A Night at the Asylum (23 page)

The ambulance doors closed. And away we
went.

****

…And Beyond…

****

The smell of lilacs swirled about in the air
on a warm breeze that accented a beautiful, perfect spring day.
“Here, Mom,” I said, handing her a foam plate of French fries, then
turning back to my father. It was early evening and this particular
backyard cook out was surprisingly crowded. Half the town had to be
here, I thought. My dad was making some joke about how he should
have hosted this at the restaurant so he could charge people for
their burgers.

I was a little apprehensive about what was to
come. Then all too quickly, the moment was here, and I put down the
plate of food I was helping my dad with. “Is it okay if I go?” I
asked him. He smiled at me. I looked at my mother and she nodded,
her eyes tearful. I could feel them watching me as I walked through
the gate and strode across the lawn toward the ancient black
Mustang that had just pulled up in the driveway. Emmett caught up
with me and grabbed hold of my hand, and I looked up at him
appreciatively as he crossed the yard with me, never faltering in
his step. We knew things other people didn’t know. I wouldn’t have
had it any other way.

In the hospital I awoke and he had been
there, smiling at me from the chair next to my bed. I was glad I
hadn’t forfeited. It was like seeing the sun rise in the middle of
my room. I knew I’d be seeing many sunrises to come. As we walked
toward the road, I knew everything was the way it was supposed to
be.

Bonita stepped out of the car, looking
radiant. I could definitely see now what had attracted so many boys
to her side over the years. She swept her long dark hair back and
reached down into the backseat of the car. Jon got out on the other
side, greeting Emmett, handing him a foil-covered dish of some
sort. I was happy she and Jon were together. Both had lost the
loves of their lives and found some solace in each other, and it
made sense. I waited for Bonita, watching her bend down and unhook
a car seat. There was the sound of tiny footsteps on the pavement,
and then there he was scampering toward me, a little boy about four
and a half years old…a boy with Bonita's raven hair and my
brother’s gold-flecked eyes. He had on a little basketball jersey,
looking as cute as a picture. “Hello, there,” I said, bending down
to him. My eyes blurred with tears, and I pinched his tummy
playfully and grinned at him. “My name’s Sara,” I told him. “I’m
your aunt.”

“I know that, silly,” he answered, grinning
back at me. He had the sweetest little voice, and already I loved
him.

I laughed. “And what is your name?” I
asked.

He swiveled back and forth, a ball of energy,
just like his daddy. I wondered if he would jump off of our chairs
in a pillow-case cape. I decided I would make him one. “Joseph
Thomas Featherstone,” he recited perfectly, holding out his hand
for me to shake.

We all stood around him, enthralled by how
little and precious he was. Down on one knee, I could see into his
big eyes, and I shook his chubby little hand properly. “That’s
quite a name,” I teased him. “Is there something I can call you for
short?” I asked.

He grinned at me, a little angel's smile, so
familiar and yet all his own. “Yes, ma'am,” he answered, ever so
politely. “You can call me Joey.”

********

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