Losing Johanna

By Zella Smoak

When You Lose Who You Are... What's Left? Johanna Moss is looking forward to the next stage of her life: after a successful career as an attorney, she decides to move back to her childhood home in Montana, where she will blend the memories of her past with the reality of the woman she's become. But Johanna doesn't know that she is being stalked by a thief that will steal from her the one gift she values most. This gripping, gorgeous novel tells the story of her descent into Alzheimer's Dementia, as experienced by those who love her, and also from Johanna's own uniquely illuminating point of view. Losing Johanna is exuberant, funny, tragic, and ultimately redemptive. Readers will be inspired by Johanna's bravery, her humor, and above all, the profound humanity of her journey through time and memory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Oct 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781478783541

Zella Smoak

Zella (Jacobson) Smoak was born and raised in Montana. She is a registered nurse and a California licensed attorney. She has been director and manager of several Alzheimer's care units and has worked extensively with families of Alzheimer's patients. She also has broad experience as an attorney which was her second profession. She has published numerous professional articles and has taught nursing and law at a college level, as well as being a keynote speaker at national conventions and workshops. Zella currently lives in Penn Valley, California.

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This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

Losing Johanna

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2016 Zella Smoak

v2.0

Artwork by Toni Taylor Hanson

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4787-8354-1

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FOR JOHN ALLISON SMOAK

I kept my promise to you

Spring

Ican hear the low whistle of the Amtrak train, heading east to Chicago. It is on time, just as the sky is starting to grey into morning. The whistle wakes up the birds outside my window, and they start to sing, hoarse at first, then in full throat.

My coffee pot should begin the daily grind in about 10 minutes. Ten minutes to stretch and slowly wake up to the day. My bedroom windows are open and I can smell the new dirt of spring. The wind is quiet this morning, waiting for the sun to come up.

The coffee pot goes off, just as the cell phone beside my bed rings.

Hello, this is Johanna.

Johanna, it’s Linda. My brother got picked up last night. I don’t know all the details, but they are holding him in the Valley County jail. How do I get bail, or even know how much it is. I am so sorry to call you this early, but I’ve been waiting for hours to call you.

Whoa. Whoa. First of all, Linda, it is fine you called me this early. That’s what friends are for. Secondly, they haven’t set bail for him yet. If he got picked up last night he will have to be arraigned, either this morning or tomorrow, and the Judge will set bail based on the offense and Bob’s flight risk. OK? In the meantime, you can talk to a bail bondsman about making bail. There is a very good one right next to the jail. It is called Barry’s Bonds. Give him a call.

I hang up my cell phone and sit on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, gathering my thoughts. I’ve known Linda since high school. She was always the good student, the compliant daughter, the oldest in the family. Then there is Bob, who has spent most of his life lighting his hair on fire and expecting Linda to put it out. I’m sure I will hear more about his latest legal tangle.

I slip into some sweats, pour a big mug of coffee and stand by the back door of the house. Sweet peas. I’ll plant some sweet peas by the back fence this year. And maybe some gladiolas.

The sun is pulling up, lighting the dining room and following me back into the kitchen.

I find myself humming the very old song, when it’s springtime in the Rockies, I’ll be coming home to you." I belt out the words, as I climb into a hot shower.

I am attending a meeting this morning, that could well go into the afternoon. Grazing rights and the Bureau of Land Management use of federal lands is a huge issue for the eastern Montana population. I am attending to become more educated about the issue. It is going to be a hot, emotional topic, and I suspect the community center will be packed with people from all over several counties. People here show up, put up and speak up. It’s how we were raised.

Another night listening to the wind. It is low and moaning, slithering around the outside of the house and lightly slapping the screens on the front porch. The rain is coming. I have always been able to feel the rain before it arrives. On the prairie, the smell of the rain rides in on the back of the wind, sending a fresh, wet smell through the spring air.

But the wind is not the reason I am fully awake well after midnight. Again.

I wake and sleep in brief blocks of time. Tonight, just like so many of the nights before it, I went to bed and immediately fell asleep. Within minutes I was wide awake. I wake myself up trying to remember. When I was younger, I would wake up trying to grab a dream or remember a face before it slipped away and into my unconscious.

Now, it is different. There is a restless searching in my mind, like I am turning over hundreds of rocks in a field, hoping one will have the answer. Sometimes what I am searching for is a clear question. Sometimes, it is more unguided and vague.

Tonight I woke up trying to remember the name of the actress who starred in the movie, Mama Mia. It isn’t important that I know. No one will ask me tomorrow. Nonetheless, it is bothering me. I should know the answer. I used to know. My recall for dates, times, name, events was almost flawless.

And so I begin.

A. Do any of the A’s sound familiar? Anna, Adele, Alice…

Nothing. So I move to the letter B and repeat the same painstaking process. Adding vowels. Taking out vowels.

It takes me a long time, letter by letter, to reach M. I begin with Marie, Mary, Megan, Mer… And I have a flicker of recognition. Merr, Mery….Meryl. That is it. Her name is Meryl Streep. I can feel my shoulders relax back into the pillows, and a sense of relief washes over me.

I flip on the little lamp beside my bed and reach into the drawer for my notebook. I turn to the middle of the book and carefully write, Mama Mia, Meryl Streep. There is a long list above my most recent entry. Carefully written notations dating back over a year ago. Paul Simon, Snopes, Monty Python.

There are pages of names, dates and events, all in my neat handwriting. Just in case I forget again, I can look it up.

I turn off the light and realize the wind has stopped and it is softly raining. I have no idea when it began to rain. It has taken all of my concentration to find Meryl Streep.

I feel like I’ve been asleep for about two minutes, when the coffee grinder goes off. Freshly ground coffee drifting back to the bedroom on a rain scented morning. I savor the moment, and throw my legs over the side of the bed.

I never tire of the 28 mile drive to Malta. The morning sun is always at my back, and on this particular spring day, the Montana prairie is waking up. New clover is sprouting along the highway, and grass is returning to the pasture and dotting the fallow fields. The rain has passed on toward the east, but it has marked the highway with puddles, and the lilac bushes are a moist, rich purple. The cows are up and on their feet near an irrigation ditch, pulling at the new shoots of grass.

I pull my car off Highway 2, go under the railroad overpass into Malta, and make the right hand turn toward the courthouse. People are already forming a line outside the main door, to file through security. Today is traffic court, so the county is usually well represented in terms of numbers of offenders. Clusters of people are standing on the courthouse steps talking about crops, and kids, and grazing rights. They all know each other, and have for years.

There is an open spot in one of the three spots reserved for Attorney Parking Only, and I grab two of my briefcases. I take my place in line with everyone, to clear through court security, even though at least three people offer me line cuts.

One of the Bailiffs is running the security detail this morning, and he smiles at me when I load my briefcases onto the conveyor belt. They disappear into the scanner, and I wait until he looks up.

Good morning, Johanna. You can carry your cup of coffee through with you, unless you have some plan to throw it at someone.

I like this guy. Not so far, Bill, but you might want to ask me again at lunch.

My briefcases have bumped into the end of the conveyor belt. I throw one over my shoulder, and walk up the hall to the courtroom.

Two days a week, I am a court appointed defense attorney in Phillips County, Montana. The Public Defender’s office represents indigent and defendants unable to afford their own attorney, but their case load has gotten so large, the court has found it necessary to contract with private attorneys to provide the same service.

Two days a week, I am a Municipal Court Judge in Valley County, so I make the drive to Glasgow. One day a week, I have office hours. I love the diversity of my law practice, and I enjoy the change in courts twice a week. It is never boring, to say the least.

I have several cases on the criminal calendar this morning, so I can plan on spending most of the day either appearing with the defendants I represent, or meeting with new clients the court has assigned to me. The county van has pulled up to the side door, and the defendants shuffle into the jury box wearing the Phillips County issued jump suits. Several are in shackles, and some are handcuffed. The new crop from last night looks hungover, dazed or embarrassed. Most have outrageous bed head. There is a public area of the courtroom, with movie theater style chairs where the attorneys, their clients, some self-represented people, those out on bail, and interested family members or victims all sit together until their case is called by the Judge.

The courtroom faces the public. It has a Judge’s bench sitting five feet above the courtroom floor, flanked on either side by the U.S. flag and the flag of the state of Montana. Directly in front of, and facing the bench are two counsel tables. One table for each of the parties, and their attorneys. To the left of the bench is the jury box and the Bailiff’s desk, and to the left is the desk of the court clerk. The court reporter is seated right below the Judge, in front of the bench. The plaintiffs, or in the case of criminal court, the People, always sit at the counsel table closest to the jury box. Behind the counsel tables, all of us in the public seating or gallery, are separated from the formal courtroom by a heavy wooden railing and a gate.

The Bailiff calls for us to "All rise, the Municipal Court of the state of Montana is now in session, the Honorable Ronald Dahlke, presiding. His Honor, Judge Dahlke takes the bench. He is wearing a black robe. He nods to the people assembled in the courtroom, and the County Attorney hauls a stack of files to his place at the People’s counsel table. The Judge moves a three foot stack of files from a rolling cabinet onto his desk. The court clerk hands him the calendar, and he calls the first case. Our day has begun.

One of my cases is Number Three on the calendar. I open the gate and take my place at the defense table. My client has been standing at the back of the public area of the courtroom, waiting for our case to be called. He joins me at the defense table. I have met with my client twice, and he nods to me as he pulls up his chair.

Yes, Your Honor, Johanna Moss representing the defendant, Phillip Ammondson. I received, and have reviewed, your tentative ruling granting my Motion to Suppress evidence collected at the scene of the alleged drug seizure. Unless there is compelling evidence from the County…of which I am unaware…I am ready to accept the court’s tentative ruling on behalf of my client. I would also request that the court order all charges against my client, pending or otherwise, that may arise from the Peoples Complaint be dropped. With prejudice. The with prejudice request means the Complaint cannot be refiled.

I am standing at the table with my client, trying not to smile. Phillip Ammondson, for all of his bravado and casual disregard in our meetings, is scared. We carefully went over the details of his case, and I told him to dress appropriately for court. A shirt and tie or casual dress shirt, and to get a haircut. Apparently the haircut was all he could muster. In a final show of his opinion regarding authority, he is wearing a t-shirt that says Only God can Judge Me, and he may be reconsidering his choice of clothing, given the look on his Honor’s face, who is peering over his glasses with a very distinct stink eye. I know my Motion will be granted, but I am not going to reassure my client at this point. He is going to walk out of this courtroom today, free of any consequences, because of a procedural error. The city police conducted a drug search of a camper shell without a warrant. So the evidence taken from the scene of the drug bust…and it was substantial….can’t be used. My client needs to think about how close he came to doing jail time because this would be a second offense. I lean over and whisper to him, How do you think that shirt is going to work out for you?

Judge Dahlke is a very capable and articulate admonisher, and he scalds my client with a lecture on his drug use and the evidence found at the scene by the city police. You should be going to jail today, young man. Sitting there for a few months, thinking about the direction your life is heading. The Judge was on a roll. You disrespect this court with your arrogance, but most of all you disrespect yourself. You have a drug habit, and I suggest you deal with it or you will find yourself back in this court again.

With that, the Judge grants my Motion, Phillip Ammondson walks, and the calendar moves along. The sun shifting from the east windows to shafts of light brightening the courtroom from the skylight above the bench. The Bailiff looks almost radiant in the late morning light, which belies his general disgust for criminal defendants, and his dislike for lawyers, in general. I make a mental note to tell him he looks angelic in the spring light. That’ll ruin his day.

I have two more defendants on the calendar today. One is newly arrested and looks like he is going to cry. I accept the court’s request to be his appointed attorney, and we set a date for an arraignment. I will meet with him in jail this afternoon, and see if I can get a bail hearing scheduled right away, if he isn’t a flight risk.

My second client is going to jail, to the Montana State Prison in Deer Lodge. We accepted a plea offer from the County Attorney, which was in the best interests of everyone involved. The Judge had reviewed the plea before court, approved it, and sentenced Richard Oberg in open court. My client will be gone for eight years, followed by five years of probation for assault with a deadly weapon, grave injury to the victim, and giving a false ID to the Sheriff. A jury trial would likely have netted him 15 years, or more, in prison, but the victim would have had to go through an evidentiary trial and re-live much of what he has been trying to forget these past months. The Sheriff cuffs Mr. Oberg and the ankle chains drag across the wood floor as he is escorted to the waiting patrol car.

That takes care of my part of the court calendar. I leave the courthouse, drive a few blocks and pull up in front of the county jail. My new client, Brandon Taylor, was picked up on Saturday night for a drunk and disorderly. And for breaking out the front plate glass window of the Mint Bar in downtown Malta.

I sign in at the jail desk and show the on-duty sergeant the Minute Order from the court which appoints me as Brandon’s attorney.

Any rain in Saco last night, Johanna? He has read the order and is handing me back the stamped jail copy of the order.

There was, Gene. I’m not sure if it was measurable, but it certainly is welcome. How has my newest client been since you checked him in on Saturday night?

He was out cold from the time we booked him, until last night at about 6:00 p.m. I heard he blew a 0.14. With that level, he should have been out until Easter. He’s been cooperative, but I think he is still trying to figure out how his hands got all those stitches in them without him knowing.

Did you get blood and urine?

Both. It went out to the Lab this morning. Here is the Police Report the court ordered released to you. I’ll go get the heavyweight champ for you. There is coffee in the interview room, if you want some.

I take off my coat and sit down in the interview room. I am reading the Police Report when my client is ushered in. Brandon? My name is Johanna Moss. I saw you in court this morning when the court appointed me to be your lawyer. Go ahead and sit down. We need to talk today, but I want to make sure your head is clear enough to understand the conversation. Are you able to do that?

Yes, but man my hands hurt. Can you go to prison for being stupid?

The interview begins. And ends. I am ready to request an arraignment in the morning, and get his bail set. There was property damage, and a lot of alcohol consumed, but no one was threatened or physically harmed, except my client. And that is one ragged-looking right hand and forearm. The left hand has abrased knuckles and a few assorted stitches as well. He is contrite, remorseful and embarrassed with zero memory for what happened. The blacked out drunk still walking syndrome, as we fondly call it. He is not a flight risk, and preferably will be in his own shower by tomorrow afternoon.

On my way out of the jail, I make sure he has some pain medication available to him.

I get in my car and check my cell phone for messages. Nothing that won’t wait until I get home. I let my car drift into the eastbound traffic, and I head toward home. I have driven this same road since I was 14. I know every curve, every pull-out, and most of the people who own the land tucked behind the barbed wire fences. The intimate familiarity of this old road gives me such a settled feeling, and at this time in my life, settled feels good.

My friends in California still cannot believe I moved back. Not only to the vast prairie of eastern Montana, but to Saco, Montana. Population 400, if you round up the number. Maybe it was the memories of home that drew me back. Maybe it was the familiarity of knowing, of feeling those deep roots. Waking up in the bed I had slept in since I was three. Watching the cottonwood trees bud, bloom, and snow cotton all over the yard. Feeling the comfort and spirit of my family in the now empty rooms. I had begun to feel a restlessness, a nostalgia for home about three years before I ultimately moved. At some basic level, and for a reason not yet clear to me, I wanted to go home. And so I did.

Saco, and its signature water tower, is surrounded by rolling prairie and gentle foothills. The seasons are extreme. Not just changeable, extreme. The first snow is usually on Halloween or the week before. The last snow is always on Easter, no matter how the date changes from year to year on the calendar. In between Halloween and Easter are days and weeks of arctic, frigid, below-zero temperatures, blowing snow and slate grey skies. The winter cycle will be broken by a surprise chinook, only to freeze over, and settle once again, into winter.

Spring is riotous and sudden. It is muddy, wet, fertile and filled with color. The colors always seem so brilliant, like a burst of fireworks, and as quickly gone. Spring lasts a month; sometimes six weeks in a good year. The crocuses push their heads up through the melting snow and quickly die. Then the hills are covered with wild sweet peas, and lilacs begin to slowly bloom on the bushes. Wild roses sprout buds along the river banks, and the cattails rise up from their watery beds.

Summer is hot, high desert hot. Dry, baked earth and temperatures in the 90’s and above for weeks at a time, cooling to a balmy 75 degrees at night. And the wind blows. A hot wind that seems to be born in volcanic magma and comes roaring up from cracks in the ground. Summer is dry, but in August it hails. Sudden, fearsome black clouds, bearing down from 10 miles away. Lightning flashes across the sky and rolling thunder can be heard for miles.

Fall is wondrous. Crisp, cool nights, and warm indian summer days, that are long and languid. The sky looks like a huge, blue inverted bowl, and fluffy clouds skid across the liquid horizon. The trees turn to gold and bronze and begin to drop their leaves, and the hollyhocks lean against the sides of houses, absorbing the afternoon warmth.

I love the prairie. Part of my love lies in these very extremes. I can go to bed with the window in my bedroom open, and wake in the middle of the night to snowflakes sticking to the window sill, and dotting the curtains.

You have to be a hardy soul to live on this eastern Montana prairie. Saco people not only endure these seasonal extremes, they positively enjoy it. They are very proud and loyal to their local school, and basketball is the winter sport. The competition is keen, and teams drive for hours one way in a big yellow bus, to play another team on their home court. And the whole town turns out, winter be damned. They pile into their rigs, buck the snowdrifts, and go to the game. In Saco you don’t drive a SUV or a CRV, you drive a rig. Or a truck. Or a car. But you don’t miss the game. If you drive in from the country,or up north, your house could be closer to Canada than Montana. If you can’t see the road well enough to drive home, you stay in town overnight, but you don’t miss the game.

In the summer, people head for the water. Nelson reservoir, Cree Crossing, the rivers, and the Sleeping Buffalo Hot Springs. There is boating, water skiing, fishing and big outdoor barbeques. Other people get out the horseshoes and start the team and singles competitions. There are weekend rodeos and local barrel racing and calf-roping. Everyone makes up for time lost in the winter hibernation.

A prairie dweller pre-requisite is cards. Everyone plays cards. Rook. Pinochle. Bridge. Whist. Cribbage. Poker. Canasta. Put four people from Saco in the same room for longer than 30 minutes, and they will play cards.

Saco people don’t have support groups like I saw in California. They don’t talk about being centered, grounded, or standing in the light. And they don’t write to Dear Abby. You can’t use your family and how you grew up, as an excuse for anything. One of my friends has always said that if we had an Adult Children of Alcoholics Support Group, the entire town would most likely qualify for membership. Probably be bigger than the school reunions.

Being a kid in Saco was a formative experience. Certainly for me. Dogs and kids roamed free, day and night, in and out of back yards, hayfields and ditches. Under the bridges, behind the stores, and in