The Still of Night

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “How’s Brett?”

  Shelly tossed a cashew at her. “Brett’s happy.”

  “Well, good. Then I don’t need the reunion.”

  “Why not go for the fun of it? I went to my tenth and had a blast. You wouldn’t believe the guys who were bald already. And the spreading waistlines …”

  “Well, I don’t care who’s bald, and—”

  “Where’s the paper work?” Shelly dropped the cashews back into the bowl and unfolded her legs.

  Jill waved toward her desk, and Shelly sauntered over, then scooped it up along with a pen and returned to her chair. “Let’s see. Name, address. Marital status—single; children—none.”

  Jill flinched. One.

  Shelly wrote as she talked. “Okay, here’s the good part. In fifty words or less, describe your life today and how Wilson High impacted you. Share the good times, the memories, the heartbreaks, and the high points that made you who you are today.”

  Jill felt her chest closing in. The heartbreaks and high points that made

  her who she was …

  “I’m waiting.” Shelly held the pen above the paper.

  Jill scooped Rascal into her arms and nestled him under her chin. “I don’t want to do this now, Shelly.” She settled onto the couch.

  “It’s not that difficult, Jill. Favorite teacher?”

  “Mrs. Vandersol. American lit.”

  “Sports?”

  “Cheerleading and track.”

  Shelly shook her head. “That’s why you and Dan are so good. You’re both physical fitness fiends. Best memory?”

  “Homecoming, senior year.” My first dance with Morgan.

  “Elaborate.” Shelly held the pen poised.

  Morgan in his dove gray tux, her white satin gown, the cluster of lavender roses and baby’s breath she’d worn on her wrist, the white rosebud she had pinned on Morgan’s lapel, the rosebud he’d crushed when he kissed her good-night.

  “And …” Shelly looped the pen in her hand.

  “And nothing.”

  “Well, who’d you go with, for heaven’s sakes?”

  Jill’s throat tightened painfully. “Morgan Spencer. We were nominated king and queen, so he asked me to the dance.”

  “First date?”

  “Yes.” Though the iridescent hues of her dreams had included Morgan Spencer long before that first date.

  “This is good stuff, Jill.”

  Jill reached over and snatched the paper. “I don’t want that written.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “That’s the idea.” Shelly circled her hand in the air.

  Jill folded the paper in her lap. “I’ll write the rest when I’ve thought about it.”

  “Then you’re going?”

  “Maybe.”

  Shelly arched her eyebrows and curled her fingers into claws. “I vant a promise.”

  Jill laughed. “All right, I’ll go. But I’m not filling up this page with mushy stuff no one cares about. I’ll say how Mrs. Vandersol instilled a love for teaching that I’ve carried with me into my work.”

  “Oh blah-de-blah-de-blah.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’ll get into the spirit when you get there. Let’s see … it’s next week? You’re way overdue for sending in to the memory book.”

  “Rats.” Jill clicked her fingers.

  “You do not have the right attitude, girl.”

  Jill smiled. “Well, I’m a little short of attitude these days.”

  Shelly stood. “I have to run. Brett does expect to eat, even on the weekends, if you can believe it. Here.” She scooped up the rest of the envelopes. “Read your mail.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jill walked her out the door, gave her a squeeze. “Thanks for the lollipop.” Though she probably would never finish it. As Shelly said, they must have removed her sweet tooth with her wisdom teeth. She turned back inside, flipping through the envelopes that had accumulated while she battled the past week. Her hand froze on the creamy stationery envelope near the bottom. Her breath came in disjointed jerks as she stared at the name on the return label. Benson. She closed her eyes and forced her diaphragm to form three deep breaths.

  Roger and Cinda Benson. Parents of Kelsey Renée Benson. She had thought it a nice name when they told her. But she had dreamed so many times since that it could have been Kelsey Runyan.

  Jill stared at the envelope, the neat rounded script. Her name and address penned by Kelsey’s … mother. She slit open the flap and took out the letter inside. Her hands shook as she unfolded the single sheet.

  Dear Jill,

  No, she didn’t want to read it. Why would they contact her? Did Kelsey … was she old enough to wonder about her birth mom, to want to know, to meet her? The Bensons had been very clear about that in the somewhat unorthodox adoption her aunt had handled. While they knew each other’s names, there would be no contact until Kelsey was of legal age, and then only if the child initiated it. Jill had been a child herself when she agreed. She dropped to the kitchen chair and pressed the letter flat on her knee.

  Dear Jill,

  I’m sure you realize we would not contact you lightly. Please sit down before you read on.

  Jill’s heart lurched. Something was wrong, so wrong Cinda asked her to sit down, proper procedure when delivering terrible news. She knew that from Dan and Brett. Kelsey. Her child …

  This is not easy to share, but four years ago Kelsey contracted acute lymphocytic leukemia.

  Jill watched the words blur. Leukemia. Four years. Four years ago, and she never knew. She blinked her eyes clear and forced them to focus. Had Kelsey died and they were only now telling her the fact?

  She responded well to treatment and attained remission …

  No, Kelsey was alive.

  … until three months ago when the cancer recurred.

  Cancer recurred. Those words must be Cinda’s worst nightmare. Thinking of the other woman’s pain cleared her own head. After all, it was Cinda who had loved and nurtured Kelsey all these years, Cinda who had lived the last four in fear … and it was her terror now unfolding.

  So why did it hurt so much to read those words? This was the child she’d given away. Jill straightened in the chair. She had given up her right to know her, to be part of her daughter’s life. What then? What did they want?

  Since her relapse, the leukemia is particularly tenacious. The specialist in charge of her case recommends a bone marrow transplant. If Kelsey has siblings, that would be the best possibility for a match.

  Siblings. No, there were no siblings. Kelsey was her only child, her only one.

  If not, we are hoping you …

  Jill felt suddenly weak. Oh my God. They want me. Her heart leaped and plummeted in the same moment. She would see her daughter! But her daughter was dying.

  Everything paled compared to that. No, not everything. She was being given a chance. There was more she could give her child, more than life alone. Actually, it was like giving her life again. If her bone marrow arrested the disease, cured Kelsey …

  Jill breathed quickly, too many emotions warring inside. She pored over the rest of the letter. How long had it sat there on her table? Three, no, four days. Had the Bensons been waiting fearfully that whole time? She walked to the living room and dialed the number at the bottom of the page without another thought. After all, what other choice was there? “Yes, hello. This is Jill Runyan.” Her pulse thumped in her throat.

  “Oh, thank God.” Cinda caught her voice in a quick half sob. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, please. It’s all right.”

  A pause, then, “Thank you for calling. You must have received our letter.”

  “I just read it. I’m sorry I didn’t get it sooner.”

  “Jill … may I call you Jill?”

  “Of course.”

  Cinda drew a thick breath. “I know this is very abrupt and you may not have had time to think through it a
ll, but we’re close to a second remission, and the sooner we go forward, the better the chance for success.”

  “Yes, of course. But I don’t know anything about this. What do I do?”

  “I’ll explain everything involved. If you’d like, we could get together.”

  And Kelsey, too? “That would be fine.”

  “Would you be able to come here? To Des Moines? It’s hard for me to leave right now.”

  “Of course. When?” Jill glanced at her calendar, but in truth, nothing on there mattered at the moment.

  “Tomorrow afternoon?”

  They arranged a time and Jill wrote down directions to the Bensons’ house. By the time she hung up, she was shaking like one of the motorized balls she used to stimulate kinesthetic learning. Fifteen years and she was going to see Kelsey.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Jill sat down in the lavender vinyl chair and lifted her wet hair while Crystal arranged the nylon drape over her. Crystal ran her fingernails over Jill’s scalp and drew the hair out from her head to its full length. “What do you want?”

  “A change.”

  “Radical?”

  “Well, nothing spiked or shaved.”

  Crystal laughed and scratched the ear that held six rings and a clip. Her own hair stood in two-inch spikes at the top and hugged her head like a female crew cut, then reverted to spikes at the back of her neck. “No, I don’t think you’re ready for that yet. But I do think you could consider short.”

  “How short?” Jill was starting to worry.

  “Something playful. Something with attitude.”

  Jill smiled. “I’ve been hearing I need that.”

  “Trust me?”

  The nerves shot up her spine, and she hissed a quick breath between clenched teeth. “Sure.” She held that face as Crystal took up a strand and brought the scissors to within four inches of her head, then caught her breath and closed her eyes with the snip.

  “Now I have to match the rest.”

  Jill nodded mutely. She’d kept her appointment, hoping a new look might bolster her for the real purpose of her day, and to fill the time until she could go to Des Moines.

  “You see the way your bones go here?” Crystal traced her cheekbones with a long-nailed fingertip. “The long, straight hair was ruining that line. And here.” Crystal touched the corner of her jaw. “This angle was lost altogether. But you are going to love what I do to you.” Jill straightened bravely. “Then do away.” She watched the hair fall in long strands. She could sell it like the woman in O. Henry’s “Gift of the Magi.” Then she thought of all the combs and barrettes and scrunchies she wouldn’t need anymore. Oh boy.

  Maybe it wasn’t a good day for change, not when her whole reality had been inverted by a letter. Suddenly Kelsey wasn’t just a memory or a dream. She was real, and she was sick. Jill closed her eyes as Crystal worked. What was she doing worrying about a haircut when Kelsey’s thoughts must encompass life and death? It wasn’t real yet. That was the problem. Talking to Cinda, making their plans … it hadn’t penetrated somehow.

  It would today, though, and maybe intrinsically she needed something as frivolous as a haircut to ground her. Jill opened her eyes and watched. Crystal was wasted on the little corner shop. She was truly gifted and had an eye to match a face with a style that brought out the best in both. Jill stared at her reflection. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.”

  “I look …”

  “Fabulous. All you needed was a little pizzazz.”

  Jill shook her head. It felt strange, but she loved it. She looked confident and saucy and elegant at the same time. She faced Crystal. “You are a pro.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean, really. You have a gift.”

  Crystal laughed and rubbed her fingernails on her cape. “Got the touch, baby.”

  Walking out to her car, Jill was struck by the airy breeze in her hair. It felt light and feathery, the thick, soft strands tossing about …with an attitude. She drew a long breath, ready to face anything. After all, she was the one who could help. Finally.

  Cinda had said they kept Sunday afternoons free. Jill got into the car. She had an hour-and-a-half drive to Des Moines to prepare herself. Emotions surged. She would meet her daughter, though she had sensed Cinda’s discomfort. And she didn’t blame her. The woman had enough to deal with worrying about Kelsey. Of course she must feel protective. She probably wished there was another way without involving Kelsey’s birth mom. Jill’s insides roiled. This was her chance.

  She contained a surge of tension. How would it be to see her now? How would she look? Surely not the way she imagined her, healthy and rosy and happy. What if she looked … Jill shook her head. But it wouldn’t matter how Kelsey looked, she was so starved for one glimpse.Oh, Lord, give me strength. Let me do the right things, say the right things.

  Cinda’s directions were clear and easy to follow. Jill found the house and parked at the curb. Pulling into the driveway would be too much like coming home. This was not her home. This was not her child. She had to be careful, to remember what was real. Cinda and Roger were Kelsey’s parents. But now the girl would know she had another. She walked to the door, bolstered by the thought.

  Cinda pulled it open almost immediately. She was heavier than she’d been the one time they’d met fourteen years and ten months ago, and her brown hair was flecked with silver. Her smile was strained but warm. “Hello, Jill. Thank you for coming.”

  Jill’s throat was too tight for words. This was not going to be easy. She smiled and followed Cinda inside. The small house was a farmhouse style, probably built in the fifties. Wood floors, lots of windows. Cinda pushed open the back screen door and motioned for her to sit on the floral-patterned patio chair. “I thought we’d chat a bit out here, okay?”

  “Okay.” Jill cleared her throat, glancing about the backyard with a swing in the trees, a small garden along the fence, a cornfield beyond.

  Cinda said, “I know this is hard for you. I can only imagine how hard.”

  “It’s hard for both of us. But I’m so thankful you wrote.” And she was, even if that letter had thrown her emotions into a whirlwind.

  “I would have called, but I couldn’t find your number.”

  “It’s unlisted.” But she had already given it to Cinda when she responded to the letter. Now she was only a phone call away from any news.

  Cinda sat on the edge of the chaise. “I would have preferred to give you that kind of information … well, a letter seemed so impersonal. I was afraid you wouldn’t respond.”

  Jill shook her head. “How could I not?”

  Cinda looked weary, drained. “You’ve gone on with your life. I thought maybe you wouldn’t—or couldn’t …”

  “Please.” Jill leaned forward and touched her hand. “I’ll do anything I can.”

  Tears sprang to Cinda’s eyes, and she sniffed. “I swore I wouldn’t do this.”

  “I understand.” More than she knew.

  Cinda brushed the tears with the back of her hand. “She’s just so sick.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jill pressed the fingers she held, sensing Cinda’s distress and the small reserves of strength that held it in check. What fear must she wake to every day?

  “They weren’t sure they could achieve a new remission. It’s taken three months to get this close, and they’re not sure how long it will last. A bone marrow transplant is her only chance for survival, ten to thirty percent statistically.”

  Jill couldn’t stop the reaction to that bleak figure.

  “I know,” Cinda said, “but without it, the numbers are zero to five percent. Not that we don’t believe she can beat the odds. She’s a fighter.” Cinda shook her head, then sighed. “It’s just that she’s already been through so much, things a child should never have to face. But the Lord is good, and He knows best.”

  Jill nodded. It took a deep abiding faith to believe that in a time like this. Or did sh
e say the words to convince herself?

  Cinda straightened, drew a long breath, and gained control. “You need to know Roger and I thought it would be better not to tell her, yet, who you are.”

  Jill’s spirit deflated like a pin-punctured balloon.

  “Kelsey knows she’s adopted, but the doctor agreed that now might not be the best time for her to deal with any more than she has to. She’s very fragile.”

  Of course that made sense. The sudden anger and hurt were illogical, selfish, wrong. The most important thing was getting Kelsey through this. But how could she meet her daughter and not … not what? Take her in her arms and say she was her mommy?

  She wasn’t her mommy. And Kelsey had grown past that stage. She was an adolescent, though Jill never imagined her that way. At any rate, she saw the protective fear in Cinda’s brown eyes. “What do we tell her?”

  “We told her you are a donor who shows a promising match. We know you will, because she’s inherited at least one complete haplotype from … I’m sorry, these medical terms have become a daily part of my vocabulary.”

  “That’s all right. Just explain it.”

  “Antigens on the lymphocytes are inherited in groups called haplotypes. In the past, transplants have only been possible with a full sixsix antigen match or, at worst, one antigen off. So a sibling is the best chance. Even then it’s only one in four that another child would inherit the same combination as Kelsey. We didn’t expect that possibility, though I had to ask in my letter.” Cinda seemed to calm as she spoke, as though focusing on the clinical facts siphoned the emotion.

  “But we’ve found an oncologist who transplants with a single haplotype match using a related donor. There are surface factors they don’t completely understand that make a family member a better match.”

  Jill nodded.

  “When you have the first blood drawn, they’ll do a test that will confirm a match of one haplotype, three antigens. With your genetic connection, that much is assured. If we’re very blessed, there may be more.”

  Jill’s head spun, not from the medical terms, but from thinking of her genetics connecting her to Kelsey, the child she had formed inside her body. She was very aware of Cinda’s choice of words. Her genetic connection. Lord, help me. How could she not show it? Not betray her motherhood to the child?