Unconditional (21 page)

Yet for the past three years my drawings had been nothing but dark. Shadowy men in red hoodies. Blood spilled in alleyways. Red rags tossed along the asphalt.

Because of Joe—because of
God's
working in Joe's life—these kids had looked past the obvious of their surroundings to see all kinds of possibilities. Meanwhile I had ignored life's gifts, choosing to dwell only on the sinister, painful parts of this world.

I'd spent so much time dwelling on the murderous dragon, I'd nearly forgotten the blessings of the years I'd spent in the company of the knight.

Two machines that had been switched off and disconnected from Joe now sat silent, their wires tangled in the legs of an empty visitor's chair wedged between them. I lowered myself onto the orange vinyl, imagining the flurry of activity that must have taken place to get Joe out of the room and into surgery. As if I had not cried enough in the past few days, tears again found their way to the corners of my eyes and trailed down my cheeks. I slowly covered my face with my hands and drew in a deep breath.

“I'm so sorry, God,” I whispered. “I'm so sorry. I've wasted precious time.
Your
precious time, another one of Your gifts to me. Thrown away. Tossed aside like the trash littering the Commons. But I know now. I understand. I get what You've always had for me: a purpose and a plan. And I also know now that sometimes those plans mean losing the ones we love the most . . . and giving them back to You.”

You'll understand when you walk on the clouds someday.

I swallowed hard. “Billy was the best thing in my life,” I prayed. “I didn't think I could breathe without him. And to tell you the truth, I never saw the day coming when I'd have to. But here I am. Without him. And I'm still breathing because . . .
I'm
still here. And
You're
still here, like You've always been, walking beside me.”

No storm could take the sun away. The sun was always shining.

I rested my elbows on my knees, and my hands fell limp between them. My shoulders hunched as I continued, “But now there's Joe . . . God, I know You make these choices, but I'm asking—I'm begging, if I have to—heal Joe. By whatever medical science is available and by whatever brilliance You have placed in those men and women who are standing around him right now, heal him. Bring him back to us whole. Whole and healthy. So he can continue to walk the path You've laid before him. And do Your will. Your work.”

It's up there waiting for you today. But you have to go see it for yourself.

I dried my tear-streaked cheeks with my fingertips. “But no matter what,” I said, “I'm Yours.” I shook my head. “I won't doubt You again. Or Your love. Not ever. Not ever . . .”

I looked up, past where Joe's bed had been, to the wall where one of the cards caught my eye. It had been signed by Keisha, and it featured a bird, painted blue, soaring high over a line of pink, fluffy clouds. So much like my little Firebird.

All he needed was a little walk on the clouds.

I guess that was all I needed too.

I washed my
face in the small sink in Joe's room, then dried it using rough paper towels from the dispenser hanging nearby. A glance in the mirror told me I looked about as bad as I suspected I would. My hair, which I'd tied back in a braid earlier that morning, had come loose around my face. There were dark circles under my eyes, and the green of my irises looked washed out.

My skin, devoid of any makeup, looked pale beyond the usual.

I was tired . . . exhausted really. And yet . . . I felt more alive than I had in a long, long time.

In the mirror's reflection I saw Denise's flowers, still laying on the window sill. I found a plastic cup from Joe's bedside table, filled it with water, inserted the flowers, and propped them up against the corner of the window.

Then I went to find the surgical waiting room. Perhaps Denise and the others would be there. After all, an organ transplant was a long and complicated surgery, and I didn't want to wait here alone.

I rode the elevator to the fifth floor and followed the signs. When I turned the corner, I saw Mattie sitting on a small sofa. Macon and Keisha sat with her, one on either side. As their heads turned toward the sound of my boots clomping against the terrazzo flooring, my eyes locked with Keisha's.

This poor child. The last time I'd seen her, I'd yelled at her. If the downturn of her sweet, pink lips was any indication, she'd stopped talking again. Because of me. Because I'd grown so focused on the
wrong
things that I hadn't taken care of the right ones.

Mattie's arms were around both children. As she stood, they stood with her. Concern colored the features of her face, and it seemed to me Macon had aged another decade. No wonder the boys in the projects didn't make it past twenty-one. By the time most of them had reached twelve, they'd survived more than most men did in fifty years.

I wanted to get my apology out of the way first thing, so our relationships might begin to mend. But as soon as I came face to face with Mattie, she spoke before I had the chance.

“T came by last night and told me 'bout what happened to your husband. I'm so sorry, child.”

I shook my head. “No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring trouble to you or your home.”

Her eyes grew wide with compassion. “Oh, you no trouble, baby.” Her brow rose. “You family.”

And with that, she drew me into her arms.

She smelled of sweet tobacco and gardenias, faith and forgiveness.

I dropped my head on her shoulder and, as I did, I felt Keisha's and Macon's arms wrap around the two of us. I heard Macon's sniffles and sensed his tears.

Yes, indeed. We
were
family.

Chapter Twenty

Cemeteries are strange
places. Gardens of stone, I've heard them called. The first word sounds so pretty, the other . . . so cold. The reality is, cemeteries are stretches of grassy plain punctuated by concrete and gravel. This is where we lay our loved ones when a life is no more and the body is all that remains.

At first, immediately after a loss, we visit frequently. As months and years go by . . . not as often. We lay flowers near the headstone, often trading out old floral arrangements for fresh ones. We kneel, pull at weeds, and talk for a moment or two before realizing we aren't really speaking to our loved ones at all. We're just saying what we would have said if they were there with us.

And maybe, for a few moments, they are.

Six weeks after Joe's surgery, I stopped by the only floral shop in my little farming community. There I purchased a single long-stemmed red rose. I laid it beside me on the seat of Billy's old Ford and then drove to the cemetery just north of town. The day was clear, the sky a most amazing blue. White clouds dotted across it as though the scene had been painted by a child. The trees along the horizon had lost most of their leaves, though the grass on the hillsides not yet turned fully brown. But the old would soon give way, to be blanketed by winter and lie in wait for the rebirth of spring.

After parking the truck, I picked up the rose and walked to an ornate headstone, the one I'd visited so many times before. As I stood before it, a peaceful breeze picked up my hair. The red strands billowed before settling around my shoulders and across the thick plum-colored sweater I'd worn to keep out the autumn chill.

Hey, purty lady.

I laid the rose at the base of the headstone. “Hey, cowboy.” I swallowed, waiting for something. But, as with every other visit, I didn't know what.

“I wish,” I finally said, “that you could see me today.” I smiled playfully. “I'm all dressed up. Got my hair brushed out the way you always liked it, and I'm even wearing makeup again.” I folded my hands together. “But who knows? Maybe you
can
see me after all. Maybe you already know that I . . . I've started living again.”

The sound of tires crunching over gravel caught my ear, pulling my attention to one of the driveways leading into the cemetery. A silver-toned Chrysler rolled slowly to a stop. I watched as Denise got out of the driver's seat and Joe exited the passenger's. He carried a bouquet of orange and yellow mums clustered with wild daisies.

He looked handsome, dressed in a dark-blue long-sleeved shirt and dress jeans. More than handsome—he looked healthy. And Denise . . . she was always a beauty. But today . . . well, she just looked so extraordinarily
happy
.

She joined Joe on his side of the car, and they clasped hands before walking toward me, both of them smiling. I turned fully to greet them but said nothing.

For a while we stood together in silence, looking down at Billy's name, his date of birth, the date of his death. Forever reminders that he had been taken too soon. Joe eventually laid the flowers next to my single rose, then straightened. Strong. Without wincing or faltering. Joe was doing well.

“You almost done with your project?” he asked me then.

“I am. It won't be much longer. The hardest part was chasing the dust bunnies out of the loft.”

Not that I'd expected it to be difficult. The writing, the drawing had been easy as when I was a child. After so many years Firebird had come to life. On the page. Inside of me.

“Well, when it's done, we're gonna throw a celebration like you've never seen before.”

I laughed lightly. “Best that we wait until after my publisher sees it and decides whether or not it's publishable.”

Denise laid her head against Joe's shoulder. “Keisha has been working hard on the celebration banners, so . . .” Her smile was broad, infectious. “I suggest that publisher of yours take note.”

I laughed again. “I'll tell them.”

I glanced down at the grave. “Billy really wanted me to tell this story,” I said, my words whispery soft. “If nothing else, one day I'll be able to say to him that I did.”

Joe kissed Denise's forehead. “Following through, girl. That's what it's all about.”

“What about you?” I asked him, looking at Denise. “You following through?”

Denise extended her left hand in my direction. A small diamond winked in the midmorning sun. “I guess he is,” she said.

“Well, I guess so,” I said before hugging them both.

One Year Later

Christmas season was,
once again, my favorite time of year, and preparations had been made during one of the many farm outings we'd scheduled for the kids. With the help of Macon, Bernard, and a few of the other boys, I'd brought all the lights and decorations down from the attic. Joe and Brick had supervised the young men stringing the lights around the outside of the house and barn, while inside, Denise oversaw the baking of cookies. Keisha, Mattie, and I were responsible for decorating the windows and doors and hanging four Christmas stockings from the fireplace mantel. The stockings had been handmade by Mattie the year before, knitted with love, each finished with a name carefully stitched at the top.

Keisha.

Macon.

Mattie.

Sam.

For the second year in a row, my new family would be waking up on Christmas morning at the farm, with me. Just as I hoped they always would.

The scent of vanilla and cinnamon filled the house, made warmer still by the crackling of a fire Joe had lit in the fireplace. I pulled back one of the living room curtains, just as I had so many years before, when I'd waited for Billy to come up the driveway. Peering at the sky, I said, “Clouds out there are threatening snow.”

From the kitchen Denise laughed. “No, baby. They're
promising
snow. We're gonna have a white Christmas, I just know it.”

I glanced at a group of our girls, who carefully laid the tree ornaments on the kitchen table. Later that night we'd all drink hot cocoa, listen to traditional Christmas carols (at my insistence), and trim the tree. I don't know who was more excited, the children or me.

I started to turn away from the window, but froze at the sound of a truck coming up the driveway. I turned, anxious. Even after all these years, I sometimes expected to see Billy. But instead of an old blue-and-white Ford Custom Cab, it was a white cargo truck with two-toned lettering that read
FedEx.

“Oh, my gracious,” I said. “I bet I know what this is.”

I went out to the front porch and waited for the burly delivery man to bring a box up the steps and deposit it at my feet. “Need any help gettin' this inside?” he asked.

Macon and the others had already begun to climb the steps to the porch. “No sir,” I said with a grin. “I think I've got all the help I need.”

After I signed for the delivery, he tipped his hat and said, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

Joe walked up, saying, “Kids? Give it up!”

“Merry Christmas,” they bellowed, jumping up and down as they did so. The driver laughed and tipped his hat one more time.

“Who wants to help me get this in the house so we can see what's inside?” I said.

Macon swept the box up in his newly muscled arms and headed inside.

Everyone followed. I said, “Put it over there by my rocker, Macon.” Joe tossed a pocketknife my way as I sat in the rocker. I told the kids to gather around, and as I slit the seal on the box, the flaps popped open.

Joe and Denise sat on the sofa and were joined by Brick and Mattie. All around me, the children gathered on the floor and in the occasional chair. Keisha found her way to my lap, climbing into it as naturally as if she were my own child.

By now I was holding up the prize in all its glossy wonder. One of fifty copies of
Firebird
. “Look at this,” I whispered to Keisha.

I opened the cover to the first page. I looked at the children. “Y'all ready to hear a story?”