Chasing Lilacs Read online

  PRAISE FOR CHASING LILACS

  “Prepare to laugh, cry, and pray as you inhale each poignant word of this stunning debut novel. Simply unforgettable!”

  —Patti Lacy, author of An Irishwoman’s Tale, 2008 Forward Magazine Book of the Year Finalist, and What the Bayou Saw

  “CHASING LILACS is the kind of coming-of-age story that sticks to you beyond the last page. Unforgettable characters, surprising plot twists, and a setting so Southern you’ll fall in love with Texas. Carla Stewart is a new talent to watch!”

  —Mary E. DeMuth, author of Daisy Chain and A Slow Burn

  “Carla Stewart writes a tender story with such emotional impact, you will hope, fear, cry, and rejoice with her characters. Readers will find themselves cheering Sammie on through her ordeals as she seeks love and forgiveness.”

  —Janelle Mowery, author of Love Finds You in Silver City, Idaho

  “Gripping! Nostalgic and filled with bittersweet memories, Carla Stewart’s CHASING LILACS captured my imagination, and my heart, from the moment I started reading.”

  —Elizabeth Ludwig, award-winning author and speaker

  “Endearing characters, twists that propel the story ever forward, and soul-searching questions combine to create a heart-tugging tale of self-reflection and inward growth. Carla Stewart’s CHASING LILACS carried me away to 1950s small-town Texas… and I wanted to stay. I highly recommend this insightful, mesmerizing coming-of-age tale.”

  —Kim Vogel Sawyer, bestselling author of My Heart Remembers

  “Carla Stewart’s debut novel, CHASING LILACS, is a deeply emotional masterpiece. Witty dialogue and normal teen antics nicely balance the thought-provoking introspection and dramatic storyline. Young Sammie, the heroine, is both a normal kid and wise beyond her years. Reminiscent of slower-paced days gone by, CHASING LILACS takes you back to days forgotten and leaves you inspired.”

  —Vickie McDonough, award-winning author of 18 books and novellas, including the Texas Boardinghouse Brides series

  “It’s the fifties—Elvis is on the radio, summer is in the air, and a young girl tries to understand the mystery that is her mother. Like its heroine, Sammie Tucker, this gripping and emotional debut will find its way into your heart.”

  —Shelley Adina, Christy finalist and award-winning author of the All About Us series

  “Guilt and redemption are at the soul of this heartwarming tale of a little girl searching for her mother’s love. Carla takes us back to a simpler time and a simpler place with wit, wisdom, and insight. God bless her.”

  —Charles W. Sasser, author of God in the Foxhole and Arctic Homestead

  “Carla Stewart has crafted a wonderful story in the style of To Kill a Mockingbird with compelling characters you will care about.”

  —Margaret Daley, award-winning, multi-published author in the Christian romance genre

  “A remarkable debut novel. Carla Stewart cleverly captures the stark simplicity of a young girl’s voice with all the masterful qualities of powerful prose. Unforgettable.”

  —Susan Meissner, author of The Shape of Mercy

  “A 1950s story that captures the mood of that time as well as my heart, Carla Stewart’s debut CHASING LILACS unfolds masterfully. An original setting, quick wit, startlingly real characters, and a foreboding presence combine into a fast-paced, meaningful read. Traversing through many a dark and secretive corner of the human mind, yet always with humor, Ms. Stewart leads the reader toward a blindingly pure hope.”

  —Christina Berry, author of The Familiar Stranger

  “Carla Stewart’s lovely voice intrigued me from the start. This well-written story swept me right into Sammie’s world and left my heart singing. A beautiful coming-of-age tale, CHASING LILACS is a captivating debut.”

  —Tina Ann Forkner, author of Ruby Among Us and Rose House

  “Breathe in the scent of CHASING LILACS—nostalgic, yet fresh and real. Carla Stewart has a delicious way with words, and her characters and story are gripping and touching. This is a book to share with friends over coffee and dessert. But your friends will have to buy their own copies because you won’t want to let go of yours.”

  —Sarah Sundin, author of A Distant Melody

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Carla Stewart

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Unless otherwise indicated, Scriptures are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  FaithWords

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/faithwords

  First eBook Edition: June 2010

  FaithWords is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The FaithWords name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56895-1

  To my dad, Mike Brune, and in memory of my mom, Pat Brune.

  You taught me to believe: first in Jesus, then in myself.

  You are loved.

  CONTENTS

  PRAISE FOR CHASING LILACS

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I HAD THE GOOD FORTUNE of growing up in a place similar to Graham Camp. The days were carefree and the summers long. Even then, I had a deep curiosity about things whispered when no one thought I was listening. Thankfully, the events in Chasing Lilacs never truly happened—they are only the what-ifs birthed in my imagination.

  I’m grateful to my parents, Pat and Mike Brune, who gave me a childhood worth remembering. For Donna and Marsha, you are cherished. Nothing compares to having sisters who are also my friends.

  Although writing is a solitary calling, this book would not exist without the many people who’ve shaped my life and my writing. To name each of you would be a whole ’nother book. Still, many of you stand out and have awed me by your gifts of encouragement.

  The Crossroads Writers and Tulsa Night Writers—you saw my beginning pages and offered gentle, but invaluable critique. Carolyn Steele, your wisdom and willingness to pore over the many drafts of this book make me indebted to you always.

  ACFW (American Christian Fiction W
riters). When I attended my first conference in 2006, it was like stepping into writers’ heaven. A special thanks to Mary DeMuth—your affirmation renewed my passion for this story. Chip MacGregor, your honesty and wise counsel set me on the right path. Lissa Halls Johnson, your insights and tough love made this a much better book. Thank you all.

  Sandra Bishop. Words fail me. I am so blessed to have someone who “gets” my writing and who has worked tirelessly on my behalf.

  Myra Johnson, Kim Sawyer, Cindy Hays, fellow WIN members, and those who cheered and prayed in the shadows—I’m honored by your unfailing support.

  My editor, Anne Horch, her assistant, Katie Schaber, and the entire team at FaithWords—your belief in this story and attention to every detail humbles me.

  My “family” at Community Worship Center—you may never know this side of heaven the impact of your prayers and hugs. This journey has been made brighter because of you.

  Max, my husband, my best friend—you’ve filled my life with love and laughter. Your faith in my writing dream overwhelms and sustains me. And for our ever-growing family—Andy, Amy, Brett, Cindy, Scott, Denice, James, Allison, and our six amazing grandchildren—this book is for all of you.

  None of this would have been possible without my Savior, Jesus Christ. For giving me unspeakable joy, I offer up my praise. May all the glory be yours.

  [ ONE ]

  THAT JUNE, RIGHT AFTER I finished sixth grade, Norm MacLemore’s nephew came to Texas for a visit. Benny Ray Johnson brought home a new Edsel. And Mama tried to take her life for the first time.

  We lived at Graham Camp then—a petroleum plant with company housing. A spot in the Panhandle of Texas where the blue of the sky hurt your eyes and the wind bent the prairie grass into an endless silk carpet as far as you could see in every direction. God’s country, some people called it. While it may be true that God created that corner of the world, it crossed my young mind that he must have been looking the other way when it came to Mama. Why else would Mama’s spells, as Daddy called them, drive her deeper into her quilts? Lights out. Shades drawn.

  Her spell that June had gone on longer than most, and she seemed to be slipping farther away. I hoped my being out of school might snap her out of it, and I had no trouble inventing excuses to linger in the house and be of some use to Mama. Mostly, she let me fetch her things. An ice bag for her headache. Another one of those pills from the brown bottle.

  I tiptoed in and out with her requests and studied her for signs of improvement. With every smile or pat on my hand, my insides lurched. Maybe today she’ll suggest we bake a cake. Or take a walk down to Willy Bailey’s store. I would have settled for just having her sit with me on the couch and watch television.

  Please don’t get me wrong. Mama was the primary thing on my mind, but a few days into the summer, I began to get restless. Itchy. As I scribbled ideas for the newspaper my best friend, Tuwana Johnson, and I planned to write, my mind drifted, wondering what the next three months would hold. When the floorboards creaked beside me, I looked up, startled to see Mama shuffling into the front room. A little flutter came into my chest. Mama’s robe hung limp on her thin frame, the belt trailing behind.

  My gaze traveled to her face, searching for signs that the fog had lifted. One look at her eyes and I knew nothing had changed. Flat. Muddy. Looking at me, but not really seeing me.

  “Hi, Mama. You want to watch Queen for a Day?” I kept my voice light, airy, and made room for her on the couch beside me.

  She flopped down. “Not those wretched stories. It would give me a headache all over again. No television.”

  “You’re feeling better, then? No headache?”

  She fiddled with the button on the cushion. “Not exactly.”

  Her answer could have gone either way. Not exactly better. Or not exactly a headache. A huge silence hung between us.

  Before I could think of something else to say, the back door slammed and Daddy came in. Even without seeing him, I knew the routine. Hard hat on the hook by the back door. The plunk of the metal lunch box on the kitchen counter. Then Daddy clomped through in his steel-toed boots and appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “Hey, Rita. Good to see you up.” He leaned over and brushed his lips across Mama’s cheek.

  She dipped her head away and pushed herself up from the couch, whisked around the end, and pattered to the bathroom. Not a single word.

  When Daddy winked at me, I couldn’t tell if he was trying to cheer me up or cover the disappointing welcome from Mama.

  Mama came from the bathroom and stood, feet apart, robe gaping over the same nightgown she’d worn all week. Her fingers curled, white-knuckled, around the brown pill bottle.

  “I’m out of pills.” She held out the bottle.

  “You know, sugar, I could take tomorrow off. Take you into Mandeville and see Doc.” He put his arm around her slumping shoulders, but she shrugged him off.

  “I don’t need to see Doc. I need my pills.”

  “Seems to me they ain’t doing much good. Maybe Doc could give you a different brand or something….”

  She shoved the bottle into Daddy’s calloused hand. “And what am I supposed to do until tomorrow?” Her eyes darted around, jerky little movements. “Please. Take Sammie with you. Just get them.”

  She backed up the few paces to her room, then turned and shut the door.

  Daddy thumped me on the arm. “You up for a root-beer float?”

  In other words, we were going into town to get Mama’s pills and could stop at the Dairy Cream on the way home.

  He didn’t say anything the whole twelve miles, just tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes aimed straight ahead. I counted rusty brown cows with white faces and wished Mama had some physical thing wrong, like a broken leg or appendicitis, so we could say, “Just two more weeks and she’ll be good as new.” But deep down I knew it was something else. I just didn’t know what.

  In the waiting room, I thumbed through a dog-eared Highlights magazine while Daddy went into Doc’s office. When they came out, Daddy put the refilled bottle in his shirt pocket, and Doc handed me a peppermint stick. “Take good care of your mother, Sammie.”

  I should have taken Doc’s advice.

  But the next morning, Daddy told me Mama needed to rest. “Go on and have some fun.”

  Sunshine peeked through the window above the kitchen sink. It didn’t really take any convincing on Daddy’s part. I slipped on my Keds and took off. Sweet, dewy grass and a drift of rose scent gave me a heady feeling as I walked the two streets over to Tuwana’s. When she opened the door, the smell of peanut butter cookies floated out. Delicate, sugary sensations tickled my nose. Tuwana flounced into the kitchen and snitched us each a cookie. I took tiny bites and let each morsel melt in my mouth.

  I thanked Mrs. Johnson and licked my lips around a stray crumb. She smiled through pink lipstick and told me it was nothing, that she was glad to see me. Wiping her hands on a starched, dotted-Swiss apron, she turned back to the cookies.

  Tara and Tommie Sue, Tuwana’s little sisters, giggled above the blare of the television. Through the organdy curtains that billowed out from the window breeze, the sun scattered dust motes. I just stood there, soaking up the clatter, until Tuwana dragged me out onto the front porch. We painted our fingernails, then our toenails, and between it all, talked about a lot of nothing.

  When the noon whistle shrilled through every inch of Graham Camp, it surprised me that the whole morning had flown by. Not once had I thought about Mama.

  Running into the wind, my hair streamed behind me as I cut through the Barneses’ backyard, darted past a row of tin garages, and zipped into the house. I took a second to catch my breath and listen for Mama, but the hum of the Frigidaire was all I heard. I went to the bathroom, flushed, and reached for the faucet to wash my hands. That’s when I noticed the brown pill bottle on the back of the toilet.

  The lid lay off to the side. I picked it up to screw it back on, thinkin
g Mama had been careless when she took her last dose. The bottle was empty. I scanned the bathroom. No other bottles. No other pills laying around.

  A tingle zipped up my spine. I raced into Mama’s room, shadowy and stale, and squinted to make out her body curled under her quilt—asleep, it looked like. I touched her lightly on the shoulder.

  “Mama, wake up. It’s time for lunch.”

  She didn’t move.

  I gave her a little shake, not wanting her to yell at me if she had another headache.

  Nothing.

  A knot formed in my throat. Her mouth sagged toward the pillow, her face ghostly white. I moved the quilt and lifted her hand, but it flopped back against the sheet. Check her pulse.

  I looked around, wondering if someone had said the words or if I had just thought them. Check her pulse. How? What did Miss Good from health class teach us? Which side of the wrist? Thumb on the inside of the wrist. No, maybe it was the index finger. Think. Think. Think.

  Forget the pulse. Check her breathing. I leaned down close, hoping to hear some air coming from Mama’s mouth. My own heart banged against my chest, filling my ears with its thump, thump, and I knew it was useless. Even if Mama were breathing, I would never hear it.

  I flew out the back door, ducked under the clothesline, and tore through Goldie Kuykendall’s yard. Not even bothering to knock, I ran in and yelled, “Goldie! Help!”

  Goldie listened to my blubbering and picked up the telephone. “We’ve got an emergency over at the Tuckers’. Get Joe straightaway…. Tell him his wife swallowed a bottle of pills.”

  She hung up and made another phone call. Then another. A ticking clock in my head screamed “Hurry!” but the next thing I knew, Goldie grabbed my hand and rushed us across our backyards to my house.

  Already, like some strange magic, neighbors appeared, whispering, asking what had happened. I broke loose from Goldie’s grip, and as I raced up the steps to the front door, I heard Daddy’s Chevy screech to a halt. Red-faced from working in the boiler room at the plant, he stormed past me. Goldie took my hand and whispered, “Wait.” In no time, the screen door swung open, nearly knocking me down. Daddy stepped out carrying Mama. He put her in the car and ducked into the backseat beside her. Brother Henry from the Hilltop Church got behind the wheel and roared off.