Deceived: Sara’S Journey

By Ilean Rose

As a young girl, Sara arrived at Crandle Farm in rural northern Ontario under mysterious circumstances. Her new life at the farm was riddled with secrets and events that would test her sense of self and ability to cope. Her childhood, less than idyllic, was not what Poppa could ever have envisioned for his Little Doll. Young Sara had to dig deep within to summon the strength and courage required to endure mistreatment at the hands of someone who should have cherished and protected her.
Now a bright and ambitious teenager, Sara is anxious to leave the stresses of her life on the farm behind. She moves away to pursue a university education, her key to a brighter future. Opportunities abound in her new world. She lands a good job filled with potential for growth and great satisfaction. Shes finally on her way.
A poised and capable woman now, Sara finds that her new confidence and resilience is still being tested repeatedly. Despite her optimism, she worries that disillusionment will derail her dedication to her future. Her confidence shaken, she fears that those she trusts the most may not have her best interests at heartagain.
Will happiness elude her? Can she find answers and discover the roots of deceit?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491759608

Ilean Rose

Ilean Rose (Jodouin) had a dream about writing a novel since she was a teenager. Now—in her eighties—that dream has been realized. Widowed and the mother of two adult children and a grandmother, she currently lives in a retirement residence in Sudbury, Ontario.

Book preview

Chapter 1

R ISING FROM A CROSS-LEGGED POSITION on the living room carpet, Sara almost tumbled head-first before she realized that she lacked control over her legs. Grabbing the arm of the nearby sofa in a reflexive action prevented the certainty of a fall. Once she had regained her balance, she began to move slowly across the room. Electrifying sensations penetrated deep into her tissues and alternated with numbness each time she put down a foot. She felt like she was wearing over-sized, steel-plated work boots filled with angry bees.

Sara was astonished as she glanced at the wall clock over her desk. Could that much time have really gone by, she wondered. She realized that she had been sitting on the floor, in the same position, for hours. So much time had elapsed while she had been totally engrossed in her task.

Slowly, the feeling in her legs and feet began to return. As she reached the dinette, she held onto the door frame and performed several, slow, deep-knee bends. Releasing her grip on the doorframes and standing unsupported, she realized that was craving a drink of cold water. She went into the kitchen, turned on the tap and let the water run.

There isn’t a cloud in the sky, she noted, as she peered through the kitchen window. Oh, why doesn’t it rain, she silently queried, as she filled a glass with cold water. She took a sip. The first few drops barely trickled down her throat. The second mouthful of water slid down more smoothly and she took larger gulps until the glass was emptied. Thirst quenched, she now turned her attention to taking a shower. She felt so sticky and uncomfortable.

The heat wave was beginning to take its toll on more than just Sara. Lawns were turning brown and flowers were drooping. Not quite a Salvador Dali painting but there was a resemblance. The gardens that Sara had taken time to plant and nurture were desperately in need of rain. The situation had only worsened as a watering ban had gone into effect.

Pushing aside the window curtain to view the outside thermometer, she had inadvertently startled a squirrel sitting on the cement window ledge. His tiny paws had been expertly rotating a peanut, his jaws moving rapidly while he pulled off tiny segments of the cherished legume. His head suddenly jerked toward her, fluffy tail flicking quickly, and then he dropped the nut and scurried away.

Because she offered a buffet of seeds as well as peanut butter embedded with whole peanuts, the window ledge attracted neighbourhood squirrels, chipmunks, and an assortment of birds. She liked to watch the animals visit the improvised feeding station. Sara loved all living creatures; all that is, except spiders. Those sinister invertebrates triggered a chilly feeling to creep over her flesh. Just seeing a spider, or encountering one of their menacing webs, gave her goose bumps and a sense of revulsion.

Today is going to be another scorcher, she thought as she saw that the mercury in the window thermometer was already past eighty-five degrees. She sighed and let the curtain fall back into place.

Sara had always found heat to be oppressive. As a child, for this reason, she hated to pick berries. In the heat of the day, she would inevitably get a headache and her vision would blur making it difficult to find the berries to pick. She would push herself to continue picking despite the pounding in her head and a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew that the berries were needed for jams and jellies for the winter food supply. Everyone in the family had to do their share of picking. No amount of complaining or crying gave anyone immunity from this obligation.

Once, when Sara was seven years old, during a harvesting of blueberries, she collapsed in the foliage with eyes rolled back in her head and her cheeks flushed. Poppa feared that she may have experienced heat stroke. On subsequent berry-picking excursions, he would find a patch of berries with trees nearby that afforded shade. He would check on her frequently and bring water in a thermos to ensure that she remained hydrated. He would pat her on the head, give her a wink, and tell her how proud he was that she was doing her share. That’s my girl, he would say.

This memory of her father made her smile. Not all childhood memories, however, were pleasant. Over the years, vivid and disturbing recollections occasionally infiltrated dreams as well as her consciousness, catapulting the past into the present. Had it not been for Poppa in my life, she thought, who knows what would have become of me?

Abruptly, as a bead of sweat tracked from her scalp down her left temple, she interrupted her retrospective, realizing that she still had a daunting responsibility ahead of her. Once she had a shower, she would have to get back that mountain of paper and memorabilia. Could she complete this huge undertaking as she had promised? She put the thought aside for now.

Sara walked down the hall, anticipating a refreshing shower. She stopped at the linen closet and retrieved a bath towel and face cloth. She could hear Elton John’s new single Bennie and the Jets playing on the radio in the kitchen and she did a rhythmic shuffle as she went into the bathroom. She loved this song. She had once heard that music was the soundtrack of your life and absently wondered if this new song would factor into her own personal soundtrack.

She peeled out of her damp clothes and reached into the shower stall to turn on the taps. When the temperature was to her liking, she stepped in. Disregarding the water shortage, she stood for a few moments, enjoying the sensation of the tepid water cascading over her body. After lathering and rinsing, she remained under the pulsating stream a little longer, relishing how it made her feel.

As she stepped from the shower, she felt her stamina returning. She gently dried the moisture from her body, careful not to overheat, then gave her shoulder-length, curly hair a few quick rubs with the towel. While she was looking in the bathroom mirror, brushing her teeth, she spotted a new grey hair among the brown, almost hidden in the wet curls, and she frowned. Leaning forward, searching for other offenders, she thought that perhaps colouring her hair was in the not-too-distant future, and then she abruptly plucked it out instead.

After dressing lightly in a halter-top and short set, she left her bedroom and strolled down the hall. Passing the dining room she noticed a book lying on the table. Entering the room, she picked it up and realized that the book belonged with the other items in the living room. She wasn’t certain why she left it, and a number of other articles, in here.

Faint chimes from the mantle clock caught Sara’s attention. Noon. Lunch time. She didn’t feel especially hungry but remembering that she had skipped breakfast, she decided to fix herself a light snack. Setting the book down, Sara went into the kitchen, returning with a sandwich and a frosted glass of ice tea.

After she had eaten, Sara frowned when she noticed how the clutter from the living room was encroaching into this room. Disorder went against Sara’s nature. She preferred her world neat and orderly. Getting up from the table, Sara walked into the living room and inhaled deeply. Covering the sofa and floor and most surfaces in both rooms were papers, books, photos, and personal effects; evidence of a life well-lived. With renewed resolve, she assumed a familiar position on the carpet, legs folded beneath her. This time she would be more cognitive of the time and take intermittent breaks.

Chapter 2

T HE LONG, LONELY DAYS HAD stretched into weeks since her father’s death. Sorting through his belongings dredged up many memories; happy thoughts of the good times since he had come to live with her but also extreme sadness for the loss she had sustained. She had promised to take care of his affairs after he had passed on and she was determined to keep that promise.

The void from his passing was immeasurable. She was beginning to accept that she would never see him again but Sara still couldn’t imagine a future without him. He had been the one constant in her life and they had always been close. When her father had come to live with her, they had grown even closer.

No matter how deeply it hurts, she thought, I made a promise to Poppa. I am going to get this done. All other business had been taken care of shortly after the funeral but going through a lifetime of precious possessions was what Sara had been dreading the most.

As she stood looking at the articles she had been sorting, her mind wandered back to the day they were enjoying a cup of tea together and he began a dialogue that she still remembered with clarity. He had recently returned from visiting his son, Arnold and his demeanour was different. It wasn’t until sometime later when she would discover that Arlan had been to see a specialist during his visit, after abdominal pains became too persistent to ignore. Arnold warned his son not to mention this. He would tell Sara himself, in his own time.

What’s the matter, Poppa? Sara asked, You’re not your old self.

Been doing a lot of thinking since I got back, Arlan replied.

Thinking about what? Sara asked. You’ve been unusually quiet. I’m concerned. She moved closer to him, looking at him intently and expectantly.

He was silent, apparently deep in thought. It was not uncommon for him to take seconds, sometimes minutes, before responding to a question or between his own sentences when relating a story.

Sara sat patiently, sipping her tea, waiting for him to speak.

Well, girl, he slowly began. I don’t have a lot of time left.

"Arlan Benjamin Crandle, Sara said firmly. You have a good number of years left. You always brag that you could work circles around men half your age."

Arlan, still a handsome man by most standards, was muscular with broad shoulders, weighing about two hundred pounds, never less but sometimes a little more. He always held himself very erect and walked with a confident stride. Arlan’s thick, wavy brown hair was always combed neatly in place. Grey was peppered throughout with just a bit more at his temples which made him look distinguished. His face and hands were a tawny shade from having worked outdoors, exposed to the elements, most of his life. Deep set wrinkles around his eyes and mouth added character.

He tapped lightly on the back of Sara’s hand several times and then spoke in a familiar tone that Sara knew only too well. He was expecting her to listen.

Now, girl, he said, continuing in his slow, hesitant manner of speaking. You listen to me…my time is getting short…I have had a good life…and I’m ready to go anytime the good Lord wants to take me.

Arlan could see that Sara was about to speak so he waved his hand, directing her to be silent.

I don’t know how much longer I have, Arlan said. I just want to know that… when my time comes…you’ll take care of things. Will you do so…and without questions? It is important to me…and to you.

She cupped his hand in hers and said: Yes, of course. I’d do anything for you, Poppa. You know that.

Arlan cleared his throat and spoke softly. I want you to take care of my affairs…when I’m gone. I have made a Will. It says that you and you alone are to tend to my business and personal matters. I can’t explain why…some day…I hope you will understand. So…will you do this for me?

Yes, Poppa, Sara replied, of course.

When she noted that his eyes glistened, she felt a profound sadness. She had never seen such pain in his beautiful, sky-blue eyes and had never seen him cry before.

I’ll do whatever it is that you want, Poppa. Her voice quavered.

Now, now…don’t you fret, he said. And anyway…I’m not leaving today.

Sara squeezed his hand. She didn’t ask questions as she had agreed but her curiosity was definitely piqued.

She released her hand from his and brushed a loose curl back from her face, tucking it behind one ear. The atmosphere was so heavy that Sara felt if she didn’t do or say something soon, they would both be openly crying.

In an effort to defuse the situation, Sara straightened her dress and began to stand. Enough with all this melancholy talk, she said. Turning back toward Arlan, she added: Do you know anybody who’d like to be beat in a game of Euchre?

Card playing had long been a favourite pastime for Arlan and Sara. They preferred Straight Five Hundred and King Pedro when there were four people. When there were only two, Euchre was the game of choice. Arlan was skilled at many card games and although he disliked losing, he could never be accused of cheating to achieve a win. Sara didn’t really care who won or lost. She just enjoyed the time that they spent together. Her light-hearted challenge brought a smile to both of their faces, transforming the mood.

Chapter 3

D URING THE LAST WEEKS OF Arlan’s illness, he suffered terribly. Pain persisted despite medication and modern therapies. Relatively new chemotherapy treatments slowed the growth of the cancerous tumour but wreaked catastrophic effects on him. The treatments had robbed him of his hair and he had become so thin that it looked as though he was a collection of bones within a tightly stretched membrane. The twinkle in his blue eyes was no more. It was devastating for Sara to see him waste away and she felt powerless to ease his discomfort. She did find some consolation; however, in the fact that she cared for him at home, as was his wish.

Looking at him in bed, Sara remembered back to her younger years and thought about one of his pet peeves. It bothered him to see any of his children slouching. When she was young, he would give a gentle, sliding tap on her shoulders, saying: Sit up straight! Don’t slouch! As a youngster, this was an embarrassing correction but as an adult, she knew that she had him to thank for her proper posture. So now it hurt to see Arlan slouched in bed, unable to sit up without support or assistance. As she repositioned him carefully and fluffed his pillow, she kissed his forehead, feeling tears burn her eyes.

Arlan’s mind was keen until the end. He was capable of speaking but his voice became barely audible and he would often stop to catch his breath. Although his eyes betrayed the pain, he did not complain. He knew that his life was ending but he remained tolerant and dignified.

As death approached, Sara got in touch with her siblings. Nelda was unable to make the trip due to illness but Arnold and Maude travelled together to Sara’s home to be with their father. Each had time alone to say their farewells. When Sara took her turn, she couldn’t find the words to express herself. I love you and I’ll miss you Poppa, was all she could say as she gently stroked his hand. Throughout the last years they had talked so much; now there was so little left to be said.

Arlan beckoned, with a feeble wave of his hand, for Sara to lean in closer. He struggled to get the words out: You have been…so good to me…God bless you. He looked plaintively into her eyes and she acknowledged his sentiment. She squeezed his hand. Her reassuring smile masked the ache in her heart.

Sara took a deep breath when her consciousness registered present day. She absently wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Memories of her father were still able to incite a raw emotional response. She looked around at all of Arlan’s papers and personal objects and sighed. She refused to cry. It was a selfish, ineffective emotion. She knew he was at peace and no longer in pain.

Chapter 4

E VEN THOUGH ARLAN HAD NOT seemed to be a particularly sentimental person, he had saved numerous photos as well as boxes and tins of memorabilia. It was taking Sara more time than she had expected to go through all of this. Often, as she sorted, she experienced fluctuating moods. Some keepsakes brought joy, others tugged at her heartstrings.

Most of the photos had names penned on the back in a masculine scrawl and sometimes there was a date. Arlan had gone over most of the photos with her in the months before his death. Many were familiar faces. Several albums had been completed but the majority of the pictures were loose. Some enlarged photos and studio portraits in frames, along with old letters and certificates, were in an old wooden butter box.

Cigar boxes were full of trinkets that she had not seen before. There were watch fobs with chains, tiepins, and clips. There were three old pocket watches, no longer functional as a timepiece, yet kept as a sign of respect for the gift giver. Sara didn’t toss anything away that a family member or friend might later wish to keep as a souvenir. Sara picked up his corncob pipe which had not been used for over fifty years, long after he had given up the smoking habit. She fondly remembered the sweet smell of his pipe tobacco. The brand was Old Chum, she thought. She could picture the tin with the name embossed in large capital letters.

Six tin cigarette boxes with hinged lids were among Arlan’s belongings. Sara had seen this type of box before and recognized it being from the 1940s. They were called flat-fifties, so named for the fifty cigarettes contained within when purchased. Once emptied of cigarettes, they were a popular place for children to store crayons and tiny treasures. Adults would also use them to store a deck of playing cards or other odds and ends. Upon opening these boxes, Sara discovered that they were filled with negatives of photos taken throughout the years. She decided she would look at all the negatives through the viewing box she had made long ago, but it would definitely be at a later date.

As she opened and inspected each tin box, she noted that only one was tied shut with an old brown shoelace. She kept it for last because, as hard as she tried, she was not able to untie the knot. Pushing aside papers, she found a pair of scissors, cut the lace, and discovered that this box didn’t contain negatives but instead contained wrapping tissue. She began to unfold the layers of tissue and found that it was not merely paper as she had first thought. Between the layers of paper was a white silk handkerchief, now yellowed with age. Carefully lifting it from the box, she placed it on her lap.

Sara was surprised when she turned back all of the folds of the hankie to find a three-and-a-half by five-inch portrait of a lady. She was stately posed, sitting in an armless, high-backed chair. From the black and white photo, it was possible to discern that the lady was fair of skin with eyes either light-grey or blue. Her dark, well-coiffed hair was in an upswept style.

She was dressed in a dark-coloured, floor-length dress with long sleeves, puffed at the shoulders. White lace was showing at the neckline above a mandarin collar. Buttoned, ankle-high boots were partially visible beneath the long skirt and her legs were crossed at the ankles. Her hands were joined together on her lap with the left hand placed over the right.

One dark, perhaps red, rose protruded about two inches from between the index finger and thumb of her left hand. Except for the oval cameo broach, front and centre of the neckline, there were no other adornments. Neatly penned on the back of the picture were the letters A. B. C.

Sara was intrigued. She wanted to know the identity of this beautiful lady. Why was this picture set apart from all of the others, so carefully wrapped, and so neatly tucked away in the tin box? She had viewed family photos many times through the years, alone or with her father, but she had never seen the photograph. There was something vaguely familiar about this lady.

Hearing the mantle clock in the living room announce that it was five o’clock, Sara decided that it was time to put aside her sorting and organizing. I need to get up and move around and I really should make myself a meal, she thought. It was incredible to her that she could become so lost in this activity that the passage of time went unnoticed.

While she waited for last evening’s left-over boiled dinner to heat up on the stove, she realized that she was hungrier than first thought. As her stomach growled, she considered the old saying that a watched pot never boils.

After she had eaten and put the kitchen back in order, she went into the living room with a cup of tea. She planned to do more sorting before it got too late. Looking at the pile of keepsakes and mementos that she had already sorted through, it was inevitable that her thoughts would turn back to her Poppa. She recalled the years before cancer had become such a formidable adversary.

Chapter 5

A S ARLAN AGED, HE FOUND it increasingly more difficult to manage the farm. Even with hired help, it had become overwhelming to carry out routine maintenance and repairs, tend to the animals, and perform everyday chores. During fall harvest, he was responsible for hiring and boarding the fruit pickers and supervising the delivery of the produce to market. His days were filled from sun up to sun down.

The hiring of extra farm hands had been a challenge. Experienced, single men rarely wanted to live in the country. In his search to find help; however, Arlan did manage to find two men, both confirmed bachelors, who told him that they were not afraid of hard work and expressed interest in working on a farm. They had negligible experience with farm work but were willing to learn so Arlan agreed to teach them what needed to be done and offered an acceptable wage.

A middle-aged widow was hired to be his live-in housekeeper. Arlan had put a notice on the bulletin board at the Little Creek General Store. Sylvia answered the ad. A terrific cook, she produced hearty meals for everyone and also ensured that his home was both clean and comfortable. Arlan was very pleased with her culinary talents and he enjoyed her quiet efficiency and mischievous sense of humour.

As the years passed, becoming less able to lead the hired help or do the work himself, and with age exerting influence over him, he decided to sell the farm. He moved to the nearest city of Gobrey, twenty miles from the area he had known as home since he was a young lad.

The small apartment was adequate for one person but Arlan felt claustrophobic after having had the run of the farm house for so many years. Sara knew that he wasn’t happy as an apartment-dweller. He missed being able to survey his land or walk the fields whenever he chose. The most difficult thing for Arlan, she knew, was leaving his fruit and vegetable gardens, his beloved greenhouse filled with plants, and the orchard dotted with fruit-bearing trees.

It had taken Sara years of persuasion to convince him to live with her. The