by Janette Oke
Two little round mouths gaped back at him. Matty continued to watch Milton’s reaction, his eyes darting toward him repeatedly as if gauging what his own response should be.
“Can you . . . stick out your tongue?”
One little tongue pointed down to the floor. But for Matty there was only a bulge of pink filling his open mouth.
“Milton, I’d like to have you bite on this stick. It’s called a tongue depressor. I’m going to play with your tongue a little, and then I’d like to play the same game with you, Matty. Can we do that? Just my little stick. I won’t touch either of you with anything else.”
Milton nodded, followed less trustfully by his brother. But when Dr. Shepherd approached Milton pretending that his tongue depressor was an airplane, making all the appropriate noises, swoops, and dives, the boys were giggling again. It seemed to amuse little Matty to watch the doctor examine his fearless brother.
Drawing a second stick from the cup that held them, he repeated the charade with a now-willing Matty. “Nnneeeaowww, fwooom, shooooop.”
Matty sat still, mouth open, allowing the airplane entrance.
“Wheooo, fwooosh.” The doctor pushed the boy’s tongue from side to side, up and down. And the oral exam was accomplished.
“Well done, boys. You’re perfect patients. Miss Grace, may I give them each a stick candy for their hard work?”
“Of course.”
“Here you go, boys. You may each pick one.”
The boys were soon sucking away at their prizes. Dr. Shepherd turned to explain. “Well, it’s clear that the primary problem isn’t Matty’s hearing. He does, however, have a severe tongue-tie. That means that his tongue is connected to the bottom of his mouth far more than most of us. It’s actually a fairly simple thing to correct. Now, I’m not saying it’s the only thing wrong with Matty. That’s impossible to tell with such a cursory examination. But with your permission, I’d like to schedule him for a surgical procedure tomorrow. We’ll just clip the frenulum—where the tongue attaches to the bottom of the mouth. The minor surgery is very simple with really no complications to consider.”
“Dr. Shepherd.” Grace was hesitant. “I’m afraid we’re not legal guardians of the boys. They were adopted, but the parents surrendered them to us just yesterday. I’ve posted a letter to the children’s home in Lethbridge this morning, but I’m not sure how quickly we’ll hear from them.”
He shook his head reassuringly. “There’s no rush. It seems he’s managing to eat well enough. That’s also a frequent difficulty with ankyloglossia. Only . . .” Again, his head moved slowly from side to side. “Only, I have no idea how he survived infancy. Tongue-tied babies are very difficult to feed—they usually can’t nurse. And his case is quite severe.” Looking from Grace to Lillian, he added ardently, “Someone worked very hard to keep this child alive. Someone must have loved him deeply.”
CHAPTER 14
Picnic
It wasn’t until their bedtime tea that Lillian and Grace were able to discuss the day’s events. They’d shared their devotional time together as a large group. The dishes were done, the day’s homework was completed, and the children were settled upstairs. In the kitchen Miss Tilly worked at the mending.
Grace collapsed onto the sofa. “What a day! What an unexpected answer to prayer. Little Matty’s going to be fine? Who would have imagined that reversal of fortune? This procedure will change his life.”
“Someone loved him,” Lillian reflected. “Someone saved his life.”
“Oh, if only we can find them a good home now. I don’t want Lethbridge to say the boys have to come back there for any reason. I want them to be able to participate in the picnic—to find their own family soon.”
“How would the directors even expect us to send them if they asked?”
“I wondered about that. But my delivery is supposed to arrive soon. They could say that . . .”
“Oh, but surely they won’t even get your letter until after that truck leaves.”
“That’s probably true.” Grace shifted on the sofa so that she was pressed against one end and reached for her tea. “I feel guilty hoping for that though. It seems rather conniving.”
“I suppose. And it only delays the inevitable problem. It doesn’t solve it.”
“Lillian, what was in the mail? I didn’t look.”
“Oh, I forgot about that.” She reached for the few envelopes that rested on an end table. A note from Mrs. Bukowski, a bill from the dry goods store, and . . . “Grace, it’s a letter from Father!”
Setting down her teacup with a clatter, Lillian tore open the envelope. She had already as much as forgotten that Grace was in the room. Her eyes moved hungrily over the page.
Dear Lillian,
It was such a relief to get your letter. And I am certain that your situation has continued to evolve in the weeks since you penned it. But I want you to know that I am in full support of the work you have taken on with these children. It blesses my heart to know that you and your dear sister are able to unite in this endeavor, that you can use our home as a means to care for them. Your mother would have been exceedingly proud of you, as am I. My heart goes out to you, dear. It must trouble you to continue in the home we three shared. I was certainly unable to do so, missing her presence at every moment. . . .
Lillian paused. Oh, Father, did you leave because of your grief? I’m sorry I wondered how you could put her behind you so easily. I should have known you weren’t trying to forget Mother. I should have trusted you. Lillian lifted the pages closer and continued to read.
I miss you terribly, Lillian. But I can also declare that I understand even more thoroughly now the great draw you feel toward family—ein teulu is so important—creating the compelling need you had to connect with your sister. My time here in my homeland with my own people has been far more significant to me than I would have imagined. I have a greater sense of belonging than I have known for a very long time. These are my roots and these people accepted me into their midst as a matter of fact, as if strong cords of alliance bind us together. When I left as a young man, I had no idea what I was forsaking. I have been comprehensively reminded.
And yet, my greatest deficiency is you, my dear. I feel your absence at every moment. But I hope to excel as a father to a kind of love that does not control and withhold. I would rather support and encourage, even when it pierces my heart to release you.
I am uncertain now if you will follow me at any point. I trust God to direct your path. Please consider that, as you are able, it would soothe my poor heart to hear from you more. Could I beg you to write to me weekly, even though our letters will cross paths along the way? I shall endeavor to do the same.
My own plans are also unclear. There is much I would tell you if I had enough room on this page. Suffice it to say that I have settled into life here, the lectures and my ideas are satisfactorily received, and I am well. Already I have seen fruit in this new marketplace.
Regrettably, I must also report that my dear old mam has passed away. It happened not long after I arrived. I regret most she was unable to meet you. She would have loved you too, my own little girl. But I am grateful to have conversed with her in my stilted Welsh while she was still coherent. I shall remember those conversations always. They give great comfort to me.
God bless you, Lillian. God speed your letters to me. And may God protect you with His great care—you and the ones you have sheltered.
Much love, Father
Lillian wiped at the tears on her face. I should have written him so many letters by now. Why didn’t I think of keeping him informed? Why did I wait to hear from him first? She determined not to fail him again.
At last she was aware once more of Grace’s presence. “He’s well,” she told her sister. “He . . . He supports everything we’re doing here. I knew he would. But it’s so nice to see it in his own handwriting. And he isn’t certain what his plans are. I guess that means he’s not sure when he’ll be coming
back.”
“Is he still waiting for you to follow?”
Lillian shook her head. “He knows it’s unlikely.”
Rising from the sofa, Grace crossed the room. “I’m glad you heard from him, sis. I wish it could have been a visit—even a telephone call.”
“Me too, of course. But I feel as if there’s a part of my heart that can breathe again. Does that make any sense?”
“Perfect sense.”
Lillian tucked the letter inside her book. Grace watched the action. It caused her to move away, and yet Lillian was unaware of the reason.
When the day of the picnic arrived, the sky was bright and cool. Lillian and Grace bundled the children into coats and waited for Otto to arrive with his old farm wagon. They were all riding together, carrying the food along with them. And even though it was Saturday—even though they’d be playing outdoors—the children were dressed in school clothes, signifying the importance of the day. Only George bothered to balk at the requirement.
Lillian worried, “I hope the road isn’t too full of ruts. Our picnic might be soggy if pickle brine gets on everything.”
“It may rattle us silly, but nothin’ll spill,” Miss Tilly assured. “I packed it well.”
At last they arrived at their destination and began descending all at once from the wagon. “Lift me down, Lemmy?” Bryony called. “Lift me down, please.”
Using only one arm, Lemuel easily caught the small girl at the back of the wagon and set her gently on the ground.
The lowered wagon gate served as a table. Miss Tilly and Lillian hastened to set up their simple buffet. Grace and the children hurried off to organize games along the grassy bank of the river. It was a picturesque setting with the fall colors all around. Soon guests began to arrive in wagons and on horseback—a few families bounced over the uneven ground in their automobiles. The atmosphere was festive and welcoming. Lillian soaked up the sense of community.
Mr. Thompson, the school principal, approached the wagon. He led his wife to where Lillian waited beside the food. Mrs. Thompson had wire-rimmed spectacles and a tiny face surrounded by an unruly mass of curly hair swept up loosely. She looked a little like an elf maiden. Lillian liked her immediately.
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Walsh. My husband has spoken often of your children. They’ve stolen his heart, I’m afraid.” Her voice was high-pitched and spritely, matching Lillian’s impression of her.
“Well, they’re all enjoying school, Mrs. Thompson. I think in large part because of your husband.”
She waved a small hand in the nippy air. “Please call us Arthur and June, or you’ll make me feel so old.”
Mr. Thompson’s deep voice added from above them, “The children have all agreed to participate in our fall recital. I’m afraid they might ask you soon about costumes, Miss Walsh. I’m sorry that you’re responsible for so many.”
“We’d be lost without Miss Tilly. But you’ll help us. Won’t you?”
“Costumes are a specialty of mine,” their willing housekeeper answered with a wink, unfolding another brown paper package of sandwiches. She and Lillian had done a massive amount of preparation on Wednesday to be ready to feed so many.
“I’m just the worst at sewing. Just the worst.” June laughed. “When our boys were young, I would sometimes resort to using paste in places. But it never really worked.”
“I didn’t realize you had children.”
Her eyes rose far up to meet her husband’s. Her hand held his arm. “Oh, they’re grown now. Jesse farms alongside Arthur, but Lou recently moved to the States, where he’s a carpenter. I hope he comes home someday soon, but what mother wouldn’t, eh?”
Mr. Thompson tutted. “I’ve no doubt he will, my dear, just as soon as he’s established his independence. But that brings me to a subject I’d like to speak with you about, Miss Walsh. Do you have a moment now?”
“Of course.”
He drew her aside to where the three of them were out of the way of the serving area. “I noticed that Lemuel and Harrison both had a profound interest in my horse the other day. It made me wonder if they might be interested in working for me a couple of days a week each.”
Lillian sputtered in surprise. “I think they would. I think they’d like that very much.”
“Since Lou went away, it’s a lot for Jesse and me to keep up. We have a few head of cattle and we farm some acreage, but we spend an inordinate amount of energy on the horses. They’re rather our pride and joy. I’d like to see if the boys could take turns shoveling out the stalls and sweeping the barn. I like to keep it quite tidy.”
“Tidy?” June scoffed. “It’s cleaner than my house, that’s what it is.”
“Be that as it may, I’d be glad to pay them. It wouldn’t be much, but it might be worth their effort.”
Looking from one to the other, Lillian asked, “Where do you live?”
“Not far from you. I think they could walk. It’s only about a mile—perhaps a little less.”
“I’ll speak with them this evening.” Lillian clasped her hands in anticipation. “To be honest, I think they’ll be so pleased they’ll have to arm wrestle one another to see who gets to come first.”
“Well then, Harrison is sure to win that contest. Lemuel’s arm hasn’t yet been removed from its cast.”
June shook her head, giggling a little. “She was joking, Arthur. She wasn’t serious.”
He cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing, Miss Walsh. June and I have had several conversations and are currently praying in regards to adopting one or both of the boys. Now, we’re not ready yet to make that known to them, but I want to be honest from the start that we plan to use this opportunity as a time to get to know them both—and for them to get to know us and our home—to see if they might be comfortable with us.”
Lillian gasped. Who else could she have trusted with Harrison? “That’s wonderful! That’s perfect.”
June lifted her hands to her cheeks. Her laughter was bright and joyful. “We’re so excited. I know, I know there’s still some praying to do. Imagine though! Having boys to care for again.” Her eyes glistened.
Lillian watched Mr. Thompson draw his wife close against his side. “We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves. But we’re both very hopeful.”
“I’m so glad to hear it. You’ve made my day.”
Much of the picnic became a blur. The thought of Harrison and Lemuel both finding a home with parents as delightful as the Thompsons made Lillian feel as if her heart were soaring like the kites she watched the children fly in the meadow, wheeling and fluttering with joy in the clear sky above them.
Lemuel felt himself fading, withdrawing. There were too many people, too much activity. After hovering near the wagon while Miss Lillian set up the food and while the majority of the picnickers helped themselves to the simple buffet, he gradually retreated. He found it all overwhelming and draining. Even the games along the river, where most of the children were playing, seemed too much at the moment. He wasn’t certain why.
Instead, he observed for a while from a safe distance. There was shade where the various horses were tied, chomping serenely on the meadow grasses. Not far away, Harrison, Hazel, and George were waiting their turns for the finals of the gunnysack races. There had already been a couple of heats, and apparently none of them had been excluded yet. Miss Grace was in charge of the games, her laughter carrying farther than her words.
Little Bryony was seated on a blanket with Mr. and Mrs. Mooreland. She was laying out a series of leaves and flowers that she’d gathered with the boys, Andrew and Paul. Mrs. Mooreland was helping her to create funny pictures with the shapes, and Bryony was giggling. All around them were other blankets and people and even a few dogs. If that brown dog comes closer, I might try to . . .
A rustling sound came from the bushes behind Lemuel. Muffled voices. He stood, dusted off his trousers, and stepped closer in order to determine who might be approaching. He could just ma
ke out the voices of boys passing nearby. Maybe it’s Orville. But he hadn’t seen Orville yet at the picnic. With no way to pass through the thicket, Lemuel moved along the edge of the bushes, keeping pace, hoping to find an opening where he could join them. The voices grew louder.
“Yup, me too.”
“Fishin’ there ain’t great. But my pa said we’d go to the lake sometime soon.”
“I made a real good lure. I can lend it to ya.”
“Nah, I wouldn’t wanna lose it for ya.”
“Yeah. Nah.”
“Wish we’d brought our fishin’ gear today. I’ll bet they’re bitin’ by the big tree that hangs over—where it’s deep.”
It isn’t Orville. They’re younger boys. Lemuel hesitated. It probably wasn’t worth trying to catch up to George’s friends.
“Why’d they do this picnic anyhow? It ain’t fer church, is it?”
“Nah, it’s fer them orphans—my pa said it’s to find ’em families.”
Lemuel froze in place, wishing to move away but somehow unable.
“How’d they lose their other ones?”
“They died, dummy. That’s how ya get to be an orphan. That’s what it means.”
A pause. “Well, that’s sad.”
“Maybe. But my pa said they shouldn’t be here. That old Mr. Walsh is sure gonna be mad when he gets back from wherever he is. My pa said his daughter shouldn’ta used his house for the likes of them kids.”
“Aw, he prob’ly said she could.”
“How? How could he say? He’s not even in Canada no more—after old Mrs. Walsh died on account’a some bad sickness, he took off.”
“He was probably just sad, eh?”
“Sure. I’d be too. But anyway, he couldn’ta said they could stay there. And he’s gonna come back after a while. Then, my pa said, they’re in fer it, for sure!”
“Yeah, I guess he couldn’ta said if he ain’t even here. Think he’ll send ’em all away when he gets back?”
“I s’pose. That’s what my pa said he’d do.”
“Poor kids! I like George. He’s real funny.”