A Baby by Easter (11 page)

She lowered her eyelids, hiding her expression. But her smooth cheeks turned a pearly pink in the shadows of a streetlight and she drew her hand away from his.

“I think you would make an awesome mother to your baby. I don't think there would be a child on earth that could have a woman more determined to give her baby all the love it needs to make it through this world.” He took both her forearms then and tugged so she would look at him. “Won't you reconsider this adoption thing, Susannah? Please?”

He held his breath, hoping. Praying.

“I can't.” She drew away. “And I don't want to talk about this anymore. Connie might overhear.” She frowned at him. “You promised.”

“I won't break my word.” He waited while she lifted the hook on the gate, and then followed her through. “But I wish you'd reconsider.”

Susannah closed the gate. She slid his jacket off her shoulders and handed it to him. Her small pointed chin lifted in determination.

“It would never work.” Her face closed up tight, the radiance that had lit her from the inside dimmed, quashed by some fear he couldn't see.

“Susannah—”

She shook her head.

“I'm not who you think I am, David.”

“I don't think you are who you think you are, either,” he replied. “Nor do I think you have any idea of what you could become.”

She gazed at him for a moment longer, then walked into the house.

His heart pinched at the sadness of it. Susannah wouldn't let herself consider keeping her child. Wouldn't believe in herself that much. And he wasn't exactly sure
why, except that the problem was rooted in her past—rooted firmly.

But what could he do?

Instead of returning inside he sat down beside the pool to think. As usual, images of Susannah filled his mind. He saw again that tender, bemused smile flickering over her face, the bewildered yet amazed way she touched her midsection.

A baby, a tiny, innocent child. A son. Or a daughter to whom she would give life and upon whom she could pour out the love she gave so freely to others.

Darla had told him Susannah had begun to talk about her child, and had mentioned how Susannah often offered to hold other women's children at the center.

To give up her child would leave a scar. One that would wound far deeper than the pain sweet Susannah now carried from her past.

And that was something David could not even contemplate, let alone allow. To see this beautiful woman retreat back to the scared, sad person who'd arrived here only a few months ago tore at his heart.

Don't get involved,
his head reminded.

Only David knew it wasn't a matter of involvement now. Susannah had breached his defenses, pushed her way past all his intentions to remain aloof, and inveigled herself into his world through Darla. Susannah had become part of his days, sneaked into his dreams and made his heart wish for things he couldn't have.

It was silly, impossible to think of a future with her. His brain had long since accepted that God's choice for his life's path didn't lie that way. He had responsibilities. Love wasn't for him. Hadn't he learned that lesson twice? If only that lesson would sink into the secret parts
of him that longed to experience being a husband and a father.

But that silly longing for something he couldn't have didn't mean he should give up trying to persuade Susannah that adoption was not the way to go.

All David had to figure out was how to do that.

He'd start with money. A little nest egg for her baby. Maybe if she felt she had something to fall back on, that she wasn't teetering on the brink—maybe then Susannah wouldn't feel so compelled to give up her child for adoption.

Maybe.

S
usannah felt only relief when Thanksgiving and Christmas slid past in a rush that left her little time to think.

Pregnancy was a confusing business and no one was more confused than she. Especially with the increased fluttering her baby now made.

Her baby.

She had to stop thinking of it that way. It could never be hers.

On New Year's, Susannah decided to make plans for her future and wrote lists of actions she needed to take. But in the days following, she rewrote them over and over, depending on where her moods took her.

Those moods took her a lot of places. Into the pool late at night when she couldn't sleep. To the ice cream shop to taste weird flavors. To a crochet class at the center where she struggled to make a baby blanket the instructor insisted was “simple.”

When no answer from her mother arrived to respond to the plea for forgiveness she'd sent earlier, Susannah found herself weepy and tearful, unable to accept Connie's assurance that God loved her. How could God love someone who'd made the mistakes she had? Her
mother sure didn't love her. Susannah couldn't even love herself.

But she loved her baby. She loved that life inside her with every ounce of passion in her body. She would do anything, anything to protect it, including finding new parents for her baby—if only she could.

But that wasn't her only problem. Susannah was growing fearful of her burgeoning feelings for David Foster. Especially since he'd become so thoughtful, so—nice. But though she enjoyed being around him, enjoyed the way he made her feel part of his and Darla's world—Susannah would not let those feelings grow. She couldn't. She couldn't afford a repeat mistake—not with this baby's future at stake.

So Susannah was confused, wary and seven months pregnant when she arrived at David's office late one January morning. Thus far they'd always talked when he came home at the end of the day. But today he'd asked her to come to his office.

As she entered the exquisitely appointed building, she was enthralled by a granite wall down which water trickled. In contrast to the Tucson desert, lush plants thrived all around it with light from the massive windows. The office felt grand—and she felt totally out of place.

“Hello, Susannah. Welcome.” David escorted her to his office, his hand firm but gentle against her back.

“It's beautiful in here,” she whispered.

“Thank you.” He seated her in a cranberry velvet chair that folded around her weary body, and then asked his secretary to bring them tea.

The girl flirted with David, batting her long lashes, making sure to bend over in front of him when she set down the tea and sumptuous-looking lemon and poppy seed muffins. Susannah disliked the secretary
immediately and she refused both tea and muffins, though her stomach grumbled a complaint.

“I'd rather have coffee,” she said when David held out a steaming white china cup that probably cost the earth.

“You're supposed to cut down on coffee, aren't you?” He set the cup in front of her, undaunted by her glower.

“Who told you that?” she demanded, then sighed. “Darla.”

“She loves to talk about you and your baby. And I like to hear,” he added.

“You do?” That shocked her. “Why?”

“Who doesn't like to hear about a new life preparing to join our world?” One brown eyebrow lifted. “It's generous of you to share the details of your pregnancy with her.” He leaned back in his chair as he sipped his tea. “I imagine it's quite amazing to have a life growing inside you.”

“It is,” she admitted. Susannah tilted her head down to hide her smile of pure delight. It was astonishing, in fact. But she felt embarrassed to tell him that. Especially here, where she was so out of place.

She hoped the coffee table hid her feet as she slipped off her shoes. Even they didn't seem to fit anymore.

“You're probably wondering why I asked you here.” His voice changed from gentle concern to businesslike.

“Yes.” In fact, curiosity was eating her up.

“I've done quite a bit of research into adoptions.” He caught her surprise. “I had to,” he explained. “It's not exactly my field.”

“Oh.” So she'd put him to a lot of trouble. How much would all that cost? He kept telling her not to worry about the cost, but she did worry.

“The thing is, Susannah, I need some direction. There are so many kinds of adoptions. I'm not sure which you prefer.” He handed her a file filled with papers. “These describe open and closed adoptions and what choices, responsibilities and rights the mother had in specific cases.”

“Okay.” She set the sheaf down on the glass table. She'd think about it later. She picked up her teacup. Suddenly she was very thirsty.

“There are many variations,” he continued. “For instance, do you want contact with your baby after you give it away?”

He made her baby sound like a used toy she was getting rid of.

“I don't know,” Susannah murmured.

“Do you want to be involved in raising your child or are you intending to hand over all rights to the child's future and give the adoptive parents total freedom?” David leaned back in his chair and studied her.

“I don't—”

“Will you want the adoptive parents to tell the child about you or do you prefer your baby never know its real mother?”

“Uh—” Susannah frowned.

Never know anything about her? Never know that she loved her child desperately, that she yearned to keep it for her very own, to shower on it all the love she kept hidden inside? An arrow of pain pierced her heart. She laid a protective hand on her stomach.

“I—I'm not sure about that yet,” she whispered.

“Will you release medical records?” he asked.

“I don't know.” So many questions. She was growing more confused.

“Grandparents?”

“No!” At least she knew the answer to that question. Her hand squeezed tight against her purse where the condemning letter lay. “Never.”

“You don't want the child to be able to trace his family roots someday?” David asked, his face puzzled.

“My father left when I was four. I doubt even I could trace his whereabouts,” she told him, her body clenching with tension.

“What about your mother? Wouldn't she—”

“She's in prison.” She watched his eyes, steeling herself to see disgust. But David never flinched.

“Do you ever see her?” he asked.

“She doesn't want to see me.” Susannah's cheeks burned. She picked up her cup again and sipped just to have something to do with her hands. “She hates me.”

“I see.” Those dark eyes pinned her down, as if she was a witness on the stand. “So no family history. That's what you want for your child?”

Susannah almost gagged.

“It will be better that way,” she blurted. “It's what I have to do.”

“Actually you don't. That's what I'm trying to clarify,” he said, leaning forward so his elbows were on his knees. “You have choices, Susannah. Lots of them. Your child is yours. You make the decisions. I'll do whatever you want.”

“Okay.” She nodded.

“But I have to be certain you understand what you're doing,” he said, his voice solemn. “I would be failing you as your lawyer if later you regretted your decision.”

“Let's not go over that again,” she said, rising. She stepped away from the coffee table, searching with her feet for her shoes. But as she tried to slip her foot
into one, she lost her balance and reached out to grab something to steady herself.

That something was him.

“Easy.” His arm slid around her waist. “Sit down and I'll put them on for you.”

“I can manage.” She drew back and wished she hadn't. Her head whirled. Being this near to him made her want all kinds of things—like someone to care about her, someone to love her.

Stupid. David Foster wasn't interested in her. He was just being nice.

“Do you ever let someone help you without an argument?” His mouth tipped in a crooked grin. With gentleness and great care, he helped her sit. Then he knelt down in front of her to slide on her sandals. “You should put your feet up,” he murmured, brushing his fingers against her calf. “Your ankles are swollen.”

“All of me is swollen. I look like a truck.”

David chuckled. Susannah burst into tears.

“Stop laughing at me!”

“I'm not laughing at you.” Somehow he was there beside her, holding her close, allowing her to weep all over his expensive suit jacket. “I'm laughing at the way you mistake things. You are beautiful, Susannah, one of the most beautiful women I've ever known. Motherhood has only made you more beautiful.”

“I can never be a mother.” Grief swamped her.

“Talk to me, Susannah.” David cupped her face in his hand. “Tell me what this is really about,” he said in a soft, tender voice. “Tell me the whole story.”

The burden was so heavy. And Susannah was so tired.

The words emerged of their own volition. She stared into his concerned face and let it pour out of her.

“I was the oldest. I promised my sisters I'd always be there for them. They were only four and seven. Little girls who needed someone to watch out for them. But I didn't do that. I ran away.” Loathing scathed her voice. “They died because of me.”

“No.” He seemed dazed, incredulous.

She smiled bitterly. “Believe it. They're dead.”

“You said there was a fire,” he said. “How could that be your fault?”

“Easy.” She pulled out of his hold and gathered her courage. When he knew, he would send her away. Might as well just get it over with. “I wanted to get away from the chaos. I was so tired of having to figure out what was for dinner, what we were supposed to wear to school, how we were going to pay the electric bill. Scared of being scared all the time.”

She'd never told anyone that, not even Connie.

“Those are things your mother should have handled.”

“She couldn't, so I did.” Tears glossed her eyes, but she refused to shed them. She forced herself to continue. “My sisters died because of me, David. It was my fault. I killed them.”

 

Give me words, Lord, because I don't have any,
David prayed silently. His heart ached to ease the inner torment her eyes revealed.

“Susannah—”

“Now do you understand why I cannot—I will not—raise this child?”

David studied the weeping woman in front of him. He doubted Susannah even realized that she was cradling her baby as she spoke. He couldn't begin to imagine how one small woman could bear so much pain.

“Why don't you say anything? Are you disgusted? Revolted?” she asked, anger sparking her eyes. “Well, so am I. And I will never let a child of mine feel that way.”

Help her!

“Susannah, how old were you when they died?”

“Nine. I was their big sister. S'ana they used to call me when they hugged me at night.” A flicker of a smile appeared and vanished. “I tried so hard to keep them safe.”

“Of course you did,” he whispered, smoothing damp curls from her brow. “You protected them and loved them as much or more than your mom did, didn't you? You would have done anything for them.”

She stared at him, nodding in a dazed manner as if she'd never thought of it in those terms.

“You were a great big sister, Susannah. But doesn't it seem to you, now that you're older and can look back, that nine was far too young to be responsible for two other children?” David held his breath as she frowned, tilted her head to one side.

“I was responsible,” she repeated, confusion evident.

“You weren't, sweetheart. You were not their mother.”

She simply looked at him.

“Your mother was there, right?” He waited for her nod. “She was in the house when you left?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?” He had to get to the bottom of it, had to make her see.

Susannah was quiet for a long time. Finally she lifted her eyes and looked at him. “She was drunk. She was often drunk.”

He touched her cheek. “But that didn't make it your
job to do any of those things you said, Susannah. It was only your job to love your sisters, and it sounds to me like you did. Very much. Enough to take care of them the very best you could. All by yourself.”

“You make me sound like some kind of hero,” she protested. “I wasn't. I left them. I ran away.”

“What nine-year-old doesn't run away from home at least once? I did.” He took her hand in his, marveling at the coldness of it. Such a small, frail hand, a frail body to house such a big heart. “Maybe you shouldn't have sneaked out, but that does not make you responsible for their deaths.”

“Legally, you mean.” Was that hope dawning?

“I mean you were not responsible in any way, shape or form. Not legally and not morally,” David insisted. “You were a child, as your sisters were. The guilty person was your mother, Susannah.”

“No.” She shook her head with determination. “She couldn't help it. When my dad walked out she was so hurt. She was always crying.”

“So she got drunk to dull the pain?”

“I guess so.” Susannah blinked away the tears. “She fell asleep that day and…it wasn't her fault. I should have been there.” She shrugged dully. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Yes, it does.” David had to make her see it. “It matters a lot. You cut your mother plenty of slack, but you can't do that for yourself?”

“I don't deserve it.”

“Why don't you? You were a child.” He swallowed hard, then spoke the words he knew in his heart were true. “She told you it was your fault, didn't she? Your mom blamed you?”

“Yes,” Susannah whispered. “But she was right—”