A Family To Cherish

by Carole Gift Page

  Sometime in the night Barbara heard a child cry out. She sat bolt upright in bed and said breathlessly, “Caitlin? Is that you?” Sloughing off the dregs of sleep, she slipped out of bed and hurried barefoot out of her room and down the hall to Caitlin’s room. Her heart hammering with rabid expectancy, she flung open the door and flicked on the light. The sudden blinding glare brought her to her senses. Of course it wasn’t Caitlin she heard crying. It was the other child down the hall, the tiny youngster who haunted Barbara with her similarities to Caitlin and yet taunted her with her differences.

  They weren’t the same child. They never could be. This tiny stranger could never take Caitlin’s place. And yet, wasn’t that just what Janee was destined to do—to slowly fill the spaces in Barbara’s life and in her home that had been Caitlin’s? As Barbara carefully closed the door to the silent, untouched room, she whispered solemnly, “Caitlin, baby, no matter what happens, Janee will never take your place in my heart. Never!”

  Chapter Six

  The crying came again. Janee weeping in her sleep. Barbara went to her, her own tears balled in her chest, constricting her breathing. Janee was asleep in her trundle bed, her scruffy teddy with its button eyes and pug nose nestled against her cheek.

  Barbara watched the child from the doorway, fearful of making a sound and waking her. Janee whimpered and called out “Mama,” her voice muffled, indistinct; then she was silent again. Barbara didn’t move. What could she do? What help could she be? How could she offer Janee comfort when she was so desperately in need of comfort herself?

  Barbara returned to her room and climbed in again beside Doug, fluffing her pillow under her head, allowing her body to relax against his warm, solid torso, barely touching.

  Doug stirred and asked sleepily, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Janee’s just restless. Go back to sleep.”

  He was slumbering again almost as soon as she said the words. She lay on her back and stared up into the darkness as splinters of resentment imbedded themselves in her heart. She was angry at Doug, and she didn’t even know why. The anger had festered in her subconscious now for years, although most of the time she wasn’t even aware that it was there. But at times like this, during moments of crisis, she experienced a flaring, irrational rage that shook her to her very roots. Doug unwittingly aggravated the situation by being oblivious to the crisis, or seemingly unconcerned, or disgustingly unflappable. His answer to every problem was to work harder, work longer, work until he was numb and nothing else mattered.

  Barbara had hoped there might be a faint glimmer of a silver lining in Paul’s and Nancy’s tragic deaths. When she and Doug had wept in each other’s arms, she had seen the chink in his self-imposed armor and had prayed they might somehow break through the wall that had separated them since Caitlin’s death, that they might topple the barrier that had left them both languishing in emotional isolation.

  But already Doug’s tears were dried and he was switching back into his detached, professional mode. The transformation was evident; he was sleeping soundly again, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Barbara’s window of opportunity was gone. Again.

  When Barbara woke in the morning, she rolled over and felt for Doug, but his side of the bed was empty. She sat up and looked around and realized he had already left for the hospital. That meant she was left alone for the day to deal with Janee. She searched her mind to recall what sort of routine she had followed years ago with Caitlin. Those days seemed so long ago. What were they like? What were mornings like? She had tried so hard to forget; now the memories were buried too deep to recall.

  No, wait. She remembered. Caitlin had often come running into their room at the crack of dawn and jumped into bed, right in the middle between her and Doug. Caitlin would chortle as if she were playing a wonderful game. Sometimes she and Doug would have a pillow fight, while Barbara warned them to be careful not to break something, and sometimes they both turned on her and she had to duck away from the pillows. They laughed so easily in those days. Happiness was so readily taken for granted.

  Not anymore. Happiness was no longer a single-hued emotion; these days it was bittersweet, mingled with pain.

  Barbara showered and dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen to fix oatmeal. Oatmeal was good for a child. Or maybe Janee liked only the airy, sugary-sweet cereal that came in bright colors and the shapes of hearts and diamonds and stars. Or maybe Nancy, with her flower-child mentality, had fed Janee granola or some other health food concoction. Barbara decided she would try Janee with the oatmeal first.

  She was about to go upstairs to wake the child when she heard a little voice behind her. Barbara whirled around to see Janee standing in the doorway in her pajamas, her spun-gold curls tousled, her blue-green eyes looking up expectantly. Her teddy bear hung limply from one hand. “I go home now,” she said softly.

  Barbara’s heart lurched and tears came unbidden. Janee, with her rosy cheeks and dimples, was a precious little girl…just not the right little girl. Barbara knelt down beside her and looked into her eyes. This could have been Caitlin. Should have been Caitlin. “I’m sorry, honey. You can’t go home. This is your home now.”

  “No!” Janee retorted. “I go home. I fly in a big airplane.”

  “Not today, sweetie.” Barbara straightened and took Janee’s hand. “I made you some oatmeal. Do you like it with brown sugar?”

  “I want crunchy cereal with marshmallows.”

  “I’ll have to take you shopping, and you can show me the things you like, okay?”

  “We go shopping now?”

  “No. Later. I have piano students coming soon. Would you like to learn how to play the piano, Janee?”

  The child shook her head emphatically.

  “Well, maybe you’ll change your mind someday. Now if you don’t want oatmeal, maybe you’d like some cocoa and toast. That’s what my mother used to make for me. She’d cut the toast in three long strips so they’d be easy to dunk.”

  Janee’s interest perked. “Where’s your mommy?”

  Barbara hesitated. “My mother is in heaven.”

  “With my mommy?”

  “Yes, honey. With your mommy.”

  “I want to go to heaven, too.”

  “Someday you will.”

  “When? Today?”

  “No. It’ll be a long, long time, sweetie.”

  “Will my mommy wait for me?”

  “You bet she will. She’ll be waiting with Jesus. He loves you and He loves your mommy.”

  Janee seemed mollified for the moment. “Where’s my cocoa and toast?”

  “We’ll fix it right now. I’ll let you help me.”

  Somehow Barbara got through breakfast with Janee. They sat across from each other, eating in silence, neither quite comfortable yet with the other. Afterward, Barbara helped Janee bathe and wash her hair, even though the child insisted she could do it all by herself. After the bath, Barbara unpacked Janee’s suitcase and picked out a pretty pink dress for her to wear, but Janee was already pulling on a rumpled T-shirt and jeans.

  Oh, well, let her wear what she pleases. Barbara’s arms and legs ached from bending over the tub and washing Janee’s curly locks. She had forgotten how exhausting caring for a child could be. Wearily she led Janee downstairs to the family room and turned on the television set to a puppet show. “Would you like to watch the puppets while I straighten the kitchen and get ready for my students?” she asked brightly.

  Janee shook her head. “I want my favorite show, with the little doggies.”

  “I don’t know what show that is, honey. You’ll have to watch this one for now.”

  “I don’t like this one!”

  “Just watch it for a few minutes, sweetheart. Then we’ll look for one you like better.”

  Already Barbara was feeling a stab of guilt. She had always looked with a modicum of contempt upon parents who allowed the television set to become a baby-sitter. But after being away from home for so long,
I’ve got a million things to do, Barbara reasoned. She couldn’t spend the entire day entertaining the child.

  Roger Gibbons, her first student of the day, arrived just as Barbara was loading the dishwasher. A talented, serious-minded twelve-year-old, Roger was one of Barbara’s most promising students. She left the dishes in the sink, made sure Janee was still sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television set, then joined Roger at the piano. She felt a bit harried and unprepared, but that was probably because she hadn’t taught in over a week. She would be fine once she was into the lesson.

  Barbara was in the middle of teaching Roger arpeggios when she felt a small hand tug on her sleeve. “I want a drink.”

  Barbara looked around at Janee and said, “In a minute.”

  “I’m thirsty,” Janee persisted.

  “Practice for a minute,” Barbara told Roger. She went to the kitchen, ran the tap until the water was cold, and filled a small glass for Janee. “Be careful not to spill it,” she cautioned. She had just returned to the piano when she heard glass shattering in the kitchen. She dashed back and found Janee standing on the wet linoleum with shards of sparkling glass at her feet.

  “It fell down,” she whimpered.

  Stepping carefully, Barbara reached out and lifted Janee into her arms. “Thank goodness, you’re wearing tennis shoes.” She carried Janee back to the family room, examining her hands and arms for cuts. “Are you okay? No hurts?”

  “No ow-wees,” said Janee.

  “Keep practicing,” Barbara called to Roger as she headed back to the kitchen to clean up the mess.

  If Barbara had assumed her day could only get better, she was sadly mistaken. By mid-afternoon, as she greeted her last student, a tall, gangly fourteen-year-old girl named Alice Dubuis, Barbara was ready to pull her hair out. Janee had managed to disrupt every lesson. Either she was hungry or thirsty or tired of watching television or she had a tummy ache or was too warm or too cold or wanted to know when she could go home.

  Finally, while Alice practiced her scales, Barbara took Janee upstairs to her room, sat her down at the small writing desk and handed her a coloring book and crayons. “You color until I finish this lesson. Then you can help me fix dinner.”

  Janee looked up at her with a sullen, pouty face, her lower lip nearly dragging the floor. “I don’t wanna color.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Barbara, barely suppressing her irritation. “Color anyway.”

  Barbara returned to the piano lesson but was too distracted to give Alice the help she needed. She ended the lesson early, promising to give the girl more time next week.

  While the house was momentarily quiet, Barbara went to the kitchen, whipped up a meat loaf and put it in the oven to bake along with three large russet potatoes. Guilt nudged her as she climbed the stairs and walked quietly down the hall to Janee’s room. She had promised Janee that she could help with dinner. Well, there was still a salad to toss and a loaf of sourdough bread to bake. Or maybe Janee could shell some peas. Creamed peas were a safe choice now that the buxom Mrs. Van Peebles wasn’t dining with them.

  Barbara opened the door to Janee’s room and peeked in. “You can come downstairs with me now, Janee. I’m finished with my lessons. Would you like to help me shell some—” She broke off. “Janee?” The child was nowhere in sight.

  Barbara crossed the room to the adjacent bathroom and knocked lightly. No answer. She opened the door a crack. No Janee. Maybe the child was back downstairs in the family room watching television. Barbara went downstairs and checked, but the television was off and there was no sign of Janee.

  Barbara moved more quickly now, checking every room, calling Janee’s name. It was ridiculous that she couldn’t find one little girl in this large, silent house. Was it possible that Janee had gone outside? Barbara always kept the doors locked, but a five-year-old would know how to turn the lock. Barbara opened the double doors and stepped out on the sprawling, vine-covered porch. She looked up and down the wide boulevard, her eyes scanning the neat green lawns that flanked the sidewalk and street, intersected only by narrow, white-picket fences.

  Janee was nowhere to be seen.

  Barbara’s pulse quickened with alarm. Janee had said over and over that she wanted to go home. Could she have gone outside and started walking down the block, determined to find her way home? Barbara shivered, her anxiety growing. Anything could happen to a small child wandering around alone. Janee knew no one. She would have no idea where she was or where to go. She would be defenseless against any stranger who happened by.

  Barbara went back inside and hurried to the phone, trembling now. She would have to call Doug and tell him what happened. What on earth could she say? I’m sorry, darling, I lost your little niece the first day she was left in my care. I just turned my back and it’s like she dropped off the face of the earth.

  Barbara placed the receiver back in its cradle. No, she couldn’t call Doug and worry him. He had enough grief to deal with. Perhaps the police. She could dial 9-1-1 and tell them her child was missing. Not her child, actually. Her dead sister-in-law’s child. But already she realized how improbable the whole story sounded.

  Something in her head said, Check the house again. One more time. Maybe you overlooked some little hiding place that would attract a small child. Breathlessly Barbara retraced her steps, searching each room downstairs, then exploring the upstairs again—Janee’s room, the guest room, the bathrooms, the master suite. There was only one room she hadn’t checked.

  Caitlin’s room.

  But that was locked.

  Or was it?

  Barbara went to the white frame door and turned the knob, her heart rate accelerating, her mouth dry. There was an odd, stale taste at the back of her throat—the moldering taste of grief. She swung the door open and peered into the familiar room with its ruffles and lace, its dolls and bears.

  Barbara’s breath caught in her throat. There in the canopy bed, wearing the ruffled pink nightgown and snuggled like a kitten on the white comforter lay Janee, fast asleep. For a long moment Barbara didn’t move. She couldn’t be sure it wasn’t Caitlin. If she moved, if she spoke, she would shatter this moment, and if it were Caitlin, she would lose her again, like a mirage, this wraithlike figure in the mists of her memory.

  Please, dear God, let it be Caitlin!

  As quickly as the prayer formed in Barbara’s mind, she chided herself for her foolishness. Of course, it wasn’t Caitlin. Caitlin was dead. This was Janee, someone else’s child, a stranger in her home, who was taking over, who would slowly, inevitably erase Caitlin’s memory, who had already intruded on and violated Caitlin’s possessions, her very room.

  “Janee! Get up! Do you hear me? This isn’t your room!” Barbara cried.

  The child woke and scrambled off the bed, then padded toward the door, looking dazed and confused as she rubbed one eye. Barbara caught Janee’s hand, stopped her and pulled the ruffled nightgown off over her head. “Janee, you know you aren’t supposed to come in this room,” she scolded. “Don’t you ever come in here again.”

  Janee’s face grew pinched and she let out a wail. “I—I want my mommy,” she cried.

  Barbara’s outrage withered into shame and regret. She picked Janee up in her arms and carried her out of the room. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s okay. We’re both feeling very sad.”

  Janee wriggled out of Barbara’s arms and ran down the hall to her room, slamming the door shut. Barbara started after her, then paused and shook her head, a sense of futility spreading through her bones, leaving her exhausted. What good would it do to go after the child? What could she possibly say to make things right? What hope was there for this broken, mismatched family, anyway? Solomon said it best. Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.

  Barbara trudged downstairs to the kitchen and checked the meat loaf. It was getting dry and the skins of the baked potatoes were growing tough. Doug should have been home a half hour ago. Why did she
bother fixing dinner when she never knew when or if he’d be home to eat it?

  She was grousing inwardly over her husband’s tardiness when she heard the front door open and close. She quickly removed the meat loaf from the oven and set it on the counter, then forked out the potatoes, one by one. Then she fluffed her hair and caught her reflection in the microwave door. She looked a sight, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She was about to head for the foyer when Doug met her in the kitchen doorway.

  “Sure smells good in here,” he said with a weary smile. He brushed a kiss on her lips, then loosened his tie. The spicy scent of his aftershave lingered in the air, awakening Barbara’s senses, stirring faint filigrees of memory. She wished he would take her in his arms and hold her and whisper words of comfort and make her pain go away. But she promptly dismissed the thought, for if anyone needed comfort now, it was Doug, and she was too thin emotionally to offer it.

  “So how’d your day go?” he asked, shrugging out of his navy, double-breasted jacket. He hung the coat on the back of a chair and pulled off his tie.

  “It was okay,” she said, her tone noncommital, without enthusiasm. “How about you?”

  “Hectic. A mountain of paperwork, as I expected. Everybody wanting something. Wanting it yesterday. But what can I expect? I was gone for a week. The rest of the world doesn’t grind to a halt just because our lives were put on hold.”

  Barbara carried the meat loaf over to the table. “Maybe you can relax a little tonight.” She poured two glasses of iced tea and one small plastic glass of orange juice. “One of our favorite films is on TV—that romantic picture we saw three times when we were dating. You always said I looked like the girl….”

  He chuckled. “And you said I was a dead ringer for the guy. Yeah, I remember. But I can’t tonight. I brought home reams of paperwork.”

  Barbara looked at him, exasperated. “When will it ever end, Doug? When will we ever have our lives back?”