A Family To Cherish (7 page)

“Janee! Get up! Do you hear me? This isn't your room!” Barbara cried.

The child woke and scrambled off the bed, then padded toward the door, looking dazed and confused as she rubbed one eye. Barbara caught Janee's hand, stopped her and pulled the ruffled nightgown off
over her head. “Janee, you know you aren't supposed to come in this room,” she scolded. “Don't you ever come in here again.”

Janee's face grew pinched and she let out a wail. “I—I want my mommy,” she cried.

Barbara's outrage withered into shame and regret. She picked Janee up in her arms and carried her out of the room. “I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to yell at you. It's okay. We're both feeling very sad.”

Janee wriggled out of Barbara's arms and ran down the hall to her room, slamming the door shut. Barbara started after her, then paused and shook her head, a sense of futility spreading through her bones, leaving her exhausted. What good would it do to go after the child? What could she possibly say to make things right? What hope was there for this broken, mismatched family, anyway? Solomon said it best.
Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.

Barbara trudged downstairs to the kitchen and checked the meat loaf. It was getting dry and the skins of the baked potatoes were growing tough. Doug should have been home a half hour ago. Why did she bother fixing dinner when she never knew when or if he'd be home to eat it?

She was grousing inwardly over her husband's tardiness when she heard the front door open and close. She quickly removed the meat loaf from the oven and set it on the counter, then forked out the potatoes, one by one. Then she fluffed her hair and caught her reflection in the microwave door. She
looked a sight, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She was about to head for the foyer when Doug met her in the kitchen doorway.

“Sure smells good in here,” he said with a weary smile. He brushed a kiss on her lips, then loosened his tie. The spicy scent of his aftershave lingered in the air, awakening Barbara's senses, stirring faint filigrees of memory. She wished he would take her in his arms and hold her and whisper words of comfort and make her pain go away. But she promptly dismissed the thought, for if anyone needed comfort now, it was Doug, and she was too thin emotionally to offer it.

“So how'd your day go?” he asked, shrugging out of his navy, double-breasted jacket. He hung the coat on the back of a chair and pulled off his tie.

“It was okay,” she said, her tone noncommital, without enthusiasm. “How about you?”

“Hectic. A mountain of paperwork, as I expected. Everybody wanting something. Wanting it yesterday. But what can I expect? I was gone for a week. The rest of the world doesn't grind to a halt just because our lives were put on hold.”

Barbara carried the meat loaf over to the table. “Maybe you can relax a little tonight.” She poured two glasses of iced tea and one small plastic glass of orange juice. “One of our favorite films is on TV—that romantic picture we saw three times when we were dating. You always said I looked like the girl….”

He chuckled. “And you said I was a dead ringer for the guy. Yeah, I remember. But I can't tonight. I brought home reams of paperwork.”

Barbara looked at him, exasperated. “When will it ever end, Doug? When will we ever have our lives back?”

“I don't know, Barb. I honestly don't know.”

“The way things are going, everything just gets more complicated. We're on a treadmill and we'll never get off. We don't even have time to have an honest-to-goodness fight.”

He managed a wry smile. “Is that what you want, Barbie? A fight? Put up your dukes. I'll take you on.” He assumed a fighter's stance and did a little shadow-boxing number with his feet. “Is this what you want—a few rounds in the ring?”

Barbara laughed in spite of herself. “Oh, Doug, I wish it were that simple.”

“Why can't it be, Barb? Simple, I mean. Why do we always have to overanalyze?” He reached for her, pulled her into his arms and nuzzled her hair with his chin. “The truth is, I don't know how to change things, Barb. How do we make things good between us again? I don't have the answers. And, God help me, I don't have the time or energy to find the answers. Do you?”

“I wouldn't know where to begin. Especially now, with Janee here.”

Doug held her at arm's length. “What about Janee? How'd she do today?”

“It was touch and go,” Barbara conceded. “I got upset with her.”

“What'd she do?”

“I found her in…Caitlin's room. Sleeping in Caitlin's bed. Wearing Caitlin's nightgown.”

Doug heaved a sigh. “Does it really matter, Barb? After all this time?”

Tears stung her eyes. “It matters to me. It always will. I can't help it, Doug. I can't change how I feel.”

“So is it going to work out? With Janee, I mean.”

Barbara blinked rapidly and looked away. “I don't know. It'll take a period of adjustment. For both of us.”

“For all of us,” he agreed. “But we'll manage somehow. I've got to believe that, Barb. Maybe we can do something with Janee this coming weekend. Take her to the zoo or the park or something.”

“And what about church?” asked Barbara. “Are we taking her to church?”

“We promised Nancy.”

“Are you up to facing Reverend Schulman? It's been nearly four years.”

“Maybe he never noticed we were gone.”

“Are you kidding, Doug? After all the cards and notes he sent us, and the phone calls every few months? He'll probably string a banner across the narthex and announce our return from the pulpit.”

“He wouldn't.”

“Wouldn't he?”

“I guess we'll find out—this Sunday.”

While Reverend Schulman didn't announce their return from the pulpit, he did shake their hands heartily before the service and tell them how happy he was to have them back. He expressed his condolences over the deaths of Doug's sister and her husband, and wished Doug and Barbara great success in raising Paul and Nancy's daughter. “If any couple knows how to bestow love on a child, it's you two,” he assured them. “And now God's given you another chance.”

Barbara didn't agree with the reverend's sentiments, but she wasn't about to contradict him. After all, he always managed to get in the last word. And, sure enough, when he stood up to deliver the morning message, Barbara had a feeling he was speaking directly to her and Doug.

“Jesus is our great comforter,” he declared in a voice that rang with passion and conviction. “He came to heal the brokenhearted, to bind our wounds, to bear our griefs and carry our sorrows. He will dry all our tears and walk with us through the darkness, if only we open our hearts and let Him in.

“Some of us have closed the doors of our hearts. We've stopped trusting Him. We have the mistaken idea that God somehow delights in inflicting pain, and we're afraid if we put ourselves in His hands, He'll take away what little we still possess.

“Beloved, nothing could be farther from the truth.
Jesus came to bring us life and to conquer death. He bore the sorrows of an entire world. He carried the burden of your sin on His back. All because He loves you with a vast and boundless love. He seeks your love in return. His arms are open wide. Let Him embrace you and heal your heartaches. Let Him whisper His comfort in the darkest night. You'll know no peace, no joy, until you give Him your heart, your life, all you hold tightly in your hand this day.”

Barbara stole a glance at Doug. His expression was granitic, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. Years ago, when they sat together in church, they would hold hands like lovesick teenagers. She never tired of feeling the warm, solid grip of his hand enveloping hers.

But today he sat with his arms crossed, his shoulder hardly touching hers, as if he were warding off anyone's attempt to break through his stalwart veneer and glimpse the deep well of pain underneath. Doug was a proud, stubborn, self-reliant man. He wasn't about to open his bruised heart to Barbara, nor to Reverend Schulman, nor even to God.

The only hint of emotion her husband had shown that morning was when he dropped Janee off at her Sunday school class. The child had impulsively thrown her arms around his neck and begged him not to leave her. He had gently extricated himself from her embrace, but not before a tear slid down his cheek.

Barbara had turned away, resentful that this child her husband hardly knew prompted a show of emotion, while Doug kept four years of grief over his own daughter locked in a secret place Barbara was never allowed to see.

Caitlin's death had struck the first near-fatal blow to their marriage. Would this child strike the final one?

J
anee sat looking out at the rain, her fingers pressed against the window, as if they would break through the barrier and discover another world—something magnificent, a wonderland. She stared at the rain with wide, astonished eyes, saying nothing. Just watching.

“Janee, keep your hands off the glass,” Barbara prodded gently. “We don't want smudge marks, do we?”

Obediently the child removed her hands. A flicker of shame crossed her face, but her eyes remained unblinking. Janee said nothing; it was an accusing silence. To break the awkward stillness, Barbara said, “Would you like some bread and butter?”

A quick shake of the head.

“No? Well, maybe some yogurt…or cookies and milk?” Barbara let her words drift off. Janee wasn't
listening. Already the child had pressed her face back to the window, to the soft pattering rain. Tabby lay stretched out beside her on the overstuffed chair, sleeping contentedly, her whiskers twitching as she dreamed.

The room was dark, moving with soft shadows. Janee sat framed by the curtains. The shallow September light that penetrated the window effused a dusky halo around Janee's wheat-colored hair.

Barbara sat across the room on the sofa, sewing a button on one of Doug's dress shirts. She felt vaguely guilty now, and yes, even a little angry. Janee's increasing lack of response perplexed her. She had been in Barbara's home for over a month now, and yet every day she seemed to grow more distant, more unresponsive, more sullen. What kind of child was she that she never said anything, never showed any feelings at all?

Barbara nodded hopefully toward the TV set. “Honey, do you want to watch television?”

Janee looked around, moving her head with a deliberate slowness; her mouth froze into a pout. “No, I don't want to watch television,” she said.

Barbara tossed Doug's shirt aside on the couch and went to the kitchen to check the pot roast for supper. Lifting the lid so that quick curls of steam escaped, she noticed that her hand trembled. She let the lid fall back into place with a clatter and stared at her hands.

Janee's doing this to me,
she thought dismally.

Barbara glanced at the wall calendar. In the month since they had brought Janee home, each day had seemed harder than the day before. Barbara had tried enrolling Janee in kindergarten, but Janee refused to go. Barbara had driven her to the school anyway, but Janee cried and refused to stay. Plaintively the child argued, “If I'm at school, my mommy won't know where to find me.” At last the teacher suggested Barbara try enrolling her again in January after she'd had more time to accept her parents' deaths, and her new surroundings.

But Janee seemed no more content at home than she had at school. Every day she grew more silent and withdrawn. Nothing Barbara said or did seemed to help. The emotional breach between them only widened. But what did Barbara expect, trying to mother someone else's child?

It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to reach Janee, to make the child feel comfortable in her new home. But there was no way Barbara could be a mother to Janee or make up for the child's terrible loss.

And, of course, Janee didn't make things any easier. She refused every offer of affection. She no longer wanted to be tucked into bed at night, nor would she say her prayers for Barbara. She turned her face to the wall when Barbara leaned down to kiss her good-night.

Barbara returned to the living room in time to catch Janee at the front door, trying to turn the knob. “What are you doing, honey?”

“I go outside.”

“No, Janee. It's raining.”

Janee held her ground. “It stopped.”

Barbara glanced out the window. Janee was right. The rain had stopped, and faint streamers of sunlight were rippling across the silvery sky. Maybe it would be a nice day, after all. “Okay, honey, you can go outside, but I'm coming with you. Stay in the front yard where I can watch you from the porch.”

“Can I ride my tricycle?”

The trike was on the porch, shiny new and bright blue, a gift from Pam and Benny. The sight of it gave Barbara the shivers. It reminded her of Caitlin's little bicycle that had ended up as twisted wreckage under an automobile's front tire.

“Wouldn't you rather color or play with your dolly?” Barbara prompted.

Janee's lower lip jutted out. “I go ride my new tricycle.”

“All right. I'll carry it down the steps for you, but be careful. Stay right on the sidewalk. I'll be right here watching.”

Barbara stood watching from the porch as Janee pedaled back and forth on the wet, glistening sidewalk.
She'll be okay,
Barbara told herself.
Not every child dies playing in her own front yard.

Barbara sat down on the porch swing and tried to relax, but even when she wasn't with Janee, the child was there in her mind, a nagging worry, a constant responsibility. Why did God expect her to take
care of another child when she hadn't managed to keep her own child from harm?

Barbara was just thinking of slipping inside and checking the roast again when she heard the scream.

She sprang to her feet and bolted down the steps, visions of Caitlin's bicycle accident exploding behind her eyes.

Trembling, her ankles weak, Barbara stumbled across the soggy lawn where the tricycle was overturned and Janee lay crumpled on the rain-slick ground, sobbing, her knee badly skinned. Impulsively Barbara sank down on the wet grass and gathered Janee into her arms and held her, her own senses so stunned she couldn't be sure whether she was holding Caitlin or Janee. It felt like Caitlin, could so easily have been Caitlin. Not quite realizing what she was saying, Barbara murmured into the child's hair, “There, there, baby. It's okay, darling. Mommy's here.”

The eerie magic of the moment shattered.

Fiercely Janee squirmed out of Barbara's embrace and cried, “I'm not your baby. You're not my mommy. I hate you!”

Barbara watched, stricken and numb, as the child scampered back into the house. Her own senses reeling, Barbara followed her inside in time to hear Janee's bedroom door slam shut upstairs.

Within moments Barbara realized it couldn't have been Janee's door slamming. The sound was closer. Was it possible? Caitlin's room?

A dark premonition filled Barbara's heart as she ran upstairs and strode breathlessly down the hall. As she turned the knob, she thought,
I've grown complacent, leaving Caitlin's door unlocked.
As the door swung open, her eyes settled on Janee across the room, yanking the Victorian teddy bears out of the Queen Anne chair, one by one.

“Stop it!” Barbara commanded.

With a look of defiance, Janee picked up Mrs. Miniver and held the Victorian bear over her head.

“Don't! Put it down, Janee!”

Janee stuck out her lower lip. “I don't have to.”

“Yes, you do,” countered Barbara hotly. “I told you to. Now do as I say, or I'll—” Her words faltered, the threat left unfinished. What could she possibly do that she hadn't already tried?

Her lower lip trembling, Janee threw the bear to the floor. Before Barbara could react, Janee ran her arm along a shelf of toys and books, sending everything cascading to the ground. “I hate this room!” she cried tearfully.

Barbara bounded across the room. She took hold of Janee's arm, her own hand trembling. “Stop it! You're being a naughty girl!”

“I hate you!” Janee cried again, wriggling free of Barbara's grip. She swung her small, chubby hand and sent another shelf of toys careening to the floor. “I hate your little girl's room! I hate her toys! I hate her!” Janee swept her arm across the desk, toppling several dolls, their lacy crinolines and scar
let taffeta skirts forming a rumpled heap beside the bed.

In one quick, impulsive sweep, Barbara caught Janee up in her arms and held her, kicking and screaming. “I want my mommy!” Janee wailed, thrashing her legs, grazing Barbara's shins. “I want my mommy!”

Barbara held Janee more tightly, determined to restrain the child, to quiet her, even though her own arms ached and her legs felt the blows of Janee's rubber sneakers. When Barbara could stand no longer, she sank down wearily on Caitlin's bed, embracing the warm, thrashing child until Janee's tantrum gave way to desolate sobs. Holding the youngster against her breast, Barbara let her own tears fall on Janee's mussed hair. They were at an impasse, she and Janee. They each desperately wanted something they could never have, and in their separate, lonely grief they were making each other miserable.

“What are we going to do?” Barbara whispered, her voice heavy with hopelessness. “What are we going to do, baby?”

Janee was whimpering softly now, almost quiet. Her clammy body grew lethargic, heavy in Barbara's arms. After several minutes Barbara heard the quiet rhythm of slumber. She stood and lifted Janee in her arms, careful not to awaken her. She carried her down the hall to her room and laid her gently in her bed.

Barbara returned to Caitlin's room and tenderly
returned each doll to its place on the desk and each stuffed animal and toy to its proper shelf. As she smoothed Mrs. Miniver's flaming red skirt, she thought,
Why am I doing this? Caitlin's not coming back. I'm as pitiful as Janee, waiting for someone who can never come home.

Janee slept until lunchtime. Shortly after noon she trudged downstairs looking like a sad little ragamuffin. She sat at the kitchen table eating her peanut butter and jelly sandwich in stony silence. When Barbara offered her an ice cream cone, Janee looked up and nodded, her eyes tear-filled.

Barbara made a cone, handed it to her, and asked, “Do you want to go watch cartoons?” Janee nodded and scurried off to the family room. An uneasy truce settled over the household after that, but Barbara wasn't sure how much longer she could endure Janee's silent, reproachful glances.

Dear God, where do we go from here?
she prayed silently, adjusting the flame under the roast.
Help me, Lord. I'm at my wits' end. Janee constantly reminds me of Caitlin and what I've lost. It was bad enough before, not having my precious daughter. But now, with this child who grows to hate me more every day, it's like rubbing salt in the wound. And Janee's miserable, too. She'll never accept me as her mother. Dear God, why are You doing this to us?

On impulse Barbara picked up the phone and dialed Pam and Benny's number. She needed to hear
a reassuring voice, even theirs. She shuddered to think that's how desperate she had become. She didn't really expect them to be home, so when Pam answered, Barbara swallowed hard and groped for words. “Pam, it's me, Barbara. I just wanted to, uh, thank you for the tricycle you sent Janee. The toy store delivered it a couple of days ago. Yes, she loves it.”

They chatted a while about silly, inane things before Barbara broached the real reason for her call. “Listen, Pam, I've been thinking about something…I'd like you and Benny to consider taking Janee. Yes, I know you thought everything was settled, but, well, maybe you could just try it for a few weeks. I know you're both working, and I wouldn't even ask, but—”

Barbara's mouth went dry and her voice broke. She hated the groveling sound in her voice that Pam always inspired, but she blundered on anyway. “I'm sorry, Pam, it's just that Janee doesn't seem to be settling in the way we hoped. If anything, she's growing more distant every day. I can't help thinking maybe she'd be happier with you. Yes, I know it's a lot to ask. You don't have to give me an answer now. Just think about it, okay?”

As soon as Barbara hung up the phone, doubts and guilt came flooding in. Why had she even called Doug's sister? She knew better than to expect sympathy and understanding from Pam and Benny. And
what would Doug say if he knew she had actually asked them to take Janee?

“He's got to know I can't go on this way,” she said aloud, her voice sounding hollow and desperate in the silent room. “We've got to settle this once and for all.”

To Barbara's relief, Doug arrived home on time for dinner that evening. No matter how painful it might be, they would have to talk. They would have to do something about Janee.

At the dinner table Barbara watched Doug, sizing up the situation, waiting for her opportunity. He was in a pleasant, mellow mood and would be in a more receptive mood still after a hot, hearty supper. With his muscular, big-boned frame, Doug was a man who relished his food, who pored over a meal, concentrating, savoring everything he ate. He was a dream to cook for, always complimenting her on her culinary skills.

But he refused to discuss anything of a serious nature at the dinner table. That was all right with Barbara. She would wait until Janee was in bed before bringing up the problems she was facing with the child.

“What about Janee?” Doug asked when she broached the subject later that evening. She had returned to her mending. He was stretched out on the couch, nearly asleep. He shook his head as if to diffuse his weariness. “What's the problem?”

“She can't stay here any longer, Doug.” There!
It was out. No beating around the bush. She had said the words before she lost her nerve.

Her husband sat up startled and stared at her, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about? She's here. There's no question now.”

Barbara moved over beside him on the couch. “Yes, there is,” she insisted. “You aren't home enough to know how it's been. You don't know.”

“All right. Tell me what's the matter.” There was a troubled intensity in his smoky blue eyes.

Barbara twisted her wedding ring. The gold band was loose on her finger; she had lost a few pounds lately. “Things with Janee are getting worse, Doug. I've tried. Honest I have. But she has nothing to do with me. She avoids me. She's been here over a month and she's still a stranger. Worse than a stranger.”