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JUNEBUG

JUNEBUG - by Cherie Doyen

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June’s story begins on a tiny farm in a sleepy little railroad town, buried in the depths of rural America. Don’t look too closely at the sagging porches and the chipping paint. Through June’s eyes, it’s a place where nothing is as it seems, a place full of secrets. June lives with people who claim to be her family; she’s not sure. Pieces are missing. Words and actions are out of sync. They cause so much pain and suffering. Can she be related to these people who say they are her family? These people…

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Page 1: JUNEBUG - by Cherie Doyen

June’s story begins on a tiny farm in a sleepy little railroad town, buried in

the depths of rural America. Don’t look too closely at the sagging porches

and the chipping paint. Through June’s eyes, it’s a place where nothing is

as it seems, a place full of secrets. June lives with people who claim to be

her family; she’s not sure. Pieces are missing. Words and actions are out of

sync. They cause so much pain and suffering. Can she be related to these

people who say they are her family? These people … they make her do

things, things that aren’t talked about. Lying back very still, very quiet,

June begins to feel the pull of the water, the twisting, the turning, fi nding

herself in a puddle in the center of a meadow fi lled with wildfl owers of

all colors. On the path up ahead, she senses movement. Within seconds, a

magnifi cent black panther stands before her. Tigua becomes her guardian

and protector and helps her discover the power she has available. The power

buried deep inside. Tigua gives her the strength to take back her body, take

back her life. In this other world, she discovers the real meaning of family

and the responsibility it holds. The Great Seer gives her the perspective of

a warrior, equipping her with the wisdom and courage to fi ght the battle

that threatens to consume her life. With the help of her guides, she learns

what love is, and armed with that love she throws open the doors to all of

their secrets, freeing those who came before and those who come after.

Thousands of children across the nation wake up each morning to face battles waged within their own homes and fall asleep each night clinging to the hope of a better tomorrow. I’ve spent years putting my life into words. I am June, and this is my story.

JUN

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FANTASY

U.S. $14.99

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Junebug

Cherie Doyen

Artwork by emily Doyen

based on a true story

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Copyright © 2013 Cherie Doyen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Interior Graphics/Art Credit: Emily Doyen

Balboa Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Balboa PressA Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty DriveBloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com1-(877) 407-4847

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily ref lect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-7203-1 (sc)ISBN: 978-1-4525-7205-5 (hc)ISBN: 978-1-4525-7204-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013906415

Printed in the United States of America.

Balboa Press rev. date: 05/08/2013

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I want to send out a wave of thanks to my husband,

Steve, and all of those who stood by me through this

process. Special thanks to my girls, Danielle and emily

and their Dad, Rob, who wove their expertise together

f lawlessly culminating in Junebug, a labor of love. From

the limb of our tree...

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1

Tree of family and relatives

My story begins in this sleepy little railroad town. It sits off

the interstate in the foot hills. With no through traffic,

the town hasn’t had much inf lux of new people or new

thoughts in decades. This is a town of secrets. From the outside,

a cute little town that hasn’t been touched much by change. The

landscape is filled with rolling hills and streams. There’s a creek, big

enough to swim in, running right through town. Don’t look too

closely at the chipping paint and sagging porches. Everyone is related

to everyone, a place no one ever leaves. A place where nothing is as

it seems.

I live on a tiny little farm outside of town in a ramshackle house.

I’ve lived there most of my life, except for a short stint in the city in

the very beginning. The house is a constant work in progress. The

family consists of me, two younger brothers and my parents…or so

they say. I’m not sure. Can I really be related to these people? Is it really

their blood running through my veins? The younger of my two brothers,

Sam, seems to be on the outside too. He doesn’t seem like the rest. I

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Cherie Doyen

keep him very close at all times, for safety. I don’t want them to be

able to get to him, his mind. The middle boy, Kenny, is meaner than

a snake. They’ve gotten to him already.

Our small piece of property is surrounded by a larger farm owned

by Mr. Stanford. He has about a hundred acres. The old man has

taken a shine to me and my love for animals. He has a beautiful

Irish setter named Joe. I love the way his shiny red coat feels sliding

through my fingers. Seeing the old man out in the pasture, tall, lean,

walking stick in one hand, his faithful companion on the other,

makes me smile from the inside. I’m off and running. I cover the

distance between us as fast as my legs will carry me. If I’m lucky, we

get to spend the day in the garden. He loves to teach me as we go

along, telling me about each plant and what it needs to be healthy and

strong. This is my favorite time, maybe because he feels I’m worth

teaching. Whatever the day turns into, chores are always more fun

when they’re someone else’s.

Mr. Stanford lets me graze my horse Ginger in his pasture. The

grounds are mine to roam whenever I want, my playground. The

beautiful hills and cliffs are my refuge. By the time I reach the creek,

the grime from home is washed away and forgotten. For the moment

freedom and laughter replace reality.

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Celtic symbol for mother.... Mother is her nurturing state, maiden in her

innocence, crone in her wise experience

grandma, my angel. When I’m at Grandma’s, all of Dad’s

stupid rules go right out the window. I’m not allowed to

be held or rocked. “Don’t want some spoiled brat.” When I’m

with Grandma I get all the love and touching I want. She holds me

and rocks me, singing me her funny little songs. How much is that

doggie in the window? She loves me and she loves me right. When I’m

at Grandma’s I’m the favorite. She can barely turn around without

stepping on me. I always want to be on her lap; women sitting around

the table gabbing, and there I am looking up longingly.

“Go play and leave Grandma alone for a while, now,” Mom

tells me.

“No, no she’s all right,” Grandma says, “Come here, sweet

Junebug.”

I climb up and cuddle in her arms.

The connection most people have with their mother, that’s the

connection I have with Grandma. Grandma and Mom all rolled into

one. The problem is, I don’t live here. I only get her sometimes. She

isn’t my Mom. My support and safety is once removed.

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I have one memory of when I was quite small. I’m left in the

driveway, in an old Rambler station wagon, while Mom goes in to

talk to Grandma. I’m told to wait. I have on a little yellow dress and

white hat; my feet don’t reach the edge of the seat. I’m in the front

seat, can’t see out and afraid to move. After a few minutes, I hear

the squeak of the old screen door and the swing of the gate. Mom

opens the back door of the old car and takes a little suitcase from

the back seat. She then crosses around the front, opens the passenger

door, scoops me up and carts me inside. I wasn’t sad being dropped

off there. I got a little vacation. Only, after a few days of being there,

the anxiety would start, as if they were calling me.

Why would you want to go back there? my brain yells. It’s safe here

people don’t hurt you, and you’re the favorite. In my gut there is the

feeling that I have to get back home, to make sure things are okay.

The battle inside increases, until I’m asking to go home. Maybe it’s

the feeling of being dropped off there to get me out of the house?

That became Mom’s way of fighting for me after a while—dropping

me off at Grandma’s. The separation gives us all a rest for a second.

Even though I love being here, it is a weird feeling to know why.

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Chinese symbol for father

My first memory of my Dad is far from a pleasant one.

The three of us lived in the city for a short while at the

beginning of my life. Times were hard on my Mom;

she was moved away from her family. She hadn’t ever really been

anywhere, much less lived anywhere other than her sleepy little

town. She was far away with no car. Her pride got in the way of

admitting what life was really like with her new husband and baby.

The baby cried all the time, especially if her Daddy was around. Yes,

I was already scared to death of him. They think kids don’t remember things

from this young of an age. I’m here to tell you they do. One particular

day Mom had gone out to run errands. She was allowed this luxury

within an allotted amount of time, whatever he deemed appropriate

for the task, a curfew of sorts. I was left alone with my Dad.

On cue, I begin to cry and when he enters my room, I begin to

howl. He checks my diaper, and with his touch my cries grow louder

and even more intense.

There’s nothing to do but lift her and give her a little shake; see

if that shuts her up. No, that didn’t work. How about a good smack?

What do you know? That didn’t work either. What now? He lays me

down and leaves the room. My howls are deafening at this point.

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He shuts the door, pops a beer, and paces in circles around the

tiny apartment, the cries wearing on his every nerve. How long can

she possibly last? He’s not able to bear it another moment—oh, wait,

first another beer, that always helps—he then decides he’s going to

have to teach me a lesson. He lifts me from the crib saying, “You

better shut up if you know what’s good for you.”

I didn’t.

Another good shake…. More crying. A few more smacks. Finally,

exhausted and in shock, I gasp for air. Then, the quiet. Only the

heavy breathing from crying so hard, for so long. He leaves the room,

proud of himself.

Mom returns right on time. “I taught that screaming kid a

lesson”, he tells her, gloating,

“Finally got her to shut up. You just have her spoiled rotten.”

She quickly takes the few steps to the baby’s room. She’s horrified.

The bruises are already beginning to appear on her little baby’s body,

and she’s quiet, eerily quiet. Tears stream down Mom’s face. Holding

me in close to her body, she makes a beeline for the door. If she can

just get to the door, maybe she can get to the neighbors.

She never made it.

Screaming, hitting, crying. She was still fighting for me then.

The settlement was to move back home, back to the safety and

comfort of her family. Of course, there were promises of no more

hitting. I watched this from my safe spot, in the corner from above.

I watched it all. It was before I was called to the other place. I was

about six months old at the time. We remember. Eventually we always

remember.

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Chinese symbol for younger brother

The boys and I are all three years and some months apart.

I’m the oldest, then Kenny…Sam’s the baby and my pride

and joy. I feel as if I have birthed him myself. He is so weak

and so tiny. My goal is for him to be a kid, to believe in fairy tales,

Santa Claus, and the Easter bunny. I want him to have the part of

life I’m missing, the magic. He had a hard time in the beginning and

had to stay in the hospital for a really long time after he was born.

The waiting: it was bad enough to wait that whole time he was in

her belly, but now this. She’s back home, and he has to stay there all

by himself, and here we are like nothing’s happening. It feels like

it’s never going to end. Then finally the day comes when they get

to bring him home. There is no sleeping the night before. I have

been waiting for so long. The crib was set up outside my parents’

room, in a little alcove. I’m not allowed to go with them into the

city to the hospital, so I wait, and wait, and wait. Grandma does her

best to keep me distracted, but I can’t pay attention to her stories

today. I hear the tires on the gravel drive and bolt from the house.

I’m about to pee my pants I’m so excited. Mom has him pulled in

close to her chest.

“Wait, I can’t see.”