“But what about the temple? And the guests and . . .”
“I don’t give a dang about the guests!” she snapped. “And if he can’t get to a temple then—” Tears began to drip from the pool in her eyes. “Well, then at least I can seal us later.” She lifted her chin slightly. “Don’t you see? I thought you understood. You seemed to the last time.”
He put an arm around her and leaned forward, talking quietly but firmly in her ear. “Marc is going to get better. He is. And you two will be able to get married as you planned.”
“I know that,” she whispered, hating the uncertainly in her voice. “But isn’t it better to be prepared, just in case?” Her hand tightened on his arm. “I couldn’t bear it if he died and we didn’t even have the hope of eternity together.”
“He’s not going to die,” André said fiercely.
“Claire did!” She saw anguish flare in his eyes and wished she could take it back. He pulled from her and leaned back on the sofa, defeated.
Rebekka grabbed his limp hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just not myself. I can’t think straight because I’m so scared of losing him. But the truth is that Claire was one of the most special people I know, and she still died. Why not Marc? What’s so special about us that he wouldn’t die when someone as kind and as good as Claire did?”
“Marry him, then. I’ll support you.”
“Marc won’t.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I brought it up to him this morning.” Rebekka’s whisper was low and urgent. “But he says he won’t marry me unless it’s in the temple. I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to marry me now, just in case. Why? Can you even imagine? He has to see reason! Will you talk to him? Will you make him see how important this is? He’ll listen to you.”
André let out a long sigh. “All right. I will.” He squeezed her hand. “But I still say he’s going to be fine.”
Rebekka knew her relief showed clearly in her eyes. “Thank you. And I’m sorry for putting this on you, but you’re the only one I knew would understand. Claire may be gone, but you’ll have her again. Unless Marc marries me, I have no such guarantee. I’ve been waiting so long for this . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to admit more, though he was already aware of her lifelong love for his brother.
He squeezed her hand. “I know, Rebekka, and I’m here for you.”
A warmth filled her heart, pushing out much of the dreadful fear. “You always have been. I can’t tell you what that means to me.”
“You’ve been here for me, too.”
She smiled at him. “I hope so, André. I wish Claire . . .” Dang!—she was crying again. André said nothing, but put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
* * *
Shortly after the surgery and Marc’s emergency dialysis, Dr. Juppe announced that Marc was out of immediate danger. Most of his family went home, including André and his daughters, but Rebekka kept vigil with Marc’s parents, Ariana and Jean-Marc. Watching their closeness and the way they supported one another in this crisis made Rebekka ache more acutely for Marc.
She wasn’t allowed to see him until the next morning, when at last they allowed her to visit for a brief time. He lay on the bed looking up at her with a grin. “Sorry about this,” he said apologetically. “After you left yesterday, I tried to get up to use the bathroom and the next minute I’m mopping the floor with my face. Then things got worse.”
An intense joy filled her heart, a sort of fierce gladness, as she rejoiced momentarily in the fact of his life. “You did scare me.” She kissed his cheek instead of his mouth, aware of the nurse’s presence in the room. “You look much better, though, than you did yesterday. How do you feel?”
“Pretty good, all things considered—except here where they reopened the wound. They gave me dialysis so my blood’s clean, and that means I should have more energy. It wasn’t as bad as I remembered. I was nausated during the whole thing, felt like I was going to puke all over the bed, but it’s subsiding now.”
“They put in a catheter?” She eyed the white bandage poking out of his pajama top.
He nodded with a grimace. “In my neck here. Can’t get it wet. I’m going to have to take baths for a while. Very careful baths.”
“Marc, about the wedding. We—”
“Louis-Géralde will be here soon.”
Rebekka rubbed impatiently at the tears on her cheeks. “Don’t you want to marry me?” She lowered her voice, hoping the nurse who was intently studying Marc’s chart near the door wouldn’t hear.
“Of course I do.” His voice was equally quiet but intense. “You know I want to marry you, but I want to do it right. Look at me, Rebekka. Look!” His hand slapped on the bed.
“I’ve seen you and I don’t care how horrible you look. It doesn’t matter! I love you!”
“I know.” His voice was weaker now. “And I thank God every day for my good fortune.”
Rebekka clung to his hand and cried. She tried to be brave but she couldn’t be—didn’t want to be. She was losing him; she felt it.
Marc caressed her hand until her tears subsided. “I’m sorry,” he offered wearily.
“I know. So am I. It is going to be okay, isn’t it?”
But Marc was already drifting back to sleep. Rebekka felt guilty for letting out her anger and frustration on him. He needed rest and here she was pouting like a teenager.
I can’t lose him. Dear Father, I can’t. Please.
The nurse made her leave. Rebekka returned to the waiting room, where she had plans to stay until she could see Marc again. She found her mother there.
Danielle embraced her, smelling fresh and clean. “How is he?”
“Better now.” Rebekka again fought tears. “They gave him dialysis. But he was sick during it, just like the last time. What am I going to do?”
“Come home and rest. Come on, now. They’ll call you if Marc needs you.” Danielle put her arms around Rebekka and led her from the hospital.
* * *
Philippe was waiting in the car when Danielle brought Rebekka from the transplant hospital. Her normally pale complexion was even paler, reminding him of the porcelain dolls Danielle collected. The gray pinstriped pants and white shirt she wore were rumpled from her night at the hospital, and her long auburn hair, pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, was in disarray.
“I shouldn’t leave,” she said.
Philippe made his voice firm. “Nonsense. You need to rest now. I know you think you’re all better from your surgery, but it’s not doing you a bit of good to wear yourself out.”
“Oh, Father, that was ages ago.” Her face crumpled, and she began to cry. “I’m so afraid.”
Although she didn’t call him Daddy, Philippe was reminded of the day of her surgery, and his subsequent miracle in the alleyway. Why had his life been spared that day? Was it because of his prayer? He had tried to brush off the memory of the whole occurrence, but it kept bothering him. He felt somehow changed.
They had planned to take Rebekka out to breakfast, but she was obviously not in any condition to go. In silent communication, he met Danielle’s gray eyes. She nodded once, and he pulled out into traffic in the direction of home.
Philippe walked Rebekka to her room while Danielle went to the kitchen to see to breakfast. “What about your work?” Rebekka asked him as she sat at the edge of her bed. The eyes that had been so unfocused now met his with complete clarity. Philippe was a top executive of a large banking chain, and he had long drilled into his family the importance of his job.
“It can wait.” Philippe had planned to go in but changed his mind when he saw Rebekka.
Her gaze became unfocused again as she stared at the floor. “Well, you won’t have to worry about me getting married without you,” she said. “Marc can’t get married now.”
The words hurt him more than he would admit. Perhaps he had been upset for not being able to give his only daughter away but never woul
d he wish for this circumstance.
“Marc will get better.”
She met his gaze. “He has to, doesn’t he? Oh, I wish you—” She broke off and sighed wearily.
What had she been going to say? The anger in him began to rise as he wondered. Had she stopped short of disrespect? Disdain? What?
Rebekka must have glimpsed the fire in his eyes because she cringed slightly. Taking a deep, cleansing breath to douse the flames, he tried to reason with himself. Perhaps she had only been going to ask him to bless her. Obviously she didn’t know how much hearing the plea had cost him the last time.
And yet . . .
He carefully helped her lay back in the bed, under the covers. Then slowly, methodically, he knelt by the bed, holding his daughter’s hand. Slow realization came to her face and her mouth opened in awe. He bowed his head. Rebekka didn’t move at all, and he wondered if she was still staring at him. Risking a glance through his lashes, he saw her clutching his hand, eyes closed and face pointed to heaven. Tears leaked from her eyes. The expression on her face was one he had never seen before, as if he had given her something she had longed for her entire life. A warmth filled his heart and spread to his extremities.
“Dear God,” he prayed, his voice rough with emotion. “Please bless my Rebekka . . . and Marc. Please.” His voice faltered and failed, but she didn’t seem to mind. She wrapped her arms around him.
“Oh, Daddy.”
He held her for long minutes, feeling a bond he had never known possible to share with another person. It was nothing short of miraculous.
Another thought entered his mind: what if he had prayed like this with Danielle? She had asked him to many times during the first few years after her baptism, but he had always refused. Now he couldn’t remember the last time she had asked.
What surprised him even more was that the hurt, anger, and uncertainty he had felt moments before was completely gone. For the moment at least, his heart was free from the terrible fury that almost continuously plagued him like an insidious illness. By contrast, he felt light and free. Could a simple prayer hold so much power? Or had it been the embrace of his precious daughter?
Danielle came into the room with a tray of juice and rolls. With a surprised glance she registered his kneeling position by the bed and Rebekka’s arms around him. “Is everything okay?” Her soft voice urged Philippe to tell her his newfound feelings, but he rose to his feet, gently disengaging himself from Rebekka.
“Yes,” he replied confidently, knowing that she would accept his words even if she suspected otherwise. Leaning over, he kissed her, suddenly anxious to be alone to examine what had occurred. “I’m going to work. I’ll call later.”
With another kiss on Rebekka’s cheek, he strode from the room.
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday morning, the day after Marc’s emergency surgery, André dressed the girls and drove them to school. He had to reassure them three times that their Uncle Marc would be all right. “You were there when I called this morning,” he reminded them. “He’s doing great. And I’m going to take you to see him after school, aren’t I?”
He hated the vulnerability in their eyes and questioned his motives for sending them to school that day at all. But the counselor they had been seeing in the almost four weeks since Claire’s death recommended that their life follow as smooth a routine as possible. That meant a full day of school for Ana, and morning school and a few hours of day care at the school site for Marée. Then, work allowing, he would pick them up and take them home for some family time. On the days when he had to work late, he either took the girls with him, or Ariana watched them. He had also begun bringing projects home from the office to work on after the girls were asleep.
Keeping busy so he wouldn’t miss Claire.
And it worked . . . sometimes. When it didn’t, he fell quietly apart, and then picked up the pieces in the morning before waking the girls.
Before heading to the office he stopped at his parents’ apartment, knowing they were home waiting for word from Louis-Géralde. Ariana opened the door, her face tight with worry. Fine lines that André had never noticed before stood out around her mouth and eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is Marc okay?”
“He’s doing well, but we haven’t had any luck reaching Louis-Géralde. Apparently, he’s off in some remote area and they use a pay phone to stay in touch. They’re due to check in on Sunday night, so the mission president will talk to them then.”
“He knows it’s an emergency, doesn’t he?”
Ariana sighed, her brown eyes filling with water. “Yes.” The tears didn’t spill, and André was glad. He was too close to crying himself.
His father came into the entryway. “We were going to have some breakfast, want to join us?”
“No. I’ll grab something at work.”
“You’re losing weight and that’s not good,” Ariana said. “You need to keep healthy.”
“I am eating. At least enough to feel satisfied. But I’ll eat more, I promise.” Anything not to worry her further. How could he admit that without Claire, food had lost its flavor. What he wouldn’t give for one of her stews—as long as it meant she was there across the table from him.
Not voicing any of these feelings, he left his parents. Following a sudden urge, he diverted from his usual path and headed to the transplant hospital. The nurse on duty was one he didn’t recognize and she wouldn’t let him in to see Marc. “We’re keeping visitors to a minimum,” she explained. “He’s still in serious condition.”
“I’m his brother. That’s immediate family, isn’t it?”
“The doctor said just the parents and the fiancée. You could talk to her, but she left about an hour ago.” Then her eyes brightened. “Wait, are you André?”
“Yeah, André Perrault. His brother.”
“He’s been asking for you. Won’t let it go. Let me ring the doctor. I bet he’ll let you go in.”
Within a few minutes André was ushered into Marc’s room. The nurse didn’t stay in the room, but she made him leave the door open.
“Oh good, I’ve been waiting for you to show your ugly face.” Marc tried to lift himself on his arms but grimaced and fell back. “They made me walk around again after Rebekka and our parents left. Ooo, it hurt. Whatever you do, don’t make me laugh.”
“Poor baby. Then I guess I shouldn’t remind you that my ugly mug looks a lot like yours. Except I have more muscles. Or used to.”
Marc peered at him, brow furrowed. “Hey, you’ve lost weight. You do look more like me.”
“Well, we can’t all be good-looking.” André settled into the stiff armchair next to the bed, wondering where Rebekka’s easy chair had gone.
“They feed me too much here,” Marc grumbled. “But it’s all a certain kind of food. Yuck. I’m sick of it all.”
“How about some wedding cake?”
Marc’s smile froze. “Rebekka told you.”
“Who else was she going to tell? You certainly weren’t listening.”
“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“You’ve been a little preoccupied?”
“Sorry, man. I know you’ve had it bad—worse than I have.”
“Rebekka’s had it the worst.”
“What do you mean?”
André sighed. “What I mean is that Claire is dead, but as horrible as that was and as much as I miss her, at least it’s over. I don’t have to torture myself with the hope that a miracle’s going to happen. Rebekka, however, feels like she’s watching you die a little at a time, which is even worse. Why don’t you just marry her and give her some peace?”
Marc looked away from him. “I can’t.” His jaw tightened. “I won’t.”
“Why? Are you nuts? I thought it was your kidney they took out, not your brain.”
Marc’s face whipped toward him. “Because I love her!”
André stood, abruptly tired of the conversation. The pain of losing Claire was once again fr
esh in his mind—what did anything else matter? But he had made Rebekka a promise, and Rebekka had always been important to him.
He sat down again with a little more force than necessary. His chair bumped the small table next to the bed, knocking several of Marc’s science fiction books to the floor. “Are you going to explain what you mean? Or should I just go to work and make up for this little vacation you’re having here.”
“Vacation!” Warmth seeped into Marc’s face. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared in anger. “Okay, look, I’ll tell you why I can’t marry her while I’m in the hospital. I had this feeling back in Utah. A feeling that I wasn’t going to have a lot of time with Rebekka. I accepted it. I vowed that I would take the time we would have and enjoy it to the fullest.”
“You think you’re going to die.” André couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“I do not think that . . . Well, I’m trying not to.”
“That’s all the more reason to marry her now.”
The muscles in Marc’s jaw worked furiously, and André had the distinct impression that had he been able, Marc would have begun pacing. “I can’t do that to her, André!” he continued tensely. “If I marry her and then . . . die, she’ll mourn me the rest of her life. You know she’s like that. Look at how long she’s waited for me already. Rebekka’s faithful to a fault.” Marc’s hand brushed impatiently at his dark hair, which had fallen forward into his face.
He’s serious, André thought.
Marc took a deep breath and plunged on, “If I can’t be here to help her through this life, I still want her to live. I want her to find another man, and I want her to get married and have his children and be happy.”
“She could still do that.”
“No!” Marc’s answer was explosive. “I’ve thought a lot about this—I’ve done nothing but think about this. I love Rebekka more than I love life, and I’m not going to tie her down unless I’m going to be around to be her husband.”
“But marrying you would make her happy!”
Marc’s face was ashen, as his energy had evidently been funneled into their conversation. “In the short term maybe, but Rebekka could live another seventy years. Alone as my widow, or with a man who will always resent that she is sealed to me. Don’t you see, André, I can’t let her bear that pain or make that choice. I’m the idiot who waited so long to let her into my heart, but I won’t be the one to make her suffer anymore.”
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