Heartache and Hope

by Mary Manners

  Daylin clutched the edge of the counter with her free hand to right herself as she found her voice once again. “I used to run cross-country in high school—the five-K and road races—but that was years ago. I haven’t laced a pair of sneakers since then.”

  “Why in the world not?” Vera’s gaze was heavy with questions.

  “Life got in the way, I suppose.” High school days had given way to a plateful of responsibilities. Daylin’s job as senior editor with Home Spice Magazine meant long days seated at a desk. At home, in the evenings, she managed to squeeze in a bit of freelance editing for whomever needed her services so that one day, God willing, she might manage to afford the new car she needed before her current battle-scarred Honda finally bit the dust. The euphoria gained from her days of running was replaced by something quick, easy, and satisfying—at least in the short term.

  Sweets.

  Lack of exercise and extra calories brought on a bout of perpetual lethargy and pounds that crept up like unwelcome visitors in the night. All too easily it became a habit to collapse on the couch following a long day at work, prop open a pint of Extreme Moose Tracks along with the latest quick-mart paperback and spend an hour or two engrossed in the goings-on of some far-off magical place.

  But she could try running again. Why not? It sure looked like Patrick had kept up the pace, despite his hardships—whatever they might be. She glanced at his photo once more as she drew her lower lip between her teeth and bit down. Judging from the headshot, he hadn’t added so much as an ounce to his frame.

  “Well, I’ll admit life has a way of sidetracking the best of us.” Vera’s voice broke into Daylin’s thoughts, drawing her back. “But there’s no better time to find out what’s left in the tank. You’re much too young—and pretty—to let life derail you.”

  “Maybe so, but for now I should be heading home.”

  “Time enough for that. Looky there.” Vera pointed to the clock whose hands rose toward the ceiling in near-perfect unison, like a couple lost in a slow, sweeping dance. “It’s spot-on midnight. Happy New Year, honey.”

  Honey…there was that word again. It was a term of endearment she’d rarely heard. Daylin’s gaze watered as her eyes filled with tears. “Happy New Year, Vera.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve got yourself a list of those fancy whatta-ya-call-ums…” Vera snapped her fingers, struggling to conjure the elusive word. “…resolutions?”

  “No…not really.” But she should think about getting herself moving again, get her heart rate elevated and shake off the dust. Maybe it was time. Could the brochure be some sort of sign? “I really need to be going now. Take care.”

  “Maybe you’ll drop by again soon, honey? It’s always nice to see a familiar face, and we make the coffee fresh all day.”

  “Maybe I will.” Daylin swallowed a nip of sadness as she tucked the brochure and paperback into her purse. Back in the corner, the young couple leaned into one another, lost in a sweet, celebratory kiss as the aroma of cinnamon swirled with coffee.

  Daylin bit back a wave of melancholy and turned away, affording the happy young pair all the privacy a public diner might provide. She slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder and tugged on a pair of wool mittens. Outside, snow drifted along the boulevard, burying the length of curb and cracks along the sidewalk. As she shoved open the door to the street, she shivered against the cold. The rumble of an engine in the distance signaled a snow plow had begun its journey.

  What type of hardships had Patrick Litton faced? And how had he ended up in Knoxville when they’d attended high school together in Crossville? The thought niggled at Daylin as snowflakes stung her cheeks. Was he alone tonight and wishing he had someone with whom to share the holiday?

  It was a crazy thought. So was the idea of running the marathon—especially in this weather. But there was the option of a half-marathon, as well. She could manage that if she tried hard enough. Couldn’t she?

  Vera had mentioned fundraising for Cystic Fibrosis research. Daylin had heard of the disease, but knew little about it except that it was serious.

  Life-altering. She brushed snow from the car’s side-view mirror and caught her reflection beneath a streetlamp.

  “You’re much too young—and pretty—to let life derail you.”

  Vera’s voice seemed to echo from snowcapped Smoky Mountains that flanked a crisp, moonlit horizon. Daylin swung toward the rounded peaks, searching for her newfound friend.

  You can do it, Daylin.

  Daylin turned back toward the diner. Through the glass she saw Vera weaving her way through the tables, pausing here and there to refill coffee mugs and share a smile.

  Trust me.

  A chill coursed through Daylin as she made quick work of unearthing the car from its film of snow before slipping into the driver’s seat to crank the engine.

  Grrr…rrrr…

  Gears howled and shrieked as the engine struggled to catch. Daylin’s belly clenched with dread.

  “Come on, baby, please.” She patted the ice-cold dash. “You have to start.”

  Another crank of the ignition and, like a stubborn child who finally acquiesced, the engine turned over.

  “Thank God.” Daylin lowered her head, sighing as frigid air swooshed into the cab. She felt like a traitor. She hadn’t spoken to God—really communed with Him—since her high school days, wasn’t even sure she believed in Him anymore. She removed her mittens to blow on numb fingertips. Shivering as the heater labored toward warm, she took the brochure from her purse and switched on the overhead light.

  Dash for the Dream, read the title in bold, black letters. The small print inside mentioned an informational meeting at Dusty’s Diner in two days. An email address to confirm interest was included.

  Daylin gnawed her lower lip as the car’s heater made quick work of the fogged windshield, unveiling a boulevard that shimmered crisply beneath new-fallen snow. The scenery, devoid of footprints and gloppy-gray slush, appeared so fresh and clean that it nearly stole her breath. For a moment, she felt as if she’d been captured within a snow globe to watch the world dance by while she stood on the sidelines.

  A pain shot through her heart, causing her to cry out. She’d spoken to God once already tonight. Why not again? What would it hurt?

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth and then ran her tongue over skin the cold had begun to chap. Her throat tightened, making it difficult to form words. “Please, God, help me find a purpose again. I’m tired of feeling so alone, so lost. I want to do this race. I want to serve others, serve You.”

  The prayer of her heart, raw with painful emotion, came as a complete shock. Daylin cringed as the words reverberated inside the snow-crusted cab. If it was possible for lightning to strike in the dead of winter, surely she’d fry right there in the driver’s seat. Through all her heartache, she’d become convinced there was no God.

  And, even if God did exist, why shouldn’t He turn His back on her pleas?

  Sobbing now, Daylin fished her cellphone from the pocket of her purse with trembling fingers. Without time to second-guess her actions, she typed a quick, shaky message to the inbox noted in the brochure and hit Send.

  There…done. There was no backing out now. Daylin swiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket and tossed the phone back into her purse. She tightened the scarf at her neck like a noose and gritted her teeth against the desire to cave to the darkness.

  No more…no more. Help me, God!

  Tears dripped onto the steering wheel and splattered into Daylin’s lap as the sobs racked her body. Could God still care for her? Could he still hear her pleas?

  Heat fogged the windows as a peace cocooned her. Without a doubt, she knew what she must do. She’d attend the Dash for the Dream meeting, listen to the information Patrick Litton-who-had-suffered-some-hardships presented, and decide where to go from there. She could manage that much, couldn’t she?

  Sorrow parted and a tiny trill of excitement buzzed through
Daylin, chasing away a chill of loneliness. She switched on the wipers, brushing away the last remnants of slush, and shifted into drive. The engine grunted as tires slogged over coated pavement. It would be good to see Patrick again. It had been so long and this chance encounter was a pleasant surprise. Would he remember her?

  2

  Patrick Litton shifted on the couch while movie credits rolled across the muted TV screen. A ghostly blue-gray hue shadowed the otherwise-darkened living room. His arms were numb beneath Aubree’s weight as she snored softly, deep in the throes of slumber, with barely a rattle to give away the fact that she was a CF kid.

  A CF kid…the thought still made Patrick’s breath hitch. Glancing down at Aubree now, he could almost imagine she was a “normal kid”…not one who he knew was sometimes thought of by others as “that CF kid.” The label was easy and seemed to stick, like “that kid with the glasses” or “that kid with the shaggy hair” or “that kid with the gapped teeth.” Except, glasses could be removed, hair could be trimmed, and teeth could be straightened.

  Barring a revolutionary breakthrough in scientific research, CF was for life.

  Not that he hadn’t stopped praying for a miracle. Dash for the Dream stood testament to his unfailing hope for the proverbial pot of gold at the end of a very long rainbow.

  Aubree, blessed with the beauty of her mother, took on the countenance of a tiny angel with blonde curls fanned along her shoulders and puckered dimples that deepened as she smiled through a dream. The thought squeezed Patrick’s heart because he knew good and well that as days turned to weeks, then months and a year, then two, Aubree remembered less and less of her mother. He tried to keep Sandra’s memory alive to Aubree through stories and pictures, but, for Aubree, it was like starting a novel in the middle and never making it through the chapters to the end. If he was completely honest, even for him lately, Sandra’s memory was beginning to blur. Like a photo faded by sunlight, the colors had dimmed, the details subdued. Was it a sign that God, like his mother, was sending the message that it was time to pick up the fractured pieces of his life and move on?

  Patrick thought of a saying Mom often shared, “Most people never really appreciate what they have until it’s gone.” Well, wasn’t that the truth? He counted his blessings as he considered a recent scare. A bout of flu had sent Aubree to the emergency room, worrying him senseless when she’d ultimately been admitted to the hospital for observation. What would have been a bump in the road for a non-CF kid was a major hazard for Aubree. She’d spent more than a week recovering, and the doctor had recommended home-schooling her for the remainder of the winter—perhaps longer—until her body had ample time to recover. Patrick’s mom, a former middle-school teacher, had offered to step in and take on the job. In the weeks that followed, they’d all settled nicely into the routine.

  Patrick smoothed Aubree’s hair and kissed her damp crown. If only Mom could lay off the matchmaking attempts. The dating world was foreign to Patrick as swamp water was to Perrier. Losing Sandra had drained his heart, and he had doubts he’d ever recover. How could he ever truly love another woman? And what was the point? His mom—and God—just had to get onboard with the program and understand that he had no intention to pursue anything of the sort. He and Aubree were a nice little family—at least what was left of a family. The marriage ship had docked for good, as far as he was concerned. His boarding pass had long-since expired and he had no intention of seeking a renewal.

  Besides, he stayed busy with life. There was his store on Market Square and Dash for the Dream, not to mention the daunting task of single-handedly raising Aubree.

  Patrick turned his attention back to his daughter. She’d fallen asleep halfway through the second song of the animated movie, while the princess and her prince-in-disguise still struggled to come to terms with their newfound, awkward love.

  Newfound and awkward were two words with which Patrick had become intimately familiar since Sandra’s death. At thirty-two he’d gone from a content team-player—juggling Aubree’s daily therapy and quarterly check-ups, work, and the inception of Dash for the Dream while also struggling to be the husband Sandra deserved, to awkwardly flying solo in the course of a handful of months. He’d stumbled more than he cared to admit as he struggled to stay focused. There was no point, despite Mom’s meddling, in drawing a woman into the mix. He just didn’t have the time to put into building a proper relationship.

  Nor did he care to entrust his heart to another, ever again.

  “You know, Patrick, some problems can be solved by careful thought or by rearranging our priorities.” His mother’s words drifted over the hum of the TV. “Some can be solved by discussion and good counsel. But some problems can only be solved by prayer. We should make a determined effort to pray, son.”

  He did pray…for Aubree, for his business, for the success of Dash for the Dream. That left little time to pray for much else—especially his own needs.

  Aubree wiggled lazily in his lap, her head lolling against his shoulder as the cellphone tucked into his pocket vibrated with an incoming email message. He reached for it, careful not to wake her, and scrolled through until he located the new message. He was mildly surprised and happy to find the note concerned the upcoming training meeting for Dash for the Dream. Interest for this race had been lighter than usual, most likely due to its unfortunate timing so near the holidays. But, he could still hope for a large, last-minute turn-out.

  Fired up that this particular prayer seemed to be answered, Patrick tapped the phone’s screen, opened the message, and scanned the information that had been submitted with interest.

  Daylin Sullivan, female aged thirty-one, from right here in Knoxville.

  Daylin Sullivan…Patrick read the name once again. It rolled off his tongue. Surely she couldn’t be the same woman he knew from high school. She’d be back in Crossville, married by now, busy with a family and most likely a career. No, this had to be a different Daylin, merely a coincidence in names.

  Yet, Patrick felt somehow drawn. The Daylin he remembered had been a bit mysterious, beautiful with hair like morning sunshine and a contagious laugh—when he was able to get her going. Not an easy task—Daylin was a deep thinker, with her nose buried in a book when she wasn’t working at improving her speed and running form. They’d battled it out at the finish line a time or two while on the cross-country team together. But, back then, he wasn’t as serious and driven to run as she. She was spurred by something deep inside…a need that seemed impossible to fill. He would have liked the time to get to know her better.

  But graduation came too fast, and he’d gone away to college, lost touch with her. Then Sandra had come along, and any thoughts of Daylin had faded.

  Until now.

  Patrick cradled Aubree as he sat up, pressing his back firmly against the couch cushions as he skimmed the message.

  I’ll bet you don’t remember me, but we went to high school together and even ran cross country on the same team.

  Oh, he remembered her. Who could forget that veil of strawberry-blonde hair and the soft tinkle of laughter? She’d always been on the quiet side, difficult to read.

  But she’d come to life once her shoes were laced up. Game on.

  Now, Patrick found her words were heartfelt and not uncommon for someone new to the organization.

  I’ve never run—or even walked—a marathon or half-marathon, but I’ve had some much shorter race experience and I am eager to try. What do I need to bring to the meeting?

  Patrick balanced the phone on one knee as he tapped a reply. Of course I remember you, Daylin. It’s great to hear from you again…a very pleasant surprise. As far as the meeting goes, all you need to bring along is that contagious enthusiasm of yours and a desire to push through the challenge when the going gets tough. I’ll take care of the rest. Looking forward to seeing you again tomorrow…

  Was the meeting really tomorrow? Patrick checked the top of the phone’s screen for the current time. Yep, a
new year had officially dawned—January first had arrived. And he was on his own in this New Year—again. Well, not really on his own—not technically—Aubree was here with him. Yet, suddenly Patrick longed for adult conversation. Something more than silly songs, animated movies, and greasy popcorn.

  He felt an odd little zing of unbridled energy.

  From the fireplace mantel, framed photos gaped at him. Sandra’s eyes were dark, knowing. He swallowed through the disconcerting storm of anticipation laced with a vein of sadness. Suddenly Patrick remembered an offhanded conversation he and Sandra had shared only weeks before her accident.

  “If anything happens to me, Patrick, you have to go on. You deserve happiness, and Aubree deserves a mother to grow up with. Promise me…”

  It was as if she’d somehow sensed what was to come. Reluctantly, and after a great deal of debate, he’d agreed to the vow. Now, Patrick gulped back the knot in his throat and continued tapping out his message.

  …at six-thirty. See you then.

  He hit send and placed the phone on the coffee table as he stood, sheltering Aubree in his arms. He wished he could always protect her this way and from everything that plowed down the winding, twisted path. But knew it wasn’t possible. One monster, the relentless disease attacking her body was stronger and more wily than he. The only way to defeat it was by being proactive with her therapy, medications and regular check-ups.