Damaged Goods

Intense, heartwarming and other worldy, Damaged Goods combines the right amount of humor and hope with a darker, complex view of mortality, addiction, and the afterlife. Karen Sherburne is a single mother and workacholic whose husband's death has left her with a wounded heart. When her teenage daughter, Meg, guilts her with a latchkey kid comment, Karen decides to cut back on her work hours for the sake of their relationship. Not long after her decision, Meg is murdered and everything that was good about Karen's world shatters. In her grief, she becomes obsessed with finding the monster who stole her vivacious daughter's life. Her mantra: find the killer; kill the killer. In the interim, Karen returns to her workaholic lifestyle in an attempt to fill an unfathomable void. Unsure whether it's poor judgment or keen determination to save someone like she couldn't save Meg, Karen decides to adopt fifteen-year-old Frankie Ortiz, who she found beaten and abandoned while on a home visit. Frankie's world transforms from tragic to idyllic, and he becomes an embodiment of creativity, his fine art work exhibited in local businesses. Just when Frankie thinks his life can't get any better, he meets his soulmate, Kendra Bruno, a woman with her own secret past. As the lives of Karen, Frankie, and Kendra intersect, secrets are revealed and nothing is as it seems. When Karen finally discovers her daughter's killer, her decision to follow through with her vengeance will impact her new family and the life that she spent years rebuilding.

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DAMAGED GOODSBy JODI BLASEiUniverse, Inc.Copyright © 2012 Jodi BlaseAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-5207-0 Chapter OneMEGTwo Months before the murder "I said no, Meg." "Why not?" Meg shouted. "Because I'm not going to allow you to turn into one of those kids who gets whatever they want. You'll grow up aspiring to be nothing. You'll end up lazy, turn to drugs for relief, have no ambition, and eventually kill yourself because you won't be able to cope with failure. Then I'll blame myself for giving you too much." Karen stood firm, arms crossed. "That's such a load of crap, Mom! Tell me you're shitting me," Meg said, in a duh tone. "I shit you not, potty mouth. I'm imposing limits on you for your own good, and that's that," Karen nodded triumphantly. "You're off your rocker," spat Meg, "I don't see why I can't have an Atari." "Because you don't need an Atari. It will rot your brain." "Rot my brain?" "Yeah, Pac Man will rot your brain." "Oh, please, you loved playing Pong at the arcade." "That's because it's like an exciting tennis match." "Exciting? It's snoresville!" "Anyway, that was at an arcade for fun. Not in your own home." "Well, what do you suggest I do while you're at work?" "Clean your room." "For like, ten hours?" "By the time you wake up it's noon. Clean your room, read a book, take a walk, call a friend, watch TV for a small amount of time, do a jigsaw puzzle. And hey, feel free to cook dinner. That should bring you pretty close to six o'clock." "Yeah, except for when you're home by seven or eight or nine." "How about spending one day a week at Charlene's house?" "And do what?" "Whatever it is you kids do these days, Meg." "We shoot up." "Well, make sure you don't share needles." Meg looked at Karen and squinted her eyes just enough to make it a judgment. "Oh, I see. I'm a bad mother for working. Well, guess what? This is the deck we've been dealt. I have to work. You know that." "Not obsessively." "I do the best I can, Meg." "An Atari would ease the blow of being here all alone." "You're making the choice to be alone. Grandpa would love to have you every day. He even offered to pick you up." "Oh, there's a fun filled afternoon." Karen huffed and threw her arms in the air. "What do you want from me?" "An Atari." "Forget about it." Meg walked casually over to the coffee table and started to shuffle through the stack of magazines until she found the one that said, How to Say No to your Child. "Aha! I knew it!" she shouted, shaking the magazine in the air. "This is bullshit! I'm not one of your nut cases." "It's okay to be angry with me, but it won't change my mind. You'll thank me later when you're compassionate, kind, and non-materialistic. So it's no, for sure." "Fine. I'll just ask Grandpa to buy it for me." Karen put her hand son her hips. She wished someone would inform her who replaced the old easy going Meg with this fresh-mouthed teen she barely recognized. "Oh, really, Little Miss Smart Ass? We'll see about that. Now, come on," she said, waving Meg into the kitchen. "I wash, you dry." "You ever hear of a dishwasher?" "I have one named Meg." "What if I washed and dried for a month? Would that earn me an Atari?" "You're wearing me down, Meg. I'm going grayer by the minute." After the kitchen was cleaned, Karen had one appointment, but promised to be back within the hour. Meg watched the station wagon drive down the street before opening the window and lighting a Parliament. She leaned onto her elbows and blew smoke rings into the cool, crisp evening air. She took a few puffs then put the cigarette between her thumb and pointer finger and flicked it out onto the street. She closed the window and marched toward the phone. It was time for a business call. "Hi, Grandpa." "Hey, Meg, how's my girl!" "I'm good," she replied, in her best sullen voice. "Is something wrong?" "Nothing. Just bored," she sighed. "Is your mom home?" "No, she's out as usual." "She is, is she?" "Yep. Apparently, some head case is more important than me," huffed Meg. "We both know that's not true, Megan." Uh-oh. Grandpa used her real name. Better change tactics. "It's just that summer days can be long and I'm finding myself bored. I think too much TV is tacky, don't you? Sometimes I wish I had a game to play. Something like, uh, I don't know, an Atari?" "I see," said Carl. "Yeah. And in case you don't know, it's a video game system for the television. Atari. Mom likes to play, too. She loves Pong on Atari," added Meg enthusiastically. "Let's see now. I do have some housework that's been neglected and there is always yard work to be done." "Look no further. I'm your girl!" "I never had to bribe your mother to do chores." "Times change." "How about I pick you up tomorrow and we go and get this Atari. What's your mother's late night?" "It varies, but usually Tuesdays." "Okay then, as payment, you can come over every Tuesday for a month to do whatever chores I need. Then we'll eat dinner together. Deal?" "Deal!" Meg hung up the phone and jumped around. She knew her grandfather all too well; he'd make her do one day of solid labor and then call them even. She grabbed another cigarette and did a victory dance toward the window. "Atari, Atari, I'm going to get an A-t-a-r-i!" Chapter TwoKAREN'S PAST, IN BRIEF Whether it was genetics or shit poor luck, Karen was an unfortunate combination of her good looking parents. Although she would never have admitted it, it disturbed Vicki that her daughter didn't inherit her good looks. Karen surmised her mother felt this way from statements such as: "Are you going out in public with your hair like that, honey? I can fix it up if you'd like," or, "Tuck in your shirt to show off that tiny waist of yours," and, "You'll grow breasts someday, dear!" as well as, "Let me show you how to pluck that one eyebrow into two separate ones." Karen sometimes felt she was God's joke onVicki, because although she didn't care if she had the figure of a boy, one eyebrow, and untamed frizzy hair, these physical traits seemed to cause her mother mental anguish. None of what Vicki said was meant to be cruel, nor was it an indication of how much she loved her daughter. In fact, Karen didn't think it possible that any mother could love her daughter more than Vicki loved her. Her mother's egotistical remarks, Karen knew, were fear based and carried over from her own childhood. Every night until she was twelve, when Karen felt too old and gently began refusing her mother, Vicki read Karen a bedtime story. After she closed the book, she'd wrap her arms around Karen and cuddle her close. "Look at those deep brown eyes, so brown I almost can't see your pupils. Who has better eyes than you?" Vicki would say proudly "Your eyes are pretty too, Mamma," Karen would tell her. "But your eyes carry this awareness of something that I can't quite put my finger on, Karen. You see, I'm not so very bright," Vicki meekly admitted. "But you're pretty," Karen said, feeling pity for her mother, a woman for whom the Pope would resign his post to marry. "It's okay, honey. You don't need to feel bad for me. I'm happy in my own skin. I just want you to be happy in yours. Are you?" "I guess so," Karen said, wondering if this were a test and she should have said I need thinner eyebrows. "Of course you are," Vicki smiled warmly. "And you know what? I have a feeling that someday you'll be someone very special," she said, lightly tapping the tip of Karen's nose. The most influential adult during Karen's teen years was her tenth grade social studies teacher, Mrs. O'Hara. Listen up kids, she told them, there are only two types of people in the world ... movers and shakers, and do-nothings. Do-nothings are like malignant tumors. They sit around and complain about the state of the world and do nothing to change it. Movers and shakers are influential individuals who take action to change social and/or economic situations for the betterment of society. Karen swore Mrs. O'Hara looked directly into her eyes when she said, Which will you choose to be? "I'm going to be a social worker," Karen announced at dinnertime. "Why not a schoolteacher?" asked Carl. "I don't want to be a schoolteacher. What's wrong with being a social worker?" "Nothing's wrong with it," said Carl, taking a bite out of a pork chop. "But it's not the cleanest occupation." "Clean?" Karen questioned. "It can get a bit dirty. Now a teacher, there's a proper, fitting job for a woman." "You mean more traditional?" asked Karen, a bit sarcastically. "Exactly," said Carl, pointing his fork at her. "Don't you care about social consciousness, Daddy?" "Social what?" Karen looked at her mother for support, who raised both hands in surrender and said, "You're talking over my head, honey." "But isn't helping others the main reason we're here?" asked a confused Karen. "The reason we're where?" asked Carl. "Here, on earth. The reason we're born." "Where did that harebrained idea come from?" "Carl," interrupted Vicki. "She is not a harebrain. Our Karen is a smart girl." "I didn't say she wasn't smart, Victoria, I said the idea was harebrained. Now don't you two go ganging up on me," he said, defensively. An infantry man for three years, Carl was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge. The shrapnel that hit his right leg left him with a slight, but permanent limp. His main focus was, and always would be, on his family. Everyone else, as far as he was concerned, was on their own. "Daddy, we have to think about others." "Karen, I do think about others. I think about you and your mother and how I'm going to stay middle class American. I can't be worrying about everyone else's problems." "Well, can I be a social worker, or what?" "You can be whatever you want, honey. Isn't that right, Carl?" Carl looked at his wife. She had been the number one support in his life; agreeable, submissive Vicki had never challenged her husband. Carl knew this was a lioness protecting her cub situation and that he, although king of his den, better think twice about his answer. He met his beautiful wife's stare. Her sharp, blue eyes beseeched him to listen to his daughter. Carl stuck a piece of meat in his mouth and, without taking his eyes off of Vicki said, "Karen, you can pick whatever profession your little heart desires." "You mean whatever profession her big heart desires," grinned Vicki, who bowed her head slightly at her husband before picking up her fork. "Thanks, Daddy!" Karen smiled. "Now, can we talk colleges?" "Gee whiz," Carl sighed. "I can't do it all in one night, Karen." Karen shrugged and said, "It's okay. We'll talk later." By nine o'clock, Carl had fallen asleep on the couch. Vicki was perched on the loveseat with a TV tray in front of her that held rollers, bobby pins, and a comb. She wedged a bobby pin between her front teeth and picked up the comb. "Hand me a medium roller, will you honey?" she asked, the bobby pin stable between her teeth. "So," said Karen, sitting on the edge of the loveseat, "You think I'll be a good social worker?" "Are you kidding? How could you not be? What better profession is there for a socially conscious girl such as yourself?" "I can't think of anything else," grinned Karen. "So, we're agreed?" "Agreed," Karen nodded, squeezing herself in the small space between the arm rest and Vicki so that she could rest her head on her mother's shoulder. On May 2, 1964, while at Simmons College, Karen hopped into the back of a friend's hunter green VW and drove to Times Square to participate in the first major student demonstration against the Vietnam War. On the ride to New York, she envisioned marching through the Square to the United Nations. She smiled widely to herself and thought, I am going to help change the world! What Karen forgot was that she was direction challenged. Upon arrival, the group merged into the crowd and Karen somehow managed to lose sight of every one of her friends. She ended up near tears in front of an ancient coffee shop called Big Ed's Black Brew. "You waiting for anyone in particular?" a warm voice asked her. "I'm all set, thank you very much," she said shyly, trying to recall if she had recently taken the time to pluck her one eyebrow into two. "If you're all set, why do you look lost?" Wanting to appear confident in her light brown peasant shirt, bell-bottoms, and a tie-dye headscarf, Karen looked him square in the eye, intending to say something clever or pompous, or both. "Look," she began, rather firmly. "At what?" he questioned, looking around. "What?" "What?" "No, what to you," she repeated. "What, what to me?" he smiled. "Go away. You're bothersome," she told him, but she couldn't take her eyes off him. "Yeah, well, you're annoying." "Then why are you still here?" He leaned in and whispered, "You look lost. I feel bad." Karen's defenses fell slightly. He smelled delicious, a combination of cinnamon and the first day of spring. "So?" he questioned. "So, what?" "So, are you lost?" "Only kind of lost," Karen answered. "Define kind of." "Okay, yeah, I'm pretty lost," she admitted, tossing her hands in the air. He held his hand out and said, "I'm Michael Humble." For the first time in her life, Karen wished she had her mother's beauty. Michael had steel gray eyes, a perfect nose, square chin, slightly crooked smile, and reddish blonde hair that seemed to alternate in color by every other strand. "Karen Sherburne," she said, extending her hand to meet his. "Care for a cup of joe?" he smiled. "Just a quick cup," she smiled back. "I've got to find my friends." A quick cup lasted three hours, and Karen learned that Michael was just finishing his teaching degree at Boston College. He told Karen he was an only child and that both his parents had died in a plane crash two years earlier. He had received money from the accident and a small inheritance that would provide for his college tuition and, if all went well, a starter home. They reminisced about their childhoods, exchanged embarrassing stories, and talked about what a blessing and a curse it was to be an only child. Michael asked for her number and told her he'd call her soon, soon being exactly two days, twelve hours, and thirty seven minutes later. Karen and Michael began seeing each other every weekend. Being the era of free love, they freely slept together and, after two months, Karen realized she was right after all; she could change the world. By becoming pregnant. "Well, I guess that's it for you. You went and ruined your life. I told you to be a teacher, not screw one." "Carl!" exclaimed Vicki, who was slowly learning that being vocal or disagreeable wasn't such a bad thing. "That will do. What's done is done." "It's done all right," he groaned. Michael was ecstatic. "Let's get hitched!" he cried, swinging Karen around in his arms. If asked, Karen would describe the next few years as the best and worst of times. On August 5th, 1964, Michael and Karen were married at Somerville City Hall. The only people in attendance were her parents and Michael's best friend, Samuel. They moved into a two-family house in Somerville; it was the perfect location and size for a family of three. Michael began teaching third grade at the Bingham School. For the next eight months, happiness followed more happiness, and just when it didn't seem possible that there was any more happiness to be had, Megan Jane Humble was born on April 22nd, 1965. "I hope you're planning on staying home to raise your girl," said Carl. "But if you'd like to attend a few classes, your dad and I will baby sit for you," added Vicki enthusiastically. A baby wasn't about to prevent her from giving up on the dream of her daughter making something of herself. Carl was sitting with his elbow propped on the table, his cheek resting in his fist. "Oh geez, Vicki, isn't it bad enough she kept her maiden name? Meg's going to be confused enough as it is, what with her mother being Karen Sherburne and her being Meg Humble. Will someone please tell me what the point of being married is if you're going to have two different last names?" he muttered, unballing his fist and dropping his forehead into his open hand. "Of course she won't be confused. She's too smart to be confused," said Vicki. "She's only a baby. How in the world do you know what she is?" Carl sighed. "I can tell by looking at her that she's brilliant, just like her mother," beamed Vicki. "But people won't even know they're related." "But we'll know, Carl," she said lovingly, "And that's all that matters." November 30th, 1965, was no different from any other morning. After toast with jelly for Michael, toast with peanut butter for Karen, and plum baby food for Meg, Michael kissed his wife goodbye. "I'll call you at lunchtime." (Continues...) Excerpted from DAMAGED GOODSby JODI BLASE Copyright © 2012 by Jodi Blase. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

Jodi Blase lives in New England with her husband and three children; she divides herself between work, sporting events, and writing. Visit her online at jodiblase.com/

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