Melanie’s Choice (A Novel): Kids in a Cardboard Box (Short Story)

By Elizabeth Anne Rogers

MELANIE’S CHOICE

Surviving her rape and near murder, Melanie Morrison stumbles into a world torn apart by a tornado that kills her rapist and devastates her hometown of Sainte Lillian’s Missouri.  Ultimately, Melanie is forced to make decisions that will affect not only her life, but also the lives her family and friends as well. MELANIE’S CHOICE is a story that pits hate against love and proves forever which is the strongest.  Walk with Melanie. Share her pain, her sorrow, her laughter and her joy.

KIDS IN A CARDBOARD BOX

On a cold October evening, four emaciated children are found huddled together in a large cardboard box.  Their past and their future unfolds in a true to life story that pinpoints horrors faced by neglected children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 20, 2004
• ISBN: 9781418419097

Elizabeth Anne Rogers

Michigan resident, Missouri native, Elizabeth Anne (Betsy) Rogers is a third generation writer in her family, and the first to publish.  “My dream to publish became reality when opportunity to retire came while my brain was still functioning,” she laughs.  She also credits her church support group and friends from Overeaters Anonymous with encouraging her to follow her dreams. Sixty-four years old, divorced, mother of three, grandmother of ten (counting the four footed babies), and a cancer survivor, Betsy sees age as no deterrent.  Good dreams come true when we pursue them, and the best time to start is where you are,” she states. Melanie’s Choice follows her first book, Sainte Lillian’s Missouri, with the continuing story of life and love in Sainte Lillian’s.

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2004 Elizabeth Anne Rogers. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse     06/29/2020

ISBN: 978-1-4184-1908-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-1909-7 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

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.

Contents

Dedication

Introduction: Melanie’s Choice

Welcome Back

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Introduction: Kids In A Cardboard

Box

About The Author

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my brother Sam, to Sam’s wife Sheila, (my true sister), and to the memory of my big brother Jim. Jim slipped quietly and peacefully into heaven the early morning of September 6, 2003.

As he had been the first week of my life, watching me breathe and listening to my cries, I was there the last week of his, watching and listening. He saw people I could not see, said our mother and father were there, and greeted mom joyfully.

In this time of great sadness, we were given the gift of knowing Jim had complete trust and faith in our Lord. When pain came and medication no longer helped, he called on Jesus and found peace.

At his memorial service in a lovely small country Methodist church in Grassy, Missouri, Pastor Michael Kelpe read tributes from many friends. Each accentuated Jim’s tenacity, and his belief that battles could be won. Jim had copied words of Abraham Lincoln and kept them in his Bible. Words that said (in essence) I have tried. When I was right, I was right, when I was wrong, angels could not erase it, but I tried.

We laughed when Pastor Kelpe told our brother Sam’s story of Jim being a seasick sailor.

Remarks about my brother suffering and fighting cancer for such a long time sobered us, reminded us of our own frailty.

I will never forget Pastor Kelpe stating that while Jim lost the battle, he won the war. He had kept the faith to the end, and sailed (no longer a seasick sailor) peacefully into Heaven.

***

Expressions of love and gratitude are tendered to precious friends in my church:

In the years I was privileged to know Jan Eads and Marilyn Small, both ladies continually redefined the meaning of courage, faith and endurance. I shall forever be awed by their steadfast faith and unending love.

To Margaret Johns: My friend with the winning smile, my most enthusiastic fan, and number one encourager.

Last but by no means least, to my ‘Ya-Ya’ baby sister Diane Turner for welcoming me into her home and life and, and especially for her tireless work on this novel. You really made it happen Dee Dee!

I Love you all, and thank God we have shared this life journey.

INTRODUCTION: MELANIE’S CHOICE

WELCOME BACK

Nearly 15 years have passed in the fictional Missouri Ozark town of Sainte Lillian’s. America is changing, and Sainte Lillian’s is in step. Disaster and death and world politics have a way of changing people. There are those in Sainte Lillian’s who do their best to remember the real reasons for living.

Integration had its shining moments and periods of despondency but its like Pete Potete said, Folks want to have a better life, folks has got to want to work to make it better. Some do. Some don’t. Trial and triumph are always just a breath away in Sainte Lillian’s.

Downtown hasn’t changed much. Dime stores became dollar stores. Oberton’s still perfumes the downtown area with its smoked sausage. The Pink Door Café is as popular as ever, though the blue-plate special is now nearly four dollars a plate. Saturday Cat-Fish Fries are a must; not only for Sainte Lillian’s but also drawing in the surrounding communities. The only weekend attendance that is down at the frys is in August when Sainte Genevieve holds its ‘Jour de Fete’. There’s talk of setting up a Fry Booth at that event.

As usual speculation is the bread and butter of, more fun than, and, ‘dollars will get you donuts,’ much better than cut and dried morning news.

The current Sainte Lillian’s ‘rumor’ has Little Pa’s Donzee’s triplets anxious to take over the downtown drug stores. The rumor further states the triplets will meet at high noon at the courthouse the first Saturday after they graduate Saint Louis Pharmaceutical College, and draw cards for ownership. High card drawn gets Big Pa’s Drug Store. Second high card gets Little Pa’s. The triplet drawing the low card gets to start his own store at the new mall with Big Pa and Little Pa. Once this store gets off the ground, Big Pa and Little Pa, dude ranchers at heart, are following their dreams and heading out west. They’re geared to go. Rumor further states that after the drawing, Big Pa and Little Pa will host a great big ice cream social for the whole town. Kids are counting the days.

Sainte Lillian’s loves its rumors. Some folks say the mall expansion will bust. They don’t see no future unless there’s a downtown around it. The rumor (an actual fact) Mrs. Freeman’s Pink Door Café, and Oberton’s Sausage, and Robertson’s Hardware were planning to expand to the mall was waiting in the wings.

Superstores and subdivisions are dotting the landscape. McDonalds and Burger King are looking at the area. There’s a second movie theater in town. High school athletics still rule nine months of the year.

And, there’s a new sheriff in town. Elected on a platform of lies and in full agreement with permissiveness and the governmental control ideology of the 60’s (as long as it supports his private agenda), Sheriff Thomas Russell Gibson does what he pleases. His son is the image of his father. In thought, word, and deed.

Together even in death, father and son do more harm to the people of Sainte Lillian’s than the tornado that took their lives and changed so many others.

Life and death go on in Sainte Lillian’s, the little town in the Missouri Ozarks that continues to hear church bells ringing and learns anew the lesson of sacrificial love.

MELANIE’S CHOICE is a journey through sadness and pain, through horror and hate. It is a story of survival. It is a story of love. Not a love story. There is a difference which you will embrace as you read.

MELANIE’S CHOICE is a work of fiction.

ONE

Monday through Friday, OB/GYN-Pediatric duties at Sainte Lillian’s (Missouri) Community Hospital, were managed by husband and wife Doctors Jerald Brian and Karen Elaine Jolly. Saturday was free clinic day, the day both gave full vent to their sense of humor and penchant for dispensing practical homespun advise. Their delivery of both was as big a draw to the population as was their medical expertise.

Highlights of their 25-year-career would fill volumes, but a favorite was when Doc J.B. saw a problem pregnancy to term and handed a healthy infant to his pediatrician wife. From all appearances, another ‘good news’ chapter was about to be written.

With his back to his young patient, Doc J.B. peeled almost unbearably tight latex gloves from his broad hands with a snap. His right foot automatically pressed the black trash can lever, and the hinged round lid, as precise as a buck private saluting a Commanding General, sprang open. Instantly. He tossed soiled gloves into the can.

He shoots, he scores, he said without checking as he released the lever and the lid snapped shut. Thinking about his young patient, Doc J.B. turned to the sink.

After almost losing her baby three times. Claire Owen was entering the last weeks of her pregnancy in perfect condition. He had found nothing wrong during her last three pre-natal exams.

The mood Doc was in, if he could dance, he’d dance for joy. Because he couldn’t dance, he began to whistle his version of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. Unfortunately, his whistling was worse than his dancing and his high-pitched keening sent his patient into a near panic.

Nurse Andrea Louisa Gibson patted her arm reassuringly. I’ve been waiting a long time to hear him whistle that for you.

Oh! He’s whistling! I thought he was having an attack or something! What is that… she stumbled, searching for a definitive word …er…ah tune? That’s his good news tune, Nurse Gibson answered and laughed as Claire’s eyebrows went up and she mouthed good news?

Acting as if they were talking about the weather and he wasn’t interested, the jovial doctor pumped and sawed his way through his ‘good news tune’ while he soaped and scrubbed. Drying his hands, he turned from the sink to scrutinize Claire Owen: blond hair Marilyn Monroe would envy, clear deep blue eyes, as blue as the sky on a star bright moonlit night, alabaster skin, healthy weight, and, if that wasn’t enough, the bond between Claire and her husband Cliff was the kind of stuff romance novelist loved.

Doc had seldom seen a couple so excited about the birth of their first child. If possible, Cliff was happier than Claire. Men at work teased him, but it didn’t stop Cliff. That proud dad-to-be filled his working day with talk about his two girls, all of their plans, and their future children. He wanted six girls. Even when things were scary and it looked like Claire might loose their first baby, Cliff never lost hope or faith.

Doctor Jolly started chuckling. It was then Claire noticed the worry lines, usually creasing the big man’s round face after an examination, had been replaced by a wide smile. She held her breath.

Well, Claire, you did it! You two girls are doing great! We’re out of the woods and on to the home stretch. His eyes twinkled as he mixed hunting and sport metaphors.

Oh, goodie, then Cliff and I can… Claire enthused, but was cut off.

No, you and Cliff cannot, the good doctor growled and went over the list as he did every visit. You cannot have sexual intercourse. About the only thing you can do with your husband, other than having him spoil you, is sleep in the same bed. He went on with the long seemingly never-ending list she heard every week, the ‘Claire, you absolutely cannot do’ list. He should know she had memorized that months ago. Claire groaned in agony and looked to her nurse for help.

Nurse Gibson grinned, winked, and whispered to Claire, just loud enough for Doctor Jolly to hear, It can’t be all bad. You have one hunk of a husband. If I were only twenty years younger! She brought her hands up to fan her cheeks.

Doc J.B.’s round face broke into a cherubic smile. He cleared his throat. Nurse Gibson glowered. O.K., twenty five years younger, she said.

You’re getting closer, he countered, and behind his horned rimmed glasses, Claire could see the twinkle in his deep dark eyes.

Thirty years younger and that’s my best offer, Andrea hissed, and when Doc J.B. turned his back, she whispered to Claire then your hubby would be safe cause he’d be too old for me.

Doctor Jolly snorted, and Claire bubbled with laughter. She did love these two people even though they’d compiled a list with at least ten pages of things she couldn’t do, and one line of what she could. She knew her daughter was safe. Her birth date, her first real birthday to be forever celebrated, was closer every day. Her daughter. She loved that word. The thought alone made her heart sing.

O.K., O.K., I’ll be good, no sex, no climbing ladders, no moving furniture, no long trips, no baseball games. I’ll be snug as a bug with my knitting in my easy chair. Did I tell you I was seriously considering saving trips around the apartment by moving into the bathroom with my teapot and my knitting? Even though she was teasing, she was instantly sorry she’d shared her thoughts.

He was frowning again.

She thought, Just once why don’t I think before I open my mouth?

Claire groaned. She was so tired of restrictions, of life in her bed, of weekly trips to the clinic. Much as she wanted her daughter out of her womb and in her arms, she was tired of being pregnant. Tired of waddling, tired of being fat. Less than four weeks, she said aloud and tried her best to smile. Why was ‘that look’ back in his eyes?

Humm. He said, and time stood still in the little room as he flipped through lab reports and his notes.

Well, your urine is clear, your blood pressure couldn’t be better, heart and lungs are great and, your baby…

Claire cleared her throat and glared at him as if he were a stubborn child.

Do pardon my momentary lapse dear Mrs. Owen. Dear, dear Mrs. Owen, your daughter… He bowed with the gallantry of a southern gentleman…

Claire smiled her forgiveness. Her daughter. Beautiful words. Words that made Cliff so proud.

He continued. Your daughter is doing very well. As for the frequent trips to the bathroom, I have a bit of homespun advice for you. He cleared his throat to recite.

Nurse Gibson put fingers in both ears. Not that again!

He couldn’t be stopped. If thou wishes to reduce the amount of pee thou givest, thou must reduce the amount of tea thou taketh.

Claire and Nurse Gibson groaned while he defended his creativity.

It worketh, he said.

He was serious again, very serious. Claire pay close attention! Your daughter is in position. I think you’ll have an easy and fast time with delivery. I need to know if you have backache or cramping at any time. His eyes never left hers. Claire if you continue to live in your bathroom, I’ll want to keep you at the hospital. Better safe than sorry, he growled.

Claire bit her lip as she remembered her three less than fun filled ambulance rides, the siren blaring urgency as she fought the triple threat: fear, pain, and panic. Yessir, she promised.

His irrepressible humor returned. I am the most fortunate of men in that I sleep with the best looking, sexiest red headed woman as well as the best Pediatrician in the state, he said.

Claire gasped.

Nurse Gibson laughed. Well, I won’t argue with him on that, his wife, Doctor Karen, is tops.

Claire Owen! What were you thinking? Doc J.B. teased his young patient as he pointed to her nesting baby. You’ll both need to get better acquainted with Karen soon, so get dressed and scoot down the hall where she’s holding classes he ordered. He winked at them both and was gone.

Claire’s surroundings were a no frills OB/GYN cubicle in the Clinic at Sainte Lillian’s Community Hospital, a two-story building built in the early fifties. Back then it was the talk of the town.

Less than fifteen years down the road, all people talked about was how small it was, how overworked the staff was, and how change was needed.

In spite of the grumbling, Claire and other patients loved the hospital and trusted its staff. Trusted to the point they wouldn’t go elsewhere unless their doctor ordered them to do so.

Because she knew he knew what he was talking about, Claire followed Doc J.B.’s rhyming prescription to the letter. Like everything he told her to do, it worked.

With her husband Cliff home, evenings sped by. They were early to bed to talk and plan for the baby. Sometimes, if she was lucky, she’d manage three or four hours of peaceful, blissful, dream-filled sleep uninterrupted by potty calls. Sometimes she could, but not tonight.

Something she could not name, not a backache, not cramping, but a nagging disquiet drew her from sleep. Warnings from Doctor Jolly flashed through her mind. They had become like caution lights, warning her day after day, after day.

Days ago he’d just told her she was as healthy as any pregnant woman could get and then did his duty reminding her (as if she needed reminding as long as she lived, she’d never forget that fear), how she’d almost lost her daughter. He went over the list of things she couldn’t do every week. She couldn’t lift anything heavier than a teacup, couldn’t scrub floors, or climb ladders, absolutely not one game of softball or volleyball. No more running, and above all no sexual intercourse. She was almost afraid to tell him she still kissed Cliff good night for fear he’d take that away, too.

‘Can’t do this and can’t do that.’ Claire laughed at herself knowing it was a small price to pay for the end result, for the day she’d hold her own daughter in her arms.

Now, even though she followed her don’t do list religiously, she was tired all the time. Doctor Jolly hadn’t told her to call about that, so she decided to wait two days until her next appointment. Besides, if her resting helped her daughter grow, she’d not complain.

If only it wasn’t raining all the time. If only she could go outdoors and soak up some sunlight. "Sometimes, I wish I knew how to cuss like a sailor!" she said in a voice loud enough to wake any sleeper, with the exception of course, of her snoring husband.

So this is more of the famous discomfort of pregnancy? Tired as I am, I can’t sleep and it’s impossible to get comfortable for more than ten seconds at a time; and cabin fever to really round it out, she thought

Claire’s admission she was wallowing in self-pity did nothing to improve her feelings of doom and gloom. She tried to look at the bright side. I wanted to be pregnant. We’re happy about the baby. Yeah, I’ve had to be very careful, but just last week the doctor said everything was fine. Normal. Then what in the name of heaven is bothering me? Two days, I’ll ask him in two more days she promised herself.

She mumbled and grumbled to herself for several minutes before sighing and giving up. She was no closer to an answer than when she started with her ‘wonder what’s?’

A sudden crackling brilliance that illuminated her apartment with its eerie blue whiteness made Claire jump. That’s it! It’s the weather! Ten days of this stuff is enough to make a preacher cuss. No wonder I’m on edge, she said to her sleeping husband. He was companion enough to snore in agreement.

Claire continued her monologue, hoping the sound of her voice would rouse her husband. Day after day, thunder, lightning and rain! Not gentle spring rain though! Oh no siree! That would be too much to ask! This is nothing but gully washers. Flat lands washing away, fields of alfalfa and soybeans ruined by rain caused gullies. And all the radio talks about is creeks overflowing, and the Mississippi River flooding lowlands for thirty or forty miles. She took a deep breath and nudged her sleeping husband. He snored in reply.

Bout the only funny thing I’ve heard in days is that elementary teachers are getting ready to pull their hair out cause the kids have been cooped up indoors for so long. Mom told me she heard from Sheila McClain the kids were volunteering to help with the pulling.

She paused for a moment, pulled at her own long blond hair and decided that wasn’t very funny after all. O.K. thinking about it was kinda funny, but when it got right down to the pulling, that was another matter.

Claire remembered tales of woe reported in the Sainte Lillian’s weekly news, and then tried to concentrate on improving her outlook.

Number One: The rain wouldn’t last forever. At least she hoped it wouldn’t last forever. Thirty-one more days and they’d have a world record. That prospect did not make her smile.

Number Two: There are good happy cheerful poems and songs about rain. Somewhere. There had to be around, somewhere. She just couldn’t think of one.

The rain in Spain should fall in Spain and leave Sainte Lillian’s alone. She grumbled other complaints sotto voice. She was so uncomfortable, so short of breath.

She implored the heavens, stop raining. If you stop raining maybe I’ll stop running to the bathroom. Maybe I’ll get to sleep!

In answer, the wind and thunder and rain increased in intensity, pounding the rooftop, walls and windows as if to taunt her. She barely made it to the bathroom.

Cliff! Wake up and share these glorious moments with me. Remember? You promised? You said we’d share everything with this baby. You had morning sickness with me, why can’t you wake up and be miserable too?

Cliff, ever the attentive husband, snored again. It was a snore that said he was not aware of anything because he was lost in the woodlot sawing some mighty big logs.

Claire looked at him, ran her fingers so lightly over his cheek her touch was no more than a breath. Cliff stirred at her touch, smiled, and then, true to his calling of ‘President in Charge of Snoring Husbands,’ repeated his performance with a variegated roar that quieted the storm.

Claire stuffed a fist in her mouth to stop her giggles. Snore or no snore, she’d keep him forever. In her eyes, he was everything she’d ever dreamed of in a soul mate and husband.

Rain, oh rain, oh rain, blessed Jesus, rain. She remembered words from a favorite church hymn and smiled as she thought of days of drought when that particular hymn was rendered with sincerity. So now, it rains like our prayers just got to the top of the list, she thought and then gave up thinking, gave up trying to wake Cliff, and slipped out of bed for yet another trip to the bathroom.

Cold, I’m so cold. I know, I’ll find Cliff’s old blue plaid robe. Barefoot, she padded around the bedroom straining her eyes in the dark, and almost tripped over the edge of the bed before she found it. She was warm and content in it before the single hard pain tore her front to back. It was like a sharp knife. Cutting off her air.

Whatever brought that on? Claire wondered and, gasping for breath, she crept into their small living room, found the maple rocker Cliff had refinished, and pushed it over a little. Just a little. She wasn’t supposed to move anything, but pushing a chair on runners just a few feet really didn’t come close to breaking one of Doc J.B.’s rules.

This way, she could open the drapes and see rainwater reflected in streetlights. This quiet time calmed her spirits. Dark of night, amber glow of lights, individual rain drops caught in the glow, puddles shining with an almost silver sheen while the rest of the neighborhood stood silent silhouette sentinels. She loved the imagery and smiled in contentment.

She was rocking comfortably before the next pain hit. It was in exactly the same place and, if possible, it was even stronger. As it released its chilling grip, Claire noted two things: her nose itched, and she didn’t have strength to rub her it. She was so weak that it was exhausting just to breathe. What did this mean? Each time the pain was centered in her chest. It hit hard and squeezed, and seemed to stay so very long. Even her arms ached with it. She wanted Cliff but was just too tired to call him. She curled