Porter Mullet scratched his graying temple. “What’s on the calendar when we get back to Pine Hill?”
Anthony inwardly cringed. The next several projects were piddly ones—painting a house, building a couple of deer blinds, tearing down a dilapidated shed and hauling away the rubble. The bricked garage for Mr. Packer in Kokomo had been the only major job scheduled after this one in Noblesville, and now someone else was tackling it. But he didn’t want to pass his financial worries on to his team of workers.
He gave Porter a light slap on the shoulder. “I’ll write out a schedule for each of you when we finish this job. But you can all plan to take a day or two of rest to recover from the long days we’ve put in here.”
The men nodded, murmuring approval or thanks, and they headed out on the concrete balcony leading to their rooms. A tin overhang protected them from the falling raindrops, and they ambled rather than jogged to the rooms on either side of Anthony’s. Anthony stayed in his doorway, breathing in the moist air, until each of the other three motel doors closed. Then he sealed himself inside the room and crossed to the bed.
He perched on the edge of the firm mattress, where he’d sat for Bible reading and prayer, and ran his thumb over the red-tinted edges of his Bible’s pages. The soft thwip thwip mimicked the sound of the raindrops dripping from the overhang onto the balcony’s iron railing. Was it raining in Pine Hill, too? Marty should be home from Bible study by now. They attended Deacon Bontrager’s group, which met at the Bontrager house only a few blocks over from their bungalow, and they always walked unless the weather was foul. Maybe Marty hadn’t gone, with him away. He hoped she’d gone. She’d sounded so lonely when he called on Saturday.
Longing to talk to her again washed through him. The motel room seemed too quiet, too empty, with only the lingering smell of pizza reminding him he’d had company a few minutes earlier. He stared at the cell phone lying on the stand next to the bed. Thwip thwip. His thumb stilled on the Bible. Even though he hadn’t intended to call home again, he wanted to talk to her, to tell her he was sorry for giving up their Bible-reading and prayer time, to find out if she had missed it, too.
He grabbed up his cell phone, flipped it open, and scrolled to their home number. He punched the button and lifted it to his ear. He listened to the rings—one, two, three, four…After five, it would go to the answering machine. His heart pounded, and eagerness to hear his wife’s voice writhed through his middle.
“Hello, you’ve reached Anthony and Martha Hirschler of Hirschler Construction.” Marty’s sweet voice came through the speaker. “I’m sorry we missed your call. Please—”
He snapped the phone closed rather than listening to the full message. Marty must still be at the Bontragers’ place. Disappointment niggled, but he told himself it was good she wasn’t home yet. She needed to be with others. Between him traveling and her hiding in the basement, she’d nearly forgotten how to be part of a group. He plugged the phone into its charger and then headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and change for bed. Tomorrow would be another full day.
Pine Hill
Marty
Marty waited, holding her breath, but the phone didn’t ring a second time. She puffed her cheeks and blew out the held air. If it had been something important—such as an emergency within the community or someone wanting to hire Anthony for a job—the person would call a second time or leave a message. Neither happened, so it had probably been one of the Bible study group members checking to see if she’d made it home all right. She bit her lip. Maybe she should have answered instead of letting it go to the machine. Would whoever had called come over since she hadn’t answered the telephone? She hoped not. She was already in her nightgown, her hair released from its bun and falling down her back in a thick, wavy curtain. She shouldn’t let anyone but Anthony see her this way.
Just in case, she scurried to her bedroom, quickly twisted her hair into a braid, and slung on her bathrobe. She returned to the living room and flipped on the porch light. Dusk sent long shadows across the yard and the porch. The light would help guide someone. If someone came. She peeked between the curtains, which she’d drawn across the front picture window, and searched up and down the street.
On the opposite side of the street, barefoot children chased lightning bugs while their mother watched from the porch, her smile brighter than the bugs’ flashes. Two doors over, the husband and wife sat in lawn chairs under the maple tree at the edge of their yard, holding hands and sipping what looked like lemonade from tall glasses. Other neighbors were also outside, enjoying the mild summer evening, but no one appeared to be heading toward her porch. Apparently it wasn’t a concerned fellowship member who’d called. They must not care after all.
“Tsk-tsk…” Great-Grandma Lois gently scolded from the recesses of Marty’s memory. “Don’t judge folks, Martha Grace. That’s the Good Lord Almighty’s job, and it’s best left to Him.”
With a sigh, Marty trudged to the front door and turned off the light. What was wrong with her? She wanted to be alone, but she wanted someone to check on her. She wanted someone to check on her, but she didn’t answer the telephone when it rang. She needed to be with people, but every time she joined a group or met someone on the street, something reminded her of her heartache and sent her scuttling for cover to lick her wounds.
“I need out of this place.” The sound of her own voice startled her. Her statement stunned her. Had she really said her thought out loud? She’d spoken the truth, and her stomach lost a bit of its ache with the confession. So she said it again. “I need out of this place. I need out of this place.” She aimed her gaze to the ceiling and pointed her finger. “Do You hear me? I…need…out.”
8
Kansas City
Brooke
Leapin’ lizards, I want out of here…
Brooke lay on a narrow length of hard plastic with her hands linked on her stomach. She battled a shiver. How she hated hospital gowns. Thinner than a bedsheet—no warmth at all. Always scratchy. And ugly. This one was faded army green with dingy white squiggles dancing erratically all over it, and it stunk like bleach. She tried to breathe shallowly to avoid sucking in the foul aroma, but fear pumped her lungs like a bellows, inviting repeated assaults to her nostrils.
A youngish technician in gray scrubs slipped a small pillow under her head. She surreptitiously eyed him. He was a lot cuter than the paunchy man who’d given her the gown and instructed her in a monotone to remove everything from head to toe, put on the gown, and wait for the MRI tech. This guy’s clean-cut, all-American appearance was a nice distraction in otherwise unappealing surroundings, but he smelled bad, too. Like antiseptic soap. When she got home, she’d stick her nose over the coffee canister and sniff to her heart’s content. She’d also bundle up in her afghan. They could keep meat from spoiling it was so cold in here.
“All right, Ms. Spalding, you’ll need to hold very still for the duration of the scan.”
Brooke bobbed her chin toward the giant tube waiting beyond her bare feet like the open mouth of a whale. “How long will I be in that thing?”
“About half an hour.”
She shuddered. “I tend to get claustrophobic.” Probably a residual effect of cowering in her closet when she was eight. Mom’s boyfriend that year had been the biggest jerk of a whole host of jerks.
He patted her shoulder, his hand warm compared to the temperature of the room. “I’m only taking you in as far as your rib cage since we need images of your pelvic region.”
She averted her gaze. She’d never discussed her pelvic region with a stranger. Especially one who was built like a star on a college track team.
“Most people close their eyes during the test. It helps them relax. Besides”—he chuckled softly—“there’s not much to see in here.”
Apparently he underestimated his appearance. And why was she drooling over a man—a kid,
really—at least a decade younger than she was? Obviously she’d spent too much time of late in the company of overweight, over-the-hill bankers and businessmen. “Close my eyes. Yes. I can do that.” Perfect way to block out the world.
“The machine is noisy, so if you’d like, I can put headphones on you and pipe in some music.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What kind of music?” In the lobby of the hospital’s MRI center, they’d been playing some sort of instrumental stuff that made her think of funerals. She didn’t need that piped into her head while a giant tin can discovered what kind of weird something was growing low in her belly.
He smiled. “Whatever you like. Classical, rock-and-roll, inspirational, country-western…”
“Do you have oldies?”
“Sure.” He produced a pair of headphones similar to the ones the technician had used in the hearing-check mobile unit when Brooke was a kid. “I’ll just put these in place and—” The rest of his words were muffled by the thick foam-cushioned cups over her ears.
In her peripheral vision, she followed his retreat to a glass-enclosed booth to the left of the machine. His gaze lowered to some sort of panel in front of him. Static crackled in her ears, and then a Beach Boys number filtered into the headphones. Maybe she shouldn’t have used the term oldies. She hadn’t wanted music from her mother’s generation. He met her gaze through the glass and held his thumb in the air, smiling.
She sighed and looked at the ceiling tiles. Too late now. I get around…from town to town…While the perky words sang through the headphones, the platform jerked, and it slowly slid her feetfirst into the huge tube. She automatically closed her eyes as the tube seemed to swallow her legs. Her mouth went dry, and she wished she had a peppermint. Or even an antacid. Anything to mask the bitter taste of fear on her tongue. The platform gave another little jerk and stopped. Moments later, a rumble vibrated her plastic bed—the machine coming to life.
Eyes tightly closed and her heart pounding like the surf the Beach Boys probably performed next to during their heyday, she ignored the muted whir and rhythmic thumps outside the headphones and tried not to think about why she was in this machine. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase Dr. Classen’s compassionate yet concerned expression when she told Brooke they needed to schedule an MRI as quickly as possible.
“Now, let’s not leap into worry,” the woman had said, sounding like Dr. Bothwell. But Brooke had already made the leap. When doctors moved fast, they did it because they believed something was seriously wrong. No amount of shoulder patting or too-cheerful platitudes would convince her otherwise.
I’m pickin’ up good vibrations…
She gritted her teeth. If only.
Pine Hill
Anthony
Anthony slowly backed up the driveway, using the pickup’s side mirror to watch the trailer’s progression toward the garage. He’d accidentally backed into the corner of the old garage about five years ago, and he’d made a vow never to repeat the mistake. He’d built a new garage a year later, but the trailer still carried an indention that made closing the left-side door a challenge.
The crunch of tires on gravel carried through the open truck window, and something—probably a brake pad—gave a high-pitched squeal. He better take the truck to Dan Penner at the auto-repair station tomorrow and have him give the pads a look-over. He didn’t need the brakes giving out when he was pulling the trailer. That would be a disaster, in more ways than one. Maybe it was good he’d decided to give the team a weekend break from the project instead of staying and working Saturday. Dan wasn’t open on Sundays.
The trailer eased alongside the garage with a good two feet of clearance—perfect. He put the truck in park and shut off the engine. Not until he opened the door and started to hop out did he notice Marty standing on the top step of the back-porch stairs, holding the screen door open with her shoulder.
His heart leaped at the sight of her. His lips wobbled into a hesitant grin as he set his feet on the ground. “Surprise.”
She came down the stairs, letting the door whap into its frame, and crossed the grass on bare feet. “I hope soup is all right for supper. I didn’t expect you, so I didn’t fix anything special.”
He slammed the truck door and took one step in her direction, regret slowing his progress. She used to run across the grass to meet him when he returned from a job. Even when he’d been gone for hours instead of days. “Soup’s fine. It’ll be good to eat something home cooked. I’m pretty tired of restaurant food.”
“It’s from a can. Chicken noodle.”
He grimaced. He’d never cared for those soggy noodles and thin broth.
“I know it’s not much. I can fix you a sandwich to go with it.”
“That’ll be fine. Thanks.”
She stopped a couple of feet away from him and tilted her head. One black ribbon from her cap crunched on her right shoulder, an ugly mar on her yellow floral dress. “Is everything okay at the jobsite? I thought you planned to work Saturdays, too.”
He searched her face for signs of either disappointment or elation. Nothing. Just…nothing. Didn’t she feel anymore? He swallowed a knot of mingled sadness and frustration and reached into the truck’s bed for his suitcase instead of reaching for her. “Things are fine there.” He swung the suitcase out and swiveled to face her again. “Been workin’ the guys so hard I decided to give us all a day to catch up at home, have some family time.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake. Her face went white, and she clutched her stomach as though someone had kicked her hard in the gut. She started to turn away, but he dropped his suitcase and caught her arm. He gathered the courage he needed to tell her what he’d wanted to say for days. Weeks. Months.
“Marty, just because we don’t have kids doesn’t mean we’re not a family. You—you’re my family. And I’m yours.”
She lowered her head. Her chin wobbled, but she didn’t cry. He wished she would. Maybe it’d do her some good. She stood there clutching her stomach, all wrapped up like a ball of twine. Frustration roared through him. When would she accept the truth and move on?
He let go of her and scuffed the grass with the toe of his boot. He spoke through clenched teeth. “This must be how Elkanah felt.”
She slowly lifted her head and frowned at him. “What?”
He frowned, too. “You’re like Hannah, always mourning for something you don’t have instead of appreciating what you do. Don’t I matter to you at all?” Now, why had he said that? He’d come home to surprise her, spend time with her, pray together and maybe take the first step toward healing together. Right away he’d said something that would only lead to a fight.
He sighed and shook his head, stretching his hand toward her. “I’m sorry, Marty.” Was he sorry? Even though the timing was all wrong, the tone too harsh, he’d meant everything he said.
Fury blazed in her blue eyes, and she backed up a step, out of his reach. “How can you compare us to Elkanah and Hannah? They’re nothing like us. They eventually had a baby together—Samuel. And probably many more after him. You and I will never have that joy. I wish we could be like Elkanah and Hannah. At least then I’d have hope that God would bless us, too.” She spun on her heel and darted for the house.
Anthony grabbed his suitcase and tromped after her. He left the suitcase on the back porch beside the wringer washer and entered the kitchen, popping off his ball cap as he crossed the threshold. He tossed the cap on the table and moved to the stove, where she stood stirring the soup in stiff little sweeps of a wooden spoon.
He wanted to slip his arms around her middle from behind, press his cheek to her scratchy linen cap the way he used to. But if she bolted, she could burn herself on the stove. So he eased up to the counter beside the stove and leaned his hip against it, fixing his gaze on her stern face.
“I bet if you asked Linda Wiens, she’d say you’ve been blessed more than her. She’s what now? Forty? She doesn’t even have a husband.”
She sucked in her lips and kept stirring, eyes downcast.
He’d said this much. Maybe he should say everything that had rolled through his mind but never came out of his mouth. “We could…adopt.”
She shot him a brief look and lowered her gaze again. “No, we can’t. It’s too expensive.”
So she’d thought about it, too. And never said a word. “How do you know?”
“I asked the Yoders. Mrs. Yoder’s youngest sister and her husband adopted two little kids from Haiti, and it cost more than twenty thousand dollars.”
She was right. He didn’t have that kind of money. Not even close. He fiddled with a loose button on his shirt. “Well, then couldn’t we be—what do they call it when you take in kids because their parents can’t take care of them?”
Her eyebrows descended. “Foster parents?”
He nodded. “Yeah, that. Doesn’t the state pay the foster parents? That wouldn’t cost us anything.”
“You don’t get to keep those kids, Anthony.” Her tone made him feel foolish. “Eventually they go back to their parents or another relative. I don’t think I could do that—take them in, grow to love them, and then give them back.” She turned off the gas under the soup pan, opened the cupboard, and brought out two bowls.
He watched her ladle steaming soup into the bowls. What else could he offer? Nothing came to mind. He opened the silverware drawer and picked out two spoons. He gently clacked them together. “If I could give you kids, I would. But I can’t. So…can you let me be enough? Can you let me matter?”
Ours for a Season Page 7
