Читать книгу Upon a Midnight Clear - Gail Martin Gaymer - Страница 9

Callie Randolph scanned the employment ads of the Indianapolis News. Her eyes lit upon a Help Wanted entry: Special child, aged five, needs professional caregiver. Live-in. Good wage. Contact David Hamilton. 812 area code. Southern Indiana, she assumed. “Live-in,” she wanted. But a child?

She raised her head from the ad and caught her mother, eyeing her.

“You’ve been quiet since you got home,” Grace Randolph said, resting back in the kitchen chair. “Tell me about the funeral.”

“It was nice, as funerals go. But sad, so close to the holidays.” Ethel’s death, coming as it did on the footsteps of Christmas, jolted Callie with the memories of a birth six Christmases earlier. Pushing away the invading thoughts, Callie shifted in her chair and focused on her mother. “More people than I would expect at the funeral for someone in her nineties, but I suppose most of the mourners were friends and business acquaintances of Ethel’s children. The family has a name in the community.”

“Ah yes, when we’re old, people forget.”

“No, it’s not that they forget. When we’re that old, many of our own friends and acquaintances have already died. Makes coming to a funeral difficult.” Callie hoped to lighten Grace’s negative mood. “It’ll feel strange not taking care of Ethel. She had the faith of a saint and a smile right to the end. Always had a kind word.” She raised her eyes, hoping her mother had heard her last statement.

Grace stared across the room as if lost in thought, and Callie’s mind drifted to the funeral and the preacher’s comforting words. “Ethel lived a full and glorious life, loving her Lord and her family.” Callie pictured the wrinkled, loving face of her dying patient. Ethel’s earthly years had definitely been full and glorious.

In contrast, Callie’s nearly twenty-six years had been empty and dull. Her dreams had died that horrible March day that she tried to block from her memory. Her life seemed buried in its own tomb of guilt and sorrow.

“So, about the funeral—?”

Callie slammed the door on her thoughts and focused on her mother.

“Tell me about the music? Any hymns?” Grace asked.

Callie eyed her, sensing an ulterior motive in her question. “Real nice, Mom. Organ music and hymns.”

“Which hymns?”

Callie pulled her shoulders back, feeling the muscles tightening along the cords of her neck. “‘Amazing Grace,’ ‘Softly and Tenderly.”’

“I can hear you singing that one. So beautiful.”

Callie fought the desire to bolt from the room. She sensed an argument heading her way. Instead, she aimed her eyes at the newspaper clutched in her hands.

Grace leaned on an elbow. “So what will you do now?”

“Find a new job, I suppose.” She hesitated, wondering what comment she’d receive about her newest resolve. “But I’ve made a decision.” Callie met her mother’s eyes. “I’m not going to give elderly care anymore. I’ll find something else.”

“Praise the Lord, you’ve come to your senses. Callie, you have a nursing degree, but you continue to waste your time with the deathwatch. You need to live and use the talent God gave you.”

Deep creases furrowed Callie’s forehead. “Please don’t call it the deathwatch. Caring for older people has been a blessing. And I do use my talents.” She shook her head, amazed at her mother’s attitude. “Do you think it’s easy to nurse someone who’s dying? I use as many skills as I would in a regular hospital.”

Grace fell back against the chair. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to belittle your work, but it’s not a life for a young woman. Look at you. You’re beautiful and intelligent, yet you spend your life sitting in silent rooms, listening to old people muttering away about nothing but useless memories. What about a husband…and children? Don’t you want a life for yourself?”

She flinched at her mother’s words. “Please, don’t get on that topic, Mom. You know how I feel about that.”

“I wish I knew when you got these odd ideas. They helped put your father in his grave. He had such hopes for you.”

Callie stiffened as icy tendrils slithered through her. How many times was she reminded of how she had helped kill her father? After his death three years earlier, the doctor had said her dad had been a walking time bomb from fatty foods, cigarettes and a type-A personality. Though guilt poked at her, she knew she hadn’t caused his death. Yet, she let her mother rile her.

Grace scowled with a piercing squint. “I think it began when you stopped singing,” she said, releasing a lengthy, audible sigh. “Such a beautiful voice. Like a meadowlark.”

“Stop. Stop, Mother.” Callie slammed her hand on the tabletop. “Please, don’t call me that.”

Grace looked taken aback. “Well, I’m sorry. What’s gotten into you?” She gaped at Callie. “You’re as white as a sheet. I only called you a—”

“Please, don’t say it again, Mother.” Callie pressed her forehead into her hand.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” Grace sat for a moment before she began her litany. “I don’t know, Callie. I could cry when I think of it. Everyone said you sang like an angel.”

Callie stared at the newspaper, the black letters blurring. Her mother wouldn’t stop until she’d made her point. Callie ached inside when she thought about the music she’d always loved. She struggled to keep her voice calm and controlled. “I lost my interest in music, that’s all.” Her fingernails dug into the flesh of her fisted hand.

“Your father had such hopes for you. He dreamed you’d pass your audition with the Jim McKee Singers. But his hopes were buried along with him in his grave.”

Callie modulated her pitch, and her words came out in a monotone. “I didn’t pass the audition. I told you.”

“I can’t believe that, Callie. You’ve said it, but everyone knew you could pass the audition. Either you didn’t try or…I don’t know. Being part of Paul Ivory’s ministry would be any girl’s dream. And the Jim McKee Singers traveled with him in the summer all over the country, so it wouldn’t have interfered with your college studies. And then you just quit singing. I can’t understand you.”

“Mother, let’s not argue about something that happened years ago.”

“But it’s not just that, Callie. I hate to bring it up, but since the baby, you’ve never been the same.”

Unexpected tears welled in Callie’s eyes, tears she usually fought. But today they sneaked in behind the emotions elicited by Ethel’s death, and the memory of the baby’s Christmas birth dragged them out of hiding.

Callie had never seen the daughter she bore six years earlier. The hospital had their unbending policy, and her parents had given her the same ultimatum. A girl placing a child for adoption should not see her baby.

She begged and pleaded with her parents to allow her to keep her daughter. But they would have no part of it. She struggled in her thoughts—longing to finish an argument that held weight. In the end, her parents were correct. A child needed a secure and loving home. Adoption was best for her baby daughter. But not for Callie. Against her wishes, Callie signed the papers releasing her baby for adoption.

Grace breathed a ragged sigh. “Maybe your father and I made a mistake. You were so young, a whole lifetime ahead of you. We thought you could get on with your life. If you’d only told us who the young man was—but you protected him. Any decent young man would have stood up and accepted his responsibilities. For all we knew, you never told him, either.”

“We’ve gone over this before. It’s in the past. It’s over. It’s too late.” She clutched the newspaper, crumpling the paper beneath her fingers.

“We meant well. Even your brother and sister begged you to tell us who the fellow was. You could have been married, at least. Given the baby a name, so we could hold our head up in public. But, no.”

Callie folded the paper and clasped it in her trembling hand. She rose without comment. What could she say that she hadn’t said a million times already? “I’m going to my room. I have a headache.” As she passed through the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder and saw her mother’s strained expression.

Before Grace could call after her, Callie rushed up the staircase to her second-floor bedroom and locked the door. She could no longer bear to hear her mother’s sad-voiced recollections. No one but Callie knew the true story. She prayed that the vivid picture, too much like a horror movie, would leave her. Yet so many nights the ugly dream tore into her sleep, and again and again she relived the life-changing moments.

She plopped on the corner of the bed, massaging her neck. The newspaper ad appeared in her mind. David Hamilton. She grabbed a pen from her desk, reread the words, and jotted his name and telephone number on a scratch pad. She’d check with Christian Care Services tomorrow and see what they had available. At least she’d have the number handy if she wanted to give Mr. Hamilton a call later.

She tossed the pad on her dressing table and stretched out on the bed. A child? The thoughts of caring for a child frightened her. Would a child, especially a sick child, stir her longing?

She’d resolved to make a change in her life. Images of caring for adults marched through her head—the thought no longer appealed to her. Nursing in a doctor’s office or hospital held no interest for her: patients coming and going, a nurse with no involvement in their lives. She wanted to be part of a life, to make a difference.

She rolled on her side, dragging her fingers through the old-fashioned chenille spread. The room looked so much the way it had when she was a teenager. How long had her mother owned the antiquated bedspread?

Since college, her parents’ home had been only a stop-off place between jobs. Live-in care was her preference—away from her parents’ guarded eyes, as they tried to cover their sorrow and shame over all that had happened.

When she’d graduated from college, she had weighed all the issues. Geriatric care seemed to encompass all her aspirations. At that time, she could never have considered child care. Her wounds were too fresh.

Her gaze drifted to the telephone. The name David Hamilton entered her mind again. Looking at her wristwatch, she wondered if it was too late to call him. Eight in the evening seemed early enough. Curiosity galloped through her mind. What did the ad mean—a “special” child? Was the little one mentally or physically challenged? A boy or girl? Where did the family live? Questions spun in her head. What would calling hurt? She’d at least have her questions answered.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, rose, and grabbed the notepad. What specific information would she like to know? She organized her thoughts, then punched in the long-distance number.

A rich baritone voice filled the line, and when Callie heard his commanding tone, she caught her breath. Job interviews and query telephone calls had never bothered her. Tonight her wavering emotions addled her. She drew in a lengthy, relaxing breath, then introduced herself and stated her business.

Hamilton’s self-assured manner caught her off guard. “I’m looking for a professional, Ms. Randolph. What is your background?”

His tone intimidated her, and her responses to his questions sounded reticent in her ears. “It’s Miss Randolph, and I’m a professional, licensed nurse.” She paused to steady her nerves. “But I’ve preferred to work as a home caregiver rather than in a hospital. The past four years, I’ve had elderly patients, but I’m looking for a change.”

“Change?”

His abruptness struck her as arrogant, and Callie could almost sense his arched eyebrow.

“Yes. I’ve been blessed working with the older patients, but I’d like to work with…a child.”

“I see.” A thoughtful silence hung in the air. “You’re a religious woman, Miss Randolph?”

His question confounded her. Then she remembered she’d used the word blessed. Not sure what he expected, she answered honestly. “I’m a Christian, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She waited for a response. Yet only silence filled the line. With no response forthcoming, she asked, “What do you mean by ‘special,’ Mr. Hamilton? In the ad, you mentioned you needed a caregiver for a ‘special child.”’

He hesitated only a moment. “Natalie…Nattie’s a bright child. She was always active, delightful—but since her mother’s death two years ago, she’s become…withdrawn.” His voice faded.

“Withdrawn?”

“Difficult to explain in words. I’d rather the prospective caregiver meet her and see for herself what I mean. Nattie no longer speaks. She barely relates to anyone. She lives in her own world.”

Callie’s heart lurched at the thought of a child bearing such grief. “I see. I understand why you’re worried.” Still, panic crept over her like cold fingers inching along her spine. Her heart already ached for the child. Could she control her own feelings? Her mind spun with flashing red warning lights.

“I’ve scared you off, Miss Randolph.” Apprehension resounded in his statement.

She cringed, then lied a little. “No, no. I was thinking.”

“Thinking?” His tone softened. “I’ve been looking for someone for some time now, and I seem to scare people off with the facts…the details of Nattie’s problem.”

The image of a lonely, motherless child tugged at her compassion. What grief he had to bear. “I’m not frightened of the facts,” Callie said, but in her heart, she was frightened of herself. “I have some personal concerns that came to mind.” She fumbled for what to say next. “For example, I don’t know where you live. Where are you located, sir?”

“We live in Bedford, not too far from Bloomington.”

Bedford. The town was only a couple of hours from her mother’s house. She paused a moment. “I have some personal matters I need to consider. I’ll call you as soon as I know whether I’d like to be interviewed for the position. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Certainly. That’s fine. I understand.” Discouragement sounded in his voice.

She bit the corner of her lip. “Thank you for your time.”

After she hung up the telephone, Callie sat for a while without moving. She should have been honest. She’d already made her decision. A position like that wouldn’t be wise at all. She was too vulnerable.

Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to work for David Hamilton. His tone seemed stiff and arrogant. A child needed a warm, loving father, not one who was bitter and inflexible. She would have no patience with a man like that.

David Hamilton leaned back in his chair, his hand still clasping the telephone. Useless. In two months, his ad had resulted in only three telephone calls. One courageous soul came for an interview, but with her first look at Nattie, David saw the answer in the woman’s eyes.

He supposed, as well, the “live-in” situation might be an obstacle for some. With no response locally, he’d extended his ad further away, as far as Indianapolis. But this Miss Randolph had been the only call so far.

He longed for another housekeeper like Miriam. Her overdue retirement left a hole nearly as big, though not as horrendous, as Sara’s death. No one could replace Miriam.

A shudder filtered through him. No one could replace Sara.

Nothing seemed worse than a wife’s death, but when it happened, he had learned the truth. Worse was a child losing her mother. Yet the elderly housekeeper had stepped in with all her love and wisdom and taken charge of the household, wrapping each of them in her motherly arms.

Remembering Miriam’s expert care, David preferred to hire a more mature woman as a nanny. The voice he heard on the telephone tonight sounded too young, perhaps nearly a child herself. He mentally calculated her age. She’d mentioned working for four years. If she’d graduated from college when she was twenty-one, she’d be only twenty-five. What would a twenty-five-year-old know about healing his child? Despite his despair, he felt a pitying grin flicker on his lips. He was only thirty-two. What did he know about healing his child? Nothing.

David rose from the floral-print sofa and wandered to the fireplace. He stared into the dying embers. Photographs lined the mantel, memories of happier times—Sara smiling warmly with sprinkles of sunlight and shadow in her golden hair; Nattie with her heavenly blue eyes and bright smile posed in the gnarled peach tree on the hill; and then, the photograph of Sara and him on his parents’ yacht.

He turned from the photographs, now like a sad monument conjuring sorrowful memories. David’s gaze traversed the room, admiring the furnishings and decor. Sara’s hand had left its mark everywhere in the house, but particularly in this room. Wandering to the bay window, he stood over the mahogany grand piano, his fingers caressing the rich, dark wood. How much longer would this magnificent instrument lie silent? Even at the sound of a single note, longing knifed through him.

This room was their family’s favorite spot, where they had spent quiet evenings talking about their plans and dreams. He could picture Sara and Nattie stretched out on the floor piecing together one of her thick cardboard puzzles.

An empty sigh rattled through him, and he shivered with loneliness. He pulled himself from his reveries and marched back to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and jamming it into the glowing ashes. Why should he even think, let alone worry, about the young woman’s phone call? He’d never hear from her again, no matter what she promised. Her voice gave the tell-tale evidence. She had no intention of calling again.

Thinking of Nattie drew him to the hallway. He followed the wide, curved staircase to the floor above. In the lengthy hallway, he stepped quietly along the thick Persian carpet. Two doors from the end, he paused and listened. The room was silent, and he pushed the door open gently, stepping inside.

A soft night-light glowed a warm pink. Natalie’s slender frame lay curled under a quilt, and the rise and fall of the delicate blanket marked her deep sleep. He moved lightly across the pink carpeting and stood, looking at her buttercup hair and her flushed, rosy cheeks. His heart lurched at the sight of his child—their child, fulfilling their hopes and completing their lives.

Or what had become their incomplete and short life together.

After the telephone call, Callie’s mind filled with thoughts of David Hamilton and his young daughter. Her headache pounded worse than before, and she undressed and pulled down the blankets. Though the evening was still young, she tucked her legs beneath the warm covers.

The light shone brightly, and as thoughts drifted through her head, she nodded to herself, resolute she would not consider the job in Bedford. After turning off the light, she closed her eyes, waiting for sleep.

Her subconsciousness opened, drawing her into the darkness. The images rolled into her mind like thick fog along an inky ocean. She was in a sparse waiting room. Her pale pink blouse, buttoned to the neck, matched the flush of excitement in her cheeks. The murky shadows swirled past her eyes: images, voices, the reverberating click of a door. Fear rose within her. She tried to scream, to yell, but nothing came except black silence—

Callie forced herself awake, her heart thundering. Perspiration ran from her hairline. She threw back the blankets and snapped on the light. Pulling her trembling legs from beneath the covers, she sat on the edge of the bed and gasped until her breathing returned to normal.

She rose on shaking legs and tiptoed into the hall to the bathroom. Though ice traveled through her veins, a clammy heat beaded on her body. Running cold tap water onto a washcloth, she covered her face and breathed in the icy dampness. Please, Lord, release me from that terrible dream.

She wet the cloth again and washed her face and neck, then hurried quietly back to her room, praying for a dreamless sleep.