Once Beyond a Time (33 page)

“You must begin by forgiving me.”

“Forgiving you? I don’t understand. I’m the one who—”

I raise a hand. “You must forgive me for holding on to my anger so long, for not being willing to forgive you when you asked me to; and you must forgive me for being a pastor’s wife for so long without ever really believing what you believed.”

Sheldon is silenced by that. A long moment passes before he says, “I never should have asked you to be a pastor’s wife. I never did ask you, and maybe that’s the problem. I did what I wanted to do, even though my decisions didn’t make life easy for you.”

“No, you never did ask me,” I agree, “and maybe you should have, but what’s done is done. If you were to ask me now if you should be a pastor, I would tell you yes. You made the right decision. That was how you were meant to spend your life. I know that now.”

Sheldon’s eyes glisten at me down the length of the table. He nods slightly and moistens his lips with his tongue. “Thank you for saying so, Meg. That means a lot to me. And of course I forgive you if there’s really anything to forgive, but the more important question is, can you forgive me? I’m the one who did the greater wrong.”

“Oh, Sheldon.” I sigh and shake my head. “I’m not going to try to weigh your wrong against mine. We were both wrong, and now we have to put it behind us and try to move forward.”

Sheldon drops his eyes. “You do understand that the Gavan in this house is my son, don’t you?”

There’s the pain again. I push it aside. “Yes, I understand. So he came and found you.”

“Yes. He wanted to meet me and to tell me he’s glad to be alive.”

I think about that a moment. It never occurred to me that this person who wasn’t meant to be might in fact be happy to be alive. I cock my head and look at Sheldon. “That’s good, then, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“And you said his son, the boy Nicholas—you said he looks like Digger.”

“Very much so. There’s a little bit of Digger living on in him.”

Oh Digger. That is one pain that I will allow to settle in my heart. I couldn’t push it away, even if I wanted to. Of Nicholas, I say, “Life springs up even from our mistakes, and there’s something good to be said about that.”

“Only because God makes it so.”

I feel the pressure of tears at the back of my eyes. I lift my gaze to the window so they don’t spill over. “I’m willing to believe that now,” I say. “I’m not even quite sure why, except for the strange happenings in this house and the chance to see something of what God sees. Still, I don’t consider either Gavan or Nicholas a substitute for Digger.”

“Of course not,” Sheldon agrees. “Neither do I.”

“He is … Digger is gone. I’ve been trying to hold on to hope, but as the days go by I’m finding it harder and harder to believe he’ll come home.”

Sheldon’s mouth forms a small line as he nods. “I’m afraid you’re probably right, Meg. I don’t think Digger will be coming home. It’s time to let him go.”

Time again. I give in to the tears and allow them to roll down my cheeks. “You know, I had come to believe that as long as the star was shining over our house every night, there was hope for Digger’s being alive. But that’s the thing. Maybe the star is telling us that he
is
alive, and we’ll see him in heaven. I want to believe that at least.”

“We can believe it,” Sheldon says, “because it’s true.”

Of all the hundreds of sermons that Sheldon has ever preached, he has just given the first message of hope that I actually believe.

I nod and smile at him. “Then it’s enough,” I say.

Saturday, April 26, 1969

T
HERE’S A DREAM-LIKE
quality to the moment, when what you have been hoping for happens and yet things don’t seem quite real. You have to pause and wait for your heart to catch up with your mind so that both are in the same place.

“Meg,” I say quietly, “if you don’t mind, I would just like to hear you say the words.”

She looks puzzled. “What words, Sheldon?”

“That you forgive me. I mean, that’s what you’re trying to tell me, isn’t it? That you forgive me?”

She is crying still, silent tears rolling down her cheeks, and yet as I look at her waiting for an answer, she smiles. “Yes, Sheldon,” she says. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I forgive you.”

I am like air. Weightless. Unconfined. Free to move about for the first time in a very long while.

I push myself away from the table and stand. “I’ve so longed to comfort you, you know.”

She wipes her tears with the back of one hand as she rises from her chair. She hesitates a moment so I take the first step. My legs are weak, and I can’t move fast enough. The distance from my end of the table to hers seems endless and yet, in the next moment, she’s in my arms.

Saturday, May 10, 1969

C
ARL HAS BEEN
home for almost three weeks, and the house has been quiet. That is, no sudden appearances from anyone who isn’t really there, no talking with people from other times. Only the star remains, but it seems smaller somehow and dimmer, as though its job is done and it’s sinking back into history.

Maybe all of it is finished. Maybe the house has accomplished what it was meant to do for us, and now it’ll lie dormant till someone else needs it. Another family, maybe. Or maybe Gavan Valdez in the unimaginable year of 2005. Meanwhile, we settle back into life, grateful for what we have, trying as ever to accept what we have lost. Looking ahead to what we will find again.

Sheldon is talking about going back into the ministry, finding a small church to serve as assistant pastor or something. It would be a second profession, in addition to the dealership, because we must pay the bills and provide for Charlene’s child. As it should be. We prepare for the future we know is coming.

I think I’m ready to be a pastor’s wife this time around. Sheldon says all it takes is a little bit of faith, and that’s a good thing because a little bit of faith is all I have—though that’s more than I had before. At least it’s a place to start and a place from which to move forward.

I stand at the kitchen sink, a cup of coffee in one hand, its matching saucer in the other. The grass outside shimmers with dew in the early morning light, and the leaves of the trees rise and fall with the wind. Upstairs I hear footsteps. Sheldon is getting up, getting ready to go to work. Another Super Saturday Sale—
Prices that can’t be beat
. And so it goes. He doesn’t complain. He says the used car lot is a sanctuary of sorts, his customers the sheep of his flock. He is a pastor because he can’t be anything else. I understand that now, and accept it.

Margaret See was right. Forgiveness is the road between heaven and earth. I am able now to love Sheldon without the constant anger and pain. Those continue to fall away while the love grows stronger. In that regard, time is our ally and will bring us where we’re meant to be.

Carl’s presence in the house is a great solace. He plans to stay with us a while, and I’m grateful. I’m not ready to let him go again. Not so soon. He plans to apply to the University of North Carolina in Asheville, which he can attend on the GI Bill. One reason I think he wants to stay here is to see if the house has anything for him—anything to tell him, anything to give him. I hope he won’t be disappointed, but I think we’ve gained all we’re going to gain, and—for me, at least—that’s enough.

Linda will graduate from high school next month and plans to follow Carl to UNCA. She too will continue to live with us. Her choice. Imagine. I have my daughter back.

I lift the cup to my lips and sip; the coffee has grown cold. I must start Sheldon’s breakfast anyway. Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon—I want to send him to work with a full stomach. It may be a long tiring day. Maybe I’ll send a thermos of coffee with him too.

The dregs of cold coffee swirl in the bottom of the cup. I’m reluctant to move away from the sink and start the day because it takes a certain strength to live, sometimes more than I have. It’s still hard to get through the days without Digger.

But we do. We will live through today and tomorrow and the day after
that, and maybe one day it won’t hurt so much.

I will allow myself one more look out the window before I turn to the stove. One more glance at the morning before I begin the day. Lifting my eyes to the glass, I gasp and forget to breathe. Both cup and saucer fall from my hands and shatter in the sink.

“Digger,” I whisper.

My knees weaken, and I have to clutch the edge of the sink to keep from falling. I shut my eyes, open them again; he is still there.

Digger is playing in the backyard, his arms extended as though they are wings. He climbs up the big rock, bends his knees, leaps. His laughter fills the air.

My right hand briefly settles over my heart then rises to my lips. He’s wearing a white-and-green striped shirt, brown shorts, white socks, blue sneakers, and a clover chain necklace. He is wearing what he wore on the day he disappeared. And I know what that means. I’m seeing that day all over again. I am seeing into time, seeing him as he was on the day he left. I’m incredulous and sick at the thought. Of all the good this house has done, this one thing is cruel beyond words. I don’t think I can bear it.

His arms outstretched, he climbs the rock, leaps, laughs. Then he sees me. He sees me watching from the window.

“Hi, Ma!” he hollers as he waves.

My hand drops from my mouth; I rush to the door and into the yard.

But what if he isn’t real? What if he too is only seeing into time?

I stop and look at my son. “Digger?”

He stands still and looks at me. His arms fall to his side. “Yeah, Ma?”

“Digger?” I say again.

“What? What’s the matter, Ma? You don’t look so good.”

I’m trembling, terrified he will disappear. “Digger, give me your hand.”

“But why?”

“Just do as I say, please.” I extend my hand, reaching for him.

“You’re shaking, Ma. Are you cold?”

I bend down, both knees on the grass.
Please God, let his hand be solid. Let him be real.

Digger looks at his hand. “I got dirt on me.”

“It’s all right. Really it is. Just—just let me touch you.”

My hand hangs in the air, waiting. Digger rubs his palm against one hip. Then he reaches for me, his dirty little-boy hand slicing through air, his fingertips sliding down my fingers until his palm comes to rest in mine. I grab hold. His flesh is solid. He is alive.

Crying out, I pull him to me, hold him tight against my breast. “Digger! Digger, you’re here! You’re really here.”

He struggles against my embrace. “Let go of me, Ma. What’s the matter? You’re smothering me.”

I let him go, cup his dusty, dirty, beautiful face in my hands. Tears run down my cheeks. “Digger, where have you been?” I ask. “Where have you been?”

He looks puzzled. He’s trying to pull his face from my hands, but I don’t let go. “What do you mean, where’ve I been? I’ve been right here playing. Where do you think I’d be? Why are you crying, Ma? You act like I been gone forever.”

Oh Digger, you were. You were gone forever, and you don’t even know it.

I lift my apron and wipe my eyes. “I’m sorry, Digger. I’m just so happy, is all.”

“What are you all happy about? Did something good happen?”

“Oh yes, something good. Something very, very good.”

He shrugs. “Did Marjorie go home? ’Cause if she did I can take this stupid necklace off.”

“Yes. Yes,” I say, laughing. “She went home a long time ago.”

He tugs at the necklace and tosses it aside. “I’m hungry. When are we going to eat?”

“Soon, but first, I have a surprise. Carl came home. Carl’s here.”

His eyes grow wide with surprise. “He is? He came back from ’Nam?”

“Yes, he came home. That means we’re all together now.”

Digger throws up his hands. “Hooray! Let’s celebrate and have a party with cake and everything. Can we have a chocolate cake, Ma? Can we?”

“Of course we can. But first, let me call Carl out to see you. And Daddy and Linda. All right?”

“Sure! I’ll holler with you.”

He begins to holler. I turn back to the house and see Sheldon standing in the doorway, motionless and wide-eyed. He looks at me with fear on his face. “Is he …”

“He’s real, Sheldon. He’s back. Digger’s back.”

Sheldon gives off a cry that almost sounds like a cry of pain, but in the next moment he’s in the yard, and Digger is in his arms, and they are both talking and laughing at once.

Once Sheldon loosens his grip, Digger leans back, puts two fingers in his mouth and fishes out a small white pearl. “Look, Daddy, you knocked me around so much you knocked my loose tooth clean out! Can I put it under my pillow tonight and get a nickel?”

Sheldon takes the tooth, bloody at the root, and lays it in the palm of his hand. He gazes at it for a long while as though it’s something unknown, something he’s never seen before. And indeed, maybe it is. Because it is evidence that while time passed for us, it didn’t pass for Digger. Sheldon lifts his eyes to me. We share a look of puzzlement and wonder. “I don’t understand, Sheldon,” I say quietly. “Where has he been?”