Firstborn

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Maybe it’s the devil’s work. Not God’s.” He said it more out of habit than anything else. After ten years, jabbing at Erika’s and Steven’s faith was a conditioned response.

  She ignored him. “God’s sovereign. He’s in control, and He loves me, Dallas. As long as I trust Him, whatever happens, it’ll work together for my good.” There was another silence before she added, “Dallas, Kirsten’s my daughter, and I don’t want to lose any more time with her.”

  He noticed she didn’t say our daughter.

  “No matter what the circumstances of her birth, no matter why she came to Boise or what she wants from me, I want to get to know my firstborn child. I want to love her.”

  “Firstborn child…”

  The words burrowed into Dallas’s chest and stayed there, like a sliver just under the skin—small, irritating, painful.

  Erika didn’t move away from the phone after hanging up. She stood there, thinking about the things she’d said. She’d spoken words of faith and trust to Dallas, but now, in the quiet of her kitchen, in a home, a family, that had been fractured, she wondered if she could walk them out. Could she believe God really was in control?

  The growling noise of a power tool drew Erika’s gaze to the window. Steven was trimming the shrubbery.

  Anything to avoid being in the house with me.

  She felt the sting of tears again—a too common occurrence these days.

  “Hey, Mom!” Ethan called from the hallway.

  She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, then turned as her son entered the room.

  “Can I borrow a few bucks? I need to put some gas in the tank, and I’m running short of cash.”

  “Sure,” she said, reaching for her purse on the counter near the telephone. “I think I’ve got a ten.”

  “Mr. Campanella’s got my paycheck at the store. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can get to the bank.”

  Erika held out the ten-dollar bill. “Do you work today?”

  “Until five.” He took the money, then headed for the refrigerator. “Did I tell you he’s talking about retiring?”

  “Who? Mr. Campanella?”

  “Yeah. Guess it’s about time. Some days he doesn’t remember what he ordered from the suppliers or who he’s got scheduled to work.”

  “What will he do with the store?”

  “Sell it, I guess. He doesn’t have any family.” Ethan took a plastic milk carton from the refrigerator door. He unscrewed the lid, then placed it to his lips and drained it dry.

  It was such a wonderfully normal thing for a teenage boy to do, it somehow kept Erika’s precariously tipping world from being completely upended. She wanted to hug him.

  He saw her watching and gave her an apologetic grin. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No.” His grin vanished. “I mean, I’m sorry for more than drinking out of the carton. I’m sorry for how I acted last week. After you told me about Kirsten.”

  “It’s okay,” she repeated, her throat tight.

  “It isn’t okay, Mom.” He walked across the kitchen to her.

  How like his father he looked.

  “I talked to Cammi about what’s going on. I told her about Kirsten. I hope it’s all right with you. I needed to tell somebody.”

  Erika nodded.

  “She was asking all sorts of questions about Kirsten, and I didn’t know any of the answers. It got me thinking that it must’ve been hard for you when she was born. I mean, you were just my age when you had her.”

  Again, Erika nodded.

  Her son looked beyond her shoulder toward the window. “I have to admit, I see how it could happen. I know kids who… well, you know, do things they shouldn’t. Like drinking and messing around and stuff. Even some of my Christian friends.”

  She reached out to touch his arm. The gesture brought his gaze back to her.

  “Not me and Cammi, Mom, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Ethan took a step back. “I gotta get going or I’ll be late to work. I just wanted you to know that I’m cool with whatever you decide about Kirsten. You know, about us getting to know her and stuff.”

  “Thank you, Ethan,” Erika said softly. “That means more than you know.”

  He grinned again, then left the kitchen.

  Erika walked to the patio door and looked outside, where Steven still wielded the power trimmer.

  Ethan’s cool with it. She wished she could shout the words at Steven. Ethan’s cool with it. Why can’t you be?

  June 1985

  In the wee hours of the night, Erika sat in the rocking chair Grams had given her, nursing two-week-old Ethan, her cheeks damp with tears.

  There would be no Welby basketball team for Steven to coach. There would be no more babies for him to raise.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” many had told her while she was still in the hospital.

  She didn’t feel lucky. She felt heartbroken, inconsolable.

  And she couldn’t help wondering, in the darkest corner of her heart, if this had happened because of what she’d done five years before in Boston. Was this—the inability to bear more children—her punishment for not wanting her firstborn?

  “I love you,” she whispered to Ethan. “You’re the most wanted baby in all the world. I promise to be a good mother, to be there for you whenever you need me.”

  “Me, too,” came Steven’s voice, gravelly with sleep, from behind her.

  She looked at him through a misty gaze as he knelt beside the rocker. He kissed the baby’s downy soft head, then looked up at Erika, lifting a hand to her cheek, cupping it gently.

  “I love you,” he said. “You look so beautiful like this, holding our son.”

  Her throat constricted. “But there won’t be—”

  “Shh.” He placed a finger against her lips, silencing her. “Nothing’s going to change the way I feel about you, sweetheart. Nothing. I’m going to love you forever. And we’re a family, you and me and Ethan. What more could anybody ask for?”

  Twenty

  Kirsten paused inside the entrance to the hardware store and looked around, trying to get her bearings.

  It wasn’t a large store, but there seemed to be plenty here. The aisles were narrow, the shelves tall and cluttered. She hadn’t a clue how to find the things she needed.

  The truth was, she was tired and out of sorts, and the work of moving in had only begun.

  At the back of the store, she saw a clerk in a red vest standing on a ladder, reaching for a box on the top shelf. An elderly woman stood nearby, watching him.

  “Not that one, young man,” the customer said loudly. “The black one.”

  The clerk moved his fingers to the next box to the right and glanced down.

  “Yes. That’s the one.”

  The clerk slid the box forward until he could grasp it with both hands; then he pulled it the rest of the way off the shelf and stepped down.

  “Thank you so much,” the woman said, holding out her arms for the box. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Let me carry it up front for you, ma’am.” He turned toward the front of the store.

  It was Ethan Welby. Kirsten almost turned to leave, but then he saw her. His eyes widened slightly, and she knew she’d been recognized, too.

  He said, “I’ll be right with you.”

  Kirsten nodded, then moved down the nearest aisle, pretending to look for something—although at the moment she couldn’t remember what she needed—while Ethan rang up the elderly woman’s purchase.

  My brother.

  She’d thought of him often in the past two days, wondering what sort of young man he was, wondering what he thought about her.

  “Hi,” Ethan said as he approached her a few minutes later. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  She turned toward him. “That’s all right.”

  “I’m all alone here right now. The owner, Mr. Campanella, had to run an errand.”

  She realized he was as uncert
ain about what to say as she was. She gave him a slight smile. “How’s your dog?”

  “Mom picked him up from the vet’s. He’s doin’ okay.”

  “I’m glad.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I was so scared after I hit him. He came out of nowhere.” Kirsten moistened her lips with her tongue.

  “Can I help you find something?” Ethan asked.

  “Please.” She nodded again. “I need a few basic tools. Screwdrivers. Hammer. Nails. Picture hangers. That sort of stuff.”

  “Getting moved in, huh?” He motioned for her to follow him down the aisle.

  “My furniture and boxes arrived this morning. I wasn’t expecting the van until next week, so it’s a good thing I was at the apartment.” She was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “The movers pretty much dumped everything inside the door and left, so now I’m trying to put things together, make sure the furniture’s where I want it, hang a few pictures.”

  Ethan stopped and looked at her. “Are you doing it all alone?”

  She shrugged. “I’m the only one there is.”

  He glanced away, then back again. “I could help. I’m off in half an hour. Soon as my boss gets back.”

  Kirsten wasn’t sure how to answer. She suspected that his offer was made partly out of curiosity, partly because he was trying to do the right thing.

  “Mom would want me to help you,” he added.

  She should refuse. She didn’t want to be an obligation. Still, it would be a chance to learn more about Ethan and Erika, which might, in turn, lead to learning something about her father.

  “I suppose it would go faster with two,” she answered at last.

  “Great. We’ll get the stuff you need; then I can follow you back to your place in my car.”

  Erika found Steven in the garage, where he was attempting to repair the mower engine.

  It seemed she was continually searching for him. He never stayed in the same room with her any longer than he absolutely had to. The most time he spent with her was at night, while he slept, lying as far away as he could get without falling off the bed.

  “Steven?” she said, trying to keep the nervousness from her voice. “I want to invite Kirsten to come to dinner after church tomorrow. Is that all right with you?”

  Her husband didn’t look up. “Do whatever you want, Erika. You will anyway.”

  That wasn’t fair. She’d always cared what Steven thought, had heeded his advice. Why was he acting like this? Why did he have to say such hurtful things?

  She clenched her hands. “Will you at least try to make her feel welcome?”

  She could see the tension in his jaw, knew he was fighting for control over his anger, an anger that was ever present these days.

  “I’d rather she didn’t come, but I’ll try not to be rude to her if she does.”

  Erika supposed that was something.

  “Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?” he asked.

  “I think I do.”

  “I doubt it.” He looked at her, eyes accusing. “Do you ever wish you were with him instead?”

  “With Dallas? Oh, Steven. No. Not ever.”

  His expression said he didn’t believe her.

  “Steven, I—”

  “Plan your dinner, Erika.” He looked down at the mower, picked up a wrench with his right hand—a hand smeared with black grease—and placed it over a bolt, then gave the wrench a firm twist.

  Somehow, Erika felt that twist in her heart.

  Steven winced at the sound of the closing door.

  Lord?

  Silence.

  There was a lot of silence in his life these days. Between him and his wife. Between him and his God. Silence that Steven had put there.

  How do I get past these feelings?

  The resentment ate at him, tearing up his insides. Oh, he tried to say and do the right things. Hadn’t he asked Dallas to forgive him? Yes. Had he refused to have Kirsten in his home? No.

  But that was all on the outside.

  Inside, in his heart, the enmity festered. Inside his resentful heart he still wanted things to be as they were before.

  Kirsten glanced in her rearview mirror. The red-and-white Chevy was right behind her, Ethan at the wheel.

  “This is crazy,” she muttered as she switched on her signal, then turned right into the apartment complex’s parking lot. “I shouldn’t have agreed to it.” It seemed lately she was doing a lot of things she shouldn’t.

  She wound her way past carports and over speed bumps toward the back of the complex. Her apartment was in Building G, farthest from the clubhouse, pool, and tennis courts.

  She pulled the Toyota into her covered parking spot, cut the engine, then grabbed her sack from the hardware store and got out. Ethan waited for her on the sidewalk.

  He was a tall kid. Height was something Kirsten always noticed about people because at five-ten she was tall for a girl. He looked a lot more like his dad than his mom. Same dark brown hair as Steven Welby, same blue eyes.

  She wondered if, when she and Ethan stood side by side, anyone would guess they were brother and sister.

  “Ready?” Ethan asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I’m ready. Come see what you got yourself into.”

  It turned out that bringing Ethan Welby to her place wasn’t a mistake. He worked hard, followed orders, and knew how to do some things she wouldn’t have figured out for days, if ever. Within a relatively short period of time, Kirsten’s apartment went from being a total disaster to, if not perfect, very livable.

  In celebration, she ordered a large combo pizza delivered, along with two salads with Thousand Island dressing and a liter of root beer—all of them her favorites and, as it turned out, his, too.

  Kirsten brought utensils, paper plates, and glasses from the kitchen and set them on the marred coffee table she’d bought the previous year at a yard sale for fifteen dollars. When the food arrived, she set it there, too. Then she and Ethan sat on the floor across from each other.

  “Dig in,” she said, flipping open the pizza-box lid.

  Ethan nodded, then closed his eyes for only a few moments.

  Was he praying? It appeared so.

  Weird. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been with somebody who said grace over their food. It sure wasn’t anything they’d done in the Lundquist home. She’d often heard her mother say, “Why should I thank God? I got everything we have through the sweat of my own brow.”

  Even as a child, Kirsten had understood the bitterness revealed in that remark.

  Ethan helped himself to a large piece of pizza, then smiled at Kirsten. “I’m starved. Thanks for doing this.”

  “It’s the least I could do after all the help you were.”

  He shrugged off her words. “Hey, what’s family for?”

  Family. Her heart fluttered. We’re family.

  “Does it feel strange to you, too?” Ethan leaned forward. “I mean, having a brother you never met until now.”

  She set down the slice of pizza, her throat too tight to swallow. “Yes, it’s strange.”

  “I always wanted a brother or a sister, but Mom couldn’t have any more kids after me.”

  “She couldn’t?”

  “No. She almost died when I was born. They had to do a hysterectomy.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  If Ethan found her reply fatuous he gave no indication. “Mom’s real glad you found her.”

  Another unexpected skip of the heart. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Really.”

  “But your dad isn’t.”

  A thoughtful frown furrowed Ethan’s brow. “Dad never knew Mom had a baby before me. It sorta rocked him, finding out about you now. But he’ll come around eventually.”

  Kirsten wasn’t so sure.

  “It was a real shocker,” Ethan added, “seeing how much you look like your dad.”

  Time screeched to a halt. Kirsten stared at Ethan, h
er mouth parted, her throat dry, her heart pounding.

  Ethan’s eyes widened as if he suddenly realized what he’d said.

  “You know who my father is?”

  He hesitated a moment before nodding.

  “Who?”

  It was obvious Ethan was wrestling with what to say, so Kirsten pressed him, giving no quarter. “Who’s my father, Ethan? What’s his name? You have to tell me. I’ve got a right to know. You must see that.”

  After what seemed a long while, he answered, “His name’s Dallas.” He spoke the name with great reluctance.

  “Dallas what?”

  “Dallas Hurst.”

  “Hurst,” she whispered. “Dallas Hurst. And you say I look like him?”

  “Yeah. A lot.”

  I look like my father.

  Twenty-one

  Kirsten stood on the small deck outside her apartment’s living room, her back against the doorjamb, the portable phone in her right hand.

  “It’s very pretty here,” she told her mother. “The city’s right up against the mountains, and the river is so clear you can see the rocky bottom in most places. You should come for a visit soon.”

  “I’d love to, but there’s no way I could afford it. Not right now, anyway.”

  Kirsten felt a wave of homesickness wash over her. “Well, we could both sock a little money away here and there. Sometimes you can find great fare bargains on the Internet.”

  “I don’t know if I’d trust buying a ticket that way. What if someone stole my credit-card number? I’ve seen those stories on 60 Minutes and Dateline.”

  Kirsten shook her head. Her mom had no understanding of computers or the Internet. There was no point in trying to explain how it worked.

  “Have you met her yet?” Donna asked after a moment of silence.

  Kirsten didn’t need to ask whom she meant. “Yes. I’m going to her house for dinner today.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She seems nice, Mom. She’s got a son. His name’s Ethan, and he just turned seventeen. He’s nice, too.”