Forgiving Hearts: For Better or Worse Part 15

"I think so, too. Anyway, I just came to introduce myself and deliver Jackson's letter. I also brought some paper and a pen in case you want to write back to him. If you decide to do that, just give the letter to my husband. He's in and out of here all the time."

"Why can't Jackson come in person?"

"He thought this would be a better way for you to get to know him again."

"I wonder if he's the one who sent the flowers."

"I wouldn't be surprised. I've got to go now. It's almost time to pick up my friend's daughter from preschool."

Hannah smiled shyly. "Thank you for bringing the letter to me."

"You're welcome. Bye for now."

After Laurel left, Hannah slid her fingers under the seal and took out a folded sheet of paper. The handwriting was surprisingly neat for a man.

Dear Hannah, I've tried to imagine how you must be feeling, but of course, I can't fully understand. I can, however, let you know that you're not alone. You have people who love and care about you. Beyond that, and more importantly, you have G.o.d. He'll never leave you or forsake you. Please don't ever forget that.

I suppose the next step is to introduce myself. My name is Jackson, and I'm a friend of yours. I met you for the first time on a Christmas morning when we were both about five years old. I had dragged my dad outside into the cold to try out my new bicycle. I almost made it to the stop sign at the end of our street when I spotted a neon pink knitted hat bobbing up and down on the other side of the hedge about ten yards ahead of me.

I don't know why, but I slowed down. Then the hat turned the corner and there you were. When you smiled at me, I ceased to be aware of anything else. I didn't pay attention to where I was going or my dad's warning shout before I ran into the back of our neighbor's delivery van. Dad wasn't too thrilled nor was Mr. Baker who owned the van. I wasn't worried about the van or my new bicycle. I was upset because I'd made a fool of myself in front of the cutest girl I'd ever seen.

I didn't dare look in your direction because I just knew you'd be laughing. That's when I heard this sweet voice ask me, "Are you okay, little boy?" I looked up and you were right beside me. When I didn't answer, (mainly because I was in shock at finding you so close), you turned to my dad and asked if I was always like that.

Thought it pains me to admit it, I was "like that" around you for a long time. The story of when I did work up the courage to speak to you is a subject for another letter, if you decide after reading this one that you'd still like to hear from me.

Wis.h.i.+ng you all the best, Jackson Psalm 121: 1-3 I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; He that keepeth thee will not slumber.

When she got to the end, Hannah was smiling. Although she couldn't recall the actual incident, Jackson's descriptions made it easy to picture the scene in her head. Instead of leaving her discouraged and confused, his letter gave her hope. She'd begun to think she didn't have anyone and then like an answer to her prayers, Jackson appeared.

Pulling the movable table over the bed, she grabbed the pen and paper Laurel had left. The first line was easy enough to write, but what came after Dear Jackson? Biting the end of the pen, she went back and forth on what to say. She was waking from a nap when Colton strolled into her room several hours later.

"Hi, Hannah," he said, holding out a large, well-shaped hand. "I'm Dr. Samuels. My wife, Laurel, came to see you earlier today."

Hannah smiled sleepily. "You're the one with the nice voice."

He laughed. "It helps to have a nice voice when you're a doctor."

"Your wife brought me a letter from Jackson." She reached for the folded paper on the tray. "Could you give this to him?

"I'll be glad to. He wasn't sure how you'd feel about getting a letter from him."

"Oh, I enjoyed it. I hope he writes to me again."

"I'm sure he will."

"What's Jackson like, Dr. Samuels?"

He slid the paper into his pocket. "That's something you'll have to discover for yourself."

She sighed deeply. "I have to discover everything."

"Jackson is a good place to start."

"Why? Was he my boyfriend before this happened?"

"Don't worry about what he was."

"That's easier said than done. I can't help but be curious about him. It's not like I have lots of other things to think about."

Colton laid his hand on her arm. "I know it's hard to be patient, but you know what they say. Good things come to those who wait."

As she watched him go, Hannah took out Jackson's letter and read it again. Her eyes lingered on the signature. She wasn't alone anymore; she had a friend.

Jackson closed his laptop and reached for his bag. He'd been thinking of nothing but Hannah's reaction to his letter all day. His decision to write to her had been borne out of a wish to help her remember. In spite of all that had pa.s.sed between them, he couldn't stand by and do nothing. It was only later that he began to wonder if he'd done the right thing. Given the circ.u.mstances of their relations.h.i.+p, he hoped he wasn't setting either of them up for disappointment by getting too involved in her recovery.

Jackson remembered the call he'd received earlier from the manager of the Best Western hotel. In the course of their conversation, he found out Hannah had stayed there a few days. When she failed to return, the manager contacted the police, and they helped track down Jackson. He told the man he'd stop by to take care of her bill and pick up her things.

His eyebrows soared when he saw the pile of luggage stacked against the wall of the hotel manager's office. As he loaded the bags into the cab of his truck, he wondered why Hannah had brought so much stuff and why Mitch.e.l.l hadn't been with her.

Stopping at his house, he put her things in the closet of the room he only entered when necessary. Then he grabbed the bag of personal items Amber had given him at the hospital. He hated invading Hannah's privacy, but he needed some answers and since she wasn't in a position to provide them, it was time to look elsewhere.

Opening her purse, he remembered teasing Hannah about how many things she felt necessary to carry around. Either she'd changed or she'd downsized for the sake of traveling. Jackson found only a wallet, checkbook, a pair of expensive sungla.s.ses, two sets of keys, and thankfully, her phone. He scanned the messages and noted several texts from Mitch.e.l.l, but only one reply.

In reading the messages in more detail, Jackson learned that Hannah had left without telling Mitch.e.l.l. Why wasn't he surprised? She was good at disappearing when she wanted to. Had she come to see Sophia on her way somewhere else? There wasn't enough information here to know.

One thing was certain: even if she hadn't told Mitch.e.l.l where she was going, this was the first place he'd come looking for her. Jackson disliked the thought of running into Mitch.e.l.l, but that was nothing to how much he hated the thought of being forced to see Hannah and Mitch.e.l.l together. Wasn't there any way to avoid this? As her husband, couldn't he refuse to let Mitch.e.l.l see her?

The idea might sound appealing, but Jackson knew he wouldn't do it. This wasn't the time to indulge his personal prejudices. Though it was hard to accept, it was logical that Hannah's first returning memories would involve the man she loved, not the husband she left behind.

Putting the items back in her purse, he returned everything to a box on the top shelf of the closet, well away from where Sophia could find it. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Freya barking outside. He went to let her in and spent a few minutes letting her express her joy at seeing him. Then he got back in the truck and drove the short distance to Colton's house to pick up Sophia.

Jackson didn't recognize the car parked in Colton's driveway. He was almost to the front door when it flew open and Taryn strolled out. "I haven't seen you in forever," she said with a grin.

A teasing smile touched his lips. "How long have you been back?"

She glanced at her watch. "Six hours. You're looking at a fully certified midwife."

"You're delivering babies? Now, that's a little scary."

Taryn slapped his arm. "That's not very nice, Jackson. Especially since I spent most of the afternoon entertaining your daughter."

"Are you on your way somewhere?"

"No, I forgot to get something out of my car."

He turned to walk with her. "Let me get it for you."

She laughed as she opened the car door. "I'm not helpless, you know. Just a little quirky."

"I like your new ride," he said as he took the bag she handed him.

"Thanks. My old car finally died so I thought I'd splurge a little."

"Are you going to stick around for a while?"

"Sure am. I'm staying with Laurel and Colton until I decide where I want to live."

He laughed as he followed her back inside the house. "The more the merrier."

"You know you love me, Jackson."

"It's called respecting my elders."

"Hey, watch it; I'm not that much older than you."

This conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Sophia. "Daddy, Miss Taryn and I have been coloring. She doesn't go outside the lines like you do."

Jackson leaned down and kissed her cheek. "It sounds like you had fun. Let me help Miss Taryn carry this stuff upstairs. While I'm gone, start getting your things together."

Taryn led the way to the guestroom. There wasn't a surface that wasn't covered with something. "Just put that on the bed."

His eyes surveyed the chaos. "Where is the bed?" he asked in an innocent voice.

"Very funny! Now get out of here so I can clean up this mess before Laurel sees it."

Jackson was still smiling when he reached the kitchen. He found Colton standing at the stove stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious.

"Did you make whatever that is?"

Colton shook his head. "Laurel started it before she left. She and Amanda had some kind of Girl Scout function to attend. They should be home by seven." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Hannah wanted me to give you this."

Jackson took it from him. "How was she today?"

"Happier than I've seen her yet. She asked me if you were her boyfriend. I told her not to worry about what you used to be."

"Good answer. I don't want to scare her any more than I have already."

"I know this isn't easy for you, Jackson. Hang in there."

"I appreciate everything you and Laurel have done. I don't know how I'd be managing without your help."

"This is what friends do."

Jackson only half-listened to Sophia's chatter on the way home. It had been an emotionally exhausting week dealing with Hannah's accident, her subsequent memory loss, and his own confused state of mind. He hardly knew how to react to her sudden reappearance in his life, and the uncertainty of the situation made it difficult to make plans. All he could do was wait, and being patient wasn't something he was good at.

It wasn't until Sophia was in bed that he finally sat down to read the letter that had taunted him with its presence all evening.

Dear Jackson, Thank you for giving me such a delightful glimpse of the past. I'm looking forward to hearing about our subsequent meetings. I'm hanging on the edge of my hospital bed wondering under what circ.u.mstances you finally speak to me.

Please forgive me for not remembering you. From what I can tell, it's definitely my loss.

Hannah Jackson couldn't help but compare this note to the other one she left for him. The first had sent him into a chasm of disillusionment and pain so deep he thought he'd never be able to climb out of it. The second produced a myriad of feelings, most of which were well outside his comfort zone. His heart, so long bereft of any kind of hope where Hannah was concerned, beat heavily in his chest. How could he be moved by words that meant so little?

Why did You send her back to me like this, Lord? With no memory of what she's done? You've robbed me of my defenses and left me with nothing to guard my heart. I should be the one who gets to forget what happened.

Into his mind came the words, "For My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways." He ran his fingers through his hair. Here I go again, Lord, thinking I know better than You. Forgive me for focusing on how this situation affects me. My feelings are the last thing I should be worried about. What matters now is getting Hannah better.

Reaching for the tablet of paper, he began to write.

Dear Hannah, At your request, the saga of our childhood exploits continues. Picture in your mind a warm day with just a hint of wisteria in the air. It also happens to be a windy day, and I'm excited about the prospect of trying out the kite I recently bought.

I've been staring at the kite for what seems like hours while I wait for my father to finish mowing the gra.s.s. Finally, it's time to leave for the park. Once we arrive, my father shows me the basics of getting the kite in the air and, more importantly, keeping it there. After a few unsuccessful tries, my beautiful kite is part of the cloudless blue sky, and I'm lost in admiration of my obvious skill in making such a thing happen.

Everything is going great until some older boys arrive with the intention of playing football. During one of the numerous pa.s.ses that mysteriously keep getting closer and closer to where I'm standing, the football hits me square in the face. Within seconds, my nose is bleeding. The new kite is forgotten. I drop the spool of string and look around for my father. I finally spot him halfway across the field talking to someone I don't recognize. He carts me off to the car where he proceeds to halt the flow of blood by stuffing wads of napkin in my nostrils. He also comments on that fact that one of my eyes is swelling shut.

Do you get a sense of what I look like by now? If not, let me review: my t-s.h.i.+rt is streaked with blood, my nose has wisps of white napkin hanging out, and I've got the beginnings of a black eye. Into this chaotic scene walks a girl with pig tails. In her hands is my kite, looking much worse than the last time I saw it. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the girl is you.

You look me over in fascination; clearly, you've never seen anything like the picture I present. As had happened previously when I first met you, I lose all power of speech. All I can do is look at you helplessly. At this point in our young lives, you're a few inches taller than me. (I do finally overcome that disadvantage by the time we're in high school, but on this particular day, I'm mortified.) After putting my kite on the ground, you reach over and pat my shoulder.

"You'll be okay, little boy," you say to me. "But you need to stop crying; that only makes it worse."

Having delivered your advice, you kindly leave me to lick my wounds in private. I watch you walk back to the playground and get on one of the swings. Then I reach down and pick up my kite. I know with a sinking feeling in my stomach that it will never fly again.

Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean I got rid of it. I've got you wondering, don't I? Would a grown man really keep a mangled kite? You'll have to wait on that answer. I don't want to reveal all my secrets at once.

Until next time, Jackson Philippians 4:6-7 Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to G.o.d. And the peace of G.o.d, which pa.s.seth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Jackson looked back over the words he'd written. He hadn't intended to tell her the kite story. Not only was it kind of gross, it wasn't the sort of thing she would remember in the normal way. It really only had meaning for him. Maybe he should tear it up and write about something else.

A wave of exhaustion swept over him. He couldn't do it; not tonight. He was drained, physically and every other way. With a shrug, he folded the paper in half and slid it into an envelope. His gaze moved back to her note. Feeling ridiculous, he reached for it and reread the words. She'd liked hearing from him. He wished he could say that didn't mean anything to him, but he'd be lying. Before he went to bed, he put her note in the drawer with the other one.

Chapter Eight.

Hannah regretfully finished the latest letter from Jackson. This was number four and it was no less captivating than the previous three. Already she was less concerned with filling in the missing pieces from her past and more interested in the man behind the stories. If she was honest, she was becoming a little obsessed with Jackson. He consumed her thoughts to the exclusion of anything else.

She was torn between the desire to meet him face-to-face and the fear that she'd be a disappointment to someone who'd been so devoted to her. Hannah wasn't that little girl anymore; in spite of all her efforts to remember, her mind remained a blank canvas, void of anything but the last few days.

Her eyes moved restlessly around the room and then settled again on the letter in her hand. Today's narrative had been more that usually satisfying. She'd begun to believe the little boy who'd taken hold of her imagination and was fast finding a place in her heart would never work up the nerve to speak to her.