not necessarily a death sentence,” she told him. She’d done her homework. “There’ve been plenty of people who have had long remissions.”
He made another right turn, slowing his pace down to twenty miles an hour, then spared her a glance. “You’re still an optimist, even after working in third-world countries?”
Despite working in third-world countries, she corrected silently.
Working in Africa was what had started the ball rolling to her ultimately leaving the order. Ever since she’d been a child she’d been taught that God wasn’t to be questioned, that His ways weren’t to be measured by the same rules as those that were applied to the people He’d created.
But, try as she might, she just couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t completely lock away the horror and the feeling of disappointment she’d experienced, and kept experiencing, whenever she thought of all the children who had died of the plague in that one village. All the children she hadn’t been able to help.
She’d been sent there, she’d really believed, to act as an instrument of God—and still she couldn’t save them, couldn’t help.
Because He hadn’t helped.
These were all thoughts she couldn’t voice, couldn’t even find any relief by talking about to the people who could give her some insight into the matter. She knew she would be told she was being blasphemous. And maybe she was, but she couldn’t just accept that, in some way, God couldn’t be held accountable for all those young lives that had been cut so short.
Caleb glanced at her again and she realized that he was waiting for her to say something.
“Not as much of an optimist as I once was,” she finally replied, saying each word carefully.
“But you still are one,” he pointed out.
She supposed that was what kept her going, what made her still think that what she did made a difference in the grand scheme of things. “Yes.”
“Why?”
The single word was razor sharp. Was he challenging her? Or was he somehow asking her to give him an explanation so that he could find his way to optimism himself?
She did her best to make him understand. “Because without optimism, we can’t go on. Optimism is just hope dressed up in formal clothes. And without hope, the soul has nothing to cling to, the spirit dies.”
Caleb laughed shortly. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
Claire eyed this familiar stranger who’d reentered her life after all these years. His profile had gone rigid, as if he’d suddenly realized he’d just let something slip that wasn’t supposed to be exposed. Her need to help, to comfort, to make things better, surfaced instantly.
“Maybe you can tell me,” she coaxed.
“Sisters can hear confessions now?” Caleb said to her flippantly.
“Is it something you need to confess, Caleb?” she asked gently.
This was getting far too personal. He didn’t want her digging around in his life, even if her intentions were altruistic. “Just a play on words, Claire. I don’t have anything to confess.”
She regarded him for a long moment. “That would make you a minority of one.”
“No, just someone who doesn’t believe.” He squinted slightly as he tried to make out a street sign. This was the old development. He’d grown up here, but it had been a long time since he’d been back. His parents had moved shortly after Claire had left to join the order and he had had no reason to return.
“In confession?” she asked, although she had a feeling that his meaning was broader.
The next moment, her fears were confirmed. “In anything.”
There was loneliness in his words, whether he knew it or not. It horrified her that Caleb felt so alone, so adrift. But telling him that would only make things worse.
Still, she didn’t want to just drop the subject, either, so she tried to make light of it and hope that he’d wind up wanting to talk. “Well, that certainly is a sweeping statement.”
Where was all this coming from? He didn’t usually talk, much less open parts of himself up. Had to be because of what day it was, he thought.
I miss you, Jane. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get this serious.”
She hated to see any creature in pain, she always had. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”
“I don’t,” Caleb told her sharply. “Want to talk,” he clarified. “There’s nothing to talk about.” Pressing down on the gas pedal, he made short work of the last half block. “We’re here,” he announced.
Pulling up in the driveway beside the vintage vehicle her father had left her mother, he put his car into Park, but didn’t turn off the ignition. The car continued to hum quietly, like a tamed cheetah, waiting for the time it could stretch its legs again.
Claire got out of the car. She sensed that he wanted to make a quick getaway. Even so, she asked, “Would you like to come in for some coffee?”
Despite his desire to escape, he was tempted. For oldtimes’ sake. But he knew it was for the best if he just got going. So he shook his head. “I’m already pretty late.”
So he’d mentioned earlier, she thought. “Right. I’m sorry, I’m keeping you from your son and your wife.”
His expression darkened for a moment, as if something painful had gripped him in its claws, but he made no comment other than “G’night.”
The next second, he was pulling out of her driveway and speeding away.
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