[An imaginary happening]
PART ONE
Early Autumn - 1995
* * * * *
Chapter One
Dr. John Sanders sat in his small apartment. An October morning breeze
floated through the open window and swayed past the bare walls, the sparse
plants, and the personal library of textbooks and psychological journals.
John valued the fresh air while he read Dr. Norman Vincent Peale's The
Power Of Positive Thinking and his long body stretched out on the old brown
sofa. Until a knock at the door surprised him.
He arose and opened the door to find Lisa there. Her petite body held a
brown box with a bag of groceries. She flashed him one of her perfect
smiles, and her blue eyes sparkled at him. "I'm here to make you breakfast."
She lifted herself up on tiptoes and peeked his cheek.
"Really?" John relieved some of the weight. "Let me help you."
She placed the brown box on the dining room table and pulled a newspaper out of the bag. "You haven't read the latest articles, have you?" Her eyes lit
up.
"Not yet."
"Gravers and Downley's conduct are being questioned by the appropriate
sources."
"Good" He pulled a chair out from under the table, sat down, and unfolded
the paper. "That's how it should be."
But Lisa stepped closer. Her fingers grazed past his hands and she began
flipping the paper's pages. Her close proximity excited John. Their first
kiss had occurred yesterday evening, feeding John hopes that in addition to
all her professional assistance, she was also interested in more.
"Here's my story," she stated, pointing at the half-page article with
embedded photos of Clearcreek Mental Care Center and its corrupt president,
Dr. Steven Gravers. Lisa pulled out a chair, sat next to John, and her body
leaned in close. "Just think nothing would have happened if you hadn't been
there...and if you hadn't been you."
John chuckled, a bit embarrassed by her praise, and momentarily unsure of
how to respond.
"Because of you," she continued, "your patient got the help she needed. And
because of you, Dr. Gravers can no longer accept bribes from Downley to keep
her there. You stopped both of them from ruining her. Because of you she's
free to do what she wants with her life. And to top it off you've given the
rest of us the truth."
Still at a verbal loss, John reached out and touched her face. He caressed
her cheek and studied her face. She smiled, then leaned even closer until
John drew her in to their second kiss.
The kiss started out slow and soft, but in time the intensity grew, until
Lisa gracefully slid away. "I saw Landersen yesterday." Her eyes teased him.
"You did?" John's head felt dizzy.
"He's back from his family vacation."
John's eyes remained stuck gazing at her body. He wanted to reach for her,
and draw her back again, but instead she stood up and moved toward the far
end of the table.
To gain control of his thoughts, and racing heart, he drew in a breath and
focused: Landersen, Landersen, Landersen. His supervisor from Clearcreek who had helped uncover the final pieces regarding the hospital's corruption. For six years, John's patient had been the victim of greed. But within the last
month, Lisa, John, and Gary Landersen had worked together to seek out
justice.
But once all the facts were there for Lisa to take the story to press,
Landersen had fled town for the interim. Now John, still grinning, looked at
her, and in a casual voice asked, "Where did he go?"
"He says his trip led him to Arizona."
"Arizona." John's heart rate increased again, but this time not because of
Lisa.
"Yes." She smiled, waiting, playing with the information.
"Did he...?"
"Yes. He saw your patient."
"He did?" John's grin widened. Once Dr. Gravers recognized he needed to
cover his tracks from his unethical conduct, he had relocated this prized
patient to a separate facility outside of California. But now Landersen had
found her. "What did Gary say? How is she?"
"Good. Very good." Her perfect smile grew wider. "In fact..." She stuck her
chest forward. "He asked me to deliver this." She picked up the brown box.
"Thank you, Landersen." John reached for it.
But Lisa held onto the box, and in a teasing voice, she whispered, "You
should know..." She stepped closer. "This is from her. She asked Gary to
deliver it to you."
"It is?" John looked at the box, and then back at Lisa who stood directly
above him. Once again, his heart rate increased as her lips floated closer.
She kissed his check, then her lips glided toward his ear. "I'll start
breakfast, while you open it."
The box lay abandoned on his lap, while he watched her walk away. But once
alone in the room, he picked up the box and his eager fingers fumbled with
the tape.
* * * * *
Hours later, after Lisa had left, John reflected more on the package. For
the third time, since he had opened it, John reached into the box and picked
up the letter. Dear Dr. Sanders. Again he read it, but this time he freely
skimmed through the page.
When I was sent to this new hospital, I knew it was because of you. You
remembered me and were still helping me. This gave me courage to keep
trying. Thank you...
Yesterday, I visited a halfway house. My new doctor asked if I could make
this my family. I said I would try.
This is my new goal...to build a life for myself in the real world.
I am happy...because I finally had the courage to leave Clearcreek.
I'm doing well.
Dr. Sanders, thank you for everything.
Love, Rebecca Ann Brownell
John grinned. Despite all the drama that had unfolded, she was masked from
what had truly taken place. While John had been fighting for her right to
leave, she had been fighting for the courage to leave. Especially since for
years, Gravers had used his craftiness to convince Rebecca and others that
she was too weak to survive in society. But in the last year, John had
exerted tremendous effort. He had fought with her; he had challenged her;
and motivated her until she saw that she was capable to leave institutional
life.
However even though she had conquered her battle, John had not conquered his. Instead he had hit an administration roadblock. Rather than support, John found an enemy, and Gravers did not play nicely. After a nasty war, John lost his job, but uncovered the truth, and now that truth had made her free.
Now John rejoiced in this news, in this letter expressing her success. Yet
there also was a faint sadness, something which he could not quite place.
Perhaps it was the finality: her good-bye amid the memories.
Suddenly the front door burst open. "Greetings Neighbor," Randy hollered as
he walked into the apartment.
"Hey." John folded up the letter while his friend proceeded to the kitchen.
"Help yourself," John mocked as he heard the fridge door open.
Moments later Randy reappeared with a soda can in hand. Then with his free
hand, he picked up the TV remote and plopped his lanky body down on the
other side of the couch. "What's that?" He pointed at the box.
"Nothing." John set the letter on the table. "Just something from an old
friend."
Randy's bushy eyebrows scrunched upward. "You've other friends than me?"
His Saturday attire typically included a baseball cap, used to hide the
elongated cranium and tousled sandy curls, but today the cap was absent.
"Whose it from?"
"You don't know the person."
"I've known you for how long? Since our first day of college. So let's
see..." He rubbed his head, and then began counting the fingers on his
hands. When he reached the end he counted two digits again. "That's twelve
years," he proudly stated.
"Yep."
"That's a long time, buddy."
"It is."
"I know our friends, and I know most of your friends, and the few I don't
know, I've heard of them. So whose it from?"
John drew in a breath. In truth, Randy already knew more than he probably
should--like the precise details on how John became unemployed. "It's from
my patient."
"Your patient." He glanced at the box resting on John's lap. "You mean
the patient?"
"Yes."
"The one."
"Yes," John shifted the box until it perched on the armrest next to him.
"It's from her."
"So..." Randy kept looking at it. "What is it?"
"It's a blanket."
"Huh?" Randy's lanky body sat up. He placed the soda and remote onto the
coffee table, glanced at John, and then leaped for the box. "What do you
know?" He unveiled the blue fleece. "A blanket--a cute little baby's
blanket."
"Wow." A grin crept over John's face. "You're a quick one."
"So..." Randy sank back into the couch and clutched the blanket in his hand.
"What does a smart clinical psychologist, such as yourself, infer when a
former patient sends you an old baby blanket?"
John reached for the remote. "Nothing."
But his friend cuddled up against the blanket, stuck his thumb in his mouth,
only to pull it out so he could add, "No Doc, what does it mean?"
"She's making a statement."
"A statement." Randy lowered the blanket to his lap and touched it. "Like
what?"
The blanket had been her link to insanity, her connection to a precious
delusion of a baby she called Robert. For years, she had wrapped this baby up, and clung to it, and this inanimate object had overpowered her, given
her the means to shut herself off from reality.
"So," Randy's voice pulled him back. "Was giving up your career worth it?"
"Of course." John stared at the blanket. "Clearcreek was a corrupt place.
And I haven't given up my career."
"Glad you have no regrets." Randy slapped his hand against John's knee.
"Well done, Doc." He leaned back, lifted his legs onto the coffee table, and
crossed his feet. "You were a bit OCD with the whole thing, but look at you
Johnny Boy, piecing all of this together. You're amazing, an absolute
genius." He tossed the blanket back into the box. "For your next job you
should apply with the FBI."
John laughed. "I don't think so."
"But look at your skill, Detective Sanders, figuring out the scoop on your
patient and that politician. My dad wanted that guy to win the Senate race,
but not since I've educated him. Nope. Now Pops and I've decided, he's the
stuff sewers are made out of. Although it's still odd to me, why didn't
anyone know they'd been married?"
"Because..." John drew in a breath. "Downley took advantage of her unstable
thoughts, he took care of the divorce and her money, and then abandoned her
to Gravers' care. Once Downley was free and wealthy, he was able to pursue
his political ambitions."
"So he snatched her up at his midlife crisis, got a huge booty from the
deal, dumped her at the asylum, took off with her gold, and ran for
Mayor--that's quite a story."
"Yep." John cringed.
"How old's your patient? Isn't Downley like decades her senior?"
Too many long days had been spent dwelling on this man; and lately, just
speaking his name filled John with intense anger. "Yeah, he certainly
benefited at her expense." It was time to shift the conversation. "Have you
seen today's paper?"
"No." Randy's eyes scanned the room. "Are you in it again?"
Since Lisa's morning delivery, the paper had remained on the dining room
table. Now John pointed for his friend to retrieve it.
"Excuse me?" Randy grunted.
But John continued to point. "It's on the table."
"Are you implying that you want me to get up and fetch your paper?"
Nevertheless he hoisted his body off the couch, went over to the table, and
grabbed the Times. When he returned back to the couch, he sat near enough
so that John could see Richard Downley's picture beneath the headline: Scandal Creates Campaign Danger for Santa Barbara's Mayor.
"Wow. Downley on the front page." Randy whistled. "Can you believe it?"
"And Lisa's article on Gravers and Clearcreek is on A4. She's doing great."
"Of course she is."
John revealed a proud smile. "Bill Harper, he's the reporter covering
Downley's story, he's has been calling her from the main office; he wants
them to work jointly on these stories."
"So you like her?"
"I do."
"Are you dating her?"
"It appears so."
A victorious grin plastered Randy's face. "Well done Johnny Boy, well done."
"You're just smug because you introduced us."
"I'm just smug because you're not the social misfit that you so often want
me to believe that you are. And I'm smug because when a perfectly good
opportunity is right in front of you, you do know what to do with it."
Randy flipped the pages. "So what does the article say?"
"She wrote a perfect piece."
"Well of course she did." Randy lifted his head to reveal a silly smirk
stuck to his face. "Look at what you gave her--a complete recipe for
incredible fame." He spoke in a low Italian tone, "You were like a fairy
godfather to her."
"No. The bottom line is it's a tragic story, and it needed to be shared."
Randy turned back to the paper; and this time he spoke in a reflective tone,
"You're right. It's an unfair story; your patient had a bad deal."
While Randy read, John glanced at the blanket, still sticking out of the
box. Again he reflected on the good and challenging memories, followed now
by Rebecca's success.
"So The End." Randy tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table. "The bad
guys are penalized and the good guys prosper."
"That's the hope," he said. However the LA Times front page now faced
John; and the picture of Mayor Richard Downley, with his political smile,
looked up at him. From all that John had gleaned about Downley, he feared
this man--and Lisa's warnings did not help. According to her, this important
Senate race made the scandal headline news, which meant Downley could not
afford to remain mute. If he desired, this man, who was the only human who
could reveal Rebecca's identity to the press, had the power to publicly
humiliate her and cripple her life even further.
Since the day had been filled with positive news, John sought to avoid these
lingering woes. But each time he saw those eyes--found on the front
page--John knew that Downley would retaliate, the question was just when.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
The Magic of Christmas
[A Real Happening]
There is a magic to Christmas that opens your heart. This year especially I am grateful for wonderful friends, family, my belief in Jesus Christ, my health, my home, my job, my pets, and all the miracles that have followed me this last year.
I truly feel blessed.
And I am grateful for all the loved ones and circumstances that have brought me here. What a magical time of year. Through so many critical events, my love for my Savior has grown tremendously. He is the truth, the light, the way. And with that knowledge, Christmas truly is a glorious event to rejoice in and to celebrate.
There is a magic to Christmas that opens your heart. This year especially I am grateful for wonderful friends, family, my belief in Jesus Christ, my health, my home, my job, my pets, and all the miracles that have followed me this last year.
I truly feel blessed.
And I am grateful for all the loved ones and circumstances that have brought me here. What a magical time of year. Through so many critical events, my love for my Savior has grown tremendously. He is the truth, the light, the way. And with that knowledge, Christmas truly is a glorious event to rejoice in and to celebrate.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
UNAUTHORED LETTERS - Chapter Two
[An imaginary happening]
*Late Autumn - 1989*
On a magnificent sunny day, six years later, Milton Haight's Lexus once
again wound its way up the Brownell's drive. The phone call from Rick
Downley had been a great surprise, but Milton accepted this due to his
growing success. The last several years had been good to him, especially
recently. Ever since Wagnall's wife had been diagnosed with terminal cancer,
Wagnall had been absent more causing Milton's duties to increase. Still
wading through education debt, Milton appreciated the increased
opportunities, especially since someday he too would enjoy greater luxuries,
some perhaps even as great as those which surrounded the Brownell estate.
On this particular day, the view was stunning. As Milton parked his Lexus,
at the top of the Brownell's drive, he could see the Peninsula jetting out
into the Pacific ocean. This magnificent site made Milton pause. Clearly,
any person could see why long ago Robert Brownell had chosen this home.
Milton exited the car and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. Even
though winter was close at hand, the season's warm weather had stayed true
to the sunny California claim.
On the doorstep, Milton ran his hands through his hair and straightened his
tie. Then he rang the doorbell. Within seconds, a beautiful woman in her
twenties greeted him.
"Hello. I'm here to see Richard Downley." Milton announced.
"Yes, I remember you." Her charming smile made Milton grin, yet he had no
recollection of the beauty. She glanced at the tightly rolled blue blanket
tucked into her left arm. Then her green eyes dropped their gaze to the
ground, and the shadow of shyness returned. "You're the attorney," she said.
"Becca?" he said a bit shocked. She truly had become a lovely woman.
Her eyes remained focused on the ground while she nodded.
"Yes, Becca Brownell," he stammered. "Or should I say...Becca Downley.
Should I be saying Congratulations? I'd heard that the two of you...well, it
was a rumor, but..." He moved his hands in an awkward motion.
"Congratulations," he stammered again, "On your marriage, if it's true."
Her eyes shot back at him. "You're here to make our divorce legal."
"Oh....oh," his stammering increased. "I didn't know. Rick just said it was
to go over some paperwork."
"I divorced him this week, on Monday, after I had my baby." She twisted the
tightly wrapped bundle toward Milton.
"Oh." Suddenly he remembered that fog from years past "Congratulations," he
said again, while seeing nothing in the bundle. He stepped closer. "Where's
your baby?" His fingers toyed with the idea of touching the fabric, pulling
the corners down, and reviling the odd couple's offspring.
Instead Becca stepped away. "My baby was born not last night but the night
before." Her hands tightened around the bundle.
Milton looked at the blanket again. No swaddled infant was there. He peered
closer, only to watch Becca turn the bundle from his view. Helplessly he
asked, "Boy or girl?"
"I named him Robert, after his grandfather."
"Milt" a booming voice echoed down the hall. Milton cringed. Only his arch
nemesis and cousin, Carter, referred to him as 'Milt'. He slowly turned to
see Rick striding closer, circling round him, clearly blocking him from the
exit.
"Sweetness," Rick turned to Becca and grinned. "Milt's here to provide you
with your request."
A scowl crossed her face, and her beauty transformed into an immature, yet
submissive child.
"So I ask you to be a dear, and leave us men alone. Do you understand me?"
he asked slowly.
"Of course. I need to feed Robert." She turned, tightened her grip around
the blanket, and marched through an open door.
Rick watched her leave and exhaled a defeated moan. "That girl." Then he
turned back to Milton. "Thank you for coming, especially on such short
notice. Can I get you something to drink?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Good." Rick laughed. "I'd have had to call Becca back."
Milton looked around. "Is your help not here?"
"We get along fine without them these days . . . well, we did."
"Should I say congrats on the baby?"
Rick shot Milton an odd look. "There's no baby. She's just crazy. You see
that, right?" Before Milton could answer, Rick turned and motioned down the
hall. "Come. Let's talk in the study."
When the two men entered the expansive study, Milton noted how little had
changed. Only this time, the sun shone brightly through the windows and
illuminated the room's fine pieces of grandeur. Milton glanced at the hole
that Rick had created years ago, but it was gone. He glanced at the curio
cabinet to see that the stone statue had regained its occupancy. No trace of
that moment remained.
"Here, sit." Rick motioned for Milton to sit in one of the seats opposite
the grand desk, while Rick placed himself in the exquisite master's chair.
"You're probably wondering why I asked you here."
"Yes, I am." Milton sat.
"It's Becca who requested you here."
"Well, she mentioned the...the...," he struggled for words.
"The arrangement," Rick stated.
"I'm not a divorce attorney," Milton blurted out. "We deal with finances and
estates."
"Yes, well...she certainly makes my life easy." For a moment, the two men
stared at each other, neither saying anything. Then Rick continued. "Well,
glad she explained the circumstances. So yes, due to her condition, we're
both requesting that you help us with some legalities here."
"I can't."
"I'm sure you have your resources."
"I can provide you with a referral."
For a moment, Rick stared at Milton. Then he stood. He stepped around the
desk, until he towered directly above Milton. His arm rested on the leather
chair and touched Milton's back. He leaned down close to Milton's ear.
"Milt, I know you can find a way." A long sigh expelled from his lips,
followed by a strong whiff of garlic. "Everyone's knows that when you want
something enough, you find a way. Becca's done here, she wants out of her
comfortable life, so she requested this divorce. She wants a new life, and
so I expect you to help me give that to her."
"I can't" Milton did not appreciate the sudden undue pressure.
"Milt. I need your help." The hand lifted and suddenly Rick was sitting next
to him. "I promised her father I'd care for her, but she's crazy. You saw
that. You can't deny that. She told you she'd had a baby two nights ago.
Believe me that's absurd, especially since I haven't touched her in years."
"I don't need to hear any of this."
"No, listen. Things were once really good between us. But lives change. You
know how it is. She changes. I change. Other people come into our lives,
It's part of life."
"Others in her life, or just yours?" As soon as the words were out, Milton
regretted them.
At that same instance, Rick's face transformed back to its cold presence
from years before. "What do you want?" he asked.
"What do I want?"
"Name your price," Rick stated.
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone has a price. What's yours?"
"I don't understand."
Rick sighed again, stood up, and turned his back on Milton. "I was afraid of
this, so I made the terms clear." He walked over to a briefcase and played
with the lock until the latch's pop echoed through the room. Then he
reappeared. His hand once again rested against Milton's back, while he
thrust a form into Milton's hand. "You sign here," he pointed at the
designated spot on the form. "And I'll sign here. We could make this verbal,
but since you're an attorney, I figured you'd appreciate this if we made it
official." Milton began scanning the document, but Rick distracted him.
"With us in agreement, you'll get adequate pay. Do you understand?" Rick
held out a check, and Milton's eyes swayed from the document to the slip
before him. Suddenly Milton's eyes got stuck on the zeros.
"Milton Haight," Rick spoke as if chiding a small child. "Nullify this
marriage. Do everything in your power to break this, and after the marriage
is annulled, and you have eliminated any documentation of that union, I need
you to remember that this marriage never existed. Do you understand?"
Milton still stared at the check. Although Rick's fingers had covered up
some of the zeros, he was pushing the check closer, straight into Milton's
hands. Once the check grazed Milton's pinky finger, the rest of his fingers
hungered for it. Instead Rick dropped the check directly into Milton's lap.
Now with no obstructed view, Milton recounted, verifying in fact that all
the zeros were truly there. Yes, there were five lovely looped zeros with
one incredibly important numeral one starting off this valuable sequence.
"This is the first installment," Rick pointed at the document. "Just the
beginning, all I ask in return is a clean slate for both Becca and me. Give
us each the freedom to move on; don't tie us down with the legalities of
divorce, the long paperwork, the battle over the estate, the minute
details."
"What details?" The thick fog had seeped back, this time fogging up Milton's
understanding of moral agency. Something tasted incredibly right. His eyes
wandered responsibly over to the document, but the flirtatious check kept
enamoring his innocent fingers and eyes.
"Don't worry, I don't want visitation rights with her baby." Rick bellowed a
long laugh while he once again sat down directly next to his guest.
Milton shifted suddenly in his seat. His eyes left the offer and instead
stared at Rick which caused Rick's voice to shift back to a stern tone.
"She's crazy, Milt. Just within the seconds you saw her, you sensed that.
The woman needs help . . . and I have move on. Consider this your ability to
serve two people, to give each a chance at a new start. A beginning we both
need." Rick pointed at the check tightly held in Milton's hands. "It's
yours, if you annual the marriage."
Milton attempted to return back to professional reason."And what about the
estate?"
"She doesn't want it; she doesn't want any of it."
Milton raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
"Ask her yourself. All she wants is that baby. She's extremely happy in her
delusional life."
"So you get it all." The pieces now fell into place. So, Milton placed the
contract on the desk, and the check directly on top of the contract. But his
eyes kept glancing back at the line of zeros.
"Of course not," Rick patted Milton's hand, which had remained glued to the
desk, and close to the check. "I promised Rob I'd care for her. He could
break promises, but I can't. She's in no shape to manage finances, but I
can. I'll use these funds to provide her with the optimum clinical care. She
needs help, and I've the means to provide her with the best. So you don't
need to worry about how the funds are addressed. She wants none of it at the
moment, which is why I need to still manage her inheritance, so I've figured
out the manner in which I can do that and best suit her needs. Do you
understand that?" Like a gentle figure skater, Rick's finger slid the check
back closer to Milton's grasp.
With its new proximity, the check held an even greater weight.
1-0-0-0-0-0-those long numbers stretched out, making Milton think of all the
freedoms to be enjoyed once he provided this simply service. Just for ending
a marriage, making it no longer exist, and giving both partners exactly what
they wished for; what harm was there in granting those wishes?
Milton drew in a breath, hoping to push past the clouds stuck in his mind.
"She'll be taking care of?" he asked.
"Absolutely." Rick clicked the ballpoint pen into place. "What kind of
person do you think I am?"
Milton nodded, accepting that answer.
"This is the first installment. You eliminate the traces of this marriage,
prove to me that it never existed, and once you can verify this fact to me,
you get the next installment. Got it?"
Milton looked at the check and smiled. The request really was quite simple,
surely something he could find a way to address. Since all parties gained,
and no one lost, this made complete sense. Milton looked at Rick and nodded.
Rick's hand squeezed Milton's shoulder. "Excellent." He handed over the pen
and Milton Haight scribbled his signature across a form that no other person
would ever see. Then he slipped the first installment into his suit coat
pocket and smiled--a simple gift for a simple favor.
*Late Autumn - 1989*
On a magnificent sunny day, six years later, Milton Haight's Lexus once
again wound its way up the Brownell's drive. The phone call from Rick
Downley had been a great surprise, but Milton accepted this due to his
growing success. The last several years had been good to him, especially
recently. Ever since Wagnall's wife had been diagnosed with terminal cancer,
Wagnall had been absent more causing Milton's duties to increase. Still
wading through education debt, Milton appreciated the increased
opportunities, especially since someday he too would enjoy greater luxuries,
some perhaps even as great as those which surrounded the Brownell estate.
On this particular day, the view was stunning. As Milton parked his Lexus,
at the top of the Brownell's drive, he could see the Peninsula jetting out
into the Pacific ocean. This magnificent site made Milton pause. Clearly,
any person could see why long ago Robert Brownell had chosen this home.
Milton exited the car and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. Even
though winter was close at hand, the season's warm weather had stayed true
to the sunny California claim.
On the doorstep, Milton ran his hands through his hair and straightened his
tie. Then he rang the doorbell. Within seconds, a beautiful woman in her
twenties greeted him.
"Hello. I'm here to see Richard Downley." Milton announced.
"Yes, I remember you." Her charming smile made Milton grin, yet he had no
recollection of the beauty. She glanced at the tightly rolled blue blanket
tucked into her left arm. Then her green eyes dropped their gaze to the
ground, and the shadow of shyness returned. "You're the attorney," she said.
"Becca?" he said a bit shocked. She truly had become a lovely woman.
Her eyes remained focused on the ground while she nodded.
"Yes, Becca Brownell," he stammered. "Or should I say...Becca Downley.
Should I be saying Congratulations? I'd heard that the two of you...well, it
was a rumor, but..." He moved his hands in an awkward motion.
"Congratulations," he stammered again, "On your marriage, if it's true."
Her eyes shot back at him. "You're here to make our divorce legal."
"Oh....oh," his stammering increased. "I didn't know. Rick just said it was
to go over some paperwork."
"I divorced him this week, on Monday, after I had my baby." She twisted the
tightly wrapped bundle toward Milton.
"Oh." Suddenly he remembered that fog from years past "Congratulations," he
said again, while seeing nothing in the bundle. He stepped closer. "Where's
your baby?" His fingers toyed with the idea of touching the fabric, pulling
the corners down, and reviling the odd couple's offspring.
Instead Becca stepped away. "My baby was born not last night but the night
before." Her hands tightened around the bundle.
Milton looked at the blanket again. No swaddled infant was there. He peered
closer, only to watch Becca turn the bundle from his view. Helplessly he
asked, "Boy or girl?"
"I named him Robert, after his grandfather."
"Milt" a booming voice echoed down the hall. Milton cringed. Only his arch
nemesis and cousin, Carter, referred to him as 'Milt'. He slowly turned to
see Rick striding closer, circling round him, clearly blocking him from the
exit.
"Sweetness," Rick turned to Becca and grinned. "Milt's here to provide you
with your request."
A scowl crossed her face, and her beauty transformed into an immature, yet
submissive child.
"So I ask you to be a dear, and leave us men alone. Do you understand me?"
he asked slowly.
"Of course. I need to feed Robert." She turned, tightened her grip around
the blanket, and marched through an open door.
Rick watched her leave and exhaled a defeated moan. "That girl." Then he
turned back to Milton. "Thank you for coming, especially on such short
notice. Can I get you something to drink?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Good." Rick laughed. "I'd have had to call Becca back."
Milton looked around. "Is your help not here?"
"We get along fine without them these days . . . well, we did."
"Should I say congrats on the baby?"
Rick shot Milton an odd look. "There's no baby. She's just crazy. You see
that, right?" Before Milton could answer, Rick turned and motioned down the
hall. "Come. Let's talk in the study."
When the two men entered the expansive study, Milton noted how little had
changed. Only this time, the sun shone brightly through the windows and
illuminated the room's fine pieces of grandeur. Milton glanced at the hole
that Rick had created years ago, but it was gone. He glanced at the curio
cabinet to see that the stone statue had regained its occupancy. No trace of
that moment remained.
"Here, sit." Rick motioned for Milton to sit in one of the seats opposite
the grand desk, while Rick placed himself in the exquisite master's chair.
"You're probably wondering why I asked you here."
"Yes, I am." Milton sat.
"It's Becca who requested you here."
"Well, she mentioned the...the...," he struggled for words.
"The arrangement," Rick stated.
"I'm not a divorce attorney," Milton blurted out. "We deal with finances and
estates."
"Yes, well...she certainly makes my life easy." For a moment, the two men
stared at each other, neither saying anything. Then Rick continued. "Well,
glad she explained the circumstances. So yes, due to her condition, we're
both requesting that you help us with some legalities here."
"I can't."
"I'm sure you have your resources."
"I can provide you with a referral."
For a moment, Rick stared at Milton. Then he stood. He stepped around the
desk, until he towered directly above Milton. His arm rested on the leather
chair and touched Milton's back. He leaned down close to Milton's ear.
"Milt, I know you can find a way." A long sigh expelled from his lips,
followed by a strong whiff of garlic. "Everyone's knows that when you want
something enough, you find a way. Becca's done here, she wants out of her
comfortable life, so she requested this divorce. She wants a new life, and
so I expect you to help me give that to her."
"I can't" Milton did not appreciate the sudden undue pressure.
"Milt. I need your help." The hand lifted and suddenly Rick was sitting next
to him. "I promised her father I'd care for her, but she's crazy. You saw
that. You can't deny that. She told you she'd had a baby two nights ago.
Believe me that's absurd, especially since I haven't touched her in years."
"I don't need to hear any of this."
"No, listen. Things were once really good between us. But lives change. You
know how it is. She changes. I change. Other people come into our lives,
It's part of life."
"Others in her life, or just yours?" As soon as the words were out, Milton
regretted them.
At that same instance, Rick's face transformed back to its cold presence
from years before. "What do you want?" he asked.
"What do I want?"
"Name your price," Rick stated.
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone has a price. What's yours?"
"I don't understand."
Rick sighed again, stood up, and turned his back on Milton. "I was afraid of
this, so I made the terms clear." He walked over to a briefcase and played
with the lock until the latch's pop echoed through the room. Then he
reappeared. His hand once again rested against Milton's back, while he
thrust a form into Milton's hand. "You sign here," he pointed at the
designated spot on the form. "And I'll sign here. We could make this verbal,
but since you're an attorney, I figured you'd appreciate this if we made it
official." Milton began scanning the document, but Rick distracted him.
"With us in agreement, you'll get adequate pay. Do you understand?" Rick
held out a check, and Milton's eyes swayed from the document to the slip
before him. Suddenly Milton's eyes got stuck on the zeros.
"Milton Haight," Rick spoke as if chiding a small child. "Nullify this
marriage. Do everything in your power to break this, and after the marriage
is annulled, and you have eliminated any documentation of that union, I need
you to remember that this marriage never existed. Do you understand?"
Milton still stared at the check. Although Rick's fingers had covered up
some of the zeros, he was pushing the check closer, straight into Milton's
hands. Once the check grazed Milton's pinky finger, the rest of his fingers
hungered for it. Instead Rick dropped the check directly into Milton's lap.
Now with no obstructed view, Milton recounted, verifying in fact that all
the zeros were truly there. Yes, there were five lovely looped zeros with
one incredibly important numeral one starting off this valuable sequence.
"This is the first installment," Rick pointed at the document. "Just the
beginning, all I ask in return is a clean slate for both Becca and me. Give
us each the freedom to move on; don't tie us down with the legalities of
divorce, the long paperwork, the battle over the estate, the minute
details."
"What details?" The thick fog had seeped back, this time fogging up Milton's
understanding of moral agency. Something tasted incredibly right. His eyes
wandered responsibly over to the document, but the flirtatious check kept
enamoring his innocent fingers and eyes.
"Don't worry, I don't want visitation rights with her baby." Rick bellowed a
long laugh while he once again sat down directly next to his guest.
Milton shifted suddenly in his seat. His eyes left the offer and instead
stared at Rick which caused Rick's voice to shift back to a stern tone.
"She's crazy, Milt. Just within the seconds you saw her, you sensed that.
The woman needs help . . . and I have move on. Consider this your ability to
serve two people, to give each a chance at a new start. A beginning we both
need." Rick pointed at the check tightly held in Milton's hands. "It's
yours, if you annual the marriage."
Milton attempted to return back to professional reason."And what about the
estate?"
"She doesn't want it; she doesn't want any of it."
Milton raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
"Ask her yourself. All she wants is that baby. She's extremely happy in her
delusional life."
"So you get it all." The pieces now fell into place. So, Milton placed the
contract on the desk, and the check directly on top of the contract. But his
eyes kept glancing back at the line of zeros.
"Of course not," Rick patted Milton's hand, which had remained glued to the
desk, and close to the check. "I promised Rob I'd care for her. He could
break promises, but I can't. She's in no shape to manage finances, but I
can. I'll use these funds to provide her with the optimum clinical care. She
needs help, and I've the means to provide her with the best. So you don't
need to worry about how the funds are addressed. She wants none of it at the
moment, which is why I need to still manage her inheritance, so I've figured
out the manner in which I can do that and best suit her needs. Do you
understand that?" Like a gentle figure skater, Rick's finger slid the check
back closer to Milton's grasp.
With its new proximity, the check held an even greater weight.
1-0-0-0-0-0-those long numbers stretched out, making Milton think of all the
freedoms to be enjoyed once he provided this simply service. Just for ending
a marriage, making it no longer exist, and giving both partners exactly what
they wished for; what harm was there in granting those wishes?
Milton drew in a breath, hoping to push past the clouds stuck in his mind.
"She'll be taking care of?" he asked.
"Absolutely." Rick clicked the ballpoint pen into place. "What kind of
person do you think I am?"
Milton nodded, accepting that answer.
"This is the first installment. You eliminate the traces of this marriage,
prove to me that it never existed, and once you can verify this fact to me,
you get the next installment. Got it?"
Milton looked at the check and smiled. The request really was quite simple,
surely something he could find a way to address. Since all parties gained,
and no one lost, this made complete sense. Milton looked at Rick and nodded.
Rick's hand squeezed Milton's shoulder. "Excellent." He handed over the pen
and Milton Haight scribbled his signature across a form that no other person
would ever see. Then he slipped the first installment into his suit coat
pocket and smiled--a simple gift for a simple favor.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
A tribute to Brittany
[A Real Happening]
As a young girl, I wanted life to to be normal. Now life is normal, and it is not "special" at all.
Growing up, my family was blessed with great specialness. This special package came in the form of epilepsy, weekly seizures that plagued the life of our sweet sister Brittany for twenty-eight years. But through that specialness, Brittany rose above the trials to truly teach all of us how to be better individuals in our own lives. Through the specialness of Brittany, we were lifted to greater heights.
Ten years ago today, Brittany was called home. Her mortal body was freed from its unique challenges. Now to commemorate that anniversary, I have composed a short glimpse into the grand mortal life of Brittany Lee Allred.
Memories:
Thank you, Brittany. Thank you for the life you lived, for the lessons you taught us, for the example you shared, and for the purity and innocence of your heart. Your specialness blessed us all.
Tonight especially, I'm grateful that my parents, my other sister, my brothers, and I all got to share in the magic of what made our family not normal - but rather extraordinarily special.
I love you, Brittany.
As a young girl, I wanted life to to be normal. Now life is normal, and it is not "special" at all.
Growing up, my family was blessed with great specialness. This special package came in the form of epilepsy, weekly seizures that plagued the life of our sweet sister Brittany for twenty-eight years. But through that specialness, Brittany rose above the trials to truly teach all of us how to be better individuals in our own lives. Through the specialness of Brittany, we were lifted to greater heights.
Ten years ago today, Brittany was called home. Her mortal body was freed from its unique challenges. Now to commemorate that anniversary, I have composed a short glimpse into the grand mortal life of Brittany Lee Allred.
Memories:
- She adored children. Brittany was a magnet. She could spot a child in any situation, and then work her magic to connect with that child. As life went on, it was very painful for her to know that she would not enjoy those blessings of marriage & children in this life (due to her seizures and the limitations they caused). Now when I'm disappointed about something grand, when I don't feel like I have access to some of my expected blessings of life, I reflect on my sister, Brittany. For she understood better than anyone what it is like to have righteous desires, but to have them unfulfilled in this life.
- Horror movies could have learned from Brittany. After hours and hours of seizure activity, Brittany would reach an awful zombie status. Then the real terror began. She would wander aimlessly through the house (and she usually reached this status after having a series of difficult nights where my parents had also had sleepless nights in carrying for her). One particular rough time, I was nominated to assist. Since Brittany and I shared a room, the idea was to tie a string around my wrist and attach it to the bedroom doorknob. If Brittany tried to exit the room, the string would alert me. Problem is I did not wake when she departed. She walked right out the front door and like a zombie aimlessly moved through the neighborhood. It was the scariest thing. The entire family took off searching through the dark streets. We didn't know if we would find her, or if we did, what condition she would be in. Sadly these awful searches occurred more than once (but only once because of my hand attached to the doorknob scenario.) Sometimes the searches were in the day, other times at night. They didn't happen tons, but the few times they did happen, there was such fear in all of us, it was a period you just don't forget. Others in the community would help us search, and it seemed like hours before she was found. Nevertheless, and THANKFULLY, she was always found.
- She loved Christmas. The season would arrive and her face would light up like a child's. She shared her innocence and it shone on all of us. Even though she had been told, on several occasions, the truth about Santa - she continued to choose to believe. She made the holiday season incredibly fun. Some of my most cherished memories occurred two weeks before she passed away, where her, my mom and I were busy enjoying the holiday season. It is no wonder Brittany chose to slip home during this appropriate time of year.
- The last two years of her life, I saw her vulnerability. I saw it in a way I had never seen it before. Many a times she had injured herself during a massive seizure. She had more than her share of scars and stitches. But after I had returned home from my mission, she had two episodes that really impacted me. The first one she hit her head on the marble bench attached to the fireplace, where blood flowed from her head and stained the light colored carpet. The second time, I came home to find a note that my mom and her were at the emergency room. I rushed over to learn that she had had a seizure over the dishwasher while she had been unloading dishes. The corner of the open door had hit her as she crashed down it. The fall left a tweaked dishwasher door and another requirement of stitches for Brittany. Every since I could remember, I had been one of the females in our family who took my turn on bath duty. Brittany could never be left alone to bath by herself on the chance a seizure would suddenly seize her. Now after all these years, I understood. And I began fervently praying that she would not suffer a horrific death due to the danger caused by her epilepsy.
- Even though by birth, I was the youngest sister, due to the cognitive damage caused by the seizures, Brittany took the place as my little sister. I had an older sister who I looked up to and admired greatly, and then I had Brittany who I watched over and carried for. I had a great responsibility to assist her with so many needs. However the moment she passed on to the next life, I clearly knew she had regained her status as my older sister. A very wise, strong, and courageous sister, who now watches over me.
- One of my greatest joys was having her volunteer at my work during the few months before she passed away. She LOVED to come help me. I was the Retail Manager at the dinosaur museum at Thanksgiving Point. I would have her come help me sort inventory into categories or place price stickers on items. She enjoyed it so much, and would work long and hard. She amazed me. She was very good at her tasks as long as I made sure that the correct price labels had been given to her to stick on the items. Otherwise she would use what ever price labels she saw. So I tried to be very careful, especially since my staff knew I got "upset" if they mislabeled inventory. Numerous times I had stressed the importance of being aware of what they priced. However soon after Brittany passed away, jewelry showed up in the display case with $0.50 candy bar labels, and candy bars showed up with $60 labels. Those mismatches, after her death, served as a little humorous reminder of her eager service, and the purpose she had felt while working there.
- When I returned home from my mission, Brittany became my best friend. While I was still adjusting to normal life, plus adjusting to my family's move to Utah from California, and feeling a little unsure of where I belonged, Brittany was there to help. It was with her that I felt safe. Due to circumstances we got to spend lots of time together and I cherish the drives we took. Sometimes we would stop and get ice cream, and sometimes she would talk and sometimes I would talk. It was during this time our relationship grew into a very prized connection.
- Brittany could make me laugh. Her humor was unmatchable. When I least expected she would spring a joke on me or do something comical, and the closer we grew as sisters and friends the more I valued the special way she could make me laugh.
- Roughly about a year before she passed away, she underwent an operation where a magnet was placed near her heart. The idea was that when seizure activity began, an external magnet would be run over the implanted magnet and the charges would interrupt the seizure activity. As Brittany prepared for this surgery, she was so optimistic. Desperately she wanted her seizures gone so she could live a normal life. The night before the operation, I asked Brittany if she was scared, and she confided in me she was. It was a very humbling experience to watch her prepare and be so very, very full of hope. After the procedure, the implant did seem to improve some of the seizure activity, but not to the level we had all hoped. Nevertheless we did become dependent on that magnet. Often my mom, Brittany, and I would be seen in public and at the slightest movement of seizure motion my mom or I would go into the panic "Where's the magnet?" "We need the magnet." "Get the magnet." I have since chuckled of what we must have looked like to strangers - a group of women obsessed with finding a magnet.
- Brittany loved her extended family. She lived to visit her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in Utah. She had a connection with each one of them. But once our Grandma Allred passed away in 1994, Brittany was never the same. Then our dad passed away in 1995, and all Brittany wanted to know was "When is Jesus coming back." Her faith had taught her that the Second Coming would come which would free her from her seizures and return her loved ones back to her. As the days, weeks, months, and years passed on and several other close family members passed away, Brittany's plea for when Jesus would return became more urgent. She wanted us to tell her WHEN. "Brittany, we don't know when." "But tell me when," she would say. "Brittany, no one knows when." She would then push us, "Guess. Just guess." Sometimes she moved to desperation, almost anger, because we refused to tell her when. Once I was reading scriptures and offered to read them out loud since we were sharing the same room. As I read, I wondered how much she understood. Until I hit the part of Christ saying, "Behold I come quickly." I skimmed over those lines, finished the chapter and shut the book. But Brittany didn't miss a beat. "What did He say?" She insisted I repeat what I had read. She was constantly watching for the Savior.
Thank you, Brittany. Thank you for the life you lived, for the lessons you taught us, for the example you shared, and for the purity and innocence of your heart. Your specialness blessed us all.
Tonight especially, I'm grateful that my parents, my other sister, my brothers, and I all got to share in the magic of what made our family not normal - but rather extraordinarily special.
I love you, Brittany.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
UNAUTHORED LETTERS - Chapter One
[An imaginary happening]
*Winter - 1984*
The morning fog rolled in, moving across the Pacific Ocean, elongating over
the Palos Verdes Peninsula, and winding up the rolling hills of an elite
Southern California town. Like a methodical pattern, the fog ascended up the
curved lane of the Robert Brownell's estate in time to follow alongside
Milton Haight's Lexus.
When Milton stepped out into the courtyard, the thickened haze cast an
ominous view, and this stirred him to reflect on the recently deceased. If
wealthy ghost existed, surely Robert Brownell hovered here to fondle his
vast riches.
Milton approached the encroaching entrance and the fog whiffed near him.
Perhaps Robert had tarried for this; an eventful show was about to unfold
all due to Brownell's last will and testament.
Just as suspected, once the hired help beckoned him in, Milton noted the
mystical cloud vacillating near him. Perhaps Robert had stains of regret.
Regret at the uncomfortable news Milton had come to deliver. "But I'm only
the messenger," Milton reminded himself.
Yet his body continued to stiffen as the damp mist guided him past the
ornate entrance, the marble lobby, Persian rugs, and the vast array of
museum-quality paintings and sculptures. As the dense fog swirled along,
keeping stride with the escort, Milton concluded that a critical family
member had indeed arrived.
Once they reached the entrance, the hired help opened the French doors
revealing Brownell's expansive study, and a sudden light-headiness swept
over Milton.
From the room two pairs of eyes stared at him. One set was a dim gray,
belonging to the stern, protective face of Rick Downley, Robert's close
friend. The other eyes sparkled green, brim with tears, and belonged to
Becca Brownell, Robert's fifteen-year old daughter.
Milton drew in a breath. "Hello," he heard his small voice fade across the
elongated room.
Rick reached for Becca's hand; then his voice boomed through the silence.
"Where's Wagnall?"
Milton inhaled again, only to feel the fog expand inside his head, but this
time he also felt the chill. Amid the ornate artifacts, elegant furniture,
and artist masterpieces, a window beckoned in the muggy ocean air; coldness
settled between him and the two that stared at him.
"Where's Wagnall?" Rick asked again.
Milton cleared his throat and managed to mumble, "He couldn't make it."
Rick refused to arise. "Why?"
The true reason legendary Attorney Max Wagnall was not there was because he
was a coward. His law firm brought uncomfortable news, the type that Wagnall
could delegate to the newest member of his practice. Now as Milton faced
Rick, it appeared that this man also understood the meaning of Wagnall's
absence.
Wagnall had been Robert Brownell's attorney for years; he had managed
absorbent amounts of legal documents centered around Brownell's vast
portfolio of wealth. In a way, Wagnall was one of the few men who could say
he knew Robert well. Or rather he could say he knew the recluse as well as
any man could know him, other than of course Rick Downley. To Wagnall's
knowledge, which had been passed on to Milton, Rick was the only living
person Robert had invited into his quiet, private world. And Rick had
embraced the open door policy; he had walked in Robert's footsteps, invested
as he had, traveled where he went, lived as he lived, and acted like a
surrogate father when Robert fell short in his fatherly duties to Becca.
Over the years, Rick held the great trust of both Robert and Becca.
Wagnall did not fully understand the Brownell's odd arrangement. Yet what he
did understand was that the legal document, which his office possessed,
would not be well received. That is why at precisely 9:32 a.m., Wagnall had
thrust the document in Milton's briefcase and pushed Milton out the door
alone to face the grieving Brownell clan.
For all the humidity the fog offered, Milton's voice felt surprising dry.
"Wagnall had a conflict, and so he asked me to deliver this."
Rick looked at Milton's thinning blond hair. Then he examined Milton's eyes,
his nose, his mouth, throat, torso, knees, and finally his toes. Milton
regretted not succumbing to the early morning consideration of wearing his
prized Pierre Armando suit on this particular day. Instead, he stood
completely unprepared, too inexperienced to know how to face the erupting
tension.
Although Rick had not offered him a seat, Milton took the only spot open,
the sleek office chair stationed behind the large executive desk. He had
hoped such placement would bring him a feeling of authority, yet the fog
raced ahead, greeting Milton again precisely as he sat across from Rick's
stone-focused face.
For a mere half-dozen seconds, Milton entertained this powerful stare, then
he reached for his briefcase and shuffled through the bag. The file was
right where Wagnall had placed it, clearly labeled, easy to find. However
Milton used this delay time to search through the unbearable fog trapped
within his mind. Through sluggish thoughts, he questioned if the opportunity
for small talk had ever existed. If so, it was nonexistent now.
At last Milton raised his eyes, only to see the anger bubbling in Rick's
face. "What did Wagnall tell you?" Milton asked cautiously.
"What he didn't tell me is that he was sending you."
"Yes, well. . . he's concerned that before Robert passed away. . .he may not
have conveyed to you all the details of the will. Everything might not be as
you had hoped."
Rick glanced at Becca. Fear covered her face. So he placed his arm around
her. His movement was like a father, like the guardian that the will
specified him to be. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm here to take care of
this."
The lines of concern lifted from her face. "Do I need to be here?" she asked
Rick, but watched Milton.
Rick shook his head. "Not if you don't want to."
"I don't."
She stood, as did Rick. "Since Wagnall isn't here," he said. "We can discuss
all this later."
Becca nodded. Then she hugged him. "Thank you."
A smile crept across his face, and his lips grazed past her ear. "Why don't
you go lie down," he whispered. "You look tired, and I know you didn't sleep
well last night."
Something in this exchange disturbed Milton, almost like there was more to
be seen than what he saw. It was a slight illusion, an erroneous trick
preformed by the fog. As quick as the inappropriate thought came, Milton
dismissed such a scandalous speculation. Certainly, the family was odd,
however Downley was at least twenty-years her senior.
As soon as Becca exited the room, Rick's limited soft demeanor also fled.
Now he turned and looked Milton directly in the eyes. "You know Wagnall
should be here."
"Yes." Milton answered the statement.
"And you know that I was there when Rob and Wagnall drafted that will."
"I know that Wagnall understands your concern--"
"No," Rick cut him off. "You know if there's been any change--then there's
been a mistake."
Milton heaved out a sigh. "Wagnall and I wish there was. As I was saying,
Wagnall tried to find a loop hole. He's looked. And his only consolation to
you is to walk away from this. You don't have to fulfill Robert's wishes."
"Let me see the will."
Milton did not protest. Instead he handed over the file, the previous will
signed in 1980, which everyone had come to accept, value, and regard, as
well as the one-page handwritten will with last year's summer intern
shamefully listed as the witness. Prior to Wagnall's most recent discovery,
no one else knew of the change.
But Milton watched now as Rick's neck muscles tightened and the gray eyes
narrowed. Then silent fury followed.
He tossed the file back at Milton. "What about Becca?"
"You don't have to be the executor over the estate, and you don't have to be
her guardian either. You don't have to fulfill any of Robert's requests."
Rick glared at Milton. "What happens to Rebecca?"
Milton casts his eyes down at the papers. Carefully his fingers scooted the
stack into an orderly pile. Then his fingers picked up his Wagnall &
Bartel's Law Firm ball point pen. Twice he tapped the pen against the
documents, then he set the pen down, only to finally glance up at Rick.
"Because she has no living relative, she'd go into the care of Child
Protective Services."
"No." Rick stated firmly. "She has me. And that's enough." He walked away
from the desk and strode over to the window, and for a long period stared
out over the fog- covered peninsula.
Meanwhile, Milton glanced back at the will. The message had been delivered.
Robert Brownell had still requested Rick Downley to be the executor over the
estate, to be Becca's legal guardian, yet the terms had been changed. Robert
had left his friend with nothing. Now, Rick had read the will and he knew
the impact of these changes. At the moment, no answer was needed. Milton's
task was complete. He tucked the file back into his briefcase and prepared
himself to leave. "Wagnall will be in touch."
"Wait."
Milton sighed and sank back into his seat. "Yes."
Slowly, Rick turned around and in a controlled voice said, "I want to show
you something." Then, without looking at Milton, he strode past the antique
books, the gallery of fine art, the exquisite statues, and the custom
furniture, until he stopped at an enclosed curio cabinet in the far corner
of the room.
"Do you see that?" Rick pointed at a small terracotta statue of a woman
holding a young child. "400 A.D. from Teotihuacan, Mexico. Do you know what
Teotihuacan means?"
Milton shook his head.
"'The City of the Gods', or 'Where Men Become Gods'. Rob said he purchased
this at auction in Zihuatanejo. He had bought it for Mia while they were
staying in La Vida Que Cubra and he had learned that she was expecting. A
symbol of his love," Rick studied the statue, and then finally, after a long
moment, glanced back at the young attorney. "But then she died, when Becca
was only two. Did you know that?"
Milton shook his head.
"Mia died when Becca was two," Rick repeated. "And Rob needed a friend - so
he turned to me. He relied on me. It was me who gave him the strength to
cope. Yet in exchange for all I offered him, he promised me a chunk of his
portion. We discussed this, just like we discussed all our business affairs.
He mentioned stocks, bonds, gold, and specific property. All this in
exchange for the friendship I offered him.
"I gave him a great deal, Mr. Haight. Our lives intertwined in business, in
travels, in personal affairs, in the caring for his daughter. He needed me,
and I was there. I was always there."
Milton nodded, unclear of how to bring this conversation back to a legal
wrap-up.
Meanwhile Rick remained absorbed in his thoughts. "I did everything I could
for Rob. I tried to save him. But it was clear he was past any point of
help. He was miserable, clinically depressed. It wasn't a question of
*if* he was going to take his life, but rather
*when*. That was why our discussion of Becca cared such weight. When he
asked me to care for her when he was gone, I understood. I knew what would
be required of me. It was I who accepted that duty. Of course it's a huge
responsibility...but I love that girl."
Rick's tone bothered Milton. He placed his hand on his briefcase and glanced
at the door.
"Let me see the document again." Rick ordered.
Milton bit down on his lip. Against his wishes, he turned to look back at
Rick. Slowly he opened his case and retrieved the will. He handed it over,
only to painfully watch as Rick rescanned the words that minimized his past
and alienated his future.
After the verification was done, Rick dropped the document onto the desk and
whispered, "You'll pay Brownell." Then in haste he strode over to the curio
cabinet. With one jerk of the wrist he flung the cabinet door open, reached
in and grabbed the Teotihuacan statue. For long, heavy seconds, he stared at
the figure. Through tight, short, heavy breaths, Rick let his fingers glide
over the statue's ceramic hair, nose, lips, and breasts. Then his eyes
scanned the entire room, as if taking in the array of world wonders. Yet
none of it was his.
When his eyes returned back to the statue, he touched it one more time. Then
the breathing stopped and an evil grin twisted across his face. Suddenly he
launched his arm back and then threw the statue across the study. It flew
high, freely soaring. Until it hit an obstructing wall and a deafening crash
filled the room. Chunks of plaster fell to the floor. "Enjoy hell, Rob."
Milton flinched, which caused Rick to smirk.
"What's wrong, Mr. Haight? Does hell bother you?" Without needing a reply,
and with complete composure, Rick turned back to the cabinet. He swung the
door shut and tenderly snapped the latch back into its place.
A knock sounded from the study's entrance.
"Yes," Rick said coolly.
Becca's head appeared in the doorway. "Is everything all right?" Her voice
sounded shaky.
He looked at her and smiled. "Yes." Then his index finger beckoned her back
into the room. "You didn't lie down, did you?"
She kept her eyes on Milton.
"Come," Rick ordered.
She obeyed, and he approached her, locking her into a hug. For uncomfortable
seconds, Milton watched the hold with Rick caressing her back, pulling her
in tight. In time, she succumbed to the hug, and wrapped her arms around
him, until a sob escaped her.
At that point, Rick grabbed her shoulders and held her at a distance. "Your
father took care of you." He smiled. "And," he wiped a tear from off her
cheek, "it's official. He's made it possible for me to be your guardian."
Through moist eyes, Becca glanced at Milton, then back at Rick and smiled.
"Thank you," she said to both men. She returned Rick's hug and whispered in
his ear. "This is good."
"It's very good," Rick stated.
*Winter - 1984*
The morning fog rolled in, moving across the Pacific Ocean, elongating over
the Palos Verdes Peninsula, and winding up the rolling hills of an elite
Southern California town. Like a methodical pattern, the fog ascended up the
curved lane of the Robert Brownell's estate in time to follow alongside
Milton Haight's Lexus.
When Milton stepped out into the courtyard, the thickened haze cast an
ominous view, and this stirred him to reflect on the recently deceased. If
wealthy ghost existed, surely Robert Brownell hovered here to fondle his
vast riches.
Milton approached the encroaching entrance and the fog whiffed near him.
Perhaps Robert had tarried for this; an eventful show was about to unfold
all due to Brownell's last will and testament.
Just as suspected, once the hired help beckoned him in, Milton noted the
mystical cloud vacillating near him. Perhaps Robert had stains of regret.
Regret at the uncomfortable news Milton had come to deliver. "But I'm only
the messenger," Milton reminded himself.
Yet his body continued to stiffen as the damp mist guided him past the
ornate entrance, the marble lobby, Persian rugs, and the vast array of
museum-quality paintings and sculptures. As the dense fog swirled along,
keeping stride with the escort, Milton concluded that a critical family
member had indeed arrived.
Once they reached the entrance, the hired help opened the French doors
revealing Brownell's expansive study, and a sudden light-headiness swept
over Milton.
From the room two pairs of eyes stared at him. One set was a dim gray,
belonging to the stern, protective face of Rick Downley, Robert's close
friend. The other eyes sparkled green, brim with tears, and belonged to
Becca Brownell, Robert's fifteen-year old daughter.
Milton drew in a breath. "Hello," he heard his small voice fade across the
elongated room.
Rick reached for Becca's hand; then his voice boomed through the silence.
"Where's Wagnall?"
Milton inhaled again, only to feel the fog expand inside his head, but this
time he also felt the chill. Amid the ornate artifacts, elegant furniture,
and artist masterpieces, a window beckoned in the muggy ocean air; coldness
settled between him and the two that stared at him.
"Where's Wagnall?" Rick asked again.
Milton cleared his throat and managed to mumble, "He couldn't make it."
Rick refused to arise. "Why?"
The true reason legendary Attorney Max Wagnall was not there was because he
was a coward. His law firm brought uncomfortable news, the type that Wagnall
could delegate to the newest member of his practice. Now as Milton faced
Rick, it appeared that this man also understood the meaning of Wagnall's
absence.
Wagnall had been Robert Brownell's attorney for years; he had managed
absorbent amounts of legal documents centered around Brownell's vast
portfolio of wealth. In a way, Wagnall was one of the few men who could say
he knew Robert well. Or rather he could say he knew the recluse as well as
any man could know him, other than of course Rick Downley. To Wagnall's
knowledge, which had been passed on to Milton, Rick was the only living
person Robert had invited into his quiet, private world. And Rick had
embraced the open door policy; he had walked in Robert's footsteps, invested
as he had, traveled where he went, lived as he lived, and acted like a
surrogate father when Robert fell short in his fatherly duties to Becca.
Over the years, Rick held the great trust of both Robert and Becca.
Wagnall did not fully understand the Brownell's odd arrangement. Yet what he
did understand was that the legal document, which his office possessed,
would not be well received. That is why at precisely 9:32 a.m., Wagnall had
thrust the document in Milton's briefcase and pushed Milton out the door
alone to face the grieving Brownell clan.
For all the humidity the fog offered, Milton's voice felt surprising dry.
"Wagnall had a conflict, and so he asked me to deliver this."
Rick looked at Milton's thinning blond hair. Then he examined Milton's eyes,
his nose, his mouth, throat, torso, knees, and finally his toes. Milton
regretted not succumbing to the early morning consideration of wearing his
prized Pierre Armando suit on this particular day. Instead, he stood
completely unprepared, too inexperienced to know how to face the erupting
tension.
Although Rick had not offered him a seat, Milton took the only spot open,
the sleek office chair stationed behind the large executive desk. He had
hoped such placement would bring him a feeling of authority, yet the fog
raced ahead, greeting Milton again precisely as he sat across from Rick's
stone-focused face.
For a mere half-dozen seconds, Milton entertained this powerful stare, then
he reached for his briefcase and shuffled through the bag. The file was
right where Wagnall had placed it, clearly labeled, easy to find. However
Milton used this delay time to search through the unbearable fog trapped
within his mind. Through sluggish thoughts, he questioned if the opportunity
for small talk had ever existed. If so, it was nonexistent now.
At last Milton raised his eyes, only to see the anger bubbling in Rick's
face. "What did Wagnall tell you?" Milton asked cautiously.
"What he didn't tell me is that he was sending you."
"Yes, well. . . he's concerned that before Robert passed away. . .he may not
have conveyed to you all the details of the will. Everything might not be as
you had hoped."
Rick glanced at Becca. Fear covered her face. So he placed his arm around
her. His movement was like a father, like the guardian that the will
specified him to be. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm here to take care of
this."
The lines of concern lifted from her face. "Do I need to be here?" she asked
Rick, but watched Milton.
Rick shook his head. "Not if you don't want to."
"I don't."
She stood, as did Rick. "Since Wagnall isn't here," he said. "We can discuss
all this later."
Becca nodded. Then she hugged him. "Thank you."
A smile crept across his face, and his lips grazed past her ear. "Why don't
you go lie down," he whispered. "You look tired, and I know you didn't sleep
well last night."
Something in this exchange disturbed Milton, almost like there was more to
be seen than what he saw. It was a slight illusion, an erroneous trick
preformed by the fog. As quick as the inappropriate thought came, Milton
dismissed such a scandalous speculation. Certainly, the family was odd,
however Downley was at least twenty-years her senior.
As soon as Becca exited the room, Rick's limited soft demeanor also fled.
Now he turned and looked Milton directly in the eyes. "You know Wagnall
should be here."
"Yes." Milton answered the statement.
"And you know that I was there when Rob and Wagnall drafted that will."
"I know that Wagnall understands your concern--"
"No," Rick cut him off. "You know if there's been any change--then there's
been a mistake."
Milton heaved out a sigh. "Wagnall and I wish there was. As I was saying,
Wagnall tried to find a loop hole. He's looked. And his only consolation to
you is to walk away from this. You don't have to fulfill Robert's wishes."
"Let me see the will."
Milton did not protest. Instead he handed over the file, the previous will
signed in 1980, which everyone had come to accept, value, and regard, as
well as the one-page handwritten will with last year's summer intern
shamefully listed as the witness. Prior to Wagnall's most recent discovery,
no one else knew of the change.
But Milton watched now as Rick's neck muscles tightened and the gray eyes
narrowed. Then silent fury followed.
He tossed the file back at Milton. "What about Becca?"
"You don't have to be the executor over the estate, and you don't have to be
her guardian either. You don't have to fulfill any of Robert's requests."
Rick glared at Milton. "What happens to Rebecca?"
Milton casts his eyes down at the papers. Carefully his fingers scooted the
stack into an orderly pile. Then his fingers picked up his Wagnall &
Bartel's Law Firm ball point pen. Twice he tapped the pen against the
documents, then he set the pen down, only to finally glance up at Rick.
"Because she has no living relative, she'd go into the care of Child
Protective Services."
"No." Rick stated firmly. "She has me. And that's enough." He walked away
from the desk and strode over to the window, and for a long period stared
out over the fog- covered peninsula.
Meanwhile, Milton glanced back at the will. The message had been delivered.
Robert Brownell had still requested Rick Downley to be the executor over the
estate, to be Becca's legal guardian, yet the terms had been changed. Robert
had left his friend with nothing. Now, Rick had read the will and he knew
the impact of these changes. At the moment, no answer was needed. Milton's
task was complete. He tucked the file back into his briefcase and prepared
himself to leave. "Wagnall will be in touch."
"Wait."
Milton sighed and sank back into his seat. "Yes."
Slowly, Rick turned around and in a controlled voice said, "I want to show
you something." Then, without looking at Milton, he strode past the antique
books, the gallery of fine art, the exquisite statues, and the custom
furniture, until he stopped at an enclosed curio cabinet in the far corner
of the room.
"Do you see that?" Rick pointed at a small terracotta statue of a woman
holding a young child. "400 A.D. from Teotihuacan, Mexico. Do you know what
Teotihuacan means?"
Milton shook his head.
"'The City of the Gods', or 'Where Men Become Gods'. Rob said he purchased
this at auction in Zihuatanejo. He had bought it for Mia while they were
staying in La Vida Que Cubra and he had learned that she was expecting. A
symbol of his love," Rick studied the statue, and then finally, after a long
moment, glanced back at the young attorney. "But then she died, when Becca
was only two. Did you know that?"
Milton shook his head.
"Mia died when Becca was two," Rick repeated. "And Rob needed a friend - so
he turned to me. He relied on me. It was me who gave him the strength to
cope. Yet in exchange for all I offered him, he promised me a chunk of his
portion. We discussed this, just like we discussed all our business affairs.
He mentioned stocks, bonds, gold, and specific property. All this in
exchange for the friendship I offered him.
"I gave him a great deal, Mr. Haight. Our lives intertwined in business, in
travels, in personal affairs, in the caring for his daughter. He needed me,
and I was there. I was always there."
Milton nodded, unclear of how to bring this conversation back to a legal
wrap-up.
Meanwhile Rick remained absorbed in his thoughts. "I did everything I could
for Rob. I tried to save him. But it was clear he was past any point of
help. He was miserable, clinically depressed. It wasn't a question of
*if* he was going to take his life, but rather
*when*. That was why our discussion of Becca cared such weight. When he
asked me to care for her when he was gone, I understood. I knew what would
be required of me. It was I who accepted that duty. Of course it's a huge
responsibility...but I love that girl."
Rick's tone bothered Milton. He placed his hand on his briefcase and glanced
at the door.
"Let me see the document again." Rick ordered.
Milton bit down on his lip. Against his wishes, he turned to look back at
Rick. Slowly he opened his case and retrieved the will. He handed it over,
only to painfully watch as Rick rescanned the words that minimized his past
and alienated his future.
After the verification was done, Rick dropped the document onto the desk and
whispered, "You'll pay Brownell." Then in haste he strode over to the curio
cabinet. With one jerk of the wrist he flung the cabinet door open, reached
in and grabbed the Teotihuacan statue. For long, heavy seconds, he stared at
the figure. Through tight, short, heavy breaths, Rick let his fingers glide
over the statue's ceramic hair, nose, lips, and breasts. Then his eyes
scanned the entire room, as if taking in the array of world wonders. Yet
none of it was his.
When his eyes returned back to the statue, he touched it one more time. Then
the breathing stopped and an evil grin twisted across his face. Suddenly he
launched his arm back and then threw the statue across the study. It flew
high, freely soaring. Until it hit an obstructing wall and a deafening crash
filled the room. Chunks of plaster fell to the floor. "Enjoy hell, Rob."
Milton flinched, which caused Rick to smirk.
"What's wrong, Mr. Haight? Does hell bother you?" Without needing a reply,
and with complete composure, Rick turned back to the cabinet. He swung the
door shut and tenderly snapped the latch back into its place.
A knock sounded from the study's entrance.
"Yes," Rick said coolly.
Becca's head appeared in the doorway. "Is everything all right?" Her voice
sounded shaky.
He looked at her and smiled. "Yes." Then his index finger beckoned her back
into the room. "You didn't lie down, did you?"
She kept her eyes on Milton.
"Come," Rick ordered.
She obeyed, and he approached her, locking her into a hug. For uncomfortable
seconds, Milton watched the hold with Rick caressing her back, pulling her
in tight. In time, she succumbed to the hug, and wrapped her arms around
him, until a sob escaped her.
At that point, Rick grabbed her shoulders and held her at a distance. "Your
father took care of you." He smiled. "And," he wiped a tear from off her
cheek, "it's official. He's made it possible for me to be your guardian."
Through moist eyes, Becca glanced at Milton, then back at Rick and smiled.
"Thank you," she said to both men. She returned Rick's hug and whispered in
his ear. "This is good."
"It's very good," Rick stated.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
A writer...
[A Real Happening]
It was Christmas 2003. My first novel Sander's Starfish was hot off the press, and the publishing house was having a special Christmas dinner for some of the authors. As I attended this event, a fellow author approached me. I recognized him from a Writer's Conference years earlier. At that time we had both been aspiring writers, sharing our story ideas, and our hopes and dreams. Now a few years later we both were attending this special author event.
As we shared our hellos, and the joy of having our paths cross again at such an event, he then said to me. "I'm glad you are here. I didn't think you had what it takes."
What it takes.
I have reflected on that phrase much over these last several years. What did he mean? What does it take to be a writer? What does it take to be an author? Was he referring to me as a writer, or me as an author? And most importantly, do I have what it takes?
To me, an author and a writer are two distinctively different things. I have struggled with both, and with both I have questioned whether I have what it takes.
What I do know is that I love to write. Yet for far too long, I withdrew that love because I got lost in my own maze of what it means to be an author.
Fast forward from that Christmas party to a warm summer day years later. This time I'm out walking with a good friend. I'm between jobs, and I tell her I'm figuring out what I want to do with my life (one of those life-pondering moments). She asks about my writing. I say, "I don't know where my writing fits." Then she says the most prized response, "But that's who you are. You are a writer."
She's right. That's who I am.
I am not someone who will push a book on you to make a sale. I am not one who will self-promote and tell you how great I am. Speaking engagements make me shake with nerves. I've read the marketing and self-promotion books, and I tried to do the array of "pushes" that came with being an author. And it wasn't me.
Instead in my struggle to be an "author", I lost my ability to write.
Now through a series of events, I've re-found what I need to do. I need to write. And I want to write. So I need to take certain steps so I can write.
In exchange for writing, I'd love an audience. (What storyteller doesn't want someone who will listen to their tales?) I want to share with you some of the magical worlds that entertain me. I want you to meet some characters that we can laugh at, cry with, and hopefully rejoice with in their triumphs.
If you would like to share in the adventure, then please join me on this journey.
And...here's my moment of self-promotion: I've spent a large chunk of my life trying to get what it takes to write; I've learned a lot, and I'm continuing to learn; and each book just keeps getting better.
Oh, and most importantly, I want you to know that this blog exists because...I love to write.
It was Christmas 2003. My first novel Sander's Starfish was hot off the press, and the publishing house was having a special Christmas dinner for some of the authors. As I attended this event, a fellow author approached me. I recognized him from a Writer's Conference years earlier. At that time we had both been aspiring writers, sharing our story ideas, and our hopes and dreams. Now a few years later we both were attending this special author event.
As we shared our hellos, and the joy of having our paths cross again at such an event, he then said to me. "I'm glad you are here. I didn't think you had what it takes."
What it takes.
I have reflected on that phrase much over these last several years. What did he mean? What does it take to be a writer? What does it take to be an author? Was he referring to me as a writer, or me as an author? And most importantly, do I have what it takes?
To me, an author and a writer are two distinctively different things. I have struggled with both, and with both I have questioned whether I have what it takes.
What I do know is that I love to write. Yet for far too long, I withdrew that love because I got lost in my own maze of what it means to be an author.
Fast forward from that Christmas party to a warm summer day years later. This time I'm out walking with a good friend. I'm between jobs, and I tell her I'm figuring out what I want to do with my life (one of those life-pondering moments). She asks about my writing. I say, "I don't know where my writing fits." Then she says the most prized response, "But that's who you are. You are a writer."
She's right. That's who I am.
I am not someone who will push a book on you to make a sale. I am not one who will self-promote and tell you how great I am. Speaking engagements make me shake with nerves. I've read the marketing and self-promotion books, and I tried to do the array of "pushes" that came with being an author. And it wasn't me.
Instead in my struggle to be an "author", I lost my ability to write.
Now through a series of events, I've re-found what I need to do. I need to write. And I want to write. So I need to take certain steps so I can write.
In exchange for writing, I'd love an audience. (What storyteller doesn't want someone who will listen to their tales?) I want to share with you some of the magical worlds that entertain me. I want you to meet some characters that we can laugh at, cry with, and hopefully rejoice with in their triumphs.
If you would like to share in the adventure, then please join me on this journey.
And...here's my moment of self-promotion: I've spent a large chunk of my life trying to get what it takes to write; I've learned a lot, and I'm continuing to learn; and each book just keeps getting better.
Oh, and most importantly, I want you to know that this blog exists because...I love to write.
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