The Sunroom

by Beverly Lewis

  “I am?”

  He nodded. “Here,” he said, handing over the homemade cards and the vase of flowers. “Would you like to deliver these in person?”

  I glanced back at my sister. “What about Emmy? Can she come?” His eyes softened. “ ‘Too young,’ they said. I’ll stay with your sister.”

  The elevator doors opened and I stared at them. I’d watched these very doors, listened to their familiar swoosh, and wondered what it might feel like to sneak up to see Mommy.

  Turning, I thanked Daddy one more time. “This is wonderful. I can’t believe it!”

  “Hurry, now, before some higher-ups get the notion to change their minds.”

  I stepped into the elevator. The door closed. “She must be dying,” I said to myself. “They’re letting me visit my mother for the last time.”

  The sunroom was even more radiant than Mommy had described it. Large Boston ferns and hanging plants, flowering baskets of blues and pinks, and a darling window seat filled with plenty of pillows. And the light, it poured through the windows like a spray of God’s love.

  My mother was reclining on the wicker lounge of my imaginings, her back to me. The room itself seemed to reach out and draw me in. Like a soft embrace. And one of the nurses accompanied me inside, making me feel welcome and almost important as I stepped across the tiled floor.

  “Happy Mother’s Day.” I leaned down to kiss Mommy’s soft cheek.

  She looked up and deepened her smile. “Oh, Becky, you little dear.”

  “These are for you.” I handed her the homemade cards.

  She took her time reading them and looked at me after each one. The nurse put the flowers on the windowsill, and their heads seemed to stand at attention in the warmth of the sun’s rays.

  “Sit next to me,” she said softly. The nurse pulled up a chair, then left.

  I was alone with Mommy at last. “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you.”

  She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “It was Daddy’s idea. He wanted us to have this time together.”

  “How are you feeling?” I ventured. “Fine . . . I’m just fine.”

  I hated it when people said they were fine. You know they’re not, and they know it, too.

  I tried not to stare, but her stomach seemed so big again, as large as a woman ready to give birth. The way it had been last September. She crossed her arms underneath like Lee Anne’s mother always did when she was expecting.

  Not knowing where to look, except for her face, I bit my lip. She eased the situation, inquiring about school. One of her favorite topics, as always.

  So we discussed seventh grade. “It’s almost over,” I said. “I’ll be in eighth next fall”—as if she didn’t know.

  “You’ve grown up so much, just since Christmas. I wonder how tall you’ll be.” Her mind’s eye seemed to struggle with this glimpse into the future.

  “I think my biggest growth spurt is over. Look at my feet,” I pointed out. “Lee Anne says I won’t grow much taller because my feet are medium-sized. She oughta know; she’s going to be a nurse someday.”

  “She’ll be a good one.” Mommy seemed tired. Too tired to pursue this speculative chatter.

  “We miss you at home—at church, too,” I said. “Everyone does.” My eyes fell on the small piano in the corner. “Would it be all right if I played something for you?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, smiling. “Play the Schubert piece, if you like.”

  I went to the piano and poured my heart into the Impromptu, playing the beautiful melody better than I ever remembered having played it all those months before the pact.

  When I finished, Mommy was brushing away tears. Her hand reached for mine. “Keep playing, honey,” she whispered. “Not only the melancholy tunes. Remember the songs that dance, too.”

  “I promise.” And then I told her everything. Every detail of the pact came spilling out.

  “Oh, my dear girl.” She covered her eyes with a handkerchief. “God desires only our trust,” she whispered.

  “It’s not easy.”

  “Trusting comes as you grow up in Jesus.” She smiled, blinking back tears.

  We were silent too long. It felt eternal. “I don’t want you to die.” She didn’t turn to look at me. Her gaze was centered on the radiant light pouring through the tall windows. “Death is part of life, Becky. But I won’t go till the Lord says it’s time.” She sighed. “As long as there’s life, there’s hope.”

  I chuckled. “You’ve always said that.”

  “Yes. . . .”

  The sunroom was still, so absolutely peaceful I could’ve imagined a flutter of angel wings if I’d tried, but there was no imagination required. I was sitting next to Mommy on a splendid, sunny Mother’s Day afternoon, coming to terms with truth. With faith.

  Give your Mother to Jesus, Aunt Audrey had said. And, silly me, I’d tried to give my music instead.

  “I’ll love you forever,” I said suddenly, as if it might be the last time.

  Her face was stained with tears. “My little Becky. You’re a sensitive girl . . . a true musician. Don’t ever let it go.”

  “Jesus made me this way. He’ll take care of me. Don’t worry.” It may have been a first, me telling her not to worry. But she took it with grace, and I leaned down and wrapped my arms around her neck.

  We held each other, mother and daughter, without breathing. At least I didn’t. Not until I cried and had to let the air out.

  Monday, May 11

  Dear Diary,

  Mommy’s having surgery again first thing tomorrow. The doctors are glad our family believes in miracles, because “she’s going to need one,” they told Daddy.

  The surgeon will try to remove the large tumor without taking her life. I’m going to pray all day, even though I’ll be at school.

  I left my faceless doll sitting on the window seat in the sunroom.

  I want her there where Mommy can see her first thing, next time the nurses wheel her in. If they do. . . .

  Putting my pen down, I reread what I’d written. Then, looking at the clock, I realized it was almost time to wake up Emily. Maybe if I hurried, I could finish this entry. . . .

  It seems that time isn’t moving forward anymore. It’s locked up in a vacuum, and I’m caught in the middle. The feeling is suffocating, and sometimes I don’t think I can breathe.

  Poor Emmy. I hardly know what to say or do for her. She just doesn’t understand why Mommy can’t be awake when she takes those last steps up the mountain. . . .

  Reflections

  The Present

  It’s odd to think of people reading what I write. Of course, most of them will be family members, people who attend the reunion in July. People like Emily and her husband, Wayne, and their daughters, Bethanne and Bonnie. Uncle Jack, Aunt Audrey, and their children’s spouses—and their grandchildren. And my own immediate family, of course.

  Grandpa and his second wife have gone on to heaven, but most of my mother’s siblings and spouses are still alive.

  I heard, too, that the Landis clan may be coming. They’re not blood kin but connected, nevertheless. Turns out, one of Aunt Mimi’s girls married a Harris boy—Lee Anne’s first cousin. And so it goes.

  I’m in the dark as to a title for this segment of our family history. Nothing fancy is suitable, for we were never that. Often, we had just enough to go around.

  Stepping off a wide circle in the sunroom, I’m surprised at how small it seems. Must come with growing older—climbing the mountain. Entertaining childhood memories of a place causes them to shrink automatically.

  Musing further, I notice the plant hooks on the ceiling, trying to remember if any of them were here on that long-ago Mother’s Day. “I’ll never forget the smile on the nurses’ faces,” I tell Aunt Audrey, referring to the unexpected visit. “And Mother’s, too.”

  “Whatever happened to the Amish doll?” she asks.

  “I gave it to my oldest daughter, and she gave it to her
firstborn, along with the story behind it,” I explain.

  She nods, then turns toward the footsteps in the hall, moving aside to give me full view, past an old piano and through the doorway.

  There, leaning on Daddy’s arm, comes my dear mother, slowly making her way to the sunroom. “Happy birthday, Rebekah,” she calls gaily.

  “I couldn’t keep her away,” Daddy offers, with a loving glance at his petite wife. “Not when she heard you were conducting research here at the hospital. This occasion would not be complete without your mother, you know.”

  Daddy’s clear gaze searches mine in a moment of sweet communion, and my heart is full of love and appreciation for this quiet, gentle man.

  “How’d you find me?” I ask, suspecting Aunt Audrey, whose mischievous grin gives her away. “I should’ve known.”

  We round up some folding chairs for my parents, and Mother reaches for my hand. “How’s the writing coming?”

  I feel self-conscious. “Enlightening, at best.” “Good . . . good. I’m anxious to read about myself,” she says, chuckling.

  “You’re the miracle girl,” I say.

  Daddy and Aunt Audrey are nodding quite emphatically. “The Lord gets top billing,” he says, raising his right hand in acknowledgment to heaven.

  After a time, Mother gets up and goes to the window, looking down at the parking lot. “Just think, after all these years, I’m still free of cancer,” I hear her say. Then she whispers, “ ‘He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.’ ”

  My heart catches in my throat. So God has linked us once again— all those awful days of waiting so long ago. My eyes fill with quick tears, my heart rejoicing in His unfailing goodness and love.

  My mother turns suddenly, the light playing on her graying hair. “How about some music?” she says to me.

  I’m nearly giggling. Me, a grown woman, losing it in front of my aging parents and one incredible auntie. “What would you like to hear?”

  “Oh, the Impromptu, by all means.”

  I sit down, playing with as much or more emotion than ever, struck with the realization that time has become a physician, healing the past. My past.

  The room is drenched in ribbons of gold as the sun slips over leafy trees and quaint row houses far below. And the music fills the spaces of our lives, of our hearts. . . .

  Three final chords come softly, and it is then I know. As sure as the Lord heard the desperate cries of a young girl’s heart, I know the title for the Owens family chronicle. It must surely be

  The Sunroom

  Author’s Note

  The tender story of Becky Owens is a fictional shadow of what truly happened inside my young heart as I prayed and believed— going so far as to make a pact with God, hoping to spare my dying mother’s life.

  While writing the first chapters, I felt the gentle spirit of Jesus hover near, giving me courage to pen the painful words. My prayer is that you, too, will come to know the all-embracing love of the heavenly Father . . . and share the message of The Sunroom.

  —Beverly Lewis