Rachel's Hope. Carole Page Gift
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and lush, blood red bougainvillea. It had the usual swimming pool, of course, and colored lights everywhere.
From the start Rachel had reservations about the condo. It wasn’t suited to a growing family. The place gave off an artificial impression of opulence, but it wasn’t practical or comfortable. Rachel would have preferred buying a larger but less ostentatious house—maybe a roomy old Victorian fixer-upper with a large yard and a picket fence in a settled section of Long Beach. But why mention it again? Marlene had heard it all before. A house would have provided room to stretch and grow, where Brian could play ball and fly kites, where they could plant a vegetable garden and rosebushes, and raise collie puppies and maybe even a couple of Angora kittens.
But David had a thousand reasons why the condo was a better buy. It was new and impressive and practically maintenance free. It was in an upper-scale neighborhood and yet close to the freeway, and it wouldn’t depreciate as quickly as an old house in a declining neighborhood. And the condo would be easier to unload if the economy took another downturn, he told her, in case they were forced to relocate out of state. His firm relied on government contracts to survive, and David worried constantly about losing a job if the news reported the slightest dip in the economy. “In this life it’s best to remain flexible,” David told her time and again. “Travel light Don’t carry too much baggage. Be ready to pull up stakes, if necessary. Don’t sink your roots in too deeply or you’ll find yourself stuck in a rut.”
Well, for all David’s platitudes, she felt as if they were most definitely stuck in a rut. They had lived in the same condo for ten years now. Sometimes, particularly on Sunday afternoons, they would go for a drive and stop to look at model homes. They would walk through the professionally decorated rooms, praising a painting or commenting on the rich teal green of the carpet or the exquisite pattern of the wallpaper. They would survey the fine assortment of family rooms and dens, playrooms and bonus rooms that many of the homes boasted. It was at such model homes that Rachel had seen the large walk-in closets—nearly as large as this very office—and the master bedrooms that were practically a home in themselves. On such excursions, David would remark, “One of these days we’ll have a house like this, big and fancy as a palace…” Silently she would muse that she’d be happy with one of those old Victorian fixer-uppers or even an old farmhouse in the country. But lately, she realized, David had stopped talking about buying another home.
In fact, lately David seemed to be pulling away from Brian and her. She hated to admit it—wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Marlene—but David’s life was increasingly disconnected from theirs. Of course, they had gone their separate ways for years. But this was something else, something more.
Again the suspicions nagged her. What about David? What was he doing? What was going on? Or was she being crazy to wonder about him when there was really no reason? What was wrong with her that she doubted her own husband? God forgive my suspicions! she silently prayed.
But no matter what the problems now, Rachel reminded herself, once her marriage had been good. At least, until—when was it? When did she and David really begin to grow apart?
There was only one answer to that question, and she felt guilty even thinking it. It was after she met Marlene. When was that? Five, six years ago? Yes. Brian was nearly eight. Marlene moved into the condo next door, alone. Her husband had died of a heart attack several years before. They had no children.
In spite of her loss, Marlene was a generous, funny, wonderfully open person. She had a quality of love and warmth about her that drew Rachel. In this one plain, lovely, outspoken woman Rachel found the sympathetic understanding of a mother, big sister and friend.
It hadn’t taken Rachel long to discover that Marlene had fascinating and deeply entrenched opinions about many things—what it meant to be a woman, a Christian woman; what her responsibilities were to herself and to others; what her relationship ought to be to God. Marlene had related her opinions one afternoon while they had coffee in Rachel’s apartment
Even now, sitting stiffly, impatiently in Dr. Oberg’s waiting room, Rachel recalled Marlene’s words—the quiet, direct way she’d spoken of Jesus Christ and His resurrection and His desire to live in a person’s heart.
Rachel’s amazement had turned to curiosity, then to hunger. Here was Christianity as she had never heard it before—beautiful, powerful, capable of giving life a meaning she had always wished for but never dreamed possible. It involved so many things she was familiar with—Jesus of Nazareth, Christmas and Easter. Things everyone knew about. But then, why hadn’t anyone told her that religion was just the periphery, that the center of it all was Christ?
“Rachel, honey, Jesus got off that cross a long time ago,” Marlene had assured her. “He’s not lying in that tomb anymore. He’s alive, He’s God and He loves you.”
Marlene had prayed with Rachel that day and led her like a child to Christ. For a long while after that, Rachel had felt the wonder of innocence and the amazement of childhood in her blood again. She was free, clean. Even her daily routine took on purpose. It had all been so good.
It was still good, Rachel noted silently, but things were different now. She couldn’t deny that some of the sparkle was gone. The sheen of her brand-new faith had worn thin and faded with the passing of months and years.
It wasn’t entirely Rachel’s fault. If only her faith hadn’t become a wedge in her marriage. If only David shared her faith instead of resenting it. If only he would encourage Brian’s faith by attending church with them occasionally, things would be so different.
And now, in recent weeks, there were other things—vague, disturbing things Rachel hardly dared put into words: David’s preoccupation, his aura of secretiveness when she questioned him about his activities. He inevitably brushed her off with an excuse that he worried about work.
But was it the truth? Or was her marriage in even deeper trouble than she suspected? Could it be that David had found a new interest…someone else? Until now Rachel hadn’t dared to put the thought into words.
She chastened herself for harboring such suspicions. But the nagging questions could not be erased. Rachel’s mind wavered between two poles—the agony that her suspicions might be correct and a gnawing guilt over the fact that she did not trust her husband.
Was it any wonder she didn’t want to face a pregnancy now? Marlene just didn’t understand. How could Rachel bring another life into the tangled web of her marriage? It was all she could do to cope with David and Brian. And lately, she was hardly able to cope with anyone—or anything—at all.
“Mrs. Webber? Mrs. Webber! The doctor will see you now.”
Rachel frowned, attempting to swing her thoughts back to the present, struggling to recognize the voice that spoke her name. Who called her? But of course—the nurse.
Marlene gave her a nudge. “That’s you, gal.”
Rachel tried to rise casually, but she felt herself on the verge of leaping from her chair. The rotund lady seated across the room glanced up momentarily from her book, a flicker of interest lighting behind her eyes. The two teenagers offered curious stares, and Rachel felt an inexplicable impulse to apologize for something, to say, at least, “Excuse me.”
She said it with her eyes but kept her lips tightly closed as she met the starched woman’s professional gaze, then passed through the open door to the examining room.
Twenty minutes later, wrapped in a disposable paper gown, Rachel sat facing Dr. Oberg, a tall, lanky man with a bountiful head of curly hair.
“Well,” the mild-mannered physician declared brightly, “the results are in.” He glanced at the slip of paper he held as if it were a cue card and, with a smile, informed her, “As you probably already suspected, the test was positive, Mrs. Webber.”
“Positive?” she echoed. She felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Are you sure? Couldn’t there be a mistake?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Webber. My examination confirmed it. You are pregnant.” He patted her hand gently, almost a fatherly