Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Oh, God.

  Mara carried the letter like it was a bag of excrement and put it through the paper shredder. Jeremy watched her in silence.

  “Jeremy, I’m sorry. So sorry.” She had never meant to hurt him, had never thought that her decision to write Tess would impact him. Maybe she shouldn’t have sent the letter. Maybe she should have shredded it after writing it. Maybe Dawn would have advised her not to send it. But it was done now. The damage was done. “Is Abby furious at me?”

  “No,” he said. “Just sad. Sad for you. For me. I’d never told her the story about my father. Guess I never really thought about the other woman involved. Didn’t have a name until today.”

  She would fire her own missile back at Tess. She would offer her own How dare you? version. It was one thing for Tess to curse her. It was another to curse her son. “Forgive me,” Mara said. “Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you, Jeremy.”

  Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he embraced her. “I know that, Mom. I know. I love you. I just feel so helpless, you know? I can’t help you fight Tom. I can’t help you deal with Brian. And now there’s this woman. Where does it stop?” He wiped his nose against his coat sleeve. “I hate it. Sometimes it still feels like it’s you and me against the world.”

  Her heart ached. Did her son really feel that alone? “Don’t worry about me, Jeremy. That woman, she’s wasting away in her own bitterness. Anyone that angry this many years later—” She almost sounded like Miss Jada, who would probably tell her to pray for Tess, forgive her, and then let it go. “Don’t worry about me, honey,” Mara said. “She can’t hurt me. Don’t let her hurt you.”

  By the time Jeremy left for home half an hour later, Mara almost believed her own words.

  Meg

  After spending a gift of a day eating all their favorite junk food while watching Cary Grant movies in their pajamas, Meg and Becca were ready for a change of scenery. “Are the butterflies at the Kingsbury Gardens yet?” Becca asked. As a little girl she had been enchanted by the annual exhibit of cocoons and butterflies in the large conservatory. Yes, Meg said, and she hadn’t seen them yet. She would love to go.

  “Would you like to come with us?” Meg asked Hannah as they ate breakfast Thursday morning. For the past two days, Meg had managed to eat eggs and bacon, Cream of Wheat and toast, much to Hannah’s delight.

  “Thanks. I’d love to see them, but Nate and I are shopping for rings today.”

  “Mom showed me her dress,” Becca said. “It’s beautiful. I think it’s so romantic, how you’ve been reunited with your long lost love.”

  Hannah laughed. “God has mysterious ways of working things out.”

  Becca chewed her toast.

  Meg had been keeping watch for any potential openings toward significant conversations about life and death, faith and hope. But Becca had been more comfortable settling into a rhythm of mother-daughter fun, like painting their toenails bright pink and baking brownies and laughing over their attempts to draw portraits of one another. “Yours isn’t bad!” Becca had said, scrutinizing Meg’s pencil sketch of her face, complete with nose ring. “But mine makes you look deformed. Sorry! You’re much prettier than that, Mom.”

  Meg could still feel the press of Becca’s lips to her face. She touched her cheek and took small bites of her scrambled eggs, grateful for the gift of another day.

  By ten o’clock they were exploring the massive tropical conservatory, cheering alongside other enthusiastic midwives as butterflies emerged from cocoons suspended in protected glass cases. “Look at that one go!” a woman plastered with tattoos exclaimed, pointing to a lime green chrysalis where one butterfly hung headfirst like an upside-down magician maneuvering to remove himself from a straightjacket. As they watched, the butterfly spun and twirled, rapidly progressing toward freedom yet fettered by one wing that would not release. Faster and faster it gyrated, an acrobat spinning on a rope, until finally, the butterfly broke loose, its wing twisted and deformed by the frantic effort to be free.

  “Now what happens?” a little girl asked.

  “It has to pump fluid into its wings and get strong,” her father said.

  “And then it’ll fly?”

  “Then it’ll fly.”

  Meg hoped the motionless, exhausted creature would fly. Other butterflies in the case flexed their wings, waiting to be strengthened, while some flitted in preliminary attempts, testing their metamorphosis. But a few struggled to right themselves after aborted flights, their bodies overturned at the bottom of the case, antennae probing the air, desperately trying to flip over. Meg stood helpless outside the life and death box.

  “Let’s go over here,” Becca said, gesturing toward some flowers. “Look at them feeding on the orchids.”

  The ones that had survived the rigor of transformation now fluttered and floated like winged blossoms. If they were music, they would be flutes or piccolos, their ethereal melodies rising and falling with syncopated rhythms.

  “Mom! Don’t move!”

  Meg froze, eyes riveted on the streambed where orange butterflies chased one another, waltzing and whirling in flirtatious flight.

  “There’s one on your shoulder,” Becca said, voice hushed.

  Meg slowly turned her head. Resting on her cardigan was a large butterfly, its brown spotted wings upright and closed. Then it opened, revealing a celestial, iridescent blue. Meg gasped in wonder. Becca quickly snapped a picture before the butterfly ascended and hovered momentarily above Meg’s face, its wings translucent in the sunlight. “Mom, it’s like the color of your dress!”

  Yes, it was.

  Becca thumbed through the booklet, looking for the identifying photo. “It’s called a ‘common morpho,’” she said, pointing to the page.

  There was nothing common about it. Nothing common at all. As Meg tracked its flight, she wept for the fragile, resilient beauty of it, while Becca stood beside her, face upturned, and held her hand.

  twelve

  Hannah

  “I was hoping to find something for you with a flower design,” Nathan said as they studied dozens of rings in glass cases at the jewelry store Meg had recommended, a family-owned business that had been in Kingsbury for decades, specializing in custom pieces. He leaned forward, adjusting his glasses to see a particular ring set more closely. “But look at these, Hannah.” He pointed at two gold rings. “Could we see these rings, please?” He summoned the clerk, who unlocked the case and withdrew them.

  Hannah took the larger of the two and tried to read the inscription engraved on the outside of the simple band. “I’m afraid my Hebrew is rusty,” she said. “Which verse is it?”

  “Something from the Song of Solomon,” the woman said. “I can look it up for you. Dad’s been making those rings for years.”

  Nathan rotated the other ring in the light and squinted. “‘I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,’” he said. “Song of Solomon 6:3.”

  The clerk raised her eyebrows at him.

  Hannah laughed. “He remembers way more from seminary than I do.” She put her thumb through the ring, feeling the smoothness and weight of it. This was the one. This was the one she would put on Nate’s hand.

  “What do you think, Hannah?” he asked.

  “I love them. They’re perfect.”

  “Are you sure? We can keep looking.”

  “No—I’m positive. These are our rings, Nate.”

  They handed them back to the clerk and gave instructions for engraving their names and wedding date on the inside of each band. “Anything else you need?” the woman asked after she measured their ring sizes.

  “No, that’s great,” said Hannah. “Thank you.”

  But after they paid for the rings, Nathan shooed her out of the store. “There’s one more thing I need,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

  The student center was crowded when Hannah and Nathan entered. “Hey, Dr. Allen!” a student called as they made their way to the line for soup and sandwic
hes. Nathan greeted him by name and asked how his semester was going. Anxious for spring break, he replied. Nathan said, Me too, and squeezed Hannah’s hand. She blushed. He still hadn’t told her where they were staying for their short honeymoon. Local, she had insisted. Especially since they had their pilgrimage to look forward to. He had reluctantly agreed.

  Another student waved. “Congratulations, Dr. Allen!”

  “Yeah, congrats!” A chorus of greetings enveloped them.

  He put his arm around Hannah. “Thanks, guys!” he said, then murmured to her, “Word travels fast around here, huh?”

  Yep, she thought. Just like in a church. At least his community didn’t suspect him of anything underhanded. As she ordered her sandwich, she offered the sting of death to Jesus. Again.

  “How about if we eat and then go for a walk around the pond before I teach?” he suggested.

  “Sounds good.” She followed Nathan through the crowd, more congratulations abounding, and sat beside him on a couch near a window, tray on her lap.

  “Hey! I was just thinking about you two!” Charissa said as she approached, also carrying a lunch tray. Nathan rose to give her his seat. “No, no. Sit down,” she said. “I’m heading somewhere quieter. Got to get my head together before class.”

  “How’s the teaching going?” Nathan asked, opening a packet of crackers for his tomato soup.

  She shrugged. “Pretty humbling, actually. I thought I’d have no trouble wowing them with my expertise, and instead I’m grateful if a couple of them even bother to stay awake during my lectures.”

  Nathan nodded. “That sounds about right.”

  “I didn’t realize how much work it would be,” she said. “And with every­­thing else going on, I’ve had to let some things go. Like my own grades in all my classes.”

  Nathan raised a single eyebrow.

  “You’d be proud of me,” she said. “Perfectionist in recovery, right? I’ve never had so many A minuses in my life.”

  Hannah wasn’t sure if Charissa was serious or joking. Serious, probably. Charissa was usually serious.

  Nathan said, “Ahhh, well, sounds like the Spirit’s working.”

  “Yes,” Charissa said, “something like that.” She swiveled toward Hannah. “And how’s Meg? How are she and Becca doing? I’ve been praying for them.”

  “They’re doing okay, having some fun together in spite of everything. It’s so great to hear Meg laughing.” That had been such a gift, listening to the two of them laugh. “Thanks for inviting Becca tomorrow night,” Hannah said. “I don’t know if she’s coming or not, but—”

  “I hope she does. It would mean so much to her mom.”

  “I know.”

  Charissa shifted her weight, one hand under her tray, the other on her abdomen. “And pray for John and me too, okay? Ultrasound tomorrow.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Hannah exclaimed, and Nate seconded. “Are you going to find out boy or girl?”

  “Yes. We’ve got a bet going on it. I say Ethan, John says Bethany.”

  Bethany. The place of Lazarus’ death and resurrection. The place where Mary anointed Jesus and where Jesus ascended. Hannah couldn’t remember if they would be visiting Bethany or not. She’d have to check their itinerary again.

  “You okay, Shep?” Nathan asked after Charissa had gone.

  “Just trying to take everything in and hold it all together somehow. All the joy, all the sorrow.”

  He reached for her hand and kissed it. “I know,” he said. “Too much to contain.”

  At Meg’s invitation and urging, Nathan joined them for dinner that night. “We’ve got things to discuss,” Meg said, smiling, “maid of honor and groom things to talk about without the bride listening.”

  Hannah laughed. “Okay. I trust both of you. I think.”

  While Nathan and Meg disappeared to the music room for private conversation, Hannah helped Becca clear the table and wash the dishes. “He’s really nice,” Becca said after a while. “He’s an English professor, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Simon was a philosophy professor. He’s brilliant. Now he works for a publishing company. But he doesn’t really like it.”

  “What would he rather do?”

  “He wants to write. And travel. He’s been working on a novel, trying to land a contract. But so far nothing. It’s really, really good, though. It’s set in Paris—that’s why he’s always going there—and he’s going to work hard on getting it finished this summer. I’m supposed to go with him, but . . .” She bit her lip.

  Hannah waited, wondering if Becca might divulge something about her plans or her feelings about her mother’s prognosis or her thoughts about the future. But all she said after a pregnant pause was, “Well, we’ll see.” She stood on her tiptoes to reach a top shelf and put the rest of the dishes away in silence.

  Nathan and Meg returned to the kitchen several minutes later.

  “All finished with your plotting?” Hannah asked.

  “All done,” he said. “And I’ve persuaded Meg to give us a short piano concert.”

  “Really, Mom?”

  Meg nodded shyly. “Just a few of my favorite pieces. And Becca’s.”

  “Clair de Lune!” Becca exclaimed. “She used to play it for me all the time when I was little, whenever I couldn’t get to sleep.” She kissed Meg on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Well, I haven’t played for a while, so you’ll have to excuse some clumsiness.”

  She wasn’t clumsy at all.

  While Becca sat beside her on the bench turning pages, Meg’s nimble fingers flew across the keys. From the lively precision of a few short Scarlatti sonatas to the pathos of a Chopin nocturne, from the complexity of a Bach fugue to the impressionistic, mesmerizing shadows of Debussy’s moonlight, what Meg lacked in technical precision—her playing periodically impaired by her coughing—she more than compensated for with her deep feeling and artistry. Hannah listened, entranced, slipping off her moccasins so she could be barefoot in the presence of the One who had given the gift of such music.

  After the last pedaled phrases floated away, Meg’s grateful audience sat in hovering silence. Becca draped her arm around her mother and rested her head on her shoulder.

  There was no need for words.

  Charissa

  “Can you feel this?” Charissa moved John’s hand to her abdomen as they sat in the doctor’s office waiting for the ultrasound.

  His face lit up. “Bethany’s groovin’ to her own beat!”

  She grinned and kept her hand on his. “Ethan is kicking. He does it constantly.” His favorite time to kick, it seemed, was during her lectures. Between her frequent urge to urinate and her occasional dizzy spells, Charissa felt like she had long ago lost any power position in the classroom. Most days she taught from a chair, in elastic waistbands that were being stretched beyond their capacity. Time to go shopping for a maternity wardrobe. Mara would probably love to go with her.

  Having already had one ultrasound—which seemed like a lifetime ago now—Charissa and John both knew the routine and watched the monitor with wonder and anticipation as the technician moved the wand around on Charissa’s belly. What had been impossible to discern at almost nine weeks, they now easily tracked with awe. Head, feet, tiny fists. The baby really was dancing.

  “And—let me see if I can get a good glimpse here—” The technician continued to punch keys. “It is a—”

  “Drumroll, please,” John said, leaning forward in his seat.

  “Girl.”

  John jumped up and pumped his fist into the air. “Yes! Bethany! I told you!”

  “Seriously?” Charissa asked. She had been so convinced it was a boy.

  “Well,” the technician replied, “there’s always a slight chance you could be surprised, but I don’t think she’s hiding anything.”

  Charissa laughed. “Okay! Hi, Bethany . . .” She gripped John’s hand, her eyes brimming with happy tears, as she watched their
little girl groove.

  When Charissa arrived at Crossroads, Mara was in the kitchen assembling sandwiches. “Hey, Charissa! What are you doing here?”

  “Just thought I’d drop by, say hi, see if you need any volunteers to help with lunch today.”

  “Girlfriend! We can always use more volunteers. I tell you, it’s been a crazy week here. Great, but crazy. Lots of hungry people coming through.” Mara set aside a platter piled high with ham and cheese sandwiches and peeled off her gloves, resting her hands on her hips. “And how about you? Don’t keep me in suspense—what about your ultrasound?”

  Charissa reached into her purse and pulled out a tiny pair of pink canvas crib shoes. Mara squealed and embraced her. “Sensible baby shoes! Love it!”

  “John and I couldn’t resist.”

  Mara cupped the shoes in her hands. “Madeleine is going to have a girlfriend to play with. Wait until I tell Jeremy! I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks. This makes it all seem so much more real now.” She and John had been able to look at the picture of their daughter and pray for her by name. Such a gift.

  “You keeping the name a secret?” Mara asked.

  “No. It’s Bethany. We don’t have a middle name yet.”

  “Bethany Sinclair . . . oh, that’s pretty. Real pretty.”

  “John chose it. And it feels right.”

  A timer beeped, and Mara opened the oven, the fragrance of cookies wafting. She removed a few large trays of snickerdoodles and placed them on the stove. “Miss Jada said we got an anonymous donation this week to buy some food. Including a note asking us to make something special for our guests. To treat them to some homemade cookies.” She eyed Charissa. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  Charissa donned a pair of plastic gloves. “All I know is that they sure are blessed to have someone like you working here, someone who can make those cookies, make all the guests feel special.”

  Mara’s eyes glistened, and she whispered, “Thank you.”