The Redemption of Sarah Cain (4 page)

Friday morning, January 21

It’s ever so unsettling to realize just how closely bound up we
are in each other’s lives. Mamma’s passing has knocked the wind
clean out of me. Every so often I catch myself startin’ to cry,
then there are moments when I feel stronger again. These feelings
come in waves each and every day.

But there’s one thing that will not change. I will not fail to
keep my promise to Mamma. Her children, all of us, will stay
together, or I’ll die tryin’ to make it so.

Susie, Mamma’s dearest friend, gently chides that I ought
never to make such negative comments. ‘‘What’s confessed aloud
affects a person more than we know,’’ she says.

’Course I don’t want to say wrongful things. But, then again,
I believe God sees my heart. He knows I don’t mean to make
rash statements or say things displeasin’ in His sight.

I ’spect I should be more careful, yet I’ll move heaven and
earth if need be to make sure all us Cottrells stay together.

Oh, Father in heaven, I will fear no evil. . . .

Traffic was somewhat congested as Sarah made her way toward downtown Portland. She skillfully weaved in and out of the lanes, pushing the speed limit slightly. The stoplight turned red prior to her final turnoff.

A token glance in the rearview mirror revealed not her own reflection but a misty vision of a snow-covered school playground. A thick gray fog shrouded the clapboard houses that lined the quiet street across from the school yard. Her memory stirred and she heard a distant chain on a flagpole clanking steadily. Intermingled with the faraway sights and sounds were the screams of a little child and other children running toward her. Flinching, Sarah attempted to reject the poignant memory, pushing it back into that dusky alcove of years. Thirty-eight long months had come and gone since that cruel day, yet sorrow and guilt continued their reign.

Behind her, a driver blared his horn. She jumped a bit, then noticed the traffic light.

Green.

Accelerating slowly, she moved forward, keeping pace with traffic.

She located a parking spot two blocks down from her favorite doughnut shop, then hurried inside for a cup of coffee. Spying a small table near the window, she snatched it up by placing her briefcase on the booth seat.

A waitress came quickly. ‘‘Cream or sugar?’’

‘‘Neither, thanks. I like my coffee black and hideous.’’

The petite waitress cocked her head. ‘‘Have it your way.’’

Sarah smiled to herself. She’d had it
her way
for quite some time now. Actually, much longer than that. The period of the placid years, the teaching years prior to coming to Oregon, had been some of the best of her life. After the tragic playground incident, though, everything changed. Life’s pulse ceased to beat. Life’s color turned ashen gray.

Abruptly, she’d terminated her teaching career to appease a small-town uprising, overzealous types who preferred stonethrowing to articulating reason. All this in her own close-knit hometown.

Sarah took a sip of her hot bitter coffee and opened her briefcase, reviewing the day’s schedule. She would not allow random thoughts of the past to derail her. Not today.

The waitress circled the tables again. ‘‘Is there anything else I can get for you?’’

Sarah assumed the young woman was anxious to finish out her bill.

‘‘Coffee’s all I need,’’ she said, noticing the hint of relief and scrutiny all mixed together on the woman’s face.

She’s glad I’ll be on my way
, she thought.

Sarah recognized the all-too-familiar look and recalled an earlier time and place. A moment of lasting pain. . . .

‘‘I’m going to have a
dozen
babies,’’ Ivy had coyly boasted at age eighteen, just six months before she was to be married to her high-school sweetheart.

‘‘Better wait and see what your husband says about that,’’ young Sarah retorted. ‘‘
If
he shows up for the wedding!’’

Ivy ignored her comment and gave her an inquisitive, yet sarcastic look. ‘‘How many children do
you
want?’’

At age twelve, Sarah had never considered such a thought. She
had
secretly wondered which boy in the seventh grade she might end up marrying someday. There was one very handsome redheaded fellow three desks from hers in science class. . . .

‘‘Never mind,’’ Ivy shot back, irritated. ‘‘There’s no way to have a reasonable discussion with you. You’re too into yourself, Sarah. Besides, anyone can
see
you’ll never be the ‘mother hen’ type.’’

Sarah shrugged off Ivy’s snide remark. Who cared? Her sister couldn’t see inside her.
Nobody
could!

Mother, it seemed, never made any attempt to put a stop to their seemingly innate bickering. How clashing the discordant blend between siblings. Any seeds of rapport that might have existed had long since been replaced with strife. Sarah and her sister had been rivals from her earliest recollection. She often thought it was because she’d spoiled Ivy’s only-child status, a position Ivy held for six years before Sarah’s arrival. But the sisters’ conflict had more to do with a tussle of temperaments than their birth order. From her earliest recollections their personalities had never jibed.

Always in the limelight during high school, Ivy had been voted ‘‘Miss Congeniality’’ her senior year and was commonly seen on the arm of one handsome boy or another. Sarah, on the other hand, had to force a jovial face in public, though everyone said she was ‘‘as pretty as a picture.’’ She much preferred playing classical piano or shopping at the mall with her girlfriends rather than going out with boys. When it came to men—young or old—she was far more reticent than Ivy. Especially at that time in her life, boys and dating made Sarah nervous. Not until her college years did she branch out, feeling more comfortable with the opposite sex. And it was while she was teaching school that she joyously began to ‘‘find her voice,’’ cautiously freed to emerge from her shell, away from the confines Ivy’s shadow had cast on her rather cloistered world.

A few months into her first semester, the principal stopped her in the hallway. ‘‘I believe you’ve discovered your calling in life, Miss Cain.’’ She was surprised but genuinely delighted at his observation.

Obviously convinced, he added. ‘‘Not many young people possess a genuine teacher’s heart these days. It’s truly refreshing to see it in you.’’

The comment put a renewed spring in Sarah’s step. She felt, at least for the moment, that she might actually perform well as a classroom teacher. She would sincerely try. The principal’s remarks had given her something that Ivy—
poison
Ivy—could never offer. Confidence in her future as an instructor of primary age children. And faith in herself.

Once a teacher, always a teacher
, Ivy had written in a letter after she and her husband had gotten religion and uprooted themselves and their youngsters, replanting and starting over on Pennsylvania soil.
You’re good with children, Sarah, when you want
to be
.

When you want to be . . .

Ivy’s tone reminded Sarah of her sister’s ever present condescension. Being told to ‘‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’’ meant you might fall forward and smash your head. And if you weren’t careful, your heart, too.

She’d tried; oh, how she’d yanked those tethers on her illustrative boots after that icy, snow-slick day of morning playground duty, but to no avail. The great tragedy of her life and its aftermath of horror-filled days left her guilt ridden and exhausted. Along with it came increased agitation between herself and her sister.

The principal’s ongoing admiration and support in the midst of acute trauma—even the prospect of tenure—could not convince Sarah to remain. At the end of the school year she resigned, cutting short her teaching career after four fleeting years. Her own recurrent yet irrational fears ultimately dispelled her measure of hope. She left Connecticut, moving as far from her home as possible.

The family tie between the wayward sister and the ‘‘redeemed’’ sister began to unravel further. By the time Sarah fled the East Coast, she had written off her and Ivy’s relationship as irreconcilable.

Yet over time, she had become highly efficient, sometimes forceful—even bluntly outspoken—but extremely successful in her newfound career. In the process she had cut Ivy,
everyone
, out of her life, not allowing herself to care for or about anyone. Disconnecting from family, she clung only to herself. The path of least resistance.

Gathering up her briefcase, Sarah paid for her coffee with a five-dollar bill. The waitress could keep the tip in spite of her visible eagerness for Sarah’s departure.

Just then she caught sight of the waitress, who just happened to be glancing over her thin shoulder. ‘‘I’m going, I’m going,’’ Sarah muttered.

Later in the week, Sarah agreed to set up an appointment with a young couple referred to her by a well-to-do client. More than likely the twosome were unmarried, though they didn’t divulge the fact during the hour Sarah spent with them. She discreetly eyed both their ring fingers. Bare. Yet they seemed in a big hurry to purchase a town house together.

‘‘A condo would be cool,’’ the young man said.

Sarah went out of her way, professionally at least, to walk them through her usual systematic approach to finances and housing needs. In this case, though, a place to call home was more than likely a
desire
. Not a necessity. Her guess? These two merely wanted to play house, break free of overdemanding, restrictive parents. Such was the lot of many of society’s young people these days.

Doesn’t anybody get married anymore?
She shrugged off her temporary disgust, happy to move ahead with her afternoon.

Now she was on her way to meet with an upper-middle-class client and his wife. They were interested in ‘‘moving up’’ to a more expensive house. ‘‘A preexisting home would be perfect— no older than five years,’’ the new client had indicated over the phone, explaining that they were in need of four ‘‘good-sized bedrooms,’’ three baths, a separate,
elegant
dining room, etc., etc.

A house like that would push them into a higher sales bracket and earn Sarah more money for the same amount of Realtor work. She could easily imagine the chic new outfits, complete with accessories, she would purchase for herself with part of her sales commission. Maybe it was time for an upgraded computer, as well. And why not throw in the latest color printer while she was at it? A vacation cottage somewhere would be nice, too. So much money—too little time to spend it.

The sky was overcast as she drove to the Summit Point sales office just south of Portland proper. Her spirits began to droop the closer she got to the designated meeting place, though not a soul would have known by the looks of her. She had taken extra care to apply her best makeup that morning, choosing a particularly well-tailored suit—turquoise virgin wool—with a creamcolored blouse. She slid her fingers across the pearl choker at her throat, enjoying the feel, smooth and sumptuous. Her earrings matched her neck jewelry, and she played with first the right, then the left, as she waited for her clients inside the temporary building.

Staring at the sky, she thought of Ivy and the possibility of her last wishes. It was beyond ludicrous to second-guess her deceased sister. Besides that, Sarah had no solid evidence that such a last will and testament even existed. Ivy had never been the type of woman to plan too far ahead, except, of course, for a year’s worth of fresh canned goods, dried meats, and fruit preserves she often wrote about ‘‘putting up.’’ No, Ivy Cottrell, Amishwoman by choice, placed far too much stock in God’s providence to do any such estate planning. But nagging thoughts continued, and Sarah tried to no avail to force them away.

She spotted the well-dressed couple as they walked arm in arm up the steps to the sales office. Over the next two hours, she showed them four different house options. All the while her thoughts were entangled with unanswerable questions. Questions that related to her sister’s children and the possibility that Ivy had made her a beneficiary of something—or someone.