The Desire (7 page)

L
ater that afternoon, Allan lay down for a nap. He had hoped to stay awake through the evening then go to bed early, around nine. His body wouldn't cooperate; it thought it was two in the morning. Before he conked out, he had asked Michele to please get him up in an hour, two at the most. He wanted to get over this jet lag in the next day or two before he had to go back to work.

They didn't talk anymore about his Africa trip or this new orphanage plan, but it was all Michele could think about. He had never come home from any of the other trips in this condition. She didn't know what to call it, but it made her uneasy. He'd been this tired before but never this excited about going back. Usually when he got home, he focused on her, how much he missed her, how much he hated being apart this long. Even how grateful he was to live in America.

There was a gentle knock at the door. Must be Jean, she thought. Tom and Jean were still living with her folks, so she only lived a few blocks away. She and Jean had become close over the past year. Michele had invited her over for a cup of coffee.

Well, for coffee and to talk.

Michele opened the door. “Hi, Jean. The kids aren't with you?”

Jean stepped through the doorway and gave Michele a hug. “No, Mom is watching them. When you said Allan had gone down for a nap, I knew that wouldn't last long if I brought the kids. I can't stay long. Maybe just long enough for one cup. Your parents asked us to eat dinner with them tonight.”

They walked through the hallway and into the kitchen. “You guys eat together quite a bit, don't you?”

“We do, but your mom hinted that tonight was going to be very special. Some kind of surprise.”

Michele fixed their coffee. “Well, thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Don't need to thank me. I love coming here, especially without the kids. Can we sit outside on the patio? There's a beautiful breeze blowing through.”

“Sure, I was thinking the same thing.”

As they carried their coffee past the stairway, Jean said, “Probably better to meet out there too, so we don't wake Allan up. Especially if you wind up saying something funny. You know how ridiculously loud my laugh can be.”

“I don't think even your laugh would make any difference right now. A wrecking ball could hit this place and he'd still stay asleep. I also don't think there's much chance of me making you laugh in this conversation.” She opened the patio door.

“Uh-oh,” Jean said.

“It's not that bad. It's just not that funny, either.” She walked around the table and sat in the shade.

“Did something happen on Allan's trip? Because other than how lonely you normally get when he's gone, you seemed fine on Sunday.” Jean sat down next to her.

“I don't know,” Michele said. “It's probably just me being moody. This whole thing about not getting pregnant.”

“So I guess that was a false alarm last week when you were a few days late?”

“As always.”

Jean reached her hand across the glass table and patted Michele's forearm. “I'm sorry. One of these times it won't be.”

“I guess,” Michele said. “You'd think I'd stop getting my hopes up so easily after a year.”

“Good luck finding that switch.”

“What switch?”

“The hope switch. I've never known anyone who could turn that off and on. I think you're being too hard on yourself. This is a big deal. And you're not alone, Michele. I was reading in a women's magazine the other day. One in eight couples deal with infertility. One in eight. That's a lot of people. Millions.”

Michele sipped her coffee. “Doesn't feel like millions. Doesn't feel like anybody knows what it feels like. No one ever talks about it, even at church. There's so many kids, and so many moms. So many strollers. Seems like that's all we ever talk about: the children's ministry, what to do with all the kids for this event or that event. The pastor's wife keeps dragging me in deeper, because I'm a schoolteacher. Guess I'm supposed to be great with kids. Even yesterday, she called saying she wanted to meet with me soon to help her evaluate some new children's program.”

“Wow,” Jean said.

“What?”

“You really are in a pit.”

“No, I'm not. It's just—”

“Yeah, you really are.”

Michele knew she was right.

“All this time, I thought you liked children,” Jean said.

“I do . . . mostly. It's just . . .” She didn't know what to say, what she was really feeling. She had hoped to be having this conversation with Allan. He was normally pretty good at hearing her out, helping her sort through conflicting emotions. But he'd come home preoccupied with his new orphanage plan.

“You're just hurting inside,” Jean said. “And that's okay. It's a painful thing. You've wanted to be a mom as long as I've known you. And for some reason, for right now God is saying no. We don't know why. It's only—”

“Don't say ‘it's only been a year.'”

“I wasn't going to,” Jean said. “I was going to say . . . it's only a matter of time. Just because God is saying no now, doesn't mean he's gonna keep saying no forever.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.”

They sat in silence a few moments, sipping coffee, enjoying the breeze.

“I really do like kids,” Michele said.

“I know.”

“Especially your kids.”

“I know that too. And I also know you like the kids you teach at school.”

“Some of them.”

“And the kids at the church.”

“A few of them. Most of them.” She smiled.

“See, you're already coming around. Have you talked about all this with Allan?”

“He just got home.”

“I don't mean in the last hour or so, I mean recently. Does he know how you're really doing with this infertility thing?”

She hated the sound of that . . . her “infertility thing.” But it was a good question. Did Allan know? She thought he knew. But did he really? They'd talked about it before. Several times, in fact.

“When was the last time you guys talked about it?” Jean asked.

“A little while ago.”

“Like what, a week before he left? A month ago? Does he know about you driving to the playground to watch the kids play?”

“I haven't been doing that very long.”

“So, he doesn't know.”

“No, he doesn't know.”

“How many times have you done that?”

“Just a few.” Maybe three or four.

“Are you hiding it from him?”

“What? What a thing to say. Of course I'm not hiding it from him.”

“Then why haven't you told him? Oh my gosh, I can't believe this conversation we're having.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't you remember? A year ago you were challenging me for not sharing everything with Tom. Remember? When I thought I was pregnant?”

She did remember. Here she was, doing the very same thing. But why? Why was she holding back from telling Allan all the things she felt inside? She wanted to. A part of her did, anyway. But another part of her was convinced he didn't want to hear it. He'd already made it clear. He'd agreed with her mother.

“What's the matter, Michele? You look as if you're going to cry.”

“I just realized why I'm not sharing all these things with Allan. It was a conversation at the house about a month ago, after a Sunday dinner. Everyone else had left. You and Tom had taken the kids upstairs. Allan and I were helping my mom put the kitchen back together. I don't know how we got into it, but my mom was trying to comfort me about this not-getting-pregnant thing. And she brought up that ‘it's only been a year' argument, so I shouldn't be that concerned. Allan jumped right in there with her, saying we had all kinds of time, and that maybe I shouldn't be focusing on it so much.”

She inhaled deeply and said, “I have such a strong need to hold a child in my arms. My child. I want to press her soft little face next to mine.” Her words began to falter. “It's all I think about, Jean. They don't seem to understand how much this matters to me. No one does.”

A
n old-fashioned spaghetti-and-meatball dinner, that's what Marilyn had decided to make tonight. She had done all the cooking, but the recipe for the sauce was her daughter-in-law's. That had been a hard concession to make when Tom and Jean had first moved in a year ago. Tom had let it be known, as tactfully as he dared, that Marilyn should let Jean make the spaghetti and meatballs sometime, because her sauce was “out of this world good.”

So she did, and it was.

Jean's spaghetti sauce had now become the official Anderson family recipe. And since tonight was their special night, Marilyn had decided to make Tom's favorite dinner the way he liked it best.

It had been challenging at times, but throughout the dinner Jim had stuck to his decision to put off unveiling the big surprise. Earlier, when he'd shared his idea with Marilyn, she absolutely loved it. It would make the whole thing so much more fun.

“It looks like everyone's finished eating,” Marilyn said. “Did anyone leave room for dessert?”

Only the kids said they had. Everyone else moaned and groaned and rubbed their stomachs.

“I've got an idea,” Jim said. “Why don't we all help Grandma get these dishes out to the kitchen, then go take a walk. It's really nice out. When we get back, we'll be ready to eat that dessert.”

Everyone agreed it was a great idea. Ten minutes later, they were walking down Elderberry Lane with Jim subtly leading the way. Marilyn was pretty sure she knew where this walk would take them. Audrey's house was only about six blocks away. The bungalow-style homes were considerably smaller than the homes in their neighborhood, but they made up for it in total cuteness. She and Jim had toured several of them when they first moved to River Oaks. She would've been perfectly happy with several models, but Jim insisted on a much bigger home.

“So how's the new job working out?” Jim asked Tom.

“I'm getting the hang of it. I was a little rusty at first, but it's all coming back to me.”

“Do you like the people you work with?” Marilyn asked.

“Mostly. I don't know anybody well yet. Still haven't figured out who to trust yet.”

“Don't trust anyone,” Jean said. “That's what got you in trouble at the bank job. You can trust your dad and mom and me.”

“And me,” little Tommy said. “You can trust me, Daddy.” His contribution reminded all of them he was getting old enough to start paying attention.

Marilyn realized what they were talking about, the trust issues both Tom and Jean were clearly still struggling with. Tom's previous IT job had actually been stolen from him by a guy he had thought was a good friend. But this “friend” had betrayed him to their new bosses, making himself look
good at Tom's expense, and taking credit for many of Tom's achievements. In a way, she was glad Tommy had spoken up, forcing them to change the subject. That passage in Philippians ran through her mind:
Forgetting
what lies behind 
. . .

They turned right at the stop sign; Marilyn knew they would. One block ahead, the bungalow section began. They walked in the street near the curb. None of the streets between here and Audrey's were busy. The sidewalk was nice but not wide enough for them all to see each other as they talked. Marilyn and Jim definitely wanted to see Tom's and Jean's faces when they broke the news.

They continued on for a few more blocks, talking about this or that, everyone in a relatively good mood. Jim had hoisted Carly around his shoulders. She had both hands firmly gripping his forehead. Tom had done the same with Tommy. Jean was pushing a sound-asleep little Abby in her stroller. Marilyn couldn't help but notice how many times Tom and Jean gazed longingly at the homes as they passed by. Seeing it through their eyes gave Marilyn a fresh appreciation for the wonder and privilege of living in a place like this.

It wasn't just the homes; it was also the parks. They had already passed two of them, perfectly landscaped, manicured, and edged. Each had colonial-style benches strategically placed under shady trees surrounding a bubbling fountain. And she loved the imitation gaslight street lamps. At the far end of the second park was a swing set. Tommy immediately begged for permission to play there. Tom was about to say yes but looked at his father.

“Why don't we stop there on the way back?” Jim said.

“On the way back from what?” Tom asked.

Jim hesitated. “From our walk.”

The answer was instantly met with whining from Tommy,
then Carly, whom Marilyn suspected had no idea what the whining was about.

“If you don't stop,” Tom said, firmly but gently, “we won't go at all. Grandpa said we'll go to the playground on the way back. You just have to be patient for a few minutes.”

“I hate patient,” Tommy said.

“I do too,” Marilyn said.

“You're not helping, Mom. Say ‘Okay, Daddy.'”

Tommy obeyed. Soon his smile returned.

Five minutes more, and they reached Audrey's street. “This looks a little familiar,” Tom said.

“I would've thought the whole area around here looks familiar,” Jim said. “You and Jean go for walks all the time.”

“We do. But we normally don't get farther than that playground we just passed.”

“What do you guys usually talk about on your walks?”

“All kinds of things,” Tom said.

“Do you ever talk about the future? Like where you might be living a year from now?”

“We've been trying not to do much of that,” Tom said. “We know we're kind of stuck because of what happened with the house. Dreaming like that isn't good for my health. But I promise you, we'll be moved out way before then. That's one of the things we were talking about on our last walk. I think in a month or two we should be able to afford our own apartment, let you and Mom have your house back.”

Marilyn realized they were coming up to Audrey Windsor's house.

“Oh, I think I can pretty much guarantee you'll be out of our house by this time next year.” Jim actually said this with a bit of an edge.

Marilyn knew he was just setting things up.

“We will, Dad. You guys have been really patient with us.”

“But I don't think you'll be living in an apartment.”

“I don't think we have much of a choice,” Jean said.

Jim stopped walking and turned to face Audrey's house. Marilyn walked up and stood beside him. “I disagree,” he said. “I think you do have a choice.” That same edge again in his voice.

Tom and Jean stopped walking and turned to face his parents. Both of them looked confused. “I'm not following you,” Tom said.

A big smile crossed Jim's face. As he turned and pointed toward the house, he said, “Wouldn't you much rather live here?”

“We can't, Dad. I already checked. There aren't any homes to rent in this neighborhood. There's a few in yours, but we're miles from making a rent payment like that.”

“Who said anything about renting?”

“Well, we could never buy a house here.”

“Who says?”

“The bank says. Or at least they would if we asked. But I know better not to ask. We're at least a couple of years away from—”

“Who said anything about talking with a bank?”

“Dad, what are you talking about?”

Jim walked up to Tom, gently set Carly down. Marilyn saw tears well up in his eyes. “God's been good to you, Tom. To you and Jean.”

“I know he has.”

“And I believe he's been pleased with how faithful you've been, how you've followed through on all the things you said you would do over the past year. Your mom and I haven't heard either of you complain even once.”

“Thanks, Dad . . . but what are you talking about?”

Jim glanced over his shoulder at the house. “This . . . is Audrey Windsor's house. That's why it looks familiar. She wants to sell it to you guys, at a price you can afford, and she wants to hold the mortgage herself.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

Tom and Jean looked at each other. They embraced as tears filled their eyes.