Upon a Midnight Clear. Gail Martin Gaymer

dying? I use as many skills as I would in a regular hospital.”

      Grace fell back against the chair. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to belittle your work, but it’s not a life for a young woman. Look at you. You’re beautiful and intelligent, yet you spend your life sitting in silent rooms, listening to old people muttering away about nothing but useless memories. What about a husband…and children? Don’t you want a life for yourself?”

      She flinched at her mother’s words. “Please, don’t get on that topic, Mom. You know how I feel about that.”

      “I wish I knew when you got these odd ideas. They helped put your father in his grave. He had such hopes for you.”

      Callie stiffened as icy tendrils slithered through her. How many times was she reminded of how she had helped kill her father? After his death three years earlier, the doctor had said her dad had been a walking time bomb from fatty foods, cigarettes and a type-A personality. Though guilt poked at her, she knew she hadn’t caused his death. Yet, she let her mother rile her.

      Grace scowled with a piercing squint. “I think it began when you stopped singing,” she said, releasing a lengthy, audible sigh. “Such a beautiful voice. Like a meadowlark.”

      “Stop. Stop, Mother.” Callie slammed her hand on the tabletop. “Please, don’t call me that.”

      Grace looked taken aback. “Well, I’m sorry. What’s gotten into you?” She gaped at Callie. “You’re as white as a sheet. I only called you a—”

      “Please, don’t say it again, Mother.” Callie pressed her forehead into her hand.

      “I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” Grace sat for a moment before she began her litany. “I don’t know, Callie. I could cry when I think of it. Everyone said you sang like an angel.”

      Callie stared at the newspaper, the black letters blurring. Her mother wouldn’t stop until she’d made her point. Callie ached inside when she thought about the music she’d always loved. She struggled to keep her voice calm and controlled. “I lost my interest in music, that’s all.” Her fingernails dug into the flesh of her fisted hand.

      “Your father had such hopes for you. He dreamed you’d pass your audition with the Jim McKee Singers. But his hopes were buried along with him in his grave.”

      Callie modulated her pitch, and her words came out in a monotone. “I didn’t pass the audition. I told you.”

      “I can’t believe that, Callie. You’ve said it, but everyone knew you could pass the audition. Either you didn’t try or…I don’t know. Being part of Paul Ivory’s ministry would be any girl’s dream. And the Jim McKee Singers traveled with him in the summer all over the country, so it wouldn’t have interfered with your college studies. And then you just quit singing. I can’t understand you.”

      “Mother, let’s not argue about something that happened years ago.”

      “But it’s not just that, Callie. I hate to bring it up, but since the baby, you’ve never been the same.”

      Unexpected tears welled in Callie’s eyes, tears she usually fought. But today they sneaked in behind the emotions elicited by Ethel’s death, and the memory of the baby’s Christmas birth dragged them out of hiding.

      Callie had never seen the daughter she bore six years earlier. The hospital had their unbending policy, and her parents had given her the same ultimatum. A girl placing a child for adoption should not see her baby.

      She begged and pleaded with her parents to allow her to keep her daughter. But they would have no part of it. She struggled in her thoughts—longing to finish an argument that held weight. In the end, her parents were correct. A child needed a secure and loving home. Adoption was best for her baby daughter. But not for Callie. Against her wishes, Callie signed the papers releasing her baby for adoption.

      Grace breathed a ragged sigh. “Maybe your father and I made a mistake. You were so young, a whole lifetime ahead of you. We thought you could get on with your life. If you’d only told us who the young man was—but you protected him. Any decent young man would have stood up and accepted his responsibilities. For all we knew, you never told him, either.”

      “We’ve gone over this before. It’s in the past. It’s over. It’s too late.” She clutched the newspaper, crumpling the paper beneath her fingers.

      “We meant well. Even your brother and sister begged you to tell us who the fellow was. You could have been married, at least. Given the baby a name, so we could hold our head up in public. But, no.”

      Callie folded the paper and clasped it in her trembling hand. She rose without comment. What could she say that she hadn’t said a million times already? “I’m going to my room. I have a headache.” As she passed through the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder and saw her mother’s strained expression.

      Before Grace could call after her, Callie rushed up the staircase to her second-floor bedroom and locked the door. She could no longer bear to hear her mother’s sad-voiced recollections. No one but Callie knew the true story. She prayed that the vivid picture, too much like a horror movie, would leave her. Yet so many nights the ugly dream tore into her sleep, and again and again she relived the life-changing moments.

      She plopped on the corner of the bed, massaging her neck. The newspaper ad appeared in her mind. David Hamilton. She grabbed a pen from her desk, reread the words, and jotted his name and telephone number on a scratch pad. She’d check with Christian Care Services tomorrow and see what they had available. At least she’d have the number handy if she wanted to give Mr. Hamilton a call later.

      She tossed the pad on her dressing table and stretched out on the bed. A child? The thoughts of caring for a child frightened her. Would a child, especially a sick child, stir her longing?

      She’d resolved to make a change in her life. Images of caring for adults marched through her head—the thought no longer appealed to her. Nursing in a doctor’s office or hospital held no interest for her: patients coming and going, a nurse with no involvement in their lives. She wanted to be part of a life, to make a difference.

      She rolled on her side, dragging her fingers through the old-fashioned chenille spread. The room looked so much the way it had when she was a teenager. How long had her mother owned the antiquated bedspread?

      Since college, her parents’ home had been only a stop-off place between jobs. Live-in care was her preference—away from her parents’ guarded eyes, as they tried to cover their sorrow and shame over all that had happened.

      When she’d graduated from college, she had weighed all the issues. Geriatric care seemed to encompass all her aspirations. At that time, she could never have considered child care. Her wounds were too fresh.

      Her gaze drifted to the telephone. The name David Hamilton entered her mind again. Looking at her wristwatch, she wondered if it was too late to call him. Eight in the evening seemed early enough. Curiosity galloped through her mind. What did the ad mean—a “special” child? Was the little one mentally or physically challenged? A boy or girl? Where did the family live? Questions spun in her head. What would calling hurt? She’d at least have her questions answered.

      She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, rose, and grabbed the notepad. What specific information would she like to know? She organized her thoughts, then punched in the long-distance number.

      A rich baritone voice filled the line, and when Callie heard his commanding tone, she caught her breath. Job interviews and query telephone calls had never bothered her. Tonight her wavering emotions addled her. She drew in a lengthy, relaxing breath, then introduced herself and stated her business.

      Hamilton’s self-assured manner caught her off guard. “I’m looking for a professional, Ms. Randolph. What is your background?”

      His tone intimidated her, and her responses to his questions sounded reticent in her ears. “It’s Miss Randolph, and I’m a professional, licensed nurse.” She