“John had been coming around,” she said with a smile. “He was very determined. I wrote you one last time.”
He nodded, remembering that letter almost word for word. He had carried it in his pocket for weeks, had prayed over it and asked God again and again, but knowing, even before the question was asked what the answer was. Would there be a place for me there? she had written. Is there a way I could share in your work without hindering?
He had been wandering in the bush at the time, weeks and months away from the closest mission station. It had been lonely work and dangerous. He had wanted to tell her to come—and do what? his good sense had demanded. Wait for me here? Take care of our children in this dry, lost land, and perhaps take them home again when you’re widowed and alone? He had finally composed that last letter by lantern in his tent.
I pray God’s richest blessings on your life, he had written instead of the words he would have chosen. I will never forget you. He thought of the work he had done, the lives he had helped and saved, the lost souls who had received truth from his hand. He had sorrows, indeed, but he had no regrets.
“I still have those letters,” she admitted with a smile. “Up in the attic in a box. I grieved again for a while, but I suppose I had a sense of rightness about the decision, as you must have had,” she said, and he caught a glimpse then of her strength. “When John Truelove proposed, I said yes. I knew he was God’s choice for me. We were married for forty years. He was a good man, and I loved him very much.”
“You’ve done well,” he said firmly. “You’ve run your race, as I’ve run mine.” He thought of what he knew of her life. How she had cared for her ailing relatives and taken them into her home, how she had looked after her husband and made his work possible, how she had loved and raised up her children to be fine people of integrity and character. “The fruit of both our choices will last for eternity,” he said gently, and when her eyes filled with tears at that, so did his own.
They spoke little after that, for all seemed to have been said. They spread their tablecloth on the moss-covered rock, and Mary unpacked their feast. He ate her fried chicken and potato salad, drank her sweet tea, and he was content. When it was time to return, he felt regret. He hated for this day to end, though he knew it must.
Thirty-one
Sam had been called to the ER and had admitted a patient during the wee hours of Thursday morning, a fifteen-month-old with gastroenteritis. He checked on her on his way to Carl’s office, and after a night of IV fluids she was perky and alert. He discharged her, then went to Carl’s office, but there were no home visits scheduled and only two appointments. He suspected Carl’s patients were saving their complaints for the free clinic days, and he frowned, wondering how that would work out financially in the long term. Not his problem, he told himself.
Carl and Diane’s house was closed tight. There was no sign of Annie. For lack of anything else to do, he returned home and was briefly cheered, for just as he drove in, he met Elijah driving in a 1979 Jeep Wagoneer, candy apple red, in mint condition.
“Now that’s a car,” Sam said admiringly when they had both gotten out.
“I figure it’ll get me around in any kind of weather and do nearly anything I want it to. Bought it from the original owner.”
“Little old lady who only drove it to church?” Sam asked with a grin.
Elijah smiled back, and Sam realized how much he liked the man. Having him around was unexpectedly comforting. He liked his quietness, his competence, his sensible wisdom.
“So you planning on staying around?” Sam asked.
Elijah gave a jerk of his head that was halfway between a shake and a nod. “It shouldn’t be hard to sell when the time comes,” he said.
“When will you decide?”
“When the Lord’s ready. He’ll let me know when it’s time to move on.”
Sam nodded and didn’t comment, but he felt a flash of envy. How sure Elijah Walker was of his God.
He checked the messages for Carl’s office while Elijah waxed and polished the Jeep. There were none. After lunch he drove to Asheville and went to visit Carl. He found him walking the halls, dragging his IV pole beside him, stopping now and then to chat up the nurses and other patients. He had thought he might run into Annie, but no one was there. Diane was running errands in Asheville, buying Carl a sweat suit to wear home from the hospital, and a new pair of pajamas.
They had a brief but good visit.
“They’re supposed to let me out of here in a day or two,” Carl said.
Sam was ashamed to find that his thoughts went to Annie. Whether she would stay long after her father returned home. And then to himself, for now that the Kelly Bright situation had been temporarily resolved, he wondered if his partners would allow him to return. He was surprised to find his emotions were flat about the matter. He felt no particular desire to do so, but he knew he could not stay here doing this forever. It was a temporary situation, this reprieve. It would end.
“I saw a few interesting patients earlier this week,” he told Carl and watched his face light with interest. “A farmer about as stubborn as a mule and got kicked by one. I was afraid of an orbital fracture, but he refused to go to the hospital. I ended up suturing him and turning him loose.”
“Who was it?”
“Roscoe Adams.”
Carl nodded, and his face grew sober. “They lost a boy three months ago. Age seventeen. He died in a car wreck.”
Sam felt stabbed with the knowledge, at his cavalier summation of the situation. He remembered the wife’s staunch love and support and the old man’s closed face. Why had he not seen that there had been grief and hurt there behind that wall of indifference? He, of all people, ought to have been able to perceive it.
“I also saw Lewis Wilson.” Sam recalled the suffering of the man with terminal cancer. He had left instructions that he could be called day or night for anything they needed. He would call himself this afternoon and check on them, he decided.
Carl nodded, pain in his eyes. “He’s a brave man. Probably won’t be much longer.”
“No. Probably not,” Sam agreed. “Oh, and my favorite,” he said, his face lighting into a smile. “Your not-so-secret admirer, Eliza Goddard. She was having a bit of the vapors. Thought her blood pressure might be high.”
Carl smiled ruefully and nodded. “I pay her a visit every week. I know there’s nothing wrong with her, and deep in her heart she knows it, too. But you know, that woman hasn’t left her house in three years.”
Sam stared, his mouth agape.
“Agoraphobic,” Carl confirmed. “I’ve just about got her talked into going down to Asheville to see a counselor there. I promised to take her myself the first time, and that tipped the scale.”
Sam was sobered. He wondered how many times he had passed by people’s pain, brushed shoulders with them, dispensing anonymous treatments and cures without knowing their stories. He wondered at how much better he might have done his job if he had taken time to know them.
He bade Carl good-bye and drove home, thinking deeply.
****
Sam went inside and exchanged his suit for jeans, then wandered out to the yard. His mother was gone and so was Elijah and the Wagoneer. He had probably taken her out for a drive. Sam smiled again, thinking about Elijah’s delight.
He thought about calling Ricky, but he was probably still at work. He glanced next door. Laurie’s car was gone. She was probably still working, and it occurred to him then that he had no life. Nothing except work, and now that that didn’t consume all of his time, his lack of balance was apparent.
He finally faced the obvious. He had come here for a reason, he realized. This seemed to be as good a time as any to make a beginning of that purpose. He went out to his father’s truck, parked behind the shed these past two years. He had to climb through the weeds to reach it, then jump the battery to get it started, but after that it ran fine. He drove to the hardware store and bought several boxes
of heavy-duty garbage bags and storage containers.
He drove to his and Annie’s house, pulled into the driveway, and saw he was not alone. Annie was here. That in itself did not surprise him, but the fact that she was watering the balm of Gilead tree did. Packing boxes wouldn’t have, or cleaning out the closets, but to find her taking care of that tree jolted him.
He got out of the truck, nodded in greeting, and walked toward her.
“I just got back from seeing your papa,” he said.
“How was he?” she asked.
“Back to his old self.”
She smiled, then looked back down at the tree and the pool of water around its roots. He looked around and thought how odd it was that this was how they had turned out. He had thought they would be together for the rest of their lives. Had envisioned them greeting old age right here in this place, together, looking back on years of gentle love. Well, things just didn’t turn out the way you thought they should, more often than not.
“Did you come to pack your things?” She asked it bluntly. Well, that was all right, wasn’t it? Why should either of them beat around the bush?
He nodded.
“So did I.”
He hadn’t thought that would hurt, but it did, like a sharp blow to his gut.
“I guess I’ll get to it,” he said shortly.
She nodded resolutely and turned off the hose. “I may as well come in, too. We need to decide what to do with things.”
He hadn’t been planning on that, but what could he say? “All right.” They walked together into the house. Past the old lawn furniture on the porch.
“Goodwill,” he said, giving the chair a nudge with his foot.
“You’re kidding!”
He had offended her, he could tell.
“Old wicker is in style now. This stuff is valuable.”
He shrugged and held up a hand to ward her off. “Whatever you say.”
She was still muttering when they entered the living room.
He stood before the mantel and looked at the collection of pictures propped against the wall. Their wedding picture. There he was, smiling in pure, genuine happiness. He still remembered how he had felt that day. As if he’d been given a great privilege and must prove himself worthy. And so determined that he would. That nothing would harm her. The one beside it was of the two of them sitting side by side at the Truelove reunion. They were sitting on the swing, his arm around her. He remembered how he had felt that day, too. Simply happy. Humble. Glad to be there. He was holding her close. She was smiling, her mouth caught in conversation. His face looked unguarded, peaceful and happy, a small smile on his face, and he remembered exactly what he had been feeling. Peace. For she was there. She was safe. She was happy. When she and Margaret were happy and safe, then he could relax. What more was there? He had done his job. He could rest.
“We can divide up the photographs,” she said, and he felt as if she had thrust a jab into a tender spot. “Or have copies made. I’ll take care of that. You’re busy with Papa’s patients.”
“All right. Thank you.” He turned his face away, looked at the couch and armchairs, castoffs to begin with. “What about the furniture? Nobody’s going to want this stuff.”
“These are antiques,” Annie defended hotly, and he had to smile.
“You take them, then.”
She shook her head. “It’ll cost too much to move them to Los Angeles.”
“Well, I don’t have anywhere to put them,” he said. “So I guess it’s the Goodwill for them, too.”
Her cheeks were getting pink, and she was silent. Always a bad sign.
“What?”
She shook her head violently. “Nothing.”
They walked through the kitchen, the spare room. He opened the door to Margaret’s room, but Annie did not join him there. He looked around and thought about what to do. If Annie did not deal with it, he would save a few of Margaret’s toys and clothes and give the rest away. There was no reason some child should not enjoy them. He took one more look, his chest feeling tight and cold, then closed the door gently and joined Annie in the living room. He realized that their tour of the house had accomplished little. Everything was impossible to keep, too valuable to throw away.
“You decide,” he finally said. “Whatever’s left when you leave, I’ll dispose of.”
Her face was red all over now, and she shook her head. “You’ll just give everything to the Goodwill.”
“Well?” he asked, working to keep his voice patient. “What is it that you want to do?”
“I don’t know. You’re right. That’s what we’ll do.”
He nodded and went out to the truck. He brought in the storage containers and began sorting through possessions.
Annie disappeared, still red-faced and quiet except for her thumping around in the kitchen, her banging of pots and pans. He went back to the bedroom and den and began sorting. He took his music CDs and sporting equipment. He took his clothing and his books. He took the stereo after a consultation with Annie, and the camera, as she had bought a new one. He emptied out his drawers and his desk and the hall closet. He took half of the towels and sheets and refused the vacuum cleaner because he had someone who came in and cleaned and she brought her own. After a few hours they had gone through most of the drawers and closets. He returned to the living room after he had finished sorting through his personal belongings.
“Don’t tell me. Goodwill,” Annie said, holding up his metal-framed backpack.
He nodded and added it to the pile that had grown in the center of the room. “There’s a lot of junk here,” he observed. Things he wouldn’t have wanted to save. Things that should have been disposed of years ago. And it was odd, but as they worked they achieved a kind of camaraderie, and it occurred to him again how strange that was.
She went off to finish going through her things, and he put the last pile of books in the storage bin. He noticed his leather-bound Bible on the bottom of one of the stacks for Goodwill. He did not retrieve it.
“Sam, come here,” she called, and he found her in the spare room holding up his skis and poles. She had a wicked grin on her face. He endured it with a resigned smile and nod.
“Do you want to save these?” she taunted.
“Very funny.”
“Oh, come on,” she teased. “Let me have my moment. It was the one thing I was better at than you.”
“That would be putting it mildly.” He smiled. “I bequeath them to you.”
“I’d like to take them, but . . . Goodwill.”
He nodded, and she set them aside, the smile gradually fading from her face.
“I’d better take off if I’m going to get to a storage place by closing time,” he said.
She nodded and didn’t look up from the stack of videocassettes she was sorting through.
“What do you want to do about Margaret’s room?” he asked gently.
She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug.
“I can do it if you want.”
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t answer.
“Just leave what you don’t want to deal with,” he said. “I’ll finish things up.”
She nodded. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and sniffed. “I’m hungry,” she said plaintively.
He hesitated, then spoke. “You could ride with me to the storage place. We could pick up something on the way back. Can you hold on that long?”
“Sure,” she agreed. She wiped her face with her palms, and he was somehow reminded of Margaret. They locked up the house, Sam taking a rueful look at the chaos, and he thought again how odd it was that you had to make a mess to clean one up.
“I’ll come back and help you,” he said. “We’ll get it done.”
She nodded and their hands brushed on the way out to the truck. For just a split second he almost took hers out of habit, for it felt like the old days. Just for a moment.
They drove in companionable silence. He found a storage facility in
Silver Falls, and she helped him unload his things. They found a burger place on the edge of town. He bought them each a huge hamburger, a carton of greasy fries, and freshly made strawberry milkshakes with real chunks of berries scattered through. They ate outside at a picnic table set up under the trees.
He watched her eat. He had always enjoyed a woman with a good appetite. She polished off the burger and went to work on the fries.
“You know what Papa told me?” she asked, her face lighting.
He shook his head, smiling a little in spite of himself.
“That your mother and Elijah Walker used to be engaged.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.” Now there was a piece of news.
“Nope.” She shook her head in that emphatic way she had. “How about that?”
“Well, that throws an interesting light on things, doesn’t it?” He was surprised but not unpleasantly so, and he realized he hoped his mother would find happiness—with or without Elijah Walker. “I don’t know, though,” he cautioned. “He told me he’s hoping to go back to the mission field.”
She gave him a wise look and shook her head. “We’ll see about that,” she said.
He laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. You and your matchmaking, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t you think it seems sort of prearranged that he didn’t even know who he’d be staying with and it turned out to be her? His old love?”
“I suppose it does.” But then a lot of things that seemed prearranged didn’t seem to be leading where he had hoped. The two of them being back here at the same time, for example. And even now, sitting here, as natural and sweet a time as they’d ever had, but he knew how it was going to end.
They talked a little more, their conversation making meandering trails, leading nowhere. They finished their food, their shakes, and still they sat there as the night crept around them. It seemed as if both of them knew this moment couldn’t last forever, yet neither one of them wanted to end it.
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