Holiday for a Hero (Heroes at Heart Book 9) Page 3

  “I don’t like talking about this,” she huffed.

  He reached out his hand to cover hers that still rested on his leg. “Now, now, my sweet Ethel. You were the smartest as well as the prettiest girl I ever met. You know that to plan for the future… to plan for the inevitable only makes sense.”

  “I know,” she said, her words barely above a whisper. “But you’re scaring me, as though this isn’t far off into the future but as though you’re planning for something much sooner.”

  “The only planning I’m doing is for the eventual day when I’m not here. My goal is to put that day off as long as I can, but I wouldn’t be a good husband if I didn’t look ahead to prepare so your life would still be good.”

  His words spoke to her sense of logical order and planning. So why does my heart ache so badly right now? She simply nodded, and he leaned back in his chair, a sigh of relief leaving his lungs.

  “I’ll talk to Fred tomorrow, and we’ll make the arrangements. And then sometime, if he wants, he can buy out the business completely from me. I can still work occasionally, but that would allow for you and me to do the things we want to do. And then when something does happen to me, you wouldn’t have to worry about the business and would have plenty of money.”

  She placed her knitting back into the basket at her feet. Standing together, they linked fingers and walked toward the staircase. She felt a pull on her hand and stopped, twisting her head to look up at George.

  “I hate to kiss you with this awful cough, but we are under the mistletoe.” He winked and added, “I’ve never once missed kissing you under the mistletoe in all these years.”

  She smiled and lifted her arms around his neck, kissing him lightly. Then, with arms encircling each other, they made their way up to the bedroom. Lying in bed, watching him sleep, she listened carefully for any rattling in his lungs. Finally, as sleep called her, she thought, if life never gives me anything else but the blessings I’ve already received from being Mrs. George Wiseman, I would be an eternally happy woman.

  One year later

  There was no fire in the fireplace. No wreath on the door. No Christmas tree in the corner of the room. The red tablecloth which always graced her dining room table during the holidays was still folded and in the cabinet. No candles were lit. No presents bought. The halls were not decked with greenery.

  Christmas cookies had been baked, but they’d all been given away, none filling her own personal cookie jars.

  It seemed a sin to not celebrate, but when all joy was gone, simply existing was hard enough.

  Ethel’s knitting needles perched quietly in the neglected ball of yarn in the basket at her feet. Her Bible was opened on her lap, her hands clasped together, resting on top of the pages. She drew in a deep breath, the air hitching as it reached her lungs before she let it out slowly.

  Her gaze moved slowly about the room, noting its familiarity, and yet feeling as though a stranger in her own house. House… it used to be a home. But no longer. She whispered into the quiet room, “George…”

  George’s illness had lingered, damaging his lungs irrevocably, weakening his strong body, making him susceptible to more illness. He had moved forward with his plans, selling half the business to Fred while continuing to work for months as he was able. He finally sold the rest of the business, assuring Ethel there was money in the bank. She had waved her hand dismissively, insisting that as long as they were together, they’d have everything they needed.

  Two months ago, she’d woken up in the middle of the night hearing George struggling to breathe. Remaining calm, she’d called for the rescue squad, then dressed quickly, racing to the hospital. A day later, she held his hand and soothed his brow as more deep coughs racked his body.

  He had finally opened his eyes, focused on hers, and smiled. “My beautiful Ethel.”

  His voice was so soft, she’d had to lean close to hear his words.

  “There’s so much I wanted to give you. So much I wanted us to be able to do.”

  Shushing him, she’d said, “Oh, George, we have many years ahead of us to do all the things we want to do.” She had watched as he slowly shook his head and she continued to smooth the sweat from his brow. “I have no purpose without you. You are my sole reason for living.”

  “That’s my line, Ethel. My sole reason for living was you, and you have so much more life to live and life to give.”

  Her breath had halted in her lungs as she choked, “Without you, there’s nothing.” She waited as another round of coughing caused the creases in his face to deepen in pain, and she silently prayed for his easing.

  His eyes had fluttered open and closed and open once again. His lips had curved slightly as he whispered, “You have gifts far beyond anyone I’ve ever known, sweetheart. You’ll find those who need your gifts. You’ll seek out those who can only be saved by you.”

  She’d had no idea what his words meant and the idea of living her life without his love sliced her open, leaving her bleeding on the floor.

  “I have to go, Ethel. But I promise I’ll never be far away. I’ll be in every breath you take and every beat of your heart. And when it’s time… I’ll be with you, waiting.”

  With his hands still gripped in hers, she stood and bent over the bed, her tears dripping from her cheeks onto his. Kissing his dry lips, she’d felt the instant life left his body.

  That had been two months ago. The first few weeks she’d been surrounded. The women from the church came by with casseroles and cakes, so much food she’d never be able to eat it all. Finally dumping most of it into the garbage, guilt hit her, knowing George would’ve taken it to one of the shelters.

  It was almost easier now that the initial well-wishers and grief-watchers had gone. A few weeks ago, she’d finally climbed from bed, cleaned the house, shopped, and put on a face for the outside world so that they’d be assured she was fine. But on the inside, she was anything but fine. Invitations to spend the holidays in other people’s homes flowed in, but she turned them all down with a smile. A smile that held the agonizing pain still deep inside.

  And now, her first Christmas Eve alone, her mind was filled with George, and good memories slid past as well as ones that caused a twinge in her heart.

  With another shuddering breath, she finally looked down at the pages in front of her. She had been searching for passages on grief, taking heart in the words of comfort. The words of Corinthians seemed to enlarge on the page. “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”

  Words whispered in the dark room again. “God, what comfort can I give others? I feel so empty, how can I have anything to offer?”

  She waited to see if words would come back to her, but the room remained silent. Closing her Bible, she placed it gently on the table next to her, glancing at her full but now cold cup of tea. Carrying the delicate china to the kitchen, she rinsed out the cup, flipped off the light, and walked across the hall to the small bedroom. She had not been able to sleep in the bedroom she’d shared with George since he passed. Guilt hit her again that she hadn’t donated his belongings to those in need. The room had stayed much as it was when he was living.

  With the upstairs empty, a familiar anger sliced through her again. Such a waste. This house was supposed to have been filled with children.

  Pushing that thought away before she fell down the deep hole of anger, self-pity, and more questions God should answer, she went to bed, alone and lonely on Christmas Eve.

  4

  Two years later

  Ethel welcomed her close friend, Judith, into her home, ushering her back toward the kitchen. “Come on in! I’ve been baking for two days, and I think I have enough.”

  Judith stepped into the kitchen, took one look at the counter, and exclaimed, “Ethel, you’re a treasure!”

  Waving
her hand dismissively, Ethel shook her head. “Oh, goodness. Hardly! I feel like knitting and baking are such small things to do to help others.”

  Judith rolled her eyes as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You do much more than that, and you know it. You volunteer at the school, reading to little kids. You volunteer at the church, helping with the elderly. You volunteer at the library. You take your knitted blankets to the hospital. And you’re still baking for the shelter.”

  Ethel knew those things were true but also knew the reason deep inside. She remained quiet but had no doubt Judith understood.

  Reaching across the counter, Judith placed her hand on Ethel’s, squeezing slightly. “I sometimes feel as though you’re in a race to stay busy so that you won’t think so much about George.”

  She lifted her gaze and nodded slowly, staring at her friend. “Staying busy has been my saving grace.”

  “You know, you’re still young—”

  “Go no further,” she rushed to say. “George was the only love of my life.” Grateful when Judith remained silent, she smiled, and they began placing the multitude of plastic tubs into bags. Judith had recently come from one of the church guild meetings and filled Ethel in on all the latest gossip.

  “And wait until I tell you about John and Carol Higgins! I just found out they finished a foster care program and plan on taking kids into their home!”

  She had always admired John and Carol, but the news surprised her. “I thought they were going to travel now that their kids were off to college.”

  Shrugging, Judith replied, “They heard of the need for foster homes and decided that they wanted to open their house. They said there were needy kids that had no home. No one to care for them.”

  Her heart squeezed at the thought of unwanted and neglected or abused children. “You said they had to go through a program?”

  “I’m not sure if it was through the state or social services, but yes, they had to go through a foster parent program to be certified. It sounded rather in-depth, and of course, their house had to be checked out. Personally, I can’t imagine having someone come in and investigate my home, but then I also can’t imagine a strange child living with me. I admire what they’re doing, but,” Judith shrugged, “it’s certainly not for me.”

  Ethel accompanied Judith onto her front porch, offering her a hug. As Judith made her way down the front walk, she turned and glanced back at the house and smiled up at Ethel.

  “This house is so big for you, Ethel. I hate to think of you all alone here. Have you ever thought about moving?”

  Ethel lifted her gaze lovingly over the house that George had chosen for them. Smiling, she shook her head. “This is home. This is where I feel George every day.” With a wave, Judith made it to her car, and Ethel turned and walked back through the wreath-covered door. There was no tree in the living room, but she’d placed some of her favorite decorations on display. It was easier to decorate this year as grief had moved through the stages toward acceptance.

  Sinking into the deep cushions of her favorite chair, she picked up her knitting, the clicking of the needles familiar and comforting. It was easy to allow her thoughts to wander as her fingers worked, and Judith’s words sounded out in the silence. Needy. No home. No one to care for them. She was not surprised when anticipated anger filled her as she thought of abandoned, abused, or neglected children. Dropping her knitting onto her lap, her gaze found the picture of George resting on the table nearby. “You would have given anything for children, and here some people have what we never had, and they throw it away!”

  The cruel twist of fate had her toss the knitting back into the basket and taking to her feet. Pacing the floor, she continued to rant about the injustices in the world, shaking her fist and crying loudly. Finally exhausted, she moved to the chair that George had always sat in, now looking around the room from what had been his perspective. The multitude of books they’d collected over the years filled the shelves. The upstairs held empty bedrooms and her dining room table held empty chairs.

  “You have gifts far beyond anyone I’ve ever known, sweetheart. You’ll find those who need your gifts. You will seek out those who can only be saved by you.”

  His words resounded loudly in the room, words spoken near the end. “What are you trying to tell me, George? That I’m supposed to open our home to children that were never ours?”

  “You will seek out those who can only be saved by you.”

  His words were so clear to her but only served to squeeze her heart more. “What can I do by myself, George? Maybe this is something we could have done together, but me? Alone? What on earth could I offer these children?”

  “A soft bed. A warm home. A listening ear. Hardy food. A sense of stability. Someone to love them.”

  “What do I know about being a mother? If it was not God’s will for me to be a mother, how would I even know what to do?” she asked, throwing her hands up into the air.

  “God never intended for you not to share your love. You have so much to offer.”

  The room once again grew silent, but Ethel didn’t move. She sat in the chair that allowed her to still catch a whiff of George’s aftershave, tears rolling down her cheeks. Minutes turned into hours, and for the first time in her life, she did not seek her bed. Instead, she was still sitting in the chair as the morning light filtered through the curtains.

  Dragging in a deep, cleansing breath, she let it out slowly. Pushing herself to stand, her body felt stiff, but she moved toward her bedroom. An hour later, she stood in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection. A light dusting of powder covered her face. Her graying hair was pulled back into a bun. She had chosen a pale blue shirtwaist dress with a thin belt around her waist. Whispering to her reflection, she said, “Okay, George, I’m going to do this. But I’ve got to know that I’m not in this alone.”

  “I’ll be in every breath you take and every beat of your heart.”

  Hearing that promise once again and knowing that her beloved husband had never made a promise he didn’t keep, she squared her shoulders as she picked up her purse and walked out the door. It was not long before she sat in the head social worker’s office in the Department of Social Services.

  “And how may I help you, Mrs. Wiseman?” the woman with the kind eyes asked.

  “I’d like information on how to become a foster mother.” She held her breath, uncertain what the social worker’s response would be. When the woman’s lips curved into a wide smile, Ethel breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced down, almost certain that George had reached out to hold her hand. Thank you, my sweet husband. Looking back up, she met the social worker’s smile with one of her own.

  Three Years Later

  Sitting in her chair by the fire, Ethel smiled as she looked from her knitting toward the towheaded boy sitting on the sofa, his finger pointing to each word as he read aloud.

  “The night… Max… wore his… wolf… suit and made… mischief of one kind…” He turned the page, “and another.” Turning the page again, he read, “His mother called… him Wild Thing!”

  Ethel felt certain that Zander would look up proudly, grinning at the fun story and brightly illustrated picture book, Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. Instead, he stared at the page for a long moment, his forefinger still resting on the words. Giving him the silence needed to process his thoughts, she waited to see what he might say.

  Finally, he lifted his gaze to hers, his brow furrowed. His voice was barely above a whisper as he said, “That’s what they called me.”

  Her heart squeezed, knowing instantly what he was referring to. A wild child. That’s what they called him.

  Ethel had fostered a number of children, usually for a couple of weeks only. But then the social worker called with a special case. “Mrs. Wiseman, in the last several years, you have already earned a reputation for being one of the best foster mothers we have. With each case, you’ve been able to love, and nurture, and reach out to
so many of our short-term cases. Now, I’m coming to you because you’re not only our last hope, but maybe the only one who can truly reach this child.”

  Alexander King. Eight years old. His mother was an alcoholic and a junkie who rarely remembered she had a child. When he was only six years old, a police officer had caught him sneaking around a grocery store, filling his pockets. Concerned, the police officer had noted the skinny child, his clothes ill-fitting and dirty, and his body unwashed.

  Once Zander was convinced that he wasn’t going to jail, he showed the policeman where he lived. Inside the dilapidated apartment, the officer discovered Zander’s intoxicated and strung-out mother inside. The place was a wreck. There was no food in the kitchen, and Zander’s bed was nothing but a blanket on the floor. The police officer took Zander into emergency custody and called social services.

  Zander had been placed in temporary foster homes over the last couple of years, all excellent homes, but each time he ran away. The social worker discovered he’d never been in school and didn’t know how to read. Running the streets at his young age was all he knew to do. In desperation, the social worker talked to Ethel, who agreed without hesitation to take him in.

  Her one condition—she didn’t want him to finish out the school year, insisting that she would homeschool him instead. When the social worker questioned her idea, Ethel had said, “I want school to be a place that he loves, and that’s not going to happen right now. Give me several months to teach him to read and help him catch up with first-grade work. Then he can start with the next school year, confident in his abilities and eager to learn.”

  The social worker had warned Ethel that he might not be able to learn or would react negatively to being with her all the time. But Ethel knew that he would never enjoy school if he could not feel confidently successful. And her plan had worked… eventually.