The Red Gloves Collection (16 page)

But after a month in Port-au-Prince, Casey felt more comfortable. He no longer noticed the strange looks he got from people he passed on the streets, and the traffic was somehow invigorating. When he took the time to smile, people treated him kindly. He spent his days getting supplies, shuttling children to various appointments, and helping the ministry team when they staged out-reaches on the street corners.

At the end of the first year, Casey signed up for a second.

“What about college?” His father had been worried, but not nearly as much as his mother.

“Have you gone mad?” Her voice was pinched with fear. “Universities won’t wait forever.”

Casey figured they would. He was still in great shape and ran the hilly side streets at the far end of Port-au-Prince four times a week.

Halfway through his second year, a group of high school youth-group students came to the orphanage for spring break. Casey had been in the driveway on his back, working on the muffler of the old pickup truck, when the students filed through the high security gate. He paused, taking in the group of them as they made their way into the complex.

That’s when he saw her.

She was at the end of the line, listening to one of the counselors point out details about the orphanage, and Casey did a double take. Even looking at her upside down, he could feel his breath catch in his throat. She wasn’t striking in the typical sense. Her hair wasn’t streaked with blonde, and she wore no makeup. She was a simple kind of beautiful, like wildflowers scattered across an untouched mountain pasture. Casey’s hand froze in place, the wrench poised a few inches above his sweaty forehead. She didn’t yet known he was alive, and already something in her light brown eyes had worked its way into his heart.

C
asey picked up his pace, ignoring the way his legs screamed for relief. The pain of running felt good, especially now. He blinked and allowed the memories to continue.

Her name was Amy Bedford. By that evening Casey had found out enough about her to know that his first impression had been right on. She held no pretense and spoke with a wisdom that was far beyond her sixteen years. The youngest of five girls from central Oregon, her father was a science teacher for a small public high school, her mother a homemaker. Amy’s sisters were in college, anxious to get degrees in something other than education and move on to anything more lucrative than a teacher’s salary.

Not so Amy.

“My dad’s the best man I know,” she told Casey that night. “He’s touched a thousand hearts in his lifetime, and I want to do the same.” She rested her elbows on the old wooden table. “How ‘bout you?”

“Well … ” He gripped the bench he was sitting on and straightened his back. “I want to open a café.”

“A café, huh?”

“Yeah.” He gave a few thoughtful nods. “I can be my own boss, make my own hours, and meet new people every day.” His heart felt light at the prospect. “I’ve been drinking about it for a while.”

“Wow. I never met anyone who wanted to open a café.”

Quiet filled the space between them for a moment. “My parents aren’t real thrilled about the idea.”

She smiled then and said something Casey would remember for the rest of his life. “Someday I want to eat there, okay? At your café.”

Casey wasn’t sure if it was her faith in his dreams or the sincerity in her voice or the way her skin glistened in the hot, humid night, but with every passing hour he felt himself falling for her. The week passed in a blur of painting the orphanage kitchen and talking late into the night. Three years separated them, but Casey didn’t notice a minute of it. Amy was as true as an orphan’s smile, guileless and able to speak her mind. Something about her made Casey want to wrap his arms around her and protect her from anything cold or cynical, anything that would dim the warmth in her smile.

They finished the kitchen and moved into the room where twenty-two orphans slept on eleven small wire cots.

“Let’s paint the door red,” Amy told him.

“Red?” Casey made a face and flicked his paintbrush at her. “Why red?”

“Because.” She tapped her brush on the tip of his nose. “Red is the color of giving.”

And so they painted the orphans’ bedroom door red.

On Amy’s last night in Port-au-Prince, Casey asked if he could write to her.

“Yes.” They were sitting on a bench in the orphanage courtyard just before midnight and the air around them was stagnant, silent but for the sound of a distant drumbeat. She lowered her chin and locked eyes with him. “I’d like that.”

He wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t dare. He was on staff, and she was a student, a minor. Instead he swallowed and tried not to notice the way their shoulders brushed against each other. He dropped his voice a notch. “Know something, Amy?”

“What?” She leaned back against the crumbling façade of the orphanage wall and met his eyes again.

“I had fun this week.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m … well, I’m gonna miss you.”

She nodded, and her eyes glistened, hinting at tears. “I have to go. The counselors want us in bed by twelve.”

“I know.” He smiled so she wouldn’t see how hard it was to say good-bye. They’d be gone in the morning before sunup, and chances were he’d never see her again. “Be safe.”

“And get that café going.” Her chin quivered, and she hesitated just long enough to draw another breath. Then she reached into the pocket of her jean shorts and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here.” She tucked it into his hand. “I’ve been practicing my Creole.”

He started to open it, but she closed his fingers around the paper before he had a chance. “After I go.” She took a few steps back and then turned and ran lightly up the steps. When the door closed behind her, Casey opened the piece of paper and saw that she’d written only three words.

Me reme ou…. I love you.

CHAPTER SIX

C
asey had already run four miles—more than his usual route. But today the memories were crisp and vivid. He would’ve run to California if it meant giving them a reason to continue.

And so he kept running, his strides long and even, eyes straight ahead.

Me reme ou.

He could still see the words, the way she’d scrawled them on that piece of paper. The truth of what she’d written had dropped his heart to his knees and made him certain that somehow, someway, he would see her again. They wrote to each other for the next six months, and by the following summer Casey had enrolled at Oregon State University and made plans to move to Corvallis.

He’d visited the campus just once and met with the track-and-field coaches. Running the hills of Port-au-Prince had paid off, and he was offered a full scholarship. Casey was thrilled, but by then he was convinced of one thing. His future wasn’t in running or jumping or throwing a javelin.

It was in business.

And OSU had exactly what he was looking for. An excellent business school and a full-ride scholarship. And something else.

A twenty-minute drive to Amy Bedford’s house.

His parents knew nothing about Casey’s attraction to Amy because Casey wasn’t sure about it himself. In some ways, even with their letter-writing—the week he’d shared with Amy in Haiti felt like a wonderful dream, as surreal as nearly everything about his time there.

After he enrolled at OSU, he returned home to his parents, sat them down one night after dinner, and broke the news.

“I… I thought you’d go to a Christian college, Casey.” His mother’s lips drew together. “You’ve been gone so long, and now, well, you’ll be gone again.”

His father crossed his arms. “Your mother’s right, son. You can’t learn much about God at a place like OSU.”

It was a moment of truth, and Casey gripped his knees. “Dad… ” He met his father’s gaze. “I already know about God.” Silence stood between them for a moment. “Maybe it’s time I learn something about people.”

In the end, his parents agreed. Where better to practice his faith than out in the real world? Despite their reservations, they sent Casey off with their full support.

“Be careful,” his mother warned him the night before he left. “The Northwest is a liberal place, and the girls … well … they don’t have the same standards you’re used to.”

Casey had to stifle a smile. “Okay, Mom.”

He had only one girl in mind, and they met up again that September, a couple of hours after his first day of classes, at a coffee shop just off campus. Amy was seventeen by then, a high school senior. The moment she walked through the door of the shop, Casey knew his feelings for her weren’t some sort of strange dream.

She moved across the room, past the other tables. Even from ten yards away Casey could see how her eyes danced. When she sat down, he took her hands in his and struggled to find his voice. “There’s something I have to tell you, something I couldn’t say in a letter.”

Curiosity mingled with hesitation and took some of the sparkle from her eyes. “Okay.” She studied him. “Tell me.”

He waited until he could find his voice. “
Me reme ou.
“

Turning back wasn’t an option for either one of them. The next fall, Amy joined him at OSU, and four years later they married and left the Northwest for a small apartment in Manhattan and the chance for Casey to open the café he’d always dreamed about.

“It’s perfect, Casey.” Her eyes would light up every time they talked about it. “Let’s make it happen.”

Casey’s Corner was still a crazy idea to his parents, but never to Amy. She took a job at a local preschool and stood by Casey as he got the loans he needed to open his shop. On the weekends, they worked side by side decorating and collecting memorabilia for the walls. At the grand opening, no one was prouder than Amy.

The years that followed blurred together like a kind of larger-than-life tapestry of brilliant reds and oranges and thoughtful shades of blue. She had been everything to him—his closest friend, his confidante, his greatest support. Losing her had been like losing his right arm, and the pain of it made every breath an effort.

Even after two years.

Casey slowed his pace to a walk. He had worked his way through five miles of trails—two more than usual— and he was only a few blocks from the café. The memories had been stronger than usual, more vivid, and he fought the urge to keep running.

What was wrong with him anyway? If he could feel like this after two years, maybe he’d never move on, never find a way to get through life without her. Maybe this hazy underwater feeling of going through the motions was how life would always be. His breathing settled back to a normal rate, and he locked his eyes on a narrow stretch of sky as he walked. She was up there somewhere, probably elbowing God in the ribs, bugging Him to give Casey a reason to live again.

His café was a diversion, for sure. He spent most of the week there—talking to customers, helping Billy-G behind the counter, fixing up the place so it never lost the look Amy had given it way back when. But nothing about it made him feel alive, the way Amy had made him feel.

He reached the café and stared at the front door. Someone had hung a fall wreath on it, plastic leaves of orange and red and yellow and a nervous-looking turkey at the center, poking his pinecone head out at everyone who walked by. Thanksgiving was in a month and after that, Christmas.

Amy’s favorite time of the year.

Casey gritted his teeth and pushed the door open. He zigzagged his way past a dozen tables, chatting with the regulars and saying hello to a few newcomers. It wasn’t until the morning rush was gone that he sauntered over to the counter and dropped onto one of the barstools.

“Hey, Billy-G.”

His friend wiped his hands on his apron, reached beneath the counter, and pulled out a section of newspaper. “Saved this for you.” Billy-G took a few steps closer and spread the paper out in front of Casey. “Something you need to think about.”

Casey kept his eyes on the old man. “Not another one.” He was always telling Casey about a support group here or a Bible study there. “I’m fine, Billy-G, I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, okay.” The man tapped at the paper. “Everything’s great.” He began to walk away. “Just read it.”

Billy-G was back in the kitchen again when Casey released a long, slow breath and let his eyes fall to the newspaper. It was a small, two-column story, buried deep in the
Times’
Metro Section. The headline read “New Program Pairs Willing Adults with Grieving Children.”

Casey blinked and thought about that for a moment.

Grieving children? People were hurting all over the place, people who’d lost sisters or uncles or husbands or friends. But grieving children? It was something Casey hadn’t considered.

The article was only five paragraphs, and he gave himself permission to read it. When he finished, he picked it up, held it closer, and read it again. After the third time, the idea began to sink in. It was both simple and profound, really. A children’s group in Chelsea had designed a program called Healing Hearts, a way to pair up grieving children with single adults. Children who had suffered the death of one or more parents would be linked with single adults. The article provided a phone number for people to call if they were interested.

Casey imagined for a minute Amy sitting beside him, breathing the same air, sharing his every thought and knowing the things in his soul before they even came into focus.

“It’s a perfect idea, Casey,” he could almost hear her saying. “Let’s make it happen.”

There was a problem, of course.

He wasn’t any other single adult; he’d suffered his own loss and maybe the program director would hold that against him, maybe his own grief would minimize his ability to help a hurting child. But he doubted the program organizers would turn him away. Somewhere out there in the big, vast city was a child who needed a mentor, someone to help bridge the gap between his old life and the life he’d been forced to live these past two years. A child who needed love and direction and a reason to live the same way Casey, himself, needed it.

He could make the call and go through the screening, let the organization set him up with a child, and find a way to bring a little light back into both their lives. There were a hundred places where he could take a child in Manhattan, places where the two of them could find an on-ramp back to the highway of the living. Yes, he could make the call, and in maybe only a month or so he could—