Devoted Heart

by Bill Myers

  “No.” I grabbed my shirt off the bathroom door hook and slipped it on. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Pregnant women aren’t supposed to fly.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since, since I don’t know.”

  She crossed to the dresser, out of sight.

  “Isn’t there a rule or something?” I said. “Some cutoff date? I mean what do the doctors say?”

  No answer.

  “Mary?”

  “Thirty-two weeks.”

  I stepped from the bathroom. She held up her phone, indicating she’d just checked the internet.

  “And you’re at thirty,” I said.

  “Going on thirty-one.”

  “See? That’s way too close.”

  “Says who?”

  I chose not to answer.

  “Joey, it’s within the limit.”

  “Why take the risk?”

  “There is no risk, not if it’s within the limit. Not if we. . .” She hesitated.

  “Not if we what?”

  “Not if we trust God.”

  I shot her a look. She cocked her head, waiting for a comeback.

  I didn’t disappoint. “You can’t go around always playing the God card.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” I searched for a reason.

  “Seems He had no problem playing it on us,” she said.

  I closed my eyes, shook my head. I could have kept arguing, used all the human logic in the world. The only problem was we’d entered a world where human logic didn’t always seem to apply.

  Twenty minutes later I was out in the parking lot scraping snow off the windshield, pouring hot water on the wipers to unfreeze them, and coaxing both truck and heater into working.

  Ten minutes after that, with the rhythmic woosh-woosh of wipers and the hum of tires, we were heading north on the I-5 to Sea-Tac International Airport. Mary sat beside me, working her cell phone and my credit card until she’d finally scored some tickets. They weren’t the cheapest and our seats would be separate, but it looked like we were a go.

  “Actually,” she said, “this could be a good thing.”

  “How so?”

  “Think of it as an extended honeymoon.”

  “What, three days at the Chehalis Holiday Inn isn’t enough for you?”

  She wrapped an arm around mine. “And free continental breakfasts, don’t forget that.”

  I nodded. “Seriously, what more could a girl want?”

  She laid her head on my shoulder. “Guess I’m just high maintenance.”

  I felt a warmth in my chest spreading through my throat. Here was this lady, beautiful, my best friend, someone who always looked for the good in everything. She deserved so much better than this, than me. But here we were, heading down a road neither of us could imagine . . . one, with more than its fair share of speed bumps.

  “Closed,” she said less than two minutes later.

  I looked to her as she re-checked her phone. “What?”

  “That’s what it says. The airport is closed. All flights cancelled.”

  “You mean, delayed.”

  She checked again and shook her head. “Cancelled.”

  “Because of a little snow?”

  “They’re calling it the storm of the century. A big one coming down from Canada.”

  “Headed this way?”

  She nodded.

  I scowled as she continued working the phone. Up ahead was Exit 95, the one to Littlerock and Maytown. I paused, then suddenly swerved to the right.

  “Joey!”

  Drivers expressed their appreciation with blowing horns and giving me the universal road rage salute.

  “What are you doing?

  I barely made the exit and started up the ramp. “Portland. Is the Portland airport still open?”

  She checked her phone as I pulled to the stop sign and turned left.

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect. If the storm’s coming from the north, there’s a chance we can hit Portland before it does.” I took another left onto the entrance ramp, heading south.

  Mary began checking flights.

  I picked up speed. “Doesn’t have to be Fresno,” I said. “Could be Oakland, San Jose, Sacramento.”

  “On it.”

  If we hurried I hoped we’d catch something.

  Unfortunately, it was the hurrying that had thirty minutes later caught the State Patrol’s attention. An attention that, once he’d signaled us over to the side of the freeway, seemed anything but in a hurry.

  I waited another minute. Maybe two. Having had enough, I reached for the door. But, Mary, once again reading my mind, touched my arm. “Babe.”

  She was right, of course. Getting out would only cause problems, slow the officer even more. There would be no hurrying him. A fact he seemed to relish. Even more so when he finally approached the car and I rolled down the window.

  After a friendly greeting and brief chat about the weather . . .

  “Ain’t seen nothin’ like it. Not in years.”

  And after we explained we were in a hurry to catch a flight . . .

  “Understood. Course, it ain’t worth risking a life over now, is it?”

  And after taking our license, insurance card and registration . . .

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  And after checking us out on his radio . . .

  And after he returned, subjecting us to another brief lecture about automobile safety . . .

  “Especially with her being in the family way. And, oh, I’m gonna have to fine you extra for that right broken tail light.”

  After all that, we were finally on our way.

  I’d barely pulled back onto the freeway before Mary looked up from her phone. “Got it,” she said. “San Jose International Airport.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Not cheap.”

  I nodded, making sure to signal and obey any other law I could think of while keeping an eye on the State Patrol through my mirror. “We’ll take what we can get.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Y ou’re kidding me.”

  “No sir.”

  “You sell us a flight that you know you’re going to cancel—”

  “We had no idea the storm would—”

  “You had every idea. Everybody in the world knew it was coming.”

  “Babe.” It was another signal from Mary to cool down.

  The attendant behind the counter, a Pillsbury Dough Boy with attitude, was trying to go toe to toe with me. On the field I would have made short work of him, but here he held all the cards and he knew it.

  Without blinking, he added, “We can put you on standby for the next available flight.”

  “Standby!”

  “Unless you’re willing to upgrade to first class.” He held his ground. “They’re going fast but we still have a few seats—”

  “We booked coach.”

  “Correct, but those seats are already taken.”

  “You cancel our flight and tell me the only way to get on the next one is to—”

  “The weather cancelled your flight, sir. And if you look at the terms of agreement—”

  “Weather that you were fully aware of.”

  Mary’s hand was on my arm. But I knew men like this. The only way to win was through intimidation. “Let me speak to your supervisor.”

  “I am the supervisor.”

  My heart pounded.

  Mary, thinking her sugar and spice approach would work, stepped in. “What time is the next flight?”

  A flurry of keystrokes and the attendant answered. “That would be 10:35 tonight.” He looked back to me and pushed up his glasses, an obvious challenge.

  “We’re done here.” I grabbed the tickets off the counter.

  “Joe . . .”

  “I’m not hanging around, making you sit here for the next ten hours just to—”

  “
He’s your friend. He’s dying.”

  “And you’re my wife. You’re having a baby. We’re done.” I took her arm, turning from the counter. “I’m taking you home.”

  “And I have no say?”

  I looked to her.

  Her jaw was set, the way it gets when she digs in.

  “Of course,” I said, “but—”

  “Then I say we stay.”

  “Mary.”

  “Excuse me.” It was a tall, gray-haired guy in sports coat and turtle neck. He was next in line behind us. A line much longer than when we started. “If you don’t mind, some of us are in a hurry.”

  “Give us a second,” I said.

  “Joey, your friend is dying. A man who loves you, needs you.”

  I turned back to her. “You’re not being rational. You’re pregnant, you need your rest, you—”

  “Rational?” She motioned to her belly. “Since when has any of this been rational? Joey, you love this man.”

  “And you’re my wife. I have a responsibility. I have—”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “What?”

  “You have a responsibility to love. If you do that, God will take care of the rest.”

  I tried not to scoff. “Common sense dictates that we—”

  “Since when does common sense have anything to do with love?”

  I frowned. So we were back to that, were we?

  “I love you, Joey.”

  “And I love you,” I stammered.

  “Which is why we should go.”

  She was wrong in so many ways. Wrong, and yet. . .

  “Excuse me.” It was the turtleneck again. “I hate to break up this soap opera, but—”

  I turned on him. “Chill, alright.”

  “Joey—”

  I closed my eyes, turned back to the agent. “How much?”

  He told me. I tried not to gasp.

  Mary softened the blow. “And you can get us seats together?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And there’ll be snacks?”

  “And a gourmet meal.”

  “With table cloths?”

  “Correct.”

  She turned to me, gave a single nod of satisfaction. Apparently, the deal was sealed. I shook my head, grumbling while pulling out my credit card. Then, as the agent finished draining our blood, a thought came to my mind. “You can get us into the VIP lounge, right?”

  “Are you a member?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m afraid not.”

  Unbelievable. If the guy wanted to go for a second round I was ready. “Excuse me?” I raised my voice loud enough to be heard a couple counters over. “My wife is having a baby and you don’t have the decency to let her stay in your lounge?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but your wife having a baby was neither mine nor the airline’s fault. So if—”

  I grabbed his hand, squeezing it hard. Breaking it was out of the question, but I could sure put the fear of God into him. I lowered my voice, “Listen, you miserable excuse for a—”

  “Ahh!” Mary let out a stifled scream. I turned to see her leaning over the counter.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you alright?”

  She nodded, trying to breathe, unable to speak through the pain.

  “Ma’am?” the agent asked as I let go of his hand. “Ma’am?”

  It was another contraction. This one seeming much harder than the others.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

  She was finally able to answer, “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Are you, that is to say, are you going into—”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Alright, that’s enough,” the turtleneck behind us said.

  I turned to him, ready to battle two fronts if necessary. But before I spoke, he reached past me with a credit card of his own. Platinum, of course. “Buy them a membership.”

  “Sir?” the agent said.

  “Look at her, you idiot. Buy them a membership.”

  “Well . . . if you’re certain.” The agent took his card.

  I turned to the turtleneck, puzzled, not sure how to respond.

  “The word you’re looking for is, ‘thanks.’”

  I nodded. “Thanks . . .”

  “Anything to get things moving.”

  By the time they’d finished the transaction, Mary’s contraction was over. We started toward the lounge, VIP cards in hand. The agent had the good sense not to wish us a ‘good day.’

  “Are you okay?” I asked her. “That one seemed pretty strong.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Timing was convenient. Another one of your God things?”

  “Could be.”

  I looked at her. She gave a mischievous smile.

  “Don’t tell me the great Mary McDermott actually lied?”

  “Mary Shepherd, thank you very much.”

  “Don’t tell me she lied?”

  “Of course not.” She laced her arms through mine. “I just expressed myself a bit louder than is my custom.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wow . . .” Mary’s voice was soft and filled with wonder as she stared out the window of the plane. “Look at that.”

  I leaned past her and saw the moon, three-quarter’s full, reflecting off the wispy clouds below us, making them glow.

  “It’s like a fairy tale,” she said. “Oh, and look up there, do you see it? That star everyone’s talking about. The supernova or whatever it’s called.”

  I craned my neck until I saw it, a single star, sharper, brighter than all the others.

  “Isn’t that something? It’s like a diamond, just hanging there all by itself. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”

  I agreed and sat back in my seat. But the truth is, I lied. I had seen something more beautiful. And she was sitting right there beside me. A little girl, face pressed to the window, lost in awe. What was it about her? A naïve innocence? Vulnerability? Yes. And no. She wasn’t weak. There was a strength and resolve about her I’d seen a hundred times. No, it was an indefinable mixture of opposites—fragile tenderness, compassion . . . and a steel-hard core of commitment.

  Still gazing out the window, she reached back until her hand found mine. I looked down at the two of them. Hers, small and soft, willing to be wrapped inside mine, big and clumsy. I’m no poet, but even I didn’t miss the symbolism. Another mixture of opposites. And beauty.

  As I watched her, something she’d said back at the ticket counter still played in my head:

  “You have a responsibility to love. If you do that, God will take care of the rest.”

  Could it really be that simple? With all the religions, all the books and philosophies . . . did it really just come down to that? I had no idea. But I did know that’s what made her so remarkable. So . . . childlike. Not childish. And definitely not ignorant. But . . . unencumbered by the world. Not simple, anything but that. Sometimes she was so complicated I had no idea where she was. But it was that childlike trust that made her . . . well, the closest word I could come up with was . . . pure.

  Maybe that’s why God chose her.

  Suddenly I wanted to pull her into me. To possess that purity, to drink it in. Keep it all to myself. But, of course, that wasn’t possible. Not now. Was I jealous? Of God? I suppose I was. At least resentful that we had to share her. I smiled quietly. On the other hand, it was nice to know me and the Almighty had similar tastes.

  The ticket agent had been right. We did wind up with table cloths, and as Mary had pointed out, a spectacular view.

  “Roses in December,” she said just a few minutes later as we toasted with our sparkling apple juice in fancy wine glasses.

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “When God takes you through winter, He always finds a way to give you a rose.”

  “He does, does He?”

  “Of course. Sometimes you have to look for it, sometimes real hard. But i
f you’re willing to see it, you will.” Then, with an eye roll, she added, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to use the bathroom . . . again.”

  I helped her into the aisle, watching her duck-foot towards the restroom. A rose in December. What a gift to be able to see things through those eyes. And what a gift to be with someone who could.

  Unfortunately, there were no roses when we got to San Jose International Airport. We’d arrived just a little before two in the morning. Bone tired and, at least for me, a little punch drunk. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept. It didn’t help when I saw Mary go through another contraction. She was pretty good at hiding them but I was getting better at seeing them.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay?” I’d asked as we waited for our backpacks to show up at baggage claim.

  “We got another seven weeks, babe.” She patted my hand. “Relax, everything’s going to be fine.”

  Maybe. But neither of us was prepared for the surprise at the car rental desk when the clerk, barely out of puberty, handed back my credit card. “Sorry,” he said, “do you have another?”

  “Another?”

  “Card.”

  “What?” I asked. “Why?”

  “You’re maxed out.”

  “No way. I’ve barely used it except . . .” and then it hit me, “. . . except for two first class tickets from Portland.”

  The kid grinned. “That’ll do it. What else you got?”

  “I . . .” I rifled through my billfold, stalling for time to think, since I knew I only had one.

  “Here.”

  I looked up to see Mary pulling a card from her wallet.

  “What are you doing, you can’t do that,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . this is my trip, we’re doing this for me.”

  She handed the card to the clerk. “We’re married now. Or did you already forget?”

  “But—”

  “Men,” she sighed. “Two days and you’ve already forgotten the date. Can’t wait to hear your excuse next year.”

  “This is my expense.”

  She nodded. “And what’s mine is yours.” With a grin she added, “And what’s yours is mine—don’t forget that, bub.”

  I turned to the clerk. “She married me for my money.”