Where Hope Begins

by Catherine West

  “Uh . . . hmm.” Mitch scratches his jaw. “Wonder where Brock put that rifle of his . . .”

  Maysie sighs and pats my hand. “They went to Daddy’s library. To talk. I heard Daddy say he had something he wanted to ask Mr. Kevin.”

  And I can’t imagine for the life of me what that might be.

  Clarice shuffles around watering her plants, talking to them, and humming that familiar tune. The walls fairly sing with it. The setting sun catches my eye and pulls my gaze toward the window. And I see her again, the same little girl with the blond curls, running across the lawn.

  Dear Lord, this place is making me insane.

  Maysie’s breath hitches a little and I look back at her, and she smiles wide.

  Words aren’t needed.

  Kevin appears some time later, somber yet oddly peaceful. He crouches before us, settles his gaze on Maysie, and smiles. I’ve seen that smile before. A lifetime ago.

  It’s the way he used to look at Shelby.

  “Your daddy wants to talk to you, sweetheart.” He glances up at me and arches a brow. His eyes are wet as he puts a hand over mine. “He asked for you to go too.”

  Maysie and I walk with quiet, reluctant steps toward the library. She holds tight to my hand and gives it a little squeeze every now and then. I think she knows what’s coming. I wish I didn’t.

  Brock is stretched out on the couch at the far end of the room, but he struggles to sit as we approach. Maysie skips over to him and snuggles into the crook of his arm. He lifts his chin and gives me a weak smile. I back off but he shakes his head and indicates a nearby chair. “Stay.”

  It’s the last thing I want to do.

  But somehow I lower myself into the chair, let out my breath, and watch him pull his daughter onto his lap. He runs his hands over her hair, tweaks her nose, and leans in for a kiss.

  “You know how much I love you, right, Mays?”

  “To the moon and back?”

  “More.”

  “To infinity and beyond?”

  “More.”

  “Forever and ever and ever?” She gives a little giggle and his face cracks in a broken smile.

  “And even more than that.” Brock sighs and strokes her hair again. “You know Daddy’s sick, Mays.”

  “Uh-huh. Your head’s ’bout to esplode.”

  “Yeah. That’s about how it feels.” He sniffs back tears and I’m already done. “But there’s this doctor, in New York . . . who thinks he might be able to fix me. So I’m going to go there and see if he can.”

  “Really?” I hear the hope in her voice and choke back a sob. “But . . .” She sniffs too and runs a finger down his face. “What if he can’t?”

  “If he can’t . . .” Brock leans back against the cushions on the couch, then lifts his head and somehow smiles. “Then I get to go to heaven, Mays.”

  “Will you see my mama?”

  “Sure.”

  “But you won’t be able to come back home.” She hiccups a bit. “Will you?”

  “No. I won’t be able to come back.” His jaw clenches as he meets my eyes over the top of her little head. “Oh, Mays. I’m so sorry, baby.” He exhales a hoarse cry and wraps her trembling frame up tight against him. Maysie’s heartbroken sobs soak up all the air in the room.

  I take a slow walk around in search of tissues, grab a handful, and then sit next to Brock on the couch.

  When Maysie finally sits up, I wipe her eyes. Then she wipes mine.

  And then she takes a fresh tissue and wipes her father’s cheeks. “What are we supposta do without you, Daddy?”

  “Well. You . . .” He rubs her back in slow motion, presses his forehead to hers. “You remember all the fun times we had. How we played and laughed and told silly stories. Remember when we went to Disney World. And the time you figured out it was really Uncle Mitch dressed up as Santa on Christmas Day, and you pulled off his beard and he was so startled, then we laughed and laughed. You’ll have those memories forever, Miss Maysie. And so will I.”

  “But what if I don’t want you to leave? What about me? Will I get another mommy and daddy?”

  Brock turns his head until his eyes meet mine.

  And in that moment, I know.

  I raise a trembling hand to his cheek. He covers my hand with his, looks back at Maysie, and gives a slow nod. “God’s taken care of that, sweet girl. You’re going to be just fine.”

  Zoe and Adam leave early Sunday morning. She’ll drop him back at school, then head to Princeton. I’m sorry to see them go, but I’m glad they were here. It did my heart good.

  Brock, Mitch, and Clarice leave for New York later this afternoon.

  It’s surprisingly warm for early March, and after a lunch of roast beef with all the trimmings and Clarice’s famous English sherry trifle, Brock says he wants to go to the greenhouse.

  Mitch stares at me across the table and I know what he’s thinking. His brother’s brain has finally succumbed to the incredible pain he’s been battling these last few weeks. I clench my fists in my lap and look away.

  “What a wonderful idea!” Clarice cries, already on her feet.

  Maysie is just as enthusiastic, but Kevin grabs my hand as we get up from the table and gives me a questioning look.

  “Just go with it.” I’m beyond the brink of normal exhaustion now, both longing for and dreading the hour they leave, the moment Kevin and I will take charge of Maysie.

  We make a motley crew as we shuffle through the house, Kevin and Mitch on either side of Brock, supporting him, Clarice marching along with her walking stick, and Willow ambling beside her. Maysie skips around us like we’re going to a Fourth of July parade and the two puppies tumble over one another with yips and tiny barks that make me smile despite the overwhelming sadness suffocating my heart.

  Clarice pushes open the glass door that connects the kitchen to the greenhouse and hot, perfumed air hits my face. She steps inside and I hear her happy sigh.

  Kevin and Mitch half carry Brock in and I follow after Maysie.

  I knew it would be this way.

  The long room is more beautiful than I have ever seen it, dripping with moisture and hope and promises in full bloom, bright flowers and lush green plants at every turn, just the way it was when I first stepped foot in here so many weeks ago.

  “You guys did all this? In winter?” Mitch has his lawyer face on as he stares first at me, then at his aunt, his expression one of utter amazement and definite disbelief. Clarice and I exchange a knowing look. For all our efforts, somehow we sensed the task was beyond us. The real gift was the challenge of our faith. The challenge to see past the improbable likelihood of anything growing in here again.

  To push aside what the world would deem impossible and hold out for the miracle.

  “No, Matlock.” I bend down and pluck a red hibiscus from an overcrowded bush. “We didn’t do any of this.”

  Laughter tickles my throat and I share Brock’s smile as they lower him onto a nearby bench.

  “Butterflies!” Maysie gives a squeak of delight and goes chasing after them, her patent leather shoes crunching on pristine white gravel, colliding with her giggles.

  Mitch sits next to Brock and drapes an arm around his shoulder. They wear identical grins that make my eyes water. Clarice nods her satisfaction, takes a seat on Brock’s other side, and loops her arm through his.

  Kevin stands behind me and pulls me against him. “‘Have I gone mad?’” he whispers.

  I laugh quietly, grab hold of his hands, and finish the Alice quote. “‘I’m afraid so. You’re entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.’”

  “What am I seeing?” He’s serious now. “How is this possible?” He’s more astounded than I was that first day I walked in here and saw the beauty in the brokenness.

  “Oh, Kev.” I lean into him with a smile, inhale the heady scent of jasmine, watch the shiny blue butterflies, and let the tears trail down my cheeks. “You’re seeing everythi
ng we don’t deserve, but somehow get. It’s the miracle of faith. Grace. And hope.” I tip my face toward his and catch the wonder in his eyes. “Isn’t it glorious?”

  “It is indeed.” Kevin smiles and looks at me a long time. And then my husband nods, pulls me closer, and kisses me.

  EPILOGUE

  “Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.”

  —JOHN MILTON

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  Some days it’s hard to believe my heart was in so much turmoil this time last year.

  We have been greatly blessed.

  The package arrives for Maysie on the exact day Mitch said it would. We don’t see much of him, but he calls on Skype once a week, and the two of them talk for as long as I’ll let them, which usually means Maysie stays up past bedtime. He always manages to have her in stitches of laughter before the conversation is finished.

  Last time he visited he brought along a nice young woman. A state prosecutor, around his age, never married, no kids. I’m sure their dinner conversations are more than interesting. I wouldn’t put money on it, but I have a feeling Mitchell Chandler might actually grow up one of these days.

  Our new house in the Berkshires is modest compared to the one we sold in Boston, seven months ago. But when I walk through the rambling rooms with their warm wood paneling and brightly colored walls and stacks of books in practically every corner, I’ve never felt more at home. Or more at peace.

  We’re not far from my parents’ lake house, and Clarice trundles down the driveway in her clanking Chevrolet every day for tea, promptly at 4:00 p.m., laden with baked goods and flowers. Always flowers.

  Maysie has settled in at the local school and is of course excelling in nearly every subject, but especially in English. Her teacher tells us she’s going to make a fine writer one day.

  I knew that already.

  The adoption will be final next week, just before New Year’s. And then we’re all flying to Orlando, to Disney World, as a family. Maysie will legally be ours. We’ve asked her if she wants to keep Brock’s surname, and in the end she decided she would like to be called Maysie Chandler-Barrington.

  Because it sounds like poetry.

  Kevin spends his days at the bookstore in town.

  Hearing Brock had gone into cardiac arrest on the operating table wasn’t the shock it should have been. In a way, I think he’d prepared me for it. I think he was prepared for it. And so, when Mitch sat down with us at some point during the devastating days that followed, I knew what was coming. Knew that Brock had asked Kevin if we would become Maysie’s legal guardians, adopt her. What I wasn’t expecting was the bookstore.

  Brock bought the place before he left for New York and put the deed in our names. All we had to do was decide what improvements and changes to make, turn the key, and let the construction crew in to work their magic. We planned everything in great detail, down to the exact position of the coffee counter and Brock’s portrait on the wall above it. Kevin calls it the dartboard, but he hasn’t thrown anything at it yet.

  Brock only asked that we use the name he picked. And he chose quite well, I think.

  Second Chances.

  We smile each time we walk beneath the sign.

  “Hallooo, anybody home?” Kevin gives his usual greeting and shakes snow off his hair as he enters the living room late that afternoon, brown paper parcel in hand. Maysie hops up from her position on the floor where she’s been playing with Hope and Watson. Adam and Zoe are running last-minute errands, and she was miffed that she had to stay home. But she never stays mad for long.

  She runs to Kevin, and he scoops her under one arm and spins her in a wide circle. “Well, if it isn’t the most beautiful girl in the world!” He props her up and she smacks a kiss on his cheek. Our two dogs, puppies no more, jump around them, eager for attention as well.

  “Don’t forget Mommy.”

  “Oh no, I would never do that.” He sends me a wink and shrugs out of his coat while Maysie makes short work of opening the package.

  A book and two envelopes slip out, one addressed to her and one for me.

  And there’s a DVD.

  Maysie checks out the book, grins, and hands that to me as well.

  She sits cross-legged on the floor and reads her letter in silence. “It’s from my daddy,” she whispers, looking up through wonderfilled, teary eyes.

  Kevin crouches by the TV and fiddles with the DVD player for longer than he needs to, and I know he’s giving me time. So I look down at the book and smile when I read the title.

  A NOVEL

  by B.J. Chandler

  With shaking hands, I slide open the envelope, take out one thin, crème-colored page, and blink down at Brock’s loopy handwriting.

  Hey, darlin’ (just for old time’s sake).

  So . . . if you’re reading this, I suppose it’s the end of the road for me.

  But I’ll never forget the day it began.

  Thank you for your light, your laughter, and your love.

  You were a gift I never expected.

  And I’ll say it now, because you won’t have to say it back.

  I love you, Savannah.

  Always,

  Brock

  “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”—Joseph Campbell

  I nod, breathe deeply, fold the letter, place it in the pocket of my sweater, and smile at Kevin as he lowers himself beside me and we wait for Maysie to finish.

  “We can watch it now.” She pushes her blond hair back, then plops in between us. The screen flickers and then Brock’s face is grinning at us. My heart clenches and Kevin tightens his grip on my shoulder.

  “Hey, y’all.” His smile is just as I remember it and I’m already crying.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Maysie breathes, then looks up at us with a little grin.

  “Hey, Savannah.” Brock sits back and smiles real slow. I shake my head and press back tears, joyous laughter inching up just the same. He quirks a brow and gives the camera a knowing look. “Kevin. I trust you’re behaving yourself.”

  “Dude.” Kevin sighs and chokes up a bit, and I catch him wiping the back of his hand across his face.

  Brock talks for a few minutes, mainly to Maysie. Tells her how much he loves her, hopes everything is going great . . . I won’t remember half of what he said, but that’s okay because I know we’ll watch it again. And again.

  “Well, I guess that’s it.” Brock adjusts the Braves cap on his head and stares at us for a long, heartbreakingly silent moment. “I love you. And I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “See you when I see you,” Maysie says softly.

  And the three of us sit there, unable to move, unwilling to give up this astounding gift we’ve been given too soon.

  Then Kevin sits forward and squeezes my leg. “Savannah . . . do you . . . see . . .”

  I blink tears and focus on the screen again. The room gets very warm. And then I see her. Sitting on the couch behind Brock, her nose in a book, as it so often was.

  How I wish I could see the title of that book. But I don’t really need to.

  Whether what we’re seeing is real or imagined is of little consequence.

  In this moment, it is our gift.

  She looks up, right before he says good-bye, and smiles.

  The most beautiful smile I have ever seen.

  One I thought I’d never see on this earth again.

  The screen goes black and we both sit back. Kevin and I stare at each other in wonder. Chill bumps crawl up my arms and I steady my ragged breathing. Kevin takes my trembling hand in his and kisses it, his other hand resting on Maysie’s head. “You okay, kiddo?”

  “Uh-huh.” She leans into his chest with a satisfied sigh. “Didja see my angel?”

  Kevin and I lock eyes. But then he nods, smiling through tears. “I th
ink we did.”

  Maysie gives another little sigh and reaches up to play with my hair the way she likes to do when she’s sleepy.

  “She doesn’t come play with me anymore. She has to look after Daddy now. And she told me I have to look after you.” Her smile says this is the coolest thing in the world.

  And I have to agree.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Some final words . . .

  Honestly? I didn’t want to write this book.

  In fact, I almost pushed the idea aside. Except I could see the story playing out like a movie, which doesn’t usually happen until I have a few chapters written. So I figured I better pay attention. And I began to write.

  I believe stories are God-breathed. I ask God to give me the words, to show me the story, and it’s always a collaborative effort. But, as Savannah’s story began to unfold, I had questions. Like, really? Adultery? You really want me to write about this? But even as I questioned, the words flowed. Never have I written a book so quickly and so easily, though I worried about the subject matter. Adultery. The loss of a child. Suicide.

  You can see why I didn’t want to write it, can’t you?

  I wrestled with this story on a soul-searching level, praying for the sensitivity needed to address such tough issues. As always, God was faithful. Unbeknownst to me, while I was writing, two dear friends were dealing with the unimaginable—learning they were no longer loved, no longer wanted, by the person who had promised to love them forever.

  Maybe you know the pain that kind of betrayal brings. As we walked alongside our dear friends on this unexpected journey, I knew our lives would also be forever changed. Sometimes forgiveness seems out of reach, doesn’t it? Impossible. We put up walls of protection. And it becomes harder to believe in happily ever after.

  Here is where I struggled. What kind of ending would I give Savannah?

  Eventually, I knew she would get the ending she deserved, the one we all deserve. But I am mindful that happy endings don’t always happen. If you’re reading this thinking, how nice for her, but that’s not my reality, please know I hear you. And I mourn with you for that loss. But I also pray you find some hope here within these words.