Shadows of the Ripples — Part Two from Chapter One
Who is Emily and how does her past haunt her? Learn more in part two of chapter one from my paranormal, suspense, romance novel.
‘The Edge of Moloka’i’— Oil — by J. Sharland Day
A heavy breath of air slid from her mouth. Swallowing hard, a flash from her childhood crowded uninvited into her mental visuals.
A young Emily sat in a tall wooden chair wanting to disappear through the slats as she pressed her slender back against them. Her grandmother’s sallow face was just inches from her own, a saggy mask of bulging eyes and stretched out mouth full of yellowed teeth. Sour breath blew into the wide-eyed face as the old woman screeched out her warning.
“Don’t ever let a man touch you, Missy, especially in these places!” the voice bellowed. And then pain followed as her grandmother rammed fingers between Emily’s legs with one hand and twisted a nipple through her nightgown hard enough to bring tears to Emily’s eyes with the other.
“Men only want to hurt you!” The crone spat. “They don’t care that the Lord condemns anyone to hell who seeks pleasures of the flesh!”
Although the lecture droned on, Emily tuned out the words her caretaker hurled at her. It was easier to ignore the eruptions than to try to understand the reasons for them. Or to try and sort out the conflicting feelings rushing through her of pain, shame and something less unpleasant she couldn’t identify.
Emily didn’t know how many times, in her youth, she had felt the panic when her grandmother would corner her, especially when she didn’t know why the woman would repeat the ritual so frequently when she, Emily, had done nothing to deserve that kind of lecture or pain.
Contracting muscles and pushing thighs together, Emily could almost feel the hurt once again. Who would want to be touched in such a way?
Rachel, her cousin, only a few months older, yet far wiser, had tried to fill her in about the “pleasures” Emily questioned.
“S.E.X.,” Rachel had spelled in a reverent hush. Emily didn’t want to know what that wicked word meant. She had covered her ears to shut out the smiling girl’s explanation until Rachel pulled her hands away.
She’d told her that if done in the right way, it was wonderful to be touched in “special places,” and even volunteered to show her. Emily had run away. She didn’t want to listen to her playmate. Rachel would not be the one punished by their grandmother for discussing such things. Besides, Rachel never seemed to be concerned about her spiritual destination. Emily was. She knew with absolute certainty that she didn’t want to go to that fiery place her grandmother described as “Hell!”
She’d never doubted the fact that the Lord would condemn someone to an eternity of shoveling coal into the devil’s furnace for one’s actions. But would he condemn thoughts that came unbidden in the night and beyond one’s control, in her case, her dreams? Would He forgive that which haunted her subconscious in sleep?
What perplexed her the most was the fact that she’d never wanted to know what sex was all about — her grandmother saw to that; therefore, why would she dream of wanting it now? If she weren’t engaged, she’d be considered a spinster in the church’s eyes, even though she was only in her early 30s. But being engaged meant nothing when it came to sex. That could only be discussed and dealt with after marriage, and she was none too eager to get to that point.
Oh, dear Lord!
A shudder rippled through her body that sent a splash of cold liquid dripping down her cheek. It went unnoticed. The image of the woman in her dream standing nearly nude, head thrown back, laughing, taunting the man in shadows flashed into her mind once again. Fear and humiliation weighed down on her from the knowledge that she was the demented soul with wild eyes, whose shrill laughter woke her a few hours ago. She needed to shut out the image. She sat the cup down and covered her ears, but the wicked cackle continued to vibrate through the palms of her hands.
The realization finally penetrated that the sound she was hearing wasn’t a memory from the night. It was the beckoning of the telephone.
She opened her eyes and blinked, trying to focus on her surroundings and the noise.
Emily let out an audible sigh, stood, and walked slowly toward the pantry where the black phone sat. The jangling noise came from a square black box with an outdated dial slanted in its belly. Her grandmother had not believed in the modern technology of a “touch-tone” phone.
“The one we have is perfectly fine. Why would I want to spend money on another contraption when I don’t need it?” the woman had spat at the phone man, who had come to her door, suggesting the change.
Emily picked up the heavy plastic receiver and placed it against her ear, her “Hello?” wary.
“Why aren’t you here?”
With no introduction or greeting from the caller, Emily could not instantly determine the meaning of the words or whose voice she was hearing. The query hung across the wire. She didn’t respond.
The male voice rose in pitch, “Emilia! Answer me! You’re late! The service is ready to start, and….”
Larry! She sighed. He always used her given name when he was angry with her.
Emily tried to tune out the rest of his tirade. Then a tremor crawled up her throat as she began to understand what he meant by “here” and what she was late for. The Sabbath. She was supposed to be in church.
The phone trembled against her ear. She wiped the heel of her hand across her mouth and glanced into the kitchen at the clock. Her throat went dry. He’d been waiting over half an hour for her to arrive since she was to meet him before the service to read scriptures together and pray.
I could have used a prayer today for the redemption of my soul, she thought.
Absently Emily twisted the phone cord in her fingers.
“You know you’ll have to catch up on your scripture reading after the meeting, Emilia! You know that!” Larry was practically screaming. He can get so emotional. She sighed. “You can’t let that slide. And when you get here, you’ll have to look for me inside, because I’m not going to wait for you out here in the hall. Now hurry up and get here!”
At his command, coldness filled her, the need for prayer forgotten. A small voice inside her head prodded, I’m tired of this man’s demands, expecting me to do something just because he says so!
Emily wanted to reach through the phone to slap Larry’s domineering face, or at least slam down the instrument she held. The desire stretched.
Suppressing the impulse, she said, “I won’t be there, so you don’t need to watch for me.” With a deep breath, knowing he’d need a reason, Emily hesitantly added, “I’m not feeling well.” She cringed at the semi-lie.
Silence on the other end sent a prickle of fear skittering to her stomach. She bit into a fingernail and chewed. When he spoke, his lecture began icy and deliberate. Emily let her mind drift. She thought about work, the project she’d need to spend time on that afternoon to have ready for Monday’s meeting, and then the dream. With its intervention, she closed her eyes and remembered the cravings she’d felt.
Intrusion.
“We’ll talk about this later!”
She was startled by the sudden thunk in her ear. Her eyelids flew open. Astonished. Not so much by Larry’s rudeness as by the alarm that surged through her system from his obvious anger. That kind of panic was nothing new to her. Fear and panic had been a big part of her life over the last 25 years while living with her domineering grandmother and then becoming engaged to an equally domineering man. But she’d just never actually stopped to assess those feelings before. Emily thought her breath was being sucked away, and the urge to rush upstairs, dress and hurry to the chapel to appease the man she’d been seeing for five years consumed her. But she didn’t move. Something held her still.
She laid the phone back onto its cradle and shrugged. She was tired of bending to his will. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d be mad at her. Emily turned and walked back to the table with the rose chenille robe slowly flipping back and forth at her ankles while her bare feet slapped the linoleum squares softly.