The Reason Read online

  “That’s my girl,” he said, smiling proudly. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head before resting his chin on it.

  She lightly pinched his elbow. “Your wheels are turning, James Lindy. What is it?”

  “How many people do you think our doctor friend is bringing with her tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you asking?”

  “Three others,” Brooke said, walking into the kitchen. She had spent the last two hours cleaning the basement, and Jim knew her maternal stress and worry were in full bloom. There hadn’t been a fifteen-minute span when he didn’t hear her come up the stairs to check on Alex as he slept on the couch. “I think another doctor is coming, along with a nurse and a carpenter.”

  “So around nine of us altogether, then?” Jim asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “Just curious,” he said. “If you had to guess, how much do you think it would be for all of us to have lunch at The Pilot Inn?”

  “I think we can afford that,” Shirley said. “That’d be so nice.”

  “I’ll chip in,” Brooke said absently.

  Jim knocked on the counter. He could tell she was distracted. “Stop worrying about Alex, Brooke. I promise you, he is going to be all right.”

  “Maybe.” Brooke sighed. It sounded like she turned away. “You guys ate lunch at eleven?”

  “A little earlier,” Shirley answered. “Alex ate a little bit of his fried bologna sandwich and then went to lie down.”

  Brooke paused. “So he’s been asleep for six hours? He hasn’t slept like this during the day since he was a baby.”

  “Maybe he’s going through a growth spurt,” Shirley tried.

  Brooke took a deep breath and quickly exhaled through her mouth, making a noticeably labored huh sound. “Something is wrong with him. I know it.”

  Jim felt Shirley let go of him. He guessed that she was hugging or putting an arm around Brooke before she said, “You’re going to worry yourself sick. There’s nothing to do until we know more.”

  “If it will make you feel better,” Jim added, “maybe we can ask one of the doctors to have a quick look at him tomorrow.”

  “I just don’t like it,” Brooke said. “If everything’s okay, why would they want to see him on Monday?”

  “There could be a hundred reasons, many of them no big deal,” Jim said.

  “Right,” Brooke said. “You’re sure he’ll be okay, Pastor Jim?”

  “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it,” he said.

  “I’m sorry for being such a downer today,” Brooke said.

  It was Jim’s turn to put his arm around her. “You are not being a downer. We are here for one another.”

  “Yes, we are,” Shirley said. “And don’t forget, we also have had a little bit of experience with a child who had some rough turns through hospitals. Do you know I couldn’t hold Charlie until over a month after he was born?”

  “No,” Brooke said, her tone horrified. “That’s terrible.”

  They never talked much about those early years. About the umbilical cord wrapping around Charlie’s neck—depriving his brain of oxygen for a “detrimental” length of time. Hypoxia. Those were the two words Jim remembered most. Hypoxia and detrimental. And endless days, walking hospital hallways, feeling helpless . . .

  Jim laced his fingers together and tilted his head toward Brooke. “Charlie wasn’t supposed to live past age five. When he turned ten, we pretty much quit listening to the doctors, but not a day has gone by when we didn’t thank God for our sweet son. Just remember God’s in charge, Brooke. Alex is going to be fine.”

  “I can’t imagine Charlie as a ten-year-old,” Brooke said.

  “That was twenty-eight years ago,” Shirley said. “Heavens, where has the time gone?”

  Jim shook his head and smiled. “Charlie was little then, at ten. A pip-squeak of a mere six feet in height.”

  Brooke laughed and Jim was glad for the sound of it. He hadn’t heard her laugh in days.

  “I don’t know where I’d be without you,” Brooke said. “Thanks, guys.”

  “We don’t know where we would be without you and Alexander,” Shirley said.

  “I’m gonna wake Alex up,” Brooke said. “By the way, Dr. Lewis said she hasn’t been to church in years and is way overdue. She said she and her nurse friend may be coming to service in the morning.”

  “Praise God,” Jim said. “That’s certainly good news. I can barely wait to meet them.”

  BROOKE RETURNED TO THE LIVING ROOM AND SAT next to Alex, who was asleep on his stomach and facing the back of the couch. She slid her hand up under his shirt, and he seemed unusually warm and sticky. As she rubbed his back, tiny, pin-sized red dots appeared and disappeared on his skin in the shape of her hand. She looked over at Charlie, who was completely ignoring the television. He kept looking at Alex and then at her. Back to Alex, then back to her. It made her uncomfortable. Something’s wrong, isn’t it, Charlie?

  “C’mon, Alex,” she said. “Wake up, sweetheart. Shirley’s going to make some mac and cheese for you.” She rolled him over, and he squinted up at her. His red bangs were darkened in sweat, like a new paintbrush that had just been dipped in water.

  “Where were you, Mom?” he asked faintly.

  “I was at work this morning, buddy. When I got home, you were sleeping, Mr. Sleepyhead.”

  “Mr. Sleepyhead?” He giggled. “Where’s Charlie?”

  Charlie leaned over Brooke’s shoulder, his eyes wide and worried, peeking at Alex. He smiled and nodded his approval, seeming to draw comfort from the fact that his friend was at last waking up.

  Alex held up his hand, and Charlie high-fived him. He lowered his arm and rolled back over again. As if he would go back to sleep the second she let him.

  “C’mon, buddy,” Brooke urged.

  “Pea butter samich too?” he asked, his eyes still closed.

  Brooke managed a small laugh. “Peanut butter sandwich too. It’s done, buddy, c’mon.”

  When they walked into the kitchen, Alex reached up and grabbed a cookie off a plate on the counter.

  “Uh-uh, young man,” Shirley said. “Not before dinner.”

  As Alex apologized and put the cookie back, Brooke nudged Shirley and said, “At least he’s getting his appetite back.”

  “He’s just fine,” Shirley whispered. “Mark my words: growth spurt.”

  “I think you’re right,” Brooke said, watching Shirley empty the balance of the noodles into a bowl for Charlie. She then ran a knife through the center of five peanut butter sandwiches—four and one half for Charlie, and the final half for Alex.

  Brooke took Alex’s bowl and lightly tapped a few sprinkles of pepper on top of the macaroni and cheese and retrieved Alex’s preferred eating utensil. He wouldn’t dare eat his favorite meal with a fork, and he really didn’t like pepper, but two-handing the Batman spoon and stirring the cheese and noodles until the little black specks disappeared had to be just as much fun as eating the food itself.

  The five of them sat at the table and held hands. Pastor Jim cleared his throat. “Let’s pray.”

  Brooke peeked at Alex, right next to her. His eyelids fluttered as he forced himself to keep his eyes closed. She gave his hand a little squeeze, and he squeezed it back. Sitting next to Alex was Charlie. Brooke looked down at the giant fist that held and covered her son’s entire hand and forearm. She noticed how Charlie’s thumb was almost as long as the space between Alex’s wrist and elbow, then closed her eyes.

  Pastor Jim thanked God for the food, their family, their health, and their visitors from the hospital who would be coming tomorrow.

  The prayer ended, and Brooke opened her eyes.

  “Pastor Jim,” Alex said. “You have a boo-boo on your head.”

  Brooke noticed the scratched, marble-sized bump that was partially hidden near Pastor Jim’s hairline, wondering how she’d missed it in the kitchen.

  Shirley reached up and
lightly touched her husband’s forehead. “What happened?”

  “Old track injury,” he said, tapping his finger lightly on the bump. “Javelin catching.”

  Brooke laughed, causing Alex to giggle. Shirley didn’t.

  Pastor Jim leaned his head back. “It’s funny. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried it, but I just can’t seem to walk into the garage with the garage door closed.”

  “Oh, honey,” Shirley said sympathetically.

  “It’s all right,” Pastor Jim said, grinning. “I’ll most likely live. I thought I had left the garage door open. It must have swung shut.” “Uh-oh,” Alex said.

  “Oh, honey,” Shirley said again.

  “What is it, buddy?” Brooke asked, turning to Alex. His eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and excitement.

  Blood was spilling out of his little nose.

  NINE

  Zach was in that room again.

  He was trapped.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  He was running frantically back and forth on the cool white carpet.

  He looked and looked but couldn’t find her. Only he could save her. He was her only chance.

  Time was running short. Time always ran short in that room.

  At last, he could see her again in the window—that clear, thick, icy window.

  Her face, that beautiful face.

  Her hair slowly bounced and flowed freely around the top of her head and the sides of her chalk-white cheeks. Her face pressed against the window and slid slowly against it. Her eyes, her frightened blue eyes, blinked repeatedly in a desperate panic.

  Her hand was gliding back and forth across the window.

  She knocked. She wanted to come into the room.

  He placed his own hand over the outline of hers and watched her lips speak words he couldn’t hear—words that no one could hear.

  She pounded on the window. He pounded, clawed, and kicked at the window too, but it wouldn’t open. It wouldn’t break. He needed just a little more time.

  She drifted back from the window, her form disappearing into the darkness beyond.

  He screamed her name and popped up in his office chair. Sweat rolled off his forehead and the sides of his neck as his heart knocked rudely at the inside of his chest.

  The dream. The cursed dream.

  It was back.

  MACEY REMOVED HER LAB COAT AND HUNG IT ON THE wooden coatrack she had inherited with her office. Kaitlyn had already kicked off her tennis shoes and was sitting on the couch, her legs folded beneath her.

  “I’m starving,” the nurse said.

  “Me too,” Macey responded.

  “I barely saw you today,” Kaitlyn said, giving herself a foot massage. “You were a pretty busy girl for a Saturday. You really were catching up.”

  “Too busy to eat lunch.”

  Kaitlyn put her right shoe back on and began to massage her left foot. “Soup and salad down at the corner café with two huge Diet Cokes. What do you think?”

  “Sounds perfect,” Macey said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Zach was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. The edge of his mouth tilted toward his right cheek as he lightly bit down on the inside of his lip. “Would you ladies like to join me for dinner?”

  Kaitlyn put her other shoe back on. “Nice of you to knock, Zach.”

  “The door was open.”

  “What are you doing here?” Macey asked. “Your plans for the game fall through?”

  “Yeah,” Zach said, his tone vague. His eyes shifted to the window. “What do you say? Dinner? My treat?”

  Macey looked over at Zach and wondered what he would do if she said yes and Kaitlyn said no, but he didn’t look like he was in a joking mood. In fact, something seemed different about him. Today’s dress shirt had a few unthinkable creases in it, and there was a small tuft of hair curling around the top of his right ear. She wasn’t quite sure what was wrong, but the mighty Dr. Norman actually appeared to be having a bad day.

  “You all right, Zach?” she asked.

  He straightened up and frowned a little. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You look a little gray.”

  “You do look a little pale,” Kaitlyn added.

  “I’m fine.”

  Kaitlyn leaned forward and crossed her arms. “Thank you for asking us for dinner, but we already made plans.”

  Macey flicked the desk lamp off and turned around. “But you are welcome to join us, Zach.”

  Kaitlyn smiled at him. “The corner café—your favorite.”

  Macey grinned at Kaitlyn, knowing that the odds of Dr. Norman wanting to eat at the little run-down café were the same as him wanting to eat pizza in the cafeteria. Besides, it was rude of him to ask them to dinner when all three of them knew that he only really wanted to have dinner with Kaitlyn.

  “I think I’ll pass,” he said. “What time are we meeting at the church tomorrow?”

  “We decided to go to the service at ten,” Macey said, suspecting Zach’s motivation for going had probably expanded into keeping Kaitlyn away from the carpenter. “But we are going to start on the cross around eleven.”

  “Good,” Zach said.

  Macey grabbed her coat off of the rack and folded it over her arm. “What’d you do with your tickets to the game?”

  “I gave them to Dr. Timmins,” he said.

  “I didn’t think Jerry liked football,” Macey said.

  Zach shrugged. “I’m not sure if he likes football or not. The tickets weren’t for him.”

  Kaitlyn stood and picked her own coat up off the other side of the couch. “I saw Dr. Timmins give the tickets to that cute little Mr. Springsted.”

  “That’s right,” Zach said.

  “Oh,” Macey said. “You mean that little old man security always chases out of the chapel after-hours?”

  “That’s him,” Kaitlyn answered. “The one who used to buy his wife flowers every Friday and put them by her bedside.”

  “Used to buy?” Macey said sympathetically. “Oh no, that’s terrible. I heard that she was in a coma for, what—six, eight weeks? Poor thing.”

  “Twenty-two weeks,” Zach corrected.

  Kaitlyn crossed her arms. “Mrs. Springsted was in a coma for twenty-two weeks and got flowers every Friday.”

  “Yeah?” Zach said, squinting at her.

  “That’s about twenty more times than I got flowers from my old boyfriend over three years.”

  “Well, it looks like Mr. Springsted doesn’t have to buy them anymore.”

  “Zach!” Macey said. That statement was a little cold even for him. “That’s awful!”

  “What?” Zach asked. “What’s awful?”

  “Are you serious?” Macey puffed. “The poor woman is dead, for Pete’s sake.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kaitlyn asked. “You really were busy today, weren’t you? You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “She didn’t die,” Zach said.

  Kaitlyn took Macey by the arm. “Mrs. Springsted walked out of here yesterday.”

  “She walked out of here?”

  Zach leaned against the doorway. “Her husband came to visit her yesterday, and she was sitting up in the bed when he walked in the room.”

  Macey grabbed her purse off her desk, went to the door, and waited for a punch line. “You guys are pulling my leg. After twenty-two weeks in a coma? That’s impossible.”

  “Call it what you want,” Kaitlyn said. “She walked out of here yesterday.”

  “Twenty-two weeks?” Macey asked again. “But her mind, her strength, the atrophy—it’s impossible!”

  “It happened,” Kaitlyn said. “Carrie Armstrong told me that Mrs. Springsted was as sharp as a tack and walked as if she had just awakened from a little nap.”

  “It’s amazing,” Macey said, looking back and forth at them. They were telling the truth. She had never heard anything like it. “First thing Monday, I’m going up to Seven t
o hear the story from Dr. Timmins. I love stories like this.”

  “He doesn’t work on Seven,” Kaitlyn said. “He hasn’t worked up there in a couple of months.”

  “What floor is he on now?”

  Macey suddenly felt as if something had brushed against the hairs on the side of her neck. Thousands of goose bumps marched down her back and arms. She thought about that strange and lonely elevator ride and how she tried to figure out why maintenance would be working on the elevators during the busiest part of the day. She could still see the same lit number, frozen above all four doors before the elevators had come down to answer her call. She remembered getting off that elevator, feeling—no, not feeling, knowing—something had happened.

  She knew, before they said it, which floor Mary Springsted was on when she came out of her twenty-two-week coma and went home. The floor Dr. Timmins worked.

  She knew.

  Five.

  TEN

  Macey closed the passenger door of her Jeep and leaned over to check her hair in the cracked side-view mirror.

  “Did you want the window rolled up?” Kaitlyn asked.

  “Just leave it like it is.”

  The air was cool, and although a lazy fog stretched out over both the parking lot and most of the grounds of St. Thomas, the sun was starting to peek through the clouds behind them, hinting at a beautiful day ahead. The faint sound of a piano filtered through the damp air and down the hill from inside the small church. Macey threw her purse over her shoulder and walked around the front of the car.

  “It starts in four minutes,” she said, putting her coat on. “We better move it—and by the way, you look nice, Kait. Very churchy.”

  “Thanks, but I honestly can’t remember the last time I was in church.”

  “It’s been awhile for me too,” Macey said, picking at a strip of pesky lint that clung to the arm of her coat. “I hope the building doesn’t crumble when I walk in.”