Oceans Apart

by Karen Kingsbury

  “Mr. Evans?”

  “Yes, Max.” He gave himself permission to run his fingertips along the boy's forehead, the side of his face, the way he had always done with Elizabeth and Susan.

  “Could you give me my Bible? I forgot to look at it before bedtime.”

  His Bible? Hearing that sent a ray of guilt through Connor's heart. His son had a Bible? One he read every night? He blinked, for the moment unable to do anything but let that single fact work its way through him. What about his own Bible, lying dusty and unread upstairs in the bookcase near his bed? How long had it been since reading it was a priority? And how many hundreds of other little details did he not know about his own son?

  “Mr. Evans?”

  Connor jumped a little and scanned the bureau near Max's bed. There, on top, was a white book with the words My First Bible written in yellow, kidlike lettering across the top. Even before he picked it up, he could see that letters or photographs were stuck between the pages. He was careful as he moved it from the bureau to Max.

  “Thanks.”

  “You're welcome.”

  Max held the Bible to his chest and gave Connor a look. Though he had only known the boy for a few days, Connor could sense that he was asking him to be a part of this nighttime routine. At least for tonight.

  Connor twisted the button on the small bedside lamp so Max could see the words. “What part are you at?”

  The corners of Max's mouth rose a bit. He sat up and leaned against the headboard, then he opened the book, took a handful of things from it, and set them on his lap. “I already read about John the Baptist.” He kept his eyes on the book, studying the pages with an intensity that reminded Connor of himself.

  After flipping through most of the Bible, Max stopped and pointed to one of the pages. “I'm here.” He looked up at Connor. “The Sermon on the Mount.”

  “Could you read it to me?”

  “Sure.” Max pulled himself up a little straighter and brought the book closer so he could see the words. “‘Jesus knew that the people needed Him. They needed His words so that their hearts would be right. One day He went to a place in the mountains and began to talk to the people …’”

  Max kept reading, but Connor was no longer listening. His heart was stuck back on the first part, where Jesus knew that the people needed His words so that their hearts would be right. How simple was that? Simple and sound and true beyond anything Connor had told himself in the past ten years.

  When was the last time he'd had those profound truths in the forefront of his mind? Back when he met Michele and the two of them began dating, definitely. But when had he stopped? When had he chosen to get through a week or even a day without God's words to guide him? And how come bells hadn't gone off, alarms to signal the fact that without the wisdom Jesus gave, he was bound to fall?

  If his heart had been right that summer eight years ago, he never would've been unfaithful, never. Tempted, maybe, but he would have seen the way out, the way promised by God Himself. But then, he wouldn't have this wonder child sitting before him to remind him of everything he'd forgotten.

  Connor let the thought pass. It was a little late to be thinking about where he'd gone wrong with God. Even if he could figure it out, he wasn't sure where that would leave him now. He'd lied to Michele for nearly eight years. It was hardly time to pretend he could be counted among the godly.

  Max was finishing up, talking about love and how it was the greatest command of all. Connor studied the boy, the way he read quickly and with voice inflection. Whatever Max had lacked growing up without a father, Kiahna had obviously done her best to make up for it.

  “‘… And this is what I want you to do.’” Max turned the page and looked up at Connor. “This isn't from the Sermon on the Mount, but it's my favorite part.” His eyes fell to the book again. “‘I want you to love Me and love each other. This is the most important thing, that you love each other.’” He let his eyes fall to the bottom of the page, then he looked up at Connor. “Then there's a question time, but I'll read them in the morning.”

  “You read in the morning, too?” Connor shifted some. God might as well have shone a spotlight at him, searching his heart for a reaction to his son's faithfulness. Connor crossed his arms and bit the inside of his lip. The boy's example was more than Connor could absorb.

  “Yes.” Max closed the Bible. His expression was as open and earnest as an angel's. “Mommy says the days are better when you start them with Jesus.” A shadow fell over his face and his eyes grew damp. “She used to say that, I mean.”

  The words caught Connor by surprise. His heart scraped along the ground for a few seconds and he reached for Max's hand. He needed to take things slow with the boy, build a friendship with care, especially since chances were he was going home in two weeks. Connor searched his face, the well of sorrow and fear there, and with everything in him he wanted to take the boy in his arms and rock away the pain.

  But he forced himself to hold back. Neither of them would benefit by making that kind of connection, only to lose it.

  Instead he nodded to the few things on Max's lap. “What do you have there?”

  The sorrow faded and the boy's eyes held a sparkle Connor hadn't seen yet. “My special things.”

  “I see.” Connor resisted the urge to stare at them, figure out what might be so special to his son. “Special things are good.”

  Max picked them up and held them with a care that went beyond his seven years. “Want to see?”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” Max shrugged. “Special things are okay to share.” He picked up the first item, a dog-eared Polaroid photo, and held it out for Connor to see. “This is my bestest friend, Buddy.”

  Again the child's words were like a sucker punch to the center of his conscience. His friend, Buddy. The dog Connor had refused to allow to come. One more reason for the sorrow that came and went in Max's eyes. Connor exhaled through his teeth. “He looks like a great dog.”

  “He is.” Max gave the photo a sad smile. “The best.”

  Connor's throat was too tight to speak. Seeing Max's special things was going to be more difficult than he'd thought. Because with each one, Max was giving him a glimpse of his heart, his little world. A part that would stay with Connor forever, even if the child sitting across from him had to go.

  Max placed the photo of Buddy at the bottom of the small stack and picked up the next item. “This is from Ramey. It's a letter telling me to be good and remember the things my mommy told me. Especially our song.”

  Connor couldn't stop himself from asking. “Your song?”

  “Yes.” Max looked up again.

  This time the protective layers he'd come with were gone, and Connor could see straight to the boy's soul. “Did your mom make it up?” Connor's voice fell some, respectful in a way that seemed appropriate given the level of importance Max's special song clearly held for him.

  “Mm-hmm.” Max looked back at the envelope from Ramey. For a moment he seemed to consider whether he might sing the song for Connor, but then he sifted the smudged white envelope to the bottom and took hold of the third and final item. “This is a picture of my mommy.” He studied it before lifting it up to Connor. “You're her friend, so you already know what she looks like, but you can see it anyway.”

  Connor wanted to close his eyes, but it was too late. It hadn't occurred to him that one of the special things would be a picture of Kiahna. And now … now his eyes fell on her image and in a rush every memory of her came back. She looked the way he remembered her. But the picture brought into focus the tiny details he'd forgotten over time. The way her green eyes took up half her face, and her striking figure.

  The picture showed her sitting on a log in some kind of forest setting, but as Connor looked at it he could see her at the airport restaurant, the way she'd looked when the two of them first met, the way she'd looked when they left together looking for a place to talk and—

  He swallowed and dire
cted his gaze back at Max. “She's very pretty.”

  “I know.” Max looked at the photo again. “I think she'll be pretty in heaven, too.” He lifted his eyes to Connor. “Don't you?”

  Connor was grateful Michele was nowhere nearby. “Yes, Max.” He patted the boy's hand. “I'm sure she'll be very pretty in heaven.”

  Max made a neat stack of his three special things and stuck them back in his Bible. Then he handed the book back to Connor. “Thanks for letting me look at it. I know it's late.”

  A Bible from his mother, two photos, and a letter reminding him what was important. The most precious things his son owned. Again Connor couldn't make his throat squeeze out the words. He took the book, set it back, and turned off the light.

  Max yawned as he slid back beneath the covers. “When do we leave tomorrow?”

  “Early.” Connor took Max's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I'll wake you and the girls in time to eat breakfast.” He gave the boy another smile. “A good breakfast is the first part of taking a camping trip to the lake.”

  “Then what?”

  “You mean, what happens after we get to camp?”

  “Yeah, do we build a tent?”

  Connor searched the boy's face. “You've never camped before, have you?”

  “No.” His eyes fell. “Mommy said we'd go, but we … we ran out of time.” He looked up again. “What do we do when we get there?”

  “First …” Connor coughed to clear the emotions from his throat. “We'll set up camp. The tents are already made, but they need poles so they can stand up. Then we'll make up our beds, and put the food away, and probably do some fishing.”

  “Wow.” Max's mouth hung open.

  “I know, it's a lot.” Connor smoothed out the wrinkles in the bedspread. “That's why we have to get up early.”

  Max was quiet for a beat. When he spoke, his voice was a mix of fear and concern. “What about Mrs. Evans? Isn't she getting up early, too?”

  “Well …” Connor took in a sharp breath through his nose. “Mrs. Evans isn't going with us this year.”

  “That's what I thought.” Max's eyebrows bunched together. “It's 'cause of me. She doesn't like me, right?”

  Connor closed his eyes just long enough to gather his thoughts. When he opened them, he looked through the dark shadows of the room, straight to Max's soul. “No. It's not because of you, Max.” Anger flashed inside him, but Connor ignored it. He could be mad at Michele later. “Mrs. Evans doesn't like to fish all that much, see. And this week her sister wanted her to come for a visit.” Again Connor forced a smile for the boy. “So it worked out just fine. You and the girls and I will go camping, and Mrs. Evans can go see her sister.”

  Max's eyebrows stayed low and together. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Okay.” The frown eased some. “I wish she was coming with us.”

  “Me, too, Max.” This time, Connor spoke despite the lump in his throat, but his voice was little more than a whisper. “Me, too.”

  TWENTY

  The plans for Michele's trip to see her sister came together by Sunday night.

  Once Elizabeth and Susan were packed and in bed, she worked from their home office. Connor was helping Max, no doubt. Earlier that day Connor finally gave up on changing her mind, and now he seemed content to keep his distance.

  Convincing the girls hadn't been as easy.

  “If you're not going, I'm not, either.” Elizabeth had dug her fists into her waist, her eyes angry and narrowed. “You can't do this, Mom! We've been planning it for a year.”

  “I'll go next time.” Michele kept her voice calm, hoping the girls would see her resolve and give up.

  “But it won't be right without you.” Susan sat on the edge of Elizabeth's bed for the discussion. “You're a better jet ski driver than Dad.”

  “Yeah, and plus he'll be busy with that Max kid.” Other than the first hour or so, Elizabeth still hadn't warmed up to the stranger in their house.

  “He'll be with all three of you.” Michele remembered to smile. She flipped the lid of the girls' suitcase open. “The important thing is that you have a good time. You don't need me for that.”

  “But you never do this.” Elizabeth was bent almost in half, her cheeks red. She raised her hands and dropped them again. “It's just wrong, Mom. We're not a family without you.”

  “Okay.” Michele set a pile of shorts into the suitcase, stood, and faced the girls. “You want the truth?”

  “Yes!” Their voices came in stereo, equally hurt and frustrated.

  “I want Daddy to have a chance to get to know Max.” Michele didn't blink. She left out the part about not being able to stomach the idea of having to live up to the memory of an island affair, or not wanting to watch Connor fall in love with the woman's son.

  Susan was on her feet. “He can get to know Max if you're there, Mommy.”

  “No.” Michele crossed the room and set her hand on Susan's shoulder. “It'll go better without me. Besides, I haven't seen Aunt Margie in almost a year. I need this time with her.” She looked from Susan to Elizabeth and back again. “Okay?”

  “Are we still going to Wisconsin this summer?” Resignation rang in Elizabeth's voice.

  “Of course.” She stretched out her arms, inviting the girls to come close for a group hug. “That vacation will just be our family, no friends along.”

  The girls exchanged a look, and Elizabeth took the lead. “Okay.” She huffed a drawn-out, exaggerated sigh. “I still don't think it's right, but if that's what you want to do …”

  “Besides, you know how Dad is …” Michele gave first Susan a kiss on her cheek, and then did the same for Elizabeth. “You'll be able to stay up later and eat twice as many s'mores as usual.”

  Susan allowed a grin. “Yeah.”

  “And we'll all be together again in a week.”

  A scowl still shadowed Elizabeth's face, but she lifted one shoulder. “We'll miss you.”

  “I'll miss you, too.” Michele returned to the suitcase. “But think of all we'll have to talk about when we get back.”

  Michele slept very little that night, but made up for it on the flight out west. She arrived in LA before three that afternoon, and two hours later she was northbound on the Ventura Freeway, the ocean on her left, mountains on her right, and Santa Barbara just five minutes away.

  Margie Bailey and her husband, Sean, lived in Santa Barbara on a craggy plateau overlooking the Pacific Ocean on one side, and the hilly entrance to the Santa Ynez Valley on the other. The house was more of an estate, situated behind gated walls and giving Margie and Sean the privacy they wanted, despite the congestion that had come to mark most of the city.

  Sean was a plastic surgeon. Margie met him at Westmont, a small, private Christian college on the south side of Santa Barbara. Sean's hours allowed him ample downtime to hike and bicycle and vacation with Margie. The two were content with having no children, and together they planned to spend the rest of their lives on California's central coast.

  Despite their different lifestyles, Michele and Margie shared the faith they'd been raised with and a relationship stronger than time. They were also close to their brother, Paul, but the two sisters shared a bond so strong that they liked to say when Margie was sick, Michele came down with a fever, or if Michele was having a hard day, Margie got a headache. Michele was eighteen months older, nicknamed Mitch when Margie was learning to speak. Michele hadn't told Margie about Connor's affair or the plane crash or the little boy staying at their house. The sum of the information seemed too big to condense into a single telephone conversation. So when Michele decided to forgo the camping trip, a visit with Margie was the perfect alternative.

  Without talking about it, neither she nor Connor had made any attempt to get up for church on Sunday. Instead, she called Margie, explaining only that she needed to get away for a week, and that she wasn't going with her family on the camping trip.

  “Something happened.�
�

  “Yes.” Michele massaged the bridge of her nose to keep from giving in to the tears. “We'll talk about it when I get there.”

  Being the wife of a pilot meant that catching a flight wasn't a problem. She booked a standby reservation on a less popular 6:00 A.M. flight from West Palm Beach to Los Angeles International Airport. In LA she rented a car and drove to her sister's house.

  Margie knew better than to ask questions right away.

  They hugged, and Michele joined them for lasagna. Since Michele's encounter with the mirror the other night, she'd only picked at her food, and that evening was no exception. Four bites into her lasagna she crumpled her napkin and set it on her plate. She didn't want Margie to notice her lack of appetite, otherwise she'd get a lecture on how great she looked and how she didn't have a weight problem and definitely didn't need to starve to feel good about herself.

  Not that Michele believed her. Margie hadn't gained three pounds since college, so topics involving food and excessive weight were ones they rarely discussed.

  On this night, Margie didn't notice the uneaten lasagna, and Michele was relieved. They made small talk throughout the meal and afterwards during dishes. When they were finished eating, Sean muttered something about having work to do in their upstairs office. Margie kissed him and whispered a quiet thank-you, and she and Michele headed into the den to talk.

  Michele took the spot at one end of their leather sofa, and Margie took the other. They were barely seated when Margie met Michele's eyes and asked the question that had been coming all evening.

  “Okay, big sister, what is it?”

  “Connor's camping with three kids, not two.”

  Margie leaned back some. The subtle rise in her eyebrows made it clear she hadn't been expecting that answer. “Three?”

  “Yes.” Michele took hold of a nearby pillow and clutched it to her middle. Normally that was something she did to hide the fact that her stomach wasn't flat. But here with Margie it was the only way she knew to ward off the empty feeling in her gut. Her eyes met Margie's again. “He took the girls, and a seven-year-old boy named Max.”