They Almost Always Come Home
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“Sorry, Libby. It’s a little hard to sympathize when cancer’s
eating holes in my bones.”
But that’s not what she said. She smiled and supported me
and swallowed the scream clawing at her throat. If there was
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no scream, that says all the more about her character, her faith, and the God of inexhaustible hope.
My God.
It’s time for me to step up to the plate and live like I believe it. Jen needs me to represent Him to her.
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J en replaces the SAT phone in its waterproof case and turns toward me. “What did you say?”
“Mumbling to myself. How are the girls?”
“Good. They’re good.” Rather than return the case to the
backpack tucked into the canoe, she hugs it to her chest. I know the feeling. I considered sleeping with my canteen— Greg’s canteen—last night just for the connection with him.
I choke back a hundred thoughts. What’s the appropriate
thing to say right now?
“Jen, I love you.”
“I know. I love you too.”
“We’ll get through this.”
“By the grace of God. Just like last time.” She pulls her
fingers through the honey-toned hair at the back of her neck— the hair that had to start from scratch after chemo.
A Canadian jay, as gray as my thoughts, invades our space.
He lands on the spot we called the “kitchen” little more than an hour ago. Searching for crumbs? He can join the club. I’m searching for something with which to rebuild a life and help my dearest friend negotiate the bone-rattling rapids in hers. “This is really weird,” she says.
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“What is?” A better question would be “What isn’t?” “I read about that eagle we saw this morning.”
“What? Where?” I pat my breast pocket. Greg’s journal remains tucked there, close to my heart. She couldn’t have read about an eagle sitting on those pages. “My Bible. Revelation eight.”
“You’re reading in the book of Revelation on this trip?” “It fell open to that spot.” Jen looks away from me. “Are you going to tell me what it said?” “Not sure I should.”
“Yeah, look how well it turned out the last time you decided not to tell me what you knew.” Spilled words are like spilled mercury. Retrieval is a nightmare of futility.
She stands with her palms open in front of her and her gaze fixed on the sky. “Then I looked,” she recites, “and I saw a soli- tary eagle flying in midheaven, and as it flew I heard it crying with a loud voice . . .”
“What? What was it crying?”
“You have to take a thing like that in context, Libby.” I lower my gaze and my voice. “What was it crying?” “Woe, woe, woe to those who dwell on the earth, because of the rest of the trumpet blasts which the three angels are about to sound.”
Glad I asked.
Wishing Jen wasn’t quite so good at memorizing depressing passages of Scripture, I snatch my life vest from where it waits, leaning against the base of a tree. As I zip into it, I speak the words I’ve avoided. “We’d better get going.”
“Right,” Jen says. “We can’t afford to keep Greg waiting.” I ram the teeth of the zipper into a chunk of my shirt. Stuck.
“We’re not pursuing the misguided Greg Rescue anymore. We’re getting you home.”
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She lifts her chin. Defiance does not become her. “Look, it’s
decided. We can’t go home yet. God gave us a sign. How could we ignore it?”
“And how am I supposed to bear the guilt of delaying your
radiation? How can I look Brent or your daughters in the eye?”
“He’s in agreement.” Jen tugs on my life-vest zipper while I
hold the shirt fabric out of the way. Free at last. “Brent knew something like this could happen. He was ready for it.” “No!”
“It’s a done deal. Brent’s already on the phone with the
clinic, rescheduling my appointment.”
“Your oncologist will kill me if the guilt doesn’t!”
She sighs. So do I. “It’s an extra day or two at the most.
That’s all we’re talking about.”
In the murky recesses of my mind, I see cancer cells multi-
plying exponentially while we discuss the issue. I don’t want to hear Jen’s doctor say, “If only we could have caught it sooner.”
A couple of days. A couple of zillion cancer cells versus the
chance that my husband is still alive and that we are only a few hundred paddle strokes away from finding him. Some choice.
********
“Greg, you’d better be there.”
“What?” Jen is climbing into the canoe as she speaks.
“Sorry. Thinking out loud.” I move closer to our launch
point. Where’s Frank? There. Returning from another trip to the open-air lavatory. “I’m not comfortable with this, but I appear to be on the losing end of every battle these days. Let’s go chase a puff of smoke.”
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Jen smiles. It’s not her usual full-faced smile. It’s more like a slice of mandarin orange, a look that acknowledges she won this battle and hopes she can win the larger one at home. God, help us.
“Mute point now,” Frank says. We turn toward where he stands with his feet spread and his hat cocked back on his head. He rubs the back of his neck. What is so interesting on the ground at his feet? Nothing I can see from here.
“That’s a moot point, Frank.” He made it this far in life with- out knowing or caring about the difference. Why did it seem important for me to correct him?
Frank doesn’t lift his gaze but points with one arm toward a spot away from our camp. The spot. Where we first saw the smoke. Smoke that is no longer visible.
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A stone in my shoe pokes at my heel as I leave the water’s edge and join Frank to gain his vantage point. It’s gone. The faint column of smoke is gone. What does that say about our one-in-a-million chance?
Three sets of eyes are trained toward a phantom smoke
plume. Nothing.
“Well, I suppose there’s no point standing here looking
cute,” Frank says at length. He recenters his cap and brushes past me on his way to the water.
“What do we do now?” I’m aware that my words sound
whiny. I follow Frank with my feet but not my heart.
Jen moves toward me, lays her hand on my forearm, and
mouths the words, “I’m sorry.”
The once-sharp edges of my heart are worn smooth from
the jostling. A shred of hope invades my world with despair close at its heels—despair deeper than ever. We discover what might be a clue. It disappears before we can trace its origin. The column of smoke appears in our line of vision just in time to prevent our leaving this wilderness to head home without noticing it. Now it’s gone.
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Should it comfort me that odds were the smoke had no connection to Greg in the first place?
We’re heading home empty-handed, empty-hearted. I know my Redeemer lives. I don’t know if my husband lives.
Sunflower seeds and a failed woodworking project told us Greg came to this wilderness. Oh, and an odd-colored pocket knife. But I’d discovered I wanted him back before finding those clues. I wish now I’d realized how much safer it would have been if I’d not let the Lord rekindle the embers I’d allowed to grow cold.
That’s not true. I just lied to myself. I’m grateful to care again. So grateful.
Wish I could tell Greg.
Greg’s Story
THE DAY HE LEFT
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His conscience. It wouldn’t let him get away with anything.
Five o’clock meant five o’clock.
Funny, how he was more flexible with others than with
himself.
“Mr. Holden?” His administrative assistant poked her goose-
down head around the doorway into his office.
“Yes, Manda?” Had she caught him daydreaming? He shuf-
fled a pile of file folders into a neat stack.
“Do you think it’d be okay if I clocked out early? Lloyd’s
taking me to the Legion Hall fish fry for supper, and you know how ornery he gets if a line’s already formed.”
Greg didn’t know, didn’t want to know the level of Lloyd’s
orneriness. “Not a problem. Go ahead. Fish, huh?” Soft on oth- ers. Hard on himself. Was that a virtue?
“Batter dipped. Best in Franklin County if you ask me.”
Manda stepped fully into the doorway, revealing the purse slung over her Pillsbury Doughboy shoulder. “ ’Course it won’t
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compare to the fresh Canadian walleye you’ll be eating in a couple of days.”
“Right,” he said, prompting a muscle twitch in his left eye- lid. He’d have to schedule a sit-down with the Lord to discuss the line between white and black lies. God ought to know. He drew the line, probably a good distance from where Greg tiptoed these days.
“You heading back to this spot?” Manda asked. She pointed toward a framed photo on the office wall near the door. Her fingers sported more rings than a raccoon tail. He forced his vision to focus on the scene to which she referred. One of his favorite photos. The view from his favorite island campsite on Pickerel Lake. He’d considered moving that picture. It lay right in his line of sight every time he looked up from his desk. The idyllic scene didn’t help make him more content with his present landlocked life.
“Mr. Holden?”
“Different kind of trip this time. Exploring new territory. New to me, anyway.”
“Well, enjoy yourself. Anyone deserves it, it’s you.”
Deserves? I might deserve a vacation. Okay. Why do I have such a hard time accepting that I might deserve the kind of trip I’ve planned this time?
“Thanks, Manda. Oh, before you go, did you have a chance to contact Mr. Stenner about the—”
“Done. Faxed him a copy and asked him to email his assess- ment. It’s not in your inbox yet?”
“Haven’t checked. Saved that for my last order of business before leaving.”
Manda hoisted her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “Sure that’s wise?”
“What do you mean?”
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“Sure you want your contact with Stenner to be the last
taste in your mouth before vacation? That’s like chasing down a nice piece of double fudge cake with a final nibble of lima beans, isn’t it?”
She winked at him, the Bambi eyelash a little loose in the
outer corner. Greg considered offering her a drop of SuperGlue before she headed to the Legion Hall but thought better of it. Manda was the kind of character who could make a brooch the size of a Tupperware lid and one floppy false eyelash endear- ing. She’d steal the show at the fish fry.
“Part of the job,” he answered. And not by any stretch the
least appealing part, he wanted to add. “You take care while I’m gone. No crises, okay?”
“Do my best,” she called back as she exited.
Others might worry that their secretaries would mark time
while the boss was away. Not Greg. Truthfully, Manda could do his job as well as he could. The knowledge added to his guilt and the ever-churning restlessness that Alka-Seltzer could no longer quell. Somewhere along the line he’d guessed wrong when listening for the Lord’s voice to tell him what he was supposed to do with his life.
Was it fair to offer Libby and the boys a reasonably decent
paycheck delivered by an unhappy man? Did they even realize how unhappy?
He knew other Christian businessmen who started their
workdays with a quick prayer for the Lord to guide them and bless their efforts. His morning prayer sounded more like a death row prisoner’s appeal to the governor. “Get me outta here!”
For Christmas last year, Manda gave Greg a motivational
poster—The longest journey begins with the first stroke. One would think a woman Manda’s age might have considered that the word stroke holds a medical meaning most hope to avoid. The
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artwork helped straighten the words: a solo canoeist paddling a glassy waterway toward a rosy sunset. Or was it a sunrise? It matters, meteorologically speaking. Pink sky in morning, sailor take warning.
The first stroke? Was that the mantra Greg needed? More like, “Nevertheless, not my will but Thine be done.” Greg identified with the Gethsemane words of Jesus, and with the sweat drops of blood and the anguish of heart. He empathized with Jesus’ disappointment that those closest to Him couldn’t bear the weight if He told them the whole truth behind His internal wrestling match.
Lacey had something to do with it, to be sure. Before her death, he could tolerate boredom and meaningless work assign- ments. But since that beautiful child’s head hit the satin pillow in the coffin, he couldn’t stomach walking away from beauty, passing by as if there would always be another chance for that particular scene, that curve of water on shore or twisted leaf or wrinkled rock. Another chance? Not always.
Greg dismissed his thoughts as a king might dismiss an annoying servant. The office was for work, not thinking. He’d have plenty of time for pondering once he got on the road and the water, especially on a solo trip.
Now was the time for all good men to check their email messages. Then he’d shut things down, turn out the lights, head home, and try to find a satisfying way to say good-bye.
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Libby didn’t watch while he loaded the Jeep. That helped. She stayed in the kitchen. He appreciated the supper she’d prepared. Had he told her that? Meatloaf and twice-baked potatoes. Two of his favorites. Two things he wouldn’t see or taste for a while.
He’d offered to help with dishes when the meal ended.
Libby scrubbed the butcher block countertop with an exu- berance bordering on abrasion and insisted she didn’t mind handling it alone. He needed to get on the road. That, he did.
He almost broke down and grabbed his fishing equipment.
But that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? He couldn’t be distracted by the lure of a lunker. Not this time. He’d post- poned it too long for all the wrong reasons—expectation, rou- tine. And that insipid cliché called the comfort zone.
A solo trip. He should have made this move years ago. It
could change everything.
What price would he pay when Libby found out the truth?
He still had time to tell her. But when a marriage is missing a few planks in its hull, it’s not a good idea to volunteer to take on more emotional cargo.
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Zack and Alex would enjoy a trip like this. Game for any- thing, they’d listen to his plan, pause a nanosecond, then start packing.
Still alone in the garage, Greg tugged on the tie-down straps for his Mad River canoe and let thoughts of his sons play in his mind. Man, he missed those guys. Nobody had told him the empty-nest syndrome affected dads too. He presumed it was more Libby’s territory. How could he hope to prevent his boys from failing the women they’d marry? Some great role model he turned out to be.
The wilderness heals. A God-appointed tonic.
Oh, please let it be true this time.
“All set?”
Libby stood in the kitchen doorway, holding the screen open with one hand and a dish towel in the other. Screen doors. Dish towels. Attached garages. Civilization. Civil, emotionless question. He’d answer her. That was the polite thing to do. “Yeah, guess so.”
“And you’ll be home two weeks from tomorrow at the latest?”
“That’s the plan.” He looked at his wife’s concrete face. What did he expect to see? Tenderness? Longing? Her eyes said something in another language. He’d never been good at languages.
“Well . . .” she said, and then let that one word ricochet off the garage walls. The screen door moaned. Did she intend to close it or open it wider?
He knew the answer.
Now what? Allow her to retreat into the house? Mumble, “If that’s the way you want to be,” and climb behind the wheel, shaking the garage dust from his feet?
“Libby?”
“Yes?”
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He crossed the space between them, expecting an echo
from his childhood to chant, “Warmer. Getting warmer,” as he neared her. No voice. No sound but his rubber-soled hiking boots on cement.
He’d once patched a boat leak with chewing gum—a tem-
porary fix, but effective. He went through rolls of duct tape like some men down six packs. He’d repaired the upstairs toilet mechanism with a plastic chopstick and one of Lacey’s elastic hair things. But he had no skills that could mend what was wrong between him and Libby.
You can’t fix what you don’t acknowledge. Where’d he heard
that before? Manda quoting Dr. Phil? Got news for you, Phil. Sometimes you can’t fix what you do acknowledge. “You take care while I’m gone.”
“Sure. Will do.”
To kiss or not to kiss? That is the question.
Greg stood on the stoop one step lower than the threshold
on which Libby was rooted. He reached for her. She leaned into him with what felt more like exhaustion than desire. He held her, breathed in her green-apple shampoo and the heady aroma of homemade meatloaf.
“Greg?” Her voice, soft as unlit dynamite, begged some-
thing. If only he understood what.
“I know, Lib. I know.” But he didn’t, did he?