Her Daughter's Dream

by Francine Rivers

  When she got up in the morning, Dad sat at the dining room table. She hesitated and stepped back. Dad glanced at her. “Sit down, Carolyn.” Steeling herself for further judgment and condemnation, Carolyn obeyed. She was only getting what she deserved.

  Dad looked miserable. “We’ll figure things out.”

  Mom sat down with them. “We’ll just carry on as usual. You’ll keep going to work. Dr. Griffith won’t say anything to anyone.”

  “Mom is going to make a few calls, see what she can find out about homes for unwed mothers.”

  It didn’t surprise Carolyn that they would want to get rid of her, but it still hurt. She had deserted them at the worst time in their lives, and now she came back and presented them with more trouble than they ever deserved. What right did she have to expect them to help her through this crisis?

  “It’ll be some time before you show.” Dad could barely get the words out. “At least we can keep it secret for a while.”

  Mom folded her hands on the table, knuckles white. “We don’t have to make all the decisions now.” She searched Carolyn’s face, her own troubled. “Is there anything you want to say, Carolyn?”

  Instinctively, Carolyn covered her womb. Only one thing mattered to her now. “My life is completely . . .” She used a foul expression she had never heard come from either of their lips, but had heard every hour of every day in her other life. “Please don’t take it out on my baby.” She got up and fled to her room.

  * * *

  No one had to tell Thelma Martin the news. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  It wasn’t really a question. She could sniff out gossip faster than a bloodhound could catch the scent of an escaped prisoner. One of her chatty friends had been sitting in Dr. Griffith’s waiting room and saw Mom’s face before they left.

  “I can see the guilt on your face. Your poor parents . . .” False sympathy oozed from her voice. “I’m so sorry about what they must be going through, Carolyn, but we can’t have you working here. Not in your—” her lips pursed—“condition. People would think we approved.” Thelma’s eyes glinted.

  When the telephone rang, Carolyn didn’t answer it, but rather picked up her purse, took her sweater off the back of the chair, and headed for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Thelma demanded, loud enough for the two waiting patients to hear.

  “Home.”

  “Answer the telephone.”

  “You just fired me. You answer it.”

  “I didn’t mean you had to leave today!”

  As Carolyn headed for Charlie’s red Impala, she imagined what Chel might say. Her friend would’ve known how to rock and shock Thelma enough to leave her speechless.

  She drove home, hoping to get into the house and close herself in her room, where she could think, before Mom and Dad heard. Maybe she’d be safe for a few hours before the crap hit the fan. By tomorrow morning, the stench of her life would be all over town.

  Oma called out to her. Carolyn wanted to pretend she didn’t hear. “Carolyn!”

  She stopped and closed her eyes for a second, wondering if Oma had heard the news yet. Why not tell her? She might as well get it over with and have the last member of her immediate family hate her.

  “I’m pregnant. And no, I don’t know who the father is. Mom and Dad wanted to keep it secret. Thelma figured it out. So the cat’s out of bag. I just got fired. So much for Mom and Dad saving face by dumping me in an unwed mothers’ home before the whole town knows.”

  Oma said something in German.

  Dropping to her knees in the gravel driveway, Carolyn sobbed. She felt the sharp pain of stones cutting into her flesh.

  Oma’s strong hands pulled her tight against her. “It’s not the end of the world.”

  * * *

  Mom and Dad sat in silence as they heard the news. Oma told them. Having spent most of the afternoon hugging the porcelain throne, Carolyn barely managed to sit at the table. She didn’t eat, and neither did Mom and Dad after they heard Thelma Martin knew everything. Or thought she did. Carolyn kept her head down. “I’ll find another job.”

  “What’s the point?” Dad threw his napkin on the table. “Who’d hire you now?”

  “That’s a nice thing to say.” Oma sounded disgusted and angry.

  Mom sighed heavily. “Thelma Martin is the biggest gossip in town. It’s bad luck Carolyn ended up working for them.”

  Dad looked at Mom. “Have you been able to find out anything about homes?”

  “I have another idea, but I need a little more time.”

  Carolyn suspected she knew. She didn’t want to add an even bigger sin to all the rest she had committed. “I won’t have an abortion.”

  Mom and Dad stared at her. “We wouldn’t suggest such a thing.” Mom spoke for both of them, but the guilt on their faces told Carolyn they’d already debated that solution. “Just stay home until we can sort this out.”

  Oma left the table, slamming the front door as she went out.

  * * *

  Over the next week, Carolyn watched her parents try to live a normal life. They went to work; Carolyn stayed home. Oma invited Carolyn to ride into town with her while she ran errands, but Carolyn declined. If Mom and Dad didn’t want her showing her face, she wouldn’t.

  When Sunday rolled around, they shocked her by saying they wanted her to come to church with them. “Why?” She couldn’t think of a worse idea. Thelma Martin was one of the deaconesses.

  Mom looked determined. “People know what Thelma Martin is. And there are more people in that church than one nasty gossip.” Clearly, she had a point to make, and it didn’t matter how Carolyn felt. “You’re not staying home.”

  People greeted them. Some gave pitying glances; others seemed embarrassed; most said nothing, just gave a nod and a faint smile. Mom led the way to the same pew they had occupied for years, six rows from the front, where they could see and hear everything. Oma told Carolyn to keep her head up. Rev. Elias stepped to the pulpit and gazed down at Carolyn, and then he looked at the rest of his congregants.

  When the service ended, Carolyn just wanted to escape. Mom and Dad worked their way toward the door, where Rev. Elias stood. Carolyn saw Thelma whispering to several women. Oma stopped and glared at them.

  Carolyn noticed her parents saying a quick, quiet word to Rev. Elias as they reached the door. He nodded grimly, shook Dad’s hand, and patted Mom sympathetically. Oma took Carolyn’s hand and pulled it through her arm. As they came to the door, Rev. Elias smiled at Oma, but ignored Carolyn. When he extended his hand to Oma, she ignored it and walked out the door.

  “I’d like to shoot Thelma Martin.” Mom stared out the window.

  Dad started the ignition. “She’s not saying anything that isn’t true.”

  Mom and Dad went back to town that afternoon. Mom came home red-eyed from crying, but she was more serene than she had been in days. Dad seemed more relaxed, too. “Rev. Elias wants to talk with you, Carolyn. Monday is his day off. He said one o’clock would be convenient.”

  The church door stood ajar when Carolyn arrived. She stepped into the narthex and saw Rev. Elias in his office, writing on a legal pad. Tapping lightly, she waited for permission to enter. After several minutes, he tossed his pen on the desk, sighed heavily, and looked at her. “Come in.” He sounded grim. “Sit down.” Leaning forward, he steepled his fingers. “Your parents and I talked yesterday. Did they tell you?”

  “No, sir.” But she’d known, all the same.

  “We had a long talk. I’ve never seen your father cry. You’ve broken their hearts. Mine, too.” He sat back in his big chair. “I wonder if you have any idea how we feel. I’ve watched you grow up. I had such hopes. They brought you to Sunday school; they brought you to youth group; they’ve done everything possible to rear their daughter as a moral, upright, responsible girl. You’ve disappointed all of us, Carolyn, everyone in the congregation.”

  “I’ve disappointed myself,
sir.”

  “Oh, let’s not play games, shall we?” His tone hardened. “I know what goes on in Haight-Ashbury. I can imagine what you’ve been doing since you took off. ‘Doing your own thing.’ Isn’t that what you call it? And then you came back. I hoped. We all did. I thought maybe you’d repent. But then I saw you sitting in the pew with your eyes closed. You don’t like hearing the truth, do you? You don’t want to listen to the Word of God.”

  “I pray—”

  “Don’t lie to me. I wasn’t born yesterday.” He shook his head, mouth tight. “I confronted you. And you stared at me after that. Open defiance. I can see everything from where I stand. I can see you.”

  Her body grew colder as his tone grew hotter.

  “You can look like a Christian on the outside, but it’s the fruit that shows what you are.” His gaze flickered down, resting pointedly on her abdomen, then back up to stare coldly into her eyes. “You can’t hide now, can you? Everyone will know what you are.”

  She didn’t think it could get worse, but he wasn’t finished.

  “When your brother died, you didn’t even have the decency to come home for his funeral. You didn’t care enough to show him the honor he deserved. You wanted your own way. Now you have to live with the consequences.”

  She bowed her head and cried.

  “You’re sorry now.” Rev. Elias sounded weary. “You have regrets; you feel remorse. But I have yet to hear your confession. I see no evidence of repentance.”

  What kind of evidence did he want? She was about to ask, but one look at his face kept her silent. She didn’t see even a hint of love or compassion in his eyes. He’d been the only pastor she’d ever known, but as she searched for Jesus in his face, she couldn’t find Him.

  The wall clock tick, tick, ticked.

  “Well, Carolyn? Don’t you have anything to say? Or do you think it’s all water under the bridge?”

  What could she say? She had sinned, she was paying, and she’d keep paying as long as she lived.

  Rev. Elias let out an impatient sigh. “Go on then. Have it your way. I’ll pray for your mother and your father, but I won’t pray for you. I’m giving you over to Satan. Let the devil sift you.”

  Carolyn sat in Charlie’s Impala, gripping the steering wheel. She wanted a drink. Not just one, a whole bottle, and it didn’t matter if it was wine or whiskey. She wanted a drink so badly, she shook and broke out in a cold sweat. She wanted a joint. She wanted acid. She wanted oblivion!

  The only thing that stopped her from driving to Hagstrom’s grocery store and buying booze was the child tucked beneath her heart.

  When Carolyn entered the house, Mom stood in the kitchen fixing dinner; Dad stood nearby talking with her. Mom glanced over her shoulder. “Did you have your talk with Rev. Elias?” She sounded hopeful.

  “Yes.”

  Dad’s mouth tightened. “I hope you took everything he said to heart.”

  “I have.” She’d never set foot in a church again.

  Carolyn went into her bedroom and closed the door. She thought she might have some respite, but Dad tapped on her door and said to come out in the living room. They had something to tell her. She went on leaden legs.

  Dad sat, hands gripping the arms of his recliner. Mom spoke, hands clasped in her lap. “We’ve found a place for you to live until the baby comes.” She looked so relieved. “Jasia Boutacoff is an old friend of mine. We went to nurses’ training together. She lives in the San Fernando Valley. I called and told her the situation. She said she’d be happy to have you come and stay with her. She’ll take good care of you, Carolyn.” She actually smiled as though things couldn’t have worked out better. “What do you think?”

  Dad’s face darkened. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. It’s what’s best.”

  Mom covered her anger quickly. “You’ll be much better off with Boots.”

  “Boots?”

  “Jasia’s nickname.”

  Dad’s fingers stopped digging into the arm of his chair. “Charlie’s car is yours now. I had it registered in your name.” Dad glanced at Mom. “Boots gave you directions, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Mom took a map and short note off the side table and held them out. “She said it would be easy to find. Her telephone number is at the bottom.”

  Carolyn took the map and directions in trembling fingers. They didn’t have to say any more. She understood. They couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

  Dear Rosie,

  I thought things might work out between Carolyn and her parents. Trip had softened, and I saw a desire on all sides to bridge the chasm. No matter the circumstances, this baby could have bound them together in love.

  Trip and Hildemara sent Carolyn to Rev. Elias. The poor girl looked like something had broken inside her. She won’t tell me a word of what the man said, but I can guess. I will never set foot in that church again as long as that sanctimonious hypocrite stands in the pulpit!

  If that wasn’t bad enough, this morning I learned Hildemara has sent Carolyn away. She and Trip decided Carolyn would be “better off” in Southern California among strangers than in Paxtown, “where she would be the brunt of cruel gossip.” I asked Hildemara Rose if she cared more about what others think than how their daughter feels. She told me she knew what it felt like to be cast out, but that wasn’t what she was doing to her daughter.

  I am in Yosemite. I needed fresh air. I needed a walk in the mountains. My heart is broken, Rosie. I wanted to make my girl strong, not hard. . . .

  17

  Winds gusted as Carolyn drove over Altamont Pass. Spotting the Speedway sign, she remembered how much Chel had wanted to go to the concert. They’d both been too stoned to make it. Just as well. They missed the Hells Angels, the brawls, the fights and chaos. A steady stream of commuters headed back the way she had come, going west to Hayward and Oakland, maybe even as far as San Francisco.

  August heat made the inside of Charlie’s car feel soupy, even with the windows down. She turned south and kept on, pushing, wanting to speed, and then wondering why she was in such a hurry to get to a stranger’s house. Before long, the Tehachapi Mountains loomed ahead, the Grapevine winding upward like a gray snake half-hidden by the inversion layer of smog and haze.

  By the time she reached the San Fernando Valley, five o’clock traffic clogged the gray macadam arteries. She’d driven in traffic before, but not like this—six lanes, bumper to bumper, cars weaving, nosing in, taillights flashing red, horns honking if you hesitated a few seconds before making your decision. Adrenaline rushed in her veins. She developed a splitting headache. Her fingers ached from clutching the steering wheel. But she made the right exit and got on the right freeway.

  It took forty-five minutes to go eleven miles, but she found her way to Canoga Park. She pulled into a shopping mall and bought her first meal of the day, Kentucky Fried Chicken. She didn’t want to arrive on Jasia Boutacoff’s doorstep hungry and begging for food. She reread the directions while she ate, and she had them memorized before she got back in the car and headed for Topanga Canyon.

  The tan, two-story house with a Spanish red-tile roof stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, desert mountains looming behind. Carolyn parked, opened the trunk, took out her duffel bag, and hefted it onto her shoulder. The landscaping looked professional, trimmed juniper trees between boulders with river-rock ground cover. Two large terra-cotta pots with topiary privets and two Talavera pottery frogs sat on either side of the large mission-style door.

  Carolyn had barely rung the bell when the door opened. “Jasia Boutacoff?”

  “Call me Boots, honey.” The tall, slender woman with gray-streaked black hair smiled warmly. She wore white slacks and a flowing purple tunic with a gold chain belt. “And you’re Carolyn.” She waved her in. “Come on in. It’s hotter than Hades out here.”

  The air-conditioning hit Carolyn like a cold front, but she welcomed it after hours in hundred-degree heat. She smelled something wonderful cooking. The foyer had da
rk hardwood flooring, painted cabinets, Talavera sconces on the walls, and a large, frosted-glass Mexican star hanging from the ceiling. An archway opened into a dining room furnished with a painted country-style wood sunflower sideboard, a wrought-iron chandelier hanging over the painted table, and eight blue chairs.

  “You must be exhausted after that long drive.” She took Carolyn’s bag. “I’ll show you the way to your room. You can freshen up a bit, if you like, and join me in the living room.” She led the way down a corridor without pausing for breath. “You were six months old the last time I saw you. Your dad was changing your diapers.” She laughed. “He gagged. Men are so helpless sometimes.”

  Carolyn caught a glimpse of the huge Southwest-style living room with a curved white fireplace and sliding-glass doors to the backyard. Boots kept talking about Carolyn’s dad and mom as she walked down the hallway and opened a door into a large bedroom, crossing the plush, tan carpeted floor. She put Carolyn’s duffel bag on the end of a four-poster queen-size bed with a crazy quilt. Carolyn took in a Tuscan dresser on one side of the room, marble-topped side tables, a comfortable chair with a stool near the windows, a small table beside it with several books, one a Bible. A watercolor of a field of sunflowers hung on one wall, an Italian coastal town on the opposite.

  Boots opened the big armoire. “You can put things in here, or use the closet.” She opened one of the sliding-mirror doors. A dozen white silk hangers hung on the rod. “You have a private bathroom.” Boots leaned in and flicked on a light, revealing a luxurious white marble bathroom with a big tub, separate shower, and cubby room for the toilet. A thick terry-cloth robe lay over the vanity chair. Mirrors lined the marble counter. Two sinks. Carolyn had never seen anything so gorgeous.