by Bill Myers
261
“Thirty . . .” He searched her face for more information.
“Thirty thousand, Mr. Conrad.”
He practically choked. “Thirty thousand dollars?”
She smiled tightly before turning and walking away.
v
The meeting with Roseanne, her children, the lawyers, and the additional doctors that had been brought in was even more brutal than the first. Although everything was conducted in a “civil and compassionate manner,” the bottom line was always the same:
For all intents and purposes, Conrad Davis was dead.
The evaluation of the two new doctors was identical to that of yesterday’s physician. There was little of Julia’s father’s brain that had not been damaged, and there was no chance of ever recovering its use. In fact, if it weren’t for the machines forcing his other organs to remain functioning—“against their will,” one of the doctors had pointed out—then Julia’s father would have already experienced a more natural and certainly more humane “passing on.”
Then, of course, there were the lawyers’ arguments. Again and again, they pointed out that her father’s wishes were for life support systems to be discontinued. And if, due to her emotional involvement, she could not execute his wishes, then she needed to relinquish her responsibility to someone who could.
But, as much as Julia wanted to give in, she knew that she had to carry out her duties. She could not give up her responsibility.
“It’s not fair! All the other kids—”
“We’re not talking about all the other kids.”
“But—”
“If you refuse to take responsibility, you will stay in your room.”
“Dad!”
“When you’re ready to be responsible, we can talk.”
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The group meeting had ended over an hour ago, and Julia still felt like she’d been hit by a truck. Now, alone with her mother in the ICU lobby, she stared down at the paper. It was a single-page document, giving the hospital permission to remove her father from life supports.
“Daddy, will we always be best friends?”
“Yes, Jules.”
“And you’ll never let anything bad happen to me?”
“I’ll never ever let anything bad happen to you.”
“Good. And I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”
She glanced at the pen she was holding. It was a Monte Blanc—a gift from her boss, Atlanta’s District Attorney for—
what had he said?—“unwavering devotion to justice.” At the moment, she noticed that the pen was trembling violently.
“I do not want life-sustaining treatment to be provided or continued if I am in an irreversible coma or persistent vegetative—”
“In many ways, your father is already dead.”
“You’re only as good as your word.”
“Julia . . .” Her mother spoke from the chair beside her, but Julia barely heard. Instead, she stared down at the document—at the single line across the bottom of the page that required her signature and the date.
“Your father’s coma is irreversible.”
“I gave your Grandpa my word a long, long time ago.”
“Jules . . .”
“I do not want life-sustaining—”
“You’re only as good as your—”
“Julia?”
She looked up. Her mother had walked over and was kneeling beside her. “You need to let him go, Sweetheart. You need to . . . let him go.”
Julia turned to her, the woman’s face blurry through her tears. “You agree with them?” she asked in surprise. It was the first time in a very long while that she’d asked her mother for advice. It felt good and frightening at the same time. Good hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 263
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to know she wasn’t alone, frightening to realize how weak and vulnerable she’d become.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her mother nodded. “Yes, Sweetheart, I think they are right.”
“What about the words?” Julia asked. “Mom, I heard them. It wasn’t my imagination. What if he was praying?
What if he was trying to do what you wanted him to do for so long? What if he was trying to ask Christ to be his, you know, his Lord and Savior?”
Her mother said nothing.
“What if by pulling the plug, I kill him before he has a chance to finish that prayer?”
The idea surprised her almost as much as her mother. So did the language. Christ . . . Lord and Savior . . . that was God talk, words her mother used. Not her. To be honest, she never said that name, unless it was during a particular moment of anger or she needed to impress the guys at the office. But what if she was right? What if he was crying out, trying to make some profession of faith, and she stepped in and cut him off before he could complete it?
“Jules . . . Sweetheart.” Her mother reached out to take her hand. “I don’t have the answer, I can’t imagine anyone who does. But I know this: Jesus Christ paid an incredible price for your father’s soul. He bought him with His life. He’s not about to let him slip through His fingers by accident. He loves your father too much for that. He loves all of us too much for that.”
Julia swallowed back the emotion and gave another swipe at her eyes. Her mother continued. “There’s nothing you and I can do to change that. No second guessing, no decision, right or wrong. If there’s any chance of your father being saved, he will be saved.” Her voice grew husky and she had to pause before concluding. “No, Sweetheart, God’s paid too great a price to let any of us slip through His fingers.”
Julia closed her eyes. It was true. If Christ was who He said He was, He would not let her father fall through the hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 264
264 cracks on some technicality. And if He wasn’t ... well, then it really didn’t matter, did it?
She opened her eyes and looked back at the document, at the line running across the bottom of the page. She gripped the pen more firmly, trying to stop the trembling. Then with a deep breath, and while she still had the nerve, she lowered its point to the paper. She felt cold, detached, barely there.
But, right or wrong, she was being responsible. Right or wrong, she was doing what she had to do.
It was over in five seconds: her signature, then the date.
The death warrant for her father had been signed.
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C H A P T E R
F O U R T E E N
JULIA FELT SHE NEEDED TO BE PRESENT AS THEY REMOVED THE VEN-tilator, the feeding tube, and the external pacemaker from her father. After all, the decision to let him die had been hers, she should at least be there to witness it. Of course, her mother had tried to change her mind, but Julia would not be swayed.
It was only when the doctor had arrived, ordering that she leave and wait in the lobby, that she had finally given in.
Although she’d put up a fight, she was secretly grateful for the doctor’s resolve.
And yet, that was the only part of the process she missed.
The moment the machines were removed she insisted upon returning to his side. That’s where she would stay during his remaining moments on earth. That’s where she would wait and watch. It was her decision. No, it was her responsibility.
As she took a seat beside him, she was struck by the silence—no machines hissing and clicking, no monitors beeping, no sound of the automatic blood pressure cuff tightening and releasing. Just silence. Natural, peaceful, silence
. . . except for his raspy and sometimes irregular breathing.
She would only have a minute or so before Roseanne and her children arrived to pay their final respects—no doubt careful to display the perfect amount of bereavement before 265
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266 moving on. Her mother would also return, and would surely remain with Julia throughout the ordeal, staying at her side, staying at his side, until the very end.
That’s just how she was.
But until they arrived, these next few moments belonged to Julia . . . and her father. Though the tubes and hoses had been removed from his nose and mouth, she still could not look at his face. The swollen image was just too grotesque.
Instead, she stared somewhere near the center of his chest, watching the uneven rise and fall of the covers as she tried to think what should be said.
No words came.
She wasn’t sure what she felt, much less what she should say. Anger, sadness, loneliness, guilt—they were all there, but tied and twisted into a giant knot. She took a deep breath, trying to loosen that knot, but nothing worked.
Suddenly his body gave a shudder. Then another. Then he stopped breathing altogether. For a frightening moment, Julia feared that she’d lost the opportunity to say goodbye.
But the breathing resumed—a little noisier, a little less even, but it resumed.
She looked down at his hand resting on the sheet. So strong, so masculine. Thick veins ran down the wrist and branched along its back. Rough knuckles sprinkled with black hair. She recognized some of the wrinkles and scars from childhood, when she would sit on his lap and he would read.
But now the color was different. Instead of the callused brown she’d always known, these hands showed blotches of purple.
One patch stretched from his wrist, down the side of his hand, to the tip of his little finger.
His little finger . . .
“Pinkie swear?”
She remembered, so many years earlier, when he raised that very finger and crooked it the way she had taught him.
And she remembered her giggling response. “Pinkie swear.”
“I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”
“And I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”
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The knot in her chest tightened. “I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered hoarsely. “I guess . . .” She took a moment trying to find the words. “I guess we’re both failures.”
v
It was the figure— thirty— that had so startled Conrad.
That single word in the phrase Dr. Kerston’s secretary had spoken when she handed him the briefcase. “Thirty, Mr. Conrad. Thirty thousand.” Now Conrad was no Bible scholar, but there was something about that number—along with the offering of money, the meeting of top religious officials, and a lone spiritual hero who was threatening the religious establishment—that brought back a world of memories. A world that was not this world, but very similar. A world where a traitor had sold his own spiritual leader to the religious establishment . . . for thirty pieces of silver.
It had been a long time since Conrad had thought of the similarities between this world and his old one. A long time since he’d paid attention to the similarities between Eli Shepherd and Jesus Christ. But as he mulled over those similarities, the situation became more and more evident . . . the leader’s entrance into a religious city, his clearing out the mer-chants, a meeting of his trusted follower with the religious officials . . . and the payment to that follower of thirty units of money.
It was more than coincidence. It had to be. And as he followed the events to their logical conclusion, he felt his insides tighten and grow cold. Was it possible? In his new world, in the unfolding of this reality, had he become the traitor?
The thought haunted him as he stepped out of the board-room. It continued to gnaw and eat at him as he joined the others in welcoming Eli back from jail. And now, as they sat down at a celebration dinner in the banquet room of Mondovi’s Italian Restaurant, it practically consumed him. How could it be? He’d not attended Dr. Kerston’s meeting for his hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 268
268 own gain; it had been for Eli. He’d not listened to the proposal for his benefit; it had been for Eli. Everything he’d done was to achieve Eli’s objectives.
How then could such actions be considered traitorous?
To top it off, the plan Dr. Kerston had offered made perfect sense—combine forces, utilize resources, accomplish a common goal. All that plus getting Eli into the very center of the religious system so he could change it . . . it was the perfect situation, win/win logic all the way.
Unfortunately, it was the other logic that ate at him. Eli’s logic.
“All of your life you’ve been taught to think with fleshly logic . . . and you’re quite successful at it. But you’re more than flesh, Connie . . .”
So what did that mean? Was he just expected to throw common sense to the wind? Ignore all of his God-given strengths and natural abilities?
“. . . your very strength will become your weakness.”
Conrad reached down to touch the leather briefcase sitting under the table between himself and Keith. They’d not spoken to Eli yet. Hadn’t found the time. And at this particular moment, he wasn’t sure what he would say even if they could. All he knew was that if a deal could be struck, it could very well make Eli one of the most powerful men in the nation, perhaps, someday, the world.
“If you want worldly treasures, fight with worldly weapons. If you want eternal treasures, fight with eternal weapons. ”
The teachings of all those weeks echoed inside his head.
He felt Suzanne touch his arm and he turned to her. He forced a smile, but the look on her face said she knew something was wrong.
“Fame, power—these are the riches of this world, and they can be so terribly seductive.”
Two tables over, Eli scooted back his chair and stood. It looked like he was about to make a toast. Conrad tried to hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 269
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focus on him, to drown out the conflicting thoughts raging in his head.
Finally Eli began. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted to eat this meal with you.”
Several nodded as Jake quipped from a couple seats over,
“Jailhouse food ain’t that great, Eli?”
There were quiet chuckles, and Eli smiled. “No, Jake, it’s more than that. This is the last meal we will eat together before I begin the sacrifice.”
The humor in the room faded.
“Sacrifice?” Leon asked.
Eli nodded. “I will not eat it again until it is fulfilled in the Kingdom of God.”
The group exchanged looks. But it was Trevor, who sat beside Eli, who asked the obvious question, “What are you talking about, Eli?”
Eli looked down at him. There was no missing the sadness in his eyes. But he did not say a word. Instead he reached for a loaf of bread sitting on the table before him. He picked it up, hesitated a moment, and then broke it in two, grimac-ing slightly as he tore it apart and crumbs fell onto the white tablecloth below. He took one half of the loaf and passed it to those sitting at his right, the other half he gave to those on his left.
“This is my body,” he said quietly, his voice growing thick with emotion. “It is about to be broken for you. Take it and eat.”
Except for the quiet hum of the air conditioner, the room was deathly silent. The bread began making its rounds, each member of the group quietly tearing off a chunk and passing it on to the next. Whatever was happening, whatever Eli was doing, they all sensed its terrible importance to him.
Conrad more than the others. For he knew exactly what was happening. He immediately recognized the ceremony.
And if what Eli said was true, that he was about to be broken, then the chances were that somehow he, Conrad Davis, hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 270
270 would be the one responsible. But how? By suggesting cooperation? By using a little common sense?
“All of your life you’ve been taught to think with fleshly logic . . .”
He watched numbly as the bread approached, each person tearing off a piece and solemnly putting it into his mouth before passing it on to the next. Soon Keith accepted the loaf, tore off his portion, and passed it on to Conrad.
Suddenly, everything grew still. Very, very still.
As Conrad reached out to take the bread he could feel his heart pounding, hear himself breathing. It was like a movie. Like he was another person standing outside himself, watching and observing his actions. He’d never taken Communion. Not back in the other world. It was too sacred a ritual to practice if you didn’t buy it. And Conrad was too honest, had too much integrity, to fake it.
But now . . . he did buy it, didn’t he? Now, after all he’d seen. After all he’d heard. Didn’t he?
He lifted his eyes and saw Eli gazing directly at him. He was paralyzed, unsure what to do. He needed encouragement, some assurance that it was okay to participate. With the money sitting under the table, with the terms of the meeting buzzing in his head, he needed to know. Some sort of sign.
Something.
But Eli gave him no sign. He simply looked at him, waiting for his decision.
Conrad thought of passing the bread on and not eating it.
How could he, with that money sitting under the table? How could he, if he was to become the betrayer?
But how could he not? Regardless of their differences, regardless of his struggles and quarrels, he still believed what Eli said about himself. More importantly, he believed who Eli was.
The pause lengthened. He could sense Suzanne’s uneasiness, knew she was concerned.
“Choices . . . you’re always forcing folks to make choices.”
“. . . to choose my way over your way, to choose my wisdom over the world’s wisdom, to choose my Spirit over your flesh.”
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Choices . . . that had been it since the beginning. And hadn’t he, step-by-step, excruciating decision after excruciating decision, made the choice to follow Eli? It wasn’t easy—
I no sooner get a handle on one of those principles than you turn around and raise the stakes— but isn’t that exactly what he’d been doing? Following? Changing?
Still, there was another truth that surpassed all the others. One that he saw in Eli every time their eyes connected.
His love. Regardless of the disagreements, regardless of the struggles, he knew Eli loved him. Eli would always love him.