Read an Excerpt
When I Am Gone
By Marge McRae
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Marge McRae
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-9910-1
Chapter One
Janet Drake started the car. Then just before backing out on to the street she reached into her purse and pulled out the picture with the haunting faces—the faces that had changed her life in just one short week.
Traffic was light this Saturday mid-morning and within five minutes she was on the interstate heading east. Even though Gertrude, Peter's old Honda, grumbled about the climb to the summit, Janet knew it was the right vehicle.
The much newer Lincoln Town Car she'd left in the garage would have sailed over the mountain pass, but it would hardly fit her new image. She was sure it would have been way too ostentatious with its pristine ruby-red finish.
An hour later as she headed into the dark tunnel that cut through the mountain near the 3300 foot summit, the radio lost its signal. She switched it off and the all too familiar voices took up their recent and frequent debate.
They'd been dogging her ever since the day she first saw the picture of the motherless family. That's when one of the voices whispered, "You could do that job. You know what it takes to raise four children, and it would put some real meaning into your life."
Immediately an opposing voice jumped in with, "Don't you think you do plenty of good works stuff already? You donate money, help the needy, drive people to their doctor, teach Bible classes, take meals to shut-ins and even tidy up their houses. You're always volunteering to do something, but this is ridiculous. You're too old for such folly. Good grief, Woman, a toddler and three kids ten and under ... why, they'd tear you to shreds."
"It would be a challenge for sure," countered Inspiration. "But sixty-three isn't that old, especially when you have your health. You could invest in their lives, and make a real difference. God would give you the strength.
And who knows, this might be the answer to Peter's dying challenge." She tried to imagine the bewildering heartbreak in the Harrison family and the picture refused to leave her mind. Even though the voices in her head raged on, she made the appointment with Tom Harrison, and when no one was looking, she swiped the picture off the church bulletin board.
From that day on she had claimed the family as her own. They'd dominated her thoughts and prayers, but she neither spoke of her plans nor did she show the photo to anyone—especially her friends Susan and Kathy. She knew they'd have thrown every argument at her—good reasonable arguments too—and it all would have sounded so sensible.
Her grown children would have joined them in the chorus of naysayers and flat out proclaimed, "Mom, you're certifiably out of your mind." Not that she saw much of her kids. They were all well launched into their own busy lives that left little time for visiting. No, this was her secret and no one shall know of it until it is a done deal.
Early for her appointment, she took the turnoff marked Viewpoint. She parked the car and walked to the rail where she and Peter had stood seven years earlier and looked down on the fertile valley surrounding the little town of Montrose. It was while standing there they'd decided to check out Montrose and stop for lunch.
They had to wait for a table at the popular but unadorned Marlene's Café. Janet had watched the warm interaction of the locals and felt a tinge of envy. After lunch they strolled about the tree-lined neighborhood.
Mature oak trees lining each side of the streets demonstrated the relentless power of their aggressive roots by heaving up sidewalks. Well-maintained older homes, standing like soldiers shoulder to shoulder, offered a stark yet winsome contrast to the fashionable sprawling Kensington Estates where she and Peter lived in Richfield.
"Life must be simpler here," she'd commented to Peter. Then without understanding why, a longing arose within her to know the people in the café and those who lived in the seasoned, but still erect houses. She saw herself in the local market, meeting folks by chance and stopping for a leisurely chat beside the tomatoes.
She did not speak of this surprising and inexplicable yearning, but from that day on, she found her mind drifting toward the little town. She even fantasized about life—her life here, yet this was the first time she'd been back to Montrose.
Out of the mountains now Gertrude purred along through gentle undulating hills past succulent fields of tall grass that rolled in green waves on both sides of the highway. Here and there farm equipment worked through the fields, cutting and raking hay and sending up clouds of dust.
Janet took the next exit and drove past ranches where horses and cattle grazed in the summer heat. In less than a mile she entered the quiet little town with its overgrown shade trees. Paying close attention, she followed the directions Mr. Harrison had given over the phone.
Since Peter's death, Janet had been caught up in a variety of worthwhile activities. She'd sink her teeth into an especially difficult task and then savor the exhilaration that floods in as the project mounts to completion. But nothing yet had quite fit Peter's challenging criteria of "bigger than you are." It sounded ominous, even out-of-control. She sensed that such an assignment would require incredible stretching—a stretching far beyond her comfort zone.
"Ah yes, my comfort zone. I do like my comforts, and I've enjoyed many, thanks to You, Lord," she whispered, "and of course Peter's diligence in the workplace." Why I've even been able to continue supporting a variety of charitable works without personal sacrifice.
Sacrifice! That was the disquieting word. Janet reflected on the oft-quoted, portion of Scripture from Romans 12: "In view of God's great mercy, offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God— this is your spiritual act of worship."
Yes, this venture might come close to being a living sacrifice. But am I truly ready to make such an offering?
All the houses on G Street appeared to have been built in the 1930s. But they carried their age well and exuded the charm and restraint of earlier days, as well as high quality materials and workmanship. She parked the car in front of the house and began again to question the sanity of her venture.
"This is crazy!" Reason screamed. "No one else your age would do such a thing. Don't you know this is a job for a much younger woman? You'll be lucky if this Harrison guy doesn't laugh in your face the minute he opens the door. Good thing you told no one or you'd embarrass your children and be the laughing stock among all your friends."
Janet had to agree with all of Reason's objections but then the other voice whispered, "Remember Jesus endured mockery and a whole lot more. Should His servants expect better treatment? Turn back now and you'll never know if this is Peter's prophetic challenge."
She checked her hair in the rearview mirror, touched up her lipstick, and steeled herself to walk the last few steps.
A straight utilitarian sidewalk, like all the others, crossed the lawn and led to broad concrete stairs flanked on both sides with brick and concrete landings perfect for potted plants. But instead of bright welcoming flowers in the neglected terra cotta pots a few dried weeds had sprouted in spring and then died in the summer heat.
Janet counted each step to the generous covered porch. Buck up, old girl. Only eight—not thirteen, so it's not a gallows. Or is it? Crossing this porch and walking through that door could completely change my life. Am I ready for such a change, Lord?
She wondered at the quiet of the house with four children. Is no one home? Have they forgotten I'm coming? Perhaps I should just quietly leave. But she drew in a deep breath, rebuked her pounding heart and pressed the button.
A single chime rang inside, followed by scurrying feet and children's high clamoring voices.
"I'll get it."
"No, you got it last time. It's my turn."
"I get first dibs if it's cookies."
From the photo in her purse, Janet recognized Emily, the eight-year-old who had managed to reach the door first. Straight dark brown hair framed her thin face and cupped in under her jawbone. With deep-set dark eyes she studied the visitor. Ten-year-old Greg with the same coloring but a couple inches taller stood a few feet back.
How typical. Younger sisters so often upstage their older brothers in these early years. She remembered her older children who shared the same age difference as these two. When Matt would ask her how to spell a certain word, Sarah, his younger sister, and a spelling whiz, would shoot off the answer with an air of superiority especially galling to an older brother. I should have reined Sarah in on such occasions. Why is it we get that awesome task of raising children before we know what we're doing?
"Hello. Is Mr. Harrison in?"
The boy turned and yelled, "Dad," then resumed his position a few feet behind his sister.
"He'll be here in a minute," said the girl still holding the official greeter position at the door while she studied the visitor.
Janet was tempted to end the silence with a greeting and simply say "Hi Greg and Emily." But she decided it might be presumptuous and not too well received. Better she wait until properly introduced.
A clean-shaven slender man, in blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt came to the door. Still in his thirties, Janet guessed.
"Yes?" Straight brown wiry hair made him look like the before model in a hair cream commercial, but perplexed best described his expression.
"Hello Mr. Harrison. I'm Janet Drake." Seeing no flicker of acknowledgment, she added, "I have an appointment—one o'clock?" Still no recognition. "I phoned last week ... from Richfield."
"Oh! Oh yes. That's right." He scratched his wiry hair. "Well, um, I guess you might as well come in."
In spite of the rebuff, she entered the house stepping onto dark wood flooring scratched and worn down to bare wood in what had once been a gracious entry of milled paneling.
The room to the left appeared to have been a library. Shelves lined the walls and the upper shelves still held books in library fashion, but all the lower shelves held toys and games while Legos, trucks, abandoned dolls, books, and Burger King bags dotted the floor.
Opposite the front door, an impressive walnut stairway had become more of an obstacle course, bearing stacks of folded clean laundry, shoes, books, and toys.
Tom Harrison pointed to his left and Janet entered a generous living room. Furniture representing a variety of styles and ages surrounded the worn Oriental rug in the room's center. None of the furniture matched but neither did the clutter of papers, books, magazines as well as plates, bowls, and crumpled food wrappers. She couldn't help compare this to her well-appointed pristine home in Kensington Estates.
She chose the stained and faded damask wing chair. Tom Harrison excused himself leaving Janet with Greg and Emily studying her from the sofa across the room. From the photo Janet recognized six-year old Steven standing in the doorway clutching a fire truck. She assumed the toddler was napping.
That first day she noticed the photo on the church bulletin board she had studied the faces for several minutes when all of a sudden she realized that if she had died when her children were those ages that could have been her family. Whatever would Peter have done? How would he have managed? Who would have raised my children?
Tom made his way back into the living room scanning what appeared to be the pages Janet had sent him. He sat on the sofa between Greg and Emily who showed great curiosity about the stranger in their home.
"So," he asked even as he continued to read, "how long have you been at Richfield Chapel?"
"About twelve years."
"Then you came just about the time we left." For a moment he seemed to slip into a wistful memory. "We lived there while at the university. Sally Strand in the church office keeps tabs on us. I'm sure she was responsible for the bulletin board announcement. I was quite surprised when you called telling me you had even seen our picture."
The papers quivered a bit in his hand. "Your letter indicates you are a widow and have, umm, let's see, ah yes, four grown children." He looked up and paused as if waiting for her to elaborate.
When she only nodded, he went on. "I am ... well, I guess you know how much work is involved, and I'm kind of surprised you would want to step into such a demanding role."
What a tactful way to approach the sensitive area of my age. What must he be thinking? "I don't know how to explain this, Mr. Harrison, but I feel drawn to the position, almost like it is a calling." Oh, dear, he must think I'm weird. Perhaps I am.
Ignoring her comment, he consulted her letter again. "It would appear you're quite involved in church and community. This is very different, you know. I should think you'd miss all that."
He placed the papers on top of a wadded hamburger wrapper in a cereal bowl on the table in front of him. He fidgeted and leaned back. "I'm looking for someone steady and long term—at least through the school year. I teach at the high school. The job is demanding and I really must have someone—someone capable—minding the family and the home."
"Yes, I know it will be very different, even challenging. But you see," Janet pursed her lips weighing her answer and added, "it's as if God is urging me to take this job." She caught herself and tempered it with, "Well, what I mean is, apply for it."
He opened his mouth and let out a deep sigh as if not knowing how to go on with the interview. "This is such a new thing for me—this trying to select a suitable person." He paused again and looked off into space.
Steven, on his hands and knees, pushed the fire truck into the room, parked it beside the sofa and settled himself on the floor against his father's leg. Tom took no notice of his youngest son's presence. "How in the world do I hire someone to fill the empty shoes of their mother?"
"You're in such a hard place." Janet shook her head with understanding. "But I don't think you should look for someone to fill those shoes. Rather you need someone to stand alongside those empty shoes and help your family move along. Move along, I might add, in the direction you and your wife have been leading them." She wondered if she had taken too much liberty.
"Yes." He appeared to read the papers again. "Well ... I guess your letter has basically answered all my questions." He turned to the second page where she'd listed her personal references. "Of course I've not yet checked your references, but I'm sure they would speak well of you. I do notice, though, you did not list any employment history."
"No, well you see I really only have experience raising my own children, and managing my own home."
Tom's eyebrows shot up in a surprised look. "I see." He re-folded the papers. "Well, I have another interview later this afternoon—a local woman with professional experience. Several friends have recommended her." He stood to his feet and allowed an indulgent tight-lipped smile to appear on his face.
The interview was suddenly over. Janet got to her feet even as a tsunami of rejection swept over her. The possibility of being denied the position had never once entered her mind. But a lifetime of holding her emotions in check enabled her to hide her huge shock and disappointment. She dredged up reserves of control and managed to squeeze out a feeble, "When do you think you might make your decision?"
"I don't know." Tom sighed and pushed his stubborn hair back. "The neighbors and friends from church have been so kind to us, but the time has come. We need someone here on a regular basis." He paused, swallowed hard and continued. "But it's just so terribly important to get the right person, and ..." His voice failed him. He looked down at his children and blinked away threatening tears.
Janet clamped down on her own feelings, walked over to him and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "My children were grown when my husband died. That makes it totally different. I can't even imagine what a difficult place this is for you."
"Thanks," he whispered. He headed for the door, with the children close on his heels.
Janet followed and as she reached the door, turned and forced her mouth into a smile. Dismissing concern about being presumptuous, she made her way to the sad-eyed children standing in a stair-step row beside their father. She stooped down in front of them and looking each one in the eye said, "Good-bye Greg. Good-bye Emily. Good-bye Steven. I shall be praying that God brings the right person to come and help you." She straightened up, opened the door and crossed the porch.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from When I Am Gone by Marge McRae Copyright © 2011 by Marge McRae. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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