The Chance: A Novel (44 page)

Somewhere in the storm cellar of her mind, she must have thought that could actually happen. And as long as the calendar didn’t move them indiscriminately past June first, the idea was at least a possibility.

Until now.

H
er last client left just after nine o’clock. Ellie could hardly wait to get home. She had texted Tina a few times to make sure Kinzie was awake, and now if she hurried, she could read to her and hear about her day.

Ellie left through the front door. Two clients were getting their hair done, so she didn’t need to lock up. She clutched a ten from her tip money in one hand and her new pepper spray in the other. One of the girls had been robbed by a couple of teens in the parking lot last week. Ellie wasn’t taking any chances.

She spotted Jimbo curled up on the far end of the sidewalk. Poor guy. He looked terrible, his hair more matted than usual. She had invited him into the salon before to get his hair washed and cut. Something he loved. She would have to set up another appointment. Early next week, maybe.

The strange man popped out of the shadows on her left and slightly behind her. “Ellie.”

Fear grabbed her and she spun around, her finger on the trigger of her pepper spray. His voice sounded vaguely familiar and his face—she gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. She took a few steps back. “Dad?” The word was a whisper, all that would come out.

His face looked older, but not much. He had no real wrinkles and the build of a man much younger. But there was something different about him. Something Ellie couldn’t figure out. He held a large box in his arms, almost the same size as the one she’d seen him sitting next to in his living room that night a few weeks ago.

“Ellie . . . I had to come.” Shame colored his eyes. He held
out the box. “This . . . it’s for you. It’s heavy.” He came a little closer. “Maybe I can carry it to your car?”

It had been seven years since she’d seen him, and he wanted to give her a box? No apology or explanation or questions about how she was? How her baby was? Anger ran cold through her veins. “What are you doing?” Her high-pitched tone gave away her sudden hurt. “How long have you been here?”

He leaned against the wall. For a few seconds he stared at the ground, and before he looked at Ellie again, he set the box near his feet. He seemed shaky, like he might faint. When he finally brought his eyes to hers, he looked ashen. “I came to tell you . . . I’m sorry.”

Ellie hesitated. She was furious with him for showing up unannounced, for jumping out of the shadows. But nothing could minimize the impact of her broken-looking father apologizing to her. The way she had always hoped he someday might. She glanced down at the box and then searched his eyes. “What . . .” Her voice trembled. “What’s in it?”

The question hung there for a few seconds. Her dad brought his hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. He seemed to hold his breath before he exhaled and dropped his hand to his waist. “They’re letters. From your mom.”

Ellie felt her heart rate quicken. She looked down at the box, and this time she could see a fraction of what was inside. It was the size of a laundry basket, and it looked full to the top. She found her father’s eyes again. “From my
mom
?” She swallowed, dreading the next question and instinctively knowing the answer at the same time. “For who?”

Her dad shook his head, and again his hand came to his face for a long moment. Finally, as if waging war against himself,
he looked at her once more. “They’re for you, Ellie. Every one of them.”

Gravity ceased to exist. Ellie’s world rocked hard off its axis, her ears buzzed, and she couldn’t hear the rest of what he said. Her knees started to give out, and she could no longer feel the ground beneath her. What had he told her? Letters . . . something about letters. She squeezed her eyes shut, half bent over, her hands on her knees so she wouldn’t collapse. If the box was full of letters . . . that her mom had written to her . . .

She stood slowly and stared at him. Her words came only with great effort. “She wrote me? All those letters?”

“Yes.” His face had reached a new level of pale. Almost gray. “I’m sorry, Ellie. It was wrong of me to—”

“Since when?” Her lungs started working again, and the anger this time around was something she’d never felt before. Her voice rose, and she spoke through clenched teeth. “When did she start writing to me?”

“From . . .” He shook his head and looked at the box. His shoulders moved up a little in a pathetic shrug. “Ellie, she’s been writing to you from the beginning. Since . . . since we moved here.”

A tsunami of heartbreak consumed the landscape of her heart, wiping out all she had known or assumed or believed to be real over the last eleven years. Her mother—the one she thought had abandoned her—had been writing letters to her? If the box was full, then there could be a hundred inside. Maybe two or three hundred. Which meant . . .
You never gave up on me, Mom. You never stopped trying to find me.

Ellie’s anger washed away with the next wave of understanding. Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked them back. No, this couldn’t be happening. She shook her head, desperate to fully
grasp the revelation, searching her father’s eyes. “Does she know? That you never gave them to me?”

His spirit seemed to be shattering in slow motion before her eyes. “No. She . . . she must think you’ve been getting them.”

“All these years?” The words came loud and sharp and slow, despite the fresh tears on her cheeks. “All these years, Dad?” Her mouth hung open, anger once more taking the lead in the emotions pummeling her. “Why?”

Not even a hint of justification colored his expression. “I thought she’d be a bad influence on you.” His shoulders dropped some. “It was wrong, Ellie. I know that now. God has shown me how much I hurt you and—”

“Stop!” She was shaking, no longer able to tell the difference between anger and gut-wrenching sorrow. Her world was spinning, but she couldn’t back down. Not now. She pointed at him, every word slow and deliberate. “Don’t you talk to me about God. Don’t!”

“Ellie, I’m a different man now. That’s why I had to—”

“Don’t!” She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear it.” She stared at him, her heart slamming around in her chest. There was nothing else to say. She slipped her pepper spray into one pocket and her tip money into the other. Then she walked to the box, bent down, and heaved it into her arms.

“Here. I can help you.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t look up. Instead, she took the box, turned her back on him, and walked to the end of the strip mall. Her father didn’t follow. She set the box down and bent low, near Jimbo. “Hey, wake up.” The smell of stale alcohol and sweat filled her senses. “Jimbo, it’s me. Wake up.”

He blinked a few times and squinted at her. “Ellie?”

She looked over her shoulder. Her dad was back near the salon, leaning against the wall, his head low. This had to be fast. She would break down here on the sidewalk if she waited another minute to get to her car. “Here.” She pulled the ten from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Don’t buy whiskey.”

He took the money, his eyes welling up the way they always did when she finished a shift. “I won’t.”

“Not beer, either. Get milk and a burger, okay?”

“Milk and a burger.” He nodded, scurrying to a sitting position and placing the money in his threadbare backpack. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay.” She stood. “See you later.”

“Yes.” He pressed his back against the wall, more awake. “You know what I do when I’m finished with my busy day, Ellie?”

She hesitated, feeling the urgency of getting home, getting to the box of letters. “What?”

“I talk to God about you.” He dabbed at his eyes. “I ask the good Lord to bless you, Ellie.”

Her heart felt his kindness in a way she needed. Especially with eleven years of her mother’s letters sitting in a box at her feet. “Thanks, Jimbo.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “That means a lot.” She picked up the box again. “Be safe.” She swapped a look with him, then crossed the dark parking lot to her car. The asphalt felt like thick sand, and she was breathing faster than she should have been. But she wasn’t looking back. Not now or ever. She unlocked her car, slid the box onto the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and slammed her door.

Was she dreaming? Did that really just happen? She let her head fall onto the steering wheel. How could he do this to her?
He had
lived
with her for five of those years. One season after another, her saying good morning to him over breakfast and walking past him in the hallway and wishing him good night before she headed off to bed. All without telling her the truth. How was that even possible? He’d kept her mother’s letters from her all that time? The number of days and months and years screamed through her soul. Nearly eleven years? Hiding away letters her mother had written to her? How could he do that and not die from the guilt?
Breathe, Ellie . . . breathe. You’ll get through this.
She lifted her head and looked at the box beside her. The large cardboard container filled with unopened letters her mom had been sending since they moved.

She started the engine and backed out of the space. And in that moment she suddenly understood why her father had looked different. It was his eyes. He no longer looked hard and angry, the way he had since they moved to San Diego. Ellie knew it with every loud, painful beat of her heart. She glanced at the spot where she’d been talking to her dad. She didn’t plan to look. It just happened. The parking lot lights were bright enough that she could see him. He hadn’t moved. As she drove past, she saw proof that she was right. The anger that had defined him for so long was gone. She knew because he was leaning against the wall, looking at her, and doing something she had never in all her life seen her father do.

He was weeping.

Chapter
Eighteen

N
olan couldn’t shake the picture, the one he’d seen in the e-mail. The eight-year-old boy should’ve had all his life ahead of him, but instead he had terminal cancer. His name was Gunner. Nolan couldn’t remember his last name, just his first. Gunner. The kid and his family would be at the arena soon. Nolan pounded the ball on the hardwood and circled to the other side of the net. His teammates were serious, focused. Game 6 was two hours away and they were up 3–2. Beat Boston tonight, and the Hawks were in the NBA finals. Lose, and they’d be a game from elimination.

Nolan kept to himself, focused on the net. Ten quick jump shots and he made eye contact with Dexter, long enough to convey the obvious. They would do this. They would win it. They had to. One of the Celtics starters had spouted off on Twitter that they’d destroy the Hawks in Game 6. That Atlanta didn’t have what it took, and Nolan Cook was overrated.

Overrated
.

Nolan clenched his jaw. He wasn’t losing tonight. God was with him. He would play outside his own strength and believe—
absolutely believe—that when it came to basketball this season, the Lord wasn’t finished with him yet. He had more ways he could shine for Christ. For Him and through Him, in His strength. Glorifying God. That was what mattered tonight.

That and Gunner.

The e-mail showed the small boy bald, with big brown eyes. The kid had two wishes. He wanted to play basketball for his high school. And he wanted to meet Nolan.

The first dream would never happen. Gunner had a month or two at best, from what his parents said in the letter. The second wish would come true today. Nolan sank a dozen free throws. The boy and his parents would be here in fifteen minutes.

So many sick kids. It was the hardest part of caring, of opening his heart and giving of himself. He wouldn’t trade it. God had given him this platform, and Nolan would use it however he could. Hanging out with a sick little boy, bringing joy to a child who wouldn’t live to see Christmas? Praying for him the way he would tonight? This was what playing basketball was really about. Caring was Nolan’s absolute privilege.

But it wasn’t easy.

Most of the kids he hosted were from Atlanta’s foster care system. That or sick kids who still had a chance. So far this year he hadn’t spent time with any terminal children. Not until tonight, with Gunner. Gunner, the boy who loved basketball. Nolan dribbled in for a layup, his heart heavier than the ball. It was wrong. The boy with the name that sportscasters would’ve loved wouldn’t live to see next year’s play-offs.