THE SACRIFICIAL DAUGHTER
Mary Anne Slack
The Sacrificial Daughter tells the story of Mary Ellen Kelleher, who finally embarks on her own journey to find her place in the world— one in which she is in charge. Through a series of realizations and experiences while far from home, Mary Ellen returns ready to shake up her—and her mother’s—world. But when a mother’s love becomes a daughter’s burden, is there really a way out?
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Mary Anne Kalonas Slack is a retired educator of 30+ years living in
Central Massachusetts with her husband. The Sacrificial Daughter is
her debut novel.
Her short stories have been published in the literary magazines
MUSED and Adelaide, as well as in the 2023 anthology, Our Wild
Winds, published by Quabbin Quills. Her latest story was published
in the Quabbin Quills 2024 anthology, Wandering Roots.
About the Author
Where to purchase online
Root and Press
156 Shrewsbury St., Worcester, MA
Tidepool Bookshop
372 Chandler Street, Worcester, MA
A Great Notion
65 Southbridge St., Auburn, MA
Brookfield Orchard
12 Lincoln Rd, North Brookfield, MA
Book Moon
86 Cottage St., Easthampton, MA
Booklover's Gourmet
72 E Main St., Webster, MA
The Sacrificial Daughter
is on the shelf at
the following locations...
Email Address
slackmaryanne@gmail.com
Contact
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I'm available to speak to book clubs in person or
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Reviews
Who should read this book? Anyone who has a sibling,
who loves to travel, parents, and individuals who feel stuck
in life routines they want to change. The Sacrificial
Daughter takes readers on a journey from life in
Massachusetts to choices in China and on a trip into
personal reflections. Can people change in the deepest
relationships in life? Changes and choices faced by Mary
Ellen grab the attention and imagination of any reader.
For a novel that captures the heart and leads readers to
think about their own life relationships, needs, and
actions, The Sacrificial Daughter is the book to read.
- V. Hess
A clash of sibling personalities, a mother’s anguish,
and a dilemma of conscience. Factor in a serendipitous
encounter in a foreign country and you have the
ingredients for a charged family drama in the tradition
of literary realism. The events are authentic, the
dialogue convincing, and you say to yourself, ‘Yes, this
is truth’. A few twists and turns and just enough
suspense will keep the reader engaged in this gem of a
debut novel until the very end.
- Phyllis LaMontagne
The author, with emotional sensitivity and realistic
dialogue, weaves the reader deeply inside the upheaval
of the endearing main character. For anyone who has
searched for happiness, this book is for you!
-Lisa L.
Any woman who has ever struggled to
psychologically separate from her mother will be
able to relate to Mary Ellen.
-Barbara R.
Phases of the Moon
By Mary Anne Kalonas Slack
“I’m out,” she said, slapping her cards down on the kitchen table.
“Looks like you lost your touch, Tina,” her brother David said with snort. He played his next card, rubbing the new whiskers on his chin. “I’m
still in the game.”
“Good for you. I’m going to take a break and go out to look at the moon.” She got up and pulled her coat off a hook near the back door.
David lifted his chin and howled. “She turned into a wolverine in Boston.”
Her parents laughed as they reshuffled their cards. Joey gave her a sympathetic look.
“Don’t stay out long, Tina. It’s cold,” her mother said, shivering at the thought.
“I won’t,” she answered. Inside the house she was Tina, the nickname she was given at birth. Outside, alone, she was Chris. June, her college
roommate, had assumed that someone named Christina would be called Chris and it stuck. Away from here she had a new life and was called by a new
name. Her family didn’t know about Chris, and they didn’t need to.
The moon was full and round on this cold January night and stars twinkled against the black sky. She could see her breath and could hear the ice
creaking in the small pond just beyond the backyard. She turned to look in the kitchen window. The faces of her family were lit up under the milk glass
chandelier. They looked happy and relaxed as they played cards, sipping their sodas and eating popcorn. They looked complete without her. She was
now the college girl, the one they accused of “getting all cultured” when she told them about going to the concert at Symphony Hall.
The moon had been in waxing crescent phase when Phil took her to hear a performance of “Messiah” by the Handel and Haydn Society. She’d
met him at a mixer in the basement of her dorm the week before and he’d asked for her number. Her parents hadn’t allowed her to date in high school so
she had little experience with boys, but Phil was tall and nice looking and a little shy. Chris had said yes.
She hadn’t had a clue what to wear to a concert like this but June took charge without being asked, figuring that Chris needed to be taken under
someone’s capable wing. She’d worn a pair of black pants and a dressy sweater of June’s and borrowed the girl next door’s long wool coat and black
boots. She’d never worn clothes this nice and she’d felt as if she were watching a stranger greet Phil that evening in the foyer of her dorm. While riding
the subway to the concert hall, Phil told her that his dad was a music-loving engineer who sang tenor in a community chorus. He’d taken his son to a
performance of “Messiah” every year since he was eight. Chris didn’t know what a tenor was and didn’t ask because she didn’t want Phil to know that
she really didn’t know much about anything, unless she’d come across it in a book or a TV show.
The inside of the hall was huge, with wood paneling on the walls of the immense stage. The singers filed on, so many of them that she lost count,
and then musicians who made a bizarre cacophony of sound until a violinist stood and played one long, pure note. The discordance slowly eased as the
musicians adjusted their instruments until each of their sounds matched the note from the violinist.
At that moment, Chris felt her shoulders relax as something inside her clicked into place. If only she could achieve that perfect rightness in her own life.
Each day she pretended to know what she was doing while she furtively watched other students to see what kind of soda they drank, how they wore
their hair, which shoes they wore, hoping always to fit in, to look like one of them. The sound of the instruments tuning gave her hope that the bits of
her life would fall into place eventually.
Silence followed until applause broke out as the conductor stepped up to the podium. Another hush followed before he raised his white baton and the
music cascaded across the stage and over the floor to where she and Phil sat. Then she was lost in the music, amazed that such beauty could exist. She
looked around at one point to see if everyone was as astonished as she was but their faces were mostly neutral as if they’d heard it all before. Some even
looked bored. She stole a glance at Phil who turned and smiled at her. “Like it?” he whispered. She nodded her head and smiled, then turned back to
watch the chorus rise together like a wave cresting. The women sang and then the men, their lines of melody entwined like vines. She’d never heard
anything so wonderful. Her program said the music was written in 1741. How could it be that she’d never heard of it?
At intermission Phil explained about basses, tenors, altos and sopranos and how they each sang their own lines in a range that was comfortable for
their voices. They walked around the lobby and he bought her a Coke as he quietly told her about Georg Frideric Handel and how he wrote “Messiah” at
the low point of his career. Her roommate had told her that she was culturally deprived because she’d never heard of the Boston Ballet’s “Nutcracker”
and had never been to an art museum. Tonight was just another example of this. She would definitely have to make an effort to make up for her
deprivations. It was all so amazing. She would read a book about this Mr. Handel and listen to recordings in the college library.
After the concert they walked toward the subway entrance. Phil stopped on the sidewalk and pointed at the shining sliver of a moon visible above
them before he kissed her. She realized that she had been longing for this her entire life—not the kiss with this young man, although that was wonderful
in itself—but just this moment as it was, being alive, experiencing beauty in the world and letting herself be touched by it. The world was full of wonder,
just waiting to be discovered. She’d always known this in some secret, unspoken way, but now she believed in it.
The back door opened and her little brother called to her to come back in before she froze. They were ready to start a new game.
“Get your jacket and come join me,” she said, and in a minute he did. Joey was ten and her closest ally in this house. When she’d described her
experience hearing the music that night at Symphony Hall, her father had looked at her with shy pride while her mother plucked nervously at the
tablecloth. David had growled with impatience and irritation. But Joey had watched her with big, shining eyes, as if he could picture the magic she
described.
Now that she was home for Christmas break, the contrast between her life in Boston and the one she lived with her family only made it clearer to
her that she was in a new phase of her life. Like the phases of the moon, her life would continue to change, taking her further from the people in the
kitchen who loved her. She and Joey could see something that David and her mother couldn’t see—that mysterious wonder she’d felt that night with
Phil. She suspected that her father knew it was there. She could see it in his eyes as she described the music.
Maybe someday she and Joey would travel together. She placed her hands on her brother’s shoulders, picturing them on an ocean liner. They looked
up and the full moon filled their eyes with light, taking them far from this little house in this little town to places they could only imagine.
Learning To Skate
By Mary Anne Kalonas Slack
(Published in Adelaide May 2021)
It started out as an ordinary Saturday. I was making breakfast for Jeff and myself when the phone rang. My son-in-law Matt had slipped on
the icy front steps of their home and my daughter Jocelyn needed to take him to the hospital. Benjamin, her eight year old, was waiting in the
driveway for someone to take him to hockey practice. Could Jeff do it? I didn’t even ask. My husband, a self-employed architect, was looking
over some blueprints while he sipped his coffee. There was a couple due to arrive soon to discuss their home renovations.
I was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, planning to clean closets. I glanced in the hallway mirror, noting that my hair was due for a color.
White was showing along the edges of my hairline.
“I’ll take him,” I told her. “Do I have to go in with him?”
Jocelyn said that either I went in and watched his practice or I could wait in my car. I looked out at the thermometer just outside the kitchen
window. 22 degrees. I would be going in. I explained the situation to Jeff and filled a travel mug with hot coffee. I grabbed a banana for breakfast
on the run, my down jacket, mittens and car keys and headed out for the drive across town.
Benjamin got in the back seat with his bag and hockey stick. “Where’s Grandpa?”
“He has clients coming over. I’m your driver this morning. You’ll have to show me where to park and everything.”
Ben was our youngest grandchild, a serious, bright little guy with brown eyes and a head full of curly hair like his dad. He was quieter than
usual as he looked out on the cold, sunny day.
“Do you think Dad will be okay?” he asked. “Do you think he’ll be in a wheelchair?”
“What did he hurt, do you know?”
“Mom said he shoulda gone out through the garage like I did but he came down the front steps instead and kinda flew. I heard something go
‘crack’ when he landed. He yelled for Mom and then he started swearing and holding his ankle. Does that mean he broke it?”
“Could be. Poor guy. Your mom will text me as soon as they know anything.”
He instructed me as to where to park and led the way into the arena. He stopped and pointed up at a section of the stands. “Parents sit up
there. You can meet me right here after practice.”
“Sure thing, honey. Have fun.”
He turned with a serious nod of his head and hurried down a concrete corridor, possibly in fear that I would kiss him goodbye. I watched him
disappear around a corner and, clutching my coffee, climbed up and found a seat away from the other parents, none of whom I knew. The boys
were slow to come out on the ice and I was suddenly wishing I’d brought something to read. I pulled out my phone to text Jocelyn but changed
my mind. No need to bother her. She’d let me know when she had news.
A man—a young grandfather or older dad—took a seat in the row in front of me a few seats over. I studied his profile. He looked vaguely
familiar. Where did I know him from? His name tickled at my brain but I couldn’t bring it to mind. It must have been a long time ago.
The boys skated out onto the ice and I smiled as I spotted Ben. For a little guy he seemed sure of himself, completely at ease on skates. His dad
was a hockey lover and had played as a kid. Ben had been on the ice since he was three. I waved at him but he didn’t acknowledge me. All
business, my Ben. Good for him.
The man in front of me turned and caught my eye. “Grandson?” he asked.
“Yes. Number 27. He’s eight.”
“He skates well,” he observed. “My grandson is number 15. He’s nine. Does your grandson live with you?”
I explained that I was pinch-hitting today for his dad, who’d probably broken his ankle earlier. “I’ve never brought him before.”
“That’s why I’ve never seen you here. I come every week. Jack lives with me.”
“I see,” I responded, although I didn’t really. That sort of information led to all kinds of questions—did the child have living parents? Did some
terrible tragedy befall them? Or was it a big, extended family situation?
He turned in his seat and looked directly at me. “I love raising him, but I never imagined I’d be starting all over with a kid at my age.”
I wondered how old he was. Early fifties maybe. Suddenly I knew who he was. I shrank deeper into my puffy coat, remembering how I’d
treated him almost thirty years ago.
He reached toward me, hand outstretched. “I’m Mike, by the way.”
I shook his hand. “Suzanne,” I said. I waited for him to recognize me, but he had already turned back to watch the action on the ice. I felt
relieved, then irritated. Did I really look that different? Had I aged that much? If only I’d had my hair appointment last week instead of next.
Mike was twenty-two when he came to my studio for voice lessons. I was thirty-two. We were attracted to each other but I did my best not to
show it, wanting to maintain our professional teacher/student relationship. He played hockey in a league. Hockey was his first passion, singing
his second. Did I wish I was one of his passions? Secretly, I probably did, but never let on. Cool and distant. That was me in those days.
One day I mentioned that I hadn’t skated in about twenty years and he insisted on teaching me. He took me to an open skate night at his ice
rink. I was petrified that I’d fall on my duff and embarrass myself, but he tucked my arm firmly under his and told me, “I won’t let you fall.”
He was true to his word and as the evening went on I gained confidence and finally agreed to his letting go for a moment. I didn’t fall, and I
found out that I loved skating. Unfortunately my “aha” moment didn’t translate to our relationship. I was so hung up on our age difference.
What an idiot I was. I couldn’t fall for a guy ten years younger than me! So I made excuses and squirmed away from him until he stopped coming
for lessons. I shook my head at the memory of myself as the prissy schoolmarm I was back then. I chewed on a thumbnail, staring blankly at the
ice.
“You know, I used to know a Suzanne. She was a singer. Beautiful girl. She gave me singing lessons. I can’t remember why I stopped taking
them. Probably too busy. I was young then and had a lot of irons in the fire.”
I smiled. Should I? I reached over and touched his shoulder.
“I knew her, too. You took her skating once and you told her you wouldn’t let her fall, and you didn’t,” I said.
His eyes flashed with recognition and a slow smile spread on his face. “Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
“It was almost thirty years ago, Mike. I don’t know if I ever thanked you properly for that night. I’ve loved to skate ever since. I haven’t done
it that often, but I’ve always thought of you whenever I have.”
“Why don’t you come sit up here with me?” he suggested.
I obliged, remembering that stubborn, silly young woman I once was. I’d let us both down all those years ago but I wouldn’t do it again. Our
lives were somehow linked—ice hockey, skating, grandsons, memories. Friendships have been built on less.
“Do you still sing?” I asked him.
“Only in the shower. But I still skate. How ‘bout you?”
“I still sing but I haven’t skated in a few years.”
We sat quietly, lost in our memories I suppose, as we watched our grandsons fly across the ice with ease and grace, perfect in their innocent
youth.
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