Read Seasons Under Heaven Online
Authors: Beverly LaHaye,Terri Blackstock
Seasons Under Heaven
OOK
O
NE
Terri Blackstock
This book is dedicated to Annie M., Susan B., and Mary K., plus the many other women who have shared their “seasons of life” with me, wondering if they were alone in their struggles, disappointments, and heartaches. And also to my husband, who has helped me through my own “seasons of life.”
Beverly LaHaye
This book is also dedicated to my husband and children, through whom the Lord has taught me some of my greatest lessons. And, as always, to the Nazarene.
Terri Blackstock
There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to the,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a timeto to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.
ECCLESIASTES 3:1-8
HAPTER
One
Joseph Dodd was not one of those kids who feigned illness to get attention. His ten-year-old sister Rachel might have, since she was the one among the four children who leaned toward hypochondria. Leah, her twin, had been known to fake an occasional stomachache in the interest of competition. And Daniel, their twelve-year-old brother, often used a headache excuse to escape pre-algebra.
But not Joseph. Brenda, their mother, knew that the eight-going-on-nine-year-old was the kind of kid who harbored no deceit at all. His feelings and thoughts passed across his face like the Dow prices at the stock exchange, and Brenda could read them clearly.
That’s why she knew something was wrong on the day before his ninth birthday. He’d gotten up with dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was as pale as the recycled paper on which they did their schoolwork. His red hair, which he took great pains to keep combed because he had three cowlicks, was
disheveled, as if he hadn’t given it a thought. On the way into the kitchen, he reached for the counter to steady himself and hung his head while he tried to catch his breath.
Brenda quickly abandoned the eggs she was scrambling and bent down to look into his eyes. “Joseph, what’s the matter, honey?”
“I dunno,” he said.
“Are you sick?” she asked, feeling his forehead.
“Sorta dizzy.”
“It’s his blood sugar,” Daniel commented, before slurping his cereal. He wiped a drip from his chin. “Remember, I studied about the pancreas last week? The book said you could get dizzy if your pancreas didn’t work right.”
“What’s a pancreas?” Joseph asked, frowning.
“Daniel, don’t slurp,” David, their father, said. “Brenda, what are you teaching him? Endocrinology?”
Brenda grinned. “More like he’s teaching me. We’re touching on anatomy in science. I got him some extra books.”
“What’s a pancreas?” Joseph asked again. He was still breathing hard and beginning to sweat.
David pushed aside his coffee, leaned across the table, and felt Joseph’s forehead. “You okay, sport?”
Joseph didn’t answer. He was still waiting for an answer to his question.
“The pancreas is a gland,” Daniel mumbled around a mouthful of cereal. “It’s near your kidney.”
“Mom, Daniel’s talking with his mouth full,” Leah spouted.
“It is not near the kidney,” Rachel said. “It’s near the heart.”
“How would you know? You aren’t studying the human body.”
“No, but I have one,” Rachel said, tossing her nose up in the air as if that won the argument.
“I’m going to get my book,” Daniel said. “I’ll prove it to you.”
“Sit back down, young man.” Brenda turned back to the scrambled eggs and took the pan off the stove. She turned to the table—only a step from the stove in the small kitchen—and began scooping eggs onto their plates. Her blonde hair waved
across her forehead, but she blew it back with her bottom lip. It was already getting hot in the house, and the sun hadn’t even come all the way up. Despite the cost of electricity, she was going to have to lower the thermostat today or she’d never get the kids through their lessons.
She reached Joseph’s plate and scooped out some eggs.
“I don’t want any,” Joseph said.
“Joseph, son, you’ve gotta eat,” David said.
“I will later.”
Brenda set the pan back on the stove and put her hands on her hips, gazing down at her son. “Rachel, will you go turn the thermostat down? Maybe if it gets cooler in here Joseph will feel better.” As Rachel popped up to do as she was told, Brenda said, “I hope you’re not getting sick again, Joseph.”
“You can’t be sick on your birthday,” Leah said. “Mom, if he’s sick, can we still have the party tomorrow?”
“Of course not. We’d just postpone it.”
“But I don’t want to postpone it,” Joseph said, sitting straighter. “I’m fine. I changed my mind. I’ll eat some eggs.”
Brenda grinned and spooned some eggs onto his plate as she heard the air conditioner cut on. “He’ll be fine. Probably just needs to eat something. Sometimes I wake up like that, Joseph. If I didn’t eat much the night before, I get up and feel downright shaky until I eat.”
“Blood sugar,” Daniel observed.
“Of course, mostly I eat too much.” She patted her slightly overweight hips. “Somehow my body can always convince me I’m starving.” She ran her fingers through her hair and studied her youngest. “Joseph doesn’t need to be worried about his pancreas, though. I’m sure it’s working just fine. But I have to say, Daniel, that I’m bursting with pride over your interest in the pancreas. David, don’t you think he’s doctor material? I mean, he’s practically ready for medical school.”
David smiled and patted his oldest son on the back. “I think you’re right. I’ve always said that Daniel had a sharp mind.”
“Me, too, Daddy,” Rachel said, coming back to the table.
“All of you. There’s just no telling what you’ll be,” Brenda said. “I’m going to be one of those mothers who can’t open her mouth without bragging about her important children. People will run when they see me.” She fixed herself a plate and pulled out a chair. “Okay, now, before Daddy goes out to the shop, let’s talk about this party. Nine years ago tomorrow, the doctor put that precious little bundle into my arms. Nine years, Joseph! Think of it! Bet it seems like a lifetime to you, huh?”
Joseph didn’t answer. He propped his chin on his hand and moved the eggs around on his plate.
“It seems like nine long years to me,” Daniel said.
David snickered under his breath, and Brenda shot him an amused look.
“I’ve already called all of our homeschooled friends,” she told Joseph. “I told them to be here at two tomorrow. We’ll have it outside. We need to start making the cake this afternoon. Joseph, do you want white cake, yellow, or chocolate? You need to consider this very carefully, since you’ll be licking the bowl.”
He didn’t answer.
Brenda’s eyes met David’s across the table again. “Joseph?” David asked, taking the boy’s hand.
He looked up. “Sir?”
“Your mother asked you something. What kind of cake do you want?”
“Um…rectangle, I guess.”
“What
flavor
?” Daniel prompted. “Mom, he really is sick.”
Brenda frowned. “Baby, do you want to go back to bed?”
He nodded and pushed his plate away, got up, and headed back to his bedroom.
“I’m taking him to the doctor,” Brenda told David, getting up and heading for the phone. “Something’s not right.”
“Yeah, you better.”
“Tell ‘em about his pancreas,” Daniel said. “They might not think of it.”
David laughed and messed up his son’s hair as Brenda dialed the number.
They waited at the doctor’s office for an hour, only to have a five-minute examination. David, who was busy in his workshop behind the house when they got home, rushed out and met mem in the driveway.
“How’s my boy?”
Brenda got out of the car. “The doctor says it’s probably a sinus infection. He just needs antibiotics.”
“I can still have my party,” Joseph piped in. “The doctor said.”
“You sure you’re up to it?” David asked.
“Yes, sir,” Joseph said. “I’m just tired. I’ll go to bed early.”
“How about right now?” Brenda asked. “Why don’t you take a nap while we do school?”
He didn’t argue, which spoke volumes about his fatigue. He fell into bed and slept for four hours, while Brenda homeschooled his siblings.
David came in frequently to check on his son. “He’s all right,” he told his wife. “He’s just been staying up too late.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Brenda said. “I think his color’s back, don’t you?”
David grinned. “Never had much to start with. The curse of the redhead.”
Brenda hugged her red-haired husband and laid her head against his chest. “Poor little thing. He doesn’t want to be sick on his birthday.”
“He won’t be. He’s tough, ole Joseph. It’ll take more than a sinus infection to get him down.”
Brenda tried to push the worry out of her mind, but it had begun to take root. She only hoped the doctor’s diagnosis was reliable.
HAPTER
Two
The next morning, in the house next door to the Dodds on the little cul-de-sac called Cedar Circle, Tory Sullivan struggled between tears and rage at the sight of the strawberry Kool-Aid congealing on her computer keyboard. A plastic cup lay on its side in a crimson puddle. Two soaked tissues in the center of the puddle, and one lying across the keys, testified of a half-hearted attempt to clean up the mess.
“Brittany!” she screamed, succumbing to the rage instead of the tears. “Spencer! Get in here!”
There was no answer, but of course, she had expected none. The children were probably hiding in their toy closet, trying to blend in with their stuffed animals, or hunkering under the bed until the crisis passed.
She ran to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and tried to blot the mess. But it had been there too long, and the quicker-picker-upper failed her.
The tears came, after all, as she looked at the monitor. Its blackness testified that someone had turned the computer off, as if hoping to make it disappear. What had undoubtedly disappeared, instead, was the four pages she had written but not saved to the hard drive because she had meant to come right back to it after her shower. Her heart plunged further, and her freshly applied mascara dripped with the tears down her cheek. Frantically, she sat down on the sticky chair, ignoring the Kool-Aid soaking into her white shorts, and turned the computer back on. An error message accused her of turning it off without properly exiting. She tried to repair the problem and boot it up, but the computer wouldn’t respond to the commands she tried to enter using the sticky keyboard. Besides the damage to the keyboard, she knew that her precious four pages had been sucked into the vortex of her personal cyberspace, never to be seen again.
“Brittany! Spencer!” She bellowed the names with less fury and more despair now, and grabbed a paper towel to blot the tears running down her nose. She headed straight for the closet in the first room she came to: Spencer’s room, with clouds and alphabet letters and Ninja Turtles painted on the walls. “You can run, but you can’t hide!” she bit out. “Who spilled the Kool-Aid?”
There was no answer, and no sign of her children among the stuffed animal faces on the closet floor. She went to the bed and threw up the bed skirt. No children hid underneath.
She tore out of Spencer’s room and headed into Brittany’s. Her five-year-old daughter sat at her little table with wet eyes, frantically coloring a picture of a flower. “I made you a picture, Mommy,” she said quickly. She resembled a Cabbage Patch Doll as she looked up at her mother with those big round eyes. She held out the masterpiece like a sin offering, but her bottom lip began to tremble. “Spencer did it. I don’t even like Kool-Aid.”
The red mustache at the upper corners of Brittany’s mouth would have belied the child’s declaration, if Tory hadn’t already known better. Tory set her hands on her hips as the anger
drained out of her, leaving only the tears. “Britty, my computer. How could you blame your brother?”
“He’s always knockin’ stuff over,” Brittany said as a sob thickened her voice. Her red lips puckered out. “I told him not to touch the computer, but he wouldn’t come away, and when I pulled him…”
The truth came out on a squeaky, high-pitched wail, and Tory knew it was genuine. She sighed heavily and stooped down in front of her daughter. “Britty, I’ve told you a million times that we don’t take food or drinks into that room. Now the computer won’t work…” Her voice broke off, and she wiped her wet cheek. “Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t know,” Brittany cried. “I hope he ran away. I hope he never comes back.”
“Brittany!” Tory scolded. “That’s an awful thing to say. Now where is he hiding?”
“He’s not hiding,” Brittany said. “He doesn’t even care. He went outside while you were doing your hair.”
“Outside? Britty, why didn’t you tell me?” She sprang to her feet and headed out the back door. “Spencer Sullivan!”
She saw him in the yard next door, hanging on the fence that corralled the Bryans’ horses. “Spencer! Get back!” She lit out across the yard toward her child.
The four-year-old looked back at her, saw that he was in trouble, and ducked under the fence, as if that would render him invisible. One of the horses whinnied in disapproval, and the colt backed up, startled.
“Spencer! Get out of there!”
She reached the fence and ducked under it, grabbed her child, and quickly pulled him out. When they were out of harm’s way, she set him down and stooped in front of him, holding him firmly by the shoulders. “Spencer Sullivan, if you keep defying me, you may not make it to eighteen years old, and it won’t be because of the horses.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re in big trouble,” Brittany chanted, just arriving on the scene. “You’re not allowed to come see the horses without Mommy or Daddy. Boy, are you gonna get it.” Her brown ponytails swayed with her words.
The red Kool-Aid mustache on her daughter reminded Tory of the busted computer and the lost pages of her novel, and her tears returned. “You’re both in trouble,” she said, getting up and grabbing one hand of each child. “You’re both going to get it.”
A mockingbird in a chestnut tree between the two homes chided her as she pulled them back toward their house. She would have sworn it said, “Fail-ure, fail-ure, fail-ure.” Her cat, hunkering under the back porch steps, took offense and launched across the lawn and up the tree trunk.
The bird flew away, leaving the cat stranded in futility. Spencer stopped and began pulling to get away. “Get him down, Mommy. Get him down!”
“He can get down,” she said, trying to grab his hand again before he could make another escape. “Spencer!”
As if in response, the neighbor’s dog Buster began to bark, and bounded around the house to the foot of the tree. The cat squalled and climbed higher, the dog barked and stood threateningly on its hind legs, and the kids began to scream. “He’s goin’ higher, Mommy! Get him down.”
If it hadn’t been for the fact that the blasted cat had been stuck up in that tree so many times before, and that Barry, Tory’s husband, had had to climb the tree to get it down more than once, she could have ignored the crisis and made it to the house. But this one wasn’t going to pass.
It was nearing noon, and the sun was straight up in the sky, too hot for late May in eastern Tennessee. The little town of Breezewood was named for its cool temperatures in the summer, but today the sun seemed to have forgotten that and beat down on them with further malice. Already, Tory’s dark brown hair, which she’d spent too much time rolling and spraying, was beading with sweat and pasting itself to her forehead. Her kids, who’d been freshly bathed not an hour
ago, were beginning to glisten. Spencer already smelled like one of the steel mills in town—that metallic dirt-and-sweat kind of odor that made you want to hose him down. She eyed the little inflatable pool in the yard and thought of stripping him down and dunking him in it. But that would seem too much like fun to him.
The dog’s barks turned to howls, and the cat scrabbled higher up, still making that skin-crawling noise like a wounded person with laryngitis. She looked around for something, anything, to stop the commotion. The green hose lay curled like a snake ready to strike, and she let go of Brittany, grabbed the head of it, and turned it on full blast. Adjusting the nozzle to shoot in a hard, steady stream, she blasted the dog.
He danced away from the tree, distracted as he tried to nip at the water stream to get a good gulp. She turned the hose up to the top of the tree, where the cat still clung for dear life. It whopped him without much force, but frightened him enough to make him jump to a lower branch.
The children laughed and jumped up and down as the cat began to parry the water blows with one fighting paw. He leaped to another, lower bough.
The cat was low enough now to jump to the ground, so she tried to center the water right over his torso to make him take the plunge.
In his excitement, Spencer ran to the wet German shepherd and hugged it exuberantly. Tory’s heart deflated further as she realized that now her son smelled like sweat, rust, and wet dog. And
she
wasn’t smelling much better.
“He’s down!” Brittany squealed, and took off across the wet grass to chase the soaked, angry cat.
“Britty, come back here! Now!”
“But I have to dry him off, Mommy! He hates to be wet.”
“Brittany, I said
now!
”
Brittany stopped and gave her a hangdog look that would have wilted a weaker mother, but Tory ignored it. Instead, she turned her attention to prying her reeking son’s arms from
around the wet dog. “Inside, Spencer! Hit the tub. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“Huh?”
“The tub, Spencer.”
“Why? I already took a bath.”
“You need another one.”
“But I’m still clean.”
“
Now
, Spencer. Brittany,
inside.
”
“Do I have to take a bath, too?” Brittany asked. “I didn’t do nothin’ bad. Besides, Joseph’s party is outside, so we’ll just get stinky again.”
“I don’t want you going to the party stinky. I want you going clean, and getting stinky while you’re there. Head for the tub.”
“Can I take a bath in my bathing suit?” Spencer asked. “Britty can take it with me.”
“Fine,” she said. “Britty, yours is hanging over the washing machine.”
“But we didn’t have lunch yet. I’m hungry.”
She realized the child was right. The telephone rang as Spencer agreed that he, too, was hungry. Rolling her eyes, she shoved them inside and headed for the phone. She didn’t see the dirty pair of sneakers strategically placed between her and the phone. She tripped over them and caught herself on the table, then swung around and drop-kicked them as far as she could. “Get your shoes out of here, Spencer!” she shouted, then snatched up the phone. “Hello!”
“Hey, hon.” It was Barry, her husband, and she imagined him sitting in his nice quiet office with his organized desk and his functioning computer and all his metalworks accomplishments photographed and displayed like trophies around him. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, her chin stiffening. “My computer has drowned in congealed Kool-Aid, I just rescued Spencer from the Bryans’ corral, then I got the cat down from the tree, and we’re all about to take our second bath of the morning because we’re soaked in sweat and Spencer smells like Buster the dog…and
we haven’t even had lunch yet.” She forced a saccharine tone. “And how is your day, honey?”
“What do you mean the computer drowned? I told you to keep the kids out of there.”
“I was in the bedroom for maybe five minutes, getting ready for Joseph’s party.”
“Joseph’s party? It’s not for hours.”
“That’s not the point, Barry! It won’t type. The keyboard is dead. And all the work I did this morning—four pages during
Sesame Street
—is gone.”
“Tory, that computer cost over a thousand dollars.”
“Tell it to the kids.” She glanced at the pantry, where the kids had gotten too quiet, and saw that they’d gotten into a ziplock bag of gummy worms. “Put those down and head for the tub. I’m not telling you again!”
“Thank goodness,” she heard Spencer whisper, and Brittany giggled.
“Barry, tell me what to do about the computer. I have to save it.”
“Call the company. Ask them what they advise.”
“All right. As soon as things get quiet.”
“And Tory, punish them. Don’t let them go to Joseph’s party today. They’ve been looking forward to it, so make them stay home. It’ll teach them.”
She heard the bath water running, and the cat began scratching at the back door to get in. “Barry, if I do that,
I
have to stay home. And I was looking forward to some adult companionship. Even if it is with a dozen kids around.” She sighed and realized she sounded like a shrew. “Look, I’ll try to save the computer. And I’ve got to go bathe the kids. Please don’t be late this afternoon. I’ll have turned gray and lost my sanity by then.”
“Uh, well…that’s kinda why I’m calling. I mean, not about your sanity. About me being late.”
“No, Barry!” she whined, collapsing into a chair. “Please, not tonight. This is not turning out to be a good day.”
“I can’t help it. I have to work late.”
“So what are we talking about? Seven o’clock? Eight?”
“Maybe eight-thirty. A big client wants to have dinner with some of us. It’s a huge account, for some great stuff we bid on. I can’t say no.”
“Of course not.” She felt a headache coming on. “Look, I’ve got to go. I wish I had time to chat, but you’ve probably got to skedaddle off to lunch, anyway. Tip the waiter nice for me, will you?”
“Tory, come on.”
“Bye, Barry.” She hung up the phone and headed back to the bathroom to see if her kids had drowned each other yet.
They were both in their bathing suits, sitting in four inches of cold water that didn’t have a prayer of getting them clean, and playing battleship with some plastic sailboats they kept on the tub. Taking the opportunity, she went to the living room and sank down on the couch. Barry was probably nursing his wounds, she thought miserably. It wasn’t his fault that he had a job he liked and got to eat in restaurants and talk to adults all day. He believed her staying at home was a terrific blessing, and she knew it should be.
But as long as she was here, there was no hope of her ever making anything of herself. No hope at all. What had happened to the Miss University of Tennessee who’d edited the literary magazine, wowed her professors with papers they’d claimed were publishable, and been chosen “Outstanding Senior English Major” because her professors believed she was the one most likely to publish? Whatever happened to the girl who’d been “Most Beautiful”
and
“Most Likely to Succeed,” all in the same year?
If they could see her now, she thought morbidly. Instead of mopping in the money, she was mopping up spills. Instead of nursing celebrity, she was nursing earaches and skinned knees. Instead of winning awards, she was winning free hamburgers from the scrape-off cards at McDonald’s.