Prologue
The cloudless sky and waning moon made a natural night light in the bedroom where the two girls slept, and when he stepped into the room, the light
made shadows, moving as he moved, first to the bed closest to the door. Watching the child sleep, he smiled, then leaned over to push her bangs away from her eyes. “Good night, Lovey,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. The girl sighed in her sleep and rolled to her side. He paused, then went to the bed where the other girl slept. The moon cast a glow around him, illuminating the spot where he stood, watching her sleep. A small puddle
of drool had dried on the pillowcase where the girl’s thumb had slipped part-way out of her mouth. He smoothed her cheek with the back of his fingers.
Reflexively, she stuck her thumb back in and sucked. He felt himself harden and he closed his eyes and waited for the sensation to flood him, then
unzipped his trousers slowly, the sound of it barely audible. He inhaled deeply. His shadow shuddered and then moved over her, covering her face.
One
The mare whimpered as Dr. Casey Greer examined her pregnant patient in the air-conditioned barn. Turning to the owner, she said, “She’s in extreme distress. The foal is presenting sideways. I think I can turn it, but there are significant risks, and she’s too fragile to transport. You said
this is her third pregnancy, right, and that the other two were normal deliveries?” The owner nodded, ashen, but taking in every word of his young veterinarian. The other mares nickered in sympathy with their barn-mate’s plight. “Then the likelihood of this rupturing her uterus is less than if she’d had difficulties in previous pregnancies. Would you like for me to try? If I’m not successful, I’ll likely have to put her down.” Again the owner
nodded, his eyes imploring Casey to save the lives of both mother and baby.
Casey injected the mare with a mild sedative then disinfected her hands and arms and laid out her instruments, including an additional pre-loaded
syringe, in case. She spoke soothingly to the mare, observing her vital signs as she waited for the sedative to begin working, and then began. Casey had slid one arm inside the mare when she was momentarily distracted by a movement in her peripheral vision. The horse’s owner, a burly man in his
mid-50’s, anxious to help, took a smithy’s apron off the hook close to where he stood. He unzipped his windbreaker. Casey felt as if someone had suddenly changed channels inside her head. She struggled to stay focused on the panting mare.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dr. Lorelei Mackenzie crossed her legs, placing her hands in her lap. She smiled at her new client. “It’s nice to see you again. Is there something in
particular you’d like to talk about today?”
Without hesitation, Casey pushed forward in her chair, pupils dilated, voice pitched with pain, “If I know something about a terrible thing
that happened years ago – 20 years ago – but I never said anything about it then and I didn’t do anything to stop it, would it cause more harm than good to say something about it now?
“That depends on the nature of this terrible thing. Would you like to tell me more about it before you make that decision? Do you think that would help?”
“I haven’t spoken about it with anyone for years. I don’t know if I can talk about it . . . . I’ll try.”
“Why don’t you start at a safe place in the story, and work your way toward this terrible thing. Want to try that?”
Casey nodded, squared her shoulders, and drew in a larger than usual breath. Fixing her eyes on an imaginary home movie screen, she provided the narration. “I want to tell you about Rebekah, Rebekah Wilkins. I met her when I was in the third grade.” Casey smiled. “I noticed her right away.
She had luminous green eyes, red hair that she wore every day in two French braids, and freckles across her nose and cheeks, and she wore matching
Osh Kosh outfits. I envied her on all those accounts but even more for her laugh. She never squealed or tittered like other third graders; instead, she gave her whole body over to a wellspring of delight that bubbled out of her."
continued . . . .
Two
“Mr. Sanders,” Rebekah pinched off her words “if I don’t have the contract by 5 pm today, there will be no fall line-up of your company’s
Christmas formal ware at any of the Belk stores in Northeast Florida. People take their office parties and opera and symphony tickets very seriously here. Glossy ads in all the women’s magazines will do you no good if customers cannot purchase your garments.” She paused to listen, then “Yes, 5 pm today.” As she hung up, she noted the time on her computer desktop – 4:35. Reaching for her daily hand-written to-do list, she crossed off the final item: secure contract with Sanders, then sat back in her chair, waiting for the hum of the fax machine.
On the drive home, a wave of sadness washed over Rebekah, eroding the sense of accomplishment she typically relished at the end of a work
day. Since the sudden death of her beloved father, Theo Wilkins, five months ago, Rebekah was often caught off guard by an encroaching sorrow.
When the frequent bouts of lassitude began affecting her decision-making - and her libido, she sought the services of Hank Stone, Licensed Mental Health Counselor. Big deal, Rebekah mused, thinking of her therapist, LMHC could stand for Lackluster Man Has Credentials. In Rebekah’s estimation, Hank Stone was completely average in every observable way. I swear I don’t know why I waste a lunch hour each week with that man. He’s so attached to his precious note pad, he’d probably be completely ineffectual if he misplaced it. And he almost never asks me about Dad. How am I ever going to get over his death if I can’t talk about him? At the thought of her father, Rebekah continued straight on Arlington Expressway, skipping the turn at Cesery Blvd. into her neighborhood. Instead, she drove to Regency Square Mall and the cologne counter of Belk. She found herself making more frequent detours there so she could spray Acqua di Gio, the scent she associated with her father, onto a sample card. Inhaling the scent helped
her feel connected to her father and filled her with the resolve she felt missing from her usual state of being.
Once inside her home, a comfortable two-story ranch house she shared with her husband of three years, Cliff Standifer, Rebekah listened to
voicemails on the answering machine while flipping through the mail. Catalog, catalog, magazine, junk, bill, bill, junk, letter. Letter? Who writes letters
anymore? Who do I know from a vet’s office in Ocala? Probably a sorority sister’s husband, asking for money to save the old racehorses from the
glue factory. Rebekah poured herself a glass of Cabernet, kicked off her shoes, and settled into her favorite armchair. Opening the letter, she read:
continued . . . .
Intrigued? If so, please read Reawakening Rebekah: The Gift of the CLAMOR Girls
The cloudless sky and waning moon made a natural night light in the bedroom where the two girls slept, and when he stepped into the room, the light
made shadows, moving as he moved, first to the bed closest to the door. Watching the child sleep, he smiled, then leaned over to push her bangs away from her eyes. “Good night, Lovey,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. The girl sighed in her sleep and rolled to her side. He paused, then went to the bed where the other girl slept. The moon cast a glow around him, illuminating the spot where he stood, watching her sleep. A small puddle
of drool had dried on the pillowcase where the girl’s thumb had slipped part-way out of her mouth. He smoothed her cheek with the back of his fingers.
Reflexively, she stuck her thumb back in and sucked. He felt himself harden and he closed his eyes and waited for the sensation to flood him, then
unzipped his trousers slowly, the sound of it barely audible. He inhaled deeply. His shadow shuddered and then moved over her, covering her face.
One
The mare whimpered as Dr. Casey Greer examined her pregnant patient in the air-conditioned barn. Turning to the owner, she said, “She’s in extreme distress. The foal is presenting sideways. I think I can turn it, but there are significant risks, and she’s too fragile to transport. You said
this is her third pregnancy, right, and that the other two were normal deliveries?” The owner nodded, ashen, but taking in every word of his young veterinarian. The other mares nickered in sympathy with their barn-mate’s plight. “Then the likelihood of this rupturing her uterus is less than if she’d had difficulties in previous pregnancies. Would you like for me to try? If I’m not successful, I’ll likely have to put her down.” Again the owner
nodded, his eyes imploring Casey to save the lives of both mother and baby.
Casey injected the mare with a mild sedative then disinfected her hands and arms and laid out her instruments, including an additional pre-loaded
syringe, in case. She spoke soothingly to the mare, observing her vital signs as she waited for the sedative to begin working, and then began. Casey had slid one arm inside the mare when she was momentarily distracted by a movement in her peripheral vision. The horse’s owner, a burly man in his
mid-50’s, anxious to help, took a smithy’s apron off the hook close to where he stood. He unzipped his windbreaker. Casey felt as if someone had suddenly changed channels inside her head. She struggled to stay focused on the panting mare.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dr. Lorelei Mackenzie crossed her legs, placing her hands in her lap. She smiled at her new client. “It’s nice to see you again. Is there something in
particular you’d like to talk about today?”
Without hesitation, Casey pushed forward in her chair, pupils dilated, voice pitched with pain, “If I know something about a terrible thing
that happened years ago – 20 years ago – but I never said anything about it then and I didn’t do anything to stop it, would it cause more harm than good to say something about it now?
“That depends on the nature of this terrible thing. Would you like to tell me more about it before you make that decision? Do you think that would help?”
“I haven’t spoken about it with anyone for years. I don’t know if I can talk about it . . . . I’ll try.”
“Why don’t you start at a safe place in the story, and work your way toward this terrible thing. Want to try that?”
Casey nodded, squared her shoulders, and drew in a larger than usual breath. Fixing her eyes on an imaginary home movie screen, she provided the narration. “I want to tell you about Rebekah, Rebekah Wilkins. I met her when I was in the third grade.” Casey smiled. “I noticed her right away.
She had luminous green eyes, red hair that she wore every day in two French braids, and freckles across her nose and cheeks, and she wore matching
Osh Kosh outfits. I envied her on all those accounts but even more for her laugh. She never squealed or tittered like other third graders; instead, she gave her whole body over to a wellspring of delight that bubbled out of her."
continued . . . .
Two
“Mr. Sanders,” Rebekah pinched off her words “if I don’t have the contract by 5 pm today, there will be no fall line-up of your company’s
Christmas formal ware at any of the Belk stores in Northeast Florida. People take their office parties and opera and symphony tickets very seriously here. Glossy ads in all the women’s magazines will do you no good if customers cannot purchase your garments.” She paused to listen, then “Yes, 5 pm today.” As she hung up, she noted the time on her computer desktop – 4:35. Reaching for her daily hand-written to-do list, she crossed off the final item: secure contract with Sanders, then sat back in her chair, waiting for the hum of the fax machine.
On the drive home, a wave of sadness washed over Rebekah, eroding the sense of accomplishment she typically relished at the end of a work
day. Since the sudden death of her beloved father, Theo Wilkins, five months ago, Rebekah was often caught off guard by an encroaching sorrow.
When the frequent bouts of lassitude began affecting her decision-making - and her libido, she sought the services of Hank Stone, Licensed Mental Health Counselor. Big deal, Rebekah mused, thinking of her therapist, LMHC could stand for Lackluster Man Has Credentials. In Rebekah’s estimation, Hank Stone was completely average in every observable way. I swear I don’t know why I waste a lunch hour each week with that man. He’s so attached to his precious note pad, he’d probably be completely ineffectual if he misplaced it. And he almost never asks me about Dad. How am I ever going to get over his death if I can’t talk about him? At the thought of her father, Rebekah continued straight on Arlington Expressway, skipping the turn at Cesery Blvd. into her neighborhood. Instead, she drove to Regency Square Mall and the cologne counter of Belk. She found herself making more frequent detours there so she could spray Acqua di Gio, the scent she associated with her father, onto a sample card. Inhaling the scent helped
her feel connected to her father and filled her with the resolve she felt missing from her usual state of being.
Once inside her home, a comfortable two-story ranch house she shared with her husband of three years, Cliff Standifer, Rebekah listened to
voicemails on the answering machine while flipping through the mail. Catalog, catalog, magazine, junk, bill, bill, junk, letter. Letter? Who writes letters
anymore? Who do I know from a vet’s office in Ocala? Probably a sorority sister’s husband, asking for money to save the old racehorses from the
glue factory. Rebekah poured herself a glass of Cabernet, kicked off her shoes, and settled into her favorite armchair. Opening the letter, she read:
continued . . . .
Intrigued? If so, please read Reawakening Rebekah: The Gift of the CLAMOR Girls
