The Splendor of Ordinary Days (27 page)

A Tenuous Gathering

T
he following day, Thursday, the clinic was remarkably busy. Since I was going to be out of the office Friday, two days of patients were being crammed into one. Late that afternoon, Nancy Orman caught me in the hallway as I exited an exam room.

“Dr. Bradford, the Yoders are here.”

“How many of them came?”

“Jacob and his father.”

“Okay, thanks. I'll take it from here.” I'd told Nancy that I wanted to speak to Eli Yoder before they were shown to an exam room.

I took a deep breath, focused, and walked to the waiting area, where I found Jacob and Eli.

“Good afternoon,” I said to both of them. I turned my attention to Eli. “Mr. Yoder, before we get started, I wonder if I might speak to you privately in my office.”

He looked at me and then quickly to Jacob, who gave him a subtle nod. Eli rose slowly, regarding me warily. I extended my hand to guide him in the proper direction. He moved vigorously for a man of his years and once we were inside my office, I asked him to have a seat on the couch, where the quilt his family had given me was neatly folded on the cushion beside him. I pulled up a chair and sat across from him.

“Thank you, Mr. Yoder. I brought you here to ask you a question.”

I was doing my best to stifle the timidity bouncing around in my throat. Conversely, Eli seemed perfectly relaxed, assessing me casually. He nodded his understanding.

“Can you tell me the colors of that quilt beside you?”

His eyes tightened and to my surprise, ever so subtly the corners of his mouth turned upward, revealing a buried amusement that was far removed from his customary stern countenance. “We both know, Dr. Bradford, that I am unable to see certain colors. What is your real question?”

His calm delivery coupled with his quick intuition threw me. I laughed. “Okay, fair enough.” I studied him for a moment, rethinking my approach.

“Here's the thing. Jacob has the same condition. It's more commonly known as color blindness.”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Well, that's the problem. Unless I'm mistaken, Letta is not ­color-­blind, and that trait is passed through the mother . . . which leads me to believe that Jacob is not your biological son.”

Eli stiffened. He drew in a long breath and cautiously chose his next words. “You seem quite certain, Dr. Bradford. Why is that?”

He had carefully avoided confirming my assertion. It was time to press the real agenda.

“Eli, I know that your sister Ellie died after complications of childbirth. I read her death certificate, which I found in the state archives. I'm also pretty sure that Jacob doesn't know that Ellie was his biological mother.”

A long silence ensued as Eli looked to the side, his lips pressed firmly together. In time, he nodded in resignation and turned to me. “So, why is this important to you, Dr. Bradford? Do you intend to tell Jacob?”

I held up my hands. “No, no, not at all. I have neither a right nor a responsibility to do that.”

“Then why are you asking?”

I was less sure of my response. “Because I'm a doctor. Because my job is to heal wounds.”

“I don't think I understand.”

“I need to ask you a favor, Eli. One other person knows the truth about ­Jacob—­his father, Luther Whitmore. I told him yesterday. He doesn't want to cause any trouble, but he would like to meet with you. He didn't think you would talk to him, and I agreed to try to smooth the way for you to get together.”

“And when does he want to meet?”

I shrugged. “Now, if possible. He can be here in a couple of minutes.”

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. “Perhaps it is time.”

Luther had been waiting on my call and was soon at the clinic's back door. He didn't seem nervous, but I sure as heck was. We went to my office, where Eli was waiting.

Awkwardly, I endeavored to make introductions. “Mr. Yoder, I believe you are acquainted with Mr. Whitmore. I understand you two knew each other years ago?”

The two men stared at each other for the longest time, not with faces of anger or bitter assessment, but rather with a ­long-­endured sadness.

“You look well, Eli.”

“As do you.”

“Not true. The years have taken their toll. You never were able to tell a lie.”

A glint of amusement passed between the two of them, followed by another long silence.

Eli spoke calmly. “So, what is it you want?”

“I just wanted to say thank you, Eli. Thank you for protecting Ellie. Thank you for loving her despite . . .” He paused for a moment, weighing his words. “Despite our failure and our foolishness. And most of all, I want to thank you for raising our son. For loving him and for teaching him your ways and your beliefs. From what little I know of him, he's a very good man, a good husband, and a good father. He's that because of you and Letta.”

Eli nodded his understanding.

As he spoke again, the poise Luther had so readily displayed moments ago began to falter. “You need to know, Eli. I have no intentions of saying anything. Not to Jacob, not to anyone. If he is told differently, then eventually everything will come out. You've taken great pains to keep Ellie's memory untarnished. All the kindness, all the light, and all the love that was in her shouldn't be tainted by one foolish act on my part. I should have loved her more wisely.”

Luther's face tightened, and his chin began to quiver. He was fighting to keep his composure. “Just promise me, Eli. Just promise me that you've told Jacob how incredible, how wonderful, how beautiful, his aunt Ellie was. How she brought joy and splendor to the ordinary day.” He looked at Eli humbly. “That's all I ask.”

Luther's attempts to hold back tears had failed him, and a half century of pain and regret welled up in his eyes.

Eli looked down, seemingly unable to look at Luther. Now he seemed racked with woe, frail, and ­grief-­stricken. After what seemed an eternity, he said, “I didn't start the fire.”

Luther caught his breath. “Then who did?”

“Ellie did. After you left. She did it to punish herself for not being stronger. She never blamed you. Even months later, in her last hours, she never blamed you.”

Eli paused and half sat, half collapsed into a nearby armchair. “After the baby was born, she kept insisting she was fine, stubbornly refusing to go to the hospital. Finally, I no longer believed her, and I ran as fast as I could to the nearest house so they could call for an emergency vehicle. But I was too late. By the time they arrived, she had already passed away. I blame myself.”

He looked up at Luther. “You are not the only one with regrets. It seems we both should have been stronger and wiser.”

Eli stood and faced Luther, searching his eyes. “Perhaps after ­forty-­five years it is time Jacob knew the truth. Maybe it is time he met his real father.”

Luther held up his hand. “No. No, Eli. You are his real father. And you always will be.” Luther had regained control of himself. “One day, you and I will have to stand before our Maker and atone for our sins of omission. At least in that moment, we'll know that this time we were strong for Ellie's sake.”

Eli absorbed Luther's words. “Perhaps you are right. Jacob is the best of us, Luther, your family and mine. Perhaps nothing is to be gained by burdening him with our mistakes.”

“What about Letta, Eli?”

“Letta is a good woman,” Eli said. “But, of course, you would know that from the old days. She was never able to have children and has seen Jacob as God's gift to her. She is at peace with all that has happened.”

That being said, both men nodded to each other. It seemed an air of completion now washed over the conversation, and we all stood, silent and reflective. But Luther had one final request.

“Eli, do you suppose there is any chance I might meet him, and see his children?”

Eli thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, there is. Jacob's daughter, Rebecca, is getting married in two weeks.” He shook his head, mildly amused. “Rebecca looks like your mother, Luther. She is an exact replica. I even called her Evangeline once in front of everyone. Letta nearly fainted.” The two men shared an amused smile.

“Anyway,” Eli continued, “Dr. Bradford is invited. Come with him as his guest.”

It took a few seconds before I realized what Eli had said. “Oh, well, okay. I guess we'll be there.”

Once again, the three of us stood silently. Then slowly, Luther held out his hand. Eli looked at it for a moment and then extended his. The two men shook, regarding each other with a quiet respect. And yet there was something else too. It was something in their eyes; perhaps a momentary spark, a subtle communication that only they understood. And in that moment, it seemed they were boys again, sharing the unspoken language of mischievous youth.

I led Eli to an exam room and checked his vision. It wasn't as bad as I had expected, but cataract surgery was still likely in his future. Afterward, I escorted him to the waiting room, where Jacob invited me to Rebecca's wedding, completely unaware of the conversation that had transpired minutes earlier. I asked if I could bring a friend. He agreed, they left, and I returned to my office, where Luther had waited to talk to me.

I took a seat behind my desk, delighted with the turn of events. Luther sat quietly in one of the wingback chairs. He allowed me a brief moment of smug but polite triumph before speaking. “I, um, I'm indebted to you, Doctor. Tremendously.”

I nodded. Having Luther in my debt was such a splendid feeling, it was difficult to suppress the erupting smirk that so desperately wanted to emerge. But I managed. Luther continued.

“I've got a lot to think about, a lot of past mistakes to atone for. But, like I said, I owe you, Luke.”

“Luther, you can start by keeping your eye appointments. I'm sure I'll think of something else along the way. But we'll start there.”

I stood and we shook hands. But as I walked him to the door, he had a question for me.

“Bradford. I'm curious about something. How did you ever connect me with the cottage ruins on Mercy Creek Road?”

“The daisies.”

“The daisies?”

“Yeah, from last May. I saw you walk out of the flower shop with a bouquet of daisies. Later that day, I saw daisies on the hearth at the ruins.”

“Really? There were daisies on the hearth?”

“Well, yeah. Didn't you put them there?”

“Daisies were, in fact, Ellie's favorite flower. However, not to burst your bubble, but I buy daisies every May ­twenty-­seventh to put on my mother's grave. It was the day she died. I haven't been out to Mercy Creek Road in thirty years.”

Soon afterward, Luther departed, leaving me with many questions still unanswered.

Bracken's Knoll

L
ater that day I left work shortly after five, delightfully anticipating meeting up with Christine. The hectic week had flown by, and the two of us hadn't seen each other since Saturday night and the abrupt departure from the dance. But seeing her wasn't going to happen. I called her while walking to my car, and she was on her way back to school for ­parent-­teacher conferences that evening. I was leaving early in the morning to drive to Atlanta and planned to spend the night there. Our time together would have to wait.

There was something unsettling about our brief conversation on the phone. Christine's responses seemed clipped, distracted, and numerous times she told me she loved me. This was always wonderful to hear, but it seemed she couldn't say it enough. I told her I loved her too and asked if everything was okay.

“Everything's fine,” she answered. “I just miss you a lot, that's all.”

I was unconvinced, but there was little else I could do. “I'll be back early Saturday afternoon. We'll make up for lost time then.”

“Yeah,” she said sweetly. “That sounds great.”

We hung up, and I considered driving over to the school to catch her between meetings and surprise her with a hug and a smile. It was a pleasant idea, but I decided against it. She would be busy, and I needed to pack. Come Saturday, we would have the world to ourselves.

The next morning, the drive to Atlanta felt longer than it should have. Shortly after one o'clock, I met the moving company men at the storage facility. Several fifteen-by-­thirty-­foot ­climate-­controlled rooms held all my worldly possessions, or at least all the worldly possessions belonging to my late aunt and parents. The storage units were paid for in a yearly draft out of my parents' estate. The summer before I had started med school at Vanderbilt was the last time I had been here. What with med school, residency, and my year in Watervalley, eight years had passed.

I had conveniently tucked away these huge chapters of my life, endeavoring to look forward rather than back. It had been my way of putting painful realities behind me. But as I rolled up the first of the large entry doors, the dormant air from all those enclosed years poured over me and brought with it a thousand memories. Oddly, they were sweet and comforting. And as the men moved patiently around boxes and furniture to locate the things I wanted, I began to understand the anchoring strength that these possessions had always provided me. The passing years had managed to ease the pain of my loss. But these things remained, and they served as reminders of the happy times of my youth.

In the years since I had last been here, I had been adrift, always scheming toward a richer, fuller tomorrow. Looking back, I realized that I had partly been in a great sleep, shutting off parts of my life. Yet now it seemed I had found my roots again, awakened to a world that had been strong and beautiful from days gone by. It was a strange and consoling revelation.

I pointed out to the moving company men the few pieces of furniture I wanted shipped to Watervalley. Then I spent several hours rummaging through stacks of boxes, looking for the other items I wanted. In time, I found all of them: the family photo albums, my dad's journal along with my own journal, and my mother's jewelry box. It was nearing six o'clock when I pulled the last storage door shut and locked up.

I drove by my aunt's old house where I had lived as a teenager and past my old prep school where I had starred in basketball. Not surprisingly, they weren't quite as I remembered them. And yet, the memories were good ones. I grabbed some dinner and found my hotel, eager to spend time in a long conversation with Christine.

But she never answered the phone.

With the first call I left a message, assuming she would get back to me shortly. When an hour passed with no response, I called again, only to get her voice mail. I gave it a few minutes and called the landline at her mother's house. The answering machine picked up. I left a message there as well. I sent her numerous text messages, but these also received no response.

Slowly, the nagging progression of emotions began. First came curiosity, followed by worry, then anxiety and aggravation. I went to the hotel bar and drank a beer, searching for a way to occupy myself until Christine called. But she never did.

By now it was well past ten o'clock. I thought about phoning Connie. I doubted she would know anything, but she would calm my concerns and possibly offer an explanation. But the hour was late. I would just have to wait.

I was up and on the road by seven the next morning. There was an hour difference between Atlanta and home, so I waited patiently before calling. A little after eight o'clock Watervalley time, I dialed Christine's number.

Again, voice mail. It was maddening. My mind bounced between burning annoyance and sickening worry. All the possible explanations I could imagine went from bad to worse. I needed to be home, and now the long interstate miles seemed to drag on in monotonous, endless anticipation.

By midmorning I was two hours out and there was still no word. I pulled the car over and called Connie. At first she spoke lightly, endeavoring to mollify my feverish apprehension. But I persisted, and she offered to get in touch with Christine and have her call me. I thanked her and hung up, certain that soon my phone would ring and all would be fine. But another hour of driving passed in silence. I waited another thirty minutes and called Connie again. This time she didn't answer.

I scorched the road over the last miles into Watervalley, pushing the engine of the ­Austin-­Healey to its limits. I was furious, scared, sick beyond words. I raced down Fleming Street and into my driveway. Connie's car was parked there. I was racked with the nauseating conviction that whatever the next minutes held, they would not be good.

Connie was sitting silently at the kitchen table, leaning forward and resting her elbows with her fingers slightly interlocked and tented, as if she had been praying. She turned and looked at me, her face framed in sadness.

“Sit down, Luke. I need to talk to you.”

My fear and anger were obvious. “I'm not sitting, Connie. Tell me what's happened to Christine.”

She nodded. “Christine is okay. But there's a problem.”

“What?” I practically shouted. “What has happened that she can't talk to me about it?”

“After you and I talked, I called her. We spoke for quite a while. She got some pretty devastating news, and I think it has broken her in two. She didn't know how to tell you, especially not over the phone. I offered to talk to you. At first she said no, then she said sure. I believe she doesn't know what to think or say right now.”

“Tell me what's happened, Connie.”

“She's been having some problems lately; she's missed her cycle for several months.” Connie paused and tilted her head slightly. “You're a doctor. . . . You understand what I'm talking about.”

I nodded.

“Just before you two were engaged, she went to a gynecologist in Nashville, and they ran some tests. They found a problem with her hormone levels. They told her not to worry and to come back in a month so they could run a second set of tests. She didn't want to say anything to you before she knew there was really an issue. But she looked up the possibilities, and it's had her pretty worried this past week. Yesterday she went back for the second round of blood work, and the results weren't good. Apparently she has something called premature ovarian failure. Luke, she may never be able to have children.”

I said nothing. After all the anxiety, all the fear, all the anguish of the last ­twenty-­four hours, I simply shut down. It was my emotional ­fail-­safe. I stared at Connie blankly. A thousand thoughts and feelings were pinging for my attention. I closed them out.

I spoke barely above a whisper. “Where was she when you talked to her, Connie?”

“Home. It was about an hour ago. She said she wanted to be alone and that she was going somewhere on the back of the farm.”

I knew where Christine had gone. Without thinking to thank Connie, I turned and left. Numb to all the world around me, I started the engine and drove to Summerfield Road.

After parking the car at Christine's house, I headed across the open pastures and far reaches of the farm to a small rise called Bracken's Knoll. I had only a general sense of where it was located, so after crossing several broad fields, I called out for her.

“Christine, Christine, Christine . . .”

In the near distance, I saw her appear upon the crest of a low, treeless mound. I walked briskly up the slow rise and stopped several feet from her.

My words were wooden, void of emotion. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Her face was red and swollen from long fits of crying. The overcast October sky was cheerless, cold, unforgiving. She gasped deeply of the frigid air, heaving great breaths in and out. “Please don't be mad at me. Please don't be mad.”

I said nothing. I only stared at her, standing there shivering in the tall orchard grass, frightened, distraught, waiting. The sleeves of her sweater were pulled over her hands, and her arms were folded around her stomach in an effort to contain her deep wailing sobs.

“Talk to me, Christine. Tell me everything.”