Even Now (23 page)

The choir sang a haunting version of “O Holy Night.” In the midst of it, Emily bowed her head and closed her eyes.
God
,
You know what I need
,
You know the miracle I’m asking for.

Daughter
,
I’m with you.

The familiar peace ran through her veins, softening her heart and soul to the presence of the Holy Spirit. Martha, the pianist, was finishing the song and leading into another, the song they always finished with every Christmas Eve service, “Silent Night.” Emily opened her eyes as she let the words fill her. Especially the last part. “Sleep in heavenly peace . . . sleep in heavenly peace.”

Back at home, Emily and her grandparents sat around the Christmas tree and opened one present — their Christmas Eve tradition. Emily’s gift was a new pair of pajamas, same as every Christmas Eve. She giggled and held them up. They were fuzzy and warm, perfect for the coming winter.

Her grandparents opened one gift from each other. Both packages held new pairs of socks. When they’d cleaned up the wrapping paper and exchanged hugs and conversation, Emily bid them good night. “I want lots of energy for tomorrow.”

“Emily.” Her grandma lifted her brow and wagged a finger at her. “You won’t be sleeping. You want Togo through the box, right?”

She winced and gave a little nod. “Is that okay?” Emily couldn’t wait to spend time alone with her mother’s photos and yearbooks. She touched her grandma’s elbow. “Maybe I’ll find something we can look at tomorrow.”

Her grandma’s smile was genuine. “That’d be fine, honey. Take your time. Christmas morning can start as late as you’d like.”

Before she went to bed, they stood near the tree and held hands. Her grandpa led them in prayer.

“This Christmas is a special one, God. We canal feel it. Please help us find the miracle near the manger this year. The one the pastor referred to.” He hesitated, his voice thick. “I think we could really use one. We love you, Lord. In Christ’s name.”

Emily kissed them both and went up to her room. With the door shut behind her, she pulled the box close to her bed again, sat down on the edge, and began taking things from inside. The framed photo — the one she’d already seen — she set gently near the wall to make room for everything else in the box. Next was a photo album. She picked it up and opened it on her lap. It smelled musty from being in the garage all those years.

“Wow, Mom.” She ran her finger under each of the first photos, beneath which her mother had written a caption. “Look how much you cared.”

The pictures started when her mom was in middle school. There were several shots of her with her girlfriends, and Emily studied her mother closely. If her mother’s eyes were any indication, she was happy, popular with her friends.

Her light blonde hair hung straight and halfway down her back through most of those early years. Toward the center of the album, her hair got a little shorter, and a boy started appearing in the pictures with her. A smile tugged at Emily’s lips. The boy was her father — head to be. He had the same dark hair and eyes she saw every morning in the mirror. But he was skinny and about an inch shorter than her mother.

Even so, there was no denying how they felt about each other. It was palpable throughout the photo album. Even back then nothing could’ve kept them apart. “Look at you, Dad.” She laid her hand on his picture. “The other guys are hanging out together somewhere, but there’s you. Right next to Mom.”

The captions grew even more precious toward the back of the book. There was a picture with her dad handing her mother a dandelion. Her mom had written, “Shane is the most romantic guy in eighth grade. Even if I am allergic to dandelions.”

On the very last page, she found something that made her gasp. The entire sheet was a letter her dad wrote to her mom. Her mother must’ve hidden the letter there, because the page was stuck at the back, where most people might not look.

Dear Lauren, I don’t think people are supposed to feel this
way in eighth grade. All our friends are doing stupid stuff,
having their friends ask a girl out for them. You know, that kind of thing. But I feel like I could marry you tomorrow.
I’m not even kidding.

Emily put her fingers to her lips. “Dad.. . you were so smitten.”

I don’t know if I wanna graduate because that means going to high school. And high school means more people to deal with. All the senior guys will fall over each other to get to know you. Anyway, that’s all right, ‘cause I’m never going to leave you. Not ever. Love you, Lauren. Yours, Shane.

Yours, Shane?

Emily cooed. “You guys were so cute.” Her parents were adorable as kids. How could this have been in the garage all those years when she would’ve given anything to know some of these details? She closed the album and set it aside. The next few items in the box were framed photographs. One showed her parents dressed in sports gear, only it looked like her mother was the football player and her father was cheerleader. She squinted at the picture. Yes, a cheerleader with eye makeup.

Emily giggled, but she kept her voice hushed. The rest of the lights in the house were off now, and she didn’t want to wake her grandparents. She looked at the picture again. What were her parents doing? She spotted something in the background. A carved pumpkin sitting on the porch. Of course, the outfits were costumes. Her parents had probably been invited to a Halloween party.

But even more noticeable than the uniforms was the now-familiar look in their eyes. Like they were born to be together. She set the pictures aside and pulled out a journal. Her fingers trembled as she set the photo album down. It was time to read one of her journals. Emily took hold of the nearest one. She’d waited all of her life for whatever lay between the covers — the short stories and journal entries her grandma had mentioned — because then she’d have the answer she’d been looking for. The answer about whether her mother had a passion for writing, the way she did.

She held the journal, fingering the cover. These pages held an inside look at her mother’s heart. Something she’d wanted for as far back as she could remember. Emily frowned, wishing she didn’t feel so . . . guilty. Journals were private. She’d kept a little pink diary in second grade, then later on, a full-size journal. Page after page of stories and personal reflections and letters to the Lord. No one had ever read any of them.

Until now.

Emily bit her lip and balanced the journal on her lap, then she exhaled and opened the cover. As she did, her guilt faded. Of course she could read her mother’s journals. They might well offer the only chance to get to know her.

The first entry was dated spring 1985.

Shane and I talked about love. Real love. We both think it’s weird that our parents don’t understand how we feel about each other. They act like we’re a couple of kids who have no clue what love is. But here’s what I’ve learned when I’m with Shane. Real love waits in the snow on your front porch so you can walk to school together in the fifth grade. It brings you a chocolate bar when you fall and finish last in the seventh grade Olympics.

Real love whispers something in the middle of algebra about your pink fingernail polish so that you don’t forget how to smile when you’re doing math, and it saves a seat for you in the lunchroom every Friday through high school. Even when the other baseball players think you’re stupid. Real love has time to listen to your hopes and dreams when your parents are too busy with the PTA or the auxiliary club or the business they run at the local bank.

Real love stays up late on a Saturday making chocolate chip cookies together, flicking flour at you and getting eggshells in the batter and making sure you’ll remember that night the rest of your life. And real love thinks you’re pretty even when your hair is pulled back in a ponytail and you don’t stand perfectly straight. Real love is what I have with Shane. I just wanted to say so.

Emily blinked, suddenly aware of tears on her cheeks. She was overwhelmed with the enormity of the find. But more than that, she was struck breathless by her parents’ feelings for each other. She wanted to read the entry again, but she was driven to turn the page, to capture another glimpse of her mother’s life as a teenager.

What she found as she traveled the pages was a love that she hadn’t known about before, a love between her parents that was both triumphant and tragic. Triumphant because it was the picture of how love was supposed to be: patient and kind, trusting and hopeful. Never mind their ages, her mom and dad had known about love. But tragic, because it hadn’t lasted, because they’d lost each other, and as far as any of them knew, they’d never found each other again.

The last entries in her mother’s journal must’ve been written after her dad left for California. One in particular caught Emily’s attention.

I’m so mad at my parents. I hate them. They told me they’d leave a forwarding message when they disconnected our old phone service. It should’ve told anyone who called the house what our new number was. That way Shane could reach me and then he could give me his number.

But now they’re telling me the recording isn’t working yet. The worst part is this feeling I have that my mom and dad lied to me. Maybe, because shouldn’t it be working by now?

My baby’s due in a few weeks and I’m convinced Shane’s parents and my parents don’t want us together anymore. The thing that makes me most afraid is that if they really do feel that way, I think they could keep us apart. How would I know where to get his phone number? How would he know where to get mine? I can only pray that somehow, someway he finds me soon. I can’t stand being without him.

“Mom.” It was as though Emily were sitting across from her mother. She looked out her window at the dark, snowy sky. “Did you ever find him again? Did Dad ever call you?”

She ached for the loss her parents suffered. For the first time she considered the possibility that maybe her grandparents had played some role in separating her parents. The idea seemed crazy, but why else wouldn’t they help figure out the phone number situation in the weeks before her birth?

She looked at the clock and she felt a slow smile creep up her cheeks. It was after midnight, which meant it was Christmas. A quiet, silent Christmas morning, and already — even with the sadness of all her parents had lost — she could see one very obvious miracle in her mind, lying near the manger. The miracle of her parents’ love, a love that shone as bright as the star of Bethlehem. And in the glow of that light, she begged God for an even bigger miracle.

That she would be used not only to find her parents, but to bring them back together again.

T
he meeting Angela had been dreading was about to take place.

She and Bill woke earlier than usual and made Emily her favorite breakfast: cinnamon French toast with scrambled eggs. She came down groggy and smiling, her pink padded slippers scuffling along the floor. “Hey.” She gave Bill a hug first and then crossed the kitchen to hug Angela. “You guys are so sweet. Christmas never ends around here.”

The words pierced Angela’s heart. It would end soon enough. In about an hour, she guessed. Emily was chattering on about what a wonderful Christmas day it had been and how much she liked her new sweaters and her cute purse.

Her chatter was like music. If only they could hold on to that innocence, that joy.

“You were up late again.” Angela studied Emily. “Are you finding what you wanted to know?”

“I am.” She lowered her chin, her look a mix of gratitude and apology. “You can join me any time, Grandma. But thanks for letting me see it all first.” Her eyes shone. “I feel like I actually know Mom now.” Her smile faded some. “At least the way she was as a teenager.”

“Yes.” Angela’s throat ached. This was too much. All the memories of Lauren, the terrible awareness of what was coming . . . She didn’t want to cry, not yet. “Yes, your mother was quite something back then. Never rebellious or sarcastic, the way so many teenagers are today.” She leaned over and kissed Emily’s cheek. “She was a lot like you in that way.”

“Well, I need a little background music.” Bill stood and slipped his Mitch Miller CD back into the player. A few seconds passed, and then the sweet refrains of “White Christmas” filled the room. “I always say Christmas songs should play till January 1.” He did a little soft-shoe shuffle on the living room carpet. Then he smiled at the two of them. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Emily giggled and waltzed her way into the living room, where she took her grand pa’s hand and let him twirl her between the sofa and the television. Their voices mingled, a sound that was glorious, and not because either of them could sing on key. Angela watched them, mesmerized, fighting the sorrow struggling to overtake her.

Precious moments like this needed to be savored, because if the doctors were right their time together would end all too soon. But oh, if only they could go on this way another ten years. And how she wished Bill had danced like that with Lauren. What if he’d been more concerned with making memories than protecting her from Shane’s parents?

Angela needed to flip the last batch of French toast, but she couldn’t draw herself away from the picture they made. Bill and Emily, waltzing around the room, knocking into a bookcase and stepping on each others’ toes. Their singing eventually dissolved to giggles, and before the song ended, they were doubled over, laughing hard at themselves.

They each worked their way to a standing position. With their arms around each others’ shoulders, they danced back into the kitchen. Angela pointed to the cupboard, ignoring the way her stomach hurt. “We’re ready for the plates.”

Breakfast was more of the same, smiles and laughter and shared memories of Christmases long past. All the while, Angela gave Bill anxious glances. If only they could avoid what was coming, if they could just continue to breeze through the day, enjoying the light of Emily’s presence. But that just wasn’t an option.

When the dishes were cleared, Angela made three cups of coffee, passed them out, and directed her attention to her granddaughter. “We need to talk, Emily.” She looked at Bill. “Let’s go sit in the living room.”