Reunion

by Karen Kingsbury; Karen Kingsbury

  “Is that good?” The man took a step back.

  “Yes. Thank you.” What was it about him? He was more familiar than anyone other than her own family, yet she was sure she’d never seen him before. She was awake now—at least it felt that way in her dream. Her eyes found his and searched for some sort of connection, a reason why he might be in her hospital room. Was he one of Luke’s friends? one of the kids who had once hung out at the Baxter house?

  He seemed to read her mind. His head moved from side to side, and he touched her hand. “You’ve never seen me before.”

  “I haven’t?” She studied his face, his frame.

  “Not since I was a baby.”

  A baby? Elizabeth sat up some, her eyes glued to him. “You . . . you remind me of someone.”

  He came closer, taking her hand in his. Tears glistened on his cheeks. “Elizabeth, I’m your son.”

  The moment the words were out, Elizabeth felt the room start to spin. Her son? The one she’d been praying about, begging God for a chance to meet? She ran her thumb over his hand, her voice suddenly weak. “Is this . . . is it a dream?”

  “No.” He kept his eyes on hers. “My name’s Dayne, and . . . well, I found out you were sick.” His tone was pained. “I wanted to meet you before . . . before it was too late.”

  She looked straight into his heart and, as surely as she knew God existed, she was sure this was her son. Her prayers had been answered, and now the boy she’d spent a lifetime missing was standing there before her. “Dayne, that’s what they called you?”

  “Yes.”

  There was so much to ask, so much to tell him. But she needed to tell him one thing first. “I never wanted to give you up, Dayne. I was young; they made me do it.”

  He nodded, his eyes swimming. “I know. The investigator told me.”

  Investigator? Elizabeth put the thought from her mind; those questions could come later. “Were they good to you, your parents? Do they still live in Indiana?”

  “No.” He swallowed, struggling to stay composed. “They died when I was eighteen. In a small-plane crash.”

  The news cut her like a knife. His parents were dead? So who did he have in the world, no one? “Brothers and sisters? Did they ever adopt other kids?”

  He angled his head. His expression told her he wasn’t angry, wasn’t bitter. “They were missionaries. I spent most of my childhood in Indonesia, at a boarding school. My parents were wonderful people, but we didn’t have much time together. They died out on the field.”

  Elizabeth let the information rip through her. There was nothing she could say, nothing that would erase the fact that the young man standing before her had lived through a lonely childhood. When no words would come, she held out her hands to him. “Dayne . . . I’m sorry.”

  He hugged her then, shaking from the tears, holding her as if he never wanted to let go. The same way she had held him thirty-five years ago before they came to take him away. “Don’t be sorry,” he whispered near her ear. “I had a good life.”

  “But we missed you.” She snuggled her face against his, her firstborn. “You belonged with us. Every year on your birthday . . . or when you would’ve had your first day of kindergarten, your first day of high school—all the milestones—I thought of you. I had to give you over completely, Dayne. I had to trust God that you’d be okay.” A few sobs made their way up from her throat. “But I never stopped missing you, never stopped loving you.”

  They stayed that way, hugging, holding on until finally he sat back down on the edge of the chair and searched her face. “I never really thought of myself as adopted. My parents—” he sniffed and dragged the back of one of his hands across his cheeks before taking hers—“my parents told me there was another woman who had given birth to me. They even showed me your picture when I was a little boy, maybe first grade. But we didn’t talk about it much after that. They never—” he looked out the window, his eyes distant—“they never used the word adoption around me.”

  The questions were back. Elizabeth savored the feel of her hand in his. “How did you find me, Dayne? I tried—” her voice broke and she shook her head, waiting for her body to cooperate with her—“I tried to find you the last time I was sick. In the early 1990s.”

  “I know that, too. The records were sealed.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Your investigator is good.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t found out that you’d tried to find me back then.”

  “John and I used to promise each other we wouldn’t talk about you.” She felt herself drifting. How many times had they stuffed the truth about their oldest son, buried it, forbidden themselves to talk about him even with each other? And what if they’d used that same energy to hire an investigator—the way Dayne had done?

  The answers were too sad to think about. She met his eyes again. “Why now, Dayne? What made you look?”

  For a moment, he hesitated, as if he was trying to decide how much to say. “I found a box in storage marked ‘Adoption Information.’ Your picture was inside.”

  “My picture?” Her eyes welled up again. She had asked the director of the girls home to pass on a picture of herself to the adoptive parents so that her son would have something to remember her by. “Did you open it, pull it out?”

  Dayne wrinkled his brow. “I . . . I left it in the frame.”

  “I wrote you a letter on the back. Read it sometime, okay?”

  He nodded, his chin quivering.

  “So . . .” Elizabeth coughed two more times. Every breath was a struggle, worse even than earlier today. The end was coming; she could hear the plane taxiing to the gate. “You turned the paperwork over to an investigator, and here you are. Is that it?”

  Again he hesitated. “Yes.”

  An idea hit her. Maybe God had allowed him to come now because of the reunion! Because they were all together. What better time to tell their children about the past, to let them know that she and John had a boy before Brooke, and that they’d had no choice but to give him up for adoption?

  She tightened her hold on his hand. “Dayne . . . what time is it?”

  “Six-forty.”

  “Good.” She could feel her eyes dancing. “The rest of the family will be here around seven. I’d like them to meet you.”

  “I can’t stay long, because—”

  Pain filled his eyes, a pain that hurt her worse than him. “What, Dayne?” Her voice was gentle, the voice she used with all her children when they came to her upset about something. “What is it?”

  “You never told them about me, did you?”

  It was the hardest question she’d ever been asked. She drew in a slow, painful breath and willed him to understand. “From the beginning they told me to forget about you. We could never look for you, never find you. The director at the girls home said it was better to pretend you’d never been born.”

  Dayne said nothing, but his eyes held a sympathy that took the edge off the ache in her soul.

  “When we started having children, John and I talked and—” she glanced around the room, desperate for the right words—“and we decided we couldn’t tell them about a brother they would never know, never find. It was enough that we missed you, without them missing you, too.”

  Dayne nodded, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “How would they feel now? After so many years?”

  Elizabeth looked down for a minute, thinking. When she looked up, she had something she needed to know before another minute passed. “Do you have a relationship with God, Dayne?”

  Something hard flashed in his eyes. “Not a relationship, maybe. I haven’t given God a lot of thought, I guess. My parents were in the God business, but they never talked with me about him much.” He gave a light shrug. “I guess they figured my faith was an automatic thing. Because they believed.”

  “Okay.” Elizabeth ached at the news. Her oldest son had not only grown up lonely and without the Baxter family support, but he d
idn’t share their faith. “So maybe that’s why God let us meet. Can I tell you something, Dayne?” She loved the sound of his name on her tongue. It was a name she might’ve given him if she hadn’t given him up.

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’ve been begging God that you would find me. Ever since I found out I was sick, I ask my Jesus every day, ‘Please . . . bring me my firstborn. Before I die, let me meet him.’ ” She stroked the top of his hand with her fingertips. “I thought it was because I needed to tell you that I never forgot about you, never stopped loving you. But maybe . . . maybe it’s so you can find a heavenly Father in God.”

  Dayne shifted in his chair. “Maybe.”

  The conversation about God seemed to be making him uncomfortable. “Just something to think about, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now . . . I know about your childhood.” Elizabeth worked the corners of her mouth up. “What’s your life like now, Dayne? Are you married? Do you have children? What’s your line of work?”

  He seemed surprised by the questions, but his expression relaxed noticeably. “I’m not married; no children.” He paused. “I’m an actor.”

  She felt her heart swell. Her children had always been interested in the arts. Brooke had played the piano as a young girl, Kari with her modeling, and Ashley, the painter. Luke and Erin had sung in the church choir all through high school, and now . . . this young man who had missed out on every bit of life as a Baxter was also involved in the arts. “Tell me about it.”

  “Well . . .” He gave a soft chuckle. “I’ve been doing it for a while. I’ve been in some movies.”

  “Really?” Pride mixed with regret and made her throat tight. She had missed so much of his life, all the important years. And now . . . now they had only a few days at best. “Big movies?”

  “Pretty big.” He paused. “That isn’t important. Tell me about your other kids.”

  She noticed that he kept from calling them his brother and sisters. “Okay . . . okay . . . well, we had Brooke first . . .”

  Over the next ten minutes she gave him a sketch of each of his siblings and caught him up on their adult lives as well. Who they’d married, how many kids they’d had, what struggles they’d overcome. Her coughing grew worse as she talked and when she finished, Dayne stood and looked at his watch.

  “I should go.”

  “But the others . . .” She was exhausted from talking, and the IV must’ve pumped a fresh dose of medication into her. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open. “Dayne, you have to stay.”

  He touched her forehead and took her hand again. “Maybe I’ll come back and meet them tomorrow.”

  His answer made her relax some. “Okay.” She forced her eyes to stay open. “I’m really not dreaming, right?”

  “Right.” He tightened his hold on her hand. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  Something in his tone brought her around again, made her more alert despite the exhaustion coming over her. “For what?”

  “Thank you for having me, for praying that I’d go to a good family.” He smiled, even though his eyes were watery again. “Thanks for never forgetting me.”

  She couldn’t speak, could barely draw in a breath. Instead she held out her hands and once more he came to her, embracing her. When he pulled back, she forced herself to speak. “This wasn’t enough time.”

  “No.” A single tear slid down his cheek.

  “Dayne . . . there’s only one thing I want you to do for me.”

  He sat on the edge of her bed, holding her hand against his chest. “What?”

  “Find God. Find your faith.” She bit her lip. “Things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to; we couldn’t all be together here. But in heaven—” she smiled—“in heaven we can all spend eternity together.” She felt the smile fade. “Please, Dayne.”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead he hugged her once more and whispered near her ear, “Something was always missing in my life until now.” He straightened and gave her one last smile. “I’ll never forget you, Elizabeth.”

  The tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them back. “I love you, Dayne. I always have.”

  “Me, too.”

  He held up his hand, took a few steps back, and turned around. He was gone before she could call his name. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong about one thing. The something missing hadn’t been her or John or any of the Baxters. Yes, that was a part of it, but the bigger part was his faith.

  And until he found that, he would never really be whole.

  But she couldn’t tell him, because he was gone. Maybe he would come back tomorrow, or maybe he wouldn’t. Elizabeth’s head was fuzzy, sleep coming over her fast like a tidal wave. If he didn’t come back, none of the others might ever see him. But maybe he wasn’t even real. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream.

  But if it were a dream, then how come her arms still remembered the feel of him against her? And how come the ache in her heart was so familiar?

  The same as it had been thirty-five years ago.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The cabbie was still outside waiting.

  Dayne looked around, but the burgundy sedan was nowhere nearby. He climbed inside and pressed himself against the backseat. “The supermarket, the one near the restaurant where you picked me up.”

  The driver made no small talk, and Dayne handed him a twenty. The cabbie thanked him and pulled away, and this time Dayne held his head high. He spotted the photographer in his burgundy sedan still, but he’d changed parking spaces. Dayne glared at the man, looking right at him. When the photographer saw him, he sprang to life and began shooting pictures.

  Dayne didn’t care. Let him take pictures now. He’d no doubt been driving around the past hour trying to figure out what sort of clandestine deal Dayne Matthews was involved in.

  But the photographer would never find out. Dayne had already made up his mind. He would drive back to Indianapolis tonight and take the first flight back to Los Angeles. No use staying in Bloomington another day, not when the paparazzi were already onto him.

  His family, the Baxters, were nice people. He could tell that much after an hour with Elizabeth. He wouldn’t subject them to the type of scrutiny he would bring into their lives. No, they’d gone all their lives not knowing about him; they would never know the difference.

  He gave a final look at the photographer, climbed into his SUV, and drove off. This time he did a little fancy driving and lost the guy. It didn’t matter now; he had no more reason to hide. Still, he didn’t want the jerk having the satisfaction of taking any more pictures.

  Dayne studied the area around him. He’d turned into an older part of town. Probably closer to the university. Since it was Saturday evening, the little shops and businesses were closed.

  Everything in him wanted to turn around and find Elizabeth Baxter again, wait for the others to come, and then figure out a way to make a place among them. Even after all these years. The visit had been amazing, much better than he’d ever dreamed. But every detail was pressing near the surface of his heart, ready to burst through and overtake him with emotion.

  She hadn’t recognized him; that was the best part. She didn’t know he was Dayne Matthews the movie star. Only that he was Dayne, her son. The one she’d spent a lifetime thinking about and wondering about and never quite forgetting.

  He drummed his fingers on the wheel of the Tahoe and kept driving. There would be time to remember his visit later on the plane. For now he wanted to soak in all he could about Bloomington.

  This would’ve been his hometown if she’d been allowed to keep him, if he’d grown up the oldest Baxter son. He took his time, looking down the side streets and imagining. It was small and fresh and nothing at all like Manhattan or Hollywood. The kind of town where a kid could play football and race his sisters to the local park. A place where families would share Sunday picnics and spend a lifetime believing that life really was something out of Mayb
erry R.F.D.

  He kept driving until he spotted a crowded parking lot ahead. Though the rest of the area looked shut down for the night, in front of him was a large, ornate structure. A church maybe, or an arts building.

  Dayne leaned forward and squinted. A marquis in front of the building read “Academy of the Arts.” Beneath that it said “CKT Presents Charlie Brown.” A list of dates and times followed. Dayne pulled over. He checked his watch; the final performance was tonight at six o’clock. It would be almost over, but still he wanted to go inside.

  Community theater . . . in Bloomington, Indiana.

  Acting didn’t get much more small-town than that. He parked, donned the baseball cap, hunched his sweatshirt around his neck, and headed for the front door. A ticket table was just inside, but no one was manning it. He walked past, slipped into the dark theater, and took a seat in the back row.

  Positioned across the stage was a group of clean-cut kids dressed in Peanuts costumes and singing. Some were holding hands. The song was vaguely familiar, something he’d heard back in boarding school, maybe. It was a song about happiness and being together with people you cared about.

  “ ‘Happiness is . . . three kinds of ice cream . . .’ ”

  This was what drama was about, wasn’t it? Not the wild, Hollywood life; not waking up in bed with your leading lady wondering how either of you got there; not hiding from the public and deranged photographers; and not making millions of dollars for a single film.

  How real was any of that?

  The song continued. “ ‘Happiness is . . . having a sister . . .’ ”

  Having a sister?

  He thought of the women he’d seen in the parking lot earlier. He would never know that feeling. He brought his hands together and remembered how it had felt. Holding hands with his birth mother, knowing that she had loved him all her life. That she had wanted to keep him and even now, on her deathbed, her one regret was giving him up.

  The song was ending, the kids were singing, “ ‘Happiness is . . . coming home again.’ ”