Believe: The Complete Channie Series

by Charlotte Abel

  One of Jonathan’s earliest memories was the feeling of wet cement squishing between his fingers. Dad had helped him line his hand up next to Franklin’s so they matched. Franklin’s right hand, Jonathan’s left. He’d pointed at the prints when they were done. “Just like you and Frankie. The same; but different.”

  Nothing would ever be the same again.

  The coat rack in the entryway looked…off. It took Jonathan a second to realize what was wrong. Franklin’s favorite Colorado Rockies baseball cap should have been hanging on the second hook from the top. It wasn’t. Jonathan averted his gaze…into the dining room and found three placemats on the polished cherry table instead of four.

  He spun around and detoured into the family room. The trophy case that held the awards Jonathan and Franklin had earned as a team in combined events was completely empty.

  Competitive martial arts had been such a big part of Jonathan and Franklin’s lives. Realizing he’d lost that too felt like another death.

  Jonathan closed his eyes as grief sucked the air out of his lungs.

  “Son?” Dad grabbed his shoulders. “Are you alright?”

  Jonathan doubted he’d ever be alright, but Mom and Dad had suffered enough. They shouldn’t have to deal with his pain on top of their own. “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want help getting upstairs?”

  “No.” He slid the straps of his duffle bag into the crook of his left elbow, but the pressure shot bolts of pain from the tips of his missing fingers to the top of his shoulder. He set the bag on the floor, tucked his suitcase under his throbbing arm and grabbed the duffle with his right hand.

  The suitcase slipped after just two steps. Jonathan gritted his teeth and pressed harder with his bandaged stump, but all that did was increase his pain. He let go of the duffle and managed to grab the handle of the suitcase as it slid past his hip.

  Dad picked up Jonathan’s duffle bag. “I know you can do it yourself. But let me help you, just this once.”

  Jonathan nodded then followed Dad up the stairs. They both paused when they passed Franklin’s closed door.

  Dad turned and squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder. “It’s been a long day. Let’s get you settled in.”

  The “KEEP OUT” sign was missing from Jonathan’s door. As was the “McKnight Avenue” street sign he’d stolen on a dare. What the hell?

  He dropped his suitcase and opened the door with trepidation. His voice shook as he spoke through gritted teeth, “What happened to my room? Where are my trophies? And where the hell are my weapons?”

  The empty trophy case downstairs was bad enough, but the trophies that should have been in his room weren’t shared awards. He’d earned every one of them competing in solo events. They were his and his alone.

  Dad set Jonathan’s duffle bag down on the freshly shampooed carpet then groaned. “I told her she could do whatever she wanted with Franklin’s stuff. But she wasn’t supposed to set one foot inside your room. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, it’s not okay.” Dad ran his hands through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “Maybe she just packed everything up and put it all into storage.”

  They both knew the chances of that were slim. Mom had the Goodwill donations pick-up department on speed dial.

  “It’s just stuff. It’s not like…” Jonathan let the rest of that sentence hang in the air…it’s not like someone died.

  Jonathan swallowed around the lump in his throat but he couldn’t disguise the pinched sound of his voice. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? Who knows why she did it, but if clearing out my stuff helped Mom feel even a little bit better, it’s worth it.”

  Dad wrapped his arms around Jonathan, avoiding his stump. “Have I told you just how proud I am of you?”

  Jonathan didn’t want to lose it in front of Dad but his control was slipping. “I’m really tired.”

  “Do you want me to sleep in here tonight? It’s easy enough to set up the inflatable bed.”

  Dad had been with Jonathan in the hospital during his entire stay, only leaving to make room for visitors and even then, he didn’t leave the hospital. He only went to the cafeteria or the chapel.

  Franklin’s funeral was the next day. Jonathan didn’t know how he was going to get through the night; but he was a soldier, not a baby. “I’m fine. Besides, it’s been a long time since you slept with Mom.”

  Jonathan cringed when he realized the double meaning of his words. Dad’s chuckle didn’t help. He kissed Jonathan’s forehead then pulled the door shut behind him, revealing a dark, rectangular spot on the wall. A poster-sized photo used to hang there.

  Jonathan palmed the wall and pressed his cheek against its cool, lightly textured surface. He closed his eyes and pictured the moment captured by the camera three years ago…

  He and Franklin stood center stage at the Disney World Sports Complex, hoisting a huge trophy above their heads. The packed arena, energized and cheering, had thrilled him beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. They’d both placed in individual events, but together they won the synchronized forms and weapons class. They’d always performed better as a team than they had as individuals.

  Jonathan felt drained and heavy at the same time. He used to be so full of life he couldn’t keep his feet on the ground. How ironic. Now it took all his energy to cross the room and lie down on top of his bed.

  He drew his knees to his chest ignoring the pain that shot through his ribs. The tears that leaked out of his tightly shut eyes did nothing to relieve the pain of his combined grief and guilt. They did however, dissolve the last of his self-control and like a cracked dam, Jonathan could no longer withstand the pressure of holding everything inside. He buried his face in one of the decorative satin pillows and screamed.

  It was dark when Jonathan finally pulled the sodden pillow away from his face. He switched on his bedside lamp and pulled a fistful of tissues out of the box to dry his eyes and blow his nose. He crawled under the covers even though he knew he’d never fall asleep. Not even with the help of narcotics. Pain meds dulled the constant ache of his wounds, but did nothing for the gaping hole in the middle of his chest.

  Jonathan fingered the crease of his Army blue dress pants, pinching it where it broke over his knee cap. He sat on the front row of the chapel and stared at the flag draped over Franklin’s coffin. All it held was a small urn of ashes, Franklin’s dress blue uniform and his dog tags.

  Once the Army figured out that the dog tags someone had shoved into Jonathan’s front shirt pocket weren’t his, they were able to identify some of Franklin’s remains with DNA testing. By the time they got it all straightened out, Jonathan was out of intensive care. Dad offered to postpone Franklin’s funeral for a couple more weeks, but Jonathan wanted to get it over with while he still had access to high doses of pain killers.

  Bishop Thorne droned on and on about the plan of salvation; as if he were trying to convert everyone instead of directing a funeral. But as soon as he started talking about Franklin, Jonathan wanted him to stop and start preaching again—or just shut the hell up.

  “Franklin McKnight’s time on earth was short, but he accomplished so much while he was here.”

  “Bullshit.”

  A collective gasp, followed by a buzz of indignant murmurs, snapped Jonathan out of his daze. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud—even if it was true. Franklin had a plan for his life. A plan that did not include getting blown to pieces and scattered all over some insignificant dirt road in the middle of Afghanistan.

  Strong arms wrapped around Jonathan’s shoulders. “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”

  Jonathan jerked away from Dad and stood up. His vision tunneled as he crashed through the double doors of the chapel. He stumbled and tripped over his own feet as if he were drunk—which he probably was. He’d taken an extra dose of pain meds when the funeral home’s limo pulled into the driveway that morning, but his missing hand still thro
bbed with each beat of his heart.

  A car rolled up beside him, slowing to match his pace, but he didn’t recognize it. The tinted window hummed as it rolled down. Dad was behind the wheel. He put a hand on the passenger seat and leaned towards Jonathan. “Get in.”

  Jonathan slid in and pulled the door shut. “Whose car is this?”

  “Bishop Thorne’s.” Dad didn’t say another word until he parked at the cemetery. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “You aren’t the only one grieving.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to participate in the dove release ceremony.”

  Jonathan shook his head. He didn’t want to be there at all. And he sure as hell didn’t want to participate in any bird ceremony. Mom had forbidden the firing of any weapons, so instead of a three volley salute to honor Franklin’s service and sacrifice, he was getting a flock of doves. The stupid birds would probably shit on his casket.

  Dad put his arm around Jonathan and led him towards the crowd standing on the hill. People stepped back and made a path that led to Franklin’s open grave. Dad nodded at the bugler. The poignant notes of “Taps” squeezed Jonathan’s chest, but it didn’t thaw the icy numbness surrounding his heart as he watched the honor guard lift the flag from Franklin’s casket.

  Tears streamed down Dad’s cheeks as a soldier knelt in front of him and handed him the folded triangle. But Jonathan’s eyes remained dry. The numbness spread to his fingers.

  A man in a black suit led Mom and Dad to a large, wicker basket. Music from a portable sound system filled the air as they opened the lid and released twenty white doves; one for each year of Franklin’s life. The man reached into a much smaller basket and pulled out a single bird then tried to give it to Jonathan.

  Jonathan lifted his bandaged stump. “I’ve only got one hand.”

  “It’s okay.” The man handed the dove to Dad then took Jonathan’s right hand and placed it on the dove’s back. It’s silky feathers tickled his palm.

  Mom and Dad kissed the dove’s head, but Jonathan just stared at it. The man recited some poem about the dove symbolizing Franklin’s spirit ascending to Heaven then said, “Let him go.”

  Jonathan’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces as he watched the lone bird race towards the circling flock overhead. When Franklin’s bird joined the others, they circled once more then headed west, towards the Sawatch Mountains. Jonathan continued to stare at the distant peaks, long after the birds disappeared.

  Something brushed Jonathan’s cheek then fell onto his chest, over his heart. It was a tiny, white feather, as light and delicate as a snowflake. Jonathan plucked it off his uniform, stared at it for a moment, then put it in his pocket.

  Later that night, Dad knocked on Jonathan’s door then entered without waiting for an invitation. “Do you still have the feather you put in your pocket?”

  Jonathan pressed his lips together and nodded. He hadn’t removed it, and Mom hadn’t taken his uniform to the dry cleaners yet so it should still be there.

  “Go get it.” Dad pulled a tiny glass vial full of sand out of his jacket pocket. He uncorked the vial and emptied it into the trashcan next to Jonathan’s desk.

  Jonathan handed the feather to Dad. He poked it inside the vial then slid the thin silver chain attached to it over Jonathan’s head. “I hope this reminds you of the peace you felt when we set Franklin’s dove free.”

  Jonathan had felt grief, guilt and physical pain when he let go of the bird; but no peace.

  Maybe he would someday. Maybe, sometime in the distant future, he would be happy again. That fragile thread of hope was the only thing keeping him alive. That and the thought of what his suicide would do to Mom and Dad—especially Dad. He’d wear the feather around his neck as a reminder of that hope…and that burden.

  Jonathan couldn’t move. Each breath launched waves of pain through his chest, but he pushed through it. Small caliber fire spit puffs of dust into his face. He tried to raise his weapon, but someone was holding him down. “Hang on Frankie! I’m coming!”

  He got his arms free and landed a right cross to his enemy’s jaw; followed by a left jab. His hand shattered on impact. Bits of bone and flesh flew through the air like broken glass. He screamed and cradled his throbbing wrist against his aching chest.

  “Jon-Jon, wake up. You’re okay, it’s just a dream.”

  Jonathan’s eyes flew open. Dad was leaning over him, shaking his shoulders, tears streaming down his face.

  Mom stood in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hall, biting her fist.

  Tremors shook Jonathan’s body. His heart raced. His left arm felt as if he’d plunged it into a vat of molten lava.

  Dad placed his palms on the crown of Jonathan’s head. “Do you want a priesthood blessing?”

  “No.”

  Dad gave Jonathan and Franklin blessings before they deployed. He’d promised them both that God would watch over them and protect them if they obeyed His commandments.

  If some soldier hadn’t requested a priesthood blessing, Franklin and the chaplain wouldn’t have been on the road. They wouldn’t have hit that IED. They wouldn’t have died. Jonathan couldn’t think of anyone less likely to break a commandment than Franklin. A lot of good it did him.

  “I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

  Jonathan fought his pillow and his sheets for an hour before giving up on sleep. He wandered downstairs and fixed a bowl of Shredded Wheat, but couldn’t eat it. He was empty, not hungry. He’d been avoiding the basement sparring room ever since he’d gotten home. Maybe he’d find a small amount of peace where he and Franklin had spent so many hours together.

  He grabbed the door knob, but it refused to turn. That was weird. He slid his hand over the top of the doorframe and found a simple key. It took some finesse to jiggle the lock while he turned the knob, but he managed to do it without swearing.

  He flipped on the light. Even from the top of the stairs, he could see that there wasn’t enough space left in the sparring room to turn around, much less workout.

  Franklin’s entire room had been disassembled and moved down there, even his bed. But it wasn’t just Franklin’s stuff. Jonathan spotted the tip of his competition bo staff poking out from behind a pile of boxes. He jogged down the stairs and pried it out of the jumbled mess. As soon as he felt the familiar grip of the staff warming within his fist, it felt as if a part of his soul had been restored.

  It took him most of the night to push everything out of his way. He still didn’t have much room, but it was enough.

  Jonathan began a modified, slow-motion version of the last synchronized weapons routine he and Franklin had performed together. He had to skip all the combinations that required a left handed grip—and it would be months before his body healed enough to attempt any gymnastics. He wondered if he could still do a standing back layout with a full twist. Only time would tell.

  As he gained confidence, Jonathan moved faster. He was about halfway through the routine when he hit the corner of a box at the top of one of the piles.

  One of Dad’s genealogy note books bounced off the floor, spilling letters, postcards and photographs all over the place. Jonathan swore at his clumsiness then leaned his bo staff against the wall. He dropped to his knees and got to work gathering the scattered memories.

  A faded photograph caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a photo of himself or Franklin, but he didn’t recognize the beautiful young woman or the dilapidated old cabin in the background. When he looked closer, he realized it was a picture of Dad—but that woman sure as hell wasn’t Mom.

  They were both facing the camera when the photo was taken. Dad’s chin rested on the woman’s shoulder. He had his arms wrapped protectively around her body, crossing beneath her breasts. She had one arm raised with her palm pressed against Dad’s cheek. They both looked incredibly content. Jonathan had never seen his father look that happy. In fact, “happy” didn’t begin to describe his expression. Blissful, ec
static and euphoric weren’t adequate either. Who was this woman?

  “What have you done?”

  Jonathan snapped his head around so fast it sent a stinger down his neck.

  Mom clutched the handrail as she flew down the stairs, a look of horror on her face.

  “I could ask you the same thing.” Jonathan stood up and gestured at the stacks of boxes. “Why is all my stuff boxed up down here?”

  “What happened?” Dad’s voice held only concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” The words were an automatic reflex. He was anything but fine.

  Mom snatched the photograph out of Jonathan’s hand.

  “What’s this?” She gasped when her eyes focused on the picture. “You promised, Charles. You promised to burn everything.”

  Dad reached out to take the photograph, but Mom tore it in half.

  Dad’s nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Give it to me. Now.”

  Dad rarely raised his voice. When he did; it meant trouble.

  Mom threw the torn photo on the floor then turned and bolted up the stairs.

  Jonathan flinched when she slammed the door. “Dad? Who’s the woman? Was she an old girlfriend or something?”

  Dad kept his gaze locked on the photo. “She was my wife.”

  Six months later, Jonathan tossed his pack into the back of Dad’s Range Rover then slammed the hatch shut, rattling the glass.

  Dad rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t feel good about you taking off all by yourself, especially this late in the season. Why don’t you let me go with you?”

  “I need to do this.” Franklin had wanted to go on a summer-long trek through the Sawatch Mountains after graduation with Jonathan. They’d enlisted in the army instead. “For Franklin.”

  He needed to do it for Mom and Dad, too. They’d done nothing but fight since the night he’d discovered that old photo. Jonathan wasn’t so egocentric that he believed it was all his fault, but his presence wasn’t helping. Mom rarely even looked at him, and when she did, he could see the pain it caused her. She’d packed a bag last week and left. She said she needed to get away from all the ghosts in the house.