Marie-Thérèse blinked back tears. “It’s not like adoption. Their mother could reform. She could take them back.”
“Or they could die,” he said gently. “Like your parents and your sister. Like Brandon almost did when he had that allergy attack.”
In her mind, Marie-Thérèse traversed the years and landed back at the terrible day by Brandon’s bedside in the Intensive Care, not knowing whether he would make it and wondering if she could endure another loss. Her testimony had wavered, but in the end she’d offered him to God . . . and God had given him back to her whole and healthy. After that it didn’t seem so hard to forget about the adoption and focus on Larissa and Brandon. In fact, it was easier. Fewer children meant fewer nights of worry . . . and fear.
But she was not ready to admit that aloud. Slowly she said, “We didn’t adopt because we decided to focus on Larissa—to save her.”
“Yes. Partly.” Mathieu’s voice was so tender that it made her heart burst with love for him. “But I know you’ve been afraid. I don’t think you’ve ever really recovered from the scare of almost losing Brandon. Have you? Isn’t that part of the reason you didn’t want to adopt?”
Marie-Thérèse stared at the tabletop and didn’t reply. Mathieu was right; he was always more perceptive than she gave him credit for. Not adopting was her way of protecting herself from further pain—a selfish way, she saw now, given the need that little Celisse had for someone who could really love her.
“The way I see it,” Mathieu continued, “is that the Lord has given us a great opportunity. It’s not something we searched out but something He sent our way. We owe it to Him to at least pray about any decision we make.”
Marie-Thérèse wasn’t ready to believe it could be that easy. “Someone else might be better qualified.”
“Or not. I think you underestimate yourself—and the rest of us as well. Even Larissa.”
“What if we decide to try and then we lose them?” She dragged her eyes to meet his.
“First things first. We’ll pray, okay? I want you to feel as strongly about this as I do. If I’m wrong, I would like to know. Whatever happens, we’ll take things as they come.”
“You already love Raquel.”
He nodded. “Yes. And Celisse, too, though she’ll need more time to trust me. The point is that we have a lot to offer these children. It won’t be easy, but the past few days have been really good, despite the confusion and work.”
Marie-Thérèse had to agree. “I have enjoyed them. And Brandon seems to be in heaven having them around. But Larissa . . .”
Mathieu shrugged. “Honey, if it’s right, we’ll find some way to help Larissa understand. Prayer and fasting and talking things out worked before when she was having a hard time. It can work again. She’s come a long way these past few years.” His hand tightened on hers. “I love you, Marie-Thérèse.” He leaned forward to kiss her, and she let her arms curl around his neck.
Mathieu was right. She couldn’t let her fears stand in the way of helping Celisse—or of following the Spirit. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll do it. Pray, I mean.”
“So will I.”
Chapter Eight
By Monday evening Raoul had moved into Rebekka’s apartment. Though he was morose about the lack of information the police had turned up about Nadia, having him near made Rebekka feel happier. Without Marc the apartment was so lonely. Sometimes the silence was too much to bear—especially now that Marie-Thérèse was no longer making her daily visits. Or André.
“Raoul, you don’t have to make me dinner,” she said, coming into the kitchen.
“Why not? You spent the day working like I did—in between directing the movers with my stuff.”
Actually, Rebekka hadn’t worked that day. She’d spent most of the time before and after the movers, lying on her bed and trying not to lose her meals. It had been all she could do to drag herself out of bed to tell them where to put Raoul’s things. What was accomplished, she owed to Valerie and the four muscled men who came in the moving van, but she wasn’t about to confess that either.
“I had Valerie send most of the furniture into storage,” she said, sitting in her chair.
Raoul set a plate of an unidentifiable mixture in front of her. From past experience, Rebekka knew the mess contained baked rice and beans topped by tuna and cheese, though much of it looked as though it had been passed through a grinder. What’s more, its pungent aroma immediately made her stomach queasy.
“The private investigator made contact over the Internet with that Benny character. At least we think it’s the same guy. It took some time to wade through all the agencies and people who seem legitimate, and then he found Benny’s name—which is probably a pseudonym, but at least it matches what Desirée said. From all the PI can find out about the guy, he doesn’t seem to be dangerous, only dishonest, so we put in for a baby girl—under your name with a hefty rush bonus attached. We’ll see what happens. If all goes well, we’ll make an appointment with him this week.”
“How will we know if the baby’s Nadia?”
Raoul frowned. “Well, the investigator found hospital records verifying that Desirée had a baby, so we have her prints. If we can get ones from the baby Benny offers you, we can see if they match. Or we need to record something that incriminates the guy. Once the police are reasonably sure something illegal is going on, they can detain the baby and Benny until they can do more tests. Even if it’s not Nadia, the police will want to know where he got the baby.”
“But now that the police know Desirée had a baby, can’t they put out an alert or something for Nadia?” Rebekka moved her fork around on the plate, but didn’t raise it to her mouth. She kept her face well back from the smell of the tuna, knowing it said something about Raoul’s state of mind that he didn’t notice her reluctance.
“They won’t because they believe Desirée might still have her. Until they find her so she can file a complaint, they can’t do too much. I’m not even listed on the birth certificate, which means I have no parental rights. They keep suggesting that Desirée is planning to ask me for money, but I know she was telling the truth.”
“Too bad we can’t find her,” Rebekka said, “Or the friend who was watching Nadia.”
Raoul shook his head. “The police and our investigator have no leads on either. We don’t even know the friend’s name. Could be anyone.” He took a bite but barely chewed before he jumped to his feet. “Look, I’m going to my room for a minute to check my computer for messages. The investigator promised to forward any e-mails he exchanged with Benny-the-baby-seller.”
“The-baby-seller?”
“That what the PI and I’ve started calling him.”
Rebekka waited until he was gone before scooping her mixture into the plastic-lined garbage can and covering it with a few crumpled napkins. No use in worrying Raoul. Then she broke off a thick piece of French bread, tore it open, and placed a slab of mild cheese inside. Taking a large bite, she sighed. Raoul had also brought home an assortment of her favorite cheeses, but she daren’t eat them. She was having enough trouble keeping food down as it was.
Yesterday church had been difficult. André’s daughters had insisted she sit with them, and she’d agreed, although it made her uncomfortable. Marc should have been at her side, not André and his children. As much as she loved the girls and his adopted son, Thierry, thinking of all she’d lost made her so angry. Not at God or even at the man who had caused Marc’s death, but at André for not being Marc. It was stupid and senseless, but the emotions were very real. For the entire length of the meeting, she had avoided talking with André or even looking at him because seeing his face reminded her of Marc.
Marc! The tears came and she discarded her half-eaten sandwich on the counter.
“Still hungry?” Raoul’s voice said behind her. “There’s a lot more. You don’t have to eat a sandwich. Oh, the cheese. I knew you’d like that. Mild? That’s not like you. But—” He broke off abruptly. �
��Are you okay?”
Rebekka bit back her tears. “I’m fine. Sometimes—I just miss him.” She began to sob, and he held her in his arms like she had held him the first time Desirée left.
After a while she pulled away. “Sorry. I can handle it—mostly. I know we’re married in the temple and that we’ll be together forever, but sometimes . . . well, forever is a long time away.”
Raoul looked miserable. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Being here is enough. Don’t mind me. I’m just emotional. But I can’t fall apart so much—I’ve done nothing but cry the past few months. It’s not good for—for me.”
“Marc would want you to be happy.”
She wiped her cheeks with both hands. “I know. Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “So did you find out anything?”
“Actually, yes. Benny-the-baby-seller says he’s in town for the week—kind of funny since Desirée seems to think that he lives here in Paris—and that he’d like to meet with you and your husband. The PI suspects that he wants to check out the situation and make sure you’re above level before he brings in the baby.”
“So when is the meeting?”
“On Wednesday. At a hotel downtown.”
“I can do that. What time?” She was relieved it wasn’t scheduled for tomorrow, which was when André had made her a doctor’s appointment—though how he got her an appointment with such short notice, she didn’t know. He could be insistent, and she hoped he hadn’t annoyed anyone. That could make the visit awkward for her. In fact, she wished she’d never agreed to the appointment at all. She didn’t want to go alone.
“You’ll meet with him at noon. The PI thought that would be the most likely time that André—posing as your husband—could get off work. He’s going to have some identity cards made up for you that show the same address.”
“Would you . . . uh, tell André? I don’t know if I’m going to be seeing him before then.”
“Sure.” Raoul didn’t seem to think her request odd.
“Well, I’ve got a news release to translate.” Rebekka moved toward the hall. On second thought, she grabbed her sandwich from the counter.
“Are you sure you don’t want a second helping of my tuna surprise?”
“This is convenient for working. But thanks for dinner.”
He nodded and turned back to the table. Rebekka escaped, wondering how much longer she could hide her pregnancy from him. At times she had an overwhelming urge to confide in him and her parents, but when she thought of the decisions and plans she would be required to make once she made the announcement, she became bitterly depressed. She didn’t want to face reality. She wanted to dream about her baby, Marc’s baby. About the life they would have had together.
The office was where she felt Marc more than in any other place in the house. Here they had passed many late hours working together, sitting on the sofa, sipping hot cocoa, or simply lying lost in each other’s arms.
“Marc,” she whispered to the empty room. “I miss you.”
Over the long desk hung a large painting of a couple kissing by the Seine River. Every time Rebekka saw the painting, memories flooded her senses. She’d just come from talking with André, and he had urged her to go to Marc. After a long search, the river was her last resort. Marc had been there waiting, and she had fallen into his arms. An artist on the parapets had taken their picture and begun to paint them, capturing the joy in her heart more fully than she could have believed possible. Later, they contracted with him to finish and deliver the painting. Next to Marc himself, it was Rebekka’s greatest treasure.
Closing her eyes, Rebekka sank into her chair, a tremendous wave of emotion washing over her, the cheese sandwich forgotten in her hand. Steady, steady. Not too much reaction. Remember the baby. The desperation faded, but the loneliness remained. She switched on her computer but stared blankly at the screen. Translating the news release from English to French seemed so inconsequential, so utterly purposeless.
After a time, she became aware of the sandwich still in her hand and ate it methodically without enjoyment. For the baby. She’d barely finished when the shrillness of the phone rang loudly in the quiet. Deciding to let Raoul answer in the kitchen, Rebekka opened the news release file. She’d translated the first sentence when a quiet tapping came at her door.
“Come in.”
“Uh, sorry to interrupt, but some guy’s on the phone asking for you. An American by the sound of it. Can’t understand a word he’s saying. Except your name.”
Rebekka smiled. “Probably Damon Wolfe, my boss. But I told him the release wouldn’t be done until tomorrow.” She frowned, her hand on the office phone. “I hope he doesn’t have more for me. I barely started working again, and I’m not sure how much I want to do.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks.” Rebekka lifted the receiver on her desk. “Hello, this is Rebekka.”
“Rebekka, boy, it’s good to hear your voice!”
Rebekka didn’t speak. After a long moment, she said, “I’m sorry, but who is this?”
“It’s Samuel, you know Samuel Bjornenburg from Cincinnati. Technically your supervisor, though we haven’t spoken since you ran away to marry that Frenchman.” His voice was light and teasing, and immediately an image of the tall, blonde, handsome owner and CEO of Corban International popped into her head.
“Of course, Samuel. Sorry! I didn’t recognize your voice for a minute.” When she lived in Utah before her marriage, they had dated and had become very close, despite the fact that Samuel wasn’t a member of her church. At one point, she had considered pursuing a relationship with him, but that had only been fleeting, before she realized her faith in God would not allow her to settle for “until death do you part.” Still, she’d liked him—a lot—and things might have ended differently if the Lord’s inspiration hadn’t led her in another direction.
“Rebekka, I know you requested that your assignments come through Damon, given the awkwardness between us since your marriage, but I had to call when I heard what happened. I’m so sorry about your husband. I know how much he meant to you.”
Silent tears filled Rebekka’s eyes and streamed down her face, but she forced her voice not to show them. “Thank you, Samuel. I appreciate that.”
“Can I see you?”
“You don’t have to . . . America’s a long way . . . I’m fine.”
“I’ll be there this weekend anyway for Damon. A big hospital shindig to promote our joint products. In fact, I’d like you to come, if you would. I think you’d make a prettier dinner partner than our other translator, not to mention a more intelligent one.”
Rebekka laughed through her tears; Samuel was nothing if not direct. “Thanks, but I don’t know if I’m up to something like that.”
“Then to heck with it. We won’t go. It was only an excuse. I’m coming to see you whether you want me to or not. I’ll call you when I get in.”
“But . . .”
“See you, Rebekka. Take care of yourself. I’m hanging up now before you can protest, so don’t be offended.”
The line went dead and Rebekka stared at it a full minute before placing the receiver in its cradle. She felt suddenly more tired than she had all day. “I wish you wouldn’t come, Samuel,” she whispered. “It won’t make any difference.”
Yet for a moment, she’d felt a leap of joy at hearing his voice. What had he been up to in the past years? Why did he want to see her? Had he married? No, he wasn’t the type to date while committed to another. But was his invitation a date or just work?
Work, she decided. And they were friends, so maybe he was simply being kind.
Like André.
Or maybe not.
Rebekka turned back to the news release but couldn’t focus on the words. She was so, so tired, though it wasn’t late. Maybe she would rest on the sofa for a few minutes. She made her way across the carpet and lay down, but an excruciating pain enveloped her entire being as
she recalled how much time she’d spent there with Marc—talking, laughing, dreaming. She couldn’t see because of the pain and wondered if this was how a living death felt.
Oh, Marc, I can’t do it without you! I just can’t!
All at once, a warm cocoon spread slowly around her entire body, easing the terrible hurt. She imagined she could almost feel Marc’s arms around her, his legs tucked next to hers.
Rebekka shut her eyes and slept.
Chapter Nine
Early Tuesday morning, Marie-Thérèse fed Celisse and Raquel as the other children readied to leave for school. Mathieu squatted down by Celisse’s chair. “Look,” he said. “There’s a very nice lady coming to see you this morning. She’s going to tell us why that bubble on your side hurts so much. She’s going to help it feel better. Marie-Thérèse will be here the whole time. I know it won’t be fun, but be brave, okay? Can you do that for me?”
Celisse nodded once, solemnly, and Mathieu grinned at Marie-Thérèse in triumph. “Let me know, okay? As soon as the nurse leaves.”
Marie-Thérèse thought his worry was endearing, but Larissa rolled her eyes. “It’s just a big pimple, Daddy. I get them all the time.”
“Not this big,” Marie-Thérèse said. “It’s as big as your nose—just not so protruded. Hey,” she added when Larissa punched her playfully on the arm, “I didn’t mean your nose was big. I’m just comparing the size. Your nose is the perfect size for a nose.”
Larissa felt her nose and sniffed. “Yeah, sure.” But she was smiling and Marie-Thérèse was relieved that her daughter was in a good mood. She never knew when Larissa might take offense and go into a tirade.
“Kids, you’d better get going now. Hurry, or you’ll miss your train.” She looked at Mathieu. “You, too.”
Mathieu gave her kiss and started for the door. Larissa and Brandon charged after him.
Marie-Thérèse began to clear the kitchen table. “Well, Celisse. Looks like it’s just you and me . . . and Raquel, of course.” Celisse made no response, but she picked up her cup and handed it to Marie-Thérèse. “Thank you, honey.”
Twice in a Lifetime Page 9
