The Red Gloves Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  She accepted the offer to come, and that afternoon she promised her parents that this time was different, legitimate. Among the musical pieces she slipped into her satchel before she left for Nashville was “Sarah’s Song.” She wasn’t a bit surprised, when she sang for the president of Trailway Records later that week, that it was “Sarah’s Song” he fell in love with.

  Six weeks later it debuted in the number one spot on the country charts, and suddenly Sarah had the answer to her prayer. The opportunity she’d needed all along. The words she wanted to tell Sam were out there for all the country to hear. Absolutely everywhere.

  Sarah stopped and looked at Beth. “It’s time for the words. The first verse and the chorus.”

  Nothing more needed to be said.

  Beth helped Sarah to the window, and there, for the first time since starting the simple ritual, Sarah opened her mouth and sang the words to her song—the one she’d written for Sam Lindeman back when she’d thought all hope of finding him was gone forever. Despite the years, her voice was sweet and clear, and the words were marked by feelings that had never dimmed.

  It’s not too late for faith to find us.

  Not too late for right to win.

  Not too late, let love remind us.

  Not too late to try again.

  The tune changed, and Sarah stared at the park bench, willing him to be there beside her one more time—one more day when they could sit together and marvel at the miracle of 1941.

  She uttered a quick sigh; it was time for the first verse—the only one she wanted to sing that day. From the corner of her eyes, she glanced at Beth. The woman wasn’t only listening, she was hanging on every word. Sarah kept singing, but she closed her eyes so nothing would interfere with the memory.

  In my life the straight and narrow had a face, and it was yours.

  I took crooked paths around you, shut you out, and locked the doors.

  Long I wandered tired and aimless, seeking all the world might hold.

  There you waited, true and blameless, soul of goodness, heart of gold.

  They were both silent, and Beth swallowed hard. Sobs built within her, sobs she couldn’t explain. What was it about the story that touched her so? And how come whenever Sarah spoke, the story seemed to be about Beth and Bobby instead? Not the details maybe, but the heartache behind them.

  Or maybe it was the song. The words played again in Beth’s mind. It’s not too late for faith to find us. Not too late for right to win. Not too late, let love remind us. Not too late to try again.

  Wasn’t that what Bobby had been trying to tell her ever since her decision to leave?

  Beth choked back the sobs and cleared her throat.

  “I’m tired.” Sarah made a backwards shuffling motion. “Help me, Beth, will you?”

  When Sarah was in bed again, when she’d caught her breath, Beth searched the old woman’s tired eyes. “Sam must’ve heard the song eventually. Right, Sarah?”

  “Now, now.” Sarah’s eyelids lowered, as if she might fall asleep in the midst of her sentence. “You said you’d come tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be here.” Beth took her chair again.

  “The answers are coming, Beth. I promise you.”

  “When, though? Which day?”

  “Some will come tomorrow.”

  Beth didn’t push beyond that. She refilled Sarah’s water pitcher, tucked the blanket in around her again, and bid her good-bye. The story of Sarah and Sam couldn’t be rushed, and maybe that was the richness of it.

  Beautiful stories took longer to tell.

  For a moment, as she hurried into the hall and off to the next resident’s room, Beth let that thought simmer in her heart. If beautiful stories took longer, then why was she in such a rush to leave Bobby, to move Brianna away from her father and give up on their marriage?

  The thought was fleeting, gone almost as soon as it came. The reasons were all too obvious. A story like theirs wouldn’t get better over time; it would get worse. Unbearably worse, right?

  But somehow, even with all the justifications she could muster, her decision to leave felt weak and wrought with poor excuses.

  Several times over the next few hours Beth caught herself remembering the early days with Bobby, the silly little somethings only the two of them understood, the rich rainy Sunday afternoons before Brianna was born, the quiet intimacy that had lasted long after they left the bedroom.

  Why had they let time barge its way between them? And how could they rewind the clock now that they’d reached this point? She’d already made up her mind, hadn’t she? Willing things to be better wouldn’t make that happen between them. Beth mulled that over and wondered: What would it take to find their way back to a marriage marked by love and laughter?

  By the time she drove home late that afternoon, one line of “Sarah’s Song” had etched itself firmly in her mind. She had hummed it and sung it to herself a hundred times that day, and every time the first four words caught in her throat and made her feel like crying.

  It’s not too late …

  They were words that screamed of hope and forgiveness and new life. But the sound of them on her own tongue made her heart heavy with sorrow because Beth was pretty sure about one thing.

  Precious words like those would never apply to her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  PANIC SHOT THROUGH SARAH, and she couldn’t catch her breath.

  She struggled to sit up, to wedge a pillow beneath her, but she couldn’t do either. Instead, she sucked in with all her might. For her efforts, a single raspy bit of air toyed with her lungs, hardly enough to bring relief to her screaming body.

  “Help me!” The words hung on the edge of her tongue, not loud enough for even Sarah to hear. She was dying; that had to be what was happening. Dying before she had a chance to finish her story, before she had the chance to tell Beth how everything had come together.

  Before she’d gotten to the secret of love.

  God, no! Don’t let me die now. Not yet. She winced at the pain in her chest and made another desperate attempt at a breath. This one brought in less air than the last and she could feel herself waning away, feel her heart slowing within her.

  Her eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, a way to pull herself higher on the pillows. If only she could sit, she could catch her breath, and she chided herself for not taking the doctor’s suggestion earlier that month.

  “It would help if you’d sleep sitting up, Sarah. People at the end stages of heart failure find it much more comfortable.”

  “Doctor,” Sarah had smiled at him. “I can’t sleep sitting up. You know that.”

  She reached her hands over her head and wrapped her fingers around the top of the headboard. Pull, Sarah. Come on, pull. She strained until every muscle in her arms ached, but her efforts did nothing to lift her torso, nothing to relieve the pressure in her chest.

  Just yesterday she could sit up on her own, so that meant something was wrong. Something that might send her home to heaven before lunchtime if she didn’t find a way to get the staff’s attention.

  Suddenly she remembered the bell. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Her eyes darted to the wall beside her bed and there it was, bright red, screaming for her to notice it.

  She started to lift her hand, but her body demanded another breath. Squinting, closing her eyes from the effort, Sarah sucked in everything she could, but still her body cried for more. Her eyes opened and she stared at the buzzer. Now! She had to press it now or it would be too late.

  With all her remaining energy, she raised her hand up and jabbed her finger into the button. A buzzer sounded, and Sarah let her hand fall back to the bed, limp and trembling.

  God, help me. I can’t go home yet; that would ruin everything.

  She concentrated on using as little air as possible, but just as she heard fast steps outside her door she felt herself slipping. Farther and farther away she fell, black spots dancing before her eyes, conne
cting, blocking out the faces of the people entering her room.

  “Help … ”

  “Oh, dear! Someone get an ambulance,” Sarah heard. But the sound was so faint she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. “We need oxygen in here, stat.”

  Don’t let me sleep, God … don’t take me home. Not yet. Not …

  The thought faded from her consciousness and she was surrounded by a peaceful quiet and a darkness so heavy she couldn’t think or move or even try to draw a breath.

  Just when the darkness began to frighten her, a warm glow appeared, soft and gentle and drawing her near. Her soul was filled with a longing, a desire to go after the light as if this was the thing she’d been born to do, the thing she’d waited for all her life.

  But something just as strong stopped her, made her turn and search the darkness for a way out. Sarah was no longer sure why, or what mattered so strongly on the other side. Only that she was desperate to go back. God … please … please.

  And in that instant her eyes opened and she could see a host of people working on her. Beth Baldwin was standing in the back of the room, her fingers over her mouth. One of the men held something over Sarah’s mouth and she realized she was sitting up. She could take a breath now, and the terrible weak feeling was going away. She pushed the soft plastic piece away from her mouth, her eyes wide. “What… ” She gasped, filling her throat with sweet air. “What happened?”

  “Ma’am, you need the oxygen mask.” A paramedic slipped it back over her mouth, his eyes kind but firm. Once she was breathing steadily again, he leaned closer. “I’ll explain this as simply as I can, ma’am. Your congestive heart failure is getting worse. Last night while you slept, your lungs began filling with fluid. You almost drowned.”

  Another medical technician stepped in beside him. “You’ll need to stay propped up from now on.”

  From now on …

  The words filtered through Sarah’s mind and immediately she understood what was happening. This was the end her Doctor Cleary had told her about two years ago, when he first made the diagnosis of heart failure.

  “Eventually, your lungs will fill up with fluid,” the doctor had said. “We’ll move you to a permanently upright position, but after that the end could come quickly.”

  Sarah hadn’t been afraid. “How quickly?”

  “Days.” He gave her a sad sort of knowing look. “Sometimes only a few days.”

  Now here she was, three days left in her story, and the time had come. Dr. Cleary had explained it this way: Congestive heart failure was like lying down in a pool that was slowly filling with water. When the water began to cover a person’s mouth and nose, the person with heart failure could sit up, but they wouldn’t have the energy to swim or stand. The water, meanwhile, would keep rising, and eventually it would drown the victim. Slowly, painfully, but as surely as one day followed the other.

  “We’re going to transport you to the hospital, Sarah.” The medic leaned in and smiled at her. Behind him someone else was moving a stretcher into the room.

  Sarah shook her head and pushed the oxygen mask away from her face. “No! My … doctor gave me permission … to stay.” She stared at them, tired from the effort of talking, and just short of angry. “I have a right … to stay; I know what’s happening.”

  A tension hung in the room as the staff members and medical team stopped and stared at her. Out of the corner of her eye Sarah saw Beth quickly leave the room. Sarah coughed twice and waved off the attempts to return the mask to her face. “I’m fine. I need to talk.” She drew a few quick breaths and looked each of them in the eyes. “I’m dying; I know that. But I refuse to … die in a hospital when this … this is my home.”

  The medic took a step back and looked at his peers.

  Just then Beth burst back into the room with what looked like a patient chart. She took hold of the medic’s arm, her voice passionate. “She’s telling the truth.” Beth held the chart up and read the notes written there. “Dr. Cleary listed her as a D.N.R. Do not resuscitate. She’s been given permission to die here, without a trip to the hospital as long as her symptoms are caused by heart failure.” Beth looked up at the man. “They are, right?”

  “She’s very sick, ma’am. We only want to give her the best possible care.”

  Mr. Johnson, the manager on duty, stepped forward. “Let’s honor her wishes. We’ll keep her on oxygen. If there’s anything else we can do, please let us know.”

  A look of resignation crossed the medic’s face. “She could be on intravenous fluids, but as long as she can sip from a straw, the IV isn’t absolutely necessary.” He lowered his voice. “Her lungs are very wet; to be honest, she may not have more than a few days.”

  Sarah felt a sense of elation flash through her. She still had a few days! Just like Dr. Cleary had said! And at this point in her life, that was all that mattered, because a few more days was all she needed.

  God was giving her enough time to finish telling her story to Beth Baldwin.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE GROUP OF PEOPLE standing near Sarah’s bed talked for another few minutes but the decision had been made, they would follow the plan outlined in Sarah’s chart.

  She could stay.

  Sarah wanted to shout for joy, but she was too tired. Instead she held out her hand to Beth and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  The others left the room, but Beth stayed. She squeezed Sarah’s hand, her eyes watery with tears. “Sarah, I’m … I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t so sick.”

  Sarah held tight to Beth’s fingers. The medic had removed the oxygen mask and placed two small air tubes into either side of her nose so she could talk. Her words came slower than she would’ve liked, but at least they came. “Don’t be … sorry. I’m ready to go.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I have just … one thing left to do.”

  Beth pulled up a chair and stroked Sarah’s hand. Two small tears fell from her eyes and splashed across her cheeks. “Is it what I think?”

  “Yes.” Sarah hesitated, waiting until she caught her breath. The waters were rising; she could feel them even now. “I must finish the story.”

  “Finish it today, Sarah.” Beth wiped at her cheek. “Please.”

  “No.” A feeling of peace and knowing settled over Sarah’s soul. “Today is the tenth day … I will tell you … only that part.”

  Beth exhaled and fearful uncertainty colored her expression. “But what if … ”

  Sarah shook her head. She could feel the light shining in her eyes. “God will give me three days.” She pressed her hand against her heart. “I know it in here.” She made a gentle motion toward the nightstand. “But I’ll need … your help, Beth.”

  Beth bit her lip, her expression determined. “I’m here, Sarah. Whatever you need I’m here.”

  “Very well.” Sarah relaxed against her pillows and found the window once more. “Let’s get started.”

  Beth was filled with dread, and nothing Sarah said about being ready or having three more days did anything to relieve the feeling. In the days of December, she’d come to rely on Sarah in some way she couldn’t quite define. In a world turned upside down, a world where divorce and defeat and discouragement reigned, “Sarah’s Song” had given her hope again.

  And now Sarah was dying.

  Even the medics had said so; Sarah Lindeman was going to die, and then what? Who would remember her song or her story? And what if she didn’t live long enough to finish it?

  The questions haunted her even as Sarah asked her to take the ornament from the tenth envelope. The frail piece of paper inside read Victory, and Beth found a place for it on the small tree. Bit by bit, the story began to spill from Sarah’s lips in soft breathy bursts. As it did, Beth felt her anxiety grow dim, felt herself forget about the panic that had been welling up inside her since she’d arrived at work and saw the ambulance and fire truck parked outside.

  Sarah’s words soothed her soul, allowed her to be carried ba
ck, back in time to the fall of 1941, to the next part of the story.

  Sarah explained how Trailway Records released “Sarah’s Song” as a single and placed it on a fast track. It came out in mid-November, and immediately hit number one on the country charts. Sarah was an overnight sensation.

  “You were a celebrity, Sarah!” Beth narrowed her eyes, surprised. One of the girls on staff had mentioned something about Sarah being a professional singer in her day, but a number one single? “No wonder Sam heard the song.”

  “He didn’t … hear it right away.” Sarah inhaled through her nose and waited a moment. When she’d caught her breath, she picked up the story again.

  Offers poured in and dates were set for Sarah to cut her first album. Everywhere she went people congratulated her on her success, praising her voice and the impact the song was making in the lives of the listeners. But it wasn’t enough for Sarah.

  “Victory would only come if Sam heard the song.” She chuckled softly and it became a series of short coughs. “In the end, he didn’t hear the song at all, but an interview. A radio interview.”

  Sam Lindeman had been at home in his New Jersey apartment on Saturday morning, about to enjoy a two-week break from school, when he flipped on the radio. Instantly, he recognized the voice of the woman speaking. It was Sarah; he would know her voice after a hundred years of missing her.

  He turned up the volume and heard what she had to say.

  Sarah’s eyes drew distant. “The announcer asked me what had inspired ‘Sarah’s Song,’ and I told him. I’d loved just one man in my life, and I’d lost him. I would do anything to have him back again, but it was too late. The announcer asked me his name and I told him. Sam. Sam Lindeman. Then I took it a step further. ‘Sam,’ I said over the air. ‘If you’re out there, I’m sorry for leaving. I love you; I always will.’ ”

  Sarah’s words were slow with frequent stops but that didn’t matter. Beth hung onto every line, imagining a young man sitting near the radio, hearing the woman he still loved declaring her feelings for him.