The Battered Heiress Blues

23





The black slip clung to my swollen frame. I stood searching my closet for the appropriate mourning dress. My belly was sorer than it had been when I lost Connor. Pushing hangers past me, one at a time, I looked for the same black elegant dress that had worn my misery before. With each hanger, I recited a line of that scripture verse that had been my prayer for months: “Pity me, O Lord, for I am weak. Heal me, for my body is sick, and I am upset and disturbed. My mind is filled with apprehension and with gloom. Oh, restore me soon. Come, O Lord, and make me well. In your kindness save me.”

Things were different this time around. I was left to make the funeral arrangements and invite the guests. Much to John’s dismay, the list was limited to close friends and family. The ridiculous flowers of the past were replaced with my favorite hydrangea blossoms. A simple lunch would be served and then we’d leave for the hospital. Some of our hearts were torn and already absent from the happenings of the day.

Sensing Tommy was too emotional to serve as the pastor, I contacted a family friend to say the funeral mass. My brother had been down this road before with me. The difference was that now, he’d experienced the entire journey. This time he was more deeply attached.

Henry’s mom, Emma, flew in from London. Emma Walker intended to meet Emma Grace, but not this way. Kate traveled from New York to lend support to Henry and me. Having my best friend back to lean on filled a void. She was the person I could most be myself around. My feelings, whether they be anger or inappropriate humor, were always acceptable. The argument that sent her packing seemed to have taken place decades ago. There are some people in your life whose importance defies time and circumstance. She and I always had the gift of picking up just where we had left off- minus the hostility. Emma Walker and Kate had instantly taken on the task of managing things at the hospital for me, while I took on the unwanted job of planning another burial.

With Henry’s heart broken, Gabe remained the rock at my side. He attended the meeting with the funeral director, helped me to choose a burial outfit, found someone at the church to sing, and hired a local caterer to provide food after the Mass.

Mattie and Dog provided my moments of sanity and comfort. Little Man obviously knew that something terrible had happened, but he couldn’t comprehend the specifics. All he understood was that it was time for marbles and painting. Those activities gave me the necessary distraction, allowing me to make it through the hours in the days preceding the loss. Mattie’s innocence and inner dignity uplifted my spirits. His actions had their own love language. No words were ever needed to convey his feelings. He was God’s messenger and my angel.

Ms. Martin never left my side, administering medications and changing my surgical dressings. She’d taken to sleeping in bed with me in the event that I needed even the smallest thing. Her closeness and care was of the kind that a mother shows a daughter. She was selfless and resolute that I would make it through this trial. Gabe was one of those rare sons that didn’t take his mom for granted. He knew how lucky he was. This woman, giant in character, had instilled those same values in her son. I was blessed to have the Martin family in my life.

Same scars. Same cemetery. Same faces. Same sad dress. Same sad chair. The morning was filled with a punch list; get dressed, go to the chapel, try not to breakdown, bury my heart, push food around my plate, listen to people’s mundane small talk, and wish them well as they left me to my pain. I curiously wondered what they would speak about as their cars cleared the Spencer gates. Would they talk about the latest movie they saw or the weather outside? Were they altered in any way? Did life just continue? Would anyone comprehend the fact that something important was taken from me- again? Could they understand that no sentiment would bring me comfort or fill that space in my heart? These are the things I pondered as their voices mouthed their condolences.

Henry was a wreck. Sadness consumed him. I had never seen him so broken and lost. His confidence was replaced with anxiety and fear. Where I had come to a point of acceptance, he was angry. Our views on fate and faith divided us. Throughout the week, we had spent very little time together, taking turns going to the hospital and coming home to sleep. He still showed love, but his actions were habit driven instead of genuine affection. The one discussion we had about the death ended badly. My faith had become my life preserver. I began to understand more definitively, the views that Gabe had shared with me after I lost Connor.

With the departure of all our guests, Henry and I retreated to the bedroom for a private moment of grief. When we cleared the door, we just held each other. The only sounds heard were sniffles and muffled sobs. We held on to each other as if our own lives depended on it, afraid to let go and move on to the next difficulty. Pushing him back slightly, our tear filled eyes met.

“We can persevere or we can surrender,” I said, trying to be a motivator.

“You’re so strong,” he replied sweetly, but a bit annoyed.

“I’m not strong because I’ve had the courage to choose perseverance. I’m persevering because I genetically don’t know how to surrender. I’m a Spencer. We’ll make it through this, one second at a time, if need be,” I said, trying to sound encouraging.

“Why aren’t you angry? This is twice. None of this is fair.”

“Who said anything about fair? I wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant and I did. God doesn’t play fair. He exceeds our limited expectations and bestows far more gifts on us than we deserve. If you’re asking for things to be fair, I hope you’re prepared for the outcome. You pray for fairness and I’ll pray for mercy.”

“You’re just too resilient; it’s not natural to be so brave. You let people go so easily,” he criticized, embarrassed for not having it together.

Henry collapsed down into the recliner. His top shirt button was undone and his tie hung loosely around his neck. I approached and knelt down slowly, still mindful of the recent trauma to my abdominal muscles. My hands gravitated to his knees which I used to pull myself up between his legs.

“I can’t change who I am, Tru. I’m the little girl who lost her mom in this house all those years ago. I went from wearing her jewels and playing dress up to having her erased from this place- from my life. I am still trying to find those jewels- those pieces of my mother- myself, so I can remember a time when I felt secure and unconditionally loved. My dad locked me away- maybe not physically, but in every other way that makes a child know who they are in the world. I was lost and alone until I realized one day that there was only one person, on this earth, that I could count on. I walk forward, one foot in front of the other, because I have no other alternative. What do you think made me peel myself off that dusty clinic floor in Chimbote to fight for my life? My mind is wired for survival. God put that scrappy, annoying, resilient nature inside of me.”

“Since when did you become all spiritual?” he asked, disbelieving my dogma.

“God doesn’t make mistakes, Henry- of that, I’m certain. Sometimes, the lesson in our suffering isn’t meant for us. Sometimes, our suffering brings others to a better place. When I stopped being so generally pissed off, I discovered that He always sheltered me in times of sorrow and sent his comfort, by way of people, to minister to me. Connor’s death put me on a path back to you. The Martins’ came into my life. My dad initiated reconciliation. I have no doubt that God collects every one of my tears. He cries with me.”

“You seem so sure…”

“The night of the storm, when you found me in the cemetery, I was screaming every kind of blasphemy at Christ. That was a turning point in my faith. What resulted was an immense thirst to understand my heartbreaks- a thirst that He gave me. A dialogue opened that evening between two people who really loved each other. There was no agenda. He patiently waited for me to return to Him. I was the prodigal son and it didn’t matter what I said or did. He greeted me with love and joy. I was the lost sheep. He never gave up on me. That’s how I can stand this heartache. The cracks are allowing His grace to pour in and heal me. He’s given me peace. His strength, displayed through me, is what you criticize. I don’t want to return to the angry person I was after Connor. I would like to think that I’ve grown somewhat since then.”

“Well, I’m still angry,” he said with assurance.

“Then be angry- for a little while.”

“Maybe you should be wearing a loin cloth and screaming in the desert like that bloke John the Baptist?” he replied, poking fun at me.

“Maybe you should be screaming.”

“I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to get to the hospital, okay?”

“Sure,” I said quietly. “I would like to change out of this dress- it’s suffocating me.”

Kneeling back to prepare to stand, he grabbed me and gently kissed my lips.

“You are the single best decision of my entire life, Julia Spencer- prophet or no prophet- loin cloth or no loin cloth, though the loin cloth sounds hot,” he smirked. “I love you.”

“What’s not to love?”

He laughed and the emotion was a gift. That laugh told me that everything would be okay; that we would grieve and move past the misery. This tiny amount of joy was something to build on; it was heaven sent. The blessing wasn’t lost on me.

The house was empty when we made our way downstairs. The family probably realized that we needed some time to be alone. I was relieved to have discarded the dress for some sweats. Henry changed into a pair of jeans, a gray Henley, and a skull cap to hide his messy hair. He went out ahead to start the car as I lingered at the front door. Looking back, I realized that with the loss, the house wouldn’t know the memories I had planned for it- those were buried.

The ride to the hospital was quiet and thoughtful. Both of our minds were racing in multiple directions. As we traveled the streets of Savannah, I remembered thinking how odd it was that the world looked the same, despite out recent tragedy. Life truly does go on.

Henry reached over and grabbed my hand out of my lap. We didn’t smile at each other in response to the comfort the touch brought us; we just interlaced our fingers and held tight to one another. The weight of our despair would not pull us down. Despite Henry’s assessment that it was easy for me to let go of people, I was still, very much, the scared little girl who lost herself when her mom died all those years ago. Certainly, time had proven that my survival instincts were ridiculously strong, but I never claimed to be immune to the weariness; it was contained, but still ever present.

Preparing to pull into the hospital, I was reminded of my blessings. Today, I stood with Tommy and Gabe and experienced a brother’s protection and fierce loyalty. My insane sister Kate reminded me to fall back on humor as a source of strength; a theory demonstrated as she provided distasteful commentary about our varied funeral guests. Little Man and Dog reminded me to be open to the possibilities of miracles. Ms. Martin reminded me of a mother’s love. Henry now held my heart, gingerly, in the palm of his hands, finally learning to keep them open, allowing for growth and the fine mess that always ensued. My dad taught me that respect comes from within. The approval I had yearned for over all those years was lurking inside of me the entire time. This enlightenment made me understand that no one can give you what you already own and no one can take away what you don’t freely give. A spirit has but one owner.

Henry offered to drop me off out front, but I wanted to make this walk with him- together. Being away from the hospital was easier, knowing that the family was holding a constant vigil. As we got off on the fourth floor, I saw Tommy and Gabe in the family waiting area outside of the intensive care unit. The others had gone to take Mattie to the cafeteria to scrounge up some ice cream.

“Hi, sis,” Tommy said as he held out his arms for a hug.

“Have you been in yet?” I inquired, hugging him back.

Tommy moved on to Henry while Gabe and I shared our own embrace.

“Yes. Things are stable. The nurse said to call once you arrived.”

“Okay. Thanks. We’ll go get washed up and put on the gowns. Can you call while we get ready?”

“Absolutely…go ahead.”

We had participated in this same cleaning ritual for five days. After scrubbing our hands, we would put on yellow gowns. Only then, would we be admitted into the unit. The nurse was waiting for us as we approached the door. She led us to the room. Henry pulled a rocker over for me to sit in. There she was, so tiny and fragile. The big girl I was sure to deliver in four more weeks only weighed a mere 4 lbs. 5 oz.

The neonatologist stopped by to explain the results of her brain ultrasound and her current prognosis. Surprisingly, she had not experienced a brain bleed that was common at her premature age. The staff expected to wean her off the ventilator soon. Her heart was strong. She was a fighter. She was my daughter.

When the doctor left, Henry fell to pieces. He couldn’t take seeing her so vulnerable. I could tell that he was preparing himself for a forced goodbye which wasn’t an outcome that I would accept. I reached in the isolette, stroking her precious little arm, and began to sing her a lullaby. Tubes and wires overwhelmed her small frame. Monitors echoed sounds of life. Henry stuck his hand through the other portal, using his other to wipe away the tears of fear and the unknown that overwhelmed him. Emma was fighting to hold on and her dad was fighting to believe she could.

“She’ll be fine,” I declared, interrupting my melody. “You just have to believe. With God, you have to show faith. She’ll be home in no time. Just wait. You’ll see.”

All he could do was stroke the back of my hair and rub my back. I knew he was trying to placate me, but it didn’t matter. My Emma was coming home. Of this, I had no doubt. I spent the rest of the afternoon by her side, entertaining family visits, one by one, only leaving her once. I entrusted her to Kate and Gabe while Henry, his mom, and I went to the cafeteria. Ms. Martin had taken Mattie back to the cottage

When night fell, Henry took his mom home. The truth of the matter was that he couldn’t hack seeing his baby girl in such a state. Knowing this, I suggested that he stay there and get a good night’s sleep. He jumped at the opportunity. Kate thanked me for not making him fell inadequate. She sensed the same fear and detachment that I had. The remaining three of us camped out in the waiting room with the other mommies and daddies, desperate for good news. When I woke in the middle of the night, out of discomfort from trying to sleep on a couch fit for a four-foot person, I noticed that Gabe and Kate had disappeared.

The morning brought many changes. Gabe was holding Kate in his arms. They were both sound asleep. She was obviously ready for steak. Tommy had materialized with a cup of hot tea and a croissant from my favorite downtown bakery.

“Can I see her?” he asked like an impatient toddler.

“You still have ten minutes before they allow visitors.”

“It’ll take me that long to scrub up and get gowned,” he insisted.

“True. Okay. Tell her I said good morning. I’m going to talk with the doctor after rounds and then wait for Henry.”

The neonatologist came out and sat with me in one of the counseling rooms. He said that she was out of the woods, was off the ventilator, and if she continued to have a good morning, I could hold her this afternoon. Jumping out of my chair, I practically French kissed the man, before screaming out in joy. Gabe and Kate came running in and we shared the news, high fiving and hugging. I had my miracle; in His kindness He had saved me- again. There would be no more broken glass to choke down.

When Ms. Walker and Henry arrived, Kate gave them the great news. I wished I’d been there to see the weight fall from his shoulders, but I was already back with Emma Grace counting the minutes until she was in my arms. Ms. Walker accompanied Henry into the unit, carrying a blanket that once belonged to him. This was her first heirloom and I felt its significance.

When the nurse finally came by after lunch with the doctor to assess her vitals, we got the go ahead. She instructed me to sit down in the rocker and Emma would be handed to me. As I prepared to sit, I paused and then stepped aside.

“You should hold her first,” I said.

“No, I couldn’t. You’ve been waiting for this.”

“And you finally believed. Your tears were collected. Your suffering meant something. Hold your baby girl, Tru. Besides, once I get her, I’m not likely to give her up,” I added with a smile.

The nurse suggested that he open his shirt and allow for kangaroo care- skin to skin- which would give her human contact and help keep her warm. There sat Henry, with his tiny princess on his chest, snuggling close. She was saving her father without even knowing it. This was an important moment of bonding between them. I would never get her back now.

After hours at the hospital, Gabe and Kate came back to relieve us. They offered to sleep at the hospital while we went home for the night. Making them promise to call if anything changed, I went home to enjoy a much needed rest in a real bed. Once we arrived at the house, Henry led me up the stairs and into my bedroom, insisting that I cover my eyes. With a manufactured drum role, I opened them to find a beautiful crib where the recliner used to be.

“I don’t think you’ll fit in that. Where are you going to sleep?” I said laughing.

“You’re hilarious.”

“When did you have time to do this?” I asked as I admired his handiwork.

“I haven’t been sleeping well with you gone,” he replied, reserved.

“I thought you were over me. I recall that your exact words were that you were finally prepared to move on.”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“No,” I said, smugly shaking my head back and forth.

He came up behind me, moved my hair to the side, and began kissing the back of my neck.

“How about a shower? We do our best thinking in the shower?”

“No, actually, that’s where we get in the most trouble,” I replied.

He spun me around.

“You have a dirty mind. I love it. Though, you do have a belly full of staples and I’m exhausted.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, giving him a look like he was totally off base for assuming. “Truth is… I’m not sure I’m still interested.”

“Julia Grace Walker,” he replied enunciating every syllable.

“Julia Grace Spencer,” I clarified.

“Julia Grace Spencer-Walker,” he retorted.

“Maybe?”

Over the course of a long hot shower we found conversations to laugh about again. We found solace in just being- not doing. As my head hit the pillow, my mind drifted to memories of my daddy. The blood clots that claimed his life were quick. Instead of suffering a long and debilitating battle with pancreatic cancer, God had, in His infinite mercy, called John back to Georgia Grace-if he could get past Sissy. Of course, I wished that I’d been given more time to rediscover who my dad was, but deep down, like he said to me, as we were both collapsed on the drawing room floor, I had always known. His harshness had served a greater good in forming my character. My childhood suffering had served a greater purpose. The lesson wasn’t just for me.

Henry had lingered downstairs after our shower, returning calls, and preparing documents for the reading of John’s will. We all knew what it contained since he had advised us of his wishes several weeks ago. I had left Henry’s Christmas envelope on the vanity in the bathroom, in hopes that he would read it before coming to bed. His declaration of love and a life together was an answered prayer, but I wanted to be sure that the prospect of running Spencer Industries would not bring him greater happiness. I fell asleep before being privy to his reaction.

Mattie rushed in and jumped on our bed in the morning with Dog. Henry was happy to see them both. The distraction kept us from talking about the documents, but I did notice that they were gone, when I went in to wash my face. We all hurried to get ready and then piled into the vehicle for our trip to Emma.

Gabe and Kate looked like they had spent the night in the broom closet. They were all messy- not the kind of sloppy you get from squeezing into a small chair or on a four foot couch. We made time for girl talk as I walked her to the elevator. They had made amends. She was eating steak. All was right with the world and I was thankful.



For I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from His love. Death can’t, and life can’t. The angels won’t, and all the powers of hell itself cannot keep God’s love away. Our fears for today, our worries about tomorrow, or where we are- high above the sky, or in the deepest ocean- nothing will ever be able to separate us from the love of God demonstrated by our Lord Jesus Christ when he died for us. (Romans 8:38-39, TLB)