Tonight as she met the people coming into Rock Church, she greeted them with “Merry Christmas!” and chatted briefly with each one.  Oftentimes the brief conversing was punctuated with a spontaneous hug.  Nancy had just called after a friend, “See you at Marbury’s,” when she turned around and found herself face to face with a nice-looking newcomer.  Michael Chadwell had caught Nancy off guard, which was something unusual in itself.  She had met plenty of young men—and attractive ones—but she had never felt an immediate, undeniable spark of interest in any of them.  This time it was different.  What it was, Nancy wasn’t sure.  Was it maturity?  Was it confidence?  Certainly it was in part his good looks and his perfect height.  Was it the fact that he carried his Bible as though it were actually meaningful to him?

All these thoughts flashed through Nancy’s mind before she could catch her wits to do her job and say hello.

“Hi, I’m Michael Chadwell,” the young man stated.  For the second time inside a minute, Nancy was caught off guard.  Her eyes opened wide.

“Michael Chadwell?”

“Yeah.  You know me?” Michael grinned, but his eyebrow twisted in bewilderment.  “Because I don’t think I know you,” he added in playful candor.

“Nooooh.”  Nancy intoned the word in many pitches and went on to ask, “Do you have a sister named Carla?”

Michael nodded, but didn’t have time to say anything before Nancy spoke up.

“We work together.  But I had no idea…”

Her voice dropped off, and Michael finished her sentence.  “That she had a brother who was a Christian?”

“Well, I mean…yeah,” Nancy stammered.

“It’s OK.  I’m kind of an oddball in our family. It’s not that they’re not believers.  It’s just that, uh… it isn’t so important to the rest of them.  Except for my mom.  She’s pretty full-time—full-time plus tradition.”

Nancy knew she should turn her attention to others walking into the foyer, but she still queried, “What tradition?”

The question was a polite one, but Michael seemed to know she was genuinely curious.

“Methodist—like for her whole life.  Fifty years of tradition.  But…it’s helped carry her through some hard times.”  He glanced around and then spoke.  “I’d better go find a seat.”

“Yes.  We should have a full house tonight.”

“Where’s the best place to sit?”

“I always sit in the left section about halfway back.  It’s pretty good.”

“OK.  Is someone saving you a seat?”  Michael must have known this would sound bold but felt it worth the risk.  He obviously recognized that his and Nancy’s personalities had already meshed undeniably.

“Well, actually a bunch of my friends usually sit there and generally save one seat for me.” Then she added, “We usually go out for coffee afterwards.  We’d love to have you join us.”

Michael pointed to himself.  “Would I be the lone guy?”

“Oh, no,” Nancy laughed as she waved to a friend just coming in the door.  “Whoever comes—we all go.  But the new kid always buys,” she added mischievously.

“Can I?  Can I?” he questioned, grinning.  “You can count me in.”  He held out his hand and grasped hers firmly.  Looking right into her soul—or so it seemed to Nancy upon reflection—he added, “Thanks for the invitation.”  Then he was off, vanishing into the crowd that already was starting to fill the large hall.

Nancy greeted another fifty or more people after Michael left, but her mind kept coming back to Carla’s brother.  Finally it was seven o’clock, and she turned to the hall, finding her way to the empty chair three seats in from the aisle just in time to hear the opening greeting. 

……….

Saturday morning, Carla awoke to the pristine beauty of new snow blanketing everything she could see from her bedroom window.  She grabbed her robe and plopped down in the chair by the window for a few moments, thinking about the events of the past week.

The party had turned out well, and she had spent many moments thinking back on it and the people who had come.  All the married couples brought their wives and husbands, and some of the singles brought dates.  And of course Mr. Garman brought Patrice.

Carla was intrigued with Patrice.  She seemed to be about twenty-six or twenty-seven.  Her hair was dark brown and styled perfectly for her heart-shaped face.  Carla suspected she must have had some background in cosmetology, because her face, pretty enough, was made stunningly attractive by her makeup.  She had worn a periwinkle slacks and sweater outfit that complimented her figure, and her overall appearance would have been enough to have drawn all eyes toward her as she walked into the big conference room where the party was held.  But of course, she also commanded attention just because her escort was Mr. Garman.

Mr. Garman had introduced her to the group in a way that had made Carla smile approvingly, along with practically everyone else.  “Thank you all for coming,” he had started out, in a take-charge but pleasant voice. “I’d like you to meet the woman in my life and my very best friend, Patrice Hamlin.  I hope you’ll all make her and the rest of our guests feel welcome.” As he spoke, he put his arm around her waist and drew her close to him, looking at her with a smile on his face and sincerity in his eyes.  Although she was tall herself, Patrice had to tilt back her head to look at Marc.  She appeared an accomplished woman with an air of confidence and seemed to accept her escort’s compliments with full appreciation.

“What a handsome couple,” Carla found herself reflecting now, as she looked out her bedroom window. “Perfect man meets perfect woman.” It was inspiring—a couple to model after.

Carla got up from her chair, yawning and stretching lazily.  She was going to enjoy shopping today.  Almost all her Christmas presents had been purchased, and she was looking forward to a leisurely morning watching the hustle and bustle of the rest of the world while she sat at Corner’s, sipping coffee.  She’d already decided on a teal shirt she’d seen at Radache’s for Michael, and she thought Susie would probably like a pair of brushed silver earrings. Having in mind what to buy was three-quarters of the job done.  It was going to be a fun day.

A hot shower and plenty of time gave her a feeling of well-being, and an hour later, at 9:15, she found herself humming as she walked down Main Street.  The sidewalks were cleared for the most part, and she had purposely parked four blocks from Radache’s so she could enjoy the crisp winter air.

“Very few days are left in this year,” Carla thought to herself, “and I’m going to appreciate this one.”  She inhaled the cold, fresh air and listened to the rhythmic crunching of her boots on the sanded sidewalk.

At Radache’s, Carla glanced around the men’s department and found the polo shirts.  She dug through them, finding a large size for Michael, then paid the clerk, asking for a shirt box.  Now, with bag in hand, she headed back out into the crisp world of Rock Pier last-minute Christmas shoppers.

Coffee was next.  The words and melody of a timeless Christmas carol tumbled into her thoughts as she ventured into the crowded sidewalks.  It was a slow walk, the block and a half to Corner’s, but Carla didn’t feel like pushing herself to pass anyone.  She had plenty of time, and she intended to enjoy the morning without a feeling of haste.  After all, there was enough of that already in her workaday world, and this day she’d set aside for recreation in the truest sense of the word.

She pushed open the heavy glass door at Corner’s and got in line.  Counting nine people in front of her, she thought again how nice it was not to be in a hurry.  The little girl ahead of her was pulling on her mother’s sleeve.  “I want spweenkles, Mommy,” she said.  As she spoke, she turned to look admiringly at Carla who had just walked up behind her.   “Do you like spweenkles?”

“Yes, I do—chocolate sprinkles; and I like whipped cream.  Do you?”

The little girl, who looked about three, lifted her right shoulder shyly and stood on her left foot as she turned her right foot at an angle to it.  “I ‘o’ know,” she replied, tilting her head.  Perhaps, as a child with a stressed mother beside her, she was drawn to the calmness of the pretty lady she saw in the red coat who looked happy and relaxed.

“Are you gonna have hot chocluh?” she asked Carla, her dark eyes shining with anticipation of the treat she’d been promised.

“No, sweetie.  I’m going to have a caramel macchiato.”  Carla enunciated the words carefully, with such affirming delight that the little girl just looked up wonderingly for a moment and then tugged on her mother a second time.

“Can I have a carmo makahdo, Mommy?”

The mother, who’d obviously been enjoying the diversion of the dialog, laughed.  “Caramel macchiatos,” she said slowly, “are for adults.  Aren’t they?”  She looked at Carla for support.

“Yes,” Carla nodded.  “But you can have whipped cream and cinnamon on your hot chocolate, I bet—if it’s OK with your mommy.”

“Can I have cimanum, Mommy?”

The mother smiled.  “Let’s ask when it’s our turn, Mandy.  OK?”

The rest of the time they stood in line, the three conversed, and Carla, with her determination to enjoy this day, could not help but be buoyed by talking happily with a vivacious, well-mannered child.

Finally, coffee in hand, she turned to find a table in the crowded shop.  A couple was just getting up from the table in the corner by the window.  Carla headed for it, thinking, “Everything’s going my way.”

……….

It was bright at the table, with the snow reflecting the sun outside, but Carla sat facing it anyway.  She had just taken a sip and set her coffee back on the table when she heard a familiar voice.

“May I join you?”

She looked up to see Marc Garman.

“Oh, M…Mr. Garman.  Hello.”  She stammered in her surprise.  “Yes, of course.”  She pulled her coffee and napkin closer to herself.

Marc sat down opposite Carla.  “So you’re drinking a ‘carmo makahdo.’”

Carla smiled, still caught off guard by Mr. Garman’s attention and presence.  “You must have overheard our conversation.”

“I was eavesdropping.  At the very moment I recognized you right in front of me, your little friend began engaging you in conversation, and I knew my interrupting would end it.  I chose to listen instead.  Cute little gal.”

“Really cute.”

“So what brings you to Corner’s today? Last-minute Christmas shopping?”

“Not exactly ‘last minute,'” Carla was pleased to answer.  “I’m done with my shopping, except for buying my sister a present; and I actually enjoy watching all the shoppers hurrying and not having to hurry myself.  How about you?”  She decided she could ask a personal question of her employer in this setting.  After all, he was the one who had chosen to sit down with her and open a conversation.

Marc sipped his coffee. “Mmm.  Good stuff,” he said, with a satisfied smile.  “Well, I don’t celebrate Christmas per se, but I always have a little shopping to do for it, anyway.”

Carla wondered why he didn’t celebrate Christmas. Maybe he was an atheist, she thought to herself, or maybe he’d had a painful past that precluded celebrating such an important holiday.  But she didn’t comment, and Marc changed the subject.

“I haven’t had a chance to ask you:  What did you think of the party?”

“Oh, I thought it was great.  Everybody seemed to have a good time.”  She paused and then smiled.  “I loved Joe’s jokes.  Has he done that every year?”

“Yep.  Every year, and each year it gets better.  I think he’s pretty amazing.”  He set his mug down.  “Patrice didn’t like the blond joke, though.  She’s really sensitive about humor that puts down women.”

“It was funny, though,” Carla conceded. “I thought Nancy was going to choke, she was laughing so hard.”  She grinned, remembering how her friend had laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.

“Nancy’s about 180 degrees from Patrice,” Mr. Garman said.  Then he added, as if remembering that Carla and she were good friends, “but Nancy’s a good kid.”

“She’s a very good kid.”  Carla was surprised at how bold she felt in defense of her friend.  “I have a lot of respect for her, and I really enjoy her company.”  She paused thoughtfully.  “Nancy’s different from most people.  I’m not sure why, but she is,” she added, and then shrugged her shoulders. “Everybody likes her, though.”

“I know George appreciates her.  He says she’s the best secretary he’s ever had, and he’s had a few.”

Carla wondered how she herself rated in the eyes of her own boss, but there wasn’t time to think about that now.

“Carla, did you say you’re not in a hurry today?”

“Mmhmm.”  Carla wiped her mouth neatly with a napkin.  “I just have to find a pair of earrings, and I have all afternoon to do it.”

Mr. Garman’s eyebrows went up.  “A pair of earrings?  Really?”  Then, hesitatingly, “Well, I was just going to ask if perhaps you could help me find a ring for Patrice.”

“A ring?”  Carla half-gasped, excitedly.  “Are you engaged?”

“No.  Nothing like that.  I just wanted to give her one.  We’re not really into engagements and weddings,” he said, almost apologetically. “But I’d like to find a ring she’d really like.”  He smiled. “Trouble is, I don’t know what she’d like, and yet I want to surprise her.” He looked at Carla, a hopeful look on his face.  “Would you help me?”

Carla hesitated before replying.  “OK—so long as you make sure you can return it if she doesn’t like it.  What I like might not be Patrice’s style at all, you know.”

Her employer stood up, picking up the containers from the table.  He walked over to dispose of them.  Carla walked over to the door, and Marc Garman hurried to open it for her.

……….

The jewelry store was just across the street and three doors down.  The two walked in silence and then Carla ventured, “Mr. Garman, are you going to buy a diamond?”

“No.”  Marcus pursed his lips determinedly.  “Patrice doesn’t like diamonds—too ‘archaic’ she says. I’m thinking maybe a sapphire.” He turned and smiled broadly at Carla as he opened the door to the jewelry shop.  “But that’s the reason you’re here.  What would you choose?”

They were just inside the store, and Carla didn’t answer his question.  Instead, she raised her eyebrows and asked in a subdued tone, “Are you sure you want me to do this?”  The store had two other customers chatting softly in the quiet atmosphere.

“Do you like sapphires?” Marc spoke in his normal voice, deep and resonant, and Carla, in a fleeting second, glanced around in embarrassment. But Mr. Garman had such an air of confidence that she quickly got over her embarrassment.  He was a person who seemed to command respect no matter what company he was in, and his handsome face and frame allowed him to get by with what most people couldn’t.

“Yes, I like sapphires,” Carla replied, her own voice still subdued. She couldn’t keep back a mischievous grin.  “And I like emeralds.  And I like rubies.  Actually I like garnets and topaz—blue topaz—and peridots too.”

“So any stone will do? I hope Patrice is like you.  But isn’t there one you like best?”

“If you really want my opinion, I would choose…mmm.”  Carla put her hand to her forehead in frustration.  “I can’t remember the name.  Let me find it.”  She walked around the glassed-in counter, looking at the various displays, then stopped, exclaiming, “Here it is—tanzanite!  Isn’t it beautiful?  Such a gorgeous color!  And I remember Patrice wore this color to the office party, so she would probably like it.”

Mr. Garman looked at the various tanzanite rings.  “They’re very nice, but somehow they don’t seem right for Patrice.  It’s the first hint of direction I’ve felt, though.”  He looked at Carla, who was totally absorbed in comparing the various settings in the display case and appeared not even to have heard him.  If Carla had looked up at him she would have seen a faint grimace on his face, reflecting his not wanting to reject her suggestion. After all, he’d specifically asked her to help him in this decision.

“I agree with you,” he said, a bit louder.  “This really is a beautiful stone.  None of these rings really looks like Patrice’s style, though.  I’m thinking she might like a diamond-cut ruby or maybe a sapphire—without diamonds on the sides.  Would you help me look for one of those?”

“Sure,” Carla responded cheerfully, and began a second time around the long oval-shaped display, while Mr. Garman went in the opposite direction.

“What about this one?” Carla said.

He came hurrying around the counter and leaned over Carla’s arm as she pointed to a gold ring with a large diamond-shaped emerald that appeared to be at least a carat.

“It has a little tiny diamond on each side, but isn’t it pretty?”  She added, apologetically, “It’s awfully expensive,” and turned to look up at Mr. Garman.    She hadn’t realized he was bending down, and now his head was inches from her own.  Carla felt her blood rush to her face at the same time as she inhaled the scent of his shaving lotion.   She knew he must have noticed her deep blush, but he answered smoothly.

“Yes, that’s very nice. Very nice.  I think that’s the one.”  He stood up straight again and smiled sincerely.  “Thank you.  You’ve been a great help to me.”

“I’m glad.” Carla hoped her face had returned to its usual color, but somehow it was impossible for her to make eye contact with her employer at that moment.  She murmured, “Well, I think I’ll look for Susie’s earrings now.”  As she turned to head toward the earring turntables at the far end of the counter, Mr. Garman gently caught her arm before she could take a step.

“Carla.”

Carla had no choice but to look up.  Mr. Garman on his part certainly was not avoiding eye contact.   He seemed to be looking into her as much as at her as he addressed her in absolute sincerity. “I really appreciate your helping me today.”

“No problem, sir,” she answered glibly.  She walked to the earring display and kept her concentration on the jewelry in front of her eyes until after she knew he’d made the purchase and had left the store.

“Well, how strange,” she admitted to herself when he was gone.  “I wonder how many girls’ hearts he’s set to fluttering like he did mine just now.” She pursed one side of her mouth as she thought, “He must have known my heart was pounding already, and still he held my arm.  Why?”  Carla uttered the question in a low whisper.  She glanced up sheepishly, but no one seemed to have heard her.  “He’s engaged!  Sheesh!”  Carla rolled her eyes at the thought.  This was a heretofore-undisclosed dimension to the suave personality of her boss.

Carla found it hard to concentrate on searching for just the right earrings.  She felt a little dirty from her encounter with Mr. Garman, even though she had done nothing to encourage such a personal encounter. Indeed, had she foreseen it happening, she would never have consented to accompany her handsome boss.  It would have been easy enough to have declined with the excuse of being too busy.  On the other hand, she reasoned, it was probably totally meaningless and innocent on his part.

Whatever the case, Carla found herself wishing the incident had never happened.  But on the heels of the thought that dwelling on the incident might ruin this day she’d looked forward to, another thought prevailed.

“No!” she reassured herself.  “This is not my fault, and this morning’s encounter belongs to the past.  Mr. Garman is still ‘engaged’ to Patrice Hamlin, and his charisma is not going to topple me, control me, or even affect me.”

It was like taking off a warm coat in a hot room.  Carla found herself able now to concentrate on the matter at hand—Susie’s present. She spent another ten minutes examining all the earring displays the store had to offer and came up with a pair she knew Susie would like.  Just thinking of her sister made her feel better.  Carla headed with a determined step towards her car and home.

“Great!”  Carla was glad to see her friend.

“We were so busy at the party, I didn’t even have a chance to talk to you last Friday.  Guess who I met Thursday night at church?”

“Who?”

“Michael Chadwell.” Nancy raised her eyebrows in anticipation of Carla’s response.

“My brother?” Carla asked, astonished.

“Yes!”  Nancy laughed jubilantly.  “He’s cute, Carla.”  She leaned down and over-enunciated in a whisper to her friend, “Very eligible.”

Carla grinned.  “He was here in Rock Pier?  And he didn’t tell me?  Well, that little…!”

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Well, you can see him next week if you come Thursday night with me.  He told me he’s planning to come.”

“Really!  Well, I’ll think about it.”  Carla liked Nancy a lot, but she really didn’t want to get involved in religion like Nancy seemed to be.  Nancy went to church Sunday morning, Sunday evening and sometimes Wednesday night, in addition to being involved in the Thursday event.

“You know, it’s not just your brother who’s cute in that crowd.  It’s a good group.  Some really neat people come.”  Nancy pulled her head back into the hall, then stuck it into the room again.  “I gotta go.  George has a couple of ASAP letters for me.  See ya at lunch?”

Immediately after Nancy left, Mr. Garman walked in, nodded to Carla, and went into his office, closing the door behind him.  Carla checked the list she’d made on Friday and began with the top item.  Presently, Mr. Garman buzzed her and she walked into his office, reminding herself that she had no apologies to make.  When she opened the door, her employer waited while she seated herself in her customary chair.

“Good morning, Carla,” he said in his usual manner. “I won’t be in the office tomorrow or Wednesday, and I need to get some letters done before I go.  I need a reservation to LA for next Monday, too—anytime in the morning, and arriving back Thursday evening.  Coach is fine.  I won’t need a car.  Herzig has a ride for me.”

He was writing the whole time he talked.  Now, looking up at Carla, he added, smiling, “I want to thank you again for your help Saturday morning.  Patrice likes the ring.”

“I’m glad.”  Carla returned the smile.  “It is beautiful.  Was she surprised?”  Carla felt just a bit presumptuous as she asked the question.

“Very.”  Mr. Garman rose, and Carla took her cue to do so as well. He had assumed his customary business attitude in that gesture; however, in a manner uncustomary, he went to the door and held it open for Carla before walking out himself.  Carla later noted that from that time, without exception, Mr. Garman always rose to open the door for her.  She appreciated the gesture on the one hand; she found it puzzling, on the other.

The morning hours flew by.  At lunch, Nancy again invited her to the Thursday church meeting.  Carla agreed to go, deciding it wouldn’t hurt to go just once.

Carla went back to her afternoon tasks, musing on the fact that Nancy was interested in a particular guy, and the guy happened to be Michael.  Carla was pleased.  Michael was quite religious, and she figured the two would make a good pair.  Carla was frankly a little surprised that Nancy, so stunningly beautiful, was attracted to Michael—except she knew her friend well enough by now to know that, despite their conversation about Mr. Garman at lunch that first day, Nancy wasn’t one to be captured by outward appearance alone. Probably—subconsciously, at least, it was Michael’s strong religious convictions that had made him, just another guy in most ways, really attractive to her.

……….

The next Thursday Nancy Herring found it difficult to contain the excitement she felt.  For one thing, Carla had consented to come to Thursday Night Club.  Even more significant was her anticipation of seeing Michael Chadwell again.  What it was about him that attracted her so, she couldn’t figure out.  Other guys had had similar qualities, although it would take four or five of them combined, she figured, to come up with all the assets Michael seemed to have by himself.

“Whoa!  You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Nancy,” she warned herself.  “Get a grip. What if it’s one-sided?  Slow down and be rational.”

In the afternoon during break, Nancy suggested picking up Carla so they could ride together to the meeting that night.

“Nice of you to ask, Nancy,” Carla said, “but one of the guys who’s going called yesterday to ask if he could pick me up.”  She smiled mischievously.

“Who?”  Nancy was genuinely curious.

“Michael somebody or other.”

Carla kept a straight face, but Nancy wrinkled up her nose and blurted, “No way!”  Then she sat back and added playfully, “I’m jealous.  Maybe I should catch a ride with you!”

“Actually Michael mentioned he’d pick you up, except he thought you had to be there really early to greet or something, and he didn’t think I’d want to sit around the place a half hour until it started.”

“Oh, that’s OK.  As a matter of fact, I already made arrangements to ride with Sig Thorsten.  He’s another greeter.  He lives just a few blocks from me, and we trade rides.

“Well, hey, we’ve both got dates, then.”  Carla still teased.

Nancy responded by rolling her eyes.  Then she smiled.  “We should switch: you’d like Sig.”

“‘Sig?’  What kind of name is that?”

“I think it’s Scandinavian.”

Break time was over, and the girls caught the elevator to the office entrance on sixth floor.

“See y’there.”

“I hope we don’t get side-tracked, Michael and I.” Carla couldn’t resist.

“It starts at 7:00 sharp!” Nancy threatened, squinting her eyes and raising her eyebrows.

Carla laughed spontaneously, and Nancy enjoyed the moment all the way back to her desk.

……….

Three hours later, at 6:15, Sig Thorsten pulled up to the curb outside Nancy’s apartment, jumped out of his red sports car and walked briskly up to the door.  He rang Nancy’s doorbell and then ran his hand through his blond hair.  Of medium build with an air of nonchalance that was attractive to people—especially girls, he enjoyed life from this vantage point.  He was twenty-six, a young bachelor, with a lucrative job as a stockbroker.  He had introduced himself to Nancy six weeks previously when they had separately attended the wedding of a mutual friend.  Nancy had invited him, in the course of their conversation, to Thursday Night Club.  Sig had gone more out of curiosity than anything else.  But TNC proved to be interesting, and he found himself looking forward to Thursday evenings.  The people were several cuts above the barfly crowd he was used to, and it seemed a good way to meet other singles.

But although the music was good and the messages interesting enough, he hadn’t locked into the scene on a gut level. When he first heard preaching about the need to be saved, the question for Sig was, “Saved from what?”  He was a good person, in his own opinion, at least, and wasn’t that what mattered?  He did drink a little too much once in a great while, but generally he worked hard, didn’t bash people, limited his lies mostly to little white ones, and was good to his parents.  He really couldn’t relate to being saved from his sins when he didn’t consider himself much of a sinner.

The door opened, and there was Nancy, looking pretty as ever in a lavender angora sweater and jeans. She put on her down jacket as they both walked to the car, making small talk.  Sig opened his door, climbed in, and pushed the button to unlock Nancy’s, clearing his briefcase from her seat as she climbed in.

“It should be a good meeting tonight.  Joe Carston’s giving his testimony.”  Nancy glanced at Sig.  “Do you know Joe?” she queried.

“Nope.  Don’t believe I ever met him.”  Sig’s nonchalant tone indicated he didn’t care whether he ever would, either.  “Is it going to be another one of those ‘transformed lives’ stories?”

“I hope so.”  Nancy refused to react to Sig’s condescending remark and proceeded as if Sig were as excited as she.  “Wasn’t Kelly Murphy’s testimony awesome last week?  I had no idea she’d been through so much.  I don’t think she’s even as old as you.”

“What do you mean, ‘Old as you’?  You make me sound ancient.”  He turned to look curiously at Nancy.  “How old do you think I am?

“I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

“Just tell me.”

“Guess!”

“Fifteen?”

Sig shot her a look of playful disgust that had just a smidgeon of sincerity in it.  “Twice that and subtract four.”  Both hands on the steering wheel, he straightened his arms, stretching against the seatback and flexing his biceps.  He turned to look at Nancy again.  “I am not old.”  He paused and then, with an innocent air of triumph asked, “So you’re around twenty-five, aren’t you?”

“Mmhmm,” Nancy returned. She suddenly didn’t feel like disclosing her tender age of twenty-two.  When she didn’t add, “Just kidding” or “Of course not,” Sig objected, “No, you’re not!”

“Maybe so, maybe not.” Somehow seeing Sig trying to process this unknown Nancy found most satisfying, even though she felt a little guilty.  She fully intended to set the matter straight, but for right now, the enjoyment of seeing him perplexed took upper hand.  Before Sig could demand the truth, Nancy commented on a flashy sports car passing them, to divert his attention.  Then she adroitly changed the subject.  This precluded Sig’s asking again, since the question would have been awkward and even rude, were Nancy actually twenty-five.

When Sig pulled up to the church to let Nancy out, she called out a simple, “Thanks for the ride!” and half ran up to the warehouse church entrance, feeling jubilant and guilty at the same time.  She wished she didn’t have to ride home with him and found herself looking for an excuse to discontinue their riding arrangement.

Sig parked his car and went to his appointed spot by the west door. Nancy, at the middle one, glanced over at Sig.  It was obvious he was really enjoying being a greeter.  His layback, I-don’t-give-a-care attitude seemed incongruent with his outgoing personality, and Nancy smiled wryly as she noticed the west side attracting a lot of girls as they walked from the parking lot.  Nancy kept watching for Michael and Carla, but they didn’t show up until five minutes to seven, the time the greeters were to close their doors and go themselves into the huge hall that had been made into a place of worship.  As Michael and Carla greeted her, Sig caught Nancy’s attention and called in a whisper, “Nancy, I’ll go in with you; hold on a moment.”

Nancy fought the feeling of annoyance, but gave into it as Sig came over and took her arm.  She smoothly hid her irritation, saying, “Carla and Michael Chadwell, this is Sig Thorsten, a friend of mine.”

“Nice to meet you. You two want to sit with us?” Sig’s possessive attitude further annoyed Nancy, but she couldn’t do anything about it.  They walked in and found four seats together towards the back.  Nancy had hoped to sit between Michael and Carla, and she was sure Carla would have been accommodating.  But now she had to follow Sig into the row with Carla behind her and Michael in the rear.  Halfway through the announcements she realized that Sig probably thought her two friends were married, since she’d introduced them as Michael and Carla Chadwell. Her annoyance was somewhat assuaged, and she set aside the circumstances to focus on the service. 

……….

Joe, the speaker, had attended Rock Church for several months, and gave a testimony that was spellbinding.  Coming from a highly dysfunctional family, he had witnessed the murder of his own father and had hated God for allowing it to happen.  His talk, while very moving, was funny at times, and he kept his audience.

Walking out to the lobby afterwards, Carla offered, “Wow.  That was really interesting.  Some people have experiences to last four lifetimes.”  Michael and Nancy agreed, obviously exhilarated from hearing the testimony, but Sig was unusually quiet.

“Are you OK, Sig?” Nancy asked.

“Oh yeah. Sure.”  He yawned.  “I need a cup of coffee.  Shall we all drive over to Corner’s?”

Michael spoke up. “I’m not a coffee drinker.  How about Marbury’s?  You can order anything you want there, but I’ve heard the coffee’s good, too.”  His suggestion was a relief for Carla.  She really had no desire to go to Corner’s.

It was a cold, clear night.  The warm relaxation Carla had enjoyed inside, a moment ago, turned to chattering teeth and goose bumps as she and Michael crunched the snow on the short trek to her brother’s car.  They chatted on the way to the restaurant until Michael turned to her rather abruptly and asked, “Carla, what do you think of Sig?”

Carla was taken aback. Such a question was out of character for her serious-minded brother who had hardly given any attention to his own relationships with members of the opposite sex, let alone his sister’s.  She raised her eyebrows.  “Do I like Sig?  I guess.  I haven’t really thought about it.  Do you?”

“Yeah.  He seems like a nice enough guy.”  Then, having parked the car across the street from the restaurant, he looked at her again, very intently, with such a sincere tone in his voice that Carla just stared back at him, her eyes wide and curious.

“Well, it’s like this.”  Michael swallowed. There was a heightening color to his complexion that eluded Carla in the darkness, but the huskiness of his voice belied the calm determination in it.  “I’d like to drive Nancy home tonight, but that would mean you’d have to ride with Sig.  Would that make you uncomfortable?”  He rubbed his hand along the steering wheel.  “It’s not that big a deal, if you’d rather not,” he added, feeling his sister’s hesitation.  After all, she hardly knew Sig.

But Carla’s hesitation was because she was in shock.  She had never seen Michael like this.  Was he falling in love?  And with Nancy, the girl who’d become Carla’s closest friend?  Carla looked straight ahead, her eyes glazed with incredulity. Then, happy for her brother and with understanding for his desire to be with Nancy, she smiled and said generously, “Michael, I don’t know Sig from Adam, but unless I get totally negative vibes from him while we’re in Marbury’s, maybe we can kind of pair off in our conversation.  If I keep trying to cut in on you while you’re talking with Nancy, it’s because I really don’t feel comfortable with his taking me home.  I’m sure it will be fine, though.  But,” she emphasized, as she reached for her door handle, “I’m leaving it up to you to make the arrangements.”  She smiled in response to his half-sheepish grin of relief.

“Thanks!  She’s kinda cute, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Michael.” Carla couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she thought about her brother.  If her brother and her friend ever got together, Carla knew she would eventually enjoy telling Nancy about this conversation.

……….

A couple weeks later, Carla was sitting in her apartment, finishing some leftover Chinese food. She was thinking about her New Year’s Eve date with Sig.  They’d had a great time together.  As Carla threw away the empty cartons, the phone rang.

“Hi, Mom!”  Carla knew the seven o’clock call had to be her mother.

“This isn’t Mom,” Sig’s voice teased.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”  Carla felt her face flushing.  “My mom usually calls Thursdays at seven, and I just assumed…”

“Assuming can get you into a heap of trouble.”

Carla curled up in the chair, preparing for another long chat with Sig about nothing and everything, but after a couple of moments, he came right to the point.  “You want to go to the Jeff Caulkin concert on the seventeenth?  It’s at the coliseum.”  Sig had a singular confidence in his voice that was appealing to Carla.

“That sounds fun.  What time does it start?”

“Not until eight. I guess they knew I’d like to take you out to dinner first.”

“Ooh, how nice.  Sure, I’d love to.”  Then, puzzled, Carla queried, “It is Thursday today, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, right up to midnight.”  Sig always had a quick answer.

“I thought you went to Thursday Night Club.”

“I thought you did.”

“Not really,” Carla explained.  “I just went because Nancy asked me.”

“Well, actually I have a mandatory phone conference every first Thursday, and I never get off work until 6:30 on those days. This is one of ‘em.  But I plan to go next week.  Will you come if I pick you up?”

“Maybe.  It’s not really my thing, but I’ll think about it.”

“Ah, c’mon,” Sig persisted.  “Ask your mom to call you at six instead of seven.”

Carla laughed, flattered by Sig’s determination. “Well, all right.”

“Great!”  There was a boyish triumph in his voice that made Carla smile.  “I’ll pick you up at 6:30.  I think your brother’s picking up Nancy.”

“Don’t you have to greet?”

“I’ll get a sub.”

“Oh, no, Sig.  I don’t mind going early.  I’ll bring a book.”

“Y’ sure?”

“I’m sure,” Carla said with finality.

“OK.  Six fifteen then.  And we’ll talk about where to go eat before the concert.”

“That’ll be great.”

“Well, I’ll get off the phone so you and your mom can solve the world’s problems.”

Carla laughed.  “We usually take care of most of them in the first five minutes.  Have a good day at work tomorrow.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“I have one more ready to print, Mr. Garman.  Could you wait just a moment?”  Carla looked up at him with a pleasant smile on her face.

“I’m not in a hurry,” Marc said with a stifled yawn.

Carla put the last letter in front of him.  “Nancy said Mr. Benton called George three times today.”

Marc looked up sharply. “He did?  Was it this morning or this afternoon?”

“This morning:  she told me at lunch.”

Marc shook his head in exasperation, at the same time grinning nonchalantly.  “I think he has too much time on his hands.  While I’m gone, do me a favor and log the calls he makes here and the approximate times.  Tell the crew I asked you to.”  He paused, as if realizing that he was putting her in an awkward position.  “Do you mind?”

“No, sir.”  Carla answered with friendly sincerity, and Marc felt the tightness in his jaw go away.

“You’ll hold down the fort while I’m gone?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Carla seemed to notice the relaxation so visible on Mr. Garman’s face.  “I hope you have a wonderful time.  I’m sure you will.”

“It’ll be an adventure. We’ve never been to Mexico, but I hear the ocean’s great.”

“Well, have a good time for all of us.”

“I will.  I’ll be calling Wednesday at eleven.  Remind Brad and Don to have their reports ready. Tell Benton hello when he calls.” Marc tapped her desk and walked out into the hall.

Grabbing his coat from the closet in the foyer, he let his mind wander to far-off imaginary places with sun and sand and water as far as the eye could see.  He imagined a ship in the distance and Patrice on a bamboo mat on the beach, basking in the warm ocean air.  As he slid down into the seat of his car, he made a conscious effort to keep his mind on the imaginary: he had had enough of unpleasant dealings today to justify calling it a grind.  Usually he enjoyed his work immensely; today the only bright spot had been the anticipation of this trip with Patrice.

Marc smiled as he deftly maneuvered his car in and out of the mundane traffic, and his thoughts switched to the immediate future.  “Ah, Patrice,” he thought fondly.  “We’re in for a good time.  Pack your bikini and that little cocktail dress you look so great in.”  He pushed his foot down a little harder suddenly, as if to run over the grind of the day and press on to the vacation ahead.

……….

In the time they had been together, Marc and Patrice had enjoyed weekend outings to lake front resorts or trips to New York to see Broadway shows, but they had never spent an uninterrupted week together.  Patrice had done all the planning for this trip and had even conceived the initial idea of vacationing together in Mazatlan.  She had traveled there as a child with her parents when she was ten, and had always wanted to go back with her husband.  The husband part of the dream had been abandoned since she no longer desired to be married.  Still, she fondly referred to Marc as her “better half,” accepting their relationship as every bit viable as traditional marriage.

Marc was becoming more and more comfortable with the idea of having a partner rather than a wife, although he wasn’t sure how all the factors would weigh in and balance out if and when they had children. In the meantime, living with Patrice was certainly convenient, as well as entertaining in its unpredictability. Patrice liked her job and was involved with two separate women’s health organizations in town.  She was very independent, which Marc respected and which he attributed in part to the difficult childhood she had pulled herself away from.  Once, when Marc had asked Patrice what her mother was like, Patrice had told him very pointedly that she didn’t like talking about her mother—it brought back unpleasant memories.  Besides, her mother was “dead and gone,” and life was to be lived in the present, not the past—not even the future.

Marc remembered well this conversation and thought about it from time to time.  He didn’t agree with Patrice’s philosophy that life was only to be considered from a present point of view, but there had never been cause for discussion of it, nor had he felt a need to make ripples in an otherwise satisfying relationship.

One thing he knew about Patrice’s mother was that she had been an alcoholic.  It was this unfortunate weakness in both their mothers that had triggered their interest in each other initially.  Each of these two young, good-looking, fairly aggressive people had been curious to get to know someone else with a similar childhood circumstance.

They had first met on a walking path on the edge of Rock Pier, when Marc decided he’d introduce himself to the pretty young woman in purple sweats who had given him an inviting smile each time they met going different directions.  No pursuit was needed on his part: Patrice seemed to take the initiative, much as she had with this trip to Mazatlan.

But Marc hadn’t minded.  Managing an engineering firm and bringing surprising growth to it financially and otherwise had proved demanding.  It was nice to be welcomed home by someone who loved you. Patrice was a meticulous housekeeper and, although she didn’t like to cook, she always had something planned for dinner—take out dinners, fast food, frozen meals or restaurant dates.  She was a surrogate cook, Marc had decided, and her planning the meals had made his career-intense life much easier.

Marc and Patrice had worked out a financial agreement whereby she bought all the groceries and household amenities, while he provided the townhouse and paid the utility bills.  When they went out together, he picked up the tab.  Marc knew it was a good deal for Patrice financially, but it was also a good deal for him in every other way, and he reasoned that his mortgage would remain the same if Patrice weren’t in his life at all.

Marc turned the corner onto Red Wing Circle and pulled into garage number six.  “OK,” he told himself.  “I’m going to put Benton out of my mind and appreciate the fact that I’m a lucky guy.” He started whistling as he climbed out of his car and ran up the steps to the door separating the kitchen from the basement garage.

……….

The air was crisp on Saturday morning when Bonnie Chadwell arrived at her daughter’s apartment.  She rang the bell, smiling to herself as she thought how Carla had probably dusted every nook and cranny in preparation for her visit.

“Hi, Mom!”  Carla threw open the door and hugged her mother.  They both stepped back and held each other at arms’ length, then pulled into a second, closer hug.

“I’ve missed you, honey,” Bonnie exclaimed, “and you look absolutely beautiful.  God blessed you with some of the prettiest eyes in the world.”  As Carla smiled affectionately, Bonnie went on, looking with sincere appreciation all around the room.  “Your place looks mighty nice.  Do you always keep it this clean?”  There was teasing suspicion in her voice and in her own sparkling eyes.

“No, just when special people come.”  Carla grinned, enjoying her mother’s approval.  “But really, it’s pretty easy if I just remember to put things back as soon as I’m finished with them.  It’s my early training.”  She paused, a happy expression on her face.  “So if you like the way it looks, it’s your fault.”

Despite the cold, it was a beautiful January day. Many trees were without leaves, but there were plenty of evergreens and tenacious burr oaks.  Carla had begun noticing trees with a newfound interest ever since she and Nancy had started walking together Saturday mornings. Nancy had a contagious enthusiasm for nature and ‘all the beauty in God’s world.’ “He’s awesome, Carla,” she would often exclaim, bending down to admire a holly bush, or pointing out a cardinal on a branch.

This weekend Nancy couldn’t come, which was convenient for Carla, who wanted to share the same beautiful walking path with her mother.  The morning was still young, and within ten minutes, the two were on the path, bundled in coats and scarves.

“So what’s going on in Rock Pier these days? Is Mike still dating this friend of yours?”

“Nancy?  Oh, yes! Nancy just beams at work.  She thinks Mike’s the sunrise and sunset, but in a balanced way, of course.  Nancy’s really nice, and very stable, but she’s crazy about your little boy, Mom—and he seems to feel the same way about her.”  Carla glanced at her mother with a knowing look.  “I bet Michael will end up marrying her.”

“You think so?  And you’re OK with that?”

“Oh, yes.  I’m so glad for both of them.  I’m so glad for me.  They’re two of my favorite people and seem to be just a perfect match, with their religion meshing and everything.”  Coming to a fork in the path, Carla steered her mother to the left.  “You’ll really like her, Mom.”

“I’m sure I will, honey.  I’m glad they share a strong faith in God.”

The sun came out suddenly, peculiarly bright, and for a fleeting moment Carla thought of Marc and Patrice basking on the warm beaches of Mexico.  But she wasn’t envious; the late January sky overhead now appeared robin-egg blue, and she was glad she was just where she was, to enjoy this beautiful day.

They walked in silence for a while, until Bonnie told Carla she wanted to ask her opinion about something.

“Sure, Mom.  What is it?”

“You know the Fergusons from church, right?”

“Mmhmm.  John and Lou?”

“Yes.  Well, their daughter Midge is fifteen, and she’s pregnant.”

“You’re kidding.  Wow.”   Carla looked at her mother, then admitted, “I don’t really remember Midge.  She must have been in grade school or junior high when I left.  Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Nick Brommer.  Did you know him?”

“No, not really.  I remember a Heather Brommer.  Is Nick her brother?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s she going to do?”

“Well, that’s the problem.  She told Susie she’d talked with the school nurse and she wants to get an abortion.”

“What do her folks say?”

“Her folks don’t know, and, as of now, Midge isn’t planning to tell them.”

Carla was silent for a moment.  Finally she said, “Susie told you this?”

“Yes,” Bonnie replied.  “I almost wish she hadn’t, Carla.  I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard spot.  If Susie were in the same place, I’d certainly want to know about it.  I can’t imagine anyone counseling a young girl to keep such a thing from her parents.”

“Maybe she thinks it would hurt them too much.” She spoke quietly, in gentle defense of Midge.  “And some parents would blow up.”

“Well, I might, too.  It’d be a natural reaction.  But I’d get over it and be there to help tackle the problem.”  She looked at Carla.  “What a weight to bear alone.”

“What did Susie say to her?”

“She told me that she asked Midge not to do anything right away—to just give her a chance to think about it and talk with me about it.  Midge sometimes rides with us to the rec center, you know, when I take Susie over for her dance class.  I like Midge a lot.  She’s a nice little gal.  Susie likes her, too, and Midge really seems to respect Susie.”

They walked in silence a moment, until Bonnie spoke again.  “You know, I think she confided in Susie because she didn’t feel good about not telling her folks, like the counselor had advised.”  Bonnie Chadwell’s voice slowed and softened to a pensive whisper, as though a realization was dawning.  “I think she’s looking for someone to tell her not to have an abortion.”  She sighed, bending down to pick up a plastic lid littering the path.  “I think she’s afraid her folks might concur with the counselor.”

“You think she wants to keep the baby?  She’s so young!” Carla exclaimed.

“She’s young, all right.  Too young to have a baby.  But too young…” Bonnie stopped, turning to Carla with concern in her eyes. “…way too young to abort the baby and take on a burden of guilt for the rest of her life.”

“A burden of guilt?  What do you mean?”

Bonnie said nothing for a moment, and then replied, thoughtfully.  “I have a friend from that women’s Bible study I attend.  She confided in me once that she had an abortion when she was very young.  She told me she constantly carries an ache in her heart.  ‘A relentless sadness,’ I remember her calling it.”  Bonnie looked at Carla, slowly shaking her head.  “I’ve never forgotten that.”

“But lots of women have had abortions, Mom.” She tilted her head as if to say she didn’t agree with where her mother was going in this conversation.  “I don’t think they all feel guilty.  Millions of women have done it, you know.”

“Doing something a million times doesn’t make it right—just acceptable.  Remember Jason, that little boy I tutored when you were in high school?  Remember how he thought lying and cheating was OK, because his whole family did it?  But if every family in the world lies and cheats, lying and cheating is not one bit closer to being right.”  She turned to Carla.  “Ever since I read—I mean purposefully read Psalm 106, where the Israelites’ history is recounted, I’ve been convicted of how really wrong abortion is.”

“What does it say?”  Carla had never read much of the Bible.

“It talks about innocent sons and daughters being sacrificed, and their blood polluting the land.”  She shook her head.  “Our land certainly is polluted.”

Carla said nothing, and the subject was dropped as the two walked on in silence.

……….

Although it had rained in sheets the night before, coming in wave after wave, the morning brought a bright sun and plenty of sunbathers and people strolling the beach.  Patrice Hamlin rolled over onto her back on the light blue towel and adjusted her sunglasses.  She wore a leopard bikini that didn’t leave much for imagination, and her hair was caught up in a topknot to give full sun exposure to her face and neck. She gave no indication that she was aware of the attraction she was providing on the beach front, and she was oblivious to the persons who detoured from the original direction of their walking in order to get a close-up view of this beautiful figure lying almost bare for all to see.

Marc would have liked to walk a long distance that morning on the open shore, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Patrice unprotected.  She was more vulnerable than she imagined herself to be, he felt, so he waded and half-swam in the ocean thirty yards in front of her and engaged the beach hawkers in conversation to amuse himself.

Patrice had wanted to go back to Rock Pier with a signature tan that she took pride in every winter, although usually acquired from a tanning spa. Marc was willing enough to accommodate her.  He was achieving the same bronzing of his own skin, but in an active way.  Sleeping or lying on the beach was too boring in his mind. He figured he could lie around at home. He was thoroughly enjoying the morning, and part of his enjoyment was glancing over at the beautiful young woman in his care.  He was proud to be Patrice’s escort.  She was so comely and poised and full of intrigue.  She had a certain independence—almost an aloofness—that precluded his ever taking her for granted.  But that was still his desire—to be able to relax fully in their relationship, knowing that she was his alone and that she wanted the same in reverse.  Somehow that security had eluded him, even though he had lived with Patrice for over a year. He couldn’t deny that he envied married men, but he still supported the decision he and Patrice had made to remain single.

Marc glanced over his shoulder at Patrice just in time to see a tow-headed toddler come running up to her.  The mother was hurrying to catch up with him, but not in time to stop him from throwing a handful of sand on Patrice.

Patrice sat up, startled, just as the mother swooped up the child, reprimanding him soundly.  Marc turned around in the knee-deep water, his back to the beach, and backed up, wanting to hear the exchange, but not wanting them to know he was listening.  He smiled, wondering what Patrice—or the mother—would say to the other woman.  Marc enjoyed hearing Patrice interact with people, but he seldom had a chance without his being part of the conversation.

“I’m so sorry. Chad’s really enjoying the sand,” the young mother apologized.

“Well, so am I, now,” Patrice laughed graciously.  “I guess this calls for a dip.  I needed to stretch, anyway.”

“The water’s beautiful—almost warm,” Chad’s mother offered.

“Do you like the water, too?” Patrice looked at the little boy with a friendly smile.  Then, seeing she had elicited a smile to replace the first look of naughty apprehension on the little boy’s face, she added, “Shall we go try it?”

The mother, looking a bit surprised, grabbed her little boy’s hand and started toward the water. “Just for a moment, Chad.  Then we’ve got to go find Daddy.”

“I wahnt Daddy!” Chad exclaimed, but nonetheless willingly scrambled down the beach, his hand in his mother’s.  Patrice walked beside them.

“Chad, how old are you?” she asked.

“I’m this many.” Chad held up his left hand and with his right hand held down his left thumb and little finger, leaving three fingers up.

“Three?  You are big.”

“No, two!”  Chad frowned, holding up three fingers again.  Patrice looked at the mother.

“He’s right, and his fingers are wrong.  But he’ll be three pretty soon.”

“Apwoh twouf,” Chad volunteered proudly.

“That’s wonderful. Does your mommy enjoy having you around?”  She glanced up at his mother.  “Are you a lot of work?”

“Mommy says I’m a awfo wot of wuck,  but I’m wuff it.”  The little boy beamed proudly.  So did his mother, grinning.

“Yes, he’s a lot of work, and yes, we let him know he’s worth every bit of it.  My husband and I don’t know what we’d do without him.” Turning to Chad and scooping him up in her arms, she added, “You add a lot of sunshine to our lives, don’t you, honey?”  Then, to Patrice, “He really is a blessing.”

Patrice said nothing. She smiled a surface smile and looked around for Marc, who was standing with his back to them, about twenty feet away.  Patrice was sure he’d heard their conversation, but he didn’t say a word about it when she abruptly left the mother and child and walked over to him.  Neither did she.

“I need to go for a dip to wash off a little sand.  Want to come?”

“Sure.”  Marc could sense tension in the air.  “Babe, look at that sand crab under that rock.  Do you see it?”

“Yeah, cute.  Come on!  Let’s race.”

Marc stole a glance at the mother and child abandoned, then took off, running, after Patrice.

……….

El Ciento was a quaint little restaurant high up on a hill not far from the gold coast of Mazatlan.  It was surrounded by dense vegetation including sheflera, quince, and hibiscus.  The windows were leaded panes that were only about nine inches wide—narrow for a restaurant window, but most charming in this case.  What made them appealing was that they were set in the walls so that the bottom ledge was flush with the table, each containing vases with budding flowers which brought fresh romanticism to anyone looking for it. Every narrow table had one window, the purpose for which, according to Señora Florisma, was to necessitate the señors and señoras (“or señoritas,” she would add with a spicy gleam in her eye) having to put their cabesas close together to point out to each other the iguanas which ran freely on the grounds.

It was in the corner to the far right of the entryway that Marc and Patrice sat enjoying another intimate evening.  Their dinner finished, they were sipping Mexican hot chocolate.  Marc had decided tonight would be the night he would broach the subject of children.  He and Patrice loved each other, obviously, and life was good enough.  But Marc wanted to be a father even though, by mutual agreement, he and Patrice didn’t seem headed for matrimony.  He put down his cup and took Patrice’s left hand in both his own.

“Patrice, we need to talk about having children.  I don’t think about it so much when we’re at home, because we both keep so busy.  But being down here and seeing kids with their parents—or just playing on the beach, makes me want to start a family.”

Patrice looked genuinely incredulous. “Am I sitting across the table from confirmed bachelor Marcus Garman?” Then she smiled, and her expression had just the faintest ‘I told you so’ cast to it. “When did this domestication first manifest?”

“Well, actually, right about the time I met you.”  Marc’s sincerity gave depth to his suave answer.  “But it’s pretty much taken over my psyche, I guess, Dr. Hamlin, because whenever I see a little curtain climber, I feel this void.”  He smiled, a confident grin on his face.  “Any suggestions?  Is there a cure?”

“The doctor does have a cure, Darling.  I’ll share it with you when we’re in the privacy of our room.”

“I feel really tired, all of a sudden.”  Marc lowered his voice and reached across the table, cupping his hands around Patrice’s cheeks and drawing her face close to his.  “I think we should go to bed early tonight.”

“Me, too,” Patrice said, softly.

In the intimacy of their bed, Patrice confided, “Marc, I wasn’t going to tell you, but I suppose I should.  I guess I can’t keep secrets very well.”

“What?”  Marc looked at her with a hope that was almost fierce in its intensity.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”  Patrice laughed softly.  “Why should I joke about it?”

“Since when?”

“Ten weeks—almost three months.”

“Honey, why didn’t you tell me?  I thought you shouldn’t take a plane when you’re pregnant—that it might endanger the baby.”

“Don’t worry; it’s all right.”

“But why haven’t you told me?  I don’t understand.”  Marc’s face showed genuine curiosity—maybe even hurt, and Patrice chose her words carefully.  She hadn’t realized before tonight just how much Marc wanted children.

“If you want the truth, I really hadn’t planned to tell you at all.”  She sighed.

“What do you mean, you weren’t going to tell me at all?” Marc demanded.

“I don’t think this is a good time for us to have a child.  I think I’d rather wait a little longer. Women are having children later and later anymore—sometimes not until their mid to late thirties.  By that time I could be through medical school and free to enjoy a baby so much more than right now.”

Marc didn’t respond. He was incredulous: in a matter of moments the hope he had felt of becoming a father had been dashed.  He fell back on the wisdom he’d learned earlier than most people—to say nothing at all when one isn’t sure what to say.

“It’s not that I don’t want children, Marc.  It’s just that I’m not sure I want a baby right now.”

Marc responded by rolling onto his back.  He ran his fingers through his hair, flabbergasted.

Patrice propped herself on her elbows and looked at Marc.  “Hey, Baby, it’ll be OK,” she said, tenderly kissing him.  “We’ll work this out.  I like kids too, you know.”

“Sure,” Marc said. Then, fighting a tinge of bitterness, he thought to himself, “Sure. Sure you like kids.”

Patrice started talking about tomorrow’s activities.  It would be their last day in Mazatlan.  Marc listened with half-interest, although Patrice couldn’t tell this in the darkness of the room.  Marc had already planned the last day, including brunch on the ferry, but his anticipation was gone.  He sighed, wishing he could rewind the tape of the past few moments, and re-record.

……….

Patrice was left to her own thoughts in the ensuing silence.  It was the first time in their relationship that she had felt uneasiness. She was troubled by the complication Marc’s desiring children so soon had placed on her private ambition. Lying beside him, she reasoned that he had no right to want children already; after all, they’d been together only a little more than a year.  She pursed her lips, her eyes wide open in the darkness.  How ironic that this worldly-wise, handsome young bachelor, off to such a great start in his own career, should turn out to be so conventional as to want to start a family so soon.  She rolled over and, with a stubborn determination, said to herself, “Well, good for him, but I do not!”  Then she sighed again, asking herself, “What now?”  She faced a serious dilemma, as she had mistakenly convinced herself that Marc would be fine with an abortion in this first pregnancy. They were both young.  Besides, in her own mind, actually, although she certainly cared for Marc, their relationship was for all practical purposes up for grabs as much as it was permanent.  Granted, their present cohabitation was extremely desirable. There was security in each other—socially, financially, and physically.  But Patrice was quite certain she wasn’t ready for the permanency that children would bring to the picture.

Even more importantly, she had a personal career goal that she was determined not to give up. For several years she had anticipated being the first woman to carry a fetus to full term for the express purpose of donating it to research. She sighed with resignation, knowing now she was not free to discuss her ambition with Marc.

It was unsettling to contemplate the strange twist Marc’s wanting a child had introduced.  She lay awake, distraught and emotionally exhausted, wondering how she could get through the next several months living with a man who anticipated the birth of his baby while she anticipated the full development of a fetus she most certainly was going to abort.

Tears of frustration filled her eyes as her mind projected the challenge of living with this duplicity. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Yet she knew she had to do it. And wasn’t that what pioneering was all about?

Patrice rolled onto her back and lay there.  She knew Marc, lying right beside her, was as awake as she.  She reached for his hand and took hold of it, but there was only a limp response.  She had never felt so alone as she did at that moment, knowing that the journey that lay ahead of her would be a risky one.  Rather than sharing her pioneering ambition with Marc, she would have to keep it under wraps and somehow get Marc to keep her pregnancy a total secret. That would be the first step of this adventure.  She sighed, heavy hearted, but knowing exactly what she had to do next.

“Lord, I need Your presence here, and Your words.  And we both need Your grace, Father.”

The door to the adjacent office opened, and out stepped a plump, attractive woman in her late thirties.

“Hi, Bonnie.”  The voice was a full mezzo.  “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait in this depressing lobby; you should have knocked on my door.  At least I have a window in my office, even though outside it isn’t much perkier than this room right now.”  Lou’s rippled laughter was musical, and Bonnie responded affably.

“Actually, I’m feeling a little down, so I guess I fit right in.”

“A little down? Why, hon?”  She jerked her head around in honest concern, then held up her hand suddenly.  “Wait a minute.  Don’t tell me just yet; I think I need to step out of the dark here before I hear anything depressing.  I might have a hard time recuperating from any bad news in this atmosphere.”  She simultaneously pursed her lips and rolled her eyes disapprovingly.

Lou went down the hallway to get her coat while Bonnie bowed her head and shut her eyes, praying, “Oh, God, please help me to be a true friend to Lou, and cause this whole situation to work out beautifully.  Lord, I’ll be so grateful to You.  Take care of us all.  In Jesus’ name I pray.  Amen.” She hurried through the prayer just in time to give her full attention to the portly lady’s voice.

“Would you mind dropping me off at home afterwards?  My car is in the shop and John brought me to work this morning.”

“Sure—you’re right on my way.”

Lou smiled appreciatively.  “Bonnie, I’m so glad we can spend a little time together.  You know, I’m chairing the Mother-Daughter banquet again this year, and I need committee members.  I was hoping you could help me.”

“The Mother-Daughter banquet?  I think I could.  Sure.”

“Thanks.  I’m looking forward to it.  Somehow, the more I’m involved with something, the more I enjoy it.”

They had reached Bonnie’s car now, and they continued chatting, covering sundry subjects, all the way to the restaurant on 22^ndAvenue where Lou had suggested going.  As they sat down, a waitress promptly handed them each a menu, which the women declined with Lou explaining, “I’ve been bragging on your sour cream apple pie, and my friend wants to try a piece.”  She turned to Bonnie.  “Do you want it a la mode?”

“Mmmm! Yes.  And I’d love a cup of coffee—with cream.”

“Make that two,” Lou added, “but no cream for me.”  She smiled, dismissing the waitress.  Turning to Bonnie, she lowered her voice to a confidential whisper.  “This is where Midge and Nick like to go.”  A mother’s pride made her eyes shine in a softly tender way.

“Oh, Lord, please be here to guide us,” Bonnie mutely prayed.

“That’s the reason I enjoy coming here.  It kind of helps me feel more connected to them.  They spend a lot of time together, but not usually at home.”  Her laugh was meant to be nonchalant, but it had a hollow, lonely ring to it, Bonnie thought, then decided her interpretation must be tainted by the news she carried.  Her heart was beating fast.  She would have loved to have just shared some light-hearted time with Lou, and she pleaded silently to God.  “Are you sure I need to tell her?”

Before the question was out, a scripture verse played across her mind: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

“Yes, Lord,” she answered mutely.  And again, faster than she could have read the words in the natural, another scripture flashed before her. “Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these my brethren, have ye done it unto me.”

“Yes, Lord,” she responded again, “a scripture for Lou and one for the baby, but what about Midge?”  They are for Lou, and for the baby, and they are both for Midge. 

“I’ve never met Nick.” Bonnie spoke audibly now.  “But Midge is certainly a sweet little gal.”

The waitress set down the pie, and the women continued chatting for a few minutes as they ate. Presently, Bonnie spoke.  “You know, Susie’s very fond of Midge.”

“She is?  That’s nice to hear.  You’ve been so good to give her rides to the rec center.”  She paused and then added, “Yes, Midge is a good kid.  Of course my opinion’s a bit biased.  But enough about Midge.  Something’s obviously on your mind, Bonnie.  You said you were feeling a little depressed.  What is it?”

“Well, actually it’s about Midge.”

“Midge?”  Lou set down her coffee cup and looked across at Bonnie with puzzled curiosity on her face.

“Yes.”  Bonnie sighed, ready to take the dive.  But instead, she found herself saying, “I was thinking that Midge and you and Susie and I might drive up to Rock Pier sometime. You know, I don’t have much chance to spend with Susie, either, with her job and school responsibilities.  I’m sure your Saturdays fill up fast, but if you can, I know we’d love it.”

A smile smacking of relief spread across Lou’s face.  “That would be fun.  You know, Bonnie, we should ask the girls to be on the Mother-Daughter committee.”

“That’s a great idea. Maybe we could poke them for suggestions—a little youth in the planning phase.”

Go to the park, a voice interjected, just as Bonnie pushed aside her empty plate and looked out the window.

The sun was breaking through the clouds and flooded the window area where they were seated.  Lou spontaneously commented.  “It’s beautiful out there now. Do you have time for a quick walk through the park before you take me home?  That was a huge piece of pie, and I could use some exercise!”

Bonnie swallowed her astonishment and under her breath intoned, “Yes, Lord!”  Audibly, she replied, “I’d love to.  Let’s go.  And the pie was great.  We’ll have to come back here with the girls sometime this spring.  I know Susie would like to.  Maybe sometime when Nick’s at baseball practice.  I hear he’s quite a shortstop.”

Lou assented vigorously, and they rose to go, as Bonnie quietly prayed once again for God to take over for both her and Lou.

Reaching the park, they got out of the car and saw a young girl about sixteen or seventeen walking past them, pushing a stroller with a sleeping baby.  She smiled at the women and they both reciprocated as they turned to go in the opposite direction.

“Such a young mother. I feel sorry for her,” Lou said, quietly.

“Yes, it can’t be easy.” No other words came to Bonnie.

“I love walking in the park at this time of day, and I don’t very often get a chance to do it.”

“No, I don’t either. Oh, look, Lou!  That blue jay and the squirrel over there: it looks like they’re squaring off, ready for a showdown.”

“It does look like that. I guess blue jays are nasty birds, or so I’ve heard.  But they’re so pretty.”  She smiled, turning to Bonnie.  “When I was nine, I wrote a poem about a robin, a crow and a blue jay.   It was several verses about three birds’ discussion of which one of them would be the subject of an artist’s painting.  The robin was the good guy, of course, and he’s the one who was painted.  I still have the poem, but it was such a long time ago.”

Bonnie turned to Lou.  “Do you still write?”

“No, not really, although I don’t mind it if I have to for some reason.  John is an excellent writer, though, and Midge’s favorite class is always the one that requires a lot of essay writing.  She’s really quite talented that way.  I hope she’ll pursue some type of career with that in mind.” Lou sighed and turned to Bonnie before continuing.  “Lately she’s been keeping to herself quite a bit, and I think it’s because she likes writing and has to find solitude for the ‘muse to appear,’ as they say.”

Bonnie mutely pleaded, “Help, Lord,” and took the dive.

“Lou, I really do need to talk with you about something that is on my mind. It’s Midge.”  Bonnie looked at Lou until their eyes connected and she knew she had her friend’s full attention.

“Midge?”  Lou had strong confidence in Bonnie’s sincerity and integrity.  Although her daughter’s being the subject had taken her completely by surprise, the combination of empathy and sympathy emanating from the older woman acted like glue, bonding the two women in a peculiarly strong way.

Bonnie inhaled slowly as she stopped, and turned, taking both Lou’s hands into her own.  She stood face to face to her friend.  “Midge told Susie she’s pregnant.”  Lou would have caught her left hand up to cover the gasp that came from her mouth, but Bonnie held both hands firmly and kept talking. “She’s scared, Lou.  She told Susie she wanted you to know but just couldn’t bring herself to tell you and John, because you’d both be so disappointed in her.”

A look of shock and then hurt had spread across Lou’s face as she listened to Bonnie, and tears filled her eyes.  “Midge? My Midge?”  She shook her head in vigorous denial.  “No.  No.”

Bonnie kept talking, feeling compelled to go on. “Susie said Midge has been on the verge of crying every time she sees her.  Oh, Lou, I’m so sorry, but if it were Susie, I’d want so much to know in order to be there for her.”

Bonnie pulled some tissue from her pocket for Lou. Then she put her arms around her friend, thankful that the park was pretty much unoccupied.

“I don’t know you very well, Lou; but I know that if you’re a Christian, we’re sisters—sisters in Christ.”

“I’m a Christian,” Lou asserted, curiously—almost defensively.

“Then we have the same Father—a loving Father, who knows all things and provides all we need for any situation.  I faced a crisis fifteen years ago when my Bill died.  When I heard the news, I was shocked and devastated.  But I had just read—just ‘happened’ to have read—about that Shunamite woman in the Old Testament—the one who said, ‘It is well,’ when she was asked where she was off to in such a big hurry after her precious son died.  Elijah brought the Shunamite woman’s son back to life, you know.”

Bonnie tilted her head and looked at Lou with a poignant expression as she continued.  “Well, I didn’t expect God to bring Bill back to life.  But God just burned that phrase into my heart, and I went to bed that night saying, ‘All is well.’  I said it I don’t know how many times through that first night and throughout that first week.  I didn’t feel that way, of course, but somehow I felt compelled to say it.  It was just a three-word sentence, but it’s helped me over the years so many times—helped me remember that God’s in control, and nothing catches Him off guard.”

Bonnie was so sincere as she spoke that Lou listened to her words, even through her tears and despite the trauma of the moment.

“Lou, God loves us so much.  Every time we face something hard, His arms are open for us to run to Him for comfort, for counsel, for direction.  And if we do that, we end up experiencing His love in a deeper way.  He is awesome—you know that, right?”

Lou’s smile was cynical. “I guess.”

Bonnie addressed her friend adamantly. “Lou, look at me.”  When she was satisfied that she had Lou’s full attention, she said, “Susie thinks Midge really doesn’t want to have an abortion—she just feels like there’s nothing else to do, and she doesn’t want you to be ashamed of her.”

Tears spilled over again, as Lou choked out her words in staccato sobs.  “She’s only fifteen—so young.  Why? Why?”

“I remember asking that when Bill’s boss knocked at my door with his devastating news.  But Lou, this isn’t a death announcement.  Midge is all right.  She just needs someone to run to for that comfort, that counsel, that direction—she needs God’s arms around her, and God can really use you as a stand-in until she really trusts Him herself.  Right now she trusts you and John more than anyone in the world—probably more than Nick.”

“Oh, poor Nick!” Lou blurted out the words between sobs.

Bonnie put one arm around Lou’s waist and gently started walking again.  Lou reluctantly started walking, too, but stopped after only a few yards.

“Bonnie, I think I need to be alone and collect my thoughts.  I don’t know how to tell John.  And I’m not sure I know how to talk to Midge.  I wish I could just drive away.”

“Do you mind if I pray with you before I leave?”

“No.  Oh, God,” Lou groaned as Bonnie took both her hands into her own.

“God, You’re our loving Father.  We come to you with big things and little things all through the day.  This is a big thing.  Jesus said He had to go away so that the Counselor could come.  We need Your divine, all-knowing counsel, Holy Spirit.  Please help John and Lou to do exactly what You want them to do, to say only what You want them to say, and even to think only what You want them to think.  Give them Your grace.  Take care of Midge.  Let her know how much she’s loved.  Help Nick, too, dear Lord.  Thank You for Your promise that You work all things for good for those who love You and are called according to Your purpose.  Oh Lord, my prayer is that You and You alone will direct John and Lou and Midge, because Your plans are for their good, and You love us all so very much. In Jesus’ name, I pray.  Amen.”

Lou sobbed as Bonnie held her tightly, whispering, “You can call me anytime, you know.  I’ll be praying that the Lord will work this out beautifully and that you’ll look back in a year and say, ‘Yes, Lord, all is well.’ And remember, when you feel overwhelmed, just say it in faith: ‘All is well.’  OK?”  She asked the question in a gentle whisper.

“OK.”  Lou managed a bleak, almost sarcastic smile.  But she squeezed Bonnie’s fingers in a way that expressed thanks in a most sincere way.  Bonnie breathed a prayer of thanks as she walked to her car and drove home.

……….

Lou Ferguson was tired. She didn’t like the news Bonnie Chadwell had brought her.  She wasn’t even sure if she liked Bonnie at this moment, but she didn’t have time to think about Bonnie.  It was Midge she was concerned for.  Her thoughts were interrupted, though, with the phrase that flashed to center front in her mind: All is well.

“What?”  Lou said out loud.  She didn’t usually talk to herself, and she unconsciously turned around to see if anyone had overheard her.

All is well. The phrase flashed once more, and it seemed to be outside herself, as if she weren’t alone.

She breathed out a long, resigned sigh. “What do I say to Midge?  What will she say to me?”  Lou whispered to herself, then agonized, “God, help me.”

Talk to John.  All is well.  It was like an answer to her groan.

Lou was curiously perplexed.  Her prayers had always been one-way conversations in the past.  It was John who was the spiritual constant in their family. But right now, here in the park, all alone, she had the feeling that Almighty God was giving her—plain little Lou, devastated mother of a pregnant teen—His undivided attention.

“What will he say?” Lou was finding comfort in the dialog, even while tears streamed down her cheeks.

Go home and find out.  All is well.

“I’ll take the bus.”

Walk.  Walk and pray.  Pray for Midge.  Pray for Nick.  Pray for the baby.

“The baby?”

Your grandchild.

“But God.”  The tears kept coming.  “She’s so young.”

The baby?

Lou had to chuckle, in spite of herself.  She had never thought of God as having a sense of humor.  But despite the trauma engulfing her, she felt a certain encouragement—almost buoyancy—emanating from the fact that she was having such a “human” conversation with God Himself.

“No, God. Midge.  Midge is so young.  What about her plans to become a writer?”

She can’t write if she’s pregnant?

“Well, yes, she can write.  But what about school?  What will everybody say?”

Hold onto my hand, and it won’t matter so much.  I have a better question: What will I say?

“What will You say?” Lou repeated the question.

Yes, what will I say?  Keep asking that question, and you’ll stay on target.  Take Bonnie’s advice.  Keep saying—out loud—‘All is well,’ and you will have peace: My peace, Lou.

Just moments before, Lou had been overwhelmed with the news of Midge’s pregnancy and all its implications, including her own failure as a parent.  But the feeling of being overwhelmed was being challenged now by a certain hope that she found flat-out amazing.

And so it was, the entire long walk home.  A negative thought would no sooner surface than the question, What will I say? would counter-attack and dispel the negative. That was the case when the thought surfaced that Nick had taken advantage of her daughter.  Just as suddenly, Lou remembered a scripture from somewhere in her past.  “And when you stand praying, forgive.” She responded to the command out loud, this time not caring if she were overheard as she walked faster and faster home.

“God,” she prayed, “Nick is scared, I’m sure.  And I’m sure he wishes it had never happened.  No matter what happens, help us to love him.  Please don’t let any bitterness lodge in Midge’s heart.”  The tears came again, but so did the words, flashing again across her mind’s eye: All is well.

Lou was eager, now, to get home to John—to walk into his arms and be held by him.  Dear John, so steadfast, so devout, so proud of his Midge.

“God, help him to love her even more.”

All is well!

Thankfulness took preeminence in Lou’s emotions. Ahead of her—and John—and especially Midge—were difficult days.  But she was armed with two powerful thoughts.  God Himself had told her to keep asking,“What would I say?”  And, through Bonnie, He’d told her to keep saying, “All is well.”

She knew John would be a rock in the coming months, and her heart welled up in thanks just for that confidence she had in her husband.  And whether it would be helping Midge with late night feedings, or holding her close when her daughter missed the child she’d placed in adoptive care, Lou felt ready to face whatever situation would prevail.

“I do care what You think, God.  And yes, I do say,  “All is well!’” 

……….

Midge walked out the east door of Central High to head home as fast as she could so as to avoid Nick’s seeing her.  She knew he was probably waiting for her at the south entrance as he always did, but she couldn’t let him see her this afternoon.

Ever since he’d learned she was pregnant, Nick had been pushing Midge to have an abortion. At first it had seemed reasonable; but as the days wore on, Midge found herself wanting to stay away from Nick and his adamant focus on her aborting the baby they’d conceived.

“Oh, God.”  It was a guttural whisper stretched out into a pathetic plea.  “Oh, God, I want to die.  I can’t face Mom and Dad.  I can’t! I just can’t!”

But something in her heart—or was it in her mind?  Something, some voice said quite clearly, You can. You must.  Midge walked faster and caught her hand over her mouth to keep her sudden sobbing from being audible.  She was glad for her long hair, because it seemed a shield from any prying eyes behind the windows of the houses she passed in her speed-walk home. Her distress was somewhat mitigated just by the fact that she’d been able to avoid Nick.  Midge found herself thinking again of how he had worked out all the details for an abortion in a meticulous way that wasn’t like him normally. She took a detour from her despondent mood to court a bit of anger. “His mom’s probably been spending days on the telephone, making all the ‘necessary arrangements,’” Midge thought to herself, her eyes flashing through the tears that she brushed angrily away.  “Well, Nick, your mom doesn’t have the final say. And neither do you.”

But the strength and independence she felt in her anger quickly dissipated as she turned the last corner onto Eldridge Street and headed for 1735.  Her heart that had been strengthened in her momentary indignation directed towards Nick’s mother now sank lower than ever.  How could she tell her dad and mom?  They were both so proud of her.  She’d not only ruined her life—she’d ruined theirs, too.  If they chose an abortion for her, she still wasn’t sure she would go through with it; and if she did, she could imagine resenting them for this decision all her life.  That would be a ruined life for her and them.  On the other hand, if she had the baby, she’d resent their having wanted to abort him. A bad deal again.

“And,” Midge’s thoughts dolefully continued, “if they want me to have the baby, it’s either giving up their first grandchild or it’s a new baby in the house; and they’d be taking care of him more than I—if they had their way—for my sake.  That’s not fair—for them or for the baby.”  Despair settled in again.  Midge had grown accustomed to the painful knot in her throat.

“At least they’ll know I’m sorry,” Midge muttered to herself as she wiped her eyes again, knowing they were hopelessly red beyond concealment.  “Not that it does a bit of good.”  Her sigh was a mixture of anguish and resignation.

“God, I’m so sorry. I knew it was wrong.  Please help my parents.  I love them so much.  I don’t know how to tell them.  How can I?”

You can; you must.

Midge took a deep breath and blew out slowly with her cheeks puffed out.  She took a second deep breath and held it before letting it out in another long sigh.  It was a healthier one, however.  Rather than anguished resignation, an empowering determination filtered through that said clearly, “OK, bring it on.  I’ll do it.”

A third sigh.  This time Midge spoke audibly.  “God, I am so tired.”

She swung her backpack off her shoulder and onto the step and unlocked the back door.

“I’m not going to run from the truth.  And I’m going to be responsible,” she said to herself.   She took a couple of deep breaths and gulped down some water, remembering aspects of the weekend’s conversation between herself and her dad and mom.  She whispered, almost defiantly, “It’s OK.  All is well.”  She said it again in the shower and, amazingly, her spirits rose and for just an instant she felt very mature, enjoying the fleeting moment.  On the heels of this buoyancy came another thought—a dismal one.  “You have no right to feel good about being pregnant.  You’ve altered your future, probably irreparably, and you’ve hurt your parents and altered their lives as well.  It’s not fair for you to enjoy something at someone else’s expense.”

Midge put on her makeup and thought of her wardrobe, ruefully.  Rueful thoughts were in order, anyway, she decided.  “How long will these fit?  Until school’s out?  I wonder if I can still get a job this summer.”  She grabbed a blue sweater and jeans and whisked them on.

Now her thoughts wandered to Nick.  “What’s he doing right now?  I know what’s on his mind.”  She grimaced. “He’s worried.  His whole family’s worried.  They don’t know what I’m going to do.  Well, they’ll find out soon enough.  I just hope I can stay cool when I talk to him today.”  She bent over her jewelry box and pulled out a pair of blue hoops she’d bought with the sweater.  “Hi, Nick,” she imagined herself saying.  “How’s it going?”

After breakfast, as she headed for school, Midge kept saying, “It’s OK!” in a low whisper. Finally, about two blocks from campus, she smiled, pleased with herself.  She nodded to some casual friends and headed toward the main entrance, half hoping to see Nick and half not wanting to.  There he was, hanging out on the top step.

“Hey.”  His greeting was cool. Midge hadn’t counted on this, despite the anger she’d harbored toward him in the last couple of days.

“Hey.  How’s it going?”  Midge didn’t try to hide the icy edge to her response.

“Not bad.”  Nick fell into step with her.  “Did you talk to your parents?”

“Yes, I did, Nick. And I’m not going to abort the baby. I don’t know much more than that.”

Nick, to his credit, bit his tongue and was silent for a moment.  “Were they mad?” he finally asked.

“No, they really weren’t.”

“Really!” Nick exclaimed.

“Yep,” Midge avoided looking at him.  “They were sad, but they weren’t angry.”  Midge stopped at her locker, put down her backpack, and looked at Nick finally. “I’ll see you later.”

“Uh…sure. Later.”  He backed away, giving her a carefree hand raise, but not looking at her.  Then he turned around and disappeared into the crowded hall.

Midge turned back to her locker and blinked back the tears in her eyes.  “Loser,” she muttered.  Then she sighed and grabbed a tissue from the locker shelf.  “I don’t want to cry.  I can’t cry! Everything’s going to be all right. All is well!  All is well.  All is well.” She kept saying the words over and over, and the rhythm of them had a sedating effect on her emotion—so much so, that no one was aware there was anything troubling Midge Ferguson as she entered class and walked to the third seat next to the window.

“At least we’re not reading The Scarlet Letter,” she thought to herself as she sat down.  A wry smile started to spread across her face, but a pensive resignation held it in check as she closed off the subject of her personal nightmare.  She’d experienced a hurricane of emotions this weekend, and it was time to let her mind slow down and relax.  Mr. Connell was her favorite teacher, and she set her gaze on him, ready to concentrate on today’s lecture.    It would be a welcome change for a fifteen-year-old prospective author.

……….

Carla Chadwell’s life was satisfying enough.  She was indeed the efficient secretary she had diligently tried to be, and her utilitarian worth had not gone unnoticed.  With her promotion to executive assistant came a substantial salary increase.  The Christmas shopping incident proved to be an aberration in the employer/employee relationship.  While Mr. Garman continued to open the door for Carla without exception, even when it was out of his way to do so, he was properly aloof, albeit polite. When her mother asked Carla whether her boss was a good man to work for, Carla responded without hesitation. “He’s very reserved, but he’s a kind person.”

The real warmth of the new year, for Carla, was generated by Sig Thursten.  She had agreed to attend TNC with him on Thursdays.  In addition, they were seeing each other two or three other times a week, and their time together was the focus of each of their lives.  Sig’s work was going well, and it was fun for Carla to spend time with this man.  His confidence wrapped around Carla in a way that made her feel viably adult.  Whereas she had subconsciously thought of her life as a product of all her childhood experience and of herself as part of the Chadwell family from Plainview, she now began to view her life from a new perspective.  She was truly becoming her own person and, despite the short time she’d known him, she found herself moving closer in her mind to the role of wife and away from the role of daughter and sister.  She found herself fantasizing about being married to Sig, with all the little joys of domestic bliss, fairy-tale as they might be: working at a sunny kitchen window, serving a candle-lit dinner to Sig, nestling a sleeping baby, driving as a family to visit relatives.  Always there in her daydreams was Sig’s face, clearly expressing pride and love for his wife and children.  Carla knew she wouldn’t let him down, this man she was so attracted to.

One night late in January, Sig told Carla he had a surprise evening planned for Valentine’s Friday.  He had learned of a new restaurant where the food was supposedly wonderful and the atmosphere especially romantic.  He told Carla it was “upscale” and some distance from Rock Pier, so he wanted to pick her up around 3:30.  That way they wouldn’t have to rush through dinner.

Carla went shopping the following Saturday and found a chic-looking dress, mostly black with an impressionistic design that captured the green of Carla’s eyes.  It had tiny straps, and Carla at first thought she couldn’t wear it because she’d probably freeze in the restaurant with Sig.  Then she remembered a shrug she’d seen in another store and bought the dress on the chance that she could still find the sweater and that it would match the dress.

She found the shrug. She tried it on with the dress and was checking how it looked in front of the full-length mirror at the end of the dressing room corridor, when the sales clerk walked in on her and involuntarily gasped.

“That’s beautiful!” she exclaimed in obvious sincerity.  “Where’d you get that dress?”

Carla smiled and told her, and at that point decided she had a winner.  She promptly bought the sweater.  As she walked out the door, she turned right, to head for her car, her eyes on her purse as she tucked away her receipt.

“Carla?”  It was the unmistakable voice of Marc Garman. She threw up her head, startled, and looked into the face of her employer.  Patrice was beside him, wearing a short sweater jacket.  She looked as classy as she had at the party.

“Oh, hello, sir. Hello, Miss…” Carla fumbled for Patrice’s last name, but Mr. Garman came to her rescue affably.

“Hamlin.”

The young woman smiled.  Carla felt she was the recipient of just a hint of asperity, which she chose to overlook, recognizing that Patrice was forced into this greeting because Carla was Mr. Garman’s secretary.  Mr. Garman, however, added in a tone that could have been perceived as almost chiding towards Patrice, “Patrice Hamlin.”  Then, smiling broadly in a manner not often seen at work, he said, “It must be the day for Transton people to shop.  We just ran into Rita Helgessen by Smythe’s, and Nancy and her friend are at Corner’s.”

“Oh, really?  I’ll have to go say hi to them.”

“We just came from the jewelry store to pick up Patrice’s new ring.  We had to have it resized.”  Mr. Garman kept the conversation alive as he lifted Patrice’s left hand.  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”  There was the emerald, looking beautiful on a well-manicured, shapely hand.

“Wow!  That’s a gorgeous ring.”  Carla’s admiration was sincere.

“Isn’t it?” Patrice glanced at Mr. Garman as she spoke.  “He surprised me with it.”

Carla smiled enigmatically.  “That’s the best way.”  She wondered if Patrice knew her role in helping select it.  At the same time she felt a tinge of sympathy for her boss, certain that he would have liked to have called it an engagement ring.  Feeling shy and uncomfortable, she looked at her watch. “Well, I think I’ll go check up on Nancy.  Hope you have a nice day.”

“Oh, we will,” Patrice answered, tucking her arm inside Mr. Garman’s and taking a step forward.

“Nice to see you,” Mr. Garman said, ending the conversation.

As Carla walked down to Corner’s, her thoughts were on her boss.  She could tell from his manner that he genuinely appreciated her, and it gave her a heady feeling that put a spring in her step.  But there was a cloudy feeling, too.  Somehow she felt Patrice was not committed to Mr. Garman in the same way he was to her.  Carla had nothing to substantiate this idea, but she couldn’t seem to shake it, and she felt a heaviness that was a bit disconcerting.

……….

The following Monday, Marc was already in his office when Carla arrived.  She hung up her jacket and took out her to-do list from Friday. At the top was a note to ask Mr. Garman’s permission to leave work early on Valentine’s Friday.  She decided she’d ask him when she brought his letters in for him to sign.  She looked at the clock and determined to try to have them all typed and ready by mid-morning just before break.

Halfway through the first letter, Nancy stuck her head in the doorway.  “Hi, Carla!  How was your weekend—I mean, after we saw you at Corner’s?”

Carla smiled.  “It was great. Sig and I went to see “Charleston.” It wasn’t as good as we’d heard it would be, but we had a good time anyway.  Sig was in such a good mood we laughed our way through dinner before we went. How about you guys?”

“Ah, it’s always wonderful being with your brother.  We didn’t do much—just had a lazy day with Bud and Pearl, playing Mexican Train and Monopoly.  Bud loves playing Monopoly.  Pearl says he always wins—and he won, so maybe it’s true.”  She laughed.  “It sounds boring, but we actually had a really good time.”

“Who are Bud and Pearl?”

“They’re an older couple.  When I first started going to Rock Church, they invited me over for lunch several Sundays.”

“Do they have kids?”

“They have a daughter and some grandkids, but they’re out of state, so they don’t see them a whole lot. They really like Michael, so it’s kind of fun being with them.”  She glanced at her watch.  “Oh! I’ve gotta get going.  See you at break?”

“Yeah.  But I might be just a little late.  Don’t wait for me.”

“OK.”

Carla resumed typing. At 9:45 she still had one more letter. The phone had been ringing nonstop, and she wasn’t sure she’d beat the clock; but at 9:58 she smiled smugly to herself and tucked the last letter under the flap of its envelope.

She knocked lightly on Mr. Garman’s door and gingerly opened it.

“Hello, Mr.Garman. I have some letters ready for you to sign.”  She started to lay them on the corner of the desk, but drew them back and held them as Mr. Garman cleared the space directly in front of him.

“I’ll sign them right now.”  Carla couldn’t conceal her surprise.  Mr. Garman glanced up at her.  “Oh, that’s right; I should read them first.”  He smiled approvingly, gesturing for her to sit down as he began glancing through the letters.  “Ah, John McCormack.  Mmhmmm.    I like the way you reworded the last paragraph.  I wasn’t really satisfied with the way I had it, but I was too impatient to get out of here early on Friday to work it through.”  He looked up at her and smiled.  “I appreciate it.”  After signing the last letter, he put his pen down and indulged in a lazy stretch, elbows first and then arms full length out and then up.  Carla felt a switch in the air from business to personal. Her feeling was confirmed by her boss’s next words.

“Did you get all your shopping done Saturday?”

“Yes, sir,” Carla replied, a happy smile on her face.  “I needed a dress, and I found just the right one.”  Her smile broadened as she visited the memory of how the sales clerk had spontaneously gasped when she’d first seen the dress on Carla.

“Is there a special occasion?”

Carla subconsciously acknowledged a fork in the road.  She could cut off this personal exchange with a polite but reserved, “Yes, there is, sir.”  Or she could let her hair down, so to speak, and let her boss into a bit of her own personal life, as he had done for her that crisp day before Christmas.  At present, Carla’s life was so happy and fulfilling that she decided it wouldn’t hurt to share it with her boss.  Besides, she rationalized, she needed to ask permission from him, anyway, to leave early on Friday.

“Well, actually, there is.  A very special friend is taking me out to dinner for Valentine’s Day—on Friday.  As a matter of fact, he wants to pick me up at 3:30, because the restaurant’s in another town.  I don’t know where; he’s surprising me.”

“Well then, you’ll have to take the afternoon off.”

“Actually, I was going to ask you if I could leave work at two o’clock.  I think that would be enough time.”

“Why don’t you just leave at noon?  We’ll manage.”

“Are you sure?” Carla’s face was aflood with open appreciation.

Mr. Garman smiled beneficently.  “Don’t have too good a time.  He won’t steal you off to Cancun, will he?”

“No, sir,” Carla laughed. She rose and walked over to the desk to pick up the letters.

Mr. Garman rose also, picking up his brief case, and headed for the door to open it for Carla.

“Thank you, Mr. Garman.”  It was a double thanks—for the door and for the upcoming afternoon off.  She sat down at her desk as Mr. Garman headed briskly down the hall.

……….

Midge buttoned her jacket and pulled the collar up as she walked to school on a crisp morning in February.  She was trying to keep from worrying what people were thinking about her, and she had no idea who all knew she was pregnant.  “Probably everybody who knows me,” Her thoughts were pessimistic.  “I wonder what Mr. Connell thinks of me now.”  Although there were temporary distractions, Midge’s thoughts kept going right back to her peers, and she pinched her hand purposefully.  “Now stay off that subject!” she reprimanded herself. “It’s a beautiful day.  I have wonderful parents, and I feel closer than ever to them.  And I have a great doctor.”

Her elation in this last thought was highly justified, given the experience of two weeks earlier.  Her mother had taken her to a Dr. Winkler, the obstetrician recommended by Midge’s pediatrician.  After the exam, the doctor sat down in her office with the two of them and asked, “What are your plans?”

“What are our plans?” Lou had echoed.

“Yes; Midge is quite young.”  Dr. Winkler waited for a response from either Lou or Midge.  “Are you intending to go through with the pregnancy?”

“What do you recommend?” Lou asked.

“Well, frankly, I feel you should consider all your options.  An early termination might be best in the long run.”  She spoke with authority.

Lou looked at her daughter and swallowed the lump that had sprung up in her throat.  She knew she had to be strong for Midge.  If only John were here to talk to the doctor.  She bit her lip and remembered her husband’s instruction this morning as they were getting ready for the day.  John had put down his shaver, deliberately turned to her, and said, “Now remember.  Midge is our daughter, and we care about what happens to her right now and in the future.  If the doctor recommends a quick fix and puts pressure on you, even in the least, just tell him thanks for his time.”

Lou glanced again at Midge and caught her eye. She was strengthened all the more when she saw a pronounced glint of indignation there.  She then fixed her gaze on Dr. Winkler, rose, and said, “Thank you for your time,” ever so sweetly, but ever so firmly as well.

The doctor was obviously a little taken aback—as much by Lou’s confident finality as by the actual answer, no doubt.  The imperative tone vanished, and there was almost a hint of defensiveness in her voice as she saw Lou rise.  “Have you really thought this through, Mrs. Ferguson?”

The insecurity in the doctor’s tone gave Midge the boldness to reply for her mother, and she said quietly and determinedly, as she, too, rose from her chair, “We both have, Doctor.  I know I’m young, and I wish I weren’t pregnant. But I’m going to do all I can to help this baby.”  She smiled in an unconscious effort to soften her rejection of the doctor’s advice. “After all, it wasn’t the baby’s fault.”

They walked out of the office, leaving the doctor still sitting on the exam stool.  Midge smiled at her mom on the way to the car.  “Thanks, Mom.  I’m glad we left.  Where to now?”

“I think I’ll call Bonnie Chadwell.  I bet she’ll know a doctor who will be more supportive.  I hope so, anyway.  But if she doesn’t, we’ll find one somehow.”

As it turned out, Bonnie knew of two doctors to suggest.   Midge decided to try the one closest to them first and they were able to get an appointment the following Thursday.

Dr. Feinstein’s very first words had a calming reassurance in them:  “So you’re pregnant, young lady.  Feeling OK?” Midge nodded.  “We received Dr. Winkler’s report just this morning, and I think I’ll wait and examine you in two weeks, unless you’d rather have me check the baby’s progress today.”

That was obviously an easy one for Midge, so he went on.  “First of all, anytime you suspect something amiss, I want you to call.  You appear to be a very healthy young woman, and despite what you might hear, your age is not a problem.  Physically, you can handle this pregnancy just fine.  It’s the potential emotional trauma that usually convinces young women to terminate a pregnancy.”  He smiled confidently.  “It’s ironic. An abortion can create just as much emotional scarring as going through an unplanned pregnancy and childbirth.  You’ll get through the next few months just fine, Midge.” He paused before adding, “You’re lucky to have parents who are so supportive.”

Midge looked at Lou and smiled.  She didn’t need the doctor to point out this fact; she knew it already.  Still, it was good to have a doctor confirm their decision as being good for her emotionally.

There was Central High School in full view now, and Midge had succeeded in arriving in good spirits and thankful enough, despite being pregnant.  She put a smile on her face and headed for her locker.  Marlene Mendez and Gerri Hinslow, her two best friends, were talking in a furtive whisper.

“Great.”  Midge’s heart sank.  She had yet to confide in them, because she hadn’t mustered up the nerve.  Besides, much as she liked Marlene, she knew her friend loved being a source of information, to put the matter charitably. But now both Marlene and Gerri had probably found out and felt distanced from her not only because of her pregnancy and all its implications, but also because she’d not told them herself.  She opened her locker, not wanting to face her friends.  But almost immediately, she found herself thinking those words she’d heard in her spirit so often these days:  “You can; you must.”  Almost in the same instant she could hear her mother’s words clear across town to her: “All is well!”  She grabbed her geometry book and caught up with the two girls hurrying away.

“Hey, you guys.  Wait a minute. I have something to tell you.”  She knew they had to know already, and when they stopped to wait for her, they couldn’t hide this and didn’t try.  Midge looked at her feet and up at them sheepishly.  “You know already, huh?”

“I can’t believe it, Midge!” Gerri whispered. “What are you going to do?”

“Are you guys going to get married?” Marlene’s voice had that tone in it that panted for a scoop she could take to all their friends.

“No, Marlene.  I’m not even seeing Nick right now.  And I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do.”  It was true that she didn’t know exactly what she was going to do.  Her dad had told her they would not rush into any decision, whether to raise this baby as part of their family—which they wanted to do—or work with a childless couple on an adoption plan.

“What did Nick say?” Marlene persisted.

“Well, we both feel a little brain dead, but we’ll get through it.”  And so will the baby, she added to herself.

“Are you thinking about having an abortion?” Gerri was still whispering.

Midge just raised one shoulder and both eyebrows in reply. “See you later, Gerri.”  She blew out a big sigh and turned with Marlene into the geometry classroom on the left side of the corridor, while Gerri headed down the hall to the computer lab.

“Have you told anybody else?”

“No, except for Susie Chadwell” she answered, “and I know she hasn’t told a soul except for her mom. I trust her.”

“Well, good.”

“Of course, I don’t know who all Nick’s told, since we haven’t really talked for over a week now.”

“Are you guys mad at each other?”  Marlene’s question irritated Midge.  In fact, she found that Marlene herself was an aggravation right now, though she tried to get past the feeling.  She knew she didn’t need to entertain negative feelings towards anyone at this particular time: being positive was difficult enough already.

“No.  We’re just taking a break.”  Midge mouthed these words, because Mr. Elgin had entered the room and the class was starting.

“Sig?”

“Yeah, Babe.”

“I’ll be there in just a second.”

Sig didn’t answer, except to start whistling.  He was straightening his tie when Carla opened the door, and he spontaneously let out a low cat call.  He had always thought Carla was decidedly attractive, but today she was stunning, and he was caught off guard with surprise.  Despite himself, his eyes opened wide, and he blurted out, “You look gorgeous!”

Carla knew Sig’s reaction would be just that—surprise and delight and a fair amount of disbelief. She smiled demurely, holding back the thousand grins that burst at the seam of her smile in a most infectious way.

Sig let out a roar of delight.  “Whew!” He whistled appreciatively once more, exclaiming, “Baby, we’re in for a good time tonight!”

“So where are we going?” Carla’s voice was filled with pleased anticipation.

“Ah, I can’t tell you yet. Mucho miles, but it’ll be worth it.” Sig closed the door on Carla’s side and ran around to his own.

Once on the freeway a few moments later, he reached over and kissed Carla, squeezing her hand gently in his own.  “I’m glad we’re celebrating Valentines Day.  And you are lovely.”

Carla smiled.  She felt as happy as she’d ever remembered feeling.  Sig looked so handsome, and it was a wonderful feeling knowing she brought such delight to him.  “Isn’t it a beautiful afternoon?”

“Mmm.  Yeah. It’s beautiful, all right.”  He looked at her face as he said it, teasingly applying the appraisal to her.

With music dominating the atmosphere, the couple made small talk about their jobs and their families.  Sig’s song collection seemed totally appropriate for this particular engagement of two young people so enamored of one another.

The minutes grew into an hour and then two hours. Finally, Carla asked, “Sig, where are we going?  We’ve driven at least a hundred and fifty miles, haven’t we?”

“Yeah!” he answered with an enthusiasm that precluded any apology.  “And we have about one more hour on the road.”  He looked at her.  “You need to stop?”

“Well, no; I was just thinking it’s a long way. How are we going to make it back tonight?”

“That’s why we left so early.  We’ll make it.  Otherwise,” he said, stealing a glance at her, “we can always stop at a motel.”

She smiled an “I-don’t-think-so” look at him and then down at her hands, studying the cuticle on her left index finger.  “I thought you had to work tomorrow.”

“Actually, I don’t.  Jay gave me the day off.  He’s a good egg now and then.”  He looked at Carla.  “Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“Well, no, nothing too important, but…”

Sig interrupted.  “We should be OK, anyway.  I think you’ll find it’s worth the ride.  I hope so.  Hey, aren’t you enjoying sitting by me as much as I’m lovin’ having you so close?”

Well, of course Carla was enjoying the ride with Sig. The scenery was amazing, especially when they turned off the interstate and the road began winding through woods that were beautiful even in winter.  Finally Sig turned off the county road onto a private drive at a sign that read “Moose Hollow.”

“What a name!” Carla chuckled.  “Is that where we’re headed?”

“Mmhmm.”  Sig squeezed Carla’s hand.  They drove through what was obviously a resort acreage nestled on the southeast end of a beautiful lake surrounded by spruce and white pine.  Sig turned off onto another road and drove another quarter mile or so before turning into the drive of a towering lodge, rustic but yet stately and impressive. Carla thought to herself that if there were ever a castle built of logs and stone, this was it.   She sucked in her breath and looked at Sig.

“Is this Moose Hollow?” she asked.

“This is it.  You think it’s worth the drive?”

“Wow!”  Carla was obviously impressed.

A valet came out to the car immediately, and Sig escorted Carla into the foyer.  The décor inside was beautiful, with an enormous fresh bouquet boasting exotic flowers and demanding first attention.  The smells of delectable food evinced appreciative responses from both Sig and Carla, who were quite hungry by now.

“Where’s the restaurant?”  Carla’s blunt question amused Sig, because she was asking precisely as Sig had envisioned her doing.

“You’ll see,” he grinned, walking over to the registration counter.  Carla accompanied him.

“I’m Sig Thursten, and I have a reservation for two.”

“Oh, yes, sir.  Right this way.”  The woman smiled at Carla and led the couple halfway down a wide hall to a small room.  A man about forty-five rose from his desk and greeted them.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thorsten?  Please follow me.”  He stepped into the hall and began walking.

“They think we’re married, Sig,” Carla whispered, a hint of apprehension in her voice.

“My name is Lewis,” the man said, stopping to wait for them.  “When you’re ready to dine, and if you need anything in the meantime, please ring for me.” He gave Sig a small device with a button to press, which Sig nonchalantly placed in his coat pocket.

Carla was glad for what she was wearing: this was an elegant atmosphere.  She walked with Sig, following Lewis until he stopped at an open door, turned to them, and gestured with his arm.

“Here’s your suite.  Dinner is served until eleven.”  He followed them in and then walked over to the far end of the room, drawing back the curtain.  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view,” he said, a pleasant smile spreading across his face.

Even caught at a glance from the doorway, the view was indeed a sight to behold, despite the fact that the sun had set almost twenty minutes before.  The day had been unusually clear, but now wisps of clouds hovered over the lights of the village across the lake.  Sig and Carla looked at each other with eyes wide with amazement at the beauty beyond the glass doors.

The suite, as Lewis had called it, was a cove-shaped large room which stretched out to a curving veranda that established complete privacy from next-door guests.  The glass door on the south end of the thirty-foot room led to an all-weather table and two chairs.  Centered on the veranda was a beautiful hot tub with crystal-clear water lit up in a way that showed off the beautiful sea green and turquoise hues of its mosaic tiles. The west side of the lanai was empty except for a winter vine that climbed the privacy wall behind it.  This allowed for an uninterrupted view of the lake from inside the glass wall next to the glass door.  And in front of the glass wall was an elegant table for two, fully appointed with china and silver, with crystal goblets for the champagne sitting in ice on the table.

As the man called Lewis excused himself, Carla, having seen not only the tables and hot tub, but the bed with a white satin spread on it, found herself quite speechless.  She walked over to the glass in silence.  Sig shut the door quietly, almost reverently, and came over to stand with his arm around her.

“Do you like it?” he whispered.

“It’s beautiful.”  Carla chose her words carefully, thankful for at least outward composure.  She wanted to say, “But we’re not on a honeymoon.”  She bit her tongue, appreciative of the high dollar Sig must have spent on their evening together.

“Are you hungry?” Sig queried, with an uncharacteristic gentleness that told Carla he knew he was overstepping the unwritten boundary that had hitherto engulfed their relationship.

“Yes, I’m starved,” she said, with a wary smile on her face.

Sig turned Carla to face him, wrapping his arms around her.  But Carla turned her head when he began kissing her.

“Oh, look at the swans, Sig.  Three—no, four.”

She stood gazing at the white birds on the lake, thankful for this detour for a moment from Sig’s accelerating physical attention, until he said abruptly, “Let’s see what’s for dinner, Baby.”

Sig picked up the menu from the table so finely set, and Carla stood with her back to the bed.  The “surprise” evening she’d so anticipated included a dimension she was having a difficult time absorbing without resentment.  Much as she was attracted to Sig, she wasn’t ready to go to bed with him, and she didn’t like feeling pressured into doing so.  She felt manipulated.  Obviously she didn’t know Sig as well as she had thought, and he was no doubt feeling the same way, Carla readily concluded.

Together they decided on a meal of six courses. After Sig had given the order to Lewis, he brought Carla’s coat and helped her into it.  Donning his own, he took her hand and led her out onto the veranda. The air was cold, but it was obvious that several other couples were standing outside as well.  Voices and intermittent laughter seemed to come from both sides, as well as above them.

“How’d you find this place?” Carla asked, feeling a need to talk.  “It’s so beautiful, and I didn’t even know it existed.”

“The guy who lives next to me told me about it. I guess it was a private family campground for some rich guy for a long time, until four years ago when they built the resort.  They’ve got a good thing going: it’s reserved for the next two years already. I just got in because there was a cancellation the same day I called.

“Mmm.”  Carla’s response was diminutive though appreciative.

“It’s cold out here; let’s go back inside,” Sig suggested.  “But you haven’t really told me.  Do you like it—the room, I mean?”

Carla’s green eyes averted Sig’s, as they reentered the room.  She struggled for an answer that would convey her feelings honestly.  Ever since they’d arrived at Moose Hollow their conversation had not been free and candid, as it had always been up to that point, and she wanted to get back on track, at the same time recognizing the risk of confrontation this might entail.

“Do I like it?” she responded slowly, contemplating her answer as she gave it.  “Well, it’s beautiful, like I said.  And I’m sure the food will be wonderful, too.” She glanced at Sig with a weak smile, accepting his help as she took off her coat, then turned away, looking off to the side.  “But you didn’t tell me this was an all-night date, and I didn’t come prepared.”

“What’s there to prepare?”

“Well, maybe not much for you, but a whole lot for me.”

There was a knock at the door, and Lewis walked in. “Dinner is served.  Lobster en crème as appetizer.  Enjoy!”  His confident smile thawed the air, and Sig and Carla walked to the table.

Sig directed her towards the chair from which the bed was in full view, but she went to the other one, instead.  “I’d like to sit here, if you don’t mind.  I like watching the swans.”

The appetizer, and indeed the whole meal, right through to the espresso, was sheer culinary artistry; and despite the conflict in the air, the subject of overnight was set aside as their hunger was abated in a most enjoyable way.  The wine took its toll on the rough edges of their differing feelings, and the young man and woman revisited their sites of mutual admiration.  When Sig had finished his fifth glass of wine, and the bottle was empty, he got up from his chair and went over to help Carla out of hers.  He pulled her up and gave her an involuntary hug.

“I am full—of wine,” he chuckled.  “Do I look inebriated?”

“No,” Carla responded, “But I bet I do.  I sure feel like it.”

Sig, still holding Carla close, sidestepped to the bed, and before Carla had a chance to back away, he pulled her down onto himself and began kissing her face and neck profusely.  Carla had a mixed reaction to this.  For just a moment she allowed her own body to catch fire from his, but after the flare, she caught hold of her emotions and struggled to a sitting position on the rumpled bed.

“Where do you think you’re going?”  Sig’s voice was a little slurred as he pulled her back down beside him.

“I need to use the bathroom.”  Carla insisted, surprised at her own quick response and the deliberate, purposeful tone of her voice.  Sig let her get up this time, and she walked over to the bathroom door next to the outside hall.  Much as she liked—and yes, perhaps loved, Sig, she had the unwelcome feeling that the special evening she had so anticipated could easily turn into into a sordid date rape.  As she locked the door, she hoped Sig would be understanding that she didn’t feel ready to have sex with him, but in his stuporous state she wasn’t sure he’d try very hard.

“God, help me.”  As the words fell soundless from her lips, she recognized a cold fear gripping her.  That seemed a little peculiar.  She hadn’t felt any fear until just that moment, but now she experienced a sense of urgency, and she prayed again.  “Keep me safe.  Show me what to do.”  It was the most sincere prayer Carla Chadwell had ever uttered in her twenty-three years.

She flushed the toilet, let the water stop running, and flushed it again, hoping to buy time and to help kill any atmosphere of romance.  Then she splashed her face with cold water, not caring anymore about her makeup.

“I should have guessed what Sig was up to,” she chided herself.  “He said it was a long drive, but he never told me it was almost four hours away. The jerk!”  The words stuck in her throat as a heavy knock sounded on the door.

“Carla, I’m waiting.  C’mon, Baby!”

Carla’s heart was pounding so hard she thought surely Sig must hear it.  “I’ll be out in a minute.”  She made her voice sound as relaxed as she could.

“OK, but hurry.”  His voice faded as he turned back toward the bed.

“God, what shall I do?” Carla frantically prayed.

Leave.  Leave now.  Go find Lewis.  The urge seemed almost audible, it was so strong.

“OK, God.  But please, I’m going to need Your help.”

She heard Sig groan in his semi-stupor as he rolled over on the bed, and in that instant she stepped out and as quietly as possible removed her coat from the open closet across from the bathroom, picked up her purse, opened the door which amazingly hadn’t been bolted, and stepped out into the hall.

……….

Carla was glad for the music Sig had brought—glad that the song playing at that instant had a heavy beat to cover the noise she made.  Once in the hall, she ran fast but softly.  She saw with relief a man sitting in a chair in the hallway. It was Lewis, reading the paper. He looked up as she approached.

“Please help me.  I’m afraid my date might rape me!”  The desperation of the whisper as much as the words themselves caused Lewis to throw down the paper and look up at Carla.

“What?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, that’s right.  Please help me!”

Lewis grabbed her arm and pointed to another hallway a few feet ahead and on the right.  “There’s a door down that hall, on the left side.  It’s my office.  Go in there. If you hear any commotion, lock the door.  I’ll be there in a moment.”

“OK.”  Carla glanced down the hall.  The man hesitated, and then began walking with her, instructing her as they went.

“When I see that your date has left, I’ll let you know.  It would probably be best to have someone come get you tomorrow morning when it’s light out—maybe eight o’clock.  I’m sure your friend will have left by then.  Go!”

Carla felt embarrassed, even in the midst of the trauma.  “I could call my brother, but I don’t have my phone; I left it at home.”

“There’s a phone on the desk.  Use it.”

“Thank you so much,” Carla whispered over her shoulder.

“No problem.”  He smiled and looked at her.  “I have a daughter.”

Inside the office was a small couch.  Carla wanted to lock the door, but respected Lewis’ instruction and left it unlocked. Something in his mien gave Carla total confidence in the trust she’d placed in him on such short acquaintance. She sat down on one end of the couch to catch her breath, and looked around.  On the table top beside her was just one book, rather worn and laid front down. It was burgundy with a bookmark halfway through it.  She picked it up.  The Holy Bible.

“Ah,” Carla breathed, with a slight smile.  No wonder she felt she could trust him.  She laid it back down and sighed nervously.  What was Sig doing?  Had he discovered her absence?  She listened, but there was no sound.

She glanced at the desk, remembering she had to call Michael.  “What time was it, anyway?” she thought with a sigh.

Carla looked for a clock, but her heart nearly stopped as the door handle moved.  She stared in fright, but as the door opened, it revealed a middle-aged woman standing there, smiling.

“Hello,” she said, and the greeting was full of reassurance.

“Hello,” Carla answered, the look on her face changing from fright to relief.

“I work here, and Lewis and I are good friends.  He told me your situation and sent me in here so he could stay in the hall watching in case your friend came out of your suite.”

Carla said nothing, but cocked her head slightly, waiting for the woman to continue.

“I get off at 11:00, and Lewis asked if I could give you a ride to Davine.  It’s a little out of the way to Rock Pier, but it would probably prevent your friend and your brother or whoever’s coming to pick you up from meeting each other on the road.”  She paused. “Have you called someone?”

“Not yet; I was just about to do that.”  Carla paused, a questioning look on her face, and then added, “Lewis said I shouldn’t plan to have anyone pick me up until it gets light outside.”

“Yes,” the woman nodded. “By the way,” she smiled, “my name is Jenna.  Jenna Holliday.  And I live in Davine.”  She sighed. “Lewis is right.  We’ve had situations before similar to yours, unfortunately, and it’s best to avoid a confrontation.  But, as Lewis and I discussed… it’s your brother who’s coming?” Her eyes questioned Carla, and when Carla nodded, she continued.  “Your brother would be taking an alternate route, and if he’s willing to leave now, we’d arrive at about the same time in Davine.  There are a couple of little restaurants that are open all night, but I’ll wait until he comes to pick you up, if you can talk him into leaving right away.  It’s probably a two-hour drive for him, and that’s about what it is for me, too.  I’d rather not wait too long, as I like to catch a few hours sleep before my husband and kids have to be up and around in the morning.”

Carla’s eyes filled with tears.  “Thank you so much.  I’ll call my brother now.  Where shall I ask him to meet us?”

“Tell him to pull into the gas station on Main Street.  The highway intersects it on the south end of town.  We’ll try to be there at 1:30.  I have to gather up a few things from my office and I’ll be back to get you. We’ll go out the east door, and your friend won’t see us at all.”  She smiled.

“Oh, thanks!  I appreciate it so much.”

“No problem.  Hope you can reach your brother.”

She left, and Carla walked to the desk and dialed Michael’s number.  As she held the phone, she found her hand shaking, and with her eyes still wet with tears, she prayed out loud.  “Help him to have his phone on, God.  Please.”

The phone rang five times before she heard Michael’s sleepy voice.

“Hello?”

“Thank God you answered!” Carla’s voice was full of relief.

“Carla!  You OK?”

“Yes.  Yes, I am.  But I need you to come and pick me up.  It’s a long story and I’ll tell you later.  Could you please drive to Davine—right away—and meet me at the gas station at the intersection of the highway and Main Street?  A lady’s driving me there, and we’ll be there at 1:30.”

“Where’s Sig?”

“I’ll explain later. He’s OK.  I’m OK.  But can you leave right away?  Please?”

“Sure.  I’ll call you a little later.”

“No, I forgot my phone at home.  But I’ll ask Jenna—the lady who’s giving me the ride—if I can use hers to call you as soon as we get into the car, so you can reach me if you need to.”

“Got it.  See you at 1:30.”

“Thanks so much Michael. I owe you one.”  Relief was in Carla’s voice.

“A big one!”  Michael’s voice was light-hearted.

Carla smiled in spite of herself.  Her brother was the best.

“Seriously, though,” Michael continued, “I’m glad you’re OK.  I’ll be praying for you.  See you in a little while.”

“OK.  Thanks, Michael.”

As Carla hung up the phone, Jenna Holliday knocked softly at the door and opened it enough to stick her head inside.  “Ready?” she whispered.

“Yes.  Yes, I am.

……….

In the two-hour ride to Davine, apart from Carla’s brief call to her brother, Jenna Holliday kept up light dialogue. Carla appreciated this, feeling utterly drained in every way; and she didn’t make a single attempt to initiate conversation.  Her polite laconic manner, however, didn’t seem to deter her chauffeur in the least.

“I’m glad you found Lewis to help.  He’s a champ.”

“Yes,” Carla responded with utmost sincerity, quiet though her voice was, reflecting her crushed spirit.

“He and I go back a long way.  He was a good friend of my younger brother all through grade school and junior high, until we moved out of state.  When my husband was transferred back here and we needed some sort of supplemental income, Dave—my brother—called Lewis and voila—I got my job.”

“What do you do?”

“Bookkeeping, basically.  I manage the office.”

“And Lewis?”

“He’s actually the general manager.  He takes it very seriously.  You wouldn’t find him out in the hall usually, but he filled in for the butler tonight.”  She turned to Carla and said pointedly, “I think it was providential.”

Carla raised her eyebrow in a questioning look.

Jenna Holliday responded, “I’m Catholic, and I think our church would label Lewis a mystic.”  She glanced at Carla and then explained.  “What I mean is, where I’m coming from, in our church, most people have a set form of religion.  We go to church, pray the rosary, and we go to mass and hear the reading of the Gospel and the homily.”  She looked at Carla, saw her tracking, and went on.  “But Lewis really studies the Bible and actually spends quite a bit of time praying.  And his praying seems to involve…uh…uh…talking with God.”   She turned to Carla, and raised her right index finger in emphasis.  “He’s not a kook, though.  He’s very intelligent, and he more or less is the most compassionate person I know.  I don’t think there’s a single person on the staff here who doesn’t highly respect him.”

“Hmm.”  Carla’s reception of this information was perfunctory.

“One time I was in a crisis, and I was just plain fearful.  I didn’t want anybody to know, and I didn’t talk about it—to anybody.  The only one who knew was my husband. But one day at work, I found a note on my desk.  It just had two words on it:  Psalm 91. And Lewis’ signature.

“Well, of course when I got home, I looked it up in the Bible.  It was very comforting to me.  I read it every night before I went to bed, and the fear went away.  I asked my husband if he had talked with Lewis, but he hadn’t.  So I don’t know how Lewis knew I was fearful, but he sure hit the nail on the head. That’s why I say, crazy as it might sound to you, that Lewis may have been sitting out in the hall in response to his feeling he should be there for some mysterious reason—and then you showed up, needing help.”  She raised both eyebrows and looked at Carla.  “Interesting, anyway, huh?”

Carla nodded.  “I was so relieved to see him.”

“Yeah…”

The two women drove in silence for a time before Carla asked, “What Psalm was that?”

“Ninety-one.  Read it when you get home—if you have a Bible.”

“I do.  Thanks.”

It was 1:25 a.m. when they pulled into the gas station.  There was Michael—and Nancy.  Carla took a deep breath.  She just wanted to get into the car and not talk, but she threw away that possibility. Thanking Jenna with a firm handshake, she moved from one car to the other, climbing into the back seat of Michael’s car, while waving to Jenna, who was already pulling away.

“Hi, Kiddo,” Michael addressed his sister gently, while Nancy, with a sympathetic smile, leaned back to pat Carla’s leg.

“Thank you guys so much for coming to pick me up.” Carla’s voice cracked and she bit her lip, turning her head toward the window.

“There’s a pillow back there, if you want to catch a few winks.”

“Oh, thanks,” Carla answered her brother.  “I don’t feel like sleeping, but I’d rather not talk right now, either.”

“No problem,” Michael said as he pulled back onto the highway.  “I just want to say I’m sorry, and I’m so glad you called.”

“Yeah.”  Carla’s voice was a mere whisper as she pulled the pillow up behind her neck. Her thoughts were racing, and silent tears ran down her cheeks.  She heard Nancy tell Michael that she was going to close her eyes for a little while. Carla’s eyes were closed, too. She felt exhausted, an emptiness hovering in her soul. Sig—the man she’d come to love and trust—had betrayed her. From deep within, a groan encompassed her entire emotion, followed by a long sigh that was exhaled very slowly and silently through pursed lips.

Carla squeezed the tears out of her eyes and stifled a yawn.  Curiously, she was feeling very much better.  Halfway through another yawn, she stopped, suddenly remembering how she’d prayed in that bathroom a couple hours ago, asking for God’s help.  As she relived those moments in her mind, a bit of the fear returned.  Where was Sig right now?  Would he retaliate?  Hopefully not.  She hadn’t done anything to deliberately hurt him.  Surely he could understand once he was sober… Her thoughts were disconcerting, and she was wide-awake in the back seat, though her eyes were closed.

She recalled Jenna’s words.  “I think it was Providence.”  From her current vantage point, Carla agreed.  She had called out to God to keep her safe and to help her.  She remembered praying specifically, “God, what shall I do?”  She wasn’t just desperately thinking to herself at that moment, because she instinctively knew she needed help.

“Leave. Leave now.  Go find Lewis.”  Those were the words that had given her instruction and infused her with courage, compelling her suddenly to act, despite her fear.  “Thank God the music was loud!” she thought.  But almost before she’d completed the thought, she stopped, a new thought commanding her attention.  “I’m not just saying ‘Thank God!’  I mean that.  I really mean that.”  Her eyes opened in the darkness as she ever so softly spoke the same words again. “Thank you, God.  Thank you for that loud music.  And thank you for planting Lewis right when and where I needed him.”  She closed her eyes again, and her brows knit in concentrated sincerity.  “Thank you, God.”

……….

It was almost three hours later when Michael pulled up in front of Carla’s apartment.  As the vehicle came to a stop, Nancy turned around to look at Carla, who sat looking pensively out the window.  She glanced over at Michael, and then looked back at Carla again. “You OK, Carla?” she asked.

“I’m OK.  I just feel a little dazed,” Carla replied, sighing.  “Thank you guys again so much for coming to get me.  You don’t know how much it means to me.”

“Sig doesn’t have keys to your apartment, does he?” Michael queried.

“No, thank God.  He asked for a key not too long ago, and I almost gave it to him, but I couldn’t find my spare one at the time.”

“’Thank God’ is right.”  Nancy yawned.  “I’ll walk up with you.”

“No, that’s OK.  Go home and get some sleep.”

“We’ll catch some breakfast, and then we’re headed over to the clinic,” Michael said. “I can sleep all day afterward.”

“The clinic?  What clinic?” Carla asked.

“The abortion clinic.”

Carla was curious but too tired to talk right now. She just wanted to go to sleep in her own bed.  Still, she knew that Michael and Nancy were just as tired as she was. “I’m glad you don’t you have to work today, Michael, but don’t get sick!”  Carla felt bad that she had needed him at such an inopportune time.

“Aw, don’t worry, Carla.  I’m fine, and I’ll hit the hay early tonight.  He turned and smiled fondly at the girl beside him. “You’ll have to get to bed early, too.”

“It won’t be hard.”  Nancy replied, and then turned to her friend.  “Carla, when you walk up to your apartment, turn on your light and wave us off at the window so we know everything’s OK.  Walk through your apartment first—just for my sake.”

“I’m sure Sig is still sleeping off a hangover,” Carla flatly responded.  But when she reached the top of the stairs, she found a note from Sig on her door. “I’ll call you,” it said.  Carla stood still for a moment, wondering what had transpired in that motel suite after she left.  Sig couldn’t have slept very long in order to get back to Rock Pier before Michael and Nancy and herself.  Had Sig not slept at all and bullied his way past Lewis?  She hadn’t heard any scuffle from the little room she’d stayed in.  Had he driven back while he was inebriated?  Carla knew he had a propensity for speeding, and a chill ran down her spine, as the thought occurred to her that she could indirectly have been the cause of injuries or even deaths of innocent people.  Her mind was preoccupied with these thoughts as she went from kitchen to bedroom to closet to bathroom to make certain she was alone in her apartment.  Finally, remembering she was keeping Michael and Nancy waiting, she hurried to the window, forcing a smile and waving from the lighted window.

“Let’s go!” Michael pulled away from the curb and headed down the street.

“I thought Sig must have been waiting for her, she took so long,” Nancy admitted.

“I know.  Me too.”  He yawned, stretching one arm towards the windshield.  “How about some breakfast at that truck stop on the edge of town?  We still have a couple hours to kill, and I think I could use some good strong coffee.”

“That sounds wonderful.”  Nancy pulled down the visor and glanced in the mirror as she felt in her purse for her lipstick.  She laughed out loud.  “I look like a monster!” she exclaimed.

“No, you don’t.  You look like you got ready in a hurry when I called you in the middle of the night to ask you to keep me company.  You look just fine.”  He sighed in satisfaction and then joked in a southern drawl.  “All them truckers’ll be jealous of me; I’m jes’ tryin’ to get used to it.”

“I think I’ll scare them this morning,” Nancy replied, laughing, “but if you don’t mind, I don’t mind.”

“Hey, I don’t mind.”  Michael looked at her, his eyes twinkling.  “You look mighty good to me.”

Two hours later, they got out of the car in front of the abortion clinic.  Almost twenty people had already gathered.  Some were clustered in small groups, talking together; others were walking up and down the sidewalk in front of the clinic holding varied signs with messages and pictures.

Michael opened the trunk of his car and took out two large poster signs.  The one that he put into Nancy’s outstretched hand said, “Whose choice?”  It showed a picture three foot square of a woman’s hand cradling the tiny hand and arm of an aborted baby.  Michael’s was an enlarged photograph of a smiling baby.  As he shut the trunk, a man driving past hollered, “Get a life!”  Michael and Nancy heard a protester yell back, “Save a life!”

“Michael, we need to get Carla down here.  Do you think she’d come?”

“Maybe once out of curiosity.”  He zipped his coat.  “You could ask her, but she’s not the confronting type.”

“Well, neither am I, and neither are you.”

“You got me here,” Michael smiled.  “Doesn’t hurt to ask, I guess.”

“I will,” Nancy declared.  “I will.”

Carla had called her mother early Saturday morning to tell her about the Moose Hollow incident. Bonnie had been understandably indignant with Sig’s assumed intentions, but she was thankful, she told Carla, more than anything else.

“Some girls don’t fare so well as you did,” she had told Carla.  “God was watching over you.”  Carla had agreed, sharing how she’d never prayed so fervently nor felt so strongly that God had been attentive to her cry for help.  Carla shared with her mother that although she’d never before really felt a need for God in her life, she’d always known, through her mother, that He’d be there in an emergency.

Her phone rang.  It was Mr. Garman, wanting her to pick up a memo from George’s office. Just as she was about to hang up the phone, he added, “Would you mind stopping by the kitchen on your way back and getting me a cup of coffee?  I’m waiting for a call from McCormack.”

Carla finished the printout, smiled as she rearranged the purple and yellow flowers, and headed upstairs.  Five minutes later she was knocking on Mr. Garman’s door.

“Thank you.  How’s the coffee this morning?” he asked as she set down the mug.

“Very good.  I think we’ve finally found the right brand.”  Carla smiled.  Coffee at the office was always under close scrutiny, and she and Nancy had determined they’d make it as good as the coffee houses.  It had taken them a few weeks, but they felt they’d succeeded.

“Smells good.”  Mr. Garman gestured to Carla to sit down.  “We’re going to need to set up a conference Friday in the Horizon Room, and we’ll need lunch catered. Frigbees does a good job.  Ask for Mina.  She’s a little gruff-sounding, but don’t let her run over you.” He paused.  “All the design engineers will be attending.  The plant superintendent from Morningside is the one who really needs to be there, so start with him.”

Carla was taking notes as fast as she could. When Mr. Garman finally finished and Carla was preparing to leave, he suddenly discarded the business tone in his voice.

“By the way, how was your weekend?”

“It was all right.”  Carla knew a lukewarm response would trigger Mr. Garman’s curiosity, but she couldn’t bring herself to put on an act of enthusiasm.  After all, she had left her apartment Friday afternoon in love—or so she thought, but she’d come back feeling numb.

“Just ‘all right’?”

Carla’s first reaction was that her boss was overstepping proprietary lines in this comment, but she was also pleased that this very reserved man would let down his guard to express himself with gentle candor.

“Well, yes, just all right.”  Carla smiled.

Mr. Garman bent down his head to catch Carla’s eye before she could change her mien.

“Are you all right?” he asked with open sincerity.  His kindliness shattered the reserve Carla had been relying upon to turn this into a normal morning at work despite her raw emotions.  Try as she might, she couldn’t hold back the tears from brimming in her eyes.

“I’m OK.”  The words were only half intoned as she struggled to keep from crying.

She heard Mr. Garman sigh.  “You’ll be fine.”  His deep voice was confident but gentle.  As he walked over to the door, and before opening it, he said, “One thing about us humans—we’re made to be resilient.”  He paused and then added, “I haven’t touched that coffee on my desk, but I don’t think I’ll take it with me.  I’ll be at Central Micro for a couple of hours.  Will you take my calls?”

Carla nodded mutely, tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d be OK if he weren’t so kind: it was his sympathy that evoked the tears as much as the weekend’s circumstances. She knew he could have taken the coffee with him, and she suspected that his trip to Central Micro was spontaneous.

As he closed the door behind him, Carla sat wondering at how greatly her heart had been touched by her employer’s understanding attitude and his desire to help her get past the immediate predicament of tears she wanted to keep private.  She walked over to pick up the coffee mug and took a sip.  It was still hot.  She smiled a teary smile and began wiping her face in an effort to remove the telltale smudges.

“Yes, I’m going to be all right,” she whispered, but now her voice was back under control.  “One thing about us humans—we’re made to be resilient.”  She spoke the words out loud, surprised that she could repeat them verbatim.  They were wise words, she concluded, from a very kind man.  Carla found herself wishing him a life of great happiness and hoping that Patrice fully appreciated the man who loved her.

……….

Thursday morning following the Moose Hollow event, Nancy stopped by Carla’s desk to ask where she wanted to go to lunch.  “I took the bus today.”  She scrunched her nose, explaining, “My car’s in the shop.  I kind of wanted to go to Szechuan Palace, but…”

“But what?” Carla demanded.

“Well, you’d have to drive.”

“So?  Sounds good to me.  I’ll meet you at the front door at 12:30.  Is that good?”

“Yeah!  I’m so hungry for hot and sour soup.”

Carla grinned, thinking about their first lunch together.  It had only been a few months, but it seemed so long ago, and now Nancy was almost next of kin. “How’s my brother?”

“Wonderful as ever.”  Then, as though she had just remembered something important, she added, “Oh, yes.  I almost forgot.  Can we pick you up tonight for TNC?  Or is Sig wanting to take you?”  Nancy kept a poker face about her feelings regarding Sig.

“I haven’t heard from Sig, so no, he’s not taking me.  But I’m not sure I want to go, in case he’ll be there.  I really don’t want to see him.”

“I don’t blame you, but you’ll probably have to face him some time or other.  I’d kind of like to have you come, because the speaker’s a former abortionist.”

“An abortionist?”  Carla said the word as though she’d never spoken it before. Indeed, she wasn’t sure she had.

“Yes.  We had a really hard time booking him.”

“He’s in demand?” Carla asked, surprised.

“No,” laughed Nancy, “the problem was on our end, because churches—like ours—are hesitant to have him speak.  They don’t want to offend anybody.”  She glanced at her watch.  “Well, I have to get to work.  George gave me a huge proposal to type, and he needs it tomorrow.”  She started to leave, then turned back to ask, “So, can we pick you up?”

“Well, all right.  Something tells me this wouldn’t be Sig’s choice of programs to attend, so hopefully he won’t be there.”

Later, back in her apartment, Carla fixed a light supper and sat down to watch a sitcom re-run.  Halfway through it, the phone rang.  It was Nancy.

“Carla, we’re running late, but hopefully we’ll be there to pick you up at 6:30.”

“Don’t you have to greet?”

“I called and got a sub.”

“OK.” Understanding Nancy’s crunch for time, she said, “I’d better let you go.  I’ll be watching for you guys.”

“See ya’ soon.  Bye!”  Nancy’s voice had a ring of excitement to it.

At 6:30, Carla, watching from the window, saw Michael’s car pull up.  Nancy was in the front seat, but there was another person in the back seat; it was her mother.

“What!” Carla exclaimed out loud, grabbing her coat and her Bible.  She didn’t usually bring her Bible, nor had she been reading it, but in view of the past weekend’s experience, she felt like she wanted somehow to give credit to whom credit was due by carrying a Bible under her arm.  She ran down the steps and out to the car, grinning happily at her mother as she jumped into the back seat.

“Hi, Mom!  What a wonderful surprise!  It’s so good to see you!”

“You, too, honey.  How are you?”

“I’m fine.”  Carla hugged her mother, greeting Michael and Nancy at the same time.  “So what’s going on?  What are you doing in Rock Pier?”  Not waiting for an answer, Carla reiterated, “What a wonderful surprise!” She reached up to squeeze Nancy’s hand and gave her brother a quick shoulder grab.

As he drove away from the curb, Michael explained. “Mom actually called me, because she’d heard Don Whitten was speaking at our church, and she wanted to hear him.  She drove to Nancy’s because Nancy thought it would be fun to surprise you.”

“But she’s staying overnight with you, if it’s OK.” Nancy was enjoying the success of the surprise.

“I can sleep on your couch, honey.”  Bonnie Chadwell beamed with a mother’s pride.

“Oh, Mom, I’m so glad you’re here!”  Carla felt like a little girl, suddenly, depending on her mother for love and security. The feeling took her aback, but she didn’t shake it off, either:  the emotional upheaval of the past few days somehow justified clinging to an anchor.  Taking a deep breath, she spoke sincerely. “It’s going to be great getting to spend some time with you.  You can stay past tomorrow, can’t you—because I have to work until five.”

“I don’t have to be home until church time on Sunday.  I was hoping I could take you all to breakfast here before I head home, but it would have to be early—like seven.”

“Seven?”  Mike glanced at Nancy beside him.  “Nancy’s in a wedding Saturday evening that will probably last until—what do you think, Hon?”

“Probably at least eleven, but seven’s OK with me.  Actually, I love early breakfasts out. Where do you want to go?”

“Where do you want to go, Nancy?”

Bonnie’s engaging thoughtfulness filled Nancy with appreciation for Michael’s mother.  “Michael and I really enjoyed a little restaurant on the south side of town a couple weeks ago.”  Then, to Michael, “Do you think your mom would like McCrae’s?”

“Good idea.  I know Carla would like it.  They have good green chili.”

……….

By the time they got to Rock Church, there were only six or seven minutes left before the service started.  Carla had requested sitting towards the back, and the others didn’t object.  As soon as they were seated, she glanced around at the audience, looking for Sig, even though he’d left her a message that he wouldn’t be there.  She was relieved when her quick glance did not find him.

The worship team led the congregation in some praise songs followed by a time of more somber worship.  For the first time, Carla really focused on the words and how they applied to her own circumstances.  She was seeing God from a totally new perspective, after the past weekend’s Moose Hollow event.  He had truly been a refuge for her, and somehow she felt as if she wanted to thank Him in a physical way for a supernatural undertaking on her behalf.  Consequently, during worship, Carla was listening with her whole being—not just to the music and words, not to the singing.  Rather, she was listening for that same indelible voice which had told her in that honeymoon suite last weekend, “Leave.  Leave now. Go find Lewis.”

Halfway through the worship, Carla put her arm around her mother’s waist as they were standing together, suddenly realizing that her mother’s persistent prayers for her daughter’s safety had surely been answered in a direct sense one time at least.

……….

Carla listened intently as Don Whitten talked.  He had become a believer in Jesus Christ three years ago, he said.  His story was riveting, but the bottom line was that he attributed the 180-degree change in his life solely to the prayers of Christian protesters.  Carla stole a glance around the vast room at one point, about a third of the way into his speech.  He didn’t mince words, and the word pictures he drew from his experience as an abortionist were not pleasant to hear.  Carla surmised there must have been quite a few people in the audience who had had abortions and were no doubt quite uncomfortable.

As Whitten continued speaking about his conversion and how it had affected his pro-abortion stance, a change in the crowd occurred.  A young couple sitting about halfway back from the podium got up and walked out.  That triggered the quiet exit of several other people.  Carla observed that this obviously concerned Nancy, from the look on her face.  She glanced at Bonnie, whose eyes were closed. She knew her mother was praying. The attention was now divided, and Carla was curious to know how the former abortionist would handle this.

He stopped talking for what seemed like a long, long time, and must have been one whole minute. The room was quiet except for the people exiting.  Then he asked, in a lowered voice but unabashedly, “Would anyone else like to leave? It’s all right.  I understand.”

At this statement, about ten more people rose and headed out of the church, including two couples that, Nancy later informed her little group, were church deacons.  The speaker waited for them to exit the hall before he continued.

“Well, at least these folks who have left are not fence-riders.  Jesus himself said it was better to be hot or cold, right?  Cold is dead wrong, but still honest and not hypocritical.  Choice is central to life.  Over three thousand years ago, God told His people through Moses, ‘I have set before you this day life and death, blessing and cursing.  Therefore, choose life, that you and your children might live.’  His way is life—here, and for eternity—for us and for our children.”

Carla had never been in such a quiet audience.  Every eye in the room was riveted on Whitten, it seemed to Carla, except hers, as she stole a wide-sweeping glance with her head remaining still.

“Now that I’ve told you the diabolical nature of my former profession, I would like to ask each of you to take home a postcard, available in the foyer, showing a dismembered child of twelve weeks. Take a good look at the crime we are committing as a body of believers.  You see, in my unregenerate state, I was totally blind to the truth—the truth that is set eternally and doesn’t change.  It’s only our perspective on it that is variable, not the truth itself.

“There are many people just like I was, who defend abortion because they do not know eternal Truth.  Truth—with a capital T—is revealed by God to man.  The first chapter of Romans addresses this fact. People who worship humanity—the creature rather than the creator, want to lead others in this worship, and they are very confident in their own discernment of truth.  They reason that since man has discovered certain truths—facts—of science and physics, he’s qualified to decide truth in the realm of socioeconomic interplay including moral issues.  These ‘social truths’ which we decide upon, as humans, fit our own personal desires, but they unwittingly totally eclipse our deepest personal need of a dependency upon God. That is where eternal Truth prevails. God created us, and He knows what is helpful as well as what is hurtful—for ourselves at the present moment and…” Whitten slowed his speech to emphasize his words.  “…for our children and grandchildren in generations to come. ‘Therefore choose life, that you and your children might live.’”

Carla listened as the man went on to talk of how he came to the understanding that being born again meant becoming a disciple of the man Jesus Christ, not merely adhering to a philosophy.

As Carla sat listening, she began to realize that her life had already been changed in a very significant way through her experience with God at Moose Hollow.  She saw everything from such a totally different perspective now.  It was as if she were all of a sudden attached to God by an eternal cable.  Was it because God hadn’t thrown out this lifeline to her before, or was it that she’d always ignored it instead of grabbing hold?

Prior to Moose Hollow, Carla had always thought of herself as quite self-sufficient and well rounded in general.  But her life now had a new dimension.  To talk—and listen—to God brought a peace that she’d never known. Admittedly, she hadn’t done it very much at all to this point—really just at Moose Hollow.  But that experience had opened a new door in her life—a door she somehow knew was very, very important.  Her life had taken on a fresh, wholesome flavor, like dormant grass soaking in the first spring rain.

As the former abortionist spoke of “God’s precious children,” a poignant smile spread across Carla’s face, a smile that stayed there, even in the middle of a demonstration of a poster showing an aborted baby. The smile came from knowing that the picture was one of a child still precious to God, even after death by abortion. Carla knew that God still loved that child just as much as He loved herself.  Tears came to her eyes, and she was filled with thankfulness that her heart had been touched.  Was this—this compassion—part of the born-again experience, too?

“Open hearts that God can touch is what we need to turn this holocaust around,” Dr. Whitten spoke quietly but with a sincerity that obviously impacted his remaining audience.  The words were confirming to Carla’s thoughts.

She took a moment to concentrate on a prayer. “God, I feel you’ve given me an open heart.  Please keep it open.  I never thought I’d be thanking you for that horrible evening with Sig, but I am now.” Suddenly overwhelmed with gratefulness, Carla used one hand and then the other to catch tears that threatened to spill over, before they fell.  She tried not to be obvious, but the tears kept coming, and she smiled as Nancy pulled a couple of tissues from her purse and slipped them to her.

Much as she hated making a scene—even a silent one, she had to admit that the tears felt good.  They were tears of thanksgiving for a Creator who loved her enough to have touched her on the shoulder.  And they were tears of cleansing, too; Carla knew this as much as she’d ever known anything in her life.  Unable to stop them anyway, she let them fall freely.  It was not hysterical crying, just tears and tears, and more tears. Surely God had called her to Himself, and surely she desired to respond.

“Here I am; send me,” she thought, at the same time wondering where these Bible words had come from.  Somewhere in her Sunday school past?  Maybe a church play?  She really had no clue, but they rang in her mind on the ride back to her apartment that night, and they played on her mind the very first thing as she awakened the next morning.

Nancy had decided it must be because there was still so much to look forward to, each of them experiencing ever increasing anticipation of their wedding and the time they would consummate their love.  It would happen, by their choosing, when their spirits and souls caught up with their flesh.  There was no lack of physical attraction.  On the contrary, Nancy’s heart beat faster at Michael’s merely brushing against her, and she daydreamed far more than she would ever want to admit, both while at work and at home.  Actually, almost every moment of the day Michael was on her mind, and she subconsciously kept him there while still engrossed in projects at work.  At TNC while she greeted everybody, and even during church service on Sunday, he was on her mind.

For Michael, restraining his physical desire was much more difficult, but because he had made a commitment to Godly discipline in his life, he was better able to manage the passion that always attempted to dominate.  Nancy was beautiful, and he desired to know intimately every part of her body, of course—that was a given; but he desired to know her soul as well.  Her quick smile and candid conversation made being around her unbelievably pleasurable; and her spirit, like his, was alive to the promptings of their Creator; thus, their time together was an exhilarating adventure.

One afternoon in late March, Michael had the day off and Nancy had arranged to leave work at 1:30.  It was a warm day, and after Michael picked her up, they drove ten miles to Mayville, a wide spot in the road, to try out an ice cream shop boasting homemade ice cream.  When they arrived, school kids were walking down the street, and several turned in for an ice cream cone.  Michael was opening Nancy’s car door when his attention was drawn to a young girl who looked to be about eleven walking towards the shop on the sidewalk next to them, towing a boy of five or six behind her.  She walked at a determined, steady pace past the pink door of the shop, physically pulling her brother, whose eyes were riveted on the shop and the kids going inside.

“Come on, Danny!” she reprimanded him.  Then, in an apologetic tone, she lowered her voice. “We don’t have any money.”

Nancy had caught the scene and sized up the situation before she climbed out of the car. She and Michael exchanged a quick glance, and Michael pulled out his wallet.  Quick as a wink, Nancy caught up to the pair, with Michael two steps behind, and softly addressed them.

“Excuse me.  My friend and I heard what you said.  We happen to have a few extra dollars.  We’d like you to take them and buy an ice cream cone for your brother and yourself.”

The girl looked at Nancy with a mixture of incredulity and suspicion.

“I know you’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”  Nancy smiled understandingly.  “Here, you take this and do whatever you want with it.  We were going to stop for an ice cream cone ourselves, but we’ve decided to drive back to Rock Pier instead.”  Nancy looked up at Michael who raised his eyebrows and half-hid a smile that said, “Mmm.  Interesting—thanks for telling me.” Then he spoke.

“You see, my friend’s a Christian, and she’s always giving things to people.  You don’t have to take it, but if you want it, just explain to your parents that some people who love Jesus wanted you and your brother to have some ice cream today.”

Nancy held out the money, and the young girl slowly reached for it, looking at her brother, then up at Nancy, then over to Michael.

“We’re Christians, too,” she said in a whisper, her shyness obvious.  Then, putting her arm around her little brother’s shoulder, she added, “It’s Danny’s birthday.  Thank you.”

Nancy’s warm smile burst into a happy grin. “You’re welcome.” She reached down and hugged the girl spontaneously.  “God bless you,” she whispered and then turned to the little boy.  “Happy Birthday, Danny!”  She stood up, putting her hand in Michael’s, and they walked quickly back to the car.  As they drove off, they saw through the rear view mirrors the children walking into the ice cream shop.  Nancy turned to Michael.

“Thank you, Michael. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

Michael laughed and shook his head.  “No, but since we’re driving back to Rock Pier instead of buying ice cream in Mayville, how do you propose to take care of this craving I’ve had for two straight days? I was looking forward to homemade chocolate ice cream.”  Michael turned to Nancy, a broad grin on his face.  He was surprised to see Nancy’s face shadowed with unspoken disappointment.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Michael’s tone was sincere, more than anything else.  He was so fond of her that he couldn’t bear to disappoint her even for a moment. “You know I’m kidding, don’t you?”

Tears welled up in Nancy’s eyes as she mutely nodded.  Michael pulled the car onto the shoulder of the country road.  He put his arm around Nancy and drew her to him.

“Nancy, I’ll never forget the happiness I felt watching your compassion with those kids this afternoon. If we never end up together, it’s a memory I’m going to cherish.  We can get more ice cream, and I know you would have liked to have had it in Mayville as much as I; and I totally agree with you that it was best that we not hang around.  They’ll enjoy their ice cream more without benevolent strangers to remind them where it came from.”

Nancy looked up at him, and tears filled her eyes.  She hadn’t realized that she was so tired from a short but stressful day at work. She succumbed to Michael’s tenderness, resting her head on his shoulder.  Nancy was in love with a man she most often thought of as simply wonderful, and her heart was overcome with gratefulness to God for giving her the love of a Christian man so very attractive to her.  The attraction was not only because of his personality and looks, but especially because of his character and his desire to please God.  She put her arm around Michael’s neck and clung to him in a moment of ecstasy.

Michael’s heart was pounding as he held Nancy close to him.  He knew she could feel it, and he knew simultaneously that she welcomed the pounding of his heart.  An indescribable euphoria flooded his being.

“I love you so much, Nancy.” His words were choked in tenderness.

“Oh, Michael.” Nancy’s lips parted slightly as she looked deep into Michael’s eyes, and then their lips met in a soft and tender kiss. Held in each other’s arms, they stayed together as Nancy whispered between kisses, “I’ve never been so happy. I wish this moment could last forever.”

Michael’s heart kept pounding; he smoothed back Nancy’s hair from her right temple and kissed her again. Then, unwillingly yet determinedly, he broke the embrace.

“Nancy, this is too much for me.  I’m pretty tough, but I’m not sure I can handle this.”  Giving her one more squeeze, he sighed and planted a kiss so light but yet one that totally encapsulated the deep love it represented.

“I was going to ask you if you wanted some ice cream at my place.”  Nancy looked wistfully at Michael.  “But you’re the driver.”  She searched his eyes for a response.  If he had agreed to go to her place, she wasn’t sure what her reaction would be. All her being was crying out to be alone in a very private place and be wrapped in Michael’s arms.  Yet her mind sent up a red flag; and her spirit…Oh, where was her spirit?  She realized how true it was that when the flesh is strong, the spirit is weak. Right now, it didn’t even seem to exist, let alone be the controlling factor in her life.

Michael’s voice was a little husky.  “Marbury’s has those old-fashioned sodas.  Shall we go there?”

Nancy felt weak all of a sudden, and her body relaxed as relief washed out the tension of her having to make a decision that she wasn’t sure she could wisely make.  She noticed Michael’s set jaw, and an unspoken prayer of thankfulness poured out of her heart.  For weeks they had dated, and she knew Michael’s desire for her was as strong as hers for him, but they had both resisted the temptation to yield to it. Now, in a moment of passion that only whetted this desire, Michael had taken control of the situation, albeit with obvious difficulty.  For this, Nancy loved him all the more and desired him all the more; yet her own resolve to keep their passion in restraint grew stronger at the same time.

“That sounds great.”  Even while her body yearned for fulfillment, Nancy now felt a most satisfying peace in having Michael take the lead in watching out for her and for them both.  Silently she prayed, “Thank you, God.  My body can wait when my spirit’s satisfied.  Help us.”  Then, out loud again, “Let’s go.  I’d love a chocolate raspberry soda.”

“Maybe our table’s open.” Michael was recovering fast.  He glanced at Nancy.  “The one we sat at that first night we met?”

“Oh, sure.  You mean with Sig and Carla?”  Nancy smiled at his romanticism.

“Mmhmm.”  He drove in silence for a full two miles.  Then, stretching his arm around the girl beside him, Michael said earnestly, and his eyes glistened with moisture, “It’s no wonder I love God. I’m blessed!” he said emphatically. “You know, honey, we’ll be OK if we keep Him center focus in the picture.”  When Nancy said nothing, he withdrew his arm and then opened the window and stretched out his left arm.  “What an A-plus day!”  Still Nancy didn’t respond, and Michael turned his head and looked at her.  She sat quietly beside him, facing forward and smiling demurely.

……….

Midge Ferguson was in the middle of writing a vignette for the book she hoped to publish.  It was late Saturday morning, and when the phone rang, she recognized the voice.

“Hi, Mrs. Chadwell.”  She spoke amicably, despite the interruption of her thoughts. Midge felt she would forever be indebted to this woman for the insight she had given her mother, who had passed it to her.  Midge had continued affirming out loud to herself that “It’s OK; all is well,” and the peace it brought had raised Midge above ground level to a place of contentment despite her irreversible circumstances.  Mrs. Chadwell happened to be on her top-ten list of favorite people right now.

“How are you two doing?”  Midge knew Bonnie was referring to herself and the baby.

“Oh, just great.  I’m doing a little writing, and Baby’s causing no trouble whatsoever. You’d think he’d be bored and cranky. I know I would be.”  Midge’s voice was teasing and light-hearted, and Bonnie smiled on her end of the phone.

“‘He?’  Is it a boy?”

“Yes. It’s a boy.  We found out a couple weeks ago.”  She paused.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.  I thought Mom had.”

“Oh, that’s OK.  You’re four months now, right?”

“Seventeen weeks, to be exact—according to the doctor.”

“Well, I have a little booklet on fetal development I thought you might enjoy.”

“Oh, I’d love that!”

“I’ll send it to you.  Eat a lot of protein, honey.”

“I am.  I had tuna for lunch, as a matter of fact,” Midge reassured her.  “But if you called to talk to my mom, she’s gone to the store.  Could she call you back?”

“No, that’s OK.  I actually just wanted to find out how a very young mother is doing, and let you know what your baby’s up to.  I thought you might be interested.”

“Well, thanks.  I guess I don’t have to worry about his being bored, do I?  He’s so busy developing.  I think I felt him move the other day.  Mom said eventually I should be able to feel him hiccup, too. That should be fun.”

“Yes, it is,” Bonnie agreed.  “I remember.”  Her voice sent a warm smile through the phone.  “Well, you take care.  I’m glad you’re writing.  I hope I can read it when you’re finished.”

“Well, don’t hold your breath, Mrs. Chadwell, ’cuz I’m not sure when that will be.” Midge laughed, but she was pleased with herself and the goals she was pursuing.  She hung up the phone and said out loud, “So far, so good!”

Forty-five minutes later, Lou Ferguson arrived home. “Hi, honey!” she called from the back door.

“Hi, Mom,” Midge answered.  “I’m in my room.  Do you need help with the groceries?”

“Uh—yeah.  Would you mind?”

Midge walked out to the garage.  Her green-checked blouse made her look especially pretty to her mother.

“You look lovely today, honey.  You know they say pregnant women have a special beauty about them, and you certainly do.”  She hugged her daughter.  “Look at these strawberries!  They were such a good price, I couldn’t resist.  I think I’ll make a pie to surprise Dad tonight.”

“Mom, how can I keep my weight down?” Midge asked in mock dismay.  “I’m going to blimp out!”

Lou threw back her head and laughed heartily. “Yes, honey.  You are going to blimp out, all right—and look beautiful all through the blimping.”  She gave her daughter a quick kiss on her cheek and picked up another sack of groceries. “Did you call that lady at the adoption agency?”

Midge sighed.  “No, I didn’t.”  Then she hastily added, seeing her mother’s look of concern.  “But I’m going to.  I was on a roll with my book.  Besides, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to her yet.  Couldn’t it wait until next week?”

Lou hesitated and took a deep breath. “OK.  I’m sure that’ll be fine.  But I think we need to allow ourselves plenty of time to talk with several different people to make the wisest decision.  There’s a very precious person at stake, you know.”  She smiled as her eyes went from Midge’s face down to her barely protruding stomach, then back up to her face. The serious look there made her stop.  “You OK, honey?  What’s wrong?”

“Mom, I wish I knew what would be best for this baby.”

Lou cocked her head to one side and bit her lower lip. “Well, Dad and I have already told you we’ll support whatever decision you make.

“Maybe I should call that lady and just tell her where I’m at and ask how much time she needs.”

“That’s a good idea.”  Lou Ferguson was again struck with the maturity of her fifteen-year old daughter.  She hoped it would last through the next couple of years.  She hoped, too, that her daughter would be able to enjoy carefree moments—days—again.  If Midge decided to keep the baby, Lou was determined to be on hand to help her be a responsible mother but still able to enjoy some down time knowing it was not at the expense of her baby’s well being.  She inhaled deeply and silently prayed, “Help me, God, to be there for Midge and for this tiny baby.  Give me amazing joy—and John, too—in caring for Midge and her baby, if that’s what You decide for us.”

The phone rang, and Lou, standing near it, answered.  In a moment, she covered the voice end and said, “Midge, it’s for you.  Some lady from Fogle’s?”  She was obviously curious as she gave the phone to her daughter.

Midge brightened.  “Oh, yes.”  She held up her index finger as if to say, “Just a moment and I’ll explain.”

A couple moments later, she hung up the phone and exclaimed, “Yes!  Guess what?” She smiled at her mother with a look of exhilaration glowing in her eyes.  “I walked over to Fogle’s the other day…you know—getting my exercise like Dr. Feinstein said, and I applied for a job.”

“What?” Lou exclaimed.

“Don’t panic, Mom.  I know I’m not sixteen yet, but I can legally get a job at fifteen and a half.”  She put her arm around her mother’s waist.  “See, I look at it this way.  I was acting irresponsibly when I got pregnant, right?  I knew it was wrong, but Nick said he had everything under control, and I made a bad choice.  Well, I’m determined to make good choices, and I don’t plan to be irresponsible anymore.”

“Don’t make too many promises,” Lou interjected.

“Well… no matter what happens, there are expenses that I plan to take care of.”  She noted the skepticism on her mother’s face and quickly added, “It’s an easy job—folding clothes.  I just don’t feel like hanging out with Marlene and Gerri so much right now, and I think I’d rather have a job than be in a swim suit this summer.”

Lou stared at her daughter plainly enough, but inside she felt like her mouth was agape.  She was impressed to see Midge staking out a path with such determination and confidence.  Her daughter had undoubtedly achieved a new level of maturity.  In fact, it seemed as though this unplanned pregnancy had brought a new spark of life to their entire family.  Standing there in the bright kitchen, her eyes glistened with gratitude to God.

“I’m proud of you, honey. And I’m sure everything’s going to be just fine.”

“I’d better finish up the writing I started this morning and then do some planning for next week.  Do you need help with lunch?”

“No.  I’ll get it. But don’t forget to call the adoption lady.  Oh, that’s right,” she remembered out loud.  “You said next week.  What hours will you have at Fogle’s?”

“They said basically nine to three, but it might vary some,” Midge answered and then added enthusiastically, “It’s perfect, Mom. I can walk both ways and get my exercise.”

“You did tell them you’re pregnant?”

“I did.”  Midge looked proudly at her mom.  “She said, ‘You’re a brave girl.’  I told her, ‘I don’t know how brave I am, but I’m determined to be responsible.’  She was really nice.”

“That’s wonderful, Midge.”

Midge walked out of the kitchen, and Lou began putting away the groceries.  As she worked, she thought of a conversation she’d had with a friend from church who felt adamantly that John and she had acted unwisely in giving Midge any choice at all in this matter.

“You know, Lou, I think it’s wrong to put your daughter in this position.  She’s too young to be having a baby.  Kids will be kids, and you shouldn’t let a teenager make a decision that will ruin her future.  She’s only fifteen.  It’s not really fair.”

Lou couldn’t resist asking her how she would advise Midge.  “I would suggest that she have an abortion and get on with her life, so that you and John could get on with yours, too.”

“Valerie,” Lou had responded.  “I can’t deny that the thought crossed my mind.  But it didn’t stay long, because two other thoughts got the best of it.  The first was that I don’t want my daughter living with the memory of ending her first child’s life.  Maybe she would never regret it, but John and I think that if we were in her place, we might very well.  So we applied the Golden Rule, and treated her like we felt we would have wanted our parents to treat us twenty years ago, given the same circumstance.

“But the second thought was the real clincher.   It was a scripture John remembered that had actually come up in adult Bible class a few weeks before.  I know you’ve heard it.  ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these my brethren have ye done it unto me.’  Jesus said that, you know.  It confirmed our conscience, and when we shared this with Midge, she wasn’t upset. In fact,” Lou had said, smiling, “she was relieved.”

“Well, it’s not going to be easy,” Valerie warned.

“No, we don’t expect it to be, but we’re confident it’s the right thing to do.”  Lou looked at her friend’s frowning face and added, “Don’t worry; everything’s going to work out.”

Now, as she filled the sugar canister, she smiled again.  “Bonnie’s right,” she thought.  “It does help to say it, and it’s becoming easier and easier.  Thank you, God.  Thank you!”

Many Saturdays were uneventful, but ever so often a couple did drive out and occasionally even stopped to thank the protesters standing in the raw elements. There was encouragement, too, in knowing that during the five-day workweek the picketers often saw at least one and sometimes two or even three babies saved.  Mike and Nancy had great respect for a few of the picketers who gave up the comfort of their homes several days a week for several hours each time.

Once a month, the Saturday group bulged with a relatively large Catholic contingent from several churches, and occasionally a protestant youth group would mildly swell the group of protesters.  At first neither Mike nor Nancy did anything but hold large signs that denounced abortion.  But gradually the kid-glove attitude, which they had when they first came, wore off. As they came in closer week by week to the actuality of abortion, they recognized the travesty of the “procedure” euphemism.   Sometimes they wished they could withdraw from the clear view their opened eyes now beheld.

Just a few months earlier they had been carefree in passively ignoring the subject of abortion, never giving even a thought to the tiny people who were being systematically killed one by one—day after day, week after week, month after month.

It was Nancy, actually, who had persuaded Mike to begin protesting.  Ironically, she herself had been hesitant at first. Her bubbly personality had always more or less caused her to be liked by everyone, and she didn’t enjoy confrontation.

But when she visited her parents one long weekend, her entire perspective changed.  On that Saturday afternoon, Joan Herring had been pouring cake batter into a glass cake pan and didn’t answer at first when Nancy asked her what she thought about abortion.

“Mom, did you hear me?”

Without turning to look at her daughter, Mrs. Herring said, “Why do you ask?”

“A friend from church gave me a pamphlet about it, and it was kind of disturbing to me.  I guess I just wanted to talk about it.”

Mrs. Herring meticulously scraped the bowl, set it on the counter and lifted her chin way up as if to stretch her neck, all the while facing the cupboard wall in front of her.

Nancy asked again, puzzled.  “Mom?”

Her mother turned and smiled.  “Let’s go sit down and talk.”  She walked over to Nancy, gave her a quick, tight hug, and started leading her into the living room.

“What about the cake?” Nancy asked.  “Shall we put it into the oven?”  Her mother had suddenly forgotten it.

“Oh, yes.  Would you put it in, honey?  It’s ready. Set the timer for thirty-five minutes.”

Nancy did this and then walked, curious, into the living room and sat down on the couch.  Her mother was sitting in the armchair, holding her face in her hands. Nancy sat quietly for a moment. Mrs. Herring uncovered her eyes slowly, rubbing her eyebrows, cheeks, and finally chin, before she spoke.  She repeated Nancy’s question.

“What do I think about abortion?  I think a lot about it.  Whenever I hear a baby’s cry, I think about it.  Every Christmas season, it’s on my mind.  Whenever I see a little child running in the park, I think about it.”  She sat back in her chair and massaged the wooden ends of the armrests.  A far-away look came into her eyes, and Nancy didn’t feel she should interrupt the long silent moment that followed.  There was a feeling of sadness in the room.  Nancy didn’t welcome the sadness, nor was she all that comfortable with long silences usually.  At that moment, however, she felt drawn to both the sadness and the silence in an attitude of respect. 

After a while, Nancy got up from the couch and moved over to sit on the floor beside her mother’s chair.  She removed her mother’s hand from the armrest and held onto it gently as she pulled it onto her own shoulder.  But she didn’t say anything, and neither did her mother.

Finally, Mrs. Herring spoke.  “You’re not an only child, Nancy.  You have a brother or sister—I don’t know which—waiting for us in heaven.”

Nancy’s emotions were flooded, but she said nothing. The words her mother had just spoken served to isolate her mother and herself in a suspended moment during which Nancy felt as though her whole being were agape.  But gradually that suspension eased into a peculiar peace for Nancy.  She found herself wanting to stretch this moment in time, as a way of giving homage to the unknown son or daughter, her own brother or sister.  She sat in numbed silence and, in spite of her trying to stop them, tears began streaming down her face; she turned her head discreetly. She didn’t think her mother had seen, but when she heard her mother’s catching sobs, she unconsciously squeezed the hand on her shoulder and held it tight.  Her natural inclination was to comfort her mother, but Nancy felt a peculiar restraint, and willfully shut out thoughts that would put the focus back on herself or on her mother.  Her eyes, through their blur of tears, looked up and out the window, and four words welled up in her heart: “Made in His image.”  Then she prayed, aloud, but ever so softly, “Let the sadness stay for a while, Lord. Some sorrow You call ‘godly.’  I know this is godly sorrow.”  She swallowed and blinked at the tears, giving herself to missing in the deepest sense the brother or sister she’d never played with nor argued with—the brother or sister she’d never smiled at, hugged, admired, or loved.

After a moment, her mother picked up where Nancy had left off.  “God, You know I’m so sorry.  I know You’ve forgiven me—Oh, Lord, forgive Nels, too.  And please help Nancy to forgive me.”  The catching sobs caused Nancy’s hand to tighten again on her mother’s. “Help me…help me,” she stammered now, her words so softly spoken they were hard to understand, “…help me to forgive myself.”

Nancy continued to hold her mother’s hand tightly; but she didn’t say anything, embracing the numbness of her own blurred stare while her mother gave in to the tears she’d been stifling.

Finally, after several minutes, her mother wiped her eyes, reached for a tissue and blew her nose, regaining her composure.  “I knew it was wrong; and if there had been one person there to say don’t do it, I really don’t think I would ever have entered that building.  But there was no one there, and so I walked in—with Nels—carrying a baby; and I walked out with him several hours later carrying a void in my life that nobody—nothing—has ever been able to fill.  It’s not that I haven’t been happy.  I am happy, and I’ve lived a very full life; but from that day to this, I’ve carried a memory that only brings sadness whenever it surfaces for whatever reason. I miss that child, more than I could ever begin to tell you.”

Joan Herring looked at Nancy, now facing her, and went on, a wan smile on her face.  “I remember once looking out the window and seeing the neighbor’s puppy playing on the grass. I watched him, but I couldn’t fully enjoy it, because I was imagining myself kneeling at that same window, pointing out the puppy to a chubby toddler beside me.  That was a long time ago, and I’ve had many, many experiences like that since then.  Now the pictures in my mind are sometimes of a young man, sometimes a young woman, starting a family.”  She sighed and wiped her eyes again.  “But there are no children.”  Her voice succumbed to her grieving again.  “Nels and I wiped out an entire family—our own son’s or daughter’s.”

“Mom!” Nancy gently chided.

“I’m sorry, honey, but it’s true.”  Her lips twisted into a sad smile.  “Sometimes I feel bitter that God didn’t have someone protesting for my sake at that clinic so long ago.  He’s omniscient; why didn’t He spare me the regret and the remorse? Why didn’t He spare my child?”

“But, Mom, He wasn’t the one…” Nancy gently objected.

“I know, I know.  He wasn’t; I was—we were.”  She looked down resignedly, taking Nancy’s hand in her own, and sighed a long sigh. “Well, you asked me what I thought about abortion.  That’s what I think of it.”  She took a deep, audible breath, her diaphragm vibrating with subsiding emotion. She swallowed.  “What do you think of it?”

Nancy answered softly, pensively. “A lot, lately, and I’ve actually been considering going out to the women’s clinic in Rock Pier to protest. I wanted to see what you’d think about my doing that.”

Joan Herring looked at her daughter thoughtfully for a very long moment.  “Go, honey.  Go,” she finally answered.  “Maybe you can save just one child and spare his parents from having to carry around for the rest of their lives a mourning that you have to hide—one you yourself signed up for.”  She nodded her head now.  “Go for it, honey.  Maybe I’ll join you one day.  I’ve often thought I’d like to go to an abortion place on the anniversary date of our baby’s death, but I haven’t yet.”

“When was it, Mom?”

“January 15.  He—or she—would have been twenty-seven this year.”

“Why haven’t you gone?”

Joan Herring sighed.  “Maybe because I still carry bitterness; I don’t know.  I want to do it as a memorial to our child. Wouldn’t it be good if what our child and Nels and I went through could save someone else from the same fate?”

Nancy looked at her mother, her face full of empathy.

“Nancy, I have to ask you:  Will you forgive me, sweetheart?”

“Of course, Mom.”  Nancy vainly tried to blink back more tears as she stood up from the floor and bent over to embrace her mother.

“I love you so much, honey.  Imagine how different my life would be without you—I can’t even go there.”

“Satan comes to kill, steal and destroy, Mom. But he doesn’t get the last word in the lives of God’s people—or in their deaths.  I am going to start going to the clinic.  I had originally thought I wanted to go because I felt like no one was defending those little innocent human beings.  Now I’m going for the mothers and dads, too.  But most of all, I will be going for my brother or sister.  One day I’ll meet him—or her.”  She hugged her mother again and whispered, “It will be a wonderful reunion, won’t it?”

Joan Herring smiled.  “Yes, dear.”  She tightened her hug as she whispered, “Thank you for this time.  It’s been very…helpful to me.”

And so it was that Nancy Herring became a “picketer.”  Rain or shine, she was determined to spend her early Saturday mornings at the abortion clinic.  Usually she accompanied Michael; but if he was unable to go, she drove herself. 

……….

May seemed particularly hot to Patrice Hamlin, but she didn’t spend much time thinking about the weather.  Her pre-med classes were demanding, and it was hard keeping her head above water, what with her part-time job as a medical assistant in addition to her studies.  Marc seemed to understand, knowing how much her career meant to her.  They hadn’t resolved the pregnancy issue, although Patrice knew that Marc thought they had.  She was now almost six months pregnant and showing despite her best efforts to disguise the fact.

Patrice was carefully watching her diet, but she was just as diligently keeping herself from bonding with the fetus she was carrying.  She felt bad for Marc, who wanted this baby so much—although she didn’t know whether it was just for the child’s sake, or perhaps to strengthen the bond between the two of them as well.

One thing she knew for sure: she was not going to let herself be persuaded or manipulated into doing anything that would compromise the plans she’d carefully guarded for several years.  She had seen a woman’s goals shipwrecked in her own mother’s life and how those failed goals had produced a failure of a woman.  She had no plans to repeat her mother’s mistakes, Marc or no Marc.  However, the issue of Marc was a big one.  Patrice wasn’t sure she could snag another man like Marc, and she didn’t want to lose him.  She planned to become a notable doctor—perhaps even a famous one.  A handsome, motivated man like Marc at her side would certainly not be a detriment.  Besides, she really did care for Marc—more than any other person alive.

Patrice was an economist at heart—a pragmatist.  Out of all the medical fields she had considered, fetal tissue seemed to be most promising to her as an avenue of progressive social change.  When she thought about all those aborted fetuses, and thought, too, about people with failing body parts, she couldn’t think of anything more symbiotic: fresh new tissue, being discarded, and failing old tissue which sent otherwise-functioning people early to their graves.  Then there were the victims of trauma who could perhaps regain normal body function if there were only a sufficiency of donors.

Now, on her way to work, she patted her stomach, its growth impossible to hide now, and thought of how many people could be helped by her gift of this fetus inside her.

But what about Marc? She knew she would have to act on her own, surreptitiously, because he would never agree to an abortion at this point.   A wry half-smile crossed her face.  How glad she was that Marc had given his word not to mention her pregnancy to anyone. The secrecy was to play a key role in the success of Patrice’s endeavor to provide a significant piece in fetal tissue research.  She felt movement of the fetus inside her and thought out loud, “I’m carrying new life for a lot of people.”

Patrice was surprised and pleased at her own ability to escape a motherly attachment to this growing organism inside her.   She knew such an attachment could prove devastating to her plans.  She thought of her mother, who had aborted two children, and she was thankful she had that as an example.  To be sure, her mother didn’t have a humanitarian end in mind when she terminated her pregnancies.  But now, in the not-too-distant future, women could abort their babies with more peace about it, knowing they were bringing life to other people.  Patrice viewed herself as a pioneer to this cause, paving the way for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other women.

She hadn’t mentioned her plan to donate her full-term fetus to research to anyone at all yet.  Her gynecologist, who at first just assumed Patrice would abort the baby early on, now assumed she wanted to keep it.  To that end, Dr. Marbrandt appeared glad about Patrice’s pregnancy.  When Patrice thought of her, a heroic feeling of pride took over.  Dr. Marbrandt had no idea that Patrice was going to play a key role in turning the tide so that all doctors could openly approve abortion of late-term babies.  After all, more mature fetuses would undoubtedly be more useful for society, if people—including doctors—could get past social hang-ups.

Patrice could show the world just how giving a woman could be.  In her own practice she hoped to open within the next ten years or so, she fully intended to hire a therapist trained to help women be more unselfish in their unwanted pregnancies.  Patrice made a mental note that gestation counselors should be in hospitals and ob-gyn offices, and especially in the schools.  Otherwise, stigmas that had become engrained in society would prevail, and women would find it too hard to give their late-term babies—fetuses, she corrected herself—for research.

“But what about Marc?” On this nagging question, Patrice drew a big blank.  The issue was troublesome to Patrice, but she patted her distended stomach and dismissed her uneasiness by remembering how crazy he was about her and assuring herself that he’d come around.  “I’ll just tell him to remember how much fun we’ll have getting me pregnant again.” She smiled at this idea and left the subject, feeling a bit more confident about it than she had in a long time.

……….

Most Thursday evenings now, Carla attended Rock Church, but on Sunday mornings, she continued to drive to her hometown to attend church with her mother and Susie still at home.  For one thing, it freed Michael and Nancy from having to include her in their plans after church.   Although she knew they didn’t mind having her with them, especially now, since she had an even tighter bond with them through mutual faith, she also knew they could function quite well without her.

Carla now understood more fully how Nancy had been so strongly attracted to Michael.  Indeed, she had continued looking around at TNC herself, but nobody particularly captured her attention.   Sig hadn’t made any further attempt to contact her, and this didn’t bother Carla in the least.  Somewhere, she was convinced, God had set aside just the right man for her to love for a lifetime.

Approximately a month after Don Whitten spoke at Rock Church, Carla began joining Michael and Nancy on Saturday mornings in their protest at the abortion clinic.  Carla’s motivation was almost a compulsion, stemming from her telling God that evening, “Here I am; send me.”  Since that time, her life had changed significantly.  For one, she had begun seriously reading the Bible.  She wondered at how this book could suddenly “come alive” to her, and how all of a sudden it so aptly applied to her personal circumstances. She began to understand how Michael could treasure it as much as it seemed he had for the last several years. She also no longer wondered at how Nancy could be so sweet and still be sincere: it was because her heart was open to the influence of God in her life.

At times, Carla found her own conversion almost incredible.  Although on the surface there seemed to be no change in the routine of everyday living and working in Rock Pier, her life had most definitely taken a unique turn.

……….

“Mom?” Midge called, bursting through the back door on a Saturday afternoon and looking and listening for her mother’s presence.

“Hi, Sweetheart!  I’m in here.”

Midge turned toward the laundry room.

“I’m tired!” Midge yawned, walking up to her mother with her arms outstretched for a hug.

“I’ll bet you are.  How was work?”

“Not bad.”  She grinned at her mother.  “Hey, it pays the bills—about a fourth of them, anyway.”  There was a droll look on her face.  Lou ignored the comment, focused instead on how tired her daughter appeared.

“Did you sit down today?”

“Yeah, most of the time.  Jill Fletcher came in about 2:30, and we talked for a while. She’s nicer than I’ve given her credit for.  She asked if I was keeping the baby.”

“And…”

“I told her I still didn’t know.  What should I have said?” Midge demanded, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

“I don’t know, honey.  But it’s getting later and later for you to make a decision.”

“It’s not like I’ve forgotten about it!” Midge countered.  “Believe me; it’s on my mind all the time.”

“Do you have any leaning one way or the other?”

Midge heaved a huge sigh, blowing out her breath in a combination of exasperation and bewilderment.  “Well, I guess I feel this baby deserves a father, and I can’t give him that.  But I also know I can give him a mother’s love, and I don’t have a guarantee that another woman will do that, even if she’s married and there’s a father already in place.”

Lou gave her daughter a sympathetic look, but she didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want my baby to feel rejected, Mom.”

“Of course you don’t, honey.  Let’s sit down and have a cup of tea.”  Lou put two mugs of water into the microwave.  “You still have some time, Midge.  But you know a decision as important as this one shouldn’t be made when you’re tired.  How about if for one week you go to bed a half hour earlier and get up a half hour earlier, and every morning do some serious thinking about it.  No one will interrupt you, and you’ll be rested rather than tired.  If you set aside an entire week to think carefully about this, I’m confident you’ll come up with the right answer.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”  Midge’s mouth pursed in an approving expression as she nodded her head.

“You know your dad and I are here for you, sweetie. We’ll be praying you make the right decision, and we’ll assume it’s the right one, whatever you finally decide by the end of the week.”

“OK.  But are you sure you guys wouldn’t mind having a screaming baby in the house?”

Lou chuckled.  “No, honey.  We won’t mind.  Whatever you decide we are one hundred percent behind you.”  She nodded encouragingly to her daughter.  “You’ve matured a lot.”

Midge sighed.  “Thanks, Mom.  I’m trying.”

Lou tweaked her daughter’s cheek.  “I’ve gotta get supper started.”

One by one, decisions were being made and problems ironed out, and Midge found herself thinking of the words Bonnie Chadwell had shared with her mother.  She whispered them now as her mother walked over to the pantry. “All is well.”  This time it was more fact than faith, it seemed, and that was good, she decided, patting her stomach tenderly. 

Ten days later as she ate supper with her folks, Midge announced, “OK, I’ve made my decision.”  She laid her fork carefully on her plate and looked first at her dad and then at her mother.  “Thanks for not bugging me about it.  I’ve thought about it from every angle, weighing every factor I can think of.”

Lou Ferguson looked at her daughter and then at John, waiting for him to react.

“And?” John prompted.

Midge sighed.  “I’m going to make adoption plans through ‘Springs of Life.’”  Tears glistened in her eyes, and she choked out the words.  “I don’t want to, but I know it’s the right thing to do.  This baby needs a dad.  I want him to be part of an ideal family, with a stay-at-home mom at least until he’s school age.”

“Can you request that?” John asked.

“I think so, and Tanya Salvadore says I can request a Christian home, too.”

“That would be wonderful.”  Lou reached over and took Midge’s hand in both hers.  “We’re proud of you, honey.”

There was a look of concern on John’s face. “Will you be able to visit the baby?”

“Tanya said it seems to work well for the biological mother to visit about once every two or three months—or at least exchange pictures.”

“There’s a big difference between pictures and visiting, Midge.”

“I know, Dad.  We’ll work out the details.”

“When does the baby learn that you’re the biological mother?”  John asked.

“I guess as soon as the new parents are OK with it.  Supposedly the child adjusts early to having two mothers—one who is with him all the time, and one who visits him regularly.  That way he gets used to seeing me and doesn’t feel rejected.  Plus, he grows up knowing the reason for his adoption early on, instead of wondering why…” Midge spoke with difficulty, stifling tears, and was unable to finish.  The three sat in silence for a while until Midge’s face broke into a smile.

“I can feel the baby kicking,” she announced, putting her hand on her belly.

“Oh, may I feel?”  Lou asked as she jumped up and bent over beside Midge, who placed her mother’s hand where she could feel the baby.  Lou grinned, looking at her daughter.  “This baby is strong!”

“Strong and sweet and very loveable,” Midge smiled, giving way to the tears that now streamed down her face.  “Dad?”  Midge looked at her father, and he seemed to know her unspoken question.

“Sweetheart, we told you we’d support you in whatever decision you made.”  He began nodding his head slowly but decisively.  “I think you’ve made the right choice.  No matter how much we love your child, we can’t be the father he needs, and every child deserves a father.  That’s God’s plan, after all.  But even if our first grandchild lives apart from us, even far away from us, we’ll always love your little boy— even if we seldom get to see him—just because he’s yours.  He smiled reassuringly.  “Somehow I’m confident God will let us spend time with him down the road. We’re proud of you, Midge.”

“Thanks, Dad.”  Midge’s voice was sincere.  “You two are the best parents I could ever wish for.”  She sighed, new tears surfacing, and stood up.  “I’m blessed.”

“Well, we’re blessed, too, honey,” Lou replied. “Let me give you a hug before I clear the dishes.”

Midge obliged and then walked over to where her father still sat, leaning down to give him a pat on his shoulder and a peck on his cheek.  “I love you, Dad.”

John Ferguson stood up and wrapped his arms in a tight hug around her.  “That little guy is going to make some couple whoppin’ happy.”

“I know.”  Midge picked up an armload of dishes from the dining room table and walked into the kitchen.  “The chicken was great, Mom.  It was so nice to eat in the dining room for a change.”  She gently pulled her mother away from the sink.  “Would it be okay for me finish up in here while you and Dad maybe go for a drive?” she asked, adding, ” I’d kind of like to be by myself.”.

“OK, honey.  John?”

“Let’s go.”

A half hour later, Midge walked into her bedroom and reached under the bed for a shopping bag.  She opened it, pulling out a soft blue receiving blanket.  She held it up for a moment, then grabbed it to her chest and held it tightly there.

“I love you so much, little precious baby,” she whispered.  Then she knelt down by her bed, still clutching the blanket.  “God,” she prayed, “please take care of my baby.  Give him parents like mine.”  Her eyes welled with tears.  “And please let me be a blessing to him.  Please—all my life.”  She waited as if expecting a reply.  In another moment, she got up, and with a smile bravely sought to dispel the tears. She took a deep breath and said confidently, “I know all is well!”

Every evening for the past two weeks Patrice had been practically fawning in her effort to please him.  Yet there was something not quite right, he felt certain. She looked disarmingly pretty in her loose-fitting outfits, and Marc loved to feel the baby move when Patrice let him put his hand on her belly.  The baby was an active little one; that was for sure.  When they were alone in their apartment, Patrice dropped the disguise of her pregnancy and wore stretch clothes, and sometimes from across the room, Marc could detect the baby’s movement when one side of Patrice’s stomach went flat and a hill rose on the other side.  At times she would even wince when the baby kicked.  Marc wondered what their child would be like. They now knew it was a boy, but would he have a noisy personality or a quiet one?  Would he have Patrice’s brown eyes or would they be blue like his own?

Patrice didn’t seem to share his curiosity.  In fact, her comments about the baby were summed up in her repeated response now so familiar to Marc: “It’s healthy, and that’s the important thing.”

Marc had considered a plethora of names and, after first narrowing it down to three, had chosen the name Trent Patrick.  The choice had been totally his own, because Patrice had never come up with any names at all or even offered her opinion regarding the three names he had suggested.  In fact, whenever he had wanted to talk about names, she’d found some way to dismiss the subject.  This bothered Marc, because Patrice was a fairly opinionated person.  It wasn’t like her to leave such an important decision to him.

Marc reasoned that Patrice had been so busy with school and her job that she had never had time to get excited about this pregnancy, and her nurturing instinct just hadn’t kicked in yet.  But its prevailing absence was becoming more and more disturbing to Marc.  Why couldn’t the mother of his child share his anticipation?  He had to admit that she certainly did not seem to.  She hadn’t even signed up for the childbirth preparation classes.  He himself had taken the trouble to find out the particulars of time and place.

He sighed to himself.  Something wasn’t right.  Marc had actually considered the possibility of there being another man involved.  Still, he couldn’t really believe such a thing; Patrice did seem to care a lot for him. It was just the baby…

Marc was surprised to find Patrice’s car gone and the back door locked when he arrived at his apartment.  Usually she was waiting for him in the living room on Fridays when he came home from work.  It had become their routine, a time in which they would sit and talk for about an hour.  Together they would make plans for the weekend as to how they could enjoy some time together and still achieve personal goals.  Neither Marc nor Patrice had ever forfeited this ritual.  In fact, it seemed the cornerstone of their relationship. Marc fixed two iced teas and took them to the living room.  Patrice usually put lemon twists in them, but he didn’t feel like going to any extra trouble, not sure that she’d be around to appreciate his effort.

Sprawling in his easy chair, Marc indulged in reverie. He grinned to himself briefly.  It was just as well he enjoy this quiet solo moment now; there would be a demanding little toddler in this very room a year from now, and few moments to just sit and unwind.  Not that he would mind, he thought, a smile surfacing again as he pictured in his mind’s eye a little boy trying to climb up his leg onto his lap.

Lately he had purposely been watching new parents whenever he had the opportunity—mostly in restaurants.  Those little curtain climbers could really be a handful.  He had noticed in his observations that parents seemed most gratified when the toddler—or baby—was sound asleep in their arms. Now, as he sat in his chair, Marc imagined holding his own little Trent.  He knew it would take a lot of energy to keep him happy and occupied.  But he was sure he would enjoy it, because being with this little person would be investing in himself—entertaining and encouraging someone of his own flesh and blood.

Marc had thought about it and was pretty sure that the more he could and would invest in child-raising—love, time, patience—the more he’d get out of it.  He was ready to give of himself whatever it took to be that wonderful father he wanted to be.  But it was not just for the little child; it was also for Patrice.  He couldn’t wait to show her how much he cared for her by doing his best in taking care of this little body that was flesh of her flesh, too.  His involvement in the caring of their newborn would bring to bear a new dimension of his love for her.  Theirs would be a happy little family, and frankly, he couldn’t wait—despite the inevitable lack of sleep and the countless diaper changes ahead for them both.  

……….

Marc awakened from his unintentional nap to the sound of the door opening.  Patrice hurried into the room before he could get out of his chair.

“Sorry I’m late, hon. I stopped by the doctor’s office.”

“Are you OK?”

“Oh, yeah…well, no, actually, I’m not.”  She sighed, picking up the glass of iced tea, and sitting down on the end of the couch closest to his chair.  Looking at him directly, she raised both eyebrows and said deliberately, “Marc, I don’t want this baby.”  She waited, as if bracing for his reaction.

Totally caught off guard, Marc just looked at her, finally fixing his gaze on her protruding stomach for a moment before he spoke.  His words were more deliberately enunciated than hers, and his eyes, at first reflecting surprise and astonishment, now steeled.

“What exactly do you mean?”

Patrice’s eyebrows assumed a pleading position.  She was unable to lean forward, given the size of her stomach, so she put a foot out and leaned her whole body forward a little closer to him.

“Remember when we were in Mazatlan and I told you it wasn’t very good timing?”

“Yes, but I thought… ”  He started to speak, but Patrice interrupted him.

“I know what you thought, and I let you think it, because I hadn’t decided myself.   But I know now that I don’t want to throw away all I’ve worked for, just to be a mother at this particular time. Maybe a few years from now…” She looked at Marc to check how he was taking her words, partly in concern for him, and partly to determine how to proceed.  She had known this would be difficult, and she was trying to remember the advice of Dr. Lennox .  He had told her the less said the better.

In her hesitation, Marc replied  in a level tone. “This is my baby, too, Patrice.  I think I should have some say as to what happens to him.”  Patrice didn’t respond immediately, and Marc continued.  “Frankly, I think it takes a lot of nerve to wait until now to tell me you don’t want it.  Why don’t you want it?”  Disbelief was all over his face.

Patrice’s voice was almost icy.  “Marc, I already told you why.  And I did want you to have some say in it, but really the decision is mine.  This baby has lived off me—not you—for many months. I’m the one who’s had to change my wardrobe to accommodate a bigger and bigger stomach, and I’m the one who’s had to carry around the extra pounds the past few months.  It really is ultimately my decision, don’t you think?”

She asked the question with a certain haughtiness that Marc had never encountered in her before. This took him by surprise, and the prospect of losing his baby left him with a sudden sense of desperation that felt strange to him as well.  He was used to being in control of his life.  How could it be that he was having to entertain the possibility that his baby would climb up the knee of some other man—a total stranger—and cling to him instead?  How could it possibly happen when Marc wanted so much to be the father himself?  It was a nightmare actually happening.

“Patrice,” he responded, “if I had nothing to do with this baby’s existence, there would be no baby.  And for every trial you’ve been through these eight months, I’ve done everything in my power to help you and take care of you and the baby.  For you to say it’s your baby is ridiculous.  It’s arrogant.”  He turned his head away in disgust, his mind drowning in disbelief.  He took a deep breath of air and let it out in an angry sigh.

Patrice edged her way back into the couch and sat very straight despite her distended belly.  “I do not want this to become an issue between us, Marc, but I really cannot—I mean cannot—handle a baby right now.  I have planned my life since the time I was a kid in junior high, and motherhood”—she lifted her eyebrows in a mockingly angelic way—“doesn’t happen until I’m thirty-four.”

Marc’s mouth was agape not only from her words, but from her audacious attitude.  “Thirty-four? Why in the world did you let yourself get pregnant?  And why didn’t you clue me in on how adamantly you felt about this?  I thought we communicated better than that.”  He jumped out of his chair, his jaw set. Taking a few steps away from Patrice as if to cool off, he stopped, turned around, and looked at her, saying nothing for a moment.  Finally he spoke, evenly and coldly.  “This is deceit.”

“Not really.” Patrice’s tone suggested she still hadn’t laid all her cards on the table.  “From the beginning, I figured if I got pregnant, I could just abort the baby. Then, after Mazatlan when I realized you really wanted to be a dad, I didn’t know what to think.”  She paused to take a deep breath, raising her eyebrows in a look of helplessness.  “So I just didn’t do anything at all.  I’m sure the doctor figured I’d decided not to abort.  Well, the baby—the fetus—got bigger and bigger.”  She leaned back on the couch and inhaled slowly, resting the back of her head upon her hands while she rolled her head to look across the ceiling from one end to the other.  Then she exhaled loudly, as though she carried the world on her shoulders.  “I guess I waited too long, and I’m sorry, but I can’t have this baby sack my life, Marc.”

She got up from the couch with difficulty, Marc not helping her, and walked over to the window.  “I know how much you want it, but even if we separated and you hired a full-time nanny, there’s no way I could escape a draining emotional attachment.  What’s more, I’m not sure you wouldn’t encourage it—my emotional attachment, I mean. I can’t handle that right now.  So it’s not plausible for you to have the baby either.  As for adoption, I’m very certain I couldn’t walk away free and clear from that scenario, and I just can’t afford to have a huge distraction in my life right now.”

“What are you saying, Patrice?”  A horrible realization was dawning on Marc.  “If you don’t want the baby, and you don’t want me to have him, adoption’s the only alternative.”

“No, Marc.”  Patrice turned away, and now it was her jaw that tightened.  “I can have an abortion.”

“What!”  Marc lurched toward Patrice and grabbed her by the arm, glowering at her.  “Abort the baby?  He’s ready to be born!  Are you insane?”

“No, I’m thinking very clearly,” Patrice responded, calmly and determinedly removing Marc’s grip.  “Try to be open-minded, Marc.  This fetus could potentially help a lot of people with serious diseases—incurable up to this point.  We’re gaining so much ground in fetal research.  But as of now, we trash so many aborted fetuses in this country every day, and all the while people are crying out for donors.”  She walked to the kitchen to put more ice in her tea, while Marc stood, without moving, speechless, in shock, his head spinning from the barrage of thoughts and images crowding their way to the forefront of his mind—thoughts of anger, of hope stolen away, of helplessness, but especially of compassion for his unborn son.  Incredulous, he stood silent.  Patrice came back into the room and walked over to where Marc was standing.

“Please, darling, you have to understand.  For a long time I’ve had this wonderful vision of women, who have already chosen abortion, waiting long enough to allow their fetuses to develop fully before aborting them.  That way, other people struggling with infirmities can get the organs and tissue they need—healthy tissue, Marc.  But somebody has to forge the way and set a precedent.  We could do that, Marc—you and I.  It could capture the attention of the whole world, honey, and it would usher in a new direction in medical care.  There’s no better example of unselfishness that I can imagine than carrying a fetus for nine months and then giving it up to help dying, hurting people.”

She gingerly reached to put her arms around his waist, but stopped when he turned to her with an angry glare, pushing her arms away from him.

“You make me want to vomit,” he said, slowly emphasizing each word.  “When did you turn into a…a…a fiend?”

“Marc, please.” Patrice took a step backwards in surprise.

“That baby you’re carrying is a human being, Patrice.  You don’t own him: he’s his own person.  How would you like to donate your heart?  Or liver? Or brain?

“That’s not the same,” she protested.

“Yes, it is, except you’ve had a chance to use yours for twenty-seven years.  You see more value in the death of our baby than in his life.  Well, I don’t.  I see plenty of value in his life.  He’s my child, Patrice—he’s our child!  If you don’t feel like you can raise him, I’ll raise him.  I’ll find a nanny to love him and care for him while I’m at work.”

“No, Marc,” Patrice interrupted, her voice adamant.  “I’ve already told you.  I would end up caring for him, because I’d be too emotionally attached, unless you and I broke off our relationship totally and you moved far away.”  She grabbed his open shirt collar in each of her hands and pleaded, “I love you, Marc.  Do you want this baby more than you want me?”

Marc looked at Patrice and blew out a long sigh.  He reluctantly took Patrice in his arms.

“Then let’s get an adoption arranged.  Some couple’s in for a wonderful life, even if it’s not us.  I’ll find an adoption agency.”

Patrice’s exasperation showed.  “Marc, I told you already.  I can’t handle the adoption thing.  What if our baby ends up with some creeps who molest him?  Or maybe they seem like really good people at first, and really want our baby, until they have one or two of their own naturally. Then our child takes second place to the natural siblings.”  She kept talking even as she saw the look of protest growing on Marc’s face.  “If he never knew he was adopted, it would be one thing, but that just never happens.  Adopted kids always find out, and then they have to live with the nagging question of ‘Why did my mother give me up?’”

“A valid question in our case.”

“Yes, it’s valid,” Patrice answered, smoothly.  She walked over to the side table and unconsciously rearranged the bouquet of roses Marc had brought home to her two days earlier.  “It would be different if I were alone and destitute, but I’m neither. I just want to pursue the career I’ve dreamed of, and a baby doesn’t fit in with the plan.”  She turned back toward him and cocked her head, adding, “Abortion does.”

When Marc said nothing, Patrice lifted her hands, palms up. “I know I’m being selfish.  I admit it.”

“Yes,” Marc agreed.  “You’ve got that right.  Totally selfish.”

“And…” Patrice was not through, and she obviously didn’t appreciate Marc’s interjection.  “And that’s why I want to donate the baby for medical research to help somebody else—to make it not so selfish.”

Marc stood shaking his head, aghast.  “Patrice!”

“Please don’t interrupt me. I’ve thought this through and I’ll tell you how I’ve come to this decision.  Just don’t interrupt me.”

Marc grabbed Patrice by the arm a second time, but this time in a grip so tight that she winced and looked up at him in surprise.  “This is my baby you’re talking about—not just yours,” he exclaimed, incredulous. I won’t let you ‘donate the baby for medical research!’  I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.  This is a child—my child!”

“It’s not like I’m selling him.  That’s the whole point.  I’m going to donate him—it.  This baby—this fetus, I mean—will be the source of life and health for several people. It will not have been conceived in vain, and it’ll be the first fully developed fetus to be donated, which might even preserve a place for it in history.”

Marc stared at Patrice, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“Oh, Marc, close your mouth! You look like you just met the devil.”

“I think I have.  What’s wrong with you, Patrice?  Have you flipped?  You’re not rational,” Marc responded.

“I couldn’t be more rational.  I’m thinking logically instead of emotionally.  I’m letting my mind, not my heart, run the show right now.  Don’t you think it’s tempting to go the way of a normal girl and have the baby?  I could alter my plans to accommodate a child we’d both be crazy about, just like the rest of the world.  But somebody’s got to be courageous and blaze the trail for a changing society that has evolving needs.  It’s time women carried their babies to term before aborting them. It’s a sacrifice to stretch out your body and go through nine months of pregnancy.  But if the baby’s going to die anyway, why not let it develop as much as possible and then let it be an aid in medical research?  It would be such a benefit to society.”

“I can’t believe you’re serious,” Marc exclaimed.  “You are, aren’t you?  This is nauseating, Patrice.  When did you start thinking like this?  It’s inhuman.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, Dr. Lennox was surprised when I first explained my idea of a ‘pioneer case’ to him, but now he thinks it’s brilliant.”  Patrice looked defiantly proud, and Marc’s mouth opened again in an expression of revulsion.  At the same time, his face was a pathetic mixture of shock and desperation.

“I can’t handle this.” He headed for the door, retrieving his keys from his pocket.

“Are you leaving—without saying goodbye?”  Patrice’s voice was chiding, but there was no response from Marc as he strode out the door.

……….

Marc jumped into his car and pulled almost violently out of the garage and away from the curb.  He gunned the engine only to slam on the brakes at the stoplight two blocks down.  When the light changed, he turned left, heading down a wide thoroughfare towards the open country west of town.  His jaw was set and his mind was in shock.  It was as if all his emotion had been turned to stone in his body’s effort to deal with the information it was being forced to process.  The speedometer soared to eighty, then eighty-five and almost ninety before he woke up, as it were, from the stony trance.  Suddenly, acknowledging the danger he was putting himself and others in, he let up on the gas pedal, looking for a place to pull over and collect his wits.

Six or seven miles down the road he slowed and stopped on the side of the road, climbed out of the car, and went around to the other side of it so he could keep his face turned away from the eyes of passing motorists.  He felt overwhelmed with a dreadful foreboding.

“Warner!  I’ll call Warner.”  He pulled out his phone and looked up the number of a lawyer friend of his. He started dialing, but canceled the call, suddenly remembering he’d promised Patrice not to tell anyone of her pregnancy.

An eerie light dawned in his mind.  “That… witch,” he thought bitterly.  “No wonder she didn’t want anyone to know she was pregnant.  She never intended to keep this baby, even if her ‘plan’ failed and she had to resort to adoption.”  Marc’s head was swimming.  He had come to love this unborn child he’d never seen.  How he had enjoyed feeling him move in Patrice’s womb!  The little stretches and kicks were oftentimes so strong that Marc had been concerned for Patrice.  His words had always been gentle at those times, toward his child as well as Patrice—the two most important people in his life:  “Hey, buddy, let up!  You’re hurting your mom.”  Patrice had always seemed responsive to the attention.  How could she possibly think of having this baby killed and his heart and brain cut out and given to someone else?

He suddenly lurched toward the field in front of him and gave way to overwhelming nausea.  When he had retched and then spit out as much of the vile taste as he could, tears of anger escaped.  He brushed them off with the back of his hand, flaying the air angrily as he did so.  He felt a compulsion to pound or hit or kick something or someone as hard as he could, as he thought about how unfair it was. A helpless little baby—a perfectly healthy little baby—his baby—was going to be killed, if Patrice had her way.  And he himself—the father—had never even been consulted.