Up the three stairs onto the wooden planks, she stepped, then stopped. The dead plant in the terra cotta container looked about like she felt. Lifeless and withered. She bent and lifted the pot. The key lay there. She stared at the dull silver finish and imagined the pain the simple piece of metal would unlock. A wind chime tinkled from somewhere nearby, its sound melancholy and haunting.
It had taken her a year to muster the courage to make this trip. Going inside was required. Emptying the place and readying the house for sale had to be done. No one in the family had come back after Jordan’s grandmother died. And as much as she wanted to forget, Rivers refused to let a stranger toss away Jordan’s past.
She picked up the key, its weight much heavier than the flimsy nickel should be.
With shaking hands, she inserted it and turned. Now the knob. Already the view through the glass wrenched her heart. Pictures and paintings lined the tongue-and-groove walls tinted a whitish gray. Likely photos of Jordan and his sister, before...
Blocking out her churning thoughts, Rivers burst through and stepped inside. She tossed her bag on a nearby bench but kept her sketch pad and pencils tucked under her arm. On the opposite wall, an antique side table held five photo frames. The first one she focused on jarred her, speared through her core.
Jordan, a young, smiling teen, his sister Savannah on his back. Both tanned, they dripped saltwater where they stood at the end of a boardwalk, sand covering their bare feet and calves.
Her breathing halted, imprisoned inside her chest. She couldn’t look at more. She had to get out of here.
Help me, Lord.
The chimes drifted into her thoughts again. Maybe she could draw. Outside. The beach might be the best place. With cautious steps, she glanced around, searching for where a beach towel or chair might be stored.
A set of blinders would be nice. How could she stay here with so many gut-wrenching photos? She’d have to box them up. A narrow hall opened from the living area, and a single door on the left looked to be a closet. Lips pinched and fearful of what she’d find, she cracked the door. A linen closet. Good. No pictures. A small sigh worked its way past her lips. Stacks of sheets lined the top shelf, then blankets on the next, and, on the bottom, beach towels. Beneath that shelf lay three folding sand chairs.
She snagged a red, oversized Coca-Cola towel and a fuchsia chair then made a beeline back out the door.
Chapter 3
THE PUNGENT SCENT OF tobacco and marijuana clung to the potential client’s clothes, clung to the man’s disheveled brown hair, and now it clung to Cooper, as well. Occupational hazard for a substance abuse counselor. That and a few other hazards, but the rewards were eternal.
Sitting across from Cooper in the worn wingback chair, the young man’s glassy blue eyes had been immediately convicting. The thirty-something-year-old had been using within the last few hours. The guy still wasn’t broken, despite losing his job and his vehicle. He wasn’t at rock bottom. Yet. Blame still spewed from the client’s lips. How people had let him down. How his parents had written him off back in college. How losing his job hadn’t been his fault. How he could get clean on his own.
“Look at me, Blake.” Cooper moved to the edge of his chair and made eye contact. “I know you’ve been hurt by people you care about. You’ve been disappointed in life. I’ve been in your place. But how much further do you want to sink before you reach out for the life preserver I’m throwing you?”
Blake didn’t answer. There was a girlfriend in the picture, and Blake didn’t want to lose her. Which was a real possibility since he’d have to stay away from her during and after recovery if she was still using. If he’d stay today.
Please open his ears and his heart, God.
“God loves you, Blake. He wants a better life for you than this. God can perform miracles. He can bring the dead to life, and that includes people like us. He can bring new life. You can do this with His help.”
For a moment, something like hope flickered across Blake’s expression, but then his gaze fell. He shook his head. “I can’t leave Star. She needs me. Someone will hurt a pretty girl like Star if I abandon her.”
The moment was gone. Blake would leave and go back to Star and find his next fix. Their next fix.
“If you change your mind, I’m here. I could get Star placed, too, you know. We could probably get her a bed next door. You could both start over. If you care for her, get help.”
Chin lifted, Blake stood. “We’ll be fine. I can take care of me and Star.” With that, he lumbered out and back onto the street.
At least Blake had come through the door this time. That was a start. For a week, the guy had walked past the sober living house and the studio, often pausing, glancing toward the entrance, the security camera catching the wistful expression hidden under the dirty baseball cap. Each time, Blake had continued on his way. Until today.
Maybe next time he’d stay and get help. Before it was too late. Heroin or meth or whatever Blake was on were formidable enemies without the Lord in the battle.
Cooper’s head bowed. “God, please bring Blake and Star to You, somehow. Block their paths to destruction. Lead them, restore them, and usher them into Your kingdom.”
His appointments finished and the gallery covered, Cooper left for his turn on voluntary patrol. At the marina, he turned his Jeep into the lot in front of the boat slips. He shook his head to clear the image burned into his mind, but Blake’s face stayed with him, churned his gut. Those hollow eyes pierced him like a bullet to the chest. Every single time. Seeing himself in their faces, their chaos, their messed-up lives.
Remembering Savannah. Gone way too soon because of him.
Stop. Take every thought captive.
He parked in his usual spot, the Atlantic glistening beyond the faded boards of the dock. Before exiting, he let his eyelids shut, tried to block out the vision of Blake in some alley or back room, buying whatever he could find to numb the pain of old injuries, both external and internal.
Another silent prayer lifted toward the throne. Cooper asked the Holy Spirit to speak the prayer for Blake and all of the others in the Re-Claimed ministry. Many times, no words formed, just a plea, that groaning in his spirit.
Only you know how to heal them, God.
If he let the disappointment burrow in too deep, the emotions would become toxic. He’d been there, done that. He couldn’t take away their loneliness or pain...couldn’t fix their lives or the lies they believed. Each person, including himself, was responsible for his own choices. And his own disasters. With God’s help, people could find restoration, but they had to be willing. Underneath the addiction, they had to come to terms with whatever haunted their past, accept God’s love and grace, forgive those who’d wronged them, and find their worth in the One True Healer.
Warm sunshine poured through his window, and drowsiness tugged on him. He should sleep more at night.
If only he could. Another hardship he had in common with his therapy clients. He understood insomnia all too well.
His breathing slowed, the scent of that residual smoke still tickling his nose. He’d sit here a few moments more. The tides weren’t coming in yet.
Drowsy, he let his eyes close. Sleep crept in.
The taste of cheap beer on his tongue, Cooper swallowed the long, white tablet. The dry pill stuck at the back of his throat. He grabbed for his can in the boat’s cup holder and took a swig. Flat and warm. He tossed the can on the floor beside the captain’s seat. He’d pop open another in a minute, but he needed to drag Savannah back into the boat. He may’ve had a few, but from the way the sun hung in the sky, he knew the tide would be coming in soon. St. Simons had fierce tides that rose rapidly. A few more minutes, and they’d make the quick trek back toward Nanna’s house. He’d have to find a place to ditch the pile of beer cans.
He let his eyes shut behind his sunglasses as numbness and euphoria crept up his arms and legs, tickled its way across his chin and lips and ears. His breath
ing slowed. The patronizing voices nagging him quieted. He could barely hear them now as they repeated, “Why do you talk funny? You throw like a girl. Why can’t you be more like Jordan? Why would you want to major in art? You’ll never amount to much. So much potential wasted.”
But then another thought forced through his fog. Savannah! Oh God, help him, where was Savannah? Stumbling to his feet, he charged toward the side of the boat where he’d last seen her. Something white bobbed in the distance, so he threw his leg over the side and jumped in. He held his breath and plunged below the pounding surf over and over. Salt water clouded and stung his eyes. His lungs burned for oxygen, and his exhausted muscles ached to give up against the dark currents. Until everything went black.
Cooper gasped. “Savannah!” He shook his head and stared out his Jeep’s windshield.
The nightmare again.
His sweet, vibrant cousin was gone. Always would be.
And it was his fault.
The tide had begun its assault toward the beach. The sandbars would be covered soon. Another victim could be lost to the deadly pull out to sea. He burst from the vehicle and sprinted toward his boat.
RIVERS CLOSED HER SKETCH pad. She’d made at least five drawings now. More than she’d done in months. One captured the light rays piercing the swirly clouds in the late afternoon sky. Others featured the foam cresting on clear water near the shore, the majestic blue heron she’d dubbed Henrietta, who’d swooped down and posed nearby, and the tiny white crab she’d named Chloe, which now retreated to its burrow on the beach.
If only she could bury herself in the sand like that. Pretend the past year never happened. What if she’d never met Jordan? If she’d never dragged him out by the river, he’d still be alive.
Another crustacean rushed toward her...a big one, this time, with good sized pinchers. Too close for comfort. “Shoo, Big Boy! Get!” She pushed up from her beach chair, sidestepping the charging creature. “Go.” Rivers clapped her hands, and the critter moved on and disappeared into a hole.
Thirst hit her when she stood, and she stared at the blasted cottage maybe fifty yards away, sitting quaint and white and pretty in the sun as if nothing bad had ever happened. As if life went on as usual. No tragedy. No death.
Her stomach rumbled. When had she eaten last? She often forgot to eat these days, a habit her father chided her over, but she didn’t want to go back in there yet. The place had haunted her the few moments she’d been inside. The torment of that picture and so many more still waited.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it away. How she had any liquid left to cry, she couldn’t fathom. She needed happy thoughts to replace the bad. Something—anything—positive. Her mind reached for the summer stories Jordan had told her, the ones that brought his warm brown eyes to life. There’d been a tale of crabbing at night with a flashlight and bucket under the stars, and someone’s toe getting pinched. Flying colorful kites in fierce winds to see how high they could soar. Catching waves on his boogie board under a cloudless sky. That tiny dent in his pinkie finger where he’d broken it hitching a boat. He’d laughed when he’d explained the freak accident, though it had been painful.
Would she ever truly laugh again?
She turned back to take a step toward the shoreline. Bright blues and greens shimmered, colliding with the beige sand that was marred with wavy indentions from the receding tide.
A sandbar jutted far into the Atlantic waves. It called to her like a siren song to come and draw, to pour her agony into her art. Her feet continued through a small, cool tidal pool and onto the grainy ridge above the water. What would it feel like to walk as far as she could on this little peninsula? Another tear rolled down her cheek. She let it plummet to become one with the ocean’s salty water, like the sea of tears she’d cried since Jordan’s death.
What would it feel like to just keep walking into the abyss? To let waves crash over her head, to let the currents fill her lungs, to let the water stop her heart from hurting so?
No. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.
That verse again. She held in a groan. How many times had she wished she’d died that day with Jordan? But the bullet had only ripped through her shoulder. The idiot who’d shot them could have aimed better. He’d missed her heart by four inches. With the bullet, at least.
Her parents, counselor, and pastor all told her she’d survived for a reason. What reason? To drown in misery? To be the cover model for those trendy new don’t do drugs or you’ll damage someone’s life billboards?
Tamping down the despair, she plopped onto the wet sand, unfolded the sketch pad, and let her thoughts stop, allowing her hands to do what they knew.
Her pencil followed what her mind saw against the horizon. Shiny cresting waves, low-hanging white clouds looming closer, gulls fighting the currents of wind in some sort of melodious discord. Several minutes later, she stood to stretch her legs but continued drawing, imagining the palette of colors she could use on a canvas. The shades of cobalt and silver and emerald. If only she could paint like she used to...
The encroaching tide lapped in small circles around her feet where there had been packed sand a few minutes before. She glanced down for a moment. Maybe she should head back. A squawking pelican pulled her gaze to the azure skies with pink tinging the wispy strands in the west. The bird soared below a plane, which cut a milky whitish trail above her. She’d draw a few more minutes. It wasn’t like she had anyone to get back to.
The murdering mugger had seen to that. Anger coursed through her once again.
Even the desire to create had been taken from her most days. The colors came out muddled and black. How could she draw beauty when the darkness of grief shadowed her soul?
But the new sketch pad Jordan had given her had made it through the terror without as much as a smudge. Jordan’s words written inside the cover were burned into her mind, heart, and soul.
The beauty you paint comes from the pure light within you, for within you, I see the true Light of the World. Thank you for introducing me and everyone in your delightful, whimsical path to that Light. Keep shining bright for Him!
Love always,
Jordan
Sometimes she felt the person she’d been before had died that September day. The light was gone. Had been buried under six feet of river sludge. The person who’d been left behind was no more than a bitter and broken shell.
But she would paint again. For him. And for Him. Today was the time to start. A churning in her spirit wouldn’t seem to leave her alone. An urge nagged her to create anew. Her hand continued its journey on the page, shading and texturing.
A wave smacked her calves, splashing rivulets of water across her waist, and she turned back to face the shore. A river of raging ocean seemed to block her path now.
A deep ravine of fear carved into her chest.
Maybe she didn’t want to die after all. Raising her drawings up high above her head, she swallowed hard.
Think, Rivers.
How was she going to get back?
ALMOST BACK TO THE dock after his volunteer patrol, he spotted something. Flapping or waving? He squinted through the glare beaming off the waves. Not a something. A silhouette, a someone?
She was stuck on a sandbar as the tide quickly rose.
His pulse zoomed into high gear. A girl or woman stood waving her arms. She was tall and incredibly thin with a long neck almost like a heron, but with a shock of short, light-blond hair topping her head. Cooper pushed up the gas, accelerating the boat toward the stranded bird-woman, likely a crazy tourist. A heron would have more sense.
The boat bounced hard over the waves until he neared and cut the motor. “I’m coming to help,” he called over the ocean breeze.
The girl turned and waved more furiously. When he neared, she yelled, “Thank the Lord. Take my sketch pad.” She stretched to push a tablet of paper toward him.
/> Yep, he’d found a really disturbed tourist this time, trying to save a pad of paper instead of her own life. “Let that go, and I’ll tell you when to grab hold.”
“No. Take this. Keep it dry.” Her eyes, twin pools of blue, stared at him as if he were the idiot. “I cannot lose it. You don’t understand!”
Was she drunk or high? He dropped his anchor over the other side of the deck, checked the straps of his life vest in case he had to dive in. The girl may be in need of some sort of treatment. She was thin enough, and she had that wild, desperate look on her face. Cooper held in a groan. His job seemed to follow him wherever he went.
DARK EYES AND BLACK, careless hair to match, her rescuer stared at her as if she were insane. Maybe she was. A current pulled her, launching her deeper into the rising tide. She could barely stand. Salty water splashed into her eyes and mouth. “Take this pad now! It’s getting wet!” She stretched her hand as high as she could, dog-paddling with the other to stay erect.
The man finally grabbed the tablet from her. Once both arms were free, she tried to swim toward the boat ladder, but a swell slapped her in the face. A moment later, strong hands grabbed her, pushed a red floating device under her, and pulled her toward the vessel.
“Just relax. But help me kick if you can.” He stayed close, guiding them along a rope tied to the hull.
At the ladder, he pushed her forward. “You go first. I’m right here. Let me know if you’re too tired to climb, and I’ll give you a shove from behind.”
The last thing she wanted was this stranger shoving her behind. “I got it.” She began her ascent, one waterlogged step at a time. “And I hope you put my sketchbook someplace dry.” The last sentence, she mumbled, since she probably should be thankful he’d come by at all.
The Art of Rivers Page 2