The Ides of March

By Lillian Rose

Marlena and Evan got a second chance in life when they collided by chance seventeen years ago. As a crisis center manager, her personal history of emotional and traumatic experiences makes her resilient and grateful for her present life and family. Now, as she believes her own demons were dealt with long ago, or have at least been well-managed, she helps others face their own pain and struggles. Without warning, a figure from her past appears to enlist her help with an old murder investigation. It will take Marlena's deepest emotional and personal strengths to face this new chapter, which brings intense emotions and deeply buried memories to the surface. It will all come together, one way or the other, by the Ides of March.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667851761

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The Ides of March

©2022 Lillian Rose

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 978-1-66785-175-4

ebook ISBN: 978-1-66785-176-1

For the children

Contents

Prologue

Tomorrow Is Promised to No One

When the Journey Truly Begins

Passion is Perfect

Corn Field Moments

Weddings are Stressful

Stranger Danger

Queen of Hearts

Southern hospitality

I Can Relate to People I Don’t Relate to

Sharing your Cookies

Parenting is not for the Weak

Bells

Coffee or tea?

Even When You Think You Know

There’s Got to Be a Morning After

Mirror Go ‘Round in Circles

A Walk in the Park

Full Disclosure

Suicide is Painless

Forgiveness Isn’t for the Weak

The Things We Remember

When Do We Begin to Live?

Written Expression

The Smell of Morning

Ordinary Everyday Life

The People We Touch

Full Moons

How the Other Half Lives

In the Middle of Ordinary Life

The Recesses of Our Minds

Lizzie

Up, Up, and Away

Walk Like the Devil Doesn’t Know You’re There

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

You Are the Sky

Thunder in My Heart

The Ides of March

Prologue

Love, death, joy, hardship—there is much in life you may think you can plan, or even avoid, but not usually. On the surface, it is good to have goals and formulate a life plan in case you live a normal number of projected years for your socioeconomic status, gender, and even your culture. You can try to make good decisions despite the hand you have been dealt, try to be healthy, try to be smart.

In reality, at the beginning of any human’s life, what unfolds is a series of twists and turns impacted by so many things from the start. Where you were born, your country of origin, your innate health, your family, opportunities available, race, religion, or perhaps, no beliefs about anything or entity deemed omnipotent, your gender and gender identity, your school, if you are allowed to go to school, your job, if you have a job, your neighborhood, if you have a home. The list goes on.

We are at once bombarded with fate wherever we turn. Only one certain thing, so far that I have discovered in this life, is that there is no guarantee for anything. We appear alone and naked in the world. We are then handed to whoever claims us, wherever they are in this world. We come with no return labels, no expiration dates. Life, even with components we believe to be carved in stone, which are our inalienable rights, reserved as privileges for the human condition, everything about our lives, can fall apart and crumble in an instant any time from the moment we enter it.

There are those who say that for every life there is a plan, there are no accidents. To the contrary, my belief is that nothing is guaranteed, nothing is certain. For me, I have found that to be true, but I have also found that gratitude and forgiveness provide the greatest salvation in this life.

~Marlena Jameson

Tomorrow Is Promised

to No One

Who would ever think that, of all things, one could receive criticism for planning and organizing, for being a responsible person? But in a world where I have found that most people avoid organization, in which a lack of executive function skills seems to be the norm, why is this surprising? Without a phone or electronic device in one’s hand, all could be lost in the blink of an eye. Does anyone understand that one’s brain is still their best life organizer?

I was glad that Savannah was feeling well today, which was a gift. She had helped me to get all that we need to gather for our part of this wedding. She picked up the order of decorations we selected to adorn her brother’s car for the exit from the reception. I had picked up lots of little cute things to put in their hotel room, silly family notes that we’ve collected as pieces of advice to the newlyweds, that we planned to tuck into their luggage.

So that he does not look like a gamer who went on a trip, I selected nice manly pajamas and other attire for my son. Somehow Crew, Savannah’s boyfriend, would also make sure that would be snuck into his suitcase too. This is not a typical mother gift, but I thought of stuff like that.

Savannah, my somewhat-reserved daughter, as she was gazing over the pile looking confused, finally asked, How did you think of all of this? Organization, experience, and thoughtfulness.

Tall and handsome, Hunter, my younger of the two natural-born adult children, would look good in a robe and slippers on his honeymoon. Even if he did not wear them, he would have them. He doesn’t look like me at all with his sandy hair, blue-green eyes and tall lanky body. I like to say he has my cheekbones. And yet, I also recall that my cheekbones and hair barely came from me, more like four to five generations back, from an Indian squaw. She was my great-grandmother’s grandmother.

When I met Cassie, his fiancé, and she inquired about our history, I listed all the combinations on my side that I could recount, Well, English, Swedish, Scots, Spanish, Native American, it’s all in there. Add a bit of German and Welsh … we are mutts really. She replied, Mutts are the best kind. She’s a keeper.

I shared with her a story about the McCorkle and McNulty clans, the Scots and Swedes that my grandmother had shared with me and had talked about how funny Swedes are and the Scots are a whole other story. I had never met them of course. The way my grandmother told it, her Scots relatives were fun-loving, and they were big drinkers, possibly Scots-Irish, but they identified with the Scots. They all talked fast and would sing in public but worked from sunup to sundown. They spent their adult lives in Georgia, they bought land and began farming, after landing in this country.

A favorite family story was how one of the original immigrant brothers never stopped looking for gold, as I heard it told, They were poor and didn’t speak the King’s English, were poor farmers. Back in the old country, they were led to believe that the streets were paved in gold. The original boys that came over did well with work ethic and farming skills in Georgia, bought parcels of land together so that the property combined into one big, yet still small, plantation.

The story was also about where we got our dark hair and cheekbones, One of them brought home an Indian ‘princess’ who was really a squaw. He showed up with her and a preacher and married her right there on the front stoop of their original farmhouse. In that time, it was a bit scandalous.

There was much oral history told to me growing up, but I kept thinking there was time for that, and yet, I felt a sense of urgency at times to tell my children these stories, since they were not written down. For now, we would celebrate the next generation. The second, but first boy of our five adult children, was about to marry. Savannah, the oldest girl, who had been with her boyfriend, Crew the longest out of any of the relationships, still wore no ring on that lovely, long finger.

Yes, we must all do things in our own way. I preferred that she made her own choices, I always encouraged that freedom. True to that guidance, she was one to make her decisions on her own terms. My grandmother told and taught me things, hoping I could learn from her mistakes, yet I still made my own, she would too. Elizabeth Blackburn, who I called mom and was the woman who raised me, would be so proud of my children, my daughter. Elizabeth had returned to her family name of Blackburn after thirty years of marriage, after divorce. I suppose that helped her stay connected to her past and allowed her a new beginning.

My mom Elizabeth was ever-present with me, but I missed her the most at times like this. She was always in the mood to dress up and be fixie. She taught me how to dress up or dress down for the right occasions and how to use silverware and specific dishes for every event. She was a homemaker and a proud mom. That was her whole life it seemed, and when she did not have the house or someone to fuss over, she got depressed and that was not helpful when the cancer developed. Yes, I knew she would have loved and adored this young woman, my girl, who in the blink of an eye became twenty-seven.

Interrupting my daydream, Savannah turned and said, Seriously, Mom, you are preoccupied with death. Every time I come here you show me where a document is or like the ‘heirloom piece’ and where you moved it. I mean, I get it right now because your colleague who was your age suddenly died, but still. Just in general, I’m saying, you think about it a lot and plan for it more than I’d bet, 99% of people—

I had just been digging in the jewelry chest for something I wanted for the wedding and happened upon it. Why not point it out?

And that conclusion of hers was inaccurate, simply not the case. At least for intelligent, responsible people who have any assets whatsoever, estate planning is part of what they do. I was late in the game, this time around anyway. When the children were all young, I had beneficiaries and guardians listed, and even a yearly letter that I added to with detail—telling them all the things I wanted each to know or learn, just in case I was not there to impart this amazing wisdom I had gleaned from my copious life experiences.

Eventually, I had torn up that annual log of life. I had said it all, somehow; I lived to tell you all these priceless tidbits of wisdom picked up along the way, the importance of so many of those lessons of life I had to gathered in my life with a need to impart to my children. Plus, so many of the people referenced among the pages had mostly proven themselves to be nothing like I was telling you they were, those people or ideals did not exist, they were not real. Thank God I had lived to tell you myself.

So many things changed, people found to be disappointing over the journey in life. It is true that you find out who your friends are. I also found it to be untrue that blood is thicker than water. My blood family turned out to be absent, or if present, quite destructive in my life. Unexpectedly, my relationship with my children’s father, who I thought would be alongside me on this journey as my loyal partner, did not come to fruition either.

Thankfully, I used the lessons of life, got a thicker skin, and tried to use these experiences, the pain in life, for good—to help others to deal with their own pain. I made a point to surround myself with like-minded people. I had decided to let that part of life go, let them all fall away and to focus on my own life and the family that I would continue to create on my own. I felt deep healing occur by so-doing, a renewed strength that I had no idea was inside of me.

While raising a family, there were days that would creep, but the years they did leap and now that our five children were adults, we were beaming with gratitude. My current and forever husband, Evan and I started out on vastly different paths, but we found each other. And while it took work and toil to get here, we had arrived. To be remiss and not have an estate plan would make no sense.

As I looked at her loveliness trying on a necklace, I would refrain from saying aloud, but reflected on these things that made me the way I am. I must conclude that you are wrong, my sweet, all knowing, young woman-daughter. I may react the same way if I were you, but the me who I was at your age had no one imparting such wisdom to me, had not created any plan for my future, and much less cared about how I would survive. Adults in my young life could barely take care of themselves, focused on their own lives and pursuits.

My mind focused on her, my adult daughter, as she moved about…Dear Savannah, I am scrutinizing you as you speak; you are still so innocent. As I watch you move about; you don’t look how I would have pictured you either. You have more physical features of your father’s side in some ways. Yet, a glimpse of my curves and that long brown hair stakes my claim on your genetic code. Your intense stare finds the pupil in my eye and filters down deep within my soul and screams that you are mine to the core.

Though she had been somewhat dismissive of my effort to make sure that I leave her, all of the children, with something that conveys that I once existed, I reflected, you will miss me one day.

Savannah had always been smart and spirited, and our relationship, open and honest. She would do simply fine without the weight of history, or the miserable struggle; it will all come to you. These life lessons—it will all come to you.

I softly began, Savannah, I wanted to make sure that you knew things that I did not know about, much less what to do when my mom passed. She was a well-meaning woman, but she was uneducated, disorganized, and complacent all at once. She would say to me, ‘I won’t care about stuff because I’ll be dead. I know you’ll figure it out.’ I did have to figure it all out.

My dear daughter, I had a situation that is exactly the opposite of what you have, but you do not understand the value of that right now.

Savannah replied, Sure, Mom, I get it. I know; thanks, but still, you are obsessed, constantly saying ‘Tomorrow is promised to no one’ and ‘When I’m gone’ and similar comments, and oh yeah like, ‘Remember this is in the top drawer or in this file.’ You live like you are dying tomorrow. Extremely focused on death for some strange reason.

Wow, there was a quote, You live like you are dying tomorrow. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes. I was just trying to be thoughtful, organized, and responsible. Why can’t you see that?

I continued to use my mom skills, and acknowledged her with, Maybe—but I realize that responsible people, who have any assets or property and have people they love and want to leave those things to, should plan. I have not planned enough compared to my friends. I did the will online to save money, no expensive lawyer, had it notarized and yet I left things out. None of those pages will tell you details like where to find my 18k gold necklace. But she seemed finished with this conversation. I was recalling that millennials tend to have a shelf life for heavy conversations such as this. She was right on time with, Okay, yeah, but, like, chill.

I could not chill that easily, so I would slow my roll but only after I made a few points with, Well, I still don’t have a completely firmed up estate plan, not that I have anything close to a vast empire, but while life insurance provides designated beneficiaries, if you don’t indicate who deals with real estate, it can get held up in probate and people forget about stuff like that. So, I have that covered in it. She was unmoved.

Plus, I knew every nuance of my mom’s jewelry and items she found to be sentimental, you don’t really know all of that about me, especially since you have not lived here with me, in this house. This also helped me to downsize—I’ve even organized the pictures….

She interrupted, Yes, put together a box for each of us. I know, Mom.

I was starting to get a bit bothered and replied, Well, okay, why do I try so hard?

She looked at me lovingly, Because you are Mom, silly Mom, and I appreciate it, but please, it is just that recently, you can be a bit obsessed with this topic. She paced over to the window and commented about my cute décor and then said, But what is the part about the lavender or purple silk sheet you want me to wrap you in when you die?

I smiled. True story—that was an odd request.

She continued, Like, honestly when are you supposed to wear a purple silk sheet? That is confusing. I knew she hadn’t read a thing I had written in our wills. She went on, At the viewing, I mean I’ve never seen a body in a casket in a purple sheet. Not that I have seen that many. Open casket or whatever—I don’t even know. Yep, I could tell that she hadn’t read it.

Her somewhat impetuous demeanor was confusing me. Why had she not read it? She was one who preferred to be prepared, was typically well researched and had data to support the things she did in life. I was proud of that, but then it dawned on me that perhaps what she was really doing was avoiding an emotional topic. This was something that likely caused her discomfort. She was my oldest, she would have this responsibility one day and this sort of thing was certainly new to her and uncomfortable. Reframing the scenario, I realized that she meant no disrespect, or to rebuff me, this was merely a difficult topic.

And so, I breathed. I decided to try to conclude this exchange, So, I really don’t want a viewing, no need for anyone to stand staring at my dead body. That is referenced in there. Neither of us want that—cremation and then a celebration of life sort of thing with just all of you and whoever you would choose. Or, perhaps, you could just eat dessert first on the anniversary of my birthday like I do to remember my mom every year.

Savannah still looked so young, no worry lines anyway. Sometimes, she would be mistaken for a teenager or college student at twenty-seven with her little backpack purse that she wore most of the time. She continued, Where is your mom anyway? Grandmother–mom I mean. Oh, but first finish that purple sheet explanation.

Getting the vibe, she was sort of glaring at me, I retorted, Oh the purple sheet—actually chenille blanket or drape is what it says in the will…. Purple, symbolizes my freedom, return to being free, just something to lie over my dead body before I’m cremated, and I will mix with the color for eternity. Symbolism—or not necessary, that had just come to my mind. Trying not to be high maintenance in death and yet go out in style. I inquired, If you would, can I insert another one of my boring quotes here?

Her gaze was more welcoming, so it seemed anyway. I provided, We are born naked and alone and will die naked and alone. The next time, when I stand again before God, naked and alone, I hope he/she/ancient aliens know that my wrinkles are from living authentically. I don’t think she was getting it entirely, nor was she amused. She simply replied, You really need to chill.

She smiled, hugged me, and said, I love you mom and want you to be happy. I just don’t want you to spend so much time on this. That was nice, but I reiterated why it was necessary to plan and wondered why she took exception to that. She muttered something about Christ. I smiled and she laughed. I said, Well, you will be glad to have the information when that time comes, and it will be here for you on that day. I did not want to make her uncomfortable but should have realized that thinking about your mom’s death, a mom you love and do not want to lose, could be a source of anxiety for her.

She reminded me, And the mom-ashes?

I continued more softly, as I patted a little marble box on my dresser, She stays right here. Savannah made a face as if to convey that is not going to be what she does with mine one day.

I reminisced, You know, back when I was about twenty-six and faced with all of this, I had nothing to go by. I asked for details to be written down, but that was never going to happen. I was alone, left to root through a lifetime of someone else’s stuff. When faced with such daunting tasks, it is overwhelming. The physical work and the fact that with every item you must remove, a feeling comes over you, memories you forgot existed, some things evoked emotion that I never expected and yet, I had to keep going.

If only sorting had was done, some of the physical work, but it was not. It was a daunting task for a young woman alone—to come from out of state, deal with her mom’s far-too-early passing. While she was my grandmother, she was only thirty-eight when I was born, she should have been there, on my journey with me, longer. Cancer just took her. And having nothing to reference, it was hell. A basic will would have helped.

Savannah, you are my heart. Can’t you see that I do not want that for you? Why are you arguing with me? Why this attitude? I finally suffice it to say, I’m just going to write it all down explicitly, so it’s easier for you.

She passively responded, Of course you will.

I thought but did not say aloud, you will be grateful. You are a woman, but you are still so young and do not know the value of this yet. It was my goal for you to have a better foundation and a happier-yes happier life than me; you did and are happier than I was in my mid-twenties. That came to fruition except for your health issues no one could have predicted. How did that happen? That worries me every day and affects every aspect of your life Savannah…Perhaps, I thought, I really do need to chill.

Hugging her, and quickly wrapping up our conversation about wedding details and a last-minute confirmation that she knew where my will is kept, I reiterated that I would copy and send it electronically. She hopped in her truck and was on her way home to care for her dogs. I felt so glad we had the time together. By the time we finished the conversation, she had softened, I understand she said, and I responded, I love you so... We gave each other quick cheek kisses and off she went. Watching her drive off, I thought about how there are times like that when for a moment I wish with my deepest heartfelt longing that I could transport us back to when she was three and life was looking like it was going in a completely different direction.

There are days I miss that you and that us that we once were. Hunter was such a white-blondie haired boy back then. Thinking of those times can make me tear up in private moments. Here we are in the future that I wondered about for so long, you are all grown up and we have an adult relationship now. As I reflected, I thought she may have a point too. Perhaps it may be true that I do live more with the perspective of dying instead of living—ending instead of beginning. It was not always that way, but this aging process occurred quicker than I expected, and you cannot go back, decide that there are things you have left undone or may want to do, no do-overs. Your body knows how old you are; your life does not wait for your brain to make good choices or pause to enjoy the time.

That little exercise in estate planning was tiring for me. I’m not much of a napper but was feeling pretty beat and the house would be quiet for at least two hours. So, I slumped in under a soft throw blanket and two of the three dogs covered me up even more. Unconditional love always in their eyes, which is the best thing a person can see before they go to sleep.

My head hit the pillow and I was out. My dreams were turbulent though, and the bed became a place of stress instead of peace. It was the type of dream that is referred to as a chaos dream. It seemed very foggy and yet, very real…

I’m walking in a fog, and someone is yelling, but no, more like crying loudly and I can’t see them … not sure I want to see them; it sounds unpleasant. No one is there, no one shows up. I keep trying to find a way into a house that I’m passing by and pause to go up to and yet, I’m supposed to go there; it is like I am looking for a house, but this is my house, I think. I must have forgotten the key. I must get away from the crying, so I start almost run-walking to the front, but I don’t have a key, so I just walk in. It’s mostly empty. I decide it’s my house and I start moving things around, but in some way, I know it is not really my house.

Then suddenly, it is more furnished, and I know some people at a party that is going on in there and I’m running around trying to find things, serving people drinks. I’m dressed okay, but people show up and start pointing at me, saying it’s not my house. I must get out. I must leave. I have no one, no kids, no husband, no house. I am alone. When I get back outside, I’m cold and in rags, I’m scared and confused and the crying is loud again, and then I realize that I am the one who is crying.

My eyes popped open, and my face was wet, my breathing was a bit hard. The dogs had gathered around me, always there to comfort me. They seemed unusually aroused, pacing on the bed. I had made distressed noises in my sleep, and they did not know how to wake me up but did their job of loving me all-the-way-awake once I was back to reality and trying to stand up.

I awoke in my modest bedroom to face the rustic hanging closet door Evan, my handy husband and I created. This is our home, it’s ours, it’s mine. He is, our family is, truly mine. I felt so grateful for the dogs and my room at that moment. Just then Evan’s voice exclaimed, That is ridiculous! Surely, he was watching something political on TV in the living room. I was feeling good to be back, here in my bed. Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home. I resisted the urge to stand up, snuggled back to sleep, perchance to dream, something better. I was just not ready to come back to reality, feeling so tired, I had to try to keep sleeping—

Drifting off again, I thought about home; how having a home was always especially important to me. In my younger days, I often felt like I was an outsider looking in. When I was a teenager, I had recalled peering through the window of a beautiful home where I delivered flowers, when working a part time job with a florist in town. The home was beautifully decorated for the holidays, a fresh pine smell greeted me as I neared the door. Inside, the furniture was oversized and cozy, with candles on the mantle of the fireplace, and a perfectly adorned Christmas tree in the living room. I had longed for the days when I could have my own home and family but vowed that I would do things so much differently. A living room like that could be mine one day because of having had loving grandparents, at least for as long as I had them both respectively.

Yes, gratitude—Gratitude is good. No life is perfect, but I had my grandparents. They saved me and gave me a foundation and then I worked, used my brain, made my way in life. I was eternally grateful for it all. Those were nice memories, but I needed to get some more rest…

When the Journey Truly Begins

He was staring at me as though I was an intruder or alien as my eyes barely open. His deep resonant voice softly spoke, Are you okay? Why are you in bed? You never sleep this late.

I was also confused. Why didn’t the dogs wake me? Oh, but they did; they did multiple times. Brody, the chocolate lab, barking in the night; he was such a royal pain at times. I must have been so fatigued from my late-night dog-baby dealings and the natural fatigue that comes from a trauma-life job, but that nap the day before threw me off. I could see that I was still in my clothes from yesterday. I got up to say goodnight to Evan and laid back down.

When I got back in bed, I was feeling dead tired. I don’t remember anymore dreaming, but I slept until after sunup and rolled over again, managed to go back for a while to boot. Interrupting my mental untangling, he asked, Do you want an egg? He has always been good about that, getting breakfast going. I muttered back, Bacon too please.

While Evan is almost two decades older now than when I met him, the way he walks is still undeniable. It is a sort-of saunter that is unique to him. He strode away as I admired him, off to get to the bacon started and as I got myself coffee, I thanked him. A sound one of the dogs made reminded me of my crazy dream. I stood thinking that I do have a husband; he was right there, so I patted his shoulder as I often do. He did not mind one bit that I slept in. Waking up in this way, routine already shattered, and since he had breakfast covered, I decided to root through pictures that I had pulled out the day before and reminisce about that—meeting him.

That was unbelievably seventeen years ago now. He walked, no, swooshed—into my life at a time I didn’t know I needed him. There he was standing across a bar. I had not been out very much in so many years, so places like that were feeling new again, like when I was twenty-something. I had scanned the big space until I found someone unique. His cowboy hat sat high enough up on his head so I could see that he was bald. That gleaming smile sparkled across the room as though a beam of light had struck his face and the rays emanated to illuminate the space around him, he looked like he was in a toothpaste commercial. I have always appreciated a man with good teeth. My memory recalled it well—

I was talking to a woman that I just met, mindless chatter really, when I caught that glimpse of him. She suddenly became like the voiceless teacher in Charlie Brown. We were at a local bar, Vera’s, which was where my BFF Ginger and I had stopped at for a quick bite to eat in the restaurant part and she ran into friends while exiting through the bar. The woman babbling in front of me kept speaking although I heard nothing that she said, and I abruptly and softly excused myself. I could tell she was a bit confused, but off I went floating across that room with unmistakable purpose and then, there I was, standing in front of him.

I said, Hi. And he said, Well, hello. Before I knew what my middle-aged, but finely groomed fingers were doing, his hat was off. I sat it down carefully on the bar. Then, I was passionately, embarrassingly rubbing the head of this man in a sensuous manner. I tried to be quick so no one would see, but they had to see. Why rush, I thought, it’s so smooth …I kept going while simultaneously thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing?’ But I kept doing it, caressing this random man’s bald head.

He surely saw the ecstasy in my face, heard the slight guttural satisfaction I emitted as my hands traced back and then forth over that smooth terrain of loveliness. I replaced the hat and said, Thank you to which he replied, You’re welcome.

I had surmised that he was surely younger than me though I was looking swell at forty-something. It dawned on me that at any