When Joy Came to Stay

by Karen Kingsbury

  He hurried to the little girl’s side and looked intently into her eyes. “Hang on, little one. Everything’s going to be okay.” Then he turned around and yelled for his partner. “Get an ambulance here quick! And cuff the suspect! I don’t want her to run.”

  He turned his attention back to the girl. She was six, maybe seven years old, and she lay in a pool of blood and vomit. Her face was swollen and cut beyond recognition, and grotesque, hand-shaped bruises covered her arms and upper torso. Wads of the girl’s hair lay on the floor nearby, and the room reeked of household cleaner.

  Parsons knelt over the girl, feeling for a pulse. It was rapid and shallow. She was in shock; each breath was labored. The child’s left eye was swollen shut, but Parsons thought she could see something through her right eye. “How are you doing, sweetheart? Can you hear me?”

  The girl groaned softly and muttered something about her head. She struggled for every breath.

  “Your head hurts?” Parsons wanted to go back in the other room and tear the woman limb from limb. But right now the battered girl needed him, and he tried to keep his thoughts focused on her.

  She moved her head slowly up and down, and Parsons could see fresh tears falling from her eyes. “Help me…” This time the girl’s words were clearer. “I can’t…breathe.”

  Parsons ran his fingers gently over her hair and leaned his face closer. “It’s okay, honey, we’re going to get you help real quick here.” His eyes searched the room and spotted a bottle of cleaner on the floor near the bed. “Did someone spray cleaner at you, sweetheart?”

  The girl coughed and winced in pain. “My head hurts.”

  “I know…it’ll be better soon, I promise.”

  She moaned again, her breathing dangerously strained.

  “She sprayed it…in my eyes…and mouth.”

  Parsons felt his heart constrict. How could anyone… ? He couldn’t finish the thought. There was no telling what horrific things the woman had done to this girl. She looked like she was suffering from a concussion, possibly several broken bones. Stitches would be needed to close the gashes on her cheek, forehead, and arm. On top of everything else, she was in dire need of oxygen, suffocating from the effects of being forced to inhale the cleaner.

  Officer Parsons did not consider himself a religious man, but he liked to think God listened to him anyway. And now, as the sirens closed in and paramedics scrambled through the house with their equipment, he begged God to let the girl live. And to somehow help her find a real home.

  “Sweetie, the medics are here now. They’ll take care of you, okay?” He took her small hand in his and stroked her knuckles tenderly. “Hang in there for me, okay, honey?”

  The girl was breathing too hard to answer him, but from somewhere in her battered body she summoned the strength to squeeze his hand. Parsons had to wipe tears off his cheeks as he left the bedroom and searched for his partner.

  Now that the woman had been caught, she was belligerent as they led her to the patrol car. His partner informed him that the girl’s social worker—a woman named Kathy Garrett—had been told of the girl’s condition and would meet them at the hospital. If the girl lived, she would be placed in Kathy’s home indefinitely.

  Parsons helped his partner squeeze the woman into the patrol car, and then he stuck his face inches from hers. “You’re lucky you get a trial in this country…” He spat the words, and she struggled to put distance between the two of them.

  He studied her, this creature that was more beast than woman. “If I had my way, I’d—” He choked back the rest of what he wanted to say. His anger was getting the better of him. With a ragged draw of breath he shot her a final glare. “God have mercy on your rotten soul, lady.”

  They were loading the girl into the ambulance, and Officer Parsons left the patrol car to check on her.

  In whispered tones, the lead medic told him the news. “She’s in bad shape, but we’re hopeful. If we can keep her heart rate steady and if she doesn’t have too much bleeding in the brain she might make it.”

  A woman walked up, and Officer Parsons saw that she was crying.

  “I’m Carol. I live next door.”

  “Are you the one who made the call?” Parsons stepped aside so they could talk.

  “Yes…I feel awful. I should have called days ago, weeks ago. I always knew things weren’t right here and that something bad was—”

  He shook his head, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “You can’t do that to yourself, ma’am. You called today; that’s all that matters.”

  The woman nodded and looked wide-eyed into the ambulance, where the medics were still working to stabilize the girl. “Is she…will she be okay?”

  There were tears in his eyes as he answered. Like most officers he did his best to stay detached from the crime scenes he worked. But this was more than a crime scene. It was a little girl clinging to life because of circumstances completely out of her control. He blinked back his tears and stared kindly at the woman. “If she lives, it’ll be because of you.”

  A moaning sound came from the ambulance, and Officer Parsons was at the girl’s side in an instant.

  “Kathy…want Kathy…” The tiny voice quivered.

  The medics shrugged and looked at Parsons as he nodded his understanding. The girl wanted her social worker. “Kathy Garrett? Is that who you want, honey?”

  The girl moved her head up and down a few inches.

  “Listen, sweetheart. Kathy’s going to meet you at the hospital. She’s there now, waiting for you, okay?”

  Through the blood and bruises and swollen tissue, Parsons thought he saw the girl smile. There wasn’t a reason in the world for this child to be happy, and yet she was smiling. Again she struggled to speak. “I’m okay…I know it.” Her words were slow and deliberate, punctuated with pain and raspy breaths, but she continued to speak anyway, and the team of professionals around her listened intently. “I prayed to leave here…and so…” She took a deep breath and flinched from the pain. “Everything’s okay…because now…” She moved her fingers to her face and lightly touched the broken areas. “I get to be with Kathy…”

  There were tears streaming down the faces of the three men as they huddled around the child, the medics working furiously to hook up an intravenous line while Parsons did his best to keep her calm. She was trying to finish her thought when Parsons saw it again—a hint of a smile on the girl’s broken face.

  “I don’t have a mommy. I have Kathy. If I can be with her…then God must have heard my prayers…” Fresh tears flowed from the girl’s swollen eyes, and Parsons had the feeling they were almost tears of joy. “And if He heard my prayers, then maybe…maybe He loves me.”

  The three men were speechless.

  Parsons squeezed the girl’s hand in his. What could he say to a girl who’d been beaten to within a breath of her life, a girl who could still find it within her to smile—and beyond that…to feel loved by God? His throat was too thick to speak so he clung tightly to her small fingers—his tears falling softly on the girl’s long blond hair—while the medics completed their work.

  Less than a minute later, they were ready to transport her and one of them checked her vitals. “We’re losing her,” he whispered to his partner. “Let’s get this thing out of here.”

  Parsons released the hold he had on the child’s hand and pulled himself out of the ambulance, praying that the beaten little girl without a home or a mother or a chance in the world was somehow right.

  That maybe God really did love her, after all.

  Fourteen

  THAT NIGHT, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A LONG TIME, MAGGIE WASN’T tortured by demons spewing taunts of condemnation and blackest darkness. The doom and fear were gone, and in their place was a meadow with endless acres of summer grass and wildflowers. In the distance a child was frolicking about, chasing a butterfly or dandelion dust in the breeze.

  Who are you, little girl?

  Maggie squinted in the sunlight, and
though her feet were not moving, her body was suddenly propelled to within feet of the girl. It was her! Of course it was! Sweet child, why are you here? How can I help you?

  The little girl stopped what she was doing and turned. Her cotton dress danced on the gentle stir of wind in the air and she smiled at Maggie. “Hi.”

  Maggie wanted to get closer but her feet were stuck and she looked down. What in the—? Who put shackles on my feet? Thick, heavy iron cuffs held her legs in place and prevented her from getting closer. “Who are you, honey?”

  The girl tilted her head, and Maggie was struck by her face, innocent and so much like…No, it couldn’t be!

  The girl opened her small mouth and said something, but Maggie couldn’t hear her. “What, sweetheart? I can’t hear you. I want to help…what can I do?” Maggie strained against the chains until she felt the skin on her shins shredding.

  Again the girl spoke and though she couldn’t hear her, Maggie could read her mouth. “I want my mommy…my mommy…my mommy.” Then the girl began to cry.

  Suddenly, Maggie was sure that the child’s mother, or maybe even—It can’t be…it’s impossible. “Don’t cry, honey. I’m here…”

  She shouted the words but they were lost on the breeze, and the image of the girl began to fade. No…don’t go. Not yet…I have to talk to you. I still don’t know who you are…Wait!

  Then the scene changed.

  She was in a hospital room and the air was filled with quiet strains of lullaby music. Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so… Maggie cradled the infant girl tenderly, and around her the entire room was painted in soft pastels. Gently, quietly nuzzling the baby’s cheek, Maggie rocked her back and forth, back and forth.

  Then the music changed and became suspenseful, faster and faster giving Maggie the feeling something was about to overtake her and the infant, both. About that time someone burst into the room dressed in a black hooded gown. A quick glance told Maggie it was John McFadden, hidden by a cloak and carrying a hatchet in his hands. The music grew faster, more intense, more frightening as he moved closer.

  In the dream, Maggie held the baby tighter and heard herself screaming. “I have to save her! Get away from me. Please! Someone help me!” But the figure moved closer still and raised the hatchet over his head. Maggie knew if it came down it would be on the baby in Maggie’s arms.

  Suddenly another figure entered from the other side of the room, and Maggie spun around to see a nurse. She stared at Maggie with vacant eyes, her face utterly expressionless. Then, in a slow, robotic manner, she made her way toward Maggie.

  Again the music grew louder, and suddenly the baby began to speak. “Mommy, don’t do it. Don’t leave me, Mommy. I need you.”

  Her words were perfect and articulate, and Maggie felt herself flooded with confusion. The dark figure still loomed at her side while the nurse moved steadily closer, only now the face on the dark man beside her was not John’s, but Ben’s. Robed in midnight, her husband Ben held the hatchet over Maggie and the baby, but instead of John’s sinister expression, Ben’s face was filled with godliness, his eyes glowing with the light of the Lord.

  “It’s time to break the ties. For me, Maggie. It’s time. Decide who you love more. Come on, it’s time…”

  Then she looked and saw a thick piece of twine tying her hand to the baby’s. “Somebody stop that awful music!” But no one was listening to her. Before she could stop him, Ben brought the hatchet down on the center of the cord so that the baby and Maggie were no longer tied together. With that, the hatchet became a white dove that flew through an opening in the window

  The nurse tapped her on the shoulder. “Give her to me. Give her to me. Give her tome…”

  That’s when Maggie saw it wasn’t a nurse at all, but a machine—an unfeeling, uncaring, cold-blooded machine with glowing electric eyes and a hinged mouth.

  “Don’t do it, Mommy, please!” The infant was speaking again, crying for Maggie to hold on, and she did so with all her strength. But Ben took her arm and began pulling her away.

  “It’s for the best, Maggie. Let her go.” Without waiting for Maggie’s response, he pulled harder. At the same time, the nurse grabbed the baby from her arms and spun in the other direction, moving mechanically toward a narrow door.

  “Wait! Don’t take her from me…” Maggie began sobbing hysterically, desperate for the feel of the baby in her arms once more. “Bring her back…please!”

  But Ben was relentless. His eyes still glowing with faith and hope and love, his clothing black as the terrors of night, he tightened his grip on her arm and moved her from the room.

  When they walked out the door, there was no longer a floor to step onto, but a sharp cliff leading to a deep, dark, deadly canyon. The music was almost deafening now, and in that instant she and Ben began to fall—

  Maggie awoke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. The sheets were drenched in perspiration and she was trembling violently from the inside out. Where was she? Her eyes darted about the room and her breathing came fast and hard. Where was the baby? The little girl? Ben?

  The fog began to clear and she forced herself to exhale. Calm down. It was only a dream. “Dear God, why?” The words escaped from her like the cry of a wounded animal. How could she have done it? Handed her baby over to the state’s foster system all so she could…

  Maggie climbed out of bed as her eyes darted around the room. The red glowing numbers on the clock told her it was five in the morning. Sweat continued to drip from her forehead, and she realized she was in the middle of a panic attack. She needed something, another pill or a doctor. Something.

  Her eyes fell on the Bible sitting in the center of her bedside table. She had noticed it before but had never felt the need to open it. She could talk to God if she needed help. What more could His Word do for her at this point? After all, it hadn’t brought her peace and joy and it hadn’t prevented her from falling apart and being admitted to a mental hospital. No, she didn’t need the Bible. She needed medication.

  Her eyes searched the room again, focusing on a meal tray from last night. It lay on the floor, near her bed. Maggie rushed to it, rifling through the dirty items. Maybe she’d forgotten to take her antianxiety pill. She knocked over a glass of water in her haste and huffed in frustration. There were no pills on the tray. She pushed the nurse’s call button.

  After a beat, Maggie heard the nurse’s voice. “Mrs. Stovall, can I help you?”

  “Yes! I’m…uh, not doing very well here. I think I need…maybe you can get me one of those, pills, okay?” Her voice shook from the fear raging through her.

  “Mrs. Stovall, I’m afraid it’s not time for that medication yet. It’s very important that you don’t take too much. Remember, the goal is to help you live without the medication if at all possible.”

  “It isn’t possible!” she screamed. What am I doing? Why can’t I get a grip here, God?

  Joy will come in the morning. My word is a lamp unto your feet and a light unto your path…

  The Bible. God wants me to read the Bible. Maggie’s heart rate slowed considerably, and she stared at the intercom in her hand. “Never mind. I think I’ll just…I’m sorry. Never mind.”

  Maggie dropped the device and moved slowly around the bed to the portable table. Was it still true, even after all the ways in which she’d failed everyone who mattered in her life? Could God’s Word still light her path?

  She remembered her father saying if people really wanted a friend in Jesus, they needed to get friendly with the Gospels. Flipping the pages gingerly, Maggie allowed herself to remember the thin, crinkly feel of them between her fingers—and the peace that spending time within them had once brought. She stopped at the book of Matthew and skimmed past the genealogy of Christ. Then she began to read in earnest.

  Her sweating stopped and her trembling body stilled as she drew in the wonder of God’s truth for the first time in months.

  Nine hours later when she sat in D
r. Camas’s office she was convinced there was still power in God’s Word.

  “I’m ready to finish the story.” She sat straighter in the chair and though she had barely been at Orchards a week, Maggie had the faintest feeling that something inside her was learning to cope. If lies were like a wound to the soul, Maggie’s had been festering for more than seven years. Only by exposing them to the light of day could the raw place inside her ever begin to heal.

  Dr. Camas leaned back in his chair and his eyes offered encouragement. “Go ahead, Mrs. Stovall.”

  “Maggie. You can call me Maggie.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Very well. Go ahead, Maggie. Tell me the rest.”

  She closed her eyes, begging God for strength. Then she did what she hadn’t ever wanted to do again. She allowed herself to drift back in time to the spring of 1992, to a place of reckless abandon.

  To the season she dated John McFadden.

  The worst part about dating John was that she’d known from the beginning what he was about, what he stood for. Her mother always said rumors were like smoke, and where there was smoke there was usually a fire or two; and that if it looked like a duck and walked like a duck and quacked like a duck, well, it probably was a duck.

  After the dance—the one Ben couldn’t go to because of Deirdre—John called Maggie several times a week and flirted mercilessly, doing his best to get her out on a date. Maggie enjoyed his attention but refused to take him seriously. Guys like John scared her. They were experienced and worldly and would want from her the one thing she intended to keep intact: her virginity.

  But by the end of the third week, Maggie felt her defenses weakening. Ben hadn’t contacted her once since his devastating phone call, and she figured he and Deirdre were probably spending much of their time together. Forget him, Maggie thought. Let him go; I don’t have to wait around until he’s engaged to have fun. Besides, I’ll be careful…

  Thoughts like that consumed her and they were dangerous, Maggie knew. But she no longer cared. Ben had broken up with her; how could she believe God had a plan for her life?