Fame

by Karen Kingsbury

  She closed her eyes and rested her head against the cool stall door. His name was Tad Thompson, and the two of them had been friends since high school drama class their junior year. Love didn’t find them until their first year of college, and by then they were both going to auditions and getting small parts in commercials and films.

  His first big part came before hers—a supporting role in a film opposite one of the biggest names in Hollywood.

  “Nothing will change,” he had promised her. “I’ll be gone for a while, but I’ll come back. Things will be just like they were.”

  But the film crew was a wild one, and Tad had been sucked into a lifestyle he wasn’t prepared for. Katy did everything she could to keep him grounded, but in the end holding on to him had been like holding the string of a kite caught in a hurricane. In the midst of it all, she got the break she’d dreamed of back then—a series pilot, a two-hour TV movie that would showcase her acting ability and maybe open the door for more auditions, more films.

  Tad died the week before her movie aired on CBS.

  The loss had knocked her to her knees, sent her reeling, not sure how she would survive one breath to the next. Three months passed in a blur, but every audition felt flat, her dreams ugly and tarnished. Eventually she stopped taking calls from her agent.

  Her mother got it right. She found Katy in her room one night a few months after Tad’s death and softly closed the door behind her. “It died, didn’t it?” She sat on the bed beside Katy and brushed her thumb along her brow.

  “What?”

  “Your dream of acting. It died just like Tad. And now you’re afraid to go anywhere near that world.”

  Katy’s eyes had filled, but she didn’t speak, couldn’t speak.

  “It’s okay to be afraid, Katy.” Her mother gave her a sad smile. “God’s the giver of life. For every dream that dies, a new one takes root.”

  A lump settled in Katy’s throat.

  She and Tad were going to marry and buy a condominium in Chicago. They had plans to be onstage, and together they would avoid the mistakes so many other people in show business made. They were going to raise a family, and even though faith had never come easily for Tad, they planned to teach their children about God.

  Katy opened her eyes and stared at the bare wall above the toilet. She had missed Tad so much back then, missed him with an ache that for months sent her to bed early. But slowly, like the dawn, the pain lifted enough to allow her to look outside herself. What she found proved that her mother had been right about something else too: Hope lived.

  The mere act of breathing, of getting out of bed and facing the day gave her hope, and hope breathed new dreams into existence. The answer was obvious, from the moment she and her mother attended a local CKT performance. Children’s theater was the answer, the antidote for her lonely days and nights. She breezed into an assistant position and was named director at the end of her first year.

  With the children of CKT, acting no longer represented the world that had taken Tad from her. Instead it was a creative expression of the heart, an extension of the soul, one that could glorify God, the giver of creativity.

  Her feelings hadn’t veered from that, not once. She believed in CKT and everything it attempted to do. So why was she now standing in a bathroom stall trying not to cry? Why had the parent committees and Alice Stryker and Tim’s missed cues sent her running for cover?

  Katy had no answers for herself. She drew a full breath and left the cramped space. As she passed the mirror she caught a glimpse of her reflection, and suddenly she knew why things felt so strange and chaotic, why the job she loved so much felt more burden than blessing.

  It was because of the audition.

  She was headed west to meet with Dayne Matthews, and no matter what she thought of the entertainment industry, no matter how she blamed it for robbing her of Tad Thompson and the life they’d planned together, her reflection told her that it was happening again.

  Hope was giving way to new dreams.

  Only this time the dream didn’t involve children’s theater or directing or anything about CKT. It involved whatever lay ahead of her in Hollywood, California.

  Sun streamed through a handful of puffy white clouds Sunday afternoon as Ashley walked beside Landon and Cole across the church parking lot and looked around one more time. Still no sign of her father, which was strange. He always attended the eleven o’clock service. She took Cole’s hand and helped him into their Durango.

  When they were all seated inside, she turned to Landon. “Don’t you think it’s weird?” She buckled her seat belt. “Dad’s always here at eleven.”

  “Maybe he had a meeting at the hospital.” Landon started the SUV and pulled it into line behind three others headed for the exit.

  “On Sunday?”

  “Maybe he went early. You know, something new for a change.” He reached out and covered Ashley’s hand with his own. “He’s okay, Ash. Really.”

  “Okay.” She gave him a weak smile and looked over her right shoulder. “Buckle up, Cole.”

  “Already did, Mom. I always buckle up, remember?” He grinned at her. Both his front top teeth were missing, and he lisped because of it. “Are we going to the picnic still?”

  Ashley shifted her attention to Landon. “Are we?”

  “If you want.” He motioned to the sky. “Looks like a great day.”

  “Yeah, Mommy, let’s go.” Cole put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “And let’s stop by Grandpa’s and see if he wants to go too!”

  “Hmm.” Ashey looked at Landon. “I have some paint there I’ve been meaning to get.” She raised her brow. “Could we stop by?”

  “Sure.” Landon turned left out of the parking lot. “How ’bout I drop you off. Cole and I can stop in at the fire station.” He grinned back at Cole. “I have some paperwork to fill out, and Cole can help wash the engines.”

  “Awesome! I love washing the engines.” Cole bounced a few times on his seat. “Can I be in charge of the tires?”

  “Sure, Cole. Of all the guys, you’re the best tire washer at the station.”

  “Yay!”

  Ashley ran her thumb over Landon’s fingers. “Really? You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” He looked at her, to the places of her heart only he understood. “You’ll want to do more than stop by, Ash. I know you.” He smiled. “The picnic can wait an hour or so.”

  For a minute, Ashley took in the sight of Landon, strong and tall and loving her the way he did. How had things worked out so well for them? What had she ever done to wind up married to a man like Landon Blake, a man who loved her enough to listen to her when no one else would? a man who knew everything about her past and loved her no less for the painful details?

  She leaned close and kissed him on the cheek. “I can’t wait for our cruise.”

  “Me either.” He nuzzled his face against hers. “I love you, Ash.”

  “I know, but guess what?” Her words were barely a whisper.

  “What?”

  She kissed him again. “I love you more.”

  From the backseat, Cole giggled. “You guys kiss too much.”

  “No way.” Ashley reached back and tickled him in the ribs. “You can never kiss too much, Coley.”

  Landon gave her a sideways glance. “I’d like to test that theory.”

  “You would, would you?” She moved in close to the side of his face again.

  “Maybe on the cruise?” His eyes shone with a brilliance that came from faith and love and knowing how to make the most of a moment.

  “Sounds good to me.” She settled back in her seat and studied the road ahead of them. Bloomington was beautiful in early summer, the maples green and full, and springtime flowers still holding out for another few weeks.

  They reached her father’s house in ten minutes, and Landon pulled up to the side door. “Tell him to come with us.” He looked at his watch. “We’ll be back in an hour to get you, and we
can pick up subs. That’ll save us some time.”

  “Okay.” She blew him a kiss and then sent another one to Cole. “Be safe.”

  “Always.” Landon grinned at her.

  She shut the door and watched them drive away. Cole waved at her until they reached the end of the driveway.

  When they were gone, Ashley held her hands straight out to her sides and stared at the vast blue sky. “Thank You, God. . . . You’re so good.”

  She did a simple twirl to emphasize the point, then skipped up the steps and knocked on the door. There was no response, so she went inside and stepped lightly through the mudroom into the kitchen. The temptation to call out to her mother was still there, but she caught herself.

  “Dad? You home?”

  The house was quiet, and Ashley frowned. He wasn’t at church, and he couldn’t be in a meeting. Not on a Sunday. Maybe he had a patient in the hospital, someone special who needed a Sunday visit. That was possible, wasn’t it?

  Whatever the reason, if he wasn’t here, she had no need to stay an hour. She reached into her purse for her cell phone and found not one but two. Hers and Landon’s. Which meant she couldn’t call him until he got to the station, and by then he might as well get his paperwork finished.

  She took a look around the house. It was darker than usual, and she realized the reason. Most of the blinds were still shut, even though it was almost one o’clock. Just one more change that had settled over the house since Mom died. When she was alive, she would wake up every morning and make her way through the house, humming one tune or another and opening the blinds.

  “Light,” she would say. “We have to have light in here.”

  Ashley felt the familiar ache in her soul. Her mother’s love for light always made her feel that somehow they were kindred spirits—despite the tougher years after she returned from Paris. Ashley was an artist, and artists noticed lighting. With her love for light, her mother might’ve been an artist too if she’d been given the chance.

  Sadly, it was fitting that the house was darker now. As if mourning had come to everything her mother had loved, even the rooms of the old Baxter house. Ashley walked across the kitchen to the stove, where her mother had cooked thousands of meals and made a million cups of tea.

  With gentle fingers, she gripped the handle of the old copper teakettle. God, tell her how much we miss her. Tell her I wish she were here so we could share a cup of tea.

  Ashley heard no response, but at the center of her being she felt peace, a peace that didn’t have its roots in this world. She filled the kettle, turned on the burner, and waited, studying the kitchen and remembering. Every inch brought with it dozens of memories—laughter and conversation and an intimacy that only a family can share.

  When the water was boiling, Ashley took down not one but two teacups. Her favorite and the one her mother had used. From the tray of tea canisters, she took two tea bags and dropped one in each cup. Then she poured water in both, and for a lingering moment she closed her eyes and allowed herself to believe that for just one more day her mother was still alive, still busy in the next room, about to join her in the kitchen.

  “Mom . . . the tea’s ready.” Her words echoed through the empty house, and tears trickled down her cheeks. God . . . tell her the tea’s ready.

  She blinked her eyes open. The shadows were suddenly too sad, too much a reminder of her mother’s absence. Here, on this glorious Sunday, Ashley couldn’t stand the thought of darkness filling the places where her mother had once welcomed a daily dose of light and warmth.

  Ashley left the tea, and starting with the kitchen windows, she worked her way around the downstairs and opened every set of blinds. When she was finished, she climbed the stairs to the room that had once been hers. It was here that she sometimes painted, back before she and Landon married.

  Ashley opened the blinds in this room as well. The paints she was looking for were on the bookcase, two shelves from the bottom. She collected them and was heading back toward the stairs when the door to her parents’ room caught her attention. She’d forgotten their room, but the blinds should be opened in there too. There of all places.

  She set her paints down on a hallway table and opened the door wide enough so she could see inside. It was the darkest room of the house, and Ashley clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. What was her father thinking? She moved quickly, first to the window near her father’s side of the bed and then to the other one—next to her mother’s side.

  With light spilling into the room, she stepped back and studied her parents’ bed, where her mother had lain sick a year earlier, helping Ashley plan her wedding despite the pain she was in. She looked at the carpeted area next to the bed. It was the place where she had stood in her wedding dress as her mother fastened the tiny pearl-like buttons that ran down the back.

  She could hear her mom’s voice, feel it in her soul. Ashley, you look so beautiful.

  God had been gracious, letting her mother live long enough to see her marry Landon. Gracious enough to let her see Erin—Ashley’s youngest sister—come home with her four adopted little girls. But no matter what God had given them, Ashley longed for more. One more week or one more day. One more hour, even.

  She sniffed and looked at the windows again. Light wasn’t enough to chase away the darkness today. Fresh air, that’s what the room needed. She opened her mother’s window and then rounded the bed and flung open the one next to her father’s side of the bed.

  A warm, sweet-smelling breeze rustled the blinds and filled the room. There. That was better. As long as the memories of her mother lived, then the places that were most familiar to her should feel alive also. She stepped back again and was about to leave the room when she heard something behind her.

  She turned and looked. Her parents’ closet door was open. Inside on the top shelf were two manila envelopes, and next to them was a box overflowing with papers, now moving with the subtle wind. Ashley stared at the spot for a beat. Were they letters, maybe? Things her mother had written to her father?

  A look at the clock told her she still had time. Landon wouldn’t be back for thirty minutes. She moved across the room and flipped on the closet light. First she pulled down the fullest manila envelope. Inside were old bank records and tax documents.

  Ashley returned it to its spot on the shelf. The other manila envelope wasn’t nearly as full. Nothing important probably. The box had more promise. She took careful hold of it as she eased it onto the floor. Sure enough, it was full of yellowed envelopes, each addressed to either her father or her mother.

  She took one from the box and opened it. A single page held a Christmas message from one of her mother’s friends, sent while the friend was on vacation in Italy. Ashley returned it to the envelope and sorted through the stack some more. Partially buried near the back of the box she spotted one that said simply Elizabeth.

  The house was still quiet, but Ashley peered out of the closet. It felt strange, snooping through her mother’s things this way. But her mother had no secrets, nothing she wouldn’t have wanted her kids to see. Ashley sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the envelope.

  Two pieces of paper held what looked like a handwritten letter from her father to her mother. The paper was old, the writing faded some. She glanced at the top of the first sheet and saw the date: June 17, 1980. The day after Luke was born.

  Ashley closed her eyes and tried to imagine the feelings her father would’ve had that day. By then the Baxter family had four girls but no boys. Luke—their fifth and final child—was the first son. Their father must’ve been beside himself with joy and gratitude toward God, thrilled that his wife and Luke had come through the delivery without incident.

  She opened her eyes and found the first line.

  My dearest Elizabeth . . .

  Ashley stared at the paper, but her eyes stung and the words blurred. How often had she heard her father call her mother that? My dearest Elizabeth. Usually he would come home from w
ork, find her in the kitchen fixing dinner, come up behind her, and wrap his arms around her waist. “My dearest Elizabeth . . . how was your day?”

  She blinked, and the words on the page grew clear again.

  My dearest Elizabeth,

  We have a son! A son we can call our very own! Can you believe it, my love? God is so good, that after all we’ve been through, after four lovely daughters, He has seen fit to complete our family this way—the way it should’ve been completed from the beginning.

  Ashley stopped and uttered a single sad-sounding laugh. “Thanks, Dad.” The way it should’ve been from the beginning? She took a quick breath through her nose and got a grip on her feelings. Whatever. If that’s how her father felt about Luke’s arrival, she couldn’t hold it against him now.

  She picked up where she left off.

  I am sitting here in our house, anxious for your return, to have you and our son home where you belong. But I can’t keep myself from thinking of your words earlier today. You said that seeing Luke made you remember what you felt when—

  “Ashley?”

  She screamed and tossed the letter into the air. Her father stood a few feet from her, his expression a mix of surprise and indignation. “Dad . . . you scared me.” She stood up and exhaled hard. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You scared me too.” Her father looked at the box of letters on the floor and then back at her. “I saw the tea downstairs, so I called out but no one answered.” His tone was frustrated. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Well . . .” Ashley glanced around the closet floor and spotted the two pages—one on a pair of her father’s shoes, the other in a laundry basket. With a nervous laugh she collected them, folded them, and slipped them back into the envelope. “I was opening the windows and the breeze made the letters in the box rustle a little and—” she laughed again—“next thing I knew I was sitting here looking through Mom’s box of letters.” Her smile remained. “Anyway . . . I came by because you weren’t at church and I was worried.”