Keep Forever

by Alexa Kingaard

  Keep

  Forever

  INSPIRED

  by

  A TRUE STORY

  ALEXA KINGAARD

  FROM THE TINY ACORN . . .

  GROWS THE MIGHTY OAK

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Advertencia Antipirateria del FBI: La reproducción o distribución no autorizada de una obra protegida por derechos de autor es ilegal. La infracción criminal de los derechos de autor, incluyendo la infracción sin lucro monetario, es investigada por el FBI y es castigable con pena de hasta cinco años en prisión federal y una multa de $250,000.

  Keep Forever

  Second Edition

  Copyright © 2020 Alexa Kingaard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author.

  This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Book cover by Damonza.

  Book interior design and digital formatting by Debra Cranfield Kennedy.

  www.acornpublishingllc.com/

  ISBN—Hardcover 978-1-947392-81-6

  ISBN—Paperback 978-1-947392-80-9

  )

  To Jeffrey A. Holmes,

  Vietnam 1966-1968,

  LCpl, USMC, Machine-Gunner,

  Purple Heart.

  We met nine months after his return.

  I said farewell in the Fall of 2011.

  Thank you for sharing your life with me, Jeff.

  I am a better human being because you were here.

  —

  Keep

  Forever

  )

  Chapter 1

  “Paul, you okay?”

  Before responding, Paul thought what a stupid question from his best friend. Since kindergarten, he and Tony had been inseparable. They surfed in Santa Monica as they grew into their teen years, taking taunts from the locals in stride. It was no secret they drove from the Valley every weekend and once in a while came across a few territorial surfers who thought the beach was strictly reserved for locals. But still, it was worth the hassle. Over time they became respected and recognizable, and blended effortlessly into the surf culture sweeping the Southern California beaches. Sprawled on their towels after their morning sessions in the surf, they’d turn up the portable radio as loud as possible and watch girls stroll by in their bikinis, glistening from too much baby oil or tanning lotion.

  It was a wonderful life—three months ago. Three months ago, Paul was looking forward to starting his senior year at Reseda Valley High School. All he thought about was surfing until the sun went down, and planning what he would do after graduation.

  “Okay? Yeah, sure, if okay is being only seventeen and watching your mother die four weeks after being diagnosed with cancer. I suppose I’m okay. I should feel better knowing she didn’t suffer very long, and I got to be with her every day till the end. I suppose those things should make me feel just bitchin’.”

  Tony, always a welcome presence in the O’Brien household, suddenly felt like a stranger in the room. He lowered his head and avoided eye contact with Paul. “All I wanted to say was, I’m sorry, man. I really am.”

  All Paul heard was, “I’m so glad it’s you and not me.”

  Paul’s square jaw clenched, and tears dulled his bright blue eyes as he turned to walk into the small living room. Their tidy home was nestled in the suburbs of Los Angeles, and today it overflowed with people—well-wishers, clergy, and old friends. So many Paul had never met. The kitchen, with its brand-new coat of paint and yellow gingham wallpaper his mother had insisted upon, was filled with fresh bowls of fruit, hot casseroles, cookies, cakes, salads—every surface was brimming with food. The thirsty helped themselves to Cokes, Dr. Peppers, and Nesbitt’s orange sodas from the cooler on the porch, and a fresh pot of coffee was brewing on a side table, tended by his mother’s best friend. Paul noticed she had created a job for herself so she wouldn’t have to mingle or speak. He wished he could do the same.

  The somber voices intensified as their words of condolences filled the air, and Paul heard every word spoken like a strange, melancholy chorus. He scanned the room and fought hard to keep his composure. He noticed the dining-room table where he and his parents ate dinner every night, where meat loaf, corned beef, or roasted chicken was always accompanied by Wonder Bread, a tall glass of milk, and easy conversation. Now it was covered with sympathy cards and a large floral arrangement that took up almost the entire surface. Paul closed his eyes in an attempt to dam the flood of memories.

  The air inside the house was uncomfortable—warm, humid, and reeking of food, perfume, aftershave, and cigarettes. Paul felt queasy. He struggled to make sense of the scene, loosened his tie, removed his sports coat, and wandered from one room to the next. So many people had stopped by to pay their last respects. His parents led a simple, almost solitary life. They had a few good friends in the neighborhood, hosted small dinner parties and summer barbecues, but nothing of this magnitude.

  Where were all these people when Mom was alive? Paul was angry at everyone: relatives, church people, old friends, new friends, PTA mothers, his father’s work buddies from the aerospace company where he had worked for twenty years. He put in his time as a mechanical engineer, clocking in every morning fifteen minutes before his shift and frequently being the last employee to leave. He had only taken one sick day off in his entire career—the day Paul was born. He never complained and was proud to be the sole breadwinner in the family.

  Why hadn’t they stopped by when Mom was so sick? Where were they when she was healthy? Paul’s mind raced. Maybe Mom and Dad didn’t like a lot of people around. Maybe they were happiest when it was just us. Our family. Maybe there is no “us” anymore, only me and Dad and sorrow. And maybe I don’t know how to do this . . . I don’t want to do this. I can’t do this.

  Interrupting Paul’s thoughts, his mother’s best friend, draped in black from head to toe and smelling of flowery perfume, appeared beside him and wrapped her delicate arms around his tense shoulders. “Your mother would be so proud, Paul. Lily loved you so much. Our sweet Lily. She raised a good, sensitive boy, and everything’s going to be all right. Give it time. It’ll get better over time, I promise.”

  Paul knew she meant well and returned the hug. He wished it were his mother’s gentle hand resting on his shoulder, not someone else’s. He would have to etch in his mind the last time they’d hugged, the last time they’d laughed, the last time they’d spoken. He needed to anchor one lasting memory to get through this day and find a way to let time heal.

  An awkward procession of people left, none having said anything that would make the situation any better. Paul clutched at the words he heard murmured throughout the day about his generous, caring, mother . . . “Lily was such a fabulous cook.” . . . “No one could organize a Halloween carnival quite like Lily.” . . . “I remember when Lily and I were in fifth grade and a group of us girls got caught in the rain and didn’t have any money to call our mothers. Lily was the only resourceful one in the bunch and ducked inside Old Man Leo’s liquor store and asked if she could borrow the phone.” . . . “Lily raised such a kind, sensitive boy. This next year is going to be difficult for him.” . . . “They both
look devastated, in shock. Time will heal.”

  Paul couldn’t wait for everyone to leave, even though a slight smile emerged when he overheard the comment about the liquor store. He never pictured his mother young. Now he could only picture his mother gone. He stood in the shelter of the front porch, waved goodbye to the last guest, and turned to his father who leaned against the railing to steady himself. Paul observed his razor-stubbled face and his eyes rimmed in pink. Shocked at the appearance of the straight-talking, confident man he had always known, he asked, “Dad, you okay?”

  “Fine, Son, fine. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  They were not.

  It was August 1965, and for Paul O’Brien, this was the day his new life began.

  Chapter 2

  “That’s enough, Elizabeth. We’ve discussed this before,” Mr. Sutton interrupted his daughter’s familiar plea.

  At the dinner table, when the conversation was peppered with debate on appropriate behavior for teenaged girls, Elizabeth had brought up the subject of wearing tank tops and shorts, but the discussion stalled with a stern look from her father and a silent shrug from her mother. Sam escaped their father’s nightly outburst against the moral decline of society and the evolving role of women. He was, after all, a boy, an Ivy League-college boy at that, home only for the summer and granted freedoms not given to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth persisted and hoped she could squeeze out a winning argument before the conversation ended. If it hadn’t been so damned uncomfortable, she would have been in a much better mood. She dreaded the intolerable summers, with sunrises signaling the arrival of another day of stifling heat, and sunsets offering little relief. Her cut-off blue jeans were beginning to ride up the insides of her thighs and were damp and sticky from the high temperatures and humidity.

  “That’s not fair. Laura and Tina wear sunsuits all summer. And there’s no more fabric on them than a bathing suit.”

  “That’s different. Your sisters are nine years old. You’re fifteen and startin’ tenth grade in the fall. You need to know these things and follow our rules. And no more dungies or long pants in school. You’re growin’ up, becomin’ a young lady. Your mother will take you school-clothes shopping for skirts and dresses before school starts.”

  “Daddy . . .”

  “This conversation is closed, Elizabeth. Help your mother with the dishes.”

  Annoyed at the unfair restrictions doled out by her father—how he still babied the twins and treated Sam like a prince—Elizabeth followed her mother to the kitchen. “Mama, can’t you say something to him? Please? There’s nothing wrong with wearing shorts and tank tops when it’s this hot. It’s like we’re stuck in the dark ages. It’s the Sixties, for Pete’s sake!” her voice rose in exasperation. “Women and teenagers can wear dungies and sleeveless tops. All my girlfriends’ parents let ’em wear whatever they want. I’ll be the only one in my grade who looks like a nerd. Can’t you talk to Daddy?”

  “Don’t use slang, Elizabeth. And don’t talk back. You know your father doesn’t allow it.”

  “Nerd isn’t a bad word. And I’m not ‘talking back.’ I’m just explaining,” Elizabeth sighed. “It’s not the dark ages.”

  “Yes, you already told me that, and I’m telling you not to raise your voice or use slang . . . in the house. I’ll talk with your father on the trip. Maybe he’ll calm down once he has time to relax and unwind. It’s been a year since we’ve been away and I know he’s lookin’ forward to our long weekend. Every day he works sunrise to sunset in a hot, stuffy office, providing for us and making sure we have everything we need.” Mrs. Sutton’s eyes softened as she handed her eldest daughter a clean dish towel. She was well aware of the responsibilities placed on her first-born girl, and the unfair rules and expectations of a father firmly attached to a different generation.

  “We’ll be leavin’ first thing in the morning, and remember, you promised to help while we’re gone. With your sisters. And the housework.”

  “Yeah, I know. I promise. What about Sam? Does he have anything he’s supposed to do?”

  “He’ll hold down the fort.”

  So all he has to do is hang around the house?! “I wish I’d been born a boy. That way I’d have my sisters, and then my wife, waiting on me hand and foot, making sure dinner was on the table every night at six o’clock sharp. You’ve spoiled him, Mom. I’m never getting married.” Elizabeth dried the last dish, and a mixture of dismay and disgust washed across her face as she hurried past her mother and upstairs to her room.

  )

  Even though Mrs. Sutton was nervous about leaving her four children alone, Mr. Sutton reassured his wife that their house would still be standing when they returned. “Sam’s in college, he’s old enough to keep an eye on the girls. Don’t worry so much,” was all Mr. Sutton had to say as he carried the bags to their brand-new 1966 Bel Air Chevy wagon.

  “Elizabeth, we’re leaving now.” Her mother called from the bottom of the stairs. “Kids, can you please come down so I can say goodbye?” It sounded more like a plea than a question as her teenaged daughter, Sam, and the twins reluctantly tore themselves away from their activities. Waiting for them one by one to reach the bottom of the stairs, she gave each a final kiss and hug before joining their father, who waited behind the wheel, engine running. He was eager to put some miles on the new family car, with its elongated, flat lines and unblemished Daytona-blue paint reflecting the already-hot sun.

  “Mama, don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” All Elizabeth could think of was getting some relief from the heat in the new air-conditioned mall. The sooner her parents departed, the sooner she could jump on the bus and escape. “You guys have a good time.”

  Mr. Sutton put the car in reverse, but before they got past the mailbox, Elizabeth frantically waved her arms, shouting for her father to stop. “Wait! One more thing!” She ran to the passenger side and motioned to her mother to roll down the window. She thrust her head inside the opening and surprised her with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Had to give you one more. Love you.”

  All four of the Sutton children waved, smiled, and blew kisses while they watched their parents back out of the driveway and disappear into the landscape.

  )

  Before she attempted to leave the house, Elizabeth made sure that the laundry was folded and put away, and the kitchen was clean, like her mother asked. Sam was glad his sister was handling the household chores he felt were beneath someone in college. He waited for her to finish her job in the kitchen before he poked his head through the door. “I’m going out for a few hours tonight, okay? There’s a summer kegger in the quad, and I don’t want to miss it.”

  “I thought you were supposed to hold down the fort.”

  “I won’t be out all night. Only a few hours. You can do whatever you want with the rest of your day.”

  Elizabeth didn’t feel like arguing and knew if there was any trouble at home this weekend, her parents would never leave them alone again.

  “Okay. I had plans to go to the mall. I can catch the bus on the corner, take it downtown, and be back by four o’clock. Can you watch the girls?” She paused deliberately for dramatic effect. “Or is that asking too much?”

  “Oh, come on, Sophomore.” Sam could play her game, and his tone was just smug enough to show he still had the upper hand. “I’ll let them play in the sprinklers. They’ll be worn out by the time you get home.”

  )

  Within an hour, Elizabeth caught the crowded bus to the mall, leaving Laura and Tina squealing, soaking wet, and happy in the backyard with Sam. The day was hers, and she felt free.

  The sounds of downtown drew closer as the bus continued its winding route to the center of the hustle and bustle, toward the new indoor shopping center. It was an impressive array of sixty retail stores, ten restaurants, and a movie theatre. Elizabeth could feel the excitement as she thought about shopping with the twenty dollars saved from b
abysitting tucked into her new pink and white pocketbook. She had never seen crowds like this before. The noise level rose as children responded to the profusion of sights, sounds, and colors. Parents seemed to shout names from every corner of the mall. She luxuriated in the instant relief offered by the air conditioning. Piped music drifted from every store and invited shoppers to come inside, browse, and spend their hard-earned money.

  Elizabeth visited three department stores, tried on shorts, T-shirts, and sundresses in each, and wandered in and out of a dozen boutiques scattered up and down the long corridors. She wondered what her parents might say if she came home with a tank top. Everywhere she looked teenaged girls, college coeds, and even young mothers escaped the heat dressed in the immodest fashion that made her father cringe.

  She glanced at her watch and saw with dismay that it was almost three o’clock. She quickened her pace, wishing she could stay longer. Conscious of the clock counting down to her three-thirty bus ride home, she dashed back to the first department store, feeling bold and a bit rebellious. She wanted the pink tank top with spaghetti straps, and a white, eyelet-ruffled neckline. Innocent enough, she thought and mentally prepared a rebuttal to her father’s objections as she scrutinized herself in the fitting room mirrors.

  The sales girl, who didn’t look much older than Elizabeth, gushed, “This looks so cute on you. Don’t worry. Your parents will love it.”

  Elizabeth smiled. She was eager to get home—out of the hot, drab clothes, her parents saw her wearing when they left, and into the cool, contemporary look of a modern teenager. She took her place in a long line of shoppers, wishing it would move faster and worried she would be late.

  She made it to the bus stop with minutes to spare.