Lydia's Awakening

By Suzanne Muir

Leaning against the white pillar of the office building, she sees the woman standing near the far end of the long porch. Lydia has seen her before, and these frequent sightings are becoming a concern to her. The woman never approaches, just stares.

During Lydia's twenty-six years of life, there has been doubt and puzzlement that has filtered in her private life for as long as she can remember. Her parents always seemed to have guarded looks, then would quickly look away. What was wrong? And now there seems to be a woman following her. Questions that pop into Lydia's head never get a solid answer.

As a child, Lydia had happenings within the structure of her parents' lives. She just tried to accept them as they were and not cause trouble. She knew that she could always trust her dad but never had that same secure feeling about her mother. A child accepts family problems as just being the normal for them.

Up until recently, Lydia has tried not to dwell on the strange feelings or questions within her mind, about the tension, just hoping it does not involve her. But a hint of uncomfortable doubt or uneasiness lingers.

In America, we are made up of mixtures of diversities of culture and ways of life. Breeding and background rarely rears its ugly head as we become adults. Finding our own roots and knowing from whom we are descended is often just a passing interest. Such knowledge can be enlightening at times or can be a little fearful.

Lydia comes face-to-face with a prejudice attitude, forcing her to see the damage that can be inflicted on another human being. Will she have to dig deep into her own beginnings for her own peace of mind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889604952

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Lydia's Awakening

Suzanne Muir

Copyright © 2023 Suzanne Muir

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88960-486-0 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-513-3 (hc)

ISBN 979-8-88960-495-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

To my grandparents, Beaulah and James Walker, whose love and example were the foundation for my growing-up years and who are reminders of what love really is all about

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

Author's Note

A great gift for all occasions!

Suzanne Holcomb Muir, a Rabun County resident since 1978, member of the National Writers Association, Professional Division, past Clayton Tribune columnist, and most recently, author of three books

Two books now available for sale:

Miss Kat's Brownstone

Allison's Journey Backward

About the Author

To my grandparents, Beaulah and James Walker, whose love and example were the foundation for my growing-up years and who are reminders of what love really is all about

Chapter 1

Stepping farther back in the crowded elevator, Lydia Warner presses her purse closer to her chest in a desperate effort to regain a sense of control and calm her nerves.

You would think the various offices in this huge building would stagger the quitting time for all these employees. Instead, we are smashed together like a herd of ants trying to get outside as fast as we can. The stairs aren't much better with all the health nuts racing to beat the other. A person could go flying out the fourth-floor window, and no one would even slow down. This is so dumb!

Glancing at the people pushing into the elevator, Lydia gasps.

Oh no, not Mr. Bad Breath. Oh, please don't let him see me! That breath could peel the paint off a wall!

Well, hi there, little Lydia. Did you have a good day at work?

Mr. BB smiles, revealing a set of teeth dark and decaying from too much coffee and too many cigars, resulting in a shocking aroma.

Fine, mumbles Lydia, leaning back and slightly to the side to avoid the odor as Mr. BB leans down until he is almost touching her face.

You are always a bright ray of sunshine, even at the end of the day. How do you do it? The rest of us look like we have been through the wringer, but not you, huh?

The grin becomes even wider, making his entire face look like he has stuck his finger in an electrical outlet—eyes bulging and wooly eyebrows shooting up on his wrinkled forehead as his nostrils flare.

I'm certain he just means to be friendly, but mercy!

Lydia is exhausted at the end of this workday, leaving her unable to extend a normal response of social courtesy to those around her.

The elevator slightly bumps as it finally reaches the first floor and stops. The doors open, allowing the mad exodus of rumpled and anxious workers to pour out into the lobby. Deliberately, Lydia rushes into the crowd, darting to a side door, trying to avoid further contact with Mr. BB.

Aware of the pain, Lydia softly whispers, My head is killing me!

Exiting the building, she takes a deep breath of freedom air. Stepping off to the side of the porch, she leans against a large white pillar on the front area, desperate to compose herself. Watching her fellow workers scurry down the wide steps to the parking lot, Lydia's eyes scan the moving crowd.

The fresh Savannah spring air is heavy with the smell of honeysuckle. For a brief moment, the aroma eases Lydia's jangled nerves. Sighing heavily, she has a recurring thought.

This is no way to live. My life has become just existing, full of pushing and pulling all day long. Plus, it seems every day there are more dramatic and urgent problems. When I look around the room filled with small partitioned cubicles and the weary people hunched over their desks, gulping down a quick lunch, it breaks my heart. Seems like nothing but utter confusion mingled with foolish, ongoing flirting. Chaos all the time. No quiet, no dignity, just panic.

Feeling her muscles tense, she rubs her forehead, trying to erase the pain of her headache.

I can't stand those horrible overhead fluorescent lights bearing down on my papers like a blast of burning sunlight. Kills my eyes. Probably why my head hurts all the time.

This pity party attitude is unusual for Lydia, and she is suddenly annoyed with herself.

Well, now aren't I just the Poor Pitiful Pearl with all this pathetic whining? In all honesty, I know what the real problem is: I'm not doing the job I want to do.

Leaning her head back against the pillar, she prays silently.

Dear Lord, I pray You will open a position at the library soon. My days would be spent loving my work, not this fruitless faultfinding all the time like now. Your time, I know, but I am so ready!

Around her, the rushing crowd is beginning to thin out, as the majority of people from the first load of elevators have now left the building area. At last, a quiet starts to settle over the woman, allowing her shoulders to relax, and she leans back once more against the sturdy porch column, grateful for this peace that is filling her body.

Lost in this sense of quiet, she allows her eyes to roam around the sights before her. Suddenly, she gasps, frozen for a moment as she sees the woman standing near the far end of the long porch, looking her way.

Is that the same woman? Yes, I'm sure it is Who is she? It's like she is following me. I keep seeing her everywhere—here at work, then at the store last week and once when I came out of church. At least I think it is the same woman. Can't be coincidental. That many times and places just can't be by chance. A few other times—or maybe I thought it was her. I'm not scared, but it does seem so odd.

Lydia's thoughts are running together.

Funny. She never moves, just stands and stares. Maybe I should go up to her, ask her—I don't know what I would say. Just, Are you looking for me? Something like that.

At that moment, the second rush of workers come down to the lobby and start to filter out the front doors, suddenly blocking her view. When they have passed, Lydia is stunned to see that the woman has vanished.

Feeling a little uncomfortable, she tries reassuring herself.

Now that is so weird. Well, there is probably a very good reason. We might be on the same work schedule, or she has moved into my neighborhood recently. Maybe I look like someone she knows, something like that. There has to be a logical answer. That is the kind of thing that makes a person's imagination run amuck.

Of course, I know that I'm really tired, and that is when things seem out of whack. That's what it probably is. Oh boy! I have to get out of this rat race soon, or I'll be so jumpy I'll be seeing everyone as suspicious.

Her little pep talk isn't giving the full reassurance that she hopes for, but it does allow her to try and refocus her thoughts. Taking a deep breath, twenty-six-year-old Lydia is rewarded with an instant mental picture of her beloved aunts waiting for her.

Thank you, Lord, for my precious aunts. I know that they are a gift from You, and they are a blessing in my life, especially now.

Counting her blessings is a surefire way to chase away the sad and strange thoughts bouncing around in her head.

I wonder what they would have to say about the woman. Aunt Trudie will most certainly give her opinion on this right away, but Aunt Eleanor will study on it before she offers her thoughts. I love to watch them sort out a problem.

Lydia grins. She is comforted by the thoughts of these aunts and their predictable habits. She is also aware that at this moment, they are most likely waiting for their niece at the Logan Mall food court, already enjoying a little bite to eat, trying to stave off hunger, as they would put it.

*****

Lydia is correct. Her aunt Eleanor and aunt Trudie are among the many at the delicious-smelling food court.

Eleanor Stanton has an inner strength that radiates through in everything that she does, even in how she carries herself as she weaves her way through tables to get to where her sister is waiting. The core of Eleanor's strength consists of a solid confidence in her faith in God and appreciation for the bounty and many blessings He has given her.

To the casual observer, she is a woman they may think has it all together—not a hair out of place, sensible walking shoes, a loose-fitting dress, and a quick smile on her face. Hidden within her personality is a joy for life that helps her maintain an even balance.

Her husband, Peter, has walked by her side in good and very difficult times, and he alone knows the depth of her allegiance, as well as her standards. And their three children—Susan, Hannah, and Gordon—love her as their mother.

Plus, the thousands of students in the fifth-grade history classes she has taught over her career know her fairness and the limits of her patience. Between the two facets of her busy life and interacting with children and their victories and problems, sixty-seven-year-old Eleanor proudly acknowledges that she has rightfully earned each and every white hair on her head.

Reaching the table, she smiles at her sister. The sight of this special one always brings a gladness to Eleanor's heart.

Trudie Macklie has that effect on just about every person she meets. Perhaps that is because she is a very straightforward, uncomplicated person. She doesn't have a hidden agenda; no gray areas exist in her personality. In Trudie's sixty-five years, she can count on one hand the number of times she has told a lie. It just never occurs to her to waste time and energy telling a lie and then trying to remember whom she has lied to and about what subject. It is just too much trouble.

Trudie's husband, Stan, has cherished and relied on this basic honesty through the many years they have been married. They have four children—Owen, then Preston and finally the twins, Nathan and Natalie.

Over the years of raising them, Stan has marveled at their attempts to shake their mother's steadfast resolve to never lie. He has finally gotten across to them that it isn't going to change, encouraging them to deal with the fact that she also expects to be given truthful responses when she asks something of the four of them. The older boys, Owen and Preston, have shared their hard-learned knowledge of what not to ever try to pull on their mother with the younger twins, Nathan and Natalie.

Trudie's passion outside of her family has always been books. For many years, she has worked part-time in a small bookstore and can recall most of the authors and storylines she has read over the years.

Unlike her sister, Trudie is very casual about her hairstyle, completely comfortable when it became totally gray early in life, and equally easygoing about her clothes. Eleanor usually has to help her shop, especially if it is for a trip or some special event. Usually, Trudie grabs the first thing she can find. While Eleanor prefers loose-fitting, modest dresses, Trudie prefers pants and a large blouse.

The one area these two very close sisters agree upon is their love for their niece Lydia. When her dad, their younger brother Brian, was born, Trudie was ten and Eleanor was twelve. In their large family, there were several other brothers and another sister, but these two sisters always watched over Brian, making him their special project from the time he was born, almost like he was their own toy.

Today, they are looking forward to seeing Lydia and making certain she is doing all right. Since Brian's death two years ago, they have drawn Lydia closer to them, taking her joys, sadness, and problems to their hearts. They are a formidable force, guarding her as Brian would have done.

Is that what you call an appetizer? A full plate of french fries? Trudie fusses while Eleanor puts the plate down with packets of ketchup.

I meant half for you. Don't try and tell me you aren't hungry after we wasted all that time looking for shoes for you, Eleanor jokes.

Okay, maybe a little. It might take Lydia a little while to make it through traffic this time of day.

Would you rather have a salad? Eleanor teases.

Over french fries? Bite your tongue! A salad over french fries. Not even a choice, Trudie exclaims with laughter.

As they begin to season the fries with salt and ketchup, a quiet settles over the women.

Suddenly, Trudie exclaims, Oh, I forgot to tell you. I had the funniest funeral dream the other night. Guess who was at my funeral.

Many years ago, the sisters admitted to each other that they had dreams about their own funerals. Over the years, the dreams have gotten funnier, and some are very far-fetched. One clear thing they both agree on is that a funeral dream is a real ego trip.

The queen? Garland Biggenhorn, your first true love in the eighth grade? Oh, wait. I know. That guy with the funny spiked blond hair that goes around to different restaurants on television. Did he give your buffet a thumbs-down? I give up. Who? Eleanor responds.

Wheata Mae Macklie, my mother-in-law! She was up to her usual tricks, redirecting all the things I had told the kids I wanted done at my funeral. She changed the flowers I specifically told them I wanted on the casket. She chose a different dress for me. Plus, she chose some real far-fetched music. And now here is where I would have popped her: she wanted it a closed casket! You know how I feel about that! I want to see who all came to see me off! Trudie says, laughing.

What kind of music? Not that Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy style of when she was a girl? I'll never forget. One time, I told her I was a fan of Elvis songs, and she looked at me like I had lost my mind.

Eleanor giggles.

Or maybe she just didn't want anyone to see what pictures you had chosen to be in the casket with you. If I remember correctly, you showed them to me, and she wasn't in one of them—your wedding picture, when the kids were little, on vacations—just you, Stan, and the kids. And by the way, only one of me when we were growing up, Eleanor jokes.

If these sisters had not been able to share hopes, dreams, and annoyances over the years, life would have lost its flavor a long time ago.

Dabbing at a tear in the corner of her eye, Eleanor continues.

Did she want to stand beside the casket at viewing? You know how strong we feel about that! Not a formal line, just visiting-like, mingling around, exchanging wonderful moments about how special and clever we had been in life!

Eleanor almost chokes on her French fries.

We hold the line about that point. But my word, she probably would! The worst part is, I can't remember what else. Must have drifted off into a really deep sleep. That woman always did wear me out! But the kicker is, what was she doing there? She died a long time ago. Maybe Stan had mentioned her during the day and got me thinking about her, Trudie says, laughing.

How did she look?

This is a wonderful experience for both of them.

Not bad really. In fact, it was a younger Wheata Mae, like when Stan and I first got married. Wonder why she showed up in my funeral dream, Trudie questions.

Maybe she just wanted to help. Remember how she was always redoing things at your house and those oh-so-nonchalant comments about your cooking and housekeeping? I always thought she was the way she was because she just didn't know how to be a mother-in-law, Stan being an only child and all.

"Well, truth be told, and just between you, me, and the doorknob, maybe she really didn't! I mean, you know how hard it was adjusting to how I should act when my Natalie got married. Could I call and talk to just her even if her husband, Doug, had answered the phone? Polite chitchat for a few minutes, then ask to speak to Natalie? How long to chitchat?

Could or should I give my opinion or wait until I was asked, no free speech? That one was always a hard one for me to get used to. Would I be out of place to want to spend time with just my child, a little one-on-one time, or would that make Doug feel slighted? What are the guidelines? I didn't know.

Trudie has a questioning look on her face.

And if I'm really being truthful, I probably wasn't the best daughter-in-law. To tell you the truth, I was a little know-it-all back then.

No! her sister jokes.

"All right, Ms. Smarty. You lucked out with Pete's mother. Plus, it didn't hurt that they lived so far away. But I had Wheata Mae just down the street. No, fair is fair. I'll have to admit that it is hard being a daughter-in-law and very hard learning how to be a mother-in-law.

I blame all those late-night talk show hosts making terrible mother-in-law jokes on every television show. Gets people to thinking an in-law is bad news. Plus, a ton of emotions float to the surface, then just hover there when you first marry or when your child marries, Trudie declares.

Like in a funeral dream? Eleanor adds.

Trudie nods and smiles.

Yeah, like in a funeral dream.

Who else was there? How hard was everyone taking your—oh, there's Lydia over by the entranceway!

Eleanor waves, now fully focused on getting her niece's attention. Watching Lydia, each sister is momentarily lost in their own thoughts.

She is so pretty and petite. We all thought she might be taller since Brian was pretty good-sized, but she is small like Lilly. Oh, but I can see Brian in that sweet face. Same eyes—not dark like her mother's but blue like his. Brian and Lilly cast their shadows on her with beautiful results. A pretty baby, child, and now woman. Hard to believe. So many years.

Trudie's assessment is quick and brings a radiant smile to her face.

I'm so proud of her, a gentle little soul, and my brother loved her beyond all belief. It was always so great seeing them laughing together. Since his death, Lydia has lost a little of that quick humor that was so easy when her dad was alive. I think my favorite picture of them was when they would stand beside each other, and Brian would put his arm around her. Then she would lean against him. I miss that, and I'm certain she does too. He was her strong protector.

Eleanor feels tears starting to gather in her eyes. Quickly, she takes a gulp of her Coke to regain control of the moment.

Bless your hearts, you must be starving. I'm sorry I am so late. Traffic was a nightmare. How are you both? You look super, Lydia exclaims in a rush while hugging each aunt.

No, no, you know that we like to drag out any meal with an appetizer. Of course, a plateful of french fries probably isn't the best choice, but you know us. How was your day? Trudie asks while stroking Lydia's waist-length brown hair. Honey, your hair is so shiny. Promise me you will never cut it. I love it so much.

Trudie has made this request for as long as Lydia can remember, and the answer is always the same.

I won't. I'm so used to letting it hang straight or pulling it up in a ponytail. I don't think I could handle anything shorter.

Lydia laughs while receiving a strong hug from Eleanor. The hug is a little longer than usual.

My day was what Granny would have called running in between the raindrops. I didn't really catch on to what that always meant until I was an adult.

Lydia laughs.

Mama used to also describe a hard day as climbing a hill of sand—in other words, not getting anywhere, Trudie replies, smiling as she remembers her mother's little sayings.

Stepping back a little and looking deep into Lydia's eyes, Eleanor asks, You doing okay? I mean, you do look a little tired. Now are those cutthroat lawyers pestering you too much about the will and the house? If they are, I'll march right down to their office and give them a piece of my mind. I know what was set up and how it was to be. You get everything, especially now that Bonnie has passed.

Her questions are delivered in a very determined way. Absolutely no one is going to mess with her niece, not while she is alive!

No, no, everything is pretty much settled, and Uncle Carl would be very hurt to hear his own sister calling him a cutthroat.

Lydia laughs. It is so easy and refreshing to be wrapped in her aunts' love, so protective and natural.

Well, let's get some food in this child. Works hard all day, then has to stand around and hear us chatter. Come on, let's go make our selection. Eleanor, you guard our purses and the table. Then you can go get yours.

Her sister nods while watching Trudie and Lydia walk off.

Well, something is not right. I can see it in her face. Don't tell me! I just hope Bonnie didn't try and change anything Brian had set forth. It would be just like her to want to get a dig in, even from the grave, anything to cause Lydia trouble. Well, not while I am around! No, sir!

Eleanor's thoughts are reflected in her stern expression.

Eating at the mall's food court is a long-standing tradition for these three. When Lydia was little, a day with the aunts was akin to presents under the tree at Christmastime—delightful and exciting, never a dull moment.

Of course, back then, in the back of her mind, Lydia knew that she would be in for the cold shoulder and pouting for a day or two from Bonnie because of the outing. But that attitude was never enough to make even a small shadow compared with the time she would have with her aunts.

In time, all three ladies' plates are brimming over with wonderful, fat-laden food and sugary cold drinks. Talk is quick and in between bites. When the immediate hunger is satisfied, the desserts can be enjoyed slowly.

Oh, there is something I wanted to talk to you both about. Probably nothing, but I need your clear thoughts on this.

Lydia leans back in her chair.

I knew that there was something. You can never hide that from your face. Your daddy was the same way. I don't think Brian ever realized that Trudie and I always knew when little brother was upset or out of sorts, but we could tell from his face. Now what is your concern?

Eleanor wants to dig right to the core of this matter.

Okay, well, just something odd, I think—nothing scary or really bad, just not usual. For a few weeks now, no matter where I am, I can look up and see this woman staring at me. At first, I didn't pay too much attention to it. Usually, they would be crowded places, like at the store or coming out of church, Lydia describes, a slight frown forming on her forehead.

For Trudie, the food court has suddenly become very cold, and a chill runs through her body. She slowly puts her fork down on the paper plate and looks hard at Eleanor.

Without changing her expression, she asks, Has this woman approached you?

No. She just stands rather far off, and I can't get to her to ask who she is.

What does she look like?

Eleanor's voice has a forced, quiet tone, almost strained.

"It's a little hard to give a clear description, because as I said, she is far off. Like this afternoon, when I came out of the office building, she was at the end of that long front porch. She is definitely in her late thirties to early forties, maybe midforties. Not a big woman, actually rather small and a little stout, but I don't mean fat.

Her face is or gives me the impression that it is round, and her eyes seem—oh, what was it I thought? Oh yes, they are a little like Asian eyes. Her hair might have some gray, but hard to say, because it is pulled back in a bun, I think, not cut short.

Lydia's face reflects a study