Beneath a Southern Sky (6 page)

Though dreadful, the news had not surprised Daria, and in many ways it had put closure on Nate’s death for her. But she reminded herself that Nate’s parents had not had as much time to grieve as she had. The news of the search party’s findings must have been devastating to them. Not only had the Camfields lost their only son, but they would not even have the comfort of a grave nearby to visit.

Daria turned to Nate’s sister, Betsy, and her husband, Jim Franklin. Nate and his sister had always been close, and the heartsick expression etched on Betsy’s face now broke Daria’s heart all over again.

“Hi, honey,” Betsy said, reaching for her. Daria returned her embrace, and they both broke down. Putting his arms awkwardly around them both, Jim muttered his condolences. On the sidewalk behind them, the Franklins’ two preteenagers hung back, clearly uncomfortable to be there.

“Hi, Wendy. Hey, Zach.” Daria forced a smile, wanting to put the children at ease.

Zachary gave her a self-conscious wave, and Wendy dipped her head and stared at her shoes.

“Thanks for coming, you guys,” Daria told them.

Strains of organ music began to waft from the church, and through the open doors they could see people beginning to make their way toward the sanctuary. Daria directed Nate’s family into the church where her mother and father were standing to receive mourners. They exchanged hushed greetings, and then they entered the dim sanctuary in silence.

Nate’s family sat in the row in front of Daria and her parents, and Daria, overcome with emotion, watched them. As the memorial service finalized his son’s life, Jack Camfield wept like a child, and his wife’s face seemed to hold a shadow of bitterness. Daria knew it was irrational, yet she felt responsible for their grief, as though she should have prevented Nate’s death. Witnessing their sorrow, waves of anguish and guilt rolled over her anew, and she wept until she finally felt drained of all emotion.

When the service ended and the mourners began filing from the church, Daria saw Betsy slip out the back door with her distraught mother leaning heavily against her. Daria started to go after them, but just then Nate’s father came over to where she was standing with her parents.

Jack Camfield took Erroll Haydon’s hand. “It was a beautiful service, Erroll,” he said, a quaver in his deep voice that Daria had never heard before. “Thank you for all you did to arrange it.” He cleared his throat and dipped his head slightly. “Well, I think we’re going to head back home now.”

Daria’s father wrinkled his forehead and drew his thick brows together. “The women’s circle fixed a dinner for the family, Jack. They’ve planned for all your family. Won’t you stay and eat with us?”

The older man shook his head, then motioned in the direction of the parking lot. “Vera’s pretty broken up. I think it’s best if we go on home now. We have a long trip back to the city.”

Daria stood by silently during this exchange, but at Jack’s words she took a step toward the door that led to the back parking lot. “I’ll go say goodbye—”

“No!” The word came out too forcefully, and several people turned to look their way. Softening his voice, Jack Camfield took Daria’s hand. “No, dear, it’s…best to leave her alone when she gets like this, but thank you. I’ll tell her you were concerned for her.”

Daria nodded numbly and thanked him for coming, then felt foolish for thanking a man for attending his own son’s memorial service. As if he’d had a choice.

After an uncomfortable moment, Jack Camfield broke away. Muttering a stilted farewell, he disappeared through the door.

Daria’s parents exchanged troubled glances, but her father took her gently by the arm and led her to the fellowship hall where the family was being seated.

When the dinner was over, her parents stayed behind to help clean up while Daria caught a ride back to the farm with her brother. Jason and his wife, Brenda, farmed with Erroll Haydon and lived just a few miles down the road.

“Do you want us to come in with you, Dar?” Jason asked as the car idled in the driveway in front of the Haydons’ farmhouse.

“No, thanks anyway, Jas, but I-I’d kind of like to be alone for a while.”

He nodded and swallowed hard, his eyes brimming with tears. Daria had rarely seen her older brother cry, and it touched her deeply.

Brenda leaned over the backseat and touched Daria’s shoulder. “You call if you need anything, Daria. I mean that.”

“I know you do, Brenda. Thanks. Thanks for everything, you guys. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She climbed out of the car, waved them off, and hurried toward the house.

She went upstairs, changed into the one pair of jeans she owned, and pulled on a ratty T-shirt that had been Nate’s. As she passed the mirror on the antique dresser in her room, the college insignia on the front of the shirt caught her eye. Unbidden, the memories came crashing back.

She flopped down on the quilt that covered the high, canopied bed, and a film began to play in her mind. There was a young Nate, smiling and carefree, standing in the hall outside the door to her dorm room at KU, ready to take her to a ball game. He walked toward her on a campus sidewalk, that trademark grin melting her heart. She could almost feel his arms around her, smell the briny, outdoorsy scent of his hair—pale, straight hair that was as fine and silky as a baby’s. She had always teased him about that, secretly wishing she could trade him her own coarse, wavy hair.

Her throat filled with longing, and she gave in to the tears, railing at her loss, letting the sobs rack her body until there was nothing left to cry, crying out Nate’s name over and over, though she understood fully that he would never answer her again.

She must have fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes the sun was low in the sky and she heard her parents moving around in the kitchen downstairs. She climbed off the bed and went to the bathroom where she stepped into the shower and let the almost-scalding water run over her face, the sting of the hot water comforting.

She turned off the spray and dried herself methodically. In the full-length mirror, under the bright fluorescent light of the bathroom, she noticed for the first time how thin she had become. In spite of the slightly rounded stomach the growing baby had begun to give her, her ribs were starkly outlined under her flesh. She told herself she must keep herself healthy. This baby was all she had left of Nathan.

She pulled on the same jeans and T-shirt, swept her hair up into a careless ponytail, and went downstairs. The house was quiet again, and she found a note from her parents saying they had gone to her brother’s for a few minutes. She scribbled a message for them on the bottom of their note and headed for the pasture behind the barn. The man-made terraces unfurled in waves across the prairie in front of her. This had been her favorite thinking place as a teenager, and she was drawn once again to the peace the spot offered.

The cattle in the neighbor’s field started a plaintive bawling when they saw her, no doubt thinking it was time for their evening feed. She smiled at this everyday sound from her childhood and felt suddenly comforted, glad that something so far from Colombia finally felt familiar to her again, had the power to console her.

The Kansas sun was just beginning its slow descent, and the colors were spectacular. Watching the vibrant shades of purple and orange and pink against the deepening blue-grey sky, Daria felt a tentative hope swell within her, and a sense of home filled her anew. As she trudged through the prairie grasses, following the natural path of the pasture’s rolling terrain, she prayed.

“Lord, I don’t know what you want me to do now, but I know…you love me. I know you’ve been with me”—she tried to swallow the huge lump that rose in her throat—“oh, God, what will I ever do without him? I don’t understand why you took him. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you sent us to Colombia only to have it end this way. I know I shouldn’t
have
to understand, God, but I want to.”

In everything give thanks
.

She heard the phrase exactly as Nate would have spoken it—when the mosquitoes threatened to eat them alive, when half his medical supplies were lost when the boat overturned, when the rainy season imprisoned them in the hut for days on end.
There’s something to be thankful for in every situation
, Nate had always told her, even when she knew he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. She took in a sharp breath. How many times had she and Nate admonished each other with those very words?

“Oh, thank you, God. Thank you for the years we had together.” She stopped at the top of a rise and looked around her. “And thank you that I have this place to come home to, Father. Just tell me what I’m supposed to do next, God, because I truly don’t know.”

Immediately she was filled with thoughts of the child growing within her, and she knew it was her first answer. This child whom God had created of their love—hers and Nate’s—would be her most precious and immediate assignment for the next few months.

She had not yet told anyone about the baby. She knew that she should see a doctor, make certain everything was coming along as it should. But something made her want to hang on to her secret. Her pregnancy was a blessing—a sweet remembrance of Nate and a tangible way for him to live on.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered, laying one hand lightly over her abdomen. She stood on the hill, cradling Nate’s unborn child that way until the sun disappeared behind a distant hedgerow. Almost instinctively she turned to the south and looked up at the evening’s first stars. She remembered the night she and Nate had stood under a starry Timoné sky and said their goodbyes. They’d had no inkling that night that they were saying goodbye forever. The thought tore her heart in two. What might she have said to him had she known it would be their last night together?

She didn’t know the constellations as Nathan had. She wasn’t sure whether the star he had pointed out that night was visible in the Northern Hemisphere. What had he called it?
Spica
. She picked out a bright star that seemed to blink at her from the southernmost sky. For a moment, she pretended it was their star, and her heart was wrenched between two continents. She was happy to be home, yet engulfed by an intense longing to be back in Colombia. She was homesick to be in their little hut, caressed by the gentle tropical breezes, lulled by the myriad songs of the rain forest.

But even if she could go back, Nathan would not be there.

She wished he had known of her pregnancy before he’d gone off that day. What a comfort it would have been to have the memory of Nate’s joy at learning the news. She knew he would have been ecstatic. It struck her that where he was now, he probably did know about his child, and the knowledge gave her peace.

Tearfully she spoke aloud, “Oh, Nate! I don’t understand any of this. I miss you so much, babe. Oh, how I miss you. But I know you’re happy. I know you’re in God’s hands now. And I…I’ll take good care of our baby. I promise. He’ll know how much you would have loved him.”

The tears of grief that flowed were mingled with honest gratitude that God would give her this one last part of Nate. She turned toward the farmhouse and knew by the lights flickering in the windows that her parents were home again. They would be worried about her.

With the warm evening breeze in her hair, the heat of a Kansas August still lingering, she started back toward the house, toward a new life that was strange and unknown. A life that God had not abandoned.

Five

D
aria blew a wayward strand of hair from her forehead, putting a hand to her aching back as she surveyed the kitchen. Chocolate jimmies, silver shot, and dollops of pink frosting sprinkled the countertops, and an array of fudge and heart-shaped cookies fit to dress the showcases of the finest bakery lined the oak table in the middle of the room.

With the corner of a checkered dishtowel, Margo Haydon reached up to wipe a smudge of flour from her daughter’s face before slumping wearily into a nearby chair.

“You’d better get off your feet for a while, honey,” she scolded. “I can finish up here. We don’t have to take these to the church until five o’clock.”

“I’m okay, Mom. I’ll go lie down in a little bit, but I can at least wash up these dishes first.”

Her mother started to protest, then waved a hand in resignation. “Do what you want. You will anyway. But don’t blame me if your ankles swell up like balloons.”

Daria was annoyed by her mother’s remark, but she tried to ignore it, realizing that just about everything annoyed her these days. She filled one side of the sink with hot soapy water, and leaned her swollen belly against the counter’s edge. The baby kicked hard in protest. Almost overnight she had gone from barely showing to looking every day of her eight months. The baby was resting low in her womb and her back was killing her, but she took comfort in knowing that she had only a few weeks to go.

Daria had begun searching for a job her second week back in the States. She did not want to be a burden to her parents, nor did she wish to raise her child under their overly watchful eyes. But when her parents discovered her intentions to move out on her own, they begged her to at least wait until after the baby arrived. “Nobody would hire you in your condition anyway,” Margo pointed out.

Daria had allowed herself to be persuaded, and now she was grateful for the reprieve. Staying with her parents had allowed her time to grieve her great loss, to plan for a future that didn’t include Nate, and to enjoy her pregnancy.

As the baby’s birth drew near, it was sinking in that, despite her mother’s offer to baby-sit while she worked, her life was not going to be easy. There had been a small insurance check through Gospel Outreach, and Social Security provided a meager monthly check, but it was going to take a full-time job to make ends meet.

She rinsed the last mixing bowl and set it on the counter to dry. She stood on tiptoe, stretched, and kneaded her back with her fingertips.

“Daria,
please
go lie down.” It was obvious that her mother had been studying her closely.

“Yes, Mother, whatever you say,” she singsonged, failing in her attempt to make her mother laugh. She dried her hands and gave Margo a smile meant to appease. “Don’t let me nap too long, or I’ll never get to sleep tonight.”

“A long nap wouldn’t hurt you one bit. You seem to ignore the fact that you’ve got this baby to think of.”

Daria put a hand on her bulging stomach. “This baby is kind of hard to ignore, Mom,” she snapped. She left the room before Margo could respond. She knew she was behaving like an ill-tempered child, but she couldn’t even bring herself to care.

She had tried so hard to get through this day—her first Valentine’s Day without her sweetheart—without being maudlin. But her heart was breaking. Everything reminded her of Nate—the love songs on the radio, the frosted sugar cookies he’d loved so much, even the roses her father had bought for her. It was a sweet gesture, but it was also a painful reminder of the flowers she would never again receive from her husband.

She went to her room and lay down on top of the quilt on her bed. Her first week at home she had ended up sleeping on the floor beside this bed each night, unable to get used to the height of the four-poster and the softness of the mattress. How Nate would have laughed at that after all her complaining about sleeping on the floor in Timoné. She bit her lip and tried to think of something else. But thoughts of Nate intruded, and finally she allowed them free rein, wallowing in self-pity.

She rolled to her side, punching her pillow in anger and frustration. Before she could raise her fist again, an acute cramp sliced through her back. She took in a sharp breath and instinctively cradled her belly in her hands. She lay on her side, utterly still, listening to the rapid beating of her own heart, waiting for the pain to fade. It passed, but within minutes another spasm swept over her. Fear gripped her, and she temporarily forgot Nathan as she turned toward the clock on her nightstand and watched the second hand creep around the face—once, twice, seven times, and then another contraction began its crescendo.

“Mom!” The cry was scarcely out of her mouth when she felt a strange pop. A warm, damp spot spread on the quilt beneath her.

In spite of how quickly her contractions had progressed, her labor had been long and intense and shadowed by fear because it was several weeks too early. But now that Daria held the reward of her travail in her arms, all the agony quickly faded into nothing.

Natalie Joan Camfield looked up into her mother’s eyes with a gaze that surprised Daria with its intelligence and awareness. The tiny infant had a full head of almost-black hair and navy blue eyes.

Daria couldn’t help but laugh at her daughter’s two grandmothers. As the older women stood by Daria’s hospital bed, cooing over the granddaughter they shared, Margo Haydon declared, “You just watch, Daria. In a few weeks her eyes will lighten up and be as blue as yours.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vera Camfield argued. “Her eyes are exactly the color Nathan’s were when he was born. You can already see a bit of hazel in them.” Vera’s own eyes brimmed with tears, and Daria tried desperately to think of something to say that would bring her back to the present.

“Vera, do you remember how much Nate weighed when he was born?”

“How could I forget?” she said, smiling sadly. “He was nine pounds, fifteen ounces.”

“Almost ten pounds!” Daria exclaimed. “Ouch! And I thought Natalie was big at six and a half pounds.”

“Be thankful she came early,” Margo said with a grimace. “She might have been ten pounds if you’d gone full term.”

“Both my babies were big,” Vera said with pride. “Betsy was almost as big as Nathan. Of course you’d never know it now.”

The two grandmothers continued to compare stories and imagine family resemblances in their new grandchild until Daria was worn out with their banter.

But in spite of the commotion of the hospital and the constant stream of visitors, Daria felt as though she and her daughter were in a world of their own, held together by a bond that only they shared. In some ways, the baby’s arrival had rekindled her grief for Nate, yet ironically it had provided healing for that grief as well. And though she couldn’t look at Natalie without being reminded of Nate—in her eyes, in the tiny cleft of her chin—it was a comfort to know that in a small way, her husband lived on through his daughter.

She smiled through her tears and thanked God for this six-and-a-half-pound bundle—Nathan’s final Valentine to her.

Daria sat in the well-worn recliner in the Haydon living room, wrestling with a fussy, hungry infant. Her mother hovered like a honeybee over a freshly opened peony.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give her just a little formula? I’ve got it all ready.” She held out a warm bottle filled with the strong-smelling brownish liquid.

“No, Mom,” Daria said evenly, ignoring the proffered bottle and struggling to control her frustration. “Thanks anyway, but she just needs to nurse some more.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like she’s getting enough milk. Some women just don’t produce enough, you know. There’s no shame in supplementing with formula once in a while, honey. After all, you were raised on it.”

“Mom, please!” The words came out more forcefully than she’d intended. She softened her tone. “Could you just leave us alone for a few minutes? I think she’s a little distracted.”

Margo set the warm bottle on an end table. “I’m just trying to help,” she said, hands on hips.

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I don’t mean to interfere. But after all, I did raise two babies myself.”

Daria ignored her mother, and finally Margo sighed and took the bottle back to the kitchen.

For the first few weeks of motherhood, it had been wonderful to have her mother’s expert help with the baby, to have all her meals prepared and served, and to have a free roof over her head. But now that Natalie was two months old and Daria was beginning to feel confident in her role, she was feeling desperate to have her own space.

Natalie finally fell asleep at her breast. Daria eased out of the chair and headed upstairs to put the baby down for a nap. As she passed her father’s desk, she grabbed the morning paper with her free hand.

Natalie opened her eyes the minute Daria laid her on the crib mattress, but she didn’t protest when Daria left the side of the crib and went to sit cross-legged on her own bed, spreading the newspaper out before her.

Daria had secretly pored over the classified ads every day for the past two weeks, growing more frustrated as she realized how under-qualified she was for any job that paid enough to provide for a single woman with an infant. A teaching job would be perfect. If she couldn’t be home full time, at least she could have summers with Natalie.

But going back to college seemed an impossibility. She was angry with Nate for allowing her to quit school, even though it had been her own idea to drop out and go to work to help put him through medical school. “I don’t even know why I’ve stayed in school this long,” she’d told him back then. “It’s just a waste of money. It’s not like I’ll need a degree in Colombia.” But she thought now that he should have insisted that she finish, that she get a degree of some kind.

She was angry with Nate, and she was angry with God for letting him die. It didn’t make sense that a loving God would allow someone as caring and giving as Nathan Camfield to die just as he was beginning a life dedicated to serving others. How could God have let them—both of them—sacrifice so much, work so hard toward Nate’s goal of becoming a doctor? How could he have called them to the mission field, only to take it all away, leaving her alone and ill prepared to support their daughter? She would never understand it.

Sighing, she forced away the angry feelings and turned again to the classified section of the paper. With a growing feeling of desperation, she folded back the page and began scanning the columns.

An item under the “Help Wanted” section caught her eye: “Receptionist for veterinary clinic in small town. Full-time position with flexible hours, benefits. Will train.”

Well, it was far from the teaching field, but “flexible hours” and “will train” sounded promising. And the clinic was nearby in Bristol, where she had attended high school. She scribbled down the address, along with the phone numbers of several other job openings that seemed like possibilities. Then she went to her closet to see if she could find even one outfit she could squeeze into that would be suitable for a job interview.

She glanced down at Natalie, who was still awake but lying quietly on her back. A pair of bright little eyes darted back and forth, seeming to follow Daria as she moved from the closet to the full-length mirror and back, holding various skirts in front of her.

“Oh, Nattie, your mommy doesn’t have a thing to wear!” she cooed, as though the baby could understand every word.

She finally decided on a faded but still stylish, straight denim skirt. She could borrow a blouse from her mother to wear with it.

She hated even bringing up the subject of a job with her parents. Margo and Erroll Haydon had fallen in love with their little granddaughter. Natalie was a blessing, and a powerful antidote to everyone’s grief. But it was time for them to be on their own—past time. And Daria was ready.

Natalie began to squirm and fuss in the crib. Daria looked at her watch. “Are you hungry
again
, little girl? You must be in a growing spurt.”

In reply Natalie puckered her bottom lip and burst into tears. Laughing, Daria scooped the baby into her arms. She sat down in the rocking chair and put her daughter to her breast. The eager little mouth latched on, and soon she was almost choking on the rich flow of milk. They were slowly getting the hang of this breast-feeding thing, and with the rush of milk, Daria felt the familiar sense of well-being spread over her like a warm quilt.