The Reason Page 20

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “You can be forgiven, Carla,” he said in that calm voice of his. He started walking toward her, and Carla noticed that with each step he took, that warm feeling spread a little farther across her body.

  “No, I can’t,” Carla said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Saving you.”

  Carla glanced out at the river and then at the carpenter. She lifted her arm and gripped her wet sweatshirt just below her elbow. Then she reached out to touch his arm. But his sweatshirt was bone dry. She jerked her hand away.

  What? Did you think he dived in? Hauled you to shore?

  “Why are you really here?” she asked.

  “I already told you,” he said, stepping closer. “Carla, there’s an easier way. And it begins with forgiving your father.”

  Carla took a step back, gaping at him. “I knew it,” she muttered. “You really do know everything about me. Everything.”

  “Some might say that.”

  “Then you know you shouldn’t be hanging out with a girl like me. A drunk. A loser nobody wants. I just want it over.” She pointed up at the bridge. “But I—I can’t even kill myself without screwing up!”

  “It can be over, Carla.”

  She gaped at him. “It can?”

  “Just not in the way you were thinking. You can have a new beginning.”

  “What?” He was making no sense.

  “Tell me why you were up there, Carla,” he said calmly.

  “You know exactly why I was up there. The night I met you, when you told me to forgive, I know you were talking about my dad. But I can’t forgive him. I can’t!”

  “You must. It’s the key to your own freedom. Let him off the hook, Carla. Forgive him.”

  “No. I can’t. It’s not fair.”

  “Does forgiveness have to be fair?”

  “Please go away. Please just leave me alone.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m staying. Right here, until this is done.”

  She resisted the urge to strike him, to try and drive him away. “I can’t be forgiven! Not for what I’ve done! And neither should my father!” Hot tears came then, choking her. She swallowed hard and angrily wiped them away. “Some things, some decisions . . . make us what we are. You can’t take the stripes off a tiger.”

  He was perfectly still in the dark. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

  “You’re impossible!” she yelled, quickly turning and walking away. He came up beside her, easily matching her stride.

  “I know you can forgive him,” he said. “And you can be forgiven too.”

  “No, I can’t! What I’ve done is terrible! And I can’t forgive my father! Get it through your head!”

  “Why can’t you forgive your father?”

  She stopped, turned to him, and crossed her arms and cupped her elbows as the wind blew against her. “Look, I’ve been to a counselor or two in my time. I know my dad’s a big problem in here,” she said, pointing to her head, wondering if he could see her in the dark.

  “No,” he said. He reached out and laid a gentle hand over her heart. “It’s a problem in here.”

  Warmth spread out from where he touched her, and she resisted the urge to lean into him, to ask him to hold her, comfort her. Instead, she pulled away, as if breaking a magnetic force. She took two steps back and shook her head. “You don’t understand. I can still see my dad standing in my bedroom doorway the night before he died. The day before he did that to himself. I see it, every day. It’s why I drink. To block it out.”

  “To block what out?”

  “To block out what he did to himself. What he did to me.”

  “What he did? Forgive him, Carla. Forgive him now.”

  “I said no. What he did was too terrible.”

  “Answer this for me,” he said. Kenneth paused and the silence grew between them. “Is one sin greater than another?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re wrong. Sin is sin. If you could be forgiven for doing what you think is terrible, why couldn’t he?”

  She paused, his words playing over in her head. “But who would forgive me?”

  “Him,” Kenneth said, pointing toward the sky. “That’s all the forgiveness you’ll ever need.”

  Carla thought about it and it made no sense. “How can he forgive me after the things I’ve done?”

  “That is up to him, not you. I want you to forgive your father.”

  “No!” she yelled, the word echoing under the bridge. “It wouldn’t be fair to forgive him! I’m glad my dad killed himself!”

  Kenneth didn’t say anything, and Carla closed her eyes. She remembered getting off the bus that day and tiptoeing into the house, hoping . . . praying her father wouldn’t hear her come in. The empty beer cans that normally littered the kitchen counter weren’t there. Neither were the ashtrays that always overflowed with cigarette butts and ashes.

  The only thing on the counter was the case to her father’s shotgun.

  “Forgive him,” Kenneth whispered. “The time is now.”

  “I love you, baby girl.”

  Why did her father have to say that the night before he killed himself? It was the only time she could remember him saying it. And he said it on the very last night, of all the nights he stood in her bedroom doorway.

  Nights.

  Carla wrapped her arms around herself, desperately trying to hold on to the flood of shame that had eaten away at her for so long, to keep it from overflowing onto the carpenter.

  She couldn’t hold it any longer. It was like he was pulling it from her.

  “I can’t be forgiven for the things I did with my dad.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  Carla couldn’t look at Kenneth. Though she was sure he already knew, she still had to say it. What she wanted to yell was nothing more than a whisper. “I was only a kid. Only a little girl. He made me do those things.”

  Her shoulders dipped and she lowered her head. All she could hear was the water and a few cars passing over the bridge. And then Kenneth gently pulled her into his arms, his embrace nothing but brotherly, warm, protecting.

  “I know,” he said.

  “I know.” The only words she’d longed to hear. Understanding. Acknowledgment. And yet acceptance too.

  “But how?” she asked, feeling the beat of his heart under her cheek, even as doubt began to creep into her own. “How could God possibly forgive someone like me?”

  “You know how,” he said.

  Carla couldn’t count the number of times she had heard Pastor Jim talk about it. She opened her eyes and gave Kenneth her answer.

  “The cross.”

  The carpenter nodded.

  Carla thought about Christ on the cross for her. “Why would he die for the sins of people like me and my dad? I still don’t get it. It doesn’t seem . . . it just doesn’t seem—”

  “Fair?”

  “Yes,” Carla said, as the word she used earlier took a little bite at her. “Why would he do it, then? Why such a sacrifice for people like us? What is the reason?”

  Kenneth released her and stepped slightly away, but he still held her hands. She could feel the heat of his gaze. “Because God wanted this. Relationship. Unbroken relationship.”

  Was it possible? Really? That she might be not only forgiven, but sought after?

  “He wants your heart, Carla,” Kenneth said. “He loves you already. More than Brooke and Alex and the Lindys love you. More than all the people who’ve ever loved you, combined. And he will never fail you. Never leave you.” He paused. “Close your eyes.”

  When she did, she could immediately see those two words that were painted on the side of the train. She remembered explaining to Brooke that there was something she needed to do, and if she just did that one thing, her mistakes would be forgotten.

  “Tell me something,” Kenneth said, dropping her hands. Carla could feel the warmth in his palms as they met the sides of her face. “Do you really
believe that Christ died for you?”

  “Yes,” Carla said. She really did.

  “Carla, did he die for your dad too?”

  She hesitated. Swallowed. She didn’t want to say it but had to. It was the truth. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Was his sacrifice in vain?”

  “No,” she said reluctantly. But clarity strengthened her. “No!”

  “Why?”

  “Because he saved me.”

  “Yes, he did,” Kenneth said. “Just as he died to save your dad. Because he loves you both. Completely. Forever.” He paused. “Open your eyes, Carla.”

  She immediately knew that this was different from the first time they had met at The Pilot Inn. There was no more shame, guilt, or fear as she stood under his gaze. She now understood with absolute clarity what his eyes were telling her. She’d figured it out. She knew she was loved unconditionally in a way that represented pure acceptance, regardless of what she had done. Even whatever I do next.

  Carla began to sense a limitless form of strength building inside of her. It was building out of that perfect love she felt, and she knew it would allow her to do things beyond anything she ever imagined.

  “You know what to do,” the carpenter said.

  “Forgive him,” she whispered. “Forgive him as I’ve been forgiven.”

  “Do it now, Carla, as if your father were standing here before you.” Kenneth continued to hold on to her, as if pouring his strength into her. And for the first time, Carla felt hope. A shiver of . . . possibility.

  She closed her eyes again, seeing her dad stumbling toward her, close enough to see the lines on his face.

  Drunk. Crying. Broken.

  Broken, like me.

  “Say it,” Kenneth whispered, still holding on to her face.

  In her mind, she reached out to touch her father’s face just like Kenneth held hers. Seeing him. Acknowledging him, for all he was and all he was not. But loved, regardless.

  “I forgive you, Daddy. I’m sorry—so sorry you were hurt and broken too. I forgive you.”

  Kenneth’s hands fell away from her face, but she could still feel a measure of what he’d given her.

  Power, through love. Never had she felt stronger.

  Freedom. She felt ten pounds lighter.

  And hope. A conviction that things really were going to turn out all right.

  Carla opened her eyes and blinked.

  The carpenter wasn’t there.

  She smiled and glanced back up at the bridge, never more certain of just one thing.

  I’m not alone.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Brooke and Shirley were sitting alone in the small waiting room. Alex had just been taken away by both Kaitlyn and Dr. Lewis for a bone marrow aspiration, where they’d take a sample of marrow from either his leg or hip. Even though he was only in the next room and the procedure would supposedly not take that long, Brooke had never felt so far away and separated from her son.

  She stared at the small pamphlet on the table in front of her without really seeing it.

  “Why can’t I be in there with him?” she asked, her protective instincts overflowing. “He probably wants me in there.”

  “Brooke,” Shirley said passively. “You are going to have to trust Dr. Lewis and her team. They certainly seem to know what they are doing.”

  Brooke picked the pamphlet up and read it. What to Know When Your Child Has Leukemia. Her eyes couldn’t seem to leave the last word. She didn’t like the way it seemed to cruelly drown out the others.

  Brooke dropped the pamphlet to her lap.

  “You need to be strong,” Shirley said. “Open that back up and read it, Brooke Thomas. I think you should know everything. I think you should do your best to understand what they are doing at all times.”

  Brooke closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was muddled in a three-way tug-of-war between disbelief, denial, and reality. She struggled to hide the panic in her voice. “I don’t know what to do, Shirley. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Remember what you told me about the doves?” Shirley asked. “About the train car?”

  “I know,” Brooke said. “If I only believe, Alex will get better.” She flipped her cell phone open and thumbed to the text option. She highlighted Carla’s name, and despite it being only six thirty in the morning, she began to type: We can get through whatever is happening, Carla. Plz call me.

  As she studied the letters on the cell phone’s small screen, the pit in Brooke’s stomach told her that the text would not be returned—not that day, not ever. She knew something had happened to Carla, and whatever it was, she couldn’t stop herself from somehow feeling responsible. She still hit Send, and the message was off. She bit her lip and slowly opened up the brochure.

  Inside was an illustration of a little girl. Brooke guessed that she was maybe a year older than Alex, lying on her side with her bare hip exposed. She was smiling eagerly as if she were miraculously enjoying what was happening to her. Next to her was a doctor, who looked considerably older and much more experienced than Macey, preparing to draw bone marrow from the little girl’s hip with an extremely long needle.

  But Brooke knew her son. And if they were about to insert a needle like that in him, he wasn’t smiling.

  IN THE NEXT ROOM, MACEY GLANCED OVER THE EDGE of the small surgical theater that Kaitlyn had created. The threefoot-wide, two-foot-high curtained display spread across Alex’s midsection, with bright-red drapes that closed around his belly button and lower back, making it impossible for him to see his lower body—or what was being done to him. Alex was smiling from ear to ear and seemed to be fully occupied by Mr. Brave, Kaitlyn’s hand puppet. Mr. Brave’s head bobbed back and forth over the top of the theater, and his shiny, black button eyes and singsong “voice” were clearly making Alex remarkably less nervous.

  Alex rested on his side, wearing only a small purple hospital gown and his SpongeBob underwear. Macey settled a warm blanket across his legs.

  “You’re going to like this part!” Mr. Brave said, as Kaitlyn performed the dual roles of nurse and puppeteer while applying more EMLA cream to Alex’s hip to further numb his skin.

  “Hey, Mr. Brave,” Kaitlyn said calmly. “Ask Alex if he can feel that.”

  “I heard what she said, Mr. Brave,” Alex said attentively. “Tell her it feels warm. Tell her I like it.”

  “He says it feels warm. He says he likes it,” Mr. Brave reported back to the nurse in his high-pitched voice, bringing another grin across Alex’s face.

  “Isn’t Alex doing well?” Kaitlyn asked the puppet as she massaged the cream further into Alex’s hip.

  “Well? Well?! He’s amazing!” the puppet squeaked as the nurse tapped on Alex’s leg.

  Alex giggled.

  “Can you feel that?” Kaitlyn asked, pinching on the loose skin of his tiny hip.

  “Feel what?” Alex asked.

  “Nothing,” Kaitlyn said. “Nothing at all.” It looked like he never felt the quick pierce of the needle numbing him further, and she gave Macey a quick nod.

  Mr. Brave peered back over the curtain, and his fist-sized head teetered slowly back and forth. The puppet whispered, “Hey, Alex . . .”

  “What, Mr. Brave?” Alex said, his eyebrows lifting curiously.

  “It’s time to be brave—real brave.”

  “Okay,” Alex said, his eyes big and round in anticipation.

  Macey winked at him and had a feeling he really wasn’t interested in being any braver than he already was. But she was sure that he didn’t want to let Mr. Brave or Nurse Kaitlyn down.

  Kaitlyn looked over the edge of the curtain and said, “There is going to be a little pinch here, Alex.”

  “Are you ready?” Mr. Brave said loudly, soliciting a bolt of enthusiasm from the boy.

  “Yeah!” Alex said.

  Macey lowered the aspiration needle to his hip and could see Alex swallow hard.

  Then his cheeks puffed.


  Then he asked where Charlie was.

  Then he wanted his mother again.

  Then she removed the needle.

  “Man, you did good!” Mr. Brave said, sliding across the top of the theater.

  “Great job, Alexander,” Macey said. “You did terrific!”

  “Wow,” Kaitlyn said, lowering her head next to Mr. Brave’s. “You are so brave, Alex.”

  Alex laughed thankfully and took a quick wipe at his eyes. “I did do good, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did!” Mr. Brave affirmed. “Really good!”

  “Am I done?” Alex asked, sounding not even remotely open to the possibility of the answer being a no.

  “That’s it for now,” Kaitlyn answered, pushing Mr. Brave all the way over the curtain rod so the puppet could request a congratulatory high five from the boy. “Sit tight, and I’ll grab your mother for you.”

  JIM POURED THE DREGS OF HIS COFFEE OVER THE EDGE of the front porch and took in a deep breath of early morning air. It was cold outside. He could actually feel tiny slivers of scented air banking off the walls of his lungs. He recognized the smell as the remaining hints of lacquer that the breeze had continued to pull off the cross. Birds were chirping their good mornings, and a car’s horn beeped impatiently somewhere miles away. He thought about Alex and Brooke and closed his eyes for a quick prayer to give both of them strength.

  The front door of the church opened and then banged shut. Charlie had gotten an early start on his chores and had ambled up the hill when Shirley, Brooke, and Alex had left for the hospital. By the sound of it, he was ruthlessly pounding on a rug with a broom handle, knocking the dust out of it and into tomorrow.

  “About fifteen minutes, Charlie!” he yelled, letting his son know when it would be time to eat breakfast. In response, the church door opened and closed again. Jim crossed his arms, quickly warming them, took another breath of the cool fall air, and went back in the house.

  Inside the kitchen Jim unwrapped two double-packs of blueberry Pop-Tarts and dropped them into the spring-loaded slots of the old toaster. He felt for the electrical outlet, plugged the toaster in, and pressed firmly down on the plastic lever that lowered the four pastries next to the hot coils. He rinsed out his coffee cup, put it in the sink, and took a big, delighted whiff of the Pop-Tarts warming. “Yes, my boy,” he said, as if Charlie were already with him. “The finest breakfast known to man. And no ladies here to refuse me my double portion!” He rubbed his hands together in excitement.