"I mean, really. You have a gift."

Crystal laughed and rubbed her fingernails on her cape. "Got the touch, baby."

Walking out to her car, Jill was struck by the airy breeze in her hair. It felt light and feathery, the thick, soft strands tossing about ...with an attitude. She drew a long breath, ready to face anything. After all, she was the one who could help. Finally.

Cinda had said they kept Sunday afternoons free. Jill got into the car. She had an hour-and-a-half drive to Des Moines to prepare herself. Emotions surged. She would meet her daughter, though she had sensed Cinda's discomfort. And she didn't blame her. The woman had enough to deal with worrying about Kelsey. Of course she must feel protective. She probably wished there was another way without involving Kelsey's birth mom. Jill's insides roiled. This was her chance.

She contained a surge of tension. How would it be to see her now? How would she look? Surely not the way she imagined her, healthy and rosy and happy. What if she looked ... Jill shook her head. But it wouldn't matter how Kelsey looked, she was so starved for one glimpse.Oh, Lord, give me strength. Let me do the right things, say the right things.

Cinda's directions were clear and easy to follow. Jill found the house and parked at the curb. Pulling into the driveway would be too much like coming home. This was not her home. This was not her child. She had to be careful, to remember what was real. Cinda and Roger were Kelsey's parents. But now the girl would know she had another. She walked to the door, bolstered by the thought.

Cinda pulled it open almost immediately. She was heavier than she'd been the one time they'd met fourteen years and ten months ago, and her brown hair was flecked with silver. Her smile was strained but warm. "Hello, Jill. Thank you for coming."

Jill's throat was too tight for words. This was not going to be easy. She smiled and followed Cinda inside. The small house was a farmhouse style, probably built in the fifties. Wood floors, lots of windows. Cinda pushed open the back screen door and motioned for her to sit on the floral-patterned patio chair. "I thought we'd chat a bit out here, okay?"

"Okay." Jill cleared her throat, glancing about the backyard with a swing in the trees, a small garden along the fence, a cornfield beyond.

Cinda said, "I know this is hard for you. I can only imagine how hard."

"It's hard for both of us. But I'm so thankful you wrote." And she was, even if that letter had thrown her emotions into a whirlwind.

"I would have called, but I couldn't find your number."

"It's unlisted." But she had already given it to Cinda when she responded to the letter. Now she was only a phone call away from any news.

Cinda sat on the edge of the chaise. "I would have preferred to give you that kind of information ... well, a letter seemed so impersonal. I was afraid you wouldn't respond."

Jill shook her head. "How could I not?"

Cinda looked weary, drained. "You've gone on with your life. I thought maybe you wouldn't-or couldn't ..."

"Please." Jill leaned forward and touched her hand. "I'll do anything I can."

Tears sprang to Cinda's eyes, and she sniffed. "I swore I wouldn't do this."

"I understand." More than she knew.

Cinda brushed the tears with the back of her hand. "She's just so sick."

"I'm sorry." Jill pressed the fingers she held, sensing Cinda's distress and the small reserves of strength that held it in check. What fear must she wake to every day?

"They weren't sure they could achieve a new remission. It's taken three months to get this close, and they're not sure how long it will last. A bone marrow transplant is her only chance for survival, ten to thirty percent statistically."

Jill couldn't stop the reaction to that bleak figure.

"I know," Cinda said, "but without it, the numbers are zero to five percent. Not that we don't believe she can beat the odds. She's a fighter." Cinda shook her head, then sighed. "It's just that she's already been through so much, things a child should never have to face. But the Lord is good, and He knows best."

Jill nodded. It took a deep abiding faith to believe that in a time like this. Or did she say the words to convince herself?

Cinda straightened, drew a long breath, and gained control. "You need to know Roger and I thought it would be better not to tell her, yet, who you are."

Jill's spirit deflated like a pin-punctured balloon.

"Kelsey knows she's adopted, but the doctor agreed that now might not be the best time for her to deal with any more than she has to. She's very fragile."

Of course that made sense. The sudden anger and hurt were illogical, selfish, wrong. The most important thing was getting Kelsey through this. But how could she meet her daughter and not ... not what? Take her in her arms and say she was her mommy?

She wasn't her mommy. And Kelsey had grown past that stage. She was an adolescent, though Jill never imagined her that way. At any rate, she saw the protective fear in Cinda's brown eyes. "What do we tell her?"

"We told her you are a donor who shows a promising match. We know you will, because she's inherited at least one complete haplotype from ... I'm sorry, these medical terms have become a daily part of my vocabulary."

"That's all right. Just explain it."

"Antigens on the lymphocytes are inherited in groups called haplotypes. In the past, transplants have only been possible with a full sixsix antigen match or, at worst, one antigen off. So a sibling is the best chance. Even then it's only one in four that another child would inherit the same combination as Kelsey. We didn't expect that possibility, though I had to ask in my letter." Cinda seemed to calm as she spoke, as though focusing on the clinical facts siphoned the emotion.

"But we've found an oncologist who transplants with a single haplotype match using a related donor. There are surface factors they don't completely understand that make a family member a better match."

Jill nodded.

"When you have the first blood drawn, they'll do a test that will confirm a match of one haplotype, three antigens. With your genetic connection, that much is assured. If we're very blessed, there may be more."

Jill's head spun, not from the medical terms, but from thinking of her genetics connecting her to Kelsey, the child she had formed inside her body. She was very aware of Cinda's choice of words. Her genetic connection. Lord, help me. How could she not show it? Not betray her motherhood to the child?

"If other tests confirm compatibility, then they would do the extraction and transport the marrow to the center, where Kelsey will have been prepared."

Jill caught those words, as well. She had made assumptions that Cinda might never have meant regarding seeing Kelsey. There were no direct tubes from her body to Kelsey's transferring the marrow. They would not even have to be in the same room, if she understood "transport the marrow." Fighting disappointment, Jill forced the question she had to ask. "May I see her?"

Cinda could say no to even that. But she nodded. "I thought you'd want to. It's complicated, the relationships being what they are."

"If you'd rather I not ..." Please, don't say no. She might never have the chance again.

Cinda smiled gently. "I think it's right."

Jill's throat seized. "Thank you." Like a sleepwalker, she followed Cinda up the narrow wooden stairs that creaked underfoot. Amy Grant's soulful voice drifted from the front bedroom, bright with sunight. The walls were covered with a small apple-blossom pattern, matched by a ruffled chintz balloon shade at the window. The bed was a white four-poster with an eyelet spread and apple-green-striped pillow shams.

Jill fought the rush of tears as her eyes fixed on the young teen nestled there, pale and bald. She was smaller than Jill expected, more like twelve than fourteen in both size and development. And yes, she looked terribly fragile. The features were her own, but the eyes ... Oh, Lord, the eyes are Morgan's. Jill's heart turned over slowly. Her daughter. Their daughter.

Cinda laid a hand on Kelsey's thin shoulder. "Kelsey, this is Jill."

Kelsey pressed the button on the CD player to stop the music and eyed her directly. "Hi."

Jill forced her voice to come. "Hello, Kelsey. It's wonderful to meet you." Again. She flashed on the memory of the tiny newborn she'd held so briefly in her arms but carried a full nine months inside her.

"Mom said you might match my bone marrow?" Her voice was clear and direct. She had a poise and presence beyond her years.

Maybe suffering did that. She didn't have time for childish insecurities. Her life was pared down to the basics.

"The chances are good." Jill's voice came out remarkably calm. This is my daughter I'm talking to! What would Morgan say? What would he think in her position?

"Do you mind if I ask why?" Kelsey was no fool. How had they explained a stranger offering bone marrow to her? How did the unrelated donor program work? She should have read about it before coming.

Jill fumbled. "I work with kids who have problems. I believe in organ transplants and any kind of medical procedure that helps people survive." Where had that come from?

"So it's like a ministry or something?"

"A ministry?" She looked at Kelsey's eyes, so, so blue. "Yes. In a way." A ministry to her daughter, a chance from God to- "Have you given marrow before, for someone else?"

Throat tightening, Jill shook her head. "No. This will be the first time."

Kelsey's lips tightened. "It's painful." Her eyes were red rimmed and far too large for her shrunken face. "Even though they sedate you, it hurts for days." Her gaze didn't waver.

Was she testing her commitment? "It'll be all right." She touched Kelsey's hand. The skin was soft and warm, and an almost electrical thrill passed through her with the touch. Her daughter. Oh, God, she has to live!

Kelsey smiled, and it wrenched Jill's heart. "I didn't know someone would care enough. I mean ..." She glanced at Cinda. "My parents would do it, if they could, but I'm adopted."

"Oh." Jill's voice was hardly a whisper. "I'm sure they've done a lot more than this for you."

Kelsey smiled at Cinda, and Jill ached at the relationship she saw between them. Oh, God, oh please, God ...

Cinda patted Kelsey's shoulder. A simple, familiar gesture. Jill wished she could touch her daughter that way. Did Kelsey notice their likeness? Jill wanted her to, hoped she would guess. But that was selfish. Kelsey didn't need to deal with anything more. Cinda and the doctor were right.

Kelsey turned back to Jill. "Why did you choose me?"

Jill's heart jumped. Was there more in the question than Kelsey let on?

Cinda touched Kelsey's cheek with the back of her fingers. "You know that's not how the program works, Kelsey. It's all matching antigens."

Kelsey's gaze remained direct. Was she one step ahead of them? Did she guess, did she know? "If I were healthy, I'd donate, too." Kelsey settled into the pillows. "It helps people live."

"You do enough by giving people hope." Cinda looked up. "Kelsey has a Web page-she calls it her Hope Page. She answers the questions and fears of other kids with leukemia, and sometimes their parents. Mostly she shares Christ's love." Cinda rested her fingers on Kelsey's head. Jill absorbed every one of those touches, imagining them for her-self.

"Mom?" Kelsey's eyes suddenly took on Morgan's intensity.

"Yes?" Cinda met her daughter's gaze.

"God could do this, couldn't He?"

Jill felt a jolt, sensing Kelsey's fear.

Cinda fought her tears. "Of course He can."

"Like a miracle."

Cinda smiled. "Yes."

Jill's throat went dry and cleaved together. Please God. If anyone deserved a miracle, it was the child before her.

Her daughter's eyes pierced her. "Thank you for coming to see me. And for the rest of it especially."

Jill nodded, her voice trapped in her throat. And that was all she would have, fresh images to play through her mind of her daughter. Not as she had ever imagined her, but real true images. Somehow she walked out.

Downstairs, Cinda handed her a sheet of information and a business card. "This explains what you need to do to begin the process. If the testing indicates we can go forward, Kelsey will enter the Yale New Haven Cancer Treatment Center."

"Okay." But nothing was really sinking in.

The drive home gave her time to think and to pray desperate prayers that left her empty and afraid. Why like this? Why couldn't I find her whole and healthy? All her fairy-tale imaginings of Kelsey in the perfect life, with every happiness, shattered and spilled about her. "It's not fair! I've already paid!"

Angry tears dammed up inside. Why now? She'd gone on, just as Cinda said, though it was a battle sometimes. She had the kids at school, and her work meant so much to her. To help the ones who struggled for too many reasons.

Now Kelsey. It hit her again like a blow. She had already lost her child once. How could she do it again? Even with the brave smile and intense eyes, it was obvious that Kelsey was terribly sick. Jill was caught in a vortex, spiraling down. She had to focus on what she could do. Otherwise she felt too helpless for words.

After Jill had left, Kelsey sat at the desk near her window. It seemed like a small miracle to have that much energy. This last round of chemotherapy had been worse than the others, since her second remission had proved harder to achieve, and it was taking larger doses to maintain. But she'd napped a couple hours and felt better.

She opened the laptop computer her parents had given her last Christmas and brought it to life. Yes, she was a whiz. Not that she could take much credit for that. Because of all the hours she'd spent in a hospital bed, and since she didn't watch TV, the computer was a godsend, one her parents could scarcely afford these days with the mounting medical bills, but the computer had provided a chance to reach out.

It had been her roommate's idea, actually, to start a Web page. Sort of the Ann Landers for leukemia kids. A man from the church had helped her create it, but she had taken over from there. With an animated DIF and a MIDI, she'd added graphics and music, just to make it fun. But really, as Mom had said, it gave her the chance to share Christ's love.

She opened up the mail section. Four letters today. She clicked to open the first from a girl newly diagnosed. That was the hardest time, before your sickness became the reality of your life. She raised her fingers to the keyboard.

Dear Amy, I know it's scary. I was scared, too, and confused. How could this be happening to me? Maybe they're wrong. It's all a bad dream. Then when chemo started, I knew it wasn't a dream. It was real, though I still didn't understand why. The only thing I knew was that Jesus was in control. He is the best, best friend.

When other kids were afraid to come see me, or even grownups didn't know what to say, I felt like a freak. But Jesus was always there. I trust Him with my life. You can, too. Write me back if you want to know more.

Jesus loves you and so do I. Kelsey www.kelseyshopepage.com She moved on to the next. Some days she was so tired it was hard to think what to say. Then she trusted the Holy Spirit to give her the words. Days like today, her words came easily, maybe because seeing Jill gave her fresh hope herself.

Dear Samantha, Yes, there are days I feel sorry for myself. I say, why me? But the answer is, why not? Would I wish it on someone else instead? What if they didn't have faith or courage? Jesus gives me what I need even when I forget to ask. And sometimes I do. Sometimes I even get angry and think it's not fair. But God's Word says, "In all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." So I know He uses even leukemia for some good thing I can't see. Trust Him and He'll give you peace.

Jesus loves you and so do I. Kelsey www.kelseyshopepage.com When she finished the mail, she surfed the Web awhile, then stopped and stared out the window. Kelsey bit her lip. The thought of an allogeneic bone marrow transplant scared her. There were so manymore complications. But autologous transplants, taking her own marrow, treating it to kill the cancer and putting it back in, didn't work well for leukemia. No, they'd have to wipe her marrow out and hope Jill's worked.

She felt like a geek knowing all that medical stuff, more than Mom or Dad guessed that she grasped. But as she'd told Amy, leukemia was her reality, her life. It would maybe be her death. She'd gone three years in remission and dared to feel cured, even though five was the magic number. When the markers showed a recurrence, she almost didn't believe it. But then, she'd been feeling punky again-and ignoring it as though it would go away. She knew better. Leukemia didn't go away, no matter how much you wanted it to.

It was a battle between good and evil. Though the drugs made her sick and ugly, she pictured them as bright angels with fierce faces and long swords hacking down the demon cells that tried to kill her. She'd gotten the idea from the psychotherapist who counseled kids on the ward. Dr. Blair called it imaging and suggested they picture what was going on in their bodies in a positive way.

What was going on in her body seemed no less than the war in the heavens. So angels it was. In between fevers and nausea, the angels didn't look quite so fierce. Sometimes they raised their swords to her and smiled. Then she felt seriously certain they would win.

But when her mind wandered with spiking fevers and her body swelled and her hair fell out, it was hard not to see the slimy black horde beating back her army. It only helped to know that whatever happened inside her, ultimately she had the victory.

A lingering scent of scorched macaroni and cheese clung to the main room as Morgan showed Todd his assignment on the game card: act out the cameo for his team to guess. And the word was nun. This ought to be good.

Morgan had purchased the game Cranium at Starbucks to liven up the evenings and dispel the interpersonal stiffness infused into the ranch by Todd's family. Stan was uptight and insecure, the mother, Melanie, an exercise in frustration, and the daughter, Sarah, a teacher's pet sort of girl, whom Todd had pegged pretty accurately. Todd fit with them like a scorpion in a bunny cage.

But it was just the sort of challenge Morgan thrived on in the corporate world, bringing people with disparate strengths and expectations into a common vision and equipping them to move forward. This was simply a small-case scenario. So far he'd explained the rules and they were having a practice round in each category before playing guys against girls for blood.

"No way," Todd said, looking from the card to him.

"Come on. You know what it is."

Todd shoved the card at him. "I'm not gonna be that."