Cracks in the Sidewalk

Cracks in the Sidewalk

Bette Lee Crosby



Acknowledgements


A novel does not come together without the help of many people—readers, editors, designers and the technical geniuses who translate an author’s words into readable electronic formats. I am fortunate to be working with some of those that I consider the best in the business, and I am eternally grateful to the following people:

Michael G. Visconte…Creative Director of FC Edge in Stuart, Florida… a design genius who finds the heart and soul of every story and transforms it into a breathtakingly beautiful cover. Thank you Michael.

Ekta Garg…Editor extraordinaire and a woman who catches all my mistakes without ever losing sight of my voice. No easy task, but she does it with grace and charm. I count Ekta among my many blessings.

Danielle Benson…The absolutely best formatter in the universe. Thank you for having the ability to find even the oddities that seem to sneak in and out like thieves in the night.

Naomi Blackburn… Thank you for being an early reader and helping me to see beyond myself. Your suggestions are both wise and wonderful.

Geri Conway…I am blessed to have you as my sister and thankful for all the other roles you play—those of a listener, sounding board, advisor, early reader, and constant supporter.

Lastly, I am thankful beyond words for my husband, who puts up with my crazy hours, irrational thinking, and late or non-existent dinners. I could not be who I am without you, Dick, and I pray that neither of us ever lose sight of this awesome blessing God has given us.





Cracks in the Sidewalk





“To send a letter is a good way

to go somewhere

without moving anything

but your heart”

Phyllis Theroux





Claire McDermott


I’m an old woman now, but this dream I have has been with me all my life. Some people claim it’s just wishful thinking. Whether or not that’s true I can’t say, but I do know these images have warmed the inside of my heart for more years than I can remember. When I close my eyes and drift into the dream, it’s always the same. I see myself as part of the family that never was—imaginary sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins. We’re crowded elbow to elbow around a dining room table, everybody talking at once and no one minding.

I created this family the year I turned nine. It was the same year I came to know the loneliness of being an only child. Luckily dreams have no limitations, so I was free to build my own world. For a lonely little girl that world meant a big family.

Sadly, that wasn’t my life. I was an only child. My family was just Mama and Daddy, two loners who got married and had a single baby. I begged Mama for a baby sister or brother, but she’d squish her nose up like she smelled something bad and answer, “Claire, I don’t know where you get these crazy notions. Certainly not from your father or me, we’re practical people.”

They were practical. Parents who believed children should be seen and not heard. As they discussed the news of the day, I sat at the dinner table, silent. That’s when I began creating my imaginary family. In no time at all I could close my eyes and see every one of their faces. I knew all their secrets and what each of them would do in any given situation. First came my sister, Nora. After Nora came an overly protective brother, Paul. A lengthy succession of cousins, aunts, and uncles followed.

In time, Charlie happened along. He wasn’t a member of my imaginary family. He was a flesh-and-blood person who loved me as I did him and agreed a dozen babies was just about the right number.

We were married in 1955, and one year later I gave birth to Elizabeth. She was barely three weeks old when I began to hemorrhage and woke up in the hospital with Doctor Kerrigan explaining how this was to be the only child I would ever have.

I know every mother claims her child is beautiful, but Elizabeth truly was. Lying there in her crib she looked like one of those paintings of golden-haired cherubs. Pink and dewy as a rosebud with the tiniest, most perfect fingers I’d ever seen. Many nights I slipped out of my bed to stand alongside her crib and watch the delicate whispers of breath rise and fall in her chest.

“It’s not fair,” I told Charlie, “that she should be an only child.” I suggested adoption, but somehow Charlie could never wrap his arms around that suggestion.

“You never know,” he’d answer. “Maybe Doctor Kerrigan is wrong. Let’s not rush into something. Give it time. Wait and see.”

So we waited, and God knows we tried, but we never did have another baby. In the end, Elizabeth had to travel the same road I’d gone down. Understanding how lonely that can be, I vowed to make it better for her.

No matter how much love a mama tries to give her child, they still need playmates. And my little girl had plenty. When she was so tiny she had to stand on a stool to reach the counter, we made cookies and invited over a bunch of neighborhood kids. After that it was Brownie Troop, then Girl Scout meetings, football parties, sleepovers, and almost anything else I could think of. Looking back I can honestly say Elizabeth’s face never showed the loneliness I’d seen on my own.

She had more friends than a person could count. Elizabeth was full of laughter and kindness with eyes the color of a summer sky and a smile that made other people smile back. She was one of the most popular girls in Westfield High and could have dated any boy in town. But, wouldn’t you know, she picked Jeffrey Caruthers—a lanky string bean with the personality of a footstool. He latched on to her like she was money in the bank and went everywhere she did.