Cracks in the Sidewalk (39 page)

Claire turned no child away. When the winter wind blew and ice crusted the trees, she made certain they all had warm coats and shoes. In the blistering heat of summer, she loaded them into the car and drove to the beach. She baked cookies, helped with homework, taught right from wrong, and gave them love.

She envisioned each child as a counterpart to one of her own grandchildren. Every little girl reminded her of fair-haired Kimberly, even those with dark skin or curls the color of a flame. She saw David in the eyes of boys who wore a pretense of toughness to cover their tender hearts. When their frustrations erupted in tantrums that sent toys flying across the room, she stepped aside and waited until it was time to hold them in her arms. She knew the least about Christian. Christian was always blurry, the child too difficult to recreate. He was Tommy locked inside his autism, he was Brigitte who seldom spoke, he was all those with hurts too deep to be repaired.

With each new child who came into her life Claire wondered about her grandchildren, and she’d pray that someone would take care of them. After a while she prayerfully struck a bargain with the Lord. She promised to care for and love all of His substitute children, if He in turn would send someone to do the same for Elizabeth’s children.

~ ~ ~

A
fter Adam moved up to the second-grade Sunday school class, Claire sadly figured he was gone from her life. But every Mother’s Day he came back with a paper card he’d lettered himself, and every Christmas he came with a clumsily-wrapped present. At first it was a toy or candy bar but as he grew older it became a handkerchief, a book, or, in one instance, dime-store pearls.

One by one the children grew up and moved on, but Claire stayed. Year after year she taught children on Sunday mornings. Even after a decade had gone by, Claire insisted that she was merely a temporary replacement for the teacher.

“I never know when my grandchildren might need me,” she’d say.

~ ~ ~

C
harlie remained true to his promise, and for a good number of years Claire knew the whereabouts of her grandchildren even though Jeffrey had forbidden any contact. At Christmastime and on their birthdays Claire sent each of the children a card with a small amount of money folded inside, but all of the cards returned unopened with “Return to Sender” written across the face of the envelope with the harsh black strokes of a heavy hand. Jeffrey never sent an explanation or word of acknowledgement, and Claire knew her precious grandchildren had never received the cards. 

Still she never gave up hope, and year after year when the unopened envelopes returned she tucked them into one of three cartons marked, “David,”
“Kimberly,” and “Christian.” The cartons contained a number of things: small toys she’d bought for them that first year, photographs of their mother, mementos Elizabeth wanted them to have. Alongside Kimberly’s carton was the yellow-haired Cabbage Patch doll. Even after Claire knew they’d grown too old for such toys, she could not bring herself to give the things away. Emptying the cartons would mean she’d never again see her grandchildren. 

C
harlie kept Frank Walsh on retainer and received a report whenever a change occurred in Jeffrey’s life. When a brown envelope from Parsippany Investigative Services arrived Charlie would close his office door and read through every word, sorrowfully shaking his head as he learned the details of yet another fiasco. It disturbed Charlie that this man, the man he’d once considered a son, should lead such a hapless life. Knowing the downward spiral of Jeffrey’s circumstances weighed heavily upon his heart and Charlie believed it would trouble Claire all the more, so he filtered the reports when he relayed their contents to her.

Jeffrey married Kelsey Grigsby shortly after they moved to Wisconsin but Charlie told Claire nothing, nor did he mention it eight months later when they got divorced and the judge ordered Jeffrey to pay a sizeable alimony. After Jeffrey moved, Charlie simply told Claire that the kids were well and living in Brownsville, Texas, which he suggested was a rather pleasant town.

For the first three years it seemed Jeffrey moved every few months. He’d rent a house, accumulate a bunch of bills, and then run off without paying them. With his bouncing from state to state, it became increasingly difficult for Frank Walsh to find Jeffrey before he moved.     

Within ten years, Jeffrey Caruthers, Jeffrey Thomas or, in two instances, Thomas Jeffrey had lived in at least six different states and married four different women. Each of those marriages had ended in divorce. The second wife rendered him deaf in his right ear when she hit him with a cast iron frying pan, and the last wife took his wages to collect her alimony.

Jeffrey’s career, such as it was, fared no better. From waiter he became a bartender and then a short-order cook frying up greasy hamburgers. After he got fired from those jobs he began working the late shift in a twenty-four-hour gas station. When he was caught sleeping, that job went the way of the others. Eventually he became the custodian in an exercise gym and stuck with that for a while.

On three different occasions Charlie tried to offer assistance. The first time Jeffrey said, “Drop dead!” The second time he said he’d get a restraining order if Charlie didn’t stop bothering him, and the third time he slammed the receiver down without a word. 

When Charlie learned that Jeffrey had lost his job at the gymnasium, he sent a check with a note saying that Jeffrey need not respond. The check was returned to the bank with the envelope unopened and a scrawl of painfully familiar words: Return to sender.

In 1998 Frank Walsh retired from the investigation business. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing,” he told Charlie and offered the name of another investigator. By that time Charlie realized the futility of tracking a man who wanted nothing to do with them, so he declined and said nothing to Claire of Frank Walsh’s retirement. He wanted to spare her the tears and sleepless nights she suffered at any mention of their grandchildren.

Eventually Claire stopped asking if there was any news, but Charlie knew she never stopped hoping.  

I
n June of 2001, on a warm summer night when fragrant breezes drifted through the window and curtains fluttered softly, Charlie kissed Claire goodnight then rolled over on his side and closed his eyes forever.

They’d been married for forty-six years and they’d loved each other even longer. Together they’d endured so many hardships, but always Charlie had been beside her. He had held her in his arms and eased the pain. Now he too was gone. Claire cried aloud to the Lord asking how He could leave her alone in this world, but His silence deafened her.

On the day of Charlie’s funeral Claire went to the church expecting to sit alone in the pew reserved for family, but instead of one pew the family area had been expanded to seven rows.

All the temporary children she’d cared for and loved filled the pews. Chloe with her husband and two babies. Adam, with his new wife on one side and his silver-haired dad on the other. Little thumb-sucking Brigitte who’d grown up and become a model. Jack, now an engineer. Frankie, Henry, Melanie. Row after row, the children she’d babysat and those who’d passed through her Sunday school class. Some now parents themselves, others who’d gone off to college and returned, some still in their teens, but all part of one family. Her family.

“Thank you, Lord Jesus,” she whispered.

Claire McDermott

A
fair bit of time has gone by since the day I lost Charlie, and I’ve become accustomed to spending my days alone. As the weeks and months turned into years, I came to understand that alone doesn’t mean lonely. Only a person who’s never known love can be truly lonely. I’m not. I’ve had more love than any one woman is entitled to. All those children I thought were just passing through have taken up residence in my heart. I can close my eyes and picture their faces, which is enough to make me feel warm all over.

I’ve also held on to my dream, the dream of a life filled with family. No matter how old a person gets, they can still dream. They can still believe in miracles.

I’ve carried this dream with me for the better part of a lifetime. Oh, there might have been times when I thought it had disappeared, but it was still there tucked behind my everyday worries. 

The day I received the letter, my dream resurfaced. I could feel my heartbeat again, and I knew hope was stirring inside my soul. Hundreds of thousands of times I’ve prayed for just such a miracle, but I never expected it would appear in a dog-eared gray envelope.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. McDermott,” the letter began. “I don’t know if you really remember me, because my family left New Jersey when I was only two years old.”

The moment I saw those words, my heart began pounding. I grabbed onto the arm of Charlie’s old recliner and lowered myself into the seat, collapsing under my own weight. After all the years of waiting I had no time to cry, so I continued reading through a waterfall of tears
.

“Recently I came across some information that leads me to believe that Elizabeth Caruthers, my birth mother, was your daughter. My mother passed away in 1986, and her maiden name was McDermott. Other than this, I have very few details. I’m contacting you in the hope of finding my grandparents. I am anxious to learn more about my mother’s life and the unclear details surrounding her death. If we are in fact related, would you be willing to meet with me? 

“My name is Christian Caruthers,” the letter went on. “I live in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. My older brother David is married
,
and we have a sister named Kimberly…
”

He asked if I would be willing to see him. Imagine that—willing to see him! Why, for the past twenty years, I’ve wondered what he’d grown to look like. Two decades ago I spied a blue-eyed child at a playground in Westfield. I rushed over and asked the boy his name. Willing to see him? Why, I’d go to my grave a happy woman if I could have the chance to hug those children to my chest and tell them how much I love them.  

Without a minute’s hesitation, I sat down at Charlie’s old desk and scratched out an answer to the boy’s letter.

“Elizabeth most certainly was my daughter,” I wrote, “and I was right there the day she gave birth to you.” I went on to say nothing in the entire world would give me greater pleasure than a visit from him, David, and Kimberly. I wanted to say Kimmie, but since Christian had referred to her as Kimberly I was reluctant to say anything that might change his mind about coming for a visit. I signed the letter “Your loving grandma, Claire McDermott.” I wrote my telephone number big and bold, the way people are inclined to do as they get on in years. Once that letter disappeared into the mailbox, I began waiting.

May 2006

C
laire’s heart fluttered as she peered from the window for the fourth time in less than an hour. It was too early and she knew it but she felt too restless to simply sit and wait, so she repeatedly searched the street as if doing so could somehow hurry them along. The trip from Doylestown would be two, maybe three hours according to Christian. He’d said they were coming for lunch. She glanced at the clock and wondered if they might come early and if after so many years she’d recognize them.

Claire stepped back from the window and lowered herself onto the sofa. She began leafing through the photo album she’d taken from the closet. The leather cover was worn away along the edges and many of the black and white snapshots yellowed with age, but in every photo she saw living color and could remember the time of its taking.

The first few pages showed Elizabeth as a bright-eyed teenager. Then came the pages where she was so obviously in love, picture after picture of her and Jeffrey clinging to each other as if no force on earth could pry them apart. After that was the photo of Liz standing sideways with her round belly and, on the following page, holding baby David in her arms.

The camera continued to click as David grew. There was his first tooth, several birthday parties, the day he started school. Kimberly was also there, a ball of bunting propped against a pillow, a toddler clomping around in Liz’s shoes, her mouth smeared with lipstick. Of Christian there was still only the photo taken at the hospital.