Stephenson - The Trouble with Truth: A Memoir

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Kelly Stephenson

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1492936308

ISBN 13: 9781492936305

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919133

CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

North Charleston, South Carolina

For Jean,
who helped me find my tears and then my voice.
And for Sally, who believed in me.

his book was written first and foremost for the women who have been where I have been. Theyll know themselves in my story and I respect them for their courage. But in the end the memories are mine, perfect or imperfect, as best I could recollect. It is the past as only I see it. For this reason, Ive changed some names and identifying details of individuals to protect their privacy. However those closest to me regard this work, it is my tale, and a living reflection of the world we once shared together. Still, memory is far from perfect, exact, or final, and the thoughts and feelings that I express are nothing but my own.

once believed that writing was solitary work. I was wrong. I now know it takes a village to birth a book. And to that end, I want to thank the following midwives to this manuscript for reading its endless early versions and providing helpful suggestions: Jean Jenson, Donna Radthke (for saving all those long-ago letters), Ron Radthke, Knoxann Armijo, Craig Kelly, Liz Caldwell, Ann Kelly, Drew Kroner, J.T. Gregory, Sue Nell Phillips, Trish Bradbury, Linda Berry, Linda Fleming, Muna Cristal, Gail Gresham, Deb Foss, Michelle Hachigian, Geneal Thompson, Peter Simons, Tim Rubin, Lindy Jacobs, Shelly Frome, Rob Armstrong, Kim Turner, Selene Spence (youve taught me more about myself than I can say). And Mike Lankford (your editorial compass guided my way.)

And to Mom, who planted the idea in my teenaged noggin that I could even write a book. Apologies for the title change, Mom. But this story is very personal.

And most of all to Richard, my husband and best friend, who listened as I read endless versions of this manuscript, once backward even, word by agonizing word. Now thats what I call love. He said he knew I could tell this story, and he provided all the space and support I needed for as long as it took. All thanks begin and end with him.

ECLIPSE OF THE HEART

We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of All our exploring will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.

T.S. Eliot

WAKE UP AND LIVE!

et me just get this out of the way right off the bat: Marrying Roland Leakes wasnt my idea. It was Donnas. If you ask her, of course, shell deny it to this day, but categorically, it was. Grab life by the horns, she said. I grabbed them alright, and then they gored me.

Shed later clarify in the weary tone one might use with a small child or a Jehovahs Witness at the door, Hes the kind of guy you sleep with, Beth. You dont marry him. I thought you knew that. Then, chuckling, added, Youd have to have your head examined.

A burned-out husk of a phrase that would prove to be prophetic.

anuary 13, 1979. A memory fragment swept from the back of my mind. A crucial day. I unbuckled the flap of my sagging brown leather purse and fished out a Kit Kat. Half? I asked Donna, peeling back the red wrapper and snapping the crisp chocolate wafer neatly in two. Were on vacation. The calories dont count.

She furrowed her brow and crinkled her nose, the corners of her mouth curled into a frown of distaste. Thanks, uh... dont think so.

Willie Nelson world-wearily crooned Stardust from the overhead speaker. Outside, the winter sky was pale blue, practically white, marbled in gray as our bus, on the boat of its own blurred shadow, navigated a land bleak as a moonscape, a dull tapestry of slates and browns stark against a scrim of snow. Only the sporadic sagebrush pushing through the white offered a welcome dash of colorand not much at that. This wasnt the luxuriant pine forest Id hoped to see when I rolled out of bed that morning. Striking out for adventure with a suitcase and new skis and boots, I was looking for something on the order of Heidis Alps, all lush and green and dappled in sunshine.

Rows of lively skiers bulged the bus, luggage racks suspended over their heads. They were a colorful crowd, snappy and upbeat in moon-boots and chunky sweaters, charged with anticipation and hot-buttered rum. I sat in the backseat sandwiched between Donna and a twig of a man, thirty or so, his knees angled toward me. He had quick darting eyes and wore a black wool topcoat, double-breasted with six white buttons the size of silver dollars that lent him the look of an oversized domino. A black beret jauntily topped black corkscrews of hair. His face was a shade too thin and covered with that dark kind of whiskers my father called his five oclock shadow. A sloshing aquarium smelling of sea waterbig as a breadboxbalanced precariously on his lap. Not something Id anticipated seeing in my Heidi-induced dream of this day.

As our bus rumbled north, the stench of exhaust fumes overpowered me. The engines growl beneath us made small talk tricky, if not impossible. Despite the noise and a mounting motion sickness, I ached to ask the man in the beret about his aquarium and, more important, its occupant, a prehistoric-looking fish, a foot long or so, with armor-like scales and inscrutable gold eyes that watched me through the aquarium glass.

Donna and I were on the last leg of a ski trip that started with a seven a.m. charter flight out of Los Angeles International Airport. Now, at three p.m. (Mountain Time), we were cruising the frozen road from Twin Falls, Idaho, to Sun Valleys celebrated ski runs. Thats when I first felt Destinys call. Thats when I knew I was heading hometo a place Id never been before. My arms prickled in goose bumps as I felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity with something that shouldnt be familiar at all.

My inner compass, the one that had been spinning crazy in my head all these years, was now pointed due north. I could feel the pull.

Id long felt like an outsider, an interloper, an accidentunwanted and unwelcome. I yearned to belongsomewhere, anywhereto feel a sense of safety, stability, sanctuary. The third of four children, conceived when my big brother was just six months old and still screaming through the night, Id never felt welcome.