Harrison was convincing the man that the bus indeed picked up at that exact spot. A tentative peace settled in along the old man’s shoulders. “Good.” He nodded, his eyes distant. “I need to see my fiancée. I take the bus every Saturday.”
“I tell you what.” Harrison reached for a copy of one of the large-print Bibles available in every common space at Merrill Place. Harrison flipped the pages. “How about you read the book of Philippians? That’s a good one.”
“Yes!” The man took the Bible, suddenly more alert. Eager, almost. “I love Philippians. My grandson loves it, too.”
“Perfect.” Harrison took a few steps back, making sure the man’s mind was settled. He spotted Cheryl and gave her a sad smile. He pointed to his office, and the two of them moved together through the lobby.
“That was very kind, the way you were with him.” Cheryl looked over her right shoulder at the gentleman. He was leaning back in the sofa, reading the Bible.
“As long as I work here I’ll never get used to seeing people slowly lose their minds.” Harrison pressed his lips together. “Usually all they need is someone to go along with them. If Elmer out there wants to think he’s waiting for the bus to take him to see his fiancée, so be it.” He glanced at the man, then back at Cheryl. “Soon enough he’ll get hungry and shuffle off to dinner with everyone else.” He folded his hands on the desk. “Crisis averted.”
“One minute he was headed out to see his fiancée, and the next he’s talking about his grandson.” Cheryl set her purse down and settled into the chair. “Like yesterday is constantly stealing them away.”
“Hmmm. Exactly.” He reached behind him and pulled out what looked like her mother’s file. “I assume you received the letter?”
“I did.” Tears tried to come, but Cheryl refused them. “The place in Destin . . . It’s very . . . different from this.”
“It is.” He looked through the chart for a moment. Then he raised his brows. “One bit of good news. Your mother’s nurse said she hasn’t needed as much medication. She hasn’t tried to escape, either.”
A single ray of hope shone through the darkness of tomorrow. “That’s wonderful.”
“Yes.” Harrison frowned. “Unfortunately the decline with Alzheimer’s can be streaky. Sharp turn for the worse, which can last weeks or months. And then something can level it out or cause a patient to actually do better.” He sighed. “If only we could bottle up whatever that is.”
Cheryl understood. “She could get worse again. That’s what you’re saying.”
“Right. Which is why we need an action plan. Not if that happens”—sadness marked his expression—“but when.”
“We have a plan. The facility in Destin will take her.” Cheryl picked up her purse again. “We’d like to wait as long as possible. Especially if she’s doing better for now.”
“That’s fine.”
Cheryl stood. “I think I’ll go see her.”
Harrison saw her to the office door. “She’s a dear woman. One of my favorites.” He put his hand on Cheryl’s shoulder. “I’ll bet she was an amazing mother back in the day.”
You have no idea, she thought. Her smile was quick. “She was the best.”
Cheryl left before the manager could see her tears. Time was a thief, no question. How in the world had the years brought her mother here? She reached the hallway outside her mother’s room and ran her fingers across her cheeks. A few seconds to compose herself before she opened the door.
Her mother was sitting up in bed, her hair combed, hands neatly clasped on her turned down bedspread. The difference stopped Cheryl in her tracks. She took another step and closed the door behind her.
“Hello, dear.” Her mother spoke first, her eyes as lucid as they’d been forty years ago.
“Hello.” Cheryl could feel the promise in her smile. “How are you?”
“Oh, honey, I’m so happy.” She pointed to the chair beside her bed. “Come sit for a while.” She held her hands to her face. “You just missed Ben. He’s been stopping by.”
Adrenaline flooded Cheryl’s veins. “Ben?”
Kindness eased the lines on her mother’s face. “Yes, dear. Your brother, Ben.” She angled her head. “I thought maybe you sent him.”
“I . . .” Cheryl had to be careful. She didn’t want to be the reason her mother took a turn for the worse. “Yes. I’m so glad he came by.”
She nodded, clearly content. “Cheryl, what are you doing with your hair? It looks absolutely beautiful.”
Nothing could stop her tears now. She pulled a tissue from the bedside table and pressed it discreetly to the corners of her eyes. Her mother remembered her. The beautiful woman who had been her best friend for most of her life remembered who she was. When she could trust her voice, she nodded. “Thank you. It’s . . . I have a new girl at the salon.”
“Well, tell her she’s very talented.”
“I will.” Cheryl reached for her mother’s hand. Without hesitating her mother took hold of her fingers. This moment was a gift from God, borrowed from a time Cheryl had been sure they’d never find again. “You, too, Mom. Your hair is so pretty.”
“There’s a new shop down the way. They took me there and pampered me.” She looked slightly concerned. “I hope it doesn’t cost your father too much money. He works so hard for what he makes.”
So her memory wasn’t perfect. So what? She was here and she was back. Cheryl had her mother again. But what did she mean, she’d spent time with Ben? Cheryl didn’t want to ask. But she silently prayed God would reveal the answers—as soon as possible. “So, Mom . . . how have you been?”
“Wonderful.” She shifted so she could see Cheryl better. Her look was unwavering. “I kept trying to get to Ben’s house, but the guards stopped me.” She rolled her eyes sweetly. “They never understand.”
“No.”
“So I prayed to Jesus. I asked Him to bring my boy to me because I missed him so much.”
Cheryl pressed the tissue to her eyes again.
“And you know the Lord is so good to me, Cheryl. He’s so good. That very day he brought Ben here. I didn’t have to go anywhere.” She looked delighted at the reality. “We’ve had some lovely talks.”
“How . . . often does he come?”
Her mother thought about that. “Seems like just about every day.” She smiled. “I think he thought we were mad at him. Your father and I.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t think that anymore. We talked about the car accident.”
“You and Ben?”
“Yes, dear.” Her mother laughed, and the sound was like the most beautiful breeze from yesterday. Cheryl would’ve known her laugh anywhere. “I told you we’ve been talking every day. Of course we would talk about the accident.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him we forgave him a long time ago.” She sighed, her smile working its way from inside her heart out. “It’s been three years, after all. He’s twenty-three now, Ben. He needs to know we never held anything against him. We love him. Love always forgives.”
“You always told us that.” Cheryl searched her mother’s eyes. She looked as well as she ever had.
“I have to tell you something, Cheryl.” Her mom was still holding Cheryl’s hand and now she patted it with her other one.
She waited. The joy of hearing her mother say her name was the greatest gift she could imagine.
“I was thinking the other day.” She looked toward the window for a few seconds and then back at Cheryl. “I don’t think I tell you often enough how much I love you. How much you mean to me.” Her tender smile made her look half her age. “You’ve been such a special daughter, Cheryl. Every day I celebrate God’s gift of you.”
The tears came harder. Cheryl held the tissue in place beneath one eye and then the other. She smiled, waiting for her voice to cooperate. “And you’ve been the best mother.” She worked to keep her voice even. “I was just thanking God for you today. How fun you always made ev
ery day. Especially the weekends at the lake.”
“We need to go again.” She jabbed her pointer finger in the air. “Maybe this weekend. I’ll talk to your father. Ben and I were just chatting about our beautiful days at the lake.”
Whatever dream or delusion her mother had experienced in regard to Ben, Cheryl could only be grateful. “That sounds lovely, Mom. This weekend would be perfect.”
Her mother looked tired, as if the beautiful conversation had filled her heart with enough peace so she could rest. “I might take a nap, dear. Is that okay?” Her mother leaned forward and kissed the back of Cheryl’s hand. “Thank you for talking with me. We’ll have dinner in a few hours. Right after your father gets home.”
Cheryl nodded as she used the tissue again. “I’ll be there.”
Her mother fell asleep easily and not until Cheryl was back out in the hallway did she let the tears come unabated. She thought about heading straight for Harrison Myers’s office and telling him what had just happened. But as she reached the entryway, his office was empty.
Just as well.
She didn’t want anything to interfere with the beauty of the moment God had just given her. The woman in the bed was no longer a stranger inhabiting her mother’s body. She knew Cheryl’s name and Ben’s name and she couldn’t wait to talk to their father. Never mind that she had her decades off by five or so. The woman was her mom, through and through. Maybe next weekend Chuck and the granddaughters could come to visit her.
They hadn’t shared a meaningful family visit in years.
The only part that baffled Cheryl as she drove home that afternoon was the part about Ben. If Ben could’ve gotten there to see their mother, he would’ve. But Cheryl knew that wasn’t the case. There was no logic in the certainty her mother felt about spending time with Ben. But this much was true: the imaginary visits with Cheryl’s brother had turned things around. There could be no other answer.
It was the miracle Cheryl had prayed for.
She could hardly wait for their next visit.
16
RUNNING WAS THE ANTIDOTE. Marcus Dillinger pounded up the bleachers at Dodger Stadium early on the last Saturday of September and tried not to think about yesterday’s news. But it wasn’t easy.
Conditioning, he told himself. Think about that. It took a few seconds, but pretty soon the image of his teammate’s drug-ridden body being carted out of his apartment yesterday faded. In its place he pictured himself, his routine. His game.
Staying fit wasn’t something Marcus thought about at this point in his career. Every morning he slipped on his workout shoes before his eyes fully opened. He never asked himself if he felt like getting up early and running stairs or lifting weights or working with his pitching coach. Like the famous Nike motto, he just did it.
He kept his eyes on the stairs, his pace intense. Why’d you do it, Baldy? His teammate had been a pitcher, a ten-year veteran trying to get his speed back. Still one of the best relievers in the major leagues. Drugs, man? How could you? You were on top of the world, Baldy. Top of the world.
Marcus doubled his intensity. First time around he hit every step. Second time, every other. When he reached the top he didn’t hesitate before flying back down the next aisle. At the end of the aisle he jogged onto the field over to the mound and stopped just long enough to stare down an imaginary opponent. Then Marcus turned and sprinted for the stairs again.
He kept running. They were well into the playoffs now and everyone said this might be the year they won the whole thing. World Series Champions. The LA media couldn’t contain their excitement over the possibility that a kid who played in the Little League World Series might soon be playing in the MLB World Series.
Something that had never been done.
By then maybe they’d stop talking about Bob “Baldy” Williams.
Marcus was aware of the enormity of the possibility. He just wished he cared more. Especially now. Baldy’s gone, Marcus. You gotta focus. He was in his second season pitching for the Dodgers, and everything was going right. The way it always had for Marcus. From the time he was a little kid back in Simi Valley, California, back when he and Tyler Ames dominated the baseball scene. Marcus reached the top of the stadium and allowed himself ten seconds. The view was beautiful this time of the morning. Before the smog rolled in and made the mountains hazy.
Back down the steps, a thought occurred to Marcus. What had happened to Tyler Ames? His Little League buddy was a perfect distraction. They hadn’t talked since high school. Tyler had chosen the minors over college—and at the time Marcus was a little jealous. Who wanted to balance chemistry and history with practice and conditioning? He figured his childhood friend would beat him to the pros easy.
But something must’ve sidetracked him. Marcus wasn’t sure. He’d tweeted Tyler once—something about a moped accident. But for the most part Marcus had been so busy keeping up with his own career he hadn’t even Googled the guy. Tyler wasn’t pitching in the MLB. Marcus would’ve heard about him. He reached the bottom, ran out to the mound, paused in the direction of home plate, and shot straight back up the stadium stairs.
The thing was, Baldy made a million dollars a year pitching relief. A handful of innings every few days and he was set for life. He had a condo on the beach, a sports car, and any girl he wanted. His last girlfriend was a famous actress, got his picture plastered all over the magazines. Sure, he wasn’t the powerhouse he’d been ten years ago, but he was thirty-five. Forever thirty-five.
Marcus reached the top and allowed fifteen seconds this time. What was the point? Work from the time you’re four years old to get the dream: pro baseball. Then wash it all away on drugs. He stretched to the side one way and then the other. Then back down the steps toward the field.
Drugs had never been his thing. Marcus made $5 million a year plus endorsements. He was the spokesman for a national tire company and Dodge trucks along with a handful of vitamin firms and protein powder giants. He took care of his body every way possible—something his father had instilled in him. Drinking and drugs had been around since high school, but Marcus had always passed. Always felt good about himself for being one of the clean players.
But nothing had felt right since he’d heard the news about Baldy.
Because for all of his clean living, Marcus hadn’t made an impact on the guy, hadn’t persuaded him to straighten up his act, had never asked him about his demons. Hadn’t really done more than talk surface with the guy for two years straight. The question slamming around in Marcus’s head like an errant pinball was this:
What did it all matter?
The money and success, the Maserati he drove to work, and the mansion on the hill in Malibu. The couple of SUVs in his garage. If it couldn’t save a guy like Baldy Williams, what did it matter?
The crazy thing was his accountant had called ten minutes after Marcus heard the news. “Got a real estate deal for you.” The man sounded proud of himself. “You’re going to love this. Ten percent cap rate with a 40 percent return on investment. Just your kind of project.”
Marcus pretended to lose the call. He still hadn’t called the guy back.
Another investment wasn’t the answer, the way to find meaning in this crazy pro athlete life. Marcus reached the field, ran out to the pitcher’s mound, and stopped. His chest heaved, his heartbeat racing. This very spot. That’s where Baldy stood just four days ago and struck out the last batter to win the game. What happened? Were you still celebrating, man? You should’ve hung out with me that night.
He had to think about something else. Back up the stadium stairs. Investments. That’s what his accountant wanted him to think about. But maybe it was time to start making investments in people. Disadvantaged teens or a local reading program. Sick kids at the children’s hospital. Baldy’s life was over. Too late for redemption or meaning or any legacy other than sad headlines. Baldy Williams overdosed at thirty-five.
So what about his own legacy? Sure, Marcus might live to
be a hundred the way he took care of his body, but for what? He was between girlfriends—models and singers, a few actresses. He wouldn’t have considered spending his life with any of them.
This time at the top of the stadium he did ten squats and then took thirty seconds. Sweat streamed down the side of his face. Half a minute to remember how to breathe again. He stared at the blue sky and let the breeze dry his sweat. Nothing like September in Los Angeles. Today was gorgeous. You’re missing it, Baldy. Missing all of it.
On the way back down darker thoughts hit him, the ones that seemed to blindside him every hour or so since yesterday’s news. Where was Baldy Williams now? Like, really? Where? Were heaven and hell actual places?
He reached the field and tried to catch his breath. The idea of heaven or hell made him sick to his stomach. Think about something else, Marcus. Forget about it. Baldy’s gone. He’s nowhere. He’ll be in the ground. That’s it.
Suddenly out of nowhere a breeze kicked up and swirled dirt around the pitcher’s mound. It formed a mini whirlwind before it dissipated somewhere near first base.
Marcus felt his heart rate pick up speed. What was that? The dirt looked like a finger. The finger of God? Was God Himself hearing his thoughts about the afterlife? Was that even possible?
He knew of God. Everyone knew of Him. Every Christmas there was talk about Jesus coming as a baby to save the world. Every Easter, the story of Jesus dying on the cross and rising to life. So that people would have the choice of heaven. Marcus had never given any of it much thought. Most people in Los Angeles didn’t really talk about God—not like He was real, anyway. Life was busy, freeways were packed. The pace was intense.
When would there be time to think about God?
But Baldy’s death had backed Marcus into a corner, a place where he had to think about what had never crossed his mind a few days ago. Heaven or hell? Here, from the pinnacle of his baseball career, he could only wonder. If the money and power and fame held no meaning, then what did? Was God real? All this time was He really here, interacting with people?
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