Page 18 of When We Were Young
Sometimes Emily wondered why Clara’s legs didn’t work right. Why her words were jumbled and why her mind seemed slow. “What happened to her?” Emily found her mother doing dishes in the kitchen one night after Clara was in bed. “Why is she like that?”
“She has cerebral palsy.” Her mom looked sad as she said the words. “That’s the reason.”
“Cerebral...” Emily couldn’t remember exactly what her mom had said. “Why does she have it? And when will she get better?”
Her mom did her best to explain the situation. She sighed and dried her hands. Then she faced Emily. “When Clara was born, she didn’t get air soon enough. A part of her brain died as a result.”
“So she’s not getting better?” Emily couldn’t believe it. She always thought one day Clara would be healed. That she’d run and talk and sing like Emily.
“No, honey.” Her mama pulled her close and hugged her. “Clara is just a little easier to love, that’s all.” Her mother looked deep into her eyes. “Sometimes I think we’re the ones with special needs. Not Clara.”
Their mother was right about that. No one trusted people like Clara did. Their father had left them, but Clara didn’t hold a single bad thought for the man. She talked about him like he still lived with their mother in the room at the end of the hall. “Daddy asleep,” she would say. And when she drew a picture of a tree or a house or a family, she would include him in the drawing. Then she would hold it up and grin. “For Daddy.”
Clara was the kindest person Emily knew. No one loved deeper, no one cared more completely than Clara.
No one ever would.
6
Emily breathed deep. It was time to go in, time to try to sleep.
But she wasn’t finished remembering. She moved the swing again, felt the gentle sway beneath her. Nights like this she missed Clara so much. Her sister would’ve blocked the door before she would’ve let Noah walk out on them. She would’ve been devastated by what was about to happen.
Absolutely crushed.
Emily thought about what Noah had said. How he’d been by the cemetery earlier, because losing Clara hadn’t just happened to Emily. It had happened to both of them. She squinted into the dark night. Nothing about that statement fit the narrative of the man Noah Carter had become.
He was selfish and self-centered now. He cared more about his public persona than his family. Yet somehow, the day before he moved out, he had taken time to visit Clara’s grave. Something the old Noah might’ve done.
Don’t think about it,she told herself. It would only make tomorrow’s goodbye that much harder. Emily settled into the swing and pulled her coat even tighter around her shoulders. As she did, the story of her life came back again. Right where she’d left off.
The part about church.
Emily was thirteen when she began to let her mind wander during Sunday services.God is love,the pastor would say. He loved the world so much He sent His Son Jesus to die for them. So they could go to heaven.
What did all that mean? Emily would long for the chance to debate the pastor. God loved them? If that was true, why would God allow Clara to have a brain injury at birth? Clara was eleven then, and at times the boys her age made fun of her. Once Emily caught a few of them limping along, imitating Clara.
Clara noticed and her smile faded. She looked to the ground as she struggled to keep moving.
Emily dropped her backpack and ran to the boys. “Don’t you ever”—she shoved one of them to the ground and then the other—“make fun of my sister again.” She stood over them, staring at them. She couldn’t have been eighty pounds back then. A wisp of a girl with long pale blond hair.
But no one was going to hurt Clara. Not ever again.
After that the meanness from other kids probably continued. But it didn’t happen in front of Emily. Still, it made her wonder about God. How could He let mean kids say things about her special sister? Why didn’t He just do a miracle and let her be whole and well?
When Emily was a sophomore in high school she began to study her mother. The way she worked hard and came home at three each day to make dinner. Her smile was always a little sad, but it was there. Their mother never complained about having to raise the girls by herself, never looked discouraged or defeated.
All three of them did the dishes each night, and their mom made it fun. She would put on music like Steven Curtis Chapman’sThe Great Adventureand Michael W. Smith’sGo West Young Man. They would sing and dance and get the work done together. Clara would sit at the counter and dry pans.
Then they would settle down to homework. Their mom would sit beside Clara, helping her add numbers or spell words. Things that were easy for other kids. Once in a while Emily would look up and watch her mom. Just watch her. The patient tone when she talked to Clara, the gentle way she would put her hand over Clara’s and help her form letters.
Even knowing that Clara might never form them on her own.
Despite all the ways God had let Clara down, and even with their dad gone for good, their mom had kept her faith in God. “Jesus loves us,” she would tell the girls each night. “Be sure to thank Him before you go to bed.”
Amazing,Emily used to think. How could she believe so completely? Meanwhile, with each year, Emily’s own faith had been fading. She doubted God and His good plans for their lives. But their mom never did. She always trusted, always loved, always stayed. She never gave up.
By the time Emily was a junior, she had one wish for her life. That she might grow up to be just like her mom. Except for the faith part, of course.
