Not in the Heart (7 page)

C
HAPTER
10

I drove toward the hospital but passed a Toyota dealership and had to check with the parts department. I explained I needed to replace the driver's window and asked the cost. I wasn't sure which hurt worse, the crowbar to the cheek or the estimate from the three-whiskered kid behind the counter. I couldn't keep driving around with no way to lock the car, but for the moment I would have to settle for duct tape and plastic.

This was the same feeling I had when my writing wasn't going well. There's nothing like having a project stall in the middle of the work. The key is momentum, whether it's working on a story for TV or print. You move forward, gathering information and writing as you go. Most people don't realize you're writing in your head all the time—I was writing as I talked with Wanda, though she had no idea. But there comes a point when you not only get up to make a cup of coffee, you go to the store to get the exact brand of coffee that sparks your creativity. And when you settle in afterward, with the cup of coffee in your hand, you hear the mail truck pass and you walk to the box and pull out the bills that simply have to be paid. This is the dance of the creative mind, putting off the pain of sitting in front of a screen that beckons to be filled.

But this Toyota procrastination had nothing to do with writing. I was avoiding the hospital. I knew I had to go there, see my son, and live up to my part of the bargain. Sitting next to him and talking felt like writer's block squared. Life block, I guess.

I passed a car-parts store and thought of comparing prices but kept the vehicle on the road and made it to the hospital parking garage, where I sat for a few minutes. My head pounded and my cheek felt like someone had hit me with a tire iron, which I had always thought of metaphorically. It was way past noon and I could see the hurt and disappointment in my wife's eyes even before I entered the building.

I stopped at the information desk and received a confusing series of directions from a geriatric helper who seemed not too far removed from the critical care ward. Maybe she was doing this to help pay her bill. I heard eighth floor, south elevators, and wandered down a series of pathways, meandering through a maze of people and sterile hallways with soothing music. At best, hospitals are designed as positive places to die.

I finally located the right elevators and rode up looking out at the palm trees and landscaping through the windows. Men in light-brown work clothes manicured the lawns and shrubbery, as if the scenery would cheer up anyone walking into this cesspool of germs, radiation, and hopelessness. My lungs seized up and my heart beat faster and the skin on my face produced toxins. Not really, but my imagination had taken over.

I told you I don't like hospitals.

Ellen was at the nurses' station talking with three women who acted like she was the sweetest person in the world. I couldn't get that phrase out of my head. I guessed she was talking about how good the Lord was and how he was always there for her, unlike her husband, and how he had been there for Aiden every step of the way, unlike his father. You can always trust in God, but husbands will always let you down.

The choir seemed to know instinctively it was me because they all went quietly back to what they were doing and Ellen turned, her face a pool of hurt. More like the Atlantic.

“Sorry I'm late. Has he had lunch?”

“He couldn't eat much. He's asleep again.” She led me back to the waiting room. “I don't think it's a good idea now. Why don't you go home and get some sleep?”

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be.” That actually sounded a bit like I meant it, and the conviction surprised me. “You're the one who needs to go home and get some rest. Come back later tonight after we've had dinner and a chance to watch some baseball.”

Her face lightened a little. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go. Just ask one of your friends there to get me when he wakes up. I'll camp out here until then.”

She touched my arm. “I told him you would be coming by and he seemed really excited.”

It felt like Aiden was seven again and we were going to his soccer tryouts, though I never took him to one of those. I was in Afghanistan talking to Hamid Karzai or in Syria trying to track down Mahmood Bahoody or whatever the guy's name was who happened to be a Hamas leader ready to give an interview. Like I said, I've been all over.

“I'm here,” I said, handing her the keys. “I'm working on getting the driver's-side window fixed.”

I plugged my phone into the charger and settled in for more of the life and times of Terrelle Conley. The orange chair was more comfy than it looked at first glance and it was easy to sink back and leaf through clippings. There was enough in that bag for a couple of books, but the articles brought out vicarious facts tossed about on the waves of journalistic integrity.

I read as much as I could, making notes in the margins as the fire in my face burned on and the noise of the hospital waiting room increased. A family had gathered to await news about someone in surgery. It made me long for a big family. For at least two minutes. Then came the little kids who bounced off the walls until they got enough money for a soda from the machine. And then they did the sugar dance.

No thank you.

The buzz of the waiting room provided the background noise I needed to rest. Unfortunately when I awakened, the family was gone, my shirt had a drool stain, and even worse, a man who reminded me of my father sat next to me. I tried to discreetly wipe my chin.

“Truman Wiley?” the man said. He had a voice like God's. Deep and sonorous. Precise.

“Yeah? Is something wrong?”

He smiled. “No, I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Nelson Miller. Your wife and son attend our church.”

Great. Ellen sent the God squad. I glanced at the clock. Dinnertime. I wiped my eyes and wished I'd had a bib.

“Nice to meet you,” I said and shook his hand. He wasn't what I expected. From what little Ellen had said, I thought he would be older and wearing a Republican lapel pin, but he didn't even wear a suit. Just a polo shirt and shorts. A thirtyish guy with piercing eyes and a day's growth of beard.

“I was visiting another family in the hospital and thought I might find Ellen here. The nurse told me who you were.”

“They were supposed to get me when Aiden woke up.”

I gathered some pages from the floor. I was really out of it. And when I bent over to get them, my cheek lit up again and the blood pulsed like a lightning bolt.

“So you're going to do it?” the man said. “You're going to write Terrelle's story?”

Of course he would know about the whole thing. “I'm researching now. Hope I can finish it in time to do some good.”

He patted my shoulder. “I'm glad. It's quite a story. I've been inside to see Terrelle. It's brutal. But he's right with God. His heart's in the right place.”

What's that supposed to mean? That mine isn't?

“I've also spoken with the mother of the victim. Helen.”

“How did that go?” I said.

He shook his head and his eyes betrayed him. “I wish there were some way to let that woman out of her misery.”

“Like a confession?”

“I've encouraged Terrelle to tell it all. Maybe you're the one who can get to the bottom of it.”

“You don't think he's telling the truth?”

“The human heart is deceitful and desperately wicked. That's what Jeremiah says.”

I wondered who Jeremiah was and why his opinion was so important. “If Terrelle is born again, washed in the blood, why would you doubt him?”

“He became a Christian inside the prison. His conversion was genuine, no doubt. You'll see that. But there are very few people inside those prison walls who will admit their guilt. You give up all hope if you do.”

“I don't see any way he'll confess. Wouldn't make sense.”

“I don't know . . . I think you may be the one God sent to get the truth. You know, to finally help him become free.”

“Is the mother of the deceased open? Would she talk with me?”

“She's a pretty tough customer. Hardened. Still grieving. But I believe while there's still breath, there's hope. She lives only a short distance from here.”

I nodded.

“I know Ellen is glad you're back. Aiden, too. He's a special young man.”

No matter how sincerely he said it, his words left a bad taste in my mouth, like one of those energy bars that are supposed to give you the nutrients you need but just leave you feeling full of oats. I couldn't imagine this guy having more input in my son's life than I had, but somebody had to fill the void.

Suddenly jealousy reared its head. What if this guy had given Ellen more than spiritual encouragement? I could picture it. The late nights sitting in the waiting room, praying, holding hands, giving comfort. Maybe a ride home. My mind wandered and I imagined them at my catless house.

“Thanks for being here when I wasn't,” I said, peering closely to discern any guilt or shame.

“Would you mind if I prayed for you right now?” he said.

Would I mind if he rammed shards of glass underneath my fingernails? How about shoving my head into a bowl of acid?

“Sure, go ahead,” I said.

He put his hand—the one with the ring on it—on my shoulder, and I wondered if that's how it all started with Ellen. A hand on the shoulder, his soft, soothing voice in her ear, whatever that cologne was he was wearing, and me out of her life. She needed a soul mate to walk through those dark nights. It was easy to see what had happened. The soft hands of a pastor, a spiritual mentor, compared with the hard heart of her husband. A furtive glance during a sermon. Clandestine meetings at the hospital coffee shop. It was all so innocent, so unavoidable. But what about the good pastor's wife? How could he do this to her?

“. . . I ask you to give Truman the ability to walk through this story and get to the truth. . . .”

He had his eyes shut tight, not caring who walked by and heard every word as this quarterback prayed in his holy huddle.

“. . . give wisdom to the doctors. . . . Guide the governor and those making decisions about the transplant. . . .”

He had transitioned smoothly from one subject to another and all I could do was hope that he'd come to the end of his spiritual half nelson and let me go.

“. . . in Jesus' name . . .”

Finally. The Christian incantation. The bibbidi-bobbidi-boo of the faithful. Ties everything up into a nice little bow at the end and everyone can feel better.

“Amen.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He patted my shoulder. “You want me to take you back to Aiden's room?”

“I'll find it. I'm sure there are others you need to see.”

He nodded and slipped me a card. It was tastefully printed with just a splash of color. Not one of those gaudy cards with every Christian symbol known to mankind. The fish next to a lion next to a lamb with golden rainbow light shining down and a dove flying over an open Bible with a crown made into a communion tray.

“I understand,” he said. “If you need anything at all, this is my cell phone. Give me a call.”

His shoes squeaked as he walked toward the elevators and I couldn't imagine Ellen falling for anyone with squeaky shoes. I pushed my fears away and focused on the pages from the Piggly Wiggly bag.

“Mr. Wiley?” a nurse said a few minutes later. She was younger and folded her hands primly in front of her. Hair tied in the back and a nice face like most nurses. White teeth and crinkly eyes. “Your son is up and asking for you.”

“I'll be right there,” I said. “Need to visit the little boys' room.”

I opened the door to the lobby, took the stairs, and headed to the street.

C
HAPTER
11

Ellen drove home, leaning closer to the vent and reaching out a hand for a little cool air to counter the hot wind whipping at her hair. It made no sense to use the air conditioner but she did it anyway. Full blast. It was like putting an ice cube in a volcano.

Her thoughts turned to Truman and his offer to relieve her for the day. She didn't need a break from Aiden; she needed him to pay attention to their son. She knew what it would mean to him. And while she questioned if Truman would really follow through, she had to at least give him a chance. She had prayed for this. So why did she feel conflicted?

She had prayed for more, of course. That Truman would lose his addictions, turn into a better husband, a better father, and be the man she wanted him to be. Complete healing for Aiden, that Abby would become interested in spiritual things, and that God would give Ellen herself the ability to hang on and believe in the midst of the unbelief.

Deep within she knew that a turnaround for her husband could only come from God. Truman couldn't work all of his addictions away; he had to be changed inside, and frankly, that possibility seemed as far away as complete healing for Aiden. The tiny spark of hope she'd carried for Truman was just an ache now, a fleeting thought. Like trying to cool a car in the Florida heat and humidity with all the windows down.

Lost in her thoughts, she pulled into the driveway and sat a few moments, staring at the house, unable to move. The weight of life pressed her into the seat and it was like moving buckets of sand to open the door and move both feet. Fatigue was one thing. That was with her every waking moment as the fear and dread of Aiden and what might happen next washed over her, even through her dreams. The crushing weight was knowing what needed to happen and that she could do nothing but hope and pray and wait.

As she opened the front door, she sensed someone behind her and turned to see two men. One held a knife to his chest. The other pushed her into the house. She didn't have time to scream—or the energy. They closed the door behind them.

“What do you want?” she said breathlessly.

The one with the knife nodded to the other, and she studied their faces. The big one had acne scars and dark hair that piled on his head. The one with the knife was thinner with eyes like a fox. Cunning. Calculating. He moved toward her and she backed into the kitchen.

“Sit,” he said.

She fumbled with a chair and obeyed, staring at the knife and the man's face. When he reached out, she recoiled, but instead of touching her, he grabbed her purse and pulled out her cell phone.

“What's this about?” she said, her voice shaking.

“Where's your husband?”

Books falling in the bedroom. Things being scattered.

“He's not here,” she said.

“We know that. Where is he?”

“My son is sick,” she said, then regretted it. Endangering Aiden was the last thing she wanted.

The bigger one returned, shaking his head. Fox leaned forward and put the knife to her neck.