by Jill Kemerer
Losing Josh had been like losing her childhood.
Losing Brandy had been like losing her twin.
Losing Sam was like losing a lung.
She didn’t know how she’d survive without him.
* * *
He hated it here.
Sam didn’t turn on the Christmas tree lights or any other light, for that matter. The glow of a hockey game from the television was the only brightness in the dark room. His swollen leg throbbed even with it wrapped in ice and propped on the couch. This cottage felt like a prison.
Would he always live like this?
Alone.
Helpless.
Miserable.
And why? It was his fault.
Aunt Sally’s lecture kept going around in his head, and every time he tried to shush it, it grew louder. Still blaming God?
Yeah. He was. And he was tired of it.
Granddad kept a Bible in the end-table drawer. Sam had never been a big Bible reader. He’d gone to Sunday school for years, attended church his entire life, and it had been enough. But ever since the accident, he’d closed his heart to God. Refused church, prayer and the Bible. Until recently.
The more he tried to shut God out, the deeper his emptiness grew.
He was tired of blaming God.
Sam opened the drawer and strained to reach the Bible. Finally, he grasped it and hauled it on his lap.
For a long time he stared at it. He didn’t know where to begin.
Lord, I’m here. I’m desperate. You know that. I can’t go on like this. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of being afraid. I’m really tired of shutting You out. I don’t know if You care anymore. I don’t deserve it. I mean, I’ve blamed You for all my problems.
Maybe he should forget this.
He set the Bible next to him on the couch. He’d pushed God away too long. How could he expect God to forgive him with a snap of the fingers?
Shouldn’t he be on his knees, repenting?
Even if he could get on his knees, he didn’t have the energy to repent.
Frustration mounted, and he snatched the Bible and opened it. Ecclesiastes. Everything is meaningless? Terrific. Not exactly the words he’d been hoping for.
He flipped through, landing on the second book of Corinthians. He skimmed a section about the apostle Paul, stopping short when he read a verse. He double-checked it. Paul had been given a thorn in his flesh, and he begged God to take it from him, but God refused. Why?
Why did God refuse Paul?
Why did You refuse me?
Sam read the rest of the chapter and frowned. God didn’t say He refused because He didn’t love Paul or because Paul deserved the thorn. The scripture gave a different reason—that God’s grace was sufficient and His strength was made perfect in weakness.
God’s grace was sufficient? His strength was made perfect in weakness?
It didn’t make sense. How could strength be made perfect in weakness?
Because it will force me to rely on God instead of myself.
He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to put all his trust in God. He wanted some of the power, some way of controlling his destiny—wasn’t that natural?
How was that working out for him, though?
Lord, I don’t know if I can give it all up to You. I just don’t know if I can.
He wanted some say in his life.
Yeah, and he was doing so much with it. He ground his teeth together.
Okay, You win. What do You want me to do? What is Your will?
He waited, hoping for an answer to hit him upside the head. It didn’t.
His phone vibrated. He checked the text. Bryan wanted to know if he should pick Sam up for tomorrow’s meeting at Tommy’s dealership.
The doctor hadn’t told him he couldn’t return to work. He’d told him to take it slow, use the wheelchair. But could he?
Maybe it was time to pay his dealership a visit. He texted Bryan back.
* * *
Celeste slept until noon, shocked she’d gotten to sleep at all. When was the last time she’d slept in? Before the accident, that was for sure. She changed into a pair of worn jeans and a soft oversize black sweater, then padded into the kitchen to see how Mom and Parker fared. The kitchen was empty except for a note on the counter from her mom saying she was taking Parker out for an adventure and they’d be back later that afternoon.
After fixing a bowl of cereal, Celeste sat at the dining table and tried to keep her mind blank. Impossible.
What was Sam doing now? Did he miss her? Did he regret pushing her away?
Tomorrow was the parade. Sally had told her all about the food vendors and festivities they’d lined up at City Park. It had sounded like so much fun. Mostly because she’d be with Sam. Just the two of them.
And now there was no two of them. No clutching take-out coffee as Shriners drove down the street in miniature cars and the marching band played. No distraction from her memories, from the anniversary of the accident.
Dread filled her at the thought of getting through tomorrow. She’d missed Brandy’s funeral because she’d still been in the hospital. Maybe that was part of the reason she felt so low.
She’d never said goodbye to Brandy.
The distraction of the parade had been a lifeline so she wouldn’t have to face tomorrow and what was taken from her.
How could she distract herself now?
What if she didn’t distract herself? What if she faced the anniversary head-on?
Today.
Right now.
Celeste set the empty bowl in the sink and slipped her feet into boots. As much as she didn’t want to, her inner being shouted she needed this. She needed to go back to the accident site and face the doubts and fears swirling in her gut. Get some closure. If closure was possible.
Fifteen minutes later she parked her minivan on the side of the road. It really was a barren stretch of blacktop. No houses nearby. A field with a fresh buzz cut from the fall crop harvest—corn from the looks of it—stood in washed-out gold shades to her right. The telephone pole her car hit last year rose tall and menacing against the colorless sky. The ditch was deep and full of overgrown yellow grass and weeds. The opposite side of the road held the same view.
Celeste stepped outside, burrowing deep into her winter coat. Hands in her pockets, she stood next to the ditch. Cold wind blew her hair around her neck and bit at her face. She barely noticed. Just stared at the pole.
An ordinary thing. A tall piece of wood. Once a tree.
It had taken Brandy from her.
It had taken more.
So much more.
Something drew her to that telephone pole. She couldn’t name it. She needed to cross over and touch it.
Taking a few steps back, she ran and leaped across the ditch, falling to one knee as she landed. She rose, brushing off her jeans, and trudged to the pole. Craned her neck back. A pair of birds perched on the wire. And the pole grew taller, reaching higher than before.
“I hate you,” she whispered, wishing she had a chain saw or an ax. Anything to chop it down.
The words opened a cavity she’d hidden inside, and without warning, a flock of thoughts, feelings and impressions flew out.
“You were set in the ground right here.” She didn’t care she was shouting at an inanimate object. “Not five feet over there. Here. And if you had been there—” she pointed “—my car wouldn’t have hit you. We probably would have walked away shaken up with a few scrapes. But that’s not what happened. All because of you.”
“I hate you,” she yelled, kicking at the clump of weeds surrounding it. “I hate you!”
A gust of wind stung her cheeks.
She’d never be able to tel
l Brandy how much she loved her. How much she meant to her.
“Give her back!” She dropped to her knees. “I want her back.”
With her hands covering her face, she wept. Shoulders shaking, the smell of earth in her nose—she didn’t try to control her cries. Minutes ticked by as she released every drop of sorrow.
When she had nothing left, she dropped back and sat on the ground.
“I’m sorry, Brandy. I’m so sorry. I should have paid attention. I shouldn’t have sung so loudly. I shouldn’t have made you come with me. I should have...”
What? What could she possibly have done differently?
It was an accident.
An accident. She hadn’t been texting or drinking or driving like a maniac. She’d been going the speed limit.
There was nothing she could have done differently.
It seemed so senseless.
Why? Why had it happened? Why?
She wiped her nose and gazed up at the telephone pole.
And it was as if a lightning bolt went through her chest.
He knows. He knows how I feel. He knows why. And He doesn’t want me to feel it anymore.
Jesus had been nailed to a cross. A piece of wood. Planted in the ground. Similar to this pole that took Brandy.
Both had been taken by trees.
He gave His life for me. He died on the cross for me.
God knows how broken I feel, because He lost His Son.
“You get it, don’t You, God?” Celeste scooted to the pole, sitting at its base with her back to it. “You lost the One most important to You, too. You understand. You know how I feel. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it until now.”
A wave of peace crested over her body.
God had given His Son to save her, to save Brandy and Josh and everyone else who believed. He knew what it was like to grieve.
The pole at her back wasn’t the enemy.
I need to let go. I’ve been blaming myself for the accident, but that’s what it was—an accident. I will probably never know why it happened, but I can go on. God, help me let go.
She shifted, pressing her cheek against the smooth, cold wood. Just a telephone pole. A tree at one time.
For the first time in a year, she felt inner peace. Not on edge. She wasn’t holding back a hundred anxieties.
She felt open.
Free.
And she let herself remember all the things that had been too hard to reflect on all year. The precious memories she’d never let go. Two little girls meant to be best friends. Jumping rope at recess, riding bikes all summer long, singing to the radio, watching movies, the countless sleepovers. Giggling, gossiping, crying, just being together. Holding Brandy’s bouquet on her wedding day. Holding her hand at Josh’s funeral. And laughing and singing with her the night she died.
Celeste sat there until the cold seeped through her clothes and she couldn’t control her shivers.
Brandy and Josh were in heaven. Not coming back. She would see them again, eventually. She had no choice but to go on without them in her life.
But she had a choice about Sam. And whether he wanted her in his life or not, she needed to tell him how much he meant to her. She didn’t want to regret not telling him.
How could she convince him there were no guarantees? That getting hurt could happen. That random events shattered lives sometimes, and no one knew why.
Wasn’t the thought of a forever love worth the risk?
It was worth it to her. She was going to try.
* * *
Friday night at eight, Sam stared at the dark glass entryway of his dealership. Could he find the answers he was looking for here? The employees had all gone home for the night. Bryan typed in the alarm code and opened the door so Sam could wheel inside. As Sam waited, Bryan flicked the lights on. Several impressions slammed into his mind.
Pride. This was the building and business he was responsible for. He’d built it. He’d planned it. And it was still here, waiting for him.
Relief. His brothers and employees were taking good care of it. Not a speck of dirt or a desk out of place.
Memories. Strolling through it the day before the grand opening. Confident, excited and nervous. On his two strong legs. On both feet.
He blew out a breath.
“It looks exactly the same.” He rolled through the showroom, slowly moving past the shiny cars displayed inside. “Well, the vehicles are different. I like this one. Who chose it?”
“I did.” Bryan slipped the keys in his pocket and stayed close to Sam. “Did the doctor say you could still come back to work?”
“I can come back.” He didn’t add that he’d been able to come back for months—in a wheelchair.
“Good. You still want to?”
“I’ve always wanted to.” Just not like this. “I’m going to check out my office.”
Bryan studied him a minute, most likely seeing way more than Sam wanted him to. “I’ll wait here. Holler if you need me.”
He didn’t linger. Spinning forward, he passed the customer waiting room and a row of cubicles for the sales staff. He rolled down a hallway. Faced a door with a shiny nameplate. Sam Sheffield.
His office.
In another life.
He jiggled the handle, but it was locked. He’d forgotten his keys. “Hey, Bryan, do you have the key to my office?”
Bryan’s footsteps grew louder. “What do you need?”
“The key.” He pointed to the handle. “Do you have it?”
“I have them all.” Bryan grinned, pulling out a ring full of keys. After unlocking it, he returned to the showroom while Sam moved through the doorway.
Framed degrees and certificates hung on the walls the way he remembered. A picture of him cutting the ribbon at the grand opening sat on the desk. A smiling photo of the Sheffields taken a few Christmases ago was centered between bookshelves. His office smelled like new carpet and stale air.
The leather chair behind the mahogany desk reminded him of poring over reports, signing checks, making deals.
He wanted to sit in it again.
After setting the brake on the wheelchair, he pushed himself up to a standing position and let his left leg bear his weight. Using the desktop to keep his balance, he circled around and sat in the chair.
It felt the same.
Felt like success.
His lips lifted into the briefest smile. Then the reality of his situation choked it away. Emotions churned, but he didn’t want them. Couldn’t deal with them on top of everything else. He opened the top desk drawer. A slim stack of papers greeted him.
He took them out and scanned the first sheet. Dated the day before his accident. A request from a local youth volleyball team to sponsor their season. Sorry, ladies. Missed responding to that one. Setting it aside, he read the next. His handwriting. Notes about a possible dealership location forty-five minutes away. A wrinkled map with highlights. He’d forgotten he’d driven out to it a few days before his life changed permanently.
He kept his eyes fixed on the wall, but he didn’t see anything. The plans he’d had trickled back. The Realtor taking him to a possible site for the next phase of his business plan. Scanning the area, mentally building on the field. Shielding his eyes, trying to figure out if the two-lane road would help or hurt traffic flow.
Sam put the papers back in the drawer and shut it. Propping his elbows on the desk, he let his forehead fall into his hands.
I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not the same man.
The past eighteen months—in the hospital, the physical rehab center, the cottage—flashed before him. Alone. Bored. In pain.
This dealership, this office was his. If he wanted it.
Next to the desk, the wheelcha
ir mocked him. And the urge to yell, to beat his fists, to protest his situation consumed him.
His jaw clenched. He was so tired of clinging to this anger, this rage.
What would it take for him to let it go?
Words pressed against his heart.
No. I can’t. Not those words.
If he let them out, they would either release him or destroy him. He wasn’t sure which. He’d been avoiding them for months, afraid of their power.
But he had no fight left.
Only surrender.
Fear congealed in his throat. The dreaded words formed in his head.
I’m sorry, God. For blaming You. For expecting You to do whatever I wanted. For telling You the terms. I need You. I can’t do this on my own anymore.
The dam inside him broke, and he couldn’t control it. His eyes ached as tears spilled out, and his shoulders shook as he began to cry. For the man he used to be. For the man he was now. For the lost months, the pain, the dreams he’d clung to, the ones he’d given up on.
When he’d emptied everything out, he straightened, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Bryan stood in the doorway. Compassion glowed from his pale blue eyes. Three strides and he was at Sam’s side. Bryan set his hand on Sam’s shoulder and bent to hug him.
“I’m sorry. I hate that this happened to you.”
Sam cleared his throat, shaking his head.
“You’re not ready.” Bryan rounded the desk and sat in one of the chairs facing Sam. “I’ll run it. Don’t worry. It will be here. Take your time.”
Peace settled over Sam’s soul.
The accident took full use of my legs, but it didn’t take all of me.
Strangely, he felt stronger than he had in months.
He could handle this. He could do it.
“This is mine.” Sam spread his palms over the desk. “I’m coming back.”
“You’re not ready.”
“I am ready. I could have come back months ago, but I didn’t want to work in a wheelchair. I still don’t want to, but you know what? I’m going to. Who cares if I can’t walk? I can still run this place.”
“Are you sure?” Bryan looked like he was chewing on a tough strip of beef jerky. “You don’t have to.”
