“Brooke…” Marty’s tone held gentle admonition.
Maybe it was the awful nausea talking, but Brooke still believed everything she’d said. “Seriously, Marty, I’ve worked myself silly for more than a dozen years to prove that I could be successful, and for what? All that effort…all the stuff I’ve accumulated to prove my worth…it’s meaningless. I’m going to die, and I can’t take any of my money or property or belongings with me.”
Marty gripped Brooke’s shoulder and gave it a little shake. “You aren’t going to die.” Fear shone in Marty’s expression.
No matter how it affected her friend, Brooke wouldn’t be less than honest. “Of course I am. Even if this cancer doesn’t do me in, something will, someday. We’ll all die, Marty.”
Marty turned her gaze aside and wrapped her arms across her stomach. “I don’t like to think about dying.”
“Who does?” Brooke wriggled up onto the decorative pillows and into a half-sitting, half-lying position. “But not thinking about it doesn’t change the truth. It’s pretty hard for me not to think about it, given the circumstances, and even more depressing than thinking about dying is thinking about not leaving something behind that really matters. Not a husband, or children, or…or anything else. What mark have I made on this world, Marty, that will make an ounce of difference to somebody? Nothing. Not even one.”
Marty pursed her lips and stared at Brooke, blinking rapidly.
Brooke waited, but Marty didn’t speak. Of course not. What could she say? She knew Brooke was right. She was just too kind to agree.
The stereo clicked another CD into place. John Denver’s distinctive voice drifted across the room. The wind is the whisper of our mother the earth; the wind is the hand of our father the sky…Another song about wind. Something else that blew in, left, and was remembered no more. Brooke huffed. “Turn off the stereo. I want to sleep.”
Marty clicked the remote, and heavy silence fell.
Brooke nudged Marty’s knee. “No sense in sitting there watching me sleep. Put my cell phone where I can reach it and leave me alone. I’ll call if I need you.”
Indecision played on Marty’s face. “Are you sure? I don’t mind—”
“I’m sure. Go.” She pulled the afghan over her head. Maybe if she were very lucky, her dreams would be more pleasant than her reality.
32
Anthony
Anthony and the team cleaned up at the wash station Marty had set up next to the water pump at the edge of the trailers. She reasoned—and he agreed—that the indoor plumbing would benefit from the drywall and other dust being disposed of outside instead of being flushed down the drains. So they beat the dust from their clothes and then scrubbed their hands and arms in the cold water. They’d have to change the routine in the winter, though. He’d want warm water for washing when the winds howled and temperatures dropped.
Presentable again, he led the men into his trailer for lunch. He crossed the threshold, then gave a jolt of surprise. Marty was at the counter, pouring dressing over a garden salad. Shouldn’t she be over at Brooke’s trailer? The few days following Brooke’s first chemo treatment, Marty hadn’t left her friend’s side, and he had expected her to do the same thing for this second treatment.
He gestured for the men to take their places at the table, which Charlotte was setting, and he scuffed across the floor to his wife. He’d battled a strange shyness in her presence since Tuesday night, the night Brooke had them watch the news report including Marty’s 911 call and the two of them had walked hand in hand to their bedroom. He’d come so close to making love to her, but her trembling frame beneath his kiss told him she wasn’t ready yet. He was ready, though. The desire had simmered under his skin for months, and it was worse since Tuesday, when he’d forced himself to turn away from her. He didn’t want to frighten her or be pushy, but how long would he have to wait to become her husband again in every way?
He stopped a good distance from her and leaned against the counter. “Why aren’t you at Brooke’s?”
She bobbed her head toward the cell phone on the windowsill above the sink. “She said she’d call if she needed me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And you honored that?”
A sheepish expression crossed her face. “Well, I’ve checked in on her a time or two. She’s hardly gotten off the couch.” She glanced at the men and lowered her voice. “She’s really sick.”
He touched her arm. “Then we’ll say some extra prayers for her.”
Marty blinked several times. “Please do.”
She carried the salad to the table and set it between the platter of sandwiches and two open bags of potato chips. She remained next to him when he slid into his seat. He asked a blessing for the food, then added, “Please grant comfort to Brooke and bring healing as You will. Amen.” She squeezed his hand before taking the empty seat at the opposite end of the table.
The men engaged in their typical banter and laughter during the noon meal, but Anthony didn’t join in. He ate two ham and cheese sandwiches, a handful of chips, and a good portion of salad, filling his stomach but tasting nothing. His focus was on Marty. The two months at the old ghost town had almost erased the tension lines from between her eyebrows. Several times he’d heard her humming while she worked—evidence of contentedness. At worship services they still encountered families, but she got to sit with him at the Baptist church, and that seemed to help her cope.
He liked this relaxed Marty who reminded him of the warm, smiling woman he’d married. Was God letting them stay here because the missionary family needed their house? Was the reason He had not urged Anthony to return to Pine Hill because this was where Marty would find her full healing? Where the two of them could restore everything that had been broken between them? He wanted everything mended—emotionally, spiritually, and physically. But even if they found contentment with each other here, eventually he’d finish this project and they would go back to Indiana. What would happen when they returned to Pine Hill?
Here, they were together every day. There, he’d travel to worksites in other towns and she’d be left in their house alone again. Here, there weren’t any children running and playing outside her window. At home, they’d be surrounded by families. Here, she listened when he read from the Bible and bowed her head in reverence when he prayed. Back home, they hadn’t read the Word or prayed together for months. Even if she hadn’t openly stated her intention to return to faith, he sensed that the walls she’d built around herself were beginning to crumble. Back in Pine Hill, would the old resentment, jealousy, and isolation come back? He didn’t want to live that way again.
“Is there any dessert?” Lucas blasted the question around a mouthful of potato chips.
Anthony shook his head, but he laughed. “You and your sweet tooth…always wanting cake or cookies or brownies.”
Lucas grinned. “I don’t notice nobody else turning ’em down when they’re offered.” He aimed the grin at Marty. “So did ya bake something for our dessert, Mrs. Hirschler?”
“No, sorry, Lucas. I didn’t do any baking this morning.”
“Aw.” Lucas propped his chin in his hand and slumped his shoulders.
Marty rose. “Now, cheer up. I think you’ll be happy with what I have planned.” She rounded the table and entered the kitchen. She returned with a half-gallon container of ice cream and a stack of bowls. “Chocolate-chocolate chip, your favorite.”
“Woo-hoo!” Lucas socked the air. “Thanks, Mrs. Hirschler.”
The glint of fond amusement in his wife’s eyes did something to Anthony’s insides. She’d be such a good mother. A patient mother. A giving mother. God, let us stay until the town is revived.
Yes, it was a selfish prayer, but if they stayed to the very end and received every penny Brooke had promised him, he’d have enough money for adoption fees. Marty deserved the chance to
love and nurture a child. Then her healing would last no matter where they lived.
Marty
For three days Marty searched for the poem “Morning Has Broken” on Anthony’s and Brooke’s computers. She could only grab minutes between cooking, household chores, adding patches to her current quilt, and caring for Brooke. Most sites had only the same three stanzas the singer named Cat had sung on the album, but on Saturday evening, about an hour before bedtime, she finally located an informational article about the poet, and it contained all six stanzas.
Both relieved and delighted, she copied the entire poem and pasted it into a document, then played with the fonts to make it look pretty before printing it. She rolled it, tied it with a leftover strip of pink calico fabric, and set it aside to take to Brooke in the morning before she, Anthony, and the others left for worship service in Lansing.
Sunday morning, she bathed and dressed, then headed to the kitchen. On Sundays everyone had a cold breakfast in their own trailers, which meant an easy morning for her, but while she set out boxed cereal and milk, she experienced a touch of melancholy. She paused, seeking its source. The recognition fell like a log on her head. She missed fixing a hot breakfast for the entire group. In all the years of her marriage, she’d cooked for only two, but she’d come to enjoy making larger batches of food. Probably because it felt as though she were feeding a family.
With a grunt of irritation, she slammed the door on the thought. Lots of women didn’t have big families, and they got along fine. She needed to learn to be content with what she had instead of dwelling on what she didn’t. Hadn’t Anthony’s Bible reading last night from First Timothy admonished as much?
The scripture replayed in her heart—“But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” They’d discussed the scripture’s meaning, and she’d tearfully shared what Brooke told her about leaving nothing of value behind when she died and then admitted she, too, feared dying without the chance to leave something behind that mattered. Anthony had wrapped her in a hug so tight she felt the sweet pressure of his arms still this morning, and his tender assurance whispered in her memory.
“We know Jesus, Marty, and we live to serve Him first. So every kind act—like letting the Hiltons use our house and you making those quilts for the benefit sales and even taking such good care of Brooke—has eternal value. We are leaving something of value behind, because what we’re doing touches people’s souls. We’re storing up treasures in heaven.”
His certainty had flowed over onto her, and she clung to the statements while something deep inside herself begged for it all to be true. If she couldn’t leave a motherly impact on a child, she wanted to at least have a positive impact on…someone.
Anthony entered the kitchen, his cheeks ruddy from shaving and his dark hair combed back from his broad forehead. His Sunday white shirt and black suit served to enhance his masculine frame, and unexpectedly Marty experienced a bolt of reaction that was purely physical. On a Sunday morning. When she shouldn’t act upon such thoughts.
She swallowed and gestured to the table. “I’ve got everything set out for breakfast. Do you mind if I run next door and check on Brooke? The worst of the sickness has passed, but she’s still weak. I want to make sure she’s all right.”
“Sure, honey, go ahead.” He delivered a peck on her cheek on his way to the table.
She remained rooted in place, her pulse racing from his use of the endearment and the sweet, affectionate kiss, while he settled in a chair and reached for the box of cornflakes.
He glanced at her. “Are you going?” Impishness glinted in his blue eyes, and she suspected he knew how much he had affected her.
Her face flooded with heat. Part embarrassment, part something she shouldn’t acknowledge when the two of them were dressed for worship. “Yes. I’ll be right back.” She snatched the scrolled poem from the end of the counter and darted out the door before her foolish thoughts turned into action.
On the short walk to Brooke’s trailer, she took in several breaths of the humid air and brought her thundering heartbeat under control. She found Brooke’s front door standing open, and Brooke was sitting on the sofa fully dressed from her scarf-wrapped head to sandal-clad feet. Marty remained on the porch, staring with her mouth hanging open.
Brooke quirked her fingers. “Come in and close the front door. I’ve let enough cold air escape while waiting for you to show up.”
Marty entered and sealed the door behind her. Then she stood on the square of linoleum that served as a foyer and gaped at her friend. For days Brooke had worn only pajamas. Before that, she’d alternated between baggy T-shirts and shorts and athletic-type outfits. She hadn’t put on a bit of makeup since her chemo day, but today she wore blush on her cheeks, a touch of smoky purple on her eyelids, and eyeliner. No mascara because she no longer had eyelashes. The makeup, along with the feminine white blouse and long, flowing skirt in varying shades of pink and lavender, made her seem like a stranger. “You…You look…”
Brooke glanced down her length, then bounced a grin at Marty. “Is this okay for church? I can’t wear any of my summer suits. The skirts are all too big around the waist these days. But this skirt has elastic, so…” She tipped her head and frowned at Marty. “What is the matter with you? You’re staring at me like I’ve done something immoral. Is this outfit not dressy enough for church?”
Marty found the ability to scuff forward. She stopped a few feet in front of Brooke and shook her head, wonder dawning through her. “You want to go to church?”
Brooke fingered the edge of the scarf she’d wrapped around her head like a turban. “If you don’t mind me tagging along. If I’m not intruding.”
Her agnostic friend had asked to go to church. A laugh built in the center of Marty’s chest and tickled until she couldn’t hold it in. She let it flow. The incongruity wasn’t lost on her. She’d done her best for the past two years to bury God, and here was Brooke reaching out a tentative hand toward Him. Without warning the laughter turned to tears. The poem fell from her grip, and she covered her face with both hands. Sobs shook her body.
Arms wrapped around her, and something silky—Brooke’s scarf—pressed against her cheek. “Marty, what is it? What’s the matter?”
She was frightening Brooke. She drew in a shuddering breath that brought her crying under control. She stepped free of Brooke’s embrace and wiped her eyes with her fingers. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where that came from.” Such a lie. She knew. But she didn’t want to admit the source. What would Brooke say if she confessed she missed the assurance of faith, missed believing God was there and cared, missed talking to Him and thinking of Him as her Friend? Marty couldn’t let her know how far from God’s pathway she’d strayed, but she wanted to be in right relationship again. She wanted Brooke to know its fullness, too.
“Are you better now?”
The question resonated with Marty on various levels. She couldn’t say she was all the way okay. Not yet. But better? She offered a wobbly smile and nodded. “Yes. I am.”
“Good.” Brooke pointed to the rolled paper on the floor. “Now…what’s that?”
Marty scooped it up. “It’s the whole poem for ‘Morning Has Broken.’ I finally found it.”
“Oh, great!” Brooke sat on the sofa and leaned against a pair of throw pillows. “Read it to me.”
Marty raised one eyebrow. “Now?”
“It’s only eight thirty. You all haven’t been leaving for church until after nine, so there’s time.”
“Are you sure?” Marty made a face and waved the tube. “I’m not a very expressive reader.”
Brooke laughed. “I don’t care. Read. I want to hear it.” She folded her arms over her chest and closed her eyes.
Tamping down her bashfulness, Marty unrolled the paper. She cleared
her throat, paused, and cleared it again.
Brooke opened one eye and peeked at her. “Read.”
“Okay, okay.” Marty pulled in a breath of fortification. “ ‘Morning Has Broken,’ by Eleanor Farjeon.” She recited each stanza, the last lines wheezing out on a note of relief that she’d made it all the way through. “ ‘Praise for the sweet glimpse, caught in a moment, joy breathing deeply, dancing in flight.’ ”
She lifted her gaze from the paper and spotted a single tear trailing down Brooke’s cheek. She dropped onto the sofa and put her hand on Brooke’s knee. “What’s the matter?”
Eyes still closed, Brooke licked her lips. “ ‘Joy breathing deeply…’ ” She opened her eyes, and more tears spilled. “Such beautiful words. In my whole life, I’ve never experienced joy breathing deeply.”
The comment almost stung. She held several happy memories of times with Brooke. She’d thought Brooke remembered them, too. “You’ve never been…happy?”
Brooke made a face. “Sure, I’ve had some happy times. Lots of them with you—you know, when we did silly things as kids. Even when we rode the carousel at the mall. I was happy when I could move out of Mom’s apartment into my own place. When I got my college degree. Every time I made a deal on a run-down property and then when it was all done and pretty, that brought happiness. Making a profit always made me happy. Seeing my bank account grow…that, too.”
She took the printed page from Marty’s hands and stared at it. “Buying this ghost town, planning the renovations, getting investors on board—all of that gave me a rush of what I’d define as happiness, and I get another rush when I see evidence of the progress being made. But it never lasts. It’s mine, and then it’s gone. Fleeting. Nowhere close to joy breathing deeply.” Brooke angled a crooked grin in Marty’s direction. “The closest I’ve come was that snowy day on the playground when I flew down the slippery slide so quickly my bottom hit the ground before I knew I’d left the landing. Remember how we laughed? Laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe?”
Ours for a Season Page 25
