“I’m their father,” said Jack heatedly.
“You’re a single parent. Lizzie isn’t here to take care of the kids.”
“I can take care of them.”
“Can you? Because I don’t think you have any idea what’s in store for you.”
Jack started to say something but stopped.
Could she be right?
16
“Mr. Armstrong?”
Jack stared down from the ladder he was standing on while repairing some siding on a job site. The sun was high overhead, the air warm, and the sweat on his skin thick. He had on a white tank top, dirty dark blue cargo shorts, white crew socks, and worn steel-toed work boots. The woman down below was pretty, with light brown curly hair cut short, and she wore a pair of black slacks and a white blouse; her heels were sunk in the wet grass.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m Janice Kaplan. I’m a newspaper reporter. I’d like to talk to you.”
Jack clambered down the ladder and rubbed his hands off on the back of his shorts. “Talk to me about what?”
“Being the miracle man.”
Jack squinted at her. “Come again?”
“You are the Jack Armstrong who was diagnosed with a terminal illness?”
“Well, yeah, I was.”
“You don’t look terminal anymore.”
“I’m not. I got better.”
“So a miracle. At least that’s what the doctor I talked to said.”
Jack looked annoyed. “You talked to my doctor? I thought that was private.”
“Actually, he’s a friend of mine. He mentioned your case in passing. It was all very positive. I became interested, did a little digging, and here I am.”
“Here for what?” Jack said, puzzled.
“To do a story on you. People with death sentences rarely get a second chance. I’d like to talk to you about the experience. And I know my readers would want to know.”
Jack and the kids had been back for nearly four weeks now. With parenting and financial support resting solely on his shoulders, Jack barely had time to eat or sleep. Bonnie had been right in her prediction. He didn’t have any idea what was in store for him. Mikki had really stepped up and had taken the laboring oar with the cooking and cleaning, the shopping, and looking after the boys. He had never had greater appreciation for Lizzie. She’d done it all, from school to meals to laundry to shopping to keeping the house clean. Jack had worked hard, but he realized now that he hadn’t come close to working as hard as his wife had, because she did all that and worked full-time too. At midnight he lay in his bed, numb and exhausted—and humbled by the knowledge that Lizzie would have still been going strong.
“A story?” Jack shook his head as he dug a hole in the mulch bed with the toe of his boot. “Look, it’s really not that special.”
“Don’t be modest. And I also understand that you turned your life around, built your business back, got a house, and went to retrieve your children, who’d been placed with family after your wife tragically died.” She added, “I was very sorry to hear about that. On Christmas Eve too, of all days.”
Jack’s annoyance turned to anger. “You didn’t learn all that from my doctor. That really is an invasion of privacy.”
“Please don’t be upset, Mr. Armstrong. I’m a reporter; it’s my job to find out these things. And I’m probably not explaining myself very well.” She drew a deep breath while Jack stared at her, his hands clenching into fists with his anxiety. “It’s strictly a feel-good piece. One man’s triumph against the odds, a family reunited. These are hard times for folks, especially around here. All we hear is bad news. War, crime, people losing their jobs and their homes. I write about that stuff all the time, and while it is news, it’s also very, very depressing. But this is different. This is a great story that will make people smile. That’s all I’m shooting for. To make people feel good, for once.”
His anger quickly disappearing, Jack looked around while he considered her request. He saw Sammy up on another ladder watching him intently. He waved to show him things were okay. Jack turned back to the woman.
“So what exactly do I have to do?”
“Just sit down with me and tell your story. I’ll take notes, do a draft, get back to you, polish it, and then it’ll be published in the paper and on our Web site.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s all. I really believe it will be positive for lots of people. There are many folks out there with what seem like insurmountable obstacles in front of them. Reading about how you overcame yours could do a lot of good. It really could.”
“I think I just got lucky.”
“Maybe, but maybe not. From the research I’ve done on your condition, the odds were zero that you would recover. No one else ever has.”
“Well, I’m just happy I was the first. How about tomorrow after dinner?”
“Great. About eight?”
Jack gave her his address. She glanced at his exposed upper right arm and then his scarred calves. “I understand you were in the military. Is that where you got those?” She indicated the ragged bullet wound on his arm and the network of scars on his legs.
“Arm in Afghanistan and legs in Iraq.”
“Two Purples then?”
“Yeah. Were you in the military?”
“My son just got back from the Middle East in one piece, thank God.”
“I guess we both have a lot to be thankful for.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The story ran, and a few days later Janice Kaplan called.
“The AP picked up my article, Jack.”
Jack had just finished cleaning up after dinner.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“AP. Associated Press. That means my story about you and your family is running in newspapers across the country. My editor still can’t believe it.”
“Congratulations, Janice.”
“No, thank you. It wasn’t the writing; it was the story. And it was a great picture of you and the kids. And I think lots of families will be inspired by your struggle and triumph. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up. You’re famous now. So be prepared.”
17
Janice Kaplan’s words proved prophetic. Letters came pouring in, including offers to appear on TV and to tell his story to major magazines; one publisher even wanted Jack to write a book. Overwhelmed by the blitzkrieg and wanting a normal life with his kids, he declined them all. He figured with the passage of time other stories would emerge and take the focus away from him. His fifteen minutes of fame couldn’t be over soon enough for him. He was no miracle man, he knew, but simply a guy who got lucky.
A week after Kaplan’s call, Jack was lying in bed when he heard voices downstairs. He slipped on his pants and crept down to the main level.
“Stop it, Chris!”
Jack took the last three steps in one bound. Mikki was at the door, and a teenage boy had his hands all over her as she struggled against him. It took only two seconds for Jack to lift the young man off his feet and slam him against the wall. Jack said, “What part of no don’t you get, jerk?” He looked over at Mikki. “What the hell is going on?”
“We… he just came over to work on some… Dad, just let him down.”
Jack snapped, “Get upstairs.”
“Dad!”
“Now.”
“I can handle this. I’m not a child.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Upstairs.”
She stalked up to her room. Jack turned back to the young man.
“I ever catch you with one finger on her again, they won’t be able to find all the pieces to put you back together, got it?”
The terrified teen merely nodded.
Jack threw him outside and slammed the door. He stood there, letting his anger cool. Then he marched up the stairs and knocked on his daughter’s door.
“Leave me alone.”
Instead he threw open the door
and went in. Mikki was sitting on the floor, her guitar across her lap.
“We need to get a few rules straight around here,” Jack said.
She stared up at him icily. “Which rules? The ones where you’re ruining my life?”
“What was I supposed to do, let that little creep paw you?”
“I told you I could handle it.”
“You can’t handle everything. That’s why there are people called parents.”
“Oh, is that what you’re pretending to be?”
Jack looked stunned. “Pretend? I brought all of you back home so we could be together. Do you think I did that just for the hell of it?”
“I don’t have a clue why you did it. And you didn’t even ask me if I wanted to come back. You just told me to pack, like I was a child.”
“I thought you hated it out there. You told me that a dozen times.”
“Well, I hate it here too.”
“What do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“I explained that. Remember? I told you that story about being in the army? About taking your time and being prepared for every eventuality.”
“That’s crap!”
“What?”
“In case you hadn’t figured it out, this isn’t the army, Dad. This is about family.”
“I did all that to make sure we could be a family,” he shot back.
“A family? You don’t have a clue what to do with us. Admit it. You’re not Mom.”
“I know I’m not, believe me. But you two were always arguing.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t appreciate what she did for us. Now I do most of the cooking and cleaning and the laundry, and looking after Jackie. And your grocery-shopping skills are a joke.”
Jack felt his anger continue to rise. “Look, I know I’m not in your mom’s league, but I’m trying to make this work. I love you guys.”
“Really? Well, Cory’s being bullied at school. Did you know that? His grades are going down even though he’s a really smart kid. The teachers have sent home tons of notes in his bag, but you never check that, do you? And Jackie’s birthday is in two weeks. Have you planned anything? Bought him a present? Planned a party for his friends or even thought about a cake?”
Jack’s face grew pale. “Two weeks?”
“Two weeks, Dad. So you might want to try harder.”
“Mik, I—”
“Can you please just leave me alone?”
When he left her room, Cory was standing in the hall in his underwear.
Jack looked embarrassed. “Cor, are you being bullied at school?”
Cory closed the door, leaving his dad alone in the hall.
18
Jack and Sammy were unloading Jack’s truck in his driveway after a long day at work. Jack nearly dropped a sledgehammer on his foot. Sammy looked over at him.
“You okay? Haven’t been yourself the last couple of days.”
Jack slowly picked up the tool and threw it back in the truck bed. “What do you think Jackie would like for his birthday? It’s just around the corner, and I wanted to get him something nice.”
Sammy shrugged. “Uh, toy gun?”
Jack looked doubtful. “I don’t think Lizzie liked to encourage that. And where can I get a cake and some birthday things? You know like hats and… stuff?”
“The grocery store up the street has a bakery.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s right across from the beer aisle.”
Jack drove to the store and got some items for Jackie’s birthday. He was standing at the checkout aisle when he saw it. He had never been more stunned in his life. He was looking at his photo on the cover of one of the tabloid magazines that were kept as impulse buys at the checkout. He slowly reached out his hand and picked up a copy.
The headline ran, “Miracle Man Muddied.”
What the hell?
Jack turned to the next page and read the story. With each word he read, his anger increased. Now he could understand the headline. The writer had twisted everything. He’d made it seem that Jack had forced Lizzie to go out on an icy, treacherous night to get his pain meds. And then, even worse, the writer had suggested that Jack thought his wife was having an affair with a neighbor. An obviously distraught Lizzie had run a red light and been killed. None of it was true, but now probably millions of people thought he was some kind of monster.
He left his items on the conveyor belt and rushed home.
On the drive there, it didn’t take him long to figure out what had happened.
Bonnie had been the writer’s source. But how could she have known? Then it struck him. Lizzie must’ve called her on the drive over to the pharmacy and told her what she was doing. Maybe she mentioned something about Bill Miller, and Bonnie had misconstrued what Jack’s reaction had been, although it would have been pretty difficult to do that. More likely, Bonnie might’ve just altered what Lizzie had told her to suit her own purposes.
Jack could imagine Bonnie seething. Here he was getting all this notoriety, adulation, and sympathy, and Lizzie was in a grave because of him. At least Bonnie probably believed that. A part of Jack couldn’t blame her for feeling that way. But now she had opened a Pandora’s box that Jack would find difficult to close. And what worried him the most was what would happen when his kids found out. He wanted to be the first to talk to them about it, especially Mikki. He gunned the truck.
Unfortunately, he was too late.
19
Mikki was waiting for him on the front porch with a copy of another gossip paper with a similar headline. She was trembling and attacked him as soon as he got out of the truck. “This is all over school. How could you make Mom go out that night? And how could you even think that she would cheat on you?”
Jack exploded, “That story is full of lies. I never accused your mom of anything. I saw her slap Bill Miller. She and I had a laugh about it because he was drunk. And I didn’t insist she go out that night. In fact, I told her not to.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Mikki, it’s the truth. I swear. Tabloids make stuff up all the time. You know that.”
“This never would have happened if you hadn’t agreed to do that
One Summer Page 7
