They sit in silence for several moments. “We don’t go to church,” John says. “I went some with my grandparents when I was little, and I actually did believe in God … I do believe in God. And for some strange reason, I believe in Him even more now because of Joan’s cancer. And for the first time I tried praying. I don’t think I did it right, but I tried it.”
Larry nods. “I thank God. Honor Him. I ask for His forgiveness and for help and direction for myself and others. I’m just talking and listening. That’s praying, as far as I know.”
“What if you don’t get what you ask for?”
“Then that’s my answer,” Larry says. “Believing God hears prayer is faith. Then you wait.” John looks at him, curious. “It takes strength to wait. That’s the hardest part. Some people wait decades. A lifetime. My mother still prays for my brother, who’s a lost and wandering soul. Some people die and long after they’re gone the prayers they prayed for somebody are finally answered. It’s not a magic trick.”
John nods, looking at the table. “I wish it was. I wish Joan could hop out of that bed healthy and strong right now.”
“I wish that, too.” Larry pauses and looks at him. “When my mother got sick, even though I was a kid, I never looked at things the same way after that. Still don’t. I didn’t like it at the time. I hated it. It was an awful, gut-wrenching time. She didn’t get better right away; it took a couple of years. It was years for all of us, waiting and praying, getting mad, crying, believing and then not believing, and then believing again, but I don’t look at people the same way. I don’t look at situations the same way.” His eyes get misty as he thinks about it. “I’d hate to go back and do all of that over, but I would.” He stops, looking out over the cafeteria and then back at John. “I never thought about that before, but I would.”
“You got that kind of faith from looking at a piece of wood?” John says.
Larry’s mouth turns up a bit, smiling.
* * *
Joan opens her eyes to see John sitting next to her hospital bed. She reaches for his hand and he looks up, noticing that she is awake, and stands next to her bed, holding her hand. “I didn’t know if I would be able to breathe as well with part of a lung missing,” she says. “But each time I wake up, I realize that I’m still breathing.”
He leans down to kiss her. “I’ve been watching you breathe for the last three days.”
She shakes her head. “Sounds boring.” He chuckles and she squeezes his hand. “Go home, John. Go to work. You don’t need to be here with me all the time. Go home to the kids.”
“Your parents are with the kids, and they are having a great time. The kids don’t miss me, trust me! Gigi said your mom made caramel corn yesterday. How can I compete with caramel corn?” He pats her hand and sits on the side of her bed. “If you’re up for it, maybe your parents can bring the kids to see you today.”
She looks up at the ceiling. “We need to talk about what Dr. Levy said.”
He shakes his head, looking at her. “Doctors aren’t always right. Dr. Kim said that herself to you. I met a man in the cafeteria who said the same thing.”
She manages a smile and squeezes his hand. “Things don’t look good, John.”
He bites the inside of his lip, thinking. “Not to them. But we’re not them, Joan.” Her eyes are full of love, looking at him. He wants to believe, and she can’t squash that, knowing that the time will come when he will be left with no other option but to face the reality of their situation. “We’re fighters,” he says. “We fight through things. We do what the doctors tell us, and we will pray, leaving it with God.”
She looks at him, wondering what has shifted his thinking like this in the last few weeks. “Okay, John,” she says, not fully believing, but seeing the belief in his eyes seems to make her stronger, if even for this moment.
FIFTEEN
September 2012
Lauren drives out of Grandon and into the country, following the directions on her cell phone. Teresa, a longtime friend of Gloria, is donating a week’s stay at her Florida condo for the annual Glory’s Place fund-raiser in December. The condo is situated right on the beach and pulls in a lot of money during the auction each year. The entire staff and volunteers begin collecting donations as early as the summer. Lauren notices a farm as she drives to Teresa’s and realizes that she has never been on this particular road before. She turns and heads up the long drive to the farm, wondering out loud what she is doing. A modest two-story home is on the left and a small white barn sits to the right with a larger red barn behind it. A yellow Labrador retriever runs from behind the house, wagging his tail as he greets Lauren, who is opening the car door.
“Hi,” a middle-aged woman says, opening the front door. “Can I help you?”
Lauren smiles at her. “Well, I’m not sure, but I hope so. I’m trying to find a dairy farmer named Bud.”
The woman walks down the steps of the home to her, petting the top of the dog’s head as she walks. “A farmer named Bud?” Lauren nods. “I don’t know a farmer by that name, but let’s ask my husband. Come back this way.” She leads Lauren toward the red barn and begins to wave her arms and shout out her husband’s name when she sees him leaving the barn driving a tractor. “Jason!” she yells, running so she can get in his line of vision. “Jason!” A man around forty, wearing jeans and a short-sleeve work shirt, sees his wife and turns off the tractor.
“What’s up?” he says, noticing Lauren and taking his ball cap off to scratch his head.
“This woman is trying to find a dairy farmer named Bud. Do you know him?”
He gets off the tractor and stands in front of them. “Bud?”
Lauren nods, smiling. “I’m so sorry to bother you. You didn’t have to stop your work.”
“It’s always here,” he says, sticking a hand in his jeans pocket. “You say he’s a dairy farmer?”
“I think so. He sells milk. Or at least he used to sell milk.”
“The Coys sell milk,” his wife says, thinking out loud.
Jason nods. “They do. They haven’t been farming long. Maybe five years. But nobody there is named Bud as far as I know. Has Bud been farming long?” he asks, looking at Lauren.
“I think so. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s been several years.”
“The Hermans have been farming for years. Corn and soybeans. But they have sold milk in the past. They have a few cows on their farm. They don’t sell in stores. Just on their farm. I don’t think there’s anybody named Bud there, either, but you could stop and ask.”
Lauren raises her hand over her eyes to keep from squinting. “Thanks so much! Where is the Herman farm?”
Jason points west. “Stay on this road headed west for four miles until you come to Glade. Do you know where that is?” Lauren shakes her head. “You can’t miss it. There’s a flashing yellow light and a small antiques shop on the right. Turn left onto Glade and about three miles up on the right you’ll see what’s left of a crop of corn. The house, the barn, and the silos sit back off the road, like ours. You can’t miss it. Jim Herman owns it.”