by Chris Fabry
Barbara had sent a note to Brookshire Christian School from the doctor that said Hannah could run cross-country even though she had asthma. When she’d looked up the mailing address in the directory, seeing the principal’s name on the cover brought back painful memories. Hints of the past bubbled as she studied the name.
Getting the doctor’s note reminded Barbara to renew the prescription for Hannah’s inhaler. She discovered her insurance coverage had changed and the co-pay had gone up fifty dollars, something in the fine print she hadn’t seen. Another fifty dollars gone that couldn’t be used for groceries or gas or the mortgage.
As Barbara scrubbed at a spot of dried syrup on a table by the windows, she wondered about Hannah’s future. Barbara didn’t want her granddaughter to have to scrape up just enough money each month to keep the bill collectors off her doorstep. All the more reason for her to get a good education and then a good job and not be stuck on the hamster wheel. If Hannah could get good grades and finish high school, perhaps Barbara could afford to send her to community college for an associate’s degree. Then Hannah could get a loan and finish her bachelor’s at a state university. It made Barbara’s head spin to think of the cost of tuition, books, and fees.
But more than that, what if Hannah got herself kicked out of school again? She’d been caught stealing several times, and it sure looked like that hadn’t stopped. It was only a matter of time before it got the best of her.
Barbara recalled a garage sale trip when Hannah was six. They were looking for a bike with training wheels so Hannah could learn to ride, and the one they found was rusty and too wobbly. Barbara took Hannah’s hand and returned to the car. On the way home, she glanced in the rearview and saw Hannah playing with something.
“What do you have there, baby?”
Hannah quickly hid what she was holding and Barbara put her hand out over the seat. “Give it here.”
“I don’t have anything,” Hannah said in that squeaky, sweet voice.
She pulled over, got out of the car, opened the back door, and gave Hannah the look. The child wilted and handed over a small stuffed animal with a tag on its ear. A fast-food restaurant had given these to children with their meals years earlier.
“Where did you get this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Did you get it from the garage sale?”
No response.
“Baby, look at me. Did you get this at the garage sale?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Barbara got back in the car, turned around, and returned to their last stop. She marched Hannah up to the table outside the garage, pulling her by one arm. Hannah’s head was down but Barbara was sure this was a teachable moment. She would nip this stealing penchant in the bud.
“My granddaughter had this with her in the car and she’s here to return it.”
The woman took the toy from Barbara and leaned down. Hannah had a finger in her mouth.
“What do you say, Hannah?” Barbara said.
She said something unintelligible.
“Take your hand out of your mouth and apologize.”
“Sorry,” Hannah said, making the word three syllables.
Instead of helping, instead of reinforcing the lesson, the homeowner said, “Oh, that old thing. We have about a hundred we didn’t sell. Why don’t you take this and pick out another one.”
Barbara’s mouth dropped open. “No, no, no! She’s got to learn that she can’t take things that belong to others.”
“I understand,” the woman said, “but look at that face. She’s sorry for it, aren’t you, sweetie?”
Hannah nodded like a bobblehead doll with a tight spring, then wandered into the garage and came back with two more stuffed animals. Barbara didn’t know what to say. She told Hannah on the way home that she could have gotten into big trouble.
“Never do that again.”
“Yes, Grandma,” Hannah said.
Then it was a pack of gum at a gas station. Barbara found the remnants of a chocolate bar in one of Hannah’s pockets. Most often she had a plausible story about whatever she hadn’t paid for. And now Hannah was going to a school with a zero-tolerance policy on stealing. What would happen if they caught her?
It was the worry that ate Barbara alive. It was all the things Hannah might be squirreling away. Was there something in the girl’s DNA that made her susceptible? Perhaps someday they’d come up with a pill she could take.
But that was ridiculous. There was no cure. This was a choice. Barbara wanted to make it for Hannah, but she couldn’t. And she couldn’t watch her every minute of the day.
From what Barbara could see, Hannah wasn’t boy-crazy yet, but that would probably come, just like it had for Janet. Then she was in for a whole new set of worries. And so far, it didn’t look like Hannah had gotten involved with any drugs. But Janet hadn’t started using until after high school.
“What happened with that customer?”
Barbara nearly dropped a tray of dirty dishes when her manager, Doyle Odelle, came up behind her. She gathered herself and tried to explain, but the look on his face said it all.
“Business is bad enough. I can’t afford to have unhappy customers.”
“I did everything I could to hurry things up in the kitchen.”
“So it’s the cooks’ fault?”
“No, sir. You know there are some people who aren’t happy with anything. His wife all but apologized to me for the way he treated me.”
Doyle frowned. “You need to do more to make them happy. Maybe smile once in a while? Try that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m changing the schedule. You won’t have as many hours next week.”
Barbara wanted to protest but instead she bit her tongue. It was just one more thing to worry about.
CHAPTER 13
John had designs on a free hour to grade papers when he saw Troy Finkle. Troy taught English and drama, and he had a look in his eyes as he headed straight toward John. It wasn’t hard to say no to Troy—the man just never heard the word. John tried valiantly, but Troy roped him into being a drama monologue judge. He set it up like a TV show with judges behind a table providing critique.
The stereotype of coaches was they didn’t appreciate art or creativity. But students were energized by different things, and John was as happy with a student excelling in drama as one who threw touchdowns on Friday nights. Well, almost. You could only take the drama thing so far.
What could have been an invigorating time of literature and poetry became a painful hour of students reciting lifeless material, remembering words but displaying no heart. Two students performed the old Abbott and Costello “Who’s on First?” They had memorized every syllable but couldn’t translate the words into a performance. And that was the trick in sports, music—any discipline, really—to bring the material to life and deliver it in such a way that it became a gift to the world. John was pleased with that image. Who said coaches can’t be creative?
Toward the end of the cringe-worthy performances, Troy turned to John and said, “Do you know anyone in this school who can speak with one ounce of passion?”
John thought a moment and looked at Troy. “You.”
The deflated drama teacher immediately brightened. He held up a fist and John bumped it. It was something how one little word could provide a boost to someone who needed it.
Back in his class, furiously grading before the next period, John heard footsteps in the hall and then a slight knock. He looked up to see Ken Jones and his son, Ty. It was a moment he’d hoped wouldn’t come.
“Coach Harrison, got a minute?” Ken said.
“Hey, Ken, how are you?” John said, standing and shaking the man’s hand. He shook Ty’s hand and felt a dead fish. Ty studied the floor tiles.
All around the room were visible reminders of leaders, maps representing the history of the country and the world. The rise and fall of empires. Conflict and struggle that informed every living thing.
And John couldn’t help thinking these two were part of his own history. Ty had played basketball with Ethan seemingly since they could walk. The two of them, along with the twins, would have been unbeatable. Would have been. John tried to put that out of his mind and focus on Ty and his dad.
Ken stumbled over his words at first and tried to get them out. John could tell there was real pain in the man’s practiced speech.
“We just wanted to come tell you that we’ve decided to move Ty to Cornerstone.”
There it was. The final nail in the team’s coffin. The words took John’s breath away. He tried to look Ken in the eye, but he could only dip his head and take a deep breath. He wanted to argue, to shout that they could still make Ty’s senior year a great one, still win that championship. It would be the comeback story of the year—the little team that could. He held back and looked at Ken.
“He’s got a good chance of getting a scholarship there,” Ken continued. “And after we’ve lost so many players here, well . . .”
John summoned the strength to speak from his heart and give something, one dad to another, from coach to valued player. “I understand.”
Ken’s face showed relief and gratitude. John hadn’t tried to change their minds or yell or make this about himself.
“Look, you’re an excellent coach,” Ken said quickly. “And none of this is your fault. We just have to do what’s best for his future.”
John nodded. He did understand. Even though it hurt, he knew he had to give something to Ty. He turned to him and remembered the skinny kid who cracked gum and bounced the ball higher than his head. He had lightning speed and with his growth spurt, he had become one of the best players in the state.
“You’re a great player, Ty. I’m going to watch you on TV one day.”
“Thanks, Coach. I enjoyed playing for you.”
Ken and Ty left John alone with his thoughts and the maps, posters, and pictures. A portrait of Abraham Lincoln hung behind him, the man looking down like a specter. Lincoln had gone to battle to keep the Union together instead of letting it break into two countries. Abe had a vision for unity of North and South, and there was great bloodshed and struggle in the fight to remain one nation, under God, indivisible. He’d eventually paid for it with his life.
John sat hard in his chair and stared at the pages. One of them was Ty’s. He had written about the role sports played in helping people get through the Great Depression. He used prizefighter Jim Braddock and a horse named Seabiscuit as examples of the hope that sports could give people who were in a deep struggle.
When John had looked into Ken’s eyes, he had seen himself. He wanted to give Ethan the best shot at a scholarship and a good start at life. That was his main goal.
But was it really? Was he more concerned about himself and how the team made him look as a coach? If he had really loved his son and wanted the best, should he have suggested Cornerstone for Ethan or considered Ethan’s idea to switch to Franklin?
The internal struggle continued as John picked up this year’s basketball schedule. Their first game was at home against Cornerstone. What would it be like to see Ty hit a jump shot and watch two points go up under GUEST on the scoreboard? They would play that team four times this season.
But they wouldn’t play at all. Not now.
John had tried to hold on to hope for their town, their church, their school. He’d tried to think positively, to buck up and see the silver lining. What didn’t kill you made you stronger. Hurdles were there to help you leap higher. Blah, blah, blah. Reality stared back at him from the schedule. And he knew beyond doubt the season had just walked out of his room in jeans and sneakers.
The season had left the building.
He crumpled the page in frustration and slammed it into the trash can. And it struck him that this was the only shot they’d probably make this year.
CHAPTER 14
Hannah stretched and performed lunges on the field before Coach Harrison arrived with his clipboard. He glanced at it, then at the clouds, everything but her eyes. Teachers and parents complained about teenagers daydreaming, but she had seen plenty of preoccupied adults. Coach Harrison seemed anywhere but on the field.
Before he could speak, Hannah said, “Why do you wear that?”
He looked down at his shirt and sweatpants, bewildered.
“That shirt,” she said. “It says Brookshire Basketball. When are you going to wear a Brookshire Cross-Country shirt?”
“It’s not because I don’t want to,” he said. He thought a moment, finally looking her in the eyes. “I’ll ask Mrs. Brooks about a coach’s uniform.”
Coach Harrison went over Hannah’s times and charted her progress from each practice. It felt like numbers meant everything to him. She didn’t realize he had kept these details, but she couldn’t argue with the facts. She had made progress, though not as much as she wanted. Heading into her first race, her coach seemed reserved.
“We have to be realistic about this competition. I don’t want you getting out there and feeling like you need to keep up with Gina Mimms.”
Why not? she wanted to ask. Gina Mimms is all you talk about. Instead, Hannah sat straight and said, “Will she be there?”
Coach Harrison nodded. “Westlake has two other runners who are like lightning. But remember, Gina’s a senior. She’s eighteen. She’s got a full-ride scholarship to an SEC college next year. She’s major league. You don’t want to—”
“And I’m minor league?” Hannah said, interrupting.
He frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“T-ball?” Hannah raised her eyebrows and smiled, but inside, she felt an ache. She wanted to make her coach happy. She wanted to see him smile when he looked at her numbers. She wanted to make him proud.
Coach Harrison took a breath. “What I’m saying is, I don’t want you running her pace. I want you to find your own. I talked with a coach at Miller Academy, and she says Mimms starts really fast and gets others to pace with her. They run out of gas before they finish the first mile. Mimms pulls away in the second mile and she slows a bit on the third, but nobody catches her.”
“Smart,” Hannah said.
“Yeah, it’s shrewd. You’re not going to bite on that, though. I don’t want you to get halfway through the course and collapse, you know, with your . . .”
He looked at her and she could tell his preoccupation was gone. “I won’t let you down, Coach.”
“I know you won’t. I just want you to run your best race. And the only way you can do that is to be you. You don’t have to be Gina Mimms. Your goal is to get better with each practice and each race. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mrs. Harrison brought a stadium chair and sat grading papers as Hannah ran. She took the longer run today, a five-mile course instead of three, which built her endurance.
She wanted to show Coach Harrison she could beat Gina Mimms. Like David knocking down Goliath. All she needed was a chance. And maybe a sling and a few stones. She would get better with each practice.
She attacked the first mile, imagining Gina right in front of her. Her legs felt strong and she pushed herself, thinking of the look on Coach Harrison’s face when he clicked the stopwatch. His mouth would drop open. Mrs. Harrison would hug her. They’d do a happy dance in the field because of the time.
The second mile changed that dream. Her legs felt dead, her body heavy. She wanted to stop and lean against a tree to stay upright, but she couldn’t. That was the worst thing she could do. She slowed her pace somewhat and focused on leaning forward more, allowing her momentum to carry her. Then came the wheeze. It’s how the tightness started—with a whistle in her throat. When she couldn’t breathe fully, the wheeze was the first sign and the sound scared her. And with the fear came more tightness in her lungs. And with the tightness came the feeling of drowning. She kept moving, though she sounded like a chugging steam locomotive rather than a well-oiled machine.
Hannah’s grandmother chided h
er every time she left her inhaler behind. She’d catch Hannah leaving without it and each time she’d ask, “You don’t have asthma today? Decided to take the day off?”
The truth was, Hannah wanted to forget the disease. She wanted the gasping and wheezing to end. When she was little, some adult had said she could grow out of asthma, that when her lungs developed fully, she might not feel the walls closing in and her vision blurring. She couldn’t remember if it was a doctor or perhaps an adult at a playground who said that, but she took it as a prophecy. She wanted the statement to be true.
That desire also brought questions. Had she done something to deserve asthma? Was it punishment from God for something her parents did? Or perhaps God saw the things she stole and the bad thoughts she had about others and He had zapped her. If God knew everything, perhaps He had a scorecard or chart like Coach Harrison, detailing her sins. Maybe at some point all the things she’d hidden in her blue box had tipped the scales and God had shaken His head in disgust and given her asthma. Was that how it worked? God smacked you with something bad and whacked you harder when the wrongs piled higher? Did He punish parents with drug overdoses?
These thoughts swirled as she began the third mile. Hannah slowed, pulled out her inhaler, gave herself a puff, and let the medicine sink into her lungs. She jogged on a little knoll and through the trees saw the flag flapping above the school. She kept running. One foot in front of the other. Chug, chug, wheeze, wheeze. The lack of oxygen caused her legs and arms to ache. They felt like dumbbells she couldn’t lift.
She stopped and blinked, the trees shifting in her vision. This was a bad one. Like that time in elementary school when she had been playing tag. She was the fastest on the playground and everybody knew it, so they tried to catch her, and the faster she ran, the less she could breathe. And then the air was gone and she was on the ground in the field, a teacher’s face over her. Then the school nurse. Kids crowded around. Some cried.
Men in uniform and an ambulance.
