Abide with Me

by Delia Parr

  It wasn’t the cold rain on her face that made Madge gasp. It wasn’t her husband’s obvious physical distress that made her gasp. It wasn’t even his grim, almost fearful expression, either.

  It was the little girl, fast asleep, that he was cradling in his arms that claimed every breath of air in her lungs. Tiny little thing, the child could not be more than two or three years old.

  Madge pressed the palm of her hand to her heart and gripped the edge of the doorjamb. So many questions rose in her thoughts she grew dizzy. Had he had an accident? Had he hit the little girl? How badly was she hurt? Where were her parents? Was Russell hurt, too?”

  “Russell! Oh my mercy! Should I dial nine-one-one? Do we need an ambulance?”

  “No. Don’t call anyone. Just let us in,” he pleaded. “I—I’ve driven all night through this storm to get here. Please let us in. We have…nowhere else to go.”

  Andrea paced back and forth across her living room, with the “girls” watching her. She checked her watch. It was nine thirty-five. Madge was late again. “I should have called her earlier,” she grumbled. She took out her cell phone, pressed the phone book to get to Madge’s cell phone number, and hit Send. She tapped her foot in rhythm with each ring. After ten rings, she got Madge’s voice mail and hung up.

  Andrea started pacing again. “She should have answered her cell phone. Unless she left it at home. She should have been here by now! She knows I can’t be late.” Her pulse quickened and tears welled. She swiped them away. She would have to ask Dr. Newton about the emotional pendulum she seemed to have been swinging on for the past few weeks. She checked her watch again. Nine-forty. “I am not happy,” she murmured. “I wasn’t happy when I went to bed last night, I wasn’t happy when I got up, but now I am really not happy. I’m getting mad. I don’t want to be mad. I want to go to the doctor’s and be on time for my appointment. I want to get my treatment so I can get home to roll around in my bed for two hours. The later I get the treatment, the later I’ll get to work.”

  She paused, closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “I don’t have to be late. I can drive myself to the doctor’s office and I can drive myself home. Whatever excuse Madge cares to make for being late will have to wait. I have to go.”

  Without bothering to check her watch again, Andrea called Madge’s cell phone one more time, hung up without leaving a message, then called Madge’s house phone. No answer there, either, but Andrea decided to leave a message this time. “Madge? This is Andrea. I’m leaving for the doctor’s office. I’ll call you when I get back.” She grabbed her raincoat and headed toward the door.

  The moment she opened the door and felt the full brunt of the storm, she realized how difficult driving must be. Had Madge had an accident? Was that why she was late? Or had she been delayed by someone else’s accident? Worry mixed with guilt, and Andrea whispered a prayer before she dashed to her car. “Please, God, wherever Madge is, please watch over her, and for anyone who has had an accident this day, please watch over them, too.”

  By the time she managed to get into her car, her stockings were plastered against her legs and she had to stop to wipe the rain from her face before starting the car. She drove up to the avenue, but instead of turning right to go to Dr. Newton’s, she turned left and went directly to Madge’s house. The moment she spied Madge’s car in the driveway, with Russell’s car parked directly behind, relief washed over her. “I guess I can’t blame you for being late. Russell must have surprised you and come home early!”

  She smiled and continued on her way. She would have fun teasing Madge about being late this time! After she had her treatment. After she had spent her “rolling time.” After she had gone in to the office. And definitely after Madge and Russell had had some time alone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Madge pulled the front door open wider. “Come in? Of course you can come in. This is your home, too, but I don’t understand…”

  Russell stepped into the foyer, looked into the living room, and back at Madge. His eyes were dark, with anguish so profound it could only have come from the very depths of his soul. Sorrow had deepened the creases in his forehead. His shoulders sagged. “I—I need…we need to talk, but first…” He shifted the bundle in his arms. “I need to get her tucked into bed.”

  Madge felt as if she were on a live reality television show, and her brain was on a seven-second delay. By the time she had processed Russell’s words and understood the meaning behind them, he was halfway up the steps. She shut the front door against the wind and the rain, but she sensed there was a greater storm brewing inside her home.

  She turned back to the stairs and saw the water and dirt he was tracking up the steps and cried out. “Wait!”

  He stopped, but he did not turn around.

  “What’s going on?” Her chest heaved. Confusion and fear made her pulse race. “Russell? What are you doing? You can’t just suddenly appear at the door with some unnamed child in your arms and go charging up the stair carrying whatever disaster you’ve…you’ve created for yourself and expect me to stand here patiently and wait for an explanation. Somebody else must know what…what happened. Somebody will be looking for her. If not her parents, then who? The police? What do I do if they come to the door looking for her or looking for you?”

  He sighed. “Her name is Sarah. No one will be looking for her…or for me,” he whispered.

  Madge cocked her head. “Why not?”

  He bowed his head.

  Her pulse began to race. “Russell? What’s going on? Why wouldn’t anyone be looking for her? She’s just a little girl. Isn’t her mother worried about her? Why not? And why do you have her?”

  He turned and locked his gaze with Madge’s. “Her mother loved her very much, but she’s dead. She died ten days ago in an automobile accident.”

  Madge clapped her hand to her heart. “So you brought Sarah here?”

  He drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Because…?”

  “Because she’s only three years old and she was all alone. Because she has no other family.” He clutched the little one closer to his chest. “But most of all, because she’s my daughter.”

  My daughter.

  My daughter.

  His words echoed in Madge’s muddled brain, but somehow, she could not make any sense of them. They were only two little words: my daughter. She closed her eyes and struggled to understand what they meant. “My daughter,” she whispered. Sarah is Russell’s daughter? That was crazy. Sarah is Russell’s daughter? Impossible. Russell didn’t have a daughter. He could not have a daughter. He had two grown sons. He did not have a little daughter.

  Reality crashed through her disbelief. The weeks he spent each month away from home. The occasional phone calls that pulled him back on the road, especially the last few years. The summons that ended his planned vacation at their new beach house just days ago. Ten days ago…

  Her eyes snapped open. The staircase was empty.

  Russell was gone.

  Sarah was gone.

  Madge blinked hard. When the room started to spin, she grabbed on to the banister for support. She gulped in long breaths of air and prayed her heart would stop pounding. She felt she had been sucked into a horrible nightmare. She wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead and upper lips. Leaning on the banister post, she rested her forehead in the palm of her hand and closed her eyes.

  Her heart trembled. She told herself she was only having a nightmare. This could not be real.

  She was real. She could feel her pulse pounding against her fingertips. The banister was rock solid and real. She opened her eyes. Her gaze followed the tracks of dirt and water up the carpet stairs. With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched the stain on the closest step.

  It was no illusion. The water was cold and wet and real.

  So very, very real.

  Dr. Newton came into the examining room, read Andrea’s chart and smiled. “Everyth
ing looks good today. We can go ahead with the treatment. You know the routine. Do you have any questions before you get changed and we start?”

  Andrea sighed and leaned against the back of the chair next to the examining table. “No. No questions. Not really.”

  “No trouble with mood swings?” the doctor asked as she set out the equipment.

  “A little. My sisters tell me I’m getting cranky, or at least I’m crankier than normal.”

  “Are they right?”

  Andrea sighed again. “Maybe. Sometimes I feel as if I’m the most ungrateful woman who ever lived, and I think that’s what makes me cranky.”

  The doctor sat down in an adjacent chair. “How are you ungrateful? Or what makes you feel that you are?”

  Andrea shrugged. “I think of Sandra. My sister died less than a year ago, from liver cancer. It spread to her brain.”

  “That must have been hard to watch,” the doctor said softly.

  “It was harder for Sandra to endure, I’m sure,” Andrea whispered. She toyed with the hem on her blouse. “My sister, Kathleen, died from leukemia. She wasn’t even thirty-five. She died eight years ago, but I remember….”

  Dr. Newton laid her hand on top of Andrea’s. “And you feel guilty? Why? Because we’re going to cure your cancer? Because you’re going to survive?”

  Andrea swallowed hard. “Sometimes, I really can get myself into a snit when I think about how easy this treatment is compared to what they had to endure.” She closed her eyes and blocked other painful memories of her parents’ valiant struggles against the cancers that had ravaged their bodies, only to succumb in the end.

  The doctor squeezed Andrea’s hand. “So sometimes, when you’re in this snit, as you call it, you’re also feeling…what?”

  Andrea clenched her jaw. Baring her soul did not come easily. “Sometimes, when I really do believe the chemo will work, when I dare to think I have a future that will last more than a few years, I get all filled up with hate.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, ashamed of her feelings and her failure to be in control of them. “I hate this cancer. I hate the chemo. I hate the appointments. And I hate all the restrictions on my life now.”

  She paused and gently rubbed the base of her throat. When she spoke again, her words overflowed like a river swollen with heavy rains and came pouring out. “Most days, I feel like I have a collar around my neck, and there’s a leash attached to it. A very short leash that keeps me from doing all the things I want to do. Simple, but necessary things, like…like taking my clients to see some homes or attending a settlement or having a meal when I want to eat it without having to check my calendar or the clock to see if I have a treatment or a cysto scheduled.” She shivered. “I hate cystos, too. A lot.”

  Dr. Newton smiled. “Me, too.”

  Andrea turned and met her gaze. “You, too?”

  “I’m a bladder cancer survivor, Andrea. It’s been six years now, but I have my annual cysto, like it or not.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know the hate you’re feeling. Hate’s a strong, bitter emotion, a destructive one. It can tug on that leash and tighten that collar around your neck until you think you’ll choke on life itself.”

  “Exactly,” Andrea whispered.

  “Unless you change your perspective, it will. Trust me, it will.”

  Andrea searched the depth of the other woman’s eyes. Goodness and honesty stared back at her, and she trembled. “How did you do it? Change your perspective, I mean?”

  “Faith. Trust in God, in the belief that His plan is always perfect.” The doctor smiled and laced her fingers with Andrea’s. “You can’t get rid of the leash, Andrea, any more than you can reject the treatments or change your original diagnosis, but you can change your perspective.”

  “How?”

  The doctor tugged on her hand. “Let me show you. First, close your eyes.”

  Andrea did, and the doctor went on, “Now, tell me what your leash looks like. What is it made of? Leather? Nylon cord? How wide is it? What color is it? Look hard.”

  Andrea squeezed her eyes closed tighter. “It’s leather, I think, about three inches wide, and it’s…it’s purple,” she blurted. She nearly choked. Purple? Where did that come from? She must have Madge on her mind.

  “Look at the leash a little closer,” the doctor instructed. “Can you break it?”

  “No. It’s…it’s too strong.”

  “Why?”

  Frustrated, Andrea opened her eyes. “Because it is. Look, it doesn’t really matter. I can’t break the leash, and I can’t get rid of the leash. I don’t have any choice about that, not if I want to live,” she snapped, and pulled her hand away.

  “Exactly wrong,” the doctor murmured. “You have a choice. He always gives you a choice. Let’s try again, shall we?”

  Andrea blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m getting a little—”

  “Cranky. No problem. We can talk about this next time, okay?”

  Andrea moistened her lips. She had gone this far, she might as well finish whatever exercise Dr. Newton had in mind. She took the doctor’s hand and closed her eyes.

  The doctor squeezed her hand. “Take a look at that leash again. That three-inch purple leather leash. The one you think you must have.”

  Andrea nodded.

  “Now imagine that it’s gone. I’ve given you a new one. It’s still pretty short. In fact, it’s exactly the same length as the one you have now, but it’s different. See? It’s not leather anymore, and it’s not purple. It’s made of your favorite colors, the most beautiful colors God ever created for his flowers. In fact, if you look very closely, the leash is nothing but flowers. Your favorite flowers. And they’re held together, leaf to leaf, petal to beautiful petal, with nothing but God’s grace, because He made this leash of flowers just for you.”

  In her mind’s eye, Andrea saw the purple leash disappear, inch by inch, until there was nothing but a row of magnificent flowers held together by grace that touched the very essence of her soul. The warmth of His love filled her spirit, leaving not a breath of room for hatred. Her body relaxed. Peace settled over her troubled thoughts. She felt safe. She felt loved.

  “Can you smell the flowers, Andrea? What kind of flowers are they?”

  She inhaled. “Roses. Red roses. And white lilacs.”

  “Fragile, aren’t they?” the doctor asked.

  Andrea smiled.

  “They’re meant to be fragile. Flowers are gifts, Andrea. You can plant them, you can water them, you can even feed them, but only God can inspire them to grow. He created them for all of us to enjoy, but these flowers He created and arranged together especially for you. Not for your sisters Sandra or Kathleen. For you. The leash of flowers is yours to keep and protect or to enjoy for as long as your treatments continue, and you can feel safe and warm, surrounded by His love and protection and by His grace. The leash of flowers may be short, but He created it for you. Only you can ask Him to reveal His plan for you so you can use this time for His work, not yours, and you can see all the other gifts He has given to you, as well.”

  She paused and squeezed Andrea’s hand again. “On the other hand, you can choose to struggle against His will. You can let bitterness and frustration eat away at the grace He so freely gives to you until the flowers break apart and lie crushed beneath your feet. It’s your choice,” she murmured. “It’s always been your choice to love Him, to trust Him and to believe in Him with all of your heart. Just remember that whatever you do, He loves you.”

  Tears streamed down Andrea’s cheeks.

  Why she had been given a more treatable form of cancer than her parents or either of her sisters was still a question that kept her spirit in turmoil. Of all the illnesses she could have gotten, cancer was probably the scariest. It was the fear that the treatments might fail or the cancer might have already spread that nibbled at her faith—even now.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When Jenny finally got home, she
pulled into the driveway, cut the engine and released her seat belt. She looked out of the car window, saw the rain blowing sideways and pressed her forehead against the top of the steering wheel.

  If working nine hours straight with only a fifteen-minute break on her first day back from vacation had not erased all the benefits of relaxing on the beach for a few days, driving home in this storm certainly did. She was exhausted and drenched to the bone from racing to her car at the end of her shift. She was in no mood to battle the elements again to get inside the house. She was hungry enough to eat her way through two breakfast specials at The Diner, but she wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed.

  “A nice, warm, very dry bed,” she murmured. She took a deep breath, secured the hood on her raincoat and got out of the car. As one gust of wind carried her forward, another blew her hood back, and she splashed her way to the front door. The moment she stepped inside the house, she realized something must be wrong. The silence was eerie. If she had not detected the tantalizing aromas coming from the kitchen, she would have thought Michael had taken the girls on an outing.

  She shook her head. He would not have done that. Not on a day like today.

  “Katy? Hannah? Mommy’s home. Michael?”

  While she waited for her family to come running, she eased out of her dripping raincoat. Without stepping off the plastic mat Michael had put down to protect the hardwood floors, she hung her raincoat on the hall tree. She untied her shoes and slipped them off, along with her socks. Miraculously, her scrubs were dry, except for the hems of her pants. Her hair had fared far worse. Water dripped down her face and into her eyes, as well as the back of her neck. She looked around for something to dry off her head and face when she saw Michael coming down the stairs carrying a large bath towel.

  She smiled. “You’re a lifesaver. I called out to let you know I was home, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Sorry. I heard you pull into the driveway so I went upstairs to get you a towel. I had a feeling you’d carry half the storm in with you. Rough night?”