Chapter One
There's a question that haunts me in the blackest hours of night,
when wasted moments crowd my dreams and mock the life I
know. The question is this: How could a child born of privilege
and promise grow up with nothing?
I was Somebody when I was born. Lizzie, my twin, says we
were heiresses all along. "Our grandfather was a billionaire," she
says. "Just think of it, Kara!" There were newspaper articles
about us when we were three. They called us the "Billion Dollar
Babies."
But these Billion Dollar Babies wore Goodwill hand-me-downs.
We ate dry cereal most nights for supper, right out of
the box, picking out the raisins to save for our school lunches
the next day. In my memory, we never formally observed
a birthday, because no one around us considered that day'
worthy of celebration. We were worthless no accounts to most
of the people in town.
But all along we had an inheritance that no one told us was
ours.
I sometimes try to remember back to the days before we
were three, but my memories are tainted with the lies I've been
taught and the pictures I've seen. I can't quite sift out real recollections
from my faulty assumptions, but I do know that the
things I've laid out here are true. Not because I remember
them, but because I've studied all the sides, heard all the tales,
read all the reports . and a few things have emerged with
absolute clarity.
The first thing is that my father, Jack Holbrooke, was the
son of the Paul Holbrooke, who did something with microchips
and processors, things I can't begin to understand, and amassed
a fortune before he was thirty. My father, Jack, got religion in
his teens and decided he didn't want to play the part of the rich
son. He became a pilot instead, bought a plane, and began flying
charter flights and giving lessons. He disowned himself
from the Holbrooke money and told his father that, instead of
leaving any of it to him in his will, he preferred that he donate
it to several evangelical organizations who provided relief and.
shared the gospel to people all over the world.
My grandfather tolerated his zeal and noted his requests,
then promptly ignored them.
My mother, Sherry, was a teen runaway, who left Barton,
Mississippi, at fifteen to strike out on her own. She wound up
living with a kind family in Jackson, and she got religion, too.
She met my father in Jackson, when he put an ad in the paper
for some office help at his hangar, and they fell in love around
the time she was nineteen or so. They got married and had
Lizzie and me less than a year later.
She was killed in a car wreck when we were just weeks old.
Our father raised us himself for the next three years. I've seen
pictures of him, and he looks like a kind, gentle man who
laughed a lot. There are snapshots of him kissing us, dunking
us like basketballs in his father's pool, chasing us across the
lawn of the little house we lived in, reading us books, tucking
us in. There are three birthday photos of our father lying on
the floor with two cake-smeared redheads tearing into boxes
of Barbies and Cabbage Patch dolls.
Sometimes I close my eyes and think hard, trying to bring
back those moments, and for a while I convince myself that they
are not just images frozen on paper, but they're live events in my
head somewhere. I even think I can smell that cake and feel my
father's stubbled face against mine. I can hear his laughter shaking
through me and feel his arms holding me close.
But in truth, my memories don't reach that far back.
I don't even think I remember Amanda. Lizzie says she has
more impressions of her than memories, that the snapshots just
bring those impressions into clearer focus. I guess that's true
with me, too.
But I wish I could remember when she met our father and
us, how she wound up being his wife, how she was widowed
and robbed of her children, and how she spent her life trying
to keep a promise she had made to him . and to us.
But, according to Lizzie, truth is truth, whether it lies in
your memory banks or not. So I'll start with Amanda's story,
the way it was told to me, because it is very much the beginning
of mine.
Chapter Two
My father was playing guitar the first time Amanda saw him.
He sat on a metal folding chair at the corner of the crowded rec
room, watching the animated faces and soaking in the laughter
around them as he strummed some tune that she didn't know.
She would later tell that her eyes were drawn to the red hair
that was in dire need of a cut; the open flannel shirt, its tails
draping down along the sides of the chair, a plain white T-shirt
beneath it; jeans that looked as if they'd been washed a dozen
times too many; and torn, dirty tennis shoes that spoke of age
and overuse.
Her best friend, Joan, who'd attended the Bible study for
single professionals for several months, told her he was a pilot.
But Amanda knew little else about him.
When the group had been called to order, people found
places to sit along couches and rocking chairs in the big, rustic
room. Amanda chose a spot near the guitar player and sat on
the floor with her arms hugging her knees. He smiled at her
and kept strumming.
The leader turned the meeting over to him, and he began
to lead the group in praise songs and rock-revved hymns, and
she finally heard the voice, deep and gentle, unadorned, as it
brought them all into worship. When he'd finished singing
and playing, he put the guitar down and took a place beside
her on the floor. His presence birthed a sweet homesickness
inside her for something she couldn't name. She had known
right then that he held some treasure that belonged to her, one
she longed to unearth and possess.
When the meeting was over, he held out a hand. "Name's
Jack."
"Nice to meet you, Jack." She shook his hand, feeling the
guitar calluses on his fingertips against the bottom of her hand.
"I'm-"
"Don't tell me. Let me guess." He held tight to her hand.
"I once worked at a fair and did this for a living."
"What? Played guitar?"
"No," he said, "guessed names. Now don't tell me. I can do
this. I'm psychotic, you know."
She laughed. "You mean psychic?"
"Yeah, that, too." He winked as he gazed into her eyes.
"Let's see. I'm getting an A."
Her eyes widened.
"An M."
She snatched her hand from his.
"Amanda!" he blurted.
"How did you know that?"
"I told you."
"I know. You're psychotic. But really. How?"
Grinning, he picked his guitar back up. "I asked somebody
when you came in."
Her face grew warm as he rose, took her hand, and pulled
her to her feet. He was a good seven inches taller than she.
"So how do you feel about chocolate milkshakes?" he asked.
"Tell you the truth, I haven't given it a whole lot of
thought."
"Well, you should. Now aren't you grateful I came along to
get you thinking about it?"
"Are you asking me to go have a milkshake with you?"
"I was trying to be a little more suave than to ask straight
out, but yes," he said, "I was asking you for a date."
Though he'd charmed her quickly and thoroughly, he grew
more serious over their shakes as he showed her pictures of
Lizzie and me. Her heart sank that a man so young already
had the baggage of divorce to drag around. "So how did you
get custody?"
"Custody?" He frowned, then his eyebrows arched. "Oh,
no, you don't understand. I'm not divorced. My wife died."
The smile on her face collapsed. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay." His voice was soft, and he swallowed as if the
memories still went down hard. "It happened three years ago,
when they were just babies. Car accident. I've gone through all
the textbook stages of grief. I'm in the acceptance stage now."
Though his words sounded flip, she could see in his eyes that
they didn't come easily.
"So you've been raising the twins alone ever since?"
"That's right. But they're doing great."
Quiet beat out the seconds between them, and finally, he
said, "So how's the shake?"
"Everything I hoped." Her face grew warm, and she had to
look away.
He took her back to the retreat center and held her hand
as he walked her to her car. "If you'd agree to let me buy you
dinner this weekend, I could introduce you to Stapley's Steak-on-a-Stick.
It's the favorite of all your best amateur guitar
players."
She was twenty-five years old, but felt as giddy as a fourteen-year-old
with a crush. "I'd love to have dinner with you, Jack.
And as good as the Steak-on-a-Stick sounds, I'd rather be introduced
to your girls."
He laughed then. "No kidding?"
"Why would I be kidding?"
"Because they don't exactly make for a quiet, peaceful meal,
if you know what I mean."
"I love children," she said.
"Okay, but you asked for it. Tell you what. You can come to
my house, and the girls and I will cook dinner for you. How's
that sound? We make a mean spaghetti."
She fished through her purse for something to write on.
"Just give me an address and a time, and I'll be there. Only let
me bring something."
"The girls would be downright insulted if you did. Besides,
how can we impress you if we let you help?"
She started the car, still laughing under her breath. "All
right. I'll see you then."
He wrote down the address and gave it to her through the
door, then took her hand from the steering wheel and kissed it
with Rhett Butler finesse.
She wore a silly smile as she drove away.
That night, she lay awake in bed thinking about this man
with two little girls whom she hadn't expected to enter her life.
He wasn't the kind of man she was looking for. Her checklist
of "Mate Traits" did not include a previous marriage or three-year-old
girls. But here she was, her mind and heart lingering
on him, keeping her from a moment's sleep.
She couldn't wait to thank Joan for taking her to the Bible
study.
"It'll be a good boost for you, Amanda," Joan had said. "It's
kept me grounded for a long time now, and it's fun. You need.
to get out and meet some people, get your mind off of your
problems."
Amanda's problems weren't that easy to put behind her,
however. They were significant, and lingering, and there were
times when she found herself sinking into a mire of depression.
Her lifeline had been the Scripture passages she had
committed to memory.
"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And
through the rivers, they will not overflow you. When you walk
through the fire, you will not be scorched, Nor will the flame burn you. "
Isaiah 43:2 had proven true in her life, just as Deuteronomy
31:6 had: "Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or tremble at
them, for the Lord your God is the one who goes with you. He will
not fail you or forsake you."
When she'd found herself going under, she had grabbed
hold of those words, and they had slowly pulled her out until she
could breathe and look up with gratitude, instead of down with
self-pity.
The uterine cancer was behind her now. Surgery and six
months of chemo had taken care of that. Her hair had grown
back in just as thick and blonde as it was before the cancer, and
it had finally reached a length that didn't advertise her condition.
The color had returned to her face, and she no longer
looked emaciated and sick.
But the effects of the disease remained. She would never
have children, at least not of her womb. It was the one thing
she'd wanted in her life-a real family of her own, one that could
erase all the longings of her past and make her feel safe and
part of things.
She was reconciled to adopting children when she was
ready . but her fears remained. After all, what man would
want to marry a woman who couldn't bear him children?
Her father tried to turn her plight into a positive. "Honey,
this is a great filter for the men who don't deserve you. Either
they love you the way you ought to be loved, or they hit the
road. The Lord knows what He's doing."
Could it be that the Lord had a guitar-playing pilot with
twin daughters in mind for her?
That question stayed with her for the next several days as
she waited for Saturday to come.
* * *
My father prepared us for her visit the way one would prepare
a classroom for a visit from a queen. He told us that a "very
nice, very pretty lady" wanted to meet us, and that she was
especially fond of little girls with curly red hair.
By the time Saturday night came, we were ready and
waiting, decked out in our best garb and all atwitter with
anticipation.
She rang the bell fifteen minutes early.
My father opened the door, that trademark grin on his face.
We stood just behind him, peeking through his legs at the
woman who was everything he'd described. "Thank goodness,"
he said. "I forgot to ask for your phone number, so I couldn't
confirm that you were coming. I figured you would have come
to your senses by now and backed out, but I was praying you'd
show up anyway."
Amanda pegged us right then as Anne Geddes material,
with our big blue eyes and red mops of Shirley Temple curls.
Lizzie wore a Cinderella dress and a tiara on her head. My
tastes were more eclectic: a straw fedora, a hot pink feather boa,
a brown sweater, and cobalt blue leggings.
"They dressed up for you." My father had a laugh on the
edge of his voice. "Lizzie's Cinderella, and Kara's some cross
between Crocodile Dundee and Zsa Zsa Gabor."
She stooped down and got eye level with us. "Look at you,"
she said. "You look exactly alike. I'm glad you dressed up so I
could tell you apart."
"We made ba-sketti." Lizzie grabbed Amanda's hand and
pulled her inside. "Wanna see?"
"And we're off." My father laughed as he closed the door
and followed our lead.
Amanda would remember for years how the bubble of
delight floated up in her chest as she followed us into the
kitchen. She saw one chair pulled up to the sink, and another
to the counter. Lizzie climbed onto the chair in front of the
sink full of suds.
"Lizzie likes to wash dishes," my father said with a wink,
"so I have her washing these jars of spaghetti sauce. Not that
we used them, you understand."
"No, of course not."
"And Kara likes to stir. They're both very helpful." He
smiled a little too brightly and crossed his eyes.
I leaned a little too far, and the chair began to scoot away.
My father dove to rescue me as I fell. I didn't miss a beat, but
went back to stirring my salad.
"I'm impressed," she said. "How many rescues like that do
you handle at each meal?"
"Oh, four or five . dozen." He winked at her and popped
a piece of French bread into his mouth. "That's the beauty of a
tiny kitchen. I can reach either of them without too much effort."
I've driven by that little house we lived in and watched the
children who live there now run and tumble in the yard behind
it.
Continues.
