Travelers Rest

by Ann Tatlock

  © 2012 by Ann Tatlock

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7103-7

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Brief quotations taken from: “O the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus” by S. Trevor Francis; “Spring Night” by Sara Teasdale; “On Hearing a Symphony of Beethoven” by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  Cover design by Andrea Gjeldum

  Author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.

  Praise for Ann Tatlock’s novels

  Promises to Keep

  “Ann Tatlock has a way of spinning a story that leaves readers deeply moved and unguardedly contemplative—and her newest offering lives up to that standard.”

  —Michele Howe, CBA Retailers

  “A lively narrative . . . poignant and moving.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Every Secret Thing

  “Ann Tatlock captures your heart and even your mind from the very first page. . . . A perfect read for teens and adults alike. [She] is a remarkable writer!”

  —Cheri Clay, christianreviewofbooks.com

  I’ll Watch the Moon

  “Tatlock continues to weave twentieth-century history into absorbing, finely crafted literary tales with issues of spirituality springing naturally from the text.”

  —Library Journal

  “This is a novel with staying power.”

  —Kim Pettit, CBA Marketplace

  All the Way Home

  “I picked this book up in my library, and it is far and away the best I have read in a long, long time. I could not put it down and cried my way through it. . . . This wonderful book told a story that was beautifully written, with a wonderful message.”

  —Amazon.com Customer Review

  To

  Janine Hughes

  There will be a day when the burdens of this place

  Will be no more; we’ll see Jesus face to face.

  —Jeremy Camp

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsement

  Dedication

  1 2 3 4 5

  6 7 8 9 10

  11 12 13 14 15

  16 17 18 19 20

  21 22 23 24 25

  26 27 28 29 30

  31 32 33 34 35

  36 37 38 39 40

  41 42 43 44 45

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Ann Tatlock

  Back Ad

  Back Cover

  1

  The man she loved was in one of the rooms of this enormous pale brick building, but she didn’t know which one. She would have to stop at a nurses’ station and ask. Please, can you tell me where Seth Ballantine is? But even when she found him, he wouldn’t be the same Seth Ballantine who had kissed her good-bye a little less than a year ago. She knew that, but it didn’t matter. She had to see him.

  Jane pushed open the front doors of the Asheville Veterans Administration Medical Center complex and stepped into the air-conditioned coolness of the hospital lobby. A rectangular wood railing ran around the center of the room, which was open to an atrium one floor below. Jane stepped to the railing and looked down at the sofas and chairs and the potted plastic plants arranged to give an air of hominess to this decades-old hospital that had catered to the wounded of far too many wars.

  The atrium was bright with sunlight that filtered in through the glass-paneled ceiling high overhead. The sunshine seemed determined to infuse a certain cheeriness into the mass of humanity below, the men and women sitting on the sofas and chairs and moving along the periphery of the room, inching forward with canes or walkers or rolling slowly in wheelchairs, some dragging canisters of oxygen behind them. Jane wondered briefly what they had seen, what battles they’d been through that brought them here. She wondered too if any of them heard what she heard now, or whether music had somehow become lost to them. Because somewhere down there in the atrium was a piano, and someone was playing a piece by Debussy.

  From where she stood, she couldn’t see the piano, but she was grateful to whoever had decided at that very moment to play “Clair de Lune.” The music gave her an excuse to pause and listen, and maybe if she listened long enough she could get her heart to stop racing wildly, and she could enter Seth’s room looking calm and unafraid.

  But she was interrupted when a voice nudged its way through the music and asked, “Can I help you find anything, dear?” Jane turned to find a matronly woman, white haired and plump, smiling amiably at her with unpainted lips. She wore a volunteer badge, and her dimpled hands clutched the shiny stainless steel handle of a coffee cart.

  “No, thank you,” Jane said, trying to smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Cup of coffee? We’ve got decaf. And more than a dozen flavors of tea, if you’d prefer tea.”

  Jane’s eyes scoured the cart, then turned back to the woman. “You don’t have any Seagram’s Seven, do you?”

  The woman’s eyebrows arched and her forehead filled with deep furrows. “Why, no! I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Jane shook her head and forced out a laugh. “I was just kidding,” she said. “I don’t drink.” At least not anymore. Though heaven knew, she could use something right about now to settle her nerves. “I’m fine, really. But thank you for asking.”

  “Well, let me know if I can do anything for you.” Another smile, though somewhat dubious this time.

  “I will. Thank you.”

  With a small nod the woman gave her cart a shove and moved along. Jane turned back to the music, shutting her eyes to take it in.

  How often she had heard this very tune when she was growing up, her grandmother’s album spinning circles on the ancient phonograph in the room always referred to as the parlor. Most certainly it was not to be called the living room. They resided, after all, in the Rayburn House, one of the oldest houses—and the largest—in Troy, North Carolina. It was built in 1822 by her great-great-great-grandfather, Jedediah Rayburn, a forward-thinking entrepreneur who had made his fortune in textiles.

  With her eyes closed she was a child again, curled up on the cushion in the window seat, listening to Debussy and staring through the beveled glass at her grandmother’s garden in the side yard. Gram was out there now, on her knees, broad-brimmed sun hat hiding her face as she weeded the rows of freshly sprung tulips and budding delphinium. Laney Jackson was in the kitchen; Jane could hear the occasional banging of a pot or pan as Laney prepared dinner. Her father and mother were . . . somewhere . . . but that didn’t matter, so long as Gram and Laney were near. With them she was s
afe and very nearly happy. With them she could move out from under the cloud that hovered permanently over her parents’ lives. She didn’t know why her mother and father lived in shadow, but she didn’t want to linger there with them any longer than she had to. Young as she was, she preferred the company of Gram, who taught her to love music and poetry and art, and Laney, who personified quiet satisfaction as she went about her tasks in the kitchen.

  As she listened to the final strains of “Clair de Lune,” though, it was the voice of her mother that came back to her most clearly, breaking into the moment like the unwelcome twitch behind the eyes at the onset of a migraine. “Honestly, Janie, you’re such a dreamer. Come back to earth and make yourself useful.” How many times had she heard her mother say that?

  But she wasn’t dreaming. Not now, nor even when she was a child gazing out the window at the yard. She was looking and listening, latching on to whatever passing beauty she might find, however briefly. A snatch of a symphony, the scent of lilac, the pale shimmer of the summer sun as it lay down at dusk on the green grass—all these were what gave her the courage simply to live.

  And, at the moment, courage was what she needed more than anything.

  Seth had told her not to come, but here she was. How could he expect her not to come, to just give up as though he’d died in that strange desert called Iraq? He hadn’t died. He was still alive. And she still loved him. Nothing changed that.

  And so she had defied him, although he didn’t know it yet. Seth didn’t know she was here, listening to some unseen piano player and working up the nerve to ask him not to give up. Not on himself and not on her.

  Jane opened her eyes and moved along the railing until the piano came into view. There it was, tucked up under the entryway where she’d been standing. A grand piano, it was shiny and sleek and somehow out of place in the midst of all the walking wounded, the vets both young and old, many of whom looked weary and dazed and shell-shocked, long months and even years after their final days in battle.

  A tall young man was seated at the piano, his nimble fingers frolicking over the keys. Jane didn’t recognize what he was playing now—something much livelier than “Clair de Lune.” Something her grandmother wouldn’t have liked. “Too common,” Gram would have said. “Something only the tone-deaf would appreciate.” But the musician played it with such vigor and joy, Jane couldn’t help but smile. His face was turned away from her, but she could see the back of his blond head, the width of his broad shoulders beneath his suit jacket. Though he was dressed like a businessman, he was no doubt a veteran, like most everyone else here. He had probably served over in Iraq, or maybe Afghanistan, though he had obviously returned home whole and sound. Unlike Seth.

  Seth Ballantine, her fiancé. Who lay in one of the rooms of this vast institution, unaware that she was on her way to see him.

  Dear God, give me strength, she thought. She was not one to pray, but there it was, a plea from the center of her soul to the God she hoped was listening.

  She started down the long corridor, not at all sure she was headed in the right direction. She was about to pass a young man leaning up against the wall, sipping something hot from a Styrofoam cup, when she turned back and said, “Excuse me?”

  “Yes?” He wore the maroon uniform of a hospital orderly, a name tag clipped to the breast pocket. He must know something about this place.

  “Can you tell me where the spinal cord unit is?”

  He raised a hand and pointed. “Straight ahead to the elevators, then up to the fifth floor.”

  “Thank you.”

  She moved through the hall to a trio of elevators, where she pushed the first available Up button. In another moment one pair of stainless steel doors slid open with a whoosh and a ding. She stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the fifth floor. I can still turn around and leave. He’ll never know I was here.

  The doors closed and the lift ascended. The bell dinged again as the 5 light on the panel went off and the elevator jerked to a stop. The doors sighed open and Jane stepped out. She found herself on an L-shaped floor, with a nurses’ station located where the two wings met. A young nurse, about Jane’s own age, sat at the desk making notes on a chart.

  “Excuse me,” Jane said hesitantly.

  The nurse looked up and smiled. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Seth Ballantine.”

  “Oh yes.” She pointed toward one of the wings. “He’s in five-sixteen. Last room at the end of the hall on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  She stepped lightly, not wanting to make a sound, as though she wasn’t there. As she walked she looked to the left and to the right, glancing briefly into each room as she passed. They were all singles, one narrow bed in each narrow room. One bedside table. One vinyl chair. One television suspended from the ceiling. And one broken body draped into a wheelchair or tucked between white linens on the bed.

  She heard bits and snatches of daytime television; jagged edges of murmured conversations; people coughing; machines beeping, wheezing, clanging. And oddly, as though misplaced, a burst of laughter, two people sharing something amusing; she couldn’t imagine what, in a place like this.

  Then quiet. A man stepped out of the room where the laughter had been. He was a tall man and commanding somehow, his shoulders back, his chin lifted slightly. His skin was the color of fertile ground, like the richest soil in her grandmother’s garden. He wore civilian clothing, pale slacks and a blue button-up shirt. He must be visiting someone, as he couldn’t be a patient here, not on this wing where people no longer walked. And walk he did, though hesitantly, as though his knees objected. When he and Jane came parallel to each other, he acknowledged her politely with a smile and a nod. She welcomed the gesture and returned the smile, wishing she could freeze the moment and memorize his gaze. Serene and warm, the eyes of this stranger were the kindest she had ever seen, and she drew a certain strength from them.

  He nodded once more and moved on.

  In another moment, Jane stood at the threshold of 516. She took one steadying breath and entered the room.

  2

  Seth was awake and gazing out the window, unaware that anyone was there. In that brief interval Jane drank in his profile and felt the familiar rush of love. She’d known him almost all her life, and she’d known there was something special about him even when they were still children sitting in the same grade-school class. Their being together seemed inevitable, though it took him years to come to the same conclusion. But she was patient, and over time her waiting was rewarded. He’d asked her to marry him seven months before his National Guard unit was deployed to Iraq.

  She quietly stepped closer. “Seth?”

  His head rolled on the pillow, turning toward her. When his eyes met hers, his face registered confusion, surprise, delight, and finally anger, restrained but unmistakable.

  She moved to his bed and touched the rails. “Hello, Seth.”

  He turned away. “I told you not to come.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I couldn’t stay away.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Now that she was beside him, she could see how thin he looked. His once-full cheeks were sunken, and his jaw more pronounced. His too-large T-shirt accentuated his shrunken frame. Jane’s eyes traveled down his chest, over the splayed arms, the motionless fingers cradled on handrests, the lifeless legs extended under the sheet. Arms, hands, legs, feet—useless appendages now and for the past six months, ever since the sniper’s bullet hit him in the neck.

  “You didn’t answer my letters,” she said.

  “Yes, I did. I told you not to come. After that, there was nothing else to say.”

  “Seth—”

  “I mean it, Jane. I don’t want you here.”

  She willed herself not to cry. “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  He glanced at her, frowning. “What is it that you want?”

&nb
sp; She touched the engagement ring she’d worn for more than a year now. “I want what I’ve always wanted. I want to be your wife.”

  He laughed. It wasn’t at all like the happy laughter she’d heard coming from the other room a few minutes ago. “Right. Don’t you get it? Look at me. I’m paralyzed. I’m a quad. What about that don’t you understand?”

  “I know all that. Of course I—”

  “Listen, the ring is yours. Sell it and do something with the money. Take a trip. Go on a cruise. Forget about me, Jane. I’m not here for you anymore.”

  She had to lift her head so that the tears didn’t roll down her face. If she could just take a moment to look out the window, just a moment to take a few deep breaths, she could get through this. She sniffed, cleared her throat. Finally she said, “I’ve been doing a lot of reading—you know, about people with spinal cord injuries. People still get married and some even have kids. I mean, lots of people go on and live good productive lives. Some even gain some movement—”

  “Save it, Jane. Just stop.” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Just stop.”

  “I know you’re angry right now. That’s normal.”

  “You can spare me the psycho-babble. Nothing’s normal. Nothing will ever be normal again. I’d rather have died than ended up like this.”

  “Don’t say that, Seth.”

  “Why not? Why not say the truth?”

  She gave up then trying to hold back the tears. They wouldn’t be stopped. They coursed slowly down her cheeks, two salty lines.

  She heard Seth sigh heavily, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet. “I’m sorry, Jane. God knows, I’m sorry for everything. I always knew I might not come back alive, but I never dreamed I’d come back like this. This isn’t what I want for you. I want you to have a real marriage, to be happy—”

  “But I would be happy. We would be happy. I know it.”

  “No, Jane. Forget it. For your own sake, find someone else to marry and forget about me. I mean it. That’s what I want.”

  As her breath quickened, Jane turned the diamond round and round on her finger. “I don’t want to find someone else to marry. I still love you, Seth.”