Heartache and Hope (5 page)

“Who're you?” The child's halo of blonde curls bobbed as sapphire-blue eyes framed an impish smile that caused the dimples at each cheek to deepen.

“I'm Daylin. And what's your name, sweetie?”

“Aubree.”

“Hello.” Daylin offered the child her hand. “You sure are a cutie.”

“Daddy says so, too.” Curls spilled over slight shoulders as she bounced in the cushioned seat across from Daylin. She gazed over the tabletop with such a pure, sweet innocence that Daylin's heart melted right there on the spot. “Do you know my daddy?”

“Who is your daddy?”

“Him.” She jabbed a finger toward the front of the room, indicating Patrick. “Daddy.”

Patrick had a child? How? When? Questions swam through Daylin's mind as she addressed the child's query. “I used to know your daddy a long time ago, before you were born. We were friends.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“This is my Gran.” The child's finger pointed to Frannie. “Do you know her, too?”

“I do.”

“I'm gonna be six in Feb'rary.” As if to prove it, Aubree splayed a full hand of stubby fingers and added one thumb. “How 'bout you? How old are you gonna be?”

“Aubree, hush.” Frannie shushed her with a gentle tap on the shoulder. “It's not polite to ask a grown woman her age, sweetheart.”

“Why not?” Aubree propped her chin on an upturned palm and toed the edge of the booth with a foot clad in sparkly pink tennis shoes. “Don't she have birfdays, too?”

“
Doesn't
she, and yes, I'm sure Daylin has birthdays.” Frannie handed Aubree a tissue and pointed to her nose. “Give it a swipe to clean the pipes.”

“Oh, Gran…that's funny.” Aubree giggled while dutifully, she blew into the tissue and then dabbed at her face.

“It's OK.” Daylin laughed at the innocent question. “Of course I have birthdays. I'm…well, let's see if you can figure it out for yourself. Here's a clue.” She flashed three tens slowly and then added one finger to the mix. “I'll be this many on my next birthday.”

“Wow…that's bunches.” Aubree's lips curved into a little
oh
, deepening the dimples at her cheeks. She murmured under her breath, counting to herself. “Thirty-one, right?”

“That's right. You're very good at counting. Next time I blow out the candles, I'll be thirty-one.”

“You're lucky. I'll bet you get to stay up 'til ten o'clock every night if you want to. Daddy says my bedtime's eight o'clock sharp 'cept for tonight 'cause this meeting's really 'portant. And sometimes I can watch a movie with him 'til nine, but only on Saturdays.”

“Goodness!” Frannie laughed, low and throaty. “My, but you're a chatterbox tonight.” She glanced Daylin's way. “I'm sorry. She's not usually this rambunctious with people she's just met. I think she's taken a shine to you.”

“What's a shine?” Aubree asked.

“That means you like Daylin.”

“Oh, yes…lots.” Aubree punctuated the matter-of-fact assertion with a single firm nod of her head as she studied Daylin. “You have pretty hair.”

“Thank you.” Daylin sipped the coffee, very carefully now, that Vera had just poured into her mug. “It's called strawberry blonde.”

“'cause it's made of strawberries?” Aubree leaned in to sniff the strands.

“No.” Laughter bubbled up. Daylin's gaze drifted to Frannie, who grinned as well. Their bond was instantaneous, as if they'd never missed a day of seeing one another, and Daylin felt a sudden, deep sense that she'd made the right decision in coming here tonight. “It's not made of strawberries.”

“Well, it
smells
good.” Aubree cocked an eyebrow and scrunched her nose. “Can I touch it?”

“Sure, you can.”

“Thanks.” Without missing a beat, Aubree leaned across the seat to snatch a few strands that slipped across Daylin's forehead. Her breath was audible as she rubbed the wisps between her fingers. The scent of apple shampoo drifted, and Daylin noticed a smudge of chocolate ice cream painting Aubree's upper lip. “Is your hair real?”

“Aubree!” Frannie's admonishment was quick and stern. Creases formed along the edges of the older woman's narrowed eyes as she leaned in to bring an end to the conversation. “Hush, now. That's enough.”

Patrick turned their way, his gaze questioning the firm tone of Frannie's voice. Obviously, it wasn't a tone that was used with great frequency.

“It's OK.” Daylin dismissed both Patrick's concerned gaze and the fact that Frannie appeared positively mortified by the bold question. “You can ask me anything you want, Aubree.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned in to address the inquisitive child. Her voice held an air of invitation. “What do you mean by real, honey?”

Aubree leaned in as well, narrowing the distance between them to mere inches. She lifted her chin and inspected the crown of Daylin's head. “Well, there's a lady at church with hair like yours and Gran says it comes once a month in a box. Did you get your hair from a box?”

“No.” Daylin laughed heartily as she smoothed a hand over the length of the strands. “I got it from my mom and dad. I was born with it.”

“Oh, so it's g'netic?”

“Yes, it's genetic.”

“My CF is g'netic, too. Daddy said so. It's like wearing the other kind of jeans, like pants, 'cept you can't take CF off, even on Christmas or when you go swimming. It's there all the time.”

“Oh, my…” Daylin pressed a hand to her mouth as the words sank in. Such a simple explanation for something so heart-wrenchingly complicated. Her gaze rose to connect with Frannie's, and the woman's slight nod confirmed what Daylin had just learned.

Aubree—Patrick's child—was born with Cystic Fibrosis.

For the slightest moment, Daylin found it hard to breathe as her heart squeezed with the realization of all that meant. “I didn't know.”

“It's OK.” Aubree smiled and pushed back hair from her furrowed brow. “Daddy says I'm not wearing a label.”

“No, sweetie, you're not.” Tears turned Daylin's eyes to stinging coal. She swiped the moisture away just as quickly as it came so as not to frighten Aubree.

“Wanna play tic-tac-toe?” Obviously satisfied with Daylin's answers concerning the state of her hair and her reason for joining them tonight, Aubree was ready to move on to the next adventure. She turned over the kids' menu on the table in front of her and clutched a pair of crayons tightly in her small, chubby fist. “Daddy taught me how.”

“Sure.” Daylin struggled with the word. “I'd love to play if we can also listen to your daddy explain about what I need to do to get ready to run the race.” She picked up the orange crayon. “I want to hear all the details. It's pretty important stuff.”

“Are you gonna run with Daddy for me and the other kids?”

“I'm going to try.”

“So the doctors can learn a cure?” Aubree swiped at her nose with the tissue once more. “Daddy says they're gettin' pretty close.”

“Yes, I'm going to do my best to run the race for you and your friends.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Daylin rested her chin in an upturned palm and squinted at Aubree. “Is it hard, having CF?”

“Sometimes.” Aubree scratched her nose and sniffled. “I don't like going to all the doctors even though Daddy says they're just tryin' to help.” Aubree kicked the table leg with her tennis shoes as she drew a wobbly grid on the paper. “It's prob'ly not as hard as getting hair from a box once a month.”

“I'm not so sure about that.” Despite the levity of their conversation, a smile danced across Daylin's lips. “Then again, I've never experienced either.”

“What about a marathon?”

“Nope.”

“I can help. Sometimes I go with Daddy when he's training. I have a jogging stroller from his store. It has a cover so the sun don't hurt my eyes. I hold Daddy's water bottle and cheer for him. I can carry your water bottle and cheer for you, too, if you'd like me to.”

“I'd like that very much.”

“'kay. But you'll have to get some running shoes.” She pointed to Daylin's leather knee boots. “You can't run in those—no siree. They'll give you shin splints. I know all about those.”

“I'll bet you do.”

“Uh huh. Daddy can help you find a pair of good running shoes. He's got lots an' lots of shoes at his store. I like the pink ones with yellow lightning bolts best.”

“Pink sounds nice. I'll be sure to ask your daddy for help, then.” New shoes sounded like a good plan. If she continued to run in the worn out pair she owned, shin splints would be the least of her worries. And a water bottle, well…she hadn't even considered that. What else was she missing?

“Let's play now.” Aubree pointed to the grid on the paper. “We can be real quiet while Daddy talks—like those people with the painted white faces, the ones I saw at the circus when Daddy took me last month. They don't talk—ever.”

“You mean mimes?”

“Yeah, mimes. Sometimes Daddy says I should be more like a mime, but I like to talk.” She slid the paper toward Daylin then pressed a single finger to her lips. “
Shhhh
, Daddy's startin' the meeting. Here you go. I'll be X's and you be O's. You can go first.”

****

Patrick spoke to the moderate-sized crowd as if on auto-pilot. This was his tenth marathon training group, with smaller races and fundraisers nestled in between, and he knew the introductory spiel and high-points well enough to run on autopilot. The tight-knit network gathered here had grown over the past half-decade, which was a blessing to fundraising, yet devoured his time like an insatiable beast. That wasn't such a bad thing, though. The lack of idle time gave him less time to think, to reminisce—to worry over what the future might bring.

One of Sandra's favorite adages danced through his mind,
“Begin the morning with a song and a prayer and the rest of the day will take care of itself.”
She'd written the words on a notecard and pasted it to the fridge with a magnet, where it remained today. Always the optimist, so strong in her faith, she'd been light to his darkness and calm to his storm. Now the light was gone and the storms seemed to rage without ceasing.

Enough whining.
The words were a sharp bark in Patrick's head. Then, more gently,
Be strong and of good courage
. Joshua 1:9 came to him like a breath of warm air.

OK, I can do this. I
need
to do this.
Patrick composed himself and let the thrill of this new challenge wash over him. It was like this each time…nerves and apprehension, when he managed to corral them, gave way to a sense of excitement over piloting a new team of volunteers. He scrubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw as he took a moment to survey the group.

Carol and Don Metzer had settled into a back corner, their son Seth in the booth seat between them. The boy, also diagnosed with CF as well as allergies to gluten and a host of other foods, was a year younger than Aubree and his journey much more difficult. Patrick had met Carol and Don two years ago while both Aubree and Seth were hospitalized at the same time. Somewhere during their initial conversation the couple had hopped aboard the Dash for a Dream train. Today, they remained ardent supporters.

Julie Tessle hadn't made it to this meeting—her son, Jonah, had been admitted to Children's Hospital just last night with a case of pneumonia. As it stood, things were touch-and-go. Patrick made a mental note to stop by the hospital on his way home from work tomorrow to lend his support to the young, single mother.

Many other familiar faces were scattered throughout a crowd of newcomers—about thirty-five in all. Some had been all-in with the cause since the inception of Dash for the Dream four years ago, helping out where needed and running every race that came down the pike. Others worked behind the scenes, like Lorena Dixon, who battled rheumatoid arthritis but still managed to single-handedly pilot the Dash for the Dream website and promotional pages. She'd never charged a dime for her services and always turned away Patrick's offers of compensation. He knew she helped out of the goodness of her heart.

And, of course, there was his mom. She'd stepped in to help after Sandra passed away, caring for Aubree as needed while Patrick managed his store, and then home-schooling. They shared an easy relationship—except for the fairly-infrequent times when she tried to add matchmaker to her list of duties.

“You can't keep hiding away, Patrick, working alone in the store most days and then spending another hour or two, alone, running.”

“I can't help it if running is a solitary sport.”

“Yes, you can. Participate in some group runs. At least then you'll have others to talk to while you train.”

“I like running alone.”

“And I like barbecue potato chips, but their simply empty calories.”

“I'm not talking about food, Mom.”

“Neither am I.”

“Everything's changed now.”

“Yes, it has. But change doesn't have to be a bad thing, son. It's just…different.” She's waggled a finger at him. “Will you at least consider branching out a bit?”

“Yes, Mom…I will.” Patrick sighed. “I promise I'll add a group run or two to my training schedule.”

“And perhaps a meal out from time to time…a bit of adult conversation that doesn't revolve around Aubree…or work?”

“If you insist. Now, please…let it go.”

Though her meddling got to him at times, Patrick could overlook the irritation since Aubree absolutely adored her gran. And she was right…Patrick knew in his heart there was some truth to his mother's words. He was hiding out in his comfort zone. Perhaps it was time to breach the barriers.