Life Everlasting

by Robert Whitlow

  Boris, lying on his cedar bed in the corner of the living room, lifted his head each time she came into view. Misha, curled up on the small rug in the middle of the living-room floor, didn’t move except for an occasional twitch of her silver tail. When Alexia opened the door and went onto the deck, Boris pattered outside to keep her company. It was several hours until midnight.

  Heavy afternoon rains had rendered the night cool and damp; however, with the expanse of the ocean nearby, the coast was unimpressed with rain unless wrapped in the fury of a hurricane. Alexia could feel the remaining moisture in the air on her cheeks. Overhead, the stars hid behind invisible dark clouds that promised to release more showers before morning. She put her hands on the wet railing of the deck and wondered what to do. She didn’t want to listen to music, read a book, or watch TV. She stood in the darkness and probed herself for an answer. None came. She sighed and uttered a prayer that was no more than a question mark. She followed up with a few halfhearted petitions that God might help them during their time with Baxter.

  Alexia wanted to pray, to prepare, but didn’t know how except in words that traveled no farther than the top of her head. She’d encountered God in Ted’s backyard, and felt a divine presence when the music minister played the piano and Sarah sang, but how to bring the same reality to her life on a regular basis eluded her. She felt drained.

  Boris leaned heavily against her leg. She reached down and scratched behind his right ear. The dog closed his eyes in contentment.

  “It doesn’t take much for you, does it?” she asked.

  Boris didn’t budge. To move would jeopardize bliss. Alexia smiled.

  “Okay, I’ll try not to make it too complicated.” She patted Boris’s head and looked out over the marsh. “Lord, I’m leaning against you. Please touch me.”

  She waited.

  No lighting bolts illuminated the sky. No tidal wave of glory swept over her. But a quiet peace crept over the edge of her consciousness—an inner confidence that, at least temporarily, removed uncertainty. She took a deep breath and stood still. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. She reached over and scratched Boris’s ear.

  The quiet peace stayed with her while driving to the Richardson house. The main house slept. Rena was either away or in bed. Ted’s truck was parked in front of the cottage beside two other vehicles, one of which Alexia assumed belonged to Sarah Locklear.

  When Alexia entered, Ted was sitting in a chair beside Baxter’s bed with the keyboard across his lap, adjusting the settings. Sarah was standing at the foot of the bed with an open Bible on her hand. Sarah was in her midforties. She was taller than Alexia and had the clear complexion and fathomless dark eyes of her Native American ancestors. Ted glanced up when Alexia entered.

  “We’re just getting started.”

  Alexia looked down at Baxter, clad in light-blue pajamas. His eyes were closed and his arms rested outside the sheet. His sandy brown hair looked dark next to his pallid skin.

  “How is he?” she asked Sarah.

  “No real change since he initially stirred,” Sarah replied. “I reviewed all the notes as soon as I arrived, and everything is routine. The neurologist is coming again tomorrow.”

  “Have the nurses tried to communicate with him or ask him questions?”

  “Yes, it’s part of the protocol. We talk to him throughout the shift and include direct attempts to elicit a response. The results haven’t been consistent. He’s opened his eyes some but hasn’t been able to blink in response to yes-or-no-type questions.”

  “Sarah and I have been talking,” Ted said. “We’ve decided to thank the Lord for what he’s already done before moving into something new. We’re not under a time restraint, so we don’t have to hurry.”

  “Where is your aide?” Alexia asked.

  “She’s in the kitchen. She knows we’re going to be playing and singing, and I’ve given her enough paperwork to keep her busy for a while.”

  Alexia walked around the bed and sat in a chair against the far wall of the tiny living room. Ted nodded toward Sarah. Standing with an open Bible still in her hand, she began to sing in a soft, low voice.

  “At midnight I will rise to give thanks unto thee.”

  Several times she repeated the words. The third time, Ted joined in with the keyboard, and Alexia felt a prickly sensation on the back of her neck. The words came alive when married to the notes. Alexia closed her eyes. The atmosphere in the room became intense but not stressful. The peace she’d felt after praying on her deck remained. Thankfulness soon joined it and became the unspoken song of her soul. She opened her eyes and looked at Baxter. No change. The nurse transitioned into another passage.

  “Blessed be the name of the Lord from this time forth and for evermore. From the rising of the sun unto the going down of the same, the Lord’s name is to be praised.”

  From midnight to dawning, the Lord was worthy to be blessed and praised. Each moment was a cup to be filled. Alexia listened and learned. Acknowledgment of the Lord’s worthiness to receive praise from his people was legitimate in itself.

  The music from the keyboard grew stronger, and Sarah fell silent. Ted transitioned into another key and moved forward in strident chords. In a few moments, Sarah joined him.

  “The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust.”

  After declaring the entire verse, Ted and Sarah returned to each phrase, repeating the words again and again until satisfied that it was time to go on. For Alexia, the experience was like turning in a circle on top of a mountain. Each viewpoint offered a slightly different panorama. She continued to watch Baxter for signs of a response. Nothing seemed to penetrate.

  All day long, random thoughts had been running across the surface of Baxter Richardson’s mind like water poured out on the floor. They refused to take form and shape, and he couldn’t command them to array in regimental lines so he could review them and issue appropriate orders. Earlier in his life he had faced a similar challenge—when he first learned to talk. Now, as then, the mysterious connection between the sounds and the concepts that create language remained as obscure as the theory of relativity.

  The darkness compounded his confusion. Without the defense of a will that could filter stimuli entering his mind, Baxter floated at random. He continued to fill his lungs with oxygen, but his soul gasped for air. Voices from the abyss harassed him with covert threats that bred despair. Walls of blackness pressed in around him and covered him like the lid of a casket. His survival instinct fought the darkness but without enduring hope.

  It was probably fortunate that he didn’t realize the seriousness of his injuries. The prospect of life held captive within a body that couldn’t move and a mind that wouldn’t work was bleak beyond words. Death would be a friend, not an enemy. If he’d had the ability to comprehend his true condition and respond to it, Baxter would likely have taken his own life.

  The female voice that whispered love into his ear didn’t bridge the gap of recognition. Distant memories, not recent ones, were closer to the surface of his understanding. He needed to lay a foundation upon which he could stand and view the timeline of his life. Unfortunately, in the swollen and damaged tissues of his brain, the building blocks lay scattered about with no one to collect and organize them.

  Into the chaos came the music.

  It wasn’t the beauty of the notes but their orderliness that touched him. The sounds entered his soul like tiny rays of light, each one dispatched on an individual mission. Wherever the light touched, restoration emerged.

  God is good, and everything he does is perfect. The musicians were earthen vessels, but the treasure within them had no blemishes. As they played, the treasure was released to bless Baxter with divine grace. Confusion inched backward. Brain cells began to send signals to the correct destination. The healing process took another step forward. The music stopped.

  Baxter opened his eyes.

  Alexia stood and stepped qui
ckly to the bed. At the sound of her approach, Baxter turned his head slightly and looked at her face. They’d never met, so she didn’t expect recognition, but the question in his gaze was encouraging.

  “I’m Alexia Lindale,” she said. “If you liked the music, blink your eyes.”

  Baxter immediately blinked.

  Alexia had never seen a more remarkable yes. She turned toward Sarah, who had moved to the other side of the bed. Ted put his keyboard on the floor and stood up. Sarah reached over and stroked Baxter’s cheek.

  “You’re in the cottage next to your house in Santee,” the nurse said. “If you understand me, blink again.”

  Baxter blinked.

  “Yes! He understands!” Alexia exclaimed.

  A thousand questions bubbled to the surface, but she’d never cross-examined a witness who could only answer by blinking.

  Sarah spoke, “Try to speak. Make the sound of a b.”

  Baxter weakly put his lips together and then closed his eyes. Sarah didn’t move.

  “If you want to talk more, open your eyes,” the nurse said.

  The three waited. Baxter’s breathing became regular with the rhythm of sleep. His eyes remained closed.

  “That’s it for now,” Sarah said.

  She laid her hand on Baxter’s head and began to pray. She started simply but with earnest conviction. As she continued, her voice grew louder and more authoritative.

  She finished by saying, “In the strong name of Jesus of Nazareth, the one and only Son of God. Amen!”

  10

  The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage.

  PSALM 16:6 KJV

  For several days, Rena had been waking before dawn and spending the last hour of the night in restless frustration. But this morning, she didn’t stir until the sunlight peeked around the edges of the thick curtains that covered the windows of her bedroom. She stretched for several seconds in enjoyment of the comfort of her bed before anxiety, her constant companion, rolled over and greeted her. She shut her eyes and burrowed into the covers, but it was no use. Reality had returned.

  She got out of bed and pulled the curtain a few inches from a window, then looked across the front yard. The clumps of dune grass at the end of the driveway swayed in the wind. There was no sign of the spies Jeffrey had dispatched to guard her, nor the blue car that frequented the street. She suspected Jeffrey’s men worked in shifts, just like the nurses who took care of Baxter.

  She went downstairs to the kitchen. Rena didn’t have any pets. Shortly after her honeymoon, Rena bought an expensive macaw that lived for two weeks in an elaborate cage in one corner of the kitchen. One day he nipped Rena’s finger while she fed him a piece of fruit. The bird returned to the pet store in Charleston.

  Rena fixed a cup of coffee, turned on the TV, and sat morosely at the kitchen table. The minutes that passed may as well have been days.

  The phone rang and jarred her back to the present. She glanced at the caller ID. Jeffrey. She didn’t want to answer, but the uncertainty of not knowing why he called would be worse than finding out bad news.

  “Hello,” she said in a flat tone of voice.

  “What’s going on with Baxter? Any changes?”

  “The doctor says he’s at a plateau and may be there for a while.”

  “Or forever?”

  Not for the first time, Rena wondered about Jeffrey’s true feelings toward Baxter.

  “Maybe.”

  “Did you hear the commotion in front of your house last night?”

  “No, what happened?”

  “A police detective from Charleston tried to talk to your bodyguards and lost the door of his car when they drove past.”

  “Why did they do that?”

  “He forgot to close it when he got out.”

  Rena shook the fog out of her head. Jeffrey seemed almost happy about the incident. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “The detective probably wanted to ask you more questions about the deputy who died, and the bodyguards surprised him before he could contact you.”

  “I already met with a detective,” Rena responded sharply. “Why would he want to talk to me again? You haven’t told them anything, have you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How do you know he was from Charleston?”

  “I have friends at the police department.”

  Rena bit her lip. “If you’re just calling to harass me, I don’t have anything else to say.”

  “Calm down. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. If the police question you again, just make sure you tell them the same thing that you did the first time.”

  “I’m not stupid, Jeffrey. I won’t talk to anyone unless Alexia Lindale is with me.”

  “Good. She’ll take care of you if you let her.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m paying her to do.”

  Jeffrey continued. “In fact, I’m going to be spending time with Ms. Lindale tonight at a benefit concert in Charleston. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Rena flushed. Alexia had not said anything about going on a date to Charleston.

  “She’s hardly your type,” Rena managed.

  “It’s too soon to tell, but I think it will help if I get to know her better. I’m always careful when I mix business and pleasure. Anything personal will be a bonus. Do you have any inside information about her social life?”

  At first, Rena couldn’t remember anything about Alexia’s taste in men but then recalled that the lawyer had brought a music minister to the cottage to see Baxter. She smiled slightly.

  “She likes preachers. She’s very religious.”

  She heard Jeffrey grunt. “Then she’ll be a challenge. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  Rena brooded while she finished her coffee. As she drained the last drops, she decided what to do. She always made her best decisions in the morning. She picked up the phone and dialed Alexia’s home number.

  The wind brushed Alexia’s cheeks as she crossed the marsh in her boat. On weekdays, she would occasionally go for a swim in the late afternoon, but on the weekends, without the pressures of work, she could reverse her schedule.

  Every dawn was a glorious good morning to Boris, and he skidded across the deck when Alexia let him out for his morning run. Misha followed at her own pace and silently padded down the steps to the sandy soil. Alexia put on a black wet suit. When Boris returned and saw what she was wearing, he ran straight through the house to the front door and began barking. Alexia kept her old aluminum boat underneath the house, and the dog knew that next Alexia would go down the front steps and unlock the rusty chain that secured the boat.

  She slipped into a pair of old deck shoes. Her house was so close to the marsh that it didn’t make sense to hitch the boat to her car and tow it a few feet to the edge of the water. Except for the initial effort to get the trailer moving, the feat depended on balance rather than strength, and Alexia had perfected the process. Boris posed her greatest danger, running excitedly around her feet.

  “Anchors aweigh!” Alexia shouted as she dug in her heels.

  The small trailer tires made a slight indention in the sandy soil. Fortunately, the soil contained enough clay to keep the trailer from sinking to its frame. With Alexia walking backward, the trailer moved steadily across the hundred feet between the house and the edge of the marsh. As she approached, Alexia deftly turned the trailer around and raised the tongue so the boat slipped smoothly into the water. She grabbed a rope tied to the bow to keep the boat from slipping away into the narrow canal. Before she could give him a command, Boris bounded into the boat. His feet scratched the aluminum bottom as he ran from one end to the other.

  Alexia joined him, but lost a shoe in the thick black mud that lined the edge of the marsh.

  “Man overboard!” she called, as she jumped out of the boat into the knee-deep water and retrieved her shoe.

  Alexia used the boat to travel short distances through the marsh.
When she first bought it she used oars, but quickly decided to buy a small trolling motor. The engine started on the second pull, and she turned the boat around and pointed the bow toward the barrier island.

  With no direct route across the marsh, she followed a zigzag path along narrow openings through the swaying reeds. From the shore, the twists and turns weren’t obvious, but to Alexia the marsh was like a familiar patch of woods, and she didn’t take any wrong turns leading to grassy dead ends. Boris stood at attention in the bow, carefully watching the water for mullet. Alexia suspected the dog believed the small fish responded to the sound of his bark, and he would occasionally yelp a command. Twice before, when a large school of fish broke the surface like silver popcorn, Boris leaped over the side in excitement, and Alexia had to pull him back into the boat by his collar. Today, however, he was content to be the figurehead of the ship and guardian of its mistress.

  As they neared the island, the marsh grass gave way to a narrow stretch of open water maintained by a current that swept around the north end of the island. A stiff breeze ruffled the water more than usual. The boat bounced and Boris almost lost his footing. Alexia steered the boat directly onto the sand. As soon as it scraped the bottom, Boris jumped out and bounded over the dunes. Alexia climbed out, pulled the boat onto shore, and tied it off to a straggly bush, which had chosen a difficult spot on earth to fight for survival.

  Carrying a beach bag containing her towel, swimming goggles, and a bottle of fresh water, Alexia trudged to the top of the dune. She stopped at the crest and savored the unhindered view of the Atlantic. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with a band of clouds blown across its path. Directly in front of Alexia, six pelicans looking for breakfast glided inches above the whitecaps. The north end of the island lay to her left, and to her right the beach stretched for almost a mile to its southern end. Below her, Boris splashed into the surf with his tongue hanging out.

  In warmer weather, Alexia would occasionally see visitors who came to the island in boats for a picnic or to sunbathe in a secluded spot, but after mid-November, she usually had the island to herself. She walked down a steep dune into the edge of the surf. After several weeks of cooler nights, the water temperature had dropped, and without the wet suit, she wouldn’t have wanted to go for a swim. Boris ran up to her, shook himself, and followed her as she waded through the deepening water. Donning goggles, she dove through a chest-high wave. The cold water on her face and head made her gasp, but she knew she would soon adjust. She swam slowly beyond the breakers and turned south.