The Reason

by William Sirls

  Charlie held his hands over his face. He was trembling and peeking through his fingers down at Shempner.

  Carla edged between them and slowly pulled Charlie’s arms down. “Shh, shh,” she soothed. “It’s okay. I won’t let him hurt you anymore, Charlie.” He had a red handprint on the side of his face. Two tears slowly trickled down his cheeks.

  Shempner let out a scoffing noise. “I should kick the tar out of both of you!” he screamed, stepping back toward Charlie.

  “Just try, Tim!” Carla cried, turning to face him. “Just try, here, in front of all these witnesses you’re so fond of noting. Hopefully it will land you in jail where you should be!”

  “Why, you . . . ,” he sneered, pulling back a fist.

  “Twenty seconds, Tim! You have twenty seconds!”

  It was Kathy. She barreled through the doors and came up behind Shempner, two-handing an aluminum baseball bat, waving its top back and forth as if she were waiting for a curveball. “You leave within fifteen seconds or I’ll start playing T-ball with your head.”

  Kenneth took a step toward Shempner. “I think she means business, friend.”

  “Shut up. I’m not your friend.”

  “You are down to ten seconds, Tim,” Kathy said.

  “You gonna take this whore’s side, Kathy? You know what she did to me.”

  “Five seconds,” Kathy said, the barrel of the bat trembling. “Don’t ever show your face in The Pilot again.”

  “If me and my buddies quit drinking at this dump, you would go out of business.”

  “I’ll take that risk,” Kathy said, lowering the bat. She stepped right up next to him and whispered something only Carla could hear. And after she finished, Shempner straightened, gave her a long look, then turned around and slammed through the saloon doors.

  Kathy gave them all a self-satisfed smile. “Sorry about that, folks. I’ll see that he doesn’t return. Please, go back to your meal. It’s getting cold.”

  Carla just stared at the saloon doors, wondering why she couldn’t ever send Tim Shempner off like that. As Kathy walked away, the waitress’s words played over in Carla’s mind:

  “Don’t stay away forever, Tim. I’m begging you. You know who my friends are. Come back just one more time, and I promise that you’ll walk funny for the rest of your life.”

  Carla could hear Alex crying. She turned and he was clinging to Charlie’s leg. Charlie picked him up, and Alex kissed the man on his cheek and hugged him. “You okay, Charlie?” Alex asked.

  Carla took Charlie’s hand and looked up at him. “I am sorry he did that to you, Charlie.” She reached up and wiped the tears from his cheek, feeling the weight of his pain and embarrassment, and then stroked Alex’s arm. “It’s okay, Alex. Charlie is all right.”

  But it felt anything but right. It was all wrong.

  And it was all her fault. All my fault. Is there nothing I don’t screw up? What did Charlie ever do to hurt anybody? And little Alex . . . Tears clogged her throat.

  She looked down the table. As if it wasn’t already horrifying enough, she was about to lose it, in front of everyone. The doctors, the nurse, Kenneth.

  The carpenter stared into her eyes, but she quickly looked away. Forgive him? Who? Tim? Not in this lifetime.

  Who was Kenneth to come here anyway? Judging her?

  What right did he have?

  THEY ATE QUIETLY AS THE PACKERS SCORED ON THE LAST play of the game to beat the Lions twenty-one to twenty. By the cheers, those in the bar had all but forgotten the drama next door.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Shirley said to the others at the table. “Carla has had such trouble with him.”

  Jim noticed that Carla didn’t respond. Was she offended by his wife’s words?

  “You all right, Carla?” he asked.

  “She’s still in the restroom with Brooke,” Shirley said. He could hear the doctors and Kaitlyn talking in low tones at the end of the table.

  “Oh, right,” Jim said. “I’m thankful it didn’t get any worse.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Kenneth said. “And everybody is okay, including Charlie.”

  “Praise God,” Jim said. “I’ve prayed for Tim before. I hope something happens to help him find his way.”

  “Hey, James,” Kenneth said. “Let’s let it go and try to enjoy the rest of this day. Let me see you smile. Remember that new cross.”

  He was right. They couldn’t let evil overshadow the light of this amazing, grand day. Jim grinned and held out his hand, warmed when Kenneth took it. “I’m glad we met, friend. I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

  “I feel like I’ve known you forever too,” the carpenter said. He paused, still holding his hand. “And, James, I need you to remember to do something.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Jim said. “You want me to tell someone about Luke 8:50.”

  “I’m not talking about 8:50 anymore,” the carpenter said, pulling his hand away. “When it happens, promise me that you will never tell anyone about it.”

  “Tell them about what?”

  “About 7:14.”

  “From which book?” Jim asked, hearing Carla and Brooke return to the table. He thought he could smell liquor and swallowed a wave of disappointment. Did the girls have to turn to liquor? Even when they’d faced hardship? He opened his mouth to say something at the same moment he felt Kenneth’s warm hand wrap around his wrist once again.

  “Give it a little time,” the carpenter said, lightly squeezing his wrist before letting go. “I think you’ll figure 7:14 out too.”

  FOURTEEN

  Carla’s head was pounding.

  She turned over on the couch and opened her eyes. The living room in her small apartment was completely dark and silent. She could smell rum and the ashtray on the coffee table only a few feet away. Please tell me I didn’t start smoking again. I was doing so good. That failure was quickly drowned out by sickening memories of The Pilot Inn.

  Tim Shempner.

  Charlie.

  The carpenter.

  Her father.

  It can’t get any worse. I can’t take this anymore.

  The booze was wearing off, and she vaguely remembered spilling what had been left in the bottle. Carla pulled her T-shirt up over her face, trying to forget what she’d been drinking to forget. The anger. The doubt. The shame.

  She lowered the shirt, then gripped it again to pull it back up to her nose. It had a funny smell to it. Smoke, sweat, a man’s cologne? Worse, it was the only thing she had on.

  Was I with somebody last night? What am I doing on the couch?

  Carla sat up—light-headed. Her throat was dry and she swallowed, licking her lips with a thick tongue soaked in liquor, smoke, and a hint of something that let her know she’d also gotten sick. She couldn’t remember the apartment ever being this warm—what was the thermostat set at, ninety?—and she wiped the sweat off her neck. She heard a clanking sound, followed by a toilet flushing.

  Whoever he is, he’s still here.

  Her mind raced, trying to remember. She wanted a cigarette. Maybe there were some in her purse. She reached over on the table and there was nothing there. No purse, no table. She squinted in the darkness. She lifted her legs off the couch and put her feet on the floor. Something seemed different about the carpet.

  Why is it so hot in here?

  She stood and made her way across the floor, holding out her arms in front of her to protect herself, feeling for a wall, for anything. She angled toward the moonlight that was coming in from a window and stopped.

  This isn’t my apartment.

  A light came on behind her and she turned around, startled. A skinny little girl, maybe around six or seven, was standing there. She was wearing a nightie and had straight blond hair.

  “You need to go home. This is not your house.”

  “Sweetie,” Carla said, staring in disbelief. She didn’t have any idea where she was or who she came with. “Who else is here?”
<
br />   The little girl pointed behind her to the hallway. “Just Daddy.”

  Daddy. Something about the way the girl said it stabbed Carla.

  The little girl pointed and frowned. “Why are you wearing Daddy’s shirt?”

  Carla looked at the T-shirt she was wearing, then glanced over at the couch. It looked like she had used her coat as a pillow, and in the light cast from the bathroom, she could see that she had thrown up all over the armrest. Her jeans and underwear were on the floor.

  “Mommy comes home from work right before I go to school. I’m telling her that you puked on the couch. That’s bad.”

  “Your mommy lives here?” Carla asked. She felt like she was going to be sick again.

  “You aren’t supposed to kiss Daddy. I saw you. That’s bad and I’m telling Mommy that too.”

  Not supposed to kiss Daddy.

  Carla closed her eyes and thought about the carpenter. He knows. He knows it all. She leaned toward the little girl and whispered, “Honey, please don’t ever say—”

  “You’re not supposed to,” the little girl repeated. “Only Mommy is supposed to kiss Daddy.”

  I know, Carla thought. Only Mommy is supposed to kiss Daddy.

  “You are bad,” the little girl said. “Go away.”

  Carla smiled at her and nodded. Her smile faded. This was it. It all had to end. The little girl was right.

  I really am bad.

  And I really need to go away.

  MACEY KNOCKED AND WAITED WHILE STUDYING THE thick brass nameplate on the office door that read “Percival J. Timmins.” She took a quick sip of her coffee and found herself wondering if there was anyone who had been at East Shore longer than Jerry Timmins. In his thirty-five years at the hospital, Timmins had established himself as a no-nonsense doctor; a straightforward, what-you-see-is-what-you-get human being; and a devout Christian. She liked him, as most people did.

  The door opened and Timmins smiled. “C’mon in, Dr. Lewis.”

  “Hello, Jerry. Thanks for taking the time.”

  He glanced at his watch and then guided her to a chair that was angled to the side of his desk. “I’m usually not busy at this hour.” He smiled again. “Zach Norman taking care of you down there on Three?”

  “As well as can be expected. Zach actually called in—he isn’t feeling well.”

  “Really?” Timmins said. “Our model of health called in sick? That’s a first.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m gonna close this window,” he said, walking swiftly toward the other side of the room and then cranking a small handle at the windowsill. “It feels like we’re going to have an early winter.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out where summer went,” Macey said, admiring the agility and speed that Timmins still possessed. She guessed him to be around five foot nine, 160 pounds, and he was still in what she thought to be excellent shape. Despite being sixty-six years old, he didn’t have a gray hair on his head, and he kept that hair in a tight brush-cut, not unlike the one she assumed he had during his two tours as a medic in Vietnam, doing what he referred to as “patching up wounded teenagers.”

  She glanced around the office. The faint aroma of Lemon Pledge accented the spotless office that she already considered to be military-clean. Behind the desk she noticed a photo she’d not seen before of a handsome young man in a military officer’s uniform. “West Point?” she asked, pointing at the photograph.

  “Yes,” Timmins answered. “That’s Michael. That was taken about eight years ago.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “As proud as a father could ever be,” Timmins said, pausing. “We lost him in Iraq.”

  Macey clenched her teeth and gave herself a swift internal kick for not remembering that Timmins had a son who’d been killed in action. “Oh, Jerry, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said calmly—almost too calmly, she thought. “Michael’s with God.”

  “With God,” she repeated.

  “Yes,” Timmins said. “You know, Macey, we don’t always understand why, but certain things happen for a reason. Including what happened to Mary Springsted.”

  “Yes,” Macey said, straightening up in her seat. “I mean— twenty-two weeks in a coma, and she just gets up and walks out?”

  “Just like that,” Timmins said, snapping his fingers crisply.

  “But, Jerry, five months in a—”

  “Just like that,” he repeated. “Mr. Springsted walked into his wife’s room around twenty minutes after visiting hours started and then immediately came running out, screaming like a madman, yelling for us to come. Carrie Armstrong and I rushed down there, and when we entered the room, little Mary Springsted was sitting up with her legs hanging over the edge of the bed.” Timmins shrugged his shoulders and then crossed his arms. “It’s that simple.”

  “Simple?” Macey chirped. “She was in a coma for five months. Five months.”

  “Mrs. Springsted was speaking with perfect clarity and said she wanted to get out of bed. Carrie and I asked her to lay back down so we could examine her, but she’d have none of it. She stood right up and looked at us like the suggestion of an exam was nuts. Why? Because she felt perfectly fine.”

  Macey tugged nervously at her ear. “That’s absolutely unreal.”

  “Agreed. But I assure you, it was most real.”

  “But her mind . . . her muscles, the atrophy . . .”

  “I know.”

  Macey sipped quickly at her coffee again. “Twenty-two weeks? It’s impossible, isn’t it?”

  Timmins grabbed a peach-colored mug off of his desk that had the words “I love Grandpa” printed in dark blue letters on its side. “How about a warm-up?” he asked.

  She handed Timmins her cup, and he walked toward a small kitchenette in the corner of the office. “And then there were the bedsores,” he said.

  “Bedsores? What about them?” She knew it was a chronic problem that doctors and nurses faced when treating comatose patients; the skin simply began to break down.

  Timmins picked up the pot of coffee that was next to the sink and then immediately put it back down. “They were gone, Macey. Gone.”

  “What do you mean, they were gone?”

  Timmins turned around and brought his hands to the sides of his face. He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. He took a deep breath, and his cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. “I’m telling you, Dr. Lewis, that we treated her bedsores every single day. And then came that day, the day she woke up. They simply weren’t there anymore. They were gone.”

  Macey brought her hand to her chin, reminding herself of The Thinker. “Jerry—how do you explain it? What you are describing seems impossible.”

  “But it’s not impossible. This isn’t some secondhand story. The fact remains that it happened, and I saw it happen. Mrs. Springsted stood up, and her husband said they were leaving and that nobody was going to stop them.”

  “Keep going,” Macey said, noticing an open Bible next to a magnifying glass on the desk.

  “Mrs. Springsted finally agreed to let us take a look at her.” Timmins paused for a few seconds and then shook his head again. “I really don’t know what to say, Macey. She was fine—mentally and physically. As Carrie said, it was like she had just awakened from a short nap.”

  Macey blinked, slowly. She thought as highly of Carrie Armstrong as a nurse as she did about Kaitlyn. “Okay, Jerry, tell me—what is your medical explanation? What are you going to put in her file?”

  “Explanation?” he said. “Well, it’s not entirely unheard of for someone to come out of a five-month coma. You know that.”

  “I understand, but for her to walk out the same day? That’s inexplicable, right?”

  “In my thirty-five years, I’ve had six patients come out of comas longer than three months, and I’ve read about dozens of others. In each and every one of these cases, you’re looking at months of physical therapy, and normally an equal—if not greater—amount of mental a
nd emotional rehabilitation. I really don’t believe that you will find a single documented case anywhere of someone just getting up and walking out the same day, let alone . . .”

  “What?” she asked.

  Timmins shifted in his chair. His brow was furrowed, as if he were deciding if she could handle the truth.

  “Jerry?”

  He looked her straight in the eye. “Let alone waking up in better physical condition than when they entered the hospital.”

  “Until Mary Springsted?”

  “Exactly,” the doctor said. “I’m telling you right now that Mary Springsted walked out of here not only in better shape than when she arrived, but in better shape than she had been in for over a decade.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Macey said, leaning to the side of her chair. “How do you explain that?”

  Timmins took a deep breath. “I believe that man—Mr. Springsted—was down on his knees at the chapel literally every single day, praying. He prayed and prayed, and then prayed some more that God would heal his wife.” Timmins brought his hands together. “And I believe his prayer was answered.”

  “You really think that’s what—”

  “I know that’s what happened.”

  Macey grinned, but she wasn’t really sure why. “That God did it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Another one of those unexplained parts of that plan we don’t understand—that we can’t understand.”

  Macey held her coffee with both hands and bit down lightly on her bottom lip. “I don’t think I’d tell Zach Norman that, Jerry.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure he would believe you.”

  Timmins nodded and then looked down in a way that she found peculiar. “Sometimes things happen to people, and they choose not to believe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say if Zach asks, I’m still going to tell him what I believe really happened.”

  Macey got up and walked over to the window, catching herself trying to spot the old Ford pickup. “But medically speaking, what do you tell Zach?”

  “Nothing different than I’ve told you. That there are things that are bigger than medicine—and as much as we docs hate to admit it, bigger than us.” Timmins tilted his head, and the corner of his mouth rose. “Other than that, what happened to Mary Springsted is impossible. There is no other explanation other than God.”