Finding Faith

by Denise Hunter

  “Sure. I’ve waitressed, so I’m used to waiting on the public. And I’m a quick learner.”

  “Just not so good with the north and south thing?” His eyes played with her.

  She whacked him on the arm, though he probably couldn’t feel it under the layers of nylon and down.

  He grabbed a three-ring notebook and pencil from the backseat floor. “Jot down your name and number if you want, and I’ll pass it on to Joe.” He flipped on the interior lights.

  “I really appreciate that.” She turned past a bunch of notes to a blank page. As she flipped through, she caught the phrases “divine truth” and “inerrancy of Scripture.” Was this guy a preacher or something? He didn’t look like one.

  She wrote down her name and new phone number with the stubby pencil and handed it back to him.

  “My name’s Adam, by the way.” He put his hand out.

  She shook his hand, feeling suddenly shy. “Thanks again for the ride.” She reached for the handle again and opened the door.

  “Now, don’t get in the habit of hitching rides around here. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”

  She smiled. “I’ll be careful.” She waved him off, wondering why he even cared about a stranger like her.

  * * *

  “What do you think?” David asked.

  Natalie, one of Paula’s sisters, and her soon-to-be husband, Kyle Keaton, strolled through the two-story home, eying the distressed wood floor and the freshly painted walls.

  David had been as surprised as everyone else at Natalie and Kyle’s whirlwind engagement. Even the wedding, planned for Christmas Eve, was coming at lightning speed, though the couple seemed confident in their plans and thoroughly in love.

  “I love it.” Natalie shifted the baby in her arms.

  “Want me to take her?” Kyle asked.

  Natalie handed little Gracie over, and Kyle cradled her in one arm like a football.

  “The floor is beautiful,” Natalie said. “And I like the way the master bedroom is downstairs and the other rooms are upstairs.”

  “Are we going to be able to hear Gracie from down here?” Kyle asked.

  “We can use a nursery monitor.”

  David watched how the two of them communicated so kindly and felt a tightness in his gut that he recognized as jealousy. When was the last time he and Paula had spoken to each other so amicably? Of course, he reminded himself, these two weren’t even married yet. And talk about full plates. Natalie had two boys from her first marriage, an ex-husband who’d betrayed her, and a newly adopted baby who just happened to be her ex-husband’s love child. Maybe David’s life wasn’t so whacked after all.

  “The house has only been on the market three weeks, but the owners are moving out of state, so I imagine they’re eager to sell.” David flipped to the disclosure page. “The furnace is original. The roof was replaced three years ago. Everything seems to be in good condition.”

  “Could we find out what the utilities run?” Kyle asked.

  “Sure. Anything else you want to look at before we move on to the next house?”

  Natalie and Kyle shook their heads no and stepped out the front door. David locked the door behind him, putting the key back in the lockbox before joining them in the vehicle. The baby was still asleep, nestled now in the infant seat like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

  A yearning sprang up from someplace deep inside David. A yearning he’d pushed away for months. Why hadn’t he and Paula—

  “What time did Paula get in last night?” Natalie asked from the backseat.

  He would have been glad to change the direction of his thoughts, but this was another subject he wanted to avoid. He wondered when Natalie was going to bring up her sister. She had steered clear of the topic . . . until now.

  “She decided not to come home.” He put the car in reverse and backed out of the drive.

  He knew the silence didn’t indicate that the subject would be dropped.

  “Oh,” Natalie said, sounding puzzled. “Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

  How would he know? “I don’t think so.”

  The baby woke and gave a squeaky little cry, but whatever Natalie did calmed her down quickly.

  “How did her first week go?” Natalie asked.

  David wished she’d just drop the subject. If she wanted to know how her sister was, she should call herself. “I have no idea, Natalie.”

  “You haven’t called her?”

  “No, I have not.” David picked up the listing on the next house and scanned the sheet for the street address.

  “Not at all? How do we know she even made it safely to Chicago?”

  In his peripheral vision, David saw Kyle slip his hand between the seats and set it on Natalie’s knee.

  “She e-mailed to let me know she wasn’t coming home, so I’m sure she’s fine.”

  Paula hadn’t said that. Hadn’t said anything except:

  I’m going to need time to prepare for my first week solo, so I’m staying in Chicago this weekend.

  Not one word about how her week went or a single question about how his work was going. He’d sold a ranch this week worth 5.4 million, but did she care?

  David turned into the drive of the next house he was showing Natalie and Kyle. Maybe he could help this couple find a home where they, too, could experience the wonderful journey to wedded bliss.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  “Great job, Paula.” Constanzo, the cameraman, patted her on the shoulder, then flipped off the bright light. “The camera loves you.”

  It was her third day on the beat by herself, and everything had gone smoothly. She interviewed an owner of a new bagel shop, a boy who was single-handedly raising money for needy children, and workers on strike from a local potato-chip factory. Not exactly the cream-of-the-news stories, but she was getting experience. Darrick got the bigger stories, but that was to be expected. She had to prove herself, and she had a long way to go if she wanted to convince Miles she was the best candidate for the anchor chair.

  When she walked into her cubicle, there was a message on a Post-it: Call Deb Morgan. Urgent. Immediately she thought of her family so far away in Jackson Hole. What if something was wrong with David?

  But then she saw the phone number scrawled under the message. It had a Chicago area code. Deb Morgan. The name wasn’t familiar.

  She asked Cindy, the secretary, about the message.

  “Yes, I remember this call. The woman—what was her name?”

  “Deb Morgan.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it. Deb Morgan. She sounded distraught. She wasn’t sure if she had the right phone number, but she was definitely looking for someone named Paula who was with our news crew. She had to be thinking of you.”

  Paula mumbled a thanks and went back to her desk to dial the number. Immediately the phone was answered.

  “Hi, this is Paula Landin-Cohen from WMAQ. I have a message to return a phone call to a Deb Morgan.”

  “Oh hi, Paula. Thanks so much for returning my call.”

  The woman spoke as if she knew Paula, but from where?

  “I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but we met at the hospital last week. I was sitting in the waiting area outside Mr. Boccardi’s office.”

  Immediately the woman’s image came to mind. Blond hair, fair skin, fragile looking.

  “Yes, I remember very well. How can I help you, Mrs. Morgan?”

  “Deb. Please, just call me Deb. My husband and I have a . . . situation. We’d hoped to get answers from Mr. Boccardi, but he wasn’t any help at all.”

  “I’d be happy to help if I can. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  Paula couldn’t help but wonder why Deb was calling her, a news reporter, with a personal problem. Maybe she wanted some kind of media coverage.

  “I was hoping we could meet. I have a—a story you might be interested in as a newsperson. It’s a long story, and a painful one for me and my husband.” She paused as her wo
rds choked off. “I’m sorry. This is very hard on me.”

  “That’s OK. And, of course, I’d be happy to meet with you. Just name the time and place.”

  Could this be a story that would make Miles sit up and take notice? Adrenaline surged through Paula’s veins, and she welcomed the excitement it brought.

  They decided to meet at the Morgans’ house at nine the next morning. Paula hung up the phone, her veins throbbing with anticipation at what could be her first investigative story.

  * * *

  On Thursday morning Paula parked in front of a small, one-story home. On this street, only the numbers on the porch posts distinguished one house from another.

  Moments later she knocked on the door. Deb Morgan answered and ushered Paula in, taking her coat. The house held the faint scent of popcorn, presumably from the night before, and something else—a cinnamon fragrance that could probably be traced to a dish of potpourri.

  A man standing behind Deb held out his hand. “I’m Deb’s husband, Steve. And this”—he picked up a little girl who looked about three—“is Faith. Say hi, sweetie.”

  Faith buried her face in her dad’s neck, her fine, brown curls cascading over his shoulder. Then, turning her face toward Paula, she peeked out from her father’s embrace.

  “Hi there, Faith.”

  The child looked angelic with wide, striking green eyes and a pixie nose.

  “Come on in, Paula, and have a seat,” Deb said.

  As Paula entered the living room, she noted that the furniture appeared to be well-cared-for castoffs. All the pieces had a certain charm, but not one matched any of the others. A woven basket on the table held copies of Parenting magazine and Cerebral Palsy Magazine. She sat on a recliner.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” Deb asked.

  Paula had already chugged down a Starbucks on the way over. “No thank you.” She reached into her satchel for a tape recorder. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?”

  “Please do.”

  Steve Morgan set his daughter down. “Go finish your Cheerios, pumpkin.” He swatted her affectionately on the behind as she walked away. She limped as she moved, favoring her right side.

  Steve and Deb, holding hands, sat opposite Paula on the couch.

  Paula pushed Record on the recorder and set it on the coffee table between them.

  “First of all, I want to say that this media stuff is all new to us,” Steve said. “Deb and I have debated what to do ever since our meeting with Mr. Boccardi.”

  “Honey, let’s just tell the story, and let her decide if there’s anything she can do, OK?” The woman’s words were as gentle as a morning mist.

  “You’re right,” Steve said. He rubbed his jaw. “It’s hard to know where to start.”

  Deb squeezed his hand and took over. “When I was pregnant with Faith, I went into labor too early. We went to Chicago General Hospital, and the doctors did everything they knew to stop the labor, but they were unable to. We were told to expect the worst. Babies as premature as Faith usually don’t live at all, and if they do, well, there are usually severe handicaps.”

  Paula’s heart pounded. What was it about that hospital? It was only her second week in Chicago, and she was being taken down memory lane yet again. She tucked her auburn hair behind her ear and focused on what Deb was saying.

  “The first hours were terribly trying. We prayed and prayed. Everyone we knew was praying for little Faith.” Deb looked down and pinched her lips together.

  Steve continued. “Even with all the prayers, I think we were surprised at how well Faith seemed to be doing. She was in the NICU—Neonatal Intensive Care Unit—for four and a half weeks, and then we were bringing her home. I think that was the happiest day of my life.”

  “We knew there would be developmental delays,” Deb said. “And the doctors warned about the potential for cerebral palsy, hearing loss, retardation—the list was endless.”

  Steve let go of Deb’s hand and put his arm around her. His dark skin and raven hair was a foil for Deb’s fair complexion and pale blond hair. “We didn’t care. We were so thrilled our baby was alive that we felt like the most blessed couple in the world.”

  There was silence as the couple seemed at a loss for where to go next. Paula heard a cartoon blaring from another room in the house.

  Deb picked at her blunt-cut nails while she spoke. “As time went by, we discovered Faith did suffer from a mild case of cerebral palsy. We were distraught, of course, but it was not unexpected.”

  “I know this may sound melodramatic,” Steve said. “But when you’re facing the death of your child, anything else seems minor in comparison. We accepted the diagnosis and went on to find the best help we could. Faith’s doing very well—as well as we could have hoped for.”

  But if Faith was doing so well, Paula wondered, why had the Morgans invited her to come? She tabled the question, knowing she needed to hear the story all the way through first.

  “Several months ago Deb and I had blood drawn for a life insurance policy. Our results were fine, but one night when I was looking it over, I noticed something disturbing. I saw that Deb has Type A blood, and I have Type AB.” The couple exchanged a look, as though reliving the moment.

  Deb picked up from there. “We knew Faith’s blood type because of all the blood she’d had drawn over the years. Hers is Type O, and we both knew that parents with our blood types couldn’t have a child with blood Type O. We asked our family doctor to run some lab work. We thought it must’ve been a mistake. We never expected . . .” Deb blinked rapidly, then lowered her head.

  Steve’s hand cradled his wife’s shoulder. “When we got the tests back, we were devastated.”

  Paula straightened her spine. She saw the way Deb’s eyes almost drooped at the corners, the way her nose had reddened as they sat there telling their story. And Paula now knew why. This child of theirs was not theirs at all.

  “We even had Faith’s blood tested again, just to be sure.” Steve shook his head. He stared off toward the kitchen, as if temporarily lost. Finally, his gaze returned to Paula. “But it was true. Faith isn’t our biological child.”

  Paula looked from one to the other. “I’m so sorry. You must be devastated.” Paula tried to remain objective—she had years of experience at that—but she also needed to put herself in the couple’s place so she could ask the right questions. “What did you do next?”

  “Well,” Deb said, “we were terrified. On the one hand, we wanted to know what had happened. If Faith wasn’t our biological child, where was the child I gave birth to?”

  “But on the other hand,” Steve added, “we have someone else’s biological child. And we couldn’t possibly risk losing her.”

  “Of course not.” Paula tried to imagine David being the support that Steve was to Deb. When David found out the results of his infertility test, he didn’t support her at all. Instead he’d accused her of being unfaithful.

  “Not only is Faith our only child,” Deb said, “she’s the only child we’ll ever have.”

  As Paula watched Deb swallow, she imagined there must be a lump in her throat the size of a golf ball.

  “Deb had to have a hysterectomy immediately after Faith’s”—Steve stopped himself, evidently realizing his mistake—“right after the birth.”

  Paula checked her recorder to make sure the wheels were still spinning. As easy as it was to get caught up in the tragic story, she had to keep her wits about her. If handled right, she could help this couple and boost her career at the same time.

  “Have you made any effort to find out what happened to your birth child?” Paula asked.

  The Morgans exchanged a glance. “We took a couple of months to think and pray about what to do,” Steve said. “Above all else we didn’t want to lose Faith.”

  Deb sighed. “But we couldn’t discount the idea that our birth child could be out there somewhere.”

  “Even with that fact,” Steve continued, “we still didn’t w
ant to risk losing Faith. Both of us were set against saying anything.” His eyes teared up for the first time in their meeting.

  “After spending a lot of time on our knees,” Deb said, “begging God for wisdom, we both finally came to the conclusion that we had to find out the truth.”

  Paula had mixed emotions about the Morgans’ decision. She was impressed with their courage but wondered if they’d thought this through. They were clearly terrified of losing Faith, and that was certainly a possibility. On the other hand, this was the story of her life. If she investigated this and found answers, she would crack a huge story that would put her career on the map. Possibly deliver her that anchor chair.

  She stared into Deb’s eyes—pale blue orbs that showcased a contradiction of vulnerability and strength. Deb was looking at Paula like she was the answer to all their problems. Paula’s driving ambition slowly bled away, giving way to something less impressive but infinitely more human.

  “I know you said you’re convinced you need to find out the truth,” Paula said. “But have you thought through all the ramifications? What if Faith’s birth parents are raising your birth child? Have you considered that you could become embroiled in a custody battle? Once this story goes on camera, there’s no turning back.”

  Steve leaned forward, knees on elbows. “We know there’s a lot of risk involved. We have a lot to lose. And honestly, my brain says no, don’t do it.” He exchanged a look with Deb. “But as Christians we leave these things to God. And we both sense He’s telling us to go forward with this. Whatever comes with the truth, we’ll face it then and pray He’ll give us the strength to handle it.”

  Paula was impressed with the Morgans’ beliefs. They reminded her of her parents’ commitment to their faith. She felt a brief stab of longing for something so significant in her own life. She took a deep breath and exhaled, then focused on Deb.

  “I have to ask, why me? Surely you know this is a story that would have national interest. We only met briefly last week, Deb. What made you think you could trust me with this story?”