A Fractured Life: A Memoir of God's Provision and Protection

By Jane Gillen Garrett

A Fractured Life, a true story, reveals Jane's childhood of loneliness, hunger, isolation, shame, and abandonment. When her mother died instantly and unexpectedly, six-year-old Jane was left in the care of her drunken and disinterested father. Without proper guidance, this child put herself in a dangerous situation, narrowly escaping a gang rape. Without supervision, she broke laws, which could have resulted in juvenile detention. Without love, she yearned for a new mother, only to struggle with a stepmother who was mentally ill. Without fear, she lived on her own through three years of high school, while excelling academically and socially.

Jane traveled difficult and hazardous roads through childhood and adolescence in her hometown of Paducah, Kentucky. Though she did not recognize it as a child, God's daily presence protected her and provided her needs, leading her to a beautiful destination in adulthood. Through her memoir, you will learn to examine your daily life, seeing God's presence in every step you take. Your eyes will be opened to powerful blessings occurring in your life--right now, today.

Discussion thoughts at the end of the book are excellent resources for book clubs or Bible classes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638443278

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A Fractured Life

A Memoir of God's Provision and Protection

Jane Gillen Garrett

Copyright © 2021 by Jane Gillen Garrett

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

For my sister, Stewie.

We are proof that antonyms can also be best friends.

Chapter 1

The blazing hot sun beat down on my face, chest, arms, and legs. My body sizzled like a piece of chicken, frying in the hot grease of my mother’s iron skillet. Late-afternoon July temperatures in Paducah, Kentucky, often reached into the nineties, but this temperature was hotter than any I had ever felt. This burning sensation felt different, much worse. I desperately wanted to get up and move to a shaded area, somewhere cooler. But as I tried to move, a man’s large hand held my shoulder down.

When that hand touched my shoulder, pain raced through my neck and upper arm. Who was he, and why was he being so rough with me? Was he intentionally causing pain? Why didn’t the crowd of people who gathered around us make him stop? They could have easily pulled him away and allowed me to move somewhere cooler. Trying to take a deep breath, I strained to cry for help. But breathing deeply hurt inside my chest, and no sound came out.

As my shoulder pain began to ease, I became aware of extreme heat on my backside. My whole body burned as though it had been put inside a fiery, hot oven. My mind began to clear, and the scene came into focus. Only then did I realize I was lying on the road. The asphalt was scorching hot in the summer sun, searing my back through my thin cotton blouse. The man was kinder then as he explained why I could not move. With concern in his voice, he told me, You are hurt, sweetheart. I know it’s hard, but you must lie still until help arrives.

Unable to think clearly, I wondered, What happened? Where is my mother? She would know what to do for me. She would protect me from the heat and the pain and the strangers. I tried to concentrate on the afternoon events leading up to this point. Recalling the past few hours was like looking through a windshield in a rainstorm. As the wiper blades cleaned the glass, some events became clear. But just as quickly, the window was drenched with rain, blurring my vision again, and I remembered little.

Just a little while ago, we enjoyed an early supper at our home on Clinton Road in Lone Oak. After hurriedly eating my mother’s delicious fried chicken, we rushed to the car, trying not to be late for my big sister’s softball game. My eleven-year-old sister, Stewie, was dressed in her team uniform and wore a softball glove on her left hand as we headed down the sidewalk to the car. Her best friend and neighbor, Nancy Godfrey, rode to the game with us.

The Friday night softball game was scheduled in Heath, a farming community west of Paducah. Mother was driving us to the game in her station wagon with Stewie and Nancy sitting in the front seat. Stewie sat in the middle, next to our mother, and Nancy sat by the passenger door. Exhausted after a long day of playing outside, I lay down in the backseat. Going from Lone Oak to Heath was only about a twenty-five-minute ride. But to a six-year-old, this was a road trip. I fell asleep quickly with my head at the driver’s side and my feet toward the passenger side. Suddenly my body reacted to Mother’s piercing cry before my ears recognized the words. Sitting straight up, not sure I was awake, I heard my mother’s voice as she screamed, Oh my god!

Then as I lay on the scorching asphalt in the late-afternoon sun, my ears and head began to hurt. My heart pounded in rhythm with a siren that became louder and louder as it grew closer. I wanted to cover my ears to block the penetrating noise. But again, the people around me would not let me move.

The intrusive siren finally stopped, giving my headache a bit of relief. Those surrounding me were shooed away and were replaced by a new group of onlookers. One of these new men wore an official-looking uniform, maybe a policeman or a fireman.

The man who kneeled beside me offered a little relief as he laid a cool cloth on my burning chest. At the time, I was not concerned my sleeveless blouse was open in the front, exposing me to multiple sets of curious eyes. The comfort of that cool rag provided satisfaction that outweighed modesty.

I must have lost consciousness because the next thing I remember was shivering in the cool air-conditioning of an emergency room. A bright light shone above me as the medical personnel tried to remove the cloth from my chest. That cool cloth that brought comfort earlier now contained dried blood, glass fragments, and asphalt pieces. Adhered to my tender skin, the rag had to be carefully and gently peeled from my chest bit by bit like removing wallpaper without damaging the Sheetrock. The kindness of the doctors and nurses provided little comfort as I cried and begged for my mother. My shoulder continued to ache, and the pain exploded when my arm was moved. I took short and shallow breaths, trying to pacify the stabbing in my chest.

The next seven days in the hospital were a blur of isolated memories. My mother’s best friend, Cattie, stayed at my bedside almost continuously, stroking my forehead and holding my hand. Cattie was a woman of small stature, barely five feet tall. She wore a bouffant hairstyle, tightly teased and sprayed—frozen in place until her next weekly beauty shop appointment. Her smile conveyed warmth and acceptance.

Though I loved Cattie’s presence at my bedside, I continually cried and asked for Mother during my hospitalization. Cattie’s eyes welled with tears as she told me Mother was in another hospital room. I wish she could be with you, but she just can’t, she explained as she gently squeezed my hand.

During my hospitalization, I was treated for a collapsed lung and broken collar bone. Magicians (called doctors) inflated my lung as quickly as a bicycle tire, allowing me to breathe normally again. The collar bone displacement, however, continued to cause terrible shoulder pain that radiated to my neck and upper arm. The brace I wore for the next several weeks calmed the throbbing pain as it held my shoulder in place. Worn like a vest, the brace was made of metal and was covered with hard beige rubber. Terribly uncomfortable when lying down in it, I found sleep difficult.

A cheery physician highlighted my hospital days. The first time he approached my bedside to examine me, I slid under the covers, trying to escape his cold hands and foreign instruments. To calm my fears, he proposed the idea of a loot jar. Every time I cried out with pain because of his exam, he deposited a quarter in my loot jar. Never having any money of my own before, I was thrilled with the haul I was making. (I may have even cried out in pain a few times when nothing hurt.)

The day I was scheduled for discharge, my father slumped by my hospital bed. Daddy was normally tanned during the summer because he enjoyed fishing on nearby lakes and ponds. But on this day, he was as white as the sheets on my hospital bed. Old enough to be my grandfather, he looked his full sixty years of age. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair as he searched for the words he needed. I sensed something was terribly wrong. By this time, I understood I had been in a profoundly serious car wreck. What could be worse than my injuries?

Daddy had nicknames for Stewie and me. He called her Sister, and he called me Li’l Un. Because he spent so little time with us, I wondered if he knew our real names. He knew Stewie was the big sister, and I was the little one. Maybe this was the only way he could identify us.

As he sat next to my hospital bed, he struggled to put the words together. He finally revealed the truth: my mother died at the scene of the accident. Li’l Un, her funeral is over, he said matter-of-factly, and she is already buried in her family cemetery. Sister didn’t want to go to the funeral, and your Aunt Fannie said I shouldn’t make her. You were too sick to come. So it’s over. Your mother won’t be home when we get there.

The family cemetery was St. Matthew’s Lutheran in Lone Oak, not far from our house. I had visited there with Mother on several occasions to put flowers on my grandmother’s grave. I recognized many of the names on the headstones in this small but nicely landscaped cemetery. Mother had described her parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins as she pointed out their dates of birth and death. Many shared my mother’s maiden name, Schmaus, while others were friends from her church who were as close as family.

Later I learned my fifty-one-year-old Mother was turning left off the Airport Road onto Highway 60, just west of Paducah, that late afternoon on July 14, 1961, when the wreck occurred. The newspaper reported she did not see the pickup truck pulling a trailer with two ponies, and she drove into the path of it. I never believed it though. She always looked both ways. Extra careful with Stewie and me in the car, my mother would have never let anything happen to us. I just would not believe carelessness wrecked not just the car but also the lives of her two children.

The driver’s side of the car took the brunt of the impact, killing Mother instantly and throwing me from the vehicle. Though the same newspaper clipping about the accident states I suffered a fractured leg, I have no recollection of that injury. As I recall, my legs were fine, but my heart was broken. Perhaps the article contained a misprint, intending to read I suffered a fractured life because of the wreck.

Stewie and Nancy suffered no serious physical injuries. But Stewie would remember details of the wreck I was too young to recall. Following the accident, she was still sitting in the middle of the front seat, next to our deceased mother, whose neck was broken.

After Daddy delivered the news about my mother’s death, I had two clear and distinct thoughts. My first thought was insignificant compared to the life-changing message I had just received. My six-year-old mind immediately thought, Cattie has been lying to me. I knew lying was wrong, yet Cattie told me Mother was in another hospital room. At the time, it was hurtful. I trusted Cattie, and I felt deceived. In retrospect, it was not her place to tell me. No one wants to deliver such terrible news to a six-year-old who would start first grade in just a few weeks.

Then a more important second thought surfaced. The question was one only God could answer over the next several years. Lying in the hospital bed, I wondered, If Mother is gone, who is going to take care of me?

Jane and Stewie, 1961

Hazel Schmaus Gillen, 1909–1961

The Paducah Sun-Democrat

Chapter 2

Going home from the hospital after a major car wreck should have been a joyous occasion. Instead I dreaded the emptiness awaiting me. Mother would not be there. I would never again sit on her lap while she scratched my back. We would never again swing together on the porch swing, lazily watching the cars going up and down the country Clinton Road. Our home would no longer be filled with the laughter of her friends who came to her Saturday night poker parties. I wondered what would become of the birthday parties she loved to host for Stewie and me.

My simple pleasures of life were vanishing as quickly as fog lifted on a sunny day. The familiarity of day-to-day life as I experienced in my first six years of childhood had vanished. I continued to wonder, If Mother is gone, who is going to take care of me? Does anyone care what happens to me?

Aunt Fannie was heartbroken when she received the tragic-and-sudden news of her younger sister’s death. Their brother, Roy Schmaus, died from a heart attack just five years earlier. Additionally, their mother, Nellie Schmaus Thompson, died the year after Roy. Aunt Fannie had lost a brother, her mother, and a sister within a five-year period. Oh, Chris, I just don’t know how much more death I can endure, she told her husband. Now she was the only one of her siblings still alive.

As a child, Aunt Fannie grew up in our small community called Lone Oak on the outskirts of Paducah. Our old white house and surrounding land was Aunt Fannie’s family home and playground. At the time of Mother’s death, however, she and Uncle Chris lived on Long Island in New York.

Packing quickly for the grim trip to Paducah for her sister’s funeral, they faced a journey of grief that far outlasted their two long days of driving to Kentucky. After I got home from the hospital, they remained at our house for several days. Now Aunt Fannie wished Uncle Chris’s job had not taken them so far away. She wanted to be closer to Stewie and me because she feared our father could not provide the care we needed. Her grief was multiplied by the weight of worry for us.

Uncle Chris could not just quit his job with Pan American Airlines and move back to Paducah. His multi-lingual capabilities made him a valued employee as he traveled the world for the airline’s accounting department. My uncle had immigrated to the United States from Germany in 1926. With no family in America and no destination in mind, he accompanied another immigrant to Paducah, where he dated my mother first but married Aunt Fannie in 1930.

Since moving to Paducah was not an option, Aunt Fannie and Uncle Chris wanted Stewie and me to live with them in New York. After all, they had no children of their own and loved us dearly. One night after dinner, we were sitting on the screened-in porch with Daddy when they broached the subject. Daddy immediately but politely declined their generous offer. Aunt Fannie and Uncle Chris continued the discussion by promising to bear all financial responsibility of clothing, feeding, and educating us. More emphatically this time, Daddy refused. Their voices grew louder. The squeakiness of the porch swing stopped, and the glider quit rocking.

With anger, Uncle Chris blurted loudly, George, what do you know about raising two girls? You already have two grown children you didn’t raise. Both of their mothers divorced you while the kids were still young. Stubbornly, Daddy refused to let us go.

Why had Daddy wanted us to stay with him? Was it the fresh grief from losing his wife instantaneously? Was it pride? Or was it the social security survivor checks he would receive because of Mother’s death?

As an auditor for Pan American, Uncle Chris had already counted the cost of raising two girls. While he and Aunt Fannie could afford it, he knew Daddy’s erratic salary as a commission-only salesman for Belknap Hardware would be insufficient. In spite of living in a home without a mortgage, Mother had to sell insurance to make ends meet for us. Uncle Chris also knew Daddy consumed more than a recreational amount of bourbon every day.

In years past, Mother, Stewie, and I vacationed at Aunt Fannie and Uncle Chris’s previous