The girl’s hair was blonde—or had been before it was soaked in blood. Her face was deathly white and scratched in places. Stephen recognized her as the neighbor girl, Sydney Evans—the one who had mowed down his fence with her red car. He sighed. This was what hurt about working in a small-town ER. Recognition was unavoidable.
In the few seconds it took for Carlos to gingerly cut off the girl’s clothes, Stephen struggled to keep his clinical mind dominant for the visual exam. It was hard. He could hear a woman crying in the waiting room. Sydney’s pink T-shirt, now in tatters on the floor, had a horse on it, much like the one she often rode with her dad down their dirt road. She wore Wrangler jeans, which were tough for Carlos to cut through, and Stephen could see a phone number written in pen on her hand. When Carlos got the jeans off, Stephen, who was now at her feet, noticed that she had a tiny butterfly tattoo on her left ankle.
Carlos prepared the chest shocks, and they tried them. But nothing worked.
He knew she was technically DOA, but that didn’t stop Stephen from trying to bring her back. He worked with her body for two hours. The fear and grief of her parents—whom he knew were waiting in the next room—weighed heavily on him, spurred him on. But in the end he could not save her. The flesh was not willing—her spirit, long gone.
When Stephen emerged from the girl’s room, he felt a hundred years old.
“Mr. and Mrs. Evans?”
The attendant at the desk motioned toward the tiny chapel, a room set aside for prayer and times like this.
Stephen opened the door quietly. A couple was huddled together on the front bench with their backs toward him. Light poured through a stained-glass window, illuminating the single wooden cross that hung on the front wall.
Marsha Evans, the girl’s mother, flinched as if Stephen had hit her when he opened the door. She turned around and looked into his eyes, wildly searching for signs of hope. Stan Evans rose, and Stephen motioned for him to sit back down. He could see that they were holding hands.
Stephen walked forward and knelt on his knees in front of them. He put his hand over both of theirs and bowed his head. A large tear rolled down his cheek and hit the burgundy carpet, darkening the spot where it hit for a moment as it soaked into the fibers, then disappeared. He raised his head to look them in the eyes.
“Your daughter is gone.”
That night, instead of staying home, Stephen drove over to Joe’s. When he parked his truck in the driveway, he noticed that the yard was freshly mowed and everything as usual was neat as a pin.
He beat continually on the door until Joe finally answered in a fluffy white towel. The towel was stretched around his waist, and water glistened like diamonds in little droplets all over his huge dark shoulders and chest. His face was half shaved, and he held a razor in his hand. Stephen had a sudden flashback of Apollo Creed from one of the Rocky movies.
“Man, you crazy?” Joe asked.
“Yep.”
Joe stepped aside and Stephen walked through the door, shoulders sagging. Joe shut the door behind him and ushered his friend into the living room. He pointed to a black leather couch.
“Sit down, sit down. You all right, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
Stephen smiled weakly. “Well, you are quite a sight in that towel.”
“You okay?”
Stephen nodded. “You’re dripping. Go finish your shower. I’m just here for Bible study.”
Joe smiled, showing teeth that matched his towel and shaving cream. “Whoo, boy. God’s answered my prayers!”
When Joe was dressed, Stephen helped him make coffee and boil water for tea. Just as he had done when they were roommates, Joe kept everything in perfect order in his kitchen, and it was easy for Stephen to find things. They set out juice and a bucket of ice and several mugs and glasses with napkins on the tiled bar.
“You’d make somebody a good maid!” Joe punched Stephen in the ribs as he spread store-bought cookies on a plate. They had just finished up in the kitchen when people began to file through the front door.
Joe introduced each person who came in to Stephen, describing him as his best friend from college. He seemed particularly happy to introduce Frieda, a small, sleekly muscular woman with skin the color of dark chocolate. Her almond-shaped eyes gleamed with what Stephen perceived as inner delight, and her hair was a perfect explosion of tight curls, layered smooth and long around her oval face. Nimble fingers squeezed the hand he offered and shook it earnestly.
When the introductions were done and drinks served, the group meandered toward the living room, where they formed a circle around Joe’s big round coffee table. Stephen lingered back, refilling his coffee before joining them. Frieda, leading the way, plopped down in a redand-black-striped chair that swallowed her, and she put her feet up on the ottoman. Joe heard the doorbell and went to get it.
On the coordinating loveseat, which had a geometric pattern, a Mexican couple named Martina and Jesús settled in. A white couple named Sue and Jerry took the couch. Across from the couch was a rocker, which was empty until a Native American with a salt-and-pepper ponytail came in and sat down in it. Stephen recognized him as Dr. Banks from Claire’s seminar.
“Last but not least!” Joe slapped Dr. Banks on the back. “Glad you could make it, bro!”
Joe got a chair from the dining room and offered it to Stephen. When Stephen refused it, Joe pulled it up beside Dr. Banks in the rocker. His hulking form dwarfed the dining chair. Stephen sat down instead on the fireplace bench, just outside of the immediate circle. He sat quietly, lost in his thoughts, observing this group that seemed as eclectic as a patchwork quilt.
“Well, I’m glad you all could come tonight,” Joe began. “It’s good to be with God’s people, and I’m glad to have you here in my home.”
The group members nodded their agreement, exchanging smiles with Joe and each other. Stephen noticed that Frieda looked especially comfortable in her chair, as though she was right at home.
Joe continued, “You know, in the book of Acts, Christians came together in homes, and the Bible says they broke bread and prayed. So, we’ve broken bread—or cookies”—everyone laughed at this—“and now I’d like to pray.”
Joe bowed his head. He paused, breathing deeply. Stephen, eyes open, observed that Frieda held out her hands as if to receive something. Dr. Banks stared at a knot in the hardwood floor. Martina looked up but closed her eyes. She was gripping her husband’s hand. The others, like Jesús, bowed their heads and closed their eyes.
Joe’s voice, always strong, was softened around the edges as he spoke. He sounded as if he was addressing an old and honored friend.
“Thank You, Lord, for this day. Thank You for the life You live within us. Thank You for bringing us together in this place and meeting us here.” He opened his palms in front of him and leaned back his head. “We look to You to lead us tonight, and invite You to do Your will among us. Come, Holy Spirit, and fill us. Teach us about Jesus and make us more like Him. In His name.”
Joe didn’t say “Amen.”
There was a charged silence.
Then Frieda, in a voice like deep water, began to sing: “I love You, Lord, and I lift my voice to worship You, oh, my soul, rejoice. Take joy, my King, in what You hear. May it be a sweet, sweet sound in Your ear.”
One by one, each member of the group joined in the chorus, and they repeated it several times. Martina and Frieda lifted their hands. Joe stood and raised his to the sky. They sang together like strings on a harp—each voice blending into the others and quivering with the same soulful longing—but also separate, sounding their own distinctive notes, telling their own personal stories of love.
Jesús whispered, “Sí, Dios. Yes.”
Dr. Banks, his eyes not moving from the spot on the floor, said, “Hallelujah. Thank you, Father.”
After a meaningful quiet, Joe sat back down in his seat, and the people in the group slowly opened their eyes and shifted in their s
eats, settling in.
“Well,” Joe said, “who is in need of ministry tonight? What is the Lord speaking to our hearts?”
Martina said, “I’d like to ask prayer for my friend—the one Jesús mentioned? She’s really going through a hard time right now. She lost her husband a few years ago and just recently moved back to this area. She has a small son who is having a few health problems—nothing serious, I don’t think—but now she had to get a mole removed today because of possible skin cancer. It’s probably benign, but, well, she just needs our prayers.”
Stephen’s skin prickled.
“And let’s pray for that poor family who lost their daughter today in a car wreck.” Sue reminded everyone of the news that was all over town.
Stephen bowed his head and listened while the others took turns talking to God.
After the time of prayer concluded, Joe asked, “Well, does anyone have a word they’d like to share?”
Jerry grabbed his Bible from the couch. “I do.” He read aloud from Psalm 107.
“They cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress…He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven.”
Jerry looked at Sue. She beamed at him, even though her eyes were full of tears.
“You know we’ve tried for years to have a baby. Some of you have been with us through it all—the hoping, the heartache, all of the doctors.”
Martina and Frieda, eyes as big as Frisbees, practically danced with anticipation.
“We’re having twins!” Sue shrieked. “I’m past the first trimester!”
The whole group erupted like a volcano full of joy. The women squealed with delight, hugging Sue, and the men smiled, pumping Jerry’s hands and patting him on the back. Stephen saw Jesús wipe away a tear.
“Praise the Lord!” Joe cried. “God is good!”
That night before turning out the light, Stephen picked up the Bible on his bedside table and brushed the dust off its worn leather cover. He turned to Psalm 107 and read:
“Some wandered in desert wastelands, finding no way to a city where they could settle. They were hungry and thirsty, and their lives ebbed away. Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress. He led them by a straight way to a city where they could settle. Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love…for He satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things.”
Chapter Eleven
“On Monday, we discussed Zora Neale Hurston and How It Feels to Be Colored Me. Many of you did a great job with your analyses of her brown bag metaphor, which she uses to describe the view that people of all races are basically the same on the inside.”
Claire walked up and down the rows of the classroom in a plum-colored suit, passing out their graded essays. Her black high heels clicked on the tile floor.
“Before we dismissed, I told you we were going to have a “Brown Bag Special” in class on Wednesday.”
Most of the members of the class smiled, exchanging glances with one another.
Claire continued, “So, for the Brown Bag Special, you were all to bring a paper bag with you to class today. In these bags, you were supposed to place three miscellaneous things that represent pieces of your life and be prepared to share them. By doing this, we will test Hurston’s view as well as learn a little more about one another. Did everybody bring a bag?”
She could see that most of them had bags on their desks, but a few reached into backpacks to pull theirs out. Ryan Sellers held his up, shaking it.
“Did you bring a bag, Dr. Caspian?” he asked her.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” she answered, revealing hers from behind the podium and setting it on top. “Now, who would like to go first?”
“I will,” said a dark-haired girl on the back row.
“Okay, Lauren.”
“Well, you can see I painted my bag half red and half white, since my mother is Ute, and my father is Anglo.” She held up the bag.
“Interesting. What’s inside?” Claire inquired.
Lauren reached into the bag. “The first thing is this pen, because I like to write and my dream is to become a writer.”
“Great. I’m glad to know that. What’s next?”
“This is a picture of my favorite place.” Lauren held up a postcard of Scotland. It featured the Edinburgh Castle.
“Edinburgh?” Claire swallowed hard.
“Yeah. Well, Scotland. That’s where my father’s family is originally from. I think I’d like to live there someday.”
Claire forced a smile. “Okay, what else?”
Lauren reached into the bag again and held up a mirror. She turned it around so that Claire and the others could see the back of it, which was printed with the name THELMA.
“Okay, does everybody see that? It’s a mirror that says Thelma. What can you tell us about it, Lauren?”
“This was my grandmother’s mirror. She carried it in her purse all the time before she died.”
Lauren turned the mirror to her face and looked into it with her hazel eyes. Then she looked at Claire. “When I look into this mirror, I see my past—and my future.”
The class broke into a few oohs and aahs.
Claire said, “Nice job, Lauren. Very thoughtful.” Students like this made her love teaching.
“Who’s next?” she asked, looking around the room.
Ryan Sellers, on the front row, raised his hand. His blue eyes were innocent, and he smiled with a slight underbite, which some girls found irresistible.
“Okay, Ryan. Show us your bag.”
He made a great production of rustling his paper bag. The first thing he pulled out was red plastic, with gold metal on one end.
“What’s that?” Claire asked him.
“It’s a shotgun shell. I use these puppies to kill deer, elk, antelope, you name it.”
Claire felt queasy and hoped it didn’t show. “I see. Uh, what else do you have in there?”
Ryan pulled out a can of Skoal and presented it on his open palm.
Some of the class laughed, and Claire raised her eyebrows at him. “Thank you very much. And, just what, I wonder, could be the third thing in your bag?”
“You’ll be proud of this one,” Ryan declared coyly.
“Really? Why is that?”
“Well, you told me I need to read more. So I started on this book.” He reached back into the bag and pulled out a large paperback, which he handed to Claire.
“Pro Bass Fishing,” she read the title aloud. “That sounds like a real classic.”
“What’s in your bag?”
“Yeah, show us yours.”
The class urged her, so Claire opened her bag. “I don’t know if I can follow that,” she declared, looking in Ryan’s direction.
He was beaming like an opossum.
Claire’s lithe fingers reached into the plain brown bag and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. “This is a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets that I bought in his hometown of Stratford-Upon-Avon. I keep it in my purse.”
“Ooh, neat,” someone said.
“Sounds like some light reading,” commented Ryan, who looked at his teacher as if she were from Mars.
Claire set the book down on the podium. She pulled out the second thing from her bag, which was a red hog with an A painted on it.
“What’s that?” Ryan stared.
“It’s an Arkansas Razorback. That’s where I went to graduate school.” Claire set the figurine beside the sonnets.
“Can you call the hogs?”
“You bet.” She could see that his respect for her had just grown. Claire pulled out her third item.
“This is a very precious stone.” She held it out in her hand, and walked around the class so everyone could see it.
When she passed by his desk, a boy named Landon said what they were all thinking. “Aren’t precious ston
es like jewels? That looks like a regular rock to me.”
“This stone is more precious to me than a diamond, because my son Graeme gave it to me yesterday. He picked it up on the playground at school.”
“Aw,” Ryan cooed sarcastically, “isn’t that sweet.”
“It is sweet,” said Claire, “and that’s precisely why it’s precious. Thank you for your keen observation, Mr. Sellers.”
She let that sink in a moment before turning her attention to another student. “What’s in your bag, Landon?”
When class was almost over and everyone had shared the contents of their bags, Claire stood behind the podium again to address them.
“Well, I’d say we proved Hurston had a point. Even though the insides of our bags revealed different objects, those objects represented the same things—love, memories, accomplishments, dreams. As diverse as we are in culture, gender, and age, our class has a lot in common, don’t we? Hurston would say it’s the same for all human beings.
“Consider Hurston’s notion of humanity as you read Kurt Vonnegut’s speech, ‘Fates Worse than Death,’ which starts on page five hundred of our books. Would he agree or disagree? Jot down your thoughts. We’ll discuss Vonnegut, and particularly his views about war, in the next few classes.”
There were both groans and knowing smiles from respective students as she ushered them out of the class.
Back in her office, Claire emptied the contents of her paper bag. She placed the Razorback figurine back in its home on her bookshelf and the book of sonnets into her purse. She was rubbing the precious stone from Graeme between her fingers when the telephone rang. It was the quick, double ring of an off-campus call.
“Hello.”
“Uh, yes. I was trying to reach Dr. Claire Caspian.” It was a man’s voice, but Claire couldn’t quite place it.
“This is Claire Caspian.”
“Oh. Okay.” The guy was stammering. “Claire, this is Stephen Reyes.”
Claire felt the blood drain from her face. She hadn’t allowed herself to worry—not too much—about the mole. Surely, surely it was benign. She’d told herself that over and over. But why did the doctor sound nervous?
Love Finds You in Romeo, Colorado Page 8