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BRIEF SYNOPSIS
Malignant EMOTION passionately entertains with an amazing balance of raw urgency and perfect humor. It is a story of woundedness, retribution, redemption and the power of choice. The novel begins with the funeral of BJ who blamed painful and deeply harbored emotions from her youth for the breast cancer that killed her. David, a remarkably successful heart surgeon, shocks BJ’s longtime friend, Terri Lin, by showing up at the funeral. His presence there is the first of a decade of surprises after Terri discovers it was David who, so many years back, set her life-long friend on the tortured road she traveled throughout adulthood.
Initially, the novel was written only for the eyes and heart of a cherished long time friend - a 25 year breast cancer survivor in her last year of Hospice. As this friend prepared to die, she repeatedly confronted the questions so many ask about God, and Heaven, and the hereafter. Holt wrote the book to entertain her friend, inspire her to laugh, comfort her, help her prepare to let go and, most of all, to remind her there is nothing that can separate us from the love of God. This amazing first novel from a long time non fiction writer does not disappoint!
PROLOGUE:
I walk slowly into the woods, gazing upwards into the naked trees. The revelations that winter soon would expose already were beginning to stare back at me in a language no other season could speak. The scars told it all: the twisted trunks and barren, stretching limbs - ever reaching for the light - told stories of survival that only the forest could teach… for always the light pulls to itself the survivors. Thoughts tumble over and over the presently reluctant folds of my mind, refusing to return to their own private little corners of my heart. In all my years of walking in the woods, I quite simply have never encountered such absolute stillness. Suddenly the wind begins to whisper softly in and through the patches of tranquility above me. The leaves apparently want to celebrate with me the memories that are so determined to take me back to places where I think I no longer want to go. As I look up into the still partially hidden scars of the trees and stare deeply into and through their gnarled and twisted bodies, I boldly claim anew the lonely wisdom of their limbs - the complete, but lonely wisdom the forest always has offered me throughout all the seasons of my life. And then I go back - one more time, I go back to the day we buried her…
CHAPTER ONE
Wednesday, August 7, 1995
If somebody tells me heaven’s a better place now I may slap them. I am standing in a long and winding line, waiting to enter the funeral home. It is mid-August in
“Excuse me, I did not mean to step on your foot.”
“No problem,” I respond, wanting to reach down and rub it hard, real hard, but I refrain.
“How did you know BJ?”
“We go back. Way back. And you?” I politely ask this guy who not only has injured me, but now is invading my privacy as well. On top of that he apparently is among those who insist on calling her BJ. Never having been one to enjoy casual social bantering, I doubly resent his attempt at conversation just now.
“Her physician.”
Which one? I wonder, but I look away and do not ask. Since when do doctors come to funerals? Probably your latest shrink. Yeah, I wonder, but I absolutely do not ask. Do not want to talk to him or anybody else but you, even if you are dead. Do not really even care what connection he had to you that prompted his presence here.
As selfish sweat pours down my back, I recall vividly how much pain she was in. Still I want to scream, “But you were not ready. You just were not. You would have told me if you were ready to go. You slipped this one in on me. It hurts... god, it hurts! If the truth be told, I’m downright pissed. I feel like we were cheated, or at least I was. Just one more year. I happily would have settled – well, maybe not happily - but I sure would like to have had one more year…”
Finally, I feel the cool air that is escaping through the open doors in front of me. Another moment or two and I will be inside. With you. With what is left of you. I do not want to think about that shell we have to refer to as you now. I do not want to think, or feel, or talk, or even be here. Now. For this...
Just last night at the visitation, I recalled that day in early spring when your Aunt Martha Ann told me how you had talked about possibly not being around for Christmas. Is this why you would not commit to the Class
Okay, okay, maybe I’m already starting to martyrize you. There were times when you had trouble putting up with me and heaven knows you were more than I could deal with often. Too often! Were you ever!
I have never had such a lengthy one way conversation with someone who was not present; certainly I have never conversed non stop like this with anybody who was dead. On the ride down for your funeral it was like you were in the car with me. And all morning now… this is all so surreal. I swear I feel like you are here! Am I losing my mind?
Of course, I loved the way I could curse with you. Actually, it was more like cussing. Just letting it roll. Did I ever tell you about that life-changing auto accident I had a while back? I had just left my home and I had a glass of milk in the cup holder between the seats. I was driving that black Bronco with the black interior and got rear-ended. Thankfully, it was a somewhat gentle collision. My boys, 12 and 14 at the time, were both buckled in the back seat. Nobody was hurt, but that milk showered us all. It bathed the ceiling. Even the cargo area in the back didn’t escape a milk based baptism. I was furious. I opened my door, stood out on the pavement and stomped my feet like a crazy woman, and lordy, lordy at the words that came rolling off my tongue. I’m sure there were those who were not pleased with the sight, but you certainly would have been impressed.
I reckon I became best friends with my boys that day. Suddenly I was human once they knew I knew words they knew only too well. I told them later how it was you who had first taught me those words. Shortly after that episode in reality my cookie baking efforts quadrupled. Word got out that Matt and Bart’s mom was human, and the gang began to congregate at my house. There actually have been times over the past five years, when I have had so many boys - young men, now - sitting on my kitchen countertops waiting for cookies that I had to hold the bowl in my arms to stir the batter. The boys hold the cookie sheets on their laps for me to spoon out the dough. Then into the oven they go, two sheets at the time and for 11 minutes they talk. I listen. You’d be surprised what a teenager can say to you while he’s waiting for a batch of cookies to bake. It is perhaps, these times that have most clearly demonstrated for me how blissful ignorance can be. Trust me, you never want to be a confidante to a half dozen hormone driven teenage boys.
Trust me. Now, that was about a stupid thing to think at this late date. As if this whole one way conversation going on in my mind is something less than stupid. You did trust me, didn’t you? And I trusted you, I suppose. Except, of course, where men were concerned. That’s probably why our friendship lasted. I had the good sense to keep my guy out of your reach all these years. You really had a problem with your men, didn’t you, or was it they who had the problems with you? I always wondered if you ever had an affair with a student. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask. You would have told me in a heartbeat! I reckon I wanted to protect that ignorant bliss of mine so I never wondered aloud.
You know…, hell no, you don’t know, or do you? For sure, this is the most surreal funeral experience I’ve ever had. Of course, your Aunt Martha Ann asked me last night if I wanted to sit with the family. I declined. You know… NO! NO! NO! You do not know… why can’t I realize I am alone? You are NOT here. Yet I cannot let you go. Cannot stop thinking of all the things I did not say to you yet. Did not ask you about. Did not discuss with you at length! Finally, I am inside! Don’t know where I will sit though. I did not expect this place to be so packed. Wonder if you did. Oh, I think I see a spot. Yes, I do. The usher is motioning for me to come up front. Good gosh, he is going to squeeze me in up there on the fourth row. Just a few feet from that hideous box you are in now. I wonder if he knows there was a reason - reasons - why I waited in that heat, near the back of the line. I want to stand inconspicuously in the back of this room. I do not want to be near anybody else. I don’t want to have to be nice. But I will, for you. I will be nice for you. Not for him.
Hmm… now that I am seated, I reckon this is okay. The bench is not as crowded as I thought it would be. Thankfully, nobody is touching me or speaking to me. Karol had asked me night before last if I wanted to drive down with her from
If I don’t lean, then I won’t topple. That’s how I’m feeling. If I get close to anybody right now, if I accept some shoulder to cry on, I’m afraid I’ll go spiraling down into some dark abyss where you don’t exist anymore. I cannot go there. Not yet. Just for today, I want it to be you and me. Just for today. You and me. One last time.
Oh, god, I miss you! Why did I ever reconnect this last time? It would have been so much easier to have kept my distance. Then all I would have had to do would be to answer the phone one day and hear Aunt Martha Ann or your sister or some other family member of yours politely ask me how I’m doing. And I would be so surprised to hear from her after six or eight or ten years, maybe. We would exchange the niceties that this pathetic Southern etiquette of ours demands at times like this, and then whoever made the call would give me the bad news. She would just want to let me know, and she’d say she knows I might not be able to get away for the funeral, but she knew I would want to know you had passed away.
What an expression! “Passed away” irks me to no end. “Passed” I can live with. For now I can. I reckon the day will come when I won’t be able to live with it, but when that time comes I want it to be said that I died. Why aren’t we just saying you died? Isn’t that what you wanted? But that would irritate me, too. What I’d really like is to be told, only after I had sufficiently distanced myself from someone I love, is that his or her body has died. Now I can deal with that wordage. Am I losing it? What kind of phraseology could ever really be acceptable when something hurts this much? Why can’t I focus?
Where are your giggles? I miss your laugh. I was amazed and so thankful that the pain never took your laughter from you. I want to hear you get giggle-itis just one more time. And I want to hear you say my name again. I never told you that nobody ever said it like you do. I like Terri. I like Lin. I’m even okay with Terri Lin and the way you say it is downright musical. Was… Never with a southern drawl that added two or three extra syllables to each syllable. Not at all. You made the name sound light and airy and free-spirited. Like you. I like it that you could make my name sound like you…
Yeah, the ultimate free spirit. Where are you? Surely, you are not in that damn box. Can you see those daisies? Great pick for casket topper. I suppose one of your aunts did that or maybe you left instructions. I should have known it would have to be daisies. I promised to buy seeds and sprinkle them, didn’t I? God, I forgot. I’ll do it later, I promise. And I never saw so many blue flowers in one place before. Blue and yellow, like somebody color-coordinated this whole moment in time. How I wish it were only a moment. It feels more like an eternity.
Oops, the music is starting. I reckon it’s about to interrupt my eternity without you. I want to still my mind and listen. You would want me to listen. You do want me to listen. I know you do. The music is supposed to comfort me. Wherever you are now, I know you do want me to be comforted. Present tense. Not past. ARE! You are somewhere… Can you hear my thoughts? I know you must. That’s not true. I don’t know a damn thing anymore. I really must focus.
What in the world! I cannot believe what I’m hearing!
Have thine own way Lord,
Have thine own way
Thou art the potter
I am the clay……….
Puhleeeeze! Who in hell picked that song? If this is some kind of last minute joke you’ve somehow orchestrated from the grave - okay, you’re not there yet - but you’re only an hour or so away? Just so you know, I’m not laughing. Since when did you ever tell God or anybody else to “have thine own way.
Mold me and make me
After thy will, Lord
While I am waiting
Yielded and still
No, this is not funny, and for damn sure, it is not comforting. Yielded and still, the ultimate joke, huh? I thought you wanted only “soothing praise music” at your funeral. You told me that a dozen times! What happened?
The minister’s words suddenly pull me back from my one-sided conversation with my dead friend, “We are gathered together today to celebrate the life and death of Barbara Jean Matthews. Barbara left strict instructions regarding her funeral services. By the grace of God and to His glory we will attempt to follow her instructions today. Now, at this time I would like to share with you a poem written by a long time friend of Barbara Jean’s.”
Regrets?
I once thought there might be many
Now, I don’t think there are any
It’s a strange world we live with a heartache now and again
but God’s hand has a way of working with me
as the potter who works with the clay
and then I can see that what brought us so much pain
was ordained for mine and your gain
Regrets?
I don’t think there are any
I once thought there might me many.
How dare you? Use those words against me here at the last! Is that poem supposed to comfort? There are a million things I regret not doing with you, not saying. Damn! Damn! Damn! What am I thinking? This is really not about me at all today, is it? This is about you. I need to pay attention.
The minister’s words again jar me back into the present moment in time in which I have permitted myself to become imprisoned, “As I said, Barbara Jean left explicit instructions about her send-off. That is how she told me she refers to this funeral service on the tape you are about to hear.”
“Tell me she did not!” I gasped in a too audible whisper, nearly choking on the words, on the thought that she was about to speak to us from beyond the grave she wasn’t even in yet.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd as BJ’s far too clear voice spoke, “Hello, folks. I hope you all know that I love you, and I appreciate your taking the time out of your lives to see me off. To have you all here only adds to the excitement of my send off. That’s what’s happening, you know. You guys are stuck here in this place for the moment and saddled with the responsibility of doing away with my remains.”
Tell me she did not say remains!
“I, on the other hand - the real me, the essence of all I am through all the eternal yesterdays and tomorrows of my life - am thrilled to be moving on! Of course there are those among you who will think I never reached the point of such belief. Such faith… Such ethereal readiness! Think what you will. Still, I’m moving on. It has been great rubbing shoulders with you. Laughing. Drinking. Talking into the wee hours. Making love.”
Oh, god, tell me she did not say making love!
“Yes, I said making love. We did that, you know, all of us. You would not be sitting in this congregation if we did not make and share love at some point in time. Unless, of course, it was your husband with whom I made love and you are just here to be sure I’m really finally dead so it cannot ever happen again.”
I watched the minister’s face take on the stark whiteness of his shirt for a couple of brief seconds before he started to turn grey. Did he not listen to the tape first? Oh, good gosh, what was in store for us? What was yet to come? Why doesn’t he turn it off? ... ... ...
AND NOW!
A note from the author regarding the story behind the book:
On the day I first put ink on paper that would become Malignant EMOTION, I had no intention of ever marketing my fantasy. I simply wrote to survive while a dear and precious friend prepared to die. I wrote to entertain that friend who, during the last home bound year of her life, was riddled with horrific pain because the cancer had spread to her bones. I wrote because writing is what I do when I do not know how to manage the unmanageable.
The amazing and brilliant woman child, whose impending death made it so hard for me to cope with life, had been a breast cancer survivor for 25 magnificent years. Her resilient spirit was like none I have ever known. I truly never thought she would lose the battle. Thus, I was not prepared, during the year prior to her death, for the impotence my heart would start to know. When I would listen late at night as she talked of her fears, her pain, her claustrophobia, and of the anxious curiosity that was hers about what comes at death, and after death, I simply did not know how to handle my feelings, or to help her handle hers, until I considered writing fiction.
As a professional nurse for 20 years, prior to embarking on a writing/publishing career in 1986, I frequently chose to become involved with a number of terminally ill patients. Time had permitted it to become an easy choice because years earlier, in nursing school, a very special young woman, who died of ovarian cancer, had touched my life forever. She showed me firsthand that the dying could teach me lessons about life which could be learned no other way. Still, no matter how many times you have been there, no matter how many fragile hearts you have attempted to comfort or dying hands you have held, no matter how much pain you have tried to alleviate... you are never prepared for death to take a best friend.
When you lose a special friend - to date, three very close friends have died with breast cancer - painful emotions eventually begin to permeate all the recesses of your heart. You feel as though you will die, too, if you do not release the exploding anguish within. My pen always has provided for such release and, until the death that prompted the writing of Malignant EMOTION, non-fiction had served me well. Then, suddenly, truth as I knew it did not touch the misery that wore a thousand faces. No degree of comfort was to be found until it occurred to me that I boldly could walk into the realm of fantasy and turn our agony into anything I wanted it to become. It is amazing now to look back at how this first attempt at fiction entertained my friend, made her laugh, and made it possible for us to talk about many things besides the pain, even or especially sex!
It was many months after she died before I was able to pick up the manuscript and embrace the truths my intriguing characters so longed to teach me - characters who, by the time I put the last punctuation marks in place, had carved for themselves a place in my heart where they comfort me still. I will never apologize for the laughter that lurks within these pages to jump out and surprise the reader right smack dab in the middle of painful pent-up emotions that beg for freedom. As you read, I hope you cry, too; but I hope you laugh more! As you laugh, perhaps you will agree with my friend whose last birthday present to me, prior to her death, was a lovely writing pen on which the following tiny words were engraved: MARY JANE HOLT, NOVELIST AT HEART. I truly hope so because I am already at work on a sequel to this little book.
Who knew, as her death closed the door on our lifetime of friendship, that our last gifts to one another would open the door to endless Celebration of Friendship for so many others? I trust your heart will be blessed as you recall precious friends now gone from your presence... and resolve without reserve to completely and unconditionally love those who remain!
What people are saying about Malignant EMOTION
"With Malignant EMOTION, award-winning author Mary Jane Holt has penned a beautifully written and deeply spiritual tale of life, love and death and all that's in between. It is an uplifting and inspiring work that speaks to the true meaning of friendship. I highly recommend it." - William Rawlings, MD, author and physician (www.williamrawlings.com)
“Malignant EMOTION truly describes the roller coaster of emotions a cancer patient has... I could not put this book down. It was so real. It gives you excitement and then peace.” - Glenna Thornton, Breast Cancer Survivor
"Malignant EMOTION gave me more insight into the female psyche than anything I have ever read and I have been an avid reader all my life! That is by no means saying I fully understand women because nobody does, but I think I understand them a little better now." - Paul Loth, Retired Marine
"Fantastic! An excellent portrayal of friendship! - Olivia Huff, High School Senior …
“I have never been so mesmerized by a story line. It was brilliant how it flowed in and out of the hidden, yet so apparent life lessons throughout the book. I especially loved the twist at the end.” - Tommy Brandt, Award-winning Inspirational Country Music Artist ( www.tommybrandt.org )
T hrough the web of life portrayed in her novel, Mary Jane Holt conveys the importance of each individual, each thought, each act, each word or look. Then she allows these little things to fade into the mist as life focuses on what is even more important - true love. She uses words to skillfully paint a picture of love - God's love reflected by each of us as we become willing to incorporate it into ourselves. Malignant Emotion is a story of overcoming those things which bind us, and freeing the spirit, as we learn to look and listen beyond ourselves. Mary Jane's book reminds me of my husband Cliff's words after a recent near-death experience, "God took my hand and then one finger, and very carefully he guided my hand and dipped my finger into the ocean of love. And it was more wonderful than words can ever tell or than the human mind can ever imagine!" Our offenses are many, and they are hurtful and sinful. However, God's love is greater and can overcome them all! This is a story of love and grace. - Doris Woodruff Hewitt, PhD