Lola’S Whispers

By Fatima Telli

Eight yearsthats how long its been since the sudden death of Peter Bernard shattered the small town of Elora. He left behind his wife and mother of his child, Maven; his daughter Sylvia; and his company.

Eighteen-year-old Sylvia Bernard is now mentally ill, and Maven is the CEO of Bernard Limited. When Sylvia stumbles upon one of her mothers journals, she discovers a dark truth about her mothers true intentions for her future. In a sudden moment of fear, Sylvia decides to run from her mother and the life she has created for her.

In a desperate attempt to stay hidden, Sylvia and her best friend Jade, take shelter at Elijah Marinos.

With Lola in her ears and Jade at her aid, she unravels dangerous secrets about her fathers death, her health, and her mothers dark past.

What will she do with what she knows?

How far will Maven go to keep her past buried?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543433616

Fatima Telli

About the Author Fatima Telli is a Kurdish Canadian mother, writer, and law clerk. She grew up in Hamilton but has spent most of her adult life in Kitchener, where she lives with her two daughters and husband. Lola’s Whispers is her first novel.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Fatima Telli.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017910246

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5434-3362-3

                Softcover        978-1-5434-3363-0

                eBook             978-1-5434-3361-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/31/2017

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

761648

To Yousif, none of this would be possible without you.

You are my light, my life.

And to my dear sisters Mirko, Aishashan, Athina,

because I promised I would.

CONTENTS

Sylvia Bernard Past

Maven Bernard Past

Elijah Marino Past

Sylvia Bernard Present

Maven Past

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Maven Past

Sylvia Bernard Present

Maven Past

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Maven Past

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Maven Past

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Maven Past

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Maven Past

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

Elijah Marino Present

Sylvia Bernard Present

SYLVIA BERNARD

Past

C rash, boom.

Spark, flicker.

It was the sound of rumbles that woke me that night—rumbles that were impossible to ignore. October weather often brought gusting winds and rain, but on the night of the twenty-first, a rare streak of thunder storms cracked louder than the fireworks on the first of July. I jolted awake and tugged my head underneath my blanket.

For a moment, the thunder stopped.

It was then that I heard the voices below my room. It would blast off in rage, and then it would go dead silent. Boom! the thunder went again. As I lay in my bed that night, I thought of two things—Teddy and food. I glanced over to the Belle clock my mother had bought me for Christmas the year before. It read, 1:33. I turned away and stared at the ceiling, hoping that the muttering and booming would stop.

After a couple more roars, the thunder made its way elsewhere; all I heard then was heavy rain clashing against my window.

But the piercing voices continued. I yanked my blanket off, walked barefoot on the frigid hardwood floors, and tippy-toed my way to the top of the stairs. I stood listening, but I could only make up bits and pieces of sentences. I lowered my gaze and peeked through the railings. A shadow of a man, tall and bulky, appeared on the wall in the downstairs hallway. My father. That was my first thought. He and my mother were fighting. I straightened my neck and then peeked again. My father had ears that were hard to miss—the big and floppy kind. This man did not. His ears and head appeared to be one shape only—an oval.

The house was dark.

Is that right? I heard my mother say from the fourth step down. But the shadow remained silent.

I thought about heading back to my room that night, but I needed to know who he was. Even as a child, I was snoopy. I tippy-toed my way down the stairs in my pink silky pajamas that were a little too big on me. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, it was the light that appeared through the kitchen that made me notice the three cuts on my hand—one a little above my right wrist, one on my right pinky, and the last one lined deep in my left palm.

Weird. I remembered thinking. Emily and I spent the whole afternoon watching reruns of Wizards of Waverly Place. As I began to replay the events of the night before, my memory went blank. But I was only ten; I didn’t think much of it. I waved off whatever thought I had and continued walking.

I had forgotten about the vase that stood at the side of the stair ramp, knocking it to the ground. It didn’t break, but it did crack my plan right in half because by the time I had picked the vase up, the shadow was gone. But that didn’t stop me from snooping.

In the kitchen, I found my mother in a frame I had never seen her before. She had both hands on the counter with her shoulder up and her head down with her golden-blonde hair streaming to the front of her face. She faced the window, weeping silently.

Something was wrong.

Mom, I said. It was almost a question. My mother didn’t move, not even to the sound of my voice.

Sylvia—what on earth are you doing up so late? she said in a lifeless tone.

Is everything okay? I asked.

Sylvia— The words barely made it out of her mouth. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know how to. I wanted to hold her and tell her that everything would be okay, but I was too afraid to move—afraid, not sad, not confused, but afraid. Go to your room, she said.

Mom, are you okay? I asked again. I knew what ignoring my mother’s orders meant, but I asked anyway because in moments of sorrow, there are no rules.

My mother wept a little more before she finally said the five words that shattered my world. Your father has left us.

When did he leave? I asked in such ignorance.

This morning, my mother replied.

When will I see him?

When my mother realized that I hadn’t understood the gone or the left us, she took her beige suit jacket off and finally turned to face me.

Sweetie, he’s not coming back. Your father—well, he’s in heaven now, she said as if she believed in such a place. He passed away.

I motioned a slow nod. I remember the sound of my heartbeat racing to nowhere and the way my brain whirled in such confusion.

I whispered the words back to myself, hoping that it would sound more real. Daddy is gone.

MAVEN BERNARD

Past

T here was a roar in his voice, the way he grunted in her ears. He pressed his body against hers, then threw her to the floor.

She pushed him, he fought back, leaving a mark on her face.

She shoved him, he fought back, pressing her face on the carpeted floor.

Give up, said every inch of her body, so she did. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts take her away. She thought of the morning they brought her to the red door; the excitement that flooded her gut. Her eyes beamed as she waited for the door to open.

Smile, said the lady with glasses. This is going to be your new home.

Maven smiled and waited patiently until the door swung open. The couple opened the door joyfully and cheered a Hello. The mother had kind eyes and big cheeks. The father had a mole on his chin and wore black, fitted dress pants. They’re perfect, she thought. Maven walked in, hand in hand with the women with glasses, the women who had found this family fit to take her, and walked into an outdated living room. She sat on the yellow couches and stared at the almost perfect couple. They had chosen her, of all the babies and toddlers, it was her they wanted, a pre-schooler. The grown ups had started chatting when she noticed the boy in the far left corner of the kitchen. A smile drew on his face, wide and deep, then he disappeared.

That night at dinner, the boy was locked up in his room. Her newly claimed ‘father’ had told her that he’d been a bad boy.

Won’t you give him dinner? Maven had asked.

No. He said with a straight face that was surely meant to scare her, but it didn’t.

She opened her eyes and suddenly she was back in her room.

She released her fist and relaxed her thighs, letting him have his way. She then looked to her left and watched as the snow frolicked to the ground. She grinned, because little did he know, this was part of her plan.

ELIJAH MARINO

Past

E lijah was nine when his mother passed. His father, Joseph, had decided his fate long before he could walk; he was going to be a lawyer. Whether he went to Osgoode Hall or Western Law, it didn’t matter to Joseph, as long as his eldest was a part of the Bar Association of Upper Canada .

As a young boy, Elijah was brainy and sharp-witted. At nine months, he was walking. At two, he learned to tie his own shoes. And by six, he had memorized the periodic table. But his skills weren’t his only noticeable qualities. His wit and mouthy comments were what often drew strangers to the tall scrawny boy. Boy Einstein was what his neighbors used to call him.

At school, after he was audited by the school board, he had skipped the first and third grade. His father saw this as sign of strength; however, his mother was more critical about the idea. Joanna feared that her boy would have a hard time building solid relationships with others if he was constantly being pulled away from his friends. She and Joseph often fought on the topic.

When she passed, everything changed.

In 1996, Joseph sat Elijah down and explained to him what the concept of death was, like he already hadn’t known. But that’s all what that talk was—explanations of the concept. He didn’t go into detail of how his mother had died. It wasn’t until Elijah was eleven that his uncle told him the truth; she was hit by a drunk driver.

The idea seemed stupid. Why hadn’t father told me that to begin with he thought.

But by the time Elijah stumbled upon the truth, the damage had already been done. Little Boy Einstein lost his ability to do simple things; his mother took a piece of him with her in that car.

Carmine, his little brother, was only two when the horrid news of their mother’s death broke. He was too young to understand that she wasn’t coming back, so he would cry and cry, night after night for Mama, wherever Mama was. Elijah often heard his father weeping with Carmine. He would lay wide awake in his bed, listening to the sound of a grown man weeping. He had the choice of sharing the grief with his father, but instead, he chose to be alone in his pain.

As the years passed, he turned all his emotions into a ball of rage.

By fifteen, he was no longer remembered as the once wise, gifted boy. He was messy; smelly, mostly of marijuana; and reckless. He was the boy everyone avoided, not because of bad experience, but because of bad perception.

And then on a warm summer day, one of the warmest days of 2004, another tragedy hit the Marino family. Elijah witnessed two policemen break down his front door. He stood in the hallway, holding his little brother by the chest and covering his eyes as the policemen knocked his father to the floor. Even though Carmine pushed with as much force as he could to try and help his father, Elijah was old enough to know that intervening would do nothing because his father was guilty.

He wasn’t sure of what, but the outburst, the hidden calls, and the two men in black he had seen earlier that week, were signs of something.

When Elijah and Carmine were taken to the police department as they were now orphans, Elijah overheard conversations about his father.

One officer had told another, How long did that son of a bitch think it would take for someone to notice?

He heard another officer respond, Crocks, I tell ya.

Aren’t you old enough to take care of me? Carmine asked on the tarnished red leather chair of the station. Elijah slid his long, greasy, jet-black hair behind his ear.

No, not legally anyway, he said.

The two boys waited for fifty-three minutes before someone told them what was actually going to happen.

So here’s the deal, said a tall musky man with orange hair. Your aunt Maria is on her way to the station to take you boys home with her. Now the two of you will be placed there until a final verdict is in on your father’s charges. After that, the courts will decide where this will go.

But Aunt Maria lives in Huntsville! Carmine said right away. We live here!

Sorry, buddy, I don’t make the rules, the officer replied in a gentle voice.

We can’t move to Huntsville. It’s—

Carmine, Elijah said as he gently gripped his brother’s arm. When he looked his little brother in the eye, he saw a tint of fear, a reflection of how he was feeling. We have to go.

***

His father’s trial stretched from August 2, 2004, to March 23, 2005. It didn’t matter to Elijah what the verdict was because he had turned eighteen in January of that year and had shocked everyone when he enrolled in York University, to study criminology. But it mattered to Carmine, who had just started eighth grade. Elijah had been waiting for the sentence for one reason only—to find out the fate of his little brother. Was he going to stay with their childless aunt, or was one of his two other uncles going to take him? He had done his research and knew that Carmine was likely to remain in the custody of his aunt. However, he wanted his uncle Devon, who lived in Toronto, only twenty minutes from the university, to step in so Carmine could be closer to him.

His father was found guilty by a jury on charges of fraud, money laundering, and embezzlement. Joseph Marino was sentenced to fifteen years without parole.

Elijah didn’t grieve in that courtroom or shed a single tear. His emotions were stolen from him years ago; he was now only numb.

He put his arm over Carmine’s scrawny shoulders and whispered in his ears, Don’t worry. You have me, as Carmine sobbed along with his aunt and uncles.

SYLVIA BERNARD

Present

T hat morning of Thursday, October 22, 2015, started off with muse. I sat on the island in the middle of the kitchen and watched Rosanne panicked.

Rosy, I called her name out. Rosanne flipped her loose curls and glared at me. It’s just a broken glass. My mother isn’t even here, I said, assuring her.

But Rosanne ignored my assurance and quickly gather up the scattered pieces, trying to hide any evidence of a broken glass, like it was a sin.

Your mother made her expectation very clear. No breaking, no spilling, no bumping, she said in a heavy Polish accent.

I grinned at her. In my hand, I held a copy of The Wellington Advertiser. Newspapers weren’t a daily read for me, but that day marked an event that shattered the town years ago. Remembering Peter Bernard was slammed on the front page.

My father was the kind of man that you either loved or hated; there was no in-between. He was loud and friendly and had a bit of a hop in his step.

He was a tall man; six feet, I’d say. He knew everyone from the hasty market owner to the telemarketer who called midday trying to sell you something you didn’t need. He was that type of man—the man who made an entrance, the man who was well respected, the man with a last name that mattered; and mostly, he was the type of man that came from old money.

I stared at the article until it annoyed me. I yanked the paper aside to find a colorful omelet on the plate in front of me.

It’s pretty, I said to Rosanne.

Yes, very pretty, like you, she said while walking to the garage to dispose the broken mug.

Rosanne had been part of my family for over fifteen years. Her label as a housekeeper was an understatement because, in reality, she played the role of my mother, best friend, and sister. We had the type of relationship I always imagined I’d have with an aunt.

I picked up my fork, cut a bite of the omelet, and was ready to devour it. But just as I shoved that piece into my mouth, I spat it out at the sight of the tween standing at the end of the counter.

Lola! I jumped. She stood there in her denim jacket, gawking at me.

I thought you could use the company. I know how much you hate being alone. She said with her squeaky voice.

I peeked around to see if Rosanne was in sight. You have to leave. Now! I said in a loud whisper.

I’d rather stay, she said, moving closer to me. So what are you and Jade doing today?

Nothing. I have to help Nana with the house today. Now leave.

Ah yes, Nana. Can I come?

Absolutely not, I said, still loudly whispering. Leave now, and maybe I’ll let you come to Mel’s Diner with us tomorrow.

I hated her, and she knew that. Why she decided to stick around and torture me—your guess is better than mine.

Lola followed me everywhere like a shadow, except, in a twisted sense, I was hers. Her curly caramel-blond hair hung down to her back, and she was blessed with pouty pink lips and eyes that beamed from a mile away. She is exactly what you’re picturing her to be—a living Barbie.

Fine, she said with a smile. Then out the kitchen door she went.

I sighed in relief. Suddenly, the colorful omelet lost its beauty and taste. I pushed it aside and headed to Elora High, where I was now a senior.

I was dropped off by a car my mother had arranged for me, a black Lincoln, like every day. Also, like every day, Jade Marino was waiting for me by the smoker’s pit. She was the spontaneous, rebellious, upbeat brunette I called my best friend. For a five-foot-two girl, she was loud and dominating.

Nice of you to show up—she stopped and glanced at her phone—twenty-five minutes late, she said with that lisp of hers she’s been carrying since she could speak.

Sorry, Abe had to stop for gas and took twenty of those twenty-five minutes, I said in my defense.

I forgive you, she said with a front. We glanced at each other then walked to first period English class.

***

All right, while you’re reading, I am going to give Steven the sheet for the presentation dates. Please sign your name beside a date and pass it on, Ms. Chuckles explained.

I was reading City Of Bones by Cassandra Clare. Jade had read the entire series three months before and had become an instant Jase fan, so I thought I’d give it a read. As I was reading, I felt Jade’s bony fingers tap my shoulders.

Ouch! I complained.

Sorry! I forgot to ask. Are you coming tonight? she whispered.

No, I already told you. I promised my grandma I’d help her clean out the house, I whispered as low as I possibly can.

Clean? Seriously! You’re going to miss out on your chance to talk to Sam to clean? Who’s supposed to drive me?

I was one of the few seniors in Elora High who wasn’t licensed. Jade was, but if she was to ask her parents for their car, she would have to tell them about the ‘gathering’. She was more in need of my Abe than I was.

Yes, I’m sorry, Jade. I— Before I got a chance to continue, I noticed Ms. Chuckles staring directly at me. I immediately turned my attention to my book. I stared unswervingly into my book, hoping she wouldn’t say anything.

She started walking directly toward me. Okay, Sylvia, just ignore her, and she’ll walk away, I thought to myself. But she stopped, placed both hands on my desk, and leaned close enough for me to smell the bacon she had for breakfast off her breath.

The next time you interrupt other students during reading hour, I’m afraid that I am going to have to move you, she said.

Ms. Chuckles was never that intimidating, so I smiled. Sorry, Ms. Chuckles.

As she walked away, I heard Jade quietly chuckle behind me. Truthfully, I could have easily dogged cleaning day with my grandma, but I wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending a night in Steven Richards’s house.

I slightly tilted my head to my left and whispered to Jade, Good luck getting to Steve’s house.