Hearts Communion

by Marianne Evans

  “Why do you think you feel the way you do?”

  “Because I’d rather lose him than hurt him.” That stilled their conversation for a moment.

  “Cut him loose and you would hurt him, Monica. Have you considered that?” Ken let her ingest that, regarding her in thoughtful silence. “On the other side of the table, maybe you felt safe enough with him to release yourself a little,” he said at length. “Actually, the same thing probably holds true with Elise. You may not know her well, but you recognize her heart, and the love she puts into all of the most important aspects of her life. Especially her children. Those are ties that bind. They’re strong and deep. Certainly strong enough to withstand the process of helping someone find their way.”

  “But she shouldn’t have to feel that kind of negativity toward me. I should be a better person than that, and I know it, but I couldn’t avoid what I felt. I couldn’t make any of the pain disappear, or even diminish. Then, I felt so embarrassed facing Elise again at church.”

  “Why?”

  Monica lifted her hands. “Isn’t it obvious?” Ken had been at the family dinner, after all. “I was standoffish, and she saw right through me. Furthermore, I knew my behavior troubled her, but I couldn’t seem to draw myself into…into…” Silence fell, oppressive. Hot.

  “Into everything you feel you lack, but want more than anything else?”

  In reply to those quiet words, Monica nodded and sank against the back of the chair in resignation. “You just nailed it.”

  “I realize I’m asking the obvious here, something you’ve probably already given a lot of thought to, but I’m going to ask anyway. What about adoption?”

  How could she even begin to express the tumult of emotion that went along with that seemingly innocuous word? All of a sudden, the meeting became difficult again. “I’m afraid of adoption.”

  “I can’t even imagine how intimidating that process would be.”

  Monica shook her head. “No. I mean, yes. Yes, it’s intimidating to go through the process of adoption, but no, that’s not the point. Not for me.” Silence stretched. “Sure, there’s the fear of not meeting the requirements, and of course there’s that constant sense of scrutiny and having outsiders dive so deep, and so thoroughly, into your life—past, present and future.”

  “You get big points for honesty.” His praise, his kind smile, drew her gaze to his, and she calmed. But the silence returned. Ken waited for a bit before speaking. “Care to fill me in on the rest of the story?”

  “You want to know the truth? It’s not very Christian. Part of me knows that, and knows my reasons are wrong, but…”

  Ken waited in steady regard, not stepping in. Rather, he watched patiently while Monica felt like squirming. She wasn’t proud of what she was about to say, but she’d come this far. She refused to waste the opportunity. “I’m afraid I won’t feel the same way about an adopted child that I would for my own, natural child. Isn’t that awful?”

  “No. It’s not so much awful as it is a natural means of questioning yourself. I do think it bears some analysis, though, and prayer time. You don’t even need to speak, or perform a litany of needs. Just listen. God speaks in the silence. He’ll direct that yearning you feel, and answer all your questions. Just give up this restlessness and clinging to the ‘have not.’ Let yourself surrender and go still instead. You need to come to terms.”

  That made sense, but there was a bit more simmering beneath the surface. “The other thing is, I figure why bother? What’ll it all come to anyhow? Maybe the message God has been trying to send me throughout the course of my life is that I’m not meant to be a mother. Why should I put myself through an additional roller coaster of family issues—with all that anxiety and stress? Know what it’s like? It’s like I’m just not supposed to have a family, no matter what.” She shrugged and looked down, trying to squelch a blooming sense of shame. “It’s like I’m not good enough.”

  “And if you believe that to be the case, I have some advice. Take a long, hard look at how you live your life.”

  Monica’s brows pulled together as she pondered those words.

  “Think about what you bring to the children at Sunny Horizons. That’s a form of motherhood times the number of students who cross that threshold every single day. Secondly, look at the self-esteem and encouragement you provide those little girls who dance for you every week.”

  She looked up at him, still puzzling. “But…really? That’s just…that’s what I do. That’s what my life involves.” She shrugged. “I made it that way because of emptiness!”

  “I don’t quite see it that way. I believe you made it that way in answer to a calling, Monica. In the life you’ve been given, you’re not just touching two or three or six kids in a blood-linked family. Instead, God’s given you a much larger platform. Instead of limiting you, He’s expanding the wishes of your heart. Can you can find a way to embrace that fact and stop fighting against what you feel you’ve been denied?

  “It seems to me like you’re trying to fit your life into your own set of expectations, rather than taking a different point of view and realizing your prayers have been answered. Look at what you can do beyond being a child’s mother by blood. Look at the gifts you give each day, to literally hundreds of kids. Do you think God hasn’t heard your longing, and answered it? Not in the square peg to round hole manner you’re letting defeat you, but in a broader, more powerful stroke of His brush?”

  Jeremy had said much the same thing. Not since her counseling sessions some two years ago had she come so close to confronting the issues, and emotions, involved with infertility. Was God truly at work in this situation? Could she find His hand and hold it fast? “I’m so afraid of botching things up.” The admonition came more easily that she’d thought it would. “Jeremy. He means so much to me, and I want to make him as happy as he makes me. I’m afraid of letting him down. I don’t want to ruin something that’s so good.”

  “Monica, you’ve used the word ‘afraid’ so often during the course of this conversation. Think about that. You’re carrying too much of the weight. Your feelings run deep, understandably. However, I believe the people who care about you will understand and cope with the issues you’re facing. Most likely, what they wouldn’t be able to handle is you shutting down—or stepping away. Don’t be afraid to fight, or rail. Get mad. Release the hurt you feel. But after that? Get square with the life God means for you to live. The blessings you find, I guarantee, will outweigh the losses, if you let yourself move forward into a new perspective. You’ll also end up much happier, and in a much better place.”

  Monica smiled and gave a short, punctuating laugh. “Boy. JB was right about you.”

  He looked at her in confusion.

  “You’re good, Ken. You’re good at listening, and you’re very perceptive.”

  He dipped his head and shrugged, but she sensed his appreciation.

  “When I made this appointment, I didn’t believe I’d ever find my way to being open and frank, and comfortable. But I am. Thank you.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners just a bit when he smiled at her. “I’ll return the favor. Thank you for allowing me your confidence and for letting me get to know you better. What I see happening with you and Jeremy is like watching God unfold a plan, and that affirms my faith. I always love that.”

  The idea of God Himself unfolding a plan that included her and Jeremy, left her feeling humbled, and filled her heart. She stood, and they shook hands across Ken’s desk. “I’ll be back this Sunday. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  Ken walked her to the door, which he opened. “That would be great, Monica. I look forward to seeing you.”

  Hearts Communion

  14

  Lunchtime neared, and the door buzzer to Sunny Horizons sounded. From her spot in the pre-K room, Monica heard Deborah greet a visitor, and then she promptly tuned out so she could focus on the kids who stood near. Positioned around a table dotted by oversized paper
s and paint pallets, about a half-dozen students wore smocks; each wielded a brush to create their own vision of Thanksgiving.

  In the week since her meeting with Ken, her optimism crested at a near all-time high. She had seen Jeremy a couple of times since then—for dinner one night, for a chick-flick the next—but only with her sworn promise to view the latest action-adventure movie for their next outing. She had happily conceded the point.

  Monica figured it was a point of mutual consent by which, for the time being, they let the topic of infertility rest and focused instead on the process of building their relationship. The memory left her smiling as chatter flowed, and paintbrushes swished earthy, autumn colors across cream-colored paper.

  Outside the room, in the lobby of the center, a rapidly escalating conversation drew Monica away from introspection and child play.

  “Get out of my way!” a male voice shouted.

  That thunderous demand caused the children around her to go unnaturally still. As one, the assemblage of children turned to Monica in question. Brows furrowed, she walked briskly through the room and yanked opened the door leading to the main room. There she nearly collided with a large, burly man wearing a belligerent expression. Dressed in a business suit, his eyes sparked; his mouth was a tight, hostile line. She closed the door behind her, inserting herself as an added barrier between the man and the children inside. “I’m Monica Kittelski, the director of this facility. Can I help you?” Her words were gracious; her tone wasn’t.

  “So you’re the next one in line? Are you going to try to kick me out, too? I’m Jessica Carter’s father. Her father! I want to see her. I need to take her home, and as her father, I have the right to—”

  Monica pointed to the hallway on her right. “Wait for me in my office and I’ll be happy to discuss this matter with you. At the moment, your tone is frightening the children, and I want that to stop.” He didn’t go down the hall. Instead he moved toward Monica. The hard glint in his eyes and ominous stance made it clear he had every intention of bullying his way inside the toddler room.

  “I’m not following you anywhere! And if you don’t like my tone, that’s too bad! Give. Me. My. Child.” He stalked forward until he was right in her face. “Now.”

  Monica stood firm, arms crossed against her chest. Her eyes didn’t waver from his. “Deb, feel free to call the police if he takes another step toward me.”

  “Gladly, Monica.” A quick glance revealed Deb already had her cell phone in hand, ready to dial.

  Defeated, but huffing and grumbling beneath his breath, David Carter turned abruptly and stalked down the hallway.

  “I’ve got your back and I’ll stick close.” Deb’s quiet assurance helped Monica steel herself for battle.

  “Thanks.”

  Monica entered her office with a stride that was deliberately confident. She closed the door, but not completely.

  “It’s David, correct?” He didn’t even reply. Sitting behind her desk, she withdrew the enrollment forms Caroline Dempsey had filled out. For show, she scanned the release authorization form, already knowing what she’d find. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carter, your name isn’t on the list of people who are permitted to remove Jessica from my care.”

  “Take your forms and toss ’em in the garbage, director. I want my daughter!”

  “Mr. Carter, I don’t care who you are. I expect to be treated in a civilized manner.” She paused, wanting to add weight to her next words. “I can’t turn Jessica over unless you’re on this list or I’d be held legally liable.”

  He cursed vehemently. In a fit of violence, he swiped his arm across Monica’s desk, clearing it in one fell swoop. She jumped back and gasped as a pencil holder, files, souvenirs from the kids, all hit the floor in a crashing symphony of sound. The crystal bowl full of jellybeans toppled to the ground as well. Candy bounced along the tile, clattering like keystrokes on a computer until all that was left behind was a heavy, tense silence.

  He stalked around the desk; the menacing approach of his tall, somewhat paunchy form was more than enough to prompt Monica to move away and pull her cell phone from the pocket of her blazer.

  “Either you give me my kid,” he barked, “or I’ll take her by force. You have no right to keep me from Jessica!” He toppled her chair, and it collided with the edge of the credenza behind it, causing items stored there to fall and clatter…including her porcelain ballerina.

  Stunned, Monica realized she had to move fast, or she’d be the next object of his wrath. She inched toward the safety of the doorway, activating her phone, already punching in a nine, and a one. “Mr. Carter, leave, or I have no choice but to call the police. I’ve already dialed all but one digit for 911.” He gaped at her. His surprise gave her time to open the door. At that point, Deborah practically stumbled across the threshold, her hand on the knob, her cell phone at the ready as well. This, Monica decided, would end promptly. “I said leave. You’re disrupting my daycare center, and I want you out of here right now.”

  “I’ll be back,” he growled. “Mark my words. Carrie will not walk off with our daughter along with everything else in my life.”

  Monica didn’t even blink. Deborah stood at her side, her eyes narrow, her jaw set. When David Carter left, he slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.

  “Deborah, I’m going to call Caroline. Meanwhile, please direct the staff to be alert, and make sure Jessica isn’t upset.”

  “She had early lunch today, so she was outside playing. I’ll keep the teachers from talking, and I’ll make certain Jessica is unaware of what happened until Caroline can step in.”

  Monica gave her friend and colleague a wavering smile. Damage control instigated. “Thank you.”

  “Are you OK?” Deborah finally asked.

  “Fine. I just need to take care of my office.”

  Hot, debilitating rage—pure rage—bubbled, rose, then overflowed. The first order of business: pick up the glittering pieces of broken crystal before the kids could get hurt. Monica snatched a broom and dustpan from the nearby storage closet and swept up debris. With a frustrated growl, she heaved the pieces hard, smashing them into the bottom of her steel trash can.

  Instant contrition followed, melting her into a puddle of-of nothing.

  In physical response, she sank backwards against the side of her desk then slid down slowly, until she was seated, a weakened heap on the floor. She rested her head on her up-drawn knees, barely able to react to the soft crescendo of a nearby whistle that filled the air.

  “Nice arm you have there, Jellybean. I had no idea.”

  Monica shuddered out a sigh. The tips of a pair of slightly worn, brown-leather work boots came into her line of vision, along with the bottom edge of a pair of faded blue jeans.

  Jeremy touched her shoulder. “Deb gave me a thumbnail sketch about what happened. It’s over, Monica. Come here.”

  She looked up, silent. He held out a hand, a beseeching look in his eyes. Reluctantly she took hold. She felt damaged. Angry and bitter. Bleak.

  Jeremy tugged her to standing. He took the connection a step further and pulled her in snugly, nesting her body against his. Warmth enveloped her. A heartbeat, strong and steady, sounded assurance beneath her cheek. The hard strength of his body became a haven.

  “It’s OK now.”

  She dissolved. She rested her head against his chest and breathed deep. The essence of him entered her system in a soothing stream that eased her troubled spirit and settled strong in her heart. His hands rested loose, yet protective, around her. His body aligned perfectly to hers.

  That was too dangerous an enticement to a spirit that thirsted for everything he could offer—and everything she couldn’t. Life was so unfair!

  Monica stepped away, dropping to her knees to begin scooping up papers, and knick-knacks—like a treasured monkey and elephant combo a class of kids had made for her years ago when they had learned about papier-mâché. Her glance took in the remains of her credenza, and she couldn�
�t help feeling grateful that, though toppled, her porcelain ballerina had survived.

  But there were the jellybeans to contend with—currently a rainbow colored booby-trap to the feet that had bounced all over the floor. Tears burned, but she blinked and swallowed, stubbornly refusing delivery. This wasn’t her problem, after all; it was David’s.

  Well, sort of.

  Thing was, she was ticked off. In the extreme. So, while she cleaned up, she began to spew and vent, knowing full well that if she didn’t, she’d simply burst. “I swear, some people should not be allowed the blessing—the flat-out miracle—of a child.”

  “The miracle of a child.”

  Jeremy’s quiet repetition of her declaration caused Monica to pause in the midst of her increasingly frantic organizational frenzy. “Yes,” she barked back, stopping just long enough to look into his calm, deep brown eyes. Her arms were now laden by displaced art pieces: a couple of stuffed animals, pictures, a stack of paperwork she’d now have to re-sort. Oh…! She dumped the entire stash on the ground; it was too heavy. Everything was too heavy for her right now.

  She sank into the chair behind her desk, the one JB had righted for her without her even realizing it until now.

  “Talk to me.” His firm, but gentle demand caused her to exhale a shaky breath; in surrender, she let her head loll back against the comforting, familiar contours of well-worn leather.

  “There’s nothing to say, JB. Look around you. My office speaks for itself, and Deb gave you the basics. David Carter came in and trashed the place because I wouldn’t let him take his child—when he doesn’t have permission to do so! The man is a monster. Calculating, manipulative, and he’s putting an innocent, unknowing child at the dead center of a divorce target. It’s so infuriating to me. Unfathomable. People putting a child into the middle of emotional nastiness—I hate it!”

  “And you’re allowed. I can’t understand his methods, or his actions, either; but I feel your anger at what he’s done, Monica.”