Secrets Unveiled (2 page)

“Yes, I wore them a long time ago when I was young and foolish.” He'd rather burn the shirts and the jeans than take the chance they'd fall into the hands of a kid who'd think wearing them was cool. But that wasn't an option right now, so stuffing them into the trashcan would have to do—the way he'd stuffed the memories of his terrible transgressions deep down inside so long ago.

“You've never been foolish, Uncle Grant. You're the smartest grown-up I know. Well…maybe except for my teacher, Miss Andrews. She knows an awful lot—like the names of the planets and how to find China on a map.”

“Is that so?”

“Uh huh. So it's a tie…you, Miss Andrews, and Mama.” Gemma patted Oscar's head as the dog ambled over to give the opened trash bin a sniff. He peeled off a sharp bark. “See, Oscar thinks so, too.”

Ahh. From the mouths of babes…and animal shelter mutts...

“Well, Oscar's smarts only go so far. He drinks water from the toilet bowl sometimes, you know.”

“Oooh…yuck.” Gemma wrinkled her nose as she took a giant step back from the overgrown canine. “That's…dis—dis—”

“Disgusting, I know.” Grant waggled his fingers at her. “Just bring me those jeans and I'll get this all thrown away before it…well, before it has a chance to make a wrong impression on anyone.”

“Well, OK…” Gemma gathered the jeans in her tiny hands and started over. One leg of fabric flopped behind, dragging along the wood. As she handed the denim to Grant, something dropped from the pocket to the floor. As it bounced over wood, it caught the light—a tinkling shimmer of silver—before finally coming to rest at Grant's feet.

“Oooh…pretty. Look, it's got a picture inside.” Gemma reached for the necklace. “It's a—”

“No! Don't touch that.” A line of sweat scalded the nape of Grant's neck as memories from the past rose up once again in a firestorm of unwelcomed emotions. His pulse stammered and his breath caught on a single, painful gasp before launching into an all-out assault to his system. For a moment, he felt sure the rapid pace would cause his heart to explode like an active grenade.

“Why?” Gemma ignored his warning as she took a step forward. “I don't understand, Uncle Grant. It's so pretty.”

“Stay back. Wait!” Grant's voice bit the air.

“O…OK.” Gemma paused. She glanced up at him with huge, fawn-like eyes as her lower lip quivered. “But, Uncle Grant…”

“I'm sorry.” Grant gathered her in as a sniffle broke through and she slumped over like a deflated balloon.

She sniffled again as a single tear spilled over to trail down her left cheek.

“I didn't mean to be short-tempered with you.” He inhaled the scents of peanut butter and chocolate milk as he wrapped his arms around her and held tight.

“It's OK.” Gemma pressed a small, cool palm to his cheek, stroking gently as she wiggled from his grasp. “Are you sick, Uncle Grant? You feel hot and your cheeks look gray, like Mama's do when she gets one of those real bad headaches.”

“They're called migraines.” Yes, his head thrummed at the pulsing echo that assaulted both of his weary temples. He could barely form a single word; his tongue felt like an oversized, dry sponge. He opened his mouth and waited for the right words to come. “Just…give me a minute…”

“Oh, wow, it's so pretty.” Gemma seemed to forget his warning as her hand left his cheek and she raced across the room to snatch the piece of jewelry from the floor. Each thump of the boots proved a sledgehammer to Grant's drumming skull. “It's a heart…and it opens, Uncle Grant.”

Yes, he remembered now…full disclosure. Inside they'd find a pair of women's faces—older women with eyes as bright as gemstones and bowed lips that seemed to know all his secrets. The images were burned into his memory.

Gemma was undeterred by his silence as she chattered on. “What do you call this kind of necklace?”

“It's a…” Grant sat mesmerized by the shimmer of silver as he sifted through the wad of cotton lodged in his throat to summon an answer. “It's a locket.”

“Right, a locket,” Gemma parroted as she slipped a sliver of fingernail into the slight crevice at the center of the oversized heart. The size of a half-dollar, the polished silver would prove impossible to miss while worn—or while tucked neatly into a jewelry box. The embellished heart opened and Gemma gaped at what she found there. “Who are these ladies inside?”

“I'm not sure.” Grant studied the images though he remembered every detail without so much as a second glance. How could he have forgotten the way he'd hurriedly crammed the silver into his pocket, thinking it was worth money beyond his wildest dreams, as he scrambled from the room that long-ago August afternoon, the house alarm screeching in protest? It all came rushing back now…every glimmer of that moment in time, as if each composed a series of images in a slow-motion movie reel.

“Then how'd it get in your pocket?” Gemma brushed a corkscrew curl from her pretty blue eyes. A smudge of grape jelly from her after-school snack clung to one cheek. “Did you put it there?”

“I did…a long time ago.”

“Why? Do the ladies know?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” Difficult questions, for sure. Grant failed to form a cohesive answer—at least one a five-year-old might understand—so he settled for, “It's a long story, and I don't want to talk about it now.”

“Mama says talking things out usually makes them better. Like when I have a bad dream, and I can't fall back to sleep.”

“This isn't a dream, Gemma.” Grant shook his head firmly. “So, no, I don't want to talk about it here…like this.”

“Well, what're you gonna do with the locket now?” Gemma watched as the nugget of silver swung by the chain in her fingertips, sparkling beneath the overhead lights. “Maybe you should call these ladies. Maybe they want their locket back.”

“It's a little late for that.” Or…was it?

“So, you're just gonna keep it? I don't think Mama would like that. She would say—”

“I know what your mother would say, Gemma. Remember, she's my sister. She's been telling me things for…well, forever.”

“Uh huh.” Gemma tilted her head to the side as Oscar settled on his haunches beside her. “Do you want me to put it back in the pocket, then?”

“No. Hand it to me.”

Gemma dropped the cool silver into Grant's palm, and the pair of faces, frozen in glossy black-and-white photo paper, gaped up at him. For a moment, Grant found himself transported back in time. Sirens wailed and a voice shouted. His knees, skinned and bloodied from their battle with the second-story window ledge, throbbed in time to the searing scratches along his forearms as he fought his way out of the thorny rose bush and took off running. The day was hot, the sunlight a torch of fire against the back of his damp black T-shirt. Sweat dripped into his eyes, turning a shimmer of neatly-manicured grass to muddled waves. Something—someone—body-slammed him and he tripped, stumbled. The breath rushed out of him as he sledgehammered the concrete sidewalk. A weight fell on him—someone much larger and stronger—and his arms were wrenched back and pinned behind him at an impossible angle. The pain came in a hot slash as something in his shoulder tore. The day went black as his knees weakened in a wave of agony. The voice, gruff and angry, veiled over him in a condescending threat as he fought for air, for breath…for life. Darkness closed in as he began to suffocate—

“Are you OK?” Gemma's tug on the hem of Grant's suit jacket coaxed him back. “You look real sick, Uncle Grant. Are you gonna throw up? Sometimes Mama does when her head hurts real bad.”

“I'm OK.” But Grant shuddered and rubbed his shoulder as the memory faded. It had taken months for the tear in his shoulder to heal, and even now, on cold, damp days, he still experienced a slight throbbing. He sucked in a single, deep breath as his vision cleared. Sunlight streamed through the living room windows, but its warmth failed to chase away the chill that had seeped into his bones. “I'll be fine.”

But he wasn't…at the moment, he was anything but fine.

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.
The promise from 1 John 1:9 washed over Grant to reassure him. He'd confessed to his Heavenly Father several years ago, the horrible events of that afternoon—as well as the days and nights leading up to it—and had found a sense of peace. But that peace had come before he realized he still had the locket. Now, he knew there was more work to be done before Divine calm could have any chance to be permanently his.

He had to return the locket to its rightful owner. But, after all the time that had passed, who, exactly, might that be?

2

Maggie Andrews flipped through her attendance book, picturing each student fondly as she silently read his or her name. She paused at each line of the wire-bound journal, reciting a quick yet heartfelt prayer for the children she was quickly growing to love, though they were barely a month into the school year. The action had become a permanent part of her routine, and now, as always, she began the day ensconced in the solitude of her classroom at Knoxville's Christian Day School—before a baker's dozen of energetic kindergartners appeared to shatter the silence.

Claire Bailey loved to color and jump rope; the blonde-haired cutie—soon-to-turn six and one of the eldest in the class—often sang at recess and proved to be meticulous while completing her work. She was a little shimmer of light for the class with her bright smile and helpful disposition.

In contrast, Jeremy Seager had squeaked into the class with a late-August birthday that fell only days before the required age cut-off. The youngest of the class, his dark hair was a bit too long, and he had a habit of continually swiping the unruly locks from his blue eyes. He often sneaked miniature cars from his Matchbox collection to school in his pants pockets and more often than not deciphered simple addition worksheets while engaged in engine-roaring sound-effects…much to the chagrin of his table-mates.

Ty Patterson, was a transfer student who'd arrived recently from Nashville. The boy seemed to be obsessed with video games. His first week here, Ty had gotten into the awful habit of stomping his feet in angry protest each morning when Maggie bade him to stash his handheld gaming device in the small cubby along with his superhero lunch box. If left unsupervised for mere moments, Maggie knew she'd find him with his hands stuffed in the cubby, manipulating the game controls as he became immersed in the rapid-fire visual effects. Keeping Ty engaged during the daily lessons and periods of seatwork proved to be a tough challenge.

Then there was Gemma Stuart…ah, sweet Gemma. She stood out among the others with her tumble of burnished hair that fell in a halo of corkscrew curls around a face smattered with freckles. Her blue eyes twinkled like smiling candles when she laughed. With her birthday smack-dab in the middle of the others, Gemma had entered the kindergarten program already reading on a second-grade level and counting way beyond one hundred. She understood the concepts of addition and subtraction and could complete most simple arithmetic in her head. Challenging the child proved to be a welcome and refreshing task for Maggie. Gemma worked hard and played hard, as well. She spent the better part of each recess rummaging through a crate of clothes and costume jewelry Maggie had purchased from the local thrift store along with an assortment of plastic crowns, feather boas, and shoes from a costume shop in West Knoxville. Playing princess dress-up was the name of the game for Gemma. Maggie knew the child's father had been killed in action two winters ago during his deployment overseas and that her mom worked long hours as an ER trauma nurse at Mercy General.

Maggie bowed her head, whispering a special prayer for Gemma and her mom. She knew the prayer was sorely needed. She was certain the two had a long, trying road ahead.

“Miss Andrews?”

Maggie lifted her head to find school secretary Angie Edwards, in the doorway. A few years younger than Maggie, Angie's light brown hair was pulled into a sleek, sensible ponytail, revealing a thin brow furrowed with worry.

“What's the matter?” Maggie unfolded her hands and stood from the rolling desk chair, stretching the kinks from her spine before settling back into the vinyl seat. “You look…perplexed.”

“Mrs. Jarvis just phoned to say she and Mr. Jarvis won't be able to make it today to chaperone the field trip to the zoo complex. Kevin was playing fetch with the neighbor's dog yesterday after school when he stumbled over a hole in the ground. His foot got stuck and his ankle twisted. At first they thought it was just a bad sprain, but after a miserable night they're back at the emergency room, having the ankle X-rayed.”

“Oh, no.” Kevin played peewee football, T-ball, and goalie for the Upwards soccer team that met each Saturday for round-robin tournaments. At six, and the second-eldest in the class, he was big for his age and already pegged by his parents as a future first round Hall-of-Famer. The only glitch in the plan was that Kevin proved to be just a tad-bit…clumsy. “That's terrible. Either way, the foot is going to take time to heal and has to be awfully painful.”

“I'll say.” Angie adjusted wire-framed glasses over the bridge of her narrow, upturned nose. “They send their regrets and hope you'll be able to find a replacement to chaperone in time to keep to the trip's schedule. They don't want to let the kids down.”

“A replacement…” Maggie's heart sank. “But our departure time is just an hour away. The bus is scheduled to pull out at nine this morning, and you know as well as I do that the Jarvis's were my last resort. All of the other parents are working or”—Maggie scrunched her nose as she considered the other options—”not interested in traipsing around the zoo with a posse of energetic five-year-olds—especially with the threat of chilly rain looming on the horizon.”