Remember Me

by Deborah Bedford

  Aubrey let Hannah slide to the ground so she could embrace her oldest daughter. When she did, their heights were evenly matched, shoulder to shoulder, ear to ear. When had Channing grown so tall?

  Her mind had played a trick on her. When she’d imagined Channing coming to meet her, she’d pictured a more spindly girl, not quite reaching her shoulders. Aubrey had forgotten to expect a young woman instead of a child. When they hugged, Channing felt sturdy and strong in her arms. Channing looked into Aubrey’s eyes with great intent, as if she looked much farther than she could see. Aubrey knew by her expression that Channing understood things were not exactly as they should be.

  There was a long silence between mother and daughter in which Aubrey realized the truth. I’m not hiding anything from her. Channing understands about her father.

  Aubrey told the three of them quietly, “Tomorrow morning, I’ll take you home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Just after lunch, Mary Grace Pokorny pivoted toward her computer at Covenant Heights and began compiling the calendar for the upcoming month. The items had come to her in various shapes and forms, some via phone calls, some via e-mail, some via Post-it notes. Choir practice, she typed. Wednesday at 7 p.m.

  Mary Grace’s fingers paused on the keys. She stared at the screen, seeing nothing. Oh, Pastor Tibbits. If only you could see what’s happening here.

  Three gold frames lay at various angles on the workstation beside her. This afternoon, with her other responsibilities out of the way, she would frame Pastor Tibbits’ theology diplomas. She’d discovered them in a stack of folders she’d been asked to sort through after the interim pastor arrived. And Sam Tibbits’ leavetaking had made her notice something. Along with the rows of C.S. Lewis books and his tattered copy of the Disciples’ Study Bible, he’d surrounded himself with mementos of his congregation, a picture of Brenda and Joe’s wedding, a child’s crayon-scribbled message that read, “Your the best, Kelly,” a cross of burled maple that Ian Barker had carved for him, a nativity scene that Dottie Graham had fashioned from cornhusks.

  Nothing in the room bespoke the man’s stature and education. Instead, he’d chosen to surround himself with reminders of those he loved.

  Mary Grace had taken one look at the heavy parchment diplomas, the gilded seminary crests, the ornate letters that spelled MASTER OF DIVINITY, DOCTORATE OF MINISTRY, and thought, If Pastor Tibbits had a woman in his life, she’d make certain these saw the light of day!

  She rose from her computer and absently fingered the hem of her sleeve. Covenant Heights had fared satisfactorily without their regular pastor; she could not grumble about that. The interim’s sermons provoked hearty discussion. The women’s covenant group had started another Beth Moore Bible Study. Lester Kraft had donated a renovated eBay telescope for the youth group’s auction.

  But no one could have told her how much she would miss Sam Tibbits.

  She’d catch herself glancing up when the door opened, expecting to see his face. She’d catch herself conjecturing at odd times, wondering what he might be doing. She’d catch herself thinking, Oh, just wait until I tell Pastor Tibbits about this!

  Her cell phone awaited her beside the cubicles of yellow paper she used for Covenant Heights’ newsletters. Even as she reached for the phone for the umpteenth time and searched for his number, Mary Grace felt her cheeks color. Did she dare do it? Oh, but it would never do to bother him! Confound her fair coloring, her red hair! If anyone saw her this minute, they’d think she’d swallowed a firecracker.

  Mary Grace dialed and pressed the phone to her ear. Too late, she almost wished he wouldn’t answer. She rehearsed a message as she listened to the ringing on the other end. No need to call back, she would sing lightly. Just wanted to share the news. Her heart caught in her throat when she heard the click on the other end, followed by a dull roar.

  “Hello?”

  “Pastor Tibbits?”

  “Mary Grace? Is it you?”

  “It is.”

  “How are you? Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. I wanted to . . . Where are you, Pastor Tibbits? You sound like you’re in a car wash.”

  She heard him chuckle before he said somewhat proudly, “I’m somewhere in eastern Nebraska.” She heard the smile in his voice. “We’ve decided to head home.”

  “Oh.” Mary Grace sank into her chair. “You shouldn’t have answered . . . I shouldn’t have called . . . Well, I didn’t know you would be driving.”

  “It’s fine. I’m not behind the wheel. It’s good to hear you! Hold on.” He said something to someone over the roar, instructing someone to watch the speed limit and exit at a gas station in Scottsbluff. She heard someone close a window, and he returned. “Can you hear now? I certainly can.”

  “I can,” she told him. “Thank you.”

  “My nephew’s driving. We’ve been trading off. He’s doing a good job handling this car.”

  She decided he sounded different, settled, satisfied. She squashed her cell against her head with both hands, heard him say, “Mary Grace.”

  “I have . . . I mean . . . I called because I have news.”

  “I hope the news is good!” As if he wouldn’t be expecting anything else.

  “Your friend Kil has come to church every Sunday.”

  “I didn’t—” The line roared with sounds, none of which were Sam Tibbits.

  “Are you there, Pastor Tibbits? Did I lose you?”

  “Well, how about that?”

  Ah, Mary Grace thought. She’d done the right thing, telling him. How she enjoyed the disbelief in his voice! “You’re surprised, aren’t you? Wait until you hear the rest of it. Ted and Mary Barker, Ian’s parents, heard the story about him losing his dog Bench. They went to the animal adoption center and paid fees for a new dog.”

  “But another dog,” he said. “Kil has trouble taking care of hims—”

  “Cutest little thing, you should see it. It’s got a brown circle over one eye. Kil’s named this one Sofa. Says he’s always wanted a sofa.

  “Kil keeps coming, don’t you see? He doesn’t know what happened in the meeting. Some make a wide berth around him but others make him welcome. The whole thing has taken on a life of its own.

  “Ted found him a job, that’s the other thing. Kil’s stacking supplies at the animal adoption center. He’s taking donations for the animals.”

  So much for the man who’d made speaking his life’s work. “Well, how about that,” he repeated. It seemed he had lost his vocabulary.

  “Pastor Tibbits?” she called over the line. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Oh, Mary Grace,” he said. “So much has happened.” Then, “You’re the first besides Brenda to know. Will you let Grant Ransom know that I’ll be in town tomorrow?”

  Even though he wasn’t employed by Covenant Heights when he arrived home, Sam found plenty to do. He painted the trim at Brenda’s house. He took Hunter to a Christian rap concert and out for a hamburger so they could have long talks about the words. One evening, he showed Hunter one of his old journals in which he’d written about Aubrey. He told his nephew how much writing had helped him survive when he was hurting. Before Sam left Brenda’s, he was rewarded with a hip-hop beat resounding from the computer in Hunter’s room.

  “Thanks a lot for the noise,” his sister said.

  “My therapy bill will be in the mail,” he teased her.

  When he opened the door a crack to tell Hunter he’d see him later, the beat was blaring. Hunter had his head bent over his desk, scribbling lyrics on a crumpled piece of notebook paper.

  Sam spent one day golfing with his father. He spent a day at the feed store, encouraging Kil in his new job and letting Ginny have a sniff of Sofa, Kil’s new dog. And every afternoon for ten days, Sam sat in the wicker chair in his mother’s room, where he could see straight out the window to the green oval of lawn.

  One visit, he described Hunter’s antics as he’d run along the shore
with twine in his hand, trying to keep the brilliant trapezoid kite aloft in the wind. Another day, he told her how the Sunset Vue Motor Court had been sold and their favorite stretch of beach had been converted to houses of various styles and sizes. He described to her at least three different sunsets. He brought his guitar one day and sang her a song.

  Through all this, his mother sat in the opposite chair, smiling politely at him, the way she’d smile at a somewhat-annoying stranger. The nurse combed her hair every morning and, in the diffused sunlight that fell through the narrow blinds, it shone like spun silver. Sam told her story after story about Piddock Beach while he counseled himself to remain patient.

  “You remember how the seals sunned themselves on the rocks, Mom? Hunter came upon one and knew not to stand too close.” He reminded her how good the clams tasted when they were steamed and dipped in melted butter. He described the color of the water and the smell of the sea.

  Finally, disappointed, he rose from his chair and kissed her good-bye on the cheek. While her face was lifted toward his, she asked, “Do you remember how perfect the shells could be, Sam? So small, with ridges as intricate as cake icing. Oh, didn’t we have so much fun?”

  Watching Hunter count beats and create his songs made Sam revisit the idea of writing in his own journals again. Of course, it would never do to add entries to something he had already started. He had new ideas about things and therefore he needed the right sort of book. Something leather, with papers of substance, something that felt weighty when he carried it.

  Which is how he ended up on a particular aisle at Staples, unable to decide between the three choices in his hands. He glanced up when he heard someone muttering over the envelopes across the way.

  “Mary Grace.”

  She was pushing around reams of printer paper in her cart, an assortment of colored push pins, an automatic pencil sharpener that resembled a NASA space probe.

  “How are you?”

  “I’d be much better if I could find those envelopes with the windows, the ones with the sticky gum on the flap. You don’t see those over there, do you? With all the letters I have to get out, I don’t want to have to lick.”

  “I always think about Florida when I see you, did you know that?”

  “Oh.” She straightened, smoothed her sweater over her hips with her hands. “Thank you.”

  Silence. He couldn’t think of anything more to say. He, Sam Tibbits, who made a career out of speaking.

  She shouldered her purse. It banged against her side where her waist nipped in. The florescent bulbs buzzed overhead and a loudspeaker blared. At the front of the store, a harried cashier stuffed items in a plastic bag.

  “I never thanked you for the telephone call,” he said. “The day Hunter and I were driving home.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding flustered. “I thought it might be the right thing to do.”

  “You encouraged me.” He thumbed through the pages of one of the journals in his hand. “I knew I was supposed to return. I didn’t know what everyone here would think of it. Your words gave me hope.”

  “Well.” She sounded pleased. “You’re welcome.”

  “And I have another question to ask.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “A funny question, actually.” Sam suddenly realized he was nervous. Might be better if he bided his time for a while. It was too late now. “It’s something that might make you laugh.”

  “It might,” she encouraged him, “but you could try me.”

  “Do people at Covenant Heights ever try to set you up on dates?”

  “Oh, all the time!” She gestured toward the ground. “You should have heard them call when Wyatt Hanbury started coming to church. The phone rang off the hook. They wouldn’t leave me alone for days.”

  Well. Sam selected the journal he wanted and put the others decisively aside. “Wyatt Hanbury, hum?”

  “I know.” When she blushed, even the tips of her ears turned red. “Isn’t that funny?”

  “I always wondered—” Sam examined rolls of Scotch tape as if he’d never seen such things before. “—if anyone suggested that you might go out with me.”

  She seemed interested in the envelopes again.

  “What I mean is, there is an antique car rally at the Amana Colonies next month. I’d like to drive over for the day, see some more Iowa farm country I haven’t had the time to see. I was wondering if you’d like to do that, too. With me, I mean. I, well, I know Hanbury is a nice fellow. But, for you, I had someone other than Wyatt Hanbury in mind.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When the cell phone rang and Sam heard Libby Kraft’s voice, he knew something must be terribly wrong with her husband, Lester. Libby struggled to speak as she tried to explain.

  “It’s, it’s Lester, Pastor Tibbits. Please help us. We need you to come over right away.”

  “Libby.” He kept his voice even, trying to keep her calm. Even as he spoke to her, he found himself praying. They need what you can give them, Father, not what I can. Help me be an instrument of your peace. “Can you tell me what’s happened?”

  “He was in his truck, backing out of his driveway and he didn’t see anyone. He didn’t—didn’t know.”

  “Libby?” Sam felt the wrench in his own heart, knew he was stepping into an impossible situation. “Was someone hurt?”

  “Our little Casey. Our little boy.”

  Sam’s heart sank. For a moment, he couldn’t place the child she mentioned. His heart lodged in his throat when he realized. Of course he knew. Lester and Libby’s four-year-old nephew. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Oh, Sam.”

  “Libby, is the boy alive?”

  The choked sobs on the other end of the line spoke the grievous words that Libby could not. Hurt for his friend Lester slammed Sam like a fist. Even as he balanced the phone beneath his chin, Sam shrugged into his jacket. The leatherette cover on the Bible he grabbed had been worn creased and broken like an old shoe. With all of his being, Sam begged his Lord to be present and sustain the Kraft family. He knew exactly where he belonged.

  The interim pastor at Covenant Heights, Reverend Jack Jensen, was the one who helped Casey Boyd’s parents grieve. He told the little boy’s mother that it was okay to be angry at God. He helped the child’s father erect a fountain at the end of their driveway from copper tubing and pieces of cement. He also led a candlelight vigil on the second night for the families and neighbors who wanted to do something, but who could not think of anything that would help.

  Pastor Sam Tibbits sat with the Krafts at their home, about four blocks over. No one came to light candles in Lester’s driveway or to sing songs or to cry. No one brought lasagnas or cookies or said, “I’ve stopped by to give you a hug.” But Libby and Lester were not alone during the darkest hour of their lives. Sam sat beside them. They cried together. They searched the Scriptures together as the heavens darkened and evening drained from the sky.

  Shortly after midnight, during the wee hours of the morning on August 14, the interim pastor phoned Sam. “I am here with Casey Boyd’s parents,” Reverend Jensen explained. “You are the man who has been with the Kraft family. You are the man who can pull the community together during the tragedy. Everyone I’ve spoken to agrees on this. The Boyds would like for you to preach their little boy’s funeral service.”

  As the afternoon sun mantled the Iowa hills, a person could almost pretend it was waves in the ocean rolling, rolling. Sam leaned against the church’s stairwell, his head against the rough plaster. His eyes were so gritty from lack of sleep he felt like someone had thrown sand into them.

  He might have had a hundred better reasons to step into the pulpit than this one. The funeral service for little Casey Boyd was about to begin. The coffee was perking in the silver urn in the hospitality center and goodies were being laid out by members of the women’s ministry. Sam struggled with his nerves as he slipped into his robe, drap
ed the stole across his shoulders. He’d never guessed he’d feel this nervous! He ran his tongue against the roof of his mouth, which had gone bone-dry.

  If he’d thought stepping in front of his congregation again would feel mundane or ordinary, he couldn’t have been more wrong. His heart marched in his chest. His throat felt like it might never work again.

  Ian Barker bustled around him, attaching a microphone to Sam’s robe. Ian tapped the microphone with his finger, making certain it was turned on. “You’re all set.”

  Thanks, Sam mouthed.

  He coughed into the circle of his fist. He crossed the chancel, stepped forward, and gripped the sides of the pulpit. When he offered words of welcome, Sam could hear the shake in his voice. When he saw Casey’s mother reach for Libby’s hand, he felt his heart breaking in love. When he began to speak in earnest, he completely disregarded his notes.

  Sam spoke of grief as he caught Lester’s gaze. He spoke of tragedy, of a young child whose life had ended much too soon. That completed, Sam spoke of something that could never be explained away by cosmology research or quantum physics or any other scientific theory. He spoke of forgiveness. Of one human to another. Of one to oneself. And, of God to man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  When Mary Grace arrived at Covenant Heights, she could see lights already on in the room where they would meet. She hurried to the office and grabbed the agendas which she’d typed earlier in the day. As she carried the papers to the conference room and placed one in front of each person’s chair, the humid August air pressed against her lungs like a heavy hand.

  The board members and deacons entered the room with wariness, afraid they were in for a quarrel. Dave Hawthorne gripped his chair as if he were at the fair waiting for the Wildcat Coaster to jerk forward. John McKinley read over his agenda with the same fascination he might have for a manual explaining how to build an engine. Grant Ransom adjusted his position at the table with both hands, his eyes darting from Dave’s upper lip to John’s necktie to the top of Mary Grace’s head.