Finding Eden(99)

My mom brought her head up, her eyes wide, going back and forth between the two of us. "I . . . you're . . ." she squeaked out, looking at me. "I'm going to be a grandma? You're going to have a baby?" she asked, more tears coursing down her cheeks.

I nodded and Calder glanced at me, not saying anything. "We hope you'll help us, Mom," I whispered. "We're going to need lots of it."

My mom's face crumpled and she cried silently for a moment, but there was a smile on her face beneath the tears.

She stood up and rushed to me, bending down and taking me in her arms. "A baby," she kept saying. "You're having a baby!" She grabbed onto Calder's shirt and pulled him toward us and wrapped her arms around both of us. "Thank you," she whispered to Calder. "Thank you for all the gifts you've given me today." We all hugged and laughed and cried, my heart bursting with relief and happiness.

A month after that, we sat holding hands on a set in a very small studio where we told the world our story. We didn't provide every detail. Those were ours and ours alone. But we talked about growing up in Acadia and living with Hector. We talked about the religion we'd believed in and why we had started to doubt. We talked about the forbidden nature of our love story and what we'd risked to be together.

We also talked about the day of the flood and that was the hardest. But we were together and that made it bearable. And there was healing in the fact that there were no more secrets, nothing more to hide.

We told the world about how we'd lived without the other for three long, grief-filled years. And how miracles sometimes happen to even those of us who feel the least deserving.

We made it clear it was the only interview we were interested in doing and, for the most part, the press left us alone after that day.

Now that the police and the press had a real name, they delved into Hector's past, into his possible motives, his mental state, and his history. Articles and books were written about him, and he was added to the list of cult leaders who had convinced large groups of intelligent people to believe their lies. All kinds of speculation ensued about how Hector predicted the disaster that happened that day, and his role in the tragedy. I was fascinated, too, and spent more time than Calder would have liked reading case studies. He accepted it, though. Knowledge made me feel powerful and enlightened, it always had. He had given me that gift, so I knew he'd never take it away.

Some things there would never be answers to, some things Hector—if he even knew—took to his watery grave.

Unbelievably, small groups the news dubbed, 'Hectorites' popped up around the country, people who tried to mimic the religion and society Hector had created. I was at a loss with that one. Humanity astounded me sometimes. The positive thing, Xander joked, was the whole new eventual influx of members for ex-cult member mingle dot com.

One wonderful thing resulted from our one very public interview and that was a young woman who called in to the station while we were recording. We were given her name and number afterwards—a Kristi Paulson (formerly Smith) who lived in Florida with her husband and one-year-old daughter.

Calder, Xander and I called her on Skype later that day and we all cried and laughed. I stood up and turned to the side, smoothing my dress over my growing belly. She shrieked and put her hands over her mouth and I laughed. She invited us to Florida to visit her for a "babymoon," and we said we'd try our very best. There are angels on Earth. And for us, she'd been one.

Life had gotten pretty busy since we'd returned from Indiana. We moved into the house we'd rented, a charming bungalow with a front porch that had a cushioned swing and a big, bright room on the second floor that Calder set up as his studio.

We bought a king-sized bed and spent too much money on bedding and officially christened it The Bed of Healing, Version 2.0. We spent lazy Sundays lounging there until noon and long nights snuggled in safe warmth and deep intimacy, whispering our secrets, and talking about our fears and worries, our hopes and dreams, and sometimes, the things that still haunted us. It was the place where we could dig down deep into the darkness of our own pain and curl into the love that always waited to soften the ache, and where the most deeply soothing words always came from the other: "I'm here. You're not alone." And yes, there was healing.

Calder bought me romance novels and piled them up on my bedside table. I laughed and eventually, I read each one of them. He said it was one of the best investments he'd ever made. And we did finally find out what became of Hendrix and Polly—and it was as satisfying as we both imagined it would be.

We browsed stores for things that felt special enough to fill our home with, I learned how to cook and how to bake, and Calder started painting again.