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About the Book:
On the shores of Lake Michigan, Rebecca Meyer seeks escape.
Guilt-ridden over her little sister’s death, she sets her heart on India, a
symbol of peace.
Across the ocean in South India, Sagai Raj leaves his tranquil hill station home and impoverished family to answer a higher calling. Pushing through diverse cultural and religious milieus, he labors toward his goals, while wrong turns and bad choices block Rebecca from hers.
Traveling similar paths and bridged across oceans through a priest, the two desire peace and their divine destiny. But vows and blind obedience at all costs must be weighed…and buried memories, unearthed.
Crooked Lines, a beautifully crafted debut novel, threads the lives of two determined souls from different continents and cultures. Compelling characters struggle with spirituality through despair and deceptions in search of truth.
Across the ocean in South India, Sagai Raj leaves his tranquil hill station home and impoverished family to answer a higher calling. Pushing through diverse cultural and religious milieus, he labors toward his goals, while wrong turns and bad choices block Rebecca from hers.
Traveling similar paths and bridged across oceans through a priest, the two desire peace and their divine destiny. But vows and blind obedience at all costs must be weighed…and buried memories, unearthed.
Crooked Lines, a beautifully crafted debut novel, threads the lives of two determined souls from different continents and cultures. Compelling characters struggle with spirituality through despair and deceptions in search of truth.
First Chapter (attached)
Purchase Info:
One
The End of Childhood
All you need is the plan, the road map,
and the courage to press on to your destination.
~ Earl Nightingale
Rebecca Meyer
White Gull Bay, Wisconsin
Summer 1985
It didn’t occur to me at the edge
of the pond that I’d broken the sixth commandment, actually committed murder. I
was busy working out a deal with God, swearing to Jesus I’d become a nun if He
helped me breathe life back into my baby sister’s limp body. At the time, it
didn’t matter that I wasn’t Catholic.
Now, a week after the funeral, Mama
set me straight while flipping pancakes in the kitchen. “Daddy blames you for
Kara’s death.” She said it like I’d let the milk spoil because I hadn’t put it
back in the fridge, but the weight of her words cemented my bare feet to the
green linoleum.
She reached for a platter and set
it under the open window. The morning sun highlighted old stains, batter
spills, and cracks on the brown laminate countertop. A cool morning draft
rustled the faded yellow gingham curtains. Mama got a deal on that material
from Woolworths before Kara was born. Along with curtains, she sewed four
sundresses for each of my sisters and me. It wasn’t fair that the fabric was
still with us, fluttering over the sink, yet Kara came and went as quickly as
the wind.
Mama transferred pancakes to the
plate.
My plan to breeze through the
kitchen and escape the house unnoticed should have succeeded because for a
week, I’d been a ghost. None of the people in the house—my parents or any of my
brothers and sisters—spoke to me. I’d lived a cloistered existence with my blue
notebook and unsettling thoughts.
Now, I only wanted to sit under the
maple, read the Kara stories, and wind back time.
I tightened my arms around the
notebook, holding it to my heart like a talisman, as if my words of love for my
sister could erase the raw sting of truth in Mama’s words. Since that day at
the pond, I’d been carrying that notebook everywhere, even sleeping with it. In
my lake of sadness, in my whirling murky thoughts, those sacred pages had
become my life preserver.
Mama snapped the griddle knob off
and faced me. “We left her with you that morning. She was only seven.” Her
words rushed out in a seething whisper. My shoulders fell and hope slid from
them and disappeared out the kitchen window.
Only a month ago in my white cotton
confirmation dress, I cited the Ten Commandments and professed my faith at St.
Andrew’s Lutheran Church.
So confident. So holy. Mama baked a
cake.
Now, because of me, Kara was dead.
I tugged a loose string on the frayed edges of my cut-offs, then looked back up
at Mama. Her short blonde hair was a tangled mess. Her red-streaked eyes shot
angry darts laced with sadness. C’mon Mama. Don’t you get it? The deep muddy
waters consumed Kara. She’s gone, but I’m here, still drowning.
I ran my big toe over a rip in the
linoleum, wanting to bolt, take off and run as far and fast as my long legs
would carry me, but Mama’s eyes told me she had more to dish out. I sucked in
my breath, stuck out my chin, and met her stare, my five-foot eight-inch frame
matching hers. I could take it.
But she walked away, left me
standing there. Every fiber in my soul told me to run after her, beg
forgiveness, and cling to her legs until she hugged me and told me everything
would be okay. That’s what mothers were supposed to do. But no longer a child,
those days were over. I winced when the slam of her bedroom door, like a gavel,
sentenced me.
“Becca, bring the pancakes.” Tom
rose from the dining room chair and waved his fork.
“Hurry up!” Bobby pounded a fist on
the oak table. “I’m starved.”
At least one thing at home remained
the same; after morning barn chores, my brothers only cared about food.
My limbs loosened. With shaking
hands, I grabbed the platter, set it on the table, then tore up the stairs—two
at a time. I didn’t look at my brothers. They probably blamed me, too.
In my bedroom, I kicked a pile of
dirty clothes and hit something solid, a tennis shoe. I crouched and peeked
under my bed. The other. Good.
I kissed the notebook, then stuck
it under my pillow. I’d started writing Kara stories in it a week before she
died—the funny and intuitive stuff she’d said and done. I even taped her photos
inside the pages. How could I have known to do that right before she died?
Tugging on my shoes, I wondered if
the Holy Spirit had prompted me to create the Kara notebook when I was still a
child of God. He’d visited me once. I remembered Him, not ghostly and elusive,
but someone so real. Someone who loved me.
When I was six, He came to me in
the meadow. I danced and sang for Him. I couldn’t see Him, but He was there. In
my yellow butterfly dress, I laughed and twirled with the dandelion seeds, my
blond hair bouncing in the breeze as I basked in His immense love. I stretched
my hands high and offered songs of thanks for the Creator of the ladybugs, the
zippy dragonflies, and the warm summer sun.
God knew me. I knew Him.
But that was then.
I rested my foot on the vanity
bench, tied my laces, then looked into the mirror. Eyes dull and ringed by dark
circles stared at me, not my bright green ones. Since that day at the pond, I
slept in fitful interludes in the hallway in front of the door, me and the
notebook with my pillow and a blanket.
I wanted to sleep in my bed, but
Kara and I had shared the room since she was born. Every night she left her
bed, crossed the room, stood beside me, and called my name until I woke and
lifted the covers, inviting her in.
Standing outside the door each
night, my fears would grow and shrink me from a teenager into a child, scared
Kara’s ghost would come knocking.
What if she came to my bedside and
called my name? Would her eyes have the same accusing stare as Mama’s had? Did
she hate me, too?
Chills tickled the back of my neck.
I yanked the other shoestring tight, then fled downstairs and out the front
door. At the end of the driveway, I turned and ran past the silos toward Lake
Michigan. Tears blurred my vision as I ran past fields and farmhouses, cows and
cornfields, apple orchards and cherry trees. I ran past evergreens, Indian
Paintbrushes, Queen Anne’s Lace, and Black-eyed Susans. Fuzzy cattails poked
from marshy lowlands.
Miles later, when grassy ditches
turned sandy and the scent of pine replaced the earthy smell of cow manure, I
slowed. At Evergreen Lane, I shoved the bad stuff out of my head, leaned
against the weathered fence post, and kicked off my shoes.
Summer bungalows loomed over the
tops of cedars on both sides of the gravel pathway that allowed public access
to the beach. A few silhouettes—like mannequins in store-fronts—faced the lake.
Who were they? What did they think? And where would they fly back to before the
first flakes of winter fell? Those lucky visitors came to the peninsula of
White Gull Bay to escape from places I’d never been, places I’d always longed
to run to.
The whoosh and trickle of the
whispering waves beckoned me to the shoreline. Gulls screeched and circled
around dead glittering minnows. Chilly water rolled over my feet and lapped my
ankles.
I scanned the beach for glass
stones, bent over and picked up a round flat black one. I tried to skip it, but
it sailed straight into a small cresting wave. No luck today.
A long ship crept across the
horizon, cutting a path between the cerulean sky and the blue-green lake. Next
week, Daddy would be out there sailing on one of those iron-ore freighters. He
only came home when November gales churned the icy waters and during spring
planting and fall harvest—and for a death.
I watched the vessel disappear
until guilt rode on the waves like bobbing driftwood and landed on the shore
before me. Daddy would miss Kara sitting on his lap on the John Deere. I didn’t
blame him for hating me. I didn’t blame Mama. Kara was the baby, the ninth. I
was the seventh. Seven wasn’t a lucky number.
My legs quivered. I sat, hugging my
knees. Tears plopped tiny craters in the sand. I was guilty. A sinner with no
hope because it was worse than anyone knew. I couldn’t admit to anyone all that
had happened at the edge of the pond. How could I say I knew Kara would die
that day and I did nothing to stop it? How could I talk about the way I freaked
out and ran away when I saw her form in the murky water, even though I knew I’d
find her there?
My childhood was over.
“Where do I go from here?” A wave
rolled in and nearly swallowed my small voice.
Ignoring the plaintive cries from
the screeching gulls, I stood, straightened my shoulders and looked to the
horizon. Only two more years of high school. I’d plan. Work hard. I had one
thing going for myself. Everyone considered me the smart one because I got good
grades and read a gazillion books. Yes, I was smart, smart enough to figure out
my escape. I’d find a place of peace, far from White Gull Bay and the awful
stuff I’d done.
Then, I’d find someone, somewhere,
who’d love me.
Sagai Raj
Sheveroy Hills, Tamil Nadu, South India
Summer 1985
“Sagai, wake up. It’s time.”
He opened his eyes. His father,
kneeling on the dirt floor beside his reed mat, held out a small tin cup. Sagai
reached for the milky sweet coffee. In the soft glow of the hurricane lamp, he
sat, sipped, and glanced around the room at the curled, sleeping forms.
His father struggled to his feet
with a grunt. Limping since last year’s bicycle accident at Little Lake, he
hobbled toward the door, lifted the metal latch, and disappeared into the
predawn darkness. Sagai admired the elder man’s quiet noble manners, his wise
words, and the kindness he showed toward everyone. Had he caused his worry?
He slid his hand under his mat and
pulled out the invitation. After a month at camp, he’d been chosen. He’d been
carrying the postcard around for a week, praying his father would give his
blessings. Time was running out, school would begin soon, and his destiny did
not lie in Sheveroy Hills.
Soft snores from his mother and
siblings filled the room. He stepped around them, kissed his fingertips, then
touched the Sacred Heart of Jesus picture on the wall by the doorway, as he did
every day.
In the small courtyard, the cow
mooed and shifted, full with milk. “Don’t worry Muttura Madu, you’ll be milked
soon.”
He stepped beside his father,
almost shoulder to shoulder now. Appa heaved a deep sigh, then turned and faced
him with an outstretched palm.
“Appa?” Sagai rested his hand on
top, then his father covered it. An unspoken message of love. Top hand covering
and protecting, the bottom holding and supporting.
“You’re my seventh child. Seven is
a good number, a heavenly number. My hope was that you, the smart one, could
become a doctor and help the family—”
“But—”
Appa raised a finger. “—but God has
a different plan.” His tone sounded peaceful, accepting. “Now, run along.”
He let go of the breath he was
holding. “I may go? Truly?”
“Yes, son. You may go. You will
leave on Saturday.”
Sagai bent down and touched Appa’s
cracked calloused feet. He pressed the postcard to his pounding chest, then
returned to the house and tucked it in the edge of the framed picture of Jesus.
He rushed outside, said goodbye to his father, and stepped onto the narrow
cobblestone road. Unable to hold back any longer, bubbling laughter rose from
his chest and escaped into the misty morning air. He raised his arms toward
heaven as he ran, thanking God for this true blessing.
For the past eight years, God’s
love had pulsed through his soul, fueling his zeal as he ran the four miles
each way, every morning. God’s love came with the morning’s rays, His kiss in
the whisper of a breeze on hot afternoons, His presence in the mist that
settled over the Tamil Nadu hill station at dusk. And as Sagai sloshed through
pounding rains during monsoon season on roads reduced to muddy footpaths, the
Lord never left his side.
Now, Sagai’s smile wrapped around
his heart and traveled to his feet, hastening his momentum. The five o’clock
Muslim call for prayer reverberated in the hills when the road became packed
dirt. The chants, low and monotone, interrupted the lulling crickets and broke
the sleepy quietness of the night. He ran over another hill, then down, leaping
over slushy mud holes in low areas.
A cock crowed. Another answered,
encouraging dawn to break. They always crowed right before his half-way
point—the Hindu shrine. At the base of the huge Banyan tree with its
intertwining aerial root vines dwelled a Hindu deity, a huge cobra coiled in a
snake pit. A shock of hair tacked to the tree indicated a recent exorcism.
Instead of speeding past in fear of the snake striking his legs, Sagai stopped.
At age fifteen, about to leave home forever, he shouldn’t shake like a small
child at this place.
Today, he would defeat his fear.
Under the dim streetlamp, he forced his gaze into the ebony eyes of one of the
two angry soldier statues that guarded their deity. A tongue sticking out from
the huge oblong face challenged him.
Frowning, he looked from one statue
to the other. “You two aren’t so frightful.”
A rustling in the bushes shot a
jolt of fear through him that rattled his bones and made his heart nearly thump
out of his chest. He tore past the shrine, made the sign of the cross and sent
a flying prayer to Jesus. On the way back, in daylight, he’d look those
horrible fellows in the eye and tell them he wasn’t frightened of them or the
snake.
Alongside the old stone fence
dripping with purple bougainvillea, he ran. Tamil hymns blasted from homes and
out of church doors. “O Jesus you are my
all. O what a joy…” Only the Protestants could shower the streets with
their hymns like that. The tune stuck in his head all the way to Little Lake,
where dawn had painted a pale orange streak over the calm surface.
Fascination and fear of Little Lake
slowed his pace. Last month his cousin happened upon a dead body floating in
the water. The source of life-giving water lured suicidal villagers as well as
recreation-seeking Brits and rich Indians who came to Sheveroy Hills for
holiday. Their grand bungalows stood like jewels around the lake.
He often wondered what their eyes
beheld when they looked out from their fancy homes. Did they see his cousin,
the boatman who offered a leisurely ride for two rupees? Did they notice Sagai
and his brothers catching fish for Amma’s curry? Where did these visitors
return to when God breathed His peace into them from this fertile hill station
of monasteries, convents, and spirituality centers?
Bells chimed from the tower of the
Catholic mission church, alerting Sagai. Six chimes meant he must arrive at the
silver Mahatma Gandhi statue in the town center. He ran…one…two…three…faster…four…five…and
six. Gandhi came into sight.
He ran past the statue, past Jackfruit
trees, past cypress entwined with pepper vines, and orange groves. A grey stone
fence, now speckled with tiny blue flowers continued to snake along the curvy
pebbly road. At Pullathachimedu, Pregnant Ladies Hill, he sped by the resting
stone. No time to rest. The bell at the novitiate gonged. Fifteen minutes to
go. The white steeple spiked over the top of the umbrella trees, sliced with
morning sunbeams and decorated with bright orange flowers.
Reaching the wicket gate just in
time, he witnessed nearly one hundred novices in habits, slightly bowing and
silently processing, two by two, into the church. He slipped in after them.
Mosaic tiles cooled his tired bare feet. Thanks to God and his landmarks, he’d
made it on time to assist Father Louis at Mass.
In the sacristy, Sagai tightened
the cincture rope around the red cassock, then pulled on his white surplice.
When a very small boy, he had held mock Mass at home. Amma would pin one towel
to his front and one to his back—his chasuble. Circles cut from cardboard
served as the host, fruit juice as wine. He’d light two candles and arrange
everything on a small table. Vijay, his younger brother, acted as altar server.
By age six, he had memorized all of the prayers of the Mass.
Now, ready for the real service,
Sagai knelt before the crucifix and promised to stay on his path toward
holiness and keep all of God’s commandments. He rose when Father Louis arrived
to vest, and handed the priest his cincture, stole, and chasuble.
After the service, Sagai shuffled
his bare feet in the dirt at the wicket gate, watching the retinue of nuns file
into the refectory. Waiting made him feel like a beggar. If he left, Sister
Mercy would think her daily offering of a few slices of bread was not
appreciated.
Peals of laughter drew his
attention across the road. The private school had already begun their quarter.
Two enormous lion statues guarded the compound beside the white pillars that
shot up to a high arch where St. Alban watched over the village hill station
atop a golden dome. Fenced in by black wrought iron, school children—Brits and
rich Indians—in suit jackets, ties and long pants, trickled out of the
dormitory for breakfast.
Sagai slid his hand inside his
shirt where the two buttons were missing, then tugged the frayed edges of his
faded shorts, patched in the back. Sometimes after serving at Mass he’d watch
the boys put on leg pads and knee guards, and use real bats on their lush green
field. At his school, on the other side of the village, they used a flat stick
and played cricket barefoot on a rocky uneven patch.
Hoofs tapped the hard packed dirt
road. A cow plodded past.
Sagai rubbed his rumbling stomach
and returned to the wicket gate. He was tempted to pluck fruit from the guava
tree, or at least pick up one of the many that lay on the ground rotting, but
that would be stealing. A sin. The cow, not knowing better, could eat the
fallen fruit. He should not.
He knelt and picked up a small
round stone and rolled it in his hand. Perfect ammunition. Those pesky monkeys,
now awake and watchful, were known thieves. Would knocking one of those
screeching troublemakers out of a tree be a sin? Before he could ponder
further, a young novice approached, smiling.
“For you.” She smiled and handed
him a package.
“Thank you.” An entire loaf of
bread. Enough to share with all at home. Sister Mercy must have asked her to
give it to him. The novice bowed, nodded, and walked away.
Before he could run, Sister Mercy
marched toward him. She eyed the loaf tucked under his arm. Her nostrils
flared. Smack. Her palm cracked against his cheek.
“Thief!”
“No, Sister.” He pointed, blinking
back tears. “That novice gave it to me.”
Sister Mercy wagged her finger.
“Even so, you know that I usually give you bread. You should not have accepted
it.” She snatched the loaf from Sagai and thrust her slices at him.
He turned and ran all the way to
Little Lake without stopping, horrified he’d be branded a thief. Would his
future lie in jeopardy?
On the grass beside the water, he
stared at the bread. He never went to church to get free bread. He went to
serve. He rubbed his cheek. A monkey eyed him from a rock. Sagai tossed the
bread. “Have it. I don’t want it.”
He wouldn’t mention the incident to
anyone. He prayed that Sister Mercy wouldn’t report it to Father Louis.
A flat black stone caught Sagai’s
eye. He skipped it on the lake. One, two, three, four times it bounced before
sinking. Lucky day. He leapt to his feet and ran toward home. God would make
sure his dream came true. He’d been chosen. He would go to seminary and become
a priest. His older brothers and sisters dropped out of school by seventh
standard, but surely Vijay would do the needful—finish school, and go to
college. He must. Someone had to take care of the family. His place was no
longer in Sheveroy Hills.
About the Author:
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Holly Michael, published in various magazines, newspapers, and in Guideposts books released her debut novel, Crooked Lines. She and her husband, Anglican Bishop Leo Michael, regularly travel from their home in Kansas City to India. She enjoys watching football, especially when her two sons are playing—Jake (NFL) and Nick (Rajin’ Cajuns). She also has a lovely daughter, Betsy.
Connect with Holly:
Twitter: @HollyMichael
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