Читать книгу Apprentice Father - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 9

As the service for Anne droned on, Clay checked on the two children sitting beside him, who were huddled close together in the pew, holding hands. Emily’s long, dark hair was pulled back with a ribbon, and her eyes were huge in her pale face. Fair-haired Josh looked uncertain and lost, his freckles standing in stark relief against his pale skin, one finger stuck in his mouth. He hadn’t said a word since Clay had arrived in Omaha.

Redirecting his attention to the sanctuary, where Reverend Phelps was presiding over Anne’s funeral, Clay tried not to appear too hostile. He hadn’t been inside a church since his sister’s wedding almost ten years ago, and he’d prefer not to be in one now. But Anne would have wanted a church service. That’s why he’d thrown his one suit into his suitcase in the early morning hours preceding his long, solitary drive to Nebraska.

He’d always been a sucker about giving his gentle, loving kid sister what she wanted, he recalled. His favorite comic book, his last piece of chocolate. He’d been her biggest fan when she’d had the leading role in her grade school play, and her staunchest defender when bullies had plagued her in middle school.

Yet he hadn’t been able to save her from the ultimate bully. From the man who, ironically, had pledged to love, honor and cherish her all the days of his life.

As he looked at the coffin resting beside him in the aisle, Clay’s throat tightened. A tear leaked out the corner of his eye, and he dipped his head to swipe at it with the back of his hand.

May Martin rot in hell for all eternity, Clay thought, the bitter wish twisting his gut.

And his feelings toward his old man weren’t much kinder.

Nor were they tempered by the memory of their brief conversation after he’d arrived in Nebraska. He hadn’t seen or talked with his father since Anne’s wedding, and he hadn’t recognized the querulous voice on the phone. But though his father had sounded old and feeble, he’d been as self-righteous, demanding—and disapproving—as ever.

“Listen, boy, I can’t make it to Nebraska for the service. I have pneumonia.” His father’s hacking cough, followed by audible wheezing, had interrupted their conversation. “You’ll have to handle the arrangements.”

Clay had always hated how his father called him “boy.” His jaw had clamped shut and he’d gritted his teeth. “I plan to.”

“There has to be a church service.”

“It’s taken care of.”

“Who has the children?”

“I do.”

“I guess there’s no other option right now.”

He must think I’ll corrupt them in a week, Clay had concluded, compressing his mouth into a thin line.

“I’ll take them as soon as I’m well enough,” his father had continued. “I’ll call you.”

And with that he’d hung up.

There hadn’t been a lot of opportunity to think about his father’s last comment, but as the organ launched into a hymn and the people around him began to sing, Clay considered the two children beside him. He’d been so mired in grief, so bogged down in paperwork and funeral arrangements, he hadn’t given much thought to their future.

But as he regarded their innocent, anxious faces, his heart contracted with compassion. How could he relegate these little children to a cold, joyless life with his strict, hard-nosed father? After the trauma they’d been through, they needed love and tenderness, and a stable, supportive environment. They needed a caring parent figure and a real home. His father would offer none of those things.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t equipped to offer them, either, Clay acknowledged. He didn’t know much about love or tenderness, and less about how to create a comforting haven. The home of his youth wasn’t a good prototype. Nor were his twelve years in the Army, where the focus had been on structure and discipline and honor. And his current job kept him on the move, making it impossible to establish ties of any kind—or even a permanent home. And that’s the way he liked it.

Yet the thought of handing these children over to his father turned his stomach. The old man ruled through fear, not love. Joy and fun weren’t in his vocabulary. Josh and Emily would have a dismal life with him. That was the last thing Anne would have wanted for them.

So what was he supposed to do?

“As we take our sister, Anne, to her final resting place, let us find some comfort in knowing she is at peace and with God.” Reverend Phelps’s closing remarks echoed in the church, and Clay tried to focus on his words. “And let us recall how she always tried to do the right thing. That’s a challenge we all face. Because the right thing may not always be the easiest thing. It may not be what we want to do. It may take great courage. But Anne gave us a shining example of courage and selfless love. Let that be her legacy to us, one that we all strive to follow.”

Twin furrows dented Clay’s brow. He’d seen too many people fail at relationships—with parents, with spouses, with children. Enough to convince him he never wanted a family. But if what the minister said was true, he had one now. For how could he send these children to his father’s home, where their life would be little better than before?

All at once Clay found it difficult to breathe. Reaching up, he tugged at his suddenly too-tight tie. He’d had this feeling of being trapped, of the walls closing in on him, twice before in his life. Once, as a kid, living under his father’s roof. And again, during Army training, when he’d been locked into a small, dark room for several days during a POW simulation. In both cases, he’d survived for one simple reason: he’d known he would get out.

But there was no escape from this situation. Not if he did the right thing.

Clay knew about duty from his years in the military. Knew about it, too, from years of living in his father’s house, where the phrase “doing your Christian duty” had been drummed into him. The minister had confirmed that obligation. There was no doubt in Clay’s mind about what he should do.

But he wasn’t sure he was up to the task.

Frustrated, Clay raked his fingers through his hair. He didn’t know a thing about little kids. If Anne had listened to him and left her husband instead of letting their father shame her into staying in that mockery of a marriage, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Giving him yet another reason to resent his old man.

As the pallbearers began to roll the coffin out, Clay moved into the aisle behind it. Emily and Josh remained in the pew, watching him with big eyes. He motioned for them to follow, and Emily nudged Josh. But the little boy shook his head and burrowed closer to Emily.

Stepping back into the pew, Clay crouched beside the children. “It’s time to go,” he murmured.

“Josh is ’fraid,” Emily whispered.

A lump rose in this throat. “Neither of you need to be afraid anymore. I’m going to take care of you. How about I carry you, Josh? That way, you can see the pretty windows in the back.”

Clay held out his arms and, with a nudge from Emily, Josh edged toward him. Swinging him up, Clay was startled by how little the boy weighed—and reminded yet again of the children’s vulnerability…and the terrifying responsibility he’d inherited.

As the procession moved down the aisle, a tentative touch on his hand drew his attention and he looked down. Emily was watching him, her expression uncertain, as if to ask: Is this okay? In response, he pasted on a smile and folded her small, cold hand in his with a gentle squeeze.

The tremulous little puff of air she released, the sudden relaxing of her features, almost undid him. Clay knew Anne had tried her very best to shelter her children and create a real home. But in the few days he’d been in Nebraska, he’d discovered her best hadn’t been good enough. The children had seen too much. Heard too much. Their eyes told the story. Fearful, anxious, uncertain, haunted—they were old beyond their years. Especially Emily’s. The damage was clear. And he was afraid it would take a miracle to undo it.

Clay didn’t much believe in miracles…except the kind people made for themselves through hard work and perseverance. In this case, however, he wasn’t sure any amount of work on his part would give these children back their childhood. Yet they were in desperate need of help.

Since he doubted he’d darken a church door again any time soon, Clay figured he should use this opportunity to seek help from a higher source. Not that he expected much. But what did he have to lose?

God, I don’t know why any of this happened. And I don’t know if You care. But if You do, please take pity on these children. They need more than I can give. I’ll do my best, but I’m not equipped to handle kids. If You’re listening, help me find a way to heal these children. Not for my sake. But for theirs. And Anne’s.

Clay saw the familiar arches in the distance, a short drive off the interstate, and cast an uneasy glance into the rearview mirror as he pulled into the exit lane. Josh was dozing in the back seat, and Emily was staring out the window. Since leaving Omaha four hours ago after the funeral, she hadn’t said more than ten words. And the eerie silence was beginning to unnerve him. Weren’t kids supposed to be noisy and restless on long car trips? Weren’t they supposed to chatter and ask how much longer and want a drink of water and need to use the bathroom every ten miles?

These two, however, hadn’t made one request or asked a single question during the entire trip. But they must be hungry by now. He sure was.

“How about some hamburgers and French fries?” Clay tossed the question over his shoulder as he started up the exit ramp.

No response.

He checked the rearview mirror again. Emily’s somber gaze met his.

“Are you hungry?” He gentled his tone.

She gave a slow nod.

“Do you like hamburgers and French fries?”

Again, an affirmative response. “Josh does, too.”

“How about a milkshake to go with them?”

Her face lit up a little and she gave her brother a gentle prod. “Josh. Wake up. We’re going to have milkshakes.” It was the first touch of life Clay had heard in her voice.

A parking spot near the front door of the fast-food outlet opened up, and Clay pulled in. By the time he climbed out of the pickup truck, Emily had unbuckled her car seat and was working on Josh’s, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“Do you need some help?” Clay offered.

“No, thank you. I can do it.”

Five minutes later, after he’d settled them in a booth, Clay headed for the counter to place his order, keeping them in sight. But he didn’t have to worry. Unlike the other children in the place, who were crying, shouting, throwing food or running around, Josh and Emily sat in silence waiting for him. While Clay wasn’t anxious for them to emulate their peers, he was struck again by the need to restore some semblance of childhood to their lives. Some laughter and spontaneity and just plain silliness.

In light of all that had transpired, however, that seemed like a monumental task.

“Here’s your change, sir.”

Clay swiveled toward the counter and pocketed the money. “Thanks.” Juggling the tray, he wove his way toward the booth, slid in opposite the children and quickly dispensed the food.

The first bite of his burger was wonderful, and he closed his eyes as he chewed, enjoying the flavor. At least, he was enjoying it until he opened his eyes and found Josh and Emily staring at him with solemn faces, their food untouched.

He stopped chewing. “What’s wrong?”

“We didn’t say grace yet,” Emily said.

Trying not to choke, Clay swallowed his mouthful of burger with a gulp and wiped a paper napkin across his lips. He hadn’t said a prayer before meals since he’d left home at age seventeen. Racking his brain, he searched for the stale words his father used to say, but they eluded him.

Emily studied him. “Do you want me to say it?”

“Good idea,” he endorsed with relief.

She reached for Josh’s hand, then for his. Josh inched his other hand across the table, and Clay took it. Their small hands were swallowed in his much larger grasp.

Emily and Josh bowed their heads as Emily spoke. “Lord, thank you for this food we eat, and keep us safe until we meet. Amen.”

“Amen,” Clay echoed after they gave him an expectant look.

As the children began eating, devouring every last morsel, Clay realized how hungry they’d been. And how dependent they were on him. For everything. Food. Shelter. Security. Love. Like it or not, he’d inherited a family. Unless he sent them to live with his father.

That was still an option. But not a good one.

Meaning his life was about to change dramatically.

And all at once he wasn’t hungry any more.

“Don’t make any noise, Josh.”

The childish, high-pitched whisper penetrated Clay’s light sleep, and he squinted at the illuminated dial of his watch. Four-fifteen. If he didn’t get some rest soon, he’d be a zombie in the morning. But the uncomfortable couch that had become his bed since Emily and Josh had claimed his room three nights ago wasn’t helping, either.

An odd sound came from the bedroom, and he frowned. What was going on in there?

Swinging his legs to the floor, Clay padded toward the bedroom door, his bare feet noiseless on the carpet. As he eased it open, two heads pivoted toward him and Josh and Emily froze, like startled deer caught in headlights.

The seconds ticked by as Clay tried to make sense of the scene. The two children stood at the far corner of the bed. Emily had taken the blankets off and piled them on the floor. Now she was trying to take the sheets off as well.

“What’s going on?” Clay scanned the room again, bewildered.

Josh moved closer to Emily, and she placed a shielding arm around his shoulders. “Josh h-had an accident.”

Shifting his attention to the frightened little boy, Clay gave him a rapid inspection. In his definition, “accidents” entailed injury and blood. But Josh didn’t appear to be hurt. However, his pajama bottoms did look funny. They were clinging to him. Like they were wet.

All at once, Clay understood.

“It happens s-sometimes at night, if he’s afraid.” A tremor ran through Emily’s voice. “I can clean it up. You don’t have t-to be mad.”

Clay took a step into the room—but came to an abrupt halt when Josh cowered behind Emily with a whimper.

They were scared. Really scared, he realized with a jolt. Anne had said that Martin had never hurt them, but now he wasn’t sure that was true. Softening his tone, he moved slowly into the room. “Accidents happen. It’s okay. Emily, why don’t you help Josh change into dry pajamas while I put new sheets on the bed?”

She took her brother’s hand and tugged. “Come on, Josh.”

The little boy followed, skirting him warily.

After scrubbing and blow-drying the mattress, remaking the bed and tucking a folded towel under the fitted sheet on Josh’s side, Clay beckoned the children. “Okay. Good as new. Climb in.”

Emily got in first, then pulled Josh up beside her. She pressed him down on the pillow and lay next to him, taking his hand. Clay tucked the blanket under their chins and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I know everything is new, and that you miss your mommy. But I’ll take care of you. You don’t need to be scared.”

“How come you didn’t get mad at Josh?” Emily searched his face.

“He didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know. But Daddy always got mad.”

With an effort, Clay kept his expression neutral and tried for a measured tone. “What did he do when he got mad?”

“He yelled at Josh. And at Mommy.”

“Did he spank Josh?”

“No. But I think…I think he hit Mommy. He said it was her fault we had accidents. I spilled a glass of milk once, and Daddy yelled at Mommy. She had big bruises on her arm the next day.” Emily’s features contorted with misery. “We didn’t m-mean to hurt Mommy.” The last word caught on a sob. “We tried t-to be good.”

Clay felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. With an unsteady hand he brushed the hair back from his niece’s forehead. It was soft and fine and gossamer.

“It wasn’t your fault that your mommy got hurt, Emily. Or Josh’s. Your daddy shouldn’t have yelled at you about accidents, and he shouldn’t have hurt your mommy. That was a wrong thing to do.”

“I wish M-Mommy was here now.”

“So do I.” More than Emily would ever know, he reflected. “But she would want you to be brave. Will you try to do that?”

Emily gave a tearful nod and looked at Josh, who had fallen asleep again, cuddled up beside her. “Josh is kind of little to be brave, though.”

Clay swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Then we’ll have to help him.”

“Okay.” Emily snuggled next to Josh, and her eyelids drifted closed.

For several more minutes Clay sat there. Once their even breathing told him they were asleep he rose and headed toward the door, pausing on the threshold. The two youngsters were lost in the queen-sized bed, their bodies an almost indiscernible bump beneath the blanket. They seemed so tiny. So forlorn. So defenseless. And they were relying on him to see to all of their needs.

Their physical needs, Clay could handle. Food, clothing and shelter weren’t hard to provide.

But when it came to matters of the heart, he was in way over his head.

She was about to hear bad news.

Cate Shepard knew it the minute she walked in the back door of the Dugan home and found both Brenna and Steve waiting for her. In the two years she’d provided in-home child care for their son they’d become good friends, and she’d learned to read their moods.

“Good morning.” She closed the door and summoned up a smile, steeling herself. “Why do I think this isn’t my lucky day?”

Brenna sent a quick look to Steve, who cleared his throat and rose.

“It’s one of those good news, bad news scenarios, Cate. I’ve been offered a great position with a new company in Chicago. Starting in two weeks. The bad news is we’ll have to leave behind the best child care provider we’ll ever hope to find.”

She was out of a job.

Cate managed to keep her smile in place. This had happened before; it would happen again. She’d manage, as she always did.

“I’m happy for you, Steve. But I’ll miss all of you.”

“We feel the same way about you, Cate.” Brenna stood and came forward to give her a hug. “You know we’ll give you a stellar recommendation.”

“Thank you.” Cate gave her a squeeze, then stepped back. “Now tell me about the new opportunity.”

She listened as the young couple explained Steve’s new position, commiserated with Brenna about her angst over finding a new job, and took care of Timmy for the rest of the day when the couple went to work.

Only later, as she drove through the streets of Washington to her condo—with a quick detour for a fudgesicle at a convenience store—did she let herself think about the future.

She always hated her jobs to end. In ten years of providing on-site child care, she’d been lucky to go through this only three times. Now she had to start the process over again. And while she’d never had trouble connecting with a family in need of her services, she usually had far more notice than this to find a new position.

Pulling into the parking place near her condo, she picked up the fudgesicle. It was already softening in the unseasonable warmth of this early March Missouri day, she noted, walking to her front door as fast as her slightly uneven gait allowed.

Once inside, she headed for the kitchen and unwrapped the treat. Leaning over the sink while she ate, she savored the fleeting sweetness as the rich chocolate melted on her tongue. And recalled, as she always did, the day she’d indulged in one after receiving the letter that had offered her a bright and shining future.

But two weeks later, that future had melted away, as surely and irrevocably as her dissolving fudgesicle.

Rinsing her sticky hands under the sink, her gaze lingered on the fingers of her left hand as a melancholy pang echoed through her. Long, slender and graceful, they looked the same as they always had. They just didn’t work as well.

Yet dwelling on memories of a time when hopes were high and dreams came true was fruitless, she reminded herself. Her life was good now. She had a satisfying career. A loving family. A solid faith that had seen her through some rough stretches. If she didn’t have the one thing she most yearned for—a loving marriage blessed with children—she needed to accept that it wasn’t in God’s plan for her. And she was working on it.

But it wasn’t easy.

Securing the pillow under his head with a firm shove, Clay fought off consciousness—and reality—as long as possible. A week and a half into his new role as surrogate father, he was sinking fast.

The kids had been thrown out of day care on Friday because four-year-old bed wetters weren’t acceptable, so he had to come up with alternative arrangements by tomorrow. And he had a ton of work to do that he hadn’t gotten to last week, thanks to all the changes in his life.

It was not shaping up to a be a good Sunday.

And the sober faces peering at him when he finally pried open his eyes suggested it was only going to get worse. Emily and Josh were already dressed, he noted. In nice clothes.

“It’s Sunday.” The pronouncement came from Emily.

She said that like it was supposed to mean something. And Clay had the distinct impression that it did not include sleeping in.

“I know.” He hoped she wasn’t heading in the direction he suspected.

“Aren’t we going to church?”

His hope dissolved. “Maybe we could skip this week.”

Tears pooled in Emily’s eyes. “Mommy told us once that if she ever went away to be with God, we could talk to her in church on Sunday.”

Clay was sunk. He could hold his own with hard-as-nails, give-no-quarter types. But these two little kids, who together couldn’t weigh much more than sixty pounds, melted his heart. Meaning his Sundays were about to undergo a radical change.

Forty-five minutes later, as he approached the white church with the tall steeple that he passed on the way to work everyday, he hoped the lot would be empty. That way, he could rationalize that he’d tried to take the kids to church.

But no, it was full. And he could hear the muffled sound of organ music. According to the sign in front, the service had begun ten minutes ago.

He was stuck.

Accepting his fate, he helped the children out of the truck, took their hands and headed toward a church for the second time in less than a week. Although he tried to unobtrusively slip into a row near the back, Josh foiled his plan by tripping over the edge of the pew and sprawling in the aisle. Clay was sure every head in the place swiveled their direction as he swooped to pick up the little boy.

After climbing over three sets of feet and squeezing in between a woman with two teenagers and an older couple, all Clay wanted to do was slink out of the church and never come near the place again.

The kids, however, were oblivious to his embarrassment. Emily’s hands lay folded in her lap, and Josh was jiggling his feet, which stuck straight out over the end of the pew. Noting that one of the youngster’s shoes was untied, Clay leaned forward to remedy the situation—and discovered another problem he couldn’t fix. Josh’s socks didn’t match.

Risking a peek at the older woman beside him, he saw her inspecting Josh’s feet. A flush crawled up his neck. The fact that it had never occurred to him to check the kids’ clothes was yet more evidence of how ill-equipped he was for this job.

The woman lifted her head, and Clay braced for disapproval. Instead he saw understanding and compassion in her eyes.

“Kids are a handful, aren’t they?” The whispered comment was accompanied by a smile. “I had four. And I had that same problem on a few occasions.” She inclined her head toward Josh’s feet.

Relief coursed through him. The woman wasn’t judging him. She wasn’t trying to make him feel inadequate. She was being kind. He hadn’t expected that.

“I’m pretty new at this. I have a lot to learn.”

“Don’t we all,” she commiserated with a quiet chuckle before turning her attention back to the sanctuary, where the minister was moving toward the pulpit.

Clay’s tension eased. Most of the Christians he recalled from his childhood had been quick to criticize and censure. But this woman hadn’t done that. Nor had the members of Anne’s congregation. It was a new view of Christianity for Clay.

This minister was also worth listening to. Mid-forties, with flecks of silver in his light brown hair and subtle character lines in his face, he spoke in a down-to-earth style, and his words had practical implications. Though Clay hadn’t picked up a Bible in decades, the passage the pastor referenced near the end of his sermon was vaguely familiar. But he’d never looked at it in quite the way that the minister presented it.

“I’m sure most of you know the story about the fig tree that didn’t bear fruit,” he said. “The frustrated owner planned to cut it down, but the vine dresser entreated him to give the vine one more chance.

“How often in our lives have we, too, wanted one more chance? One more chance to say I love you. To prove our abilities. To do the right thing. One more chance to be the person God intended us to be. Sad to say, those feelings often surface at funerals and on death beds—when it’s too late to change things.”

The minister leaned forward and gripped the pulpit. “My dear friends, God doesn’t want us to have regrets. Like the vine dresser, He offers us countless opportunities to put things right. In fact, each day that He gives us is one more chance—to mend a relationship, to lend a helping hand, to welcome Him into our lives with open hearts and minds. Let us take comfort in knowing He is always there to guide us, to console us, to strengthen us. To give us one more chance.”

As the minister concluded his remarks, Clay looked over at the two children beside him. Was he the one who was supposed to give them the chance the minister had talked about?

It was a daunting thought.

Even more daunting was the thought that came next; maybe they had been brought into his life to give him one more chance, too.

Now that was a scary concept. It reeked too much of commitment. Of long-term responsibility. The very things he’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid. He’d seen how much damage people could inflict on those they claimed to love, and he’d decided long ago that love wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, the demands of his job weren’t conducive to having a family. Nor were they compatible with single parenthood. Surely no one would expect him to change his whole life for two little kids who weren’t even his own. Would they?

Maybe.

The answer came unbidden—and unwanted. Prompted, he supposed, by the lack of other options. For if he sent the kids to live with his father, they would never have the chance to lead a normal life.

Tension began to form behind Clay’s temples. He didn’t normally get headaches. But the last ten days hadn’t been anywhere close to normal. And the organist, who seemed intent on banging his or her way through the final hymn at the highest possible volume, wasn’t helping.

When the last note mercifully died away, Clay leaned down to guide the children out of the pew. As he did so, the older woman touched his arm.

“They’re darling children. So well behaved. Good luck with them.”

Clay acknowledged the woman’s encouraging words with a nod. But they didn’t begin to solve his child care problem.

As they inched toward the exit, the children’s hands tucked in his, it occurred to Clay that the woman might have some suggestions on child care. His step faltered and he turned to scan the crowd, but she’d already disappeared. Too bad. He could have used one more chance with her, he mused, recalling the minister’s sermon.

The minister.

Perhaps the preacher might know of someone who could help with the children, Clay speculated. Clergy often had a network of social service resources. Plus, a minister would only recommend someone trustworthy and above reproach. That meant Clay wouldn’t have to worry about checking references. It was worth trying, anyway.

Because he was out of options.

And he was running out of time.