The Oak Leaves
Page 1
“Drawing from her own life experience, Maureen Lang invites us to experience the honest disappointments and glorious discoveries that come from mothering a son others may see as ‘different,’ yet God sees only as His beloved child.”
Liz Curtis Higgs, best-selling author of Thorn in My Heart
“I couldn’t put this book down. Vivid, compelling, and deeply moving, with issues that touch the soul, The Oak Leaves was a story that lingered in my heart, and made me ask, just how much am I willing to accept from the Lord? . . . Every moment you spend with this book is worth it.”
Susan May Warren, award-winning author of Reclaiming Nick
“Maureen Lang’s The Oak Leaves is a beautiful, beautiful story of the many kinds of love and their divine author. I feel privileged to be one of the first to read it.”
Lyn Cote, author of The Women of Ivy Manor
“This is a wonderful story—told from a wealth of experience and from the heart—of the anxiety, despair, mourning, and eventual acceptance associated with having a child diagnosed with fragile X syndrome. . . . This book offers hope and comfort, as well as a celebration of the little joys . . . of raising a child with fragile X.”
Elizabeth Berry-Kravis MD, PhD, Director of the Fragile X Clinic and Research Program, Rush University Medical Center
“Readers who have children with disabilities, readers who know families affected by disabilities, and readers who are simply drawn to a rich, well-written story will be lifted up by this beautiful work.”
Gail Harris-Schmidt, PhD,
coauthor of The Source for Fragile X Syndrome
“Maureen Lang has made the world a better place, and families impacted by fragile X syndrome, now and in the future, owe her their thanks.”
Robert Miller, Executive Director, National Fragile X Foundation
Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com
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The Oak Leaves
Copyright © 2007 by Maureen Lang. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman copyright © by Banana Stock/Fotosearch. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of leaf copyright © by istockphoto. All rights reserved.
Cover background image on bottom copyright © by Veer. All rights reserved.
Author photo copyright © 2005 by Jennifer Girard. All rights reserved.
Designed by Beth Sparkman
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., 10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lang, Maureen.
The oak leaves / Maureen Lang.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4143-1345-0 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 1-4143-1345-4 (pbk.)
I. Title.
PS361.A554O15 2007
813′6—dc22 2006033334
For my husband and my children,
and families everywhere
affected by fragile X syndrome
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Q & A about Fragile X
Sorrow is a fruit.
God does not allow it to grow
on a branch that is too weak to bear it.
Victor Hugo
Acknowledgments
It seems impossible to contain within a few words the gratitude I feel toward so many people for the production of this book. When the Lord first whispered to write this story, I knew I was neither ready nor willing. But from my first gentle and encouraging readers, too numerous to name, I received the assurance needed to conquer those early drafts. From other moms who have lived through the horror of receiving a life-changing diagnosis on their child, I received affirmation of my goal: to write something that will remind us we can survive. Through all of my critique partners, I became convinced this book was more than cathartic.
My appreciation to Meredith Efken for helping me to find the focus of this story and to Jill Eileen Smith, Joelle Charbonneau-Blanco, Julie Scudder Dearyan, Karen Dale Harris and so many others from my critique groups for their unwavering belief in the value of this project.
Many thanks to my agent, Greg Johnson, and his assistant, Marjorie Vawter, whose enthusiastic report caught Greg’s attention. Not only did he successfully market the proposal in record time, Greg also prodded me into imagining a sequel. Now I don’t have to say good-bye (at least just yet) to the characters I’ve grown to love.
Finally I’d like to thank the Tyndale team of Stephanie Broene, Kathy Olson, and Karen Watson. Their wise input, friendly assistance, and ready accessibility made the process of producing this book a pleasure from the very beginning. Kathy, your insight and reassuring footnotes made editing this book a joy. My deepest thanks.
Introduction
To my son Kipp and his wife, and to their children and children’s children in America,
I can think of no better way for you to know me than to share with you my journal from the time in my life that revealed God’s plans for me—plans far different from my own. This is my legacy to you.
I assure you each word is true. If you inherit anything from me, may it be the knowledge that love is stronger than fear, especially with faith in the One who is love: “Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever.”
—Cosima Escott Hamilton, 1874
1
The dull hum of the garage door sounded. Luke was home. Talie looked up from the books and papers spread across her kitchen table. She might have been tempted to stay up all night reading, but not now. Welcoming her husband home was the only thing she liked about his occasional business trips.
As the door from the garage opened, Talie stood to greet her husband. “Welcome home!”
He moved to put his briefcase in its usual spot, but finding the table covered with the
memorabilia Talie had been studying, he settled it on a nearby chair.
“Hey,” he said, taking her into his arms and kissing her.
Amazing how even after four years of marriage her heart still twirled at such a thing, especially when he gazed at her afterward. She read nothing but pure love in his lively blue eyes.
“Good to be home.” He scanned the adjacent family room.
Talie guessed he was looking for the baby. “I tried to keep Ben awake, but he crashed about twenty minutes ago.” She grinned. “You can probably get reacquainted around two in the morning, though.”
“Has he been up a lot while I was gone?”
She nodded.
Luke shrugged broad shoulders out of his suit coat. “I’ll look in on him when we go up.”
“How did everything go on your trip?”
“Better than I expected. They offered me the job.”
“They did!” Talie hugged him, then pulled away. “Why didn’t you tell me when you called earlier?”
“I wanted to see your face.” He kissed her, studying her again afterward. “And it was worth the wait.”
Pride for him mushroomed from deep inside, spreading up and out through her smile. Once, before she’d met Luke, before other dreams had taken its place, she’d had a career vision of her own. Going up through the ranks of the education trail, from teacher to department head to curriculum director, from assistant principal to principal and on to superintendent. Now, seeing Luke’s dreams going forward, she tasted vicarious living but, amazingly enough, didn’t miss those old aspirations for herself. She was living a new kind of dream, one she wouldn’t trade for anything.
“Congratulations, Mr. Architectural Engineering Director. When do you start?”
“Right away. I move into my new office tomorrow. They want me to restructure the department, so I’ll probably have to hire a couple of new people.”
“We’ll have to celebrate. Get a babysitter, out to dinner—the works.”
Luke loosened his tie and went to the refrigerator. As incredible as he looked in a suit, she knew he far preferred jeans and a T-shirt. He grabbed a Coke. “What went on around here while I was gone?”
“Jennifer down the street is starting a playgroup for the kids in the neighborhood. I’m taking Ben tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. How many kids?”
“Five—all of them born last year like Ben.”
He took a gulp of soda. “Did you have a good time at your mom’s? Get a lot done?”
Talie turned back to the table. “The garbageman is going to hate her on Tuesday, but the house looks great. I think she’ll be ready to list it any day now. Look here. . . .” She held up the family Bible she’d been looking at before he arrived. “This is the treasure we found among all the trash.”
“What is it?”
“A Bible that belonged to my dad’s grandmother. I have a whole box of things that must have been hers. The letters are wonderful. Letter writing is a lost art now that everyone has e-mail. And look at this. I think it’s a journal.”
She picked up the smooth, leather-bound book. It was tied closed with a ribbon. “I’m almost afraid to touch it—the binding is cracked. It’s all so incredible.” Talie sighed, looking at all of the things strewn on the table. “This is like a call back, Luke.”
He looked from the journal to her. “Call back?”
She nodded, her heart twisting from missing her dad. “When I was a kid our family would take driving vacations. On that first day we’d get up at three in the morning to miss rush hour traffic around Chicagoland. We’d all fall back asleep, but that’s what Dad liked—to drive in the quiet. Sometimes, though, I’d sit up front with him. He used to say I was helping by keeping him company. I knew he didn’t really need help. He just wanted me to feel useful.”
Unexpected tears welled in her eyes. “He liked it when he could see taillights ahead. Not too close, just up the road.” Instead of the kitchen table in disarray she saw a pair of round, red lights gleaming from an invisible dark road ahead. “He used to tell me that was his call back. The car ahead called back that the road was still there, free and clear for him to follow.”
She blinked, seeing again the items in front of her. “These are like a call back. Seeing what’s gone before can help us know what to expect from life. It’s especially meaningful when it’s your own family history.”
Talie returned her attention to the Bible, opening it to the names and dates that went back to the eighteenth century.
“Is your name written in that Bible?” Luke asked.
She scanned the list toward the more recent additions at the end but then shook her head. “No, but my mom’s is next to my dad’s, with their anniversary date. So many names! For our next baby we can pick a name from the family. Like . . . Josephine or Sarah or Emily. Or here’s one I really like: Cosima. We could call her Sima.”
“What, no men in your dad’s history? Aren’t there any boys’ names?”
“We already have a boy, silly. We need to hope for a girl next time.”
“Fifty-fifty chance of it going either way, honey. Let me see.” He took the Bible from her. “Matthew would be good. Or . . . wait. Branduff? Seamus? Sounds like a bunch of Irishmen. I thought your family was German and English.”
“The German is from my mother’s side. I guess I’ll find out more about my dad’s family from these names. But something awful must have happened in 1848. Five deaths are listed on the same day.”
“Hmm . . . 1848. Ireland had a potato famine around that time, I think.”
“That’s probably it,” Talie said with a nod. “Isn’t it amazing that they couldn’t feed themselves yet they kept birth records all the way back to the century before?”
Luke smiled. “I’m sure you have quite some family history there.”
“And look at this. Dad really did have an Aunt Ellen. Ellen Dana Grayson, his mother’s sister. But I’d rather not show this to Dana.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s named for the mysterious Aunt Ellen. Her full name is Ellen Dana, only my mom liked Dana better so we always called her that.”
“So why is this aunt mysterious, and what difference does it make if Dana knows about her?”
“Look here.” Talie pointed to an entry. “Ellen Dana Grayson, born 1910, died 1941. She never married, and she died in a place called Engleside. Sounds like a rest home, but she would’ve been too young for that. She must have been sick. I don’t want Dana knowing she was named for some sick, lonely relative who never got married. You know how Dana is. She already thinks she’s an old maid and she’s not even thirty yet. She’ll think history is bound to repeat itself just because of a name.”
Luke shook his head. Talie had seen that look on his face before, the one that said she was being overprotective again. She was willing to concede she wanted the best for her younger sister, but that’s how big sisters were supposed to be. She wasn’t about to shirk her duty, even on a small point like this.
Luke was still studying the names listed in the back of the Bible.
“If I draw a rough draft and put all the names and birth dates in order, could you make a family tree?” she asked. “We could hang it in the study.”
“Sure. Just birth dates, though? You’re going to avoid anything morbid like when they died, even though that’s the most interesting part?”
Talie hesitated.
“It’s that date, isn’t it?” He was watching her closely. “May 16, 1848.”
“I know it’s probably nothing more dramatic than the potato famine, but I guess I’d like to find out what happened before we advertise on our walls that five members of my family died on the same day.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Talie. I love a good mystery. But I don’t think something that happened more than a hundred and fifty years ago can make much of a difference in our lives. Now let’s go upstairs and peek in on that baby up there. And then—” he set aside the B
ible and pulled her into his arms again, nuzzling her neck—“you can welcome me home as if I’ve been gone a lot longer than a few days.”
* * *
Talie left their bed, knowing from past experience her movement wouldn’t disturb Luke. His steady breathing said it was true again tonight.
She went downstairs to the kitchen table, where she’d left the dilapidated journal. It was old and stiff, the satin ribbon faded.
Touching one of the shamrocks engraved on the front, she untied the ribbon and opened the soft leather cover. The pages proved to be remarkably free of damage despite their apparent age. No water spots, no mold, just clear handwriting on thick paper that had barely yellowed through the years. Maybe it was a good thing her father had been so disinterested in the past; storing the items in the dry darkness of their attic hadn’t done the collection any harm.
Talie instantly guessed it to be a personal diary. A stranger’s, yes, but someone whose blood had flowed in her father and now flowed in her. She read the first page.
To my son Kipp and his wife, and to their children and children’s children in America,
I can think of no better way for you to know me than to share with you my journal from the time in my life that revealed God’s plans for me—plans far different from my own. This is my legacy to you.
I assure you each word is true. If you inherit anything from me, may it be the knowledge that love is stronger than fear, especially with faith in the One who is love: “Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever.”
—Cosima Escott Hamilton, 1874
Talie pulled out the Bible and turned to the records pages. Cosima Escott, born in Ireland in the year of our Lord 1830, to Mary and Charles Escott. Married 1850 to Peter Hamilton.
Born in Ireland? Talie’s father had told her their heritage was English, not Irish. And the names Escott and Hamilton certainly didn’t sound Irish. Pressing her finger along the records page, Talie found the year of Cosima’s death: 1901. Though she’d died more than a hundred years ago, she’d lived to a ripe old age. Good for her; her years had outnumbered Dad’s by almost a half dozen. Not bad for those times.
Strange that Cosima had chosen to write “love is stronger than fear” as her legacy.