Finding What Is

By Tabitha Vohn

Willie has always lived an unconventional life. Surrounded by the sensual, ethereal images of her artist-mother, she fantasizes about the half-wolf, half-human, but all-gorgeous face that stares out at her from her mother’s wall, and drinks in her mother’s stories of past lovers and adventures. She shares her home with a man who calls himself “uncle” (who stalks her through the house, naked). Her closest friends are a band of misfits who’ve forged their own way in life--including Xavier, who has carved his name in her soul--and her heart is torn between him and a college professor, a fellow artist who wants more than a student-teacher relationship.

Willie stands on the brink of womanhood poised to follow in her mother’s footsteps, with a gleaming future as an artist looming before her, and a maturity beyond her years that has enabled her to be the protector and caretaker of others, a mender of wounds. But as a devastating illness rips her mother from her life, Willie is left bereft of a home and of a sense of self. Guided only by her instincts, Willie wanders from her Professor’s arms to the home that Xavier shares with his live-in girlfriend Nicole (who insists that they can “share”). Her path becomes a search for peace, for family, for a love that’s real, and for her place in this world.

Finding What Is chronicles the journey that we all must take-to find ourselves, to reconcile our past, and to get back to that place we once called home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tabitha Vohn
• Release date: Jul 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311896018

Tabitha Vohn

"I strive to write the type of stories that I enjoy reading. Ones that question those blurred lines between love and lust, between good and evil. Ones that make us question human nature while simultaneously seeing the beauty in it as well."Tabitha is the recipient of the B.R.A.G. Medallion and the Awesome Indies Badge of Approval for her novel, Tomorrow is a Long Time.She is a writer, poet, musician, teacher, wife, daughter, sister, friend, and advocate of compassion for all living things.

Book preview

Finding What Is

by

Tabitha Vohn

Finding What Is

By Tabitha Vohn

Copyright 2013 Barbara Books

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, events, etc. are solely figments of the author’s imagination.

Printed in the United States

www.tabithavohn.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover Model: Bryn Perkins

Cover Photographer: Bill Strome

About the Author:

Tabitha is a pen name. Her creator is a certified bookworm, thanks to the countless fairy tales, Bible stories, and nursery rhymes she was read as a child, and the Gothic, Romantic, and Contemporary novels she enjoys today.

She has earned a B.A. in English and a M.A. in Teaching, and currently teaches high school English.

On Writing, Tabitha says, I strive to write the type of stories that I enjoy reading. Ones that question those blurred lines between love and lust, between good and evil. Ones that make us question human nature while simultaneously seeing the beauty in it as well.

A special thank you to Bryn for being the face of my character. To Val and Barb, my first-readers and dear friends, who’ve encouraged me and been my sounding board. Thank you to my husband for your love and support, especially when I lock myself away for hours with made-up people.

Finding What Is

by

Tabitha Vohn

Table of Contents:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 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

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Chapter 1

May, 1999

NATIVE moments! when you come upon me—Ah you are here now! Give me now libidinous joys only! Give me the drench of my passions! Give me life coarse and rank! To-day, I go consort with nature's darlings—to-night too; I am for those who believe in loose delights—I share the midnight orgies of young men; I dance with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers; The echoes ring with our indecent calls; I take for my love some prostitute—I pick out some low person for my dearest friend, He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate—he shall be one condemn'd by others for deeds done; I will play a part no longer—Why should I exile myself from my companions? Oh you shunn'd persons! I at least do not shun you, I come forthwith in your midst—I will be your poet, I will be more to you than to any of the rest.

Okay, guys. In a word, what is this poem about?

The faces that gazed back at Professor Shane were a mixture of blank expressions, embarrassed aversion, and the doe-eyed, glassy stares of infatuated girls who overran the class. Professor Shane shifted his weight as he balanced on a wooden stool in the center of the room, his dark curls grazing against green eyes that met and lingered on several nervous, skittering faces. He held the question in each mutual stare, until his opponent was forced to look away in dejection. Silently, the girls waited, inwardly begging him to speak their names.

He sighed. Joe, help us out.

Uh….sex?

There were muffled teeters of laughter. Okay, Prof. Shane said, smiling. That’s a word. What else?

Passion.

Seduction.

Ecstasy.

The litany of euphemisms rang out in an excited chorus, echoing from the domed ceiling of Thorton Hall. Pools of sunlight painted thick, sailcloth panels along the wooden floors. Professor Shane raised his arms to quiet them. The girls leaned forward, drinking him in like supplicant vessels, eager to be refilled by the resplendence of his deep, accented voice.

"Alright, we all recognize the—ahem—primal tone of Whitman’s lines. But…what else is the poem about? The hush resounded. Come on. Come on, he said, coaxing with his hands. What does the culmination of these images mean? What do they point to? What is Whitman telling us?"

Uh…friendship? Joe said. Because he talks about choosing a friend?

Mm-hmm.

I think he meets the friend at that party, where they’re all dancing, and wants to make someone feel good who’s not getting a lot of attention; like an outcast, or something, said Amberly, a blonde in the front row. She flicked her hair behind her ear, re-crossed her legs in a languid, graceful movement.

Interesting, Prof. Shane murmured. But, what—

It’s about abandonment.

Willie. His voice brightened, in spite of himself and his teacherly rule never to show an outward preference to any student’s response, even if most of them were moronic and only one clearly had a grasp on the content. It was his role to draw out those students who had something meaningful to say, in such a way as to not sound biased, but to make the others realize that this was a worthy offering. That’s an interesting word, abandonment. Can you elaborate for us, please?

Willie sat straight in her chair. Her open notebook was covered with annotations and analysis, which she had been scrawling while the rest of the class had been so consumed in their desperate attempts to impress the Professor. She doubted that hers was the right answer, and was hesitant to speak; however, the idiocy of the twenty-somethings around her led her to believe that her own interpretation could not possibly be any more embarrassing than the meager offerings of her cohorts.

She cleared her throat and looked Prof. Shane directly in the eye. Well, I was drawn to the line where the speaker says, ‘I will play a part no longer’. It made sense as to why he felt the need to declare all those wants: the sensuality, the dancing in the night, the drinking. He refers to those things as ‘native moments’, or you could think of them as ‘honest’ moments; all of those things he mentions center back to that declaration: ‘I will play the part no longer’. He’s done with pretending to be something he’s not. He feels akin to others like him; others who are judged and shunned because they are unashamed and—ultimately—are free.

So what then is our poet declaring to the reader? Willie?

She glanced up in surprise. Seldom would the Professor carry on a one-to-one conversation in class. Um, I think he’s declaring the purity of acting on instinct, or impulse. Or, possibly the absence of absolute morals or judgment. He’s declaring the right to forge his own path.

And do you agree?

Excuse me?

Do you agree that impulses and instinctual desires should be enacted, regardless of social norms and constraints?

Willie held his gaze, speechless at the intimacy of his question. She could feel her cheeks flush with heat and averted her eyes, blinking back her embarrassment.

Anyone? Prof. Shane asked.

The chorus of eager input began anew. Eyelashes were batted. Hair was tossed over bare shoulders. Pen stems lingered over freshly glossed mouths.

The bell in the clock tower chimed in the distance.

"Thanks for a good day, everyone. Next week, Audre Lorde. Read it. Know it. Be prepared to discuss it before class. Have a good one."

The soft padding of Willie’s worn Keds was barely perceptible beneath the cobblestone click of a dozen champagne-stemmed heels, which fell in time amidst the noisy chatter of young souls into the bright, green lawn of the New England countryside. In the early May afternoon, the light that fell over the pink-budded tree blossoms and clusters of irises declared that the long Nor’easter winter had finally departed. The promise of summer lingered upon the air as sweet as a kiss. Around the vast, green expanse of Hawthorne University, several groups of students were splayed on blankets and benches: reading, playing music, writing poetry, sketching the passersby.

This small, but stately institution (dedicated solely to the arts) was once a small, abandoned country village, now revamped into a prestigious training ground for the chosen few. Its founder, Clarence Hawthorne, came into possession of the village during a shrewd business deal. He then transformed the pastoral landscape of country farmhouses, a one-room schoolhouse and chapel, and post office, into a sprawling campus full of gothic architecture: dark, brick buildings with lofty spires, long, latticed windows and grandiose, tunneled archways that shielded the campus commuters from the heat and cold. The only structure that whispered of the once small country village was the chapel and one-room school house, which had been converted into classrooms.

Willie marveled at the lone stained-glass windows of the Chapel, which foretold of a coming age in which lions bedded with lambs in golden fields beside blue waters. This was the place where Prof. Shane’s Creative Writing/Poetry class was held. The course was free to the public, although there was a rigorous application process to get in. Willie was the youngest student in attendance, and was highly conscious of the fact. Today, looking out the windows overhead, she pondered the fact that many of the Professor’s lectures tended to focus on the more controversial poets of the previous century, and wondered how God must feel with such scandalous discussions happening right under the roof of his own house.

Juggling her books into her messenger bag, Willie dug her bus fare out of her wallet and headed across campus to wait at the bus stop. The air was filled with the scent of lilacs, and she was grateful for the comforting mixture of the warm light and cool, perfumed breeze. She sat on a bench at the edge of campus and pulled out a book of short stories to read while she waited.

It was her way to fall into a story completely, letting the lyricism of the prose and the wild adventures of its inhabitants pull her into worlds that were thrilling and—more importantly— safe. She was so quickly engrossed in the chapter where she left off that she neglected to notice the tall, lean figure whose shadow had fallen directly over her.

Interesting reading, Miss Adair? Willie started, nearly dropping the book in her lap. I’m sorry, Prof. Shane said. He smiled easily, readjusting the satchel across his shoulder. I didn’t mean to surprise you. But you looked so deep in thought, I couldn’t resist.

His grin was boyish, oddly making him seem older. Late thirties? Early forties?

May I? He pointed to the side of the bench that Willie’s leg was draped across.

Oh. Of course. Sorry. She shifted her leg to one side.

It’s alright. I caught you off guard, and you looked so lost in that book of yours. I hope it was that and not the mind-numbing terror of having a teacher address you outside of class.

No. Don’t be silly. I was just startled.

Professor Shane eased onto the bench. He adjusted his satchel and lit a cigarette. Smoke?

You’re offering me a cigarette? she said, eyebrows raised.

Shit. Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re only seventeen. And a senior in high school. Is that right?

For another month or so at least.

Hmm…And what do you think of our little school? Are you thinking of applying to Hawthorne in the fall?

I don’t know. It’s still undecided.

Well, I’ve been wanting to tell you—privately, of course, not in front of the others—that I’ve been very impressed with your insights in class.

Thank you. She turned the book over in her hands, uncomfortable with the compliment.

Really, I mean it. You’re analyzing on a level that’s exceptional for a young woman your age, even exceptional for some of my regular students.

Really?

Yes, really, he said, taking a drag. I hope you’ll decide to register in the fall. You’d be a welcome addition to my class. I’d even be willing to write you a recommendation to the admissions office if you like.

Willie was silent.

I’m sorry for being so forward. It’s just very rare that I encounter someone with your ability. I’d fight hard to get you. You’d help to reel in some of the ‘lost sheep’ as I call them.

She smiled. Thank you, she said, finally. It means a lot. I will seriously consider it.

Great. Professor Shane smiled, taking another drag and letting the smoke waft from his mouth in slow tendrils. So, what are you reading, besides the poem for next week’s class?

"Oh. It’s Angela Carter. The Bloody Chamber."

Mm. Good Choice. Surprising. A little dark for someone like you.

Someone like me?

Well, I just meant, someone as young as you. But then, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by your mature taste in literature, given your articulate answers in class.

You’ve read this? Willie asked, holding the book like a fan between her fingers.

Of course. Have you read anything else by her?

None of her novels, but some of her other short story collections. I don’t know that any of them could compare to these though. Even the most shocking are written in such a lush, lyrical way; it salves the harsh undertones of the characters’ actions. I guess there’s just something about a fairytale, you know? The entanglements of childhood. The magic. Nostalgia has its very endearing qualities.

He tipped his water bottle to her. It certainly does. A brief silence fell between them. Willie glanced quickly at her watch. Is it getting near that time?

About five more minutes or so. Where are you headed?

Oh, back to my studio. I was fortunate enough to find a place in the city, in the warehouse district down by the water. It’s threatening to collapse on me any day now. Still, I managed to carve out a pretty decent living space. It’s clean, surprisingly quiet. A great little place to create.

You’re a painter, right?

Primarily. Also a photographer.

So what made you want to teach poetry and writing and not art?

Well, the easy answer would be that I have more than one passion in my life. Teaching allows me to explore more than one part of myself.

I see. And if I were to ask you what the difficult answer was? she asked, offering his a slice of gum.

Thank you. Um…the difficult answer, hmm? He paused, tucking an errant strand of hair behind his ear. I suppose I would say that I prefer to keep the two professions separate. My art and my day job. Teaching pays the rent and is fulfilling in its way. My private work is a much more intimate expression of myself, deeply personal. Not something I whore out to just anyone for a paycheck.

Mm.

I’m sorry. I suppose that came off sounding a little rude.

Not rude. Just honest. Although, your whoring comment is interesting, in light of the fact that you offer a writing class that’s open to the public.

That’s not what I meant at all—

Oh, I know. I brought it up because I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity. It’s very generous of you.

Professor Shane cleared his throat, somewhat embarrassed. You’re very welcome. Even if I do feel like a real ass now for my previous comment.

Don’t. It must be difficult dealing with a bunch of dregs off the street, as opposed to students who've proven their merit.

He laughed. Is that self-deprecation I hear, or a just a slam against your fellow—what did you call them—dregs?

Willie looked away. She turned her book in little circles in her lap. A little of both, maybe. I suppose I find the others a bit frustrating. Like I expected them to take it more seriously. It feels a lot like high school sometimes. And, maybe for myself, there’s a bit of an intimidation factor.

Of what? Not of me?

Well, a little. You’re so gifted. I’m afraid that you feel like you’re wasting your time. With the class, I mean.

He shook his head. That’s very flattering. But I think you’re giving me too much credit and yourself not enough. I created this class because I believed that there would be students like you, who deserve to have a taste of the experience without having to shell out hundreds of dollars for a single class. And you’ve proven me right. So thank you for that. Willie smiled, looking at her hands in her lap. And, speak up more in my class from now on, okay? Seriously, I need you in there, he said, nudging her shoulder with his own.

Okay.

The bus pulled up to the stop and opened its doors. Willie gathered her things and was depositing her change when she turned and saw Professor Shane standing beside the bench, staring. Aren’t you coming?

No. I drove. See you next week, Miss Adair.

He walked down the path toward the faculty parking lot, but not before turning to glance at her one last time.

Chapter 2

Willie walked the long, monotone blocks up the concrete sidewalk of her neighborhood. It was early evening, and the street was littered with scantily-clad children whose delight was an unattended garden hose or a collection of plastic trucks, or a half-inflated basketball.

Hi, Willie! Hi Willie, they cried as she passed. She waved and called warmly to each by name.

A pair of sneakers hung from an electric line overhead.

Although the homes she strode past were one-story ranch houses with worn paint and shutters that had been bleached by the sun, an air of care still hung in the atmosphere. Little gardens of tulips and marigolds, tomato plants in terra cotta pots, or elaborate, colorful swing sets set behind cordial, picket fences provided a welcoming embrace.

Willie’s mother had painted the window panes of her home a vibrant red, and sheer yellow curtains fluttered beneath them. The glass arch over their front door had been designed by an artist that her mother knew who specialized in stained glass, and seeing the blue greens refracted in the sunlight tugged at Willie’s heart, reminding her of happier times.

The inside of her house was eerily quiet. She said a prayer that he wasn’t there. The cavity of the living room struck her with its odor of cigarettes and sickness that hung like a heavy cloth of fog. Willie noticed it more now that she spent so many hours away. She remembered a time when walking into her home was like entering a fragrant garden: the fresh scent of lilac and lemongrass, mint and rosemary, and the strong, reliable scent of paint wafting from her mother’s sun porch studio. Now those scents faded from memory like an old photograph touched by too many fingers, the eagerness to feel and to connect undoing its existence.

The room was unlit and dim in the dying light, which nudged itself through the windows in the south of the house. A newspaper had been dissected and lay disheveled across the tattered armchair that her mother hadn’t picked out, that stood as an eyesore against the calming taupe and blues. Prism colors of yellow, green, and purple shifted across the bare floors, wavering with the calmness of water.

Willie dropped her bag onto the floor and wandered through the kitchen—with its 1960’s red countertops and mustard yellow fridge— into her mother’s studio. The sun porch was octagon-shaped with long, rectangular windows still garnished by their wooden panes. The walls were painted a soft, eggshell white, the color worn through by the wood paneling beneath. A soft cloud of dust had settled over the brushes, the jars that held her many colors, the chimes turning softly by an open window. She leaned against the doorway, drinking in the blissful silence of the room. The space was wall-to-wall filled with canvases. The last one, unfinished, stood alone by the easel in the center of the room; it would most likely remain unfinished.

A graveled voice came from behind her. Where’ve you been?

I had class this afternoon, she answered, softly.

Bullshit. You think I don’t know what time school lets out?

I meant the class at the college. The writing class. Her body crawled in upon itself.

"Oh yeah. Forgot. Writing class. He sniffed. Well, you told your momma you were gonna clean up this room."

I know. I’ll do it now.

Dinner’s not gonna make itself.

It’ll be ready soon, she said, looking straight ahead.

He turned and left the room. Out of the corner of her eye, Willie caught sight of his naked skin as he stumbled back the hallway. She closed her eyes, exhaling a long sigh of relief.

She spent the next hour carefully drawing the dust rag over the curves and edges of the studio and living room, realigning the disarray, and washing the pile of dishes by the sink. To soothe her nerves, she put on an old jazz record and began preparing dinner. She cut fresh vegetables and mingled them in a salad, tossed pasta with sautéed zucchini, and topped it off with olive oil, garlic, and some grated parmesan. She fixed a tray for herself and one for her mother, adorning the latter with a small vase filled with daisies from the back patio. Expertly balancing the two trays in the crux of her arm, she walked to her mother’s room. Before entering, she tapped her foot against the bottom of the adjacent door, on the other side of the darkened hallway.

Nick. Dinner, she said, before shuffling into her mother’s room.

Crossing over into this room was both comforting and heartbreaking. Like everything in her home, it reminded Willie of what was, what used to be. It was a lost piece of a puzzle, a page torn from a book, a love letter carried away on the wind. What remained were merely the faded window-dressings of a party long gone, or the tune that keeps playing in your mind’s ear long after the phonograph needle has stopped. The life of the thing ceases to evolve; it’s frozen, on replay, until time and its wear destroy it.

Inside, the walls were draped with exotic silk tapestries. Several wind chimes made of shells and sea glass hung overhead, mostly near the long, corner window that cranked open by a little handle. Underneath, surrounding all the white walls touched with only the smallest imprint of blue, were several paintings, some mural-sized, taking up the entire expanse of the wall. Each painting unveiled a different scene: a swan on a moonlit lake surrounded by willows and hanging moss, wolves twining through a forest, one in mid-metamorphosis from beast to man, a selkie maiden stranded on a rock in the middle of the sea looking for her lost love, a hippie couple making love on a sunny shore; all the many shades of her mother’s imagination, the phases of her life. The images fit in a beautiful symmetry despite their seeming irrelevance. They created a marvelous conglomeration of movement and wonder, like being captured in a dream that keeps shifting.

Every surface of the few, meager tables and shelves were littered with books: fiction, poetry, philosophy, mythology, art. A cone of patchouli incense burned near the open window, circling the room via the evening breeze. The only objects that seemed out of place in this magical nook were the silver trays swelling with medical bottles, ace bandages, and replacement catheters.

Joanie lay in her white, hospital-issued bed, masked by the large, feather down comforter and heavy, luxurious pillows. She wore an apricot silk kimono, carefully tied around her fragile waist. She delicately laid aside the book that she had been reading, and plucked the horned-rimmed glasses from her nose.

There’s my baby. Her voice was equal parts tiredness and cheerful determination.

Hi, Mom. I brought you some dinner.

Ooooo, thank you. Joanie cleared an empty space on her nightstand. You can put mine here, and then you can set down right here by me and tell me all about your day. Oh…does Nick know there’s food?

He was busy hanging brain last I saw him. I knocked on his door to let him know.

Thank you for telling him. Joanie began her meal, taking small, delicate bites of her zucchini and pasta.

Seriously, Mom, would it kill him to put on some clothes when I’m around?

Oh, I’ll have to remind him again. Try to understand, Willie, the commune where he was living is very open about nudity; it was simply the norm. Sometimes, he forgets. It’s not meant to be threatening.

I know. I just wish—

Willie, he’s family. The only family we’ve got left. I need him to help me during the day when you’re gone.

And does he? Help you?

Yes. He does. He’s always looked out for me, Willie. Even when we were kids. Give him a chance, okay?

Willie nodded. She stabbed at her pasta, the fork clinking against the plate, and swirled it in endless circles.

Anyway, I want to hear about your creative writing class. Joanie’s voice was whispering and conspiratory, the kind of voice that tells the perfect bedtime story. How did the whole ‘first-impressions’ poetry lesson go? Or, wait, tell me first, which poem did your professor choose?

"Native Moments, by Whitman."

And did you speak up this time? Tell me you did.

Yeah, I did, Willie said, smiling.

And?

And he liked what I had to say. I was really relieved because my answer was so different from everyone else’s.

Mm. Most artists see the world differently. And artists tend to be able to pick out other artists. I’m sure your Professor sees the uniqueness in you, like I do. She tapped Willie on the chin.

So, Willie continued, picking through her salad, He told me he’d be willing to write me a recommendation to Hawthorne.

Really? Honey, that’s amazing news! I’m so proud of you. Wait, when did he tell you all this?

Oh, after class, while I was walking out.

Amazing, she said, passing Willie a glass of water.

Joanie opened the record player by her bed, and the comforting hum of static filled the air. A Spanish guitar strummed to a low beat tapped out by hand, opening a thousand memories.

Barcelona, Willie said, eyes closed. I wish I had been there with you. Your paintings tell the whole story of it though.

Willie, I know we haven’t talked about college recently. But if Hawthorne is what you want, we’ll find a way. She brought Willie’s face to hers, a younger version of her own, with a chin and slightly fuller mouth that was painful for her to recognize.

"I love you too, Mom. I’m not sure yet…what I want, but I love you for it,