He grabbed the banana he’d stuck in the freezer the night before, broke it, and dropped it into the blender with the milk and ice. A few squirts of chocolate syrup, and it was almost done. Before serving Bailey, Zan topped her glass with a fuchsia-and-yellow drink umbrella. She may be on a liquid diet, but her drinks didn’t have to be boring.
“Voilà,” he said. “Chocolate Bliss a l’Alexander.” Zan bent to place the drink in her hands and gave her a gentle peck on the forehead. Bailey’s eyes filled with affection.
He pulled up a wicker chair and sat across from her, angled so he could look out at Beresford Creek too. A boat purred past slowly, headed toward the Cooper River. “Are you lookin’ forward to Mike’s jail time as much as I am?”
Her lip quirked into a misshapen frown.
That wasn’t the effect he’d aimed for. “You’re not sorry for him, are you?”
She picked up her marker and wrote on the whiteboard. No, he deserves it, but—I wish none of this had ever happened. She sat, pensive, for a moment and then wrote again. I will feel safer knowing he can’t get to me. Her mouth formed a tight line.
“But…” Zan prompted.
She scribbled more and spun the board toward him. I’m not afraid of him anymore. I am more than just my body.
Zan sat back and blew out a breath. “You’re something else.”
An eyebrow lifted before she remembered that hurt.
He winced with her. “But you’re right.”
“Zan.” It pained her to say his name. His gaze locked on hers, and she pointed at the board. She wrote each letter with strength. I trust God with everything.
“Listen, I’m…I’m real thankful you’ve got that kind of faith.”
She searched his eyes.
“I’m working on it too,” he mumbled.
She bloomed.
“We can talk about that later though.”
She pointed to a previously written list at the top of the whiteboard. School. Baseball. Roommate.
“You’d like him. He looks really rough—the type of guy you don’t want as an enemy. But he’s a good guy. He’s the one who answers most of my questions—he invited me to church.”
Name?
“Jayce.”
Tell him I’m praying for him.
“Ha, ha. Yeah, I’ll do that.”
She wrote something else. Spun the board back to him. That bracelet you’re wearing. Where’s it from?
He tipped his head back and smiled. “Kasia. She brought it to me from Peru.”
Bailey’s face filled with questions, and she wiggled her marker over the board, almost like she didn’t know where to start.
“How ’bout I just tell you everything? I could use a little insight anyway.”
~*~
Watching Bailey have to sit there in her wheelchair with her jaw wired shut was pure torture. Mike’s smug face behind the defense table on top of it was too much. It had taken every ounce of self-control Zan could muster not to lay him out right there in front of the judge and everybody. It was just like that day in the alley, when every fiber of his being had thrummed with the need to kill Michael Weston.
Which was why Zan headed out to his island. To think things through. His lats burned as he rowed against the current. His head was so full he’d taken off as soon as they’d come back from court this afternoon.
The skiff rocked in the surf. Zan hopped out, hissed in shock as the water hit his pant legs. He hadn’t rolled them high enough, and the October wind would freeze him now. He dragged the boat up onto the sand and checked his watch. Three hours before high tide.
He hefted his backpack and followed the overgrown trail. Five minutes later, he set down the pack and rested a hand on the smooth boulder, chilly against his palm. He’d use it as a backrest today rather than a seat.
Staying indoors to look through his notes made more sense, but he hadn’t considered it for a moment.
He tugged on his sweatshirt hood and buttoned his jacket collar.
He unfolded the ragged blanket he’d grabbed from the garage, flung it over his legs, and pulled out the handful of scribbled-on napkins and his notebook. Reading over all the thoughts he’d scrawled out would take some time.
Bailey. It wasn’t easy to trust God with her, with the trial and all, but he’d never been in control of any of it anyway.
What was it she’d written on her whiteboard that morning?
I trust God completely.
Zan leaned his head back against the boulder, mulled over her unbelievable confidence. Maybe God did take care of His own. Just not in the ways they expected all the time.
He tapped his thumb on the page in his notebook that rattled him the most. Yesterday, at Mike’s trial, he’d written:
This waiting kills me. I hope the jury sees. I told Bay I’m worried Mike will get off too easy. She said God already knows the outcome of the trial.
Que sera, sera.
I know worry won’t change a thing. But sometimes I want to bring back lynching.
At least I’d feel better.
Scrawled beneath that were the words that had shaken Zan to his core last night.
I’m as guilty as Michael. Not because the creep doesn’t deserve to die.
Because of how many ways I’ve thought of killing him. Torturing him. Like…planned it out. Dreamed of making him suffer.
Back at school, Jayce had shown Zan a verse that said it didn’t matter. To hate is to kill. One and the same. In his heart—Zan had destroyed Mike over and over again, mercilessly. Inflicted as much pain as he could.
And what about all the other junk Zan had done for his whole life, when he was just being a regular, self-absorbed guy? He was a mess.
Zan thumbed through the pages of his journal again. Somewhere along the line, as he’d been thinking through this spiritual dilemma, he’d pretty much decided his course of direction.
Every time he looked in the mirror, it was clearer: Guilty.
Zan couldn’t stand before God as he was. God wouldn’t let sin go unpunished. Any sin. And like Jayce said, that might help him rest a little easier where Mike was concerned, but it scared the life out of Zan. He didn’t want what he deserved.
The only reasonable choice was to take Jesus up on that offer of mercy.
Ask God to consider the debt paid.
~*~
In the late afternoon, he tied the boat off and strolled up the pier toward the house. Inhaled the Charleston air and let it fill him. What God had done to him, in him—whatever—felt different. His step was lighter. Every burden that had weighed him down was gone.
Zan stepped onto the patio. His concerns weren’t gone. Bailey was still inside, hurting. Baseball waited for him and his two-hundred percent. Blake hadn’t left Kasia alone yet.
But nothing nagged at him like it had. Some stuff was his to handle, and some wasn’t.
And he wasn’t alone.
Zan closed the patio door behind him and stepped into the sunroom. Bailey looked up from her Bible. Figured. She was probably praying for him.
“Hey, Bay. If I decided I wanted to believe in Jesus and all…you know, follow Him? How would I go about that?”
Her eyes filled with such hope he almost confessed his decision on the spot. Jayce had gone over the basics a few times, and Zan had no doubt that he’d surrendered his life and everything in it to God. But the question was still serious.
She flipped toward the back of her Bible and pointed to a verse. He read along with her, and then she picked up her board. Wrote quickly.
He stretched out in his chair, pretended nonchalance, gazed out through the glass into the sunset. “I think we’re good then. I did all that.”
The board smacked against the tile floor. He cut his gaze in Bailey’s direction. Instant tears. When her lip quivered, Zan was undone. He knelt in front of her and gingerly took her hand in his.
“I need to say thanks. It was the peace you’ve had this whole time. Your argument was
pretty hard to ignore.”
She sputtered out a crazy mixture of laughter and sobs and squeezed his fingers. “I love you.”
Zan kept his teeth clamped tightly shut as he returned the sentiment. “I love you too.”
~*~
The next morning, Mike was sentenced to five years. Piles of evidence, previous police records, 9-1-1 calls, testimonies of Bailey’s friends—it had all been enough to establish a prior pattern. Plus, Mike had no alibi. Jerk didn’t even have any friends. Bailey’s written statement and the paramedics’ testimony probably would’ve been enough to convict him even without Zan.
Two officers pulled a stunned Michael Weston to his feet and cuffed him.
Bailey brushed a genuine tear from her eyes.
Zan clenched his teeth and sat, silent. No satisfaction.
This wasn’t how he was supposed to feel. Or maybe it was.
Maybe this was right.
34
“Zan called,” A.J. said. “He’ll meet you outside at quarter till.”
“’Kay.” Kasia pulled her hair up, put on Tatuś’s hoodie, and hid the shadows under her eyes with concealer. She looked like she hadn’t slept since he’d taken off for Charleston.
She sipped her tea and picked at some dry toast.
Loud footsteps sounded outside, and Kasia peeked through the blinds. Zan was almost to the door. Pulling her boots on, she yelled bye to A.J., hefted her backpack, and left.
“Good morning,” Zan said. “That’s the best sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”
He must be a Chicago fan. “You’re chipper. So your sister’s all right?”
“Bailey’s…great. Still not a hundred percent, but on her way.”
“What happened again? Have you already told me?”
He tugged off his skullcap and scratched his head. “We haven’t talked about it all, no. I went down to testify in a trial against her husband. Assault and…a lot. But they put him away. You’d like her. She’s got rock-solid faith. Sort of mind-blowing to me with all she’s been through.”
“I’m glad.” He’d never talked with her about faith before—his or anyone else’s. “Zan, forgive me for never asking, but…are you a believer?”
He jerked his chin back. “Huh. I’ve never heard it that way. Uh, yeah. I am. Only recently though. It’s taken me a while to come around.”
That news truly did brighten her day, even with…everything else. “How recently?”
“Yesterday.” They stood outside the door of her lecture hall.
A smile broke through. “That’s really great news. I needed to hear that.”
He touched her arm. “It’s good to see you smile. Don’t walk back without me, all right? I’ll be here just after. Even if I have to leave my class early.”
“I’ll wait.” She nodded. He left once she was inside.
She chose a seat near the far wall. Creative Writing. Not how she wanted to spend her morning.
The professor cleared her throat. “We’ll begin with poetry today. When we let our emotions, the aesthetic beauty of nature, or any universal theme lead us, the words tend to flow more easily. I think you’ll be surprised…”
The silver-haired professor droned on. Symbolism, Truth, Love, Beauty.
Kasia doodled in the corner of her notebook. Trees of every season—some with leaves, some in the process of changing colors, a few skeletal silhouettes. If I’m supposed to let emotion and beauty lead today, go ahead and give me the F.
Another memory of Blake rushed into her head.
And finally, a poem came after all, and she scribbled as the professor’s voice competed with the radiator at the back of the room.
I lived in the summer…
Inhaled the warm air
Soaked in the sunshine
Danced through meadows
Savored the scents of wildflowers
Reveled in lazy-afternoon freedom
Gazed at crisp, sun-bright colors
Steeped in strength, until
He brought the autumn…
To chill me with the breeze
To steal my daylight little by little
To sap the life out of me
To wither me with decay
To blind me in a haze
To paralyze me slowly
To draw out of me all that was my own
To make me brittle
And now it’s winter…
And I am frozen
I stand in the gloaming
Overcome by grey
Brittle and broken
Glazed with ice
Breathing in emptiness
Numbed by barrenness
Quieted by the stillness
And spring might never come.
~*~
Zan’s class let out early, and he jogged over to meet Kasia, scoured the handful of faces he passed. He didn’t want any more surprises from Blake.
The door opened, and students filed out—a trio or couple here and there, a lone student on a cell phone…no Kasia. Zan peered into the lecture hall.
Kasia sat in a desk against the wall, her head in her hands. He walked over and slid into the seat next to her, nodded at the professor as she left, unconcerned.
“Hey.”
Kasia’s head shot up, her gaze so empty, he almost hugged her on the spot. But he was the one who wanted that.
Today clearly needed to be about her. “Want to walk around, enjoy the leaves?”
She stood.
He held the outside door open and followed her into the autumn chill, snugged his skullcap down on his head.
Hey, God. How about a little wisdom here?
He tried to read what she needed. He was so new to this praying deal. Sometimes he’d walk beside her, and other times she pounded forward. He let her go, stayed in her shadow.
She stopped suddenly. “You mind a real hike?”
“I’m up for whatever.”
“I want to climb the ridge. To my thinking place. There’s this tree up there.”
“Go. I’m right behind you.”
She took off with such determination he backpedaled. “Are you sure you want me up there with you?”
She spun toward him, her mouth open. “Yes. Please—I don’t want to be by myself right now.”
He nodded.
She veered off the pavement and strode straight into the woods. A trail was marked, but definitely not well traveled.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the ridge, and she marched up to a towering tree, leaned against it, and gazed out at the valley below. Zan hung back, slightly out of breath. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes. Her arms hung limp.
He found a spot at her side against the giant oak and leaned against the trunk. His arm bumped hers.
“You said the rock wasn’t the first time he’d hurt me.”
“I remember.” A cold blast of air whipped around them.
“I didn’t understand, but I do now.”
“Why? What made the difference?” He moved to face her, stood so his body would shelter her from the cold.
“I remembered something last night. You were right. He hurt me a long time ago.”
She studied the dead grass at their feet like there’d be a quiz on it, twirled a strand of hair around her finger.
“I wish I’d been wrong.” He watched her go to work on her lip. “If you ever need to talk, you know I’ll listen, right?”
She finally looked into his eyes, then nodded. “I know. But if I tell you, you won’t stay.”
“I’m willing to prove you wrong any time you feel like unloading.”
Her finger twisted and twirled—wrapped her bronze curl tight and then pulled it straight down. She set it free, then started the process all over again. A few times.
Finally, she inhaled as if she were about to jump into a lake, and her expression went blank. Like she’d switched off her emotions.
“Blake raped me.”
Zan felt the words like a kick in the gut.
Fury pumped so hard through his veins he could hear it. He fisted his hands in his pockets, willed himself to breathe. Took air in through his nose and slowly released it. Breathed again.
Meanwhile, Kasia went on as if she were reporting the weather. “I remembered my first visit to his house. His parents served a little wine, and I’d never had any before…I guess I don’t have much tolerance.”
She offered a wry smile, and Zan wished it would go away. That kind of smile didn’t belong on her. The finger that had played with her hair stilled, turned a bright purple-red.
Zan reached up and unwound the lock of hair from it. He kept her hand in his, rubbed her finger to get the circulation going. At least, that was the plan at first. But as she talked, eyes wide open, expression blank, he just couldn’t let go.
“I told him I wasn’t ready, and he got angry. Said we’d been together long enough that I needed to show him I loved him.”
Zan clamped his back teeth down. Of all the manipulative clichés.
“When I realized he was determined to…finish, I begged him to stop.”
Zan’s eyes burned at the word begged. She still stared at the ground.
He swallowed the acid in his throat and looked away. Barely bit back the rage. He needed to scream, track Blake down, make him beg for mercy. He pictured Kasia begging, terrified and unable to stop Blake. Bailey’s battered face flashed into his mind too.
Please don’t tell me there was any more. To watch her stand there and relive it—especially when she was numb to the sick tragedy of it all—was too much. He sniffed and rubbed her hand.
A single hot tear broke free from Zan’s eye. For her.
“And now you think I’m a weak, disgusting whore. So, I get it if you want to take off.”
“I’m staying.” As if he could walk away.
She finally allowed her gaze to turn his direction, and the bitterness he saw pressed on his heart. She honestly did expect him to leave, and she was steeling herself to cope alone. He couldn’t have stopped the tears now if he wanted to.
“Wait. What are you doing? Stop that.”
He dried an eye with the back of his sleeve.
“Why are you crying?” she asked.
“Because you’re not.”
Kasia blinked, swallowed. “I wish I hadn’t remembered.”
He rested his forehead on hers. “But now that you have, you can deal with it. My sister said God showed her, in chunks that she could handle, so she could give them to Him. One at a time.”
Strains of Silence Page 24
