His parents had never spent enough time with him, preferring the mission field over being with him. But they loved him. They definitely loved him. And when they died, whole years of Dayne’s life seemed to die along with them. Memories of the months and years after their deaths were almost dreamlike, with little substance or framework to remember them by.
He’d been given several boxes of their belongings; he remembered that much. Material goods were never something his parents cared much for, but still they’d kept the boxes in a storage unit. Important papers, keepsakes, and photographs. An official from the missions board had put his name on the storage unit. The cost came out of his savings account automatically every month, and occasionally he remembered the things that were locked away.
It still felt like yesterday, the news about the crash, the reality that he was alone in the world. He’d gotten accepted to UCLA on a hardship vote, and immediately he’d fallen into drama. Dayne loved it because onstage he could express the emotions he kept bottled up; he could be angry and sad and passionate, and all anyone ever did was clap for him.
One thing led to the next and in no time he was busy making movies. The storage unit full of his parents’ things was safe; it would be there if he ever needed a reminder of them. But never had he simply taken the time to go through it all.
Until now.
Now he wanted to sort through every last picture until he found the one he was thinking of. It was a picture of a woman by herself; Dayne was almost certain. He was maybe six or seven the last time he saw it, and the memory of it had all but faded from his mind. But something about the picture had been important to him. Even back then.
Maybe the woman had been related to his parents. The resemblance was certainly strong enough.
Dayne looked at the clock on Luke’s desk and shot to his feet. He had thirty minutes to be back on the set, ready to film. He set the photograph back on Luke’s desk. There. He’d satisfied his interest; he could put the image out of his mind now. At least until he found time to visit the old storage unit and find the picture he was sure would be there.
He was almost ready to turn around when he did something he’d never done before. Glancing once over his shoulder, he took the picture of Luke’s parents and slid it beneath his jacket. Then he rearranged the photos on the desk so the empty spot wasn’t so obvious, and he quickly left the room.
The photo frame jabbed into his ribs, but he pressed his arm even harder against it. One day he’d bring it back, after he had a chance to compare it to whatever lay in storage. Luke would never know it was gone, or if he did, he’d figure he must’ve misplaced it. No one would ever suspect that Dayne Matthews “borrowed” it for a while.
On his way out, the receptionist called after him. “Wait . . .”
Dayne’s heart raced faster than before. He’d been caught! They probably had cameras in every office. He stopped, swallowed hard, and turned around. “Yes?”
“You forgot your water.” The man held up a small bottle and smiled.
“Oh.” Dayne willed himself to look at ease. Happy and relaxed. “Thanks anyway. I have to get back to the set.”
Chapter Sixteen
Eleven o’clock each morning was the worst and the best hour of the day for John Baxter.
Worst because that was when he took a break from his patients and met Elizabeth in the chemotherapy lab. Watching the technician disconnect her from the empty bag of poison hanging over her head was like somehow being a party to her torture.
But once he wheeled her out of the unit and down the corridor, away from the hospital and out to their car, the hour became almost magical. The nausea was different for every cancer patient, and with Elizabeth it didn’t hit her right away. Her sickest hours would come later in the afternoon.
So from eleven to noon, she would hold his hand and believe along with him that everything was going to work out. It was the hour when she would share her heart with him, the hour when she told him her fears and dreams and deepest desires about the future—however long they had together.
But it was Monday, the middle of May now, the last week of her treatment, and when John arrived at the chemo lab he was struck by what he saw. She’d gotten worse over the weeks—anyone could see that. Dr. Steinman had called him a few weeks earlier and hinted that he was afraid the new round of tests weren’t going to be good.
Still, not until that moment did John see Elizabeth for what she had become. Whereas for most of her weeks of treatment she had sat in a chair and read a magazine, now she was stretched out on a table. Her frame was painfully thin, and when she recognized him standing there, she barely had the strength to smile.
The tech showed up, his voice pleasant. “Looks like we’re all done for another day, Mrs. Baxter.”
Elizabeth had a Pic-Line in her arm, a permanent opening to her vein. That way the technician didn’t have to start a fresh intravenous line every time he transferred a bag of the toxic yellowish substance into her body. The tech unhooked the bag line from the tubing in her arm.
John stepped up and put his hand on her shoulder. “She . . . she doesn’t look good. Did something go wrong today?”
“No. Her condition is fairly normal for someone at the end of a chemo run.” A shadow passed over the tech’s eyes, almost as if there was something he wasn’t saying.
Not that he could hide much from John. He didn’t need a chemo tech to tell him his wife wasn’t doing well.
When Elizabeth rolled onto her back, panic punched John in the gut. She looked paler than before, almost gray. He leaned over her and searched her eyes. “What’s wrong, honey? You don’t look good.”
A long sigh left her lips and she looked at him a long time. “I’m fine, John.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “I wanna go home.”
John wanted to carry her in his arms, run as fast and far away from the hospital and the chemo lab and the sad-faced technician as possible. Instead he brushed his fingers across her forehead. “Okay. I’ll get the chair.”
The tech offered to help transfer her from the table to the wheelchair, but John politely brushed him off. “I’ve got it.” He lifted her, wincing as he felt her ribs and hipbones sticking out. He set her into the chair and didn’t say another word to her until she was in the car.
“Maybe you’re hungry.” He slid behind the wheel and put his seat belt on. “Did you get breakfast this morning?”
“Yes, John.” She pressed herself into the seat and stared out the window. “I told you, I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t fine; she couldn’t fool him. He’d seen cancer patients who looked like Elizabeth before. They had a name for the way she looked: end-stage. John waited a minute before starting the car. He wasn’t sure what to do, where to go. He wanted to race her back into the hospital and scream at someone, demand that Dr. Steinman or one of the other cancer specialists do something. How was he supposed to casually drive home when his wife was dying right beside him?
“Go, John.” She turned to him and the corners of her lips raised. “I know what you’re thinking. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do.” She stopped, exhausted from that small bit of conversation. “Please, John. Take me home.”
John clenched his jaw and started the car. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
“Nope.” She managed a small laugh.
They said little on the way home. John thought about calling Dr. Steinman and ordering the tests immediately. They had to know why she looked this way, why her color was gone and the pounds were falling off like autumn leaves.
But Elizabeth wouldn’t let him. He held her hand as they headed up the stairs, and when she stopped to catch her breath, he swept her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way.
“How chivalrous, John.” Her smile was weaker than before. She winced as he laid her in bed. “You haven’t carried me into our bedroom in years.”
John didn’t laugh. “I should’ve done it more often.” He pulled up a ch
air next to the bed and studied her, searching for some sign—any sign—that she was turning a corner, gaining ground on the enemy inside her.
There was none.
“When do I see Dr. Steinman again?”
“Next Wednesday. As soon as the eight weeks are finished.” John’s lips were tight, his body tense. The entire situation was so futile, and yet she was looking at him, waiting for him to say something positive. He reached for her hand. The words he dredged up were not even close to the truth. “I’m expecting good news; how ’bout you?”
“Definitely.” She made a swallowing motion, but gave a weak shake of her head. “Can you hand me my water?”
John reached for her squeeze bottle, but the effort she needed just to hold it was more than he could stand to watch. Instead he cradled it near her mouth while she sucked down three mouthfuls.
“Really?” He set the bottle back on her nightstand. “You’re feeling good about the appointment?”
“Yes.” She exhaled and everything about her seemed to shrink a size. “We’ve been praying every day. Pastor Mark’s been by to see me three times a week, you know. He says the church is praying.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “Everyone we know is praying, John. Of course the news will be good.”
“Right.” John took hold of her hand again and ran his thumb along her knuckles. “That’s how I feel, too.”
The hour slipped away with more talk about the summer reunion and Ashley’s wedding. John had long since made a reservation for three condominiums at a beach resort on Sanibel Island. Erin and Sam and Luke and Reagan would arrive in Bloomington on July third, spend a few days at the Baxter house, and the whole group would fly together to Sanibel on July sixth. They’d spend six days on the island and return home to get ready for Ashley’s wedding.
“They have the band lined up, the group Landon found out about through work.” Elizabeth nodded toward her nightstand. “The florist is on board also. I have all the notes in there.”
“That’s good.”
“Ashley brought the invitations by the other day.” The conversation was making Elizabeth tired, but she kept on. “They look wonderful, John. Did she tell you about them? The words fall over a faded picture of the two of them with Cole. Did she show them to you?”
“No.” John tapped his foot fast and steadily. He didn’t want to talk about Ashley’s wedding. Ashley was fine; the wedding would be beautiful. But if Elizabeth didn’t turn a corner soon, she might not live to see them walk down the aisle.
“Only Sam has to return home for the week between the reunion and the wedding, but he’ll come back that Friday night. Erin says he wants to be here for the big day.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He studied his wife’s face, the features he’d spent a lifetime loving. “We don’t have to talk about the wedding right now, honey. How are you feeling?”
“I told you, John—” she blinked, but her expression stayed calm—“I’m fine. I like talking about the wedding. That and how good Kari’s feeling now that she’s past the morning sickness, and how happy Erin is with her little girl, Heidi. It makes me feel better to talk about the kids.”
“Okay.” John stopped tapping. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay.” She drew in a long breath, and the effort it took was both painful and obvious. “I can’t wait to see that little baby. Heidi is such a beautiful name. She sounds like a little angel.” Elizabeth’s words were slurring. She was more tired than usual. Her eyelids looked heavier with every blink. “God is so good to us, John.”
“Yes.” The word felt bitter on John’s tongue and he chided himself. He had to stay positive, had to believe she’d be okay. If he lost faith now, what would they have? What strength could he draw from? He steeled himself against the barrage of doubts. “Yes, God is very good.”
Elizabeth did another weak smile and closed her eyes. They still had ten minutes before John had to return to work, but she was too tired to stay awake. Instead of rousing her, he leaned back and watched her sleep.
What had been different about this morning? Why had none of it felt real? He stroked his chin, replaying their conversation in his mind. Slowly it dawned on him. Not once had she mentioned her fears. Usually at least part of this hour together was spent with her looking deep into his eyes and admitting she was afraid, terrified actually. The chemo was her last bit of ground assault against cancer, her last chance to make headway in the battle for her life.
If it didn’t work . . .
Elizabeth needed to talk about her fears. About how badly she wanted to live, so she could see her grandkids grow up, watch her children live out their lives now that they’d worked through so much. That was a large part of it.
“We’ve all come so far in the past three years,” she’d say. “Now’s when we get to sit back and watch them be happy. I don’t want to miss that, John. Not even for heaven.”
But today . . . today she’d said nothing at all about being afraid. She looked worse than he’d ever seen her look, yet all she talked about was how strongly she felt about her upcoming doctor’s appointment, and how sure she was that everything was going to work out, how certain she was that their prayers were being heard and that God was going to answer them the way they wanted.
Elizabeth never would’ve worked through her fears this quickly. She needed time and tears and moments alone with God before she found peace in any difficult situation. In fact, when she was the most afraid—the way she’d felt about Luke when he left home, or the way she’d worried about Kari after Tim moved in with his girlfriend—Elizabeth shut down and pretended.
The kids used to accuse her of burying her head in the sand, but that wasn’t it. She simply reached a point at times where she had to act like she was doing well so she wouldn’t go crazy with fear.
Usually, once she shut down and stopped talking about being afraid, she met with God shortly after and worked through the situation. And since she hadn’t had that sort of time since yesterday, John could only surmise one possibility:
Her fears were worse than ever before.
But then, he hadn’t been exactly honest either. Because watching her now, the slow rise and fall of her flat chest, the gray-white coloring beneath her eyes and across her cheeks, the angled look of her ribs sticking out, he had just one emotion raging through his soul.
Complete and utter terror.
* * *
Ashley had been waiting for this moment all day.
She snuck into the house and set Cole up with a coloring book and a pack of markers. “Stay here, honey, okay?”
“Are you checking on Grandma?” Worry shaded Cole’s expression. They came here often enough now that he understood his grandma was sick.
“Yes.” She dropped down to his level and ran her hand over his pale blond hair. “I have to show her something, and then after a while you can come up.”
Cole’s face lit up. “I’ll make her a picture!” He opened the coloring book and began flipping the pages, looking for just the right scene to color. “Teacher says I color in the lines bestest of all.”
“Perfect.” Ashley leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose. “I love you, Cole. You have a good heart.”
He took the compliment in stride, keeping his eyes on the coloring book and the markers and the task at hand. “Thanks, Mommy. You too.”
Ashley studied him a moment longer. He was happier these days, more content. All he talked about was the wedding and how many more days and how glad he was that Landon was going to be his daddy.
“Okay, sport, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
Ashley grabbed the bag with her dress in it and went upstairs to her mother’s room. The lights were off, so she peeked in. “Mom?”
No answer.
Concern toyed with Ashley. She crept inside and tiptoed to the bed. “Mom? Are you okay?” The window was open and a breeze stirred the curtains. The smell of rose blossoms filled the room. Ashley flipped the light
on. It was only four-thirty—too early for the lights to be off. “Mom?”
Her mother moaned and turned a few inches in each direction. “Hmmm?”
“It’s me . . . Ashley.” She sat on the edge of the bed and felt her mother’s forehead. “Is today worse?”
No response. Gradually her mother opened her eyes and squinted at Ashley. “Oh, hello, dear. I guess I fell asleep.”
“Was it a hard day?”
“Mmm.” She made a face and rubbed her eyes. “It wasn’t good.”
“Want me to leave you alone?” Ashley had looked forward to this moment ever since she’d accepted Landon’s ring. But not if her mother wasn’t feeling well.
“No, dear.” Elizabeth made a painful struggle to sit up against the headboard. “You sound excited.”
“Well . . .” Ashley lifted her eyebrows, and her voice fell to a pinched squeak. She held up the garment bag. “I got my wedding dress! I haven’t shown anyone yet.”
“Oh, Ashley.” She struggled again, but instead of sitting up higher, she sank back down. Her face was ashen, damp from the effort. “Can you help me, dear?”
Ashley tossed the bag over the back of the nearby chair and returned to the bed. She pushed four pillows behind and around her. Then she slipped her hands beneath her mother’s arms and pulled her up higher. “There. Sunset Hills was good for something.” Ashley kept her tone light, but she was shocked. No matter how sick her mother got, she’d never needed help to sit up in bed. She searched her mother’s face. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” She folded her hands on her lap and nodded at the garment bag. “Will you try it on for me?”
The thrill of the moment replaced her fear. Ashley nodded, grabbed the bag, and headed inside her parents’ walk-in closet. She had found the dress three weeks ago, and the seamstress at the shop had needed the extra time to narrow the waist and add a few feet of satin to the train.
She slipped it over her head and stood in front of the full-length mirror. The entire dress was white satin, accented with off-white satin embroidery. It was fitted at the bodice, with delicate sleeves that puffed slightly at the shoulders and then became fitted from the elbow down. Intricate appliqué ran the length of the arms and in a pattern along the skirt. The bottom half of the dress was neither formfitting nor full of flounce. Rather it fell gently in an alluring cascade that hinted at her figure but maintained a sense of propriety.
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