Help Yourself: A Novel

Chapter One

IN WHICH MERRY IS PRESENTED WITH AN UNEXPECTED OPPORTUNITY

As told by Merry Strand herself

Before you say I was crazy to listen to him, just try and put yourself in my shoes.

Ready?

Alright.

You’re in your mid-twenties, but you’re already starting to feel old. Since you graduated from college into a nonexistent job market two years ago, you’ve been back at home, spinning your wheels on the same stretch of rural mountain road where you were brought up. You enjoy your job, but your boss/boyfriend can be a real hothead. You love your family, but you have to admit what everyone else has seemed to know for ages: they’re a bunch of kooks. Also, you (still being me for another second) have dreamed your whole life of getting to know your dad, and of finally seeing the ocean.

Keep all that in mind when you (as me) ponder the question the stranger asked:

Would you like to solve all your problems, transform yourself and your career, win money and an oceanfront home, and gain an understanding of the charismatic father you always longed for but never knew existed?

Now, I realize that everybody is different. Maybe you don’t have any problems. Maybe you’re pleased as peaches with your life just exactly how it is. Maybe you’ve got a great career and money has never been a worry. Maybe your dad has always been around. Maybe there’s no question in the whole world that anybody could ask that’d make you stop right in your tracks and listen.

But me? I felt like the well-dressed British guy must’ve been able to see right into my heart. To come up with that exact set of items…I mean, what were the odds?

Would you, Merry? He asked, impatiently tapping one of his shiny shoes to show he wasn’t going to stand around all day waiting on my answer.

Well, I was tempted to shout YES. Those prizes he offered seemed tailor-made. I knew that even if I lived to be 110, I’d likely never get another question like that put to me. And I confess that I’d been realizing, a little at a time over the past two years, that if I didn’t make some changes soon I could be stuck here forever. I don’t want to live the rest of my life on the side of this mountain, like a scrubby old tree trying to make the most of my small scrap of ground, trying to stay warm and cheerful in the few rays of light that reach all the way down to me.

Of course, I didn’t answer right off because I didn’t know what I’d have to do to earn the jackpot. Now that I’ve learned a few details, I’m even more confused.

But I’m still gonna say yes.

Let me back up a few minutes to give you a better idea where I’m coming from.

Picture it:

I’m under a table when the man strides right through the door, like it doesn’t matter a whit to him whether the sign says OPEN or CLOSED. I’m familiar with pretty much everybody in this neck of the woods, and there’s no violent crime to speak of, so I didn’t lock up after I let myself into the restaurant.

The stranger’s fancy shoes and the clip of his walk tell me he’s not from around here, but I’m still not scared. I suppose people are either in the habit of being wary or they’re not. I’m not.

Pardon me, he says.

His accent likely blends in just fine in England. In the mountains of North Carolina, though? Not so much.

I push at the leg I just shimmed. It doesn’t wobble anymore, so I crawl out from under the table. The man steps backward as I emerge, eyeing me like I’m a big, wet frog fixing to jump on his clean suit. He holds a briefcase with one hand and pats it with the other.

I don’t need his expression to tell me I’m an awful mess. I’m here at the Mountainside early to get some dirty work done ahead of Phil’s arrival. I want to make a peace offering because we had another argument last night. I know Phil will be happy when he sees that I steadied the eight-seat table with the best long-range view of the mountains. He’ll also be pleased that I managed to make the stainless steel appliances shine again after Amy Jo cleaned them with the wrong spray yesterday.

Phil actually shouted at Amy Jo for doing that. He yelled at his own mother! I get angry all over again just thinking about it.

I admit that the streaks were awful; it looked like an acid rain cloud had opened up in the kitchen. And I know those appliances were expensive and all. I know. But Phil still shouldn’t have yelled!

I came in early this morning to make Phil forget our fight. He started it all right, but I kept it going. I suppose I wasn’t thinking beyond making up. If I had been, I’d realize that every time we make up it only lasts for a few days before something else sets him off. Then we make up again, and a couple squares down the calendar he gets angry again. And so on.

Sorry, but the restaurant is closed, I tell the stranger. I’d like to get the soup started and the meat tenderized before Phil comes in.

Right. I noticed the sign, he says. Is Merry Strand here, by chance?

Salespeople always ask for me because Phil won’t give them the time of day. Though the guy doesn’t look like a salesman, I figure he must be one. No one else ever comes around looking for me.

I’m Merry, I say.

He stares me up and down like he refuses to believe it. "Are you really?"

I’ve still got on the plaid flannel pants and faded Dollywood T-shirt that I slept in. I came in straight from bed, planning to go home and shower before I open the restaurant for lunch. My unbrushed hair spills over my shoulders.

Yes, sir, I am, I say.

Sir? he asks, in a way that makes it clear he thinks I’m a backwoods hick.

Well, saying ‘sir’ is a habit with me because of where I was raised. It doesn’t matter if I’m talking to a salesman I’m about to turn away or that he doesn’t appear to be any older than me. If he was a lady, I’d have said ‘ma’am’.

It’s called politeness, I tell him.

He looks at me hard, and I stare right back. Finally, he sets his briefcase on the table I just came out from under.

May I see your driver’s license? he asks.

A thought dawns on me that maybe my college parking tickets have finally caught up with me, two years late. I collected quite a few. But I doubt they’d warrant him driving up the mountain to find me. Plus, he doesn’t look like a civil servant. He sniffs like he’s bored, or irritated, or smells something bad.

I fold my arms over my chest. "So you just march into my closed place of employment and demand my license without first saying ‘how-de-do?’"

I have always been able to tell when my accent isn’t appreciated, when people think my IQ is lower than theirs just because I hold on to some syllables longer than they do. My Aunt Betty got rid of her accent altogether and sounds like a newscaster now, but I’ve never wanted to go lopping off parts of me to fit in. Besides, if blending into the woodwork was Aunt Betty’s goal, she sure failed.

The stranger mouths how-de-do like it’s the weirdest darn thing he’s ever heard.

I don’t have the time to stand around yapping with a rude stranger. Just tell me what it is you want, or go out the way you came in, I say.

He frowns like it’s a big decision. After a minute, he takes a piece of paper from his pocket and reads the exact question I told you about:

Would you like to solve all your problems, transform yourself and your career, win money and an oceanfront home, and gain an understanding of the charismatic father you always longed for but never knew existed?

I stare at him like he just fell from the sky. I try to absorb his whole question, but the word father keeps echoing in my brain.

Would you, Merry? The man taps his foot.

What on earth are you talking about? I ask. I have the weird idea that somehow I let a fussy genie out of a bottle, one who won’t play by the regular rules because he thinks he knows what my wishes ought to be.

He sits at the table and opens his briefcase. Very matter-of-factly he says, I have come to talk with you on behalf of your biological father.

I sit down hard in the chair across. "My who?"

Here’s the honest-to-goodness truth: I have imagined a thousand versions of the moment when I would finally find out something, anything, about my dad.

I always dreamed he would suddenly appear out of nowhere, when I just happened to look my most beautiful. Like when I was four years old and dressed up in a new white dress for Lois Pretinger’s birthday party.

Anytime I felt crushed or alone, I also imagined that my dad would suddenly arrive to cheer me up. Like my whole life until then had been a sad sack, made-for-TV movie, just waiting for a happy ending.

I remember hoping that my father would appear to console me when our old dog bit me on the cheek and had to be euthanized. I closed my eyes and yearned so hard for him to come…I knew it was my fault Carlton bit me because I had petted him in his twitchy sleep.

I also believed my dad would show up and lead me back home when I wandered too deep off the trail into the woods. I was dead scared and near frozen, and somewhere in the night I began to think he really was there with me. But in the morning, I woke up alone to the sound of a neighbor lady hollering my name.

And I watched out the window for my dad long after Phil called to say he wasn’t picking me up for prom after all because he had gotten it into his jealous head that I liked another boy.

I dreamed my whole life that when my father suddenly appeared, he would say how sorry he was that it had taken him so long. He’d bear-hug me until I needed air, and we would instantly be best friends. He would whisk me away from Peaksy Falls, off to some wonderful place—I imagined so many different ones—where we’d make up for all our lost time.

But when the impatient English genie mentions my father, I know deep down that something is wrong. My dad wasn’t supposed to send a messenger.

Maybe this will sound weird to you, but I never had a father figure at all.

My mom adopted me at birth; she’s in pictures with me from day one on. Have I dreamed of my biological mother sometimes? Well, heavens yes! I’ve wondered if she’s nice, if she’s pretty, if she ever misses me. I wonder if her life has been better for having given me up. I wonder if she has a favorite color, and if it’s pink, and if she loves peach ice cream the way I do. But I’ve always made an extra effort not to indulge in thoughts of the lady who brought me into this world, for fear of hurting my real, day-to-day mom’s feelings. Or my grandma’s. Those two have always been with me, so I suppose that’s why I’ve never felt a gaping hole in my heart for a mom.

For the past two years, ever since my grandma had that bad fall and my mom begged me to come home to Peaksy Falls, I’ve been living with my mom and grandma again. I know lots of people move home after graduation these days. But when I went away to college (not too far away, just a few hours’ drive), I had promised myself that I’d never move back home again. I figured that I had seen everything around here, and knew everyone, and done everything that could be done.

When Grandma fell, my mom seemed to want me back here more than anything. And Phil offered me the job and all. As time passed, whenever I talked about moving on, Grandma complained about her new hip and started limping again. Mom fretted something awful.

I suppose that before the Englishman across the table marched into the restaurant, it must have seemed to everybody in the world, sometimes me included, that I’d be stuck in the same place, with the same people, doing the same things, forever.

Your biological father, Claude Pershing, the man says. May I see your driver’s license to confirm that you really are Merry Strand?

I get my purse from the shelf behind the hostess stand and hand over my license. "Why would I want to prove I’m his daughter if he hasn’t cared this long? Maybe I don’t care."

The stranger looks up at me and blinks twice.

I wasn’t clear, he says. I’m talking about an inheritance, Ms. Strand.

Oh, I say. So there it is: my dad is dead. I’ll never meet him, never know him. And that’s that. It’s all I can do to keep from crying.

The stranger gives me back my license. I suppose it’s wrong to call him a stranger now, since he obviously knows things about me that I don’t know myself.

Mr. Pershing wasn’t aware that he had a daughter until it was too late to get to know you, Ms. Strand.

Claude Pershing was my father’s name? I ask.

That’s correct, he says in a clipped, closed-off way. I wish he was more open because I have a million questions.

"Claude Pershing sounds like a name that should’ve belonged to an admiral or a duke. I always pictured my dad as Robert Redford in The Horse Whisperer," I say.

I believe Mr. Pershing would have enjoyed all those images.

The way he says it, I can’t tell if the comment was meant as an insult or a compliment. I open my mouth to ask a question, or maybe a whole mess of them, but I don’t get the chance.

When Mr. Pershing found out he had a daughter, he asked me to gather as much information about you as I could. He wanted me to help you fix your life.

Fix my life? Did he figure it was broken?

From what he gathered… To put it simply, he thought you could use some assistance getting yourself together.

I stare at the man across the table, who seems about as different from me as anybody I’ve ever met. Are you my brother? I ask him.

No, I am most certainly not. I was Mr. Pershing’s barrister, and I suppose I still am. As he reaches out to shake my hand, he smiles at me for the very first time. I’m Fritz Forth, he says. How-de-do?

I smile back. There are your manners! I knew they had to be in there somewhere, especially with you talking so fancy and all dressed up like you’re on your way to a wedding.

His smile turns into a wince. Right. I have something for you. Let’s call it a letter, shall we? It’s from Mr. Pershing. He unpacks a stack of papers from his briefcase and shuffles through them. He makes two equal piles and starts to push one toward me, but stops.

Let me first say that Mr. Pershing was blessed with many positive qualities. As you will soon see, however, he also had a stubborn streak of eccentricity. Please keep in mind that everything here is in legal order; I have seen to that. But your father’s penchant for oddity grew more pronounced as he aged, and these pages, unfortunately, reflect that.

My dad wrote those? I ask, reaching for the stack of papers. Fritz puts his hand on top to stop me like he’s not finished yapping yet.

I feel so many emotions; I honestly can’t make them all out. Except excitement, and I suppose fear that Fritz will find his way back into his genie bottle and I’ll wake up to find that his visit was only a dream.

Mr. Pershing dictated them, yes. I typed them for him and encouraged him toward changes that would make the information as coherent as possible. Fritz rubs his eyes like he’s got a tension headache. But as I said, he was stubborn.

Before Fritz can stop me, I grab a stack of the papers and start reading.

Hello, Merry.

What a charming name! I do hope that it suits you.

Getting straight to business:

This document is to inform you that I, Claude Pershing, your biological father, regret having been unaware of your existence until very late in my life. When I discovered that I might indeed have a daughter, I was very sorry that I hadn’t gotten to know you and perhaps to have been of assistance and support to you during your formative years.

With regret for having missed so much time and so many opportunities with you, my biological daughter (whom I most certainly did not know about), I sincerely apologize. As a token of my regret, I (Claude Pershing) bequeath to you (Merry Strand) a property of considerable value, which I hope you will enjoy as much as I did. There is also a sum of money, but we’ll get to all that in a moment.

First, let me congratulate you on being my child. I have reason to believe that I am part of a fine lineage of good people. I only hope that hemorrhoids do not plague you, as they did me and my ancestors.

I must now take a moment to dispense with an important formality. It behooves me to explain that in order for the aforementioned property and money to pass to you freely and clearly, there are certain nonnegotiable conditions that must be met. Unfortunately, I cannot communicate them to you directly, being in no condition (i.e. dead), so you will have to depend upon the next best thing: my most trusted assistant in life, Fritz Forth.

The long and short of it is that Fritz shall give you a series of tasks, and he will advise you in completing them. You must live at the property in question for the time it takes you to fulfill the requirements I have entrusted to Mr. Forth.

I am (was) sorry if you feel the conditions of your inheritance are not very chivalrous on my part. I assure you that I believe they are for your own good and that in the end you might come to agree with me (posthumously, of course).

If you are unable to complete a task, Fritz will, unfortunately again, be forced to declare this proposal null and void. He will, in that case, turn you out of the house, and you will be left with nothing. Rest assured that Fritz would not enjoy this outcome; he is a most affable young man, and evictions aren’t a hobby he would take up with any vigor.

I have been told that I am a long-winded meanderer. I believe it. Especially in the short time afforded to me between having discovered you and becoming ill-suited to making your proper acquaintance (that is to say: dead), I have been less straightforward in my logical capacity than I knew myself to be prior. I apologize. I would have liked to leave you with a sturdy impression.

Now to describe the property you stand to inherit. As you may know, native that you are, North Carolina boasts many long, thin islands along its acquaintance with the Atlantic Ocean. These are called barrier islands, and essentially they are sand bars. They are very large and very pretty (if my opinion counts anymore) sand bars, with trees and houses and roads on them. Between the barrier islands and the land is the intracoastal waterway, filled with brackish water—meaning a mixture of salt and fresh water, so that dolphins may appear as well as the occasional alligator. On the other side of the island is the Atlantic Ocean: the true love of my life.

I apologize for that insensitive remark. You might very well have been the love of my life, had I known about you.

I am sorry to say, if you are curious to know, which indeed you are if you have inherited my family’s curiosity (though hopefully not our hemorrhoids), that your mother was not the love of my life. I can be sure of this because I remembered only fleeting impressions of her until a document recently came into my hands. That document was how I became aware that you might, potentially, exist. Because you’re reading this now, Merry, I think we can both safely conclude that you do. Indeed.

I have left you at the edge of North Carolina, looking toward the barrier islands. Let me now