Pulling Home

She’ll risk anything to save her child…even the truth

It’s taken nine years and a cross-country move, but Audra Valentine Wheyton has

kept her secrets safe. She’s created the perfect life—a husband who loves her, a daughter she adores, and a position as head writer for an award-winning daytime soap. When her husband dies suddenly, Audra returns to her hometown for the funeral and faces a community that has not forgotten her meager beginnings and a man who has never forgiven her for marrying his brother.

Jack Wheyton is a successful pediatric neurosurgeon who is about to become

engaged when Audra walks back into his life with her daughter. He forgave his brother long ago for taking something that had been his, something he hadn’t even realized he wanted until it was gone. But forgiving Audra is another story…and forgetting her? Near impossible.

When a shattering illness strikes Audra’s daughter, she turns to Jack to save her child and risks exposing a secret that will change their lives forever.

Dedication:

To the real Kara. A gentle and courageous warrior, who leads her life with faith, hope and purpose.

Though PULLING HOME is a work of fiction, there is a real child named Kara

who has Chiari Malformation & Syringomyelia. (The first time I heard these words, I had no idea what they meant.) I have known Kara since long before her first surgery and when I decided to write a book that would involve a sick child, I wanted to acknowledge this courageous girl by using her name and a variation of her condition. Everything after that is truly the result of my very overactive imagination.

In case you were wondering about the real Kara… She was diagnosed with Chiari

Malformation and Syringomyelia at age ten. Over the next eleven years, she underwent fifteen neurosurgeries and sadly, deals with chronic pain on a daily basis. Kara attends college for Deaf Interpretive Services and plans to become a Sign Language Interpreter.

In her spare time, she plays guitar, writes music, paints, and is a freelance photographer.

If you would like to learn more about Chiari Malformation and Syringomyelia,

please visit
www.csfinfo.org.

Pulling Home

by

Mary Campisi

Copyright 2012

Smashwords Edition

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“It’s not the end of the world, you know. It’s only eight days.”—Christian

Wheyton

They were leaving tomorrow. Scraped away from her like a D&C without

anesthetic. Even after all these years, she still dreaded it—the suitcases, tagged and waiting at the front door, the early morning trip to the airport, the luggage checks, the lines of travelers snaking past. Each process pulled Audra Valentine Wheyton’s husband and daughter away, minds and bodies beginning the two thousand mile trek before they reached the first escalator. Kara had a new suitcase this time, pink and green canvas with wheels to replace the Cinderella vinyl she’d used the past six trips.

Christian thought Audra should stay home and forego the airport ritual, but she

needed to watch her daughter’s blond head disappear among the mesh of travelers and gain comfort from her husband’s tanned hand raised in one last good-bye. He no longer asked her to go with them, but his pale blue eyes shone with hope each time he packed his suitcase and looked at her with a quiet longing that begged,
Come with us. Settle the
past. Show them it doesn’t matter anymore
.

But it did matter. It would always matter. Christian thought the past would never catch up with her and if it did, no one would recognize it as hers anyway. He discounted the one person who might piece together the truth and recognize her deceit. Nine years and nine states separated them, but she feared
him
most.

“I saw the show today.” The softness in Christian’s voice cocooned her and she

snuggled closer. “I like where you’re going with it.”

“You didn’t think it was too revealing?” Writing a story was one thing but

watching the scripted words morph onto the screen and slip through someone else’s mouth? Especially words tied to a past only three people in the entire state of California knew about? That was close to torture.

“Give yourself a little credit, Audra.
Soap Digest
wouldn’t call you a masterful storyteller if it weren’t true.”

Of course Christian supported her but what did a man entranced by the Cold War

know about hype and wordplay? She sighed and said, “There are no masterful storytellers in daytime drama.”

He was not going to be denied his opinion. “What about
People’s
blurb last month? Bland doesn’t make
People
, unless it’s a new diet or health food craze.”

Her husband, the optimist. “You don’t think it has to do with the public’s insane quest to unearth the identity of the show’s head writer?”

“Maybe.” He stroked her back, played with the ends of her shoulder-length hair in that familiar way he did when he was thinking, as though he were turning the pages of a well-worn document.

“It has everything to do with morbid curiosity. Howard’s got the press wrapped

up in the mystery and he’s going to play it as long as he can.” By the time her identity squeaked out, and it would eventually, she’d be months, maybe even a year past the current storyline, and it wouldn’t matter. It only mattered now, when the critical aspects of the story might be recognized for what they were—a duplication of her own life. From the moment she walked on the set thirteen months ago, the staff knew her only as Rhetta Hardt, a clever name born of Howard Krozer’s imagination and obsession with all things German. The rest of the staff believed they were protecting ‘Rhetta’s’ identity, forming a camaraderie of sorts to band against overzealous fans and too curious reporters, and it was this desire to be part of the informed group which led them to trust blindly.

Many whispered their own suspicions about the dark-haired woman who rarely

smiled. One said she’d defected from Germany to flee the stigma of parents convicted of spying. Another maintained Rhetta was in witness protection for turning state’s evidence on a kingpin boyfriend who had been engaged in drug or arms dealing. Only a few believed Howard Krozer’s fabricated story. And once they met Christian, who had been introduced sans last name, he became part of the wondering. Perhaps a good part of the fantasizing as well. The costume designer with the double knee replacements invited Christian to coffee every time she saw him, even brought raspberry streusel when she knew he’d be on the set. And 38DD Sophia Pregganio pumped extra purr into her love scenes when she spotted him. Even Roland Gergi offered up a wink and a promise to ditch his partner, Julio, if Christian would only look his way. It was all spoken in fun with the half seriousness of those who aren’t quite joking.

And all the while, Howard smiled and popped handfuls of Chiclets in his mouth,

another obsession of the sixty-something soap guru.
People don’t care about the truth
, he’d told Audra.
They only care about supporting what they believe is the truth, which is
rarely even close.
He was right about that. The truth was nowhere close.

“So”—Christian heaved a sigh and pulled her from her thoughts—“are we going

to talk about tomorrow?”

And there it was, the segue to tomorrow and the beginning of eight days of

longing and loneliness.

“Audra?”

“I’m sorry. Just distracted, I guess.”

Christian kissed the top of her head. “It’s not the end of the world, you know. It’s only eight days.”

His presence calmed her as it had so many times before—during the scandalous

death of her mother, the loss of her beloved grandmother, the horrific labor pains and emergency c-section. “I know,” she murmured, relaxing despite the dreaded separation.

“This is just not a good time. Kara’s really excited about her gymnastics classes and Peter promised to take her to the set next week and…” Who was she kidding? It would never be a good time.

“I’ll miss you.”

When she didn’t answer, he loosened his hold and tipped her chin up so he could

see her face. “Moscow was twenty days.”

“Moscow was work. And besides, it’s a world away from San Diego.”

“So is Holly Springs.”

“Very funny.” She envied Christian’s light-hearted view of the world. With him

there was always a solution, often tinged with a glint of humor which made the worst scenarios seem not so bad, especially when delivered with a wide smile and flash of dimple. “I’m going to miss you and Kara, whether it’s three days away or thirteen.”

“I know.” And then with the tiniest glimmer of hope, he said, “You could go with us.”

“You know I can’t.”

He didn’t respond, just held her while she breathed in his comforting scent. From the moment they’d exchanged vows nine years ago, he’d promised to be there for her and he had, with the exception of the annual research projects that took him to Moscow. But she hadn’t minded any of it, not even the three week excursion to Altai and Novosibirsk.

History professors researched and traveled so when they returned home they could write and lecture with purpose and familiarity. It was the biannual trips to Holly Springs, New York which left her queasy and unsettled. Every trip. Every year. Every time.

“How about I fix my favorite girl a piece of cinnamon toast, just the way she likes it?”

A smile slipped grudgingly from Audra’s lips. “Only if it has gobs of butter and your special cinnamon sugar mix.”

“Absolutely.” He kissed her softly on the mouth. “Then we’ll head to bed.

Morning will come soon enough.”

“Be careful, there won’t be a net underneath.”—Audra Valentine Wheyton

“Mommy!” Kara bounced into the room in a whirl of pink cotton and leapt onto

Audra’s lap. “Can I wake up Daddy?”

At eight years old, Kara Rachel Wheyton had Christian’s hair, a golden curly

thickness with a life of its own that required extra wide hair bands to keep it tied up. She had his smile, too—open, welcoming, not shy and timid like Audra’s had been at that age. Her eyes were a pale blue that shifted to light and dark depending on mood. There wasn’t much about her that resembled Audra, perhaps her ears or maybe her toes, a sad contribution from someone who had weathered three months of morning sickness, a swollen belly, and an emergency caesarean section
.

“Mommy? Please let me wake up Daddy.”

Audra clasped her daughter’s small hands and kissed the center of each palm
. She
had her father’s fingers. And his chin.
“Go get dressed first, pumpkin. Then we’ll wake Daddy.”

“Can I call Grandma before we leave, too?”

“If we have time.”

“I wish you were coming so you could see the swing set Grandpa built for me.”

Her lips pulled into a wide smile, revealing a missing front tooth. “The rope is really fun.

And he added a fort and a ladder.”

“Be careful, there won’t be a net underneath.”

She made a face. “I don’t need a net. I’m eight years old.”

“Such an old lady.”

“Yeah.” Kara’s smile flipped then faded. “Why can’t you come with us?”

“You know why.” It was easier to slip a lie into the reason Audra couldn’t return to her hometown than to try and explain the truth.

“I wish you didn’t have that stupid job.”

“Kara—”

“Why can’t you have a job like Daddy? He can take off in the summers.”

“Well, that’s because Daddy’s in love with things like the Truman Doctrine and

the Yalta Conference and he spends his summers learning about them.”

Kara giggled. “He’s in love with you, too.”

“Yes, sweetheart, he’s in love with me, too.” She pointed at her daughter and

whispered, “And you.”

“Yup.” Kara bound off Audra’s lap as though her mother were a balance beam

and said, “Uncle Peter said he’d take me to Universal Studios when I got back from Holly Springs.”

“Good. He can ride with you on Jurassic Park.”

“’Cause your tummy jumps too high right before you hit the water.”

“Right.” Talk of Peter Andellieu always got Kara’s attention. She’d been

infatuated with the plastic surgeon and star of Dr. Perfection since the first time Audra invited him home to dinner five years ago. Despite his impeccable wardrobe and the fact that he’d never engaged in conversation with a child, much less an over-inquisitive one like Kara, he’d crouched next to her and accepted the soggy puzzle piece she thrust at him with good grace and a dazzling smile. By the third visit, Kara dubbed him ‘Uncle’