Southern Fried Sushi (45 page)

“You’re right.” I twirled a ring on one finger. “You have everything that matters. It takes most people their whole lives to figure that out.”

“Well said.”

I swallowed hard. “Your brother told me something similar. I … I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

“Todd? Yeah, he’s pretty deep for his age.” He was teasing me again. “Oh, you mean Adam. He’s a thinker, that’s for sure. He … uh … told me some about your mom. I’m sorry to hear it.”

Two thoughts hit me at once: First, Adam had spoken of me. And second, Rick Carter, who had lost two limbs and had bandages on his arms and under his shirt, was comforting me.

I felt ashamed of everything I’d complained about—my messed-up family and Staunton life. Even my injuries from Winchester didn’t compare with what Rick had suffered.

“Thanks. I’m learning a lot. More than I ever thought I would in a place like Staunton.”

“Tell me about it.” He rolled his eyes.

“So … what happened? Do you mind if I ask?”

“‘Course not. It’s simple. I was patrolling in Afghanistan and stepped on a land mine. Boom! End of story. I didn’t feel a thing at the time, but when I regained consciousness, I was on a medic’s table. They tried to save both of my legs, but the injuries were pretty bad, and they could only save one leg. I lost the other foot just below the ankle.”

He looked like Adam as he spoke, brown hair falling over his forehead. But thicker eyebrows that raised like punctuation. A wry laugh etched in little lines around his mouth.

“I’m so sorry.” I blew out the breath I’d been unconsciously holding.

“Well, that’s the way it goes sometimes.”

“I know, but it’s still hard.”

“Well.” Rick rearranged his pillow again with some difficulty, grunting. “Everybody’s amputated in some way or another, Shiloh,” he said pensively. “We lose loved ones, cut off memories forever, end relationships. Go down paths we can’t return from. We can’t always have it back.”

I held my breath. The room was so silent I heard the oscillating fan across the room, quietly droning as it rotated on its stand, softly ruffling Rick’s dark hair.

“I know, it might seem far out there, but I think there’s some truth in it,” Rick continued. “We all experience loss. And that’s what amputation is all about: irretrievable loss. A part of you that’s no longer there.”

I thought of Mom, the Mom I wish I had known. Of Dad and his silence across the years. Of Tim and Becky rushing to the

emergency room. Faye and her empty double bed.

“And sometimes what we amputate needs to go. Like my feet. If you keep them, they’ll squeeze the life out of you.”

Carlos. After all these weeks, his name felt strange on my tongue. I missed him, and maybe still loved him, but memories of his old affection now chilled. Whatever he had for me, it was never love.

“But”—Rick raised a finger—”you have to choose life, regardless of how much it hurts.”

Life
. That word again, whispering itself to me over and over.
“I will live and not die….”

I vaguely remembered Pilgrim’s Progress in literature class, and how the man Pilgrim ran from his old loves. Plugging his ears and shouting, “Life! Life! Eternal life!” My heart beat faster.

Rick smiled. “And when we make the choice to live without, that’s when we learn to walk again.”

I glanced at the wheelchair.

“Yeah. Walk again.” He winced as if in pain but didn’t want to stop the conversation. “I can’t yet, but I will. That’s what all those weight benches are for—to strengthen my muscles so they can support my weight again. Unused muscles atrophy. They’ve got to become stronger than ever and get used to the discomfort of the prosthesis.

“Although it’s painful, I tell ya. You have no idea. Sometimes I break out in a sweat just thinking about it.”

“So there’s a purpose in all your suffering.” I laced and unlaced cold fingers.

“Sure there is!” His dark eyes sparkled. “Did you know I can run again with all the new-fangled technology? Swim again? Maybe even ski?”

“I can’t even ski on the two legs I’ve got, Rick!”

He laughed. “I could before. Who knows? Maybe I’ll improve.”

“I believe you. You’ll probably have better success than me.”

He studied me for a minute, fan blowing my hair. I brushed a strand behind my ear, remembering—inexplicably—Adam next to me on a sunny green Winchester hillside.

“And one day I’m going to walk again on my own two legs. In heaven, Shiloh. Do you believe it?”

His question took me off guard. “I want to,” I said, suddenly blinking back tears. “I think maybe I’m starting to.”

My heart beat faster, as if giving me a surge of adrenaline. To do something. Say something. Step forward.

“The blood of Jesus purifies us from all sin.” I trembled.

“Well, it’s real,” Rick went on. “You can’t possibly hope to find everything you’re created for in this little fallen place called earth. I’ve learned that now. We’re all broken up. We’re sinful.”

“Jars of clay.” I heard it come from my mouth.

“That’s right, Shiloh! Jars of clay. But one day we’re gonna walk with the King—in new bodies that don’t wear out and hearts that only do good.”

He looked up at the ceiling, seeming to forget I was there. “I never used to care about heaven much, to tell you the truth. I had my own plans and things for my life. But now I realize we’re dust. Our kingdoms are dust. We’re made to reflect the glory of the Creator.”

“For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works….”

“And we aren’t satisfied until we do.” I remembered Jamie, standing there in the Barnes & Noble bathroom.

“Exactly. We are His. And what’s real is eternity.”

The room hushed. I pressed my lips together, willing myself to keep back my words. “Rick.” I hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t you hate those people who did this to you?” I longed to go forward, toward this strange and amazing Jesus, but something dark held me back. “Who took your legs away from you?”

“They didn’t take my legs away from me.” Rick gazed at me steadily. “God’s still in charge, Shiloh. It was His decision.”

I inhaled sharply, remembering Becky’s tears. The boot kick to my side. The power we thought we had dissolving like mist in God’s strong and tender hands.

“But don’t you hate those people anyway?”

“Hate them?” Rick furrowed his brow and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Sometimes.” He grinned sheepishly. “I know it’s wrong. But mostly no. There’s no way I could ever really hate them.”

“Why not? I could! I’ll hate them for you right this minute!”

He chuckled. “Thanks, Shiloh, but you don’t want to do that.”

“Sure I do!” I glanced at the shape of his footless legs beneath the blankets.

“No. I promise you don’t. Hate just kills you slowly from the inside, like a disease. Besides, we’ve all done sinful things.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, but I’ve never blown anyone up, Rick. There’s a big difference.”

“Not so much of one as you might think.”

My eyes bugged out. “What are you saying? Killing and maiming people is wrong. And I’m not a murderer, last I checked.”

“Jesus says you are if you’ve ever hated somebody.”

“What?” I sputtered, halfway standing up in my chair. “Me?”

“All of us. Look at it this way. Have you ever told a lie? Or … I don’t know … stolen something?” Rick looked so unafraid of our delicate topic, as if he were out fishing on a lazy Sunday afternoon. He put an arm behind his head.

Both his question and manner took me aback. My cheeks flared as memories of AP surfaced with frightful clarity. We called it plagiarism, but it was stealing. Stealing someone else’s words and lying about them being mine.

I cleared my throat nervously, not liking where ourconversation was going. “Yes. Okay, yes. I have. But lying doesn’t make me a murderer.”

“No, but God says it’s wrong.”

“It didn’t hurt anybody!” My own conscience suddenly shook off the dust and leaped into action. How can you say that? You hurt Kyoko and Dave, and even the prime minister’s wife. Did you ever think of that? Did you?

No, I hadn’t. Ever. I sat there frozen. And you hurt yourself, too—God’s creation, made to give Him glory. His poem, Shiloh, created to do good things!

“Even if it didn’t hurt anybody, it still hurt God. He says so in His Word.”

I opened my mouth and closed it. “But … why?”

“Because God is good, Shiloh. And we aren’t. End of story.” Rick shrugged. “So in the end, we all do things that hurt someone. We fall short, and God forgives us. And that’s why I forgive others.”

“Forgive.” I stared off into the distance, drifting from Rick to Mom. My thoughts brewed like storm clouds, hovering on the edge of something electrifying. “How, Rick? People always talk about forgiving, but frankly, I can’t.”

He looked up at me curiously. “Well, that’s a good question. It’s not easy. I’m hardly the expert on forgiveness. Just ask my family.” He rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat wrongs, Rick,” I interrupted, crossing my arms. “People don’t deserve excuses. Sometimes Christian forgiveness seems so silly, like it all doesn’t matter.”

Rick winced and pointed to the blankets, voice suddenly hoarse. “Of course it matters, Shiloh. What’s happened sometimes can’t be undone.”

I sat back in the chair, silent. Palms cold with emotion.

“But I know one thing: if God forgave me for what I’ve done in my life, and He made me His child, how can I say no? Once He comes into your life, He gives you power to do things you

could never do on your own.”

“Like raising the dead.”

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Kind of like that.”

Suddenly everything snapped into focus, as if I’d been seeing in blurred vision all these years. I couldn’t forgive Mom because I hadn’t asked God to forgive me!

It had never occurred to me that I’d actually done wrong. That I’d sinned against God—not just with AP, but in thousands of other ways, big and small. That I had done things my own way, without His help and without His power.

It’s no wonder I couldn’t forgive. I was a car with no gas, vainly trying to rev it in the parking lot at Jerusalem Chapel Church.

I needed more than trying harder. I needed a gas can.

God had brought me here to Staunton, shouting His message of love for me through more people than I could count.
Come home!
He was saying.
Come home to Me!

It was almost too much to bear. Tears dripped down my cheeks, right there in front of Rick Carter as I clutched my seat, knuckles showing.

“I’ll just … um … be right back.”

Before I could make it to the bathroom, Rick’s face turned pale, and he gritted his teeth.

“Are you okay?” I turned back and snatched up the paper. Wiped my face. “What do you need?”

“Sorry, Shiloh. I just need the …” He grimaced. “Sorry. The first one.” He jabbed in the direction of the paper.

“Okay!” I replied, trying not to panic. “I’ll get it! Just hold on.” I checked my watch. Thirty minutes late. I ran out of the room and fumbled for the box. Emptied two pills into my shaking hands and quickly read the instructions. “Take with food.”

“Food,” I said out loud. “It must be a strong one. Todd?”

“Yes, ma’am?” He dropped his pencil and jumped up to helpme. His response was so endearing I wanted to hug him, but first I needed to get Rick stabilized.

“I need to find Rick something to eat with his medication. Do you know what he likes?”

“Oh, that one? He usually takes it with dinner. Soup or something.”

“He’s had dinner already, right?”

“Yeah, but he don’t mind eating.” Todd pulled open the refrigerator. “How about green beans and Jell-O?”

I made a face. “Maybe just the Jell-O.”

“Yeah. It’s strawberry banana. Rick loves it.”

We scooped some quivering red stuff into a bowl. “Looks like what happens when we skin a deer,” Todd said casually.

“Ugh, Todd!” I groaned. “Please!”

“Well, it does! Ya ever eat venison?”

“No!” I wrinkled my nose. “Thank goodness.”

He dug in the refrigerator for some Cool Whip. “Wait. It’s Rick’s favorite combination. He’ll love it.” He glopped some on top and took it to him.

I poured Rick a glass of water and handed him the two pills. He swallowed them and then rested, eyes closed. Ate some Jell-O with a spoon, hand shaking. I grabbed a paper towel and shoved it under the bowl in case it spilled, trying not to think about Todd’s venison comments.

“Here’s where you have to watch him,” whispered Todd. “Sometimes he feels bad after he takes ‘em. But if he don’t take ‘em, he has pain all night.”

Beads of sweat broke out on Rick’s forehead as he rested there. He massaged his one whole leg and let out a groan then sank against the pillow. A slow sense of relief spread over his face.

“Better?”

He nodded without answering. Let out a deep breath.

I looked over the paper. Thirty minutes after those started to work, he needed a small white one. I scanned the rest of the

paper and made a mental checklist.

“Still hungry?” I asked when Rick finished his Jell-O.

He nodded, still gritting his teeth against the pain.

“What do you like?” I jumped up. But he was pursing his lips and squeezing his eyes closed, so I didn’t force him to answer. I dug in the kitchen cabinets and found some Ritz crackers. Another Southern staple, apparently. Everyone had them—and blocks of orange Colby cheese.

I sliced some cheese and turkey and ham then sandwiched them between crackers. Southerners also tended to have vinegary pickled things like olives or—I opened the fridge door—baby dill pickles. Exactly. See? I’m learning. I arranged them in a little dish on the side of his plate.

Todd watched hungrily, still bouncing his pencil and swinging his feet, so I made him a plate, too, and slid it across the table.

I chomped a pickle as I dug in the freezer for some frozen blueberries and ice cubes. Threw them in the blender with a container of strawberry yogurt and a splash of orange juice. Two minutes later, voilà! A berry smoothie. I poured it in a tall glass and gave the leftovers to Todd.