Letters from Becca: A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel (24 page)

The research for this book was more intense than for my first book, Meeting Melissa.  I read and studied everything from what the most popular Disney movies were in 1975, to what love songs were played in 1967, to what rifle to use to deer hunt in the early ‘70s.  Although it took much longer to research, I believe it added authenticity to know how my characters would dress, what they would listen to, what they did in their leisure time, and what drove them in their choices.  This novel spans almost 70 years, and every era needed to be real and true to the readers of each generation.  I hope I succeeded.

On this journey I befriended a Vietnam helicopter pilot, Bruce Terry.  From stories he shared of his own experiences as a Medevac pilot to descriptions of terrain and terminology, Bruce provided a wealth of information and technical advice for several chapters.  It was only fitting that he be the main pilot in the Vietnam chapters.  He guided me through helicopter maneuvers, and I even ended up using some information from one of the battles he flew into to extract a high ranking officer in creating events in my novel.  Saluga and Doolittle, referenced in my book, actually served with Bruce in Vietnam.  Saluga and Doolittle were both killed in action two weeks before Bruce left Vietnam.  God bless you, Bruce, for your service.

Stephanie Kelley, a dear friend and an ardent sports fan, was instrumental in helping me write the football scene.  Though I love the sport, I really don’t know much about it, and she walked me through the perfect ending to the football game that was believable and real.

Thanks John T.  Morris for being my friend.  Had I not been writing you after your move, I wouldn’t have been inspired to write the novel.  I take great personal pleasure in knowing I’m one of the FEW people in the world that know what the “T” stands for!

D.R. was originally named Adam, however, last year, my dear cousin, David Ray passed away, and I felt this would be my way of honoring his memory.

Fittingly, the middle son is named after the main character.  However, in honor of my dear, sweet cuz of the same name, and D.R.’s brother, I named him Johnny Dale, instead of JJ, the original name I penned.

William, the youngest son, was named after my great-grandfather.

My Papa, Ervin, really was a zookeeper at the San Antonio Zoo.  The experiences the children have in this book, I actually experienced at the San Antonio Zoo as a child.  Sadly, Poncho, the hippopotamus mentioned in the book, was killed when I was still young, by vandals who broke into the zoo and viciously injured him, causing him to drown in his habitat.

I never knew if these characters would ever be shared with anyone, but I received much inspiration from one of my closest friends, Bobby Adair—fellow writer, former brother-in-law, and zombie enthusiast, who encouraged me to write again.  For many years, we critiqued each other’s work, dreaming of the day a publisher would publish our works.  In 2011, Bobby took the step of self-publishing his first book, and has since published over a dozen books in his
Slow Burn
,
Ebola K,
and
Last Survivors
series.  So I picked up the pen again, dusted off the manuscripts and turned on the computer.  Bobby has been trying to convince me to share those screenplays and stories with the world, and in the summer of 2014, I decided to quit wishing and do something about it…

With the encouragement of my wonderful husband and my children, I started writing.  Again.

And this is only the beginning...

Maria carried the small bundle gently in her arms and carefully set it inside the furthest incubator from the door.  The NICU was reaching its maximum capacity with eight babies.  Of these eight, it was likely that only four would survive infancy.  The bundle slightly wriggled as she released it.  The baby, a girl, was not premature, and the doctor said she had a strong heart.  She hadn’t been born with any visible health issues, but she was being handled with extra care.  She had felt no bare-skinned human hand touch her since leaving the comfort of her mother’s womb.  The child was carefully weighed and cleaned, every glove or linen that had brushed her skin discarded.

At the hospital, she was the first baby born in the New Year.  In reality, she was the first in Texas by seconds.  There was an absence of celebration, with no one alerting the media, and no family members waiting to view her.

The small bundle began to cry softly.

The youngest and newest nursing assistant on staff stepped into the room, washed his hands to regulation, and dried them, before moving to the crying infant.  He smiled, gently brushing back the swaddled blanket from the crying child’s face.

“There now,” he carefully lifted the child into his arms.

“Travis, don’t!”  Maria exclaimed sharply, startling the young man and the baby, who began to cry harder, her arms flailing wildly and causing the swaddling to loosen.  From across the room, a tiny additional cry arose from another incubator.  Maria lowered her voice and moved beside her charge.  “Not without gloves,” she warned more with her eyes than her voice.

“Another one?” he asked meekly, moving back to wash his hands again, spending longer and scrubbing harder until his arms, hands and fingers were red.

Maria smiled sadly, gently unwrapping the blanket.  Before she could swaddle her, the crying suddenly stopped.  A tiny hand grabbed her gloved finger, and the small eyes blinked, focusing on her voice.  It was as if she could see her.  The wispy fingers gripped tighter.  “You’re going to be a fighter, aren’t you?”  The girl’s eyes mesmerized her, conveying the strength Maria felt in the grip.

“Fourth one this week… such a shame.”  Travis double gloved himself then went to check on the crying infant.  “Do you think she has a chance?”

Maria stared deeply into the dark, curious eyes.  “Yeah,” she said, unable to pull her gaze away.  “I can feel it in her grip.”  The tiny hand refused to let go of hers.  “You’re going to show them aren’t you, little angel?”  Maria re-swaddled her, as the delicate hand released its grip.  She then crossed herself without touching any part of her body.  “Gracias a Dios.  You’re gonna’ show ‘em.”  She turned, pulling off her gloves and disposing of them before repeating her cleansing routine.

Amy Carson wondered if she looked as tired as she felt.  She had been a caseworker for the Texas Department of Health and Human Services for twelve years.  She was hired immediately after graduating from Baylor University infused with grand dreams of making a difference in the world.  Delusions of grandeur or as her father told her, illusions of grandeur.  It did not take her long to realize that her time was spent managing foster parents more than she was helping children.  She was going to fix a broken system, heal fractured families and provide safe and loving homes to children in need.  Delusions of grandeur.

Amy now sat across her painted pressed board desk from the foster father and mother who looked much older than their years.  It was the
unspoken
part of Amy’s job to keep the family together at all costs.  Although she felt long ago
at all costs
was often too costly in itself.  She opened the file that had occupied her hands since they had sat down, that she had scanned endlessly before.  She smiled meekly at the father.

“You do realize that Department of Human Services will continue to pay for all her medication,” Amy provided as a statement more than a question.  “And we have applied for reimbursement of your travel expenses for all her medical treatments,” she added encouragingly.  Suddenly, Amy felt remorseful.  She sounded desperate, almost like she was bargaining.  However, she
was
desperate.  She knew money was not the issue, and regretted saying it the moment the words left her mouth.

They were a decent family.  One that Amy felt had been perfect for Melissa.  They had two kids of their own, one Melissa’s age.  They were the ideal family with a lovely house in a safe neighborhood.  They had known she came with health issues and had eagerly accepted the challenge.  They weren’t afraid, like so many others.  Not afraid to hold her and hug her.  Not afraid to have their kids around her.  Now the Andersons sat before her, frustrated themselves, wanting to foster Melissa but accepting that they were not up to the challenges they faced.

There were many children with health issues in the foster system, but Melissa was different.  She had an incomparable spirit for a six-year-old.  She’d been in five foster homes since she was two.  Moreover, most recently, she had been with the Andersons twenty-two months, three weeks and four days.  Taking her out of this home would be devastating for her.  Melissa would be harder to place now.  Times were changing.  People knew more about HIV.  But, no matter how much they thought they knew, no matter how educated the public was, the disease was still relatively new, and scary.  Many potential foster parents were concerned about raising a child that might become seriously ill or die.  Such was not the case here.  The Andersons were a compassionate couple who wanted to be what Melissa needed.  A compassionate couple willing to foster her with all her health issues.  A compassionate couple that had bitten off more than they could chew.

Mom and dad turned to each other, mom’s hands in her lap nervously pulling at the tattered edge of her blouse.  It was finally dad that spoke.  “We understand, we do.  We just cannot do it anymore.  It’s emotionally draining on the other kids, we never expected,” he began, and then his voice cracked.

“We feel terrible, really,” mom added, tears forming in her eyes.  “We love Melissa; we do.  It’s just…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Amy interjected.  She closed the file for the last time, smiling sadly.  “Your family has done an amazing job, giving Melissa a home for as long as you have.”  She flipped open her calendar.  “We need to make arrangements for her removal.”  She looked indifferently across the desk.  Twelve years of this had left her numb.  She sat up straight in her uncomfortable, institutional chair.  “I will pick her up this Saturday if that works.”  She looked from husband to wife and then stood up.  “I’ll call you.”  The silence was almost unbearable.

Daniel Anderson nodded and helped his wife to rise.  As they closed the thick wooden door behind themselves, Amy could hear Soni Anderson crying.  She sat back down.  Perfectly still.  She no longer felt anger or sadness.  Refusal of a child was just one facet of her job.  She had dozens of cases she dealt with daily, overseeing hundreds of children within the system.  She set the file aside.

The doe-eyed, naïve young social work major who wanted to change the world was gone.  Her job sucked.

“The sixth-grade girls’ 110 will start momentarily on the track.  Seventh and eighth-grade girls’ 440 relays will begin immediately following this race,” the loudspeaker announced.  “All students should be signed in at their next events.”

Six girls lined up in perfect formation on the track and assumed their starting positions.  The starting gun popped.  Six slim, awkward young girls raced as fast as they could toward the yellow ribbon stretched across the track before them.  They all picked up the pace as they neared the ribbon, but one pulled out in front, leaning forward and breaking the ribbon before slowing to a walk.

Her coach trotted up and then slowed to match her pace.

“You did great Melissa! How do you feel?”

Hands on hips, she leaned over and gasped, “I feel great.”

He patted her on the back.  “Walk it off.  Cool down and then get ready for your next event, okay?”

She nodded, still trying to catch her breath.

He patted her back again and trotted away to another young runner.

Melissa walked toward their designated training area, as her breathing returned to normal.  She sat down on the ground behind the bench, with ten minutes to spare until her next event, stretching nimbly on one leg, then another.  Then she lay forward on the ground, resting her cheek on the cool grass and closed her eyes.  Three of her teammates arrived and sat on the bench resting from their events, chattering and giggling, reaching for their cups of water.

“I wouldn’t drink from that one!”

The chattering stopped.

“It’s infected.”  She looked around.  “You know, she’s got AIDS.  You drink after her, and you’ll get it too.”

“No, way!”

The young coach trotted up behind them.

“Yeah.  My mom told me not even to go to the bathroom after her.  Everything she touches she contaminates.”  She knocked over the cup as if to make her point.

“Megan!”  the coach exclaimed, startling all the girls.  “Jenny.  Annie.  I believe you each have some place you are supposed to be.  I suggest you get there now.”  He gave Megan a stern look.

The girls scattered quickly, without looking back.  He shook his head and followed them.  Had he stayed just a moment longer he might have heard Melissa’s muffled sobs as she lay in the cool grass, her salty tears mixing with the morning dew.

Text Copyright © 2015, Margaret Ferguson Books

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties.  Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

This book is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.