He fell back with a groan. What kind of creep was he, leading a charge against a man like John Reynolds? Coach had only done what was best for the kids at every turn. Even Chuck’s own son.
His stomach heaved again.
He leaned his head on his arm, drawing in deep breaths. Coach Reynolds wasn’t the problem. Casey was. Casey and Billy . . . and most of all himself. He had used his charm and influence among the parents to convince them of lies, to sway their thinking and basically ruin a man who had given sixteen years of service to the Marion High football team. A man who had built the program with nothing but hard work and determination.
The spasms in his belly finally stopped, and Chuck Parker struggled to his feet. As he stooped to wash his hands and face, he was certain a mountain had sprung up between his shoulder blades.
How much of what had happened to Coach Reynolds was his fault?
If he’d listened to Coach, if he’d done something about his son’s attitude a few years ago, maybe Casey wouldn’t have challenged Jake to a race. Maybe today they would merely be another high school about to enter the district play-offs, instead of front-page news, with a coach who could no longer walk.
It was all his fault.
Not only that, but he’d been responsible for making Coach Reynolds’s last season with the Eagles nothing but a nightmare.
Chuck dried his hands and turned away from the mirror. He couldn’t look, couldn’t face the man he’d become. But there was one thing he could do, something he should have done at the beginning of the season. And in that instant he made the decision to do it.
He would call in sick and spend the day making sure it happened.
If he hurried, it might not be too late.
Jake Daniels was arraigned before a judge in juvenile court. He still wore the jailhouse blues, and because the hearing required a public appearance, the escorting officer made certain he was cuffed.
The moment Jake stepped into the courtroom he knew something was wrong. His mother and father sat almost together on one of the benches, but as he entered, they barely looked at him. His dad had paid for an attorney, some slick dresser named A. W. Bennington, who had an office downtown and a reputation for getting bad guys off easy. The kind of man Jake wouldn’t have associated with—until now.
“The judge will read your charges and ask you how you plead,” A. W. had explained when the two of them met on Monday afternoon. “You’ll plead not guilty. I’ll do the rest.”
“Will they keep me here?” Jake didn’t know why he asked. He didn’t really care. Where would he go if they let him out? Not to the hospital with his other teammates, who’d been holding vigil there. Not to Coach Reynolds’s room. Hardly. And not back to school. He’d be a freak, someone the other kids whispered about and mocked and downright hated. Coach Reynolds was easily the favorite teacher on campus. Loyalty for him might have been shaky among the Eagle parents, but it was stronger than cement among the kids on campus.
Besides, Jake belonged in jail.
But A. W. had shaken his head. “You’ll be out as soon as the hearing’s over.”
His mother and father had taken turns visiting him after the attorney left yesterday. They knew he’d be coming home, so why did they both look like they’d been handed a death sentence?
Jake was led into the courtroom and took a seat at a long table. A. W. was already seated, looking far more dressed up than any of the other adults. No telling what his father had paid the man. Anything to keep Jake from spending a decade in prison.
A. W. frowned at Jake and leaned close. “The coach is paralyzed. Your parents said it was in the paper this morning. Could make things a little tricky.”
Jake spun around and found his mother. She was watching him, and as their eyes met, he saw she was crying. Slowly, firmly, she nodded her head and mouthed something Jake couldn’t understand. He shifted his glance to his dad, who only bit his lip and looked down.
The muscles in Jake’s neck unwound, and his eyes found their way back to the front of the courtroom. He wanted to die, to simply hold his breath and let God take him away from the horror of living.
Coach Reynolds was paralyzed. No, that wasn’t it at all. He’d paralyzed Coach. That was the truth of the matter. He’d seen the pickup truck turn in front of him that night, hadn’t he? He could have jerked his steering wheel and flipped his car. Sure, he might have died, but Coach would be fine. He’d been a selfish jerk, driving the car smack into the pickup. Now a man’s life was ruined. A man Jake looked up to and respected, a man who was a hero to a thousand kids at least.
Coach would never again take a lap with them or run plays with them or lead them in drills. The guys would never see Coach—his equipment bag slung over his shoulder, baseball cap low over his eyes—walking across the field toward practice. Never again.
And it was all Jake’s fault. He dropped his head in his hands. What had A. W. said a moment ago? It could make things a little tricky? He gritted his teeth. Was that all that mattered to these people? Didn’t they understand what he’d done? What he’d stolen from Coach Reynolds?
“All rise.”
The judge was a formidable looking woman with white hair and a pinched face. Good. Maybe she’ll lock me up forever.
A. W. was on his feet. He motioned for Jake to do the same.
“Jake Daniels, you are being charged with a series of crimes that include the following.” She read the list, but there was nothing new. Same things the officer had told him and his mother, the things A. W. had gone over with him yesterday. “At this point we are treating you as a minor. How do you plead to the charges?”
Jake said the first words that came to mind. “Guilty, ma’am.”
“Just a minute, Your Honor.” A. W. took a giant step in front of Jake and held up his hand. “May I have a word with my client in private?”
The judge’s forehead lifted. “Hurry. This is a busy place, counselor. Your client should have been prepped before coming here this morning.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” A. W. sat and took a firm hold of Jake’s blue cotton sleeve, pulling him down as well. He moved his lip almost on top of Jake’s ear and hissed at him, “What’re you doing?”
Jake wasn’t as careful about being quiet. “She asked me how I wanted to plead.”
“Keep your voice down.” A. W. glared at him. He was so close it looked like he had one giant eyeball. “You’re supposed to tell her, ‘Not guilty.’ Remember? Like we talked about.”
“But I am guilty. I did it. I hit Coach’s car, so why lie about it?”
Jake was pretty sure A.W. was going to have a nervous breakdown. Sweat was beading on his upper lip. “We aren’t talking about whether you hit the guy. We’re talking about what sort of crime you should be charged with.” A. W.’s hands were shaking. “What we’re saying today is that we don’t think you’re guilty of felony assault with a deadly weapon.”
The words swam around in Jake’s head in no certain order. It felt like everyone in the room was staring at him, including his parents. Whatever the hearing meant, he had no choice but to cooperate. He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed. “Whatever.”
A. W. stared at him a bit longer as though he wasn’t quite sure Jake was ready to speak the right answer. Then he gave a slow turn to the judge. “We’re ready now, Your Honor.”
“Very well.” The judge looked bored. “Will the defendant please rise?” She paused for effect. “Again.”
Jake stood.
“How do you plead to the charges leveled against you?”
He cast a quick glance at A. W. The man was staring at his notepad, refusing to watch. Jake looked at the judge once more. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Very well. You may be seated.”
Immediately the other guy, the district attorney, rose and approached the judge. “The state would like to request that Jake Daniels be tried as an adult, Your Honor. He is seventeen years old, mere months away from the legal age of adultho
od.” For a brief moment, the state’s lawyer hung his head. When he looked at the judge again, he almost looked like he was going to cry. “We learned this morning that the victim in this case was paralyzed in the accident. His condition is permanent, Your Honor. Therefore, because of the severity of the crime, we are convinced Mr. Daniels should be tried as an adult.”
Jake wasn’t sure what the difference was, exactly, only that A. W. didn’t want him tried as an adult. Jake didn’t care. The other lawyer was right. He wasn’t a little kid. He’d known exactly how dangerous street racing was, but he’d done it anyway.
The judge said something about making a decision in two weeks as to whether Jake would be tried as an adult or not. Then it was A. W.’s turn again. He asked that Jake be released to his parents because he was really, basically, a good kid. No prior record, no alcohol in his system the night of the accident. Just a stupid mistake with tragic consequences.
“I want his license revoked immediately.” The judge made a notation on a pad of paper. “Also, I want him enrolled in a continuation school so that he isn’t attending classes with the other young man involved in the case. With those stipulations, your motion is granted, counselor. Mr. Daniels may be released to his parents pending the outcome of his trial.”
The hearing was over as quickly as it had begun, and a uniformed man approached Jake. “Turn around.”
He did as he was told, and the man removed the handcuffs from Jake’s wrist.
A. W. smiled at Jake. “You’re going home, Jake. You’re a free man.”
But it was a lie.
Coach Reynolds was paralyzed.
And as long as Jake lived, he would never, ever be free again.
Seventeen
IT WAS LIKE DRAGGING AROUND A HUNDRED POUNDS of dead weight.
Four weeks had passed since the accident, and doctors had moved John to a room in the rehabilitation unit. They had certain goals, certain benchmarks for him to attain: transferring himself from a bed to a wheelchair, and from a wheelchair to the toilet and back again. They wanted him to dress himself and know how to look for sores on his legs and torso.
Today’s lesson was about knowing when an open wound needed medical treatment.
“Sores represent an insidious threat, Mr. Reynolds.” The physical therapist was slender, in his late thirties. Clearly he was passionate about his job, intent on bringing independence to those like John, who had recently joined the ranks of paraplegia.
John hoped the man would forgive him for being less than enthusiastic. “Mr. Reynolds, are you listening?”
“Hmmm?” John hadn’t realized how many people called him Coach until he’d been admitted to the hospital. Even after four weeks it didn’t sound right . . . Mr. Reynolds, not Coach Reynolds. It was as though the doctors and nurses and rehab technicians were talking about someone altogether different than the man he’d once been.
But then that was exactly right, wasn’t it? He wasn’t the man he’d been before the accident. “I’m sorry. Say it again.”
“Sores . . . see, they develop on areas where your body gets rubbed on a regular basis. The problem is, with paralysis you can’t feel the rubbing. The situation becomes especially dangerous after you’ve been in a state of paralysis for several months or more. That’s when your body begins to show signs of muscle atrophy. Without the muscle barrier, bones have been known to rub clear through the skin. So you can see the problem, Mr. Reynolds.”
John wanted to knock the man over with his wheelchair. Better yet he wanted to yell, “Cut!” at the top of his lungs and watch a dozen stagehands rush onto the scene to tell him he could get up now. The filming was over.
Of course, he could actually do neither of those things. If he wanted to get home before Christmas, he could only sit here and listen to some stranger tell him how his legs were going to waste away and that sores were going to appear on his body in the process. John settled against the back of the wheelchair, his eyes on the man’s mouth. It was still moving, still explaining the reality of John’s situation in meticulously vivid detail.
But John was no longer listening. His body might be a prisoner, but his mind could go wherever it wanted. And right now he wanted to think back over the past month.
From the moment he’d come to that Saturday after the accident, John had known he was in trouble. He had no memory of the accident, nothing at all. One moment he was pulling out of the Marion High parking lot, the next he was waking up in a hospital bed, feeling like he was choking to death. And something else, something even worse.
At first he’d been too distracted to notice.
Abby was there, and Kade and Sean and Nicole and Matt. He’d known whatever was happening, it had to be serious if everyone was gathered around him. He’d reached for his throat, and then the nurse had stepped in and warned him to stay still. The stiller the better.
Calm me down, God. And in seconds he felt his body relax. The tubes weren’t choking him; it only felt that way. The more he relaxed, the easier it was to breathe.
It was only then, when he was able to draw a breath more normally, that John realized it. Something was terribly wrong. His body ached from lying in one place and he wanted to stretch. His brain sent down a series of instantaneous commands. Toes—curl back . . . feet—point forward . . . ankles—roll around . . . legs—shift positions.
But his body wouldn’t obey a single one.
Alarm shattered John’s peacefulness, but he refused to let it show. His family was watching, looking to him for strength. Besides, at first he hoped maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was part of the medication they’d given him, something to make him tired and lethargic. A painkiller maybe. Perhaps his legs had been hurt in the accident and they were still under some kind of deep anesthesia.
By Sunday he still slept most of the time, but he was aware enough to know that none of those things should have taken away the feeling in his legs. That evening he began experimenting whenever he was awake. During the few minutes when no one was in the room, he’d slip his hand beneath the sheet and feel around. First his stomach, then his hips and thighs.
Above his bellybutton he could feel his hand quite normally. He could sense the coolness of his fingers and feel pain when he pinched himself. But below that, nothing. No sensation whatsoever. It felt like he was touching someone else, as though someone had taken his lower half and replaced it with that of a stranger.
Then he’d glance around the room, and if no one was coming, he would stare at a part of his body and order it to move. His pelvis or his legs. Even his toes.
It was always the same: nothing. No movement.
So when they pulled the tubes from his throat and performed a series of X rays and tests on his back, John knew what they were looking for. He could have saved them the time. Finally John asked what was going on, what had happened to him. When Dr. Furin entered the room, closed the door, and announced that he had bad news, John beat him to the punch.
“I’m paralyzed, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” The doctor looked pained. As though he wished he’d become a plumber or a lawyer or an accountant. Anything but a doctor forced to tell a healthy man like John Reynolds that he’d never walk again. “I’m afraid so. We were hoping once the swelling went down that . . .” The doctor struggled to find the right words. “We were hoping the paralysis might be temporary.”
The moment John knew the truth, he had only one concern. How would Abby take the news? In those early hours, he’d refused to be devastated. He was up to the challenge, wasn’t he? He would take to a wheelchair and do all the things he’d done before. And one day he’d learn to walk again, no matter what the doctors said. Not just walk, but run. Yes, he’d be running again in a few months or a few years. Whatever it took. He’d show the doctors how it could be done.
The only thing that mattered was whether Abby could stand the shock.
As soon as he saw her, he knew he needn’t have worried. Her face was a direct reflection of her hea
rt and the love she felt for him. A love that couldn’t possibly be affected by something like paralysis. In her eyes was a strength that reflected his own. They would fight this thing, battle it. And one day, together, they would overcome it.
Then, when she’d told him about the accident, that he’d been hit by none other than Jake Daniels, his concerns shifted completely to the boy. Jake would be devastated by the news, distraught beyond his ability to carry on. For the next two weeks John survived by praying for Jake, begging God to bring good out of what had happened, asking Him to give Jake the courage to visit John. That way the boy could see for himself that John wasn’t about to check out on life just because of a lack of feeling in his legs.
Hardly.
One of his visitors that first week had been Nathan Pike. The boy looked uncomfortable, dressed in his usual black garb. But something was different . . . It took John a few minutes to figure it out, but then it was clear. The defiance was gone.
“I heard what happened.” Nathan scuffed his feet around, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “I had to come. Health class’s no fun without you.”
John chuckled. “Health’s not much fun, anyway.”
“Yeah.” Nathan shrugged. “You know what I mean.”
There was a silence, and Nathan looked uncomfortable.
“You okay, Nathan?”
“Actually . . . about what happened at the game . . . I was gonna call you up the next day, but then . . . well . . .” He stared at his feet. “You know. You got hurt.”
“What’d you want to talk about?”
“The threat . . . whatever it was.” He lifted his head, his eyes more earnest than John had ever seen them. “Mr. Reynolds, I didn’t do it. I swear. I’ve done a lot of stupid things, but I didn’t do that. I was at the library all day. Really.”
“Okay.” It went against all reason, but John believed him. “Whatever you say.”
“You believe me, right?”
John made a fist and brought his knuckles up against Nathan’s. “I believe you.”
A Time to Dance/A Time to Embrace Page 48
