T H E R E a C H

By Robert Milton

In this, his third novel, Dr. Milton endeavors to make the titles possessed by all women?Maiden, Mother, Crone?discernible. His story concerns a triad of tensile lives, a trinity of goddesses dipped from the same hot, whorled gene pool but forged by distinctly different environments. The result is a cautionary tale replete with psychological, sociological and mystical insights related to child abuse, cancer and clairvoyance.
The Maiden?precocious and obviously neglected?provides the storytellers voice. Thwarted in her attempts to gain care and affection, her abuse is reported with momentous consequences.
When Llyn?the Mother?is told by two different Oncology experts We have nothing more to offer, she retreats to a childhood belief: High, Mountains are mystical, magical and healing.
In the background a fanatical Crone cruelly and sadistically cajoles from an unassailable position.
On the journey to the summit of the highest mountain in North America?Alaskas mighty Mt Denali?extraordinary triumphs, dreadful disasters and intense meditations on mortality are revealed. Throughout the story, explanations are disclosed, which ache with a wisdom that can only be understood by those who have been there and earned the right.

Dr. Robert Milton is a graduate of the University of Southern Californias Clinical Psychology program. He has authored six books including three novels available on Amazon.com
While his world travels and interests reveal a kaleidoscope of themes, his curiosity recently led him to neuro-science and religion, particularly mysticism, which is touched upon in this novel and his recent non-fiction book Your FLEXXIBLE Brain published last year. Currently he lives in Southern California with his dog, an Ozzy Shepherd, named Mr. Dugan. He can be contacted at www.robertmiltonphd.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468508826

Robert Milton

Dr. Robert Milton is a graduate of the University of Southern California’s Clinical Psychology program. He has authored six books including three novels available on Amazon.com    While his world travels and interests reveal a kaleidoscope of themes, his curiosity recently led him to neuro-science and religion, particularly mysticism, which is touched upon in this novel and his recent non-fiction book Your FLEXXIBLE Brain published last year. Currently he lives in Southern California with his dog, an Ozzy Shepherd, named Mr. Dugan. He can be contacted at www.robertmiltonphd.com

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Robert Milton Ph.D.

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2012 Robert Milton Ph.D. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 1/16/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0884-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0883-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0882-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011962142

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PART I

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

PART II

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Author’s Note

While THE REACH is a work of fiction the underlying premise is true: Modern media, and repetitive thought really does impact and modify us by mere reiteration. Our social and religious values are whimsically shaped by the recurring stuff touted from the high definition screens and read in four-color tabloids decades on end. Facts are distorted by ‘quasi-this-or-that stuff’—relentlessly repeated so that it captures mass attention then politicians mouth it to siphon off votes from their callow constituents.

Stuff, sweet and sour, tangy yet tasteless, is repeated over and over and while it is without real substance or nourishment, it has influence. A basic contention in the pages that follow is that just the mere recurrence and embellishment of stuff gives it a pseudo-life and believability because recurring stuff actually changes human brain structures and thus our perception of reality.

If we examine it closely, we may observe the stuff that inserts itself into our consciousness actually takes on a life of its own. Multiply that ‘life’ by tens of millions and we discover the wellspring of what could be called a ‘separate reality’. Rhythmic resonations and recurrent patterns of human fable and foible can take emotionally charged thoughts and form them into new dimensions where the ‘presence of the past’ and perhaps on rare occasion, ‘the future’, may be experienced.

This fictional prequel, although a novel and embellished in certain portions, depicts a journey—both emotionally and literally—that essentially happened. For example, I did climb the highest mountain in the continental United States. The ‘Dust Off’ helicopter pilot in chapters 9 and 10 was actually shot down nine times in Viet Nam. His story continues in the already published ‘follow-up’ novel THE UNSPOKEN. At one point a few years ago I spent four months in Alaska in and around the ‘High One’—The Mountain Denali. The journey to that remarkable place in this world is documented in this narrative. Then too, as a psychologist, I have subjective opinions regarding certain mental aberrations depicted herein. My biased point of view will be very evident.

To capture in writing Maiden, Mother, Crone—the progressive titles possessed by all women—is a daunting task—in verity, an impossible challenge. Within the covers of this book she may be discernible to some readers. Three generations, a triad of tensile lives, a trinity of goddesses dipped from the same hot, whorled gene pool but forged by distinctly different environments. Medicine women, sorcerers, healers, were venerated in ancient circles. In our modern enlightened societies they become objects of derision. Sacred women of the old world become the charred witches of the new. We may all gasp in primal unison, feeling the same deficit of air, because on some archetypal level we know—really know—that beyond You Tube and corporate media distortions there is a mystifying truth to be glimpsed. Visionary and endowed with prescience gifts, women of former times had sacred status—today they have diagnostic impressions and spirit-stultifying tranquilizers.

This book is dedicated to the myriad of cancer survivors who have not only endured but have celebrated life by telling their stories. They have my gratitude for their willingness to share some of their personal experiences written herein. And to the children everywhere who have passed through the unspeakable hell of neglect, exploitation, abuse and cruelty; many of them, while they have scars, have been able to seek and experience wholeness because they have continued the work of integration and forgiveness. I salute you!

—Robert Milton Ph.D. Palm Springs, California

PART I

The Americanized quest to reach the heights of a corporate peak is a curious, irrational excursion— a greedy quest to grasp the ineffable—a search for life’s tones and shapes. However as one strikes the tone or finds the shape one also discovers there is no way to contain or express it. Thus the exhausting, futile pursuit is sustained and repeated.

—Dr.Q.R. Knitting

Chapter 1

APPEARANCES:

Deception is expected

Newport Beach, CA. — Circa early 1970s

Following the official sounding orders on the hand-delivered summons, Dr. Richard B. Larson rambles to the elevator and down two flights then over to the specified office in the glass and steel hospital building. His own resplendent office is next to the prestigious Newport Senator Memorial Hospital, and is constructed in similar proportions and materials—no doubt to give the impression that it is an adjunctive part of the same non-profit monolithic health center.

A sheriff and some other officials from County Youth Services arrive early to contain and interrogate. Upon opening the door, Doctor Larson is accosted by a county social worker: There is reason to believe, she coldly intones, you have sexually abused your daughter. An investigation has begun to confirm these charges.

What the …?

CYS will take the lead.

Lead in what?

Investigating your abuse of children! She snaps.

Knees buckling, he experiences something akin to shock. His tanned face turns ashen and his hand rises to a graying temple as if to smooth his salt and pepper hair. Moving to his side, my shrink (who obeyed the law and reported my allegations about his best friend to authorities) says quietly, I called Llyn, and she’ll be here in a minute. The distinguished doctor stares blankly in disbelief. His accuser is not present, nor is she allowed to return home. In fact, I am nearly twenty years old the next time my father, Doctor Richard B. Larson, sees me privately. Two years before the mast of social agency, newspaper, and publicity hell begins.

What is this all about, Richard? My mother, his usually poised wife, bursts into the room, obviously fuming because of this unscheduled interruption and the rumored allegations. Her deep brown eyes blazing with an electric gold, like a scorching sunburst passing through turbid waters. Long limbed and exceptionally fit, she manages an hour of weights and Stairmaster exercises in the basement gym each morning before ascending to her quietly opulent offices high up in this glass tower. Her warm honey-colored face suggests that something other than Anglo DNA contributed. Her stride and body language says CEO.

Just when was all this supposed to have taken place Richard? When?

He catches the supposed innuendo and the challenge she’s hurling at his accusers. His disbelief at the entire episode is still showing on his face—a look of shock, horror and bewilderment.

All this … didn’t take place Llyn! I have no idea where all this stuff came from.

You’re saying that your daughter is making this up? Lying? Like she made up her invisible friends and all that other crap about visions and predicting the future. Llyn says for the benefit of those listening.

I don’t know!

She either is or she isn’t! Which is it, Richard? Llyn almost shouts the question. Not at him, but to them. She’s accustomed to getting precise answers from her board members and staff. At this moment she’s treating the county officials as her subordinates. After all, they are in her building.

In the last fifteen minutes I’ve been maligned, vilified and slandered! That’s all I know! I have never abused my children. Never.

Immediately Llyn knows the truth. She thinks, he’s right!—I would know. My mother Narcissa would know. She sees the truth of his denial. Utilized or not, her gift is always evident in moments of emotional crisis.

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LOCAL HOSPITAL DEPARTMENT HEAD FACES SEXUAL MOLESTATON CHARGES, the front page of the Orange County Daily proclaims the next day. The names of the victims will be withheld in accordance with the best journalistic ethics. But, Newport Beach is a small town and anybody who wants to know the details, knows, or soon finds out. Doctor R. B. Larson has been relieved of his hospital duties and privileges pending further investigation.

During the next twenty-two months, my father is arrested three times—actually spends several hours in jail on two occasions.

Rumors about molestation of patients run rampant. A local high school girl claims he offered her a thousand dollars if she would let two of his doctor friends fondle her, in a sexual manner, of course. Another pregnant teenager accuses a hospital staff doctor of drugging her and forcing her to have an abortion, Which is why, she screams, I’m pregnant again! The entire staff of the hospital comes under CYA scrutiny. Rumors fly like witches on Halloween. My mother is threatened with indefinite administrative leave when the National Inquisitor tabloid reports that she and her mother were black magic witches—based on my grandmother Narcissa’s witnessed confession.

On the positive side, once she had been accused, there was no longer any reason for her to hold back. In her mind, there is no doubt that this whole horror story is a journalistic fabrication and Orange County CYA officials and a few media moguls would soon learn that hell hath no fury like Frances Llyn N. Larson, CEO, when scorned.

Why? Repeated over and over—to no avail—neither Llyn nor Richard Larson come up with a plausible answer.

In spite of the circle of expressed rage, I too am at a loss. It’s as if some other force, or someone else, is pulling the strings. Somehow I know that most of the big secrets are locked tightly within the confines of mind mysteries belonging to another dimension of time and space.

Chapter 2

DECISION:

An action to reduce stress

On the road—circa 1990s

The decision to retire was not sudden. For almost thirty years my parents had envisaged outfitting a four-wheel-drive van, and taking their first months of severance from their high-octane, work-a-day world to explore the significant mountains of America. Glamorizing gray hair and the winding down of two brilliant careers required hours of concerted—sometimes-agonizing—effort. Most of the time they were just too busy to think about it. Retirement and ‘wind-down’ decisions were sporadic, fitfully accomplished by engaging in dreams of free time and tall mountains. Idyllic places of the world were conscripted, charted and compulsively assembled in a travel journal for the leisurely days ahead.

The day of decision, however, was sudden.

Llyn slumped into a favorite chair, bent her head into the cradle of her slender fingers, thin strands of short-cropped dark hair disarranged itself irregularly over her forehead and hands. Tears flowed freely down her thin naturally dark colored cheeks. Picante, their blue-eyed Aussie Shepherd, nuzzled closer, attempting to offer comfort, his wet nose snuggling between her hands in quick little repetitive gestures, as if to say, pet me, throw a ball, tease, taunt, tantalize, anything, but don’t be sad. She held the scruff of Picante’s neck in one hand with the other motioned helplessly to Richard. He moved to her as she related the most recent terrifying findings. They both knew the dreaded report was a resounding death knell to their way of life. The day had come. The bell was tolling. Like Aesop’s tale of the toiling ant and the fiddling grasshopper, stores for the cold, rainy winter were ready. Years of hard work, and the settlements from the litigious abuse case had provided a more-than-adequate savings account, which would in turn provide a summer to fiddle. Instead, a gut-wrenching volcano ripped the fiddle and the ant’s nest asunder—both worlds blew apart. "Damn you Aesop!" Richard muttered to himself.

Generally, affability was his long suit, now he was hard and rock like, I … we … should do the trip … now. Let’s head out for Alaska, today. Spoken with firmness as he moved to her side. His unfamiliar display of desperation snapped everything into perspective and ordered priorities.

Now?

Yes. Now!

But Richard, you were going to work two more …

The time is now! His eyes narrowed, his voice broke revealing an inner drama of anguished conflict. One of his eyes was bright blue the other green-brown; both had an almost iridescent quality. A memory, an incompleteness, a flightless bird of helplessness fluttered momentarily between them.

We’ll start our vacation a few weeks early and extend as needed. She nodded and continued to cry softly.

The bird took wing and began an undulating rise skyward.

Guess we’ve always known … it would be this way. Life is not a dress rehearsal. But it does seem to go by while you’re getting ready to live it. Llyn said quietly.

Knowing this day would arrive sooner than later; she had already released many of her executive responsibilities at the hospital. Mulling over the most recent decisions, she thought about her choice of a replacement. "I spent months carefully watching Anne climb the corporate ladder, even gave her a shove now and then. With each rung, I released a few more executive duties. She’s talented, compulsive and, in no small degree, created in my own image. She’s perfect—almost. I can pass the baton into Anne Wilson Smith’s capable hands." Llyn knew that her time of waiting was over—the grooming was finished. She also knew that Anne would never dazzle anyone with her domestic competence. Red ink, yes she was a dazzler, vegetable gardens and home decor, not so much.

For a tenacious moment, Richard and Llyn held each other—no words or tears. A singularity of purpose emerged. They rose without their usual rational rhymes and reasons, walked toward the garage with separate cellular phones held up—a Roman farewell salute: Hail! To the life they were abruptly leaving behind! The bird spread its wings wide and began to soar. These spontaneous, unplanned, frenzied moments now met with strength and loathing, were rare in their life together.

On some other plateau of consciousness they knew the garage housed a small sports car and a new, low-slung analog of a four-by-four, an El Dorado—"with a North Star system"—as Richard liked to note. Both totally inappropriate for a rugged trip on frost-heaved roads, twisted switchbacks of high mountains or the shale trails of the Yukon.

Their action, their haste, their impulsivity—not their usual modus operandi—were all necessary. Identical results, from two different hospitals, shrieked prognosis hopeless. Now, only uncompromising promptitude would do, yet such spontaneity requires a kind of ultimate discipline; it was a kind of style sans style. Llyn had always made everything look effortless. She had style without showing it as style. Now, getting to her mountains was all that mattered. Time was of the essence. Richard hurriedly called Nancy, his office nurse; his practice would be left in the capable hands of his talented youthful assistant.

John’s younger and probably better for them anyway, he rationalized aloud to himself; and I’m ready for a long vacation.

Llyn turned her head toward him, then realized it was just his typical reflective muttering and turned back to phone Anne Wilson Smith with a message of similar content. Anne had intuited Llyn’s need and was almost prepared for such a call. She had long coveted the top floor of the glass tower and the position of CEO of the most futuristic hospital in Southern California. Now it was a reality, a gift from Llyn, and a side effect of a devastating disease.

Then a brief conversation with Juana, her friend, housekeeper and confidant for more than three decades. Except for the summers spent with their grandmother Narcissa, Juana had virtually reared both of us children. With her uncanny insight, she comprehended and anticipated our every emergency. Her dedicated years in the Larson household as nanny had contributed a stabilizing core—at least during our school years. A bruja in her own country, she read between the lines of Llyn’s understated news and knew with certainty the true, cruel meaning. Weeks ago she had prepared for this moment. The medical kit and the packed tote bag were even now waiting.

Not bien … not too good Juana. Regresamos … in a couple of months or so, please look after the houseplants. We’ll take Picante with us. Llyn knew that neither suggestion nor direction was necessary. With Juana in charge all would be well.

Esta bien. Mi esposo quarda el jarden.

Juana’s husband would, of course, care for the yard. Their last via con Dios was heartfelt. Llyn snatched up her makeup, and the few clothes she’d put together months ago in preparation for their Mount Whitney climb. The medical kit, tote bag, and a satchel of travel dreams she had amassed in leather-bound journal were already in the trunk of the El Dorado. Her journal had acquired a name: the Trekking Testament or TT for short. It was a kind of someday when the time is right, wish book about climbing the highest mountains on all the world’s continents. Although it was not totally right, it was time.

For Llyn, high, majestic mountains—the ultimate icons of transcendence—had always been her singular symbolic ideal. During her entire lifetime she had utilized mountains as a mind-cleansing symbol. At the same time she’d successfully climbed the highest professional mountain in the competitive medical world of Orange County. In her journal of someday plans, and in her fantasies, shared only with Richard, she had soared to the ultimate heights. Mountain dreams had given wings to her thoughts and immunity to her feelings.

Wings were expedient when idealized heights were to be sought and achieved. Like on-stage personas she and Richard participated in the agony, turmoil, politics, and excitement of their times, but always from her mind-mountain. The usual arrows of outrage and expected criticisms rarely reached up to them.

It was not the accolades or the power that thrust her upward. She climbed mostly for the sheer exhilaration—and for a very personal reason—climbing left little time for introspection or for what her mother had once called the devil’s tool. Both Richard and Llyn had achieved the top rungs of their chosen professions. It was, however, a precarious perch, one from which the fall could be fatal.

Her transcendent position allowed little access to others. Friends were few, but exceptional. The hours she spent with them were usually filled with laughter and boundless enthusiasm for exploring new ideas and also their friends enjoyed the obvious contentment between the two of them.

From an early age, she had centered her life on achievement. Meeting Richard, falling in love and being pregnant before finishing school meant she would take him with her up her transcendent ladder. The time they spent with each other was filled with a kind of synergy, which could propel them, like a powerful amulet, into unknown but exciting realms. Futurism or history, wasps and eels, sharks versus tigers were encountered as topics worthy of heated debate. Together it seemed that they could do anything, discover everything, and overcome even the terror of falling. Long ago Llyn decided, she would never run. One of her beliefs—I do not run because I am afraid; I am afraid because I run.—was now being tested.

A rancid fear now clung to the underside of her pinnacle and was felt as a moist menace, an engorged frenzied expression of pure terror by both of them. It was a vibrating driving intuition without societal inhibition or rules. A new feeling, unrestrained fear became the motivating force and censor, just as curiosity and obsession had been in the past.

Chapter 3

NARCISSA:

Ultimate self-love and hate

On the road — Circa 1990s

Richard anticipated an exercise in patience heading north from Southern California on congested state Highway 5, through the earthquake-prone Sylmar Pass. Later, new car velocity would not only be possible but the terrain ahead, by Richard’s reductive thinking, would require it.

Conversation was nil. Picante lightly panted and looked outward, circled his compact muscular body into a tight ball, and closed his crystal-blue eyes. One ear remained erect. He seemed to sense the reach of the journey.

Llyn allowed her obsessive, contentious mind to parade and drill a secret plan. The long silence invited reverie and renewed acquaintance with two old friends of childhood: Imagination and Fantasy. With obsession came the compulsion to review in careful detail certain events of her existence. Her lifelong habit of sinking backwards in time set her free from her often-redundant present. The ‘now’ for her was an oft-repeated drama, a kind tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing. Events of the present were flotsam from her discerning reach history, déjà vu floating in the ongoing river of time—her time. The ache of medical diagnosis, the bundles of written grief delivered from Vietnam and the sense-blunting shocks of a thousand other pains now invaded her being. She closed her eyes, allowed the pangs of the present to seep through her mind’s grasp—and reminisced.

Without conscious effort, Llyn entered an ancient sacred space, a kind of circle in which the presence of the past and future was here, now. Suddenly she saw! A distant memory clarified. A future scene distilled. The scheme, the same one seen in her dreams was suddenly vivid. Fanciful expectations like those of a child at a circus clamored for more attention. She watched her plan unfurl like a cosmic scroll; the details, however, were earth bound.

First step in the plan: stop at Lone Pine, then, the first mountain, the highest in the continental U.S. Step-by-step a convoluted design began to form in her thoughts as her hitherto unacknowledged memory took life, stretched, and with an undulating movement crept into her mind; with it came a new kind of understanding.

She remembered a life, her life and Mother Narcissa’s church.

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Llyn’s memory

A sportive existence, lived through a corridor of events more than a half century in length, opened. Her birth and early life on a small, isolated ranch on the side of a saintly mountain in Washington State, gave her all she could savor of the outdoors, the big outdoors.

Despite the lack of modern conveniences, she loved her rowdy life and her two older brothers who doggedly served her and savagely protected her. Energetic, always ready to compete with rawhide-rough and ready siblings, she grew and became more of a commander than a little sister. Cute and coquettish she was, but by the age of five there was little room for the emergence of a damsel in distress syndrome. The need for protection was rare but always expected as a duty. Tomboy, rambunctious, and dictatorial were the descriptive adjectives when her brothers were near; by herself—on some deserted ridge—visionary and daydreamer were descriptions more to the nail head.

Frances Llyn get your head out of the clouds. Pay attention! Her excessively stern mother often admonished. The clouds where her head resided, however, were filled with lofty aspirations, which began to out-number mere dreams. While she loved the simple life, intuitively she knew a complex competitive life would be her destiny.

Mother Narcissa, kept a tight ship—used her constrictive religion as the controlling rudder and ultimate compass. No time for dreaming. Idle hands are the devil’s tools!—An oft-repeated maxim—said most of the time for grandmother Narcissa’s own personal edification. Llyn had been her unexpected ‘change-of-life’ miracle baby conceived during an idle winter’s night.

During Narcissa’s earlier years she’d seen horrendous visions of terrifying events that had come to pass. As the years slipped by, her religious fervor increased, she became only dimly aware of her gift. Her future reach was not—could not—be acknowledged; it was never shared aloud. In each instance the dazzling insights and pre-cognitive wonders were ascribed to evil sources. They were events that led to prayer and fasting, followed by repentance and self-contempt and increased chores for her children.

When Llyn gave evidence of possessing similar gifts, she was punished with isolation and increased responsibility. Religious ritual and prayer became Narcissa’s pervading attempt to control; moil and scholastic achievement became Llyn’s. Get that nonsense out of your noggin girl! Use your God-given horse sense not your imagination or fantasies, were familiar words to Llyn.

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Later, as a somewhat awkward near juvenescent, Llyn freely roamed the nearby range. In the cool evenings she would saddle her horse and ride alone to the west. The sun’s redness blushing her cheeks and caressing breezes blowing through her long, auburn hair brought serenity and calmness. At the low rise she would often sit in quiet meditation before the blood-red sun as it descended into coral reefs of cloud cover. Her evening ritual, at the same hour of the sun, not the clock, was to ride the old Indian trail to the higher ridge.

Imagination and Fantasy her secret and devoted confidantes, with whom she could be free as the wild foxes—whose yips were heard in distant canyons when the wind came from the northern slope—were her real childhood teachers. However, her secret confidantes were, along with the foxes, being hunted to extinction by the mere passage of time.

This night she moved a little beyond and noticed a great black bird circle. Its wing shadow rushed at and enveloped her and the trail. A fore-telling of evil, Imagination shouted a warning at her. Fantasy gave excess meaning to every aspect of her natural existence. She closed her eyes and suddenly saw herself, her face, covered with blood and blisters. But this was not a fantasy—it was a foretelling perception—a reach—a vision reaching into the fibers of some future temporal fabric—a prescient gene at work. She screamed a long painful single word Nooooo! but no one heard.

Below, the familiar path leading to the crest and home, the world of a vanishing childhood, spread before her. This night a strange pang gripped her. Dropping the reins and dismounting, she walked out to a grassy wind swept mound and stood, wavering, as a golden stock of grain come to the end and ready for harvest. She watched and listened as the evening lights slowly faded. Too soon, it was time to return.

Heading back to the thickset, pew-like ranch house—firmly fixed at five thousand feet with views of snow crested mountain altars—her horse quickened his gait. For a sub-teen maiden, time was an antagonist without vulnerability. Tonight her common sense noggin, full of sunset visions, sensed that a transition had begun from fancied flights of visionary escapes to the tangible, undeniable real world. Twilight was fading and fanned out on the low-slung ranch house shake roof. In a brownish black shadow, night came on. Nevertheless, the golden glow through opaque stained glass windows provided a cathedral-like solemnity. Her mother had insisted on making the ranch house into a literal House of God, since there were no churches nearby. It was an insistence built on her need for absolute control of her family’s mind, body and soul.

Sputtering horses’ lips, and the last twittering of birds safely sequestered in the barn loft, announced the day’s end. The smell of fresh cooking applesauce greeted Llyn as she slipped off her riding boots on the porch and entered the kitchen through a side door. Mother, on hands and knees polishing the oak flooring in the hallway leading to the chancel-like living room, said, without looking up, Frances Llyn, please check the applesauce, I think it’s done.

Llyn never doubted her Mother had eyes in the back of her head, or if she wished, could control gravity. Wool-stocking feet slid silently to the stove. From a small geyser of steam rising from the cauldron of a pressure cooker, the tang of cinnamon and cloves reached her.