Sweet Tea: A Novel (17 page)

Sweet Tea Recipe

Ingredients

10 regular sized Lipton tea bags

Fresh, filtered water

1½ cups of sugar

¼ teaspoon of baking soda

Instructions

Bring 4 cups of water to a boil, remove from heat and add tea bags.

Let tea steep for about 10 minutes.

Remove tea bags and add sugar to hot water.

Stir until sugar is completely dissolved.

Add baking soda and stir again.

Pour tea and sugar mixture into large pitcher.

Add 12 cups of ice water and stir until cooled.

Serve over ice.

Makes one gallon of sweet tea

Acknowledgements

To my children, Zane and Alyjah. Your support, help and enthusiasm has meant so much to me.

To my friend Annie Alberta, who’s always claimed to be my biggest fan.

Linda McElroy, Joanne Malley and Donna Correll for always being there to listen and read my manuscript over and over and offer me your talents and endless patience.

To the awesome writers on the Verla Kay Blueboards. You are the most amazing group of writers, critiquers information-filled, fun, caring people I have ever known.

A special thanks to Kay Pluta, Angela Ackerman, Natalie Dias Lorenzi and Diana Greenwood for critiquing my book in its early stages and offering their wealth of knowledge and talent. 

To Verla Kay for her great dedication to writers and illustrators and creating the Blueboards. You are a monumental asset to SCBWI and anyone who has stumbled upon your well-organized haven of information and support. 

My Sister, Denise for being a character inspiration from a middle-child’s perspective, and just being my sister.

To Pat Florio, our meeting one another was serendipitous for sure!

To Larissa Spathis for totally getting my vision for a book cover.

To Jerry, for totally getting me.

And to God, for blessing me with words to paint everlasting stories.

About The Author

Wendy Lynn Decker lives in the historic town of Ocean Grove, New Jersey. After raising her two children, a son and daughter, Wendy pursued her dream of becoming an author. She published her first book, 
The Bedazzling Bowl, (2006)
 an inspirational chapter book for middle-grade readers. 
When she is not writing, she is a singer/performer for adult communities throughout New Jersey.

To learn more about her please visit her web site at: 
www.wendylynndeckerauthor.com

About NAMI

Mental illness affects everyone.
Nearly 60 million Americans experience a mental health condition every year. Regardless of race, age, religion or economic status, mental illness impacts the lives of at least one in four adults and one in 10 children across the United States.

People living with mental illness need help and hope: they need a community that supports them, their families and their recovery.

Because mental illness devastates the lives of so many Americans, NAMI works every day to save every life.

NAMI
is the National Alliance on Mental Illness, the nation’s largest grassroots mental health organization dedicated to building better lives for the millions of Americans affected by mental illness. NAMI advocates for access to services, treatment, supports and research and is steadfast in its commitment to raise awareness and build a community for hope for all of those in need.

NAMI is the foundation for hundreds of NAMI State Organizations, NAMI Affiliates and volunteer leaders who work in local communities across the country to raise awareness and provide essential and free education, advocacy and support group programs.

What is mental illness?

A mental illness is a medical condition that disrupts a person's thinking, feeling, mood, ability to relate to others and daily functioning. Just as diabetes is a disorder of the pancreas, mental illnesses are medical conditions that often result in a diminished capacity for coping with the ordinary demands of life.

Serious mental illnesses include major depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), panic disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and borderline personality disorder. The good news about mental illness is that recovery is possible.

Mental illnesses can affect persons of any age, race, religion or income. Mental illnesses are not the result of personal weakness, lack of character or poor upbringing. Mental illnesses are treatable. Most people diagnosed with a serious mental illness can experience relief from their symptoms by actively participating in an individual treatment plan.

Learn more about
treatment and services
that assist individuals in recovery.

Find out more about a specific mental illness:

http://www.nami.org

Coming Soon……..

COME AS YOU ARE

CHAPTER 1

I stared at my half-brother while he lay in an economy-style casket, something you might find on discountcoffins.com, if there is such a thing. I had been writing to Jack for six months, but I hadn’t seen him since Belmar, four years prior. No idea how he died or how he ended up in an adult prison before he turned eighteen, a million questions ran through my mind.

Kristopher squeezed my hand. “You sure you’re all right?”

“It’s just . . . he looks so hard.” I turned away from the casket.

“Sorry, Abril, but it’s not like he’s been living in Boca.” He wrapped his arm around me, and I edged my chin above his shoulder. Although not a couple, Kris and I were close and lately I’d been fighting the feeling to get even closer. He gave me a gentle squeeze. I glanced up and noticed people staring. I’d grown accustomed to the stares. How often do you see a seventeen- year-old girl with purple hair accompanied by a blind guy and his guide dog? 

Chloe brushed up against me as if she could feel my sadness. Though a seeing-eye dog, it seemed as if she had many special senses. I scratched her silky head.

Jack must have received his fair share of gaping eyes in life as well as death. A tattoo of an eagle encompassed his bald head where his long strawberry-blonde hair had once been. He looked old, worn, defeated. I glanced around the sparse room, and still didn’t see anyone I recognized, nor did I hear anyone mention Jack by name.

My gaze lingered on the only flower arrangement on a pedestal in the corner of the room. I wonder who brought it, or who sent it? I continued to scan the room and listened to the blend of voices hoping to hear something about Jack.

“He wasted his whole life…”

              “Things like that happen all the time…”

             
Things like what
? Just last week I received a letter from Jack telling me how excited he was that I’d be coming to visit him.

              Everything in my life was exactly where I wanted it to be. I couldn’t imagine ever again being in a position where I had no control. Even though Jack screwed up his life, and I didn’t know how, his letters told me he regretted what he’d done. That in itself drove me to want to visit him.

I leaned into Kris and whispered in his ear. “This place is so depressing.”

“Is there any other kind of funeral home?”

“This doesn’t even look like a funeral home. You’d think there would at least be a couple of pictures of Jack on the mantle or something to remember him by. How strange!”

Kris stood frozen for a moment and took in a deep breath. “About twenty, I’d say.”

              “Twenty what?”

              “About twenty people are here.”

              I counted heads, “You’re right. I’ll never understand how you do that.”

              “Maybe they didn’t decorate because they were in a rush. Maybe this is one of those one-stop shopping places—but for funerals and weddings—like in Vegas.” He chuckled softly then whispered his “Kris-like” explanation in my ear. “When everyone leaves, the undertaker whips off his tie, douses his hair with gel, puts on an Elvis cape and conducts a wedding ceremony.”

              I placed my hand over my mouth to cover the grin and then wiped the spray of saliva from my ear. Kris had a tendency to spit when he whispered, “You’re crazy.” I whispered back. “How do you know what Elvis looks like, anyway?”

“Everybody knows what Elvis looks like.”
Kris lifted his chin, moving his head around like a white Stevie Wonder.

I couldn’t resist a good sense of humor. That’s what drew me to Kris, and it’s what kept me writing to Jack, despite his frequent moodiness. Sometimes Jack spewed venomous paragraphs at me as if he were writing to someone he hated. Then he’d suddenly change the subject and write about music or a new book he’d read or he’d share a silly joke. At least I could count on his inconsistency to be consistent.
              Kris and I moved along with the short line. The room was so small we could hear the muffled gasps from behind as people approached the casket.

Kris squeezed my hand. “You okay?”

              “Yeah,” I answered and patted his arm.
              “Mostly old people here, right?” 
              “Why do you say that?” I scanned the room again, confirming his statement.
              “This place reeks of Old Spice and Jean Nate´.” He waved his hand in front of his nose to force the scent away.
Chloe, his guide dog
,
sneezed and all eyes shifted toward her. “See, even Chloe noticed.”
              “Behave.” I gently jabbed him in the side with my elbow. I inhaled, nonchalantly. “It does smell a little like your grandma’s house after one of her houseware parties.”

“Uh-hum.” Kris nodded. I stepped forward and he grabbed my hand moving along with me closely.   

“Here.” I patted a seat along the aisle. “Sit down, I’ll be fine.

“You sure?”

“Yes, it’s okay, really.”

Kris moved toward the chair with Chloe. Wearing his designer sunglasses, he bared more resemblance to a rock star than a genius. His loose, honey blonde curls hung an inch below his collar and his creamy complexion didn’t offer much chance of growing facial hair anytime soon. Actually, he was much too hot to be blind, and too blind to know I probably wasn’t his type. It didn’t matter anyway. I knew you shouldn’t mix business with pleasure, and I did not want to risk losing what we had. Sight and Sound Music Studio
was my ticket to freedom. 

             
 
I followed the procession toward the head of the condolence line. Bleached-blonde hair and deep crevices encased Jack’s mother’s lipstick-caked mouth. Like an aged fashion model that spent too many summers on the beach, time had not treated her well. I’d only met her a handful of times, but I didn’t recognize her.

               The line moved again bringing me closer to Jack’s mother. I dug into my pocket and grabbed my little, green security stone and clutched it tightly. Did anyone here really know Jack? Did he know any of them? I wished I had known him better.  

               So close to the woman now, I could hear the voices of each person claiming sorrow for her loss, and I had full view of the casket again. A tall, skinny guy wearing a black knit cap approached it. A half-moon of his face peeked out and he wore a pair of aviator sunglasses. I watched him as he observed. His blackish/brown ponytail hung down his back. He stood there longer than anyone else had, made a peace sign, and strutted out the door, bypassing the rest of the line.

             
 
Finally, someone who looked like he could have been a friend
.
But I figured he didn’t know Jack’s mother and only showed up to pay respects. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, though. Did one pay respects to the dead or to their living? If it was to the living, then this guy didn’t pay respects at all. If it was to the dead, how would they know; they were dead? I rubbed the stone between my thumb and forefinger.

The line moved again, and I stood face-to-face with the frail blond woman. I shoved the stone into my jacket pocket then reached out for her hand. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Abril. Do you remember me?”  She didn’t take my hand. I slipped my hand back into my packet and clutched my stone again.

“No. Sorry, who are you?”