If We Make It Home

by Christina Suzann Nelson

  “Will I have to replace you? Is it time for you to make another run?” His head cocks and he observes me over the top of thick-rimmed glasses.

  “You were right to call me out on that before I left. I came here to hide, and this place was a wonderful retreat from reality, but”—I pull my new glasses off my nose then rub the bridge with my thumb and first finger—“not every leaving equals running.”

  His hands grips the wood ledge behind him and his gaze studies the wall. “You’re a difficult person, you know that?”

  “I do.”

  “And you shouldn’t run away from a fight. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

  I nod. “I think you’re right about that too. I’m not running from Mac’s accusations. I fully intend to fight him all the way to the Supreme Court if that’s what it takes to get this kid to tell the truth, but I can fight from Oregon. I have another fight, one that’s so much bigger, with consequences that are more than career-threatening. That one requires my presence. This one does not.”

  “If you leave, what’s to stop the board from giving Mac what he’s asking for?”

  “Good sense. A backbone. Doing what’s right.” Now I cross my arms. “We all know the accusations are false. It’s a matter of standing up to them, when the media may, and probably will, take another angle.”

  “So, we can count on you to testify, if it comes to that?”

  I rise to my one good foot and snag my crutch from the wall. “Absolutely.”

  Dr. Doogan’s face brightens with a smile. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. But there’s no need.”

  My shoulders sag. “The university gave in?”

  He pushes off from the wall and walks toward me. “Nope. Mac did. The boy dropped all charges against you. I guess he realized he’d met his match.”

  I shake my head and wag my finger the way Jenna would. “I can’t believe you let me go on, all the while knowing this nightmare was over.”

  “I had to make sure you were leaving for the right reasons. Dr. Jayne, you’re a strong woman. Stay that way.” He pats my shoulder. “And take care of that foot.” Dr. Doogan turns and walks out of my office.

  It’s time to pack.

  VICKY

  My stomach turns as we make the final corner. The house we’re searching for is located in an older neighborhood in one of the Dallas suburbs. The sidewalks are ever so uneven, but trees line the streets, giving the area a comfortable feel that masks the dilapidation characterizing the facades of these homes.

  Daniel drives slower than the residential speed limit. I appreciate the added care for the children that seem to pop out of nowhere along the way. Our six-month-old SUV stands out like a limousine here. A boy of about seven grabs the arm of his friend and points in our direction.

  There’s still so much for me to learn about the world and loving the people in it. My first reaction is to paste on that Victoria Cambridge smile and turn the dial on my Texas charm up to twelve.

  The GPS startles me from my self-reflection. “You’ve reached your destination.”

  Daniel pulls over to the curb and cuts the engine.

  It’s the smallest house on the block, probably less than a thousand square feet, but the yard is well kept and flowers still bloom pink and purple from the cedar window boxes.

  Without warning, my nerves begin to buzz. I’m not sure what I’m doing here uninvited. This felt like the thing to do. Like this was God’s leading, not mine for a change.

  I pull down the visor and review my face. Pockmarks cover my once smooth cheeks and a scar runs along my right eyebrow. I reach for my purse and remove a compact of powder, but Daniel covers my hand.

  He says nothing, but gently shakes his head, restoring my confidence and bringing a tear to my eye. “You look beautiful.”

  My stomach tickles with butterflies so much like he gave me when we were newlyweds. I inhale the savory scents that permeate every inch of the vehicle. My marriage isn’t healed, but there is a mending, a slow stitching back together. And like my face, there may be scars that endure, but I’m not sure I would change that. Without this lasting evidence of the struggle, the only thing that would remain is an open wound.

  Daniel pops his door.

  In a moment of spontaneity, I reach for his hand.

  He turns back to me, and our eyes meet. There’s so much meaning in this moment. So much understanding of where we are and where we want to someday be. The counseling has been hard, brutal at times, but good. “You’ve got this.” A half smile tweaks his features.

  His fingers squeeze mine then he lets go. In too short a time he’s at my door, opening it and standing aside for me to climb out. “Don’t worry. I think this will be a good surprise.”

  “I hope you’re right. Because if it isn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  He angles his elbow out, and I wrap my gloved hand into the hole he’s created. I don’t know if I could follow through with this crazy plan if it weren’t for his nudging. I want to tell him that, but I can’t get my mouth to do the work. This is something new for me.

  At the door, he rings the bell, and we wait.

  Finally it opens and a man stands in the entry, a toddler on his hip and an apron tied around his waist. “Can I help you?” His eyebrows knit together and his chin tips. “Aren’t you that lady from television?”

  My mouth falls open.

  “I’m so sorry. That was rude.” He bounces the little girl who clings to his shirt.

  “No. It’s okay.” I stretch my hand out to him. “I’m Vicky Cambridge and this is my husband, Daniel.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Nathan, and this little one is Carlie.” He looks around behind us. “Should I have been expecting you?”

  “No. I met your wife on a flight. Bridgett is your wife, right?”

  “Yes. She’ll be home any minute now. Carlie and I are trying to help her out with Thanksgiving dinner, but I’m afraid we may have done more damage than good.”

  “We’d like to help with that. Our Suburban is filled with food and decorations. With your permission we’d like to give Bridgett a break.”

  He leans out the doorway. “Is this some kind of television special?”

  “No.” I wave my hand in front of my chest. “This is personal, no cameras, no press. I feel like I owe this to Bridgett.”

  His lips curl between his teeth and the skin between his eyes wrinkles. “That would be wonderful.” His jaw bobs in tiny nods. “She’s been so worried. I told her it wouldn’t matter if we had bologna sandwiches off paper plates for dinner, but she wants to show my mom that she’s capable. And now her flight is delayed. She’ll barely make it home.” He turns his head to the side, blinking.

  “We’ve got this.” Daniel turns back to the SUV. In a minute his arms are filled with boxes of Thanksgiving essentials.

  “Let me help you.” He motions to me with Carlie. “Would you mind?”

  “Of course not.” The little girl comes into my arms willingly, but she gives me a thorough examination before settling against my chest. Soft hair that smells of baby shampoo tickles my neck, and I instantly feel the pangs of missing my own babies.

  Since returning home, I’ve cut my schedule in half. I’ve made simple dinners and attended every school event. The kids seem happy I’m home, but what I see most often is caution, like they’re waiting for me to rebuild the walls. I understand, because each day for me is like an addict trying desperately to recover. Those old ways, the keeping everyone at a distance and burying myself in work, are hard to let go.

  Nathan and Daniel come up the walkway with their arms full. They’re already laughing together. My husband has a way of making friends in seconds. I love that about him. One of my assignments is to tell Daniel the things I admire in his character rather than holding them back. I shift Carlie to my hip and send myself a text so I’ll remember this detail.

  Inside, the house actually seems smaller than I had expected. T
he space is clean and uncluttered. A tiny living room extends from the dining room. Though the house itself is simple and ordinary, the furniture is exquisite. The table is rustic, natural, and filled with character. I run a hand over the sanded top, feeling the grooves and textures of the wood.

  Carlie leans from my arms and mimics my motion.

  “This is a beautiful table, isn’t it Miss Carlie?”

  Her face bursts to life with the most precious one-toothed grin.

  Daniel sets a box down. “You’re right about that.” He leans over, inspecting the craftsmanship. “This is quality.” Standing, he knocks a fist on the surface. “Nathan, where did you get this piece?”

  The young man takes his daughter into his arms like a child would hold a blanket for comfort. “It’s mine. Just something I put together for Bridgett.” His gaze remains on Carlie.

  Daniel turns toward him. “This is incredible. Have you made anything else?”

  I can see by the passion in my husband’s eyes that his Thanksgiving attention is lost for the time being. “Why don’t you two talk wood, and I’ll get going on dinner?”

  Daniel winks at me, and it sends a pleasant shiver through my body.

  “Are you sure that’s okay?” Nathan asks.

  “No problem. I’ll holler if I need anything.”

  Nathan leads my husband out a door on the other side of the dining room.

  The first thing I do is take in the tiny kitchen and evaluate the best plan of attack. The turkey is wrapped in a roaster I plug in to keep it warm and give the skin that perfect brown color. This takes up a great deal of the meager counter space.

  I’ve brought a variety of tablecloths, not knowing what size the table would be, but now that I see it, I decide to abandon that plan and simply set it with placemats. On these I stack two plates, the top slightly smaller, and drape the middle with a maroon cloth napkin. In the center of that, I place a perfect pear. With the added touches of crystal glasses, real silver utensils, and a centerpiece designed with tiny pumpkins and gourds, the table goes from beautiful to elegant.

  Standing back, I take in the scene I’ve created. I have no idea how many people are coming, so I’ve probably over-set the table, but it’s lovely. There’s just one thing missing. From the box on the floor I pull the handwritten card that will sit in the middle of the centerpiece. It reads: It’s not the décor. It’s not the food. It’s the love that makes a family.

  I remove Nathan’s turkey from the oven. It’s still nearly raw, no way it will be done in time. Just as I put the potatoes in to heat and remove the plastic wrap from the last of the side dishes, Daniel and Nathan walk back into the room.

  “I’m sorry we were gone so long.” Nathan’s smile shines bright on his face. “How can I help?”

  Carlie is nestled in Daniel’s arms now. She reaches up and runs her hand over the stubble on his cheek. That man will make a fine grandfather someday. “Vicky, that table is perfect. You’re amazing.”

  “I hope Bridgett will like it. She really touched my heart. I want her to feel blessed.”

  The door swings open. “Nathan, I’m home.” Bridgett doesn’t look up. She pulls off her coat and hangs it in the closet then heads to the kitchen, pulling her apron off the hook as she turns and freezes.

  “What’s this? Did you do this?” She finally notices the four of us standing side by side. Her mouth drops open.

  “Surprise,” I say. “I hope this is more helpful than that ridiculous advice I gave you on the airplane.”

  Bridgett covers her mouth with one hand. Her eyes brim with tears. “I’ve been up for twenty hours. It was all I could do to get home. I thought Thanksgiving was ruined. I kept begging God for a miracle.” She steps closer to me. “Why did you do this?”

  I can’t answer her. It’s too deep, and I’m too grateful for the privilege of this day. Instead I pull her into my arms and love her. This woman I didn’t even know was the beginning of my trip home. How can I thank her?

  “What time are you expecting your company?” I ask.

  She steps back and looks at the clock. “Oh no. Nathan’s parents and brother will be here in less than an hour.”

  “That’s perfect. You go get cleaned up, and I’ll put on some coffee.”

  She squeezes my hand, her eyes sparkling and alert, then takes off down the hall after kissing Nathan and taking Carlie.

  In the corner, Daniel and Nathan bend over a wood-crafted end table.

  Within ten minutes the earthy scent of coffee mixes with the Thanksgiving smells. Bridgett is back, her hair tied up in a loose bun. Carlie has been changed into a ruffled dress which she pulls up and chews. I’ve packed up the extras in a box, ready to take back to the car. “Daniel, are you ready?”

  He nudges Nathan. “Just about. I’m trying to get Nathan here to give me a chance as a boss. He’s a great craftsman. I could use him on the team.”

  Now I see where God was going with this, and I’m even more grateful to have been blessed to be here. “I think that sounds wonderful.”

  Nathan beams. “What do you think, Bridgett?”

  She walks into his arms. “I think that’s perfect.”

  A hard knock sounds at the door and breaks the celebration.

  Bridgett’s face grows serious. “That’s them.”

  “So early? I wanted to be out of the way first.” I take Daniel’s hand and we step back into the kitchen. I don’t want to be the first thing they see.

  “Happy Thanksgiving.” Bridgett’s voice has a hint of nerves in it. “Thank you for having us. I see you’ve set the table.” A woman with a tight bun and fluffed bangs steps into the dining room. “Interesting. No table cloth.”

  “I think it’s perfect, Mom. Let me take your coat,” Nathan says.

  “It’s the little touches that are important not to forget. At least that’s how I was raised.”

  I step forward. “That’s an interesting perspective. Though I believe what’s truly important is the way a mother loves her family.”

  The woman turns to see me. Her eyes round, and there’s no doubt that even in my recovering state, she recognizes my face.

  “Bridgett is such a treasure, don’t you think?” I tilt my head.

  “Well, certainly.” The woman wrings her hands, her forehead tense with woven lines.

  “Bridgett, I have an opening for an assistant. I hope you’ll consider applying. And since Nathan is working with Daniel, it would allow you to spend more time together. Of course, that’s only if you’re interested in a new career.”

  “You want Bridgett working for you?” The woman raises an eyebrow. “You’re Victoria Cambridge, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Bridgett, you give it some thought and call me after the holidays. We’ve got to get home to our kids and our Thanksgiving.” I give Bridgett a hug.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she whispers in my ear.

  “It’s not a favor. I really want you there. And bring Carlie.” I step back.

  Daniel and Nathan work out a few details for the next week.

  Outside the air is cool. Daniel puts his arm around me as we walk to the SUV.

  JENNA

  By the time Mark gets out of bed, I’ve written a scene, taken the dog for a three-mile walk, and flung open all the blinds in our house, letting in the bright morning sun. Next week we’ll move the clocks forward, and I’ll miss this time outside before the rest of the neighborhood wakes.

  Ireland left two weeks ago. Her trip to our home was extended not because of her injuries, but because Mark and I really enjoyed having her here. I think Ireland enjoyed it too. I miss her, but we have new adventures on the horizon, and the three of us have to keep moving forward.

  “Hey there, Sunshine.” Mark shakes his hair still wet from the shower. “How about meeting me at the school for lunch today?”

  “Can’t. I have a writer’s lunch.” A shiver runs up my spine. I still can’t believe I’m a writer. When the article I wrote was
accepted by a national magazine, it legitimized what I’ve been doing since the adventure. And the check didn’t hurt either. Secretly, I copied it and have the image tucked into my right-hand desk drawer.

  “Great. I guess that’s more important than lunch with the old husband.” He plants a kiss on my cheek and ruffles my sweaty hair. “I’m proud of you.”

  I know he is. And it’s not because I’m writing the story of our time in the wilderness. I think Mark is truly proud of me for coming back to him after all the years of drifting further away.

  I’m proud too.

  Last week I spoke at a women’s retreat. Me. The timid one. The woman who hated to even leave her home. I talked to the group about the value God places on each of our lives and how the devil tries to steal the security we have by realizing how precious we are. I told my story, all of it, and I wasn’t rejected. I was revived.

  Chapter 32

  IRELAND

  In the courtyard behind the vacant house, I elevate my feet on the edge of a brick fire pit. Closing my eyes, I envision the scene to come. Girls gathered around with marshmallows browning over hot coals. Their laughter filling the space between young women who came here as strangers and will leave as sisters.

  The house is not the same as the old Emery House. Emery 2.0, as I refer to it when I talk with Jenna and Vicky, is smaller, a touch more quaint. There are thirty beds in the sleeping porch, a vast change from the original house with its fifty bunks. We’ve managed to obtain the historical mementos from the original Emery. Tonight we’ll hang portraits from all the years past. And this place will take on the memories from the old house.

  I don’t walk the short way from here to my new office. That path leads past the Emery of my youth. It’s been stripped to the studs inside, soon to become, of all things, office space. The university’s plans to tear it down and build a sky-high dorm have been put on hold. For how long, I have no idea.

  I tip my head back and let the end of summer sun warm my skin. The fragrance of blooming jasmine floats over me. And I breathe deep from the life I have here, dreaming of the newness of what is still to come.