“No.” André’s arms were like stone as she struggled within their circle, trying to free herself. Her hand flew out, unintentionally striking his face, and his glasses fell with a soft sound to the plush carpet. His grief-stricken eyes met hers, and in that moment she saw the truth she’d craved.
She wished she hadn’t.
A mournful cry escaped her lips—a cry of profound despair. She felt herself sway toward him, and then gave herself up to the blessed darkness.
Chapter Two
October, two months later
In the months after her brother’s death, Marie-Thérèse Perrault Portier constantly fought feelings of depression and longing. She told herself that it was only natural after such a tragedy, but her emotions ran much deeper. She had lost so many already—her birth parents and her sister Pauline, and the third child that had never really been hers.
How she could lose something she’d only dreamed about was still a mystery to her, but she felt the loss of the faceless child nonetheless. Although she had long given up the idea of adoption, she still dreamed of someday finding a way . . . another child. The desire remained in her heart, no matter how latent, and with Marc’s passing the old feelings rose to the surface.
At least she had her husband and her two children, Larissa and Brandon. Marie-Thérèse loved them fiercely, perhaps even too much. Brandon never seemed to mind her smothering, but Larissa, now fifteen and a half years old, was . . . well, difficult. Things had come to a crisis three years earlier when they’d applied for adoption, having given up hope of having another child naturally. Larissa had been violently opposed and had voiced her opinions loudly and without reserve. She acted out repeatedly at school, at home, and at them—mostly hurting only herself. Afraid they would lose her to drugs or worse, Marie-Thérèse and her husband had withdrawn the adoption papers. Larissa had to come first. It was as simple as that. Looking back, Marie-Thérèse felt the sacrifice had been worth the change in their daughter.
Not that everything was perfect with their relationship. Larissa was still a magnet for every new fad or idea to come into the schools or the media, and she continued to be very headstrong. But Marie-Thérèse knew they were making headway. Every night, she and Mathieu poured out their hearts to God in Larissa’s behalf, and they both were full of hope that Larissa might make it through the teenage years in one piece—though perhaps a rather battered one.
None of this stopped the covert longing in Marie-Thérèse’s heart, or the feeling that their family was not quite complete. These emotions centered on the confirmation she had received from the Lord when they had first prayed about adopting. Adoption had been right; she’d felt it. But giving up adoption for Larissa had also been right, hadn’t it? So why was the subject still bothering her? And how could these two opposite feelings be correct?
If Marc was here, she would ask him. Or maybe the feelings would have stayed dormant inside that remote corner of her heart that she refused to let even her husband glimpse. Yes, it was her brother’s death that had brought on all these emotions. Tears pricked behind Marie-Thérèse’s tired eyes and she blinked them back. She had to be strong—especially while visiting Rebekka, whose grief over Marc’s death went far deeper than her own.
She took a deep breath and turned her attention to her sister-in-law. “Rebekka, you need to eat.” She made her voice gentle and without reproach.
Rebekka looked up vaguely from the kitchen chair she had seated herself in moments before, as though she was unsure how she’d come to be there. “Oh, yeah. Eat.”
Marie-Thérèse sighed and sank into the other chair, the one Marc had typically used. “I know it doesn’t seem necessary, but it is. You need your strength.”
“I know.” Rebekka’s gray eyes were still unfocused, directed inward, but at least she wasn’t crying anymore. “But there’s so much to do. I—see his books?” Her hand fluttered toward a box on the floor and then to several stacks on the counter. “He loved them so much, but I can’t bear to have them around like they’re waiting for him to come home. I don’t want to ever see another science fiction book again.”
“I’ll take them to Brandon. He loves to read.”
Rebekka smiled faintly, though without real happiness. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
Rebekka shook her head. “No. But I’m thankful for everything you’ve done. Your whole family, my parents, my brother—they’ve all been great.” She met Marie-Thérèse’s eyes. “Raoul’s moving in here with me, you know. In a few days. It’ll be good for both of us.”
“Yeah, you told me last week.”
“I guess I forgot. I never thought . . . I mean . . .” A sad smile hovered around Rebekka’s lips. “I never imagined I’d live with my brother again.”
“It’s just until you both get on your feet again.” Marie-Thérèse knew that since the beginning of Raoul’s marriage three years ago, he’d been enmeshed in a continuous cycle of separation and reconciliation. At present, his wife was gone again, and moving away from his lonely apartment might do as much for him as it would for Rebekka. “Come on, now—eat. I bought the rye especially for you.”
“Thank you.” Rebekka’s hand touched the sandwich, and then paused. “It seems so odd, me here eating, life continuing . . . without Marc.” She hiccupped a little sob. “I miss him so much. And I feel so—so lost.”
How well Marie-Thérèse knew that feeling. “It’ll get better soon. It will. Remember, we’ll see him again. Your marriage is sealed forever.”
Rebekka nodded, her eyes dark and solemn. “If it weren’t for the gospel, I don’t know what I’d do.”
The bell rang and Marie-Thérèse went to answer the door, expecting another member of her family or perhaps Rebekka’s mother. Though no one had rung to get inside the lobby downstairs, likely a neighbor had been leaving the building and had let them in. Both families were very close, and since Marc’s death, they had rallied together to help one another— and especially Rebekka—deal with the grief.
Sure enough, André was pulling out a ring of keys as Marie-Thérèse opened the door, his free arm carrying a large box. He flushed under the dark sunglasses perched on his nose. “I—these are Marc’s keys. They were in his office. I cleaned it out for Rebekka today, and here’s his stuff, or what I thought she’d want to keep.”
Marie-Thérèse pushed the door open wider to allow her brother to enter. “Come in.”
“How’s Rebekka?”
“She’s holding up. She’s strong.”
André nodded, seeming paler than normal under the dark glasses.
“You ought to take those off,” Marie-Thérèse told him. “You look like a hit man.” He did as she requested, and she nearly winced at the tension wrinkles around his eyes. “You look awful.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. He hefted the keys, his voice becoming defensive. “I’m not giving these to her. I told Marc I’d look after her, and I may need them to do that.”
She knew he felt his burden keenly, and her heart went out to him. Not only did he have to help fill Marc’s absence at their engineering firm, but he also had to keep his last promise to his dying brother. As much as the others visited Rebekka, André came with even more frequency. He obviously would not rest until she was happy—however long it took.
“Keep the keys,” Marie-Thérèse said with a shrug. “At least until Raoul moves in.”
“Where is she?”
Marie-Thérèse pointed over her shoulder. “In the kitchen. I brought her lunch, but she’s not eating. She’s preoccupied with Marc’s things—particularly his books.”
André actually laughed, though the sound cut off much too soon. “Oh yes, his sci-fi books. He certainly had a lot of those.”
“It’s a good sign she’s willing to part with them to Brandon. At least I hope it is.”
Marie-Thérèse returned to the kitchen with André in tow. Rebekka still had not taken a bite of her s
andwich. Streams of sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting intriguing patterns on the table, which Rebekka studied intently.
She looked up distractedly as they entered. “Hi, André. Want some books?”
André set his box on the counter near the refrigerator. He took Marie-Thérèse’s vacated seat and reached for Rebekka’s hand—stopping short of actually touching her. “I’d better let Brandon have them. That kid reads like there’s no tomorrow. I can borrow them after he’s finished.”
Rebekka’s gray eyes filled with tears, reminding Marie-Thérèse of rain threatening to fall from dark clouds. Abruptly, Rebekka burst from her chair. With several violent motions, she threw the books on the counter toward the already full box on the floor, until they stacked high and overflowed onto the tile. She kicked the box for good measure, sending more sprawling.
The next second she was down on the floor gathering them up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m just so . . . I don’t know.”
Marie-Thérèse and André were beside her in an instant. André helped her up, while Marie-Thérèse stacked the novels. “Look, don’t worry about it,” André said. “Marie-Thérèse has them. See?”
“That’s good.” Rebekka’s normal velvet voice was strained and rushed. “Take them right now, okay? Brandon will be home from school soon, right? He can start reading them today.”
Marie-Thérèse looked at André. He nodded once, signaling that she should do as Rebekka wished. “I’ll stay with her,” he mouthed.
“Okay then, I’ll be going.” Marie-Thérèse put the books that wouldn’t fit in the box into a plastic sack and slung it over her shoulder. Then she hefted the box. André started forward to help her, but she waved him aside. “No, I can carry them. You stay and have lunch with Rebekka. I made plenty.”
“I bet you haven’t eaten,” Rebekka said in that same forced voice. “Have some.” Her eyes darted toward Marie-Thérèse. “Thanks for coming. You don’t know how much I appreciated your company. I promise I will eat this great food.” As if to prove her words, Rebekka took a healthy bite of the sandwich. She chewed steadily with such a look of bleak determination that Marie-Thérèse’s heart again went out to the young widow. Marie-Thérèse had loved her brother deeply, but she hadn’t been married to him; she couldn’t even think about how she would feel if her Mathieu had been the one to die.
Impulsively, she hugged Rebekka. “Call me,” she said, knowing Rebekka wouldn’t. She was too independent. No, it would have to be Marie-Thérèse who checked up on her. But that was something Marie-Thérèse understood and was willing to do.
“Thank you,” Rebekka whispered. Her eyes looked at Marie-Thérèse but were unseeing.
Marie-Thérèse escaped the apartment, her heart as heavy as the load of books she carried. Rebekka would be all right, they all would, but they would need the passage of time. Until then, she prayed that the burning light of the gospel would sustain them.
Once in her own apartment building, Marie-Thérèse rode the elevator to the second floor and carried the books inside her apartment. She left them on the counter in the kitchen where Brandon would see them as he came in for his after school snack. He would be content to have his favorite uncle’s books.
She swept her light brown hair up into a ponytail and was searching in her cookbook for a quick cookie recipe that contained nothing Brandon was allergic to when the buzzer to the outside door rang. Thinking the children had forgotten their keys, she slapped the buzzer in the entryway without asking who was there. She was glad André had taken her place at Rebekka’s today. On Friday her children often returned home early from school, and she liked to be home at the crossroads in her children’s lives.
A short time later she answered the apartment door, and what she saw stunned her into speechlessness. Pascale Blanc, the woman who had worked with them on their plans for adopting in Ukraine, blinked at her, an apologetic look on her worn, perspiring face. She was carrying a huge diaper bag and at her feet was a baby car seat with a brown cover obscuring whatever might be inside.
“Thank heaven you’re home!” Pascale exclaimed.
Marie-Thérèse hadn’t seen Pascale since Brandon’s food allergy accident almost three years ago, the one that had nearly taken his life. They’d canceled their plans for the adoption at that time, and she hadn’t expected to see Pascale ever again.
“Uh . . . what’s . . .?” Marie-Thérèse pointed to the car seat. Her heart ached with a hurt she didn’t want to name.
“I need your help. Can we come in?” Pascale shoved back a lock of thick black hair that had escaped the comb at the nape of her neck.
“Okay.” Though Marie-Thérèse hadn’t yet seen any “we.” Just the car seat with the brown cover.
Pascale smiled faintly, for an instant looking less harried and more like the calm adoption agency employee Marie-Thérèse remembered. With a fluid motion, she flipped up the cover on the car seat and passed it to Marie-Thérèse.
Marie-Thérèse gazed down at the face of a very young baby with brown hair and a sweet, adorable face. She couldn’t see the eyes because the child was sleeping, but knew they would contain the wise innocence that always accompanied infants. The baby wore a yellow sleeper that was a size too large.
In her peripheral vision, she saw Pascale turn and stoop, picking up something behind her. The “something” was another child—a little girl. She was older, perhaps three, and she held herself rigidly in Pascale’s arms. Her face, framed by brown, shoulder-length hair, was utterly expressionless and her blue eyes hauntingly solemn. Marie-Thérèse had the impression it would be a hard thing to coax a smile from this serious creature, no matter how hard she might try.
Inside, Marie-Thérèse led the way to the kitchen. Carefully, she placed the car seat and its precious cargo in the middle of the table. The baby murmured in its sleep, but didn’t awake. Pascale sighed with relief and slumped into a chair, allowing the bag on her shoulder to slide to the ground. Abruptly, the little girl pushed away from Pascale’s lap and disappeared under the table.
Marie-Thérèse stifled an urge to peer after the child and instead looked sternly at Pascale. “What’s going on?” She didn’t mean for her voice to tremble.
Pascale sighed again more loudly. “I couldn’t think of anyone else. I don’t work for the adoption agency anymore. There were some problems—like people taking up to seven weeks in Ukraine to adopt children instead of the three to four they were promised, and many other issues I won’t go into right now. I got tired of the game. Sometimes it seemed as if no one really cared about the children, except how much they could get for them. Not the adoptive parents, of course. They were the reason I kept at it so long.” Pascale rubbed her big-boned hands across her face. “I couldn’t take it anymore, so I decided to change jobs. I work for the government now in social services. I like it better—except there are still a lot of challenges. Like today.”
Her voice became low and urgent as she leaned forward. “Look, the reason I’m here is because I need to know if you can take care of these two for the weekend. I don’t have anyone I can really trust with them right now, and it’ll take a while to get new applicants approved.”
“I’m not approved either.” It was the only thing Marie-Thérèse could think of to say.
“Not technically. But since I went through that whole approval process with you at the agency, I know you and Mathieu are good people and well-suited for taking care of them. I’ll be able to get a temporary approval for you—I’m allowed to do that in an emergency. Temporary approval is all the time I’ll need. Please say you’ll do it. I don’t know what else to do. The baby I could leave in quite a few places easily enough, but her sister . . .” Pascale’s voice dropped to a scarce whisper. “There’s been serious abuse, and I can’t stand the idea of putting her into a home where she won’t get adequate attention.”
Marie-Thérèse’s chest tightened. She should have recognized the pain behind the chi
ld’s solemnness. “How . . . where did they come from?”
“They were found this morning in a run-down apartment building after the police answered a report from a neighbor. They were locked in a back room alone. I have no idea how long they were there, but they were both very hungry—starving even. The baby had been crying all night, which is what alerted the neighbor. Luckily, the police broke in and found them. The baby was in a crib and Celisse—that’s what the neighbors say the little girl’s name is—was under it. She hasn’t spoken since we found her.”
Marie-Thérèse could see there was more Pascale wasn’t saying, most likely because of the child crouched under the table. “Let’s go into the other room,” she suggested.
Pascale nodded and looked under the table. “We’ll be right back, Celisse. Okay honey? Don’t worry.” She arose and gazed at Marie-Thérèse expectantly.
Marie-Thérèse hesitated but Pascale didn’t reach for the car seat, and Marie-Thérèse was reluctant to leave the infant unattended. Was Celisse inclined to climb onto the table? Marie-Thérèse wasn’t willing to risk finding out. She picked up the seat and left the kitchen, ignoring the amused smile Pascale sent her way.
In the sitting room that also doubled as the TV room, she set the car seat on the floor and sat in a chair across from Pascale. She fished the television remote out from under her and placed it on the end table. “Well?”
Pascale’s face again took on a look of weariness. Now that the older woman’s arms were free from her burdens, Marie-Thérèse noticed she’d lost weight. The waist of her gray linen skirt drooped on her hips, and her white blouse looked a size too large. She wondered if social work wasn’t even more stressful for Pascale than working adoptions.
“There were feces pretty much all over the room where the children were found, mixed in with food and garbage,” Pascale said. “There is evidence that Celisse at least has been kept there alone—like an animal in a cage while her mother works or goes out . . . whatever.”
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