Believing the Dream (18 page)

“I want to thank all of you for your caring for me and mine in this time of sorrow. Mrs. Mueller would be so touched by your generosity, as I am.” He cleared his throat. “And now let us continue to rejoice in this night of our greatest gift, the birth of the Christ.”

Annabelle put her hand on Elizabeth’s arm, in comfort or to keep her from leaving, as Elizabeth started to rise. She sat back down and clamped her arms across her chest, ladylike or no. The nerve of that man! Had he no sense of propriety whatsoever? After glaring at him one more time, she set herself to listing the muscles of the arm and hand, graduating to the neck and head to take up the entire service. Other than singing the hymns and carols.

Following the benediction, she fled before she had to greet those around her. Her mother and father weren’t far behind.

Christmas morning broke out the glitter, the sun striking diamonds from every tree limb and snowbank. A flock of black-capped chickadees fluttered down for the crumbs Cook had thrown out.

Elizabeth stood at the kitchen window, coffee cup in hand, and watched their orange marmalade cat shake snow off each foot as he made his way toward the back door, totally ignoring the flitting and fluttering birds. She went to open the door for him even before he announced his need.

“Too cold for you, eh?”

Jehoshaphat chirped a response without even looking at her.

Tail in the air, he stalked past her as if she were there only to do his bidding, then sat on a rug behind the stove to begin his morning ablutions. He cleaned each foot first, chewing at a bit of ice between his toes before washing face and ears. Chest next, then nether regions until finished, when he stretched and crossed to twine around Cook’s ankles, a practiced mew announcing his need for attention, of the food variety.

Elizabeth watched over the edge of her cup. So single-minded he, not wracked by the self doubts that had awakened her more than once during the night. Guilt and anger were terrible bed partners.

“Sad face for Christmas morning.” Cook refilled Elizabeth’s cup.

“I know. You heard about the service?”

“Ja. You eat, feel better.”

“Did you send a basket over to Reverend Mueller’s?”
I have to let
this go.

“Ja, Old Tom take it yesterday.”

“Has he been around this morning?”

“Ja, got his coffee and julekake. I’ll slice you some.”

Elizabeth started to protest, then gave in. By eating she would stay on Cook’s good side. While her mother had been civil to her the evening before, there had been a definite lack of warmth. Annabelle had been known to carry a disappointment into resentment, even stretching it to pouting. Even on Christmas. Until after the service, of course.

After a subdued breakfast, they waited while Phillip lighted the candles, then gathered in the parlor to open gifts. Elizabeth tried to be cheerful, but a pall of sadness hung over the entire house. She thanked her parents for the set of surgical instruments, forcing herself to sound more excited than she felt.

“This is awful. I just want to sit and cry instead of have a good time. And Mother, you have gone to such trouble to have everything nice for us.”

“I know. I feel the same way. That poor woman. But I am grateful she was here with us rather than home by herself or with only the doctor in attendance. She was so grateful for your playing and for all of us helping her. That brings me comfort.”

Elizabeth rose from her chair and went to kneel in front of her mother. “Thank you. I needed to hear just that.”

Annabelle cupped her daughter’s face in her two gentle hands. “We did all we could. You have to remember that. When you do all you can and ask God for His divine assistance, then you have to leave it in His hands. He alone has the power of life and death.”

Elizabeth blinked back the tears that threatened. This was her mother talking, her mother who rarely referred to spiritual things. She turned her face and kissed her mother’s hand. “Thank you.”
Thank you,
Father. I’ll try harder to do as both she and Dr. Gaskin keep reminding
me.
She turned and leaned against her mother’s knees. “The tree is truly beautiful, is it not?”

That afternoon she and her father checked the candles again to make sure they were all in place for the last party of the season. After their guests left and the evening wound down, the candles would be removed for safety’s sake. Before New Year’s, the decorations would be put away and the tree set outside with suet balls and apples, studded with seeds, hanging from the branches for the birds’ Christmas. Sheaves of wheat would grace the branches also, and dried corn on the cob would be added for the squirrels. As far as Elizabeth was concerned, preparing the tree for outside was almost as much a delight as decorating it with ornaments for the holiday.

Lord, I wish I could write a Christmas carol
. Sitting down at the piano, Elizabeth let her fingers roam the keys. Her thoughts turned to one of the poems Thorliff had shown her. He was so shy about his writing. And yet he had brought so much joy to the people of Northfield who had sent in their stories and poems for the contest he dreamed up. Funny, she never thought much about him when he was here, but now that he was gone, he crept into her mind.

“A penny for your thoughts.” Her father slid onto the piano bench beside her

“I want to write a Christmas carol.” There, she’d said the words aloud. “Or rather, I want to compose a carol. Did you know that Thorliff used to write the Christmas pageants for his church and school in Blessing?”

“No, I didn’t. What brought that on?”

“I was thinking of one of the poems that won the contest, the one about the little boy and the lamb. It cries for music.”

“Yes, you would see that.”

Elizabeth was already at the piano when the first guests arrived. Each year they held an open house on Christmas Day for those friends not invited personally to the earlier dinner party. She nodded her greetings and continued to play, losing herself in the glory of sound, eyes closed the better to feel.

“I think I come to this house as much to hear you play as to visit my good friends.” Pastor Johnson, blond hair brushed over his expanded forehead and cheeks rosy from both the cold and the heat of the fire, stood slightly off to the side, a warm smile matching his voice.

Elizabeth smiled and nodded her greeting.
Talk to him,
a voice inside prompted.
About what? Don’t be silly, you know about what
.

“Do you have a favorite?”

He half closed his eyes to think. “I heard your rendition of the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus was truly inspired. Would you mind playing it again and ‘Mary’s Prayer’?”

“Not at all.”
Ask him!
How could a voice not even audible be so loud? “First I have a question for you.” She swallowed and let her fingers go where they willed.

“Yes?” He leaned against the side of the piano, watching her through gold-framed glasses.

“Ah, this is hard.”

“We have all the time, and no one else is paying attention.”

“I know. I suppose you’ve heard that I screamed at Reverend Mueller the other night?”

“No. How would I hear that?”

“I was afraid it was all around town by now.”

“You want to start at the beginning?” Pastor Johnson’s voice came gentle and soft, like the smile he wore and the compassion in his eyes.

“He . . . he made me so angry that I . . .” She paused and felt tears burning the back of her nose. “Mrs. Mueller was so weak. This whole pregnancy wore her out, and Doctor had warned him she should have no more children. And when she went into labor here at our house, Reverend Mueller didn’t even pay attention to her. She wouldn’t tell him or let me tell him because she said he needed this time of relaxation because he works so hard.” She could feel her jaw tightening. “And when the baby was finally born, and I told him he had a daughter, he said . . . he said”—she rolled her lips together—“ ‘Only a girl.’ And then when the baby never even breathed and Mrs. Mueller died and he didn’t even seem to care, I . . . I just screamed at him. I don’t even remember for sure what I said, but . . .” She paused, the keys shimmering in front of her tear-filled eyes.

“How will I ever be a good doctor if I cannot control my tongue and emotions better than that?”

“Ah, dear child, such a heavy burden you lay upon your slender shoulders. Even doctors are not perfect, and a young doctor with a heart tender as yours even less so. But God does not call you to be perfect—”

“But the verse says, ‘Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.’ ”

“But you see, the perfection comes from Him. Our Father grows us into that. Even Paul says the tongue is a raging fire, and if he found himself unable to control that little member all the time, should you do better than he?”

“Is that too much to ask?” She could feel peace sneaking up on her. At his smile she half shrugged.

“So what did you do?”

“Afterward, you mean?”

Again he nodded.

“I wrote him a letter of apology, pleading for his forgiveness. My mother is sorely distressed with her errant daughter who cannot seem to live within the bounds of propriety.”

“And you have asked the Father to forgive you?”

“Of course.”

“Then whether man or woman forgives you or not, you
are
forgiven. And you must act thusly.”

She cocked her head. “Please explain.”

“You must let the guilt go. In fact, order it out because you are living forgiven. You might go talk with Reverend Mueller later on. He may have totally forgotten the incident.”

I wish, oh, how I wish
.

“And have you asked your mother for forgiveness?”

“Of course.”

“And she?”

“Well, let us say she is not speaking with me overly much.”

Again his gentle smile. Gentle was always a word she thought of with Pastor Johnson, or she most likely would not have had the nerve to open this conversation with him. Love seemed to glow from him, like he was lit within by a light that never dimmed.
Lord, let my light be like
his. Do I see Jesus shining from his eyes? Please, let me be like that
.

“Ah, young Elizabeth, God has great things in store for you, but the way to get there will not be easy. When God has our hearts, He holds us close to His mighty heart, and we begin to beat as one. Listen for His heartbeat, knowing it beats with love for you, no matter what.”

She played on, letting the tears dry on her cheeks, her sorrow and joy both baptized with her music. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. May you be blessed as you are a blessing to others.”

Elizabeth glanced up to see Thornton coming into the room. She smiled, and he made his way to the piano, greeting Pastor Johnson as he turned to speak with someone else.

“Merry Christmas again. I’m surprised to see you today.”

“I hadn’t planned on coming, but”—he lowered his voice—“I had to get out of there.”

“Difficult, huh?”

“So many calling. They bring something, pay their respects to Auntie, and then chat and eat in the parlor, where other ladies of the church make sure there is food and coffee set out.”

“Your aunt is well loved.” She almost said “was” but changed it. Mabel Mueller still lived, only now without pain, instead bubbling with joy in the presence of her Lord. Elizabeth thought a moment. Bubbling—would Mrs. Mueller bubble?

“I know that. Funny how most people have no idea what a saint she w-is.” His eyebrow acknowledged what she’d said before. “I brought you something.”

“You can’t. You already gave me a present. And thank you. I’ve never had such soft leather gloves before.”

“You’re welcome. I saw this and thought only of you.”

“Thornton Wickersham, you are carrying this charade too far.” She leaned closer to make her point.

“It’s nothing.”

“Besides, I haven’t given you your gift yet. It’s under the tree.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know that.” She made a face and nodded toward the tree, glimmering in golden candlelight. Running an arpeggio and finishing with a lingering chord, she let the notes die out and rose, shaking her skirts out. A yawn caught her so by surprise that she barely got her hand up to hide it. Nodding and acknowledging the greetings and thanks from the guests, she made her way to the tree in time to see Thornton stand, her gift to him in his hands.