The Splendor of Ordinary Days (28 page)

This Life

H
er lips were quivering. Against her stilted, choppy breaths and the flood of tears, Christine bawled out her words. “It isn't fair,” she cried. “It just isn't fair.”

Weeping uncontrollably, she cupped her fingers over her mouth. I stepped toward her, but she held out her hand stiffly, signaling me to keep away. Her words were a muddle of defeat and rage. “I spent all these years trying to keep my dreams safe, trying to follow ­this—­this ideal, and for what? I've just been stupid, completely, totally stupid.”

“Don't say that,” I said firmly.

“And why not?” she snapped back in her anger. “Look at the two of us. I mean, what's been the point of our holding off . . . like there would be some cosmic reward?”

I spoke calmly. “Is that what last weekend was all about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is that why you were upset all day? Why you offered to make love? Because you were worried and angry at what the test results would show?”

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and folded her arms again. She said nothing but nodded her head in short, jerky movements.

I exhaled a heavy sigh and looked away. “You can't do that, Christine. You can't draw a circle in the dirt and leave me out of it.”

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I didn't want to disappoint you.”

“In what possible way?”

“By not being able to have children and then on top of that by being this foolish idealist. By cheating both of us out of so much. And for what? All these years of keeping this stupid promise to myself and the whole time the joke's been on me.”

She burst into another gasping round of fitful sobs. Again, I endeavored to move closer, but she turned her back to me and stepped away. I stuck my hands into my coat pockets and stood there, giving her time. Finally, I walked around in front of her, crossed my arms, and stood patiently.

“What do you want, Christine?”

She gazed into my expressionless eyes, and her torrent of words poured out in an almost breathless whisper. “I want you to love me,” she said. “I want you to please love me. Just as I am . . . broken, afraid, foolish. Because if you can't do that, if you think there's ever a chance that the day will come when you wake up and regret this moment, then I want you to just walk away, Luke Bradford. Just please, walk away.”

I stood there like a ghost. Wisps of our breath vanished illusively into the frigid air, our voices swallowed into the vast landscape. The distant, shouldering hills, which had always been strong and protective, now seemed raw, cold, indifferent. She looked desperately into my face, searching. Finally, she could take it no longer. The last of her anger had been wrenched from her, leaving her frail and vanquished. She pleaded, “Luke, talk to me. Tell me what will happen.”

I stared for one final time into the ­far-­flung expanse of Watervalley. Then I spoke the difficult words that needed to be said.

“This is our life, Christine. Despite all we do, all we plan, all we prepare, this stupid, broken world will find new reasons for us to say the hell with it and walk away.” I folded my arms and paused.

“Ever since I was a kid and lost my parents, I've been either building walls or walking away. Eight years ago, I walked away from my parents' possessions because it was too painful to see them. I went to med school and built a wall of textbooks around me. Then I came here to Watervalley. And sure, I have to admit, every single day for the first six months, I thought about walking away. I thought about going back to Vanderbilt and doing research in a lab where I could control everything, where life could be planned out, made predictable.” Still holding my emotions in check, I turned and looked into her eyes, so full of pain and loss.

“But then I met you. And that changed everything.”

The broad, cold landscape of Bracken's Knoll was held in an echoless silence, awaiting my next words. I spoke with tenderness, with a voice that was unhurried, resolute. “So here's how it's going to be. You and I will get married, and if we never have children, so be it. If we never have money, so be it. If you get sick and I spend the rest of my life taking care of you, so be it. If all our days are filled with one hardship after another, so be it.”

My emotions were overtaking me, choking me, consuming me. They welled up from all the buried years. I struggled to quell them, but it was little use. Tears rolled down my face, and I began to breathe in great gasps.

“If that is my fate, if that is my life, if that is my portion in this world, then so be it. Each night I will go to bed and count myself blessed.”

Christine's ­tear-­filled face was fearful, confused. “Why?” she whispered softly. “How can you say that?”

“Because I found you. Because out of the millions and millions of possibilities of where my life could have gone, I found you.” I drew in a deep breath, probing her face.

“Don't you understand? There will never be another love. There will never be another life. There will only be you.”

She glanced at me before looking to the side, speaking in a voice both uncertain and defiant. “You're just saying these things, Luke. I want to believe you, but I don't.”

She was still consumed by her pain, desperately searching for some idea, some thought, some revelation that would suddenly reverse this harsh new reality and leave her dreams intact.

But there were none.

She spoke despondently. “Maybe you should just leave.”

“That's not happening.”

“What if I want you to?” she said.

“Then I'll wait.”

She was still shivering, her arms folded tightly around her stomach. “I don't understand.”

“I'll wait,” I said gently. “I'll wait until you're ready. I'll wait until you're certain. I'll wait until you say yes again. I'm not walking away. I'm not leaving. For as long as it takes, I will wait.”

Christine's face was drained and fragile. She spoke in a pleading whisper. “But why? Why would you want to? Why would you do that?”

I stepped toward her, smoothing the hair away from her face. “Because I've come to realize that waiting is the greatest test of love. You taught me that. You waited for me, Christine Chambers. So I will wait for you.”

She wrapped her arms around my neck, weeping into my shoulder. I held her tightly and whispered the promises of my heart. “Sometimes, Christine, we just have to write our own happy endings.”

With her eyes closed and her face pressed tightly against me, she murmured, “Tell me you love me, again.”

“I do, Christine. I love you with all my heart.”

In time her tears ended, and she reached up and wiped my face with her fingers.

“I've never seen you cry this way,” she said hesitantly. “I'm sorry.”

I nodded.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Connie said you had gone somewhere on the farm. John once told me that when you were young you spent a lot of time at a place called Bracken's Knoll.”

Her voice was low and soft. “I used to come here and write in my journal. It was always my favorite place on the farm, my safe place. I would sit out here and live in my dreams.”

“What happened to them?”

“Oh,” she said carefully, “I never really forgot them. I just got better at hiding them. Silly, I guess. But maybe that's what all girls do with their dreams.”

Again, I smoothed her hair away and kissed her forehead before looking into the mysterious, undiscovered depths of her dark eyes. “I want to know your dreams, Christine. I want to be part of them.”

She pressed her cheek against my chest and whispered tenderly, “You already are, Luke. You already are.”

Fathers and Sons

I
n the days that followed, I spent every spare moment researching premature ovarian failure. Given Christine's age and overall excellent health, there was still a reasonable hope that we might have our own children. But in the end, I told her it simply didn't matter. One way or another, we would have a houseful.

Even so, despite my constant reassurances and all the encouraging data available about overcoming the condition, the light in her eyes had dimmed. It seemed that there was now a small, buried sadness that would forever stain her, a faintly whispered voice of loss that could be triggered by a child's laugh or a thoughtless word. She would never speak of it, but I could read it in the tightening of her gaze or the line of her smile. It would remain a silent understanding between two people who shared the joys and tears of a joined life.

I found myself daydreaming of magically protecting her, of changing the world and shielding her from this grief. But that was far beyond any present ability. In truth, my heart was broken for her, but I never made mention of this. Somehow even the knowledge that I was saddened for her, that her perceived failure gave me any distress at all, only brought her further dismay. It was a testimony to the beautiful complexity of a woman's emotions. I only knew to love her.

On Thursday of the following week, at my request, John Harris stopped by my office during lunchtime. He made no mention of Christine, which to my mind confirmed that he was unaware of her condition. John was too good a man and loved his niece too dearly to say nothing if, in fact, he knew. The Chamberses were guarded people, and no doubt Christine wanted the matter to remain private, even from her uncle.

As he walked into my office, John was in a cajoling, jovial mood. “Well, Doctor. What bit of worldly wisdom do you have for me today?”

I directed him toward one of the wingback chairs. “Have a seat, Professor. I have good news.”

“Oh,” he said drily. “You're not about to tell me that I've won a golden retriever puppy, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, no. But it's not a bad idea. There are still two available.”

“We'll table that motion for now. So, what's the news?”

“I have the rest of the money for the statue fund. It came from a donor who wishes to remain anonymous.”

“You're kidding. The full ten thousand?”

“The full ten thousand, in cash. I deposited it yesterday afternoon into the fund's bank account.”

John was stunned. “That's pretty amazing.” He cut his eyes at me warily. “You didn't do this, did you, Bradford? You know, tap into the trust fund?”

I laughed. “John, I can't touch the trust fund for a few more years. You know that.”

He nodded. “So no hints as to the donor?”

“You are familiar with the definition of ‘anonymous,' aren't you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine, smart-ass.” John grinned, awash with delight. “This gives me a great idea.”

“Why do I already not like the sound of that?”

“We've got three weeks until Veterans Day. I'll call the monument company and have the statue installed in time to have a huge unveiling.” John's face lit up like an excited child's. He clapped his hands together. “You can give the address!”

I didn't share his enthusiasm. “If I have to make another speech before the entire town, the only address I'm giving is a forwarding one.”

John waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, stop your whining. You did fine with the high school graduation speech earlier this year.”

He was referring to the previous May, when I had been asked to give the commencement address to Watervalley's graduating seniors, a dubious task that had required a lot of long and anxious hours of preparation.

“You weren't even there,” I retorted.

“I was afraid I'd get too emotional.”

“Funny.”

“Come on, you're perfect.”

“Not happening, John.”

“You'll do a great job, Doc.” He rose from his chair and began to leave. “Well, gotta run. I need to get with the mayor and start the ball rolling.”

I endeavored to offer some further rebuttal, but John moved too quickly, waving ­good-­bye before I could utter a word. Just before departing my office door, he turned and scrutinized me. “Might be good if you keep it under twenty minutes. It'll probably be cold outside.”

With that, he was gone.

“Great, another speech,” I muttered. It was the sort of thing that made me want to sit in a dark corner and whimper.

The following week, Luther and I rode together in his sedan out to Mennonite country to attend the wedding of Levi and Rebecca. And as if going to a wedding with Luther Whitmore weren't weird enough, the time and day of the wedding made the whole affair absolutely bizarre.

It was at nine o'clock on a Tuesday morning.

Apparently, Old Order Mennonite weddings were ­all-­day affairs and never held on Saturday. Doing so would require cleanup work to be done on Sunday, which was set aside strictly for worship. Luther picked me up at my house. He was in a lighthearted mood, which I found slightly unnerving.

As we headed down Fleming Street and out of town, Luther broke the silence. “So, Doctor, you get the money deposited okay?”

“All ten grand, Luther.”

“Hope I didn't startle you Monday night. It was just easier to bring it by after dark. I figured no one would notice.”

“It was fine, Luther. I put it under my pillow. Slept like a baby.”

“Good to know.”

“Word about an anonymous donor giving ten thousand dollars to the statue fund is going to cause quite a bit of speculation. You might want to think about putting an article in the paper just to draw suspicion away from yourself.”

“Bradford, I doubt I'll be on anybody's ­top-­ten list for suspected generosity. Still, that's probably not a bad idea.”

“Oh come on, Luther. Don't sell yourself short. The sunshine factor always jumps up a notch or two whenever you walk into the room.”

Luther ignored my jab. As we drove deeper into the countryside and passed distant farmhouses, he began to tell fascinating stories from his childhood about people who had lived on and worked these large, rich fields. I listened intently and realized that even Luther Whitmore had an abiding love of Watervalley, which had remained unvanquished by his years of bitterness. Within the realm of this wide fertile plain was an enduring strength that permeated its inhabitants, consoling them, whispering into their souls, and in time, providing a source of healing. Luther was no exception to Watervalley's influence.

Soon we made our way down Mercy Creek Road. I wanted to ask Luther about the old ruins site, but his mood had turned apprehensive and he hurried past it.

Unlike their Amish cousins, the Mennonites didn't always conduct weddings and church services at home. Years ago, they had built a small chapel in their community. Luther knew its location. Ours was the only car among an extensive gathering of horses, buggies, and wagons. After he parked and turned off the engine, he fell silent, clearly worried.

I cut my eyes at him. “You going to be okay?”

His words were laced with uneasiness. “I think so. Thanks for doing this, Luke.”

“Not a problem,” I said, sensing his apprehension. “Come on. You'll be fine.”

It was already a splendid October morning, but as we emerged from the car, it seemed that a golden light displaced the air. The scene before us was quaint to the point of being surreal. The humble, starched white church was perfectly beautiful.

We made our way toward a small gathering of men standing near the front steps. They were all dressed in black hats, plain black clothes, and unadorned white shirts. We were met with polite but expressionless faces until Eli emerged from the crowd and approached us. He shook my hand and then Luther's. Then he gestured us toward the other men. I quickly recognized Jacob, who looked up as we approached. Eli made the introductions.

“Jacob, you know the doctor.” We shook hands.

“And this is Luther Whitmore. He is a family friend from years ago.”

Jacob extended his hand and regarded Luther with civility. Luther, however, was fixated, staring at Jacob. Finally, Luther reached and took his hand; in that moment, something rather indefinable seemed to pass between them. Jacob's eyes tightened, and he held on to Luther's hand, unable to let go. It was as though an unseen energy now connected the two men. Despite all my medical training, I couldn't help but think that there was much that the universe had yet to tell us about the primal bond between father and son.

Luther finally choked out a low response. “It's, um, it's good to finally meet you.”

Luther looked at me awkwardly. I put my hand on his shoulder and gently guided him toward the steps. We took a seat on the back row, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves. Luther was clearly shaken but seemed to gather himself once we were settled.

In time, Levi emerged from a side door near the front. He was well groomed and eager, but stiffer than a fence post.

Minutes later Rebecca appeared, wearing a plain, light blue dress and a black bonnet; in keeping with conservative Mennonite custom, she wasn't carrying any flowers. Even so, she was radiant and Luther was visibly dumbstruck. His eyes were open, but he seemed to be looking at her from some great depth, lost in a welling-up of memories summoned forth in a grand moment of inexplicable peace. Ultimately, he looked at me with ­all-­consuming gratitude. I was happy for him.

But I wasn't happy for me.

Mennonite weddings are largely church services, and they last three hours. By the time it was finally over, I thought that Levi and Rebecca had visibly aged in front of me. Afterward, Luther and I hung around outside to speak with the bride and groom, thinking it best not to participate in the reception at Jacob's home. To my surprise, as the couple departed the church, Rebecca was presented with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. They were daisies.

I shook Levi's hand, and he thanked me for coming. I started to take Rebecca's hand as well but stopped, unsure what was appropriate with Mennonite women. She read my hesitation and swallowed a short laugh, her dark eyes mysterious. She smiled at me, and I felt my face flush. It was easy to see that she had a beauty and a wisdom that belied her age, yet all the while I was reminded that she was the perfect replica of Evangeline Whitmore, Luther's mother.

Luther introduced himself, offering congratulations to Levi and making a few comments about having known Eli when they were young boys. He then turned to Rebecca and was uncharacteristically ­tongue-­tied. Finally he said words that he'd clearly practiced, though they were still poorly delivered. “I knew ­your—­your ­great-­aunt Ellie as well. She was . . . She was a lovely and good person.”

Rebecca nodded silently and respectfully. I couldn't help but wonder at her thoughts, and if she wanted to hear more about this lost person from her past. As well, I could tell that Luther desperately wanted to talk to her, to stare at her, his grandchild, to perhaps even hold her hand.

But he kept himself in check. He nodded to both of them and then to me. Before departing, I spoke to Jacob one final time.

“Congratulations, Jacob. It was a lovely ceremony.”

He smiled at my poor attempt at diplomacy. “It was painfully long, Dr. Bradford. And you are kind for speaking considerately.”

“Either way, I'm happy for them.” We both turned and gazed at the young couple, who were surrounded by ­well-­wishers. “Jacob, I'm curious,” I said, stepping closer to him. “Where did you find fresh daisies this late in the year?”

“Hannah grows them. We have a small greenhouse.”

I nodded. “Levi told me they are going to build next year on the property along Mercy Creek Road.”

“Yes, my aunt's place.”

“Beautiful setting. I actually stopped and walked around the old foundation earlier this year. Wonderful place for a young couple.”

Jacob nodded. A subtle question gathered in his eyes, as if he detected something intentional in my comment. There was.

“Funny thing, Jacob. When I stopped by there last spring, someone had left some freshly picked daisies on the hearth. Any idea who that might have been?”

He seemed slightly embarrassed. “That was me, Dr. Bradford. When I was a boy, each year around my aunt's and father's birthday, he and I would walk out to the old foundation. He would pick daisies, lay them on the hearth, and talk to me about his sister. They were twins, and I think he loved her very much. He has often said he wished I could have known her. So each spring I still put flowers on the hearth in her honor.” He turned toward Eli, who stood several feet away talking to Luther, and added, “Over the years, my father has told me many things about my aunt, many stories, and many secrets from their childhood.”

Jacob fell silent, and part of me couldn't help but wonder if he knew Ellie was his biological mother, if somehow over the years he had read the burden on Eli's heart to tell the truth, much in the same way Luther had unknowingly given me clues. His penetrating gaze at Luther seemed to confirm my suspicion, but he said nothing more. I would never know for sure.

I bid Jacob ­good-­bye and joined Luther and Eli, who was introducing Jacob's two younger boys to his old friend. The youths nodded politely and then dashed away, no doubt desiring to be first in the line for food.

As the two men shook hands one final time, Luther inquired, “Perhaps someday I can come and visit . . . for old times' sake.”

Eli held on to Luther's hand and nodded. “Perhaps.”

Even so, I could see in their eyes that both knew a return visit would likely never happen. There passed between these two childhood friends a final acknowledgment of who they once were and how their lives had been both wondrously and tragically entwined. But they belonged to different worlds, and both of them knew it.