The Rescue

The Rescue

A Short Story by John D. Bain

I opened my eyes.

I was standing outside in near darkness; in the grass facing an asphalt two-lane highway.

I looked in front of me, to my left, and then my right. There was no traffic. No sound but my own breathing and the shuffling of the soles of my shoes as I turned my body slightly to survey my location. My situation.

I can’t remember exactly where I just was.

I don’t think that I had been in bed asleep. I had no sense of waking up or transitioning into a dream.

I look down at myself to take personal inventory. I’m unclear about where I just came from, but I know that these were the same clothes that I wore to work earlier.

What I call my work shoes (plain loafers), Khaki pants and a dark, untucked, short-sleeved shirt. Not quite enough shirt, it seems, because it’s a little chilly. It was an unseasonably warm October evening when I left work. And now I was standing in gray, cold.

Then I noticed that my breath was creating a little fog. My arms had goosebumps from my sudden appearance (sudden appearance?) into a lower temperature, but I was becoming acclimated to the change, and the bumps were receding.

The air is still. In the dimness of what seemed to be pre-dawn I could see that there was frost on the grass in which I was standing.

I knew where I was. But I didn’t know when.

I was standing in the grass, facing East on Highway 31 at the very foot of Hartselle Mountain. Highway 31 runs from North to South the entire length of the State of Alabama, and on up into Tennessee. Across the road I saw the small Kayo Service Station that was backed up to the base of a hill that was a part of the eastern ridge that ran through Flint City, all the way to the Tennessee River.

That little filling station had been owned and operated by Mrs. Pace. She was a little, round, blonde-headed lady who was Archie King’s Mother, and I recall not understanding why he and his Mother had different last names. He had a younger sister. Archie and I had played baseball together, though he had been a year older than me in school. Archie and his family lived in the little trailer park that perched up on the hill behind the station.

Just two gasoline pumps. The sign out front advertised that regular gas was selling for twenty-four cents a gallon, and high-test for thirty-two. There was no advertisement about unleaded gas.

The station was very small. Just hardly enough room for a small desk, a chair or two, a cigarette vending machine, and a rack that held quart cans of oil and transmission fluid.

The structure was made mostly of glass, or appeared to be so. Large pane of glass on the front for viewing the pumps, glass on each side with glass doors. A cash register sat on the edge of the desk along with a display that held a variety of road maps of Alabama and the surrounding states.

That is where I was.

But Highway 31 had not been a two-lane highway for many years.

To my right was unquestionably Hartselle Mountain’s steep climb to the South. I looked to my left to see three narrow bridges that took the road North across Flint Creek (a part of the backwaters of the Tennessee River). I could see the Kayo Road directly across from me to the left, beginning its snake up into the mountain. Kayo Road winds from that beginning point on 31 toward the East, and runs through the infamous haunt, Cry Baby Holler.

According to legend, in the area’s distant past, a young Father, Mother, and newborn baby had been traveling East up the road by buckboard, when a flash flood washed them off of a narrow bridge into the stream. The adults survived, but sadly their little girl drowned.

Alabamians in this part of the state have been scaring each other for many years about seeing the ghost of the little girl playing near the fateful bridge. Sometimes they hear her crying for her Mommy.

I’ve heard that you can go to that bridge in Cry Baby Holler (Hollow), and place a candy bar or other piece of candy on a rock or a tree stump. If you leave and come back to where you left the candy, you will discover that it is gone. Taken by the hungry baby. (Or perhaps just a hungry raccoon.)

Others have discovered small hand prints on the rear bumpers of their cars after driving slowly through the area on a dark night.

My goosebumps came back, but not due to the cold.

I was still quite a safe way from the haunted holler, but I felt that I was also quite a way from the year 2018.

I took all of this in and registered all of these thoughts and realizations (had they been realizations?) in only a few minutes. Maybe five minutes, tops.

I took my eyes from my surroundings and looked down at me again. I seemed to still be a sixty-two year old, overweight, white man standing on the side of the road before sunrise, dressed in the clothes he last remembered putting on. Somewhere in about 1962? 1963?

No.

I was standing in 1965.

Something that one of my Facebook friends had said to me recently had brought this particular place . . . and this time . . . hauntingly to my mind.

Honestly, though, I can say that in fifty-three years I have never ridden or driven down this road without remembering the terrible tragedy that is associated with this stretch.

In the last years of my Mom’s life, I carried her from her home each month to a treatment facility in Cullman. It was quite a big effort for her, she was already almost completely debilitated physically by a disease which her Neurologist called Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy (CIDP). The body’s immune system causes an attack of inflammation upon the insulating protective cover (Myelinine) that surrounds our thousands of miles of nerves. The inflammation causes the depleting of the protective barrier around the nerves, electric signal is lost in transfer from brain to muscles. The victim becomes less and less able to move, to walk, breath, or function.

She was taking an experimental infusion treatment that was intended to restore the lining around her nerves. She took the treatments once a month for nearly a year and a half, but, alas, she began this procedure so late in the progress of her disease that it was not as effective for her as it was for others who took the same path at an earlier stage. She passed earlier this year.

Interstate 65 is a very fast track from Decatur (where Mother lived) to Cullman (where her treatment was), but I always took the route down Highway 31 and back. I wasn’t just transferring a patient, I was spending time with my Mom, and this road held a lot of memories for both of us.

Mother’s mind was not always tip-top, but for the most part, even in the latter stages of her life, she was pretty clear and sharp. She had lost much of her joy in life, and her smile and laugh was very rare, but she could remember and engage in conversation.

Sometimes on those monthly trips we both would repeat parts of our conversation from previous times. At least half a dozen times during her treatment journeys, as we passed over the bridge (now double bridges, four lanes of wide road) nearest the foot of Hartselle Mountain, Mother would say, “This is the bridge where all of those little girls were killed.”

It was actually the second bridge where the accident happened, but the first of the three has been dedicated to three military service personnel. There is a large sign at the South entrance to the bridge, and a duplicate at the North entrance of the northbound bridge that lists their names and rank. Mother thought (she couldn’t read the words) that the signs commemorated the lives that were lost there in 1965.

Either going, or coming home, she would see those memorial signs. “This is the bridge where all of those little girls were killed.” Every time, I would solemnly respond, “Yes, it is, Mama. I remember the day that it happened. What a terrible thing. It still makes me sad to think about it.”

I said all of that to say that I have never forgotten what happened at that bridge so long ago. I think of it often. And I had been thinking about it more often lately because of the stray written comment of one of my friends.

As a matter of fact, more than ever it had been haunting me and bearing on my mind. It would not go away. It was not just another passing recollection. I was troubled. It seems that old age has given me the wisdom and maturity to see the questions more clearly, if not the answers.

This old memory was making me poke my faith. To stir my beliefs. Break up the fallow ground of my foundation. God makes me do this from time to time. It is always beneficial, but not always pleasant. It is unsettling. He wants to unsettle me. To stir me.To make me grow. And I have always been one that has been susceptible to growing pains.

I was born with completely flat feet. I didn’t have fallen arches . . . I never had arches that fell. Most normal human beings have a slight physical arch in the soles of their feet. I do not. I never did.

As soon as I started walking and growing, my feet and legs started to hurt. I didn’t know that everyone else was different. I didn’t know that it did not hurt for them to walk. I wouldn’t complain when my feet would hurt, but if I walked for a while, the hurt would go up from my feet into my legs. I know that I would cry then. It was more hurt than I could bear.

I remember that my Mom would sit me down next to her or lay me down on the bed or the couch and massage my feet and legs until the pain subsided and I could go to sleep. She took me to our family doctor and eventually to an orthopedic specialist, but no one had a cure for me.

The diagnosis was growing pains and the only solution offered was specially made expensive orthopedic shoes. They didn’t help. As a matter of fact, the introduction of an artificially created arch underneath my foot was like walking with a big stone in my shoe. It made things worse. It made the pain worse.

The only thing that really helped was my Mama’s care. She was so patient and loving and she rubbed my feet and legs for what seemed like hours as the tears ran down my face. I’m happy to say that I never forgot her sweet kindness (my feet and legs still hurt after a long day of walking), and on many occasions I openly thanked her for that particular thing that she did for me during her life. There were so many things that she did for us . . . I hope that I expressed my gratitude for many of them.

Standing by the side of the road in the cold now for about ten minutes . . .

I can see tinges of sunlight as they begin crawling up the backside of the hill that I am facing. Just faint traces. Not total darkness. Grayness.Shadows. But the light is coming. Perhaps thirty or forty minutes away. Is it 6:00 or 6:30?

Still no traffic. No people. No sound.

I was pretty sure that I could walk . . . but I had no compunction to take even a step from where I stood and surveyed this shadowy scene from my past.

Then I saw motion . . . someone was coming down from the trailer park. Down the left-hand gravel road that led to the gas station lot. Someone small.

They walked all of the way down the incline, across the lot and toward the highway. Toward me.

It was a young girl.

Her pace was deliberate and her steps never faltered. From the time that she left the trailer above, she had been coming purposefully to me.

As she neared the eastern edge of the highway my parental sense made me look quickly to the left and then to the right to make sure that her way was safe. I knew that nothing was coming, but I remember a feeling of relief as I saw her continue to walk to where I was standing.

When she reached the middle of the road I could see even in the dim light that was growing behind her, that it was who my mind had first imagined her to be when she first caught my eye.

It was Cathy.

I am now glad that my feet were planted . . . or I might have run away or at least taken a step backward in shock.

Cathy never missed a step.

She came straight to me, planted her freckled face in my chest, and wrapped her skinny arms around me in an enthusiastic hug. She squeezed me as tightly as a spindly nine year old girl can squeeze a big fat man. “Dennis!” she said smiling up into my face just before she collided with me and applied the embrace. “I’m so glad that you came!”

Pause, for just a moment.

Two things. (These are the kinds of thoughts that flash instantaneously through my mind as I live and think and reflect throughout my conscious, walk-about hours):

One, I had never hugged or probably even touched Cathy Crenshaw during all of the brief time that I knew her . . .

That was not unusual for me. I was shy and very backward socially, growing up, and I think that I was probably both in love with all girls and at the same time horrified of them.

I probably never had any kind of intentional contact with any of my female classmates at the Flint Elementary School. For six whole years!

Don’t misunderstand me, if I had had the gumption to act upon my crushes and blushes I might have hugged and kissed them all! But my romantic overtures to the girls never extended much farther than spiders and snakes, and occasionally shaking a frog at them.

Cathy and I hugged each other as if we were familiar with each other . . . a hug that seemed comfortable and was not out of place or inappropriate.A hug between very old friends who were reuniting after a very long absence.

I smelled the fragrance of a recent shampoo in her hair that made me think of my granddaughter. I was giving my very best Grandfather hug, in spite of my surprise, my shock, and my awe.

Two, very few people call me Dennis, anymore.

It is my childhood name.

I began trying to be grown up, mature, and respectable years ago and asked everyone to call me by my first name: John.

For the past 25 years I have been, and am John . . . but family members still call me Den and old friends still can’t refrain from calling me Dennis.

I placed my hands gently on Cathy’s shoulders and drew her away from our embrace to look into her face at arm’s length.

“Cathy . . . how can this be?! What is happening?”

“Come with me,” she said. She grabbed me by my left hand and began pulling back the way that she had come.

In 1965 I was in Mrs. Monroe’s Third Grade Class at Flint Elementary School. Cathy and I, and about twenty-five other little boys and girls were all classmates. Many of us had been together in Mrs. Ryan’s First Grade Class and also in Mrs. Graves’ Second Grade Class. But we had some new friends that had joined us during the latter part of our stint in Second Grade and the first part of our time in Third Grade.

In the early 1960’s industry was growing in the little river town of Decatur, Alabama. There were plant jobs, jobs in building, hauling, and construction. A number of acquainted families came over from Georgia or down from the Carolinas to live and work in the areas of Decatur and Hartselle. Flint City was a little community between those two towns that had its own Mayor, Policeman, Rescue Squad, Civitan Club and City Hall . . . as well as three family-owned grocery and gas stores.

Many years ago, the county school system had a school in Flint City that taught children from the First through the Ninth Grades. But in 1963-64 the first six grades of that school were moved into a new and modern brick, steel, and glass facility about a half mile north of the former campus. I remember that we began meeting in the new school buildings in the final half of my year in Second Grade with Mrs. Graves.

Brenda Emmett joined us at the new school. She and her family were some of the new arrivals. Her Dad and mine were involved in the dump truck business, hauling dirt, gravel, and asphalt for local construction companies. They became friends, and Brenda told me that she liked me and told me that she fully expected me to like her back. It seemed like a good idea.

The Emmetts moved back or moved on soon after they arrived. I do not know where they went or where they wound up. I would love to know what became of Brenda.

Keith Barbrie and his family came from South Carolina. He moved back there after graduation and lives in his old home town today. He had a brother and two sisters – they were all my dear friends and remain so. I connect with Keith through Facebook.

The Wilke family is another South Carolina family that moved into our part of Alabama looking for work and school. Wanda and Joyce were sisters. I believed that Wanda Wilke was one of the prettiest girls that I had ever seen. I know that I blushed and mumbled every time that she spoke to me. I never got the courage to tell her that since Brenda had left . . . I liked her!

Another family that came to our little town looking for work was the Crenshaws.

A Father and Mother and a little baby girl who had three older sisters.

Actually the head of the family was Mr. J.B Walters and his wife was Doris. Little Robin (nearly a year old) was their first child together, Cathy (9), Cindy (10), and Debbie (11) were their Mother’s children by a previous marriage. I can’t remember if I ever met Mr. or Mrs. Walters (he worked at the Davis Construction Company) . . . but I have always thought of them as the Crenshaw Family. Cathy Crenshaw was my age in 1965.

1965.

February 23, 1965.

As Cathy was dragging me up the hill (I assumed to where she lived) by the hand (it was a steep incline, and remember, I’m old and fat), I glance back over my left shoulder, down and back to the highway where I could see the first of the three bridges that led North.

I turned my head back to look at the little girl who was impatiently trying to hurry me up to our destination.

I wondered silently, “Is today February 23, 1965?” I concentrated a little more on putting one foot in front of the other. A little more scattered light was beginning to show over the top of the hill that we were climbing . . . bright sunlight was beginning to burn off the dew on the grass from which we’d just come.

“Cathy, are you taking me to your home?” I asked breathlessly.

I don’t remember the papers ever mentioning where the Walters and the Crenshaws lived, but for some reason I have always had the impression or some memory (whether true or false) that they had lived in the little trailer park on the hill behind the Kayo Gas Station.

“Yes,” she urged, “come on! We don’t have much time!”

Her words echoed in my mind, “We don’t have much time!”

Was “Yes” the answer to the question that I had wondered and the question that I had asked?

At 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday, February 23, 1965 I was peddling my last couple hundred yards to pull up to the Flint Elementary School. Soon the harsh buzzer that had been installed on the North end of the building near the Principal’s Office would sound.  It had replaced the old school bell from the former building and it would shake the skies at 8:00 a.m. -- time for school to begin.

At about 7:30 a.m. Mrs. Walters and her four daughters were in their car hoping to beat that buzzer as well. She pulled out of their driveway, down the gravel road and turned right on Highway 31 to head north toward school.

Cindy, Cathy, and Debbie had all of their books, papers, notebooks, bags, and pencils. They were all dressed in their Brownie, Girl Scout Uniforms because at the end of the day Mrs. Taylor would be there as their Troop Leader and take their through their pledge and their steps toward achieving their badges, ribbons, and buttons.

We were nearing a trailer and car on our right and in the increasing light I could see that Cathy was indeed wearing her little brown Scout dress, the little cloth belt, and necktie.

No one really knows the cause of the accident, though there were several eye-witnesses.

When Mrs. Walters pulled out on the highway and straightened up her car they were already very close to the first bridge.

She may have been distracted, trying to make sure that the girls had all of the things that they would need for school, or trying to pacify the baby.

There were no seatbelts, air bags, or a baby car seat. None of that would have mattered one bit after all.

There may have been another vehicle involved that created the danger.

A truck hauling 30,000 pounds of steel was being driven North on 31 by 26 year old Freddie Waters. Some speculated that perhaps Mr. Waters tried to pass the car before they pulled onto the narrow passageway leading to the second bridge. That is where the accident occurred.

However the tragedy began, who or whatever was at fault, if anyone . . . the truck and the small white Impala collided in the middle of that bridge.

According to testimony, the car flipped entirely, and the roof of the vehicle was sheared as it was carried over the guard rail of the bridge by the force of the initial impact. It crashed upside down in the creek bed below.

The truck and its load of steel was carried by the momentum of the crash and it followed the car over the side.

The truck perched for a moment in mid-air as it dangled by its rear wheels from the bridge, but that was no respite to what followed. The truck broke loose from the bridge and crashed onto the overturned car. The fuel tanks on both the car and the truck exploded into flames . . . and then 30,000 pounds of raw steel followed the truck to bury everything, and everyone.

It is unlikely that any of the occupants of the car survived the initial collision and fall. However, one person interviewed by the Daily reported having possibly heard the cries of a child. It is hard to imagine or to bear that possibility.

Fire and Police Departments from Hartselle and Decatur arrived quickly, the Flint Rescue Squad was on the scene almost immediately . . . but there was nothing that anyone could do. No rescue was possible.

I pulled up from our feverish trek to the top of the hill, still holding Cathy’s hand.

I turned her to face me with a sweeping motion, “Cathy, I have to talk to you! I need to see your Mother! What is today? What time is it?”

“We don’t have time for all that . . . come on, we’re almost there!”

“We’re here!” shouted Cathy as we came under the awning of a trailer. A white, four-door Impala was parked underneath, all four doors were open.

A woman came out of the trailer carrying a toddler. She looked like an older version of Cathy (all of the Creshaw girls favored each other, I now saw that they resembled their Mom).

Cathy looked up at the sky from underneath the awning, she spoke directly to her Mother, “We’ve got to hurry. Go ahead and get into the car with her and start the car. I will make sure that the others have everything and that we can leave on time.”

As Doris Walters obeyed her insistent Daughter, Cathy turned her attention back to the trailer. She had released my hand when we had crested the top of the hill and entered the driveway. I stood as a dumbfounded witness with my back to the trailer just beneath the edge of the awning.

Debbie and Cindy were exiting the trailer burdened with all of their school and Girl Scout items.

“Get into the back seat . . . leave this side door open . . . I’ll join you in a minute.”

Everything had seemed to be a confusing buzz since we had arrived at the trailer. But the confusion was only on my part. On my instant reflection and a second evaluation it occurred to me that what was happening before me was exact, planned, and precise. Everything was happening and everything was moving as if the steps of a dance were being performed. As if a drill was being executed.

Debbie started to enter the car . . . and before she ducked under the door frame she looked, full-faced at me. And as she gave me a beautiful smile, her eyes twinkled like starlight. The brightness startled me and took my breath away. I was still trying to grasp what I had just seen as she lowered herself into the back seat.

Everyone had their part, their place . . . and the nine year old had given all of the orders and directed all of the traffic.

Now . . . everything and everyone must have been in place and ready. Well, only one person out of place. Everything quieted and calmed. Everything was still. Cathy had almost seemed to radiate with purpose and intent.

Her back was to me as she faced the car after having given her last commands and taken a final inventory. I saw her take a deep breath and release it. She turned to face me and came closer to me, smiling broadly. She stopped in front of me and looked up into my face.

I looked intently at her and then glanced at the car load of people behind her. I looked back to her . . . and then I glanced to the right where I could see the highway below and the bridges that extended to my right.

I looked back at Cathy.

I knew. And she was letting me know.

I could see. And she was giving me a few heartbeats to know what I saw.

“You’re not Cathy . . . are you?”

Her smile got wider. “No. I’m not – Cathy and her family have been gathered.”

“Who . . . are you?”

“My name is Mahallalel.”

That didn’t mean much at the moment, but it was something for me to hold onto. “And them?” I asked nodding my head over her shoulder at the car.

“They are like me. They are my people. You might say my unit, or my team.”

“So, you’re like . . . on a mission, from God?” I smiled weakly. 

And as soon as I asked the question, I was certain that neither Cathy OR Mahallalel could possibly catch a reference to John Belushi or The Blues Brothers.

“Yes, we are.” She responded to my surprise. “We have been sent here on a mission from our Maker.”

I looked at her . . . feeling in more a dream-like state than I had since I appeared on the side of the road.

“He’s my Father.” I said quietly.

Cathy . . . Mahal . . . she brought her hands palm-together, thrust them out from her body and swept them apart palm-up in front of me as she bowed deeply at the waist.

I blushed deeply, with a warmth that flooded my entire being.

“I thought that maybe I was on a Mission from God. A rescue.”

She reached out and placed her right hand on my heart. She looked up into my face.

“No, Child. The Rescue . . . is complete.”

I stared at her and let the gears in my brain spin.

“So . . . you’re not here . . . to stop the wreck . . . to prevent the accident.”

It was not a question.

“No – they faced a terrible danger that threatened not only their lives, but also their souls. The Bridge and its event, though an apparent tragedy in the eyes of the world, were the portal and the time through which the Maker chose to send His rescue.”

“The threat and danger ended when they were gathered . . . it is not for you to know more.”

I stared intently at her face, searching for more.

My friend and her family were rescued . . . but NOT from the awful accident that I assumed had ended their lives prematurely.

The very devastation that I had thought was the great darkness in this story was actually their doorway into the protective and saving Presence of God.

I could not, at this moment, imagine a danger more terrible than the collision on the bridge, but now I knew that something wonderful had happened . . . instead of something terrible. I had been given a glimpse into one single event that revealed to me the lengths to which my Heavenly Father would go to bring light out of darkness. To rescue those whom He loves.

The Angel looked up at the rising sun, then back at me.

I knew that they would have to go at any minute.

“What about Freddie . . . the driver of the truck?”

“Mr. Waters has been gathered by a different team. Everything is in order.”

“So . . . you are going to give your life?

“Oh, no! Our spark will escape at the speed of a lightning bolt! Only these will remain,” she said, indicating Cathy’s form with the sweep of her fingertips.

“Only the Maker has given HIS Life.”

She came closer to me, reached up on her tip-toes, took my face in her hands and kissed my cheek. Tears were streaming down into my beard.

“The Maker knows that you are troubled. That this particular happening has hurt you for many years. It has placed something hard between your faith and Him.”

“This is what happened . . . He wanted you to see it.”

“It happens differently in every giving of life and in every taking. This is only one time, one way, but in seeing this He wants you to know . . . that always in every part of His Plan . . . He is Good.”

“Farewell, Dennis. I will see you again . . . we both will.” said Cathy as she turned and crawled into the back seat of the car.

The car pulled away, turning left to go down the hill to the highway.

I could hear all of the metal rolling noisily down Hartselle Mountain, headed north.

I bowed my head, clinched my fists, and shut my eyes.

“Thank you, Father . . . I’m ready to go back to where I belong, now.”

A Note from the Author

God created us all in His Image.

So . . . we are creators, too.

A Writer is one kind of creator, or maker . . . and what they create is also in their image.

Every word that a Writer pens - whether prose or poetry, fact or fiction - traces of himself, his family, friends, and acquaintances are all a part of what ends up on paper (or the display screen).

According to Genesis chapter 1, God created some of the things in this world out of nothing. But the Bible records that He made Man and Woman out of available materials -- after His Image.

You may assume, then, as you read that novel or other publication from your favorite Author -- you are learning a little bit about him, or her. You are meeting people that they know or have known or have met. You are visiting places to which they have been. It is hard to disguise or deny.

There have, no doubt, been authors who have had the creative ability to create plots, stories, events, and characters out of whole cloth -- but they are either rare or non-existent. It is either very hard or impossible to write about something or someone about which or whom you know nothing.

We (Authors) are taught to "write what we know." And we pretty much try to stick to that advice.

Every sermon that I have ever preached has had me, and you, in it. What is the point of a sermon, otherwise? We will not receive any benefit from just Jeopardy style knowledge and wisdom -- facts about the Bible. We learn the facts and then fact them with, "What does all of that information mean to ME and how I live my life?"

Every story that I have ever told or written, every book that I have ever published is about me, my life, the people around me and their lives.

That is rude and presumptuous, isn't it?

Don't worry -- we always disguise the facts and change the names so that we will not embarrass you. And so that we can present a claim of deniability!

But, sometimes we don't.

The Rescue is the first work of fiction that I have produced that is based on an actual event. I also use real names of people that were associated with that event.

But -- The Rescue is a work of fiction. It is the product of my imagination. The characters are all fictitious, even though some of them carry historical names.

There are many lines in the plot and story of The Rescue that never really happened. The story is an I Wonder or a What if. It might even be an I Wish.

If you find any harm or offense in this little short story, then I am sorry. It was not my intention.

I have published it here (and only here for the moment) in Light from the Pit because writing it made me feel better about something very dark that has occupied my heart for many years. Yes, you have been invited to peek in on both my inner turmoil and my self-created and imposed therapy.

*If you want to learn more about the tragedy upon which this story is based, go to http://www.johndbain.com/tragedy.html