She rose on shaking legs and returned to the bed. She took Mother’s hand between hers and squeezed, hoping against hope that she would squeeze back. “Mother?” She whispered first, then repeated it half a dozen times, a little louder each time, giving her hand squeezes with each utterance.
Diane’s nose stung with the effort of holding back tears. Prayer and her mother’s favorite songs hadn’t wakened her. The flick on the foot hadn’t wakened her. Holding her hand and speaking to her got no response. Would anything break through the wall and bring Mother back again?
At noon, the cleaning crew shooed Diane out of the room so they could change Mother’s sheets and whatever else they did to tidy the place. She grabbed her digital notebook and headed for the hospital cafeteria, where she’d already picked at several meals. Not that the food wasn’t good. They even had vegetarian options that fit her vegan lifestyle. She couldn’t complain about the few bites she’d taken. But swallowing proved difficult with the huge amount of worry filling her.
If she couldn’t eat, she’d connect to the hospital Wi-Fi and do more research on comas. She’d already made a short list of suggestions for reaching Mother, but there had to be more. She’d uncover them all, practice them all. She wouldn’t quit until Mother opened her eyes and fussed at her again. She blinked back tears. She couldn’t believe she missed hearing her mother’s chiding “Margaret Diane,” but she did.
She fixed a salad from the bar of fresh vegetables, grabbed a wedge of lemon from the drinks counter to use as dressing, and selected a bottle of coconut-infused sparkling water from the refrigerator. As she stepped up to the cash register, someone pushed in close behind her and stuck out a debit card.
“Let me get that.”
The cashier took the man’s card and swiped it before Diane had a chance to protest. She stepped away from her tray and turned her full attention on the man—tall, with thick steel-gray hair combed straight back from his forehead and eyes almost the same color as his hair. Dressed in navy trousers and a white button-up shirt and striped tie, he stood out from every other person in the cafeteria, and he didn’t appear threatening. But she wasn’t in the habit of letting strangers pay for her meals, and she told him so.
He smiled and little fans expanded at the corners of his eyes. “But I’m not a stranger.”
She frowned. “Do I know you?”
He picked up her tray and gestured with his chin toward the eating area. “Let’s get out of the way of those behind us.”
A glance confirmed several impatient people with loaded trays. Diane followed him to a booth and slid in. The cafeteria was crowded, half the people in hospital scrubs, the other half not. She even spotted a security guard. If this man proved dangerous in any way, she’d be able to scream for help.
He placed her tray in front of her and sat across from her, his gentle smile still intact. “Please forgive my unexpected intrusion, Ms. DeFord. I stopped by your mother’s room, and the orderly told me you’d gone to the cafeteria.” He stuck his hand across the table. “I saw you in the congregation with your mother last Sunday, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to you before you left. I’m D. A. Raber, your mother’s pastor.”
Now she remembered. Since he didn’t have his suit and Bible, she hadn’t recognized him. Diane shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He linked his hands and laid them on the table. “May I bless your meal for you?”
“You already paid for it. But if you want to pray over it, too, I won’t stop you.” The snide comment emerged so easily. Too easily. She experienced an immediate burn of shame, but he didn’t seem affected. He smiled and bowed his head.
“Dear Father, thank You for this food and for the nourishment it provides. Bless it now, and may You also bless both the preparer and the receiver. Amen.”
Diane picked up the salt and pepper shakers and applied them liberally to the salad. “I’m sorry you came when they were cleaning Mother’s room. They chased you out, didn’t they? They’re real sticklers about no one being in there during the cleaning routine. But if you don’t mind staying for a half hour or so, you’ll be able to go in and see Mother when they’re finished.”
“Actually, I came to see you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Me? I’m all right.”
His gentle smile and the warmth in his eyes voiced a silent argument.
She frowned. She squirted lemon juice and then jammed her fork into the mound of mixed greens. “Really, I’m fine.”
“Then you must have a very strong spirit. Most people who sit beside the bed of a relative in ICU are distraught and full of ‘why’ questions.”
Diane wished she could refute his statement, but his words were too true to deny. She set her fork aside. “Actually, I do have a major ‘why’ question. You’re a minister, someone who’s close to God, right?”
“We speak frequently.”
The matter-of-fact statement could have held arrogance or even humor, but she didn’t see either on his square, honest face. She sensed she could trust him—not a feeling she experienced very often when it came to men.
“What’s your question, Ms. DeFord?”
“Why isn’t He answering?” The words exploded, harsh and accusing. She grabbed up her water bottle, twisted off the cap, and took a long drink. The cool liquid soothed her dry throat and eased a bit of the fire that had risen in her chest.
“I believe He is.”
She snorted in disbelief. “What?” She waved her hand, envisioning Mother’s still, seemingly lifeless frame on the white sheets upstairs. “Did you peek at Mother when you were in her room? Are her eyes opening? Is she moving her hands or legs? Is she saying anything? No. She’s just lying there, unaware. So the prayers those people from your church came and said have been ignored. He’s not answering.”
He leaned forward until his elbows rested on the tabletop. Earnestness brightened his eyes. “First of all, God never ignores the prayers of His children. It tells us in 1 John 5:14 we can confidently approach God, knowing that whatever we ask in His name will be heard. Please believe me. God heard every word lifted to Him. His silence doesn’t mean He’s ignoring us.”
She pushed the salad aside, her appetite gone. “That’s what it feels like.”
He sat for several seconds, quiet, seeming to examine her. Just when she was ready to storm out of the booth and march upstairs, he said, “Are you familiar with the biblical account of Job?”
Many years had passed since her church days, but she remembered the minister preaching about Job. She’d thought then that God was pretty unfair to place so much hardship on one person, and she wasn’t eager to review the story. But she should be honest with a preacher. She nodded.
“Then you know he faced some of the worst things that can befall a man—the loss of his property, friends, children, and even his health. His own wife advised him to curse God and die. He prayed repeatedly for relief, and God heard those prayers, but His answer wasn’t what Job wanted to hear. Not at first. Do you know why?”
She couldn’t remember the end of the story. She shrugged.
“Because those watching Job’s battle needed to see the depth of his trust in his God. If Job had only suffered a stubbed toe and continued to trust the Lord, what example would that have set? But his suffering was severe. At one point he bemoaned that his lyre was tuned to mourning.”
Diane’s mind’s eye flooded with an image of her mother. Her heart ached. “I can kind of relate to that right now.”
“I’m sure you can.” His tender expression let her know he empathized with her pain. “Job was trapped in a miserable, undeserved, pitiful place. And yet do you know what He said to God?”
She shook her head.
“He said, ‘I know that you can do all things; no purpose of yours can be thwarted.’ ” He paused for a moment, his brows low and intensity glimmering in his gray eyes. “You see, even in the ash pile of despair, Job trusted that God hadn’t abandoned him. In a
nother Scripture passage, he questioned why God allowed the heartaches to come. But in spite of all the pain and suffering, he held to his faith. He set an example for others to follow. He believed there was a purpose for his suffering. He didn’t know what it was, but He trusted God to reveal it in His time.” A soft smile broke over his face. “And God did. But not on Job’s timetable. On His own.”
Diane tipped her head, frowning. “So you’re saying God heard the prayers and He’ll answer them, but only when He’s good and ready?”
“That’s one way of putting it. Another is that God knows the best answer, and He will reveal it at the right time.” He chuckled. “My wife likes to say God doesn’t operate on our schedule. Yet He’s never late—He’s always on time.”
Hope flickered to life in the center of Diane’s heart. “So when the time is right, my mother will wake up.”
He placed his hand over her wrist, sympathy glowing in his eyes. “Ms. DeFord, only God knows if your mother will wake or not. But whether she does or she doesn’t, I can assure you that whatever happens will be what’s best for her and what will best bring glory to Him.”
Hope’s tiny flame died beneath a wave of icy anger. “And what about me? Or my daughter? Is it best for us for someone we b-both love to be taken from us before we’re ready?”
“All I can say for sure is that God often works His will in the least expected ways.” He withdrew his hand. “Every challenge is an opportunity for us to grow in our faith and dependence on Him. However He chooses to answer our prayers for your mother to open her eyes and return to us strong and bubbling with life, I have to believe, like Job, that there is a purpose for the answer.”
“Even if it’s no?” The question grated past her dry throat.
“Even then.”
She took another drink, but it did nothing to wash away the acidic flavor of fear lingering on her tongue. “I need to get upstairs. They’re probably done cleaning by now, and I don’t want Mother to be alone.”
“Ms. DeFord, your mother is a temple for the Holy Spirit. She is never alone.”
She slid out of the booth and rose. He stood, too, and held out his hand. She took it, expecting a quick handshake, but his fingers wrapped around her hand in a firm grip and held tight.
He smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go up with you and spend a little time with Hazel. While I’m there, I’ll pray for her, and for you and your daughter.”
“Just pray for Mother.” Diane slipped her hand from his grasp, grabbed up her notebook, and headed across the floor. “Meghan and I are fine.”
Cumpton, Arkansas
Meghan
Meghan waited at the top of the narrow concrete staircase leading to the basement of the orphans’ home, her entire body twitching with eager excitement. After two full days of hanging out at the hotel and waiting for a judge to approve the search warrant, they had it in hand. And now, a day past the expected stay in Cumpton, Sean and three officers from the Bentonville police department were finally going through Mrs. Burton’s office. Her crutches prevented her from joining the search, but she trusted them to locate what they needed in order to prove or disprove their theory about Mrs. Burton’s activities. Better still, she trusted God to guide them.
Mrs. Durdan’s shocked, betrayed expression remained etched in Meghan’s memory. Soft sobs drifted through the open doorway between the orphanage and the woman’s private quarters. Guilt pricked hard. Mrs. Durdan had been so kind and hospitable. Meghan took no pleasure in shattering her world, yet the truth needed to be uncovered. While she waited for the men to finish their search, she prayed the woman would eventually be able to forgive them.
Muted voices followed by the thud of footsteps rose from the bottom of the stairs. Meghan stepped aside as Sean, followed by the officers, ascended. Each of them carried stacks of papers or files. Two of the officers went directly into the attached apartment, and the third remained with Sean, who held up a leather-bound journal, his grin triumphant.
“This is it. A list of every child Mrs. Burton sent to California to be privately adopted.”
Meghan’s heart fired into her throat. She clamped the crutches with her elbows and held out both hands. “May I see it? Is Maggie’s name on the list?”
The remaining officer stood with his chest puffed importantly. “The children’s names aren’t listed. Just a date and their descriptions. But there are thirty-one in all.” He blew out a breath. “That Nora Burton was one busy lady. You two have opened a Pandora’s box. The media will have a field day with this.” He aimed a frown at Sean. “I’ll give you some time to go over the notes with your partner. Then we’ll bag the journal and get it entered with the other evidence.” He strode through the doorway.
Meghan gazed in shock at the open book. Someone—presumably Mrs. Burton—had divided the pages into four columns. She glanced across the headings. Description Wanted, Child’s Age, Date of Delivery, and Adopting Family. Six pages were filled with information. “I can’t believe there are so many…” She lifted her gaze to Sean’s grim face. “Why did only ten come up in the database as missing?”
“It’ll take some more digging to sort it all out, but from notations she made in a separate journal, we suspect she started out with honest intentions—truly offering indigent parents the chance to let their infants or small children be sent to families who would give them a better life. If parents signed away their rights, they wouldn’t turn around and report their children as missing, so the names wouldn’t show up in any database.”
Indignation struck as thoughts of the man who’d never bothered to be part of her life tickled the corner of her mind. “It’s hard to believe parents would give away their children.”
Sean offered a sad smile. “Think about the time, Meghan. It was the Depression. A war was raging in Europe. A lot of people were hurting. If they couldn’t feed and clothe their kids, the kindest thing would be to give them to families who could take care of them.”
“The kindest thing…” She’d have to think on that later. She nodded, pushing aside her personal reflections. “All right. Desperation probably would lead some to make painful choices. But if people were willing to sign over their children, why would she need to take some without their parents’ permission?”
“It’s hard to say. Maybe she asked and the parents refused and she really believed she was rescuing them. Maybe she got greedy and wanted more placement fees, as she called the payments in her records. Maybe the adoptive parents wanted a certain look or a certain gender and she took children who fit the description so she wouldn’t disappoint a client. The fact that every child taken from Benton County had blond hair and blue eyes makes me suspect the latter reason.” He shrugged. “But we’ll probably never know for sure.”
Meghan scanned the entries, reeling. “The whole thing is unbelievable.” She gasped and almost dropped the journal. Sean steadied it and she pointed to one entry. “Look here. ‘Girl: blond-haired, blue-eyed, sunny disposition; age approximately three; July 17, 1943; Waldo and Rosemary Plum, San Francisco, California…’ ” Excitement coursed through her. Her entire body began to quake. “The age, the description, the date—this all fits what Grandma said about Maggie. This has to be her.”
Sean grinned. “I think so, too.”
“Oh, Sean…” She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine Grandma’s face when they told her they knew what had happened to Maggie. Then sorrow struck with such force her knees went weak. She’d talked to Mom twice a day since Grandma’s surgery, and so far there was no sign of Grandma awakening. She opened her eyes and gazed at Sean through a sheen of tears. “Do you think Grandma will wake up so we can tell her?”
He cupped her face, his touch gentle and comforting. “You know what? If we don’t get to tell her, she’ll still find out. When she reaches heaven, all her questions will be answered. She’ll know. I really believe…she’ll know.”
Thirty-Nine
Las Vegas, Nevada
Diane
Diane slid her cell phone into her purse, then leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane. She wasn’t allowed to talk on the cell in Mother’s room, so when Meghan’s call came in, she’d hurried to a little alcove that looked out over the parking lot. Terrible view but a private spot. Perfect for such an important conversation—absolutely no distractions.
By Monday morning, Meghan would be back in Nevada. She and her partner had gathered all they needed in Cumpton and won the battle with the local precinct for jurisdiction over the evidence from the old orphanage. When Sean reached Little Rock, he intended to turn his full attention to tracking down the family who apparently adopted Mother’s little sister. Hearing Meghan’s excitement, even though her croaky voice gave evidence of her weariness, gave Diane a much-needed lift. But then Meghan had asked about Mother, and Diane had to tell the truth.
“There’s still no change. The doctors did a brain scan yesterday afternoon, and they didn’t see signs of damage. Her neurons are intact and her brain responds to stimuli, but for some reason we don’t understand, her body’s responses have shut down. Which means she’s…lost inside of herself somehow.”
When Diane shared the doctor’s intention to move Mother from ICU to a room in the hospice section of the hospital, Meghan broke down. And Diane cried with her, something she had determined she would not do. But now in the aftermath of the release, she couldn’t deny its benefit. The fierce ache in the center of her chest had eased, and her stomach didn’t hurt as much. Maybe letting the emotions out was better than holding them all in.
Bringing Maggie Home Page 31
