We both felt it best to not inform the kids of the possibility of Molly being sick. We didn’t want to alarm them. Once we figure out what it is, then we’ll sit them down and explain everything. Until then, we want to keep them away from anything that could upset them.
“That’s great, honey,” Molly responds, stroking back some of Gemma’s hair from her face. “I know you’ll be a good caregiver for the little pup.”
Gemma beams proudly. “She said Gray and I could help her pick one out. We’re going to go to the shelter to get one.”
Gray mosies down the steps at a slower pace just as Nancy steps outside, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder.
“Hey, bud,” I say to Gray as he meets Molly and me at the front of the car.
“Hey, Dad.” He looks like a mini version of me as he stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. “Can we stop by Game Stop on the way home? I wanna see if they have the new Overwatch.”
“Sure, kid.”
Nancy watches our approach from the porch. She’s trying to hide it from the kids, but Molly and I notice the worry lines on her face. She’s just as anxious as we are to find out what’s going on with Molly. Unfortunately, we don’t have much to give her.
As we walk up the steps to go inside, I take Dr. Becker’s warning seriously and stick close to Molly. Apparently, so does she, because she moves slower than normal and grips the handrail. I tell Gemma and Gray to watch some TV or play the Xbox while the adults talk for a few minutes. We find Douglas out back, laying a brick border around the patio.
“What did Dr. Becker say?” Nancy asks after we’ve taken a seat at the patio table, getting right to the point.
“They found some white matter in my MRI, which is leading him to believe it could be an autoimmune disease.”
“So, they don’t know for sure?”
“Not yet. He’s ordering more tests.”
“More tests? Goodness gracious,” Nancy grumbles with irritation. I can’t say I blame her. My initial reaction back at the office was shock, confusion, and worry, but now that I’ve had time to dwell on the new information, impatience and frustration add to the mix. I know it’s not Dr. Becker’s fault, but we’ve been left without concrete answers for weeks now, and the stress of not knowing what’s happening to Molly’s body is taking a toll on all of us.
Douglas rests a hand on his wife’s arm to calm her. “White matter? What exactly does that mean?”
Molly and I spend the next few minutes going over what Dr. Becker told us, leaving out the part about the mysterious disease. There’s no sense mentioning it yet. It’ll only worry them more. They ask questions, most of which we don’t have answers to, but we give them what we can. I can sense the more we talk, the more despondent Molly’s mood gets. I hate the change. Molly is usually very cheerful and carefree.
After a few tense and silent moments, where the four of us contemplate the latest news, I get up from my chair and hold my hand out to my wife. “You ready to head out?”
She nods and takes my hand. Her parents follow us into the house as we go gather the kids from the living room. Nancy hugs Molly extra-long when we say goodbye.
The sun is starting to set when we get home—after stopping at the game store for Gray—but it feels later than what it is. Exhaustion hits me, and from the drained expression on Molly’s face, she’s just as tired from the day’s revelations.
I pull ground beef from the fridge for dinner. Molly tries to intervene when I start forming the meat into hamburger patties, but I force her to go take a shower, hoping it’ll help her relax and shift her mood from the negative thoughts I know she has in her head.
These next two weeks are going to be mentally and physically taxing on the both of us, more so for Molly.
I only hope at the end of them we’ll have the answers we’re looking for.
Chapter Eight
MOLLY
“Where is it at?” I mutter. “It has to be here somewhere.”
I throw the lid back on the box and barely refrain from kicking the stupid thing. Instead, I grab it and set it on the floor beside the others. When I start going through the one beneath it, I soon realize I’ve already gone through the damn box.
“Damn it,” I growl under my breath and throw my hands on my hips. I spin in place, hoping there’s a box I somehow missed.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Lincoln asks, strolling into the room.
I blow the hair out of my face with frustration and turn to face him. “Are you sure you got all the boxes of journals from the attic? Could you have missed one?”
“That was all of them. I made sure of it.”
“But it can’t be,” I insist, growing irritated. “There has to be another box somewhere.” A thought occurs. “Or maybe it was never up there,” I finish reluctantly.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a journal missing. Betsy’s journals abruptly stopped, so there has to be more.”
“Or she could have stopped writing them,” Lincoln offers.
I purse my lips as I think about his suggestion. “I guess that could be the case.” I pause, hating that he could be right. “But I don’t get it. She’s written in them since she was a child. Why would she stop all of a sudden? And why at such a crucial point in her life? What if something happened to her?”
“I don’t know.” Lincoln bends down and rights a box that must have fallen over. “I know this is important to you, but maybe she didn’t feel the need to do it anymore.”
I’ve kept Lincoln in the loop of what’s written in the journals. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about them. I could with Lindsay or Mom, but it seems less intrusive to Betsy to talk to Lincoln.
The thought that she stopped writing deflates me. I may have never met this Betsy woman in the flesh, but through her words, I feel like I’ve come to know her. I want to know more of her life. What happened with William? Did he make it back to her after the war? How did their life end up? And Mary…. Did their child grow up healthy and happy? So many unanswered questions. It’s more than just a want; it’s a deep-seated need to find out. I feel like I have to know. Like it’s important somehow.
These journals have also been a great way to distract me from what’s going on with my body. I may still have the others to read, but I want to know what happened with Betsy, William, and Mary.
“If something did happen to her, there might be a way to find out.”
“How?” I ask, my brows jumping to my hairline.
“You’ve got her and William’s name, where they lived, and the dates of the time period. The benefits of living in the twenty-first century, baby, is we have the world wide web.” He finishes with a cocky grin.
Elation has my heart jumping for joy. I want to smack my forehead for not thinking about it myself. Instead, I walk to him, throw my arms around his neck, and plant a kiss against his lips.
“You’re seriously my hero right now, Mr. Bradshaw,” I say against his lips.
His chuckle fans across my lips as he grips my hips and tugs me closer. “I thought I was always your hero.”