First Chapters with Stephanie Kehr, author of Kedar's Tower

Today, I host a young, budding author whose work resonates with my heart. I, too, share an interest in the biblical book, Song of Solomon, and am fascinated that she's chosen to tackle this project. God's best to you, Stephanie, in this writing venture!

Here's what Stephanie says about the story:

"Kedar’s Tower, a fantasy retelling of the book of Song of Solomon, is a work in progress by budding author, Stephanie Kehr. The novel seeks to explain the metaphors in Song of Solomon through story, and provide readers with a better understanding of this often misunderstood book of the Bible. The manuscript has been a work in progress for the past couple of years. It was inspired by some of my own battles with fear and how God set me free from them. I hope that readers of Kedar’s Tower are encouraged to seek freedom from bondage and to take a second look at Song of Solomon — because it’s such an incredible message from God!"

 Kedar's Tower

 CHAPTER ONE

"Technically I am a princess," I said to my only companion, the mirror, with a twirl. The smudges of dirt and grime on my petticoat flashed with the spin, prompting a frown. "But I am also a curse."

"Kedar! Filth of the earth!" Terrin shrieked, confirming my cursory. Something shook my tower from outside. I stumbled, tripped over the untied sash of my dress, and watched my only companion teeter on one elegant leg and smash onto the stone floor. Pieces of mirror skated across the ground, and a streak of scarlet heat oozed from my bare left ankle. I hopped down the patchy stairs on one leg, eyes concentrating on the glass shard I was extracting from the other.

There was no moon this morning, so Terrin's figure startled me, even though I knew he was waiting. His head rose two feet above mine, and his build was solid, burly, and now, intimidating.

I began, "I know—" but he didn't let me finish.

There was a grip on his weapon, worn leather that fit between his knuckles, familiar as his oldest friend. It struck my stomach, and below my shoulder blades. The other end of the weapon, the splintered side, was my own old friend.

"This kingdom despises you," my big brother said. And then he punched with his fist. 

The sky was grey, and moisture hung in the atmosphere, leftover from last night's rain storm. The ground was flat here, good for growing and harvesting, and easy on the knees when we had to walk it for sixteen hours every day. I could see little ruts carved into the dirt by streams of water and droplets still hanging on the grape vines. The grapes went on forever, catching the end of the sky. I knew of nothing beyond them, except what was in my imagination.

Abruptly the weapon came down on my back again, wrenching the fantasies from before my eyes. I stared at Terrin, through blots of dark, fuzzy ink trying to overcome my vision. His shirt was red-orange, a stand out color that I could focus on, to gain back reality. That is an object, I said. The object is constant.

"Traitor to the crown," Terrin shot back. Then he spat out words reserved for the ears of only the most corrupt creatures, and let me go.

I hoisted an empty lug over my right shoulder, and armed myself with a pair of sheers for pruning. Enna stopped our work before I'd even started. Her sandaled feet tripped across the damp ground behind me, and she arrived, hair all in shambles, out of breath, and splattered over in mud. She landed hard on her left foot, skidding on her right one that was still traveling. "You heard, right?" 

I moved a piece of hair out of my face to meet Enna's expectant blue eyes. She'd just reached marrying age, but her family was corrupt, and her father couldn't manage money. So she worked alongside me for little wages. She was beautiful, though, and crazy about boys.

I squinted at the sun, rising behind Enna's head where it seemed to catch her curls on fire. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't heard anything."

Her toes danced in place, and I noticed she was squeezing a pair of sheers so hard her knuckles were turning white. "Matthias is coming."

The rain had started pouring down again, but Enna's words made it stop. A pesky fly had been crawling up the back of my leg, but now I couldn't feel it anymore. The earth must have ceased turning in space.

I determined immediately not to say anything, not to think, and not to feel. I'd turn around, pretend Enna never spoke, and resume harvesting grapes. But before I could do any of those things, a voice behind me spoke. "No," it said, flatly. "He's not coming."

She smiled at me, curls still bouncing, toes still dancing. "Yes, you idiot, he's coming."

I whirled to see whose voice had penetrated us, who she was talking to. But there was no one, and the voice had come from me.

I willed the world to start turning again, and the rain to pelt over my face. Someone pushed Enna aside, and I think it was me. The grapes and skyline got closer, and she was trailing close behind. "Did I say something wrong?"

"You didn't say anything wrong." There was a branch in need of pruning that I stopped for. I squeezed hard with the sheers, and the rot fell to the soggy earth.

"I thought you'd be surprised, or maybe even excited."

"I'm not surprised." Our drastic differing emotions made me uneasy. “Or excited.”

"Come, yes you are."

I gave her a look. "He doesn't remember me." Another dead branch fell from the vine with a snap. I felt the warmth of Enna's body close to me, working alongside, snaps from her sheers offsetting mine.

The bloody screeches of a man two rows ahead of us cut through our rhythm. Predictable, Terrin's whip was thrashing his closest subject, an elderly gentleman whose age often slowed his work. Through the rain, you could hear his limbs flailing, hitting hard on the ground in defense as the whip snapped.

I turned my eyes downward, back to the vines and focused my attention on Enna. Her gaze was already glued to me, willing her own delicate soul to focus on something besides our coworker's flogging. I caught her fingers wandering to the space on her own shoulder where I knew skin had once been torn.

"Here." I guided the wandering hand to a patch of ripe grapes where she could begin harvesting. When Terrin wasn't looking, I pushed one of the fruits into her mouth, and it seemed to calm her.

"I don’t trust Matthias," I spoke up, softly. "He couldn't expect me to. His promises are so old—and so broken. He's not here for me. He won’t even recognize me, I swear."

We watched the rain for a little while, and picked in silence.  I almost didn't hear when her voice broke through. Soft, but confident.

"I think he is," she said.

~~~

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephanie is a professional writer and journalist living in the metropolitan D.C. area. She’s pursuing publication for her first novel, Reaching Home, and spends her quiet moments writing poetry or blogging about her adventures with God. Stephanie has a heart for sharing real stories and encouraging authors to write for Jesus and to love what they do. She’s a big believer in hard work, audiobooks, chocolate, and can usually be found changing the world somewhere.

First Chapters with Jennifer Slattery, author of Beyond I Do

Will seeing beyond the present unite them or tear them apart?

Marriage . . . it’s more than a happily ever after. Eternally more.

Ainsley Meadows, raised by a hedonist mother, who cycles through jobs and relationships like wrapping paper on Christmas morning, falls into a predictable and safe relationship with Richard, a self-absorbed socialite psychiatrist. But as her wedding nears, a battered woman and her child spark a long-forgotten dream and ignite a hidden passion. One that threatens to change everything, including her fiancé. To embrace God’s best and find true love, this security-seeking bride must follow God with reckless abandon and realize that marriage goes Beyond I Do.

~~~

Chapter 1

Ainsley’s stomach churned as she eased into the Whispering Hills Apartments parking lot. Broken beer bottles and other trash littered the ground. A few tenants had draped sheets across their windows. Other windows were boarded up. One was busted in, shards of glass held in place by silver duct tape.

Please tell me this isn’t where Marie Nelson lives. She compared the address Deborah had given her to the rusted numbers on the complex in front of her.

This was the place. And from the looks of it, the very place Ainsley shouldn’t be, at least, not alone.

Her phone chimed, making her jump. She glanced at the screen. Her fiance’s number flashed. She answered. “Hey, Richard. What’s up?” She shoved her purse and computer case under the passenger seat.

“Where are you?”

“Doing a favor for Deborah. Why? You need something?” She grabbed her pepper spray from the glove compartment.

“Who?”

As if she hadn’t talked about the woman countless times over the years. “Deborah Eldridge, the one who told me about Christ.” And kept her from going completely insane or spiraling into rebellion when Ainsley’s home life fell apart. “Sometimes I wonder if you ever really listen.”

A pack of muscular and hardfaced men gathered around a navy pickup watched her, causing her already queasy stomach to cramp. There were four of them, two dressed in black with thick chains draped around their neck. The tallest among themwas covered, neck and arms, with tattoos. She looked away, suddenly acutely aware of her shiny Honda Accord and department store garb.

Oh, Lord Jesus, please keep me safe.

“That Deborah. Right.” A keyboard clicked on the other end of the line. Most likely, Richard was working on final edits for his book. “Now I remember. So you’re in Smithville?”

“Not exactly. More like . . . ” She scanned her surroundings again, her gaze lingering on a used diaper decaying on the ground ten feet away. “More like . . . the Admiral Boulevard area.”

Richard made a choking noise, as if spewing coffee. “You’re where? Please tell me you are not in the crime center of Kansas City.  You are, aren’t you?” He muttered something under his breath. “Why must you continue to jeopardize your safety like this?”

“And why must you treat me like a child?”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried. But surely you know how dangerous that area is.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s broad daylight. Besides, criminals and gang members aren’t the only people who live in this part of town. There are women and children, senior citizens.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen pictures of them flash across the evening news — after they’ve been shot.”

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have. Not now, sitting like a bright, shiny target in an inner-city apartment complex’s parking lot. “Goodbye, Richard. I’ll call you when I get home.”

“Tell me exactly where you’re at.”

So he could come rescue her? “Listen, I’ve gotta go.” She ended the call then slipped her cell into her blazer pocket.

Her phone chimed again but she ignored it. Richard was much too sheltered by his high society friends. As her pastor often said, “If you don’t know any single parents or folks living in poverty, you need to get out in the real world, because Jesus doesn’t need any seat warmers.”

It was time she acted on that same advice. She stepped from her car, and a gust of wind carrying the scent of trash swept over her. Moving to her trunk, she glanced around. A man in a low- rider pulled up beside a girl in four-inch heels, a miniskirt, and bikini top.

Please tell me she’s not doing what I think she is.

Time to drop off her care items then get home. Grabbing her shopping bag filled with everything from cough drops to orange juice, she locked her car and hurried to unit number 478. A door covered in a thick layer of grime stood in front of her. Apparently, the only entrance into the complex.

There she stood, looking like a small-town librarian, about to enter into a danger zone. An area known for shootings, rapes, and robberies. So why was she still here and not back in her car headed toward I-70?

Because Deborah said this was important. The woman would’ve come herself, had she been able. And after all she’d done for Ainsley over the years, this was the least Ainsley could do.

Holding her overstuffed bag and pepper spray in one hand, Ainsley reached for the knob and turned. The door squeaked open, a thick stench of mildew and cigarette smoke permeating the air. Surveying her surroundings, bag clutched to her chest like a shield, she searched for an elevator. All she found was a dark stairwell that smelled of vomit.

A verse taped to her bathroom mirror came to mind: If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake, you will find it (Matthew 16:25).

Lose her life, her rights, for Christ. That was fine when it meant holding babies in the nursery or bringing meals. She glanced at her Walgreens bag. Or medicine to shut-ins. She always said she wanted to live God’s adventure, but whenever the chance arose, her fears and insecurities held her back. Not this time. God was giving her the opportunity to put action to her words, and she was determined to see this through.

Finger poised over the trigger of her pepper spray, she climbed the stairs. Lord Jesus, keep me safe. Lord Jesus, keep me safe. Lord Jesus —

A door above slammed shut, and she startled, nearly dropping her bag. Holding her breath, she pressed against the cool cement wall as heavy footfalls descended toward her. A large woman carrying a poodle rounded the corner with a grunt. Ainsley’s jittery legs went slack as intense relief washed over her.

She offered the woman a shaky smile then faced the remaining stairs with renewed focus. Taking them two at a time, she arrived on the third floor out of breath, heart racing.

Marie Nelson’s apartment was three doors down on the left. From inside, a television blared. Ainsley knocked then waited, casting frequent glances down the hall.

No answer. She tried again, louder this time. Muffled yelling erupted from the adjacent apartment, followed by a loud crash. Ainsley knocked again, this time using the flat end of her fist, then her foot. Again, nothing. She started to leave when the television turned off. Once again, she knocked, the yelling in the next residence now louder, clearer.

“Can’t even cook fried chicken. What’d I tell you about burnin’ my dinner, you stupid cow?” A deep male voice. “You disgust me.”

There was a high-pitched cry followed by a thud.

Domestic violence? An urge to do something welled within her, battling against her fear. Should she call the cops? Absolutely, but first she needed to get out of here.

For more of Ainsley's story, read a free, 36 page excerpt here.

~~~

About the Author

 Jennifer Slattery, author of Breaking Free, Beyond I Do, Intertwined, and When Dawn Breaks, is an inspiring contemporary novelist whose stories of hope, love, and grace resonate with real people. She also writes Christian Living articles for Crosswalk.com and devotions for her personal blog, JenniferSlatteryLivesOutLoud.com; Internet Cafe Devotions; and oversees the blog and social media accounts for Takin' It To The Streets, a ministry serving Omaha Metro's working poor and homeless. When not writing, she enjoys hanging out with her teenage daughter and real-life hero husband, as well as serving in her church. 

~~~

In the Beyond I Do story, Ainsley is challenged to live God's adventure, but she realizes her fears and insecurities hold her back. Readers, have you ever experienced this? Please share your real-life adventure with my readers, and let Jennifer know your thoughts about her first chapter in the comment section below. 

Sit a Spell with First Chapters: December Sunrise

CHAPTER ONE

            A monster lurked in my house, scarier than the boogie-man that lived under my bed when I was three. Visions of Mama teased the front of my brain, ever with me, even on my best days. Oh, how I wanted life to be normal, for Mama, for my family. My head slumped to my chest, and I sighed. And yes, for me. When I realized I was chewing on my thumbnail, I yanked it from my mouth and focused on my teacher.

Mrs. Hatfield stood at the back of the fifth grade classroom holding an open book. Behind her, light poured in through the windows and caused her long, blonde hair to shine. As shiny as the giant’s gold coins in the Jack and the Beanstalk story. A sick feeling almost made me double over. Mama’s head wasn’t anything like my teacher’s. Not anymore. No, her dull hair fell out by the hand full.

With a sweet smile curving my teacher’s lips, how could I not do my very best for her? She loved us kids, and we all knew it.

            At the front of the class lined up like checkers on a board, four remaining students battled for weekly spelling champion. Every Friday afternoon we took our places, trying our best to remember all the words we’d studied that week.

            I can tell you right now—I love words. It’s amazing to me that 26 letters in the English alphabet can create thousands of words. String those words together and you can make sentences which turn into essays, poems, and stories. Most people think I’m much older than ten, ‘cause I love to use big words and spice up my sentences when I talk and write. 

I also love to read. Guess I picked that up from Mama. She always read me books when I was little, not that I’m that big now, just bigger. I do most of my reading on my own. Sometimes, though, when she’s reading a story to my four-year-old sister, Addy, I sneak into the bedroom and curl up beside them. But bedtime stories don’t happen all that often any more, not since Mama got cancer. She’s way too tired for that.

            “Surgical,” Mrs. H announced with clear, crisp diction, drawing my mind back to the classroom.

            Trent stepped forward, staring at the ceiling, chewing on his bottom lip. “Surgical. S-u-r-g-i-c-u-l. Surgical.”

            I released the breath I’d been holding. We were now down to three. Would my title be stripped from me? My belly churned as sweat broke out on my palms.

            “I’m sorry, Trent. That’s incorrect.” Mrs. H’s face slid into a sympathetic frown. “You may take your seat.”

            Hands in his pants pockets, Trent trudged across the gray linoleum and slipped into his desk. He fingered the pencil resting in the desk slot, refusing eye contact with the rest of us contestants. Even though I wanted to win four times in a row, my heart hurt for him.

            “Mandy, surgical.” Mrs. H shuffled the book and locked eyes with the girl no one seemed to like, though I’m not quite sure why. Just because her mother’s poor doesn’t make her odious. I know that’s a not-so-good word, but somehow I like the ring of it. In case you didn’t know, it means revolting, nasty. She’s hardly those things. A little shy, maybe, but not revolting.

            Head hung low, Mandy stepped forward, gazing at her worn shoes. Again, my chest squeezed with pain. Her big toe peeked through a small hole. Other than that and a few scuffs, the shoes were clean, just like Mandy. I did notice a patch on each elbow of her blouse and made a mental note to sort through my closet to see what I might pass along to her. We appeared to be the same size. Mama was always telling me I had too many clothes, anyway.

            “Surgical.” Mandy’s words crept out. “S-i-r-g-i-k-a-l. Surgical.” Her grin turned into a frown when Mrs. H told her to take her seat. Red splotches broke out on her neck, and she tried to hide her face with her dark brown hair.

            Sitting in the desk across from Mandy, Marcus broke out in a laugh. Several other kids joined in.

            “Quiet!” Mrs. H slapped the book shut and snapped her fingers. She walked up the aisle and stopped at Marcus’s desk. She flashed him a warning scowl, then asked the next pupil in line to spell surgical.  

            I couldn’t believe it! Zoe couldn’t spell surgical. I started to panic. If none of these kids could spell this simple word, maybe I couldn’t either.

When Zoe returned to her seat, Mrs. H moved forward and studied me. “All right, Emma Rose, for the championship, four weeks in a row, please spell the word surgical.”

Sudden heat poured through my body. I couldn’t breathe. The room closed in around me. Marcus stuck out his tongue and screwed up his face, trying to shake me up. I swallowed hard, squeezed my hands so tight they turned white. With Mama sick and all, I knew a lot about surgery. I’d even seen the word surgical in a brochure while waiting with her in the doctor’s office.

I closed my eyes and invited my imagination to take over. A blackboard appeared. Slowly, a hand wrote out the word. As the letters appeared I repeated them. “S-u-r-g-i-c-a-l. Surgical.” My eyes fluttered open, and I exhaled. Marcus glared at me and gave a thumbs down with Mrs. H’s back turned. But my beautiful teacher just smiled, and I knew success was mine.

“That’s correct, Emma Rose.” Mrs. H moved to her desk and set the book on the cluttered surface.

Wow, spelling champ four weeks running! As I took my seat behind Mandy, my head swelled entirely too large. I had a gift with words. My family already said I was a pro at the game, “Dictionary.” Every new word I looked up, I also learned to spell. Of course, since Mama had to stop home schooling me, I didn’t get to play much. But maybe that could change.

“Hey, new girl, with the three first names . . .” Marcus leaned over and whispered across the aisle, but Mrs. H cut him short with another stern look and a reprimand.

After three months, he still called me “new girl.” As far as the three first names, well, I suppose Emma Rose Dawn could all be first names. But I’m proud of my name and of my parents, Ed and Sharon Dawn. It’s funny, but one of my favorite, no, my very favorite thing is the dawn when the sunrise sneaks up over the Blue Ridge Mountains in my backyard. Everything’s so peaceful. The sun tosses out pink ribbons, celebrating the new day. I love it.

Still, why are some kids so cruel? When I asked Mama and Daddy about it, they said sometimes children feel so bad about themselves they have to pick on others to make themselves look good. But I don’t see how that’s working for Marcus. Except for a couple other boys, everyone in class tries to stay out of his way. One time, I heard Marcus say he liked to mess around with his uncle’s guns. He said that with his chest all puffed out with plenty of threats to match. But I don’t think he’d really ever do anything. Still, I worry about that boy. To tell ya the truth, I feel sorry for him. If he feels so bad about himself that he has to bully others, well, that’s just plain sad.

Mrs. H sat behind her desk and reached for another book. “Okay, class, take out your health books.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a banging noise exploded from one of the lockers at the far side of the room.

Mrs. H’s head shot in the direction of the sound. “What on earth?” She rose and walked toward the thumping as a few of the boys, Marcus included, burst into laughter. She located the locker in question and swung open the door.

Johnny fell out onto the floor, a crumpled mess with his hair matted to his forehead. He peered up at her with red-rimmed eyes and chapped cheeks.

She knelt beside him, softness in her eyes. “What were you doing in your locker?”

Johnny’s gaze skipped around the room, finally landing on Marcus. “I got trapped and couldn’t get out. I finally fell asleep.”

She helped him to his feet. “Go to the washroom and freshen up. Make sure you get a drink of water.” She turned her fierce gaze on Marcus. “I’ll have a word with you, young man. Out in the hall, if you please.”

Marcus slumped in his desk, arms folded across his chest.

“Now!” She clapped her hands and moved toward him, her body stiff, fists pressed to her legs. “The rest of you turn to chapter ten in your health books and read until I return.” She walked to the door with Marcus. “And remember, I can hear everything that’s going on in here.”

I peered back at Kimmie Sue Wharton, my new best friend, sitting two rows over since her last name started with “W.” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger and chewed on her tongue as she poured over her book. Then her head popped up, and we exchanged grins. Her smile made me feel all warm inside, and I turned back to focus on my book.

A few minutes later, Mrs. H and Marcus returned. I don’t know what she says or what she does when she takes him out of the room, but when he comes back in, it’s like he’s a different boy. He sits in his seat all straight, like a little man. When she calls on him, he says “Yes, ma’am,” all proper-like. But his good behavior never lasts long, and soon he’s back to teasing the girls and blowing spit-balls across the room.

The last bell rang, and all the kids sprang into action gathering books, backpacks, and sitting on the edge of their seats ready to fly when Mrs. H said the word.

“Walkers may get your coats and line up.” Mrs. H stood and moved to the door. That was my cue. I only lived a couple streets over from the school. While most Mamas and Daddies wouldn’t dare let their kids roam free these days, I lived in a town that was more like a big neighborhood with only 2,949 people. “You wouldn’t find a safer place,” my daddy always said. And today, Kimmie Sue got to come home with me for a sleepover. Daddy said it’d be okay as long as we weren’t too noisy. After all, Mama needed her rest, especially after a chemo treatment. 

Outside, the sun played peek-a-boo from behind a gray cloud. I’d put in my order for snow, being the fifth of December and all, but none had appeared. How I wanted to sled down the school hill, screaming and laughing along with Mama, Daddy, and Addy. That funny feeling passed through my tummy again. It wasn’t likely Mama would be able to do that for a while. Probably never. Maybe I didn’t want it to snow after all.

I turned to Kimmie Sue, her red sock hat mashing her bangs. She blinked through the hair that teased her dark eyelashes. “I’ll race ya to the road,” I said.

Kimmie lifted her shoulders to adjust her backpack, eyes sparking, feet on the ready. Every muscle in her body seemed to tense. She’d never win a spelling bee, but boy, could she run.

“Ready, set, go!” I screamed, and off we charged, up a small hill past other kids and down, finally skidding to a stop at the bottom as a car whizzed by. Breathless, I patted Kimmie on the back. “You win, just like always.”

Face flushed, she unzipped her jacket and grinned, a dimple appearing in her chubby cheek. Four permanent teeth sat in a row on the top and bottom with others yet to come in on the sides. Like me. But that wasn’t the only thing we had in common. We both loved Barbie dolls, ballet, homemade cookies, and laughter. And it didn’t take much to split our sides.

We studied the street, looked both ways, and darted across. On the other side, Mr. Whitmire stood on a ladder putting up Christmas lights on his gutter. An inflated Frosty smiled in the yard, alongside a merry-go-round with three plastic horses. Two tiny reindeer, the kind made out of sticks, lay beside the open garage. Mini-lights twinkled from the bushes.

“Hi, Mr. Whitmire,” I yelled, passing his house. Mama and I had baked a basket of cookies for him when he moved to Gosmer to be close to his daughter. He never talked about her, and he didn’t have any grandkids. Kinda sad. But that worked pretty good for him and me, ‘cause I didn’t have a grandpa. With a white beard like Santa Claus, except shorter, he enjoyed telling me stories whenever I visited him. 

He glanced over his shoulder and kinda lost his balance.

Oops!

A deep frown flickered across his face, quickly replaced by a weak smile. Kimmie and I snapped our heads back to the road in front of us and kept right on walking without looking back. Giggling, we turned onto Lasser. Three houses on the left, a white dog with floppy ears barked and danced on the top of a picnic table in the side yard, a chain running from his neck to a short metal pole in the ground.

“Ooh, look, there’s that dog that barks in two-four time.” Kimmie covered her mouth, her giggle now turning into full-fledged laughter.

I couldn’t help but join her. Before long, we were laughing so hard, we had to hold our stomachs. Oh, it hurt. But no sound came out. I glanced at her face, red like she’d been in the sun too long. Tears streamed from her eyes, leaving streaks on her cheeks.

As we stepped onto my sidewalk at the end of the street, I stopped to catch my breath. “Whew! You almost made me wet my pants.”

“Me, too.” She crossed her legs and stared at me, and we burst out laughing again.

“Race ya to the bathroom.” Kimmie started to run down the sidewalk, but I grabbed her arm. “No, wait, Mama’s not feeling good. We have to be quiet.”

Kimmie clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, sorry.” She tiptoed toward the front stoop as if she were already in the house.

I shook my head and followed.

Silence greeted us inside. No Christmas music. No gingerbread smell coming from the kitchen. Only the dreaded quiet. So different from years past. My mama loved the holiday season so much she decorated the house on November first, except for the tree. Daddy and I always took a special date to chop down a fir two weeks before Christmas.

Who knew what would happen this year.

“Where’s your mom?” Kimmie tugged off her mittens then lowered her backpack to a living room chair.

Without a word, I crept down the hallway, Kimmie on my heels. A strange sour smell hung in the air when we passed the bathroom. I swallowed and covered my mouth. Mama and Daddy’s bedroom door was cracked so I peeked inside. Addy sat on the carpet, bent over her Little Mermaid coloring book, a blue crayon in her hand. Her head popped up when she saw me.

My grip tightened on the doorknob as Kimmie tried to slither in beside me. “Where’s Mama?” My mouth went dry.

“Puttin’ clothes in the washer.” Addy fished for another crayon in her box as if Mama putting clothes in to wash happened every day in our house. It didn’t. Most days, either Daddy or me had to do it.

A lid banged shut, and slow steps scuffed up from the basement. Mama’s worn face appeared at the top of the stairs. “Well, hello girls.” She must have used every last ounce of energy to say that ‘cause her shoulders kinda collapsed as she moved toward us. As we stood side-by-side, she placed one hand on my cheek, and the other on Kimmie’s arm. Even though she wore a scarf to hide her balding head and a shadow circled her eyes, she managed a smile.

I guess Mama’s smile is about the most beautiful thing in the world. Daddy told me once that’s why he married her, because her whole face seemed to glow whenever she smiled. Like she hid some secret just bursting to get out.

I screwed up my face. “You all right, Mama?” Oh, how I wanted her to be. How I wanted her trip to the basement to mean she was getting better. That the hard months she’d been through—that we’d all been through—were over. “I thought you had a treatment today.”

She knelt in front of us. “I did.” Her lower lip trembled, then she formed another smile. “But ya know what? I don’t feel near as bad as I did after that last round. In fact, I feel pretty good.” She plopped her fist on her hip. “What would you say to some hot chocolate?”

“Me too!” Addy slammed her coloring book and scrambled to her feet.

I took Mama’s hand as the four of us padded to the kitchen. “I can help.” I opened the cabinet where we kept all the drink mixes and reached for the cocoa packets.

“So can I,” Kimmie chimed in, leaning against the striped wall paper that matched the placemats on the table.

“I wanna stir my own.” Addy climbed into a chair and struggled to her knees, arms resting on the wooden table.

Mama poured water into mugs and placed them in the microwave. “How about you girls put the packets on the table? We’ll let each person fix her own.”

That’s the way it was these days. Each person fixing his own, from hot chocolate to lunches to laundry. ‘Cause Daddy said everybody had to pitch in to help until Mama got over her cancer. And there was nothing I wanted more than Mama to feel good again. 

But when in the world would that be?

Kimmie and me joined Addy at the table and waited for the microwave to ping. “Stop picking your nose. That’s gross.” I knocked Addy’s hand away from her face. Mama didn’t need that kinda stuff to deal with.

Addy twisted her mouth and howled. “Stop it!”

“Girls,” Mama said in that sing-songy way we’d grown used to, as if she was trying to figure out whether to be mad or amused.

 When the microwave beeped, Mama carried the cups to the table. I scooted a mug over to Kimmie and one to Addy along with a packet for each. Then I passed out spoons from a jar in the center of the table. I glanced at Mama. She stood by the stove, face white, hand on her stomach.

“Aren’t you gonna have any chocolate?” Oh, how I wanted her to say yes. To be normal.

Her face kinda twitched like a bunny’s nose, then she ran out of the room.

The front door opened and in walked Daddy. Home early. Thank you, Jesus. His strong face slid into a grin when he joined us at the table. Before he had a chance to speak, a sound like vomiting came from the bathroom, followed by that awful odor.

His smiley eyes turned sad. He brushed a hand over the table and pushed back his chair. “I’ll go check on Mama.” He winked—something he did to reassure us.

But I knew the truth.

Mama couldn’t take much more of this. And I wondered if we could either.

~~

 

December Sunrise

 A little girl’s Christmas wish comes at a high cost.

Emma’s Christmas list isn’t like other kids’. Instead of toys, she wants her mama’s cancer to go away, the town to stop arguing over the Ten Commandments, and nice Mr. Whitmire to reunite with his estranged daughter. Grandma Doreen holds the key to a family secret that just might fulfill some of Emma’s desires, but not before tragedy strikes.

A young girl’s heart for helping takes her to a dark place only the Light of Christmas can illumine.

December Sunrise, available here.