A Time to Dance

by Karen Kingsbury

  “John?” Abby’s voice was filled with alarm. She appeared at the doorway, drying her hands on a towel. “Are you okay?”

  He glanced at her, then let his gaze fall to his knees. “I’m fine, Abby. Every time I crash the chair into something doesn’t mean there’s a crisis.”

  The moment he said the words he was sorry. Why did he have to take out his frustration on her?

  She came to him, slowly, tentatively. “I’m not worried about the table.” He could smell her perfume, feel her presence beside him. Normally on a day like this he would tickle her or pin her playfully against the wall until she begged for mercy. Then, if the kids were busy, they might wind up in their bedroom for the better part of an hour.

  His longing for her was still as strong, but how spontaneous could he possibly be now? Even if they were able to find a way to be physically intimate—which the therapist insisted was possible—it would require the type of planning that had never marked their lovemaking.

  She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Nothing.” He reached up and held her hand, savoring her skin against his, hoping she could feel how badly he wanted her. “I’m sorry, Abby. I’ve been a jerk lately. You don’t deserve it.”

  “It’ll take time. Dr. Furin . . . the therapists . . . everyone says so.” She bent down and kissed his cheek. “Life won’t always feel like this.”

  “I know.” He caught her face between his fingers and brought his lips to hers. They kissed again, longer than they had outside a few hours earlier. “Pray that we find a way to live again, okay?”

  “I am, John.” Her eyes glistened, and he knew her heart. She had probably been praying for him constantly. More than he’d prayed for himself.

  He realized then where he wanted to be. “Abby, take me outside. To the pier, could you do that?”

  “The pier?” She hesitated. “It’s a little cold, don’t you think?”

  Abby was right. Temperatures were in the low thirties that day. But John didn’t care. He wanted to sit out there in that familiar spot and watch the lake, look for signs that God was listening, that He hadn’t walked away and left John to live out his days suffocating beneath a sad, dark cloud.

  “I’ll wear my jacket. Please, Abby. I need to be out there.”

  “Okay.” She breathed out a little louder than usual. Loud enough to tell John that she didn’t think it a good idea. People with paralysis rarely got enough exercise to fully expand their lungs. Diminished lung function meant a greater risk of pneumonia. Knowing Abby, she would have preferred John stay indoors all winter.

  She found his jacket, the one with the Marion Eagles insignia across the back and over the front left pocket. After she helped him slide into it, she wheeled him out the patio door and into the backyard.

  Abby had hired a handyman to build a wheelchair ramp up and over the sliding door tracks, and down from the deck to the yard below. Once they reached the grass, the ride was bumpy, but John didn’t mind.

  There was another ramp from the ground to the pier, and Abby struggled to get him up and onto the flat surface. “Good?”

  “Closer to the water.”

  “John, think about your safety.” She positioned herself in front of him where he could see her. “The pier has a slope to it. If your brake fails . . .”

  If his brake failed, the wheelchair would roll forward and fall into the water, taking John with it. The lake was deep enough at the end of the pier that unless someone saw it happen, John wouldn’t have a chance.

  “It won’t fail.” He looked straight at her. “Come on, Abby. I can’t watch the lake from back here.”

  “Fine.” She released the brake with her foot and pushed him almost to the edge. He could hear her jam the lever down and give it a test push. “Is that better?”

  He twisted around so he could see her. She was angry. “Thank you.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “When do you want to come in?”

  If it weren’t for the brake, he would’ve made his way inside by himself. But when the back brake was in place, John couldn’t move without someone releasing it. “An hour.”

  Her hands fell to her sides again. “I’m sorry, John. We’ll have to find our way through this. I just . . . I wouldn’t know what to do if you fell in, and . . .” She hung her head for a moment before finding his eyes once more. “I can’t lose you, John. I need you too much.”

  His neck burned from craning toward her, but he nodded. “I’m okay, Abby. I promise.”

  She held his gaze a few seconds longer, then turned and went back in the house.

  John relaxed his neck and stared out over the lake. His other injuries were healed now, his throat and a few cuts and bruises on his face and arms. The accident had thrown him onto the truck’s floorboard, breaking his neck in the sudden jolt.

  Other than that, he’d fared miraculously well. But why? What could God have left for him now? The next several months would be focused on rehabilitation, which meant he was unable to teach. He could go back in the fall if he wanted, but it would be tough. The constant pity he was bound to receive would get old after a few days, let alone another ten years.

  John watched a couple row out toward the middle of the lake and cast a line. All his life he’d made his mark through sports. What good was he now, like this? And what sense did it make that Jake Daniels would spend the rest of his life paying for it? Yes, Jake shouldn’t have agreed to race. But what about his father, Tim? Wasn’t he partially to blame for buying the boy a car that cried to be driven at high speeds?

  John had no idea how the boy was doing. Jake and his family had sent John a card, apologizing and wishing him a quick recovery. None of them had been by to see him.

  “So, what am I going to do with the rest of my life, Lord?” The words dissipated in the cool breeze that blew up from the lake.

  He remembered a verse he’d loved as a boy, one that had helped him last year when it seemed he and Abby would divorce: Jeremiah 29:11. “I know the plans I have for you . . . plans to give you hope and a future, and not to harm you.”

  Okay, so if that was true, what were the plans . . . and how was he supposed to get through the next several decades feeling anything but harmed? Most of all, where was the hope?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the back door opening. The muscles in his neck still hurt from the way he’d craned around to see her earlier. He waited until she was standing in front of him.

  “That was the district attorney on the phone. The hearing to determine whether Jake will be tried as an adult is tomorrow morning.” Abby’s voice was flat. “He said the judge might be more likely to decide in our favor if you’re there in person.”

  John cocked his head to one side. “What’s in our favor?”

  “Obviously the D.A. assumes we want Jake tried as an adult.” Abby sighed. “The penalties are much tougher that way.”

  John’s head was spinning. Seeing Jake sentenced to prison as an adult would be as devastating a blow as the accident. “You sound like you agree.”

  She squatted down, resting her knees on the pier and sitting back on her heels. “I don’t know what I think.” Her eyes fell to his wheelchair. “People shouldn’t race their cars on city streets.”

  “Putting Jake in prison will change that?”

  Abby’s voice was barely audible. “I don’t know.”

  John leaned forward and took gentle hold of Abby’s shoulder. “Don’t you think Jake’s learned his lesson?”

  “I’m not sure.” She looked up at him again. “I suppose.”

  “I’m serious, Abby. Do you think a day will ever come when Jake Daniels agrees to race like that again?”

  “No.” She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. “He won’t. I’m sure of it.”

  “So why send the kid to prison?” John was surprised at the sudden passion in his voice, his heart. “Send him to a dozen high schools where he can tell other kids not to
race. Send him to college and pray that he grows up to teach or coach or pass the joy of playing football on to hundreds of kids like himself.” He shook his head and glanced away before meeting Abby’s eyes again. “The district attorney is doing what he thinks is best. That’s his job. But I know Jake Daniels. Prison won’t help him or me or anyone else. And it won’t stop the next kid from saying yes to a street race.”

  A hint of fire sparked in Abby’s eyes, something he hadn’t seen since his accident. In a flash of realization, John understood. Hearing determination in his voice was a victory, a milestone. The corners of her mouth lifted just a bit. “What should I tell the D.A.?”

  John clenched his fingers around the wheels of his chair. For the first time in weeks, he had a purpose.

  “Tell him I’ll be there.”

  Nineteen

  JAKE DANIELS WAS SITTING BETWEEN HIS PARENTS AND his attorney when he saw something that made his stomach turn.

  The glimpse of a wheelchair.

  Before he could do anything to stop the moment, before he could hide or cover his eyes or turn and run, the rest of the wheelchair appeared. In it was Coach Reynolds, being pushed by his wife.

  The adults around Jake turned to see what he was looking at, and A. W. muttered an expletive under his breath. “We don’t have a chance if he testifies.”

  Jake’s parents were quick to turn back toward the front of the courtroom. But Jake couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t take his eyes off his coach. If it wasn’t for the Marion Eagles baseball cap he wore, Jake would barely have recognized him. He’d lost weight—a lot of weight. And he looked smaller, older somehow.

  For a moment, Coach didn’t see him, but then he turned before Jake could look away, and their eyes met. Jake was spellbound, unable to blink or breathe or move. He’d spent hours imagining what Coach looked like in a wheelchair, how sad it would be to see such a tall, strong man condemned to spend the rest of his life sitting down.

  But Jake had never expected this.

  From across the courtroom, Coach Reynolds smiled at him. Not the big, full-faced smile he had in the locker room after an Eagles victory, or the silly smile he wore when he was pulling some crazy stunt for his health class. But a sad sort of smile that told Jake’s stunned heart that his coach didn’t hate him.

  Coach nodded once at Jake, then Mrs. Reynolds wheeled him to the corner of the courtroom at the end of one of the spectator benches. She sat beside him, and the two began to whisper.

  “Jake, you need to know how serious this is.” A. W. seemed irritated at the exchange that had just taken place between Jake and the coach. “If Mr. Reynolds testifies, the judge will almost certainly decide to try you as an adult.”

  “Coach.”

  “What?” A. W. pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

  Jake turned to look his attorney straight in the eyes. “Coach Reynolds. Not Mr. Reynolds. Okay?”

  “Jake, your attorney is only trying to help.” Jake’s father put an arm around his shoulders and looked at A. W. “This is the first time he’s seen Coach Reynolds since the accident.”

  The attorney waved his hand near his face as though his father’s information was trivial. “The point is, Jake’s in trouble. If the judge decides to try him as an adult, we’ll have to ask for a significant continuance. We’re looking at three to ten if he’s convicted.”

  “You don’t really think that’ll happen, do you?” His mother was rubbing her hands together. A habit she’d picked up in the past six weeks. “Even if he’s tried as an adult he could be acquitted, right?”

  “It’s very complicated.” A. W. took out a pad of paper and a pen and began diagraming. “There are several ways a jury could look at it, starting with the felony assault charge and . . .”

  Jake tuned out and positioned his head just far enough to the side so he could see Coach Reynolds and his wife. They were still talking, their heads bowed together. After a few seconds, the district attorney joined them. The conversation between the three didn’t last long, and then the attorney took his seat on the other side of the table.

  Jake was being rude; he knew it. But he couldn’t force himself to look away. Seeing Coach in a wheelchair was the most horrible thing he could imagine. Get up, Coach . . . run around the room and tell us it’s all a big joke. Something you’d pull in one of your health classes. Please!

  But the man didn’t move a bit.

  The hearing would start any minute, and for the first time since hitting Coach’s pickup truck, Jake didn’t want to run away. He wanted to get up and go to Coach, tell him how much he’d missed him and how sorry he was. How sorry he would always be.

  Then Jake saw something even worse. Coach’s foot slipped off the chair and hung loose and limp to one side. And this was the awful part—Coach didn’t even notice! It was his wife who saw it first. She stooped down and lifted his foot—like it was a book or a plant or something—and set it back on the chair.

  Jake felt tears well up. Coach, no! How was it possible? Coach couldn’t even feel his own feet? Was it that bad? Jake brushed a single tear off his cheek. Since his parents’ divorce, he’d spent little time praying. But he had prayed once. When he’d desperately needed help, in the moments after hitting Coach’s truck. Back then Jake had screamed out for God’s help.

  And God had brought it.

  So, why not do the same thing here and now? Jake closed his eyes.

  God, it’s me—Jake Daniels. I’m sure You know I’ve ruined everything. My whole life’s shot but the sad thing is, my coach’s life is shot, too. And it wasn’t his fault, not at all. So You see, God, I have this favor to ask. I believe You can do anything, God. You can make blind people see and deaf people hear—at least that’s what my Sunday school teacher used to say.

  Tears streamed down his face, but none of the adults around him seemed to notice. God, I remember a story about a paralyzed man. He had a mat with him, I think. And a bunch of friends. And Lord, I know You made him walk again. I’m pretty sure one minute he was lying there and the next he was walking around.

  Jake opened his eyes and snuck another quick look at Coach.

  So, please, God . . . could You do the same thing for Coach Reynolds? Could You make him walk again and run again? Just do whatever You did to that other guy and let him have his legs back. Please, God.

  How long had it been since he’d prayed that way? Jake wasn’t sure, but it felt wonderful. And even though his parents told him Coach would always be paralyzed, Jake was sure God could change that if He wanted to.

  Coach caught his eye, and Jake made a quick turn toward his parents. He dried his cheeks and stared at his mom and dad, hating the way they listened to everything A. W. said. The attorney saw Coach as the enemy . . . but his parents didn’t feel that way, did they? Not that many years ago his parents had been friends with the Reynoldses.

  Jake sniffed and studied his parents.

  What was going on with them, anyway? Now that the trial was coming up, his father had taken a personal leave from work. He was staying at a hotel not far from where Jake and his mother lived. Jake spent the days at continuation school, wondering why he wasn’t in jail where he belonged.

  But what about his dad? Where was he spending the days lately? At his mother’s house? If so, were they getting along or just trying to figure out what to do if Jake went to prison? They still sat with space between them, so there couldn’t be anything that good happening.

  The space between them was the first sign there’d been problems between them, back before their fighting overtook the house. Lately, though, they hadn’t fought once. Not since this whole mess with the accident.

  The judge walked in and the hearing began. The woman had already heard from Jake’s parents on why he should be tried as a minor, but now she glanced around the courtroom and asked A. W. a question. “Is there any new evidence the court should consider before making a decision in this matter?”

  Jake’s attorney stood fo
r a moment. “None, Your Honor.”

  The judge turned to the district attorney. “Counselor?”

  The man stood and looked toward the back of the room. “Yes. The state would like to call Mr. John Reynolds to the stand.”

  Jake could hardly breathe as Mrs. Reynolds wheeled Coach to the front of the courtroom. This was the part where Coach would say how wrong it was to street race, and how Jake must have known what he was doing.

  But Jake didn’t care. He deserved whatever happened next. The only thing that mattered was Coach’s legs, and whether this would be the moment God would choose to heal him.

  Or if that would come sometime later.

  Twenty

  EVERY EYE WAS ON JOHN.

  Abby knew they were staring at him, thinking him painfully thin with useless legs strapped to a prison of metal and wheels—but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t have been more proud of him. His back was still sore, and this morning the pain had been so bad he could hardly sit up. But still he’d come.

  The district attorney didn’t know what he was in for.

  Abby parked the wheelchair near the witness stand. She took a seat in the front row, not far from John. When he had stated his name for the record and explained his role in the hearing, the judge turned the floor over to the state. “Proceed with your witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” The district attorney was a plain-looking man whose square jaw was his most prominent feature. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and inexpensive dress pants, but he looked kind. Abby hoped he would understand what John was about to do.

  The attorney walked John through a series of quick questions, designed to put him at the scene and verify for the court that his paralysis was, in fact, the result of Jake Daniels’s street racing.

  “Mr. Reynolds, let’s talk about the defendant for a moment.” The attorney kept his distance. Probably so he wouldn’t block the judge’s view of John in his wheelchair. “You know Jake Daniels, don’t you?”

  Abby’s heart raced. Here it was.

  “Yes, I do.” John cast a look at Jake. Abby followed his gaze, but Jake was studying his folded hands. John turned back to the district attorney. “I’ve known him for several years.”