The Red Gloves Collection (11 page)
“Earl?” Her voice was broken and weak—almost childlike. He stepped into the house and took her in his arms. She was shaking, and for a moment Earl thought she might pass out. “Thank God. Oh, thank God. I knew you’d come home at Christmastime.”
All he could do was hold her.
After a moment of silence, she leaned back and framed his face in her hands. Then, with a smile, she linked arms with him and headed into the living room.
At one end sat his father. He looked older, more frail than the last time Earl had seen him. Seated around the room were Earl’s brother and sister, their spouses, and kids. Conversations stopped and the room fell silent as Earl and his mother walked into view.
His sister gasped and then covered her mouth.
For a moment, no one spoke. Earl knew it was his move, his turn to apologize. But his throat was thick and he knew if he tried to talk he would break down and cry.
Almost as though he could sense Earl’s discomfort, his father stood and moved slowly across the room. Their eyes met and held, then his father engulfed him in a desperate hug that erased the years. “Welcome home, son.”
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Dad.” Earl’s voice broke and he buried his face in his father’s shoulder.
One by one the others rose and joined in the embrace. Earl stood utterly still, his tears splashing against his new shoes. What was this? How could they so quickly forgive him? And why would they still love him after all his years of silence?
It was a moment that defined their love, a moment that told Earl everything he needed to know: He was going to be okay. No, he would not have Anne and Molly. Not for a long while. But he had the love of his family. And a faith in God that had never been there before.
“Oh, Earl.” His mother clung to him even more tightly than before. “You’re really here!”
Then, as briefly as he could, he told them about Gideon and her gift and how it had changed his mind about life and love. Even God’s love.
His mother still looked at him as though he might disappear at any moment. Then she said, something Earl had never expected her to say. “How fitting—that God would use a child to make the miracle happen. Especially at Christmas.”
Earl’s legs trembled. The love from his parents, his family, was almost more than he could take. He was so undeserving. What if he hadn’t opened the child’s gift? What if he’d tossed it in the trash can like he’d planned? Neither of them would have found life—neither him nor her.
With a shudder, he shook his head and cast a pleading look at his father. “We’ve lost so much time.”
“Yes,” his father wrapped his arm around him once more. “But think how much time we have left.”
T
he wedding was over and Earl slipped into the foyer. He needed to find Gideon, needed to give her something.
How good God had been to them over the years. Gideon had figured out that their Christmas surprises were from him, and he had flown back to Portland and spent rime with the Mercer family. He’d stayed in touch throughout Gideon’s transplant process. And when she came home two months later with a healthy report, Earl was the first one she called.
She had become something of a granddaughter to him. Someone he loved as dearly as he’d loved his own girl.
He had flown out for the wedding. He still lived in Redding. His parents had both died years ago, so he had the old house to himself now. Just him, alone with the Lord, celebrating life and anxious for heaven.
He maneuvered himself past the milling crowd and peered over the heads of a group of men. There she was. Surrounded by guests in the far corner of the church foyer. He made his way closer and motioned to her. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Gideon?”
Her face lit up, those unforgettable eyes shining. She excused herself and followed him to a quiet spot around the corner.
“Earl.” She took his hands in hers. “I’m so glad you made it.”
A blush warmed his face and he stared at his shoes for a moment. “I have a plane to catch in a few hours.” He handed her a package. “I wanted you to open this before I go.”
“Earl, you shouldn’t have. It’s enough that you’re here.” She slid her finger into a seam in the wrapping paper and pulled out a framed painting. For a long moment she merely stared at it. Then two delicate tears trickled down her cheeks. “Oh … It’s beautiful, Earl. I can’t believe it.”
It was an original painting, one he had commissioned from an artist friend he knew at church. Earl had found an old photograph of Gideon as an eight-year-old, a picture she’d given him long ago. Then he’d asked the artist to duplicate it on canvas. The man had done a stunning job of capturing Gideon’s soulful eyes and the emotion she carried in her heart at that young age.
But that wasn’t what made Gideon stare in wonder.
There was something else—something Earl had asked the artist to add to the painting. On the left side it read, “Christmas miracles happen to those who believe.” And beneath that was a perfect illustration of the gift that had started it all.
The gift that had both changed them … and saved them.
A pair of bright red, woolen gloves.
dedicated to…
Donald, my forever prince
Kelsey, my beautiful laughter
Tyler, my favorite song
Sean, my indefinable joy
Josh, my gentle giant
EJ, my chosen one
Austin, my miracle boy
And to God Almighty, the author of life,
who has—for now—blessed me with these.
T
he letter was his best idea yet.
Jordan Wright had already talked to God about getting his wish, and so far nothing had happened. But a letter … a letter would definitely get God’s attention. Not the crayoned pictures he liked to send Grandpa in California. But a real letter. On his mom’s fancy paper with his best spelling and slow hands, so his a’s and e’s would sit straight on the line the way a second grader’s a’s and e’s should.
That way, God would read it for sure.
Grandma Terri was watching her yucky grown-up show on TV. People kissing and crying and yelling at each other. Every day his grandma picked him up from St. Andrews, brought him home to their Upper East Side apartment in Manhattan, got him a snack, and put in the video of her grown-up show. Jordan could make his own milk shakes or accidentally color on the walls or jump on his bed for an hour when Grandma watched her grownup show. As long as he wasn’t too loud, she didn’t notice anything.
“This is my time, Jordan,” she’d tell him, and her eyes would get that in-charge kind of look. “Keep yourself busy.”
But when the show was over she’d find him and make a loud, huffy sound. “Jordan,” she’d say, “what are you into now? Why can’t you read quietly like other children?” Her voice would be slow and tired, and Jordan wouldn’t know what to do next.
She never yelled at him or sent him to his room, but one thing was sure. She didn’t like baby-sitting him because yesterday Jordan heard her tell his mom that.
“I can’t handle the boy forever, Megan. It’s been two years since George died. You need a nanny.” She did a different kind of breathy noise. “The boy’s wearing me out.”
Jordan had been in his room listening. He felt bad because maybe it was his fault his grandma couldn’t handle him. But then he heard his mom say, “I can’t handle him, either, so that makes two of us.”
After that Jordan felt too sick to eat dinner.
Ever since then he’d known it was time. He had to do whatever it took to get God’s attention because if he didn’t get his wish pretty soon, well, maybe his mom and his grandma might not like him anymore.
It wasn’t that he tried to get into trouble. But sometimes it was boring looking for things to do, and he’d get curious and wonder what would happen if he made a milk shake with ice cubes. But how was he supposed to know the milk-shake maker had a lid? And using paper and a red crayon to trace the tiger on the wall calendar probably wasn’t a good idea in the first place, because of course sometimes crayons slip.
He took the last swallow from his milk and waited until the cookie crumbs slid down the glass into his mouth. Cookies were the best snack of all. He set the cup on the counter, climbed off the barstool, and walked with tiptoe feet into his mom’s office. He wasn’t allowed in there except if his mom was working on her lawyer stuff and he had to ask her a serious question.
But she’d understand today because a letter to God was very serious business.
The room was big and clean and full of wood stuff. His mom was the kind of lawyer who put bad guys in jail. That’s why sometimes she had to work late at night and on Sundays. Jordan pulled open a drawer near his mother’s computer and took out two pieces of paper and two envelopes. In case he messed up and had to start over. Then he snuck real quiet out the door, down the hall, and into his room. He had a desk and pencils in there, only he never used them because second graders at St. Andrews didn’t get homework till after Christmas.
One time he asked his mommy what would happen if he couldn’t do the homework when he got it, what if the stuff he had to do was too hard.
“It won’t be too hard, Jordan.” His mother’s eyebrows had lifted up the way they did when she didn’t want any more questions.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m completely sure.”
“How come?”
“Because, Jordan, I’ve been through second grade and I know all the answers. If you have trouble, I’ll help you.”
His heart felt a little less scared after that. Not every second grader’s mommy had
all
the answers. If she knew everything, then he could never really get in too much trouble with his homework, and that was a good thing because Christmas wasn’t too far away.
He sat down at his desk, took a pencil from the box, and spread out the piece of paper. The white space looked very empty. Jordan stared at it for a long time. If God was going to read the letter, it had to be his best work ever. Big words would be a good thing. He worked himself a little taller in the chair, sucked in a long breath through his teeth, and began to write.
Dear God, my name is Jordan Wright and I am 8years old. I hav somthing to ask you. I tride to ask you befor but I think you wer bizy. So I am riting you a letter insted.
Jordan’s hand hurt by the time he finished, and he could hear music playing on Grandma’s grown-up show. That meant it was almost done, and any minute Grandma would come looking for him. He quickly folded the letter in half, ran his finger along the edge, and folded it again. Then he stuck it in the envelope and licked the lid shut. With careful fingers he wrote “God” across the front, then his pencil moved down a bit and froze. He’d forgotten something.
He didn’t know God’s address.
His heart felt extra jumpy. God lived in heaven, so that had to be part of it. But what about the numbers? Jordan could hear footsteps coming closer. He didn’t want Grandma to see the letter. She might want to read it, and that would ruin everything because it was a secret. Just between him and God. He looked around his room and saw his backpack near his bed. He ran fast to it and slipped the letter inside. He could give it to his mother on the way to school tomorrow. She would know God’s address.
She knew everything.
M
egan Wright tucked her blouse into her navy skirt as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. Her biggest opening argument of the month was in less than an hour. “Let’s go, Jordan. Two minutes.”
“Just a sec.”
“Not just a sec.” She blew at a wisp of hair as she grabbed a cold piece of toast from the kitchen counter. These were the times she missed George more than any other because the morning routine had been his deal. As long as he was at work by eight-thirty he’d been happy. But she had briefings and depositions that started earlier than that.
“Now,
Jordan. I have a hearing today.”
She poured two glasses of orange juice, snatched one and spun toward the vitamin cupboard. Two C’s, one A, one E, a B-complex, a CoQ
10
, and two garlics. She popped the pills into her mouth and swallowed them with a single swig of juice. George had been more than twenty years older than her, a man she respected and tried to love. But the fortress surrounding George’s deepest emotions was unyielding stone and razor wire, and in his presence, Megan never felt like more than an amicable business partner. When the love she’d dreamed of never materialized, Megan allowed herself to become like him. Married to her job.
Neither of them had figured Jordan into the plans.
But surprise gave way to possibility, and for a time Megan believed that maybe George would come around, spend less time at work, and get caught up in fatherhood. They would have quiet moments together, watching their baby sleep and dreaming of his future. Laughter and passion would finally find them, and her life would be all she’d ever hoped it to be. But the dream never quite materialized. George was nearly fifty by then, and thrilled with the idea of a son, a child to carry on his name, but he was as distant as ever with Megan.