Rain Dance (16 page)

“Hi, girls,” Dad hollered from his computer room downstairs.

“Jonica, will you run these cookies to your dad for me?”

“Sure.” I took the plate she held out and hurried downstairs. “Special delivery, Daddy.”

“Thanks, honey,” he said.

“What are you doing?”

“Playing Monopoly with the computer.”

“Who’s winning?”

“Not me.”

I headed back to the stairway. “I’d better get upstairs—I don’t want to miss anything.”

“You enjoy your visit.”

“We will, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, the words muffled by his first bite of cookie.

In the kitchen Mom was arranging chocolate chip, peanut butter, and oatmeal raisin treats on a plate. “How did your shopping trip go?”

I watched Stacie blossom when we visited my parents. When Mom touched, chattered with, and served her, the tension often evident in Stacie’s shoulders and jaw melted away as she absorbed the sweet mothering.

She picked up an old photo of me. I stood beside my new doll highchair with my favorite doll Betsy in place. My smile was huge. I was big on playing Mama.

“Please tell me about Jonica as a little girl,” she said to my mom.

“Oh, she bubbled and waltzed her way into the hearts of most people who knew her. She charmed her grandparents from the first moment they held her. Blond hair and blue eyes often got her out of the trouble her bright mind got her into. Her favorite activities were talking, playing house, singing, listening to stories—and did I mention talking?”

“Some things never change,” Stacie teased. “I’m reading the book you gave me on raising children, and I can’t help but wonder if this one will have a strong will.” She brushed sugary crumbs off her tummy.

“Joni was strong willed. She knew right from wrong and sometimes chose wrong even though she knew it meant discipline.”

“Jonica—strong willed? No way! How did you handle her?”

“We stayed consistent in spite of dancing blue eyes, bouncing blond curls, and sweet smiles. At first, her determination surprised me. When I asked my mother about it, she just smiled and said something about history repeating itself.”

Dunking my cookie into my coffee, I remembered feeling naughty and deciding a moment of disobedience was worth the punishment. As I grew older, however, I became conscious of a new emotion that reached into my heart. I watched Mom’s face when she disciplined me and saw disappointment. It bothered me to make her sad. One day I challenged Dad and saw the same look in his eyes. From then on, I wanted to make my parents proud of me. I didn’t always succeed, but their love and praise rewarded me even when it was hard to be good.

“I wish my mom loved me the way you love Jonica. I’m not out-and-out jealous, but I do envy your relationship.”

“I pray for your mom every day. I believe she loves you, and I hope one day you will know how much.”

“You pray for me too, huh?”

“Yes, and for the little one in your womb. In fact, we bought a gift for you.”

Mom went to the bedroom and came back with a large package wrapped in bright green paper. “Jonica, call your dad. He’s part of this gift too.”

When Dad joined us, we watched Stacie as she held the unwrapped print up and read the words of Psalm 139 in a whisper.

For You formed my inward parts;

You covered me in my mother’s womb.

I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

Marvelous are Your works,

And that my soul knows very well.

My frame was not hidden from You,

When I was made in secret,

And skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.

Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed.

And in Your book they all were written,

The days fashioned for me,

When as yet there were none of them.

How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God!

How great is the sum of them!

“The same God who created the baby you’re carrying, created you with love and knowledge of who you would be,” Mom said. “He loves you, Stacie, and so do we,”

“The book of Psalms is a book of poetry, right?”

“Yes, or song prayers inspired by God and offered back to Him by David and other writers. And now it is our turn.”

Staci thanked my parents and added, “This will hang near the rocking chair Jonica bought today, and I will read it to my baby often.”

On the way home after dropping Stacie off, I thanked God again for my parents. They always knew how to touch people with genuine love.

Stacie

After Jonica shared her religion with me, I relaxed. We were past it. She accepted me even though I didn’t embrace her beliefs.

I decided to keep my end of our bargain and bought the works of a historian named Josephus and several books on Jewish and Roman law. Everything I’d read so far was interesting but I hadn’t touched the Bible she’d given me. I was doing my homework before I read the fable. For me it was a case of facts versus faith. I hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed when we finally talked about it again.

In the past I’d built relationships based on total agreement. Anyone who disagreed with me or my politics wasn’t worth the effort. I lived the “them and us” mentality. I’d always envisioned Christians as closed and unsociable—living apart from the real world in some religious la-la land. But Jonica and her family welcomed me with hearts and arms wide open. I was never an outsider with them.

Their social involvement surprised me. They went to movies, concerts, restaurants, and were politically, albeit misled, involved. Jonica spent hours in art galleries. Ben invited Muslims, Jews, believers from all denominations, and many non-believers into their lives. From one photo I’d seen, a cookout at their house resembled a mini United Nations meeting. They helped out at the soup kitchen, cleaned ditches once a month with their church, and Jonica had a curious habit of stopping to offer food gift cards to homeless people.

I’d never seen any of the politicians Eve wined and dined in elegance and extreme wealth do any of these things. Did they know that for some people of faith this was a way of life? It was news to me.

Determined to make our home a wonderful place for our child, I reviewed the list of things I needed to buy for the baby’s room. Since I was only five months pregnant, some people might consider it premature. I just wanted to be prepared.

We opened up the small bedroom we’d never used. Mike painted the walls white and put up a border of wild animal babies including my favorite—an elephant. Not quite Noah’s Ark but almost. He also put up a green shelf, and Jonica filled it with stuffed animals and birds. Mike’s mom brought over his old Tonka trucks and Hot Wheels. Some of us were counting on a boy, and if it was a girl, I hoped she liked earth movers and cars.

At the Baby Warehouse, Jonica and I wandered from one room group to another. Nothing hit me as different enough. Then I saw the old-fashioned white wicker rocker. The soft round lines and texture drew me in. So did the wall hanging and mobile that matched our wallpaper. My dad and Mike’s folks had given us some money, and I added the numbers in my head. Everything, including the easels I found on the way in, the art supplies, and several small accessories fit the bill. I’d wait for the chair.

“I’m buying the rocker,” Jonica insisted.

“No way!”

“Yes, way. We want to. Ben told me when you found something special to get it. Please don’t deny us this pleasure.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. We want to give you something you can all enjoy. When you or Mike get up in the night, you can settle into this rocker and know you are loved.”

She left me with no choice but to accept.

On the way home, we stopped to see Jonica’s folks. In the short months of our friendship, Jonica shared her parents with me. A visit to their house included a meal, treats, or both. Cookies just out of the oven, homemade soup, pies, cakes, or sweet breads. Rose served generous helpings and gave great hugs. When our plates were empty she’d ask in what sounded like one word, “Gonnabeabletoeatsomemore?”

Rose almost filled the empty spot in my heart. I felt as if I’d found a real mom. That didn’t lessen my desire for a relationship with my own, and in fact the longing for Eve’s love grew as the baby did. I wanted to call her with every new report, but I refused to take the chance she’d reject my joy.

When I’d put Eve’s hand on my belly so she could feel the baby move, she pulled back saying, “I’m not comfortable touching your stomach.”

Dad placed his hand on the same spot and smiled. “Eve, remember the first time you held my hand like this and we felt Stacie move?”

Her half smile didn’t reach beyond her lips. She walked away.

Jonica’s giggle brought me back to Rose’s kitchen. We sat at the table and munched on cookies, talking about raising children and my concerns about having a strong-willed child.

It was hard to picture Jonica stomping her feet, a defiant pout planted on her face. Rose said it was true so it had to be. I learned her nickname was “Chatterbox” and that her grandparents had to hang up on her when long-distance telephone conversations got too long. I liked that story best.

Rose delighted in sharing stories about her little girl—one of her precious golden children. Jonica’s brother received equal time in his mother’s stories and love.

Rose assured me that my mother loved me. Then she and Carl gave me a print of a psalm framed in bright yellow and matted in green. She had gone to so much trouble to match the nursery.

The words moved me in a strange way when I read them. But I was most touched by the pencil drawing at the end of the verse. A newborn rested in a hand. I knew it represented God’s hand. I wanted to ask, “Does He hold my other baby in His hand too?” The words stayed hidden.

Always these two women used gentle persuasion to direct my thoughts to God. At times I resented their faith—their confidence that God cared on a personal level. I held my grievance at bay, however, and with a starving heart accepted their love, though not their religion.

Looking at my friend and her mom, I realized that I trusted these two women to love me and all the children I brought into their lives. I knew they would share their hearts and their faith with them equally.

My heart filled with thanksgiving for the way Jonica and her family touched my life.

After I’d told him I was pregnant, Dad had dropped off a boxful of my old baby things. I wondered if Eve remembered them.

While shaking out and refolding tiny dresses, bonnets, and buntings, I found an old shoebox of photographs. Those on top showed Mother and Dad gazing into each other’s eyes, their look so intimate I felt like a gawker. Beneath them I found one of a young Eve holding a small girl child—a copy of herself. My smile beamed at the camera.

Memories lingered at the edges of my mind. As a young mother Eve had spent her time raising me. We did normal things. We went to the park, the zoo, and on picnics. Looking at the photos, I thought I remembered her laughter—as clear and sweet as the tinkle of a small wind chime.

Next I found a picture of Eve holding an infant I was certain couldn’t be me. She didn’t smile into this baby’s face. Her arms held it loosely. Curiosity drew me to the unknown child. My excellent memory failed me. I didn’t recall this baby and couldn’t figure out why.

I flipped through more memorabilia. Another photo showed Eve on a lounge chair, with me next to her in a small wading pool. I knew that was about the time things changed.

After my grandparents died in a car accident, we moved into their mansion. Dad worked longer hours, and Eve spent more time reading. We no longer went to the park. A nanny, housekeeper, and cook took care of me and the house while my mother went to meetings and marches.

If anyone ever experienced a conversion, Eve did. She preached feminism to anyone in listening range. Her clothes went from cotton pedal pushers to linen slacks and silk blouses. She took speech lessons and practiced for hours in front of me, delivering her message of equality and women’s rights. The only time she smiled was for campaign photos.

When I turned seven, I was enrolled in a private school and Eve ran for office for the first time. She won election as state representative and took me to the State House with her to sit in on the proceedings. The big words and long speeches bored me. I fell asleep.

“You embarrassed me today,” she told me coldly when we got home. “I will not bring you back until you can pay attention. You behaved in an immature, rude manner.”

I’m just a kid,
I wanted to protest, but the words never reached my lips. I didn’t understand why I should care, but I knew that from then on I’d better. Disappointing Mother was bad. I decided I’d try hard not to let her down again.

Most of the time I failed.

When Mother was elected to the Senate, we developed new habits. In her absence Dad and I ate supper in front of the TV, rented silly movies, ate popcorn, and told jokes. At home, Eve kept me sheltered from friends as much as she could. Only people whose influence furthered political and social status gained entrance to our exclusive lives.

Private schools, tutors every summer, and heavy class loads assured excellent grades and early graduation—and left no time for shopping at the mall or sleepovers. Birthday parties included kids from the same financial and social background. We dressed for the occasion and stayed on our best public behavior even at home. Competition, sarcasm, and conceit took the place of giggles and shared secrets.

The rules remained rigid into adulthood. I broke only one. I dated, and then married, a man who laughed, loved, and taught me to do the same. A man not handpicked by Eve. She wasn’t sure how he voted, and that burned her.

One picture remained in the bottom of the shoebox. I stood in front of Eve while Dad held the unknown infant. The snapshot resembled a family picture.