Free Dogwood by Chris Fabry Page A

walking, thank you,” Ruthie said, butwhen we were at the other end of the hall, she looked like she wished she would have said yes.
    Another guard led us to the visitors’ room, but Ruthie couldn’t keep up with him. Finally the guard just pointed. “Take a seat inside there. Your party will be on the other side of the glass.”
    “Is he there?” Ruthie said.
    “Waiting on you, ma’am.”
    I took Ruthie’s free arm and walked with her. Having her close gave me comfort, and I wasn’t sure who was steadying whom as we walked.
    We were halfway there when Ruthie spoke. “Been thinking it might be time you know my interpretation. Of the dream. You and the baby and your parents.”
    “Here? Now?”
    “Good a time as any, don’t you think?”
    No, I don’t think so. I’m about to see someone I haven’t seen in more than a decade who changed the life of our town forever, who took my heart, my very life with him as he walked into this prison, and you pick now to . . .
    “I guess so,” I said.
    Ruthie stopped and looked at her watch. It was a minute before eleven according to the gray clocks in the hall above us, but Ruthie ran on her own time.
    “There’s a reason your mother isn’t in the dream,” she began. “You and your mother are close; it would cloud things. But your father is more aloof in your life, so the fact that he’s there for you and inviting makes it easier to see.”
    “Easier? What part of this is easy?”
    “Have you ever seen the baby’s face?”
    I thought for a moment. “No. I can hear it. It coos and giggles and makes baby noises, but it’s covered with a blanket when I’m holding it, and when it’s on the floor, I never see its face.”
    She nodded. “It’s not your child. Not one of your children or one of your future children.”
    “How do you know?”
    Ruthie skirted the question. “It’s just a theory, mind you, so I’m not saying—”
    “Would you just tell me?”
    She sighed. “What if the baby is you? Or better yet, what if this child represents your soul?”
    I stopped breathing, dead in my shoes. The hallway spun with some realization. But what?
    “Your father is intensely interested in your soul, even though you don’t seem to be. You wrap it up and hold it tightly, not because you want to nurture it but because you don’t want to see its reality. That it really is there.”
    “Soul, as in my spiritual side,” I said, gasping the words.
    “Soul, as in your being. What’s at Karin’s core. It’s clear you don’t care much about it, at least in the dream. If it weren’t your father, if it were some babysitter or drug dealer, you’d hand it over. You think?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, my voice catching. “What about my father? Who is he?”
    “I think you know.”
    I struggled to swallow and choked out, “God?”
    Ruthie nodded. “He cares a lot for that soul of yours. More than you know. More than you ever will or could. He’s the one who made it in the first place. Makes sense he’d want to care for it, nourish it, cherish it. And he’s willing to wait until you’re ready, until you can bring everything to him. In the meantime, whether you realize it or not, he’s there, acting like yours is the only one in the world.”
    My knees felt weaker than hers looked. “Why now? Why here ? Why did you wait until—?”
    “Timing is everything, my dear. It’s no coincidence I waitedtill now because I didn’t think you were ready before. I knew you weren’t. That you came with me to this place, that you’re willing to see this scoundrel or devil or lover is proof you’re willing to open up a little and take a chance.”
    I recoiled from the thought. “Take a chance on what? On throwing my marriage away? my children? my life? I don’t even know what I’m doing here. What we’re doing here.”
    Someone stepped up behind us. A guard. “Is there a problem?”
    “No,” I said. “Just a discussion before we go inside.”
    “Better