Bert stood there a bit awkwardly and patted David on the back. “Got me a saddle.”
Ashley covered her mouth with the back of her hand, not wanting her own feelings to interrupt the moment. God, you are so good! Thank you for this. She swallowed, trying to find her voice. “Your dad’s been talking a lot these past weeks, haven’t you, Bert?”
He looked at her, and a childlike smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Got me a saddle.”
Ashley directed the two men to sit on the sofa while Lu went through the house and summoned the others—Irvel with both her grandson and her niece; Edith and two granddaughters; Helen, clutching tightly to her daughter, Sue; and Laura Jo’s son, who had flown in from California for the first time in more than a year. When they were all gathered, Lu explained that the philosophy at Sunset Hills had changed quite a bit over the past six months. “We invited you here today because our new manager has found research that proves how crucial it is for Alzheimer’s patients to be allowed to live in their memories. If the time they remember best is ten years ago or twenty, then we allow them the luxury of living there. Ashley Baxter, our manager, will tell you more.”
Ashley had no intention of going into great detail about Alzheimer’s research with the residents seated around the room, but she felt there was no harm talking in general terms. Ashley explained the differing schools of thought when it came to Alzheimer’s patients. “Let’s say you spend your life as a beauty queen. Once Alzheimer’s strikes, you might believe you’re still thirty-five and stunningly beautiful.”
Ashley smiled in Edith’s direction. The woman was staring at her hands, snuggled between her granddaughters. The conversation did not mean a thing to her. Although she had been more at peace since she’d stopped seeing her own reflection, she was as lost as ever—maybe even worse than before.
Ashley continued. “And let’s say every time you walk into a bathroom, you scream because you think a witch is after you.”
Ashley paused and looked around the room. “The old school of thought teaches caregivers to force an Alzheimer’s patient to recognize current reality or be sedated. So the care worker would insist that there is no witch, that you are simply looking in a mirror. And if you kept screaming, the worker would simply give you enough drugs to knock you out.”
She looked back at Edith. “In this house we’ve decided to try a different approach. Instead of forcing our residents to acknowledge current reality, we’ve decided to let them live in whatever era of their memory makes them happiest.
“In the case of our screaming resident, for instance—and yes, this is a real example—we simply covered the bathroom mirror, and the screaming stopped. The reason? Our patient hadn’t been seeing a witch. She’d been seeing her own reflection.” Ashley could hear the compassion in her voice. “A reflection she no longer recognized because she was living decades in the past. Back when she didn’t look the way she does now.” Ashley smiled at Edith’s granddaughters. “Ultimately, our patient is calmer and happier.”
Ashley continued, sharing examples without alerting the residents that they were being talked about. Afterward she fielded questions from several of the family members but heard none of the negative responses Belinda had warned her about. The improvements in the residents were too convincing. Now the family members wanted only to know how they could cooperate with what was obviously already working.
Ashley encouraged the family members to stay for the turkey buffet later that afternoon and to visit as long as they were able. Then she made the rounds, spending time with each of the residents and their various relatives.
Irvel had recovered fully from her encounter with Belinda. Her bruises had faded and she was her amicable, social self. She still received weekly visits from her niece, and together they still recited the Twenty-third Psalm and finished their visit singing “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.”
The fact that Irvel’s grandson had come today was especially wonderful. Irvel didn’t recognize him exactly, but she enjoyed his company and was in fine form with all the visitors that filled the house.
“It’s a perfect day for a party,” Irvel was saying as Ashley entered her room.
Her grandson smiled. “Perfect.” He was a young musician who lived two hours away. He didn’t visit often, but when he did, Ashley had the sense that he cared deeply for his grandmother.
Irvel spotted Ashley, and her eyes lit up. “Hello, dear. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Irvel.”
“Hi, Irvel.” Ashley patted the woman’s hand. “I see you have your grandson here.”
“My grandson?” Irvel looked startled for a moment. Then her eyes found her grandson’s, and she grinned. “Oh, him. He’s a handsome one, isn’t he? Not like my Hank, but handsome all the same.” She glanced at Ashley again. “Hank’s here, isn’t he?”
Hank’s image smiled at Ashley from the painting she’d hung above Irvel’s bed. “I believe he is.”
Irvel settled deeper into her chair. “Isn’t that wonderful? Such a good man.”
“Yes, he is.” Ashley took a step back. “I’ll be out with the others if either of you needs anything.”
Irvel smiled at her and then tapped her grandson’s knee. She looked at him, her face knotted curiously. “Excuse me, what did you say your name was? Grant something?”
“Grandson.” The young man gave Irvel’s hand a tender pat. “I’m your grandson.”
“That’s right, Grant’s son. I keep forgetting.” Irvel nodded for a moment. Then she turned and pointed at Ashley. “Doesn’t she have the most beautiful hair?”
Irvel’s grandson blushed a bit. He was a shy type, probably not used to being put on the spot. “Yes, Grandma. She’s very pretty.”
* * *
The afternoon wore on, and Ashley made her way to Laura Jo’s room. The scene there was more somber than in the other rooms, and Ashley’s heart hurt for the aging man sitting at his mother’s side.
He was a business executive with numerous responsibilities on the West Coast, yet he’d chosen this time to respond to Ashley’s invitation and come see his mother. He gave Ashley a weak smile when she entered the room. “It won’t be long.”
Ashley nodded. The man was right. They’d been expecting Laura Jo to die for weeks now, but she was holding on. Maybe for this—the chance to be with her son one last time. Ashley thought it was possible. No matter that Laura Jo hadn’t been out of bed in years. She still responded—faintly—when Ashley prayed with her, and now, with her son at her side, she seemed more peaceful than ever.
Ashley patted the man’s shoulder. “It was good of you to come.”
He stared at his mother and smoothed his hand across her brow. “I love her. She was a wonderful woman all my life. Strong, driven, determined to raise us right.” He cast Ashley a backward glance. “She loved God very much.”
“She still does.” Ashley felt her heart constrict as she looked at Laura Jo, withered and shrunken, struggling for every breath.
The man looked at his watch. “I have a plane to catch late this evening in Indianapolis. I should probably get going.”
Ashley nodded. “I’ll leave the two of you alone so you can say good-bye.”
The unspoken message was clear. This wasn’t any old good-bye. It was probably the last time this man would see his mother alive. Ashley blinked back tears as she made her way into the kitchen. Ten minutes later the man found her, his eyes red and swollen. He handed Ashley a business card with several phone numbers. “Call me, will you? When it’s time. I know you have most of this in your files, but you might not have my cell number. I want to make sure . . .”
Ashley promised and thanked the man again.
He met her eyes and held them. “Thank you, Ms. Baxter. I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t called. Being here with her was a very great gift.”
* * *
The day finally wound to an end. One by one the visitors left. The night care worker arrived, and Ashley drove to pick up Cole at
her parents’ house.
“How ’bout a dinner date with Mom?” She gave him a playful poke in the ribs.
“Really?” Cole hooted. “You mean like a Happy Meal?”
“Of course!”
They drove to their favorite restaurant, and after they sat down with their food, Ashley listened as he shared a dozen stories from his day.
The whole while she couldn’t help but remember Laura Jo and her son. Would there come a time when she might look into Cole’s eyes and not know him? a time when she would be dying and Cole would leave his busy life to come to her side? Ashley couldn’t imagine either scenario; yet working at Sunset Hills had taught her it could easily happen one day.
The phone call came long after she’d gotten home and put Cole to bed. It was Lu, and Ashley knew something was wrong the moment she heard her voice.
“What happened?” Ashley leaned against her kitchen counter and waited.
“It’s Laura Jo. She passed away an hour ago.”
For an instant there was a sinking feeling, as though the wind had been knocked from her. Then just as quickly Ashley felt a surge of joy. “She’ll never be confined to a bed again.”
“No. She’s free.”
Ashley told Lu where to find the card with the cell-phone number for Laura Jo’s son. “He’s probably halfway to L.A. by now, but he’s expecting this. I’m sure he’ll come back to help with the details.”
When they hung up, Ashley made her way across the dining room and stared at her painting of Cole on the swing. Life was so short, so transient. Here today, making memories and keeping schedules . . . and then tomorrow, making plans for a funeral service.
Something about Laura Jo’s death made her long for Landon even more than usual. His year in New York had just begun, and already it felt as though he’d fallen off the face of the earth. He hadn’t called, but that didn’t surprise her. He had much to learn in New York and a schedule that would keep him almost constantly on the run.
Ashley headed into the living room and flipped through a scrapbook she kept on her coffee table. Halfway through she found the picture she was looking for. It was of Landon in his uniform, holding a beaming Cole on his hip. Ashley had taken the photo one day late last summer just after Landon had started back to work. Before September 11. She and Cole had stopped by the fire station for a visit, and she’d taken her camera along.
Now she looked closely into the photo, staring at Landon’s eyes. Even in the snapshot, she could see they were deep and full of goodness. Were those the eyes that would haunt her when she was old?
Her gaze moved onto Cole, her precious sunbeam. How happy he looked in Landon’s arms, how natural and right. Would the three of them ever be together?
Be with them both, God. Watch over Landon in New York. Keep your hand on my Cole as he grows. And if it’s your will, please bring us back together again someday.
It was late, but there was only one thing Ashley wanted to do, one thing that could allow her to vent the feelings welling within her. She crossed over to her studio, pulled out her paints, and propped up the picture of Landon and Cole beside the easel where she could see it. Then she began to paint, creating an image of the two people she loved most with emotions that lay deeper than the Grand Canyon. With each stroke, she felt herself painting their faces across the canvas of her soul, where she could see them even decades from now.
One day—no matter what happened between them in the future—she would give this piece to Landon. She would let him know it was her best painting ever, the work she was born to create.
Not because she’d grown as an artist, but because Landon had led her back to God. And God, in all his grace and mercy, had done two very miraculous things with the events of the past year.
He’d taught her the importance of having something to remember, a saddle to shine. Then he’d done something she hadn’t thought possible.
He had taught her to love again.
More about the Baxter family!
Please turn this page for a bonus excerpt from
RETURN
the third book in the
REDEMPTION SERIES
by Karen Kingsbury with Gary Smalley
Chapter One
Reagan Decker’s hands shook as she picked up the telephone and dialed.
The number was so familiar once, back in a time that seemed forever ago, before her world tilted hard off its axis and stayed that way.
She waited, her heart pounding in her throat.
One ring . . .
What will I say? How will they take the news?
Two rings . . .
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Baxter?” Reagan froze.
“Yes?” A slight pause. “Can I help you?”
“Uh . . .” She doesn’t recognize my voice. I must be crazy to call after so long. “This is Reagan. Reagan Decker.”
“Reagan . . . my goodness. It’s . . . been a long time, dear.”
Luke’s mother sounded strange, as though the mention of Reagan’s name had cast a shadow over the moment. Reagan considered saying a quick few words and then getting off. But that would never do. This was a call she’d had to make for one reason alone.
She couldn’t hide from Luke Baxter forever.
“Mrs. Baxter, I need to talk to Luke, please.” Reagan squeezed her eyes shut. A year earlier she’d been quick-witted and outgoing, but not anymore. The spark was gone from her voice. Luke’s mother had to notice. She drew a determined breath. “I have something to tell him.”
* * *
His past had sprouted legs and was chasing him.
That had to be it. Luke had no other way to describe the breathless anxiety marking so much of his time. Sometimes he could almost hear footsteps pounding the ground behind him, and on days like that he would even turn around. As though he might see a person or a being, whatever was after him. But no one was ever there.
The feeling was always accompanied by memories, so Luke finally convinced himself the thing chasing him was nothing more ominous than his past.
A past that colored today and tomorrow and kept him inches ahead of a suffocating fog, a fog in which his new freethinking life was all but impossible.
At first the feeling had hit him every few days, but now it was almost constant. This morning it was worse than ever. Throughout Economics and Political Science and now in Modern History, it made Luke so restless he couldn’t concentrate.
The professor was diagramming something on the board, but all Luke could see were images of himself and his family the last time they’d been together before September 11. Little Maddie holding her hands up to him. “Swing me, Uncle Luke, swing me.” His parents arm in arm in the background. “How’s school, Luke? Have you heard from Reagan?”
With broad strokes, the professor ran his eraser over the board, and the images in Luke’s head disappeared. The man turned to the class and started talking, but Luke heard Reagan’s voice instead, the way he’d heard it that awful night when everything changed forever.
“It’s okay, Luke; I’ll call him back tomorrow . . . it’s okay . . .”
But she never had the chance.
Luke squeezed his eyes shut. He was ready to move on, right? Wasn’t that what he’d been telling himself? Then why were these memories dogging him so? With all the freethinking he’d been doing, all the clubs and organizations Lori had introduced him to, he should be consumed with life as it was. Not as it had been.
The professor changed his tone. He was saying something about foreign arms deals, but Luke wasn’t paying attention. A conversation kept playing in his head, the one he’d had with his mother a few weeks ago.
“You think you have it all figured out, Luke, but the Hound of Heaven isn’t going to let you go this easily.”
“The Hound of Heaven?” Luke hadn’t even tried to hide his frustration. His mother knew how he felt about God, so why couldn’t she let it go?
“The Spirit of God, Luke.” Her voice h
eld no apologies. “When someone strays from the Lord, it’s usually the Spirit, the Hound of Heaven, that hunts him down and brings him back.”
The Hound of Heaven, indeed.
As if God—if there was a God—would care enough about Luke Baxter to chase him. Luke tapped the eraser of his pencil on his notepad. No, that wasn’t why he felt this way. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the professor. What was the man babbling about? And why was everyone else taking notes?
A tingling worked its way down his spine, and he shifted in his desk.
Maybe it was culture shock. After a lifetime of holding to one set of beliefs, he’d done an about-face, and some kind of fallout was bound to come. That explained the pounding in his chest, the breathlessness that sometimes hit him square in the middle of a college lecture, and the constant stream of memories. Memories that had a vise grip on his mind and soul.
Sure, it was a setback. But no need to tell Lori. She’d only blame it on the mind control his family had held over him for so many years. And he didn’t care to discuss mind control with her. He didn’t like the way it sounded. For all their shortcomings, all their narrow-minded ways of thinking, his family had not performed mind control on him.
Not hardly.
He’d been a willing participant, and though their beliefs were off base, his family loved him back then. They loved him still. That much he was sure of. But he was just as sure that he wanted to move on, to explore a world without absolutes and—what was it Lori called it?—an antiquated morality system? Yes, he was ready to move away from that.
“Mr. Baxter, I expect you to answer me the first time I call on you.”
Luke jumped in his seat. Two students sitting near him stifled their snorts of laughter. “Excuse me, sir?”
“I said—” the professor’s voice dripped sarcasm—“perhaps you could explain the significance of specific arms deals made in the late seventies?”
“Yes, sir.” Luke did a desperate search of his mind and came up blank. His fingers trembled and he coughed to buy time. “Sir, I don’t have that information at this time.”
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