On Hunter’s birthday, Lara gripped the bouquet and waited for Connor to open her door. She had begun to gain weight much earlier in this pregnancy, and, at seven months, she felt clumsy and immobile. Were it not for the pediatric patients who needed her, she doubted if she could have summoned the energy to pull herself out of bed.
Connor opened the door and stepped toward her, gallantly offering both hands. Squinting into the bright winter sun, Lara grinned and allowed him to pull her up and out of the car.
A brisk wind breathed through the trees that canopied the cemetery, and Lara shivered in the heavy warmth of her coat. Walking briskly, she lengthened her stride to match Connor’s, and allowed him to take her hand as they negotiated the brick walkway that led to the oak.
They had chosen this spot because it overlooked Mirror Lake, the park, and the townhouse. Though it was a winding half hour’s drive from their new home, Lara felt that Hunter belonged here, next to Michael and the lake he had loved to paint. Whenever she thought she might drown in a fresh wave of grief, she thought of Hunter and Michael and found comfort in the knowledge that they were together.
There was no headstone on Hunter’s grave, only a dignified bronze marker and a two-foot statue of a boy in a baseball cap. Lara stopped by the statue for an instant, summoned up the image of Hunter before the disease had gripped him, then knelt to place the bouquet beside the marker.
She tried to get up, but rocked forward instead, her hand hitting the ground. Connor knelt beside her in an instant, a rueful smile on his face. “Sorry,” he said. “I should have been quicker.”
“No. Pregnant women shouldn’t kneel on uneven ground. I should have known better.”
They stood in silence for a moment, their hands intertwined, then Connor cleared his throat. “He would have been eight today. Do you ever think what would have happened if he had—”
She lifted her free hand to his lips. “Of course I do. And I think God was merciful to take him when he did. Hunter would be an oddity, and not even Judge Weaver could keep the press from him forever. We would have no chance at a normal life . . . and neither would our baby.”
He slipped his arm around her and held her close. The shadows under the bare forsythia were already cold and blue; sunset was not far away.
Strange, how grief felt like love. She smiled as unbidden memories poured into her thoughts, jostling each other like rowdy little boys. Hunter at play, Hunter asleep, Hunter speaking simple truths the world longed to hear . . .
She would never stop missing him, nor would Connor, but her memories would never lose their luster. Her sense of loss now went far beyond tears, but occasionally, when one of the rowdy little memories slipped into her thoughts, water would spring to her eyes in an overflow of feeling.
“You know,” she whispered, verbalizing thoughts she’d been formulating for months, “I’ve been thinking about those poems people always read at children’s funerals—you know, those stories that imply heaven needed another angel, so God took a child to fill that spot. I’ve always thought those stories were overly sentimental, at other times I thought they were simply silly. Humans aren’t angels and never will be, and God certainly wouldn’t take a child just to populate heaven.”
Connor squeezed her shoulder. “I’ve heard those things too.”
“But lately I’ve been thinking about God and kids—do you remember when we talked about Jesus as a child? I realized John the Baptist was special too. The Holy Spirit touched him even before he was born, and God had a unique purpose for his life. That’s when I began to understand that the purpose of living—no matter how short or long life is—is to find and follow God’s will. Hunter understood that from the moment I told him about Jesus. His faith was always stronger than mine.”
“You’ve always been strong, Lara.”
“Strong-willed, maybe. Not always strong in faith.” She reached up to stroke her husband’s cheek. “I thought God gave me Hunter so I could protect him. My motherhood became everything to me—I valued it even above you, Con, and I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. But in that courtroom, when Franklin asked the judge if Hunter could testify, I realized God didn’t want me to hide my son; he wanted me to share him. If I wanted him to be what God intended him to be, I had to let go.”
She looked away and caressed the little boy’s statue with her eyes. “That was harder than saying good-bye in the hospital.”
Connor held her for a long moment, then caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. “At least other children won’t have to suffer like he did. The judgment will help with the research. Maybe they’ll find a cure soon.”
Lara smiled in the calm strength of hope. After Sloane had been found guilty of arranging the murders at the Women’s Clinic and committing fraud and malpractice at his hospital, Franklin Blythe had filed a civil suit on behalf of Lara and the families of every pediatric patient. The jury sent back a verdict for the plaintiffs, awarding more than forty million dollars from Sloane’s estate. Several of the grief-stricken parents turned their portions of the settlement over to Lara after they learned of the O’Haras’ plans to invest in Sloane’s defunct hospital. The Hunter Godfrey Center for Children would work not only to improve the future, but to enrich the life of every parent and child who passed through its doors.
After the trial, Eva Godfrey gave up her club activities and threw her energies into raising money for legitimate research. As she traveled to educate others about dystonia and other genetic diseases, she continued to spread Hunter’s simple message of truth: God loves everyone . . . and wants them to know him.
Connor pressed his lips to Lara’s hair. “Are you cold? The wind is picking up, and the forecast calls for snow.”
Lara lifted her eyes to the tiny bit of remaining blue sky and sent a smile winging toward heaven. “Let’s go home.”