The Black Sheep

By Rebecca Graf

A family comes together as their mother nears death. One daughter starts to push her siblings to find out the secrets her mother is dying with. Old hurts, jealousies, and hate rise to the surface as Jeannie pushes for answers. As she puts on her detective hat, the reader is taken back in time to see the life of their mother and see those very secrets. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Graf
• Release date: Jan 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201477998

Book preview

By Rebecca Graf

Copyright © 2019 A Book Lover’s Library and Rebecca Graf.

All rights reserved. No part of this can be reprinted without the author/publisher’s express, written permission.

Chapter 1

Jeannie

The unique smell of sickness, old age, and death reached up and poked inside my nose. It was a mix of antiseptic and old age resulting in chemicals and decay mixed together. The smell was not pleasant nor was it something to gag at. The smell was repulsive to a degree and permeated the clothing one wore. It had been a few decades since that smell had last greeted me when my grandmother lay in such a place. Not a smell one longs to inhale. Not a smell one wants to encounter often.

I had just stepped into the nursing home’s hospice wing. It was late, approaching nine o’clock at night so most residents were welcoming a visit from the Sandman. A few nurses moved about and gave us a smile and a nod, keeping quiet so as not to disturb those who were not quite asleep.

The tranquil waterfall that reached from ceiling to floor in the middle of the round center of the building caught my eye. It hid the noise of the staff talking softly as they moved about and prepared for a hopefully uneventful night. I made a note to look closer at the fountain as I followed my sister around it and down a hallway jutting off as a spoke in the depressing wheel. Something about it seemed to draw me in. I loved the sound of a relaxing waterfall.

The sound of our feet made a dull echo. It was soft as though the floors willed us to be quiet in our approach. It also helped that we all had on soft soled shoes; mine were comfortable tennis shoes. A head lifted from the bed as we passed; its eagerness for a visitor visible on the wrinkled face. A piece of my heart bowed in sorrow at the look. Would I one day be yearning for a visitor only to see those pass by to see someone else?

Our destination was the next room past the eager patient. My sister slowed down as she pushed the door open. A sense of quiet settled on us which was unlike the atmosphere in the car from the airport. From the moment I had met Leslie and her husband in the terminal, she had talked a mile a minute.

How was the flight? I bet you are glad to be in warmer weather. You’ve put on a little weight I see. Her hug was short and abrupt.

I hadn’t missed how many times she had smoothed her hand over her stomach that was much flatter than mine. That was a common action by her when she was around me. She liked to see herself as the prettiest, the skinniest, and the best of us all. I was always glad she tried to make us laugh.

Her husband gave me a hug which I pulled out of as quickly as politeness allowed. I was eager to get to the nursing home. The truth was that I really wanted to just disappear.

Even in the car, Leslie had kept up a basically one-sided conversation that appeared to be on the offensive. She grilled me like I had been arrested for a heinous crime and had the one, bright lightbulb aimed at me. Leslie had whirled around in the front seat and met my eyes where I sat in the back. So, are you Republican or Democrat?

Confrontation seemed to be the theme of the evening. Nothing new from any other time I was around her. She always wanted to put me on the spot. It had worked when I was younger. Neither. I don’t believe in parties.

The rest of the trip from airport to nursing home was filled with lectures on how evil Republicans are and all Democrats are saints. The idea that having them pick me up might have been a bad idea tapped me on the side of my head. I felt like I was in an interrogation room with the light focused on me. Oh, well. I was trapped in the car as they sped down the two lane country roads to reach the small town we all had been born in. I was being punished for something I had done in my past.

Now we were at the nursing home, and only then did Leslie get quiet. She didn’t say a word as she pushed on the door with the name plate reading ‘Sara Hemingway’. The door opened to reveal a good sized room where only the foot of the bed stuck out to be seen from the door. From the door, I could see a dresser, a straight back chair, and a couch on the far wall under a picture window.

The eldest of us all stood up from where she sat on the couch next to the large window. I had to stop my initial reaction from revealing itself to everyone else. My sister had aged so much. Evelyn’s once dark hair was mostly white with streaks of black running through its short locks. There were small wrinkles in the creases by her eyes. In my mind, she was still the woman I looked up to as a small child. That was not the case. She was now a retired grandmother.

Our family was unique in that I had been born so late in my parents’ lives. When I was born, my siblings were old enough to be my parents. I was closer in age to their own children. Siblings? More like aunts and uncle. I knew how old she was, but seeing how old she looked shook my own perception of her and of me.

Mary quickly moved to me with open arms and enveloped me. It felt good. A part of me slipped back in time, and I was comforted by the warmth of love. I could easily have been back home with the smell of beans cooking on the stove and the earthy smell of Mom working out in the yard. But that image was shattered when Mary pulled back and smiled at me. It wasn’t Mom. It wasn’t my childhood. We were in a hospice room and all much, much older.

Yes, she was older. Small lines creased at the edge of her eyes and swept upwards to her hairline. Strands of grey stuck out from the hairband that kept her hair back from her eyes. She usually kept her hair short. Time spent by the bedside had let it grow too long. Familiar blue eyes we all inherited looked back at me. A smile filled her face.

How was your flight? Her voice was soft and a little gritty from being tired.

I smiled back. Even my smile must have appeared tired.  It was good. Layover was boring. Three hours sitting in an airport terminal while battling the thoughts of your last parent dying is never fun for those who are nominally sane.

My eyes strayed behind her to the foot of the bed. All I saw was the hills of someone’s legs...Mom’s...under the blankets. Right now I was safe. I was safe from facing reality. I was safe from the truth. To step forward was to face the future...the past. Who in their right mind wants to face all that?

Mary saw the direction of my gaze and patted my arm. She knows you are coming.

Of course, she does. Mom always knew such things. That didn’t ease my apprehension. It only made it worse. Knowing I was coming meant I couldn’t sneak out and pretend none of it was happening.

Hospice. Mom. Those two shouldn’t be together. Mom faced her sicknesses, but she faced them with her fists raised and determination preventing her from losing. She was the survivor in this family. Nothing kept her down long. Nothing. That woman had survived illnesses and injuries and came out tougher than before.

I took a tentative step forward. Then one more. I couldn't turn back. The die had been cast. 

There was Mom. She laid back in the hospital bed, asleep. Her slightly tanned skin stood out against the white sheets and pillow. Grey hair stuck up in different directions from her being in bed for an extended period of time. There were no glasses on her face. So strange, though sleeping was the only time she ever took them off. She looked...off when she removed them. Not herself.

Eighty-three years old. Five foot two inches tall. The woman was something to be reckoned with. She might be small, but forces boiled within her and came out quite often. She had quite the reputation for that sharp tongue.

I stepped closer to the bed until my leg brushed against the sheet. The wrinkles around her eyes were deeper than the last time I had seen her. They had always been there, at least in my lifetime. Around her mouth, lines also stretched out and blended into her cheeks. Her skin had a slight leathery appearance as a result of all the sun she had worked in over the years. A slight smile pulled at her lips.

She wore her pajamas, a light blue that was nearly threadbare. That was typical. She wore her clothes out and got more than her money’s worth in wearing them. That was where I got it from.

Her arms laid outside the sheet. They were spotted and appeared like parchment. While still tan, at least compared to me, they were dark against the sheets. Her position was unnatural. Not even in sleep did she ever lay so straight. She preferred to curl up on her side. She looked...

I peered hard at her chest. A wave of relief washed over me as I noticed the slight movement of the sheet as she breathed in and out. It was subtle, but it was there.

She’s been asleep for the last hour, Mary whispered. Her hand rested on my arm as though knowing how hard it was for me.

I nodded and sat down gently on the bed, hoping to not disturb her. My purse and carry-on bag from the plane slipped to the floor with a soft thud. The smell of old age, like that of a dusty attic, enveloped me.

Mary said a few low words to Leslie on how Mom had been while Leslie and her husband had picked me up. They moved to take seats. Mary took the chair on the other side of the bed. Leslie and her other half settled down on the couch. Leslie had barely sat down when she jumped up and walked over to the bed. She began to fuss with the bedding and commenting on how peaceful Mom looked.

I picked up Mom’s hand that lay next to me. It was soft and strong in a way that only a woman who worked hard with her hands had when she kept lotion on it. Every night, she would rub lotion into her hands, arms, and legs before she went to bed. During the day, she had used them planting tobacco, gardening, cleaning house, and sewing.

Spots. They were splattered across her hands and up her arms. For my entire life, I had looked at her hands and seen age spots. A small smile pulled at my lips. I used to tease her about them. Now all I wanted to do was kiss them.

Her hand tightened a bit around my fingers. I looked up to see her eyes open and close slightly. Her mouth pulled at the sides.

Mama, I called softly, leaning in to her.

Her eyes opened though they still squinted in the light. Leslie jumped up to dim the overhead light. Only the soft light above her bed was left on.

Mama, I repeated. It’s me, Jeannie.

Mom frowned and squinted as she looked toward me. Her glazed eyes moved over me, searching for recognition. Her mouth formed an O.

Mary quickly stood up and grabbed Mom’s glasses off the small set of drawers next to the bed. Here your glasses, Mom. Mary slid them on Mom’s nose.

Mom scrunched up her nose and raised a hand to adjust them to where they were comfortable. She licked her lips and moistened her mouth. Who? Her voice came out cracked and old.

It’s Jeannie, Mom. Mary leaned down and adjusted Mom’s hearing aid. Jeannie came to see you.

Jeannie? Her voice cracked again as her eyes zeroed on me.

Hey, Mama. Yep, I’m here. I leaned closer to her.

Her eyes moved over my face. You don’t look like yourself. Her words were weak.

Tears threatened to overflow. It’s me. I realized then that my hair was longer than she had seen it in years and had been dyed a dark brown. That was very different from my natural blonde that had darkened and slightly greyed over the years.

Reaching up, I pulled my hair back from my face. Now, is that better?

Her eyes lit up with recognition. Oh, Jeannie. You’re here. Her hand tightened around mine.

How ya doin’? It was amazing how easy it was to slip back into talking like everyone else there. It was as though the years apart had not existed. I was back home.

Oh, I’m causing trouble. She licked her lips again and looked to the side toward the drawers.

She wants her mouth moistened. Mary picked up a small paper cup that had a stick poking out of its top. As she removed the stick, I noticed that it had a sponge on the end. I was familiar with them with my own stays in hospitals. Mary placed it in Mom’s mouth. Mom sucked on it and then ran it with her tongue over her lips.

Did you drive all the way here? Mom looked at me and took my hand. Her voice sounded a little stronger, but it was still much weaker than the voice I remembered.

I shook my head. I flew.

Flew? Her forehead wrinkled. Flying was something she found very unsettling. She had only flown once in her life and then had sat in her seat with the barf bag held in her hand and ready to use. Though she never actually used it, she had clutched it as though it would save her life if the plane crashed. She never flew again.

Yep. Decided to come see you earlier than planned.

We had planned to come down in four weeks for a week-long vacation. When Mom had taken a turn for the worse, Mary had called that waiting four weeks might not be a good idea. I had boarded a plane the very next day.

Good to see you. Her lips pulled into a slight smile. She was still very tired. Her eyes drifted closed again.

I leaned forward and kissed her soft forehead. Breathing in deeply, I felt comforted. She smelled like...Mama. How do you describe someone’s scent? Yes, I have read in many books that someone can smell like cinnamon, cookies, or a rose. I never quite accepted that. Everyone had a smell that was uniquely them. It could never have been narrowed down to one particular item. Their scent was all their own. Mom’s was the same as I remembered as a child.

Oh, why can’t our lives remain as they are when we are innocent children?

How long did I sleep? Her words slurred.

I moved to the side and picked up my discarded bags as my sisters moved forward to address her questions and help get her settled finally for the night. Both sisters were trained nurses with four decades of experience under each of their belts. They were more than capable of taking care of our mother. I was glad she had them around to watch over her and ensure that she received the care she deserved.

Having nurses in the family was always a big plus. Every family member had consulted with them more than once. Their advice had been a blessing to all. It was a tremendous relief when Dad had battled cancer. They explained the medical terminology and were there to help our parents make decisions.

I understood some medical things, but they were the experts. I gladly deferred to them.

Moving over to the picture window that lined the far wall, I put my bags behind the recliner chair that occupied one corner and sat across from the small couch in the room. Slipping past my sisters around the bed and Leslie’s husband on the couch looking down at a newspaper, I disappeared into the bathroom.

It was a large room as it was designed to service anyone in a wheelchair though there was no shower in this one. There was just a toilet with rails beside for assistance and a large sink and mirror above that. I quickly relieved myself and washed my hands. Taking advantage of a few minutes alone after the flight, I splashed water on my face and took a deep breath.

Is it ever easy to face the pending death of one’s parents? It had been fourteen years earlier when I faced the loss of my father. That had ripped my heart apart. I guess I thought they would live forever though I was realistic to know that death is inevitable. Maybe it was the way he had died. After years of heart issues, we all assumed we’d get the call in the middle of the night to say he had had a heart attack and had passed away. That was how it was supposed to happen. Instead, he fought the evil disease for nine months before finally taking his last breath. Just giving birth to my third child, I was an emotional wreck. Over the years, that pain had eased but never left. Now I was facing it again.

This time was different though. Mom and I had had a strained relationship ever since Dad had passed. Once extremely close, we had grown distant. Maybe that was why it didn’t hurt quite as bad. Or maybe it was because I had been through it once already, experiencing the pain once again.

Quickly running a paper towel over my face, I returned to the main room to find Leslie’s husband still reading his paper and my sisters talking to Mom. The two by the bed turned to look at me as I exited.

We’re waiting on her meds, Leslie stated.

What are they? I moved to sit on the foot of the bed, laying my hand on her leg and absently rubbing it.

Morphine. It will help her sleep.

I gave a slight nod. They wouldn’t have to give her much. Mom was sensitive to meds and felt their effect quickly.

Mom’s face was twisted in discomfort. Her insides were eaten up. Internal bleeding had continued for several weeks. Doctors had said she was too weak to face surgery. She hardly ate and her blood results had not been good. Add all that with her dementia and the doctors had decided to put her into hospice. Her body was just giving up.

I felt my insides twist. Denial raised its head and whispered to me. I pushed it back down into the dark recesses of my heart and closed the door. Now was not the time for all this. It was late, and I felt the exhaustion of the trip catching up to me.

A quick glance at my watch showed it was nearing eleven o’clock. Yep, I was tired.

The door to the room opened. A nurse walked in and gave us all a sweeping smile. In her hand was a syringe.

Here ya go, she said to Leslie in the Southern accent I once had.

Thank you, Sally.

The nurse handed the syringe to Leslie. Let me know if you need anything else. With that, she left.

I watched as Leslie administered the medicine. Mom winced as the needle broke through her skin. While she was strong against pain, her face always revealed her true feelings on the subject. Her face revealed much of her feelings whether she wanted them expressed or not.

That brought reality crashing forward. Mom was Mom even though she was dying. Her feelings always had to be accounted for. That was one reason for so much pain in the past, but did we have to deal with them in the present?

Chapter 2

Sara - 1938

Birds chirped and hopped about on limbs outside the house. The sun was bright as it reached out to chase the night’s shadows away. The echo of doors opening and closing in other houses gave the morning a soft, muffled sound. One of the few cars in town moved down the road toward some job that required something more than walking to work.

Windows were wide open to let in the cool morning air. It was heavy with moisture, promising to be hot and sticky later as the sun rose high over the land. Curtains fluttered in the breeze like wings trying to escape the boredom of the coming day.

Sara looked down at her worn shoes and bit back tears. It was only the second day of school, and the kids in first grade had already made fun of the holes in her shoes and the patches on her dress. The shoes were black with scuff marks all over them and holes in the sides where her small toes would periodically peek out. They pinched her feet as they had been her Christmas present when she had slightly smaller feet. The dress was a dark blue with faded patchwork on it where tears had appeared and then were covered up. She had gotten the dress six months earlier when she had last had a growth spurt. That didn’t say much as she was still one of the shortest girls in her grade.

Her clothes were clean. She was neatly dressed. Her family was not white trash. They were just poor. Every week, her mother washed their clothes faithfully, but they were very worn and threadbare. She had one dress and one pair of shoes. They were getting too small for her as her mother had commented the day before. Oh, she had heard the irritation in the woman’s voice. New clothes meant money to spend on them. With Sara’s little sister only a year from school as well, their mother complained that she needed to work more hours.

Sara wasn’t sure when her mother would find the time to work those extra hours. They lived with their grandfather who was sickly and needed tending to. During the day, their mother nursed her own father and jumped at his every command. At night, their mother went into town to do laundry at the small hotel located on the town square. Before dawn, she returned home and fell asleep until her father woke up and demanded breakfast.

They didn’t know any other life. Both girls had been born in the house owned by their grandfather who had not been too sick when their mother, Cynthia, moved back home to have her first child. After her second child had been born, Grandfather began to struggle getting in and out of bed. Now he was practically bedridden and couldn't go to the washroom himself. A widower, he looked to his oldest daughter to do everything for him, even if it meant neglecting her own children. After all, he gave them a place to live. He deserved to be the one tended to by one and all.

Sara and her sister, Lilly, tended to take care of themselves pretty well. Sara got up everyday and helped Lilly get dressed and then fed her biscuits and milk. Their father wasn’t around much. He traveled as a construction worker, building roads and fences. He showed up every few months or so and brought some money to help, but times were tough, and money did not go far. It didn’t help that the money only came once in a while. Her mother complained each time that it was too small to provide clothing for the three of them. That always resulted in large fights between her parents and their father’s visit cut short as he stormed out in a temper.

Now she was in school and not home all day with her sister. She didn’t want to go to school. At first, Sara had been excited like most children when they began such a grand adventure, but now she wanted to stay home. She didn’t want to face the teasing. The other children had even told her that the little colored kids dressed better than her. How she hated her life. Why couldn’t they have clothes without holes in them or patched up? Why did she have to be looked down upon?

Hurry up, Sara, her mother called from the kitchen. I don’t have all day. Her voice revealed her irritation.

Sara set her mouth tight. She knew she had no choice, but she was not going to pretend she was happy about it. The world would know she was going against her will. It would know how she felt about being forced to do something she despised so much.

Pulling her hair back with the only barrettes she owned, she picked up her bag that held her cheese sandwich. It was nothing more than a burlap sack, but it was all she had. Her mother refused to buy a school satchel because it cost too much. Why she couldn’t ask their grandfather, Sara couldn’t understand. He had plenty of money. They lived in his big house in town but only had the benefit of a roof over their head. Even the food was not abundant as he only gave her mother a few dollars a week to feed them all. Other children at least had an apple or other fruit in their lunch. Sara only got a piece of fruit during the Christmas holidays.

Her blue eyes scanned the street from the porch where she waited on her mother. The first week of school, her mother wanted to walk her the six blocks to the small building. Then she would be on her own. A part of her looked forward to that. Then she wouldn’t have to listen to her mother tell her what a burden it was as she was so tired. She’d have a chance to be alone in her thoughts.

A call from her grandfather brought a tear to her eye. He needed her mother now. He did not want to wait until her mother walked her to school.

Sara, do you remember how to get to the school? her mother called out.

Yes. Her answer came out softly. Sara leaned her head against the screen door.

The tense voice floated through the house. Then you’ll have to go on your own. Your grandfather needs me.

Sara sighed. She would have to learn to take care of herself. No one else would be there for her.

––––––––

The school day was over, and Sara felt it hadn’t ended soon enough. As she walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk, she felt the whispers floating around her from the children she passed.

She could brush her hair.

Have you ever seen such ratty clothes?

Shouldn’t she go to the black school?

Tears pricked at Sara’s eyes. They all hated her. They all judged her. She was not good enough for them. If only the ground would swallow her