Seeds of Yesterday (Dollanganger 4)

"Please, God, you can't do this to me, or to Chris! There's not a better man alive than Chris . . . you must know that . . ." And then I was sobbing. For my father had been a wonderful man, and that hadn't mattered. Fate didn't choose the unloved, the derelicts, the unneeded or unwanted. Fate was a bodiless form with a cruel hand that reached out randomly, carelessly, and seized up with ruthlessness.

They buried the body of my Christopher Doll, not in the Foxworth family plot, but in the cemetery where Paul, my mother, Bart's father, and Julian all lay under the earth. Not so far away was the small grave of Carrie.

Already I'd given the order to have the body of my father moved from that cold, hard, lonely ground in Gladstone, Pennsylvania so he, too, could lie with the rest of us. I thought he would like that, if he knew.

I was the last of the four Dresden dolls. Only me . . . and I didn't want to be here.

The sun was hot and bright. A day for fishing, for swimming, for playing tennis and having fun, and they put my Christopher in the ground.

I tried not to see him down there with his blue eyes closed forever. I stared at Bart, who spoke the eulogy with tears in his eyes. I heard his voice as if from a far-far distance, saying all the words he should have said when Chris was alive and he could have appreciated hearing those kind, loving words.

"It is said in the Bible," began Bart in that beautiful, persuasive voice he could use when he wanted, "that it is never too late to ask for forgiveness. I hope and pray this is true, for I will ask of this man who lies before me that his soul will look down from Heaven and forgive me for not being the loving, understanding son I could and should have been. This father, that I never accepted as my father, saved my life many times, and I stand here, shafted to my heart with all the guilt and shame of a wasted childhood and youth that could have made his life happier."

His dark head bowed so the sun made his hair and his falling tears gleam. "I love you, Christopher Sheffield Foxworth. I hope you hear me. I hope and pray you forgive me for being blind to what you were." Tears flowed down his cheeks. His voice turned hoarse. People started to cry.

Only I had dry eyes, a dry heart.

"Doctor Christopher Sheffield denied his surname of Foxworth," he went on when he found his voice again. "I know now he had to. He was a physician right up to his last moment, dedicated to doing what he could to relieve human suffering, while I, as his son, would deny him the right to be my substitute father. In humiliation, in remorse, and in shame, I bow my head and say this prayer . . ."

On and on he went while I closed my ears and turned away my eyes, gone numb from grief.

"Wasn't it a wonderful tribute, Mom?" asked Jory one dark day. "I cried, couldn't help it. Bart humbled himself, Mom, and in front of that huge crowd. I've never seen him humble before. You have to give him credit for doing that."

His dark blue eyes pleaded with me.

"Mom, you've got to cry, too. It's not right for you to just sit and stare into space. It's been two weeks now. You're not alone. You have us. Joel has flown back to that monastery to die there with that cancer he says he has. We'll never see him again. He wrote his last words, saying he didn't want to be buried on Foxworth ground. You have me, you have Toni, Bart, Cindy and your grandchildren. We love you and need you. The twins are wondering why you don't play with them. Don't shut us out. You've always bounced back after every tragedy. Come back this time. Come back to all of us--but come back mostly for Bart's sake, for if you allow yourself to grieve to death, you will destroy him."

For Bart's sake I stayed on in Foxworth Hall, trying to fit myself into a world that didn't really need me anymore.

Nine lonely months passed. In every blue sky I saw Chris's blue eyes. In everything golden I saw the color of his hair. I paused on the streets to stare at young boys who looked as Chris had at their ages; I stared at young men who reminded me of him when he was their age; I gazed longingly at the backs of tall, strong- looking men with blond hair going gray, wistfully hoping they'd turn and I'd see Chris smile at me again. They did turn sometimes, as if they felt the yearning hot blaze of my eyes, and I'd turn away my eyes, for they weren't him, not ever him.

I roamed the woods, the hills, feeling him beside me, just out of reach, but still beside me.

As I walked on and on alone, but for Chris's spirit, it came to me that there was a pattern in our lives, and nothing that had happened was coincidental.

In all ways possible Bart did what he could to bring me back to myself, and I smiled, forced myself to laugh, and in so doing I gave him peace and the confidence he'd always needed to give him a feeling of value.

Yet, yet, who and what was I now that Bart had found himself? That feeling of knowing the pattern grew and grew as I sat often alone in the grand elegance of Foxworth Hall.

Out of all the darkness, the anguish, the apparently hapless tragedies, and pathetic events of our lives, I finally understood. Why hadn't all of Bart's psychiatrists realized when he was young that he was testing, seeking, trying to find the role that suited him best? Through all that childhood agony, throughout his youth, he'd chiseled at his flaws ruthlessly, backing off the ugliness he believed marred his soul, steadfastly holding onto his credence that good eventually won over evil. And in his eyes, Chris and I had been evil.

Finally; at long last, Bart found his niche in the scheme of what had to be. All I had to do was turn on the TV on any Sunday morning and sometimes during midweek and I could see and hear my second son singing, preaching, acknowledged as the most mesmerizing evangelist in the world. Rapier-sharp, his words stabbed into the conscience of everyone, causing money to pour into his coffers by the millions. He used the money to spread his ministry.

Then came the surprise one Sunday morning of seeing Cindy rise and join Bart on the podium. Standing beside him, she linked her arm through his. Bart smiled proudly before he announced, "My sister and I dedicate this song to our mother. Mother, if you are watching, you'll know exactly how much this song means not only to both of us, but to you, as well."

Together, as brother and sister, they sang my favorite hymn . . . and a long time ago I'd given up on religion, thinking it wasn't for me when so many were bigoted, narrow-minded and cruel.

Yet, tears streaked my face . . . and I was crying. After all the months since Chris had been struck down on that highway, I was crying dry that bottomless well of tears.

Bart had hacked off the last rotten bit of Malcolm's genes and had left only the good. To create him, the paper flowers had bloomed in the

dusty attic.

To create him, fires had burned houses, our mother had died, our father, too . . . just to create the leader who would turn mankind away from the road to destruction.

I switched off the TV when Bart's program was over. His was the only one I watched. Not so far away, they were building a huge memorial honoring my Christopher.

THE CHRISTOPHER SHEFFIELD