The Potluck Club (36 page)

Lord,
I silently prayed,
the wrong that’s been done here, my mother’s
rejection of Joseph, Joseph’s untimely death, the kidnapping of my baby,
my lies of omission about the past to my husband and friends, it all
overwhelms me. I’m only one small soul who cries out to you. You are
my only hope.

When Pastor Kevin stood to give announcements, he said, “Many of you have asked about Jan this morning.”

I turned my eyes to the front pew where she always sat. For the first time, I realized her spot was empty. I looked back to the pastor.

“Things aren’t going well,” he admitted. A collective gasp escaped from the congregation. “Jan and I, we’re asking for your prayers. We’re keenly aware of your friendship, your concern. We’re still holding on . . . trusting Jesus. No matter what, we are assured of his love and of his kingdom.”

After that bit of news, there was no way I could concentrate on the message. Instead, I watched the minute hand of my watch slowly rotate to the appointed moment. Quietly, I stood, picked up my Bible and purse, and made my way to the door of the sanctuary, then outside into the bright sunshine. Donna was waiting for me in her Bronco.

I opened the door and climbed in. “Mission accomplished?” I asked.

She nodded, looking almost as nervous as I felt.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my house. David is already waiting there.”

I felt my stomach lurch. Soon I would face my past and look into the eyes of the baby I never knew.

We pulled into Donna’s driveway, and my eyes filled with tears. I took a deep breath to steady myself. I would not break down. I couldn’t.

Donna parked her Bronco behind her tiny rented bungalow. It was probably all of eight hundred square feet, including a kitchen/ living room, a tiny bedroom, and adjoining bath. Of course, the place was small, but with the rent prices around here through the roof, what else could she afford?

She turned and looked at me. “How are you doing, Vonnie?”

I attempted a smile that somehow wouldn’t appear. “I’m nervous.” Donna walked around the truck and helped me out. “David’s nervous too, if that makes you feel any better.”

She led me to the back door and pushed it open, and we were immediately in her kitchen. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw David rise from the table.

I froze. It was my son. My son, David Harris. The spitting image of his father. He was dressed in khakis and a black turtleneck, looking like the ghost of my beloved husband. He stepped toward me. “Mother?”

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and his image suddenly swam before me. I held open my arms and cried, “My son!”

He fell into them and held me as I wept on his shoulder. How long we stood like that, I have no idea. All I knew was that my son had come home.

Donna was quick to bring a box of tissues. When I finally pulled away, I discovered that David needed one as well. We sat at the table as Donna poured us both a cup of coffee, then disappeared into her bedroom.

At her absence, I could only stare at this man who so mirrored the man I had lost. “You look exactly like your father,” I said.

“I do? Tell me about him.”

“Joseph was the love of my life. He planned to be a doctor, you know, but got drafted to Vietnam. You, my dear, were the result of our honeymoon the weekend before he left for war.”

A smile played on David’s lips. I pulled the wedding picture from my purse and passed it to him. He stared at it as I continued.

“When I received the news that Joe had been killed in action, I became hysterical and went into labor. Not only was I in shock, your birth had complications. After the C-section, I was pretty much out of it. The next thing I know, my mother, who had been against the marriage, was by my side. She convinced me you had died. When I signed your adoption papers, I thought I was signing a burial release. Honestly? I didn’t know you’d lived until I read the article in the paper. As soon as I saw your picture,” I looked down at the photograph, then back at him, “there was no doubt as to who you are.”

David put his hand on top of mine. “I’ve always known I was adopted, and through the years I’ve tried to imagine my history, but I never dreamed it was so tragic.”

“David, if I had known you were alive, heaven and hell wouldn’t have kept me from you. I loved your father with all my heart. If I had known his son survived, you would not have been adopted, you would’ve been a part of my life.”

David squeezed my hand. “I believe you.”

“I know another woman has raised you as her own. But I also know she’s gone. It may be too soon to ask such a thing, but, David, with your permission, I’d like to be your mother.”

David’s eyes swam as he replied, “And with your permission, I’d like to be your son.”

51

She’s a woman of mystery . . .

Clay Whitefield awoke to a shaft of sunlight cutting through the blinds of his apartment and the sound of Woodward (or maybe it was Bernstein) taking his morning jog in the cage wheel.

He shot straight up, looked over at the old alarm clock he’d had since college days, and blinked hard. He blinked several more times, hoping that if he continued to focus on the clock’s hands, they’d somehow turn backward.

They didn’t. He fell back, rolled over on his side, and beat his pillow for good measure. He’d overslept. His alarm hadn’t gone off and he’d overslept.

Clay reached for the clock, stared at its backside, and groaned loudly. He had set the timer, all right, but he’d forgotten to pull the alarm switch to the on position. A rarity, he’d slept till nearly noon.

His stomach growled. He’d missed breakfast—and if he didn’t get up and dressed, he’d miss getting his seat at the café.

He swung out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom. Ten minutes. Ten minutes was all he needed, and he’d be heading toward Sal’s place. And maybe, if he had just a drop of luck left in him, there’d be some sort of buzz circulating about David Harris.

If not—to borrow from a famous book’s ending—there would always be tomorrow. For today, the mystery of David Harris’s mother remained just that. A mystery.

But tomorrow . . . ah, after all, tomorrow is another day.

52

Trouble Boiling Over

Friday evening before our November Potluck, I sat in the living room of my home and stretched out on the Southwestern-patterned sofa with ends that reclined. I’d prepared a yellow crookneck squash soup that was simmering on the stove for the club meeting. Samuel was at the monthly financial meeting at Grace, Michelle was out on a date with a young man from work who seemed quite taken with her—and her with him—and I was alone.

Though a late-autumn storm was pouring down on Summit View, the night was blissful. No teenagers running down the halls, calling loud nonsense to one another, pushing their way in and out of the library, ignoring the old rule of silence. No computers humming, no phones ringing, just God and me, my favorite book of devotions, my Bible, and the journal Tim’s wife had given me as part of my birthday gift.

The Scripture reading was from 2 Chronicles 7, the quote for the day from Hannah Whitall Smith:

“If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face . . . then will I hear from heaven . . .”

The greatest lesson a soul has to learn is that God, and God alone, is enough for all its needs.

I’m an underliner. When I read words and phrases that move me, I underline them. With my pen, I drew a straight line under the words
God is enough
. I pondered the sentence for a while, then set the devotional aside and pulled my journal in my lap.

Just then the phone rang. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly 9:00. Samuel might be calling to tell me he was on his way home, so I answered.

But it was Jan Moore.

“Lizzie?” she said, breathless.

“Jan?” Thunder rolled in the distance.

“Can you come here? To my house?”

“I can be there in about ten minutes. I’ll just need to slip on some shoes.” I was on the cordless, so while talking I headed for my bedroom closet.

“I’ll unlock the front door,” she said.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Moving through the house I passed windows that displayed the electrical show of the Lord on the other side. I flinched, knowing I’d have to drive in the storm.

“I am enough . . .”

“Kevin is at the meeting, and I can’t get him to answer his cell phone. Maybe the signal is out, I don’t know. No one is answering the phone in the church’s office . . . and . . .” She drew in a deep breath. “I don’t feel so well, Lizzie. I think I need to go to the hospital.”

I opened my bedroom closet, reached up, and pulled a pair of slip-ons off a shelf where I kept my shoes. I dropped them to the floor, slipping my feet into them. “Have you called Doc Billings? An ambulance?”

“Doc Billings is meeting me at the hospital. I told him I didn’t want an ambulance. If Kevin hears a siren, he might worry . . .”

Kevin has good cause to worry,
I thought, but I didn’t voice my concerns. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Jan met me at the front door, dressed in a sky blue sweat suit that hung from her frail body. She wore a scarf around her head that pushed her thinning hair to her scalp. Her face was pale, but it looked as though she’d attempted to put on makeup.

She reached for me as soon as I opened the door, collapsing enough to let me know the situation was critical. I managed to get her to the car, all the while saying, “Have you tried Kevin again?” Water poured in streams from the umbrella I held over our heads, while our feet sloshed at the puddles that had formed during the storm.

She nodded but didn’t answer. I helped her settle in the front passenger seat, then closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side. Opening my door I said, “I tried Samuel, but I’m having the same problem. I can’t seem to get through.” I shook the umbrella out, drew it closed, then dropped it at my feet, closing the door.

Jan laid her head against the back of the seat, rolled her head toward me, and mouthed, “Figures.”

We arrived at the emergency room of the hospital within minutes. Doc Billings met us at the automatic sliding doors, saying, “Jan, I’ve called your oncologist in Denver. We’ll get you settled here, then see where we stand, what we need to do from there.” Behind him, an orderly stood behind a wheelchair, awaiting our arrival.

I continued to stand in the doorway, watching Jan as she was being wheeled into the recesses of the sterile emergency room. Doc Billings turned to me before following behind her and said, “Keep trying to get Pastor Kevin.”

I followed the signs into the waiting room, where a handful of people waited either for their loved ones or to be called back for examination. In the far left was a small table with a phone, phone book, and table lamp casting a faint light on the corner. I walked purposefully over to it, picked up the phone receiver, and attempted to make another call to Samuel. The service was still down.

Setting my purse at my feet, I realized I was nearly soaked. A shiver went up my spine, and I heard the words from my devotional again.
“I am enough . . .”
I picked up the phone again, dialing Evie’s house. She answered almost immediately.

“Evie, this is Lizzie. I just drove past your house and noticed that Vernon’s car is there. Can I speak with him, please?”

“What’s wrong, Lizzie Prattle?” Evie asked.

“It’s Jan. Evie, I need to speak to Vernon right now.”

I heard Evie call Vernon to the phone. When he said hello I asked him if he would drive over to the church. “Tell Kevin he needs to get here as soon as possible.”

“Will do.”

“And, Vernon. Ask Samuel to meet me here.”

I called Vonnie, hoping she wasn’t sleeping. It had been three weeks since her reunion with her son—three weeks of sorting things out with Fred and trying to determine how to let the community in on the various truths of her life—and I knew all this had caused her to be especially worn out.

“Von, Lizzie. I’m sorry to disturb you . . . I know you’ve had enough on your mind lately, but would you call the Potluckers and tell them Jan’s at the hospital? We need to start a prayer chain.”

Vonnie relayed that she would. “Should we come up?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know if they’ll keep her here or move her to Denver.” I felt something wet slip down my cheek. I wondered if it was a tear or a drop of rain that had released itself from my scalp.

“Call me when you know something,” she said.

“I will,” I said, then hung up the phone in time to hear a nurse call my name.

“Follow me,” she said. I picked up my purse and walked behind the nurse past dark corridors, through sliding glass doors, and then along a row of drawn curtains until one was pushed back for me to step past. “Here you go,” she said.

Jan was lying on a gurney, raised slightly at the head and hooked up to as many machines as could possibly fit in such a small area. Her eyes were closed and her lips were drawn tight.

“Jan?” I whispered.