The Ultimate Field of Dreams

   Everyone has probably seen, or is familiar with, the movie Field of Dreams. It is a baseball movie that is NOT about baseball. The movie is about dreams: broken dreams; unfulfilled dreams; and dreams of reconciling past hurts or wrongs. An Iowa farmer (Ray Kinsella), after hearing voices instructing him to do so, plows under his corn and builds a baseball field, thinking it will bring back Shoeless Joe Jackson (who was his father's hero). The field does bring back Shoeless Joe, but the ultimate reason for building the field is that it brings back Ray's dad, whom he had a falling out with when he was seventeen. Ray's dad died before he could make things right, and he lived with that regret all his life.
   We all have unfulfilled dreams We all understand that longing to reconcile a past hurt, but we are either unable (because the person died) or just don't know how to make things right. We spend our lives in sadness or frustration over what might have been, unable or unwilling to go after that dream. We spend our lives in sadness or frustration over what happened, unable or unwilling to do whatever it takes to right the wrong. It seems that, in this life, our dreams are just that: wishes that can never come true. The appeal of Field of Dreams is that for Ray, in this life, magic happens and his dream is fulfilled.
   In the film, there are a couple of exchanges where the characters talk about heaven. In one particular exchange, between Ray and his father, the father asks if they are in heaven, to which Ray replies, “No, it's Iowa.” Ray then asks his father, “Is there a heaven?” His father replies, “Oh yeah, it's the place where dreams come true.” Ray looks around at his farm, his family, and realizing his dream of reconciling with his father has come true, replies, “Maybe this is heaven.”
   Well, there is a place called heaven that waits for us when this life is over. It is real, and in a way it is the place where dreams come true. In heaven, the Bible tells us that:

God will wipe away every tear from their eyes;
there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying.
There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.”

   In heaven, all our dreams and hopes are fulfilled. In heaven there is no regret, no pain from past wounds, and no walls between us in our fellowship with others.
   I loved my dad, but as many fathers and sons do through life, we grew apart. We could watch sports together and enjoy each other's company, but the affinity was never as close as we would desire. And forget about talking politics, because the atmosphere would degenerate into downright enmity. Other than his last couple of days on earth, when he was in the hospital with a tube down his throat (unable to communicate, even nonverbally, with me) , I can't remember the last time I told my dad that I loved him. I can't remember the last time he said the words to me, either. We both loved each other, and we both knew that the other felt that way, but whether we were saying goodbye on the phone or after a visit, neither one of us could bring ourselves to say the words.
   In the past, every time I watched Field of Dreams, during the closing scene where Ray's father appears, as a young man, and they talk (culminating in Ray saying, “Hey Dad, you wanna have a catch”), I totally lost it; I cried like a baby. I was overcome with emotion. I so strongly desired to have that reconciliation with my dad, both of us young and vibrant, and having a fresh start, with no past, no history, just an unfettered relationship between father and son. At the same time, I knew, in this life, that reconciliation would never come. I knew that we would go through our entire lives with this wall between us: not in a position of hatred (or not speaking), but just an unsatisfactory relationship between father and son. The combination of longing for that reconciliation, and knowing that it would never come, overwhelmed me emotionally. I don't know why I watched it so many times.
   The week we got back from New Jersey (after my father passed away), I watched Field of Dreams again. Strangely though, this time, when the final scene played, I didn't lose it. It was still an emotionally touching scene for me, but I didn't lose it; I didn't even cry. It took me a while to figure out why that scene no longer caused me to break down, but I finally understand. Before my dad passed, the anguish of knowing that my desire for that kind of relationship would never be fulfilled was too much for me to take. After my dad passed, I knew that if (when) I saw him again, it could only be in heaven. In talking to and praying with my dad during those last couple of days, I believe with all me heart that he is in heaven. I believe that he cried out to God and trusted Him with his soul. Now, my dad is on that Ultimate Field of Dreams: the place where dreams come true, and there is no more sorrow or crying or pain or death. When I see my dad again, it will be in perfect fellowship. There will be no wall or impediment to emotional intimacy, just the perfect fellowship that God intended for all of us from the beginning, before sin entered the world. I no longer have to long for something that will not be: I can now rest in the peace of knowing that the next time I visit with my father, I will be able to say the words, “I love you, Dad.”

My latest book, "Into Each Life ..."

In case you're looking for the latest teaser from my book, there aren't any more. I have to stop at some point or I'll end up putting the entire book online.
However, I will be launching the Kickstarter project to fund the publishing of my book in a week or two. Stay tuned for the announcement of that launch. Be prepared to be a part of that exciting event. 
I need all these "evangelists" for my project I can get.
For now, if you aren't familiar with Kickstarter, and the concept of crowd funding, you can find out more here:

https://www.kickstarter.com/hello?ref=footer

And for the record:

Mozart, Beethoven, Whitman, Twain, and other artists funded works in similar ways — not just with help from large patrons, but by soliciting money from smaller patrons, often called subscribers. In return for their support, these subscribers might have received an early copy or special edition of the work. Kickstarter is an extension of this model, turbocharged by the web.

The next teaser from my latest book, "Into Each Life ..."

   The overnight clouds which had dropped a dusting of snow on the ground had cleared out and given way to clear skies on Jamie's second Saturday morning at the Home. Temperatures rising toward a forecasted high of forty five, the lack of a breeze, and the warming rays of the sun were the perfect recipe for a rousing day of touch football.
   After breakfast and chores were completed, Richard instructed everyone to put on a sweater and meet on the front lawn. They combined with the two cottages next to them and had enough for a game of seven-on-seven.
   Everyone was a little chilly to start, blowing on their hands and holding them in their underarms, but after a few plays they all were warm and sweating. Jamie couldn't stop grinning. He'd never had such fun in all his life.
   When the motorcycle rumbled up the street, everyone stopped playing. Jamie's smile turned to a stoic stare at the rider who stopped in front of the lawn and parked his bike. Michael ran up to the man on the motorcycle. The rider removed his helmet. He looked to be about fifty years old. He had a full beard and salt-and-pepper hair. He wore leathers from his neck to his boots.
   “Hi, Sonny,” Michael said, grinning from ear to ear, eagerly waiting for Sonny to acknowledge him and give him the attention he craved.
   “Hey, Michael. How are you today?” Sonny said.
   “Fine.” Michael happily sprinted back to the field of play.
   Richard approached Jamie. “Jamie, come with me. I need to introduce you to our Program Manager.”
   Jamie followed him reluctantly.
   “Sonny, this is Jamie Myles. He moved in last week,” Richard said.
   “Jamie, nice to meet you, young man,” Sonny said as he held out his hand.
   Jamie looked at the ground as he shook Sonny's hand.
   “Jamie, you need to look an adult in the eye and return a greeting when you're addressed,” Sonny said sternly. “Since you're new, I'm going to let it slide this time. Just don't mistake my kindness for weakness.”
   “Yes, sir,” Jamie said. “Nice to meet you.” He looked at him briefly and then looked down again.
   “Don't let it happen again.” Sonny turned to Richard with a scowl on his face. “You need to work with him.”
   “I will, Sonny,” Richard said.
   Sonny put his helmet back on, fired up his motorcycle, and drove off.









[Sonny – Program Manager at Nachala Home for Boys]

The next teaser from my latest book, "Into Each Life ..."

   After obtaining his doctorate and counseling license, Doc had spent five years working with inner city runaways in Minneapolis. At the same time, he held a counseling position at a juvenile detention center. From there he moved on to a suburban family counseling practice with an emphasis on teenagers. When he landed at Nachala he had a well-rounded resume dealing with youth from every imaginable background.
   Most psychiatrists decorate their office according to their tastes or their expectations of what adults might expect. Doc understood that the business he was involved in was making his clients, which were young people, as comfortable as possible. His office looked like an amalgam of a teenager's home bedroom, a college dorm, and the first bachelor pad of young adult male. Posters of the latest hip bands and singers adorned the walls. A few pieces of simple furniture with pine framing and bland-colored fabric dotted the space. A coffee table and a couple of end tables made of black metal and glass rounded out the look. The finishing touches were a used college dorm desk he'd picked up at a yard sale and a mini college-boy fridge.
   In violation of the Home's strict policy, but keeping with the college theme, he kept a few beers in the fridge at all times. A padlock kept his secret safe, especially from the boys. He kept a hoodie in his desk drawer that he threw on the floor in a heap before the start of each counseling session.




[Doctor Ben Droessler - “Doc.” The on-campus psychiatrist of Nachala Home for Boys]

The next teaser from my latest book, "Into Each Life ..."

   “You need to be aware that this could manifest itself in strange behaviors.”
   “What are you saying? That we shouldn't use the system on him this weekend?” Christine said.
   “No I'm not saying that. You should still use the system. He needs to learn that he's accountable for his actions, even if he's homesick. Just use a little wisdom and be prepared to de-escalate situations.”      Doc made a note to himself on his little pad of paper.
   “What are you writing?” Christine said.
   “Um, honey, don't you think that's a little nosy. Not everything is about you,” Richard said.
   “It's okay,” Doc said. “It is about her, about how difficult she's being.”
   Christine's eyes grew wide with anxiety.
   Doc smiled mischievously. “Christine, you're so easy.”
   She slapped him on the arm and laughed in relief.
   “Seriously, I made a note to myself. I'm going to put Jamie on an antidepressant.”
   “Is that necessary?” Richard said.
   “Hey, who's the doctor here?” Doc said, smiling.

[Christine, the female houseparent in the cottage where Jamie is placed, and a surrogate mother-figure]

The next teaser from my new book, "Into Each Life ..."

   Thus far I've introduced the main characters from the first half of the book, and I've shared a snippet of the wordless communication which Jamie and his mother Crystal share to express those things which are too terrible or painful to voice aloud.

   At this point, I will introduce the main characters in the second part of the book, when Jamie goes away to a group home for troubled teenagers.





   The houses were similar in design, but each was unique in its own way. Some were painted white, some yellow, and some were light blue. All had two stories and a covered porch. Some porches had rocking chairs, some had porch swings, and some had wrought iron furniture. All of the yards were beautifully landscaped.
   In the front yard of each of the houses an engraved wooden sign hung from a post, with a bed of mulch at the base which was bordered by small white rocks. Each sign had a different name on it. One said Ahlbrecht Cottage. Another said Chamberlain Cottage. The blue house with the porch swing was named Fitzgerald Cottage. On the front lawn, a man threw a football to a boy who looked to be about the same age as Jamie. The man was tall and strong. His physical presence was intimidating, but he had a pleasant demeanor. He waved at the car as they drove by. Jamie hesitantly waved back.
   Jamie's heart swelled with the anticipation of an idyllic life in that enchanted place. He dreamed of days filled with adventure, evenings around the dinner table where everyone was polite and smart like in the old movies his mom liked to watch, and hope for the future, for his future. There was a palpable peace and tranquility about Nachala, but it all seemed too good to be true. No place could be that perfect, and besides, if there were such a place, Jamie couldn't believe he deserved such a life. If he did, why had his life been such hell up to that point? His inner battle was one that would not easily be won.

[Richard, the male houseparent in the cottage where Jamie is placed, and a surrogate father-figure]

The next teaser from my new book, "Into Each Life ..."

One more significant excerpt from the first part of the book, and then in the next blog post I will begin revealing the characters from the middle portion of the book, (where Jamie is placed in a group home).



   The bitter November wind had turned Jamie's face red, and left it chapped. His fingertips were numb from the cold. He fumbled with the pull tab as he zipped his jacket up tight around his neck. A dusting of snow covered the road and the cars and the dead lawns and the roofs of the houses. A week after his day in court, he still couldn't get used to spending his afternoons alone.
   He rounded the corner and ambled down his street. He took the stick he had picked up and dragged it on the chain link fence that bordered the Johnson's yard. The vibrations caused the snow that had accumulated on the metal netting of the fence to break free and fall softly to the ground. The rattling noise interrupted the oppressive silence he couldn't escape. In times past, he could count on Shane's endless ramblings to chase away the quiet, but his friend had gotten sent to Juvenile Detention where he would be for the next six months. Since the car theft was his first offense, Jamie got off with probation. Shane wasn't so lucky. The fact that he was the mastermind of their little caper, as well as the fact that he already had a record ensured that he would see the inside of a youth prison.
   Jamie had no tangible reason to be anxious and yet he couldn't settle his mind. He just wanted to get in out of the cold and turn the TV on. The empty noise of the electronic box had always served to distract him from the troubles in his mind and heart. Just a few more houses and I'll be home. His face no longer stung from the chilly air; it was now numb. He focused intently on the street underneath him and the chain link fence that lined the yard he was passing.
   Out of nowhere the Johnson's pit bull lunged onto the fence and barked ferociously. Jamie jumped backwards and put his hand on his heart. “Diablo, you scared the crap out of me, boy!” Jamie reached his hand over the fence and scratched Diablo's head. “You're lucky. You have all that hair to keep you warm.” Diablo wagged his tail and smiled with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he stood with his front paws on the top rail of the fence. “See you later, boy.”
   Jamie kicked a small rock down the edge of the street. It rolled through the snow and came to a stop a few feet away. He approached the rock and shuffled his feet to kick it again with his right foot. He missed the rock and stumbled as his foot slid over the top of the stone. Something had distracted him. Something in the corner of his eye. Something in his driveway, which was the next one down the street. It was a motorcycle, parked crookedly at the end of the driveway near the path to the front porch. A beautiful, lean machine of shiny chrome and cobalt blue paint.
   Randy was back.

The next teaser from my new book, "Into Each Life..."

   Okay, the main characters from the first half of the book have been introduced (scroll down through the recent blog posts to catch up, or for a refresher). Here is a significant excerpt from the opening chapters of the story:

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


   She opened the blinds to let in the soft, early morning light. The warm rays of the sun fell across Jamie's face - the same face that she remembered staring up at her when she first held him in her arms fifteen years ago. His hair was thick and black, with long bangs that hung down, partially covering his eyes. She brushed his bangs to the side so she could see his entire face. His features had filled out, and he had a little peach fuzz on his chin and upper lip, but it was the same little face to her. His lower lip, slightly swollen, sported a fresh, new cut partially covered with dried blood. His cheeks and chin were bruised. His eyelids flickered as the sunlight warmed them. He opened his eyes and saw his mother sitting at the edge of his bed, her own eyes moist with tears.
   “Mom?”
   Her lips quivered. “Randy took off. You'll stay home from school today. I'll tell them you have fever.”
   Jamie looked into her eyes. She looked back. They wanted to talk about what happened, but they never did. It was too awful to verbalize. They wanted to talk about the possibility that maybe Randy wouldn't come back this time, but they didn't. They knew he would return – he always did.
Without speaking, they communicated.
   I’m sorry about what happened to you. I wanted to try to stop him, but I was afraid.
   It’s okay, Mom. It’s not your fault.
   Things will change. I’ll get a job. We’ll move. I’ll find a nice man.
   I know, Mom. I believe you. He turned his head and hid from her eyes the fact that he knew those things would never happen. Things would never change. Randy would come back and torment him again.
   The beatings he didn't mind so much. They were painful and the bruises took time to heal, but they were only exterior wounds. If he'd only had to endure beatings, he could have handled that. It's what followed that was destroying his soul. They say time heals all wounds, but Jamie was sure he would never recover from the horrors he had experienced.
   Once he'd flushed the skepticism from his mind, he turned back toward her and looked again into her eyes.
   I love you, too, Baby. You mean the world to me. No matter how bad things get, we’ll always have each other. Crystal looked away. She wanted to go to the police, but Randy had told her that if she ever did he would kill them both. She didn't know if he was bluffing, but the threat, always floating around in the back of her mind, popped up like a neon sign whenever she considered calling the authorities.

The next tease from my new book, "Into Each Life ..."

   Jamie's first class after home room was his favorite. Picture frames adorned the side walls of the room. Portraits of famous authors from the past - Jane Austin, Louisa May Alcott, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, and F. Scott Fitzgerald - alternated with elementary school primers from the 1700s.
   Audrey Parker had been teaching English at Chapanoke High School for five years. She finally had her room set up just the way she liked it. Several treasured personal volumes, early editions she'd picked up at out-of-the-way bookstores in obscure locations, filled the top shelf of the bookcase that sat behind her desk. Prominently displayed in the center was a fine copy of Oliver Twist.

                                'Please, sir, I want some more.'

   Jamie walked in the classroom and sat at his desk.
   Jamie was Audrey's favorite student. He was a sweet kid with tons of potential, and although he was very smart something seemed to be holding him back. He did well on grammar and sentence structure exercises, but whenever an assignment called for the student to express himself through creative writing, Jamie froze up. He gave Miss Parker this excuse or that excuse for why the assignment wasn't completed, but she knew there was something deeper going on. She was not oblivious to Jamie's recurring absences, or the facial scars and bruises that always accompanied his return to school.

[Audrey Parker, Jamie's English teacher, and objective of Daniel O'Shea's affection, unbeknownst to her]

The next tease from my new book "Into Each Life ..."

   Daniel never got over the incident. His brother was his closest friend. They were both born and raised in Chapanoke, played football together at Chapanoke High, and worked the same shift at the food-processing plant after high school. Michael went on to college and a career in the school system, rising to the position of Vice Principal before his untimely death. Daniel was content to work at the plant for the rest of his life. He was satisfied with steady work and a steady paycheck. When the plant closed down a few years later, Daniel sank into a depression which he battled off and on from that point forward.
   Daniel's grief and anger with himself eventually turned toward God. "It's your fault!" he screamed as he shook a fist at heaven. "Why did you let this happen? My brother was a good man. And now he's dead and the bastard that killed him is walking around free somewhere. How can I believe you care?"
[Daniel O'Shea, friend to Crystal and a sort of father figure to Jamie. Daniel plays prominently into the story, especially later on.]

The next tease from my new book: "Into Each Life ..."

   Voices carried down the hall from the living room.
   "Randy, please settle down," Crystal pleaded.
   "Don't tell me what to do, dammit!"
   "Why are you so angry?"
   "Take it back!"
   "Take what back?"
   "You know damn well what!"
   "Take back that I love you? But I do love you, Randy. I do love you." Crystal believed deep down that Randy had the potential to be a good man. She believed in the power of love and the power of her words to change him.
   There was a loud crack, like bone on bone, followed by a thud.
[Randy McMillan, Jamie's abuser and the live-in boyfriend of Crystal]

The next tease from my new book: "Into Each Life ..."

She put a couple of the little white pills in her hand and popped them in her mouth. She'd perfected the art of swallowing pills without a drink. She laid back on her bed and while she waited to slip from reality into oblivion, she stared at the doll on her dresser. It was a child's doll, but she couldn’t let go of it. Even after she realized she wasn't going to have any more children, and that there was no point in saving it to pass on to a daughter, she continued to hang on to it.
[Crystal Myles, mother of Jamie (protagonist of the story)]

Into Each Life (a novel)

The first teaser (of many installments to come) from:

"Into Each Life ..."

Jamie's life was a nightmare of abuse. His only escapes from the horrors he experienced were the imaginary world he created in his mind and the wordless conversations he shared with his mother.

[Jamie Myles, the protagonist of the story, a 15 year-old boy]

I'll be Home for Christmas

Paul pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road and slowed to a stop. He turned off the ignition, leaned over the steering wheel, and let out a long, weary breath. Slowly, methodically, he opened the door, swung his legs out to the side, and then climbed out of the front seat. After twisting his back, grunting, and looking around, he slammed the door shut and walked around to the rear bumper. He'd noticed his boot lace had come untied, and after spending several moments considering the pros and cons of leaving it be, he decided that the consequences of tripping over the lace and twisting his ankle or breaking his hip were likely enough and ominous enough to warrant taking the trouble to lift his foot up onto the bumper and tie his laces up properly. After securing his boots, with a grunt he dropped his foot to the ground and turned to take in the sight which had made him stop the car in the first place.

A barn. A worn and weather-beaten red barn. There were more barns per square mile in his county than anywhere else in the state. If he stopped to look at every one he would never get home. But this wasn't just any barn. Considering how long it had been abandoned, it was in pretty good shape: the siding was faded and in need of a fresh coat of red paint; the hinges on the green shutters and the hinges of the large doors were rusted; here and there a piece of siding hung loose where it needed to be nailed up tight; and the ends of a few of the metal roof panels were curled up from the infamous storm of the summer of 2002; but all-in-all the old building was holding up reasonably well.

Every month, since that fateful Christmas of 2002, Paul passed by the barn on his way to the doctor for his monthly checkup. He often thought about stopping, but until that particular day, he didn't even slow down.

Paul walked around the barn several times before he stopped at the large door in front. He recalled Paul Jr., just five years old, trying to pull open the fifteen-foot-tall barn door by himself. Paul Sr. would grab the door to help him, but Paul Jr. would yell, “I can do it myself!' To which Paul Sr. would let go of the door and hold his hands up in the air. He'd stand back and wait for his son to tire out and give up. Then he'd grab hold of the door, never mocking his son, and pull it open. Paul Jr. would then, finding a second wind, run into the barn and chase the cats through the straw and up the wooden ladder.

Paul Jr. was fourteen years old the first time he got to drive the tractor by himself. He pulled the tractor out of the barn, tooled around the pasture, and backed it into the barn, all without incident - almost. The main six-by-six post in the center of the barn still bore the deep gash in its side from where Paul Jr. backed the tractor into it. Paul Sr. never did get the post or the back of the tractor fixed. He sold the tractor in the spring of 2003. When the buyer pulled out of the driveway, the last thing Paul Sr. saw was the six-year-old rusty dent in the rear of the tractor. He cried for two days.

The loft over the horse stalls, where hay was stored, was accessible only by a vertical ladder comprised of two-by-fours nailed to the side of two parallel studs which ran from the dirt floor of the barn to the rafters. As fresh in Paul Sr.’s mind as yesterday was the look on his son’s face when he caught Paul Jr. having a proverbial roll-in-the-hay with his high school sweetheart, Cindy. His mind chose to remember their faces only, blocking out the picture of their bodies, which were covered only by a few stray pieces of straw. After giving Cindy privacy to dress, and then seeing her off, Paul Sr. beat Paul Jr. on the rear with a hickory switch and sent him to his room, where he stayed for a month - minus meals, chores and bathroom visits.

The day he saw his son off for enlistment in the Army, Paul Sr. cried. He was proud of Paul Jr. Proud that he'd grown into a man. Proud of the kind of man he'd grown into. Proud that he had the courage to go off and stand on a wall so that others might live in peace and security. In the midst of all his fatherly pride, however, was a feeling he couldn't deny or ignore. He knew, the way a parent sometimes knows, that he was seeing his son for the last time. All parents share that fear when their child goes off to war, but for Paul Sr. it was more than a fear, it was a knowing. Paul Jr. knew it, too. He saw the pain in his dad's eyes, but rather than offer the standard platitude, “I'll see you again,” he stood silently staring into his father's eyes, his own eyes red and moist.

The day Paul Sr.’s life changed irrevocably was Christmas Day, 2002. It was late in the evening and Paul was lounging in his favorite chair, enjoying leftovers, watching an old movie when the doorbell rang. For a fleeting moment he fantasized that it was Paul Jr., in one of those corny moments they show in commercials, where the soldier surprises his wife, or kids, or parents, who were unaware that he was home on leave. Paul Sr. hadn't seen his son in six months, and hadn't heard from him in two weeks. When they last talked, Paul Jr. told his dad he wouldn't be able to come home for Christmas. Was he sandbagging, to secure the surprise? Was it Paul Jr. at the door?

Paul Sr. laid his plate on the side table and sprang to his feet. He quickly walked down the hall to the foyer. His eyes filled with tears as he imagined seeing his son in his uniform, hugging him and then sitting down to turkey and fixin's and a beer. Could there be a better way to celebrate Christmas?

Through the glass sidelights in the entry hall next to the door, he saw a man dressed in an Army uniform. Then he noticed a second figure, also dressed in military regalia. “Maybe Paul Jr. brought a friend home for a visit. Hey, the more the merrier,” he thought. But why were they in dress uniforms? Why not khakis, or fatigues? Perhaps they were required to dress up for travel?

It took a moment to register in Paul Sr.'s mind, but neither of the men standing outside his front door was his son. Not only were they strangers, in formal attire, but their faces bore serious, somber expressions. The sight brought Paul Sr. to his knees. He sobbed into his hands. As he lay in a heap on the floor, the doorbell rang a second time. If I don't answer the door, they'll go away. If I don't hear them say the words, then Paul Jr. is still alive, to me at least.

He mustered all of his strength and courage, and rose to his feet. When he opened the door the officers had already turned to leave and started down the steps, assuming no one was home. At the sound of the opening door they froze in their tracks and continued to look straight ahead for what seemed an eternity. Finally they turned and started back up the steps. Paul could see the pain in their postures at the realization that they would in fact have to deliver the most awful news a parent could ever hear.

Paul stood resolute and listened as the officers told him about the roadside bomb and the Humvee Paul Jr. was riding in and the fact that he died instantly, that he didn't suffer. They told him that his son's body would be delivered stateside soon and a liaison officer would be in touch with him about funeral arrangements. Paul hugged them both and thanked them for telling him in person. With a strength and sincerity belying his emotional state, he wished them a Merry Christmas. In a strange way, he was comforting the officers in their grief from the dreadful job they’d had to do.

He closed the door and returned to the living room, and as he sat down in his favorite chair, the credits of the old movie rolled and a classic Christmas song played over the names and job titles of those involved in the production of the movie.

“♫ ...I'll be home for Christmas... ♫”

It's been a while

I haven't posted a blog in quite a while. I have been spending most of my energy finishing up my latest book and preparing a query for agents. To read a little bit about my latest book go here:

The Megaphone Society

Oh yeah, I am the featured Author of the Month for June by The Megaphone Society. Yay me!
It seems like composing and editing a query to send to agents is as much work as writing the book itself. Like the book, you want the query to be perfect in every way, but the hard part of the query is that you have to boil down, to a matter of one or two pages, the essence of a novel that is (in this case) 77,000 words. What to put in, what to leave out? How to adequately describe a 300 page novel in a few paragraphs?
Time to get back to work. I hope to start sending out my query in a week or so. Wish me luck and success.
I'll leave you with a brief excerpt from the book:

“Mom?”

Her lips quivered. “Randy took off. You'll stay home from school today. I'll tell them you have fever.”

Jamie looked into her eyes. She looked back. They wanted to talk about what happened, but they never did. It was too awful to verbalize. They wanted to talk about the possibility that maybe Randy wouldn't come back this time, but they didn't. They knew he would return – he always did. But there are some things a mother and son can communicate without speaking, and so they conversed wordlessly for a few moments.

She let him know how sorry she was for what happened. How she wanted to do something but she was afraid.

He let her know it was okay. It wasn't her fault.

She promised things would change. She'd get a job. They'd move. She'd find a nice man.

He indicated he believed her. Then he turned his head and hid from her eyes the fact that he knew those things would never happen. That things would never change. That Randy would come back and abuse him again.

Once he'd flushed the skepticism from his mind he turned back toward her and looked again into her eyes.

She let him know how much she loved him. He was the world to her. No matter how bad their lives got, they always had each other.

After she'd said all she could, Crystal looked away. She wanted to go to the police, but Randy had told her that if she ever did he would kill them both. She didn't know if he was bluffing, but the threat, always floating around in the back of her mind, popped up like a neon sign whenever she considered calling the authorities.

If you can't wait for my book to be picked up by a publisher and pushed out to bookstores across the country, you can find my other books here:

Donovan's Island

The Mystery of Lake Clandestine

When You Die in Your Dreams

God Said Not Yet!

I Am Perfect (in God's Eyes)

March is the Cruelest Month

As March comes to a close, and I look out the window
at the beautiful white snow flakes coming down for the
second consecutive day, I realize T.S. Eliot was wrong.
We are in the middle of the biggest snow we've
had in Spruce Pine since moving here over a year ago,
just nine days after we were teased with a sunny Sunday
afternoon where the mercury hit 70 degrees.

With apologies to Thomas Stearns (Eliot),
March (not April) is the cruelest month.

March is the cruelest month, smothering

Lilacs that tried to bud, mixing

Memory and desire, freezing

Dull roots with late snow.

Winter made us schizophrenic, teasing

Us with balmy weekends, feeding

our hopes of Spring with mirages.

Summer will you ever come, come over the

Blue Ridge?

With one last blast from old man winter, we played in the snow,

Then went on inside, into the Cottage,

And drank hot chocolate, and talked.

(the above is based on the following excerpt from

Wasteland by T.S. Eliot)

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the

Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked

When You Die in Your Dreams (the final two excerpts)

Part Four

There was a knock at the basement door. “Parker? Parker? It's Mom. Dinner's ready.” Mom sounded concerned. It wasn't like me to be late for dinner.

“Parker, I'm coming in,” she called out loudly. The knob turned and the door slowly swung open. From the strobing light of the TV which intermittently pierced the darkness Mom could see me lying in my recliner, with my back to her. After turning on the light switch she walked up to me and gently nudged my shoulder. “Wake up, honey. It's time to eat.”

I didn't budge. I lay motionless, not even snoring.

“Parker, wake up.” Her voice now had a tone of urgency and concern. When I didn't respond she placed her fingers on my neck and felt for a pulse. The cold touch of her fingers on my skin made me jump.

“What's going on?!” I shouted as I sat bolt upright.

Startled, Mom pulled back. From the look on her face you'd think she'd seen a ghost.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“I will be,” she answered. She let out a laugh of relief. “When you didn't respond, I got scared; and when I touched your neck to make sure you had a pulse, you jumped.”

“Sorry about that. I had the strangest dream. It seemed so real. You were there. Dad was there....” I stopped myself as I was about to speak the words – 'Carmen was there.'

“You have a visitor,” she said, beaming from ear to ear. “A very pretty young woman. Her name is Janelle. She said you two dated a long time ago.”

“Did you say Janelle?” I said. Could it possibly be the girl I dated years ago? The one who broke my heart. The one I couldn't forget.

“Yes, dear. She's waiting upstairs.”

“Parker?” came a soft and sweet voice from the doorway. “I hope you don't mind that I came down here. I got tired of waiting upstairs.”

“Janelle, it is you.” I wondered if I was still dreaming. She looked just the same as she did eight years earlier. Her long blonde hair and tranquil blue eyes took me back. All of those old feelings welled up inside of me. My stomach churned. Surely I must still be dreaming, I thought. This is too good to be true.

“So you do remember me?” she said.

“Remember you? There isn't a day goes by that I don't think about you.”

“I've missed you, too.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said. “You broke my heart when you left. You didn't even say good-bye.”

“But I left a note.”

“A short note after all we shared didn't quite cut it.”

“I'm so sorry. Maybe we can start over. Do you think you can find it in your heart to forgive me?”

My head was spinning. I didn't know what to think. “You're not going to believe this, but I just had the strangest dream, and you were in it,” I said.

“Really?”

“We traveled to Austria and the moon and a distant planet. You and I were married and we had a villa on a lake just outside Salzburg.”

Janelle smiled sweetly.

“And the weirdest part is – at the very end of the dream -”

“What?”

“I died.”

“I thought that when you die in your dreams, you die in real life.”

“I used to think that too, but obviously it's just an old wives tale; cause here I am, alive and well.”

“Janelle, dear, can you stay for dinner?” Mom asked.

“I don't know,” Janelle replied nervously, looking to me for guidance.

“Please stay for dinner,” I said to her. I smiled and gave a gentle nod of my head.

Janelle turned to Mom. “Okay, I'll stay” she said.

“Wonderful!” Mom replied. “It will be ready in a few minutes.” She scurried up the stairs and out of sight.

“What was that about?” Janelle asked.

“Mom worries about me being lonely. She is excited to have a young lady in the house.”

“Well, that doesn't put too much pressure on me.”

“Don't worry about it; just be yourself. I think all the pressure is on me,” I replied. “This way,” I said, motioning with my hand up the stairs.

When we got to the kitchen at the top of the steps I was surprised to see only four place settings. Mom offered the chair, at the place she usually set for Carmen, to Janelle. We all sat down at the table and Janelle offered to say grace. Dad smiled at me with a look of profound relief.

Part Five

Upstairs Janelle nervously finished setting out dinner. She knew I was working hard on my book in our dungeon of a basement, but it was out of character for me to be late for our daily dinner appointment. I tended to get very testy when she interrupted my writing process, so she was reluctant to check on me. However, when five minutes late turned into thirty, she decided to chance it.

I always kept the door at the top of the stairs locked as a reminder to Janelle that I was not to be disturbed, but we kept a key above the door frame for emergencies.

The echo of Janelle's frantic knocks cascaded down the stairs and filled the bare, empty basement.

“Honey, I know you're working hard on your book, but it's time for dinner and you're late. And you're never late.”

Three more firm, rapid knocks followed. Still, there was no response from me.

“Parker. Honey? Are you down there? Please answer me. You're scaring me.”

Janelle felt above the door for the ghost key. After dropping the key on the floor several times, she unlocked the door and made her way slowly down the stairs, calling out my name over and over. The smell of burnt coffee wafted up from the utility shelves which sat right beside the rough-framed wooden stairs. “I'll have to buy you some more coffee,” she said nervously, noticing that my container was empty.

 When she reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the center of the room, she froze in her tracks. Unable to move or speak, her eyes grew wide with horror.

My cold, lifeless body lay on the floor underneath one of the low-hanging pipes, a large pool of blood spread out in all directions from under my head. She ran over and knelt down beside me, put her arms around my shoulders and cradled me to her. She tried her best to rouse me, but it was no use – I was gone. 

The End

Look for these fiction novels by Daniel:

“The Mystery of Lake Clandestine”

“Donovan's Island”

(Available on Amazon)

Look for these other titles, coming soon:

***

“Return to Donovan's Island: Cordero's Revenge”

***

“Randolph's Gold (sequel to Lake Clandestine)”

***

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daniel has also published a memoir of his personal battle with “terminal” cancer:

“God Said Not Yet:

One Man's Experience With Terminal Cancer”

-     A #1 seller in both Alternative Medicine and Healthy Living books for Kindle (with more than 15,000 copies in Kindle and print)

When You Die in Your Dreams (excerpts 21 and 22)

(excerpts 21 and 22. If you missed the previous installment, scroll down the blog to catch up. I decided to start posting more material per day. We're almost at the end.)

I was startled by the sound of the front door suddenly popping open.

“You three are back awfully early. I wasn't expecting you for several more hours,” I said to Mom, Dad, and Carmen.

“Parker, it's nearly eight pm. We've been gone all day,” Mom said.

I glanced at my watch, unable to comprehend the fact that so much time had gone by.

“Say, where's Janelle?” Dad asked.

My pulse quickened.

“You know, I'm not sure. I've been on the phone trying to reach an old friend. Jeeves!” I called loudly into the other room.

“Yes, sir,” he replied as he walked in from the kitchen.

“Have you seen Janelle?”

“She went out to sit in the sun several hours ago. I haven't seen her since.” My heart skipped a beat. I rushed to the back door and looked out. How could I have been so careless? Why did I let her out of my sight? My eyes grew wide with horror. I threw open the door and ran out to Janelle's lounge chair which always sat by the reflecting pool. I knew immediately what had happened.

The fedora on the chair was a dead giveaway.

“Chauncey!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “You little yellow bastard! I knew I should have killed you, too.”

My mind was already spinning, planning out the rescue (and retribution) mission. “I'll speed in directly to the heart of the walled compound. They'll never expect such a bold move. I'll snatch Janelle and then as we're flying away I'll drop a nuclear bomb on the palace, annihilating Chauncey and his little minions once and for all.”

One last time, that sense that I was dreaming overwhelmed me. I knew this was all a dream, and yet my desire to save Janelle and exact revenge on Chauncey seemed very real and did not wane.

I recalled reading a book about lucid dreaming – the state where the dreamer becomes aware he is dreaming and is able to choreograph his own dreams. If that were in fact true I could do whatever I wanted.

I simply had the thought, and the Dormez-Vous was parked on the back lawn right next to me. Mom, Dad, and Carmen had come outside to see what was troubling me.

“Chauncey took her,” I informed them as I boarded the space ship.

“Who's Chauncey?” Mom asked.

“Bartholomew's right-hand man,” I answered. “I mistakenly assumed he wouldn't have the guts to retaliate for his boss' death.

“What are you going to do?” Mom asked.

“Don't worry about that,” I replied. “I'll be back with Janelle before you know it.”

“Be safe, dear,” she said.

“I always am,” I replied confidently.

“Good-bye, Parker,” Carmen said as she gave me a hug.

“See you in a little while, sis,” I replied and gave her a peck on the cheek.

I fired up the Dormez-Vous, lifted off the ground and kicked in the afterburners, leaving a patch of scorched earth behind me.

I set the autopilot for Kryllium and eased back to enjoy the ride. Stars whooshed by me like a ferocious meteor shower and then gradually turned into one big blur of white light.

I planned out exactly how the rescue would go. I was, after all, in total command of my dream. I would glide into the walled fortress, easily evading all anti-aircraft fire. I would set the ship down beside the cell where Janelle was being held. After kicking in the door, I would sweep my sweetheart up in my arms and carry her aboard the Dormez-Vous. I would then take off and drop a nuclear bomb on the walled compound as we flew over the exterior walls, ensuring an end of reprisals from any of Bartholomew's minions.

Everything went exactly as I planned. As we flew off into the green sky I sternly warned Janelle not to look back when the bomb when off because the flash would blind her. However, knowing I was in a dream and in control I did look back to observe the destruction. The flash was more brilliant and beautiful than anything I'd ever seen. The mushroom cloud rose magnificently into the sky just like in all the old films I'd seen of atomic bomb detonations. Although I knew the cataclysmic shock wave and heat wave would soon overtake us, I thought that would be a damper on the dream, so in my lucid state I edited the shock waves out of the scene.

I put my arm around my blonde goddess and held her tight as I piloted the Dormez-Vous toward Kryllium's moon where we would stop to refuel and check on Rick. The constellations were especially radiant, complimenting the high I was on from rescuing my love and finally eliminating all my enemies.

We landed on the moon and parked near one of the fuel pumps at Gasteroids. After filling the tanks I implored Janelle to follow me. “I never want to let you out of my sight again,” I said.

Excerpt 22

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I want to check on Rick. I haven't been able to contact him since I called him from Austria before Chauncey abducted you.”

“Are you worried about him?”

“Well, he hasn't answered my calls for three days and that's very unusual for him.”

I knocked on the door three times and waited for Rick's two knocks in response. Nothing. I knocked again. Still no reply. After informing Janelle to stand aside, I kicked down the door. To my horror, I saw Rick lying motionless on the floor with a fedora on his chest.

My eyes turned red and moist as I flew to Rick's side and checked for a pulse. He was dead.

“Maybe if I'd come here first I could have saved him; but I couldn't take the chance that Chauncey would hurt you,” I said to Janelle.

“You can't save everyone, baby,” Janelle responded.

“But if I hadn't asked Rick to get involved he would still be alive. This is my fault.”

I was filled with rage and a desire for revenge – a bloodlust. But I knew that Chauncey was the one who killed my friend and Chauncey was now dead.

“Well old buddy,” I said in a squeaky voice. “I didn't get here in time to save you, but I did get revenge on that little yellow bastard. He's dead.”

“I would have to disagree with that assertion,” came a familiar voice from behind me.

I turned around to see Chauncey standing in the doorway, pointing his gun at me. His hair had fallen out and his skin was badly blistered and sloughing off in places, but his beady little eyes confirmed it was him.

“If you intend to kill someone, you should make sure you finish the job,” he said.

“Chauncey, you little yellow weasel. You just won't die, will you?”

“No, but you're about to.”

“I don't think so,” I said as I turned my back to Chauncey and asked Janelle if she was ready to leave.

“Awfully bold move, turning your back on a man who has a laser-guided blaster pointed at your head,” Chauncey said.

“First of all, you're not a man, and secondly, this is just a dream, one which I control,” I replied. “So I have no reason to fear you.”

“But don't you know, Parker, that when you die in your dreams, you die in real life?”

“That's just an old wives' tale.”

“Is it?” Chauncey replied.

A shot rang out. I wheeled around and all in one motion I pulled my gun out of its holster and shot Chauncey four times – twice in the head and twice in the middle of the chest. He fell lifeless to the floor. I walked over to him and emptied my magazine, twenty rounds, into him. I wanted to make sure I wouldn't be seeing him again. I turned to Janelle to check on her.

“Are you okay, baby?” I asked.

“Oh Parker,” she cried as she ran to me and put her arms around me.

“It's okay. He's gone. The rest of his gang is gone. We're free of all of them for good.”

Janelle and I solemnly walked out to the Dormez-Vous and climbed aboard. After we lifted off the surface of Kryllium's moon I pointed the ship toward home and set the autopilot.

“Parker, come look out the side window,” Janelle said to me. “You need to see this.”

I walked over and sat down next to her and looked out. I saw nothing except a black darkness. There were no stars or lights or objects of any kind visible. The universe, or what I could see of it out the observation window, was cold and dark, like one boundless void. I felt empty and alone. I had rescued my sweetheart and killed the one person left who could disrupt our lives. I should have been happy but I was sad. I had just found Rick, my friend of thirty years, dead; that must be the source of my melancholy, I told myself. I put my arm around Janelle's waist and she put her arm on my shoulder.

“Oh no, Parker!” Janelle exclaimed as she pulled back her hand. It was covered in blood. I reached around and felt the back of my head. It was cold and wet and there was a hole as big around as my fist.

“I think I've been shot,” I said, smiling and wincing all at once.

Her eyes welled up with tears as she frantically searched for the first aid kit. Upon finding it she hurried back to my side. She bandaged my wound and removed my jacket and shirt which were soaked with blood. “Here, this blanket will keep you warm,” she said as she draped it over my shoulders.

“I think I'd like to lie down. Can you get me a pillow,” I asked weakly.

Janelle brought me a pillow and laid it under my head as I leaned back on the bench seat. She pulled the blanket up and wrapped it tightly around me.

“I've lost a lot of blood, baby,” I said. This time I was not smiling or wincing. As a matter of fact, I didn't feel a thing.

“Does it hurt?” Janelle asked tenderly.

“Actually, I don't feel a thing,” I replied.

Tears beaded up in the corners of her eyes. She looked into my eyes and held my hands in hers.

“Can you get me a blanket?” I said. “I'm very cold.”

“Don't talk,” she replied. “You need to save your strength.”

“I love you, Janelle. These last couple of weeks have been the best of my life.”

“Me too, baby. Try not to talk.”

“Promise me you'll take care of my parents.”

“Parker don't talk like that; you're going to be okay,” she said, though she knew it was not true.

“Promise me,” I insisted.

“I promise,” Janelle said to appease me. Tears were now streaming down her cheeks as the inevitability of the situation sank in. She leaned down to hold me. I put my arms around her and closed my eyes.

“Don't worry, my Muse. I'll see you in your dreams,” I said softly.

When You Die in Your Dreams (excerpt 20)

(excerpt 20. If you missed the previous installment, scroll down the blog to catch up)

* * *

“While your parents are in town I'm going to lie out by the lake and get some sun,” Janelle said.

“Okay, I'll be in the house.”

Despite the fact that I was convinced Chauncey would not seek revenge on me, I decided to put in a call to my friend Rick.

“Gasteroids, Rick speaking. Can I help you?”

“Rick, it's Parker.”

“Parker, you old dog. This place is buzzing. Bartholomew's dead. Were you behind it? Is that what you couldn't tell me?”

“Yeah, Rick. It was me.”

“Why'd you do it?”

“He was holding my parents prisoner and he put out a contract on my girl.”

“Well you've made a lot of people very happy.”

“Glad I could be of public service. Anyway, I called because I wanted to ask you to keep your eyes and ears open for me.”

“About what?”

“I've been seeing some strange things. I think Chauncey might come gunning for me.”

“That little weasel?”

“I know. I find it hard to fathom too. Just do me a favor; let me know if you hear anything about him making a trip to Earth.”

“You got it, man.”

“Thanks, Rick. Take care.”

“Talk to you later.”

When Janelle came in from sunning herself by the lake I was sitting at the kitchen table having coffee with one of my favorite personalities from history.

“Honey, say hello to George Washington,” I said.

“Hi, Mr. Washington,” she said blithely. She turned to me and said, “I just had a nice conversation with a man in a boat.”

“What man?” I asked. Couldn't be him, I thought to myself.

“He stopped at our dock and got out to welcome us to the lake. He said he lives in the red chalet across the way,” Janelle said.

“Well that was neighborly.” I continued to do my best to play it cool.

“He was an odd little man. He wore one of those hats like men used to wear in the old days.”

“You mean a fedora?” I asked. My heart beat rapidly and my muscles tensed up. “He didn't happen to mention his name, did he?”

“As a matter of fact he did. He said his name was Chauncey. Another unusual name. I don't seem to meet many people with plain names - except your friend George here. Parker, do you know this Chauncey fellow?”

“No. Never heard of him.”

I could no longer hide my anxiety. I excused myself and went into my study. I paced back and forth. When I killed Bartholomew I didn't consider the possibility that Chauncey might avenge his mentor's death. The Chauncey I knew was a timid little fellow with a yellow streak down his back. He would never go up against me. Or so I thought. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe he was there to offer an olive branch. Perhaps he feared I would come after him next in an effort to tie up any loose ends.

I dialed Rick's direct line at Gasteroids. No Answer. “That's odd,” I thought. “Rick pretty much lives in his office. I wonder what he's up to?” The whole time the phone was ringing I had a gnawing feeling in my gut – the feeling that something was wrong. It was undeniable, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Unbeknownst to me, while I was attempting to reach Rick to see if he'd heard anything about Chauncey's whereabouts, Janelle went back outside to sit in the sun a while longer. She told Jeeves and no one else.

When you Die in Your Dreams (excerpt 19)

(excerpt 19. If you missed the previous installment, scroll down the blog to catch up)

 “I'm ready to get to Austria,” Janelle said.

“If this really is a “magic” carpet, there's no reason it has to take any time to get there,” I replied. As soon as I spoke the words, we were hovering over Lake Wolfgang just outside Salzburg.

“Who's this?” Janelle asked, referring to the man who was now sitting next to us on our nappy ride.

“A real estate agent,” I replied. “He's going to show us some lakefront villas. Pick out one you like.”

We spent several hours touring homes from our flying rug. We checked out the view from the lake, flew over the grounds of each house that pleased our eyes from the water, and zipped through the insides of the homes we really liked. Janelle settled on a majestic stucco manor with a large pool and beautifully manicured gardens by the lake.

“We'll have to send for your parents. We have plenty of room for them,” Janelle offered.

I snapped my fingers and they were there with us on the back terrace. I shook Dad's hand and gave Mom a hug.

“What are we doing here?” Dad asked. “Why aren't you in Alaska?”

“This place is lovely. Does it belong to a friend of yours?” Mom asked.

“It's ours,” I replied as I put my arm around Janelle. “And you two are welcome to live here with us if you want.”

“I don't understand,” Mom said.

“I'll explain it to you later.”

“But what about Alaska?” Dad asked.

“I'll explain about that, too. Right now it's time for lunch. Would you like to eat inside or here on the patio?”

“Out here would be lovely,” Mom answered. “The weather's so nice. This statue is lovely. Who is she?”

“That's Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, desire, and beauty,” Janelle answered. She turned to me. “Parker, are you okay?”

She could tell by the look on my face that I was disoriented. As my cognizance left me once again, I struggled to remember where we were and how we got there.

Something out on the lake caught my eye. I ran to the edge of the water in a panic to get a closer look at him. When I got to the dock he was nowhere in sight. The surface of the water was smooth and tranquil, like a mirror in a dream. I walked back to the terrace, trying process what I'd seen.

“What's wrong?” Janelle asked.

“Nothing. I thought I saw something on the lake, but it was nothing.” I didn't want to tell her that I thought I saw a man wearing a fedora – Chauncey -- in a boat out on the lake. She'd been through enough; I didn't want to worry her. I'm just imagining things, I told myself. Chauncey wouldn't follow us here, and he would never go up against me.

“Let's eat,” I said.

“I've been reading through this brochure about guided trolley tours in Salzburg. I thought your father and I would take one after lunch,” Mom said.

“Sounds good. The Mozart festival is going on right now. I'll have Wolfgang bring a car to the front door.”

“Wolfgang?” Mom asked. “I thought he lived in the 1700s.”

“Wolfgang is the name of our chauffeur. He'll run you into Salzburg where you can catch the trolley.”

“Would you two like to join us?” Mom asked.

“No thanks. You and Dad have a good time together. We're going to stay here and relax.”

“I want to go,” Carmen insisted.

“That would be lovely, dear. I've really missed spending time with you the last few years,” Mom said.

Carmen smiled and hugged her.

“Hey, sis. It's been a long time,” I said as I gave her a hug. “Have fun.”

“Bye Parker.”