Ties That Bind (31 page)

I
didn't set the alarm, but I got up before dawn just the same. I'd never really fallen asleep to begin with, knowing what the new day would bring. Today, I had to tell Olivia that she'd be leaving the hospital and going home with her grandparents. It was a conversation I dreaded.

I dawdled in the shower, drank three cups of coffee, and took an extra-long time at my prayers, hoping God would give me just the right words to say to Olivia and that I'd be able to say them without falling apart. No wise words came to mind, however, and just before nine, I decided to quit putting off the inevitable.

My purse was on my shoulder and my car keys in hand when I heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. When I pulled back the curtain, I saw Paul and my parents climbing out of Paul's car.

What was going on? Paul had never even met my parents. And why were the three of them standing on my front porch?

Between my parents, Dad was always the bigger talker, but today, Mom was the one with the answers. Dad sat silently at one end of the sofa looking small and weathered, like a balloon beginning to deflate and sink toward the floor. All his bluster was gone.

“We never wanted things to turn out like this,” Mom said, glancing toward my father, speaking for him. Dad bobbed his head in agreement, but didn't look at me.

If I'd been an observer of the family drama that had played out in the last few weeks instead of a participant, I might have found Mom's statement hard to swallow, but I'd gotten caught up in the craziness too. Shock, grief, the festering of unresolved anger, and the need to gain and hold the upper hand had combined into a poisonous brew.

Arnie had told me that a court case is a competition, and he was right about that, but he was wrong too. There were no winners in this. We'd all been sucked into a game that left us sadder, lonelier, and poorer in spirit than we would have been if we'd never played in the first place.

“We were so tired when we got back to the hotel, but neither of us could sleep. We got up and started reading the Bible, the story of the two women who claimed to be the mother of the same child and came before King Solomon, asking him to settle the matter. When the king said he couldn't and that the only fair thing to do was to cut the baby in half, giving a piece of the dead child to each, one of the women relinquished her claim. She was the true mother. She proved that by being willing to sacrifice her rights and her happiness to protect her child from harm.

“When we finished reading the passage,” my mother continued, looking at my father again, whose head was bowed so low that it was impossible to read his expression, “we realized that in this whole thing, you were the only one who had behaved like a true parent. Just about that time, the front desk rang our room and said there was someone in the lobby who wanted to see us. It was Paul. He called every hotel in town to track us down.”

“There aren't that many hotels in the area,” Paul replied with a shrug, indicating it was no big deal. “Werner and Lillian had already decided what they wanted to do.”

“But you convinced us to come over here and talk to Margot,” Mom said. “Margot, I know that saying I'm sorry can't even begin to make things right, but … I don't know how else to begin. I am sorry. We both are.” Her gaze flickered toward my father and she paused just long enough to give him a chance to jump in and affirm her statement. When he didn't, she continued. “We feel awful, Margot. We didn't mean the things we said, you know, about the protest march and your medical records. It's just that—”

Head still hanging low, Dad lifted his hand, cutting off my mother's explanation.

“Stop, Lil. Don't.
You
were the one who pulled out the Bible and found that story. You were the one who read it to me and made me see sense. You were the one who stood up for Margot and Olivia. Don't give me credit I don't deserve. And don't apologize for me. I've made you do that too many times over the years.”

I'd have argued with him if I could, but Dad was right. In our family, when it came to wounds, apologies, and forgiveness—it was Dad who inflicted the wounds, Mom who offered the apologies, and my sister and I who were expected to extend forgiveness. That was the way it worked. Every careless word or thoughtless gesture on Dad's part was always swept under the rug, out of sight but never completely out of mind, all of us complicit in the cover-up.

Dad opened his big hands, laid them flat against his thighs as if he were preparing to push off and get to his feet, but he sat still for a long moment before finally raising his head, revealing red-rimmed eyes.

“I can't think of any reason in the world you could or should forgive me, but even so, I want you to know I'm sorry. Everything that's gone wrong since Mari died, and for a long time before, was my fault.”

“Dad. It wasn't just you. I should have called you, tried harder to work out some kind of solution ….”

He held up his hand. “Don't let me off the hook, Margot. I didn't listen, not to you and not to your sister. Everything always has to be my way. That's what drove Mari away. I think part of me knew it even before the accident, but it took Mari dying before I was willing to admit it. Since it was too late to make things right with Mari, I got it in my head to undo all my mistakes by raising Olivia. But I just made it worse, didn't I? I made it all about me. Again.

“I never gave you credit for all you've accomplished, never told you how proud I am of you, Margot. I was afraid to let you grow up, afraid you'd know more and do more than your old man, then wouldn't need me anymore. I treated you like a child, but you're a woman, a fine one. And you'll be a fine mother to Olivia. Mari knew what she was doing when she picked you. I'm going to go over to the courthouse and tell the judge that before we go back to Buffalo.”

Avoiding my gaze, he got to his feet and walked toward the door. My mother followed him, but not before casting an imploring glance at me. She didn't need to. Everything I said and did after that was my own idea and came from the heart.

I reached out as Dad passed by, clasping hold of his heavy hand, freckled with age, calloused by work and the commitment to provide for his family, the hand that spanked me when I was bad, applauded me when I was good, embraced me when I was both, the hand of a man who had made mistakes but done the best he could, the hand of experience, the hand of a father.

“Daddy? Mom? Hang on a minute. Let's talk.”

April

I
t was raining hard, but that hadn't prevented people from coming to church. Word had gotten around that Reverend Tucker was home for a visit and would be preaching at Sunday services. They came in droves to hear him and wish him well.

I won't say the idea that people might compare Bob's preaching with mine and find me wanting never crossed my mind, but I was too interested in his sermon to think about it much.

He spoke about the early church as presented in the book of Acts. I couldn't help but notice and feel a bit proud of how our little church had moved closer to that model in the last couple of weeks. No, we weren't holding all our goods in common, or eating all our meals together, but we were behaving more like a community than we had when I arrived.

Attendance was up, and not just when Bob was preaching. We had more visitors every week, and greater numbers in children's and adult Sunday school classes. And we had more people serving, a lot more. Summer was months away and the roster of teachers and support staff for Vacation Bible School was filled. People were volunteering who'd never offered to help before. Adam Kingsbury, our former treasurer, who after serving four years in that job had certainly earned a break, had teamed up with Jake Kaminski, who owns the hardware store, to start a new ministry called “Helping Hands.” Their idea was to devote one Saturday a month to home repair and maintenance for anyone in town who needed help.

Yesterday had been the first Saturday work session, and twenty-six volunteers had shown up to paint a kitchen, install smoke alarms, patch a leaky roof, haul away trash, and put in a new handrail on a staircase. They'd also installed a wheelchair ramp in the home of a family whose son had been injured in Afghanistan. Though the Grizzards weren't members of our church, they'd come to the service. Dennis and Jean were sitting at the left end of the front pew and Blake was right next to them, sitting in his wheelchair.

During the offertory hymn, I noticed Margot in the back, far from her usual spot. Her parents were there too, sitting to her left. Olivia, James, and Paul sat to her right. Margot was beaming, as were her parents. They looked right together, the six of them, all of a piece, like a family, a happy one. What an amazing change.

As the organist rolled into the final, triumphant chords of “How Great Thou Art” and I walked to the center aisle to receive the offering, I could not help but think, “How great. How great indeed.”

 

I wanted to talk to Margot during the coffee hour, but I got caught up with the Grizzards. When I finished speaking to them, I spotted Margot at the fringes of Reverend Tucker's circle of admirers, but before I could join the group, Ted Carney, Miranda Wyatt, and Abigail Spaulding came looking for me. When they ushered me off into an empty Sunday school classroom, saying there was something they needed to discuss with me in private, my heart sank.

It occurred to me that maybe I should have been more worried about people comparing me with Reverend Tucker that morning. He looked healthy, energetic, and completely recovered. Maybe he had decided to cut his sabbatical short. Surely the church would be only too happy to have him back early. Who could blame them? If I'd had to choose between Bob Tucker and me, I'd have gone with Bob too. But, oh … I was going to miss New Bern.

As Ted closed the door, shutting out the sound of chatter and laughter coming from the fellowship hall, I decided to beat them to the punch. It would be easier for them and less humiliating for me.

Perching my pregnant body on a chair designed to fit an eight-year-old wasn't easy, but I did my best. “Listen, Ted,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and businesslike, “I think I know what you want to talk about.”

“Excellent!” Abigail said briskly. “Then this shouldn't take long. Franklin and I have a two o'clock tee time. Assuming the weather clears up. April is such an unpredictable month.” She sighed and I nodded. It certainly was.

“Well,” I continued, determined to make this as painless as possible, “I want you all to know how much I've enjoyed serving here. It's been a wonderful experience.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear you say so,” Ted said. “You and I had a few rocky moments, but we sorted everything out in the end, didn't we?” He shifted his eyes from me to Miranda and back to me.

“Absolutely.”

“We were worried that it might be too much for you, especially with the baby,” Miranda said.

“No. Certainly not,” I said, bristling a bit at the suggestion.

Never, at any point, had I let my condition prevent me from giving my very best to the congregation. Until the congregational meeting, no one had even guessed I was pregnant. It was one thing to rescind my contract because they wanted to bring Reverend Tucker back early, but saying they were doing so because I hadn't been able to handle the workload during my pregnancy was something else entirely. After all my long hours and hard work, that hurt.

“Since coming to New Bern, I've never worked less than a ten-hour day.”

Miranda looked at Ted and Abigail. “That's why we've been worried. It's just too much. That's why we settled on a three-quarter position. It will be so much better for everyone.”

“Three-quarter position?” I shifted in the pint-sized desk chair, trying to find a spot where the plastic backrest didn't hit me in the kidneys.

“I understand your hesitation,” Abigail said. “We all know that there's no such thing as part-time ministry, but we're going to be vigilant about making sure that you have three full days off per week. I'm going to hold them to it, I can promise you that!”

Her posture, as always, was ramrod straight, but she pulled her shoulders back even farther, as if to underscore her immovability on this point—whatever the point might be. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Excuse me. But aren't the three of you here to tell me you're going to terminate my contract early?”

Abigail's eyebrows shot up. “Terminate your contract? On the contrary, we'd like to extend it—”

“With some stipulations,” Ted interrupted and then cleared his throat officiously. “Last week, I took it upon myself to make a few calls to board members, nothing official, mind you, to take something of a straw poll to discuss various options and opportunities that might be …”

Abigail set her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest while Ted droned on about staffing optimization, volunteer utilization, and some sort of statistical study he'd read about in the
Christian Science Monitor
that, at least to me, seemed entirely unrelated to either issue. Abigail glowered. The two biggest personalities on the board might be on better terms than previously, but it was clear the cessation of hostilities in the Carney / Spaulding battle was an armistice at best, possibly a short one. Abigail looked ready to explode, but Miranda came to the rescue and laid her hand on Ted's arm. Happily distracted by her touch, Ted stopped talking and turned toward her.

“I think what Ted is trying to say is that he, and the rest of the board,” she said, nodding toward Abigail, who uncrossed her arms, “were concerned about our staffing situation even before Reverend Tucker's heart attack, but we were at a loss as to how to deal with it. Last week, Abigail and Ted got together for a bit of brainstorming and came up with a few ideas.

“Basically, it comes down to this: We'd like you to complete your original contract and then, after taking off a few months for maternity leave, come back on as a three-quarter-time associate minister. You'd preach once a month, which would give Bob a break, but your primary emphasis would be pastoral counseling and volunteer coordination. How does that sound to you?”

The proposal caught me by surprise, so much so that I hesitated a moment before answering. “It sounds … perfect.”

And it really was, a position that played to my strengths and a schedule that would make motherhood a bit easier. I only had a couple of concerns.

“But how are you going to pay for another staff position? The budget is pretty tight as it is. And … will there be an allowance for housing?” I didn't wish to appear ungrateful, but at three-quarter salary, there was no way I could afford to pay for rent.

“The Wynne Foundation will fund the position for the first three years,” Abigail explained. For all intents and purposes, Abigail
was
the Wynne Foundation, so I knew that the idea had probably originated with her.

“The foundation focuses our funding on projects that emphasize community involvement, matching grants and the like, getting people to participate in solving their problems instead of just expecting the foundation to throw money at them. The church's newfound emphasis on volunteerism makes it a perfect fit with our mission.”

Ted took over from there. “Barbara Stadler did a bit of number crunching. Using volunteers from within the church should actually offset much of the cost of a new position. And the leftover money from Waldo's bequest will give us the money we need to remodel the third floor of the parsonage into an apartment for you and the baby.” Ted grinned. “Assuming you don't plan on having any other children, it should be plenty big enough for the two of you.”

I laughed. “I'm pretty sure that one baby will be as much as I can handle, but … are you sure that the Tuckers will want to give up the space?”

“It was their idea,” Miranda said. “With their children grown and gone, they don't need it. And Sharon is hoping you'll let her babysit now and then. So?” She clapped her hands together in a “let's wrap this up” gesture. “What do you think? After the baby is born, would you like to come back to New Bern?”

For a moment, I was so choked up that I couldn't speak. But I didn't have to. My smile said it all.