The Tree Limbs a Novel
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Watching the Tree Limbs A novel By Mary E. DeMuth Mary E. DeMuth, Inc. P.O. Box 1503 Rockwall, TX 75087 Copyright 2011 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without written permission from Mary E. DeMuth, Inc, P.O. Box 1503, Rock- wall, TX 75087, www.marydemuth.com. ISBN-10 0983436711 ISBN-13 9780983436713 Cover design by George Weis at Tekeme Studios. Cover photo by Mary E. DeMuth Author photo by Sophie M. DeMuth This novel is a work of fiction. Any people, places or events that may resemble reality are simply coincidental. The book is entirely from the imagination of the author. Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations in this publication are taken from the King James Version (KJV). Other version used: the New American Standard Bible (NASB), copyright The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data DeMuth, Mary E., 1967- Watching the Tree Limbs / Mary E. DeMuth p. cm. Includes biographical references. ISBN-10: 0983436746 ISBN-13: 978-0-9834367-4-4 1. Girls—fiction, 2. Rape victims—fiction 1. Title “A healing journey of finding—and facing—the truth. Watching the Tree Limbs will whisper to you that grace finds us all, no matter how lost we feel.” —GINGER GARRETT, author of Chosen: The Lost Diaries of Queen Esther and the SERPENT MOON TRILOGY “Mary DeMuth has woven a hauntingly compelling story with care and courage, exploring with dignity the heady themes of lost innocence, redemption, and the universal desire to belong.” —SUSAN MEISSNER, author of Why the Sky Is Blue “Mary DeMuth has written a poignant coming-of-age story peopled with a cast of characters that evoke the worlds of Flannery O’Connor and Walker Percy. De- Muth moves us deftly through a young girl’s lonely journey and provides tangible hope that Christ can heal even the worst of abuse.” —CAROLINE COLEMAN O’NEILL, author of Loving Soren “A beautifully written portrait of grace and destiny in the life of a child loved by God.” —T. SUZANNE ELLER, speaker and author of The Mom You Want to Be! “An honest book about an important topic.” —SIRI L. MITCHELL, author of Chateau of Echoes Acknowledgments HIS BOOK SPILLED OUT OF MY heart like a torrential river, in part Tbecause of my passion for the story. Any eternal impact it may have, though, rests on the shoulders of my prayer team. Thank you, Kevin and Renee Bailey, Gahlen and Lee Ann Crawford, Eric and Katy Gedney, Kim Griffith, Ed and Sue Harrell, Diane and Jessica Klapper, Susanne Maynes, Hud and Nancy McWil- liams, Catalin and Shannon Popa, Tom and Holly Schmidt, J.R. and Ginger Vas- sar, Rod and Mary Vestal, Jodie Westfall, and Liz Wolf. You have all blessed me in ways I can’t quantify in words. Thank you, Sandra Glahn, for walking the writing path with me, but more than that, for journeying in friendship with me. Thanks, D’Ann Mateer, Suzanne Deschidn, and Leslie Wilson of my critique group, Life Sentence. Your words and encouragement helped me continue on. I can’t wait to see your beautiful words in print. Thank you, Chip MacGregor, for first believing in me as a novelist. Beth Jusino, you’ve taken his baton and sprinted. Thanks for finding homes for my sto- ries, for working relentlessly on my behalf. Rachelle Gardner, I am so thankful the Lord prompted you to read my book, but more than that, it thrilled me that you loved it. Lissa Halls Johnson, you took my meandering words and deepened them in ways I didn’t expect. The Lord used your keen eye not only to make the novel dance but also to show me where I needed to grieve and heal in my own journey. To my children, Sophie, Aidan, and Julia, thank you for giving me constant and utter delight. I desperately love you! To Patrick, my best friend and handsome husband, I couldn’t have begun this endeavor called writing without your relent- less cheerleading. I love you. Jesus, You are the One I sing to. Thank You for rescuing me. I owe it all to You. v One OLKS LIKE MY FRIEND CAMILLA HAVE lofty goals before they die, Flike stealing a kiss from a movie star or seeing the Sahara. Mine’s quite sim- ple. I want to tell my story unsevered, as if it was actually me walking the swel- tering pavement of Burl, Texas. But the words never spill out that way. Not in the foothills of adolescence or adulthood or even today as I recount my life in retrospect. My childhood flickers in front of me like a black-and-white movie. Used to be I couldn’t watch more than five minutes of it, as the popcorn dropped kernel by kernel onto my tear-soaked lap. The weight of the story made me shut my eyes and clamp my hands over my ears until the memories faded in gray silence. But Jesus stayed with me, holding my hand while the images assaulted me. As He held me, I was able to watch through to the credits. Truth be told, there are still times I long for the projector to sputter so I can rewind, in vain hope that watching the tree limbs will be replaced with playing hopscotch or wearing Popsicle-stained smiles. Someday I’ll be able to admit I’m Mara. S Mara’s world was quite small, as it should’ve been for a girl who’d barely trod nine years on the country roads of East Texas. New to town, her feet now explored the treed world called Burl, Texas—home of the Fighting Armadillos and the Stinging Scorpions. The Loop, a stoplight-dotted road that encircled the center of Burl, served as one of Mara’s play boundaries. Even her house was small; its paint was sunshine yellow, and although it made her smile when she skipped by, it maddened her that the paint was flaking. “It’s the tyranny of the South,” Aunt Elma would say nearly once a week. “Peeling paint. Bugs too big. Hotter ’an heck.” Aunt Elma always wiped her brow 1 Mary E. DeMuth with a red bandana when she complained of the merciless heat, and she did it with a dramatic flourish as if she might faint clear out. Although Mara would never say it out loud, Aunt Elma was the ugliest beau- tician in Burl. She couldn’t figure out why folks actually asked the woman to beautify them. It didn’t make sense. The government gave Aunt Elma some mon- ey, so she only had to beautify folks twice a week. When that happened, Mara was supposed to stay inside the house; she had permission to go outside only if the house was burning clear to the ground—otherwise she had been told to stay put, a nearly impossible request when the adventure of living in a new town enticed her to walk its sidewalks, learn its secrets. According to Aunt Elma, life had always been better “back there.” She meant in Little Pine, where they’d lived before. “Back there folks knew how to be friendly, how to give and give some more. If your neighbor shot him two possums, why, he’d give you one, sure as day,” Aunt Elma would say. And then she’d fan herself again. Truth was, Mara missed Little Pine too, but not because of the possum-giving neighbors. She missed friends, yes, but mostly she missed Nanny Lynn, Aunt Elma’s mother. They’d lived on the family farm on the outskirts of Little Pine, an hour and a lifetime from Burl. There, Nanny Lynn taught Mara how to bait a hook, scrape and paint a fence, build a tree house, say simple prayers to God out in the fields, and swift-kick an angry rooster. “I knows you’ll grow up to be some- one amazing,” Nanny Lynn would whisper over her as she tucked her between sunshine-smelling sheets. “God told me.” But Nanny Lynn couldn’t live forever, no matter how much Mara prayed in the fields. They buried her at Little Pine Cemetery next to her husband, Walter, the same day the For Sale sign marred the farm. It took near a year to sell the place— to some Dallas man who wanted to make it into a housing development called Pine Tree Estates. Three months ago when the house was packed up and the man was ready to bulldoze, Mara moved to Burl with a few boxes and a nervous stomach—like June bugs were dancing a jig inside her. At least Aunt Elma didn’t make her go to the last month in a new school. While Nanny Lynn loved on her, she’d never really thought about who her parents were and why she didn’t live with them. Nanny Lynn was big enough to fill her heart and quiet her questions. But when they buried Nanny Lynn next to Walter, Mara’s heart emptied and her questions grew. 2 Watching the Tree Limbs Now, whenever Mara asked Aunt Elma who her parents were, Aunt Elma repeated the same exact words—like when their Beatles record of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” got stuck on “I think you’ll understand.” A large woman with blotchy skin, she pinched her face into a concerned look and said, “Now, don’t you be asking things about them folks, you hear? Truth is, they don’t exist.