by C. S. Lakin
Reuben nodded, his face drawn with concern, as if he felt he had to apologize for Simon’s outburst. Reuben—always the responsible one, sensitive, eager to do what was right. Been that way ever since he was young, Jake mused.
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad. You tried.”
Jake looked at his ten-year-old son, this boy who had seemed to gain such mature wisdom overnight. But kids grew up fast when they had to face pain, cope with adversity. Reuben had probably gotten the worst of it, being old enough for the pain of Leah’s abandonment to crack his heart. Jake wondered how deep the fissure went.
Jake patted Reuben’s hand, wishing he could take an eraser and rub away the look of sadness inscribed upon Reuben’s features, a sadness that seemed laced with self-recrimination and guilt—something no ten-year-old should be intimate with. But what could Jake do?
The truth of Simon’s words hurt his heart, as if a brushfire had raged across its flesh, charring it, making Jake wince. He wished he knew how he could heal Reuben’s pain. Simon’s pain. But he didn’t. It was all he could do to hold his own pain in check and march forward, trusting that in time, with Rachel’s help, they could leave this cumbersome baggage on the doorstep of the past. He wished he had the magic words to make it all better. But magic words seemed to be in short supply these days.
1983
Our House
Father wears his Sunday best
Mother’s tired she needs a rest
The kids are playing up downstairs
Sister’s sighing in her sleep
Brother’s got a date to keep
He can’t hang around
Our house it has a crowd
There’s always something happening
And it’s usually quite loud
Our mum she’s so house-proud
Nothing ever slows her down
And a mess is not allowed
Father gets up late for work
Mother has to iron his shirt
Then she sends the kids to school
Sees them off with a small kiss
She’s the one they’re going to miss
In lots of ways
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, was our castle and our keep
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, that was where we used to sleep
—Madness
Sunlight broke piecemeal across Rachel’s face as she looked up above her through the prodigious vines lacing the beams to the powder-blue canopy of sky. Clouds skittered on the early spring breeze like skipping stones tossed across a lake of air. Rachel breathed in deeply, already detecting the subtle fragrances of her garden releasing their potential, their dream of what they would become, soon, in the shift of season, something she could feel deep in her bones. Spring always did that to her—caused a resonating in her body that made her feel doubly alive, as if imbued with a fresh burst of spirit, a heightened awareness. She could almost feel plants grow under her touch, coaxed by the sun’s persistent wooing.
Now, after two years of pouring love and sweat into this small patch of soil, life in this small enclosure exploded in new growth, each seed and sprout gorging on the enriched compost-drenched earth, while more established shrubs detonated with new leaves and branches. Already the camellia and azalea buds, so tightly shut like tiny fists, were being prodded to release their grasp and unfurl—just a hint of pink and peach peeking out from the tops of their glossy green decanters.
She looked over at Dinah, who played with Joey on the bricks, still never gravitating far from her side. The moment she came home from school, Dinah would seek her out and lock into orbit, not clinging but more like a shadow one notices from time to time, when the light is just right. And like a shadow, sometimes under her feet; other times a stone’s throw away, always within range of speech. Her little girl in a cadre of boys.
Rachel pruned a Japanese maple while considering her daughter. Fairer than all her older brothers, wispy charcoal hair, quiet, thoughtful. In a roomful of gregarious, loud boys, Dinah’s presence seeped among them, the way ground fog hovered and softened the harsh delineation of a rough-plowed field. But there was also a moodiness to her, some restlessness that tugged at the edges of her consciousness, that would snag her attention while Rachel spoke to her. A dreaminess, maybe. Sometimes Rachel imagined Dinah’s memories of Leah flitting through her thoughts, like sparking fireflies of recognition, triggering inexplicable sensations of loss, abandonment, hurt. But Rachel knew it could just be her own imagination at work.
She clearly saw the ravages of loss in the eyes and behavior of all Leah’s boys, even Levi. She’d hoped by now with her own persistent tending and mending of their hearts she would have extricated their mother’s poisonous tendrils so finely meshed in their lives and personalities. But it seemed an impossible task. Leah had set deep roots into her boys—strong, stubborn, tenacious.
Her eyes alighted on Joey. Sunlight enwrapped him as he sat cross-legged on shimmering red brick and his carefree laugh rippled on the air. His coppery hair deepening to auburn framing his angelic face. He was undoubtedly the most beautiful child she had ever seen. But didn’t every mother think that of their own offspring? Yet, at church, young and old drifted over to him, unable to pull their eyes away, unable to resist touching his hair, his face. Rachel would watch as she stood in the sanctuary, holding Joey in her arms or setting him down on a pew, as heads turned, as if silently summoned, reminding her of the way the righteous and devout Simeon had been led by the spirit into the temple the day the baby Jesus had been brought in for the purification offering, with the prophet Anna, old and expectantly awaiting the messiah, heeding a nudge from God to peer upon the promised child.
Rachel kept secret in her heart her belief that Joey was special. Often she chided herself for her excessive motherly pride that led her off on such arrogant tangents. Yet, the conviction persisted. She had prayed for a special child—a child that would bring healing to this family, to Jake in particular. A child to bring him rest and, hopefully, to God. And, in truth, since Joey had been born, Jake’s whole outlook on life had brightened, as if a spotlight shone down from heaven to illuminate the blessings engulfing him. Maybe there was nothing more to it than that—Joey’s arrival marking a transition, a turn in the road, a turn where Jake left behind mountainous, treacherous terrain and entered a level plain where he could finally see the horizon afar off, with a new sun rising with healing in its wings.
Rachel sighed, feeling gratitude course through her limbs. She finished her pruning and looked at the small tree from different angles, satisfied she had done her best to sculpt an appealing shape, envisioning how the tree would leaf out in subsequent months. A noise made her turn.
Dinah began crying and Rachel hurried over to where her daughter squatted on the patio, hunched over, with Joey looking on, his expression fixed and rife with concern.
“Are you hurt; did you fall?” Rachel asked, scooping Dinah into her arms and cradling her as she knelt on the bricks.
Dinah babbled something and held out a closed hand.
“Sweetie,” she said, drying Dinah’s tears with her own hand, “take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.” Rachel stroked Dinah’s hair the way she often did to calm the child’s erratic breathing, but Dinah pulled away and uncurled her fingers. Rachel leaned in to look.
A partially crushed Monarch butterfly lay in Dinah’s palm, one wing stuck to her skin as the injured insect rallied for life, struggling vainly to fly away.
“I didn’t mean to hurt it, Mommy. It landed on my arm and I was gentle! I just wanted to feel the wings. They look so soft . . .” Dinah broke out in a heaving sob.
“Oh, sweetie, it’s all right. These things happen–”
“Can’t you make it better?” Dinah’s voice raised in hysteria. Rachel’s heart ached at the tone, a mixture of horror and guilt edging toward desperation.
“There’s nothing we can do. Without
its wings, a butterfly can’t find food—”
“Can’t we feed it with an eyedropper? I could put it in . . . in a box in my room—”
Dinah abruptly shut her mouth when Joey reached his hand over to touch the barely moving butterfly. She held still, with tears bulging in the wells of her eyes, and sniffled, watching. A cloud drifted and light slipped through a crack in the vines, lighting up the deep orange patches on the wings now fluttering to a stop in Dinah’s hand. Joey closed his eyes, Rachel thinking how sad he must feel, but then he opened them and she noticed something odd about his expression.
“Fly, butterfly!” Joey commanded in his two-year-old voice, accompanied by a cheerful laugh. Rachel shook her head. How hard it was to learn life’s sad lessons, that some things can’t be fixed, that death is inevit—
A gasp shot its way down Rachel’s throat before she even knew she had sucked in a breath. Joey stood next to Dinah, beaming, while light splintered across the patio, and a sudden breeze lifted the broken wings of the insect and the butterfly tested its strength, found it renewed, and caught the breeze in a magical dance. Even Dinah sat mesmerized at the sight, her little mouth shaped in an O, unblinking.
Rachel felt like shaking her head to fling out the hallucination she had just witnessed. On an updraft of bright laughter, the butterfly ascended into the sky and over the fence. Rachel swung her head to look at her toddler. In all innocence he shrugged.
“All better.”
Oh, Lord—what just happened? Surely that creature had been damaged beyond repair. Did you use little Joey to heal it? Had he? Rachel had never seen such a thing in her life.
Dinah hugged her brother, almost knocking him off his unsteady little legs. “Oh, thank you, Joey!” She kissed him sloppily on the top of his head and took his hand. “I’ll push you on the swing!”
Joey’s eyes flared with excitement, and he let Dinah pull him out of the fenced garden to the swings, the incident apparently as forgotten as it was uneventful to her son.
A strange feeling of presentiment overtook her, both exhilarating and frightening. She dared not think of the ways God could have answered her prayer for a special child. What did this portend? Had she imagined it? Maybe the butterfly hadn’t been as hurt as she thought—only in shock, resting, rallying strength. That surely must have been the case. And just coincidental in timing, that Joey touched the thing and commanded it to fly as it finally felt able.
Rachel rose up from where she had been kneeling on the bricks and noticed the deep red dents the hard surface impressed into her knees. The breeze dissipated and clouds once more gathered overhead, threatening rain. Rachel realized with a shock that the light had drifted away the moment Joey had run off with his sister. Puzzled and numb, Rachel walked out the lattice archway and gazed at the swing set. There, Dinah pushed Joey as he sat in the baby swing, her small arms working hard to cast him in the air as a golden streak of sunlight caught her son and held him in a web of illumination, as he squealed in delight.
“Fly, Joey!” Dinah yelled. “Fly!”
Jake nodded at the waiter, who uncorked the bottle and poured their glasses of wine. In the sparkle of candlelight, Rachel’s sublime beauty struck Jake anew. He reached for her hand across the starched white tablecloth, felt her skin soft as butter, delicate hands even despite all the years she’d immersed them in soil, planting, weeding. Her diamond ring glinted and refracted light, splashing a rainbow onto her neck, in the hollow in her throat pulsing with a gentle heartbeat.
She lifted her glass, sipped her wine, and when the waiter left them after taking their orders, she leaned forward and kissed Jake tenderly, in the shadows of the restaurant, in their tucked-away corner.
“Three years,” Jake said. “It’s gone by so fast. But you still look beautiful, eternally young. Amazing, since those kids run you ragged from sunrise to sunset.”
Rachel actually blushed at his words. “I can’t recall the last time we’ve had dinner together. Alone. Without interruption.”
“That’s because we never have. And it’s long overdue. For which I apologize.” Jake stroked her cheek, soaking in the warm waves of love that enveloped them, wishing life afforded more moments like these, making him realize he needed to carve out more time for this, to be with her, to nurture their relationship.
“Do you think we could get your sister to agree to babysit on a more regular basis? Maybe even once a month—so we can go out more often?”
Rachel shrugged. “Let’s see how she survives tonight. Abby loves children . . . but she’s also a bit strict and harsh around them. I think she feels some resentment, maybe frustration, losing her husband and all, trying for years to get pregnant.”
“Makes sense.” Jake sat back, drank some wine. “But it’d be nice for her to get to know her niece and nephews better, spend some time with them—apart from church and at dinners with your folks.”
“I wish my parents were more up to handling the kids. Even just having Levi and Dinah over wipes them out after an hour. It’s all I can do to keep them quiet and behaved before my mother starts losing patience.”
Jake nodded, kept to himself what he really thought. As gracious as Rachel’s parents acted when he and the children were around them, their eyes held unspoken words, rife with judgment, disdain, criticism. Maybe he was wrong, reading into their subtle distancing, the way they held Leah’s children at arm’s length while doting over Joey unabashedly. Their words, always full of praise and kindness, came out stilted, perfunctory, lacking real affection. Should he expect differently? Maybe not. But still, Jake was certain the children picked up on it, the way kids could sense insincerity. Another undercurrent of rejection.
“What are you thinking about?” Rachel asked. “I can tell your mind is wandering.”
“Sorry.” He shook off the edge of irritation that made inroads into his evening, focused on his wife, felt his passion kindle in the warmth of the room, her skin so inviting, lips moist, eyes full of tenderness. “I’m so lucky to have you, Rachel. I love you so much.”
She put her hands over his and Jake felt his need for her swell. He envisioned pulling her into his arms, taking her into their bed. So often, lately, she’d been too tired to make love, and he too, by the time they dealt with the kids, got them ready for bed, gave them their snacks and water, tucked them in, Jake was often numb with exhaustion, plenty tired from a long day at work. But tonight, he would put out extra effort to please his wife. With Rachel relaxed after a wonderful dinner, a couple of bottles of wine, he’d unzip that silky black dress she was wearing, give her a massage . . .
“Luck had nothing to do with it, Jake. We were meant to be together. I felt it, that night you came into the church, God leading you there. I hadn’t planned on coming in that night, but something pressed me to go, to prepare the bouquets for the Sunday service.”
Jake tried not to bristle at her yet-another remark about God’s hand in their lives. “Rachel, don’t you think it’s just possible that God or destiny had nothing to do with it—that maybe we just happened to cross paths? Why read God into everything?”
Rachel smiled. “Jake, God is in everything. The Bible says he’s planned out our lives from ages past—”
“What are you saying, then? That we have no choice in the matter? That since I was destined to meet you and marry you, I couldn’t have turned away, made a different decision?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. We have free will; we can always choose our course. It’s just that when we put ourselves in line with God, allow him to lead us, he directs our path.”
Jake exhaled hard. The last thing he wanted tonight, this special night, was to get into a religious debate. But it seemed whenever Jake tried to bring up anything about his life or goals or dreams, Rachel just had to bring God into the mix. How could he convince Rachel that he didn’t need God, didn’t feel a divine hand guiding his life?
“Look, honey. I get your faith, and I respect it. It’s just, I don’t bel
ieve God is all that interested in me, if he’s really there. Maybe there are some people who are called to greatness, who have a destiny, who are supposed to do something important with their lives. But look at the world. Most people are just struggling to put food on the table, find a decent job. Half the world doesn’t even have clean water to drink, and they go to bed hungry. How can you say that all those people have a special calling, a path to follow? Is poverty their calling? Sickness? Doesn’t it make a lot more sense to look at circumstance? How lucky we are in this country, for example, that we have prosperity and freedom, that we can get jobs that allow us to support our families, give us money to buy cars and TVs and all that.”
“Everything is part of God’s plan, accomplishes his will. Even if we can’t see it. Jake, we can only see the world with our limited perspective. God is so much greater than that; he can see past and future, nothing is out of his will or out of his sight.”
Jake pushed down his rising frustration, kept his voice low and calm. “So, it’s God’s will people suffer. That children in Africa die of starvation, that people are tortured and raped and oppressed—”
“Of course not! Once you understand who God is, and how he feels about us, what he did to provide salvation and an eternal future, you’ll see. You’ll come to love him and trust him—”
“And you get all this out of a book—the Bible. It tells you who God is and you just believe it.”
Rachel shook her head; a strand of hair fell loose over her shoulder. He wanted to push it back in place but kept his hands in his lap. “That’s only one way to learn about God, Jake. But it’s not the main way. He wants a relationship with us, wants us to turn to him, let him into our lives. ‘Draw close to God and he will draw close to you,’ the Bible says. We have to take the first step; he’s knocking at the door.”
