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  Mother’s Child

  a novel by michael conant

  This book is a work of fiction . The characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real, or if real, are used fictitiously . Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © December 2018 by Michael Conant. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For more information, to inquire about rights to this or other works, or to purchase copies for special educational, business or sales promotional uses, please write to:

  Incorgnito Publishing Press

  A division of Market Management Group, LLC

  300 E. Bellevue Drive, Suite 208 Pasadena, CA 91101

  First EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-944589-66-0

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my mother

  Blanche Edith Conant

  Chapter One

  The Little Girl

  It was just past lunchtime during a cold October day in New England. The brisk air carried the sweet smell of autumn as it swirled the early fallen leaves. I sat on the edge of a curb, dazed.

  I was vaguely aware of my surroundings and the fresh scent. I didn’t take much note of the late afternoon traffic inching by or the crowd of people who had gathered along the sidewalks. Nor did I give thought to why I was sitting there. A large hand gently cupped my shoulder. A man kindly asked, “Are you alright ma’am?”

  I glanced up at him and then back down. I stared unblinkingly at the gold and orange leaves plastered along the wet gutter. Flashing red, blue, and white lights danced across their surface. I didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone just yet. He bent down and I could feel his eyes searching my face.

  His dark blue uniform looked familiar. He stood, and I slowly tilted my head up. My gaze cleared. For a moment I stared into his concerned brown eyes.

  “Yes,” I managed to say. “Yes, I think so.” I followed unconvincingly.

  “Are you hurt?” He came around and stood in front of me. He pointed to the elongated red stain of blood, now nearly dried on the front of my white blouse.

  I looked to where he pointed but said nothing.

  He crouched in front of me and took my hand into his large grip. He turned my palm upward, revealing dried blood that had settled into the thin creases of my life line. His previous question registered in my sluggish brain.

  “It isn’t my blood,” I said quietly.

  “Were you in one of the vehicles ma’am?” I didn’t answer.

  “Ma’am?” He repeated forcefully, squeezing my hand just a little, enough to jostle me from my stupor.

  “No,” I finally said. “No, I saw the accident and ran toward it. The little girl. There was a little girl in the back seat of the white car. Or brown car–I–I can’t remember which one exactly.”

  I picked through cobwebs in my mind while I tried to recall details.

  The horror of what I had seen came into focus.

  “She was slumped in the back seat–blood was running from her head.” I remembered. I felt hot tears welling, gathering for release.

  “The car was on fire…the people in the front seat, they were…I couldn’t help them.” I took a deep breath, hoping the autumn sweetness would overpower the brief inhale of burning flesh that had seared my nostrils.

  And then they came. The tears. Slowly at first, like when you forget to turn the faucet off that extra bit. They dripped; first one, then another. They gathered and rolled. The blue-uniformed guy took a seat on the curb next to me and wrapped his warm arm around my shoulder to comfort me.

  “I undid the little girl’s seat belt and dragged her out of the car,” my body was shaking. “It was white. I remember. It was the white car.” I looked at him.

  He nodded encouragement to keep going. I tried to find some place in my head where I could logically categorize the flashing images of what had happened and relay them. The tears were now a steady stream.

  “I tore a piece of my blouse away. See…here.” I lifted the fabric where there was a large tear. My breath came shorter. “I don’t know how I could do that. It’s a good blouse–strong and new and I…I just don’t know how I did that.”

  “It’s all right ma’am,” he said, calming. “You look pretty strong to me.” He gave an awkward smirk. It didn’t lighten the moment.

  “She was bleeding, you know, from her head,” I said. “Did I say that already? The car door. I caught my blouse on a piece of metal on the car door. That’s how I tore it. I dragged her out into the side of the street and sat with her, pressing my piece of blouse to her head. I just held her. I don’t know for how long.”

  My breathing returned to normal; tears slowed to a trickle.

  Another man approached us. He was also dressed in a dark blue uniform. A leather belt with several leather pouches attached cinched his distorted waist line. A holstered gun rested on his right hip. I looked more closely now at the first “blue” man; he stood when the police officer approached. He lacked the same equipment as the officer; as I studied him, I discovered the yellow EMS symbol on his left breast pocket.

  The officer spoke to the medical technician while giving me a cursory nod. “Is she injured?”

  “No. This is the woman who pulled the little girl from the burning car. Her name is…” He looked down at me. “Oh crap. Sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”

  “June. My name is June Gallagher.”

  “Well, Ms. Gallagher,” the officer said while he scribbled in a notepad, “From what the witnesses have told my Sargent, what you did was extremely brave. You saved that little girl’s life. You’re basically a hero.” The officer bent toward me and extended his hand. I hesitantly raised my hand to meet his and offered a weak clasp for his strong grip.

  “The little girl?” I asked. “She’s all right? She’s going to be okay?”

  The EMS guy said, “My team loaded her into the ambulance a while ago; she is likely in the emergency room about now. But I can tell you, other than a very nasty cut that will need a bunch of stitches, she looked like she should be fine. It’s the fire that would have killed her…that killed her parents…” he stopped.

  Suddenly, the air around me turned sooty with despair. I began to tremble and gasp. Sobs and tears rushed in a torrent. I remembered seeing the front seat of that burning white car, the distorted, bloodied bodies moments before being consumed by flames while I dragged that little girl to safety. The little girl’s parents.

  The EMS man sat back down on the curb next to me. “June, there was nothing you could have done for those two people.” He gripped my hand again. “What could be done, you did. You saved their child. If they were here now, I know they would thank you for that.”

  Although the police officer was adept at dealing with life and death, the emotions of a woman who had just been thrust into the ugly side of his job were obviously not his specialty. He nodded his head then briskly turned away and joined his colleagues who directed traffic, tow trucks and street crews in the crash clean-up.

  I covered my face with my filthy hands. I turned and buried my head in the chest of my broad-shouldered EMS “friend” who wrapped his arm around me. After a few minutes I was uncomfortable when I realized what I had just done. I abruptly sat up, then wiped the tears from my face w
ith my sleeve.

  “I’m sorry,” I gulped. “I am so terribly sorry. I should go. I need to get home. Wait, it’s Thursday. I need to get back to work. I need to go home and call work. I don’t know–I just need to go.”

  “Is there someone I can call for you?” he asked. “Are you okay to drive?”

  “Yes,” I said, then shook my head impatiently. “I mean yes, I am fine to drive.” I took a deep breath. Placing one hand on his shoulder, I lifted myself to my feet. I wobbled a bit but steadied as he raised himself from the curb to stand.

  “Are you sure I can’t call someone or get one of the officers to give you a ride?” he said.

  “I’m sure,” I answered. “But thank you. And thank you for being so…understanding and comforting. I don’t want to keep you from your job.”

  “Actually, my ride left a few minutes ago,” he said and grinned. “But not to worry, one of the cops will get me back to the station.” He held out his hand; I took hold with a firm grip.

  “You’re a hero,” he said. “Remember that part when you tell the story, June. I know I will. Take care.”

  While he walked away, I turned and gathered my bearings. I saw my Jeep Cherokee parked behind me where I’d left it in the parking lot of Dunkin’ Donuts. I started to walk to it and noticed another officer in front of the donut shop doors. He spoke to a group of reporters and camera crews. He looked at me and nodded his head in my direction.

  I caught his signal and knew it would lead to a rush of reporters heading my way. I didn’t want to talk to strangers–or anybody for that matter–and relive the horrific experience again that I was just beginning to process. I certainly didn’t want to do that for thousands more unknowns on camera.

  I hastened my pace and reached my car far ahead of the pursuing press. I was so intent on avoiding the onslaught, that it barely registered that I was rushing out of the parking lot, into traffic, in a vehicle not so dissimilar from the death trap I had just watched go up in flames.

  Something should have slowed me, caused hesitation to get into a car again, at least for a while. But it didn’t happen. Any fear or lingering apprehension was replaced by the strong desire to put this behind me. And so I drove…home.

  The drive was quiet and uneventful–a welcome change to the morning’s events. It was around 2 pm when I pulled into my driveway. I parked the car and sat there.

  That was the first time I had ever traveled the familiar route at a speed of about five miles an hour. Every turn was made with both hands on the wheel. At every intersection, even at green lights, I slowed to a near stop. I paid no attention to irritated honks and hand gestures. I didn’t care.

  Now that I was home, I didn’t want to act quickly. I didn’t even want to leave my car and run inside. I sat there for a while deliberately contemplating nothing. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the headrest. It was almost peaceful. Eventually, sounds from the street and a bird’s chirping brought daylight back to my closed eyes, gently prodding my body to move. I opened the door, stepped out, and slowly walked up the pathway toward my house.

  After fumbling with the front door key, I opened the door and headed straight for the kitchen to heat up a cup of coffee. I had neither the patience nor the strength to make a new pot; the leftover brew from that morning would be comfort enough. I grabbed my favorite mug from the cupboard and poured dark, cold coffee into it and placed it into the microwave, then set it for one minute.

  From the kitchen, I had a clear view into the living room and to the corner of the couch, my corner, where my quilted comforter and down pillow were in a pile, calling to me to come join them. Suddenly, I longed to curl up and feel and be safe.

  I sighed. As much as I wanted to fold myself into my corner of comfort, I had one chore to do. It was now 2:30 pm and I was supposed to be back from lunch and back to work. No one there knew where I was. Eventually, they would get concerned because my 3 pm appointment was due to arrive.

  I picked up my cell phone and called work.

  I didn’t want to go into details with anyone about what had happened. I didn’t have energy for any conversations that would lead to a flood of questions and more explanations and more drain on my soul.

  When the receptionist answered, I told her that I must have eaten something bad at lunch and was too sick to come back–could Marty, my very apt co-worker, please take my 3 pm appointment? No prolonged conversation, no detailed explanation. Within the same minute it took to warm my coffee, the conversation had begun and ended. I took the coffee out of the microwave and headed toward the living room. Now that my chore was completed, I was free to join my friends in my corner of the couch…and breathe.

  I sat in my spot warming my hands on the coffee mug while the comforter blanketed my legs and torso. With each sip of the left-over black brew, I felt more awake and at ease, despite the fact that coffee cannot sit all day and resemble anything near tasting good. I didn’t care. It soothed me and that is what I needed more than anything. That and the loving embrace of my husband.

  ***

  I met Tim Gallagher during my junior year of college in 1996. He was a senior. We both took required accounting classes. Tim was on his way to becoming a career CPA; I was content to be a general accountant with a minor in art history.

  We were sort of the Mutt and Jeff couple among our friends. Tim is six-foot tall with a long, angular face. His jet-black hair was always neatly cropped, never too long or too short, and his dress was always immaculate and conservative–polo shirts and Dockers with creases. He played a lot of racquet ball, but his thin, somewhat awkward body never could hold up to more strenuous athletics. Even in college, he looked like an accountant.

  I am five foot six–in heels. My long brown curls lay on my shoulders in whichever way my morning shower dictated. I was often late for class; combing those curls would have meant being even more tardy. My round face, made to look smaller by the wild curls that framed it, is described as being pixie-like. My style of dressing, though equally immaculate as Tim’s, had an artist’s flair of unkemptness to it. Nothing I wore was from the local mall; I shopped at secondhand stores and avant-garde hideaways. I looked more like the artist that I had originally wanted to be. And while Tim was nearly always controlled and thoughtful about what he said, how he communicated with people, and how he reacted to situations, I had a bit of the artist’s temperament.

  As I grew older, my hair straightened to more of a manageable wave.

  My temperament kept its twists.

  A two-accountant couple is not often thought of as the most exciting pairing. Most people can’t grasp the concept of debits equaling credits as it applies to double-entry accounting and couldn’t care less. But for Tim and me, those things and many more advanced taxation rules formed the backdrop for our meeting and then the need to spend many hours together studying, which of course led to romance–accounting style.

  Tim was very attentive; he was a throw-back gentleman who opened and held doors, brought flowers, remembered important dates, and thankfully, chewed with his mouth closed. The latter proving to hold more importance the closer we got and the longer we were together–trust me on that. We were a perfect match.

  We dated all during my junior and his senior year of college and we moved in together after a year. We rented a small apartment about 30 minutes off-campus, which meant a not-too-awful commute for Tim to pursue his Master’s and CPA requirements, while I found an entry-level job as a bookkeeper with a small, local accounting firm. The firm did mostly non-profit work; so, although we were paid for our efforts, there was a sense that we worked for a more noble compensation.

  In May of my final semester, we married. It was a simple affair, held on campus where most of our friends were. Neither of us was very religious but we settled on having the ceremony in the campus chapel.

  Tim’s parents, whom I had only met on one occasio
n and to whom Tim was not overly close, came to the wedding and lavished us with gifts–then left on a whirlwind tour of India. They were odd that way.

  My own parents had died several years earlier; my mom of heart failure when I was 15 and my dad in a car crash the following year. I spent my high school years living with my aunt. She passed away from cancer the year before Tim and I married. Because I was an only child, there was no family of mine at the wedding. But I had many college friends and it was a warm, special celebration to me.

  During that first year at the firm, I became pregnant with our daughter, Elsie. We had looked forward to starting a family, so my pregnancy was a welcome surprise. A month after I came back from maternity leave I was fired. Apparently, the temporary person who was hired to fill in was told that their position was permanent and that I was not coming back. Imagine their surprise when I did. So much for nobility.

  Tim’s parents are of German descent; he was very close to his grandmother, Elsie–thus the name choice. I wasn’t a big fan of that moniker, but I do value family history and traditions. When Tim suggested it, I understood why and the name took on special meaning. It became more meaningful when she passed away from lung cancer 18 months after Elsie’s birth. She had been an ardent smoker who was fervent in her denial that smoking was bad for her.

  Up until her death, Grandma Elsie insisted that Elsie’s first word was Gamma. I am quite certain it was Mumma, but given Grandma’s deteriorating condition and her adoration for little Elsie, I felt petty and ungrateful even thinking about trying to correct her. It was also better to support her claim than Tim’s ridiculous idea that Elsie’s first word was Dadda.

  Elsie was such an easy baby. She cried when she was hungry or had a dirty diaper but was never colicky. She slept pretty much on schedule; her waking and eating times were predictable. I was the envy of all the new mothers I knew or met, as well as those with more experience and the two or three kids to prove it. Tim often joked, “We’re accountants, what did you expect?”