“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Sarah said. “I’m afraid I’ve turned my back for too long. I don’t even know how to find my way to him now.”
She wiped the tears from her face with the heels of her hands, but more came. She couldn’t seem to stop any of this anymore.
“You don’t have to find your way, Sarah,” the reverend said. “If you’re ready, God will find you. I have no doubt he’s been there all along. Maybe even in those visions.”
“I think I’m afraid to be ready. I’m afraid I’ll just be hurt again.”
He folded his hands against his chest, pressing them against his heart. “I know this for sure: God loves you no matter how much you resist. In my opinion, you should be telling him all of this.”
Sarah paused, her hand on her cheek. “Yell at God?”
“I’ve been known to do it a time or two myself. I loved your father too.” His face worked. “I haven’t seen joy in your eyes in a long time. Maybe you need to yell.”
Reverend Al folded his hands. He reminded her of Audrey, somehow knowing she wasn’t finished.
“I have something else to ask you,” she said. “It might be asking you to betray a confidence, so if it is I’ll understand, but I have to ask because—”
“Sarah,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me the question first? Then we’ll see.”
She nodded. “Do you remember that last night before my dad died, when you were with him?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“I have a confession to make: I was listening to your conversation.”
“From the stairs.” He gave her a soft chuckle. “Your father knew you were there. He asked me to lower my voice so we could talk about something that was troubling him.”
“Can you tell me what it was? If you can’t—”
Reverend Al put his hand on hers. “I can tell you he was struggling. Something like the way you are now.”
“Struggling? My dad?”
“He’d been wrestling with it for years. That night, he was desperate to know if I thought he was forgiven.”
First Wife? Sarah wanted to say. It was the only thing it could possibly be.
“He was, wasn’t he?” Sarah said. “Forgiven, I mean?”
“Of course he was. That’s the nature of this God who loves us.” The reverend’s shoulders sagged. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure I convinced your father to accept that. I don’t like to think that he died with that still weighing on him—”
“He didn’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
Sarah squeezed his hand. “His last words to me were ‘God forgives me, SJ,’ ” she said.
And then with a murmured thanks she bolted, while she could still see.
She got to the car before that was completely impossible. But she did see one thing. The wise men Christmas card—on the passenger seat as if she’d put it there herself.
This time she picked it up and pressed it against her cheek.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Outside Matt’s office, Wes’s voice rose above the din of shouted bets and chairs rolling into place at the other end of the hall.
“You on watch, Cherie?”
“In your dreams,” she croaked.
“Gentlemen, start your engines!”
Wes sounded so much like him, Matt wanted to hurl into the trash can. The familiar rattle of chairs wiped out all chance of concentrating, but he turned to his computer screen anyway and scrolled down the list of courses for mechanics. They’d be done out there in about eleven seconds, not counting the time it would take to divide the spoils.
But the expected announcement of the winner was cut off by another familiar sound. As in Uncle Clay barking, “All right, kids. Recess is over.”
Matt rolled his own chair back so he could see what was about to go down. The hall was suddenly empty except for Wes, who stood nose to nose with Clay, arms dangling at his sides like the thirteen-year-old he was. Matt could see his Adam’s apple working.
“This your gig?” Clay said.
“Well, this time, yeah.”
“This time’s all I’m concerned about. This happens again and I’m writing you up. And you don’t want that.”
“How come you never got all over Matt like this?”
Matt winced at the whine in Wes’s voice. Make that a twelve-year-old.
“I never caught Matt in the act,” Clay said.
He turned on his heel and disappeared from Matt’s view. When his footsteps had faded down the hall, Wes rapped his knuckles on Cherie’s wall.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Cherie.”
“Never said I’d give you one,” she said. Her phone rang.
“You always—”
“Good afternoon. United Financial. How can I direct your call?”
Wes put himself in Matt’s full view and held out his hands in a clear What the what? Matt shrugged.
“Really? Really?”
Matt rolled back to the computer. Wes went off, flinging over his shoulder, “Appreciate the support, Matthew.”
“Evans.”
“Yeah, Cherie,” Matt said.
“Your father’s on the line. What do you want me to tell him?”
Matt looked at the computer screen, still bright with the website for the Advanced Technology Institute.
“Nothing,” Matt said. “Put him through.”
“Putting him through.”
When Matt’s desk phone rang, he wrapped his fingers around the receiver and let it ring again. Once he heard his father’s voice, he’d want to fold. He had to at least start out strong.
“Hey, Dad,” he said.
“You decided to talk to me. You must need money.”
It didn’t take much imagination to see the smirk twist his father’s face. He’d have his high-end desk chair tilted back, twirling his Mont Blanc in his fingers. Matt brought his own chair upright and tossed his pencil on his desk.
“Thanks, but I don’t need money.”
“I wasn’t offering any.”
Then why the—
“This is about Christmas.” The AK-47 was loaded and aimed. “I personally don’t see how your being here is going to make life better for your mother, but she seems to think so. Heads don’t belong in the sand unless you’re an ostrich. She has the feathers to prove it.”
“Could we just get to the—”
“Here’s what’s happening. I’ve made a plane reservation for you for tomorrow night. That will give your mother Christmas Eve and this party and Christmas Day with you. All of you will be here. That should get her off my back for at least a week.”
“Dad—”
“Consider thinking before you open your mouth. What a concept.”
Matt stood up.
“This is costing me an arm and a leg,” his father went on, “and it’s the last time I intend to do it. From now on when it comes to your mother’s feelings, you’re either going to have to grow up or give up. It’s time to choose—”
“Dad, stop.” Matt dove through the shocked window of silence. “I’m sorry you went to all that expense, but I’m not coming to Philly for Christmas.”
“Don’t insult me by telling me you have plans.” His father’s voice was menacing. “You’ve never made a plan in your life unless it was to—”
“I have a responsibility here.”
Matt should have known the out-and-out guffaw was inevitable, but it still came at him like a barrage of bullets.
“Her name is Sarah,” he said. “You met her. She’s pregnant with our baby.”
The brief silence was devoid of shock this time. “It was only a matter of time. How many times have I said it? Bottom line: you screw it up, you fix it. So you do need money. How much does an abortion cost these days?”
“She’s not having an abortion. Not if I can help it. My plan is to marry her and take care of both of them.”
“With what? Your good looks? That’s what got you into this situation, b
ut it’s not going to get you out. If you couldn’t support it, you shouldn’t have chased it.”
“I have a job, Dad—” Matt started to say. But he sounded too much like Wes, whining to Clay and not knowing what to do with his arms.
His father swore. “The minute you get real is the minute I’ll believe we share DNA.”
“Look, tell Mom I’m sorry. No, I’ll do that myself.”
“You will not tell her about this. Not until I—”
“I have to get back to work,” Matt said. “Merry Christmas.”
His father was still sputtering as Matt hung up the phone. He watched his hand shake.
“How you doing, Evans?”
“You got a barf bag, Cherie?”
“No. I’m putting a call in to Sarah.”
“Yeah. Use her landline at her apartment.”
“That’s where I’m going.”
Sarah didn’t pick up, of course. She would still be at work. He wanted her to have the message when she got home, when she could think about it.
At the sound of the beep, Matt closed his eyes and pictured her standing over the phone, all that luscious hair curtaining the sides of her face, brown eyes intent, waiting for something she could count on.
“Hey, Sar,” he said. “Please listen to me. I have to talk to you. In person. I’m not leaving you alone with this, so if I don’t hear back from you by eleven tomorrow morning, I’m coming to you.” He drew in more air. “Please don’t do anything until we talk. Please. I love you.”
Matt returned the phone gently to its cradle. The energy that had powered him through the conversation with his father and his message to Sarah dissolved. The ball was in her court now, and he had no way of knowing if she was even still in the game. He smothered his face with his hand and felt the muscles work against what clawed at his throat.
Only a few minutes passed before he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks, Uncle Clay,” he said.
“No problem, my man. No problem.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sarah had lived alone for two and a half years, and she had spent plenty of nights by herself before that in her New York apartment while her roommate slept at her boyfriend’s place. The aloneness was never hard; she actually liked not having someone constantly filling the airwaves because heaven forbid there should be quiet. She’d always liked the freedom to pick her own music and the space to spread out a project. And the silence. The silence was like a cloak she could wrap herself in and magically forget that a boss had made her feel like she wasn’t enough or a date had told her she was too much.
But that night it was hard. Part of that was the exhausted but exhilarated voice of Jack on the phone, telling her that Baby Alexander had finally been born, weighing in at nine pounds, two ounces.
“Twenty-four hours of labor,” he said, as if he were expounding on the stamina of an NFL quarterback. “But she did great.”
“And the baby?”
“He’s great too. Got a great set of lungs on him.”
“That’s awesome,” Sarah said. “Please give Audrey my love.”
“She said to tell you something. What was it? Sorry—I haven’t slept in—”
“It’s okay. She can tell me later.”
“No, wait. She’ll have my head—it was something like, Keep asking the questions. Something like that.”
“Yeah,” Sarah said. “Something like that.”
But as they hung up, Sarah sagged. She was tired of asking questions. And she was so lonely she could hardly breathe.
There was always the flashing light on her phone. She knew it would be a message from Matt. Hoped it would be. Was afraid it would be, and that she’d hear the same old thing.
She didn’t. There was no hint of a coming punch line or the desperate begging she’d heard in his other messages. The mention of a deadline—eleven tomorrow—was firm. So was the promise to come to her if she didn’t get back to him. It made her long for the Matt she’d hoped for.
Yeah, speaking of questions. Was it a Matt who was working out of guilt? Obligation? All the things sure to take them out before they ever got started?
She sank into the desk chair. She would call him back, but not now. Not when she was this lonely and vulnerable. Not when she would have given just about anything to have him in her kitchen burning the toast. She had to make her decision based on real consequences. Right? Didn’t she? Even now, after Audrey and Reverend Al and her dad’s whisper?
Sarah glanced at the compartments of those real consequences on her desk and then registered a double take. The card perched like a precarious bird atop the plastic container of drawers. The two wise men looked steadily at her, while the third still gazed at the star, as if he hadn’t yet seen what he’d come to see.
As if he wasn’t going to see it until she did.
“You know what?” Sarah said to him. “Show me what ya got.”
She wasn’t sure who she was talking to, but she felt a stirring of eagerness as she pulled on sweats and climbed into bed and under the covers she’d thrown aside that morning on the way to the daily upchuck. Real or not, a vision was guaranteed to make her feel happier than she did right now.
I haven’t seen joy in your eyes in a long time, Reverend Al said.
Sarah didn’t hope for quite that much, but she burrowed in and closed those eyes and waited to see what Daisy would look like at ten or thirteen or seventeen . . .
But as the gold light formed its bright frame, a dark-haired beauty in her twenties placed a puff-cheeked infant into her arms. The little one wore a red sleeper trimmed with white fleece, and a matching cap topped her dark fuzz of hair. If she was three weeks old yet, Sarah would be surprised—yet her eyes were as alert and searching as her mother’s had been.
Before Sarah could arrange her thoughts, she whispered, “Oh, Daisy, she’s beautiful.”
Her eyes went quickly to the young woman, but there was no sign that she’d made a mistake. Daisy squeezed Sarah’s shoulders from behind.
“I want you to teach me how to be the mom you were to me,” she said.
Sarah swallowed that back and carried her granddaughter to the Christmas tree in the bay window she knew would be there. In a large silver ball she saw the gray in her swept-up hair and the crow’s feet around her eyes reflected amid crooked glitter letters that spelled out “Momy.” It didn’t surprise her that she wore a gold knit sweater and 18-karat earrings, all far more sophisticated than anything she would choose now. Whenever “now” was.
A young man Daisy’s age kissed her cheek. “She’s already a great mom. Right, little Sarah?”
“When is Dad getting here?” Daisy called from another room.
Sarah felt her arms tighten around the baby. Dad. Did she mean Matt? Why wasn’t he there? Had he never lived there?
The gold light blurred at its edges. Sarah turned from the tree, frantic for another sight of Daisy and a chance to ask her those questions. But as she moved across the room, the baby evaporated from her arms and the living room, so sparkling with Christmas promise, gave way to a stark white hallway and the smell of antiseptic that failed to cover the odors of advancing age.
Sarah tried to hug herself close with the gold-knit sleeves, but she was back in her NYU sweatshirt. Her dark hair hung limp on her shoulders.
“Go home, girl. It’s Christmas Eve and you are off duty.”
Sarah turned to a nurse’s station decked with bedraggled tinsel garland and an already curling poinsettia. An African-American woman in reindeer print scrubs was talking to a youngish woman with a half-ponytail, half-bun and a backpack slung over her shoulder.
“I’m going,” the younger woman said. “I just want to check in on 208 first.”
“You talkin’ about Sarah?” Reindeer Lady’s voice went shrill. “You sure you want to do that? You can’t tell from one minute to the next whether she’s goin’ order you out the room or start in tellin’ you what a success she was
in the advertisin’ business.” She tucked her chin. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t listen to that but about five times ’fore I start noddin’ off.”
Ponytail Girl shrugged. “I know, but I don’t think anybody’s coming in to see her tonight. I can at least wish her a merry Christmas.”
She started past Sarah, who said, “Excuse me, but could you tell me—”
What? Where I am? From the looks of this place, they would probably declare her senile and put her in a room, and this was not a place she wanted to end up in.
It didn’t seem to matter what she asked. The girl looked through Sarah as if she were nonexistent and opened the door to room 208. Sarah waved at Reindeer Lady, who appeared to be staring right at her, but she just shook her head at Ponytail’s retreating back and dropped into her chair.
The gold light was gone, and the edges of Sarah’s line of sight were foggy. So she wasn’t really here. She could just wait until she woke up and she would be back in her apartment, and the sooner the better. She shivered even in the smothering nursing home heat. The emptiness there was better than the emptiness here.
Sarah twisted to search for an elevator, but she was stopped by Ponytail Girl’s too-loud voice. She sounded as if she were talking to a preschooler for whom English was a second language.
“I came to wish you a merry Christmas, Ms. Sarah.”
Again with the Sarah.
Despite the obvious fact that no one could see her, Sarah looked up and down the hall before she followed Ponytail to the doorway and stood behind her. The patient was blocked from Sarah’s view, but she could clearly hear her high pitch.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Where had she heard that voice before?
“Well,” Ponytail said, “I know you don’t have family coming tonight.”
“My sister was here this morning. She brought me that tree.”
The nurse took a few steps into the room so Sarah could check out the tree too: a potted Norfolk pine no bigger than a houseplant, hung with—
Sarah plastered her hand over her mouth.
“Did her kids make those decorations for you?” Ponytail said.
The old lady gave a thick laugh—or a bronchial cough—Sarah couldn’t tell which.
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