Searching For Sullivan, page 1
Searching for Sullivan
Carissa Ann Lynch
SEARCHING FOR SULLIVAN
Copyright © 2017 by Carissa Ann Lynch.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: January 2017
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-953-5
ISBN-10: 1-68058-953-9
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To all of my friends in dark places.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Epilogue
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Chapter One
My son inherited his name from my great-great granddad, Sullivan von Derbach. It is a respectable and stalwart family name; but in truth, I have never once called him by it. He has always been, and always will be, Sully to me.
When it comes to Sully, it is not the trips to Disney World, or other big events, that I remember most. It is the simplest of moments that cling to my soul and release their vengeful talons into the very heart of me. Like the first time Sully saw a shooting star. We were sitting in a clumsy pair of lawn chairs, staring up at the velvety pool of blackness, when a quick flash of light sprung down from the sky. He was only three at the time, and he screamed with such delight that the moment overwhelmed him, and he burst into tears of joy.
Or the time we baked one of those cheap, store-bought cakes. I absentmindedly laid the glass pan down on a forgotten burner, and the next thing I knew blue, pasty cake and glass shards exploded onto the ceiling and walls. Initially, we were terrified. But then there we were: rolling in a fit of giggles on our backs as our eyes traveled the circumference of the room, examining the damages caused by our “cake bomb,” as Sully called it.
When I wake up in the mornings, I focus every ounce of energy into concentrating on those memories, the good ones, before I get out of bed. But no matter how hard I try, my mind always drifts to the one memory that I cannot let go of—the summer Sully turned thirteen…
We visited an old campsite at Lake Merlott that summer. It was the first time we’d been camping in seven years. I used to take him all the time when he was little, but as he grew older and my own workload and school schedule became more hectic, family activities, like camping, took a back burner.
The campsite was a regular lot that my father and his new wife, Judy, frequented on most holidays and weekends in the warmer months of the year. Judy and my father had been begging us to come up to “the camp” with them for years, and when I suggested it to Sully, I was nearly one hundred percent certain that his thirteen-year-old self would scoff at the idea. Instead, he surprised me by responding enthusiastically, “Sure. Let’s do it, Mom.”
Around the age of ten, Sully started becoming more temperamental and reclusive. The honest truth is that I was working and attending courses at the university, and his biological father had never been in the picture, so he was left to himself a lot of the time. He always seemed wise beyond his years, even as a toddler, and we were always close, so I never worried too much about him. That is, until he became quieter, more distant.
As our camping trip approached, my concerns about Sully were becoming more and more worrisome. He’d recently acquired a girlfriend, and most of our interactions consisted of hostile remarks or non-responses—which were inherently worse. His body language said it all—he no longer liked his mother.
So, when I suggested the camping trip and he reacted so well, I felt relieved about the state of our relationship, and I was hyped up for the trip. Two days before we were scheduled to leave, I was taking a shortcut home from work when I saw the outdated RV sitting on the lawn of a well-kept Cape Cod-styled home. Impulsively, I yanked the car over to the side of the road, barely missing the curb.
The cardboard “For Sale” sign that leaned on its bumper was weather-faded and difficult to read, but I could see that the asking price was $1600. It was too much for my budget, but considering the age of the sign, I was hoping for a motivated seller. I knocked on the door, my checkbook in hand, channeling the most confident version of myself. The bald, pot-bellied man that answered the door with a grunt was not what I was hoping for. But when I offered the check for one thousand dollars, he smiled kindly and handed me the keys. “First, I have to make sure that it runs and that it’s not a dump on the inside,” I informed him sternly, pulling the check back away from his pudgy, grasping fingers.
He shrugged. “Let me get my shoes.” He met me out in the yard beside the RV several minutes later.
The interior was not new or anywhere near perfect, but it surpassed my expectations. It seemed well taken care of, free of debris or any major damages on the inside. Most importantly, it seemed to be in working order. It took a few tries to get it started, but that didn’t surprise me after hearing that it’d been sitting unused for nearly five years now. We sealed the deal with a handshake, and I signed the check.
Driving home that day, I can still recall the rush of excitement that I felt down deep in the pit of my belly. I had purchased plenty of vehicles before, but never anything like this, and never so spur of the moment. It was an “impulse buy,” but I felt great about it.
I realized then that it was Sully’s pleasant reaction to the idea of camping that drove me to stop when I saw it. I wanted this weekend to be perfect between us, and I viewed it as an opportune time for me to make up for my own busy schedule, and subsequent absence from his life. I needed some one-on-one time with my son; simple as that.
You can imagine my disappointment when his girlfriend showed up as we were loading our food and clothing into the camper on the morning we were scheduled to leave. I looked from her to Sully, my confusion and irritation transparent. “I invited her to go with us,” Sully explained, shrugging his shoulders in a “no big deal” sort of way that he recently had a habit of doing. Some of his mannerisms had begun to drive me insane.
“Your parents okay with this?” I asked her, raising my eyebrows at the girl skeptically. She nodded, focusing her attention on a wad of gum that was stuck to the sole of a bright, orange Nike high top.
“My parents said it was fine. They aren’t even home on the weekends usually, anyway. They’re probably glad I’m with another adult instead of home on my own,” she replied sulkily. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of parents would leave their kid home alone on the weekends, and I definitely couldn’t fathom why any sane parent would allow their barely-a-teen daughter to go camping overnight with a strange boy, parents or no parents.
Perhaps I was being sexist, but I know that if Sully had been a girl, I would have kept a tighter leash on him than I did. I guess my parenting was no better than their
When I pictured this camping adventure in my mind’s eye, I imagined driving with Sully next to me in the passenger seat of the front cab, shooting the shit and enjoying the open road. A supreme bonding experience. But instead, he and “Roxy”—that’s what she called herself, but I suspected it wasn’t her real name—were seated on a couch in the back, talking cheerily amongst themselves in hushed tones. Whenever I stole a glance at them in the rearview mirror, they responded with looks of disgust.
It was a strange feeling, watching this son of mine talking so easily and freely to Roxy, while every conversation between us for the past two years had been awkward and strained. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. I wanted my son back.
Four long hours later, we arrived at “the camp” at Lake Merlott. We were greeted by my father, Ralph, his wife, Judy, my sister, Margaret, and her new baby girl, Maxie. We spent our first night at camp pretty typically; we sat around the bonfire, chatting while roasting marshmallows and hotdogs on wooden sticks. Most of the conversation revolved around eighteen-month-old Maxie. She was quite a little ham, running around playing peek-a-boo and smiling up at each of us to reveal a semi-toothless grin. She was such a doll, and she was my first niece, so I was glad to spend time with her, as well as the rest of my family.
Sully and Roxy joined us around the campfire, but they kept their fold-up chairs slightly farther back from ours, and they whispered quietly amongst themselves. I couldn’t help but wonder how these two young children could have so much to talk about. Again with the jealousy, I suppose.
We all decided to turn in early, heading to our separate RVs, with plans to go boating on my father and Judy’s newest addition in the morning: a twenty-three foot Caravelle Interceptor, which was basically a really fast speedboat. I’m not a big fan of swimming or watersports, but Sully seemed interested in going, and I was eager to appease him and my father.
Our camper consisted of three beds—a queen-sized bed in the back for me, a twin-sized sleeper bed that folded out from the dining table, and a large sleeping space above the cab section in front. I may have been cool for allowing Roxy to join us on this excursion, but I would not let them sleep in the same bed. That is where I drew the line.
“You there, and you there,” I told them, pointing first to the upper bed for Sully, and the table fold-out bed for Roxy. Luckily, they were too tired to argue with me, and they climbed into their respective beds. We were all asleep within minutes. There’s just something about sleeping in the middle of nowhere that brings on the best quality of sleep.
I woke up early the next day with the soft, wavering glow of the morning sun peeking through the moth-eaten, flimsy curtains that covered the tiny windows on both sides of my bed. I nudged Sully and Roxy awake. “We’re going out on Grandpa’s Interceptor today,” I told Sully, trying to give him sufficient motivation to get out of bed. He had never been much of a morning person, and getting him up for school over the years had basically been hell. My own mother had this incredible ability to wake me up with a cheery voice and a smile every morning as a child. Regrettably, I did not inherit said trait.
But Sully surprised me by getting right up that morning, as did his girlfriend. We took turns changing into our bathing suits and shorts in the cramped toilet space next to my bed, and after a quick breakfast, and the lengthy process of loading up towels, coolers, and life jackets into the boat, we headed out for the half mile drive to Lake Merlott.
My father drove the truck with Judy in the passenger seat, while the rest of us rode in the boat, which was securely hitched to the truck. My sister sat beside me in the back bench seat, bouncing baby Maxie up and down, up and down, on her knees to keep her satisfied. Sully and Roxy took their seats as far away from me as possible, up in the front bow of the boat.
There were nearly sixty camping lots at Lake Merlott and as we rode past all of them, the breeze blew generously, providing relief from the scorching heat of the sun. It was apparently not a huge camping weekend because most of the lots were vacant. A few of them contained RVs or tents, and I offered a friendly wave to the families we passed.
For an instant, I was overcome with a rush of my own childhood memories of coming to Lake Merlott, and riding just like this in the back of one of my father’s boats. I imagined my own thirteen-year-old self sticking my arm out the side of the boat, making waving motions with my hand, all the while giggling excitedly with my mousy brown hair blowing all around my face and sticking to the corners of my mouth. When my mother was alive, she never rode in the truck with dad. She was always in the back, seated right between me and my sister. I missed my mother terribly, and as I looked at Sully, I was reminded that life was too short, and I must continue to do everything within my power to gain a closer relationship with my only son before it was too late.
Even though he was a boy, he looked so much like me at his age. I imagined him with longer hair and girlish eyes—he was the spitting image of me. That realization made me proud. “Cheer up,” my sister, Margaret, said, nudging me playfully. Maxie suddenly reached her small pudgy arms out to me, and I took her willingly onto my lap. I planned on enjoying this day, smiling down into my baby niece’s sparkling green eyes. She smiled back toothily, and I felt utter calmness and peace.
We followed a tree-lined, rutty road that eventually opened up to reveal the sixty acre spread of freshwater that made up Lake Merlott. The weather was perfect for a day on the boat. When I looked over at Sully, he was staring right at me, and we smiled at one another—a real smile—for the first time in nearly a year. I wished I could seize the perfectness of that moment. If only my eyelids were like shutters on a camera, and I could capture it all as I blinked…if only.
Even though it was the height of boating season, the ramp was unexpectedly deserted, much like the campsite itself. At the water’s edge, my father exited the truck and boarded the boat. Judy backed the truck up expertly as my father guided it off the trailer. My mother never was much of a driver, and I was impressed to see Judy handling the process with ease.
My father assumed his position behind the wheel of the boat and circled around the shallow waters, waiting to pick up Judy at the dock. Moments later, she was standing on the edge of the wooden, rickety boat dock, waving with a gleeful expression on her face. I liked Judy; always had. She might not have been my mother, but she was a good woman and she loved my father, which was all that really mattered.
After my mom died, it took five years for my father to find Judy. Five years might not seem very long to most people, but I was relieved when he finally met someone. My mother was the type of woman who laid out my father’s underwear and socks in the morning. My father needed a woman to take care of him—I’m glad that woman was Judy.
Sully and Roxy’s first request was to ride on the donut-shaped tube that was attached to the back of the boat. Margaret had one of those disposable cameras that you buy at the Quickmart, and she handed it to me gaily. We rode in companionable silence, snapping photos of Sully and Roxy as they cackled excitedly and held onto the float for dear life.
After tubing, there was swimming and a break for slapping together sandwiches and pulling out chip bags. Everything tastes better on a boat; I’m not sure why, but I swear it’s true. By the time we finished eating, it was late afternoon, and the sun had shifted lazily behind a fluffy bed of clouds.
Although most of us were more than ready to head back to camp, Sully insisted on doing a little fishing first. He had my dad doing circles around the lake in search of the perfect spot. He finally settled on a fairly shallow, secluded spot that was barely ten feet from a shore bank. The shore was lined with thick, gnarly roots, ancient oak trees, and overgrown shrubbery.
It was only five minutes after casting his line that the raindrops started to fall. “Time to head back. We don’t want to get caught in a storm,” I warned him.
Lucky for us, the back of the boat was sheltered by a medium-sized canopy. I held baby Maxie on my lap under it, using my hands to shield her from any excess rainwater that might drip into her eyes.
