Hearts at Home Read online

  “Where am I?” she squeaked.

  The man tugged on his mask, then smiled. “You’re dreaming.”

  “I’m not dead?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not your time.”

  “Then what—” she pointed to the dissected body on the table—“is that?”

  “Ah.” He glanced toward the body and smiled. “That is a visual aid. A lesson the Father wants you to learn.”

  A lesson? Edith stared at the stranger in bewilderment, then bit back a scream as his hand approached, growing larger and larger. The hand kept coming until it loomed over her, as big as a house, then it closed around something and lifted, sending her off-balance.

  “Look,” the stranger said, moving to a mirror. “Look at your true self, Edith.”

  She looked. And in the mirror she saw the surgeon reflected, shining and bright, and in his hand he carried a lidded glass jar in which a tiny light gleamed.

  Shock caused words to wedge in her throat. She was … Tinkerbell?

  “No,” he said, apparently reading her thoughts. “You’re looking at your soul, through which the light of Christ shines. This is the eternal part of you, the part that can travel from an earthly plane to the spiritual.”

  “I am dead,” she whispered, “and you’re taking me to heaven.”

  The man laughed. “I would not lie to you, Edith. The Father does not deceive his children.”

  Instantly, a dart of guilt pierced her soul, and the light in the glass jar dimmed slightly. She had deceived Winslow … oh, may God forgive her!

  “He will and he has,” the surgeon continued, returning her to the shelf or whatever her bottle had been resting upon when she awakened. “He forgives you because he loves you. And now he wants you to walk with knowledge.”

  In a weak voice she barely recognized as her own, Edith whispered, “I want to.”

  “Good.” The surgeon nodded, then tugged his mask into place like a thousand doctors she’d seen on TV. He moved to a stainless steel tray on a stand and lifted out a pinkish organ the size of his fist. Edith remembered enough biology to recognize it immediately—a human heart.

  He held it up. “Do you know what this is?”

  Edith nodded.

  “Would you like me to place it in your body?”

  Stunned by the question, she looked at him. “Well, of course.”

  “Then I will. But tell me first—do you trust the Father to care for it? Or would you rather regulate its beating yourself?”

  Regulate it? What good would that do? Was this man implying that a heart attack lay in her near future and maybe she should take control to keep it beating … no, surely not.

  “How can I control it? I have to sleep, and I couldn’t possibly regulate my heart while I’m sleeping.”

  “So you’ll let the Father be responsible for your heart?”

  She squirmed, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Sure.”

  The surgeon turned, then lowered the heart into the body. She couldn’t see the working of his hands, but after a minute the limbs had plumped with life. They were still blue, but they no longer had that shrunken look.

  The surgeon swiveled toward the tray and lifted out two shapes Edith immediately recognized as lungs.

  “Would you like your body to have these?”

  “Of course,” she muttered.

  “Would you like to control them, or will you yield their control to the Father?”

  Edith released a sour laugh. “He designed them, didn’t he? I’d be a fool to try to work them myself.”

  “You are a quick learner.” The surgeon dropped the lungs into the body cavity, fiddled a moment, then stepped back and nodded in satisfaction when the body pinkened with oxygen-rich blood.

  Edith smiled in relief. The body looked healthier now, rosy and pink. Surely this was the end— But no. The surgeon turned to the tray once again, and lifted out another fleshy object, this one shaped vaguely like a half-moon.

  “Recognize this?”

  Understanding flashed through Edith like a thunderbolt. “Ayuh.”

  “Good. Do you want it?”

  “I’d be dead without it.”

  “True. Now—do you want to control it, or do you want to trust the Creator’s design?”

  Indignation flashed through her. “That’s easier said than done! It’s not easy to control your stomach when you’re at a party, or a buffet, or traveling—”

  “The stomach does not go out of control during those times—on those occasions I suggest you address the hands that wield the fork, or the tongue that lusts after flavor.” He held up the stomach again, lifting it higher. “I ask you—do you want to control it, or do you trust the One who designed it?”

  Edith closed her eyes. “I don’t know how to control it. But I don’t know how to let God take charge, either.”

  “Do you worry about your lungs?”

  “No.”

  “If you are holding your breath, what happens after a while?”

  She thought a moment. “Your lungs burn.”

  He nodded. “Even so, if you neglect your stomach, after a while it will tell you it is empty. If you eat too much, it will complain because it is overfull.” The surgeon’s dark eyes softened. “The Father’s way is simple. His yoke is easy, and his burden is light.”

  Edith remained silent as his words froze in her brain. He was right—God’s ways were always simple, always the best, always liberating. For the last month she had been following one set of man-made rules after the other, stuffing her stomach with things it did not want, much less need … and she’d remained unsatisfied.

  “I’m so stupid,” she said.

  “No.” The surgeon lowered the stomach. “You have been swayed by the wisdom of the world, the lust of the eyes, the lust of the flesh, and the pride of life. Repent of those things, and all will be well.”

  She closed her eyes as the truth resonated in her spirit. The lust of the eyes—hadn’t that peach dress enticed her? The lust of the flesh—she had eaten because she wanted food; she had drunk thousands of calories of diet shakes because she craved flavor. The pride of life—she had wanted to look good for Winslow, yes, but mostly she had wanted to look good.

  She had coveted praise and attention. And she had wanted to accomplish her goals on her own.

  Such independent pride wounded the heart of God.

  Again the gleaming surgeon held up the stomach. “Do you want this?”

  She nodded.

  “And do you want to control it?”

  “No,” she whispered. “But I want to be healthy.”

  “The creator designed your body to be self-regulating. Trust him.”

  He held the stomach aloft, his brows silently lifting the unanswered question, and finally Edith nodded. “I’ll trust him.”

  And with that promise, the stainless steel table upon which her body rested began to glow. Edith bowed her head as the truth struck her—that was no table, but an altar. She had wrested control of her body from God, preferring to rule it herself, when all she was and possessed rightfully belong to God.

  As she wept, beloved and familiar phrases filled her head:

  And so, dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to give your bodies to God. Let them be a living and holy sacrifice… .

  Don’t worry about everyday life—whether you have enough food to eat or clothes to wear. And don’t worry about food—what to eat and drink. Don’t worry whether God will provide it for you. These things dominate the thoughts of most people, but your Father already knows your needs. He will give you all you need from day to day if you make the Kingdom of God your primary concern.

  “I will,” she whispered, lifting her gaze to the brightness hovering above her. “I will trust you, Father, body and soul.”

  Cleta stepped to the parsonage door and knocked. No sound from within the small house, but Edith had to be home.

  She walked to the living room window and pee
red inside. Nothing moved, but a light shone from the bedroom. Edith was home, then, probably running the hair dryer and hadn’t heard the knock. Might as well go on in and do a bit of neighborin’ while she fetched Winslow’s tie.

  “Edith!” she called cheerily, half-hoping she’d get the scoop about the couple’s spat while she was running her errand. She walked into the house, crossed the living room, and moved down the hall, noticing the rumpled bed in the guest room.

  She rapped on the open bedroom door. “Edith? You taking a shower?”

  Silence from the bedroom and no sign of Edith, but the bathroom light was on, too. Stepping around the corner, Cleta opened the bathroom door wider—and gasped when she saw Edith Wickam lying unconscious on the bathroom floor, wet-haired and wearing nothing but a gaping bathrobe.

  “Oh, spit!”

  She lunged inside the room and placed two fingertips on Edith’s throat. She knew less than nothing about such things, but this is what they always did on TV.

  She felt nothing but cold and clammy skin. Cleta leapt to her feet and sprinted through the house, yelling as she ran past the church. Rounding the corner, she nearly tangled with Tallulah, out on her afternoon walk.

  Yip!

  “Sorry, Tallulah. Emergency!” she panted as her Nikes pelted the sidewalk.

  Yipping in excitement, Tallulah raced by Cleta’s side, keeping pace as the woman ran toward the medical clinic at Frenchman’s Fairest.

  Cleta and Tallulah flew around the corner to find Dr. Marc talking to Annie at the gate. “Come quick!” Cleta bellowed. “Edith Wickam just dropped dead.”

  “What?”

  Cleta waved her hands helplessly. “She’s cold and wet and on the floor. Hurry!”

  The doctor raced inside for his medical bag, then ran ahead of her toward the parsonage. Cleta followed, then halted at the church, bending low to clasp her knees as her lungs burned for air.

  “You … go … on,” she panted, knowing he couldn’t hear her. “I’ll … get Winslow.”

  An hour later, Winslow paced his living room floor as Dr. Marc examined Edith in the bedroom. Birdie, Salt, Floyd, Annie, and Cleta sat on the long sofa, all of them silently keeping vigil with pinched faces.

  Dr. Marc stepped out of the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him. Smiling at Winslow, he closed his medical bag. “She’s fine, Pastor. She fainted. Probably the result of her dieting and fasting today.”

  Winslow slumped into the only empty chair. “She was fasting?”

  Dr. Marc nodded. “Fasting, done properly, isn’t harmful, but Edith wasn’t doing anything by the book. But she’s seen the error of her ways, and she’d like to talk to you.”

  Winslow sprang out of his chair, gave the doctor a grateful hug, then ran into the bedroom.

  The wintry shadows of late afternoon had settled across the bed when Winslow stepped into the room. He had expected to find Edith resting, but she was sitting on the edge of the mattress, mascara wand in hand. She halted when she saw him, then lowered the mascara brush.

  “Win.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I feel like such a fool. You won’t believe what I’ve learned today.”

  He sank onto the bed next to her. “What?”

  She swiped at her eyes with the cuff of her robe. “I had this crazy vision—but it wasn’t crazy, if you know what I mean. I was in this strange hospital, but I wasn’t in my body.”

  Concerned, Winslow pressed his palm to her forehead.

  “Win!” Laughing, she caught his hand and held it. “I’m fine, I’m not delirious. I won’t bore you with the details, but I learned this—I’m not going to diet anymore, ever. I’m going to trust God with my body and stop trying to micromanage it. I may never wear the size I wore as a young girl, but that’s okay—I’m not a young girl anymore.”

  Winslow slipped his free hand around her shoulder and brought her close. “I was hard on you this morning, honey. I’m sorry.”

  “I was a fool, Win—hardheaded and proud. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

  She lifted her watery eyes to meet his. “How are our anxious bride and groom? I feel terrible causing all this commotion on their wedding day.”

  Winslow checked his watch. “Everything’s still on schedule—or it will be when I step into the living room and tell them you’re okay.”

  He smiled at his bride, and the peaceful look on her face moved something at the core of his soul. He reached out, tenderly grasping her chin, and was about to kiss her trembling eyelids when a wail from the living room chilled his blood.

  Edith’s eyes flew open. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.” Winslow stood. “But maybe we should check.”

  Holding Edith’s hand, they moved into the living room. Birdie and Salt had left to prepare for the ceremony, but Caleb had come up the road to join the gathering. Trouble was, apparently he hadn’t brought good news. Annie was weeping, and Dr. Marc had his arm around her shoulder, trying his best to comfort her.

  He threw Winslow a look of male helplessness.

  “I’m so sorry, Annie,” Caleb was saying. “She doesn’t usually get into closets.”

  Winslow’s gaze shifted to the old butler. He held a bit of purple fluff over his arm, and after a minute Winslow realized he was staring at the remains of a dress. An expensive one, if a man could judge by the amount of fluff and sequins attached.

  “Tallulah,” Caleb whispered, when Winslow caught his eye. “She got into the closet and started tugging on the chiffon. Next thing I knew, she’d pulled it off the hanger and had herself a rip-snorting time in all this fabric.”

  “It’s my only nice dress,” Annie wailed, burying her face in Dr. Marc’s chest. “I don’t have anything else with me.”

  Edith stepped forward and gently turned the weeping girl to face her. “Wait here,” she said, the sweetness of her smile making Winslow’s heart pound in a double beat. “Don’t move.”

  She stepped into the bedroom, and when she came out a moment later, an elegant peach dress, lacy and sparkling, hung over her arm.

  “I think this is just your size,” she said, placing the garment on Annie’s arm.

  A look of sheer wonder bloomed on the girl’s face. “Oh, Edith! I couldn’t! This is so pretty, you should wear it—”

  Edith stepped back and slipped her arm around Winslow’s waist. “It’s for you, Annie. I think it’s been meant for you all along.”

  At three o’clock, with an hour until the wedding of the year, Annie checked her reflection in the mirror one final time. The peach dress did wonders for her complexion, and the dress fit like a glove. She had promised Edith that she’d serve at the reception table; it seemed only right that she’d be doing a favor for the woman who’d stepped in and given so generously to her.

  The day had been a busy one, and she and Marc had not had a chance to speak about personal things since their meeting in the kitchen. Though Marc had seemed to welcome her news about staying in Heavenly Daze, Annie feared she had said too much, too soon. But words were like feathers flung into the wind; once spoken, they could not be called back. Marc now knew how she felt … the next move would have to be his.

  She heard a creak outside her door and glanced up to see Caleb walking down the hall, a cordless telephone in his hand. She frowned at the phone, “Does that thing work? I thought the batteries were dead.”

  A guilty look flitted over the butler’s face as he halted in midstep. “I replaced them.”

  “Why?”

  “Well—”

  The word had scarcely left his lips when the phone rang. Annie stared at it, her mind whirling, as Caleb smiled. “I brought it so you wouldn’t miss this call.”

  He handed her the phone, then paused. “Annie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The Lord will not leave you comfortless.”

  She shook her head as the phone rang again. It could wait, the important thing was Caleb slipping into bizarre mode again. “W
hat do you mean?”

  “I plan to see Olympia very soon. And I will give her your love.”

  An eel of fear wriggled in Annie’s belly. What was he talking about? He was elderly, but healthy. Surely he wasn’t thinking about death.

  She forced a light laugh. “Caleb, you’re going to live thirty more years.”

  “I’m going to live forever, Annie. But before I leave, I want to tell you something.”

  The phone rang; she ignored it. “What?”

  “Don’t worry about Olympia’s body. The Lord has heard your prayers, and he knows the intent of your heart. I can assure you of this—Missy no longer cares about such trivial things. Now—” he nodded toward the phone. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  Staring at him in bewilderment, Annie pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

  The caller identified herself as Nancy Lipps, from the Nu-Skin Beauty Company.

  “I’m sorry,” Annie said, watching Caleb in the mirror as she reached for a tube of lipstick. “I really don’t have time to hear a sales pitch.”

  Nancy Lipps laughed. “I’m not a telephone solicitor, Ms. Cuvier. I’m the vice president in charge of product development.”

  Annie’s hand froze in midair. “And why are you calling me?”

  “You may have heard about a new line of cosmetics that use foods as principal ingredients. All-natural makeup is very hot right now—cucumber eye soothers, banana fade creams, lemon hair rinses.”

  Annie glanced at the mirror. She could use the cucumber eye soother right now; her eyes were still bleary from weeping over the destruction of her favorite dress.

  “I’ve read something about them.”

  “Good. Since you’re in a hurry, I’ll get right to the point. We read about your new hybrid in Tomato Monthly, and one of our researchers obtained one of the plants from your college lab.”

  Annie snorted. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lipps, but those tomatoes were a colossal failure. They’re inedible.”

  “We don’t want to eat them, Ms. Cuvier. They have an unusually high acid content, high enough to exfoliate the skin but not so high as to be harmful. Your tomato will be the perfect primary ingredient for our new all-natural facial peel.”

  Annie’s jaw dropped. “You want to use my plants—”