Barefoot

by Brown, Sharon Garlough;

  Becca opened the backdoor. “Simon, can you take my bag to the car for me?”

  If he answered, Hannah didn’t hear him.

  “Please?” Becca said. “And you can sit up front with Hannah, okay? Mom and I are going to sit in the back.”

  After a final slow drag on his cigarette, Simon snuffed it out and stamped his shoes on the back step. Then he swept through the kitchen to the foyer. “For the love of”—he made a dramatic display of staggering under the weight of Becca’s luggage—“What have you put in here?”

  “Just some stuff from my room.”

  He rolled his eyes and dragged the bag across the hardwood floor. “Here, Mom,” Becca said, wrapping her arm around Meg’s waist once Simon shut the door behind him. “We’ll stand here, okay?”

  While Becca and Meg posed on the stairs, Hannah followed Becca’s instructions for photos from every possible angle. Though Meg smiled broadly, Hannah could tell what it was costing her. “These are good!” Becca said, nodding with approval as she scrolled through the images on her phone. “Thanks, Hannah. I’ll text you copies, Mom.”

  “I’ll go get the car started,” Hannah said. “But no rush.”

  In the darkness of the front seat, Simon, mute and reeking of smoke, drummed his gloved fingers against the window. Hannah boosted the flow from the heating vents, trying to improve the air circulation, and imagined last words being spoken inside. She wondered if Meg had been able to speak her heart about her faith and her hope, wondered if Becca would ever have ears to hear.

  “Finally,” Simon muttered when the two of them emerged from the house ten minutes later, Becca waiting on the landing until Meg locked the door. Then Becca gripped her mother’s arm.

  Hannah couldn’t tell which one was leaning harder as they descended the front steps together.

  Meg

  There was so much more to be said. So much more Meg wanted to say. But every time she’d tried to offer Becca a testimony of her faith, of her assurance of eternal life, the words had caught in her throat. She would have to rely on what had already been expressed and pray that Becca would somehow receive and understand.

  Inhale: Emmanuel.

  Exhale: Please.

  “I’ll call you when we get there,” Becca said, her voice pitched high. “And I’ll see you in April, okay? And then once the ferries are running, we can go to Mackinac Island, see where you and Dad honeymooned.”

  “I’d love that, sweetheart,” Meg said. Maybe the doctors were wrong. Maybe the prayers for healing were being answered. She had felt well all week. So well. Fatigued. That’s all. With some pain and shortness of breath. Not bad, though. Maybe Becca would come home and stay with her all summer. Skip Paris. What a gift that would be.

  “Simon, go ahead through security,” Becca said. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  He shook Meg’s hand, thanked her for dinner, and took his place in line. Hannah gave Becca a hug and then excused herself to the restroom.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, Becca.”

  “No goodbye, okay?” Becca said. “Just, See you soon.”

  Meg stroked her cheek and decided to be bold. “Can I say a short prayer for you?” she asked.

  Becca hesitated, then gave a nod and closed her eyes. Meg’s words tumbled out. A benediction. A blessing. A desire for God to show his love and care. Gratitude for their time together, for their life together. When she said her amen and opened her eyes, Becca was crying. “I’ve got to go, Mom.”

  “I know.”

  One more hug. A few more words of love. Meg watched her disappear through security clearance. When she exited the other side of the x-ray machine, she held up her hand to wave and blew a kiss. Meg blew one back. Then she was gone.

  Meg turned away. She felt sick to her stomach, and her vision blurred with tears.

  Inhale: Emmanuel.

  Exhale: You are—

  Inhale: Emman—

  She clutched her chest. She was going to drown.

  Inhale.

  Inhale.

  The room was spinning, her ears were ringing. She dropped to her knees and tried to breathe, stretched her hands forward on the carpet, gasped for air. Buzzing. Tingling. Shooting pain through her chest, into her arm. She was slipping, falling . . .

  “Somebody help!” a familiar, faraway voice shouted.

  And everything went black.

  Hannah

  Hannah rolled Meg over onto her back on the airport floor. “Somebody! Help me! Somebody!” She fumbled for her phone, dialed 911, spit out words, phrases, a location. Oh, God.

  A crowd gathered. Meg was breathing but unconscious. “Out of the way,” someone commanded. The crowd parted. A man in jeans and a jacket dropped to his knees beside Hannah and checked Meg’s pulse with an air of authority. A doctor, maybe. “Hang in there,” he said. “The paramedics are coming, they’re right upstairs.”

  Becca.

  “Please!” Hannah shouted. “Please—somebody get security! Her daughter’s down in the concourse—please! Rebecca Crane. Somebody page Rebecca Crane!”

  Oh, God. Please.

  A flurry of uniforms appeared: police, paramedics, security. Shaking, Hannah retreated a few paces so they could circle around Meg and open their bags.

  Oh, God. Please. She scrolled through her phone for Becca’s number and punched it. Voicemail.

  Cords, tubes, questions to answer as best she could. And then a siren. Thank God for a siren! They lifted Meg onto a stretcher, her limp arm dangling over the edge, her eyes closed, a mask over her face. Hannah tried to get close enough to stroke her curls, her blonde curls, but the medics were moving so fast. She gripped Meg’s purse against her chest. “I’ll follow you!” she called to the paramedic nearest her. “I’ll follow you as soon as I find her daughter!”

  Oh, God. Please. Jesus. Please. Hannah stood as close as she could to the concourse exit, scanning the hallway on tiptoe. Please. It wasn’t that big an airport. Please. And then—

  Becca appeared with a security guard, her carry-on bag slung over her shoulder, her eyes saucers full of terror. Hannah threw her arm around her to steady her. “They’ve already got her in an ambulance, Becca, we’ve gotta go!”

  “But Simon—my bag—”

  “Text him in the car.”

  Becca nodded, and the two of them raced to the parking garage, Hannah praying under her breath, all the way to St. Luke’s.

  Meg

  A siren. Or was it a train whistle? Meg struggled to open her eyes. A man’s voice, not Jim. A stranger in a white coat, voices she recognized. Becca. Hannah. A mask on her face. An ache in her throat. Breath. Jesus.

  A kiss on her forehead. A grasp of her hand. Love. So much love. Surrounded by love.

  Tired. So tired. Becca’s eyes, her face. I’m here, Mom. I’m here. I love you so much. A kiss on her fingers, on her cheek. Meg tried to lift her hand, tried to speak. She felt Becca’s soft skin. A baby’s skin. Touched her hair.

  Words. Hannah’s voice. Inside a tunnel. The Lord is my shepherd . . . Yes. Shepherd. Tender Shepherd.

  Cup overflowing. Yes. All the days of my life . . .

  A table prepared. He had come! She knew he would come! A feast. A bride. Joy. Uncontainable joy. And music. Butterfly song. And peace. Deep peace. She sighed, contented, and mouthed the words, “All my love . . . always.”

  Meg reached for an outstretched hand and heard a voice say, “Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come . . .”

  Hannah

  She was gone.

  Hannah kept hold of Meg’s hand and stopped reading from the Song of Solomon, from the verses Becca said her mother and father had read at their wedding. Becca’s head was pressed against Meg’s chest, her body convulsing in sobs. Hannah kissed Meg’s hand and stroked Becca’s hair. “I’m sorry, honey,” she murmured, all other words failing her. Becca looked up with her mother’s eyes and collapsed into Hannah’s arms.

  Sunday, February 22


  6 a.m.

  My heart is breaking. Jesus. Broken. We had hoped—

  I had hoped.

  If death can be kind and beautiful, then hers was. She went gently, right as I was reading Scripture. Becca had asked me about the verses when we were in the hospital room—said her mom had mentioned something about Solomon and doves. When I found it, Becca said it sounded right. Song of Songs 2:10-12: “My beloved speaks and says to me: ‘Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come away, for behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.’”

  I can’t see the page. Lord, help. Come, Beloved. Come. Our hearts are broken. Please come.

  Nathan brought breakfast to Hannah and Becca at the house, but neither of them could eat. “Lean hard on me, Hannah,” Nathan said after Becca returned to her mother’s room. “For everything. We’ll do it all together. The funeral, the wedding. Everything. I’ve already talked with Katherine. She said the same thing.”

  Hannah nodded. But how could she possibly enter into the joy of a wedding now? “I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” she murmured.

  Nathan pulled her close. “Then we can postpone,” he said. “We can wait until you’ve had a chance to process all of this, take time to grieve.”

  “No.” The firmness of her tone surprised her. It wasn’t about the wedding. Even if the wedding was bittersweet, her focus needed to be on their marriage, on the joy of starting life together. And she didn’t want to wait for that. Life was short. Too short. “I don’t want to postpone,” she said. “I want to become your wife. On my birthday.”

  He took her hand in his and kissed her ring finger. “Then we’ll walk in this together,” he said, “in all of it. We’ll take it one step at a time and see how God is with us, in the midst of everything. Right here.”

  Hannah leaned her head against her soon-to-be-husband’s chest and cried.

  On Monday morning Hannah drove a trembling and tearful Becca to Kingsbury Community Church to meet with Pastor Dave. “Your mom already planned everything,” Hannah said, her hand resting on Becca’s shoulder as they lingered in the parking lot. “Dave said she emailed him a week ago, sent him some of her favorite songs and Bible verses.” Meg had done what she’d promised. She hadn’t wanted Hannah to be burdened with coordinating the details of her service, so she’d planned it herself with very specific instructions: no open casket, no visitation, just a few loved ones gathered together to celebrate resurrection.

  Dave met them in the doorway of his office and ushered them inside, expressing his condolences and his desire to do whatever he could to support them during their time of loss. Becca replied politely while she sat up straight in a chair that looked too big for her. She had removed her nose ring.

  “Your mom was here a few weeks ago,” Dave said, “and she mentioned you liked a mural downstairs when you were younger.”

  Becca looked surprised. “Is it still here?”

  Dave nodded.

  Meg hadn’t mentioned that visit. Hannah’s throat constricted as she imagined Meg praying in front of the picture of Jesus welcoming children. Meg had so hoped—

  Lord, help.

  For the next half hour Dave shepherded Becca through the particulars of the memorial service Meg had planned. They would sing “How Firm a Foundation,” “O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go,” and “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.” Katherine Rhodes would read Psalm 23 and verses from Romans 8. Dave would preach a short sermon on the Easter text Meg had requested. They would finish the service with a recording of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.”

  Becca listened, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed. Did she have any questions? Dave asked. Anything she was concerned about?

  “I want to read something,” Becca said, her soprano voice pitched even higher than usual.

  Hannah hoped she had enough control over her facial expression not to appear surprised or alarmed at Becca’s request. If Becca hoped to read some secular, philosophical poem or song lyrics that in any way diluted or contradicted Meg’s faith—

  “My mom told me the verses she and my father read at their wedding,” Becca said, “and I’d like to read them.” She glanced at Hannah. “Is that okay?”

  It took Hannah a moment to find her voice. “I think your mom would be very touched by that, Becca.”

  Dave agreed. “The only other thing Meg requested,” he said, looking at Hannah, “was that you arrange some flowers at the foot of the cross and offer the closing prayer.” Hannah nodded but could not find words to speak.

  “I hate to do this right now,” Nathan said on the phone later that day. “But Laura called again, said she needs an answer from me about the Holy Land trip so that she, and I quote, ‘can figure out how to proceed.’”

  Hannah sighed. She had no energy to fight an angry, controlling ex-wife. Not this week.

  “I know,” Nathan replied to her sigh. “I’m so sorry. But I was looking at the travel company’s fine print, and I’ve got to make a decision in the next couple of days, or I’ll lose more than the deposit money.” He paused. “Angry as I am, I don’t have the capacity to fight her right now, Hannah. I don’t. And much as I hate to admit it, I messed up. I should have consulted her about this. I just never thought about it. Never dreamed it would become an issue. Believe me—I hate giving in to her. Hate it with every fiber of my being. I’ve got a sinking feeling that if I yield to her on this, she’ll get into the habit of demanding even more. But I think if she gets her attorney involved, I’ll lose. So I’m leaning toward talking with Jake to see how excited he actually is about going there—or if he’d be just as happy if we put the money toward a trip to Disney World or something.”

  Hannah could hear Becca in the kitchen talking on the phone to Simon. She had spent many hours on the phone with Simon. Hannah wondered what kind of comfort he could give. Promises about Paris, maybe, or strategies for getting her mind off her grief. Travel the world. Leave Kingsbury behind.

  “Shep?”

  “I’m here. Sorry.”

  “I was just saying, this doesn’t have to impact your plans. Whatever Jake and I have to do, you’re free to go.”

  She leaned forward and pressed the phone harder against her ear. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not going without you.”

  “But you signed up for this pilgrimage because—”

  “Because I want to walk in the footsteps of Jesus. I want to sit and pray on the Mount of Olives. I want to see the Garden of Gethsemane. I want to do all of that, and I want to do it with you, Nathan Allen, and if this isn’t the time to do it—if this is something you have to lay down—then we’re laying it down together. As husband and wife. We’re walking in Jesus’ footsteps together, whether that’s here or over there, okay?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. And then, “Hannah, do you have any idea how much I love you?”

  Tuesday, February 24

  3 p.m.

  It’s done. We’ve canceled our pilgrimage. Nate said how triumphant Laura sounded. What did I expect from her? Gratitude? Humility? We’re going to have our hands full with her, I can tell. Nate is still holding the line about Jake’s need to adjust gradually to all the changes. But we won’t be able to put off the inevitable forever. She’ll come to Kingsbury to see him. Sometime.

  I’ve been thinking all day about Jesus in the garden. I had imagined myself being there, praying near the ancient olive trees. But here I am, Lord, in the garden of my heart, surrendering longings and desires to you. Again.

  I’ve also been thinking about Mary Magdalene in the garden, mistaking Jesus for the gardener, distressed because Jesus wasn’t where they had laid him. Tomorrow we’ll weep at Meg’s funeral, even as we sing songs of hope and joy. And through the tears, I’m praying I’ll hear Jesus speak my name and comfort me with the promises of resurrection. I’m praying he’ll meet Becca in her sorrow. L
ord, you have a way of surprising us. Surprise us when we gather to celebrate the life of a woman who—in such a very short time—impacted me in ways I’ll always treasure and remember with gratitude. Thank you, Lord, for Meg. Help me hold the sorrow and joy in the same overflowing cup.

  Words from Wesley’s prayer return to me, and I offer them with disappointed and heartbroken tears. Let me have all things, let me have nothing.

  Lord, let me have you. And may that be enough for me.

  Charissa

  Charissa remained in her classroom, rereading a note Ben DeWitt had handed her after class:

  Dear Professor Sinclair,

  I want to apologize for not writing the paper you assigned. While it’s true that I had already written a paper on Frost’s poem, I was wrong not to follow your instructions. I’m sorry. The truth is, I really didn’t want to think about the theme of only having forty days to live because I didn’t want to think about what God might want me to do.

  My dad abandoned us when I was six, and even though he’s tried multiple times to reach out to me the past couple of years, I’ve always said no. But I talked with my mom about it a few days ago, and she agreed that it would be a good idea for me to contact him. He and I talked for the first time in twelve years last night. I was able to tell him how much his leaving hurt us. I was also able to tell him that I forgive him. I’m glad I have time to try to form a relationship with my father. Thanks for giving us something important to think about.

  Sincerely,

  Ben

  Charissa tucked the note into her bag, wishing she could tell Meg what the Lord had done. Thank you, Jesus, she prayed, and headed home.

  Mara

  Mara sat in her counselor’s office for the first time since December, recounting everything that had happened the past couple of months: Madeleine’s birth, the memory of Brian’s conception surfacing, Tom shutting down the credit cards and bank account, the neighbors and the dog, the letter to and from Tess, the pregnant girlfriend and her kids, Meg’s death, Hannah’s wedding, her new job, forgiving Tom. And her deepening confidence in God’s love, even though some days it was oh-so-hard to trust it.