,” Dr. Blond Bob replied, leaving Dad and me alone in gaping silence.
I shifted in the bed, adjusted the blankets, resting my arms on top of the covers. My eyes went to the fresh white bandages covering my wrists, my own scarlet letter so to speak. Without looking, I knew his eyes were on them too. For the rest of my life, everyone’s eyes would always go the scars that would forever mark me as that girl.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered, my words cracking.
“Sweetheart, for the life of me, I’ll never understand why. I’ll spend the rest of my days asking that question over and over. I’ll also spend each day thanking the good Lord that your mother found you when she did.” His voice was strong, resolute. “A man is never supposed to bury his child, Frankie. Never. I can’t understand what you were going through, why you thought that death was your only option. You have the gift of a second chance.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“No, you’re not crazy. You’re ill, Frankie, and when people are ill, they get help. They get treatment. Let them help you, and when you are well, we’ll move forward.”
“I’m scared,” I answered, my words ending on a sob.
My father, the large, lumbering, stoic man that he was, stood and climbed into the hospital bed, wrapping me into his arms, and he cried along with me. We held onto each other and sobbed until my eyes ran dry, and I fell asleep. When I awoke the next morning, I showered and dressed for the first time since I attempted to end my life.
That was the day I accepted that I had a mental illness; I accepted that my life would never be black and white or crystal clear. My world was shaded heavily in gray with a few vibrant hues threaded in between. That was the day I closed off a dark place inside myself, one that couldn’t be closed without shutting off its polar light place. I boxed myself in from the world—good and bad—in hopes that it would help me get to a better place, one where I could stay.
I would do whatever I had to in order to protect myself—to survive.
Chapter 1
Two years later. . .
“Elise and Colin. . .bet you never saw that one coming,” I c
ommented on a sigh, sitting on the cold, hard grass, folding my long legs in front of me. I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets, hoping to hold onto some of the warmth in their depths. The wind whipped around, nipping at any exposed skin it found. “Yeah, no one did. But I’ll tell ya, he makes her light up.”
I drew in a deep breath, bringing in the familiar and comforting scent of fall. The air was starting to become crisper with each passing day, letting you know that winter would soon be coming, knocking you on your ass—from both its brutal cold and desolate sadness.
“I know just what you’re thinking,” I chuckled, my head bobbing. “Shocking as it may be, Elise does have another mode besides bitch. Colin unearthed it.”
My hands withdrew from my pockets, grabbing at the gray slouch hat that rested on my head, pulling it to cover my ears.
“Worst part about the whole mess, she’s put my ass is a wretched cotton candy pink bridesmaid gown. It’s a fucking taffeta nightmare. And me, in that color. . .I look like a washed out, Twilight reject,” I groaned, reaching forward, placing my fingertips on the marble tombstone. “And I know you are up there, laughing your miserable ass off at me and my plight.”
I continued to laugh, my laughter fading, turning into tears as my palm flattened on the cool stone. I kept my eyes open, my sight blurring as I continued to stare at the name scrolled across it—
“Patrick John Winters”.
“I miss you so much, Dad,” I whispered, wiping at my nose.
I did all that he asked of me. I worked hard; I recovered from my little slip up. I got the help I needed. And six months later, he lost his battle with cancer. But he held on long enough to make me promise to never give up on my own battle—the one I fought within myself. It’s a promise that I will fight to keep every single day. I will fight until the big man upstairs decides to call for me on his own.
“The vineyards were beautiful this year,” I said, drying my eyes, going to my knees, brushing the fallen leaves from around his headstone. I laid the fresh flowers across the base, leaning forward, pressing a kiss next to his name. “I’m working on a new blend. It will be named after you. I predict it to be a bestseller for Winter’s Night.”
I stood, looking down at my father’s grave one last time. I leaned forward, touching it tenderly.
“Keep a close eye on us all next week,” I said with a smile. “Elise needs you to get through her day, and I need you to survive the nightmare that is that wretched gown. I love you, Dad.”
Driving from the graveyard, I cranked Muse while speeding through the back roads heading toward the vineyard—my vineyard. I was certain that there weren’t many twenty-three year old, college dropouts that owned and operated their own vineyard. But after my “incident,” my parents looked for anything and everything to keep me focused, to keep me grounded. Winter’s Night was the only thing that managed to do that.
I grew up in a small, sleepy town in northeast Ohio—Knotted Vines, population twenty-five hundred. You run from one vineyard to another from one end of town right to the other. Don’t get me wrong, you come across a few restaurants, gas stations, a bowling alley, drugstore, schools, post office, you know, the usual things in small towns. But if you’re looking to get lit with a good bottle of vino, Knotted Vines is the place to be.
My parents started Winter’s Night Vineyards back in the late ’80s, just a few years before welcoming their fourth and final bundle of never-ending joy (moi) into the world. While it’s not the most popular vineyard in town, it is among the top five. It has been growing in popularity in the past two years, and I like to think that has a lot to do with the change in ownership.
Once I exited treatment and was back to living in normal society, I needed something to keep me busy. I needed something that kept me grounded, that made me feel productive. Dad had been getting weaker with each chemo treatment, and Mom. . .she was falling apart watching him slip away. They decided, collectively, to pass the vineyard to me. My siblings had no desire to have any part of it. They all had lives and careers, some far from home. I was the only fuck up that needed it. Hell, I thrived because of it, and in turn, it thrived because of me. I’d like to think that the vines and I had this marriage of sorts; we had the most beautiful of give and take relationships. I gave all of myself, and they gave me sweet therapy.
I pulled down the long, winding gravel drive of the vineyard, pulling my restored candy apple red ’52 Ford Pickup around the back of the building that housed the tasting room. I climbed out of the cab, grabbing the bags out of the bed, walking into the back. Music blared as Karleigh jumped in time, her fists pumping in rhythm.
“Christ, Karleigh!” I shouted, walking to the radio in the kitchen, turning it off. “This isn’t a rave, in fact, most people that come here, are more of the Adele or Kenny G variety. Not whatever you want to call that.”
“Most people that come here have no idea who in the Sam Hill Adele is. They are more of the Saturday Night Special variety. And no-damn-body is of the Kenny G variety,” she replied, picking up the stereo remote, turning the music back on, but at a lower volume. “For the record, Outkast would never be played at a rave.”
She stood at the counter, cutting meats and various cheeses for the platters served within the winery for pairings. I had never been interested in offering a full service kitchen, but who didn’t love a little bitey cheese to go along with a bold Merlot or Shiraz?
“I brought some fresh fruit from the market for tonight.” I set the bags onto the counter and walked to the back office to hang up my coat. “You make coffee yet?”
“Of course I did,” she called from the kitchen.
“Good. I have a terrible caffeine headache.”
“Sleep might fix that, just saying,” she advised.
I paused at the mirror near the door, fixing the curls that hung just past my shoulders. My fingers fidgeted with the oversized, plum colored bow headband holding my deep chestnut locks back from my face. It still wasn’t as long as it had been before I chopped it, but it had grown back in well. I blew a deep breath out of pursed, red stained lips, and walked back into the kitchen, pouring a cup of fresh coffee. I looked out into the tasting room, looked over the high, dark cherry stained tables and stools, the matching bar, and lush onyx colored ceramic tiled floor.
After I took over, I’d worked on updating the inside of the tasting room, settling on rich colors to match the rich and complex wines we offered. My father hadn’t been a fan of the slate colored walls, nor the one red accent wall behind the bar. But I filled the space with creative lighting that livened it up and made it warm. It suited the persona of Winter’s Night. It was cold yet cozy.
“I wish we could have decorated for Halloween this year,” I admitted.
“What says we can’t?” Karleigh asked, continuing to slice meat beside me.
“With it being the day before the wedding, there’s no way I can swing it. Besides, I’m keeping the winery closed that Friday so I can set up for the reception,” I replied, taking a long drink from the steaming mug.
“I hope Elise appreciates all that you’re doing for her.”
“She doesn’t appreciate it as much as she feels entitled to it, but that’s fine. It’s something that keeps me busy, makes my mom happy, and keeps Elise a little less shrill.”
Karleigh laughed, placing the last of the sliced meat into the storage container and fastening the lid. She stacked all the containers into the fridge before washing her hands. Looking back to me, her bold hazel eyes creasing at the corners as she smiled.
“We both know that Elise does not have any other level of speech besides shrill—especially when it comes to her wedding. She is the very definition of bridezilla.”
I could only laugh in response, Karleigh was right. I was the youngest of four; I had been blessed with one brother and two sisters. Elise was always the loudest, neediest, and most obnoxious. When she came to me about her wedding, asking me to be her maid of honor and to host her re
ception at the winery, I couldn’t deny her. That didn’t mean that I hadn’t thought of a hundred and one different ways to assault her without leaving permanent damage over the past six months. She was nothing if not a royal bitch.
“She toned it down when she realized I have this little red button on my phone that will end her rants for her if she starts screaming in my ear,” I replied, shrugging. “I only had to engage it twice before she caught on.”
“Colin, that poor bastard, does he even realize what he has signed himself up for?”
“Colin is good for Elise. He settles her in ways that only Dad ever could. I love him more for that than anything else. If I believed in love, Karls, their love is the kind I’d believe in.”
“Come on, Frankie, deep down, you believe in the power of love,” Karleigh goaded, nudging my arm as she walked out of the kitchen and into the tasting room. I followed her, nearing the wood burning stove in the far corner of the room. “You were the product of a great love affair. I’ve still never seen two people more in love than your parents were. Hey, you remember when we were,” she paused, looking up to the ceiling as if it would help her remember, “had to have been seven, and we snuck down the stairs and watched them dance to Johnny Cash?”
I remembered that moment. My dad stared down at my mother as if she were the only woman that existed in the entire universe, his love for her filled the room, and it was a love that she returned. I spent so many nights after that, twirling in my room, imagining that someday, I’d have a handsome man that looked at me just like that. But then I grew up, I realized that I had a disease, one that makes my life a little bit more complicated. Love was no longer on the table. That was one unneeded complication—one that could be the thing that broke my fragile hold onto my unsteady world. I couldn’t afford taking the risk.
“I remember,” I answered, opening the stove, feeding in a few pieces of wood.
Madness Page 1