Shannon's Hope

  Cover image: Newport Beach Binoculars Pier View © Allen Donikowski

  Cover design copyright © 2013 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2013 by Josi S. Kilpack

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN 978-1-62108-531-7

  Acknowledgments

  I have enjoyed this series so much and appreciate all the encouragement and support I’ve had from readers, family, and friends in making it possible. I’m beyond grateful for my coauthors on this project: Annette Lyon (Paige, Covenant 2012; Ilana, Covenant 2014), Heather Moore (Athena, Covenant 2012; Ruby, Covenant 2014), and Julie Wright (Olivia, Covenant 2012; Victoria, Covenant 2013.) They are such important women in my life and have each made me better and stronger. Thank you, gals, for . . . everything. Big thanks to Deseret Book for supporting this project, which eventually led to them asking Covenant Communications to take over publication in order to retain continuity in the series. Because of that, I got to work with even more fabulous people. Specifically Jana Erickson, Deseret Book product manager; Lisa Mangum, Deseret Book editor (After Hello, Shadow Mountain 2012); Samantha Millburn, Covenant editing and typesetting; and Christina Marcano, Covenant cover design. I am grateful to be able to work with such talented people and appreciate each of you so much.

  Thank you to Gregg Luke (Deadly Undertakings, Covenant 2012) for helping me with some of the pharmacist-specific elements of this book. With his own books to write, profession to work, a family to raise, and life to live, I am very grateful for the time he took to guide my words.

  In my years of writing there are a few books I’ve written that have explored things that are a part of my personal experience. “Shannon” was one of those books for me. I am not Shannon, and I don’t have a specific Keisha in my life, but I have been a participant in the “dance” of addiction and codependency and boundaries and letting go and forgiving (or trying to). The closeness of those issues made it a hard book to write, and at one point I determined I needed to abandon this story line and start something else; I felt that I was exposing too much raw flesh in the story and that I might hurt people I love. I explained it to my husband—who intimately knows the real-life people and circumstances that made this story difficult—and he encouraged me to stay with it. He felt that the value for me and other people involved in a similar “dance” was worth the discomfort. And so I wrote it. And I learned. And I’m still nervous. But the words are here, and I hope they are of value to others.

  I believe in a God of healing and hope, and I believe our journeys do not end when we leave mortality and that some battles may continue indefinitely. There is a fine line between hope and hopelessness sometimes; between love and self-preservation; between kindness and enabling. I have much to learn in regard to these things but I am trying. If you are a dancer, on any side of the issue, of which there are many sides, I wish you peace and perspective as you figure out your own steps.

  Chapter 1

  The phone rang, and my brain and body reacted as only a brain and body can react to a phone call in the middle of the night: sheer panic.

  I shot up in bed, scrambled across John’s still-snoring form—causing him to grunt—and fumbled for the phone on his nightstand. “Hello?” I said, not yet fully awake but alert enough to wish I’d taken just one full breath so it wouldn’t sound like I’d just been pulled out of REM sleep.

  I could hear noise from the other end of the line—traffic, and a man’s voice shouting in the background.

  “Hello,” I said again as I finished crawling over John, who was awake now, or at least not snoring.

  “Can you come get me?”

  My heart pitched, and I let out a breath as my grip tightened around the phone. “Keisha?” I asked, though we both knew I knew who it was; Keisha was my twenty-one-year-old stepdaughter, John’s daughter from his first marriage. “Where have you been? Where are you?” She’d fought with her mother two weeks ago and had left the house with nothing but her purse and her phone, which she hadn’t answered since then. I’d called her at least once a day.

  “Please come get me. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  I adjusted my position so I could sit on the side of the bed. John sat up behind me, listening. “Is it Keish?” he whispered.

  I nodded and covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “She wants us to come get her.”

  John fell back on the pillows, worn-out by one more crisis following the years of crises involving his daughter. Drugs, rehab, drugs again. Living with her mom, living with us, living with friends, living with her mom again. But, despite the chaos, we had always known where Keisha was at any given time. Not knowing during these last weeks had been horrendous.

  “Where are you?” I asked into the phone.

  “Compton. By the airport,” Keisha said, sniffling. “Can you come?”

  “Of course I can come,” I said. John’s grunt from behind me communicated many things—disappointment in me, annoyance at this situation, and frustration with his daughter. I hoped, however, that within all those negative feelings was also relief that she had called, that we knew she was okay. I knew he’d been as worried about her as I was. I pulled open the nightstand drawer and found a pen and an envelope I could write on. “What’s the exact address?”

  She gave it to me and asked me to hurry.

  “I will,” I said. “I’ll have my cell phone with me, so call if you need to, okay?”

  John climbed out of bed and turned on the closet light.

  “I don’t know your cell number ’cause I lost my phone,” Keisha said, still crying. “I found some guy who let me use his to call you guys.”

  The need for urgency was building in my chest. “Let me give you my cell number, then. Do you have something you can write it down with?”

  “No, just come,” she said, sounding frustrated. “Please hurry, there’s some really creepy people down here.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing up. “We’re on our way.”

  I hung up the phone and relayed the information to John, who was buttoning up his jeans. “We should be able to get to Compton in about forty minutes this time of night, don’t you think?” I grabbed the hem of my knee-length nightgown and fluidly pulled it over my head as I crossed the room to my dresser to get some clothes. Keisha was okay. She was coming home.

  “I’ll go,” John said. “You stay here with Landon.”

  I stopped, holding up a pair of jeans and looking at him. Oh yeah, Landon, our twelve-year-old son. “I told her I would come,” I said. “Maybe you should stay with Landon.”

  “And send you to Compton in the middle of the night by yourself?” He pulled a T-shirt over his head, sending his sleep-mussed hair even more out of control. His hairline was nearly halfway back on his head these days, and though he kept his remaining hair short, the half-inch strands stood up in fifteen directions.

  He was right about me going alone, of course. It was bad enough that Keisha was there; to send me there too was ridiculous. But . . . “Go easy on her,” I said.

  He gave me a look that bordered on a glare and went back into the closet to get his shoes. It was an old argu
ment between us—tired, worn-out, and threadbare. I was too soft on his daughter, and John was too hard. When she’d gone to rehab the last time, he’d become a big proponent for “tough love,” and saying, “She’s an adult.” I wanted to believe that if he’d been the one to answer the phone he’d have agreed to get her like I had, but I didn’t know. The poor choices Keisha had been making the last four years had sent us on an emotional roller coaster as we tried over and over again to help, only to have her fall further down the pit of addiction. Maybe for John anger didn’t hurt as much as hoping did.

  “We just want her to be safe,” I said, reminding him of our shared alliance.

  He nodded, though reluctantly, and kissed me quickly on his way to the door. “Try to sleep.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep,” I said, shaking my head at the idea. “Call me when you get there, okay? I want to know she’s with you.”

  He nodded again and disappeared through the doorway, leaving me standing in the middle of our bedroom. I listened carefully for the sound of the garage door closing before putting my nightgown back on and puttering into the living room. It would be at least an hour and a half before they got back, but if I stayed in bed, I would just stare at the ceiling. I’d rather clean to pass the time; heaven knows with both John and me working more than full-time, and with John coaching whatever sport-of-the-season Landon was playing, there was always something in need of cleaning, but then I saw the yellow-and-purple book cover peeking out from beneath a pile of mail and newspapers on the kitchen table.

  I’d bought The Help last week at Walmart after Aunt Ruby told me it was the title for next month’s book group. We’d been meeting for four months now, and I had yet to finish any of the other book club books. I’d seen the movie for this one, though, and liked the idea of comparing the two formats. I glanced at the clock. It was 2:14. Was John to Anaheim yet?

  I sat down in John’s recliner and pulled back the stiff pages of the book. An internal hesitation almost stopped me; I’d developed a prejudice toward fiction many years ago. Why read fiction when there were so many fascinating truths out there waiting to be learned? I pushed away the thoughts and honed in on the first page, determined to make this work. I was thirty-eight years old and in most ways I was well-rounded, but I could use some more things to talk about and think about. Landon was almost thirteen and more independent than ever before. John was extremely involved in Landon’s athletics, leaving me with time I didn’t know how to fill. Hence, I’d accepted Aunt Ruby’s invitation to join her book group and yet hadn’t finished a book. This time would be different.

  I looked at the clock again and hoped that this experience with Keisha would be different too. She’d lived with us half a dozen times since she’d turned seventeen and first starting hitting serious turbulence. Once she stayed with us for five full months; all the other times were just a few weeks here and there until she got back on her feet or repaired things with her mother. These last two weeks when she’d been gone were the longest weeks of our lives. We’d filed a missing persons report with the police, we’d contacted all of her friends we knew, and we’d called the local hospitals more than once. And now she’d called us. Thank goodness. I hoped that her calling us was a sign that she had finally hit the bottom of her trials and was ready to build her way up. I had always been able to see incredible potential in her, and I was determined to help her see it too.

  But right now I needed to stop obsessing about her. I needed to get lost in something else and prepare for whatever tomorrow might bring. I smoothed my hand over the first page of The Help, took a breath, and started reading.

  Chapter 2

  When John and Keisha got home at 4:00 a.m., I hopped off the couch and fussed over my stepdaughter, who looked horrible. She was a tiny little thing, like her mother—just over five foot two, and a hundred pounds, if that. Without her makeup on, she looked about fourteen years old. She was usually fastidious about her appearance, but clearly she hadn’t showered or brushed her hair in days. She smelled like a bar, and my stomach sank. I hoped she’d at least stayed away from anything stronger than alcohol. She was obviously exhausted and in no condition to talk, so I helped her to the shower, gave her a clean nightgown of mine, then tucked her into the guest room bed and told her we’d talk tomorrow.

  “Thanks, Shannon,” she whispered, closing her eyes and pulling the blanket up to her chin.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. At the doorway I paused and looked back at her, my heart both heavy and light at the same time. I’d wanted more children of my own—well, sort of. I’d been pregnant before Landon. I had been a new wife of just a year at the time, establishing a relationship with my husband’s six-year-old daughter, and I was both excited and nervous about becoming a mom.

  At the twenty-week ultrasound appointment, however, the doctors couldn’t find a heartbeat. Because of the gestation, it was a toss-up as to whether it was considered a miscarriage or a stillborn, but either way it was a difficult experience for John and me. I tried to be pragmatic about it; after all, my job as a pharmacist—a scientist—meant that I understood biological processes. I knew it was illogical to expect that every meeting of a sperm and an egg would result in a fetus and that every fetus would be viable.

  But the reality was hard, and I mourned what could have been. I thought I’d handled it reasonably well . . . until I got pregnant with Landon a year later—then all my female emotion erupted.

  I was constantly afraid my baby would die inside of me again. I couldn’t sleep at night; I had nightmares that—even now—made me break out in a cold sweat when I thought about them. I wouldn’t eat red meat for fear I would get E. coli. When the news reported a shipment of strawberries had been contaminated with salmonella, I gave up fresh fruit and vegetables altogether and only ate frozen foods.

  On a psychological level, I knew it was completely unhealthy to be that obsessed, but at the time it simply felt like I was doing what was best for my unborn child. When Landon was born, I cried with relief and joy; I’d delivered a healthy baby boy: seven pounds, nine ounces, and twenty-three inches long. John and I both hoped that my panic would pass with Landon’s safe arrival, but it didn’t.

  I insisted Landon sleep with me in the bed because I was terrified he would stop breathing, and I made John sleep in the guest room because I worried he might accidentally smother our baby due to how deeply he slept. After ten months, John sat me down and shared his concerns that I was unhinged, though he used nicer terminology.

  At first, I went to counseling just to make John feel better, but once I began participating in the process, I was able to realign my thoughts and reactions, which I’d realized were based on unrealistic fears that were deeply rooted in that first pregnancy. By the time Landon turned two years old, I was off my meds and doing much better. I could let Landon sit alone in a grocery cart, and John had replaced him in our bed—though Landon’s crib stayed in our room until he was nearly three.

  After the drama and trauma of Landon’s early years, John and I never talked about having another baby, both of us afraid to repeat my struggles. Instead of risking another pregnancy, we devoted ourselves to our son and to Keisha, who’d moved back to California with her mother. I didn’t necessarily regret our decision not to have more children, but there were times that I missed the children we didn’t have.

  Looking at Keisha now and knowing she was safe was a powerful balm to my mother’s heart. I pulled the door closed, then headed to our room, where John was under the covers but not asleep, his clothes discarded on the floor for the second time tonight.

  We’d been out of bed for so long that the sheets had grown cold, and I shivered slightly as I slid in beside him. “Did she tell you anything? Did she say why she didn’t call before now?” I whispered.

  He was quiet for so long that I was trying to think of another lead-in when he spoke.

  “I don’t think I can do this again.”

  I took note of the discouraged
tone of his voice more than I did the actual words and snuggled in closer so I could look into his face, which was heavily shadowed in the dark room. If not for the glowing numbers of the alarm clock informing me that I had to be to work in four hours, the room would be pitch-black. I reached out and traced the lines in his forehead. Life lines, I called them. He was eleven years older than I was—pushing fifty—and handsome in that rugged “man’s man” kind of way.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I whispered to him. “We did the right thing letting her come home. What else could we have done?”

  He let out a tortured breath. “She’s been so high since leaving Dani’s, she doesn’t remember days at a time. It’s been a bad binge, Shan. She says she hasn’t used in a few days, but I’m not sure we can believe her. I’m not sure it’s safe for her to detox here.”

  “I’ll take tomorrow off and keep an eye on her,” I said. “If things look bad, I’ll call Transitions.” Transitions was the rehab clinic where Keisha had gone last fall. They had a detox program, though I didn’t know where we’d get the money to pay for it. Keisha’s last stay had pretty much wiped out our savings, and we’d only recently begun to build it back up.

  John groaned, surely thinking the same things I was, so I hurried to offer some reassurance. “If she can keep her brain chemistries balanced, then she wouldn’t need to use,” I told him.

  It was all based on science for me. Keisha had been diagnosed with depression when she was fifteen, and she had really struggled to feel good about herself and life in general since then. It had always been my belief that she’d started using drugs to numb the bad feelings, and then she’d gotten hooked. Because of the drug use, she didn’t talk or act like a typical twenty-one-year-old young woman, but was more like the sixteen-year-old kid she’d been when she first started using. But I still had high hopes for her. If she could get well—really well—she wouldn’t need to self-medicate. I had hoped Transitions had finally helped her find her balance this last time, but maybe the ninety-day program hadn’t been a long enough stay.