The Intervention

Have you ever had to give up something you love for own good? Ever broken a bad habit? I'd love to hear your stories. Comments and answers will enter you in a drawing to win your choice of a paperback or digital copy of my new release Deadly Recall.

I don’t smoke, I don't do drugs and I have an occasional drink.  Why then did my family decide I needed an intervention?

I’ll tell you why. 

 I had foot surgery on December 4^th and it turned out a wee bit more complicated than we’d anticipated.  A metal-tarsal plate fusion on top of a bunionectomy.  Where I had expected to be walking a week or so after surgery, I was informed by my doctor my recovery would actually be six to eight weeks of non-weight bearing on my right foot.

Ghastly news.  No driving and I became a virtual recluse over the holidays and all through January.  All right.  I’m a writer, so being a virtual recluse really isn’t all that terrible.  But falling on your face is.   For anyone who knows me, there’s a reason my middle name isn’t “Grace.”  And though I practiced and practiced on crutches before the surgery, when it came time to walk on them after the operation, well, fear had a great deal of influence.  Before surgery I could land on my right foot.  After surgery, landing--and falling--could cause a major setback. 

My family claimed I was determined not to make friends with the crutches.  But, honestly, I tried.  After falling three times and looking like Social Services should get involved, my husband said enough is enough.  He was off to Denver and back a while later with the ultimate life saver for anyone who has foot or leg surgery.  A scooter!   

I adored my husband even more so after that.  We have a ranch-style house and that scooter was made for one-floor living and for me.  Not long after we got it, I put away the crutches for good and soon was zooming all over the place, so much so my daughter constantly lamented, “Mom, slow down.” 

Where it would take me several minutes to cross the floor with my crutches, sweating and panting, the scooter proved to be my best friend for the next six weeks.  You put your knee on that cushion and glide with your good leg.  I slept with my scooter by my bed, by the recliner, in my office.  This little transportation mode made my recovery bearable.

But then. . .the cast came off and so did the boot and my doctor said, “You can apply weight again to your foot.”  Yay!  I was so excited.  I would gradually be walking again.

Wrong.  My son who had come for a visit during that time said, “Okay, Mom, enough slacking.  You’ve become too attached to that scooter.”  With that he handed my beloved scooter to my husband who whisked it back to the rental place in Denver.

Looking back, I can admit now that they were right.  I didn’t like it at the time, and admittedly, I was lucky.  Weight bearing exercises and physical therapy.  Fortunately, my family recognized I needed help.

In Deadly Recall, my protagonist Eden wasn’t so lucky.  Truth was, her family should have called an intervention for her when she was nine years old.  But for plot purposes I needed her to carry around some pretty significant baggage until a very handsome and caring police detective could help her memories break free.  Below is an excerpt of Eden Moran's and Detective Kevin Dancer's first meeting:

           “I saw your closing argument,” he said. “You did a good job.”

            He’d been in the courtroom? How’d she miss him? He kept his dark blond hair shorter than she liked, but she loved dimples, and it didn’t hurt that he wasn’t obsessed with a razor. Based on his tanned, unlined face, she’d place him in his late twenties, early thirties. With those aviator sunglasses, it was hard to tell. She couldn’t see his eyes. Too bad.

            On the other hand, Eden never missed a chance for a critique. “So if you were in that jury room right now, how would you vote?”

             “I only heard your side.” He shrugged. “Besides, I come with a pretty strong bias.” He pulled back his jacket, revealing the shield clipped to his belt.

            A cop. Thus explaining his arrogance. She finished the last bite of the hot dog, tossed the wrapper in a nearby trashcan, and leaned down for a closer look at his ID. “Well, then, Detective . . . Dancer. As much as I appreciate the beauty tip, I don’t think we―”

            “I’d like to talk to you about St. Patrick’s School.”

            As much as she willed it not to, her mind rewound seventeen years. She’d read the school was having financial woes and had formed a fundraising committee. Shading her eyes, she squinted up at him. Had he gone to St. Patrick’s? “If you’re alumni, you’ll have to swing by my office. I don’t keep my checkbook with―”

             “Are you always this difficult to talk to?”

             “Always.” She blinked. “What part of ‘swing by my office’ confused you?”

            “The part where I produce my credentials and you think I’m a solicitor.” The detective pointed to the table. “Could we sit, please? I’m here on official business.”

            What he could possibly have to say to her in any capacity was beyond comprehension. Still, it was warm outside, and she had a magnificent view of the foothills. She moved to a picnic table shaded by a poplar tree, stepped up on the bench and plopped down on the tabletop. “I think I should warn you, Detective, I didn’t leave St. Patrick’s on the best of terms.”

            “I heard.”

            “You heard?”

            He opened a pocket notebook. “I talked to Mr. Edgars, the school’s current principal. He went through old records and told me you’d been expelled.”

            “I prefer to think I was forcefully invited not to return. So did St. Patrick’s burn to the ground and I’m your best suspect?” Frowning, she shook her head from side to side. “That’s just sad.”

“As far as I know, it’s still standing.” The cop joined her on the tabletop. She liked that about him. He knew how to eat a hotdog, and he wasn’t uptight.

            “I was told when you attended school you were particularly close to one of its teachers.”

            A laugh escaped and she slapped her thigh. “I was expelled, Detective. They didn’t make that part up. I wasn’t tight with any of those cold-blooded penguins.”

            “Her religious name was Sister Beatrice,” he said, undeterred.

            As Eden mentally ticked off the names of her teachers, their names came easily to mind. Yet, at his use of this unfamiliar person, her stomach felt like she’d been afloat on the Red Sea at the time Moses had parted it. Eden pressed a hand to her stomach just as her cell phone rang.

            Typical cop, Dancer didn’t give space. She would have called him on his behavior if the party needed attorney/client confidentiality. But since all that was required was a simple, “good-bye,” she saw no reason to challenge him.

            She stood and flipped the phone shut. “Verdict’s in. Gotta run.”

    

A terrifying memory is locked deep inside her.  A killer wants to keep it that way.

Nine-year-old Eden Moran thought she was saying good-bye to her mentor that fateful day in St. Patrick’s.  She had no idea she’d witness the nun’s demise, or that her child’s mind would compensate.  Now seventeen years later, Albuquerque cops have unearthed human remains, and the evidence points to Eden as being the key to solving Sister Beatrice’s murder.  When a hellbent cop applies pressure, Eden stands firm.  She doesn’t remember the woman.  Unfortunately for Eden, Sister Beatrice’s killer will do whatever it takes to keep it that way. 

Donnell Ann Bell is a two-time Golden Heart® finalist who previously worked for a weekly business newspaper and a parenting magazine.  Her debut novel The Past Came Hunting became an Amazon bestseller.  Learn more about Donnell at www.donnellannbell.com

Follow Donnell on Twitter @donnellannbell or on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/Donnell-Ann-Bell/285286321485019?ref=hl

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