Home Song

by Thomas Kinkade

  That’s why Mother can’t stand it. Why she won’t let me keep the baby and bring her back home. She wants to punish me for running away with Tim. She doesn’t want to be reminded of him. She thinks I can give up my child, go back home, put on my old clothes waiting in the closet, and take up my life again, as if none of this ever happened. As if I never loved Tim and was his wife. As if I never carried this child inside of me. I can’t do it. I won’t. She can’t make me.

  If only Emily had had someone to help her, anyone to take her side against Lillian, Sara thought. She might have even had a chance if she hadn’t gotten ill again, but a few pages later, the voice became far less defiant, sadder, and worn down. The date was May 19. Her own birthday.

  I wish I could die. I’m sick again, a high fever. They can’t find the infection. I’m so scared. The baby is in danger. She’s not right. They won’t tell me, but I know it. I keep falling asleep. I need to stay awake, to guard her. They said a few more hours, and they will take her out with a C-section. I’m afraid they’re going to take her away from me. Mother won’t let me bring her home. I begged Daddy on the phone, but all he said was that he thanked God I was alive and would be home soon. He won’t go against her. He won’t help me. What will I do? There’s a hole inside me now. Tim, I need him. Last night I heard him come into the room. I heard his voice right next to me. I reached out to touch him. Hallucinating, Mother said. . . . The doctor is here. With my mother. I guess it’s time. . . .

  “Sara? How can you see anything?” Luke stood next to her, his hands sunk in his front pockets.

  She looked up at him and blinked. “It got dark. I didn’t notice.”

  He crouched down and sat in the sand beside her. “Are you crying?”

  She shook her head. “No, the wind got in my eyes, that’s all.”

  She looked down at the diary and carefully closed it.

  “What do you think now?” he asked her.

  She had so many thoughts, so much welling up inside, like the high-rising waves washing in on the shoreline.

  “I think Emily really tried,” Sara said carefully. “She had a lot against her. I don’t know what I would have done if it had happened to me.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Luke asked.

  “I want to go see her. Will you take me there?”

  “Right now?”

  She nodded. He looked at her for a moment, then leaned forward and cupped her head with his hands, pressing his lips to her forehead.

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  Sara put the diary away in her knapsack and took Luke’s hand. He pulled her up from the sand and twined his fingers through hers as they walked up the beach.

  At the end of the point Sara saw the lighthouse, its thin beam sweeping across the dark sky. The sight stopped them in their tracks for a moment, and Sara felt the light pass over her. She glanced at Luke, recalling how he had told her that he prayed. She looked out at the dark sea.

  God, if you’re out there, please help me talk to Emily. This is so hard. I don’t know how to begin. . . .

  EMILY DIDN’T HEAR THE DOORBELL AT FIRST. IT WAS MONDAY NIGHT, AND she was running water in the tub for a bath. She leaned over and shut off the faucet. Yes, that was the bell. Her bath would have to wait. She walked quickly to the stairs.

  “Coming,” she called out. As she passed the window, she looked but didn’t see Sara’s car. Her secret hope instantly deflated.

  She pulled the door open, then stood back. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you. Is this a bad time?” Sara asked.

  “Come in. Come in.” Emily swung open the door, her eyes hungrily fastened to Sara. She knew she had repeated herself.

  Calm down, slow down, she chided herself. You don’t know what she’s come for. Maybe to tell you she’s going back to Maryland.

  “Come into the living room,” she said, showing Sara the way.

  Sara stood next to the sofa, but didn’t sit down. “Did you just go running?” she asked.

  Emily realized she was still wearing her jogging clothes. She touched her hair with her hand. “Yes. . . cold out,” she added, thinking she sounded nervous and inane.

  She had been running a lot the last few days. And taking a lot of hot baths. Anything to calm her down from the wait. But now Sara was here. Finally.

  “Here . . . let’s sit down,” she suggested.

  Sara sat in an armchair and Emily sat on the sofa. Sara opened her knapsack and took out the diary. She placed it on the coffee table. “I wanted to return this to you.”

  Emily felt as if she couldn’t breathe. “Did you read it?”

  “Yes . . . I read it twice.”

  Emily waited, aware of the sound of her blood rushing in her ears.

  “You went through a lot.” Sara added hesitantly, “It was a lot to lose your husband like that. I can see how scared you were.” She paused.

  But it wasn’t enough, right? Emily nearly said.

  “I can see it now. How it happened. You didn’t really want to give me up, but somehow, the whole thing was just too much for you to handle. I can see that.” Sara nodded to herself. “The part where you wrote about how much you already loved me, even when I was inside you and you hadn’t even seen me yet . . .” Sara’s eyes filled up with tears and her voice trailed off. “I believe you did.”

  “But I still do. I never stopped, Sara. The time, the distance . . . It never mattered at all that I never saw you. That I never knew you.” Emily heard her voice breaking and realized that her eyes were stinging. Any second now she was going to burst into tears. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her hand and stared at the pattern of the upholstery, struggling to get control.

  As she stared down, willing herself not to cry, Sara suddenly rose from the chair and sat on the couch beside her. Sara put her arms around her, and Emily could hardly believe it. She felt frozen for a moment, in shock. Then she hugged Sara back, squeezing her eyes shut. This time Sara didn’t pull away but leaned toward her. Emily pressed her cheek to Sara’s hair.

  “Can you ever forgive me? Not now, I know it’s too soon. But someday maybe?”

  Sara pulled back and sighed. “I’m trying,” she said. Then finally, “I do.”

  Emily hugged Sara close again. Thank you, Lord. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I don’t need another thing in my life now that I have her again.

  A short time later they sat in the kitchen and Emily happily served Sara a sandwich and a cup of tea.

  “What do you like in the tea? Here’s sugar, lemon, milk.” She put everything on the table.

  Sara smiled at her. “Emily, sit down. You’re making me nervous. It’s just me, remember?”

  “I know. I know.” Emily sat down across from her and took a sip of tea. “Sara, I need to ask you about something. I’m trying to figure out the best way to let everyone know about this—this wonderful change in my life. Normally, the gossip mill in this town would just take care of it in an hour or so. All I’d have to do is tell Harriet DeSoto or Lucy Bates,” she said wryly. “But I was thinking maybe I’d just tell Dan to run something in the paper. . . .”

  “But what about the election?” Sara protested. “This is going to be terrible for you. I think you should wait.”

  “Wait? I’ve waited twenty-two years.” Emily laughed in disbelief. “I don’t need to wait any longer to tell everyone about you. Do you really think I care so much about being mayor?”

  “You don’t have to do that for me, really. I don’t want you to,” Sara insisted. “What if you lose because of that—because of me? I’d feel awful about it.”

  “I would never think that way, Sara. You’re too important to me. Besides, I think I’ve learned my lesson about taking the middle of the road.”

  “But you like being mayor. You’re good at it,” Sara argued. “I want to be part of your life, Emily, but not mess it up for you. . . . How else can I say it? Please don’t do this,”
Sara nearly begged her.

  I’m not listening to her, Emily realized. I have to really stop and listen. Is this my first lesson in being a mother?

  She reached across the table and touched Sara’s hand. “Sara, don’t worry. I’ll wait and think this over some more. I won’t do anything without talking to you first, okay?”

  “Thank you,” Sara said, looking enormously relieved.

  “I’ve already told Reverend Ben about you, but he won’t tell a soul. I’ve told Jessica, too. She was very, very happy,” Emily added. “She’s always liked you.”

  “I like her, too.” Sara put both of her hands around her mug. “What about Lillian? Did you tell her yet?”

  Emily shook her head. “I was waiting to see what you were going to say after you read the diary.”

  “She’ll be surprised,” Sara said.

  “To say the least,” Emily agreed. This was going to be difficult. There was no telling how her mother would react, and Emily couldn’t stand the idea of Sara being caught in Lillian’s bitter crossfire.

  “Don’t worry,” Sara said, as if reading her mind. “I already know Lillian. I’ve seen her at her worst.”

  “Not quite,” Emily assured her. “But you have some idea.” She stirred a spoonful of sugar into her cup. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Listen,” she went on as an idea occurred to her. “If you’re not in a rush to get back home, would you like to see some pictures? I have an old album around here someplace with photographs I took of me and Tim while we were married. I may even have one of me when I was pregnant—out to about here.” She gestured with her hand.

  “That’s hard to imagine,” Sara said honestly. “Get them out, I want to see them.”

  “No problem.” Emily got up and went into the den. She found the album easily, where she knew it had been sitting for years, wedged in the bottom of a bookcase.

  “Here it is,” she said as she returned to the kitchen.

  Sara was standing next to her chair, rummaging through her knapsack. “I have one to show you, too,” she said.

  She pulled out a photograph and handed it to Emily. It was of Tim, a picture Emily vividly remembered taking in late winter, a few months before his death.

  “Where did you get this?” Emily asked curiously.

  “I found it. Up in Lillian’s attic. It was in a box of old books.” Sara sat down again. “I know it wasn’t right to take it without asking. But I knew it was my father—and I couldn’t very well ask Lillian.”

  “No, you couldn’t have,” Emily agreed. She finally looked away from the photo and smiled at Sara. “You look a lot like him, you know. Around the eyes, and you have the same-shape mouth.” She reached out and lightly touched Sara’s cheek.

  She sat down again and sighed, giving Tim’s photo one last lingering look. Then she pushed it across the table to Sara. “Here, you keep this. He’s part of you, too.”

  “Yes . . . I know,” Sara said, taking the photo carefully in her hands. She looked back at Emily. “Tell me about him. What was he like?”

  Emily slowly smiled. She rarely had the chance to talk about Tim. Even thinking about him made her feel sad and wistful, but also fortunate to have been loved once by such a wonderful man. Finally she had the chance to share him with their child. Don’t worry, darling. She’ll really know you when I get through, she promised him.

  “Well, for starters,” she told Sara slowly, “he would have gone absolutely crazy over you. He would have loved you very, very much. . . .”

  WHERE HAS THE DAY GONE? REVEREND BEN WONDERED. HALF-PAST THREE and he was just sitting down to lunch. The Clam Box was empty, the midday crowd long gone, and the Early Bird Special contingent not yet arriving.

  Am I falling into that category already? he wondered vaguely. He opened the Messenger and checked the headline story—a hot debate at the school board meeting over the food service contract. Thank you, Lord. Just about two weeks left to the election. Do you think you could keep it quiet around here until then, please?

  He had thought long and hard about his sermons the last few weeks, pushing himself to speak to the spiritual issues without further stirring up the political situation. He wasn’t sure if he had helped any. Sermons, even the best, were like rain, taking a long time to seep into the ground and reach the roots of the problem.

  Was it a minister’s place to get involved in an election? While he had his personal preference, publicly he tried to remain neutral. No, I can’t take sides in political issues, Ben told himself, though some clergymen saw the question differently. But in this matter, the moral and even spiritual threads had become so tangled in the political, it was not only hard to stay out of it, but at times he felt it his duty to jump in.

  “Grilled cheese with bacon and tomato, right?” Lucy checked as she dropped off his order. “And here’s your coffee.” She settled down a mug.

  “Thank you, Lucy.” Ben spread a napkin on his lap and picked up half his sandwich.

  “Anything else?” Lucy asked, balancing her tray on one hip.

  The Reverend glanced up at her. “Well, I could use some company,” he said, sensing she needed to talk. “Can you sit for a minute or two?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said eagerly. She slipped into the seat across from him. “All the ketchup bottles and salt shakers are full, so I don’t even have to bother with that.”

  It was amazing to him what some people had to worry about, the multitude of trivial concerns that made up the average person’s day. But Lucy had larger concerns today, he guessed from the way she nervously twisted a lock of her hair.

  “I bet you’ll be glad when the election is over,” he said.

  “I’ll say. If Charlie wins, that is. If he doesn’t . . . well, I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “The paper says the race is too close to call,” the Reverend replied.

  “I know. That’s what everyone says. But don’t tell Charlie that. He keeps saying he has the momentum. Like a rock, rolling downhill, gathering no grass—or whatever the expression is.”

  “No moss, I think you mean,” the Reverend corrected her with a grin.

  “No remorse, in my husband’s case,” Lucy countered. “I think his tactics against Emily and Luke McAllister have been just awful. I’m not saying he had anything to do with that rock, and they know the fire was an accident,” she hastened to add. “But when I see the way he acts trying to get elected, I don’t like it, Reverend. It’s as if he’s a stranger to me, honestly.” She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

  “That doesn’t sound good, Lucy,” the Reverend replied in a serious tone.

  “Charlie says the same thing about me,” she replied defensively. “He says ever since I started school again, I’m like a different person and he doesn’t know what got into me. As if he’s waiting for me to get over the flu or something.”

  “I see,” Reverend Ben replied. He pushed his plate aside and took a sip of coffee.

  Lucy had come to him several times over the summer with issues about Charlie and their marriage. He had counseled her as best as he could—with mixed results, it seemed. She had started college in September. But it appeared now that their problems and her grievances went deeper than that.

  “Reverend, sometimes I really feel as if our lives are—are going in different directions. Charlie has never been the easiest man to be married to. But at least I always felt we were on the same wavelength, wanted the same things out of life. But I don’t know now. I’m not so sure,” she added in a sad and worried voice.

  “Have you thought of going to a marriage counselor? Or coming to see me together maybe?” he asked.

  “I’ve thought of it. I even told Charlie we had to go after the last big fight we had. But he said he was way too busy to waste time sitting in some shrink’s office, listening to me complain about him when he could do the same thing for free, right in our living room. Now, that was a mean thing to say, don’t you think?”

  “He’s
not being very reasonable or respectful to you,” the Reverend had to agree.

  “He’s under a lot of pressure now,” Lucy offered. “This election has really got him worn out.”

  Count on Lucy to come to her husband’s defense, the Reverend thought, no matter how vehemently she complains about him.

  “That goes without saying. I imagine it’s a great strain on both of you.”

  “I know we need some help. We can’t keep going on this way for very much longer,” she said in a cautious tone. “I think the kids are starting to notice, too. They get so . . . so quiet sometimes, like they’re trying to be invisible. Charlie Junior just burst into tears the other night at the dinner table, over nothing. I don’t want them to feel bad like that.”

  “There’s just a little more than two weeks left to the election,” Reverend Ben reminded her. “Charlie is too focused on the race right now to deal with anything like this. I think you just have to wait it out a little longer. Why don’t you resolve to see a counselor after, win or lose,” he suggested. “Would you like to make a date with me right now?”

  Lucy sniffed and straightened up in her seat. “It will be hard for the both of us to get out of here together, though—”

  “Now, now. No excuses, Lucy. You can manage somehow.”

  He took his calendar out of his breast pocket and flipped the pages to November. “How about November twelfth, say, eight o’clock? That will give you both a week to recover from Election Day.”

  “I need a year, but that’s okay. I’ll write it down, too,” she said, ripping off a guest check from her book and noting the appointment on the back. She folded the slip of paper and stuck it in her pocket. “Thanks, Reverend. I hope I can get Charlie there.”

  “You work on him, Lucy—I’ll work from my end.”

  She nodded and stood up. “Thanks. We sure could use some prayers.”

  REVEREND BEN DID NOT GET HOME UNTIL NEARLY ELEVEN O’CLOCK that night. He had visited a parishioner in the hospital, then stayed late in his office, catching up on paperwork. Now the house was quiet and dark, except for the small lamp in the hallway Carolyn always left on for him. He didn’t call out, in case she was asleep, and entered the bedroom quietly.