Discovering Normal

DISCOVERING NORMAL

By Cynthia Henry

Hensprin Publications

Copyright 2004

  2012

Pr
ologue

Jaelyn – A small island off
of
the southwest coast of Denmark

Twelve Years Ago

There were times when she almost remembered
;
times when things were nearly clear. But they were fewe
r with each rotation of the sun
and though Farley-Fauna had the inherent knowledge that nothing was as it should be within these stonewalls and sconce-lit corridors, she couldn’t place the error. Couldn’t determine exactly what had gone wrong or when it had occurred or what, if anything, she could do about it.

She stood before a vast window and ran her hand down the shimmering white cloth that covered her body. There were no armholes or neckline; just the tight wrapping of the garment around her torso each morning and then the peeling of it each night. Her
sandy
hair hung in straight, shining strands and Farley-Fauna absently stroked the silky ribbon that gathered the two utmost front pieces behind her head.

Her Master liked it this way.

In the distance she heard the familiar tolling of the bell; heard the voices of the children growing more muted in the distance. Even the dogs seemed to bark in frenzy and then quiet as if forced to do so.

“Is it time?” she called out in the direction of the door, but no one answered. “I am ready,” she called again, this time out into the cold of the courtyard
which
opened to the crashing sea. “I am ready!”

But no one came. Where was the elderly woman with distant eyes and rough fingers who wrapped her so snuggly each morning? Where was The Master who visited her each day at just about this time? The sun hung low in the sky beyond Farley-Fauna’s window. Yes, this was the time that he came, holding the holy slate and the strange little animal--not dog, not cat, more weasel.

Farley-Fauna froze as a scream pierced the atmosphere. And then another and another and another. She stood silent and still as the courtyard below filled with camouflage and the fiery breath of long weapons which rang out and then spit so harshly that some men fell in the wake. She watched them tumble, clutching chests and muttering before they lay painfully, dreadfully still. Most hadn’t been friends, but weren’t enemies either. Some had brought
her
water and fruit and groomed the mare that The Master had indicated would be hers soon.

She stood riveted as the camouflage seemed to triumph. The silk of her wrap was so very cold beneath her palm as it trailed the length of her body and in an isolated blink of lucidity, Farley-Fauna remembered another fabric. Wool--thick, comforting--a sweater for the cold of January, worn in a lodge of pine
,
filled with bubbling chili and warm liquid chocolate. There was a hazy vision of a family--like minds who desired only to dart down a hillside on polished planks.

The door to her fortress room crashed open--
how
she couldn’t decipher since so many keys were generally implemented. Farley-Fauna spun from the window to better see.

“Beth,” a voice said--smooth, deep, familiar.

She stood motionless as he emerged from the shadows. Screams filled the air on the side of the door he’d just revealed.

“No,” she said
. No
she meant. “I am Farley-Fauna, property of My Master.”

“You’re Elizabeth Noelle Williams. You’re a special service agent of the United States government and you need to come with me.”

“Never,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if she could fight for that long or remain quite that loyal.

He glanced hastily into the corridor behind him and then back to her. “You grew up in Old Saybrook Connecticut, but live in Boston now. You’re twenty-three-years-old and graduated cum laude from William and Mary last spring. Your father is the third generation in banking; your mother was a principal with the London Ballet before she got married. You have a late model red Camaro that you drive way too fast, two brothers and a sheepdog named Clancey. You love shrimp scampi, white wine,
Snickers bars and U2
. You bite your nails--though you keep them polished so you won’t be tempted--you’re trying to quit smoking but not having much luck and you cry every time you see
Ghost
. I know all there is to know about you, Beth.”

He’d stepped closer and his face was evident now, so different from The Master.

“You’re coming with me,” he said again, but this time he didn’t wait. He effortlessly scooped her into his arms, hoisted her close to his chest and held her with only one hand since the other still grasped the spitting hot weapon.

Farley-Fauna thought briefly of The Master’s anger that was certain to be present when he heard. That thought was pushed away just as quickly by the strength of this man who wasn’t The Master as he raced through the
dim lit stone halls, f
iring shots and clutching her close until she buried her head against his scratchy camouflage and thought no more.

Chapter 1

Present Day

Nothing more satisfying than an ax making contact with a raw hunk of wood.       

Chris Stoddard swung, heard the crack, saw the split and felt more fulfilled than he had in a long while.

He swung again with strength and precision and tried not to think about the fact that he was forty now and couldn’t be considered a kid anymore--not in anyone’s eyes, least of all his own. He paused to run his fingers through the dark shaggy waves of his hair and glance around the property that he’d worked so hard to maintain
--
the property that he loved. A swallow swooped overhead and dove into the barn just beyond.

Garrity, Ontario
,
Canada had seemed like a dream come true when he and Beth had stumbled upon it. Neither one of them had said a thing that day--eleven years ago now--when they detoured on their way back from Toronto and fell instantly in love with the lush green landscape, friendly people and quiet streets. He could still see Beth’s face as she looked from the passenger window of her bright red Camaro and turned to him in the driver’s seat
; a
knowing smile, an affirmative nod and the warmest of clutches to his hand that covered the gearshift.

Now, in the distance
,
Chris heard the screen door slam. Beth hated the sound, hated the slapping of wood against frame and had asked him daily to fix it. He never seemed to get around to it--too much land to tend to, cows to be milked, wood to split for another cold winter. He’d found her one day weeks ago, sitting on the painted porch floor tightening like crazy a screw that held the door spring. The wood was splintering with each turn of the wrong-sized screwdriver, but he let her go; didn’t say a word
--
just sauntered by and grabbed a beer from the kitchen fridge.

During their life together he’d seen her shoot from her hip with the best aim he’d ever witnessed, wrestle drug lords to the ground with a swing of her long
,
shapely leg and stand up to the most dangerous mob boss as if she were speaking to a clerk while returning a sweater at the service desk of Bergdorfs.

There were softer accomplishments too; the rescuing of the dog who’d been hit by a car on the highway and had somehow made his way to their farm. Beth had splinted his leg and sat up during the night with her back against the cupboards so the mutt could take comfort with his head in her lap. Sundance was part of the family now, but he still loved Beth the best.

Chris had watched as Beth worked for hours to push their children into the world, not giving up when the doctor suggested both times that a caesarean would be wise. But Beth fought and struggled and delivered both Noah and six years later, Audrey, at eight pounds nine ounces and eight pounds twelve ounces respectively, right upstairs in the bed where they were made.

But she couldn’t manage to figure out how to keep the screen door from slamming.

Chris steadied the ax on the ground and leaned against the handle as his wife approached. She paused near the swing set and said something to Audrey. Their little girl hopped off of her swing and skipped inside. Beth continued up the hill, hands thrust in the pockets of her Levis, her ponytail swinging behind her as she moved. There was no lemonade or iced tea like there had been so many times in the past. No smile to greet him as she neared
; j
ust the unhappy face of a woman who woke up one day and remembered that she was thirty-four when she’d only just been twenty-three
with a whole life ahead of her
.

She paused at the top of the knoll not far from where Chris stood. “Are you going to come?”

He lifted the ax and swung, splitting another chunk. Beth watched it fall to two different sides and said again. “Are you coming? I’m taking the kids and if you want to come, you’d better get cleaned up.”

“I’ll be over later. I’ll take the truck.”

“Fine.” Beth turned and headed toward the house without looking back, without the slightest of protest. Because if the truth could be told, Chris knew that was the answer she’d wanted. She didn’t want to arrive as a family when that really wasn’t what they were anymore.

It hadn’t always been this way. They used to be a unit, a cohesive structure of right. When Chris had heard that his new partner in the Bureau of Special Services was going to be a twenty-one-year-old ivy-league educated chick from old money, he’d said a few choice words and told everyone seated at the conference table where exactly they could put their new agent. Twenty-seven then, cocky as hell from more wins than losses, Chris stood to leave just as the door pushed open.

And for the first time in his whole arrogant and easy life, he fell back into his chair because he couldn’t remember how the hell his legs worked.

She’d passed around firm handshakes and tilted her head when she reached him. Though there was a clip of polished Yankee in her voice, she said so apologetically that she wasn’t good with names, but certainly would remember his. Her childhood ginger cat had been Christopher. She laughed then and that very second he knew.

Just knew.

Later when they talked of it, she admitted she’d known then too. The tie sporting Snoopy wearing Joe Cool shades had told her so--made her utterly and completely certain.

Now they both had to learn how to live with the knowledge that their instincts had ultimately proved to be so wrong.

He raised the ax, let it fall and listened to the deafening crack once again.

***

Beth pulled into a grassy parking spot and killed the engine of the
SUV
.

“Can I swim, Mom?” Noah was bouncing in the back seat as he looked longingly at the park pool.

“Noah, it’s almost September. It’s been a really cold week--”

“Please! Shane and Tony are going in! See them! They’re right there.”

Sure enough, Noah’s two best friends were preparing to take a dive. Beth sighed, opened her door and reached back for the one nearest Audrey.

“Please, Mom,” Noah pleaded again after he’d hopped out of his side.

“It’s your cold and shivery body. Just please don’t stay in too long.”

“Thanks!” Noah took off like a gazelle, leaping down the embankment with his backpack thrown over his shoulder. Beth watched him call to the other boys and come to a screeching halt near the fence of the pool as he hurled his sneakers from his feet and set to work peeling off his denim shorts. Her son was prepared. His
Toronto Blue
Jays
swimsuit was waiting beneath.

Noah was Chris’ son from the dark chestnut hair that fell into perfect waves around his chiseled face and sly grin, all the way down to his lean ankles and long toes. He had his father’s spirit too--the unyielding determination to take that chance, the fiery temper when cornered and the laugh that split into so many pieces when released that it seemed to fill the atmosphere and heavens. Those were the qualities Beth had loved, the points that had attracted her. Everyday she thought of what Noah would feel, think, say when he became aware that he would be the minority soon.