He was a little boy who’d spent the past few years of his short life mostly with his mother. And now she was gone. Forever. There must be some way to comfort him.
“Maybe you’ll see your mother in heaven some day,” she offered. To her chagrin, Ryan’s eyes began to fill with tears.
“That stuff’s for suckers,” he said, swallowing a sob.
Perched on the edge of the bed, Brianne took his small hand and gazed at him. No matter how lost, how far from God she’d felt since her mother’s death, she knew she should try to give the child some semblance of hope. “Oh, honey, Jesus said heaven was real. Who told you it wasn’t?”
“My mama.”
“How about your daddy? What does he think?”
Ryan shook his head. “Mama said he was stupid ’cause he believed all that ch-church stuff.”
“I see.”
Brianne’s vision misted with tears of empathy, of sympathy, for everyone involved. She wished mightily for the words to reassure the grieving child but found none. There was no way to go back and change things for Ryan and his brother, any more than she could change the painful facts of her mother’s demise, no matter how much she wanted to. All she could do at this point was continue to offer honest compassion and hope for the best.
She leaned down to kiss his cheek, then stood. “Go to sleep, honey. You’ve had a rough night. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
The child sniffled and nodded.
“Good. Sleep tight.”
Fleeing the room, Bree barely made it to the hallway before tears spilled out to trickle down her cheeks. She leaned against the wall and dashed them away.
“Those poor children. What can I do? How can I help them?”
Thoughts of turning to prayer immediately assailed her. She disregarded the urge. All the prayers in the world hadn’t helped her come to grips with her mother’s suicide. Where had God been when she’d been a lost, grieving twelve-year-old, weeping for the one person who had truly loved her? How could she hope to help anyone else cope with tragedy when she hadn’t been able to help herself?
The only positive thing was what Ryan had said about his father. If Mitch Fowler was committed to Christ enough to raise his late wife’s ire, that was a definite plus. At least he’d be able to counsel his children based on his personal faith, which was a whole lot better than the self-centered reactions she’d gotten from her father in the midst of her despair.
Bree didn’t see the Bible as a magical cure-all the way some people did, as in, “Take two verses and call the doctor in the morning,” but she did believe it could be useful for sorting out life’s problems, including how best to raise kids. And judging by what she’d learned so far, Mitch was going to need all the help he could get, human or otherwise.
Bree pushed away from the wall and straightened. Though she didn’t understand what her part in the children’s healing might be, she felt included somehow.
That, alone, was a miracle.
A rather disturbing one.
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