Kay Bratt's Blog, page 5

INTO THE BLUE is a KINDLE DAILY DEAL!

 

To anyone who has yet to read any of Kay’s books, I highly recommend you change that today! This third part of her By the Sea trilogy has me wake at 3:00 AM just to see how the story endS! I have loved all three books and it will take me several days to just soak in the beauty of this family, their struggles and the messages of hope, forgiveness, and especially “Ohana”. Thank you again, Kay!-Amazon Reviewer

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The Room (short fiction inspired by photo)

The Room

Kay Bratt 9/16/2021

(previously published in my author/reader group called MY BOOK FRIENDS)

 

It was once Gracie’s favorite room in the house but as she entered today, it greeted her fondly, asking why she had been away so long. A place where she could escape to read a book, write a letter, or sit and think. She remembered fondly the first years after Harry had refinished it for her, his gift as a special place, surrounded by her favorite things. She didn’t use it much anymore, but she still dusted there every so often, taking care of her beloved books and rinsing the tub though it had been many years since she had felt Lambert enough to draw her a comforting bath and soak. There were so many dangers for someone her age to take a bath alone. But tonight she would have a bath, and she would remember Harry in the things that he did to make her life more comfortable. She lit a candle, that smelled of lavender, and set out a slice of mill soap that her niece had bought her at least four years ago for some birthday or holiday that she couldn’t quite remember.She pondered what book she would like to read as she soaked.As literary as her husband always claimed her to be, secretly she was not a fan of the classics. She would much rather immerse herself in a riveting biography of a survivor of some sort of strife in life. Like the book called Unbroken, the story of how a man was shot down from the sky and ended up in a pow camp. How he survived everything that he had gone through was one of her favorites and when she had read it, there were many nights that Harry listened to her read aloud, and together they marveled over the tenacity of the human spirit. She liked to tease her husband that he reminded her of Louis Zamperini, the main character in the biography, as Harry also had a lifelong love of running. He had jogged all his life, even up to his last six months when the simple act of bending over to tie his shoes caused him pain. From the linen closet she took out one of her best guest towels and held it to her face. It didn’t smell as fresh as it had when she’d placed it in there, as her towels were so rarely used anymore. It had been nearly a decade since she had had an overnight guest. Her daughter had her own family and a busy life. Once the grandchildren got older, coming to grandmas was no longer on their list of favorite things to do. The halls that once rang out with the slapping of little feet and the giggles, and yes, the demands of the young children now echoed with the sound of her hollow footsteps. Her lone companion, Delta, had taken her last breath that very morning and Gracie had been there with her squeezing in the last bit of sweet words of gratitude to thank her for so many years of loyalty. Delta looked more like a bag of bones than a cat, and she had held on for a handful more years only because she did not want her mistress alone in the big house. Many times Gracie knew her purring wasn’t from comfort but more of a reminder to the cat that she was still breathing.Gracie went to the bookshelf and scanned the titles. There was the book called A Beautiful Mind, and she remembered reading it on their cruise around the world for their 50th anniversary. It was based on the life of John Nash, a phenomenal mathematician that behind his accolades, suffered greatly against schizophrenia and the havoc it wreaked on his life. It wasn’t much of a vacation book, Harry had said, but Gracie considered it one of her most captivating reads to date. They had sunbathed together, she with her nose in her book and he in his, an exploration of the adventure of Christopher McCandless, who hitchhiked to Alaska and disappeared into the wilderness and died in his shelter five months later. Harry claimed the book was fantastic but declined to see the movie that came later.She sighed as she scanned the dusty shelves. On them were much more than books. There were memories, each title invoking a small piece of her life and what she was doing at the time she’d read it.There were books she’d read bleary-eyed in the middle of the night, one arm under her colicky infant daughter and one turning pages. Books she’d read while in the hospital waiting rooms, one particular one she’d barely understood the words but needed something to do while the minutes of her mother’s life ticked down to nothing. Books on getting your toddler through the terrible twos and books on raising rebellious teens. There was a bit of life on every shelf. But the book she stopped at now was special, the spine so tattered the title could barely be read. A book of poems. A gift from Harry on only their second date when they were both in college. Harry never claimed to be a man of words, but as the story goes, he had gone to his grandfather for advice on how to win Gracie over. Harry had always wanted a love like his grandfather shared with his grandmother and had lasted for 63 years. His grandfather told him to go back to the basics and be a gentleman. Woo her with flowers and poetry, words of adoration. She glanced at her small writing desk against the window. Harry had put a new vase of flowers there every Sunday after church, without fail. Today she’d stopped at the small shop in town and chosen her own bouquet. Something pink, for Harry, because he always did tell her he loved to see her in pink.She pulled the book of poetry from its place and held it, shaking her head over how treasured it actually was, and how it had gotten her through many times during their marriage. Their issues were never anything too serious, just the ups and downs caused by obstacles that life tended to toss out for one to navigate. In those times, Gracie would go back to the book of poetry and remember that Henry loved her enough to do something out of the ordinary for her in the beginning, and then many times throughout their marriage. Her Harry was a man who spoke with gestures. So many acts of love over so many years.Gracie took the book to the bathtub and gently placed it in the rack near the soap and the candle. She undressed, then ever so carefully so that she would not slip, she climbed in and sink down below the surface of the bubbles and close her eyes. She remembered how her love of taking a hot bath took only second place to her love of Harry. And we’re both things that she missed so very dearly.After a moment or two she opened her eyes and sat up a bit. She took the book into her hands and opened it. “Hello, old friend,” she said, then flipped to the first earmarked page and began reading. It was a poem from Emily Dickinson and her view of mothers as kind and gentle nurturers to nature. It made Gracie smile and remember her own youth, when she was full of sass and energy and danced in her kitchen with her daughter in her arms. A time when she was her daughter’s entire world and the first thing that she looked for when she opened her eyes in the morning and the last thing she looked upon when she closed them at night.The next poem she turned to brought back the memory of the infant baby boy she held in her arms for only a few hours. When her time was done, she’d put him for his final moments into Harry’s arms and watched the silent tears rain down her husband’s face. They’d named him Gerard, meaning brave, because he had fought so hard in the battle for life before he’d slipped away. She turned the page quickly, not wanting to engulf herself in that grief again. Suddenly she saw a folded sheet of paper in the crevice of the book. She pulled it out and putting the book aside, she unfolded the paper and began to read. Suddenly her heart felt so full it seemed that it might burst. The letter was from her dear Harry and dated from nearly ten years before. In it he told her that he knew someday she would return to the book because it was the symbol of the beginning and the endurance of their love. He told her he would never leave her, even when she couldn’t feel his breath on her cheek, or the caress of his hands. That he would be waiting for her and would be there to meet her when it was her time. It was signed, Always yours, Harry.Gracie folded the letter, but instead of putting it back in the book, she held it to her heart, not caring if the water blurred the writing, for her tears had already made their mark and stained the ink. The letter was the last sign she needed to make her decision. Gracie said a last prayer for her daughter and her grandchildren. She wished them all the peace and happiness they could find in their lives, and hoped they’d remember her fondly, then she closed her eyes. She leaned back and made herself comfortable in the bathtub of the room that Harry made for her, surrounded by her favorite things, and she took her last breath. It felt like only an instant later but when she opened her eyes again, Harry was waiting there. In his arms was her precious Delta, looking plump and satisfied. At his side was a brave-looking little boy that looked just like her dear Harry, and was surely the apple of his eye. @Kay Bratt 09/16/2021

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Blinded By Hope

Blinded By Hope

[A memory from my time in China]

For some it is not with our eyes that we see, but rather with our hearts. ~Kay Bratt

Still trying to avoid the recommendations from friends to see an acupuncturist for my pain, I was on my sixth visit to the massage clinic. My American Chinese friend, Lorrina, had recommended a new place that only hired certified—and blind—masseuses. I’d climbed into the van an hour before and handed my driver the taxi card, and after a few close calls and a lot of horn blowing, he’d stopped at the curb in front of a narrow but tall building. Sandwiched between two clothing stores, the clinic didn’t look overly professional, but with my back and neck pain getting worse by the day, I was willing to try anything that didn’t involve medication or needles.

I stepped out of the van and entered the clinic. A few older Chinese men sat around just inside the door, smoking and chatting as they sipped their tea. They both turned to me and conversation stopped as they examined every inch of the strange waiguoren (foreigner) who’d dared to interrupt their morning. I smiled at them and went to the counter. With my stilted Chinglish, I asked for an hour massage. The owner, a sighted man, pointed at the poster to my left and told me to choose my masseuse. The poster showed six blown up photos of their masseuses in poses similar to mug shots, with only two of their staff being women. One, a younger girl with a sweet face, grabbed my interest. As I was fearful of being beat to death by the usual vigor of Chinese massage, her gentle expression gave me pause and I chose her.

The manager nodded and gestured toward the stairs, telling me to go to the third floor. I obeyed, carefully hanging on as I climbed the rickety wooden staircase. I passed the second floor landing and maneuvered around a clothesline full of drying towels. I saw inside two of the rooms where men were being massaged under crisp, white sheets, the barefoot and blind male masseuses moving around the tall beds gracefully as they worked to ease the tension in their clients.

I was out of breath at the third floor and my loud heaving brought the girl to her door. She smiled and waved me in and I carefully entered her room.

She gestured at a hook on the wall and I hung my coat. As was routine at all massage shops I’d been to, I slipped my shoes off and pushed them under the table, then remembering she couldn’t see, I gave them another nudge so she wouldn’t trip over them. I looked to her to see what she wanted me to do next.

Scarlett, as I’ll call her for she didn’t give me her name, was probably in her early twenties and wore a long white doctor’s coat. She was pretty in a simple way, with none of the usual frills or blasts of color that most young women in China were fond of. Her face was serene and as perfect and clean as fine porcelain. She had no need of makeup, her natural beauty demanded a second look as she pointed to a chair situated in front of her bed and asked me to sit.

Nervously, I sat in the wooden chair and she shuffled behind me, then began to massage my aching neck. Her hands were gentle and warm, and unlike the many other massage therapists I’d encountered in China, were filled with kindness. After a quick neck massage that felt heavenly, she beckoned for me to get on the massage table. Once there, she started her shuffle around the bed, searching and measuring my spine with her competent hands as I began a conversation with her. I was immediately impressed when without my interference, she found a place in my vertebra and declared it as a trouble spot. She was right, it was the bane of my existence—throbbing away day and night and never allowing me a moment’s peace. When I nodded agreement, she worked to unwind the knots around it and I talked to her.

She was delighted that I knew enough Chinese to communicate back and forth, though at intervals of confusion she interjected with her basic English to help me along. I asked her where she learned massage therapy and she replied she had studied in the Beijing schools. I asked her what she liked to do and she said she loved to read. She then told me (in stilted English) that her favorite book was Gone with the Wind.

I was amazed that this young, blind girl had read an American classic and chose it as her all-time favorite. She was a romantic! Being an avid reader and book lover myself, I was enthralled at the way our conversation was headed. I asked her how many books she owned and she replied none. That instantly filled me with sadness and I was embarrassed to think of the boxes and boxes of books I had sitting in storage in the states, waiting on my return.

As conversation lulled, and the chaotic sounds from the street flooded into the window, I wondered to myself if Chinese braille was the same as our Braille and where I could get some books to bring back to her. My mind also wandered to what her daily life was like; where she lived, if she had a boyfriend, if she was allowed out at all? How she got around in such a chaotic and packed city.

As the session between Scarlett and I ended, she thanked me for coming and bent down to find my shoes, then placed them in front of me. This was a task that would have been much easier for me obviously, but I didn’t want to insist and embarrass her. I made my way downstairs and paid for the massage. I asked if I could return upstairs—now that I had change—to give Scarlett a tip.

“Bu xu yao,” the manager said, shaking his head and telling me it wasn’t needed. I felt it a strange reaction, as tipping in China is usually welcomed. I insisted and he rejected again—but I lay a bill on the counter and walked away.

I hope he gave it to her.

I never did find a way to get Braille books for Scarlett, but I’ve never forgotten her. I sometimes remember the sparkle that came over her as she discussed how much she loved reading. If I could name that expression, I would say that it was one filled with hope and imagination. For you see, she didn’t view her life as dark and depressing. She obviously let her herself be carried off to lands and stories that perhaps she couldn’t see with her eyes, but could experience with her mind.

Years later, meeting Scarlett would play a huge role in a character I created for one of my stories—a tale of twin sisters, one sighted and one blind, and the loyalty that they share. And like Scarlett, my character would never wallow in what might have been, but instead she would remain hopeful of a future that would let her live her destiny in spite of, instead of despite of, her inability to see.

You can find BITTER WINDS here.  [Download now in print, audio, or kindle]

The third book of the Tales of the Scavenger’s Daughters series, Bitter Winds continues the saga of Chinese couple Benfu and Calli, and the abandoned young women in their care.

Since the night her sister was almost burned alive in a fire and they were taken from their mother, Ivy has been the self-appointed guardian and guide to her blind twin, Lily. When Lily is snatched away and put behind locked doors, Ivy will do whatever it takes to get her sister home, even it means putting her own life in danger.

After Benfu and Calli’s long-lost daughter, Li Jin, is finally reunited with her birth parents, she opens a shelter for displaced people, turning her fortune from destitution and abuse to family and fulfillment. But her friend Sami remains consumed by bitterness—and Li Jin soon realizes she needs to make a difficult choice between revisiting the past or nurturing her own future.

 

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A Harrowing Ordeal in China

A Harrowing Ordeal in China

Never take your love for granted as it can be yanked from your life in a heartbeat. ~Kay Bratt

 

 

As the mammoth creature swayed its back to and fro, I looked down from our perch on its back to shiver at the sight of the steep drop off only inches from the path our elephant was taking us down. It terrified me that if it stumbled even a bit we’d all go careening to our deaths. Between Ben and I, Amanda grinned from ear to ear, enjoying the adventure as the mahout walked alongside us, occasionally touching the elephant with the bull hook he wielded with authority. I clutched the side rail of the bucket we sat in and prayed for it to be over already. Yet our guide made time to pull the elephant over to the side of the path and make us wait as he lit up a tightly-rolled marijuana joint and joyously toked it until it was burnt away and he was ready to resume the tour.

Touching an elephant up close is an enlightening experience. I’d always had an infatuation with elephants, as I believe they are one of the most loyal and intelligent creatures on earth, but their skin is strange! Not only does it feel weird because it is so rough like tree bark, but it has small wiry hairs protruding from it all over—hairs you can’t see until you get up close, but then you can see and feel them. However, they have beautiful, long lashes on dark eyes that are pools of wisdom and memories.

This wasn’t our first visit to an elephant camp, but it was the scariest. We were on our second trip to beautiful country of Thailand and as my stomach heaved from the motion of our ride, I swore it’d be our last. In previous trips to elephant camps, the areas have been clean and neat. But this one was not. The path was littered with piles of elephant dung and the smell that wafted up to our noses was atrocious. As a protective mother and a germ phobic, the experience was more of a nightmare than a fun event for me. But we got through it and we ended our trek then we finally made our way back to the resort we were staying at. Something niggled in the back of my mind telling me that we shouldn’t have gone there, but it would be years before I was educated about the truth of elephants camps. The facts are (I later learned) that many baby elephants are taken from forests in Burma, then starved and abused until their spirits are broken enough to use for the tourist camps in Thailand and other places. Sickening to me, I discovered that elephants are jerked from their tight-knit and protective herds, trekked into Thailand and forced into captivity for the pleasure of humans. To this day I still feel a deep shame to have been a part of the chain of supply and demand of such an atrocity.

But back then I was clueless in Thailand and the next morning I lounged by the pool under the scorching Thai sun and watched Amanda and Ben splashing in front of me. The pool had only just been re-opened because a small tsunami somewhere had caused floating trash from the coastal villages to make its way over the edge of the infinity wall and into the pool water. The resort crew had spent hours cleaning it out and then piled sandbags on the wall to prevent any more spillage until the current slowed down. I refused to get in but Ben had assured me all was fine, that a four star resort wouldn’t subject their patrons to any biohazard danger.

Later that afternoon, he joined me in my sun bake and I noticed a large red sore on his lower leg.

“Did you get stung by something?”

He didn’t even know what I was talking about. It could’ve been the endless glasses of beer numbing the pain for him, or it just wasn’t a big deal. I pointed it out and he shook his head, unable to remember how it had gotten there. Since it didn’t seem to bother him, we let it go and returned to enjoying our last day in Thailand. Our week has been a time of good spicy foods, walking around the markets at night, listening to the Pilipino bands, and many hours spent unwinding and renewing our spirits to get ready for another round of China. I hated to admit it, but flying into the Chinese airport and facing the hordes of people and gray skies was something that this time I dreaded from deep in my gut. I had a love-hate relationship with China; it wasn’t an easy country to live in. This time the hardships were getting to me, making me more fragile as I battled the Chinese bureaucracy for every surgery my volunteer team and I wanted to support, or every child we found in jeopardy. The truth was, the constant conflicts and the wanting faces I left behind each day were breaking me down.

The next morning the sore on Ben’s leg was bothering him a bit but we packed up, made our way back to the airport, and flew back to China. As we kept the pace with other disembarking passengers, we were a quiet trio, all of us deep in thought and resigned to return to what we’d chosen as our home. The only bright spot was that I knew I’d soon see a special little girl who had wormed her way into my heart and made it hard for me to totally leave China behind in my mind. Abandoned because of an accident that had left her crippled, the girl we called Sunshine, and I had an unusually close connection. Out of all the children, it was her face that beckoned me reluctantly back to my work.

When I awoke the next day I expected for everything to be back to our normal routine but I was surprised to find that Ben was still home, not having left for work before dawn as usual. I found him in the bathroom, soaking in the tub and looking miserable.

“Hey,” I asked, a mental red flag popping up inside my head. Ben never missed work. “What are you still doing here?”

When he looked my way I could tell immediately that he was feverish. I crossed the room and felt his head, confirming my suspicions.

“I think I’ve come down with something,” he said, sounding even worse than he looked.

I told him he was staying home and I went downstairs, then outside to talk to the driver that still waited patiently. Minutes later, the driver was on his way back to the factory with an empty back seat and I was on my way back up to see about Ben.

Hours later, things took a turn for the worse. Not only was Ben feverish, but his leg was throbbing. He called me into the bedroom and showed me the sore we’d seen in Thailand. It had now opened up and was oozing pus, making an ugly stomach-rolling sight.

I cringed. “Eww..what is that?”

He said he thought it was an infected boil or possibly an ingrown hair and asked for more Ibuprofen from our dwindling stash. I was still concerned but he assured me that a day at home and he’d be good as new. We’d soon find out how very wrong he was.

By evening Ben was in agony, writhing in pain and astonished because not only was the open sore getting bigger by the minute, but now he had two more show up on his leg. The new ones hadn’t opened but were red and swollen. Even so, I knew something was very wrong and I begged him to let me get him to the doctor.

Going to the doctor in China wasn’t a simple thing. In the town that we lived in, there were only Chinese hospitals and to say they were lacking is putting it mildly. Ben had already survived the health systems once after a bout with Ecoli poisoning that had him bedridden for a week. He’d visited two of our local hospitals and even had to hold his IV pole while holding his pajama pant legs up to avoid the piles of feces around the squatter hole that served as a patient toilet. Back then he’d weakly hovered over the putrid hole during his vicious diarrhea and vomiting marathon. In that circumstance, we’d indignantly moved him to another hospital and there he’d found the same inadequate services and the same lack of a bilingual staff to tell us what was happening. We were clueless and at the mercy of a staff who wouldn’t take a blood test, therefore couldn’t diagnose his infection for days. They’d finally gotten him transferred to a hospital in a bigger city and treated him correctly, but not before he’d felt mishandled. He swore he’d never go back—that he’d rather die. I told him that might be the case if we didn’t get his butt to a doctor.

His argument was also that he couldn’t make it all the way to the big city hospital. It would take hours to get there by car and Ben didn’t want to suffer through the logistics of the transport, the sure car sickness he’d experience, or the stress of the kamikaze highway driving it would require. He refused. I insisted. He refused. It was one of those husband and wife stand-offs when he was being ridiculous and I couldn’t convince him otherwise.

By the next day the decision was out of his hands.

I’ll have to say that in the ten years of marriage we’d had at that point, and really in all my life, I’d never witnessed such a normally tough man cry so hard from agony. Ben laid awake all night, clutching his leg. We’d called a translator who called a doctor and they’d said for him to coat the open sore in Vaseline and wrap it tightly in saran wrap. Neither of us held medical backgrounds and their idea sounded like the best one at hand. But it didn’t help. Ben described the pain as feeling like his leg was eating itself from the inside out. As I stood helplessly wringing my hands, all six foot two and two hundred something pounds of my husband was curled up in a helpless ball in our bed, begging for mercy and any drugs I could find to knock him out. He was out of luck, though, because our medicine cabinet was slim pickings.

By morning we’d called our corporate office in the states and they’d gotten us in touch with a medical doctor, who advised Ben get to a hospital—stat. They wanted us to call an ambulance but flashbacks from our first year in China when we’d witnessed a man struck by a car, and the ambulance team screeching to a stop beside him filled my head. They’d not even checked to see if he had vitals or even broken bones. They’d picked him up by his limbs and slung him like a bag of potatoes onto the stretcher, then whisked him away.

I wasn’t letting a Chinese ambulance crew come for my man.

I called our driver and he came quickly, and the two of us struggled to get Ben down the three flights of stairs from the bedroom, out of the house, and to the car. At that point, Ben couldn’t put any weight on his leg without shooting darts of venom throughout it.

I set Amanda up to stay with her best friend across the way and we headed to Shanghai. The trip was as usual, a nauseating one full of near misses, horn-blowing, and white knuckles. With each jolt, Ben screamed with agony. The ride felt like it took days. However, the hospital was prepared for us and our driver, James, did a great job of translating to get Ben hurried onto a stretcher and a shot of morphine injected into his system.

That calmed him down for about thirty minutes. Then the agony returned and he writhed on the stretcher, begging for something else—anything else to knock him out.

Unfortunately, the hospital we were directed to go to wasn’t used to dealing with foreigners and Ben became something of a side show and complicated case. Physicians, nurses, and even students gathered around and discussed my husband as if he were a cadaver on display. As I struggled to understand their rapid Mandarin, I felt more and more helpless. At one point, a nurse came in and administered another injection of morphine. Not seven or so minutes later, another nurse came in and started to give another injection.

“What are you giving him?” I asked, suspicious already.

“Morphine,” she moved closer to him. She appeared to me all of about nineteen years old and my belly flipped over a bit.

“But another nurse just gave him a dose a few minutes ago,” I stepped between her and Ben.

The nurse grabbed his chart from the wall holder and glanced at the paper.

“No, she didn’t.”

“Yes, she did,” I insisted, in my increasingly irritated worst version of Mandarin yet.

Luckily the other nurse popped her head around the curtain—yes, no room available, only a curtained off area—and agreed with me. I knew then I had to keep a tight vigil on what they were giving my husband and when. He was too far gone with pain and desperation to even know what was happening, and would welcome any amount of morphine if offered.

Hours later they transferred Ben to the third floor and decided they needed to excavate the main lesion to release the pressure that had been building from the tightly woven saran wrap. They took Ben in to their surgery room at the very end of the wing and administered an epidural to block the pain of the impending procedure.

The epidural didn’t take effect.

As they worked, tears ran down my face and I covered my ears against the inhumane howling and screaming coming from the surgery area, an agonized voice I knew to be from my husband. From the escalating sounds of terror and pain, I couldn’t imagine what they were doing to him and I had to hold myself back from rushing down the hall and storming the room to demand they stop. I paced the floor, praying and praying as tears soaked my face and chest.

When Ben was wheeled back in a few hours later, I was a basket case begging him for forgiveness that I’d allowed the medical team to hurt him so badly.

The truth was, I didn’t know what to do or who to listen to! I made calls on Ben’s work phone back and forth to his sister, a nurse in the states, and she was just as confused as I was because no one would give me a diagnosis. That was soon to change when the director visited the room later and explained that it was their analysis that while we lounged around the pool in Thailand, larvae had dropped from the trees and burrowed deep into my husband’s leg, causing a major infection. Therefore they wanted to continue with the Vaseline and saran wrap procedure, to force the larvae up for oxygen. I asked how they knew this to be true, and they told me they had another American that this happened to before. Oh, that’s it! Because we are American, he has to have the same problem as the last American they treated! Sure, that made sense.

By the next day, at least eight inches all around the sore spot was inflamed to a deep scarlet color and becoming more painful by the minute. I paced the floor, unable to eat or sleep as I watched my husband deteriorate.

When the physician finally visited and relayed nothing other than the fact that Ben was expected to stay at least three days, I made a run home for more clothes and money. At each turn they were asking me for cash, and the money flowed through my fingers like water, though I had no idea what I was paying for. In my confusion, I simply handed it over when the driver translated it was for ‘medicine’ repeatedly, but refused to tell me the names of the medicines. Sometimes they gave me receipts, and sometimes they didn’t. I only knew I didn’t want to do anything that would make them walk away and let my husband suffer, and though the morphine wasn’t taking away his pain, I couldn’t imagine what he’d be like without it. So I kept paying.

On my way back to our home, I received a call on Ben’s phone. It was our company’s medical director of international assignments or some such long title. I was so relieved to speak to an English doctor that was involved in Ben’s case. The questions flowed from my mouth faster than he could understand before he stopped me cold with his next words.

“Excuse me—it’s late here and I need to get off the phone, but I wanted to tell you that at midnight your time, there will be a private jet on the tarmac of the Shanghai international airport, waiting to evacuate your husband out of China.”

That shut me up. For a nanosecond.

“Evacuated? To where?” I asked, a feeling of relief flooding every fiber of my being. Thank God they were getting him out of the hell hole he was in.

“Hong Kong.”

I sighed. I didn’t know anything about Hong Kong but I had heard their medical facilities were top notch. Still, I would’ve loved to get him back on American soil. The doctor read my mind over the five thousand miles of air between us.

“You were probably hoping to get him home, but it’s too far and too risky. He needs immediate medical attention.”

No shit, Sherlock. What took you so long? That’s what I wanted to say but instead I burst into relieved tears and garbled gasps of gratitude. The doctor discussed with me that tests had been taken and they were awaiting the results but he was fairly sure that Ben had contracted a lethal case of Staphylococcus—a staph infection.

My mind quickly sped back to Thailand and the littered swimming pool, then the stinking elephant camp we’d visited, the hordes of flies and mosquitos. The staph bacteria could’ve come from either place or neither one. It was hard to tell, but I thought of Amanda and my heart sank.

“Is this contagious?”

He said it was, and that we should take every precaution. I would’ve liked to have been told that vital piece of information days before and could only hope that we’d not contracted it. The doctor then told me that Ben’s case was one of the most serious he’d heard of, and that the Shanghai medical team wanted to keep him to learn from the case. He said they’d refuse to let him go but I was to ignore them, and a team was on the way to enter the hospital and take him out to a waiting ambulance. He kept dropping the phrase dire prognosis, making me think the company was about to flip out because they thought they might end up with an expat death on their hands and that would really upset their perfect apple cart. The doctor coached me on how to handle the losing face issue in Shanghai.

Ignore them.

Oh, I could see he must have skipped the company-wide cultural training mandate.

It all sounded very covert and I almost pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t in another one of my vivid dreams. He then he wrapped up the conversation and I hung up the phone. I relayed everything to the driver, then saw his expression change.

“What?”

“How long will you be gone?” he asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

“I don’t know. It depends on how long it takes for them to get Ben fixed up.”

He then told me that the director of the orphanage had called (she always used him as our translator) and invited me to a banquet and awards ceremony, and that I and my team was up for an award called ‘The Pride of the City’ for our humanitarian work at their institute. He said thousands of people were nominated but I was in the final twenty.

I shrugged. That’s nice but what’s an award when your husband could be dying?

The driver started telling me others who’d received the award, though the only one I could recognize was the famous designer of the Louvre in Paris, a Chinese man named I.M. Pei. Still, it wasn’t like I could just say, “Hey Ben, you go on to Hong Kong without me and I’m sure you’ll be fine—I’ll stay because I’m getting a prestigious award!”  At the moment, the award meant nothing to me, though years later I would cherish the article from the paper as well as the glass trophy the driver brought to me after the ceremony.

James and I arrived home and I bellowed orders out to Amanda to get ready (I wasn’t leaving her behind) and I piled things onto the pool table to pack into a suitcase. I ran around getting other items like cash, passports, and bathroom supplies and as I gathered, James packed. It was a huge example at how overturned our world had become, as the drivers almost never came into our homes, and yet here he was handling our underwear. Or so I thought, and would discover later that he left out our underwear, leaving us without a single pair to our names when we arrived in Hong Kong.

The driver, Amanda, and I piled everything into the car and were back on the highway to Shanghai in less than half an hour. With a few hours to waste before we’d arrive, I took the opportunity to stuff my mouth with stale crackers and wash it down with water, the first food I’d had in two days. I was beyond weak, but still nothing would stop me in my resolve to get my husband to where someone could save his life.

We arrived at an empty airport in Hong Kong in the middle of the night. It was a dramatic escape from the Shanghai hospital by a band of what looked like hell bent Ghostbusters who stormed our room and without words, transferred Ben from the hospital bed to their stretcher. They wheeled him down the hall, ignoring the protests of the Shanghainese nurses and doctors. Amanda and I followed behind, carrying our luggage and keeping our eyes on Ben.

The doctor stopped me, pushed me against the wall and begged me not to let them take Ben, that she had everything under control. I almost lost my temper and if I’d had the language skills, I would’ve told her that we’d spent three days under their care and they’d yet to give me one possible diagnosis, tell me what tests they were doing, or even give me the English names of different medicines they were trying. I’d spent thousands of reminbi and they’d kept me in the dark and kept Ben in agonizing pain. I was leaving.

It took six Chinese to lift Ben’s stretcher into the ambulance, and we had a situation where they snapped the security belt over his leg and Amanda had to yell at them to loosen it, but we held on tight as they whisked us through Shanghai and to the airport. When we arrived, they wheeled Ben through long corridors I’d never seen until we ended up on the tarmac facing a Lear jet. (and a very posh one at that!) The team couldn’t lift Ben up the stairs so somehow they shot him up with enough drugs that he was able to hobble up using the shoulders of a few little guys, then he dropped onto another stretcher that was secured on board.

They’d sent a nurse from Hong Kong and she was like a guardian angel. The first thing  she’d discovered was the hospital was only giving Ben enough morphine for the average Chinese man, not my big, strapping American guy of two hundred plus pounds. She administered the correct dosage and for the first time in days, Ben quieted down and slept. When his face relaxed into slumber and the painful expression he’d carried diminished (but didn’t quite disappear), I sobbed in relief and didn’t stop until we reached Hong Kong. The stress of the last few days had caught up to me and I was close to breaking. I didn’t know what was ahead, but in that moment, I was glad to leave China behind.

It’s a good thing I was able to use purge my fear and frustrations. For when we landed at the airport in Hong Kong, then arrived at the Happy Valley Hospital and Sanatorium (the latter of which I think I was ready for at that point), a physician awaited us with a fully prepared operating room and team ready to immediately amputate Ben’s leg.

“Amputate?” I asked, and felt a sudden swirl of lightheadedness. Beside me Amanda fidgeted with her bag as she looked for a place to stretch out and go to sleep in the room, thankfully not hearing or understanding what was just said. She was moving on fumes alone, completely exhausted from the road trip to Shanghai, the harrowing ambulance ride, then the flight to Hong Kong. She looked up at me with dark-rimmed eyes peeking from a pale face. With that look I marveled at how our steady life had been turned upside-down in a blink of an eye.

The doctor ignored my question as he read through the scribbles of Chinese characters that made up my husband’s medical report. Then he looked up.

“That was the plan, they may not have relayed it to you, but your husband has a lethal strain of Staphylococcus and also Necrotizing fasciitis. But let’s get him settled in and I’ll be back around to talk to you in a few minutes.”

I shuddered. I knew that Necrotizing fasciitis was the fancy name for flesh-eating disease and was horrified. I’d seen Dateline shows of cases that had ate people’s faces off. No wonder what had started out looking like a boil was now a huge volcano-looking pit of destructed flesh and blood. He told me that the Shanghai team had already tried to debride it—basically scrape and cut it away—but were unsuccessful. I realized that the epidural he’d had in Shanghai wasn’t for a procedure to relieve pressure, but instead for the debriding. The lack of sufficient anesthesia for his body weight was the cause of his blood-curdling screams as they’d worked on his leg. The doctor also said the Vaseline and wrapping in saran wrap was the worst thing we could’ve done and probably escalated the infection. I explained to him that the Shanghai doctors told us to do this at home, and also did it again in their hospital.

I wanted to kill them.

But I kept that to myself and withheld judgment while the new doctor talked. He was a specialist in infectious disease and a plastic surgeon. He spoke English! He decided to delay the amputation and try one experimental drug for a few hours. He relayed to us that the amputation was decided between him and the medical director of my husband’s facility earlier that day.

Hmm…you’d think that the man would’ve given me a heads up on his plan. Or that Ben or I—his wife, for God’s sake—would’ve been privy to such a drastic decision? No, but thankfully, the doctor wanted to at least try to save his leg. He drew a circle around the inflamed red area and said if the inflammation traveled outside the line at all over the next few hours, they’d have to take the leg. He had one drug he wanted to try, but he informed me that sometimes it took trying up to a few dozen different drugs to find one that would fight a specific strain of what Ben had. Despite the dire words, I felt a sense of calm come over me because the doctor seemed confident that though Ben might lose a leg, he’d not stand aside and allow him to lose his life. I clung to that hope.

The next morning we were relieved to see the inflammation had not crept over the line. We began to watch it every minute as if it was a separate entity—a creature that had invaded my husband’s leg and upset my steady life in its goal to eat the flesh in its path. The doctor set Ben on an aggressive road of antibiotics as well as daily debriding. The doctor was adamant that he would make it if the infection didn’t get into his lymph glands, and the day that I came in to see a new red stripe down the side of his leg was another hurdle to overcome. It had indeed progressed into his lymph glands, but still the doctor refused to let it win. Determined to keep Ben’s leg, he arrived from his station at the hospital on the other side of the city three times a day to oversee the care and personally attend to the painful debriding of the wounds before repacking them. Each time they shot Ben up with morphine first, but he still clutched my hand and tears squeezed from his eyes as they poked, cleaned, and repaired the damaged tissue.

Happy Valley, Hong Kong wasn’t so happy for the Bratts. Amanda and I camped out at a dorm-type accommodation at night, but spent most every waking hour squeezed into Ben’s tiny room, watching movies with him on his computer as he gradually went from bedridden to a wheelchair, and then weeks later to crutches.  We celebrated Ben’s birthday in the room one day and I found him a bag of American Frito chips at a tiny international store. He wasn’t able to eat much but it made him smile and the doctor even allowed us to wheel him out to the decking that overlooked the horse races, his first breath of fresh air in weeks. To see him stand and reach his full height, to look like a man again instead of a bedridden patient, caused me to cry more tears as I thanked God for seeing us to that point.

We left that hospital and Hong Kong an even closer family than when we’d arrived. We’d fought for Ben’s life and won. This one went to us; Bratts one, China zip.

I was taking my husband home.

-Kay.

PS. Since this experience we’ve also survived being on Thailand during the big 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami that killed 227,000 souls, navigating SARS in China, being deathly ill with Covid in the USA (both the first round and then Delta variant), and a handful of other trials and tribulations.

PPS. this story was not included as it was too traumatizing to re-live when I was writing the book, but if you’d like to read more about our time in China, you can grab my memoir here:  [DOWNLOAD NOW IN PRINT, KINDLE, OR AUDIO]

 

The post A Harrowing Ordeal in China appeared first on Kay Bratt.

Where to Find Me Other than Facebook!

Facebook has begun to shut out a lot of authors recently, permanently banning them for no reason at all. If that happens to me, I want you to know where you can find me so you can stay up to date with my books and the Bratt Pack! 

FIND ME HERE: 

Subscribe to my Blog

Join My Newsletter  

 

And for social network, I’d probably go here: 

MeWe (an easy-to-learn platform much like Facebook!) here: https://mewe.com/i/kaybratt

 

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Who Am I

 

Yesterday I finally succumbed to the mounting pain in my locked-up shoulder and stiff neck, and actually kept my physical therapy appointment. I grumbled for days beforehand, and all the way there, that it was keeping me from having a full and productive workday. Over the last year and a half, I’ve found myself using Covid as an excuse to completely embrace my tendency to cocoon within the walls of my cozy home. There are weeks I don’t even leave the house, depending on my Ben to do the grocery shopping and pick up prescriptions, or go to Petsmart for dog needs. When I do go somewhere, I’ve allowed myself to get so immobile, that the smallest excursion exhausts me.

However, I’m glad that I went to the appointment because despite the pain, I truly enjoyed talking to my physical therapist. Though I was only there for my neck and shoulder, she soon realized and exclaimed over how stiff and sore my entire body is. She said she was shocked because when she saw me come in, she thought she was getting a semi-young and healthy patient. Obviously, the mask helps hide my true age, and because I’m on the tall and sort-of-slender side and was dressed in yoga pants and sneakers, my appearance can be deceiving.

The clinic was amazingly high-tech, spotless, and so busy! I saw at least a dozen employees in their sharp black shirts and khaki pants, most of them fairly young men with big muscles and a confidant swagger. I told Ann, my therapist, that I was relieved I didn’t get one of the young, hot guys because they make me awkward. She threw her head back and laughed, then assured me they were only assistants, and didn’t do first visits/evaluations and set up the patient’s plans.

As she walked me through multiple strength tests that I failed at miserably (I have the hand/arm strength of a much older human) we talked. Her two sons have settled far from her and we discussed how strange it feels to have your children out of your immediate range, almost like you’re constantly missing something important that you usually have on you at all times, but can’t put your finger on it.

She asked about who I am, and I felt it was a much deeper question than the three words imply, and I hesitated.

I wondered, which me should I tell her about? The me that was born in the Midwest but lived in more than two dozen different homes from coast to coast before I landed in the South? Or the me that survived a marriage full of strife and abuse, but then found my soul mate and began a journey to a happily ever after? I considered regaling her with the tales of our move to China and the work I did there in the orphanage, with children in situations most can’t even dream up. But that always leads me to deep melancholy that I’m not always in a strong enough place to go to.

I thought about describing to her how I started out with no extended education and after I got my first office job, I rose through the ranks of Human Resources in different companies, finally becoming an executive assistant to the president of the company. There are a lot of stories within those jobs because office politics and big egos were the main ingredient of many of my places of employment, with the stress of them leading me to the beginning of a lot of my medical problems. No one wants to hear that stuff, but it was a big part of my life.

Or would it impress her that I’m a novelist who has written two dozen novels, sold more than a million books, and has built a solid reader base? I’m a bit more humble than that.

If I expounded on my work in dog rescue, would she see me as a different sort of patient or would she consider me a bit on the crazy side? I could tell her about my two adult daughters, my bonus son, and our eight combined grandchildren.  Would I describe how they see me or how I see myself? There’s a lot of pain and growth from the mom I was, to the grandmother I strive to be, and I assure you that it’s a learning process that I still haven’t mastered.

I know that I’m a daughter who doesn’t live up to her own expectations, a sister who wishes she and her siblings were closer, a wife who doesn’t do enough for the husband she probably doesn’t deserve, and a dog mom to three doggos who think I’m the best human in the world. I’m a woman who wants to be fit and do yoga, and eat healthy, but usually fails in all of that. I’m the writer who wants to create work that resonates with others and will be a legacy to those who come after me and wonder who I am. I’m a workaholic who holds herself to too high of a standard and doesn’t relent. I am someone who can sometimes dip into depression but other days is the counsel to others who have it much worse than she. I’m a mother, daughter, sister, grandmother, dog mom, novelist and advocate for the less fortunate.

I am all of the above.

The conclusion is that we are not one single person or role in our life and each and every part we play creates a different version of who we are. I can be a wonderful child advocate and productive dog rescuer, and also be a mother who struggles to be there when needed, but not in an overwhelming, helicopter way. I can be the successful novelist with a wide platform and yet be the woman who doesn’t want to leave her house and feels guilty when she doesn’t plan her day well enough to cook a meal for her husband. I can be, and am, all those things. Each day I try to balance all of them to be able to live a good and productive life, and I strive to learn from all my life’s lessons.

Between you and I, though…. some days I wish I was simply a hummingbird—one creature with one role, flitting around looking beautiful and bringing joy in it’s endeavor to simply survive.

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All (my) Dogs Go to Heaven

 

 

A memoir dedicated to our sweet Grandpa, a symbol of love, trust, and perseverance who taught all of us that it’s never too late to find your happily ever after.

 

Read An Excerpt of All (my) Dogs Go to Heaven here:

AN UNBEARABLE BURDEN

 

Is your soul being crushed with grief after losing a pet? Do you feel like you don’t know how you will go on without your best friend? I know exactly how you feel, and I want to tell you that, first, it’s okay to not be okay. It hurts like hell.

Yes, I’m going to use the words heaven and hell on the same page because that’s the best description of what we go through when we lose a pet. The greatest mystery of our life is what happens when we die. And for me, the second greatest mystery is where do my pets go when they die? And what was the purpose of having them with me throughout my life if only to have to go through this unbearable pain of saying goodbye?

This book will help answer that for me and possibly for you. It is written as the road trip of my life and chronicles how my pets have gotten me through the deepest lows. This book is also a tribute to those animals and a light research into the age-old question…

Do dogs go to heaven?

Included are contributions from myself and other pet owners who feel that their dogs have sent them signs from the other side. Written from the point of view of a normal person just like you, this book is meant to comfort those of us who have lost pets who, to us, are not just animals but are deeply loved members of our family.

Having a pet is like being a parent. I even hate to use the term pet.

They are so much more than that.

We take responsibility for their life, and we strive to cover their physical and emotional needs. Research shows that losing a pet can be just as devastating, and sometimes even more so, as losing a relative. It only makes sense, as our pets love us unconditionally, providing loyalty and affection without expectation of anything in return past the simplicity of food, shelter, and the occasional belly rub. They also don’t judge you, criticize you, or refuse to speak to you for months on end like humans tend to do when they get their nose out of joint. They see us at our lowest lows and observe our weaknesses and are there as our biggest cheerleaders when we occasionally get things right in life.

Honestly, it marvels me how some people can live without a dog. Or a cat. Or some kind of pet. Where do they find that unconditional love that we all crave? I feel sorry for their loss of not knowing what it’s like to have that special gift.

Last year, I lost one of my fur-kids, and I can tell you without exaggeration that it felt like my world was suddenly dark. It’s been months, and there are still days that I grieve deeply and ask myself if I did the right thing by letting him go on to a place of no pain and sickness. Selfishly, I wanted to keep him with me. I’ll admit that.

Thankfully, I love him more than I love myself, and I had to give him relief.

His death filled me with guilt and sent me wondering once again if dogs go to heaven.

Do they have a soul? If so, where is my little man now? Is he around me, or is he waiting somewhere high in the clouds where I can’t see him? I just want someone to tell me that yes, he is in heaven.

If you are thinking that no one truly has the answer to that, you are right. I even asked a few Christian leaders, those who I feel have a legitimate knowledge of what goes on behind the secret curtain.

They were not of any help.

I understand why, though. No one can say that they know, with one hundred percent irrefutable proof, that our dogs will be in heaven.

That doesn’t stop us from trying to figure it out.

Over the last two decades, I’ve bought dozens of books about the afterlife and heaven. I’m a self-dubbed research fanatic, both for my work in writing novels, as well as my quest to just know more in general about the mysteries of the universe.

With every book I read on the subject, I first absorb it, and then I begin research to see what is written against the book or the author. I want to read both sides of the argument—do some people just know what’s over there? Do these authors have a special gift that I don’t have? Or are they, as they were called in the old days, charlatans?

As I conducted my research, I also struggled with the fact that I’m a Christian, though I now consider myself more spiritual than religious. My walk with God might not look like yours, and that’s fine. However, there are people in the church who say animals don’t have souls, which, by the way, crushes me when I hear them say that.

There was a time that I was in church two to three times a week. That time is not now, but I love the old analogy “going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.”

I do believe there’s a God. And that one day I’ll meet him in paradise. Because of that, I needed to know for myself what the Bible had to say about animals in heaven so that I can know if my babies will be there.

My questions resulted in doing the research and combining it with short memoir excerpts of my life, as it connected to how my specific pets brought me through so many trials, that is now this book. I’ll warn you now, if you aren’t a fan of an author rambling on about their life experiences, then go ahead and shut the cover and ask for a refund. If all I did was spout what I found in the scriptures, it would be an awfully short and boring book. I think of my life as a very long road trip. And I’m inviting you along.

I also need to tell you that the parts of what I am going to share here are not of the rainbows and unicorn variety. I’ll bare part of my soul to you in the hopes that despite all that I’ve been through, you’ll agree that I’m not a victim.

I’m a survivor.

Now in my fifth decade of going around this planet, I look back and see there is one overall reaching lesson and reason that I got to this place and am with you now sharing a book about dogs going to heaven. There are a few other contributions included in the narrative of others who feel that their departed dogs have sent them a sign from the other side.

At the end of the book, you’ll find some home remedies for nursing your fur-child, as well as my recipe for home-cooked dog food that my pack goes crazy over. You’ll also find a grief guide that I hope will help you get through the first month after losing your fur-child.

I hope this book will give you comfort.

As for the big question of whether your dog goes to heaven or not, it is up to you to look through my research here and determine if you believe.

However, if there is a kernel of wonderment in your soul and the ability to walk in faith, then keep reading. I will give you my word, which means everything to me, that I won’t write anything in this book that I don’t myself believe is completely true.

On the other hand, I won’t try to convince you of anything.

So, take a seat and buckle up. I’m going to tell you about the dogs I’ve known in my life, what I have learned, and what I believe. The rest is up to you.

 

MY FACE MAY BE WHITE, BUT MY HEART IS PURE GOLD

Oliver paced the length of the yard, careful to avoid the low spots of standing water. Rain in the cold temperatures of December were the worst, and he had tired of standing outside the door, hoping to be let in to feel the warmth on his cold, wet feet. His clumsily healed and crooked jaw was proof that it wouldn’t benefit him to whine or scratch either. After fourteen long years, the shape of his malnourished body and pus-filled mouth showed that his care was the lowest of priorities for the family inside. He knew what he meant to them, and that his was a sad tale of unrequited love.

Though it pained him to give up, it was well past time. They would never return his loyalty. The pack mom and dad were too busy trying to wrangle the rowdiest of small humans, coming and going at all hours of the day and night, sometimes yelling and causing all sorts of ruckus. There was no room in their lives for a small little man as himself, no matter how well-behaved he believed himself to be. Things were different when he had first come to them, a fluffy and eager-to-please puppy, barely wet behind the ears and with the breath that made them giggle. They didn’t have little humans back then and claimed he was their everything.

There were tumbles and hugs, snuggles and smiles, all sprinkled with promises to protect him forever. He believed them and felt he’d found his pack. He pledged to return their devotion and protect them with everything he had.

Then he grew older, no longer able to tumble and play—his breath losing its sweetness. The little humans came, one after the other. Later, a young puppy took his place, and it was the center of attention, making him feel invisible until one day, he was told to just stay outside.

Those first nights he couldn’t believe they really meant to stay out there forever. Surely they would let him in. He had held up his part of the plan—he still loved and tried to protect them. Why did they suddenly no longer care for his well-being? Still yet, he waited patiently by the door. They would come to their senses. He could teach the young pup how to behave, give her all the advice she needed to be a good dog.

But the door never opened.

At least not for him.

Oliver would not be allowed to rejoin his pack. Didn’t they see that dogs weren’t loners? It was the worst life sentence you could have, to be cast out and left to spend every waking minute alone, but at least he could count himself lucky that he wasn’t sentenced to being tied up or chained to a tree.

They didn’t care if he wandered. But he didn’t. He waited.

Hoping they would love him again.

The summers were brutal in the humid Georgia temperatures, but the winters—well, they were something else entirely. In the light of the day, being of small stature, he was stalked by the hawks and had to be careful. At night the sounds of coyotes howling sent shivers of fear through him, and he huddled under anything he could find. And oh, the fleas. Even in the coldest of colds, he could not rid himself of the tormenting creatures as they burrowed and bit, depleting the slight reserves he barely had. He’d had to stop obsessing over them, though, because his first priority was simply staying alive.

To lay down and die would not be his legacy.

Now night would soon come again, and his old bones were no longer able to stand the bitter cold rumbling through them as he trembled and waited for the sun to rise.

He also had an epiphany. Someone out there needed him. And he had to find her. Today he would start his journey, and if night came too quickly, he would find somewhere else to sleep, hopefully somewhere safe from the packs that hunted for small creatures like him.

With one more look at the place he had given most of his life to, he headed for the driveway that led out. He would stay low and definitely wouldn’t venture onto the pavement. It was a country road and not much traffic, but an old dog knew a few things, and one of those things was that you didn’t test your courage against five thousand pounds of metal and motor.

He walked at least a mile and then tired and decided to rest.

With a stick in his mouth to gnaw at and ease at least some of his hunger pains, he settled into the high grass of the ditch. As he rested, he listened to the occasional car go by, and even heard the sound of a truckload of chickens being transported to the coops of doom. He said a prayer for them, even though they weren’t his acquaintances, but other chickens were, and he had said goodbye to many feathered friends over the years.

They’d done their best to teach him to survive, and he could hunt and peck insects with the best of them. He had even conquered the unique chicken noise in the back of his throat and, along with a certain strut, sometimes almost believed he was one of them. He also knew that he carried the deadly stench of the chicken farm, but that was a small price to pay for the bit of companionship he’d found there.

Suddenly he heard another car coming closer, and his ears perked up. Why was this car making his pulse race and his heart leap in joy?

He must take a look.

Slowly, because his old bones ached so very much, he stepped to the top of the road shoulder and peeked out.

The car passed him by, and his heart fell.

He was too late.

Sighing, he turned to go back and rest a bit more before he must remain awake all night to keep guard.

But wait—first he heard the car stop, and then he saw the red lights on its rear shine. They began to back up, straight toward him.

Before they could change their mind, and knowing he was jeopardizing his life, he stepped completely out onto the road in full view.

The car door opened, and a woman stepped out.

“Well, hello. Aren’t you a dapper little fellow?” she said softly.

She didn’t come closer, and he appreciated her respectful distance. He’d also learned that all humans weren’t to be trusted.

“You poor thing. You look like you’re starving.”

She didn’t mention how badly he smelled, and that saved his dignity more than he could ever let her know. Her voice was encouraging and perhaps tinged with a bit of pity. But it was kind, and he knew, yes—he could feel it—she was the one.

“Do you want to come with me, and we can figure out who you belong to?” she asked, kneeling down a few feet away, welcoming him to make the choice.

There really was no indecision on his part. Feeling lighter and happier than he had in years, he found his prance again as he made his way over to her and allowed her to reach down and pick him up. When he felt the gentleness in her touch and the way she cradled him close, despite his unkempt condition, there was no doubt.

She was his epiphany, and whether she knew it or not, she needed him.

Together, they climbed into the car, and he perched on her lap, looking straight out the front window in anticipation that whatever was next would be better than what was.

Read More Here:

(Pre-Order Here)

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IT’S COMING! The SPRINGPALOOZA BIG GIVEAWAY!

HUGE ANNOUNCEMENT!

Mark your calendar for the My Book Friends SPRINGPALOOZA on Sunday, April 11. You’ll get to enter for loads of giveaways from me and my fellow founding authors. Join our friendly and inclusive group today to be in with a chance of winning some goodies that will spring you into the season with lots of good reading.Join here https://www.facebook.com/groups/yourbookfriendsRULES: No purchase necessary. Giveaways end Monday, April 12 @ midnight EST. Winners chosen at random. Facebook and/or Instagram are not sponsors or affiliated with this giveaway. Winners will be posted on specific giveaway threads and tagged.

The post IT’S COMING! The SPRINGPALOOZA BIG GIVEAWAY! appeared first on Kay Bratt.

Must Love Dogs (and books…)

On SALE! only $1.99 on Kindle&FREE to read in Kindle Unlimited

Growing up in foster care makes you not want to trust anyone. But what about a stray dog who is determined to be your friend?

Find out why nearly 200,000 readers have fallen in love with WISH ME HOME.

Kay Bratt draws on her own life experiences to create a raw, yet inescapably warm, novel about friendship and a wary heart’s unexpected capacity to love.

A hungry, stray dog is the last thing Cara Butter needs. Stranded in Georgia with only her backpack and a few dwindling dollars, she already has too much baggage. Like her twin sister, Hana, who has broken Cara’s heart one too many times. After a lifetime of family troubles, and bouncing from one foster home to another, Cara decides to leave it all behind and strike out alone—on foot.

Cara sets off to Florida to see the home of her literary hero, Ernest Hemingway, accompanied only by Hemi, the stray dog who proves to be the perfect travel companion. But the harrowing trip takes unexpected turns as strangers become friends who make her question everything, and Cara finds that as the journey unfolds, so does her life—in ways she could never imagine.

Click this to grab your copy!

The post Must Love Dogs (and books…) appeared first on Kay Bratt.

FINALLY… (she says under her breath as she decides where her next book will be set)

It feels like it has taken forever,  but I can finally close the door on writing the books set on Maui. And if I do say so myself, I think the last book INTO THE BLUE is the best of the three. Have you ever carried something your entire life because you couldn’t shake the guilt? This book is for you. Do you have a difficult relationship with your mother or a daughter? This book is for you. Do you enjoy family saga with a touch of mystery? This book is for you.

Heck, it’s for all of you. Just pull up a lounge chair and escape into the blue.

I hope once you’ve read the trilogy, you’ll help me out by posting an an honest review on Amazon, Goodreads, and BookBub!

Thanks, everyone!

 

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