Hometown Hero's Redemption

by Jill Kemerer

  Telling Wyatt about her past might help him feel less alone, too.

  With her elbow on the table, Lauren rested her cheek against her palm. “My mother died when I was two. She was a drug addict, and she died of an overdose.”

  “Really?” Wyatt turned to face her, his feet dangling and kicking as if they couldn’t take being immobile on the floor. “My mom did drugs. But she didn’t die from them. She quit. It was Len who killed her.”

  “Yeah, well, in a way drugs did kill your mom.”

  “No, they didn’t.” His voice rose. “She went to rehab.”

  “I know.” She gave him a tender smile. “I guess I meant when you get mixed up in drugs, you put yourself in a dangerous situation. If she wouldn’t have hung around people who liked that lifestyle, she wouldn’t have met Len.”

  “I wish she’d never met him. It’s all his fault. I’m glad Dad tried to kill him. I wish he would have!” Two red spots blared from his cheeks. The outburst seemed to deflate him, though, and he laid his forehead against his arm on the table.

  Her throat knotted. She lightly touched Wyatt’s hunched back, and when his slender frame shook with silent tears, she scooted closer, rubbing small circles between his shoulders. “I know. I know.”

  She put her arm around him and pressed her cheek to his hair. He sat up with wet eyes and wiped the back of his sleeve across his face.

  “You probably think I’m a big baby for crying.” His face couldn’t look more miserable.

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Men aren’t supposed to cry.”

  “Says who? Jesus cried. When we’re sad, we cry. It’s healthy. Relieves the tension building up inside. If you don’t cry, the tension comes out in a bad way.”

  “Like how?” He sniffed again.

  “Well.” She looked at the ceiling briefly. “Some people get mad and yell at whoever is there for no reason. That’s not good. Or what about this? Sometimes when I’m sad, I don’t want to cry or feel bad, so I eat a bunch of cookies. Then I feel even worse!”

  “I’d rather eat cookies than cry.”

  She laughed. “I would, too. But even if you eat half a bag of cookies, the sadness is still there. You just have a stomachache, too.”

  “Don’t tell Uncle Drew I cried.” His eyebrows dipped in a pleading manner.

  She pretended to zip her lips and throw away the key.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “It’s like zipping your lips and locking it.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s how we kept promises back in my day.”

  Wyatt pulled out a homework paper and stared at it a minute. Then he turned to her. “Did Jesus really cry?”

  Lauren nodded, swiping her phone. She opened her favorite Bible app and typed in ‘Lazarus.’ When the passage came up, she showed it to him. “Right here. John 11:35, ‘Jesus wept.’”

  “Why?”

  She filled him in on how Jesus’s friend Lazarus had died, and Jesus went to comfort the man’s sisters, Mary and Martha. “Then Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead.”

  “That’s pretty cool.” Wyatt flicked his pencil against the edge of the table.

  “Listen, Wyatt.” She needed to proceed with caution here. What she wanted to say was important, but Wyatt might not take it very well. “I totally get why you hate Len and wish he was dead. But the anger inside you doesn’t hurt Len. It only hurts you.”

  “I hate him,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll always hate him.”

  “When you’re ready, when hating him feels too heavy, pray for him. That’s all. Give your anger to God.”

  “I’m not praying for him. Ever.”

  She held her hands up near her chest. “Okay. That’s your choice. Forgiveness has a way of giving a person peace, though.”

  “He killed my mom.” It sounded less adamant than his previous declaration.

  “Yep, he did, and he’s being punished for it.”

  “Forgiving him is like saying what he did doesn’t matter, like it was okay for him to kill her. It’s not okay.”

  Oh, how well she understood his thinking. Life would be so much easier if the people she’d needed to forgive had acknowledged they’d hurt her. The thought of forgiving them had felt like it would be giving them a free pass to treat her terribly.

  “Forgiveness is a tricky thing. It’s not about acting as if the person didn’t hurt you. It’s about moving on with your life and letting God be their judge. Some of the people you’ll forgive won’t even feel sorry for the things they’ve done to you.”

  “That’s why I’m not forgiving. They have to at least say they’re sorry.”

  “Forgiving someone who never apologizes is one of the most difficult things you’ll ever do.”

  Wyatt blew out a breath. “I don’t think I can.”

  “I understand. It’s hard. But it’s also the best thing you can do for yourself. Forgiving someone doesn’t erase the hurt, but it helps you move forward.” Lauren drew him into a half embrace. He didn’t pull away.

  “Do I have to right now?”

  She chuckled. “No, silly. When you’re ready, pray for God to help you with it.”

  “What if I’m never ready?”

  She’d thought the same thing many times. She’d forgiven a lot in her life, given her anger and pain to God the way she’d just advised Wyatt to, but... She frowned. She hadn’t gotten around to forgiving the people responsible for destroying Treyvon’s and Jay’s lives. How did one forgive nameless faces?

  What about me? How can I sit here and preach to this kid when I haven’t spent two minutes in prayer about those boys other than to blame God for letting it happen?

  “You will be ready.” And I will be, too. She patted his back. “Now, let’s get this homework figured out.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, Wyatt had finished his spelling homework, written a sloppy paragraph about insects and failed more than half the multiplication problems on the worksheet before they called it quits and drove to her folks’ house. Lauren sighed. She didn’t know how parents did it. How did they keep up with the emotional ups and downs, as well as schoolwork, activities and making sure the kids were fed, dressed and healthy? It was exhausting.

  She sat with her mom on the deck overlooking the backyard. Wyatt and Lauren’s dad were attempting to fly a kite on the spacious lawn. So far it hadn’t flown more than four feet in the air, and they were currently untangling the line. Again.

  “What time is it?” she asked her mom. Mom had turned sixty a month ago, but she didn’t look her age. Tonya Pierce had short brown hair and the kindest eyes Lauren had ever seen. She described herself as “fluffy,” but her cute turquoise capris and T-shirt hid her extra pounds.

  “Almost seven, why?”

  “I need to have Wyatt back to his house by eight. His dad, Chase, is calling him.” Lauren had to hand it to Chase; he called Wyatt two or three times a week. Drew kept a log of each phone call, too, for Chase’s lawyer. The log would help Chase reestablish his parental rights when he was released. Lauren wasn’t sure how she felt about that. The guy hadn’t put Wyatt’s needs first when he went on his revenge spree. Would he be the dad Wyatt needed when he was released?

  “What do you think of him?” Mom crossed one ankle over the other.

  “Chase? I don’t know. I haven’t met him. He’s good about calling Wyatt.” She hoped Chase was worthy of being Wyatt’s father. The boy had been through too much. He needed someone he could count on. A rock who wouldn’t budge.

  Drew came to mind. For a rock, he was surprisingly flexible about many things. She’d been impressed he actually came to her for advice about the homework situation.

  “Did you hear back from th
e woman in Chicago?”

  “I talked to her this morning.” Lauren swirled the straw in her glass of iced tea. “I spent a few hours researching everything she told me, and honestly, Mom, I’m not sure if I should bother looking into it more. I don’t think it’s going to work out.”

  “Why not?”

  “I would need a large building, permits, insurance and equipment. Add the uniforms, tournament fees and teachers’ salaries, and I don’t think it makes financial sense.”

  “But she’s successful at running one, right?”

  “Yes, but hers is in a suburb of Chicago. Lake Endwell isn’t big, and it’s a thirty-minute drive to Kalamazoo. I doubt I’d get enough students to make it worthwhile.”

  Mom made a clucking sound with her tongue. “I see what you’re saying.”

  Her dad let out a whoop as Wyatt jogged by holding the string, making the bird-shaped kite soar higher. She snapped a photo of him and texted it to Drew.

  “Nice job, Wyatt,” Lauren yelled. He gave her a thumbs-up.

  “He’s a cute kid.”

  “He is.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking care of him.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s just for the summer. I need to figure out my long-term plans.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I found out some interesting news. The varsity cheer coach, Joanna Mills, is quitting.”

  Lauren sipped her drink. “So?”

  “So, you’d be perfect for the job.”

  “I don’t think they pay much to cheerleading coaches.” Lauren pulled her hair to the side.

  “I’ve got Joanna’s number. Give her a call. Find out what’s involved. It couldn’t hurt.”

  It probably couldn’t. The cheer academy looked like a no go, and Lauren trusted her mom. She gave great advice and usually didn’t stick her nose into Lauren’s personal affairs.

  “Give me the number. I’ll call.” Maybe this fit the old saying about one door closing and another opening. She doubted a cheerleading coach earned enough to support herself, but she could combine it with another part-time job if needed.

  What about my future? Retirement? Fulfillment?

  “You seem a little better lately, honey.” Mom had a knack for seeing right into her soul.

  “I feel a little better.”

  “Taking care of Wyatt is good for you.”

  “For now. Hopefully I’m helping him.”

  “You are. Look at him.” She hitched her chin toward the lawn. The kite had fallen, and Wyatt and Dad were winding the string again. “Resilient, considering all he’s been through. But you would know, too, wouldn’t you? You went through a lot of the same things.”

  “Not everything. His dad loves him and wants a relationship with him.”

  “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  Lauren laughed. “Of course not! Why would you think such a thing? I’m happy for him.”

  “Good.”

  They stared out at the pretty green lawn. The woods’ edge cast shadows in the distance, but the evening sunshine warmed Lauren’s arms.

  “Haven’t seen you in church in a while.”

  Lauren’s good mood darkened. “No, you haven’t.”

  “Why don’t you join us Sunday? We’ll pick you up.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Mom raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been saying that for five months.”

  “And you’ve been saying that for five months.”

  “I care, Lauren. I care about you. I care about your soul. Don’t shut God out.”

  Lauren sat up, rubbing her arms. “I’m not.”

  “Then come with us.”

  “Mom, I need to do this on my own terms. I’m not going to be guilted into going back to church. I don’t think God wants that. Doesn’t He want a cheerful giver?”

  “Oh, Lauren...”

  Thankfully, Mom dropped the topic. How could Lauren explain something she didn’t understand herself? Of all the cases she’d worked on, all the kids born into negligent, dangerous homes, Treyvon and Jay had affected her the most. And right when she’d been close to helping them, tragedy had struck. God could have stepped in, but He didn’t. And she still loved God, but she couldn’t quite trust Him.

  Trust and love. Faith and hope.

  All intertwined.

  Without one, could she have the others?

  And how could she keep talking to Wyatt about faith and forgiveness and God’s love when she’d been shutting God out for months? No matter how many sips of tea she took, Lauren was left with the taste of ashes.

  * * *

  Shaking the raindrops off his jacket, Drew hung his keys on the hook and nudged the front door shut behind him. Yawning, he tried to erase last night’s scene. The car wreck had been fatal. Gruesome. He went straight to the bathroom to wash his hands before hunting for Lauren. First stop, the kitchen.

  “You didn’t have to make breakfast, Lauren.” He paused in the doorway at the welcome sight. A stack of French toast steamed from a plate, the coffeemaker gurgled and bacon sizzled from the frying pan.

  “I know.” She smiled sweetly, spatula in hand. “But I made Wyatt French toast, so I figured you might want some, too.”

  “I do.” Was his exhaustion playing tricks on him, or was she even more beautiful than before? Her hair flowed behind her, sending his previously comatose pulse into high gear. The house smelled delicious, all sugar and spice and everything nice.

  Rain streamed down the windows. Lauren switched the light on over the table and set a platter loaded with bacon in the center. Drew poured two mugs of coffee as she took a seat.

  “Mind if I say grace?” he asked. She bowed her head and folded her hands. He said the prayer, then sliced into his stack of French toast. He savored the light texture and maple syrup. “Mmm...delicious.”

  “Glad you like them.” She beamed. “Did you put out any fires?”

  “No, but Tony and I were sent on a nasty call last night.” A shudder rippled down his spine. The only good thing about the night? It had opened a crack in Tony’s granite-hard attitude about him. Tony had actually told him he’d done nice work out there. It was a start.

  “That bad, huh?” Worry lines creased between her eyes.

  “Yeah, it was.” Outside the station, he never discussed the fires, 911 calls or accidents he responded to, but that might be because he had no one to discuss them with. A glance at Lauren had him biting his tongue. He wouldn’t ruin her day with tales of twisted limbs and death.

  “Was it the accident out on Ridge Road?” She took a drink of coffee, staring at him over the rim of her cup.

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “I get local news updates on Facebook. I was hoping you weren’t called to that one. It looked horrible.”

  “It was.” He set his fork down for a moment, trying to push away the visions in his head, but they kept coming, making his blood pressure climb.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I don’t think so. You don’t want to hear it.”

  “I can handle it.”

  Could she? He doubted it. She obviously couldn’t handle all the bad things she’d witnessed in Chicago or she wouldn’t have quit to hide away here.

  That must be his exhaustion talking. He didn’t think less of her for moving.

  “It might help to talk about it.” Her gray eyes probed, saw too much.

  “You first.” He bit into a piece of bacon, too tired to think straight. “What happened in Chicago?”

  She suddenly grew very absorbed in the half-eaten food on her plate. With her fork, she pushed a bite deeper into the syrup pooling around her French toast. Seconds ticked by with only the sound of the rain coming down.

  “See?” he sa
id. “Talking about it doesn’t help.”

  Her fork dropped with a clatter. “You’re wrong. I...I just wish...”

  “What?” He lowered his tone, smoothing out the edge to it. “What do you wish?”

  She pushed her chair back and turned away from him to look out the window. Nice going, Gannon. The woman had made him bacon—bacon!—so why was he picking on her? She was doing him the favor by taking care of Wyatt, and here he was, asking questions he knew she didn’t want to discuss.

  He admired the graceful line of her neck as she continued to stare at the rivulets of water streaming down the glass. When the silence had stretched too long, he opened his mouth to apologize, but she started to speak.

  “I worked for child welfare services in some of the rougher neighborhoods of Chicago, and I was used to hard cases. I mean, eight years of being surrounded by poverty coats you with Teflon. Sometimes I’d go home and wonder if I was getting burned-out. But then I’d remember why I got into the field, and I would keep going.”

  He wanted to ask why she got into the field, but she continued. “Treyvon and Jay were brothers. Treyvon was fifteen. Jay was twelve. They lived in Englewood. I always dreaded cases from that part of town.”

  When she didn’t say anything, he cleared his throat. “What’s wrong with Englewood?”

  She jerked, meeting his eyes. “Poverty. Gangs. Drugs. Way back when I first moved to Chicago, I was assigned a case that brought me in contact with an elderly Englewood resident. From that point on, Mr. Bell watched out for me whenever I had to make home visits, which wasn’t very often. Regardless, I never went alone, always had a coworker go with me.”

  Drew stopped chewing as her words sunk in. Home visits. Rough areas. She’d willingly put herself in dangerous situations. His chest felt tight. He hated that she’d been around criminals.

  “In Jay’s situation, a teacher filed a report, and I was assigned his case. He’d been a model student, and one of the few kids in the class who showed up regularly. The teacher noticed he was absent more often and was distracted at school. She called his mother and realized his home situation had deteriorated. I conducted the routine interviews. He was a nice kid. Smart and polite. Treyvon was, too.”