An Ian's Realm Short Story
Never before published.
It’s been a challenge writing and marketing all at the same time and I’ve taken the pressure off myself. Having two Kickstarter campaigns back to back, with the last one completed last night, I’m devoting my time to getting my new stories finished.
The draft to Another Man’s Storm is only a few chapters shy of being complete. I had to do some POV shifting to get it to where it is, but I’m satisfied that with a little time devoted to writing, the draft will be complete before the end of next week.
I’m also writing the next story that will be serialized in the paid tier beginning this Sunday.
I want to welcome new subscribers.
This story is from Ian’s Realm. There are 7 books in the series and it’s young adult portal fantasy.
I don’t think anyone who has read the series knows about this story. I wrote it years ago and never shared it.
You can find the eBooks here. The paperbacks are on my website.
LORRAINE
Lorraine pulled back the curtain when she heard the muffler of Michael’s low riding Plymouth. All the excuses she had made up that afternoon vanished with the rapid beating of her heart. There’d be sparks flying tonight and she was helpless against his rage. She waited too long. She should have fled this morning right after her visit to the priest. But where would she go? Back to Mexico? Her parents had paid the man too much money to get her across the border and into his little house in the colonias. She could not go back. There would be no warm greeting. No home for her there.
Lorraine jumped when the whistle of the tea kettle cut the silence, adding to her already shattered nerves. She cut the fire off with a twist of a knob, poured boiling water into a cup, and set it on the table next to Michael’s tin can of instant coffee.
The door flew open.
“You’re here.”
Lorraine stammered for words. “I…”
“You didn’t do it, did you?”
She swallowed.
“Did you?”
“No puedo.”
“What do you mean you can’t? This was your chance, babe. I’m not raising a kid, and neither are you. Not under my roof. That wasn’t the deal. Get out.”
“I will take full responsibility.” Her accent came out thick. She couldn’t think in English under such stress, but Michael hated when she spoke Spanish.
“You bet you will.” He threw his lunch pail on the bed of the one room apartment house—which suddenly grew smaller, unable to contain the fire seething from the man she barely knew. He peeled off his leather jacket and flung it across the room. Lorraine stepped back.
“Get out before I hurt you.”
She should have packed that morning. She glanced around the room—the desk; the modest table; the kitchen sink and outdated gas stove. Her eye caught the cast iron Dutch oven, a gift from her mother. It’d be too heavy to carry. There wasn’t anything else worth taking. A few changes of clothes.
She had no suitcase. Everything she owned had been stuffed in a trunk and thrown in the back of Michael’s pick-up truck the night she left Los Cabos. She grabbed a pillow from the bed, yanked off the pillowcase, and opened the drawer to the dresser. Her hands shook as she placed her clothes neatly into the sham.
“You’re stalling. Get out. Now. Before I throw you out.”
He paced the floor, his boot heels loud and intimidating. She cleared the dresser, stuffing her clothes in it until the pillowcase bulged. Tears ran down her cheeks and she wiped them with her hands and let her thick black hair cover her face. She didn’t want this man to see her cry. It would make him all the angrier. She never should have married him, not for citizenship. It was a foolish thing to do and wasted her parent’s life savings. Having a real family and a home in America had been a dream. She’d been a foolish schoolgirl gazing out the classroom window into a world beyond her own. Even her parents had been duped. Escaping the cartel to what? To homelessness in a strange and hostile country? She could not escape oppression. It was in her genes.
And now she had a child to care for. Alone.
An envelope nested in the bottom of the draw. She glanced at Michael. His back was to her. She tucked the few American dollars she had earned from a generous farmer and the marriage license into the pillowcase.
Lorraine stood and put on her coat. Michael did not turn around, and so she slid out the door carrying the bundle under her arm.
She kept her head bowed as she walked hastily through the cluster of shanties. Broken plastic toys, trash, old mattresses and unidentifiable junk littered the yards. Children played tag in the street. Few cars were visible. No one in the colonias had enough money to buy a car, except for Michael. Somehow, he rose above the poverty. Lorraine never asked him his business. That was an understanding they had when he came to get her in Los Cabos.
A distant cousin and her father had arranged everything. If she hadn’t seen her papa slip a roll of American dollar bills before they left, she wouldn’t have known he paid to have Michael take her away. For a better life, he had explained as she shut the door to the pickup and glanced at him. He looked older than he was. Tired. Worry lines creased his face and his eyes were dull. Leaving her family had been hard on her, but not as hard as on him. She was young. Adventurous. And many of her friends had already disappeared. Rumor was they were taken by the men who owned the city. Los Cabos was not a good place for beautiful young women. Lorraine was ready to leave, and she had hoped, like her father, that there was a future for her in America.
Michael was an American citizen; young, good looking with dark brown eyes that melted through her. He was also strong and arrogant. They married in a nameless border town by a judge who knew exactly what they were doing. There was no façade. No pretense that they were in love. Lorraine had felt some chemistry with Michael. But the man made it clear there would be no attachment. No promises. No children. His work, whatever he did, was too important. He would help her get a job in the fields and she could live in his house until she had enough money to leave.
When she told him she was pregnant he arranged for an abortion. She was supposed to have gone that morning, but instead fled to the chapel and cried to the priest. An abortion would be against everything she ever believed in, against her family, against her religion.
Lorraine shivered. Wiping the last tear from her cheek she lifted her chin. Tonight marks the first night of sacrifice for the life within her. “I will never leave you my baby,” she whispered. “Nor will I let them rip you from me.” She walked quickly. Already the sun sank below the horizon. Puffs of smoke rose from chimneys and the aroma of soup cooking filled the air. The desert winters were crisp and cold, and tonight would be no exception. Father Juan would give Lorraine a place to sleep. He was a good man.
The old oak door to the chapel creaked when she opened it. She set her pillowcase down and touched the Holy Water, crossing herself and praying for favor. There was no one else who could give her what she needed, only God.
Lorraine retrieved her bundle and walked quietly down the aisle of pews. A soft golden light from the many candles that lined the walls received her. She genuflected and took a seat near the altar.
“My child,” Father Juan appeared from the shadow and strode quickly to her. “It’s late and the night is cold. Why did you come here?”
“There’s no where else to go Father.”
He paused for a moment and sighed. “I see.” He shook his head sympathetically. So pathetic was his expression that Lorraine looked away. She didn’t want sympathy. She needed something, but not pity. That’s not why she came here, although she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.
“Your husband’s not happy about the child? Perhaps in time.”
“There won’t be any time. He told me to leave. He’s an angry man. If he hurts me, he may hurt the baby as well.”
“We can’t have that.”
“I’m lost, Father. I have no home. No one.”
“Perhaps you could return to your family.”
Lorraine glared at him. Was that the solution? “There was a reason papa paid Michael to bring me here.” She resorted to Spanish, telling him all the ills that had happened in the village she grew up in until he held up his hand to quiet her.
“Yes. I know.”
“Then how can you suggest that?”
Father Juan sat next to her and patted her hand. “We must pray for guidance, and mercy. This child of yours, he’s a gift. Remember that Saint Mary had nowhere to lay her head, either.”
“A gift. His name is Ian,” Lorraine whispered.