John paced back and forth across the roof of the hospital.
Ten stories below him, cars moved through the streets as though nothing had happened.
People walked along sidewalks.
Traffic lights changed.
Somewhere a horn sounded.
The whole world seemed to be going on with its day.
John couldn't understand how.
“I don't know what to do, Paul.”
Paul sat quietly on the edge of the roof, his legs dangling over the side.
John turned toward him.
“I feel so helpless. Isn't there anything we can do?”
Paul watched him.
“My momma was fine. Susan was about to share the Light with her and then—”
John threw his hands into the air.
“Whoosh! Something happened.”
His wings twitched nervously.
“And now she's in there.”
Paul looked toward the hospital beneath them.
“John, we petitioned the Light for help.”
John stopped pacing.
“And?”
“And that is enough.”
“How do you know?”
Paul smiled slightly.
“You'll see.”
John looked unconvinced.
Paul stood.
“We need to go inside now. Kathy and Susan are going to need us.”
John's expression changed immediately.
“Can we go now?”
“In a minute.”
Paul put both hands on John's shoulders.
“Listen to me. A man in a white coat is going to come talk to Susan. He will take her somewhere private.”
John listened carefully.
“When that happens, I want you to stay with your momma.”
“And you?”
“I'll stay with Susan.”
John nodded.
Then almost immediately:
“Can we go now?”
Paul smiled.
“Now.”
Their wings opened.
Susan sat in the hospital waiting room.
Waiting.
She hated that word.
There was nothing to do but sit beneath harsh fluorescent lights and stare toward doors that refused to open.
Every few seconds she looked at the clock.
Then at the doors.
Then back at the clock.
She had been here before.
The thought arrived without warning.
Jerry.
The last time she had sat in a hospital waiting for someone to tell her whether a person she loved would live or die, her husband had been somewhere beyond another set of doors.
She had waited then too.
And the moment they finally came toward her, she knew.
She knew before anyone said a word.
She could see it on their faces.
Jerry was gone.
Susan closed her eyes.
Oh, how she wanted him beside her now.
She wanted his arm around her shoulders.
She wanted his voice telling her they were going to get through this.
She wanted the strength she had borrowed from him so many times.
But Jerry wasn't there.
And Kathy was somewhere beyond those doors.
Susan replayed the morning in her head.
Kathy's face.
Her evasiveness.
That strange midday shower.
The crying.
No matter what.
Susan's stomach tightened.
Something had been terribly wrong.
Why hadn't she seen it?
“Mrs. Hunt?”
The voice cut through her thoughts.
Susan jumped to her feet.
A doctor stood in front of her.
“Yes. Yes, Doctor. Please...is Kathy all right?”
“I think she's going to be fine.”
Susan exhaled.
For half a second the entire world became lighter.
Then she saw his expression.
“But we need to talk.”
The light disappeared again.
“Please come with me.”
The doctor opened the door to a small conference room.
Susan entered.
She didn't notice Paul hovering quietly in the corner.
She sat in the chair nearest the door and wrapped both hands around its arms.
The doctor sat across from her.
“Mrs. Hunt, your daughter experienced complications from a procedure this morning.”
Susan stared at him.
“A procedure?”
“Yes.”
“What procedure?”
The doctor hesitated.
Susan leaned forward.
“I don't understand.”
Paul slowly descended behind her.
He already knew what was coming.
“Mrs. Hunt...Kathy had an abortion this morning.”
Paul closed his eyes.
Susan didn't move.
For several seconds, she didn't seem to breathe.
“What?”
“Kathy had a hemorrhage afterward. That's what caused her condition at home.”
Susan's hands flew to her mouth.
She shook her head.
“No.”
The doctor waited.
“No.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Kathy?”
“I'm sorry.”
“No...”
The doctor stood and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
“She is stable now. I believe she's going to recover physically. You can see her when you're ready.”
Susan stared at the floor.
“I'll give you a few minutes.”
He squeezed her shoulder.
“I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hunt.”
The heavy conference-room door closed behind him.
Click.
Susan folded forward.
Her face disappeared into her hands.
The sob came from someplace deep inside her.
“Kathy...no.”
Paul moved closer.
“Please, God...no.”
He stood beside the woman who could not see him.
His mother.
Paul's eyes filled.
He had been beside Susan through moments of joy she never knew he witnessed.
He had watched her pray.
Watched her grieve.
Watched her laugh.
Watched her raise Kathy.
And now he watched her heart break again.
Paul leaned toward her.
For only the second time in many years, he allowed himself to come close enough for the faintest touch to cross the distance between Heaven and Earth.
He kissed Susan gently on the cheek.
Then whispered:
“I love you, Momma.”
Susan suddenly lifted her head.
Her hand went to her cheek.
Something...
For just a second...
She had felt something.
Warm.
Familiar.
Almost like—
Her breath caught.
And another hospital room came rushing back to her.
Another doctor.
Another terrible day.
Another child.
The nursery had been beautiful.
Soft greens.
Warm yellows.
They had decided not to find out whether the baby was a boy or girl.
Susan would stand in the doorway and imagine a sleeping infant in the crib.
Then she'd imagine toys scattered everywhere.
A toothless grin.
Tiny clothes.
Pictures filling the house.
She secretly hoped for a girl.
Someone she could put bows on.
Jerry had other ideas.
Whenever they drove past the ballpark, he imagined a little boy running onto the field.
Susan could almost hear him already:
“That's MY boy right there!”
They had talked about names.
If it was a girl, Susan wanted to honor her beloved grandmother, Sadie.
If it was a boy, Jerry wanted to choose.
His father's name was Hezikiah Paul Hunt.
Susan had laughed.
“Hezikiah?”
Jerry laughed too.
“Okay, maybe not Hezikiah.”
“Paul,” Susan said.
Jerry looked at her.
“Paul?”
“I like Paul.”
Jerry smiled.
“Then Paul it is.”
One morning Susan stood sideways in front of the full-length mirror.
She rubbed her swollen belly.
“You sure are stretching Mommy out.”
She smiled.
Then waited.
Usually there was a little movement in the mornings.
A tiny nudge.
Their own private good morning.
Nothing.
“You sleeping in today?”
Susan went about her morning.
By lunch there was still nothing.
She took a shower.
Walked around.
Did a few little exercises.
Nothing.
She refused to let the frightening questions into her mind.
“Everything's fine.”
She rubbed her belly.
“Everything is going to be just fine.”
By afternoon she couldn't pretend anymore.
She called Jerry at work.
He tried to sound calm.
“Maybe we should just go get you and the baby checked out. I'm coming home.”
After he hung up, Jerry sat motionless for several seconds.
Then he whispered:
“God...please don't let anything be wrong with our baby.”
Susan was waiting on the porch when Jerry pulled into the driveway.
She was crying now.
Jerry wrapped his arms around her.
“Maybe he's just resting,” he said, forcing a smile. “Getting ready for the big day.”
He helped Susan into the car.
The drive to the hospital was mostly silent.
Every so often Jerry reached over and patted her leg.
At the emergency room, things began moving quickly.
Questions.
Machines.
Nurses.
A doctor.
Then the ultrasound.
Susan and Jerry held hands.
They waited for the sound they had heard so many times before.
Babump.
Babump.
Babump.
Nothing.
Susan stared at the monitor.
The doctor moved the instrument.
Again.
And again.
Nothing.
“Doctor?”
He kept searching.
“Doctor...is my baby okay?”
The nurse looked toward him.
Susan gripped Jerry's hand.
“I don't see any movement.”
Her voice began to shake.
“I don't hear a heartbeat.”
The doctor stopped.
“Please tell me.”
He reached for Susan's hand.
And before he spoke, something in her already knew.
“Susan...I'm afraid your baby is gone.”
The doctor and nurses quietly left them alone.
Jerry looked at Susan.
“What do we do now?”
Neither of them knew.
The following day Susan delivered their son.
Paul.
The room that should have been filled with crying and celebration was silent.
Susan held her beautiful little boy.
Jerry sat beside her.
For a while, neither spoke.
They simply looked at him.
Touched his tiny hands.
Memorized his face.
Loved him for every second they were allowed to hold him.
It was somehow the purest love Susan had ever known...
and the deepest sorrow.
Through the years she often wondered what Paul would have looked like.
A toddler.
A schoolboy.
A teenager.
A man.
He would be nineteen now.
Maybe he would have been strong like Jerry.
Maybe funny.
Maybe protective of his little sister.
Maybe right now, with Jerry gone and Kathy lying in a hospital bed, her son would have put his arm around her and said:
I've got you, Mom.
Susan closed her eyes.
In the conference room, she imagined him beside her.
She imagined wrapping her arms around the son she had never gotten to raise.
And unseen by his mother...
Paul wrapped his arms around her too.
For one precious moment, Heaven and Earth occupied the same space.
Then Susan opened her eyes.
She reached for a tissue and wiped her face.
Something had changed.
The pain was still there.
The anger was still there.
But beneath them was something stronger.
Susan took a deep breath.
“Now.”
She stood.
“Now it’s time to see Kathy.”
Paul smiled.
He looked Heavenward.
“That’s my momma.”
Susan stepped into the hospital hallway.
People hurried past her.
Nurses pushed carts.
Doctors moved from room to room.
Patients slept behind open doors while others stared silently at televisions or ceilings.
Life was happening everywhere.
Susan barely saw any of it.
She was thinking about Kathy.
The anger returned.
Who knew?
Who had helped her?
Why hadn’t anyone told Susan?
What clinic had done this?
How could the daughter she thought she knew keep something this enormous from her?
And underneath all of those questions was another one Susan didn’t want to admit:
How am I supposed to walk into that room?
She stopped just before Kathy’s door.
Placed a hand against the wall.
Closed her eyes.
For several seconds she simply stood there.
Then she remembered the girl who had collapsed into her arms only hours earlier.
The girl she had held.
The girl she had promised:
No matter what.
Susan opened her eyes.
“That’s the answer.”
Paul, approaching from behind, stopped.
Susan whispered:
"Love is the answer."
“Love is always the answer.”
Then she looked upward.
“And God is Love.”
