Lost and Found by Ginny L. Yttrup Page B

reach for my toes. I stand straight again and wander back to the living room. Rain pelts the windows and the lights below are streaked across the cityscape. I listen to the sound of the rain hitting the windows and then reach for the remote on the coffee table and close the blinds against the annoyance.
    "Enough of this. Time to get back to work, Andee." I go to the kitchen, take a small black ceramic cup from one of the glass-front cabinets, and fill it with fresh espresso from the built-in espresso maker above the granite countertop. I take it black and fully caffeinated, even at this hour of the night. I head back to the office, turn the flat screen to the usual: CNN. The voice of the anchor drones, but it is better than silence.
    I need to make up for the time I lost this afternoon and evening.
    I sit back at my computer and open the file containing my work in progress. I read through the draft of the chapter I finished earlier today. It's good. The language is fresh. The advice, stellar, of course. I open my outline file and read my notes for the next chapter, but I find my mind wandering back to the blog entries I read. Who cares. Let it go, Andee. Focus.
    I read through my notes again and type and delete at least three beginning sentences of my next chapter. Frustrated, I rewrite the first sentence for a fourth time. It will have to do for now. I pound out a few paragraphs, but all the while the blog plays on my mind. I save my document and return to the blog. I need to put it to rest—to figure out what's bugging me.
    I reread the first entries. Then I skip to the most recent entry—one I haven't read yet. It isn't so much the words she writes, but the conviction with which she writes them. Have I ever felt that sort of conviction about anything? I smile. Yes, money! But as I try to laugh it off, a gnawing emptiness nags.
    "She's just a Jesus freak, Andee." I close the blog, get up, and walk back to the kitchen, where I dump the now-cold espresso down the drain of the sink. I refill the cup with fresh espresso and drink it as I walk back to my desk. Gnawing emptiness? Get over it. I look around my office and out to the living area. I have everything I've ever dreamt of and more.
    I sit back at my desk and determine to put all thoughts of blogs and emptiness, good grief, aside. Instead, I'll do what I do best.
    Work.

His light pursues you, slowly unfolding more and more as you walk more deeply into it.
    JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER NINE
Jenna

    I DECIDE TO walk the blocks home after my meeting with Matthew. The sun is shining against an azure sky, and the walk will give me time to think through the feelings unearthed during my conversation with Matthew. And time to process what I've put off thinking about: my appointment yesterday with Dr. Kim.
    His words come back to me. "There are still signs of infection." He glanced at my chart and then looked back at me. "We need to administer another round of intravenous antibiotics—just as we did in the hospital after the last surgery. Only this time we'll arrange for a home health-care provider to insert a port as soon as possible. We'll hit the infection hard. Once the infection clears, we'll look ahead to reconstruction. Understood?"
    "Yes." I tried to assimilate the information.
    "I'll insert an implant to build up the deteriorated section of your jaw and chin and correct this line." He ran his index finger along my jaw. "And then, for the scarring, we can graft skin. Once it heals, we'll use laser to smooth the skin."
    I listened and nodded, but a war raged in my mind.
    Dr. Kim stepped back and looked at me. "Mrs. Bouvier, you've been through a lot. The recurring infection and subsequent surgeries were unexpected, but now . . . if . . . when . . . the infection clears completely, we will begin restoring your appearance."
    I shook Dr. Kim's hand. "Thank you. I appreciate all you've done."
    "Do you have any questions?"
    Questions churned in my mind, but I couldn't pin a