Page 50 of Part of Forever
I can’t focus for the rest of the session. I don’t really listen as Don talks about losing his wife to cancer, and how he now has a tumor on his liver. Or when Beth talks about how she’s dealing with her diagnosis. I mean, I hear their words, but none of it makes sense. The only thing running through my head is that I need to talk to Lucy as soon as this is done, and she needs to explain.
As soon as our session is over, I can tell that Lucy is in no shape to talk; her eyes are droopy as her nurse starts to push her wheelchair. “We’ll talk soon,” she promises, as I’m left standing there with a thousand questions burning in my mind.
I’m quiet on the car ride home. How can there be a God when so many bad things are happening in the world? Why doesn’t He stop any of it? Why would anyone choose to believe in a being or person or whatever God is, when He doesn’t take away the hurt, when there are still starving people in the world, and evil people running the world? Doesn’t He care?
He has a weird way of showing it, if He does. I fold my arms over my chest. I will not cry, even though I kind of want to. Even though I already had questions about my own cancer, Lucy’sconfession today did nothing to soothe them; if anything, it made the gnawing in my chest even worse.
It isn’t supposed to be like this. Life isn’t supposed to be like this. I’m not as far gone as Grace and Tucker to really believe in a happily ever after for everyone, and I know that bad things happen, but this? I just don’t get it. I don’t get it at all.
“You okay, Rosebud?” Dad asks quietly, interrupting my spiral.
“I’m fine,” I say, because I don’t know how to actually say what I’m thinking and feeling.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says as we pull off the freeway, but instead of turning left to go home, he turns right, toward the beach. Toward the water. “I know that when I get really quiet, it means there’s something on my mind that I probably should talk about, but don’t quite know how.”
I’m quiet for a moment. First I’m annoyed that I’m so much like him, he knows almost exactly what’s happening inside my brain, and then, I’m grateful that he understands me in this small way.
“I just don’t get it,” I finally say.
We pull into the parking lot by the pier; it’s a Thursday afternoon in February, so the lot, and the beach, are nearly empty.
“What don’t you get?” Dad asks and I look out at the sparkling water over the hood of the dashboard.
I watch the waves for a long time, and he doesn’t push. It’s as if he knows I’ll talk when I’m ready and he’s fine waiting. We can simply watch the ocean together until then.
The waves slow my heart, but don’t clear my head. Maybe talking, like Doctor Simpson said earlier, will help.
“I was almost nine years clear,” I whisper. “Why this? Why now?” I look at Dad then, and he’s watching me, waiting for me to say more. When I open my mouth again, I’m nearly yelling. “Why does Lucy, who is so good and so happy, have that stupid tumor that they’ll never be able to fully remove? She’s just gonna keephaving surgeries until she dies. How is that fair? How is she so freaking happy? How does she still believe in God when He’s obviously not helping her?”
Dad lets out a slow breath and looks out at the water.
“I need answers, Dad.” My voice cracks in the middle and the tears that were threatening to spill begin to slide down my face.
“I know, bud.” He’s still looking out at the water. “But sometimes we don’t get all the answers.”
“Seriously?” I choke on a sob. “That’s all you’ve got for me?” Without thinking, I push open the door and I’m running toward the beach. The frigid water splashes up to my ankles when I finally stop, registering the pain in my right side. Running may not have been the smartest idea so soon after my surgery.
“Rosie.” Dad’s right next to me, standing in the freezing water. “I don’t have all the answers, but I will say this.”
I look at him, the wind whipping my hair across my face, but I don’t care. What’s the point of any of this, if at the end of the day, there’s just so much pain and suffering for everyone?
“I know we never really raised you to believe in God, and it was just one of those things where we wanted you to find answers for yourself. But maybe I should have said something more. Do you know why I love the ocean so much?”
I shake my head no, because even though I’ve heard him talk about the water nearly every day of my life, I get the feeling that what he’s about to say is going to be different this time.
“When I stand here and look out at the water, I feel so, so small,” he says, and I nod. I feel that way right now; the ocean goes on forever. I’m just a tiny spec against the vast blue in front of me. “But at the same time, I also feel so big and so significant.”
I blink. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that way. “Why?”
“I believe that God made the earth and the ocean, and that He also made you and me,” he says, and it’s not the first time I’m hearing the words, but it’s the first time I’m hearing it fromhimand I’m not sure what that means yet. “He made this beautifulocean, this huge part of the world that holds so many wonders, so many things that we don’t even know about. There’s beauty in it, and it just leaves me in awe.”
I look at him again as he continues. “And then I look at you, my only little girl, and even though you’re eighteen, you’re always gonna be my baby girl.” He’s got tears in his eyes now. “And I look at you, and I think all those same things that I do about the ocean. That there’s still so much to know about you, that from the moment we met you, we thought you were perfect, and holding you in my arms that first time, I was in awe. Because here I was, still a fairly new dad who went from no kids to two, and now one of them was a girl and one was a boy, and how was I supposed to raise the two of you? What was I supposed to do?”
His eyes never leave mine. “Yet, I just knew that there was something greater out there, bigger than you and me. That we get to take part in a tiny little bit of the beauty that He created. I’m so grateful.”
“But what about the hard stuff?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“Remember when you first got cancer?” I nod—of course I remember. Chemo made me so sick. “I got down on my knees that night and begged God to take it from you, to make you well. I said I’d do anything, give anything to free you from that pain and everything you had to go through.
