Unlocked

by Karen Kingsbury

Ella smiled at the picture in her mind. As she reached her car, she was consumed by a single thought: Mrs. Harris was praying for a miracle. So maybe miracles really did happen, and maybe they happened when people prayed. People like Mrs. Harris. If that was true, then a miracle might be in the works. For Mrs. Harris and Ella’s mother and Holden. Even for Michael.

  For all of them.

  She thought about what Holden’s mother said. Even if he could control himself enough to stand silently in the back row of an ensemble, there was no money to pay for theater fees. But there could be no miracle if Holden wasn’t at least given a chance. This year the cost was nearly two hundred dollars—a hurdle Ella had never thought about. As she walked to her car she knew what she was going to do after she picked up her mother’s laundry.

  She was going to figure out a way to get Holden’s drama fee.

  Fifteen

  HOLDEN PRACTICALLY DANCED HIS WAY TO HIS MOTHER’S CAR. It was like that after dancing with Ella, the way he’d danced with her in the classroom a few minutes ago. Round and round they danced, and they laughed and the beautiful song kept playing. His favorite song called “Maybe Ella and I Will Have a Second Chance to Be Friends.”

  Across the campus everyone who walked by was happy and kind and Holden smiled at them, but he also prayed for them. Every single one. Because some of the kids were kind on the inside but their outsides were all trapped up. Kids like the football players and some of the girls who laughed a lot. So Holden prayed the kindness inside them would come all the way to the outside where people could see it and feel it. More kindness would be good for everyone at Fulton High.

  Isn’t this the greatest day ever, Mom? He smiled at her as they reached the car. What a nice talk with Ella.

  “Get in the car, Holden.” His mom opened his door. “Don’t forget your seatbelt.”

  I won’t, because seatbelts make us safer. He heard the music swell, heard the strings kick in. When his mom climbed into the car he grinned again. I’m glad you were there with me and Ella. I think all of us should be friends again—not just me and her.

  “Ella says you looked at her today.” His mom kept her eyes straight ahead because she was driving them home.

  Of course I looked at her. Holden felt better than he could remember feeling. I told you, I can see Ella. And she can see me. We could always see each other. Through our eyes and into our hearts.

  His mom was saying something, but Holden couldn’t hear her as well because of the music. Pretty, soothing music without a single drumbeat. Holden took a deep breath and rested his head against the back of the seat. This was the best day in his whole grown-up life. Because Ella remembered him, and because Ella and his mom found each other again too.

  His favorite part was when Ella took out the photo album. “I brought this to show you, Holden,” she told him.

  That’s very nice of you, Ella. He saw the pictures in the book and he felt like singing. I remember those pictures, he told her. Those were great times back then. Especially blowing bubbles.

  “We had fun, didn’t we?” Ella looked happy, like she enjoyed remembering.

  Yes, we sure did. We would play all day and laugh and sing. Right, Mom?

  “All the time.” His mother smiled. She was always smiling. “I remember that day.”

  Holden remembered too. Ella, you were so funny that bubble day. You wanted to blow a bubble that would reach all the way to heaven, and you told me to blow one that big too. So we both kept trying and trying, and finally your eyes got really happy and you told me, “There! I think Jesus could see that one!” And so we leaned back on our hands and the grass was soft around our fingers and we watched the bubbles go up to Jesus in a long line. One bubble, then two, then three, then four … Remember that?

  “Yes … of course I remember.” Ella said a lot more stories from when they were little, but she said them with her eyes. Her words were quiet because the music was louder. Pretty wind sounds and keys and flutes filling the classroom, filling Holden’s heart and soul, and it was his favorite song. The flute was nice because it was Michael’s kind of music. Michael played the flute.

  I love this song, Holden told Ella and his mother. And they smiled because one thing was sure. His mom and Ella heard the music.

  His heart was so full and so happy, that on the drive home Holden couldn’t go another minute without praying. Dear Jesus, thank You for this special day, and for that great time with Ella and my mom. I can see it all spread out like a painting, dear God. Me and Ella and Michael in the spring play. And my mom and Ella’s mom will be friends again and everyone will love everyone and no one will ever be mean, because the kindness will be unlocked all throughout Fulton High. That will be a special time, Lord. And I know it will happen because look how wonderful today was, and that was from You. All good things are from You. Be with Ella and talk to her. Sometimes I think she needs to hear Your voice. Thanks, Jesus. I know You love me. Your friend, Holden.

  Yes, everything was going to work out because now he was going to be in the play with Ella, which was only because he’d been praying about it every day. God answered his prayers today when Ella brought it up. “Can Holden be in the play?”

  And Holden’s mom said, “Sure, he can be in the play. He’d be wonderful in a play. Also he loves Beauty and the Beast.”

  So that settled it.

  He and Ella were going to be in Beauty and the Beast together, which was one of their favorite videos when they were young. He remembered because his mom always sang the song about home being where your heart was. And that was true, but not true every single time. Right now his heart wasn’t exactly at home.

  In Mr. Hawkins’ drama class, there in the eleventh row near the back of the room between the tall music chart with the picture of the piano keys and seven octaves and twenty-five chord types by four positions, which made a total of one hundred chords per octave with twelve different roots, which meant 1,200 chords per octave or 8,400 possible chords … There between the music poster Holden liked and the window with six squares in it, two seats from the right and four seats straight behind Ella, just beneath the classroom clock with the quiet ticking …

  That’s where his heart was.

  Sixteen

  ELLA PAID FOR HER MOTHER’S CLEANING AND DROVE TO THE opposite side of the parking lot. She needed a quiet place to focus. Calling her dad wasn’t something she ever did, so this might catch him off guard. She pulled out her phone and found his number. It wasn’t listed in her favorites.

  As the ringing started, Ella felt her heart slide into a strange rhythm. Why am I so scared? She closed her eyes, shaded her face with her free hand. He’s my dad, after all.

  He answered on the last possible ring, right before the call went to voice mail. “This is Randy.”

  His words hurt, but she didn’t let the pain linger. So what if he didn’t recognize her phone number. She wouldn’t have recognized his, either. They barely talked when they were in person, let alone on the phone. “Dad … it’s Ella.”

  “Oh, hey, sweetheart.” He sounded rushed, anxious to get the call over with. “What’s up?”

  In the background Ella heard a bunch of voices. “Randy, get off the phone … Come on, you got a girl on the line or what?”

  “Back off, Simmons. It’s my daughter, okay?” The clang of weights rang in the background.

  As pathetic as the guy’s comment was, her dad’s response proved one thing. He cared enough to acknowledge her as his daughter. The thought touched her long enough for her to pause.

  “Ella.” He sounded distracted. “Honey, I’m busy. Is there an emergency? Something you need?”

  Love and conversation, a father who cares what I’m involved in, she wanted to say. She gritted her teeth, fighting her anger. “I need money. Two hundred dollars.” That was the amount for Holden’s production fees if he were allowed in the play. She hated that this was the only reason she had to call him, but there was nothing else to say. She wasn’t about
to explain the situation with Holden.

  “Honey, you’re breaking up. Something about dollars?” More laughter in the background. “Can you talk a little louder?”

  Suddenly Ella felt like a fool. What was she doing, trying to reach her father? What was the point? She no longer wanted to be on the phone with him another minute. However she would get the money for Holden, it wouldn’t be through her father. No, this was her decision … She needed to pay for it herself. She would work, maybe. But whatever she did she would pay for it herself. Her father was waiting. “Never mind, Dad. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I’m sorry.” He sounded defeated. Again the noise in the background was almost louder than his voice on the line. “I still can hardly hear you. We’ll talk tonight, okay?”

  Tears stung at her eyes. “Okay.” She hung up before saying good-bye. He wouldn’t hear her anyway.

  She was halfway home before it hit her that she couldn’t exactly get a job. She didn’t have time with the play rehearsals and her homework. But before she could get too discouraged, another thought hit her. She could sell something. Her iPod Touch, maybe. She’d paid twice that for it, right? One of her friends would buy it for half price for sure.

  Ella lowered the phone to her lap. Her hands were shaking but her heart soared with possibility. She could hardly wait to go through her phone and call her friends tonight. The kids at Fulton had money … Someone would buy her iPod tomorrow. Then Holden could officially be in the theater production class.

  And from there, Ella believed with her whole heart, anything could happen.

  SUZANNE WONDERED IF SHE MIGHT FALL TO THE FLOOR AND die. Not because the shock was so great—it wasn’t. But now Ella knew, and the embarrassment made it hard for her to draw a breath. She could do everything possible to stay young. She could starve herself into size-2 jeans and tan her body and get her Botox. But she couldn’t force her husband to come home.

  Their marriage was becoming little more than a sham.

  A memory came to mind, one from twenty years earlier. When she accepted Randy’s offer of marriage, her mother celebrated with her for a few minutes, and then pulled her aside. With her father and her siblings in the next room, her mom lowered her voice and gave her two pieces of advice: stay thin and look the other way. “Randy’s going to the big leagues one day, mark my words. Professional athletes have a different standard.”

  Suzanne was sickened by her mother’s supposed wisdom, so she’d turned to Tracy Harris—her best friend at the time. Her best friend ever. Tracy was a Christian, and because of that, Suzanne and Randy had started believing in God too. A year before their weddings, the couples began attending church together, and Suzanne felt something changing inside her. Randy felt it too —at least that’s what he said. He even connected with the church’s men’s group, and for a year every Monday he and Dan Harris would make the trip to church to help each other stay strong in their faith.

  Tracy’s advice when Suzanne married Randy was far different from her mother’s. Suzanne remembered every word, because for the first few years Tracy’s wisdom worked like a charm. Love God first, and your husband second. Remember to compliment him, because if you don’t, someone else will. And always give a hundred percent. If you both do that, you’ll be covered on the days when someone slips a little.

  But what exactly was a little slip? Randy’s attention came when he was hitting well, when he was making the sports page and winning games. The less he played, the less he stayed home and spent time with her. Lately he didn’t know she was alive—no matter how she looked.

  The first four years, Randy might hit a slump and check out at home, but later he would explain himself and apologize. For a while everything would be good between them again. Especially the year he and Dan went to the men’s Bible study. But times like this, when Suzanne was completely honest with herself, she had to admit that neither she nor Randy ever committed their lives to Christ. They talked about making such a decision, and they watched other people do so. But there was always a reason why they didn’t. They needed more information … they wanted to be sure … they didn’t understand everything the Bible taught …

  But after the break in their friendship with Tracy and Dan, the Reynolds stopped going to church and what faith they once had grew cold as quick as winter. At first it didn’t seem to matter. Randy was playing well, and they moved to New York, where he flourished. But even then he wasn’t a great communicator, especially when the team lost or he didn’t get the hits he wanted. Suzanne figured if she tried harder—worked out more, kept a better tan, stayed young looking—he would want to be home more. But now, with rumors that the Braves weren’t going to resign Randy, he acted like he didn’t have a wife or a home or a family whatsoever. Like he was back in college in some fraternity, always hanging out with the guys … lifting weights with the guys … going out with the guys …

  Suzanne wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

  She walked into her room, shut the door, and locked it. Maybe it was time to admit the whole truth. Not only was her marriage a sham, her entire life had become nothing more than a charade. She had the feeling lately that people saw her as a joke, the pro athlete’s wife trying to find her way back to twenty-nine, while her husband chased a dying dream.

  Better to go out on top and retire than submit himself to the media scrutiny and degradation of being cut. Especially after once being so good, so highly chosen. So while Randy fought to find the game inside him, she worked overtime trying to attract his attention. But where had that gotten her?

  She went to the bathroom and stared at her reflection. No matter what she did to her face, she couldn’t find the look she’d had when she was younger. It wasn’t her skin tone or the shade of blonde in her hair. The problem was her eyes. They were older than her years and nothing she tried ever seemed to help. It wasn’t only Randy who was becoming washed up; she was right there with him. A terribly sad joke.

  Her options looked back at her from the mirror. She would call him, of course, and ask him to come home earlier—the way she did once a week or so. But he would stay late, like always. He’d head to the bar and talk shop and come home after midnight. Then he’d walk through the house like she was invisible. If there were other women, Suzanne never heard about it, never found proof. She figured he was probably faithful—for the most part, anyway. But their marriage was nothing more than a formality. No wonder over time her confidence had eroded like a sandy shoreline during a storm.

  Suzanne blinked, but she couldn’t shake the dead look from her eyes. She would lose, of course. She was Randy Reynolds’ wife. It was her identity, where she found her value and selfworth. And of course there was the other benefit: Randy’s salary. Even sitting the bench, the money was always good. It kept her in Botox and beauty shops, salons and spa visits.

  Disgust filled her eyes as she stared at herself. What had she allowed herself to become? A slave to her image and reputation? A woman who had sold her soul for a six-figure bank account? And now that Ella had found Holden, how hard would she have to work to avoid seeing Tracy? The loss of their friendship was awkward, and Suzanne had no idea what to say to Tracy if they ran into each other again.

  But the part that made Suzanne feel worse about herself was that after twenty years of marriage, she actually lived by the horrific advice her mother had once given her. Her mother had been gone for thirteen years now —lost to a quick bout of lung cancer. But if her mother could see her now, she wouldn’t feel sorry for Suzanne. She’d be proud of her. By her mother’s standards, Suzanne was getting along just fine because she was still thin.

  And she had absolutely mastered the art of looking the other way.

  Seventeen

  THE DAY FIGURED TO BE STORMY AGAIN. DAN WAS READY, hunkered in at his station on the shrimping boat. The catch had been great lately, enough that Tracy could catch up on bills and pay the therapists. Maybe even enough to pad their account a little. That way they’d be c
overed for the next time the seas were too rough to fish, or a boat broke down or equipment gave out.

  “Looks like another monster.” One of the other fishermen planted himself beside Dan and stared at the distant horizon. “Blackest clouds I’ve seen.”

  “At least we’re ready.” Dan remembered the last storm like this. He’d almost lost his life. He would be more careful this time, quicker to get the shrimp load up and put away, quicker to get below deck. Last week a storm had come in so hard and fast, they never made it out to sea. But this time they would have to ride it out; there wasn’t enough time to get back before it hit. Besides the shrimp were plentiful right now. The bigger the catch, the greater the cut. That was the motto for guys like him.

  Dan felt his cell phone vibrate in his back pocket. He kept it in a double plastic Ziploc bag, tucked in the driest part of his pants. They didn’t always get service, but when they did he liked at least having the possibility of calling home. He tried to call home a few times a week, but it had been four days. The work had been almost around the clock.

  “Take your call.” The guy beside him returned to his station. “But keep it short. We’ll need everyone on their game.”

  Dan figured they had ten … fifteen minutes tops. He pulled the phone from his pocket and slipped it from the plastic bags. It was Tracy. He got a call from his parents once a month or so, but otherwise he didn’t keep in touch with anyone from his old life. The life before Holden became autistic. He clicked the right button and held the phone to his ear. He covered his other one with his free hand, otherwise the wind wouldn’t have let him hear a thing.

  “Hello?” The mist from a rough wave brushed across his face.

  “Hi.” She sounded hurt, distant. “It’s been awhile.”

  “Yeah,” He dried his hand over his eyes, ignoring the sting of salt water. “Sorry … it’s been busy.”

  “Hmmm.” She allowed a brief silence. “It sounds really windy.”