Douglas bowed his head, as was his habit, and said a silent prayer. Rote words: Thank You for the food, Lord, and the hands that have prepared it. When he finished, he looked at her bleakly. God, help us! Help us! What good does going to church do if it all comes back to this?
Hannah recognized the bruised expression. Regret. Weariness. She was sorry, too, but what good had it ever done?
He looked at the bare space before his wife. “You going to eat?”
“No.” She always felt sick to her stomach after a fight. It took a few days to climb out of the pit of depression; the lingering aftereffects were like a conditioned response. She always wondered what she’d done to start it, what she’d said to bring on the deluge, what she could do to mend her armor now that the demons were loose again.
Douglas let out his breath softly. So, she was going to play it that way. Fine. Annoyed, he ate in silence, refusing to feel guilty.
Hannah sat quiet, swallowing resentment with her coffee, stomach churning. She knew what was ahead. Things would get worse before they got better. Assuming, of course, that they would get better.
It was Douglas who broke first. His temper was quick to life and death, unlike her endless grudges.
“How’s Dynah?”
“She’ll be fine.” The words came out stiffly. Don’t worry about it. We’ll solve the problem, Douglas. You don’t have to dirty your hands. Unable to sit still, she got up, gathered his dishes, and went to the sink, anger choking her. It came up from deep down inside her, hot and black, deadly.
“Is she okay with what she has to do? After you talked with her, I mean?”
“She’s not okay with it, but she’ll talk to the doctor. And I didn’t tell her about what happened to me, if that’s what you meant.”
“Why not? Don’t you think it’s time?”
A chill swept over her. “I didn’t see the point.” And she’d been afraid, afraid of what her daughter would think of her, afraid of losing her respect, losing her love.
“It might help her to know you’ve been through it.”
Misery loves company, was that it? “I can’t.”
“You didn’t have any more choice about it than she does.”
She gripped the edge of the sink. “Why do you always see it that way the day after an argument?”
“I wasn’t the one throwing blame last night. You hurt me, too.”
They’d become good at that over the years, hurting each other in ways that were subtle and swift. Coming to Christ had brought an idyll. For a time. Now, it had begun again. Somehow, it was more devastating the second time around. She was less prepared.
She stared down into the sink at the dirty dishes and frying pan. “I don’t want her to know. Can you understand that, Douglas? Or at least try. I don’t want anyone to know. I wish to God I’d never told you.”
Douglas rose and came to her, drawing her back against him, locking his arms around her even when she tensed and resisted. “We’ll get through it. We’re a family, Hannah. It won’t be like it was for you. We’ll help her get through it.”
Hannah closed her eyes, unable to express the anguish inside her, unable even to define it. Get through it, Douglas said. As if it were possible. And had they? In twenty-seven years of marriage, were they over it yet?
“We have to help her do what’s best for her,” Douglas said.
What’s best . . .
The words whirred in her head like locusts eating away at her conscience. How many times had she rationalized and justified her own abortion? What else could she have done? Had the child? Put it up for adoption? Kept it? And what ramifications would there have been for her life and those she loved? How would her parents have dealt with it? Would her father have loved her? Not likely.
So she’d done it and adjusted. Or so she had thought.
Oh, God, how many times had she thought it was over and then something would happen to bring it to the surface again?
“We have to help her make the right decision, Hannah.”
“I don’t know if she’s ready.” God, I don’t know if I am. My daughter, oh, Lord, my daughter.
Douglas knew her inner turmoil. Hadn’t he lived with it all these years whether she was willing to acknowledge it or not? “I don’t want to hurt you more, honey. You know I don’t.”
She braced herself inwardly. “Say what you’re thinking, Douglas.”
He sighed heavily, his arms loosening around her. “It’s not the same situation as what you went through, Hannah. This isn’t a matter of Dynah’s loving the wrong guy and being abandoned. Our daughter had no say in what happened to her.”
“I know that.”
“She needn’t feel guilty about taking care of the problem.”
Did he know his daughter at all? Had he considered how they’d reared her? Even under these circumstances, could Dynah turn and walk away from those principles and not suffer for it? Was she strong enough?
“I don’t know if she can do it, Douglas.”
“She can if you’re with her every step of the way.”
The burden seemed more than she could bear. “And you?” Hannah turned and looked up at him. “Where will you be?”
“Right here,” he said, touching her face tenderly. God, give me the strength to get through this. Help me instill the strength in her that she needs so she can help Dynah.
But even as he said the prayer, he wondered why he felt sick inside and filled with so much sorrow.
Chapter 6
James Wyatt sat on the sunny patio of his Mill Valley house, trying to fight off his deepening depression. He was never quite sure what had brought on the downward cycle, the sense of despair he couldn’t seem to shake. He fought it with reason and activity and positive thinking, and yet he hadn’t been able to obliterate it or cure it. It sapped his energy.
“Would you like coffee, Dr. Wyatt?” Juanita Hernandez asked in heavily accented English as she held the pot ready.
“Thank you, Juanita,” he said, giving her a nod. “Just leave the pot. Are the children up yet?” He knew his wife was out for a run.
“Sí, señor doctor.” She stopped, looking mildly dismayed. “Excuse me,” she said slowly, concentrating. “I mean to say, yes, Dr. Wyatt. Your children are awake.”
James smiled at her. “You’re doing very well with your English, Juanita.”
She nodded politely, smiling back shyly. “Missus Wyatt is a good teacher.”
The side gate clicked, setting off a beep from the alarm system. When it was immediately shut off, Jim knew it was his wife, Cynthia, returning from her morning jog. She appeared, their rottweiler beside her. She unsnapped the dog’s leash from the collar, and the animal dashed excitedly toward Jim. “Easy, Arnold,” he said, laughing, half-annoyed and half-pleased that the animal was so happy to see him. Scratching the dog’s head and patting his back, he watched Cynthia walk toward him. She was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt and pale-blue jogging shorts. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Smiling at him, she pulled off her headband and shook out her damp auburn hair. “Good morning!”
Admiring her tanned legs and trim figure, James smiled back, lifting his cup of coffee in salutation. “Did you have a good run?”
“Wonderful!” She sank into the chair opposite and let her breath out. “Some orange juice, please, Juanita, and a towel. I’m drenched.”
“Yes, madam.”
James noted the beads of healthy sweat on Cynthia’s face and collarbone. Her hazel eyes caught his and probed gently. “I wish you would have come with me this morning.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I didn’t feel much like running this morning.” He picked up his newspaper. “Juanita’s doing very well with her English.”
“She’s quite bright,” Cynthia said, clearly not fooled by his swift change of subject. “I’m glad you agreed to hire her. She’s made things so much easier on me, and the children adore her. She’s teaching them Spanish.”
?
??That’s nice.”
He hid behind the newspaper, hoping she wouldn’t notice he was mired in his dark thoughts. Still, how could she help but notice? She loved him. She was sensitive to his mood swings, and he had realized some time ago that she recognized the pattern.
“Are you working at the clinic today?”
“It’s Tuesday,” he said briskly, folding the paper inside out. Nothing new in the international section. Federal budget battles. Middle East conflicts. The usual grit that ground ideals down into paths of compromise and complacency. Or that roused violence.
Don’t do it, Cynth, he thought. Don’t bring it up again. Don’t try to talk me out of this. He loved his wife, adored her, but what good came of such debates between them? The last time she’d suggested Jim stop working at the clinic, they’d ended up in a distressing quarrel. He’d reminded her that the money he’d made over the past four years working at the clinic had paid off the student loans he had needed to get through medical school. With that money paid back, they had been able to save enough from the practice to make the down payment on this beautiful house in Mill Valley. She’d told him money wasn’t the issue and the house wasn’t the most important thing, but he’d asked her if she’d rather rear their children in the city.
Subterfuge. All of it. For all of their vehemence, they’d never addressed the real issue. And that was what he didn’t want to discuss.
He’d told her, of course. She understood the real reason that drove him to do what he did. And rightfully so. He’d explained five years ago when he’d first talked with her about working at the clinic. She’d admired his decision and promised to support him in whatever he did. Hadn’t she always?
Oddly enough, something had changed after that. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there had been a subtle shift inside him, a giving way that affected their relationship.
Not that they weren’t happy. She’d told him often enough that she couldn’t be happier. He did his best to be loving, tender, thoughtful, hardworking, devoted to his family, devoted to his practice. He was a man of deep feelings and principles, determined to give the best care he could to all his patients.
Yet sometimes he saw a look in her eyes, a troubled expression . . . as though she wondered if he were happy with her. He knew why the doubts came, realized there were weeks when he wouldn’t make love to her. But there were other times, too, when he would have a ravenous need, almost as though the act of love itself might drive away whatever tormented him.
“Why don’t we go away this weekend?”
He sighed. She probably thought a change of scene might curb the tide of his depression and take his mind off his worries. Well, why not? Alan Keller could stand in at the practice. Jim had covered for him last weekend.
“Good idea. Where do you suggest?”
“How about Carmel? It’s been two months since we were there. Or we could go back up to Calistoga. That bed-and-breakfast was nice.”
He turned another page and reached the regional news. “Fine.”
“Or we could stay here, have your mother pick up the children and keep them for a night, rent a couple of romantic movies, turn up the heat in the spa, stock some champagne.”
“Whatever,” he said, his eyes focused on a small article at the bottom of the page. A young woman had been found dead in her San Francisco apartment. A preliminary investigation had dismissed foul play and considered the possibility of suicide. Although no note was found, friends had reported that she had been despondent over the past few days. The coroner would make a determination.
James didn’t recognize the young woman’s name, but he knew the face. He had performed an abortion on her six days ago.
A chill swept over him.
Stop it! he chided himself. It has nothing to do with you. Odds were good that it didn’t. She’d probably had a host of problems that seemed overwhelming. He’d solved one for her, but he couldn’t solve everything. How could he in the few minutes he had with her? Fifteen. That’s all it took to do the procedure. And she hadn’t said much of anything, had she? He tried to remember.
“It hurts. Oh, God, it hurts. They said it wouldn’t.”
Had that been her or some other girl? No matter how gentle he tried to be, it remained a common complaint. He soothed his patients as best he could by telling them it would soon be over. Sometimes he wondered if it was the sound of the machine that tensed up their bodies and worsened the pain.
Sometimes he could hear that horrible sucking sound in his dreams.
Grotesque.
Unforgettable.
And necessary if he was to get the job done.
“Jim?”
Blinking, he glanced up sharply and found his wife staring at him with a frown of concern.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just the same lousy news every day.” He folded the newspaper so the story was hidden inside and tossed it onto the cement. He didn’t want it on the table. He didn’t want it anywhere near him. Forcing a smile, he picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. “Now, what were you saying?”
Juanita delivered breakfast—poached eggs, more freshly squeezed orange juice, and newly baked bran muffins, all served elegantly on Lenox china. He wasn’t hungry, but he forced himself to eat. He needed the calories to get through the day, and he didn’t want to worry Cynthia.
He might have been able to keep the facade in place had his two children not come racing happily into the backyard, eager for kisses and hugs from Mommy and Daddy. He was eager to dispense both, shocked at the degree of pain that shot through him as he watched them scamper off with Arnold.
Cynthia laughed at their antics. Patricia, aptly nicknamed Cricket, hopped excitedly around with the dog while her brother, Todd, ran for the tennis ball. As soon as he had it in his hand, he heaved it across the lawn, sending the dog into a frenzied chase. “Arnold, fetch!” He hadn’t needed to utter the command.
Love swelled inside James as he watched his children. With love came affliction. His heart ached, fairly throbbed, with some unreasoning anguish. He listened to the laughter and watched his children play, bright spots of joy in his own backyard . . . and felt a smothering grief he couldn’t dispel and didn’t understand. He was oppressed with it.
“What’s wrong, Jim?” Cynthia said, and he glanced at her, surprised to discover there were tears in his eyes.
“Nothing,” he said again, because he couldn’t put words to it. Sometimes beauty did that to him. He remembered feeling this way when Cynthia said she’d marry him. Overwhelmed with gratitude, amazed by his good luck.
Pushing his chair back, he stood. “I’d better get on the road. I’m going to be late as it is.” The Golden Gate Bridge would be backed up with traffic.
Walking with him, Cynthia looped her arm through his and smiled up at him playfully. “You could always wait another hour and avoid the traffic. I need to take my shower. Want to wash my back?”
He laughed, giving no response. Dropping his arm, he put his hand lightly at her waist so she would enter the house ahead of him.
She crossed the family room with its cathedral ceiling and wall bookshelves and fireplace. Picking up his sports jacket, she held it so he could shrug into it. Coming around in front of him, she straightened the lapels and ran her hands down over his jacket. She looked up at him tenderly. “You’re very handsome, Dr. Wyatt.”
He made a noncommittal sound.
Reaching up, Cynthia touched his cheek, drawing his attention. “I love you, Jim. You know that, don’t you?”
Jim searched her eyes briefly and then leaned down, kissing her firmly on the mouth. “I know.” Straightening, he smiled ruefully. “God only knows why.”
“Because you care so much,” she said.
He prayed it was the truth, that anyone who knew him for ten minutes would realize he wasn’t what those pro-lifers said in the anonymous letters they found in the mail all too frequently. One had come yesterday. Some Christian
zealot quoting Scripture, on fire for God, ready and eager to burn someone. The letter was now ashes in the fireplace. He hadn’t told Cynthia about it and didn’t intend to. She would only worry. Twice before, he had received death threats. This letter had been mild by comparison, just the usual vitriolic words and rhetorical questions meant to shame and intimidate.
Still, it amazed him. It always did—almost as much as it amazed him to see Cynthia’s anger. How could people who claimed to live a life in the name of love and Jesus be so heartless in their condemnation and judgment, she’d asked? “Have they ever once thought to walk in your shoes? They don’t even try to understand what makes a man like you do what you feel you have to do. Besides, if abortion isn’t right, why is it legal? Why is the government paying for it?”
He’d had no answers for her. Then or now.
He watched her turn to pick up his black leather medical bag. It was heavy, yet less than his burdened heart. Unfairly so. He cared so much. He knew what happened when someone wasn’t there to help. Thank God Cynthia understood that.
From the beginning, she had supported him in his work, just as she had supported him financially those last few years of medical training. They’d been lean and hard, years of sacrifice. She told him that’s when she’d seen how much he cared, through the long hours he studied and worked, the patients he tended, the grief he felt when he lost someone, no matter how hopeless the case. She knew his anguish and convictions. She knew his dreams. She knew his heart. And she loved him for all of it.
That was what kept him going. His wife. His family. Their love . . .
She held the bag out to him and wished him well in the day ahead.
Jim took it. “I’ve a couple patients to see at the hospital. Then I’ll be at the office for a couple of hours. I don’t expect to be at the clinic until one.”
She knew he was telling her he would be late coming home. “Should I hold dinner?”
“No.” He wouldn’t be hungry. Leaning down, he kissed her lightly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Cyn.”