Reunion

by Karen Kingsbury; Karen Kingsbury

  After Luke’s birth, they had an easier time keeping their promise, and only rarely did the subject of their firstborn son come up. They agreed that their children didn’t need to know about the past—how rough a start their parents had as a couple, how they had a brother out there somewhere who knew nothing about them.

  Not telling them had been a good choice—one Elizabeth and John never wavered from. The adoption had been closed. None of their children would have the right or the ability to find their older brother. Better to believe he hadn’t existed at all, to convince themselves never to look back at that time in their lives. Nice to imagine that God had placed him in exactly the home he was supposed to be placed, to believe that he hadn’t ever been theirs but the other couple’s.

  Still, there were times when Elizabeth was eighteen again, when she could feel that baby boy in her arms, see his expression, his eyes, and know that the longing in her heart would never go away completely. Times when she could feel that woman taking her baby from her arms, sense the immediate separation, see her turn her back and walk out of the room, and—

  “Stop!” Elizabeth sat straight up in bed, her heart racing, chest heaving. “Bring him back here! He’s mine, bring him back right now!”

  John was awake instantly. He sat up and put his arm around her shoulders. “Honey . . . shhh. You’re dreaming.”

  Her eyes darted around the room, searching for the door. “Get him, John, before it’s too late.”

  John took hold of her arm and gave her a soft shake. “Elizabeth, wake up. You’re dreaming, honey.”

  She blinked and slowly she felt herself ease back against the headboard. John was right. It had all been only a dream, a walk through time that led her back to the place where it all happened, to the moment when they took her baby from her.

  And even now—hours before a cancer surgery that could signal her season of death—it felt like no time at all had passed. He was out there somewhere, wasn’t he? The baby she’d given up. Closed adoption or not, there had to be a way to find him. Or a way for him to find her.

  Elizabeth remembered all the work they’d done in the early nineties, back when she’d fought cancer the first time. They’d tracked down every loose thread, every connection, every person who might’ve known something about the adoption. Every door had led to a dead end, and they promised each other they’d never waste their time on such futility again.

  “If we ever find him, it’ll be because he finds us,” John had said.

  He was right back then, and he was still right now.

  John was lying down again, already asleep. When she eased herself beneath the covers, a thought hit her. There was something she could do after all. She could pray. The same God who knew her and loved her and had a plan for her that went beyond the double mastectomy scheduled for the morning also knew and loved her firstborn son.

  It was too late for building a mother-son relationship with the boy. He was thirty-five years old now. But it wasn’t too late to make peace with him, to tell him how sorry she’d been to give him up, to see for herself that God had, indeed, taken care of him.

  God alone knew where her boy was at that exact moment.

  Suddenly, with an excitement that defied the situation, Elizabeth prayed a prayer she’d uttered thirty-five years ago: If it be your will, Lord, let me meet him again someday. Please, God . . .

  She thought about the surgery she faced in a few hours.

  And please, God, let it happen soon.

  Chapter Ten

  They had thirty minutes until the surgery—thirty minutes for John to ease his wife’s fears, thirty minutes until life between them would change for a long, long while.

  Maybe forever.

  Elizabeth had been prepped, and now she was lying on a gurney, waiting for the moment when someone from the surgical team would come for her. So far, she hadn’t wanted to talk about the surgery.

  “Did you see the look in Ashley’s eyes last night?” Elizabeth’s hands were folded across her waist, her voice pleasant, as if they weren’t in a fluorescent-lit hospital room waiting for her double mastectomy but rather enjoying a lazy Monday morning conversation.

  John tried to focus. “She’s loved Landon for a long time.”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth’s eyes shone. “But not as long as he’s loved her.” She pressed out the wrinkles in her sheet. “First the news about her health, then the wedding plans. As if God looked down on them and in a single day opened the way for all their dreams to come true.”

  The clock on the wall showed a steady march of time. Twenty-five minutes left. Just twenty-five. John squinted at her, trying to remember what she had said. The wedding, right? Yes, Ashley and Landon’s wedding. He placed his hand on her arm. “The wedding will be beautiful.”

  “They’re going to be happy. Don’t you think, John?”

  “Of course.” John’s heart beat harder than before. This wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have with his wife, not now. Didn’t she know how difficult the surgery would be? Hadn’t she been listening when the doctor told her that, combined with her treatment, it could be months before she felt good again?

  “Landon’s right for her. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes, dear.” John ran his fingers along her brow and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. The clock kept ticking. Twenty minutes until surgery. John gritted his teeth. There was still so much more he wanted to say. “Landon’s perfect for her; he always has been.”

  “And Kari . . .” Elizabeth’s eyes grew distant, her smile soft and warm. “I hope they have a boy. I think Ryan would do so well with a boy. Not that he isn’t wonderful with little Jessie, because he is; in fact did you see him yesterday? Right after dinner Jessie—”

  “Elizabeth.” John stopped himself. He hated the frustration in his tone, hated the fact that he couldn’t let her talk about the kids if she wanted to. But the minutes were disappearing and he still had so much to say. His eyes found hers, and he looked past the surface details, deep to where she was scared to death about whatever the next four hours held. His tone grew softer, kinder, and he gave a slight shake of his head. “I don’t want to talk about the kids. The kids are fine; they’re all fine.”

  Elizabeth hesitated for a minute and her eyes grew damp. Then she turned and faced the window. “We haven’t talked about the reunion, John. I was looking online the other day, and I think Sanibel is a good choice. Maybe a few weeks before Ashley’s wedding. We can fly into Fort Myers and take a shuttle to the island. I’ve always wanted an island vacation, John; you know that, right?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she was still looking the other direction, and she didn’t let him answer.

  “Condominiums are reasonable along the shore, and the surf is gentle enough for the little ones.” She barely paused to take a breath. “There’s a dolphin cruise that leaves from the South Seas Resort on Captiva Island, about a half hour from Sanibel, so that would be something everyone could—”

  “Stop.” This time John stood and waited until she looked at him again. “If you want a reunion, we’ll have one. Fine. But please, Elizabeth—” he took her hand in his and willed his eyes to stay dry—“please can we talk about it later?”

  “Fine, John.” Her tone was sharp, the way it never was with him. “What do you want to talk about? The surgery? Would you like to talk about the process of a double mastectomy and how I’ll feel when I don’t have my breasts anymore? Maybe I should tell you that every smell, every sound in this place reminds me of giving birth, of coming here because life was new. Not because it was ending.”

  The lines around her eyes and forehead relaxed, and the anger left her voice. “I’m sorry, John, but really, what point is there in that? I don’t want to talk about how I’ll look or feel after the surgery. I want to talk about last night’s dinner and the kids and our summer reunion, because God alone knows whether I’ll feel up to talking about it come tomorrow. I want this last hour to be normal, okay? Just
me and you the way we’ve always been.”

  “But it’s not normal.” His eyes stung. “I want to know how you’re feeling, and I want to tell you how wonderful you are, how brave. That you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved and that our children are the adults they’ve become because of your unwavering faith and commitment. I want to hold your hand and listen to your fears and have you believe that whatever you go through after today, I’ll be by your side.”

  “John . . .” Tears slipped out of the corners of her eyes and trickled down the sides of her face. “You were the first boy I ever talked to, and nothing could’ve kept me from you. Nothing. I’ve loved you with all my heart, all my being, for thirty-five years, the same way you’ve loved me.” A sad smile played on her lips, and her eyes stayed connected with his. “Don’t you think I know how much you love me? Or that you think the world of me? I don’t need—” she gestured at the hospital bed and machinery around her—“I don’t need a last-minute hospital scene to know what I’ve known all these years. Do you understand that?”

  He bit his lip, holding the tears at bay. “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes.” The word was a tortured whisper. Her eyes searched his and for the first time today he saw a hint of the terror she was hiding. “Of course I’m afraid.” She dabbed at her tears and looked at the ceiling. “I’m afraid I won’t have the energy to take walks down by the stream with Cole or to play Barbies with Maddie. I’m afraid I’ll spend my days throwing up and watching my hair fall out and that when nighttime comes, I’ll be too tired and sick to make love to you.” She covered her mouth with her fingers for a moment, struggling for control. “Yes, I’m afraid. Is that what you want to talk about?”

  “Yes. Because it’s real.” John felt worse than before, but at least they were being honest. That had to be better than surface talk about the kids or some far-off summer reunion.

  “Why?” She pointed at the clock, her tone frustrated again. “I have ten minutes until they come and get me. Why should we spend it borrowing pain from tomorrow?”

  “Because.” He pulled her fingers to his lips and kissed each of them, one at a time.

  “Because why?”

  “Because . . .” He drew back and studied her, the way she looked whole and alive and beautiful. “Because I’m scared, too. I want you to know. No matter how strong I act or seem or come across, I’m terrified of this, Elizabeth.” He stared at her hands and slowly brought his eyes up past the curve of her chest to her eyes again. “I can’t lose you.”

  As soon as his words were out, her expression softened. “John . . . my love.” She reached up, framing his face with her hands, barely touching him. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “I tried, but you know how it is, Elizabeth. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.”

  “John, I’m sorry.” She held out her hands. “Come lie with me? Please.”

  With practiced ease he released the latch on her bed rail. When it was down, he stretched himself out next to her on the gurney and held her close. “Fight this thing, okay? I need you; we all need you.”

  “I will.”

  They held on to each other, saying nothing this time, nothing about their fears or the fact that this was the last time they’d be together before she began the fight for her life. Nothing about all they had to lose and all they’d enjoyed together up until this point.

  They simply held on, as if minutes and doctors and surgeries might be put at bay if only they never let go. But the minutes dropped away one at a time, and John heard the door open. He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge that anyone had entered the room.

  He tightened his hold on Elizabeth. “Come back to me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be here.” He pressed his fingers to her heart. “No matter what happens, I’m with you.”

  She pressed her face against his. “Pray, John.”

  “I will. As long as it takes, I’ll be praying.”

  Then with every bit of his remaining strength, John slid himself off the gurney, nodded to the members of the surgical team, and stepped aside. The two men took hold of the gurney and one of them nodded at John. “Dr. Baxter, we’ll let you know as soon as we’re finished.”

  “Call my pager; I’ll be in my office.”

  The last thing John saw before they wheeled Elizabeth from the room was her eyes, deep and beautiful and frightened and accented with a glimmer of peace, a knowing that somehow, regardless of the outcome, God was in control. The way God had always been in control of their lives no matter what they faced.

  And that glimmer of peace gave John the slightest sense of hope as he watched them take her around the corner toward the operating room. At Elizabeth’s request, the kids were all waiting by their phones—not crowding the waiting room the way they wanted to. She told them not to worry; the surgery was routine. She’d talk to them afterwards. But the truth was something she’d told John the night before; she wanted to spend her waking hours today with him alone.

  John walked, dazed, toward his office. It was a small, boxy room where he worked one day a week, overseeing hospital care and outlining release plans for his many patients.

  The staff knew why he was here today, so only a few people did more than nod at him. Most looked the other way, giving him the space he needed to deal with the matter at hand. He entered his office, closed the door behind him, and did the only thing he knew to do.

  He dropped to his knees, bowed his head, and let the sorrow come. Then he lifted Elizabeth to the God who had created her, the God who loved her and wanted his best for her. The God who was somewhere in this room, weeping right along with him.

  * * *

  As they wheeled her into the operating room, Elizabeth folded her arms over her chest and cupped her hands along the sides of her breasts. It was still impossible to believe that in a few hours she’d wake up in a recovery room and they’d be gone. But sometime during the night, in the midst of her dreaming and remembering and praying about her firstborn, she’d found a peace about the surgery.

  So she’d lose her breasts.

  If she had to trade them for a life with John and her children, she would do it gladly. She would’ve given her arms and legs if it meant she’d have a ringside seat to see the story of their lives play out, year after year after year.

  She wanted to see Ashley and Landon marry, and watch Cole thrive under the direction of a daddy. She wanted to hold Kari’s new baby and cradle the child Erin and Sam were adopting. Certainly there would be more children in the season ahead. Luke would find a job and Reagan would finish school, and one day, if they chose to adopt, Tommy would have brothers and sisters. Same with Ashley and Landon, and Kari and Ryan.

  Every Christmas there’d be more Baxter babies in the family photo, and Elizabeth didn’t want to watch it happen from a window in heaven. She wanted to be here, to hold the babies and help her children get through the early years of parenting.

  More than that, she wanted to see the next round of weddings. She wanted to sit beside John when Maddie and Cole and Hayley got married. Because Hayley would get married one day; Elizabeth was sure. Hayley would get better each year and eventually she’d be right there with her peers, walking and talking and learning as if she’d never spent twenty minutes underwater in a backyard pool.

  Elizabeth wanted to see it all, feel it all, taste it all. Hold John’s hand while it all played out before her. If losing her breasts was the price she had to pay to live that long, then so be it.

  A team of people were working on her now, checking her intravenous line, measuring the dose of anesthetic.

  “Elizabeth, we’re going to give you something to put you to sleep, okay?”

  “Okay.” She pressed her hands against the sides of her chest again and closed her eyes. Memories flashed at her, the times when she’d cradled a crying baby against her breast or sat up in the wee hours nursing. A sigh came from the depths of her soul, and she b
linked her eyes open. “I’m ready.”

  “All right, then.” The young man tending to her was kind, his voice calm and reassuring. “I need you to lay your arms out straight, nice and relaxed.”

  She did as she was asked. God . . . be with me. Take my breasts, but give me my life. Please, God . . . I’m not ready to die. Please . . .

  “Okay, you’ll start to feel yourself getting warm and heavy.” The young man slipped a dose of medication into her IV tubing. “Just relax, now. Try to count to ten for me, all right?”

  “One . . .” Please, God . . . be with me. “Two . . .” Let me live; let them get it all, please. “Three . . .” Be with John; he’s so afraid that I’ll . . .

  That was as far as she got.

  Sleep claimed her. The last thought she had before going under was not about all she was losing this morning on the operating table. But it was about all she would get in return.

  If only God might let her live.

  Chapter Eleven

  The call came sometime after one o’clock. While her mother was in surgery, Erin hadn’t eaten, hadn’t done anything but clean the house and pray, begging God with every breath that the surgery would leave her mother free of cancer. Forever this time.

  Her father had promised a phone call the moment he knew anything, and so far there’d been no word. So when the phone rang, she dropped the Windex and a roll of paper towels and raced for the kitchen.

  “Hello?” She was breathless, wishing she could’ve found a way to be at the hospital instead of so far away.

  “Very nice.” A man chuckled on the other end. “You must’ve been waiting for my call.”

  At first Erin didn’t recognize the voice. But as soon as she did, a chill ran down her spine and she shuddered. She grabbed the nearest chair and sat down. “Who is this?”