Regardless of what the students had indicated on their forms, Nathan said, he had worked with them for three weeks, and he had seen the fruit of her labor among them. Not only did they write reasonably well for freshmen, but they were thinking critically and asking good questions. “So don’t be discouraged by this,” he said. “Believe me, I’ve read plenty worse about myself over the years.” Teaching, he said, was a daily exercise of failure, an ongoing practice in humility. And it might be exactly the right profession for her but not for the reasons that had initially drawn her to it. “You’re gifted, Charissa, and you know me well enough to know I tell the truth. Don’t give up over this, hard as it is.”
Okay, she promised him. She wouldn’t make any rash decisions. She would continue to move forward at whatever pace was necessary with an infant and explore her vocational call in spite of this setback. She would trust that somehow God was at work to shape her in the midst of it, hard as it was. Hard as everything was.
When Charissa hung up the phone, she lay back on the couch, palms resting open on her abdomen, and tried to practice letting go. Day after difficult day, she practiced letting go.
Becca
Sleeping on a childhood friend’s futon was an adequate arrangement when that friend was single. But two weeks after Becca moved into Lauren’s one-bedroom apartment with a duffel bag, Lauren started dating a guy from her office. “Sorry to kick you out,” she said to Becca as they ate their ramen noodles one night, “but Dan and I . . .”
“No, I get it. Of course. You’ve already done way more than you needed to.” Maybe she could afford a small studio apartment for the summer. Or find another friend eager to share rent for a few months. Quite a few of her high school friends still lived in Kingsbury. She ought to be able to work out something, anything to get her away from the house. Each hour spent there made her more resolute: she wanted it cleared out and ready to sell by the end of summer.
So she started purging one room at a time. When she wasn’t working extra hours at the café, she was on her knees at the house, dividing everything into three categories: pitch, save, give away. Her aunt, at least, made it easy for her. Rachel had already taken everything she wanted, she told Becca on the phone one night, and she wanted nothing to do with anything else. “Unless you find something worth a fortune,” she’d quipped, “and then we’ll talk.”
But apart from photos and mementos from her childhood, there weren’t many things Becca desired, either. Her plan was simple: box up the treasures she wanted to keep and then host an estate sale before she went back to college. Let the vultures descend and do the work of stripping the carcass down to nothing. Whatever didn’t sell could be donated to Goodwill. “You’re sure about all of this?” Hannah had asked multiple times.
She was sure. By the end of May the only bedroom she hadn’t yet sorted was her mother’s. Many nights she entered the room with the intention of packing it up, but all she could do was bury her face in her mother’s clothes in search of her familiar scent, or weep over blonde strands of hair still caught on the bristles of a hairbrush, or cry herself to sleep on a mascara-stained pillowcase she couldn’t bear to wash.
As the fragrance of lilacs drifted in through the open window one evening, Becca sat cross-legged on her mother’s bed, studying a sketchbook she had left on her desk. Gnarled and twisted trees filled many of the pages. Flowers too. “Amaryllis, flowers in winter,” the caption read beneath a particularly detailed rendering. The last sketch was the one she had drawn of Becca a few days before she died. Becca traced her finger over the nose ring in the picture. Her mother hadn’t approved of the nose ring, but she’d included it. Beneath the drawing were the words, “My beautiful girl.” Becca closed the book before tears splattered and ruined the page.
It wasn’t just the drawings that made her sad. It was the blank pages at the end of the book, too many blank pages. She set the sketchbook in a box along with other things she knew her mother had treasured: a box of love letters, a small wooden cross, and a framed sketch of Jesus holding a little lamb, all of which were on her nightstand when she died. Draped on the nightstand too was a burgundy shawl. A prayer shawl, her mother had told her, knit by someone from Mara’s church.
Well, it hadn’t worked.
Her mother had worn it every day of their visit together. She had wrapped herself in it when they watched movies and when they sorted photos into albums and when they drank milkshakes in front of the fireplace.
It hadn’t worked.
Becca fingered the yarn and pressed her face against it, searching for a scent. Nothing.
She folded it and set it in the box, her gaze lingering on the picture of Jesus nuzzling the little lamb, a picture her mother said gave her comfort because she saw herself as a little lost lamb that Jesus had found and rescued. Becca stared at the lamb, an expression of contentment and rest upon its face. Oh, to be safe and securely held like that. To be loved and cared for, a little lamb with someone to watch over her.
Her mother had trusted Jesus to watch over her, to protect and love and care for her, and look what faith had done for her. Nothing.
That picture provoked her. Much as her mother had loved it, she couldn’t bear to keep it. Maybe Hannah would like it. The prayer shawl and the cross too. Those were things Hannah would probably appreciate receiving as gifts. Becca set them aside in a separate box, scrawled “For Hannah” across the lid in permanent black marker, and left the room.
Mara
Comfort food, Mara decided. After weeks of fussing over fancy menus and elegant dishes, she decided that the real gift to the Crossroads patrons would be to make them feel like they were enjoying a home-cooked meal. So she casually worked into conversation questions about favorite childhood foods, and then she composed her list: macaroni and cheese (the real gooey kind, Billy said), meat loaf and mashed potatoes (several of them echoed agreement with Constance when she gave that answer), and chicken and dumplings. When Mara said that her grandmother had made chicken and dumplings for her when she was little, Ronni got a little teary and said, “Me too.”
“Can I skip school and go with you?” Kevin asked the night before the big day.
Mara eyed him from across the dinner table. “Because you want to serve or skip school?”
He half-smiled and shrugged.
“You willing to work?”
He nodded and took a second helping of pork tenderloin.
“Work hard?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. You can come. I’ll write you a note.”
Brian, who had actually joined them at the table to eat, scoffed at this. “How come he gets to and I don’t?”
Mara was going to answer, Because he’s served there before and knows everyone, but instead she said, “You want to serve at the shelter?”
Brian stirred his mashed potatoes and green beans together on his plate. “Yeah, okay.”
“It’ll be lots of work. You don’t get to go and just sit.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll need to welcome the guests, treat them nicely and—”
“I said, yeah. Okay.”
Okay. Mara took a spoonful of applesauce. “I’ll write you a note.”
She thought she heard him mumble, “Thanks.”
“Pray for us,” Mara said to Charissa on the phone that night. “I can’t believe this is actually happening.” Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined both boys would want to come with her to Crossroads. “I’m not naive; I know they just want a day off school, but still.”
“It’s still incredible they want to go,” Charissa said. “I’ll definitely keep praying. Wish there was more I could do.”
“That’s plenty. All the good that’s happening right now, I know it’s only because people are praying. So thank you.” She switched her phone to the other ear. “And what about you? How are you?”
“Still here.” Charissa sighed. “And that’s a gift. I know it’s a gift. Almost thirty-four weeks now
.”
Mara whistled. “You’re getting there. Just hold on, little Bethany. Almost there.” Kevin entered the kitchen and stood waiting, hands behind his back. “Hang on, Charissa.” She pressed the phone to her shoulder. “What do you need, Kev?”
He held out a piece of paper. “I thought maybe they might like it if they had menus and stuff, like they could order at the table and Brian and I could be, like, the waiters or something.”
She stared first at him, then at the sheet of paper. Crossroads House Restaurant, it read at the top in fancy script. Below was a list of all the food she had mentioned she would be cooking.
“You’re a genius! Can you print out fifty of these?”
“Yep,” he said, and left the room.
Mara waited until she heard him reach the top of the stairs and then said to Charissa, “Wait till you hear this.”
Hannah
Had she ever seen Mara looking so happy, so at ease? While Hannah watched her friend bustling around the Crossroads kitchen, managing the chaos with joy, she marveled over the beauty of someone flourishing in what God had called her to do. Not only that, but Brian and Kevin were both taking instructions without arguing. At least, not verbally. Brian rolled his eyes every once in a while but for the most part was cooperative, not only with his mother but with the other volunteers. “A miracle,” Mara whispered to Hannah as she slid large casserole dishes into the oven. “Keep praying.”
When the doors opened just before noon and the patrons entered a room with cloth-covered tables, flickering votive candles, and fresh flowers, Hannah and other volunteers were poised and ready to greet them. “What’s all this?” Billy exclaimed, arms extended wide. “A party?”
“A big party,” Hannah said.
“What kind of party? Birthday party?”
“No, not a birthday party. Miss Mara just wanted to throw a special party for all of you.”
“A ‘just because’ party?”
“Yes. Just because.” As Kevin, Brian, and others showed guests to their seats, Hannah returned to the kitchen. “I think you estimated about right. I counted fifty-two.”
“Good. We’ll have extras. ’Cause I prepped for sixty just in case.”
“Put me to work,” a voice called from the doorway.
Mara spun around. “Jeremy!”
“Or, I should say, put me to work on my lunch break. Can’t stay long, Mom. Sorry.”
“I’m thrilled you can’t stay long! Another job?”
“Boss says we got a couple of big contracts, so it looks like we’ll have some jobs to keep us busy for a few months, thank God.”
The way he said those last words, Hannah thought, it didn’t sound like a throwaway line. Mara motioned toward the dining room. “Well, your brothers are here.” Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “I know, both of them, and they’re gonna be out there taking orders at the tables and then delivering food.”
“I’ll help them out.” Jeremy kissed his mother on the cheek. “And I promised Abby I’d take pictures so her mom can see.” His eyes brimmed with emotion. “It looks amazing out there, Mom. I’m so proud of you.”
“Well, you haven’t tasted anything yet”—the timer beeped and Mara grabbed her oven mitts—“but thank you, honey. Thanks for coming.”
Hannah was dishing generous portions of macaroni and cheese onto plates when her cell phone buzzed with a text. She decided to wait to check it. “Is that you or me?” Mara asked.
“Me,” Hannah said. She handed two plates to Kevin.
“Oops! Mine too,” Mara said. She set down her spatula and reached into her pocket, her brow furrowing when she read the screen. “It’s John.”
Hannah whipped her phone out of her jeans. Strong contractions. Heading to hospital right now. Pls pray.
“Two more meatloaf,” Brian called out, entering the kitchen, “and an extra large chicken and dumplings.” He looked at Hannah. “Please.”
Mara was typing on her phone. Hannah loaded up two plates and told him to come back for the third. “I’ll take that one,” Jeremy said, reaching out his hand for the third order.
Mara shoved her phone back in her pocket and wiped her brow. “Guess we don’t make a prayer announcement here, right?”
“Right,” Hannah said. Charissa wouldn’t want that.
“So, deep breath,” Mara said. “And help, Lord Jesus.”
Charissa
Charissa had hoped to make it farther. She had hoped to make it another month. But what more could she have done? She’d been doing nothing—nothing!—for seven weeks. “You did everything you were supposed to do,” John kept repeating on the drive to the hospital, and the nurses echoed that after she was admitted to the labor ward. Threshold, they said. She had made it to a significant threshold as far as the baby’s health risks were concerned.
She ought to be grateful she had added almost fifty days to Bethany’s life inside the womb. And she was grateful. She just didn’t like being told she ought to be grateful—not by John, not by nurses, not by the voices inside her own head. She also didn’t like the thought of their baby having to stay in the neonatal intensive care unit for a few weeks of monitoring after birth. The logical part of her brain reminded her that it could be worse. Others had it worse. She had seen pictures online. She had read their stories. Their horror stories had motivated her to fight temptation and do as close to nothing as possible as she ticked off the slow days of waiting.
She stared up from her hospital bed at the fluorescent lights. As soon as the nurse finished putting in the IV line, she was going to get up off that bed and walk around. Or kneel. Or rock. Or scream into a pillow. The contractions could be her excuse to shout or cry loud and long about everything that had not gone according to plan.
John rubbed the blanket. “You warm enough? Too hot?”
“No, I’m okay.” Well, not okay. She winced and tried to hold still as she breathed her way through another contraction.
“All set,” the nurse said, pressing the tape gently around the needle. “The anesthesiologist will come by soon to talk with you.”
“I don’t want an epidural,” Charissa said.
“You might change your mind about that, hon,” John said, and the nurse nodded her agreement.
“Stay open-minded,” she said, “and play it by ear.”
“I said, no epidural.” She didn’t have control over much, but she was going to have control over that. She would have a natural childbirth. The way Bethany had been eagerly trying to get things rolling the past few weeks, there wouldn’t be long to wait.
Mara
Mara glanced at the clock above the microwave. Seven. John had called more than seven hours ago. She decided to text again. Nothing yet, John replied. She called Hannah. “Still no baby. I don’t want to keep bugging them, but I can’t help feeling a little worried about everything.” None of her babies had required the emergency care little Bethany would need. But at least Charissa had a husband like John alongside. That was a gift. Tom had been more of a hindrance than a help in the delivery rooms, demanding and obnoxious to nurses, who weren’t amused by his crude jokes or sexism.
“Keep me in the loop if you hear anything,” Hannah said.
Mara knocked on the window to get Kevin’s attention outside. She mouthed, Dinner, and then said, “Okay, I will. And thanks again for helping today.”
“My pleasure. It was wonderful, Mara, a wonderful success.”
Yes, it was. The whole thing had come off without any hitches, which was, Miss Jada had said, truly remarkable. You did real good, she said afterward.
Mara couldn’t have been more pleased. Not only had the guests raved about the food, but Kevin’s idea of serving them restaurant-style had given Miss Jada some ideas about how to regularly make their patrons feel valued and cared for, ideas she was confident the board would approve. “I think it’ll be the first of many,” Mara said. “Who knows? Maybe with some fundraising we can do something like that once a month.”
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br /> “Well, count Nate and me in. He’s already said he wants to help out next time. Jake too.”
Maybe even Brian. When Mara asked him in the car on the way home if he’d had a good time, he’d shrugged and said, “Better than school.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but she’d take it.
After Kevin entered through the garage a few minutes later, Mara and Hannah said their goodbyes. “Call your brother for dinner, will you, Kev?” She tucked her phone in her pocket. Better keep it close in case John called.
“He’s riding his bike.”
She sighed. She had told Brian they would be eating at seven because Tom was picking them up for the weekend at eight. “Okay, we’ll eat without him.” She removed some of the leftover meatloaf and macaroni and cheese from the oven. “So what’d you think of today?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Good. It was good.”
“Your idea was amazing, Kev. Did you see how happy everyone was?”
He spooned a large helping of mac and cheese onto his plate. “Yeah. Billy said he hadn’t eaten in such a good restaurant since he was a little kid. He was in the Marines, did you know that?”
“Yeah. Did he talk to you about it?” She poured two glasses of milk and followed him to the table.
“Yeah, he was telling me stories about these secret tunnels that the Viet Cong used to hide out from the Americans and . . .”
Mara didn’t have to ask any questions to keep him talking. Twenty minutes later when Brian came in, Kevin was in the middle of telling a dramatic story about Billy stalking an enemy sniper in the jungle. Brian loaded some mashed potatoes and meatloaf onto a plate and shoved it in the microwave.
“Did he get him?” Brian asked.
“Yeah. And the Viet Cong put this bounty on him because he kept killing off their men.”
An Extra Mile Page 30