Mackenna on the Edge: The Em Suite, #2

By Djuna Shellam

In this sequel/prequel to The Incredible Transformations of Alice Hollywood, nearly twenty years have passed since a fiery crash changed Em Martín's life. Now living in Los Angeles, and known professionally as Mackenna, a recent life-altering tragedy has her in an emotional tailspin. Memories and regrets previously buried and ignored have been churned up.

In a desperate effort to stop her downward spiral into melancholy, Mackenna turns to her writing for emotional support; as well as a vehicle for getting to the root cause of her current mental and emotional frailty. While culling through her life for clues, the Southland is rocked by a devastating earthquake, further complicating Mackenna's difficult self-exploration. Enter Eve, an earthquake refugee and an uncomfortable reminder of a past Mackenna has spent many years trying to ignore—and forget. 

A delicate dance of avoidance ensues until a devastating secret is exposed, driving Mackenna to the edge of disaster. Will Eve be the last straw, and push Mackenna over the edge? Or will she be the one to save Mackenna from the lower depths?

In a departure from her first novel, Alice Hollywood, Djuna Shellam takes us back and forth in time in a seamless fashion to tell the story in a story. Prepare yourself for a stunning twist that will take your breath away.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magnhild Press
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9780971052758

Djuna Shellam

I write novels, poetry, music and lyrics, and non-fiction. I love writing. I've been writing in some form or another since around the age of ten. I'm particularly fond of the novel. I love the process, and the opportunity to create a fictional tale from nothing but what's knocking around in my head.  My first novel began as a short story I started while living in England in the mid-1970s. It then became a screenplay which I finished in 1978. It took another 16 or so years before I managed to finish my first book which was so large I had to ultimately split it into two. The finished novel hardly resembled the short story, but it's where I began.  I've written four non-fiction books that are now out of print, five novels, and am at work on two others. With each book I like to stretch myself, to see if I can tell a story in a different way. I love the idea of the series. I become so attached to my characters, I don't want to lose them when each book is finished; so, I let them live on in a series. My influences began with Victoria Holt whose books I devoured as a youngster. Then, Anne Rice, Tom Clancy, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Jane Rule, and Armistead Maupin. Yes, an incompatible group, but I like to think of them as my teachers. I would be remiss if I didn't mention my favorite book of all time which is House on the Strand by Daphne du Maurier. I read it in high school (and I still have it), and I believe, still, to this day, it continues to fuel my creative aspirations. In addition to writing novels, I now produce a weekly podcast, The Djuna Shellam Podcast, which is available at nearly every podcast venue.

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~~~~~~~~~~~

Mackenna

on the Edge

Djuna Shellam

Copyright © 2014, 2016 Djuna Shellam

Published by Magnhild Press

Prologue

To Mary-Mackenna Martín, my daughter and only child,

This letter is to be read by you only upon the unfortunate event of your mother’s and my death by other than natural means. I regret the necessity for this document, but our excessive travel and my position in the world demand that I write this for you in case of a tragic ending for us. If this ends up in your hands, read it knowing Mother and I still love you, but from a distant place, and we pray, in God’s care.

In the event we are both taken from earth to God’s house at the same time, all of my entire share of the Martín fortune, as well as all your mother’s worldly goods, will be yours to do with as you please as indicated in our last will and testament. However, I must ask you, before you take on the enormous responsibility of our estate, to remember something very important. You are of the Martín and MacKenna families, Mary-Mackenna. What you do in life reflects on everyone in the entire family. We have great pride in our family and our accomplishments. You must never forget that. You have your mother’s strong will and her heritage. You are part of her. But above all you are a Martín.

Our families go back many, many generations, and joined, we have become a powerful family because we work hard and have never forgotten who we are. Do what you will in life, mi hija, but remember, if you disgrace yourself, or your mother or me, you also disgrace your family name and everyone in the family. You must know, as I do, that you carry a greater responsibility because you are our only child.

You must be our daughters and our sons, a heavy burden for just one child, I know. But you have many gifts, and although your path in life has been a disappointment to your mother and me, we have never been disappointed in you. You are beautiful, intelligent and the greatest joy in our lives.

Mother and I feel badly that we could not be the parents you wanted us to be, but we wanted the best for you and always tried to do what was right for you. We tried to give you what we learned for ourselves, too often forgetting that we, too, were young once and did not always agree with the wisdom of our mothers and papas. We were raised in a different time, my angel, and though we may have disagreed with them, we always did what our parents demanded of us. Except, as you have reminded us, when we married against your Granda’s wishes. You will see when you are older how easy it is to forget. We no longer fault you for your fierce independence, and hope that you will someday forgive us for our old-fashioned ways.

I hope you never have to read this letter, mi hija, because it will mean I was not be able to say these things to you myself, which would sadden me greatly, because that is my ultimate wish. Someday I hope we can finally put away the pain and misunderstandings that have kept us from the closeness your mother and I want with you. Someday, I pray we can pull you to our breasts and give you the love and support you deny from us now. Before it is too late.

You are always my little angel, Mary-Mackenna, my pride and my joy, my mi hija. I know you have felt your Mother’s disappointment about her inability to bear more children. It is a sentiment I, too, share with her, but you must always remember, she loves you for the miracle you are and for the beautiful woman you have grown to be. She has thanked God everyday since you were born for His blessing. In good times and in bad. We both love you Mary-Mackenna, and if you read this letter, know that we will love you always, until the end of time.

Your Papa,

Antonio Reyes Figueroa Martín

ONE

Dreamer

Their bodies entwined in the soft afterglow of lovemaking as shadows dominating the room enveloped them, blurring distinction beyond recognition. They were one—lovers—melded together from the searing heat of their writhing, forbidden passion and wrapped in the oppressive silence surrounding them, a stillness broken only by their rhythmic breathing and finally, hushed, velvety whispers.

Mmm, I love you, my darling. You’re so beautiful and… so perfect for me—we’re just too perfect for each other. Mmm… Just perfect… Don’t you think so? Babycakes?

Hmm…?

I mean, I think you are just the most perfect, perfect wonderful woman—and I love everything about you. Everything. I really do.

I… I don’t think you, well… you shouldn’t.

Are you teasing me, or what? How could I not just love you to pieces? Why would you say that? C’mon, sweetie… tell me.

Because… I’m… I’m not who you think I am.

Oh, you… Yes you are—of course you are. Don’t be ridiculous, you silly… now you’re just toying with my emotions. You’re such a kidder…

I’m not being… I promise—I’m not toying with you. You just think I’m a much better person than I really am, that I can make the kind of commitment you expect, and love you the way you want me to—the way you deserve. I know you can’t help it. It’s just your way and I love you for it. But… well, my sweet… it’s time you realized you’re wrong—that you’re just wasting your time on me.

Shhh… don’t even say that. I don’t know what would make you say such a thing. I couldn’t hope to have a better lover. You’re wonderful, Al—you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You know that!

I’m everything you think you wanted because you don’t know me—you never really have… and you’re never going to be happy if you continue this fantasy of who you think I am. You’ve been doing the same thing for years and getting absolutely nowhere. You are nowhere. And you’re unhappy, right? Well, aren’t you? You can’t keep running away from the truth, sweetness. You must understand, I will never make you happy—it’s not possible, baby. I can’t… and it’s time you just accepted the truth about me. Learn from your parents, Em. You must accept the truth—once and for all.

My parents? They’re… dead. I don’t understand, Al… what do you mean? What truth?

The truth.

I… don’t… understand—

Yes, you do—you do but you just don’t realize it yet. That’s why it’s so important that you… just forget about me and move on—find that person who will really make you happy. Move on.

Move on? Forget about you? How can you say that? I can’t forget about you! God… don’t you love me anymore? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Have you stopped loving me? Tell me!

Shhh… Of course I still love you—I’ll always love you. I’ll always love you. But, honey, listen to me… I can’t love you the way you need me to—the way I should. You deserve so much more… and I can’t give it to you.

You’re more than I deserve!

No. No, it’s time for me to leave, Em.

No! Don’t leave me… Al—not yet!

I have to.

You said you loved me—you said you loved me! How can you leave me now? I need you! I need you—don’t go…

You don’t need me, Emmy—you’ll see. You’ll see. You’ll be fine once you realize I’m wrong for you—I always have been. There’s someone out there who can give you what I can’t—find that and you’ll be happy. But you must forget about me. You’ll see…

Nooo… come back!

You’ll be fine. You can do it, Em. You can do it… you’ll see.

No… I don’t want to see… No, I can’t! Wait!

Good-bye, Mary-Mackenna Martín. Good-bye…

Nooo! Allie, wait! Wait! Mackenna cried, her wail disappearing into the dimness of the first light of morning. Come back! Don’t go, don’t go… The sound of her own voice pulled her from the emotional dream that was now a ritual, cruelly replaying every night for the past week. Oh, Alice… why? Why did you leave? she cried, half-asleep. Why did you leave me? I wish you would come back… Come back to me—I miss you… I need you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—I know it’s my fault. All my fault…

Slightly disoriented and confused by the source of her emotions, Mackenna struggled to awaken. Momentarily startled by the raw passion breaking through her fitful slumber, the crux of her dream finally climbed out of the fog that was her brain, and her reality became painfully clear. She was alone. Alone in her own bed, where she cried quietly into her tear-soaked pillow to muffle her sobbing. She wept until the piercing ache inside subsided to a dull pang, and the sweet sound of Alice’s voice faded into the deepest recesses of her memory. And when she could no longer hear Alice’s voice, she wept some more.

She was filled with such emptiness; the immense pain she felt when she awoke from her recurring dream was almost welcomed. With the pain came vague memories and the memories were most unwelcome. Memories that had been deeply buried for the better part of seventeen years left Mackenna unsettled and perplexed, serving only to drive her further and further into her depression.

She could barely take it anymore. The dreams, the memories, the sadness, and loneliness. Worst of all was the searing guilt. Trying to deal with it day-in and day-out was becoming overwhelming. Mackenna was writer, and known workaholic; yet, she hadn’t written for several months because she couldn’t, which only piled onto her depressed state of being.

Most days were spent either roaming the expansive house or sitting alone on her balcony, looking out over the city below. Each day she did less and less until whole days, then weeks would go by before she even left her room and the safe haven of her king-size bed. Inherently, Mackenna knew if she could manage to stop her downward spiral soon, she would not be able to fight the force of it. She would ultimately find herself dragged down and forever lost to herself and the world. Knowing something and doing something about it were altogether two different things.

Shortly after she awoke, perhaps it was the urgency she heard in Alice’s voice, or the gradual build-up of her own resolve that propelled her downstairs, to the doorway of her father’s expansive and impressive library. It wasn’t the first time. Only this time, she felt an inner strength that had been absent all of the times before. Mackenna carefully closed the heavy double doors behind her and stood with her back flattened against them, and waited. Once her eyes adjusted to the darkened room, she tentatively crossed to her father’s large antique wooden desk.

Easing down into his leather chair, she sat in the semi-darkness working up the courage to continue her mission. After nearly an hour of battling her demons and doubts, Mackenna turned on the antique Tiffany desk lamp to reveal a shallow rectangular case lying on the desk, basking in the lamp’s warm, ambient glow. Staring at the laptop computer that lay closed and dormant before her, Mackenna worried that once again, she would not be able to take the next steps—steps she knew she needed to take. Was her resolve stronger on this day than any in the months before?

She sat for a long while, resisting the strong impulse to run back up to her room and back into her bed for the rest of the day. The same bed where she had spent the five preceding days, with the covers pulled over her head, separating her from the rest of the world. It would be easy, but all of the blankets in the world couldn’t protect her from her own mind and the lurking depression that was threatening to thoroughly envelope her. It was up to her to take control. If she was up to the challenge. She was. She wanted to be. She had to be. And yet, fading in and out of her mind like a distant radio station, there was still the faint memory of Alice’s voice, urging her on.

You’ll be fine. You can do it, Em. You can do it… you’ll see.

At last, consumed with trepidation, yet determined to wrest herself free from her demons, Mackenna traced the smooth outline of the laptop with her fingertips, laid her hands on the cool surface of the black, hard plastic case and gingerly lifted the cover. Her fingers dragged hesitantly over the exposed keyboard as a familiar, though dulled feeling of excitement filled her body. She caressed the side of the plastic rectangle and gently pushed the toggle switch on the side of the case. Immediately, Mackenna was met with whirring and clicking sounds as the small screen grew from black to a cerulean blue. She shivered as if touched by a lover.

Fraught with apprehension, Mackenna clicked on the icon for her writing software program and created a new document, but did not name it. She slowly leaned back into her father’s chair and waited. The cursor blinked incessantly at the top left of the blue screen as if anxiously awaiting to be put to work, waiting for its owner’s fingers to glide across the keyboard and create words and sentences with the wonderful dexterity and fluidity of which it was accustomed.

But the words didn’t come—wouldn’t come. Mackenna sat idle, staring into the screen that cast a ghostly blue pall on her face. The cursor continued to blink unabated. For the better part of three hours her mind was mired with conflict and deep thought until almost reluctantly, she laid her fingers upon the keys and began to type. It was the only way she knew to finally liberate herself from the greedy clutches of melancholy. If she was wrong, she knew she was all but dead.

Mackenna’s fingers fumbled nervously on the keys for mere seconds, but long enough for their misalignment to create a whole line of garbled words. Scoffing to herself, she fought the urge to bolt back upstairs and took a deep breath. She deleted the line, properly aligned her fingers on the keyboard, and began again, typing the words, I am an orphan.

TWO

All By Myself

I am an orphan. Even as I write it, I cannot say it. Try as I might, I cannot say out loud, I am an orphan. And yet, I feel as though I am. I can at least admit that to myself, though the very acknowledgment makes me shudder. The finality of those words—the terminative aspect of such a frightening phrase—makes it so difficult for me to comprehend. It’s certainly not the sole reason for my landing at the very edge of an abyss, teetering on the edge of what looms as severe depression, but a primary reason for sure. For me, it is a most unstable ledge. I have spent countless hours wondering how and why I got here. How I ended up on this precarious perch from where I look down, sometimes longingly, at the insanity seductively beckoning to me from the chasm of darkness far below. I wonder why the creativity and imagination I have always drawn on for coping with difficulties in my life have abandoned me now.

Over and over in my head it goes like a self-propelled incantation—I am an orphan. I am an orphan… I am an orphan… I am an orphan! Though I am helplessly drawn in my mind to repeat those mournful words, I have hope, mixed with abject fear, that I will somehow comprehend their magnitude and impact on my life; and that somehow, those words and some combination of emphasis will one day feel right and become comfortably mine. Though I wonder, if I allow them to repeat without interference, will my psyche miraculously open up and allow the horror of those words to enter into my existence? Will they have some concrete meaning other than some ethereal concept that skitters wantonly on the periphery of my consciousness? Or will I ultimately be unable to interfere, driven mad with the continuing loop that invades its way into my mind and burrows through to my soul like an unchecked virus. I don’t know. As a result, I feel alone and afraid, and I am ashamed and filled with remorse for things I’ve said or done, and worse, for the things I haven’t said or done.

Sadly, for the first time in my life none of that can be changed. Ever. Sometimes I cry out loud because I can no longer keep the agony inside me, and I am always surprised at the primal depth of my torment. I bellow, I rant, I rave, and I weep until I am dry and hollow—because I am alone, and I am an orphan, or at the very least, I feel like one. And I am so sorry for so much.

Sometimes, in the quiet of my dried up silent tears, I ask myself, are these emotions I’m feeling legitimate and heartfelt? Are they nothing more than ersatz affections, drenched in a subconscious pièce de résistance of superfluous guilt, perilously combined with a dewy-eyed nostalgic view of my parents? I yearn for the former—I am, however, resigned to the latter. It’s my cross to bear, but I do so in silent protest while I struggle with uninvited issues that have so rudely arrived at the doorstep of my soul. I’m at a loss as to who I and my parents were; still, I am drawn to discover, rather, rediscover my life with them, knowing that it cannot be avoided. I truly can’t avoid it, and I can no longer postpone it because, for all intents and purposes, I have lost control.

My life is rediscovering me, with me its unwilling participant. I cannot stop the memories which force me to face my anger, regrets and fears; but as I confront my relationship with my parents, I know it’s inevitable that I will run head-on into unpleasant territories not considered for nearly twenty years. I am painfully aware that no matter how hard I try, in my quest for understanding my damaged relationship with my now dead parents, I cannot—will not—be able to elude my relationship with Alice. It was so many years ago since our heart-wrenching episodes and our ultimate conclusion. I’m afraid. I’ve been afraid of those memories for years; those tender, sweet, yet wretched memories. If I weren’t, I surely would not have buried them beneath years and years of too many unfulfilled relationships, self-negation and denial.

No longer sacrosanct and protected, my memories of Alice are now also demanding recognition in solidarity with other censored or neglected memories. Memories that come with their own gut-wrenching questions; and I, as a reluctant participant, can feel their threatening pulse, welling from within, gathering strength to burst forcefully from my pores. It is an exchange I’m resigned to make in order to gain answers to my nagging questions. I know the answers I seek will not be easy, but undeniably, I know it is my destiny. Whether or not my mind can stand up to the examination is an entirely different question. I know my heart may not stand up to such intense investigation. Alas, there are no easy answers for me—none.

So now I am born again, pulled from the loving refuge and comfort of a dark, quiet, liquid womb; thrown naked into the bright, glaring and treacherous world, but without the benefit of the warmth and nourishment of my mother’s bosom, nor the love and protection of my father’s arms. I am all by myself. I am an orphan.

THREE

Fool on the Hill

My parents were killed twelve months ago. It happened in the middle of their return journey from an annual trip to the Swiss Alps. They’d been visiting with long-time friends and business associates. It was a significant social event for my parents, with a rather large gathering of ambassadors, royal family members, dignitaries and their families from various countries. That gathering has been a tradition dating back to my paternal grandfather’s college days, long before my parents or I were born. It was a family reunion of sorts, but it wasn’t, by any stretch of one’s imagination, strictly pleasure.

They were all very important people in the world, and the yearly gathering marked an opportunity to further business and diplomatic strategies; and, most important, to secure or strengthen financial and social alliances. Extremely understated, but a crucial aspect of the assembly, was the subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, present and future matchmaking between wealthy or connected families of their unmarried children—of all ages.

Last winter, for the first time in a very long time, I was invited to join my parents on their yearly sojourn. I like to presume I was invited because my parents and I were in the midst of a reconciliation process. The cynic in me fears it was because my spinster reputation was becoming an embarrassment to my family. I seriously considered the attending in order to continue our mending process. In the end, however, I respectfully declined. I felt it was much too soon to make such a commitment. I knew we’d have other opportunities that wouldn’t include me feeling, for lack of a better word, trapped. In turn, thanks to my cautious nature, I was spared sharing in my parents’ untimely demise. Was it kismet that I did not share their fate? Perhaps.

Tragically, my parents and their friends died when their small private jet slammed into the Italian Alps during a sudden snow storm. That’s all that is known. The details were sketchy at best. The authorities believe ice may have been a factor. May have. The lack of pertinent details and the particular passengers of significance involved in the crash lend to moments of suspicious conjecture on my part. Then, of course, I must always remind myself that I have an overactive creative mind and a penchant for weaving stories where there are none. It’s an occupational hazard. A mystery to be solved or written, to be sure, but left to ponder and explore for another time.

How and why they died, I cannot say for sure. I just know that they died; and, as a consequence, I am an orphan. There are those, of course, who would question my claim to orphanage at the advanced age of thirty-eight. But if my parents are dead and I am, rather, I was their child, aren’t I still a child without parents, hence, an orphan? I suppose perception is a relative thing. Sometimes I wonder, am I being foolish, childish, even, to think of myself in such a way? Is it narcissistic? Self-absorption? These are just a few of the internal questions I wrestle with daily.

Despite our troubles throughout the years, I often marveled at my parents’ pedigrees, and how blessed I was—or cursed, as I sometimes felt in my teenage years—to be, not just their child, but their only child. They had, dare I say, a greatness and incredible poise about them I felt was beyond my own reach. Oddly, even though I am a direct product of them, and what I would consider an even mixture of their genes, the older I get, the more I admire, and sometimes even envy their lineage.

My mother, the magnificently beautiful Kathleen Sinéad MacKenna, was born in Boston, the daughter of an Irish aristocrat. Her beauty—perfect, delicate features and thick, dark auburn hair that lay softly against her flawlessly white skin, accenting her flashing green eyes—was legendary in her family’s wide social circle. Her aunts and uncles would call her, Our own Maureen O’Hara. It cannot be overstated how very beautiful and elegant she was. It’s not just my opinion. Everyone who had the pleasure of meeting her would agree.

Her father, my Granda Seamus Patrick MacKenna, was a devout Catholic and a strict, yet loving father with a fiery temper when provoked, or otherwise. It didn’t take much to rile my Granda’s temper. He was dry tinder just waiting for a reason to spark and blaze. And he had his MacKenna family rules. For instance, according to Mother, his requirement that the whole family go to church every Sunday without fail was a small price to pay for being a MacKenna. Missing Mass in the MacKenna household—Granda, Granny, their six sons, four daughters and