Rachel's Hope

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Epigraph

Dedication

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 Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Copyright

“You look great, Rae,” he said, gazing steadily at her.

“You have that glow people talk about.”

“I do?” Her cheeks grew warm. Was she still attractive to David after all?

“You look the same way you did when you were expecting Brian. Remember? I used to tease you about it. I said, ‘If we could bottle that kind of beauty, we’d make a million dollars.’”

“Yes, I do remember,” she said softly. “I always thought you were just trying to make me feel better.”

“No, I was dead serious.” Slowly, tentatively, David moved from his recliner to the sofa. He took her hand in his, his very nearness making her weak, turning her heart to gelatin. “Rachel, sweetheart, I’ve been so worried about you. It’s Christmas and I hate this animosity between us. Isn’t there something we can do to resolve this?”

Tears gathered behind Rachel’s eyes. She yearned to feel herself enfolded in his embrace and to pretend that these bitter weeks apart had never happened, that this was like every Christmas they had spent together and would spend together, for the rest of their lives.

“Oh, David.” She sighed. No other words would come.

Then he moved toward her and gathered her into his arms…

CAROLE GIFT PAGE

writes from the heart about contemporary issues facing adults. Considered one of America’s best-loved Christian fiction writers, Carole was born and raised in Jackson, Michigan. She is the recipient of two Pacesetter Awards and the C.S. Lewis Honor Book Award. Over eight hundred of Carole’s stories, articles and poems have been published in more than one hundred Christian periodicals.

A frequent speaker at conferences, schools, churches and women’s ministries around the country, Carole finds fulfillment in being able to share her testimony about the faithfulness of God in her life and the abundance He offers those who come to Him. Carole and her husband, Bill, have three children and live in Moreno Valley, California.

Rachel’s Hope

Carole Gift Page

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoiceth: my flesh also shall rest in hope.

—Psalm 16:9

With all my love, To my mother and father, Aldon and Millie Gift, who have loved each other through over 56 years of marriage.

Chapter One

Rachel Webber stared at the sign over the physician’s door, her heart jackhammering and a sour taste at the back of her throat. This moment wasn’t real. It had to be a dream. A nightmare.

“This must be it,” said Marlene, her throaty, nononsense voice sounding distant, disconnected. “It says Dr. Bernard Oberg.”

Rachel looked around. She had nearly forgotten Marlene. For one desperate moment she wished their roles were reversed, that Marlene Benson was the expectant mother and Rachel the comforting friend.

“We can’t just stand here, Rachel. You want to know for sure, don’t you?”

Rachel nodded and reached for the doorknob. As impossible as it seemed, she was actually here, forcing herself to face the truth, however unwelcome it might be. She straightened her shoulders and entered the obstetrician’s office, Marlene on her heels. She knew they made a comical spectacle, Marlene nearly shoving her toward the receptionist’s desk. She prayed all eyes wouldn’t be on her, reading her face, guessing her thoughts. As hard as she struggled to put on a brave front, she was on the verge of tears. She could have been facing a firing squad instead of a mere pregnancy test.

Once inside, Marlene heaved herself into an empty chair, but Rachel paused stonily and gazed past the anonymous faces, wondering if she looked as conspicuous as she felt But why should she feel so ill at ease? She was an ordinary woman in her early thirties, not unlike the other women in this office. She had as much right to be here as anyone.

Already she was feeling a twinge of claustrophobia mingled with a ripple of nausea. Dr. Oberg’s waiting room was too close, too warm. It was an oversize walk-in closet camouflaged with nursery bric-a-brac and semigloss paint. The room was uncomfortably small and narrow, with baby blue walls, bare except for an occasional pastel drawing of a child hugging a pink blanket or clutching a teddy bear. The drawings were signed simply Muriel, with no last name.

“May I help you, ma’am?” asked the woman at the reception desk.

“She means you, Rachel,” whispered Marlene. “I don’t need this kind of help—thank goodness!”

“This isn’t something I bargained for, either,” Rachel retorted. She approached the desk and wondered what difference it all made—the walls, the paintings and good old Muriel, whoever she was. There were too many other matters to occupy Rachel’s mind. Questions buzzed inside her skull like swarming, relentless bees, unnerving her, nearly incapacitating her. For all too long she had fretted over the possibility of being pregnant—for days, weeks now. As each day had passed, the idea had grown stronger, more pressing, more probable than before. In desperation she had gone to the drugstore and purchased several home pregnancy tests, but each time the positive sign had appeared she’d convinced herself it couldn’t be accurate.

Realizing at last that she could no longer keep her anxieties to herself, she had turned to Marlene with her apprehensions. “I can’t be pregnant,” she had lamented. “David would be absolutely furious.”

Always the irrepressible and unflappable ally, Marlene had trumpeted, “And he’d have no one but himself to thank, now, would he!” With that, Marlene had gone to the telephone directory and selected a number—the number of a Long Beach obstetrician, a random choice—and dialed. “Rachel,” she’d said, cupping the mouthpiece, “I got you a spot for October 15, at four o’clock.” When Rachel had offered a feeble protest, Marlene had simply handed her the phone and said, “It’s settled. Here, give her your vital statistics.”

But now, standing in this cramped waiting room, Rachel wanted more than anything in the world to turn and run out the door. No, she was through running. She had dodged this dilemma long enough.

“I’m Mrs. Webber…Rachel Webber,” she announced to the receptionist-nurse. Why did she sound so infuriatingly apologetic? Unconsciously, she clutched the side of her knit A-line skirt, straightening it, while the young woman in white offered a professional smile. She was rather pretty, Rachel noted impassively, with her blond hair swept back in a meticulous, efficient coronet at the back of her head. She had the kind of controlled, understated beauty one expected of a nurse.

“Yes, Mrs. Webber,” the woman replied crisply. “We’ll want a urine specimen—you can go right through that door—and when you get back I have some forms for you to fill out.”

Rachel lowered her eyes and obediently left the room, her face flushed with warmth. When she returned, she said quietly, “I left the specimen in the bathroom.”

“Fine. Now, why don’t you have a seat and fill out these forms?”

“How long will it take? I mean, I can find out right away, right? It’s not like you have to wait and see if the rabbit dies or anything.”

Again the receptionist flashed her polite, detached smile. “Yes, Mrs. Webber, we’ll have the results promptly. If you’ll just take a seat, the doctor will see you in about half an hour.”

“Thank you.” Rachel slipped into a vacant chair beside Marlene and tried her best to look nonchalant as she forced a placid expression into place. But her cheeks felt hot, her lips stiff and tight against her teeth. Her face—a mask of aloof indifference—felt so brittle she had the sensation it might shatter if she let down her guard and allowed her surging emotions to break through the protective veneer.

Thank goodness Marlene was there with her. She didn’t have to face this thing alone. She knew she and Marlene made an unlikely duo—Rachel a young housewife and Marlene a middle-aged widow. Marlene was ten years older than Rachel and looked older still. She wore no makeup and kept her dark brown hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Marlene was large boned and, as she laughingly described herself, a bit broad in the beam. “Just call me a big rolypoly teddy bear,” she would say with a note of selfdeprecation. She often complained that no matter where she shopped, she could never find clothing that fit properly. “I’m waiting for tents to come back in style,” she would tell a perplexed salesgirl. Then with a raucous laugh she’d add, “Not tent dresses…army surplus tents!”

That’s what I may be needing soon! Rachel thought darkly.

“Relax,” Marlene soothed. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“Maybe not, but I think I can see it from here,” Rachel said dryly. She set her purse at her feet and leaned back, crossing her legs at the ankle. Marlene’s right, she told herself. This isn’t the end of the world. She gazed ahead at nothing in particular, at the pastel child in the painting clutching his teddy bear, at the blue wall. She breathed deeply, willing her taut muscles to unwind.

Lately, she reflected somberly, it was impossible to relax. She couldn’t read through an entire article in a magazine. She couldn’t even concentrate on the paperback she’d brought along in her purse. How could she possibly relax when she might be going home to David with a positive pregnancy test?

She could not afford to be pregnant now. A pregnancy would change her whole life; it would ruin everything. She didn’t want to know, but soon she would know. In a half hour a doctor she had never seen before would come and tell her the future course of her life—just like that, the whole future course. How ironic could you get?

Marlene was chuckling over a Baby Time magazine, scanning pages of adorable, bouncing babies and shaking her head. “Deliver me!” she said.

And me along with you, thought Rachel.

For the first time since entering the waiting room, she dared to let her gaze focus on the other clients. A young couple, surely just teenagers, sat close to each other on an orange vinyl couch. The girl, in a flannel shirt and bib overalls, flipped idly through a baby magazine. The boy, tall and lanky with stringy, shoulder-length brown hair, studied the walls and ceiling with an intense concentration while tapping knobby fingers nervously on the arm of the couch.

“Look at this beautiful nursery furniture, Jeff,” Rachel heard the girl say. “Whitewashed oak! Wouldn’t you love to have that for the baby?”

The boy glanced at the picture, grunted and stared back at the ceiling. “Your mother doesn’t have room in her house for that kind of stuff,” he answered hoarsely. “We’ll be lucky to squeeze in a crib.”

“Poor kids,” Marlene murmured from behind her magazine.

Another woman, dark haired and plain—perhaps in her early thirties, like Rachel—sat serenely reading a book. Rachel couldn’t help staring. The woman was huge, monstrous. She was obviously due any moment now. Had Rachel been that large when she carried Brian? She couldn’t have been, but she couldn’t remember. It had been thirteen years ago.

The woman looked up, catching Rachel’s stare. They exchanged quick, embarrassed smiles and turned their eyes away.

Rachel had to admit there was something fascinating about a woman who could sit patiently reading when at any moment all of her life forces could be called into action for the delivery of a child. For Rachel childbirth had been an awesome, turbulent experience, something for which she had conscientiously prepared her entire mind and body, right down to the nerve endings. But when Brian was born—when the pains had started and the waves and turbulence had swept over her—she had realized that no amount of preparation was quite enough. It had been a breech birth. Touch and go. Brian had come out a pallid blue and struggling for life. She could have lost him. She would never forget the cold terror of those harrowing moments.

But the woman across from Rachel appeared totally untroubled, as if she were quite ready to accept whatever pain or discomfort she would have to bear. Rachel envied her, for rarely could she herself sit back calmly and let things come as they would and pass over her. Somehow it was too important for Rachel to be in control, in the driver’s seat, steering her life the way she felt it ought to go.

Not that she always steered so well, though!

Rachel shifted uncomfortably in her chair, willing the time away. It occurred to her she should pray for a negative report so she could get out of this crackerbox office and forget this absurd fear that she might be pregnant.

But what if she was pregnant? What then?

“David will have a fit,” she said aloud.

Marlene rallied from her magazine. “What’d you say?”

“David—he’s so involved in…in other things these days. One thing our marriage doesn’t need is a baby!”

“It’s a little late for regrets, isn’t it?”

“It’s too late for a lot of things.” Please, dear Lord, don’t let it be, Rachel willed silently. Please don’t let there be a baby!

Marlene reached over and squeezed Rachel’s hand. Her round, doughy face held a beatific shine. “Remember, gal, there’s no problem too big for God. When my Harry died, I felt like I hit rock bottom. That’s when I knew Christ was real. He took me by the hand and said, ‘Honey, it’s all right. You’re going to be okay. Just walk with Me.’”

Rachel grimaced. “Might as well have asked you to walk on water or something.”

“No, Rachel, even losing weight I don’t imagine I could walk on water. But walking with Him is possible.”

Rachel looked away. “I try to live my faith, Marlene, I really do. But lately it’s hard enough just plodding through each day.”

“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” said Marlene. “Following Jesus is so simple, so beautiful. Are you still digging into God’s Word every day? And letting the Holy Spirit get hold of your life?”

“I try, but…” Rachel’s words drifted off.

“Well, stop trying, gal,” Marlene boomed, loud enough for everyone to hear, “and let God do it. Put your burdens on Him. His Son is a real person. Not just a man in history. We’re not talking pie-in-the-sky religion here.”

“Maybe we should talk about it later,” Rachel suggested. She realized she was still holding the forms the receptionist had given her. She searched her purse for a pen and scribbled into the blank spaces the information requested. Name. Address. Telephone number. Insurance. She couldn’t remember whether their insurance covered pregnancy. She would have to check with David. No, she would call the insurance company instead.

She laid the forms aside and glanced at her reflection in the oval mirror on the opposite wall, noting with relief that, in spite of her discomfiture, she looked intact, perhaps even attractive. Her makeup was correct. She had good eyes, she was confident of that. Clear cerulean blue, thickly lashed. Her brows were a trifle too arched and her mouth perhaps too full and wide to be pretty. But her medium-length honey brown hair had been done that morning. Jenny from the Carousel Beauty Salon did her hair each week, making the thick, tawny curls fall softly onto Rachel’s forehead and caress her high cheekbones.

Even if she wasn’t a classic beauty, David considered her pretty. And she was still young—wasn’t she? Surely thirty-two couldn’t be old—not these days when women even in their fifties were having babies. Long ago, when she and David were dating, he had told her she had the grace of a Madonna. He said no one walked with as much grace as she.

Rachel smiled inadvertently. Did David really say things like that once? It must have been some other lifetime, some other Rachel—the old Rachel. The girl she was when they were first married. The high school girl who could hardly wait for graduation, who less than two weeks later became Mrs. David Webber in one of those gaudy little wedding chapels in Las Vegas. That naive girl in rose-colored glasses had been gone for a long time, Rachel acknowledged mordantly.

Rachel shifted in her chair. Waiting for the nurse to call her name was a royal pain. What was there to do but to think and remember? Or talk to Marlene. But Marlene had her nose buried in another magazine. With a sigh of resignation Rachel sat back and permitted the reels of memory to spin through her mind like old film clips.

She thought of Brian. What would he think about a baby? He was an awkward thirteen, a loner. He would be fourteen when the baby came—if a baby came. Hard to imagine that it was thirteen years since Brian had been born. Had it really been that long? She and David had been married only a year, and David had still had another year before he would receive his engineering degree from California State University at Long Beach. Rachel had had to give up her typing job and her cherished drama courses to take care of Brian, and David had taken a part-time job at night to pay the rent on their small Long Beach apartment.

“It’s never been easy,” Rachel murmured. She didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until Marlene looked up and asked what she had just said.

“Nothing important. Just thinking out loud.”

“So tell me.”

Rachel shrugged. “To be honest, I was thinking how pleasant life was before Brian was born. David and I had so much fun our first year together—art lectures and films at the university, pizza parties with other students, drives to Solvang or San Diego. I remember our long walks around Knott’s Berry Farm, munching popcorn as we peered in the windows of that old ghost town.”

“Sounds very romantic,” Marlene mused. “But a baby does change things.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Marlene. We wanted Brian. We really did. But David and I rarely saw each other after his birth. David was in class all day or at the library studying. He’d come home for dinner before rushing off to his job at the garage, or grab a sandwich somewhere. I wouldn’t see him until he collapsed into bed beside me long after midnight.”

“And you think it’ll be that way again, with a new baby?”

“Won’t it? I don’t think I could do it again, Marlene. I remember how tired I was—and depressed. Brian was a fussy, demanding baby. He kept me constantly on the run. He fretted when he was alone and was always into things. He screamed so much when I put him in the playpen I could barely take a shower or make a phone call.”

“Didn’t David help? Share some of the work?”

“David was always busy, preoccupied with his studies or work. On weekends he parked himself in front of the TV, watching football or baseball, or caught up on his sleep. He worked so hard all week, I guess I felt he had the right to do as he pleased on the weekend. I had to chase after Brian to keep him from disturbing his father.”

“Surely things improved after David graduated,” said Marlene.

“Yes, for a while. David landed a great engineering position in the aerospace industry and quit his evening job. He had regular hours and spent more time at home. Brian was older and more settled. And he sure loved to roughhouse with his dad.”

“Wasn’t Brian about three when you moved into the condo next door?”

Rachel nodded. “David was so excited when he found that condo. We had finally saved enough money for a down payment on a house, but he wanted that flashy condo.” Rachel sighed, remembering the brochure David had brought home. The development had been advertised as one of Southern California’s most luxurious complexes, surrounded by palm trees, tropical shrubs and lush, blood red bougainvillea. It had the usual swimming pool, of course, and colored lights everywhere.

From the start Rachel had reservations about the condo. It wasn’t suited to a growing family. The place gave off an artificial impression of opulence, but it wasn’t practical or comfortable. Rachel would have preferred buying a larger but less ostentatious house—maybe a roomy old Victorian fixer-upper with a large yard and a picket fence in a settled section of Long Beach. But why mention it again? Marlene had heard it all before. A house would have provided room to stretch and grow, where Brian could play ball and fly kites, where they could plant a vegetable garden and rosebushes, and raise collie puppies and maybe even a couple of Angora kittens.

But David had a thousand reasons why the condo was a better buy. It was new and impressive and practically maintenance free. It was in an upper-scale neighborhood and yet close to the freeway, and it wouldn’t depreciate as quickly as an old house in a declining neighborhood. And the condo would be easier to unload if the economy took another downturn, he told her, in case they were forced to relocate out of state. His firm relied on government contracts to survive, and David worried constantly about losing a job if the news reported the slightest dip in the economy. “In this life it’s best to remain flexible,” David told her time and again. “Travel light Don’t carry too much baggage. Be ready to pull up stakes, if necessary. Don’t sink your roots in too deeply or you’ll find yourself stuck in a rut.”

Well, for all David’s platitudes, she felt as if they were most definitely stuck in a rut. They had lived in the same condo for ten years now. Sometimes, particularly on Sunday afternoons, they would go for a drive and stop to look at model homes. They would walk through the professionally decorated rooms, praising a painting or commenting on the rich teal green of the carpet or the exquisite pattern of the wallpaper. They would survey the fine assortment of family rooms and dens, playrooms and bonus rooms that many of the homes boasted. It was at such model homes that Rachel had seen the large walk-in closets—nearly as large as this very office—and the master bedrooms that were practically a home in themselves. On such excursions, David would remark, “One of these days we’ll have a house like this, big and fancy as a palace…” Silently she would muse that she’d be happy with one of those old Victorian fixer-uppers or even an old farmhouse in the country. But lately, she realized, David had stopped talking about buying another home.

In fact, lately David seemed to be pulling away from Brian and her. She hated to admit it—wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Marlene—but David’s life was increasingly disconnected from theirs. Of course, they had gone their separate ways for years. But this was something else, something more.

Again the suspicions nagged her. What about David? What was he doing? What was going on? Or was she being crazy to wonder about him when there was really no reason? What was wrong with her that she doubted her own husband? God forgive my suspicions! she silently prayed.