Body by Blood

by Patrick Johnston

  “Yes?”

  My pride, your fall. Found me. Goin dark.

  “What? What am I supposed to do, Jeremy?” At this point I’m about to pull out my hair in utter frustration. I feel like I’m at the open door of a high-flying plane, waiting for my parachute, and being told to jump and I’ll be given a parachute on the way down. I don’t know how I can venture down this road blindly with half a map. But what alternative do I have besides walking this tenuous plank?

  I wait several minutes. No more texts.

  I turn my eyes to heaven. “I need You now, Lord.”

  50

  HOW CAN I TURN THIS into a game for the sake of my Mary Nell? My mind draws a blank. Time is quickly running out, so I look into her eyes and tell her the truth. “Baby, I need you to listen to me very carefully.”

  “Uh huh?”

  I unbuckle her from her child seat.

  “There’s some bad people that want to take me away from you. And I need you to help me trick them so we can be together. I can get you back to your Mom and your sister Nellie, but I need your help. Will you help me so we can be together again?”

  I expect to see fear in her eyes, but instead I see courage.

  She bites her bottom lip. “O-tay.”

  My own quivering steadies with the confident way she squeezes my hands. “We’re gonna be toge-ver.”

  I smile at her and kiss her cheek. “Yes, Mary Nell, we will. I need you to sit in this blue bag here.” It has a spine and a handle, so I set it upright and move it from side to side on its wheels. “It’ll be a bit bumpy.”

  “O-tay.”

  When I take her out of her seat, I see the letter that she had stuck under her leg. I pick it up. She reaches for it. “Ooh, ooh, ooh,” she squeals until I give it back to her. She holds it to her chest for a second and then hands it back to me. “For you, Gwanpaw.”

  “Thank you.” I put it in my shirt pocket and zip her up in the duffel bag. As I wheel her inside, she begins to giggle. “Shh. You have to be very quiet.”

  “It tickles.”

  “Please,” I lean down to whisper, “try to be quiet.”

  “O-tay.”

  I begin to wheel her toward the building and she says, “O-tay?”

  “Yes, Mary Nell.”

  “Am I being quiet?”

  “Good job. No more talking, o-tay?”

  “O-tay.”

  I sit on the right side of the waiting room, careful to keep my gaze rightward. Thankfully, there is a holographic screen on the wall to justify my rightward gaze. Unfortunately, I have once again become the lead story. I am being labeled an accessory to Jeremy Porter’s foiled terrorist attack on the New Body Research Center. They show the footage of me bypassing officers after leaving the hotel room where Jeremy kept me captive. They show me jumping into the elevator, being recognized by the police officer, and him drawing his Taser on me.

  I take stock of who is in the waiting room. One of them may be there to help me board this train. After all, I cannot use my credit cards and a cash transaction in an upscale business like this hover-train station is unheard of; even proposing to exchange cash for a service or a ticket would arouse suspicion.

  Fortunately, most people in the waiting room are so hopelessly addicted to physical perfection, they turn their gaze from me as soon as they see my asymmetric countenance. This deformity of my facial features is saving my life. Again.

  I look down at the GPS I have laid in my lap. For all Jeremy Porter’s brilliance, you’d think he’d get a GPS with longer battery life when unplugged from the vehicle. It has only one of four bars of power remaining.

  Come on, Lord, help Jeremy get away so he can tell me what I need to do.

  Careful to keep my hand on the blue duffel bag, I retrieve the letter from my pocket, open it and begin to read it.

  Would you sacrifice yourself for that worthless, defective child?

  That’s it. One cold sentence.

  The message does not have the effect the author intended. Instead of provoking me to waver on my commitment to protect this helpless defective girl, my affection for her deepens. Every tragic rejection my Mary Nell receives because of her Down Syndrome creates in me an even stronger love for her and a heightened awareness of the depths of the cruel betrayals we have endured, and the beastly malice of the powers who hunt us.

  With my own defects in my facial features, which frequently prompt others to turn away from me in disgust, how does Morgan not think I will take her implications personally?

  Something else is written on the back of the paper. The handwriting is barely legible, hastily written. Once I decipher the scribble, my lips mumble the words.

  Would you, if you knew your sacrifice would not save her?

  Good question.

  Would I give up my freedom to save Mary Nell if I knew failure was inevitable? Would I give up my life for her if I knew she was still going to die?

  As I think on it, doubt begins to inebriate me. My confidence is being shaken. I struggle against the sluggish pull toward apathy by ceasing to think about me and instead focusing my thoughts on my granddaughter. Her innocent smile. Her slobbery kisses. Her sincere affection, even for those who spurn her love. I remember that day on the beach when Savannah pushed Mary Nell away, repulsed by her affectionate touch and words. Yet Mary Nell persisted. She wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. She tried to press inside her mother’s arms, and didn’t give up though she never succeeded until that day in my office when we met Nellie. Who is more worthy of my love than my little Mary Nell?

  Very quickly, the poison of my doubt is conquered by the power of love. How weak this flesh is! I am resolved to subjugate it through love. Even when my faith is weak, even when the consequences of doing right appear unbearable, even when my sincere prayers go unanswered and God seems elusive and distant, I will do right for love’s sake.

  I shove my wife’s note back into my shirt pocket. It is a grievous insult, a defiant jab from the one whose betrayal I find most excruciating. Morgan’s audacious malevolence horrifies me. She must have known all along I would try to intervene to save Mary Nell, and conspired to have her give me this letter to try to change my mind. Mary Nell probably cherished the note, proud of her being trusted with this solemn responsibility by her beloved grandmother. How dare Morgan try to tear away from Mary Nell the last person on earth to care for her? My wife has become the serpent in my Garden, tempting me with forbidden fruit, trying to dissuade me from loving my Mary Nell.

  Why didn’t Morgan sign the letter? Hopefully, for the shame she feels in asking the spiteful questions, void of any vestige of warmth or pity. Or, perhaps, she is beyond the point of shame. Adrenaline rises up within me like a volcano threatening to erupt—I am so furious at what we have become.

  The word if in her second question invites more meditation. Would I still sacrifice myself for Mary Nell if I knew my sacrifice would not save her? I cannot deny that hope is a powerful motivating factor. I hope to save Mary Nell, to love her and enjoy her, to see her happy. Without hope, would I even be here in this train station right now? If I had no hope for her at all, would I still pay this price and walk this path?

  Isn’t a similar if at the very heart of the Gospel? A threat annexed to a hope, grounded in the reality of Jesus’ sufferings and resurrection, contingent upon our response—that is the Gospel. If we believe, we will be saved. If not, we will be condemned. Jesus tasted death for all, knowing that only those who trust Him will receive the benefits of His sacrifice. If someone foolishly disbelieves, did Jesus suffer for them in vain? Even if so, what did Jesus do but suffer for them anyway, and pay the full price for their redemption? Jesus’ sacrifice proves love is worth the cost, even if it is love unrequited. Even if the hope of mutual love never materializes. Considering His example, should we not love one another—even the least of His children—as He loves us? Greater than faith, greater than hope—that is love.

  At the thought of Jesus’ sufferi
ngs for me, I close my eyes to shut out the world, and I worship Him deep in my heart.

  We are the defective, undeserving ones, hunted by devils, hounded by doubts, yet recipients of His pity and love. I am Mary Nell, and He, my Savior.

  I sense a slight tremor in the duffel bag, and I think I hear Mary Nell’s melodic hum. Someone nearby may see the duffel bag move or hear her unintelligible clamor, so I begin to quietly sing the song that lulled her to sleep on the beach. The song that I remember from my youth, which means more to me now than it ever did.

  Jesus loves me this I know.

  For the Bible tells me so.

  Little ones to Him belong.

  They are weak but He is strong.

  Yes, Jesus loves me.

  Yes, Jesus loves me.

  Yes, Jesus loves me.

  The Bible tells . . .

  There is a commotion in the corner of the room. An elderly woman is speaking to a security guard. She points at me. He turns toward me, his brow furrowed.

  If they are not the ones Jeremy Porter has assigned to help me, then I have been caught.

  I look down at the GPS. Still no message from Jeremy. I gaze around the room for a place to exit, hopefully with a door that locks. Is escape even possible?

  Emergency Exit Only, a sign on a door reads. Alarm Will Sound. It is a door that leads to the tracks over which the hover train glides. I hear the approaching whoosh of its quiet engine. It would be a dangerous place to exit, but the lesser of two threats if the officer approaches me. I glance back at the woman and the officer. He is speaking to someone through his nano, even as he keeps his eyes fixed on me.

  I feel a subtle motion of the duffel bag, and hear a whispered, “Gwanpaw?”

  “Shhh,” I whisper back.

  A man across from me jerks his gaze toward the bag. He must have heard her, or seen the duffel bag move of its own accord.

  I stand, shove the GPS into my pants pocket, and begin to pull the blue duffel bag on its wheels toward the door.

  “Stop!” The security guard points at me. “Stop now!”

  “Move!” I urge others to move their legs out of the aisle.

  “Is that a bomb?” someone asks.

  “A terrorist!” someone else screams, pointing at me.

  “Gwanpaw?” Mary Nell gets louder, the fear evident in her voice.

  I stop at the emergency exit, unzip the duffel bag, and lift her out. I hold her closely. She wraps her legs and arms about me, trembling. I push the door handle and immediately the alarm sounds, but the door does not open. I look closely at the small print on the door. “Door handle must be held down for ten seconds to open.”

  The guard stops a dozen feet away. We are separated by several layers of people frightened by the commotion and the deafening alarm. The guard’s hand rests on a handgun in its unsnapped holster.

  I glance at the anxious passers-by rushing for other exits, tempted to try to duck into their throng.

  “Don’t run or I’ll shoot! Are you Raymond Verity?”

  “Gwanpaw? Is he da’ bad man?” She is trembling.

  “They are going to kill my granddaughter, sir. I just want to keep her safe.”

  “Who is going to kill your granddaughter?” He fixes his eyes on her, his hand still resting on his holstered weapon. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She has Down Syndrome. The government wants to kill her. Please, just leave us alone and let me leave.” I press against the door, but it holds fast.

  “I’ve called my manager, and I just want to ask you to stay until he comes.”

  The heavy metal door finally opens behind me. I push it and enter a tunnel as the hover-train passes, the rushing wind of its speedy passing blowing my hair and causing Mary Nell to bury her head in my chest.

  The guard barrels through several people and reaches for me, grasping my sleeve. I pull away, ripping my shirt. I slam the door shut and the guard jerks his arm back just in time.

  There are dim lights on the walls in the tunnel. A shovel rests on the ground beside the two stairs that descend into the tunnel. I set Mary Nell down, jump over the handrail to grab the shovel and push it through the handle and between the metal handrail and the wall, effectively barring the door shut. The security guard tries to kick the door ajar, but it does not budge. Mary Nell begins to cry as we are temporarily parted, especially when she sees the rage of this officer banging against the door. I see him through the small window notifying his superiors via his radio.

  Now what?

  I pick up Mary Nell, look to my left, the direction of the train, and then back in the direction from which it came.

  I turn left, toward the bay. If I am to be captured, it seems to be fitting that it be at the edge of the ocean. If she is to die, let it be in my arms as we try to swim away from the monsters who try to separate us.

  I run about twenty yards when another train begins to speed past me. I see two security guards burst through the next emergency door ahead and swing their flashlights back and forth, trying to locate us.

  I duck behind a narrow piling. I cannot exit ahead, and I cannot go back toward the station. It is a long train. I must go under the hover-train and search for another way out.

  “This’ll be fun, Mary Nell. We’re going under the train.”

  “O-tay?” The anxiety in her tremulous voice makes her statement sound like a question.

  I peek around the piling. The guards have split up and are going different directions, one toward me and one the other way. I close the distance to the train. The officer heading toward me screams an order for me to stop. I get on my knees and begin to roll under the train, its high-pitched hum causing my eardrums to vibrate. Mary Nell clutches me tightly with her arms and legs, even as we roll. I barely miss a low-hanging metal hook that almost impales me. We come up on the other side and Mary Nell celebrates.

  “O-tay!”

  “Yay. Was that fun?”

  She shakes her head side to side, a frown on her dirty face. “No.”

  Ahead is a double door that is chained shut, but the opening appears sufficiently wide that we might be able to squeeze through, and get out of this dusty dark tunnel. The probing flashlights and shouts of the guards and policemen searching for me on the other side of the speeding train give the tunnel an eerie glow. The door leads to a room with restrooms, drink and snack machines, and beyond that, a passageway that looks like it leads to a poorly-lit boardwalk on a canal that seems to run perpendicular to the bay. I start to set Mary Nell through the opening first. She resists me.

  “I tay wiff you. I tay wiff you.” She clutches my arm.

  “I’m coming next.”

  “No!”

  “Shh. Mary Nell. Look at me.” She trembles as she looks into my face. The shouts of our searchers draw nearer, and the arc of this concrete tunnel appears to brighten with the illumination of a dozen flashlights. I look back and realize the end of the train nears. “I’ll be right behind you. You must go. Trust me.”

  She finally lets me push her through the narrow opening. I stretch the padlocked chain in order to get her to fit.

  I put my leg in first, but it appears that the opening is too narrow.

  “I tay wiff you!” She squeals and begins to pull on my leg.

  I cannot get through. I abandon the narrow passageway to find another opening ahead, but when Mary Nell begins to frantically scream, I return. Officers are coming toward me from both directions now, their weapons drawn, shouting orders for me to freeze. The officer on the other side of the train daringly tries to follow us under the train. He’s our greatest threat, as he is nearest to us.

  Again, I try again to squeeze through the narrow opening. “Lord, help . . . ”

  No sooner than that prayer exits my mouth does the guard under the hover-train get impaled by one of the low-hanging metal hooks that almost hit me. His scream and the thumping of his body against the rails and the bottom of the train are obscured by the screeching of the air-break
that has been automatically engaged from the collision.

  I insert my leg and shoulder through the opening again, pushing against the loose door, stretching its hinges, tightening the loops of chain.

  I clench my teeth and grunt with the strain. “Pull me, Mary Nell! Pull!”

  With Mary Nell’s vigilant pulling of my leg and then my arm, I inch through the opening as the guards and officers rush ever nearer. Finally, I pop through just as they arrive, cursing and shouting threats. One of them aims a weapon through the doors toward me, and seeing it aimed briefly toward Mary Nell, I violently knock it away and the officer screams in pain, withdrawing his arm.

  Mary Nell wraps her arms around my leg. “I tay wiff you!”

  I pick her up and another officer extends his handgun through the narrow opening in the double doors, as we run from the room.

  Blam! Blam!

  Mary Nell screams and I dive into the hallway, out of his line of sight.

  With the death of the guard under the hover-train, their rules of engagement have changed. It’s shoot to kill now.

  Holding Mary Nell, I run to the boardwalk with all my might until it finally comes to a T at the edge of the beach. I look back just as several security officers come running onto the boardwalk, screaming incoherent threats at me. Gasping for air, I look left and right. Couples and groups of people are strolling, enjoying the clear sky and the crashing of the waves on the sandy beach below. At the shouting of the officers and the loud sound of their running footsteps on the boards, people around me are alerted to the chase and glare at us frightfully.

  A steep sand dune comes close to the boardwalk about thirty yards away, so I run to it and forewarn Mary Nell that we have to jump.

  “O-tay?” She clutches me tightly. I climb up on the handrail, hoping to reach the dune before the officers see me jump. It is dark and I cannot make the distance well, but with no other alternative, I leap off and land softly in the sand. But she has fallen out of my grasp.

  “Mary Nell?” I grope for her in the dark.

  “Ow.” She begins to cry. “Owwie . . . ”