Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Suspicious? What kind of word was “suspicious”? A broken rib wouldn’t be suspicious. Neither would pneumonia. Or pleurisy. She clutched her chest.

  “I’d like for you to go in first thing tomorrow morning for a CAT scan of your lungs. Same place you went today.”

  “What do you mean by ‘suspicious’? Like cancer?” Impossible. She had never smoked a day in her life. She just had a cold that had become bronchitis. She had caught something on the airplane, and her immune system was run down, and the virus had gotten worse. A person didn’t develop cancer from a cold. Impossible.

  “We’re looking at a couple of different possibilities right now,” he said, “but I won’t be able to tell for sure until I get the other scan.”

  He hadn’t said no cancer. He hadn’t ruled it out. Oh, God. The room was spinning; her ears were buzzing; her vision had gone blurry.

  “Are you able to be there by seven o’clock in the morning?”

  “Seven? Yes. Seven. Okay.”

  “And I’ll call you as soon as I get the results back, all right? I know it’s very hard to wait—”

  Her eyes were on fire. “Okay. Thank you, Dr. Carlson.”

  She stared at the phone in her hand and only remembered to hang up when it beeped at her.

  Hannah moved closer on the couch. “Meg? What did he say?” A quiver in Hannah’s voice. A frightened quiver.

  No breath.

  No words.

  And then, a gurgling in Meg’s throat and a whimper rising to a primal howl. Hannah caught her as she lunged forward and held her as she drowned.

  Part Three

  Holy Ground

  They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion.

  Psalm 84:7

  nine

  Hannah

  The oncologist’s office was decorated with colors that soothed: periwinkle blues and sage greens, taupes and tans. Whenever the door opened, Hannah could hear the splash of the waterfall in the hospital lobby as it cascaded into a reflecting pool surrounded by sculptures and flower beds. Whoever designed the hospital space had kept traumatized patients and their loved ones in mind, creating cozy enclaves of chairs behind waist-high stone flower beds filled with tropical plants and trees, semisecluded for private conversations and discreet breakdowns.

  “Can I have some coins for the fountain?” a little girl asked her father as they walked past the open door. As a child Hannah had asked her own father the same question many times. Close your eyes and make a wish, he would say. She would squeeze her eyes shut and make her wish and toss her coin, then quickly open her eyes to watch the penny settle on the ceramic tile or concrete.

  She shut her eyes. Though the CAT scan had confirmed their worst fears, maybe they had caught it early. Lord, please. No wish. Just a desperate plea. Please.

  She opened her eyes and stared down the corridor behind the reception desk. Meg had been back there a long time.

  In the waiting room a thirtysomething woman in a bright floral headscarf was chatting to her friend about normal, incidental, everyday life while they sat together in a corner, adding pieces to a large jigsaw puzzle.

  Hannah would be that friend for Meg. She had logged many hours at infusion centers, sitting alongside Westminster members as they received their chemotherapy through intravenous drips. She had laughed and cried and prayed with them. She had consoled them when they lost their hair and had celebrated with them when they crossed the finish line and received the good news that the cancer was in remission.

  But she had never sat alongside a friend through a cancer journey. She formulated her strategy while she waited. First, she would help Meg set up some kind of care page. She would organize meals and rally intercessors. She would go with her when she bought her wig or headscarves. When the time came, she might even shave her own head to show solidarity. She would bring thermoses filled with tea to the treatment sessions. She would hold Meg’s hand and pray with her and for her, and they would have a party when the treatments were complete. Meg would be a survivor.

  Please, Jesus. Please.

  Meg appeared on the other side of the glass barrier, her shoulders slumped forward as she stood at the checkout desk, a nurse’s hand resting on her back. The nurse said something; Meg nodded.

  Hannah rose to meet her when she emerged into the waiting area. Meg shook her head but did not speak. Hannah opened the door for her and followed her into the lobby.

  Please, Lord. Please.

  Eyes closed, lips compressed, Meg convulsed in muffled sobs beneath the static fronds of a palm tree. “Here,” Hannah murmured, embracing her, “let’s go over here and sit for a while.” Meg yielded to Hannah leading her by the hand and then collapsed into a chair beside a wall, knees to her chest, rocking.

  No words. There were no words to speak aloud.

  Jesus, please.

  Meg wiped both eyes with the backs of her hands and held her fists against her face. “I’ll have to have more scans, to see if it’s just in the lungs.”

  Hannah stroked the back of Meg’s hair.

  “And a biopsy, to see what kind of treatment I can—” Meg doubled over again, head between her knees.

  Hannah pulled her chair close enough to enfold Meg while she cried. How did someone who had never smoked a cigarette in her life end up with lung cancer? Lung cancer was the only cancer Hannah could think of that carried censure with it. He has lung cancer? Oh, he must be a smoker.

  Meg straightened up and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. “I need to go get some labs done.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Hannah said, rising to her feet.

  “No—it’s okay. Stay here. I’ll come back when I’m done.”

  “You sure?”

  Meg raked her fingers through her hair. Her beautiful blonde curls. “I’m sure.”

  Hannah watched her shuffle slowly around the fountain and toward the elevator bay, her gait altered by her weight loss. Why hadn’t she noticed sooner? She should have pressed harder for an initial doctor’s visit, should have recognized the signs that Meg was suffering from something other than bronchitis, should have insisted that Meg call and pursue the x-ray sooner.

  God, please.

  Please.

  She reached into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and blew her nose. “What’s the latest?” Nate said, picking up her call on the first ring. She loved him for the urgency in his voice.

  “They’re going to run more scans.”

  “Checking to see if it’s spread?”

  “Right.”

  A heavy sigh. “What can I do, Shep?”

  Hannah’s eyes burned. “Pray. Pray hard.”

  “Let’s pray right now,” he said.

  She settled on the edge of the concrete flower bed, closed her eyes, and listened to him make his impassioned appeal to their Father.

  “There’s got to be something we can do for her,” Mara said on the phone later that night. “Is she up for visitors?”

  “She’s already in bed,” Hannah said. “She’s exhausted.”

  “Well, I’ve already contacted every prayer chain I can think of. Even emailed Abby’s mom to get word out to her church in Ohio. And I talked to Miss Jada at Crossroads. We’ll have all of Kingsbury praying by the time we’re done.”

  Westminster too. Hannah had emailed Nancy, asking her to notify the prayer warriors there. She had also told Nancy that given Meg’s diagnosis, she probably wouldn’t be spending much time at the cottage, not until they got more information about treatment. She wasn’t going to leave Meg by herself. Nathan had called Meg’s church to let his friend Dave know, and Dave had promised to get word out immediately, not just for prayer but for support with meals.

  “What about Becca?” Mara asked. “Did Meg call her?”

  “Not yet.” Hannah turned on the faucet and filled a cup with water to sprinkle on each amaryllis.

  “I talked to Charissa a little while ago,” Mara said. “She sounded pre
tty rattled. We still want to do the house blessing tomorrow, right?”

  “As far as I know,” Hannah replied. “They’ve already scheduled her biopsy and scans for Monday. They’re moving fast. Really fast.” Given her experience with other cancer patients, Hannah was shocked by how quickly Meg was receiving care. At least there was that mercy.

  “Well, if you think of anything I can do—anything at all—let me know, Hannah. Please. I’ll keep praying.”

  “Thanks, Mara. I’ve watched God do amazing things. I’m counting on him doing something amazing for Meg.”

  Thursday, February 5

  9 p.m.

  Numb, Lord. Utterly numb. I don’t know what to say to you, except Help and Please and Have mercy on my sister.

  I canceled my spiritual direction appointment with Katherine tomorrow. No way I’m going to leave Meg alone here at the house, even for ninety minutes. Katherine sounded shaken when I told her the news. I told her I’d keep her in the loop of information as we get it.

  Nate came over to the house with flowers for Meg. And for me. For God’s beloved, he said.

  What do I say to you, Lord?

  Be God. Don’t be less than who you are. Perfect in love. Perfect in power. Please.

  Take my shock. My sorrow. And my faith that you are big enough to do something extraordinary, no matter what the doctors might say.

  Please, Lord. Please.

  Romans 8 comes to mind for prayer: “Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, ‘For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.’”

  Yes, Lord. That’s what it feels like. That the hardship and distress and peril make us like sheep to be slaughtered. But you say no.

  “No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

  I am convinced that cancer will not be able to separate Meg from your love for her. I am convinced that nothing—not our fear or sorrow, nothing present or future—can separate us from your love. And I’m praying that you will enable all of us to be more than conquerors through you, the One who has loved us. You have convinced us before, Lord. Convince us again.

  Charissa

  If only there were some kind of quick spiritual remedy for selfishness, Charissa thought. Some spiritual discipline she could practice that would strike a deathblow to her self-centeredness once and for all. Instead, she confessed her self-absorption again.

  She wasn’t superstitious. Not at all. Nevertheless, she resisted the thought of Meg, newly diagnosed with cancer, meandering through their house on their very first night of possession. It was already going to be an emotional visit, and Charissa had prepared herself to be patient in giving Meg all the time she would need in the vacant rooms. But now Meg’s grief over everything she had lost with Jim would be exponentially compounded. Charissa had never been around anyone with cancer and didn’t know how to deal with it.

  “It’s not contagious,” John retorted when she tried to express her feelings during their drive to the house closing Friday afternoon.

  “I know that! And don’t lecture me about being selfish—I know that too. I’m just saying, I wanted our house blessing to be a joyful thing, a celebration! And now I feel like it will be completely overshadowed by Meg’s losses. And I feel guilty for feeling that way, okay? I know it’s ugly, but it’s the truth.”

  “She might not even feel up to coming,” John said. “It’s terrible, what she’s going through. I feel sorry for her.” He paused. “That sounds lame. Really lame.”

  Charissa felt sorry too. And helpless. Mara had asked her to pray for God to miraculously heal Meg, but Charissa was too pragmatic for that. Or maybe she simply didn’t have enough faith.

  She didn’t like it, but it was true. Sorry, she said silently. She wasn’t sure if she was apologizing to Meg or to God.

  “Hear that, baby?” John dangled a ring of keys in front of Charissa’s abdomen as they exited the title company’s office an hour later. “That’s the sound of our new house!” He pulled Charissa into his arms. “How do you want to celebrate?” he asked.

  “No pizza, okay? I don’t need any heartburn later.”

  “I thought you would say that. How about picking up something at the store to cook in our new kitchen?”

  “Too much trouble.”

  “I was hoping you would say that.” He beamed with his boyish grin.

  She scrutinized him. “What are you up to?”

  “Come and see,” he said, taking her by the hand to their car.

  Someone had already shoveled the driveway and the front walk. Propped against the front door was a basket wrapped in red cellophane, filled with apples, oranges, pears, chocolates, and a candle. Congratulations on your new house! the card read, signed by their realtor. “Can you believe it?” John exclaimed. “It’s ours.”

  Charissa pressed her hand to her stomach as they crossed the threshold together. John flipped on an overhead light switch. “Oh, good. Utilities got transferred in time. I was worried we’d have to use flashlights tonight.”

  She kissed him. “Thanks for taking care of all the details, John, for making sure everything got done. I’m really grateful. And we should call your parents and thank them.”

  “In a while,” he said. He took her hand and led her to the hearth. “Sit here, okay? And keep your eyes closed.”

  She sat down on the low stone ledge and closed her eyes. “What are you up to?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  Normally, she hated surprises. But she closed her eyes. Happily.

  “No peeking, okay?”

  “Okay.” The front door creaked open. He was gone, then back again, bags rustling.

  “Keep ’em closed,” he said. He made another few trips in and out of the house and then slammed the trunk shut.

  “Now?” she asked when she heard him enter again.

  “Not yet.”

  She put her elbows on her knees and covered her eyes with her hands to keep from opening them. More rustling noises. “John?” She heard him strike a match.

  “Okay. Open your eyes.”

  In the middle of the room was a red-checkered picnic blanket set for two with paper plates and plastic flute glasses, a bottle of sparkling apple cider beside a basket with sandwiches. He had lit a glass jar candle as a centerpiece. “Welcome home, Charissa Sinclair.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t fair. It truly wasn’t fair. All the gifts, all the blessings, all the lavish love and provision. What right did she have to be so happy when others suffered so deeply? Why should life be so easy for her when others struggled so hard? And how could she and John celebrate with unbridled joy and gratitude when Meg, who had once dreamed her own dreams in this very same space with the husband she adored, had been devastated by sorrow and suffering again?

  Charissa leaned forward and clutched John in her arms. “Can we pray?” she asked after she finally let go. “Can we pray together for Meg?”

  Nodding, John wrapped her hands in his and bowed his head with hers.

  Meg

  Charissa and John both greeted Meg in the driveway with heartfelt, sympathetic embraces. “We were planning to run a couple of errands while you’re here, to give you some privacy,” Charissa said, “but if you’d rather we stay with you, we’re happy to.”

  Hannah had made the same offer. Did she want company? Did she feel up to driving herself? Was she sure?

  Yes, Meg was sure. She had one opportunity to be in this house by herself to say goodbye, and she would make the most of it. A week ago she could not have imagined the new anguish that would deepen the poignancy of the visit. But she was de
termined to be here. Especially now. “Thank you,” she said to Charissa. “But I’ll be okay by myself.”

  “Do you want to call or text when you’re done? There’s no rush at all. The others aren’t coming until seven, so take all the time you need.”

  “How about an hour?” Meg said. She had brought her journal, her camera, and her Bible.

  “Okay. We’ll be back in an hour.” Charissa hugged her again. “We’re praying for you, Meg.”

  “Thank you.”

  As they pulled away, Meg remained in the driveway, staring at the house. Only the color had changed in the twenty-one years she had been gone. Now a pale yellow, their cottage had been slate blue. She and Jim had painted it together after bickering and debating over the shade for weeks. In the end, he grudgingly admitted she was right. He could be so stubborn. Like their daughter.

  She needed to decide when to call Becca with The News. But she didn’t need to decide right now.

  Biting her lip, she tottered up the front steps. She had no memory of the last time she had entered and exited the house. The memory that was permanently ingrained as the last time was the night Mrs. Anderson drove her home from the hospital, the night Jim died. But she wasn’t going to think about that night. She was going to think about all the other nights, all the other ordinary nights when she had entered the house as Jim’s wife, all the other ordinary—extraordinary—moments when the two of them came home from running errands together or from work or play, the ordinary moments that made up the fabric of ordinary, extraordinary lives.

  She wondered if she would ever have an ordinary moment again.

  Her chest hurt.

  With a twist of the knob in her ungloved hand, she pushed the door open, the hinges creaking like they always had, and peered inside.

  Did all houses retain a certain scent? Or maybe it was her imagination. Maybe she was imagining that the house smelled exactly like it smelled every time she and Jim returned from a week’s vacation. Nothing identifiable or unpleasant. Just the smell of home. Even now, all these years later. She flipped on the light switch beside the front door, the resistance of it familiar to her fingers, and an overhead light—the fixture they had purchased together at a local hardware store that had gone out of business years ago—greeted her. She was home.