“Just more things to file in the ‘flaky’ category,” Vera assured him.
She caught his skeptical look and laughed. “Seriously, forget I said anything. Go on, get out of here.” She shooed him toward the elevator, laughing.
When Michael had reopened the subject of Cynthia Harper with Vera after his encounter with Gerald Stoddard in Springfield, they had agreed there wasn’t enough evidence to warrant an investigation. The issue had seemingly died then. But now, even the slight hesitation in Vera’s voice troubled him. He wished he didn’t trust her discernment so much. It would be much easier to write off his growing apprehension to a slightly paranoid director of nursing.
Nevertheless, he let the older woman’s assurances now persuade him. He knew she would have told him if it was anything truly urgent.
As soon as Michael had convinced himself he could afford to take the time away from work, he'd known he would go to Springfield. To his family—to the parents who loved him, the sisters who could console him as no one else could. For a wistful moment, he longed for the sage advice his grandparents might have offered.
He had not told anyone he was coming. He didn’t trust his voice on the phone. The hurt was still too raw, the wound too tender.
He wasn’t yet sure what he would tell them when he got there. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to say anything. Perhaps he just needed to be with them, to bask in an atmosphere of unconditional love, and then the answer would come. God would reveal what his next step should be.
He drove on, deliberately recalling everything Claire had told him about himself. . . everything about the part of his past that inexorably connected him to her. Strange that such a profound bond was ripping them apart instead of knitting them together.
This forced remembrance of his childhood dredged up other painful memories. Murky recollections of a dark-haired woman lying on a dirty couch. He tried to wake her. He needed her for something— he couldn’t remember what—but she wouldn’t wake up. She rolled over and turned her back to him, and when he persisted in trying to shake her awake, she shoved him roughly to the floor muttering foul, slurred words under her breath.
He remembered a parade of first days in new schools. It was always the same. An overly cheerful teacher bringing him to the front of the classroom and introducing him while he stood there, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. Evasive explanations to the other children about where he lived and why he'd moved to this school. And always, always, just when he'd begun to make friends, when he'd begun to settle into a family, being wrenched from everything familiar to start the agonizing process all over again.
He tried in vain to think of some happy memory from those days. But it was too painful. Every happiness, he realized, was painted over with loss, negated by good-byes that had separated him from the source of that brief happiness.
He had dealt with all of this before—even the ultimate rejection he'd suffered in St. Louis at the hands of the Andersons—when he'd gone through the drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs in his teens. And he thought he'd put it behind him. No one could take away the assurance he had of the love the Merediths had offered. Or the love God had shown him. He knew with certainty that he was a different person, a new creation. Yet here he was, nearing the beginning of his thirtieth year, and it seemed his childhood was still condemning him.
All these thoughts roiled in his mind, threatening to pull him under in a maelstrom of doubt as his truck ate up the miles between Hanover Falls and Springfield. By the time he drove into the city limits of Springfield, he was emotionally spent. He turned, as though on automatic pilot, toward Sarah’s house.
When he pulled into the Iverson’s driveway, he spotted his sister in the side yard, helping the children lift the cover from their sandbox. She looked up at the sound of his motor, and joyful recognition came to her face.
Brushing the sand from her hands, she spoke quietly to the children and hurried through the gate to greet him.
“Michael! What on earth are you doing here?”
Like a vulnerable little boy, he fell into her embrace, towering over her petite figure but finding ample strength there. “I needed to see you,” he said quietly.
“Oh, Michael. What’s wrong?” She pulled away to look into his face, as though she might find the answer there. “Come on . . . let’s go inside.”
“I should say hi to the kids first,” he protested half-heartedly, motioning to where the three young children played, bundled in jackets and caps, unaware of his arrival.
“They’re not going anywhere. It’s the first time they’ve been able to play outside in ages.”
Grateful for the reprieve, he followed her into the house. She started a pot of coffee and came to sit beside him in the spacious family room where they could look out on the yard where the children were. She looked at him and her expression revealed her deep love and concern. He knew she would wait until he was ready.
Finally he began to speak, telling her in hushed tones of his love for Claire, his growing belief that she'd been God’s answer to his prayers. And then of his terrible discovery on that night three weeks ago, of his doubts and agony since then.
Sarah sat in stunned silence, taking in every word, compassion in her eyes and in her murmurs of disbelief and empathy. Finally, after he'd said all he knew to say, she put a hand gently on his arm. “Do you still love her, Michael? Has this changed your feelings for Claire?”
“I don’t know, Sarah. I feel . . . numb. I don’t know what I feel anymore.”
“Are you angry with her… for what happened back then?”
His answer was immediate. “No! How could I be angry with Claire? She was just a child. It wasn’t her fault.”
“Have you told her that?”
He shook his head. “We haven’t spoken since that night. . . when I went to her house. I’m not even sure what I did say to her then, Sarah. I was in shock.”
“I can imagine how you must have felt, Michael. I feel as though I’m in shock, too. It’s unbelievable this could have happened . . . that you would meet again like this.”
She shook her head and hesitated, seemingly gathering her thoughts. Then she ventured, “I’m just thinking out loud here, but my first thought is ‘what has really changed?’ If you truly love Claire, Michael, this shouldn’t make any difference at all. You were both victims of circumstance. You’re not related—not even legally now. I’m sure the adoption was annulled. It would have to be, wouldn’t it—in order for Mom and Dad to legally adopt you? This shouldn’t make any difference,” she repeated with conviction.
He knew Sarah was right. Long ago he'd offered blanket forgiveness to all the people who had hurt him in his childhood. That included the Andersons.
Yes, he'd forgiven. But had Claire? He remembered her excuses for her parents’ sins—before she'd known how irrevocably their sins had affected him. If Claire had forgiven, as she claimed she had, it was apparent she had not forgotten. Her anguish that night in the park had made it quite clear.
Sweet Claire. How she must be suffering over this. He believed she'd come to love him. And suddenly, he knew.
“Oh, Sarah, I do love her still. Of course I do. You’re right. Nothing has changed, not really.”
A horrifying thought struck him. He truly did not have any clear memory of Kitty Anderson. She was an obscure face among a string of foster sisters and brothers. But Claire had told him she did remember him. Of course she would remember him! He had been her only living sibling. He hadn’t bothered to ask exactly what she remembered about him. What if he'd hurt her? He’d had a cruel streak in those days. He knew that. He’d been sent to a principal more than once for fighting, for mean-spirited pranks.
He told his sister his fears, realizing aloud, “Sarah, I have to talk to Claire. I have to know.…”
“Good, Michael. I know you’ll work things out. I know you will.” She patted his arm reassuringly.
Michael spent the week in Springfield, shuttling betwe
en his parents’ and Evan and Sarah’s houses. He had long conversations with Sarah and his mother about his childhood and the issues with which he still sometimes struggled. He spent carefree afternoons with his nieces and nephews and with another sister, Mindy, who came from nearby Billings when she heard Michael was in Springfield.
It was a time of healing, a time of calm reassurance that he was indeed firmly rooted in a family who would love him for all time.
At week’s end, he knew he would go back to Hanover Falls.
He would go to Claire.
Chapter 18
Claire was washing up the few dishes that had collected throughout the day when she heard Smokey meowing to go out the front door. She walked through the living room and absentmindedly opened the door. The gray cat darted out onto the front lawn and Claire looked out to the street, surprised at how much light still remained. The house had grown dark and she'd not yet turned on the inside lights. Outside it was apparent that already the days were lengthening toward spring. March would soon turn to April.
Claire was about to step back inside when she noticed a familiar figure walking along the sidewalk in front of her house. His head was bent against the brisk evening air, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. But Claire knew that posture, knew the strong line of that jaw.
She stood in the doorway, afraid for him to see her standing here as though she'd expected him; more afraid to go inside and risk he would just walk on past. As he came closer, he turned up her driveway toward the house, then looked up and saw her standing there.
“Hello, Claire.” It was almost a whisper, and his voice sounded sad, weary. And yet it was beautiful in her ears.
“Hi.” She suddenly felt shy.
“Could we talk for a little while?”
“Yes, of course. Come in.”
Her heart beat faster at his nearness. What had been going through his mind these weeks since they'd parted?
He stepped into the living room, and Claire reached for a lamp and turned it on, bathing the room in rich golden light. She motioned toward the couch and he sat down heavily. Sitting on the opposite end, she curled her legs beneath her. The silence was dense and uncomfortable between them.
The room was warm, and Michael pulled his gloves off and unzipped his jacket but didn’t remove it. Finally he spoke. “How have you been?”
She shrugged. “I’m okay.”
“I… I took some vacation time off. I went home… to Springfield. I’m sorry. I should have told you. I had to get away to think.”
“And what have you been thinking?” She was trembling visibly—with fear at what his answer might be, with intense emotion at being near him again, realizing anew how deeply his presence stirred her.
He took her hand and closed the distance between them on the couch. “Claire, this whole thing has. . . well, it’s opened up a wound I thought had healed long ago.…” His voice trailed off.
Shame overwhelmed her and she put her head in her hands and wept bitterly. “Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry. I am so very sorry.”
He seemed shocked at her outburst. “Claire, it wasn’t you! You have no need to apologize. It’s okay. It’s all right.”
She had to know. “Michael, do you remember that day we had your birthday party? In the little swimming pool?”
He narrowed his eyes and she knew he was trying to recover the memory.
“I… I sprayed you with the garden hose,” she prompted.
She saw recognition come into his eyes as though he was remembering for the first time. “I cut you, didn’t I? Trying to grab the hose away. I hurt you.”
He squinted, trying to remember again. “Claire, I’ve tried so hard to put you in my memories of that time—as Kitty, I mean. I can’t make you and her be the same person. I scarcely remember, but it’s so hard to believe that was you.”
“I know.” She was amazed he'd felt the same confusion in trying to meld the small shared part of their childhoods with the present.
“I remember he—your father—was so angry. But I . . .” His gaze focused somewhere far away. Then, as though a thought had suddenly come to him, he took her forearms in his hands and turned them first one way, then another. In the yellowish light from the lamp, the long, thin white scar showed faintly on her bare right forearm.
“Oh, Claire, I did hurt you. I’m so sorry.” He traced the scar gently with his fingertip.
She grabbed her arm away and rubbed at it as if to erase the scar. “No! No, Michael. It’s. . . it’s nothing—nothing! I didn’t bring it up because you hurt me that day! It was nothing,” she said again. “It didn’t even need stitches.”
She shook her head violently, then dropped it to her chest in shame. “You don’t understand, Michael. The whole thing was all my fault. I lied. I started the whole thing. You were just defending yourself, but I told Daddy it was you. I told him you hurt me for no reason. And he believed me—and you were the one who got punished. They . . . they sent you away after that.” Her words poured out in a torrent.
“They sent me away because of that?” It was becoming obvious that her memory of the event was much more vivid than his own.
“Yes. It was my fault, Michael.” Her voice dropped off.
“Claire, you were a little girl. Sending me away wasn’t your decision. You can’t really believe that?”
She just shook her head hopelessly, not knowing what else to say. They sat together in silence for a long minute.
Finally he spoke, his voice almost a whisper now, as though a memory had just dawned. “Claire, I remember your Nana! I do remember her! She used to play games with us—dominoes and…”
Claire nodded as though to affirm that Michael’s memories were accurate.
“Your grandmother was always very nice to me. I liked her,” he finished simply.
“She prayed for you, Michael. For years.” Claire’s expression held amazement as she realized for the first time how miraculously God had answered Nana’s prayers for the young boy. “Nana told me just this past Christmas how she always thought of the Joseph of the Bible when she thought of you. She prayed God would redeem your life as He did Joseph’s.”
“Does she know? Have you told her about me?”
Claire shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet, Michael. It’s too . . .” She let her voice trail off, not knowing how to express her anguish to him.
“I think her prayers have been answered, Claire,” he said quietly.
There was much in their discovery about which to be amazed. If she thought too long about it, it overwhelmed her that she and Michael should ever have met again this way. It seemed almost providential. And yet. . . could a loving God be the author of the sorrow and confusion they both were feeling now? Why would God have orchestrated this strange reunion between them?
Now she asked him, “But have they, Michael? Have Nana’s prayers really been answered? You say the wound has been opened again. Will it ever truly be healed? I’m responsible for that, Michael. I am guilty for so much of what you went through. You can’t ever forget those things. Don’t tell me you can.”
“Shh . . . Claire.” He hushed her with a gentle smile and a finger to her lips. “Let me finish. Let me tell you what I’ve been thinking these past weeks.”
She waited in anguish.
“Claire, I don’t know why everything has happened as it has. I talked for hours to my sister about it. Sarah thinks maybe in some ways it has helped me to be confronted all over again with all the rejection of my life—and especially with that one horrib—” He stopped abruptly.
Claire knew what he'd been about to say. She closed her eyes and cringed inwardly as he confirmed what she already knew. He could never forget.
But he ignored her and continued. “. . . with that rejection. Sarah helped me to realize that if I had never met you, maybe I would never have come to terms with the most painful rejection of all. Maybe it would have gone on haunting me without my even realizing it. I thought I h
ad dealt with it. But even that night in the park when I told you about it, I knew then that it still had some kind of hold on me.”
He looked her in the eye and told her bluntly, “It hurt, Claire. It changed my life. I won’t lie to you about that. But I honestly don’t blame you—or even your parents. I know from what you’ve told me that they had their own problems apart from me. And I know I wasn’t an easy kid to get along with. I had problems of my own.” He attempted a grin. “But I think I have put it behind me now. And I want to go on. I don’t want this same issue to ruin my life all over again. After all, Claire—and I don’t want to offend you by saying this—but, if your parents hadn’t sent me away, I never would have become a part of the family I have now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded. It did hurt to have him say those words. In spite of her family’s problems, she felt a certain loyalty to them. And yet, she could never defend what they'd done to Michael. Yes, it hurt. But at the same time she was grateful he could look at it this way, see the good that had ultimately come of their rejection. She wished she could feel the same.
“Claire, I want things the way they were before. We… I think we had something wonderful between us. I didn’t misread that, did I?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve missed that, Claire. I’ve missed you. Us. Couldn’t we start over again?” he asked abruptly. “Do you think we could do that?”
She couldn’t give voice to all her fears. Part of it was simply being afraid of starting their relationship anew only to have it blow up in her face again. She was frightened that no matter what he said now, he would—somewhere down the road—come to blame her after all. Such a deep hurt couldn’t be healed quickly. And it could never be forgotten. She couldn’t be certain beyond all doubt that he could look at her and not think every time he did of the role she'd played in his painful past.
And then there was the other issue. Michael was her brother—or had been once. Surely they could not pretend it had never been so. The feelings they'd just begun to acknowledge for each other were certainly not those of brotherly love. What were the moral implications of those feelings in light of the relationship they’d had as children?
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