Leaning sideways, trying to glance at the clock on the dashboard, my father swerved just enough to make the right-hand tires leave the road. Dust and gravel flew up over us, and a passing semi blared down on the horn. Gripping the side of the door, I almost reached for the steering wheel. Coughing, he turned and said, “Just seeing if you’re awake over there.”
“A shake to the arm would work just the same. Hey, what’s this fixation you’ve got going with the clock? It’s the second time you’ve looked at it in less than an hour. If you want to know what time it is, just ask me. There’s no deadline to meet.”
“Yes sir,” he replied in a tone that let me know that he did not appreciate being talked to that way.
By the time our truck had climbed the elevation of the Grand Canyon, my mood had shifted with the cooling temperature. Nervousness wrapped all over me until I felt a tingle snake down my leg. We had spent days on end on this search, and now it was the end of the road, a return to a life measured by time, and freedom challenged by the outside world. Part of me wanted to keep on going and lay claim to the Pacific Ocean.
Views of canyon valleys changed colors from red to brown, all with a shift of the sun. Looking down on the areas that we passed, I was left feeling smaller than I’d ever felt before and hungry for something that food could not satisfy. Running my hand across the gold scrapbook that my mother had kept, I looked out beyond the truck window and pictured myself being molded into the clay-colored landscape.
At the edge of the rim, we parked next to the park lodge, and my father got out, stretching his arms high toward a bushel of white clouds that hung over the parking lot. “Man, man,” he said.
My nerves were keyed up just thinking of looking out over the edge of the rim. My own fear of emotion caused me to pull back, and for a second I thought of claiming that I needed to take a restroom break before venturing out among the rest of the tourists gathered at the observation deck.
“I don’t know about you, but I need to stop in this place first,” my father said pointing to the stone lodge that wrapped around the rim’s edge.
Inside, a large pine staircase draped in red carpet swept up to the cathedral ceiling. Pine and rugged stone formed the walls that were mounted with the heads of moose and bear. A group of men with German accents and plaid shorts stood in front of the registration desk, clutching overnight bags. A cool breeze swept across the lobby, and in the back of the building, I noticed a restaurant with windows framing God’s handiwork outside.
One of the German men with a bushy gray beard looked up to the top of the open staircase. He laughed and pointed to the balcony. As he did so, everyone else in the group turned and followed his point. Not to be outdone, I moved past the group so that I could get a better look too.
There, standing at the top of the wooden staircase holding a sign with colored letters spelling out “Welcome” were Malley and Heather. They laughed when I stepped backward and stumbled onto a luggage cart. I jumped to my feet and darted off past the registration desk. Jumping up the steps two at a time, I ran an obstacle course over luggage while the women in the lodge looked at me like I was a mountain lion who had found his way into polite society.
“Surprise!” Heather yelled while clapping her hands and laughing. Her body molded into my arms the same way my spirit had molded into the space outside. I held her long and kissed her even longer.
Malley was shaking the sign like a cheerleader in training. She laughed when I hugged her and asked me twice, “Surprised? Did we surprise you?”
“When . . . where did ya’ll . . . ?” Words raced through my mind but never met together to make any sense.
Wrapping her arm around my shoulder, Heather pointed past the stair banister and down to the lobby. Standing below the wooden chandelier was my father. He was standing by the registration desk, seemingly lost among the German men who were still looking up at us. “Your daddy called the day after you left Amarillo. He was going on about a motel he and your mama had visited that had a leaking roof . . . And then, out of the blue he said, ‘I want you and Malley with us at the canyon.’ He said it was his gift. Trust me, there was no talking him out of it. The plane tickets, the car . . . he paid it all.”
Nodding, all I could do was choke on the words that I wanted to shout down to my father, who was propped against a column of varnished pine. With his hands in his pockets, he looked every bit like the common man that
I’m sure the people who passed by him thought him to be. He was common to everyone, except me.
With no fanfare, my father shyly smiled, and as he did, I saw a glimpse of the face from the photograph, the face of that skinny army sergeant standing in the middle of the snow with his wife, searching for the hope of better tomorrows.
In the middle of a group of German tourists, my father took off his cap with the faded John Deere logo and tipped it up toward me. He never looked back as he walked outside and turned the corner, moving closer to the edge of the canyon that had been waiting on us for thirty-five years.
During a supper of rainbow trout at the lodge restaurant, I tried to toast my father. With the white tablecloths and napkins, he kept his arms folded and seemed uncomfortable, so I didn’t press the point. I obeyed the shake of his head and the wave of his hand. Instead, I held up the glass of wine and simply said, “Will you let me say thank you, then? And that . . . I love you, Daddy.” His face flushed for the second time that day, and he looked down at the salad plate in front of him. “Here, here,” Heather said. “Ditto,” Malley added, copying me by holding up her water glass. My father never did respond. He didn’t have to. His love was proven by actions, not words.
In our room that night, Heather massaged my back as we sat in front of the picture window overlooking the stars that hung over the darkened canyon. “Your muscles . . . they’re so relaxed.”
“It’s you,” I said, reaching up to stroke her hair.
She laughed and leaned down closer until the smell of her perfume made me drunk. “No, it’s peace,” she whispered. “You’re at peace.”
“I’m getting there. I’m man enough to admit it: You were right. I needed this trip.”
“For your mama, or for you?”
“For me and my daddy. I think Grand Vestal’s right. You can know my daddy your whole life and not really know him, but because of this trip, I think I understand him better.”
“Like what?”
“That he loved my mother. That he loves me. That he’s a good man who’s had a tough life. And you know what? That’s all I really need to know.”
Heather looked out the window. “I’ll never forget how he looked the Christmas after your mama passed away. He just sort of stumbled his way through.”
Holding her hand, I massaged the tip of the diamond on her wedding ring. “Promise me something . . . if something happens to me.” She tried to pull away, but I held her hand tighter. “I’m not saying it will . . . but if it does . . . don’t stumble along like that.”
She shook her head, and the curls of her black hair danced with the movement. “I can’t promise that . . . ”
“You can promise that you’ll keep on living . . . not just making it . . . but really living.”
She ran her finger across my lips until they tingled. “Baby, you can’t keep us from hurting. I know what you’re trying to do. When I got into this game with you nineteen years ago, I knew what it meant. I knew there would be hurt right along with happiness.” I opened my mouth, but she placed her finger back up to my lips. “Nathan, the way I see love is that it’s a Ferris wheel. It goes up. It goes down and even circles around, never seeming to end. But sooner or later we’re going to have to pay the admission price. To me, love is the same type of ride. In the end it’s always going to cost us something. So I’ll take my chances.”
An outside breeze ruffled the curtains, but I remained warmed by her words. In days gone by, I’d have changed the subject or would have trained my mind to focus on finding a solutio
n to a work project while her words buzzed about me but never landed. Now I was soaking my wife’s words into my pores and still hungering for more. Loving me would cost my wife and daughter a price, a price that they would pay out in installments over time. And for the first time, it was a debt that I could not pay for them.
There, inside a lodge on the edge of the Grand Canyon, I fell in love with my wife all over again. Everything about her that I had taken for granted greeted me with a freshness that was as crisp as the air that drifted into our room. And that night I pledged to give whatever number of days I had to her in body, mind, and spirit.
When I woke up the next morning, Heather’s arm was across my chest. Easing out of bed, I lightly placed her arm across the blanket, and she rolled onto her side. Never waking, her arm spread out across my pillow, and I fought the urge to reach over and run my hands through her hair. But beyond the room there were more bridges to mend, and the job of repairing them had been weighing on my mind for the past few hours.
Early dawn was rolling into the canyon, and the young man at the front desk smiled as I approached. With the exception of a cleaning crew and the sound of a vacuum cleaner, the lobby was empty.
“Do you have any paper? Letterhead or something?” I asked the man.
He never broke his smile as he handed it to me and then continued flipping through the night receipts.
Out on the stone-covered porch I zipped the Windbreaker and wondered how weather could feel so cool in June. A blanket of haze hung over the front of the lodge like a wayward cloud that had lost its way from heaven. I sat in a rocking chair and listened to the sound of birds signaling the start of another day.
For the past week my mama’s words from her Bible had stayed in my head, always a reminder of what was meant for kingdom living. Peace, joy and love—pray for your inner life, the swirled letters written in the margin of her Bible had said.
Putting pen to paper I wrote, “Dear Jay.” I hadn’t spoken with Jay Beckett since the day he drove away from my house with the knowledge of the spot that rested in my chest. That day he asked me what I’d planned to do. So now I spelled out the details for him, the journey with my father, the skydiving, the bull riding, and all of a sudden I realized the things I’d done before the accident were nothing more than ingredients for a boring life. But it was the words that I used to close the letter that seemed the most important.
I’ve been hating you, Jay. I admit it. I was angry for what you did to me, filling my job and demoting me. The bottom line is, it hurt that you didn’t have the common courtesy to call or talk with me face-to-face. But I’m putting that all behind me now and I want to thank you. Thank you for giving me the chance to find out what life is really about. If it weren’t for the accident, I wouldn’t have learned what I know now. And if I’d gone back to work, I’d still be the same man I was, and the fact of the matter is that I don’t want to be that man anymore. Forgiveness is only as good as we’re able to forgive. So I’m asking you to forgive me for the way I’ve been feeling about you and for breaking your door that day. I’m sending a check with this letter. Please let me know if I owe any more. You did what you felt that you had to do. Now I’m doing what I feel like I must do.
Louise said I needed to go home and heal, and that’s what I’ve been doing. It’s a long story, so I won’t go into it now, but things are changing and I like to think for the better. It’s not easy letting go of something that’s been part of my life for twenty years. But I realize the time has come for me to leave Beckett Construction and start a new life with my family.
I looked over the letter at least a dozen times. Once I mailed it to Jay, there would be no turning back. There would be no job to go to each morning, and most of the employees would probably think that I’d been fired. I tapped the edge of the pen against my teeth and struggled with how to end my letter to the man I’d first met in a dorm room some twenty-two years ago. A cottontail rabbit darted out from the fog and crossed the grass that lined the edge of the porch steps. Before leaving Atlanta, I doubt if I’d have even taken the time to notice such a sight. And it was then that I found the words to close. Jay, I only hope that one day you’ll get the chance to live like you were dying.
The morning that we were to leave, Heather and Malley were standing by the rim of the canyon. Clanging from the pole, a U.S. flag whipped against a breeze meant for springtime.
“Taking one last look?” I moved to allow an Asian couple a photo opportunity. There was a lot to take in. In the last few days we’d crammed as much in as we could, even giving in to Malley’s wish to ride to the bottom of the canyon on mules.
My favorite day had been spent fly-fishing along the Colorado River that ran deep inside the canyon. It was the water that first brought me together with my father. As a boy, I’d learned to fish with him at Brouser’s Pond. His thick and callused hand showed me how to cast a line, unhook the catch, and clean it for supper. Talk of bait, water levels, and those that got away were all the words we needed back then. Now it would be the water that brought us full circle, students stepping out into unknown waters, casting in ways we’d never tried.
The fishing guide, Hawley, was not much older than I was, but he could make his line sing as it flew across the water; mine always ended up diving and whipping the edge of the bank.
Standing next to my father, grinning at him whenever he made a smooth cast and grimacing when he twisted it in knots, I realized that all of the things that I’d been called after surviving the accident at the plant were now true. I was lucky and blessed all at the same time. I’d been there when this man with the faded green cap had taught me how to do his favorite thing in life, to cast a rod. And
I was there when he was man enough to admit that there was still more that he could learn.
“Words,” Heather said, taking that final look at the canyon on our last day. “Words can’t describe this place. I feel so insignificant.”
Wrapping my arms around her, I could feel the pulse in her neck. Her skin was warm and sweet, and I tried hard to memorize the smell as much as the view before us.
“Look,” Malley said. She was standing by a small plaque etched into a stone column of the observation deck.
Heather leaned down lower and read the words aloud. “O Lord, how manifold are thy works. In wisdom hast thou made them all. The earth is full of thy riches.”
A silence fell upon the deck, and only the wind could be heard as it lifted our hair and the lapels of our jackets. We stood there one last time, staring out at the greatest sanctuary ever created, and I thanked the Lord for the gift of His beauty in the places and faces that I’d encountered on the trip.
My father pulled the camper trailer around to the side parking lot next to the lodge. It was then that I started to ask Heather to cancel the tickets and to follow us back. But she had her schedule the same as I had mine. There was a high-school reunion in the works, and the Walker twins had talked her into serving on the host committee. She had even mentioned an opening at the high school in Choctaw but never went so far as to say that she was interested in applying. Our future was as wide-open as the canyon we were leaving behind.
“When do you expect to be home?” Heather asked, never realizing that she was now referring to Choctaw, Georgia, as our place of residence.
“A week probably. I don’t know; we’re men of leisure, remember.”
She brushed my face with her hand, and her hair swept up in the wind. Placing my hand against her head, I pulled her closer one last time. “I’ll love you long after the cliffs have caved in and the canyon is filled. Don’t you forget that.”
Heather seemed puzzled as she let go and looked at me, searching me with her dark eyes. She licked her lips and called for Malley. “I want you home, Nathan Bishop. I want you home.”
As they drove away to the airport, my father and I watched them go. Malley turned around and faced us as they moved closer to the entrance of the park and then down the highway to our fu
ture.
My father gripped the top of my shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and then cranked the truck. As we drove away from the place that held my mama’s dreams and the keys to my peace, I whispered, “Drive slow.” The sun flooded the side of the passenger window, and I squinted to make out the red, gray, and orange colors of the canyon. With the shift of the sun, the colors changed just as sharply as the colors in the glass figurines that my mama used to keep on top of the coffee table at our home. Colors that would continue to tint my memories until my last day on earth.
Chapter Twelve
You get to know a person after traveling with him for more than two weeks straight. The time he takes his meals, the way he refuses to drive more than five miles over the speed limit, even the way he holds the steering wheel with one arm propped up against the truck window. Across the miles it’s the small things that become tattooed on your mind. The small details fill in the gaps until you’re satisfied that you really know the person sitting next to you.
Even though there were some things that we still chose to keep to ourselves, the wall of silence that had troubled me at the start of the journey now seemed a natural part of us. The sound the tires made as we drove over the cracks in the road and the whine of the wind as it sneaked through a leak in the door, those were the sounds that filled the truck. We listened and wondered where we would go from here with nothing left to hide, nothing left to battle. A good kind of tired, the kind that comes from a day of hard, manual work, left me satisfied and hungry for more.
“What day of the week is it, Tuesday?” My father asked while looking at the clock on the truck dashboard.
“Monday,” I said. Instead of worrying that he’d slipped into some stage of forgetfulness, I was grateful that time was something that no longer kept a fence around him.
“You think you’d mind if we slipped up to Colorado on the way home?” my father asked. “I’ve been thinking about that place. I think I’d like to drive past Fort Carson one last time.”
Live Like You Were Dying Page 11
