Waking Lazarus (27 page)

Jude walked to the bed and stood beside his father, where he could start to make out the features. He’d seen his dad only a few days previously, and yet William had aged more in those few days than he had in the previous six years.

‘‘So what happened?’’ Jude asked.

‘‘That congestive heart failure thing.’’ William smiled. ‘‘Which is just doctor-speak for ‘you’re an idiot for not taking care of yourself.’ ’’ ‘‘So are you gonna . . . be okay?’’ Jude was filtering through his recent thoughts, thoughts of rage and anger directed at his father. Had those thoughts put his father here? No, probably not; his father talked about a heart problem at their last visit, before most of those thoughts came spilling out. Still.

‘‘Doctors won’t say. But then, doctors today are scared of their own shadows. Don’t want to tell you anything, because they think you’ll sue them. So, they’re not really saying I’m gonna get better, but they’re not really saying I’m gonna kick the bucket. Me, I’m leaning more toward the bucket scenario.’’

Jude nodded, feeling he should stay quiet.

‘‘Funny thing you’re here,’’ William said to him. ‘‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you since they brought me in last night. Been feeling like I need to tell you something.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘All these years, I thought you knew all about it. I thought you remembered it.’’

‘‘Remembered what?’’

William rolled his head the other way, grimaced. ‘‘I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you now. Your mom’s dead. Maybe even Carol too.’’

(
Mommy’s gonna find out about Carol Steadman
.)

More of the memory flashed in his mind. His dad, leaning over his bed, listening to Jude talk about Carol Steadman.

Jude cleared his throat again. ‘‘Carol Steadman, you mean? Mrs. Steadman?’’ Jude hadn’t thought about her since he was a child. Had totally forgotten about her until this instant, in fact. She had worked at the Thrifty Value store in Bingham, Nebraska.

‘‘I had an affair with her, Jude.’’

Silence. Not a sound, except the hum of the hospital’s machinery and a few clicking footsteps going down the linoleum hallway outside.

‘‘I . . . didn’t know that,’’ Jude finally offered. He knew it was weak, but his brain was too muddled to come up with anything better. ‘‘That’s the thing, though. I don’t know what I was thinking then; I still can’t make sense of it now. But it happened, and there was no way you could know, but you did anyway.’’ His father paused, licking his lips. ‘‘I was putting you to bed one night, and you just started crying. I remember this so clearly—you said: ‘Mommy’s gonna find out about Mrs. Steadman, and—’’’

—It came to Jude, swiftly and suddenly. In his newly unearthed memory Jude saw a young version of himself, lying in bed with the covers pulled up to his nose.
Snug as a bug in a rug,
his mom would say, only it wasn’t Mom sitting on the bed next to him. It was Dad. His mind creaked, trying to grasp something it had to say but unable to do so. And he was scared, so scared of what he had to say to Dad that tears spilled from his eyes and wet the pillow beneath him.

Still, even if he didn’t understand it, he could tell his dad about it. He was
supposed
to tell his dad, that was part of it. But the other part was, the eight-year-old Jude Allman had been taught you can trust anything you want to say, anything at all, to an adult. So even if he didn’t really know what it all meant, Dad certainly would. And Dad would probably be happy to hear it, and he’d scoop Jude out of the bed and take him to the kitchen for a couple of scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and maybe in the morning they’d go fly that box kite. Jude liked the box kite.

He could tell his dad was thinking about something else; his eyes were staring at him, but they were also looking at something far away. ‘‘Dad?’’ he asked, hope starting to dry his tears. When he spoke, something shifted inside his dad.

A cloud of concern crossed William’s face. ‘‘What is it?’’ his dad asked. ‘‘You know you can tell me anything.’’

And his dad was right, sure he was right. Jude knew it was okay to share anything with good old Dad (Mom was better, he wished it was Mom, but this particular thing was
about
Mom). So Jude opened his mouth and continued. ‘‘Mommy’s gonna find out about Mrs. Steadman, and she’s gonna kill herself.’’

He saw immediately that he’d been terribly wrong, that there were in fact some things you shouldn’t tell Mom or Dad or any adult. He had just now found such a thing, and his dad had a look in his eyes that made Jude afraid.

Very afraid.

He wished his mom was tucking him in, that he wasn’t alone with his father. He had said the thing he was supposed to; he hadn’t understood all of it, and he had been sure it was something that wasn’t good or right (the part about Mommy killing herself Jude understood well enough, and it scared him), but he had told his father all the same.

He had been sure Dad would understand it all and fix it. That was what Dad did. But as he looked at his father, he saw he had been very wrong. His father understood, that much was clear. Dad was supposed to fix something, but even at that tender young age Jude realized something much bigger, much more important, had just been broken. And it would never be fixed.

Jude shook off the memory of his childhood and interrupted his father. ‘‘You were having an affair with Mrs. Steadman,’’ he said, his voice thin and flat. He still saw the scene playing in his mind. The fractured pieces of the memory had been put together again, and now the scene kept playing, rewinding in front of his mind’s eye. This was one of those memories he’d kept tucked into the deepest part of the closet (
keep it secret, keep it safe
), hidden under the nice soft blanket that cloaked so much of his mind.

Now he knew. He understood how a young boy with a gift he couldn’t understand could create fear in his father—fear he
could
understand. Fear he had always understood.

‘‘I didn’t remember that. Not until just now.’’ Jude looked down at his dad’s face. The roles were reversed: his father in bed, afraid of the secret he’d just told, the son looking down at him.

‘‘You were scared of me,’’ Jude said softly. It all made so much sense now, with the one memory he’d buried deep inside exposed and melting in the bright light of his mind.

Jude thought he could see tears in his father’s eyes. ‘‘I suppose I was,’’ William answered. ‘‘I knew of your . . . your
gift
, I suppose; your mother and I had seen that lots of times. For years I just waited for your mom to . . . you know. Every day, I lived in this secret fear she would find out. So finally
I
told her because I couldn’t live with it. And you know what she said? ‘I know.’ She had figured it out at some point, but she had already forgiven me—before I ever asked.’’ He paused.

‘‘After she was killed, I let it drive me mad. For a while I made all these crazy plans to attend the trial, to kill the guy myself if he got off. But then I remembered what your mother had done with something that hurt so much: she forgave, because forgiving
me
healed
her
. And, in an odd way, I think that’s what stopped your vision, your prediction, whatever you want to call it. Forgiveness.’’

Jude nodded. He took his father’s hand, and spoke softly. ‘‘I understand, Dad,’’ he said.

Now his father did start crying, an image that until a few minutes ago would have been discomfiting for Jude. He accessed the memory banks—new memories were coming online all the time, and he’d been taking them out to examine them as they popped into focus—and searched for anything that had his dad crying. Nothing. His dad had never cried that he could remember. Maybe even that his dad could remember.

‘‘That’s why,’’ his dad choked, ‘‘I need to tell you something else. About the day you almost drowned.’’

Almost drowned
. He’d been dead more than an hour that day, no almost about it. But it was obvious his father had a difficult time accepting Jude’s gift. He waited for his dad to get through a few quick sobs.

‘‘After you fell through the ice,’’ William whispered, ‘‘for a second, just a second, I . . .’’

Jude knew this one, and he finished his father’s thought again. ‘‘You thought about leaving me.’’

William broke down in a fresh sob, squeezing Jude’s hand as he did. ‘‘God forgive me,’’ William said. Any other time in his father’s life, Jude would have been convinced these were empty words, an expression that just happened to fit the situation, a colorful way of saying ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ But in this instance Jude was sure his dad meant everything the phrase said. He was asking for God’s forgiveness. In a strange way Jude knew how to answer this as well.

‘‘He does. And so do I.’’ Jude paused a moment, processing all the multicolored memories flooding back into his consciousness. Only they weren’t just a jumble now; they were starting to lock together in a way that made sense. ‘‘And I need to ask your forgiveness as well,’’ he said.

His father’s eyes widened, and he nodded for Jude to continue.

‘‘For wishing you were dead.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘No, not quite that. After Mom died, and I just didn’t realize it until now, but I was mad at God for taking her first.’’

His father didn’t seem shocked at this news.

You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good
. Rachel had said that just a few minutes ago. ‘‘If you had died first, this conversation never would have happened. So in an odd way we’re here right now because of Mom.’’ He shook his head again. ‘‘Does that make sense?’’

His father nodded weakly. ‘‘Perfect sense.’’ He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. Jude waited patiently; the pain of buried memories was a giant wave, he knew that too well, and he would wait until his dad had made it past this swell.

Finally William opened his eyes and looked at Jude again. ‘‘I remembered flying that kite with you—just the other day I remembered. And now that I think about it, the wind wasn’t all that bad.’’

37

REAPING

Rachel looked at the giant octopus that was her best friend. Nicole, who constantly took care of Nathan when Rachel needed a break, or dropped by the shop with a latte to surprise her, or made the lemon bars Rachel loved so much, was now an octopus of metal and plastic. Tubes and wires intertwined, connecting her body to machines and outlets. Worst of all, her head had swollen, her features ballooning into an oversized mask.

The ICU was for family only—they had passed a sign that told them as much on the way in—and Rachel realized Nicole
was
her only family here, in a way. The sister she’d never had. But Rachel herself felt more like a wicked stepsister. She thought a moment, trying to recall how many times she’d dropped by Nicole’s home, or just called to say hi. Not many. Not many at all.

She bit her lip and listened, hoping for God’s voice inside to proclaim something warm and comforting. A baritone
You are forgiven,
my child
, perhaps. But the voice remained quiet.

She tasted something salty and only now realized she was crying. Tears traced a thin line down her cheeks and found their way to her mouth, right where she always bit her lip. She wiped at her cheeks with the heel of her hand as she moved next to Nicole. She took Nicole’s hand, squeezed, hoping for a squeeze in return. Nothing.

Rachel felt something brush her shoulder, and she jumped, catching her breath in her throat.

‘‘Sorry,’’ Jude mumbled.

At first, she thought he looked pale, as if the blood in his veins had been replaced with a few quarts of milk. But his eyes, ah, his eyes seemed to be overfilled with color, maybe even a different color than normal. She tried to recall if she’d ever noticed their color. Blue? Green? Hazel? Even now, she couldn’t say for sure—it was almost as if the color were subtly shifting, like one of those mood rings from the 1970s.

‘‘How’s your dad?’’ she asked.

He shrugged, locked eyes with her. ‘‘Hard to say. But I’m better.’’

Yes, she had to agree, something about him seemed more . . . alive. So much, he had hidden so much. It was amazing he hadn’t become more paranoid, amazing he hadn’t actually just folded in on himself at some point, hiding a secret like that. And she wondered— for the first time since she’d become a believer, she realized—what it was like to die. What really was on the other side? Was the white light everyone talked about really there?

She cleared her mind, swept all those thoughts away. Her son was missing, and she didn’t want to think about dying. She didn’t want to think about anything else but finding him. She could feel sorry for herself later, feel sorry for Nicole, feel sorry for Jude and anyone else who might come to mind. But now, right
now
, she had to close off feelings of self-pity. She had to be cold, hard, iron.

‘‘So do you—’’ Rachel started before a nurse bolted through the door and stopped her in mid-sentence. It was the same nurse who had closed Nicole’s door in her face a few minutes ago. The look on the nurse’s face said she was annoyed to see Nicole the Octopus had visitors.

The nurse’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘You family? ICU’s for—’’

‘‘She’s my sister,’’ Rachel said firmly, staring at the nurse.

The nurse nodded and set to work. ‘‘Seems to be more stable now. I just need to check some vitals,’’ she said. She waded into the tangle of tubes and wires, leaving Rachel and Jude to stand by awkwardly.

Rachel looked at Nicole’s eyes, noted how puffy they were. Even if she were conscious and awake, she probably couldn’t open them. Rachel felt her own eyes starting to blur again.

‘‘Has she . . . been able to say anything?’’ Rachel asked. She was sure Nicole hadn’t, but she wanted to ask
something
. She had to break the awkward human silence in the room; various machines buzzed, pumped and beeped, but those sounds were somehow more sinister than dead silence. Rachel also needed to speak to remove the emotion from her eyes. If she had to speak, she wouldn’t cry.

The nurse looked up from her work, shook her head softly. ‘‘Still in her own world.’’

Rachel thought about what Nicole must have been through. Had she seen the kidnapper? Maybe. Was she shot trying to save them? Probably. Most definitely; Nicole would have fought the kidnapper, whoever he is.