Composing Amelia (40 page)

“Well … Hear me out here, and don’t read anything in to what I’m saying, okay? Take my words at face value.”

She rolled her eyes. “All right, what is it already?”

Marcus mulled a few more seconds, then began slowly as he tried to figure out the best way to say it. “Since you’ve been here—and I know a lot of that time was spent depressed, so maybe that skews things—piano has gone to the back burner for you. And the more I think about it, it seems like maybe your dreams about piano and touring and your career weren’t so much because you’re so in love with music and performing, but because of what you were trying to prove.” His pace picked up as his idea found sure footing in his mind. “Like me and pastoring—I didn’t start down that road because I had some revelation from God when I was a kid that I was born to preach, or even because I had a passion for sharing Christ. I did it because I wanted my dad to love me. Everything I did was because of him and what I was trying to get from him. Maybe—maybe piano has been the same for you. You needed to prove to yourself that you weren’t your mom, that you weren’t going to waste your life and squander your talents and make your family miserable. You thought music could save you from becoming her. But now that you’ve been diagnosed, and you’re getting healthy, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. You don’t need piano to justify or save you anymore.” He stopped, afraid he’d already gone too far. “Does that make sense?”

Amelia looked dumbstruck. Her gaze slid away from him and she said nothing for a long time, and Marcus fought the compulsion to fill the silence with more blathering and armchair psychology. When she spoke it was so quiet he couldn’t understand her. “What, babe?”

“By George, I think he’s got it.”

He smiled. “Really?”

She sniffed, brushing away the tears that had come to her eyes. “I—I’m afraid to admit it, but I think so.” Her eyes went wide. “But if I’m not a career pianist, I don’t know
what
I am.”

He chuckled and pulled her into his arms. “I know the feeling.” He leaned back, looked her full in the face. “But I can tell you this much. You’re still a pianist—an incredibly talented one. And you’re a wife—a really, really wonderful wife. And you’re a mom. And even though I haven’t had a chance to see you in action, I think you’re going to be a fine one.”

She smiled through her tears. “Well, when you put it that way.” She leaned into him again, her head on his chest, then said the words that made him cry with her. “All right then. I’ll stay.”

Amelia reached a hand into the incubator and let a single finger rest on Hope’s belly. Nurse Marcela stood beside her, monitoring Hope’s vitals. “Holding steady,” she said. “That’s a great sign.”

Amelia stared at her daughter, taking in the complication of wires and hoses and tape that had turned her into some human-machine hybrid. Her pink knit cap was baggy on her head, and the diaper looked like it was intended for a toddler. She was only a week old, but she’d already endured a litany of tests to determine the extent of her challenges from being born a trimester early. And to the doctors’ amazement, every single one had come back clear. “Truly a miracle,” they’d said. Amelia was beginning to believe them.

Which begged the question: A miracle worked by whom?

They continued the touch therapy until Hope’s vitals began to waver, then Amelia withdrew her hand and stood. “I’m going to get some tea,” she told the nurse once she’d ensured Hope was stable. “Can I get you something?”

“You’re a doll. No thanks, though.”

Amelia headed for the cafeteria on autopilot, having walked this route dozens of times over the last week. She’d been released two days after the birth, but showed up every morning after breakfast to sit beside Hope until dinner. The first couple of days she’d brought things to keep herself busy—a few books to read, stationery to write letters—but she soon stopped, unable to concentrate on them. Her prior feelings of resentment and ambivalence toward the baby had been erased in those minutes after Hope’s birth and then replaced by fierce mama-bear instincts that left her tormented at seeing her daughter laid out like a science experiment in the isolette. She had no patience for things that might steal her attention from her baby. Instead, she sat and stared. And when the stress of seeing Hope that way became too much, she walked. And thought.

Today’s musings had gravitated toward New Hope. The name made her smile now. So did the lengths the congregation was going to for the Sheffields. They’d provided dinner every day since Marcus and Amelia had been home. Cards and flowers arrived daily to their home or the hospital, making Hope’s corner of the NICU the most decorated on the ward and their apartment smell like a flower shop. And offers of help in every imaginable form came from people Amelia had no memory of even meeting on the few Sundays she’d attended.

She hadn’t expected to receive so much support from people she hardly knew, especially given how absent she’d been from the church in the months since she’d arrived. She’d assumed she’d have to prove to them that she was worthy of so much encouragement. And while she knew Marcus was their pastor, she was surprised they were as caring as they were, given the hassle so many of them had given him when he’d started. She had no choice now but to own up to the fact that she’d misjudged them, that she’d never really given them a fair chance in her heart or mind.

Granted, none of them, besides Ed, knew why she’d been hospitalized. Would they be so caring now if they did? Or if they knew she wasn’t even sure God was real?

You’re jumping to conclusions again,
she thought to herself. Why was she so sure the congregation would eventually turn on her? Why couldn’t she give them the benefit of the doubt?
Besides, you’re becoming a lot more sure about God now than you were before.

She sat by a window in the cafeteria, sipping her tea and mulling over this thought. It was true. Had she not had Hope early and seen for herself the way God—or Someone—was taking care of her, she wouldn’t have had any reason to question her doubt. But hearing one doctor after another use the word
miracle
had forced her to rethink her incredulity.

So had her promise to Marcus to stay with him and Hope and not return to LA. If she was going to make good on it, she had to figure out how to be a pastor’s wife. And she didn’t think she could be a decent one without at least believing in God.

She was jumpy to get back to the NICU, but forced herself to remain still for a few more minutes, reminding herself that they’d page her if anything happened. And when she was there, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but Hope. If she was going to figure any of this God stuff out, she had to take some time alone to do it.

Amelia stared out at the world beyond the windows, taking in the colors and the complexity of the natural landscape: green fields polka-dotted with dandelions and clover, strands of trees that lined the bank of a small creek that ran past the hospital, a sky the same blue as Hope’s eyes. That thought brought her back to her daughter, to the miracle of birth, no matter how early or late a baby was, and the intricacy of the human body and all its inner workings. She’d been raised with the theory of evolution, but it had never sat well with her. To think there was a Creator behind it all made more sense.

But the belief in a Creator was a jumping-off point for lots of religions—could she just hop onto the Christianity train without considering the others? She didn’t know much about any other faiths; she’d been raised without any religious leanings and the tidbits she’d learned over the years were picked up from the media and comments by friends, none of whom had been very religious themselves. But did any of those religions get it right?

I suppose I could ask that Creator for a little guidance.

She smiled faintly at the thought, but then considered it seriously. Why not? Why not ask for a little help in figuring it all out? If there really was a God, then chances were He wanted people to know Him, and if someone flat-out asked, what reason would He have to not respond?

Amelia wrapped her hands around her tea and stared into the dark liquid. She stole a glance at her watch and took a deep breath, trying to keep her thoughts focused and promising herself she’d head back to the NICU in two minutes.
All right then,
she prayed.
God—or whoever You are—I want to know You’re there. I want to know which religion to fall in with. I guess I’m kind of hoping it’s Christianity, because that’s going to make my marriage a lot easier. But if it’s not, I want to know that, too. I don’t want to live a lie, that’s all. I don’t want to call myself anything—a Christian, a Buddhist, whatever—without knowing as well as I can that it’s true. So … have at it. I’m ready and willing. Lay it on me.

She sat back and braced herself, not really expecting to be zapped in the head with a giant body of knowledge, but hopeful that she’d feel at least a little something or once again hear the voice that had asked for her honesty in the moments before Hope’s birth—the voice that might have been a fluke of her own imagination. The allotted two minutes passed without any glimpses of truth or dazzling epiphanies, and as soon as her time was up, she took her tea back to the NICU.

When she got there, the pulmonologist from Hope’s medical team was standing at her incubator. Amelia’s heart dropped to her feet, seeing him there when rounds were already over. “Oh God—what’s wrong?”

He turned, and when she saw his face, her heart beat again. He was smiling.

“Nurse Marcela called me down,” he said. “Hope was breathing over her vent.”

“What does that mean?”

His smile got wider. “It means she’s breathing on her own. It means she may not need the vent.” He chuckled, scratching his chin. “For a micropreemie to be off the vent this quickly—well, most of them born at this age spend at least a few weeks, sometimes months. It’s pretty miraculous for them to come off after just seven days.”

Amelia clapped a hand to her mouth, afraid she’d let out either a scream or a sob. The doctor detailed the process of weaning Hope off the respirator, then left, leaving her to stare once more at her miracle baby. She sank into the rocking chair beside the incubator and gazed at the tiny body sleeping inside, blinking away tears so she could see her better. “Marcus!” she gasped, then pulled out her cell and texted him, knowing he wouldn’t want to wait until he came after lunch to hear the news.
H coming off vent soon!!! Dr says total miracle.

Within a few minutes her phone chirped with his response.
Thank U Jesus!!!

She read it and felt something click inside. She sat still, as though moving might dislodge the feelings of warmth and peace that were spreading from her center to the farthest boundaries of her body. After a moment, through more tears, she texted him back.

Amen.

E
PILOGUE

T
HREE
M
ONTHS
L
ATER

“Well done, Christy,” Amelia said to her pupil. “I can tell you really practiced this week. Keep that up, and you’ll have this piece ready in time for the recital in December.” She smiled at the girl as she wrote the next assignment in a notebook. “Here you go. Pay attention to measures thirty through forty-two, where it gets a little trickier. Try to practice that part ten times a day. Cool?”

“Okay, thanks, Mrs. Sheffield.” Christy hopped off the piano bench and took her notebook from Amelia, then left for the parking lot where her mother awaited her. Amelia turned off the keyboard and headed for the kitchen to start dinner. The timing was just right; she had half an hour left before Hope woke from her nap. She’d have time to get the casserole warmed through and go over her notes for the evening.

Once dinner was in the oven, Amelia sat with a cup of tea at the kitchen table with her notes spread before her. At the top of the first page was the title:
Community Band Info Meeting.
Ideas without organization covered the rest of the page and two more besides; with a pen she added details here and there and then started an agenda for the meeting. Since she didn’t know how many people to expect, her main goal for the evening was just to see what kind of interest there might be in her plan. She hoped she’d get a decent turnout. Surely there had to be some other musicians hanging around Wheatridge looking for an outlet for performance.