Someday

by Karen Kingsbury

  It was colder today, and snow was in the forecast for the first time that winter. The weather experts were calling for a white Christmas and more snow than in recent years. Ashley was glad. She loved the idea of being in front of the Baxter fireplace, celebrating Christmas with everyone gathered in one place.

  Carefully, because the contents were the closest thing to having her mother here with her, she lifted the lid off the box and pulled the scrapbook out and onto her lap. She had known the book would contain her mother’s letters, but she hadn’t expected the photographs.

  She had many pictures of her mother, and over the years she’d scanned them into her computer so she had a digital library of the most precious ones. But it had been months since she’d looked through them. So here, laid out on the cover of the scrapbook, they gripped her heart in a way that caught her off guard.

  There was a photo of her mother pushing her on a swing at the park and another of Ashley and her side by side, pulling weeds from the flower garden behind the Baxter house. The garden was still there, and her father was diligent about keeping the weeds at bay.

  Her eyes shifted to the next picture, one of Ashley and her mother at a corner of the old kitchen table, two cups of tea in front of them, the teapot her mother loved placed between them. Of all the pictures of them, she would forever be grateful to her father for taking this one. Sometimes the everyday moments in life were the ones no one captured with a camera.

  But because of this very picture, Ashley would always have a vivid memory of the way she and her mother would gather so often over tea, the way they used that time to talk about the struggles that were so prevalent for Ashley—at least through her early twenties. She smiled at the picture. What would she have done without her mother back then?

  The next picture was of her mom cradling baby Cole. She was sitting in her rocking chair, and Ashley was crouched down on one side. Her mother had her arm around Ashley’s shoulders, her body language giving a very clear message. This is my daughter, no matter what her past mistakes. And this is her child, whom I love with all my heart.

  Ashley studied her son’s face, the way it had looked years ago. How long would it be before he forgot about his grandma Baxter? He still talked about her, still referred to her being happy in heaven or taking care of Sarah. But he would be ten before they knew it, and then fifteen, and then a senior in high school. The years would fly by, and his grandmother would be merely a fading light from his boyhood days.

  It was why Ashley was sad about turning the calendar pages, about welcoming in a new year. Because it placed one more day between the reality of her mom and the memory of her.

  Ashley bit her lip and opened the front cover. The first letter was one she remembered. A letter of joy and love and congratulations because after a year of virtually no contact with her family, Ashley had returned from Paris. She tried to imagine how she’d feel if Cole deserted them after graduation. If he jetted off to a foreign country and came back having compromised himself and his faith. Would she have the grace to write such a letter of love to him only a week after his return?

  She read the letter again and knew the answer instinctively. Yes, she would have the grace because her mother had extended that same grace to her. Funny, because from what she’d gathered from her dad, her mother hadn’t been given the same grace by her own mother.

  But then, she’d had the love of John Baxter. And that had made all the difference.

  One by one Ashley read through the letters, finding treasures and bits of wisdom she’d never seen before and cherishing the familiar notes or letters she’d read when she found the box in her father’s closet. Along the way she cried because of the tenderness of her mother and because with her words so alive in Ashley’s heart, it made the missing almost unbearable.

  At one point, she stopped and sipped her tea. Then, with her free hand, she reached out to the empty spot beside her and willed herself to remember what it was like when her mother had sat there. Her mother would’ve wept over the death of Sarah, and she would’ve made certain to spend extra time with Ashley just to be sure she was surviving the loss.

  Ashley grabbed a few quick breaths and lifted her eyes to the painting a few feet away. That was the only comfort, really. The fact that the painting wasn’t some sort of dreamy notion. It was reality. Her mother and her daughter truly were together in heaven. Cole had seen them there, the way only a child can see things.

  Over the next half hour she finished reading the book. She made a point of reminding herself that next time it might be better to take the collection in small sections so she could savor each letter. With tender care, she closed the cover and eased the book back into its safe place inside the box. She covered it with the lid and finished her tea.

  With that, she returned once more to her painting, and again the image of the playroom came to mind. Only this time the details were clearer than before, and Ashley realized something strange. The playroom wasn’t the one set up at their current house. It was bigger and full of a sort of love and history that they hadn’t yet attained there.

  A gasp slid across Ashley’s lips, and she brought her fingers to her mouth. Suddenly she knew exactly what room she was seeing. It was big, with full light from the westerly windows. Of course, it wasn’t possible that she’d ever see the image the way it looked in her mind, because sometime next summer the old place was going on the market. Her father was moving on, and the rest of them would have to move on with him. No more creek behind the house, no more frog pond or path around the house. No more garden with more fragrant memories than flowers.

  Even still, the image shone in her heart and soul, vivid because it was the place where she and her siblings had played and done puzzles and learned to write their alphabet. If only the picture could be a sign of things to come, a sign that somehow their father would change his mind and hold on to the place. Because the brilliant picture in her mind wasn’t at her current house at all. It was downstairs.

  In the house that—even after it was sold—would forever belong to the Baxters.

  The only contact Dayne had managed with Katy was two messages—one from him to her and one from her in response. Now it was the twelfth of December, and he’d had a talk with the film’s director. When the filming on location ended in less than a week, he would need to return to Bloomington until after Christmas. The Los Angeles work could wait until January. Otherwise he was pulling out.

  “Dayne . . .” The director seemed stunned by his request. “I didn’t realize things were so bad.”

  “They are.” Dayne wasn’t as worried as before, but still . . . until he had some time with Katy, there was no telling what she was thinking. Even with the truth about the picture in hand, Katy might have convinced herself that she couldn’t stand the scrutiny or the pressure of being married to him.

  The director didn’t hesitate. He’d called a break so Randi could attend her mother’s funeral. Certainly he could call off further production until after the holidays. “Just get things figured out, okay?” He patted Dayne on the shoulder. “I know how tough this business can be on the home life.”

  Now Dayne was piling a plate full of fruit and sliced lunch meat, ready for some solitude on the beach during the lunch break, when one of the gofers hurried toward him with a package in his hands.

  “Mr. Matthews!” The young guy seemed anxious to catch Dayne before he walked away with his plate of food. “Wait up!”

  Dayne stopped and allowed him time to arrive with the package. “For me?”

  “Yes.” The kid grinned, as if making an important delivery to Dayne Matthews was the highlight of his day. “It’s marked urgent.”

  “Thanks.” For a moment, Dayne wished he had more time. He would’ve liked to ask the guy’s name and how he’d wound up working the shoot. Maybe encourage him to enjoy his anonymity while he still had the chance—provided he was aiming for a career on the screen, like most of the young people on the set.

  The
package was heavier than Dayne expected, but he was still able to tuck it under his arm, carry his plate of food, and move down the beach to the chair he’d set up beneath a palm tree. By now it was understood among the cast and crew that Dayne Matthews ate his meals alone. Not because he thought too highly of himself or because he couldn’t be bothered to mix with the rest of the cast. But because his personal life demanded he find peace somewhere. Even if it was only during a lunch break between scenes.

  He set his plate on the sand and rested the package on his bare knees. Even in December, the weather this far south was warm and inviting. Shorts and a T-shirt were still the only wardrobe any of the guys needed.

  He checked the return address and saw that the package was from his father. He ripped open the mailer and pulled out a box from inside. Dayne knit his brow, confused. Was his father sending his Christmas present two weeks early? And all the way to Cabo, Mexico? It seemed unlikely.

  Dayne lifted the cover off the box, and what he saw melted his heart in as much time as it took to draw his next breath. Inside was a scrapbook, and on the front were two pictures of Elizabeth Baxter.

  A small note was attached to the top corner of the book: Thought you could use this now rather than later. Love you, Dad.

  Even with all he’d been through, this wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with. His father’s love for him spread through his chest and filled him with warmth and assurance. How incredible to think that thousands of miles away in Bloomington, the busy John Baxter had taken time from his own life to put together this book.

  With his inability to reach Katy eating at him a little more each hour, this gift couldn’t have come at a better time. Dayne didn’t have to open the front cover to know that much. Still, he could hardly wait to see what was inside. He lifted the book and moved the box to the sand on the other side of his chair.

  Dayne opened the front cover and there, protected by sheer plastic, was an original letter, handwritten and addressed to:

  My dearest firstborn, my son . . .

  Dayne’s heart hesitated and then skittered into a strange rhythm. What was this? He gently pulled the letter from the protective sleeve and looked past the first page to the signature at the end. It was signed simply, Your mother, Elizabeth Baxter.

  What? Dayne’s head spun and he stared at the letter, not believing it was possible. Then, slowly, a memory took shape. When Ashley found him, the first time she called to make contact, she’d told him something about a letter. Yes, a letter that their mother had written to him. In the excitement of meeting his family and connecting with each of his siblings, Dayne had forgotten about the letter.

  Until this very moment.

  He sucked in a quick breath and returned to the beginning of the letter. It occurred to him that these were the pages Elizabeth had held; the ink on the page was ink she had placed there. Somewhere years ago, she had taken the time to sit down and put her feelings into words. And now those words would remain with him forever, one of his greatest treasures.

  He started at the beginning, reading the first line once more.

  My dearest firstborn, my son,

  If you are reading this, then you have found me. Or you have at least found the others. Son, I have prayed for the chance to tell you this information in person, but time is running out. I can’t go peacefully to be with the Lord until I make every effort to reach you. Even if the only way I can do that is through this letter.

  Your father and I have thought about you with every passing year. Every birthday and Christmas, the fall when you must’ve started school, the year you would’ve graduated. You were always in our hearts, just a mention away. We had no choice about what happened, dear son. My parents sent me away, and a woman took you from me even when I screamed for her to bring you back. This is the part you must know. We never wanted to give you up. Never.

  Dayne stopped and looked out at the gulf. How must Ashley have felt after reading those two paragraphs? She and the others had gone all their lives not knowing about him, and then—in the time it took to read the beginning of a single letter—everything about her life and the lives of all the Baxters changed suddenly and permanently. He found his place and rubbed his thumb absently over the slightly faded paper.

  After you were gone, they told me to forget about you. They said I’d be better off if I convinced myself you had never been born. Your father and I prayed that you would be adopted by a Christian family, people who would raise you to share the faith that has always been so important to us. We tried to convince ourselves that you belonged to God, that He had found a family for you, and that somehow the social workers had been right. You were never ours in the first place. But we were wrong. My deepest regret in all my life is that I didn’t fight harder to keep you.

  Her deepest regret? He read the words again and a third time. If he and Katy didn’t fight harder for their marriage, the words could be his someday. His deepest regret would be that he didn’t fight harder to keep the woman he loved. If these were the only words from his mother, written specifically for him, then he needed to gain whatever wisdom he could from them. She hadn’t intended that last statement to apply to his marriage, thirty-some years later. But it did. He began reading once more.

  The way you felt in my arms the day you were born is something I will never forget. Your fuzzy blond hair and blue eyes, wide and alert, as if you knew our time was short. I didn’t think I’d ever know that feeling again, the warm weight of my newborn son against my chest. But God gave us more children. Five more. And last of all He gave us a son, a boy we named Luke.

  A strange feeling stirred in Dayne’s heart. He forgave Luke, and even with the frustrating lack of communication with Katy, he couldn’t hate his brother over what had happened. Still, who would’ve thought that decades after Elizabeth wrote this letter, it would be Luke who would wind up causing him such pain, such damaging hurt? He dismissed the thought.

  Watching Luke grow up has always filled my heart with a mix of joy and sorrow. Because he looked just like you. When he turned one and learned to walk, I knew what you would’ve looked like as a toddler. It was the same when he lost a tooth and learned to ride a bike and graduated from high school. Every milestone was a reminder of all I’d lost with you. All I’d missed.

  And so I’ve begged God for just one thing. That somehow in the midst of my final days I might have the chance to see you again, to hold you one more time. One last time.

  Sadness and gratitude mixed and flooded his soul. God had answered Elizabeth’s prayer, because against all odds he had found his mother’s hospital room. They’d shared only an hour, but he had indeed hugged her and told her the answers to the questions she had. It was then that she’d told him the importance of faith and how very much she wanted him to know the love of their Savior. So they could share eternity together.

  There was no going back, no undoing the past or living it over again. But if there had been, Dayne was certain he and Elizabeth would’ve been very close. The way they felt in the brief time they shared together. He looked at the pages in his hand again. She talked about hoping he had been placed in a warm, loving home and about her curiosity over whether he had a wife and kids.

  Then she talked about the first time she had cancer.

  I was sick one other time, and I tried to find you. The records were sealed, and we were turned away. So I know that it’ll take a miracle now, but that’s okay. The God we serve is in the miracle business. Our lives have been a testimony to that.

  My prayer for you is that you would know God, that you would have a relationship with Him. Also that you would know the love of family—our family. You might belong to other people, but you will always belong here with us too. Because whenever I think of my precious children, I don’t see five—I see six. I always will. I love you, Son. If I don’t get the chance to hold you here, then I have to believe God will let me hold you in heaven. And there we won’t ever have to say good-bye again.

  Your mo
ther,

  Elizabeth Baxter

  For a while Dayne remained still, staring at the pages, trying to imagine the way she might’ve looked when she wrote these words to him. He flipped through the book and saw that it was a collection of letters—each of them from Elizabeth and written to her children, of whom he was one.

  Then, careful not to damage the pages, he slipped the letter back into the plastic sheet and closed the book. He couldn’t look at another page, not now, when his heart was so consumed by the words he’d just read.

  He set the book back inside the box and covered it with the lid. His food forgotten, he walked out toward the surf, his eyes on the horizon. A part at the end of her letter stood out. The part about their God being in the miracle business. It was something he’d heard his siblings say often in the few years he’d known them, and he realized what a gift they’d been given. All of them, and him most of all because his adoptive parents had loved the Lord also. As a result, they’d had parents who believed the truth—that with Christ all things were possible.

  It was one of the first Bible verses Bob had told him to memorize. “You’ll come up against some tough times in life. That’s when you have to know the truth. With God all things are possible.”

  God was still working miracles. That’s why all things were possible.

  He’d seen proof of that even in the last two weeks. First with the phone call from Luke, exonerating Dayne fully and completely from the unfaithfulness the world had accused him of. And even in the change he’d seen in Randi. She was a different person since her mother’s funeral. They’d talked about it once, over another beachside barbecue at the end of a day of filming.

  She’d taken the place across from him, and at first he’d tensed up, scanning the beach for cameramen.