Shadows in the Mind's Eye Read online

  “Readers will enjoy this emotional exploration of a soldier’s journey as he returns home to his family’s farm after fighting a war in the Pacific. This story examines not only the traumatic impact on his own psyche but on the lives of all who love him most. With alternating points of view, Tromp weaves a complex historical tale incorporating love, suspense, hurt, and healing—all the elements that keep the pages turning.”

  —Julie Cantrell, New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of Perennials

  “Oh my! What a story! Shadows in the Mind’s Eye is a stunner of a debut novel. Sam and Annie’s love is beautifully rendered, Sam’s combat fatigue (what we now call PTSD) is compassionately portrayed, and Janyre Tromp’s writing effortlessly captures the Southern voice. And the last half of the book is one dangerous, breathtaking twist after another, as Sam’s worst nightmares come to pass. A compelling look at a town struggling to find its soul and a wounded couple struggling to reclaim their love. Not to be missed.”

  —Sarah Sundin, ECPA best-selling and award-winning author of Until Leaves Fall in Paris and When Twilight Breaks

  “An achingly poignant tale of rediscovering love and trust between wounded hearts. Love, forgiveness, and danger weave together in Tromp’s emotional tale where the greatest of battles are fought in the mind. Beautiful in description with complex characters, readers will not forget this emotional journey.”

  —J’nell Ciesielski, best-selling author of The Socialite

  “Stunning and compelling, Janyre Tromp’s Shadows in the Mind’s Eye kept me turning pages, with a cast of true-to-life characters, pitch-perfect narrative, and a plot that will keep the reader wondering what is true (and what is imagined). Intense and full of heart, Tromp delivers a fresh voice in the world of fiction.”

  —Susie Finkbeiner, author of The Nature of Small Birds and the Pearl Spence series

  “With twists and turns as unexpected as an Arkansas thunderstorm, Tromp brilliantly explores the things war can change and the important things it can’t.”

  —Lynne Gentry, USA Today best-selling author of Lethal Outbreak

  “A hair-raising, mind-bending psychological thriller, Shadows in the Mind’s Eye by Janyre Tromp deftly explores a marriage torn asunder by war. Is a marriage worth fighting for when you cannot see the people your husband is fighting, or when you even become the one he is fighting? Tromp’s nuanced empathy elevates this story to another level and blurs the line between villain and hero, causing readers to ponder the lengths they would go to to protect themselves, even against ones they love.”

  —Jolina Petersheim, best-selling author of How the Light Gets In

  “Shadows in the Mind’s Eye is an intense, beautifully written novel about secrets and sacrifice. A story about poignant trauma and truth potent enough to heal a broken family. A fabulous debut!”

  —Melanie Dobson, award-winning author of The Winter Rose and Catching the Wind

  “With pitch-perfect dialect, lyrical prose, and homespun wisdom, Tromp delivers a slow boiling mystery that dares to ask the deepest questions about faith, love, suffering, evil, and hope.”

  —Elizabeth Musser, award-winning author of The Promised Land

  “Tromp’s debut novel is the perfect blend of historical fiction and psychological thriller. Shadows in the Mind’s Eye hooked me early on and kept me enthralled until the very end. The story is complex and offers readers a glimpse into the toll that trauma can take on a marriage. A story of war, of heartache, of love and healing, this novel will appeal to a broad swath of readers. Tromp is a new author to watch!”

  —Kelli Stuart, award-winning author of The Fabulous Freaks of Monsieur Beaumont and the upcoming release, The Master Craftsman

  Shadows in the Mind’s Eye: A Novel

  © 2022 by Janyre Tromp

  Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel Inc., 2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505. www.kregel.com.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the publisher’s prior written permission or by license agreement. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures and public figures appear, many of the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Tromp, Janyre, author.

  Title: Shadows in the mind’s eye : a novel / Janyre Tromp.

  Description: Grand Rapids, MI : Kregel Publications, [2022]

  Subjects: LCGFT: Christian fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3620.R668 S53 2022 (print) | LCC PS3620.R668 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20211022

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021051656

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021051657

  ISBN 978-0-8254-4739-6, print

  ISBN 978-0-8254-7794-2, epub

  ISBN 978-0-8254-6945-9, Kindle

  Printed in the United States of America

  22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 / 5 4 3 2 1

  To Grandma and Bobpa, thank you for your sacrifices and the real but beautiful pattern for marriage you left behind.

  And to my own hubby, Chris, thank you for working with me to make our own beautiful framework for our kids. Love you more.

  “For Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.”

  —The apostle Paul in his second letter to the Corinthians

  CHAPTER

  One

  SAM

  Darkness had long ago swallowed the Greyhound bus moving down the road so slow that it might as well have been going backward. It took every ounce of my control not to elbow the driver out of the way and stomp on the gas pedal. After all, the war was over, and every man here was ready to get home to his kinfolk. I wasn’t no exception.

  I scrunched my eyes shut and choked back another cough, the burn crawling down my throat and making me gag. Tugging my wool peacoat tighter over my shoulders, I hoped the major next to me hadn’t noticed my flushed cheeks when we boarded. Last thing I needed was some officer ordering me off the bus and into an infirmary.

  “You all right, soldier?”

  I bristled, habit forcing my body ramrod straight. “Sailor.”

  “What?”

  “I was a coxswain for a Higgins boat.”

  He stared at me like I was spouting Greek.

  “A pilot for amphibious beach landings?”

  When he still didn’t show sign of understanding, I shifted the blanket so’s my navy uniform showed. “I’m a sailor,” I said, adding “sir” at the last second. No sense getting court-martialed for disrespecting an officer, even if he was army.

  “Right.” The man shifted. “No offense intended, but you don’t look so good … sailor.”

  “I’m just fine, sir.”

  All I wanted was to get home and wrap my arms around Charlotte Anne and my sweet baby girl, then sleep for the next week with nobody pokin’, proddin’, or askin’ me how I felt. The Lord as my w
itness, I swore I’d never leave our orchard and Hot Springs again.

  “There’s a hospital in Malvern. Maybe you oughta—”

  “I reckon I’ll take that under advisement, sir.” Although I’d tried to make my voice respectful, it came out with a shade more lip than I, or my Ma for that matter, would’ve liked.

  “Don’t want you bringing home cholera or anything.” He chuckled, then rubbed a hand over his mouth as if he realized how ridiculous he’d sounded and wanted to stuff the words back in.

  We’d all been quarantined on the way home long enough that I was sure my backside had grown moss. The U.S. military had seen fit to be sure the only thing I brought home was a mild case of malaria and a smidgen of lead hidden in my shoulder … although they didn’t know about the Japanese saber buried under the ratty underwear in my pack. That was my souvenir—a reminder of what happens to somebody who shoots a man in the back.

  “Thank you kindly, sir. I’m just anxious to get home to my little girl.”

  The man smiled, and I relaxed.

  “I got me a son.” He pulled out a stack of photographs—a sturdy toddler, a wife, an older gentleman with grease smudged on his cheek—and I mm-hmmed in all the right places, least as much as was fittin’ for a perfect stranger. It was almost like I’d returned to the person I was before going to war three years back. I traced the image of the little boy with my finger, registering that the major hadn’t likely met his son yet, just like I hadn’t met my little Rosemary.

  Lights flashed off in the distance, igniting my memory, and the boy’s picture slipped from my fingers and fluttered to the floor. My breath came in snatches, my mind desperately telling my heart to slow, that there wasn’t nothing dangerous here.

  “Just lightning.” The major was studying me. “Makes me a mite nervous too.”

  I clenched my fingers around the dress gloves in my lap. Even with the thunder, a body would think the hum of tires on the road and no threat of Japanese Zeroes strafing us would help me settle, maybe even fall asleep in two hops of a grasshopper. But I was pretty sure I’d left behind whatever hop I used to have on some island in the Pacific—squashed by the military regimen and then ground down by the Japanese for good measure.

  The major leaned over and retrieved his photo. I noticed his perfectly manicured hand as he brushed off a bit of dust before slipping his boy’s smiling face into a pocket of his immaculate uniform, no frayed edges in sight. Wasn’t no way this man had been anywhere near the front. I rolled my head from shoulder to shoulder. Some folks have all the luck.

  I could near feel Ma reach out and swat my head for such disrespect.

  Samuel Robert Mattas, I taught you better than this.

  Sorry, Ma. Maybe you could intervene with the Almighty upstairs and—

  “So where you headed?” The major watched me like a body might watch a dog foaming and growling. More than a little annoyance skimmed over a healthy dose of fear. Lord Almighty, I’d turned into a mangy cur.

  “I know you mean well, sir. But I’m trying to sleep. It’s been a long time since …” Since what, I wasn’t sure. Since I’d been safe enough to sleep without waking to panic coursing through me? Since I’d been home? Since I’d had a normal conversation with a stranger without near biting his head off?

  At least he’d served. It was all those 4-Fers who got themselves out of the war, lyin’ back and takin’ it easy that deserved my wrath. Well, maybe not all of them. Certainly not Doc. He’d paid mighty with the polio. Wouldn’t wish that on nobody, least of all my best friend.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and I closed my mind against the devil clawing at me. I was home, in Arkansas. My Annie and Rosie were waiting for me on the farm. Ma too. No landing run, no artillery, no Japs waiting to light up anything that moved in the waves.

  Just a storm.

  “I’m headed over to Crows.” The man was still chattering while sweat tickled my spine. Somebody somewhere must’ve told him talking set a man at ease. Must never have met a mountain man.

  Just a storm.

  I held my breath, the growls creeping closer, seeking a target … the world pulsing, vibrating with the sound … the smell of fire crawling across the Arkansas plains … the green of the seat in front of me surging like the algae-crusted lakes we’d drunk from in the Pacific … the sickness roiling in my belly …

  “My folks live up there.” The major’s voice echoed from deep under the water. “Pop says he held a job for me in the factory over in Little Rock. Don’t know if I’ll be able to take being on the floor, but …”

  Up front someone flicked on a light, and a face jumped up to my window—hooded eyes, searching, hunting. I lurched to my feet, cracking my head against the ceiling of the bus as I tried to push the major to safety. He latched onto my arm, dragging me under, and I yanked away, panting. Didn’t he know we needed to run?

  “There’s somebody out there.” I pulled on his elbow, desperately searching for an escape route through the sea of seats.

  What were they thinking letting a bus full of unarmed men meander down a highway with the headlights un-blacked? It was suicide to sit in a target all lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Ain’t no one out there.” The major held his hands out in front of him like he was surrendering to me, pleading like I was about to shoot him dead.

  I glanced behind me to prove him wrong and saw my reflection ghosted on the glass. Ears sticking out of dark, messy curls. Eye sockets bruised by exhaustion. More lines than a twenty-seven-year-old man should’ve earned. Other than the whir of its tires on the road, the bus was silent, and everybody watched me. When the whispers started, I leaned over the major and said sorry before yanking the cord to alert the driver someone needed to get off the bus. I grabbed my blanket along with my peacoat, cap, and gloves before stumbling down the aisle, staggering between the seats.

  Wasn’t no way I would let them all stare at me the rest of the way to the Hot Springs transportation depot. Maybe a hike would bring me to my senses. A body could hope.

  I forced the bus’s door open nearly before we stopped, and waited, bouncing on the balls of my feet while the driver opened the storage locker and wrestled my pack to the side of the road.

  “You sure you want out here, son? Ain’t nothin’ here but trees and coyotes.”

  I nodded at the old man scratching the bare scalp under his driver’s cap.

  “I know the folks who live on the other side of that hill.”

  I tried to sound convincing despite the blank void stretching in every direction. Electricity may have been strung up in Little Rock, but FDR’s New Deal hadn’t lit up half of Arkansas yet.

  The driver sniffed at me, seeming to smell the lie, before shrugging and pulling himself back onto the bus.

  “I been in worse than this,” I called. But seeing as the door was already closed, I don’t know who I was trying to convince.

  The bus eased away, picking up speed until its red taillights disappeared around a bend.

  Behind me an owl hooted, and I squinted into the distance.

  Now I’d gone and done it. I had no idea where I was. Somewhere past Malvern, I supposed. Only chirping insects and the curling of ominous clouds eating away at the stars greeted me.

  I shivered at the creeping cold of night and pulled a scrap of oiled blanket over my head and coat. The month of May on the Arkansas plain used to feel mighty warm compared to the frosty air of my mountain home. One more thing the Pacific had changed in me.

  “Best get movin’.”

  One thing the last three years had taught me was how to move quick and keep going—no matter what.

  Wish I could’ve blamed someone else for the chilled wet seeping through me, but the fault landed square on my shoulders. The good Lord knew I didn’t always think things through. I had a history of it … especially when it came to Charlotte Anne, my Annie. Even back the first time we met, I must’ve been crazy on account of what I did. Ma near lost her mind when I c
ame struggling through the door of our farmhouse kitchen with a half-froze girl in my arms that Saturday afternoon. With Doc home sick again, I’d been on my own as I dragged her out from under the ice on the pond halfway down our mountain. And I did what I always did when I didn’t know what to do. I went and found Ma.

  “The Judge’s princess, no less.” Despite her sputtering, Ma had bustled Charlotte Anne into my sister Mary’s flannel nightgown and robe faster than two shakes of a rabbit’s tail, me still standing in the kitchen dripping wet while they went over to the living side of the house, my own sopping jacket and boots on the floor next to Charlotte Anne’s. My brother and sister watched the whole thing with wide eyes. When Ma brought Charlotte Anne back, she told her to sit herself down while she got her some soup. Then she seemed to notice the rest of us gaping in the door. “Peter, your pa’s out huntin’. You take the horse and run down to the Judge’s place and let the help know Charlotte Anne come up to play with Mary so’s they can tell the missus where she is. Tell them I’ll have her home by dinner. But don’t you let on that Sam brought her. You hear?”

  That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Ma had never countenanced even the whitest of lies. But she knew there wasn’t nobody—let alone a riffraff farmer boy—supposed to get close to Charlotte Anne lessen the Judge decreed it. Course, the Judge never once sat behind a courtroom desk in a black robe decreein’ nothin’. The reason folks called Roswell Layfette “the Judge” was on account of the fact that he was judge, jury, and executioner for none other than the Right Honorable Mayor McLaughlin and his gangster buddy from Manhattan, Owney “The Killer” Madden.

  The Judge would make Ma’s paddle look like a party game if ’n he found out what I done. Wouldn’t matter that I hadn’t asked Charlotte Anne to follow me onto the ice. I’d get blamed for putting her in danger all the same. I was four years older than her nine and knew better. Somehow I’d surely bewitched her with my dark, devil looks. It wouldn’t matter what the reality was. The Judge would find a reason to make me regret near killing myself to save his daughter.