Brighton put his bags down and looked at her. “I’m only in Germany for a few minutes. I won’t even get off the airplane except to stretch my legs.”
“But it’s your flight. You’re the boss. They will do what you want to.”
“Yes, Sara, I understand that, and believe me, I tried, but I have meetings scheduled every minute I’m gone. We haven’t given ourselves any dead time; it’s over and back, sleeping on the aircraft, eating sandwiches for lunch. I wish I could see him, but I just won’t have any time. Next trip, I promise. I will schedule a few days.”
“But he won’t be in Germany next time. He’s only there two weeks. He’ll be back in Afghanistan, or Pakistan, or one of those other ‘-istans.’ This is your only chance to see him. Don’t you even have a few hours?”
Brighton hesitated, then shrugged. “I’ll try again,” he said weakly.
But Sara knew that he wouldn’t have time. Her husband’s schedule was completely outside of his control; every day, every moment was controlled by his staff.
She walked to him and put her hands around his neck again. “Will you please try? If you have even a moment, will you please try to see him? He needs you. He needs us. Will you please try to see him if you can?”
Brighton took her hands. “I promise,” he said.
Sara dropped her eyes to the floor. “I really miss him,” she muttered. “I wish I understood. I really just wish I understood what he was thinking.”
“He’s happy. He’s doing his duty. God, Duty, and Honor. We can be proud.”
“We are proud! But that’s not the point. Why has he withdrawn from us? Why has he made it so hard?”
Brighton shook his head.
He had asked the same questions at least a thousand times himself.
The two stood in silence a moment. “Got to go,” he finally said, not anxious to talk about Sam anymore. Turning, he walked toward the door.
“Hey, Neil,” Sara called to him, and he slowly turned around. “Can I remind you of something, babe?” He nodded his head. “What is the purpose of life?” she asked him.
He paused as he thought. “To return back to God.”
“That’s right, babe, that’s right. That’s what this is all about—to return back to God and take our family with us. That’s all you can do, Neil, but it is enough. You might not be able to save the world, though sometimes you think you can. There are things you can do, and lessons you must learn, but you might not be able to stop what is coming, not like you might hope anyway. You might not save our country; they have to save themselves. Sometimes you forget that. And you carry more of a burden than I think you should.
“So just remember your purpose. Find your way back to God. Anything else is just gravy. Try not to sweat things too much. It isn’t healthy, general, and you’re getting too old.”
Brighton stared at her, then smiled and walked out the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Two hours later Major General Neil Brighton was sitting comfortably aboard a military C-21. The aircraft was quiet. Two men sat behind him, members of his staff, each of them immersed in their work. The narrow aircraft was configured for VIPs, so the men reclined comfortably on the large leather chairs, except for Colonel “Dagger” Hansen, his closest friend and personal aide, who had stretched out on the floor. While Dagger was being held prisoner during the first Gulf War, an Iraqi soldier had broken a vertebra in his back, which had never quite healed, and his back, as always, was now causing him pain. A single bodyguard (senior military officers never traveled overseas without a security detail anymore) was asleep in the back of the cabin. Brighton lifted his head from another top-secret report that demanded his signature and turned in his seat to watch the hazy ocean below him as the aircraft flew east, following the same route, more or less, between Europe and the Americas that had been traveled for more than six hundred years: up the coast to Nova Scotia, then across the northern Atlantic, before dropping down to pass over the United Kingdom and the English Channel.
As he stared out his window, he was thinking of Sam and how he had come into their lives almost eight years before.
* * *
Brighton and his family were living in southern Virginia, where he was an F-15 squadron commander at the First Fighter Wing.
The phone call came late one afternoon. “Brother Brighton,” the bishop’s voice boomed through the phone. Their bishop was a large and direct man, a man who pulled none of his punches, and he had a powerful voice that matched his huge hands and big heart.
“Bishop, if this is about those tithing checks that keep bouncing . . .” Brighton teased as he answered the phone.
“Nope. Not this time, buddy.”
“I did my home teaching for the year.”
“Yeah, well, ah . . . actually, Brother Brighton, we try to home teach every month.”
“Every month! Wow, you’re kidding. Why wasn’t I told?”
The bishop laughed. As if Neil Brighton wasn’t one of the rocks of his ward!
Brighton waited, but the bishop was quiet. Finally Brighton asked, “What can I do for you?”
“Got a little problem, Neil, and I need your help.”
“What’s up?” Brighton asked, already preparing himself.
“Got a boy I was hoping we could send over to spend a few days with you.”
Brighton had no idea what the bishop was talking about. “You’ve got a what?” he asked in surprise.
“The Hendersons have a foster child living with them. Good kid. A great kid, but he’s had a real lousy start. Abusive home. Alcoholic father. Mother hardly ever around. He’s been with the Hendersons for a couple of days and, I don’t know, . . . it just seems they haven’t hit it off like everyone hoped they would.”
Brighton’s chest tightened. “What has he done? Threatened them. Tried to burn down their home?”
The bishop chuckled, his laugh as powerful as his voice. “Nope, nothing like that; I promise. Like I said, he’s not a bad kid, never been in trouble in his life. He’s okay at the Hendersons, but it just doesn’t feel right, if you know what I mean. As I’ve been working with them, I’ve had a clear impression. Now you might think that I’m crazy, but I’ve come to the conclusion there’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home. I think that’s what the Lord intended all along; he just had to take a detour to get there. Now what do you say?”
Brighton shook his head. “Look, Bishop. This isn’t a stray puppy you’re asking me to take in. We’ve never even considered . . .” He was stammering now. “We’re not foster parents. We’re not prepared.”
“Life is full of surprises. And are we ever really prepared?”
“But, Bishop,” Brighton floundered.
The bishop was quiet. Brighton shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Inside, his gut tightened and his heart skipped a beat. But something the bishop said seemed to roll through his head.
“There’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home.”
The sound of the bishop’s quiet breathing filled the silence on the phone. “Brother Brighton,” he said, his voice softening, “do me a favor. I’ve got to find this kid a place to stay. Will you consider it? Just for a few days? That’s all I’m asking. Just a few days, okay?”
Brighton heard the bishop talking, but his voice seemed a long way away. The words rolled in his mind again, and he felt a shiver of light: “There’s been a terrible mistake. This kid should be in your home.”
Another long moment of silence. “How old is he?” Brighton then asked.
“Thirteen. A couple of years older than your boys.”
“He’s a good kid?”
“He really is, Neil. The problem isn’t him; it was the cards he was dealt. He’s never been in trouble. He has a good heart. I’ve got a good feeling about him.”
Brighton cleared his throat and shifted his weight again. “I’d have to talk to Sara.”
“Of course. Of course. And it
’s just for a few days. Meanwhile, we’ll keep working with LDS Social Services to find him a permanent home.”
“Okay,” Brighton answered. “Let me talk to Sara; then I’ll call you back.”
“Great, Neil, thanks. If we could, we’d like to bring him over tonight.”
“Tonight,” Brighton answered. “That’s kind of quick, don’t you think.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he, Neil. Now go talk to Sara; and then give me a call. I’ll talk to you later. . . .”
“Hey, wait,” Brighton stopped him. “What is his name?”
“Samuel Porter Casey. But he goes by Sam.”
* * *
The little boy stood in the doorway, clearly as hostile as he was terrified. He was thirteen, but small framed, and he could have passed for ten. He was grim and firm-faced, with the demeanor of a boxer, someone who had fought his way through life. Sara knelt down beside him. “Hi, Sam,” she said.
“Where do you want me to stay?” he answered curtly, while grasping a small suitcase in his left hand.
Sara stole a quick glimpse at her husband. “We’ve got a room upstairs for you,” she answered.
“Should I leave my bag here or take it upstairs with me?”
Sara hesitated, understanding his subtle point. “Don’t you want to unpack?” she asked him.
“Won’t be here that long.”
“You could still unpack your things and make yourself comfortable.”
“It’s hard to be comfortable in someone’s else’s home.”
Sara straightened herself and reached for his hand. Sam didn’t take it and kept his eyes on the floor.
Brighton studied him from the foot of the stairs. He saw the bruised cheekbones and the cigarette burns on the back of his hands. Inside, he boiled. Who could do this to him? He knelt down beside Sam and took the suitcase from him. “Come on, Sam. I’ll show you around. We’ve got a swimming pool in the backyard. Do you like to swim?”
The young boy’s eyes widened in fear and he pulled back instantly, pressing against the wall. “I can’t swim,” he said. “Please don’t make me get in the pool!”
Neil shook his head quickly. “We won’t! We won’t! If you don’t like swimming, that’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
The young boy continued to cower, his face tight with fear. Sara bent down beside him and took both of his hands. “Listen to me, Sam. We’re glad that you’re here. It’s a pleasure to have you. We have two sons upstairs. They are eager to meet you. We want you to feel at home.”
He looked at her defiantly. “My dad beats me at home. Are you going to beat me too?”
Sara saw through the manipulation and didn’t react. She already understood him better than anyone else in the world. “No, Sam,” she said softly, “we’re not going to beat you, and you know that. That’s not the way this thing works. That’s not the way we do things around here.”
She took his hand and held it; he pulled back again, but she held to him firmly as she led him up the stairs.
* * *
Later that night, Sara and Neil stood by the kitchen sink and talked in quiet voices. “He’s a cute kid,” Neil said as he sipped a cup of hot chocolate.
Sara merely nodded as she stared out the window, seeing her reflection in the darkness outside. “What did the bishop say when he called you?” she asked, her voice and eyes far away, absorbed in her thoughts.
Neil grunted. “Not much. Said he needed our help for a day or two. Said the Hendersons were having problems. It doesn’t feel right to them, I think that was how he described it.”
Sara listened intently. “Isn’t that strange. The Hendersons are great people. Hardly flaky. Certainly not naïve. They are so dedicated to the children they bring into their home. And Sam didn’t give them problems. What do you think it means?”
Brighton hunched his shoulders. Truth was, he hadn’t had time to think about it. Truth was, he didn’t think it meant anything, at least not yet.
But Sara saw it differently; that was clear from her face. “He’s supposed to be here,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I feel it. There is something going on. This is a pivotal event. It will change all of our lives, and I’m not prepared. But I’m as certain of this as I have been of anything in my life. Samuel was sent here. We have to try to keep him. I know that in my soul.”
Neil stared at her a long moment. “Are you certain?” he whispered.
Sara nodded, her eyes clear, her face intent with conviction. “I know it,” she told him. “And you will know it too. Until then, you must trust me. We have to make this work.”
Brighton stared at his mug, slowly shaking his head. “I know we do,” he told her. “And the bishop knows it too.”
* * *
It didn’t come easy. A kid, even a basically good kid like Sam, couldn’t have been raised the way he was and not carry a boatload of baggage with him as he grew up. There were long hours in counseling, long hours at school, long hours in the bedroom listening to Sam cry in his sleep, along with thousands of dollars in court costs and untold other bills. There was heartbreak and frustration and occasional hate-filled accusations from out of left field. The progress came slowly, but it certainly came, with milestones of progress achieved along the way. No more crying at night. No more tantrums of anger. Better health, better grades, more friends at school. More affection, more laughter, more smiles.
In time there were two turning points in Sam’s life.
The first came when he had been with the Brightons for only eight months. He was still small and vulnerable and utterly confused about who he was or what he really wanted in life. He knew he didn’t want his mother to leave him or his father to burn him with his cigarettes anymore, but little else was clear in his adolescent mind. He knew that he liked his foster family, but they were so . . . good, sometimes he felt like he would never add up or fit in.
It all came to a head one day after school. Church, homework, helping with the chores, showing respect to his foster parents, saving his money, and not playing football on Sunday afternoons—it all was too much. Sam decided he had had enough. One day he left, screaming to Sara, “I hate you!” as he slammed his way out of the house. He took off without packing, without taking anything but the shirt on his back and whatever money he had in his pockets.
Neil and Sara knew what it would be like for him to live on the street. They knew the dangers. They knew the sins. They searched for two days, along with the police, but he seemed to have melted into the underground of throwaway kids that hung out on dirty beaches and rundown boardwalks that lined Norfolk and Hampton.
Sam was gone for three days; then he showed up, unexpected, knocking at their front door. Sara stood there, her face pale, her cheeks stained from tears. Ammon and Luke stood behind her, holding their breath.
“I’m sorry,” Sam told her as he stared at his feet. “I want to stay here. Will you please let me come home?”
Sara reached out to hold him, and he took a slow step toward her. Luke and Ammon rushed forward and slapped him on the back. “Hey, Sam,” Ammon said as Sam turned toward him, “leave us again and I’ll kill you. I will hunt you down and drag you kicking and screaming back home. Brothers don’t leave each other. And we are brothers now.”
Sam smiled, his lip trembling, then wiped his hand across his red eyes.
This was his family. He really was home.
* * *
The second pivotal event occurred when Sam was sixteen years old.
He had been living with the Brightons for most of three years. Because his runaway mother had refused to consent to termination of her parental rights (she would lose food-stamp money and state subsistence if she formally let him go), and though his old man didn’t care a whole lot one way or the other, the juvenile courts had directed that Sam spend one weekend a month with his parents. His dad, a former high school football star who still hung out at the ball games on F
riday nights and a sometime charter fisherman who rented his cruiser for fifty bucks an hour (forty if the client was willing to furnish the beer), lived in a ramshackle clapboard house near the fishing docks in a small town called Poquoson at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Sam’s mom, a good-looking blonde who was just thirty-three, lived wherever she wanted from one month to the next, wherever the party was, wherever a new friend could be found.
One court-appointed weekend Sam was at the old house. It was a hot fall afternoon with a strong wind from the south blowing blustery and dry. He and his dad were in the backyard patching the fiberglass hull of the boat while his dad pounded down beers. Phyllis (as Sam had taken to calling his mom) hadn’t been around for nearly four months. Last Sam had heard, she was out in Las Vegas dealing cards at some low-rent casino on the outskirts of town; at least, that’s what she claimed she was doing. But Sam had his doubts, for the pock marks in her arms suggested a habit that was much more expensive than minimum wage and drunken tips could sustain.
His old man, Jody, cursed as he applied the liquid fiberglass sealant, then stuffed a burning cigarette into his mouth. He rubbed at his left arm, tracing a four-inch scar, the reminder of a vicious knife fight in some unknown bar.
“You had a birthday last week, didn’t you?” the old man asked Sam.
Sam looked at him, surprised. It wasn’t like Jody to remember such a thing.
“That makes you what . . . fifteen?” the old man asked.
“Sixteen actually.”
“Hmm . . .” Jody thought, then took a step toward him and grabbed the bare bicep on his arm. “Not much there,” he miffed at Sam’s supple arm.
Sam looked at his bicep and frowned. His dad stood before him and spread his feet wide. He was a tall man, still solid, with thick arms and thick legs. And he was quick with his hands; Sam had seen it before—he could pick a fly out of the air or slap his mother so fast she never saw anything coming. As Sam watched his father, a sinking feeling welled up in his chest.
Jody stared at him blankly. “Can you take care of yourself?” he demanded in a sour voice.
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