Red, White and Blue Weddings: Red Like Crimson, White as Snow, Out of the Blue

by Janice Thompson

  “Don’t be silly.” Brianna snuggled in close. “I love your stories.”

  “Hmm. Well, this one begins in December 1949.”

  “Wow. This is a history story.”

  “I guess you could call it that. It’s the history of our family.” Gran-Gran paused a moment then started. “I was just out of high school, and I’d fallen in love with a boy named Tommy. He was handsome, that boy.”

  Brianna giggled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about him.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Tommy was the first boy I ever loved, and I thought he hung the moon. I adored him. We dated the last two years of high school.” Gran-Gran’s eyes misted over. “I loved that boy so much, and when his family moved out of state it nearly broke my heart in two. We wrote letters the first few weeks, until. . .” Tears rose to cover her lower lashes, and she brushed them away with her fingertip.

  “What, Gran-Gran? What happened?” Even before she got her answer, Brianna’s heart grew heavy. This would not be a happily-ever-after kind of story.

  “Bree, I’m not proud of what I did.” Her grandmother spoke in a hushed voice. “I was just a girl in love. So in love I couldn’t see straight.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Brianna said, reaching to squeeze her hand. “What did you do?”

  Her grandmother’s gaze shifted to the floor. “When Tommy had been gone about two months I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. I didn’t know anyone who had ever had a baby before, but I just knew. . . .”

  Brianna’s heart felt as if a vise grip had taken hold of it. “Oh, Gran!”

  “I was a foolish girl, and I let my heart lead me into something that was wrong. Very wrong.” She began to tremble at this point, and Brianna clutched Gran’s hand as if her life depended on it. “Back in those days. . .well, it wasn’t like it is today. Once a girl was found to be. . .” She didn’t say the word, but she didn’t have to. “Anyway, I waited as long as I could to tell my mother. She was devastated.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Brianna whispered. “I’m sure it was a terrible time for both of you.”

  “Worse than you know.” Gran-Gran shook her head, and a lone tear slipped down her cheek. “We got the news about Tommy when I was only four months along. He was. . .he was. . .” She covered her face with her hands and cried softly for a few moments then whispered, “The family’s home burned down and he didn’t make it out.”

  “Oh, Gran, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry.” Brianna wrapped her grandmother in her arms. They sat together for what seemed like an eternity before she finally spoke. “W–what happened? What happened to you—and to the baby?”

  “My parents didn’t want anyone to know,” she said. “So they sent me to stay with my aunt Nadine out in the country. She was my mom’s youngest sister, not much older than I was, but happily married with a couple of kids of her own. Other than Nadine and the children, I didn’t know anyone there,” her grandmother explained. “It was a horrible, lonely time for me. Nadine and her husband wouldn’t let me go anyplace, except to the tiny church they attended. But even there the lies were thick. She got a little wedding band out of a Cracker Jack box and put it on my finger—made me tell her friends and her pastor that my husband had died.”

  Brianna shook her head. “That’s awful,” she whispered. “But then Katie came.” Gran-Gran’s face lit up at once. “Katie.” Brianna nodded. “I’ve heard you talk about her.” She also remembered the photo on Gran-Gran’s bedside table of the little cupie-doll girl with wispy curls and a winsome smile.

  Her grandmother shook her head, and her hands trembled. “My parents wouldn’t let me keep her. They told me I had to. . .to let her. . .go.” The tears began again. “They made me leave her with Nadine to raise. I couldn’t hold her, couldn’t kiss her pretty little face, couldn’t even let her know she was my own.”

  “But—” None of this made sense. “Everyone there knew you were the mother.”

  “Yes, but they went on believing the stories Nadine told them. She and my mother came up with what they thought was a foolproof plan. Nadine told her church friends I was too frail to care for the baby, too emotionally insecure. And, of course, my friends back home didn’t know the difference. They didn’t even know there was a baby. They just knew I’d gone to visit my aunt for a few months.”

  Gran-Gran paused and looked out the window as she whispered, “But I knew. I knew my baby girl had been stolen from me, and I prayed for her every single night.” She paused, and some of the life returned to her eyes. “Nadine seemed to soften a bit over the next few years and even sent me pictures of the baby. She was gorgeous, a cherub, if I ever saw one. A real angel. I would hide those pictures under my pillow and cry myself to sleep. Then one day. . .”

  A sinking feeling came over Brianna as her grandmother began to cry.

  “We g–got the c–call on a Wednesday. Katie was just three and a half years old, not even old enough for school. She’d been out in the field with my uncle, and there was an accident. . . .”

  Brianna squeezed her eyes shut, then let her own tears fall as her grandmother finished.

  “She was riding the tractor with my uncle Raymond. She loved to ride up there. Loved it. But that day she. . .she slipped and fell and. . .”

  Gran-Gran wept while Brianna held her close. She knew the rest already. No more needed to be said. Her grandmother had suffered enough already, and getting this story out had likely been the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  After a few minutes of quiet mourning, her grandmother finally looked up at her.

  “So now you know,” she whispered. “You know—”

  “That we both have things in our past we wish we could erase?” Brianna spoke over the lump in her throat. “That we’ve both needed—and received—God’s forgiveness? That we’ve been able to forgive others?”

  Gran-Gran nodded then reached for her hand. “ ‘All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,’ ” she said quietly. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve quoted that scripture. And my other favorite one—the one about being cleaned as white as snow—”

  “ ‘Cleanse me with hyssop,’ ” Brianna started.

  “ ‘And I will be clean,’” Gran-Gran added. “ ‘Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.’”

  Yes, she knew that scripture well.

  Something at the window caught Brianna’s eye. Through the thin curtain she could see the sky, heavy and white. The bits of snow fluttered softly, slowly to the ground. She thought about them in light of everything her grandmother had said.

  “Whiter than snow.”

  She turned back with a smile on her face. Suddenly she could hardly wait to see Brandon.

  ❧

  Brandon arrived at Abbey’s house at exactly 12:30 on Christmas Day—the appointed time. Brianna answered the door with a broad smile.

  “Merry Christmas,” he greeted her.

  “Same to you. Come on in out of the cold.”

  Oh, those words! They almost felt symbolic, as if Brianna were somehow declaring a truce, tearing down the wall that had risen between them.

  She swung wide the door and ushered him inside. He shrugged off his coat, then managed to sneak a peek at Brianna out of the corner of his eye as he hung his coat in the closet. She looked especially pretty in that blue sweater. It really went well with her blond hair, which she’d swept up into a loose ponytail. And he liked her without makeup. No pretense.

  “Well, hello there, Brandon!” a trio of voices greeted him as he made his way into the kitchen. There his three biggest fans sat at the kitchen table, smiling.

  “We’re so glad you could make it,” Abbey started. “How marvelous you didn’t have a game today!”

  “Amen to that.” Brandon chuckled at their enthusiasm. “And thank you for having me.”

  “Shame you couldn’t go home to see your mama for Christmas,” Rena said with a sympathetic shrug.

  “Just before the play-o
ffs?” Abbey exclaimed. “Are you kidding me?” She turned to face Brandon. “Still, a good boy would’ve offered to fly his mama up for a visit at Christmastime.”

  Brianna chuckled from across the room.

  “Oh, trust me.” He raised his hands in the air for emphasis. “I’ve tried again and again to get her here, but I finally decided I should wait till spring. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

  He paused then rubbed his belly. “Something smells mighty good.”

  Brandon could hardly understand a word after that. All of the women began to talk at the same time, each giving a dissertation on the food items she’d prepared.

  Only Brianna, who’d started to slice the turkey, remained silent. He looked at her as she lifted the knife and gave her a warm smile.

  When she returned the gesture, he walked over to her and took the knife from her hand.

  “Allow me,” he said with a wink.

  She took a step back and shrugged. “Sure.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “And thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He went to work, carving like a pro. All the while he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she finished up the other dishes. At one point he almost got so distracted, the knife slipped.

  Better watch what you’re doing, Campbell. Don’t want to lose a finger.

  He gave Brianna another look, then turned back to his work, determined to stay focused.

  Nope. Better not lose a finger. Not when he’d already lost his heart.

  EIGHTEEN

  January blew in with a vengeance, bringing a northeaster with it. Brandon watched, astounded, as a blanket of white covered the whole city of Pittsburgh on the Saturday morning of a critical play-off game. He drove through heavy snow squalls, doing his best to maneuver the car on slick, ice-packed roads on his way to the stadium. Tree limbs, broken from the weight of clinging ice, littered the roadways. Even the rooftops seemed heavy with snow.

  He half expected another one of those It’s-cold-up-there calls from his mother, but he was thankful she held back.

  Good thing, too. He would’ve had a hard time convincing her that this whole playing-in-a-storm thing was a piece of cake. In truth he was worried, not just about the journey to town, but today’s play-off game against Denver, as well. Though he’d managed a couple of games on a muddy, snow-caked field, there was something to be said for indoor stadiums.

  Still, he would give it his all.

  By late morning, Brandon arrived at the stadium and found the field to be mushy and white. He couldn’t shake a stuffy nose and a lingering headache he’d had since practice, but he suited up as always. He went through the usual motions, even prayed with the guys before heading out of the locker room. As he jogged out onto the field with his teammates, the near-white field almost blinded him. The field wasn’t just hard to see; it was particularly difficult to maneuver. Brandon looked up at the skies and willed the snow to stop.

  Moments later he stood on the sidelines, waiting for the game to begin. Even with the warmers in his jersey, he couldn’t stop shivering. Was it just the weather, or was he really sick? Regardless, he hoped the biting cold would dull to a chill once he started playing.

  “You doing okay, Campbell?” Coach Carter asked.

  “Yeah.” He pressed his gloved hands together and worked them back and forth, back and forth.

  “Careful with that.” Carter gestured to Brandon’s fingers. “Don’t rub your hands together between plays, even if you’re cold. You’ll lose your ability to coordinate them well later on.”

  “Ah.” Brandon had no idea what Coach meant but immediately stopped the rubbing.

  “I see it happen all the time,” Carter continued. “Players end up jamming fingers or getting stepped on.” He slapped Brandon on the back. “Just one more trick to playing in the cold. But you’ll learn.”

  Yes.” Brandon nodded then looked up at the skies overhead. “I guess this would be a perfect opportunity to make good on that promise to melt the snow underneath my feet.”

  “Looks like it,” Carter agreed. “Just do your best, son.”

  He nodded, and once he took the field, the roar of the crowd motivated him to jump in the game, regardless of the weather or the numbing headache.

  The first quarter passed uneventfully. Whether it was the snow or a lack of the usual motivation, neither team managed to score.

  By halftime the score was 6-3, with Denver taking the lead. The players drifted back to the locker room, clearly discouraged. Brandon would have been, too, but by now the dull ache in his head had magnified. He pulled off his helmet and rubbed at his forehead to try to relieve the pain.

  The coach sat the team members down and gave them a stern lecture. He focused on his offensive players, asking them to go the extra mile. And that’s just what Brandon determined to do. He headed back out to the field at the start of the third quarter and played like a champ, headache or not.

  Unfortunately Denver rose to the challenge as well. By the end of the third quarter, the score was tied, 21-21.

  Coach Carter sent his men back out onto the field at the beginning of the fourth quarter with a rousing cheer and an insistence that they bring this one home. Less than five minutes later the snow began to fall in sheets. Brandon could hardly see his hand in front of his face, let alone the ball flying through the air. He somehow lost his bearings at one point, jarred by the movement of a fellow player.

  He felt disjointed, uncoordinated. It seemed the cold had a grip on his spine, causing his back to lock up.

  “Not now,” he grumbled. If he played his cards right, he still had one good play left in him this afternoon, one last chance to score. Then his team would end up on top and advance to play another game.

  He shook off the headache as best he could and took advantage of an unexpected opportunity as they neared the end of the quarter.

  Hurry, Brandon—hurry.

  He managed to snag the ball, then faced the monumental decision of passing it off to someone else or running it over the goal line himself.

  With the torrent of white snow blinding him, he ran toward the goal, dodging opposing players at every turn.

  At first.

  He remembered every second of the play—his labored breaths, painful from the cold. His lungs, feeling as if they would explode. His head, feeling hot and heavy. Nearing the goal line with the ball clutched in his hands. Hearing the hopeful cheers from the crowd. Trying to slow his gait. Everything after that seemed to move in slow motion. Brandon remembered colliding with another player. Heard the splintering sound of the impact. Felt a horrible jarring in his neck. Pondered why a jolt of electricity shot through him. Sensed his legs go numb. Wondered why the world began to spin.

  After that everything faded to sepia tones. The rush of other players surrounding him brought a strange comfort. The appearance of the team doctor added a degree of curiosity. But the look of terror in Coach Carter’s eyes threw everything into a tailspin.

  Brandon felt the oddest sensation of being the center of attention as paramedics rushed onto the field. He couldn’t seem to get the shivering under control. He’d never felt such cold.

  Through the fog Brandon questioned himself. Did I cross the goal line? Did I score?

  He also found himself wondering what his mother might be thinking. Was she watching the game?

  “It’s cold up there.”

  The shivering grew more exaggerated—from fear or the cold, he could not be sure. The pain in Brandon’s head intensified, and he tried to figure out why his legs felt like electricity still coursed through them. After a moment or two the pain dissipated, and he seemed to completely lose feeling in both legs.

  “Son, can you hear me?” The paramedic looked at him intently, even snapping his fingers in Brandon’s face.

  “S–sorry?” The roar of the crowd seemed deafening. Or was it whisper-quiet? He couldn’t tell.

  “Can you move your legs?” The paramedic shouted to
be heard above the crowd.

  “I—I. . .” Brandon did his best to lift his right foot, but it refused to cooperate. Frustrated, he opted for his left. Nothing. The sting of tears in his eyes further blurred his vision. He shot out a prayer, not caring who heard. “Oh, God! Help me!” He lay shivering for what seemed like an eternity before they placed him on a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance.

  Ambulance?

  After that, everything faded to black.

  ❧

  Brianna heard the scream from the bathroom and ran out into the living room to see what had Gran-Gran and her friends so worked up. Her grandmother sat on the edge of her seat, and Lora paced the room, wringing her hands.

  “What happened?”

  Gran-Gran looked up with tears in her eyes and shook her head.

  Brianna glanced at Rena, who appeared to be the only one in the room not falling apart. “What happened?”

  “It’s Brandon,” Rena whispered. “He’s been. . .” She pointed at the television set, and Brianna dropped onto the sofa next to her grandmother to watch. What she saw took her breath away. Brandon lay in the midst of a snow-covered field, completely still. A team of paramedics worked on him feverishly, though she couldn’t make heads or tails out of his injuries.

  Right away her hands began to shake. Bree grabbed one of the throw pillows from the sofa and gripped it as tears filled her eyes. She found herself caught up in a memory of the night Daniel had been injured. Her sobs had been deafening, even more than the ladies’ were now.

  And she had known. Known Daniel would never play again. Known her dad had been responsible. Known. . .

  This is why! This is why I can’t stand the game. Why does this always seem to happen to the people I love? Why do they always end up hurt?

  She drew in a deep breath and tried to remain calm as the truth settled in her spirit. Daniel had recovered from his injuries—internally and externally. He’d gone on to live a normal, healthy life. Surely the Lord would do the same for Brandon. Wouldn’t He?