Leave No Child Behind

by Randy Overbeck

  Catherine took my hand in hers and, taking her eyes off the form on the bed, looked at me. “If I know my grandson, he could no more have done that than stop breathing.”

  I nodded.

  “Coming into your classroom, seeing you and helping those kids, was--I mean, is the best part of his life,” she said and squeezed my hand. “I can’t tell you how many times he told me that, child. And I don’t believe there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do to save your life.”

  I nodded again, this time tears starting at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you.” I squeezed her small hand back.

  At seventy-eight, the daily endurance of those unforgiving hospital chairs wreaked havoc on her back. Eventually her own doctor had insisted that she stay in her house. I promised to call her and I did, almost every day. Each day she would probe for any change, any new development, and each day I would give her the same answer.

  “Catherine, he’s pretty much the same today. I can’t tell any difference, but I am praying for the best.”

  Against her doctor’s orders, she came back and sat with me from time to time. “Them doctors don’t know everything,” she would say, smiling that sad smile, her parchment skin crinkling comfortably around her mouth.

  On those waning days of her visits, sometimes we would talk and sometimes we’d just sit in the hospital room and hold hands, watching over Jerod together. She called us “his two guardian angels.” As her visits became less and less frequent, at the unrelenting nagging of her physician, I came to believe it was her breaking heart as much as her ailing back that kept her away.

  I had assured Catherine that hers would be the first call I’d make “as soon as he opened his eyes and started that southern drawl of his.” With that she had agreed--at least temporarily--to accede to her doctor’s wishes and stay home. By this time, I think she too had come to believe, but wouldn’t voice, that her next trip into the hospital would be to claim Jerod’s remains.

  I still refused to admit defeat. My father had always said that blind obstinacy was either my worst quality or my best. Faced with the inevitable, I would not succumb to the morbid inevitability everyone else saw. Left to my own devices and with no one else for company, I began just to talk to Jerod.

  When he didn’t answer, I told myself he just wasn’t paying attention, pretty much like most men. And then I’d cave in to babbling and crying.

  Deep down inside, I believed he could hear me, could understand every word I said. I didn’t know how to begin, so I started off telling him small, everyday details, details about my family, about what I had seen about the revitalization of Thurber. I shared my surprise at the plaque dedicated to Robert Holden at the school, “hero of the Thurber stand against the terrorists.” The latest gossip in town gave me ample items to share.

  I told him about the visit from none other than Harold Samson, Director of Homeland Security. As his last official act, he had come to notify me that I had been awarded the Presidential Medal of Valor. Oh, and I told him that the President had a medal for him as well. But he had to wake up first.

  Several times during these one-way, rambling conversations, the nurses came in to check on their patient. Although no one ever said anything, I could read the signs of pity in their eyes. They probably thought I was crazy to hobble into the small hospital room and stay there day after day. I didn’t care.

  After a while, the small talk got old, even for me...and I don’t normally have a problem carrying on a conversation, even a one-way one. Then, when I didn’t know what else to do, I began speaking from my heart, thinking that if only I would tell Jerod how I felt, he would awaken and call me his “lit’l lady” again. I told him how much I liked his family, including his two crazy aunts. I shared the little I had learned about his life before and told him I wanted to know more, so much more. I believed, I felt in my heart he was listening--though I never witnessed any physical change to attest to it. His eyes remained shut, his breathing steady while the monitors beeped on like blinking, uncaring sentries.

  Then, when I could avoid it no longer, I said it, fully convinced my confession would have to elicit some reaction. “Jerod...Jerod, I miss you,” I began haltingly. “You know, you have no right to leave me. Jerod, I love you,” I managed, choking back tears.

  I half expected to hear his smug, “Yeah, I know,” or “Of course you do.” But the only thing I heard was the sound of his even, unaltered pattern of respiration and that damn beep. My face in my hands, I sat in that hardened, plastic chair and cried till the flood of my tears had wet my sneakers. Everything that had happened surfaced in my memory again and I saw again the dying faces of Rashid and Jose, the red stain on Christie’s sweater, Jerod’s blood dripping onto the floor in front of me. I could keep it at bay no longer. I felt myself being pulled into an abyss of despair. I grabbed my crutches and threw them against the side of his bed, the collision with the metal frame incredibly loud in the quiet room.

  Hearing the racket, Lindsay, the nurse on duty, hurried in to see what was wrong. Seeing my tear-covered face, she asked after me, but I waved her away.

  “Maybe, you just need a break, hon,” she said, moving closer to me. “You’ve been coming here every day for weeks now. It’s only natural that sitting here day after day with no change, it would have to get to you.” She patted me on the shoulder and I nodded. Then she left me alone again, staring at the man who had saved my life.

  You can’t quit on him, I told myself. It was just that I didn’t know what else was left to do, to say. I stared absently down at the pile of books from my Lit class, stacked on the table next to me. I was slated to return to teaching in a few days, complete with crutches, and had brought some of the texts with me to bone up. In a momentary fit of inspiration or frenzy, I grabbed the book on top of the stack, opened the cover and started to read aloud the words on the page.

  “Moby Dick. Chapter one. Loomings. Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.”

  “That’s…crap,” a raspy voice said.

  “It’s not crap--”

  I jumped up, knocking the book to the floor, and ran to the bed. Jerod’s eyes were open, looking at me. I grabbed his hand, squeezed it and did a little hop.

  “Lindsay!” I screamed. “He’s awake! He’s awake!” I tried to choke back my sobs, but it was no use. Tears were pouring out of my eyes so fast, I was having trouble seeing that damn smile. As I squeezed his hand, though, I saw it start and slowly spread across his mouth.

  Before I could say anymore, Lindsay bounded into the room and edged me away from the bed. Another nurse and the doctor followed quickly behind and I had to move to the foot of the bed. I didn’t care. They checked his vitals. Jerod seemed to take it all in and slowly his eyes found me. He smiled.

  “Oh, Jerod, you’re back,” I managed between sobs. “I love you!”

  “I know,” he whispered, “I heard ya.”

  Chapter 62

  Forty-five minutes earlier, Jerod had screeched to a halt in front of my apartment in his brand new red Ford Mustang. I eyed the new car, its metallic crimson coat glimmering in the summer sun. I examined him sitting there confidently behind the wheel, sunglasses donned and tanned arm extended. “I have to tell you. This,” I gestured to the sportscar, “is you!”

  “You’re right, a’course,” he had agreed, all smiles. “Climb in, lit’l lady!”

  I threw the small case in the back, set the Igloo cooler on the floor and climbed aboard.

  While we rode, he said very little and turned the radio up, playing his favorite country music station. I tried to probe, but I couldn’t get him to say anything more about our getaway--he had called it a “clandestine rendezvous.” I needed it.

  My body had healed well in the past eight months, the burn scars yielding to the treatment and shrinking to pink lines running
down my legs. The scars on my heart and soul had not been so easy. I still had nightmares of the glinting steel of the AK-47 and the ugly blackness of the pistol barrel.

  I had returned to school to much fanfare--though I wasn’t comfortable with that--and had resumed teaching part time. Though the explosions had badly damaged parts of the school, President Ryan and the legislators couldn’t move fast enough to allocate special funds to rebuild Thurber. The progress was amazing. Each day I passed the place in the cafeteria where Rashid had spilled his blood for me and I had shot Jesus. The red stain was long since gone, bleached out of the floor that had amazingly survived. Though I no longer shuddered when I crossed the spot on the tile, the deaths still gripped me.

  I was working hard to regain my positive perspective on my life and my passion for teaching teenagers, but it was a daily struggle. Jerod was helping, though.

  He had promised a scintillating time--I hadn’t realized he even knew that word--but no matter how hard I pressed, he would answer none of my questions. He had asked me to pack a picnic lunch, so I selected some cold broiled chicken and a bottle of wine and both were nestled with the ice in the cooler. The weatherman had predicted a rather warm day, typical for July and I had picked out a turquoise tank top and jean cut offs. Jerod had the top down and the warm air blew hot onto my face and tugged at my hair, pulled tight into a ponytail that flapped crazily in the breeze. It felt wonderful. It seemed like I hadn’t been able to get warm for months.

  “I’ve got somethin’ I want you to see,” Jerod announced finally, interrupting my reverie.

  He wheeled the Jeep off the main road and turned onto a small, gravel drive. The tires bounced madly over the stones and threw a cloud of dust in the air behind us. At the end of the drive sat a charming, rustic log cabin complete with Americana porch and rockers.

  “Jerod, it’s beautiful!” I cried, as I climbed out of the Jeep. “It’s so Norman Rockwell. How did you find it?”

  When I looked beyond the cabin, I saw the glistening water of a small quiet lake, its waves slowly lapping at the shore. Exploring, I took a few tentative steps, edging around the side of the cabin to inspect the rear, and was struck by an incredible view. This was the kind of secret, hidden place they profile on the Travel Channel.

  A narrow inlet of water jutted toward the cabin, ending in a small brown sandy beach, and was surrounded on both sides with towering trees. I studied the scene, the rustic cabin, the forested surroundings and the placid water. Not a soul was visible. I watched a pair of birds flitting between two of the tallest pines, and my gaze returned to the lake.

  My near drowning in Lake Harold had left me with a deathly fear of the water. In the months since, I had not even ventured out onto the deck at Thurber, much less put my toe in the water. As I stood there staring at the rippling waves, my fear of the water was re-ignited and I shivered involuntarily. I tried to smile, but it must’ve come out as a grimace.

  Recognizing the rising panic in my eyes, Jerod tried to reassure me. “It’s okay, Dee Dee. Just relax and breathe deep.” He stared into my eyes and breathed with me. In. Out. In. Out. “I’ll help ya’.”

  I continued to inhale and exhale slowly.

  He smiled back with that drowsy smile I had come to love. He said, “We’re the only ones out here. And this cabin and this beautiful spot is ours for the weekend. Just take your time.” He draped his arm comfortably around my shoulders and stood beside me, the two of us gazing out at the scene. Then he leaned in and kissed me lightly. “The cabin comes equipped with some fishing poles and inner tubes and other fun toys. The way I look at it is, you can’t stay afraid of the water forever.”

  “I hope you’re right, Jerod.” My glance went again to the lake, the water slowly rolling into the shore, and then back at my handsome companion. “I don’t think it’s going to be easy. I may need a little help.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I have an idea that just might help take your mind off any fear of water,” he said, his voice deadpan, as he stared straight ahead at the lake.

  Then, looking at his stoic face next to mine, I got it. “But I didn’t bring a swim suit.”

  His smile became a bit of a leer, but one I liked. “I told you that we were completely alone out here...and I won’t tell.”

  “Are you sure you’re healed enough?”

  He touched his side and his smile turned to a grimace. “You’ll just have to be gentle with me.” Then another leer.

  I kissed him, a kiss still tinged with some anxiety. Wrapping both arms around my middle, he hugged me tightly. He returned the kiss, his tongue briefly touching mine, sending off pleasant sensations rippling inside me. I began to forget about the water. I felt Jerod rise to meet me between my legs. I let my gaze travel down between us and said, “Not too gentle, I hope.”

  Using only his one good arm, he grabbed me around the waist and carried me to the edge of the water. “Better kick off those nice shoes if you don’t want them to get wet,” he said.

  I kicked off my new leather Birkenstocks and let them drop on the sand. He carried me two steps out, kissed me again and gently lowered my legs into the water.

  At first, the water lapping at my ankles startled me, but then, secure in his arms, I relaxed and enjoyed the refreshing sensation of the warm water on my bare feet and ankles. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him back, no hesitation this time and a little more passion in the effort. As our lips and tongues touched again, exploring, probing, I was enjoying the sensation. He lowered me gently and my footing settled on the sandy bottom, the water less than eight inches deep. When I realized I was standing, I pulled away briefly and looked down. My eyes came up to meet his and I smiled. He smirked back as if to say, “I told you so.” I tightened my hold on his neck and kissed him again, my tongue on a quest for passion.

  “You better be careful. You’re giving me ideas,” he said, his arms still securely around my waist.

  “Go ahead,” I responded, smiling, “I think it might be advisable to pursue some of those ideas.”

  “How about this one?” he asked. He grabbed the bottom of my tank top and, in one quick motion, pulled it over my head, my ponytail bouncing. His right hand tossed the turquoise top and we both watched it float to the sand, just out of reach of the lapping waves.

  I stood there, the sun warming my bare skin and found that I was more than comfortable. Inexplicably, surrounded by this lake, I felt no fear of water, only the rush of passion and love for this incredible man. The pair of lovebirds--that’s what I decided they must’ve been--began singing to us. He leaned his head toward mine and kissed me again, but this time his lips didn’t linger long. Instead they began a series of slow kisses that started at my neck and edged slowly southward.

  I looked down toward his head, smiling. “I like where this is headed.”

  He returned my smile and continued his quest.