by J J Hebert
* * *
I’m finally able to see the light at the end of the tunnel with the rewrite of this novel. The tale is far ahead of where it was months ago. The characters are so real, I expect them to step from the pages any minute now.
I could sit each of them down and talk to them separately.
First, with Stephen, the protagonist, the mistreated underdog:
Me: Thank you for putting up with me, the god of your universe, all along, even when things seemed bleak and hopeless.
Stephen, his jet-black hair frowzy: You know, it hasn’t been easy. For the longest time, I couldn’t see you. I had a feeling you existed but you weren’t in front of me, in view. There were days when everything seemed chaotic, as though nothing and no one had control over things.
Me: You’re a true hero. I love you, my creation.
Stephen, his blue eyes lively: There were days when I thought you had forsaken me. I was thrown into circumstances that I loathed, situations that no one should have to endure. Why’d you do that to me? Why’d you put me in those places?
Me, smiling: You needed to grow. You weren’t going to do that without some hardships and roadblocks to persevere through.
Stephen: There were days when I hated you for not intervening. When Dreco murdered my mother and father, I hated you passionately. You were an enemy.
Me: I was there with you from the beginning, loving you. I saw the end before you were born. When you thought I wasn’t intervening, that’s when I was.
Stephen: I look at myself, my face scarred by Dreco’s blade, and wonder how I made it. How’d I make it here?
Me, grinning: Love withstands everything, Stephen. Love withstands everything.
Next, with Dreco, the antagonist, the murderer:
Dreco, his bald head polished, eyes bloodshot: Why have you brought me here?
Me: Justice.
Dreco, voice dithering: What kind of justice?
Me: You’re a murderer, aren’t you?
Dreco: Yes, but I’m sick.
Me: I’ve taken that into account.
Dreco, his lips curled downward: Will you forgive me for my wrongdoings?
Me: You admit you’ve done wrong?
Dreco, tone sincere: Yes. Please forgive me for my trespasses.
Me: I was there with you from the beginning, loving you. I saw the end before you were born.
Dreco: Then you knew I’d murder but you still created me?
Me: You were part of an overall plan.
Dreco, pleading: Please forgive me.
Me: You are forgiven, my creation.
Dreco, lips curled upward: Thank you. Thank you so much. Despite all of my wrongdoings, you still found it in your heart to forgive me.
Me, smiling: Love withstands everything, Dreco. Love withstands everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Leigh and I are eating at Mario’s, an Italian restaurant five minutes from her apartment. I have fettuccini alfredo and she has lasagna. In between bites, we chat.
“After this, do you want to go to the gym with me?” she asks. “I’m allowed a free guest with my membership.”
The excuse: “I’m not really the gym type.”
“You don’t want to go?”
The real reason: “I’m too skinny and pale.”
“No, you’re not.”
I take a drink of cola. “Have you seen the guys that go to those gyms, all big and full of muscles—and tan?”
“That’s not true.”
I don’t listen. “I’m not gonna go stand next to one of those guys and work out.” I lift an arm over the table, tap at the bicep. “Look at this thing. It’s too skinny.”
“You have nice arms. I like them.”
I lower my arm. “No, you don’t. You’re just saying that.”
She rolls her eyes like her mother. “I’m not just saying it. I do like them.”
“If I were any whiter, I’d be clear.”
“That’s not true. I like your skin.”
“Maybe you should get your eyes checked. You’re obviously not seeing correctly.”
“It’s your eyes that need help,” she says. “Just go with me, James. You’ll see it isn’t bad at all.”
“If I were to go, there would be no wearing of sleeveless shirts.”
“I can’t wear one?”
“I’m referring to myself. I don’t need the whole world to see Mr. Transparent’s skeletal arms.”
“Would you quit the self-deprecation already?”
“But it’s how I feel.”
“Well, forget that. Your mind’s distorted.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She smiles, pressing on the message, “James, I like the way you look.”
* * *
We’re at the gym against my better judgment, and I’ve never seen this many mirrors. Mirrors hang on walls near the bench presses; they hang near the free weights, next to the treadmills, the elliptical machines, everywhere, like a funhouse. There are busy bodies far and wide. Buff men—a cluster of Fabios—lift the dumbbells, gazing adoringly at their reflections. Average-looking men lift the same weights, few smiling. Skinny men—a group of corpses—struggle with the bench presses, pain written across their faces. A mixture of men and women run on treadmills, shirts doused with sweat, faces determined, pushing for a gold medal in a nonexistent sport.
“I’m going to go stretch,” Leigh says as we stand next to the water fountain. “You should too.”
“Yeah, I should.” We go over to the mats, stretch for about ten minutes, stand.
“I think I’ll do some running.” She glances at the treadmills.
I look at the skinny men. “I think I’ll do some lifting.”
“This isn’t what you expected, is it?” she asks, an I-told-you-so moment.
“Well, they aren’t all Fabio. That’s a plus.”
“You fit in, see? You need to stop assuming things.”
“I know, I know . . .”
* * *
Leigh and I have run approximately one mile on Atlantic Avenue, a road situated near the Atlantic Ocean. Go figure. Huffing, we slow the pace to a jog, to a brisk walk, then, as our breathing quiets, we stroll. Mansions encased by endless gates tower on each side of us. Multimillion dollar homes, no doubt. I marvel at them as a window shopper who can’t afford to buy.
“Tell me about your dreams.” I take her hand into mine.
She says, “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a teacher.”
“What happened to that?”
“Grew out of that phase, I suppose.”
“What about now? Any dreams since then?”
She smiles. “I’d love to own a café.”
“That sounds nice. Where would you want it to be?”
“On the beach, somewhere tropical.”
“What will it look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should know.”
“I should?”
“How will you see it through if you don’t know what it’s gonna look like?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Work with me here,” I say. We pass an extravagant garden that sits at the edge of a front lawn. “What do you see?”
“Flowers,” she says sarcastically.
I chuckle. “No, crazy—away from the garden.” We stop on the side of the road. I tell her to close her eyes. “Now what do you see?” I ask, releasing her hand. I stand directly in front of her, watching her face contort.
“Bright walls,” she says.
“What colors?”
“Orange and yellow.”
“What else?”
“Umbrella tables out back. In front of the ocean. People sitting beneath the umbrellas, reading, sipping our finest iced coffee.”
I have her open her eyes. “Do you believe in what you saw?” I ask.
“Yeah . . . in my dreams,” she scoffs.
“You don’t dare believe in it, do you?”
&nbs
p; “No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t wanna be let down,” she says.
“What’s wrong with dreaming big?”
She shrugs. “It feels too far away.”
“Then you need to map out the idea. You’ve conceived it. Now figure out exactly where it’s going to be. Exactly what you’re going to serve. Exactly what it’ll look like. Bring it to life. That’s what I did with The Forsaken World, and all of a sudden it doesn’t feel far away anymore.” I hold her hand again. “Don’t you believe God will give you the café?”
“Half and half.”
“I don’t believe in half and half. You either believe or you don’t.”
“But I don’t want to lie and tell you I completely believe.”
“Leigh, did you ever think that maybe God is the one who gave you the idea for the café?”
She flushes. Her eyes water. “You think?”
“You’ll have a café someday on the beach, with umbrella tables, and people will sit at them and drink your iced coffee. But you have to believe it first.”
She rubs her eyes, smiling. “I’ll work on it.”
* * *
“Just so you know—there’s a very good possibility I’ll be moving to California. I sent my résumé to five companies in the San Diego area. All of them are customer service positions. Not exactly what I want to do but definitely a lot better than cleaning up after people.”
I dunk the mop in a bucket. “That would be nice, Dad.” I don’t, in truth, think it would be nice, forsaking me.
Dad unclips the bulky keychain from his belt, holds the keys in his palm. “I wouldn’t miss dealing with this school.” He glances over my shoulder, down the hallway. There is no one in proximity.
“Me neither.” I slop the mop down on the floor.
“I don’t know about you but once I leave this place, I’m never coming back. I’ll never set foot in this building again.”
“Will you come back to New Hampshire to visit?”
“You could come out to California to visit, you know.”
“So you wouldn’t visit?”
“There’s nothing for me here.” Dad idly separates a key from the rest, his eyes on me.
I start to mop. What about me? Hello . . . Dad, what about me? Have you forgotten about your son? I’m nothing to you?
“New Hampshire is an area I’d like to forget,” he says, thoughtless.
* * *
I put the finishing touches on the rewrite, click the SAVE button, and stare in awe at the screen. I started with a blank page lifetimes ago. Now I have page upon page of filled space. I jump to my feet, dash away from the desk and out of my room. High on this feeling of victory, I hurry outdoors, pumping a celebratory fist. “I did it. I did it!”
In the cover of night, shaking, I laugh and cry, laugh and cry . . . schizophrenic.
Ten minutes later, I call Leigh. She’s been sleeping, so she sounds groggy as she answers the phone, but after I fill her in on the news, her voice livens up: “I knew you could do it, James! You’re amazing.”
* * *
For the first time in months, I call Sam’s cell. He doesn’t answer. Nothing earth-shattering here. I’ve been thinking about him lately, wondering about his new existence in a land far, far away. It’s time to find out. I call his parents’ house. His sister picks up. I ask her when Sam is coming home for break. She explains that he won’t be coming home, that he plans to stay in Pennsylvania for the summer, renting an apartment with one of his friends from college.
“Which friend?” I ask.
Her small voice says, “A guy named Fred.”
I pause, envision the Gucci man, anger present. I go on to thank her for the information. We end the call.
Time told, eyes moistening. Goodbye, Sam. Goodbye, my brother.
* * *
I drive beneath a brilliant lapis sky, windows down, music playing, feeling successful. Final destination: Leigh’s apartment.
I’m doing fifty in a forty zone. I play with the radio, changing stations, attention alternating between the knob and the road. Find a song that I like, give full attention to the road. I’m coming to a four-way intersection. There are no cars in front of me in this lane, just a set of lights, currently red. I tap at the brake pedal. I’m not slowing down. I tap at it again.
The vehicle isn’t slowing!
I stomp on the pedal, hands tense, clutching the steering wheel, heart spanking the inside of my chest. The pedal hits the floor with no resistance. I’m still going fifty. Vehicles are passing through the intersection—SUVs, cars, trucks. I let off the brake, try pumping it.
The pedal hits the floor again. The vehicle isn’t stopping!
I think of Leigh, her beautiful face, her soothing voice, her silky hair, her accepting nature, her bravery. I think of her embrace, her kiss. I see my text-filled pages, the characters, Stephen and Dreco, and they’re dying. The world will never know of their existence.
I can’t die. I’m too young to die! It can’t end like this, not after things are actually getting good. An idea crosses my mind—the emergency brake. The light is still red. I hold the hand brake, that lever, and pull up slowly, careful not to snap it.
The car is slowing. Finally, the car is slowing! I think of the mechanic, the manager from months and months ago who told me I needed new brakes, and how he couldn’t believe I wasn’t going to fix them.
I release, pull, release, pull, release, pull the lever, slowing more each time. Five feet before the lights, I fishtail and come to a complete stop, blood rushing to my head. The light turns green. I start laughing. The irony.
I crawl through the lights, going five, hand on the lever, coast into the parking lot of a gas station, and use the e-brake to stop. I call Leigh.
“Are you okay, James?” She responds to my trembling voice.
“I almost died.”
“Where are you?”
I tell her the name of the station. “Can you come pick me up?”
“Of course.”
* * *
The car is in the shop, towed as it was, and Leigh and I are driving to her apartment in her car.
“I didn’t want to have to spend that much money,” I say.
“You’re fortunate to be alive. You heard what that mechanic said. You could’ve crashed.”
“But I can’t afford to have it repaired. I’m gonna have to throw the expenses on my credit card. I hate debt.”
“It could be much worse. What if you died, James?”
“I thought I was going to.”
“Where would you go if you died?”
“Where would I go?”
“Do you know where you’re going when you die?”
“No. Who does?”
“I do.”
“Where?”
“To a place with no tears, no sadness, only perfection and happiness. A place where there are no cars and chances of dying in one. A place where there is no death. Period. A place with no war or sickness. That’s where I’m going.”
“Heaven?”
She nods. “The Kingdom of God.”
“That sounds like a place I want to be.”
“I want you there, too.”
We get to her apartment and sit on her couch. She pulls out her Bible, thumbs through the pages, and stops on a passage.
“I want to read this to you. Do you mind?”
Why not? “Go ahead.”
“‘Jesus answered and said unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God. Nicodemus saith unto him, How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter the second time into his mother’s womb, and be born? Jesus answered, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.’”
“What does that mean?”
“To be born again is to be saved. I’ve mentioned that term to you before, being saved.” She points to the page. “I
t doesn’t have to be a raising-your-hands-in-the-middle-of-a-field kind of moment or anything. Faith is a process . . . If you want to see the Kingdom of God, you do that by believing in Jesus. First, let me read this to you.” She turns the pages, finds a new spot. “‘For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.’”
Okay? I’m unaccustomed to seeing Leigh in preacher form.
She proceeds. “Then Romans goes on to say this, which explains the consequence of sin: ‘For the wages of sin is death.’”
“So if you sin, you die? Doesn’t everyone die?” I’m acting like a raging skeptic, and I know it.
“If you sin, and don’t accept Jesus Christ as savior, you’re condemned to death.”
I grimace. Lethal injection or the chair? “Ouch.”
She turns the pages again. “The Book of John says this: ‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.’”
Goodbye, Death Row. Hello . . . “Everlasting life. Immortality.” I smile. “Through Jesus, the Son of God.”
She closes the Bible. “For centuries, people have been searching for ways to achieve immortality. The Fountain of Youth. The Philosopher’s Stone . . . They were looking in the wrong places, devoting time to the wrong causes.”
I chuckle. “But you’re saying immortality was under their noses the whole time?” I’m beginning to understand, to see the picture.
“Yes.” Her face glows. “Believe in Jesus and you’ll live forever.” She closes the Bible, sits it beside her on the couch, and we hold hands.