Oceans Apart

by Karen Kingsbury

  Margie wrinkled her nose. “Max?”

  “Max is … he's Connor's son.” Her voice cracked, and she hung her head. This wasn't the time to break down. She brought her back teeth together and sniffed. Then she found her sister's eyes once more. “Connor had an affair with the boy's mother back in 1996.”

  “No.” Margie's face was three shades paler than before.

  “Yes …” Nausea rose up and made further explanation impossible. “Yes, Margie.”

  “Connor's never loved anyone but you. The two of you are … you're the reason I believed in love enough to get married. Tell me you're making it up.”

  “I can't.”

  “Mitch … I can't believe it.”

  “It's true.” Michele angled her head. She was still as confused as Margie about what had happened. “I wish it wasn't, but …” She gave a few quick shakes of her head and then all of it, every word of Connor's talk at the beach, every detail about his reaction to the boy and the way their lives had changed swept over her. And the flood of tears she'd held off threatened to drown her.

  Margie said nothing. She slid over and put her arms around Michele's neck and held her until Michele could catch her breath and get enough of a grip to speak.

  Then she explained everything she knew about what had happened. “There was a storm that weekend. All the planes were grounded. He met her at the airport in Honolulu; she was a flight attendant for Western Island Air.” She sniffed and took a tissue from the box on the table. She wiped her nose. “I don't know how many days or hours they spent together, but they shared at least one night.”

  “That's all you know?” Margie sat facing her now, her eyes as wide with shock as they'd been when she first heard the news.

  “I don't want to know more.” Michele pulled her legs up and hugged her knees to her chest. “What good would that do?”

  “Okay, so what happened? Why does she call now, why send her son off to your house after all these years?”

  “She died.” Michele felt herself sink an inch. “She was in the Western Island Air plane crash last week.”

  “Oh, Mitch.” Margie's expression went slack, her voice dropped to a scratchy whisper. “No.”

  “Yes.” Michele rocked a bit. The news was still so awful, she could hardly speak it. Even to Margie. “The woman left a will, asking that the attorney in charge of her estate contact Connor before putting the boy up for adoption.” She paused. “He has no other family.”

  For a long while they said nothing. Then Margie took Michele's hand. “I'm so sorry, Mitch. You have no idea …”

  “I have some idea.” She uttered a sound that was more cry than laugh.

  “But Connor isn't the cheating type …”

  “I know.”

  “He wouldn't recognize a female who had something for him if she had the truth plastered on her forehead.” Margie sat cross-legged. “He was the last one in the world who should've had an affair.” She thought about that. “I mean, no one should have an affair, but Connor? Connor Evans?”

  “Yeah.” A sad sound escaped her. “I guess no one's safe.”

  “So …” Margie grew still, her normally bright eyes dark with the weight of the moment. “You're staying with him, right? I mean, you're going to work through it with him, aren't you?”

  It was the first time anyone had asked her, and the first answer that came to mind frightened her. “I'm not sure.”

  “Mitch … what he did was wrong, but it was eight years ago, honey.” Margie's eyes glistened. “You can't throw away what you have now over something that far back in the past. Unless …”

  “No.” Michele shook her head. “Connor says that was the only time.” The words felt plastic, and for the hundredth time Michele let doubt have its way with her. “Of course, he's lied about the Hawaiian flight attendant all these years. I guess he could be lying about other times.”

  “No, Mitch. You can't think that way.”

  “I don't know.” Michele eased her hand away and folded her arms tight against herself. “Makes me wonder if my weight had something to do with it. I kept telling him I'd lose it on my own, but …” She patted her thighs. “It hasn't happened yet.”

  Margie gave her shoulder a small shove. “Don't be crazy. Connor's nowhere near that shallow. Whatever was going on with the two of you back then, your weight wasn't the issue.”

  Michele thought about that. “If not my weight, then what?”

  “I'm not sure. Maybe it had nothing to do with you. Or maybe it's something God has to show you.”

  “Yeah, well …” Michele worked her fingers into fists. “Maybe Connor hasn't been attracted to me for a decade, Margie. Have you thought of that?”

  “Mitch, Connor's in love with you. Maybe more since he moved back to Florida than ever before.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Michele allowed a sad smile. “How would you know?”

  “Because …” Margie pulled herself up a bit straighter. “You send me pictures every Christmas. I can read the man's eyes like a book, Mitch; he's crazy about you.” She reached out, caught Michele's closest hand, and squeezed it. “Don't let him go. You have the girls to think about … your future with Connor. Please …”

  The conversation drifted, the two sisters alternately crying and laughing over memories from Connor and Michele's marriage. Like the wake after a funeral, Michele thought. Remembering the dead—both the good and bad times.

  Margie recalled the irony when Michele told her that she'd met a pilot. “You were terrified of flying.”

  “I know.” Michele rubbed her eyes. They were still swollen from the crying she'd done earlier. “I think that's why I fell in love with him. He was the only guy who ever made me face my fears.”

  “And you helped him with his.”

  “The delivery room, yes.” Michele still had hold of the pillow. She laughed and let her head fall back a bit. “I thought for sure he'd faint the minute the doctor yelled, ‘Push!’”

  Every ten or fifteen minutes, the conversation would fall silent, and once Margie looked at Michele and said the thing neither of them had talked about in years.

  “What about Connor's father?”

  Michele's heart sank another notch. “He doesn't know.” At least once a year, without Connor knowing it, Michele had called the old man, given him an update on the girls and the life the four of them were living. Always she would end the call with a plea. “Call him, Loren. Please.”

  The old man's answer was the same every time. “When he's ready, he'll call me. Let's leave it at that.”

  Michele had talked about the phone calls with Margie, so it was no surprise that she would bring him up now. “I've thought about seeing him this time, taking a drive up to Cambria and telling him what happened.”

  “You should.” Margie rested her head against the back of the sofa. “Maybe it'll help.”

  “With him and Connor?”

  Margie made two small lifts with her shoulders. “With all of it.”

  “I don't know.” She was running on fumes, hungry after her half-eaten meal and working on East Coast time, three hours ahead of Margie. The idea of calling Loren Evans, telling him what had happened, seemed suddenly overwhelming. She raked her fingers along the legs of her jeans. “I'll see how I feel tomorrow.”

  The conversation went on for another hour and ended with the two of them holding hands and praying out loud, something Michele hadn't done since the last time she'd been with Margie.

  “God, please give my big sister a miracle.” Margie's voice grew tight and she hesitated a moment. “Her family needs so much healing.”

  When they were finished praying, they talked some more until finally there was nothing left to say. The fact that Michele was there had said it all. As she brushed her teeth and turned down the bed in the guest room, she pressed her fist against her stomach, the way she often did now to ease the knots there.

  But the ache wasn't as bad as before.

  Was that how powerf
ul her memories of the past were? So strong that they could ease the pain of today? She lay in bed and wondered what Connor and the kids were doing. Still eating s'mores around the fire, no doubt. Connor would let them stay up as late as they wanted, and since he was a night owl, he'd enjoy every minute.

  And what about the boy?

  Was he liking his camping experience? Had the girls warmed up to him? Was Connor falling for him? If she and Conner survived the affair, it would have to be without the boy. Michele couldn't begin to imagine a life with him in it, a reminder of Connor's unfaithfulness at every breakfast, every dinner, every family outing.

  If only they could be sure the boy had a good home, a place where he'd be okay, then Connor would have an easier time letting him go. No doubt guilt was playing a role in Connor's thoughts and actions, guilt about what he'd done to Michele and the girls, yes. But guilt regarding the boy as well. After all, he'd done nothing to help the boy's mother, given no financial assistance, no emotional support.

  Now that he was aware of the boy's existence, she was fairly sure Connor was struggling over not only his curiosity about having a son but also his obligation to the child. These thoughts played in Michele's mind for nearly an hour before she fell asleep.

  When she woke the next morning, she had an idea. At first the idea felt sneaky and manipulative, the sort of thing she knew wouldn't be right. But by lunchtime, she'd made up her mind. Wrong or not, what she was about to do could give Connor the assurance he needed to let the boy go.

  At one o'clock that afternoon she called information and found the number for Marv Ogle, the attorney in Honolulu. She was connected to the man after only a few minutes on hold.

  “Marv Ogle.” The voice was familiar, the one she'd heard on the answering machine before her current nightmare began. “How can I help you?”

  “Mr. Ogle, this is Michele Evans, Connor's wife. Max is staying with us.”

  An instant warmth filled the man's voice. “Yes, how's it working out?”

  “How is it?” Like sandpaper, guilt grated against her soul. She could hardly say she was giving it a try. She cleared her throat. “Things are fine, but … well, we were wondering what options Max has when he goes home.”

  “Options?”

  “Yes.” Michele closed her eyes and tried to believe she wasn't somehow manipulating the outcome of their two-week trial with the boy. “In other words, where would the boy live?”

  “I see.” Disappointment rang in the attorney's voice. “Like I told your husband, Max really has no one, Mrs. Evans. His baby-sitter loves him, but she's dying of heart disease, so that's not a permanent option.” He paused. “My wife and I could take him until the state found a permanent home for him, but we're near retirement and we travel quite a bit. Our lifestyle isn't conducive to raising a young boy, you understand.”

  Mine isn't either, mister Michele bit her tongue. “So what about adoption? Are you aware of anyone, any situation where a family might want him?”

  “Not at this time.” The attorney sighed. “I suppose I could put feelers out, let the private adoption attorneys know about him.” Silence filled the phone line. “Are you saying that it isn't working, Mrs. Evans?”

  Michele tightened her grip on the receiver. “Max is a lovely child.” She covered her eyes with her free hand. “But taking him into our family, Mr. Evans … it's more than we can do.” She clenched her teeth. “You understand?”

  The attorney's hesitation lasted only a few seconds. “Of course. If this is something you and Mr. Evans agreed on, then I'll get to work on it right away.”

  “Yes.” She opened her eyes and stared straight ahead, her resolve intact. “Both of us feel he'd be better off with an adoptive family.” The lie tasted bitter, but she pressed on. “We'd like to know as soon as you receive any interest in him.”

  “Mrs. Evans.” The attorney seemed at a loss for words. “Max is an older child. Interest in an older child can take some time. A year or more. Sometimes older children never get adopted. I hardly imagine we'll have interest in the next week or so.”

  “I realize that.” She bit her lip and begged God that someone would come along, someone interested in a boy Max's age. “But please, if you hear anything, contact us right away.”

  Michele clicked the off button and sat unmoving, the receiver in her hand. What she'd told the attorney was true—the boy needed a different home. One in Honolulu, with a family who wanted him. Connor couldn't possibly expect her to agree to keeping the child, so if God was going to work a miracle the way she and Margie had prayed, then the call to Mr. Ogle was her way of helping make it happen.

  That's what the miracle would be. Sometime in the next week the attorney would hear of a family simply desperate for a boy like Max. Connor would get word of the family's interest, and feel practically obligated to let the boy return home. It would be the perfect solution, the only way she could move ahead and rebuild the life she and Connor and the girls had always shared.

  Michele stared out the window at the palm trees that lined her sister's courtyard. Okay, God? Will You do that? Will You let that be the miracle, please?

  In response, something her sister said ran through her mind again. Whatever was going on with Connor and her back then, her weight wasn't the issue. But if it wasn't her weight, then what? What had she done to make Connor vulnerable to a woman like Kiahna Siefert?

  Or maybe she hadn't done anything wrong at all. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the scene at the campground that afternoon. Connor, Elizabeth, Susan, and Max. Fishing and playing on the shore together. Riding jet skis and eating around the campfire, laughing at Connor's silly stories and having a great time.

  The images made Michele sad in a deeper sort of way than anything else that evening. Not because of the bonding they were probably doing, the girls and Connor and the boy. But because if God didn't find a family for Max, if for some reason Connor chose to keep him, then a separate family vacation was hardly a temporary solution.

  It could very easily become a way of life.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The girls and Mr. Evans were fishing from some chairs near the water, but Max wanted to find pretty rocks. Ramey liked pretty rocks, because whenever he found one walking home from the bus stop, he'd give it to her and she'd set it on the shelf by the TV.

  He wanted to bring a whole bagful of pretty rocks home from his Florida trip.

  “Mr. Evans?” He took careful steps between the folding chairs because 'Lizabeth said fish don't come if you bump someone's fishing pole. When he reached his mommy's friend, he put his hand on the man's knee. “Can I walk along the water and look for rocks?”

  “Sure, Max.” Mr. Evans patted his hand very nice. “Just stay close so we can see you.”

  “I will.” Max smiled, then he took more careful steps through the chairs and walked just along the edge of the water.

  Being at the lake made him remember the ocean, and the times when he and Mommy walked near the water. Sometimes they found pretty shells or sand dollars. But whenever he found a pretty rock, he gave it to Ramey. Mommy never got jealous about that. She liked the pretty shells, and Ramey liked the rocks.

  Max stopped and took his tennis shoes off. Next he pulled off his socks and squished them into his shoes so they wouldn't get lost. He set them a few steps away from the water in case the tide came in. Did lakes have tides? His toes liked being free, and he pushed them into the sand. It was different than the beach sand back home, more bumpy and rough. But it felt good.

  He headed back to the water.

  Their camping trip was going pretty good. He wasn't afraid to sleep in a tent anymore. The first night he made a plan to sit up in case a bear or an alligator or a snake tried to climb inside. But Mr. Evans saw him and asked what the problem was.

  When Max told him, Mr. Evans's eyes got soft. “Move your sleeping bag over here for tonight, by me.”

  The tent was big inside, with two rooms and a zipper wall in the middl
e, but Mr. Evans said they would leave the wall open for the trip. 'Lizabeth and Susan were sleeping together in the front part, Mr. Evans in the back, and Max in the middle. A warm feeling came into his heart when Mr. Evans asked him that thing, so he moved his sleeping bag right up next to where his mommy's friend was sleeping.

  “Nothing's coming into our tent, Max, okay?” Mr. Evans rubbed his back for a minute. He used a whisper voice because the girls were already asleep. “You're safe with me.”

  “Okay.” Max liked the sound of that. And after he lay down, it was true. He felt safe next to Mr. Evans, and that night he fell asleep holding hands with that man. Mommy's friend was tall and strong and smart. Bears and alligators and snakes wouldn't think of hurting him with Mr. Evans nearby.

  Something caught Max's attention and he stopped. In front of him was the bestest rock he'd ever seen, just laying there on the ground. It was shiny black like a marble with four snowy white little stripes on it. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. Dirt covered up the back, so he quick put it in the lake water and rolled it around in his fingers. When the dirt was off, he looked hard at it and saw a wonderful thing. The stripes went all the way around! Like white rings on a black marble. Only it wasn't a marble, it was a rock, and that was even better because God made rocks.

  Wow! Ramey was going to love this one!

  He took one more close look, and then stuffed the rock in the front pocket of his jeans. Pockets were a perfect place to save rocks. Max walked a little bit more and he saw a big rock, the kind good for sitting on. He wasn't tired, but he stopped anyway. Big rocks were also good for thinking. He grabbed onto the top of it and pulled himself up. Then he sat so he could see the lake water. Mr. Evans and the girls were back some, but even if he looked straight out he could see them in the side part of his eyes.

  Max did his best thinking near the water, and even though this wasn't an ocean, it was still water. And Max had a lot of thinking in his head.

  The first thing he wanted to think about was Buddy. Max was pretty sure the old dog would love camping, especially the fishing part. Buddy got pretty excited whenever he smelled fish. But also the tent part, because Mommy used to say Buddy liked being a watchdog for him. He could probably even keep Mr. Evans safe.