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  “It’s okay, Michael,” she said around a mouthful of honey-filled sopapillas. “You don’t owe me any explanations.” That was true enough, but he'd certainly aroused her curiosity.

  “No, I… I want you to know. It’s not all that tragic.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “But tonight I don’t want to talk about the past. I’d rather talk about happier things—like the wonderful family I have now.”

  Claire wasn’t sure how that comment fit with his claim of an unhappy childhood, so she simply asked, “Does your family live around here?”

  “In the Springfield area mostly. One sister lives in Michigan, but my parents and another sister are in Springfield. My other sister lives in Billings.”

  “Oh, Montana. I hear it’s a beautiful state. I think I’d like it there. The wide open spaces and—”

  He cut her off, laughing and shaking his head. “No, she lives in Billings, Missouri.”

  Claire flushed, embarrassed at her misunderstanding. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know there was such a place.”

  “It’s southwest of Springfield. It’s tiny—probably only about a thousand population.”

  “Wow. Even smaller than Hanover Falls.”

  “Yeah, you big city folks wouldn’ta heard of it way up there in Kansas City,” he said in an affected southern drawl.

  “Quit it.” She laughed. “Kansas City isn’t that big.”

  “Oh, but much more sophisticated than Springfield… or Billings, for sure.”

  “Besides, I’ve decided to adopt Hanover Falls as my new hometown.” She chose to ignore his wisecrack.

  “You really like this town, don’t you?”

  “I do.” She turned serious again. “I like the feeling of belonging. The people here are so friendly. And I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that I love my job.”

  “What made you decide to be a teacher, Claire?” he asked.

  He leaned closer and her heartbeat quickened at his nearness. Feeling a rising excitement that they were together again, that he seemed genuinely interested in her, that she found him so easy to talk to—Claire began to tell him about her mentor.

  “I’d never been around little kids much before, being an only child. It was like discovering a whole new world. And . . . well, I was good at it. The kids seemed to love me as much as I loved them. After that, I never doubted teaching was what I wanted to do with my life.”

  “When you think about it, it’s pretty amazing the way God puts people in our lives. You probably never dreamed what it would lead to that first day you helped out in her class.”

  She laughed. “That’s not the half of it. I didn’t even want to be there. The only reason I took the aide position—or so I thought at the time—was that I’d already gotten all the credits I needed to graduate. I figured it would be a good way to kill fourth hour.”

  Michael laughed. “It kind of makes life exciting, doesn’t it—never knowing what seemingly insignificant event in our lives will end up changing it completely!”

  “I never thought about it like that. That’s neat.”

  “Do you still keep in touch with her?”

  “Mrs. Emerson? No, and I feel bad about that. After Dad died I kind of lost track of everyone in our neighborhood. I don’t know if she’s even teaching there anymore. She knew I was studying to be a teacher, and I’m sure she knew it was because of her influence. But I never really told her how much she meant to me. I hope I get a chance to do that someday.”

  Claire suddenly felt shy, as though she were revealing things that were too personal. But as she looked into Michael’s eyes, the warmth she saw there stirred her to go on. “I guess the most important thing Mrs. Emerson did for me was to show me for the first time what it might be like to have a mother.”

  Michael raised a questioning eyebrow.

  She hesitated. “I hope that doesn’t sound disrespectful. My parents were… I don’t know. Remote is the word, I guess. I know now my mother suffered from serious, debilitating depression along with a lot of other health problems. She lost two babies in infancy, when I was very young, and I always thought that was the reason for her problems. But I wonder now if she had problems even before then.”

  “Your father didn’t explain what was going on with your mom?”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t something we talked about. Everything was always hush-hush in our family. Mother spent a lot of time sick in bed and . . . I’m not sure, but I think she may have even been institutionalized a few times. Like I said, we never talked about it. I think I told you she died when I was sixteen.”

  “That must have been awful. I’m not an expert on girls or anything, but it seems like that would be a tough age to lose your mom.”

  Claire nodded. “I know my mother couldn’t help the fact she was . . . sick. But still… I needed a mother.”

  “It was a pretty good plan God had—of mothers, I mean. Too bad it’s gotten so messed up.”

  She just nodded and was grateful when the waitress came with their check. Michael paid the bill and helped Claire into her coat. They drove back to her house, each absorbed in their own private thoughts.

  When they pulled into her driveway, he parked the truck and turned to her. “Well, it looks like I did it again.”

  “Did what again?”

  “Ruined the evening by getting so blasted serious.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I didn’t mean to get morose on you.”

  “I started it by asking all the wrong questions.”

  She smiled. “Let’s not argue about whose fault it is, okay?”

  “Okay, but I don’t want you to think I’m always Mr. Negativity. I can be quite a funny guy, given the chance.”

  She laughed. “As Becky Anderson would say: ‘I know you’re funny, but looks aren’t everything.’”

  Now it was his turn to laugh.

  Their laughter seemed to bridge a chasm between them, and feeling brave, she turned to him suddenly. “I make a mean cup of hot chocolate. Would you like to come in for a minute?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  All talk of the past was left behind, and they spent the rest of the evening sitting in front of a warm fire, nursing mugs of cocoa and being entertained by Smokey’s acrobatics with a roll of red Christmas ribbon.

  When he said good-night at the door, Michael asked her if she would go with him to Hanover Falls High School’s last basketball game before the Christmas break. The game was the following Tuesday night in nearby Boyd City. Claire had intended to spend the evening packing for her trip to Nana’s. But she told him yes without hesitation and then fell asleep worrying about how she would ever accomplish everything she needed to do before she left for Kansas City.

  As Claire drove toward Kansas City, she breathed a fervent prayer that her little car would make it there in one piece.

  She looked out on the wintery scene along the roadside and was filled with happy thoughts about her new life in Hanover Falls. But as the miles carried her closer and closer to the one tie she had to her childhood, Claire found herself reflecting again on the most confusing time of her young life.

  She remembered sitting perfectly still at the top of the stairway in the dining room, afraid even to take a deep breath. From her perch she could see her mother at the kitchen table, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her lips pressed together in a grim line. Her father paced the length of the kitchen, speaking angry words that Claire didn’t fully understand.

  “Myra, you can’t blame the boy for every little altercation. These things are to be expected. Besides, it was an accident.”

  “Ha!” her mother spat.

  “Myra, it’s only natural that it’ll take a while for us to adjust. All of us. For six years now Kitty’s been accustomed to being the center of attention. It’s not all bad if she has to share the limelight with someone else now. This whole . . .ordeal will be good for her in the long run. You’ll see.”

  Claire’s mother
sat, unmoving, and her father continued, his voice impassioned now. “Joseph has had a rough life, Myra. You can’t expect him to just fit in without some sort of struggle. He’s having to find his own place in the scheme of things. It can’t be easy for him. Put yourself in his place for a minute. Think how you’d feel.”

  Through clenched teeth Myra growled at him, her words clipped and measured. “I’d feel mighty grateful someone had taken me in and given me another chance at life. I hope I’d have the common courtesy to eat the food put before me and to give a civil answer to the questions asked of me. He can’t even do that, Raymond! He’s been here six months and he still can’t even do that!”

  “He’s barely nine years old, Myra. For crying out loud! He’s a child.”

  “He’s three years older than Kitty. You don’t see her balking at the meals we put before her. You don’t see her treating me with total disrespect. You don’t see her slashing other children with sharp sticks, do you?”

  Now her dad’s voice turned gentle, pleading. He went to stand behind Claire’s mother and put his hands on her shoulders. “Myra. Joe hasn’t had all the advantages Kitty has. Don’t you see? He doesn’t understand the things we’re asking of him are for his own good. It…it’s going to take a while before he can fully trust us. We’ve got to give him time. We’ve got to give him a chance.”

  Her mother put her head down, and from Claire’s vantage point on the stairs, she could no longer see Mom’s face. But she heard the familiar sobs, and she knew her father would not argue anymore.

  Her mother’s muffled words floated up the stairwell to Claire’s ears. “I just can’t take it anymore, Ray. I can’t take it. It’s too much. It… it was a mistake. I see that now. It was all a huge mistake. I want things back the way they were before…”

  Claire was used to her mother’s crying. But this time was different. What mistake was her mother talking about? Did she mean Joseph? Would they . . . could they send him back?

  For a fleeting moment, she thought about going to Joseph and warning him about the conversation she’d overheard. But it was a silly thought—maybe even cruel on her part. The words she imagined saying to him sounded threatening: “You’d better start acting nice or Mom and Dad are going to send you away.” She pushed away the frightening thought: if they knew the truth, it might be her they sent away instead.

  She’d crept silently to her room after that, her mind a maze of troubled thoughts—as it was now.

  Claire sighed, hot tears stinging her cheeks. Had the consequences of that thoughtless deceit been so far-reaching that even now, all these years later, it made her tremble to think about it? And if so, then how much worse had it been for Joseph? How much more had he suffered?

  Overcome with emotion, Claire pulled the car off onto the shoulder of the road, and with her head bent over the steering wheel, she wept.

  After a few minutes, she pushed back the loose sleeve of her coat and the sweater underneath it. Her arm still bore a faint, thin scar from that day. It wasn’t something she thought much about. But now, she stared down through a veil of tears at the pale silver-white line on her forearm. She traced it with a finger and thought how insignificant it was compared to the scar that had been gouged into her heart that night. And for the thousandth time, she prayed for forgiveness.

  In Claire’s mind it seemed things had happened very quickly after Joseph’s ruined birthday celebration. Her next memories were of her mother hovering tearfully over her, while her father made hushed phone calls and packed up Joseph’s few belongings.

  She’d tried not to think back to the day they’d taken him away—her brother. But she let her mind travel there now, and found she remembered it as though it were yesterday.

  Though only six, Claire was acutely aware of the hurt and confusion that ruled her home. As she’d peered from behind the filmy, pink rosebud-strewn curtains in her bedroom upstairs, she watched the ladies from social services carry Joseph’s two small bags down the front sidewalk to the waiting car.

  Joseph followed dutifully behind, his head erect, his jaw set in that sullen way he had. The windows were closed, but she could hear the faint crunch of gravel under his feet as he crossed the driveway to the waiting car.

  Her father came off the front porch, into Claire’s view, to stand behind Joseph. He put his hands on the slender shoulders and turned the boy toward him. Then her dad knelt in front of Joseph. Claire couldn’t hear his words, but his face held an anguish beyond her comprehension. Joseph kept his head bowed, stoic. Finally, her father rose awkwardly and put his hand gently on the boy’s head.

  Joseph ducked out from beneath the gesture of affection and climbed into the backseat of the waiting car. The social workers nodded wordlessly at Claire’s father. One of them slammed Joseph’s door, then went around to the passenger side, while the other got behind the wheel and started the ignition.

  Joseph gazed out the tinted car window. The darkened glass reflected the house and the huge elm tree in the front yard, but behind the distorted reflection, Claire could make out his face. He stared toward the house, his eyes empty, spiritless—too careworn for a boy of only nine.

  Downstairs she heard her mother’s muffled sobs. Over and over her mother moaned. Not Joseph’s name, not the name of the living son she'd banished—but the names of her dead infant sons.

  “Michael, Ryan . . . my babies . . .”

  As the car backed out of the drive and turned onto the street, Claire parted the curtains and pressed her face to the window, unable to believe this was really happening. The flutter of curtains apparently caught Joseph’s eye because he looked up toward the eaves. Small and alone in the backseat, he peered across the distance full into her face. The utter sadness and dejection reflected in the dark pools of his eyes pierced her heart. She turned away, trembling.

  Her father stood on the driveway for a long time afterward. She watched him from above until, shoulders sagging, he trudged slowly to the house.

  So long ago, and yet now, it all seemed like yesterday.

  Claire stared straight ahead at the ribbon of highway spooled out before her, awestruck at the clarity of the memories that had materialized.

  She'd gone to stay with Nana Anderson the next day. Though Nana seemed cheerful enough, Claire could tell she'd been crying, too. Claire heard snippets of hushed telephone conversations Nana had with Claire’s father—about Claire’s mother. Her grandmother’s voice sounded tired and sad as she whispered. Mostly words Claire hadn’t understood then: breakdown, institution.

  A few days later Claire had a nice talk on the phone with her father, but when Nana took the phone from Claire and began speaking with him, her voice grew angry.

  It frightened Claire and she ran into the back bedroom and put a pillow over her head. But she couldn’t drown out her grandmother’s words.

  “How can you do this to the boy, Raymond? It doesn’t make sense.” Nana’s voice rose until she was wailing. “He’ll never get over this. It will destroy him. Can you live with that, Raymond? Please, son. I beg you . . . please don’t let her persuade you to do this thing.”

  But it had already been done. And she was too afraid to ask what would happen to Joseph now.

  When her father came to pick her up at Nana’s several weeks later, her mother was in the front seat beside him, looking pale and even thinner than before, but wearing a pretty new dress and bright red lipstick.

  Claire’s sorrow over saying good-bye to Nana had outweighed her joy at seeing her parents again, but she went dutifully to finish packing her things.

  And when their car backed out of Nana’s driveway that afternoon, Claire sat silently in the middle of the backseat looking straight ahead.

  The next weeks were a jumble of disjointed memories.

  The house in St. Louis was sold, and in a matter of days they'd loaded all the furniture and all her toys and clothing into a big moving van.

  “We’re going to Kansas City,” her father had told
her. “It’s a beautiful town, Kitty. We’ll be closer to Nana, and you’ll be there in time to start first grade in our new neighborhood.”

  “Will Joseph be there, Daddy?” She knew he would not. She knew he was never coming back. She'd seen her mother throw his perfectly good monogrammed bed linens in the trash while they were packing. But the words were out of her mouth before she could think why she'd asked.

  Her father’s face reddened in anger. But as he knelt in front of her, his expression softened. “Kitty, darling—No. Joe . . . Joseph won’t be coming back. Not ever. He…went to another home. A foster home. Perhaps . . . perhaps he’ll be happier there. We made a mistake. But we’re not going to speak of it again. Do you understand me, sweetheart? We will never speak of Joseph again. Do you understand?” he repeated.

  Claire had nodded solemnly, not understanding at all.

  Chapter 9

  Now as evening fell, Claire drove toward Nana with a sense of urgency. Soon she saw the lights of Kansas City twinkling in the winter twilight. She mulled the memories over in her mind, confusion and depression seeping into her spirit. At times like this she wondered if she'd inherited her mother’s dark moods, the tendency toward depression. It was a frightening thought.

  But she determined not to let her holidays be spoiled by thoughts of the past. Lord, help me put these troubling thoughts out of my mind. I want to celebrate your birth and I want to be happy—for Nana’s sake.

  She reached down and turned on the radio. Every station played Christmas carols back to back, and as the strains of “Joy to the World” filled the car, she allowed the warmth of the true Spirit of Christmas to fill the car—and her. She would get through this holiday as she had twenty-five others before it.

  She’d spoken with Nana on the phone last night, offering to get a hotel room. But her grandmother wouldn’t hear of it, assuring Claire that her tiny apartment—one large L-shaped space, really—was more than roomy enough for an overnight guest.