“It does look nice,” Michael agreed, surveying Claire’s handiwork. “Just right for this room.”
They went out for a late lunch. Later that evening Claire lit a fire in the fireplace, and they sat on the floor in front of the new bookcase listening to music on the stereo, eating popcorn, and laughing over a half-hearted game of Scrabble.
Nana had taught Claire to play the word game at a young age, and she was an adept and competitive player. Spelling was not Michael’s strong suit, and more than once Claire accused him of making up a word. Yet his convincing definitions kept her from challenging nearly every word he spelled out with the wooden tiles. As a result he ended up winning the game by ten points.
When he finished totaling the score, she pouted. “I knew I should have challenged you on that last word. I can’t believe you beat me with a word like ‘boxile.’ ”
“Hey,” he gloated, “this game isn’t just about being a good speller. I used to always beat my mom at Scrabble, too. She finally wouldn’t even play with me anymore. Now we like to play Spades when the whole family gets together. Ever played that?”
“I hate that game.”
“Spades? How can you hate Spades? It’s a great game.”
“I can never remember how to keep track of all the points.”
“Too much math involved, huh?” he teased.
“At least I can spell,” she dished back.
“We all have our strengths. How about Spoons? You know how to play that?”
“We used to play it in the dorm sometimes. It’s a contact sport as I remember it.”
“It is when my mom plays.” He laughed and launched into the story. “You have to know my mom. She’s about five-foot-five, barely a hundred pounds, as meek and mild as they come. But she is a killer when it comes to that game. You do not want to get in her way when she goes for a spoon. Dad is the only one in the family who has the guts to fight her for it. And that’s just because he’s determined enough to wrestle her down.” Michael’s voice was full of affection, and it was obvious that he found joy in the memory.
Claire smiled, too, enjoying his pleasure, but she was confused at the same time. “Michael, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I’m having trouble putting this together with the unhappy childhood you’ve hinted at.” Hastily she added, “If it’s something you don’t want to talk about, I understand.”
He took a deep breath and shook his head. “No. No, I don’t mind. The truth is, I’d just as soon get it over with. My past is a big part of who I am, and I want to share it with you—if you want to hear it.”
“Of course I do.” She was almost afraid to breathe, afraid to break the spell of this intimate sharing.
“Well, I guess I’ll start with the kicker.”
He took another deep breath, and Claire had a sudden vision of a diver poised to plunge into a pool of icy water.
“I was adopted into the Meredith family,” he said simply. “In this day and age, I know that’s not such a big deal, but… I guess I always feel like an imposter, like I’m not really being honest with people until they know that about me. I’m not sure why I feel that way, really. I suppose it was the circumstances. You see, I was ten years old before my parents adopted me.”
Now Claire felt like the one who had been immersed in icy water. Fighting to hide her astonishment, she asked, “Then you know your real—your birth parents?”
“I never knew my father. I’m not sure my mother even knew who he was. I’m told she had a lot of problems . . . alcohol, mostly. I don’t remember her really. I have a vague, fuzzy picture in my mind. I’m not sure how accurate it is.”
Claire listened with fascination as his story unfolded.
“I was probably three or maybe four when I went to live in the first of a long succession of foster homes.”
“Oh, Michael,” Claire whispered, suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow for the little boy he'd been.
He ignored her reaction and went on, speaking in a monotone, almost as though he were in a trance. “I was definitely one messed up kid. I don’t think anybody had any hope for me.” He had been staring into the fireplace, but now he turned to Claire and brightened visibly. “Then Mom and Dad Meredith came along and—well, here I am.” He held out his hands as if to say “ta-da!” and Claire couldn’t help but laugh.
“You turned out great.” Her voice quivered with emotion.
“It’s a little more complex than all that, but in a nutshell, the Lord had His hand on me. In the nick of time He reached out and put me in a family that just wouldn’t give up on me.” A shadow passed over his face, and his voice filled with emotion. “I’ve been through some pretty bad stuff, Claire. I’m talking drugs, violence, the whole gamut.”
“It doesn’t matter what you were then, Michael—”
“It does matter, Claire,” he interrupted. “I am who I am today because of the things I went through then.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know, I know. And I appreciate your forgiving spirit. But I just want you to know what you’re getting into if you . . . if we’re going to be friends.”
“Do you still see your birth mother?” she asked, filing his reference to their future together in a separate compartment of her mind.
He shook his head. “I don’t even know where she is. It’s not something I think about a lot. Like I said, I don’t really remember her. I’ve never had any real urgency to look her up the way some people seem to. Mom and Dad are truly my ‘real’ parents now. I hope you can meet them someday, Claire.”
“They sound pretty special.”
“‘Special’ doesn’t do them justice. They were . . .” His voice trailed off and he shook his head, apparently unable to come up with a word he felt was worthy of his adoptive parents. “They never gave up on me, Claire.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s strange. I look back not so many years ago, and I know it was me who did those things—the drugs, the alcohol, the rebellion—but it all seems so unreal. Sometimes I can hardly believe that was me.”
“‘If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation,’” she quoted.
“I am, Claire. I am a totally different person. I hope you believe that.”
“I do, Michael. I can see it.” She turned toward him and gently put a hand on his arm. “Thank you for trusting me to hear all this.”
“I’m kind of relieved that you know—and that you’re still sitting here beside me.”
“Why would you say a thing like that?” she admonished, a bit uncomfortable with this vulnerable, uncertain side of Michael.
He waved his hand as though he could shoo his words out of the room. “I’ve had a lot of rejection in my life, Claire. And I’ve struggled through a lot of feelings of inferiority as a result. But that is in the past. I’m sorry about that comment. Bad habit.” He attempted a smile.
“Don’t apologize,” she told him. “I asked. I want to know. But, Michael, no matter what your past was, it doesn’t change who you are now. Of course it affected you. Pasts are sort of notorious for that.” She smiled and looked into his eyes, trying to read his reaction. “What I’m trying to say is that I think I know you well enough by now that I can see that whatever horrible things you did, you’ve more than made up for them.”
“If I can correct your theology just a little,” he said carefully, “there was nothing I could do to make up for my mistakes. That was all taken care of two thousand years ago.”
“Oh, of course you’re right. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant, Claire. Thanks for your vote of confidence. God has done some serious construction work right here”—he patted his chest—“but once in a while, for some stupid reason, I get in there and try to tear things down again.”
They continued to sit together on the floor—the game board and tiles scattered across the rug, forgotten—talking about the struggles of their childhoods. Claire felt such understanding from him. He, of all people, knew what it was like to grow up lone
ly and alone. He seemed to understand her as no one had before. And she felt she understood him as well.
Though his early years had been far more tragic than her own, she was envious of the warm family relationships he now had with the Merediths. Claire thought they sounded like wonderful people. Strangely, despite the fact that she'd never met them, she loved them deeply for loving Michael as they had.
As the hour grew late, their conversation turned light again, and they simply enjoyed being in each other’s company. Michael made her laugh with his stories about some of the residents at Riverview. His affection for the elderly people in the center was obvious, and she sensed he was good at what he did.
At midnight Michael kissed her good night—only after she'd secured his solemn promise for a rematch of their Scrabble game.
Claire and Michael spent time together all through January and February. Sometimes they drove to Boyd City to visit a museum or take in a movie. Sometimes they simply grabbed a hamburger before a basketball game.
Claire invited him to a chili supper at her church, and on several occasions he attended church services with her. They were beginning to be known as a couple around the small, cliquish town.
When she remembered how disconcerting his silences had been to her when they first met, she could scarcely believe he was the same person. Now she began to feel as at ease and comfortable with him as if she'd known him all her life.
One night toward the end of February he brought her home from the movies and told her about a conference he had to attend for work.
“I leave for Joplin on Thursday afternoon and I’ll be gone all weekend, but would you save Sunday night for me? I’ll take you out to dinner when I get back.”
“You’re going to go broke taking me out to dinner, Mr. Meredith. Would you consider taking a risk and eating my cooking for a change?”
“I do have it on good authority that you are an excellent cook,” he said mysteriously.
“Where in the world would you have heard that?” She hadn’t cooked for anyone in Hanover Falls except—”Ah,” she said as the realization came. “Millie.”
“You guessed it. She has all kinds of wonderful things to say about you, Claire. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to play matchmaker.”
Claire could hear the wicked smile in his voice. Blushing, she groaned. “Just what else has she said?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he goaded her.
“Never mind,” she sighed. “I don’t even want to know.” Then laughing, she asked, “So can I take that as a yes?”
“Yes, what? I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.”
“Yes, you’ll let me cook for you, silly.” “Oh, you bet I will. What are we having?”
“I haven’t even thought about it. Probably liver and onions and spinach souffle.”
His comical look of repulsion set her laughing again.
As she did every weekend, Claire called her grandmother on Saturday morning. Sometimes it was difficult to visit with Nana on the phone. The older woman’s hearing was failing, and sometimes the weariness in her voice seemed almost tangible. But today Nana was in good spirits and very talkative.
She told Claire about a disastrous Valentine’s party the activity director at Elmbrook had organized, and Claire had to laugh at Nana’s apparent disgust with the woman she called “Matchmaker Mavis.”
Nana asked Claire about Michael, and she found herself excitedly telling her grandmother about the supper she was cooking for him the following evening and confiding in her about their growing romance.
“I think one of the things that makes us understand each other so well,” she told Nana, “is that we shared some of the same childhood experiences. I don’t think Michael has been able to talk about those things to very many people, but I really do understand him because I had kind of a . . . well, a dysfunctional family myself. Present company excluded, of course.”
Claire had always been able to talk openly with her grandmother about the hurts of her past. Katherine Anderson had never tried to deny or minimize the shortcomings of her only son. She seemed to understand that it was helpful for Claire to be able to acknowledge and analyze the experiences she'd endured in her family of birth.
Now Nana told her, “It makes me happy to see you so happy, Kitty. The good Lord knows it’s about time you had some joy in your life.” Her gravelly voice filled with emotion. “I . . . I’ve wanted to talk to you about some of the things that occurred back then, honey. I know Raymond was never one to talk about such things. Or your mother, either. But I know you must have questions about some of the things that happened when you were small. You know, sweetheart, I’m not going to be around forever.”
“Nana!” A twinge of panic grabbed her and she fairly shouted into the phone. “Please don’t talk that way.”
“Shhh… I’m merely speaking the truth, Kitty. I want you to have your questions answered before I’m not here—or able—to answer them anymore.”
Claire gripped her phone more tightly to her ear, not liking the direction this conversation was taking.
Nana continued. “Raymond was always so concerned about appearances. Too much so, I’m afraid. And then Myra’s problems tested him to his limits. Do you understand the ailment your mother struggled with, Kitty?”
“I . . . I’ve always thought she suffered from depression. I know she was sick so often, and she always seemed so sad. I guess it was losing the babies?”
“I’m sure that didn’t help matters any, but Myra was . . . ill . . . long before that. Before she and Raymond ever met. I don’t know if you are aware of it, honey, but your mother spent several months as a patient—a resident, actually—in a mental hospital before she met your father. I don’t know exactly what the diagnosis was. Raymond would never say, but from what I’ve read, I’ve always wondered if maybe she was . . . Well, it doesn’t matter now,” she said firmly. “She was doing so much better after her treatment there. She and your father married and you came along shortly after that. It looked like everything was going to end happily.”
Claire heard Nana’s familiar little clucking noises and knew she was shaking her head in dismay. How she wished she could be there to hold Nana’s hand while they talked.
Katherine Anderson cleared her throat and went on. “When little Michael James died it was a huge setback for Myra. And then they lost the second baby such a short time later. I think it was simply too much. Your mother was never the same after that. And then there was that whole mess with Joseph.…” Her voice trailed off.
Uneasy, yet curious, too, Claire seized the opportunity. “Tell me about Joseph, Nana. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately since Michael told me that he was adopted. Of course Michael is very close to his adoptive parents. He has a wonderful family, but I think the whole topic of adoption still bothers him a little. What did happen with Joseph, Nana? Why did they. . . ?” She'd been going to ask why Joseph had been sent away, but suddenly terrified of the territory she was entering, Claire let her sentence drop unfinished.
“Oh, honey, it’s a complicated story. I never thought they should have adopted the boy in the first place. Your mother was far too fragile—still recovering from the loss of her babies. They'd hoped to adopt an infant, but I suppose your mother’s history prevented that. Anyway, when they'd the opportunity to take Joseph in, Raymond thought it would be good for Myra. You know, give her something to take her mind off the babies’ deaths. And for a time, it seemed that it might be the answer. But Joseph just never bonded with them. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that they never bonded with him. I think your father truly tried, but Myra’s needs were so great. And he let her dictate him so. . . .”
Claire detected an edge of bitterness creep into her grandmother’s voice, but she said nothing as Nana continued. “That poor boy. Joseph, I mean. I felt so sorry for him. Rejected by his own mother, shuffled to and fro in the foster care system. It’s no wonder the boy had
problems.”
“I don’t remember much about the time Joseph was with us, Nana. I do remember that he was quiet, and he always seemed so sad. He must have been lonely, but he would never talk to me. He always shut himself up in his room. I… I really did try to be nice to him.” Despite that awful afternoon by the wading pool, her statement was the truth.
“I’m sure you did, honey. We all did. He just couldn’t seem to adjust. Think how difficult it must have been for him to trust anyone after he’d been rejected so many times. And your mother—bless her heart—had her own problems. She simply didn’t have the strength to deal with a child as troubled as Joseph was. Still,” Claire’s grandmother sighed, “I wish it wouldn’t have ended as it did.”
Claire sat upright suddenly and breathed into the phone, “Nana, do you… do you know where he is now?”
“No, Kitty. When your parents turned the boy back over to the state agency, they were denied access to any future information about him. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what became of him. I’m not even sure what name he would go by.” Nana’s voice sounded weary, and Claire had to strain to hear her now.
“For years I prayed for that boy,” she whispered. “I was so disappointed in Raymond for what I saw as a terrible betrayal. I understand now that he simply couldn’t deal with Joseph’s and Myra’s problems, too. And, of course, they had you to consider. You were so young and they feared you were being harmed by all the attention Joseph required of them. It was a very difficult situation. In the end, I suppose it was perhaps best they did send him away. I realize that now, but for years my heart was heavy. I thought about the Joseph of the Bible when he was deserted and left for dead by his brothers, and I prayed that the good Lord would redeem our Joseph’s life as He did the biblical Joseph’s. I admit that my prayers have been less fervent as time has worn on, but I still think of the boy now and then and wonder what became of him. It seems impossible that he would be a grown man by now. But then it seems impossible that my little Kitty is a grown-up lady . . . and a school teacher at that!” Nana’s voice brightened and Claire willingly allowed her to change the subject.
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