Evidence of Mercy (40 page)

And as he reflected on those things, that slow, deep, burning ache began to spread farther up his legs.

He lay there, knowing what it meant, knowing that maybe it would help him to finally take that first step. . . .

Tomorrow, he thought. Maybe he would do it tomorrow.

But first, he would keep his word to Lynda. First he would go with her to see Keith.

B
ecause Keith had not yet been transported to the state penitentiary—that event was scheduled for the next day—the visitation room at the St. Clair Correctional Institute was not the maximum security sort where plexiglass separated them. Instead, Lynda used her attorney's credentials to meet with him on a day that wasn't a visiting day, so the room was empty. The fact that she and Jake were his victims complicated things somewhat—but Lynda had known the warden for years, so he allowed the visit to take place with the stipulation that two of his burliest guards would stand watch over them, just in case Keith tried anything.

It was clear from the disappointment on his face as they brought him in that Keith probably had expected Paige and Brianna. His face twisted in a vile sneer at the sight of Lynda in the chair across the table from him, and Jake in his wheelchair beside her. Muttering a curse, he pulled a chair out and dropped into it.

“You've got a lot of nerve coming here.”

Lynda had gotten up early that morning and prayed that God would give her the words she needed when she came face-to-face with Keith, but now she found her courage faltering. “I know we're the last ones you expected to see, Keith. But we're not the reasons you're in prison. You're the reason.”

“I did what I had to do for my kid!” he said, hammering a fist on the table. “And if you weren't such a bleeding heart fool, you'd see that Paige drove me to this, and you helped her. You're as much to blame for that plane crash and that woman's death as I am!”

“Wait a minute, Varner!” Jake blurted, but Lynda touched his hand to quiet him, and he flopped back, rubbing his temple and gritting his teeth. Jake had had enough. It had been all he could do to come in with a facade of civility, but Lynda knew he was aching to hurl himself across the table and shut Keith up once and for all.

“I didn't come here to answer your accusations, Keith,” she said. “I don't even care what you think of me.”

“Then what
did
you come for?”

Looking at this angry, hostile, deluded man, his face rigid with hate, Lynda suddenly felt a deep compassion for him, a compassion that she couldn't explain, for it wasn't something she had pulled out of any human part of her. She leaned on the table, getting closer to him. “I came here because you're going to die, Keith. But I wanted you to know that you don't have to die alone. It wasn't too late for the thief being executed next to Christ on the cross, and it isn't too late for you.”

Reaching into her bag, which the guards had thoroughly searched at the door, she withdrew the Bible she had brought for Keith. “This is for you, Keith. I hope you'll read it.”

He stared down at it, raw but undefined emotion tugging at his face, and for a moment, she thought he was going to take it. But suddenly that stricken look changed to potent rage, and he ripped the Bible out of her hands, spat on it, and flung it hard against the wall.

The guards rushed to grab Keith, and fury shot through Lynda as she sprang to her feet. For a second, she thought of rushing around the table and unleashing all the rage she'd been harboring for weeks. But she held herself still, and soon a quiet and unexpected peace fell over her. The rage vanished, and instead she felt a deep, abysmal sorrow for him. “I'll pray for you, Keith,” she said.

Then she turned and strode from the room.

Jake had been ready to lambaste Keith Varner, the man who had crippled him, with every curse he knew. But seeing Lynda's reaction, he felt suddenly humbled. Without another look at the prisoner, he turned his chair around and followed her out.

When they were back in the car, Jake touched her shoulder and made her look at him. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she said. “Really. I feel good.”

He couldn't quite understand that, for he had expected her to be crushed. “But you hoped for a turnaround, didn't you? I mean, didn't you at least go in there thinking that he'd take the Bible?”

She thought about that for a moment. “That was between Keith and God. All I know is that I did what I was supposed to do.”

Sighing, she started her car. “Maybe he'll pick that Bible up and take it with him, after all.”

“But probably he won't.”

She smiled sadly. “But he had the chance, Jake.”

Jake thought he understood that on some primitive level. She had given Varner the chance to change, even though he didn't deserve it. In that way, she had been like Christ to him.

Just as she had been like Christ to Jake.

“Have you forgiven him?” he asked, amazed.

She thought about that for a long moment. “Let's just say I'm working on it.”

Silently, he watched her face with appreciation and deep contemplation as she drove. Self-conscious, she finally shot him a questioning look. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

He sighed and leaned his head back. “I was just thinking. God and I aren't on real familiar terms. Maybe you could pray for me that I'd get my legs back all the way.”

“I thought you didn't believe,” she said.

He hesitated then said, “Yeah, well. I've seen a lot of evidence lately. Maybe I'm changing my mind.”

She smiled. “I pray for your legs all the time, Jake.”

“But tomorrow is going to be a real important day. I haven't told you this, but I've been standing.”

She almost ran off the road but managed to pull over. Gaping at him across the seat, she asked, “Really? By yourself?”

“Well, I used the parallel bars, but I've been standing on my legs. I'm getting more feeling every day.”

“Why haven't you
told
me?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he said. “I had this fantasy of ambling out to the car one day when you came to pick me up. But I'm really nervous about tomorrow. I'm going to try to walk, and I couldn't keep it to myself anymore.”

“Oh, Jake, can I be there? Can I watch? What time are you planning to get on the bars?”

He almost told her then faltered. He couldn't take the disappointment if he failed in front of her. So he lied. “Probably around ten. They'll put me on traction for a while first and then warm up my muscles.”

“I'll be there at ten,” she said. “Oh, Jake, this is wonderful!” Reaching across the seat, she hugged him, and he closed his eyes and held her a moment longer than he needed to.

When she pulled back, their eyes locked, and for a fleeting moment, he realized that he would be willing to give up the opportunity to walk tomorrow in exchange for the courage to lean over and kiss her like he had the day he'd gotten his eye. But he'd just been playing then, and this was serious.

Something stopped him.

Fear? The great Jake, who had never met a woman he couldn't charm? The same Jake who had once practiced womanizing with as much devotion as Lynda practiced her faith?

He let her go, and she drove back to the house in quiet. When they pulled into the driveway, she cut off the engine and sat still for a moment. “Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow.”

He caught her hand as she reached for the car door, and she turned to look at him. Her face was expectant as he held her gaze, and his heart sprinted wildly in his chest, anticipating, hoping. . . .

Finally, he leaned forward and kissed her. And at the gentle, sweet touch of her lips, he felt the world settling back on its axis, righting itself and everything around him falling into place.

When he broke the kiss, she looked up at him, soft, humble, surprised.

He touched her face, as if it were something precious, priceless. “Good night,” he said quietly.

She leaned forward then slowly and pressed a soft kiss on his scar. He closed his eyes and found her lips again, and this time the kiss was more startling, more telling. When at last it ended, he pulled back and gazed at her, seeing the emotion clearly written on her face.

“Good night,” she whispered.

He sat still as she opened the door, slipped out, and started to the house. But before she went inside, she looked back at him.

And there was a sweet, unguarded smile on her face.

J
ake found it hard to sleep that night. What had happened between them haunted him—and not in a completely positive way. It didn't make sense. In his “old life,” if he'd been attracted to a woman for this long, he would have had more than a passing intimacy with her by now.

This was the first time he'd stopped at just one kiss and the first time he had ever lain awake thinking about one. It was the first time he'd felt such a dependence on another human being, a painful but sweet, heartrending need for her smile, her touch, her presence.

It was frightening. It was frustrating. It was exciting. And it was hard to believe, for no one he knew had had more experience than he had with women. But strangely, he felt as though this was his first experience. As though only now, at age thirty-nine, he was learning the true value of a woman.

As he was learning the true value of himself.

He lay in bed, fighting the searing pain growing more pronounced in his calves—the pain they told him was temporary—and told himself that maybe some good had come from the accident after all. Maybe he was discovering the powerful essence of life, now that the trappings had been taken away.

He sat up in bed, too restless to sleep and thought about tomorrow. What if his legs rebelled and refused to cooperate with him? What if the progress he'd made was as far as he'd ever go? What if he remained a paraplegic for the rest of his life?

For the first time since the crash, Jake admitted that if that happened, he could live with it. He was alive, after all, and things were looking pretty good.

He got into his wheelchair and rolled around the tiny apartment for a little while then restlessly went outside. It was late, and he could hear the crickets chirping and the toads croaking. The wind was strong, whipping through the trees and ruffling his hair, and in the distance, he heard an owl hoot.

It was beginning to feel more like autumn; the wind was brisk and cool as it whispered through the leaves. It never got very cold here, he'd been told, and he wondered what it was like in Texas right now. Was it cool? Were the leaves falling?

He wondered whether autumn was still his mother's favorite time of year.

The moment Doris Stevens came into his mind, his optimism deflated, and he was confronted with all the unfinished business of his past. Before he could clean up his present life, he suddenly realized he would need to clean up his past one. He had skeletons to lay to rest, dirt to wash away, and peace to make.

Going back into his apartment, he picked up the phone that had at last been connected and dialed the number he remembered from so many years ago, the number that had been his in Texas when he'd been nothing more than a poor waitress's illegitimate son. How far he had run to escape that image.

He put the phone to his ear and waited as it rang once, twice, three times. . . .

“Hello?”

The voice was the familiar one he'd had such contempt for before, with its nasal twang and its hoarse brusqueness. Now, it just sounded pleasantly familiar.

“Mama?”

She was silent as he held his breath, then finally said, “Jake?”

That she didn't reject him immediately, as she had so many times before, gave him hope.

“I know it's late, Mama, but I thought you might still be up.”

“I just got in from work,” she said carefully.

Silence again.

“I heard about your legs. That woman called me.”

“Lynda,” he said, smiling. “Yeah. She's been looking out for me.”

“So . . . how are you doing?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “I'm out of the hospital. I'm getting a little feeling back, and I've been able to stand some. I'm gonna walk again, Mama. I know I am.”

He could hear the tinge of emotion in her voice when she whispered, “That's good.”

Encouraged by the few words, he decided to say what he'd called to say. His voice trembled. “Mama, I know I've been a pretty crummy son all these years. I don't blame you for feeling the way you do about me.”

Quiet again and then, “What is it you want from me, Jake?”

Tears misted his eyes. “Your forgiveness.”

“My what?”

“I want you to forgive me, Mama. I turned my back on you.”

“You were ashamed of me.”

“I was ashamed of me, too,” he whispered. “Where we came from, where we lived—”

“I
still
live here,” she said.

He closed his eyes. “I know, Mama. But I'm not ashamed anymore. I just want to start fresh. I want to do what's right.”

“And what would that be, Jake?” his mother asked.

He wasn't sure, and as a tear rolled from his eye and down his scarred cheek, he floundered for some gesture that would make it right. But he had nothing now. Not a job, not a home of his own, not even a plan.

Yet he had a greater sense of the rightness of the direction in his life now than he'd ever had when there was more money in his bank account than he could spend.

“My car,” he said suddenly. “I want to give you my car. It's a Porsche, Mama. You probably don't want a Porsche, but you could sell it.”

The idea seemed absurd almost the moment he'd said it, but Doris wasn't laughing. “You'd give me your car?”

“Sure,” he said. “It's paid for, and it's fairly new. You could get a lot for it.”

“But—what if you start drivin' again?”