Chapter Seventeen

Thursday morning, the day after Marc’s emergency surgery, André dressed the girls and drove them to school. He had to reassure them three times that their Uncle Marc would be all right. “You were there when I called this morning,” he reminded them. “He’s doing great. And I’m going to take you to see him after school, aren’t I?”

He hated the vulnerability in their eyes and questioned his motives for sending them to school that day at all. But the counselor they had been seeing in the almost four weeks since Claire’s death recommended that their life follow as smooth a routine as possible. That meant a full day of school for Ana, and morning school and a few hours of day care at the school site for Marée. Then, work allowing, he would pick them up and take them home for some family time. On the days when he had to work late, he either took the girls with him, or Ariana watched them. He had also begun bringing projects home from the office to work on after the girls were asleep.

Keeping busy so he wouldn’t miss Claire.

And it worked . . . sometimes. When it didn’t, he fell quietly apart, and then picked up the pieces in the morning before waking the girls.

Before heading to the office he stopped at his parents’ apartment, knowing they were home waiting for word from Louis-Géralde. Ariana opened the door, her face tight with worry. Fine lines that André had never noticed before stood out around her mouth and eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is Marc okay?”

“He’s doing well, but we haven’t had any luck reaching Louis-Géralde. Apparently, he’s off in some remote area and they use a pay phone to stay in touch. They’re due to check in on Sunday night, so the mission president will talk to them then.”

“He knows it’s an emergency, doesn’t he?”

Ariana sighed, her brown eyes filling with water. “Yes.” The tears didn’t spill, and André was glad. He was too close to crying himself.

His father came into the entryway. “We were going to have some breakfast, want to join us?”

“No. I’ll grab something at work.”

“You’re losing weight and that’s not good,” Ariana said. “You need to keep healthy.”

“I am eating. At least enough to feel satisfied. But I’ll eat more, I promise.” Anything not to worry her further. How could he admit that without Claire, food had lost its flavor. What he wouldn’t give for one of her stews—as long as it meant she was there across the table from him.

Not voicing any of these feelings, he left his parents. Following a sudden urge, he diverted from his usual path and headed to the transplant hospital. The nurse on duty was one he didn’t recognize and she wouldn’t let him in to see Marc. “We’re keeping visitors to a minimum,” she explained. “He’s still in serious condition.”

“I’m his brother. That’s immediate family, isn’t it?”

“The doctor said just the parents and the fiancée. You could talk to her, but she left about an hour ago.” Then her eyes brightened. “Wait, are you André?”

“Yeah, André Perrault. His brother.”

“He’s been asking for you. Won’t let it go. Let me ring the doctor. I bet he’ll let you go in.”

Within a few minutes André was ushered into Marc’s room. The nurse didn’t stay in the room, but she made him leave the door open.

“Oh good, I’ve been waiting for you to show your ugly face.” Marc tried to lift himself on his arms but grimaced and fell back. “They made me walk around again after Rebekka and our parents left. Ooo, it hurt. Whatever you do, don’t make me laugh.”

“Poor baby. Then I guess I shouldn’t remind you that my ugly mug looks a lot like yours. Except I have more muscles. Or used to.”

Marc peered at him, brow furrowed. “Hey, you’ve lost weight. You do look more like me.”

“Well, we can’t all be good-looking.” André settled into the stiff armchair next to the bed, wondering where Rebekka’s easy chair had gone.

“They feed me too much here,” Marc grumbled. “But it’s all a certain kind of food. Yuck. I’m sick of it all.”

“How about some wedding cake?”

Marc’s smile froze. “Rebekka told you.”

“Who else was she going to tell? You certainly weren’t listening.”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

“You’ve been a little preoccupied?”

“Sorry, man. I know you’ve had it bad—worse than I have.”

“Rebekka’s had it the worst.”

“What do you mean?”

André sighed. “What I mean is that Claire is dead, but as horrible as that was and as much as I miss her, at least it’s over. I don’t have to torture myself with the hope that a miracle’s going to happen. Rebekka, however, feels like she’s watching you die a little at a time, which is even worse. Why don’t you just marry her and give her some peace?”

Marc looked away from him. “I can’t.” His jaw tightened. “I won’t.”

“Why? Are you nuts? I thought it was your kidney they took out, not your brain.”

Marc’s face whipped toward him. “Because I love her!”

André stood, abruptly tired of the conversation. The pain of losing Claire was once again fresh in his mind—what did anything else matter? But he had made Rebekka a promise, and Rebekka had always been important to him.

He sat down again with a little more force than necessary. His chair bumped the small table next to the bed, knocking several of Marc’s science fiction books to the floor. “Are you going to explain what you mean? Or should I just go to work and make up for this little vacation you’re having here.”

“Vacation!” Warmth seeped into Marc’s face. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared in anger. “Okay, look, I’ll tell you why I can’t marry her while I’m in the hospital. I had this feeling back in Utah. A feeling that I wasn’t going to have a lot of time with Rebekka. I accepted it. I vowed that I would take the time we would have and enjoy it to the fullest.”

“You think you’re going to die.” André couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I do not think that . . . Well, I’m trying not to.”

“That’s all the more reason to marry her now.”

The muscles in Marc’s jaw worked furiously, and André had the distinct impression that had he been able, Marc would have begun pacing. “I can’t do that to her, André!” he continued tensely. “If I marry her and then . . . die, she’ll mourn me the rest of her life. You know she’s like that. Look at how long she’s waited for me already. Rebekka’s faithful to a fault.” Marc’s hand brushed impatiently at his dark hair, which had fallen forward into his face.

He’s serious, André thought.

Marc took a deep breath and plunged on, “If I can’t be here to help her through this life, I still want her to live. I want her to find another man, and I want her to get married and have his children and be happy.”

“She could still do that.”

“No!” Marc’s answer was explosive. “I’ve thought a lot about this—I’ve done nothing but think about this. I love Rebekka more than I love life, and I’m not going to tie her down unless I’m going to be around to be her husband.”

“But marrying you would make her happy!”

Marc’s face was ashen, as his energy had evidently been funneled into their conversation. “In the short term maybe, but Rebekka could live another seventy years. Alone as my widow, or with a man who will always resent that she is sealed to me. Don’t you see, André, I can’t let her bear that pain or make that choice. I’m the idiot who waited so long to let her into my heart, but I won’t be the one to make her suffer anymore.”

André had no answer. His brother had a valid point. Rebekka was young and could eventually go on with her life, but a temple sealing to a husband who passed away could complicate that immensely. Admiration crept into his heart; if he were in Marc’s place, he didn’t think he’d have it in him to give her up, even if it might be for her own welfare.

“You understand.” Marc’s utterance was a statement, not a question. “I believe rules are set in place for a reason, André, and I’m trusting in God. I hope and pray that I’ll be the one to take Rebekka to the temple, but if I can’t . . . promise me that you’ll take care of her. Please? See that she goes on with her life and is happy. Will you do that for me?”

André felt his brother’s eyes gouging into him, demanding, pleading for an answer. He took a deep breath. “Of course I will.”

“You’ll see that she finds someone and gets married?”

Anger coursed through André, an anger unlike any he had felt since his little sister Pauline had died and her boyfriend had, upon first request, refused to come to the funeral. When he spoke, his voice was savage. “I will if you do your part! Because that’s when this martyr attitude of yours ceases to make sense. I want you to live! You got that? You have to fight every inch of the way. You don’t give up and go toward any stupid bright lights or Pauline calling you. I don’t want to hear any of those excuses. You must live! Not just for Rebekka, but for me. Got it?”

Marc studied him silently. “Got it. I will, and thank you.”

André gave his brother a hug, awkwardly because of Marc’s recumbent position. “I love you, buddy.”

Then he walked out the door without looking back, not wanting his brother to see the tears in his eyes.