Monday Morning Faith (35 page)

When I opened my eyes again I was settled in a private room in Saginaw's largest hospital — Covenant Heath Care, an expansive complex with two hospital buildings, an emergency center, and a medical office building. Mom's worried face hovered above me.

“Oh, Johanna, I'm so relieved you're home. Now we can care for you.”

I was too weak to do anything but grasp her hand and hold on tight — or not so tight, in this instance.

Pop bent to hug me. “Welcome home, Daughter.” His eyes shone with unshed tears. “You don't worry; you'll be back to your old self in no time at all.”

I tried to smile, but I knew he was wrong. I'd left my heart in a medical clinic in the middle of the jungle, and the chance of me ever again being my old self was nil.

The doctor's prediction of a long and frustrating recovery proved all too accurate. Seven weeks after I entered the hospital, Nelda helped me into the van. She had already packed the flowers, balloons, books, and candy I'd accumulated during my hospital stay. I had enough chocolates to start a store. I'd spent the last week writing thank-you notes and trying to ignore the seven earlier letters that had been lying untouched on the bedside table. The address on the envelopes was written in Sam's bold script. I was afraid if I read even one of them my resolve would crumble like a sand castle. What was done was done — and must not be undone. Not if Sam was going to fill his purpose in life.

“What did you eat out there in that jungle?” Nelda peered at me. “You must have lost twenty pounds.” She stacked the last of my personal items in the trunk and closed the lid.

“It wasn't the food.” I pushed my glasses up on my nose. “Though one could lose weight on the diet — plenty of fresh fish, vegetables, and fruit.”

“Yeah, that pineapple sounded delicious, but all we wanted was to get you back in one piece.”

Well, other than a broken heart, I supposed I was in one piece.

She slid behind the wheel and looked over at me. “I sure missed you, girl.”

“I missed you too.”

Her features sobered. “I was the one who encouraged you to go there. If anything had happened to you I'd never have forgiven myself.”

I snapped the seat belt in place. “Something did happen. Something profound and unchangeable. I lost Sam.”

“You gave him up.” Her eyes shifted to Sam's letters tied in a neat bundle in my lap. “You need to open those, Johanna. I don't know what they say, but I can guarantee Sam isn't going to give up on you easily.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I turned to look out on the cold spring day, snowflakes mixed with rain swirling through the air. Late April was always iffy in Saginaw; snow one day, spring the next. Cold. Slush. I couldn't get warm since I'd gotten back.

Nelda slid the transmission into gear and pulled away from the patient loading area. Her words were more of a grumble at the dash than addressed to me. “How would you know how he feels unless you talk to him?”

I wasn't sure about Sam's feelings, but he couldn't argue with my conclusions. So talk was cheap and answers were nonexistent.

At home, Nelda settled me in my recliner, turned up the thermostat, then left to do grocery shopping and retrieve Itty Bitty. I wandered around the half-empty rooms at a loss. After a while, because there was nothing else to do, I took a shower, reveling in the driving needles of hot water and the soft fragrance of sweet pea shower gel. Afterward I dressed in clean pajamas and climbed into bed.

Nelda returned and called up the stairway, that she was putting the perishables in the refrigerator. I heard the click of nails on the hardwood stairway and then Itty Bitty dashed into my room. With one enormous leap he landed on the bed, wiggled his way across the bed covers, and burrowed under my outstretched arm. I hugged him tight, scratching the backs of his ears and roughhousing for a minute. He licked my face clean, lunging to give me kisses over and over.

“I'll be back in the morning!” Nelda shouted up the stairway. “You get a good night's sleep!”

“Thanks, Nelda!”

Itty crawled between the sheets and my arms came around him. He felt good, like home. We lay that way for over an hour. I could hear his even breathing, the tiny doggy snorts. My bed was soft, comfortable … and unfamiliar. I couldn't sleep.

I got up and went to the kitchen for a cup of hot tea. Dropping a bag into the boiling water, I carried the cup to the den and settled on the couch. I nursed my mug of steaming liquid, thinking of Sam trying to sleep on a narrow cot in a steamy jungle hut. How he would welcome the forty-eight-degree temperature I was trying to ward off. I closed my eyes, picturing the lagoon surrounding the hut. I heard the cry of night birds in the saga palms, saw the moon coming up over the lagoon, surprised to find that memories I once thought dreadful weren't so bad — were even pleasant, almost.

What was not surprising was that I missed Sam so much it was a physical ache. And Poo. I missed her visits, her chaotic chatter. Even those grubby hands and dirty face.

Tears coursed down my cheeks, and for the thousandth time I begged God to send Sam a woman who shared his passion. He deserved more than a Saginaw librarian with Monday morning faith. The village people deserved more. Poo and the village children needed missionaries who cared, whose love overflowed and transcended cultural boundaries. The villagers needed medical care and a chance — a chance that godly men like Sam, Bud, and Frank provided.

During my ruminating my tea had grown cold, but it didn't matter. I'd lost interest in the drink. I rinsed the cup, set it in the sink, and climbed the stairs to my room. I stretched out on the bed and pulled the electric blanket up around my shoulders. Staring into the dark, I thought about this house. I'd have to find an apartment. Mom and Pop would need the sale proceeds to stay at The Gardens.

Sleep claimed me sometime during the night, and I woke to sunshine streaming through my bedroom window and the cheery weatherman's voice promising moderating temperatures. Outside birds sang and traffic moved up the street with an unfamiliar roar. Why did I feel like a visitor in my own home? I pulled on my housecoat and went downstairs to read the paper Nelda had left for me.

I caught up on the news while I ate a breakfast of bacon and eggs, milk, toast, and apple butter.

I wanted mangoes.

According to the flyers, there was a big sale at the mall. I didn't really care, but I'd lost so much weight my clothes hung on me. I needed to make a few cursory purchases.

This house was filled with possessions. Poo would have been bewildered by the bounty. I fantasized about taking her to the mall to buy a dress and maybe sassy slacks and a few colorful ribbons. Wouldn't she be wide-eyed at all the riches? Little Poo, the child who, by my standards, had nothing but who loved with all of her heart.

Late in the afternoon I pulled myself together enough to dress and take a short walk. The doctor had warned it would be another two weeks before he'd release me for work. I wandered into the local grocery, even though I knew Nelda had restocked my pantry. My eyes scanned the bulging shelves, the fresh produce, and the neat packages of meat. Guilt was almost a physical force. Did Americans realize how fortunate they were?

I picked up a few items Nelda had failed to put on her list and pushed my cart to the front of the store and started unloading my purchases.

The checker recognized me. “Johanna! Welcome back. I heard about your ordeal. I'm so sorry.” She frowned, then bent closer and lowered her voice. “You look like death warmed over. You're so skinny!”

Not a very tactful observation, but true, judging by what I'd witnessed in my bathroom mirror that morning. My reflection might not stop a clock, but it would give an unwary stranger a moment of alarm.

“I'm much better — lung parasite,” I reported as if I were talking about a head cold.

“You were in Papua New Guinea?” She shook her head, eyes wide. “How fascinating. I've never been much more than out of the city limits.”

My response was a lame smile.

I stopped by Chinese Wok and ordered General Tso's all-white-meat chicken and ate the whole thing in honor of Eva. The iced Pepsi tasted almost as good as the pineapple juice I'd grown used to. Would Mary and Eva appreciate a cold Pepsi?

Afterward I lost the whole meal in the restaurant bathroom.

Back home, I arranged the cans and bags and boxes in my pantry. Nelda had bought enough food to last two months.

The television programs I'd once enjoyed now seemed shallow and empty. After a while I switched off the set and looked for something to read. One book caught my eye — it was one I'd checked out of the library about Papua New Guinea and had forgotten to return. I stretched out on the couch and opened it. Soon I was lost in the tropical climate, lush vegetation, and beauty of that island nation.

The phone rang and I reached for it, marking my place by inserting one finger between the pages. “Johanna? Just checking on you, dear. Are you all right?”

“Of course, Mom. I'm fine.”

“Did you eat dinner?”

“Ummm — not hungry.” No need to mention the plate of General Tso's I'd consumed four hours earlier but lost. Apparently it would take awhile to regain my piggish nature.

“Honey, Pop and I were wondering if you'd feel up to coming here tomorrow night. We want to hear all about your trip.”

“Not tomorrow, Mom. I have other plans.” I didn't, but it was too soon and my wounds too raw to talk about the trip and the villagers … because someone would ask about Sam, and I couldn't bring myself to talk about him.

“Day after tomorrow, maybe? If you're strong enough, we've invited a few people to hear your story. You can sit; it'll be almost like being at home. Our friends are interested in you and Papua New Guinea and the mission field.”

“Let me think about it — oh, sorry, Mom. Someone's at the door.”
Fibbing again, Johanna. You're getting good at it.

“I'm worried about you, dear. Are you sure you're all right? And Sam — ”

“I'm fine, Mom. Call you later.”

I hung up, lay back on the sofa, and burst into tears. Sam!
God, how can I let him go? If this is your will
,
can't you make it not hurt so much?

He could, of course, but apparently he'd decided not to make things any easier for me. I pulled myself off the sofa and moped to the kitchen. I wanted fish, sweet potatoes, and mangoes. I wanted my Sam.

A week passed, then two, and I still couldn't bring myself to leave the house. I suspected I'd drifted into depression. Mom and Pop had started coming over every afternoon, but I resisted all entreaties to visit them.

Nelda refused to let me wallow in pity. She either called or came by every evening. At first she'd been gentle with me, even when I'd hid a couple of days and pretended that I wasn't home. Now she'd gotten to the point of belligerence.

I cringed when I saw her car pull into my drive and she got out carrying a dish I supposed held another casserole.

She knocked and I let her in. “You own anything besides that rancid bathrobe? I'm right sick of seeing it every time I come over.” She brushed passed me, carrying the dish to the kitchen.

“Then don't come back.”
Rude, Johanna.
But she had it coming. Who did she think she was coming in here insulting my dress? I shut the door.

“If you'd quit babying yourself and get up and get on with your life, I could quit worrying about you.” She set the casserole on the kitchen burner with a thump. “Chicken and rice. Got mushrooms, peppers, onions, and rich gravy. Put some flesh on your scrawny bones.”

“What happened to the Diet Guru? Did she choke on a carrot stick?”

“She took one look at you and decided there are more important things in life than worrying about weight. Girl, if you stood sideways you'd disappear.”

“In case you missed it, I've been
sick.
” Let the sarcasm roll.