Rain Dance (23 page)

The oak staircase, floors, and wide trim invited me into another era, when building a house was a work of art.

“Let’s start with something to drink, then I’ll give you a tour.”

“Sounds good. Where did you get all these wonderful antiques?” I asked, running my fingers across a lovely old dining room table. “My grandmother owned one just like this.”

“It came from a secret donor. A delivery guy dropped it off one day just when we needed it for our first meal.”

“What a strange coincidence.”

“We believe it was God working anonymously.”

In the soft, butter-yellow kitchen, we drank fresh lemonade over crushed ice and talked. Pulling out my legal pad, I asked Peggy to refresh my memory on Hope’s injuries.

“She suffered from a severe lack of oxygen shortly after her birth and sustained permanent brain damage. Her parents taught her to speak, color, and write a few words. Eventually she learned to read pre-school level books and write basic sentences. She stopped progressing at the first grade level and never mastered math beyond easy addition and a tiny bit of subtraction. We still reinforce those with flash cards a couple of times a week as her homework.”

“The record states a fireman rescued her from the burning house, and that she suffered third degree burns on her legs.”

“That’s right. Her favorite blanket was on fire. She tried to put out the flames by kicking at them. She screamed at the firefighter when he took it away from her. As far as we know it’s the last sound she made until recently.”

“Who told her about her parents?”

“Her case worker, Rebecca. She also had the job of making all the funeral arrangements and finding a foster home for Hope. Rebecca called us and asked if we’d like to go to the hospital and meet her. The first time I saw her, she was sitting in a pool to soak before they sloughed off the burned skin. I watched this child suffering torture in absolute silence. At times I wondered if I’d survive. I couldn’t believe she had. I went back day after day, but she wouldn’t look at me. I kept talking to her, praying for her out loud, and singing to her about God’s love.

“Two weeks later we had our first breakthrough. She looked up at me for an instant before she went back to staring into the water. Her therapist and I danced a little jig out in the hall. Then came her first smile. We were on hold there for a long time.”

“And yesterday was the first time she spoke?”

“Yes.”

Tears welled up in my eyes.

“What you are doing for us—being Hope’s advocate—means so much to us as a family. We all love her. Last night she said only two words, but we went out for pizza and ice cream to celebrate. Her response to you was miraculous.”

“What did she say?”

“ ‘Hi, Stevie.’ You should have seen him do his happy dance for Jesus. He jitterbugged around saying, ‘I knew it!’ ” Peggy said with a smile.

“He knew what?”

“He believed that Hope would talk again. Stevie’s faith in God runs deep. He prays until something happens, never doubting.”

Changing the subject, I asked, “How many bedrooms does this house have again?”

All the God talk made me uncomfortable. Like Jonica, Peggy talked about Him as easily as she breathed.

“Eight. We each have our own bedroom, with one left over for guests, and there are four and a half bathrooms.”

“Who handled the sale for you?”

“A lawyer our pastor referred us to. He offered to work with us pro bono, which fit our budget at the time. Shortly after we approached the realtor with an offer to purchase it for a reduced price, someone else made a higher offer. The second party wanted to turn it into a bed and breakfast. We figured we were finished, and that we’d have to keep looking for a property we could fit into and somehow afford. Then our secret donor made an even bigger offer and before we knew it, we closed.”

Peggy refilled my glass with lemonade. “Right away we started going to auctions and garage sales looking for sturdy old furniture. Once more, gifts poured in. Two people who reupholster furniture took old chairs and couches and made them new again. Five women volunteered to refinish the old, worn pieces of oak furniture we were given or found here and there. They turned our basement into their workshop, and recruited teens from church. They also redid the kitchen cupboards and all the wood trim,” she added, indicating them with a wave of her hand.

“They did a wonderful job,” I said, looking around the room.

“They did,” Peggy agreed. “A childless couple in their sixties from church volunteered to be grandparents. They remember each child’s birthday with a card and special cake, and they share holidays with us. She makes pajamas for the kids—cotton in the summer and flannel in the winter.”

“This story is amazing. Nowadays most people are so disconnected from each other. What motivated them to do all this?”

“Faith.”

I stared at her, puzzled. “As in your daughter?”

“No. As in God.”

I had to find a way to turn off all this God-talk. Standing, I asked, “May I see Hope’s room?”

In the long hallway upstairs, all the doors were closed except one. Peggy paused on the threshold and pointed to a piece of paper taped to the door jamb that read, “Welcome Stacie!” The words were surrounded by several crayoned smiley faces.

“Hope made this and taped it up here last night. I helped her with the spelling.”

Inside the room, a purple crazy quilt covered an iron bedstead painted lavender. Soft purple lace curtains edged the long window and a deep purple crocheted afghan draped a wooden rocker. On the wall by the chair hung a large photo—a family portrait. Hope stood in the middle, between Peggy and John. The rest of the kids surrounded them. On the nightstand was a photo of a younger Hope with another couple. Her birth parents.

“Hope knows her mommy and daddy loved her very much,” Peggy explained, her voice muted. “We haven’t told her this, but the firemen found their bodies in the hallway outside her room. Their attempt to save her life cost them theirs. Before they went after Hope, her dad called 911. If he hadn’t, she would be gone too. They should have waited outside, but they couldn’t. The fireman who carried Hope to safety grabbed this keepsake. He is now her beloved adopted uncle.” She held out a picture to me of a brawny young man holding Hope’s hand.

I gripped the banister on the way downstairs, tears threatening to blind me. In the entryway, I noticed a wooden cabinet hanging on the wall by the door.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, my husband made this for the kids. Sometimes people send them cards and letters. These are their mailboxes.”

Although she hurried to stand in front of the boxes, I had already seen a name I knew. It seemed to glow on the wood like neon.
Stephen Dunbar, Jr.

My stomach lurched, and my throat tightened. “Who is this?” I reached around her to touch the name she was trying to hide.

“Stevie,” she said, sounding breathless. “He’s the boy we talked about before.”

“How old is he?”

“He just turned twenty-one.”

Hastily she motioned me toward the door, but I felt as though my feet were glued to the floor. No way was I going to leave without getting some answers.

“Why is he here again?” I demanded.

“Stevie has Down syndrome.”

She looked as if she was going to cry. I felt the same way.

“Peggy, I need to sit down.”

Back in the kitchen, I gave way to tears. I pounded the table. Peggy jumped, but I didn’t care.

“He’s my brother isn’t he?” I asked through gritted teeth. Anger and hurt surged through me in equal parts.

“Stacie, I’m so very sorry.” She was crying too, and her words tumbled over each other. “When Hope’s social worker gave me a list of lawyers with your name at the top, along with her personal recommendation, I didn’t look any farther for an advocate. I didn’t connect you to Stevie because your last name is different. But that day at your office I recognized you right away because of Stevie’s pictures. I knew I should leave immediately, but I couldn’t come up with a good excuse. Then when Hope responded to you the way she did, I ignored my conscience. I was convinced God led us to you.”

I stared blankly at her, wondering if the theme song from The Twilight Zone would soon whisper through the air. Or perhaps someone with a camera would jump out, grinning, and say, “Smile! You’re on Candid Camera.”

“What pictures?” I finally managed to say.

“Stevie has pictures of you and his mother in his room. His dad brings new ones from time to time. Stevie knows who you are, and he prays believing with all his heart you will both be in his life again.”

“Does . . . his mother . . . know where he is?” I couldn’t speak Eve’s name.

“Yes.”

“Does she visit or call?”

“No.”

Clutching my stomach, I was sure I was going to be sick.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Peggy asked.

“No. I need to leave.”

              Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock gonged on the half-hour.

“Oh no!” Peggy exclaimed. “This is one of Mr. Dunbar’s—your father’s—visiting days. He’ll be here in a few minutes. He likes to meet Stevie’s bus.”

Icy cold replaced my red hot anger. The chill was far scarier than the heat. I recognized Eve’s coping mechanism taking over. I let it.

“I have to leave,” I said with cool calm. “I cannot face either of them now. Not now.

I got up and took a few determined steps as I slung my purse onto my shoulder. Regaining the control I’d felt evaporating seconds before, I thought,
So this is how Eve
does it.

Peggy followed me to the front door. “Stacie, are you okay? You look so pale.”

“I need to go home and figure this out. What are you going to tell my father when he gets here?”

“The truth. Anyone who looks at me will know something is wrong. If he feels he has to take Stevie away from us, it will break our hearts and Hope’s.”

Standing in the doorway, she wrung her hands. “Stacie, can you forgive me for deceiving you? I wanted the best for Hope, and I wouldn’t let myself think about the risks to everyone else involved. I thought I could get through this without your finding out. I haven’t even told John. I am very sorry.”

“I can’t imagine my parents wanting to remove Stevie from your care. I don’t. We’ll talk about the rest of this later, but right now I really have to get out of here.”

I grabbed the doorknob and stepped out onto the porch. When I glanced back, I saw that Peggy was shivering as the tears raced down her face. A compassion I didn’t know I possessed took over.

“I have no idea how you do what you do Peggy. In spite of the last few minutes, I’m impressed with your love for these kids and your ability to take care of them. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Her face crumpled. “Our social worker was right. The silent kids of this world need you to be their voice. I hope someday you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Today is not the day
, I thought as I turned away.

I tried not to run down the sidewalk. I hurried to my car and threw my briefcase onto the passenger seat. My rush woke up the baby, who let me know with a swift kick. I rubbed my abdomen, hoping to calm the child in my womb and my racing thoughts.

He will come from behind me.

I turned my car around in a driveway a few doors down and parked on the opposite side of the road where he wouldn’t notice. A vanload of kids pulled into Peggy’s driveway and right behind them followed a black Catera. When my dad got out of the car, a blond man-boy jumped out of the van and raced into his arms.

My phone rang. My friend in the records department wanted me know he’d found a birth record but no death certificate. When I thanked him, it was as if Eve were doing the talking. I wasn’t sure what scared me most—my parents lying to me or me sounding like my mother.

I don’t remember driving home, letting myself in, or dialing Jonica’s number. I do remember hearing her say, “I’ll be right there.”

Chapter
21

Jonica

Blooming roses, book sales, and Della filled my June days. I stopped by her house and told her our locksmith friend said the key probably belonged to a large toolbox. I invited her to Millie’s for lunch, hoping she might be ready to visit Cliff’s garage.

In the car she wondered out loud, “What did Don own that he needed to keep locked up?”

We ate homemade chicken pot pies and drank strong black coffee. Della talked about her flowers and love of feeding the birds. I was glad we shared these interests.

“Cliff’s is down the block. Do you want to go ask if he or one of the guys can drop Don’s toolbox off at your house?” I asked.

“We might as well,” she decided. “Maybe it’ll fit in your trunk. How big can it be?”

When we stopped at the garage, Cliff wiped his hands off on a rag but still refrained from shaking our hands. We stepped into the back room and got our first glimpse of Don’s toolbox.

“That’s big,” we said in unison.

“Yep. The guys buy a lot of tools. They’re expensive, so we each own a toolbox like this one to keep our investment safe.”

I reached into my purse, drew out the key, and offered it to Della.

“Please, Jonica, you do it. I’m shaking too much.”

The key unlocked the master, and we heard all the drawers unclick.

“Don kept some personal things in the bottom drawer,” Cliff told Della. “I’ll leave you ladies alone to look through them.”

Cliff closed the door, muffling the sounds of hydraulics, men’s voices, and revving engines from the shop.

Della stood still staring at the drawer. I bent down. The bottom drawer was lined with clean towels. Inside rested an old Bible, a stack of envelopes, and a ledger.

“Please take them out,” she said.

When I handed her the Bible, she stared intently at it. “This was his father’s. I gave it to him at the gravesite. I didn’t know if he’d keep it or not. What are those?” she asked, pointing to the rest.

There were envelopes addressed to her and to his kids. The ledger was a handwritten journal.