About Books: The Jeremy Myles novels

 

Many years ago I heard about a boy who had been kidnapped. I don’t recall all of the details, only that he was taken when he was about 6, and there was never any ransom demand. He had simply vanished. There were no leads. His face on a milk carton didn’t produce any information. Then at age 12, he returned.

His tale was a harrowing one of kidnapping, abuse, both physical and sexual, and his eventual escape when the man who had abducted him came home one day with another 6-year-old, since a 12-year-old boy was no longer of interest for the pedophile kidnapper.

He determined that the little boy would not suffer as he had, and he made a plan to get them both out.

They even made a television movie about this kidnapping.

For some reason, I’m drawn to stories like this. I have my suspicions why, but suffice it to say I am curious about how people in such situations manage not to be crushed by their circumstances.

I didn’t research the actual kidnapping. In fact, I don’t even know the name of the boy this happened to. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t need that information. Considering how many children’s pictures end up on milk cartons every year, I’m sure there are other stories out there about similar kidnappings.

I wasn’t interested in writing a biography. I wanted to write a fiction story about someone in similar circumstances with different twists embedded in the story. However, when I tried to write the kidnapping story and the day-to-day life of the victim, I quickly became bogged down in the technicalities and had to shelve the idea for a few years.

When I came back to the story, I realized the tale I wanted to tell was about what happened after. People lose interest once a child is back with his parents, as if he could pick up his life and it’s as carefree as it was before the kidnapping ever took place. I doubt that’s ever the case.

I wanted to know what happened after; how did this character return to “normal”? Or did he? Could he be a civilized person able to cope with teenage stresses?

My story begins when the boy, Jeremy (not the real name of the real-life person) is entering junior year of high school at age 16. He has been home with his parents since he was 12, and it has taken that long to convert him from a nearly feral, frightened boy suffering PTSD from 6 years of physical, psychological and sexual abuse to being able to have some social interactions with his peers.

At various times since he returned home, sending him to school was attempted without success. As a newcomer, he was bullied or ignored, resulting in him melting down or lashing out.

Since he couldn’t go to school, he was tutored, although his father wanted him to return to school at some point before he was old enough to attend university. The family’s move to a new state when they inherit a home that had been owned by a relative provides a new chance at attending school. The fact that one of his cousins, with whom he is comfortable, also attends the school makes the transition a bit smoother than previous tries.

Once he appears to be adjusting to school, his father gives him a 3-strike rule: he can have 3 failures in behavior. At the third one, he must accept some distasteful chore to be completed as punishment without complaint in order to teach him responsibility.

His years of private tutoring have put him slightly ahead of his peers in some subjects, but he’s somewhat lacking in socialization. When he meets a girl at school who is friendly, he is determined that he will do anything not to lose her friendship. He even makes friends with some of the other boys with the help of his cousin.

Not everything goes smoothly, and he does eventually have his third strike. At that point, he decides to put his friendship with the girl to the test, and, swearing her to secrecy, lets her read a file that documents all that has happened to him. This also provides the reader with the information about the kidnapping without making the entire story about it.

Teenage alliances being fluid, there are betrayals and misunderstandings, and Karma takes its own time visiting.

This book was originally supposed to be a one-off novel. Of course, things are not always what they appear to be, and a second novel, which takes place in Jeremy’s senior year of high school, finally puts all of the pieces together.

Having found out who betrayed him in the previous novel, he believes everything will finally settle down to what other boys his age experience. After all, he has been assured that everyone involved with his kidnapping has either been arrested or killed, so he need never fear anything from those people.

Jeremy has a brother who has been out of the family’s graces since shortly after kidnapping through his own choice. His sister is the only one in contact with him. Believing he is the cause of the estrangement, Jeremy wants to try to heal the rift and get to know his brother, who is living in another state.

He does eventually convince his brother to meet him, and helps to try to reunite the family.

Meanwhile, a chance vacation at the shore brings Jeremy face to face with someone he thought was long dead. Panic, police investigations and U.S. Embassy inquiries ensue to try to flush out the last person involved in the kidnapping, who has, so far, escaped justice.

Jeremy’s life is kept off-balance while the professionals try to figure out what went wrong. But Karma finally does prove she can be a bitch in the right circumstances.

Both novels take place in Yardley, Pennsylvania, Princeton, New Jersey and many points in-between.

 

Mothers and Daughters

 

Mothers and daughters often have an odd relationship.

My mother was an identical twin. I never had any trouble telling them apart. There was something slightly different that I saw in their looks. And their personalities couldn’t have been more different.

My aunt was an extrovert. My mother was an introvert.

They were born in the 1920s, and typical of that era, were born at home, which makes the survival of both a bit amazing. They were the only twins in their grade, and possibly in the school, so everyone made a fuss.

Typical of the times, their mother dressed them alike throughout their childhood. Since they went to Catholic school, their uniforms were more of the same.

When they became teens, my mother was content to continue dressing alike. According to my mother, my aunt wanted to be more independent. She was a size smaller than my mother, so she frequently tried to find outfits in her size that weren’t available in my mother’s size.

I think of my mother as the dependent twin. Her mother didn’t help things. If one wasn’t invited somewhere, the other couldn’t go. Consequently, when she was invited to parties or other outings, my mother thought my aunt was the one people really wanted, and she was only invited so her sister could go.

Because they were always together she didn’t develop much independence.

When it came time for high school, my mother wanted to go to the Catholic high school. My aunt didn’t. But their parents couldn’t afford to send both to Catholic school, and their mother wouldn’t split them up (which would have been a good thing, especially for my mother’s development), so they both attended the public high school, which my mother didn’t particularly like.

My mother’s father was Catholic, but her mother wasn’t. Since the children were raised Catholic, and had been sent to Catholic elementary school, their mother felt she’d fulfilled her obligation.

As was usual at the time, my mother lived at home until she married. She got a job when she finished high school, and dated, like other girls.

One boy was interested in her that her mother wouldn’t allow her to date because he wasn’t Catholic. She told my mother life was difficult enough without having different religions in the family. She spoke from experience.

My mother dated a few different boys, but there was a war on – this was the 1940s – and many went off to the military.

She was thrilled when the cute, “older” boy from the next block down asked her out. He went into the military, too, but was discharged early due to a medical complication, and they were married in 1944, when she promptly left her job and handed her husband all of her money.

I balked when she told me that. When my husband and I married, we didn’t like the way each other did banking, so we kept separate bank accounts in separate banks. Her take on marriage and finance is not mine.

I was the only daughter and the youngest. A preemie born before the advent of the NICU, I wasn’t necessarily expected to live. I suppose tenacity kept me alive.

To say I have a temper is an understatement. I’m of Irish descent and an Aries, and descended from redheads on one side of the family, which gives some indication of just how much temper stereotyping and tradition say I have. I’ve been told The Taming of the Shrew could have been written about me (The main character is also named Catherine), except I’ve never succumbed to being tamed.

Actually, I think the zodiac descriptions are nonsense, and the Irish people I’ve met have been sweet-tempered and lovely, and my ginger relatives were always wonderful when I saw them. Still, I – although not remotely a redhead myself – seem to fit the trifecta stereotype.

It isn’t difficult to imagine the conflicts between my mother and me when I was often forbidden to do the things my brothers were allowed to do for no better reason than I was born female. In fact, most of our conflicts had to do with gender and gender roles.

My mother always strove to make me “ladylike”. My so-called friends in the neighborhood would pick fights with me, and say the most horrendous things to me. I would like to have hurled an expletive or two, given them a litany of their shortcomings, and had nothing more to do with them, preferring solitude to joyless friendships.

But no. According to my mother, I must never stoop to their level. I had to be kind because, how would I feel if someone said that to me?

Excuse me? Someone did!

Consequently, since this was drilled into me since I was a wee, small child, I have never been able to have a face-to-face spoken confrontation with anyone. I choke on the words. Everyone thinks I’m fine with everything, and they can say what they like with impunity.

I’ve long said that this inability of mine was the greatest disservice my mother ever did to me.

But oh, can I write letters that drip daggers and seethe with sarcasm. If you’ve injured me, quake if a letter arrives from me.

But most of these things were the occasional spats mothers and daughters have. My mother and I got along well. She would tell me stories of her childhood, and I would rail against the injustices done to her. I wouldn’t let someone do that to me or tell me I couldn’t go to college. I wouldn’t care if I didn’t have all the best things. And she would tell me things were different then.

Her parents were lucky they didn’t have me as a child. Anyone who knew how adamant I was, even at six, that they weren’t going to make me write with my right hand knows I would have been beaten to a bloody pulp by the 1930s nuns, and refused to submit.

Submit was never part of my vocabulary. Even my mother in the 1960s and ‘70s would often shake her head and say, “What are we going to do with you?” (My fear was that they'd return me to the orphanage. I always believed I was adopted because I didn't look like my brothers -- that is, I wasn't a boy. And I couldn't tap dance, so what good would I be there?  My only knowledge of orphanages was Shirley Temple films.)

One of the few things my mother and I had in common was that we were both born female. She didn’t mind it. I hated it. I always said she wanted a daughter, and she got me, instead.

Another thing we had in common was being introverts.

As a child, I was also shy, but somewhere in high school I think I mostly outgrew that – they’re not the same thing.

I still prefer the idea of a party to actually going to one, and I have to rehearse what I’m going to say when I have to make a telephone call to a stranger. I have to plan on what so say if someone else answers, tells me the person isn’t there, or if I have to leave a message on a machine. It's so much preparation! Texting is a godsend to introverts everywhere.

Dealing with people is exhausting, and I don’t know where my mother found the energy to not only deal with, but actually enjoy three children. She once told me she’d originally wanted five or six kids.

Of course, she couldn’t understand how I could dislike parties and meeting people, yet absolutely love getting up on stage to perform. I told her I only get stage fright at parties. On stage, you’re separated from people, and you know you’re doing the one thing those party  people are afraid to do. On stage, I’m in my element; at a party, especially where I don’t know many people, I have to pretend to be some character and play a part. (And being a writer, I have lots of characters to choose from.)

Attending an all-girls Catholic high school was probably the best academic decision she made for me. Because she was denied that choice, I was denied any other. But it allowed me to flourish scholastically. Socially,  not so much.

Girls were always difficult for me to understand. Growing up, I never knew when they were going to decide they didn’t like me for a day, a week or forever.

High school was a bit easier in that regard. I didn’t have people bullying me for being better at schoolwork than they were, as I had experienced in elementary school. We were separated into academic “tracks”, and I was mostly with the “smarter thans.” Being in the middle range of that group, there was nothing in that regard to bully me for.

I still didn’t have many friends. I always wanted to be popular, but in hindsight, having a lot of friends probably would have been exhausting. That was for the extroverts.

But how was I to ever date if I went to an all-girls school? Oh, yes, there were dances. But I lived a half hour from my school, and my parents wouldn’t let me have the car – although my brothers were allowed to take the car to any and sundry thing they needed to drive to. That was another bone of contention between my mother and me.

“Boys are supposed to drive.”

“But I don’t have a boyfriend because I can’t meet any boys because I can’t get to the dance because you won’t let me use the car.”

While this wasn’t entirely true, it was my argument.

I was in the church guitar group, and there were boys in it. The problem was, the boys I liked were dating other girls. Most of the rest were younger, weren’t interested, or weren’t old enough to drive.

Only through the magic of my mother setting things up with her friends who had sons, as well as a boy in the group who also didn’t have a date to the prom was I able to attend the junior and senior proms. In those days  one wasn’t even allowed to buy tickets to the prom without a date.

“You can’t because you’re (just) a girl,” has never been an acceptable reason for anything in my mind.

Anger combined with the “just a girl” restriction developed a very strong sense of independence in me.

I can’t? Hold my wine. I’ll show you!

I probably accomplished more because I was told I couldn’t than for any other reason.

I stood up to my parents when they threatened to take me out of said Catholic high school halfway through because my father lost his job. Always very private about finances, they wouldn’t go to either the parish priest or the principal of the school to plead hardship for a tuition reduction.

I told my parents that if they tried to pull me out of my school where I knew everyone to put me in a public school where I’d have to start all over again learning my way around, and have no friends halfway through high school, I’d go myself and tell the priest and the principal about the situation they were trying to keep private.

They were horrified, and threatened, but I was determined. In the end, no one was told. They left me in my school, and my mother got a job to pay my tuition. (At 16, no employers believed I actually was 16, so I couldn’t get a job. Otherwise, I would have paid my own tuition.)

It was surprising when, after graduating from university, she treated me like an adult, not like the child who had better be on her best behavior when we were out or just wait till you got home!

During a 10-year period when I was actually at an appropriate weight for my height, as a joke while looking for a bathing suit, I tried on a bikini and was surprised it fit. My mother was with me at the time, and actually encouraged me to buy it – I didn’t.

When one so-called boyfriend dumped me suddenly – the  vast majority of my friends were married with children by this time – and in frustration and not a few tears, I said, “Why can’t anyone ever love me," she actually cried.

The thing is, my mother was keen on my finding someone and getting married. I wasn’t. I simply didn’t like being dumped, especially with lame excuses or gas lighting.

My mother, the dependent twin, went from her father’s house to my father’s house, and never really learned how to be independent. I was born independent.

I went from my parents’ house to college, where I made my own decisions on a daily basis, back home until I could – sort of – afford an apartment alone.

When my father died, I had moved back home to go back to college for something I could get a job in. My mother transferred her dependence on me. She couldn’t make a major decision without consulting me. If one of my brothers visited, she consulted him instead. I found it quite frustrating that she was never her own advocate. I’ve always bristled somewhat to have to consult with someone on more than a superficial level about anything. I suppose that’s why, in 13 terms of college, I had 11 different roommates. And I even liked some of them.

Relations between my mother and me were generally good as long as there wasn’t a third party involved. Once the third person entered the picture, I felt like I was expected to dissolve, especially if said third person was male. I was, after all, only a girl.

Once I got married – at 39 – my mother was anxious for me to have children. Me, not so much.

I assumed it was probably a foregone conclusion that a first child – no, only child – at 40 wasn’t going to happen, and I proved correct in that.

I’m amused when people sigh and say how sorry they are that I didn’t have any children. I kind of laugh and tell them I’m cool with it. Besides, if God had intended me to have children, I would’ve been born male.

My mother, on the other hand, was decidedly not cool with it.

One day, we got into the whole baby discussion, and her desire for me to have a baby so she “could have grandchildren before I die.”

Don’t ever do that to me. I am not responsible for other people’s burdens.

I told her she had a granddaughter and two step-grandchildren. She somehow thought that didn’t count because they lived at least five hours away, and she never got to see them.

I am not without a sense of humor. I told her if she wanted to have grandchildren so badly, she should’ve had them first.

The whole grandparent thing is lost on me. My mother’s parents died well before I was born, so I never think of them as my grandparents. My father’s parents were it, and we saw them only a couple of times a year. They lived in the city, an hour away by the roads and speed limits of the time. They had so many grandchildren, I don’t think anyone was particularly special. I never had the impression my grandmother was particularly overjoyed to see us.  I didn't actually think she even liked me, although I think my grandfather thought I was okay. I didn’t know them well.

I have fond memories of my grandfather taking us for walks around their part of South Philadelphia.

The thing I remember most about my grandmother was that when I was a teen and into my twenties, every time she saw me she wanted to know if I had a boyfriend yet, and the answer was always no. I don’t remember her ever noticing me when I was a child.

She hadn’t wanted my parents to name me Catherine because none of the Catherines born into the family had ever married. My grandfather’s youngest sister was one, and she was a spinster.

My parents didn’t give any credence to such superstitions. And I, devil that I am, would tell my grandmother that I was simply following family traditions.

My mother was always my staunchest ally, although I didn’t always appreciate the fact. She would defend me against any outsider, even if privately she would tell me I was weird.

Still I think she did the best she could for me, and I did the best I could for her.