The Long Journey to Jake Palmer

by James L. Rubart

  “I asked him not to talk about you.”

  “Of course.” She looked down and nodded. “I understand.”

  Ari shifted from one foot to the other and something in her countenance shifted. Was that anticipation on her face? Nervousness? She glanced at everything but him. Strange. He hadn’t seen her like this. Her evergreen confidence had been replaced by an uncertainty he was surprised to realize she was capable of.

  “Are you okay?”

  “You probably won’t realize how powerful that was just now.” She pointed behind her at the stage. “You think you know, but you don’t understand the full scope of what happened.”

  “You’re probably right. But it wasn’t me. It was—”

  “Stop.” She held a finger up to her lips the exact way he’d done with Terry earlier in the evening. “It was you. And it was the people who spoke. Yes. All of those mixed together so no one and everyone did it. But you were the one who stepped out of the shadows and opened the floodgates that set a great many people free. And freedom will continue to come as what happened here tonight ripples out into the lives of the friends and families of the people who experienced this moment.”

  “That you were here is . . .”

  “Strange?”

  “Yes.”

  Ari smiled. “I want to help you out, read to you what I saw on your label tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “But first, I need to explain something.” She motioned toward the back of the auditorium. “Should we make our way out of here as we talk? Before someone kicks us out?”

  Jake agreed, trying to decide if Ari’s suggestion was more a function of not wanting to look at him than a desire to appease the building’s security team. “Sure. That’s fine.”

  “Back at the cabin, in July, when we talked between the hammock and the fire pit, just before I left?” She glanced at him as they strolled up the middle aisle. “There was something you desperately wanted. Something I could have given you, something you thought you needed. Something you expected. Do you remember?”

  “Yeah. It was monstrous. A huge request.” Jake held out his hand in front of him and shook it, fingers wide, and spoke in a deep voice. “I wanted to . . . I wanted to . . . wait for it . . . I wanted to have coffee with you.”

  Ari laughed. “I probably deserve that. But on the other hand—”

  “But on the other hand that wasn’t what I was asking for. I wanted you to accept me. Tell me I was okay. Reverse the vast ocean of revulsion Sienna had drowned me in, because if you did that, somehow I would be healed. Accept myself. I thought my looks were me. But they weren’t. They were the wall I hid behind.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it would have been a trap. A false elixir that would have satiated for a time, then turned bitter in my mouth. If you’d agreed to a simple coffee date, I would have read much more into it. It might have even shut me off from the true healing I was being offered.”

  He glanced at Ari and the upturned corners of her mouth made him smile as well.

  “Anything else?” Ari brushed a loose strand of hair back from her forehead as they stepped through the lobby doors onto the street and faced each other.

  “Thank you. For speaking truth when you told me to stop hiding. That if I wanted to live, I couldn’t hide any longer.”

  “Something happened to you at the lake after I left, didn’t it?”

  “It did. I found a place where I was given the thing I wanted most in the world.”

  Jake looked deep into those green eyes speckled with amber and felt himself falling inside them. He did nothing to resist. Stupid? Yes. Was he about to get his heart bruised? Yes. But not broken. Better to live a life of freedom where his heart was bumped and bruised from time to time than keep it shut in a room where no light ever came.

  “I’d like to hear the story,” she said. “All of it.”

  “Sure.” Jake nodded. “We’ll do that someday.”

  Ari tilted her head and once again flashed her nova smile. “What if someday were to become now?”

  Jake automatically glanced at his watch, even though it wouldn’t have mattered if it was three in the morning. “I think that can be arranged.”

  As they strolled down the street, the warm, late-evening air swirling around them, Ari grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. He savored the feel of her hand and gave her a squeeze back. Her touch would only last for a moment, unlikely to ever return.

  But she didn’t let go.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  My friends,

  People often ask where my story ideas come from. “It’s different every time,” is the vague answer. The more specific answer—at least for the story you just finished—is that the idea came directly from my wife, Darci.

  Every summer when our sons were young, we took them to a small lake in eastern Washington state. At the end of the lake was a wall of cattails and beyond them, a vast bank of trees. One summer, Darci, Taylor, Micah, and I—along with family friends—punched through the cattails and found ourselves in a huge meadow on the other side. I told my boys we’d entered into another realm, one not of this earth. Every year after that we pretended we were exploring that extraordinary world.

  One day when Darci and I were batting around story ideas, she said, “What if you did a story on the corridor? You could make it challenging to find and put something on the other side that will change the life of anyone who gets through.”

  I loved the idea instantly and dove in to writing the story. As I wrote, Darci offered penetrating insight on the characters, setting, scenes I’d scratched out . . . everything.

  So if you liked The Long Journey to Jake Palmer, thank Darci. If you didn’t, blame me.

  Regarding the theme of the novel, it’s universal, don’t you think? Isn’t there a part of you that wonders if you’re enough? A part that doesn’t think there’s much good written on your label? There’s a part of me that wonders those things.

  The good, no, great news is we are enough, in Jesus. There is no shame, blame, condemnation at all in him. That’s just one of the myriad proclamations written on each of our labels.

  My prayer is you gather with close friends and take the time to read each other’s labels. That you take hold of those words and phrases and etch them deep in your heart, and that you step into more freedom than you’ve ever known before.

  James L. Rubart

  March 2016

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Great thanks goes out to my family: Darci, Taylor, and Micah Rubart for their unwavering belief in me. (Double thanks to Taylor for being the first to read the first draft of The Long Journey to Jake Palmer, and for giving me excellent feedback.)

  Also, thanks to Allen Arnold, Ron DeMiglio, Mick Silva, and Thomas Umstattd Jr. for amazing brainstorming sessions about the paths this story could and should venture down.

  Thanks to my editors, Amanda Bostic and Erin Healy, for yet again being absolutely brilliant at what you do. This story would be a shadow of itself without you.

  And thanks to Jesus for allowing me to once again enter this playground called telling stories.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  What do you feel are the major themes in The Long Journey to Jake Palmer?

  Which character in the novel could you relate to the most? The least? Why?

  Camille isn’t the most pleasant person in the world. Do you have any Camilles in your life? How do you make that relationship work?

  Jake’s deepest question is, “Am I enough?” The question is almost universal. Are you one of the many who ask it about yourself?

  If you answered yes to the above question, where do you feel you haven’t been enough in someone else’s life?

  Where do you feel you haven’t been enough in your own life?

  Jake gives talks about it being impossible to read the label when you’re standing inside the bottle, and we’re all standing inside our own bottles. What do you think is on your label? Do yo
u want to find out?

  Is there anyone in your life who tells you what is on your label? If yes, how do they do it?

  Have you ever told those close to you what is on their labels? Has anyone ever told you what is on yours?

  During an author retreat I (James) once led the group in a read-each-other’s-labels exercise. It was powerful and uncomfortable, both at the same time. We were all nervous to hear what would be said about us, but when the words were spoken, it brought healing and freedom. Would you be scared to do a label reading exercise? Why or why not?

  If you’re reading The Long Journey to Jake Palmer in a book club, or informally with friends, would you be willing to lead a read-each-other’s-labels discussion? If yes, when do you think you’ll do it?

  Most of us hide things about ourselves. Are there things you’d be willing to share, like the group at Willow Lake shared with each other? That’s a fearful exercise, but do you think there’s anything freeing about doing that?

  Jake talks about “stepping out of the shadows.” Where do you need to step out of the shadows?

  In Jesus, we are more than enough, but that can be a hard message to grasp, and once we grasp it, hard to hang onto. How do you see yourself taking hold of that message and how will you hang onto it?

  AN EXCERPT FROM THE FIVE TIMES I MET MYSELF

  1

  MAY 10, 2015

  The dream had come again last night, just as it had sliced into Brock’s subconscious the night before that. A dream now dominating a significant portion of his waking moments. He had to talk to someone about it—someone with at least a smattering of psychology. Someone he could trust. His best choice was Morgan. His only choice, really.

  Brock crossed Seattle’s 4th Avenue and looked up at the sky as it surrendered to dusk. Not long till the spring evenings would hold the light till after nine o’clock. He reached the other side of the street, strode up to the front door of Java Spot, yanked the door open, and stepped inside. Three-quarters full. The perfect number of people. Not so many that newcomers would turn away, but enough to tell people it was a place to be. Morgan had to feel good having that many customers at six twenty.

  Brock glanced around at the 1940s motif. Posters of Rosie the Riveter and Ted Williams, an old Coca-Cola sign, and the famous shot of the sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square hung on the walls. Definitely captured the hope of a post–World War II populace. Or maybe Java Spot simply appealed to those who wanted an alternative to the corporate giant that had more coffee shops sprinkled throughout Puget Sound than 7-Elevens.

  On one side: a cluster of what looked like college students, a few couples, and some solo acts. The opposite side: three people hunched over their Mac laptops, and a large group of midforty-somethings laughed and pointed at each other in rapid-fire succession. What Java Spot put in its drinks was obviously the right concoction, which made Brock smile again, because he’d developed those concoctions being consumed in all fifteen of Morgan’s locations as well as the rest of the country and overseas.

  Brock took one more glance around the coffee shop, then strolled behind the counter and said, “Not a bad crowd for a Monday night.”

  “You can’t come back here.”

  “Deal with it.”

  “Nope. Employees only. Get out. Now.”

  Morgan Myers lugged his sizable girth toward Brock and grinned. When he reached Brock, Morgan grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him like he was a stuffed animal. Yeah, maybe Morgan had put on more than a few pounds since their college days, but even after thirty-one years, he hadn’t lost any of his linebacker strength.

  “Amazing,” Morgan said. “You actually have the hint of a tan to go with your slightly graying mane. A vacation you call work—but at least you got some sun.”

  “It was work.”

  “Uh-huh. A week in Costa Rica sipping coffee and checking out beans. Brutal. How did you survive? What, you were probably slaving away three, maybe four hours a day before you hit the beach?”

  “Four and a half.” Brock grinned at his friend.

  “When did you get back?”

  “Five days ago.” Brock lowered his voice. “That’s when they started.”

  “When what started?”

  “When you get a moment, I need to talk.”

  “The doctor is in.” Morgan tapped his chest.

  “A degree in psychology you never used makes you a doctor?”

  “I use it every day.” Morgan waved his paw of a hand at the crowd. “Spill it. Problems with Karissa? Tyson? Work?”

  “A dream. More like a nightmare.”

  Morgan beckoned with his finger and led Brock to the back room and into the office. After they settled into the small space, Morgan beckoned again with both hands. “Let’s go. Tell me about dem cah-razy dreams.”

  “Strange dreams, not necessarily crazy.” Brock glanced at Morgan’s office door to make sure it was shut.

  “You said nightmare.”

  “Not exactly. I’m not sure how to describe it—I’d almost call it spiritual but not in an uplifting way.”

  “Like a God dream?” Morgan’s eyes were expectant.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean God dreams, where you know he’s trying to tell you something.” Morgan leaned forward and opened his hands. “Where he’s talking to you through the dream, warning you, or letting you know something is coming, something to get ready for.”

  “God does that?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “It’s not like that, I don’t think. It’s more . . . You ever have one of those dreams that’s so real you can’t tell if it’s a dream or not, and when you wake up, you know intellectually it had to have been a dream, but you’re still not one hundred percent sure?”

  “Yes.” Morgan’s voice grew softer and he repeated his earlier request. “Tell me about the dream. In detail. And why it’s freaking you out so much.”

  “My dad is in it.”

  “Oh boy, here we go.”

  “The dream isn’t just a dream.” Brock leaned back and focused on the ceiling of Morgan’s office. “Yes, it’s a dream, but Morg, I know it was more. My dad is young, early thirties I’m guessing, in the days before his nervous breakdown. The days before he started hating me.”

  “He didn’t hate you.”

  Brock ignored the comment. “The light in his eyes is like fire. And he wears a jet-black fedora straight out of the fifties—so now I finally realize where the name of the company came from. He never wore a hat like that in life, and yet it was more him than anything I ever saw him wear.” Brock glanced at Morgan. “You get that?”

  Morgan nodded.

  Brock paused. “You know how most dreams have elements of fantasy in them? Things that couldn’t happen in real life? This wasn’t like that. Everything was as it should be. And it would take the push of a feather to convince me it really happened. That I was truly there. It was more real than real life.”

  “Go on.”

  The memory of the dream engulfed Brock and he lived it again, for the millionth time.

  Brock,” his dad rumbled as they sat next to each other in Brock’s boyhood backyard on a summer evening, both of them facing west, the sun starting to set.

  “Yeah?” He gazed at the Douglas fir tree in the northwest corner. The tree he’d climb to the top when he was nine and ten and eleven and twelve to get away from his father.

  “You need to listen to me.” His dad held a small rectangular box wrapped in brown paper, which he tapped on the armrest of his chair. He pointed to the box and raised his eyebrows. “You see this? It’s important.”

  “What is it?”

  “Pay attention.”

  “I am.” He turned to face his dad.

  “No, not listening with one ear out the door like you always did.” Dad beckoned with his finger right next to his ruddy cheek. “Right here. In my eyes. That kind of listening.”

  “Okay.” The air warmed and his father’s eyes
grew more intense. Brock had the urge to bolt from his chair, but his body wouldn’t move. “I’m really listening.”

  “Good. You need to. Yeah, you really, truly need to.” He turned the box over in his hands. “You have to make peace with Ron. Have to.”

  “Peace with Ron? Yeah, sure, Dad. Peace with a brother who’s a year and a half younger but acts like he’s three years older? One with a life mission to beat me in everything he does?”

  “Same mission as yours.”

  “I’m not as bad as—”

  “He’s your brother.”

  “No, he’s my business partner.” Brock clutched his chair’s armrests as anger rose inside. “And you gave him fifty-one percent of the company, which he lords over me every moment.”

  His dad turned away and gazed out over the darkening horizon. Once again he tapped the rectangular box in a slow rhythm on the armrest.

  “It’s coming, Brock, turning toward you just like the rotation of the earth. You can’t stop it. It won’t be easy. Definitely not easy. But good. You probably won’t believe me, but it’s good.”

  “What’s coming, Dad?”

  “Embrace it, Brock, even though it will be difficult. Face the truth, though it will be painful, for the truth will set you free.” His dad leaned over and smacked his palm into Brock’s chest so hard he caught his breath. “You need to get ready.”

  Brock pulled back. “Why’d you—”

  “If you don’t, it’s going to bury you. If you don’t, I’m going to bury you. Got it?”

  “What’s coming?”

  His dad rose and grabbed Brock’s shirt with both hands, yanked him out of the chair, and shook him hard. “Get ready!”

  “For what?”

  “Get ready!”

  Louder this time.

  “Tell me what’s coming, Dad!”

  Brock’s dad pulled his face so close their noses touched and his voice dropped to a whisper. “For—”

  But each time the words left his dad’s mouth, the colors around them swirled and buried Brock, and he woke, breathing hard.