To Know You (9781401688684)

by Ethridge, Shannon (CON)

  He glanced up from his game and said, “Mom! Wait ’til you see.” He waved the remote and turned on the television. Julia’s image was frozen in high-definition. Her hand was a bloody mess, her fingers twisted in a strange and terrible way.

  “How did you do that?” she said, half in wonder and half in horror.

  Dillon turned his iPad so she could see it. On-screen, Tanita—the patient in the next room—waved at her. The teens on this floor all linked up—chatting, playing games, and flirting in cyberspace.

  “Tanita was heading down to Ultrasound this morning,” Dillon said. “She had her tablet with her because you know how boring the wait can be. And then she caught you in the hall, looking like Dr. Annie had put your hand into a meat grinder. So what happened? Did you punch someone or what?”

  “I . . . no, I didn’t punch anyone. I just got it caught in the door and . . .” And what? Lying had to be okay if it was to spare your son’s feelings. “I was holding the edge of the door, talking to Dad and Dr. Annie, and my foot caught on something and my whole weight just slammed against the door while my hand was still in it.”

  Dillon narrowed his eyes at her. His eyebrows were becoming bushy and a wisp of a moustache formed over his upper lip. She’d ask Matt to buy him an electric razor with a trimmer. Oh dear God, please let him need it, please God, please God—

  “Mom! I asked you a question.”

  “I’m sorry, hon. What did you say?”

  “I said Tanita heard pounding. Like someone was bashing something. She thought there was a fight or something in Dr. Annie’s office. That’s what made her flick on the video.”

  “I don’t know what she heard, Dil. Maybe someone’s working on something upstairs.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You probably should close out that picture. It’s pretty gross.”

  “It is very gross. Exceptionally gross, masterpiece-level gross. I think I’ll use it in my next film.” Dillon leaned back into the pillows. This simple exchange had exhausted him. He smiled as he stared at her image on the screen, his lush imagination already planning a whole story around the battered fingers on her hand.

  All the time not recognizing that his death sentence was on her face for the whole world to see.

  Saturday, 10:16 p.m.

  Julia often thought she should have wrangled cattle for a living. Or maybe she should have become an eighth-grade teacher. As strong as steers were and as nasty as hormone-soaked thirteen-year-olds could be, they could not compete with brides who could afford a million-dollar wedding.

  Fickle. Panicked. Arrogant. Terrified. Inspired. Loving and kind and crazy and mean, all in the same breath.

  God was good to give the gifts He had, but Julia sometimes wondered if she absolutely had to be blessed with this particular talent. Her company, Myrrh, specialized in high-end, sophisticated events, usually weddings. She was the face of the business, the artist with the singular eye and inspired vision.

  Matt was the spine, the man who watched the money and tamed the madness. He did his own wrangling, mostly with caterers, designers, florists, and musicians. Myrrh might be expensive, but they did not allow clients to be soaked for every penny.

  They succeeded because they could not be hired. Their selectivity about whom they would serve had given them the edge of exclusivity. Prospective brides and grooms underwent a grueling interview process with Matt. If they were at all unstable or uncertain, they never made it to Julia. Once she met with them, if she could conjure an amazing vision for the nuptial week, Myrrh would book the event. Otherwise, she sent them elsewhere.

  Her favorite wedding was the first one she had ever done. She hadn’t even met Matt, just put together a free event for her dear friend Jeanne Potts. It was a sunrise wedding on the coast of Maine. The bride wore an ivory silk princess dress and a single Bethlehem rose in her sun-streaked hair. After the ceremony, the guests ate fresh blueberry muffins and cheered as the bride and her love kayaked away.

  Myrrh was a curse when it forced Julia to be away from family and home; a blessing when she watched love walk down the aisle or sail across the bay and knew she had crafted a vision of what heaven will be for those who save the date.

  I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride;

  I have gathered my myrrh with my spice.

  Her business attire consisted of expensive silk blouses and tailored slacks. She needed to give a bride confidence in her taste, and she did that with incredible accessories. Hand-painted scarves from Kenya, bulky silver jewelry, quirky handbags. But she made sure the bride would always be the star of the show.

  Now she ripped blouses out of her closet like a crazed bride at a fire sale.

  Her beautiful tops with the fitted sleeves and fine cuffs would not fit over the club on her right hand. She could go sleeveless, if her jackets fit over the cast. The nurse had instructed her about swelling and taking antibiotics and to be sure to report if her fingertips turned blue.

  No one had warned her that it would be impossible to get her good clothes on.

  Nothing would fit except tank tops she wore for gardening and the gym. “I can’t wear this stuff,” she said to Matt. “I need to make them like me.”

  “They’ll like you.” Matt put her toiletries into the suitcase.

  “Are you kidding? I drop out of nowhere and say, ‘Hi, I’m your biological mother and I need a lobe of your liver.’ They’re just girls, Matt.”

  “They’re grown women now, honey.”

  Twenty-four and twenty-two years old—but in her mind, Julia saw her daughters as infants. Born seventeen months apart of different fathers, they didn’t know they had a biological half-brother. They didn’t know they had each other, and they didn’t know her.

  Adoption had been the right thing to do. The loving thing to do. The only thing she could have done and survived.

  Destiny Connors—the eldest—was just a plane ride away in Los Angeles. Matt said that the adoptive parents kept her name. An impulsive choice because Julia had been only twenty and thought maybe the name would bring her child the strength Julia didn’t have.

  “I’ll have one shot to make a good first impression, and oh—my hair! I can’t work the curling iron and brush with one hand.”

  “So stop at a salon on your way to . . . um . . .” He coughed to hide the catch in his throat.

  It could not have been easy to hear about Julia McCord, the girl who had gotten pregnant by two different men and bore two babies out of wedlock. She and Matt had buried that past so many years ago, had lived in the present every day of their marriage, because that’s what Jesus said to do and that’s what Dillon needed.

  Matt tapped at his phone.

  “What’re you doing?” Julia asked.

  “Patricia texted Camille and asked her to open her store. She’ll run by there for us and pack up what you need. Wait.” He paused as the text came in. “She says to bring your shawls. The black one and the camel one. Wait . . . wait . . . okay, get that big scarf you sometimes wear on your shoulders.” Matt grinned. “Can you believe I’m dispensing fashion advice?”

  Matt owned eight pairs of charcoal slacks for work and a pair of Dockers khakis he wore on Fridays. His one concession to style was pairing muted ties with snowy white shirts. Simplicity could be stunning, something Julia tried to impress on her brides.

  Matt slipped his phone into his pocket. “We’ll stop at Camille’s and get you dressed on the way to the airport.”

  “When?”

  He glanced at his watch. “We still have three hours or so. The jet just came in from Toronto.” They shared a private jet with two other business owners from their church.

  “I can’t wait.”

  “We have to. They have to check mechanicals, refuel. It’s going to be awhile.”

  Matt drew her into his arms. He breathed steadily, his eyes closed. After twenty years of marriage, she knew what he prayed.

  God, please don’t let Julia drive herself
crazy in Los Angeles.

  Please give her wisdom, strength, graciousness.

  Please heal her hand.

  Please save our son.

  Please afflict me in his place.

  Thy kingdom come . . . Thy will be done.

  Julia pressed her lips to his—gently—to taste his goodness, his steadfastness. Matt kissed her back and suddenly, she was famished for him.

  “Julia, your arm . . . ,” he murmured.

  Though she was insufficient in so many ways, somehow Julia knew she was—and had always been—what Matthew Whittaker needed.

  “We’ll work around it,” she said.

  On the way to the airport, Julia and Matt met friends for prayer. Pastor Rich, her assistant, Patricia, and her brother-in-law, Todd, encircled them. Hedging them in. Where can I go from Your presence? Julia prayed silently. If I go up to the heavens—You have got to be there or I’ll lose my mind.

  You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb.

  And that was where Julia always stumbled, because God knit Dillon together in her womb and look what’s happening now, please, Father, please.

  Count your blessings, Matt would say.

  Blessings. Indeed, she had blessings.

  Friends.

  So many friends who loved her. Church family. Her college roommate and dear friend, Jeanne. Her colleagues, Trevor and Patricia. Parents of children they had met, first in the pediatric wing, now in the transplant wing. Joys and devastations were never far from open arms. Some of her brides and grooms had become like family.

  Julia had two enemies. First and always was herself. Try as she might, pray as she would, follow as she must—there was that old Julia McCord trying to bust out. Like an ingrown toenail, something no longer alive but able to hobble her just the same.

  And the second enemy: biliary atresia.

  When a baby was born, you counted fingers and toes. You didn’t poke their belly to see if their liver was filling up with garbage. Your baby boy is ten pounds and lively, and that jaundice is natural, they’d said.

  Until the baby couldn’t gain weight even though he was a hearty eater. Until his stools were like clay because what God designed the body to be rid of was being trapped in the abdomen that Matt loved to tickle. In that belly was a perfectly good liver, going bad because the bile ducts just wouldn’t work.

  Julia wanted to punch God until she remembered she had no choice but to love Him. She’d once had a choice, when Jesus came calling. She could have said no. Long before she knew Matt, long before they became one and Dillon became theirs, Julia McCord suffered from her own spiritual biliary atresia.

  She was lost in bitterness and bile, and she could not get clean until Jesus said He would do it for her. And she had felt that untangling, that draining of toxins, that constant and loving presence of life, and she knew then as she knew now that she was held. That was why she could be furious with God—for a moment—and fall into His arms for an eternity.

  Julia had friends, she had enemies. And she had love. Matt, steady and unpretentious, was the ballast to her sails, the canvas to her art. Not perfect, which made her love him more. Dillon, whose heart beat with hers for nine months, now a funny-voiced, shaggy-haired young teen. And who could ever deny the love shown by Dr. Ann Rosado, with her chaotic hair and summer-sky eyes?

  Count your blessings. Friends. Family. Love.

  And now—now what?

  Two daughters whom Julia had loved enough to walk away from. They would be appalled, offended, disgusted by what she was about to ask of them.

  Love compelled Julia to take this journey. Could grace compel them to join her?

  Two

  Los Angeles

  Sunday, 6:45 a.m.

  Jesus told Luke Aviles to stop sleeping with Destiny Connors.

  She was not cool with that. Not cool at all. Which was why she tossed Luke’s belongings off the deck, one piece at a time. Her bungalow was perched high in a canyon in the Hollywood Hills. Forty rickety steps led up from the driveway to the front door—a climb Destiny hated, even though the view was spectacular. At night she could stare down at the lights of the city while listening to the coyotes howl.

  She liked that sense of the wild.

  Luke had shared that same sense with her until he got this “Jesus says” attitude. Maybe sending him back to his grungy apartment would shake some sense into him.

  Black jeans, up and over the railing.

  Orange and lime-green running shoes. Gone.

  Brown leather belt with silver falcon buckle. Adios, baby.

  “Why are you doing this?” Luke scurried around the driveway, retrieving his garbage, playing the innocent party because that was his gig now. Innocent and so full of forgiveness—for the director who left Luke on the virtual cutting-room floor because he was hotter than the lead; or for the fool in line at Starbucks, some poser producer ripping someone’s eyeballs out on his cell phone just to show he could; or the homeless fellow on their corner with the limp and one crazy eye who assaulted Destiny’s MINI Coop with Windex every time the red light timed her out.

  Luke prowled like a hungry lion on the hunt for more unworthy souls to wrap those strong arms around. Care and concern for all who needed it.

  Except Destiny—the woman who knew how to love him without measure. It was about six hours ago now that he said, “We can’t have sex anymore, Dez. Not until I figure this out.”

  Which was the Christian version of It’s not you, it’s me.

  She had skidded into silence, then detonated a white fury. After that played out, she wept simply because she didn’t know what else to do. When the sky lightened to ash, he volunteered to make a bagel run. While he was gone, she decided to make her own run, backpedaling to the old Destiny Connors who turtled her tears so fiercely that no one could divine them from her hard ground.

  By the time Luke got back with her extra-large hazelnut, light on the cream, and sesame-seed bagel, she had padlocked the gate at the bottom of the stairs. Unless he wanted to scale thirty feet of canyon wall, he was effectively barred from her bungalow.

  She didn’t want him back, not as long as he reeked of sainthood and celibacy. So she hauled another armful of his stuff from the bedroom out to the deck.

  Memory foam pillow. The smell of his shampoo on the pillowcase made her eyes water. Up, over, and bye-bye.

  Baltimore Ravens hooded sweatshirt, smelling like honey. He had worn it last month to help that pal who had a beehive on the roof of those high-rise condos in Santa Monica. Good riddance to that shirt and that disgustingly sweet sense of wonder Luke brought home with a jar of honey. Amazing, Dez. Just awesome how God put it all together.

  Did he see what his God was now ripping apart?

  “Hey! What are you doing?” Down below, Luke stood in cold shadow. Sunrise was a mystery in this part of the canyon; sunset a spectacular sight.

  “What do you care?” she yelled and stomped back into the house. His fiddle perched on the window seat, his wetsuit hung in the front closet, his backgammon board sat on the breakfast bar. Luke had vined his way into every corner of her life.

  And she had welcomed him. She should have known better.

  She went to the hamper, dragged out his Orioles T-shirt and assorted socks. When she got back to the deck, Luke had folded his clothes and stacked them neatly on the gate.

  He expected her to wilt again and let him in.

  Not happening. Dirty laundry—over the railing and going, going, gone.

  “Destiny, aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?”

  “If you won’t listen to me, maybe this melodrama will get through that holy haze you’re in.”

  “I’ll listen to you. Just let me up so we can talk.”

  “I’m sick of you talking.”

  “Okay then. I’ll shut up and you can talk.”

  “Not happening.” His tenderness scared her. Why this—and why now? Of all people who didn’t need saving, he was t
he best.

  “You’ve lost your mind, babe.”

  “Really? I’m not the one talking in tongues and hearing voices.” Back inside, then out with as many clothes as she could carry.

  The Malibu Jazz Fest T-shirt. She and Luke had lain in the grass and let the music drift around them, their fingers touching—because that’s all they needed—as the music and stars soaked into their skin.

  She whipped the shirt high into the wind, watched it flutter down like a piece of paper.

  Early morning, birds going nuts, sky still a sad shade of pink. Normally she’d already be at work, even though it was a Sunday. The call sheet would be pinned to her board with photo stills, the first of her actors stumbling into the trailer, bleary-eyed with a fruit smoothie in one hand and coffee in the other. Yesterday they had wrapped. She wasn’t contracted to do another for three weeks or so.

  Her mother wanted her to come home to Nashville for a few days. Her father wanted her to come to DC, spend some time among the power brokers. He knew she hated politics. She did love drama, though, and Dad’s job provided plenty of that. Maybe next time.

  All she wanted to do today was rip Luke Aviles off her heart like a Band-Aid. Then she’d sleep until her next gig.

  Dr. Phil would call that depression. Destiny called it making a decision and learning to live with it. Question was, could she learn to live without Luke?

  He looked like he always did, with long, blond hair and a coppery beard. A plain navy T-shirt showed his muscled arms and the tattoo she had designed. A phoenix—rising out of the ashes.

  They had done that together a couple years back. Given up the coke, the partying, the late nights and rancid mornings, and settled in. Now he was thirty feet below her, hands outstretched, staring up at her with those blueberry eyes. How she loved his eyes.

  How she hated this misty compassion he wore like a halo.

  What had happened to the heat, the passion? It had been twenty-three days since they’d made love. When she called him on it last night, he said it didn’t seem right anymore. How anything so completely natural could be twisted into something dirty and shameful was beyond her.