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Inspiring Voices - Faye Lewellen

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142 pages

English

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We all fear loss of independence, aging, and death. Helen certainly does when she comes to live at Happiness Hollow, an assisted-living facility described by some residents as a cult in which they are killed with kindness. Choosing the wrong path to maintain her independence, Helen finds her life and health going downhill. During her heart attack, however, she receives a powerful vision which renews her lagging faith and gives her a mission.That mission is to use the seven sacraments in unorthodox ways to teach the Art of Living and the Art of Dying, and to liberate a small group of residents who, like her, have lost all joy, meaning, and purpose in their lives. Overcoming challenges, Helen and her group go on to revolutionize Happiness Hollow and beyond.Aging and death are difficult topics to discuss, especially with those you love. This lighthearted story, replete with romance and mystery, follows this diverse band of residents as they derive peace and wisdom from their long histories, explore their fears and beliefs about death, find new strength and purpose, and create a positive and loving environment for themselves.Happiness Hollow, with humor and probing questions, gently opens the way for introspection and discussion. The reading list at the end directs you to further resources.

Informations

Publié par	Inspiring Voices
Date de parution	02 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781462409570
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0240€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Happiness Hollow
FAYE LEWELLEN

Copyright © 2014 Faye Lewellen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Inspiring Voices
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.inspiringvoices.com
1 (866) 697-5313

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0956-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-0957-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907556

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 5/1/2014

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
For Further Reading

To
my husband

Chapter One
Helen stood, fists on her hips, glaring at the eyesore, the beacon of shame before her. Right there, on the front of her 1955 brick ranch, a piece of speckled plywood bordered by silver tape patched her shattered picture wi ndow.
She hadn’t heard the crash. The rock had been stopped by the heavy drapes, and the glass fragments had fallen on the carpet. She had felt sick on discovering the horror on Friday. She and her house had been vulnerable the entire weekend while waiting for Mr. Vargas to come.
Now Mr. Vargas coughed and shuffled his feet, impatient for his pay. When Helen took the envelope from her pocket and gave it to him, he grunted. That was all he ever did, grunt and bark out a price. Even though she had told him exactly what to do, this tacky patch-job was like all the other repairs he made. His cure for any and everything was a liberal application of duct tape.
She watched as he jammed on his battered hat, lifted his battered toolbox, and slung it into his battered truck. Same hat, same toolbox, same truck for the last—how long had it been? Ten years? Fifteen? When and how had he come to mow her grass, rake leaves, and make repairs? She had no idea, he was just there. Sometimes he was the only live human companionship she had for w eeks.
Mr. Vargas’ truck chugged away amid the blare of car horns echoing in the strip mall across the street. A mail truck was coming along, its stops causing chaos in the traffic. After the mail truck passed, Helen went to her mailbox at the edge of the street. Cautiously, she opened the flap from the side and waited for a break in the traffic, then leaned in front of the box. She looked in and pulled out a handful of glossy ads. It took another grab to remove a large white envelope. Holding the papers and envelope away from her, she slammed the flap shut.
On her way back to the porch, she looked at her house both with fondness and dismay. She had been so proud when she, all by herself, had become owner of the brand new house, but now it had become an expensive island of charm in a sea of ugly urban sprawl. Around her, family homes had gone commercial. Parking lots had replaced lawns. The street was lined with gas stations, food joints, and bars with flashing neon signs. And now her lovely picture window was boarded up as if the place were abandoned. She pulled herself up the two steps by means of the handrail and rested. Next, drug addicts would be camping right here on the p orch.
Back inside, she locked the screen and front door, picked up the shoebox of glass shards, and made her way along a narrow path in the living room between shrouded furniture, a patio set, and a birdbath. The path led to a hall, past a bath, and into the dining room. Behind a barricade of books, a narrow sofa was made up as a bed. Passing through the dining room, she entered the kitchen where bars of sunlight fell on the yellowed linoleum and chrome dinette t able.
She tossed the mail into the sink and set the box beside the wheezing refrigerator. Lifting the white envelope, she studied her name and address which were correctly printed on the label and read aloud the return address. What a strange name, Happiness Hollow. Holding the envelope low in the sink in case it might explode or contain ominous white powder, she cut it open with a plastic knife. Slowly, she drew out a brightly colored brochure and, holding it by one corner, transferred it to the top of the washing machine by the back door. If it acted up, she’d throw it out the door although it would take several minutes to open all the l ocks.
Unexpected mail could be dangerous—it could change your life in an ins tant.
Having disposed of the junk mail in the garbage can and having washed her hands thoroughly, she clicked on the radio on the counter, then made herself some tea. A siren screamed as a woman tearfully told a news reporter, “She was gentle as a lamb. Why would anybody do this to an eighty-year-old lady?” The reporter went on to explain that the woman lived alone in a transitional neighborhood and—
“Same old story,” Helen said to the radio. “She’d been living in the same house fifty years, no problems, then BAM! Murdering robbers get you, or the thieving devil developers cheat you out of everything. Well, they won’t run me out. I’ll fight back—bet your last dollar on that!”
She sat down at the table with her chipped mug of tea and the brochure, and began flipping through the p ages.
“Happiness Hollow—some kind of old folks home,” she said aloud to the talk show host who came on after the noon news. “Place full of wrinkled old babies with squirrely minds. One thought less each day. Look at them, the old goats, hamming it up for the camera. Sold out, didn’t you, just to be part of the herd. Gave up all control of your lives. March in step, hold hands, eat your mush, do just as you’re told. Ha!” She sipped her tea, satisfied with her put- down.
“Happiness Hollow. Sounds pretty hollow to me. Empty. Devoid of happiness. Devoid of individuality. Blaa-blaa-blaa. Hey! Get a load of this. ‘We’re like you. We understand. We’re a supportive community of friends who learn together—and have fun!’ Hog wash!”
Helen pushed the open brochure away with a snort and sat back to finish her tea, only to find tears filling her eyes. Was there poison on the paper, she wondered. Had she been gassed? As tears rolled down her face and dripped off her chin, she could hardly breathe. This was unacceptable behavior. “Where’s your self-control?” she chided herself. “Stop blubbering this ins tant.”
Blinking away new tears, she found herself drawing the brochure back in front of her. One photo showed several ladies having tea in a well-stocked library. She sighed as she briefly imagined their genteel conversa tion.
“Supportive community of friends,” she said aloud. “Learn together. Have fun.” Setting the mug aside, she turned to the front to the brochure and began reading every word.
It was well past the dinner hour on New Year’s Day, a cold and drizzly Sunday evening, when Helen arrived in a taxi under the portico at Happiness Hollow. Carrying one small bag, she entered the foyer where her heels clacked on the tile floor. Empty. Not a sound. Not a soul. If the taxi had not already left, she would have bo lted.
Finally, a broad-faced young black woman, wide of beam and heavy-chested, appeared and began tugging at Helen’s bag.
“Miss Helen, at last! We’ve been waiting all day for you. You must be frozen. Let me take this bag.” She pulled determinedly even though Helen held on. “I’m Ermine. Er-mine. Have you had dinner yet? You must be starving. Most of our residents are away for the holidays, or they’re in yonder watching the movie, but we’ll get you a hot meal in no time.” She gave a final tug but Helen refused to relinquish control of her property. “Well, I’m sure you’d like to go up to your suite and freshen up a bit. Just go along here to the elevator, and I’ll get your key.”
To Helen this all sounded like one long word, but she followed the pointing hand. Passing two potted trees, she came to a heavy, windowless door decorated by a painted garland of silver stars. A doorbell was beside the door. This seemed an odd arrangement for an elevator, but she was too weary to care and reached to press the button. Suddenly, she felt a strong push against her rear and heard a sharp v oice.
“Stop it! Don’t do that. Get away!”
Helen turned to find a prim little lady with steely eyes, jutting chin, and white hair done up in a tight knot on top of her head. “That’s where they keep them people locked up.” The woman bumped Helen again with her black rolling walker. “Don’t you n ever—”
“Oh, Miss Florence,” Ermine said, hurrying to join them. “I thought you were watching the m ovie.”
“You know perfectly well I can’t see, and I got tired of listening to the silly thing. This woman was about to open that door. Might’ve let some es cape.”
“That’s the Twilight Suite for our Memory Impaired, Miss Helen. You need to stay on this side . We never disturb the other side . Here’s the elevator.” She took He