A Perfect Love (28 page)

Leaning close to Barbara's ear, Russell whispered, “Next year, one of those could be ours.”

Sleepy now from a shot the nurse had administered, Barbara squeezed his hand. “A girl, you said?”

“Boy,” he reminded. “Or girl,” he added when a pink-hatted little cherub rolled by.

A pair of smiling orderlies came into the room and helped Barbara onto the gurney, then the family walked beside her to a large bank of elevators where they each were allowed to speak a word of encouragement.

Cleta took Barbara's hand. “Be brave, baby. Mama's right outside the door. Everything will be fine.”

With tears shining behind his glasses, Floyd planted a quick kiss on his daughter's forehead. “You're still my little girl, no matter how sassy you get.”

Pastor Wickam patted her arm. “God's peace be with you, Barbara.”

“Thank you, Pastor.”

Russell gave her a long kiss. “I love you, honey—and I'll be waiting for you in the recovery room.” Their hands touched as long as they could until the orderlies wheeled Barbara into the elevator.

Cleta finished the last of the roast beef sandwich Floyd had brought her for lunch, then rose to check Barbara's IV drip. All was well. Sighing, she sat back down in her chair, idly wondering if the vinyl of the chair would mold itself to her old bones by the time she left.

Floyd and Russell had gone down to the cafeteria for lunch; Winslow had returned to the island. The hospital sounds seemed muted now, or perhaps her hearing wasn't as acute because her nerves weren't so edgy.

She glanced at the sleeping form in the hospital bed. Her daughter.

Her beautiful Barbara.

Pale, sleeping, unaware that the surgery had been blessedly successful.
Thank you, precious Lord.

Cleta knew she didn't need to remind God that it hurt to see one's child in pain.

Tears pricked her eyes as she remembered the day Barbara had been born, the moment she'd known they had a daughter, the first startled cry, the wrinkled little face peering up from a pink blanket. What an exhilarating and frightening moment that was! She had been given a baby to hold and love, a child to nurture and teach. And after that beautiful first day had come the first laugh, first tooth, first steps, first day of school. Graduation. And a wedding.

Her life had been rich with hopes, dreams, and promises . . . all fulfilled in Barbara. How unfair she'd been to try to deny Barbara those same gifts.

“Mom?” Barbara's eyes were unfocused, barely open.

“I'm here.”

Cleta brushed her daughter's hair and kissed her cheek. “Everything went well. The surgery was a success.”

“Good.” Barbara closed her eyes again. “Is Russell here?”

“He's right down the hall,” she said, “with your dad. And the phone's been ringing off the hook—in fact, I turned off the ringer so you could get some rest. You know how Heavenly Daze is. Everyone cares about everyone else's business.”

“Send Russ in—I want him with me.”

“Sure. I'll visit with you later.”

Cleta smiled as an indefinable feeling of rightness flowed through her. See? That wasn't so hard. With a little practice the words would come automatically.

“Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, baby.”

Cleta walked to the waiting area, caught Russell's attention, and pointed him toward Barbara's room. He rose and went instantly, and Cleta blinked back tears as her eyes sought Floyd.

Floyd had been right. Russell didn't deserve a cotton candy–pink bedroom. What had she been thinking?

She'd have to change it—maybe she ought to put the old spread back on, the one Russell
liked. After all, they'd be moving soon, that much was evident. And in a year or two or three there'd be grandchildren, either biologically or through the miracle of adoption. Either way, Cleta might find another use for that cotton candy–pink fluff—maybe a little girl's bedroom, with ballerina prints on the wall.

Change. Micah had done his best to point out that pruning did a plant—and a person—good.

When Barbara and Russell moved out, she wouldn't see her Doodles every day, though Barbara might insist they would. Oh, they'd come for Sunday dinners, Christmas, Mother's Day, and Father's Day. Barbara respected her and Floyd. There never was any doubt of that. But when a baby came, colds and colic and other things would get in the way of coming back to visit Heavenly Daze.

Cleta closed her eyes against the need to cry for the loss of what had been. As Micah said, she had to embrace the new. But what was the new? What would be her new relationship with Barbara? More friend than mother? More mentor than friend? Could she accept that?

Yes, she would accept it—even grow to love it, for if she didn't, she would have no relationship with her daughter. And somewhere in the distance, if God was good, their roles would reverse yet again. When Cleta and Floyd were bent with years, Cleta would be the child and Barbara the caregiver. Barbara would wipe her mother's chin and spoon soup into her mouth.

It was the garden all over again, the circle and cycle of life. As plants bloomed and died, new ones grew up to take their places. Just as people left this earthly garden to move to a heavenly landscape where they would bloom forever.

That thought gave her comfort.

After sitting with Floyd a while, Cleta returned to the hospital room. Russell was occupying the worn vinyl chair, his hand outstretched toward Barbara's, Barbara's fingers resting on his palm.

Cleta walked over and squeezed his shoulder. “The nurse said she'd sleep most of the day.”

“I know.” Russell's voice sounded thick.

The light on the phone blinked, so Cleta picked it up. “Hello?”

“Cleta?”

“Micah! How are things at the house?”

“Fine, how are things there? I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help.”

“We're doing great.” Cleta lifted her arm, stretching her stiff joints. Hospital chairs could be murder on a person's bones.

“Are you sure there's nothing I can do?”

“Well—” Cleta looked at her long-suffering son-in-law. “There is one thing, Micah. Will you run over to the mercantile and see if Vernie has a chocolate cake mix and a pound of walnuts? I have an awful strong urge to bake a chocolate fudge cake with walnut icing.”

The gardener laughed. “I'll have the ingredients waiting when you get home.”

Stretched out on his bed, Buddy laughed as Roxy nibbled at his big toe. The sun would be down in an hour, and, true to her nature, his little pet was awake and wanting to play.

Outside, snow drifted down like silver fleece shorn from a woolly sky, but the thermometer on the wall of Buddy's room read eighty-six degrees—not quite ninety, but Buddy wasn't worried about Roxy taking a chill. Yesterday, in a brainstorm born of desperation, he'd remembered a box of old toys Dana had stashed away. So, after church, Buddy went into the workroom, burrowed through dozens of dusty boxes, and finally found the mother lode. Inside, tossed together in a jumble of vinyl, hair, and shiny fabrics, was Dana's Barbie-doll collection, complete with accessories.

An hour later, Buddy had designed what he hoped would be a workable outfit for Roxy—clothing comfortable for the animal, yet warm enough for Buddy to keep the temperature at something less than tropical heat wave. The sugar glider now wore a pink tutu from Barbie's ballet ensemble, featuring a stretchy top and about six inches of netting. Buddy had to trim away three inches of net in the front to keep Roxy from tangling her toenails in the stuff, but the form-fitted top suited the critter just fine. There were even little cap sleeves that slipped over her arms and dangled just below her shoulders—

“Ouch, Roxy! Don't bite so hard!” Buddy jerked his toe out of range of the animal's sharp front teeth. He reached for one of the monkey biscuits he'd picked up at the mercantile. “Eat these, and leave my toe alone!”

Rolling onto his stomach, he buried his face in his pillow as the persistent animal barked for his attention. Who'd have thought that a six-inch marsupial would work him harder than a drill sergeant? From sunrise to well past sundown he worked for Roxy, hauling firewood, searching for driftwood, preparing her food, cleaning her cage, stoking the fire, training her to sleep in her pouch and eat from his hand. And at night, when Buddy was dead tired and ready to hit the rack, that's when Roxy wanted to play. If he turned out the light to go to sleep, she began to bark. In order to silence her barking, he had either to leave the light on or put her in the pouch around his neck. Trouble was, after dark Roxy never wanted to stay in the pouch, she wanted to race up and down his bed, wriggle beneath the covers, sharpen her teeth on his toenails, and peek into Buddy's ears. Though Buddy desperately wanted to sleep, he found himself playing nursemaid and nanny to a fourteen-week-old sugar glider who was only beginning to discover the wonders of the wide, wide world . . .

Yesterday he'd gotten his best sleep in weeks . . . from two to five o'clock in the afternoon, when he should have been out combing the beach for driftwood. When he woke it was too dark to search, and this morning he'd been forced to burn three stacks of his precious Superman comic books just to keep the room at a lukewarm eighty-five degrees.

He loved his pet, honestly he did. Roxy could charm the whiskers off a lobsterman, and the quiet shushing sounds she made as she settled into her pouch each morning were music to his ears. She did keep him company, and since her arrival he didn't feel as lonely as he used to.

But as he lay on his bed and struggled to keep his eyes open, he wondered why he still didn't feel complete.

Chapter Seventeen

O
n the morning of Basil Caldwell's poetry awards ceremony, Dana's alarm clock woke her at 6:30 AM. Bounding out of bed in the darkness, she shivered her way into the shower where the water took fifteen minutes to heat. After dressing in jeans, wool socks, and her heaviest wool sweater, she tiptoed back through the dark bedroom (where Mike had not budged) and went downstairs to the kitchen. She tuned the small television to
Good Morning, Maine,
then plugged in the coffeepot and made toast while the weatherman predicted a high of twenty-two, low minus fifteen. The snow, thank goodness, had stopped falling.

Dana reached into the refrigerator and shivered at the touch of cold air. Basil and his media crew would freeze their noses off on the ferry—they'd probably all crowd into the cabin with Captain Stroble, who wouldn't have room to turn around. Most Maine folks were tough, but the inland folks didn't know what cold was until they'd spent a little time on the water in winter.

As the radiators in the kitchen clanged and hissed, Dana drank her coffee, ate two slices of buttered toast, then checked her “to-do” list. First on the list was a call to Pastor Wickam, but she waited until the clock struck seven-thirty before she picked up the phone. “Good morning, Pastor,” she said when he answered. “Just wanted to remind you that you promised to grill a couple of turkeys for the dinner today.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Dana.” The pastor's voice was crusty with sleep. “Guess I'll go set up the grill.”

“No need to rush, Pastor. We probably won't eat until around two or three, depending upon how long the ceremony lasts. But since Basil and his people won't even arrive until the noon ferry docks, I don't think we'll get started until one.”

“Sounds good. Thanks for calling.”

“Um, Pastor—” Dana bit her lip. The situation with Mike had not improved in the last week—he'd kept his secret, and she'd kept hers. He'd been cold, distant, and even more devoted to his eBay business, and she'd thrown herself into preparations for the awards ceremony and the celebration dinner to follow.

For the last few days she and Mike had been living like two strangers in one house, conveniently managing to avoid a single honest conversation, and Dana knew the stalemate had to end. She and Mike needed to talk about Jodi Standish, and they needed to be completely honest with one another. But before she confronted her husband, it might be nice to get advice from a man of God.

“Pastor, I'd like to talk to you sometime about me and Mike. Things aren't going as well as they should be, and I . . . well, to be blunt, I think Mike's been seeing a woman in Ogunquit.”

A moment of astonished silence rolled over the phone line, then Pastor Wickam cleared his throat. “Perhaps you'd like to talk to Edith. She's up, making a pot of tea, so if you'd like to come over—”

“I can't come today, Pastor. There's too much going on here. But I'll try to stop by later, OK? Maybe tomorrow.”

Dana hung up and placed a bold check mark next to the first item on her list. Tomorrow's heartbreak could take care of itself; she had enough to worry about today.

The sour scent of something funky woke Buddy from a sound sleep. Propping himself on his elbows, he crinkled his nose and looked at Roxy's cage . . . then realized that he'd fed her too much the day before. “Sugar gliders do not usually smell,” the glider book had assured him. “If you do notice an odor, you have either fed them too much, or you have fed them the wrong things. Remove the soiled bedding, then cut back on the feeding or change to an approved diet and your little pet will be stink-free once more.”

“Roxy!” Buddy held his nose as he sat up. The petite animal curled in her pouch, oblivious to his discomfort.

He glanced at the thermometer on the wall. The temperature in his room had fallen to sixty-nine degrees, which meant the fire in the woodstove had guttered and died during the night. He had to crank up the stove, and quickly . . .

Slipping into his jeans, down jacket, and boots, he ran out to the woodpile, the strings of his boot laces flapping around his ankles. Wincing beneath the sting of the cold air, Buddy used a rock to chip ice away from two split logs at the top of the stack, then scooped them into his arms and jogged back to the carriage house. Dropping the logs on the floor, he slammed the door and bent forward, panting, until he caught his breath.