Whispers (29 page)

Join Jessica, Terri, Lauren, Alissa, Shelly, Meri, Leah, and Genevieve as they encounter love, life, and a growing faith in the small town of Glenbrooke.

Read excerpts from these books and more at
WaterBrookMultnomah.com
!

For every Sisterchick seeking a fresh time with God, this devotional/ponder/prayer/excuse-to-gather-together book will send you soaring. Inside, you’ll find a collection of insightful devotions, key Scripture verses, and wit ’n’ whimsy wisdom for the journey, along with Sisterchickin’ suggestions for further reading, space to pen a peep or two, and more!

The last Saturday of November, I stood in the garage untangling a string of twinkle lights and thinking,
Who came up with the term
Father Christmas?

At our house, it’s more like
Mother Christmas
. I’m the one who knows where all the decorations are stored. I organize the festivities, buy all the gifts, address all the cards, initiate all the parties, and single-handedly festoon the house. Without the information stored in my brain and the loving labor of my two hands, Christmas would not come to our humble abode in Langley, British Columbia.

I always begin with a long list of what needs to be done and tell myself to start earlier than I did the previous year. Getting the lights untangled on November 29 was a pretty good running start.

That is, until Aunt Winnie called.

The shuttle van pulled off the freeway, and I could see our cruise ship docked and waiting. As we got closer, the ship got larger and larger. Stepping out of the van, I stood beside the others while a porter came along and tagged our baggage. In front of me the ship dominated our view. It was huge. On the top deck, I could see people leaning on the railing. They were so high up.

An unexpected queasy sensation came over me, squeezing my stomach. My courage had sprung a leak, and I was shocked to realize that I was terrified!

What am I doing here? I can’t go on that ship. I can’t go to Mexico. I don’t belong here. I need to go home. Right now
.

Perspiration poured down my neck. It took every shred of nerve for me not to let out a shriek and go running after the airport shuttle as it began to pull away. I’d never had a reaction like this before in my life.

Calm down!
I ordered my racing heart.
What are you doing? Look at those people getting on board. Nothing terrible is happening to them. Relax!

“May I see your paperwork, ma’am?” The porter asked.

“I don’t have any paperwork.” My throat felt tight. The next sentence was barely a whisper. “I was told to ask for Sven.”

“Your name please?”

“The reservation is for Clayton.”

The man turned from me and spoke into a two-way radio.

I tried to breathe in slowly through my nose and release the fear-tainted air through my mouth. What was I frightened of? The ship? That was ridiculous. Even though it was a tremendously gigantic vessel.

“Ms. Clayton?” The porter asked.

“No,” I said, hoping my quivering wasn’t too obvious. “That’s my sister. Joanne Clayton. I’m Holmquist. Melanie. I was a Clayton, but now I’m married.” I felt my cheeks flush at my babbling.

“You’re not Winifred Clayton?”

“No. She’s my aunt. She made the reservation, but she’s not here. I’m here.”

The porter looked slightly amused. “Sven will come here to meet you. He apologizes for not being on hand when you arrived. Is this your only piece of luggage?”

I nodded and told my mouth to stay shut. This guy didn’t want to hear about how I packed every decent stitch I owned, and there was still room for Ethan’s Mexican blanket to come home with me.

Stepping to the side, I watched all the non-freaked-out passengers with smiles and eager expressions. One older woman
was laughing at something her husband said as he handed the porter a five-dollar bill.

Oh no! I only have Canadian dollars!

That small fact sent my thoughts on a different track. I started planning how I would exchange money when I checked in. Knowing that I had a task to fulfill somehow brought my blood pressure back to normal. Charting out my course of action provided a strange sort of comfort. The panic was gone.

“Ms. Holmquist,” a deep voice spoke beside me.

I turned and looked up at Sven, my aunt’s personal steward. Every time Aunt Winnie went on a cruise, she was assigned a staff person who would make sure she got settled. Aunt Winnie made it clear to the travel agent that Joanne and I were to receive the same first-class attention to which she was accustomed.

Sven handed me an envelope and let me know with his engaging accent that he would see to my luggage and walk me through the registration process.

“Do you know if my sister has arrived yet?” I asked.

“Yes. She is relaxing at the poolside bar.”

I frowned.

Hanging out at a bar? Not my sister. Either he has the wrong sister in mind or Joanne had taken a turn in her life since I last saw her
.

“This card needs to be with you at all times,” Sven told me after I was given my room key. It looked like a plastic credit card. “You will use it to charge expenditures to your room. Also the time and specified dining room for your dinner reservations is printed on the card.”

We passed through another checkpoint, where I slid my plastic card into a machine, looked straight ahead, and had my photo taken.

“I think I blinked,” I protested.

“Doesn’t matter,” the woman in the cruise uniform said.
“It’s for identification after you disembark in Ensenada. General features are good enough.”

She sounded like a recording. I wondered how many thousands of digital photos of passengers she’d taken during her career and how many had protested like me.

“This way, please.” Sven motioned that I should follow him across a secured walkway that led into the ship.

With one foot in front of the other, I held my breath and boarded the ship that had seemed so ominous from a distance. Four short steps led me into what looked like the spacious lobby of a luxury hotel. Two dramatic curved staircases reached to the upper level.

In the center, between the polished stairways, a pianist in a tuxedo was seated at a shiny black grand piano. His rendition of “Swan Lake” filled the glistening lobby with a touch of elegance.

Opulent bouquets of fresh flowers laced the air with sweet fragrance. Dozens of passengers strolled about leisurely in the airy reception area. Many of them held fluted glasses with blended tropical beverages. A waiter meandered from guest to guest, offering appetizers on a silver tray. Oh, yeah. I could see why cruisin’ was Aunt Winnie’s cup of tea.

I can do this. Why was I so panicked? Did I watch
Titanic
one too many times? My problem is that I don’t get out enough. I don’t know how to act classy in situations like this. But who cares? Joanne and I are going to have the time of our lives!

In five days my best friend, Laurie, and I were scheduled to meet up in Honolulu. What triggered my meltdown was an ordinary box that arrived on my doorstep in the snow. Inside was my maternity bathing suit.

Blithely carrying the box upstairs, I drew the curtains, closed the bedroom door, and peeled off layers of warm clothes. Relieved that the back-ordered item had arrived in time, I wiggled my way into the new swimsuit, slowly turned toward the mirror on the back of the bedroom door, and took in the sight of my blessed belly wrapped in swaddling aqua blue spandex.

First the front view. Then the side. Other side. Twisting my head over my shoulder, I got a glimpse of the backside. Then quickly returned to the front view.

I was shocked! Completely shocked!

The woman in the mirror shook her head at me.
“You’re not considering going out in public wearing that, are you?”

“Yes?” I answered with a woeful sigh. “Although, I didn’t think it would look like this on me.”

“Oh, really? And just what did you think it would look like on you?”

“Well, not like this.”

For months I had been riding high on the “blessed-art-thou-among-women” cloud. I considered it a privilege to carry this baby. I told myself I was participating in a calling that was higher than fashion and charm. Who cares about beauty? The truth was, my body was nurturing new life.

However, truth and beauty had crashed head-on in my bedroom mirror.

“I like this shade of blue,” I declared, trying to be positive.

“Yeah? Well, from where I’m standing, that shade of blue does not appear to be too fond of you, sweetheart.”

“Maybe I could return this one and order the black one instead.”

“Right, because everyone knows that black is always so much more slimming.”

“There was that black one with the little pleated skirt …”

“Okay, yeah, there you go. Because nothing says dainty like Shamu in a tutu.”

“Hey!” I turned away and covered my belly as if to protect Emilee’s ears from this audacious woman. “You don’t have to be rude about it!”

“Look who’s talking.”

I glared over my shoulder at the mannerless minx and found I couldn’t say anything. I could only stare at her. At myself. At what I had become. How did this happen?

How could it be that my two dreams had intersected this way? Innocent little Emilee Rose was my dream baby come true. A trip to Hawaii with Laurie was a dream that had waited patiently for two decades to come true.

But someone had taken my two best dreams and poured them into a single test tube when I wasn’t looking. Now the churning, foaming result bubbled over the top and ended up larger than life in my bedroom mirror. There she stood, defying me to accept the truth.

I was old.

And I was not beautiful. How had those two facts escaped me in the bliss of being a middle-aged life bearer?

Fumbling my way out of the aqua swimsuit and trying to
stop the ridiculous flow of big, globby tears, I turned my back on the mirror and plunged into my roomiest maternity clothes. Leaning against the ruffled pillows that lined our bedroom window seat, I inched back the curtains and let the tears gush.