A Time to Dance

  “Yes, Your Honor.” He barely paused. “I’d like you to also consider the fact that my client has already signed up for community service events. He plans to speak to students at four high schools a year for the next five years as a way of helping kids avoid the mistakes he made.”

  The judge was quiet for a moment. “Very well. I’ll consider that along with the letters.”

  Court was adjourned, and Jake’s parents hugged him from either side.

  “You aren’t nervous, are you, son?” His father searched his face, clearly surprised.

  “No. Me and God already talked it out. Whatever happens, that’s what He wants. I’m not afraid.”

  A. W. gave a nervous laugh. “Well, I am. If that makes you feel any better.” He nodded toward the judge’s chamber door. “She’s a tough one, that judge. No matter what the letters say, she could make an example out of you.”

  Jake saw his mother wince at the thought, and he patted her back. “Mom, you gotta trust God on this one. If He wants me at a detention center, that’s where I’ll go. And everything will work out fine.”

  “I know. I just . . . I’d like to see you back at Marion. Your ideas . . . about football and helping your friends . . . they seem so good.”

  “How many letters were you able to get?” Jake’s father directed his attention to A. W.

  “Five. That’s more than enough.” The attorney gazed up, trying to remember. “One each from you and Tara, one from Jake’s parole officer, one from the person at community service he’s been working with. And the best one of all—from John Reynolds.”

  Coach Reynolds? Jake’s stomach flip-flopped inside him. “You asked Coach Reynolds for a letter?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I can’t believe you did that . . . he’s gone through enough without having to write a letter for me. I mean, whoever told you to do something like that, when . . .”

  A. W. held up a hand, and Jake stopped his sentence short. Though he was quiet, he was fuming. He hadn’t been this angry in a while. The nerve of asking Coach for a letter that would help him get a lighter sentence.

  “I didn’t ask Mr. Reynolds for a letter.” A. W. tilted his head, a look of vindication on his face. “Mr. Reynolds offered.”

  Jake’s stomach stopped flipping and sank to his knees. What? Coach Reynolds—in the midst of dealing with his sick granddaughter and an upcoming surgery—had taken time to write a letter on his behalf?

  Jake looked at his parents and saw they were feeling the same thing. They had all known Coach Reynolds was a great man. But this great? This concerned about a kid who had put him in a wheelchair? For the first time that day, Jake felt a lump in his throat.

  The judge appeared and once more called the court to order.

  “In the matter of State v. Daniels, I have reached a decision, one that even I am not certain is fair.”

  She’s sending me to juvie . . . Jake blinked and tried not to feel afraid. Help me here, God . . . help me.

  The judge continued. “Will the defendant please rise?”

  Jake stood, his knees knocking ever so slightly.

  “As I mentioned, it is within my right to sentence you, Mr. Daniels, to eighteen months in a juvenile detention center.” She paused and glanced at the district attorney. “But in this case, I have been inundated with requests to act otherwise.”

  Jake saw his parents link hands.

  “The letter that most affected me was the one written by the victim— Mr. John Reynolds.” She held up a piece of paper. “Mr. Reynolds writes, ‘I beg you to let Jake work off his sentence while attending Marion High in the fall. For you see, that is when I will return to school, and if the accident had never happened, it would have been Jake’s senior year. Being on campus without Jake will be a daily reminder of what happened that awful November night. Locking Jake up won’t make him a better driver or a wiser young man, nor will it lessen the impact of my injuries. But seeing Jake on campus at Marion High would be almost as good as walking again.’” She paused and looked at Jake before finishing. “‘Please, Your Honor, I ask you to help my recovery by punishing Jake some other way. He’s changed since the accident, and Marion High needs more kids like him on campus.’”

  Throughout the courtroom the only sound was the faint sniff of his mother’s tears and the thud of his own heartbeat. Had Coach really said that? Seeing him on campus would be as good as walking again?

  The judge set the letter down and glanced around the room. “For that reason, and because the defendant is pulling straight As at the continuation school, I am hereby waiving all juvenile detention center time. Instead, I will agree to the community service plan, where the defendant will speak to high-school groups four times a year for the next five years.”

  Jake was so happy he could’ve floated out of the courtroom. Not because he’d dodged a bullet, but because he was going back to Marion High, back to the same campus as Coach Reynolds! And because he’d have one more chance to play football the way he should have played it all along. God . . . I’ll make it up to You . . . I promise . . .

  Beside him, his parents looked suddenly a decade younger, and Jake realized something. They’d been more worried about his being sentenced to a detention center than they’d let on.

  The judge rapped her gavel on the bench. “Order.” When it was quiet, she continued. “In addition, the defendant’s driver’s license shall remain revoked, and he shall not be permitted to apply for a new license until his twenty-first birthday. Between now and then, he will attend a ten-week driver’s safety course, this year and every year until he is twenty-one.” She looked at Jake. “Most often when I hand down a sentence, I have a sense as to whether justice was served.” She angled her head. “This time I’m not sure.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You’re getting off very easy, son. I don’t want to see your face in this court or any other ever again. Is that understood?”

  Jake nodded. “You don’t have to worry, Your Honor. I won’t be back.”

  Just like that, the hearing was over and Jake was being congratulated by A. W. and his parents, and a few Marion High football players who had stayed in the back of the courtroom.

  “Jake, man, this is good. We need you back next year at QB.” It was Al Hoosey, a wide receiver. He slapped Jake on the shoulder. “Way to go.”

  Jake met the eyes of the boy. “It’ll be different next year, Hoosey. Much different.”

  The boy blinked. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  This time Jake couldn’t contain his smile. “A very good thing.”

  Other people milled around him, and he felt someone tug his elbow. He turned and found himself looking into the face of the district attorney. “Listen, about the judge’s comment . . . that she wasn’t sure if justice had been served?”

  “Yes, sir?” Jake pivoted so the man had his full attention.

  “I have a sense about those things, too. And this time I’m sure. Justice was served.” The attorney’s face was serious, somber. “Now go out there and make sure those friends of yours stay away from street races, okay? That’ll make my job a lot easier. Deal?”

  Jake swallowed hard. “Deal.”

  The crowd thinned out and his own attorney gathered his things and left. Finally it was just Jake and his parents.

  “Amazing, huh, son?” His mom and dad were still holding hands. They seemed in no hurry to leave.

  “God must have big things for me next year at Marion.” Jake shot a look at the clock on the courthouse wall. “Let’s get home. I have a thank-you call to make.”

  His mother smiled and brushed her fingertips across his forehead, straightening his bangs the way she’d done back when he was a little boy. “Coach?”

  “Yep. Can’t wait to tell him.”

  “Son . . .” His father sat up a bit straighter, and Jake had the sense he was about to say something important. “Before we go, your mom and I have something we want to tell you.”
br />   Abby never expected it to take place in a restaurant parking lot.

  She had known there would be a time when her family would come together to pray for John. But with Haley still fighting for her life, the days got away from them. Finally, it was Sunday, the day before John’s surgery.

  Kade was home for an extended spring break, and John and Abby took the family to brunch after church. Before the group broke up, Abby looked around the circle. “We wanted everyone to pray together . . . before John goes in tomorrow.”

  “Great idea.” Jo held her hands out to either side, closed her eyes, and hung her head. “Who’s gonna start?”

  A few of them shared quiet smiles. Then they did the same, joining hands and bowing their heads there in the parking lot. Kade was the first to pray, and Jo and Denny added their sentiments before Nicole and Matt and Sean took turns.

  Abby struggled to speak. All she could manage was a quick thanks to God for giving them even a glimmer of hope.

  Then it was John’s turn.

  He opened his mouth to pray, but nothing came out. Then, after several seconds, he began to sing.

  “Great is Thy faithfulness . . . oh God, my Father. There is no shadow of turning with Thee . . . ”

  The hymn had been John’s father’s favorite, long before John was even born. One at a time the others added their voices, unconcerned with the looks they got from passersby. When they reached the chorus, they sang about the greatness of God’s faithfulness and the truth from Lamentations that His mercies were new every morning.

  No matter what.

  Abby found her voice and sang clear, her heart caught up in every word. She’d never forget this. When the song ended, John looked at the faces around him. “Thank you. God is faithful; I believe that. No matter what happens.”

  Several of them blinked back tears as the group exchanged hugs and talked about their plans for the next day. Jo and Denny would meet the others at the hospital sometime after the surgery. Sean and Kade would be there all day, as would Nicole and Matt—who would primarily be with Haley, but would check in often to see how John was doing.

  “Haley’s on the third floor and you’ll be on the fifth, Daddy.” Nicole hugged him tight. “Isn’t that something?”

  Abby watched John. The strain of what the next day’s events held was finally starting to get to him. He kissed Nicole on the cheek. “You just take care of my little granddaughter for me, okay?”

  “Okay.” She wiped a tear. “We’ll be praying.”

  Sean rode home with Kade, so once John was strapped in and Abby took the driver’s seat, they were by themselves. “Notice how no one said anything about you walking again?”

  It was a beautiful April day, the kind that shouted of the coming summer. John stared out the window. “I think they’re afraid to hope for it.”

  They were quiet the rest of the way home, but once they got out of the car, Abby had no doubts where they’d wind up. Without saying a word, she followed John into the backyard, down the cement path, and up onto the pier. They moved toward the water. Abby sat in the chair, with John beside her.

  “What’re you thinking, Miss Abby?” He turned so his eyes met hers.

  “Miss Abby . . . you haven’t called me that since we were kids.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  John chuckled. “Well, not because I haven’t thought it. You’ll always be my little Miss Abby.” He waited a moment, allowing the breeze from the lake to wash over them before he tried again. “You didn’t answer me.”

  “Hmmm.” The sun was directly overhead, and it caused an explosion of light on the lake. She stared out at the water. “I guess not.”

  “So . . . you aren’t thinking anything special, or you don’t want to tell me.”

  “Neither.” A lazy grin spread across her face.

  He pursed his lips, trying to figure her out. “I’m not sure I get it.”

  “I am thinking something special—” she lowered her chin, enjoying the easy banter between them—“and I do want to tell you.”

  “Okay.” He crossed his arms. “So tell me.”

  “I was waiting for the right time. Because what I have to say is important. I want you to hear it straight to your soul, John Reynolds.”

  He maneuvered his chair so he could see her better. Their knees were touching, though Abby knew John couldn’t feel the sensation. Not yet, anyway. “I’m listening, Abby. Heart, soul, and mind.”

  “Good.” Abby drew a deep breath and her eyes settled on his. “I’ve given your surgery a lot of thought, John. I’ve dreamed about what it would be like to have you healed.” She paused.

  “I do the same thing.” His eyes narrowed. “I think of all the ways I’d use my legs if I had even one more hour, one more day.”

  “What would you do?” Her words were slow, easy. A hawk circled overhead.

  “I’d run a mile in the morning, play football with Sean and Kade, and make love to you all afternoon, Miss Abby.”

  “Nice.” She smiled, feeling the hint of warmth in her cheeks. “My thoughts are pretty much the same.”

  “That’s what you wanted to tell me?” He leaned over and gripped her legs, rubbing his thumbs gently along the inside of her knees.

  “No.” She looked deeper, to the center of his soul. “I wanted to tell you that it doesn’t matter.”

  John waited for her to finish, his head angled.

  “It doesn’t matter if you get your legs back, John. There was a time when I would’ve told you anything other than a complete recovery would be tragic, hard on our lives and hard on our relationship.” She shook her head. “But not anymore. Over the past five months I’ve learned how to love you just like this. I love helping you in and out of bed; I love being there to pull your pants up for you. I even love the way you wheel me down the pier at twenty-miles-per-hour in some newfangled version of the tango.”

  She studied him, her eyes unblinking. “What I’m trying to say is, I want your legs back as badly as you do, but if you come out of the surgery tomorrow the same as you are today, that’s okay, too. I couldn’t love you more than I do right now.”

  For a long while, John said nothing. Just stared at Abby while the two of them soaked in everything about the moment. “What if we hadn’t talked that night after Nicole’s wedding?”

  “I can’t imagine.” Abby’s voice was tight, her throat thick with emotion.

  “I love you so much, Abby. Thank God we were smart enough to hear His voice, smart enough to find each other again.” His eyes reflected the lake. Abby felt herself drowning in them, unaware of the world around her. “You’re everything to me, Abby. Everything.”

  “I believe with all my heart that God will be there tomorrow, in the operating room, guiding the surgeon’s knife and bringing healing to your back. But remember something, will you, John?”

  “Anything.”

  “I’ll be there, too.” She pressed her fingers over his heart. “Right here . . . the whole time.”

  “You know what we need to do first?” John’s expression lightened and his eyes shone the way their sons’ eyes shone when they were up to no good.

  “First? Before the surgery, you mean?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay . . . I give up. What do we need to do first?”

  He patted his lap.

  “Oh, no. Not the tango.”

  “Yes, Abby . . . come on. We’re just getting good at it.”

  Laughter formed in her heart and found its way out of her mouth. She stood and dropped herself unceremoniously onto his lap. “I won’t be able to do this after tomorrow, you know.”

  He turned the wheelchair and began heading toward the far end of the pier. “Why not?”

  “Because after tomorrow you’ll feel me, silly. I’ll be too heavy for you.”

  “You? Too heavy?” He reached the top and spun the chair around, using the hand brake to stop it. “Never, Abby. We’ll save the chair and do t
his once a week for old time’s sake.”

  “Oh, quit.” She pushed at his shoulder. As she did, John’s elbow released the hand brake, and the chair began rolling down the pier.

  “Here we go.” He guided the chair with one hand and grabbed hers with the other, holding it straight out in front of them, tango-style.

  She pressed her cheek against his as they passed the midway point, plummeting faster and faster toward the water. Her voice was loud, breathless. “Have I mentioned that this dance terrifies me?”

  “Ah, Abby . . . so little faith . . . we’ll have to do it again until you’re not afraid anymore.”

  Just before they reached the end, John spun the chair in a graceful circle. But this time the wheels skidded and the chair flipped over, spilling John onto his back near the end of the pier, and Abby on top of him.

  Abby muffled a scream that was more laughter than fear. She lifted her face and held it inches from his. “Nice move, Reynolds.”

  “I practiced that for weeks. I thought you’d love it.” He ran his hands along her back, pressing her against him. They kissed then, their lips meeting each other first briefly, then in a way that spoke the things too deep for words.

  Abby started laughing.

  “Hey, wait a minute.” John grabbed a quick breath. “You’re not supposed to laugh. This is part of the dance.”

  “I can’t help it.” Abby rested her forehead on his shoulder until she could breathe again. She raised up a bit and looked at him. “Remember that day in the hallway? How you fell backward trying to lead me into the kitchen?”

  John chuckled, still stroking her back. “One of my finest moments.”

  “You said you’d never be mature, remember?”

  The laughter came more loudly for John. “Even Paula’s dance classes couldn’t help me.”

  “Apparently not.”

  They laughed and kissed, and laughed some more, until the sounds of their happiness drifted across the lake and mingled with the afternoon winds. Only then, when they were tired from laughing, did Abby pick herself up and right the wheelchair. She helped John back into it and pushed him slowly up the pier.