Upon a Midnight Clear. Gail Gaymer Martin

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      Callie’s chin jutted upward. Obviously his words had riled her again.

      “Was your wife an old woman, Mr. Hamilton?”

      A rush of heat dashed to his cheeks. “What do you mean?”

      “I mean, did your wife understand your child? Did she love her? Could she relate to her? Play with her? Sing with her? Give her love and care?”

      David stared at her. “Wh-why, yes. Obviously.” His pulse raced and pounded in his temples, not from anger but from astonishment. She seemed to be interviewing him, and he wasn’t sure he liked it, at all.

      “Then why does a nanny—a caregiver—have to be an elderly woman? Can’t a woman my age—perhaps your wife’s age when she died—love and care for your child? I don’t understand.”

      Neither did he understand. He stared at her and closed his gaping mouth. Her words struck him like icy water. What she said was utterly true. Who was he protecting? Nattie? Or himself? He peered into her snapping eyes. Spunky? Nervy? No, spirited was the word.

      He gazed at the glowing, animated face of the woman sitting across from him. Her trim body looked rigid, and she stared at him with eyes the color of the sky or flowers. Yes, delphiniums. Her honey-colored hair framed an oval face graced with sculptured cheekbones and full lips. She had fire, soul and vigor. Isn’t that what Nattie needed?

      Callie’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton. You’re angry with me. I did speak to you disrespectfully, and I’m sorry. But I—”

      “No. No, I’m not angry. You’ve made me think. I see no reason why Nattie should have an elderly nanny. A young woman might tempt her out of her shell. She’s needs to be around activity and laughter. She needs to play.” He felt tears push against the back of his eyes, and he struggled. He refused to sit in front of this stranger and sob, bearing his soul like a blithering idiot. “She needs to have fun. Yes?”

      “Yes.” She shifted in her chair, seemingly embarrassed. “I’m glad you agree.” Callie stared into her lap a moment. “How does she spend her day now?”

      “Sitting. Staring into space. Sometimes she colors, like today. But often her pictures are covered in dark brown or purple. Or black.”

      “No school?”

      David shook his head. “No. We registered her for kindergarten, but I couldn’t follow through. I took her there and forced her from the car, rigid and silent. I couldn’t do that to her. But next September is first grade. She must begin school then. I could get a tutor, but…” The memories of the first school day tore at his heart.

      “But that won’t solve the problem.”

      He lifted his eyes to hers. “Yes. A tutor won’t solve a single problem.”

      “Well, you have seven or eight months before school begins. Was she examined by doctors? I assume she has nothing physically wrong with her.”

      “She’s healthy. She eats well. But she’s lethargic, prefers to be alone, sits for hours staring outside, sometimes at a book. Occasionally, she says something to me—a word, perhaps. That’s all.”

      Callie was silent, then asked, “Psychological? Have you seen a therapist?”

      “Yes, the physician brought in a psychiatrist as a consultant.” He recalled that day vividly. “Since the problem was caused by a trauma, and given her age, they both felt her problem is temporary. Time will heal her. She can speak. She talked a blue streak before Sara’s death. But now the problem is, she’s unwilling to speak. Without talking, therapy probably couldn’t help her.”

      Callie stared into the dying flames. “Something will bring her out. Sometimes people form habits they can’t seem to break. They almost forget how it is to live without the behavior. Maybe Nattie’s silence has become just that. Something has to happen to stimulate her, to make her want to speak and live like a normal child again.”

      “I pray you’re right.”

      “Me, too.”

      He rose and wandered to the fireplace. Peering at the embers, he lifted the poker and thrust at the red glow. Nattie needed to be prodded. She needed stimulus to wake her from her sadness. The flames stirred and sparks sprinkled from the burned wood. Could this spirited woman be the one to do that?

      “You mentioned you’d like me to meet your daughter,” Callie said.

      He swung around to face her, realizing he had been lost in reverie. “Certainly,” he said, embarrassed by his distraction.

      “I’d like that, when you’re ready.”

      He glanced at the cup in her hand. “Are you finished with the tea?”

      She took a final sip. “Yes, thanks. I have a two-hour drive home, and I’d like to get there before dark, if I can.”

      “I don’t blame you. The winter roads can be treacherous.”

      He stood, and she rose and waited next to the chair, bathed in the warm glow of the fire. David studied her again. Her frame, though thin, rounded in an appealing manner and tugged at his memory. The straight skirt of her deep blue suit hit her modestly just below the knee. Covering a white blouse, the boxy jacket rested at the top of her hips. Her only jewelry was a gold lapel pin and earrings. She stepped to his side, and he calculated her height. Probably five foot five or six, he determined. He stood a head above her.

      He stepped toward the doors, and she followed. In the foyer, he gestured to the staircase, and she moved ahead of him, gliding lightly up the steps, her skirt clinging momentarily to her shape as she took each step.

      Awareness filled him. No wonder he’d wanted to hire an elderly woman. Ashamed of his own stirrings, he asked God for forgiveness. Instead of thinking of Nattie’s needs, he’d struggled to protect his own vulnerability. He would learn to handle his emotions for his daughter’s sake.

      At the top of the stairs, he guided her down the hallway and paused outside a door. “Please don’t expect much. She’s not like the child God gave us.”

      His fingers grasped the knob, and Callie’s soft, warm hand lowered and pressed against his.

      “Please, don’t worry,” she said. “I understand hurt.”

      She raised her eyes to his, and a sense of fellowship like electricity charged through him, racing down to the extremity of his limbs. She lifted her hand, and he turned the knob.

      He pushed the door open, and across the room, Nattie shifted her soft blue eyes toward them, then stared again at her knees.

      Callie gaped, wide-eyed, at his child. Pulled into a tight knot, Nattie sat with her back braced against the bay enclosure, her feet resting on the window seat. The sun poured in through the pane and made flickering patterns on her pale skin. The same light filtered through her bright yellow hair.

      Standing at Callie’s side, David felt a shiver ripple through her body. He glimpsed at his child and then looked into the eyes of the virtual stranger, named Callie Randolph, whose face now flooded with compassion and love.

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