The Christmas Sweater (13 page)

I
t was darker than I’d expected. The patchwork of ice covering the dead brown grass
made the last snowfall seem like a distant memory.

My plan was to hitchhike into town. We weren’t far from the Boeing plant, so I knew
there would be cars on the road even at this hour. But the emerging outline of the
barn gave me a better idea. I pulled my grandfather’s flashlight from my coat pocket
and turned it on. The batteries were almost dead, but there was enough light for me
to make it to the barn. Pulling the door open would have made it drag along the ground
and make a horribly loud
noise, so, with the flashlight under my chin, I lifted up on the door and carefully
swung it open.

The light made everything in the barn cast long, spooky shadows. The sewing-machine
museum could have been a torture chamber. I headed for the camping tarp covering the
present that never was. I lifted it off and felt the cold metal of the handlebars
through my knit gloves. I set the flashlight on the ground and removed all the cards
from the spokes so that no one would hear me leave. I noticed my grandfather had only
used hearts. My grandmother’s touch, I thought. I left the hearts scattered all over
the floor.

I tried to maneuver the bicycle from its tight hiding place, but the kickstand caught
one of the legs of the shelving unit. Skeins and balls of yarn tumbled to the floor
in slow motion. I guided the bike through the mess and out the door.

I was afraid that all of the noise might have woken my grandparents up, so I breathed
a heavy sigh of relief when the house behind me remained dark as Grandpa’s plow fi
nally came into view. Still, I knew it wouldn’t be long before Grandpa was up doing
chores and would notice that I was gone. I doubted he cared enough to get in his truck
and go looking for me, but Grandma was a different matter. If anyone would care that
I was gone, it would be her. And she could be pretty persuasive when she wanted to
be.

Would someone really come for me?

Mount Vernon was an hour and a half away by car. I had no idea how long it would take
on a bike. I hoped I could make it there by nightfall. Fortunately, a few months earlier,
Taylor had shown me a shortcut to the main highway. It ran through a nearby cornfield
just past his home. Not only would it save time but it would also keep me off the
main road, just in case Grandpa came looking.

Would someone really come for me?

I turned left, riding in the narrow, matted, grassy space between the white line and
the drainage ditch. As my eyes adjusted to the predawn darkness, I saw the opening
to Russell’s overgrown driveway.

The grind of my bike’s chain and tires were the only
sounds I heard at first. Then wind moving through barren trees joined the chorus.
Then there was nothing but the sound of my own breathing.

Russell’s house was completely dark. I turned my flashlight back on, then wandered
off the driveway and headed toward the corral. I expected the dim yellow beam to reveal
a sleepy mare. Instead it was empty.

I parked the bike next to the house and carefully navigated the porch steps. There
was something wrong with the silence. I aimed the flashlight to where the wind chime
should have been. Nothing. I turned the light off and looked through the window, straining
to find any sign of life in the house. Nothing. I aimed the light toward the big tree
where we had sat on the park bench. It was gone.

And so was Russell.

With Russell gone, there was nothing, and nobody, I would ever miss about this stupid
cow town. I got back on my bike, followed the moon down the driveway to the main road,
and headed toward town. For the first time in my life, I was completely and totally
free. And it
felt
great.

After a few more minutes of pedaling, Taylor’s driveway came into view. I was glad
that I didn’t have time to act on the anger churning in my stomach, since his mailbox
was due for a good bashing.

Instead I just pedaled. Not saying good-bye would have to be good enough revenge.
Ahead of me I saw the narrow dirt road Taylor had told me about. I steered my bike
toward it. The dirt-and-gravel trail was deeply rutted and lined on both sides by
a dense, gray wall of dead and decaying cornstalks. As I rode, familiar farms gave
way to unfamiliar sights. The sky was clear now and the moonlight helped me dodge
the deeper scars in the path.
No one will ever find me,
I thought.
No one is looking anyway.
The thought filled my heart with anger.

In the solitude of the cornfield I could say whatever I wanted and no one would hear
me. No one but God. It was an opportunity for me to vent my rage.

“I hate you!” I shouted. The night sky seemed to swallow my words. There wasn’t even
an echo. I pedaled faster.
“I asked you to help my mother be happy, and you couldn’t do that. Instead, you took
her from me when I needed her most. My dad was a good man, and you couldn’t have cared
less about him.” I paused, as if expecting a reply. None came. I poured all of my
anger into the pedals.

I felt so alone. Screaming into the nothingness was the only thing that gave me comfort.
“All I asked you for was this stupid bike, and even that was too much for you. You’re
nothing but a fraud! I hate you!”

At that moment, words echoed through the cornstalks and into my mind. They seemed
to be coming from everywhere, and nowhere, all at once. The voice sounded a lot like
my own, but my thoughts never had that much power or clarity.

“Sometimes the gift we want most is already with us, but we have to get out of our
own way to receive it.”

I gritted my teeth and stood up on the pedals. “It’s not my fault!” I screamed as
loud as I could, pedaling even faster—as if trying to outrun the voice. Suddenly my
front tire caught a rut, throwing the bike sideways across the path. I screamed as
I hit the dirt road. I don’t know how
long I lay there, but when I finally sat up, the moon was gone. But the voices weren’t.

“Come home, Eddie. Just come home.”

“No!” I shouted. “I don’t have a home!”

The voice echoed words I’d heard somewhere before.
“Animals run away from people they don’t trust; most times we run away from ourselves.”

For good reason, I thought. I couldn’t stand to be around myself anymore. I’d turned
into something I hated, and I’d blamed it on everyone and everything else.

I stood up slowly and walked over to inspect the bike. The chain was off and the front
fork was completely bent, as was the tire rim, rendering both useless. Now what would
I do?

“
You can’t run away from yourself,
” whispered the voice.

“Wanna bet?” I shouted.

I began running, at first down the dirt path and then into the field itself, half
blind from covering my eyes from the stinging, whipping cornstalks. A dozen yards
ahead of me, a flock of crows flew up from the field, screeching wildly.

My heart was pounding so hard that I thought I could see it beating through my coat.
I collapsed to my knees and looked up at the predawn sky. “I hate you,” I said softly.

“
I love you,
” the voice whispered back.

I lay there for a long time, aching and exhausted. I had been running from these strange
voices, but now my head was filled with my own.

Why didn’t I talk to Grandpa? Why did I always pull back when he and Grandma tried
to reach out? Why did I try to hurt my mother?

“
I love you,”
the voice repeated.
“Come home, Eddie. All is well.”

How could all be well? How could anything ever be well again?
At that moment I began to shed the first unselfish tears of my entire life. I had
cried before, but this time it came from someplace deeper. Images of my family flashed
through my mind.
I loved them. I hated myself.
Deep inside I wanted their forgiveness.

Look at yourself,
I thought. I was just thirteen, and I was already as broken as the corn around me.
This isn’t
what life was supposed to be. But when had life ever been what it was supposed to
be? I wished I could start over again. I wished I had a second chance to do the right
things, but I knew better: There are no second chances.

How could anyone ever forgive me after all the things I’d done? How could I look Grandpa
in the eyes knowing that all he would see was the kid I had turned into over the last
year? I was as empty and as dead inside as the cornfield I stood in. Maybe this was
where I belonged. Maybe this was my new home.

After a few more minutes I wiped my eyes, lifted my backpack, and stumbled to my feet.
I wandered back in the direction I thought I had come from, following a trail of gray,
broken stalks. I had no idea where I was or how far I’d come in my mad rush into the
field. I climbed a small knoll, high enough to look over the top of the corn and survey
the area. I looked in the direction I’d thought I’d come from, but the road was gone
and there was no sign of my bike.

Nothing looked familiar. The land was flat, dead, and barren, an endless pattern of
brown, black, and gray corn
stalks as far as I could see. Then, as I looked behind me, I saw a road. But it wasn’t
the one I had traveled earlier. It was broken and desolate, and at the end of it lurked
something that filled me with terror: a dark, undulating storm.

Where had it come from? Why hadn’t I seen it earlier?

A new, brash voice spoke to me. It seemed to come from the cornfield itself.
“You were right, Eddie, God doesn’t care. He never has.”
The words echoed my own thoughts and should’ve been comforting, but the tone of the
voice sent a shiver down my spine.

The now familiar soft whisper responded, “
God loves you, Eddie. Come home, everything will be all right.
”

“
No, Eddie,
” the cornfield rebutted, its voice growing in strength.
“This is where you belong. The cornfield is your home.”

I looked up at the storm again. Black, deep green, and silver swirled together in
a cloud that breathed and heaved in the sky. The storm seemed strangely alive. Beckoning.

In a voice that sounded like my own, the cornfield mocked,
“I’ll earn it. I promise.”

But each time the brash voice spoke, it was countered by the comforting whisper.
“Come home.”

“I can’t go home,” I cried. “I don’t even know how to get there from here.”

The whisper said, “
Face the storm.
”

The cornfield responded immediately, as if panicked that I might listen to the whisper.
“The storm will crush you, Eddie. It destroys all who face it.”
The voice was gaining confidence by the minute, growing louder and stronger.
“Look around, Eddie, you are home. This is where you belong.”

I looked around and knew the voice was right. This was the place I deserved to be.
It offered no comfort, but at least I knew there wouldn’t be any more pain.

“You’re worthy of so much more, Eddie.”
The gentle whisper was now barely audible. It knew it was losing.
“You just have to take the first step.”

I was trapped. In front of me was a path to a storm that promised nothing but death.
Behind me was a wall of shadow and regret. So there I stood,

Afraid to go forward…

And unable to go back.

T
he storm shrieked and groaned as I stared into it. I collapsed to my knees and began
to cry again. But this time I didn’t just cry, I
cried out.
“Mom!”

I saw her face in my mind. All of the guilt and anger and blame that had been building
since Mom’s death—and long before then—rushed out of me in a torrent. It took me a
full minute to mix those few words into the sobbing, choking, and shuddering words
that filled the air around me.

Then I prayed. “God,” I cried, “everything I do, I screw
up. Please help me find a way to let everyone know how sorry I am for everything I’ve
done and everything I’ve failed to do.” Images of my mom and dad, grandmother and
grandpa flashed quickly in my head. I didn’t care about myself anymore; I was resigned
to a life that looked a lot like the cornfield I was standing in, but I couldn’t stand
the thought of not being able to make amends for all that had happened.

I don’t really know what I expected, but as I opened my eyes the world still looked
exactly the same: predawn darkness, a wall of dead corn behind me, and the surreal,
churning storm in front of me. A sickening, hopeless feeling filled my chest:
Maybe it’s too late.

As if in reply to my thoughts, the whisper spoke again.
“Face the storm, Eddie.”

Something rustled in the corn behind me. I spun around.

“Hello, Eddie.”

It was a new voice, but it was strangely familiar. A man emerged from the blackness.
The light from the storm’s flashes offered me a quick glimpse of his face.

“Russell?” I wondered how long he’d been there.

“Is everything all right, Eddie?”

I rose from my knees and brushed myself off. “No.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home.”

Russell looked confused. “Then what are you doing here?”

“I’m lost.”

“That’s not exactly true.”

I looked at him quizzically. “It’s not?”

“No.” Russell glared into my eyes. It was like he was looking through me. “You’re
exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

“What is this place?”

“It’s the world you made for yourself.”

“I made?” I didn’t like being the author of such desolation and despair.

His piercing eyes fell on me. “Do you know how you got here?”

I was ashamed to tell him the truth. “I got into an accident on my bike, so I ran
into this cornfield. Then the road vanished and the storm came.”

“No, Eddie.” Russell smiled gently and shook his head. “I mean, do you know how
you
got
here
?” This time the same words had an entirely different meaning.

The whisper prompted, “
When you choose the path, you choose the destination
.”

It hit me all at once. I knew. Little by little, mistake by mistake, I had put myself
on a road whose destination had been inevitable.

Again came the whisper.
“All journeys, for good or evil, begin with one small step.”

It had started that long-ago Christmas morning when I’d first seen the sweater. Right
now that seemed like a thousand years ago. I nodded. “Yes, I know how I got here.”

Russell’s eyes panned the cornfield. “Most people find this place at some point. The
darkness frightens them, but that’s only because they have trouble seeing past it.
If they could see what’s just over the horizon, they’d realize how close to home they
really are.” His gaze settled back on me. “Do you know the way home?”

Russell asked questions for my sake, not his. I pointed toward the storm. “I think
it’s that way.” My arm shook.

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know. I just do.”

“Eddie, you made this world. But it’s not yours. Go on home.”

I looked at the storm and began to tremble. The winds howled, almost as if the storm
sensed how vulnerable I was and how close I was to succumbing to it. Russell looked
at me calmly. “You’re right, it
looks
menacing.” There was something comforting about his words. “It’s amazing how bad
things can look through the wrong eyes.”

“The wrong eyes?”

“Yes, the wrong eyes. You’re looking at the storm with the same eyes that you created
it with.”

I thought back to the mirror in my bedroom. Each time I’d looked into it over the
last few months I’d had to look away as my own eyes had tried to reveal the truth:
I hated myself
because
I blamed my problems on everyone and everything else.

Russell turned to face me. “Don’t fear the storm, Eddie. Fear the cornfield. The cornfield
may feel safe, but there is only cold and darkness here.”

As if in defiance of his words, the storm began to howl even louder. The cornstalks
bent under the power of its relentless winds, but, oddly, they leaned toward the storm,
not away from it.
It’s trying to pull them in, too.
I thought. Though the storm itself never moved, the noise emanating from its belly
sounded like an approaching freight train. I covered my face.

Russell put his strong, weathered hand on my shoulder. His skin was warm. “It’s okay,
Eddie, the winds can’t hurt you. Nothing can. Now face the storm.”

A vicious gust of wind howled through the endless rows of dead cornstalks. “I can’t,
Russell. It’s too big.”

“You’re bigger.”

How could he say that?

Loose cornstalks were being uprooted by the storm’s ferocious gusts. They mixed with
dirt and debris and swirled all around us. Even though the noise was deafening, Russell
didn’t have to raise his voice, nor did I have to
strain to hear him. “You may not yet know who you are, Eddie, but I do. And I know
that you are meant to walk through this storm. You weren’t created to stand here in
this cornfield. There’s so much more waiting for you, and you’re worthy of every ounce
of it.”

I swallowed hard, not believing him. “I can’t, Russell, I’ll just wait until it passes.
I’m safe here.”

His eyes blazed to life. He shook his head. “Oh, Eddie, you misunderstand. This storm
will
never
pass. It can’t. It’s yours. Besides, life is not meant to be safe. It’s only in our
mistakes, our errors, and our faults that we grow and truly live. But you were right
about one thing earlier: That is the way home. It’s the
only
way home. But you
will
make it. Trust in me. Trust in
who
you really are.”

“Who I am?” I said disparagingly. I was ashamed of the truth. “I’m nobody. I’ve hurt
everybody who ever loved me.”

“Sometimes the hardest part of the journey is believing that you’re worthy of the
trip.”

Am I worthy?
I thought to myself.

I looked back up at Russell. His gaze was strong and
infinitely loving. “Yes. Unquestionably, irrevocably, yes. Now go home.”

I wanted to. But I was so weak. And the storm was so powerful.

“Trust, Eddie. The traveler’s worthy of the journey. And he’s worthy of the destination.
Just take one small step on your own.”

The storm looked even more ominous. My gaze was lost inside its giant, violent belly.
Trust.
I was weary of following my own will again—it’s what had gotten me here. But, for
once, I wanted to do the right thing.

I closed my eyes and took a step. It put me right in the very center of the storm.
The shriek of its winds filled my ears. I wanted to cry out in fear, but I felt Russell
take my hand. “Just one more step,” he said, his calm voice far more powerful than
the gale.
Trust.

I closed my eyes and used all my might to shuffle my feet forward.

Silence.

I opened my eyes. We were on the other side of the storm. The sun was shining through
from behind us, its
golden rays reflecting off the menacing black clouds. It was so quiet that the chirping
of birds and the rustling of leaves were the only sounds I could hear. What was once
so dark was now bright, so refreshing, so peaceful. So warm.

“Where am I?” I looked around in wonder at the seemingly Technicolor corn, grass,
and sky above me. It was the strangest, most wonderful palette of colors I’d ever
seen. It was like a photographic reverse of the cornfield. Even the colors themselves
seemed alive.
Is this heaven?

Even though I had only thought the words, Russell shook his head. “You’re on the other
side of the storm. This is what awaits you. Not after you die, but once you start
to really live.”

“It’s amazing.” I looked at my guide. He was no longer dirty and old, but bright and
ageless. “Who
are
you really, Russell?”

He smiled. “The real question is,
who are you?
”

Somehow I understood. Without the storm I couldn’t know myself.

“Does everyone have to go through the storm?”

“Yes, sooner or later. But no one has ever been lost to
the storm, just lost
in
it. What most people don’t realize is that you don’t have to fight the storm, Eddie,
you just have to stop feeding it—stop giving it power over you.”

I looked around again. I tried to remember the smells, the sounds, the peacefulness,
the happiness. The warmth. “If this isn’t heaven, then what is it?”

“This is part of your journey.
Heaven
is different; it’s even better.” He spoke the word differently than I had ever before
heard it. I realized that up to that point in my life,
heaven
had been more a myth than an actual place, kind of like a celestial version of Disneyland.
It was a carrot waved to entice people to be good. But at that moment I realized the
reality of the place and how much more there was to it.

“How is heaven different?”

“Heaven is the atonement of all things.”

“Atonement?” I had heard the word at Grandma’s church but never fully understood it.

“A-tone-ment,” he said, punctuating the word. “It’s a chance to fix the unfixable
and to start all over again. It begins when you forgive yourself for all you’ve done
wrong,
and forgive others for all they’ve done to you. Your mistakes aren’t mistakes anymore,
they’re just things that make you stronger. Atonement is the great redeeming and equalizing
force that leads to the fulfillment of all things: every hug you’ve ever longed for,
every Ferris wheel, baseball game, and walk in the snow you’ve missed. Everyone you’ve
loved and lost. Atonement, Eddie, is heaven on earth.”

“Then my mother and father are there…in heaven?”

The warmth of his eyes answered my question.

“Did they have to pass through the storm?”

“More times than you could know. But they had a great helper.”

“You?”

He smiled. “No, Eddie. You. Their unending love for you helped them through the storm.”

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt no guilt at hearing about
my parents or the sacrifices they made for me. Only gratitude. I looked at Russell.
“Will there be other storms?”

“Yes.” Our eyes locked. “Unquestionably, irrevocably, yes.”

“What if next time I’m too afraid?”

“I’ll be with you,” he said lovingly. “Remember, Eddie, no one who has passed through
the storm has ever regretted the journey. No one ever stands here and wishes to go
back to the other side.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank yourself. You made some good choices.”

How good it felt to hear that.

“Now, Eddie, do you know who you are?”

With his words came a feeling of warmth and a joy so exquisite as to defy description.
I realized that I was crying. I nodded.

A broad smile crossed his face. “Almost, you do. Almost.” As I stared at him, I noticed
that he had suddenly changed. A light now seemed to emanate from his skin. “You are
joy, Eddie. You are joy.”

He had a whiteness that I had never seen before. Brilliant. Beautiful. Warm. The light
became so bright that I had to close my eyes and turn away—but in it I knew exactly
who I was.