A Venture In Faith: Texas to Alaska, A Road Trip to Recovery

By Carol Weishampel, Ed.D.

Stalked by her abusive ex-husband and in fear for her life, Leah Gray plans an escape. Leah's faith in God and in humanity shattered, when she is forced out of her comfort zone, she secretly purchases a used motor home as a mobile hide-out and prepares to pursue a search for a meaningful life. Intrigued by her father's stories of building the Alaska Highway, Leah determines to flee into the Alaska wilderness. On her road trip from Texas to Alaska she encounters empowering women who encourage her on her road to self discovery. Leah's fear of men intensifies when she is forced to trust Barret, an Alaskan mountain man. Can Leah stop running and find healing and love, and return to her faith in God?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: May 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781594331961

Carol Weishampel, Ed.D.

Carol Weishampel, Ed.D., retired art and reading teacher, combines her talents and love for Alaska in this delightful tale of choosing friends and gratitude. Weishampel is a the single mother of two biological and ten adopted adult children, and more than a dozen grand children. Kids of all ages give the the Loon’s Necklace an A plus.

Book preview

Seven

Chapter One

What was that? I screamed clenching the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. That screech. Why the car horns? My heart pounded in my ears.

You…, the RV salesman sputtered, his hands braced against the dashboard. Sweat popped out on his forehead. His voice strained as if talking to a child, Ms. Gray. You pulled into the right lane. You forced a Volkswagen onto the shoulder.

You told me to, I countered and jerked the wheel to the left. Heat crept up my face. My heart still raced.

I said to merge right. He shook his head. Exasperation tinged his voice, Didn’t you check the outside mirror?

Of course I did. And I used the turn signal.

Take the next exit, then U-turn under the freeway. The young man took an audible deep breath. I should have double checked traffic. You have a blind spot.

Now you tell me, I mumbled. The pounding in my ears lessened. You can drive back to the lot.

I should. I heard him mumble. He said aloud, You’re doing great. Good job on the U-turn. Now merge slowly into the right lane.

You’ve got me confused. I am crazy to think I could learn to drive a motor home.

Turn signal on, I prompted myself. I don’t see any cars to the right.

He rotated his head from frowning at me to survey the traffic. You’re clear. Move over. Now.

Condescension dripping from his voice, he said, Good job.

Sounds like me in the classroom, I thought. I had to concentrate or my getaway plans would backfire. The motor home’s back tires bumped over the curb in front of the dealership. Whoops. Cut it too close.

So, what do you think, Ms. Gray? asked the grinning RV salesman, a twinkle of commission in his eye. You did very well driving this rig. Handles just like a van, doesn’t it? Only a little longer.

He has a short memory. I should ignore the test-drive, too.

A little longer? You said this motor home is twenty-seven feet long. It’s much higher than a van, and wider, too, I replied. I reluctantly released my sweaty hands from the steering wheel one finger at a time. My heart pounded in my ears and raced with excitement. I caressed the leather arm rest and surveyed the home-like interior through the rear view mirror.

I’ll get back with you next week. I do like this RV, but I don’t want to make a hasty decision. I tried to be light-hearted to hide my ignorance and apprehension. I’m taking an introduction to basic RVing class before I purchase. I’ll let you know.

I slid from the driver’s seat and stepped down onto the parking lot pavement. The acrid odor of hot asphalt stung my nose. My cotton shirt stuck to my back. I pulled it loose and down over my hips. I slid my sunglasses back up my sweaty nose. My knee-length jean shorts and sandals were appropriate for this muggy April morning in Houston, Texas.

I heard the salesman chuckling to himself as he brushed his fingers through his blond hair before exiting the passenger’s door. I bet he’s thinking, No sale.

The clean-cut salesman, younger than my son, Gilbert, walked around to the driver’s side of the rig. Smiling that salesman’s smile he offered me his hand. Sweat stained the armpits of his polo shirt embroidered with the dealership’s logo. I look forward to helping you, Ms. Gray, when you come back in. Here’s my card. Be sure to ask for Bob. We’ll take care of your financing, and remember, we do a complete walk through with you before your new coach leaves the lot.

I thanked him, shook his hand and pocketed his card. A quick glance around the lot and freeway access road assured me that I hadn’t been followed.

I am not crazy, or demented, deranged or out of my mind. I am a single female who plans to follow my dream of driving a motor home, by myself, from Texas to Alaska. My dream doesn’t make me crazy; a little weird, slightly strange, but not crazy. I prefer to think of myself as gutsy and empowered with a Rand McNally Atlas on my lap, credit cards, an AARP card, passport in my pocket, and my Collie for companionship.

Dream on, Stupid. Herman, the jerk, called me stupid. My abusive ex-husband, Herman Mason, tried to control me in so many ways. I hate it. Maybe I am stupid to consider buying this home-on-wheels that will cost me one-fourth of my monthly retirement check for the next fifteen years.

Connie, my adult daughter, and I hung back at the completion of the RVing class so that I could speak with the facilitator, a full-time RVer.

Hi, I’m Leah. I was in your last class, too.

I remember you and your daughter. She tried to not turn her back on me as she erased notes from the dry-erase board. So, did you have all your questions answered about full-timing?

I laughed and shook my head. The alcohol smell of the markers tickled my nose, Not hardly.

You are Beulah, right? The instructor turned to the small wooden podium to scan her roster. I’m not good with names.

Shhh, I stage whispered behind my hand. That’s my legal name. It was my grandmother’s name, but I hate it. Call me Leah, please.

Okay. I’ll share a secret, too. My name’s not really Gypsy. We laugh conspiratorially and shook hands.

Let me help you pack up your things, I said, fumbling the words as I lost courage to be so bold. Connie and I would like to take you to lunch.

Gypsy gave me a puzzled look and a slight smile as she packed her materials into a wheeled case.

I inhaled a deep breath and blurted, Your Saturday classes have been very informative, but I have so many questions. If you could spare the time for lunch, I’d really, really appreciate it.

My hands perspired; my stomach was queasy; my voice broke, but I’m determined. Connie approached from behind me and placed a reassuring hand on my back.

How thoughtful, Gypsy said with a true smile. People often want to hang around and talk. She zipped up the case and stood to face me. Lunch sounds great. Do you have somewhere in mind?

I was so nervous I started to stammer.

Connie rubbed my shoulder and said, We thought the café downstairs would be the most convenient place. Neither of us would have to go into the heat to move our cars.

Sounds good to me, Gypsy replied picking up her briefcase. I’ll stash my bags in my car and meet you both downstairs.

Connie and I sat together in a corner booth by the front window facing the rear entrance. While I scrutinized the passing traffic and pedestrians, Connie watched for Gypsy. The aroma of fresh tortilla chips and pico de gallo drew my hand to the chips. The Mexican themed café buzzed with young professionals and couples with small children. Mariachi music blared from hidden speakers. We wouldn’t be noticed in our corner.

Gypsy arrived through the rear entrance. Connie stood and waved her to our table. Our lunch of Southwestern salad, iced tea and tortilla chips soon became secondary to our conversation. We relaxed and talked as old friends. I asked questions about traveling solo; she filled me with stories of the road.

Oh, Gypsy, you are a God-send. I reached across the table to squeeze her hand. You’ve answered all the questions I can think of, and have given me the courage to become an RVer. Wow! To live the RV lifestyle. I am so excited.

I was so overcome with emotion that I wadded up a clean paper napkin to wipe my eyes. Connie shook her blond bangs from her forehead and gave me a ‘Mother, you’re nuts’ look.

Leah, before you make any rash decisions, remember I can share my experiences, but only you know how RVing will fit into your life. Gypsy placed her crumpled napkin on her empty plate.

I know. I know, I replied toying with the iced tea glass to make interlocking sweat rings on the table. Your expertise, and honest pros and cons answers are what empower me. I glanced up to catch her twinkling brown eyes. I love that word. Empower.

I stopped talking as the server hovered by our table to pick up the dishes. She turned to the next table. I shivered with excitement and apprehension, and looked imploringly from Gypsy to Connie. I’ve always been a play-by-the-book person. Follow the rules. Don’t rock the boat. But no more.

Connie squeezed my hand. She turned to look me in the eyes with a squint of concern and turned to Gypsy. Mom’s a little nervous to ask you a favor.

Leah, what can I help you with? Gypsy leaned on her elbows toward me. She tucked a strand of her gray-streaked black hair behind her ear. Her puzzled expression was also one of compassion.

I let it all spill out. Your first RV class motivated me to call RV dealers all over the Houston area looking for a Class C motor home. I drove almost to Galveston and fell in love with a Jamboree with only 4,000 miles. I sat up straighter. My confidence growing with the telling.

The interior is perfect with a booth table and bench seats, I said. There’s a double bed. The kitchen area has everything including a microwave. And the bathroom has a door, I added with a giggle. The server returned with our check. Connie palmed it as we’d planned.

I explained that I had test driven the RV last week, but didn’t have the confidence to sign a purchase agreement.

Gypsy smiled encouragingly. Are you going to get it?

I hesitated again. Well….

Oh, Mom, I’ll ask her. Connie turned from me to plead with Gypsy. She wants to buy it and can afford to finance it, but she’s hoping you would give her some private driving lessons. She’ll pay you of course.

Private RVing lessons? I’ve never done that. What do you have in mind? Gypsy sipped her glass of iced tea.

A familiar car drove past the window for the second time. My courage returned. In a gush I explained that I was hoping Gypsy would go with me in my new RV to Huntsville State Park and give me hands on instructions for safe driving, teach me how to park, especially backing up, and show me how to hook up the lines.

That’s quite a novel idea. Let’s do it. Gypsy’s quick response as she replaced the tea glass astonished me. When you have the delivery date of your rig, call me and we’ll make plans.

I let out my held breath in a whoosh. I got up from the bench and rounded the end of the booth to give Gypsy a warm hug. That hurdle was over.

The blue Civic drove by again. Connie noticed it, too.

Look at the time. She pointed to her watch, picked up the check and excused herself to pay. My kids will be home soon.

Gypsy and I exchanged phone numbers and said our good-byes. I joined Connie at the cashier. We walked through the back of the building toward her car parked in the back lot.

Are you going to tell her about Herman, Mom? Connie asked.

If I have to.

Chapter Two

Connie and I stopped in the shade of the cafe’s rear portico. Brick steps led down to the parking lot. We both scanned the lot and side street for the blue Civic.

Connie said, Wait here, Mom, while I get my car.

I watched her hurry to her old gray Ford and surveyed the parked cars from the protective shadows.

I didn’t see him, I said sliding onto the hot front seat. I locked my door before I snapped the seat belt. The air-conditioner was blowing full blast. A pine scented air freshener, hanging from the rearview mirror, swayed in the stream of chilled air.

He’s been here. Connie gave me a sympathetic glance and squeezed my hand as she accelerated through the parking lot toward the exit. She slipped a pink envelope off the gray vinyl dashboard. Left you a love note. This was under the wiper, passenger side.

My name’s not on it. I tried to joke.

Connie made a disgusting noise, Just open it or tear it up.

I took a deep resigned breath and let it out audibly.

It’s just another old Valentine. A cutesy one signed, ‘Love Ya’, with no signature. Stinks with his aftershave.

I tore it to tiny pieces and dropped them into her trash bag. Won’t he ever give up?

Maybe when he runs out of discounted Valentines, Connie replied trying to be light-hearted. I don’t know how he found us. I kept watching and I didn’t see him follow.

Today you drove a different route from last Saturday. Do you think he followed us then? Cat and mouse games. I don’t like being the mouse, or us as mice. Feigning bravery I said, Make a right turn at the next street and go around the block past the front of the café. I want to try to look in the windows as we pass.

Good thinking, Connie said pulling out of the lot. Even if he went inside the building, he couldn’t have found you. There are too many private offices as well as all those other classes.

I can only see people shapes. He could not have recognized us through that tinted glass. I turned in my seat to scan the front of the café. I feel better, now.

We continued to Connie’s home in silence, watchful of the slow traffic behind and around us. For more than a year I had dreaded that Connie and Gilbert, my son, would discover that my marriage to Herman was crumbling. I had kept my problems with Herman Mason a secret until the afternoon Connie glimpsed the purple bruises on my arm.

I shuddered recalling the lies I’d told as excuses for Herman’s erratic behavior. He refused to visit them. They had kept their distance.

I bit my lip and cringed as we passed a row of seedy bars, a reminder of that final fateful night Herman staggered up to the porch cursing loudly. A mean drunk, or on drugs. I had prayed, quaking and hidden behind the locked door. I trembled at the memory. His vile language replayed in my head. I could still hear his fists pounding on the wooden door. The door shaking.

To my amazement my kids did not condemn me for being deceived into a disastrous second marriage. Both my adult children were outraged with Herman’s treatment of me and became overly protective of their poor naive mom. Gil’s photos of my bruises enabled me to get a restraining order.

I am such a loser. I’d been blinded by a con man. God had abandoned me. How could He have let this happen?

Mom. Connie’s voice snapped me back to the present. You know Gil and I’ll do anything and everything we can to help you get away from that jerk, but we, ahh… have reservations about this RV thing.

I know, honey, but you two and your families have been put through enough. I love you for it, but it’s been three long years since I put Herman out. I tried to reconcile for a year and a half… .

Connie interrupted, Shoulda gotten it over with right away.

I know that now. But I was certain that God had brought us together and that I had to stay in the marriage, make it work. But… .

You did the right thing. Quit punishing yourself, but taking off in an RV is so extreme, so drastic.

I’ve tried everything else to get away from him, Connie. I’m going crazy with worry and fear. Enough is enough.

Connie parked in the garage behind her small frame home. I visited with my grandkids, eight-year-old Kelsey, and Cody, age ten. Connie’s husband, Jordan, checked over my car which I had left parked in front of their house, as he routinely did since Herman had slashed my tires. I hugged the kids goodby. Connie admonished me to call as soon as I got home.

Home. My grandmother’s beautiful Victorian cottage where my deceased husband, Gilbert Gray, Senior, and I had reared our children. Home, where I’d lived alone for five years as a widow. The place Herman moved into when we married. Where I now live alone, paranoid with the drapes drawn, an alarm system and Sarge, my tri-colored collie-shepherd mix.

Sarge met me at the back door with yips, wagging his flag of a tail. I let him out to run in the fenced yard while I reset the alarm, checked the answering machine and called Connie.

I took a can of Diet Pepsi from the fridge and stood on the small covered patio to watch Sarge race around the yard. Connie and my grandkids had gone with me to the SPCA for a dog not long after Herman and I separated and the stalking began.

Sarge weighed eighty-five pounds. Named for Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, he looked even larger with his rough black and white collie coat with tan markings on his muzzle and over his eyes. His size and demeanor intimidate strangers and Herman. I loved him.

Several times Herman violated the restraining order and left blooming potted plants on my front porch. I reported by certified letter to the court. The police didn’t take stalking with flowers seriously.

The phone rang. Nor can the police do anything about the phone calls. I entered the kitchen to be able to hear the answering machine. Hi, Doll. Did you like the Valentine? I have a gift for that dog, too.

I rushed outdoors. Sarge was scratching at something in the bushes by the back fence.

Sarge! Here boy. I called racing toward him. He looked up with a large piece of meat in his mouth.

Chapter Three

Drop it. Drop it, I commanded. Good boy. I rubbed his ears lifting his big head into an embrace, my tears running into his fur. I clutched Sarge’s collar and walked him away from the chunk of meat. Leave it, boy.

I kept Sarge by my side while I got a plastic bag and picked up the meat. Sarge followed me to lock up the house, and jumped into the backseat of my car for a trip to the emergency vet clinic.

The intercom in the Marshall Elementary School library buzzed. Ms. Gray, please come to the front office.

I looked up from the new children’s books that I was cataloging and turned to the librarian, Sue Paige. She nodded. I hated to leave the smell of new books and the quiet storeroom crammed with loved-up books in need of repair.

He did it again. They’re yours. Barbara, the secretary, said indicating the floral arrangement prominently displayed on the attendance counter. She sang, Oh, what a beautiful Monday.

Thanks, Barbara, I’ll brighten up the teacher’s lounge and get it out of here, I said. I’m volunteering this week with Sue. Unless there is an emergency, I don’t want a substitute job.

Sure thing. Whatever you say, Barbara replied with curiosity. Velda said she could meet with you at ten unless a parent calls.

Thanks, again. I’ll stop by her office.

Velda, are you busy? I tapped on Velda Martin’s door. The elementary school counselor called out, Come on in. She put her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone and whispered, I’ll be right with you.

If this is a bad time, I’ll come back. I whispered in reply.

Velda shook her head and waved me to a seat opposite her messy desk. I shut the door. Her cozy office always smelled of chalk dust even though we now used dry-erase boards. I moved several stuffed animals from the chair and helped myself to a wrapped peppermint from her glass jar. She hung up the phone.

Flowers again, Leah?

Yes, and Valentines, and he tried to poison my dog again.

What?

Not exactly. He phoned a warning, and threw meat over the fence, but I got to it before Sarge ate it. My nose started to tighten. I felt tears and sniffed. I took Sarge and the meat to the vet. There was no poison. He didn’t dare try that anti-freeze trick again.

Another scare tactic?

Yes, and I’m fed up with fear, I paused, reaching for a tissue. You and the staff, especially Amanda, have been so understanding. I’ve got to put a stop to this and get on with living.

How can I help you? Velda rose from her chair, came around to sit on her desk in front of me. She placed her hands on my shoulders.

I have an idea, but I need Amanda’s approval. Can’t go against the principal, you know. Could you stay after school today for a few minutes, if she can? I briefly took her hands in mine.

Sure. Today after bus duty. I’ll ask Amanda if she can meet and I’ll let you know.

We both rose, I reached out for Velda, gave her a hug. Thanks.

Four o’clock. I sat in the principal’s office. Always intimidating, I chuckled looking around at the familiar diplomas and framed children’s artwork. Amanda Clark had been principal four years ago when I retired.

I’d cried on her shoulder and Velda’s, too, when the abuse started a year before retirement and I’d had to call in sick. I’d told them about Herman’s controlling behavior, sparing them the details. I’d hidden the bruises well, but they’d sensed more than what I’d admitted. When things at home got worse after I retired instead of better, Amanda encouraged me to return as a substitute teacher. I was grateful to have a safe place to spend my days.

My two colleagues entered. I blinked away the memories. Amanda squeezed my shoulder. Mister Charming is at it again, I see. She and Velda sat in wooden arm chairs on either side of me.

I tugged a tissue from the box on her tidy desk. Yep. I’ve had enough. I’m planning a get-away. I’ll spare you the details because it’s safer for you and me, that way.

Sounds intriguing, Velda said with compassion.

What can we do? Amanda asked. Anything within the law.

Okay. Here goes. I’m just asking for a couple of tiny white lies, I said, then justified myself. You know how I’ve always tried to follow the rules,-school rules- and all. And live by the book, the Good Book. But in order for me to escape Herman I have to use substitute teaching and volunteering as a cover.

You’ve been doing that for how many years? Three? No problem, Amanda said. We’ve appreciated your hard work.

It’s been three years and almost four months since Herman and I separated, but who’s counting, I replied with a mirthless one-sided smile. The divorce was final eighteen months ago. There have been two restraining orders, but he still harasses me.

With flowers, notes and sweet phone messages. We put a stop to the visits after he slashed your tires.

I never could prove Herman did it. Anyway, all I’m asking now is…. Well, I’m going to need to leave my car here and sneak off a couple of times to take care of business. So if my car’s here and I’ve signed in but… .

Got it. You’re working and can’t be disturbed.

What about Barbara, the busy body? I asked.

I’ll instruct her to contact me if anyone is asking for you, Amanda said.

Velda said with a knowing smile, I’ll take care of your floral displays of affection.

You two are the best, I mumbled dabbing a couple of stray tears.

I scanned the almost empty faculty parking lot before I stepped through the front entrance. A dusty, dun colored sedan was parked across the street, halfway to the corner to my right partially hidden beneath the shadows of live oaks. I could pull out and turn left, my usual route. If the driver was Herman he would follow. If I turned right, I’d pass him and he’d have to U-turn.

Chapter Four

I turned right. The driver of the dun colored car, clad in a white, short sleeved dress shirt, leaned on his elbow in