Oceans Apart

by Karen Kingsbury

  Now, sitting on the rock with their arms touching, Max swallowed hard. It was time. The secret plan had to happen now, because there might not be another chance.

  “Mr. Evans?” Max had on one of the man's baseball caps so he didn't have to use his hand as a shield. He squinted up at his mommy's friend. “I have a question.”

  “Okay, Max.” Mr. Evans moved his fishing rod to his other hand, and then Max felt the man's strong arm come around his shoulders. He hoped his question wouldn't make Mr. Evans mad because he didn't want him to take his arm away. Not for a long time. Relaxed was in the man's eyes, plus also a smile. “What's your question?”

  “Well …” He was about to do the secret plan, but all of a sudden a butterfly landed on his fishing pole, just a little space up from his hands. He made his voice into a hushing sound. “Look!”

  “Hey, how about that.” Mr. Evans leaned in and looked close at the butterfly. “It's a monarch.”

  “That's the same kind we have!” Max still used his best whisper voice. Only now his throat felt funny, because this was sort of like a special butterfly day, but his mommy wasn't here to see it.

  Before he could say anything, a couple of tears slipped from his eyes and landed on his dirty jeans.

  “Max?” Mr. Evans looked at him. “What is it, pal? Why the tears?”

  Max did a quiet sniff because the butterfly was still there, but it was moving its wings very slow. Butterflies did that when they were thinking about flying away. He wiped his cheek on the shoulder part of his T-shirt and told the tears to go away. When they left a little, he looked at Mr. Evans. “Butterflies were special for me and my mommy.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Evans's face made a sad, thinking sort of look. “I didn't know that.”

  Max felt his mommy's friend scratch his arm a little, the way grown-ups did when they felt sorry for you. “Yeah.” He stared at the butterfly again. “We used to have special butterfly days, where we'd see tons of 'em.” He looked at Mr. Evans again. “A whole butterfly village.”

  Mr. Evans bit his lip and studied the wings of the butterfly. “I'd like to see that, a whole village of butterflies. They're very pretty.”

  “God's bestest artwork.”

  “Yes.”

  The butterfly took a few tiny bug steps toward Max's hand, and he remembered some of the things Mommy always said on their special butterfly days. “Know what Mommy says about butterflies?” He felt his smile fall. “What she used to say?”

  The sad in Mr. Evans's face got worse. “What, Max?”

  “She said they prove that God gives second chances.”

  “Butterflies prove that?” Mommy's friend tilted his head.

  “Yeah, because a butterfly spends all those days as a callipillar, scooting on the ground. Did you know that?”

  “I did.” Mr. Evans eyes were serious. Max figured it was because he liked this story.

  “Then one day”—Max stared at the butterfly—“one day he gets tired of scooting around, so he builds a little room and takes a nap there.” Max made his voice quiet again because sometimes it would get loud when he told a good story. And the story of his special butterfly days was a very good one. “But know what the bestest part is, Mr. Evans?”

  “What?” His face was closer now, because they both had shushed their words so the butterfly wouldn't leave.

  “One day the callipillar wakes up and God has done an amazing thing. The callipillar shakes his shoulders a little, and what do you know? There's something on his back!” Max shook his back a very little to show Mr. Evans what he meant. The butterfly gave a big flap of his wings, but still he stayed on the fishing pole. “That thing is wings, Mr. Evans. And now the callipillar doesn't have to scoot around on the ground because—”

  “Because he can fly.” A smile came on Mr. Evans face. “And that's his second chance, right?”

  “Right! And Mommy always said one day me and her aren't going to scoot anymore, either, because God loves us more than He loves the butterflies.”

  The butterfly started taking small steps again, only this time Max felt him walk his scratchy little feet right up onto his fingers. “Wow.” Max made the word as hushed as he could. “I never felt a butterfly walk on me before.”

  Mr. Evans set his fishing pole down and did a closer look. “How does it feel?”

  In that second Max had tears in his heart because of something he remembered. Something from his mommy's letter. The tears spilled out again, quiet and slow, and even when he tried he couldn't make them stop.

  “Max? You okay?” Mr. Evans got worry in his lips where the smile used to be.

  “I remembered something my mommy said in the letter. The one Mr. Ogle read after she was gone.”

  Little bumps came in Mr. Evans's chin. Maybe he didn't want to know what his mommy's letter said. Plus also his eyes had some new wet in them. But then he said, “Would you like to tell me what she wrote in the letter?”

  “Yes.” Max nodded very slow because the butterfly was still moving its little feet on his hand. “I would like that very much.” Max tried to remember his mommy's words from the letter. “She told me that she was in heaven now and that … finally she was getting her second chance.”

  “Like the butterfly?” A teardrop rolled down the side of Mr. Evans's face, but his words were clear. Not stuck in his throat like Max's sometimes got.

  “Yes.” He blinked so he could see the butterfly better. “She said that one day soon we'd be together again and we'd never scoot around on the ground. Instead we would fly. Forever and ever we would fly.”

  The butterfly did a tickly dance step on his hand, first one way, then the other. Then he flapped his soft wings faster than before. So fast it was hard to see the lines of brown and orange and black because they mixed all together.

  In a quick rush, the butterfly lifted up and stayed above the big rock, bouncing and lifting and falling until finally it moved up over the beach and toward a faraway tree.

  Max watched him go and the whole time he wished he could have real wings, so he could chase the butterfly and catch him again, keep him so he would never forget about special butterfly days. When the butterfly was gone, the hole in his heart felt the same big as it did when he first found out about his mommy being dead.

  “Max …” Mr. Evans hugged him close. Then he looked at him so their eyes were hooked together. “Thanks for telling me that story. I know how special it is for you.”

  “Yes.” He sniffed again, but not as soft as before. He wanted to cover up his face and cry, but he wanted to talk to Mr. Evans even more. And you couldn't talk very much when you were crying. Plus, his mommy told him whenever he was sad or afraid to be extra brave. “Mommy had something else special for me, too.”

  “You can tell me if you want, Max.” Mr. Evans voice was soft like the wind from the lake. He began to turn the little handle on his fishing pole.

  “She had a special song for me.” He tugged the hat on his head to make sure it was still there. It belonged to Mr. Evans and it was too big, so he was extra careful not to lose it. “Me and her sang it all the time.”

  Mr. Evans said nothing at first. He kept turning the little handle, and now the bobber and hook came out of the water and right back to Mr. Evans. The worm was gone, so he reached into a little box of dirt and took out a long squiggly one. Then he bunched it up, put it on the hook, and stood up. Next he jerked his pole real hard to the side and the hook and worm and bobber went flying out over the lake. Then he sat down and said, “Do you remember it?”

  “o' course.” Max smiled at Mr. Evans, but inside his heart felt sad at that thing. He looked at his bobber and decided it was time to check his worm, too. He began to turn the handle and he watched the bobber come bouncing closer on the water.

  Mr. Evans brought his legs up high and rested his fishing pole on his knee. “Could you sing it for me, Max?”

  Max kept turning the handle on his fishing pole, but inside his head he was thinking very h
ard. Because this was a big thing. He never sang his special song with anyone but his mommy. After she died he sang it to Buddy, because Buddy was his best friend. But no one else in the world ever heard it. Still … He looked at Mr. Evans and tried to tell if he just asked about the song to be nice or if he really wanted to hear it.

  And right then he knew. Because Mr. Evans's eyes had a serious look that grown-ups got when they really meant something. He took a break from the handle on his fishing pole and set it on the big rock, the way Mr. Evans had done before. Then he folded his arms tight and looked at Mr. Evans again. “It has hand motions.”

  “Okay.”

  Max nodded. Then he put his hands over his heart and started to sing. “I love you, Max, the most …” He brushed one hand against the other. “I love to make you toast …” Wide open arms. “When oceans we're apart …” Hands back over his chest. “You're always in my heart.”

  “That's beautiful.” Mr. Evans eyes were shiny.

  “My mommy had to stay in Japan some nights because of her plane didn't come home at night. It came home in the morning time.” The peanut-butter feeling in his throat was back, but he pushed the words out anyway. “She made up that song so I would know she was always with me. Even if the ocean stood in the way.”

  This time he was sure Mr. Evans looked sad, and he put his hand over his eyes and pinched his nose. The same way Mommy used to do when she was feeling extra much like a callipillar. After a minute he made a hard breathing sound and wiped his hands across his cheeks. “Could you sing it one more time, Max?”

  So he did. This time he looked out across the lake and sang it with no hand motions. Just his hands on his heart so he would remember that she was there still.

  “I love you, Max, the most … I love to make you toast. When oceans we're apart, you're always in my heart.”

  After that, they didn't talk for a long time. Max's head was busy thinking about his mommy and whether he had a worm on his hook still or not. He turned the handle until the bobber and hook came flying out of the water. Only they didn't come in nice and slow like when Mr. Evans did it. So Mommy's friend leaned close again, caught his pole, and helped him catch the hook.

  “Can I pick the worm?” Picking the worm was the best part of fishing. Unless you caught a fish, o' course.

  Mr. Evans made a little laugh. “Go ahead.” He held the worm box over, and Max picked the biggest, fattest one he could find.

  “The fish will love you, Mr. Worm.”

  It was extra strong, though, so Mr. Evans helped him put it on the hook and shoot it back out across the water. They sat like that for another long time, and then Mr. Evans turned to him. A little sad still stayed in his eyes.

  “Okay, Max. Now what were you going to ask me, remember?” Mr. Evans took his arm away and picked up his fishing pole again. “Before the butterfly came?”

  Max sat a little straighter. He almost forgot about the secret plan. He did a little cough so his voice would be extra strong. “Well, this week has been a lot of fun for me.”

  “Yes.” A smile came into Mr. Evans's face and moved all the way up to his eyes. “It's been fun for me, too.”

  “Okay, so remember I told you about my prayer, that I would find my daddy out there somewhere?”

  “Yes.” More sad colored Mr. Evans's smile. “I remember.”

  Max tugged on the front of his cap and squinted up at Mr. Evans. “I did some thinking in my head about that, and what if I never find that daddy?” Max leaned back a little so he could see Mr. Evans better. “And so the thinking in my head told me what if I could pretend you were my daddy, Mr. Evans. I could go home and get Buddy and the two of us could live here with you and Mrs. Evans and 'Lizabeth and Susan forever.”

  Little muscles came out on the sides of Mr. Evans's mouth and he looked out at the lake. After a minute he made a sound in his throat and said, “That would be wonderful, Max.”

  “Do you think maybe I could do that? Because Ramey said she's too old to keep me and Mr. Ogle and his wife are never home and the manager is giving my apartment to another family, so I'm not even sure where my home is right now.” Max told himself to stop talking. His mommy told him he talked too fast when he was excited, and he wanted Mr. Evans to understand every word he said.

  “You want to stay with us, is that what you're saying?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Evans, I mean. If that would be okay with you then I could get Buddy and pretend you were my daddy. If you don't mind too much.”

  “Max …” One more time Mr. Evans put his fishing pole down against the big rock, and this time he hugged him with both hands, the way he always did with 'Lizabeth and Susan. “I want that, too. I do.” He pulled himself back some so they could see each other. “We both need to pray that God will help us work that out.”

  Something inside him said that maybe there was a problem with his plan. “Because Mrs. Evans might not want me to stay, is that why we should pray?”

  “Mrs. Evans likes you, Max.”

  Max felt Mr. Evans move his fingers along his forehead. Then the man looked straight into his heart. Max did a little gulp. “Really?”

  “Really. But still I think we should pray about it.”

  And so all that afternoon, even when they each caught the two biggest fishes in the lake, Max prayed. He prayed during dinner and while they built the campfire, and he prayed that night when he fell asleep in the tent next to Mr. Evans.

  He prayed that maybe he wouldn't have to wait until heaven for his wings. Because if he could live with Mr. Evans and Mrs. Evans and 'Lizabeth and Susan, then they could be his own family forever. Then he would be sure his mommy was right, that God really did give people second chances. And so he prayed that if it was okay with God, Mr. Evans could be his pretend daddy. That way he wouldn't have to scoot around on the ground anymore, and he wouldn't have to wait till heaven for his wings.

  Instead, he would fly right here in Florida.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Connor and the kids were home less than an hour when the call came in.

  They'd been busy since pulling into the garage, unloading the camping gear, and cleaning it for next time. Max and the girls were so at ease with each other it was hard to tell they hadn't known each other forever.

  Something in the genes, Connor told himself. They're related, after all, even if they don't know it.

  The only sobering part of the afternoon was the obvious. Michele wasn't home. He hadn't heard from her since her cell phone call midway through the week. Her silence angered him. How was he supposed to help her understand the situation when she kept her distance in every way?

  He planned to call her after everything was put away and the kids were busy in the backyard, but not until then. It would take that much time to let his anger cool, to remember that even if she was making things more difficult, the mess they were in wasn't her fault.

  At just after four, he was helping Max put away the fishing gear when the phone rang. “Be right back.” He set down the tackle box and jogged into the house. He clicked the on button just before the answering machine picked up. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Evans?”

  “Yes.” The voice was familiar in a vague sort of way. Connor leaned against the kitchen island and forced himself to concentrate. “Can I help you?”

  “This is Mr. Ogle, the attorney in Honolulu.”

  “Mr. Ogle, hello.” Connor glanced at the calendar. It was Monday. They still had five days before the two weeks were up. “Things are going very well with Max.”

  “Oh.” Surprise filled the man's tone. “I'm glad. A good two weeks together has to be better than the alternative.” He paused. “Anyway, I went ahead and did as you asked. I put out feelers with the attorneys I know, and late last week I found a couple that's very interested.”

  Connor's chest felt suddenly tight, and he couldn't take a deep breath. What was the attorney talking about? “Mr. Ogle, I never asked you to … I've been camping all week with the ch
ildren.”

  “But your wife said …”

  Heat filled Connor's cheeks. A picture was taking shape, one he couldn't fathom. Because the Michele he knew and loved would never have done such a thing. He gave a shake of his head, as if maybe that could clear up the situation and make sense of it. “My wife said what?”

  “So you don't know?”

  “Mr. Ogle”—Connor massaged his brow with his thumb and forefinger—“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “I see.” The weight of the predicament sounded heavy in the attorney's voice. “I should explain, then.” He gave a tired-out breath. “Your wife contacted me last week and said you'd made a decision. Max needed to come home at the end of the two weeks. She asked me to start looking for an adoptive family for the boy, the sooner the better.”

  Connor could feel the blood draining from his face. She couldn't have done that, not without talking to him. When he remained silent, Mr. Ogle continued.

  “I explained that finding adoptive parents for an older child could take months, years even, but she told me she was praying it would happen sooner. She told me the two of you wanted a phone call if I found anyone.”

  Connor's heart was pounding so close to the surface, he could feel the beat in his neck and temple. “And now … now you've found a family?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “They've already started the process.”

  “But they've never even met Max.” How had he lost control so quickly? His son was all but gone from his life, and they'd never had a chance to see that things turned out different.

  “They run a bed-and-breakfast on the big island, Mr. Evans. Apparently they lost their son in a drowning accident a few years back. They want a boy about Max's age, someone to keep them company and learn the family business so he can take it over when they're too old to run it.”

  Connor couldn't believe any of it. He groped his way along the counter and dropped to the nearest kitchen stool. Not only had the attorney found adoptive parents for Max, but he had the boy's entire life planned out. All because of Michele's phone call. He wanted to scream that none of this was fair, that Max didn't want to live at a bed-and-breakfast or keep some older couple company all his life.