"Legends of Rhododendrons" Segment 1

Here is a segment of the work-in-progress-novel I am writing. I thought that I would share this a portion at a time with you all. It totals 23 pages as of right now. Maybe your comments will inspire me to work on it some more. Actually, a lull in the huge course load I have with school would be inspiration!

Mothers always tell their children not to touch the hot stove. It will burn. My frantic mom made this torturing experience inaccessible to me throughout my childhood. It was as if my small, petite mother spent all of her hours maneuvering just behind me, in the hopes to catch my hand before I made contact with the scalding metal stovetop. Later down the road of my years, I remember telling a friend my greatest dream in life was to finally be burned. At least I’d know for myself that the stove was hot.
Growing up, there was constantly that sheltering, as well as my hunger to break loose. My parents were real Christians. They weren’t these secularized religious slugs that don’t follow the words of their God. In fact, they followed to the utmost. They lived out the commands of Jesus, loved their brother Christians, and did not falter from their convictions. I think this is what drove me away the most. I knew that I could not live up to their God. Even with His forgiveness, I did not want to live in constant pursuit of holiness. I did not want to always be growing in my “walk” with their God. I knew that it had to be true—I was not stupid—I just couldn’t commit. My rebellion was finally complete when I ran away at the age of sixteen, moved in with my secret boyfriend, and thought that my life could only get more exciting.

“Hello?” My mother’s sweet voice pierced my mind from the other side of the phone line. “Hello?”
“Mom…” Sweat caked my palms as I gripped the phone with the force of Goliath.
“Oh, my,” I could hear the tears forming in her dull green eyes. “Jack, it’s Eve!” Her voice was somewhat muffled from her pale hand sliding over the receiver.
“Mom, how are you?” I couldn’t quite bring myself to say it.
“Evey, we’re doing fine. Where are you? We’ve looked everywhere.”
“I moved out of Chris’s house a long time ago, if that’s what you’re asking.” Still the words were stuck in my throat, like a piece of food caught in my windpipe. I was stalling.
“We knew that months ago. Are you okay? Are you hurt? In trouble?” I could hear my dad saying something in the background, but couldn’t make out the words.
“Tell Dad I’m okay,” thinking that may ease his pacing. “I’ve moved around a lot.”
“Eve, baby, what is going on?” My mom’s panic was starting to subside. I was going to stay on the line long enough for a conversation this time.
I could not push out the words that screamed in my mind. They needed to know, and I needed their help. Looming around me was the question of what would be the cost. Would their gentle nudging towards their truth push me out the door again? I had nowhere else to turn. The weeks of partying subsided as Chris and my relationship soured; the quick studio jobs singing backup for artists that would go farther, faster than me became few and far between. I was evicted, and the burning words that would not break loose still had to be said. One step at a time.
“Mom, I want to come home.”