Crying in the Morgue, Laughing in the Dark

By Mary A. Allen

With four active boys at home, forty-one-year-old Stella Grayson has no energy or desire to raise another child. When she becomes pregnant, she does everything she can to deny her pregnancy exists. When little Myra is born, Stella refuses to acknowledge the child, hoping she can put the baby up for adoption. Stellas husband, John, would never agree; hes been hoping to raise a little girl. The doctor sends Myra to the morgue to die. But God intervenes, and Myra is given a chance at life.

Despite Myras deep feelings of inadequacy, the Lord gave her an unquenchable love for others and an irrepressible joy for life. Her journey through childhood and her adolescent years is long and the struggles are hard, but the end result surprises even Myras bruised and tender heart.

Based on an inspiring true story, Crying in the Morgue, Laughing in the Dark is filled with deep emotional truths that speak to the heart of women. With real and sympathetic characters, the story weaves a picture of Gods tenacious love and the joy that could not be contained in his precious daughter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Dec 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781462410798

Mary A. Allen

Mary Allen lives with her husband Bob, the love of her life. They’ve been married a whole bunch of years. They have a wonderful ordinary family they love with an extraordinary love. Mary loves to sing, read, laugh and make people smile. She hates high tech gadgets, but puts up with them. Just barely. She’s hoping she’ll inherit a million dollars from a long lost relative so she can quit the job she loves as a home health nurse to stay home and be a full time writer. But she’s not holding her breath. When she speaks about God at an event, a hand full of people listen, but when she prays, the God of the universe hears every word.

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Copyright © 2014 Mary A. Allen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Author photo by Brandy Photos; www.BranyPhotos.com

Inspiring Voices

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.inspiringvoices.com

1 [phone]

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-1080-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-1079-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921630

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 12/11/2014

Contents

Acknowledging the Ingredients

A Little Something Extra

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Authors Note

Personal Reflections for the Reader

This book is dedicated to my husband, Bob Allen. You have walked with me through this incredible writing journey with love, encouragement and prayers. Have I told you today that I love you? I do, you know, with my whole heart.

Acknowledging the Ingredients

If there is anything praiseworthy in this book, then the glory should go to God for all He has done in and through my life. I am thankful for my walk with Jesus. I may veer from the path at times, but He never leaves me. He remains my constant companion.

Through my writing journey, I have discovered a lot of ingredients go into writing a book. I am grateful to the following people God brought into my life to help me with the book recipe.

Loretta Sinclair, Jane S. Daly, and Michelle Murray who filled my bowl with main ingredients such as encouragement, love and instruction. (That’s what critique groups do. Love and cheese, ladies.) Jodi Brown and Clareen Aseltine for the final edits that gave finishing touches to frost my completed creation.

John-Thomas Pryor for the cover design which garnishes the book with beauty and appeal. Elyse Allen, MA LMFT for her ability to stretch my creativity and make things palatable by keeping me real. Diana Symons for her honesty about my first draft and giving me the basic recipe for success. Dawn Kinzer for her friendship that walked me through the editing process, and challenged me to take chances with creative ingredients and methods in order to serve a more appetizing meal.

A Little Something Extra

My life is filled with people whose encouraging words will never fade from my memory. Their words are permanently etched upon my heart. Without them, this book may never have been written. This is a special thank you to some of those people. Chuck Grifasi, Jane Grifasi, Michelle Griffiths, Betty Harding, Maggie Hodge, Barb (Bee) Hunt, Deanne Karnaze, Linda Kral, James and Shirley McClure, Barb Ricotta, Gayle Roper and Vicki Quirarte.

And to my ordinary family for whom I have extraordinary love-I’ve been blessed and inspired by you: James, Jacob, Joy, Tony, Heather, Thomas, Isabella, Mary, Anna, Jacob F., Matthew, Jacob A., and Eleanor. I love you.

This story is a work of fiction based on a true story. (Mine.)

Chapter One

Present Day

All eyes were fixed on her. Myra Collins paused and scanned the small audience, her heart racing. She stared down at her notes. What compelled her to reveal a story that lay dormant for so many years? Would these fifty women understand how the tale impacted her? Would anyone understand? Could what she had to say help even one woman in this room?

Myra gave her audience a tentative smile. I’ve lived like so many other people, getting out of bed every day, going about my business, doing my best to live a decent life.

She sighed. Her life seemed so routine, so mundane. She’d spent the majority of it without value or purpose, without goals, aimlessly living one day to the next, never believing she had anything to offer.

To tell you the truth, she continued, it never occurred to me that my life is filled with purpose, or that I could be of any use to anyone. The words written in her notes emboldened her. But recently, a series of events radically altered me. Change is something I struggle with. But through it emerged purpose.

She glanced at the audience as memories of her mother drifted through her mind.

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Myra’s Mother, Stella

October 1955

The chill of the bathroom tiles seeped through Stella Grayson’s threadbare nightgown as she rested her head on the wooden toilet seat. Tears stung her eyes as anger burned within her like a red-hot flame. No, she wouldn’t cry. She was far too angry. And nauseous. And tired. It wasn’t the stomach flu or food poisoning. If only it were. No, it was something far worse than a mere life-threatening bout with botulism. She was pregnant. Again.

She should have been done having babies. For goodness sake, she was forty! Her four boys already performed plenty of mischief and kept her on edge, both physically and emotionally. From the twelve-year-old to the two-year-old, each managed to challenge her sanity. Most days, she was a bundle of raw nerves. She woke before dawn exhausted, to prepare the day for her family. She cooked, cleaned, and kept the house running in smooth working order, and she was the last one to fall into bed at night, even more drained. Would it ever end? She should be looking forward to having grandchildren, but instead she’d face overflowing diaper pails, more laundry, larger meals, bigger grocery bills, and less time for herself.

Stella contemplated her options. There weren’t any. No need to tell anyone of the pregnancy just yet. After all, she’d gained so much weight with the other kids no one would ever suspect she was pregnant. Maybe she would get lucky and lose this baby.

Stella shuffled to the sink to wash her face. She touched the crow’s feet next to her eyes, the frown line around her lips. She felt old and haggard. The reflection in the mirror confirmed it. I am old, I have always been old. Never young, carefree, or without responsibility. Only two and a half when her mother died, Stella aged fast.

Stella didn’t remember her mother, but a warm feeling possessed her when she pondered the days before the 1917 pandemic stole her mother away. Her father—an imposing man—wasn’t prone to moments of warmth or tenderness. Shortly after her dear mother’s death, Papa had lifted her into his large, black touring car. The cold evening wind had stung her cheeks. Stella didn’t remember being in Papa’s touring car before, and was afraid to ask where they were going. Unspoken words hung between them as fear threatened to strangle her and breathing became quick and shallow.

By the time they arrived at their destination, her stomach was in a tight knot. Papa set her down on the sidewalk in front of the large, frightening brick building, where she immediately threw up beside the car. Papa took hold of her wrist with great force and pulled her toward the massive, weather-beaten doors. She sobbed, desperate to know why she was being brought to this horrible place.

The door opened with a terrifying creak, and a stern-faced woman appeared in front of them. She wore a long, black dress with a funny black and white cape draped over her head. Papa handed her over to the woman and with a nod, turned and walked back to his motor car without looking back.

The horror of that moment washed over Stella now as she remembered. Papa, I’m sorry. I won’t throw up again. Come back, please, come back. Tears coursed down her face.

But the strange woman held her back with an iron grip. That’s enough, her words snapped.

As her father drove off into the blackness, Stella’s heart shattered like an icicle falling to the ground.

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The boys’ laughter bounced through the house, filling each room with childish joy and exuberance. It pinged off the light fixtures, ricocheted from the ceiling, danced over the area rug, reflected off the mirrors, and settled over every surface in the house. But it didn’t touch Stella. It never drew close to the dark corner of her world.

The ache in her stomach brought her back to the bathroom. Her throat burned from the bile forced into it from the dry heaves. Maybe she should eat something and make all this effort worthwhile.

The house became as silent as a winter morning in January. Indeed, the silence moved through the house like a cold front with frightening speed. Stella headed toward the boys’ room fully expecting to come face-to-face with the usual midmorning disaster. She was not disappointed. Ribbons of toilet paper hung from every surface like streamers at a school dance.

What are you boys doing? Clean this mess up right now. The boys were, as usual, about to unravel her nerves to the very end. How do they do it? She longed for the days before these four boys took over her very existence. These boys are spoiled. They don’t know how good they have it.

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Stella, come here now! The nun’s voice was as sharp as a straight-edged razor. It had not dulled one bit in all the years that Stella live there.

Stella’s presence in Sister Superior’s office was immediate. She learned how to move fast and think quickly to avoid the swift rap on the knuckles given for poor performance. The room’s hot, dusty air irritated Stella’s throat, but she dared not cough. The old, dark furniture resembled the sister’s personality—she never smiled or laughed. When she spoke, her words were like shards of glass from a shattered mirror. Stella dreaded the very thought of her.

Yes, Sister. Stella was careful to modulate her voice to be neither too loud to offend the nun, nor too soft to force her to order Stella to speak up. She stood tall, but not at attention, so she would not be accused of being impertinent.

The nun crossed her arms in front of her and peered down her nose at Stella. Your father has come for you. Stella glanced to the right. A tall, forbidding man and a sour, young woman stood there staring at her. The young woman could have been Sister Superior forty years ago. Her features were unmovable– as though carved into granite. Stella gazed beyond and to the left of the unfamiliar man with the stern, humorless face, but didn’t see anyone else.

Stella remained silent.

Go get your things. Hurry! We don’t have all day. The nun’s words landed on the floor like a rock.

Trembling, Stella left to prepare for her new life with these two strangers. She didn’t have much to pack, even after almost six years in the orphanage.

Stella’s stepmother’s hardened features were actually pleasant compared to her personality. Stella became a servant, doing her stepmother’s cooking and cleaning. Stella’s body ached, and her hands burned and smelled of bleach when she finally crawled into bed at night. After completing assigned tasks, Stella was forced to sit by the hour, knitting and crocheting blankets and doilies for her dowry.

One such day, soon after turning twelve, Stella fought to keep her weary eyes from closing as her sore and reddened hands worked her knitting needles.

Her stepmother grabbed Stella’s knitting, examined it, and threw it down. "I expect better than this. Your dowry needs to be extremely nice if you are to have any hope of ever finding someone to marry you."

Stella’s face burned with humiliation, her young heart again crashing to the ground, shattered.

Stella, get in here. Her father’s voice bellowed, shaking the walls like a passing trolley car.

She rushed in. Her father’s anger filled the room. Her stepmother’s smug expression created a vacuum, and Stella couldn’t breathe. What was it this time? Was the breakfast toast a little too dark, did she miss a spot of dust, did the mail come late? Or did the granite woman just make up a new lie to tell Papa? Shrew!

Stella could not understand how her father could beat her for not getting the laundry off the clothesline by noon. They were still wet. He probably didn’t hear that part of the story.

After two years of slavery, it was a rare day when Cora, granite woman, didn’t tell Stella Wait until your father gets home. Before Stella healed from one beating, her father gave her fresh wounds to lick. He wasn’t fussy how he hit her. Sometimes a sharp slap to her face, other times a belt across the back of her bare legs. He used whatever was handy to make his point. If there were a way for Stella to improve her behavior, she would. But her stepmother was unpredictable and unstable, leaving Stella’s attempt to be a better little girl impotent.

Once her stepmother started having children, her personality soured noticeably. She was unbearable during her three pregnancies and a walking time bomb after the boys were born.

Stella longed to be remembered on her birthday or on Christmas with just one toy, one book, or even one handkerchief. The dream of her heart played over and over in her mind like a phonograph record skipping back over and over the same groove. They were the thoughts that kept her company in the loneliest moments of her childhood.

Two weeks before her thirteenth birthday, her stepmother went into labor with her fourth child. The screams from her bedroom were unbearable. Sweat ran down Stella’s neck. Her head pounded from the tension of her clenched teeth. Her stepmother’s screaming and cursing, combined with her father’s never-ending pacing, and the midwife’s darting back and forth from bed to door like a drug fiend in need of a fix, created chaos.

Push, push! The midwife’s excited voice was followed by a loud grunt.

The one in labor released a long, bloodcurdling scream. A baby’s cry followed. Take it away. I don’t want another boy. Cora’s harsh, angry words landed like wet sand in the middle of Stella’s room. Her eyes grew wide anticipating her father’s reaction. There was no reaction.

Silence, at last silence. Stella sighed with relief.

Hushed voices sounded outside her bedroom. A rapid, hollow knocking on her bedroom door startled her. Stella opened the door with apprehension, and there stood the midwife, baby in her arms. Without a word, the midwife handed the baby to her and walked away. No explanation. No training. At almost thirteen years old, Stella became a mother, by default.

Chapter Two

John, Myra’s Dad

October 1955

The gentle click and sizzle from the wall heater filled the room with soothing sounds like a faraway symphony. John slumbered in a dream-like state, just at the edge of wakefulness. Even with the wall heater on low, the room offered a slight chill that rested lightly on his nose and ears. But the cozy warmth of his blankets beckoned him deeper. He sighed, content with the knowledge that Saturday offered him a few extra precious moments to remain enraptured between the fresh, crisp laundered sheets.

The room quaked as Stella bolted from bed, leaving John startled and unearthed from the warm covers. A cacophony of loathsome sounds assaulted his ears from the bathroom down the hall where Stella vomited with fierce effort. He closed his eyes against the assault, trying to recapture his dreamy state, but the sounds from the bathroom commanded his attention. After some time, Stella returned to the bed, and with a clumsy, jolting effort, plunged between the sheets again.

Are you okay, Stella? Got a touch of the stomach flu? He reached over and touched her back with tenderness.

I’m not pregnant! She jerked away from him.

Her words snatched away any intelligent thought that may have been lingering around the periphery of his brain. He hadn’t considered that possibility at all. He pulled his hand back, searching for an appropriate response.

Hope you feel better, Honey, he mumbled with limp sincerity.

Stella didn’t reply. John felt somehow rebuked.

Her attitude continued to make him feel chastised. No matter hard he tried to be gentle and tender with her, she met him with resistance. For the remainder of the weekend, she wore an ironclad attitude of indifference toward him. He looked forward to the routine of Monday morning monotony. It was a welcome relief from the tension that settled between them.

At 5:30 a.m. on Monday, night slipped off its shroud of silence while it’s long dark fingers still held a tenuous grip on the sky. John peered through the window, waiting for his ride. He was ready earlier than usual, anxious to leave the weekend behind. He saw the headlights moving with steady stealth through the semi-darkness. They stopped in front of his house, and the driver gave one quick piercing blast of his horn to announce his arrival.

He opened the car door with a sharp jerk, hoping he could fling some of the cigarette smoke lingering inside the car out with one quick motion. It never did, but his heart remained hopeful. He greeted the three men inside with a pleasant voice and took his usual seat in back.

The conversation drifted from topic to topic, until it finally settled on the woes of work. John’s mind wandered in aimless directions as the other three men complained bitterly about working conditions at the factory, the union and its exorbitant dues, management’s attitude towards workers, and how a strike would be a welcome event, as if it were a hospitable celebration of workplace camaraderie.

The conversation settled heavy in his gut like a large breakfast of pancakes swimming in syrup, making him queasy. His mind made a journey to Stella. He pondered their predicament, her silence and his confusion. Was she really pregnant? He hadn’t understood her reaction Saturday and didn’t know how to make things right. Where had he lost control?

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At twenty-seven, John had not yet found the love of his life. But he was in active pursuit of the one perfect woman to stand by him. He tried several venues for his search–church, community college, social clubs, but none brought any positive result until the night he was at his buddy Ted’s house. They had been sitting around shooting the breeze and sharing raucous laughter when Ted’s sister walked into the room with their cousin, Stella. John was enamored.

For the remainder of the evening, he did everything he could to capture her attention. He told stories with animated gestures, cracked jokes that were successful in the past, and in general remained the center of attention. Ted and his sister were delighted with his antics. The room rang with laughter.

Stella, however, appeared to be somewhat reserved. John’s enthusiasm was not deterred. He moved forward like a snowplow clearing a highway as he attempted to remove any obstacles that lay between him and Stella. His skin tingled with anticipation. At the end of the evening, Stella stood and announced her departure. John leaped up with eagerness and offered to walk her home. She gave a slight nod, a Mona Lisa smile fixed on her face.

The short walk down the block was filled with limited conversation and tense silence. Several houses from where she lived, Stella stopped and thanked John for his kindness, stating she would prefer he leave her now.

My father would not understand your offer to walk me home. Her voice was so matter-of-fact it took John a moment to get past it.

Okay. John paused a moment to digest her words. Undaunted, he continued. May I have the pleasure of your company at a movie Friday evening?

She looked puzzled.

I’m asking you for a date, he said, eyebrows raised.

You’re a buffoon. Stella spun around and took several steps away, then stopped. She turned back and offered a sweet smile. Pick me up at my cousin’s house. I’ll be there at 6:30.

Her answer shot through him like electricity. He loved the sweet flavor of victory that covered his tongue.

They entered the movie theater Friday evening, and the aroma of popcorn welcomed them.

They settled in their seats with popcorn to share, but John was too anxious to watch the movie. He planned this evening all week, rehearsing his words over and over until he had them right. Stella’s eyes never left the screen, but John shot her a furtive glance out of the corner of his eye. He was ready. She was the one.

The drive home felt stilted and uncomfortable, but John was quite motivated. When they arrived in front of Stella’s cousin’s house, he turned the car off and faced her. The rich May evening air cleared his head of any hesitancy, and he cleared his throat. As Stella reached for the car door handle, John forged ahead.

Stella, here are my intentions. I’d like to get engaged and be married within six months.

She stared at John with a blank face, as if he had just given her the results of the 1912 World Series. Then she looked him in the eye. Okay. Accepting his proposal was the first and only verbal response she’d given all evening. John was overwhelmed. He did it! He got engaged and was going to be married. He won her heart-however unremarkable her reaction. John leaned over and placed his lips on hers to seal the deal. They were warm, and it felt exhilarating. But, it only lasted for a wistful moment. Then John felt the swift, smart slap of her hand across his face. John jerked away in one sharp movement, confusion spreading through his body.

Stella reached for the car door handle again and turned to him. Okay then, see you later. She got out of the car and left.

Chapter Three

Mark, Myra’s Brother

December 1955

A flurry of animated energy burst out of the bedroom as the three brothers stampeded down the stairs and charged to the coat rack, arms and sleeves flinging simultaneously in every direction. The boy’s excitement spilled from their mouths, each trying to speak over the other.

Mom, the guys and me are going out to play ball, Mark roared through the house as the boys almost reached the front door. See ya later. They flung the door open, sweeping in a current of snow-kissed air.

Oh, no you don’t. It’s too cold out there to play baseball. You boys go upstairs and gather your dirty laundry and bring it to me.

Awwww, Maaaaa, the boys chorused in agreement.

Stella entered the