Lost No More (Ghost No More Series Book 2)
Page 14
I wish he had lived long enough to understand that I truly loved him. That, despite everything we’d been through, he was, and always had been my hero. It was my last crushing blow that he’d only heard my words through a filter of shame, and had rather push me away then deal with his own guilt.
I felt like I would fly apart from the grief.
But life goes on. In the meantime, I looked over at my wife, the two of us once broken and now making a family together. Both of us had grown up learning a wrong definition of love; earn it because you’re not worthy. Now learning everyone has value. Both of us changing, and trying to teach our kids love, so they could be loving people.
She smiled back at me and reached for my hand. “You know,” she whispered. “You are just like your dad. All the best, strongest parts of him live in you.”
I had no words to answer her, no way to describe the gift she gave me. She had given me the gift of finally being able to feel proud that I was like him.
I felt like I could breathe in deeply for the first time.
And slowly I picked up the pieces.
Chapter 23- Epilogue
This next part of the story is going to be hard to believe. You’ve traveled this far with me, and I appreciate it. I just have to warn you, I don’t have any explanations, theological or otherwise, for what I’m about to tell you. I can only share it the way that it happened to me.
Okay, here it goes.
It was about ten o’clock in the evening. My wife was in the living room talking with our oldest daughter. All the other kids were in bed. I got up to get myself a drink of water, and then meandered to the back to bed.
On the way there I heard my son calling to me from his bedroom.
“Dad! Dad! Come here!”
I went into his room and flipped on the light.
“What’s up, Bud?”
He was lying on his back on the floor with his eyes closed, and a huge grin on his face. He was crying, and had been for a while, with wet tracks down either side of his face soaking his hair. I paused in the doorway, kind of taking it all in. Then, I sank to my knees next to him.
“What’s going on, Son?” I rested my hand on his arm.
He said, “I see him!”
I froze, and all of my hair stood on end.
“You see who?” I asked.
“I can see Jesus! And I see Grandpa!”
My boy had a look of joy on his face that I didn’t recognize. He was so caught up in what he was seeing, he didn’t seem to notice me at all, apart from those few words.
I swallowed then and slowly backed away. Leaning out into the hallway, I called, “CeeCee! Hurry up! Get in here!”
She and my daughter came running at the panic in my voice. They crowded into the room, bumping into one another in an abrupt stop with the same reaction that I had; what in the world was going on?
I really didn’t know what to do at this point, so I sat back down, and kind of off the cuff, I said, “Well, tell Grandpa, “hi,” from me.”
It kind of made me giggle just to say it.
My young son, still with his eyes closed, says, “Grandpa’s smiling and he’s waving to you, Dad. He looks so young!”
Suddenly there was a lump the size of Pittsburgh in my throat. My eyes started to water.
My wife sat down in the doorway, bowed her head and prayed silently in her head. She told me later that she’d prayed these exact words, “God, please give Jim a special gift with his dad.”
All I know is that just then my son opened his eyes and said, “Dad, God has a special gift for you. Grandpa’s next to you right this second, and he’s saying to you, “I understand how much you love me. But now I love you, Son, more than you’ll ever know.”
My son had never been privy to the conversation of when I’d tried to explain to my Dad that I loved him, because he was at a friend’s house at the time. He had no idea what he was saying to me.
But I knew. Here’s my dad telling me the situation’s reversed; he loves me with a depth that now I can’t understand.
I broke.
God was giving me the experience of agape love and restoration, and what a father’s heart looks like.
My kids, CeeCee, and I squashed together in that little room and thanked God. All of us were filled with a deep peace and joy. That night was a special night, one none of us will forget.
I don’t know why it happened. Later, my son said that he’d been praying before bedtime, telling God he was sorry for the things he’d done wrong and asking God to forgive him. My son said that as soon as he’d said that he felt a surge of love fill him to overflowing, and then he saw just what I described.
My son is fully confident that his Grandpa is happy, strong, and knows love.
*****
Look up, Son.
Thank you for reading Lost No More, the second in the Ghost No More series. On the following page is a sample of Ghost No More, book one, that I hope you will enjoy.
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Ghost No More
Chapter One
~Turning Invisible~
“You know, CeeCee,” Mama said, not looking up at me, “I was lost in the desert once.”
I froze, afraid to move a muscle. I didn’t want to break the spell causing Mama to talk to me. They were her first words to me in two days.
Mama sat on the floor staring at a picture in her lap-- a picture that Grandma had painted of Arizona. She lit a cigarette, paused to take a deep drag, her eyes focused on the yellow painting.
“Your dad and I were in the Sonoran desert looking for peyote when I was pregnant with you. And then the car died. I told your Dad that car was a pile of crap, but he never listened to me.” She snorted and shook her head.
“He had this great idea to take a short cut back to town. Instead, we were lost for hours. I thought we’d die out there.”
She jerked her head up and gave me a sharp look, and my eleven-year-old heart jumped. “Somehow, we found our way back. I remember thinking I was never going to get away from him, because of you. I ended up going into labor, and your dad left me alone at the hospital on his way to the bar to get drunk.”
She stood to put the painting back in the box.
“Mama, were you happy? You know, when I was born.” I blurted out before she could turn her back, and the moment was gone forever.
“You were a terrible baby, just screamed all day. But I didn’t let you manipulate me with your crying. I used to let you scream until your face turned black. I kept the bedroom door closed and let your dad deal with you when he got home.”
She paused from folding the tissue paper around the painting and turned with a dark sneer. “Don’t think he’s a good guy. Your dad destroyed your baby book one night when he was drunk.”
She abruptly left the room, returning a minute later with a white photo album that she set before me on the kitchen counter. I looked at her for a second and then opened the book. The first picture captured Mama in 1973. She was twenty, beautiful, and smiling with the confidence of a woman who once had every football player at her high school chase after her. I was perched on her lap, and Mama’s hands were tucked under her legs to avoid touching me. Another picture caught her in mid-laugh. She was with Dad and his older cousin, her arm coquettishly wrapped around the cousin.
The next page had photos of me as a toddler proudly being displayed in front of my grandparents’ fruit trees, flowers, and their house, and in ea
ch picture I was wearing a variation of plaid pants and a long sleeve shirt.
“Why am I wearing long sleeves in the summer?” I asked.
“To hide the bruises. Your dad wore so many rings. Your Grandpa threatened to call CPS on him all the time.”
I hesitated for a moment, before tapping on the picture of my second birthday. “Why do I have a black eye?”
“Oh, I popped you one that morning because you were being smart to me. Now go outside.”
I had an assignment at school the next week to bring in baby pictures. I cut some out of a magazine and pasted those to my project instead.
***
When I was two, my parents and I lived in a farmhouse in Pennsylvania. The house was big and white, with a muddy yard in front, and two garages that jutted out on the side where Dad ran his motorcycle business.
Nearly every morning, as soon as I finished my breakfast that Dad set out for me, I ran outside. He was already out there, working on one bike or another. I was scared to be in the farmhouse alone. The house was hollow and cold; and the wooden floor gave sharp creaks that made my skin prickle. Mama stayed in one of the rooms upstairs. I knew better than to go look for her.
Outside, I sang, “la, la, la, la,” and used my shovel to fill my blue plastic wheelbarrow with dirt. I had made a path in the golden grass that led between the two garages. I thought for the most part that life was silent, ants were silent, grass was silent, and my parents were silent. The only sound was my own voice.
There was always a parade of motorcycles lined up in the sun, waiting for Dad to fix them. I pushed my wheelbarrow past them and dumped the dirt at the end, jumping up and down on it to pound the dirt flat. I looked at the motorcycles and squinted. The chrome trim flashed back the reflection of the sun and hurt my eyes. Near one of the bike tires was a pile of gasoline-soaked rags. I loved the smell of gas and crouched over them to smell them. Dad yelled from the garage, “Get away from there!”
Dad saw me! As fast as I could, I ran from the rags into the muddy yard, almost tripping on the rope that tied our dog, Bo, to a rotting dog house. He looked at me with sad eyes. I put my arms around him, my face burying in the fur of his dirty neck and squeezed him tight. He made a quick snarl and bit my arm. I shoved him away with a scream, hurt and anger pumping through my lungs. Mama came out onto the porch with her cigarette and poked it in my direction, “Serves you right for messing with him.”
It was the first time I saw her since the night before.
Mama liked to be left alone. Whenever I caught her eye in the house, she’d point her finger to the front door, “Out.”
She was also rough if she had to touch me. My stomach felt like I had swallowed rocks if I heard her come down the hall in the morning to help me dress for the day. She’d whip the pants out of the drawer with a dark look on her face and jam my legs into the holes. Then she’d lift me up by the band of the pants and shake me until I slid into them like a pillow in a pillow case. I learned to suck in my stomach because she snapped them quick, more than once catching my skin.
After she pulled the shirt over my head, I’d scramble to get my own arms through the sleeve holes. I didn’t like having her hands under my shirt with her sharp nails, where there was grabbing and twisting to get my hands through the sleeves.
Mama didn’t like to be around Dad either. One night, I was woken up by a loud cry that came from downstairs. A minute later there was a scream that was abruptly cut off. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I rolled out of bed. I tip-toed out of my room because the plastic bottoms of my pajama feet scratched on the wood floor. With my blanket wrapped over my arm, I snuck part way down the stairs to peek through the railing.
It was bright in the kitchen. Dad was walking behind Mama who sat at the table. His eyes glared with anger, but she wouldn’t look at him. He slapped the table next to her, and both she and I jumped at the sound. When he walked behind her, she whimpered, and his lips curled in a snarl. He slapped her with a crack that made me yelp, but I was drowned out by her scream.
I stuffed my blanket in my mouth and curled down on the step. I didn’t know adults hit each other; I thought they only hit children. When Mama quit crying, I peeked out one more time and then crept back up the stairs to my room. I squished my eyes tight, trying to stop the image from replaying in the darkness.
It wasn’t long after that night when Dad caught me sneaking a piece of candy from my Easter basket. He raised his hand. I flinched and stumbled back. I was afraid of the big ring on Dad’s left hand. The blue stone in it winked evilly at me. But, he pointed toward the dark, wood-paneled corner. He had me stand there while he leaned back in a chair and watched me like a cat watches a mouse. With a singsong tone, he directed me, “Stand up. Sit down. Stand up. Sit down. Stand up. Sit down.” He sipped from his coffee cup and ate my candy while he watched my legs shake. It lasted for hours, until he grew bored and my candy was gone. My nose slid up and down a black groove in the paneling, and I wished there was an escape.
My third birthday was a few days later. Dad called me to get on his bike. He strapped the white helmet on to my head, and thumped the top twice, “There you go, mushroom head.” He grinned and picked me up, setting me on the black seat, and then climbed on in front of me. Mom rode behind me. My arms weren’t able to reach around Dad, so I clutched the stiff leather of his jacket at his sides, and my hands ached from the effort. I cried every time I rode behind him, afraid I might let go and fall off onto the rushing blurred pavement. Mama always said, “I’m just waiting for your laces to be eaten up by that engine!”
We roared up to Grandma’s house. Dad climbed off, leaving me to scramble down on my own. He walked into Grandma’s house before us. Mama pulled me back with a jerk on my arm and said, “Don’t you embarrass me. I’ll give you a smack you won’t forget,” before she shoved me into the house. The kitchen was filled with my relatives. I winked back tears. Grandma clapped, and I ran over to hug her knees.
There was cheering so I tried to smile back. My cousins batted balloons back and forth over my head. I watched them and thought the balloons floated by magic.
Grandma gave me a plastic tea-set with a big red ribbon. I felt a splat as my cousin stuck the bow to the top of my head, which made me laugh, until the tape pulled my hair when I tried to yank it off. Someone opened the tea-set package for me, and I set the cups on the tiny plates around the table. Humming, I poured a cup with my plastic teapot. My cousin grabbed at the teapot.
“It’s mine! Grandma gave it to me!” I said.
Mama pinched me hard on the underside of my arm and hissed under her breath, “You share that toy with your cousin.”
I handed the teapot over to my cousin with a lump in my throat. Mama thought I wasn’t a nice girl, like my cousin Christy. “Smile!” There was a flash as Grandma took a picture.
Later, I went outside to have a few minutes by myself. My first prayer came as I walked around on the top of an old railroad tie that edged the garden. My three-year-old self reached out to the Creator, and I prayed over and over in a chant, “Please God, let me start over. Let me start my life over. I will be good this time. I will do it right. I will be a good girl. I will be good.”
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Copyright 2014 © [CeeCee James] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Cha
pter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23- Epilogue
Ghost No More
Chapter One
Copyright 2014 ©