by Hubert Furey
Sarah had prayed for Becky to have a good home, and that prayer would be answered, too. She grasped the child’s hand warmly in return. She had made up her mind. The social worker didn’t wait for her to reply. She stood barely feet away from her, impatiently hurling words in a provocative, insulting tone.
“Well, what are you standing there looking at me for? I have work to do. Give me the child, or do I have to call the police?”
The threat made the listeners gasp. In response, Rachel bent down and picked up Becky, settling the small frame of the child easily in her cradled arm. She looked back at the social worker, totally unafraid, totally at peace. Then she adjusted her position, absorbing the full weight of the child on one arm while reaching with the other into her coat pocket and retrieving the envelope with Sarah’s note. This she brandished in front of the social worker’s face, her voice calm and steady.
“This child’s father is my husband, and this written directive of her dead mother clearly specifies that he has sole charge of selecting a home for the child. I don’t think your police or your courts will be able to do much to change that.”
She looked at the child, comfortable in her embrace, before adding, “My husband has been instructed to find a home for his daughter, and I will be recommending ours. This child will be living with me.”
The social worker stood motionless, mouth agape, speechless in the face of Rachel’s pronouncement. When she regained her composure, she was sneering.
“You mean you’re going to take this child—fathered by your husband with another woman—into your home? Every day for the rest of your life you’ll be looking at—”
Rachel cut her short, looking into Becky’s face.
“—a very beautiful child. Who had a wonderful father and”—her eyes met Dr. McCready’s—“an incredible mother.” She then assumed a businesslike manner, addressing them all as she turned to leave. “I believe everything is done here that can be done. Thank you very much.” She nodded a gesture of goodbye. “Mrs. Conlin, Nurse Baxstrom, Dr. McCready.”
She completely ignored the venomous look of the social worker, who was still standing transfixed, staring after her, unable to grasp the significance of Rachel’s words.
“Good night to you all, and again, thank you very much.” Still holding the child, she walked toward the door, where Dr. McCready had positioned himself during the altercation with the social worker. He was standing with his head bowed, holding the door open.
“Well, it looks like you have everything under control now, Mrs. Kearning. I can say now that I have been in the company of two incredible women today. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Kearning.”
Rachel smiled at him and turned to walk away, and then what he had said struck her, and she stopped, turning to face him. Joy was rising within her as she looked at the child cradled in her arms. “Yes, of course, Merry Christmas! It’s become that, hasn’t it?” Then for a moment her eyes looked very far away, beyond the hospital, beyond the still form of Sarah Donahue, to the little bridge and the church surrounded by snow-covered spruce and fir trees.
“Merry Christmas, Dr. McCready.”
The doctor closed the door behind her, and she walked with confident steps toward the car, which was now being covered with soft, gently spiralling snowflakes. Yes, it was becoming a Merry Christmas. Now she had to get Becky home as quickly as possible to begin the search for Aaron. Perhaps she should take the two older boys with her. No! When they met, they would have to be alone. She could leave Becky with the children. Rachel tried to envision their response, reviewing each of the children in turn, but deep down she knew she had nothing to worry about. She knew how her children had been reared, and she couldn’t anticipate rejection from any of them. Except maybe Samuel. Then, Samuel was more bark than bite. Her thinking was interrupted by the child’s voice.
“Are you taking me to my new home now?”
Rachel hugged her lovingly in response.
“Yes, I’m taking you to the best home I know about, where you will have all kinds of brothers and sisters. And a father and a new, very loving mother. There may be a bit of tormenting, too, but you’ll get used to that.” She was thinking of Mark, and she laughed as she settled the child in the seat and closed the door.
* * * * *
Darkness had settled over the streets as Rachel pulled the car into the driveway in front of her home. She paused a moment and sat back, holding the steering wheel, wondering for just a moment if she had made the right decision, but Logan Street came into her mind, and she immediately dismissed the thought. She caught a glimpse of Moira peeking through the curtain and took a deep breath. With deft movements she turned off the car and motioned to the child to follow her as she slid out of the car.
“Come on, Becky, this is your new home. Come in and meet your new family. I’ll get your suitcase later.”
Still clutching the teddy bear, the child let herself out of the car and raced around to the front to grasp Rachel’s hand, skipping her way to the steps leading to the front door. Rachel stamped the snow off in the front porch and removed the child’s coat and boots, speaking to her affectionately in a low voice.
“I’m your new mommy now, and I want you to do exactly what I am going to ask you.”
Even though she knew there would be no problem, she still had to prepare them for Becky’s entrance. She knew she couldn’t just appear out of the blue with a child—Aaron’s child—and casually go on as if nothing had happened, especially after what they had witnessed only hours ago. It would simply be too great a shock. She smoothed the child’s hair as the girl returned her gaze in a totally trusting response.
“I have to go in and tell the other children, your brothers and sisters, all about you. I want you to stay here by yourself, as if your real mommy asked you to do it, just for a few minutes, and after I’ve told them all about you, I’ll come back and get you. I’ll just be right there in the living room.”
She looked once more at the child, as if to be reassured in her course of action, and then breathed a silent prayer as she made her way to the living room, where all the children were gathered around the Christmas tree. They stopped decorating as their mother entered the room, straightening in expectation, rigid in their silence. Rachel could see the trembling of the decorations they held and the results of the crying on all the faces. Even tough little Samuel’s eyes were red. Moira clasped her younger sister protectively, as if she was expecting something awful to unfold. Whatever she was going to say, she had to say it fast, before she broke herself.
“Has your father come home yet?” The collective shaking of heads told her the answer. She knew that, to them, her next statement would be critical.
“That’s okay. When I’ve finished explaining to you about today, I’m going out to look for him and bring him home. We’ve got a lot of things to do before Christmas, and Christmas is almost here.”
Her tone of voice and her calm demeanour eased them, and she was grateful for their response. Jenna looked up at Moira as the older girl held her sister’s shoulders, squeezing them gently. Rachel could see their faces relax as they waited in anticipation. The older boys stopped their fidgeting, and Samuel straightened up to listen.
“The best way for me to do this is tell you everything as honestly as I can, and hope, with God’s help, that you will understand. You probably have some idea of what is going on from the fight your father and I had today. Well, a lot of things have happened since that telephone call, and things have changed a lot since.”
She drew in her breath and spoke clearly and dispassionately, eyeing each of her children in turn.
“Seven years ago, when Mikey got killed, your father fell apart, as some of you older ones might remember. He got involved in drink, almost lost his job with the university . . .” And here she paused, not quite knowing how to say the next phrase, or how it
would be greeted. “And got involved with another woman.” She tried to maintain her composure in the face of the deadly revelation, but she was trembling, and she had difficulty going on.
“The relationship was short, with a woman who was having extreme difficulties of her own, and who didn’t know he was married. It was one of those crazy things that happen in life that there’s no explanation for.” Sarah’s face came into her mind, and her tone was forgiving. “They were never together after. This woman was suffering from a terrible incurable disease, some virus she contracted in the tropics. She died today. I was with her when she died.”
She paused to let her words have their effect on the children, then she continued. “She telephoned your father because she wanted him to do something very important for her, to honour her dying wish, so to speak. You see, as a result of their meeting, a child was born . . .”
Rachel had meant to continue, but the children were no longer listening. They had turned their gaze past their mother to the living room entrance just behind her, their faces exuding a collective look of awe. Becky had wandered into their view, standing within the entrance, looking at them with wonder in her eyes, still clutching the big teddy bear. Looking at her, Rachel felt overcome by a sudden surge of love, and she moved toward the child, fondly caressing her hair.
“This is Becky, Becky Donahue. Her mother had left instructions for your father to take her to a foster home, but I . . . I have decided to have her live here with us. Permanently.”
Rachel paused, looking around, trying to assess the impact the news was having on each of them. She would not have been surprised if the unfaithfulness, the scandal, had been met with rejection or contempt, even in their young minds, but no such looks or feelings emanated from the group around the tree. She had reared them well. Instead, her children had suddenly become alive, their eyes focussed on the form of the child standing before them.
Moira was the first to speak, her tone awestruck as she ran and picked up the child in her arms. “My God, she’s the face and eyes of Dad.”
“You mean, she’s my real sister?” It was Jenna’s incredulous voice.
“Well,” Rachel replied, “she’s your half-sister, but she’s still your sister.”
“Oh, thank you, Mommy, thank you,” Jenna shrieked. “I always wanted two sisters. An older sister and a younger sister. And now I got a younger sister for a Christmas present. Thank you Mommy, thank you!” Rachel wanted to say wryly that she didn’t have anything to do with it, but she checked her thoughts as being dampening.
“Just what we want in the family, another girl,” growled Samuel, in an echo of his earlier sentiments, but Rachel detected relief beneath the surly appearance. It didn’t take him that long to come around after all.
“Well, Dad, that old son of a gun.” It was Mark, taking Becky from Moira’s arms, cradling her in his own. He had adopted his normal teasing tone.
“We’re going to have to feed you more gravy, so you won’t be tall and skinny like Aaron Jr. here.”
“At least she’s got curly hair and a sensible complexion, like the one other good-looking person in this family,” rejoined Aaron, gently stroking Becky’s hair. “Great decision, Mom,” he added, turning toward his mother. “We knew you would come up with the winner.”
With Jenna leading Becky by the hand, the rest of the family converged around the child on the living room carpet, each competing with the others for her affections and attentions. Even Samuel seemed to want to be part of the merriment. Rachel stood watching them, happily, feeling compelled to conclude the explanation.
“What I was concerned about was the effect all of this was going to have on you, bringing the child into the family under these circumstances, if you know what I mean . . .”
Rachel stopped and turned to leave, aware that her words sounded out of place against the noisy affection her family was showing the new addition. She looked back one more time, to satisfy herself that indeed she had made the right decision, as the joviality of the children definitely seemed to indicate. Well! That hadn’t posed much of a problem. Now to find Aaron.
As she placed her hand on the knob of the door, she heard Moira whispering as she hugged her from behind. “You’re fantastic. I hope someday I can be like you.”
Rachel released herself from Moira’s embrace and stepped through the front door, gathering her hood around her face to protect it from the sting of the biting wind. She slid once more behind the wheel, praying that she would have no difficulty in her quest for her husband. The wind had risen sharply, and the streets were becoming blustery. It was no night for a man in his frame of mind to be on the streets alone.
* * * * *
She had no idea where she was going, except that she knew Aaron was on the street somewhere. She knew from past experience he would walk for hours. He couldn’t sit and think. If he did begin drinking, under the pressure of the day’s events, it would be later, when he was physically exhausted, when his only thought would be to drink as fast as he could to wipe away every memory and every disturbing thought. So she paid scant attention to the early patrons entering and exiting the bars she passed on her route.
No, he would still be walking, out there somewhere. That’s how he left—that’s how she had seen the man in the vision. She would simply have to look, to scour the streets. It was beginning to snow more heavily now, and she began to worry. It wasn’t a really big city, but it was big enough, and it was dark, and it looked like a storm was on the way. She had to find him—but where was she to start?
Perhaps she should try the apartment one more time. Perhaps she hadn’t allowed him enough time earlier. Maybe he hadn’t fallen apart and found his way to the apartment after all. But then, if he did go there, the door was locked, and anyway, the note was in her pocket. So he would have no way of knowing about the hospital, unless somehow . . .
No, the apartment was the logical place to start. If he went to the apartment and nobody answered the door, he would probably go back to the hospital. So he had to be somewhere along that route. Go to the apartment first, then follow the route to the hospital.
She peered through the falling snow, mentally sketching the route she would have to take. The taxi driver had already showed her the way, so it would be easier this time.
Rachel turned by the shopping centre to begin her search but was immediately confronted by the presence of two police cars positioned diagonally across the street, their red, revolving lights flashing ominously in the night. A stern-looking police officer, shivering with obvious cold, was directing traffic toward a side street, waving his red-rimmed flashlight in a repetitive, demanding gesture. She could see two ambulances, beyond the police cars, vying for space amid the strangled traffic and gathering crowd.
“My God! The accident that Stevenson woman talked about. She said a lot of people were hurt.”
The thought of Mikey flashed through her mind, that maybe she should stop and help. She hadn’t worked for years, but she was still a nurse. The thoughts did not remain there long, however, forced away by the menacing look of the officer walking toward her, gesturing impatiently toward a narrow side street to her right.
Rachel reluctantly obeyed his signal, turning the wheel in the direction he was pointing, dismayed and irritated that she had to detour from the only route she knew to Logan Street. She didn’t recognize the name of the street she had entered, and she didn’t want to get too far removed from the route with which she had become familiar, so she peered through the snow for the first left turn that would take her to her original route, along which she had followed the taxi driver. However, after turning in and out of streets for several minutes, she realized she was hopelessly lost and there was nothing she could do except keep driving until she came into more familiar surroundings.
She drove down a long, narrow street, realizing instinctively that she was
getting farther away from the route to the apartment. In a last desperate effort to retrace her steps, she turned the car to the right, onto a broad, straight road that she instantly recognized for the second time that day.
With a sigh of relief, she realized that she was on Mill Road once again, with the river running beside it. She knew her way now, and could retrace the route back to the apartment. In a moment she would be passing the bridge and the little church.
Ah! The little church! Thinking about it gave her such a nice feeling. She would come back to that little church and say thank you. Perhaps she and Aaron would stand on the bridge again some day and look at the water swirling on its way to the Gut.
As if conjured up by the image in her mind, the little bridge suddenly appeared in her view, and on the bridge a figure silhouetted against the snow-covered spruce beyond. Rachel gasped. The hunched-over form was Aaron. Even from that distance she could see he was shivering violently from the cold. She thought of the parka that lay folded on the back seat as she brought the car to a stop and shut off the engine.
She softly closed the car door, holding the parka over her arm, and walked toward the steps of the bridge, knowing full well what she was going to do, exactly as she knew what she was going do in front of the social worker. He did not turn to greet her or indicate in any way that he was aware of her presence.
“Aaron!” She called to him softly, but he still did not turn around. He remained slumped over the rail of the bridge, his head still bowed toward the river, his body shaking with the cold. She came close behind him and, without speaking, draped the parka over his shivering body. She then came beside him, resting her elbows on the railing of the bridge, looking out over the river toward the Gut, feeling glad that he was there. He kept his head bowed, staring down at the turbulent water, his voice detached and steady above the noise of the river.
