Oceans Apart by Karen Kingsbury

all a fantasy, Kiahna. It’s okay for you, but keep it to yourself.”
    “I won’t ask you about God, if you don’t ask me about men.” Ramey planted her hands on her hips. “Deal.” Every now and then, though, Ramey found a way to bring the forbidden subject up to Kiahna.
    “Look, I have God and Max.” She’d give Ramey a shrug and a sweet smile. “That’s enough for now.”
    Ramey got the point, but that didn’t stop her from mentioning a single man down at the grocery store, or another one out by the pool. Kiahna’s response was always the same. There would be no men in her life except for her son.
    A handful of years passed, and Ramey’s own two children moved to the mainland and rarely made it back for visits. Ramey still had a heart full of love, so she opened a day care in her home. Six children came every day after school, but Max was the only one who sometimes spent the night. When he turned five, Ramey was too 49

    – Oceans Apart –
    ill and too tired to care for so many children. She kept only Max, and she realized something about the boy.
    He felt like her own.
    Now she was sixty-eight with heart disease, diabetes, poor cir-culation, and failing eyesight. With Kiahna gone, whatever Max’s future held Ramey wanted very much to be part of it. But she couldn’t be the only part. Max was an active child, a boy who learned from Kiahna on the sidewalk outside their apartment how to throw a spiral pass, one who raced his mother down the beach and took bike rides with her on lesser-known island trails.
    Ramey’s body simply didn’t have that much left to give.
    So it was, first thing Monday morning, three days after the tragedy, Ramey was on the phone with Kiahna’s attorney, hoping against hope that whatever financial plan the documents held for Max, they also contained some type of physical plan.
    Ramey wasn’t sure what she was hoping for. That Kiahna had a long-lost sister maybe, or an aunt or uncle. Someone who cared enough to step in and be a family for Max. The receptionist at the attorney’s office had her on hold, but that didn’t bother Ramey.
    She would’ve waited all day if it meant helping Max. Poor baby.
    He and Buddy had been practically attached at the ankle since Saturday morning, and several times she’d found Max sitting at the foot of his bed, knees drawn up, face buried in his arms.
    Sobbing and calling in quiet desperation for his mama.
    Today was the first morning Ramey woke up dry-eyed, but she had no doubt there’d be more sadness before the day was done.
    She held the receiver close to her ear.
    “Hello, this is Marv Ogle.”
    Ramey steadied herself. Never . . . never had she thought she’d have to make this call. Back when Max was born it had seemed impossible that Kiahna would ever be anything but the boy’s mom, 50

    – Karen Kingsbury –
    young and alive and driven by faith. “Hello, Mr. Ogle. Kiahna Seifert is a client of yours, I believe.”
    “Kiahna?” The man’s voice softened. “Yes . . . she’s a client.”
    “Well . . .” Ramey swallowed. She had the feeling Kiahna had been more than a client to this man. Perhaps she had even been a friend. “I have some bad news, Mr. Ogle.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Kiahna was killed in Friday’s plane crash. She . . . she was a flight attendant.”
    A moment passed while the man recovered. “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.”
    The attorney moaned, and his voice cracked when he spoke again. “I was worried. I heard about the crash and looked for a victim list, but the papers haven’t printed it yet.”
    “No.” Ramey blinked back a fresh wetness in her eyes. “They’re still notifying next of kin.”
    “You’re absolutely sure?” He sighed long and slow, the way people did in hospitals and funeral parlors. “I thought she flew the Los Angeles route.”
    “Before Max was born.” Ramey stared at her hands and saw they were shaking. “It’s been Honolulu to Tokyo ever since.” Another