Forever Yours

The Limo Driver [1]

Blowing out a breath, I closed my eyes and forced myself, one second at a time, to let the heat drain from my face.

I settled back into the seat as the limo began moving.

The limo. I scanned the dark interior, the blue-lighted wine counter, the brand new leather of the seats... Yes, people, I - Maureen Carvelli - was sitting in the backseat of my very own hired limo with a personal chauffeur.

Since when had I become someone so high-maintenance? I felt a prickle of self-mockery. From rags to riches indeed.

We'd always been poor, my family. Dad lost his job as a sales associate for a high-flying marketing company back when I was a kid and he'd hopped from one job to another for years afterwards – unable to hold down a lasting job, too unsatisfied to stay in the minimum wagers that were available. We (barely) existed on welfare and the help of charitable friends and family. All nine of us... Oh, yes. There were seven of us kids. I hadn't mentioned that, had I? We were your typical lower-middle class family, footing it out in a tiny, three-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn up until I was around fifteen. Life was rough, and I grew up sharing the responsibility of being the second oldest kid in our crew of four girls and four boys – up until I was nine, and then it was four girls and three boys.

But despite it all, we had each other and we were happy.

The days were spent holed up in the apartment, doing schoolwork. My parents couldn't afford the private Christian academy that was situated just around the corner from our apartment complex, and Dad was too wary of public school to send us there. Homeschool it was, and my mother played Teacher while Dad walked the streets, looking for work. By the time I was thirteen, I was tutoring my younger siblings and taking advanced lessons, zooming through every curriculum level my mother had to offer. Lauren, older than me by four years, got a job as a clerk in a grocery store, and her income she dedicated to the family. The evenings we spent at the local parks and in the library, and every Sunday, we caught the train and went to church. My parents, God-fearing, dedicated Christians, raised us up in a no-nonsense, no fluff atmosphere: there were rules and expectations and we were to honor them or face the consequences. No excuses.

Of course, the decision to give our lives to the Lord was a personal one, and one that my parents didn't expect us to make automatically; they naturally hoped for it, I'm sure, and encouraged us to read our Bibles and pray... We all did. And when I was seven, I made my choice: I was baptized on a cold, August day, surrounded by friends and family, and I remember looking up at the ceiling of the church, my heart pounding, and whispering, "I love you, Jesus. You can come into my heart now." I went home, my hair still damp from the watery submersion, and on the way to the train station, as we walked along the crowded sidewalk, Dad reached down and took my hand. I looked up at him, smiling hopefully, and he gave me my favorite smile – the one where the corners of his eyes crinkled up and his eyes twinkled. And I remember my first official prayer as a Christian was: "Oh, God, thanks for giving me the best Daddy in the whole, wide world."

And so went life up until I was around fourteen. I remember in the beginning how it was all about the long talks. Dad and Mom would retreat into the kitchen for hours at a time, poring over papers and making phone calls, and talking quietly in muted voices over cups of caffeinated tea. In our nightly prayer services, Dad would pray about the "new deal" and ask the Lord to show him if this was His will. Apparently, it was. My father wanted to start up his own multilevel marketing company – become an entrepreneur. Soon, the business meetings grew to extend Dad's old work buddies and several of our wealthier friends from church. They grew to take up huge chunks of our day, so that Cara and I were doing the majority of the schooling with the younger kids while Mom helped Dad out in the dining room, serving coffee and jotting down notes. The idea took on a life of its own. And soon, Bio Fueling Nature was born, my father's very own marketing company that catered to the natural health community. What started as a tiny, home-based company grew into an international enterprise that had catapulted my father - and us - into a life of wealth and social superiority.

Everything changed - almost overnight, it seemed. The marketing plan was simple, the benefits endless. People leaped on the business opportunity and BFN's popularity sky-rocketed. Suddenly, we had money again. An income. We left Brooklyn and moved here, into the pretentious, over-priced neighborhood of Holmby Hills, because Dad's base company would be located in LA. Dad had Rick Geraldo, the leading architect of the west, design the mansion to accommodate our large family.

We'd been living in California for just over a year. I still woke up in the morning expecting to find myself back at our little, grungy apartment in Brooklyn. I still couldn't believe the blessings that had been bestowed on our family - so quickly, so miraculously. Half the time, it didn't even seem real.

Speaking of which, the past five minutes had been a bit surreal and I was already tired from waking up early after a long night of helping care for my youngest brother, who'd had a slight fever. I glanced down at the long limo seat stretched all before me. It was dark and still and I was all alone. A little nap wouldn't hurt. Glancing up to see that the Ryan guy wasn't looking in his rearview mirror, I quietly crawled onto the long seat and stretched out with a blissful sigh.

I zonked out in less than a minute.