The Christmas Kite (17 page)

“Mrs. Hayden, this is Mr. Baumgarten from Beaumont Elementary.”

“Oh yes.” Meara hesitated, waiting for his attack.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you took Mac out of school. My secretary told you I was out of town, I hope.”

“Yes, she did. Until today.” Her voice sounded breathy, and she felt nervous, like a schoolchild being dragged to the principal’s office.

“I wondered if there’s anything that I can do to change your mind. Mac was adjusting well here. His teachers all came to ask what was wrong. Even a couple of our students missed him and stopped to see if he were ill.”

Adjusting? Missed? “Thank you, but it didn’t seem to me that he was doing well. Someone knocked him off the slide. I’ve had to replace his glasses.”

“I’m sorry about the glasses. The recess teacher said one of the students accidentally stepped on them when Mac fell off the—”

“Fell? I thought he was knocked off.”

“Mrs. Hayden, if you’d like, I could have the teacher who was in charge that day give you a call. But what I understood is Mac and another boy decided to come down the slide together. Before the teacher could stop them, they let go and flew down, out of control. Apparently, the boy’s foot bumped Mac as he came to the bottom, and instead of Mac catching himself, he flew off and hit the ground.”

Humiliated at her misdirected anger, she steadied her voice. “You mean, it was an accident.”

“Well, yes. If it hadn’t been, we’d have brought the parents in to meet with you. I’m very sorry about Mac’s glasses. One of his buddies rushed over to help and—”

Buddy?
“I understand, Mr. Baumgarten. I guess I assumed someone pushed him…on purpose.”

“No. I’m positive it was an accident. Mac’s a great boy. We’ve never had a Down syndrome student at Beaumont, but I’ll tell you more than one teacher has said they’d prefer your son in their rooms over most of the other children—special or not.”

Heat rose in her face. “I’m sorry I misunderstood. I appreciate your calling.”

“I’d hoped you might change your mind. He’ll easily fit back into his—”

“No, I don’t want him to get confused. We’ll just continue as we are.” It was tempting. How easy it would be to send Mac back to school. Teaching was not her cup of…anything.

“The next marking period begins the third week in October. We’d welcome him then, if you change your mind.”

“I’ll see, Mr. Baumgarten.”

When she hung up, she plopped onto the kitchen chair and stared at the ceiling. She’d had a bad attitude about public school from the beginning. Meara realized she’d judged without giving the situation a fair trial. She’d jumped to conclusions. Rash. Isn’t that what Jordan called her?

Not much she could do now. She’d made her bed, and, as her mother always said, now she’d have to lie in it.

Still…he’d said the third week in October. Could she reconsider?

That didn’t seem too far away.

Meara stood back, watching Mother Hayden’s thin arms wrap around Mac’s shoulders. While her son beamed, the woman pressed her powdery cheek against Mac’s forehead, her eyes misted with tears—tears Meara had never seen when she’d lived in the family home.

“We live in a new house,” Mac said to his grandmother, his voice too loud for the somber occasion.

Meara shushed him, but Mother Hayden didn’t seem to notice or care. Her soft voice melded with Mac’s louder one until organ music drew them forward. With Mac’s hand in Mother Hayden’s, Meara followed, as they led the way down the church aisle to the front.

Meara stared ahead at the elegant urn seated on a pedestal—inside, the remains of a man who’d been an unkind and unloving father-in-law. Thinking of her own husband, Meara wondered if like-father-like-son had been the reason for Dunstan Sr.’s behavior. Her husband had learned bitter, thoughtless ways from his father. Had the generations perpetuated such behavior?

If so, she thanked the Lord that Mac had escaped the influence. Yet her heart softened for the angry man whose remains were nothing more than ashes in an urn. He’d left no good memories for her. Nothing but heartache.

Meara’s gaze traveled to Mother Hayden, a woman who might have offered love had Meara opened her heart enough to ask for it. Her own bitterness had kept her withdrawn from the family as much as had their insistence that Mac’s presence would be scorned and that she should keep him away from company.

Though hurt remained, Meara had a greater understanding. Mac had turned out to be a blessing, and perhaps her child could bring a few moments of happiness to a lonely, aging woman.

Mother Hayden held Mac’s hand in hers throughout the ceremony. Mac didn’t seem to understand this was not a regular worship service. He sucked on hard candy his grandmother had kindly brought along to amuse him. His wiggles seemed ignored by her, too, and Meara’s heart lifted at the sight of them together.

As the service ended, Mother Hayden leaned closer to her, above Mac’s head. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps next Saturday Mac could come to stay overnight. I’d like that.”

“I’d like that,” Mac bellowed. “I can come, Grandma.”

Meara cringed, fighting the desire to say no. Overnight? Could she bear to be away from Mac for that long? “Speak softly, Mac,” she said, covering the anxiety that rose in her chest.

She saw her son’s eager face and the look of longing in Mother Hayden’s eyes, then swallowed her words. “I—I suppose…if your grandmother wants to put up with you.” She managed a playful smile.

Mac giggled and eyed his grandmother.

“I’d love it. We have so much catching up to do.”

They rose, and Meara took a final look at the urn. “Forgive me,” she whispered, knowing only God could hear.

Mother Hayden and Mac had moved down the aisle, and Meara watched them go, feeling lonelier than she had in a long time.

M
eara eyed Nettie peeking through the doorway between the gift and kite shops. Waving hello, she approached her. “Is Mac getting underfoot in there?”

“Mac? No, that boy’s an angel,” she said, ambling into the room. “How’s the homeschooling? Any easier?”

Meara brushed a few straggling hairs from her cheek. “No easier. Mac’s working harder, but he’s not happy.”

Nettie rested her hand on the pile of handmade toss pillows that Meara had battled with days earlier. “Not happy?”

“He’s as persistent about wanting to go to the ‘real’ school as he was about seeing his grandmother Hayden.”

“The boy knows what he wants,” Nettie said, shifting the hand-loomed place mats into a neat stack.

“I suppose. I really thought I was doing what was best for him.”

Nettie paused from her task and caught Meara’s eye. “Maybe you were doing what was best for
you.
”

Surprised, she drew back. “For me? This homeschooling hasn’t been fun for me.”

“Don’t misunderstand, Meara.” Nettie rested her hand against the display counter. “Sometimes what we think is better for someone else is just coating our own guilt or fears. Could be you’re trying to make it up to Mac for not having a father. Or maybe taking him away from the Haydens’ home? But all Mac wants is to be like the other kids and go to school.”

“But he never wanted…” Meara gave a deep sigh. “Maybe you’re right, Nettie. Mac didn’t attend school before. He didn’t have a friend. How could he in…?” She paused and pulled the tangle of stray hair from her cheek once more, tucking it behind her ear. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear my gripes. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m overprotecting Mac.”

Nettie rested her hand on Meara’s arm. “It’s natural for you to want to keep him from harm, Meara.”

“I’m thinking about public school. I can register him in October for the second marking period.”

Noise in the doorway caused Meara to turn. Jordan stood eyeing her, with Mac clasped against his side.

Smiling, Meara gave him a wave. “What’s that clinging to your leg?”

“Me,” Mac said with his familiar giggle. He tugged at Jordan’s hand, urging him farther into the shop.

“I think it’s a rag bag,” Jordan said, tousling Mac’s hair. He sauntered into the shop and paused beside the two women. “How are you, Nettie?”

“Thinking I should be outside in this lovely Indian summer weather,” Nettie answered. “How about it, Mac? Want to go for a walk with me, and I’ll buy you an ice-cream cone?”

He caught Nettie’s skirt. “Can I, Mama?”

Meara agreed, and Mac let out a noisy laugh and leaned his head against Nettie’s hip.

“Come on, young man,” Nettie said, heading for the door with Mac.

Meara followed them with her eyes until they passed through the doorway. Then, she turned to Jordan. “And what brings you to town?”

“Errands. And you.”

She searched Jordan’s eyes.

“I brought a few more flyers to Otis for the final church presentation.”

Meara poked his arm. “I mean the part about me.”

“Did you forget about my offer?”

“What offer?”

He stepped nearer and leaned against the counter. “I offered to help with one of the school lessons.”

She grinned, realizing she had forgotten his generous suggestion. “Which lesson did you have in mind?”

“How about a science project?”

“Science? I’d pay you big money.”

“Great. I thought we’d go see sea life. Shells. Fossils. Coral. And maybe another time Mac and I could study minerals and ore samples in the lake rocks.”

“That’s really kind, Jordan.”

He grinned. “How about Saturday?”

Her heart bounced to her throat and back. “Saturday morning I’m taking Mac to visit Mother Hayden. He’s spending the night. I’ll pick him up Sunday. Can you believe it?” Meara shook her head. “Mac yelled yes he wanted to go before I could stop him.”

Jordan scowled. “You shouldn’t stop him. He—”

“The memorial service had just ended. Everything was so hushed. I was embarrassed.”

A guilty-looking grin curved Jordan’s lips. “I thought you meant—”

“I know what you thought. No, I agreed. Though I hope it’s not a mistake. Getting up in the middle of the night to pick him up isn’t my idea of fun.”

“He’ll be fine.” Jordan rested his hand on Meara’s shoulder. “Mac knows what he wants.”

She did a double take. “Nettie said the same thing a few minutes ago…and some other things that got me thinking.”

The front door opened, and Meara turned her head at the sound. “Hi, Julie.” She waved at the afternoon clerk and turned back to Jordan. “Want to come upstairs? Julie’s here to take over.”

Filled with curiosity, Jordan nodded.

“I’ll be just a minute. I have to tell her what needs to be done.”

Jordan watched Meara cross the room and speak to the young woman. His mind whirled, wondering what Nettie had said that made Meara think. Pulse stumbling, Jordan watched her animation as she spoke to the clerk. So much had changed since he’d met Meara and since he’d stopped fighting his feelings.

In a moment Meara returned, and he followed her through the storage room and up the back stairs. Inside the apartment, she motioned him to the living room, and in a second emerged from the kitchen with two sodas.

“Here,” Meara said, handing him a frosty cola can. Before sitting she lowered the front shade enough to block the sharp stream of afternoon sunlight glaring through the window, then plopped onto the sofa.

“Thanks.” He took a hearty swig, her earlier cryptic comment on his mind. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“What you said downstairs about Nettie making you think. Think about what?”

She lowered her eyes as if in thought…or avoidance—he wasn’t sure. “About me and how I treat Mac.”

“How you treat Mac?”

“Not in a bad way.” She lifted her eyes. “Nettie says maybe I make decisions based on what’s best for me, not what’s really best for Mac. She thinks I feel guilty because Mac doesn’t have a father, so I overprotect him to soothe my conscience.”

Jordan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And what do you think?”

“She could be right. Probably is. I shouldn’t fear the future and worry about the way things are. I’m ashamed of myself. God gave me Mac, and I suppose He wouldn’t have if I couldn’t handle the job.”

“That’s a good way to look at it, Meara. You’re the lifelong Christian and should know that God is in control. Both of us need to remember that things happen for a purpose. And not always a purpose we understand. That’s the difficult part—the inability to comprehend the ‘why’ of every experience—good or bad.”

Meara nodded. “Just the other day I was thinking how good God’s been to me. And I asked myself that very question. If God is so good, then what do I fear?”

Jordan folded his hands and tapped his index fingers together in thought. “The unknown, I suppose. We all like to be in charge of our lives. To have a handle on the details. But some things don’t have a handle.”

“I realize that.” She took a sip of cola. “Prayer. That’s what I need. If I can’t know the answer to everything, then I should pray for peace of mind. The ability to trust.”

Trust.
He’d said that so often. Easy to say. Hard to do. Jordan dug into his pocket and pulled out a torn page from a magazine. “Here.” He handed the ragged sheet to Meara. “I thought of you when I read this.” He thought of her much of the time, but he didn’t say so.

She turned it over in her hand, eyeing the large-print title. Lifting an eyebrow, she gazed at him.

“It’s from an education magazine,” Jordan said. “I still subscribe to a couple of periodicals.” He hoped she’d take the information to heart. As an educator himself, he believed Mac would benefit from contact with regular students. They would learn about disabilities, and he would learn social skills aside from academics.

Meara scanned the article and paused. “I wish I could believe this.” She looked again at the beginning. “Do you really think these studies are correct?”

“I’d trust them,” Jordan said. “The organizations who did the reports have no stake in the results. They have no reason to distort them. Special-needs children perform better and grow more adjusted when attending school with regular students. And it’s not only one study, Meara.”

He surveyed her expression as she reread passages of the article.

Her cheeks colored a pastel pink. “Nearly every day Mac asks why he can’t go back to his ‘real’ school.”

“He liked it there, even with the broken glasses and the other mishaps.”

“I suppose stolen books and broken glasses happen to all children—special needs or not.”

“Probably.” Awareness. She’d begun to understand on her own. Jordan rose and sat beside Meara on the sofa, resting his hand on her arm. “Sounds to me like you’ve already made your decision.”

Meara placed her hand over his. “How can I argue with you and Mac?”

“You can’t. We’re too smart for you.” He tweaked her chin and unfolded his long legs to stand. “I’d better get. So what about the science lesson? And you can come, too. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

“Better be careful, I might get smarter than you.”

He grinned. “If Saturday’s no good, Friday, then?”

“That’s great, but early, if that’s okay. I have to work in the afternoon.” She rose and stood beside him.

“Early’s fine.” Jordan ran his hand along the edge of her cheek. “I like to see you fresh and bright-eyed.” He leaned down and brushed her cheek with his lips. If he followed what his heart directed, he wouldn’t leave at all.

Dooley’s wet nose nuzzled Jordan’s hand as it dangled over the mattress edge. He opened a sleepy eye and stared into the dog’s brown, placating orbs, then glanced at the clock.

His heart tripped over itself as he swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his heavy eyes. He hadn’t slept this late in years. Then he remembered. Meara and Mac were coming early. He shot up from the bed and darted into the kitchen.

As the coffee seeped into the pot, he filled Dooley’s bowl and headed for the bathroom. No shower this morning. He washed and brushed his teeth, then headed toward his bedroom to change from his sleepwear—jogging shorts and T-shirt.

But Dooley interrupted his trip. The dog stood at the porch screen door emitting minute, urgent “boofs,” his head pivoting to gaze at Jordan.

The decision was easy. Not wanting an accident, Jordan hurried to the screen door and pushed it open. Dooley beelined for the lake, and Jordan fixed his eyes on the dog’s motivation. A flock of ducks lifted from the sand and flew with fiercely flapping wings away from their pursuer.

In the dark, cloudy sky, gusty autumn wind thrashed the water. The waves pounded against the shoreline in thick, foaming waves, leaving a trail of debris as they wrested loose earth back into the dark, pitching depths.

Dooley hesitated on the brink of the wild waves, taking cautious steps toward the quacking birds riding on the undulating water.

Jordan called, but the noise covered his voice, and Dooley dove into the frothing waves, heading for the birds. Jordan froze for a heartbeat, then sprang through the doorway and barreled down the dirt path. Dooley would drown if he headed out too far.

Reaching the water’s edge, he bellowed the dog’s name, wading into the tugging current and fighting to keep his foothold on the shifting sand. In a moment’s silence between the waves’ fall and retreat, Jordan cried out again, and Dooley turned around.

Pivoting his head, he shifted his paddling and retreated from the birds. Jordan’s heart hammered against his chest. When the setter neared, he grasped his collar and pulled the animal to his side. “You silly dog,” Jordan muttered, clinging to the dog until his feet touched the wet sand. He was amazed at the emotion that stirred in him. He loved the foolish setter.

Above him a voice drifted down to reach his ear. He lifted his gaze and his heart stopped. Mac teetered down the path toward him. Jordan froze, unable to move, and dropped his gaze to his legs below his jogging shorts.

Terror filled Jordan’s heart. He lifted his eyes to Meara, standing farther back on the path, obviously paralyzed by the hideous sight. Then she moved forward, heading toward him down the path.

As the boy’s smiling eyes widened and filled with horror, Jordan stood transfixed. An anguished cry left Mac’s lips. “You hurt, Jor-dan?” the boy asked, his sad eyes lifted upward to Jordan’s face.

Hurt? Oh yes, he’d hurt for so long—his tormented, scarred legs, but most of all his twisted, pain-filled heart. “My legs don’t hurt anymore, son.” And neither did the ache that had filled him for so long. That, too, had eased.

Falling onto the damp sand, Mac wrapped his pudgy arms around Jordan’s red, distorted legs and pressed his lips against the aged scars.

Jordan knelt and held the boy in his embrace, kissing his cheek and calming his own thudding emotions. Like he, the child was scarred. Differently perhaps, but the scars were as long-lasting as Jordan’s disfigured limbs. They would both survive with love and confidence in God’s mercy. The long-awaited thought was still alien, but Jordan believed.