Once in Every Life
Kristin Hannah
SHE DARES TO LOVE A MAN WHO DOESN'T DARE LOVE....
Tess Gregorys brilliant career as a research scientist hides her longings for a husband and child. Though deaf, she is a free spirit-a woman full of life and love. She is struck down all too soon.
But for Tess, a new life begins at her death, in post-Civil War America. She is now Amarylis Rafferty, wife and mother of three-and she can hear. Shocked and disoriented by her new surroundings, she is drawn into the savage heartache burdening the family, especially her husband, Jack.
Pioneer living is rough for a woman used to modern conveniences, but Tess flourishes, bringing happiness and hope to her daughters and her son-to all except her husband, a man haunted by angry, violent voices that give no rest to his bitter soul. A man who fears himself capable of anything.
But Tess's faith is unshakable. Sheer determination will drive her as their hearts become entwined in a fierce struggle that can be tamed only by love itself....
Also by Kristin Hannah Published by Fawcett Books:
A HANDFUL OF HEAVEN THE ENCHANTMENT
ONCE IN
EVERY
LIFE
Kristin Hannah
FAWCETT GOLD MEDAL � NEW YORK
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
A Fawcett Gold Medal Book Published by Ballantine Books Copyright © 1992 by Kristin Hannah
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-97062 ISBN 0-449-14838-6
Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition: February 1993
This book is lovingly dedicated to my husband, Benjamin, and his family, the Hannahs, who so warmly took me in and made me one of their own. The story was conceived and written with my in-laws, Fred and Ann, in mind. Unfortunately the creative process is slow, and the publishing process slower still. Ann is now past the time when she can read my words. But I believe that somehow she knows and understands how much I love her, and that some part of her-a small, spiritual part undaunted by the reality of Alzheimer's-remembers....
Also, I'd like to thank two very special women, Laura John Turner and Charlotte Stan, who read the first draft of my first book and told me it was good ... with a straight face.
There is no death. Only a change of worlds.
-The great Indian leader Chief Sealth.
January 1855.
Special thanks to .. .
Etta Egeland, founder of the San Juan Island Historical Museum, and to Alvan Hannah, for so graciously sharing his time and memories with me.
Prologue
SAN JUAN ISLAND, WASHINGTON TERRITORY 1873
Sprawled facedown on a hard-packed dirt floor, Jackson Rafferty regained consciousness slowly. For a moment he felt like a man coming out of a deep, contented sleep. Then reality hit. He'd had another blackout.
Ice-cold dread washed over him in waves. His teeth began to chatter. At his sides, his hands scraped through the dirt and formed shaking fists. A vague, amorphous fear hovered at the back of his mind, gaining momentum with every beat of his heart. It coalesced into a single, terrifying thought; the same thought he always had upon waking, the same fear.
No, he thought desperately. Not my children. I wouldn't hurt my children....
Liar. The word pounded through his brain. A small, terrified moan slipped from his lips. Every morning the first thing he did was check on his children to make sure he hadn't inadvertantly hurt them in the night. It was irrational, he knew. A legacy from the horrible nightmare of his past. Now, supposedly, he was cured. Yet still, he had the terrifying blackouts. Still he awoke afraid. Oh, God ...
Shaking, he got to his hands and knees. At the movement, his head spun, nausea yanked his empty stomach.
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He sat back on his heels, waiting for the familiar quea-siness to pass. Gradually his vision cleared. Behind him, a lantern rested on the workbench, sputtering pale golden light into the night. In its glow, he saw the shadowy outline of two stalls. The comforting smells of musty wood, dust, and fresh hay filtered to his nostrils.
The barn. He was in his own barn.
All at once he remembered coming here. His gaze shot to the workbench, where a cradle lay, half-finished and forgotten. A saw and hammer lay on the floor where he'd dropped them.
He'd been reaching for the can of nails when the storm hit. The last thing he remembered was the sudden volley of rain, pounding the roof like gunfire.
Gunfire.
Memories catapulted him back in time. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to remember, not to feel.
As always, he had no control; his efforts were a feeble, useless waste of time. The visions clawed at him, sucked him once again into a depression so deep and dark and consuming, he couldn't imagine finding his way out. Dear God, he couldn't live like this anymore....
Breathing hard, trembling, Jack forced his watery legs to a stand, and staggered to the workbench. It was there, waiting for him, gleaming dully in the lamplight. His Remington army revolver.
Taking a deep, calming breath, he curled his work-calloused fingers around the pistol's grip. The cool metal handle warmed at his touch, felt comforting and familiar.
"So easy." The words slipped past his lips before he knew he was going to say them. It would be so easy. One shot and the misery would end. His family would be safe.
He lifted the gun. It seemed to grow heavier, uncomfortably so. The muscles in his forearm tightened in response.
Cold metal kissed his temple like an old friend. He
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pressed slightly. The muzzle squeezed against his flesh; he knew from experience it would leave a small, circular indentation in his skin. His hold on the grip tightened, his trigger finger slipped into place.
It's now or never.
Sweat beaded Jack's forehead and crawled along his scalp. Warm rivulets slid into his eyes and blurred his vision. His finger vibrated against the cold steel trigger.
Do it. Do it, damn you....
He deserved to die. His wife had told him so a thousand times. God knew he wanted it, deserved it, ached for it. Everyone wanted him to do it.
They'd be better off without him. Amarylis had made sure he understood that. Savannah and Katie were too young yet to fully understand his failure, but soon. Soon ...
And now there would be another baby, another innocent life. The baby deserved better than to have Jack as his father. ...
"Daddy!"
Through a fog of self-loathing and fear, Jack heard his daughter's voice. Instinctively he yanked the gun from his temple and threw it down. It clattered against the wall and skidded along the workbench. His palm immediately felt cold and damp and empty.
Maybe next time. But even as he thought the words, he knew they were another lie. He didn't have the strength of character to commit suicide.
And why should he? he thought dully. He'd been a coward for a very long time.
The barn door banged open and a gust of wind whooshed inside. "Daddy, are you there?"
"Yeah, Savannah, I'm here." He turned to look at his twelve-year-old daughter. She stood silhouetted in the open door, her hands knotted nervously in her long woolen
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skirt. She started to take a step toward him, then stopped. Uncertainty tugged at one corner of her mouth.
> His own daughter was afraid of him. Jack felt a rush of self-hatred so strong, it made him want to smash his fist into something. But years of practice kept him perfectly still. Not a hint of emotion crossed his face or crept into his narrowed eyes. "What is it, Savannah?"
She chewed nervously on her lower lip. "Mama said to come quick. Her time's come."
"Now? But she's not due until Shit!" He pushed past Savannah and ran into the cold, dark night. Rain pummeled his face and blurred his vision as he ran toward the house.
Christ, while he'd been putting a gun to his head, his wife had been preparing to give birth to his child.
What the hell kind of man was he?
"God forgive me," he murmured.
But, of course, he had no hope of that.
Chapter One
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON. 1993
Tess Gregory paced nervously from one end of her small office to the other, her hands twined in a cold, bloodless ball. The silence that she'd long ago learned to accept seemed suddenly oppressive, suffocating. For the fifth time in as many minutes, she glanced down at the Mickey Mouse watch on her wrist.
Twelve o'clock. She let out her breath in an anxious sigh. The results should have been back by now. Certainly if her latest experiment had been successful
No. She refused to think negatively even for a moment.
She knew better than most the value of positive thinking. Wearing a rut in the utilitarian gray carpet and worrying herself sick wouldn't do a bit of good. The lab would get back to her in their own sweet time, and until then, she simply had to relax. To believe.
Tess squeezed her eyes shut. It was an old childhood trick to calm her ragged nerves, one she'd often used as the doctors poked and prodded and asked questions she could no longer hear. She blacked out the physical world and focused on the one special noise that was captured forever in her memory: laughter. As always, it came to her
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quickly, lifting her spirits and easing the gnawing anxiety from her stomach.
She pried her fingers apart and shoved her hands into her lab coat's deep pockets. Taking a deep breath to calm her racing nerves, she tilted her chin and sailed past the cushioned beige walls of her cubicle.
In the employee dining room, lunch hour was in full swing. Dozens of white-coated people were clustered around the long, rectangular table. Heaps of Styrofoam food and drink containers littered the wood-grain veneer tabletop. The mingled aromas of microwaved leftovers, old coffee, and hospital disinfectants hung heavily in the air.
They were all talking animatedly to one another, mouths and hands moving at the speed of light. It was like an old Charlie Chaplin movie: the only thing missing from the vibrant scene was sound.
Tess moved restlessly past the bank of vending machines and went to the room's only window. Hugging herself against the slight chill that seeped through the thin glass, she stared outside.
It was an ordinary spring day: wet and gray. The kind of day that encouraged Seattleites to seek travel packages on Maui. Ash-hued, moisture-thick clouds hung above the city, obscuring the rooftops and casting the streets in shadow. Rain pattered cement sidewalks and plunked in overfull, leaf-clogged gutters. Puddles shone on the pavement like haphazardly thrown silver coins.
A good day for miracles.
The thought came before she could control it. She knew she shouldn't even think itthinking was the first step to hoping, and hoping was the first step to disappointment. But no matter how often or how loudly she told herself not to hope, she'd never been able to follow her own advice.
Maybe today was her mantra, her lifeline. It was the
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same hope she had every morning as she stood at the corner of Third and Virginia, waiting for the bus that would whisk her here, to the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center. The hope never died, even after countless failures. In fact, with each defeat, it grew stronger.
She rested her forehead against the pane, suppressing a quick shudder as the icy window chilled her skin. The answer was right under her nose; she could feel it. All she had to do was find the right key. If these tests didn't give her the answers she needed, she'd try again. And again and again and again.
That's what Tess loved about life and scienceanything and everything was possible if a person truly believed.
And Tess had always believed.
The yellow light on the wall above her head blipped on and off. It was the beeper system the hospital had devised to reach Tess and other hearing-impaired employees anywhere in the building.
Excitement brought her head up. Her heartbeat accelerated. Unable to keep a grin off her face, she hurried back to her office.
Dr. Weinstein was already there, holding a manila folder of test results.
She skidded to a halt. Her heart and hopes and prayers were in her eyes as she looked up at him. Her breath caught as she waited for the results.
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
Her knees went weak with disappointment. She sank unsteadily into the tufted vinyl chair behind her desk.
Dr. Weinstein squeezed her shoulder and tossed the file on the desk. She cast him a weary sideways glance and forced a smile. "Maybe next time," she said quietly, thankful for once that she couldn't hear her own voice. She was sick and tired of saying the same thing. Over and over and over.
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Tess shoved the papers in her briefcase and followed Dr. Weinstein out of her office. She needed to walk, be alone for a while. Regroup.
Shrugging into her Eddie Bauer raincoat, she hurried down the stairs and went outside. The cold dampness of a late Seattle afternoon hit her full in the face. Rain pattered the thick Gortex of her hood; she felt each drop as a vibration of remembered sound.
She turned her face skyward. Cool water splattered her cheeks and nose and closed eyelids. The icy feel of it refreshed her, reminded her with unexpected force that she was alive. With life there was always hope, and with hope, anything was possible.
Tightening her grip on the briefcase, she started down the hill toward the bus stop, moving cautiously down the rain-slicked sidewalk. Beside her, buses and cars and taxis zipped through the gray drizzle. She could feel the vibrations of the moving vehicles as a gentle humming beneath her feet. The cherished sound-memories of honking horns and blaring sirens echoed through her fertile imagination, reminding her of the days, long ago and before spinal meningitis, when the ordinary noises of life had not been withheld from her.
She was just about to step in a tire-sized mud puddle when she caught herself. She wrenched sideways at the last minute and lurched toward the curb.
After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. A messenger-service bicycle slammed into her back and sent her careening into the street. She stumbled on the slick pavement and skidded out of control. Her briefcase flew out of her hand and sailed through the air. It hit the pavement hard and snapped open. Papers scattered and stuck to the bumpy asphalt. Rain riveted them in place.
The acrid stench of burning rubber filled the air. She froze. Heart hammering in her chest, she spun around and
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saw the bus heading right for her. A scream locked in her throat and issued past her lips as a low, terrified moan. She didn't even have time to pray.
Tess drifted gently on a tide of warm water, wrapped in layers of smooth black velvet. The world around her was soothingly dark. She washed closer and closer to the shore, and knew she should reach out and grab hold, but she was tired. So tired . ..
"Tess, wake up, honey. I've got a schedule to meet." A woman's harsh, gravelly voice pierced the blackness.
Tess edged reluctantly toward consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered, tried futilely to open.
"I think she's awake," came a man's deep, rich voice.
"Really?" The woman's voice again. "Tess? Are you awake?"
She could hear! Tess snap
ped to a sit and glanced wildly around.
There was nothing to see. Nothingand no one except a seemingly endless expanse of star-studded night sky. Tiny, eye-splittingly bright lights vibrated and blinked like the Milky Way.
She started to panic. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest, turning every breath into a burning spurt of fire.
Calm down, Tess. Get a grip.
Cautiously she eased back and found that she was sitting in one of those Art Linkletter chairs. She drew a deep, shaking breath and let it out slowly. Her white-knuckled fingers eased their clawlike grip off the cushy armrests. An easy chair. What was so weird about that?
Nothing, she told herself. Nothing at all.
Then she noticed that her feet were dangling in the air.
She gasped. There was no floor beneath her, no walls around her. She was sitting in a black chair in the middle
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of a black void with a thousand stars twinkling all around her. Alone.
She was dreaming, she realized suddenly. Dreaming she was sitting in a chair in the middle of space, dreaming she could hear, dreaming "Tess?"
There it was again, that scratchy boilermaker-and-tobacco-fed voice, coming at Tess from the nothingness around her. Surely if she were going to dream a voice, it wouldn't sound like that. "Y-Yes?" she said, for lack of something better. "I'm Carol. Your guide. Do you have any questions before we begin?"
Tess started to say, "Begin what?" then changed her mind to the more obvious question. "Where am I?"
There was a long pause before the voice said cautiously, "You don't remember?" "Remember what?" "The ... bus."
Tess stopped breathing. Memory hurled her back onto that rain-slicked Seattle street. She remembered the acrid, stinking smell of burning rubber, the driver's horrified expression through the dirty windshield. Sounds she couldn't possibly have heard battered her with hurricane force: squealing brakes, a honking horn, her own strangled sound of terror.
She'd been hit by the bus. She glanced around. Maybe this wasn't a dream after all. Maybe it was ... the other side. "Am I dead?" There was a sigh of relief. "Yep." Tess shivered and hugged herself. "Oh." "Now that that's settled, let's get on with it," Carol said matter-of-factly. "This here's the theater of second chances. Your life on earththe first oneit was sort of ..." Carol's scratchy voice trailed off.
