Tracings

Michael J. Harris

Description

Carole Turner and her husband Jim survive a plane crash only to discover that their lives are changed in ways they could not even imagine. As they struggle to understand and to cope with those changes, they come to a painful decision: they must go their separate ways to save their children.

And only time will tell whether they will ever see each other again.

[TRACINGS] is..."an exploration of a 'what-if' situation that forces the reader to consider his or her own life choices and values... The tone and theme [of TRACINGS] remind [this reviewer] of Nicholas Sparks' romance novels..." (RQuest review.)

Sujets

• Science Fiction
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456608521
• Langue: English

Extrait

TRACINGS
 
By
 
Michael J. Harris
 

 


Copyright 2012, Michael J. Harris
All rights reserved
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
 
Published by Aventine Press July/05
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
ISBN: 13: 978-1-4566-0852-1
 
Library of Congress Control Number 2004105069
 
Introduction and Epilogue revised January, 2012
 


 
 
Dedication
 
 
Dedicated to My Wife, Claire,
Our Mothers and Fathers,
Our Children,
Our Extended Family,
And to Blanche.
 


 
 
 
If we could change
What might be changed,
What would we change?
 
Perhaps everything...
Perhaps nothing.
Anon.
 
 
 

 
 
This story is about my mother, Carole Turner, and my stepfather, Jim. To some extent, it’s also part of my story. My mother told me her version of this story last June, as she was slipping away from internal injuries she received in a collision with a drunken driver. My stepfather gave me his version of the story before he died of a heart attack two months later (some say he died of a broken heart, but the doctors say it was his arteries).
I’ve tried to capture my mother’s and my stepfather’s words and thoughts as accurately as I could, and I’ve added very little – only small bits of conversation here and there for continuity.
The greatest liberties I’ve taken are with the words and thoughts of the third person who figures prominently in the story – Blanche Nelson, Jim’s high school teacher. Blanche gave of herself to help my mother and stepfather in ways that are truly remarkable and touching. Though my mother provided as many details as she could remember, and Jim furnished many more details, in the end I had to guess what Blanche was thinking, and how she interacted with others.
I suspect most of you will find this story difficult to believe. Even I find it hard to believe, and I’m the story’s most tangible evidence.
Our story begins in Philadelphia, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, 2003…
 
************
 
Prologue
 



 


Carole Turner had no way of knowing that she and her husband Jim wouldn’t reach home that evening. She did expect to arrive a little late, though, because they were a little late leaving Philadelphia. They were on Global 436, the last flight to Chicago, on the last day before Thanksgiving – and the plane was absolutely packed. Everyone had bags and coats and suitcases to stow in the overhead luggage bins, so the plane didn’t take off until fifteen minutes after it was supposed to.
Carole was tired, but she wasn’t able to sleep on a plane as easily as Jim. Maybe it was because he flew so often as a management consultant with a national practice. Maybe it was because she wasn’t that comfortable with the whole idea of flying. Whatever the reason, it was always the same: Jim would hold her hand during the take-off, then he’d nap while she read, and then he’d wake again to hold her hand while they landed.
So there she was in 5B with her paperback, and there he was in 5A with his pillow. Carole looked at her husband with a touch of envy. Look at him, she thought, sleeping like a baby. How does he do that? She shook her head and smiled at the slightly plump, slightly graying man sitting next to her. We’re a pair, we two…
In the twenty years they’d been married, they’d taken many trips like this one. Jim would get a consulting engagement in an interesting city, and if her work allowed it, Carole would join him – for shopping, for dining, for sightseeing. They’d always have a great time – partly because they enjoyed the same things, but mostly because they enjoyed each other.
Carole felt very blessed, and she knew Jim felt that way, too. They had a wonderful marriage – the second for both of them – and they had a wonderful life together. As 64-year-old “empty-nesters”, they enjoyed the best of two different worlds: the romantic whirlwind lifestyle that went with a luxury high-rise on the Magnificent Mile in downtown Chicago, plus the contentment of sharing a large, loving extended family of children and grandchildren in the Milwaukee suburbs, just ninety miles north. And they were both looking forward to their retirement next year so they could spend even more quality time in both of those worlds.
They had much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.
But they wouldn’t be celebrating Thanksgiving this year. This year – this trip – would be…different.
It started approximately thirty–five minutes into the flight, at 9:30 p.m. The flight’s captain had just announced that he was going to leave the seatbelt sign on, because there were reports of “significant clear air turbulence ahead”.
At first, Carole felt the typical bouncing and shaking that went with such episodes – nothing major, but enough for her to wake Jim, so he could hold her hand. She was still feeling…OK, but not great. She hated these “clear air turbulence” things.
Then it got worse – much worse. The plane dropped a couple hundred feet, paused, then dropped several hundred feet more. Books, cups, blankets, pillows – even one or two passengers – were in the air and in the aisles. Two or three children started crying.
Feeling very afraid, Carole looked over to see if Jim was still calm. If he wasn’t showing any signs of concern, she knew things probably would be all right. He smiled back at her, and squeezed her hand. She relaxed a little. Not a lot, but a little.
Then the plane shuddered violently, and started a slow corkscrew spiral to the right. Passengers everywhere were crying and screaming. Carole heard herself crying out in surprise and panic. Jim’s grip on her hand tightened.
The spiraling increased, faster and faster and faster, and from somewhere – above Carole, around her, beneath her – a shrill, whining noise began, something like a siren, but much louder.
Carole tried to look over at Jim, but her vision was blurring. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t seem to focus. She was losing consciousness. She couldn’t…she couldn’t…
************
Part I: Awakenings
 

1.
May 9, 1958 – Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Even in the dark, Carole knew she was in a strange bed in a strange room. The bed was harder and narrower than hers. The pillow was too small, and the blanket was too light. The room was warm – too warm. And she was alone. She was used to sleeping next to her husband, under her quilt, on her down pillows, in a very cool room. She loved the contrasts: the cool air on her face and her pillows, the warmth of her quilt and her husband…
Where am I? she thought, and where’s Jim?
She strained to see something – anything – but there were only vague, dark shapes scattered here and there. She thought there were windows on the wall facing her, but she couldn’t be sure.
What am I doing here? How did I get here?
She couldn’t remember. She seemed…things seemed…fuzzy, out of focus. She felt drugged.
She could smell…something familiar…and slightly disturbing…
She listened for sounds. She heard muffled voices, faint footsteps on stairs, soft chimes – behind her, outside the room, in the distance. Inside the room, she could only hear…something dripping.
She tried to speak, but her throat was raw and dry, and her voice was just a whisper: “Jim?…Jim? Are you out there?”
Before she could call again, she slipped back into a fevered sleep.
************
The next time she awoke, the room was bright with sunshine. She started to bring her right hand up to shield her eyes, but her arm was tangled in something. And it hurt slightly when she moved it. She anxiously cupped her left hand over her brow and glanced at her arm.
There was an intravenous needle there, connected by tubing to a bottle hanging upside down from its stand. A clear liquid was dripping from the bottle into the tubing.
Maybe that was the dripping I heard last night. I think that was last night…
She cautiously looked around the room, taking in every detail. She was in a hospital room. It was a semi-private room, with two white metal beds – the bed she was in and another, parallel to hers, on the opposite side of the room. The other bed was empty –only starched white sheets, a white pillow, and two thin brown coverlets folded neatly at one end. The walls of the room were green, with multi-paned double windows on the wall facing her, and three white doors on the wall behind her – one leading out to the hospital corridor, another to a bathroom, and the third to a partially open closet. The floor was covered with dark green linoleum tile. There were white curtains at the windows, white tables near the beds, and white radiators beneath the windows. There was also a thin white curtain hanging beside each bed, suspended from a metallic circular track imbedded in the ceiling. A large round white clock hung on the wall to her right.
8:30 in the morning…I wonder if Jim called Evans Institute and told them I wouldn’t be in today…or maybe this is Saturday or Sunday…How long have I been here? Why am I here? Maybe Dr. Feldstein has me in for observation again…maybe for my migraines…
On the table next to her bed were a blue-green plastic water carafe, a glass, a telephone, and a small milk-colored vase with a red carnation and some baby's breath. On the window ledges were two other vases – a tall white porcelain vase containing red roses, and a large blue vase with an assortment of daisies and other fresh flowers – plus several colorful get-well cards propped up around the vases.
Oh…look at the flowers and the cards…
Tears welled up in her eyes. She was easily moved to tears, especially when she thought about those she loved – her husband, her children, her grandchildren, her mother, her brothers and sister, all of her extended family.
Jim probably sent the roses…the kids probably sent the daisies…I wonder