Promises to Keep, Nan Rossiter [feel good fiction books .txt] 📗

at Ali and shaken his head. They’d both given him hugs, and when Mrs. Harrison finally, reluctantly, let him go, she made him promise to call if he needed anything, and if he didn’t need anything, he had to call anyway, just to check in—which he’d done several times, but only when he was sure he didn’t sound stuffy from crying.

That first night had been the longest of his life—he hadn’t been able to sleep and he’d wandered through the empty house, wondering if he should’ve taken Mrs. Harrison up on her offer. Being at the house alone had felt completely different because, even though his mom had been in the hospital for the last two months, she’d been alive—and he’d clung to the hope that she’d be coming home eventually—but now, there was nothing to cling to. There was no hope. She was never coming home.

When the rain had finally stopped, he’d gone outside and looked up at the stars sparkling in the vast canopy of darkness and wondered if she was watching over him. When he was little, they’d lain together on a blanket in the yard, gazing up at the night sky, and she’d pointed to all the constellations. But the night after she died, he’d looked up at the Big Dipper and felt just as small and insignificant as he had when he was little. He’d also felt torn—he’d wanted her to be there, but he’d been thankful she wasn’t suffering anymore. He’d wanted her spirit to be free, but he hadn’t wanted to let her go, and he’d felt guilty because he’d wanted it to be over because he couldn’t bear it anymore . . . and then, suddenly, it had ended. “Oh, God. Help me,” he’d whispered, looking up at the stars as tears filled his eyes.

The following morning, Mrs. Harrison had picked him up and they’d gone together to take care of the arrangements. Laurie had given her friend ideas for her service, if they decided to have one . . . because they didn’t have to, but Sue had tearfully said they would absolutely be having one! Laurie had shared some of her favorite hymns, and Sue had dutifully jotted them down, and then Laurie had eyed her friend and said, “Keep it simple and small!”—and that had been the plan. But when word got out that Laurie Callahan, just forty-six and a lifelong resident of the little town, daughter of Lena and Winton “Whiplash” Callahan—not to mention one of the most caring nurses any of them knew—had died, the outpouring of love and support for her son had been overwhelming.

The service had been set for the following Saturday, and the entire town, along with as much hospital staff as could get away without leaving the hospital utterly unmanned, had come out. The church had filled to capacity, and then overflowed. Among the many mourners were all the preemie babies Laurie had cuddled over the years, along with their grateful parents. Mason had looked around in tearful wonder—it was evident that his mom had touched countless lives.

When the service began, a young soloist sang “On Eagle’s Wings” and “I Can Only Imagine”—which had left no eyes dry—and then together, they’d sung her favorite hymns, “Here I Am, Lord” and “Lord of the Dance,” because, as Mrs. Harrison had said in her eulogy, Laurie had wanted it to be a celebration. She’d gone on to talk about her gentle, kind friend who was a veritable fountain of wisdom, who was authentic to her core . . . and who would be dearly missed. Others were invited to recall fond memories, too, and Mason learned things he’d never known about his mom—like the time she had changed Mr. Franklin’s flat tire in the pouring rain, or the time she had rescued a little girl that almost drowned in Blue Ridge Lake. It truly was a celebration of a life well lived, and it left Mason feeling inspired—more than ever—to be just like her. As people left the sanctuary, they’d reached into baskets to take one of the small smooth river stones inscribed with the word Celebrate, and everyone had agreed that there wasn’t a more appropriate keepsake—Laurie Callahan, lover of nature and books, had, indeed, embraced and celebrated life.

After the reception—which had been held in Fellowship Hall, and for which the women of the church had baked all week—Mrs. Harrison had tried again to get Mason to stay with them, but he’d declined. He’d gone home, pulled off his jacket and tie, closed his weary eyes, and replayed all the kind words and funny stories he’d heard, and then he recalled all the things she’d said to him in the days before she died. Finally, he’d reached for her Bible, opened the cover, and looked at the picture of him as a toddler, laughing as he took his first steps toward her . . . and then he’d studied the second photo of the girl with copper hair holding the tiny baby. He’d stared at it, wondering . . . and then he’d suddenly known what he wanted to do.

Now, as he sat in his car in the hospital parking lot, looking up at the third-floor window, he decided he wasn’t going to wallow in grief and anguish. He knew his mom wouldn’t want that. It was time to start honoring her life. He climbed out and walked through the main door into the lobby. He didn’t stop at the elevator, but took the stairs, two at a time, and found Mrs. Harrison waiting for him outside the conference room where they were having an orientation class for the new NICU volunteers. She gave him a hug and tousled his red hair. “Your mom would love this.”

24

MAEVE CLOSED THE BOOK IN HER LAP AND LOOKED OVER AT HARPER. “SO, what did you think?”

Harper sighed contentedly and stroked Keeper’s soft fur. “It was awesome. I love how they didn’t tell anyone that Colin was getting better so he could surprise his father.”

“It’s amazing what a little positive energy