He caught Virginia smiling at him.
Yes, that’s why he was here. For her. He forced a smile. “I’ll start with ‘How Great Thou Art.’ ” He locked eyes with Virginia. “Is that okay?”
“Absolutely, dear!” She clapped a few times, her hands slow and weak. “That one’s always a hit.”
“Yes.” Tyler managed a soft chuckle. He loved the old woman’s zest for life, her enthusiasm. Her eyes remained on him as he found the first chord and began to play. “Oh Lord, my God, when I in awesome wonder . . . consider all the worlds Thy hands have made . . .”
The music flowed, and the words with it. Tyler was surprised. He hadn’t sung to the radio even since long before his injury. But somehow he didn’t sound half bad. He was on key or close to it, and around the room the residents turned their eyes his direction. A few of them mouthed the words.
Tyler reached the chorus. “Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to Thee . . . How great Thou art . . . how great Thou art.”
Tears shone in Virginia’s eyes and gradually she began to sing along, nodding and smiling. Not until he reached the end of the song did Tyler realize he hadn’t once thought about the pain in his shoulder. He moved on to the next song—“Amazing Grace”—“Come Thou Fount” and “Be Thou My Vision.”
The room was filling up, more residents filing in. Line by line he sang, sharing the songs these people had clearly missed. Most of the folks knew every word. Especially Virginia. As Tyler sang and played, the old hymns came back to him, too. Songs he and his parents had loved when he was a kid.
Tyler’s shaking eased, his damp forehead grew dry. He kept singing. “Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it . . . prone to leave the God I love . . . Here’s my heart, Lord, take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above.”
A few more lines and the song ended. Suddenly the ground beneath him seemed to shift. For the first time since this session began, the words connected at the center of his heart. Prone to wander? Prone to leave God? The words could’ve been written for him alone. He had never set out to make a mess of his life, but he had. He was prone to it, to wander from Virginia’s God.
She was clapping for him, encouraging those around her to do the same. “Ben . . . you’re not finished, are you?”
Tyler forced himself to focus. “No.” The guitar rested easy in his hands, the pain only a distant ache. “I forgot how much I like that old song.”
Virginia held up one frail hand. “I have a request.”
He loved her gentle spirit, her ever-present joy. “Whatever you want.”
“That’s my boy.” She looked at a man seated beside her, who looked to be in his nineties. “See that boy? He’s my son.”
“Very nice young man.” The man spoke slowly, nodding at Virginia. “I’d like to buy his album.”
“Me, too.” Virginia’s eyes sparkled. She turned back to Tyler. “ ‘Amazing Grace.’ Can you play it again? It’s our favorite.”
As he began to sing the familiar hymn once more, Tyler noticed a few visitors gathered at the edge of the room, and near them, Harrison Myers. Like the residents, these people mouthed the words, their voices too soft to hear. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . . that saved a wretch like me . . .”
Tears sprang to his eyes. Tyler blinked them back, his voice filling the room with the song. Gradually his surroundings faded. He was no longer singing for an audience of Virginia and her friends, but for God alone. The God Tyler had stopped believing in many years ago. For reasons Tyler couldn’t grasp, let alone explain, this time around the song became personal.
“Through many dangers, toils, and snares . . . I have already come . . . ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.”
A single tear slid down his cheek, but Tyler ignored it. Only the song mattered, the message and music, the way it resonated within him. What even was grace? Amazing grace? It wasn’t something he had ever felt or understood.
As he sang, Tyler pictured his broken life, the last several years in the minors. Chasing sunsets from one town to the next, waiting for the chance to be perfect. At the end of the ride—when he was sitting where the residents of Merrill Place sat, he wanted more to show for it than a busted shoulder and a bagful of broken dreams.
When the impromptu concert was over, after he hugged Virginia and shook the hands of several residents, Tyler hurried to his room. The pain had subsided while he sang, but it nearly slammed him to the ground as soon as he finished. The pills, he told himself. Three of them this time.
He grabbed the bottle but as he twisted off the lid, the words of the song suddenly hit him again. Amazing grace . . . how sweet the sound . . . that saved a wretch like me.
Tears filled his eyes again and his hands shook worse than ever. No one had ever needed grace more than he did. Already the bottle was nearly gone. He couldn’t make a comeback as a pitcher if he was addicted to pain medication. He’d wind up like Baldy Williams. I need them bad, just a few. But before he could take them he slammed the bottle back on his kitchen counter. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was something he wanted more than the pills.
I want to live, God. I really do. I need Your help.
He stared at the small white pills. They had been his friends day and night, bringing him countless hours of relief. But no more. When he couldn’t take the pain he’d go to the workout room here at Merrill Place and do squats or crunches. Anything to distract himself.
After today, he might even sing.
The pills screamed at him from the bottle, begging him to give in. Take two or three. Relief was minutes away. No! Not this time. He turned and paced a few steps toward the door. This is the first day of the rest of your life, he told himself. He had to move on. Suddenly in a burst of motion he returned to the kitchen, grabbed the pills, dumped them down the sink, and turned on the water. The stream picked them up and swirled them out of sight. Just like that, Tyler felt both terror and peace.
He was on his own now—no more Oxycodone to get him through the nights and days. Exercise would have to take the place of the pills. He would make a chart and work out every day. Every penny would go to saving for the surgery.
He would work harder than anyone, and he would pitch again. Better than ever. Yes, he needed to tolerate the pain. He needed determination and maybe longer hours. He definitely needed to see an orthopedic doctor as soon as possible. But there was something Tyler needed more than all of that combined. Something he hadn’t known he needed until he picked up the guitar and sang for Virginia Hutcheson.
God’s amazing grace.
21
AS CHERYL CONLEY WATCHED from a distance that afternoon she couldn’t decide which was the more unbelievable sight: her mother, sitting up, looking utterly in her right mind, singing hymns, or the young man playing guitar at the front of the room. Cheryl had never seen him before. It wasn’t the way he played or the quality of his voice that took Cheryl’s breath.
It was his uncanny resemblance to her brother, Ben.
When the young man launched into “Amazing Grace,” Cheryl positioned herself so she could see her mother’s face. She took a step closer, stunned. Her mother was singing a song she hadn’t sung for a decade. Singing as if she hadn’t missed a week of church. And the whole time her eyes were fixed on the guy with the guitar.
Cheryl watched the guy, the way he moved as he played, his expression. Just looking at him took her back to 1970. It was like looking at a family video of her brother when he was this age. The song ended and the young man put the guitar down. He went to Cheryl’s mother first. He hugged her shoulders and helped her to her feet. They talked for a minute or so and then he spoke with a few of the other residents.
After the young man left, Cheryl approached her mother. She was talking with two of her friends, intent on the conversation. Cheryl almost wanted to keep the space between them, just soak in the sight of her mom. Less than a month ago Cheryl had been certain she would never see her mother like
this again—social and happy, interacting with friends.
The sight was more beautiful than anything Cheryl could’ve dreamed.
She couldn’t wait another moment. “Mom?” She came up alongside her and put her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “You look wonderful!”
Her mother turned and her face lit up. “Cheryl! You’re here!” Her eyes shot around the room. “You just missed Ben!”
“I . . . I saw him.” Tears threatened, but Cheryl refused them. “He plays the guitar so well.”
“He does!” She shook her head, her eyes sparkling. “And that voice!”
“I love when he sings the old hymns.”
“No one does it better.” Her mother nodded to a nearby table. “Should we sit and talk for a bit?”
“I’d love that.” Cheryl couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with her mother. They linked arms as they walked. “How are you feeling?”
“Never better, dear.”
Her mother moved along slowly, but she left her walker back at her chair. She took her seat at the table. “I should go get Ben. It’s been too long since we’ve all been together.”
“It has.” Cheryl reached for her mother’s hands across the table. Where had the young man gone, and who was he? “You look so happy, Mom.”
“Ben comes home earlier these days. Before your father gets off work.”
Cheryl studied her. She was clearly stuck back in the early ’70s, when Ben looked like the young man leading worship, and their father worked long days at the office. Fine. Cheryl had read up on a new approach for treating Alzheimer’s patients—the Past-Present Theory. Doctors were finding that patients with severe dementia responded better when they were allowed to live in whatever time period they wished. If her mom was comfortable in 1970, so be it.
They talked for another ten minutes, and then her mother’s eyes grew foggy. “I’m very tired, Cheryl. I think I’ll take a nap.” She smiled. “Wanna be at my best when your father gets home.”
“Of course.” The trek to her room had been too much for her just a few weeks ago. But now even her mother’s physical stamina seemed improved. Did the guy with the guitar know that her mother thought he was Ben?
Once her mom was back in bed, Cheryl kissed her cheek and left her to sleep. Her next stop was an obvious one.
The office of Harrison Myers.
He was at his desk when she knocked at the door. “Cheryl.” His smile came easier than it had the last few times she stopped by. “Come in.”
She took the chair opposite him. For a few seconds she only stared at him, not sure where to start. “Who was that? The young man with the guitar?”
Harrison smiled. “He’s new. I had no idea he could sing.”
“He knows my mother.” Cheryl held her purse in her lap, unable to move or breathe until she connected the dots. “I . . . I saw them talking.”
“Yes.” Harrison’s smile faded some. “I need to talk to you about that.” He leaned his forearms on the desk. “Cheryl, your mother thinks he’s your brother, Ben.”
“Yes!” She felt the tears again. “He looks just like him . . . the way Ben looked back then.”
“The young man’s name is Tyler Ames.”
Something about the name sounded familiar. “He’s new? I’ve . . . heard his name before.”
“He’s a baseball player. Blue Wahoos.”
A soft gasp came from Cheryl. “The pitcher! That’s right!” She followed the local team. Her whole family did. “Got hurt a while ago?”
“That’s him. He got cut the day after the injury.” Harrison pursed his lips, clearly troubled. “I’m pretty sure he was living in his car, when a pastor friend of mine sent him here.” Harrison shrugged. “I needed a maintenance man.”
“He’s a baseball player.” Cheryl was confused. “Shouldn’t he be working with the team? Getting better?”
“He needs surgery on his shoulder, but my guess is he can’t afford it.” Harrison frowned. “I don’t think the accident was covered.”
Cheryl pictured Tyler, playing the guitar with the brace on his right arm. Suddenly she remembered what Harrison had said a minute ago. “How did you know? About Tyler and my mother?”
“I wasn’t sure until the other day.” He looked amazed and bewildered at the same time. “I walked by your mother’s room and there he was, sitting beside her. Talking like he’d known her all her life.”
As beautiful as that sounded, the situation didn’t make sense. “Why would he? I mean, he doesn’t know her.”
“I wondered, too.” Harrison leaned back, his brow furrowed. “He has nothing to gain.” He hesitated. “He seems to enjoy talking with her as much as she does with him.” He tapped his desk a few times. “It’s changed her. That much is obvious.”
“She’s so much better.” Cheryl felt the tears again, but this time she didn’t try to stop them. “Ben was always so special to her. She’s . . . missed him.” Cheryl didn’t want to get into the details, the reason why Ben hadn’t been by to visit.
“You should watch Tyler with her sometime.” Harrison’s smile was deep. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Cheryl needed to find the young man before another minute passed. She stood and thanked the manager. “Is Tyler still living in his car?”
“He has a room out back.” Harrison checked the time on his phone. “He’s finished work until the night shift. He’s either in his apartment or in the weight room.”
Harrison showed her which way to go, and Cheryl set out. The new information consumed her. Tyler Ames, onetime local baseball hero, had befriended Cheryl’s mother, willingly playing the part of the 1970s version of Ben. She walked quickly down the hallway and found Tyler in the weight room. He was lying on a mat, doing sit-ups.
She stepped inside, still holding her purse, and waited until he noticed her. When he did, he stood, sweat dripping down his face. “Ma’am?”
“Hi.” She wasn’t sure where to start. “I’m Cheryl Conley. Virginia’s daughter.”
He seemed to recognize her name. “Tyler Ames.” He nodded and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “Sorry. I’m a mess.”
“That’s okay.” The young man’s resemblance to her brother was uncanny. “I won’t be long.” Again she scrambled for the right words. “You look a great deal like my brother, Ben.”
“Yes, ma’am. I gathered that.” Kindness warmed his eyes. “Your mother is very special.”
“You’ve been talking to her? Meeting with her?” Cheryl couldn’t understand why a young man like Tyler would bother.
“First time I cleaned her floors, she seemed to recognize me. She called me Ben.” His brace was off, lying on one of the weight benches. He held his right arm close to his body while he talked. “It’s only ten or fifteen minutes a day.” Concern darkened his expression. “I . . . hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Cheryl felt fresh tears again. She could barely speak. “Your time with my mother, it’s changed her life. She knows who I am again.”
“Well, good.” Tyler smiled, relieved. “It’s been nice for me, too.”
She didn’t want to prod, didn’t want to ask Tyler about the meaning of his words or the whereabouts of his own family. She’d said what she’d come to say. “I’ll let you go.” She had one more question. “Mr. Myers says you need shoulder surgery?”
“I’m saving for it.” He looked back at the weight room. “I want to be ready when it happens.”
“We’ve watched you play.” Cheryl hoped he could sense her sincerity. “You’re very good. You have to get that surgery so you can get back out there.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Could we talk some time? About your conversations with my mother?”
Tyler nodded, his eyes softer than before. “I’d like that. Maybe you could tell me about Ben.” There was a depth in his eyes. “Evenings are best. I’m here all the time.”
“Thank you.” There were n
o words to convey the depth of Cheryl’s gratitude. But she had to try. “What you’re doing for my mother—you’ll never know how much it means.”
Tyler stood at his spot on the mat again. “Like I said, it’s good for both of us.”
“By the way.” Cheryl was almost out the door when she remembered. “You’re a very good singer, Tyler. The residents . . . they loved that.”
“Thank you. That was for your mother.”
Cheryl smiled at him through teary eyes and then headed back down the hallway toward her mother’s room. She still had a hundred questions for the young man, but they would have to wait. She needed to get back to her mom. She dabbed the tears from her cheeks as she reached her mother’s door.
If only she had money, a fortune stashed away somewhere. She would have paid for Tyler’s surgery in a heartbeat to thank him for helping her mother. Since that wasn’t possible, Cheryl did the only thing she could do, the only way she knew to help the young man get the medical care he needed.
Right there in the hallway outside her mother’s room, she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and begged God for a miracle for Tyler Ames.
TYLER POUNDED THROUGH the rest of his workout, pushing past the pain in his shoulder. The hard work kept his mind off the burning sensation otherwise radiating from his shattered labrum. The workout was good for another reason: as long as he kept moving, he could tolerate the shakes.
Instead of thinking about how he could ease his pain, he thought about Cheryl’s visit.
He had wondered about both of Virginia’s grown children—whether they ever really visited. Clearly Ben would be much older now, too. Tyler wasn’t sure if Virginia would remember him outside of the young man she still believed him to be. Maybe that was why he didn’t seem to come around.
Either way, he looked forward to more conversations with Cheryl. Maybe she could fill in the missing pieces of their past, the bits that Virginia alluded to. Tyler did a final set of crunches and then stood facing the mirror. Squats were next. He attacked the first set with a vengeance. He wasn’t sure, but maybe God had a plan in all this. The job at Merrill Place, the conversations with Virginia, the words of “Amazing Grace,” and now the moment with Cheryl Conley.
Angels Walking Page 18
