Liv Unravelled Read online

  ~ Liv Unravelled ~

  A Novel

  by

  Donna M. Bishop

  Copyright 2019 by Donna M. Bishop

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes for reviews.

  ~ Dedication ~

  This story is dedicated to all the brave people who have come forward with their own stories of sexual assault and abuse, and to those who are willing to hear, believe and support them.

  I must say this story had been burning inside me for many years but without the kindling — the courage of people like yourselves — it would have remained untold.

  Let’s all join the movement to change the world and weave it well, one story at a time.

  ~ Acknowledgements ~

  Firstly, from the bottom of my heart, I would like to acknowledge the immeasurable support and hard work of my editor Lissa Millar, who helped me edit and transform a jumbled mess of a manuscript into what I hope is a unique, insightful, enjoyable novel.

  Undying gratitude and love to my wonderful husband Paul, whose unwavering support and encouragement enabled me to retire from my job, giving me the gift of time to pursue my dream of writing this story.

  Kudos, love and belief in my children, Jasmine, Heather, Nick, Mitch and Barb, for growing into fantastic adults in spite of the sometimes tumultuous family life I lead them into. I like to think children choose their parents, so thank you for choosing me.

  Heart-melting thanks to my beloved grandchildren, Andie, Bowin, Tess, Joe, Dylan and Cohen for being the perfect, joyful little distractions I needed to lift my spirits through some tough writing moments. I love each of you with my whole heart — and no, you are not allowed to read this story until you're grown up!

  To my women friends, my lifeline in times of trouble and my source of laughter and lightness always, my gratitude to you for being my early readers and offering so much encouragement and inspiration to write, re-write, revise and send this story off into the world. It belongs to all of us: Deborah Mabee, Cheryl Hurley, Katrine Winter, Lorraine Winter, Lissa Millar, Valerie Owen, Maureen Brown, Lisa Puharich, Wendy Nordick, Anita Swing, Darlene Jennings, Sally Haywood-Farmer, and so many more whom I have been honoured to be in friendship with throughout my life, especially Nancy Bingham, who tragically passed away in 1998.

  Thank you to friends and fellow humans from the Himalayan hills in India, Ireland, Scotland, Norway, Thailand, Australia and beyond, who have inspired and shown me that we are all connected.

  Deep gratitude to my counselling clients, who trusted me with their stories and showed me that telling your truth and reinventing yourself on your own terms is essential to healing.

  Many thanks to Karen Hofmann, published author and English professor at Thompson Rivers University for sharing her writing prowess and to Maxine Blennerhassett for helping with line editing.

  Last but not least, thanks to my eclectic and multi-talented writing group, The Cauldron, without whom I would not have come to identify myself as a writer and learn the discipline of sitting in the chair and doing it!

  I acknowledge the land on which this story was written, and upon which I am honored to live, is the unceded territory of the Tk'emlups te Secwepemc nation.

  This story has been fictionalized — while it is based on true events, characters, names, places and some circumstances have been altered to fit the story’s time line and to protect individuals. The stories of past lives through hypnosis sessions are for the most part imagined.

  Cover photo by Luixclas, Pexel

  Other authors quoted in this novel include: Winken, Blinken and Nod by Eugene Field; God is our refuge and our strength, Psalm 46- verse 1 The Holy Bible; On Joy and Sorrow, by Kahlil Gibran; Cauldron of Change and Back to the River, ancient pagan chants; Satyagraha, by Mahatma Gandhi; Do Not Be Dismayed, by L.R. Knost

  ~ Chapters ~

  Prologue: Weaving The Wyrd

  1~ Fury

  2~ Blue

  3~ Into the Deep

  4~ Swallowed

  5~ Lost and Found

  6~ Disclosure

  7~ Dissonance

  8~ Regret

  9~ Disorder

  10~ Spirit Friend

  11~ Lemon Balm

  12~ Defiance

  13~ Gravity

  14~ Peaceful Resistance

  15~ Grounding

  16~ Salt

  17~ Unmasked

  18~ #Me Too

  19~ Shadow Monster

  20~ Crisis and Catharsis

  21~ Inspiration

  22~ Committed

  23~ Resilience

  24~ Roots and Wings

  25~ Balm of Gilead

  26~ Casting Forward

  27~ Weaving it into the Wyrd

  ~ Prologue: Weaving The Wyrd ~

  In ancient Norse mythology there are three sisters, the Norns, who live beneath the Yggdrasil tree, or the Tree of Life, keeping it alive with magical mud whilst weaving the fates of humankind. The first sister, Urd (past) arrives at the birth of a child, and weaves the new life from threads of the past. The second sister, Verdani (present) steps in at midlife, ensuring that the path is true. And finally, Skuld (future) appears near the end of life to tie the loose threads and weave the story of that person’s life in such a way as to ensure it carries through to the future. The Norns twist the threads into horizontal strands and these cannot be altered. They are fate. It is the vertical threads, those which represent each short lifetime, that can be altered through choice, belief and circumstance. The colourful result of all this weaving becomes the fabric of existence they call the Wyrd.

  These beliefs are represented in many other cultures as well. The Persians, Romans and Mayans, to name a few, have crafted their stories into tapestries for centuries. In ancient China, it was common belief that an invisible thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. They believed the thread might stretch or tangle, but could never break.

  I have come to believe these representations are truths about life and love, war and loss, death and redemption. I have come to see that if we pay close attention, we can follow lines of consciousness from our past into our present and forward into our future.

  This story is a work of fiction, loosely based on events in my own life, unravelled, fictionalized and tied back together with my own blue threads, imaginings and dreams of possible past lives.

  May we all be open to each thread that comes into our lives — the smooth ones, the tangled ones, the “weird” ones — and with love and support, may we weave them all into brilliant and beautiful lives.

  ~ The Way It Is ~

  There’s a thread you follow

  It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change

  People wonder about what you are pursuing.

  You have to explain about the thread.

  But it is hard for others to see.

  While you hold it you can’t get lost.

  Tragedies happen: People get hurt or die: and you suffer and get old.

  Nothing you can do stops time’s unfolding.

  You don’t ever let go of the thread.

  —William Stafford

  1

  ~ Fury ~

  Fallen twigs snapping beneath her feet, Liv rushes along the tree-lined trail at the river’s edge. One might be inclined to look behind to see who is chasing her, but she’s alone. It isn’t fear that drives her, but fury. The crisis has been building for a long while — her suspicion that Ross has been having an affair has been hanging between them like a dead cat for months. Last night he confirmed it. She’s still reeling from all of this, and the incident with the bicycle this
morning has toppled her over the edge.

  Her arms fling wide in a clumsy attempt to balance as she manoeuvres a twist in the trail, which wends around great grey trunks of the towering cottonwoods that stand in formation like the legs of sleeping elephants. Their sprawling roots threaten to trip her. She clutches a sapling as she rounds a corner on the path — it bends crazily, and she staggers off course into the prickly underbrush.

  Goddammit.

  Her face grim, her faint blonde brows drawn with concentration, she carries on.

  What the hell, you bastard — the kids are out of control? You’re out of control! You almost run over our daughter and then you yell at her! I hate you so much right now! Were you in that much of a hurry to meet your girlfriend? You are the most narcissistic, selfish, cold-hearted asshole I have ever known!

  Her left sandal slips on a soggy root, turning her ankle painfully. The thrust of the pain evokes a loud sound from deep in her chest — a prolonged, wounded moan. She drops to the ground and rubs her ankle, then pulls herself into a tuck and hugs her legs, rocking gently.

  His cruel words from this morning reverberate in her mind, forcing her to relive that moment again.

  She is washing dishes at the sink when suddenly he’s close behind her, his breath moist and sour with the smell of coffee.

  “I told you not to ask if you didn’t want to hear the answer.” He hisses the words in her ear, so the children, playing nearby, cannot hear. She instinctively flinches away but he holds her arm and she can only press her body against the counter.

  Bile rises in her throat. She numbly continues scrubbing the plate in her hand, searching her mind for a response. But then he releases her and he’s gone.

  She registers the sounds: the door slamming as he leaves; his footsteps on the porch; the car roaring to life; the Volvo spitting gravel as it accelerates in reverse; a metallic crash; her daughter Molly screaming — she launches herself toward the door, mentally accounting for two of her children on the way. In her peripheral vision she can see Micah has dropped his toy bulldozer and is running to the window with his sister Leah, who has abandoned her finches mid-feeding, leaving the cage door open. “Mommy!” they both call, but are transfixed, looking in horror out the living room window. Liv can't stop to look. She knows something horrible has happened and she just has to get there.

  “Molly!” She screams as she flies out the front door. Molly had asked to go outside after breakfast to have a quick ride on her bicycle. “Molly!” she screams again.

  Tearing down the steps, Liv looks further up the long gravel driveway and sees the twisted, pink metal of Molly’s bike beside the car. Folded in on itself, wheels side by side, it looks more like a wheelchair — the rainbow handlebar streamers flap pointlessly in the warm summer morning breeze. Liv’s heart is a thumping cold stone, her legs are wobbly, and her brain is in some kind of reptilian mode — she screams “Ross!” and his head turns towards her and then away. She’s still too far away to read his expression. Her vision is blocked by the car, so all she can see is the top half of him. It looks like he’s bent over Molly, maybe shaking her or holding her. Doing CPR? Liv moves in what feels like slow motion down what seems like a never-ending driveway toward what she’s certain is her dying daughter. Get there, get there.

  Now Liv’s hearing kicks back in and she hears Ross shouting, berating Molly. She sees his large hands on her small shoulders, forcing her to look at his steel grey squinting eyes.

  “This is your own fault. I’ve told you kids a hundred times not to leave your toys and shit on the driveway.”

  Molly sobs, “Sorry Daddy, it was only a minute, I had to go pee. ‘Member, you passed me on the steps and didn’t say bye. Then you drove backwards and you…wrecked it.”

  Liv can finally breathe. She wasn’t hit. Her voice is choked as she pushes past Ross to embrace Molly, kissing the top of her tangled copper hair, “Oh my god, are you okay, sweetheart?”

  Molly is fine physically. The look she gives her Dad as she turns to Liv for comfort is haunting… her bright blue eyes flash both anger and sadness.

  “Look at my birthday bike, Mommy, it’s ruined!” she wails. Liv wipes away her daughter’s tears with her sweater sleeve and tries to comfort her, “It’ll be okay Molly, this isn’t your fault.”

  “You need to discipline these kids, Liv. They’re out of control.” Ross glares at her.

  “She could have been on this bike — you just weren’t paying attention. You could have run over our Molly,” she retorts furiously. She wants to scream at Ross or hit him — this man she doesn’t even recognize as the man she married — but she can’t, not in front of the kids, who are surrounding Molly and the broken bike now.

  “I think I can fix it, Molly,” Micah offers, his voice soft with empathy.

  “They don’t deserve new things,” Ross says. And with that, he kicks the bike out of the way, pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, sticks it in his mouth unlit and gets back in the driver’s seat. He tears up the driveway past the barn, sending Rhode Island red chickens squawking, feathers and dust flying as they scramble out of his way. He’s onto the highway and gone without a goodbye, sorry or see you later.

  Revisiting this memory fuels a surge of angry energy. Liv gets to her feet and raises her face to the late-summer, leaf-mottled sky. She speaks aloud to the unhearing forest, her voice thick and hoarse with exertion: “I’ve spent my whole life immobilized by other people’s anger. I’ve swallowed up betrayal after betrayal since I was a small girl. I will not live like this any longer.”

  She stands still for a moment in the dappled light, feels a slight release from her outburst — instead of being crazed, she has the conviction that she is going to change things.

  She straightens her twisted flowery skirt, takes a deep breath and resumes her journey at a slower pace.

  My rage has forged something in me that I didn’t know existed. If this is the thing that will push me into action, then thank you, Molly, my love, for sacrificing your bike and your trust in your father.

  She ducks through the barbed wire fence that runs perpendicular to the river, separating her property from Celeste’s. She’s done so a hundred times before, but today she’s careless and a barb catches her favourite sweater — the sky blue one her grandmother knitted for her when she was sixteen. She feels the tug as the wool begins to unravel.

  “Fucking hell!” This is the last straw. It makes her cry. Through all of this, she hasn’t cried. She stops and bends, places her hands on her knees and gives in to the sobbing. Her curly, flax-blonde hair clings to her overheated, freckled face.

  Throat raw and emotion spent, she reaches up to pull her hair back off her face and neck — the light breeze cools her slightly. She flashes into a strong memory: her grandmother, her namesake, Olive, smiling fondly and softy rasping, “Sometimes you’ve got to let yourself come undone a bit Liv.” Then, “You can do this, sweetheart.” Remembering that dear woman’s gentle love and wisdom, Liv composes herself.

  She bunches up her cotton skirt and uses it to mop the tears and sweat from her face. Straightening up, she follows the strand of yarn back to the fence, rolling it into a plum-sized messy ball, which she tucks into her skirt pocket. Later, she thinks, much later, I will mend it.

  She carries on. Where the path rises from the river into the meadow, she begins to run again, anxious to see her friend. Jumping over a tree root, her right foot lands full force on a snail’s shell, making an awful crunching sound. She cringes and calls an apology to the snail she’s certainly killed. Her long limbs and rapid heartbeats slow as she passes through Celeste’s garden and approaches her bright green door.

  Celeste has been watching for her. The door opens as she mounts the step.

  “Oh god, Liv, I could barely make out what you were saying on the phone! Give me a hug.”

  She steps into Celeste’s arms gratefully for a strong, enduring hug that makes Liv want to cry again. She draws her hand down
her friend’s strong, broad back and encounters the single braid of her dark hair. She grasps it briefly, appreciating the woven strength of the soft twists of hair.

  “What the hell happened?” Celeste pulls back and looks into Liv’s eyes. “Is it the affair? Did you finally confront him? Did he admit it?”

  “It doesn’t really matter, he can screw his damned student all he wants for all I care.” Anger brings the words tumbling from her. “But now he’s hurting the kids too and that’s where I draw the line!”

  “Ah, Liv. Yes, you do care. You care about all of it. I’m so sorry. Come on inside. I’m making us some tea.”

  Liv kicks her sandals off onto the porch and enters. As her friend readies the tea, she lowers herself into a chair at the table, handmade out of glowing yellow cedar by Celeste’s husband, Jacques. The dining area is set in a nook surrounded by leaded glass windows and affords a serene view of the of Celeste’s vibrant garden. This place calms her.

  “Will Jacques get any days off this fall?” she enquires. It’s always been ironic to Liv that her earthy friend would find happiness with a logger, but she likes Jacques — for all his rough edges, his devotion to Celeste is unquestionable. While she gently restores her clients’ hearts and minds as a hypnotherapist in their country home, he’s out there pillaging the forest. And yet it works.

  “Yes, he’ll probably get home for Thanksgiving — and you know you’re changing the subject. You’re here to talk about you.”

  “Okay, I know I tend to do that, Celeste. It’s because I am literally unravelling! Look at my sweater!” They laugh easily, like they always do, but for Liv, the laughter borders on hysteria. The emotional release threatens the equilibrium she’s trying to maintain and tears well up again. Her fair skin is blotchy from crying and her eyes are all the more brilliant blue in contrast with her flushed complexion.

  Joining Liv at the kitchen table, Celeste places a box of tissues beside the tea pot and meets her friend’s gaze with affection and frank concern.