A Brush of Wings (14 page)

“Her story isn’t over yet.” Tyler pulled Sami close, slipping his arm around her shoulders again.

“True. God loves that girl . . . I know that much. He loves them all.” Sami snuggled in close to Tyler. Being in his arms made the rest of the world’s troubles fall away.

After the Dodgers won, Sami expected a group of them might go to dinner. She still hadn’t checked into her hotel room, but that could come later. Instead, after they congratulated Marcus and the team, Tyler pulled her aside.

“You ready?” His eyes sparkled in the stadium lights.

“For dinner?” Sami wasn’t sure what he meant. He almost looked nervous, the way he had when they first got back together a year ago.

“For whatever comes next.” He grinned and pulled her into a hug. As he eased back he looked intently at her. “Are you ready, Sami?”

Chills ran down her arms. What was he talking about? Why the mystery? She gave him the answer that filled her heart. “If I’m with you, I’m ready. Whatever it is.”

“Come on.” He took her hand. “I have a feeling we’ll remember this night forever.”

She grinned. “Am I supposed to guess?”

He laughed. “Just trust me.”

Sami had no idea what was ahead, but as they walked to his rental car she could feel Tyler’s excitement, which only added to hers.

Nights like this Sami could hardly believe the miracle God had worked to bring them together again. Not just in Tyler’s life, but in hers. She remembered a few years ago when she wished she was more like Mary Catherine. Finding adventure in every day, seizing life, and creating reasons to laugh. Now she had it. That’s how Tyler made her feel.

Whatever tonight held, Sami could hardly wait.

10

M
ARY CATHERINE WAS HAVING
the time of her life—especially today.

Mondays were the one day each week when Mary Catherine introduced the children at the orphanage to new music. It was her favorite day, not because she was particularly gifted at singing or teaching songs. But because she loved watching the children’s faces light up.

Music spoke to their young souls the way it spoke to Mary Catherine. Whatever trouble she faced, praising God through song lifted the darkness. Hope and joy could breathe again when they sang to the Lord.

Twenty-two little faces stared up at her from their desks. “Are we ready for a new song?”

The kids clapped their hands, their eyes bright with excitement. “Yes!” They spoke all at once. “Please, Miss Kat.”

Mary Catherine laughed. The children ranged in age from two to twelve. Her name was difficult for some of the younger kids, so she’d found something that worked for all of them—Miss Kat. She loved how it sounded with their beautiful accents. English was an official language of the people in Uganda. Still, with their lilt Mary Catherine sometimes had to work to understand them.

“Okay, today it’s a song with letters. Does anyone know how to spell the word ‘Bible’?” She pulled a stool up to the front of the room. Sitting while teaching was one way she could conserve energy.

A thin, long-legged girl in the back row raised her hand. She was a smart child, maybe ten years old, one of the first admitted to the orphanage. Her parents had both died of AIDS and she was losing a battle with starvation when she was brought in. Now she was making progress toward health.

“Bacia, go ahead.” Mary Catherine smiled at the girl. “Spell Bible for us.”

Bacia stood, her head high, shoulders back. “B-i-b-l-e. Bible.” She smiled, proud and confident. “That is how it is spelled, Miss Kat.”

Where the child had learned to spell, Mary Catherine had no idea. She clapped and motioned for the rest of the kids to join in. “That’s wonderful, Bacia. Very good.” Some of the kids cheered, others stood and danced around their desks, clapping their approval.

These children had absolutely nothing. Not even a family. Yet they longed for reasons to celebrate. As if God had knit the need for joy into the fabric of every child. It was one more reason Mary Catherine loved what she was doing. She had the privilege of fostering happiness in each of these children.

For the next half hour Mary Catherine taught the children the first Sunday school song she could remember ever learning. After that, most of the kids could sing along with her. “The B-i-b-l-e . . . that’s the book for me! I stand alone on the word of God. The B-i-b-l-e!”

After singing the song with her students a dozen times through, Mary Catherine was suddenly desperate to catch her breath. One of the volunteer teachers must’ve seen the look on her face. She stepped up and waved her hands at the kids. “Time for recess. Everyone outside!”

The orphanage sat on a newly formed compound. There were three small huts for the workers—one for Mary Catherine, two for the local women who helped with everything from bathing to fixing meals.

The fourth and largest structure was the orphanage itself. It was one story, like most of the buildings in Uganda. One wing was filled with a sleeping area—row after row of bunk beds and two bathrooms. Another wing was the dining hall and kitchen. And the school and play area made up the third wing. In the middle was a gathering space for relaxing and reading. A living room of sorts.

Mary Catherine walked outside and leaned against the wall of the orphanage.
Breathe,
she told herself.
You’re fine. Relax and breathe
. She had been in Uganda for seven weeks and for the most part she tried not to think about her health. Still, days like this when she couldn’t catch her breath, when she needed safety pins to hold her skirt up because of her weight loss, she knew the truth.

She was getting worse.

She tried to ignore it, she had even taught herself how to slow her pounding heart, how to get oxygen into her blood even when her lungs felt like they were filled with syrup. Which is what she did now, and her next breath came a little easier. Mary Catherine made her way across the playground to her personal hut. The little dwelling contained a small bathroom and two cots. God was providing for her, and the love in her heart for the children was worth every risk to her health. Helping these kids was a dream come true, no doubt. He would protect her. She believed that no matter how hard it was to breathe.

Today was exciting for another reason. A missionary from London was joining them today, someone intent on living here at least a year. She’d stay with Mary Catherine.

The woman’s name was Ember.

Mary Catherine sat on her cot and let her body find its way back to normal. She had thirty minutes until class resumed. She peered out the single window and admired the block wall surrounding the facility. A group of men from town had finished the work just yesterday. The wall was ten feet high with razor wire. One way to make sure the kids were as safe as possible.

Despite the wall, the place didn’t feel closed in. The orphanage owned two acres, so there was plenty of space for the kids to play. Janie Omer had worked with churches in Tennessee, California, and London to create a stream of funding that had provided for the facility. There was talk of the group opening a second one not too far from here.

The orphanages would work together, teaching the children and giving them more of a community.

Mary Catherine closed her eyes and smiled.
Marcus should be running that one, right, Lord?
She unplugged her laptop from the generator on the floor. The orphanage had electricity, but it didn’t work all the time. The generator was more reliable.

She opened the computer to her email and easily found the last letter from Marcus. He had sent it a few days after she arrived. Mary Catherine had read it so often she practically knew it by heart. Even so, she let her eyes wander over the text. Somehow reading his words made her breathe better.

He had that effect on her.

Dear Mary Catherine,

I guess in some ways I’m still recovering from seeing you. I know I took you by surprise and I’m sorry for that. Not just showing up like that, but the things I said. One minute you’re headed to security for a trip to Africa. The next you’re sitting next to me and I’m talking about wanting to marry you.

Probably not the way I should’ve handled it.

I don’t know. I guess it was just something I needed to say. I was worried about you . . . and I kept thinking how I’ve told you I want to be with you and that I’ll wait for you and that I want to be more than friends. But you haven’t known me that long. I didn’t want you to think I saw you as just another girl.

You could never be that.

Mary Catherine blinked away tears, the way she always did when she reached that part. The letter made her feel like Marcus was right here, sitting beside her on the thin cot, looking into her eyes. She waited till she could see clearly before finding the spot where she left off.

The truth is, I really do want to marry you. I think we’d be amazing, and in no time you’d forget about not being the marrying type.

But that isn’t how you feel, and I respect you.

That’s why I’m writing. After today I won’t email you or text you . . . I won’t show up running the orphanage next door. You’ve asked me to understand, and after a few days of praying about it, I can tell you this: I will never understand, but I will respect you.

If you want me to leave you alone, I will.

I don’t know how long it’ll take before I stop thinking about you. It’s hard to imagine. Every time I drive by the beach . . . every bicyclist I pass on my drive to the stadium . . . every night when I step out onto my back deck.

Anyway, enough. I’ll pray for you, and if for any reason you change your mind, you know where to reach me.

I love you, Mary Catherine. And I still don’t believe you.

Love, Marcus

She still hadn’t written back. Mary Catherine hated the fact, but what else could she do? If she responded, and if she were honest, she’d have to tell him that he was right. She hadn’t been telling the truth about herself. Of course she was the marrying type. She just never thought she’d find someone like Marcus, someone real and deep and loyal. A man who shared her faith.

If she wrote to him, her letter would have to admit that and then tell him the rest of the truth. How she missed him every day and longed to see him again. How she replayed the scene in the airport every few hours and how it was one of the highlights of her entire life.

“Mary Catherine. Come, please!” Someone was yelling her name.

She closed her computer and hurried toward the orphanage. Her breathing was better, but she needed to be careful. If she moved too quickly, she would send herself into another crisis. The children still had another fifteen minutes of recess, but as soon as she stepped into the living room of the orphanage she saw the reason she’d been called.

One of the local women who helped with meals was holding a newborn baby. The infant was cradled in blankets, but he or she looked severely malnourished. Mary Catherine felt her heart melt as she approached. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy.” The woman had clearly been crying. “His mama is dead. No daddy.” She peered at the baby’s face. “He is ours now.” The woman held the child to Mary Catherine. “You hold him?”

“Yes.” Mary Catherine took the baby gently in her arms and moved to the nearest rocking chair. The local women returned to the kitchen to work on lunch. Cradling the sleeping infant in her arms, Mary Catherine set the rocker in motion. The woman returned with a warmed bottle of milk, and then disappeared back to the kitchen again.

The baby had been asleep, but now he opened his eyes. As if he could sense there was food for him. Finally. Mary Catherine slid the bottle into his mouth and immediately he began gulping down the milk.
Poor baby.
Mary Catherine looked into his eyes. He wasn’t a fussy infant, like some she’d seen. This baby probably already knew there was no point in crying. His needs weren’t going to be met right away. Maybe not at all.

At least until now.

“It’s okay, baby.” She ran her thumb along his brow and over his delicate brown skin.
This is how our baby might’ve looked,
she thought.
If I had a healthy heart. If I could say yes to Marcus Dillinger.
Two emotions competed for her attention. A very great love for this little one, concern for his future and his survival. And at the same time an unfathomable joy.

Because though she would never rock a baby of her own, at least she had this.

No matter what happened from here, no matter how many months she had left to live, this baby and others here at the orphanage were the only ones she would ever cradle or feed. No little ones would ever call her Mama except the toddlers running around on the playground outside. Sure, the older kids called her Miss Kat. But the little ones called her Mama. It was another reason she loved being here, loved seeing this dream come true. She wasn’t only a teacher and a worker here in Uganda.