Love, Carry My Bags
Page 1
“Okay C.R., you are truly horrible to make me cry and laugh in the same breath . . .”
—Gigi Siguenza, eBook Lovers Co-Op Admin/Owner
“A real page turner that kept me involved and offered a riveting look at love and relationships.”
—C. Beard
“. . . there were times in the book when I laughed out loud and also times where I had a lump the size of a tennis ball in my throat and had to re-read a page because I couldn’t stop the tears from falling . . . in some parts, I felt like I was reading about myself.”
—N. Townson
“This is a well written story that can and will tug at your heartstrings. I fell in love with the characters and had a hard time putting the book down. Highly recommend this book!”
—Pauline Hulstein
LOVE, CARRY MY BAGS
_______________________
C. R. Everett
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, businesses, companies, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by C.R. Everett
All rights reserved.
PEANUTS © Peanuts Worldwide LLC. Dist. By UNIVERSAL UCLICK. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
First eBook Edition: October 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9882641-0-6
Discover other titles by C. R. Everett at this website.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
SECTION ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
SECTION TWO
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
SECTION THREE
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
EPILOGUE
END NOTE
About the Author
Discussion Questions
To my daughters
May you run and not be weary, walk and not faint
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my friend Charlie for inadvertently setting this enterprise into motion. Funny thing, Fate, isn’t it? Thanks to my family for letting me spend many hours away from home, hanging out at Starbucks with my laptop. Starbucks should thank them too. I’d like to thank my initial readers, Arllys, Carolyn, Kim, Chrissy, Ed, Samantha, Thuy, and David, for believing in me enough to spend their valuable time reading my book and providing great feedback. Who knew that even after the manuscript being read twenty times over, punctuation and grammar typos still snuck by? Thanks for those eight sets of eyes. Thanks for stomaching the hard parts, admitting when you laughed or cried (even the guys). Thank you for wanting to share it with friends even in its draft form, believing it’d make a great movie, and for telling me how proud you are of me. Thanks to Dr. Marks for feedback on chapter 24. I’d like to thank Bill for giving me the professional critical eye, which prodded me to hone the manuscript into even better material. Thanks to my mother-in-law who supports me in all of my endeavors and is a great listener and friend. Thank you, Dwight, for helping with technical details and being a quiet supporter. Thank you Lauren, for launching my cover art. Thanks Edward, for your encouragement. I’d like to thank my parents for giving me much food for thought, grist that has been grinding away in my mind. Thanks to the rest of my family and friends. You have all contributed to my journey. And last, I’d like to thank the one who inspired this whole thing. Without you, there’d be no author me. You know who you are. I love and appreciate all of you.
Ah, one more. I’d like to thank Oprah. Fate threw your work into my path too. If it wasn’t for you, I’d never have known I’d written content about AD/HD, but would have continued to think I’d written about your average vanilla dysfunctional family (with a few nuts in it). You have made more positive change happen in my and others’ lives than either of us know.
PROLOGUE
“Creative minds always have been known to survive any kind of bad training.”
—Anna Freud
As the events I have experienced and witnessed over the years ferment in my mind, I overlook the mist-shrouded Cascades. To the northeast, Mt. Baker’s snow-covered glaciers hide the volcano within. Beyond Seattle’s horizon, Mt. Rainier peaks. The cedars around my home are solemn, and a deer grazes, unafraid, in the near distance.
I stare into the forest, looking far, yet near at the same time. My vision blurs. I close my eyes. This isn’t a simple, straightforward story. Real life stories seldom are. Everyone has personal trials. Some experience being left at the altar. Lonely Person lives a life searching for Ms. Right, yet dies a lone bachelor. Two People suffer marital hardship and divorce, when suddenly Long Lost High School Sweetheart appears for the happily ever after. Others have True Love pass away, being left to carry on alone, heartbroken. It is so much more complicated than that. Prior to this incarnation, we must have signed up for the Advanced Course. This story is a fine, complex wine, the ingredients of which evolve into an end result distinct from their beginnings.
I open my eyes. Rhododendrons, reflecting vibrant color, brighten the surrounding greenscape. I focus on a petal, heavy with dew, and see a sunlit prism.
I would never have lived in this majestic place if it were not for the man with whom I have spent most of my life.
I rise, taking in a breath of crisp air. “It’s time. We should go now,” I say.
SECTION ONE
CHAPTER 1
“What we really are matters more than what other people think of us.”
—Jawaharlal Nehru
Thirty-one years ago, Dead Creek ran through my back yard. A stench from neighboring Sauget, Illinois stung my nose, but I didn’t mind. Neither did the towering cottonwood trees which lined Falling Springs Road. Unaffected by toxic runoff, they thrived. The saplings, on the other hand, struggled.
I drove by pollution-spewing refineries and chemical plants on my way to Parks College. A dream come true. Moving into my own apartment was the dream, not earning my degree. College was a given, a milestone. I could be anything I wanted to be even though I had no idea what that was. I didn’t care if I ended up being a housewife. An education was an essential element in my quest for self-actualization.
My modest two-bedroom apartment overlooked the campus. The linoleum in the kitchen looked clean at first glance, but filth, ground in from prior tenants, remained. Two crammed carloads of stuff furnished my abode. I squeezed in the essentials—a twin mattress, clothes, television, pots and pans which I had been given for Christmas, a small dresser, a radio and a travel iron. Milk crates served as shelving, tables, baskets, and general storage, the finishing touch.
My parents could have pai
d for my schooling, but didn’t. Folks from Midwest America didn’t hand things to their children on silver platters. Since I graduated from the Harvard High School in Harvard, IL (“Milk Capital of the World”), I was a subset of those Midwestern American children and received things on plastic McDonald’s trays instead. The money I saved from part-time jobs wouldn’t last long. Until I found a roommate, alleviating costs, I enjoyed my own place, watching what I wanted on my four-inch black-and-white TV when I wanted, and fixing whatever my heart desired in the kitchen, without worrying about anyone else. Free at last. Camryn Johnson had arrived.
Parks’ cozy tree-covered campus sat a few miles southeast of the St. Louis arch. Rich history infused the red brick World War II era buildings. Cadet specters roamed the halls and populated the adjacent grass landing strip, taking off, one by one on their training missions. Parks is the only Jesuit aviation college in the world, its heritage probably held over from the Crusades, something that surely warmed Mother’s heart. At least she didn’t criticize my choice for higher education, which was the closest I’d get to praise.
Females represented just ten percent of the one thousand member, aviation-loving student body. Most course offerings centered around male-dominated aerospace engineering or private pilot curriculums. The men on campus felt shortchanged and the women had a school to fish in.
I enjoyed travel; so not knowing my career goal in life, I chose the Bachelor of Science TTT program. Travel, Transportation, and Tourism—which had a disproportionate number of girls—was essentially a travel-focused business degree and would surely take me somewhere.
Some people accused me of selecting this particular venue of education for the male population factor, an adjunct circumstance, the last thing on my mind. In love with Reese, my high school sweetheart, I focused on commencing a life together with him even though I had not seen him in quite some time—nine months and two days, to be exact.
CHAPTER 2
Paper, my canvass
Words, my paint
My heart, my brush
Writer, I am
—E.B. Whitmore
“The Bible says children should honor their mother and father,” Mother reminded me. She called the Bible ‘Life’s Instruction Book.’ Most confusing damn instruction book I’d ever set eyes on. And it didn’t explain what to do when your parents were divorced and had divergent belief systems. The Bible also said something about a servant being unable to serve two masters.
“Father’s not in on this.”
Didn’t matter. Mother’s interpretation of the Bible came straight from the mouth of God, of course, and only her ears were finely tuned enough to receive the correct message.
Whiskers nosed my hand, a silent show of solidarity.
“Things will not go well with you . . .” Mother continued the same lecture every time I resisted altar calls, repenting, mandatory daily devotions of her choosing, or refused to raise my hands during marathon praise-and-worship jam fests before fire-and-brimstone sermons. And when religious dogma didn’t work, she threatened, “If you don’t confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, and witness, singing his name, ‘Wonderful, Counselor, Prince of Peace, The Almighty,’ accept him as your own and proclaim, ‘My God reigns over all the heavens and all the earth . . .’ I’ll take Whiskers away.”
Whiskers—my new puppy and closest friend up until moving to Harvard—was safe. We’d been truly saved. No more anxious nights home alone. No more being afraid someone would break into the house and hurt me. No more having my room purged of stuffed owls and frogs, toy witches and friendly pretend monsters because they were ‘evil.’
Mother’s jump from mainstream Protestantism to a cultish alternative was a hard horse pill to swallow. Healing after the divorce she insisted upon, she found solace in her new flavor of church, attending evening ‘singles club.’ My mother was in long-term recovery from a self-inflicted wound: a nervous breakdown due to years of suppressing her own wants and desires while constantly trying to please others. By the time I came around in her later childbearing years, Mother had had her fill of taking care of others and turned to taking care of herself, in any way she felt necessary, full-time.
‘Welcome to Harvard—Home of Milk Day.’ The sign at the city limits became a fixture in my brain. Smaller placards hung below the leading attraction including: Rotary Club, Kiwanis, Lions, Shriners, Moose Club . . . . Creosote-preserved telephone poles framed them all. Every weekend we passed by the town welcome. Then, after a snail’s-pace drive through the block-long main business district, we passed the town’s mascot—Harmilda the Holstein—a plastic cow. Her moniker came from “HARvard MILk DAys,” the annual town festival held the first weekend in June. Harmilda, often the victim of rival high school pranks, suffered TP-ing and various other desecrations, even kidnapping, but she was safe at home this year, posing for pictures, the center of attention.
* * *
“MOOve it, MOOve it, MOOve it,” Sarah bellowed to bed-racing team #7. Reese, running along with four other pajama-clad team members, sped down the whitewashed ‘Milky Way,’ main drag, Ayer Street, wheels a smokin’. The ears on Sarah’s spotted bovine costume flapped with every cheer. I stood, dressed as a Holstein, along the parade route with my two new best friends. My very first Milk Day.
“Go Kurt!” Kate yelled from the sidelines, twirling her black-and-white tail with the RPMs of a full-throttle propeller. Bed #7 zoomed past the old Harvard Café to the first obstacle challenge. I clapped my hooves together, caught up in the rush of excitement. Kurt, riding coxswain, hopped off the brass bed and began stuffing his pillow into a pillowcase. The other four racers furiously installed the fitted sheet, a precision pit crew. Pillow in hand, Kurt remounted the bed with a confidence that belied his FFA-nerd reputation. They whizzed by Harvard State Bank, beating team #2’s four-poster to the next event where mugs of warm milk awaited their chug-a-lug.
“Drink it, drink it, drink it,” Sarah yelled to her brother, hurrying him along. Kurt gave her the thumbs up, appreciating support from his sister, who often joined others in nerd-bashing him. “He’s just so geeky,” she had said to me. “I mean, who kisses cows?” Then she shivered, grossed out and repulsed.
Reese wiped milk from his chin onto his pajama sleeve as they scurried beyond Sternberg’s Department Store toward the finish line in a sensational contest witnessed by thousands.
Kate, along with the rest of Harvard’s populace, celebrated milk. Her enmoosiasm got the best of her as she pumped the udder of her cow suit rhythmically with fist and thumb, expressing real milk over the crowd. Eric, drunk on something other than life, opened his mouth as a target. Distracted by team #7 overtaking team #3’s trundle bed for the win, Kate ignored him until he said, “Can I suck you dry?” She slapped him; even Kate had her limits. Sarah looked on, wishing Eric had asked her instead. She had been unable to squelch the waxing and waning crush she’d had on him since their shared kiss in a seventh-grade game of Truth or Dare. Sarah began mooing a celebratory chorus of “We are the Champions.” Kate and I joined in her silliness, rushing toward the rest of our herd as we all celebrated sweet victory at the finish line. From then on, we became known as The Three Moosketeers, a label that stuck our entire senior year.
A coronated Milk Queen presided over the subsequent milk-drinking contest—which Reese won—before the carnival rides, games, farm tours, cattle show, and hot air balloons got under way.
“Congratulations buddy,” Kurt said to Reese, then became tongue-tied before he could say anymore. Another relatively new girl, Ashley, daughter of the Brown’s (the only black family in town) walked by and caught his eye, rendering him speechless.
“Thanks, couldn’t have done it without moo,” Reese answered, raising his empty glass while an otherwise innocuous-looking man glared at Kurt.
“That guy looks like Eric,” I whispered to Sarah while the man continued to glare. “Is that his father?”
“No, his grandfather,” she whispered back
.
I sensed a creepiness. “Come on, we’re late,” I said, herding my friends to the Youth Fellowship (YF) fundraising booth.
Kurt, Sarah, Reese, and I sold hot dogs for an hour before Kurt had to conduct farm tours at home. “Come along,” he said to me. “You’re a Milk Day virgin.”
I blushed at the v-word.
“Our cows are famous.” Sarah pointed out, waving a Milk Day flyer in front of my face.
“Just the beginning of better things to come,” Kurt said proudly.
He showed me the pasture, stanchions, and hay. We came to the calf pens where he began cooing at the calves like the babies they were. He began humming along to the Michael Jackson tune playing throughout the barn, humming to the calves, an everyday occurrence according to Sarah.
“They are so cute!” I said, thinking they were kissable, but not about to admit that to Sarah, who tagged along even though she’d seen it hundreds of times. Still, she patted one’s head. Kurt pet Ear Tag #47 under the chin. The calf nuzzled his hand, then sucked in two fingers, looking for breakfast.
“Kurt, he’s eating your hand,” I said, in case he didn’t notice.
“She,” Kurt corrected. “She’s my 4-H project. It’s fine. You try.” Kurt pulled my hand over to #47’s cute little nose. The calf let a crying moo, looking for mom. Her squared-off teeth left my fingers alone, but heavy suction and cow slobber ensued.
“I’m a cow pacifier,” I said, enjoying the sensation, forming a bond, but most of all, happy I had new friends.
Since my parents’ divorce, I had commuted back and forth for five arduous years. Mom’s house during the week. Dad’s house on the weekend. Mom’s house. Dad’s house. Mom’s house. Dad’s house. Always shuffled. Never settled. Finally, in my last year of high school, my wish came true. I resided permanently with Dad.
We addressed our parents as Mother and Father, unlike the vast majority of the population—the first example of many abnormalities, nothing to do with being stuffy or formal. And it had nothing to do with Father being a member of the clergy even though some kids thought otherwise, showing no mercy. But not my new friends.