Plagued, she arose before dawn and showered. She glanced at Joe’s car as she went out, half-wishing he hadn’t found her. Just when she had come to terms with having the baby, he had to arrive and remind her of all the other things she needed to consider.
Charlie was always at Maryann’s by six, getting everything ready for the new day. She tapped on the window, and he let her in. “You early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, looking for something to do. Charlie’s sister had refilled all the salt- and pepper shakers, the ketchup, soy sauce, and mustard. The tables were set with napkins and silverware. The floor was washed and polished.
“You sit on stool.” Charlie pointed. “I fix you bacon and eggs and some hash browns. My wife not sleep too good when this far along with our son.”
“I didn’t know you were married, Charlie.”
“Long time ago in Vietnam. My wife work for American soldiers in Hue. Cook, clean up, like you.”
She waited quietly, watching him, hoping he would tell her more.
“Vietcong took city. Shot my wife. I never know what happen to my son.” He eased her eggs over so as not to break the yolks. He didn’t look at her. “I search for long time and find nothing. When Americans leave, my family flee to Cambodia. We live five years in camps before we come to America. Too late now to go back and start again. My son be grown man. If he alive.”
Her chest ached. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
He looked at her. “Why you be sorry? You not there. You do nothing wrong.” He scooped her eggs onto a plate, adding bacon, hash browns, a twist of orange, and a sprig of parsley. “I am here. I am free. I have work. I have my brother and sister. I am a rich man. Come. Eat.” He carried her plate into the dining room and put it on a table by a front window. “Sit. I bring you juice.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Thank you, Charlie.”
He patted her shoulder and walked away.
Staring down at the meal, she thanked God for His mercy.
Oh, Lord, in the face of others’ suffering, how do You stand my constant whining?
Harvey came and brought three friends with him. He ordered his usual coffee while the others had breakfast. All four launched into a political debate. Two families stopped in at eight forty-five and were followed by three more within the next ten minutes. Maryann came in at nine and sat at the counter. Showing her deference, Charlie served her himself, leaving the cooking to his brother Ng. Charlie and Maryann talked like old friends.
“She want to work,” Charlie said after Maryann left. “She tell me she misses this place. She has nothing to do. She say she sick of talk shows and soap opera.”
Dynah knew there wasn’t enough work or money to keep both of them busy full-time. God was giving her more than a nudge: He was giving her the boot.
Joe came in at nine fifteen.
“You look like you need a cup of coffee,” Dynah said, pot poised as she set a mug before him. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Surprise me,” he said, hanging over his mug, food the last thing on his mind. He’d been praying most of the night, asking God for the desire of his heart.
“Charlie makes great pancakes.”
“Sounds fine.”
She put in the order. Joe had drained his mug by the time she turned around. She refilled it. “I’ll go home at the end of the week, Joe.”
San Francisco instead of Berkeley. So be it, Lord. Joe raised his head and looked at her. “I’ll go with you when you talk to your parents.”
“I appreciate the offer, Joe, but I have to go alone. I’m not sure what to expect.”
“All the more reason I should be with you.”
“I’ll call first and test the waters.”
“And if they’re still cold and stormy?”
Her mouth tipped ruefully. “Trust me, Joe. I’m not going to change my mind about having the baby.”
Joe pushed his coffee cup aside. “Promise me something. Call me whatever you do. Make it a once-a-week thing. I’m not good at guessing what’s happening, and I care about you.” He couldn’t say more than that without adding to her burdens. He held his hand out, palm up for a high five.
Dynah took his hand in both of hers. “Once a week. I promise. Only, one thing, Joe.”
“Anything.”
Her blue eyes lightened with amusement. “I need your number.”
Hannah heard the quiet whir of the garage door going up and then closing. Doug was home from the deacons meeting. She had expected him by nine thirty. It was almost eleven. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have waited up, but Dynah had called. Hannah needed to tell him what was coming, prepare him and herself for the future. She needed to pave the way for Dynah.
God, soften his heart. Give me the words so he will hear. Open his eyes to the pain he could cause.
Her heart thumped as the back door opened. She breathed in deeply through her nose and slowly exhaled through pursed lips, hoping the technique would calm her.
Doug entered the family room and saw Hannah sitting in her swivel rocker, one of his shirts on her lap. She was sewing on a button. He looked at her face and something down deep inside tightened.
“The meeting went long tonight,” she said quietly.
“The meeting was over by nine,” he said, dropping his jacket onto the arm of the sofa. “I stayed and talked with Dan.”
“About Dynah?”
He sat down and rubbed his face. Raking his hands through his graying hair, he leaned back in his chair, let out his breath, and looked at her. “She called tonight, didn’t she?”
Hannah nodded, her eyes filling with tears. God, I can hardly breathe, let alone tell him what she’s decided. Help me, Jesus. Help us.
Doug raised his head slightly. “And?”
“She wants to come home.”
“Thank God.”
Hannah swallowed. “She wants to have the baby.”
He shut his eyes. He had just spent two hours talking with his pastor. He had spilled his guts about Dynah and his part in sending her on the run. Within an hour, Dan had pried the rest out of him. The pain of twenty-seven years had boiled over, and he had wept like a child.
Opening his eyes, he looked at his wife. “Dan wants to talk with you.”
“About what?”
He paused. “About everything.”
Her hands whitened on the shirt she was mending. “What everything?” When he didn’t say anything, she knew. She could see it in his face. She dropped the shirt into the basket. He could sew his own buttons on. He could wash his own dirty laundry. “So that’s why this evening went so long,” she said quietly. “You were busy confessing my sins and absolving yourself.”
Doug heard the bitterness in her voice and understood it for the first time. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”
“Sorry about what? Sorry you married me? Sorry I gave you a daughter who got herself raped?” Her mouth trembled, and the tears came hot. “I’m sorry, too, Doug. Sorry I ever trusted you. I knew the day I told you what I did, nothing would ever be the way I hoped. I gave you the club, and you’ve beaten me with it ever since. I’m sorry I ever trusted you with my love and my life.”
She saw her words strike deep, and she was glad. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to annihilate him just as he had annihilated her countless times with a look or a careless toss of angry words. How long had she lived under the mountain of stones?
“The one good thing I have from you is Dynah. I thank God for her every day of my life. She’s the only thing that makes it worth living. And I’ll tell you something else, Doug. I will never—do you hear me?—never, take her into another abortion clinic! Rant and rave all you want at me. I don’t care. Divorce me. Please. Put an end to the hypocrisy. Tell Dan and the whole congregation what a whore you married and what a mistake you made from the beginning. I don’t care what you say or do anymore. The only thing I care about is Dynah.” She stood. “One more thing. If you say one wo
rd to her about getting rid of this child, I swear before God, I’ll pack and leave you and never forgive you!” She walked out of the room.
Doug turned the light out and sat in the dark far into the night. He prayed. He prayed as he had never prayed before. His ears were open, and the sounds of mourning vibrated in the silence. His eyes could see the shattered pieces of the two people he loved most in the world. And his heart was broken.
Oh, God, why do we always hurt the ones we love?
When the clock chimed three, he went upstairs to an empty bed.
Hannah had moved into the guest room.
Dynah took the Boonville Road to Cloverdale. She stopped at a Frosty Freeze and had an ice cream cone dipped in chocolate. It brought back fond memories of her childhood and trips north with her parents. She drove through town rather than backtrack to the freeway.
I’ll be home before I’m ready, Lord. Make me ready.
She had dreamed about Dr. Wyatt the night before, a disturbing dream she couldn’t quite remember. It was on the edge of her mind niggling, nudging.
His sister died from an illegal abortion.
Had he said that in the restaurant, or was she imagining it? She kept remembering the look on his face as he spoke with her. Why did it hurt so much?
Lord, he’s an abortionist. I don’t want to go anywhere near him again. . . . Help me protect my child.
James Michael Wyatt.
She couldn’t exorcise him.
She drove past Healdsburg and Windsor. Traffic was slow going through Santa Rosa, speeding up through Rohnert Park and Cotati. After that, she felt as though she were flying toward disaster. What was waiting for her in San Francisco?
San Rafael lay up ahead, five lanes of traffic narrowing into three. Why did she have this sick feeling in her stomach? Why was her head pounding so hard her vision was blurry at times? Maybe she was hungry. Maybe she should stop and have something to eat.
A high green freeway sign read East Blightdale.
“Cynthia and I have a place in Mill Valley.”
Dynah took the off-ramp. The gas tank was half-empty, and she needed to use a restroom anyway. This seemed as good a place as any to stop. Pulling into a Chevron station, she chose the full-serve lane. Her back ached as she got out of the car. An attendant approached.
“Could you direct me to your telephone?”
“Inside, near the back. Before you get to the restroom.”
“Thanks.”
She used the ladies’ room first. Her ankles were swollen, and her backache worsened.
Paging through the telephone book, she looked for James Michael Wyatt, MD. He wasn’t listed.
C. Wyatt was.
“Cynthia and I have a place in Mill Valley.”
Jotting down the street address, she went back outside and asked the station attendant for directions.
As she got into her car, she grimaced.
The attendant leaned down and looked at her. “You okay, miss?”
Forcing a smile, she started the car. “I’m fine, thanks.”
She found the house without trouble. It was a two-story gabled house in yellow and white. A high, decorative, black iron fence surrounded it with small steel notices warning intruders that a security system was in place. The lawn and shrubbery behind the fence were perfectly manicured. Marigolds, alyssum, and royal salvia were planted in neat rows along the curving walkway to a carved oak door, which boasted stained-glass panels.
A large terra-cotta pot with a neatly pruned miniature Japanese maple stood on the cobbled front steps.
Dynah found the button for the intercom by the gate and pressed it. She expected to wait for someone to ask what her business was. Instead, the lock clicked, and the gate popped open. Surprised to be admitted so easily, she opened it and went through. As she approached the front door, she could hear the ferocious barking of a big dog somewhere in the house.
A little girl opened the front door.
“Hello,” Dynah said and smiled at the adorable child in designer coveralls, a pink T-shirt, and long red pigtails.
The little girl smiled back. “Hello.”
“Cricket, where are you? Don’t open the door, honey! Wait for Mommy!”
“Close the door like your mother says, sweetheart,” Dynah said. “I’ll wait.” She glimpsed a lovely woman dressed in Levi’s and a tank top in the corridor just as the child did as she told her. At the woman’s side was a large black rottweiler.
Waiting on the doorstep, Dynah could hear the mother speaking firmly to the child behind the door. She sounded distressed and was reprimanding the child for disobedience. A moment later, the door opened again, this time with the woman standing before her, the dog standing guard beside her.
“I’m sorry, but if you’re a solicitor, I’m not buying anything.”
“I’m not,” Dynah assured her. “Does Dr. James Wyatt live here?”
“My daddy’s a doctor,” Cricket piped up, “but he’s not home now. He will—”
“Go to your room, Patricia.”
“—be here in—”
“Now, Patricia.”
Patricia’s lower lip protruded, but she obeyed.
Cynthia Wyatt looked at her, and Dynah smiled. She felt so tired, and she could feel perspiration dotting her forehead. “My name’s Dynah Carey. I met Dr. Wyatt at . . .” She hesitated, unsure whether this lady would know her husband worked in an abortion clinic. If not, Dynah didn’t feel it her place to inform her. “. . . in San Francisco. He and my mother went to college together.”
The woman hesitated, clearly unsure what to do.
“Will he be home soon?” Dynah asked, faced with the lady’s reticence. She seemed uneasy. Knowing the fire that abortionists had come under in the last few years, Dynah wondered if there wasn’t good reason for Mrs. Wyatt’s caution.
“What business have you with Dr. Wyatt?”
“None, really. I just wanted to talk to him for a few minutes.”
“He’s not here right now, and I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”
Dynah stood perplexed. “Well, thank you anyway.” She turned away. Lord, why did You bring me here?
Cynthia watched as the young woman turned away. She had looked so sad . . . and ill. She knew she was being less than welcoming, but with the threats James had been receiving, who could blame her? Still, the girl didn’t seem at all threatening. . . .
“Wait,” she said on impulse, opening the door wider. “Don’t go. Come in and sit down.” Despite what she’d said earlier, she knew Jim should be home soon. He’d called her a few minutes ago to tell her he was on his way. Hopefully the girl’s business with him wouldn’t take long. As she turned and came back to the door, the rottweiler barked twice, taking a stance to prevent entrance to the house. “Arnold, release!” The dog relaxed but remained watchful as he circled the young woman when she entered the foyer. He sniffed at her skirt. When she extended her hand, Cynthia started to warn her not to touch him, but before she could speak, the young woman bent slightly and began scratching him behind the ears. Arnold’s stub tail wagged, and he moved closer.
“Arnold doesn’t usually take to people,” Cynthia said, surprised that he was treating this young lady like a member of the family.
“I like animals. I think they sense that.”
“So it seems,” Cynthia said, smiling, all her anxieties evaporating. “Why don’t you come into the family room? Would you like something to drink? A cup of herbal tea?”
“A glass of water, please,” Dynah said, looking around her at the lovely surroundings. The living room revealed a couch, a love seat, and two high-backed wing chairs that made a comfortable grouping around a large polished mahogany coffee table with a flower arrangement. A baby grand piano stood near a wall of plate-glass windows, a large potted palm to the left. The drapes were a gorgeous, deep-rose-and-green paisley with hints of gold. Everything looked new and had the stamp of professional decorating.
The family ro
om was another matter. The room was furnished with an overstuffed, slightly worn sofa with four needlepoint pillows and a crocheted afghan. Nearby was a recliner. Beside it was a table piled high with medical journals. One wall was covered with family pictures. Another was all bookcases and cabinets. A television was mounted in the center. Big Bird was singing with Cookie Monster. On the floor in the middle of the room was a large circle of denim strewn with LEGOs.
“Arnold, place,” Cynthia commanded.
The rottweiler trotted over and lay down near the cabinets. Lowering his head to his paws, he watched Dynah.
“Sit down, please,” Cynthia said, going over to the sliding doors to the backyard. “Todd, come inside and clean up your LEGOs!”
“I’m swimming!”
“Dry off and put your things away. Then you can get back in your wading pool.” She left the door open as she turned. “Make yourself comfortable, Miss Carey.”
“Please call me Dynah.”
“Only if you call me Cynthia.” She felt drawn to the girl. Entering the kitchen, she opened a cabinet and took down a glass. “Would you like ice?”
“No, thank you.” Dynah sat on the sofa.
Just then Cynthia’s son, Todd, came in, wet hair plastered to his head, a towel wrapped around him. Disgruntled as only a young boy can be, he marched across the family room, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. Taking hold of the knotted ends of two strings, he lifted the circle of denim. With a crash of plastic pieces, it swallowed the LEGOs and hung like an oversize purse on his arm. He dragged it to the cabinets, opened one, and shoved the plump denim pouch inside. A portion hung out. Nudging it in with his foot, Todd pushed the door closed. Without a glance in either his mother’s or their guest’s direction, he ran back outside again, forgetting to close the sliding screen door behind him.
Cynthia laughed and shook her head. “That was Todd.” She handed the glass of water to Dynah. “You look pale. Are you feeling all right?”
“I have a headache.”
“Would you like something for it?”
“I don’t know if I should take anything,” Dynah said, putting her hands over the bulge of her abdomen.