CHAPTER ONE

BROKEN DREAMS

A man that hath the patience to go by steps may deceive one much wiser than himself.
–Marquis Of Halifax (1633-1695)

A crisis event often explodes the illusions that anchor our lives.
-Robert Veninga

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a clue to what was really going on in my life, other than dealing with a very jealous man who couldn’t accept my newfound success as a businesswoman. The truth was unfathomable betrayal and an unfamiliar total reliance on God’s love. Oh, and the birth of a brand new career that I’d thought about once, but never told a soul.

Rick, my once gorgeous husband with dark, thick, curly hair, bedroom eyes, and strong athletic body, was now, after twenty-four years of marriage, skinny and bald. On the other hand, his complexion was as beautiful as a baby’s butt. He once looked exactly like Don McClean, the singer-songwriter of American Pie.

His strange compulsive habits, in taking care of himself, were of concern for me, as well as his new, somewhat feminine, look – resembling his life-sucking mother, God forbid. Over the years Rick had become a vitamin popping, Metamucil taking, vomiting machine…and this went on almost every morning. Secretly, amongst friends, I called Rick “Mr. Metamucil Man,” along with many other endearing names…as a joke.

He claimed his doctor, who he saw every six months religiously, said he was in excellent health. Rick would say, “My doctor only cares for executives, and you’re not an executive now are you? He won’t even talk to you.”

There was no other choice but to believe Rick momentarily, until further notice. Everything about him in business and health had grown to be a big, ridiculous, executive secret, which caused me to question often what was really going on. But then again, Rick was known by all our many friends and family to be very controlling and weird, nothing more sinister. I had adjusted over time, and convinced myself that my husband was just easily influenced by every new health fad that came into vogue. He was scared to death that his cholesterol and blood pressure level would kill him, if he didn’t contract Aids from eating in a filthy restaurant. And who wouldn’t throw up after forcing fifty to sixty vitamins down their gullet every morning?

As far as business was concerned, it had become clear over the years by Rick’s remarks that I was too stupid to understand anything about business, so why share? Truth was, I was concerned he was a very stupid businessman.

Additionally, Rick had acquired some really odd ticks since we married. Slowly over twenty-four years they came, one after the other, almost unnoticeable to others, but not to me. Eventually these ticks blended into a ritual, equal to a well-tuned symphony. Sometimes he’d perform only one ritual. He would jump out of a chair to his feet, manipulate his body until his back cracked, crank his head from left to right, shoot-swing his tongue at a racer’s speed over his lips, and then end the routine with stretching his philtrum tightly down over his upper teeth, swiping at it quickly with his right hand fingers exactly three times. But it still didn’t end until he’d shake his right wrist and look at his watch or rub his palms together over and over, flat handed.

Honestly, it was weird. Yet, Rick had broken his collarbone ten years earlier, so I just told myself, “This is how his little routine was born.” What a broken collarbone would have to do with lips, tongue, teeth and swiping, I had no idea.

He also had another odd habit where he’d throw his right knee to the side, grab a small area of fabric at his crotch with his right hand fingers and shake it like a dog shaking its head. But, he’d always done this. I thought he just had his own special way in adjusting himself…as all men do.

Oh, and when he didn’t want to address an uncomfortable subject, during a meal, he’d just manically stuff his mouth with a whole lot of food and act like, quite visible through his eyes, “I can’t hear you; my mouth is full.”

One time, as a joke, when Rick was being very cruel towards me during an argument, I threatened to scrub the toilet with his toothbrush, just to lighten the air in the room. This was a huge, regrettable mistake on my part since, from that day forward, it appeared as if he carried a folding toothbrush in his back pocket – even while wearing a tux during those beautiful elite parties held at the Detroit Institute of Arts. At the very least he was shopping for and buying new toothbrushes on a weekly basis. Rick’s antics were just plain laughable and that’s how I coped…by laughing as often as I could…and teasing him.

As a Christmas present for the next coming year, I had already ordered Rick a set of monogrammed sterling silver flatware, in a leather case, and adorned with his initials. You guessed it! I was imagining him stuffing this in his other pocket whenever we dined out… So very weird. I loved him though and must say I wasn’t exempt from my own weirdness.

“Little Miss Perfectionist,” was what my children coined me, behind my back – and straight to my face, when they were really angry. I had to have everything from my environment to my person perfect or there was something wrong. Quite a burden to bear. There wasn’t a week that would pass that I didn’t spend hours working on everything from my hair to my toes while shaming myself if I missed even one exercise routine. Yet this was acceptable and expected, in our circle of life, and silently demanded by my husband. I knew if I didn’t stay as beautiful as he expected me to be, I’d lose him.

Looking back today, I realize just how perfect I really was for me. Yet, I never felt like I was anything more than someone who had to completely reinvent herself.

There I was at a hundred and ten pounds with a body as tight as leather stretched over a curvaceous chair with a puffy seat, acquired from skiing all my life. My long brown hair was fine, straight and shiny, as my skin radiated youth even at forty-eight years old.

There wasn’t a thing I couldn’t do, whether it was expertly skiing the highest mountain in Switzerland or putting on grand parties – for the elite or for the many friends we had. Balancing it all with raising our three beautiful daughters, my greatest love and joy of life next to my husband, was my quest.

I felt Rick had enabled me to realize what I had yearned to have…a beautiful family. This escaped me as a child, as my beautiful, highly educated and wonderful mother spent her life in mental hospitals. It was haunting, and continued to be a mystery, as to why. Nevertheless, by the grace of God, I had escaped my mother’s plight and accomplished what she hadn’t. I was very grateful. Rick and I were the envy of all who knew us because of the history of our beautiful love story, which had lasted, while others failed.

And, as Rick continued to enjoy his controlling antics, I was beginning to make a mark in the art and fashion world. In therapy with Dr. Danieloff, I was learning about what happens to marriages when the homemaker, during the middle years, changes the status quo of the relationship by going out into the world in search of her own identity. I saw Rick’s behavior as his way to sabotage, only, what my work entailed, and if I lovingly moved forward, sticking to the plan, he would eventually see the light and grow up.

Not to mention, Rick was telling me he’d be selling his third generation family business, which made parts for Ford, soon, and would be joining me in my fashion design venture. In fact, we had already written the business plan together. Rick was even promising to move back to California, where I grew up and had missed since I moved to Michigan. My family and proud heritage were there and I yearned to return, especially to Lake Tahoe, though my parents were no longer living.

True, my tall, handsome, calm, bronze-headed business partner, Larry, had become a good friend and confidant, but he was also supportive of me as I moved towards what I wanted most – which was my marriage and family – while Rick continued working through his anger, which stemmed from what I saw as change-of-life-envy. Rick seemed to be bent on compromising my relationships with my three grown daughters, Alison, Alexis (“Lexi”), and Kelly, as well as my close friends and his family. This made me furious.

Dr. Danieloff and Christiané, my strikingly-beautiful-fashion-design-teacher, as well as Larry, all advised the same way: “You have the right and duty to yourself to realize your own dreams. If your family really loves you they’ll learn to accept your own personal goals. They’re just spoiled from your always being at their beck and call.”

This I trusted to be true and I was confident that, beneath it all, my family loved me. I knew how my daughters felt about me. They had always said I was the best mother in the world, and as an extra bonus, I knew we were all best friends. I was very proud of this accomplishment, and I smiled, from ear to ear, when everyone who either knew us or were meeting us for the first time would, regularly, comment about how much we looked alike.

“It’s the gift of being a mother early in life,” I’d think to myself.

In fact, my family was so important to me, I insisted on being a full time mother and wife until my daughters were off on their own.

Alison and Lexi married; Kelly was in her third year of college. They were so excited about my fashion designing they actually planned to be part of the business also, seeking degrees from college whereby they’d be assets for this growing venture. Alison was a photographer, Lexi had expertise in advertising, and Kelly was still finding her way, but she had a great sense of style with clothing.

But there were financial issues outside of the scenario of my happy family life. For one, Fred Mirbach, my serious-pin-stripe-wearing-shiny-shoe-sportin’ financial advisor and stockbroker, who was handling my huge inheritance, expressed pleasure in where my trust account was headed. But…

I became concerned at one point about what was going on with my middle daughter Lexi’s account, and I hadn’t reached Fred with my questions. He had been out of town, and besides, I wasn’t looking forward to talking to him since he hadn’t been very nice to me lately. It seemed he had copped an attitude of frustration towards me over my spending, which I didn’t understand since I was rarely buying anything.

Another sign of financial trouble was the fact that all the people we once employed around our beautiful estate were no longer with us. Since the girls were mostly on their own, and Rick had been making a very good income, I honestly took all these money issues as merely Rick’s need to control.

And, if these issues presented any problem at all, it created a small pit in my stomach which I couldn’t shake, causing me often to hide half the groceries in the trunk of my car if I thought Rick would be home when I’d returned from the store. Thank God, he was never polite enough to offer to help me unload. Had he, I’d have been screamed at for days, as I often was if caught spending money needlessly. He’d say, “You think there’s money in the account if you have blank checks in your checkbook,” suggesting that I was an idiot. At the time, I took these remarks as a joke. Meanwhile, my subconscious understood it all. Today I consciously get it. I also get that the more educated I became over the years, the more subtly abusive Rick was towards me until finally…

Deborah Clare Breuner Davis
1949-

I think Deborah is beginning to get the picture now, but she’s in so much pain she can’t see the forest for the trees. Her denial will keep her confused for a bit longer. She hasn’t yet realized that I’ve sent her a prize…she loves surprises. This surprise will save her life and help her reach the truth. Deborah doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to help change the world…uncover a secret.

Then she’ll have to reach deep down inside to find faith that she can work everything out, with God’s help, and accept the injustices brought upon her. She hasn’t a clue as to how evil people can be…especially family. She’s about to find out through the prize I’ve sent her.

Winifred Clare Kaseberg Breuner
1909-1970

In early October, 1997, I deliver my scuba gear for service to the scuba shop in Birmingham, Michigan, a normal routine before taking a diving trip. What is not normal is this time Joe, a thin, weathered man and the shop owner, tells me that my husband called and said he’d pick up our equipment when it’s done. Things between Rick and myself have gone from horrible to inching towards much better, so I’m thinking, “Rick is just trying to be extra nice.” Otherwise I’d have been shocked!

I’m excited about leaving for the Cayman Islands in less than a week. It is our annual October vacation before attending a Young Presidents’ Organization (YPO) University event. My only concern is about spending time with three members of Rick’s business forum (who are bringing girlfriends instead of their wives) who I’ve known and have been on trips with before. I hadn’t met these women, these girlfriends, who are not much older than my youngest child.

I’m disgusted by how these fifty-year-old men can trade in perfectly beautiful women, to whom they’ve been married for years, in exchange for little brats with big boobs. Not to mention, I feel like I’m betraying my girlfriends, the wives, and missing them. I make the comment to Rick about how uncomfortable I am with the situation. He tells me, “I know, just be happy we have such a wonderful relationship and have been able to get through every challenge life can offer. We’re amongst the lucky ones.”

As the sun rises over the sea for our first day in the Islands, Rick and I are up organizing scuba gear and eating breakfast early. We had a romantic evening the night before, which isn’t unusual for us, when we’d travel. I’m feeling particularly beautiful because, even at forty-eight years old, I can see the efforts in taking care of myself have really paid off. Rick had been offering compliments since we left Michigan on this trip. At home he’s usually too busy to notice anything but whether his dinner is served on time so he can hop on his cross-country machine and run, like a rat on a wheel, while the smell of sweat radiates through the house.

Of course Rick’s head must hit the pillow, for sleep, no later than 9:00 PM for fear he’ll turn into a pumpkin. Consequently, I’ve learned to love traveling with Rick. It’s the only time he abandons his stupid schedule and transforms back into the man I married…even becomes fun-loving.

I comment to Rick, while we stroll through the sand towards the boat early in the morning, entwined with each other, with a slight chill in the air which makes me wish I’d worn more than a bathing suit, “You know, you should have been an actor with the way you can so easily change your personality at a moment’s notice.”

Rick responds, “Shut up Bunns, you’re always telling me that!” Pulling me still closer to him he laughs.

We’re meeting our group at 7:30 AM on the boat taking us to the Cayman Wall to dive and I’m excited and happy. Rick is his old self again, so much so that it’s easy to forget he doesn’t look the same as he used to.

Excitedly we skim over the calm, blue ocean, traveling at top speed in the chartered boat towards our goal. We’re chatting about wet suits, equipment and water temperature, in spite of the roar from the engines, and make entries into logbooks. Once we reach our destination the engines stop, while the guides anchor the boat, describe the day, what dangers there may be, and what the rules are, as we suit up for the first dive. The smell of the air is what I’d imagine heaven to be. Rick lovingly helps me put on the heavy oxygen tank, making sure my BC is secure, and then sweetly kisses my lips saying, “Come on Bunns, let’s be the first in the water,” as we both do a back roll off the stern.

When I emerge to the surface of the ocean, checking my computer before the execution of my dive, I see this equipment isn’t working at all. “Rick my dive computer is as dead as a door nail. I don’t understand! I just had every piece of our equipment checked out.”

Rick responds with little concern but an answer to the dilemma, “Listen, no problem Bunns, it really doesn’t matter. We’re only making a half hour dive and it won’t be deep. We’ll rely on my computer while I stay by your side. I’ll have one of the guides replace the batteries before the next dive. I’m sure the problem can be fixed easily.”

This seems like a viable idea since everyone in our group is well into their dives already. I don’t want to miss my adventure nor be the only person left on the surface. I reluctantly agree as Rick and I slowly make our descent to fifty feet, as deep as we have planned to go, especially under the prevailing conditions. I am holding on to his arm preventing any risk of getting separated.

Suddenly, feeling some extra pressure in my ears, I motion to my husband that I want to look at his computer. I’m searching for the possible reason for what might be causing my pain. Shocked, I notice we’re suspended near the famous Cayman Wall, nothing below us but darkness forever. The computer reads one hundred and fifty feet!. I don’t even recall how we got here; we’re not certified to go past eighty feet!

The last moment I remember is motioning to Rick, with my hand, that we start ascending. After this, Rick is gone.

I’m alone and haven’t made even six feet towards the surface. I can tell by the markers I’ve spotted on the wall. For what seems like forever I spin around looking for my dive buddy in a panic, as I try to remind myself of what to do next. I honestly don’t know, yet I fear nitrogen narcosis, an embolism, running out of air, and not knowing where or how to gauge the time period for the stops to the surface.

Somehow, I do know Rick has left me to die. I also realize my marriage is over, and though I may feel like dying, I want to live.

Slowly, I make my way upward towards the little light I see, when I notice some distant red fins swimming by. I decide to follow them into a cave, a diving experience I’ve never had before, but at least it’s a warm body who could possibly notice my need. However, lack of knowledge finds me stuck between rocks because of the tank on my back, not knowing how to get out, while the fins swim away.