Shouting for Grace: A Novel

By Sylvia Peddycord

Ellie Hartleys carefully controlled life explodes when she faces the billboard: Dont Make Me Come Down ThereGod.

Ellie lives in San Diego and has built a life that allows her to function with her compulsive tendencies under control. She fled from her North Carolina home ten years earlier to escape the rituals that rendered her helpless. The message from God forces her return to face both her eccentric family and her twelve-year-old daughter Grace, who is showing signs of obsessive compulsive disorder.

Ellie attempts to reconnect with Grace after a long separation. But Grace, hurt, confused, and angry that Ellie abandoned her, runs away. Ellie is diagnosed with breast cancer, and her OCD returns in a fury.

Back in San Diego, she attempts to help Grace while being treated for cancer. Her perceptions of her past are turned upside down when she uncovers a stunning secret about her family, a secret that has defined her life.

Shouting for Grace explores how childhood experiences and perceptions shape us as children and adults and how fear can define us. Sometimes funny, sometimes sad, and often both, Shouting for Grace celebrates the indomitable human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Mar 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504375788

Sylvia Peddycord

Sylvia Peddycord lived the first twenty-two years of her life in North Carolina. After graduating from UNC Chapel Hill, she moved to Southern California. Shouting for Grace is her first book. When she is not at the beach or spending time with her grandkids, she is writing.

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Copyright © 2017 Sylvia Peddycord.

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

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-7553-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-7554-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-7578-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902754

Balboa Press rev. date: 03/10/2017

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

For my family

"Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget

falls drop by drop upon the heart,

Until … in our own despair, against our will,

comes wisdom through the awful grace of God."

Aeschylus

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This is a work of fiction, and all the characters are imagined. Some of the events are based on real experiences. I did have breast cancer and Ellie’s journey of medical diagnosis and treatment is based on my experience.

Shouting for Grace is a book I wanted to write for all those who have experienced any form of cancer, or dysfunction. In voicing the unknown, the hidden, and the secrets, we find freedom and solace.

I am grateful to my wonderful mom, who taught me the importance of family. Thank you, Mom, for everything.

My husband never wavered in believing I would finish and publish this book. Thank you, best friend, for your numerous readings, your undying support and love, and for all the hugs when I came to you in tears.

Many thanks to my two sons and two daughter-in-laws who inspire me daily. Their encouragement kept me going.

And to my five grandkids, this book is for all five of you. I love you all.

I could have never made it to publication without the encouragement of my family and friends. Thank you for always asking__ Is it published yet?

PROLOGUE

The glare of the desert sun bounces off the hood of my car and makes it difficult to see God’s Warning. A car horn blares as I drift into the oncoming lane. I slam on my brakes and my Volvo careens into a shallow, sandy ditch. Tilted up toward the billboard, I have no choice but to see the warning:

DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE —GOD.

I’m on Highway 60 outside Cabazon, heading toward Palm Springs. A few cars slow down as they pass but none stop. The drivers staring at the maniac who drove into a ditch for no apparent reason don’t see the billboard. Anyway, the warning from God is just for me.

I reach for the door handle to get out of the car, but my brain has other ideas. I turn in the opposite direction and look over my shoulder, again and again, and struggle blindly to find the handle. My neck hurts and my heart races as I attempt to grasp the handle and turn my head in the opposite direction at the same time. Turn. Turn. One more time. Look over my shoulder to the right twice. My physical self fights against my mental self and I’m stuck in this car. The compulsions are back.

I turn my head two times to the right, my body using this compulsion to stop my mind from thinking about what I did to her. Three more times to the right, that’s the last time. Just two more. Look over my shoulder. Then again. Once more. I have to face my fears to get rid of this. That’s what my therapist told me. Okay. Just a little Exposure and Response Therapy while sitting in the ditch. Think about Grace and control my actions. Think how well she is doing without me, then don’t give in to my compulsion for three deep breaths. Then think about her, and go for four breaths.

My past exploded into my present life this morning when I turned on the computer to check the message board on my Travel with Joella Web site. In the kitchen/office of my 1940 Pacific Beach home, I thought I was safe from the past. Bustling, loud, and full of tourists, Pacific Beach became my favorite part of San Diego when I arrived ten years ago. As soon as I saved the down payment, I bought the little beach bungalow because I wanted to belong somewhere. A place where I could belong but where no one knew me.

I opened Outlook and the emails downloaded. A message from my sister, Kate, popped up. Even though I rarely acknowledged her emails, my heart jumped each time one came in. I got up from my chair and poured myself a cup of coffee. After the strong, resuscitating smell hammered a passage to my brain, I double clicked to open her email.

The telegraph-like message read: Urgent. Can you come home? We are having a problem with Gracie. What kind of problems could they be having? She was only twelve. Was she ill? Did she get hurt? If they thought they could get me back there by using my daughter─ well, that wasn’t going to work. And no way on this green earth was Grace coming to me. We’d tried that already. So what was it? Was she hurt? Was she hurt? My mind sticks on the image of her hurt and nothing will stop the landslide that is going to take me down that dark path that spirals me to darkness.

The compulsions find their way back into my brain and my old ‘habits’ take root. The habits that rendered me helpless four years ago and caused me to send Grace away. Movement. Repeat. Movement. Repeat. Those are the habits I am talking about.

I had suggested her name. Grace. Not Gracie. I hate the way my family sticks that ie onto the end of every name. As if the ie tacked onto a name could make someone cuter, nicer, less likely to do bad things. I had proved them wrong. When I left the South, I left Ellie behind and chose a name no one would associate with ie. Joella Paloma Hartley.

My sister, the former Katherine Annabelle Hartley, is called Katie. By some. Not me—she gets to raise my daughter.

Until I ran into this ditch, I was on my way to Palm Springs to write a story on windmills and how they provide clean energy. Todd, my partner, thought the windmills would provide meat for an article about Palm Springs. I asked him why he wanted to cover Palm Springs in the June edition of our travel magazine when the temperature could be over a hundred degrees. But I already knew what he was thinking. It takes me so long to write an article nowadays that he’d be lucky to have it for the September edition.

I Googled some background on the windmills and started writing the article but Todd said, C’mon, Joella, just take a drive out there and see them firsthand. It’s been a long time since you left San Diego. Palm Springs isn’t that far, so I thought, Okay. This would be good for me. It’s a start. Then the email from Kate came in. I knew it wasn’t wise to come out here, but if I sat at home, I would be paralyzed in front of the computer waiting for another email to come in.

Feeling a little calmer now, I try for the door handle again and grasp it. Getting out of the car, I see the windmills on the arid hillsides. They rise one hundred fifty feet out of the desert within shouting distance of each other. My mother, Vangela, used that phrase when telling me she was in the next room if I needed her. Not that she was ever available then, even if I did shout. And now, I don’t need her anymore, or anybody. And furthermore, I don’t know why Kate thinks I can help, but I’m not going back to my family. No way. I promised myself that. It’s the only way I can survive.

I try to get my mind and body in sync. Think, Joella. Think about something. Anything to focus your mind. Focus on the windmills. The arms of some of the windmills turn, but a few windmills stand motionless. They don’t all receive the wind at the same time, and therefore have to be clustered on wind farms in order to produce enough viable energy.

I look back up at the billboard. The words are in capital letters: DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE. Is God shouting? Vangela used to say I had the loudest voice in the family when I talked. She was always shushing me. Stop shouting! You talk so loud that I can’t hear myself think! Southern ladies don’t shout.

I closed the email this morning after I read all of it and did not answer Kate’s question. Can you come home? We are having a problem with Gracie─ like Mawmaw Josie’s problem. Ha! She knows quite well that our grandmother Josephine was not the only one with that problem.

Kate asking for my help is a joke. The family gave up on me long ago when they asked the question, what kind of mother deserts her daughter? This kind of thinking will lead down a bad path. Control my thinking, and then control the compulsive rituals that have always filled up the space in between fears.

Pick an angle and present Palm Springs in a unique way. You’ll find the story. This is what Todd said last night when he suggested I come out here. I don’t feel or smell or hear or see the beauty of travel anymore, so how can I open a door for readers? I focus on the strange apparatuses that loom in the distance. Distraught figures, waving me away, yet beckoning me forward at the same time.

I imagine Mawmaw Josie dancing in the midst of those windmills. Josephine, my maternal grandmother, who taught me to dance. I hated the pills the doctors gave her so she wouldn’t embarrass the family. Those tiny tablets stopped her dancing. I was so afraid of those pills. Of having to take them. I gave up my daughter so she could escape this.

So now Grace has the problem? God doesn’t need to come down here. I would have gone back anyway.

CHAPTER 1

As US Air Flight 92 approaches the Queen City, Joni Mitchell’s clear voice rumbles around in my head. Turn this crazy bird around/I shouldn’t have got on this flight tonight. I grew up with Joni singing in the background of every major event in my life. When my father left us, or was thrown out on his keister, depending on which story you believe, Vangela played Joni: I can’t go on/Everything I had is gone/Stormy weather/Since my man and I ain’t together/ Keeps rainin’ all the time. Vangela told me over and over that she related to Joni who had lost her daughter and wrote music to release pain. Our mother didn’t write music, nor did she lose a daughter.

Vangela is my mother. I started calling her by her first name when my cousin, Frannie, came to live with us. Frannie was thirteen when her mother, my Aunt Bella, died. I was twelve and my sister Kate was eleven. Stair steps to heaven. That’s what the family called us: stair steps to heaven. The three of us became inseparable, except in Vangela’s eyes.

Have you ever watched baby birds learn to fly? Some try to take off before their wings are strong enough and crash to the ground. The mother hovers nearby to encourage her child and scare off enemies. Some babies watch and wait before they take off. Kate and I were like those babies. I waited to see if Frannie made it, and Kate waited to see what I would do. Meanwhile, Frannie had landed hard on the ground and Vangela was more concerned with her landing than whether Kate or I flew.

Kate and I loved Cousin Frannie, but she betrayed us. She was ready to take her place in the world, along with her two-year-old daughter Grace, but she had the audacity to die. Leaving me Grace. Making me a mother. A job I failed at miserably.

Frannie is a memory I take out and look at every so often when I feel in control. I don’t feel in control right now so I try to think of something, anything to stop the emotions storming in. Think of surfing, Joella. Feel the peace that comes with surfing when waves are two to three feet high. The hypnotic movement of the waves flowing beneath me as I sit atop my board in a peaceful sea. Breathe. Stop the jerking of my head. I am calm.

I peer down at the muddy waters stretching across the North Carolina Piedmont as the plane starts the final descent. I consider the Xanax in my purse but it’s too late to take effect before our landing. Plus, if I take it I’ll be groggy and won’t feel in control. But I need it! No, I must feel like I am in control without the drugs. Just take the damn Xanax! It’s been a long time since I’ve taken the pill and I don’t want to start again. Come on, Joella, breathe in through the nose and fill up the stomach, breathe out at twice the pace. Get body and mind in sync. Think surfing.

It’s too late. The anxiety builds and I jerk my head to the right. I grab the arms of my seat until my fingers hurt. Willing myself to stop the compulsions. Don’t think about the problem right now. Don’t focus on that. Focus on—

Are you all right, honey? An elderly grey-haired woman in the seat next to me closes her bible and pats my hand. I used to be scared myself. But I read up on the Charlotte Douglas International Airport. It has twenty-three million passengers per year. Planes come in. Planes go out. Nothing to worry about. We’ll land okay. God is watching over us.

I’m not worried about the plane landing. I clench my hands together to stop turning my head. I do try to keep my mouth shut, but it doesn’t work and the words sneak out, Don’t count on it.

Her pleasant smile turns to a frown and her voice becomes the firm and disapproving one I heard so often in my childhood. Women like to be in control of every situation, and we must learn we can’t be. When I had children, my fear of flying started. But I turned to God and had faith. He will help us land.

She has more important things to do.

Her eyes widen. She shakes her head back and forth at the lost cause she has before her.

Umm umm ummmhh! she mutters.

I’m used to these sounds of disapproval too. They’ve been used many times, when words won’t explain that I’m beyond all help. Today, I don’t know if the reaction is because I have an attitude or because I referred to God as a She. God is not a female in the South. There will be no more patting of my hand. I’m definitely a lost cause. A lost cause. How many times did I hear Vangela call me that? She always gave this little laugh after she said it. Like the little laugh made it okay.

The plane rocks forward when the wheels touch the ground. One lost cause landing in her hometown. Passengers hurry to deplane. I pull out my backpack and go through it slowly to see if I have everything. I put the magazines in their pockets behind the seats and tidy up for the next passenger. The flight attendants throw suspicious looks in my direction as I continue to put off the inevitable. I can’t think of any other reason to procrastinate unless I start dusting the seats.

After I deplane, I look for the signs to the baggage claim area, as strangers push past me on all sides. The last time I flew into Charlotte was eight years ago. I left Grace here for her first visit since taking her away. She was four years old. I held tight to her and hurried her through the terminal to Kate’s waiting hands. Her face wrinkled in a silent cry. Stop thinking about it, Joella. Think about something else. I don’t remember these white rocking chairs lined up along the corridor of the terminal. Welcome to the South: a place to rest, rock, and reflect. Have these chairs always been here? I sit down in the first available chair and perch on the edge. This is the kind of thing that Todd wants me to write about for the magazine. He thinks people care about this kind of thing, that travelers really want to understand the culture of a land. I used to believe that. Shoot, I forgot to call him when I landed. He knows how much I hate flying and thinks he can tell if I am ‘ok’ by my voice.

I reach into my backpack, pull out my cell phone, and punch #2 to call Todd’s cell phone. His voicemail picks up. This is Todd. I’m working or surfing. Leave a message or log on to TravelWithJoella.com to see what exciting place Joella is writing about next. He used to say, to see what exciting place Joella is visiting next. But I don’t need to travel to write about cultures anymore. I can find what I need on the Internet. When I Google the area, I find someone has written about every place you can think of nowadays. I use the experiences of other travelers and put the description in my own words. Is that cheating? Todd says it is, but if he wants the articles, he has no choice. It started out as my travel magazine before he came aboard and my devoted followers want my signature on the articles. I tell him it takes a certain skill to know what to crib from those other sites. That’s how I earn my money. He just shakes his head. It’s a constant source of contention between us.

It was two years ago, right after we met, when he asked if I would be interested in selling my magazine. He said he’d been trying to start up a small magazine and had been unsuccessful in breaking into the market. My magazine was smaller than he wanted, but he said it had potential and formed a good basis for what he wanted to create. I hadn’t thought about selling and wanted to stay small to create an artsy and personal feel. Writing articles about local habitats and other places in Southern California. Make people interested in the places and they would go to visit. Interlink the local culture with the beauty of the land. That sort of thing. I had gained a small foothold in Southern California and a lot of the resorts bought my magazine for their guests. I wasn’t making much money, but I made enough.

He wanted to go bigger scale and fill the magazine with travel articles that would get the thirty-somethings interested in an area. Where did they like to go? What kind of things did they do on vacations? He wanted to sell more advertising space to travel sites, classes, tours, wine tastings, etc. I felt like it would make it too commercial so we compromised. No full page ads and the magazine had to have a lot of content. Not like the magazines you buy off the shelves with most of the magazine full of advertising with little information for the reader. The readers just end up wanting to go shopping, not traveling. Bring the World within Shouting Distance was the slogan I chose.

Todd liked that image but he wanted to expand the magazine to international travel. Last year, I just let him take it over more or less. He put the magazine online and linked it to travel sites. People who really wanted to see and experience the culture could log on and see what areas we previewed. Information. That was what people want today, even on vacations. How many times have I heard Todd say that? Information, Joella. Information. We have to give them information.

He insisted I write the lead article each month and kept the name of the magazine, Travel With Joella. I often sent my article in at the last minute, much to his chagrin.

Todd works hard on the magazine. It is doing pretty well, but he often remarks that something is missing. What is it, Joella? What’s missing? He asks me this a dozen times a week.

Silence sputters on the cell waves between North Carolina and California. If I leave a voice message he’ll hear between the lines. I want to say, Help. Come and get me. I can’t breathe here. Instead I disconnect and punch in a text message: Arrived safely. J.

I try to will myself back into control, back to being Joella Hartley, successful businesswoman and travel writer. Somewhere in that silence is the new me, the one I’ve nurtured into existence through meditation, physical exercise, acupuncture, and shiatsu. Vangela would say I bought a brand new me but the lining is the same. One of her Vangelisms that pop into my head unbidden.

Depend only on myself. That’s my motto. The one valuable thing I learned from my mother. And she taught me that without trying.

I grab my bag off the carousel in baggage claim and exit the air-conditioned terminal with my luggage rolling behind me.

An assortment of SUVs, cars, and trucks pull up. I don’t even know what kind of vehicle to look for or who is picking me up. The orchestrated order of my life in San Diego dissipates. I feel my lips automatically smile at each passerby: How are you? Fine, and you? Just fine. Thanks, and you? And you? You? And who cares?!

I walk eight steps, look around to make sure no one is paying attention, and walk eight steps the other way, then eight steps back, then eight forward. The comfort of a safe routine takes my mind off the tightness in my throat and the urge to look over my shoulder. Concentrate on the task at hand. Breathe. Remember to breathe. The insistent Southern voice in my head begins to shout, Stop with the ridiculous habits! It’s embarrassing.

Something white and furry blocks my path. It takes a second for me to realize it’s a lady’s head poking out of a plush fur coat. Why, honey, you look lost. Is there someone special picking you up? She throws her hand in the air and shouts, Sugar Baby, come here! When she sees my startled look, she puts a tiny hand on my arm. Sorry, honey. My little fellow here is just so antsy. He’s always trying to run away.

Yes, ma’am. I turn around to see a white, fluffy, poodle-thingie dog hanging onto a man’s leg.

Let me get my dog off that man, honey.

The man’s eyes shoot darts at me.

I have an impulse to shout, I’ve never seen that dog in my life! See, this is what I’m talking about. Hit Southern soil and feel guilty. Even about something that has nothing to do with me.

The woman reaches down and tries to pry the dog’s teeth from the man’s Dockers. Please excuse my little fellow, son. I was just telling this young lady here that Sugar Baby likes people way too much.

Docker man shakes the dog off and Sugar Baby, dazed, falls into a pile for a brief moment, then springs up and lunges after someone else.

Laughing, Fur lady shakes her head and turns back to me. Well, you were going to tell me if you’re okay? Say what?

Here’s the Southern hospitality that doesn’t allow you to be invisible. In San Diego, you can go to the grocery store and not have to talk to a single person. You push your buggy—I mean shopping cart—how many times have I been corrected on that?—down the aisle and focus on why you’re there. Shopping, not talking. Eye contact unnecessary. If you don’t want to socialize, no problem. In fact, people view you with suspicion if you try and make small talk. What’s her motive? What the hell is her problem? Here in the South, people talk to you whether you look at them or not. Just try to be invisible. It’s impossible.

She stares back at me, waiting. My southern upbringing compels me to answer her. Yes, ma’am. I’m okay. Someone is picking me up. Thank you. For a brief moment, I wonder at the fur coat she’s wearing in the middle of May, but what the heck. Here, it seems almost normal.

I just wondered. You look lost. Been a long time since you were last here?

Um … yes. I better look for my ride. I start walking away but a glance over my shoulder shows her staring at the terminal with the saddest face I have ever seen. Oh crap, I probably made her feel bad by being rude. This is what I mean, you have to be so nice all the time.

I turn back and take her arm. Are you ok, Ma’am?

She suddenly smiles brilliantly and says, Oh yes, I am waiting. See you later, dear.

As I watch her stride toward another passenger, I spot an old man sitting on a bench outside the door; his lips form silent words. One hand rests on his stomach and the other grasps a cane that juts out onto the walkway. He stands up, gathers himself together, and lumbers down the sidewalk. I used to make a game of trying to figure out who people were. I gave them families and emotions and made up stories about their lives. The make believe became my reality. I learned to live life from the inside out. Now, I deal with facts. What would I write about this guy? Old man. Sits on bench. Leaves. I feel better now. Just going through the routine of sticking to the facts. My life has been reduced to the bare facts. I like it this way. Keeps me from thinking the bad thoughts. Then I see the old lady catch up with him and put her gloved hand on his boney arm. He nods to her and they amble away with Sugar Baby yapping away behind them.

I hear a car honking and look up to see my sister. Kate gets out of a Jeep Cherokee and comes around for my luggage. You got in early, she says. No hug.

I notice that Kate has put some weight on her normal size two frame. She’s so small boned, you notice it on her. When we were teenagers and fought about every little thing, she always threw out the last word, At least I’m not as big as you are. That ended any fight, because it was true. My big bones kept me from being the petite little southern lady I was supposed to be. Grace not with you? I ask. I see she isn’t in the car but, hey, I can make small talk as well as the next.

No. Look, Joella, I know this is not easy for you. I know you don’t want to be here. I didn’t want to ask you either. But this is for Gracie.

What’s going on that we couldn’t talk about over the phone?

I wasn’t going to jump into this now, but Gracie is having problems.

You said that in the email. What kind of problem that you can’t handle? Yeah, yeah, I’m being snotty, but here I am on the opposite side of the country from where