Chapter Fifteen

MAY 22, 2006

THE DAY DAWNED beneath a gentle rain, uncharacteristic for a late spring day in the land of sunshine, palm trees, and warm ocean breezes. As the first dim light seeped through the plastic vertical blinds in Minka’s bedroom, she lingered in bed a few extra minutes, underneath an old comforter patterned in yellow and white flowers. The pain of this special day had eased long ago. Now it was an annual event, like Thanksgiving or Christmas, that she marked with prayers and remembering. And gratefulness.

Today was Betty Jane’s birthday. Impossible as it was to imagine, Minka’s first child was now seventy-seven years old.

So many decades had gone by, but with perfect clarity Minka remembered the precious weeks spent with her newborn daughter. The warm weight of Betty Jane, her sweet scent, the wonder of her velvety skin, the pink in her cheeks, the pucker of her lips. Those weeks had been the best of Minka’s life, and the worst. During that time, mother and daughter had existed apart from the outside world, with hardly an interruption.

Minka had grieved the end of that time, but she could not regret her decision, not even now, when she’d spent a lifetime’s worth of years longing for her daughter. Minka had given up her Betty Jane because of love. She had never stopped loving her.

And she’d never seen her again.

Today, somewhere, Betty Jane celebrated her birthday. Even as her own losses piled up, Minka did not doubt that Betty Jane was still alive —but she did wonder where on earth she was, what kind of cake she’d eat today, who would call her to give her a birthday greeting. Minka imagined children and grandchildren and a house full of love.

All the people to whom Minka had confided about Betty Jane were now gone. Honus and Jennie. Reverend Kraushaar. Miss Bragstad and Miss Questad. Jane. Her sister-in-law, Dorothy. Roy. No one else would ever guess that Minka had a secret history, a secret child.

The apartment complex was usually quiet, but even more so this morning. A unique quality fell over this moment, this day. Perhaps it was the rain.

Minka wasn’t sure what it was exactly.

Even at ninety-four, Minka ordinarily was up early. First she’d make her bed, smoothing the flowered spread to remove every wrinkle. Then she’d pull on slacks and a sweater, hang her nightgown on a hook behind the door, and settle into a chair with her Bible. God always got the first portion of her day. And after that she was “off to the races,” as busy as ever.

To keep her rent low, Minka did odd jobs around her stucco fourplex. She handled the rental paperwork when tenants came and went. She swept walkways and tended the landscaping, pulling weeds, planting hardy succulent plants and bright-red begonias. She watered the flower beds, early in the morning as this drought-prone region required, always careful not to leave any wasteful dribbles along the cement.

Minka’s other activities depended on the day of the week. Each Tuesday, she hosted a ladies’ Bible study in her home. She’d bake cookies and set out tea and coffee, and together she and her friends would study God’s Word and pray for shared needs. On Fridays, she volunteered at her church, stuffing bulletins and praying. She was in church every Sunday, filling in wherever help was needed, whether playing with the tiny tots in Sunday school or providing snacks for a meeting. Other days held other tasks.

Keeping busy was more important to her than ever. A deafening silence had followed the losses of her sister and youngest child. Hundreds of times in the years afterward, she’d turned to tell Jane something or reached for the phone to call Donnie, only to be stopped cold by the truth.

To most people, Minka’s hard-earned resilience appeared unshakable, but no one understood how it felt to outlive nearly everyone you knew. If not for her faithful God, the weight of loneliness might have dragged her into the grave too. In these recent years, Minka was convinced more than ever not only of the fact of God but of His absolute goodness.

She had practiced thankfulness for so long that it was a part of her. And today, as on every May 22, she would reflect on the blessing she’d kept locked in her heart for seventy-seven years.

Minka knew she needed to get going, to dress and eat a light breakfast before leaving the house. But she was enjoying these extra minutes of contemplation and memories. Happy birthday, my dear Betty Jane. This is the day I feel closest to you, more than any other.

Her thoughts turned into a prayer.

“God, wherever Betty Jane is celebrating today, I pray that she is happy and has had a good life. Although we only spent a few weeks of our lives together, I am thankful for those blessed moments. I hope she knows as much as I do how deeply You love her.”

Minka opened her eyes as she finished praying.

She paused.

And then she added a new prayer. An impulsive prayer. An unreasonable prayer, one she’d never uttered before.

“Lord, I’d like to see Betty Jane again before I die. I won’t bother her or interrupt her life. I just want to see what she looks like.

“Please, Lord.”

* * *

Several hours later and two thousand miles away, a woman named Ruth Lee was going about her day. She’d already had coffee with her husband at the local McDonald’s. Now it was time to do some work in the garden. The nearly ripe strawberries needed weeding, and it was time to plant the fruits and vegetables for their own table, as well as the pumpkins, squash, and gourds that filled their roadside stand each fall.

Ruth had lived in this pretty part of Wisconsin, a place of rolling land and dramatic seasons, for most of her life. In winters, snow piled up in great mounds until the Lees’ back property looked like a postcard. And in spring it was idyllic, all blue skies and white clouds and fields of rich, black soil that would be knee-high in corn by the beginning of July.

She and her husband of nearly fifty-eight years had lived a good, satisfying life here, raising a large family in their trim white farmhouse. They had much to be proud of —every one of their children had earned a college degree and was leading a productive life. One of Ruth’s sons had even become famous. A sign hung proudly from the family’s barn: Welcome to Viroqua, home of Astronaut Mark Lee.

Ruth’s phone rang. It was her third child, Brian. He’d already called her, as usual, on his way to work this morning. But now he had some news.

Today’s mail had brought a special letter he’d requested recently on her behalf: a judge’s order from a South Dakotan court, authorizing the release of Ruth’s confidential adoption records.

As their conversation wound down, Brian asked if she’d had a good day, if she had any big plans for that evening.

Some celebrating was in order. It wasn’t just any old day, after all.

Today was Ruth’s seventy-seventh birthday.