“Yes. All right. Certainly. We will,” they said, without glancing up from the face of the child.
The love they felt in an instant was so deep and profound, I knew it had celestial roots. The bile retreated. I tasted what I imagined manna must have tasted like the very first day.
I never saw the couple again after that, but I suspect their entwined hands tucked the love gift into the envelope that appeared in my mailbox every year on the anniversary of Thomas’s adoption.
Do we really live before we are loved? I ask because I was often tempted to mark a date of birth according to the moment when the child first knew love. For some, like Thomas, it was not his birth date. The real beginning of his life fell on the day an eager couple wrapped him in their arms, intentionally choosing to love him.
Other children born under my roof could mark much sooner the day they began truly living. The day the young mother-to-be touched the bulge of her growing abdomen with the tenderness of a caress. The day she spoke soothing mews to her unborn child to still his or her hiccups. The day she confessed she would sacrifice everything to ensure the little one was cared for.
I’m wrong. Even Thomas was never unloved, not for a moment. I loved him, yes. But before I knew he existed, God did. God saw him and loved him long before his body was fully formed. The child might have been neglected and unwanted by his natural mother. But he was never unloved.
15
Becky—2012
Becky twirled the pink microflashlight in her fingers.
“A baby girl? Monica, I’m so sorry.” The whispered words into Monica’s too quiet living room seemed inadequate at best, acidic at worst.
Monica held her hands pressed together in her lap, her spine rigid, rocking back and forth as if an internal pain took her full focus to control.
“So the baby was . . . far enough along to . . . to tell?”
Monica didn’t respond.
Becky’s veins ran hollow. Vacuous brain cells failed to supply her with words remotely comforting, healing, soothing. So she slipped from her chair and joined Monica on the couch. Mirrored her posture. Put one arm around Monica’s trembling shoulders. Slid into the same rocking rhythm as if they were twin sisters. Silently prayed the only word she could remember, the only word that mattered: Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Oh, Lord Jesus.
Monica made several attempts at conversation. Nothing more than a consonant or two survived.
As the room darkened in response to the lateness of the hour, a single flame from the hurricane centerpiece the only illumination, Becky spoke. “Monica, I don’t know what to say. Nothing’s right. Nothing can match the pain you must feel right now. So I’m going to stop trying. I just need you to know I’m here. I’m here.”
With a wracking breath, Monica turned a few degrees in Becky’s direction. “Brianne . . . Brianne thought she was getting rid of a problem. Simple as that. She says it didn’t occur to her that she was getting rid of my grandchild.”
The word stung. A beautiful word. One of the most emotionally evocative in any language. Nipotina. Petit-enfant. Nieto. Enkel. Child of my heart.
“That’s what got to her,” Monica spoke into the deepening darkness, “what made her confess the truth. That it was, had been, my grandchild. Imagine. She felt . . . she felt bad for me. What will happen the day she realizes you can’t erase a child? The child will . . . it will wake her . . . in . . . the night . . . and call out to her. Like mine does.”
“Yours?”
“My first. Before Brianne. Long before Brianne. Long before I knew I had other choices.”
Becky sniffed, then dug into her sweater pocket for a tissue.
“I wonder. If I’d told Brianne about my experience, would she have realized she had other options, too?” Monica looked into Becky’s eyes then, for the first time since she’d arrived. How many days since Monica had blinked? Or eaten?
“Where is Brianne now?”
“She spends a lot of time anywhere but here.”
Monica stood. Erect. As if letting blood that had too long pooled in her inefficient heart refill her arteries. She walked to the table lamp and lit a small corner of the room. Cozy. Warm. Homey. On any day other than this one.
She wandered, as if uncertain where to land, as tentative as a hummingbird. Becky watched as Monica moved around the room, wiping at invisible dust with her hand, straightening already straight pictures, fingering the chrysanthemums in the autumn centerpiece on the coffee table. “Thank you for this, by the way.”
“Oh. Oh, sure. I thought—”
“I owe you an apology and I—”
“Monica. That’s for another time.”
Her eyes expressed her gratitude. “Can you stay a little longer?”
Becky thought of the mess she’d left at home—Jackson and Lauren and a husband without a job. “As long as you need.”
“I tried to open a can of soup but my hands were shaking so hard, and I couldn’t get the opener to work and . . .” Her words dissolving into tears, Monica turned to head for the kitchen, Becky at her heels.
“What kind?” Becky asked.
“Excuse me?”
“What kind of soup?”
“Clam chowder.”
“My favorite.”
“I know.” Monica seemed relieved to be conversing on an ordinary subject.
“Our go-to comfort soup.”
“Always has been.”
“Okay if I call home and tell them I’m staying for supper?” Becky slipped her cell phone out of her pocket.
“Sure. And tell them . . . tell them thank you.”
“For what?”
Monica leaned against the kitchen island. “For taking care of all the things you usually do so you could take care of me.”
“Monica, we’re in this together.”
“Crackers?”
“Yes, I am.”
Monica’s sideways glance and merest of smiles told Becky her pun was intentional.
“Haven’t heard that term used in a long time. Would you like crackers with your soup?” Becky asked, tentative about the waters of normalcy.
“Yes. Thank you. Middle shelf in the pantry.”
Monica’s butler’s pantry was only one of the things about Monica’s house that Becky had always coveted a little. It was a fabulous historic home with original hardwood floors and exquisite woodwork, including the swooping Gone-With-the-Wind-esque staircase in the front foyer. She loved how the house had been updated over the years, mostly Monica’s genius, to provide her family modern comforts and high-end upgrades without destroying the historical integrity.
Becky’s assessment sang like a voice-over on a home-improvement television program. It was more appreciation than envy, right? She ran her hand over the smooth, cold, granite work counter in the butler’s pantry and thought about the copper-colored stain and hairline knife marks in her counter at home (“People, we HAVE a cutting board!”). She’d joked more than a few times that she’d trade houses with Monica any day. Without saying it aloud, she might have entertained the idea of trading lives within the last year. For brief moments. No more.
Somewhere in her past, something she’d read or heard told her that if we knew the hidden pain of others, we’d never agree to swap problems. We’d opt to keep our own.
Becky reached for the antique tin of oyster crackers and thought about the other adage she’d heard often: no mother can be any happier than her unhappiest child.
And no friend, she thought, can be any happier than her unhappiest friend.
Joy.
Like a blast of flash powder from an explosion, the stenciled words above the arch between Monica’s kitchen and dining room blinded her as she returned with the crackers. The joy of the LORD is your strength. A verse from Nehemiah.
Strength and joy. About as related right now as cement and feathers. She wondered what that phrase did to Monica these days when she read it.
Monica looked up. “Took you long enough.”<
br />
Becky set the cracker tin on the island near the two mugs of soup and two goblets of Welch’s grape juice. “I’m easily distracted.”
Monica’s expression sobered again. “Me too.”
“Grape juice, huh?” Becky swallowed a spoonful of the hot soup.
Monica shook out a handful of oyster crackers and laid them on the edge of the plate on which her mug rested. Then she took one cracker for herself and gave one to Becky. “It felt a little like . . . Communion.”
“That was awkward.” Monica put her mug and spoon into the dishwasher, then reached for Becky’s.
“What? Brianne’s coming home in the middle of communion?”
“Brianne’s ignoring you.”
“She said hi.” Becky added their plates to the lower rack.
With gentleness thick with meaning, Monica put her hand on Becky’s shoulder. “We both owe you a lot more than that.”
Becky patted her hand. “Let’s agree we’ll probably experience more than a few awkward moments before we get through this.”
Monica sighed, a familiar sound. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to act.”
“What’s your instinct?”
“You mean, regarding Brianne?”
“Yes.”
Monica closed the dishwasher and touched the start button. A barely perceptible shoosh told Becky that’s what a dishwasher is supposed to sound like.
“Am I a bad mom if I want to wring her neck?”
Becky chuckled softer than the dishwasher sound.
“And then I want to hold her tight to me and cry with her until there’s no distinguishing which tears are hers and which are mine. But she’s not grieving.”
“How does a teenager grieve, Monica?” Becky caught her sob before it escaped. “I wonder if some of Lauren’s choices are her twisted way of grieving the loss of her brother. Is that possible? How does a teen grieve?”
“Denial. Anger. Depression. That sounds like—”
“Us. It sounds like us, doesn’t it?”
Twin sighs shuddered through the room. Becky swallowed the last of her Communion juice. “I guess I’d better get home.” She set her goblet on the counter next to the sink. “You’ll want to hand wash this, right?”
“How long have you known what it took me forever to admit, Beck?”
“I didn’t know for sure until your message with the flashlight.”
Monica hunched her shoulders and grasped her elbows with each opposite hand. “Not that. The fact that love is sometimes the source of our greatest pain.”
The Trundle house lay as quiet as Monica’s dishwasher when Becky walked through the door from the garage. Where was everyone?
Only the night-light lit the kitchen. She dropped her purse and keys on the counter and headed through the house looking for evidence. Nothing littered the family room. How unusual. Lauren’s bedroom door was closed and a duet of soft snores spoke of two children asleep in that room.
What was that fragrance? Lemon? More specifically, lemon furniture polish. Gil had dusted?
He sat in the wing chair in the corner of their bedroom, the reading light leaning over his shoulder, illuminating the book he held.
Which question should she ask first? What are you reading? You dusted? Or a wrenching Oh, hon, you lost your job?
“I’m glad you waited up for me.” She kicked her shoes off in the general direction of the closet. “Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Me neither. We make a good pair, huh?” He set his book on the end table and beckoned her to his lap.
“I may have gained a few pounds since I last sat on your lap, Gil.”
“So have I.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder and nestled into his neck . . . just like Jackson did when he was tired. Gil’s arms encircling her and his exhales rustling her hair almost made her forget the massive herd of elephants in the room. Hundreds of them. Thundering. Trumpeting. Knocking down mature trees and partially formed dreams.
She’d let a few more exhales pass before—
“Hon, I’m so sorry.” Gil sounded as tired as she was.
“None of this is your fault.”
“No. I mean, I’m sorry. My leg fell asleep. You’re going to have to get up.”
Becky couldn’t help it. The laughter effervesced from some long-bottled container deep inside. She crawled off his lap and slid to the floor at his feet, shaking with the effort of suppressing the noise that could awaken a baby but that also awakened her in a comedic yet tragic way.
Life. Pain and joy. Deep ache and deep laughter. Inexpressible concern and irrepressible gratitude.
And an amazing, honest, unemployed man to share it with.
“I made tea,” Gil said, as if needing to explain the teapot and cups on the tray in his hands.
“Thanks, honey.” Becky accepted the cup from her new perch on the bed, propped by what Gil insisted were too many pillows. Tea weather. The furnace kicked in, its reassuring warmth accompanied by the faint smell of fried dust. Need to clean the vents one of these days. Maybe Gil would now have time to . . . “So, no hope the company will reconsider?”
“It’s a done deal.”
“Any explanation, other than the obvious?”
“From what I hear, this is a last-ditch attempt to stave off bankruptcy.”
“Who else was let go?”
Gil settled against his own collection of pillows and took a sip of his tea before responding. “It might be easier to list who wasn’t.”
“Oh, honey. Now what?”
He set his teacup on the nightstand. “Doesn’t it seem as though we’re asking that question a lot lately?”
“Nice fake smile, Gil. One thing we know: you don’t have a future in the theater.”
“The severance package is . . . ”
“Hefty? Significant? Mind-blowing?”
“Puny, considering all I’ve—all we’ve—sacrificed. But it will help us through the next few months, maybe. We have a little in savings.”
In the space of one day, the size difference between Monica’s house, Monica’s mortgage, and Becky’s and Gil’s flipped value. At a time like this, their modest house, careful spending, and lack of other debt more than made up for the lack of a butler’s pantry and a noiseless dishwasher.
Still . . .
Gil’s odds of finding another job at all in this economy, much less quickly, were slim.
She didn’t need tea as much as she needed his arms around her. Divested of her cup, she snuggled into his chest, her ear against his heartbeat. Steady. Stable. Sure. And a little bit broken.
He smelled newly showered with a lingering hint of lemon. From his dusting. Bless him. The perfect man? No. Perfect for her? Maybe more so than she realized.
“Beck, my peach cobblerness, can we make a pact?”
“I married you, oaf. We’ve already made a pact.”
“About this current crisis. Can we agree not to get consumed by how we’re going to get out of this mess for . . . for three days?”
“Why three?”
His heart beat a drummer’s timekeeping intro before he answered. “Because it’s less than four?”
How humiliated he must feel. Jobless at his age, when finding other employment wasn’t automatic and switching careers carried more risk than a high-risk pregnan—
“I need time to process what happened without the pressure of needing to have an answer right away. Does that make sense?”
“It’s called a gestation period, hon.” She reached up to stroke the curve of his jaw. “And yes, it makes perfect sense.”
She and Monica were themselves only in the first trimester of their shared grief. The nauseous stage. Lauren, Monica, and now Gil. Becky was expecting fraternal triplets. Or troublets.
16
Ivy—1951
Is it true what they say, Anna?”
“What?”
; “That trouble comes in threes?”
Anna raised up on one elbow so Ivy could flip her pillow to the cool side. “Not at all.”
Ivy sighed, unconvinced.
“No,” Anna said, “sometimes they come by the dozens.” Her broad grin confirmed—all her own teeth.
What would Ivy do without Anna in her life? Who would have thought she’d be the one bright spot? Ivy’s baby punched a fist into her kidney to remind her there were two bright spots. The latest airmail letter in her pocket voiced its vote that there were three.
Bright spots come in threes.
“Another love letter?”
Anna must have noticed her fingering the envelope. “Yes.”
“Is he a good man, Ivy?”
Her thoughts traveled thousands of miles to a drooping olive-green tent under a dripping gray sky and a soldier on the edge of a sagging cot, bent over the letters he wrote to her. A faithful man. Serving his country. Planning for their future together. An uninformed uniformed man with unbending love for her because he didn’t know any better. “He’s a good man. More than I deserve.”
“What does he write to you now?”
“Bits about the war. Soldiers stationed there longer than he has been talk about the night raids where the Chinese banged drums and shrieked and blew whistles and pounded on gongs as they attacked.”
“Sounds like a circus.”
“Disorienting, I’m sure. Turns out some of the ruckus was because the Chinese communication systems were so bad that they used the noise to signal their other units about their location and tactics.”
Anna thought for a moment and then said, “Babies must operate under the same system. They make a lot of ruckus because they don’t have the communication skills to say, ‘I could use a new diaper!’ ”
As dear as Anna had become to Ivy, it seemed every subject held a danger zone. Drew, work, war, babies . . .
“Drew said the men work hard to keep their rifles clean and their knives sharp.”
“Oh, dear. Such a necessary evil.”
When the Morning Glory Blooms (9781426770777) Page 14
