Written By: Jennifer Foor
Edited By: Lovenbooks
Copyright © 2017 Jennifer Foor
All Rights Reserved
Cover Art: JMF PUBLISHING /Shutterstock
This book is a written act of fiction. Any places, characters, or similarities are purely coincidence. If certain places or characters are referenced it is for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is not allowed to be offered for sale, discounted, or free on any sites by anyone other than JENNIFER FOOR. To reiterate: This book may ONLY be distributed by Jennifer Foor, the owner and Author of this series.
DOWNLOADING EPUB COPIES IS A FRADULENT ACT.
This book is dedicated :
To all of those suffering, or know someone who has suffered from Huntington’s Disease.
Huntington's disease is an inherited disease that causes the progressive breakdown (degeneration) of nerve cells in the brain. Huntington's disease has a broad impact on a person's functional abilities and usually results in movement, thinking (cognitive) and psychiatric disorders. There is no cure.
There are around 200,000 cases per year.
For information on how to help click the link below.
https://hdsa.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.eventGroup&eventGroupID=857D7BD6-C299-258B-BC953D67026BF9C
Chapter 1
Baz
The deep blue ocean beckons me. From the first light of day I’m ready for dawn patrol, the earliest moment I’m able to look beyond the swells and see the flat lull waiting for me to reach it.
There’s nothing compared to the murmuring waves crashing into an oozing pool on the sand. The way the air smells like a salted heaven glazed with a freshness so pure it humidifies the soul. It’s a place where the sun sets an illuminating glow over anything in it’s path. A ray of pulsating light saturates the horizon in hues of gold casting a glow off the never ending seascape. A heavy swell rolls in, a gentle spray of spit sprinkles over the barrel. It’s a spectacular sight.
This is my serenity. The ocean is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. It’s home; where the ever-flowing tides call out to me. It’s the only virtue I have left in this cruel pathetic world.
As we pull the old CJ7 Jeep onto the beach I scan the area, my eyes coasting around to look for others hoping to practice for the competition. The offshore wind blows the top of my already disheveled hair, while the salty smell tells the story of the rest of my life.
My best bud Max is out of the vehicle before I’m able point out the size of the breakers. For a brief moment I’m hypnotized by their size and ability to cripple anything in their path. Then a smile forms on my face when I consider how many times I’ve conquered those same threats. It’s gotten me to a point where I’m damn near fearless. Once the first wave was mastered it was the most intense, mind altering rush of endorphins. From that moment I was addicted, determined, and willing to risk it all to achieve new heights. It’s empowering, but mostly a sense of freedom and power I’ve never been able to experience otherwise. The possibility outweighs the danger, because it’s my only chance to be something better than anyone in my family has ever been. It’s my opportunity to prove I’ve always had the potential.
Being part of the circuit, having sponsorships and making an earning is the goal. It’s always been the goal, even when I was too immature and selfish to deserve it. I need to prove to everyone attending the competition that the man I was two years ago is long behind me. I’m focused and determined nothing will stand in my way this time.
The truth is, I haven’t always done the right things. Bad choices should’ve been my middle name. I’d like to blame my two parents who neglected to stick around, but the decisions I made were my doing. I’m the only reason I’m not part of the ASP World Tour. My own mistakes are why the officials shake their heads when they see my name on competition rosters, and probably why I’ve yet to catch a break.
I’ve burned bridges, missed out on opportunities to get my foot in the door. For the longest time I was willing to do whatever it takes to make it on top, even lie and cheat my way there.
I’m famous for a lot of reasons, but none I want a part of. I starting taking opiates and did things I thought I’d get away with. After sabotaging some of my opponent’s boards, and stealing competitor’s property, I spent two years behind bars getting clean. Being a badass used to appeal to my tough demeanor, although I’ve never been one to settle for anything less than the best. What used to get me going has now become my greatest regret. In this sport I have way more enemies than allies.
If I could reinvent myself I’d do it in a heartbeat, but the truth is, I’ve made my bed. Convincing people I’ve changed has been damn near impossible, but Max won’t let up, not when he knows that winning could mean the difference between a future with possibilities, or none at all.
If fame was what I wanted, I obviously took the wrong route to get it. Now recognized as a delinquent who ruined his opportunity to be something great, I’ve had to start from the bottom and work my way up in the circuit again. Since I’m not getting any younger, this next competition could be my last attempt, and I’ve never been more focused in my entire life.
Max leans my board, the J.S. Monsta 3, against the tailgate and pulls his own out from the opposite side. Grabbing the knapsack, I retrieve our sets of wax and toss one to him. Unlike my struggles, Max is a natural. He’s been doing this since he was in diapers. People respect him, and have a legitimate reason to. Born on the island of Kauai, his father owns and operates a board shop. His Polynesian descendants were here in Hawaii since before Pearl Harbor. If they hadn’t taken me in I’d probably be homeless or dead. Max’s father, Koani, said he saw something in me a long time ago. He offered me shelter if I agreed to devote all my time and energy into working toward a goal, this time without drama.
He’s the reason I’m able to ride on such a fantastic board. It was a reward for one year clean and on the right track. Otherwise I’d be surfing on a piece of wood I had to carve myself, and even though it’s been done before, I understand I’m not that talented.
Having moved to the island when I was young, after my parent’s abandoned me to child services, I was immediately intrigued by the professionals. Duke Kahanamoku is my idol. He’s the most famous professional surfer in the business. I had posters of him on my walls. All I wanted was to be half as good as he was, even before I ever touched a board.
People often ask why I don’t just give up. For me it’s not an option. I refuse to quit until someone tells me I no longer have a chance.
I’m going to make it this time. I’ve persevered and busted my ass to make it this far, to qualify and place at a level that would enable this chance. Like the song says, I’ve got one shot. An opportunity at this capacity usually only comes once in a lifetime, so I need to lose myself in the sport to ensure I don’t fail this time around.
Chapter 2
Miley
Her feeble hands struggle to stay laced with mine. The air in the room feels stale, a hint of rubbing alcohol still apparent. They’ve decorated in bright colors, though there’s nothing promising about it. This place is tinged with death, diseased with the remains of a million tears, mine included.
The doctors have done everything they can. We knew once Momma was moved to hospice there was no going back.
The nurses are only checking in to make sure she’s comfortable. I knew when I spotted our pastor walking into the room my momma’s time was about to expire.
Some woul
d say I’m not displaying enough emotion knowing my Momma could pass away at any moment. They wouldn’t understand what’s it like to be fully aware of the genetic disease that’s taken fifty percent of my blood relatives for as long as history can recall. From a young age I knew this was probable. There is no cure. There may never be. Huntington’s Disease is fatal. Life can be prolonged, but death is inevitable.
Momma once told me she’d rather burn the house down with her still inside, than to see me suffer the amount of pain she lives through on a daily basis.
I’m just thankful I don’t have to go through this alone. The good man who sits in the chair next to me has been here for every step of this. He’s my rock. Without him I’d probably be displaying those emotions others expect, but he’s also a constant reminder of a future I may never get. Michael Vincent has major goals. He aspires to follow his daddy’s footsteps and go into the mortgage business. He’s through his fourth year of college, but has been thinking about transferring to a university with a broader curriculum to continue his degrees. The only thing holding him back is me. It’s a constant reminder of my bad luck. Anyone who gets close to me either dies, or gets lost in my awful reality. They pity me, and for that I pity myself.
Momma coughs and fights to catch a breath. Leaning forward, I place her mask back over her mouth to ensure she’s getting enough oxygen.
Many have never heard of Huntington’s Disease or the debilitating symptoms it causes. People familiar with the term can attest to the suffering the patients have to go through. Many doctors have described the disease as being like a person is suffering from ALS, Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s all at the same time.
For the past four years my momma has gone through every ailment. She’s had personality changes, mood swings, and bouts of depression where she had to be hospitalized. She once attempted suicide, but ended up taking medicine that wasn’t sufficient enough for the job. There have been days where she’s alert, and then suddenly forgets. She makes compulsive purchases and had wrecked two vehicles before having her license taken away. As her disease continued to progress she started slurring words, having difficulties swallowing, and finally began the battle of keeping weight on. Now down nearly seventy pounds, she’s a shell of the vivacious person who brought me into this world.
Her heavy eyes prove she’s barely lucid, and where they used to be a bright blue in color, are now a pale grayer shade. Her thinning brown hair sticks out all over the place, appearing grease-filled and dirty. She claims a few of her teeth are loose, and the pain in her throat is unimaginable. On the outside it appears as if her whole body is disintegrating. Her arms and legs are so frail and thin that her veins protrude. Her nails have yellowed and her face looks like a skull wrapping loosely in skin. She’s unrecognizable, and absolutely fading faster by the second.
They’re giving her morphine to dull the pain, yet I’ve never seen her suffering so much. It’s a hell of a thing to watch your parent dying while being fully aware there is nothing left they can do for her. She’s reached the end of her journey, and her last dying wish is something I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to do.
Even before the disease got the best of her my momma was ready to die. She’s been ready to let go ever since my baby sister died. At age two she was a little too brave for her own good. We were at a community event where there was one of those three foot above ground pools. While my momma wasn’t watching, my sister climbed into the water without anyone noticing. By the time they spotted her it was too late. She was gone, and so was a big part of my momma’s heart. I was just seven when it happened and by that time Daddy had been long gone. He’d moved away with his new family, forgetting all about me.
I guess that’s why it’s been so hard for me being aware she’s running out of time. She’s all I’ve had for as long as I can remember. Friends and distant relatives can offer me a shoulder to cry on, but their efforts to give me support are useless.
I’m losing yet another loved one, and this death will leave me empty and alone.
She’s been in and out of consciousness all day. When she is awake, she can barely remember my name. She keeps saying we’re back at the farm, and asking when Meemaw is going to be bringing in supper. The worst part is knowing I don’t have the courage to correct her. Meemaw had a hard life, and when my Pop Pop had his stroke it got even harder. She’s only ever been a housewife and mother. Once the income stopped coming in she couldn’t manage the stiff upkeep of a working farm. The three of us ended up moving into a singlewide trailer. Momma supported us working two jobs, up until her symptoms started showing. At first she was in denial. She’d put off being tested, claiming she’d rather live her life instead of dwelling on the future she’d never have. The sickness came on fast, and soon after she wasn’t able to work. At sixteen I dropped out of high school, got a GED, and started working to keep food on the table. Meemaw passed away the first year Momma was sick. One day she was there with us, and the next she was gone. Unlike her husband, she died in her sleep, peacefully from what I’ve been told.
Her death is what really sent Momma into a downward spiral. She never recovered, and I supposed neither have I.
I think what hurts the most is the way people look at me. They treat me as if I’m made of glass and could possibly shatter if they say a single word about my life. Even Michael has his moments where I wonder if he only sticks around because he knows I’ll be alone without him. God knows his parents feel sorry for me. It’s always, sweetie this, and poor Miley that. They don’t look at me as an individual. I’m more like a lost cause, or maybe a puppy their precious son can’t part from. Whatever the case, I know they don’t respect me.
I feel her fingers loosening around mine, causing me to peer up and make sure there is still moisture showing against her oxygen mask, because at least I’ll know she’s breathing. I watch her small frame take in air, and then exhale it back out. A sigh of relief washes over me. It’s like the highlight of the day, knowing she’s a fighter.
It used to be the monitors that I paid such close attention to, but since she’s been in hospice there are no machines. The whole purpose is so a person dying can feel more comfortable. It’s not comfortable for me. I knew from the moment I walked into this depressing establishment I wouldn’t be leaving with a smile or any sort of peace.
There’s a sudden gasp. Her chest rises, and as it slowly begins to fall I know it’s never going to lift again. Her hands goes limp, Momma’s head falling to the side. Her mouth loses muscular ability, gaping. Without realizing, I rise to my feet and reach for her mask, gently sliding it from her face. A warm rush of tears fill my eyes as I lean forward to kiss her goodbye.
I can feel the comfort of Michael’s arms behind me, though he knows not to speak. I’m tired of hearing people are sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m proud I got to spend her last days at her side. I’m happy we were able to share memories before she could no longer remember them. I’m thankful she won’t suffer for another second, and grateful her fight is finally over.
Hearing people say they’re sorry only makes matters worse. It’s a useless word meant to mean something it actually doesn’t, not in my case.
There’s a few minutes where the room is silent. My face leans against the warmth that remains in her cheek. “Can you give me a minute?” I request while backing away from the lifeless shell of my Momma.
Michael is gone when I kiss my two fingers and raise them to her lips. “Goodbye, Momma. You’re the lucky one. No more pain and suffering. Watch out for me. Please forgive me for not being tested. There’s just some things I’d rather not know.”
Michael doesn’t return for another thirty minutes. It gives me enough time to say my goodbyes and sit for a while in the quiet. Soon I’ll be responsible for making phone calls and finalizing arrangements, and when it’s all said and done I’ll be faced with my independence for the first time in my life. This is what my momma wanted for me. My only wish would be that I know where to go from he
re.
Chapter 3
Baz
People think they can buy a foam board, swim out into the waves and ride them back in. They think surfing is something anyone can do. I beg to differ. Surfing takes more than a board and a rider. It’s an intricate sport with complex dynamics. As a kid I loved to attempt the sport, but I didn’t get good at it until I started paying attention to the math and science of it all.
Without the help of Max and his dad I’d still be that hot-headed gremmie; a mediocre surfer who only dreamed he could be more. They mended my skill, helped me focus on performance, and taught me if I wanted this it had to come from deep inside of me.
I’ve been clean for two years. I practice a strict fitness regiment, and stay focused on goals instead of the things that I used to bide my time with, including women. Just to add, being a surfer kind of makes you a chick magnet. We have names for those types of girls. Here on the island we call them Bennys. Anyone who isn’t a local is either a Benny or a Barney, which is just considered an inexperienced surfer. We tend to use a lot of inside lingo around the beach to keep the tourists from knowing what we’re talking about.
In order for me to stay focused it’s important I stay out of the limelight until the big event. Since qualifying, Max and I have been frequenting a secret beach that most wouldn’t dare attempt surfing at. The coral is heavy. The pipeline waves are killer, and the heavy wind is usually going in the wrong direction, which is also called an onshore wind. Surfing in these conditions can be dangerous, but also gives me an advantage over others. If I can surf this, I can surf anywhere.
Unfortunately, it’s an ugly sight. More than I’d like to admit, I’m plummeted and raked over, hammered by waves that are unsurfable. It’s this exact beach where I experienced my first rock dance attempt, which happened to result in a very painful rail bang. It’s where you fall off and take it between the legs at the same time you’re trampled by bully ripe tides.
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