Pieces of Sky: a memoir

By Noelle Cablay

Pieces of Sky: a memoir is a starkly honest story of one brave little girl’s journey of survival and triumph. From the hot, dusty plains of Oklahoma to the dangerous streets of Los Angeles to the rural Big Bear mountains, Noelle spends her childhood longing for a place to call home. Her mother is a narcissist, an aspiring singer who wears feather boas while the children go hungry and whose suitors come and go like the wild Midwestern winds. Just when Noelle finally makes a new friend or settles into her classes at school, her mother’s dysfunctional whims whisk the family away to another trailer park or filthy roach motel. In the midst of abuse, neglect, abandonment and heartbreak, Noelle must summon the courage and creativity to face adversity on her own. And it is this courage that will one day lead her into the office of Dr. Randall, where she will face what could be her biggest battle yet—the one to set her heart free.
Pieces of Sky: a memoir is more than just another tragic story. It is a tale of true redemption from the inside out; a reminder that even in life’s bleakest circumstances, there is always a glimmer of hope. Told with touching humor and audacity, it will capture even the most skeptical reader’s heart and leave them rooting for Noelle Cablay from beginning to end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Noelle Cablay
• Release date: Mar 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989229326

Noelle Cablay

Noelle is a graduate os SDSU. She taught in public education for 15 years, a large portion of that in the field of performing arts education, before staying home to raise her 3 boys with her husband, Ken. While the boys napped she got reacquainted with her piano and began playing professionally, composing and producing her own music. It was during this period that she began to write in more depth. This eventually led to her first book, Pieces of Sky; a memoir (released 2013) which details the events of her formative years and the process of recovery from a severely abusive childhood. She is currently a Masters Candidate at CSUDH seeking a degree in the field of Arts and Humanities with an emphasis in Music.

Book preview

Pieces of Sky: a memoir

By Noelle Cablay

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Noelle Cablay on Smashwords

Copyright Noelle Cablay 2013

Artwork by Thomas Clark

Copy Editing by Karen Koczwara

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Media Support by Giddyup Genie

Additional formatting by Gordon Rustvold

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Praise for Pieces of Sky: a memoir

Pieces of Sky is not a book you just read, but one that you experience. Descending into the darkness of Noelle Cablay's childhood and adolescent memories is a gut-wrenching, heart-breaking, fist-clenching, faith challenging, and hope renewing excursion. Regardless of whether you cherish your early years or grieve never knowing the love of a caring parent, you will be richly rewarded for reading this book. Pieces of Sky affirms the promise of beauty for ashes and is a wonderful reminder that redemption is a process.

Chuck Smith, Jr., author of There Is A Season, Reflections On Breath, and Epiphany: Discovering the Delight of God's Word

Noelle's life is more than what you will read in Pieces of Sky: a memoir. A mere book can, in no way capture who Noelle is, and what she has experienced. However, this book shows Noelle's journey from hell to healthy relationships. Through her journey you will think, feel, question and ponder your own pain in life, reasons for living and what brings hope. You will see how significant relationships can be damaging, but also discover how relationships can be healing. I could not put the book down after I started reading it, even though I have been privileged to share in some of her journey toward recovery. This book will encourage everyone to seek out the relationships of love and commitment that give us hope, direction, purpose and healing no matter what pain has been experienced in life.

Randy Powell, Journeys Counseling Clinical Director

Pieces of Sky held me spellbound. An absolute page turner that beautifully chronicles the heroine's path to overcoming the plight of living with an abusive and narcissistic mother. This novel speaks to the common journey we share in discovering our true selves in the midst of our sometimes tragically broken families.

Kim Tapfer, speaker and author of I Am

Noelle Cablay has written a memoir that is poignant, fresh, brutally honest, and witty. Readers of all audiences will be able to relate to her triumphs and sorrows and will find themselves rooting for her as the story unfolds. Most importantly, they will discover that hope does indeed shine through in the midst of our darkest times.

Karen Koczwara, author and journalist

I've known Noelle Cablay for a decade. What I've known of her in that time is that she is not only a vibrant, funny, highly accomplished, multi-talented artist; she is also a devoted friend, wife, and mother. I have no doubt she became the remarkable person she is both because of and in spite of the horrors she suffered as a child. Her story, told forthrightly and powerfully in Pieces of Sky, is one that demonstrates the power of faith, hope, and love to breath life into an impoverished spirit and make it shine brightly in this world. It's a difficult read at times, but one that will leave you grateful for God's mercy and grace in Noelle's life and in your own.

Christine A. Scheller, contributing editor, www.thehighcalling.org

After reading Pieces of Sky, I had a hard time thinking of much else for days. It is the kind of book that moves you, makes you think about life and reminds you to appreciate all of God's gifts. It also provides a window into the life of a child who lives in poverty and learns to survive, despite every obstacle she must face. I mourned for the loss of Noelle's childhood but without that life, she would not have provided the world with this book, which is a gift to everyone who reads it.

Tiffani Goff, blogger, www.tiffanigoff.com

In a marvelously accessible chronicle, Noelle Cablay has courageously provided the reader with insight into the highs and lows of overcoming abuse. It is a gritty yet poetic celebration of faith, hope and tenacity from the victim's perspective. Pieces of Sky: a memoir has been added to my recommended reading list in the Marriage and Family Therapy program at USC.

Michael Morris PhD., psychologist

God whispers in our pleasures, but shouts in our pain.

CS. Lewis

Preface

October 2012, Newport Beach

It’s taken me a long time to write this book. I started the first draft over five years ago. After it was done, 65 agents told me it was useless and that they couldn’t make a profit off my story or memoir. So I put it away and told myself, I tried. Part of me thought it a bit vain to think at any level that the contribution of my story to the larger volume of lives and tales told throughout history was worth it and I thought the whole thing was rather self-absorbed. Add to that the feeling that the community of faith was divided on my story. My story was not antiseptic. It was raw. It had cuss words. The immediate church and community of faith seemed to like the transparency of how I told it but the gatekeepers of the sellers of Jesus did not. And as a result I could not break into the world of writing. I just accepted it. I went another direction. Then I went home.

Suddenly, not long after the first manuscript was done, my world was infused with the words Arterio-Venous Malformations. At that, the son of my dreams was given a diagnosis that demanded all my efforts and attention. The faith I had once had seemed different. Platitudes about trusting God and being a better person of faith, one that did not openly question God’s goodness or show any pain, was not working for me. I mean, after all, I had already lived enough for one life and then the dreaded day in the ER when the nurses glanced my way with sympathy and I knew before the doctors told me that something had just shifted in the cosmic realm of my family. That was followed by dozens of trips to doctors and MRI’s and CT scan with contrast and UCLA, Dr. Malkasian, Dr. Dembner and Dr. Neil Martin who told us to go home and live our lives because there is nothing that can be done. God was confusing. We were told to go back to our lives and learn to live under the shadows. So once again I went home, bleeding the wounds of a mother with her child.

As we learned to live a new normal I tried to be all my family needed me to be. I tried to find God in the dark place. But like the 65 no’s all I could do was shrug and say I tried amid my failures. And I limped until I could barely walk. Until one day I say a silent prayer over a cup of coffee 2 hours old. If You are real, then find me. I am dying. I can barely breathe God, and if You care at all then send someone to help me because I can not bear any of it anymore.

Four hours later came the phone call that sent me to a dinner where over a glass of Perrier I met Dr. Randall again. We had met before casually. And he saw something in my affectation and in my language and he called it out right at the table. He spoke as if he had read my diary, as if he had been there that morning when I asked God to find me because I was suffocating under the years of pain culminating with my son. He said God spoke to him and He told him that I was in trouble. And I believed him because you see I faked almost everybody out. Maybe not my husband Ken, because he knew I was in trouble, or my kids, who saw the heaviness overwhelm my soul. But I was certain no one really knew my darkness. Until Dr. Randall called it out right over Perrier.

It is the sessions out of this pain that I have written about. These have changed everything. Eventually I took the old manuscript and rewrote it with the help of my editor, Karen. She was another person who also found me. And I revisited it all one more time with her careful help and encouragement. Angel is not a description far from the truth in regards to her.

I have struggled on how to say it all. To curse or not to curse? It seemed intellectually dishonest to tame it to make it palatable for any particular audience. So after much thought, and the input of many I trust, I have left in the vulgarities. I left them in because it is the truth of what happened. It is what was said, and to state it any less would be a sell out. It’s not representative of my life today, or my language or how I usually speak. It is not something I am comfortable with, but neither is it something I can shy away from because it happened. A lot. What you will find is a simile of the phrases that flew past me, but you will not be experiencing it as fully as I did. It was the best compromise I could make.

And the other struggle was how to say it. For brevity and the sake of movement in the story I was often faced with having to amalgamate my experiences. For example, the issues I faced at 17 took months to unfold, with weekly occurrences that were often heated and draining. For the sake of the reader I had to shorten these and blend them so that rather than be a stream of endless multiple experiences it became a few experiences that succinctly told what happened. I stayed true to the psychological toll, and I maintained as much as possible a correct interpretation of the events from my perspective. In addition, there is the matter of memory. It is imperfect. In an effort to speak to the truth of what happened I had to make choices to leave out information I was vague on and conversely create for the reader a story flow that made sense out of bits and pieces. So much of what happened didn’t make sense. Doing this was difficult. I spent many hours on the phone rehashing it with Beth and Janie, trying to get it as close as possible.

I have many to thank. It begins with my husband Ken who has been a staunch supporter of mine. He has been unflinching through the process of coming to terms, and he has loved me through it all. Then there are my children Kyle, Kory and Keaton. Their love has been the stabilizing force of grace that makes my life worth living. I would like to thank George and LeAnn Benton, and along with that, their family, Christine and Sherry, and especially Susan. Thank you to Alison, Julie, Kristyn, Kelsey, Linda, Mary Lynn, Roxanne, Janie, Karen, Diana, Christine, Marsha, Michael, Sue, Terri, Howard, Kim, and Cass for their insight and wisdom on the chapters, and the support offered every time I needed it. More thanks goes to Thom Clark for the cover art, which blew me away, and to Karen Koczwara for her estimable editing and loving friendship. Last but not least, Pastor Randy for having the courage to allow me to meet with Dr. Randall in spite of the complexities. No one dances in the grey as well as he. But then again he would be the first to say this was all God’s deal anyway.

Pax Christi,

Noelle

Pieces of Sky

By Noelle Cablay

Chapter 1 - Mr. Everson

Dear Mr. Everson. He is probably long gone. After all, he was 55 years old, 26 years ago. And he scared the living daylights out me. I would drag myself into his sophomore English course every day to study the Iliad and Tennyson. And we would write and write, and he would parade around with his glasses hanging off one ear and recount in vivid detail the ancient battles of Troy as if they happened yesterday. His presence would fill the room, and even the cheerleaders would lean forward in their seats as he waxed poetically about Dylan Thomas and The Fisher King. A former actor with a deep, rich velvet voice, Everson could recite passages from memory, each breath like a practiced dance with words. He would read aloud Robert Frost, pausing to take in the air as if our Southern California mountain town was nestled in Vermont, and then he would linger to tell us how the birch trees, with their thin, fingerlike branches brushing against a crisp New England sky, would bend. How they would bend and bend under the weight of the previous night’s storm, and how you would find them in the morning, their trunks touching the ground, almost groaning under the enormous mound of snow. And with a whisper, he spoke of the secret to birch trees. It was simply this-- birches were made to bend. By bending ever lower and lower, presenting themselves time and again to the forces that lashed at them, pressed them, and crushed them, they survived.

One day, Mr. Everson gave an assignment. Write a descriptive essay about your front door. Argh. Where do I begin? I went home, scoured the place for some paper, found a spiral notebook and green pen and went to work. Finally, when I finished my two-page essay, I tore it from the binder and stuffed it in a book for class the next day.

We handed Mr. Everson our papers as we entered the class. He was waiting by the door, fresh snow melting around his rubber boots, his well-worn Pendleton rolled up at the sleeves. He had a ritual for grading papers. I think he had a lot of rituals. We had to turn our papers in unstapled (only the stupid people forgot that, and they only did it once) and he would stack them in a pile to the right side of his desk. Then he’d hang his glasses off one ear, lean back in his chair, prop one foot on his desk, and, with a red pen, he would bleed all over the papers. As he read, he would place the papers upside down on the left, until the pile on the right was finished and the upside down pile on the left was graded. It was well understood that while he worked we were to finish reading another chapter and start writing our next response. No one spoke. We didn’t dare. When Mr. Everson graded, the room took on a stiff silence, and one didn’t dare muster a muffled cough.

And so it was as usual, until someone passed me a note. Quick, grab it... don’t let him see you. It was a friend complaining how dreadful the assignment the night before had been. How completely boring to write an essay about the front door. To measure the dimensions and find out the paint color, check the thickness! But I began to panic. What did you say? You mean you wrote about the actual door? How it looked? What size it was? I thought we were to write about the door, what it meant, how we felt about it. I quickly ascertained that I had really screwed up. My panic escalated. Being the over achiever, I didn’t want to get this wrong. The idea of Mr. Everson yelling at me for missing the point of the assignment was enough to make me sick.

But here we were, and I realized I had blown it. I was the only one who didn’t understand what it meant to write a descriptive essay. He’s gonna bury me. I didn’t write of the door’s physical attributes; I wrote about the door’s meaning. I described how I felt about the door. How I hated going through it. How it was brown and cold and heavy and lifeless and filled with anger and hunger and want. What an idiot.

And so I sat and waited until I saw the broken edges of the spiral notebook paper and the words in green. He reached for the paper and began to read it as he had all the others. Carefully, I watched his face. Suddenly, he grabbed his glasses, repositioned them squarely on his head, leaned forward and gave a slight grimace. It was then that I took a chance to speak.

Mr. Everson … I said sheepishly.

No response.

Um, Mr. Everson, I said a little louder.

Still nothing.

Mr. Everson, with great nerve, I am so sorry, but I misunderstood. I’ll do it again. Tonight. I’m sorry, but it’s my mistake, I misunder--

Shut up! he barked. And he continued reading.

I shot him a pleading look.

Be quiet! He admonished me.

I fought back tears. I sat there and felt the blood rush to my feet. Everyone in the room knew what was coming. They offered me pitiful glances.

Mr. Everson grabbed my paper again and reread it quietly. And finally, when he was done, he said determinedly,

Noelle…

I looked up. The class looked up. I began to melt inside. He stared deep into my face and smiled with conviction.

This is damn good. For the first time in 20 years, someone did it right. See me after class.

And so that day, Mr. Everson began reading my stories. He listened to my stories, and he heard my pain. It was he who helped me find confidence in writing, and he who became my first supporter. He shared about his own pain at the loss of his first marriage, and how by reading about Abraham Lincoln, he realized that great men suffer and persevere. Persevere, Noelle. Persevere.

It was Mr. Everson’s idea for me to write music and poetry and to create beauty out of words. So this is a fulfillment of a promise I made to him when I was young, that I would write a book someday. More than that, it is a fulfillment of a calling that began all those years ago. It’s not that I didn’t want to write, it’s that I wasn’t sure of what to say. But now I know. This is the story of what happened behind that door, and why in order to not break I had to bend.

Chapter 2 - A Thousand Rain Drops

What the hell am I doing here?

My eyes scan the room and I take it all in. The room is inordinate, clean and understated. Dated oak furniture and simple landscapes hang behind me, while soft jazz plays on the speakers. Scattered chairs line the walls, separated by end tables covered with magazines. I’m not the only one waiting; several others are seated too. But they don't look at me. They don't speak. Instead, they cast their eyes downward, as if to hide the fact that they are f'd up.

Crap, I say to myself. None of us would be here if we weren't f'd up.

There is a couple sitting next to each other, and you can feel the flame of anger. She hates him. She loves him. He is stupid. He wants another chance. She is done. He shakes from the fear that he has ruined everything. The way she sits reminds him he has.

There is a sad, beautiful brunette who plays with her phone. She is aloof, distant, guarded. I manage a smile her way. She gives a faint attempt in return, but it doesn't fake me out. She hates being here as much as I do. She’s thinking what I am thinking. How did everything spin out and down so fast? How could I have come so far, only to find myself in a place where I can't catch my breath? I can't stop the eternal downward spiral that sends me into a chasm so deep I cannot breathe.

I. Can't. Breathe.

Within minutes, the door swings open, and everyone is taken in one by one, down a foreign hallway, past the bowl of candy and the calm that envelops the air. I watch them go until I am left in that room. Alone. It seems I am always alone.

Ten minutes pass and the door opens.

Hi, Noelle. This way.

I look up to see Dr. Randall. He is about 55, grey at the temples, with an infectious smile that exudes warmth. He wears a plaid brown shirt, caramel pants and brown loafers that don’t make a sound. And he has this slight skip in his step when he walks, as if he has something inside him that is permanently happy. I envy it.

He gestures to a door and in we go. I quickly scan the room. I hate the quilt on the wall. It’s brown and red Americana craftsman décor with a touch of Grandma’s living room. Whatever. As I sit on a brown herculon couch, he sinks into a chair across from me and crosses his legs. My feet don't touch the ground; I hate that more than the quilt. I adjust my legs so I don’t look like the Hobbit. He catches my eyes as they dart around the room.

It's not my office. I borrow this one for now until my new office is finished. It will be a few months because we are working some things out. So until then, I use this room. It works and it’s nice.

He is direct and kind. It’s his rodeo, and he knows all the moves. I sit there, nervous, quiet, hiding, hiding, hiding. I get the distinct feeling he is taking in everything I do. Like it’s some kind of inventory on my every move, my every nuance. Whatever. I’m only here because I’m out of options. It’s either talk to someone or fight the urge to put a bullet in my brain.

Oh. It's fine. Kinda homey.

I shift my legs a bit, and he notices my feet can’t touch the ground.

I have short legs.

Yeah, I can see that. Do you want a footstool? One of our therapists was once a jockey; his feet don’t touch the ground either, so we use a footstool. He is a great guy, you’d like him.

I feel completely awkward.

Uh… no I’m used to it… I’ll manage. Thanks anyway.

Ok… it’s up to you. Let me know if you change your mind. So how can I help you?

I exhale and let the words roll out.

Well, Dr. Randall, I guess I just need some help getting past some things. My son has an AVM. It's like a tumor but without mass. It's in his brain. It’s inoperable, and since its discovery, I’ve faltered. Now each day is met with a deadness inside. And I am terrified of AVM’s. My family says I’m irritable, but all I know is that I don’t have room for anything other than using what strength I have left to deal with this sadness that has become my daily existence. My husband thinks I need to debrief from the church thing. It seems the whole church is rotting from within. All my social constructs are based around this church, and I have watched it disintegrate and crumble from the lies and deception at the center. I’m close to people at the center, so I know everything. I mean EVERYTHING. All the dirt and intrigue and corporate struggles that can make it so a church eventually ends up caring less for the people than they do for their legacy. Nothing I know about all this has helped me. It feels like an investment that has provided very little in return. Nothing I do seems to matter or create in me a sense of purpose. I don’t know who God is anymore. My marriage had its rough spots, even though we worked through it at the time. But I’ve lost my sense of happy since those bitter days, and nothing I do pulls me out. Life has lost its salt. I don’t know who to blame, I don’t know where to look for relief. My son might die, my marriage is facing financial struggles, my career is over, I’m a never-has-been of a musician, the church I devoted my time and talents to isn’t what I thought it would be, and my focus is gone. Had I not had a fateful conversation with you that one night two weeks ago, I wouldn’t be here. But considering that I’ve tried everything else… I let out a small sigh. Anyway … you said maybe we could talk. I have nowhere else to turn.

Dr. Randall listens intently. He says very little at first, but I have the feeling he gets me more than I get myself. He is easy going and quick to smile. And I have a vague sense that he just likes me. Somehow I don’t annoy him. I don’t make him want to run the other direction. Rather it’s as if he has a hunch, a sense that maybe the woman in his office has a story to tell, something that has to come out, something that has festered for a long time.

And so we talk. Something about therapy feels like failure to me. It feels like a white flag. But nothing prepares me for the simple manner in which we just talk. It is as if I have met the deep blue stare of understanding. That day nothing is solved. He explains the rules of therapy, its goals, its purposes and his role. I, in turn, peel back the lid by the tiniest of degrees.

So, Noelle. Tell me about you. What was life like for you?

I watch him carefully. I study him. Is he serious? Is this an act? Does he really want to know? He just meets my stare unflinchingly and waits.

My life was unconventional. My mom was a taco short of a combo plate. My dad left when I was little. I wouldn’t go back to one day of my childhood for any amount of money. It was hell.

How was your life hell, Noelle?

You’d have to know about Her. You’d have to know what she was like.

Well, I’m listening.

Okay.

I take a deep breath and I slowly exhale. I am resigned in spirit. Quietly, I say,

Then I’ll tell you about the storm.

***

I was four. I lived in a small hovel in the desert with my family. It was dark, and the night was frightening. The lightening overhead clapped with thunder that tore me out of bed, and along with my sister Beth, we ran for our lives. We ran through the house, terrified, trying to find my mom. But my mom was screaming again. Oh, so much screaming. She was always screaming. I could see her at the front door, and the lights were out. There was banging. Bursts of light danced across the floor as the rain pelted the windows.

I saw myself standing beside her, the storm churning all around with loud drum beats and heated flash, and Daddy was outside begging to come in. Please just let him in. My mom was screaming at him. Please stop. Can’t you see? The lightening, the thunder, he is scared, I am scared, oh please stop the screaming. The rain began to pour on the roof in great throbs. The baby was in her arms. The house was dark except for the flashes of light that made me want to stand near her. But she wouldn’t stand still. She was frantic and hot and pacing by the door, and she hurled profanity that fell like hail on my ears. I saw a candle burning and I was sleepy, but I was too afraid to stay in bed. I was confused and uncertain. And the angry words suffocated me.

My mother was pregnant. Three-year-old Beth clung to her and was crying and her nose was running—it was always running; I hated it. And Bradley, the baby, was crying, and our daddy was in the rain and there was the screaming. Always so much screaming.

Then Daddy pounded on the door. I began to cry and she told me to Shut up! And