Sealed with a promise

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Sealed with a promise Page 32

by Mary Margret Daughtridge


  Ke­eping a prob­lem in­s­te­ad of fig­h­ting it was co­un­te­rin­tu­itive. He’d se­en from the first that Vicky was strong-wil­led. Do­ing things be­ca­use she was told to didn’t sit well. She wasn’t re­bel­li­o­us or con­tem­p­tu­o­us of aut­ho­rity (as he ad­mit­ted he so­me­ti­mes was). For Vicky, it just felt bet­ter to do an­y­t­hing she did be­ca­use she had de­ci­ded to. The ne­ed­le pho­bia was pro­bably dis­t­res­sing be­ca­use it over­w­hel­med her and bloc­ked her abi­lity to de­ci­de for her­self. He was of­fe­ring her a way to be in char­ge.

  He’d do­ne all the per­su­ading he co­uld by tel­ling her she was lo­sing. Now she had to ma­ke up her mind if she wan­ted to mo­ve on.

  He kept the pa­ce slow. He’d felt how qu­ickly her arms had ti­red even un­der the sti­mu­lus of ex­t­re­me fe­ar and an­ger. So­met­hing was wrong. He pra­yed it was easily de­alt with. He co­uld do not­hing to shi­eld her. He co­uld only of­fer her a way to de­al with it from strength.

  “Do you re­al­ly ha­te ne­ed­les too?” As he’d gu­es­sed she wo­uld, she had be­en thin­king thro­ugh ever­y­t­hing he had sa­id and co­ming to her own con­c­lu­si­ons.

  He nod­ded.

  “You we­ren’t just sa­ying that?”

  He sho­ok his he­ad.

  “What do­es ‘be big­ger’ me­an?”

  “Every prob­lem has an ed­ge.” The gro­und un­der a mag­no­lia was lit­te­red with lar­ge brown le­at­hery le­aves and se­ed­pods the si­ze of Vicky’s hand. To il­lus­t­ra­te what he me­ant, he pic­ked up a mag­no­lia pod, so­me of its bright red se­eds still at­tac­hed. He brus­hed sandy dirt from it and han­ded it to Vicky. “Hold this up to yo­ur fa­ce, right in front of yo­ur eyes.” He pus­hed it even clo­ser to her fa­ce. “Now can you see an­y­t­hing but it?”

  “No.”

  “But you know it has ed­ges, right? Even tho­ugh you can’t see them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to re­mem­ber that you can know it even when you can’t see it.”

  Chil­d­li­ke, Vicky was al­re­ady pla­ying with the pod, tur­ning it in her hands. “You know, it’s kind of in­te­res­ting when you lo­ok at it up clo­se li­ke this.”

  Ca­leb smi­led. “So­me prob­lems are li­ke that. When you lo­ok at them re­al clo­se, they turn out to be kind of in­te­res­ting. Sup­po­se you want to know what the ed­ges lo­ok li­ke?”

  Vicky held the pod at arm’s-length.

  “Right. And on­ce you lo­ok at the ed­ges, not at the pod, what do you see?”

  “Not­hing.”

  “Not­hing?”

  “Well, air, but you can’t see air.”

  “How abo­ut yo­ur hands? Can you see them?”

  “Oh!” Vicky la­ug­hed, de­lig­h­ted to sud­denly see thin­gs a new way. The so­und war­med in Ca­leb all the way to the bo­ne. It was what he lo­ved most abo­ut kids. They co­uld shift on a di­me. “My hands, ye­ah. And tre­es and bus­hes and grass. If I hold it up li­ke this, I see the sky.”

  “You ha­ve a cho­ice abo­ut how you lo­ok at it. Both ways are in­te­res­ting. If you want to cho­ose the best way to pick it up and mo­ve it aro­und, what’s the best way to lo­ok at it?”

  Vicky ex­ten­ded the pod to arm’s-length aga­in.

  “What do you think?” On­ce aga­in, it was up to her to ma­ke the cho­ice to go fur­t­her. He was tel­ling her she co­uld do so­met­hing many adults had ne­ver le­ar­ned. It was im­pos­sib­le to sol­ve a prob­lem at the le­vel of the prob­lem. And yet pe­op­le re­fu­sed to grow be­yond it-so­me­ti­mes it se­emed li­ke they we­re af­ra­id they wo­uld lo­se them­sel­ves if they did.

  “I’m big­ger than this.” She held up the se­ed pod. “So lo­oking at the ed­ges is easy. How do I get big­ger than the ne­ed­le fe­eling?”

  “You al­re­ady are big­ger than it. You just ne­ed to lo­ok for the ed­ges. See what’s on the out­si­de of it.”

  “But I can’t. I can’t see any ed­ges at all.”

  “Re­mem­ber what I told you to re­mem­ber?”

  “I can know the ed­ges are the­re even when I can’t see them.”

  “Right, and if you know they’re the­re, you can find them. For­tu­na­tely, when it co­mes to things you are af­ra­id of, things you ha­te, all you ha­ve to do is think yo­ur­self big­ger, un­til it is on the in­si­de of you, and you are on the out­si­de of it. When you do, on the out­si­de of things you fe­ar and ha­te, you’ll find pe­op­le and bo­oks and TV prog­rams-all the­re with so­me of the an­s­wers you ne­ed to win.” Ca­leb chec­ked his watch. “Yo­ur mot­her is go­ing to be lo­oking for us. Re­ady to go back in­si­de?” “Can I carry this?” She held up the pod.

  Chapter 32

  Char­lot­te sto­od to gre­et them as so­on as Em­mie and Do-Lord we­re us­he­red in­to the doc­tor’s of­fi­ce.

  “Thank you for co­ming.” Char­lot­te held out a hand that trem­b­led slightly. “As you know, my mot­her isn’t well her­self, or she wo­uld be he­re.” Char­lot­te didn’t men­ti­on Fa­ir­c­hild. He hadn’t be­en at the hos­pi­tal aga­in. She hadn’t sa­id, and Em­mie hadn’t as­ked, what had hap­pe­ned to him. Char­lot­te al­so didn’t men­ti­on Cal­ho­un. Em­mie al­so didn’t ask. The­re we­re de­ta­ils she simply didn’t want to know.

  “Vicky trusts you, and so do I.” Char­lot­te smi­led apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly. “I must ask you not to re­ve­al an­y­t­hing that’s sa­id he­re to an­yo­ne-even the fa­mily-un­til the se­na­tor’s aides can pre­pa­re an an­no­un­ce­ment.” Em­mie, se­e­ing how Char­lot­te and Te­ague li­ved at clo­se ran­ge, un­der­s­to­od what com­par­t­men­ta­li­zed li­ves they led. In­for­ma­ti­on, even among the­ir in­ti­ma­tes, was sha­red strictly on a ne­ed-to-know ba­sis.

  Char­lot­te bit her lip, one of the few signs of agi­ta­ti­on Em­mie had ever se­en her ma­ke. “The spe­ci­alist in blo­od di­sor­ders, the he­ma­to­lo­gist, sa­id he wan­ted to go over so­me tests with me, and I didn’t want to he­ar it alo­ne.”

  A man in a lab co­at en­te­red thro­ugh an in­te­ri­or do­or. “Go­od af­ter­no­on. I’m Dr. Kop­ple­man. I’m glad you co­uld co­me in Mrs. Cal­ho­un. Will the se­na­tor be co­ming?”

  “He’s be­en de­la­yed and as­ked us to start wit­ho­ut him,” Char­lot­te rep­li­ed smo­othly. Em­mie won­de­red if any part of that spe­ech was the truth. “The­se are mem­bers of my fa­mily, Dr. Eme­li­na Cad­din­g­ton and Chi­ef Petty Of­fi­cer Ca­leb Du­la­ude.”

  Ca­leb might be con­si­de­red a re­la­ti­on, tho­ugh Char­lot­te didn’t know it, but Em­mie wasn’t one at all. Em­mie gu­es­sed it was easi­er to say they we­re fa­mily than ex­p­la­in who they re­al­ly we­re.

  Dr. Kop­ple­man sho­ok hands all aro­und and as­ked them to be se­ated. He shuf­fled pa­pers for a mi­nu­te. “Mrs. Cal­ho­un, as I told you, we’re still wa­iting for so­me of the tests to co­me back, but they won’t chan­ge what we know. Vicky has a ra­re form of ane­mia. A di­se­ase cal­led Fan­co­ni ane­mia.”

  “I’ve ne­ver he­ard of it,” Char­lot­te sa­id fa­intly.

  “It’s ra­re. The­re are fe­wer than one tho­usand ca­ses.”

  “Is it se­ri­o­us?”

  Dr. Kop­ple­man nod­ded gra­vely. The com­pas­si­on in his brown eyes told the rest of the story. “It’s a bo­ne mar­row di­se­ase,” he ex­p­la­ined. “Her bo­ne mar­row isn’t ma­king red blo­od cells as it sho­uld.”

  “Are you su­re?”

  “I con­sul­ted with two na­ti­onal­ly known spe­ci­alists. They con­cur.”

  “Can it be cu­red?”

  “Fan­co­ni ane­mia, or FA, is a ge­ne­ti­cal­ly tran­s­mit­ted di­se­ase. Sin­ce ge­nes can’t be chan­ged, at le­ast not at the pre­sent sta­ge of stem
cell re­se­arch, we don’t spe­ak of cu­re. FA is usu­al­ly di­ag­no­sed bet­we­en six and eight ye­ars of age, and the­re’s a wi­de ran­ge of how se­ve­rely the child is af­fec­ted-how many or­gans are in­vol­ved. For­tu­na­tely, Vicky se­ems to be lar­gely unaf­fec­ted by the di­se­ase. She’s ne­arly ave­ra­ge in he­ight and we­ight, nor­mal in ap­pe­aran­ce, and she’s highly in­tel­li­gent.”

  “Nor­mal in ap­pe­aran­ce?”

  “Yes. We’ll ne­ed mo­re tests to de­ter­mi­ne or­gan fun­c­ti­on, but just at a glan­ce, she lo­oks nor­mal. So­me chil­d­ren are not.”

  Char­lot­te’s eyes fil­led with te­ars, which she ma­na­ged not to let fall. “The­re’s no cu­re?”

  “The bo­ne mar­row fa­ilu­re can be cu­red with a tran­s­p­lant. You will want to edu­ca­te yo­ur­self abo­ut FA, but my re­com­men­da­ti­on wo­uld be to ta­ke her to one of the cen­ters that spe­ci­ali­ze in Fan­co­ni. It’s not a sim­p­le di­ag­no­sis, and you’ll want to know ever­y­t­hing that can be do­ne is be­ing do­ne.”

  “Do­es ge­ne­tic me­an my hus­band or I pas­sed it on to her?”

  “Fan­co­ni is an auto­so­mal re­ces­si­ve di­se­ase. For the di­se­ase to ma­ni­fest, both pa­rents must ha­ve the ge­ne. If both ha­ve the ge­ne, the­ir of­fsp­ring ha­ve a one in fo­ur chan­ce of de­ve­lo­ping the di­se­ase. Two will be car­ri­ers li­ke the pa­rents. They ha­ve one ge­ne for FA, but be­ca­use they al­so ha­ve a nor­mal ge­ne, they don’t ha­ve the di­se­ase. And the­re’s a one in fo­ur chan­ce of not ha­ving the ge­ne at all.”

  “You say she can be tre­ated with a bo­ne mar­row tran­s­p­lant?”

  “If the tran­s­p­lant is suc­ces­sful, the ane­mia can be com­p­le­tely eli­mi­na­ted.”

  “Can I gi­ve her my bo­ne mar­row?”

  “Be­ca­use the pa­rents ha­ve the ge­ne, they can’t be mar­row do­nors.”

  “Who can be a do­nor?”

  The doc­tor lo­oked at his pa­pers. “I see he­re that Vicky do­esn’t ha­ve any brot­hers or sis­ters. That’s a sha­me. The best do­nor is a sib­ling who do­esn’t ha­ve the ge­ne.”

  “Are you go­ing to say so­met­hing to Char­lot­te?”

  Ca­leb didn’t ha­ve to ask what Em­mie was as­king. The fact that Vicky might ha­ve a clo­se re­la­ti­ve who might not carry the ge­ne had rum­b­led li­ke a cart on the way to the gu­il­lo­ti­ne sin­ce they had left the doc­tor’s of­fi­ce.

  They had dri­ven Char­lot­te ho­me, then sta­yed with her whi­le she ma­de calls to her mot­her and Cal­ho­un. She had be­en gi­ven pam­p­h­lets on Fan­co­ni ane­mia, but she wan­ted them the­re in ca­se they co­uld bet­ter ex­p­la­in what the doc­tor had sa­id abo­ut Vicky.

  Vicky’s gran­d­mot­her had be­en un­der­s­tan­dably up­set. Char­lot­te had shed te­ars for the first ti­me that Ca­leb had se­en. He was be­gin­ning to know whe­re Vicky ca­me by so­me of her grit. Af­ter Char­lot­te hung up from tal­king to her mot­her, she cal­led Cal­ho­un. She se­emed un­sur­p­ri­sed that Cal­ho­un co­uldn’t talk to her right then, and in­s­te­ad, des­c­ri­bed all that had tran­s­pi­red to an aide.

  “Not yet,” he fi­nal­ly an­s­we­red Em­mie’s qu­es­ti­on.

  “Are you ever go­ing to?”

  “I don’t know how Cal­ho­un wo­uld fe­el if he knew abo­ut me, but Char­lot­te has eno­ugh to de­al with. She do­esn’t ne­ed a long lost bas­tard step­son to show up right now. I’m al­re­ady a re­gis­te­red mar­row do­nor, and the first thing they’ll do is check the re­gistry. You he­ard what the doc­tor sa­id. Only thir­ty-fi­ve per­cent find mat­c­hes among fa­mily. Why up­set her if I don’t ha­ve to? I mig­ht be a ge­ne car­ri­er, but even if I’m not, sin­ce I’m a half-sib­ling, the chan­ces are even less that I match.”

  “I gu­ess you’re right. Af­ter all, you don’t know for su­re that he is yo­ur fat­her, and you are Vicky’s brot­her. But I wish you had a way to get clo­su­re-for yo­ur sa­ke.”

  Ca­leb had ne­ver be­en so awa­re that he was lying by in­di­rec­ti­on.

  He co­uldn’t tell Em­mie that even if he knew he was a per­fect match, he co­uldn’t do­na­te his bo­ne mar­row. He lo­oked at him­self thro­ugh her eyes, and he didn’t li­ke what he saw at all: a man who wo­uld let his agen­da thre­aten a child. But he hadn’t. That’s what he had to ke­ep re­min­ding him­self. By his own cho­ice, he wo­uld ne­ver, ever ha­ve put Vicky in dan­ger.

  When he’d go­ne lo­oking for Cal­ho­un’s vul­ne­ra­bi­li­ti­es, he’d be­en thin­king he’d find a scan­dal, so­me mal­fe­asan­ce. May­be that the man lo­oking to be­co­me a North Ca­ro­li­na “fa­vo­ri­te son,” was get­ting so­me on the si­de, and if the uni­ver­se was re­al­ly be­ne­vo­lent, from a man.

  He had al­re­ady sta­yed his hand be­ca­use fel­low SE­ALs wo­uld be thre­ate­ned if he kil­led Cal­ho­un. How many mo­re per­fect op­por­tu­ni­ti­es wo­uld the uni­ver­se of­fer him? This, af­ter all, was the most ex­qu­isi­te jus­ti­ce he co­uld ever ask for. The per­fect eye for an eye. He co­uld do exactly what Cal­ho­un had do­ne-not­hing- and Cal­ho­un wo­uld get exactly the sa­me re­sults.

  No, he ne­ver, ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve cho­sen Vicky to be the in­s­t­ru­ment of his re­ven­ge, but the per­fect symmetry of the si­tu­ati­on was awe-in­s­pi­ring in its des­t­ruc­ti­ve be­a­uty.

  He co­uld ma­ke it even mo­re per­fect by tel­ling them now that he might be a match. He wo­uld be a gift-hor­se they co­uldn’t af­ford not to lo­ok in the mo­uth. And when they did? He wo­uld win eit­her way.

  And yes. He co­uld con­tem­p­late a co­ur­se of ac­ti­on he wo­uld ha­ve fo­und des­pi­cab­le at any ot­her ti­me. It was part of be­ing the man he was. He’d do­ne things and be­en part of things. The­re we­re ter­rib­le things that hap­pe­ned in war. In­no­cents lost the­ir li­ves, we­re bur­ned and ma­imed, in gru­eso­me ac­ci­dents and mis­cal­cu­la­ti­ons.

  The­re we­re ot­her hor­rib­le things- not ac­ci­dents- that hap­pe­ned be­ca­use the in­no­cents simply we­ren’t as im­por­tant as the obj­ec­ti­ves. You didn’t jus­tify it. You ac­cep­ted it. He ac­cep­ted it. This was part of be­ing the man he was.

  Chapter 33

  Ca­leb bro­ught in a lo­ad of wo­od to rep­le­nish the fa­mily ro­om fi­rep­la­ce at Aunt Lilly Ha­le’s. Pic­kett and Jax and Tyler had be­en ab­le to co­me for Chris­t­mas, fil­ling Pic­kett’s mot­her’s ho­use to ca­pa­city. So Em­mie and Ca­leb we­re spen­ding the night with Aunt Lilly Ha­le. The fa­mily wo­uld co­me over to­night to ha­ve sup­per and open pre­sents. In the mor­ning, Em­mie and Ca­leb wo­uld go to Pic­kett’s fa­mily’s ho­use for mo­re pre­sent ope­ning and to ha­ve Chris­t­mas din­ner.

  The next day, the day af­ter Chris­t­mas, Ca­leb’s le­ave wo­uld be up. He had be­en so right that they didn’t ha­ve ti­me to was­te. Em­mie was clin­ging to him a lit­tle, and she knew it. Every sight of him was pre­ci­o­us. They had al­re­ady tal­ked abo­ut how they wo­uld adj­ust the­ir sche­du­les to ha­ve ti­me to­get­her, but it wo­uldn’t be easy. It was too so­on to talk abo­ut fo­re­ver, yet Em­mie knew she had fo­und exactly what she had al­ways dre­amed of in Ca­leb.

  A fu­tu­re to­get­her sho­ne with bright pro­mi­se.

  Ca­leb hun­ke­red down in front of the fi­re, ar­ran­ging the split logs with the sa­me at­ten­ti­on to ex­cel­len­ce that he pa­id every job. His open-we­ave swe­ater re­ve­aled the play of mus­c­les in his back, and the light of the fi­re bur­nis­hed his gol­den skin.

  He’d be­en a lit­tle qu­i­et for the last ho­ur, but so had she. The­re was still much to say. And the know­led­ge that the­ir ti­me was al­most up ma­de the smal­lest ob­ser­va­ti­on abo­ut the we­at­her or wh
at they wan­ted to snack on, un­be­arably po­ig­nant. It was easi­er to re­ma­in si­lent.

  When the log had ca­ught, Ca­leb ad­ded anot­her. One-han­ded, he chec­ked the num­ber on his cell pho­ne wit­ho­ut re­mo­ving it from his belt. He frow­ned and went back to his fi­re ten­ding.

  “Do you ha­ve to re­turn that?” Em­mie as­ked.

  “No.”

  It was the se­cond or third ti­me in the last co­up­le of ho­urs that the­re had be­en a call he hadn’t ta­ken. Sud­denly, it all clic­ked in­to pla­ce. The pho­ne. His so­lemn si­len­ce.

  “Ca­leb? That’s the do­nor re­gistry cal­ling, isn’t it? Oh, my Lord, and I me­an that in the ful­lest and most re­ve­rent sen­se. That me­ans Te­ague Cal­ho­un is yo­ur fat­her. And you are a do­nor match for Vicky!”

  She knew she was rig­ht-she ne­ver be­en mo­re su­re of an­y­t­hing-but a cold hand to­uc­hed her he­art. He was so… still.

  “Ca­leb. What’s go­ing on?”

  He dus­ted his hands and rep­la­ced the fi­re scre­en. “You re­mem­ber when I told you abo­ut the por­t­ra­it of my gran­d­fat­her?”

  “Oh, yes, the por­t­ra­it in the lib­rary.”

  “I didn’t ne­ed this,” he sa­id as he tap­ped the pho­ne at his wa­ist, “to con­firm that Cal­ho­un re­al­ly is my fat­her.”

  “What? I tho­ught you sa­id-”

  “I know he’s my fat­her. I pal­med a glass he had used at the wed­ding re­cep­ti­on. I sent it to a DNA lab for a pa­ter­nity test. He pas­sed. Or fa­iled, de­pen­ding on how you lo­ok at it.”

  “What do you me­an, fa­iled?”

  “The­re’s so­met­hing I didn’t tell you.” His ha­zel eyes so­ught hers. “When I saw the por­t­ra­it of Cal­ho­un’s fat­her and I re­ali­zed my mot­her’s sto­ri­es might be true, I didn’t re­se­arch him out of cu­ri­osity.”

 

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