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  What Readers Are Saying about Karen Kingsbury’s Books

  “I have just finished reading your book Remember—it was fantastic! You have such a writing gift. . . . God really speaks to me through your work. I am dying to know when the next book is due out.”

  —Tricia

  “I love this series! It has really captured my heart, and the characters have become real. Remember really got to me because of the character living through a time we all remember VERY well. Thanks, Karen, and please keep this series coming!”

  —Heidi

  “There are not enough words to describe what your books mean to me. God had truly blessed me through your talent and your love for Him. Your books are a balm for a troubled soul. God bless you always and KEEP writing.”

  —Eugenia

  “I am a new fan of yours—in fact, a new fan of fiction in general! I first began reading your books when a coworker recommended the Redemption series to me. I could not put either book down! No emotion was left untouched! The message of God’s love that is portrayed throughout the text is so uplifting and encouraging. I work at a local Christian bookstore, and now I recommend your books to all of my customers!”

  —Elizabeth

  “I didn’t think you could top Redemption, but I was wrong! Those two novels have touched me so deeply, and I can hardly wait to read the other three. Thanks for spreading the word of God—you have a glorious gift.”

  —Diana

  “Karen’s writing is incredible. It touches my heart as nothing ever has aside from my Bible. I love that she puts the reader in a real-life situation. The things she writes have happened to me or my family and friends. Even though it’s fiction, living with the Baxter family has made me stronger!”

  —Dawn

  “Karen Kingsbury’s fiction has changed my life by reminding me there is hope amid seemingly hopeless circumstances of life. And that faith in God’s redemptive plan is the anchor I can hold on to when life’s compasses fail.”

  —Amy

  “Classic Kingsbury! Wonderful . . . can’t put her books down. Best Christian fiction author in the market.”

  —Brenda

  “I have never read an author like you before: you make me laugh and cry within pages of one another!”

  —Sarah

  “I am an avid reader and find it so difficult to read anything anymore that isn’t yours. Your books have changed my life.”

  —Rachel

  “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your writing led me back to the Lord!”

  —Stephanie

  “You are the best writer ever. I get so excited when I walk into a Christian bookstore and see one of your new books sitting there.”

  —Jessica

  Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com

  Visit Karen Kingsbury’s Web site and learn more about her Life-Changing Fiction

  at www.KarenKingsbury.com

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Baxter Family Drama is a trademark of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Remember

  Copyright © 2003 by The Smalley Publishing Group, LLC, and Karen Kingsbury. All rights

  reserved.

  Cover illustration © 2002 by David Henderson. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph © 2002 by Klaus Lahnstein/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Karen Kingsbury photo copyright © 2009 by dandavisphotography.com.

  Gary Smalley photo copyright © 2001 by Jim Lersch. All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli

  Interior designed by Zandrah Maguigad

  Edited by Anne Christian Buchanan and Lynn Vanderzalm

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard

  Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.

  Most Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from

  the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotation of Psalm 23 on p. 342 is taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product

  of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,

  organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either

  the authors or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kingsbury, Karen.

  Remember / Karen Kingsbury with Gary Smalley.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8423-5629-9

  1. Indiana—Fiction. 2. Young women—Fiction. 3. Alzheimer’s disease—Patients—Fiction.

  4. September 11 Terrorist Attacks, 2001—Fiction. I. Smalley, Gary. II. Title.

  PS3561.l4873 R46 2002

  813′.54—dc21 2002012920

  New repackage first published in 2009 under ISBN 978-1-4143-3301-4.

  To our precious families,

  who provide us with amazing memories

  and countless seasons to remember.

  And to the Author of Life,

  who has, for now,

  blessed us with these.

  Authors’ Note

  The Redemption series is set mostly in Bloomington, Indiana. Some of the landmarks—Indiana University, for example—are accurately placed in their true settings. Other buildings, parks, and establishments will be nothing more than figments of our imaginations. We hope those of you familiar with Bloomington and the surrounding area will have fun distinguishing between the two.

  The New York City settings combine real observation with imaginative re-creation.

  Acknowledgments

  In addition to our families and wonderful support teams, we’d like to thank the good people at Tyndale House Publishers for sharing our dream and vision and helping make the Redemption series a reality. A special thanks to Ron Beers, Ken Petersen, and Lynn Vanderzalm for their determination to see this series be everything it could possibly be and to Anne Christian Buchanan for her freelance editorial contribution.

  Also thanks to our agent, Greg Johnson, at Alive Communications. Greg, you are a builder of dreams, a talented man who allows yourself to be used of God at every turn. This series wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t first introduced us. Thank you a million times over.

  A special thanks to the brave men and women of the FDNY and the NYPD, as well as to the countless volunteers who answered questions at Ground Zero and helped lend credibility to this story. We hurt alongside you; we pray along with you. We always will.

  Finally, thanks to Sherri Reed for allowing us dozens and dozens of hours with Alzheimer’s patients and for opening to us a world of research and theories we once knew nothing about. The time spent with those people has left us forever changed. Thank you for your kind heart and your amazing gift with the forgotten ones among us. We pray this book sheds light on the struggles and issues facing the elderly—especially those with Alzheimer’s disease.

  Chapter One

  Dr. John Baxter received news of the fire the moment he arrived at St. Anne’s Hospital that afternoon. An emergency-room nurse flagged him down on his way back from rounds, her face stricken.

  “Stay nearby; we might need you. An apartment complex is burning to the ground. A couple of families trapped inside. At least two fatalities. And we’re already shorthanded.”

  John felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that came with working a
round disaster. He filled in only occasionally at the hospital emergency room—in the summers when he didn’t have classes to teach, or when a disaster of some sort demanded extra personnel. But for him the excitement of ER medicine never lessened. It was as quick and consuming now as it had ever been.

  He glanced at the others making preparations and then back to the nurse. “What happened?” Already sirens were blaring across Bloomington.

  The nurse shook her head. “No one’s sure. They’re still working the blaze. They lost track of two men, firefighters.” She paused. “Everyone’s fearing the worst.”

  Firefighters? John’s heart sank to his waist.

  He followed her into the back, where a flurry of medical personnel were preparing for the first victims. “Did you get their names? The missing men?”

  The nurse stopped and turned around. “It’s Engine 211. That’s all we’ve got so far.”

  John felt the blood drain from his face as he launched into silent, fervent prayer. He prayed for the people fighting the fire and the families trapped inside—and for the missing men of Engine 211.

  He pictured them lost in an inferno, risking their lives to save mothers and fathers and children. He imagined them buried beneath burning rubble or cut off from all communications with their chief.

  Then he prayed for one of Engine 211’s men in particular. A strapping young man who had loved John Baxter’s middle daughter, Ashley, since the two of them were teenagers.

  * * *

  The money was running out.

  That was the main reason Ashley Baxter was out looking for a job on that beautiful summer morning—the type of blue-skied, flower-bursting day perfect for creating art.

  The settlement from her car accident four years ago was almost gone, and though she’d paid cash for her house, she and little Cole still needed money to live on—at least until her paintings began to sell.

  Ashley sighed and ran her hand through her short-cropped, dark hair. She studied the ad in the paper once more:

  Care worker for adult group home. Some medical training preferred. Salary and benefits.

  As mundane as it sounded, it might be just the job she wanted. She’d checked with her father and found out that caregiver pay tended to be barely above minimum wage. She’d be working mostly with Alzheimer’s patients—people with dementia or other age-related illnesses, folks unable to survive on their own. She would have wrinkled bodies to tend, hairy chins to wipe, and most likely diapers to change. The job wasn’t glamorous.

  But Ashley didn’t mind. She had reasons for wanting the job. Since returning from her sojourn in Paris, everything about her life had changed. She was only twenty-five, but she felt years older, jaded and cynical. She rarely laughed, and she wasn’t the kind of mother Cole needed. Despite the heads she turned, she felt old and used up—even ugly.

  Paris was partly to blame for who she had become. But much of it was due to all the running she had done since then. Running from her parents’ viewpoints, their tiresome religion, their attempts to mold her into a woman she could never be. And running from Landon Blake—from his subtle but persistent advances and the predictable lifestyle she’d be forced into if she ever fell in love with him.

  Whatever the reason, she was aware that something tragic had happened to her heart in the four years since she had come home from Europe. It had grown cold—colder than the wind that whipped across Bloomington, Indiana, in mid-January. And that, in turn, was affecting her only true passion—her ability to paint. She still worked at it, still filled up canvases, but it had been years since she did anything truly remarkable.

  Ashley turned off South Walnut and began searching for the address of the group home. In addition to bringing in a paycheck, working with old people might ward off the cold deep within her, might even melt the ice that had gathered around her soul over the years. She had always felt a kind of empathy for old folks, an understanding. Somehow they stirred a place in her heart that nothing else could touch.

  She remembered driving through town a week ago and seeing two ancient women—hunched-over, gnarled old girls, probably in their nineties—walking arm in arm down the sidewalk. They had taken careful, measured steps, and when one started to slip, the other held her up.

  Ashley had pulled over that afternoon and studied them from a distance, thinking they’d make a good subject for her next painting. Who were they, and what had they seen in their long lifetimes? Did they remember the tragedy of the Titanic? Had they lost sons in World War II—or had they themselves served somehow? Were the people they loved still alive or close enough to visit?

  Had they been beautiful, flitting from one social event to another with a number of handsome boys calling after them? And did they grieve the way they’d become invisible—now that society no longer noticed them?

  Ashley watched the women step carefully into an intersection and then freeze with fear when the light turned, catching them halfway across. An impatient driver laid on his horn, honking in sharp, staccato patterns. The expression on the women’s faces became nervous and then frantic. They hurried their feet, shuffling in such a way that they nearly fell. When they reached the other side, they stopped to catch their breath, and again Ashley wondered.

  Was this all that was left for these ladies—angry drivers impatient with their slow steps and physical challenges? Was that all the attention they’d receive on a given day?

  The most striking thing about the memory was that as the questions came, Ashley’s cheeks had grown wet. She popped down the visor and stared at her reflection. Something was happening to her that hadn’t happened in months. Years, even.

  She was crying.

  And that was when she had realized the depth of her problem. The fact was, her experiences had made her cynical. And if she was ever going to create unforgettable artwork, she needed something more than a canvas and a brush. She needed a heart, tender and broken, able to feel in ways she’d long since forgotten.

  That afternoon as she watched the two old women, a thought occurred to Ashley. Perhaps she had unwittingly stumbled upon a way to regain the softness that had long ago died. If she wanted a changed heart, perhaps she need only spend time with the aged.

  That’s why the ad in this morning’s paper was so appealing.

  She drove slowly, scanning the addresses on the houses until she found the one she was looking for. Her interview was in five minutes. She pulled into the driveway, taking time to study the outside of the building. “Sunset Hills Adult Care Home” a sign read. The building was mostly brick, with a few small sections of beige siding and a roof both worn and sagging. The patch of grass in front was neatly manicured, shaded at the side by a couple of adolescent maple trees. A gathering of rosebushes struggled to produce a few red and yellow blossoms in front of a full-sized picture window to the right of the door. A wiry, gray-haired woman with loose skin stared out at her through the dusty glass, her eyes nervous and empty.

  Ashley drew a deep breath and surveyed the place once more. It seemed nice enough, the type of facility that drew little or no attention and served its purpose well. What was it her father called homes like this one? She thought for a moment, and it came to her.

  Heaven’s waiting rooms.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, lots of them. Sirens usually meant one thing: it’d be a busy day for her father. And maybe Landon Blake. Ashley blocked out the sound and checked the mirror. Even she could see the twinlike resemblance between herself and Kari, her older sister. Other than Kari’s eyes, which were as brown as Ashley’s were blue, they were nearly identical.

  But the resemblance stopped there.

  Kari was good and pure and stoic, and even now—five months after the death of her husband, with a two-month-old baby to care for by herself—Kari could easily find a reason to smile, to believe the best about life and love.

  And God, of course. Always God.

  Ashley bit her lip and opened the car door. Determination mingled with the
humid summer air as she grabbed her purse and headed up the walkway. With each step, she thought again of those two old ladies, how she had cried at their condition—lonely, isolated, and forgotten.

  As Ashley reached the front door, a thought dawned on her. The reason the women had been able to warm the cold places in her heart was suddenly clear.

  In all ways that mattered, she was just like them.

  * * *

  There was no way out.

  Landon Blake was trapped on the second floor somewhere in the middle of the burning apartment complex. Searing walls of flames raged on either side of him and, for the first time since becoming a firefighter, Landon had lost track of the exits. Every door and window was framed in fire.

  His partner had to be somewhere nearby, but they’d separated to make the room checks more quickly. Now the fire had grown so intense, he wasn’t sure they’d ever find each other in time. Landon grabbed his radio from its pocket on his upper jacket and positioned it near his air mask. Then he turned a valve so his words would be understood.

  “Mayday . . . Mayday . . .”

  He stuck the radio close to his ear and waited, but only a crackling static answered him. A few seconds passed, and the voice of his captain sounded on the radio.

  “Lieutenant Blake, report your whereabouts.”

  Hope flashed in Landon’s heart. He placed the radio near the valve in his mask once more. “Lieutenant Blake reporting Mayday, sir. I can’t find my way out.”

  There was a pause. “Lieutenant Blake, report your whereabouts.”

  Landon’s stomach tightened. “I’m on the second floor, sir. Can you hear me?”

  “Lieutenant Blake, this is your captain. Report your whereabouts immediately.” A brief hesitation followed; then the captain’s tone grew urgent. “RIT enter the building now! Report to the second floor. I repeat, RIT report to the second floor.”

  RIT? Landon forced himself to breathe normally. RIT was the Rapid Intervention Team, the two firefighters who waited on alert at any job in case someone from the engine company became lost in the fire. The command could mean only one thing: Landon’s radio wasn’t working. His captain had no idea that he’d become separated from his partner or where to begin looking for him.