Fallen Star

By Mary Jo Brunette

KATY KIMBALL has a past of parental abuse that continually haunts her. From teenage heartache, onto two broken marriages, her Hollywood lifestyle cannot rectify her desolation from long ago. When Hollywood, in addition, rejects her, she is left in solitude to survive on her own. Can she forget her painful past to continue tomorrow?
FALLEN STAR is a novel filled with emotion: from pain, through joy, and onto triumph. You will laugh, cry, rejoice and feel for Katy Kimball as you travel through the decades of her troubled life. What is the key to understanding child abuse? Fallen Star holds the answers!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 13, 2009
• ISBN: 9781477166451

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Copyright © 2009 by Mary Jo Brunette.

Original copyright © 1992

Second copyright © 2009

Original ISBN: 0-930401-48-4

2008 ISBN: 978-1-4363-7381-4

All right reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever is prohibited without the author’s prior permission.

This work is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. All actual locales are used fictitiously.

For information contact:

Mary Jo Brunette

PO Box 111

Farmington, MN 55024

www.myspace.com/rickspringfieldpaulmacca

[e-mail]

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

53560

Contents

MARY JO BRUNETTE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

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

53560-BRUN-layout.pdf

This book is dedicated to all my My-Space friends who speak out on abused children’s behalves. Thanks for being a voice for the voiceless. Please don’t be offended if one has accidentally been overlooked. It certainly wasn’t intentional.

Ralph Jones at Wake Up, Stop Abuse. Thanks Ralph for including my niece and nephew, Theresa and Tony Brunette’s child abuse tribute piece, Tears In Their Eyes, in your upcoming musical project.

Peter. (God bless you, Peter. Good luck with our website, and I pray your healing has begun!)

      Stop Rape!

      Kelsey (murdered child’s various websites;

       God bless you sweet child!)

      Perverted.com

      Healing From Heaven

      Guardian Angels

      Help Stop Domestic Violence and Abuse

      Healing Path

      Little Hands, Big Heart

      World Against Child Molesters

      Save Our Kids

      God’s Little Miracles

      A Song For Sarah

      An Angel In Heaven

      Break The Silence

      Be The Voice For Kids

      Child Abuse & Neglect Is Everyone’s Business

      Children In Heaven

      Catholic Relief Services

      Domestic & Family Abuse

      LA Guardian Angels

      Sharon Marshall

Personal Dedications:

Theresa and Matthew Brunette for believing in my talents. I love you both lots.

All my family, all my loved ones are special to me.

Jay, Margie, and Gene to a speedy recovery!

My Rick-groupies/buddies: Nat, Heather, Alane, and Bobbie.

Rhett Jason Sutter: me nephew who passed tragically far too young. I miss you!

Ryan, keep the faith. I pray you will believe you will one day see Rhett again. Reed, Robbie, and Jasmine. A special, I love you, goes out to Rhett’s dear mommy. You will be with your boy again, Von. I love you lots and pray for your healing every night.

A very special dedication goes out to Mom. God bless you, Mom. I love you. I miss you and look forward to the day we meet again.

MARY JO BRUNETTE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Mary Jo Brunette is the youngest in a huge family of thirteen. She proudly considers herself the, Brunette Train’s Caboose! She was born on November 20, 1959 in Rice Lake, Wisconsin, to Joseph and Ethel (Wynn) Brunette.

She graduated Farmington High School, in Farmington, Minnesota, in 1978. She then headed to the west coast and graduated from the Institute of Children’s Literature in October of 1991. She’s obtained two AA degrees: General Studies, with emphasis in the ‘Criminal Justice field’ from Western Nevada Community College in Carson City, Nevada, where she then resided and graduated with honors. She returned to her hometown of Farmington, Minnesota to be close to and care for her elderly mother, Wynn Weisbrich, in December of 2000. She, once more, graduated with honors from Normandale Community College in Bloomington, Minnesota, obtaining her second AA degree: ‘AA Applied Science’ in the Criminal Justice’ field.

Her lifelong career goal has been in journalism; she majored in it until her studies headed her into a new direction. In 1981 she had her first article published in her hometown newspaper, The Dakota Country Tribune, after sharing her true-life story of her friendship with singer/actor, Rick Springfield. Her lifelong career goal ever since she was small was to become a published author. Her debut novel, Fallen Star, was first copyrighted in 1992, accomplished her goal. The 2008’ version is more far detailed, depicting Katy Kimball’s struggle even more extensively than its predecessor.

CHAPTER ONE

It Began In Birmingham

The telephone jangled, startling me from my peaceful slumber. Jostling the cobwebs from my mind’s reflections, I leaped up to attend to the disruption. The previous evening had been mostly a blur. With my life so filled, hectic, and stressful, it’s no wonder I barely got any sleep. On a good night, I was lucky to get six hours. Still, I was a stubborn survivor and could deal with whatever got in my way; my parents had always encouraged my feistiness and endurance. I was certain it was their guilt, encouraging my valiance; still, I figured, whatever works. Neither of them, Katherine or Frederick Kimball, had been the best parent. And if I had to be totally honest, they were anything but adept at the art of child rearing… more like lousy, at their best. Yet my endurance endured, which kept my spirit in-check and my soul intact, refusing to allow myself to transform into another Grocery Cart homeless woman, like so many abused and neglected ladies before me. I would never allow myself to deteriorate to that level of insanity; or so that was my inner prayer.

My beloved friend Cindy was losing her breast cancer battle. Since her illness had created me plenty of sleepless nights, I figured if I put my resilience to the test, even with lack of sleep I’d be fine. I refused to allow anything to bring me down, not even the noisy thingamajig planted near my skull, not even when I hadn’t gotten enough rest in literally weeks.

For decades fame had ensnared much of what once had been considered routine. Since entering show business I had my number unlisted to keep my privacy, which I’d forever craved, so it was fairly obvious the caller was someone I knew. I had better grab the gadget, ‘it might be urgent,’ an inner-voice whispered.

When one is rich and famous, it’s normally a privileged existence. High-society memberships have advantages: receiving first-class seats on many airlines, not to mention the free gratuity goodies, starting with top-name clothing designers. When a personage is scanned in public wearing a particular line she instantaneously becomes a walking billboard for its designer; accordingly, both parties at once are transformed winners. The clothing designers get free promotion, while celebrities strut their latest fashions, which I always felt was really nifty. VIP’s, which in this case was me, could be lavishly dressed on a regular basis.

Darrin and I were often given the best seats at restaurants and nightclubs, not to mention were granted the most excellent wines when dining. While some samples were deemed freebies, still others were discounted, whereas most we paid retail. Nonetheless, we received extraordinary treatment most everywhere we dined. The list of fringe benefits was endless.

Even cigarette promoters dish out tar-and-nicotine products Scot free to any celebrity over the age of eighteen. Average citizens find it peculiar; for me, I was totally guiltless to accept the gifts as payback for destroying my health, although after taking my vows in 1973, my freebies from then on out were snuck. My hubby despised me imbibing, claiming it was anything but sexy.

One simply had to pass the Three-F’s Rule: all the tobacco corporations hope for is for them to be seen imbibed by a famous, familiar face—the three F’s regimen. In earlier days I hadn’t a problem obliging their regulations; once my hubby caught on he put a stop to it. Darrin disapproved of his wife partaking in anything that might risk her health. He was a cautious health freak, claiming to be a vigor fitness guru. Consequently, there would be more sneaking and gulping in private locales, opposed to publicly. I would go so far as to accept a pack and smoke several. When Darrin took note they were promptly slid at the basin of some garbage bin in a ladies restroom where he couldn’t enter for his proof that I hadn’t completely given up the nasty habit. He’d been outsmarted and I continued receiving the freebies at my private PO Box.

As I struggled to gather my bearings, my gaze fixed upon the shiny doohickey on my nightstand, and I snared the call. Relatively frustrated, I shouted in a gruff tone, Yeah, who is it? This better be worth it; you’ve successfully destroyed my much-needed sleep.

Katy? This is your mom. I heard my mother utter amongst the clutter of my musing. Laura just phoned to tell me that your father’s struggle with cancer is almost over. She wanted me to ask you to fly here to Southern California to say your final goodbye before he passes away. At first they figured he might hang on until his seventy-fifth birthday, but we have our serious doubts. He’s dying as we speak.

The woman had given birth to me, yet I barely knew her any longer; she was speaking so indifferently. I knew she could have cared less whether my birth father lived or died. She was simply a vessel, the bearer of bad news. I doubted she’d ever loved him.

Wow, it’s really that bad? Daddy’s almost dead? I solicited, yawning widely, fraught to persuade my brain to awaken wholly in order to clutch the news.

Earlier that summer Laura had mentioned how Daddy was looking forward to turning three-fourths of a decade old on November fourteenth. She claimed he’d joked that he’d be turning, A third-of-a-decade-young. Laura averred he had been in sunny spirits after spending the Fourth of July holiday together. She mentioned his joy while observing all the sounds and explosions—the red, white, and blue glints that the celebration unfolds. Here we’d just barely entered October in 1988 and she had again phoned a few weeks beforehand, fraught that he wouldn’t make it that far. I realized my dad had been ill for quite some time. At the time I considered it his karma for all the torment he’d put me through as a child.

Of my two younger sisters: one adored Daddy, the other despised him. Elizabeth, a year and a half my junior, claimed she hated him ever since she was born, and Laura, my youngest sibling, worshipped the man. Okay, worship is a strong word but she nearly fell at his feet, succoring to his every whim. She was the one member of our clan we could count on to keep everyone informed on Daddy’s failing health. There were days that I was ecstatic that he would be passing, while other times I’d felt ashamed for holding onto my lifelong bitterness. I’d forever classified him a worthless creature in view of his vocation—child molestation and rape. Not once had he expressed remorse for taking away my innocence as a child, which deeply cut at my heartstrings. The older I had become the more I’d fought with forgiveness.

My mom must have said, Yes, that’s right, several times when I snapped back into reality, hearing her bellow, Yes, Katy, it is true! Didn’t you hear me? Her speech had tapered off, as if she were thoroughly agitated with me. Katy, where have you been?

No, Mom, I’m sorry. I’m half asleep. I was in a deep sleep when you phoned. I stayed out late last night visiting my friend who has breast cancer. Upon occasion Cindy needed my assistance completing her daily chores. Cindy’s not doing well. I helped her last night and I’m bushed. Although I’d told it the way it was, I knew she didn’t believe me; she never did.

A compassionate parent would have taken this opportunity to condole me, since my friend was dying, but not Mama. She simply stated, Seems to me you are still in a deep sleep now! Recapturing her train of thought, she exhaled loudly, and persevered. What should I tell Laura? Can she count on you to be there for her to tell Frederick so long?

So long; isn’t that a bit cold? I asked, by now beyond puzzled.

Mother returned scornfully. Well, you know how well I loved your dad?

Yes, I do know that, I rejoined, wishing to reprimand her for not being the best mother, either. Instead, I’d disregard her irony. Yes, I know you loved Daddy so much, as we all do, I pointed out with even more satire; love was not a Kimball’ strong point.

Returning gibe with more of the same felt appropriate; still, I knew I was being harsh coming off so hostile. The man was, after all, on his deathbed, and I should have been more empathetic. Nonetheless, it was typical for me to speak, realizing later I’d been extremely boorish. Since my dad was about to pass away, I should have composed myself, behaving as if I were concerned about his withering condition, although Mother understood exactly how I’d felt about the man since childhood. She wasn’t easily fooled.

She mediated my reflections. One thing is for certain, he won’t be able to hurt you any longer. Like he was the only one who harmed me? Did she truly feel better about shoving all the liability onto the dying man’s shoulders when she was just as responsible for the neglect? Saying and doing nothing was as if she’d granted her permission to mistreat.

Mom took a few rich breaths. I could swear she was having misgivings for her part in allowing Daddy’s sickening ritualistic exploitation; her sigh appeared filled with pity. I had to ask; who was more at fault: my father or she? I often wondered, yet swore to keep my opinions to myself, holding the bedlam at bay. I’d prayed that one day the answer might roll in along with the tide. It never happened.

Can I tell Laura you will be here soon? my mom again inquired, exhaling something powerfully from her lungs. It struck me; she wasn’t releasing sympathy sighs, after all, but cigarette smolder into the air. Mother was a heavy chain-smoker. One day I feared that it might also take her life, since lung cancer was about to become the culprit of Daddy’s passing.

The senior Mrs. Kimball resided in Malibu, California. My two sisters, Laura and Amanda, also lived nearby, in Southern California. Amanda was my sister; we shared the same dad. Still, she wasn’t simply my sibling; I’d given birth to the girl in the winter of 1952. We had a double-seated relationship: sister-sister, mother-daughter. Though she never followed the mother-daughter kinship for most of her life, she was my only living offspring, which I was aware.

I feared speaking with the dying man—the Caucasian male that my mother utilized for his DNA to conceive me, if and when I made it to his bedside prior to his death; that is if he could hang on long enough for me to pull into town. I could accomplish two goals. The trip would give me a chance to visit the girls, as well as let him know I cared, although the caring bit, I questioned.

Darrin and I had relocated from Southern California to Lake Tahoe, California a few years previously. There were times I missed the availability of huge shopping arenas and big city advantages, but for the most part I was content in our North Lake Tahoe abode, away from the hustle-and-bustle of the larger metropolitans. I didn’t party or hang out with many celebrities. I wasn’t into booze, although from time to time I’d dip into a bottle of wine. Illicit drug activity wasn’t my thing; I had done enough in my younger years to last a lifetime. Plus, I was not at all interested in swinging-couples parties, although Darrin and I were invited to a small number in our heyday. The one that we’d finally attended, I lived to regret. Basically, I shied away from Hollywood parties, all together.

Mom was once more perturbed. My ignorance wasn’t intentional. When my mind wanders, sometimes it’s difficult to refocus. Katy, what can I tell Laura about your dad?

Struggling to remain diplomatic and disregarding her liability in my mistreatment, I cleverly responded, You can call Laura with my heads-up. Tell her I will be there. I want to tell him goodbye and give him the opportunity to apologize for all the pain he’s caused me over the years.

Okay, then, Mother quickly returned, I will tell her you’re on your way. I have got to get going now, she concluded, blasting another powerful puff, and unexpectedly hung up. She was known to be rude like that, dropping her calls without fair warning.

Had our conversation upset her? I flung the receiver down, angered at how she’d ended it so grimly. Suddenly there was a bold rap on my bedroom door.

Katy, are you awake? Darrin called out.

I was sensing I was a solo member of an emotional minuet, as if I’d been bopping exclusively upon a one-woman dance floor for far too long. There was so much to consider. Going to see my dad would be extremely difficult. I wondered if Mother felt guilty about her share of my childhood pain, which in turn caused her dropped-call? It was a strong possibility.

Katy? My husband repeated, as if I was ignoring him, when my mind had simply been typically elsewhere. Katy, are you awake? Darrin again reiterated.

I am now. Mother just telephoned me, I clamored, as Darrin slowly cracked my bedroom door; was he cautious of being beheaded?

In popped a rather bewildered glance, sealing my husband’s weary brow. He and I were beginning to resemble virtual strangers, even though wed for years, closing in on decades. His cheeks were flushed an odd rose-color. Had I caused it? At last he solicited for a favor. Katy, I’m hungry; could you please make me something to eat? He inquired sluggishly, as if terrified of my typical negativity. He knew I’d been out late helping Cindy. Sleeplessness, naturally, brought out my worst, horrific moods at best.

I returned, Sure, let me get dressed, and I will be right out. Okay?

Darrin closed the door securely as I strolled to my dresser to snare a pair of blue jeans, matching tank top, a pair of snow-white bobby socks, and my favorite black-and-white, Coach’ sneakers. Tossing my casuals over my agile frame, I scurried into the kitchen to report the news of my father’s failing health and near-death to my old man.

I called out to him, Darrin, honey, by then in far better spirits. My new outfit sprung a sensation of gentle warmth or perhaps it was the sunlight creeping in through the French windowpanes in our well-lit kitchen casting its sunny glow that had sparked my rejuvenated spirit.

My hubby nodded, glimpsing from beneath his morning copy of Tahoe World, cautiously sipped his scalding-hot cup of herbal tea. It was obvious I hadn’t yet made my first morning kitchen rounds: normally there were two pots. Mine contained what Darrin called, poison, hot bubbly Folgers, and a second pot for his morning cup of herbal, all-natural tea. Darrin didn’t do caffeine. I couldn’t live without it. Darrin didn’t do much of what I couldn’t live without: salt, sugar, all the good-stuff, claiming the entire lot, as well as my brew was toxic to our systems.

Mom phoned and said that Dad’s struggle with cancer is nearly over. Daddy is very close to dying. I’m sure his funeral services will take place in Brea soon. I smiled as I spoke. By no means was I upset and was all but elated to be detailing the news. I am so happy; soon he’ll be out of my life permanently and will no longer be a threat. Darrin nodded, as I persisted. So what do you think?

Can you make me an omelet Katy? I am starving, Darrin returned, as if not heeding a single word of my anguish. It surely was some intensely interesting article that was entrancing his mind into such a state of ignorance.

Darrin, what is wrong with you? I hollered, as his right eye twitched nervously.

Katy, do you know what Placer County is doing to our budget now? he asked, still ignoring the brunt of my dialogue. There were times I could have slugged him; nothing I said ever mattered. His only concerns were petty junk, like balancing the budget, or his growling stomach lining.

Darrin, I don’t care about the budget. As far as I am concerned our local government could screw up the economy far worse and I wouldn’t lose any sleep. They’ve made a complete mess of it thus far, so why bother trying to repair it now? They were simply words; in truth the budget had disturbed me, but it could be discussed later. What was concerning me at this very second was my personal family dilemma.

He shrugged his shoulders. Well, I care, he returned, sipping his tea. At last he’d paid attention. He normally held an attitude like, ‘I’m the only one that matters in this household.’ His selfish unconcern was driving me batty. Aren’t you going to make me an omelet? I am starving! he snapped, like he had reason to be angry with me?

I will make you one if you will listen to me! I shouted. My God, what’s wrong with us? You never listen! You sleep in a separate bedroom. All you want is a freaking cook! We’re beginning to remind me of my folks before their divorce in 1962. They never spoke to one another either, you know?

I’m hungry. Darrin felt compelled to remind me once again, as if I hadn’t heard him the first half a dozen times he’d mentioned it?

Goaded beyond irritated, I scolded, Will you at least talk to me, Darrin Travanti? I will cook for you if you’ll talk to me.

What? he barked. Talk about what?

Mother told me that Laura said my father is almost dead. Could you please get your nose out of that stupid paper long enough to talk to me? I could feel my face flushing, red-hot in anger. I wanted to haul off and whack him, although somehow managed to restrain my inner-rage.

That’s too bad Katy. So why are you complaining? You hate your old man!

Sure I do, I returned, but I should still go to tell him goodbye.

Count me out. He didn’t even glance up from his newspaper to share eye contact. I have to go to a computer convention in Reno in two days.

I shouted, A bloody convention is more important than me?

You hate your dad. I don’t see what the big deal is?

That did it; I had enough of his cold and uncaring attitude. He could stick it and make his own breakfast.

I don’t want to go alone. Guilt tactics normally worked, so I figured I’d give this argument one final shot applying blame and snapped. Fine; I won’t go then either and I’ll be letting Laura and Mandy both down, and it will be your entire fault!

Annoyed, I tossed a dirty coffee mug, sending it propelling; splinters of glass were strewn far and wide. Why can’t you listen? I got in his face and screamed. This wouldn’t happen! It’s your fault! I bellowed, noting the coffee cup bits scattered everywhere. My cheery mood had exited like the good guy in a cartoon that has been threatened by the bad guy. I sensed I was its main character and insisted on being heard. The bad guy best lose this battle or deal with the good guy’s temper.

You broke the mug; don’t blame me. Darrin took a few deep breaths before returning. Katy, why don’t you calm down? He appeared perturbed that I’d demolished one of our most favorite porcelain mugs, spoiling one complete set. This convention has been planned for quite some time. I think you should go and attend the services; you need to tell your dad goodbye.

Darrin had the gull to wink at me. Was he trying to settle my fury via one simple twinkle? It wasn’t working. No, I returned stubbornly, trying to sweep up the mess I’d created—chunks and bits of glass speckled the kitchen tiling.

My mom was the Queen of Guilt Tactics, so I was certain Darrin figured he’d try a similar maneuver and echoed. You should go. You don’t want to let them down.

Childish mind-games, nine times out of ten were successful.

Wow, Darrin! All you think I am is your cook and maid, right? He again ignored me, as I sustained pleading. If guilt didn’t work, would persuasiveness help? I get sick of going everywhere alone. Why won’t you come with me just this once? It’s important to me. Tears blurred my vision; might waterworks help change his mind?

He tried to cast a sympathetic glow, although awkwardly faked. Like I already said, this has been planned for a long time. I think you should go. He utilized his forged schoolboy charm, which once worked, but no more. He had a nasty habit of always flip-flopping responsibility, no matter of circumstances. You’ll feel better if you go.

The tears were a hopeless cause. Darrin still refused to tag along. If you won’t go with me, I am not going, either. That is final! I shrieked, shoveling the last bits of porcelain into the wastepaper basket, hurling it into its hiding spot, beneath the sink. I quickly wiped the overflow of moisture from beneath my lids onto my sleeve, feeling embarrassed that he’d successfully created my raw emotion.

Out of the blue, Darrin jumped up, and grabbed the wall phone.

What are you doing?

Giving Laura a call, he replied with a quick, rather sly grin.

I am sure she is at my dad’s. After all, as we are arguing, the man is dying.

Mr. Impulsive clutched the phone log beside the handset, paged through it to locate Daddy’s number, and quickly dialed. Before I could stop him, he had someone on the line.

My husband asserted. Hello, Mrs. Kimball; is Laura or Amanda available? He took a deep breath. No, ugh, ugh; she is right here. Well, I don’t think she would mind speaking with her dad but let me ask her. Darrin turned in my direction. Fred wants to speak with you briefly. Louise sounds persistent to put you on the line. You don’t mind do you, Hun? he asked, playing the role of concerned husband rather well. In truth, he could have cared less about me or my woes. His only desire was getting me out of town so he could be alone. Computer convention; I hardly doubted it.

I nodded, as Darrin handed me the line; its long chord entangling into a balled mess. He rustled with it like a trainer tames an angry cobra until reaching me at the sink. I was furious at his interference; it wasn’t his concern if I spoke with Daddy prior to his death. I never impeded my beliefs onto him when it came to anyone in his family or at least I did my best to keep my nose out of their afflictions. Upon occasion I’d grant an opinion, but that was it.

Speaking faintly, I returned, Yes. Hello, Louise. How are you doing?

My stepmother’s tone was hushed, yet bold. Fred is afraid he will die soon and asked me to get you on the line. I was just about to ring you when Darrin called. How about that for timing? she asked softly, yet with zeal in her tone.

Yes, very odd timing, I returned. Louise, please tell Daddy that I will be there shortly, so not to fret. Okay? I will take the next flight out of Reno and I will be there quicker than you can say, ‘Huckleberry Finn.’ I did my best to pass off a chuckle, allowing her a brief snigger. Goodbye and I will see y’all shortly, I expressed in my best Southern twang. I hung up before she had a chance to add anything or to argue the point that I didn’t wish to speak with him over the horn. I figured, this way, if he passed away before I’d arrived, all the more reason to celebrate. If not, what was the worst that could happen? He’d have one final chance to express regret for all the times he’d raped me. Glaring at the tangled mess, I whispered. It’s time for a cordless; this thing sucks.

So where’s my omelet you promised? Darrin continued without another word about my plans to visit my moribund papa. Why was he so insistent that I phoned, since he could have cared less about the outcome? Sometimes he made absolutely no sense.

One omelet coming right up. What would you like on it, Your Royal Highness? I asked scathingly, saddened at his rude selfishness; not to mention, I wasn’t buying the convention anecdote, either. Just why was he struggling so hard to get me out of town?

Veggies and cheese, you know how I like them? he returned, without as much as a notation of politeness in his response.

I felt like screaming; instead, I tugged the refrigerator door to gather ingredients and began chopping, releasing steam as I diced. Shards of vegetables flung off the cutting block; slivers of raw onions barely missed my eyes. Snaring a frying pan from beneath the stove, I tossed together the ingredients, preparing his vegetable omelet, just how he liked it—fried in olive oil, without any salt, with mere sprinkles of garlic and his favorite all-herb spice. I hurled the completed entree onto a plate and chucked it at him. There, it’s done, Your Highness.

Can you refill my tea, sweetie? Darrin asked with yet another bogus wink.

He handed me his empty mug. Like an obedient waitress, I refilled it, and returned it to him. Darrin gobbled the food so hastily, taking several sips of his favorite beverage, swallowing his overstuffed mouthful. Wiping the morsels onto a napkin, he headed to his computer lab in the lower level, without as much as a grateful, ‘Thank you.’

I flew to Brea alone to visit my dad one final time. The huge jet landed into the terminal at LAX: Los Angeles International Airport, as I said a silent prayer. Dear Lord. If you want to take Daddy away before I arrive that would be fine with me. I don’t know what to say to him. I’m actually afraid to see him again. What if I break down and lose it in front of everyone? What if I make a total fool of myself? Please be with me Lord. I need you now. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen. The prayer was short but precise.

I’d learned to pray as a young girl while attending St. Catherine’s Episcopal Church in Birmingham, Alabama. As a child a tiny golden cross that adorned my neck was my refuge from my childhood pain. I, for eternity prayed, yet questioned why the Lord allowed the abuse to continue? I regularly begged God for answers while I’d cling to the emblem. It’d symbolized my love for Jesus, while gripping my neck, as if shielding my sorrow. Come what may, I believed it never did any good; I often wondered if God truly cared about me? Why had He allowed my dad to ritualistically take advantage of me? I was an innocent and helpless child and He was an All-Powerful God, so why couldn’t He stop the abuse?

I hadn’t the desire to hassle with renting an automobile and flagged a taxicab outside the terminal. Furthermore, I wasn’t in any mood to drive, not with the insanity of the Los Angeles’ freeways, and the fear of being shot at by passing motorists. With freeway shootings on the rise, I would allow myself to be chauffeured, putting my life in others’ hands.

The driver was eye-catching. He had dark hair and was Coppertone suntanned; although stunning, we barely spoke. I gather he understood that I didn’t wish to be bothered. Sometimes the unspoken word speaks volumes. Just one whiff of the cab and it caused my tummy to twirl. It reeked of sweat and stale cigarette smoke, resembling dirty cat box’ stench. It was so strong it literally attacked my lungs. Although offensive, at the same time it was causing a rather odd desire to light one up for old time’s sake. As a teen and well into my adulthood I was a heavy chain-smoker, like both my folks. I tried to keep my tone hushed, yet I needed to release steam, and whispered, Why don’t they ban smoking in cabs? It smells disgusting in here.

The stranger turned slightly to ask what was wrong. I let him know not to worry; I was fine. He peered into his rearview mirror while continuing about our southward journey.

Like a child nervously twiddles her fingers upon an unknown adventure, I was compelled to make use of mine. Forever curious since infancy, Mother had claimed, I felt duty-bound to check out the rough, checkerboard texture of the side paneling, and swiped my pointer-finger across the uneven surface. Several sharp edges caused it to draw back. Ouch, I announced, aptly licking my fingertip, making certain I hadn’t drawn blood. There was none.

Had the upholstery been highlighted black and red, one may have improvised a sideways game of checkers; simply coat the vinyl in Velcro and the paneling was coarse enough to hold. As children Beth and I enjoyed the board game. Whenever Mother was away on one of her short holidays, as she referred to them, we’d often entertain ourselves, if and when Daddy would leave us alone long enough. I was older and typically won every game. Beth wasn’t too bright or perhaps I cheated. Who knows? Kids do as kids do.

With an eerily odd silence, the trek seemed to last forever. None of the scenery, office complexes, or businesses grazed familiarity. I don’t know; it might have been my mind closing down, realizing my father’s neighborhood would dispatch traumatic memories. I dreaded being this close to his vicinity. I was actually elated that my finger throbbed; it took my mind off my final destination. My heart began to flutter the closer we drew. Was I about to experience a Darrin-Travanti-type-panic-attack? Darrin often had attacks while experiencing trauma or something too trying. I felt like I just might: my palms were sweaty, my heart raced, I felt flushed, and I quickly became overwhelmingly thirsty, sensing my skin was crawling, as if ants were nibbling my flesh. The more I tried to force the sensations to cease the more it increased. It wasn’t a good sign.

At last we pulled alongside a familiar curb. Daddy’s condo hadn’t changed. It was still the same creepy, washed-out yellow with light gray trim, certainly the color of Daddy’s soul. It appeared lifeless, equivalent to his hardened spirit. The driver gazed over his shoulder one more time, doing his best to pass a grin, yet it appeared as forged as my situation upon arriving. I’d pretended to care, when, in fact, I truly wished Daddy had long ago passed.

We’re here, is all he had to say and I began to sweat even more profusely.

Upon my appearance I was greeted by my stepmother’s bewildered show of disquietude. I quickly paid the man and for the first time had a good chance to skim his stunning eyes. They were dark brown and cheery; his sclera’s were ivory-white and clear. He appeared to be Italian like my husband or some other dark-complexioned race, but certainly not Middle Eastern; French, perhaps? His eyes let me know he had lived a clean and wholesome past. Was this merely a part-time job to help pay off his mortgage? Though hard working the gentleman appeared content in himself and in his life. He helped me with my two overstuffed bags, hopped back into his cab, and began twisting the knobs on the meter, clearly resetting them.

What was Louise thinking? Why was she glaring at me as if I had been plagued? After all, I never did anything dire to the woman so why was she passing such a bizarre gaze, as if peering right through me? ‘Wow,’ I thought, nearly out loud, ‘what if Daddy already passed away? Wouldn’t that be a trip?’ I more or less wished he had.

Katy. She took me by the hand, boring deeply into my observation. She was no longer grazing me as if I were some circus’ freak-show act but a prized possession. Her look had done a one-eighty. Was it passion? It almost had an ardent feel. Did she find me attractive? She had forever claimed I’d resembled Frederick the most; she was right, particularly since entering menopause.

Our features were similar: the same rounded faces, chins, pointy ears, similar to Spock’s in the Star Trek series, only not as spiky. We both shared button, rounded noses, although mine was extra petite. We had similar lips, although his weren’t as rotund. We both shared long legs, arms, and slightly muscular biceps. Our main difference was our eyes. My father’s were bluish; mine were mahogany-hazel. My mom’s were deeper brown, so I was right up the middle: not blue or russet, plain hazelnut; plus, they were even shaped like one.

Louise tugged at my palm gently. Please come in. Your father has been anxiously awaiting your homecoming.

He was still alive; I was out of luck.

Homecoming? I could have laughed at the assertion. I would hardly consider this a homecoming. I retrieved my bags, waving the taxicab driver off, and observed him slowly pull away. He glimpsed back one more time as if grasping my identity. ‘Is it she or isn’t it?’ the man was surely thinking, attempted to ID me? I’m certain I cast odd first impressions. The driver seemed to understand that I was visiting for an important family function, although barely questioned me upon our long haul from the airport to my destination, which I found rather unusual. Or was the silence due to the fact that I had an expression that read, ‘leave me alone; I don’t want to be bothered?’ Normally everyone I met desired playing the 10,000 questions game; I hated that! ‘Where did I live now that I moved away from Los Angeles? Where was I coming from? How long was I staying? Did I miss show business since semi-retiring? What was my favorite movie role I’d portrayed? My favorite hit single? Had I wished to return to Los Angeles permanently?’ There were question, after meaningless question. Oh, how I dreaded pointless inquiries. And more than anything I believed the driver understood that I desired being left alone. A fixed-stare sometimes says a thousand words, as I was convinced was the case with mine.

Although the nameless taxicab driver never interrogated me, my stepmother immediately felt obliged to. How was your flight? Louise asked inquisitively, initiating one of those pointless chats. Although, if I hadn’t known better I could have sworn that she was asking in sincerity for once.

Fine, I replied briefly, not aspiring to share more.

It was typical for me to come up with the perfect curt response. What did she expect, the truth? My finger still ached; might I whine about it? Was it cause to open a lawsuit with the taxicab? What if it had become infected and might it transpire into staph? Did she really need to know how we’d struck turbulence over the mountains and that it was a bumpy flight? I hardly felt up to a long drawn-out response so I’d keep mine shallow, as I would also do if my dad asked more than I desired allocating.

How’s Fred? I asked, as she showed me inside, motioning where I might drop my bags. I hadn’t been in their residence since Amanda and Laura were teens, escorting them on their weekend visits, back when I chain-smoked like a chimney just to feel relatively normal in Daddy’s presence. The home still had an atrocious cigarette odor, identical to the interior of the taxicab; it lingered everywhere. Secondhand-smoke was the main reason I was proud of my non-smoking status, for the most part. I only lit up upon occasion, when my nerves were shot. The child molester was closing in on his expiration, which was long overdue in my opinion, due to the nasty habit. It proved smoking wasn’t the wisest choice. Although whenever I’d imbibed it’d felt necessary for my survival.

There was yet an even more offensive odor lingering throughout the home; I swore I smelled the rude aroma of death around virtually every turn. It roughly reminded me of the disgusting stink at the abortion clinic that Daddy had taken me to several times when I was a teen. There was a burly pungency of rubbing alcohol and health-care products, which should be considered death-care products when utilized at one’s doom. My stomach swirled, as I contemplated I might vomit right there on her living room rug, even though another stain certainly wouldn’t be the end of the world; the carpet was already puke-green and blotchy. The old deathtrap sensation was returning. Just as I was about to make a mad dash to the restroom, my baby sister Laura walked out of Daddy’s room, tears whirled in her emerald-almond eyes. She evidently had been sobbing. Dark circles formed her lashes, surely caused by lack of sleep and bottomless sorrow. I had to force the gut-wrenching rumpus to take a hike. I hadn’t the time for a good hurl now.

Katy, how are you? Laura asked, hugging me half-heartedly. Thanks for coming. Daddy really wants to see you. Amanda and I have been with him for the past week. He isn’t doing too well as I am sure you are aware. I nodded as she prolonged. And Beth is supposed to be on her way. She promised she’d come; it’s been a few days and she still hasn’t arrived. I was certain her next comment would be, ‘Go figure,’ yet it failed her. Beth never did as she vowed; even when we were young, her word had been useless and void.

Too bad about Beth but I think she cannot face him too easily, I replied with a sigh. To answer your other question, I’m good. How is Amanda holding up? You don’t look too swell yourself, kiddo. I did my best to lighten the mood, although Laura wasn’t enlightened.

Hanging in there, the best ya could expect, Sis, my baby sister, at last, returned.

Is that Katy? I heard a tiny, fragile male voice call out from behind the half-open frame. If I hadn’t have known better, I could have sworn the voice resonated from beyond a tomb. Momentarily, my father resounded defunct or at least as close to deceased as one could be without actually being stone-cold dead already.

Laura nudged me gently, as I replied, Yes, Daddy, it’s me Katy.

My father’s voice was faint. Please, Daddy pleaded, come here, baby-girl.

Oh, yuck, why was he using my old pet name? I hated that whenever he’d refer to me as his baby-girl. I was most certainly not his baby. Maybe I was when I was a newborn, but no way was I his baby, nor his little girl, any longer. I obliged him and tiptoed into the master bedroom. Why had I tiptoed? I could sustain my fears of being near the dying man. Maybe it was ritualistic, skulking like a fearful little child while in his presence.

Old schoolgirl photos of my sisters and me adorned the hallway, like Daddy couldn’t release the past. He obviously still felt a strong bond to us, although by no means did I feel one to him. I felt like shouting to get rid of those old shots, although refrained from sharing. ‘Typical,’ I thought, ‘always holding everything within, somewhere at the pit of my scarred being. Why couldn’t I simply speak my mind once and for all?’ But then I understood the certainty of the matter, instructing myself that I needed to stop being so selfish. After all, the man was on his deathbed, ‘so give it a rest already,’ I scolded my stubborn self.

Amanda was dressed in a wrinkled light blue, cotton sundress, seated at the far side of his double bed. She managed a smile, but like Laura I could tell she had been crying buckets prior to my arrival, a filled wastepaper bin of used tissues at her side. Her pretty emerald-green/bluish eyes were swollen and bright red; her sadness was evident. My little girl was quite pretty in spite of her sorrow. I prayed one day I could confess to her the truth of her paternity.

Hi sweetheart, how are you? I called to her; she remained hushed. I could tell she was having a difficult time communicating and figured I wouldn’t dwell on her noncompliance.

We will leave you alone with Daddy, she finally retorted, standing to meet up with Laura in the hallway. Had the trio been discussing me prior to my appearance? Perhaps Daddy had been asking what was taking us older siblings so long. Would Beth even show? I barely arrived in time and figured she might never turn up.

My initial reaction was to shout, ‘no, don’t leave me alone with him!’ although in reality I understood he was no longer an omen. Those days had been finalized.

Daddy patted the spot beside him, motioning for me to take a seat; apparently it was the corner Laura had occupied for days. Everything stunk and was a crumpled mess. Again, I heeded his request, plopping on the spot that Laura’s slender rear had previously warmed.

The couple’s bedroom was still the same as when I’d escorted the girls on their weekend visits in the Sixties. The old-fashioned, off-white bedroom set, trimmed in fake gold had faded since my last visit; nothing changed. There was a matching dresser and mirror that were slightly childlike in nature, definitely antique, and perhaps might have been considered brand-new in the Thirties. Perchance, it had belonged to Louise as a youngster and she refused to part with it. Several aged worn frames, depicting ugly bouquets of wildflowers were still affixed in the identical spots as when we’d arrived in the past. Interior design was certainly not Louise’s pastime. How they’d managed to allow it untouched for all of these decades, I hadn’t a clue? The décor would have literally sent me climbing the walls years ago. Had it said something about their characters? They were content as flees in an old worn rug, residing in wall-to-wall nostalgia, just leave them be.

I was certain if the portraits had been removed there would be visible stains that proved this was indeed a smoker’s home, with everything coated in sticky oily residue. I was beginning to discern a pensive sensation quickly overtake my entire being. Might it be a good thing to somehow hold my spirit in-check? This couple had refused to leave the past behind; it was as if I’d showed up on the set of I Love Lucy, and Ricky and Lucy were filming their 1950’s sitcom. Might the stout, dark-complexioned Cuban turn the corner at any given second and holler, Lucy, I’m home!

The repugnant odor of death was even more potent at Daddy’s bedside. How might I get through this visit without vomiting all over the withered old body? I had to tell myself to continue visualizing Ricky’s face, shouting to his wife, and praying silently that the stale peanuts I’d accepted on the plane would stay put within my gut long enough for the day to come to a head.

Katy, my sweet baby-girl, please come sit by me, Daddy muttered barely audible. He motioned with his pinkie as if taking every ounce of energy to wiggle it delicately, gesturing for me to draw even closer. Tears whirled in his eyes. In an instant mine had glossed over, as well. Instantaneously, I understood that this man was no longer a threat, but more frightening than anything, forthwith, I realized that he was about to take his last breath with me at his side. His respiration was growing choppier. I realized he wished to apologize, something I had yearned to hear for so very long. With his strength at an all-time low he needed to explain several details, yet he hadn’t the vigor to express all he had longed to say. How very sad!

Daddy, I know. I had all I could do to whisper in his ear. The closer I crept the worse it all reeked: the bed and bedding, the bedpan, the entire atmosphere was cradled in stench; his breath was the worst. You don’t have to talk. Please save your strength Daddy.

No, he returned, tears smudging his cheeks. I need to say this, my sweet child.

Where was he getting his strength? I held his limp hand in mine. Leaning over his withering frame, I placed my cheek beside his; we sobbed softly together—our final farewell. I could handle the stench for several seconds; I figured I owed him that much.

Then he spoke the words I’d longed to hear for decades. Katy, I am so, so, so very sorry. I did a bad thing to you. I’m very sorry. His voice was so frail, almost like a little boy striving to say his first words. Were firsts the same as the last? When a child takes his first breath, was it the same as a dying man’s last gush of air? I had to wonder.

Although our tears were mingling, I still refused to share what he longed to hear. He yearned for me to say that it would be all right and I had forgiven him. How could I lie to a dying man? I had never absolved him. I had despised and dreaded the very thought of him for so very long and I indescribably hated the monster for nearly all of my lifetime. I’d forever been frightened that he’d return to harm me, just how he had wounded the frightened little girl in all of her tender years while growing up in Alabama.

Katy, I love you, baby. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone, Daddy whispered in my ear. His tears were warm and there was truthfulness in his apology. Still, I stubbornly ignored his plea. He was hoping to descry something similar in exchange. I love you Katy. The dying man repeated. His eyes appeared hollow. He was very close to expiration, like the last flickering candle on one’s birthday cake prior to blowing it out.

Instead, I uttered, Daddy, don’t speak. It’s okay. You need your rest now.

The emaciated man grew weary and tired, easing his hand from mine. I observed him exhale one final time. His eyes remained open, his eyes fluttered, and he was gone. Why couldn’t I get the courage to tell him that I had forgiven and loved him? Why affirm a tale? He went to be with the Lord or wherever he’d gone without heeding the words he’d longed to hear. I was a stubborn Taurus and forever headstrong. I never expressed my love for him, nor had I offered my amnesty. Did my tears count? Many were shed but the words he’d longed to regard hadn’t been spoken.

How could I be so cold? I never felt like I could or would forgive him, so I gathered why fib to a dying man? The defunct man had hurt me too many times for too many years. How could I feel anything for the corpse any longer?

Hey Daddy, at least I showed up, I alleged, as I tried to softly close his eyelids. He stared blankly up at me. He was already gone, although his lids refused to seal.

I returned to the living room where my stepmother and sisters had hunkered awaiting the news. I simply nodded and instantaneously the three of them began to wail. None of us shared a word. They sobbed and I did my best to stop blubbering.

Immediately after calming myself, I began taking charge. I was paying for my youngest sister to attend college full-time. Laura wanted to become an elementary school teacher. I figured that Darrin and I had the funds so why not share the wealth? My kid-sister had begged us so she wouldn’t have to go into debt obtaining college loans.

I voiced my concerns. So Louise, since Laura has to get back to her college studies, I think we need to get Daddy’s funeral over, ASAP, I snapped, suddenly desiring to light up a quick smoke. Whenever I’d been there in the past I’d chain-smoked like a flue, so it felt natural desiring another. The feeling had tripled since Daddy stopped breathing. Might it have been his spirit diving into my psyche that was causing the overwhelming sensation to light one up?

No, Louise insisted, I need more time to arrange his services. I have to phone all the relations in Alabama, giving them ample time to get airline tickets. It cannot be done in a short span of time. Louise took a deep breath, frustrated that I felt induced to take charge of her husband’s final funeral arrangements.

Come on Louise, I snapped. I’m sure everyone who cares about Daddy has already been told that he’s been very ill. We will get on the horn to phone all the aunts and uncles and cousins from back home. If they can be here in a few days, that’s fine. If not, then oh well, why lose sleep? It’s their fault if they can’t make it, I guess.

Laura empathetically interjected. Well, gosh, Katy, I think Louise should arrange Daddy’s services. After all, she was married to the man.

I whispered beneath my breath, Are you sure about that?

The girls looked at me, as if to say, ‘what did you say?’ Louise appeared to understand what I’d meant, while saying nothing. Still, like me, she was a stubborn old bat. I continued raising my tone, letting the trio know I meant business. I was the boss, plain and simple, and they must understand that I was to remain in charge. Period!

"Look, Laura needs to get back to class right away! I do not want you missing any more school than necessary, Sis. What do you think I am paying for your schooling for, nothing? We need to have Daddy’s services the day after tomorrow. I will contact the mortuary and that is final!" I commanded. I was beginning to remind myself of the man I had grown to despise with each passing day. In truth, I resembled him more and more in my appearance as the years crept by, particularly the last several, whilst in the midst of my menopausal-period. I was puffy and irritated, and downright irate. Not many people enjoyed being around me.

Even the way we both insisted on having things done our way; we were one in the same. Daddy had employed nearly the identical line on me when I’d registered in college in 1958, after graduating from high school and paying my fees upon enrollment. I had rather strong desires of my own that weren’t in sync with his. Upon my high school commencement, I had stated nearly the identical phrase, although Dad let me know he was paying and he was the boss. That was the end of that story. The one with the checkbook wins. We were both quite headstrong and domineering. And if something had to get done in a small allotment of time, one could count on either of us to get the job done right, and in a timely fashion.

I couldn’t help but carry on in the role of domineering-chief-in-charge. Louise, since you knew he was this unhealthy didn’t you already prepay for his casket? Hasn’t that part already been taken care of? I inquired, heeding Louise’s dismayed gawk of disapproval.

The woman nodded. Her tears were overwhelming her and she began to weep. Laura hugged her, letting me know she was on her side. Their sighs were evidence of their disgust in me. Still, I refused to allow them or the situation to worry me. This was the way it must be and I snubbed their concerns. Without Darrin’s interventions, I was surely the boss. He may have told me to take it easy on Louise if he’d tagged along, but he refused, so I’d taken over the captain’s seat. It was rather nice he had stayed behind after all; nobody could call the shots and everything would get done my way. Tit for tat, I’d win this showdown.

Well, since Miss Celebrity here… Amanda was surely also upset with me and felt like intervening; her sarcasm was as thick as the stench in the air. "If Miss Celebrity says this is the way it must be, well, get on it. Do what you got to do. Then Laura and I will phone everyone back home, and explain that they have to get the next flight if they wish to make it on time. I’m sure they won’t mind that they have to pay double to get a same-day flight."

What kind of crap is that? I scolded my daughter. Miss Celebrity? I am not saying this because of what I do for a living, but because I don’t want Laura missing more of her college courses than necessary. Period! And I am appalled by your insinuation, just because I happen to be a movie star and singer, you think I’m too good or whatever? I took a deep breath before asking, "Can I help it if I’m talented and successful?"

More than anything I needed a smoke but I hadn’t any, only an empty cigarette holder that resembled a makeup compact; it was shielded at the basin of my large handbag. I would need to run out and buy a pack or two or carton to regain my sanity. The girls stood, passing odd glances, as if uncertain of what to say. It was as if I was their leader and I had spoken.

I’ll tell you what, girls? I hollered. I will go out and speak to the mortician about Daddy’s arrangement; you three can stay here and phone all the relations back home, and call an ambulance to take his body. I was commander-in-chief and knew it, and was gloating. Louise, I will need Daddy’s car keys since I don’t have any vehicle here. I took a cab.

Louise hurried to fetch them. With me out of the picture, I’d certainly stop pestering them, and insisting on making all the decisions. She returned with Daddy’s keys in her clutches and quickly tossed them at me. I grabbed them in-flight and grinned. Victor!

Louise mouthed. The blue Ford in the garage was Fred’s. You may use that one. She was surely leery of offending me further; soothing my mood being congenial of my wishes. She called out as I was leaving. "Neel’s Brea Mortuary is the one doing his services, and,