Are you the type of person who loves a good spoiler? Then this page is for you! This page is dedicated to those delicious little tidbits and breadcrumbs that people love to search for before a big debut, whether it is a new movie you may be looking forward to, a Netflix series, a music artist or concert, or in my case, a Book.
Book Teasers
Book 1 Prologue-I am Ready Now
Prologue I am Ready Now “I just let go, and I feel exposed. But it’s so beautiful, because this is who I am. I’ve been such a mess. Now I can’t care less. I have nothing left to hide. No reasons left to lie. Give me another chance. All the walls are down. Time is running out, and I want to make this count. I ran away from you. I did what I felt *compelled to do. But I don’t want to let you down. Lord, I’m ready now.”- Plumb
August 2021
I am a master manipulator. I am devious. I am cunning. I am full of deceit. I play with people’s emotions. I toy with them. I like to mess with their heads. I have always been a people watcher, since my childhood. I take a moment to discreetly scan my surroundings. They are pristine. They are immaculate. Such a new and foreign place to find myself in. I have not had the opportunity to come here for so long. I savor the moment. I take it in. I find that I am in a particularly good mood. I find beauty in the normality of it all. And I feel like sharing my devious and playful nature with someone else. Someone who I can manipulate. And I am the master. I see her sitting there at the receptionist desk. I watch carefully. She looks young and impressionable. Without breaking my gaze, I speak to my daughter, Everest.
“Did you bring your mask?”She rolls her eyes.
“Yes mom, I’m wearing it!”
Right. For all I know I very well could have asked her that three and a half minutes ago. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. My poor memory is one of my less desirable traits. Anybody who knows me well, also knows this about me. At this rate, I will no doubtedly get full on Alzheimers by the time I am 50. I am 37. Shit.
“That’s it mom! I’ve got it!”
She waits on baited breath, pausing for dramatic effect; right there in the middle of the new dentist’s office.”Madagascar!” She finishes exuberantly.
“Wait a second, what?” I ask, caught off guard by her declaration.
“Madagascar! I want my next birthday party to be themed around the island of Madagascar.”
Of the many things that I love about my daughter, one of them is this. In everything that she does, she is passionate. When the morning sun rises, she is passionate about being defiant. This attitude pattern carries on throughout the entirety of her day with predictable regularity. She confidently struts around the house unabashedly in her unicorn panties, taunting anyone she feels is worthy enough to challenge her in her wake. Hair alway uncombed, smirking mischievously. When she’s wounded, she is passionately so, even if it is merely stubbing her toe, displaying a wealth of crocodile tears and her mother’s uncanny, habitual display of theatrics. I have always loved theater, though I never did land a leading vocal role. After all, the vast majority of the plays are highly recognizable musicals. Using your voice, and making it powerful I have found, takes a lot of practice. You need to dedicate yourself to using it, even when you do not feel inclined to use it. It is in these very moments that you need to use it the most. At that point in my life, without a voice forceful and powerful enough to take center stage, I found myself embracing the eccentric character roles. People always would say to me that I had a knack for them. Personally, I find these characters the most engaging, and the most entertaining role to fill. The eccentric ones are the characters that stay with you the most. They carry with them a certain level of defiance. They stand apart from the crowd. In my youth, I embraced the role of Yente the matchmaker in the classic, “Fiddler on the Roof.” To play these roles you need to embrace an impromptu persona. Abandon your fears. You need to be able to have the tenacity to adapt quickly to the environment around you in order to keep your audience engaged. This is what I enjoyed doing best. With my own daughter, when something is unjust or distributed unfairly amongst her siblings, her blue eyes grow dangerously wild, like a lioness on the hunt. Sometimes, if she really wants to freak us out, she’ll do her notorious, ‘Chameleon face,’ going half cross eyed at her own will and leisure. Her hair is most often on end as she leaves it unapologetically uncombed, tangly and sticking out on end, giving off the impression of a desperate stray cat, trapped defiantly in a corner. All it takes is one quick glance at the bottle of detangler, and it will send her running around the somewhat limited capacity of our home, or at least limited for a single mom with six children. One would think that the world itself had turned on its axis. In other words, watch out. She is fiercely independent, with the look on her face that needs no interpretation.
“Do you know who you’re dealing with? Look at me. I know who I am. Do you know who you are? I am not so sure about you, but I am going to conquer the world.”
And in many ways, in the best of ways, I truly believe that indeed she will. As a matter of fact, It was only a few weeks ago that she had told me what she would like to be when she grew up. A veterinarian, a cop. Maybe even a nurse, just like her mommy wants to be. When I asked her why she had wanted to become a police officer she explained to me,
“So I can sit around my desk all day and eat doughnuts.” She smiles jestfully.
“Roger?”
Our heads jerk instinctively, as the dental assistant, the girl I scanned, calls out for the next patient to be seen. Then the moment passes.
“No, I really want to chase down the bad guys and beat them all up. Then I would throw them in jail.”
Essentially, that describes my Everest in a nutshell. God didn’t design all of us in this world to be deeply intrinsic empaths such as myself. There is no right or wrong way to be or to feel. We are all different. I have learned, with a profound and keen sense of understanding, that God is not wasteful. Indeed, the very qualities that define and shape my daughter are in and of themself, a precious gift. God gave her a strong will, a fierce tenacity, and a healthy sense of self. Similarly, he gave her the agency to use these traits as she sees fit at some point in her life. You know where I am going with this?
“With great power, comes great responsibility.”
Giving a shout out to my son Gabriel’s old favorite, Spiderman, before he was unceremoniously replaced by Ben Ten and his alien forces. Poor spidey. I have a picture of when Gabe was five. We had bombarded him with spiderman. From bedding, plastic cups and plates, piggy banks and wallets, it was crazy. We definitely went overboard with him that year.I always tell Everest that she can do or be anything that she wants to be, if only she is willing to put in the effort. I tell her that she can be a positive force to be reckoned with, if she uses her God given traits and natural talents for good. I certainly did not know who I was at the tender young age of seven, nor would I come to have a profound understanding or personal sense of my own intrinsic worth for the many years that would inevitably follow. She spoke with a grandiose display of surety and conviction. She treats her sense of worth as something that is non-negotiable. Ever present and immovable. Everest. She is worthy simply because she exists, and because she deserves a place in this world. I can wholeheartedly say that in many respects, my daughter is already ahead of the pack in this collective human experience that we all share. If anything, I sometimes have to make sure that she keeps her arrogance in check, as she does not have any qualms about disrespecting authority figures, much to her father ‘s and I’s dismay. I always joked, and I continue to joke within myself, and outwardly, when I am feeling playful, that God, in his vast wisdom and intricate goodness, was wise enough to bless me with three boys before bearing the responsibility of three daughters. When I do reach my mid-forties, I can only hope that I am ready to take on my dear sweet Everest in raw teenage form, along with everything that goes with it. We’re taking menstruation, boys, dating and clothes. That in and of itself, manifests to me that God is indeed a merciful one.
“So of all the places in the world, why Madagascar?”
I ask her inquisitively.
“Because it is hidden, and not alot of people know about it. Plus, there are lots of different kinds of lemurs! Some of them live nowhere else on earth! ONLY live on Madagascar!” She exclaimed.
“You know,” I explained to her,
“When animals live in that kind of environment they deserve to be protected, don’t you think? Otherwise, we could lose them forever, and each animal has something very special to offer. Each and every one of them are unique and different in their own ways.”
“I know mom.”
She drones, shoulders drooping, rolling her eyes at me sarcastically. I brush off her indifference and continue the conversation.
“You mentioned that you liked Madagascar because it was hidden, I wonder why that is?” I asked her.
“Because then it is a secret, and when something is a secret, that makes it special.”
“Or maybe,”
I offered,
“Something is special because it does not need to be a secret. Like in Kung Fu Panda. Do you remember what Poe’s dad told him about the secret family recipe? In order to make something special you simply have to believe that it is special. Do you know what I mean?
”She looks up at me with curious eyes and a quizzical expression.
“Uh, not really.”“Well, do you think you are special?”
“Of course mom!” She retorts indignantly, as if she could possibly be anything else other than special.
“Well, if more people knew what Madagascar was really like, and what it had to offer, don’t you think more people would like to experience it firsthand? To observe its natural beauty and diversity?”
“I guess they would,” She muses.
“People just need a little perspective, don’t you think? Because sometimes, all it takes is a closer look”
“When is Gabriel going to be done? We’ve been here forever.”
Patience has never been one of her virtues, as is the case for most seven year olds. So the conversation abruptly ends when the office door opens, and Gabriel struts out with the dental assistant looking sulky, hands shoved deep within his pockets.
“Okay Gabriel, I just need to talk to your mother for a quick second okay?”
The dental assistant encourages him as they walk towards me, somewhat patronizingly. He shrugs indifferently as I approach him and ruffle his hair, something that I have always done with him to relieve his tension, and I immediately see him trying to conceal a half smile as he makes his way begrudgingly over to his sisters. The assistant takes a moment to talk with me privately near the receptionist’s desk.
“So after looking at Gabriel’s teeth, I think it may be beneficial for him to get a recommendation for an orthodontist. He has some generalized crowding, and that top canine is really trying to push its way out. If you see the receptionist over there she has a referral printed out and ready for you.”
“Thank you.”
I responded politely. I make my way over to the receptionist desk. The receptionist looks young, no more than twenty if I had to guess, the same age I was when I got married seventeen years earlier. In a time where I thought that I was so wise in my own eyes.
“Okay, I have your contact information as Elizabeth Miller. You go Liz?”
She asks innocently.I instinctively shudder and she cocks her head slightly to the side. She is perceptive. Good.
“Oh no. Please do not call me by that name. That needs to be updated.”
I informed her, quite matter of factly. She looks confused. Her demeanor is timid and sweet. Mild. Perfectly gullible. She looks like the perfect target. I smile. I look up. Briefly across the way, three of my children that made it to the dentist’s office with me that day sit huddled around a tablet, frustrated by the fact that the new dentist office hasn’t established a guest WiFi yet. I tell her my name. I tell her that I am their mother. She looks at me quizzically, with an almost apologetic expression.
“Who is this person that we have had on file as their primary caregiver for the last two years?” She asks me.
“She is their grandmother”
I responded, with a purposeful and profound air of detachment. I smile discreetly. I see the moment present itself, and I find that I cannot resist. I can’t help myself. She looks up at me, confused. I breathe in slowly and deliberately. I look her directly in the eye and smile wide.
“My children lived with their grandparents for the better part of two years because I am a convicted criminal.”
I pause for dramatic effect. Like mother, like daughter. The moment hangs uncomfortably in the air and I look over at my daughter, Everest. With her rebellious and defiant spirit, I draw strength from her. For she had nothing more on her mind that day than to celebrate her next birthday with the theme and the celebration of what is Madagascar. I pause. I wait on baited breath, returning a direct gaze.
“And a drug addict.”
I add for good measure.I stand back and watch the confusion spread across her face as she struggles to absorb the information that I just presented, as casually as one would report the weather. I could tell she was wondering if this was some kind of prank. I stand back and let her confusion process for a while longer, as I am quite entertained watching her conflicting emotions spread across her countenance, as much as I hate to admit it. One of the things that was stolen from me when my children were taken, was my charming self-deprecating humor. I always had the ability to intuitively put others at ease when tense situations arose. I think back on the words that I had written to my second son when he was eleven, in the journal that I created especially for him when he was five.“With my keen motherly peripheral vision, I caught you on your knees atop your bunk bed, arms folded in prayer. ‘Raising your children up in righteousness!’ As my own mother used to say, and her words ring true in my ears. Despite the growing chaos of our crazy family, and the self doubt that I constantly feel as your mother, at least today, at this moment, I feel that maybe, just maybe, I am doing something right.”I break my gaze from the receptionist for a moment and walk casually back to my impatient children. One needs to use the bathroom and is doing her potty dance. The other wants lunch, she wants me to take me out for a happy meal. And Gabriel just wants working Wi-Fi.
“Mooooom! What took you so long?” They whine, tugging at my sleeve.
“Well I’m sorry,”
I try to reassure them.
“I had to talk to that nice receptionist over there.”
I nod my head in that direction, and she waves cautiously up over the desk.
“We were having a good conversation.”
I run my fingers through Gabriel’s hair. He is almost as tall as me, despite the fact that he just turned ten.
“I hate to say it Mr. T, But it looks like you may need braces.”
He groans begrudgingly.
“But moooom! I don’t want braces!”
His body goes limp, and he starts pouting in earnest.“Mr T.” is short for Rufus T. Riley. His mischievous alter ego. At bedtime, I would make up impromptu stories about Rufus T. Riley and his grand adventures around the world. It was a fun way that I could incorporate education when his screen time got out of hand. On google earth, we would randomly spin the globe, and whatever it landed on, I would make up a grand adventure that his alter ego would embark on. I am quite sure that we landed on the mysterious island of Madagascar on more than one occasion. They look up at me.
“Come on kids! We should be celebrating!”
“Why?”
They ask me incredulously. I look down at each of them in turn. I take a moment and I draw in their presence. I am celebrating. I am celebrating because I get to ruffle his hair the way I used to. I am celebrating because I get to see that mischievous smirk on my daughter’s face. I get the chance to get after again for her crude sense of humor and sometimes inappropriate behavior. I am free to reprimand if I want to, even though I am guilty of finding amusement in the same thing. I am celebrating because when I hear my child’s voice, it sounds just like a song. Where I once merely heard her laughter on the wind I now draw in her freely and without restraint. And I get to appreciate just how much her steel gray eyes sparkle, as cliche as that may sound.
“Why are we celebrating? They ask me.
“Why are we celebrating? I repeat back to them.
“We are celebrating because you all have no cavities of course!”
I regained my focus. I turn my attention back to the receptionist who, at this point, has abandoned her look of concern. Indeed, she has now taken on an air of confusion. I take it upon myself to calm her fears. I see the rigidity in her spine, a sign of palpable tension. I am acutely aware of this reaction. I lean down over the desk, as the counter is a good five or six inches above her computer stand.
“Don’t worry.”
I facetiously reassure her with a sly wink.
“I’m good now.”
Our eyes meet and she looks at me for the briefest moment, then she smiles. Her shoulders drop ever so slightly as the signs of visible tension dissipate. I feel glad that I have done so. I could have ended our conversation there. But now I want to see if I can make her laugh. I want to make people laugh again like I used to. I want to test myself. I want to see if I truly am whole. I want to see if I am myself again. I speak.
“My life of crime began with cheese.”
Her head jerks up at me.
“Cheese?”
I pause.
“Yes. Deep fried cheese.”
She remains silent, and I take this as my que to continue.“Yet, as addictive as deep fried dairy is, it wasn’t enough. From there I had to move on to harder drugs. But I didn’t get arrested for cheese no, it was something far more dire.”
I have piqued her interest. She no longer looks apprehensive. Rather, she looked intrigued. I quickly glance over at my children. They are huddled around Gabe’s tablet for the moment, off in the corner across the lobby. I continue.
“I got a DUI. I got a DUI on an Ambien and consequently I had a breathalyzer installed in my minivan for the better part of two years.”
She stares at me. Her face is quite expressionless. She is still waiting for the punchline. I pause.
“I don’t even drink alcohol!”
Nothing. Damn. This girl is going to be harder than I thought. I accept the challenge. I switch up my tactics.
“You know, there are businesses out there who actually count on people like me to be filled with shame. They anticipate it. When I first had it installed in my vehicle, the salesman told me there were options for scared and vulnerable women such as myself. Customers who were too ashamed to have the device noticed in their vehicle. People who would be excessively worried about what people would say or think. At one point I was told there was a covering for the device that looked like a giant fountain drink, one that you might get at a gas station, and the round plastic attachment that you blew in would poke out and be thought of as a straw.”
She stares at me, quite expressionless.
“Have you ever seen a ‘blow and go’ device?” I ask her, knowing full well she most likely had not.
“Well let me just tell you, it would be irrelevant if the device could be disguised as a fountain drink anyway. You know why?”
She waits. I speak.
“Not only is the device a significantly sized rectangle, as opposed to a cylinder, but because the circumference of the blow hole is about the size of a nickel. Not only that, but you have to actually blow into the device. Hence the nickname, ‘blow and go.’ You blow into the ‘straw’ so to speak with the same amount of pressure that you would apply if you were blowing up a particularly stubborn balloon at a birthday party for approximately three seconds. Then you inhale with the same amount of pressure. Then you repeat the process, in and out.”
She stares.
“When was the last time you blew into a soda cup when you wanted a drink? I think it is safe to assume that no additional thought was considered by these salesmen who wanted to profit from another person’s shame. Surely the end result of the purchase would just ensure that they looked even more ridiculous. It would also be safe to assume that whoever was riding in the car with this person at the time would be equally as gullible. People making a profit from other people’s shame. I have had this device installed in my vehicle long enough that I can count, nearly to the second, when it will ask for a sample that I know will never turn out positive. 1.) When I pull up to a fast food restaurant drive thru and it is my turn to either order or pay. 2.) Whenever it is my turn to pick up my preschooler in the pick up line of her school, and 3.) When I am pulling into my church parking lot and a member of my congregation approaches to greet me.”
She breaks. Finally. I get the reaction I was looking for. She begins to laugh, in spite of herself. Bursting out deep belly aching laughs. Loud and hard. The tension immediately dissipates, and I find that I am finally satisfied. I am the master manipulator. I am cunning. I am devious. I set out to do what I wanted. I made someone laugh at my expense. Everest stamps her foot impatiently at me at the stop of the stairs just outside of the lobby door.
“Mom! Aren’t you ready now?”
I chuckle softly in return, and reassure her calmly.
“Yes Everest, I’m ready”
As I slip my hands into hers. I can hear the two receptionists behind me laughing amongst one another. I can hear the pleasure in their voices. A mixture of both amusement and intrigue.
“That,”
She turns to the other, leaning back in her chair, the nervous tension all but dissipated.
“Was AWESOME.”
I smile to myself. A calm reassurance swells within my chest. A long repressed memory. One of joy and peace, and a perfect brightness of hope.
“You will be a light on a hill that is not hidden, bringing joy into the lives of others, blessed with gifts, talents and abilities even beyond your capacity to understand this day. Accept the callings that come unto you. In your quiet, strong and steady way be faithful and true in what you are asked to do. Your inspiration, knowledge, and intelligence will grow. The light of truth and the light of love will be in your eyes. Walk in the light and you will know the direction you should go. You will gain understanding of the things that will bring you peace. You will be a strength to others and a good example. You will place your arms around them and often express your love and together, you will accomplish many worthwhile things.You will bring joy to the souls of many as you lift up their hearts in the use of your talents and the edifying experiences that you will have in this life. For you have much to accomplish. Forgive yourself. Do not be judgmental. Recognize that everyone has weaknesses and shortcomings. Do not dwell on those things. Dwell on the things that are your strengths. Let love rule your spirit. Others will feel of that love and such will return unto thee tenfold, and your life will be good, productive, and wonderful.”
I smile. “I am ready.” I tell myself. “I am ready.”
Lord, I am ready now.”
“When people are in the mood for being creative, they will come up with stories that will impress the imagination of the world. I like to think of my emotions and try to make something poignant out of them. I have to admit, I’m not very creative, but I do have a wild imagination and I try to tell stories with meaning, ones that will make the reader think about life. So that when they are done reading my words, they can’t get them out of their head. So many of my exact same emotions that I would write on paper if I had only the talent to do it. The only problem is, I am not patient enough to write a book. Not unless I am in a really determined mood. The mood that almost all writers need to be in in order to write to the best of their ability. I like writing creatively. It takes my mind off of my life. Sometimes I get so sick of it! So sick that I would rather be anyone else in the world but me. I am getting so sick of all my thoughts, how everything I feel comes out the same, and how my life is so painfully ordinary. Right now I am looking down at my hands. To me, they appear sort of graceful. To others, I am not so sure. I think my hands are pretty, and I wonder what responsibilities they will hold. Will these hands reach out to others in need? Will they be known, loved, valued, or accepted? Because in the quiet moments, the ones in the back of my mind, hidden from view, lies a vast, dominant force that remains highly unidentifiable. Something abstract and foriegn. A morbid curiosity, and a dark fascination. A desire to stray into forbidden paths. I give in. I succumb. I stray Into these moments, and I imagine my hands, graceful as they may appear, cold and still. Lifeless. And I am gone.”
15 years old
-Drowning in Madagascar
“I feel compelled to write down all of my secrets in a book set entirely apart from the blue bindings of my innocence. Where butterflies danced freely among the chapters of my life and a sunshine yellow ribbon divided them. A life full of promise. My little black book. It is the impenetrable darkness destined to conceal all of my light. I am compelled to seek refuge in the very shadows that penetrate me. That chill me to my core. Cold. Emmersive and unforgiving. Yet serving a desperate and instinctual need for the concealment of my shame. For as much as I yearn to feel of this light, this perfect brightness of hope, I am now cursed to live within the clouded perceptions of a diseased and tortured mind, for they cannot exist harmoniously, the light and the dark. It is against nature, against better judgment or instinct. One must triumph over the other. Moments of contentment that embrace freely the fundamental ideation of normalicy do not, indeed they cannot exist here. This is a place where joy simply cannot exist, one must swallow up the other entirely, for I am now two different people. I have regressed. I have declined. I have pushed back the very essence of time. I am forced to admit once more that the needy child within me has re-emerged. Hold me, she says to me. Love me. Please do not let go. For I am afraid of the dark once more.”
–Drowning in Madagascar
“The night was still and quiet. All should have been well. I was in paradise. My baby sister was asleep mere feet away from my right. If I wanted to, I could reach through the walls and touch her. She was the reason I longed to be a mother before I knew everything that it would entail. Before I knew that the pain their absence would far surpass the pain that gave them life. This lonley place of desperation. To my left, my father lay sleeping. I can hear him. It is dark but for the lonely glow of a google search engine. A thin beacon of effortless knowledge where I found myself typing five simple words, almost as if in a trance,
‘How to tie a Noose.’ “
-From the Chapter- “Come Alive”
“I darted into the kitchen, into the spare room where two of my friends were conversing, one amongst the other. And I wailed and I freaked out and I panicked and I started hyperventilating and gasping for air. I threw myself into their arms and started weeping in earnest saying, ‘Those are my children! What did I do to deserve this? This isn’t fair! Those are my children! I want my family back! What did I do to deserve this?’ And I sobbed. And I sobbed and I sobbed for five minutes straight in their arms. And when the time came that I attempted to release myself from their grip she held on all the tighter. Because she was not ready to let go of me. They were both mothers. And I could hear them weeping along with me. And I was so grateful that they were there. To hold me, and to not let go. Even when I felt I was ready they did not let go of me, but they held on all the tighter. That is love. That is what we deserve. That is what every human being deserves. Whether you are an addict or not.”
–Drowning in Madagascar
Drowning in Madagascar 