by Chris Fabry
“It’s all right, Karin,” Richard said. “We’re here to help.”
A woman wearing a thin sweater festooned with tiny bears stood behind me, listening. Had she just walked in on us? Why was she here? When I asked, Richard said she could leave.
Richard uncrossed his legs, still staring at me. “We found your stash of pills in the closet. You haven’t been taking your medication again.”
I looked away, feeling both of their stares.
“There’s something else,” Richard said. “I know this is a lot to take in, but I think you can handle it. Are you ready?”
“Have I killed someone else’s children?” Then the weight pressed me down. “It was me. I killed them, didn’t I?”
Richard’s face was full of love and compassion. “Someone once said the truth will set you free. Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” I choked.
“This is not your church. I’m not your pastor.”
“Of course you are. You spoke last Sunday on . . . the woman who was about to be stoned for adultery.”
“I don’t preach. I’m a doctor. You’ve been here since your parents worked it out for you to stay. They brought you to see your grandmother, and you bonded with a few people here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is a nursing home. A managed-care facility. Because of your episodes—”
“Episodes? They think I’m crazy?”
“Your mind was fragile before the accident. You were vulnerable because of some things in your past. That trauma sent you into a world of your own. A reality that helped you cope with—”
“Where are my children?” I said, my voice shaking. “What have you done with the kids, Richard?”
“You have no children. They were in your imagination.”
The room spun and I stood, a hand to my head. “That can’t be true. I walked Darin to the bus this morning. And Kallie. Tarin will be out of preschool in a few minutes—I have to go.”
“Don’t you see?” Richard took the scraps of newspaper from my hand and unfolded them. “The children of that family. Karla. Tanny. Danny. They start with the same letters as your children. Only they’re not. You never married. You never had children.”
“No! They are my children! I’ve cared for them and loved them, just like I’ve loved you and this church and the women and . . .” I turned to Will with pleading eyes. “Tell him this is nonsense. You know I have children, don’t you?”
Richard’s voice was behind me. “There are people here who love you. These are your confidants of the church. You sit in the day room and talk about banquets and special speakers. Some who know you play along, but—”
“Ruthie!” I shouted. I was up before the woman with the bear sweater could grab me, rushing by Will and out the door. Someone had taken the carpet from the hallway. It was just a tile floor, and there was an antiseptic smell. A rollaway bed with white sheets sat unattended. Women in similar bear sweaters stared at me, white shoes silently walking the halls.
“Ruthie Bowles!” I shouted. “Where is she? Where’s Ruthie? Please tell me!”
“Miss Ruthie’s right in here, dearie,” a large black woman said. She pointed to a hall and a room on the left. Inside was a single bed with a curtain drawn around it. A TV was mounted on the wall, and there was a chair and a small chest of drawers. A large bathroom stood at the end of the room with silver railings around the toilet and tub. And a small closet.
I pulled the curtain and viewed the remnants of my friend. All our conversations. All her wisdom. Her face was drawn, and the skin on her arms pressed to the bone. A large tube stuck out of her mouth and attached to a machine that whirred and ticked, lifting her chest and letting it fall.
Someone put a hand on my shoulder. It was Richard. “Ruthie is real. Shortly after your trip to the penitentiary, she fell ill. She wasn’t in good shape before that, but there’s been a steady decline.”
“I’ve been to her house,” I protested. “I smelled her cooking. We went to Wal-Mart together.”
“You were here. In the lunch room. And the little shop by the day room. Other than your trip to the penitentiary or a few days here and there with your parents, you’ve lived here.”
“My whole life . . . is a lie. Everything—my kids, my husband, even God. It’s all a big lie.”
“No,” Will said, coming close. “You chose a church and to be married to a pastor. You made up children you loved. That’s a good thing. It’s helped you. Somehow this other world helped hold you together.”
“The human mind is a wonderful thing,” Richard said, “but it can be damaged. I like to think this time has been spent healing, regaining your strength so those things that helped you cope can become a reality.”
“How long have I been here?”
“You came here about eight years ago. I’ve come by to help you from time to time.”
“Eight years,” I echoed.
Then I looked at Will and knitted my brow. “If Richard isn’t my husband . . .”
Will took me in his arms.
I pulled away, tears blurring my eyes. “I don’t believe you. It’s too much to take in. . . .”
“Shh,” he said, gathering me in. “Take your time with this. I’ll wait for you.”
Will
Karin retreated to her room at the facility, her closet actually, and stayed for days, coming out long enough to go to the bathroom and eat. She carried a threadbare Bible and a journal inside the tiny space, along with a couple of books she’d borrowed from Ruthie’s room.
Dr. Richard Welles had written to me at Clarkston explaining Karin’s situation—not everything, but what he could piece together. Hers had been a slow slip from reality, making up relationships, her marriage, the children, not in one fell swoop but over time. A coping mechanism that overtook her and sent her spiraling further toward the unknown. It was her relationship with Ruthie that had been the beginning of the process of reclaiming her. A gentle, withered hand to lead her from her abyss and into varying degrees of light.
Dr. Welles had okayed the trip to Clarkston, with him and her parents escorting, keeping a distance behind the car, watching so nothing happened.
Ruthie had been in on the plan as well, believing all along that Karin had a future and a hope. She saw glimmers of life inside her friend and chose to lead her along quiet paths of truth hidden in the inner recesses of Karin’s mind.
What Ruthie didn’t know until she spoke with me in Clarkston was that her friend was the monster the town had wanted to expunge. Ruthie had lost her grandbabies on that misty July morning. After the initial grief wore off, she could tell it was time for her to move away from the home of her daughter and son-in-law. She chose the assisted-living wing and a few years later made friends with Karin. Ruthie sensed the delicate nature of Karin’s problem immediately but didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t until she met with Dr. Welles that she formed a plan.
In the end, I believe Ruthie helped Karin the most. Not Dr. Welles or any of the drugs they tried. Just a compassionate woman of wisdom who did her best to listen and speak into a life that had fallen apart and needed mending.
When Ruthie finally slipped the surly bonds, as she often quoted, Karin and her parents came to the funeral. No one knew the truth about the accident but Dr. Welles, Karin, and the lady in the casket. I slipped into the back of the funeral home and left before the service ended. Karin just stared at the floor throughout the service and seemed content to simply go where she was led.
At the burial, I stayed in the shadows. Someone touched my shoulder and I turned.
A toothless man in dirty coveralls with a chaw of tobacco much too big for one cheek smiled at me. At his feet was an old dog content to stay beside his master. “Will,” he said. Only it came out, “Whihh.”
“Jasper,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”
“I mihh yoo dah.”
“Yeah, I miss him too. I miss him a lot.”
&
nbsp; The pastor said a few words about the old woman, and everyone hugged and walked toward their cars. Karin lingered at the casket with a handful of flowers, and I edged closer. Ruthie’s daughter broke away from the others and returned. I was close enough to hear.
“My mother talked so much about you the past few years,” she said. “She considered you her best friend.”
“I don’t know what I’d have done without her,” Karin said, her chin quivering. “It’s been a hard adjustment.”
“She always wanted you to come to our house for dinner, but we never got around to it. I wish we could have done it while she was still here. Do you think . . . maybe you could still come? I think she’d like that.”
Karin stared blankly at her, and then something clicked—as if a motion sensor had turned on somewhere in her mind. “Your children. They were the ones who were killed.”
“Yes,” she said, not in pain but with a certain air of security, as if she were glad someone had spoken of them. Glad someone had mentioned their existence. Perhaps others feared bringing up the subject, but here was Karin laying it out straight. No illusions, just the truth. “They’re right over here,” she said, pointing.
She led Karin to the gravestones and Karin knelt, holding the woman’s hand. She placed the flowers in front of the marker and ran her fingers over the letters of the three names.
“Tanny was such a rascal,” the woman said. “You would have liked her. She had her grandmother’s personality. My mother loved all my kids, but I think Tanny was her favorite. She was just always into something.”
Karin nodded and stretched herself on the little graves and wept.
Each of us makes a world of our own where we live and breathe. Mine had been in Clarkston. Karin’s had been just as real to her. Neither of us wanted to stay in those places. We just needed a way out.
The sun set in the west and cast a golden glow on the hills. I had mowed the field with my father’s tractor, and the field glistened in the sunlight like a child’s haircut. I hadn’t moved much furniture into the place, only a bed and a table for the kitchen. The new carpet made it smell like a showroom, and I always kicked off my boots before coming inside. My routine was to sit on the porch and toast the sun’s demise another day. Sometimes my mother joined me, though, as it turned out, she was spending more time with Judge Henderson.
When Carson and Jenna came to see the place, they both had the same reaction. “Why would you want to live way up here away from everybody in the world?” Jenna said.
“I don’t want to live away from everybody,” I said.
She shook her head.
Carson said, “You’re gonna need a good dog to keep the animals away from your trash cans.”
“Expect I will.”
He showed Jenna the arrowhead stuck in the tree and put a hand on her belly. “Our kids are going to get a kick out of seeing this.”
The ice in my glass left a wet ring on the porch concrete. My body ached, and I leaned back and took in the last gasp of clouds settling in the sky. The wind rustled the grass and I closed my eyes, picturing my father tossing a ball at this same time of day. You’d like this house. You’d absolutely love it up here.
Another rustling of the wind and I noticed movement among the trees. Deer frequently passed in the field. But this was no deer. A person walked around the curve at the limestone and approached like a child kicking at grasshoppers. The gait was familiar, a dancer’s body, brown and agile, and the hair, the color of winter wheat, hung softly to the shoulders.
I stood on the porch, waiting, as I had promised. It seemed fitting that I not run to her and embrace her in the field but simply wait. I had let her come to me in her own time. Her own way. It was what she needed.
“I heard you built a house up here,” Karin called to me when she got closer.
“I’ve got quite a view. You should see it under a blanket of snow.”
“Big too. How many bathrooms?”
“How many you need?”
“Just one, I guess.” She smiled.
She was at the walk now, taking slower steps, turning to see the valley, then looking back at me. The sight of her on the hillside sent chills through me. The sight was like a dream.
“I think I know you,” she said, pushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
I took a step down and met her on the walk.
“How long have you been waiting here?”
“Not long. Not long at all.”
Karin leaned into me and put her head on my chest, and it felt like the sun had melted the whole world. I put my arms around her and pulled her close. “I would have waited a lifetime.”
She looked at me with eyes that were deep pools of hurt and love and memory. “Didn’t you make a prediction a long time ago? About us?”
“I did.”
Karin turned and looked at the last fingers of sunlight streaking through the clouds, the stars almost ready to begin their show. Then she slipped her arm around my back and leaned close again. “It may take more time, but I honestly think I could get used to this.”
Danny Boyd
I told my counselor about my grandmother’s funeral and seeing the guy standing by the trees. And the woman who stretched out on my sisters’ graves. I told him I’d figured it out. Pieced the whole thing together. She was really the one driving, and he had taken the punishment. A loving thing to do. Sacrificial.
My counselor nodded. How are your parents holding up?
I think they’re better. Not that they’re over it, but, you know. It’s been a long time.
Any more questions about your life?
I shook my head.
He stared at me. I guess he saw me sweating and figured something was wrong. I looked around for a thermostat but couldn’t find one.
He stroked his beard and glanced at my shoes. What are you thinking?
About my sisters. Being at the cemetery kind of brought it all back. Regret that I was a lousy brother.
What would you say to them? If they could be here right now?
I thought for a long time and finally said, I’d tell them I’m sorry for letting go. I’m sorry I jumped out of the way. I wish I’d held on.
If you had, they’d still be alive? Or if you hadn’t let go, you’d be with them, right?
I don’t know.
Not a good answer, he said.
Yeah. It’s what I’m feeling.
Okay. Fair enough. He leaned forward and put his hand on mine, like he wanted to say something I should remember. Getting ready to pull some curtain back and ask me to choose from three boxes or doors like they did on Let’s Make a Deal.
I want to show you something, he said. If you’re ready.
How can I know if I’m ready if I don’t even know what you’re gonna show me?
He stood and opened a door. A bright light shone from the hallway, and I had to shield my eyes. Two women walked in, both of them pretty, with long hair like my mother’s. Not as old as Mom but definitely out of high school. Maybe even college.
Hi, Danny, the brown-haired one said. There was something familiar in that smile.
The other said hello and giggled.
Hi, I said.
My counselor turned to me and stared.
What? I said.
The two women knelt on either side of my chair.
What? I said again to him, but he wouldn’t speak.
The brown-haired one, the one with the dimple in her chin, took my hand gently. You didn’t let go, she said.
I squinted and said, What did you say?
Danny, you were there with us, the other said. Don’t you see?
My mind spun like one of those amusement park rides you want to get off but can’t because the guy who’s running it can’t hear your screams. Or won’t. I closed my eyes and heard the roar of the engine, heard the skittering gravel. Tires off the pavement. The car rushing toward us. We had a second, maybe half a second.
The impact threw me over
the guardrail.
It took them a few hours to find you, Danny.
I opened my eyes. I was standing with them, hand in hand, not in a room with bookcases and paintings, just an open vista overlooking a sparkling city, clean and pure.
Like what paradise is supposed to be.
The counselor leaned close to my ear. Welcome home.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the scene in front of me, but I could tell he was smiling. He took a breath and put a hand on my shoulder. A scar. A big one, like I had seen on my uncle after they drove the pitchfork through his hand by mistake.
Why did you show me? Why did I go through all that?
Many questions are unanswered. Here there are answers. And tears are wiped away. Pain is gone. You see, Danny, our stories are like rain, dropping into streams, rushing forward, gaining momentum. They’re flowing together, trying to reach the end. But there is no end now. Your story and theirs will be told again and again, worked out in so many ways.
But you gave me this. You showed me.
And you’ll tell others. You’ll understand more deeply.
I felt a tear well up. I looked at my sisters, then back at him. I didn’t let go, I said. I didn’t let go.
The tear fell harmlessly to the ground.
It was my last.
With Gratitude
I’d like to mention a few people who helped make this book a reality. Kathryn Helmers was a true friend before she became my agent. I am blessed to know her as both. Karen Watson at Tyndale gave this book a chance and thus has given me one. Thanks also to Lorie and Stephanie, who had a passion for the story, and to everyone at Tyndale for standing with our family through some challenges the past year. Also, thanks to Jerry B. Jenkins, who has answered questions about writing and life and even provided time at his writing cave for this book. My children have provided many story ideas, motivation to keep working, and much love. And to Andrea—you have been a constant encourager, reader, sounding board, and confidante. Thanks for walking this road.
