Garrett's Gift

by Jayna Morrow

  Micara gave Garrett a couple of harder pats and then stood and made her way to the stage. She seemed comfortable as if she’d done this before. She walked right up to the microphone.

  “Testing.” A loud squeal traveled across the room. People covered their ears. Some searched the sound booth to see who was to blame.

  A man in a red ball cap adjusted a few dials and then yelled, “You should be good.”

  “Testing.” This time, the amplification sounded perfect. “Great. OK.”

  She breathed into the microphone, and a whoosh of air rushed out. Her hands trembled. He’d never known her to be shy when it came to public speaking.

  “I planned on giving y’all the details about the next town meeting, the date and time and all that. But now the meeting is canceled. Well, I’m not going anyway. I’ve done a lot of soul searching and a lot of praying, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been trying to take control of a situation that is beyond my control.

  “It’s no secret that I’m against allowing developers to buy up land. I have my reasons, and those reasons led me to behave in a way that I shouldn’t have. I knew what I wanted, and I was shaken. I started calling town meetings and talking to people. But I never once prayed for God’s will to be done. I prayed for what I wanted.

  “Brother Frank gave a great sermon today about trusting in God’s plan. So I don’t need to stay upset all the time. I don’t need to worry. All I need to do is trust and pray. God’s plan always prevails. And if God’s plan doesn’t include Sweet Home remaining just the way it is, then there’s nothing I can do about it anyway. So the meeting is canceled. Instead, I want everyone to pray that no matter what happens to our beautiful little town, that God’s will be done. Thank you.”

  Complete silence followed her surprising announcement. Garrett had never expected to hear those words, but now that they were said, their truth was undeniable. Micara left the platform area and ambled toward him, the impact rippling around the room. No tears streamed down her face, just a glisten in her eyes. Satisfaction and acceptance radiated outward.

  Why couldn’t he make decisions so easily, and be able to live with them? His doubt kept him from making a decision about his land. Deep down, he knew that everything Brother Frank said today was correct. He’d been wrong about his purpose in life. Playing football wasn’t what he’d been born to do, or he’d be doing it. He’d have been the one honored at the Sweet Home Heroes banquet.

  Then what?

  He’d considered various scenarios, but they always ended with his living the same pointless life he did now—and he wanted no part of that.

  He left the church without speaking to a soul. Didn’t see the look on Micara’s lovely face, but he had no trouble imagining the glisten in her eyes turning to tears, and her soft lips parting in surprise. Her questioning gaze burned into his back as the sun blinded his eyes.

  Once in his car, he started the engine with a quick flick of his wrist and drove away fast.

  10

  Micara caught her friend’s glance from across the restaurant, and she waved, her lips lifting into a smile. No matter what mood she was in, her friend could always cheer her up. But though Connie acknowledged her wave, she didn’t smile and wave back. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her violet eyes were cast down at the table. Uh-oh. Connie only put her hair up when she was too stressed to deal with it, and her bright gaze always held a twinkle of gladness.

  She and Connie had coffee at least once a week in this little cafe. The familiar clinking of glassware, patron chatter, and the drizzle of coffee filling up cups were notes in a delicate diner song she knew well. They always sat in the same booth in the back near a wall of windows. The Clarks’ property, now a construction zone, was visible from the table.

  Micara tried not to look at the awful sight, but her own curiosity sought it out. The trees had been cleared, and another crew had moved in to start the next phase of the project. She hoped nobody had seen her making a fool of herself by trying to stop a fifty-ton bulldozer with a stick, though it seemed somehow symbolic. The whole Sweet Home situation was the bulldozer, and she was nothing more than a fragile length of wood. Breakable.

  Connie was put-together as always in the business attire she wore to her job at the bank, but narrow lines crossed her forehead. She was worried about something. Concern for her friend made Micara forget about the Clarks’ property. Heart fluttering, she crossed the restaurant and slid into the seat across from Connie.

  “I’m so upset.” Connie set her coffee cup down on the table.

  “Oh, no, sweetie. What’s the matter?”

  The waitress brought more coffee.

  Micara held the hot cup while her friend spoke.

  “I just had a disturbing conversation with Pippy Warren. She said my next-door neighbors committed to selling their land. I had already talked to them and thought we were on the same page about this. They betrayed me. Do you know what this will do to me?”

  Living in a construction zone for no telling how long. Having all privacy and sense of country living taken away. Not knowing whether a neighbor’s sell-out would adversely affect property values. Stress from having businesses as neighbors. Noise from busy, widened streets. And if that nightmarish scenario came to be, who would buy such a place, enabling the unhappy resident to move? Being driven away would be a detriment…not being able to escape would be worse.

  Yeah, she had a clear picture of what this would do to her friend.

  “I do, Connie. That’s why I’ve been working so hard to educate the local landowners.”

  Connie sipped her coffee. “If anyone can understand, it’s you. My property and my neighbor’s property are both close to the city center. That most likely means businesses going in. I could stomach this a lot better if I knew it’d be a housing development. At least that would be quieter than stores, with constant traffic in and out.”

  “My grandmother’s property is close to town too. I know what you mean. We’d be forced to move if they bought up any of the surrounding properties or built a strip mall within walking distance.” She placed her coffee mug on the table. She no longer felt like drinking it.

  Connie hadn’t taken a sip either.

  “We didn’t get to talk about your kids at the game. How are they?” Maybe a change of subject would help.

  Connie seemed to brighten at the mention of her children. “The boys are enjoying school. They’re sticking with extracurricular activities, too. And that’s pretty much all we have going on right now. I like this slow time of year. Everything speeds up during the holidays, and then we get a short time to recover before baseball. Nothing exciting since last week, except Pippy’s visit.”

  Micara wrinkled her brow. “Why did Pippy visit you? Surely she’s not going door-to-door to notify people of who’s selling and who’s not.”

  Connie shrugged. “She said she heard about it and wanted to give me a heads-up, in case I didn’t already know. She’s a concerned citizen. I don’t see what she stands to gain from the sale of anyone’s property.”

  “She could come in real handy if any of these companies cross a line in their soliciting methods or if they discover someone owes taxes or doesn’t have a clear title, and they try to take the land by force. She may have been looking for business, but I wouldn’t consider Pippy the type to go around bothering people.”

  “I’m sure she was just being helpful.” Connie took a sip of her coffee. No wisps of steam curled up from the surface, so it had to have cooled.

  Micara nodded. “Well, I gotta mow the bank’s lawn and take care of their landscaping.”

  Connie glanced in the direction of the car and trailer in the parking lot. “I saw your mower on the trailer when you drove up. We’ve been friends for years, and you still don’t seem like the type to mow lawns and do landscaping.”

  “What job do you see me doing?”

  Connie cocked her head to one side and thought for a moment. “F
lorist?”

  Micara smiled and nodded. “I’m not creative enough for that, and I prefer to be outside. But I do love flowers of all kinds. Good to see you, Connie, as always.”

  “You, too. Next week?”

  “Yep, as usual.”

  Micara bent to hug her friend before leaving the restaurant. Time to get mowing.

  ~*~

  Garrett’s office was a cramped, gray room with a popcorn ceiling and dim lighting. Shelves ran the length of the two walls farthest from the door. He’d installed them his first year at Sweet Home High, and they consisted of pre-cut boards from the lumberyard and several L brackets to hold them in place. He hadn’t even painted them. Years of sports memorabilia filled them, most were homemade items from the mothers of his players. A metal desk sat in one corner and a television on a rolling cart in another. Necessary clutter covered the top of his desk, but he could navigate his system without any problems.

  Kicked back in his desk chair with the massager turned up high, he breathed in the scent of laundry detergent and bleach. After smelling sweaty jocks for two and half hours, he relished the scent of a fresh breeze.

  When practice was over and the guys disappeared to shower and change, he always started a load of laundry so the smell filled the office. Only then could he meet with the other two coaches. They planned for the next day until all the athletes left.

  But now, even his assistants had clocked out and he was the last soul in the building. Quiet reigned in the field house once again. A few minutes in his massage chair and he’d head home. He clicked the highest intensity setting and closed his eyes while the rollers kneaded the muscles along his spine.

  “Coach?”

  Strike that.

  Garrett recognized the voice and swiveled around. “Matthew! I thought everyone had left.”

  Matthew filled the doorway. The tall, muscular offensive lineman with his sandy hair and blue eyes reminded Garrett a lot of himself at that age—only this kid was bigger. He also had that same forlorn look in his eyes, the one that said he’d been through plenty in his lifetime.

  “Coach, I just wanted you to be the first to know that I’ve decided to play ball at Texas. I thought about my offers, and Texas is the best place for me.” He dropped his gaze to the floor.

  Uneasiness gripped Garrett’s stomach. Matthew was holding something back. They’d been talking about potential colleges for a while. The kid was torn between going where he really wanted – Texas State - and going somewhere close to his mother. He worried about her a lot. “What about your mother?”

  Matthew leaned on the doorframe and dropped his duffel bag by his feet. The bulk landed with a thud and the equipment inside protruded at odd angles. “My father’s dying, Coach. They put him in the hospital last night. It’s his liver. He doesn’t have much time left.”

  Garrett switched off the massager and leaned forward. Blood pulsed through his veins and whooshed in his ears. After hearing about the awful mental and physical abuse he’d committed against his wife and kids, how often had Garrett wished that Matthew’s alcoholic old man would keel over? Now he felt horrible it was actually happening, as though he’d brought it on.

  “Matthew, I’m sorry to hear about that.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not. That man’s never laying a hand on my mother or brothers again.”

  He knew the man had laid hands on Matthew many times, too. But that was before the kid hit a growth spurt and grew larger than his father. The authorities had been involved in his situation for many years.

  “My mother and I had a long talk at the hospital. With my father out of the picture, she and the boys will be fine. She wants me to sign with Texas, and I want her to be happy.”

  “You’ll make her proud, Matt.” He adjusted in his seat. “I know you will.”

  He stood and extended a hand. Matthew shook it with a tight grip. His confidence was building already. Garrett was happy for him.

  “Thanks, Coach.” He picked up his bag and took a step out the door. Then he turned back. “And thanks for getting me off the hook, you know, with that fight and all. My old man and Austin’s old man got in a fight in a bar, and he thought he could take it out on me. I was afraid I would lose my scholarship and the chance to live my dream. When you hit the ground, I just knew it was all over. All the years I put up with my father…I handled them, because I knew that someday I would get out and make something of myself. Then you stood up and pinned me to the wall, and I knew it was over. It hit me, and I felt my future slipping away. I couldn’t breathe, Coach. Know what I mean?”

  Garrett’s eyes filled with the tears he’d held back for so long. He’d been there, and he’d limped away without a happy ending. He nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Matt. I get it.” If he only knew.

  “You OK, Coach?”

  Garrett closed his eyes and pulled in a steadying breath. Not a good idea to show weakness in front of his athlete. He didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded.

  “Did I make the right decision? I’ve also thought about going to work for your brother and taking care of my mother and brothers since my dad won’t be around.”

  Garrett’s head snapped back up. “Are you thinking about throwing it all away after you were so upset about the possibility of losing it?”

  “Coach, I...I—”

  “I never had a choice, but you do.” He had to do something. But how could he give advice when he’d suffered the loss of his dream for so long? All he knew about was giving up hope. He didn’t know anything about helping family. Lord, help me say the right words. “Matt, I’ve never talked about this to anyone because it—well, it hurt too much. But in this case, not telling you would hurt more…”

  “You mean about what happened to you in high school?”

  Blink. “You know about that?”

  “Everyone knows.”

  The air rushed out of his lungs, and his stomach flopped backward to fill the space. He knew most people over thirty knew about his injury, but he had no idea people were still talking. “I see. Well…then…how could you even think about throwing this chance away?”

  “I have problems, Coach.”

  “This is a problem.” Garrett extended his bum leg. A large, purplish scar ran from the top of his knee to just below it. It was raised, and smaller scars formed a dotted line along both sides where pins and rods had once been attached. “Problems are stop signs. Closed roads. Everything else is complications. You don’t have problems, Matt. You have things to consider.”

  “I never thought about it that way.” The look on his face said he was already contemplating ways to juggle family and college and football. Either that or he was doing complicated math in his head. Deep creases marred his forehead.

  “You’re a strong young man. Look what you’ve managed so far. You can do this, Matthew. Have faith. You have a lot of support around here. And if you don’t take this opportunity and run with it, I’ll take you out on that field and use you as a human tackling dummy.”

  Matthew’s laughter made everything all right.

  “Now get on home. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

  Have faith? He shook his head as the young athlete left his office. Had that really been him talking? Garrettt had to admit his faith had increased ten-fold over the past few weeks, and he viewed the world with new eyes. He still had a long way to go, but he believed he knew what he wanted now.

  ~*~

  In the Sweet Home High parking lot, Micara rolled down her window a few inches, exited the car and shut the door. Catching her reflection in the glass, she tightened her ponytail and smoothed the loose hairs behind her ears. She’d been working at the home of Joy Pendleton all day, putting in a small-scale koi pond. She was dirty and sore, but she wanted to see Garrett before she headed home. He’d left church yesterday without a word and hadn’t returned her phone calls. All had been progressing so well, and then it spiraled out of control.

  She walked toward the field house and football
field. Beyond that were the high school, middle school, and elementary school buildings. Her old school had aged since she’d graduated, but other than that, everything had remained pretty much the same.

  Very little ever changed in Sweet Home.

  Garrett sat on a bench on the sidelines, spinning a football in his hands as if he had a lot on his mind.

  “Is this where you run to?” She called out over the fence, smiling to show that she was teasing.

  He moved to open the gate for her, but in a few quick movements, she climbed over the chest-high fence. Fences were no problem for a country girl like her. Well, country at heart. Though she had spent some of her life in a large city, she’d honed her tree climbing and fence jumping skills whenever she’d visited her grandmother.

  Garrett met her in the middle of the field on the fifty-yard line.

  “Sorry about walking out on you. Sunday’s message overwhelmed me.”

  Micara took the football from his hands, backed up several yards and threw it to him. It soared through the air in a perfect spiral. Garrett took a step back with his sturdy leg and caught the ball in a cradle. He gave her a look that said he was impressed. Micara flashed a big smile and raised her eyebrows.

  “Beginner’s luck. And don’t worry about Sunday. I had that reaction once to a guest speaker’s message.” She didn’t see any point in dancing around the subject. “A man who talked about his abusive childhood and how he couldn’t save his mother. Too close to home. I ran from the sanctuary to the bathroom and cried. I needed to hear it, though.”

  Garrett threw the ball back to Micara. She tried to catch it, but her legs crossed, and she fell forward. Instinctively, her hands shot forward, and she caught herself without falling on her face.

  “Nice catch,” he teased.

  “I meant to do that.”

  “Sure you did.” He took a few steps backward. “Back up.”

  She retreated to the thirty-yard line. He threw the ball. She focused on it as best she could as it spiraled straight toward her. Then she readied her hands. The ball landed in her arms, and she was even able to hold her footing without falling over.