by Jane Peart
“I’ve never even considered it. In fact, I don’t think I ever considered there was a career possibility in work like this,” Coryn answered.
“I suggest you should look into it. I believe the local college has a course. Classes you could take. Why don’t you check it out?”
Mrs. Dilworth planted a small seed that day. One that began to grow in Coryn the more she thought about it. What she had been desperately searching for was a purpose for her life. Now a new direction had been pointed out to her. One for which she had a natural talent. A gift as Mrs. Dilworth had put it. Scripture said, “All good gifts come from above.” Was this her gift?
Coryn was awed how it had come, by a seemingly circuitous route. Yet she was convinced nothing happened by chance. “God works in mysterious ways.” Coryn had heard that phrase most of her life. Now she believed it.
When she investigated the courses the local college offered, she found there were two classes starting in the spring semester. She signed up for both. One was a psychology class, another in communications skills, both requisites for a degree as an occupational therapist. There were other courses she would have to take to earn enough credits to actually become a qualified therapist.
Coryn added school two evenings a week. For the first time in her life felt she was doing what she was supposed to be doing, that she had found her niche.
To have a goal for herself was the best therapy she could have found, she soon realized. Instead of groping just to maintain her own emotional balance in her increasingly difficult family situation, she now had a definite purpose, a potential new career, which offered her the fulfillment and satisfaction she’d been searching for.
April
Chapter Twenty
Recently, Mark had had trouble sleeping. He’d taken to watching late-night TV or reading until his eyelids grew heavy and he dropped off midsentence, the book fallen on his chest. He’d wake up sandyeyed and sluggish, the bedside light still burning, the morning news programs coming on.
Since he’d stopped seeing Coryn he’d lost track of the passing of days, the weeks going by. He’d buried himself in work, laboring over his columns, writing at home in his study at his desk computer. Time didn’t seem to have much meaning. It was just space to fill up.
Then one morning he was awakened by Ginny’s small, round face close to his, bending over him. Tugging at his pajama sleeve, she said in an insistent voice, “Wake up, Daddy.”
He blinked, struggling to get his eyes fully opened.
“Mrs. Aguilar is sick so you’ll have to take me.”
He sat up on one elbow. “Take you where?”
“To church, of course,” she explained patiently.
“Church?” he echoed blankly.
The fuzziness in his brain began to clear and he also became aware that Mrs. Aguilar, bundled into a purple chenille bathrobe, smelling suspiciously of menthol, was standing in the bedroom doorway. A startling sight since Mark had never seen the housekeeper in anything but a flowered housedress, starched apron, her salt-and-pepper hair braided around her head in a neat coronet. Her face looked puffy and flushed, her eyes glazed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Emery, I’m afraid I’ve got a flu bug,” she croaked. She touched her gauze-swathed throat. Obviously it was a bad case. He had never known Mrs. Aguilar to have a day’s sickness.
Still, he felt vaguely annoyed at the way both were staring at him. It wasn’t enough that the one day a week he had to sleep in had been disturbed, they clearly expected something else. What it was hadn’t yet sunk in. He managed to be reasonably sympathetic.
“That’s too bad. You go back to bed. I’ll manage breakfast.” He reached for his bathrobe. “Have you taken anything?”
“Two aspirins and some tea with lemon,” she replied.
“Daddy,” Ginny began again, “you’ll have to take me…”
“To church, Mr. Emery,” Mrs. Aguilar said. “Maybe you’ve forgotten. Today is Easter Sunday and Ginny is in the program.”
“Easter? What program?” he growled, knowing he sounded like a disgruntled bear.
“Daddy!” protested Ginny. “You know. I told you. It’s the Flowering of the Cross. The kids bring flowers and put them on the cross. Mrs. Wiley, our Sunday school teacher, says it sym-sym-” Ginny’s little face screwed up with the difficulty of pronouncing the word.
“Symbolizes,” Mrs. Aguilar supplied.
“Symbolizes,” Ginny repeated carefully. “Symbolizes the Resurrection,” she finished proudly.
Mark was sitting up now, acutely conscious that Mrs. Aguilar had not budged. She was still standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “Well, now, look, honey, Daddy isn’t much for…” He stopped, ashamed of making excuses before Ginny’s solemn brown eyes, Mrs. Aguilar’s accusatory stare. He swallowed and began again. “What I mean is, why don’t we go somewhere for breakfast, say, the Pancake House? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then, maybe this afternoon—”
Ginny shook her head vehemently. “No, Daddy. I have to go to church. It’s Easter. Besides, they’re counting on me for the program. We got the flowers yesterday, yellow daisies, bluebells.” Her prim little voice turned suddenly hopeful. “Couldn’t we go to the Pancake House after church?”
From the doorway, Mrs. Aguilar said pointedly, “These things mean a great deal to a child, Mr. Emery.”
Mark sighed. He’d lost. They’d won.
“Okay, I’ll grab a quick shower and shave. How much time have I got?”
Ginny twirled happily out of the room, calling back over her shoulder, “Service is at eleven, but we have to be there by ten-thirty!”
Mark hauled himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Under the needle spray of the showerhead, he came stingingly awake. He felt guilty. He’d only half listened to Ginny’s regaling him with her Sundayschool class’s plans. The truth was, he’d been preoccupied with thoughts of Coryn.
Had he done right breaking it off? So abruptly? There was so much at stake in making a commitment. Finding the right person for himself was one thing. Finding the right stepmother for Ginny was something else altogether. He hadn’t been sure how Coryn felt about taking on a ready-made family. And was she really over that relationship in L.A.? She hadn’t talked much about that, either. No question he had been physically attracted to Coryn. She was lovely to look at, but more than that superficial beauty was intelligence, humor. There was a special quality about her, a sensitivity that was definitely appealing. He had never really asked her how she felt about children. He didn’t know. And someone else’s child…an adopted one? But she had seemed to love Ginny and Ginny had taken to her right away.
Had he made things too complicated? Put up too many obstacles? Ones of his own making? Afraid of risking rejection? Had he messed up royally?
He was just toweling off when a sharp knock came at the bathroom door. “Mr. Emery, it is ten o’clock,” came Mrs. Aguilar’s husky voice.
“Okay. I’m almost done.” He lathered his face, quickly started shaving. Next he heard Ginny’s impatient, “Daddy, aren’t you ready yet?”
“In a minute!” he snapped, then knowing he sounded cross, added, “Honey.”
She was waiting, all dressed in a new ruffled dress, lace-trimmed white anklets, shiny black-patent Mary Janes. She looked adorable and Mark felt the familiar heart tug, wishing Shari could see her. Maybe she can, a strange voice seemed to say in his head.
“Here are her flowers, Mr. Emery.” Mrs Aguilar handed him a fragrant small bouquet wrapped in moistened plastic wrap.
“Hurry, Daddy, I don’t want to be late.”
Mark exchanged an indulgent smile with Mrs. Aguilar.
“Okay, we’re all set.” And he held out his hand for Ginny to take.
Outside, a pale sun was pushing through the clouds in an overcast sky. North-coast weather, even on Easter, Mark thought as he put Ginny in the car. He helped her fasten her seat belt so her dress wouldn’t be crushed. Then he lay the flowers carefully on
the back seat, got in, started the engine and backed out of the driveway.
He walked with Ginny to the door of her Sundayschool class and left her there. She was smiling shyly and clutching her flowers. The teacher was at the door and seemed surprised to see him. He explained about the housekeeper, and Mrs. Wiley nodded sympathetically. “There’s a lot of it going around. But it’s nice to see you, Mr. Emery. I know Ginny is happy you came.”
Mark felt the warmth rise into his face. He didn’t need to be reminded he hadn’t been to church since Shari’s funeral. He couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a believer. He was. He and Shari had gone to church regularly. It was just that after she was gone…Well, he didn’t have to explain to anyone. God knew why. At least, the God Mark understood did.
There were clusters of people moving up the steps and into the church. Men in dark suits, women in pretty pastel dresses. After a whispered confrontation with an usher, Mark was escorted to one of the pews marked Parents. Luckily there was a seat on the aisle.
Above the altar was a magnificent stained-glass window depicting Christ as the Good Shepherd. Mark had always loved the Bible story of the one out of the ninety-nine that Jesus searched for until he found it and brought it back into the fold. Sunlight was beginning to stream in through the glass, illuminating and enhancing the colors. Mark sat in quiet contemplation of a favorite image, feeling a certain peace beginning to flow over him.
The organ began playing and white-surpliced choir members filed in and took their places, voices raised loudly, proclaiming, “This is the day that the Lord hath made, Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
There was a stirring and shuffling as the congregation stood, and with the rustling of the pages of the hymnals joined in the chorus. From the back of the church the children came down the aisle to the seats reserved for them in front. Ginny allowed herself one sidelong glance and a tiny smile of satisfaction as she passed and saw he was safely seated with the other parents.
With the close of the opening hymn, a youthfullooking minister accompanied by rosy-cheeked boys in red cassocks and starched surplices, entered from the sacristy. He mounted the pulpit and waited until, with great shifting and creaking, people settled into the wooden benches. A hushed expectancy filled the church.
In a surprisingly deep, resonant voice the minister declared, “Today we celebrate the glorious good news. ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in Me shall not die…’“
But Shari was dead, Mark mentally corrected. “…but shall liveth forever in the place I have prepared for those who love Me.” The phrase seemed to echo in Mark’s mind. Shari had loved Jesus with all her heart. Her whole life had been a testimony, a witness. She had touched everyone she encountered. After her death, people Mark hadn’t even known had written, sent condolence cards, messages. Shari couldn’t ever be really gone, as long as people who loved her remembered.
Mark brought his attention back to what the young minister was saying so earnestly. He found himself leaning forward intently.
“Two of the hardest things in the world are to accept death and to accept life. To accept death only requires our faith. The great tragedy is not accepting the miracle of life. The gift God has given each of us with endless possibilities. Finding beauty in all the things around us, nature, creatures, weather, the people we know, the people we are yet to meet, who will bring us new evidences of God’s caring. Life has many unexplained mysteries. We must accept them all as His gifts. The light, the shadow, the pain as well as the joyous times of happiness, and laughter. He wants us to meet it all with courage, serenity and hope.”
The minister pointed to the bare cross at the foot of the altar. “The fact of death must be accepted but not with an unforgiving grief. Love that existed in life is real and lasts beyond death. What we have shared, what we have given and received on earth will remain forever.”
Mark stirred uncomfortably. The words were hitting tender spots, wounded places. Somehow what the man was saying sounded vaguely familiar. Then he remembered he had been watching Bill Moyers’s program “World of Ideas” on TV, and one of the guests had said, “If you can accept death, you can affirm life.” This minister was saying practically the same thing.
“This is the day of our Lord’s resurrection. Perhaps this is a day of a new beginning. We must look into our own hearts and see that here is the joy of expectation, the hope of our faith and the love that overcomes death.”
The children, prompted by their hovering teachers, began to come forward. The older ones twined greenery around the cross made of florist’s wire, then one by one the smaller children placed their flowers in the empty spaces until the outline of the symbol of death had become a bower of colorful blossoms and fragrance. Glory had replaced defeat.
The minister lifted his arms, inviting the congregation to join him in the triumphant declaration, “Let us say together, ‘Christ has risen. Christ has risen, indeed.’“
Mark heard voices all around him ringing out in joyous affirmation, singing “Our God Reigns,” a hymn he recalled from his own boyhood Sundayschool days. His throat was too tight to join in but he did so in his heart.
He watched as Ginny went back to her place with the other children. His heart twisted with love. Ginny deserved more than a distracted father, a man clinging to the past, not sure of the future. Things were going to change.
Love was worth the risk. He wouldn’t not have had Shari even for the short time they had had together. Now he felt free to open his heart again. To Coryn? Maybe. If it wasn’t too late.
Outside the church, after the service, Mark thought he caught a glimpse of Coryn and Mrs. Dodge. But the courtyard was filled with people greeting each other and wishing “Happy Easter,” parents exchanging compliments on their children’s performance. The parking lot was crowded as well so he couldn’t have got through to speak to them anyway. Besides, what would he say? He felt awkward. Embarrassed at the way he had handled the situation with Coryn. Had he let it go too long? Was there some way he could make amends? He should at least try.
Ginny left the group of little girls with whom she had been chatting, and ran up to Mark. “Wasn’t it nice, Daddy? Didn’t you like it?”
Mark felt his throat tighten. He smiled down at her. Held out his hand. “Yes, honey. It was very nice.”
“Did I do good, Daddy?”
“You did wonderful!” He grinned, feeling something stinging at the back of his eyes.
“Now can we go to the Pancake House, Daddy?” she asked with a little skip.
“You bet.” Mark grinned again. Now they could do a lot of things.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mark couldn’t sleep. Nothing new. He was finding it harder and harder to go to sleep at a decent hour. The techno thriller he’d read to get drowsy had only served the opposite purpose, leaving him wide-awake and tense with their near-life correspondence to the daily TV news.
He got up, got a glass of water and looked over the bookcase under the bedroom window for something to read that might be boring enough to induce sleep. For some reason, he pulled out Shari’s wellthumbed copy of The Road Less Traveled by Scott Peck. Shari had bought paperback editions of bestsellers. She’d liked to highlight, underline and make notes in the margins of books she particularly liked. She’d tried to get him to read this one. Somehow he never had.
Mark went back to bed, thumped the pillows into a bunch behind his head and settled himself in his usual methodical way.
Mark’s hands gripped the edges of the book as he read page after page. This writer knew what he was talking about. It was as though he understood Mark’s reluctance to follow his heart with Coryn Dodge. He was afraid. Afraid of being rejected, afraid of the pain that might be involved in getting to know someone, letting them know you.
Everything that makes living meaningful, rich, interesting requires putting yourself out there—being vulnerable, if you will, to whatever comes with loving. But, Peck maint
ained, “loving is worth the risk.”
Mark lay there holding the book, stunned. It was almost as if he heard Shari’s voice. She had liked to read aloud to him, paragraphs, excerpts from books she was excited about. Sometimes, caught up in his own book, he had only half listened. Tonight he listened.
He got up, and after a moment’s hesitation, went to the phone and dialed the Dodges’ number.
The phone rang and rang. There was no answer. Slowly Mark replaced the receiver. He realized he’d made a mistake cutting off his relationship with Coryn. Could he explain that somehow. Or was it too late? His determination strengthened. Better late than never. He’d try reaching her again tomorrow.
The phone echoed hollowly in the empty house.
Driving home through the rainy night from the airport where she had just put her parents on the plane, Coryn’s thoughts were muddled.
The windshield wipers made a squeaky sound as they swept back and forth. It had been an unusually wet spring. It had been raining for what seemed weeks. On the spur of the moment, her father had declared he had to go find some sunshine.
He had made reservations for Clare and him at the Silverado Country Club in the Napa Valley, and although invited to accompany them, Coryn had refused. She urged them to go without her. They would both feel better after a few long, lazy sun-drenched days in the valley.
The phone was ringing when she came inside the house. By the time she picked up the receiver, there was only the buzzing sound on the line that meant the party who had called had hung up.
The message machine wasn’t turned on, she noticed. A clutching sensation in her stomach reminded her of recent events, of Dr. Iverson’s warnings that things would grow gradually worse. Clare was always turning things off that should be left on, as well as doing the opposite. Coryn went around behind her mother, checking, righting these lapses of concentration. It was nerve-racking. Worse still was the realization that this was only the beginning of things getting worse.
