Page 18 of Daisy Chain
He places his arm around my waist and gives me a small squeeze.
“Today marks the anniversary of my wife, Lydia’s, passing.” I should have known this is what this is about. He does this on the anniversary of her death if it lands on Sunday service. It’s a day that gives me mixed feelings. As the years pass, memories of her fade. The sound of her voice. The smell of her skin. Her laughter. The guilt of losing these things is overwhelming. Then there’s the sadness of living life without her. Thinking about all the things she’s missed. All the things I’ve missed in what should have been a long life for her. So, when I placed roses on her grave this morning, I shed a few tears and prayed she’s still with me in spirit.
“I would like to thank you for all the love and support you’ve given us over the years. I thank God every day for this familyhere at Fortitude Baptist. Most importantly, I’d like to thank my beautiful daughter, Daisy. I don’t know what I’d do without her. As soon as she was old enough, she’s been by my side in this congregation just like her mother. Lydia would be so proud.” And this is why if I’d ever had the desire to follow a career path of my choice, I’d have had to stamp it down. My father needs me. And as he has often told me, this is what my mother would want. “Our daughter is not only intelligent, kind and loving, she’s also a devoted Christian with a pure heart and soul.”
Heat flushes my neck and creeps to my cheeks. For the past hour, no pure thoughts were in my heart or soul.
He finishes his speech by inviting everyone into the adjoining hall for refreshments. Today’s not the day I want to mingle. Their sympathetic expressions at the loss of my mother always drain me. All I want to do is go home, flick through old photo albums and try to keep her memory from disappearing completely.
But I can’t leave my father alone. So, I set up morning tea, and with a smile on my face, greet everyone and thank them for their kind words. Refilling a tray with cupcakes, I glance around the hall. Heaviness weighs on my chest. Not because it’s my mother’s anniversary. No, it’s knowing this is my life. Would I have chosen to work for my father and the church if my mother were alive? No. I always dreamed of becoming a nurse. Helping people is what I feel is my calling. Well, I guess in my father’s church I can fulfil that need in some way.
As I pass Mr. Holaway a cup of tea, Evan strolls through the door. He stops briefly to kiss his mother on the cheek and say a few words to his father. When he sees me, he smiles, showing off his cute dimple, and waves. He’s so handsome. I see I’m not the only one who thinks so as he turns the heads of a few ladies. Their gazes follow him as he walks toward me.
“Hey,” he greets me with a kiss on the cheek. It doesn’t stir anything. There are no butterflies. No weak knees. Maybe because so many people are staring at us. My father included. “Sorry I missed the service. I needed to check in on one of my patients.”
“I hope everything’s okay.”
“The mom is on bed rest until the baby is born, and she’s going a little stir crazy. So I played blackjack with her until her husband showed up. She beat me multiple times.” He chuckles.
Now that is a doctor who goes above and beyond for his patients. What a kind-hearted man. “Not many doctors would do that. She’s lucky to have you.”
He gives a sheepish shrug like he’s embarrassed by my compliment. “Thank you. Are you almost finished here? Can I take you out for coffee when you’re done?”
“Oh…” I glance around the hall, which is still full of people. “It might be some time.”
“Go ahead. I can finish up here. I’ll rope Mrs. Carmichael to help.” My dad sidles up beside me. “Good to see you, Evan.” He reaches out and shakes his hand.
“Nice to see you too, Pastor Barlowe. Sorry I missed the service. I had a patient to see.”
My father waves a hand. “No problem. There’s always next week. Now, off you go. Have fun.” A huge grin splits his face. He’s looking at us with such hope. I bet he’s already planning for a spring wedding. I’ll have to talk to him. Tell him not to get his hopes up. This is only coffee.
Gathering my bag from under the table, I follow Evan from the hall, feeling the weight of everyone’s stares on my shoulders. This is going to be gossip for the rest of the day or week. Then it will start all over again if Evan attends church next Sunday.
Outside, the air is cool, and I’m glad I wore my thicker cardigan. The streets are quieter this time of day, and we takeour time strolling along the sidewalk and letting the warmth of the sun burn off the chill.
There’s a café not too far from the church, and we find a table by the window overlooking the street. After the server takes our orders, I ask, “What made you want to be an obstetrician?” I’m surprised I’ve never asked before.
“My mom. Years ago, she was a nurse and worked in the NICU. She had a love for babies that was so infectious that I wanted to be part of that world in some way. It always made me wonder how she had the strength to take care of other people’s babies when she couldn’t have her own. I thought it would make her sad. Instead of being depressed about it, she believed it was because God had other plans for her. If she could have her own babies, she wouldn’t have had me.”
I stare at him for a second, surprised. “Oh… so you’re…”
“Adopted,” he finishes for me. “Yes. My parents couldn’t have children, so they fostered me when I was five. When I was eight, they adopted me.”
“That must’ve been difficult to have been taken away from your family as a kid. Was it a hard adjustment?” Unlike a baby, at five, Evan would’ve been old enough to understand what was going on.
The server arrives with our coffees. We wait until he’s gone to continue the conversation.
“It was at first. Even though my biological parents were a train wreck, I missed them. I didn’t know what a loving mother and father or a healthy home were until I met my foster parents. It didn’t take long to settle in and be part of a normal family.”
I take a sip of coffee and rest the cup back on the saucer. “You’re lucky you got put with good parents. I’ve heard some horror stories about the foster system.”
Evan shakes a packet of sugar, rips it open and pours it into his brew, his expression sombre. “Yeah, I’m one of the lucky ones.”
Before I can ask any more questions, his phone rings. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”
He answers, and by the sound of the conversation, a patient is in active labour. When he hangs up, he says, “I’m sorry. A mom is ready to give birth. Because it’s two weeks before her due date, she’s been sitting at home thinking she was having Braxton Hicks contractions.”
“Go.” I wave my hand, shooing him away.
