by Anna Schmidt
But Rachel wasn’t there. If a counselor had been called, it would be Paul Cox waiting with the family—or the new guy they had shifted over from social services to fill in. Ben couldn’t remember his name—only that he wasn’t Rachel.
At her farewell party, Rachel had told him about the trip that she and Justin would be taking over the holidays. “Our church is sponsoring a youth mission to help victims of the earthquake in Central America.”
“You’re leaving again?” He had blurted out the words, and he’d made no attempt to censor his assumption that she was running away.
The flash of anger that passed over her face was gone in an instant, and she’d smiled at him. “It’s only for ten days, Ben. It was Justin’s idea for us to go.”
But after the party—after she had boarded the bus for Pinecraft, refusing his offer of a ride home—it had struck him why the idea of Rachel at the site of an earthquake was so unsettling for him. It wasn’t safe there. Some of the aftershocks had been pretty powerful, and there had been widespread flooding. The feeling that had washed over him as he’d watched the bus leave the hospital had been similar to the helpless not-again feeling he’d had when he’d first spotted Sally’s GVHD symptoms.
“Dr. Booker?” Ben turned at the sound of the nurse’s voice. Somehow he had left the elevator, made his way to the station, and this nurse had handed him the patient’s chart.
“Sorry.” He focused all of his attention on the facts laid out before him—a girl of seven had been stung by a jellyfish and had had an allergic reaction to the venom. Ben gave the nurse a series of orders and then went in to examine the child and reassure the parents.
By the time he had gotten the child stabilized and out of danger, it was well past dinnertime. He was bone weary. He called Sharon and made his apologies, spoke with Sally and teased her about the gift he had for her, that she would have to wait until she returned from her trip to open it, and then he headed for home.
Home. Who was he kidding? This sterile place with its rooms filled with furniture picked out by some designer had no more feeling of being a home than a hotel room. There was not a single personal item in the place—artsy glass vases where there should have been framed family photos. And an impressive set of leather-bound books chosen for their ability to accent the décor instead of the dog-eared oft-read novels that had once lined the bookshelves of his room when he was a boy.
Twinkling Christmas lights from a neighbor’s balcony were reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows. They were the closest thing he had to having any decorations for the season. He flipped through the mail and found two Christmas cards from college friends. Each featured a photo of the family dressed for the season and smiling at the camera.
He didn’t send cards. He didn’t have a family. He was a doctor, and it dawned on him that this had become his entire identity. Suddenly the need for human contact was overwhelming. He called the only person he could think of that was unlikely to be busy with family or the festivities. He called Darcy.
“Ben?” She was definitely surprised to hear from him.
“Yeah. Look, I just finished up a tough case and I thought maybe if you’re up for it, we could grab a late supper.”
There was a long pause, and he became aware of background noises—music, laughter. “But it sounds like you’ve got something going, so …”
“No, wait. I’m at the café—with Zeke and some people. We’re helping Zeke paint the place. Come help us. There’s plenty of food….”
“Another time. I’m pretty beat.” And the last thing I want right now is a party. “Give Zeke my best.”
“Sure. Merry Christmas, Ben.”
“Yeah. Merry Christmas.”
He hung up and paced the rooms of his condo—the spacious, mostly unused rooms. Then he picked up his keys and left. Outside, he walked along the bay then up Main Street to Pineapple on his way to Burns Court. He was thinking maybe a movie would clear his mind, and the theater there always offered something of interest. But as he walked past one of the large old churches that dotted the streets of downtown Sarasota, he heard music—not the usual organ/choir music he might have expected but the sounds of the season’s carols rendered by a jazz group.
He stood on the sidewalk for a moment listening then stepped inside. A woman smiled at him and handed him a program then pointed out a seat on the very end of the last pew in the church’s chapel. The place was lit by candlelight, and a trio of jazz musicians were seated on a small platform at the front of the room. It took less than a minute for Ben to be drawn into the unique beauty of their rendition of “O Come All Ye Faithful.”
How long had it been since he’d sung the familiar words? And yet he found himself thinking them as he closed his eyes and listened. The carol took him back to the Christmases of his youth. The services at his father’s church. The nativity story acted out by the children—he had played Joseph to Sharon’s Mary for three years running. The packed house for his father’s annual midnight service on Christmas Eve—the one sermon, Ben realized, he had always looked forward to hearing.
This service was when his father spoke only of God’s love for all humankind, where he exhorted those blessed with more to share their blessings with those less fortunate. And always after that service ended and the last member of the congregation had gone, Ben and Sharon and their parents had not gone home—they had gone instead to a local shelter where they had personally delivered the congregation’s generous donations of coats and sweaters and blankets and food to those in need.
Ben opened his eyes and tried to swallow around the lump that had formed in his throat. He hadn’t thought about those days in a very long time, not since the day he’d left home for college, left home for good. He thought about what Sharon had said to him earlier that day. Their father wasn’t any more perfect than any other human being. But he had done what he thought was best for his family—and his congregation.
After the concert, instead of heading for the theater, Ben walked down the mostly deserted streets until he reached the bay. There he sat on a park bench and took out his phone.
It rang for some time, and he was about to hang up when he heard his father’s sleep-filled, raspy voice. “Pastor Booker here.”
“Dad?”
The silence that stretched across the miles separating them was a fragile thread, one that Ben was suddenly afraid might snap if he didn’t say something. “I was thinking—if it’s okay with you—that I might drive up with Sharon and Malcolm and Sally. Maybe stay with you for a few days.”
Silence—the silence that screamed with all the hurt that had never been spoken between Ben and his father. Then finally, “That would be fine, son. Really fine.”
Chapter 26
On their second day in the village, much-needed supplies of water and food and medical supplies were delivered. Cooking over open fires, the earthquake victims prepared the food while the teams of soldiers and volunteers continued their work. By sundown the Mennonites had made a good start on repairing the school so that at least part of it was again roofed, and plans were made to move the most seriously injured there.
“We just got word that there’s a medical team on the way,” Mary told Hester and Rachel as the three of them sat on toppled stone walls eating their supper. “Let’s hope there’s a doctor in the mix.”
“Too late for her,” Hester said with a nod toward the woman whose son had been buried in the rubble.
“It wasn’t the original quake that buried her son,” Mary told them. “It was an aftershock yesterday before you got here. The boy was out there helping in the search. The ground shifted and …” She shrugged.
“So he’s been buried how long?” Rachel asked, her eyes on the mother whose vigil for her son was unceasing even as the woman halfheartedly picked at her supper.
“A day and a half now.” Mary scraped the last of her food onto her fork. “Going without food or water for that long? You do the math,” she said somberly as she he
aded back to work.
“You okay?” Hester asked Rachel once they were alone.
“I feel so sad for her.” Rachel watched the woman who was now fingering the beads of her rosary, her eyes closed, her lips moving.
“Well, clearly she has not yet given up hope.”
Rachel looked over to where Justin was part of a lively group of nationals and volunteers kicking a soccer ball around in a circle. She was so very blessed to have him in her life. Her heart went out to the woman praying for her child. “I’ll be back,” she told Hester, and taking two cookies from a package, she picked her way across the rubble.
“My name is Rachel,” she said after waiting respectfully for the woman to finish her prayers.
“Isabel,” the woman replied, accepting the cookie that Rachel handed her and taking a bite.
“My son’s name is Justin.” Rachel nodded toward the group of young people.
“Raoul,” the woman replied with a glance toward the pile of rocks and stones.
“I’m so sorry for your loss—your husband …” The two women ate their cookies while Rachel tried to come up with some topic that might offer the woman a reprieve. “Your English is perfect.”
Isabel shrugged. “My husband is … was American. I met him when I was in graduate school. He was a professor in California. Raoul was born there, but every year over the Christmas holidays we come here to see my family. He died in the aftershock that followed the original quake.”
Rachel was almost afraid to ask the next question. “And the rest of your family?”
“Safe. They had gone to San Jose for the day. But Raoul had a stomachache—it takes him some time to adjust to the change in diet—so we stayed here. I had left for church when the earthquake struck. I turned back and saw my son running toward me yelling for me to go back to the church.”
“And your husband?”
“Stayed behind to check on the neighbors to make sure everyone was out.” She fingered her rosary and murmured, “Everyone got out except for him.”
Rachel let the silence and the darkness wrap around them until she heard Isabel release a shuddering sigh. “When I awoke, Raoul had gone with the soldiers and men of the village the next day to search. He was there when they brought out my husband’s body. It was so very hard for him.”
“How old is he?”
“Ten.” She stared at the rock pile that had killed her husband and now held her son. “He kept going back there as if it might not be true. Then yesterday there was a strong aftershock and the shifting …” She buried her face in her hands, the rosary dangling from her fingers.
Rachel wrapped her arm around Isabel’s shoulders. “You need to rest.”
Isabel pulled away with a vehemence that was surprising. “No. I will not leave him. As long as there is a chance, I will not leave him out here alone.”
“Then I will watch with you—we can spell each other.”
“Your son …”
“… has the comfort of friends. He knows where I am. He understands.”
“Gracias.”
Hester sent John to deliver blankets for them to rest on as well as several small bottles of water. He also handed Rachel her Bible and a flashlight. “Justin asked me to bring you these.”
The two women settled in for the night’s vigil. “One of the other women in your group told me that your husband died suddenly too,” Isabel said.
“It was two years ago, but I well remember the immediate shock of not having him there—of having to come to grips with the idea that he would not be there again.”
They sat in silence for a long moment, Isabel resting her chin on her bent knees. “And after two years is it … better?”
Rachel had to think about that. “I still miss him—I expect that a part of me always will. I especially miss what we shared together in raising our son.”
Isabel glanced at her. “But?”
“But I am a woman of faith as you are. So I know that God has a plan for our lives, Isabel.”
“I only hope …” Isabel’s voice broke and she shook her head vehemently then surrendered to the tears.
Rachel held her until her sobs finally dwindled to shuddering sighs. “You will make it, Isabel. If you hold fast to your faith, you can get through this. But you need to get some rest.”
Promising Isabel that she would wake her in two hours—sooner if anything happened—Rachel settled against a tree and opened her Bible. But she did not turn on the flashlight. Instead she ran her fingers lightly over the pages, praying silently for Raoul and Isabel and thanking God for giving her and Justin this opportunity to serve others.
The two hours passed, but Isabel was sleeping so soundly that Rachel could not bring herself to wake her. Instead she focused her attention on the blackness of the night sky, the sheer vastness of it like the boundless sea. How could anyone doubt God’s existence?
It did not surprise her in the least that her query brought thoughts of Ben to mind. She couldn’t help but think that somehow if he could find his way back to God he would be a happier man. She tried to imagine Ben in this place, and she smiled as she envisioned the way his lighthearted teasing would comfort the children. He was so very good with children. Not for the first time she thought about what a good father he would make. And perhaps it was the quietness of the night, the starless sky, or her own weariness, but she found herself envisioning him as Justin’s father, as the father of children that he and she might have together.
“I love him, heavenly Father,” she whispered. “I love him as I first loved James. He fills my thoughts and my dreams, and I don’t know what to do.”
Beside her, Isabel stirred. “What time is it?”
“Almost four,” Rachel confessed. “You were sleeping so soundly.”
“Well, I am awake now, and it is you who must rest.” She stretched and sat up.
She was right of course. Rachel had come here as part of a relief team, and what relief could she offer if she were exhausted? She curled onto her side and closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered hearing was the rhythmic clicking of Isabel’s rosary beads.
It had been two long years since Justin had felt so sure that everything was going to work out for him and his mom after all. Coming on the youth mission had been exactly what he needed to get past the disaster of Sally’s ruined glove and his part in it. Being in a place where he could do things that actually helped other people gave Justin a sense of purpose. Somehow every time he made an injured kid laugh or brought water to another patient he felt like he was making amends for hurting Sally. He knew that he wasn’t supposed to take pride in things he did, but he and the others were making a real difference for these people—and doing that made him feel closer to his dad.
They had already managed to repair the school building as well as a few of the less damaged homes and shops in the village. The youth volunteers spent their free time in the evenings with kids their age from the village, learning a few Spanish words, singing songs, and trading stories. Justin was telling one of the older kids about moving to Florida when he heard a cry go up from the rock pile where they all knew a boy was still buried. Just about everybody took off running to see what was happening.
As everyone crowded together at the base of the pile of rubble, Justin saw one of the soldiers carefully roll back a boulder. The heavy rock tumbled down toward them, causing everything in its path to shift and resettle. The onlookers jumped out of its way. It was almost like they were all holding their breath until the boulder came to a stop.
“There,” he heard the boy’s mother say, her voice high pitched and excited. “Can you see him?” She switched to Spanish, edging closer to the opening that the soldier had exposed. “Raoul!” she cried out. The sound echoed in the silence of the crowd.
Justin edged closer to his mom. “What’s going on?”
“The soldier came this morning with a dog specially trained to search for any signs of someone still buried beneath the rocks,” H
ester told him. “We think the dog may have located Raoul.”
“Is he alive?”
His mom wrapped her arm around Justin’s shoulder. “We don’t know yet. Pray that he is.”
“I see him,” the soldier yelled.
“Can you reach him?” another man shouted in Spanish, gesturing as he made his way across the rubble, trying hard not to disturb the loose rock.
The soldier shook his head.
The crowd groaned.
The boy’s mother lay on her stomach as she edged closer and closer to the small opening. “Raoul,” she said, her voice husky now, like she might cry.
The men worked together through the long, hot afternoon, but it seemed everything that they tried only caused the ground to shift and the opening they had made to get smaller.
Around suppertime, a truck rolled into the village and most of the people went to unload the supplies. “Go help the others,” Justin’s mom said, urging him away from the scene playing out on the rock pile. “Go on,” she said, turning him toward the truck and giving him a little push.
“Mom? Is Raoul going to make it?”
“We must pray that he will,” she said.
But Justin wasn’t sure prayer was going to work in this case.
Rachel found herself wishing Ben was with them. He would know what to do, she was certain of it. Somehow he would find a way to reach the boy, treat him, and bring him to the surface. But Ben was not there.
Instead, Mary introduced Rachel and Hester to the new arrivals—three medical students. “I was filling them in on the situation out there.” Mary jerked her head in the general direction of the rubble pile.
“The mother has great faith even now,” Rachel said. She saw how the medical students followed her gaze up to the place where the boy had been buried now for almost two days. The mother still lay on her stomach staring down at her son.
“What’s keeping them from bringing the boy up?” one student asked.
“The opening is very narrow, and the terrain surrounding it is still so unstable,” Rachel told him. “They do not want to try anything until they are certain that they will not cause another cave-in. Soon it will be dark and they will stop for the night—but his mother will stay with him.”