Heartache and Hope (3 page)

Patrick Litton shifted on the couch while movie credits rolled across the muted TV screen. A ghostly blue-gray hue shadowed the otherwise-darkened living room. His arms were numb beneath Aubree's weight as she snored softly, deep in the throes of slumber, with barely a rattle to give away the fact that she was a CF kid.

A CF kid…the thought still made Patrick's breath hitch. Glancing down at Aubree now, he could almost imagine she was a “normal kid”…not one who he knew was sometimes thought of by others as “that CF kid.” The label was easy and seemed to stick, like “that kid with the glasses” or “that kid with the shaggy hair” or “that kid with the gapped teeth.” Except, glasses could be removed, hair could be trimmed, and teeth could be straightened.

Barring a revolutionary breakthrough in scientific research, CF was for life.

Not that he hadn't stopped praying for a miracle. Dash for the Dream stood testament to his unfailing hope for the proverbial pot of gold at the end of a very long rainbow.

Aubree, blessed with the beauty of her mother, took on the countenance of a tiny angel with blonde curls fanned along her shoulders and puckered dimples that deepened as she smiled through a dream. The thought squeezed Patrick's heart because he knew good and well that as days turned to weeks, then months and a year, then two, Aubree remembered less and less of her mother. He tried to keep Sandra's memory alive to Aubree through stories and pictures, but, for Aubree, it was like starting a novel in the middle and never making it through the chapters to the end. If he was completely honest, even for him lately, Sandra's memory was beginning to blur. Like a photo faded by sunlight, the colors had dimmed, the details subdued. Was it a sign that God, like his mother, was sending the message that it was time to pick up the fractured pieces of his life and move on?

Patrick thought of a saying Mom often shared, “Most people never really appreciate what they have until it's gone.” Well, wasn't that the truth? He counted his blessings as he considered a recent scare. A bout of flu had sent Aubree to the emergency room, worrying him senseless when she'd ultimately been admitted to the hospital for observation. What would have been a bump in the road for a non-CF kid was a major hazard for Aubree. She'd spent more than a week recovering, and the doctor had recommended home-schooling her for the remainder of the winter—perhaps longer—until her body had ample time to recover. Patrick's mom, a former middle-school teacher, had offered to step in and take on the job. In the weeks that followed, they'd all settled nicely into the routine.

Patrick smoothed Aubree's hair and kissed her damp crown. If only Mom could lay off the matchmaking attempts. The dating world was foreign to Patrick as swamp water was to Perrier. Losing Sandra had drained his heart, and he had doubts he'd ever recover. How could he ever truly love another woman? And what was the point? His mom—and God—just had to get onboard with the program and understand that he had no intention to pursue anything of the sort. He and Aubree were a nice little family—at least what was left of a family. The marriage ship had docked for good, as far as he was concerned. His boarding pass had long-since expired and he had no intention of seeking a renewal.

Besides, he stayed busy with life. There was his store on Market Square and Dash for the Dream, not to mention the daunting task of single-handedly raising Aubree.

Patrick turned his attention back to his daughter. She'd fallen asleep halfway through the second song of the animated movie, while the princess and her prince-in-disguise still struggled to come to terms with their newfound, awkward love.

Newfound and awkward were two words with which Patrick had become intimately familiar since Sandra's death. At thirty-two he'd gone from a content team-player—juggling Aubree's daily therapy and quarterly check-ups, work, and the inception of Dash for the Dream while also struggling to be the husband Sandra deserved, to awkwardly flying solo in the course of a handful of months. He'd stumbled more than he cared to admit as he struggled to stay focused. There was no point, despite Mom's meddling, in drawing a woman into the mix. He just didn't have the time to put into building a proper relationship.

Nor did he care to entrust his heart to another, ever again.

“You know, Patrick, some problems can be solved by careful thought or by rearranging our priorities.”
His mother's words drifted over the hum of the TV.
“Some can be solved by discussion and good counsel. But some problems can only be solved by prayer. We should make a determined effort to pray, son.”

He did pray…for Aubree, for his business, for the success of Dash for the Dream. That left little time to pray for much else—especially his own needs.

Aubree wiggled lazily in his lap, her head lolling against his shoulder as the cellphone tucked into his pocket vibrated with an incoming email message. He reached for it, careful not to wake her, and scrolled through until he located the new message. He was mildly surprised and happy to find the note concerned the upcoming training meeting for Dash for the Dream. Interest for this race had been lighter than usual, most likely due to its unfortunate timing so near the holidays. But, he could still hope for a large, last-minute turn-out.

Fired up that this particular prayer seemed to be answered, Patrick tapped the phone's screen, opened the message, and scanned the information that had been submitted with interest.

Daylin Sullivan, female aged thirty-one, from right here in Knoxville.

Daylin Sullivan
…Patrick read the name once again. It rolled off his tongue. Surely she couldn't be the same woman he knew from high school. She'd be back in Crossville, married by now, busy with a family and most likely a career. No, this had to be a different Daylin, merely a coincidence in names.

Yet, Patrick felt somehow drawn. The Daylin he remembered had been a bit mysterious, beautiful with hair like morning sunshine and a contagious laugh—when he was able to get her going. Not an easy task—Daylin was a deep thinker, with her nose buried in a book when she wasn't working at improving her speed and running form. They'd battled it out at the finish line a time or two while on the cross-country team together. But, back then, he wasn't as serious and driven to run as she. She was spurred by something deep inside…a need that seemed impossible to fill. He would have liked the time to get to know her better.

But graduation came too fast, and he'd gone away to college, lost touch with her. Then Sandra had come along, and any thoughts of Daylin had faded.

Until now.

Patrick cradled Aubree as he sat up, pressing his back firmly against the couch cushions as he skimmed the message.

I'll bet you don't remember me, but we went to high school together and even ran cross country on the same team.

Oh, he remembered her. Who could forget that veil of strawberry-blonde hair and the soft tinkle of laughter? She'd always been on the quiet side, difficult to read.

But she'd come to life once her shoes were laced up. Game on.

Now, Patrick found her words were heartfelt and not uncommon for someone new to the organization.

I've never run—or even walked—a marathon or half-marathon, but I've had some much shorter race experience and I am eager to try. What do I need to bring to the meeting?

Patrick balanced the phone on one knee as he tapped a reply.
Of course I remember you, Daylin. It's great to hear from you again…a very pleasant surprise. As far as the meeting goes,
all you need to bring along is that contagious enthusiasm of yours and a desire to push through the challenge when the going gets tough. I'll take care of the rest. Looking forward to seeing you again tomorrow…

Was the meeting really tomorrow? Patrick checked the top of the phone's screen for the current time. Yep, a new year had officially dawned—January first had arrived. And he was on his own in this New Year—again. Well, not really on his own—not technically—Aubree was here with him. Yet, suddenly Patrick longed for adult conversation. Something more than silly songs, animated movies, and greasy popcorn.

He felt an odd little zing of unbridled energy.

From the fireplace mantel, framed photos gaped at him. Sandra's eyes were dark, knowing. He swallowed through the disconcerting storm of anticipation laced with a vein of sadness. Suddenly Patrick remembered an offhanded conversation he and Sandra had shared only weeks before her accident.

“If anything happens to me, Patrick, you have to go on. You deserve happiness, and Aubree deserves a mother to grow up with. Promise me…”

It was as if she'd somehow sensed what was to come. Reluctantly, and after a great deal of debate, he'd agreed to the vow. Now, Patrick gulped back the knot in his throat and continued tapping out his message.

…at six-thirty. See you then.

He hit send and placed the phone on the coffee table as he stood, sheltering Aubree in his arms. He wished he could always protect her this way and from everything that plowed down the winding, twisted path. But knew it wasn't possible. One monster, the relentless disease attacking her body was stronger and more wily than he. The only way to defeat it was by being proactive with her therapy, medications and regular check-ups.

And
with continual research for a cure, which took money and boatloads time that seemed harder and harder to eke out of his overflowing work schedule. But he had no other choice. Aubree—and the other CF kids and their parents—counted on him to lead. So, tomorrow he'd run the meeting at Dusty's Diner and do his best to shepherd the crowd.

Absently, he smoothed the pad of his right thumb over the ridge of his left ring finger, noting the absence of his wedding band. He'd removed the thin slice of gold as summer eased into fall, and by now, the telltale shadow of white that had lingered through the first snow, along with his summer tan, had faded. The jolt that he usually felt each time he noticed the ring's absence didn't come this time. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe Daylin's call had helped his ravaged heart to travel just a bit down the road to healing. Maybe…

Patrick took his cellphone from the coffee table and scrolled through his messages once again. Perhaps Daylin Sullivan would bring a new perspective and a fresh attitude to the Dash group, just as she had when she'd walked onto the track during his senior year of high school. She was younger by a couple of years, yet they'd shared one amazing season together. Now her words resonated.

“…I am eager to try.”

Eager. It was a good word. Patrick felt a sense of eagerness, as well. Tomorrow, he'd begin a training run that would inch toward spring, toward warmth and sunlight and raising another round of funds to research treatments that would, hopefully, extend Aubree's life and the lives of other children in need. He couldn't bear the thought of losing his daughter—of losing another that he loved.

Still, Patrick knew in his heart that God had a plan in all of this and, though difficult at times, he trusted that plan. Where God would lead him—and Aubree—he had no idea.

But Daylin's email added a new dimension. A sense of calm settled over him, chasing away doubt of the unknown. He slipped the phone into his pocket and switched off the TV, casting the room into darkness while he padded toward the stairs to Aubree's bedroom.

Memories of Daylin followed him, and, with a nudge of surprise, he welcomed them.

3

Daylin considered turning back to the car and making a quick getaway but fought against the urge as she plodded through melting snow, crossing the street to weave her way to Dusty's Diner. Traffic was light, the rush hour comfortably past its prime as the holidays faded and the work-week eased back into a normal routine. Cracks peeked through crystals of slush beneath her feet. The New Year had ushered in more than good wishes—moderate temperatures had thinned the snowy-white quilt to a threadbare blanket.

Streetlamps flickered on, casting the car-lined boulevard in milky shadows. One glance through the diner's picture window told her most of the vehicles' occupants were gathered inside along the Formica-topped booths. Coffee mugs littered the tables, punctuated here and there by platters of cheeseburgers and fries or slices of pumpkin pie resting merrily beneath dollops of whipped cream.

Daylin's belly growled. She'd come straight from work and hadn't had time to eat. The pie looked good. Maybe she'd indulge in just one piece…and a burger…and fries drizzled in cheese. After all, it wasn't like she was going to run
today
. This was simply an informational meeting—no tennis shoes required.

She dismissed the thought. She'd been good yesterday, spending a chunk of the day culling junk food from the cabinets and restocking the shelves with healthy stuff—fruits and vegetables and oatmeal with raisins—while she cleaned off the closetful of clothes tossed over the treadmill she'd purchased from a resale shop last winter. She'd had big plans during that shopping day to run—or at least walk—herself back into shape but those plans had gone right out the window almost as soon as the piece of equipment was delivered to her apartment. Disgusted by her lack of drive, she'd set the alarm an hour early that morning and forced herself crank up the beast. Though her thighs wailed in a temper tantrum of protest, she walked a full thirty minutes, capping things off with a short—make that a
very
short and embarrassingly awkward—sprint before heading to the shower and then off to work.

She hadn't really craved her usual assortment of donuts and chocolate bars until now, when the aroma of grilled onions and yeasty bread whispered on the air, waking her belly with a ferocious growl. Yet, despite the hunger, nerves tangled her insides. Perhaps after the meeting—and seeing Patrick again—she'd feel better about indulging in something to eat. For now, she needed to get settled inside the warmth of the building before the festivities began and she disrupted the flow with her late entrance.