If I'd Never Known Your Love

by Georgia Bockoven

  Instead of the expected baritone of her brother, Fred, she was greeted by a woman's voice. "Mrs Julia McDonald, please."

  "Speaking."

  "Please hold for Mr. Leland Crosby."

  "I'm sorry—who did you say?"

  "Mr. Leland Crosby," she repeated carefully.

  Before Julia could say anything in response, he came on the line."Leland Crosby here, Mrs. McDonald. I'm sure you don't remember me, but we met when you were in Washington a couple of years ago."

  "I'm sorry, I don't—"

  "Please, don't apologize. There's no reason for you to remember. I was one of a dozen diplomats you met that day. But since Paul Erickson was out of the office today and you and I did have that connection, I wanted to be the one to call you personally to offer my condolences and to let you know that our ambassador's office in Colombia will do everything possible to help you in any way they can."

  "Condolences?" she repeated numbly. "I don't understand."

  Agonizingly long seconds passed. "No one has contacted you? You don't know?"

  "Know what?"

  "Just a moment, please." She couldn't make out what was said next, but the angry tone clearly made it through the muffled receiver. "I'm truly sorry, Mrs. McDonald. I was told the Colombian authorities had already contacted you, that you'd already been informed."

  "Informed about what?" she demanded.

  "Your husband."

  Her hand tightened around the receiver. "Evan?" Panic squeezed her chest. She fought to take a breath. "Is he all right?" How could he be? No one offered condolences when someone was rescued. Still, she could not accept that Evan was gone until she heard the actual words.

  "I'm so sorry. Is there anyone there with you?" He waited, and when she didn't answer, "Is there someone I can call?"

  "Is he all right?"

  After a long pause, with great reluctance, Leland Crosby said, "The Colombian army found your husband two days ago.. .in a shallow grave with two other men."

  Still she clung to her belief that Evan was alive, that he was waiting for her, loving her, missing her, holding on to life when it would be easier to let go, because he knew that if he died, a part of her, the best part of her, would die, too. This core knowledge had sustained her for five years. "Are you sure it's him?"

  "I'm going to let you talk to someone else about that, someone who can give you answers that I can't." Before passing the phone, he added, "I realize this is a difficult time for you. You have my deepest sympathy."

  She didn't want his sympathy. She wanted answers.

  "Thank you," she answered automatically, hanging on to a piece of fragile silk thread as if it were a steel cable.

  A new voice came on the line. "Hello—Mrs. McDonald?"

  "Yes."

  "This is Roger Hopkins. I understand you have some questions for me."

  She pressed herself into the corner where the kitchen and dining room met, and clung to the wall for support. She didn't have to ask her questions; she could just hang up, go on with her morning, waiting for the call telling her there had been a mistake, that it wasn't Evan they'd found but someone who looked like him.

  "Mrs. McDonald—are you there?"

  Please, please let it be a nightmare. Let me be asleep, let something happen to wake me and make it all go away. Evan couldn't be dead. Not now. Not after all this time.

  Forcing words past the lump in her throat, she struggled to ask, "How do they know it's Evan?"

  "The forensic pathologist in Bogota had a copy of his medical and dental records...and there were several personal belongings recovered."

  "What kind of personal belongings?"

  "His wallet and watch." He paused. "And a wedding ring with the words Spring to Winter written inside. According to the information you supplied when Mr. McDonald went missing, this was the inscription on his wedding band."

  She closed her eyes. Her knees gave out and she slid along the wall until she was sitting on the floor. "When?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "When did he die?" She wanted to look back, to remember where she was, what she'd been doing when it had happened. She believed without question that his last thought would be of her and his children. He would have reached out to her to say goodbye. Had she been too caught up in creating a newsletter for a client, or cheering at a soccer game, or rushing to catch a plane to hear him?

  "According to the man who led them to the grave, Evan was shot trying to escape two days after he was captured."

  A sharp pain cut through her chest. "N9-0-0- o..." She doubled over and pressed herself deeper into the corner. "That can't be. I would have known."

  "I'm really sorry you had to learn about this over the phone. We were assured the authorities in Colombia had contacted you this morning and made arrangements for someone to be with you."

  They'd tried. They just hadn't gotten through. "I think I'm going to hang up now." She spoke slowly, her composure a bridge that had lost its foundation. Understanding that once she let go she would not be able to function, she asked one last question. "Who should I contact to find out when they'll be releasing Evan?"

  "As I understand it, you'll have to go through the coroner's office first. Someone will have to interpret for you."There was a sound of shuffling papers. "The doctor doesn't speak English."

  "I know Spanish." She'd immersed herself in the language and in the country, believing knowledge was power. For five years she'd studied. She'd learned as much about the history and traditions and social structure of Colombia as she had her own country. Maybe more.

  And now, with one phone call on a clear January day, she'd been told all she'd ever really needed was a satin-lined casket and a one-way ticket.

  "I don't seem to have the phone number for the doctor in front of me," he told her. "I don't want to keep you on the line while I look. Would it be all right if I called you back in a few minutes?"

  "I'll need the contact number for the Colombian office that will release Evan to let him come home."

  "Of course. Will you excuse me for a moment?" When he returned, he said, "We can have the embassy make those arrangements for you, Mrs. McDonald."

  "When?"

  "I'll have them get in touch with you."

  "Make sure Ambassador Sidney is told that I want to be with Evan when he comes home."

  "I understand."

  "But you have to make sure they understand, too."

  She'd experienced too many well-intentioned mistakes. Messages weren't always delivered as they were intended.

  "I'll take care of it. I promise."

  "Thank you," she said. She would contact them, too. There was only one thing left that she could do for Evan. Propriety be damned.

  "Again, let me express my profound sorrow," he said. "For everything."

  She put her hand over her eyes and bit her lip. "I have to go now."

  "Are you sure there isn't anyone I could call?"

  "No—" She dropped the receiver and covered her face with both hands. A deep, keening sob echoed through the empty house.

  How could Evan have been dead for five years when his favorite cereal was in the cupboard, his clothes in the closet, his dresser filled with his underwear and socks and T-shirts, all waiting for him? How could he come to her in her dreams with tender promises of what their lives would be like when they were together again? How could she be standing at the sink, washing dishes, or driving the car, or talking on the phone, or working in the yard, and feel him beside her and know without question that he was thinking about her and telling her that she was loved beyond barriers or miles or time?

  How could she go on without the belief he was waiting for her to find him? How could she get up in the morning knowing she had to get through another day without hope?

  Four Months and Two Weeks Missing

  We found my dad in the barn, sharpening a lawn- mower blade. He had his back to us, oblivious to everything in the isolation of the high-pitched whine of the grinder and t
he goggles he wore to protect his eyes from the wildly flying sparks. I could feel your tension as we stood there waiting for him to finish; you really didn't want to be there. You were scared. And there was nothing I could say or do to reassure you.

  I reached for your hand and you jumped. It was then that I realized the depth of your fear and how important my father had become to you. For seventeen years you had lived in an environment that should have destroyed you. When you took over the care of your brother, you missed so much school that you sacrificed the dream of graduating high enough in your class to get a scholarship to college. And then when he died so uselessly, you'd suffered loss I couldn't conceive. Yet you not only hung on, you survived without anger or bitterness. I'd never known anyone like you. Your core goodness left me awestruck.

  Finally, Dad noticed us and flipped the switch on the grinder. He removed his goggles and flashed us a smile. When it wasn't eagerly returned, he wiped his hands on the rag sticking out of his overalls pocket and motioned us closer.

  "What's up?"

  You shoved your hands in your back pockets and

  tilted your head down, escaping in the shadows of your hair. "Julia thinks I should..

  Julia wants me to—" You looked up then and must have seen something in my father's eyes that made it all right, because you took a deep breath and blurted out, "I'm a fugitive, Mr. Warren. I'm wanted for setting a fire in my old school. I didn't mean for it to happen, but that's not going to count for shit to the cops when they catch me."

  Not exactly the way I'd pictured it happening. I mentally braced myself and waited for the explosion.

  My dad shifted from one foot to the other. "That's the ice that's above the water. I want to see what's underneath before I pass judgment."

  I'd always believed my father the strongest most honorable man alive, someone who taught his children compassion and fairness by example. I'd never been more proud to be his daughter than I was at that moment. I glanced at you and said softly, "See?" I grinned. "I told you."

  You repeated your story in an emotionless voice, as if reading an article from the newspaper about someone you'd never met. It was plain you didn't want his pity or mine and that you were there only because I'd asked you.

  My father was shaken, his face a mirror of his thoughts as he went from anger to sorrow. "I knew there was something special about you the first time we met," he said.

  "I just had no idea how special you really were." He put his hand on your shoulder. "I just might be able to help you out with this fire business. Give me a couple of weeks."

  You tried hard to hide them, but there were tears in your eyes when you said, "I don't see how—"

  "I'm not making any promises, Evan. I'll do what I can. But in the meantime there's something I have to have from you." He looked at me. "And you."

  "I'll do anything, Daddy. "And I would have. "I'll even take the night shift on the combine next summer."

  He chuckled. "Don't think I won't remember you saying that come harvest time."And then to Evan, "Seems to me that we've got our work cut out for us if we're going to get you caught up by graduation. Julia, you're going back to riding the bus and getting your own homework done before supper. Evan, you'll go back to working with Mrs.

  Winslow on the English after school, and then Julia and I will alternate with algebra and social studies until you're where you should be. Julia's mom has four years of high-school German and three of college. If you have any ear at all for foreign languages, she can get you to the point where you can challenge the course for credit.

  I'm not usually in favor of this kind of thing, but you'll need a language when you apply for college yourself"

  I threw my arms around his neck. "Daddy, I love you. You're the best."

  "Why are you doing this?" you asked, confused at a reaction you obviously hadn't expected.

  "For a lot of reasons," Dad said. "Mostly, I suppose, because I think it's about time you were on the receiving end. You're a good kid, Evan. All you need is half a chance."

  "I don't know what to say."

  "One more thing," Dad said, seeing we were about to leave. He shifted his gaze from me to you and then back again. "It's plain as a cat locked in a house watching a flock of birds in the backyard how you two feel about each other. "He held up his hand when I started to protest. "I've got eyes, Julia. Anyone around you two five minutes would pick up on what's going on between you. I just don't want it getting out of hand. You've got plenty of time. Right now Evan has enough on his plate."

  I looked into your eyes and could see the yearning for everything my father had offered mixed with a longing for me. The promise we made to my dad that day to stay away from each other was one of the hardest promises I've ever made. But I sucked it up, as Fred liked to say, and smiled. I wanted you to know that it was okay. I would wait.

  C H A P T E R 6

  The doorbell rang. Julia ignored it. It rang again.

  Julia pulled her legs to her chest and leaned tighter into the corner. Loud knocking came next, and then a man called her name.

  "Mrs. McDonald?" He knocked again. "This is Deputy Thompson from the Sheriff's Department. Are you all right in there?"

  Julia stirred. He'd obviously been sent to see her and would not go away until she responded. "Mrs. McDonald? Can you—" "Just a minute," she finally said. She got to her feet, wiped her face with her hands and adjusted her skirt.

  She was experienced at hiding her feelings, smiling when she was exhausted, speaking softly when she felt like shouting, gracious when inwardly seething with frustration.

  Grief, worry, fear were all emotions she'd learned to bury under a veneer of cordialness, a necessary means to an end.

  She glanced at herself in the hall mirror before opening the door. Her eyes betrayed her. She could not hide behind a smile today; the wound ran too deep. Still, she tried.

  "I'm Julia McDonald," she said. "What can I do for you?"

  A young man dressed in crisp Sheriff's Department green, with a shiny badge and buttons, a wide, black leather belt and bulging holster, took a nervous half step backward. He had bright-red hair and connect-the-dots freckles and looked years too young to have a gun strapped at his side. Another man, dressed in a black suit and cleric's collar, stood with one foot on the step, the other on the porch. He seemed disconcertingly familiar with the role he'd been assigned.

  The deputy shifted his hat from one hand to the other, radiating vibes that said, given a choice, he would gladly take an armed suspect over a distraught woman. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to disturb you at a time like this, Mrs. McDonald, but Mayor Suhr's office received a phone call from the State Department requesting an officer be sent to this address. Reverend Kisder and I are here to help you in any way we can."

  "Thank you," Julia said. "I appreciate the mayor's concern, but I really don't need help. There's nothing for you to do."

  "Please, ma'am—there must be something."

  "Perhaps we could phone a friend?" Reverend Kisder suggested. "What about family?

  Do you have any close by?"

  Reality pierced her fog of sorrow. No matter how desperately she wanted to be left alone, to grieve in private, to say goodbye to Evan in the quiet of the house they had shared in dreams but not time, there were others who had to be considered. "My sister, Barbara."

  They reacted as if she'd given them a gift. "If we could come inside..." Reverend Kistler gently suggested.

  "Of course." She moved out of the doorway. "Would you like some coffee?" The question was automatic, inbred through generations of women who equated food and drink with hospitality even in grief, women who throughout joy and tragedy passed the lesson to their daughters by example.

  She could do this; she could go on, alone. After five years without being able to see or feel or touch Evan, she'd already accomplished it physically. Now all she had to do was find a way to do it mentally. One step at a time, one day at a time, and it would become a pattern.
r />   Knowing Evan would never come home was simply a matter of trading one heartache for another.

  Within an hour, the rippling word of Evan's death had reached friends across the United States and Colombia. One conversation ended, the receiver was replaced, the phone rang again. Barbara handled all but the most personal calls, noting names and numbers and thanking all for their concern, promising someone would get back to them as soon as the funeral arrangements were made.

  Julia listened the way she did with background music, hearing, but not registering details. She remained at the front window, her hand pressed against the cool glass, and watched for Shelly and Jason.

  She'd heard from Paul Erickson and George Black and Matt Coatney, the men who'd begun the battle to get Evan home and then over the years had moved on to other jobs in other businesses and agencies. Five years was a long time for men like that to stay in one place.

  Not one of them hinted that they'd ever lost hope, and in their voices and words, she felt their shared sorrow. They all told her they would stay in touch, but their link had been severed. Even friendships formed in the fires of adversity suffered and fell to the wayside when not tended regularly.

  In less than an hour the sun had given way to a cover of dark clouds, dropping the temperature ten degrees. White-crowned sparrows and juncos popped in and out of the perennial bed next to the driveway, their food gathering hastened by the impending rain.

  The perennials were Evan's favorites, everything from foxglove to primroses. In the backyard she'd planted hundreds of daffodils and tulips in meandering beds of yellow and red, deep purple and white, the colors he had marked in the bulb catalog he'd left on the nightstand.

  She'd painted the house his favorite colors, wallpapered the bathroom in the pattern he'd said he'd liked when they were at the store together the week before he left, and covered the windows with the mini-blinds he preferred instead of the wooden plantation shutters she liked. They were labors of love, small bargains that her efforts would not go unnoticed, that someday Evan would take pleasure in the paint and paper and pick her a bouquet from the garden.