Showers in Season

by Beverly LaHaye

  Nathan began to whistle “Wheel of Fortune” again, and Barry leaned back. Nathan’s skin was tightly drawn over his face, but he had the same dark hair that Barry had, the same blue eyes, the same mouth. At first glance, no one would suspect the vacancy there. But upon closer scrutiny, one could see the dull stare in his eyes and the slack expression on his face. Barry wondered if the baby Tory was carrying would look like Nathan.

  His eyes filled with tears. “If you’d had a choice to be here, would you?” he asked softly, wishing just once his brother would stop whistling and look into his eyes, and answer a simple yes or no. Once would be enough.

  But he just kept whistling and staring through Barry’s head, looking at something just on the other side…something that wasn’t even there.

  Barry remembered the bowl in his hand, and dipped out another spoonful. His mother came out with a plate that had a sandwich and a pickle, a pile of potato chips on the side. She stopped just over him and saw the red rims of his eyes. “Barry? What’s wrong?”

  He looked up at her and smiled. “Nothing, Mama.” He got up and offered her his chair, and got another one that was folded up against the house.

  “You look like something’s bothering you,” she said, sitting down but not taking her eyes from him. “Why did you really come by today?”

  He sat down and let her trade his plate for Nathan’s bowl. “I don’t know. Just wanted to see you guys, I guess.”

  “Everything all right at home?”

  He thought of telling her about the pregnancy, the news that had rocked him almost to Kentucky and back, the sick, deep, drowning feeling that kept destroying any concentration he might have had. “Yes, ma’am. Just fine.”

  She sighed and spooned Nathan another mouthful. “Nothing on your mind, then? Nothing at all?”

  “No, ma’am.” He leaned back in his chair and took a bite of his sandwich without looking to see what she’d made. When he bit into it, he noted that it was ham. It felt tasteless and rubbery in his mouth. He hadn’t had an appetite since they’d left the doctor’s office yesterday. He set the sandwich down and watched his mother feed his brother, watched her wipe his chin. “Mama, do you ever get tired?”

  “’Course I do.”

  “Of taking care of Nathan, I mean.”

  She shot him a look that was full of words. “He’s my son. Just like you. Who else would take care of him?”

  “But do you get tired?” he asked again. It was suddenly very important for him to hear his mother say it straight out.

  She looked down at the food in the bowl and stirred it up with the spoon. “I worry,” she said. “About what will happen to him if anything happens to me.” She shot him a look. “Is that what this is about? Have you been thinking what would happen if I passed on?”

  The thought had never occurred to him. “No, I just wondered. Most mothers have an end to it, somewhere down the road. Their kids grow up and move out and have kids of their own. They get to go on vacations and piddle around the house and spoil their grandchildren. Your job with Nathan never ends.”

  She was quiet as she fed Nathan another spoonful, and Barry wondered for a moment if he’d offended her.

  “I was just thinking about that,” he said quietly. “Realizing how much of your life you’ve given to Nathan.”

  She smiled then and looked up at Barry with perfect peace in her eyes. “God chooses our path, honey. I’m just walkin’ mine. And it’s fine by me.”

  His eyes filled with tears again, and he nodded, suddenly unable to take another bite. He was afraid his lips would start that twitching again, that his heart would push up in his chest and into his throat, that he wouldn’t be able to hide Tory’s pregnancy on his face anymore. Quickly, he looked at his watch and got up. “Oops. Got to get back to the office.”

  “But you didn’t eat.”

  “I’ll take it with me, Mama. Thank you for making it.”

  She got to her feet. “I’m glad you came by, darlin’. I don’t see you enough. Give Spencer and Brittany a kiss for me. Tory, too.”

  “I will.” He kissed her cheek, then patted Nathan’s knee, and darted back through the house. “Bye, Mama,” he yelled behind him before she could see his eyes reddening again.

  He heard her say good-bye as he rushed back out to his car.

  CHAPTER Twelve

  Brenda had never been so glad to see midnight come in her life. The noisy room was somehow lonely, full of people too busy to talk to each other, and the last few phone calls she’d had to make that evening had been excruciating. She had watched the hands on the clock constantly as she listened to people hanging up in her face, telling her they weren’t interested, or yelling at her for calling so late.

  Because she hadn’t quite made her quota of sales for the night, the night supervisor had chewed her out and warned her that her pay would be docked if she didn’t do better the following night.

  She had cried all the way home.

  When she pulled into her driveway, she found a tissue and wiped her eyes so David wouldn’t know how upset she was. Last night, her first night on the job, she had come in with a huge smile and let him think that she’d loved it. Tonight, she feared she wouldn’t be able to pull that off.

  When she got inside, she saw that David was waiting up—or trying to. He had fallen asleep in his chair with the television on. She smiled and went to him, pressed a kiss on his eyelids, and gently woke him.

  He looked up at her.

  “I’m home,” she said. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

  “I missed you,” he said. He rubbed his eyes. “How was it?”

  “Good,” she said. “Did the kids get to bed all right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “A little late. Leah and Rachel had homework in every subject. And Daniel had to finish his project. Oh, and Joseph had one of his mood swings. I went in his room and found him crying in bed.”

  “Crying? What did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t know what was wrong. And I don’t think he did. It’s the medicine, you know.”

  “Yeah, it does that.” She dropped down on the couch, feeling weary to her bones. “But he’s healthy, David. A few mood swings are a small price to pay.”

  “You said it,” David said. He got up and reached for her hand. “Come on, let’s go to bed. Morning’ll be here before you know it.”

  She hung onto that promise as she crawled into bed next to him moments later. Morning would come. She was certain of it. She could endure a little darkness until it did.

  CHAPTER Thirteen

  Sylvia Bryan rubbed her aching neck as she walked through the old Nicaraguan school that Jim, their pastor, and Harry had secured to use as a storm shelter. The structure wasn’t any stronger than some of these families’ homes, but it stood at the center of Leon, away from the hills and volcano that threatened to bury them in mud slides.

  Still, the tropical winds whistled and moaned against the building, warning of the hurricane that was just hours away from León. Internet news was reporting millions of dollars in damage, and hundreds of lives lost in the places already hit.

  Already, dozens of families had come to spend the night, and the sound of crying babies, chattering children, and stem voices of parents echoed in the building. In one of the classrooms, Harry offered medical care to those who had been injured trying to get from their homes as flood waters rose. Other medical missionaries occupied different classrooms, but the majority of their staff had gone out to warn citizens of the coming hurricane and urge evacuation.

  Despite all the activity and the worries about what they faced, Sylvia couldn’t get Tory off her mind. Something was wrong. Through e-mail, Brenda had mentioned Tory’s nausea. In another e-mail, Cathy expressed concern that Tory seemed to be avoiding them. According to Spencer and Brittany, whom Cathy had seen playing outside, their mother was still battling her illness.

  Brenda had tried taking her a casserole, but Tory hadn’t answered the door
. Once, Brenda had waylaid Barry when he’d driven home from work. She had written that Barry looked tired and red-eyed, and had promised her that Tory was fine.

  She hated not being there. Something was definitely wrong. The worst things had been running through her mind all day. Did Tory have cancer? Was she dying? Why would she and Barry be keeping it a secret from their closest friends?

  Harry met her in the hall as she came from the gym. “Have you checked the Internet news lately? The wind is getting stronger, and a family just came in talking about a tornado that hit their street. It’s getting bad out there.”

  “I was going to check,” she said. “Was anyone injured in the tornado?”

  “They don’t know,” Harry said. “Their house wasn’t hit, but they saw the tornado knocking down houses up the hill from them. The kids are terrified. Go check the weather, and then maybe you can come help calm these little ones down.”

  She nodded and hurried into the classroom where they had set up the laptop, complete with extra batteries in case the electricity went out. She checked the location of the hurricane, saw that it was still headed this way. There were reports of five tornadoes down the coast of Nicaragua and Costa Rica already, and more were expected. Even here, they were not safe.

  Her hands were shaking as she took them off the keyboard and covered her face. “Lord, I prayed for purpose,” she whispered. “I think you’re about to answer that prayer, aren’t you?” She sighed and opened her eyes and went to the window to look out. She wondered if they should board this up. In just a few hours, the winds could shatter the glass.

  “Help us, Lord,” she whispered. “Go with us through this storm. Use it to draw these people to you.” Then her mind jolted back to Tory again, and she wondered if the Holy Spirit was prompting her to pray for her friend. What kind of storm was Tory riding out?

  She bowed her head and prayed for her friend, then remembered the children that needed calming in the shelter. She went to turn off the computer, but before she did, checked her e-mail one more time. There was still nothing from Tory, despite all the e-mails Sylvia had sent her asking how she was.

  She hit “compose,” then typed in Tory’s e-mail address.

  Okay, what gives, Tory? Something’s wrong; I know it is. You can’t hide it from me. Please write back and tell me if you’re sick or your marriage is on the rocks or you’re just too busy to answer. I’m waiting for a hurricane to hit, and there are desperate, frightened people all around me, but I can’t quit thinking about you. For the sake of a nervous friend, come clean, okay?

  I’ll be saying a prayer for you, honey, because whatever’s wrong, God can fix it.

  Love,

  Sylvia

  She hit “send,” then dropped her face into her hands and prayed once more for the safety of the people of León as this hurricane tore through their city, and for the spiritual protection of the families in Cedar Circle, where her heart longed to be.

  CHAPTER Fourteen

  When Barry suggested they get a babysitter and go out to dinner, Tory hadn’t been very enthusiastic. She didn’t feel they had much to celebrate, especially since Barry had been brooding worse than she. But when he had taken it on himself to ask Cathy’s daughter Annie to baby-sit, Tory felt she had to go.

  She took special care with her looks that night, pulling her hair up and applying retouch to hide the red circles under her eyes. But she didn’t feel pretty. Her husband’s eyes were dull as he looked at her. They had been dull ever since that day they’d sat in Dr. Grent-well’s office and learned how their lives were about to change.

  They got to the restaurant and were seated at a quiet table, but still, he couldn’t seem to meet her eyes, couldn’t seem to muster a smile or reach for her hand. Her heart ached for the struggle he was having with the news of their child, and she began to wonder why he had wanted to come.

  Then she remembered Cathy’s story of the night her husband had asked for a divorce. She had known there were problems, had even suspected there was another woman, but he had consistently denied it. Then the night came when he had taken her out to a nice restaurant, had held her hand and danced with her. And then he had offered the punch line.

  Over candlelight and to the romantic piano music, he had asked for a divorce.

  Had Barry brought her here to drop some equally explosive bomb?

  They ate in silence, and finally, Tory reached for his hand across the table. His eyes met hers. “Why did you bring me here, Barry?” she asked. “Neither of us is really in the mood for this.”

  He set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, still holding her hand. “We have to talk, Tory.”

  “Okay. Let’s talk.”

  He swallowed and looked down at his food, as if drawing his words from the peas on his plate. “I’ve been thinking a lot the last few days,” he said.

  “So have I.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the things the doctor said. About the options.”

  She frowned, trying to chart where this was going. “There’s really only one option,” she said.

  Again, his gaze drifted away. He was having trouble looking at her. She let go of his hand and leaned forward on the table. “Barry?”

  Candlelight flickered between them, dancing on his face with wobbling uncertainty. He looked away, casting half of his face in shadow. “We have to talk about this,” he said again.

  “About what?” she asked. “The options? What do you mean? Giving the baby up for adoption? Institutionalizing her? Abortion?”

  His mouth trembled as he tried to hold back his emotions. “I’ve been through it all,” he said. “I’ve turned it all over in my mind, and I’ve thought a lot about Nathan.”

  She had known his brother would play into this somehow, so she wasn’t surprised. “I knew you’d be thinking about Nathan. And you’re right to. I guess it’s a situation that’s real similar.”

  “I look back sometimes and I wonder what would have been different about my family—would it have worked better, would I have been a healthier human being, would things have been different, if Nathan had never been born?”

  She wanted to deny that, to tell him to stop thinking it, that Nathan had been born and there was no point in thinking such things, but she wanted him to talk, so she stayed quiet and listened.

  “His life is one of imprisonment,” he said. “He was born in a prison and he’s in a prison today. He’s locked in the bonds of that wheelchair, and he can’t think, he can’t learn, he can’t communicate, he can’t contribute.”

  She looked down at the linen tablecloth, rubbed it with the tip of her finger, and did valiant battle with the tears in her eyes.

  “Yet my mother is…and has always been…a slave to him. She will be until the day she dies. And then who do you think will take over the care of Nathan?”

  Her gaze came slowly up.

  “Us, that’s who,” he said. “We’ll have to care for Nathan for the rest of his life, and then we’ll be the ones who are slaves to him. Or we’ll put him in an institution and deal with the guilt and the grief of letting strangers care for him. One way or another, we’ll be in bondage then.”

  She frowned and tried to take that in. “I hadn’t ever thought of our having to take over the care of Nathan.”

  “That’s because I try not to think of it,” he said. “No one has ever asked me if I would take him. But he’s family, and I’ll be the one responsible.”

  “But your mother is young,” she said. “She’s healthy. She’s not going anywhere.”

  His eyes were brimming, and he swallowed hard. “My point is that this is a lifelong commitment, not just for them, but for me, too. And I look at him and I search for something in his eyes, some awareness, something that tells me that his life has been worthwhile. But I don’t think it has.” His voice broke off, and he rubbed his jaw, then clenched his hand into a fist and dropped his forehead on it. She waited, giving him time to go on. After a moment, he found h
is voice again. “He’s sat there in his own little world for all these years, never once knowing what it felt like to love, never knowing laughter, never thinking about the past or the future or even the present. Just sitting there in that chair, day after day, hour after hour, minute after minute, just staring out into space. Who knows what he sees, what he hears, what he can think?”

  “He doesn’t have Down’s Syndrome,” she cut in. “He’s not like our baby.”

  “No, but it’s similar. His brain doesn’t function normally, and neither will this child’s.”

  She still couldn’t see where he was going with this. He wasn’t just venting. He was leading up to something. Something she wouldn’t want to hear. “So what are you saying?”

  His eyelashes were wet, and he rubbed his eyes harshly. “I’m thinking that I couldn’t live with myself if we institutionalized our baby.”

  She breathed out a sigh of relief. “Good. I’m with you so far.”

  “And I’m thinking that giving it up for adoption—”

  “Her,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Not it. Her.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He seemed to struggle with the pronoun, then started again. “Giving the baby up for adoption is something else I probably couldn’t live with. The shame of it, for one thing. Letting everyone in the world know that we didn’t have what it took to bring up our own baby. That we would give it to perfect strangers to take into their home.” He shook his head. “I just don’t think I could do that.”

  “Neither do I,” she said. “That’s just not an option for me.”

  He nodded in agreement, then leaned on the table, meeting her eyes. “That leaves the third option.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she tried to understand what he meant. “Well, of course. Raising the baby ourselves.”