Cracks in the Sidewalk(99)

Jeffrey’s career, such as it was, fared no better. From waiter he became a bartender and then a short-order cook frying up greasy hamburgers. After he got fired from those jobs he began working the late shift in a twenty-four-hour gas station. When he was caught sleeping, that job went the way of the others. Eventually he became the custodian in an exercise gym and stuck with that for a while.

On three different occasions Charlie tried to offer assistance. The first time Jeffrey said, “Drop dead!” The second time he said he’d get a restraining order if Charlie didn’t stop bothering him, and the third time he slammed the receiver down without a word.

When Charlie learned that Jeffrey had lost his job at the gymnasium, he sent a check with a note saying that Jeffrey need not respond. The check was returned to the bank with the envelope unopened and a scrawl of painfully familiar words: Return to sender.

In 1998 Frank Walsh retired from the investigation business. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing,” he told Charlie and offered the name of another investigator. By that time Charlie realized the futility of tracking a man who wanted nothing to do with them, so he declined and said nothing to Claire of Frank Walsh’s retirement. He wanted to spare her the tears and sleepless nights she suffered at any mention of their grandchildren.

Eventually Claire stopped asking if there was any news, but Charlie knew she never stopped hoping.



In June of 2001, on a warm summer night when fragrant breezes drifted through the window and curtains fluttered softly, Charlie kissed Claire goodnight then rolled over on his side and closed his eyes forever.

They’d been married for forty-six years and they’d loved each other even longer. Together they’d endured so many hardships, but always Charlie had been beside her. He had held her in his arms and eased the pain. Now he too was gone. Claire cried aloud to the Lord asking how He could leave her alone in this world, but His silence deafened her.

On the day of Charlie’s funeral Claire went to the church expecting to sit alone in the pew reserved for family, but instead of one pew the family area had been expanded to seven rows.

All the temporary children she’d cared for and loved filled the pews. Chloe with her husband and two babies. Adam, with his new wife on one side and his silver-haired dad on the other. Little thumb-sucking Brigitte who’d grown up and become a model. Jack, now an engineer. Frankie, Henry, Melanie. Row after row, the children she’d babysat and those who’d passed through her Sunday school class. Some now parents themselves, others who’d gone off to college and returned, some still in their teens, but all part of one family. Her family.

“Thank you, Lord Jesus,” she whispered.





Claire McDermott


A fair bit of time has gone by since the day I lost Charlie, and I’ve become accustomed to spending my days alone. As the weeks and months turned into years, I came to understand that alone doesn’t mean lonely. Only a person who’s never known love can be truly lonely. I’m not. I’ve had more love than any one woman is entitled to. All those children I thought were just passing through have taken up residence in my heart. I can close my eyes and picture their faces, which is enough to make me feel warm all over.

I’ve also held on to my dream, the dream of a life filled with family. No matter how old a person gets, they can still dream. They can still believe in miracles.

I’ve carried this dream with me for the better part of a lifetime. Oh, there might have been times when I thought it had disappeared, but it was still there tucked behind my everyday worries.

The day I received the letter, my dream resurfaced. I could feel my heartbeat again, and I knew hope was stirring inside my soul. Hundreds of thousands of times I’ve prayed for just such a miracle, but I never expected it would appear in a dog-eared gray envelope.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. McDermott,” the letter began. “I don’t know if you really remember me, because my family left New Jersey when I was only two years old.”

The moment I saw those words, my heart began pounding. I grabbed onto the arm of Charlie’s old recliner and lowered myself into the seat, collapsing under my own weight. After all the years of waiting I had no time to cry, so I continued reading through a waterfall of tears.

“Recently I came across some information that leads me to believe that Elizabeth Caruthers, my birth mother, was your daughter. My mother passed away in 1986, and her maiden name was McDermott. Other than this, I have very few details. I’m contacting you in the hope of finding my grandparents. I am anxious to learn more about my mother’s life and the unclear details surrounding her death. If we are in fact related, would you be willing to meet with me?

“My name is Christian Caruthers,” the letter went on. “I live in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. My older brother David is married, and we have a sister named Kimberly…”

He asked if I would be willing to see him. Imagine that—willing to see him! Why, for the past twenty years, I’ve wondered what he’d grown to look like. Two decades ago I spied a blue-eyed child at a playground in Westfield. I rushed over and asked the boy his name. Willing to see him? Why, I’d go to my grave a happy woman if I could have the chance to hug those children to my chest and tell them how much I love them.

Without a minute’s hesitation, I sat down at Charlie’s old desk and scratched out an answer to the boy’s letter.