Beneath the Night Tree (22 page)

In less than a minute I was able to account for enough ingredients to make all my imagined treats and more. Though the truth was, none of it would do me any good if the boys were stuck at home. I’d still have to make my way in to Value Foods. If school was canceled, Grandma would have to carry on the snow day traditions, not me.

She was a better mother than me. A better grandmother than I someday would be. A better person all around.

A string of unexpected thoughts wound themselves around my heart, binding my chest until it ached to breathe. I loved my grandmother more than my own life, but since Daniel was born, there had been times when I throbbed with an impossible jealousy toward her. Tonight, that envy felt like it would choke me.

I didn’t want to think of my many shortcomings as a mother. Of Parker and second chances. Or even third chances. But Grandma had planted a seed in my mind with just a couple of words and the brush of her hand. And now that she was gone, her gentle reminders filled the room with an air of anticipation.

Maybe she was right. She usually was. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

There was homework waiting for me in my messenger bag, but I couldn’t bring myself to concentrate on the psychological particulars of childhood dysfunction. Nor could I stomach the thought of mindless TV. I hadn’t been to the library in months, and the only magazine we had at the farm was
Better Homes and Gardens
, an old issue I had paged through twice already. The only thing left for me to do was the one thing that Grandma probably hoped I’d do even more than she prayed I’d call Parker. I got out my Bible.

With a storm raging both outside the windows and inside my heart, it hardly seemed like the opportune time to get my devotional life on track. But the house was quiet, and my mind was anything but. I needed something to distract me from the unsettling truth of Grandma’s words.

In the half decade since Grandma had given me her precious Bible, it had only become more dog-eared and overstuffed. I picked up her habit of collecting things, and the yellowing pages of Scripture were fat with letters, poems, church bulletins, and love notes—mostly from Daniel and Simon. It was hard to even find the chapter I was looking for, but more often than not I still stumbled across a treasure when I cracked the binding of that aging NIV.

It was on my way to Jeremiah that the little slip of paper fell from the pages and fluttered to the kitchen floor. I bent to pick it up and turned the bookmark-size scrap over and over in my hands in the hope of recognizing it. But although I thought I had been through every fragment contained in Grandma’s Bible, this was new to me. It was a couple of penciled lines written in a strong, willowy hand that leaned slightly to the left as if blown by a breeze: Grandma’s beautiful script in the years before the palsy made her fingers tremble.

I don’t want Julia to be happy.

I don’t expect her life to be easy.

I don’t insist that it be painless.

But I do want her to be content.

I want her to love and be loved.

I want her to be holy.

The first line was like the quick stab of a knife, a wound I hadn’t expected.
I don’t want Julia to be happy.
Why not? Didn’t I deserve happiness? Don’t we all?

But even as I bristled in self-defense, my eyes scanned the rest of the words and I knew with a certain unflinching acceptance that my grandma’s hope for my life was saturated with love and truth—the sort of honesty that couldn’t be found in modern parenting tomes, where ease and happiness reigned paramount.

Happiness is fleeting.
My dad had said those words to me a hundred times in our years together. A thousand? I didn’t get it at the time; in fact, I thought my dad was a closet sadist for the enthusiasm with which he echoed ridiculous sayings like
No pain, no gain
.
Adversity builds character
.
We acquire the strength of what we have overcome
. Life was never about chasing butterflies for my dad. It was about swatting flies with a smile on his face.

I smoothed open Grandma’s little proverb for my life and studied her wishes again. When had she written it? after Dad died? before? I could almost imagine her bent over the table where I now sat, weeping silent tears for her son and trying to arrange a life for the granddaughter she never planned to parent. Most mothers made lists of rules: No talking back. No rudeness, put-downs, or insults. No skipping school, blowing curfew, or going out without permission. But my grandma made a life list. A scribbled prayer for more than just my behavior.

A hope for my life.

It was hard not to compare myself against her expectations, to wonder how I measured up. Grandma’s words almost rang prophetic, for my life had been neither easy nor painless. But was I the woman she wanted me to be? Was I content? Did I know how to love and be loved? Was I holy?

Weighed down with wedding woes, brother battles, and the unresolved pain of Parker, I felt like a complete and utter failure. I had survived five years on my own. Five years as a single mother to two young boys who, for better or worse, were fiercely loved by a bruised and broken me. It didn’t feel like enough.

I wish I could say that when I picked up the phone, my intentions were pure and my heart was ready for all that was to come. But mostly I did it out of duty, a sense of obligation to Daniel, and a desire to be the woman my grandmother wanted me to be. Calling Parker wouldn’t make me happy, and it probably wasn’t the holy thing to do, but for some reason it felt like the right thing to do.

His number was saved on my cell phone, and I selected it and hit Send before I had the chance to change my mind. It wasn’t terribly late, but I wished for a fleeting moment that he had already silenced his cell for the night. I could hang up. Or maybe leave a message, something short and meaningless. At least I could ease my conscience by knowing that I had tried.

He answered on the very first ring.

“Parker here.”

I gulped. “Hi. It’s Julia.”

“I know. Your name came up on caller ID.”

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes and hang up, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “How’s your puppy?”

Parker laughed, but it was short and hollow-sounding. “She’s fine.”

We were silent for what felt like ages, the only sound between us the faint buzz and hum of a poor connection. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him; I wondered why I had called at all, why I let myself be guilted into doing the one thing I dreaded most.

“How are the boys?” Parker finally asked. His voice was quiet, strained, as if it was difficult for him to form the words.

“They’re fine.” I glanced at the long spool of my son’s painting and offered, “Daniel is proving himself to be quite the artist.”

“Really? I thought he was going to be a scientist.”

“He’s a true Renaissance man.”

“Like Leonardo da Vinci—an artist and a scientist. Or maybe his fascination with biology will fade. He could be the next Grant Wood.”

“Who’s Grant Wood?” I asked, the question tumbling out.

“He painted
American Gothic
. You know, the Depression-era farmer and his daughter? the pitchfork?”

I’d seen parodies of that painting on everything from
Green Acres
to
The Simpsons
. As usual, I felt like an idiot for asking such a stupid question. To cover up for my cultural gaffe, I said, “Daniel is five, Parker. I don’t think he needs you to plot out the rest of his life.”

“I’m not plotting. I’m dreaming.”

I fought the urge to tell Parker he had no right to dream on Daniel’s behalf, to fantasize about his future. But I hadn’t called to pick a fight, and I reminded myself that I was doing this for my son, no matter the cost to myself. Instead of baiting Parker further, I put a steadying hand against my collarbone and forced myself to say, “I’m sorry about . . . what happened on the porch.”

“Me too.”

“Me too”?
I hadn’t expected that. I opened my mouth to tell Parker that I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, but he beat me to the punch.

“I should have never just showed up like that. I know I put you in a really awkward spot.”

“You did,” I admitted, “but it wasn’t entirely your fault. Simon can be pretty convincing.”

I could almost hear the smile in Parker’s voice when he agreed: “He’s a charmer.”

My own faint smile bloomed in response. “Are we . . . talking?”

“I think that’s what they call this.”

“I mean, civilly.”

“We’re trying.”

“Good for us.”

“Julia?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you call?”

“I think we need to work this out,” I said carefully, measuring out each syllable as if it mattered much. “For Daniel’s sake, I think we need to find a way to . . . coexist.”

“Me too,” Parker whispered.

“But we need to set up some boundaries. Some guidelines for interaction.”

“Guidelines for interaction? You make it sound like I’m being admitted on a trial basis.”

“You are.”

Parker sighed. “Okay. Fair enough.”

“And . . .” I paused, wondering if I should tell him the rest of it or if my big news could wait. But there were enough secrets and lies between us; if I truly wanted to give this a shot for Daniel’s sake, I had to come clean with everything. “And I need you to know that I’m getting married. In June. To the man you ran into at the farm that day.”

“Congratulations.” Parker cleared his throat and said it again. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Will . . . will your fiancé want to . . .”

“Adopt Daniel?” I finished. “We’ve talked about it, but Michael doesn’t have any definite plans. At least, not yet. I guess that’s something we’ll have to work out.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” I repeated. For the first time all night I felt confident, sure. “I think we could make this work.”

“Me too,” Parker agreed. But when he hung up, he didn’t say good-bye. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all. A moment later the line went dead, and I was left to wonder if the call was dropped or if Parker had severed our connection.

Just when I was trying to repair it.

A Matter of the Heart

When I told Daniel that Parker was coming to visit, he nearly jumped out of his skin. I had waited to tell him until I knew for sure that Parker would keep his word, because after our phone conversation was cut short, I was left to wonder once again if Daniel’s father would simply fade back out of our lives. But he called a couple days later and timidly asked if he could come up on Saturday to spend some time with the boys.

I agreed.

“He’s coming?” Daniel squealed. “Parker’s going to visit us?”

“On Saturday,” I confirmed. “He’ll come up around noon and we’ll all have lunch together here; then he’d like to take you sledding.”

“Sledding? Are you kidding me?”

I laughed. It was like I had just told him he was going to Disney World. “Honey, it’s just to the golf course hill. Nothing fancy.”

But Daniel was already gone. And although I wanted to resent his infatuation with Parker, I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling as my son ran through the house, screaming for Simon.

Remarkably, Daniel wasn’t the only person excited about Parker’s impending visit. In the days leading up to the weekend, Simon seemed to relax, to loosen around the edges. I even caught him smiling once or twice and laughing at Daniel’s ridiculous five-year-old jokes instead of barely concealing his annoyance.

“Are you looking forward to Saturday?” I asked him one evening as he got ready for bed.

Simon flashed me a quick, wary look. “Yeah,” he said slowly. It was almost as if he was afraid to admit it.

Since things were calm between us, I didn’t want to pry. But his answer took me by surprise, and I just had to ask. “Is it because of Parker? or because you’re going sledding?”

“Sledding,” he coughed out and disappeared down the hallway to his room.

“I’m sure it’ll be lots of fun!” I called after him, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. His response left me unsettled. It felt like there was a family secret I wasn’t privy to, and I existed in my own home like a stranger, an outsider who was left to wonder why everyone was smiling.

Even Grandma seemed in on it. She was quick to notice my hesitation when it came to Parker, and though she seemed almost amused at the duplicity of my on-again-off-again reaction to his reinstatement in our lives, she appeared eager to support our fumbling endeavors. Almost too eager.

“Maybe you should go with them this afternoon,” she suggested on Saturday morning. We were buttering buns for a quick lunch of barbecued beef sandwiches and potato chips. “Parker might need an extra hand with the boys.”

“They’re not babies,” I argued. “They practically take care of themselves. I think Parker can handle it.”

“But he’s not used to kids,” Grandma reminded me. “He might not know what Daniel is capable of or overestimate Simon’s ability to—”

“Fine,” I cut in. “You’re right.” It was hard to discount the evidence of Parker’s lack of parental expertise. There was his unannounced visit, his categorical acceptance of Simon’s invitation, the fact that he brought along a puppy—even if it was his own—without questioning the appropriateness of the gesture . . . Grandma was right. Leaving the boys in his hands for an entire afternoon was just asking for trouble. Especially on the steep hills of the golf course. Especially armed with inner tubes and toboggans.