A Perfect Love (24 page)

“What's wrong, Barbara?”

She burst into tears. Micah said nothing, but pulled out a box of tissue he kept on the counter for visits just like this. Barbara had been stopping by for years—after
her first date with Russell, when she'd been so certain he found her unattractive and uninteresting; after their first fight (when Russell left his socks on the floor and she was convinced he'd done it to spite her); and the night Russell's ship had to ride out to sea to escape a gale and Barbara just knew his ship had capsized. Each time Micah had heard her out, then gently led her to the throne room of heaven in prayer.

She accepted the tissue with a bleary smile, then blew her nose. “I thought I was all cried out, but I guess I'm not.”

“It's okay.” He folded his arms and stared at the streaming tracks upon her cheeks. Though as an angel he possessed emotions, will, and an intellect sharper than any human's, he rarely wept. The process fascinated him. Perhaps, he mused, tears bubbled up inside these humans when they experienced emotions they could not put into words . . .

“It's . . . a baby,” Barbara blubbered. “I think I want one—but it's causing trouble between me and Mom, and between me and Russell. And I'm scared, Micah. If I'm to get pregnant, I'll have to have surgery.” She squinted at him. “But you're always telling me God can do the impossible. Maybe he could make me pregnant without the surgery if I pray hard enough?”

Micah sank into the chair opposite her. “So—you want God to do all the work? He can do anything, that is true. But He asks that you have faith.”

Barbara shook her head. “I sometimes think I should just give up on the idea and concentrate on adoption. Dr. Marc said that even with surgery I might not get pregnant. So why should I bother to try?”

“Adoption is a wonderful thing.” Micah gave her a smile. “Jesus was adopted by Joseph. Esther was adopted by her uncle; Moses was adopted by Pharaoh's daughter—”

“Really?”

Micah nodded. “But you're not being honest, Barbara, with yourself, with me, or with God. You're talking about giving up and begging for miracles because . . .” He lifted a brow, silently urging her to dig deeper.

“Because . . .” Barbara's gaze drifted toward the window. “I don't want to have the surgery because . . . I'm afraid. I've always been terrified of doctors.”

“Ayuh.” Micah smiled in relief. “Some of the modern psychologists would say you must face your fears, but I will tell you that there is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear, Barbara, and if you have Jesus, you have perfect love. God told the prophet Isaiah to tell his people, ‘But now, O Israel, the LORD who created you says: “Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine.”'”

Micah reached across the table and tapped Barbara's trembling hand. “God created you, Barbara, and he calls you by name. You have no reason to fear anything on earth, under the earth, or above the earth. The Mighty God who keeps you will sustain your soul. You have only to trust him.”

The corners of Barbara's mouth were still tight with distress, and her eyes slightly shiny. “Trust him?”

“Ayuh.” Micah leaned back in his chair. “Just like a little child.”

Barbara lay in a cloud of pink cotton candy as she watched television. A character on the show was having a baby, panting and pushing, sweating and screaming, until—ta da! A squawking bundle of joy popped out beneath a drape and landed in the masked doctor's hands.

Tears rolled down Barbara's cheeks as she brought a chocolate to her mouth. Life wasn't fair. The women of her favorite television drama were beautiful, rich, and fertile. By next week, this character would be thin too.

Across the room, Russell sat stocking-footed in a chair, the classified ads in his hands. Laying the paper aside, Russell stood. “I think I'll make me a bedtime snack. Want a sandwich or something?”

Sniffling, she fumbled for a caramel nougat. “No, thank you. I don't have any appetite.”

“You sure?'

“Positive.”

Russell left the room, closing the door behind him as Barbara's fingers encountered nothing but empty wrappers. She pulled the box closer, ruffled through the frilled papers, then cast the container aside. Snuggling down into pink sheets, she tried to sleep, but her brain would not rest. Dr. Marc's words kept running through her mind:
The sooner we do it, the sooner your body will have a chance to heal and prepare for a child.

A baby. A child of her own. Was that what she wanted? Sometimes the thought thrilled her, but at other moments her mother's warnings overshadowed the thrill. A child was a terribly serious responsibility, kids could break your heart, and they did grow up to be teenagers . . .

Rolling over, she picked up the remote and clicked to The Learning Channel. Groan. “A Baby Story” was playing. Her finger was about to hit the channel button again when the screen filled with a shot of a pregnant couple walking down a corridor into the birthing room.

For the next fifteen minutes she watched, alternating between tears and laughter. Barbara joined the chorus of reverent oohs and ahhhs as air filled those tiny lungs and the infant released its first kittenish cries.

Grandparents and siblings entered the birthing room after the new arrival appeared. Barbara had never seen such excitement and joy on any faces. She reached for a clean tissue, picturing Russell as the new daddy, Cleta and Floyd as the new grandparents.

They would be happy with a new baby, she knew it. Cleta was only afraid of losing her daughter. But you couldn't lose what you didn't really own, and, if the truth be told, nobody owned their kids. Babies didn't drop off trees; God sent them . . . and never before had Barbara realized how significant that fact was. God had entrusted her to her mother, and in the future he might entrust a child or two into her care . . . if she could overcome her fear.

Micah's image played in her mind like a movie, his words echoing along a quiet soundtrack:
Perfect love casts out fear, Barbara, and if you have Jesus, you have perfect love.

A few minutes later Russell returned with a large glass of soda and a Dagwood sandwich on a plate piled high with corn chips. He sat down in his TV chair, arranged his plate and drink, then turned and reached for the classified ads.

“Russell?”

His eyes were intent on the newspaper. “Hmm?”

“I want a baby.”

“Uh huh. Let me finish my snack, then we'll talk.” He took a large bite of his sandwich.

Barbara crawled out from beneath the covers and perched on the edge of the bed, then propped her elbows on her knees and stared at him.

He glanced up, holding up a wedge of sandwich. “Want a bite?”

“No, thank you. I'm going to find Mom, OK?”

He quirked a brow, then smiled. “OK.”

Downstairs, Barbara searched the living room, then peeked into her parents' bedroom. Floyd lay in bed propped up on a stack of pillows watching
Emergency 911,
but Mom was nowhere in sight.

She found Cleta in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of hot tea. Barbara sat down next to her.

Cleta looked up. “Want a cup of tea?”

“No. I want a baby, Mom.”

Cleta snorted. “Best talk to your husband about that.”

“I want to talk to you about it.” She reached for Cleta's hand. “I love you, Mom, and I love Russell. I'm sorry I didn't ask you to share in my decision about seeing Dr. Marc, but as hard as it's going to be for you to accept this, I'm a married woman now. My first allegiance is to my husband. Even the Bible says a man must leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two are united into one.”

“The Bible says
the man leaves,” Cleta argued. “It doesn't say anything about the woman—”

“It works both ways, Mom. Besides, in Bible times, the groom always went to fetch the bride away from her home. Pastor Winslow mentions that often when he talks about the Minor Prophets.”

Tears swelled to Cleta's eyes. She dropped her head. “I've been acting like an old fool.”

Barbara leaned in to hug her. “You've been acting like a mother who has suddenly realized her daughter isn't a baby anymore. I don't know how that feels, Mom, but I will someday, if God gives us a daughter. I'd like to be your baby forever, but I can't. It's time I grew up and faced my own responsibilities. I need to discover what kind of woman God wants me to be.”

She softened her voice. “I'll always need and want you, Mom. Nothing will ever change that.” Holding out her hand, she motioned for Cleta to take hers. “Come on. We're going to start right now thinking more about the future than the past. The best is yet to come—isn't that what they say? The Bible says perfect love casts out fear . . . and we know Christ's perfect love, so the future can't harm us.”

She leaned over and kissed Cleta's cheek. “Now—I'm going upstairs to talk to my husband, then I'm calling Dr. Marc. If the Lord wills, I'm going to have that surgery as soon as possible.”

Cleta patted her hand, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Go ahead, honey.”

Russell looked up when Barbara came back into the room. “Come here, hon,” she said, pointing to the phone. “You'll want to hear this conversation.”

Russell frowned. “Who are you calling at this hour?”

Barbara picked up the phone and punched in the number. The phone rang once. Twice. On the third ring, Dr. Marc answered.

“Sorry to disturb you so late, Dr. Marc.”

“Barbara?” The doctor chuckled. “You haven't disturbed me. I've been expecting your call.”

She sighed in relief. “You have?”

“You bet. I knew a lovely young couple like you and Russell would eventually be eager to discover the joys and agonies of parenthood. And I can assure you, a child is more precious than gold. Of course, your gold will be refined in those teenage years . . .”

Barbara laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. She grinned at Russell and squeezed his hand.

“So—you want me to schedule the surgery?”

“Yes, please. As soon as possible.”

“I'll do it. I'll call Dr. Comeaux tomorrow morning.”

She hung up, then looked at her husband. Russell stood beside her, an incredulous look on his face.

“What changed your mind?” he whispered.

“You,” she said, stepping into the circle of his arms. “And God. And Micah. And perfect love. I'm beginning to realize I have everything I need, and not a single reason to be afraid of the unknown.”

Nuzzling her neck, Russell said, “You watched ‘A Baby Story,' didn't you?”

Her throat was too clogged with emotion to respond.

He laughed. “That's all right. I always cry when I watch that stupid thing.”

She giggled at the thought of her big, tough lobster-man watching “A Baby Story.” And crying!

Holding each other tight, they swayed in each other's arms. Barbara closed her eyes, relishing the moment. Tomorrow, no matter what it brought, was going to be bright. Tomorrow would be better for her parents too. Life brought change with every turn of the hourglass, but the important things remained. Love was forever.

Chapter Thirteen

O
n Thursday, the twenty-fourth, a special package arrived at the mercantile. Vernie pulled it from the wrapper, then weighed it on her palms. Land o' Goshen, there really was such a thing as monkey biscuits!

Tucking the container under her arm, she lowered her head and charged back to the storeroom, then slammed the door. Deftly lifting the edge of the plastic container with a fingernail, she pulled out one of the round nuggets and sniffed it.

Didn't smell like much.

She read the label. “Contains dehulled soybean meal, corn flour, ground soybean hulls, ground oats, corn gluten meal, fructose, soybean oil, and added calcium.”

Nothing that'd hurt a body . . . even Buddy Franklin.

Her eyes darted toward the door. She concentrated, listening for sounds. Elezar was cleaning behind the counter, so he wouldn't be likely to snoop if she wanted to give these things a nibble . . .

She brought the nugget to her lips. Texture was OK. She touched the tip of her tongue to its dusty surface. Hmm. Not bad, but a little grassy for her taste.

She put it between her teeth, preparing to bite down—

The door flew open. Startled, her tongue shot forward, launching the monkey biscuit across the room. It hit the window, rattled the pane, then ricocheted toward the door, landing with a solid plop in Elezar's extended palm.

The clerk gazed at the unidentified flying object. “What in the world?”

“It's a . . . a new product.”

A grin slowly spread over his face. “It's one of those monkey biscuits, isn't it?”

“So what if it is? Buddy says he eats 'em.” Lifting her chin, she brushed by him. “You told me to order them, so I did.”

Moving to her counter, she poured herself a Coke, then added a double shot of vanilla to cleanse her palate.

She'd said it before, and she'd say it again. Buddy Franklin was the strangest man to ever land on Heavenly Daze.

The week between Basil's call and their lunch appointment passed slowly for Dana. With no students to teach, no house projects to complete, and no husband to keep her company, she had thrown herself into a crash program of self-improvement—fifty sit-ups upon rising, twenty minutes of jumping rope after breakfast, an hour of poetry reading before lunch. She read every volume of poems she could find in the house—Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, William Wordsworth. Yakov, who had noticed her feverish interest in the rhymed line, found a book of seventeenth-century poets in the attic and brought it to her. Dana fell head over heels in love with Robert Herrick, who wrote,

Why dost thou wound and break my heart
As if we would forever part?
Hast thou not heard an oath from me—
After a day or two or three?
I would come back and live with thee.
Take, if thou dost distrust that vow
This second protestation now:
If on thy cheek, that spangled tear
That sits as dew of roses there,
That tear shall scarce be dried before
I'll kiss the threshold of thy door.
Then weep not, sweet, but this much know—
I'm half-returned before I go.