Rooms

by Rubart, James L.

  “Both worlds can’t survive,” Rick continued. “At some point you’ll have to fully embrace one or the other.”

  “Why can’t I have both?”

  “When will you be back down here?”

  “I have to meet with my senior VPs tomorrow morning,” Micah muttered. “So tomorrow, late afternoon,”

  “Fine. Take the evening to settle back in, and we’ll meet first thing Wednesday morning.”

  Micah hung up and tried to smother the turmoil that pinballed around his stomach. His mind spun—not only from the terror of what had just happened but also with chaotic scenarios of what else he might lose. Sure, he’d secured his stock with the stop order, but if he’d lost Julie, why couldn’t he lose his entire company? Could God simply wipe RimSoft out of existence?

  Of course. Micah snorted. With God all things are possible.

  His meeting in the morning to address the Federal Trade Commission quandary shouldn’t take more than an hour. The instant it was finished he’d head for Cannon Beach. No matter how evasive Rick was, Micah would get answers.

  CHAPTER 25

  The instant Rick sat down Wednesday morning at the Fireside, Micah fired his first question. “What is God doing to me? I’m trying to follow Him, trying to change, and then yesterday I lose my temper like I’ve never done in front of my entire team of VPs.”

  “You did?”

  “At one point I took off my shoe and hurled it against the window.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I was over the edge and halfway down the cliff.”

  “What about getting some food?” Rick took a long sniff. “I love the smell of bacon in the morning.”

  Micah waved his hand. “I’ve already ordered for both of us. Should be here by now.”

  “You’re not going to comment on my subtle Apocalypse Now reference?”

  “Sorry. Not in the mood. And it wasn’t subtle.”

  “So what happened?” Rick dumped two packets of sugar into his empty coffee cup. A few seconds later their regular waitress scuttled by with their order and coffee for Rick.

  “What happened?” Micah said. “I honestly don’t know. All of a sudden this volcano explodes out of me. I was a certified platinum jerk. I chewed out the entire team because—get this—they wanted to protect me from the FTC. And I cannot figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “I never get angry. Not that kind of angry. The last time I lost my temper, I was in third grade. I might get sarcastic, zing someone with a verbal barb, but I don’t get tomato-face angry. But I lost it with Sarah the other day on the phone, and then yesterday it came out of nowhere—again! It was like the TV had been turned on at high volume in an instant and I couldn’t pull the plug. The scene played out like an episode of How-to-Be-a-Class-A-Pinhead, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.”

  “Like a running back reacting without thinking to avoid a tackle?”

  “Exactly, only after it started I was thinking. Part of me shouted, ‘What are you doing, get yourself under control,’ and part of me had cruise control set at 120 miles an hour, hitting everything on the road. And liking it.” Micah added more coffee to his cream. “So I repeat, what is God doing to me?”

  “He’s going deeper after your heart,” Rick mumbled through a bite of his ham-and-cheese omelet.

  “By making a temper tantrum worthy of a five-year-old come out of nowhere?”

  “That kind of anger doesn’t come out of nowhere.” Rick took a slurp of his coffee.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means over the years you’ve become extremely proficient at keeping your anger buried—through sarcasm, witty banter, or dry, cutting remarks—while all the time, deep down, you’re seething.”

  “Seething about what?”

  “I don’t know. But the Holy Spirit, who does, is causing these things to surface.” Rick drained half his orange juice and started in on an English muffin dripping with honey.

  “Enlighten me as to why He’s doing that.”

  “Did you ask Him to?”

  Micah stared at Rick as he realized the answer. “I didn’t think this would be the response.”

  “Most people don’t.”

  “What comes next?”

  “He wants to fix the broken places in your heart.”

  “Okay, still lost. Need the fog lights here, not real clear what you’re saying.”

  “To heal a wound the Lord needs to bring it to the surface. I’d say He showed you a symptom today. He’ll show you the cause if you’re willing.”

  “Willing to what?”

  “Well, something inside caused that outburst. As you said, a part of you couldn’t keep from exploding. So you have to be willing to go deep into your heart with the Counselor and uncover the cause.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “You don’t have to.” Rick smiled.

  “This is about my mom dying, isn’t it? About what my dad did afterward.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not God.”

  ||||||||

  When he got home from breakfast, Micah grabbed a fruit punch Powerade, flopped onto an Adirondack chair on his deck, and thanked God it was Wednesday. Archie letter day. He needed answers.

  August 11, 1991

  Dear Micah,

  Have you considered what the strongholds are Paul talks about in his epistles? A friend recently presented me with this explanation: A stronghold is anything that keeps us from the freedom of being in Christ Jesus.

  The Gospel of John tells us if we know the Son we shall be free indeed. The apostle Paul says it was for freedom’s sake that Christ set us free. He didn’t set us free for duty or obligation but for freedom itself. This is indeed a staggering and amazing thought. With that in mind, we must ask what the strongholds are that Jesus wants to set us free from.

  The answer is not overly complex. They are anything we’ve given room to in our lives in an attempt to cover up our wounds from the past; be they from friends, family, coaches, or teachers.

  Or parents.

  Great, Micah thought. Here we go.

  If we do not face the wound, we will fabricate a variety of salves to dull the pain and thus bury it. The relentless pursuit of money, the quest for fame, the approval of men, drug abuse, illicit sexual relations, movies of a degrading nature, even an addiction to food. The list is long, but the reason is always the same.

  We try to forgive those who wound us, but this only deals with the symptoms. The wound remains like a field of dandelions with their tips cut off. No, we must always go after the root of the tree and remove it completely so there is no opportunity for the stronghold to return. Only then can we truly forgive.

  So he had to forgive? Easy. He would. And he didn’t need to go into some wound to forgive someone. As long as someone didn’t include his father.

  I pray you have the strength to go to the root.

  Across time,

  Archie

  P.S. Psalm 51:6: “Behold, You desire truth in the innermost being, And in the hidden part You will make me know wisdom.”

  Micah sighed. He felt it. The Counselor wanted to uncover some causes.

  He tossed the letter aside. No thanks. Rick always said he had a choice. This time he would choose no.

  ||||||||

  That evening he sat in the chair facing his picture windows and numbed his mind with a mystery novel in an attempt to distract himself from the loss of Julie, his outburst at RimSoft, and whatever Archie meant by “going to the root.” His escape was interrupted after seven pages when he stretched and a flash of color to his right caught his attention.

  Up on the bookshelves surrounding the fireplace sat a picture he’d never noticed. A Little League team looked down on a Seattle Mariners game, all of them in uniform. The backs of their heads were to the camera. He turned it over to look for clues. “Wildcats ’91” was scrawled across the back. That was the name of his team when he was a kid. />
  He slipped the photo into the back pocket of his 501s, sank back into his chair-and-a-half, and eased back into his novel. He refused to focus on any unsolved mysteries for at least a few hours.

  Micah didn’t think about the picture again till he stripped off his clothes for bed. He pulled out the rumpled photo and stared at it. It could be a picture of any Little League team in the Puget Sound area, out to see the big boys play. Twelve kids, some too big, some too little for the uniforms that united them for a spring of dreams. But something about the picture tickled the back of his mind. He propped the picture up against his nightstand lamp, buried himself in his comforter, and disappeared into sleep without another thought.

  Until the dream started.

  He stood in a hallway. His house? Micah wasn’t sure. Dim light floated in through the windows telling him the last black shaving of night was about to give over to the rush of dawn. He walked down the hallway slowly, feet padding without noise on the thick tan carpet.

  Light spilled into the hallway from the first door on his right. A muffled sound came from behind it. Micah pressed his ear against the six-panel door. Yes. Someone inside the room was crying.

  He touched the door and the crying stopped, like the mute button being pushed on a TV remote. Micah pushed open the door and stepped inside. Daylight splashed all around him, and he threw his hands up till his eyes could adjust. The smell of overcooked hot dogs swirled around him along with shouts of, “C’mon, need a hit now!”

  Sitting. He was sitting somewhere. He lowered his hands and looked around. Third base was right in front of him, stale popcorn at his feet, a crowd of more than fifty filled the faded bleachers.

  Little League baseball. He gazed at the scoreboard. Bottom of the ninth with two outs, the team at the plate down by one run, the count two and two with one man on second.

  Classic. The glory every kid dreams of.

  The terror every kid dreams of.

  The kid at the plate was average size. Eight, maybe nine years old. His back was to Micah, dark hair jutting out from under the kid’s helmet. He gripped and regripped the bat, as if he could strangle it into getting him a hit.

  “You gotta knock this one out!” the third-base coach screamed. “There is no choice. Now is the time. Now!”

  The pitcher dragged the toe of his cleat across the rubber on the mound, set, wound up, left leg kicking high, and threw a lightning fastball.

  The kid lunged toward the ball but didn’t swing.

  “Ball!” the umpire shouted, and the pitcher feigned disbelief.

  Three and two. The next pitch would tell the story.

  Another windup. Another pitch. Fastball again.

  Another lunge.

  The pitch smacked into the catcher’s glove like a firecracker and sent a tiny dust cloud into the air.

  “Sttteeeeeeeerike three!” the umpire yelled. “Yer out! This game is over!”

  But not for the kid at the plate. He dropped his bat to the ground and turned to face the third-base coach. The man strode toward him, shouting through his teeth.

  Micah gasped. His throat felt like it was in a vise grip, and the blood drained from his face. He should have seen it coming, but it had been buried so long. This was the day it happened. Six weeks after his mom died.

  “You idiot! For the love of Babe Ruth, what were you thinking? You didn’t even swing! Do you have any idea what’s inside that skull of yours! Do you? Well, I do! I know exactly what’s in there. So I’m gonna tell you. Absolutely nothing. Zero. Zucchini. Nada! Just like you!”

  The coach took off his hat and spiked it to the ground. “Where’s your heart? I’ll tell you—you don’t have one! You could’ve at least stuck your bat out there. What a waste. What a complete waste.”

  The coach reached for the kid and grabbed his jersey at the collarbone. It tore as the coach yanked at it, sending the kid to his knees.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I can’t believe you’re my son. Unbelievable.”

  The kid’s face was ashen. He again tried to say he was sorry, but the coach told him to shut up. A third apology, a second shut up. When the kid started to say he was sorry the fourth time, the coach swung his clipboard and whacked him over the head with it. The clipboard snapped in two with a sickening crunch. The boy crumpled forward onto his knees and elbows and gasped for air.

  “You killed this game. You single-handedly killed it.” The boy’s dad spun on his foot, took two steps away, then turned and pointed at the boy. “Just like you killed your mom.”

  An instant later it all vanished: the coach, the people in the stands, bats and balls, the popcorn, everything. Even daylight.

  A full moon of silver lit up the infield, lit up the grass, lit up the boy sitting in center field fifty feet from where Micah braced himself against the bleachers.

  Micah eased off his seat and walked toward the boy. This was just a dream. Not real. Couldn’t be real.

  The boy sat just beyond second base, where the grass met the dirt infield, his back to Micah. The torn jersey lay to the boy’s left, his glove resting on top. If he heard Micah approach, he didn’t show it.

  Micah slumped to a squatting position next to the kid and took a deep breath. He knew he was about to look into the eyes of someone he knew intimately.

  “Hey. My name is Micah. What’s yours?”

  The boy turned.

  Wake up! He did not want to go through this.

  “My nickname is Flash. I guess ’cause I run fast.” The kid stared at the grass as Micah sat next to him.

  “It’s a good name.”

  They sat together not speaking, just sitting on grass so short and smooth it looked like a fairway.

  “I saw the game.”

  “Yeah,” Flash said. “I didn’t even swing.”

  Micah felt a presence inside him speak. I am here.

  “Why did You bring me?” Micah asked.

  You know.

  “To bring healing?”

  Yes. To bind up a broken heart and set a captive free. Do you want to be free?

  “Yes.” Micah watched Flash loosen the thin brown laces on his glove, then retighten them. “I’m sorry about what happened today.”

  When Flash spoke, Micah strained to hear. “I don’t really want to live anymore.” Flash picked at his shoe.

  As the words rang in his ears, the dream faded, as if something was pulling him awake. Part of him wanted to give in, get free of the pain. Just wake up.

  “I’m so all by myself. Have been since Mom went away during Memorial Day weekend.”

  Wake up!

  No. He had to face it, finish it.

  In that instant every infinitesimal detail of the day erupted out of the deepest vault of his heart. Not the day he was seeing now, the day the horror started.

  The baseball diamond vanished, and he stood on the beach watching his nine-year-old self beg his mom to save his beach ball.

  “Mom! Wind’s got it! It’s going into the ocean!”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “But those waves are big monster waves—”

  “They’re much bigger to you than they are to me.”

  “But what if—?”

  His mom stopped and smiled. “I’ll be fine, Micah. Really.”

  They ran up to the edge of the water as the wind shoved the ball farther out into the ocean.

  Micah tried to smile.

  “Don’t worry, honey, it’s just a few strokes away.” His mom jogged into the water, and the waves were soon up to her waist. “Stay there; I’ll be with you again in two shakes of Peter Rabbit’s fluffy tail.”

  But she didn’t come back. Ever.

  “No,” Micah whimpered as his mom struggled against the riptide that dragged her out faster than he could believe. “Mom, where are you going? Mommy, come back!”

  Once more Micah watched himself scream up and down the beach, “Help her! Help my mom!” He took two halting steps toward the houses behind him
. A step north. One south. Then he froze, not knowing which way to go. What to do. He stood on the beach shaking, moaning.

  Time seemed to slow as his dad appeared over the crest of the tiny dune his brother, Mick, and he had parked behind. A moment later his dad dropped the bag of groceries and sprinted down the sand, past Micah, out into the surf.

  Micah bounced on his toes, trying to keep the sound of his whimpers inside his throat.

  Faster! Why couldn’t his dad get to her faster? She’d be okay. She’d be fine. She’d promised.

  Twenty-five minutes later paramedics carried his mom’s lifeless body off the beach toward the ambulance parked next to his dad’s car, the gray blanket they’d placed over her fluttering in the breeze.

  His dad turned to him, his face white and full of disbelief. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Mom and I were playing and . . . my beach ball . . . it went into . . .” Micah looked at the sky, the sand, back to the sky. “And . . . and . . . and I asked Mom if she could get it, and she said . . . so she went into the ocean . . . and—”

  “Why didn’t you—?”

  “I didn’t know what to—”

  “Why didn’t you go for help?”

  “I tried to, Daddy, I tried, but . . . I was scared.”

  “You should have found someone!”

  “I wanted to . . . but I couldn’t move . . .”

  “What have you done?” His dad took Micah’s shoulders and shook him hard. “What have you done?”

  Tears rushed up, filled his eyes, and ran in little rivulets down Micah’s cheeks.

  A few moments later his father turned and walked away.