“Didn’t they know it was raining in Chicago?” a man asked as Paul paced the aisle. “Why did they let us board? If this were a normal plane instead of a two-hundred-seater, a storm wouldn’t hold us up. I’m never flying one of these puddle jumpers again.”
Others joined in, griping and me-tooing. The chorus of complaints drove Paul back to his seat. Straight had roused.
“What time is it?” Paul said. “People are talking like we’ve been here for hours.”
“Just after four,” Straight said. “Not so late. Funny, it’s already getting dark. We’re in for some rain here too.”
“I hope not.”
The captain came back on. “Folks, thanks for your patience. Our storm in Chicago is moving toward Detroit, but another weather system is coming from the south. Our best bet is to get going and outrun it. We’re cleared for takeoff.”
The passengers, including Paul, clapped and cheered. Maybe he could forget his private torment.
While Paul was in Washington, Jae had decided it was time for him to move back upstairs with her. Since he’d come home from the hospital, he’d been set up in the den. He’d learned to master the first floor and could even find his way out into the yard and back. But he’d made no effort to attempt the stairs and rejoin her in their bedroom.
When Jae had broached the subject, he had protested that he was still up and down all night, dozing an hour or two, then waking and listening to his discs until he could get back to sleep. He didn’t want to disturb her, he said. She had been reluctant to ask again. A second no would be humiliating.
Better to present Paul with a fait accompli. She knew moving his things might be provocative, but it would also give her a chance to see what kind of a stand Paul would take in their marriage. I want to see what’s coming—if we have a next step.
Jae threw all Paul’s bedding and clothing in the washer. She heaped his toiletries and medicines in a basket. On the end table was the disc player that had defeated her in the hospital, along with the tidy stack of discs. Where was the box for the New Testament set? It was raining hard outside, making the den so dark she had to turn on the lights to look for it.
She finally found it on the floor under the skirt of Paul’s favorite armchair. There she also came upon a note crumpled and soft from fingering, from Angela Pass Barger. Her eyes skipped over it in horror. Impossible! How could her blind, seemingly helpless, definitely depressed husband have met a new woman, corresponded with her, and made a secret plan to meet her in Washington? And right under the nose of Jae’s father?
No wonder Paul wanted Straight to go with him. He must have been Paul’s accomplice all along. Who else could have read him the note? It amazed Jae that she had been so naive and accepting—waiting on Paul hand and foot, enduring his mood swings and angry outbursts, defending his temper to the children. All the while she had hoped he was coming to terms with his blindness, he had been trolling the waters of a different future.
It was the same old story, Paul and his other women. And he always acted like her jealousy was crazy. She dumped out the basket of medicines and toiletries on the end table, too angry even to force tears. She had already cried enough for a lifetime.
“Just in time,” Straight said as the plane ascended. “We could have been stuck a couple more hours.”
But even when they reached cruising altitude, high above the clouds, the flight was bumpy. Passengers were restricted to their seats, which heightened Paul’s claustrophobia—not that he would have dared venture into the aisle anyway with the plane pitching and jerking. Straight must have sensed his discomfort. He laid a steadying hand on Paul’s arm.
“Spot of turbulence,” the captain announced brightly. “Don’t think it will last. We’ll stay south of Detroit, and we can expect a smooth ride.”
“How can he be so cheerful?” Paul said. “He’s driving me crazy.” In truth, Paul was driving himself crazy, trying to put out of his mind the jarring teaching of the Gospels. It was like trying not to think of an elephant.
The cherry blossoms were still a draw, Bia Balaam thought. Even in this age when it was possible to have a virtual version of any life experience, tourists flocked to Washington for the simple pleasure of walking under the delicate canopies of scented blossoms. Recognizing the commercial appeal of the tradition—and with the help of cuttingedge horticulture—Washington had extended the cherry blossom season from just a few weeks in late March and early April to all of April, May, and June. Now more than ever, celebrating the cherry blossoms was part of the nation’s rite of spring.
Tourists near the Washington Monument scanned the skies and scrambled for cover. The breeze bore the strong taste and odor of ozone. An expectant hush, an electric tang in the air, got everybody revved up and anxious, wishing the storm would break.
Bia slipped the pensized titanium cartridge from her pocket, popping the lid with her thumb, and tapped the button. Her umbrella shot up, unfolding like a parachute above her head. But the rain did not come. One block, two blocks . . . Bia felt foolish with the umbrella up, but there was no one around to notice.
Finally a few soft pelts. The downpour quickly intensified and her umbrella grew heavy. But Bia didn’t smell water. Her legs and feet were dry, and no rain pooled on the pavement. Instead she saw drifts of pink-and-white petals.
She shook them off her umbrella. The air grew thick with cherry-blossom petals, their fragile sweetness giving way to a cloying smell of decay. Through the blizzard of petals, she saw the trees were bare.
Brushing the rotting petals off her face and hair, she moved off the sidewalk to examine the trees. The branches were stripped of blossoms and the leaves were brown, as if a sudden winter had aged them. But it wasn’t cold. The warm air crackled with static electricity and smelled of decomposition.
Holding her umbrella by the tip, she hooked a branch with the handle and bent it down into her hand. The end was shriveled. The bark was slowly mottling and withering all the way up the branch to the tree’s trunk. The tree was dying before her eyes.
For nearly two hundred years, since the Japanese presented them as a gift to the nation’s capital, the cherry trees had been a beloved symbol of renewal and one of Washington’s most compelling attractions. Now in the time it had taken Bia to walk a few blocks, they were destroyed, shriveling to dust.
What force of nature could possibly have wreaked such havoc, and so quickly? Scientists would be scratching their heads over this one, but Agent Balaam already knew what her boss would say. He would recognize that it wasn’t natural and wasn’t a miracle, as some would claim. No, it was a shockingly bold and utterly despicable act of terrorism—worthy of ruthless, immediate reprisal.
The pilot was wrong on all counts. The turbulence never eased, and the stubborn storm hovered directly over Chicago for hours, forcing the plane to circle. The passengers’ initial joking about white-knuckle flights had faded into uneasy silence. Paul hoped his terror didn’t show.
Even the pilot finally sounded stressed. He communicated in short, tense bursts. “Bumpy patch . . . aah . . . holding for clearance . . . safer to bring her down when it clears . . .”
At last he came through with a complete sentence. “Okay folks, we’re gonna try to land.”
“Try to land?” All around him, Paul heard sounds of horror. Could they be in real trouble? Was it possible he could die? What if everything he had been listening to was true? What if there was a God and a plan of salvation and consequences for not connecting with it? He shook his head. He wasn’t about to become a foxhole convert. That made no sense. He wondered if it would even be valid.
The plane rocked and bucked as it circled down, buffeted by high winds. Disoriented, Paul twitched with anxiety, which escalated to panic when a woman behind him cried out. This had been a mistake, thinking he could fly. God, help me.
He didn’t mean that, he knew. Anyone might have said it. Just an expression. Get a grip.
Straight’s deep voice cut thro
ugh his terror. “The sky is spectacular. It goes from pitch-black to an inky green where clouds roil up on the horizon.”
Paul vise-gripped the armrests. “Enough play-by-play.”
“You all right, Paul?”
“Kinda jumpy.” Paul’s heart was pounding so hard he wondered if it would burst. I don’t want to die. I’m not ready.
“Rough ride,” the captain barked. “Assume the brace position, head down, arms over it.”
Screams, cries, shouts. Someone retched.
“Bend over! Cover your head,” a flight attendant yelled over the hubbub.
The plane lurched and dipped. Screams became wails. Paul pressed his forearms tight over his ears to muffle the sobs and howls of fellow passengers. His breath came in hard gasps.
Quivering, the plane plunged, sucking down his lungs and stomach. The point is to have faith. What makes a person a believer? If I were my father, reaching toward God, what would I expect to get? If I sought the truth, what would I find? Would God show Himself to me? Would I experience a love transcending all earthly gifts?
God, save me, Paul cried silently, and he knew he was not pleading only for his physical life.
Thunder cracked and made Paul bolt upright, turning toward Straight amid the screams. He reached out but met only air—like the other passengers, his friend was bent in the brace position. A huge bolt of lightning flashed in the window, filling the cabin with blazing light. Paul felt the jolt in his fingertips, up his arm, to his face and hair.
Suddenly, with the resounding thunderclap that followed, his fear was gone, replaced by a swelling awe.
I saw that!
15
WHAT JUST HAPPENED? Paul’s arms and face still tingled, and behind his bandages his eyes pulsed with the bright after-shock. Had his sudden burst of faith restored his sight? Could that fearful prayer have been valid? He felt nothing.
He had made no bargain with God, made no promises. Had he decided to receive Christ, to become a Christian? His name-sake in the New Testament had told a jailer that all he had to do was call upon the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, and he would be saved. There was no doubt Paul had called upon God. Or had he simply blurted something in fear? His eyesight was restored, but it made no sense. It seemed way too easy.
Could faith come out of nowhere? Could one simply express it and reap huge benefits?
And was it really possible for someone like him? Paul recognized he had been wrestling with the question of faith since Wintermas, when Andy Pass died and he discovered his father’s letter. His contempt for the weakness of the two principal men in his life; his outrage over their betrayal, which led him to join the task force; the hatred filling him as he listened to the worshipers in San Francisco; his loathing for Stephen Lloyd at the moment when he confessed—all were battles against faith. But Paul had been guilty of more than hostility. He had even killed in an attempt to eradicate faith like a contagious disease—with no regrets, as he’d told Koontz—taking satisfaction in a job well done.
How could faith have taken root in him, the enemy? Who could be more unworthy? The New Testament Paul said he was the “chiefest of sinners.” Well, now he had competition.
Seedlings had been sown when Paul listened to the New Testament, even as he believed his mind was actively rejecting it. Had it gained purchase when he turned the lines from the funeral service and his father’s letter over and over in his mind? Could it have emerged from pretending he had faith, imagining how his father might have experienced it? Or even from his father’s wish that he grow up to seek the truth and to become a man of God?
All Paul knew was that something had changed—something even more profound than regaining his sight.
The plane righted itself as another thunderclap boomed. Straight sat up, putting a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “You okay?” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Paul, you seem agitated, like you’re not well.”
“Straight,” he said, “I saw that lightning!”
“You saw it?”
“I didn’t imagine it, man.”
“But your eyes are bandaged, under dark shades.”
“I know what I saw!”
“I hope you’re right, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“It’s true. I want to rip these bandages right off and see what I can see.”
“Don’t,” Straight said. “Whatever happened, your eyes will be sensitive, and you don’t want to risk further damage.”
“What happened is what you told me before, in the car—”Paul dropped his voice to a whisper— “‘According to your faith let it be to you . . . and their eyes were opened.’”
“Hmm.”
Then it struck Paul. The reason he hadn’t recognized the quotation was that he had never recited it to Straight. Straight was familiar with the Bible! His friend had to be a secret believer! The way he gently aimed Paul back to the book, frequently asking innocent questions about what it said on this or that subject . . .
If Straight is a believer, am I?
The airliner touched down. Some passengers applauded weakly, but most were too spent to do more than stand and listlessly hunt for their bags. Paul jumped up, jubilant. He had one goal—to get home and get back into the New Testament. All the passages about blindness and sight were one thing. There was so much more there, more he needed to hear again until he understood.
Paul burst into the house, and he and Straight dumped his bags in the front hall. Paul rushed to embrace Jae—for the first time, he realized, since he’d been injured. He gushed the news of his sight. She stiffened, and he fell back, stung. She doesn’t want to get her hopes up.
“I know it’s impossible to believe, but it’s true, Jae. I looked toward the window, and there was this incredible lightning, and I saw it!”
He took his sunglasses off his bandaged eyes. “I can see the lights in this room. There’s one lamp. . . .”
“Paul, keep your voice down. I don’t want the kids to wake up and hear this. You remember where the lamps were. Maybe Straight should take you to the emergency room—”
“No, no. I can’t explain all this to strangers and spend the night there getting tests. We’ll see Dr. Bihari in the morning.”
“Paul, maybe it’s some neurological shift—”
“I’m not going, Jae. Forget it. It’s my eyes, not my head. . . .” Suddenly he was out of gas, deflated emotionally and physically. “And I’m just so tired. It’s been such a crazy day. That plane ride was a roller coaster. . . .”
First thing the next morning, Jae took Paul to Dr. Bihari. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the light, and the doctor was clearly dubious. He rolled back and forth in front of Paul on a small stool. “Tell me what you think you can see.”
“Everything is fuzzy,” Paul said, “but I can see. Last night I could tell which lamps were on at home, and this morning I could see outlines of furniture. . . .”
“Paul, you’ve lived in that house many years.”
“You don’t believe me,” Paul said. “Test me.”
“Of course. Now don’t strain, and also, please don’t get your hopes up.”
How many times am I going to hear that? Of course my hopes are up!
“Limited, intermittent vision is not unheard of,” Dr. Bihari said. “But be careful not to jump to conclusions.”
Paul was able to make out only the large single letter at the top of the chart and the next line of fairly large letters. “But you have to agree, it’s something.”
“It’s more than something,” Bihari said. “I need to do one more thing, and I warn you it will cause some discomfort.”
“I’m game.”
The doctor examined Paul with an extremely bright light. Paul blinked and squinted but forced himself to keep his eyes open long enough for the doctor to find what he was after. “I am astounded,” Dr. Bihari said. “Your corneas, irises, pupils, and choroids show permanent damage. If you can see anything, it sh
ould be clouded with the blurry shapes of scar tissue within the eye itself.”
The doctor asked Jae to lean in close. “You see the disfigurement of the lens, just behind the iris in both eyes?”
She nodded.
“But you do not see that, Paul?” the doctor said.
“I see only what I’ve told you. It’s blurry but it’s becoming clearer. Now, how about those transplants?”
“They may not be necessary. I don’t understand it, but I wouldn’t want to mess with nature yet. Let’s see how much better this gets.”
Jae was confused. She didn’t know how to feel. She ought to be overjoyed, but she was furious with Paul about the letter. Now she didn’t know how to confront him. He’d be angry and claim the correspondence was innocent, though it was signed “love” and he had obviously schemed to connect with the woman. If the relationship was platonic, why hadn’t he mentioned it? How could Jae believe in him again? She was sick of his deception—sick of worrying, of checking for signs, of being consumed by doubt and suspicion.
Even if Paul confessed—a big if—what could she do? Was she ready to kick out a man who was just beginning to regain his sight? Could he function alone in a strange new place? Forcing him out now would be unforgivable, the final blow in their marriage. Jae wasn’t ready to take that step. She needed time and space to think things over and—if nothing else—to prove to Paul she meant business.
The only solution was to pack up the kids and leave. That would have to wait till they got out of school in a few weeks. Then she could pitch the departure as something positive—an adventure, a summer vacation. I owe them that after all we’ve put them through.
Until then, she’d hide her feelings from Paul, which proved easier than she expected. His routine stayed the same: listening to discs in the den all morning with the door closed, waiting for Straight; holing up with him all afternoon; and then going out to chess clubs several evenings a week. For the first time ever, she was grateful for his neglect.
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