The Sunroom Read online

  Emily was sniffling. “You mean she’s gonna die?”

  I was pretty sure what my little sister was thinking. Lots of times when God “takes care of ” a sick person, it means they just pass on to heaven where they are made well.

  Daddy sighed, closing the Bible. “I didn’t mean to imply that Mommy would die. I’m trusting God to heal her.”

  Emily blew her nose, and I moved next to her and put my arm around her.

  My mind was buzzing ahead. “Mommy can’t die today—she’s too young. Besides, we need her . . . all of us do.” I almost blurted out that I’d feel lost in the world without my mother, but I ceased the barrage of words, helpless to slow my quivering heart.

  Daddy got up and paced the length of the room. Finally, he stopped and looked right at me. “Becky, have you been praying lately?” He didn’t wait for my reply. “Perhaps sometime today you might offer up your cares to the Lord.”

  I nodded submissively but felt sharply misunderstood. Daddy was doing his best to cope with an invisible weight, a burden yet unnamed. The worst part of it: I could only do so much to help him carry that load.

  I was delighted to see Aunt Mimi arrive. She came, wearing high snow boots and a fur-lined parka, just as Daddy bundled up and went out to chip away at the ice on his car.

  “Look, girls, the sun’s trying to come out,” she said. And we leaned into the window, looking at the eastern sky.

  “Maybe it’s a sign,” I whispered.

  Aunt Miriam set about cooking breakfast—scrambled eggs and sausage, plenty of toast and jam, and hot cocoa for Emily and me.

  We watched as she made her favorite hot drink. First, she pushed the setting all the way up on the toaster because she planned to burn the toast. When gray smoke started billowing out of the toaster, we knew she was ready to scrape blackened bread crumbs into her cup.

  Soon the teakettle was singing its whistle song, and she poured boiling water over the burnt specks in her coffee cup. The concoction was something akin to Postum, not coffee. But smelling it, I knew for sure she couldn’t have paid me to take a sip!

  Daddy came back inside while the car idled, warming up, and after some insistence on Aunt Mimi’s part, he finished off a plate of eggs and sausage in nothing flat.

  “See . . . you were hungry, Daddy,” said Emily, grinning.

  He made no comment but came around, kissing first my sister, then me on the forehead. “I’ll call the minute Mommy’s out of surgery.”

  I couldn’t help noticing how smartly dressed he was, wearing his black pin-striped suit and dark tie—like he was going to preach a wedding. Or somebody’s funeral.

  We helped Aunt Mimi clean up the house after Daddy left, and later, the three of us made chocolate chip cookies—seven dozen.

  While the cookies cooled, she read aloud from our old Bible storybook—her favorite kind of story. Ours too. This time, God was asking Abraham to offer his only son as a sacrifice.

  “Why did God want to test Abraham like that?” I asked in the middle of the story.

  Aunt Mimi marked the book with her pointer finger, keeping it there as she explained. “The Lord wanted to give Abraham a chance to show his out-and-out obedience, no matter how difficult the divine request.”

  Instead of dwelling on the schoolwork I was missing, I thought about the Genesis story, though I’d heard it preached from my father’s pulpit many times.

  After lunch, I sneaked away to my parents’ bedroom to write in my diary. The wind swirled outside, sending snow crystals tapping against the windowpanes as I closed the door and curled up on Mommy’s side of the bed.

  Hospital rules may prevent me from visiting, I thought, but they won’t keep me from being close to Mommy this way.

  I pressed my nose deep into her pillow, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair, her perfume. And I remembered her face and her voice. My dear Mommy. . . .

  The multicolored afghan at the foot of the bed caught my eye, and I reached for it and cozied up in it. My mother had spent most of her free moments making this afghan last winter, taking time to teach me the single crochet pattern. My chain loops turned out floppier than hers, changing the rhythm of the particular row, yet she insisted on keeping them just as I’d crocheted them. “Everyone has to begin somewhere,” she’d said cheerfully.

  At the time, I was struck with her amazing patience, her willingness to put up with my sloppy work when her own was meticulous and near perfect.

  Now I found myself searching the entire afghan for those loose stitches. Locating them, I smiled, leaning back against the pillow. My mother didn’t deserve to be suffering downtown in a hospital. She belonged here—healthy and energetic—with the family she adored.

  Then allowing my thoughts to flow freely, unmeasured, I began to write:

  Thursday, September 18

  Dear Diary,

  Someone I dearly love is in the hospital—my mother. I wish I could stop being so worried about her. I need more faith, I guess.Daddy says I should tell the Lord about it, but what he doesn’t know is that I already have. Was I born a worrywart? Will I ever grow up, Lord?

  Please, oh, please, watch over Mommy today while she’s in the operating room. She’s only thirty-five. Please, let her live much longer.

  I’m trying to be brave, but it’s awful hard.

  It was late when Daddy called us into the living room. We hadn’t had a family meeting in several months, so it felt strange sitting there, just the three of us—without Mommy.

  Daddy’s eyes were sad, and slowly he went over the events of the day with us. “Mommy’s surgery was exploratory,” he said, then explained the word for Emily, even though he’d attempted to do so by phone earlier. “The doctors weren’t able to remove the tumor. It’s too widespread—” and here, he paused. Taking a deep breath, he went on. “They don’t offer much hope.”

  Clenching my fists, I whispered to myself. “Not a tumor . . . not like Grandma.”

  Daddy must’ve heard me, for he worked his jaw silently, as if clenching his teeth. Emily began to cry, and he lifted my sister onto his knee. “I’m praying for a miracle. Remember, with God all things are possible.”

  I didn’t doubt for a second that Daddy truly believed in divine healing. He preached it—had a strong faith. If God’s Word said it, my preacher-father accepted it as fact.

  Often he would “open the altars” on Sundays for people to come forward after the sermon. There sick folk were anointed with oil, and sometimes I’d seen them healed. Just like in the big tent crusades and revivals written up in the gospel magazines in Daddy’s office at church.

  “We met with the surgeon today,” he continued, “in the sunroom of the hospital.”

  “Why the sunroom?” It bothered me. Seemed too joyful a place for such a grim meeting.

  “Well, it was certainly a private, hopeful place.” He paused, adjusting his glasses. Then he went on to say that the sunroom overlooked the hospital parking lot and maybe, “when Mommy gets a bit stronger, the nurses could wheel her up close to the southeast window.”

  “So we can see her again?” I said, trying to still the terror gnawing at my heart.

  Visualizing that scene in the sunroom was easy enough for a girl with a powerful imagination. Sunlight was surely streaming through the windows, tall plants scattered here and there. And the relatives— Mommy’s father and stepmother and Aunt Audrey—they all would have been sitting with Daddy, waiting to hear the doctor’s words.

  “We should be allowed to visit Mommy, too,” I fussed.

  He pulled me over next to him. “Your mother’s weak from the surgery. It’s very important that we follow hospital rules.”

  “But if she’s dying . . .”

  “Please don’t think that way, Becky,” he reprimanded. “God’s promises are sure. We must exercise faith for your mother’s complete healing.”

  “Not everybody gets healed,” I whispered, almost ashamed of myself. Was I a doubting Thomas?

&
nbsp; This time I didn’t wait for his answer. Turning, I clung to his neck. I wanted tomorrow to come quickly so I could wake up from this nightmarish dream.

  Mommy couldn’t die. Not now. I needed her, needed her more than ever. She understood me, knew me, loved me—her absolute, total worrywart.

  My mother had a knack for offering encouragement when schoolmates misunderstood my passion for the piano, when some of them acted jealous because I consistently won at Piano Guild and other musical competitions. The repetitious practice of scales and finger techniques had never annoyed her. If anything, they brought her joy, because music was also dear to my mother’s heart.

  Then, too, there was my fascination with writing: diary accounts of special and not-so-special events, a spiritual journal, and the personal notebook where I recorded my most private thoughts and feelings.

  Some mothers might have scolded, feeling I’d taken my life’s obsessions a bit too far, but not my mother. She knew me . . . through and through. And I couldn’t imagine my life without her!

  Chapter 6

  I remember the first time I ever saw Daddy cry. It happened in church, the Sunday after Mommy’s operation.

  My father, leaning hard on his pulpit, began to ask the congregation to pray. “As most of you know, Mrs. Owens is desperately ill.” In church, he always referred to Mommy as Mrs. Owens. “The doctors say that, aside from divine intervention, she has six months at the most.”

  He paused as if struggling to breathe. “I am asking . . . I covet your prayers for my wife.” He slumped against the wooden podium, tears rolling down his thin face.

  Shocked at this display of emotion, I stared in disbelief. My preacher-daddy had never allowed this weak, almost helpless side of him to spill out onto our church family. I felt limp as I witnessed my father’s absolute humanity. Oh, now and then he’d let it show in the way he might surprise Mommy with a tender kiss or hug, but long before today I’d set the Reverend Owens up on a high and lofty place in my mind—exalted him almost next to God the Father himself.

  Of course, Daddy had no idea how I felt. If he had, he would’ve set me straight, but good. Yet I couldn’t help it. My parents were my all in all, they and each of our friends and family at Glad Tidings Country Church.

  Soon, Daddy’s weeping made me cry, too. I wanted to run to him, comfort him up there on the hand-hewn platform, but I was too young and too shy.

  Next to me, on the pew, Emily kept swinging her legs, irritating me. “Sit still,” I whispered, putting on a frown.

  Surprisingly, she stopped kicking, but only for a few seconds. Probably her little-girl way of dealing with the painful public announcement. The whole world—our world—had heard the news. Mommy was dying.

  I prayed silently, pleading with God to heal Mommy and to help Daddy stand tall again.

  Angie, our runaway kitten, was waiting for us after church as we pulled into the driveway. She was all curled up in a ball on the porch, soaking up the sunshine. Looking at her, I wished I could wrap myself up that way, tight and secure—sheltered from my pain. My dread.

  After dinner, I went to my room and struggled to express my feelings about the church service in my diary. Since Mommy’s surgery, I found myself drawn to recording my thoughts every single day, either writing them down on paper or tucking them away in my mind for later. Today was no different.

  Sunday, September 21

  Dear Diary,

  Today I tried to act grown up in church, but it was next to impossible. I fished, all teary-eyed, in my pocketbook for a hankie.Daddy was up there crying about Mommy, and I was doing my best to look brave for him. But it wasn’t easy because something powerful was going on inside me, and I knew, just as sure as I love music and books and writing, that God in heaven wants me to do something. Something that might change the course of history—at least my history. Because there’s no way I’m giving up and letting Mommy die. . . .

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the Bible story, the account of Abraham offering up his son Isaac. It haunted me for days—played into my heart the way a soul-stirring melody grips a pianist’s sensitive fingers.

  If only summer were here, maybe then I could deal with my life and its dire circumstances by playing softball with the neighborhood kids. It was one of the activities that helped ease my worries.

  Actually, I played on an all-boy team, and I knew—secretly, of course—that they thought my being a tomboy made me a great player.

  But, sad to say, the tomboy thing was fading fast, and I fretted about the changes my body was beginning to make. Even more so now because Mommy wasn’t around to help me through my transition to womanhood.

  Before prayer meeting on Wednesday night, I mustered up the courage to ask if we could call the hospital. “I need to talk to Mommy,”

  I said hesitantly.

  Daddy stopped twisting the can opener. “Well, I hadn’t thought of it, but . . .” He paused, leaving the soup can unopened.

  “It won’t take long. I promise.”

  An unexpected smile broke over his face. “It’s a splendid idea.” And he washed and dried his hands. “Emily can say a few words, too.”

  He dialed, and eventually a nurse must have put Mommy on the phone. My parents talked briefly, then it was my turn. But I froze up, could hardly think of what to say as I held the heavy receiver in my left hand.

  “Hello, Becky.” Mommy’s gentle voice made me miss her even more. “I’m so glad you called.”

  “Me too,” I mumbled.

  “How’s school? Still working on your Christmas program?”

  “It’s starting to sound pretty good,” I managed. So much I wanted to say, but glancing around the kitchen at Daddy and Emily, I knew there was no hope of sharing my personal concerns this time.

  “I’ve been singing,” she said.

  “You have?”

  “Yes, with your auntie Audrey and one of the Christian nurses here. They come to tuck me in nearly every night.”

  “What songs?” I asked, eager to know.

  “Oh, different hymns and praise songs . . . you know, the ones I love.”

  “Can’t wait till you come home, Mommy.” Her name stuck in my throat.

  “Look up this Scripture tonight before you go to bed,” she said. “Malachi chapter four, verse two.”

  Hopeful, I asked, “Is this a special verse from the Lord . . . just for you?”

  I could hear her sigh, perhaps gathering strength. “All of God’s Word is given to encourage and strengthen His children, honey.”

  “So it’s not a direct message?” I queried.

  She didn’t say it was or it wasn’t. “Jesus has been very near to me these past few days” was all she would confess.

  “I’m glad He’s with you,” I said. “Wish I could be, too.”

  “I know you do, sweetie. Have Daddy call again, all right?”

  Emily’s turn. I had to say good-bye and I dreaded it. More than anything, I wanted to hold the phone in my hand forever. “Uh, Mommy? I’m going to write you a letter and send it along with Daddy tomorrow . . . okay?”

  “I’ll look forward to it, Becky. Remember, I love you.” She sent a kiss twice into the phone, but when I tried to pucker, my lips trembled, and the kiss came out flat.

  Chapter 7

  I was the last one at the altar after prayer meeting. Lee Anne and I had started out praying together. We often knelt at the altar after church. It was part of the specialness of being Christian best friends.

  Sometimes she’d have a request—maybe an important science project was coming up—and I’d agree in prayer with her for divine help. Other times, I’d bring a need, or we both would.

  Up until tonight, I hadn’t been able to put into words the burden weighing on me. Lee Anne surely knew what was bothering me—my mother’s diagnosis—but she was more than kind that way and never pushed.

  When she had to leave for home with her parents, I was still kneeling at the altar, scrunched down with my he
ad buried in my hands. My heart cried out for mercy, but my mind was reeling with the story of Abraham and Isaac.

  “Lord Jesus,” I prayed, “one of these times, I want to make a bargain with You. I’m not sure how You’ll take it, but Mommy needs Your help getting over the cancer. And . . . maybe, Lord, You could use a little help, too. This is Becky Owens, Your faithful girl. Amen.”

  When I looked up, the sanctuary was dark. Someone, probably the janitor, had forgotten that I was still praying. It wasn’t his fault, really. After all, I’d been awful quiet about it. Not like several of our church deacons, who sometimes got blessed and couldn’t help raising their voices in worship to God.

  I felt my way along the altar railing to the wall, then followed the dim light out to the foyer. There were voices coming from Daddy’s office, and I stepped away from the door. Someone must be receiving pastoral counsel, so I slipped into the last pew of the shadowy sanctuary and discovered my little sister, curled up like a cat, sleeping.

  Waiting for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark, I closed them, praying for whoever was sitting in Daddy’s office. My thoughts turned quickly to Mommy, who was hopefully asleep in her hospital bed.

  My next conscious recollection was of being helped up the bunk bed ladder to my high perch, still wearing my mid-week church skirt and sweater. Seemed to me as if it was the middle of the night. The clock alarm on my dresser would be sounding early so I didn’t mind sleeping in my clothes.

  Hours later, Emily walked in her sleep. Either that, or she needed a drink of water and bumped into the bookcase on her way to get it. Anyway, because she hardly ever got up in the night, I tried to stay alert till she wandered back to bed. “You okay?” I asked when she’d settled into the lower bunk.