Finding Mary (eBook)

A Journey of Reclamation

Julie Rumrill (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2021 | 1. Auflage
350 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-0983-5604-0 (ISBN)

Infos

Finding Mary is the story of one sister's journey through the dark confines of unresolved grief toward forgiveness and understanding. What begins as a simple wish to visit her sister Mary's grave, turns into a compelling quest for truth, honor, and justice in the face of murder. The author, Julie, invites you to re-examine forgotten promises, old secrets, and the complicated ways families cope with traumatic loss. Part mystery, part reclamation, Finding Mary is threaded with beautiful descriptions of the natural world, and is a heartfelt experience you won't want to miss. It will make you laugh, cry, and celebrate the enduring and precious gift of family.

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Julie Rumrill was only four when her 16-year-old sister Louise was murdered. Three years later, her 13-year-old sister Mary died as well. Her broken family did what was necessary to survive, and mostly, that meant silence-silence about death, about grief, and about them. For nearly four decades, Julie abided by the family script, burying the memories of her sisters deep within her subconscious. Then, after her dad revealed that he had never been to Mary's grave, she decided they should go together. But there's one major complication: no one actually knows where Mary is buried. Her quest to find Mary leads Julie on a spiritual journey to an Abode in the Appalachians, an Ashram in the Himalayas, and into the darkness of a 250-page police report that recounts her sister Louise's murder. But when a close friend of Julie's is suddenly murdered too, a derailing mix of anger, fear, and guilt surfaces. Desperate to find peace, she's forced to draw on the wisdom of several generations to see this journey to its fruition.

Textauszug

Chapter 1:
Mary

Summer 1975 at Grandma’s farm

We wriggled through the slats of the tractor gate and paused just long enough to fling off our sandals. The lane was paved with a shag carpet of emerald grass, cool and damp beneath our bare feet. Silky, honey-blonde hair swishing over her shoulders, Mary held the glass jar of milk with both hands as we hurried down the lane, past the umbrella-like shade of the mulberry tree.

She was seven years older than me, and her skinny legs had a stride twice as long as mine, but Mary kept a similar pace. Speeding up just made her cough and wheeze. We skipped past the garden with its neat rows of veggies, down the hill to the corner where our feet squished into the soil saturated by a spring and splotched with fresh cow manure, which made the grass taller but not us. We always stopped at this spot where just a few squeaky pumps of a long, rusty lever filled the cement trough, and cows could stop to dip their noses and slurp the cold groundwater.

Once a week we would navigate the entire length of the lane, more than a mile down and back, to bring milk to our bedridden Babcia, Polish for grandma. We knew her as Babcia even though she was our great grandma, because that’s what Mom called her.

With pink cheeks and soggy hairlines, Mary and I finally reached the weathered grey, barn-board cabin with the oval, hand-braided rugs that looked like the inside of a kaleidoscope. The tiny cabin, warm and cozy, that always smelled like cloves, and where glittering streaks of sun filtered in through dusty panes and landed on Babcia just right so that she looked like one of the stained-glass angels in church.

We gave her the bottle of milk and lingering hugs and the energy of youth. If it was mid- to late-summer, the return trip up the lane to our Grandma’s farm included a stop at the berry patch. We climbed up the stone wall and sat cross-legged, picking and eating high-bush blueberries until our fingers and tongues were stained with the sweetness of summer. The stone wall where yellow jackets built their papery nests and skittish garter snakes sunbathed. The stone wall built by hand by our Dziadzia, Polish for grandpa, pronounced Jah-joo. Piece by piece, he had assembled the sturdy boundary with rocks he cleared from the pastures several decades earlier. There Mary and I would sit, surrounded by an abundance of life: people, animal, vegetable and mineral, and enveloped by the scent of fresh-cut hay drying in the summer sun.

We filled re-purposed plastic containers from yogurt or sour cream, until berries tumbled over the rims, and then made-up rhymes or sang songs like “Row-row-row Your Boat,” as we walked with the juicy cache back up the lane. Over the lush grass, we followed monarchs and periwinkle-blue butterflies, whistled to songbirds and mimicked the whoo, whoo-whoo-whoo of mourning doves.

Back at Grandma’s house, we swept and washed and brought in wood, baked and cooked and kept Grandma company after Dziadzia died. When Mom brought Grandma to the Thrifty market, we pushed her cart and helped her grind fresh peanut butter and Eight O’Clock coffee. To show her appreciation, Grandma always let us pick out a candy bar. “Let’s get the Caravelle,” Mary would suggest. “It has two pieces, and we can share.” That was Mary.

***

March 8, 1976

When the bedtime story ended and all was still right in my sleepy, almost 7-year-old world, Mary closed the Little Golden Book and set it on the narrow shelf between her diary and a Nancy Drew mystery she had borrowed from the library. She flipped off the light switch, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up to our chins. I wrapped one arm around my favorite doll, Drowsy, and tugged at the retractable cord on her back. “I’m sleepy,” she said. Mary and I giggled. The last thing Mary said to me was “goodnight.” Drowsy and I curled up in the safety of our nest and drifted off to sleep, peaceful and safe under Mary’s wing.

Panic disrupted our slumber sometime after midnight, as Mary was coughing and struggling to breathe. My older brother Shane rushed from his room, flipped on the hallway light, stuck his head into the doorway and then called downstairs to Mom. A glaring slice of light parted the darkness as I pushed the covers away and sat up next to her on our twin bed. She was almost 14, my big sister. Just half her age, I always looked to her for answers. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Just a moment later, the old chestnut stair treads creaked under Mom’s footsteps as she rushed up to our room. She flipped on the light and sat beside Mary, with one hand on her back and the other holding a Primatene inhaler to her mouth. I moved back and stayed out of the way. It was another asthma attack. She helped Mary down the stairs, and Dad carried her out to the car. I heard him shout to Mom, “Call the ER!”

Brake lights flashed on the gravel driveway just before the Malibu raced out of our yard, down the street, and out of sight.

The next morning, voices rose through the heat grate from the kitchen below. I slipped one arm out from the covers and reached over to wake Mary, but she wasn’t there. The air in the room chilled my nose and with each breath formed wispy little clouds that disappeared almost as quickly as they arrived. I remembered the asthma attack. Mary was sick. She went to the hospital often. She’d be home later.

I glanced around at our wallpaper, covered with Shasta daisies in shades of watermelon, lemon, and lime. The small bookshelf packed with Little Golden books, the Magic 8-Ball, the conch shell, our pet rocks, birthstone jewelry, and Barbie Doll shoes. Frozen raindrops tapped against the window glass. I reached over and scratched at the paper-thin ice that coated the inside of the pane. Dark grey clouds blotted the sun. I heard Dad’s voice, calling for me to come downstairs.

I peeled away the blankets, grabbed Drowsy, and hopped out of bed. The rough, hand-hewn floors of the 18th century cape chilled the soles of my feet. As I neared the middle of the staircase, I saw Dad.

I wondered why he had brought a chair from the kitchen table into the living room. He sat, bent forward with his forearms propped on his knees, hands together, and eyes down. When he noticed me, he pressed his back against the chair and opened his arms, as if to gather any bit of energy I had to offer.

I climbed up onto his lap, and he squeezed me tight. Daddy wasn’t smiling or laughing. He didn’t call me by my nickname, “Dodo Bird.” He didn’t start off our well-worn jingle: “My doh-da.” To which I’d always reply: “My Dad-a.” He would say: “My little pip squeak.” And I would return the affectionate jab with: “My big fat tub-o-lard!” No. Today there was no banter.

He held my shoulders and faced me, his cheeks and eyes wet with tears.

“Your sister Mary died last night.”

At once everything froze except my thoughts—racing with worry and confusion. What did that mean? I could hear Daddy breathing and crying. His words had tumbled out fast, almost as though if he said it quick enough, the truth would be gone and not return. But the words were as permanent as Mary’s departure from this world.

Still gripping Drowsy by the arm, I held Daddy tightly, like he held me whenever I cried. “It’s okay, Daddy.” I couldn’t focus on the words, his or mine. Holding onto him, I was desperately holding on to life. His world was my world—if he crumbled, so would I. The thought of not having control is terrifying. In that moment, I was as terrified as a person could be.

“But you won’t ever be able to play with her again,” he explained.

“That’s okay, Daddy,” I repeated. “It will be okay.”

With my face buried in his shoulder, I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled Drowsy close to us.

It’s okay, Daddy. It will be okay. But even though I had yet to reach 7, I had already learned that sometimes life was not okay. I knew that when my big sister Louise died three years earlier, she left and never came home. People left and didn’t come home. Pets left and didn’t come home. I didn’t know where they went. Whenever I asked, Mom would get upset and say they were in Heaven, but I didn’t know where that was. In the clouds? Which cloud? I didn’t see them. I didn’t ask anymore. They were just dead. I sometimes worried about who would be dead next.

Push it down. Hold it there. Be strong. Be happy. Don’t look for attention. Don’t ask questions. Clean up your toys. Help out. Be good. Be quiet. Behave.

You go to sleep with a big sister and wake up alone.

***

In total, Mom and Dad had thirteen children between them. Yet over the years, the number living at our little compound on Brandy Hill Road waxed and waned in a confounding mix of birth and death. When Mom and Dad had me, I joined the sibs I refer to as the old family: four children from Mom’s first marriage--Louise, Tammy, Shane, and Mary; one child from Mom’s second marriage—Kevin; and three boys from Dad’s first marriage – Bobby, Dicky, and Harold – who lived at the house for short periods, but mostly visited...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 5.4.2021
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-10: 1-0983-5604-7 / 1098356047
• ISBN-13: 978-1-0983-5604-0 / 9781098356040