Lynn's Journal: A Third Novel in the University Series

By Bruce R. Swinburne

LYNNS JOURNAL
THE THIRD BOOK IN A TRILOGY

Lynn Bosen grew up in a trailer park. Her father abused her until he died when Lynn was nine years old. Her mother was a recluse, showing little interest or affection for Lynn. Lynn grew up with three survival qualities. She could run like the wind, she had a powerful mind, and she had a beautiful body. Boys and men were drawn to her.

Lynn is now Lynn Bosen Noble. Her husband, Mike Noble, is a graduate professor and vice president of Great Rivers University (GRU). Mike Noble has studied in diverse academic fields including studies of writing and healing.

In Stem: Cells That Divide, Lynn was left for dead in an explosion meant to kill her and to destroy the Stem Cell Laboratory on the campus of GRU. She survived and Mike encouraged her to write of her life in a journal, thus, Lynns Journal.

Lynn takes on the task with little enthusiasm; however, she addresses the challenge and she enjoys the process. You will respect her courage and her survival skills. She has trepidation about sharing it with Mike.

This is her unexpurgated journal, or as some are wont to say, warts and all.

Enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496969019

Bruce R. Swinburne

Bruce Swinburne promised his readers a trilogy of novels with his first: Seeking Absolution, then Stem: Cells That Divide. Lynn Bosen, now Lynn Bosen Noble has been a player in each of the two previous novels. Swinburne, reprised characters that Lynn writes of in her journal. You won’t be able to stop as you read of her life, from her childhood to the present. Swinburne knows higher education and life--He was commissioned an officer in the Marine Corps on the day he graduated from the U. of Northern Iowa. After his honorable discharge, he completed a master’s and served two community colleges. His doctorate in higher education is from Indiana University. He served as a graduate professor of higher education for twenty-five years. Simultaneously, he served as dean and vice president for student affairs. He has served two private colleges: one as president and one as trustee--now life trustee. Swinburne writes fiction full time. He jokes that his graduate students thought all of his writing was fiction. Swinburne is married, has two adult children and three grandchildren.

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LYNN’S JOURNAL

A THIRD NOVEL IN THE UNIVERSITY SERIES

BRUCE R. SWINBURNE

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

©

2015 Bruce R. Swinburne. 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  03/30/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6902-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6981-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6901-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902203

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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

A prologue for Mike Noble and anyone who may read this Journal

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

Entry 4

Entry 5

Entry 6

Entry 7

Entry 8

Entry 9

Entry 10

Entry 11

Entry 12

Entry 13

Entry 14

Entry 15

Entry 16

Entry 17

Entry 18

Entry 19

Entry 20

Entry 21

Entry 22

Entry 23

Entry 24

Entry 25

Entry 26

Entry 27

Entry 28

Entry 29

Entry 30

Entry 31

Entry 32

Entry 33

Entry 34

Entry 35

Entry 36

Entry 37

Entry 38

Entry 39

Entry 40

Entry 41

Entry 42

Entry 43

Entry 44

Entry 45

Entry 46

Entry 47

Entry 48

Entry 49

Entry 50

Entry 51

Entry 52

Entry 53

Entry 54

Entry 55

Entry 56

Entry 57

Entry 58

Entry 59

Entry 60

Entry 61

Entry 62

Entry 63

Entry 64

Entry 65

Entry 66

Entry 67

Entry 68

Entry 69

Entry 70

Entry 71

Entry 72

Entry 73

Entry 74

Entry 75

Entry 76

Entry 77

Entry 78

Entry 79

Entry 80

Entry 81

Entry 82

Entry 83

Entry 84

Entry 85

Entry 86

Entry 87

Entry 88

Entry 89

Entry 90

Entry 91

Entry 92

Entry 93 EPILOGUE

DEAR READER,

In the home of my readers there are treasures that have special meanings. You glance at them each time you walk into a room where they silently reside. My wife and I have treasures that we love—each on their own pedestal. As I draft this note, I am sitting at our dining room table where I often prepare my first drafts. Girl Running is behind me. Testing the Waters is to my right in front of a floor to ceiling mirror so we can look at her from two sides. Rising together is to my left front. Each of these sculptures speak to us. When our oldest granddaughter would walk by Girl Running, she would always ask, Is that supposed to be me, Grandpa?

Each of the sculptures is by the master sculptor: Dennis Smith. If you are fortunate enough to find a copy of Meanderings: A Place to Grow, A collection of Writings and Drawings by Dennis Smith, you will own a book that is priceless—one to which you will return to read and take in his art. For me it is like returning to something closer to the innocence of youth. Dennis Smith will be known for generations by his work.

Bruce R. Swinburne

A prologue for Mike Noble and anyone who may read this Journal

I WOULD NEVER contend that I have a complete recollection of conversations as they took place. That would mean I have eidetic imagery. Eidetic imagery is the capacity—the ability to recall vivid images or conversations and scenes with nearly a photographic or video-graphic ability. I do not possess eidetic imagery, but I do have excellent recall.

My teachers and professors always praised my writing, especially in writing dialogue. For my journal, I will use dialogue frequently for three reasons. First, in many instances I do recall the precise words that were used in conversation. Second, in virtually every entry I have a visual recall of what was taking place. Third, I believe it will be a more pleasurable read.

Some of the words I will use are crude—words from the streets. I believe any who will read my journal will understand my trailer-trash background and will find it in their hearts to forgive the real life language.

I will temper much of the language.

Lynn Bosen Noble

Entry 1

DEAR JOURNAL,

I have loved writing all my life, but my pen feels very heavy in my hand as I contemplate what I must write in this journal. No, it isn’t the weight of the pen, it is my knowing that I must share this journal with my husband, Mike Noble. Not his insistence, but a promise to myself.

My husband, Mike Noble, has been bugging me about what he calls, Writing and Healing. He has studied in the fields of psychology, sociology, counseling, and higher education. Mike and his first wife, Lou Ann, were camping in Estes Park, Colorado, in 2002. Mike spent a week studying the field of Writing and Healing with leaders from around the nation. He has introduced many graduate students to the concept. Mike is vice president for student affairs at Great Rivers University and he is a graduate professor of higher education.

I grew up in a trailer park (nothing park-like) with no de jure nor de facto rules—no police presence—no zoning laws—no restrictions on trailers—no restrictions on language—no rules against drunkenness or drug use—no rules against parental abuse of children, children abusing other children, or spousal abuse. Journal, you get the idea. Families, however configured, locked their doors—law (non-law) was in their hands. I grew up on the margins, and I survived.

My name was Lynn Bosen. It’s now Lynn Bosen Noble. I was brought up without things most kids take for granted, including a middle name. Now, my maiden name is my middle name. I had nothing of value except my life—my body. I grew up with a wealth of fantasies, many brought on by a combination of sexual abuse, that I rarely thought of as abuse, and my own pursuit of erotic pleasures and dalliances.

My Mike would explain what I’m going to say using the expression, differential association. As a child, I thought nothing of the conditions I experienced. It was. When of school age, I wished I had more of what other kids had. They all dressed better, had real parents, but it was, and I found ways of coping. My teachers would tell you I have a good mind—a curious mind. Some resented when I came out tops in the standardized tests we all took at that time: The Iowa Tests of Educational Development and the Iowa Tests of Basic Skills.

I could run like the wind—a quality in my youth that often saved me from danger. Many say I have a beautiful body (Mike mainly). Could be so for those who like skinny blond broads and aren’t into big boobs! The street would tell you I’ve made mistakes, but it would also tell you I’m pretty savvy. I wanted Mike Noble and I got him. Mike is a vice president of Great Rivers University (GRU). I became his wife nine months ago. I can’t believe he married me. Until I was nearly killed in an explosion last month, I was happier than I ever thought possible.

At that time I was working as an undergraduate assistant in the stem cell lab on the university campus: GRU. An explosion was meant to destroy the laboratory. A note on my 4Runner that Mike hid from me for a few days clearly said the explosion was directed at killing me, also. Why me? It gave me a spinal cord injury that has me paralyzed below the waist.

Until the explosion, all was wonderful. We’re not rich, but we’re rich way beyond my wildest dreams. The sex between us was like God made our bodies special for each other and we’ve generously shared them.

After the explosion, I was totally down. We lost our Little Mikey—a pet name for our little boy with whom I was pregnant. It was the loss of any light in my life—like a permanent eclipse shutting out the light-giving joy. It felt like a permanent fade to black for both of us.

Through my life, I’ve felt pain in many ugly forms. I thought it would never end unless I died. I thought about taking my life. I knew what Mike went through with the death of his wife, Lou Ann, and if I died, it would hurt him terribly. When considering suicide, it never occurred to me that our lives could be good again. No one knows what I considered—not even my counselors or Mike.

Mike knows more about me than anyone, but there are things about which he knows very little or nothing. I wonder if writing in you is a good idea, Journal. Mike encouraged me to go ahead and write in you. I asked him what I should write about and he responded, Write about the trauma in your life—write about the joy. We all have stories to tell. By writing them, we discover new truths about ourselves. Write about everyday things. Visualize incidents in your life. Write about what you felt in those visions—your emotional state—how the vision or memory moved you—your emotions you felt then and now. Why does the vision or memory return?

Mike told me the word trauma comes from the Greek word, wound. Wounds in my life began way before that explosion. I’ve been physically and psychologically wounded countless times. Referring to my psychological wounds, he says, That toxic residue can eat at you. I’m writing in you, Journal, to exorcise some of my demons—some of my psychic wounds.

I’ve told Mike things about me, showing him the tip of a nasty iceberg. Some things I may never tell him. Like that guy Madoff, who misused his accountants, I’ve told Mike what I was afraid he’d learn. I don’t know whether I’ll ever want him to know everything. I’m terribly afraid of losing him. Yesterday, he brought me a couple of journals. He says writing will help me heal. Trauma—not my word—a Greek word—a sanitized word for the shit I’ve endured.

God, Lynn, be more honest with your journal. It’s true—I’ve endured much. Trauma in my life started way before the explosion—way before I ever met Mike. That’s the trauma of my childhood I’ve told Mike about. That’s the safe kind of stuff the talk shows exploit. It’s what I’ve done to myself—what I continue to conceal from him. Mike often says when referring to a screw-up, It hurts even more when you’ve done it to yourself. He doesn’t know it, but that’s me. He says I need not share what I write with him or anyone. I’m torn about that. I’m afraid to let him read what I write, and I’m afraid not to let him know. I’m fearful that something I might write could destroy the premises of what our fantastic relationship is based on. (I bet I’m not the only woman who feels that way!) I’m not sure what I will do with you, Journal. Until Mike, my life had been trauma, chaos, and disorder interspersed with my relations with many bad and a few really good people.

Mike has told me that all people lie. He has also said, Don’t lie to your journal. I’ve resolved to tell the truth in you, Journal. If I fail, I will correct or clarify what I have written.

Entry 2

DEAR JOURNAL,

Mike is at the university. This morning, I’m with my caregiver, Betty Drummer. I love her and I loved her husband, Bob. He died a year ago. They were like what real parents should be. Not the Brady Bunch kind of family, but a family, despite hardships, who loved even this trailer-trash kid. Mike says I shouldn’t say that about myself, but I know who and what I am.

We both felt up yesterday morning. I’m encouraged for the second time since the day of the explosion in the stem cell laboratory. The first time was when a procedure was proposed to Mike and me. We were informed that it was an unauthorized and unethical procedure. It violated the covenant agreements by the university when it received grants from five biotech firms, the National Institutes of Health, and the National Science Foundation, to study stem cells—embryonic stem cells and cells from other sources to discover and reveal their practical applications.

The second time was the night before last when the procedure took place in secrecy. I wasn’t afraid for two reasons. I knew I was in the hands of three of the most knowledgeable people in the world (literally) and if the procedure would have killed me, it wasn’t something I hadn’t considered doing to myself. If what took place becomes public, it could ruin the lives of four persons—four heroes: Professor Frank Fairmont, Professor Remington Stevens, medical Dr. Stanley Cohen, and my hubby, Mike. Pulling off the stealth secret without being found out was a high. I’m lifted up from the depression I’ve owned since February. So is Mike. If the procedure works, it will never be reported, but it will have its impact on changing medicine. If it works, it will change my life a whole lot for the better.

Using computer imaging and computer controlled syringes, fifteen million stem cells, mostly embryonic cells, were injected in eight places along the injured part of my lower spinal cord. The cells that weren’t embryonic came from our Little Mikey, the baby I miscarried in the explosion. Writing and speaking his pet name that Mike and I used fills me with sadness and my eyes with tears.

From the first revelation of my pregnancy with Little Mikey, he brought joy to Mike and me. If all goes well, I may walk again. If it doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do. Mike says he just wants me to always be here for him. Now that I’m in this condition, I wonder why he comes home at all. I’m full of all kinds of doubts. Mike has been a saint, but I know his needs. He’s a real man with all those wonderful sexual needs. I’ve never experienced anyone like him and I’ve had lots of experience. Mike knows that.

From evidence and crude notes sent to President Elaine Levine, Mike, and me, we know the explosion was meant to destroy the lab, but why the focus on Mike and me? Earlier we thought gunfire at the lab could have been directed at Dr. Frank Fairmont, the top guy. He’s a smart guy—full of himself. He’s had affairs with women on the campus, and he came on to me. He eased off when I told him I was married to Mike. We didn’t know if the gunfire was to get at the lab or to get at that skirt-chasing Fairmont. Mike knows all about that.

I chased Mike like a bitch in heat. Proximity, that’s the word. I made a point to be where he was any time I could. He had this approach-avoidance thing. I’d brush up against him. I even kept inviting him to let me comfort him, but his feeling for his deceased wife held him back—well, not completely. He’d brush against me too, and twice when I stood behind his chair at a board meeting in the back row in my university Security uniform, he pushed his head back into my stomach. I soaked my panties. Oh, yes, Journal, comfort him was a nice expression for my intent to screw his brains out.

The Christmas before last I went to his house with carolers. I had it all planned. Later, I returned alone and, Mike, the good—bad dog, got a few sniffs of me and there’s been no turning back for either of us from that night of total passion. Mike was so good that night and ever since.

Mike quotes the gestalt expression that everyone has heard, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. In coming on to Mike, I behaved like those flowers that use lines in their blossoms to direct insects to their pistil. Neither the flowers nor the insects know why they are so powerfully attracted, yet that attraction is life changing—mutually beneficial to the insect and the plant. I threw out my lines and made it irresistible for Mike. I drew him to me—to my nectar and it has been life changing for both of us. Our shared love is larger than the sum of our capacity to love individually. That’s high sounding, but I know Mike loves me as I love him.

Mike’s children, Harry and Sarah, will be arriving from Indiana University tomorrow. Harry likes me, but Sarah was embarrassed and really pissed-off when I became pregnant so soon after Mike and I were married.

I’m tired now. My doctor, who was involved in the procedure last night, directed Betty Drummer not to give me rehab until tomorrow or Friday. We don’t think they show, but we don’t want Betty to see where the syringe needles penetrated my back.

I wondered if I’d ever write in you, Journal. Mike is always going to his Bartlett’s for quotations to use in his speeches or in his writing. I look in it once in a while, especially now that I’m so confined. I found this quote from Pindar, whoever the hell he was. He said, Not every truth is the better for sharing its face undisguised, and often silence is the wisest thing for a man to heed. I suspect it may often be the wisest thing for a woman to heed, as well. Still, I wonder, Journal. Will I continue to sanitize the truth about me and continue to harbor secrets that I’m afraid to share with Mike, or will I risk sharing everything with him about my past?

Entry 3

DEAR JOURNAL,

Yesterday was the second time I’ve written in you, Journal. Each day I’ve spent a long time looking at you like you were some kind of Pandora’s box. I felt like if I were to open you and write my thoughts, their nastiness would spill out over Mike’s and my life and stain what has been so close to perfect until my injury. And I worry that if I reveal the contents of that box I can’t slam the lid down. Still, the other side of Pandora and her box is hope and possibility.

I’ve reread what I wrote. Mike says research on writing suggests it may reduce the toxic residue from my past. If you knew Mike as I do, you’d know he’d cite research that suggests—never say "shows" as the news people are wont to do or you’ll get a lecture on statistical significance, standard error of measurement and all the reasons for caution in reporting findings—anyway, the research suggests that such journal writing about trauma reduces blood pressure, reduces the number of visits to health practitioners, and does a whole slew of things that create a greater feeling of well-being. My God, where did I start that sentence? Anyway, I’m glad I’m writing. What I wrote feels like the first swing of the stick at a piñata by this little girl who has stored all her secrets inside it. Some of the stuff has spilled out, and unlike a celebratory piñata, I’m afraid of all the nasty stuff that’s still lurking inside—sick things stored there ready to come spilling out and destroy instead of heal. Mike says, If you think you’re vulnerable to others, think how vulnerable you are to yourself.

Mike was pulled in two directions last night. Like always, he was anxious about the board meeting today. He was sure the executive committee would want to talk to him about the violence directed at the stem cell laboratory: shots that injured Warren Beasley, shots at Mike and me, automatic weapons fire that killed Professor Harvey Sudman, and the explosion that nearly killed me. He frets, but he knows he has the board’s respect. He’s a hero many times over and the board knows of his courage.

Mike writes in three journals: one each for his academic work, his fiction work, and his personal journal. He kiddingly says, It may all be fiction. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve read from each of his journals—mostly from his personal journal. He leaves them lying around. I’ll have to hide you, Journal. I know where to hide you so I can still get at you from my bed, but where Mike would never look. If I told you, Journal, I’d have to rip out a page of you and burn it. I may burn all of you, anyway.

Mike’s excited about his kids, Harry and Sarah, arriving this afternoon. It’ll be the first time we’ve seen them since the explosion has limited my mobility to wheelchair-bound unless Mike carries me. I hope Sarah will be more civil to Mike than she was when we were with them in Florida for the holidays. She’s been okay to me, but she harbors resentment. I can’t replace Lou Ann, her cookie-baking mother. (I don’t mean for that to be insulting. Who doesn’t like cookies?)

I wrote yesterday about the harm I’ve brought on myself. Nobody knows all the harm I’ve done. There are individuals who know the parts. It scares me to death that some of that scum may surface. Mike says, Those to whom evil is done do evil in return. He marvels that I’m such a good person. I hope that’s true. I know Mike wonders when I use all those informal Anglo-Saxon expressions. There are things I’m not ready to write even to you, Journal, but I’ll address elements of the abuse during my childhood and school years. Those are things Mike knows something about. I want to be able to feel that they were painful for me—many were—but in truth, if those things weren’t happening, I missed them. Many youthful indiscretions I brought on myself and I remember some of them fondly and others with great regret.

There is much bad stuff lurking in the corners and recesses of my mind as reminders that those who use the word love often wish to exchange the expression for more tangible pleasures. It’s not you, Journal, that’s keeping me from addressing those hidden parts of my life, it’s that I’m not ready for Mike to learn what I’ve done—what I’ve been. There are things that no one in the world could forgive, except God and possibly Mike. He’s been so good to me. Or perhaps, I should say, he’s been so totally good in his loving me, until I was hurt—both are true. Oh, God, don’t let Mike discard me like the trash I am—the trash I’ve been.

(Okay, Journal, let’s agree that I will not use those informal Anglo-Saxon words except where they need to be used for emphasis. Honestly, they were the words of my childhood and of my life. Yes, I’ve learned to stifle them in most situations, but the words of my youth remain in me like a life-long case of acne.)

Entry 4

DEAR JOURNAL,

I know how good Mike is, and I know why I’m so bothered. Mike wrote about this in his personal journal about his childhood. Despite their being poor, his father would occasionally take him to a movie, usually an adventure or a cowboy movie. Mike wrote that an important part of the pleasure was to sit in the dimly lit theater with his father and wait with anticipation for the movie to start—for the action to present its visual and auditory gifts. That really hit me. (I never saw a movie until I was in school.)

My father was an abusive man: to my mother and to me. He was a skinny strong man. He’d leave the trailer everyday. Some days he’d find work unloading railroad cars of lumber, cement, or coal for a lumberyard. Other days, he would unload sacks of feed from the small cooperative. He was never trusted to drive a vehicle of any kind. In the summer he would get some jobs on farms pulling corn out of soybean fields, detasselling corn. With no work, he would sit in the bar and drink beer. From the time I was five, I waited in the dark, anticipating, fearing, and praying my child’s prayer that I would remain alone in the dark—praying that when my father returned from drinking with the filth at the bar that he would pass by me leaving me alone lying on the gaucho in our trailer and go to the tiny bedroom at the end of the trailer where my mother slept and spent most of her time. Any fear of the dark was trivial compared to what my father’s return could mean for me. I just reread what I’d written. (Am I hiding the real truth under some politically or legally correct definition of abuse?) Bye for now, Journal—I hope we can be friends, but I wonder.

I’ve come to realize many things about love—about the word and about its meanings for me. I’ve wanted love—needed love. I wanted love from my parents. It was rarely there. (I just changed the word never in the previous sentence to rarely.) I promise to be honest, Journal.

When my Dad returned home, if I showed any sign of being awake, he would give me a slap and tell me I should be asleep. He would often tell me he loved me. When I was seven or eight there were times he’d touch me inappropriately. I knew it was wrong. I didn’t know how to get him to stop and I didn’t want anyone to know that we were anything but a warm hard-working family. In the morning my raggedy pillow would be moist with the fluid of my tears and drool. I just wanted it to end. It was like I always felt dirty. I’d try to clean myself again. I never could get clean enough. I’m still that way—I’m always showering or washing myself. There isn’t enough water or tears or drool in my life to wash away what he was doing to me.

It went on until I was nine. Then he died. That’s how I learned about love. My dad was the first to tell me I was loved. Now I often think, Damn you, Dad—couldn’t you wait to take the little innocence I had? The morning he was lying dead next to the gaucho, drowned in his own vomit from his drinking, I knew I should care—I even tried to fake it. I told myself I felt relief. People would say how sorry they were, and I learned to say, Thank you, like I was some nice little innocent girl, and nothing more.

Two days later, my Mom and I, the pastor of our little church, and six men—pallbearers— carried him in his wooden casket to a small graveyard behind the church. It was the church where I’d been baptized and where I attended regularly because my Sunday School teacher would miss me otherwise. Later I would miss him—not what he had been doing to me—but I missed him for my mom and for me.

I knew what my father was doing to me was wrong. I went to my mother and she called me a slut. I already knew a lot of words, but I didn’t know what it meant. It didn’t sound good and her demeanor communicated more than words. She never hurt me physically. I realize now she didn’t want to know—or maybe couldn’t comprehend what was happening. She had no power, and she didn’t know how to ask for help. I kept these words in some guilty place where they’ve been clawing to get out. It was my fault. Those words were locked inside me until I told Mike. I’ve had love all tangled up in a Gordian knot with sex. I can’t untie that knot. I can’t cut myself free.