Gideon's Gift (2 page)

Cold, dead eyes.

The only time he figured his eyes might possibly show signs of life or loneliness was at night. When he wore the red gloves.
But then, no one ever saw his eyes during those hours.

He finished his plate, pushed back from the table and headed for the exit. D. J. watched him go, standing guard at the front
of the food line. “See you tomorrow, Earl.” He waved big. “I’ll be praying for you.”

Earl didn’t turn around. He walked hard and fast out the door into the dark, rainy night. It was colder than before. It worried
him a little. Some years, when the first cold night had hit, another street person had swiped his bed or taken off with his
tarp. His current tarp hung like a curtain across the outside wall of his home. It was easily the most important part of his
physical survival. Small wonder they were taken so often.

He narrowed his eyes and picked up his pace. His back hurt and he felt more miserable than usual. He was anxious for sleep,
anxious to shut out the world and everything bad about it.

Anxious for the red gloves.

He’d spent this day like every other day, wandering the alleyways and staring at his feet. He always took his meals at the
mission and waited. For sundown, for sleep, for death. Years ago, when he’d first hit the streets, his emotions had been closer
to the surface. Sorrow and grief and guilt, fear and loneliness and anxiety. Hourly these would seize him, strangling his
battered heart like a vice grip.

But each day on the streets had built in him another layer, separating him from everything he’d ever felt, everything about
the man he used to be and the life he used to lead. His emotions were buried deep now, and Earl was sure they’d never surface
again. He was a shell—a meaningless, unfeeling shell.

His existence was centered in nothingness and nightfall.

He rounded the corner and through the wet darkness he saw his home. It was barely noticeable, tucked beneath an old wrought-iron
stairwell deep in the heart of a forgotten alley. Hanging from seven rusty bolts along the underside of the stairs was the
plastic tarp. He lifted the bottom of it off the ground and crawled inside. No matter how wet it was, rain almost never found
its way beyond the tarp. His pillow and pile of old blankets were still dry.

He’d been waiting for this moment all day.

His fingers found the zipper in the lining of his parka and lowered it several inches. He tucked his hand inside and found
them, right where he’d left them this morning. As soon as he made contact with the soft wool, the layers began to fall away,
exposing what was left of his heart.

Carefully he pulled the gloves out and slipped them onto his fingers, one at a time. He stared at them, studied them, remembering
the hands that had knit them a lifetime ago. Then he did something that had become part of his routine, something he did every
night at this time. He brought his hands to his face and kissed first one woolen palm and then the other.

“Good night, girls.” He muttered the words out loud. Then he lay down and covered himself with the tattered blankets. When
he was buried far beneath, when the warmth of his body had served to sufficiently warm the place where he slept, he laced
his gloved fingers together and drifted off to sleep.

T
he next morning he was still half given to a wonderful dream when he felt rain on his face. Rain and a stream of light much
brighter than usual. With eyes closed, he turned his head from side to side. What was it? Where was the water coming from
and why wasn’t his tarp working?

He rubbed his fingers together—

—and sat straight up.

“No!” His voice ricocheted off the brick walls of the empty alley.

“Noooo!” He stood up and yelled as loudly as he could—a gut-wrenching, painful cry of the type he hadn’t uttered since that
awful afternoon five years ago.

His head was spinning. He grabbed at his hair, pulled it until his scalp hurt. It wasn’t possible. Yet…

He’d been robbed. In the middle of the night someone had found him sleeping and taken most of what made up his home. His tarp
was gone. Most of his blankets, too.

But that wasn’t all. They had stolen everything left of his will to live, everything he had to look forward to. Nothing this
bad had happened to him since he took to the streets. He shook his head in absolute misery as a driving rain pelted his skin,
washing away all that remained of his sleep.

He stared at his hands, his body trembling. The thing he’d feared most of all had finally happened.

The red gloves were gone.

T
he hardest part was pretending everything was okay.

Brian Mercer held tightly to Gideon’s small hand and kept his steps short so she could keep up. With all his heart he hoped
this would be the day the doctors looked him in the eye and told him the good news: that his precious eight-year-old daughter
was in remission.

It was a possibility. Gideon seemed stronger than last week at this time. But Brian had felt that way more than once and each
time the report had been the same. The cancer wasn’t advancing, but it wasn’t backing off, either.

Brian stifled a sigh as they made their way from the car to Doernbecher’s Children’s Hospital. If only Tish were here with
them. Tish was wonderful at raising Gideon’s spirits. Optimism and laughter rang out in every conversation between them. It
was something the two of them brought out in each other.

Tish would have found a way to make the doctor appointment fun. But she couldn’t miss even a day of work. Not with Gideon’s
medical bills piling up. Not with his boss threatening layoffs and more hourly cuts at the lumber mill. No, Tish couldn’t
possibly be here. Her two cashier jobs were sometimes all they could depend on.

At least the neighbors took little Dustin whenever Gideon had an appointment.

They stepped into the elevator and Gideon looked up at him, her head cocked to one side. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Nothing.” Brian gave Gideon’s hand a light squeeze. “I was wishing Mommy could be here.”

“Me, too.” A shadow fell across Gideon’s face and her eyes took on that soulful, deep look—the look that had become a permanent
part of her expression since her diagnosis six months ago. They fell silent for a moment. “Do you think I’ll be better today?”

“Well…” Brian bit the inside of his lip. There was no point getting her hopes up, but at the same time he had a feeling.
Maybe… just maybe…
“How do you feel?”

Her eyes lit up. “Better.”

“Okay.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her woolen beret. “Then, yes. I think today might be the day.”

The routine was the same every time. Once they reached the right floor, they checked in at the lab and a technician drew a
vial of Gideon’s blood. In the beginning–—when she’d first gotten sick—the needles had scared her. But she was used to them
now, poor girl.

After the blood draw they made their way down a long, glassed-in catwalk, fifteen floors above Portland’s hilly downtown.
Halfway across, they found their bench and stopped. At first they had used the bench as a resting point, because Gideon tired
so easily. Now it was just something they did. Besides, Gideon’s test results always took awhile, so there was no hurry.

The bench was placed at a point where the view was breathtaking. There were still sailboats on the Columbia and Willamette,
and the sun glistening off a dozen tributaries that crisscrossed the city. And, on a clear day like this one, the towering
white presence of Mt. Hood.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Brian slipped his arm around Gideon’s shoulders.

Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “Sometimes I feel like a bird up here. Like I could fly over the city and down along the rivers.”
She looked up at him. “And never, ever be sick again.”

Brian swallowed hard. Something about this part of their routine always made Gideon pensive. It was the hardest part for Brian.
The time when he wanted to cry out to God and ask “Why?” Why an eight-year-old little girl? Why his daughter? How was it he
and Tish could help strangers, but do nothing for their own child?

All he wanted was his family back. Tish and Gideon and Dustin and him. Laughing and loving and taking walks on crisp winter
mornings like this one. Just a series of days where none of them had to wonder whether Gideon was getting better. Whether
she’d live to see the following Christmas.

There was nothing Brian could say to his daughter, no promises he could make. Instead he hugged her and cleared his throat.
It was time to pick a topic. Since her first doctor visit, the two of them had always chosen this time to discuss special
things. So far they’d covered a dozen subjects: how mountains were formed, why rivers flowed, and where exactly was heaven.
But today, the second of December, Brian had a specific topic in mind. A happy one. One he and Tish had talked about the night
before.

“Let’s talk about Christmas, Gideon.” He took her hand once more and they continued down the catwalk toward the doctor’s office.

“Yeah.” A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Let’s do that.”

They checked in and found their usual spot, on a sofa near the back of the waiting room. Brian angled his body so he could
see her, study her wispy brown hair and unforgettable eyes. She was a miniature of Tish. A more serious, ethereal miniature.
She’d been that way even before the cancer. As though she carried something deep in her heart—an innocent wisdom, an ability
to see straight to the soul of a person. It was what set her apart from other children.

And what he and Tish would miss most if—

Brian blinked. He had ordered himself never to think such things. Nothing could be gained by worrying and dreading the future,
borrowing tomorrow’s pain for today. Still, there were times when fear didn’t bother knocking. Times when it kicked in the
door and tramped right in. Times like these.

“Okay.” He exhaled slowly. “Christmas.” He reached for Gideon’s hand once more. “Where should we start?”

Her eyes danced like the twinkling lights on the hospital’s Christmas tree. “Let’s talk about the
perfect
Christmas.”

“Hmmm… The perfect Christmas.” Brian leaned into the sofa and gazed out the glass-panel window at the brilliant blue sky beyond.
The answer was an easy one. They would find enough money to get Gideon a bone-marrow transplant. She would recover quickly
and find her place once more among her little friends at school. And they’d never, ever again have to talk about Christmas
from the corner of a cancer doctor’s office.

He shifted his eyes to Gideon. “You go first.”

“Okay.” The twinkle in her eyes dimmed somewhat. She suddenly looked a million miles away, lost in a world of imagination.
“We would have a real tree, a tall one that almost touches the ceiling. With lights and decorations and a star on top for
you and Mom.” She released his hand and stretched her arms over her head. “A big turkey. And a fire truck for Dustin.”

Brian could feel his heart breaking. Gideon’s perfect Christmas was the kind most kids expected. But money had never come
easily for him and Tish. This Christmas—like so many others—they would assemble a four-foot green-plastic tree and cover it
with a seventy-cent box of tinsel. Toys would be secondhand and maybe missing parts. Dinner would be chicken and mashed potatoes.

But it was more than many people had, and he and Tish were grateful. Christmas was always wonderful, despite the lack of material
trappings. And the children never complained, never made mention of the fact that their Christmases were any different from
that of other children.

Until now.

Of course, Gideon was hardly complaining. She was just playing along, talking about the topic he’d suggested. Brian clenched
his jaw. If there’d been a way to find the money, he would have done just that—found the biggest, best, most fragrant, Christmas
tree and all the trinkets and toys to go with it. But the mill had cut his hours down to twelve a week. It was barely a job.
And Gideon’s medical bills—