Jamie’S Awakenings

By Nicholas Fessell

Pulled from a relaxed summer and playing baseball in Louisville, Kentucky, fifteen-year-old Jamie Hanna faces two weeks with a father he has not seen in two years. A once-in-a-lifetime floatplane fishing venture ends in a tragic crash. The sole teenage survivor lies injured and unconscious on a remote northern Minnesota lake shoreline. The dense fog thwarts rescue. A terrorizing mountain lion creates a life-or-death crisis. The divorced parents expose raw feelings during their sons search. The powerful emotions unite an entire community into action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984537577

Nicholas Fessell

As a sixteen-year-old Explorer Scout, the author was privileged to have experienced a ten-day adventure of a lifetime, canoeing, camping and fishing in the heart of the Quetico boundary waters of Minnesota/Canada. Thus, this belated story, Jamies Awakenings, reflects past memories of the spectacular north country. He is a US Army Veteran (1961-63).

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I t is the summer of 1954; a lanky fifteen-year-old teenage boy lay battered and unconscious upon a remote rocky northern Minnesota lake shoreline. Mysteriously, the boy’s right shoe is missing. The mood is serene; the sky holds low-slate gray clouds, a soothing wind whispers nature’s secrets through the swaying tree branches. The damp, cool, crispy air chills the boy’s exposed toes. A thin streak of bright red blood slowly oozes from a nasty black-and-blue goose-egg-sized lump, which protrudes ominously from the right forehead. The blood momentarily pools into the right eye socket then drips aimlessly beneath the boy’s ashen face, staining the mossy rock light amber.

From atop a tall spruce tree, a lone eagle curiously eyes this intruding human lying motionlessly in this no-man’s land of interwinding flowing creeks, rivers, pristine lakes, and rocky barren islands, dotted with white birch, cedar, and spruce trees, a scene of raw beauty; however, when inclement, it is to be respected, or suffer the consequences. Dark mid-July clouds now roll and rumble, promising an impending storm. The building breeze riles the lake’s surface—white caps splash over shore-lined rock, a fine mist sprays over the unresponsive body, his faint spirit is in limbo … waiting.

Confusing scenes begin to flash through his subconscious. Suffering from acute amnesia, Jamie’s mind is a complete blank—no memory of the previous trauma has surfaced. He does not know the day, the week, the month, or what a dollar is worth. The impending appointment with his father at Perch Lake has vanished. He is at the mercy of nature, defenseless against any hungry wolf, mountain lion, or bear. Always waiting for a possible meal, the alert eagle eyes the boy’s glazed eyes. His inner subconscious has willed his injured and wounded body to somehow survive … to live. His throbbing head beats like a drum. A reeking chemical odor sours his lungs, spells of nausea rip through his guts. To avoid drowning in his own vomit, convulsions roll the deranged boy over on his belly. Dry heaves foul the air. Through ringing ears, eerie screams drift off the lake, further haunting his frazzled, fogged mind. The dark cloud of death looms overhead, not a twinge of fear is present. The easiest thing in the world would be to just give in to the pain and darkness that envelope him and wait for death. So easy.

Animalistic instincts and death-defying adrenaline spasm arms and legs, his teeth chatter like a woodpecker’s beak. His body begs, seeking any semblance of warmth, of being human in this now semicomatose body.

By blind luck, a shot in the dark, or most assuredly divine providence, this broken human becomes restless. Searching fingertips frantically curl to invisible root and rock; weak aching arms strain tight to cord and bone. Bruised and swollen legs painfully bite into patches of pine-scented earth and jagged rock, legs recklessly shuffle, gasping for every breath, inch by inch, drawn like a magnet, the boy’s wounded body and searching spirit slide forward into an inviting dark opening under a large ledge of overhanging rock.

The exhausted sopping-wet tortured soul collapses into a shallow depression of soothing dry matter. Instinctively, his senses and spirit willingly accept that he is now lying in an animal’s den. His subconscious is grateful; his spirit is now hugging an invisible teddy bear. Drizzle turns to a downpour. Jamie is now safe from nature’s outbursts of gusty wind, rain, and a sneaky chill. Arms hug a cold torso, thighs weld to chilled legs, the boy’s entire body shakes violently to warm again. His heart aches for comfort, for peace, for substance to be whole again … to taste life.

Without any warning, a spark of warmth ignites his belly, spreading like a wildfire, energizing his entire being from head to toe. As his kidneys continue to flow freely, his spirit soars like an eagle seeking the light to be lighted. Time stands still. Searching for any identity, his delirious mind now seeks any semblance of the past.

CHAPTER 2

S chool had been out for a week. Jamie excelled on the honor roll, making As and Bs. He looked forward to sleeping in an hour later, playing summer baseball with hopes to earn enough money by mowing the neighbor’s grass to buy a shared catcher’s masks, which would save his baseball pals’ foul-ball head injuries.

The normal relaxing Saturday began with the teenager’s favorite breakfast, which his mother took pride in preparing; home fried sliced potatoes simmered in diced onion aromatized the entire kitchen. As a second skillet sizzles, several slices of crisp bacon are pushed aside to accommodate two eggs which were flipped. His mother’s timing was always perfect as everything was in the plate just as the toast popped up. For some unknown reason, his mother rejected saying meal prayers, which were always honored before his parents had divorced some two years prior. The absence of these simple prayers had created a void of family unity, which his subconscious dearly yearned for. It seemed that when any conscious thoughts of his father surfaced, he would mentally block them out; however, this meal prayer void never disappeared. Immediately after breakfast, the mischievous teenager burped twice; his schoolteacher mother would not cut him any slack even on Saturday, her corrective voice was instant, Excuse you, son. The rambunctious boy grinned then swiftly snatched up his treasured baseball glove, donned the Louisville slugger billed cap. He thanked his mom for the great breakfast then bolted out the screened door. He would ride his bike about a half mile to the school baseball diamond then join other town boys in a pickup game before lunch. Their equipment was something to be desired as there was only one bat which had a chunk missing on one side, thus to make good contact the bat had to be held with the cavity facing to the rear. Salvaged chunks of old weathered boards served as bases. From an undisclosed clothesline, a borrowed pillowcase served as home plate. Their two raggedy baseballs had been dug out of the high school dumpster last fall. Jamie was lucky and thrilled to have a Wilson baseball glove, which his mother had placed under last year’s Christmas tree. Surprisingly, most of the boys did very well catching balls with a mixture of hand-me-down gloves from their dads, uncles, and big brothers. None of the players was lucky enough to possess a catcher’s masks; this was true sandlot ball. Egos never cried even after a foul ball bounced off the catcher’s unprotected noggin. A bloody split lip, a skinned knee, an occasional sprained ankle all merited self-appointed purple-heart status. There were no spectators except for an occasional envious little brother who had nothing else to do or a neighborhood dog which tagged along wondering what all the excitement was about. Before the games ended for lunch, little brother and stray dog had since found other interests. In the sometimes-muddy field, the rough and tumble boys played their hearts out, all the while dreaming for their talent to catch up. One thing for sure, by the time noon rolled around, the ball players had earned hearty appetites. The rowdy players wore their hearts on their shirtsleeves and pledged their allegiance to play ball another day.

Arriving home hungry as a bear, Jamie quickly washed his face and grubby hands, then he entered the kitchen. His flared nostrils immediately detected the familiar smell of homemade chicken noodle soup, an inviting toasted cheese sandwich lay in a saucer, melted cheese seeped the edges. Breaking the silence, his stomach growled. As the ball player wolfed down the delicious food, from the corner of his eye, the unsuspecting boy observed his mother standing at the sink, her back seemed ridged, she had not said a word since he had returned, which was very unusual, as his mother would always quiz him about his play. He was puzzled by his mother’s silence. His caring mother had deliberately tried to fill in as a father figure and was always eager to hear about his ball playing. Jamie had no idea that he was soon to be thrown a nasty curve ball.

This normal relaxing Saturday was not normal after all; the day the boy’s mother had secretly dreaded now had become stark reality. All at once, his mother spun on a dime. She was now facing him, her eyes full of pain and frustration. She stared over his head into space, her right hand contemptuously clutching a long official-looking envelope.

With a quivering voice, she struggled for words. This letter arrived while you were at the school playing ball; it’s from your father’s lawyer, reminding me of our divorce agreement, concerning yearly visitation rights. Your father requests to have you for two weeks this July. The request is legal and binding. I wish I could prevent the visit from happening. I don’t know why your father has waited two years to request visitation rights. I was beginning to think that I would never hear from him again. I am truly sick about the contents of this letter; we must somehow talk this out, which was always his mother’s prelude when discussing serious matters. She sat down, too numb to cry; she remained despondent, her face hidden in her cupped hands.

Jamie was dumbstruck, his knees shook; he felt his kidneys would explode at any second. The silence was unbearable. The living room clock loudly chimed one o’clock. His mother’s breathing was labored, belated silent tears now spotted the white-edged laced table cloth. Any thoughts concerning his father had been mentally blocked out shortly after the divorce, and in a flash, his father’s request had emerged, shattering their lives. The perplexed boy was at a loss for words; his mind searched for a way out of this confusing situation which didn’t seem at all fair. He fought back the compelling urge to run out the door, to escape to a safe faraway place. After what seemed like an eternity, his mother rose from the chair; in a trance, she slowly approached the sink, rinsed off her face and hands. The upset boy wanted to cry; however, in this era, only girls and women openly shed tears, boys and men would clench fists, bite their lip, uttered a few bad words, or stare into space, listening to their guts roll and rumble all the while trying to control their burning bladders.

"Son, I know we have had a lot thrown at us with this surprising and upsetting letter; however, it is something we must deal with, no matter our objections … we must comply. I have had an hour to think about this upsetting situation. We can be negative or as positive as possible. Instead of having our lives miserable, we can choose to give it a go, let the unknown play itself out. After all, it will all be over in a two-week period. Perhaps I have been too harsh in my judgment of your father. I think the right thing to do is to give your father a fair chance, to wait until you’re back home, then judge. Who knows—you may bring back some good memories. I know if the situation were in reverse, I would want you to give me a fair chance. I have done all the talking—what do you think? Please say whatever you are feeling. We have never held back our thoughts before, and I do want to know what is in your heart concerning this very important matter. Please, Jamie, say what you are feeling."

The stunned boy was confused. He had heard his mother’s words; however, he had difficulty accepting their absolute meaning. Nothing his mother had said was sinking into his numbed brain.

After a lengthy silence, the boy meekly mumbled, Why do I have to go?

His mother immediately replied, Because it is the terms of our divorce agreement. Simply put, your father obeyed my terms, I must honor his terms. Legally, I do not have a leg to stand on.

The boy, with more determination in his voice, asked, "What do you mean your terms?"

My terms were child support, plus a set yearly amount toward medical and education benefits, also that your father must pay all transportation expenses for visitations, which have not been an issue until now. Your father has fully honored my terms.

Jamie defiantly demanded, What if I refuse to go?

His mother’s voice was direct and to the point. The court, being the judge, can order you to go.

Jamie persisted, Can the judge put me in jail if I don’t go?

I doubt that would happen, his mother replied. There was another long silence. In a calmer voice, his mother stated, All this could become a mess in a hurry, not to mention the loss of your support payments, which I have been depositing into an account toward your college. Financially, we are lucky to barely make it on my salary. We have a month to iron things out. Let’s try to take it one day at a time and not let it overwhelm us. His mother was not aware that she had just used his father’s coined phrase, one day at a time.

Jamie had lingering questions, Where does my father live?

He resides in Minnesota.

How would I get there?

I do not know. The details have yet to be arranged. There is the bus, a train, or the airlines. I doubt your father would choose to drive here, and then drive back to Minnesota, and then drive you back home. I will let you know all the details as soon as I can. Right now, I want you to enjoy your summer playing baseball. By the way, Ms. Jackson and Ms. Thompson called and want you to mow their grass again this summer. Mr. Armstrong asked me at the grocery store if you would be interested in helping him part time on weekends. So, son, we must put things in prospective. Not being a violent person, but at this point in time, the profoundly upset teenager could have punched the wall.

His mother stood up quickly, trying her best to put a positive spin on the otherwise dreary moment. She smiled, squeezed his arm, Let’s take a walk down to the drugstore, and I will treat you to an ice cream cone, make that a double dipper.

For the time being, this suggestion broke the tension. He felt he had fouled off the curve ball and stood nervously at bat. Jamie knew his mother loved him. The word father sounded so strange … so far away, in his churning stomach the angry teenager knew it would be a while before he could warm up to the prospects of a visit with his father. At this very moment, all he could fully mentally absorb was the enticing thought of the double-dipped chocolate ice cream cone. For the time being, this suggestion eased the boy’s anxieties. At the ice cream parlor, the shook-up teenager purposely rushed swallowing large portions which forced a brief welcoming diversionary headache. After two deliberate headaches, he quickly decided to slow down and enjoy the moment.

CHAPTER 3

A fter the visitation arrangements had been finalized, Jamie was to depart Louisville, Kentucky, airport at 6:45 a.m. on Monday, July 5 to O’Hara airport in Chicago, with a layover for two hours, and then on to International Falls, Minnesota, where he would arrive at 12:15 p.m. Jamie was very apprehensive about the transfer at Chicago as he had never flown before. His mother instructed him to ask after landing at Chicago as to the correct gate for International Falls, then to immediately go to that gate, even if he was an hour early, to check in with the attendant. His stomach growled as he hugged his mother goodbye and walked toward the boarding ramp. Immediately after handing his ticket to the flight attendant, he turned for one last look, his mother stood rigid and blew him a kiss. He waved goodbye then followed the line of passengers toward the plane’s open door. After his first step into the plane, to his left he could see the plane’s cockpit. He stood mesmerized taking in all the dials and gauges crammed into such a small area in front of the two pilots’ seats.

The stewardess gave him a warm greeting. Welcome aboard. We hope you have an enjoyable flight. She then pointed down the aisle and said, Your seat is B12 on the left. Jamie walked onward. He felt like a zombie not knowing what to expect as his kidney pressure increased. He spotted his seat and anxiously slid into it.

After several passengers had walked by him, a lady stopped and said, My seat number is B11, what is your number?

He replied, I was told B12.

She said, May I see your ticket? He reluctantly showed it to her. She then replied, I’m sorry, you’re right, your ticket number is B12; however, you’re sitting in my seat, which is B11.

He felt very embarrassed; he could feel his face blush. Sensing the boy’s discomfort, she smiled and said, It really doesn’t matter. I will sit in your seat, and everything will be fine. After the middle-aged lady sat down, she asked, What is your destination?

After trying very hard to swallow the knot in his throat, he stated, International Falls, Minnesota.

She again smiled and said, Me too.

Jamie was overjoyed at this good news and blurted out, "Can I follow you to