Counting Stars (4 page)

Chapter Four

“You don’t have anything for breakfast,” Caroline complained as she riffled through Jane’s kitchen cupboards the next morning.

“Grapefruit—right crisper,” Jane said as she peeled off her gardening gloves. She bent to unlace her muddy shoes. “It’s the only acceptable breakfast after last night’s chocolate and ice cream rampage.”

Caroline wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.”

“What, were you hoping for Lucky Charms?” Jane teased. She pulled off her shoes and left them on the mat by the back door.

“No, but Belgian waffles, crisp bacon, and fresh-squeezed orange juice would be nice.”

“Ah,” Jane said, grabbing a grapefruit from the fridge. “Mom’s classic Saturday sleepover breakfast.” She looked at Caroline. “Sorry. Guess I didn’t plan well.” Jane grabbed two knives and spoons from the silverware caddy on the counter. She sat across the table from Caroline, put the grapefruit on a paper plate and began cutting. “Where’s Andrew?”

“Asleep again. I just nursed him.” Caroline reluctantly accepted the grapefruit half Jane held out to her. “Did you call yet?”

Jane glanced at the newspaper on the table. “It’s too early.”

“You’ve been up for hours.”

“So?” Jane began sectioning her grapefruit. “Not everyone feels the need to fertilize while the dew is still on.”

“Calling early will let you know right away if this guy is a morning person like yourself.” Caroline reached behind her and took the cordless phone from its charger on the counter.

“I don’t want to know if he gets up early. In fact, I don’t want to know anything about him.” Jane took the phone from Caroline and set it aside. “The whole thing was a bad idea, born of an acute case of late-night loneliness.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Caroline said, snatching the phone and paper. “Last night you convinced me this was a good idea, and now you’re going through with it. If, for no other reason, so I can prove to you that the want ads aren’t the way to go about finding a husband.”

Jane jumped up from her chair and slapped her hand over her sister’s. “
Don’t,
Caroline—
please?
” She maneuvered both phone and paper back to her side of the table.

“Why not?” Caroline asked, rubbing the hand Jane had smacked. “I don’t get you. You’re always saying you want to date, but you won’t take the steps to do it. You doom yourself from the start.”

“Doomed—
exactly,”
Jane said through her first juicy bite. “I’m cursed, so why even bother?”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “You are not.”

“Am too,” Jane insisted. “My whole life it’s been that way. It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

“That is so
not
true.” Caroline’s lips puckered as she tasted the grapefruit. “You’ve known lots of nice guys—had some great dates, too.”

Jane’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. “Are you kidding? The only nice guys I know are the ones I’m related to, and I’ve
never
had any luck dating.”

“Sure you have. It seems like you were always off doing something—even in high school.”

“Off doing something and dating are two different things.” Jane pushed back her chair, went to the fridge, and removed two water bottles. “I was involved in clubs and stuff, but I didn’t
date.
”

Caroline made a face as she took another bite. “This grapefruit is sour. You sure you don’t have any cereal—or a cup of sugar?”

Jane shook her head as she sat down. “I don’t think so, but feel free to look.”

Caroline rose from the table and began searching through Jane’s cupboards. Jane continued eating, her gaze straying to the circled ad in the paper beside her.

“Ah ha,” Caroline exclaimed a few minutes later. She held up a dusty box of Cheerios. “You were holding out on me.”

“I forgot. Those have been there for months—probably left over from when I babysat Christopher.”

Caroline searched the box for an expiration date. “They’re still good. See, it was all a matter of my willingness to put forth the effort to find a box of cereal. If
you’d
put forth the effort to find a nice,
LDS
man, you’d also get what you’re after.”

Jane scowled at her sister as Caroline sat down again.

“That’s easy for you to say when you met your husband at the tender age of nineteen. Love practically dropped itself in your lap, but I’ve never had that experience before. I’ve never even had what I would call a decent date.”

Caroline waved her spoon. “You’ve just forgotten, that’s all. Think back to high school. I remember you going out with—let’s see it was . . . Evan Thatcher.” She pointed her spoon at Jane and flashed her an
I told you so
look. “I
know
he asked you out once. I remember helping you get ready.”

“
Once
being the key word,” Jane said. “And it was a disaster.”

Caroline poured milk into her cereal. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“C’mon. Tell me,” Caroline coaxed.

Jane pushed her finished grapefruit aside and looked at Caroline. “All right, but don’t you
dare
laugh.”

“I won’t. Pinky promise,” Caroline said, linking her little fingers together.

“I think you’re supposed to do that with the other person,” Jane said.

“Oh, right. Well, I still promise.”

Jane took a long drink from her water bottle and leaned back in her chair. “We’d been to a movie and ice cream and were sitting in the parking lot of Swensons when Evan asked me if I wanted a French kiss. I said yes, and he told me to close my eyes and open my mouth. At this point I was thinking along the lines of french fries, French bread, French mousse—I don’t know, some special chocolate like a Hershey’s Kiss, but made in France.”

“
No!”
Caroline said, nearly choking on her cereal.

“You
promised,
” Jane warned. “I haven’t even gotten to the awful part yet.”

Caroline clamped a hand over her mouth. “I’m not laughing,” she said in a muffled voice. “Go on.”

“So . . . he stuck his tongue in my mouth and . . . I bit it.”

Caroline choked.
“Hard?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Jane nodded. “Really hard. We ended up at the emergency room. He got five stitches.”

“
No way,”
Caroline exclaimed. “They stitch tongues?”

“They stitched his. It was nearly cut through.” Jane stuck out her tongue and made a cutting motion with her fingers.

Caroline let out a horrified shriek. “I never knew.”

“We made a pact, Evan and I, that we’d never tell anyone what happened.”

“Wasn’t he angry with you?”

“Probably.” Jane smiled wickedly. “But it wasn’t like he could yell at me right then.”

“How old were you—
sixteen
? I can’t believe you didn’t know what French kissing was.”

“Me either. Especially with
you
for a sister.”

“Yeah really—
hey.”
Caroline looked properly offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jane shrugged. “You know. You dated everyone. Wasn’t it your senior-year goal to kiss the entire football team?”

“Of course not,” Caroline said, indignant. She wrinkled her nose. “Football players are gross. They’re always grunting and butting heads.” She sighed. “
I
was trying for the basketball team.”

“See,” Jane smirked. “You had all the men.”

The teasing look on Caroline’s face was suddenly gone, replaced by sadness. “Please don’t say that.”

Jane looked at her in surprise. “Sorry. I was only stating the obvious. You dated tons. You—”

“Came very close to ruining my life and a few others’,” Caroline finished. “I probably single-handedly caused every gray hair on Mom’s head.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Jane argued. “Michael gave her at least a few of them.”

“Maybe,” Caroline said. “But I was the awful one. And because of that, my life—and Mom and Dad’s
—was
awful. I’d give a lot to be able to go back and change the person I was then.” She sighed wistfully. “Jane, be so glad you weren’t like me. Be glad you didn’t kiss everyone—that you’ve waited this long for—”

“For what?” Jane asked. “For my own little run-down house? For the opportunity to be the family babysitter? For the privilege of being the subject of Mom and Dad’s fast every month?”

“No.” Caroline reached across the table and squeezed Jane’s hands. “For a heavenly mansion, children of your own, and a sacred love—like Mom and Dad’s. I know you’ve waited a long time, but don’t ruin it now.” Caroline’s voice grew quiet. “Don’t make the mistakes I made.”

* * *

“Bye, sweet boy.” Jane bent over Andrew’s car seat and gave him a quick kiss. She ducked out of the van, and Caroline slid the door closed.

“Thanks,” Jane said, giving her sister a hug. “This was a lot of fun—like the old days.”

“I needed it as much as you,” Caroline said as she climbed into the driver’s seat of her minivan. “Remember your promise.”

“I will.” Jane patted the pocket of her jeans where the ad lay. “I’m going to search for my cereal,” she quipped.

Caroline started the car and rolled down her window. “Just remember that the sugary stuff may taste good, and it’s fun to find a prize in the box, but it’s the fiber and whole grain that sustain you over time.”

“That’s what I’m going for,” Jane assured her. “And I’m betting that someone looking for a mother for his children has got to be a Wheaties kind of guy.”

Caroline shook her head. “Not Wheaties—
Life.
” She smiled as she backed out of the driveway. “It’s eternal life you’re after, and don’t settle for anything less.”

Chapter Five

Paul stifled a yawn and forced his bloodshot eyes to focus on the email on his computer screen.
Just send it
, he thought, his hand hovering over the mouse. It was after midnight and he’d been sitting here for two hours, trying to write an impossible letter, a ludicrous request to someone unlikely to respond anyway. It had been too long, and it wasn’t as if he were about to apologize—even now. If anything, Pete owed
him
an apology
.
With that thought, pride demanded that he pull his hand away, but the arrow remained poised over the send icon.

I shouldn’t have to do this.

A sudden, unexpected surge of anger coursed through him as he looked at his wedding photo on the desk. He was furious with Tami, though he knew it was wrong—terrible of him. How dare she leave him to do this alone. How dare she abandon him and their children—two helpless infants, barely hanging onto the brink of life themselves. And what kind of wife dictated who should raise them when she was gone?

When he was gone too.

It was a terrible thing Tami had asked of him, and for a moment Paul hated her for it and refused to feel guilty. Guilt would come later, he was certain. The therapist they’d hooked him up with at the hospital had tried to tell him as much.

Paul took a sip from the soda on his desk and again recalled that awful day—the first of many he’d endured without Tami.

The counselor had started with, “My name’s Collin. I work here at Swedish, and I’ll be available to help you through the difficulties of the coming weeks.”

Paul shook Collin’s extended hand and read the words
grief counselor
below his name on his hospital badge.

“Here’s a pamphlet I recommend you read.” With his free hand, Collin pulled a paper from his coat pocket. “It lists the stages of grief a person goes through after a traumatic event in his life. As long as you’re moving continuously through these emotions we don’t tend to worry, but if you feel like you’ve become stuck on any one stage, it might be best to come in and talk to someone on a regular basis.” Seeing Paul’s dumbfounded look, he added, “I can give you some names . . .”

Paul stared numbly at the words on the paper. A
pamphlet?
That was the best they could do for him? That was all they had to offer a man with terminal cancer, premature twins, and a dead wife? He glared angrily at the list.

Denial.
Complete denial. It was the only way to cope at first.

Sorrow.
So overwhelming that it leads to . . .

Depression.
Which was really bad when you had to force yourself to get up and get to the doctor every week. And, of course, the all-consuming . . .

Anger.
Misdirected as it was and followed quickly by
. . .

Guilt.
Yeah. Been there, done that one too.

He could have written the list himself. A year and a half of hellish treatments and death at his doorstep practically made him an expert.

“You ever have a terminal illness?” Paul asked as he folded the pamphlet and stuffed it in his pocket.

Collin shook his head. “Uh, no. I had an aunt with—”

“Ever have a child in the intensive care unit?”

Again Collin shook his head.

“You married?” Paul asked.

“Four years.” The therapist seemed relieved that he could give a positive answer.

“I don’t suppose your wife’s ever been hit by a drunk driver on the way home from her baby shower.”

“Uh, no,” Collin said quietly. “Listen, I know what you’re getting at, but just because I haven’t experienced the things you are going through right now doesn’t mean I—”

But Paul had turned and walked away, unwilling to let the
grief counselor
see stage four in action.

He knew well enough that every sort of emotion was to be expected right now. And he thought he’d just about had them all. He’d imagined conversations with Tami, where together they discussed the major decisions that lay before them. It wasn’t until the woman who delivered his mail had asked if his wife was in the hospital having their babies and he had said “yes” that Paul began to face reality. That reality being his acknowledgment that Tami was actually gone and he was going it alone. After that, he hadn’t been able to get out of bed for three days.

Then there was the day when he’d actually cried with
joy.
It was after Mark’s surgery, and the doctor said for the first time that Mark looked like he was going to pull through. Paul had cried like a baby himself. His son was going to live.

But right now he was just mad, and justifiably so, at Tami. The one thing he’d said he’d never do, she’d asked of him. He picked up the crumpled note beside the computer and reread the familiar lines without really looking at them.
You know who their father should be.
She hadn’t said his name. He could find someone else—some nice young couple longing for children.

Paul set the note down again. Trouble was, Tami was right. He
did
know who should raise their twins. Pete. Funny thing, how a person could nearly hate a family member yet have incredible respect for him at the same time.

Paul drummed his fingers on the bottom of the keyboard. It was 12:17 now. Doctor Kline would tell him off for sure if he found out the hours he’d been keeping. And the twins weren’t even home yet. Soon he’d be up at night with babies.
His
babies.

He thought of two-and-a-half-pound Madison and two-pound Mark lying in their side-by-side isolettes in the NICU, ventilators whooshing congruently. He thought of the unassembled cribs, the car seats still in boxes, and the piles of unopened baby paraphernalia in the other room. He thought of his chemo treatments and the dire predictions of time allotted to him that had already passed.

Paul swallowed a lump in his throat along with the last of his pride. His eyes scanned the screen again, rereading the email one last time.

Date: Sat, 6 September 2003 12:43 AM

From: “Paul Bryant”

To: “Peter Bryant”

Subject: Still there for me?

Pete,

Remember when we were nine or ten—fourth grade I think—and I took your baseball signed by Bruce Bochte to school, and it got stolen? It happened on a Monday, and by Friday afternoon you still hadn’t spoken to me. That was the day Josh Harper decided to get me good because you weren’t around. I was walking home, about half a block behind you, when Josh jumped out of a bush and started whaling on me. When he was finished, I had a bloody nose, two black eyes, and a loose tooth. Later, when I walked into the house and you saw me, you got right up and came to help, getting me an ice pack and Band-Aids. When I told you what happened, you said, “Man, why didn’t you yell for me? I woulda come.”

I was astounded. After all, I’d lost your only signed ball. You must have sensed my doubt because you put your hand on my shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes.

I still remember what you said.

“You’re my brother. No matter what, I’ll always be there for you. You just gotta ask.”

Pete, I don’t know if “no matter what” still applies. But I’m asking.

Paul

It took every ounce of Paul’s willpower to hit send.