She brought her hands back to the keyboard and scanned the profile, gobbling up every small detail, all the pieces that had been missing for so long. Lauren Gibbs was based in Los Angeles, but she’d lived in the Middle East for most of the past three years. She was thirty-six years old with a master’s degree in journalism from University of Southern California. She interned with the Los Angeles Times, and took a position at Time magazine a few years later, when she was just twenty-six.
Emily read the last part out loud again. “Lauren Gibbs has won numerous awards for her gutsy reporting throughout the war in Afghanistan and Iraq. She is credited with helping bring humanitarian assistance to the Middle East and with helping to open a number of orphanages throughout the region. She is single and has no children.”
What? Emily sat back, hard. The last line screamed at her, hurting her as much as if she’d been slapped. The single part was sad, but not surprising. Her mother went to Los Angeles to find the love of her life, and her search apparently turned up nothing. But . . .
No children?
“Is that what you tell people, Mom?” Fresh tears slid down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. The information was a lie, and it made her mad. Lauren Gibbs — Lauren Anderson — did too have a child. She had a daughter. Even if she thought her daughter was dead, she had a child.
Emily stared at her mother’s image, trying to see past the hurt in her eyes. Other people might think the look was stone cold, the way people would expect a hardened journalist to look. But Emily recognized the look. It was the way she, herself, looked when she let circumstances get to her. When going through a tough day without a mom and a dad was more than she could handle, when she saw her teammates scan the sideline and wave to parents and the reminder hit her again. Her parents hadn’t seen her play a single game.
Again she touched the image, tracing her mother’s cheek, her chin. “Was it that easy to let me go? To tell yourself I never existed?” Her tears became sobs, and she drew back from the computer, hanging her head and giving way to a lifetime of sadness and doubt and question marks.
After a few minutes, she heard someone at the door behind her. “Emily?” It was her grandma’s voice, and it was filled with alarm. “What on earth — ”
Emily sat up and looked over her shoulder. Between sobs she said, “I found her. I found my mom.”
Her grandma looked like she might drop from shock. Her face went pale, and she sat on the arm of the sofa, her eyes glued to the computer screen. “How did you — ”
Emily dragged her fists over her eyes and found a trace of control. “Her . . . her name’s Lauren Gibbs.”
“Lauren Gibbs.” Her grandma was on her feet, moving trancelike across the office toward the computer screen. The closer she got the more grief-stricken her face became. She reached toward the image on the screen and a cry left her. “Lauren . . . my baby.” She brought her hand to her mouth and shook her head. Again she reached out, as tears flooded her eyes. “My girl.”
Emily couldn’t stop the sobs. All her life living with her grandparents, they talked about her mother only a handful of times. It was as if they wanted to give her the most normal life possible, and that meant they couldn’t raise her in an environment of sorrow and regret. But now — watching her grandmother — she knew the truth.
The woman had grieved the loss of her daughter every day of her life. Lauren watched her back up a few steps and sit on the other arm of the sofa, the one closest to the screen. Then she dropped her face into her hands and wept, praying out loud as her emotion allowed. “God, You found her for us. Thank you . . . thank you. My baby girl . . . my Lauren.”
Emily went to wrap her arms around her. In every way, her grandmother had been a mother to her, but they both paid the price for being without the woman on the computer screen. Now, their tears were for too many reasons to count. They were for every one of Emily’s missed birthdays and lost milestones, for all her school years and teenage years and soccer tournaments when she had privately ached for her mother. And they were tears of relief. Because they’d found her. Finally.
Emily sniffed and grabbed three quick breaths. “It’s the miracle we prayed for.”
Her grandma uncovered her face and looked at the computer screen again. Beneath her eyes, her mascara had left dark smudges, and her cheeks were red and blotchy. But Emily had never seen her look more joyful. Grandma grabbed two tissues from the office desk and handed one of them to her. They both blew their noses and wiped their eyes some more.
“I still can’t believe it.” Grandma slumped forward and her eyes found Emily’s. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of it a few weeks ago.”
“Me neither.” Emily sniffed, but she felt a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I was standing at the window in my room and I begged God to show me the next clue. You know what He did?”
“What?” Her grandma reached out and the two of them joined hands.
“He reminded me of His names, all His marvelous names.” She made a sound that was more laugh than cry. “All of a sudden, it was so obvious. God has dozens of names, and some people have multiple names too.”
Her grandmother looked drained, as if she wouldn’t have had the energy to stand if she needed to. “What do we do next?”
Emily released her grandma’s hands and sat in the computer chair again. She slid it forward and looked once more at the profile next to her mother’s picture. At the bottom was the thing she was looking for. A link that read, “Contact Lauren Gibbs.” Emily’s breath caught in her throat, and she shook her head. It was too much, but she wasn’t going to stop now.
She clicked the link and an e-mail template opened up. In the top line was her mother’s e-mail address: Lauren.Gibbs@Time Magazine.com. Her hands were still shaky, but she tabbed down to the subject line and typed, “From Emily.” Then she moved the cursor to the text area and drew a deep breath. She’d had a lifetime to think about what to say next. Her fingers began to move across the keyboard, and the words came without any effort at all.
Hi, my name is Emily Anderson, and I’m eighteen years old.
She exhaled and looked at her grandmother. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Her grandmother looked breathless, dazed. “Keep typing.”
“Okay.” Emily looked back at the screen.
I believe that you might be my mother. I’ve looked for you since I was old enough to know how to do it. I live with my grandparents — Bill and Angela Anderson. They’ve looked for you too. But just today I thought about looking under the name Lauren Gibbs, because that’s the name my mother used when she was young and wrote short stories. I found that out a few weeks ago.
I did a search on the Internet, and I found your profile. Please, could you write back and let me know if I have the right person. This is very important to me, obviously. Sincerely, Emily Anderson.
She lifted her hands from the keyboard and scanned the note once more. There were a million more things she wanted to say, but she had to make contact first. Once her mother read the e-mail, they could talk about all the other details. Why she’d changed her name and what she’d been doing for the past nineteen years and whether she’d ever come close to finding Shane Galanter.
She exhaled hard. “That’ll have to do for now.”
Her grandmother made an approving sound. “Send it, honey. Please.”
Emily moved the cursor over the send button and clicked it. In an instant, the e-mail was gone. Emily stared at the screen and thought for a moment. They still had some logistical problems to work through. If her mother was overseas in Afghanistan, then maybe she wouldn’t seethe e-mail right away. Soldiers could get e-mail. Emily knew because she kept in touch with a few guys from high school who were serving overseas. Certainly the same would be true for reporters. Unless she had a different business e-mail address, one that her editors could use for her. The one on the website might only be for readers, and because of that maybe she onl
y checked it when she was stateside.
Emily turned to her grandma and pushed her fears back down. “We need to pray.”
“Yes.” They held hands. “Let’s do that.”
Emily closed her eyes and for a few seconds she was too overwhelmed to speak. After a few moments she found her voice. “Dearest Lord, thank You.” She giggled and it became a sharp breath. “Thank You doesn’t even come close. The miracle we asked for is at hand, God, so please . . . let my mother read the e-mail soon. And direct her to respond to me so we can arrange a meeting.” She paused, her heart full. “I’m doing what You ask, Lord. I’m praying, expecting you to help us. Thanks in advance, God. In Your name, amen.”
When she opened her eyes, her grandma pointed at the screen. “Print me a copy, will you, honey?”
Emily grinned and gave her grandma a quick hug. “Definitely.” When the picture was finished printing, Emily picked it up and handed it over. Then she printed another copy for herself.
“Your papa’s resting downstairs. He’s had so much bad news the past few weeks.” Grandma looked at the single page. “Let’s go give him the best news ever, news he’s waited eighteen years to hear.”
Angela felt weak as she took the stairs, arm in arm with Emily.
Her heart was exploding with a dozen brilliant colors, because this was the day she never really believed would come. They’d found Lauren! After all the private detectives and investigators and phone calls to elected officials, they’d found her the simplest way of all. With information that had been sitting for nearly twenty years a dozen yards away in the garage. They went into the family room and found Bill in his chair, his eyes closed.
“Bill.” She held out the piece of paper. Emily stayed back as Angela approached him.
He opened his eyes and a slow smile filled his face. He held out his hand toward her. “Hi, love.” He looked past her. “Emily, how are you?”
“Good, Papa.” She managed a teary smile.
Angela moved closer to him. “Sweet heart, I have something to show you.” Her voice was shaky. She wouldn’t last long before breaking. She held out the piece of paper. “Emily found Lauren.”
Bill sat up straighter in his chair, but his smile faded. He took the paper and looked at it, his expression frozen. “What . . . how did you . . . ?” He sat there, still, searching the information on the page, and then his chin began to tremble.
From the corner of her eye, Angela saw Emily move into the room and sit on the edge of the sofa. It was hard to remember to breathe. She wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck. “God answered our prayers, Bill. He did.”
Her eyes stung again as she watched him close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. He shook his head, as if to say he couldn’t accept the idea that they’d actually found her. Angela straightened and let him have this moment. It was impossible for any of them to really believe she’d been found. All the searching had culminated in this amazing moment.
And God had allowed it when Bill had only weeks to live. Angela’s heart felt lighter than it had since Lauren left.
Finally Bill lowered his hand and looked at her. “Why didn’t we try that sooner?”
She pressed her finger to his lips and gave a soft shake of her head. “That isn’t important. She’s found, Bill. We can only move forward.”
“But all the lost days and years.” His voice was gravelly, the tears still stuck in his throat. He turned his eyes back to her picture. “Look at her, Angie. She looks so much like you.”
Angela touched the image, willing away the days until they might see her in person, hold her . . . “She’s all grown up.”
“A reporter for Time magazine.” His voice held a new level of concern. “Not married, no children.”
“No children?” Angela’s heart missed a beat. She hadn’t read every word of the profile yet. Now her conscience felt like it was being ripped apart. “It says that?”
“Here.” He pointed to that part of the write-up.
She read it, and the suspicions she’d had since the day Lauren left became realities in as much time as it took her to draw breath. If Lauren wasn’t married, then she hadn’t found Shane. And if she was telling people she had no children, then she had believed that Emily was dead. Wherever she was, she must still believe it.
Angela looked at Emily and her voice seized up again. “Your mother really does think you’re dead, honey.”
A lifetime of sorrow flooded Emily’s eyes. And in that instant, Angela’s grief was so great it nearly knocked her to the floor.
Emily listened to her grandmother. The anger was gone. Her mother wouldn’t mention a dead daughter in a professional bio. Of course not. Now the freedom in her heart was more than she could take in. Freedom and a deep sadness for her mother, who had gone her entire adult life not knowing that she had a daughter growing up in the suburbs of Chicago. No wonder she’d wound up alone and working in Afghanistan and Iraq. Her mother’s passion for writing had taken her to magazine work, but Lauren couldn’t help but feel that her loneliness made her look the way she did. Empty, haunted, so very sad . . .
“Grandma . . . ” She stood and went to her. They fell together in an embrace that needed no words, and Emily leaned back, searching her grandmother’s eyes. “I hurt for her. She’s been so lonely all these years.”
Lonely the same way she was, but Emily didn’t say that. She’d always kept her emptiness to herself, and now her tears told the story, that she’d missed her mother every day since she was old enough to understand that she was missing.
“I’m sorry, Emily.” Her grandma brushed her hair off her forehead. “The two of you never should’ve been apart.”
From a few feet away, Papa held out his hand. “Come here, Em.”
Emily released her grandma and went to him. “Papa . . . ”
“If we would’ve loved our girl better, if we would’ve handled her situation differently, then maybe — ”
“No, Papa.” Emily bent down and kissed his cheek. The loss of so many years together was enormous for all of them. “We can’t go back.” She sucked in a few fast breaths. “Just pray that she’ll write back.”
The evening was slow and deep, filled with stories from the past and shared memories of Emily’s life, moments her mother had missed along the way. Despite her sorrow and loss, by the time they turned in that night, Emily had never felt happier in all her life. Maybe it was because the photo of her mother did something even her faith hadn’t done before. It took away the emptiness inside her. The only thing that marred the moment was watching her papa take slow steps to his bedroom. He was getting sicker; the plans would have to come together soon.
When Emily woke the next morning, she was intent on checking her e-mail and then leaving a message for Shane Galanter at the Top Gun naval air training facility. She was about to run to the office when she heard her grandma finishing a phone call.
“Yes, Doctor. Yes, I understand.” Silence. “I’ll tell him. Yes, we know. Thank you.” The phone call must’ve ended, because Grandma directed her next words to her husband. “They got your latest tests results.” She had fear in her voice. “It’s worse than they thought.”
Emily sat up in bed and blinked the sleep from her eyes. Worse than they thought? She felt a burst of sheer terror, and she headed straight for the office. Her mother’s e-mail couldn’t come soon enough. Never mind whatever hurt feelings might’ve stood between her mother and her grandparents before. If her mother was going to have peace, she needed to know the entire story. That her daughter was alive and her parents were sorry — and that her father was dying. Yes, Lauren needed to connect with her mother.
Before they all ran out of time.
TWENTY-ONE
Her recovery was happening faster than the doctor expected. The gritty wind that blew across the Afghanistan desert rattled the windows of Lauren’s apartment, and made it impossible to sleep. She sat up in bed and surveyed the bandages on her arm. At least she wa
s out of the hospital. That place was terrible, filled with victims of war and people desperate for healing and hope. She could still hear their wailings, mothers called in to identify young sons, soldiers who might’ve been on the right or the wrong side. Lauren winced as she felt near her wound. Sides didn’t matter to a mother.
Lauren closed her eyes, recalling one grief-stricken woman. Her son had been in the next room, but he hadn’t survived the night. The next morning the mother stood at his bedside, screaming his name, shouting at the heavens that she wanted him back, had to have him back.
All Lauren could think about was her own family. The way she’d felt when Emily died; the way her parents must feel now. If they were still alive, it would’ve been nearly twenty years since they’d had any idea even where to find her. How had they handled all that time alone together? Had they, too, shared moments of wailing and ranting at the heavens?
She sighed and opened her eyes. It was the first cloudy day in a month, and it fit her mood. Her mind drifted back to the day at the orphanage. Feni had gotten wind that an ambush might take place against visiting Westerners. That’s why he was in the office that morning, armed and ready in case she and Scanlon were the intended targets.
An American army captain filled her in on the other details at the hospital.
The woman wasn’t an orphanage worker at all. She’d blended in with the others, pretending to be a volunteer. Orphanages were always shorthanded, so no one would’ve questioned her motives. The only uncertain thing was how she’d known Lauren and Scanlon were coming in that first day, but the army had its theory on that too.
The driver of the car on that first visit must’ve been connected with the group. He could easily have called and tipped them off. Lauren and Scanlon talked openly about their plans for a story and their concerns about the orphanage.