She set the canisters down, crossed the room and poured a cup of coffee. Carrying the coffee with her, she returned to the worktable, with the familiar sense of walking from present to past, from today back to yesterday. From sorrow back to joy?
She was quite pleased with the way she had handled today’s accident at the shop, but she was usually stoic throughout emergencies of any kind. When the dust cleared, that’s when she would allow herself to collapse. That’s how she had handled news of Steve’s tragic murder, the funeral, the media attention and the process of taking in her two granddaughters to raise, even reopening the shop. Two months later, when life had seemingly returned to some sense of normalcy, few people had any idea that she was coming apart or that her grief was still so raw that it swept over her in waves as spontaneous and uncontrollable as they were unpredictable.
When her arms and legs began to tingle, she sensed another episode about to unfold. She set her coffee mug down on the counter. Just in time. In the next heartbeat, a tsunami of grief crashed through the protective wall she had built around her heart. Deep choking sobs filled the room, and she wrapped her arms around her waist. Tears fell. So many tears. How many tears could be left in the deep well of hurt she carried within her? How long would it be before grief would relent and let her live in peace instead of sneaking inside her heart and slicing open old wounds?
“Steve.”
She whispered her son’s name and groaned. He was her baby. Her dream child. A loving, gifted man. A doting father. A Christian who lived and loved his faith, even when abandoned by the woman he had loved and married.
“Steve.”
He did not deserve to have his life snuffed out by a bullet small enough to fit in the palm of a child’s hand. He had been an innocent victim, shot while performing the mundane task of getting cash from an ATM, in broad daylight, in the middle of center city Philadelphia. No attempt at robbery had been made. Amazingly, no witnesses had stepped forward.
Steve was simply here one moment and gone the next. His children did not deserve to be orphans before they were even old enough to fully understand that once Daddy got to heaven, he could not come back. Would not want to come back. She choked back tears. She did not deserve to lose him, either. She should not have lost him. In the normal cycle of life, a mother died before her son.
“Steve.”
Her legs weakened. She grabbed onto the counter for support as she fell to her knees. Head bowed, she felt grief fuel the nugget of anger buried deep within her soul.
“Why?” she cried. “Why Steve? Why my son? Why?”
She drew in deep gulps of air and felt her tears flood her cheeks. She tossed back her head and stared up toward the heavens. “He was a good, good man. He was my son. You had no right to take him. No right!” she cried.
She listened to the echo of her words. She was so shocked by the harsh tone of anger in her voice that she caught her breath. Ashamed, yet too heartsick to pray for forgiveness, she concentrated on trying to breathe normally again and waited as her heart finally stopped racing. She held very still, hoping the grief would ebb and the anger would subside. Waiting. Listening to the sound of each breath she drew. Feeling each heavy beat of her heart.
And in the stillness, a gentleness surrounded her. She opened her heart to the Source of all love and forgiveness, yearning for the gift of acceptance and the peace only He could bring to her through His Son.
She bowed her head and gripped the counter even harder. “But the cross is so heavy, Lord,” she whispered and let her troubles spill from her heart. “I can’t pray. I can’t eat or sleep. Thanks to the media, I can’t get the image of my son’s wrapped body lying on the ground out of my mind. John’s buried himself in his work, and my shop…”
Her litany of troubles continued to pour forth until she was hoarse and her mouth was dry. Exhausted, she let go of the counter, leaned back on her haunches and closed her eyes. “I’m just a mess. My whole life is a mess. My marriage, my house, my shop—”
She hiccuped and wiped her lips. “And if I really want to win the whining award, I should mention my hair, too.” She shook herself and got back to her feet. She reached for her coffee mug, but the echo of Reverend Fisher’s words when she met with him last week for counseling stilled her hand. “Prayer can be just having a conversation with God. Talk to Him. He’ll listen.”
She repeated her pastor’s words aloud and wondered if today she might have taken the first step toward prayer. “There are no accidents in life. Only opportunities to open our hearts and accept His will as our own,” she whispered, relying once again on the wisdom the pastor had shared with her.
Barbara was waiting outside the elementary school at dismissal time with other parents and caregivers. The school crossing guard, Emmett Byrd, had his large stop sign in his hand, ready to freeze traffic on Park Avenue for his little birds who were almost ready to fly the nest again. Now seventy-six, he had been the crossing guard at Park Elementary since his retirement from the military some thirty-odd years ago, and his devotion to the children entrusted to his care was still as strong and unwavering as he was.
She scanned the crowd. Mostly women. Mostly younger women. Of course. She shook away memories of waiting for Rick and Steve all those many years ago. Rick had always been the first child from his class to rush out the door at the end of the day. Steven had been the last, dragging home a schoolbag filled with schoolbooks and books from the school library.
When the dismissal bell rang, she cupped her hand at her brow and watched the children break rank and fly out the door and down across the lawn. They slowed a bit, once they passed the principal, and again when they either reached the crossing guard or whomever had come to take them home.
The little ones in kindergarten were first to be sent home by their teacher, but there were only a handful. With so many mothers working full-time today, she assumed the rest had stayed for the after-school program. She could have kept her shop open until five, as always, and signed Jessie and Melanie up for the program, too. Unlike many other women, however, she had the economic freedom, especially with John still working, to make the choice to shorten her shop hours and care for the girls after school rather than have them stay with strangers.
When the first-grade teacher emerged, Jessie was first in line behind Miss Addison, holding hands with her sister. Barbara watched the girls and caught her breath as they waited for the teacher’s permission to leave. Jessie and Melanie were fraternal twins, as different in looks as they were in temperament. Jessie was built tall and lean, like her father, with long, poker-straight brown hair she wore in a single braid that coiled halfway to her waist. With a healthy dollop of freckles that spilled across her cheeks and sparkling brown eyes, she was the classic image of the all-American little girl. She was forceful, dominant and easily frustrated.
Melanie was the younger of the two by a few minutes. Shorter and a bit plump, with curly brown hair and pale blue eyes, she reminded Barbara of the children’s mother, Angie, who had not made any attempt to contact Steve since the day she walked out three years ago. Even Steve’s murder, widely covered by the media, had not inspired the woman to return or contact any of her relatives, for that matter. But unlike Angie, Melanie was so sweet, an absolute darling who wanted nothing more than to please everyone around her.
The bond between the girls was unlike anything Barbara had ever witnessed with her sons, Steven and Rick, who had been born several years apart. She had a number of books on twins which well-meaning friends had given to her. All she needed was the time to read them.
Maybe tonight?
“Grammy,