Interrupted

by Zondervan

  “Is something wrong?” I ran forward and knelt at her feet. “Is it Daniel?”

  Irene frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  “You were supposed to meet us for supper at Beatrice’s two hours ago,” I said gently. “Do you remember?”

  Irene sniffled. “Oh, yeah.”

  I looked around. Nothing much out of the ordinary. “What’s the matter?”

  Irene pointed at the letter and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I just … I just got depressed.”

  “What’s in the letter?”

  “It’s from Daniel.” Irene turned back to her desk and picked up the letter. “It’s just a normal letter. I don’t know what I’m so emotional about.” Her eyes skimmed the lines. “He talks about his new friends and what he’s been reading and thinking. And he signs it ‘Thankful, as always, for you and our little family; Daniel.’ ”

  I blinked. “So then what’s wrong?”

  Irene took a deep breath before bursting into tears again. “One of his …” She gasped for breath, wiping her eyes. “One of his military friends told him that his wife is expecting their first child. Daniel didn’t mean to rub it in, I know. I know he’s happy …” She covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her sobs.

  I don’t understand. I scooted forward and placed a hand on her leg. “What are you talking about?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, her tears slowing down. “Daniel and I can’t have children,” she whispered. “He says that the two of us — that we are already our own little family. But sometimes …” She trailed off and stared at the ceiling. “I just really want a baby.”

  I bit my lip, unsure of what to say. “I had no idea. I mean, I just supposed …”

  “That I didn’t want children?” Irene sighed, clicking her pink fingernails against the desk. She stared down at the letter. “I want a baby more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.”

  I sat up. “So why don’t you have one?” My blood began to boil. I grabbed Irene’s skirt, tears stinging at my eyes. “Why didn’t God give you a child?”

  “I don’t know.” Irene burst into a fresh batch of tears.

  I sat back and rocked on my heels, feeling disgusted. It shouldn’t be this way. People shouldn’t feel this way. I glared at the ceiling. Do you hear that, God?

  Irene finally calmed down, lifting a strand of my dark hair. She turned it over in her hands and sniffed. “I ask myself that almost every day.” She took a deep breath. “But I know that, for some reason, he chose not to.” She shrugged, her voice cracking. “And I don’t know why that is, but I know that it’s for my good.”

  “How?” I glared at the floor. “How can wanting something good and honest and not getting it be for your own good?” I balled my hand into a fist. “Why does God keep us from being happy?” I whispered.

  Irene looked down and seemed to really see me for the first time. She reached over and smoothed the hair off my hot forehead. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I will love him for it. I would love him if he gave me a child and I will love him if he doesn’t.” She wrapped my hair around her finger. “Sometimes God doesn’t give us the answer that we want. But that’s no excuse for being angry at him.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I pushed away and sniffled, wiping my nose on my sleeve. It’s not fair. Who else is there to blame if not God? I swallowed my questions. Irene wouldn’t give me the answers I wanted.

  Irene was silent for another minute or two. Then she pushed away from the desk and blinked, rubbing her eyes. “Come on. I think I’m late for supper.” She folded the letter, tucked it in her pocket, and smiled. “I’ve gotten somewhat hungry.”

  Try to say something nice. Just to see how it would sound. I looked across the table at Beatrice, who was quietly eating her supper. I bit my lip and stared at my plate. “This is good chicken,” I said. “It’s not nearly as burnt as yesterday’s.” I winced. Why was it that every compliment I gave had to be laced with a twinge of malice?

  Beatrice smiled. “Thank you.”

  I studied her profile. She was so calm and peaceful, her gently wrinkled face containing a glowing light. She grunted quietly, and put down her fork. I frowned. She seemed tired.

  “Are you okay?”

  Beatrice sighed. “Just a headache. I think I’ll go lie down for a spell.” She stood and pushed back her chair. “Allie, if Mrs. Wilkinson comes over with the books I loaned her, would you please explain that I’m napping and have her leave them in the living room?”

  I nodded and began clearing the table.

  “I’m going to go rest,” Beatrice muttered again, moving slowly.

  I washed the dishes before stealing into the parlor. There, sitting by Beatrice’s chair, was her Bible.

  I glanced at the stairs. Would she notice if I borrowed it?

  Maybe it would be best if I took it outside, just in case she comes down. I grabbed the Bible and sneaked out the back door.

  I walked barefoot along the shoreline until I was a safe distance from the house. Then I perched up on a rock and opened Beatrice’s Bible. The pages were so thin and fragile. I flipped through them, reading all the different titles.

  I stopped at the book of John. Slowly, I turned the pages, noticing Beatrice’s handwriting was scrawled along the margins of the text. I traced the verses with my finger, stopping to study every underlined verse.

  John 1:12 – 13 was circled. “But as many as received him, to them he gave the power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name: Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.”

  Received him … That was what the preacher had talked about on Sunday. The need to receive Jesus. He’d gone through the story of Jesus’s death and resurrection, and explained the need we all have to repent of our sins and receive salvation.

  I thumbed through more pages.

  The next underlined passage was John 1:29. “Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.”

  I bit my lip and kept reading. I sat very still on the rock, studying well into the afternoon. The tide shifted and the sun began to sink into the sky, casting shadows over the pages.

  I lifted the Bible up a little to see the page more clearly. John 3:3 read, “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” There was a small star next to the verse. My eyes fell to the bottom of the page, where Beatrice had scrawled See Ezekiel 36:25 – 26.

  I flipped to the table of contents and found the book of Ezekiel. As I turned the pages, I glanced at the sky. It’s getting late … Beatrice would begin to worry.

  I opened to Ezekiel 36:25 – 26. “Then will I sprinkle clean water upon you, and ye shall be clean: from all your filthiness, and from all your idols, will I cleanse you. A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh.”

  I gasped and nearly fell off the rock. My eyes rescanned the verse. A heart of stone? A heart of flesh?

  Beatrice had written a short note in the margin. It was short and peaceful, like she’d had a smile on her face when it was written: This is the reason why Christ died for me.

  I shut the Bible and closed my eyes. Had Beatrice reread this verse thinking of me? Had she prayed over this passage with the same mournful tears that she’d prayed over my actions the other night?

  I stood and set the Bible on the rock, turning away, walking along the sand until my toes touched the softly lapping waves. A seagull flew over my head, headed for shore.

  So Christ died for Beatrice? Does that mean he died for me too? I twisted my skirt around my finger. Why would he do that for me? Why would he want to sacrifice his own life in order to give a new heart to me, of all people?

  I bent in the sand and stroked a damp seashell. I don’t deserve it. I’ll never be able to deserve it. I’ve done too much wrong already. Toda
y alone I’ve done too much wrong. My head was so unclear and foggy. All these confusing thoughts about life and God and family … it was too much.

  I rubbed my forehead and looked up at the sky. Dark clouds loomed in the distance. Storms …

  “Allie!” someone shrieked. “Allie, come quick!”

  I scrambled to my feet and ran toward the house, dropping the Bible. The side door was open. I bounded up the steps to Beatrice’s room.

  Mrs. Wilkinson was kneeling by the bedside, a look of panic on her face. She glanced up when she saw me blow into the doorway.

  My heart was pounding in my ears as I surveyed the room. The curtains were drawn, and an abandoned book lay open on the floor. Beatrice was sprawled across the bed, eyes shut, one hand lying limp.

  Mrs. Wilkinson squeezed Beatrice’s hand. “Allie, call the doctor. She won’t wake up.”

  Not again.

  Chapter 16

  Hope is the thing with feathers

  That perches in the soul,

  And sings the tune without the words

  And never stops at all.

  — Emily Dickinson

  I paced back in forth in the hallway. I glanced at Beatrice’s door: still shut. Irene sat in a little wooden chair, her head buried in her hands, murmuring to herself.

  The minutes dragged on for what felt like centuries. The grandfather clock in the parlor rang, signaling the late hour.

  “Irene,” I whimpered. She looked up. “Do you think …” I cut myself off and turned to the window.

  A single raindrop slid down the black glass, soon followed by dozens of little droplets pattering against the pane.

  The Bible!

  I jumped up in a sudden panic and flew down the stairs. “Allie?” Irene called after me. I burst out the side door and ran toward the beach.

  My heart was pounding. How could I have been so stupid?

  Rain was falling freely by now, turning the sand into mud beneath my feet. My eyes stung from the salty wind as I raced through the darkness. Where did I leave it? I stopped at a big rock and saw a dark cover flapping in the wind. I lunged to grab it and ran back to the house.

  I collapsed on the side porch in tears. I couldn’t bear to look at the soppy Bible — Beatrice’s prized possession — a bloating, ruined mess.

  I buried my face in my knees and gasped for breath between my sobs, feeling the weight of my burden crushing me down.

  Why can’t I do anything right? Why can’t I trust God? Why is it so much harder for me to love him and it’s so easy for Beatrice and Irene? I clenched my fist. Why can’t my heart be melted too?

  “Why did you take away Mama?” I whispered, my voice drowned out in the pounding rain. “Why weren’t you there when I needed you? Why didn’t you help me?”

  I hugged my knees to my chest and buried my face. My mind was whirling with more questions. Why wasn’t I there for Beatrice? Why am I never there for those I care about? I’ve never deserved her love … never deserved her trust. And now I’ve messed up everything.

  I wasn’t there when Beatrice’s life was in danger … wasn’t there when Irene needed a comforter … wasn’t there when Sam needed encouragement and support. Oh, I wasn’t even there when my own mother needed someone to hold her hand and whisper sweet things to her as she slipped away.

  “God,” I whispered, covering my face with my hands, “God, I’ve been so wrong … so selfish. I’ve carved my own heart of stone and pushed everyone out. I’ve hurt those I love willingly and happily … I’ve found pleasure in causing others pain and suffering.” I sniffled and wiped my nose on my sleeve. “And most of all, God … I’ve pushed you out. I’ve rejected you and closed up my heart for nineteen years. But you …” My voice broke. “Deep down, I know you died for me, Lord. You are more than enough.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I’m saying this the right way or not, but I’m sorry.”

  My chest shook. “I’m sorry and I want to change, God. Please help me change. I want you to be in control of me now. Help me to love others and show compassion to people.” I paused before adding, “And please, God, be with Beatrice and please help her get better. Please.”

  I opened my eyes to see that the rain had weakened to a drizzle. I picked up the soggy Bible and stroked my hand over its cover.

  “Allie!” Irene called. “Allie, come here!”

  I jumped up and bounded up the stairs. Irene was standing by Beatrice’s door, a doctor next to her.

  He smiled at me and pushed up his glasses. “Are you Beatrice Lovell’s daughter?”

  I nodded, knowing it was now true. “Yes, I am. Is … Is she going to be okay?”

  The doctor closed the door behind him and nodded. “Her body’s been weak lately, and she suffered a mild heart attack.” He reached out a hand to calm me. “No worries, though. It’s not that bad. I checked her out and she seems okay. She should be awakening soon.”

  A slight moan came from Beatrice’s bedroom. I glanced up, and the doctor gave me a reassuring smile. “There she is now. You may visit her if you like. Just be quick and quiet.”

  I looked at Irene. She seemed a bit confused at my eagerness to see Beatrice, but she nodded. “You go ahead.”

  I pushed Beatrice’s door open slowly. She was lying on the bed, a dim lamp illuminating her tired face. “Allie?” she tried to smile, but her breathing was forced and labored. “Allie, is that you?”

  I shut the door behind me and stood there, shaking. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears — partly from relief and partly from fear. “Beatrice?” I whispered. I looked down and saw the Bible still in my hand.

  I brushed the sand off the cover and walked toward the bedside. Sinking onto the floor, I lifted the book to where Beatrice could see it.

  She strained her eyes to see what I was holding. “Ah,” she smiled, her voice strained and broken. “My Bible.”

  “I …” My hands shook. “I ruined it, Beatrice. I took it without asking and left it in the rain when you …” I broke off and looked at the floor, feeling overwhelmingly grieved. Oh, I was so stupid. I never should have taken it … never should have ruined it.

  Beatrice lifted her hand. It shook as she labored to move it toward me. Slowly, she placed it on my bent head with the utmost care and gentleness. A soft light glowed in her wrinkled eyes as she stroked my dark hair.

  She took a shallow breath, her chest shaking from the action, and yet her voice dropped to a motherly softness as she smiled at me. “I’ve always said …” She took a shaky breath. “I’ve always said that a sorry thief is better than a snooty saint.” She cracked a small grin. “That didn’t even rhyme.”

  And then I came undone. Bursting into tears, I buried my head in Beatrice’s lap. “I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, my voice muffled by the blankets. “I’m so sorry.”

  Beatrice stroked my hair, letting me unravel in her arms.

  I lifted my head and wiped my tear-stained face. Beatrice smiled and bent her head, ready to listen to me.

  “I … I’m so, so sorry. For everything I’ve ever … for all the things I’ve ever …” I shook my head, choking back more tears. “I’m not making any sense, I know, but I just want to …”

  Beatrice nodded slowly and glanced at the Bible. “Did you … read it?”

  All I could do was nod. “Yes, I did. And now everything’s going to be different for me, Beatrice. I have so much more to learn about God and Jesus and the Bible … but it’s okay now. Because God’s forgiven me too, I just know it. And it’s not because of anything I’ve done, because I haven’t done anything good at all.” I sniffled. “Except, maybe, that I’ve realized how wrong I am. And how much I love you.”

  At this, Beatrice’s eyes began to water up. I squeezed her hand. “I love you, Beatrice. You’re the best mother a girl could have.” I smiled. “And I’m glad you’re mine.”

  Beatrice began to shake. I reached out a hand to steady her. “I love you … too, Allie.”

&nb
sp; I held her hand and watched her until she had dozed off again. And then I laid my head in her lap and, for the first time in weeks, drifted into a peaceful sleep.

  The month of May passed slowly but surely. Beatrice made a fast recovery, and was back to her ladies’ meetings and afternoons at the diner. For the first time, it felt like maybe we were going to be okay.

  Then came June 7, 1944. The day after the Normandy Invasion in France. I can’t remember how I discovered about the operation. Maybe it was the newspaper, maybe it was a telephone call.

  I spent nearly the entire day on the side porch, staring at the ocean. Charlie came over, and together she, Irene, and I prayed and cried over the fallen soldiers.

  Beatrice didn’t say anything about it at all, except to squeeze my hand and whisper, “God is with him, Allie.”

  Pastor Davis held a special church service, ringing the bell one time for every soldier reported fallen. With every clang of the bell, I felt my heart stop for just a moment.

  I rocked slowly on the porch and gripped my untouched lemonade. The ocean was rough and stormy, hitting the rocks by the cliff. Irene was beside me, murmuring about Daniel.

  My mind couldn’t even wander … I just sat in silenced stupor as my brain tried to soak in the thought of so many young men dying on foreign soil.

  I slid my eyes shut and sent up a silent prayer for the safety of Sam: I hadn’t gotten a letter in weeks.

  My eyes opened and I saw my journal lying abandoned on the ground. I bent and picked it up, brushing off a little dirt. I opened it to a fresh page and smoothed down the paper.

  June 7, 1944

  The deep loss we all sense is nearly unbearable. And yet, we must bear it. Everyone in town must live with the fact that our brothers and fathers and husbands and playmates have fought and died … and will not be coming home. With every ring of the church bell, my body tenses, and I think “What if that’s Sam’s bell? What if that’s Russell’s bell? What if that’s Daniel’s bell?”

  In some ways I’m glad I don’t know who has fallen. And yet, maybe if we did it would help us to overcome our grief.