Slow Moon Rising (32 page)

I exhaled a breath that had caught in my chest a minute earlier. “I've wondered . . .” I said, but no one responded.

Ross's gaze fixed on his oldest child for endless seconds. “How? How did she find out?”

“Her mom . . . on her deathbed.” Kim looked at Ami. I watched her swallow. “Sound familiar?”

“How weird is that?” Ami whispered.

Kim looked at her father. “She thought Eliana was talking out of her head at first, but then . . . apparently there were some correspondences. Legal papers.”

Eventually he looked at me and said, “Be sure your sins will find you out, Anise. Isn't that what they say?”

I grimaced. “Not ‘they.' Moses said it to the Israelites about their behavior as they entered into the Promised Land. I'm afraid
they
have taken it out of context.”

Ross sighed again. “It's still the truth.” He chuckled. “All these secrets I've kept and look where it got me.” He looked at his daughters. “Your mother's drinking. Her disease. Jayme-Leigh's cancer. My one night with Eliana, which led to a lifetime of secret-keeping. And where did all this get me? Sitting on a balcony, dying, with not a secret left inside.”

“Dad,” Kimberly said. She dropped to her knees by his chair. “We all have our secrets. There's not a person alive who won't take something to their grave they keep hidden in their hearts.” She kissed his temple. “And you're not dying, Dad. Don't say that you are.” Tears filled her voice. “Please don't say that.”

Ross kissed her cheek in return. “We're all dying, sweet pea. Question is, how do we want to spend the days we've got left? I've spent too many of them holding on to things that, in the end, didn't matter anyway.” He looked at me and back at Kim. “Does Rosa . . . does she hate me very much?”

Tenderness rose in Kimberly's eyes. “No, Dad. At first, yes. At first she was angry with you, with her mother, and—she told me earlier today—with me for having had the treasure of calling you my father.”

“What changed her feelings?” I asked.

“Manny told her to go back and reread the letters between Dad and her mother. He said that when she did, she'd see that Hector—her legal father—had done as little as possible for
her. Dad, on the other hand, had done everything he could, going above and beyond, expecting nothing in return. As a father himself, Manny told her Dad's actions were impressive. There are so many fathers out there who would have denied the whole thing and let the responsibility fall solely on the mother's shoulders.”

“No,” Ross said. “I couldn't have done that. I may not have been perfect, but I couldn't have done that.”

Kim leaned closer to her father. “Dad, this is why you understood about Charlie, isn't it? This is why you said you understood all too well the power of Christ's forgiveness. Of how he ‘holds all things together'?”

Ross patted her cheek. “No one knows how the blood of Christ works better than this sinful man.”

“Or this sinful woman,” Ami whispered.

I smiled at her. “Or
this
sinful woman.”

“You?” Ami said. “You're practically my hero when it comes to walking out your faith.”

“What are we talking about?” Heather's voice came from inside the master bedroom.

We all turned. Heather wore a Christmas bib apron over jeans and a light cream-colored sweater. She had a red dishcloth in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other.

“Come join us,” I said. “You may as well hear this too.”

The family gathered in the family room. By now, Steven had arrived. At what point, I'm not sure. “What's going on?” Isaac asked.

Andre reached for the remote control and turned off the television.

“Anise is going to share a story,” Heather said.

I hadn't expected this. Hadn't thought I'd ever share such intimate details with my husband's children and their spouses. Yet, here I was, about to tell what I'd only shared with Lisa and Ross, the story of how Jesus had come into my life and had taken what was broken and spoiled and made it into something whole and pure.

As usual, Ross sat in his recliner and, as usual, I chose to remain near him by perching on the thickly padded arm. He wrapped his arm around my hips and patted my leg, letting me know that what I had to say was safe with those I'd loved like blood. That I was safe with him.

Oh, how I knew that. How I'd always known that.

I cleared my throat. “When I was a little girl,” I began, “my father and mother divorced. My father remarried very shortly thereafter.” I took a moment to glance at Heather, who raised her eyes as though surprised to hear we had a commonality. “My mother, brother, and I learned to live without a man in our lives. My brother and I were both studious, both active with friends and ballet and tennis. My mother worked hard to provide for us, and—on the outside—we appeared to be doing all right.

“Inside, I grieved the loss of my father. But he'd built a new family, one he seemed totally enamored with, while pushing ours aside like yesterday's newspaper. As I grew older, I became somewhat infatuated with older men. Even in high school.” I glanced down at my husband, who smiled.

“Old men,” he said.

“Older,” I corrected. I breathed in the scent of a vanilla-scented candle and Italian food simmering in the kitchen. “My best friend Lisa used to call it my ‘father complex.'

“Well, one day, when I'd become a woman and was working with my mom, I met a man—older by ten years—who traveled a lot in his job. He told me he was single. That he had an apartment in a nearby town. He came through often enough that we established a relationship. An adult relationship. The first of its kind for me.” I took another breath. Exhaled. “He was everything I thought I could ever want or need. Strong. Secure. And he adored me.” I looked at my hands and made an effort at rubbing my fingernails with the pad of my thumb. “But as it turned out, he wasn't single at all. He had a wife. Kids. A
real
life.

“I was devastated, of course. And totally ashamed that I'd
given myself to this man who had so obviously little regard for me.” I closed my eyes against the shame of my story.

Ami sighed loudly and I opened my eyes, questioning the look of confusion on her face. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just that I . . . I guess I always thought . . . in my mind . . . that you were some virginal bride.”

I bit my bottom lip and smiled. “I was. Spiritually speaking. I, uh . . . I realized—once my heart had begun to mend—that the one factor that had been missing from my relationship with Garrett was any kind of spiritual aspect. I'd been raised a Christian. I knew God's Word. I'd accepted Jesus as my Savior when I was about twelve . . .” I looked at Isaac, whose eyes were sympathetic and filled with compassion. He nodded, indicating I should continue. “But I'd left all that within the confines of the church building when it came to my relationship with Garrett. As though there were two sets of rules between God and me. Two covenants. One was for when Garrett was in town and one when he was not.

“So, I returned to my knees, asked Jesus to forgive me, to cleanse me, and to purify me.”

“Purify me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow,” Isaac supplied. “Psalm 51:7.”

The room stood still. Then, Ross said, “How beautiful, son. And appropriate.”

“There are more things our faiths share,” Isaac added, “than we don't. Don't think for a moment I don't take in everything you have said to me.” He took his wife by the hand. “All of you.”

“Then,” Kimberly interjected, keeping her eyes locked
with mine, “you became a new creation, like it says in First Corinthians.”

I nodded. “That's right.” I smiled at an old memory. “Lisa used to say I was a new critter, borrowing on the translation that says we are new creatures.” Light laughter floated through the room, then subsided as they waited for me to continue. “When I met your father,” I said, smiling again at my husband, “I was spiritually pure. When Jesus forgave me, it was as if my relationship with Garrett never happened.”

“Wow,” Ami said.

“And,” Gray added, “to make it any other way is to throw the blood of Jesus back in his face. To say, ‘Your blood is good enough for others, but not good enough to cleanse the sins
I
have committed.'” His cheeks flushed. “I guess I needed to hear that as much as anyone.” His eyes found his wife's. “I'm sorry, Ami,” he said quietly. “I'm so sorry.” Then, looking up, he added, “I'm sorry, Lord. I've been very wrong. Very, very wrong.”

Gray and his wife wrapped themselves in a hug.

“Sorry for what?” Heather asked.

“None of your concern, Miss Priss,” Ross said, his voice strong and sure.

Andre leaned forward, cracked his knuckles, and then said, “As a father, I have to ask: whatever happened between you and your dad, Anise?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing has changed with my father.”

“Why not?” Ami asked. “I mean, if Christ holds all things together like Dad has always said, and he makes all things new, why haven't you reconnected with your father?”

I didn't have an answer for that. “I honestly don't know,”
I finally said. I smiled at my family, who seemed to be waiting for more of an explanation. “I guess I got comfortable with the way things were and just never thought to rock the boat.” I shrugged. “If you are rejected time and again, you tend to be gun-shy.”

Steven nodded. “I can somewhat sympathize. My daughter rarely hears from her mother. As much as she tries to act like it's okay, I know deep down it hurts. Even after all these years. Still.”

I swallowed hard. I hadn't seen my father since the night I graduated high school. Even then our conversation was strained. In the years since, he'd made little effort to contact me, and I'd made less effort to contact him. He was alive; I knew that much. I received occasional Christmas cards from one of my half siblings, and my stepmother sent a birthday card every year. Both she and Dad signed it, and I often imagined her standing over him, forcing a pen into his hand. “I suppose,” I finally said, “I thought it was up to him to reach out to me. He hasn't, so . . .”

“Hmm.” Heather cocked her head at me. “I was just thinking how hard you worked to reach out to me. Difficult as I was.”

Andre chuckled. “There's an understatement.”

“Can I get a witness?” Kimberly said.

“All right. All right,” Heather said, throwing up her hands. “I wasn't looking for an all-out attack over here. I'm just saying . . .” She looked at me again. “Maybe it's something you should think about. Pray about. One thing we should all admit to right now is that every story has more than one perspective.”

True. I nodded but said nothing.

“Well now,” Ross said from beside me, “I do believe I smell something delicious coming from the kitchen. Lasagna, perhaps?”

Kimberly stood and smiled. “Two of them actually. One spinach lasagna for Anise and Ami and Gray and one made with everything for the rest of us carnivores.”

Gray raised a fist as we all stood. “To the kitchen, I say!”

“Last one in has to wash the dishes,” Jayme-Leigh cheered us onward. “Unless it's Dad.”

“Why start now, huh, Dad?” Andre teased.

“Why indeed?” I added.

Ross slipped his arm around my waist and I his as we followed our children into the next room. “Looks good from back here, doesn't it, Anise?” he asked.

I kissed his cheek. It was clammy, and I feared his fever had returned. “It does indeed, my love. It does indeed.”

We both squeezed. “Ross, listen to me for a second. I think you should tell Rosa about your cancer,” I said before we reached the kitchen. “Ask her to be tested.”

“I know you do. And I love you for feeling that way.”

I stopped and turned my husband into my arms. “I love you more than I have words to say, Ross Claybourne. Don't ask me to live without you.”

He smiled at me; his eyes turned misty. “You will one day, you know.”

I kissed his lips gently. “But no time soon. Okay?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'll see what I can do.”

“Merry Almost-Christmas, Dr. Claybourne.”

“Merry Almost-Christmas to you too, Mrs. Claybourne.”

Heather stuck her head back into the family room. “Come on, you two. My gosh, can't you stop with your lovemaking long enough to eat dinner?”

I smiled at her. “Never,” I said. “I'll love this man until I die.”

“Or I,” Ross whispered.

I looked at him fully. “No, sir. I had it right the first time.”

Present Day

None of the girls—and that included Rosa—were a match for Ross. And, though we kept our hopes up about finding a match from a donor bank, that didn't seem to be happening either.

In 1908 a group of Seventh Day Adventists got together with a pocketful of change—$4.93 to be exact—and a bank full of commitment and prayer. With that they bought a farmhouse, which was converted to a treatment facility for patients with tuberculosis. Today, on that same piece of property, Florida Hospital Orlando—one of the seven Florida Hospital locations—stands. But even a century later, their mission has remained the same: to extend the healing ministry of Christ.

I know this bit of trivia because, in time, my life became endless days of sitting next to my husband's hospital bed on the third floor of that same hospital. I read books, flipped through magazines, and when those no longer kept me from feeling as though I was going stark raving mad, I read hospital brochures. I now know about everything from what to expect
during an endoscopy to all the fine points of the hospital's Well Baby Program.

Time became more about dying and less about living. But I felt the love of God because of the hospital's mission more than I could have anticipated. The staff treated us—and every patient we met—with the tender loving care one often hears about but rarely sees. In the process of such grief, they brought much-needed comfort to Ross's body and to my soul.

Losing a loved one without warning is like waking up and discovering the sun has stopped shining. But losing a loved one over a long period of time—no matter how short that time is—is like waiting for the sun to set and knowing that once it does, it will never rise again.

I've watched the sun set time and again in Cedar Key, so I know how slowly it sinks toward the horizon. Yet, once it reaches a certain point, a particular place in the orb, it drops quickly. Too quickly. Blink, and you've missed it.

Many evenings, Ross and I drove out to Shell Mound. We stood at the end of the pier, our hands clasped, our shoulders rubbing against each other, waiting for this magnificent moment of nature. Then, after the sun puddled into the green grasses, the black rush, and the blue-green water of the marsh, we'd wait for the afterglow, that moment in time when the clouds become brilliant colors of gold, orange, and red. And, as it always has and most likely always will, the sky enflamed, as if God decided to lead his children, once again, to the Promised Land, and we had become them.

Later, as we drove along County Road 326, the slow moon rose—full and brilliant—as a night-light illuminating our path home.

He and I would never again experience those moments this side of Glory, but we talked of them often in that hospital room. “Remember when,” he began, his lips barely moving.

I'd run my fingertips through his hair, marveling at the silver against the crisp, white pillowcase of the hospital linen set. “When what, my love?” I'd ask, and then he'd whisper Cedar Key memories.

“I remember,” I'd say.

To which he'd reply, “But will you remember always?”

“Always and forever,” I'd whisper back. “Always and forever.”

In spite of the market, or perhaps because of it, we'd sold our Orlando home and nearly every piece of furniture in it. So, when I was not at the hospital, when I was not thinking about keeping infection away from my husband or about whether or not it was safe for him to be wheeled outside to the atrium so as to feel the warmth of the sun upon his skin, when I was not reading to him, or watching him sleep, or chatting as much as his energy level would allow, or dealing with an endless parade of medical professionals . . . I stayed at Jayme-Leigh and Isaac's home. They made me feel welcome there, providing a comfortable guest room with a private bath and the openness to talk or ask questions, and the respect to remain quiet when silence was what I craved.

As a family, we agreed that when the time drew near—as near as it could get without actually happening—Ross and I would return to Cedar Key. We'd bring hospice in. We'd do everything we could to make Ross feel comfortable as he left
his earthly home for the one his Savior had prepared for him. “I'd like a house with a view of the marshes,” he'd tease, and we'd all laugh. Or pretend to.

Eventually that day came. When I arrived at the Cedar Key house with Ross, Kim was already there, as was Heather, who had prepared the staff in the floral shop to take over for as long as need be. When we pulled into the driveway, they—along with Kim's boys and Steven—stood on the landing of the staircase, ready to help our beloved upstairs.

Ami and Gray had flown down every other weekend, until her doctor said she was getting too close to delivery and could no longer travel. Ross missed seeing his baby grow with child but managed a few minutes on the phone with her each evening.

I prayed that Ross could hold on until the baby came.

And, at the same time, I prayed God would go ahead and take him. It's strange, really. I couldn't bear to watch him suffer and yet I couldn't tolerate the thought of life without him.

Early on we'd agreed that once Ross ran to the arms of Jesus, I'd stay in Cedar Key. Jon begged time and again that I consider returning to Maine, but the truth be told, once life in Cedar Key gets into your veins, all other locations fall short. It had become, for me, both home and the closest thing to heaven I could reach this side of heaven.

Our return to Cedar Key brought another guest and brought her often. Rosa had her cleaning crew disinfect every square foot of the house before we arrived, and she came by about three times a week with cooked or frozen meals for us. Always plenty to eat, plenty to store.

“I can't thank you enough,” I said to her one afternoon
while Ross napped. I sat at the kitchen table while Rosa poured two cups of coffee.

“There's no need to thank me.” She blinked several times; I knew to force back the tears. “I finally get to do something for him.” Rosa walked the mugs of coffee to the table and sat next to me. “You look . . . very tired.”

I stammered in my laughter. “I never knew it was possible to be this exhausted and still breathing, believe me.”

Our coffee remained untouched, in spite of the creamer and sugar between us, waiting to serve their purpose.

“I wish,” she whispered, “I wish I had told him sooner. That I knew. I only found out a few summers ago, but . . . we would have at least had that.” Her eyes shot up to mine. “He would have accepted me, don't you think?”

I wrapped my hands around the mug, thinking about my own father. For a fleeting moment I wondered what might have happened had I gone to him with the way I'd felt about things. Adult to adult. No secrets. No presumptions. Just a fresh slate and a chance to begin again. “Rosa,” I said, returning to the woman before me, “when he first told me about you, he spoke with such pride. Did you know that?”

Her tears refused to stay put. “He did?”

“Oh yes. He told me how difficult it had been to watch you grow up from afar. No matter, he said, he'd always been pleased with you. Your choices in life. And that he'd liked Manny from the start.”

Rosa pulled a napkin from the napkin holder. She dabbed under her eyes before blowing her nose. “What else did he say?”

I prepared my coffee, stirring the spoon slowly. “When
your sons were born, your mother called him. And she sent photographs. And every time he came here, she updated him on what was going on in their lives.”

“Really?”

I took a sip of coffee. “Really. I want you to look at me and listen carefully, okay?”

She did.

“You are welcome here. You spend as much or as little time with your father as you need, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered. She then placed her face in her hands and wept openly, mascara and eyeliner smearing to her chin. Not that she cared. Not that either of us did.

We had cleared out the guest bedroom to make room for Ross's hospital bed and all the other medical paraphernalia involved in keeping a dying person alive just a little while longer. I had wanted Ross to return to our bed for our final weeks or months or however long God allowed. But he wouldn't hear of it.

“When I'm gone,” he said, “I don't want you feeling strange about being in your own bed.”

“What I feel,” I told him, “is strange
now
. Me sleeping in that big bed without feeling your body next to mine is more than I can bear.”

This was a fight I would not win. Another fight I would not win. No matter how many times I waged war with God over my husband's illness, I was clearly being defeated. And, where my husband spent our final nights together was also not open for debate. So, to help with the compromise, Jayme-Leigh
and Isaac brought the chaise lounge from their bedroom to Cedar Key. We placed it against the wall of the guest room, parallel to Ross's bed; it became my bed for the duration.

My brother Jon and sister-in-law Cheryl called every day, and my dear friend Lisa called at least three times a week. Over the years our phone conversations had dwindled to once a week . . . then once a month . . . sometimes every other month. But after hearing of Ross's illness, she called regularly, always offering hope. Always offering to pray before we said good-bye.

During one such conversation she mentioned how tired I sounded.

“I am,” I admitted, “but I have to keep going. There will be time to sleep when . . .”

After a moment or two of awkward silence, she said, “Remember when we'd sit out on the back porch of the inn and sip hot herbal tea?”

I breathed in deeply, imagining the scent of raspberry tea and the sea-salt air. “I miss those days. And your heirloom tea set. It added to the atmosphere, I always thought.”

“Do you take time to sit out by the marshes you are always telling me about for a cup of hot tea?”

I chuckled. It was a weary one, but at least my lips curled in a smile. “I'm afraid I've taken to coffee.”

“What have those Southerners done to you?” she teased. “I suppose you only drink tea when it's iced and syrupy sweet.”