by Beth K. Vogt
Haley sat up before her eyes opened all the way. What day was it? Wait . . . wait . . . what was she forgetting?
Kit!
She stumbled to her feet, knocking her shin against the coffee table. “Oh, words, words, words!”
She rubbed her hand against her leg. Where was her baby? What kind of mother fell asleep . . .
Stephen.
When she fell asleep, Stephen was holding Kit in his arms, a mixed-up image of uncle and daddy—what Sam would have looked like if he’d lived.
All she had to do was find Stephen and she’d find Kit. She beelined for the bedroom and found Kit safe and warm—and sleeping in her cradle. The bedside clock said it was one forty-five in the morning. What kind of magic did Stephen work on her daughter so that she slept this long?
And where was he?
Maybe there was a note on the kitchen counter—something to indicate that he’d left. That he’d be back.
Nothing.
Poof! Stephen Ames had pulled a disappearing act while she slept—probably while she snored—on the couch. She could call him and ask him where he was, but there was no need to wake him up just because she’d suffered an attack of mother guilt. Switching off lights, she noticed the now-familiar shadow of his Mustang parked in her driveway. Stephen’s car was still here. But where was he? Surely not . . .
Grabbing the throw blanket off the end of the couch, she slipped outside, the pavement cool against her feet, the middle-of-the-night hush enveloping her in a gentle embrace. The Mustang’s passenger-side window was rolled halfway down. Stephen sprawled in the driver’s bucket seat, the window on that side of the car also halfway down.
Why was he camped out in her driveway?
His hand held the other half of the baby monitor against his chest. What was the man doing?
She reached through the open window, resting her hand on his shoulder.
Nothing.
Sam would have bolted awake.
She shook his shoulder. “Stephen.”
Nothing.
She leaned in closer, raising her voice. “Stephen. Wake up.”
He mumbled something, adjusting his tall frame as if he was trying to find a more comfortable position. His grip on the monitor never loosened.
“Hey, Rogers. Wake up.”
He turned his head, his just-opening eyes dull with sleep. “Morning, Haley.”
“It’s the middle of the night. Why are you sleeping in your car?”
“Um, yeah.” He blinked. Once. Twice. “Wanted to be here in case Kit woke up.”
“Did you forget that’s why I’m here?”
“No.” He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair—the color the same rich brown as Sam’s. “But I thought it might be nice for you to get some extra sleep.”
“Thanks to your Uncle Stephen magic, I did sleep. I can take it from here.”
When Stephen sat up, she dropped her hand from his shoulder. He stared out the front of the car for a few moments, as if he was getting his bearings. “Okay, then. I’ll head on home—”
Haley reached through the window again, grabbing his arm. “Are you kidding me? It’s two o’clock. You’re not driving back to Fort Collins in the middle of the night. Come back inside. You can stretch out on the couch. I’ll go to bed.”
“Thanks for the offer, Haley.” Stephen paused. “But, um, I need to get on up the road and report back in on my business meeting. It was great seeing you . . . and Peanut. If it’s okay with you, I’ll drop in again—and I’ll try to make it a more convenient time.”
“Fine. But really, can’t you—”
Her words were cut off as the sound of Kit snuffling, followed by a whimper, interrupted their battle of the wills. Stephen held up the monitor. “Wow. Good thing I didn’t drive off with this.” He passed the monitor to her through the window. “Mom duty calls. And I’m outta here.”
She took the monitor, the sounds of Kit’s distress increasing. Before he could back the car up, Haley reached through the car window and touched Stephen’s shoulder again. “Thank you.”
“Hey, that’s what uncles are for.” He motioned toward the house. “Get on in there before Kit wakes the whole neighborhood.”
Haley ignored Kit’s demands for attention as she stood on her front lawn and watched Stephen drive away. What kind of man fell asleep in his car, holding on to a baby monitor, so that an exhausted new mom could get some sleep? The same man who’d painted her daughter’s bedroom an inviting yellow and surprised her with a cradle so Kit could sleep beside her bed at night.
Kit’s cries insisted she stop puzzling over the mystery of Stephen Ames and go rescue her daughter. But the realization of how many times the man had rescued her followed her into the house.
twenty-three
When it came to trying to find his brother, looking through yearbooks was a waste of time.
Stephen sat on the couch in his studio apartment, Sam’s senior yearbook open in his lap, the other three high school yearbooks stacked in a cascading pile next to him. High school—when Sam lived with their mom and he lived with their dad and Gina. Their visits with one another becoming less frequent—almost nonexistent. He’d hoped that the books’ pages would reveal more of Sam’s life during those years. He’d been home for three days before he’d opened the box Haley had given him before Peanut’s early arrival.
What had he learned? Nothing really.
He’d seen Sam’s hair get progressively shorter. Had known his brother participated in ROTC while Stephen joined the computer club and earned his Eagle Scout rank.
They both wrestled for their respective high schools, weighing in at one seventy-five, but Sam was the brother who went to State in Oklahoma.
He hadn’t known that under his senior portrait, Sam listed “join the army” as his life goal and added a quote from General George S. Patton: “Always do more than is required of you.”
Well, his brother had lived up to that ideal.
“Why the army, Sam?” He stared at the photo of his brother wearing his letter jacket, leaning against a motorcycle. It had to be a friend’s—their mom had vetoed any idea of a motorcycle when they’d first daydreamed out loud about it at thirteen. “We never talked about the military.”
And here he sat, talking to his brother’s senior photo.
The twelve years of complete silence between him and Sam echoed louder than all the arguments—the accusations, the tears, the slammed doors—leading up to his parents’ divorce.
Staying with his dad and Gina seemed like the right choice—just as much of a right choice as Sam’s choosing to stay with their mom.
Yes, Sam chose sides first.
Did that make him less wrong than Sam?
He should have said good-bye to Sam when he left for boot camp.
But shouldn’t Sam have told him that he’d changed his mind about college—not just announced the decision to go into the army the night before he went to sign enlistment papers?
And then all the years Stephen walked away from who he was. All the years he was just Stephen. Not Stephen and . . .
I made a choice, God.
I did.
Win, lose, or draw.
This is where I stand.
Truth is wretched sometimes.
And the question “Why?” taunts me . . . which is so much more painful than haunting me. Taunting doesn’t linger out there like some nameless, voiceless phantom. I know who is asking the question. I recognize the voice asking, “Why didn’t you do more?”
For the sake of family.
For the sake of brothers.
Could I have done more?
Done more than the “Hey, I graduated from college” phone call? Sent more than the one letter that disappeared into postal oblivion?
Is family worth more than two strikes, you’re out?
Seven times seven.
He knew that spiritual multiplication table—and how it equaled forgiveness. And yes, maybe he n
eeded to admit that at first a lack of forgiveness was mixed in the cement that held the wall in place between him and his brother.
But was it wrong to pursue the freedom to be himself ? To say, “If they aren’t for me—Sam and Mom—then I’m going to be for me”? They didn’t choose me. When Sam chose Mom—when he didn’t choose Dad—he also didn’t choose me. When he chose the army—when he didn’t choose college—he also didn’t choose me.
What happened to the whole “Family is forever” ideal plastered across Hallmark cards? From where he sat, it seemed as if “family” had an awful lot of conditions to it. Do this. Don’t do that.
No matter what he chose, somebody lost.
Him.
Sam.
Whatever their family had started out as . . . how did it end up here?
He reached over to where his laptop sat on the glass coffee table and closed it down, discarding the links he’d found to the news articles about Sam’s death. Facts and figures—his brother’s life reduced to data.
Birth date. Years in service. Rank. Awards. Duty stations in the army.
The only living, breathing thing left of Sam was . . . Peanut. A days-old infant created the one tangible link to his brother. But between him and his niece stood Haley.
What was he supposed to do about Haley? How did he deal with the fact that he missed his niece—and Haley? That he thought about calling Haley a dozen times a day—because he wanted to know how she was just as much as he wanted to know how Kit was?
He needed to get on with his life. Find a job. And remember that to Haley he was nothing more than a walking, talking, unwanted reminder of the husband she’d lost.
He needed to get out of his head. Stephen dialed his father as he pulled a bag of peppered beef jerky out of the cupboard.
“I was expecting to hear from you.” His father’s voice poured over him, as welcome as a just-right amount of warm maple syrup over a stack of homemade pancakes.
“What happened to ‘hello,’ Dad?”
“Just cutting to the chase. Tonight’s date night.”
“Date night?”
“You heard me. It’s something our church small group is encouraging. Couples schedule a date night at least once a month. Your stepmom thinks twice a month is a good minimum.”
“So what are you and Gina doing for, um, date night?”
“Last time we went to the movies. This time we’re going to dinner, which means conversation. Just so long as we don’t get onto the topic of feelings.” His father’s chuckle was a faint echo of his. Of Sam’s. “I take it you’re back in Fort Collins?”
“Yep. Just wanted to check in.”
“The three of us are all good here. How about you?”
“A bit . . . frustrated.”
“And that would be because . . .”
“I spent all that time in the Springs, Dad, and I’m no closer to knowing anything about Sam.” He picked up Sam’s freshman yearbook and then tossed it onto the couch again. “All I have to show for it is a stack of high school yearbooks that I’ll have to return.”
“And a new niece.”
“Well, there is that. There’s only so much information in a yearbook, Dad.”
“So go back for a visit. Ask more questions.”
“It’s . . . not that simple.”
“You start a new job?”
“That wouldn’t be a complication—it would be an answer to prayer.” Stephen paced the miniscule living room, ending up seated at his drafting table. “My showing up there only complicates Haley’s life.”
“Don’t you think she’s gotten past the shock that you and Sam are mirror twins?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I think we both end up confused when I’m around. I’m not sure if she’s seeing me or Sam when she’s looking at me—and it shouldn’t matter one way or the other, should it?”
“No, it shouldn’t. Does it?”
“When I’m here, I miss them, Dad—both of them.”
Silence greeted his last statement.
“Say something.” Even a laugh in his face would be better than this extended silence.
“I need you to clarify which ‘both of them’ you mean. Do you mean you miss both Sam and the baby? Sam and Haley? Haley and the baby? And if Haley’s name is showing up in the answer . . . well, I think I raised you to be smarter than that, son.”
Nothing like saying it straight up, Dad.
“I haven’t acted on how I’m feeling . . . I’m not even sure what it is that I’m feeling.” He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “It just complicates things.”
“That’s the second time you’ve used the word complicates. Don’t you think Haley has enough complications in her life right now? It hasn’t even been a year since Sam died. She just found out that her husband has a twin brother who walks, talks, and looks exactly like him. Just had a baby—six weeks early.”
Stephen didn’t need a detailed list of everything Haley was dealing with. And he knew that, as far as she was concerned, he was filed in the category labeled COMPLICATIONS.
And there was the word again.
“I’m not saying she won’t ever get married again. She’s young. She’s got a little girl who needs a daddy. Now, I know if this were during the times of Joshua or Judges, you could step in and marry her—”
Why did his dad have to bring up the Old Testament law? “I’m not planning on any sort of Levitical thing here, Dad.”
“So you’re telling me the feelings you have for Haley are brotherly, is that it? Because if that’s all it is, then I don’t even see why we’re having this discussion. Go ahead. Be a brother-in-law to her. Pray for her. Help her.”
“What if Haley doesn’t want my help?” Stephen swiveled in his chair and stared at the package of beef jerky, realizing he had no appetite for the stuff.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Sam may have married her for just that reason—she is an independent, strong woman. He’d have needed that, if he deployed a lot. If you want to help Haley, then be practical.”
“Like repairing the part of her fence that looks like it would topple over if I gave it a push? Painting the shutters?”
“Exactly.”
“A brother-in-law would do that.”
“Yes.”
“A simple offer of help.”
“Exactly.” In the background Stephen heard his stepmother say something. “Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to keep my date waiting.”
“No problem, Dad. Tell Gina and Pete I said hello.”
“Absolutely. After dinner.”
“So am I going to meet Sam’s brother?”
Haley stayed focused on the increasing pile of pink, purple, and polka-dotted baby clothes. At least her mother hadn’t insisted on her going shopping, too. They didn’t “do” shopping. But based on the number of bags she’d hauled into the house, her mother had purchased every single item with a bow, ruffle, or lace ribbon on it.
And now she’d tossed in a not-so-covert question about Stephen.
“I have no idea.” When Kit moved against her, Haley shifted her weight in the fabric baby sling. “I didn’t think I was going to like this contraption when Sara gave it to me, but it’s such a comfortable way to carry Kit. She’s calmer when she’s up against me and stays warm, too. And it’s a hoot that it’s called a Peanut Shell. I’ve got my Peanut in her shell.”
“Have you talked to Stephen since I arrived?”
So much for changing the topic. “Mom, you know I haven’t. We’ve spent every minute together.”
“Is that a complaint?” Her mother held up two sleepers, turning them to show how both the purple one and the pink polka-dotted one had ruffles along the backsides. “Ruffled bottom every time.”
“If you say so. Not that I ever wore one of these.”
“You most certainly did.”
“Pffft. Mother, don’t try to fool me. I know girlie stuff was outlawed in our house.”
“Haley Leig
h Jordan Ames, I was well aware that I birthed a daughter when you were born.” Her mother revealed a pair of tiny patent leather shoes. How old would Kit be when she could finally wear those? “A daughter who eventually was determined to keep up with her big brothers, yes—but a daughter, nonetheless. The ‘girlie’ stuff didn’t last long, but you wore it.”
“Huh.” She could just see the toes of her washed canvas Rocket Dogs peeking out from underneath the frayed hems of her jeans. Her T-shirt was covered by one of Sam’s flannel shirts. “Some women are feminine. I’m not one of them.”
“You’re a female, Haley, which means you are, by definition, feminine. And behind all the who-cares-what-I-look-like clothes there’s a beautiful woman.”
You’re beautiful, Haley.
Now, what was Stephen Ames doing inside her head? Even though Stephen and Sam sounded alike, her husband had never called her beautiful. Strong, yes. Independent, yes. A good shot, yes.
Beautiful—never.
But his brother held her hand while she labored, wiped the sweat off her face, and told her she was beautiful.
“So what do you think?” Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts as she sat back and surveyed the mountain of new clothes for her granddaughter.
“I don’t think we need to buy another thing for Kit—and I’m not sure when she’s going to be able to wear some of these outfits.”
“That’s not what I asked. My question was: Will Stephen be coming around again?”
“I don’t know. When he left a week or so ago, he didn’t say. He’s Kit’s uncle, so yes, probably we’ll see him again.” Haley eased to her feet, careful not to move too quickly and wake Kit. “When, I don’t know. I think he’s realized I can’t really help him find Sam again. He’s got his life. I’ve got mine. And we’re not going to keep crossing paths.”
Why did saying that make her . . . sad? She wasn’t missing Stephen Ames. She already had enough emotions to deal with—to hold at bay. She didn’t need to add anything to do with Stephen into the jumbled mess.
twenty-four