The Baby Gift

  “Briana, what’s wrong? Is it Nealie?”

  “Oh, Josh, she’s sick. She might be—so sick.”

  He had the sensation of falling toward a devouring darkness. “How sick? Is she in the hospital?”

  “I don’t know how sick. It’s in the early stages. She doesn’t know yet. Nobody knows.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Damn, his hands were shaking. His hands never shook.

  “It’s a—an anemia,” she stammered. “It’s very rare. And—and serious.”

  “What can I do?” He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his head down. He felt as if he was going to pass out.

  She seemed to pull herself together, but she still sounded shattered. “Can you come home? I mean come here?”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll get on the first flight out. But what can we do for her?”

  “Oh, Josh,” she said, despair naked in her voice, “I’ve thought and thought. I think there’s only one thing. One thing in the world.”

  “What? I’ll do anything. You know that."

  She was silent a long moment. He knew she was having trouble speaking. At last she whispered, “To save her, I think we have to have another baby.”

  Dear Reader,

  “Individuals in every generation must decide what they will preserve for those who follow.”

  Those are the opening words of a fine book, The Heirloom Gardener by Carolyn Jabs. I bought two copies of this book, one for me and one for my dad.

  My father taught me that to see a seed sprout, grow and change was a miracle. The Baby Gift is a story about miracles and how, in our time, miracles can get mixed up with science.

  About the science, I tried to be accurate, but I have probably made errors, and for this I apologize. As for the art of growing things, I turned to the wonderful organization called Seed Savers. What I got right is due to them and the delightful Lyn Jabs. What I got wrong, I got wrong on my own, drat it.

  Growing heirloom vegetables is a lovely and rewarding (and, okay, delicious) pastime. Anyone who would like more information about heirloom gardening can contact The Seed Savers Exchange, 3076 North Winn Road, Decorah, Iowa 52101. On the Internet, you can find information at www.seedsavers.org

  Best wishes,

  Bethany Campbell

  The Baby Gift

  Bethany Campbell

  To Howard Martinson Bostwick, with love and gratitude.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE LITTLE GIRL dreamed of her daddy.

  He was the handsomest daddy in the world and the funniest and the smartest—he knew things that nobody else’s daddy knew.

  He knew, for instance, how to escape from a giant octopus.

  The little girl lived hundreds of miles from any ocean, she had never seen the ocean or an octopus, but still, she wondered about situations like this.

  “The thing to do is not to panic,” her daddy said. “If an octopus grabs you and wants to eat you, just stay calm.”

  “Calm?” she said dubiously.

  “Between his eyes the octopus has a bump like a wart. Surprise him—bite his wart!”

  “Yuck!” said the little girl.

  “No,” her father said, tapping her temple. “It’s using your smarts. All the octopus’s nerves are centered in that bump. When it hurts, he drops you and swims off fast as he can. He’ll never want to see you again.”

  “Well,” she said with a thoughtful frown, “what if a giant clam grabs my foot and won’t let go?”

  “Ah,” said Daddy, “that’s why you always carry a knife when you dive. If a giant clam snaps shut on you, cut his hinge. Snip-snip, you’re free. And he’s learned his lesson.”

  “Will it kill him?” she asked. She wanted only to escape the clam, not murder it.

  Her father shook his head. “No. He’ll have to lie low and grow his hinge back. Of course, some sand may drift in his shell, so maybe he’ll make a giant pearl while he’s waiting.”

  “Hmm,” said the little girl. “Well, what about crocodiles?”

  “Easiest of all,” said her daddy. “The crocodile has all sorts of muscles to snap his mouth shut. But he’s got very weak muscles to open it up. Grab him by the snoot when his mouth is closed. Then he can’t open it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then move him someplace where he won’t bite people and where the hunters won’t get him.”

  “Why would hunters want him?”

  “To make wallets and suitcases and watch straps out of him. It’s a sad fate, becoming a watch strap.”

  “Mm,” said the little girl. Then, as dreams do, hers drifted off. She was on an imaginary seashore, warm with caressing breezes. There, she and her faithful partner, Zorro the cat, stalked crocodiles. She was not afraid, because her daddy had taught her how to escape all dangers.

  She strode across the sand, as fearless and strong as her father was. The sky was blue, the sun shone down with tropic brightness, and she moved, safe and invincible, through a world of eternal summer.

  WHILE THE CHILD SLEPT, snow fell. It had fallen all morning.

  It glistened, silver and white, on the greenhouse roofs. Like ragged lace, it covered the cold frames still empty of seedlings. It eddied around the corners of the barn, dancing with the wind as if alive and bewitched.

  But the inside of the little farmhouse was warm. Briana had been up and working for almost an hour. The scents of coffee and bacon and biscuits hung in the kitchen air like country ambrosia.

  It was a scene of almost perfect peace.

  Then Briana smashed her finger with the hammer. A swear word flew to her mouth, but she sucked it back in pain. This almost made her swallow the spare tack she held between her teeth.

  Through sheer willpower, she recovered and bit on the tack more firmly. She had a job to do, and with all her Missouri stubbornness, she meant to get it done.

  She settled herself more steadily on the top rung of the ladder and gripped the hammer. She tapped the last crepe-paper streamer into place on the ceiling beam. Now kitchen, living room and dining room were festooned with spirals of red and white.

  Briana cocked her head and examined the effect. It looked fine, it looked festive, it looked—happy.

  Happy, she thought numbly. Good. I want things to look happy.

  She climbed down the ladder and plucked the unused tack from her mouth, then thrust it into the pocket of her carpenter’s apron. She stowed her hammer in its proper drawer and hung the apron on its peg inside the pantry.

  She checked the food warming in the oven, then called her daughter to breakfast. She made sure her voice was firm, steady and, above all, cheerful.

  “Nealie! Up and at ’em. Breakfast time.”

  From the bedroom came a groan that was impressively loud for such a small girl. “Agh!”

  “No dramatics,” Briana ordered. “They scare the cat.”

  With even greater drama, Nealie shouted, “I hate mornings!” This time her groan ended with a horrible gurgle. “Aargh-gack-gack.”

  The black cat, Zorro, streaked out of Nealie’s room, down the stairs and to his sanctuary behind the washing machine. Zorro was of a nervous dis
position.

  Briana looked at all that remained visible of the cat, the twitching tip of his black tail. She crooked an eyebrow. “Good morning, Zorro. I’d hide, too, if I were you. Some mice were around earlier asking for you. Big mice. One of them had a baseball bat.”

  “Mom!” Nealie stood in the doorway looking sleepy and indignant. “You know Zorro’s scared of mice.”

  “And he knows I’m kidding.”

  Nealie gave her mother a rueful smile. She was a small child with big glasses that made her look like an impish owl. Her new plaid bathrobe was too large, and the sleeves hung to her fingertips. From under its hem peeped large brown fuzzy slippers made to look like bear paws. The slippers were ridiculous, but Nealie loved them.

  The girl dropped to her knees beside the washer. “Poor Zorro,” she cooed, pulling him from his hiding place. Pieces of lint clung to his black whiskers and fur. She began to pick them off.

  “Come on, Zorro,” Nealie said comfortingly. “You can sit on my lap. I’ll pet you.”

  She plunked down cross-legged on the floor and laid the cat on his back. She stroked his fat stomach, scratched his ears and babbled affectionate nonsense to him. He purred his almost noiseless Zorro purr.

  Briana bit her lip and put the oatmeal into the microwave. All business, she opened a container of yogurt, then poured orange juice into a glass.

  “I didn’t want to wake up.” Nealie yawned, stroking the cat. “I was wrestling a crocodile. I was winning, too.”

  “Of course, you were,” Briana said loyally.

  “I’m going to hunt crocodiles when I get big,” said Nealie. “To help them, not to hurt them. Zorro and I’ll build them a safe place so people can’t make them into watch straps. Won’t we, Zorro?”

  Zorro’s green eyes rolled unhappily, as if the thought of crocodiles made him queasy.

  Briana stood by the counter, one hand on her hip, watching the timid cat and her fearless child.

  Nealie was such a little girl. She was smart and imaginative, but much too small for her age, and delicate, as well. It was as if nature had not given her a body sturdy enough to contain so much spirit.

  Nealie yawned again, then looked up, noticing the red and white streamers for the first time. Behind her big glasses, her eyes squinted.

  “Hey! What’s this? When’d you do all this?”

  “This morning. I can’t believe you didn’t hear me,” Briana said, setting out Nealie’s vitamins.

  “What’s it for?” Then the child’s face brightened like a sunrise. “Is it for Daddy? Is he coming home? Is he? Is it a surprise for him?”

  Briana fought not to wince. “No. You know he won’t be back for a while.”

  The sunshine in Nealie’s expression clouded over. “Oh,” she said. “Then what’s all this for?”

  “Your uncle Larry’s birthday,” Briana said. “We’ll have fun. There’ll be cake and ice cream and—”

  “—and Rupert and Neville and Marsh,” Nealie said in disgust. “Blech.”

  Rupert and Neville and Marsh were her cousins. They were all boys, all younger than Nealie, but bigger. Their idea of fun was running, shouting, scuffling and tormenting cats and girls.

  “Why can’t Aunt Glenda have the party?” Nealie asked. “Then the boys can break their own stuff.”

  “She wanted to have it,” Briana said, defending her sister-in-law. “She’s not feeling so good lately. So last night I said I’d do it.”

  “I know why she doesn’t feel good.” Nealie pouted. “She’s going to have another baby. I hope it’s not another boy—ugh.”

  Briana knew the baby would be a boy, so she made no reply. Instead she said, “Wash your hands and come eat.”

  “Zorro’s not dirty,” Nealie protested, kissing him on the nose. “He’s sterile. I heard you telling Mrs. Feeney.”

  Caught by surprise, Briana laughed. “That’s a different kind of sterile. It means he can’t make kittens. But germs he can make—and does. Wash.”

  “I love Zorro’s germs,” Nealie said, straightening her glasses. “They’re wonderful, beautiful germs because they’re his.”

  She kissed him again, then rose and washed her hands, then plunked herself down at the table. After the first few bites, she only picked at her food.

  “Try a little more,” Briana said as gently as she could.

  “I’m not hungry,” Nealie said. “My stomach feels kind of funny. You know.”

  A chill pierced Briana, but she allowed herself only an understanding smile, a mild nod. “Okay. Take your vitamins and go change. Your clothes are laid out on the dresser. Wear your new shoes. I’ll drive you to school today.”

  “Aw, Mommy,” Nealie grumbled, “you haven’t let me ride the bus for weeks.”

  Briana’s answer was ready. “All those Tandrup children have colds. Mrs. Feeney said so. They sneeze all over everybody.”

  Nealie didn’t look convinced. Briana added, “Besides, I have to go to town anyway. I’ve got to mail the seed catalogs.”

  Briana gestured at the stacks of catalogs on the entryway table. The covers showed jewel-colored fruits and vegetables—tomatoes red as rubies, snow peas green as jade, pears the deep golden of amber.

  Hanlon’s Heritage Farm, proud letters announced. Your Source of Heirloom Seeds and Rare Fruits and Vegetables. Only the Best and Strongest. A Quarter Century of Quality.

  “Why does Grandpa have to grow seeds?” Nealie asked. “Why can’t he grow jellyfish or woolly worms or something interesting?”

  “Seeds are what he knows,” Briana said.

  “He could learn something else,” Nealie complained. “I think I’ll tell him so tonight.”

  “Not tonight,” Briana said firmly. “We’re having a celebration. Remember?”

  Nealie’s eyes shot to the Heritage Farm calendar on the kitchen wall, then widened in alarm. “But Mama. It’s the first of the month. Daddy might call. What if he calls when everybody’s here? We won’t be able to talk. Rupert will hit and yell and pull the phone plug out. He’s done it before.”

  “I won’t let Rupert near the phone. Besides, Daddy’s so far away he might not be able to get through tonight.”

  “He will if he can,” Nealie objected. “You know he will.” She paused, her expression saddening. “How much longer has he got to be in Khanty—Khanty…”

  “Khanty-Mansiysk,” Briana said. “He stays until he gets enough pictures. Then he’ll be back to see you.”

  Josh Morris was in Siberia, just south of the Arctic Circle, shooting photographs for Smithsonian magazine. Before that he had been in Oaxaca, Mexico, taking pictures of Olmec ruins. Before that he’d been photographing moths in Belize and a live volcano in Java.

  Briana had married Josh seven years ago, when he’d come to Missouri for a piece on farmers specializing in saving endangered fruits and vegetables. It should have been a tame assignment for him, mere routine, but when he and Briana met, routine flew away, and all tameness vanished.

  Theirs was a heedless, passionate affair that swept them into a marriage barely three weeks after they’d met. Everyone who knew Briana had warned her. She’d ignored them.

  Everybody who knew Josh had warned him, too, and he, too, had paid no attention. He was crazy in love, so was she, and nothing could stop them.

  The marriage could not last, and everyone but them had seemed to know it. Josh was a man born with a hunger to roam. She was a woman tied strongly to one place. They stayed together only long enough to produce Nealie.

  Josh had already been gone by the time Nealie was born—Albania, where he’d nearly gotten himself killed more than once. But he’d flown to Missouri as soon as he’d heard that the child was premature and fighting to survive.

  Josh Morris loved his daughter. Nobody, not even Briana’s disapproving brother, could deny that. Josh kept in touch with Nealie as much as possible, he sent funny cards and silly presents, he came to see her whenever he could. But he was always on the move, often
far away, and his schedule was erratic.

  “I wish he’d come home to stay,” Nealie said with a wistfulness she seldom showed.

  Briana stroked the child’s brown hair. “He has to make a living.”

  Nealie wasn’t consoled. “He could do something else.”

  Briana touch softened. “No. He’s like Grandpa. This is what he does. He educates people. He helps tell important stories. A picture is worth a thousand words.

  “It isn’t worth one daddy.”

  For this Briana had no answer. She turned away and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I wish you’d marry him again and he’d stay here, and we’d all be together,” Nealie said in a burst of emotion. “Why won’t he stay with us? Is there something wrong with us? With me?”

  Coldness gripped Briana. She wheeled to face her daughter. “Don’t talk like that. He loves you. He thinks you’re the most wonderful daughter in the world.”

  “But why—” Nealie began.

  “It’s time for school. Go change your clothes.”

  Nealie tossed her head defiantly, but she turned and stalked to her room. Her big robe trailed behind her, and her bear paws made clumsy thumps on the floor.

  Briana tried not to notice the limp in the child’s determined step. She turned and began to clear the breakfast dishes.

  I won’t cry. I won’t, she told herself fiercely. Nobody’s going to know how I feel. Nobody.

  But she knew this could not remain true. She could no longer keep things to herself.

  The time had come. She must act.

  FRANKLIN HINKS was the postmaster of Illyria, Missouri. His father had been postmaster before him, and Franklin could clearly remember Victory Mail, the three-cent letter stamp and the penny postcard.

  He had vivid recollections of many things—including Briana Morris as a child, back when she’d been little Briana Hanlon. He’d seen her every day she’d gone to Illyria Elementary School, right across the street from the post office.