Where Mercy Flows (33 page)

My father knew that he had type AB blood, just like mine. I was not his daughter by blood. I was the offspring of a cheating
husband and a wild-haired woman with big orange lips. But still, we somehow ended up with the same blood type. The hardest
to match, they say. Matthew said the Judge called him one day last fall and asked him to come up; he had something serious
to discuss. He needed Matt’s medical expertise, he had said. Matt said his first thought was that something was wrong with
my father. He drove all the way from the city, worried by the sober tone of my father’s voice. Then the Judge confided in
his trusted friend his knowledge of our blood match and pumped the doctor with questions about other factors necessary for
a good match. He asked Matthew to run tests on his heart. My father wanted to know if his heart was strong.

I was still in the hospital when Matt told me these things. “I’ll be honest with you, Samantha,” Matt had said. “I told him
he was crazy. I told him it’s not like giving blood, or even a kidney. You’ve only got one heart and when it’s gone, so are
you. He understood all that and yet he kept probing. He wouldn’t let it die. Wouldn’t let
you
die.”

I thought it must be the residue of painkillers and other drugs in my brain that made this information so hard to process.
“What on earth did he have in mind? How could he have planned what happened? He couldn’t—could he, Matt?”

Matt shook his head. “He didn’t really have a plan. He wanted me to help him come up with one. I just couldn’t, Sam. I’m a
doctor. To him it was a necessary sacrifice; to me it was suicide. I told him to wait it out. I told him I would have no part
in helping him arrange his own death.”

I remembered that day in early November when Matt had stormed out of that very study, leaving the Judge to brood alone. My
father probably sat there in his leather chair, running his hands through his dark hair. Maybe he leaned back and stared at
the ceiling for a long time as he did when he was considering a case.

He was thinking about me. He must have seen me differently than I saw myself. How else could he even consider giving up his
own life for mine? I was a loser. A failure as a daughter, a mother, a wife. I had rejected my father and all that he stood
for. I worried my family for years while I screwed up my life. I killed my unborn child, betrayed my husband, danced half-naked
for strangers while my son ate and slept under the care of people I hardly knew. If it was Lindsey who was dying, the Judge’s
sacrifice might make sense, but even then it would be a stretch.

I closed my eyes and snuggled into the leather chair, pretending that its arms were the arms of my father, holding me as he
did that snowy December night in the barn. I understood his prayer now. It was like the prayer of Jesus—I remembered it from
Sunday school—when he cried out to God in agony, knowing that the time had come to do what he came to do. It was the prayer
of a man, not God. A man who knew his destiny, had already embraced it, but was having second thoughts.
Let there be some other way!
My father pleaded with God, but God didn’t make another way. He let Dwight Enrich sneak through the woods to carry out his
twisted plan.

My father had not been shocked to see Enrich. Not really. He must have figured out who was making threats on his life. I wondered
how long he had known. I wondered if he was waiting, maybe even hoping for Enrich to come, before I surprised him in the barn.

When they found us lying there in the snow, I was covered with my father’s blood. This was not the judgment I had expected
from him, certainly not what I deserved. And yet by his willing wounds I was healed—in more ways than one.

My heart beat strongly now. My father’s heart, I mean. I placed my hand on my chest and with every beat I heard his message
to me.
I love you . . . love you . . . love you.
He knew just what I was and yet he loved me all along. I let my body slide to the floor, turning to kneel at the foot of his
leather throne, my face in my hands.

I finally understood.

“Oh, Daddy,” I wept, “I love you too.”

1.
Where Mercy Flows
is set in the lush, green Stillaguamish River Valley. In what way is the setting important to the story? What does the river
represent to Samantha?

2. What were the things that tormented Samantha?

3. The author uses many analogies throughout the story. Which ones stand out in your memory? Is it possible that the entire
work is a metaphor? If so, what is the author trying to say?

4. If the major characters are symbolic in any way, what or whom might each represent? Judge Blake Dodd? Lucy Dodd? Lindsey?
Samantha? TJ? Dwight Enrich? What word clues does the author use to convey any subliminal identities?

5. In chapter ten, the night of the Fourth of July celebration, Samantha has a recurrent dream. What is particularly haunting
about the dream this time?

6. Most of Samantha’s childhood memories are idyllic. At what point do you think her perspective on life begins to change?

7. How does the revelation of the character of Samantha’s biological mother affect her?

8. Would Samantha have felt guilty about her abortion if not for the influence of her father’s strong conviction?

9. Why does Samantha always refer to her father as the Judge? What causes her to finally call him Daddy? Who changes: Samantha
or her father—or both?

10. Why do you think the author chose to have the Judge die in the manner in which he did as opposed to some other plan?

11. Samantha says she was covered with her father’s blood. What is the significance of that?

12. Would this story make a good movie? If so, what actors would you choose to play the major characters? What were your favorite
scenes?

13. In the last chapter, Samantha pinches off a cottonwood bud and breathes in its scent. What is the significance?

14. Has the reading of
Where Mercy Flows
impacted your life in any way? If so, how?