Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories
Page 15
But why would a demon murder Lindy Marchant and go to such lengths to erase all evidence of her son?
I tried to relax. If Lawrence existed, there must be records of him. Lindy had not mentioned his age, but if he went to school, there was one record. If he was younger and went to day-care while she worked, there was another. Birth-certificate. Immunization records… He left his mark someplace and Mike would find it.
I tried to relax, and I couldn’t. I had the nastiest feeling in my gut.
I ground my clenched fists in my eyeballs. I should get back to Lindy. I needed more information. If Lawrence was taken by Demons…
Lindy quietly sat under an apple tree. The apples rotting on the ground didn’t seem to bother her, and I noticed the wasps kept their distance. Jack and Mel watched me from the window in the backdoor as I walked over to her. Annoyed I didn’t go inside the house first, they flapped their hands at me agitatedly. I rolled my eyes at them.
Lindy looked up at me and for the briefest of moments before her gaze sank again, although I know I imagined it, I thought I saw hope in her eyes.
I put on my cheerful face. “A friend is making some calls, so it shouldn’t be long now.”
I hunkered down in the grass next to her, folding my arms on my knees. In mid-November the grass was yellow and leaves almost covered the corners of the yard where they had drifted. I should get out there soon with the leaf blower. The harsh winter sun blazed down. I unzipped my jacket.
I didn’t question Lindy about Lawrence, but she needed only a modicum of interest from me to start rattling on about him. I sat back and absorbed it.
Lindy and Lawrence celebrated his sixth birthday on November 9th. He attended the Saint Mary Frances Catholic School down on Monmouth Avenue. Considering she devoted her life to helping the sick and aged, I don’t understand how Mary Frances’ name ended up on a kid’s school. In summer, Lawrence attended the summer program there while Lindy worked. He was smart, and she never had a problem getting him to finish his homework. He liked hamburgers and ice cream and all the other child-popular foods, but his favorite was Cobb salad, which I thought unusual for a little kid. He often played with the other apartment kids in the play park behind their building in the evenings and at weekends, while Lindy sat on the bench. They went to the movies and the skating rink, and went bowling a couple of times, but bowling was new to Lawrence and he didn’t know yet if he liked it.
He was hospitalized with severe bronchitis when ten-months-old and spent two weeks in Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City. Their family physician was William Haskey at Clarion’s Fourth Street Clinic.
Well, there should be plenty of records on this boy and hopefully I’d find some of them in Lindy’s apartment. Although, according to Mike, there was nothing to indicate a child lived in the apartment, the police don’t thoroughly investigate the home of a person who dies of natural causes. I meant to make a careful search and find what they missed. I needed something to get Mike off his rear end and on the trail of young Lawrence.
When she wound down I said, “I’d like a picture of him. Do you have an extra key to your place, under a mat, or a planter, or on the lintel maybe?”
She shook her head, but her wet hair didn’t move; it clung to her head as if glued on.
I got to my feet. “It’s okay. I can probably get in.”
She rose up with me. “I’ll come with you.”
Damn! If Mike was right and no trace of Lawrence remained in the apartment, she would see his stuff was gone. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You’ll just get upset.”
“I don’t think I will.” She looked past the trees to the apartment block. “In fact, I have a strange feeling I should be there. And I want to be surrounded by Lawrence’s things.”
Uh oh. I would not be able to concentrate with a hysterical spirit bugging me. I tried to stop her. “Lindy, I don’t want to have to tromp over to your apartment if we need to talk.”
But no, she walked away from me. She got ten paces before she stopped.
“Funny. I can’t go any further.”
I got ahead of her. She stared at the ground. “My feet won’t move.”
Oh great. I didn’t want her to leave my yard right then, but I definitely didn’t want her stuck here. “Let’s experiment, huh? Try going in another direction.”
So we walked around together. Lindy could walk along the side of my house to where she stood when I first saw her, she could walk through the orchard among the trees, but she couldn’t go more than twenty feet away from the house. She couldn’t get near the wall.
Defeated, she folded her body to sit beneath the cherry tree.
Well, nothing I could do about it. I headed for the house.
I had no idea how to go about breaking into a building, so I called Mike, ignoring Jack and Mel for the moment.
“I won’t believe nothing of Lawrence is in their apartment till I see for myself.”
“It’s not a crime scene, so I suppose there’s no harm letting you take a look. But the manager may have already cleared out the place.”
“Damn! I hope not.”
“I’ll give him a call. Give me a few minutes.”
Mike called me back five minutes later. “He hasn’t got to it yet, so I let him know you’ll be by.”
I was relieved. If Mike had said no and I tried to barge in anyway, I would be in it deep when he found out. And I was determined to get inside Lindy’s apartment, one way or another.
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Donna Fasano
Stepping Into the Light
I sit in the back row, shoulders rounded, knees jumping, my left thumb rubbing a raw spot in the center of my right palm. The sad and lonely sufferings being expressed in the dank, dimly-lit basement are all too real and much too close for comfort. I glance at the door and contemplate escape, but it’s too late. All eyes are upon me. I hesitate only a moment before standing on quaking legs, clearing my throat softly and confessing, “My name is Donna. I’m a writer. And I need to come out of the closet because it’s dark in here.”
Twenty years ago, had there been a group called Writers Anonymous, I would have attended faithfully, pouring out my heart at the weekly meetings. You see, for the couple of years that I spent writing my first novel, I told almost no one what I was doing. My husband knew; in fact, he’s the reason I even attempted what felt like the insurmountable task of plotting out and finishing that first book. He’s also the reason I ended up in this glorious, chaotic, roller-coaster life I’ve lived as an author; however, that’s a story for another day. But when I first started scratching words on a yellow legal pad with a no. 2 pencil (there’s nothing else that stirs my creativity more than the feel of graphite gliding against paper), I didn’t tell a single family member or friend.
Why would I keep my dreams and aspirations such a tightly guarded secret?
I would hazard to guess the answer is the same reason anyone else hides things that could have life-altering potential: fear.
What if I failed? What if I had no talent? What if I didn’t possess the perseverance to finish that first manuscript?
The mere thought of the snide remarks, tittering laughter and looks of skepticism and ridicule I might receive were enough to keep me silent. My imagination has always been strong, and I easily saw the scenes play out in my head.
So you think you’re going to write a book, huh?
But you didn’t go to college.
A romance novel? Really?
If you’re going to try to write, why not write a real book? You know, like a mystery or a thriller; something someone is going to want to read.
My ability to conjure fantasy has always been a blessing and a bane. When reading a book or listening to someone tell a story or imagining repercussions of actions, vision
s will take shape in my head. Situations feel real, characters become corporal, while my stirred emotions brim and often overflow. Needless to say, Hallmark commercials make me cry. While powerful creativity is a great and necessary trait for a writer who is intent on concocting a compelling tale, it can become crippling if that writer is too focused on the opinions of others.
However, I also have to confess that keeping that first novel-writing dream all to myself charged me with a vibrant energy. I was excited to get my story down on paper. Seeing my plot unfold was absolutely thrilling! Creating my characters was fun. And the fact that no one knew about my clandestine efforts gave me a huge amount of freedom. No one told me I was doing it all wrong; no one suggested I could never reach my goal.
In defense of all the people I kept in the dark all those years ago, I have to admit that most of them were delighted and supportive when I finally divulged that my first manuscript had been purchased by a bona fide publisher. Oh, there was a scoffer or two, and I continue to meet them; you know the type, people who can’t be happy for others or who feel another’s success somehow diminishes his or her own self-worth, but I’ve learned to deal with those people (working with New York City editors forces a writer to grow a thick skin pretty quickly). I merely smile and think about the slew of books I’ve sold and the fan mail I’ve received from all over the world.
Those scoffers seem to have come out of the woodwork now that I’ve reinvented myself as an Indie Author. But venturing into this new arena couldn’t have happened at a better point in my life. I’m confident in my ability to tell a good story. I’m more than satisfied with the career I’ve had, and have no trouble imagining even more success in the future. I saw tangible proof when two of my books made it onto Kindle’s Top 100 List. I’m happy with who I’ve become as a writer and as a person. If my work receives less-than-flattering feedback from a reader, I might not like it, but I also realize it’s not the end of the world; I’ve learned that I can’t please all readers all the time. I love the creative freedom I have as an independent author. I can allow my muse to take me wherever it will. I’m terrifically grateful that there are readers out there who are willing to buy my novels. Every time I read a good review of one of my books I want to (and do!) kiss my husband for suggesting I take a stab at this profession (it’s a habit that’s been very good for my marriage).
So… what’s my point? Well, don’t let the negative opinions of others keep you from dreaming, for one thing. Most of the scary thoughts that run through your head will never happen, and the few that do materialize can be dealt with. You’re stronger than you think. Don’t allow fear to paralyze you. Aspire to be and do whatever it is you want to be and do. Be kind to yourself; you deserve the same compassion and concern that you offer others. And most importantly, know that your dreams matter. Indulge them. Reach for the stars! I did, and I’m still astounded that I snagged a few.
About the Chick
Donna Fasano is an award-winning, bestselling author whose books have sold over 3.5 million copies worldwide. Two of her books have made The Kindle Top 100 List. She lives with her husband and a wild, dingo-of-a-dog named Roo. Donna enjoys spending time at the ocean, cooking (and eating, of course), kayaking, reading, and indulging in her new obsession, socializing on the internet.
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The Merry-Go-Round
Donna Fasano
An Excerpt
Chapter 1
You don’t know a woman till you’ve met her in court.
~ Norman Mailer
“It’s a great day for a divorce.” Lauren took a quick look around to see if anyone had heard her talking to herself before she hurried up the courthouse steps. If everything went according to plan, she would walk out of this building a free woman. She’d sleep a lot better and breathe a lot easier minus the hundred and eighty pounds of man meat she’d been lugging around for far too long.
A blessed blast of cool air billowed from the building when she hauled open the plate glass door. Although it was a few days into September, the hot, humid temps that plagued Sterling through the lazy months of summer were stubbornly hanging on. She lifted her hand in greeting to Rusty as he tucked the floor polisher into the janitorial closet; she nodded to colleagues she met in the hallway. The reverberation of her high heels clicking against the marble floor had her smiling. It was a satisfying sound—one she’d heard nearly every workday since she’d passed the Maryland Bar and ordered the door plaque that read Lauren E. Hunkavic, Attorney At Law.
Of course, it was Flynn now. The name change was about the only good thing that had come from her marriage. Not that she wasn’t proud of her maiden name. Her Czechoslovakian great-grandparents had risked everything, left everyone they loved in search of a new life across the ocean. But kids were mean. And mercilessly unrelenting. Every Halloween she had been saddled with Hunk-a-trick. The summer she went through a chubby stage, it had been Hunk-a-thick. She lost the weight and they’d come up with Hunk-a-stick. She hadn’t gone on a single Saturday movie outing with friends that she hadn’t heard Hunk-a-flick at least once. Missing a couple of days of school turned her into Hunk-a-sick. Although the teasing during her adolescence had been mostly innocuous, it had been endless and irritating as the hell. Her parents and teachers alike had explained that the kids were simply goading her into reacting. “They’re paying for a ticket,” her dad had told her, “but you don’t have to put on a show.” High school seemed to mature most of her peers, but there had been a moron or two who just seemed to get crueler and nastier in their twisting of her last name.
Turning the corner, she wasn’t surprised to see her father sitting on the bench near the elevator. His beat up Dodge Ram had been parked on West Main Street directly in front of the courthouse steps. He must have arrived at daybreak to bag the prime spot. Even though she was ten minutes early for their court appointment—the first slot of the day—Lauren had been forced to use the side lot.
She tried to gauge her father’s mood as she got closer. If Eeyore ever took sick in the 100 Acre Wood, Lew Hunkavic would be the perfect standin for the pessimistic Equus asinus.
“Hey there, Dad. You look good this morning. All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You must have slept well.”
Asking her dad how he was feeling held too great a possibility of opening a huge can of big, fat blood worms. Instead, she made a habit of making the most positive assessment possible.
“My hair hurts.” He raked his stubby fingers through the thatch of silver covering his scalp, tilting his head and wincing as he did so. “Been hurting for days. You’da known about it if you’da called.”
“Dad, we had dinner on Sunday,” she reminded him lightly. “It’s only Wednesday.”
“I know what day of the week it is,” he groused.
She punched the elevator call button. “Come the weekend, you won’t have to worry about me calling you, will you?” A slight movement had her eyes darting to his face. She’d thought she’d seen his mouth quirk, but surely she was mistaken. He had to be as dismayed about these circumstances as she.
“Besides that,” she continued, “your hair can’t hurt.”
He rose from the bench, the rubber tip of his cane squeaking on the polished stone floor.
“Hair is made up of nothing but dead cells, Dad. No nerve endings, no pain.”
He glowered, his gray-green eyes narrowing on her, just as the elevator dinged, the up arrow lit and the doors slid open. “It’s carbunculosis.”
They stepped inside and Lauren touched the button that would take them to the third floor.
“An infection of the scalp. I researched it at that website I told you about. All Natural Health dot org.”
The internet. It was both a blessing and a bane. A person could find information about anything there. Anything.
Most people spent their golden years traveling the country, or engrossed in some well-loved
hobby, or immersed in great works of literature. Not her seventy-year-old dad. Oh, no. He spent his days hunched over a keyboard, trolling the Web for medical maladies with which to label every ache and pain he experienced.
Softly, she warned, “Dad, it wouldn’t hurt to get a professional opinion.”
He straightened. “You telling me my scalp isn’t sore?”
“I’m not saying that at all.” Suddenly, Lauren realized she’d better back peddle a bit. She needed her dad in good spirits this morning. Well, as good as his spirits could be, anyway.
The doors slid open and they exited the elevator.
“I have no doubt you’re hurting,” she told him. “I can see by the look on your face. Maybe you should go see Dr. Amos.”
“Charlie Amos is a dimwit.”
“Dad, you and Dr. Amos have been friends for—”
“I don’t need a doctor, Lauren. I bought myself some tea tree oil. A few drops in my shampoo should take care of the problem.”
“Tea tree oil, huh?” She stifled the sigh building at the base of her diaphragm. “Where’d you hear about that? Find A Cure dot com?” Before he could respond, she said, “Dad, you need to forgive Doc.”
“Bless my butt and call me Betty. The man couldn’t diagnose a simple rash, Lauren.” Lew shook his head in disgust. “Dry skin, my ass. I knew I had a problem, and I found a cure, too. That old quack can’t even turn on a computer, let alone do a Google search. He’s way behind the times. How can he ever expect to keep up with advances in health care?”
Medical journals, maybe? Professional conferences? Refresher courses? But Lauren zipped her lip.
The fact was that the good doctor had the gall to warn her father not to take everything he read on the Net as gospel truth. That had been four months ago, and since then her dad had refused to acknowledge Dr. Amos existed.
They arrived at the double doors of the courtroom, and Lauren spun to face her father.