Flowers from Iraq (The Storyteller and the Healer Book 1) Read online

  FLOWERS FROM IRAQ

  THE STORYTELLER

  AND THE HEALER

  by

  Sunny Alexander

  Flowers from Iraq: The Storyteller and the Healer

  by Sunny Alexander

  PUBLISHED BY:

  The Storyteller and the Healer

  Copyright © 2012 by Sunny Alexander

  ISBN 978-0-9846899-0-3

  Digital edition by Go Published

  www.gopublished.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher or author does not assume any responsibility or control over third-party websites and their content.

  Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

  Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

  To me the meanest flower that blows can give

  Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

  William Wordsworth, 1807

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  THE MEMORY JAR

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  PART TWO

  THE ROAD TO CANFIELD

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  PART THREE

  SPRING

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  PART FOUR

  SUMMER

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  PART FIVE

  FALL

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  PART SIX

  WINTER

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  PART SEVEN

  SECOND SPRING

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART ONE

  The Memory Jar

  CHAPTER 1

  Kathleen took a deep breath, filling her lungs with smoggy Los Angeles air. She stood up straight, pulled her shoulders back, smiled, and began the four-mile trek from the Sunlight Motel to the University of California at Los Angeles—known as UCLA by the locals.

  Boston and everything that was painful in her life faded behind her. Today was a new beginning in a place where no one knew anything about her. She was Alice from Alice in Wonderland, entering a new world where exciting things waited around every corner.

  Her backpack held her acceptance letter from UCLA, her checkbook with the first installment from her scholarship safely deposited in the bank, and a map to the homes of movie stars. She had bought the map from a man on Sunset Boulevard and had circled ten homes that were within walking distance. She planned to keep her green eyes open in hopes of seeing a star sauntering along Westwood Boulevard, or patronizing one of the shops in Westwood Village.

  She stopped at a hair salon on her way to student registration and got her hair trimmed. The beautician wanted to cut her dark brown hair in a more fashionable style and recommended a perm, but Kathleen insisted, “Just a trim,” and declined a mani-pedi. She didn’t know how much to tip but thought a dollar was about right. As she bounded along the sidewalk, her heart felt free, but occasionally a familiar looming fear would creep in when she thought about being alone and so far from Boston.

  Kathleen continued through The Village, past the Fox Theater with its one-hundred-and-seventy-foot tower, and detoured at Stan’s Donuts for breakfast. Munching on her pretzel-shaped chocolate donut and juggling her cup of coffee, she fell into step with other students ambling past the Mediterranean-style buildings of the neighborhood. Small restaurants overflowing with customers cluttered the busy sidewalks with cheap plastic tables and chairs. UCLA Bruin banners in blue and gold hung from the lampposts while windows displaying UCLA clothing beckoned to passersby.

  Kathleen halted to gaze at one of the shop windows displaying Bruin sweatshirts and took the twenty-dollar bill out of her pants pocket.

  Mrs. Roth had hugged Kathleen goodbye at Boston’s Logan International Airport and slipped the money in her hand. “For you,” she said. “I want you to spend it on something for yourself.”

  The twenty-dollar bill dampened in her clammy hand as Kathleen looked longingly at the sweatshirt. Maybe another time, she thought.

  She walked through the UCLA labyrinth, past the quads, and followed signs directing her to the 1989 freshman class registration. She glanced at her leather banded Timex watch—it was nine o’clock, precisely matching the time on the registration form. She looked for the line matching the initials of her last name and stood under the MA–MU sign with a flock of freshmen as the row moved in spasms, a burst of movement followed by a grinding halt. Grumbles and groans from the waiting students filled the hall.

  A young man about her age, standing in front of her, turned to say hello and extended his hand. “Gary Morales, premed.”

  Kathleen thought he was rather formal but appreciated his wide grin and dark brown eyes that sparkled as if he was holding onto an amusing story. She shook his hand, smiled, and said, “Kathleen Moore, premed also.”

  The line began to shift again, and they saw the cause of the delay. A student was arguing with the registrar over a class. With her mobile phone planted to her ear, she refused to move. Kathleen couldn’t hear her conversation, but a look of triumph crossed the girl’s face as she waved her class enrollment slip in the air. She turned to the registrar. “Next time, remember my name and your life will be easier.” Kathleen heard her first name, Natasha, but her last name floated away. Kathleen and Gary giggled as they decided to call her Natasha Something.

  They picked up their packets and discovered they shared two classes.

  “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other; well, at least twice a week,” Gary said. He glanced at his watch. “I’m starving. Let’s walk over to the Village Deli and get some lunch.”

  With a nod Kathleen followed.

  As they dodged fellow students, Kathleen said, “I really like your watch, Gary.”

  Gary held out his hand. “It was my graduation gift from my dad. It’s his 1960s Mickey Mouse watch. I’m the first one in our family to go to college. My dad said if he couldn’t go, at least his watch could.”
r />   Kathleen laughed, and then said, “Your dad sounds like a great person.”

  “I’m lucky, I guess. My parents are really good people and excited about having a doctor in the family, but everyone is in everyone’s business. What about your family?”

  “My parents both died when I was nine. I was raised in foster care.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that. Do you have sibs?”

  Kathleen hesitated. “There were seven of us…but we lost contact.”

  “That must have been hard. Maybe someday you’ll find each other.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe… I was lucky to have one foster mother, Mrs. Adams, for nine years. I had a really good friend, Mrs. Roth, too. She was like a grandmother.”

  Gary’s eyes softened. “I’m glad you had someone. I guess I need to be grateful for my buttinsky family.”

  Chattering about their lives, they continued their stroll to the Village Deli and stood in the serpentine line that went from the front of the restaurant to the end of the block. Gary smiled. “From one line to another. I guess that’s what we can expect from now on.”

  The hot August day was a reminder of the semi-arid climate in Los Angeles. Occasionally, an ocean breeze found its way around the Wilshire Boulevard high-rise buildings, providing a welcome relief from the intense heat.

  As the afternoon wore on, the sidewalks bulged with students looking for a last-minute reprieve before serious studying began. Groups of girls and boys flirted playfully as they exchanged names and phone numbers. Couples held hands or kissed, not wanting to lose contact for even a moment. A homeless man sat in front of a newspaper stand holding out an empty paper cup. A man and a woman, dressed in business suits, walked by ignoring his plea, “Can you spare some change?”

  Kathleen and Gary sat at an outdoor table surrounded by the chatter of people still waiting to be seated. Kathleen studied the menu, looking for the least expensive items. She ordered a small bowl of soup knowing she would fill her remaining hunger with crackers.

  Gary asked for a pastrami sandwich with fries and extra pickles. The waitress returned, deftly served their order, slapped down the check, and quickly moved on. “She must know we’re broke college students,” Gary joked as he picked up the check and insisted on sharing his meal with Kathleen. “No one person should eat a pound of meat. There is more than enough for both of us.”

  Gary leaned over to pile fries on her plate. “You have to try the kosher pickles. They’re the best in town.”

  “Thanks for lunch, Gary.” She took a tentative bite of the sandwich. “This is delicious. I’ve never eaten pastrami before.”

  “Are you enjoying living in Los Angeles?”

  She nodded vigorously with her mouth full, swallowed and said, “It’s different from Boston, the weather of course, but especially the people. It’s less formal and I like the casual dress. I haven’t had a chance to see much of Los Angeles, except for Westwood. I went to the Star Wars film festival. I’ve never seen all three flicks in one showing.”

  “Me neither. I’m a big Star Wars fan, too, but I missed the festival. Guess the Force wasn’t with me, huh?” He smiled a little self-consciously. “Maybe next time we could go together. Are you living in one of the dorms? Most freshmen do.”

  “I decided not to live in a dorm. I’m on a scholarship and I was afraid the noise would interrupt my studying.” Kathleen reached over for another pickle. She grinned between bites. “These are the best. I’m staying at a motel right now, but I’m looking for a room to rent, something reasonable.”

  Gary looked surprised. “That is our fourth coincidence. My mother says after two it is fate.”

  “Fate?”

  “Yeah.” Gary put down his sandwich. “Okay, here’s how it works. A thousand freshmen in line, but we’re next to each other. That’s one. Two, we’re both premed students. Three, we’re sharing two classes. Now, the fourth, my parents have a room to rent in our home. My mother will say it was our destiny to meet. Of course, I have to admit she reads tons of romance novels.

  “Seriously, our home is a bit of a distance from UCLA, but I’ve been taking the bus and a student pass is inexpensive. Our schedules are similar and we could ride together, at least some of the time. I’m not sure about the rent, but I’d be happy to put in a good word for you. Whaddaya say?” His friendly face beamed.

  Kathleen returned his smile. “I’m free this weekend,” she said.

  On Sunday, Kathleen rode the Wilshire Boulevard bus to La Brea Avenue and walked two short blocks to a small Spanish-style house situated on a quiet, well-kept street lined with liquidambar trees. Planted in the 1930s, when the houses were new, their roots now reached out to fight the confinement of aging concrete. Small twisted branches and twigs dangled close to the ground giving the appearance of small reptiles ready to spring to life.

  Gary opened the door, gave Kathleen a friendly hug, and asked her about the walk from the bus.

  “I really enjoyed the walk. And the houses… really pretty with the tile roofs and walled patios! Something you don’t see in Boston.”

  “Mexican influence,” said Gary’s father, flashing a proud grin.

  Gary said, “Kathleen, I’d like you to meet my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Morales.”

  His mother gave Gary a gentle shove on his shoulder. “Oh Gary, don’t be so formal. Kathleen, welcome to our home and please call me Isabel.”

  His father said, “Call me Jorge. Tell me, Kathleen, what did you think of the trees? They’re over fifty years old.”

  “They’re quite,” Kathleen struggled for the right word, “fanciful. Their small branches reminded me of baby alligators.”

  “It’s not the branches you have to worry about.” Gary laughed. “During winter when the winds are blowing, the spiked fruit fall and so will you. We call them ‘ankle biters.’”

  Jorge said, “Don’t scare the girl, Gary.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Always a story, always a story. Don’t know who he gets it from. Come, Kathleen, let me show you the room. It’s right off the kitchen, convenient for a late night snack.” He smiled and rubbed his ample stomach.

  The twin bed was neatly made up with a beige corduroy bedspread and pillows in bright primary colors. Across from the bed were a five-drawer dresser, a bookcase, and a desk, complete with a lamp and chair. Kathleen thought it was perfect.

  Kathleen looked at Isabel and smiled, “The room is lovely. The colors are so cheerful and it’s so immaculate.”

  Isabel smoothed her long black hair and brushed away the invisible wrinkles from her starched, flowered apron. Her face lit up at the compliment. “Why, thank you, dear.”

  Jorge, leaning against the doorjamb, snorted good-naturedly. “Rents two hundred a month. If you like it it’s yours.” He held out his wide, calloused hand. “Deal?”

  Kathleen shook his hand. “Deal!”

  Later, after Isabel treated them to the traditional Morales household snack of flan and coffee, Gary walked Kathleen to the bus stop and explained the family rules. “My father won’t allow you to walk home alone at night. You have to give my parents your schedule and someone will meet you at the bus stop. “And—” he wagged his finger, “no boys in your room, ever.” He chuckled. “The rules are the same for all us kids; you’re no different.”

  Gary impulsively took Kathleen’s hand, and she hoped he was not going to spoil their burgeoning friendship by asking her out. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t feel quite ready for dating.

  “I’m happy you’ll be living with us,” he said. “I’d like to show you Los Angeles on the weekends. After all, we can’t be studying all the time. I like you, and I think we can be good friends. Plus, you laugh at my goofy jokes, so that gives you bonus points.”

  He laughed at his own goofy joke, but became serious. “We may discover that we have other things in common. I want you to know, if you ever struggle with any feelings you can share them with me. Anything you tell me will be locked away and
kept safe.”

  Kathleen didn’t understand what Gary was trying to tell her. It would be months before she realized they had something else in common. That would be number five.

  CHAPTER 2

  Kathleen spent her time between morning and afternoon classes studying in a secluded corner at UCLA’s Powell Library, surrounded by the smell of musty, aging books. Afterward, she would take the steps to the walled-in patio and sit on one of the gray, aggregate benches encircled by graceful Jacaranda trees. She zipped up her light-blue windbreaker and gazed at the leaves as they floated in the January breeze before falling to the ground. She opened her brown lunch bag and found a burrito next to her sandwich. She murmured softly, “Bless you, Mrs. Morales.” She could have the burrito for lunch and eat her sandwich for dinner. She would not be hungry today.

  Kathleen read her physiology textbook while she munched on the savory meat-filled burrito. It was an easy class, but she took it seriously and checked off each completed assignment in a small black notebook.

  She had been living with Gary and his parents for five months. Twice a week, Kathleen and Gary rode the nearly empty, early morning bus to UCLA. They sat at the back of the bus, in the furthest corner that gave them the illusion of privacy. The smell of perfume, cologne, and stale cigarette smoke mingled as people filed in and scrambled for seats. It was obvious from their loud, gaping yawns that many of the riders had just tumbled out of the sack, while others, headphones over their ears moved in rhythm to the music playing on their Walkmans.