Silhouette of the Sun

By Avery Davis

A new way of looking at a love story; Constance Young loves her daughter Anna providing for her as a single mom during a time when providing was done predominantly by men. Anna loves her daughter Paige, giving up her life by forgoing cancer treatment to carry her to term and Paige has the choice between leading a life of drug addiction with her first love Ian or letting him go to fulfill her ultimate potential.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avery Davis
• Release date: Apr 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301714681

Avery Davis

Avery Davis has a deep desire to write women’s fiction that speaks to the heart of women. After graduating from law school she set out to write her first novel, Silhouette of the Sun.

Book preview

Preface

The silhouette of the sun is a circle which symbolizes eternity

or in my mind life after death. The day I finished law school

was the day I thought I wouldn’t have to rely on courage

anymore. A year later something suspicious was found in my

lung that made me search for the kind of courage I had never

known. This book was born out of the heartache of possibly

leaving my husband to raise our two-year old son alone. I want

to dedicate this book to the women who are battling cancer.

Constance Young

February 2nd 1937-October 9th, 1993

Chapter 1

The screen door creaks shut. I step out and breathe in. The setting sun stains the baby-blue sky a golden orange. The wild grass in the field behind my house bends under the caress of the wind, bowing to and fro, taking on the look of a golden ocean. Every sunrise I look forward to dusk when the earth is releasing and the veil of day is revealing a starry sky. I watch out my window and leave to tend my bees, every day at this time. The sun has to yet to set, and I want to use the last bits of sunlight to harvest the honey.

I zip up my bee suit and put on my gloves. The smell of smoke is comforting. A meadowlark sings in a nearby tree. I pull down my veil. The hum of bee wings is soothing as I pry off each corner of the lid, working slowly. Bees leave the hive as I take out a frame, heavy with honeycomb. I place them one by one in a box by my side until it is full.

Stepping inside the enclosed porch I work by the left over rays of ambient light. I run a serrated blade under warm water, quickly cut the combs from the frame, placing each frame in a bucket as I finish. Amber honey drips from the cheesecloth. I squeeze the honey out of the honeycomb. The silky strands slide down my throat, coating my tongue in sweetness with a hint of orange blossom. Orange Blossom Honey I write on a label and stick it to the jar, placing the jar in my collection. My eyes scan the rows, catching on the deep, dark brown of the buckwheat honey in contrast to the almost-clear-as-water clover honey. Anna likes orange blossom the best. I'll take her some on my way home from dinner.

The green café awning can be seen from down the street. I circle around the block looking for a parking spot. Finally, I see headlights and someone backing out. I slip in and step out of my car trying to spot the green awning again. The café is packed, the noise overwhelming. My friends sit next to the stone oven.

Connor stands up. Aubrey stays sitting.

Congratulations on getting tenure. Connor leans in for a hug.

It's a decade or so late, but thank you.

Miss Teacher of the Year. Aubrey points at me.

I curtsey and sit down. Now that one is a surprise.

After dinner, Connor and I are alone.

Would you two like anything? Dessert, coffee? the waitress asks, clearing the plates.

I'm fine, I say, and Connor nods.

Do you think we are the last ones here because there's no one waiting for us at home?

That could be it, I say, grinning.

We could change that you know. He reaches for my hand.

I brought this for you. I reach into my bag.

Connor's eyes grow bigger, Oh my, manna from the gods, you know how I love orange blossom.

I know that's why I brought you some. You are just like my Anna.

How are your bees?

Not that well. In the last five years I've lost a third of them.

I wonder why. He leans back in his chair.

I predict that the honeybee will be virtually extinct by 2050.

What do you think is killing them?

Their immune system is too weak to handle viruses, pathogens, pesticides, and parasites. It's being further diminished by feeding on a monoculture diet, I explain.

What can be done?

From collecting samples and analyzing data, I see those bees that die have both a combination of virus and fungus. I stop and hesitate.

So what's the solution?

The right breeding selection.

Such as?

I'll leave it to you to solve the world's problems. It's getting late. I'd better go. I want to drop some honey off at Anna's on my way home.

Good, Conner says, standing up and scooting his chair in.

I can smell winter; it's in the air. I turn on the heater, waiting for it to work. It's much later than I thought. I love driving when no one is on the roads. Rain paints the roads in silver, glowing with sheen from the full moon. Singing to my favorite song I enjoy the tranquility of the drive until I see headlights coming from the other side of the hill; someone out on a midnight drive like myself. Probably some teenager coming home from a party; someone who worked late. The headlights bob in the distance. I fiddle with the radio, searching for another favorite song. Lights flood my car, the rubber gripping the road, screeching drowning out the music, the smell of brakes, glass shattering, metal crumpling, the hissing of something.

A crack etches its way across the windshield, veering off in different directions, like a lacy spider web. I see red and know it's my blood. I see bone and know it's my own. My body contorts under the weight of crumpled metal. The pain coming and going in waves. There is complete silence. The other car must have sped on. It is early dawn. I try to call for help but can't draw enough air into my lungs to give volume to my voice. I watch the dawn seep a lighter shade of blue into the darkness, blanketing the mountains in silhouette. The chill of the morning keeps me alert and awake. This could be my last memory. The first snowflake of winter lightly lifts in the wind. With one comes others. I watch them, uniquely shaped, melting into the windshield. An ambulance siren breaks the silence.

I hear the beating of my heart. I am still alive. I hear glass breaking and metal peeling away. The pain becoming unbearable. The darkness numbs me to feeling and mutes the sound. I open my eyes to sky.

Tube her. There is a hand on my neck, tilting me forward.

Swallow, Swallow, a woman says. I can't breathe. The tube is in. I come up for air. There is a beeping sound, my clothes are cut off, cold paddles are on my skin. My body jumps alive to an unexpected jolt of electricity running through it.

Light flickers through the darkness filling my vision. I hear the familiar hum of bees. The sun bouncing off each wing. And then, catching an aerial view, I see hundreds of bees swarming. I feel the tickle of their wings and the prick of their sting as they brush up against my skin. I smell smoke wafting up from the kettle.

The sky is blue. Anna’s honey-blonde curls dance in the wind. They sparkle like spun gold, glinting as they tangled.

More, she says holding out a thick slice of bread laced with butter. I twirl the honey stick, globing off the extra, dribbling it onto the bread. Anna takes a bite, leaving a trail of honey on the blanket and onto her skirt. I hold back from scolding her. I don't want to lose that smile. My baby girl.

Mom, if you can hear me squeeze my hand. Can she hear me? Anna asks.

A deep unfamiliar voice answers, She has suffered brain damage, but I believe she can hear you. I feel heat in the palm of my hand and try to squeeze. Anna's ten-year-old self looks up at me as we wander the strawberry field. The sky churns with dark, indigo clouds. The hair on my arms stands on end. The air is electric. In an instant, clouds a lighter shade of violet push the darkness to the edge of the sky. The thunder ushers in dark gray. I pull on Anna’s hand, Let’s run to the house before we get drenched. Anna kicks off her shoes running in the other direction.

She yells, Take off your shoes, Mama. A lightning bolt pierces the rain-laden clouds, sheeting the sky with rain. I smell wet dirt and slip off my shoes, landing my feet into brown-sugar earth. Anna picks a strawberry, one after the other, collecting them in her skirt. She sits down in the middle of the field, biting into one, juice pouring onto her chin. She hands me the biggest. It is sweet and tart. Anna falls onto her back and flaps her arms. Are you making a mud angel? I ask. She giggles and squeals, squinting her eyes from flooding with rain. I lay down next to her and cuddle her close. We are drenched but warm.

The beeping of the machine on my right grows louder. Anna’s face comes into focus. She smiles and squeezes my hand. I feel myself slip in and out of light; flickering. I see her face again. The tube tickles my throat.

She's gone into cardiac arrest.

One epee is in, check her pulse.

Anna, we would like you to step out.

Hold, compression, ready to shock, everyone clear, the doctor says.

All right now. We've done three rounds of epinephrine, we can give calcium. We've got amino ready to go, the nurse says.

We've shocked twice. I've got no pulse. Unless there are any objections I'm going to call this.

My vision narrows. The weight of quicksand darkness pulls me in until finally there is a pin hole and then nothing.

Anna Young Adams-October 9th, 1993

Chapter 2

Cuts criss-cross my mother's face. One eye is more swollen than the other, eggplant purple engulfing the right side.

Mom if you can hear me squeeze my hand. I turn. Can she hear me?

The doctor looks up from what he is reading and fixes his gaze on her.

She has suffered brain damage, but I believe she can hear you.

I take her hand feeling the faint pressure of her heartbeat.

She’s gone into cardiac arrest, a nurse says.

One epee is in, check her pulse.

Anna we would like you to step out. A nurse takes me by the arm and slowly walks me out. Drew is standing there.

She's gone, I say.

They're working on her.

No, I feel it, she's gone.

Mom and I had a love-hate relationship. I was all she had. She'd treat me like her best friend; thinking out loud is what she called it. She was a single mom. Men didn't take her away; her work did. We lived on the Dawson farm, and for many months Mom would cloister herself, studying her bees and writing.

Occasionally she'd come up for air and spend some time with me. We'd walk through the wildflowers, naming the bluebells, Indian paintbrush, lilies of the valley, and primrose. I'd hide behind trees until she'd find me, and I'd run off again. Every time I'd collapse in the clearing of wild grass. She'd lay down next to me, and we'd watch the wind sweep the clouds across the sky. Adorning me with a flower wreath she'd call me her flower princess. But most of the time I was alone; swimming in the creek or wandering through the fields till sunset.

If she ignored me for too long I'd do something to get her attention. I'd threaten to run away but never get further than a hundred yards from the house before changing my mind. I'd spend the day spitting grapes over the fence until I'd sneak back in my room and pull the covers over my head. Late at night I'd hear the door creak; Mom would pop her head in. The next day she'd say Morning, baby doll, while handing me a cup of tea and bread with honey butter. I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away for long. Growing up my Mom never missed the chance to give me advice; even as a grown women she'd make her opinion known. After she died I'd hold the phone in my hand, resisting the urge to dial. My fingers aching with the need to bring her back to life, and on impulse I'd dial listening to her answering service; listening to the rise and fall of her voice, feeding the desire that something tangible be connected to the resonance.

Every day brought emptiness, a void settled in the space where we use to talk. I'd laugh at her blunt advice, pushing it aside until succumbing to the wisdom in it. Like the advice she gave me about Drew.

She'd didn't like anyone I dated until Drew. At first I thought she liked him more than I did. He was quiet and smart. She would say, Marry someone who loves you more than you love him. I thought this was insane. She added, Then if the love runs out, you won't be the one with the broken heart. I wanted to marry only my soul mate and only for forever. I was drawn to the relationships full of breaking up, to make up, to fight and break up all over again. Drew, on the other hand, was an unshakeable rock. Mom said, He's good for you. He doesn't push your buttons and won't let you push his. At first I resisted his methodical persistence. He's boring Mom, I'd say, There is no one more predictable than Drew.

In time you will see how rare it is to be treated as good. When I first met him he ate the same dinner every night; six fishsticks, and a burnt potato. His room consisted of four white walls, a bed, a desk, and a lamp to study by. He would roll his socks in a tight ball, aligning them perfectly in his sock drawer. His covers were always tucked at the corners. Compared to my bed-making skills of throwing the covers up and calling it made. One of my favorite things to do was to jump in his bed and mess it up. He'd act like it didn't bug him, but I knew as soon as I left he'd be tucking corners. Ten years later he'll leave some dishes unwashed after dinner and some clothes on the floor just to appease my sense of chaos. And I'll wash those dirty dishes and pick up those clothes just to appease his sense of order. When I met him I had no idea the person I was looking at. I was caught up in his sex appeal; his goofy gainliness. It was only later that I realized how lucky I was. That I’d married a genius with a heart of gold.

I missed my Mom the most the day of my wedding. I was without anyone to walk me down the aisle. Only Drew standing there with a smile and Converse high-tops.

What is this? I whispered pointing at his shoes.

Unpredictability. Just throwing you off your game, he said, his smile growing bigger.

My game is thrown, I said. And that day I said I do.

Chapter 3

Drew wanted to get pregnant right away. In the first five years of marriage I conceived twice and miscarried twice. The first at one month, the other at five. At the moment I had my first miscarriage I made my way to the bathroom and got up from the toilet to find I had delivered two sacs, no bigger than lima beans, a fetus and placenta. I flushed them way. My body had rejected them. The rush of the swirling water in the bowl snapped me out of my trance. I felt resolved that there had to have been a reason beyond my understanding.

The last miscarriage was the most difficult. I went in for the ultrasound, tensing under the cold sensation of the jelly. The outline of my son appeared on the screen, looking eerily lifeless, no flutter of a heartbeat. The nurse slid the instrument from one end of my belly to the next, looking for a pulse at every angle. She got up and brought in another nurse who also looked for a heartbeat. After a minute she said, I’m sorry, but his heart is no longer beating. I called Drew who said he would meet me at the hospital where he was doing his internship. The doors parted and a wave of heat washed over me. Drew stood next to the front desk, looking concerned. He took my hand.

I’m going to have to deliver him, I said without emotion. I stash the details of the next twenty-four hours in the deep recesses of my memory, not wanting to wake a sleeping demon. I keep the sonogram in a box under my bed, stealing away moments to look at it like an ex-lover’s picture, wanting desperately to have what seemed tangible at one time.

Life after the last miscarriage was day to day. I’d dress myself in optimism to find pessimism as a permanent undergarment. I became a professional at suppressing my emotions; letting them surface only in my art. I got lost in my art. I painted fetus after fetus looking for answers in that lifeless form. I got to the point where I didn’t want to think about it anymore. My mental and emotional fatigue muted the ticking of my biological clock until Amber called me on it.

Hi Lisa, I knelt down so I could look into Amber’s daughter’s big blue eyes. Your mommy and I used to spend hours playing dolls in this dollhouse.

I can’t believe after all these years you kept it in such great condition, I say admiring a miniature rocking chair.

I was obsessed with this doll house. I remember all I wanted one Christmas was the master bedroom set, Amber says.

I was so jealous of you. I mean look at this tiny bar of soap, it even has a brand imprint on it.

Best of all the dollhouse—

Lights up,