The Isaac Project

by Sarah Monzon

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? And don’t give me any drivel about just dropping by to see how I’m doing.” Mr. Sawyer gave me a pointed look.

  I laughed. “How are you doing, Mr. Sawyer?”

  “Would be doing better if you’d start calling me something other than Mr. Sawyer. If you don’t want to call me Poppy, then at least call me by my first name, Larry. You are family now. No reason to be so formal.”

  “Well,” I said awkwardly, not knowing exactly how to proceed. “That’s just it. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be a part of this family.”

  If he’d been a healthier man, Larry Sawyer probably would’ve launched himself out of the bed. As it was, harmful intent darted from his eyes. “What do you mean?” Larry’s voice was razor sharp.

  “I’m not going to pretend you don’t know the parameters in which your granddaughter and I were married. You voiced your suspicions before the wedding, and you were right. Even with the unusual circumstances and the fact Becky and I had just met, I thought we could make it work. That if we put the Lord in the middle of our relationship, something beautiful and lasting could develop. But things have…changed.”

  “What has changed? Tell it to me straight, son.”

  “Becky wants to keep pretending we are happily married until you…well…until…you know…”

  “Until I die?” the older man supplied.

  “Right. And then she said she wants a divorce.” I said it as a matter of fact, trying to hide the truth that the mere thought made my stomach plummet to my toes.

  “Impossible. Rebekah Anne doesn’t believe in divorce.”

  “That may have been true at one point, but now she’s obviously changed her mind.”

  The lines around Larry’s mouth deepened as his lips turned down. “Do you know what brought this about?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea, and she won’t tell me.”

  Larry sighed. “She always was one to keep things bottled up inside.”

  I appreciated the man’s empathy, but what I really needed was advice. “What do you suggest I do? I don’t know how to fix something when I don’t know where it is broken.”

  Larry leaned over and grabbed one of the books on his nightstand. He flipped through the pages before turning the book toward me and tapping a certain point on the page.

  “‘You can identify them by their fruit, that is, by the way they act.’” I read aloud. “‘Can you pick grapes from thorn bushes, or figs from thistles?”’

  Larry took the Bible back. “That’s from the New Living Translation.”

  “That’s all well and good, but how is it supposed to help me?”

  “Don’t be so thick skulled,” he scolded. “Let your actions speak for you. Does she think you dishonest? Be above reproach. Does she think you untrustworthy? Be ever faithful. You get the idea.”

  I mulled over the suggestion. “Do you think it will work? I’m not ashamed to tell you, sir, I have fallen in love with your granddaughter, and I don’t want to lose her.”

  Larry’s face split into a wide smile. “The truth always comes out son, one way or another. I know you two didn’t come together in the conventional way, but I think God can use even the most unusual conditions to bring about His plan.”

  29

  Rebekah

  THERE WAS AN old Disney movie I loved to watch when I was a kid called Doctor Dolittle. They’ve remade the movie since producing the original, but childhood nostalgia placed my loyalties with the 1967 version. I used to pretend I could talk to my animals just like Dr. Dolittle.

  It might seem crazy, thinking about a film I hadn’t seen in over a decade, but I felt I could relate to one of its notable characters—Pushmi-Pullyu, the white llama-looking creature with two heads on opposite ends of a shared body. Pushmi would want to go in one direction, and Pullyu would try to go in another. And that was me. My head was pulling me one way while my heart pushed me in another.

  Luke wasn’t making my internal struggle any easier either. He’d spent the last two weeks doing all sorts of things that would make a normal woman ooh and aah. I had gotten so many flowers I could have made my own float for the Rose Bowl parade. More than once I had awakened early only to find the stalls already mucked, the horses fed, and a delectable feast of French toast, an omelet, or crepes—depending on the day—awaiting me at the table.

  I had also received little notes and verbal words of praise. I’d been told I looked beautiful numerous times and that I was smart, funny, and kind.

  With each compliment and thoughtful deed, the voice of the woman on the phone giggling and reassuring me she had rewarded Luke faded until it became difficult to recall at all. At first, all I had to do was conjure up that shrill voice, and self-righteous indignation would protect me against Luke and his attentions. But no matter how long I waited, or how much I tried, I couldn’t find any ulterior motives to Luke’s behavior. He never once attempted to move things to the bedroom and hadn’t even tried to hold my hand.

  My head told me to remember the facts. Luke had left under false pretenses, had even used the guise of an injured boy, to rendezvous with another woman. Common sense told me to wear these evidences as an impenetrable armor. My heart, however, argued like a first-rate defense attorney, planting reasonable doubt among all my head’s logical arguments.

  The bed barely moved as four tiny paws landed on its surface. Mittens butted my head with her own and then flopped down to share my pillow, pinning my hair under her body and pulling at the roots. Her long, fluffy tail twitched across my face, tickling my nose and leaving hairs in my mouth.

  I sputtered and rolled out of bed while Mittens contently purred, happy to have my pillow all to herself. Who needs an alarm clock when you have animals roaming the house?

  Grabbing my cell from the nightstand, I scrolled to the settings and turned off the Do Not Disturb feature. Seconds later, my phone dinged, alerting me to several missed calls. I rubbed the remaining sleep from my eyes as I punched the green icon on the lower right-hand corner of the screen.

  This is Dr. Henshaw at Grandview Retirement Facility. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this Mrs. Masterson, but your grandfather has suffered a stroke and has been taken to Samaritan Hospital to receive proper medical treatment. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call.

  The phone clicked in my ear, and the message was over. If not for my startled reaction, my hand reflexively tightening, to the front door banging open and Luke’s frantic shouts of my name, I was sure the phone would have slipped through my fingers. This was the end. There would be no recovery. I was losing more than just my grandfather. It felt like I was losing a piece of myself as well.

  For the first time, Luke barged through my bedroom door unannounced and uninvited. I managed to look in his direction but couldn’t focus my vision. I felt like I was drowning. All I saw was blurred. Everything I heard, garbled. I tried to draw a breath, but my lungs refused to inhale any life-giving oxygen.

  Luke stepped toward me and wrapped me up in his strong arms. I clung to him as I would to the reins of a runaway horse. My lungs finally cooperated, and I gasped in shuddering breaths.

  “Shhh. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Luke crooned in my ear as he rocked me back and forth.

  After I didn’t know how long, I finally managed to pull myself together somewhat. My nose was running, and I had the hiccups, but I felt I could stand on my own without Luke’s assistance. I sniffed and gently pushed away from him. His navy blue T-shirt was wet and crumpled from where I’d held on so tightly. The crisp yellow emblem over his heart not in its usual pristine condition.

  Luke refused to leave me with no support. He cupped my elbow and leaned down until our eyes were level.

  “Get dressed, and I’ll take you to the hospital. Or do you need some help changing clothes?” One side of his mouth quirked up in a devilish grin.

  I saw through his thinly veiled attempt to make me laugh, to try
and take my mind off the ominous truth. But I couldn’t force an obliging chuckle past tightly compressed lips. I was doing all I could to keep it all in. One sigh, one escape of any kind, and I would fall apart into more pieces than Humpty Dumpty.

  I moved to the dresser and opened a drawer, giving Luke a pointed look. Taking the hint, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

  ***

  Poppy lay motionless on the bed in the hospital room, the white sheet and blanket pulled up to his chest. His arms were slack at his sides, with tubes taped and protruding from them. I slipped my hand under one of his, wincing at the paper-thin quality of his skin and the purple blotches dotting his limbs.

  “Poppy, can you hear me?” My voice sounded small in my ears.

  No response. Eyes closed, Poppy’s chest barely rose and fell with each breath, as if he struggled against the weight of the blanket resting there.

  A nurse in bright-yellow scrubs entered the room, the embodiment of sunshine herself. I resented the cheerful color, my mood more in line with a foreboding gray.

  “I take it you must be Mr. Sawyer’s family?” she asked with a smile, her perfectly white teeth framed by full lips that had been applied with just the right amount of lipstick.

  I flicked her a glance and answered “Granddaughter” before returning my attention to Poppy.

  She didn’t seem put off by my shortness but continued checking monitors. I didn’t pay her any attention until she tried to start up another conversation.

  “In uniform, I see.”

  I looked down at myself. Since when were jeans and a T-shirt considered a uniform?

  Luke’s masculine voice answered from somewhere over my shoulder. “I was on duty when I received the call that Larry was in the hospital.”

  He had left work to come and get me? Another chink in my armor.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the nurse sidle up close to Luke. She lifted her hand and traced the insignia on his chest, flipping her jet-black hair and peering up at him through long lashes. Her voice lowered, and I couldn’t make out the words she was saying to him.

  Armor restored and calvary called. I rolled my eyes. How shameless could one man be? Accepting the advances of a woman with your wife mere feet away, and in the hospital room of her dying relative.

  Luke’s hand came up and enveloped the nurses. Hot tears stung my eyes as I looked away.

  “No, I’m sorry,” his voice rang out. “Coffee later would be impossible.” A warm hand cupped my shoulder. “I’ll be here with my wife.”

  I peeked at the nurse, her eyes darting between Luke and myself. Her cheeks turned red as she stammered, “You’re…she’s…I’m…” She darted out of the room faster than Lady after a squirrel.

  “Sorry about that,” Luke murmured, my shoulder feeling bereft of his touch as he dropped his hand.

  I wanted to blame him, to justify my previous denouncement of his character. But I couldn’t. He hadn’t done anything to encourage the woman’s attention.

  “Does that happen often?” I asked.

  “More than you’d think,” he muttered. Most guys would sound pleased or proud of the fact. Luke sounded almost disgusted.

  I didn’t know how to answer, so I went back to watching over Poppy. Nothing had changed, and any thread of hope I might have harbored began to fray.

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and an older, spectacled doctor with a gray mustache entered. “Brittany told me family members had arrived.” The doctor extended his hand, and Luke and I shook it in turn. “I’m Dr. Turner.”

  “How’s he doing, Doctor?” I asked, my eyes resting on Poppy.

  Dr. Turner approached my grandfather. “As you know, leukemia is a cancer that affects the white blood cell count in the blood. Your grandfather has more white blood cells than a healthy person. Along with these defective cells, Mr. Sawyer is also experiencing an increase in platelets, which, in some cases, can lead to clogging of the blood vessels, which in turn can lead to a stroke. This is what has happened to your grandfather.”

  I choked on my tears. Hearing the prognosis in medical terms did nothing to comfort me. Even so, I needed all the information I could get. “Did the stroke put him in a coma? He hasn’t responded or opened his eyes since I’ve been here.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Will he”—I swallowed hard—“will he wake up?”

  “That’s hard to say, ma’am.”

  My vision blurred as moisture filled my eyes.

  Dr. Turner’s voice became less businesslike and more compassionate as he spoke again. “No one in the medical field knows how much a comatose patient hears and understands when a loved one speaks, so go ahead and talk to him. Maybe even say your good-byes. Just in case.”

  ***

  I cradled Poppy’s hand in mine, stroking his long fingers. I’d shooed Luke out of the room, needing some time alone with the man who’d raised me. The only man who loved me unconditionally and who I could trust without question.

  I looked at Poppy’s limp hand, unresponsive to my touch just as the rest of him was unresponsive to my voice. I could curse leukemia. Curse all cancer, for that matter. How could something as tiny as cells in your body cause a strong and healthy man to become weaker than a newborn baby? To end the life of one person and completely change the course of another?

  I lifted Poppy’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. This hand that had held on to the seat of my bike, running beside me, holding me upright as I pedaled my little legs. Finally, with a push, he released his hold, and I flew down the sidewalk, a huge grin spread across my face as I mastered the two-wheeled contraption. Somehow, Poppy always knew when I needed support and when I needed to soar.

  Uncurling Poppy’s fingers, I held his palm to my cheek. Whenever I used to get discouraged, if I fell off a horse, or got a bad grade in school, or I caught the boy I liked kissing Amy Carmichael behind the slide on the playground, Poppy would place both hands on either side of my face and look me straight in the eye. He’d tell me how much he loved me and how special I was. He’d say, “Rebekah Anne, sometimes in life we fall down, and sometimes life pushes us down. Either way, we’ve got to pick ourselves back up and brush ourselves off. No matter how you feel or what someone else might tell you, you’re a child of the King. And that makes you God’s princess. And you’re my princess too.” Then he’d kiss my forehead, swat me on the behind, and send me on my way.

  Reverently, I placed Poppy’s hand back onto the cot. Scooting my chair closer to his head, I softly pushed the white wispy hair off his brow with my fingertips.

  “What am I going to do without you?” I whispered.

  Poppy had believed in me when no one else had, when I wasn’t even sure I believed in myself. He was the one who had cosigned the loan that had allowed me to buy the ranch and follow my dreams. He never told me I needed to get a conventional nine-to-five job or the security of a weekly paycheck. He never seemed worried that I wouldn’t succeed. He only ever said how proud he was of me.

  I laid my head against Poppy’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know how you did it all those years. You were mother, father, and grandfather to me. I hope you know how much I appreciate everything you did. How much I love you.”

  We stayed like that for a long while—Poppy seemingly unaware of me in his comatose state. No flutter of his eyelids, no jerk of his body, no movement of any kind. If it weren’t for the hum and beep of the monitors I would have thought he’d already breathed his last breath.

  My heart was breaking, but my eyes were dry. I needed to be strong for my grandfather.

  “It’s okay, Poppy,” I reassured him, even though I wasn’t sure if he heard me or if I was just talking to myself. “I know I’ve been telling you to hold on, to fight. But you’ve fought a good fight, run a good race. The finish line is in front of you. You don’t have to hold on for me anymore. I’m going to be fine.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. In time I was sure
that would be true.

  Lifting my head, I kissed his saggy cheek. “Good-bye, Poppy.”

  ***

  Three days later, Poppy was gone. I thought my world would have come crashing down like the walls of Jericho, but instead I didn’t feel a thing. I was completely numb. It was as if I had been shot with a thousand doses of Novocain all over my body. I could have been run over by a bus, and I doubted I would have felt the impact. I shouldn’t have reacted that way, I knew. I was prepared. I had said good-bye. But I couldn’t help feeling bereft. The sense of loss was keen.

  I was unaware of everyday occurrences, such as the passage of time. If it was time to eat, I would find food in front of me. If it was time to sleep, I would be tucked into bed.

  In the back of my mind, I knew there were things that needed to get done. I needed to find a funeral home and make the necessary arrangements. Pastor Dunbar needed to be informed of Poppy’s passing so he could prepare a eulogy. I should have been thankful my list wasn’t longer. When my parents had died, Poppy purchased several plots so the family could be buried together. He didn’t have a lot of material possessions, so I wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with money-grubbing relatives. I grunted. Who was I kidding? Poppy had been the last member of my family. Now I was all alone. I would have taken any relatives, even the money-hungry type.

  Pushing myself off the bed, I ran my hand through my hair. Or at least I tried to. My fingers snagged on several tangles, causing me to wince with pain. The numbness seemed to be wearing off, and I was feeling something again.

  Lifting my eyes, I looked at myself in the mirror above the dresser. Dark bags sagged under bloodshot eyes. My hair went out in all directions around my head, testament to the night I’d spent tossing and turning. My mouth was dry, and I worked my tongue over the roof to build up saliva. A lick across my teeth had me running to the bathroom and my toothbrush. No one should have a film that thick covering her teeth.