“Surrogate?”
“Yeah. Surrogate mom. Or grandmother. I love babies!”
That was another thing they didn’t have in common. Charissa had always been allergic to babies. An only child, she had never been subjected to young children, had never even babysat as a teenager. While her friends trained in Red Cross CPR classes and invested long hours in childcare to earn extra money for clothes and car insurance, Charissa spent her time investing in her future. “It’s much more important for you to spend your time studying,” her father had always insisted. “Your mother and I will take care of everything else.”
Now the very future she had strived for was being jeopardized by an unexpected pregnancy. She was less than halfway through her Ph.D. program in English literature at Kingsbury University, and despite Professor Nathan Allen’s assurances that the program could be flexible enough to accommodate her needs, Charissa didn’t like detours. Didn’t like them at all.
A rap on her window startled her, and she turned to see her husband’s jovial face pressed against the wet glass. “Go around!” she mouthed, pointing to the passenger seat. He dashed in front of the car and hopped in, spraying Charissa with water droplets.
“Enough of the rain already. It’s December! Gimme some snow!” John leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught on the phone.” She brushed the moisture off her face and drove forward while he fastened his seat belt. “Good day?” he asked.
Lately a “good day” meant being able to eat without feeling sick. So in that regard, she supposed it had been fairly decent. “I’m wishing I had spent all afternoon working on my Milton presentation.”
“You’ve been working on that presentation all semester. I thought you were done.”
“Well, the first draft’s done. But I’ve still got lots of revision work to do.” And less than two weeks left to complete it. Dr. Gardiner had instructed them to view these final presentations as if they were conference papers, and Charissa was determined to be primed for any possible question from her peers or department faculty. One couldn’t be too prepared for these things.
“You’ll be fine,” John said. “You always do great. More than great. How was Meg?”
“Nervous. Excited. She’ll have a good time once she gets there.” Charissa flipped on her left turn signal when she reached the road.
“Turn right, okay?” John said.
Charissa raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
“Trust me. Just turn right.”
“What for?”
“Just humor me, okay? It won’t take long. Promise.”
“I told you I’m already feeling behind today—”
“And this will take half an hour, max. Turn right here, then left at the light on Buchanan.”
Charissa hesitated, then with an exaggerated sigh, switched the left turn signal to right. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I know.”
She followed his verbal instructions, eventually arriving in a suburban neighborhood filled with ranch-style houses. “Okay, we’re looking for Columbia Court.” John pressed his face to the window. “There!” He gestured toward a stop sign. “Turn right and go slow.” Charissa was already doing twenty-five; she slowed to fifteen just to make a point. He didn’t seem to notice. “464 . . . 468 . . . 472—okay, there—480! Where the For Sale sign is. Go ahead and turn into the driveway.”
Charissa pulled in behind a black sedan. John leaned forward in the passenger seat, his hand on the dashboard. “Whaddya think?”
Charissa stared at the nicely landscaped, beige single-story house, trimmed with twinkling white lights. “What do you mean, what do I think? Whose house is it?”
He grinned mischievously. “Ours, maybe. What do you think?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you know how we were crunching our numbers, trying to figure out if we could afford to buy a house?”
Was he being deliberately obtuse? They’d had this conversation several times over the past couple of weeks, and she wasn’t going to have it again. Buying a house simply wasn’t feasible, particularly a house in a desirable neighborhood with excellent schools, she reminded him.
“I know,” he said. “But I was on the phone with my folks earlier today, talking about the baby and how we weren’t sure how we were going to manage with the one-bedroom apartment, and when I said we might need to lease a two-bedroom or maybe rent a duplex, my dad offered to help us with a down payment on something.”
She gaped at him. “Are you kidding me?”
“Would I kid about something like that?”
“A down payment. On a house.”
He grinned even more broadly. “You know how excited they are about having a grandchild, and they want to help. You’re not going to let pride get in the way of saying yes, are you?”
“No—of course not—it’s just—”
He reached for her hand. “Listen. Just because your folks aren’t enthusiastic yet doesn’t mean other people don’t want to help and support us.”
“Unenthusiastic” was a mild way to describe her parents’ reaction to the news of her pregnancy. And honestly, Charissa wasn’t ready to say much about her own desires, except that she had moved beyond her initial shock and resentment to a place of ambivalence that she hoped would eventually become acceptance, gratitude, even joy. Some days were better than others.
The front door opened, and a woman in business attire beckoned to them. Charissa furrowed her brow. “John?”
He shrugged. “Well, after I talked to my dad, I did a search online, and when I saw this one, I couldn’t resist. I called the listing agent and set up an appointment.”
Any impulse to chastise him for bringing her here on false pretenses receded as she considered what his parents’ extravagantly generous gift could mean for them. Though John’s income was enough to keep them going on a no-frills budget while she was in graduate school, they had only recently begun to squirrel away some money for a future down payment. This unexpected twist changed everything.
“What if I’d insisted on turning left?” she asked.
“I can be very persuasive.”
“Hmmm,” she said, looking into the visor mirror to check her makeup. “We’ll see.”
All of Charissa’s attempts to communicate nonverbally with John while they toured the house with the realtor were futile. Whereas she thought it would be a good strategy to remain reserved, he couldn’t contain his boundless enthusiasm: the three bedrooms were huge; the family room had a large walk-out deck; the kitchen had been recently remodeled. After years of dorm rooms and then a one-bedroom apartment, this house of almost two thousand square feet—plus a finished basement!—felt like a palace. “And there’s a big laundry area next to the mudroom,” the realtor said.
John elbowed Charissa. She often complained about lugging laundry down multiple flights of stairs to a dark and musty apartment basement. “No more stashing quarters,” John said. “No more waiting in line for a machine! Sign me up!”
“Well, we’re certainly not signing up for anything tonight,” Charissa declared, both for his and the realtor’s benefit.
“Oh, of course not,” she said. “Go home and sleep on it. And if you decide to make an offer, you can call me in the morning. Remember, though, I’ve got some other couples coming through in the afternoon. And I have a feeling they’re going to love this place.”
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic, Riss,” John said when they pulled out of the driveway. “What didn’t you like about it?”
“It’s not that I didn’t like it. But you’ve had all day to think about this, and I had it sprung on me an hour ago. You know I don’t like making quick decisions, and now I’m going to feel pressured.” Her tone sounded more irritated than she intended. “Sorry. I just don’t want to rush into anything, okay?”
“I know, I know. But I’ve been crunchin
g the numbers ever since I talked with Dad this morning, and with their help on the down payment, this one is right in our price range. I really think we should jump on it. It’s perfect. Don’t you think?”
He chattered about how perfect it was all the way back to their apartment and all the way through dinner and all the way through cleaning up the kitchen. While Charissa tried to compile footnotes and a bibliography for her Milton presentation, John parked himself across from her at the dining room table, perusing online photos of the house, peppering her with questions, then apologizing for interrupting her work, then imparting what he’d discovered about neighborhood comps and school district ratings. It was no use. She saved her document and closed her laptop.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll shut up now.”
“No—you’re right. Call your dad and see what he thinks.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Call him.”
“But do you like it?”
“It’s great, John. Let’s figure out what kind of offer to make. Call your dad, show him the link, and get some advice.” Had she really just agreed to purchase a house?
John jumped up from his chair to embrace her. “It felt right as soon as we walked in, didn’t it?”
Unlike her husband, Charissa had never been one for gut-level decision-making. Nevertheless, the rigorously thorough, practical, list-making part of her knew that the pros would far outweigh any cons she might identify over the next few days. Hadn’t she just confided to the group at the airport about her desire to grow in letting go of control? Maybe this was a perfect way to practice. To use one of Dr. Allen’s favorite metaphors, maybe it was time to unfurl the sails, catch the wind, and see where they might go.
Hannah
Hannah Shepley and Nathan Allen were enjoying appetizers at the Timber Creek Inn when Hannah’s cell phone rang. Meg. She was supposed to be en route to London. “There must be something going on,” Hannah said.
“Take it!” Nathan said.
Hannah set down a half-eaten mozzarella stick. “Hey, Meg, you okay?”
“Hannah, I’m so sorry to bother you. Are you and Nathan right in the middle of dinner?” Meg’s soprano voice sounded even higher than usual, with a little extra vibrato.
“No, don’t worry, it’s fine,” Hannah said. “We just got our appetizers. Is everything okay? Where are you?”
“At JFK. We’re supposed to leave in a little while. I hate to bother you with this, but I suddenly panicked. I’m not sure I locked the front door when I left. And I had the iron on this morning—”
Hannah mouthed to Nathan, She’s okay, and said to Meg, “Don’t worry. I’ll head over there as soon as we’re finished with dinner.”
“Are you sure? I’m probably just being silly.”
“No, it’s fine. No trouble at all. How was your first flight?” Hannah pressed the phone more tightly to her ear, trying to compensate for the buzz of airport noise and intercom announcements.
“It was okay. I ended up sitting next to someone who’s also on the flight to London, and she made sure I found my way around the airport. So that helped.”
“Good. Let me know when you get there, okay? And don’t worry about the house. I’m planning to check on it every few days.”
“Thank you. And don’t forget my offer. Stay there whenever you want so that you don’t have to keep driving back and forth to the lake, okay?”
They said their good-byes, and Hannah returned her attention to the table, where candlelight flickered in Nathan’s glasses. For a moment she experienced the odd sensation of seeing a tiny version of herself reflected and held in the center of his dark eyes. At least she didn’t look so tired anymore. The sabbatical from ministry was beginning to have the desired effect of ushering her into deeper rest—not just physically and mentally, but spiritually and emotionally.
“Everything okay?” Nathan asked, his index finger resting against his neatly groomed, gray goatee.
Hannah was still getting used to the intensity of his gaze, always penetrating and discerning, but now filled with unfettered affection. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” She dipped the unbitten edge of her mozzarella stick into the single dish of marinara sauce. Double-dipping the bitten portion seemed an intimacy reserved for married couples, or at least for couples who had been together longer than two weeks. Nathan, on the other hand, had no such inhibitions and dunked freely and frequently into the communal cup. “She’s worried she didn’t lock up the house. I’ll swing by there tonight before I head back to the lake, just to check.”
“I’ll go over with you.”
“No, that’s okay. I can handle it.”
He reached across the table and clasped the fingers of her left hand. “I’m not questioning your competence, Hannah. I’m expressing my desire to be with you.”
She felt her face flush. At almost forty years old, she was accustomed to doing everything by herself, and even though she and Nate had been good friends long ago, a romantic relationship of any kind was uncharted territory for her. “Well, when you put it that way,” she said, meeting his eyes, “how can I say no?”
“Good. And while you’re saying yes to that, that reminds me . . .” He pulled a handwritten sheet of paper from his coat pocket.
“What’s this?”
“Jake made you a list of all the things you can do for fun around here.”
Hannah took the list and read it, chuckling. It had clearly been written by a thirteen-year-old. “Snowmobiling?”
“Not your style? Keep going. He’s got lots of ideas to help you learn how to play.”
She went on. “Go-karts, skiing, snowboarding, sailing. I’ll take you up on sailing.”
“I know how much you love watching sunsets,” Nathan said. “Wait until you watch them from out on the lake. Breathtaking.” He leaned across the table and scanned the rest of the list. “Jake also wants a rematch on Scrabble. He doesn’t like getting beaten.”
Hannah laughed. “Competitive like his dad, huh?”
“Absolutely! Like father, like son.”
As their server filled their water glasses, Hannah’s attention drifted to the table nearest theirs, where a woman with silvered hair tightly permed around her angular face sat across from a younger, smartly dressed version of herself. While Hannah watched, the older woman removed a tube of lipstick from her purse, unscrewed the cap, studied it a moment and then, after pressing the wax to her lips, took a bite. She squinted and tilted her head, as if trying to decide whether to explore the unfamiliar taste and texture by chewing it. The younger woman thrust out her hand.
“Mother.” Those two agonized, pleading syllables filled Hannah with tenderness for both mother and daughter. “Spit it out.” The older woman set her jaw. “Please.” She opened her mouth reluctantly and spit, depositing red drool and goo into her daughter’s outstretched hand.
Though Hannah knew she should grant both of them the dignity of privacy, she couldn’t pull her gaze away. She watched the daughter wipe off her hand with her white cloth napkin, then gently lift her mother’s chin and daub the corners of her mouth. The old woman offered a cherubic grin, her teeth smeared with scarlet. Then the daughter discreetly touched her own teeth and rubbed them, indicating that her mother should do the same. Mimicking the gesture, the older woman used her index finger awkwardly as a toothbrush. Hannah wondered what words were swirling in the mind of the daughter.
“You okay?” Nathan asked, following her gaze to their table.
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
Hannah cleared her throat. “Yep.”
She was already running possible scenarios through her head. Maybe the daughter was remembering a time when she bit into a crayon, and her mother commanded her to spit it out. Or maybe she sat there remembering when her mother first took her to buy makeup and taught her to apply it. Maybe the mother was still lucid enough to recognize her moments of confusion and was grieving what she was losing. Maybe the lipstick woul
d be the last straw, and the daughter would need to explore moving her out of independent living into some situation where she would be monitored closely.
“What are you thinking?” Nathan asked.
“At the moment I’m fighting the impulse to go over to that table and offer pastoral care.”
He raised a single eyebrow.
“I’m kidding. Well, half-kidding. At least I’m able to resist the temptation, right? Guess the sabbatical is helping with the ‘overly responsible pastor’ thing.” She offered a simple prayer, asking God to meet them in their need.
“What caught your attention?” he asked.
Careful not to be overheard by the daughter, Hannah described what she had witnessed.
“It’s so hard to watch loved ones age,” he commented. Hannah nodded, then slapped her hand to her forehead and held it there. “What?” Nathan asked.
“Tomorrow’s my mother’s birthday! I’ve been so totally preoccupied with my life here, I forgot to send a card.” How could she have forgotten that?
“How about sending her flowers?”
Hannah sighed. “No. They’re leaving the day after tomorrow for New York to be with my brother and his family.”
“So send flowers and a card to your brother’s house.”
Hmmm. That would work. Leave it to Nate to see the obvious solution. She could call in the morning and let her mother know that a gift would be waiting for her at Joe’s. “That’s perfect. Thank you.” She put Jake’s list into her purse. “My parents are spending a couple of weeks on the East Coast to visit extended family they haven’t seen in years. And then they’re going back to Joe’s house for Christmas. My brother invited me to join them, but I said no. And then felt guilty afterward. But I know if I go there, I’ll end up offering to babysit my nieces so that he and my sister-in-law can go out together. I love my nieces, but they’re exhausting. And much as I know I need to have a heart-to-heart with my parents about all the stuff from the past that’s come to the surface lately, I still don’t feel ready for that.” She tucked her chin-length, light brown hair behind her ears. “Tell me I’m not just making excuses and avoiding the hard stuff by staying here.”
Two Steps Forward Page 2