Searching for Tomorrow (Tomorrows)

by Kathryn McNeill Crane

  Searching for Tomorrow

  Copyright © 2013 Kathryn McNeill Crane

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and for review purposes.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-10: 1493542672

  Edited by Lea Burn

  Cover Image by Dudarev Mikhail (www.shutterstock.com)

  Cover design by Lori Hall-Underwood

  Formatted by Lori Hall-Underwood

  Published by Indie Express LLC

  This book is dedicated to:

  My mom and dad. Thank you for loving me and encouraging me to become the person that God wants me to be. You gave wings to my dreams and encouraged me to fly, and the sacrifices y’all made along the way did not go unnoticed. I thank my God upon EVERY remembrance of you!

  Channing, my hubba, hunka hubby. Thank you for putting up with me for the last twenty-plus years, but most especially these last nine months when I’ve been so engrossed in my computer and writing. Your patience was tried and tested, but you loved me anyway, and kept me supplied with chocolate. I am so thankful to have you in my life. I am looking forward to many more years with you. Love you to the moon and back, babe!

  My children and grandson. No matter where you go, or what you do, I will never love you any less than I do at this exact moment. You fill my life with joy, and because of you, I am complete. Never a day goes by that I don’t thank God for blessing me with each of you. And Grayson, just remember, Nana is the smartest woman in the world, and she loves nothing more than nibbling on your toes and kissing your belly. I didn’t even know what was missing in my life until the first time I held you.

  All the men and women who serve and defend our country, past, present, and future. Thank you will never be enough. May God richly bless you for the sacrifices you have made for my family and me.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Blinding light pierces the darkness and erupts into the night like a friendly display of fireworks. Burning pain runs through my body, leaving me defenseless against it. The deafening sounds explode, echoing harshly through the silent night. As I grow faint, I feel hands on my arms, dragging me, pulling me. I don’t know who it is or where they are taking me. All I know at this one moment in time, all I hear in my mind, all I feel in my heart, is the loss of something precious. As I fight to clear my head, my body weakens, my strength fades, and I cross over into the blackness that seeks me.

  He comes to me at night in my dreams, and my memories break free to taunt me. Aching to feel his body next to me, I stretch my legs towards him. I crave the taste of his kiss, and turn my face to seek his lips. My body burns for his touch, and I covet one more whispered ‘I love you’. My yearnings and desires escape, bringing me to the time before I was broken. These longings take me closer to where I want to be, the place that I need to be. Each memory, every dream, carries me back to the very day that my soul seeks, yet pushes me to search for tomorrow.

  Chapter One

  Present

  Some mornings when you wake up you can just tell that it is going to be that kind of day.

  I wake up to rays of sunshine spilling across my face. It feels so amazing, and I just want to keep my eyes closed to enjoy the warmth it provides, but something is digging into my hip. Reaching beneath the sheets, I contort my body as I search for the offender. Gotcha. As I squint against the brightness to closely examine the hairy pink creature, I sleepily recognize the fuzzy shape of Strawberry Shortcake. Darn those kids’ meals.

  If I am sleeping with Strawberry, then that means I fell asleep once again with my littlest munchkin in bed with me, too. I roll to my side to nibble on my youngest child’s belly, but instead, I spy the alarm clock on the nightstand. I use the term alarm clock loosely because obviously I have slept through its racket. Throwing the covers back, I jump from the bed and let out an ear-piercing yelp that could serve as an alarm for the entire neighborhood. Ouch! Buried in the heel of my left foot is Orange Blossom, Strawberry’s best friend. I know I have said this before, but it bears repeating: DARN THOSE KIDS’ MEALS!

  I have to pee, but I have three kids to wake, dress, feed and get to school when all I really want to do is crawl back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and start this day all over again. Based on the clock, I will have to take the tardy walk of shame and see the school secretary’s look of disapproval, which unfortunately has become very familiar to me since we’ve been late more often than I can count. A fleeting thought in my scattered mind reminds me that this weakness is only temporary. I live each day just trying to cope, wanting to heal. I know this feeling of despair won’t last forever.

  I choose the bathroom because, seriously, I have a three-baby bladder. Three pregnancies have stretched the poor thing thin, pushing it out of shape so many times that it now feels like a balloon that’s about ready to pop. Truthfully, I am going to pee whether I make it to the bathroom or not. That would just add one more thing to my ever-growing ‘to-do’ list to clean up later.

  While washing my hands, I steal a second to catch a glimpse of … surely that’s not me. Staring back at me from the mirror is a wild looking woman that I don’t even recognize. Oh Lord, it is me! I fight not to notice the sad, droopy eyes crying out in pure exhaustion. The dark bags remind me that it’s been too many nights since I’ve actually slept for more than a few hours. The new grains of salt scattered throughout my auburn hair let me know that I desperately need to pamper myself more often. Thank goodness, I’m in a hurry, or I could spend hours pointing out each individual flaw on my body. Please do not let me get started, because right now, I’m not my biggest fan, and I am pretty sure I already mentioned that we are LATE.

  I rush from the bathroom and pluck munchkin number three from my bed. Maggie is my baby. She is the last precious gift from my husband—literally. He loved to give me gifts that would keep on giving. Sarah Margaret is two and a half, and she reminds me of a woodland sprite. She’s almost fairy-like with her head full of beautiful caramel blonde curls and the largest, brightest green eyes that always sparkle with laughter, wonder, and mischief. Her button nose tips up on the end and her smile—well, her smile can lighten even the heaviest, grumpiest of hearts.

  As Maggie grips my neck in a chokehold, I run down the hall to the closest bedroom. Throwing the door open, I cross to the bed of my middle daughter. I hope that buried somewhere in the mess of stuffed animals and layers of bedding is the warm little body of Bekah. Haphazardly flinging bears, puppies, and kittens aside at a breakneck speed, I finally unearth the top of the covers. I catch Maggie as she slips forward and then toss the blankets back. I discover a warm
little body curled up in a ball. Ah, there she is.

  Lest I forget, munchkin number two is my Rebekah Elizabeth, and she is by far the most serious six-year-old I have ever encountered. I swear that sometimes I catch glimpses of small frown lines forming between those piercing yellow-green eyes. She is much too young to need wrinkle cream like her mom. She is such a worrywart. Case in point: a few weeks ago, one of her sweet little friends (uh, no … not really) told Bekah that it looked like she had lice in her hair. Do you think Bekah came to me and discussed this potential problem? Well, duh, no she did not. What she did instead was worry and chew on the problem all afternoon and into the evening. Later, while I was giving Maggie her bedtime bath, little Miss Worrywart took matters into her own hands. Needless to say, her almost waist length auburn curls are now shortened to just above her shoulders, shaped into the cutest little bob you have ever seen.

  I promise that I really was not trying to scare the kids or wake the dead when I found Bekah’s hair all over the kitchen floor. Although, truth be told, I may have screamed a little too loud, and every dog in the neighborhood started howling. Thankfully, it only took a quick trip to my mom’s house to fix her uneven bob. I think it goes without saying that our latest donation was to Locks of Love, which will use the hair to make wigs for children who have lost their hair fighting cancer and other diseases.

  Thinking about her poor curls just upsets me all over again. But, I do confess that her new cut looks so adorable on her, though it does seem to make her appear even more serious and mature. Seeing it spread around her sleeping face now reminds me of why I came in here in the first place.

  I loosen Maggie’s tight grip on my neck, and slip her to my back so that I can scoop Bekah into my arms. I head back down the hall to find another missing piece of our family’s little puzzle. Peering into my oldest daughter’s room, I find myself a little confused at its emptiness, and then I catch the smell of bread toasting. Thank God, someone has her act together. I haul the girls towards the kitchen and stop right inside the doorway. Hope for this crazy day blossoms as I catch a whiff of the nectar of life—coffee. Bless Annie’s heart. That girl sure does know her mother. She always remembers to turn the coffee maker on, knowing that I have trouble even functioning properly without at least a cup or two flowing through my veins to jolt a little life into this tired, worn out body. The little things she does to show that she’s thinking of me give me even more reason to push forward. At times, I can even see a glimmer of my old self in her eyes. Its reflection is a mirrored image, reminding me of who I was, and still long to be.

  Annie would be deeply offended if I should even dare think to call her munchkin number one. At nine years of age, I sometimes think she is light years ahead of me in wisdom and maturity. Her mannerisms and speech seem strange coming from someone her age. As my oldest child, Anne Marie is the only one of my girls who is old enough to remember all the twists and turns that life has brought our way these past several years. Wise beyond her age from loss and turmoil, I miss what a carefree child she used to be, and the lighthearted moments she and I once shared. When I look into her turquoise eyes, I see the remnants of an old soul peeking back at me. Thankfully, that old soul wears a happy smile most of the time. As I stand and watch her move around the kitchen, I see her shoulders stiffen, and something tells me that I am not going to be so lucky today.

  When Annie turns from the toaster to look at me, I know without a doubt that I am in big trouble. Her deep auburn curls swing out from her head, reminding me of the chair-swing ride at a summer carnival. That cute little heart shaped mouth molds itself into a frown, and I swear that child has borrowed Bekah’s furrowed brow as she crosses her arms over her chest. My heart hitches the instant that I realize she is wearing her Junior Scout uniform. Of all days for me to sleep late. It’s Girl Scout day, and Annie is one of the girls who is going to speak during the assembly at school. She has spent the last few days maniacally researching her topic and practicing her speech. As she opens her mouth to speak and those turquoise eyes shoot sparks at me, I remember once again how much of a failure I feel I am becoming to my girls. I. Am. Failing. Everything that has happened in the past few years has weakened me, and I fight to find the strength I once had. This feeling is one that has overwhelmed me many times in recent years as I struggle to find my way through each and every, single, solitary, crazy day. I don’t have the time or the energy to think about tomorrow, much less place my hope in it.

  Before one word can leave Annie’s lips, the girls and I hear a familiar—and please, do not mistake familiar for welcome, on my end—greeting coming from the front door. “Yoo-hoo. Is anybody home?” Ugh. Maggie and Bekah scramble down my body and dart towards the door. As I turn back towards Annie, I catch a glimpse of a smirk before she smoothes her expression. I let out a choked gasp, close my eyes in disbelief, and hiss through gritted teeth, “Oh, tell me you did not. You are in soooo much trouble, young lady.”

  She gives me a deceptively innocent look, flutters her lashes at me, and then peers over my shoulder. “Good morning, Grandmother. Thanks for coming to pick me up. I can’t be late today. I need to go brush my teeth real quick.” What does that hooligan do then? She takes off down the hall at the speed of light, not once looking back in my direction.

  I turn to face my arch nemesis without any buffers. Where, oh where did I put my Supermom cape today? With the piles of laundry I have yet to get to this week, I probably should not pose that question aloud. If there were any other person more critical of me than myself, hands down, it would be her.

  Standing before me is none other than the one, the only, Mrs. Channing Kennedy Tidwell, Junior. She glares at me with the superior look on her face that she has worked at perfecting over the years. I hold a sigh in, knowing that no matter what I say, this conversation will not be ending in my favor. “Good morning, Mother Tidwell. It appears that once again you have come to my rescue and saved my damsels from distress.” I breathe deeply through my nose. I can tell by the daggers shooting from her eyes that she caught my subtle sarcasm. Needing coffee now more than ever, I cautiously turn my back to Her Majesty and make my way to the cabinet to retrieve a mug. I look back over my shoulder at her and ask, “Care for a cup?”

  With a vicious huff, she haughtily grounds out, “You know I would never deign to poison my body with such vileness. How you can tolerate such sludge is beyond me. Why, if my Channing were here, you know that he would agree with me.”

  At the mention of his name, my heart clenches and a physical pain runs through my body. I subtly take deep, cleansing breaths because I learned long ago not to show pain, panic, or fear to this woman. “Mother Tidwell, please do not involve Tripp in this.” My voice remains firm as my heart twinges, and the thoughts of Tripp remind me of his coffee habit. “Besides, he drank a pot of coffee himself each morning. He was responsible for introducing me to coffee in the ninth grade, so that makes him solely responsible for my addiction, too.” I let out a light laugh, desperately trying to bring some cheer into our conversation.

  As always, my efforts at levity are for naught. It is obvious from the scowl on her face that Mother Tidwell is not very impressed with my impromptu thoughts. Turning from me in dismissal, she calls down the hall to Annie and then turns back to inform me that she will be returning in fifteen minutes to take the other two girls to school. “Maybe you can use that time to make sure they are both ready. Lord knows you should at least be able to handle that.” With that snide remark, she haughtily exits the kitchen. She helps Annie gather her speech props and schoolbooks, walks out the front door, and firmly closes it behind her. My whispered goodbye fades into the silence.

  With my shoulders hunched in rejection and frustration, I slump down onto the stool at the island and take a tentative sip of my hot coffee. Carefully placing the overfull cup on the counter, I rub my eyes and sigh in frustration. My Annie, the little traitor, did not even tell me goodbye or give me a chance to hug and kiss her. She knows
how I struggle with goodbyes. Placing my hurt feelings on the back burner, I realize that I’ve wasted five minutes and only have about ten left to get the other two ragamuffins dressed and ready before she comes back.

  Once again, I find myself racing down the hall to gather up my other two munchkins so that I can wrestle them into their dreaded school clothes. If either of them had their own way, they would wear their dress-up princess outfits every day. Thank goodness, their clothes are clean. Maggie and Bekah grumble their way through dressing, then brush their teeth, and excitedly make their way back to the front door to wait for their grandmother.

  Just thirteen minutes into the promised fifteen, I hear Mother Tidwell’s car approach our driveway. I hurriedly gather the girls in my arms and place a gentle kiss on each forehead. Maggie and I rub noses, Bekah and I give each other butterfly kisses, and then with a whispered, “I love you,” I send two pieces of my heart out into the world and pray silently for their safe return.

  I lean back against the closed door and softly beat my head against it. I take a deep breath in, release it, and anxiously rub my temples, hoping to relieve some of the tension gathering there at an alarming rate. Facing off with Mother Tidwell is never my favorite thing to do, but seriously, with no coffee? That one sip does not count. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery.

  That woman has hated me from day one, and each year it seems to escalate. Barely civil in the beginning, her erratic behavior these days makes me wonder about her sometimes. I know the only reason she keeps coming back to torture me is so she can build a gap between my munchkins and me, and then wedge herself between us. Some of the things she tells them about me make me wonder if she is delusional, a pathological liar, or she just wants to drive me insane. She is more than aware that I struggle to find the strength to get out of bed every day, much less deal with her. I wish I could dig deep and find the power to fight back against her, but I really don’t know that retaliation would do any good.