The Silent Gift

  the silent gift

  MICHAEL LANDON JR.

  AND CINDY KELLEY

  The Silent Gift

  Copyright © 2009

  Michael Landon Jr.

  Cover design by Andrea Gjeldum/Paul Higdon

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible and from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  E-book edition created 2010

  ISBN 978-1-4412-0491-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of

  Congress, Washington, DC.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Rural Minnesota

  SUMMERTIME 1930

  SHE APPEARED TO BE FLYING—silvery wings swept upward and proud chin thrust into the stormy Minnesota night. The tiny lady’s arms stretched out, embracing the unknown as she emerged through the rain and fog, then disappeared again. Her shiny steel made her more visible than the black 1929 Packard on whose hood she rode. The sedan sped hazardously along a narrow two-lane road that more typically would have suggested shady trees and leisurely Sunday drives. But the darkness, split by two brave headlights, held pounding rain and a monstrous wind that seemed intent on obstructing the vehicle’s progress by sheer force of will.

  Sheets of pelting rain made visibility nearly zero as Jerry Sinclair frantically peered through the windshield, trying to keep the Packard on the road. The huge oak and maple trees, heavy with foliage and looming like giant sentries when lightning flashed, dipped and swayed in the wind. Furthering his panic was the sound of his young wife’s cries from the backseat.

  The summer humidity in the closed car made it smell musty and stale—the air almost too thick to breathe. He knew at this speed he was taking chances, but with the urgency of any new father-to-be, Jerry kept a heavy foot on the accelerator to get to the doctor before his child made its entrance into the world. He blamed the false alarm just two days prior for his all but ignoring his wife’s urgent request earlier in the day to take her to the hospital. Only seventeen, Mary Godwin Sinclair’s teeth had chattered when admitting to her twenty-one-year-old husband that she was scared about the unknown experience of childbirth. Though Jerry may also have been scared, he would never have admitted it to his wife—or to himself.

  The beat of the windshield wipers was a metronome for Mary’s voice calling to him over the wind’s roar. “Hurry, Jerry! Hurry, Jerry!”

  He clutched the wheel and careened around a bend. “I’m going as fast as I can!” he shouted over his shoulder. He could barely hear her painful groan.

  Jerry rounded another curve, and the car skidded onto the muddy shoulder before he regained control. Mary once more cried out from the backseat, and Jerry turned to look as lightning rippled across the sky. He could see her face contorted in pain.

  “Hang on,” he yelled, “only a few more miles.”

  “I . . . can’t. It’s . . . it’s coming! The baby—”

  He blew out his cheeks and swung his attention back to driving just in time to glimpse a small fawn standing in the road, its eyes caught glassy and fixed in the headlights of the Packard. In a split second he calculated the risk of hitting the animal, determining it was too small to even slow them down.

  “Your loss, stupid animal!” he shouted in frustration. The startled fawn, legs splayed, held fast like a small statue.

  Out of nowhere a large doe bolted into the beam of the headlights and shoved her baby out of harm’s way. Jerry cursed loudly and Mary screamed as the Packard slammed into the doe—and the animal flipped up over the hood of the car and crashed against the windshield, cracking the glass. The doe rolled off the hood while the sedan swerved off the asphalt, crashing through a barrier of cattails and wild chokeberry bushes and down the embankment toward a small lake. Jerry frantically pumped the brakes, but the wheels locked up as the car gained momentum and slid down the rain-soaked slope.

  In moments the car reached the bottom and rolled right into the dark lake. The flying lady went under first, and the deer’s blood washed away as water sloshed over the hood ornament, back over the silver wings, and rippled up the hood. Steam sizzled around the submerged engine, and as the water rose through the floorboards, Jerry could hear himself yelling. He felt the wetness swirl around his ankles, then creep up over his knees.

  His frenzied but futile attempts to open the door increased the panic that had him by the throat. Finally bracing one hand on the steering wheel, he used the other to turn the crank and lower the window. His apprehension overpowered all reason as the front end of the car dipped even lower and Mary started to scream his name. In waterlogged clothes and shoes, he struggled to maneuver out the driver’s window.

  His limbs felt like lead as he lurched and slid on the slick muck. He grabbed the back-door handle and hollered at Mary, “I can’t open it! Roll down the window!”

  She screamed again, and he could see the water enveloping her belly and rising up her thin cotton dress. Her hands, encased in white cotton gloves, were splayed over the blue material like clouds. He pounded on the window. “Listen to me, Mary! Open the window!” He watched as she caught her breath between labor pains and saw her reach toward the window crank, but then almost immediately cry out again. Her hand clenched in a fist against her belly as the steadily rising water moved farther up her body.

  He fought to stay near the car as the water inched up to her chin, but the weight of his soaked shirt, pants, and shoes pulled at him too as the car slipped farther downward. For one brief moment, he could see her terror-filled eyes through the watery glass. He saw her spit out the lake
and tip her head back to keep her face in the small pocket of air near the roof of the car. He fought to lift his shoes from the sucking lake bed as he turned and slogged his way toward the shore, collapsing on its edge in the mud.

  As water finished filling the last few inches of space in the car, Mary was finishing the journey of her pregnancy even as her world went completely black.

  Raindrops splashed into the lake—tiny pits silently marring its smooth surface. The wind that churned the air was nonexistent from below, lending an eerie calm to the water. The world above was muffled, a surreal distance that seemed impossible to reach.

  The moon slipped out of its shroud of clouds just as a tiny infant broke through the surface of the lake, cleansed from birth by the water, held in the strong, protective arms of his mother.

  MY STORY IS AS UNIQUE AS MY BIRTH—and so is the fact that I could not tell it to you until now. But even as I give you this account, it isn’t me I want you to focus on—rather, it’s my mother. My mother is where the heart of this story lies.

  Chapter Two

  Brewster, Minnesota

  JANUARY 1938

  HE CAME INTO VIEW LIKE A BIRD in flight against a wash of cerulean blue. Dark eyes fringed with black lashes above red apple cheeks stared up at the sky. A tuft of dark hair hung below a green woolen cap, and a long scarf streamed out behind him. Once again the pendulum motion sent him skyward, then, giving gravity its due, he flew back the other way only to reappear seconds later.

  Hand-knitted green mittens, matching the cap and scarf, enveloped the small hands wrapped tightly around the steel chains. As the swing changed course, his dark eyes closed against the motion, but a small smile played on the lips of seven-year-old Jack Sinclair, flying as high as his mother could push him. As she shifted her boots in the snow, the swish of the swing was interrupted by the crunch of ice crystals under her feet.

  Brewster Community Park was filled with children and parents enjoying a mid-January thaw that was nothing short of glorious. A beguiling sun in the winter sky lured the hardy outside with the promise of more warmth than it could actually deliver. But its brightness elevated moods and broke the hold of cabin fever that had claimed the whole town for weeks. The large thermometer outside Lundberg Bank on First Street read thirty-four degrees—positively balmy after many days of subzero temperatures.

  Mary Sinclair held the chains of the swing until it stopped, then helped Jack off the wooden seat. Several young mothers standing at the far end of the swing set occasionally glanced in Mary’s direction as they talked quietly among themselves. Their children played boisterously together nearby—running in the snow, packing snowballs and hurling them at each other, squealing with the sheer freedom of being outside. Mary paid neither group any heed—her full attention was on her son as she took his mittened hand and walked him from the swing to the slide, then to the merry-go-round that groaned and creaked from the cold when she ran in circles to keep it moving. Jack smiled as he watched the world spin past, his face turned into the wind, the earflaps of his green wool cap flapping in the breeze. Mary laughed as she pulled the merry-go-round to a stop.

  “Let’s make snow angels,” she said as she helped him down. She sat in the snow and gently pulled him onto the sugar-like crystals that covered the dormant winter grass.

  “You lie there,” she said, motioning with her hands as she lay down on her side next to him, “and move your arms and legs like this.” She shifted his left arm and leg back and forth until he got the rhythm and began to move his right arm and leg in the same way.

  She grinned at him. “Look at you. You’re making wings.” She plopped back on the snow and made her own snow angel.

  Jack stilled beside her, staring straight above him as a cloud skimmed along on a wave of wind. Mother and son stayed motionless in the snow, ignoring the cold that seeped through their coats.

  “It’s so pretty,” Mary said quietly, her eyes too on the sky. She watched her breath as she blew out a puff of air that quickly turned into its own tiny cloud in the cold, then evaporated into the atmosphere. Like so many things in life—there one second, gone the next.

  She felt the chilly wind on her cheeks as it ruffled her long hair, the same color as her mother’s, like dark cherrywood. It had escaped her own woolen hat and fanned out on the snow. In that moment, as she sat up and grabbed her son’s hand, she felt like a young woman in love with life. She pulled Jack to his feet and smiled at him, laying a gloved finger on the tip of his nose. He smiled back, and she drew her finger up the bridge of his nose to his forehead, then traced a heart around his face.

  “I . . . love . . . you.” His eyes never left her face as she knelt to brush the snow from his jacket. Tiny diamond glints of ice sifted to the ground beneath them as she got to her feet and again slipped her hand around her son’s.

  “Let’s go home where it’s warm, Jack,” she told him as a shadow passed over the park. She looked up to see the sky becoming an ambient winter blue dotted with heavy, wet clouds. The day had drifted toward evening when she wasn’t looking, and she shivered at the dropping temperatures. She pushed up the sleeve of her coat to look at her watch. “We’d better get going,” she told the boy, giving a little tug on his arm.

  He went along compliantly—the two of them making their way back across the park as the shadows above broadened over the ground. It started to snow, the flakes big and fat as they swirled around, eventually settling on their shoulders and coating their hats and scarves with lacey patterns. But Mary’s lightheartedness deserted her with each step that brought them closer to home.

  “Watch your step, Jack. It’s getting pretty slippery,” she warned. Her hand tightened around his as they crossed a street in an industrial section of town. The new snow whirled around them in the wind, covering the streets and frozen ground. Her cheeks felt tight from the cold. “I think we’ll have hot chocolate at home. Sound good?”

  They made a turn from the street into an alleyway, a shortcut Mary didn’t normally use but now welcomed in light of the weather. They moved past trash receptacles and double doors of corrugated metal. The two neared a large truck, where a man, the brim of his gray fedora catching the snow, prepared to lift the rear door of the vehicle. Metal screeched against metal, startling Mary at the jarring sound, but Jack didn’t flinch. A stocky, barrel-chested man with neither cap nor jacket carried an upholstered ottoman from the delivery doors of the building to the now-open truck bay.

  “This it, then?” the stocky man grunted as he hefted the ottoman to join several other pieces of furniture, protected by green felt moving blankets.

  “For now, but we’ve gotta wait on a chair that won’t be ready till seven-thirty,” the other man answered as he rolled the metal door down with a bang. “We’ll leave after that.”

  “Seven-thirty!? We’re gonna be driving all night long now,” the stocky man objected.

  “Stop yer complaining. At least we got jobs,” the man in the fedora shot back. He tipped his hat as Mary moved past with Jack.

  “Afternoon, miss,” he said, “and little mister.” Mary nodded at him with a quick smile, and she hurried her son down the alley that put them just one street away from their own neighborhood.

  By the time they had completed the shortcut and arrived at the front of their small house—no more than a cottage, really—on Cedar Avenue, the fresh snow had already covered the ground and made the old gray soot-marred drifts look white again. From the sidewalk, Mary could see a note tacked to the front entrance. At the door she pulled it off quickly, as she would a bandage stuck to her skin, and shoved the paper into her pocket while hurrying Jack into the house.

  They stood on a rug near the front door while she helped Jack pull off his galoshes. She quickly toed off her overshoes and shrugged out of her coat, leaving her gloves on. He patiently stood motionless while she began to remove his cap, scarf, and mittens—and then she realized she was shivering.

  “It’s nearly as cold in here as it
is outside,” she said with a shake of her head, hurrying Jack back into his outerwear. “We’ll keep our coats on awhile.” She slipped back into her own wrap and went to a thermostat on the wall, where she could see the mercury stuck way too low under the hard plastic. She gave it a firm rap with her knuckles, the noise muted by her gloves, and was rewarded with a weak sound from below as the gas furnace kicked on.

  “Crummy old furnace,” she grumbled. “I’ll be battling you all night just to keep you going.” She led Jack into the kitchen and seated him at the small Formica-topped table with a pile of wooden blocks. “Here you go, Jack,” she said, leaning down to catch his eye. She saw a spark of interest as she placed one block on top of another. “Do it just like I showed you before.” She took his hand and curled his fingers around a block—then lifted it to help him stack it on another block. “See there. You did it.” She watched as he moved by rote, grabbing another block and stacking it on the first two. Though never sure if or when he might follow her lead, she now smiled her satisfaction and made her way to the Frigidaire to pull out a bottle of milk.

  Most days, Mary wished for simple conversation, but she settled for music. She clicked on the Philco on the counter, and immediately the strains of Bing Crosby singing “Pennies from Heaven” filled the small room. While she heated milk on the stove, she put a few squares of a Hershey’s candy bar on a plate near the burner, which quickly pooled into a melted puddle. She mixed the milk and melted chocolate into two mugs. Putting one of them in front of Jack, she sat down with her own and felt the paper crinkle in her coat pocket. She sighed, pulled it out, and smoothed it against the table.

  She rubbed at her forehead, feeling the lines furrowed there. “Just read it,” she chided herself aloud. “Waiting won’t change the words. Pick it up and get on with it!” She snatched up the note and read the message—twice. She shook her head slowly, the rush of uncertainty and fear she’d been battling for months attacking with renewed vigor.

  “What are we going to do? What?” Preoccupied, it took her a few moments to realize Jack wasn’t drinking his hot chocolate but was holding on to the tip of his tongue. With a pang, she reached for his mug and took a tentative sip.