Charissa moved her finger to stroke Bethany’s hand. “How long?” she asked. “How long does she have to stay?”
“If everything goes well, about three weeks. We’ve got some markers we watch for—eating, breathing, swallowing on her own. We want to make sure she’s gaining weight, that she’s able to maintain her own body temperature. Right now the koala is taking care of that, making sure she’s not too hot or too cold.”
John stroked Charissa’s hair. “I told them, you watch. Little Bethany will be an overachiever, just like her mommy.”
Charissa kissed the pink cap on Bethany’s head and looked at her fingers, each with a perfect tiny pearl of a fingernail.
“The key is to take it a day at a time,” the nurse said, “and to make sure you’re getting your rest too. She’s in good hands here, I promise. We’ll take good care of her.”
Charissa’s throat constricted, and she murmured, “Thank you.” She rubbed Bethany’s back, caressed her little thighs, her knees, her feet, her toes. Her impossible, perfect toes.
“Let’s get you off to your room so you can rest,” another nurse said, “and then you can come back later when you feel up to it.”
“Not before some pictures,” John said. “Lots of people are waiting for pictures.”
Charissa hardly wanted to take her eyes off her daughter long enough to look at a camera. But she smiled for a few photos with John before returning her attention to Bethany. “We’ll let you come back later,” the nurse said. “Promise.”
Reluctantly, Charissa shifted Bethany in her arms and prepared to hand her over. But just before the nurse took her, Bethany opened her eyes and locked onto Charissa’s face with a long, probing stare, a glimmer of eternity in her gaze. And when her little eyelids closed like shades and opened again, Charissa silently marveled at all that could change with the blink of an eye.
John fingered Bethany’s pink wristband. “She doesn’t have a middle name yet. What shall we call her?”
Charissa looked at their daughter and immediately knew. “It’s Grace,” she said.
All grace.
Mara
“Four pounds, thirteen ounces, eighteen inches long,” Mara reported on the phone to Hannah, “and John says Mom and baby are both doing well, thank God.” Thank God, thank God, thank God.
“Oh, that’s good news,” Hannah said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Mara closed the kitchen window as the über-mower next door fired up his John Deere for the second time that week. “He says they’ll keep Charissa for a couple of days. She’s really sore, guess she tore pretty bad”—that was probably not information Charissa wanted widely shared, come to think of it—“and then Bethany will be there for a couple of weeks, they think.”
“Did John say anything about meals? Anything we can do to help?”
“I got the impression they plan to be at the hospital as much as possible. He said we could drop by late tomorrow, as long as everything’s going okay. He’ll let us know.”
“How about if I order flowers from the two of us?”
“That would be great,” Mara said. “Thanks.”
“Good. I’ll take care of that tonight. And I should go. Nate’s grilling burgers, and he just called out the three-minute warning.”
“Enjoy! And once John says yay or nay on tomorrow, I’ll let you know.”
After Mara hung up the phone, she stared out at the back deck where for years Tom had cooked burgers on the grill. Maybe she’d teach herself how to use it. She could host backyard barbeques for friends and family. Maybe Jeremy could make her a picnic table. She had always wanted a picnic table.
She checked her watch. One more hour before Jeremy and his family came over for bratwurst, potato salad, and apple pie. Tom was probably grilling hot dogs for the boys. They always camped at Lake Michigan the last weekend in May, and Kevin had enthusiastically packed his surfboard, hoping the weather would cooperate. Maybe Tom would give them undivided attention without Tiffany and her kids hanging around. That would be good for them. Good for all of them.
She whistled for Bailey, who came running. “C’mon, little dog.” She reached for his leash while he whirled in happy circles at her feet. “Walkies.”
Up and down, up and down. Madeleine never tired of being bounced up and down on Mara’s knee.
“Eat your pie,” Jeremy said, reaching for Maddie. “She’ll keep you going all night long if you let her.” He blew a raspberry against her tummy, and she laughed.
Mara picked up her spoon.
“I never said thank you, Mom.”
“For what?”
“For offering to turn your basement into an apartment for us.”
“Oh, well, I shouldn’t have.”
“No, it was really kind of you, and I was wrong to be insulted about it. It was my pride, and I’m sorry.” He passed Madeleine to Abby, who continued the raspberry game.
“Well, it was just an idea,” Mara said. “And not a very good one.”
“No, actually, a really good one. Abby and I were talking about it, and if we get desperate come fall—if the work slows down and we need a place to land for a couple of months . . .”
“It’s not a great space for a family, Jeremy. You wouldn’t have enough privacy.”
“But if we get desperate.”
Mara reached across the table for his hand. “Then you’ll have a place you can stay.”
“Thank you.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Abby and I have been talking about something else too.”
Much as Mara loved babies, she hoped they weren’t going to say they were trying for another right now, not with Jeremy’s work so unpredictable. She shifted her weight in her chair.
“We’ve been talking about having Madeleine dedicated at Wayfarer.”
Mara stared at him. “But don’t you have to get up in front of the church and answer questions about faith or something?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re ready to do that?”
“No. Not yet. But I signed up for a Bible study with the pastor.” Jeremy took hold of Abby’s hand. “I figure that’s a good place to start. I believe in God, but I want something more. I need something more. Like what Abby has, what you have.”
Mara’s eyes welled with tears. Too much. Too full.
“So you’ll be there whenever we make our promises?” he asked. “When I’m ready to make them?”
“Honey,” she said, her hand pressed against her heart, “nothing in this world could keep me away.”
Charissa
Almost forty-five minutes of pumping her breasts, and all she had managed to extract was a syringe-full. “You’re doing fine,” the nurse said. “Don’t worry, in a couple of days your milk will come in, and you’ll be a pro at this.” Charissa didn’t feel like a pro at anything. She covered herself with her gown. For now, any milk she was able to pump would be given to Bethany through her feeding tube. And then once Bethany was able to breathe without the CPAP, Charissa would be able to give her a bottle.
She wanted to breastfeed. She had said she didn’t want to—she had insisted for months that she would have nothing to do with it—but now that she couldn’t, she wanted more than anything to cradle Bethany to her breast and nurse her. She wanted intimacy without tubes and wires and monitors. You’ll get that, John had said several times. But for now . . .
She knew. She didn’t need to be told that her time would come. And she didn’t need to be given updates on the other babies in the NICU bay, all of whom, according to John, were far worse off than Bethany. In the few hours Charissa had been recovering in her own private room, he had been getting to know the other families on the neonatal ward. She didn’t want to hear their stories. What she wanted was a private room where she could be alone with her daughter. As soon as the nurse left, Charissa voiced this desire again.
“I told you, hon,” he said, “it’s all luck of the draw, and there aren’t any private rooms open.”
“But we’re on a list, right? A waiting list or something?”
“I’ll check. But I tell you, I think she’s better off where she is. The nurses are there all the time. If she’s in her own room, the nurses aren’t there to watch her.”
“I’ll be there to watch her. You can be there.”
“Not twenty-four seven.” He rubbed her shoulder gently. “Give this a chance, okay? It’s what we’ve got right now, and it’s good. The nurses are great, you’ll see.”
“I want to go see her.”
“Eat something first.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“C’mon, you’ve got to keep your strength up too.”
“I’m fine. I just want to go see her. I’m missing everything.”
“Charissa . . .”
“Tell the nurse I want to go see her. Now. Or you wheel me down there.”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to.”
“Then get a nurse.” She wasn’t going to have an argument about it. They had told her she could see Bethany as soon as she had rested. Well, she had rested. She had rested all afternoon, and she wanted to be with her daughter. Now.
Hannah
When the doorbell rang late Saturday afternoon, Hannah was putting away food. “Got it!” she called to Nathan, who was scrubbing the grill. Chaucer accompanied her to the door and didn’t bark when she opened it. “Becca!”
“Hey.” Becca held out her hand for Chaucer to sniff, then stroked his head. Tucked under her other arm was a small book Hannah immediately recognized.
“Come on in,” Hannah said, stepping back into the foyer. “We just finished eating. Are you hungry?”
Becca shrugged.
“I’ll fix a plate for you. Burger okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Nathan came in to rinse his hands. “Hey, Becca! You just missed my grillmeister feast.”
“We’ve got plenty of leftovers,” Hannah said, motioning to the meat, cheese, and buns still on the counter. “How about if we sit outside? Too nice a day to be in.”
“Yeah, I went for a long run. It felt good.”
“Want some lemonade?” Nathan asked.
“Sure. Thanks.”
While he poured her a drink, Hannah wrapped a paper towel around a hamburger patty and heated it in the microwave. “I’ll let you help yourself to anything you like, ketchup, mustard, lettuce”—she popped the lid off the pickle jar—“and there’s fruit salad on the top shelf of the fridge.”
“Okay, thanks.” Becca set her book down on the counter and opened the refrigerator. With her back turned toward Becca, Hannah caught Nathan’s eye, gestured to the book with her elbow, and mouthed, Meg’s journal. He nodded.
“I promised Jake a Frisbee match at the park,” he said, “so I’ll leave you two to connect together.” He called upstairs to Jake and put on an old Cubs cap Hannah remembered him wearing in seminary. “Okay if Chaucer stays with you, Shep?”
“Yeah, fine. Have fun.” Hannah waited for Becca to finish serving herself before spooning out some fruit into a second bowl. Might as well keep her company with food. “Go easy on your dad,” she said to Jake when he came downstairs in his running shorts and Star Wars T-shirt.
“No chance,” he said, waving to Becca.
“See you, Jake.” Becca tucked the journal under her arm before following Hannah outside with a bowl in one hand, a plate in the other.
Wherever she is, Lord, Hannah prayed silently, whatever she needs, help me be alongside. Please.
There was one particular entry in her mother’s journal, Becca said after she finished eating, an entry that she couldn’t get out of her head, and she wondered if her mother had talked to Hannah about it. She passed Hannah the open book and pointed. “This one. A letter to my dad.”
Seeing Meg’s handwriting caused Hannah’s eyes to sting. My dearest Jim. She didn’t read past the first line. “Your mom told me she wrote one. She was being really brave about feeling the pain of your dad’s death again and grieving and letting go. But she never showed it to me.”
“Go ahead and read it.”
Hannah cleared her throat and smoothed the tear-stained page, whether from Meg or from Becca’s tears, it was impossible to tell.
My dearest Jim,
I’m writing this letter for myself. If you were here, I know you’d understand. You always told me I needed to be kind to myself. You tried to help me understand that loving myself wasn’t a selfish thing, but a way of opening up to God’s love for me. You always knew God’s love in a way I couldn’t comprehend, and you used every day of our life together as an opportunity to show me what it meant to be loved and treasured.
Thank you, Jim. I understand now.
I’m letting go of you in a new way tonight. Or maybe I never truly let go before. Maybe I just buried you so deep within me that over the years I forgot you were there. But tonight I’m saying I love you, and I miss you.
By admitting how much I still love you, I’m also saying how much it hurt when you died. I died that day, too. Except I had to go on living. I just didn’t know how. I wish I could have done it differently. I wish I hadn’t been so afraid. But you’d be so proud of your beautiful daughter. She’s not afraid. She has your love of life and love for other people. I’m praying she’ll come to know your love for God, too. Or rather, that she’d come to know how much the Lord loves her. You would have shown her that, Jim. You would have lived in such a way that Becca would have never doubted how much her Heavenly Father loves her. I’m praying I’ll be able to point her to God’s heart. Lord, help me.
I remember you told me once that you were praying I would come to know how much the Lord loved me. You said you hoped someday I’d realize your love for me was just a shadow of God’s love for me. I’d forgotten about that until recently. I can’t believe I forgot that. But in the years after you died, I forgot so many things. I lost my way.
I’m found now, my love. I’m found. I just wanted to say thank you for this, your last gift.
And I love you. Always.
Hannah wiped her eyes and handed Becca the journal, still open to the page.
“I ended up at a park today,” Becca said, “and I was looking up at the sky, trying to connect with my mom, you know? Sometimes I hear her voice in my head, things she used to say, but today I felt like I needed something more from her, some message that she’s okay, that she’s still with me somehow, watching over me or something, that she knows I’m”—her voice cracked and she pressed her palms against her eyes—“I’m sorry for everything.” Her shoulders heaved, and she leaned forward.
Hannah scooted her chair closer, wondering if she should wrap an arm around her or wait. She decided to wait.
Becca took a deep, steadying breath. “Do you think she knows that? That I’m sorry?”
“She told me how sorry you were, Becca, and I know she forgave you.”
“But the whole thing with Simon . . . I mean, what if that’s what killed her? Putting on that dinner for us and then taking me to the airport, it’s like it was all too much for her. Like the grief was too much for her.”
Hannah placed her hand on Becca’s shoulder. “Your mom hosted that dinner because she loved you. She wanted you to know that she loved and accepted you. She wanted a way to show you love, to serve you. And Simon too.” Meg had made up her mind she was going to kneel and wash their feet that night, and she had done it. She had done it beautifully.
“He was awful to her,” Becca said. “I was awful to her.”
Hannah wasn’t going to argue that point.
“My mom was right about him. She was right about everything. I turned into this different person when I was with him, and I didn’t even see it.” Becca wiped her nose against her wrist. “I’d give anything—anything to have that time back with her. But it’s too late. It’s all too late.” She motioned to the journal. “And I read a letter like that, about how she felt lost and alone, how she felt like she die
d after my dad died, and I understand what that feels like. Because that’s what I feel like. Like I’ve died too.”
Hannah stared at the page. If only Becca could see what it meant to be found, if only she could take to heart her mother’s prayer, if only she could say yes to the love of God seeking her, finding her, bringing her to life, giving her a home. If only . . .
“I wish I could tell my mom that I love her and miss her. I wish I could believe that I’ll see her again, like she believed she’d see Dad again. I wish I could.” Becca shook her head slowly. “But how can I believe in a God who lets dads die before they get to hold their baby daughters? How can I believe in a God who lets moms get cancer and die before their daughters grow up? How could my mom believe in a God like that? How could she talk about his love for her in the midst of all that?”
Hannah waited to see if she was asking a rhetorical question or whether she was waiting—hoping—for an answer.
Becca looked up into Hannah’s eyes. “How do you believe in a God like that?” There was nothing accusing or angry in her tone. This was a girl who was broken, confused, and searching for something more than glib answers.
“Faith can be hard sometimes,” Hannah said. “Making sense of suffering is hard. But you’re right. Your mom grew to have this beautiful confidence in God’s goodness and his love, even in all the heartache. Especially in the heartache. Jesus’ suffering gave her hope. And she was confident that death wasn’t the end. Isn’t the end.”
Becca stared off into the yard, a faraway look in her eyes. “Mom was wrong about one thing,” she said. “I am afraid. I feel really afraid.” She took a long slow breath and closed her eyes. Hannah did not speak, just in case Meg’s girl was offering her own silent prayer.
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