Remember

by Karen Kingsbury; Karen Kingsbury

  Lying there behind her, it was all Luke could do to concentrate. This is okay, isn’t it, Lord?

  The words that flashed in Luke’s mind were less than comforting. Flee! Scram! Get home fast!

  Luke let them go. He couldn’t think of one reason why he and Reagan couldn’t spend an hour stretched out on the sofa watching a football game. Come on, Baxter. A stifled sigh worked its way between his clenched teeth. Focus on the game. He lowered his brow and tried to make sense of the halftime report. But all he could think about was the way his feet felt wrapped around hers, the way her body gently rose and fell with every breath. He wondered if she was feeling the same thing.

  When the game started again, Luke knew he couldn’t lie there another minute. Easing Reagan forward, he bounced up off the sofa, grabbed a cup of water from the kitchen, and returned to his original spot.

  Reagan flashed him a grin. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  “It’s okay.” He lifted her feet back to his lap. “I can handle being squished.”

  The Giants tied the game at fourteen early in the third quarter. “I knew this was their year! I’m telling you, it’s Ryan! He’s the difference!” Luke hooted out loud, jumping to his feet and nearly knocking Reagan on the floor. “Go, Giants!” Luke pumped his fist in the air. “Look out, Super Bowl!”

  “It’s a tie game.” Reagan glanced at the television. “I wouldn’t celebrate yet.”

  Reagan proved to be right. The Broncos scored seventeen unanswered points, and midway through the fourth quarter a Giants’ win looked out of reach.

  By then, Reagan had dozed off and Luke was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa. He looked at his watch. It was later than he thought. I should go home. He turned around and faced Reagan, brushing a lock of hair off her face. Just turn off the television, kiss Reagan good night, and leave.

  But then what about the Giants? They still had time to pull ahead, didn’t they? Luke stood and stretched. The floor was a lot harder than the sofa. Besides, Reagan wouldn’t mind if he joined her. She was asleep, after all. What could happen?

  Careful not to wake her, he crawled over her sleeping form and stretched out behind her again on the sofa. The movement was enough to make Reagan stir. She uttered something that didn’t quite make sense; then in one graceful motion she rolled onto her other side, face-to-face with Luke.

  His heart pounded out a strange rhythm. “Reagan,” he whispered, “maybe you should go to bed. The Giants are losing, anyway.”

  “Hmmm.” Reagan did a few slow blinks and then squinted at him. “You still watching the game?”

  “Umm.” Still watching the game? He could barely remember to breathe. “Trying to.”

  “Know what?” Her voice was sleepy. Luke had never seen her like this, in that not-quite-awake, dreamy state. Something about it made her unbelievably attractive.

  “What?” He traced a finger along her chin.

  “You’re cute.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Luke felt like he was being torn in two. Part of him wanted to bolt off the sofa, grab his keys, and head home before he did something stupid. The other half wanted only to erase the few inches that separated them and kiss her the way he was dying to do. “You’re not bad yourself.”

  “I kinda like this. You know, lying here with you.”

  That was it. Luke couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Couldn’t come up with a single reason why he shouldn’t kiss her. They were in love with each other, after all. What harm could one kiss do?

  He slipped an arm around her waist and with little effort pulled her closer. She eased onto her back, leaving his face hovering above hers. When their lips met, the feeling shot fire the length of Luke’s body.

  “Luke . . .” She pushed back into the sofa, separating them for a moment. Her eyes searched his, frightened, unsure. “We can’t.”

  “It’s okay, Reagan.” He glanced at the television. “The game’s almost over. I’ll go home then.”

  Luke knew it was a lie as soon as it came from his mouth. But still they kept kissing, crossing one line after another until neither of them noticed when the game ended. They barely noticed five minutes later when the phone rang. By then things were way out of control. Luke couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.

  And he certainly didn’t want to.

  The answering machine picked up, and Tom Decker’s voice came on the line. “Reagan? Honey, you home?” There was a pause.

  “Tomorrow . . .” Reagan kissed Luke again. She was breathless, trapped in the moment. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  The voice on the machine continued. “Oh, well. Just called to commiserate with you over the sad loss tonight. But hey, don’t count the Giants out. You know, I was thinking—one of these weekends Mom and I should fly out and visit. The three of us could rent bikes or check out the shops. Let’s plan it, okay?” He chuckled. “Anyway, call me tomorrow. Love you, honey.”

  There was a beeping sound, and the machine turned off.

  “Reagan.” Luke’s voice was a whisper. He thought about standing up, getting away before they did something they’d both regret. The phone call had pulled him back to his senses. He had no doubt where they were headed. If they didn’t stop, there would be no turning back. “I have to go.”

  But before he could even try, she kissed him again, moving her face alongside his, drawing him closer.

  “Not yet. Just a little while longer.”

  Luke closed his eyes. He felt as if he were falling from a cliff. Help me here, God!

  Now’s your chance, son. Run! Flee!

  Luke heard the quiet voice echo in the corridors of his soul. “Okay.” He uttered the word as he kissed the side of Reagan’s face, her neck, her throat. “Just a few more minutes.”

  But a few minutes became ten, and ten became thirty. It was nearly midnight when Luke got dressed and left the apartment. He was numb from what had happened, shocked. But as he pulled out of the parking lot, he wasn’t thinking about Reagan or the consequences of their night together.

  He was thinking about his sister Ashley.

  The two of them had shared so much as kids. But everything had changed when Ashley came home from Paris, pregnant and defiant. She had made a mockery of all their parents had taught them, everything God’s Word taught. And as a result, Luke had lost all respect for her.

  But now, as he drove home, tears spilling onto his cheeks, Luke understood his sister. Once more they had everything in common, just like when they were kids. Because in one reckless hour he’d done the same thing Ashley had done.

  In fact, he’d become just like her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ashley rarely worked the night shift.

  But that Monday she’d agreed to fill in, and now that Irvel and the others were asleep, Ashley was glad she had. The quiet hours alone would give her time to work on her files.

  Over the past few weeks, Ashley had put together a special file on each of the residents at Sunset Hills. Her goal was simple: to learn the stories of their lives—people they’d loved, activities they’d enjoyed, jobs they’d held. Maybe if she knew more about them, she’d find something that would shine a light of understanding on their behavior.

  She’d already spent hours interviewing family members and friends. Anyone who visited was fair game, and she had made a number of phone calls as well. Ashley would question them, prod them, encourage them to remember. Each detail she learned was added to the appropriate person’s file. And scrap by colorful scrap Ashley had collected enough to piece together a patchwork picture of each resident’s life.

  So far, the files were fascinating. Ashley studied them one at a time, looking for themes and trying to understand what had happened in decades gone by.

  Edith’s file told the story of a young girl, lonely and isolated. Raised in a wealthy family, Edith had been known for her gentle spirit and her beauty. Last week one of Edith’s granddaughters had even provided Ashley with a photograph taken on Edith�
�s eighteenth birthday—the same year she had been crowned queen of the Ohio State Fair.

  Ashley studied the photograph. There was no question about it—young Edith was one of the most gorgeous girls Ashley had ever seen. Sadly, Edith’s later life had been less beautiful. She had married a high-profile modeling agent and given him two sons. Ten years later, he had run off with a younger woman, leaving her to raise the boys by herself.

  Even then, Edith’s looks were her greatest asset. She graced the covers of a dozen magazines and starred in several print ads to pay the bills. There was no shortage of men over the years—men looking to rescue her, sweep her off her feet, and give her the life they felt she longed for. But after her first husband’s betrayal, Edith apparently had no desire to marry again. Her heart had already been broken. It was in no condition to give to another man.

  Years passed, and Edith’s sons had grown. They’d married lovely girls and moved away, one to California and the other to Washington. Every few years they’d visited, but otherwise Edith had lived alone. Alzheimer’s had set in early for Edith, not long after her sixtieth birthday. At age sixty-four, she was by far the youngest resident at Sunset Hills.

  Ashley had called Edith’s sons long distance for most of the information. A granddaughter who lived in the area visited on occasion. But none of them could figure out why Edith screamed.

  Ashley studied the file again, trying to make sense of the mystery. The answer had to lie somewhere in Edith’s past. But where? Had she been hurt or abused by one of her male friends? Had she witnessed some terrible crime or suffered a dramatic bit of bad news? Whatever it was, she seemed to remember it only in the bathroom. And what about her claim to have seen a witch? How did that fit in?

  Ashley flipped to the next file. Helen’s was fairly straightforward. She’d been plain and square-looking, with a functional marriage to Sue’s father, a gruff, noncommunicative man. But without question, Helen’s world had revolved around her only daughter. The two of them shared their deepest dreams, stayed up late reading or playing cards, and several times a year they had taken trips together—all the things Helen’s husband wasn’t interested in doing.

  The hardest day of Helen’s life was when Sue accepted a marriage proposal from a Navy man. In less than a year, Sue married and moved to Hawaii. At loose ends without her daughter, Helen went back to school and became a librarian. She looked forward to Sue’s occasional visits and worked at her job in the library until she retired twenty years later.

  By then, Sue and her husband had moved back to Indiana. But it was too late. Helen was already forgetting how to get home after a day out shopping, already drawing a blank when Sue would call about a lunch they’d planned.

  The disease moved quickly for Helen. A year after Sue moved home, Helen was placed in Sunset Hills.

  Ashley looked back over her notes on Helen once more. There was still no explanation for the woman’s angry outbursts, the way she slammed doors and pounded her fists. And no way to understand why Helen recognized an old picture of her daughter, but not the woman Sue had become.

  Bert’s file held only the bare details from his life. His only living child was a son who ran a dairy farm in Wisconsin and apparently had no trouble paying the monthly cost of keeping Bert at Sunset Hills. Ashley had called the son, but the man had been too busy to get into a deep conversation.

  “Does your father remember you?” Ashley had asked the man.

  She’d written his answer in the back of Bert’s file: “I have no idea if Dad remembers me or not. When I visit, he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t notice I’m even in the room. To tell you the truth, ma’am, I’ve considered him dead for years.”

  The facts on Bert’s past life were sketchy. He had grown up on a farm, married a girl he’d known all his life, and spent his adult years working with horses. Until ten years ago, Bert’s son had been his right-hand man.

  After Bert developed Alzheimer’s disease, his son moved him to a nursing home in Wisconsin. Then Bert’s sister, who lived in Bloomington, recommended Sunset Hills. She promised to visit him several times a week—a promise she kept until three years ago, when she died suddenly in her sleep.

  Not long after that, Bert began circling.

  Ashley opened the file on Laura Jo. It contained the least information of all. The comment that Ashley felt best about was one spoken by her granddaughter: “Grandma is resting now, finished with all that God’s given her in this life. She has loved much and lost much. But she is at peace with her Savior; she’s ready to go home.”

  Laura Jo was the one resident at Sunset Hills who wasn’t a mystery. Her granddaughter’s words said it all.

  Ashley had saved Irvel’s file for last. It told the story of a happy young girl who was the darling of her parents’ life.

  Always surrounded by friends, Irvel had been social from the moment she started school in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Though she dated other boys, she was knocked off her feet her junior year by Hank Heidenreich.

  A blond, blue-eyed senior, Hank had moved to their area that year and immediately become popular with the girls. But that didn’t matter much to Hank. From the moment he met her, he had eyes for Irvel alone.

  The two of them quickly became an “item” and remained inseparable until World War II put them on different continents. He came home on crutches, a bullet lodged in his knee. The following spring, he and Irvel married.

  As far as Ashley could tell, Irvel and Hank’s life together was as full as any could get. Decade after decade their love grew stronger, until it seemed they might go on that way forever. Then, three children and forty-five years after their wedding, doctors noticed a dark spot on an X ray of Hank’s lung.

  Nine months later he was dead.

  Ashley didn’t need relatives or a file to understand what motivated Irvel. Hank was everything to her, just as he always had been. No matter that time had marched on. Irvel was stuck somewhere back in the days when her beloved husband was young and vibrant, back when he fished with the boys and spent evenings telling her about his adventures. With Alzheimer’s, every hour found Irvel lost in the past, reliving the happy times.

  And why not? Was it really better, healthier, for Irvel to be constantly mindful of her true place and position? Would waking each day to the reality of Hank’s absence make her happier in these, her last days? Ashley was certain it would not. In this, at least, she had to agree with the pastor quoted in the Internet article. Distant memories were God’s way of being merciful to those afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease.

  Yet Belinda was still determined to follow protocol, still bent on staring Irvel down and pounding the truth into her head. “Hank’s dead, Irvel—fifteen years now. Get over it.” Ashley cringed at the memory. Each time Belinda reminded her, Irvel reacted as though she were hearing the news for the first time.

  The poor dear.

  Ashley’s favorite part of Irvel’s file was the comment section in the back, the place where she wrote observations rather than facts—special things visitors had noted. Ashley read over Irvel’s list slowly:

  • Irvel and Hank were like two hands on the same person. The bond between them was such that you simply knew they were connected.

  • Hank and Irvel’s love was rare even in their day. They were a walking definition of how marriage is supposed to be.

  • Everyone envied that special something Irvel and Hank shared. When one breathed in, the other drew life.

  • Most everyone I know grieved for Irvel the day Hank died. When his heart quit, most of us were surprised hers kept beating. They were that close.

  Ashley sighed.

  What would it be like to know that kind of love—to live it every day the rest of her life? She stood and returned the files to their place in the hall closet. It was hard to believe that one day she’d be old like Irvel and her friends, maybe unable to remember whole decades of her past. Would she scream like Edith or pound her fist like Helen? Would she w
aste away in an adult care facility, waiting to die, or take up some strange habit like Bert?

  Ashley hoped she’d be like Irvel—easing through her final years on the fuel of a love whose power knew no limits. Pleasant and social and happy with life—at least, the parts she could remember.

  Was it possible that somewhere down the river of time, someone would put together a file on Ashley’s life? If so, it would include Cole and her parents and her paintings. And maybe, just maybe, the name of a firefighter whose depth of love she was only beginning to understand. A man who honored her in a way that made Paris seem like a million years ago.

  A man named Landon Blake.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On the morning of September 11, Kari woke to her usual routine. She fed Jessie, laid her out on a blanket, and did her Bible study. The Scripture passage that morning was a familiar one from 1 John: “The Spirit who lives in you is greater than the spirit who lives in the world.”

  Kari thought of all the times when that verse had applied to her—whenever she struggled with choosing God’s ways over her own, and certainly when she felt discouraged. But this verse had become particularly precious over the past year, when evil seemed to surround her—first Tim’s affair, then his murder, and even the temptation of being with Ryan back then.

  There was no question that at times evil appeared to be winning the battle in Kari’s life. How good it was, then, to fall back on God’s promise that he was greater than the greatest evil. To realize, as Pastor Mark often said, that God wins. Period.

  At times when Kari’s grief felt overwhelming, the message of the verse from 1 John was an anchor that wouldn’t budge. God was greater, no matter how bad things got, no matter how awful or evil or frightening.

  God wins. It was that simple.

  Kari worked through the questions in the study. Finally, at 8:50 she closed her Bible and stared down at Jessie, who had fallen asleep on the floor. Kari wasn’t surprised; her morning naps usually began about this time.