Tomorrow's Dream

by Janette Oke; Davis Bunn

  She was not the least bit hungry. She didn’t care that today was the maid’s last day with them, that tomorrow the young woman was scheduled to return to Abigail’s. She had heard Kenneth offer the maid his sincere thanks for all her help during their difficult days, but Kyle could not think of anything to add.

  As had become a tradition in their home, Kenneth reached for her hand, and she bowed her head for the saying of grace. The words were little more than a rustle on her inner emptiness. She heard the familiar “Amen” and lifted her head, ready to spread her napkin over her knees.

  But Kenneth did not let go. “Your hand is cold.”

  She gave a little shrug and tried to draw away. His grip tightened slightly.

  “I think it would be a good idea for you to see Dr. Pearce,” her husband said.

  That comment did register. She had no plans to see the doctor ever again. Nor any other doctor, for that matter. The whole medical profession had miserably failed her baby. She gave Kenneth a direct look, then her eyes slid away. “I’m fine.” The words had been repeated so often over the past weeks and months that they came and went without conscious thought.

  “You look pale.”

  “I tell you, I’m fine.”

  “I’m worried, honey. You’re not sleeping well.”

  Kyle wished she had the energy to respond. She had lost her baby two months ago, yet he was fussing over paleness and lack of sleep. What could he possibly expect? But she did not have either the interest or the energy to involve herself in such a discussion.

  But Kenneth did not let the matter drop. “If I make an appointment, will you go see him?”

  “Why?” Kyle’s voice sounded empty even to her own ears.

  “Because I’m not certain you’re as fine as you keep saying. You’re pale. You’re losing weight. Your hands are cold. You have no appetite. What more do you need to convince you that—”

  “What could a doctor do?”

  “Well, at least let him see you, then maybe . . .” He trailed off uncertainly. “Maybe a tonic,” he finished lamely.

  Kyle tossed her napkin on the table and pushed herself to her feet. A tonic is not what I need, she wanted to scream at him. My baby is.

  But she did not say the words. Instead she looked coolly down at her husband and spoke in an even, controlled tone. “I have a bit of a headache. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll take a tablet and lie down.”

  “Kyle—” Kenneth rose to his feet and started to reach for her, but she turned swiftly away. Her last brief glance at his face caught his deep pain at her rejection, his frustration that he could not help her. But she did not stop. She could not help him any more than she could help herself.

  Abigail sat in the foyer of Chez François, eyes nervously scanning the crowds on the sidewalk outside. The chic restaurant was located just off Embassy Row, and the midday diners were the cream of Washington society. She glanced at her watch once more, aware that the maitre d’ was watching her. It was only because she was a regular that he had held her table this long.

  A couple she knew vaguely entered the restaurant, deep in discussion about a new exhibition at the National Gallery. They halted their conversation long enough to greet her warmly. Just as the maitre d’ led them away to their table, her daughter pushed through the tall double doors. Abigail sprang to her feet. “Kyle, you’re here!”

  Kyle shook the worst of the rain off her coat. “You did invite me.”

  “Yes, well,” Abigail hesitated, then decided not to mention that her daughter was forty-five minutes late for the luncheon appointment, or that Kyle had refused even to confirm whether she would come at all. Only that she would think about it. Abigail watched how she stiffened as the hostess reached to help with her coat, and knew a kiss and a hug would not be welcome. “What with this weather, I was almost unable to get here myself. Come, let’s see if they held our reservation.”

  The restaurant manager was a gentleman of the old school who greeted both lunch and dinner crowds in a white bow tie and tails. He held the oversized luncheon menus like a banner and bowed ceremoniously. “Mrs. Rothmore, how kind of you to join us.”

  “Hello, Raymond. You remember my daughter, Kyle Adams.” Which was a fib, but a small one. Kyle had never come here before, since the society circuit was something Kyle generally avoided.

  Another formal bow. “Mrs. Adams, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Now if you ladies will please step this way.”

  Kyle hesitated at the doorway into the main restaurant. Abigail found herself looking at it through her daughter’s eyes—the glitter and the mahogany and all the polished people making Washington chatter and polite laughter. She reached down and grasped her daughter’s hand, and felt a flash of guilt for all the times she had done so in the past—how she had done so with impatience and demands and antagonism, dragging the sensitive child hither and yon to fulfill her own selfish ambitions. But there was none of that now, only love and concern and a wishing she could give her daughter strength and calm.

  When Kyle gave her fingers a nervous squeeze and started forward, Abigail smiled. Sadly, regretfully, aware of past mistakes. But a smile nonetheless.

  Twice Abigail was stopped on the way to her table by people who wanted to say hello. Kyle tried to hold back, but at the second table a very well-connected lady, whose name Abigail could not recall, gushed, “And who is this lovely young thing here with you?”

  “My daughter,” Abigail said, glancing over in time to see Kyle wince as attention turned her way. It had been a mistake, Abigail decided, inviting Kyle here and trying to draw her out. “Kyle Adams.”

  “Why, Abigail, of course I’ve heard of your lovely daughter. Kyle, I haven’t seen you since you were in crinoline and ribbons. How are you, my dear?”

  Abigail was watching closely enough to actually see it happen. The surprise registered on Kyle with a little start and a blink and a flash of awareness. Abigail felt excitement race up her spine as she realized what had just occurred. Kyle had met someone who did not immediately associate her with a baby who was no more. She was talking to someone who did not probe or offer sympathy or cause her new agony.

  “Fine,” Kyle said tentatively with a nod. “I’m fine.”

  She did not look fine, Abigail knew. She looked hollow. The baby had been gone only three months now, and her daughter’s eyes were encircled by dark shadows. But the woman showed a Washington society lady’s ability to ignore anything and everything; she gave another exuberant smile and said, “My dears, you really must let me invite you over for tea sometime.”

  “We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Kyle?” Because this society matron had drawn Kyle out, even momentarily, Abigail gave her a heartfelt smile. Then she turned and said, “Come along, sweetheart. Raymond is waiting.”

  Kyle seemed to peer out from the depths of her own personal foxhole as Raymond held her chair, tucked the napkin across her lap, then went through the list of the day’s specials. Abigail normally shooed the little man away, but seeing Kyle’s reaction, she engaged him in conversation, making him linger with remarks about this and that. Always with a warm smile for her daughter, trying to show that here Kyle could be safe and public at the same time. Showering her daughter with attention, pretending there was absolutely nothing to the moment beyond the empty conversation that had filled so much of her life. Only now she was desperate to reach her daughter with something, anything that might draw her from the empty darkness there behind her gaze.

  And because it seemed to be working, at least a little, when Raymond finally departed Abigail leaned across the table and said with an enthusiasm she herself had not felt since the funeral, “Do you know what we should do after lunch? Go shopping and buy you a lovely new dress.”

  Kyle’s nod seemed to Abigail like an incredible victory.

  13

  HARRY AND KENNETH HAD TAKEN to walking down by the C&O canal in Georgetown twice a week, threading their way through and around the incredibl
e mixture of people. Young lovers strolled arm in arm, enjoying the soft autumn light and the quiet music of sunsets. Children blew paper boats across the canal’s still water, and Kenneth would often stop to watch them. The smile on his face twisted Harry’s heart, so he could scarcely talk for a while.

  These came to be remarkable times for both of them. They could go for an entire walk without speaking more than a few words. On other occasions they talked so much they would not even notice night’s descent. The unspoken need was for honesty above all else—that and the companionship of friends. Harry found himself planning his weeks around these Tuesday and Thursday walks.

  This evening it was a mixture of long silences broken by disjointed snatches of talk.

  “Joel and Ruthie got back from the Miller farm last night. They went up for the harvest celebration,” Harry was saying. “Only it doesn’t seem like there was much celebrating going on.”

  Kenneth still wore his business suit, as he had come straight from the office. It was warm for mid-October, without a trace of autumn in the air. The August heat had hung on stubbornly, turning the weeks into a long extension of summer. “Times are hard?” he asked, loosening his tie and removing his coat.

  “And getting tougher all the time.” Whatever the subject, Harry loved these walks. It was more than just his growing friendship with Kenneth. Somehow their walks seemed to bring him closer to God. As though he was giving feet and a voice to the Spirit, being there for this good man in his hour of need. “Ruthie says the whole community is going through a bad time. Can hardly get enough for their produce to pay for next year’s planting.”

  “Farm prices are at rock bottom,” Kenneth agreed. “Our agricultural division has been seeing a record number of bankruptcies. You tell the Millers if they ever need a hand to let me know.”

  “I’ll do that, but I don’t think it’ll do much good. They’re a funny lot. Don’t ever borrow. Never been in debt, far as I know.” They walked on together as night gradually dropped its dark blanket into place. “How’re your own folks doing?”

  “Fine,” Kenneth replied, the word more breathed than

  spoken. “They don’t really understand what’s going on. My parents are solid New England stock. They keep wanting to tell Kyle to just get on with her life, as though pushing her forward would solve all our problems.” He shook his head. “We’re not seeing a lot of them right now.”

  It was Harry’s turn to ask, “So how’s my little girl?”

  “Pretty much the same, Harry.” It was standard fare, this question and Kenneth’s reply. Never brought out first thing, yet always asked and dealt with swiftly. Only tonight there was a slight addition. “She’s talking with Abigail about maybe going to church with her one Sunday.”

  “Hey, that’s something.” Harry had to grin. “Who’d have ever thought that it’d be mother taking daughter to church?”

  Kenneth smiled briefly but turned serious again. “Church for Abigail has been nine parts society and one part God.”

  “Don’t be too hard on the old girl, now.”

  “Oh, I know she’s doing wonders for Kyle. They get together every other day or so. And Kyle actually talks now. The problem is, Kyle’s adopting a lot of her mother’s attitudes and actions.” Kenneth looked at the older man. “My becoming a friend of Abigail’s doesn’t mean I’m blind to her faults.”

  But Harry’s mind and heart were snagged by something else. “I didn’t know Kyle was getting out so much. Do you think she might give Martha a call so they could get together and do something?”

  Kenneth stopped and turned to Harry, his forehead creased in sympathy. Harry pressed on. “Martha’s been calling Kyle a couple of times a week. If she manages to get Kyle at all she can’t get a word in before the girl runs her excuse of the day up the flagpole and hangs up. It’s hard on Martha.”

  “I can imagine.” In the distance a group of long-haired kids circled a girl with a guitar. Her strummings carried clearly in the still air. “Harry, I can’t bring that up without causing an argument. And there are too many of those anyway. And even if I did, it wouldn’t do any good.”

  “All she needs—”

  “Look.” Kenneth sighed and started back down the path. “It seems like you and Martha, well, you make her feel too much. Does that make any sense?”

  “I’m not sure.” Harry had trouble sorting through the pain in his heart and hearing what his mind was saying. “Maybe.”

  “Being with Abigail is safe. They get together and they go shopping or they have lunch or they go to one of these charity events. Kyle doesn’t have to feel much of anything. The conversation can be light and easy—you know how Washington society is.”

  “No, but I can imagine. A lot of chrome and polish.”

  “Exactly. Kyle can talk endlessly about nothing more demanding than a new hairstyle or the latest bit of gossip or who’s going to invite us over for dinner.” He jammed his fists deep into his pockets. “That’s our conversation these days at home. If I try to bring up anything else, she gives me this distant look or just gets up and leaves the room.”

  “She’s still trying to cope, Kenneth,” Harry said. But it was hard to get the words out. He missed her. “It’s only been a few months now. She still needs time to mourn her loss.”

  “I’m not sure you’re right about that,” Kenneth replied, a grim note entering his voice. “Her mourning, I mean. I get the impression it’s all locked up somewhere deep inside, and she’s fighting as hard as she can to keep it there.”

  They walked on awhile before Kenneth added, “Our pastor has talked to me several times since the funeral about a visit. He gave me another call yesterday. I told Patrick that Kyle was going to church with Abigail, and he said he was glad to hear it. But he thinks he should stop by.”

  “Can’t be a bad thing,” Harry assured him. “She hasn’t seen him since the funeral, right? It’s bound to be time.”

  “I wish I knew for sure,” Kenneth replied, still doubtful.

  Harry was struck by a sudden thought. “Hey, why don’t you invite Abigail over for supper at our place? You and Kyle, too.”

  Kenneth turned to him. “Are you serious?”

  “Sure, why not? Give Martha a chance to see how our little girl is doing. Or at least hear about her from Abigail.” Harry liked the sudden light in Kenneth’s eyes. “Who knows, maybe Kyle will actually join us. Can’t hurt to try.”

  The pastor’s visit started off even worse than Kenneth had feared. Patrick Langdon had led the church since Kenneth’s arrival in Washington nine years earlier. He was a friend to Kenneth and Kyle both, had married them and helped found Joel’s mission. He had been an integral part of their lives right through the baby’s illness. Seeing him finally seated again in their living room after so long an absence only made the difference between their lives then and now that much clearer—and so much harder to bear.

  And Kyle. She sat at the edge of her seat, the teacup and saucer balanced on her knees. She wore one of her new dresses she always seemed to be buying nowadays with Abigail. It was flashy and modern, with a hemline far too short for Kenneth’s taste. The bold colors did not match the reserved demeanor in her eyes or voice as she asked, “Will you have more tea?”

  “No thank you.” Patrick was one of those ageless men, tall and energetic and boyish. His face remained unlined even as he approached his fiftieth year, and his sandy blond hair did not seem to gray as much as simply become transparent. He had already tried to engage Kyle in several different subjects, but without success. Kenneth could almost feel his frustration as he tried again. “I was down at the mission this morning, Kyle. They’re being overwhelmed. Joel and Ruthie certainly could use your help.”

  She lifted her cup and touched it to her lips. “I’m sure they’re doing fine without me.”

  Patrick leaned forward, his voice gentle but direct. “Perhaps it would do you some good, Kyle.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “You’re sure about
that?”

  “Perhaps it would help you to get out, to reach outside yourself—”

  “I’m out all the time. I couldn’t possibly be much busier.” She made an event of checking her watch. “As a matter of fact, we really will need to cut this short or I’ll be late for another meeting.”

  “Kyle,” the pastor started, then hesitated. He glanced at Kenneth.

  Kenneth returned the glance but said nothing. There was little he could do here. The whole encounter went just as he had feared. He felt himself sitting at a distance, watching them like he would actors on a stage—his friend struggling to offer the love and support Kyle had refused to accept from him or their families or anyone else. Kenneth lowered his gaze and offered a simple prayer to God.

  “Kyle,” Patrick repeated, “there’s an empty place in our hearts—in our church. I would love to—”

  “I have decided it would do me good to attend another church for a while. We’re planning to attend my mother’s church downtown one Sunday very soon.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” The pastor’s tone was warm and genuine. “At this difficult time in your lives, hearing God’s Word and fellowshipping with His family is vital for keeping a strong connection to Him and His love.”

  Kyle’s hands grew agitated, and the cup was nervously set down on the center table. “How kind of you to say so.”

  “Kyle.” Again there was the hesitation, then, “Have you given thought to filling the void in your lives with another child?”

  She was on her feet so fast neither man realized she had actually moved. “I really must be on my way,” she said as if Patrick had not spoken.

  He drew out his own rising, taking enough time to courageously finish his thought. “I have seen this happen before, I am sorry to say. And I also have seen how the grieving can be shortened, how emotions are made whole by having a reason to look forward and not—”