Matt stood up and dropped his tools back into the belt. “Done.”
“Thank you, Matt. I really appreciate this. Can I get you some lemonade or something?”
“Sure, that would be great.”
“Do you want some lemonade, too, Chris?” Rachel called into the hallway.
From a bedroom, Chris called back, “No, I’m playing now.”
Rachel led the way downstairs and into the kitchen. She gestured toward the old kitchen table and Matt sank into a chair while she grabbed two tall glasses and a pitcher of pink lemonade from the fridge.
“I was going to mention it earlier,” Matt said as he took a seat. He pulled some folded sheets of paper from his back pocket. “I’m doing a fire-safety presentation for a local church. Would you be free to critique me?”
She nodded. “Which evening?”
“Friday.”
That was still several days away, and Rachel did a quick mental tally. She and Aunt Louise had plans to swing by Peace Hills Christian Church on Wednesday. Friday, however, would be free.
“I could arrange for Chris to be with my aunt Friday evening. I don’t see a problem.”
“Thanks.” He shot her a smile. “Do you want a ride?”
“Sure.” She smiled back. “What time should I expect you?”
“Well, the presentation starts at seven, so I’d say about six-thirty.”
Overhead, Chris thumped as he played a game upstairs, and a mild summer breeze wafted through an open window carrying the scent of lilacs. The kitchen tap drip-drip-dripped in a lazy staccato. Even the clock above the kitchen entryway seemed to slow down the seconds in that hazy summer day, slowing down her inner rhythms. Rachel leaned silently forward, refilling his glass with ice-cold lemonade, and she caught his eye with a friendly smile.
“I only have one concern,” Rachel said quietly.
“What’s that?”
“Well, you and I both know that you aren’t planning on being around here too much longer. I haven’t told Chris that because seven-year-olds aren’t very discreet, if you know what I mean.”
“I have an idea.”
“I know I wanted you and Chris to get to know each other, but I don’t want Chris to get hurt.”
“When—if—I leave.”
She nodded. “He’s been through so much lately, and I want him to settle in here. I just don’t want him to get too attached to you and then have him be heartbroken when you move away.”
He nodded. “I get it. So I should keep my distance a bit.”
“Yes and no.” She searched his face, hoping that he understood. “I think his relationship with you is really important. Just be careful. He’s a sensitive boy.”
She didn’t want to offend him, but she knew that if she didn’t protect her son’s little heart, no one else in the world would. He had that combination of strength and fragility that all children had, but right now he was a little more fragile than most.
“Okay,” Matt said with a curt nod. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
Rachel had just complicated things further, and she knew it, but a mother’s job was a pricklier experience than she’d ever appreciated before. His birthday party was coming up, and it was a good opportunity for Chris to start building some bonds with the people who would be staying in his life. Besides, Rachel found herself getting closer and closer to this firefighter, and it would be better for everyone if they could just keep this professional. When Matt eventually left, it would be hard for Chris, and if she could make that goodbye easier, she would. It would probably be better if Matt weren’t invited to this party.
“I thought of another technique you might find helpful,” she suggested, changing the subject. “Since you’re here.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He pulled his page of notes closer. “And, Rachel, I really will be careful with Chris. I don’t want to hurt him, either.”
She smiled her thanks. He understood, and that would make things easier.
* * *
Wednesday arrived, and Rachel and Aunt Louise loaded Chris into the car and headed out to the church. Peace Hills Cemetery had no hills. It was nestled behind the Peace Hills Christian Church just outside town, a steepled church in the middle of a verdant field. All around, the land rolled out flat and empty, except for the distant farms and the slow, passive cows that chewed their cud just past the barbed-wire fence that separated church property from farmland. The old-fashioned church stood along a solitary stretch of highway, a single-story building, the white siding blasted by the weather down to gray boards. Every few years, during the hot summer months, the members would donate time and resources to bring the faded old building back to a gleaming white. During her summer visits to Haggerston in her youth, Rachel and her grandmother had helped in painting the church twice that Rachel could remember.
It seemed right that Grandma Rose rested here in the cemetery behind the church that had been the center of her life.
“Do you remember Grandma Rose?” Rachel asked her son.
Chris surveyed the graveyard and shook his head. “No.”
“Well, you were pretty little when you last saw her. You were about three and a half, I think.”
“And this is hers?” He squatted next to the marble gravestone, engraved with Rose Emmett’s birth and death, followed by a Bible verse.
“This is hers.” Rachel looked down at the grave sadly. “I miss her a lot. She was a great lady. She thought you were a pretty special kid, too, you know.”
Christopher looked to the grave next to hers. “And that’s Grandpa’s?”
“Yes, that’s Grandpa. Well, my grandfather, and your great-grandfather. He died about twenty years ago. And over here...” Rachel led the way through the gravestones to an old, chipped stone. “This is your great-great-grandfather’s gravestone. And next to his is his first wife, Lily. His second wife was buried in a different graveyard with her family.”
“So this is our family?”
“This is a lot of them,” Rachel replied.
“What about Dad?”
“He’s buried in Billings.”
“Shouldn’t he be here, too?”
Rachel sighed. “We buried him where we lived. We did the best we could.”
“They’re not really my family, though,” Chris said. “Not really, right?”
“Of course they’re your family.” Rachel squatted down next to her son. “Why would you say that?”
“Jeremy at school said that my real family didn’t want me. That’s what being adopted means.”
“No, being adopted means that your biological mom gave you to us, to be our son. You’re Christopher Carter, and this is your family. We want you very much.” Her voice quivered, and she looked earnestly into his blue eyes.
“Yeah.” He lacked enthusiasm.
“Sometimes other kids will say things that are pretty dumb,” she said. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Okay.”
This was an old conversation. They’d had it several times already, and she’d hoped that by bringing him to this graveyard, showing him the generations of Emmetts, he might feel more of a connection to the family line.
“Look.” She brushed her hand over the top of a gravestone. “This is your great-great-grandfather’s grave. He was an army pilot. He flew planes.”
The graveyard circled around the side of the building, and Rachel angled her steps in that direction, her son walking along behind her. The high-noon sunlight beat down on their heads and Rachel headed closer to the church for the slim line of shade next to the building.
“What’s over here?” Christopher asked.
“Run ahead and see,” she replied.
Chris picked up his pace
and jogged around the corner. As she walked on, her heart sank heavily. She kept bringing him to places that held her childhood memories, hoping to somehow share the strength that she had found here, only to fall short every time. This church loomed tall and cheerful in her mind, yet for Chris, it seemed to be nothing more than an aged building. The gravestones that had sparked her imagination when she was a girl seemed to remind her own son that he wasn’t biologically linked to the family that rested beneath them.
Lord, he’s my child, but other people keep telling him otherwise. How do I fix this?
As she rounded the corner, she stopped short. Chris stood next to an angel statue, his hand resting on one outstretched wing. Beyond him, Matt Bailey crouched next to a small headstone at the other side of the graveyard. It was situated by the corner of the graveyard fence, a line of lilac bushes sheltering it from the prairie wind. He sat motionless on the balls of his feet, shoulders slumped. He was a big man—well built and solid.
“Who’s that?” Chris whispered.
“Someone who’s come to visit a grave,” she replied softly, not wanting to interrupt Matt’s quiet moment.
Chris was accustomed to graveyard visits. She used to take him quite often to her late husband’s resting place, but he seemed entranced by this figure of solitary grief.
Chris moved in Matt’s direction and Rachel made a swipe for his shoulder to redirect him, but missed. She jogged after the boy and caught his shoulder a few feet behind Matt’s crouched form, tugging Chris back.
“No, Chris,” she whispered. “People need privacy.”
Matt glanced back, mildly surprised to see them.
“Hey, it’s Mr. Bailey!” Chris announced with a grin.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said with an apologetic smile.
“It’s okay.” Matt cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “How are you doing?”
“Not too badly.” A breeze lifted Rachel’s hair and she brushed it away from her face with a bat of her hand. It felt strange to be standing here making conversation, pretending that they weren’t standing in the middle of a graveyard. Graveyards were personal places where people sat with their grief, and no one knew that better than she. Discomfort warmed her cheeks. “I just brought Chris by for a little family history lesson.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Matt said, his voice low.
Chris crouched down in the same spot Matt had occupied only moments ago and examined the small stone with solemn attention.
“Who’s this?” Chris asked, reaching out to reverently touch the flat stone.
“That’s a little girl who died a few years ago.” Matt cleared his throat.
“Is she your little girl?” Chris asked, and Rachel found herself holding her breath, waiting for the reply.
“No. She was...” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “She was a friend.”
“Oh.” Chris pointed across the graveyard. “Our family is just over there.”
Rachel felt a swell of relief at her son’s words our family. Matt’s eyes followed Chris’s pointing finger.
“The graves,” Rachel explained, just in case Matt was expecting to see a group of living Emmetts, and Matt nodded again.
“Matt, I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said quietly. “We’ll give you some privacy.”
“No, no.” Matt shook his head. “I don’t mean to be rude. This...” He looked toward the grave once more. “She died in the Broxton Park Elementary School fire.”
“Oh...” The breath seeped out of her and Rachel looked from Matt to the tiny grave and back again. “You knew her?” she asked cautiously.
“No. Yes.” He sighed. “I tried to save her.”
“Oh, Matt...” Rachel put a hand on his well-muscled forearm. Chris headed back in the direction of his grandparents’ graves, and Rachel dropped her hand. The big man seemed to be shouldering more weight than she could imagine, and his face, chiseled into a granite mask, didn’t hide the pain in his eyes.
“I’d better go with Chris,” she said quietly. “We’ll give you privacy.”
“I wouldn’t mind the company, actually.”
“Do you want to come check out a few generations of Emmetts?” she asked.
“Sure.”
As they walked through the graveyard toward the other side of the church, some chickadees chattered in the bushes, and a hawk circled slowly overhead. A gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers over the sleepy graveyard, and Rachel paused to look up at the stained-glass windows. These were the windows at the back of the church that would appear over the choir stall for parishioners inside, and they depicted an image of the resurrection. The tomb gaped open with the stone rolled back, and a haloed angel stood next to it. Women with heads covered crouched to one side, hands raised in surprise or a symbolic gesture of piety, Rachel wasn’t sure which.
Matt’s gaze was directed away from the old church building, past the graveyard with the protective shrubbery surrounding it, to the expanse of pasture beyond where the grass rippled in the prairie breeze. She caught the restless sadness flickering in those dark eyes, and again, she felt as though the things that comforted her failed to comfort the people with her.
The side door to the church opened, and Aunt Louise poked her head out.
“I need a big strong boy to help me set up some chairs, Chris,” she called cheerily. “And I have some fresh cupcakes for when we’re done...”
Chris looked askance at his mother and she smilingly waved him inside.
Cupcakes could lift any mood for a small boy. She wished it were so easy once they grew up.
* * *
The side door of the church shut with a bang and Matt glanced toward the pretty brunette. The wind ruffled through her glossy hair and fluttered the pale pink blouse around her slim waist. She was looking at him, her dark eyes thoughtful. He’d said more than he’d planned to, and the knowledge left him uneasy.
“So, what about these Emmetts?” he asked in an attempt to change the subject.
“Aunt Louise is one of them.” A smile toyed at her lips. “Forget the Emmetts. What about you?”
“My family?”
“No, you.” She met his gaze easily. “I’ve lost a husband, so I know a thing or two about grieving. It helps to talk.”
“I don’t tend to talk about it.”
“Why not?” She moved away from him, toward the crumbling graves at the rear, and he found himself following her before he even thought about it.
“Everyone in this town had to grieve the loss of that little girl,” he said. “Some things are best left alone.”
“Well, I’m a stranger—almost.” She glanced up at him. “It won’t hurt me to hear this like it might someone who knew her.”
“You know what happened,” he said gruffly, hoping she’d be put off by his tone, but her expression didn’t change.
“Not really.” She shrugged. “I know there was a fire—”
He sighed. She was determined—he’d give her that. “It was a big one. It spread faster than anyone anticipated.”
“What caused it?”
“Arson.”
They stopped at a stone bench beside a scraggly rosebush. A few blooms adorned the thorny branches, and the leaves wilted from lack of rainfall. Whoever set up this spot had probably envisioned a beautiful little corner where someone could sit in the aroma of roses like in some British fantasy, but the reality of the situation included Montana weather. A stunted rosebush and a bench were as good as this was going to get. He sat down, staring at his shoes for a long moment. Rachel’s silky blouse brushed against his arm as she sank down next to him. The sun slipped behind a cloud, the warm day perceptibly cooling. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to talk about this, but he found the words coming out of his mouth before he could s
top them.
“I was in charge of fighting that fire.”
“So you feel responsible.”
“I was responsible. All the students had been evacuated from the school but one. No one could find her, and after the men came out exhausted, I suited up and went in.” He shook his head slowly. “I can still remember the sound of her parents crying on the sidewalk.”
“But you did find her.”
“Yeah, I did. She was scared. A big fireman in uniform can be really terrifying for kids, and she was only five—one of the kindergartners. I almost missed her, but I saw her shoe sticking out from behind a garbage can, and I guess I came up too quickly. I was focused on getting her out of there—she’d already been in there so long—and she was trying to get away from me.”
“Is that common?”
“It can be. That’s why we go into every school in town and show the kids how our equipment works. We don’t want them to be afraid of a firefighter. Anyway, she kept trying to run away, and the smoke was getting thicker. By the time I spotted her shoe behind that garbage can, she was barely conscious...” Matt stopped, swallowed hard. “I got her out, but by the time I got her outside...” He cleared his throat. “She’d been burned quite badly. She never did wake up.”
Rachel stretched her legs out in front of her, and when he glanced over, he found her dark eyes locked on him. “Was this girl the first person to die in a fire here?” she asked softly.
“No.”
“But she’s the hardest?”
Matt didn’t know how to put all this into words. He’d rescued an old woman several years earlier who had died of her burns in the hospital. He’d personally pulled a young man out of the wreckage of a car and performed CPR on him for five minutes before the ambulance arrived, only to discover he had died on impact. He’d seen horrible things and been there as the emergency response, but Natalie Martin was different.
“She was the first child,” he said finally.
Rachel nodded. “Kids...” Her chin trembled. “It makes it different, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you stay in touch with the family?”
Love Inspired May 2015 #2 Page 48
