Unlocked

  “A storm’s coming.” Dan squinted at the encroaching black clouds. “Probably seems like I’m always saying that.”

  “It does. But you’re all right?” Concern replaced the distance in her voice. “You’ve got cover?”

  “I’m fine.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. It felt great hearing her voice. He wasn’t due to go home until Christmas —three months from now—but he wondered if maybe he wouldn’t head back sooner. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.” An edge of excitement filled her voice. “Dan … I called because … Well, God is doing something with Holden. I’m serious.”

  Dan opened his eyes and stared at the rough seas surrounding their old ship. “What do you mean?” He kept control of his emotions. Holden never made significant progress.

  “Earlier this week … he found Ella.” She paused and the wind made it hard to hear her. “Ella Reynolds, Dan. They found each other at Fulton High.”

  Dan felt his enthusiasm dim. Finding an old friend was one thing. Seeing God work in Holden’s life was something entirely different. “The Reynoldses.” He heard his voice go flat. “It’s been a long time.”

  “There’s more to this …” Tracy began to explain how Ella had been drawn to help Holden, and how because of her Holden was allowed to sit in on rehearsals for next semester’s spring musical. “And that was before she knew who he was, that we’d known each other back then.”

  Dan would’ve liked to think Holden told her. Certainly Holden remembered Ella. He watched the video of the two of them every day, after all. For more years than Dan could remember. But that wasn’t possible.

  The wind was blowing harder now, the storm about to bear down. He couldn’t talk long, but he raised his voice so he could be heard. “How’d she make the connection?”

  “A scrapbook. She was going through family pictures and saw a bunch with all of us together. Holden’s name was in the caption, I guess, and Ella put it all together.”

  Dan remembered the tension between the families after Holden’s change. “Is she… like her mother?”

  Tracy hesitated. “She’s like Suzanne used to be. She’s kind and genuine and she wants Holden to be in the spring play. It’s Beauty and the Beast.”

  Unless there was something Tracy wasn’t telling him, the idea was outlandish. “Holden can barely sit through a single class without doing push-ups.”

  “He’s trying. I have to believe his is making a difference.”

  “That’s not the point.” Dan needed to get off the phone. The storm was going to engulf them any minute. “He struggles, Tracy.”

  “I know that.” Some of her enthusiasm faded. “But Dan, Ella said Holden looked at her. Straight into her eyes.”

  It was the first detail that came with even the slightest glimpse of hope. He gripped the edge of the crank in front of him. “Good. Has he looked at you? Or his therapists?”

  “Not them. And not me lately.” Her tone made it clear she wasn’t dissuaded by the fact. “But it’s a start.” She barely took time for a breath. “I don’t know, Dan, I feel like something’s happening, like God’s beginning something bigger than we could imagine.”

  A clap of thunder shook the sky not far from where he stood. His estimate was clearly off. The storm was bearing down and he’d only been talking eight, maybe nine minutes. “That’s good, Tracy. Really. All we can do is keep praying, right?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “Yes. That’s all we can do.” Sometimes he could almost see the tears in her eyes at the end of one of their conversations. This was one of those times. “I wish you were coming home sooner.”

  “Me, too.” Especially now. Lighting flashed too close for comfort. “Hey, listen. I have to go. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”

  Another short pause. “I love you, Dan.”

  “I lo —” A fast busy signal sounded and Dan checked the phone. They’d lost connection. He slid the phone back into the plastic bags, and then into his pocket again. And suddenly he saw something he’d never seen in his five years at sea.

  A wave towering twenty-five feet or more was headed straight for them.

  “Rogue wave!” The shout came up across the deck from half a dozen fishermen and deckhands. “Take cover! Rogue wave! Rogue —”

  That was all the time they had. The wave should’ve capsized them, but somehow the captain must have swung the bow just enough so they took it head on. Dan ducked beneath the crank and pushed his body against the side of the ship, grabbing whatever he could. But he was no match for the wave. It ripped him from his hiding spot and for several seconds he had no contact with the boat whatsoever. He thrashed about in the water, kicking and grabbing for any sign of the ship beneath him. The water was freezing, so cold that even if he could get his head above the wave he wasn’t sure he could breathe.

  How can this be happening again? God … help me! Please …

  Just when he was sure he was lost, his body thudded hard into a post. Dan couldn’t grab it with his hands, so he wrapped his body around it and held tight with his ankles. He still hadn’t had a breath, and he knew it was only a matter of time. The blackout would come soon and then death would be quick.

  God, if You’re taking me home then so be it. I love You and I always have. But Father … if You’re doing something with Holden, if You’re working a miracle in his life then please let me live. The water swirled around his face and mouth. His lungs were screaming for air. Any second he would breathe in the salty seawater. Lord, I’ll stop fishing, I’ll stay home and get a different job. I’ll do what You want, Lord. Just please don’t let me die without seeing Holden come back. Even a little, God. If he could look at me the way he looked at Ella, I would do anything to live. Please, God … please …

  Dan was just taking his first gasp of water when in a rush there was a tremendous sucking sound and the wave receded. He gasped in one breath after another, choking on the water that had started its way down his throat. What had happened? Was he really alive or was this heaven? He tried to crawl up on his hands and knees, but he was too weak, too spent from his battle with the wave. Instead he lay on the tossing ship, his body bruised and battered.

  The captain pushed open the door and shouted across the deck. “Everyone down below. We need a count.”

  This wasn’t heaven. A count meant guys were missing, right? Some of the men fishing beside him had been swept to sea in as much time as it took a single rogue wave to crash in around them. The storm was still just hitting them, the rain just starting in earnest. Dan had been this route before. He needed to get below deck or in a few minutes they could add his name to however many men weren’t accounted for.

  He tried to get up again, and fell to his stomach. Come on, Dan … You can do this. As he lay there he remembered his prayer. He had begged God to let him live if there was a chance of seeing Holden changed, if he might get even a little of his son back. And here he was, alive! So that had to mean something, right? He pictured Holden, going tirelessly through the days, working his therapy and homework and never seeing progress.

  The image of his son’s tender heart and courageous spirit breathed new life, new strength into him.

  “Below deck now,” the captain shouted. “Don’t wait … another wave’s on the horizon.”

  Dan pushed himself up on his hands and knees and began to crawl. He could do this. If Holden could struggle through a silent world of autism, Dan could make it below deck. It was the least he could do. He pushed himself, ignoring the splinters slicing into his knees. How many times would he do this? How often would he nearly lose a battle with the sea before he called it a day and went home? Push Dan, he told himself. Please, God … You spared me once. Help me get below deck. Please …

  I am a safe tower, my son … run to me.

  The answer gave him another burst of strength. Out here at sea, a lot of men lost touch with God, but Dan never did. He could sense the wave looming toward them. As he lifted the hatch and sh
oved his body through the hole, he could feel the shadow of the second rogue wave, coming down on them like some crazy monster. He hit the bunk area just as the wave smashed into the ship. He hit his head on the leg of the nearest bed, and he held his breath, certain the ship was going to flip.

  But it didn’t.

  And though the storm raged and the ship tossed around the sea, there were no more rogue waves. Dan managed to pull himself up onto a bunk where he didn’t move for the next hour. He had seen scary waves in his days working Alaskan fishing boats. Deadliest Catch was right on; he’d learned that much. But no reality TV show could ever truly capture the sheer terror of being completely and utterly at the mercy of the sea.

  He couldn’t fight Holden’s battles, so what made him think he could battle the Alaskan sea? And what about Tracy’s thought that God was doing something in Holden’s life? God … I give up. I surrender. I’m at Your mercy …

  Be strong and courageous … I am with you.

  Exhaustion still suffocated him, his ribs still pushed against his sides as his lungs worked to catch up. But as God’s words came over him, they filled him with strength and peace—a peace he hadn’t known in far too long. What if —after eighteen years—he was simply done fighting? Maybe he should go home for good, find work, and get to know his wife and son again.

  He learned later that two fishermen and one deckhand were lost at sea when the rogue wave hit. A series of giant rogue waves had spun off the turbulent seas, capsizing two smaller ships and sweeping their crews and seven additional men into the freezing ocean. The story made headlines across the nation and was all Fox News talked about for days. Dan called Tracy as soon as he had service again. “I’m safe. I wanted you to know,” he told her. He could save the other details until later.

  He still wasn’t sure about leaving Alaska for good, but in the days after the storm, not a minute passed when Dan didn’t feel at least a little excited. He had asked to live if God was really doing something in Holden, the way Tracy believed He was. This became more meaningful because Dan was still here, still alive. So that could only mean one thing when it came to his only child, his grown son.

  Maybe … just maybe, Tracy was right.

  Eighteen

  ELLA SOLD HER IPOD TO JENNY, ONE OF THE CHEERLEADERS, AND took the money to the business office Monday morning. She opened the door and walked up to the counter where Ms. Henley sat. The woman rarely smiled. She had worked at Fulton as far back as anyone could remember. Ms. Henley was typing something at her computer a few feet away. She must’ve heard Ella walk in, but she took another two minutes before she turned around. She checked her watch. “I’m not technically open for another five minutes.”

  “Okay.” Ella smiled. She clutched the two hundred dollars in her hand. Nothing could take the edge off her enthusiasm today. “I can wait.”

  Ms. Henley choked out a frustrated sigh. “That’s okay.” She was heavy and slow moving. She made an exaggerated effort at getting out of her chair. “What do you need?”

  Ella set the bills on the counter. “I’d like to pay theater fees for Holden Harris.”

  The woman raised one eyebrow and gave Ella a wary look. “Holden Harris?” She shook her head. “He’s not authorized to take theater. He has autism, Miss Reynolds.”

  Compassion for Holden increased Ella’s determination. “I know about Holden. His mom and I think he might like to be in the play, not just watch it come together.”

  Her nod was slow, sarcastic. “Is that right? You and Holden’s mother?” She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter behind her. “Have either of you asked Mr. Hawkins? It’s his theater program.”

  Ella hadn’t expected this much trouble. She willed herself to be calm and clear. Her eyes fell on Ms. Henley’s nameplate at the edge of her desk. Roberta Henley, Business Office Manager. Maybe another tack. Ella took a slow breath. “The drama department needs money, right?”

  “Well …” Ms. Henley practically glared at Ella. “Yes, I suppose so. The theater department is a costly line item for Fulton High.”

  “So, then …” She pushed the bills a few inches closer to the woman. “Here’s the theater fee for Holden Harris. If he can get on stage and help out, fine. If not, the school can keep the fees.” She smiled. “And don’t worry about Mr. Hawkins. I’ll tell him Holden’s covered. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “In case Holden gets his miracle.” She had won! She could sense the victory at hand, and sure enough, Ms. Henley reached for the money. Ms. Henley pulled a few sheets of paper from one of her file folders and handed it to Ella. “We’ll need his mother’s signature.”

  “Yes.” Ella couldn’t stop smiling as she backed toward the door. “She’ll sign it today.”

  The harsh look in Ms. Henley’s eyes softened. “Miss Reynolds, I know you mean well.” The woman’s southern accent was as thick as stew.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Ella had been a southerner all her life, and even she struggled to understand Ms. Henley.

  “The truth is you’re wasting your money, Miss Reynolds. Holden Harris is not going to sing on a stage. The school specialists are still trying to get him to stop flapping his arms.” She gave Ella a look that was more pity than consternation. “You can throw money at the boy and wish him a place in the theater group, but that isn’t going to change the fact. Holden is autistic, bless his heart. He can’t connect with other kids. He will never in a million years stand up on that stage and perform in the spring musical.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your concern.” Ella straightened her shoulders. How sad that school officials didn’t think Holden could change. What hope was there with that attitude. “Maybe Holden will never stand on the stage and perform with the rest of us. But at least he has the chance.” She smiled one last time. “Good day, ma’am.”

  As Ella walked out the door she felt something so rich and deep and foreign, she had to stop to realize what it was. The feeling was joy—the sort of joy she hadn’t felt as far back as she could remember. And she was suddenly grateful she hadn’t taken her father’s money, because this was the greatest gift of all —doing something for Holden.

  SHE DIDN’T TELL MR. HAWKINS ABOUT HOLDEN’S DRAMA FEES that afternoon, but with each passing day, Ella came a little closer to doing so. The reason was Holden, of course. Every drama class she saw little changes in his behavior. Monday she caught him looking at her three times, and each time he held her gaze a little longer.

  The next day when she turned around and found him watching her, she smiled and Holden did the same thing. At least she thought he did. He walked around with a slight sort of smile all the time—like he was the happiest kid on campus. But this was different. This time he smiled at her.

  By Wednesday Holden was able to sit through the entire rehearsal without doing a single push-up, and twice during one of the big musical numbers Ella glanced at him and caught his lips moving silently. Like he was trying to sing the words to the song. That day after class Ella went to Mr. Hawkins’ desk. “Do you see it? The change in Holden?”

  “Change?” Mr. Hawkins looked up. He was studying the Beauty script, making notations in the margins.

  Ella hid her disappointment. Maybe she only saw the changes because she was looking so closely. Or maybe she was only imagining them. “You didn’t notice?”

  “Hmmm … He hasn’t stopped rehearsal this week, if that’s what you mean?”

  “He’s following along. Today I looked back when we were singing and both times he was moving his lips! That’s got to mean something.”

  Mr. Hawkins stopped short of rolling his eyes, but his body language managed the same effect. “I wouldn’t expect you to be an expert on autism, Miss Reynolds. But you must know that quirky, repetitive behaviors come with the territory. Please … do not try to read too much into the eccentricities Mr. Harris provides during rehearsal time.” He looked back at the script. “It’s enough to say that the young man enj
oys his time with us. Beyond that, I wouldn’t try looking so hard.”

  Ella wanted to tell him that she’d paid Holden’s theater fees, but this no longer seemed like the time. She backed up from his desk. “Yes, sir. Thank you for letting him stay with us.”

  Her teacher put his right forearm on his desk and turned so he could face her. “Can I be frank with you, Miss Reynolds?”

  “Yes, sir.” Maybe this was when Mr. Hawkins was going to admit to having seen the same changes in Holden. She waited, eyes wide.

  “Our brief and fleeting rehearsal time must be about more than Holden Harris’ advancements or lack thereof. This is, without question, the most important spring musical Fulton High has ever put on.”

  “Yes, sir.” She hid her frustration. She already knew how much was riding on the play. But far more important was what they might do as a group for Holden Harris.

  “Miss Reynolds.” The slimmest degree of kindness warmed his tone. “I appreciate your philanthropic efforts on behalf of Mr. Harris, but I need your focus.” He swept his arm dramatically to one side. “You are Belle, the ingénue of all ingénues. The quintessential Disney role with the potential to capture your student body and fill every seat in our theater.” He paused, his eyes unblinking. “Try to remember that, will you?”

  “But maybe if we —”

  “Please.”

  She bit the inside of her lip to keep from arguing. She would need Mr. Hawkins on her side if she was ever to get Holden a spot on the stage. “Yes, sir.” She nodded with as much respect as she could muster. “I’ll remember. Thank you, sir.”

  Ella’s Friday-afternoon conversation with Holden’s mother had become a regular experience, and this time—after Holden’s mom signed the paperwork allowing Holden to perform—she shared her frustration. “No one thinks he can perform. Not ever.”

  “We can’t blame them.” Again there was a peace about the woman that made it easy to be with her. She explained how autism varies in degrees across a spectrum of affected behaviors. “Some kids have what’s called Asperger’s Syndrome, or more of a highfunctioning autism.” Her eyes couldn’t hide her sorrow. “Holden is not one of those kids. The teachers—even Mr. Hawkins—are aware of that. So they’re only going with what research and evidence typically show. A student like Holden would never have the ability to perform.”