by Chris Fabry
An oxygen mask over her face.
Her grandmother looking at her with a furrowed brow. She was supposed to be at work. How had they reached her? Her grandmother scolded her after the hospital visit. Something about a co-pay and insurance and a payment plan. Hannah promised it would never happen again.
She tumbled now, grabbing at a small tree on her way to the ground. She picked herself up and cut through the woods toward the school. She took another puff. Was she getting the medicine? Sometimes the canister was empty but the sound was the same.
When was the last time she’d changed the canister? Was it a month ago? Had she gone through it faster since practice started?
She stumbled through leaves and pine needles. The soccer goal was to her right. Finally she couldn’t stay on her feet. She pitched forward, putting her hands out to keep from falling face-first in the dirt. Somebody yelled nearby. Air. She just needed air. And it was gone.
“Hannah, are you okay?” Mrs. Harrison said, kneeling beside her.
You can’t talk when you can’t breathe. Coach Harrison arrived.
“Just stay still. What do you need?”
She wanted to say she needed to catch Gina Mimms. She wanted to hear her coach say he was proud of her time. But you can’t be proud of a failure. There is no pride in losing.
“Breathe,” Mrs. Harrison said, putting a hand on Hannah’s arm.
Easy to say. People take breathing for granted. Hannah took another puff of the inhaler and her heart slowed a bit and her airway opened a fraction and it felt like the worst was over. Hannah glanced up at Coach Harrison. He looked pained and she knew what he was thinking. If Hannah couldn’t even finish a practice without collapsing, how would she run a race?
“I think that’s enough running for today,” he said.
“Well, we’re giving you a ride home,” Mrs. Harrison said. “No argument, okay?”
Hannah nodded. She sat on the ground for a few minutes, her failure so heavy she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. She couldn’t look them in the face when the Harrisons helped her to the car and drove her home.
CHAPTER 15
John Harrison had a few unwritten rules. Never let them see you sweat. Don’t let others know your secret fears or that you have any. Winning isn’t everything, but it’s close. And life is about becoming self-sufficient. The less help you need, the better off you are, the more mature. But here he was farther from winning than he’d ever been and desperate.
He was a coach, an educator, a husband and father. He told others it was good to reach out for help. Somehow when he had to face his own failure, though, asking for help made him feel weak and pathetic.
He wandered to the backyard and stared at a pile of bricks that vexed him. Every time he saw them out the back window, they reminded him of things left undone.
Dinner was ready. Amy had called the boys. But he wasn’t hungry and through the open kitchen window he heard Will say, “What’s up with Dad?”
He shook his head and picked up a brick. One thing that was up was the letter from the school board that had arrived. It revealed his and Amy’s pay had been cut 10 percent. He’d expected this news and was prepared for a cut closer to 20 percent. But the cold, hard facts in black and white hit hard. Why send a sterile letter? Why not tell them face-to-face?
Ethan had brought up Ty’s decision to move schools as soon as John got out of the car from cross-country practice. On the drive home he had seen one For Sale sign after another. There was a moving truck parked just down the street. People were leaving, businesses closing, property values plummeting. Their house was their biggest investment, and instead of growing in value, it was quickly sinking. Another letter contained the bad news about John and Amy’s retirement accounts. At least, he assumed it was bad. He didn’t have the heart to open it.
Amy had asked in May what he was going to do about the brick pile. Which he interpreted to mean, “Do something with those bricks.” They were leftovers from a back patio install two summers previous. John wanted to create a backyard fire pit. He and the boys could build it together. But his good intentions turned into an eyesore, and here he was, tossing bricks into a wheelbarrow. A few tosses and he realized he needed gloves, but when he looked in the garage, he couldn’t find them. Ethan or Will had probably used them and forgotten to put them where they belonged. He wanted to say something through the open window but held back.
When all of life is in turmoil and you’re not up to a task, John found it best to pick something he could accomplish. Many times that meant yard work. Mowing the grass was the only job he ever really finished each week. And it had to be done again the next. Now, with two boys who could mow, John looked for something to tackle that would assuage his brewing storm—something he could handle on his own.
“Hey, John, your plate’s getting cold,” Amy said as she stepped outside.
He didn’t answer. He set his jaw and kept loading.
“You want me to put it in the refrigerator?”
“Sure.”
She went inside. He brushed off the dirt from the bricks, though he wasn’t sure why. Where was he going to pile them next? By the garage?
The door closed and Amy appeared, arms crossed. “Why are you doing that now?”
“Is it bothering you?” he said with an edge.
“Yes. What’s the urgency? Those bricks have been lying there for months.”
He thought of correcting her. They’d been there more than a year. “And they’ve needed to be cleaned up for months.”
“So you have to do it now.”
John looked up. “Do you need me to be doing something?”
“Yes, actually I do.” Arms still folded. It felt like he was being accused of a capital crime. “I have papers to grade and laundry to take care of and Will needs help with his homework.” She paused and walked toward him, the frontal assault advancing into his demilitarized zone, then stopped a yard away, looking down on him like a commanding officer at a deserting soldier. “So can this wait or do you still need more time to pout?”
He felt the internal gears ratchet, a stirring of juices he could normally hold in check. Not today. He rose, locking eyes. “Excuse me?”
Amy held up her hands and smiled. “You know what? I get it. You’re a basketball coach without a team. And now you have to coach cross-country. But it’s not the end of the world, John.”
Sweat trickling down, he stood firm and the words tumbled. “Oh, is it that simple? I’m glad it’s so clear to you. But you forgot the 10 percent pay cut, no scholarship option for our son, no possibility of winning with one runner with asthma. All I’m left with is a job that’s totally pointless. I’m glad I have your understanding.”
“Stop it!” There was emotion in her voice. “No one asked for this. But this is what we’ve got. So stop playing the victim here.”
John furrowed his brow, the storm raging. “Are you trying to help me? ’Cause you’re not!”
As soon as he said it, he knew. It was a moment every married man had experienced, the feeling of justification for lashing out. The fire hydrant that built pressure until, at the turn of a valve by someone who loved him, the water exploded.
Amy’s eyes welled with tears. Why didn’t she just leave him alone? Why couldn’t she keep her words to herself, hold back judgment and challenge until some other time? Why couldn’t he just deal with his anger and disappointment how he wanted?
She turned and walked angrily into the house, slamming the door behind her.
They had been to counseling years before, after Will was born. She had gone to a pastor to help deal with some of her struggles, some sleepless nights, anxiety. John had accompanied her to try and help “fix” her and in the process had seen some things about himself, about the way they communicated. Amy was more in touch with her feelings, which meant she realized when she was angry and tried to understand why. John, on the other hand, didn’t admit he was angry until the dam broke. And even then he was l
ikely to yell that he wasn’t angry.
He picked up a brick and felt the weight in his hand. Something was going on with the conflict with Amy, the situation in town, the school, the basketball team, the church—all this struggle dragged him in some unwanted direction. They’d worked hard to build something and it felt like a pile of bricks.
In a fit of rage, he lifted the brick above his head and hurled it down onto the concrete, smashing it to bits. It felt good. Bricks don’t cry. But as he stared at the broken pieces, the detritus of what was once whole, he looked at his life, his wife and family. Were they being reduced to dust because he was unable to give up his fears and self-pity?
He had always told his players it’s not the circumstances that are most important; it’s how you respond. If a teammate got into a shooting slump or was injured, others could choose to criticize or encourage.
You could toss bricks or build something.
An old voice came to him with accusation and condemnation. Who does she think she is? What does she know about the pressure you feel to provide and take care of the family?
All of this weighed on him. And Amy was telling him to get over it? To stop playing the victim? Wasn’t she the one, along with her counselor, who told him he needed to feel things? That’s what he was doing! And what had he gotten? Criticism.
“No one asked for this. But this is what we’ve got.”
Amy’s words echoed. She was right, of course. She was always right about the big picture of their lives. You had to see what you had instead of what you didn’t have. Start from where you are, not from where you want to be.
But if God was in control . . .
He sat on a cooler, on the top where it said, Do Not Sit, and put his elbows on his knees. He believed in God and that He was in control. If that was true, at the very least, God had allowed all of this. He’d allowed the team to scatter like dry leaves in the wind. He’d allowed John’s vision about his son’s future to blur. He’d allowed John to become coach of a one-runner, asthma-laden cross-country team.
Then he thought of Hannah. He’d seen her earlier that day struggling to breathe. Had God allowed that in her life for a reason, or was it all chance? Was it just a bad draw of genetics, or was there more to the story?
“All I’m left with is a job that’s totally pointless.”
In the corner of his eye he saw movement, and he turned as Amy stopped by the fence beside the driveway. They were both in the shadow of the rim and backboard. As soon as he saw her, he knew what would happen. She would attack. She would list the ways he’d wounded her with his words. So John built a wall to protect himself. He had to shield himself from any pain she was about to inflict.
She picked up a metal stool and placed it a few feet away from him and sat. She didn’t smile, didn’t try to make things better. He was sure fangs and claws were about to appear. She pulled the stool closer, scraping it hard across the concrete, making him wince at the sound. She was way too close, invading his space.
Then she scooted so close their knees touched. He recoiled, trying to retain a shred of dignity. He was about to receive a tongue-lashing and he probably deserved it.
She dipped her head and gathered herself as if she needed momentum for the jump she was about to take.
“So I have this problem that pops up sometimes. I see things about my husband that I don’t really like and so I want to try and fix them. But I’m not very good at it.” She chuckled through the emotion. “And maybe I’m not supposed to be. Because he gets really angry with me.”
John stared at her. She should be yelling at him. She should be throwing a brick of her own, a fastball pitched in retaliation. Instead, this felt like a loving curve aimed straight at his heart.
“But the thing is, I really, really love him. He’s a very good husband. And he’s a great dad. And he wants to provide for us and protect us, and I am so very grateful for that. And I know I don’t tell him enough.”
Amy’s words, her demeanor, her emotion caught him in some unreachable place and the wall he had built, the ice that had formed on his heart, began to melt.
She reached out and touched his face. “So when he’s discouraged and hurting, I want to try and help. And it’s not always easy to know how. So maybe if I just tell him and remind him that I love him and that I’m praying for him and that I’m here for him, I’m right here for him . . .”
John knew he had a choice. He could hold back, wipe his face, and smile . . . or he could surrender to the emotion. Surrender to the love his wife had offered. Surrender to the curveball she had thrown.
“Can I do that?” she said.
What could he say to a heart poured out? His soul softened as he listened and he swallowed hard and choked out, “I love you.”
Amy’s face lit and a tear ran down her face. “I love you, too.”
John put his hand on her head and drew her close, touching foreheads with her, crying together. She told him she loved him again.
“I’m sorry I’ve been a jerk,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
They sat a few moments, and John could feel the inexorable draw of his heart to hers. As he collected himself, John stared at the broken brick on the concrete. Parts of his life seemed in pieces and ground to dust. But he had married way above his class. And he thanked God for a wife who could encourage and inspire him even when he’d hurt her with his words and actions.
“What are you going to do now?” Amy said.
“I’m going to tell our sons what kind of woman to look for if they ever get married.”
CHAPTER 16
Hannah put her tray down at an empty lunch table just as Robert Odelle spoke behind her. She would have avoided him if she had seen him. He had a way of sneaking up on her and jabbing with his words. Were some people born bullies? Or had kids been mean to him in elementary school? Was he just doing to others what they had done to him?
“Sitting with your imaginary friends, Hannah?”
She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ignore him. Why didn’t a teacher see what he was doing? The school talked about making everyone feel welcome. She believed that, but when Robert lobbed his verbal bombs, all that talk felt hollow, just empty words.
He scurried away and she stared at the empty chairs around her. Some girls attracted friends easily, and the more they made, the more showed up. It was like rich people who made money because they had money. For her, making a friend was the most difficult thing in the world. Mrs. Harrison had talked about magnets and polarization in science class. Hannah was a magnet polarized the wrong way. She repelled instead of attracted others.
“Hey, Hannah, can I sit with you?”
Hannah looked up to see Mrs. Brooks, the principal. Her smile made Hannah feel warm and nervous at the same time. Had she done something wrong? Did Mrs. Brooks know about her “problem”?
“Sure,” Hannah said, picking at her carrots on the tray. Suddenly she didn’t feel hungry.
“I hear you’re running in your first cross-country race tomorrow. Are you excited?”
Nervous was a better word. Her insides felt tight. And she felt sick to her stomach every time she thought about Gina Mimms. She could see the girl racing ahead, crossing the finish line, yawning and doing her nails when Hannah crossed the line. Hannah’s fear was that she’d be dead last—or worse, not even finish. She had a recurring nightmare that she would cross the line and it would be dark, no one left, no cheers, just crickets.
“A little,” Hannah said. “We don’t really have a team.”
Mrs. Brooks scrunched up her face. “Girl, that makes me admire you even more. You still represent our school. Do you enjoy running?”
Admire? Mrs. Brooks admired her? For what? Clearly she didn’t know her.
Hannah shrugged. “It’s really the only thing I’m good at.”
Mrs. Brooks studied her. “Come on, that’s not true. Mrs. Harrison said you’re a whiz at science. Your grades in your other classes are g
ood.”
“That doesn’t count,” Hannah said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Because everybody’s supposed to try in class. It’s just something you do.”
A hint of a smile. Mrs. Brooks took a bite and chewed. Something about seeing her eat—such a small thing—gave Hannah permission to do the same. The woman wiped her mouth with a napkin. “You’re doing your best in all your classes—even the ones you don’t feel are your best subjects. That’s what your other teachers tell me.”
“You’ve been asking them?”
“I talk to teachers about a lot of things. And new students are at the top of the list. I want to make sure you feel welcome.”
There were those words again. But this time, somehow she knew the woman meant what she said. Hannah thought this was the perfect time to bring up the subject of Robert and how the skinny bully was doing whatever he could to make her life hard. But she held back. She didn’t want Mrs. Brooks to think she complained about everything. Plus, she could handle Robert. She didn’t need the principal’s help. Everything would work out. Just give it time.
“That verse I mentioned at the start of the school year—you were at the assembly, right?” Mrs. Brooks said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as if you’re working for the Lord and not for people. That’s basically what it says. And it means that whether you’re running cross-country or writing an essay in English or eating lunch, you can do it with everything in you.”
Hannah wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do with those words, so she took another bite and nodded. Nobody expected you to talk when your mouth was full.
“What do you think of the Bible class you take? Is it helping you?”
“It’s interesting.”
Mrs. Brooks smiled. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never really read the Bible much outside of church.”
Mrs. Brooks nodded as if filing something in her brain. “So when you say you’re not good at anything else, tell me what you mean.”
