A Trusting Heart

by Judith Mccoy Miller

  “That must have been hard on your marriage,” Jake remarked.

  “Both of us attempted to keep our marriage intact and for the most part, we were successful. There were scars—but all marriages go through rough times. If you’re fortunate, the rough times eventually strengthen the union. Anyway, I continued to look for some kind of medical help for Michelle,” she continued, turning the subject back to Michelle and away from her marriage to Glenn.

  “I take it, from the way you said that, your search wasn’t tremendously successful,” he interjected.

  “That’s putting it mildly. I traveled all over the country grasping at straws, knowing there just had to be someone or something to help our daughter. I wasn’t looking for a magic pill, just a way to give her a better quality of life,” she explained.

  “You mean you weren’t expecting a miracle?” Jake inquired, watching her closely as she answered.

  “I have always prayed for God’s will in Michelle’s life—and my own. If there’s a miracle intended in her life, it will happen, and God will be glorified. I’ve never to prayed for God to make her ‘normal,’ although I have prayed for healing when she’s been physically ill. To some people I suppose that’s a cop-out, but I believe there is a purpose in every life and I have always believed Michelle would serve God in her own special way. Does that make any sense to you?” she asked.

  “I guess, but I’m certainly no authority on miracles—or God’s will, for that matter,” Jake replied. “So did you ever find anyone willing to try and help you?”

  “Oh, I can’t even begin to count the number of people who have helped us on this journey,” she replied, giving him a smile. “But I think you’re asking if any doctors gave me an answer, right?”

  “Right,” he replied, nodding.

  “Along with Michelle’s other problems, she had an underdeveloped respiratory system and suffered from several episodes of pneumonia when she was younger. She would have to be hospitalized on those occasions, and during her last hospitalization for pneumonia when she was eighteen months old, I met a registered nurse at the Junction City hospital. Because she had a daughter with similar problems, she’d been researching different avenues for assistance. Anyway, she had recently taken her daughter to Philadelphia to be evaluated for a somewhat unorthodox new program, and they had been accepted. She gave me all the literature and explained the program, telling me she was quitting work the next week in order to begin ‘patterning’ her daughter, LeeAnn.

  “She did caution me that the program wasn’t yet approved by the AMA—not because it posed any danger to the patients, rather because they weren’t sure it was of any great benefit. I explained to her that AMA approval wasn’t necessary to peak my interest, and I would be visiting with my doctor regarding the necessary referral. But that’s when she revealed to me that obtaining a referral would be difficult. Because of the AMA’s stand, most physicians weren’t willing to make referrals.”

  “I’m sure that didn’t stop you,” Jake said, giving her an encouraging grin.

  “Not really. I found a local doctor who was the parent of a retarded child. He reviewed the materials and said that although he didn’t think the program would help, it certainly wouldn’t hurt Michelle. He also added that it probably would do a great deal for me psychologically, because I would actually be doing something. He told me that from a parent’s perspective rather than as a physician, and I’ve always been grateful to him.

  “This is such a long story, Jake. Wouldn’t you like to change the subject for a while?” she asked.

  “Only if you’re uncomfortable talking about it further,” he responded.

  “I’m not uncomfortable. I just feel as though I’m monopolizing the conversation with details that can’t be all that interesting to you,” she replied.

  “Anything you say interests me,” he answered, his voice filled with warmth.

  “I doubt that!” Claire strenuously rebutted as she met his eyes. Surprised at the powerful emotion she saw in his look, Claire quickly returned her eyes to the highway.

  “Are you going to continue?” Jake finally asked when Claire remained silent for several minutes.

  “What? Oh, yes. Well, after receiving the referral, I ap-proached Glenn, who was completely opposed to the whole concept. Finally, after several months he agreed. But once again, his agreement came with a caveat. I had to agree that if this program wasn’t successful, Michelle would be institutionalized, which is where Glenn felt she would receive the best care,” she told him.

  “What did he consider ‘success’?” Jake asked.

  “If she hadn’t shown any progress within a year of beginning the program, or if her progress stabilized for a year. Since Michelle is profoundly retarded, I thought we’d be able to see enough progress each year to keep going. Don’t ask me how I came to that conclusion—I just did. Anyway, I took Michelle to Philadelphia, where she was evaluated as a candidate for the Doman-Delacato patterning program. They had an extremely competent staff; in fact, a world-renowned neurosurgeon advised me that Michelle was microcephalic and that her brain hadn’t grown at a normal rate during pregnancy. Even though the doctor expressed concern that Michelle was not a top-notch candidate, I assured him I still wanted to try and would give it a one-hundred percent effort.”

  “So what did this program entail?” Jake asked, shifting in his seat to face her direction.

  “We had to have volunteers come to the house and assist with patterning Michelle. It’s a form of physical therapy that requires three people moving her body in a crawling fashion, one person at her head and one on each side of her body. The concept is an attempt to pattern the brain cells into those first necessary movements of crawling, then creeping, and ultimately walking. In addition to the patterning sessions, there were innumerable other methods of stimulation that had to be performed on a daily basis. The regimen scheduled for Michelle consisted of a daily program that began at seven in the morning and ended at six in the evening—seven days a week—no holidays. We had over one hundred volunteers who were in our house on a weekly basis, helping to perform various portions of the agenda,” she told him, glancing toward him as she came to a stop at the interstate exit ramp.

  “That sounds like an unbearable lifestyle. How did you ever survive it?” Jake asked, astonishment evident in his voice.

  “It wasn’t easy, but somehow we did.”

  “Where did you find the volunteers?” Jake asked.

  “Oh, the radio station and newspapers were wonderful. They interviewed me on radio talk shows and encouraged folks to volunteer. Both the weekly and daily newspapers did large features explaining the process, and those stories resulted in many folks volunteering. It was a real blessing. The volunteers came to an orientation session before we began the program—just so I could explain things, give them some basic instructions, and introduce them to Michelle. I know it’s hard to believe, but many of them had never seen a retarded child before. Months later, some of them confessed that they had been frightened, explaining their sense of relief when they saw that Michelle was a sweet little girl who enjoyed their devoted attention. I can’t begin to relate the wonderful experiences that came out of those years of patterning.

  “Looks like I’ve talked you all the way home,” Claire told him as she stopped the car in front of the closed garage doors.

  “Want to pull it in the garage?” Jake asked, unfastening his seat belt and opening the car door.

  “I’ll leave it here for now. I need to pick up some things at the grocery store later. I can put it away when I return. Thanks for going along—and for being such a good listener,” Claire said, extending her hand.

  Instead of shaking her hand, he quickly leaned down and gave her an unexpected kiss on the cheek.

  “You’re quite a lady,” he said, turning on his heel and walking toward his car before she could object to his behavior.

  “I’ll give you a call next week. We’ll get together so that I ca
n hear the rest of the story,” he called, waving his arm out the window as he pulled the sleek black sports car away from the curb.

  ❧

  “So how did your date go?” Gloria asked from the other end of the telephone line.

  “It wasn’t a date, Gloria,” Claire explained, a note of exasperation evident in her voice.

  “Call it whatever you want. How did it go?”

  “Fine. We went to the restaurant and had dinner; Michelle promptly regurgitated her entire meal; we cleaned it up, left the restaurant, went to the zoo, stopped at Dairy Queen, and came home,” Claire recounted without any inflection in her voice.

  “Oh, no. You mean our little Miss Michelle let him have it on his first visit?” Gloria asked, bursting out in a hearty laugh. “I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I can just picture Jake. I’ll bet he was ready to cut and run.”

  Throughout their friendship, Gloria had accompanied Claire to visit Michelle on many occasions and had observed several of Michelle’s episodes of projectile vomiting.

  “Believe it or not, he didn’t get the least bit unnerved by the incident. In fact, he probably handled it better than I did. You know, it still bothers me when there’s some kind of scene when I have Michelle out in public. Well—it sure didn’t bother Jake. He even said it was obvious that Michelle had no control over what occurred in the restaurant and if the other customers didn’t understand, that was their problem,” Claire related.

  “Good for him! So how many points did he get?” Gloria inquired, referring to Claire’s habit of giving people “points” for exceptional behavior.

  “Twenty,” Claire promptly responded. “But don’t get excited. He’s a nice guy, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested in him—at least not in a romantic sense,” Claire clarified.

  “So, in what sense are you interested?” Gloria shot back.

  “He seems really nice—I wouldn’t mind having him as a friend. And that’s all I mean, Gloria. A friend, just like you, nothing more.”

  “I hear you. A friend is a good beginning.”

  “It’s the beginning and the end. What are you doing this evening?” Claire asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  “I’m fixing dinner for Roger, and then we’re going out to Fort Riley. The new commanding general’s wife has decided there’s a need for a Youth Center on post. She’s convinced the Officers’ Wives Club to promote some fund-raisers. The first one is tonight—a fashion show,” Gloria told her.

  “Roger wants to attend a fashion show?” Claire asked in a voice filled with amazement.

  “Roger has to attend the fashion show. He’s in it!”

  “You’re kidding—how did that happen?” Claire inquired.

  “The clothing that’s being modeled is being furnished by local merchants in exchange for the promotional advertising they receive. Well, Roger generally buys his civilian clothes at Duffy’s, and they suggested his name to one of the officers’ wives who solicited Duffy’s participation in the event. Need I say more?”

  “So the officer’s wife told her husband, who told Roger’s commanding officer, who passed the word along to Roger that he’d better be present, right?”

  “You got it,” Gloria responded. “Roger’s threatening to boycott Duffy’s. However, I think the owner probably thought he was paying him a compliment by suggesting him as a model. Of course, Roger isn’t looking at it from the same perspective.”

  “So what does he have to model?” Claire inquired, never ceasing to be amazed at the military’s ability to coerce its personnel into such far-fetched schemes.

  “A suit and a pair of casual slacks and sweater. I think if his commanding officer would have just asked him, instead of making it an order, Roger wouldn’t have minded quite so much,” Gloria explained.

  “Guess we’re all kind of like that. I’d sure rather be asked than ordered,” Claire agreed.

  “Well, guess I better get out of here and get busy with dinner. I’m glad that Jake didn’t turn out to be a jerk. Give me a call after you get home from church tomorrow,” Gloria instructed, aware that her friend’s Sunday morning schedule always included church.

  “Okay. Have a good time this evening,” Claire said and hung up the receiver.

  Through the years, the two women had grown to respect each other’s faith. Claire prayed for Gloria, and she knew Gloria did the same for her. Long ago they had agreed to disagree over religion, and it was a topic they no longer discussed. After concurring with Gloria that the subject would be off limits, Claire feared that she had made the wrong decision. However, those fears had been put to rest when, only a few weeks later, Claire listened to a sermon that dealt with the subject of witnessing through example rather than verbal sparring. That message had affirmed their decision and safeguarded an abiding friendship.

  Claire completed two small loads of laundry, and when she had finished folding the last of the clothes, she freshened up and, after locking the house, left for the grocery store. It didn’t take long to purchase the few items she needed, so by nine o’clock she was home, had showered, and was reading a book that would soon become overdue at the library.

  Deciding to fix a glass of iced tea, she walked past the telephone on her way to the kitchen but then retraced her steps. Maybe I ought to give Jake a call and thank him again for being so kind, she thought, picking up the telephone and dialing the number he had left on her kitchen table the night they met.

  The phone rang at the other end of the line, and Claire settled back in the antique oak rocking chair beside the small table where the telephone rested. After ten rings, she hung up. Wonder where he is, she thought, as she padded back to the kitchen and fixed the glass of iced tea. Settling on the couch to read, she found her thoughts occasionally drifting back to the events that had occurred earlier in the day, pleased that Jake had accompanied her.

  By eleven o’clock it was obvious Claire wasn’t going to finish the book that evening. Placing the bookmark inside, she found herself once again dialing Jake’s phone number. It rang—but still there was no answer.

  As she pulled the freshly laundered sheet under her chin, she found herself intrigued, wondering where he might be—and with whom.

  SIX

  Monday morning arrived, and Claire was greeted by the announcement that one of Lyle’s cases had been moved up on the court docket. Although it hadn’t been scheduled for trial until the first week of the following month, the other cases scheduled for trial had been settled.

  “Tell me there’s at least a possibility we’re looking at a settlement,” Claire said to Lyle Johnstone who, at thirty-six, was the younger of the two attorneys in the firm.

  “Absolutely none,” he said. “Sorry, Claire. I know you’re not ready for another trial so soon, but I’m really going to need a hundred percent effort from everyone on this. Dave’s agreed to allow you and Gloria to work exclusively on this trial. Josie will do any secretarial work he has, and, fortunately, he doesn’t have anything else looming on the horizon—at least no other major trials,” he quickly qualified.

  “How much time do we have?” Claire asked.

  “We’re next in line. As soon as the case now being heard is complete, we’re up,” he told her just as Gloria was walking in the front door.

  “Tell me I didn’t hear what I thought I just heard,” she said, leveling a grim look toward Lyle.

  “I can tell you anything you want, but the fact is we’ve got to get ready for trial. I called and left word for Carl Simpson. He’s defendant’s counsel in the case we’ll be following. I thought he could give me some idea if his case would be going to the jury in the next couple days or if there’s any possibility we might have until next Monday,” he told them.

  “Can’t you file a motion for an extension?” Claire asked hopefully.

  “You know better than that, Claire. The docket clearly says. . .”

  “I know, I know,” she interrupted. “Be prepared for trial, no extensions granted. Bu
t maybe the judge would be a little accommodating since there were so many cases that settled. Who would have ever thought we’d be next in line?” she persuasively argued.

  “Did you see which judge is assigned?” Lyle asked.

  “Please tell me it’s not Hackley,” Gloria groaned.

  “I wish I could, but unfortunately it is Hackley. There’s no way I’m asking him for an extension. Not only would he tell me ‘no’ to the extension, but he’d also take every opportunity to rule against me on issues during the trial. No way I’m doing that to my client.”

  “You know, Lyle, it would help if this case were at least a little bit interesting,” Gloria remarked as she began pulling the red expandable folders from the lateral file cabinet behind her desk.

  “It is an interesting case. Especially to my client,” Lyle retorted defensively.

  “Come on you guys. Let’s quit hassling about whether the case is interesting and start getting organized,” Claire counseled, with a note of resignation in her voice.

  “How can he think land condemnation is interesting?” Gloria whispered to Claire as the two of them began pulling depositions and making a list of witnesses that needed to be subpoenaed.

  “I’m sure it is interesting to Lyle. I know he feels a lot of empathy for the people he’s representing. After all, some of these folks have owned this land for generations,” Claire replied.

  “I know, I know, but just think how great it will be for the whole area to have a dam. Putting aside the fact that it will take care of flood control, just think about all the recreational possibilities,” she continued, her eyes sparkling.

  “Are you already seeing yourself out there on the water in a brand new ski boat?”

  “You never know. It could happen,” she replied with a laugh.

  The remainder of the day passed rapidly, the two women working at a feverish pace while Lyle issued orders and then retreated to his office to dictate pretrial motions.