Often singing.
While my body ate itself and my organs threatened to shut down, Angel, Ellie, and Casey read my stories out loud, cover to cover. This week they’d started number seven. Gunner lay by my shoulders and growled at anyone who attempted to pull him from my side. Even Clay sat quietly, standing watch. Often, Ellie would curl into a ball and nap alongside me. And in the forty-five days I’d been home, Summer had not left my side.
Yesterday Bones had served me Communion and Freetown had dressed in black.
Then, for reasons no one can explain, I blinked.
Seeing I was able to breathe on my own and wishing to talk, they pulled the tube from my throat, allowing my lungs to do what they were meant to do. Breathe. Which felt really good. I spent the afternoon napping and trying to swim out of the fog in which I’d been living. When they brought my dinner, I realized there was little room on the bed for me. To my left lay Gunner and Ellie. Angel and Casey sat at my feet. Summer was on my right. And Clay and Bones sat sipping wine with their feet propped up.
Two days later, I woke to my publisher sitting next to my bed, her hand in mine. I whispered, “I thought tough New York girls like you didn’t cry.”
She had nodded. “This one does.”
A few nights later, Gunner growled and woke both me and Summer. A figure stood at the end of my bed. I clicked on a light to find Casey. She looked tired. Like she’d not slept. Gunner walked to the end of the bed and let her rub his ears. I worked myself onto one elbow. “You okay?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Going outside.”
Summer rubbed her eyes. “Why?”
Casey glanced out the window into the darkness. “’Cause he’s still out there.”
She was right, and I had no answer for that. My anger flashed. It was one thing to shoot someone. Kick them while they’re down. And while painful, physical wounds will heal. What takes longer are the wounds we cannot see. The most evil trauma one man can inflict upon another is that committed against the human soul. And for those who inflict it, there is a special place in hell.
I nodded.
She rubbed her hands together and her bottom lip trembled once. Casey had something else on her mind but seemed afraid to say it. Summer walked to the end of the bed and put an arm around her. “What is it?”
She waved her hand across the two of us. “I was wondering if . . .”
I can be pretty thick. Get caught up in my own stuff. But every now and then I see something coming right before it hits me. And this was a freight train that I should have seen coming. Actually, I’m an idiot for not. Casey had one wound left to heal, and maybe I alone had the power to do so. I put one leg on the ground and tried to stand. When I could not, they helped me. Casey on my left. Summer on my right. Once on my feet, I said, “Can we go for a walk?”
Casey nodded.
Summer wrapped me in a blanket, and the three of us shuffled downstairs and out into the cold. We walked through the Planetarium, across Main Street, up a winding lane, and into the chapel. When we pushed through the door, I was winded and looking for a seat. The moon was high and full and shining bright enough to cast shadows on the floor. Casey looked confused as we walked her toward the front.
Toward the altar.
I turned to Casey. “I want to ask you a favor.”
She nodded above a trembling lip.
“One of these days, some young man is going to fall head over heels for you, setting in motion two things that will need to happen. He’s going to have to ask someone for permission to marry you.” I swallowed. Casey’s head tilted sideways, spilling the tears out her eyes. “And then someone is going to have to give you away.” At this, Casey sobbed and buried her face in her hands.
I waited.
I lifted her chin, knowing there is no deeper pain than that caused by the rejection or abandonment of a father and mother. Why? Because unlike anything else on earth, it pierces to the starting place of us. And in this moment, I was killing it. “Will you let us call you Daughter?”
Casey crumpled, hitting her knees, and fell into Summer, who sat and just held her.
I knelt alongside her, wrapped my arms around her, and whispered in her ear, “Will you let us adopt you? Right here. Will you be ours? Forever?”
The sound coming out of Casey’s stomach had been there a long time, and I had a feeling it was the deepest of the layers. The final wall. The last line of defense. And while it was difficult to hear, I relished listening to it leave. A beautiful cry. The sound of pain leaving and joy entering.
Despite medication still detoxing out of my body, I knew in that moment we were taking back ground that had been stolen. The battleground of Casey’s heart. And while evil can inflict wounds and lay claim to the territory of the human soul, it is a squatter. A trespasser. It has no legal deed. And it has no defense against love. It can’t touch it. Not now. Not ever. No weapon ever fashioned by man can defeat it, but what we pour from our hearts shatters it on the rocks of its own making.
As Casey melted into the floor at my feet, I began to whisper the one word she needed to hear more than any other. And the more I said it, the louder the cry and the farther she slid.
“Daughter . . . Daughter . . . Daughter . . .”
When I finished, Casey lay in a fetal ball clinging to us.
Behind us, the door opened and Bones walked in. Behind him trailed Angel and Ellie. Clad in pajamas and wrapped in blankets. The three sat around us.
When she’d emptied herself, I sat her up. “Casey?”
Her eyes found mine.
“Casey Bishop?”
She nodded.
“From this moment, we take you as our own. Blood of our blood. Flesh of our flesh.” A pause. “Forever.”
Somewhere over my shoulder, Bones’s hand appeared and landed on Casey’s shoulder. The other rested on mine. He whispered, “And let it be so.”
When I was younger, I used to wonder what my family would look like. Eye color. Face shape. The sound of their laughter. Sitting on the floor of the chapel, staring at my wife and three daughters, I knew.
And I liked it.
Chapter 40
My rehab took time.
I had no strength. No endurance. Sitting up required all I had. In all my life I’d never known fatigue like I was experiencing. Many days I thought I’d never get back to half the man I used to be. But there’s only one Summer.
And Summer was having none of that.
Sitting up led to standing. Which led to three steps. Which led across the room. To down the hall. To outside. To tying my own shoes. To showering myself. To cutting my own steak. Pouring my own coffee. She was the perfect mixture of compassion and tough love. And she never quit.
Every night, whether I felt like it or not, Summer put a record on, set the needle in the groove, lifted me out of bed, and we danced.
Gunner seldom left my side. One day I looked down and realized I’d done a rather crummy job of thanking him. He’d found Summer’s handkerchief. Then he found me. Without him, there was no us.
I asked Summer to buy the biggest and most expensive rib eye she could find. Seventy-four dollars and thirty-six ounces later, she returned. “What do you want with it?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
I cranked the grill and rubbed Gunner’s tummy while the smell caused him to drool like a spigot. Somewhere between medium-rare and medium, I pulled the steak off and cut it into bite-size pieces.
“Gunner.”
He sat up, tilted his head, and stared at me. I held out the first bite of steak and inched it toward his nose, where he smelled it and stayed, waiting. Licking his muzzle continuously.
After a second, I said, “Okay,” and he gently took the steak from my hand, chewing once and swallowing.
A second piece followed.
As did a second bite and swallow.
And a third.
We continued this way for thirty-six
ounces.
When finished, I lay on the floor with him, pulled his muzzle to my face, and kissed him. “Thank you, old friend.”
Gunner licked my cheek, rolled over on his back, stuck his paws in the air, and snored like a drunk sailor.
A few months in, I woke in the middle of the night and knew there was no way I was going back to sleep. My body was attempting to detox all the meds they’d pumped into me to keep me alive, and it often did this at night. Of course, they’d prescribed a sleeping pill, but I’d had enough medication. Summer lay next to me, her hand across my chest. My tether. Not wanting to wake her, I slipped out, leaned on my cane, walked downstairs, and punched the code to get into my basement. I wasn’t sure I could get back up, but at least I made it down. I’m not sure why I walked down there other than I needed some reminder of the me I used to be. The place was immaculate. Everything had been cleaned and put in its place. Even my Sig was hanging on the wall with the others. I wandered through each room with no particular aim, thanking the organization fairy who’d straightened up my mess.
Leaving my piddle room, I noticed Bones’s light was on. I shuffled down the hall where I found his door cracked. He was sitting in his chair, sipping wine, staring at a slideshow on the wall. One I’d never seen.
I pushed the door open with my cane and watched Bones watch his show. I stood there a moment, propped between the doorframe and my cane, before he spoke without looking at me. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I shook my head.
“We can get you a pill for that.”
Another shake. “I’ve had enough pills.”
“Don’t blame you.”
The slides changed. “What you watching?”
He sipped and stared at the multiple images spinning around the room as if placed there by a disco ball. All of the images were of me.
“When you were laid up in the hospital, I spent the days with you and the nights in here. Put this together to remind me.”
“Of?”
This time he looked at me. “How much I love you.”
I sat alongside him, catching my breath. He offered me his glass, which I took. One sip. Then another. We sat there nearly an hour watching the narrative of my life. Twenty years in pictures. From the academy, training, to seminary, my first few assignments, my first time in the hospital, then Key West, writing on my rock, tending bar, and looking for Marie.
“I read the letter.”
He nodded and pulled the letter out of his breast pocket. It was dirty, smeared with blood, and inscribed with my charcoal writing. He flattened it with his hand, careful not to smudge the lettering. “We’ve traveled some miles, you and I.”
I chuckled. “Some easier than others.”
“But all good.”
“Yes. All good.”
We sat in silence several minutes. When he spoke, his words were accompanied with tears. “For a long time, I hated her for asking me what she did. To keep her a secret.” A pause. “But one day the enormity of it hit me, and I knew not only what it cost me but what it cost her. And hatred grew to admiration and returned to love. Marie saw what I could not.” He studied the walls and the thousands of slides.
The faces of the found.
He continued, “She’s the reason we’re here.” He waved his hand across the room. “She’s the reason they’re here.”
I sat up. “You need to know something.”
Bones turned to me.
“The man who did this, blew up Freetown, kidnapped the girls, almost killed me—he’s still out there. And if he did it once, he can do it again. I won’t live looking over my shoulder. I won’t sit up at night biting my nails to the quick every time Ellie goes out with friends or Summer goes to the store.”
Bones lifted the remote to his slide machine and pushed a single button. The slideshow changed. Black-and-white photos of two boys. Same size. One sandy blond. The other dirty brown. Both handsome. Strong. Shoulder to shoulder. Arm in arm. Cutoff jeans. No shirts. Summertime tans. Fishing poles. Skateboards. Motorcycles. Paddling a canoe. Their smiles were magnetic. And similar. Eventually, the pictures changed. Color. Sepia. High school. And the images changed. One boy always stood in the light. The other in shadow. One a buzz cut. The other hair hanging down over his eyes. Dark circles. One smiling. One not.
I did not make the connection.
I spoke to Bones. “I’m going to get healthy. And when I do, I’m going after him.”
He raised an eyebrow and spoke as he brought his glass to his lips. “I thought you were a priest.”
I took his glass, sipped, sipped again, and handed it back. “I also priest.”
Bones nodded without looking at me. Around us, the slideshow continued. High school led to college. Whereas they once stood together, posing for the camera, now they stood apart. Not even in the same frame. Finally, the show shifted and the pics were only of the light-haired boy who had become a dark-hearted man. Even the pictures showed that.
Bones turned toward me. “You should know something.”
“Okay.”
His countenance changed. Pain rising to the surface. “He’s more evil than we are good.”
“I know that.”
Bones turned to face me. “I’m going with you.”
“I know that too.”
“But there’s one thing you don’t know.”
“What’s that?”
Bones stood, pressed the remote a single time, and the show stopped. The picture on the wall was the last picture in the chronology where the two were together in the same frame. They were in a small boat. Cast net. Fishing poles. Fish littered the bottom of the boat. One sat with his hand on the outboard tiller. The other stood with the net. One part tossed over his shoulder, one part held in his teeth, and one part spread through his hand. Muscles taut. Eyes trained on the water. Just before the cast.
Something about the lighting brought my attention to the boy seated at the motor. His features. I’d seen him before. Walking through fire in Montana. Looking at me. And in that moment, Bones spoke. “He’s my brother.”
“I thought he was dead.”
Bones shook his head. A tear trickling down. His gaze focused on a memory. And when he spoke I couldn’t tell if he was feeling anger or sorrow. “Not hardly.”
Discussion Questions
Chapter 6 says laughter is the universal sound of freedom. Why? What does it mean to laugh? To not be capable of laughing?
In chapter 10 Murph says, “it’s the father who tells [girls] who they are. Until he does, they’re just floating in the earth . . . Buried in some trash mound. Waiting to be discovered by somebody with a shovel who won’t crack it or crush it.” What do you think of this statement? Do you agree or disagree? Explain.
The visual and performing arts play a role in the story: Bones’s photography, Summer’s dancing, Murphy’s and Casey’s writing. Why do the arts help us process life and pain? How? Do you partake in anything like that to process your life and pain?
What did you think of Murph’s backstory and introductions to Marie and Bones, via the stories he told to Ellie?
What do you think Bones intends by using priest as a verb? What does priest as a verb mean to you or look like to you?
What does “Because the needs of the one outweigh those of the many” mean to you? Do you agree?
In chapter 20 we read, “There’s a thing that happens when we start to believe the lies about ourselves, and when we think other people believe them too. Those lies become our prison.” Are there any lies you believe about yourself that have you in prison? What truth can you speak to yourself to drown out the lies?
What did you think of Marie’s letter to Murph? Do you agree with her decision and the reason behind it? Are Bones’s actions forgivable to you with this new information? Why?
Which character’s story impacted you the most? Why?
What did you make of Murph’s near-death experience at the end of chapter 38, where he “looked down on two t
owns nestled in a snow-swept canvas” and was told to pick one? What do you think the one town had that the other did not?
An Excerpt from Send Down the Rain
Prologue
Blessed is the man whose strength is in You,
whose heart is set on pilgrimage.
—PSALM 84:5
November 1964
The breeze tugged at my hair and cooled my skin. The waves rolled up and rinsed my heels and calves. Seashells crunched beneath my bathing suit. The air tasted salty. Shirtless and tanned, I lay on my back, propped on my elbows, a pencil in one hand, a small piece of paper in the other. The paper was thick. Almost card stock. I’d torn it out of the back of a book. An amber sun was setting between my big toe and my second toe, turning from flame orange to blood red and slowly sliding down behind the ball of my foot and the edge of the Gulf of Mexico. I busied the pencil to capture the image, my hands giving my mind the space it needed.
I heard someone coming, and then Bobby sat down beside me. Cross-legged. He wiped his forearm across his nose, smearing snot across a tearstained face. In his arms he cradled a jug of milk and a package of Oreos. Our favorite comfort food. He set them gingerly between us.
I was nine. Bobby was two years older.
We could hear Momma crying in the house behind us. The sun disappeared, and the breeze turned cooler.
Bobby’s lip was trembling. “Daddy . . . He . . . he left.”
“Where’d he go?”
Bobby dug his hand into the package, shoved a cookie into his mouth, and shook his head.
The sound of a plate shattering echoed out of the kitchen.
“When’s he coming back?”
Another cookie. Another crash from the kitchen. Another shake of the head.
“What’s Momma doing?”
He squinted one eye and stared over his shoulder. “Sounds like the dishes.”
When they got married, Daddy gave Momma a set of china. Made in Bavaria was stamped on the back of each piece. She displayed them in the cabinet. Locked behind the glass. We weren’t allowed to touch them. Ever. Evidently she was smashing them piece by piece against the kitchen sink.
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