Easter Blessings (12 page)

“That must have been a very difficult time for you.”

“It was.” She let her hands slip from the chair arms and clutched them in her lap, her tension obvious. “I try to find something positive in tragedy. Spending so much time learning to walk again helped me to heal from my husband’s death.”

Greg wanted to comment on what she said. He wanted to praise her for looking for the positive side of a horrible situation, but he feared the compliment would come off as patronizing.

“Being in the business,” he said, settling for a different
direction, “I know how difficult therapy can be. It takes a lot of fortitude and courage. You certainly have that.”

She raised her eyes slowly to his as if surprised at the compliment. “Thanks, but I had a lot of prodding.” She tilted her head toward Marti.

“Well, then, praise God for sisters.”

His comment caused her to chuckle and Greg was encouraged by her smile. Not wanting to make her any more uneasy, Greg rose and placed his dishes on the tray. “So, when do I see this famous garden?”

Emily shook her head. “You’ll be disappointed. You should have waited until May when the flowers are in full bloom.”

“I can come back then, too. I only live across the street.” He sent her a grin, hoping she’d smile back.

She didn’t.

He rubbed his hands together. “Do you have a ramp in back or just the one in front?”

“In back, too,” Marti said. “I’ll let you have the honors while I take care of these dishes.” She grasped the tray and hurried from the room.

“Ready?” Greg asked.

Emily nodded and put her hand on the wheel of her chair, but it didn’t budge. “I’m just not strong enough to be imprisoned in this thing.”

Greg bit his tongue. She didn’t have to be in that “thing,” as she called it. Surgery worked miracles.

“Let me push,” he said. “I’ve got muscles from forcing my patients to do untold torturous exercises.”

She laughed. “And that’s why I refuse to see a specialist.”

He let the thought drop and remained silent while he pushed her past Marti, then down the porch ramp to the backyard.

“You can park me on the driveway. It’ll be easier.” She motioned for him to go toward the garden.

He did as she said and wandered across the spongy lawn. He understood why she loved her garden. Tall thickets followed the fence, creating a private, lush backdrop. Scattered amid the shade trees and sunny spots, she had cultivated areas, some enclosed by sculpted shrubs. Between the flower beds, stepping stones wound through the lawn, forming a path decked with a birdbath, garden benches and even a sundial. Unique, like a secluded park.

“It’s beautiful, Emily.” He turned to face her. “I can see why you miss getting out here.”

A look of nostalgia flooded her face. “It took more than three years to get it like this. Trimming, weeding, mulching. It’s pretty much gone to seed.”

He felt himself losing control. She was a lovely woman—good-humored, beautiful…with her misty green eyes, copper-colored hair cropped like a pixie and with so much life to live. “You have a lot of blossoms coming up. I’m sure it’s still beautiful in the summer.”

“It used to be.” Her gaze drifted to flower beds. “It’s my butterfly garden.” Her voice heartened.

An image of the church banners popped into his thoughts. From Death to Life.

“Butterfly garden? What’s that?” he asked.

“Flowers that lure butterflies.”

Greg chuckled. “I didn’t know I could lure a butterfly.” As the words left him, he was struck by a greater meaning.

“You can. Yes.” Emily shifted in her chair, her face glowing with enthusiasm. “Black-eyed Susans, asters, lavender, oxeye daisies, purple coneflowers, coreopsis, even butterfly weed. And look.” She pointed to a cluster of trees in the far corner of the yard. “And lilacs.”

“You plant the flowers and then the butterflies show up,” he said.

She drew in a lengthy breath and nodded. “Yes. Can you think of anything more beautiful…or free?”

Yes. He could….

Emily’s summer garden filled his imagination—bright colors tossing in the breeze with ethereal butterflies fluttering among the blossoms.

And Emily…as beautiful, but not free.

G
reg Zimmerman slipped off his hospital smock and pulled a windbreaker from his locker. Shrugging it on as he walked, he headed for the exit.

All day his mind had been filled with Emily. Why would she want to spend her life in a wheelchair if she didn’t have to? He’d seen vestiges of her self-pity and avoidance, determined to fight surgery. But why? He knew enough about damaged limbs to be confident her situation could be rectified.

His thoughts turned to his own stored self-pity. For years he’d avoided emotions that stabbed at him when he thought of his brother, Aaron, the child’s twisted limbs—but then, he could do nothing.

As he stepped outside, he noted the air hinted of an early summer. He climbed into his SUV, feeling uplifted. The warm, balmy weather brought images of growth and rebirth to mind.

Greg rested his elbows on the steering wheel. He entwined his fingers and propped his chin on his hands, closing his eyes to his own memories. Emily’s pale, sun
starved face slid back into his mind. What could he do to sway this young woman to take a leap of faith?

An idea burst into his thoughts.

Motivated by his brainstorm, Greg turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the parking lot. Traveling down the tree-lined highway, he eyed the greening leaves and along the path, new grass poked above the winter-brown blades.

Everything died eventually, then taking new roots, was born again. Leaves, grass, flowers, even God’s children. Dead to the world, but rooted in the Word, they were reborn in heaven.

It happened on earth, too. Hopes and dreams might die, but rooted in faith, new ideas and fresh aspirations could blossom to reality. That’s what he wanted for Emily Casale. She’d snagged his interest and he longed to see her bloom again.

As Greg turned the corner, the familiar white bungalow appeared. He parked in the driveway and climbed the porch steps. Before he reached the door, it opened.

“Greg, what a nice surprise.”

“I know, Mom. It’s been over a week since Easter Sunday. Time gets away from me.” Guilt nudged his conscience.

“I don’t expect you to hover over me.” Her grin brightened her powdery complexion. “Come in. I hope you have time to visit.”

He stepped inside, gave her a hug and followed her into the living room. “I even have enough time for—”

“Dinner, I hope.”

“You read my mind.”

“Good. Mothers are supposed to do that. And my mother’s instinct tells me you have something else on your mind.”

The twinkle in her eye caused him to chuckle. He
rubbed his neck. “I never could get anything over on you.”

“It’s those telling eyes. You’d open your mouth and spill out everything before I had to ask.” Like old times, she stood by the doorway, waiting.

“You expect me to spill everything before I eat?” He sniffed the air. “So what’s on the menu? Roast beef?”

“Grind it up, and you’ve got it. Meat loaf.”

Her chuckle lingered on the air as he followed her into the kitchen.

While his mother stood at the sink, mashing potatoes, Greg ambled to the sliding patio door and looked out into the backyard. Yellow daffodils and colorful tulips stood above the dark earth, and peeking from the moist loam, summer flowers forced their way into the light. Like Emily—life below the surface, waiting to leap into the sunshine.

“Something interesting out there?”

Greg turned back to the kitchen. “No. Just thinking about your garden.”

“Everything’s ready, I think.” She placed a bowl of buttered fresh green beans on the table and patted a chair.

He joined her at the table, and following the blessing, he filled his plate with the homemade bounty. “I need a woman in my life just like you.”

“You mean a gray-haired lady who likes to cook?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She patted his hand and paused as if the counseling session had begun. “So what’s on your mind?”

He lifted a forkful of meat loaf. “This isn’t about me, Mom, so you can wipe that know-it-all expression off your face. I want to talk about a disabled woman who loves gardening.”

He knew he had disappointed her as evidenced by her
creased forehead. She’d wanted to hear about a woman in his life.

“A patient?” she asked. “Now that I hadn’t considered.”

“No, not a patient.”

“But a woman, you said.”

An uncomfortable heat edged up his collar. Gaining time, he drank from his water glass. “Yes. A woman.”

“Aah.”

“No. Not ‘aah.’ She’s a member of Unity Church. Young and in a wheelchair…and determined to stay there.”

“Why?”

A frown pulled at his mouth and he shook his head. “I have no idea. She’s frightened, I think. I don’t know. But I’d like to pry her out of that chair.”

“Must have some reason for wanting to stay there.” She ate a bite and gazed into the distance. “So how can I help?”

“She mentioned dahlias. You grow them, right?”

“I do. Such a beautiful flower.”

Like Emily, he thought. “I’d like to give her some seeds. You know, something to encourage her into her garden again.”

“Try tubers.” A grin spread across her face. “Dahlias are from tubers, not seeds.”

“You see. That’s why I need your help. You can tell me what I need to know.”

“About the dahlias…or about women?”

“Mushy peas,” Emily said with a glare, sitting in the passenger seat beside Marti, her arms folded across her chest.

“What?”

“Remember when we were kids and Mom forced us to
eat those gray-green peas because she said they were good for us? That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Marti slapped her palm against the steering wheel and shook her head. “We’ve been over it and over it, Emily. If you want to think of me as shoving peas down your throat then think it.”

Stray tears escaped Emily’s eyes and ran like an insult down her cheek. To catch the culprits, she unwound her arms momentarily and wiped the dampness with her fingers. She then bound her arms again like a tourniquet against her chest. “It all boils down to my ruining your life. And I suppose I do.”

“If you want to wallow in self-pity, go ahead. But you heard what the surgeon said. You’ll walk again if you have the surgery.” She pinned Emily with her gaze.

Marti pulled into their driveway and stepped from the car. She closed the driver’s door and circled to the rear.

Emily faced the house and watched Marti in the side mirror, her face marred by a frown—a frown Emily had put there.

The passenger door swung open, and Marti guided the wheelchair close to Emily.

“Now, be careful.” She locked the brakes and stood behind the chair, holding it in place.

“How many times have I crawled into this thing?” Emily snapped, but with the words, reality slapped her stinging tongue to silence. That was the point, and she knew it. How long had she sat in the wheelchair? Eight months? Nearly a year? And Marti had moved in and cared for her without complaint.

Marti grabbed Emily’s purse from the front seat, dropped it on her lap and slammed the car door. In silence, she pushed the chair along the sidewalk.

“Did you see the surgeon today?”

Emily’s head pivoted and saw Greg walking up the sidewalk behind them, carrying a paper bag.

“Don’t ask,” Marti said, giving him an eye-rolling look.

Greg grinned. “Okay. But let me take over for you.” He stepped beside Marti and took over the handles of the chair. “It’s too nice to go inside. What do you say?”

Emily lifted her gaze to the promising blue sky. She drew in a refreshing breath. One of the things she loved about Michigan was the changing seasons, and spring always held promises. “I suppose.”

“Let’s go out back. I have a present for you.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “A present?”

He lifted the paper sack for a moment, then returned his hand to the chair. “It’s not gift-wrapped, but it’s a gift…from my mother.”

“Your mother?” “Why?” and “What?” whirred in her head, and it gave her an uneasy feeling.

In a moment, he stopped her chair and pulled on the brake, then set the sack in her lap.

“I don’t understand.” She gazed at him, then at the gift. “What is it?”

“Look inside.” He sat beside her on a garden bench.

Cautiously, she unwound the top and peeked into the opening. “Dahlias.” A lump formed in her throat, and she dug down into the sack and pulled out a handful of dahlia tubers. No matter how hard she swallowed, her emotion bubbled into her eyes.

“My mom has flower beds,” he said, his voice as tender as a mother to her child. “She thought you’d like these.”

His gaze penetrated her heart. “But…how does your mother know that I love dahlias?”

He faltered. “You mentioned it the other day. I told her you liked them, and she sent you some roots.”

Touched by their thoughtfulness, Emily’s tears won the
battle. They rolled down her cheeks and dripped on the earth-dusted tubers in her palm.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, his voice like the brush of a feather.

Emily shook her head. “Tell her thank you,” she said. “I’m sure they’d be beautiful if—”

“They are beautiful. They just need to be put in the ground.”

What could she say? If he only knew she thought about it often. That and so many things.

“If you put those back in the bag, you can use this to wipe the dirt off your hands.” He pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her.

Emily lowered the tubers into the sack and Greg traded her—the sack for his hankie. She brushed the dust from her fingers, then handed it back. “Thanks.”

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m still going to ask. What did he say?”

“Who?” She knew full well what he meant, but she felt like being stubborn.

He didn’t answer her, and after a long silence, she gave in. “I’m bone on bone. Surgery’s a must or I’ll sit in this chair for the rest of my life.” She waited for his rebuttal.

He only looked at her, his eyes filled with tenderness.

“Where’s my lecture?” she asked.

“It’s your decision, but in my work, I’ve seen too many people walk again who thought their world had ended. That’s what’ll happen to you. You’ll walk again.”

She knew that, but the problem was deeper. She couldn’t open her soul to a man she barely knew. “It’s not that easy. There’s pain, therapy, possible blood clots.” And loneliness.

“Sure. And I could get hit by a truck, crossing the road.”

Greg, Marti and the world. No one understood. She
pulled a brochure from her pocket—one the surgeon had given her to read—and handed it to him.

“This is what I’m supposed to think about.”

Taking the brochure. Greg glanced over the pages without comment. Emily realized he understood. He worked with patients who’d gone through all kinds of surgery and reconstruction…but it was different when the surgery was your own.

He closed the pamphlet, and his gaze drifted to her face. Without words, she read so much in his eyes.

“I realize Marti needs a life of her own,” Emily said. The words tore at her. A reality, yet leaving her burdened with fear and solitude.

He nodded. “How old is Marti?”

“Thirty-one.” Thirty-one and still waiting for marriage. Guilt weighted against her heart.

“I’m surprised she’s still single. You’ve really been blessed with her company.”

He had no idea what thoughts raced through her mind. “Marti’s been engaged for over a year. Her wedding is in December.”

“December?” His eyes widened beneath lifted brows.

Emily realized she’d startled him…and embarrassed him after his previous comment. “I understand why she’s pressuring me to get this done, but I can manage on my own, and what I can’t do, I’ll hire someone to help me.”

He didn’t comment, but she saw his hand touch the paper bag filled with dahlia tubers.

Emily drew in a quick breath. “I can walk short distances. I just can’t carry anything. You know, a laundry basket or grocery bags. But if I hire someone to help, then Marti and Randy can get married and that’s that.” She felt her chin jut forward like a belligerent child, and she tucked it back.

“Pretty determined, aren’t you?” He rose and handed
her the brochure. “This brochure explains it all. Every detail. All you have to do is—”

She flexed her palm toward him. “Don’t say it. I’ve heard it all before.”

Drawing in a deep breath, he wondered. Maybe it was more than the surgery. She was lovely, yet terribly vulnerable…the way he felt as he was growing up. He’d suffered with so many feelings. Guilt over Aaron’s death. Sorrow that it wasn’t he who died instead of his little brother. He saw his own despair reflected in Emily’s eyes.

“I’ve never heard you so quiet,” Emily said, her voice breaking the lengthy silence.

“Thinking.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Her playful quip made him grin. “I think quite often, actually. Not always wisely, but I do think.” The situation of the moment came to mind, and his pulse tripped up his arms. “I was giving thought to a meeting I have tonight.” A two-hundred-watt lightbulb glared in his head. “You might enjoy something like that.”

“Like what?”

“A meeting for the Special Olympics. I’m a volunteer. Never in my life have I felt as much pleasure as I have working with these children.” Except for my feelings at this moment. He glanced her way, wondering if she sensed his interest in her.

Her gaze met his, then she shifted it toward the garden. “Must be nice.”

“Have you ever seen the Special Olympics?”

“No.” She continued looking past him.

“You should. Talk about enthusiasm and positive determination. Those kids are the best example of finding joy and success even when things are at their worst.”

“They’re all in wheelchairs…like me?”

“No. Some are, but the games are for mental disabili
ties, too. A tremendous organization. You’ll never see such drive and energy anywhere. These kids don’t give up. If they fail, they try again.”

“Kids can bounce back.”

Her words settled on him slowly. “We can all bounce back if it’s important enough. But we need a goal. Something to aim for. That’s the secret.”