Where Mercy Flows (28 page)

“Don’t do that!” I pushed his hand away. “You can’t just take me out of here!”

“Why not? Don’t you want to go home?”

“Of course I do. I also want to fly.”

He stopped and looked at me. “What’s the worst thing that could happen? You could get sick and we’d have to bring you back.
But at least you’ll get to see your son open his presents.” What he didn’t say was that it might be my last chance. My son’s
last Christmas with dear old Mom. “We’ll bring you back after Christmas. Your dad arranged everything with the doctor. They’re
sending your meds and some kind of portable gizmo with you.”

“Okay.” I pushed the button to summon my nurse. “My clothes are in that little closet.” Donnie passed them to me, along with
my cosmetic bag, and waited outside while Christopher unplugged me and helped me dress. He rigged me up with an IV pump that
I could carry with me in a fanny pack or even in a purse. Its tube ran up under my shirt and down into my forearm. I could
walk around like a normal healthy person again. The truth of it finally settled in. “Woo-hoo!” I yelped and then sang,
“There’s no place like home for the holidays. . . .”

Lulu stretched her hand toward me as they wheeled me by her bed. Our fingers touched. “Merry Christmas, Lulu. I’ll be back
in a few days,” I said.

“I’ll leave the light on for ya.”

The December sky spread out in an infinite canopy of smoke-colored clouds. Donnie said it felt like snow. He lifted me into
his truck and tucked a plaid blanket around me before swinging into the driver’s seat. We drove through the University District,
where shoppers crowded the sidewalks and lights twinkled from shopwindows. Christmas was going on as usual. It happened in
Reno too. I had always felt a little behind, a little out of sync with the rest of the world. Every year they repeated the
ritual, flocking to malls and parties like the swallows of San Juan Capistrano, and I was a lone blackbird looking on. I did
participate, if only for TJ, but always with the nagging feeling that I was a bad actor in an otherwise good play. Just the
same, the thought of going home and spending the holiday with my family gave me an unexpected thrill.

Donnie whistled an unrecognizable tune as he steered with one hand, his other elbow resting on the driver’s-side door. He
asked a lot of questions about my treatment and seemed sincerely interested, so I told him more than I normally would. I explained
the waiting process and why the next person in line did not automatically get the next available donor organ. That’s why Hank
had been passed up so many times. The heart was either the wrong size, wrong blood type, or, as we all suspected now, he had
become too weak to withstand major surgery. For some reason, I did not remind Donnie that my type AB blood was the hardest
to match or that my chances for survival were about as good as winning the lottery.

When the heater kicked in, Donnie shed his wool jacket. I pulled the blanket off my knees, not because I was warm enough but
to avoid looking like an ailing grandma. I drew my knees up and sat cross-legged, wondering what Donnie thought of me now.
My hair had grown longer and out of sheer boredom I had painted my nails with Lulu’s Tangerine Sunset enamel. When he wasn’t
looking, I pinched my cheeks so I wouldn’t look half-dead.

Donnie whistled quietly for a while, studying the clouds as he drove. He looked good to me. Good enough to touch. I really
wanted to. I wanted to scoot up next to him, close enough to smell his skin, to feel his shoulder next to mine. I wondered
what he would do if I did. My mind filled again with conjured images of Rachel, the woman he had thought I was when I tried
to call. How could I compete with her? Whoever she was, she was probably a healthy specimen with a bright and active future
ahead. Surely she could dance until dawn.

“Why did you come for me?” I asked.

His forehead pinched together and he smirked. “I knew you couldn’t fly.”

“Seriously. Why?”

“I told you. Your father asked me to bring you home. He’s in court this week. Trying to wrap this case up before Christmas.
It was important to him to have you home. He seemed pretty adamant about having the whole family together for Christmas. I
didn’t mind.”

“Oh.”

He studied me for a moment. “It’s not that
he
didn’t want to, Sam, if that’s what you’re thinking. By the time he gets home tonight, it will be late. He thought you’d make
the trip better during the day.” He looked uncomfortable for a second. “I guess you know about the threats he’s had—and the
prowler.” I nodded. “Well, your mom and TJ have been staying over at your sister’s. They’re coming home today too. Your dad
asked me to stay over at your place, just as a precaution. I hope you don’t mind.”

I smiled. “The more the merrier.” As much as the Judge liked Lindsey’s husband, David, I found it amusing that he apparently
didn’t consider him a worthy ally in the face of danger. It was not hard, however, to imagine Donnie with his cocky confidence
and burly build hurling an intruder into the next county. Anyway, so much for any romantic notions I might have had about
Donnie pining away for me. It seemed my father had a lot more pull with him than I ever would.

Donnie stared at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know. Your cheeks are all red and blotchy.”

I didn’t say much after that. Sometime after we passed the city of Everett I fell asleep leaning against the door and awoke
only when the road began winding through our valley. Donnie turned down the political talk show he was listening to on the
radio when he noticed me stretching.

“Hey. Look up there.”

I followed his gaze toward the mountains, which were shrouded by heavy gray clouds. The foothills were already dusted with
white. “Snow.”

“And it’s coming our way. Mark my words; we’ll have snow before morning.”

The late afternoon sky was the color of soot. Fifteen minutes after Donnie’s prediction, a blinding flurry of dry crystals
hurled themselves at the windshield. He drove slowly. Ours were the first tire tracks to mar the fresh snow and I was glad
he knew the road so well as it was difficult to see the edges.

My relief when we pulled into the long driveway at home turned to disappointment. The house was dark. TJ did not come out
and rush into my arms as I had imagined. Instead, Donnie helped me up the front steps, slid the key into the lock and pushed
the door open in silence. He led me to the couch with my blanket and proceeded to turn on lights and start a fire in the river-rock
fireplace. TJ’s Christmas tree stood with its naked backside to the corner. I admired the homemade treasures that hung by
ribbons from its boughs while Donnie made us tea. I tried to call Lindsey but got their recording. “Get your buns over here!”
I demanded after the beep. “It’s Christmas!” Then Donnie joined me on the sofa and we sipped the hot tea.

“I hope David knows how to drive in this snow. He’s a city slicker, you know. Maybe we should go get them.”

“He’ll do fine. Besides, I can’t fit everyone in my truck.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.” I pushed myself up from the sofa.

Donnie looked worried. “Are you . . . Do you need any help?”

I laughed. “No, but thanks for offering.”

I combed my hair and applied powdered blush before coming out. Donnie didn’t hear me when I came down the hall. His back was
to me and he had the hall closet door open. I saw the handgun just as he tucked it under a hat on the top shelf.

“Is it loaded?” I asked.

He flinched and spun around. “Sam. You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“What’s going on, Donnie? Do you really think this guy is for real?”

He shook his head. “No, I think your dad is right. Whoever he is, he just wants to make your dad sweat. If he was going to
do anything, he would have done it by now. Just the same, there’ve been some boot prints around the place. The gun is only
a precaution. Whatever this guy’s beef is, sooner or later he’s going to give himself away.”

He headed for the kitchen and stuck his nose in the fridge. “You want some leftover spaghetti?”

“Yes, I’m starved.” He microwaved the pasta while I buttered soft French bread. “What does this remind you of?” I asked as
he plopped his plate down on the kitchen table and pulled in his chair.

He looked at his plate and then at me. “I give up.”

“Bologna sandwiches.”

He twirled a forkful of pasta and shoved it into his mouth. Now his mouth was too full for a response.

“Remember? My mom always made us bologna sandwiches with sweet pickles, no mustard because it stained the chairs. You always
sat right in that chair and I sat here.”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember bologna. I remember those tuna things with cheese melted over the top. Those were worth
coming in out of the rain for. Pass me some more bread, would ya?”

I shoved the plate toward him and watched him eat. His eulogy to me had ended,
I have loved you, Samantha.
What did he mean by that? Was it past tense? We had been friends since childhood. Was that what he meant? We had known each
other for so long, he was almost family. Maybe he loved me like a cousin or, worse yet, a sister. But hadn’t he wanted to
kiss me last fall, the last time he took me down to the river? I turned away though. I made it clear that I was Mrs. Tim Weatherbee
and he was only the boy next door. He hadn’t tried since. Not even after I told him that I had signed the divorce papers and
sent them in the mail.

“So”—I finally broke the silence—“what was that funeral all about? You put me in the ground and then you go dig me up again.
At least one of us is confused.”

He smirked and took a long drink of milk from his glass, and then set it loudly on the table. “It’s you. It’s always you who’s
confused. I had the funeral because you had given up. You kept thinking about dying, talking about dying and making plans
for TJ after you were gone. Being around dead people is a drag.”

“So it was psychological warfare. You did it to snap me out of it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Did it work?”

I smiled and lifted the bottom of my sweater, revealing the pager on my belt. “I’m doing everything they tell me to do. And
I haven’t said anything negative all day, have I?”

He thought about it for a moment. “No, I guess not.” He grinned and tweaked my nose like I was twelve. “Good girl. Keep it
up.”

B
Y SIX O’CLOCK that night, two days before Christmas, the family was congregated in the house of my childhood. That is everyone
but the Judge. TJ burst through the front door, stumbling into my arms amid the cries of my mother and Lindsey, who thought
he might break me. He pulled me to the sparse Christmas tree to show off the ornaments he had made at preschool from jar lids
and clothespins, while the others carried armloads of packages in from the back of David’s car. At our father’s request, Lindsey
and David were to stay with us at the river all weekend and would sleep in Lindsey’s old room.

TJ was delighted to share his room with Donnie. When Donnie produced a gallon jar of dirt he had found in the back of TJ’s
closet, my son looked sheepish. “That’s my worms,” he said solemnly.

“Well, I hope they don’t make noise. I’m a very light sleeper,” Donnie chided.

“They don’t make no noise anymore.”

“Any,” I corrected him. “They don’t make any noise.”

Donnie shook the dry earth in the jar. “These guys are crispy critters.” Then he saw TJ’s face. “Hey, it’s all right, buddy.
Your grandpa’s got plenty more where these came from. We just need to keep some moisture in there next time.”

“And some garbage.”

Donnie scooped him up and flung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Come on. We’ll get your worm farm going again
after Christmas. Whaddya say?”

When we returned to the living room, my mother made me sit in the big yellow chair with my feet up on the ottoman. She brought
a tray with mugs of hot spiced cider and played Christmas carols on the stereo while the blaze in the fireplace danced and
snapped.

By the time we heard the Judge on the front porch, stomping the snow from his shoes, TJ was asleep under the Christmas tree.
Mom greeted the Judge at the door, took his coat and shook it before hanging it in the closet. His face still looked drawn
and tired. He smiled at me and bent to kiss my head. Lindsey threw her arms around him. “Daddy, we were worried. What took
you so long?”

“I wanted to wrap up this case.” He sighed in relief. “It’s done. I’ve got my loose ends taken care of, at least the important
things. Now, let’s have Christmas. I just want to be with my family.” He turned and stood over TJ where he slept among the
colorful packages, his cherub face illuminated by the tree lights.

When he stooped to pick him up, Donnie protested. “I can do that, sir.” But my father shook his head. He slid his big hands
gently beneath TJ and drew him to his chest as he stood. TJ’s eyes flickered. His hand went to his grandpa’s face momentarily
and I saw my father kiss it as he passed by on his way to the bedroom.

“Mom, is he okay?” I asked when the Judge was out of the room. “He doesn’t look right.”

My mother stared after him and then turned and smiled bravely. “He’s just tired, I think. He’s been obsessed with getting
caught up on his work and hasn’t been home before nine o’clock in over two weeks. That long drive to and from the city doesn’t
make things any better. At least he was able to stay overnight down there for the past few nights while TJ and I have been
at David and Lindsey’s.”

“What about the bad guy? Does Sheriff Byron have any leads?”

Mom shook her head. “Nothing. They couldn’t trace the calls and there haven’t been any more since they put a tracer on the
phone. The tracks outside were definitely not made by any of us. It was a man’s boot print and it wasn’t just by the barn.
We found some in the garden next to the garage.” She shivered. “He may have been watching us through the kitchen window.”