Ben's sermon the next day was on the biblical psalm that taught, "Be still and know that I am God," but Zach fidgeted so much that Kara couldn't concentrate on the lesson.
"Settle down, young man," she whispered for the third time, this time with exasperation.
But the boy couldn't seem to relax. He wiggled and writhed enough to irritate Craig, too; Craig put his arm around the boy and squeezed him close to quell the restlessness. Of course, being held just made Zach tense up, so when Craig released him a minute later, he fidgeted all the more.
The church service closed with a final "Amen," and Kara immediately turned to the boy. "What is with you today? You hardly said a word at breakfast, and now all through the service you couldn't hold still. That's not like you, kiddo. What's going on?"
Zach looked at her with innocent, but subdued, eyes. "Nothing, Mom."
She held his gaze.
"I'm not sick or anything," he sighed. "And yes, I went to sleep last night. I didn't stay up to read."
He had guessed her next question. "Well, okay," she said. "Why don't you go out and play with the other kids until we're ready to go home? Run off all of that wiggling."
He headed outside obediently, and Kara rubbed the back of her neck, watching him go. The boy was still beautiful like his dad. But he was still such a mystery, too. They knew so much about him now, yet still so little—like where he had come from. And what had made him so edgy all through church? Or was that just a normal part of being a ten-year-old boy? There was so much she didn't know—about his past, about how to raise a child, about what might make a boy too quiet over breakfast and too fidgety during church. Was that even something to be concerned about, or was she overreacting?
"Kara," Rita greeted her, breaking off her train of thought. The other woman approached with a warm smile. "I am just wondering, do you find anymore things about Zach?"
"No, nothing since you took us to the house," Kara replied.
Rita shook her head sadly. "Not me either. But the girls and I, we pray every night for God to help your family. I am so happy for him to have good parents."
"Thank you, Rita," Kara said. "Dios le bandana." It was one of the few Spanish phrases she knew.
"Bendiga," Rita laughed. "Dios le bendiga. God bless you, too. See you next semana…er, next week. I am still learning!" She walked away laughing.
Kara shook her head—Rita had a kind spirit. Not for the first time since learning of Rita's connection with Zach, Kara thought Zach must have turned out so well largely because of her.
Zach was apparently over the fidgeting by the time they headed home; instead of running with the other children, he was sitting quietly on the grass at the edge of the church's yard with his knees pulled up against his chest when Craig called him. He joined them without a word and remained just as silent all the way home.
He made pleasant conversation over lunch, though, until he elbowed his milk onto the floor. Then he apologized so many times that Craig had to make him stop and just clean up the spill. After lunch, he offered to assist Kara as she picked green beans in the garden; he was helpful, but he chattered to the point that Kara nearly sent him away. Her ears appreciated the break when Craig began repainting the shed and Zach asked to join him. It wasn't another minute before the boy had a streak of green paint in his hair.
"Good thing it's a bath night anyway," Kara told him when she saw it, "or you'd have to take an extra bath."
An hour before dinner, when the guys had washed and put away their brushes, Zach returned to Kara. She was rolling out a mound of biscuit dough. "What can I help with, Mom?"
Caught off guard, Kara glanced around her, thinking through her dinner preparations. "I'm in good shape here, kiddo, thanks. Why don't you go play with Paws?" She continued to flatten the dough before her on the counter.
"He's taking a nap. Could I make dinner for you tonight?" he offered.
"Do you see what I'm doing here?" she asked with a glance at him. "It's already half-finished."
"Oh." He looked around the room. "Could I clean the windows?"
Kara turned to face him directly. What was the child up to? No ten-year-old wanted more chores. She narrowed her eyes. "You've already worked enough for a Sunday afternoon. No more chores today. Go read or play until dinner." Was she really telling her son not to do more chores? What kind of mother told her child not to do chores?
Zach wandered off to his bedroom, but thirty seconds later was back at her side. "Mom, can I fold the laundry for you?"
"No, Zach, it's not dry yet. Go play."
He took two steps away and turned to her yet again. "Could I—"
Kara slapped both hands on her dough. "Zechariah Timothy, if you don't get out of my kitchen right this second, I'm going to roll you with this rolling pin and put you in the oven! Now get out! Go play!" Raising the rolling pin in one hand, she chased him out the side door.
Craig was sorting through the mounds of yard equipment in the shed—finally—and with the door open in the warm weather, Kara overheard Zach asking him if he could help. With a hint of annoyance, Craig turned him down, and Zach finally gave up. He wandered off to sit in the middle of the yard where Paws, now awake, sat beside him to sympathize.
Dinner went well, though Craig and Kara grew weary of Zach's attempts to recall every adventure they had enjoyed as a family thus far. He ate a hearty meal, and when he was finished he cleared away all the dishes himself. He would have washed them, too, had Craig not sent him back outside.
Craig scratched his head and turned to Kara. "Do you know what's going on with him today?"
Kara sighed. "Not a clue. He must have asked me a dozen times if he could help with something. You know, most parents have to tell their kids to do chores."
"So do we, most days," Craig pointed out. He helped her load the dishwasher and wipe down the counters, then left the room to stretch out on the couch with a novel.
Zach obediently played outside, entertaining Paws until the sun went down. When Kara finally called him in, he went directly to his bedroom, picked out some clean clothes from the closet, and made his way to the bathroom. Mildly stunned, Kara watched discreetly from the kitchen, wondering, concerned; never before had the boy taken a bath without having to be told.
When the muffled sound of running bath water emerged from the hall, Craig peeked around the corner of the den. "Did you remind him to take a bath?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Me, neither," he told her. They shared a bewildered look—that look had become almost habitual since Zach had come to live with them—and Craig returned to his book.
Several minutes later, Kara heard the water draining from the tub. She gave the boy time to dry off and dress himself, then knocked on the bathroom door. "Zach?"
"You can come in," he answered. Entering, she found him sitting on the closed toilet, clean and dressed in his shorts, drying his hair with a beige towel; it might have been the very towel he had taken to dry himself that evening of his arrival, when he had somehow known—guessed, he had said—where the bathroom was.
She stepped inside and spotted a wide puddle on the floor beside the tub. "Did you get out of the tub before you dried off again?"
Zach sacrificed his hair-drying to drop the towel onto the floor and mop up the pool. "I forgot. Sorry."
"Maybe someday you'll remember." Kara tousled his still-wet hair; it felt clean. It smelled clean, too. She raised her eyebrows in curious approval. "You washed your hair—with shampoo—without being reminded?"
Zach looked up at her and nodded, gauging her reaction.
"Hmm. Well, that's good." She considered him as he pulled his shirt on over his head. He really was a beautiful child, at least to her eyes.
"Why are you watching me, Mom?" Zach popped his head out through the shirt again, then pulled his arms through the sleeves and settled the shirt into place.
She narrowed her
eyes. "Zechariah Fleming, at this moment you are—"
"—the most important person in the world to you, I know." He rolled his eyes.
"Mm-hmm," she affirmed. "And before you leave this bathroom, you will explain to me why you're acting so strangely today."
"I'm not acting strangely," he answered. "Just normal, helpful."
Kara sniffed. "Yeah, I don't buy that. You've been too helpful, or would have been if we had let you. Ten-year-old boys are supposed to go outside and play, not ask if they can clean the windows. Try again."
He hesitated, picking up the towel and gripping it. Unconsciously, he squeezed it so hard that water dripped out of it and back onto the floor.
Kara reached out and snatched it from him. "Something's on your mind, Zechariah. Out with it."
"It's not strange to take a bath on a bath night. I had paint in my hair. So I—"
"Strike two," Kara interrupted him. "It's nice of you to take a bath without being told. You're welcome to do that anytime. But why today?" She could see him working the problem of what to say next. "Don't go to strike three with me, young man," she warned. "You want something. Tell me."
She gave him an overly serious look, and he withered in front of her, dropping his eyes to the towel that, she realized, she was now squeezing so that it dripped onto the floor. She tossed it to the counter.
Several long seconds stretched between them before Zach spoke again. "Mom, why do you think my nannies all left so soon? Except Rita, I mean."
That was not the kind of response she had expected. She had figured he wanted to ask for something, something special, but was afraid to. "What do you mean?"
His eyes took on a new expression—searching, almost pleading. "They only stayed a few months at the most. One of them only stayed two weeks! Do you think they got tired of me?"
Kara's stern visage softened and she took a seat beside him on the rim of the bathtub, which, she realized too late, was wet. "Zach, why would you think that? Is that what's been bothering you? You think they got tired of you?"
The boy looked at everything in the room but her; yeah, she had found the problem.
"Look, kiddo, nannies come and go. They might get tired of the job just because, I don't know, they're weird or something. Maybe being a nanny wasn't their thing. Maybe someone offered them a better job. Who knows?"
"But all of them?" he asked skeptically. "Only Rita stayed very long. The rest… Am I boring, Mom?"
Kara barely caught herself before she blurted out a laugh. "Boring? No, you are definitely not boring."
"I get in trouble too much." He studied the remnant of the puddle on the floor.
"Sometimes, a little bit. But every kid does. Your grandmom told me that for a while, when your dad was about your age, he got in trouble everyday. It must be a boy thing, huh?"
His shoulders drooped sadly. What was going on inside this child?
"Hey, you can't take it personally. If the nannies left, I'm sure it had nothing to do with you."
"But Rita stayed."
"Yeah," Kara nodded, "because Rita is awesome."
"I think you're awesome, Mom." It was a petition—Kara could see it in his eyes.
What is my son asking for? What does he need? She would have hugged him if it would have comforted him rather than disturbed him.
As it was, she settled for tousling his hair again. "You too, Fish. And as long as you live in this house, until the day you leave, I'm going to keep doing…this!" She messed up his damp hair with both hands, rubbing playfully.
"Argh! Stop!" Zach cried, pushing her hands away; but it seemed to Kara that he liked it in spite of himself. At least, she hoped he did.
*****
The Boy Who Appeared from the Rain Page 73