The Reason

  Carla opened her eyes and the man leaned against the bar and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled the apple out and placed it in front of her.

  “What do you see in this?” he asked.

  Carla couldn’t speak.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”

  She was mesmerized by the fruit’s immaculate shine. She had never seen anything like its perfect shape, and its bright-red color looked as if it had been painted on. It even had a tiny leaf attached to its green stem. It almost seemed fake—as if it belonged in a dining room display at a furniture store. She hesitantly picked it up and held it, confirming that it was, in fact, flawlessly real.

  “Tell me,” he repeated kindly. “Tell me what you think of it.”

  She turned it slightly in her hand, and part of the man’s refection appeared in it. Her arm fell to the bar, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she looked at him. She wanted to say more but only managed three words: “It is beautiful.”

  He tapped on the side of the apple and looked right at her. “What do you think would happen to this beautiful apple if it had a big worm inside of it?”

  She paused for a moment, wiping away her remaining tears, leaving smudges of eyeliner on her shirtsleeve. “I don’t know. It would eat it up?”

  “Yes, it would,” he said, placing his hand directly on top of hers. “Forgive.”

  “Forgive?” she whispered.

  “Carla, I want you to learn to forgive.”

  He turned and slowly walked away from her, making his way out the back door.

  Carla picked the apple up off the bar and hurried after him, staring out the window to the rear parking lot. She watched him climb into the cab of an old Ford F-150 and pull away. But one question rang in her mind above the rest.

  When did I tell him my name?

  THREE

  Carla was a few minutes ahead of schedule to pick up Alex and Brooke when she turned her white Dodge Intrepid onto the heavily wooded “Church Road,” a grassy, half-mile passage of sand, pea gravel, and white stone that didn’t make most maps. Beyond the arrivals and departures of Brooke and the Lindys, the only other traffic the road usually saw was from the few who came to church on Sunday or the occasional jogger looking for a shortcut into the park that ran along Lake Erie.

  It was hard for Carla to drive down it without thinking about high school. Back in the day, the cops never bothered coming out here, and it’d been the perfect place to smoke pot, down some Boone’s Farm, make out with the boys . . . or more. All that time, she’d never made it down to the end of the road, and it wasn’t until Brooke moved in with the Lindys that Carla even knew that there was a church down there. Heck, it wasn’t until then that Carla knew the church, the house, or even God existed. It practically made her itch now, passing their favorite parking area, a bare area of grass that nudged into the woods, knowing that when she was doing all those things, Pastor Jim and Shirley were just around the bend. If they only knew, she thought.

  That made her think about the man last night. Mr. Mysterious. And the apple. When he said forgive, was he talking about one of those boys from her high school days? One of the many who used her and then tossed her aside? Or all of them?

  Carla made a right into the narrow driveway that led through the trees and to the twenty-acre patch of land, all St. Thomas property. At some point, church members had probably hoped they’d one day need to expand, build a larger sanctuary, a huge parking lot. Sadly, there was little need for that. But Carla was still glad it was here. With the rolling hills, the deep forest, the cute little church and cozy house, it always made her feel at peace when she arrived. Like she’d discovered someplace secret, sacred, hers. Whenever she heard someone say “God’s Country,” she thought of St. Thomas.

  She passed the church’s small gravel parking lot and pulled up in the Lindys’ driveway. Carla stared at the small white-framed house in front of her.

  She wished she lived there. For the thousandth time she wished she was Brooke, with an adorable little boy and an adopted family.

  Carla sighed and got out of the car and went to the porch, stopping to look through the front window. Pastor Jim was sitting in the old La-Z-Boy with his Bible in his hand. She suspected he was rehearsing his sermon for Sunday.

  Carla smiled and glanced back up the hill toward the church, thinking of him in there, preaching one of his good sermons. Her smile faded and she looked back through the window at Pastor Jim. For the first time ever, she was glad he was blind; she was glad he couldn’t see the wreckage on the hill.

  Brooke wasn’t kidding about the cross. Or what’s left of it. The lightning nailed it good. The sight of it made her sadder than she expected.

  She took a step back on the porch and remembered the way the cross used to be. It stood so tall, and there was something about its polished wood and placement on the lawn that left her feeling both protected and, in some strange way, even a little afraid. Pastor Jim always told her that it was her choice to go to service, and on the Sundays she chose to go, it was impossible for her not to stop and look at the cross before she walked in. She almost felt like she needed its permission to enter.

  But now it’d been blown in half, with the bottom part still stuck in the ground. It looked like a head-high stump with a charred point. Most of the top of the cross lay facedown in the wet sod. A separate piece was a few feet away.

  She blew a puff of warm air into her hands and was fighting an unwelcome sense of emptiness when three deer walked gracefully around the corner of the church and stopped next to the cross. That weird sense of being stared at—just like last night—niggled at her and she laughed out loud, quickly dismissing it.

  Carla stepped forward and grabbed the door handle. She hadn’t knocked on the front door in over six years because Pastor Jim and Shirley had always made it clear that she was welcome anytime, and walking right in was a privilege she wasn’t afraid to use.

  “Hey, hey,” she said, stepping in.

  “Hello, kiddo,” Pastor Jim replied, pivoting the chair in her direction. He was wearing an old T-shirt that fell over a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. He closed the Bible and brushed his saltand-pepper-gray hair back with his hand. “You’re up bright and early this morning.”

  “I’m taking Brooke and Alex to the hospital.”

  “I offered to drive them, but the idea didn’t go over too well.”

  “Ha-ha,” she said, shaking her head. The pastor hadn’t been allowed to drive for years. “By the way, since when is seven in the morning bright and early for you?”

  “Seven is pretty early.”

  “She knows as well as anyone in this house that you’re the first to rise,” Shirley said, entering the living room from the kitchen. No limp, Carla noticed. Arthritis must not be bothering her today. Shirley leaned over and kissed Pastor Jim on his forehead. “This man wakes me up every single morning. I can’t remember the last time he slept past five.”

  Pastor Jim stood and hiked his thumb in the direction of Shirley’s voice. “I figured she would be used to it after all this time. You think she’s getting ready to trade me in, Carla?”

  “I would, if I were her,” Carla said.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Shirley said with a teasing lilt to her voice.

  “Never gonna happen,” Pastor Jim said, holding out his arms for a hug, which Shirley gladly gave. Carla wished she had someone in her life to hug her like that. The look in Pastor Jim’s eyes was usually kind of hard to read, with the gray film that covered them, but right then they said nothing other than I cherish my wife.

  Brooke came into the room and was dangling a set of keys. She looked like she hadn’t slept much. “Who’s driving? You or me?”

  “I will,” Carla said. “Where’re Alex and Charlie?”

  “Downstairs,” Brooke answered, opening the basement door. “Let’s go, Alex!”

  A series of little footsteps scurried up the stairs. The doo
r opened, and Alex skipped over and hugged Carla’s leg. “Hi, Aunt Carla!”

  “Hey, pal,” she said.

  Alex proudly lifted his chin as he let go of her leg. “My nose bleeded again yesterday, but it didn’t even hurt. Mom came home, but I was okay.”

  “That’s what I heard,” she said, pinching his cheek. “How did you get so brave?”

  His hazel eyes squinted, and the freckles that had been sprinkled around his little nose seemed to hunch together. “I don’t know, but Mom says I can get some chocolate milk from the store today.”

  “That’s right,” Brooke said, holding open his Detroit Tigers jacket. Alex backed into it and put his arms through the sleeves, which were about three inches too short.

  “Looks like somebody needs a new coat,” Carla said. “Maybe Santa will bring you one.”

  “No,” Alex said. “He’s getting me a bike that doesn’t have baby wheels on it.”

  Charlie dipped under the top of the door as he came up from the basement. He smiled and waved at Carla.

  “Hey, Charlie,” she said.

  The big man walked over and handed Brooke Alex’s matching Tigers baseball cap.

  “Thanks, Charlie,” Brooke said. She stopped buttoning halfway up the coat and put Alex’s cap on the way he liked it, backward. “We need anything else from the store?”

  “Just the Pop-Tarts and two gallons of milk,” Shirley said.

  “Okay,” Brooke said. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “I think maybe Charlie wants something,” Shirley added, nodding at her son.

  Charlie was holding his Tic Tac container up in front of his face. He stared at it for a few seconds like he had never seen it before. There were two left.

  “I think you are right,” Carla said.

  Charlie opened the lid and poured out the two candies into his other hand. He reached down and gave one to Alex and then leaned his head back and dropped the last one in his mouth. He held the empty container back up in front of his face, then slowly turned his head to Brooke.

  “Tic Tacs, Charlie?” Carla asked, smiling.

  Charlie took a step toward her and stopped. The top of his head was just under the edge of the ceiling fan. He stuffed two fingers into his front pocket and then took another step toward her. He held out his hand and gave her a nickel and three pennies. His eyes began to blink quickly as a broad grin slowly stretched across his face in what could only mean Yes, please.

  “Let’s bolt,” Brooke said.

  Carla held the screen door as Alex and Brooke walked outside. She glanced up at the church and then turned back to the three Lindys, who were standing next to one another in the center of the living room. Shirley was smiling at her with eyes that were much easier to read than Pastor Jim’s. Despite having a blind husband and a seven-foot, 355-pound son who hadn’t spoken a single word in his life, they were sending a message that was loud and clear.

  I’m the luckiest woman in the world.

  “WE ARE GONNA BE LATE,” BROOKE SAID, LEANING HER head against the passenger window.

  “They will understand,” Carla said. “Quit stressing.”

  “Easier said than done,” Brooke said. “Why’d they want us to come back if they weren’t worried?”

  “He’s gonna be fine,” Carla said.

  “You okay back there, buddy?” Brooke asked.

  “He’s out,” Carla answered.

  “But we just left,” Brooke said. She turned and looked in the backseat. Alex was sleeping with his head turned to the side, making his red eyelashes look extra-long. He was snoring lightly, and his little hands held the rubber SpongeBob he scored with his Happy Meal the week before. Though he hadn’t been in a car seat in months, he seemed so small back there without one.

  “How late were you guys up?”

  “Too late,” Brooke answered, closing her eyes and shooting up a quick prayer for good news.

  It was normally only about a ten-minute ride from the Lindy house to downtown Carlson, but they were stuck behind a train on Old Gibraltar Road, a county-neglected minefield of potholes, gravel, and oily sand. Despite its horrendous condition, the wooded two-mile stretch was the shortest and most commonly used route to North Jefferson Avenue and the city’s two banks, one gas station, and string of mom-and-pop businesses that were separated by unoccupied buildings.

  At the tail end of North “Jeff” was the hospital and Carlson’s number-one producer of unemployed people, a partially functional assembly plant, now operating under the tax-friendly pseudonym of “Auto Trust.” Brooke did a two-year stint there before moving on to become a nail tech with Carla at the Downriver Mall in Lincoln Park. Even though the three hundred a week she earned was less than half what she had made at the plant, she liked doing nails and the time it gave her with Carla—as well as less need for child care.

  “Pastor Jim didn’t say a single thing about the cross,” Carla said. “Neither did Shirley.”

  “How many times have you ever heard them complain about anything?”

  “Like, never. What’s the plan with it, then?”

  “Not sure,” Brooke said, turning back around and looking at Alex again. “Pastor Jim said that everything happens for a reason and that God will make something good come from it.”

  “Of all the places lightning has to hit,” Carla said, “why there? Why them?”

  “I don’t know,” Brooke mumbled. She was still looking in the backseat, not at Alex, but at a pile of little plastic rum bottles, like the ones you get when you are on an airplane, that were spilling out of a plastic grocery bag, partially hidden under the driver’s seat. She shoved back the urge to lay into Carla. Wasn’t the time at the bar enough? She was drinking in her car? When? On her way home from work? “What happened with Mr. Mysterious last night?” she forced herself to ask.

  “Mr. Mysterious?” Carla laughed. “He actually freaked me out a little bit.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Before or after he pulled that apple out of his pocket and put it on the bar?”

  “Huh?”

  “He also had me crying. Actually . . . I had me crying, but the apple was to tell me to learn to forgive.”

  “What? I don’t get it.”

  “He asked me what would happen to the apple if it had a worm inside of it. Kind of like I’m the apple and that I need to learn to forgive or it will eat me up.”

  “That’s weird. Forgive who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why’d you cry?”

  “I really don’t know why. Something made me think about all the mistakes I’ve made in my life. And I sort of tricked myself into thinking that he knew about all of it.”

  “How many drinks did you have?”

  “Just three. I only had one of the shots. Can you believe it?”

  I want to, Brooke thought, glancing up at the flashing red lights that were attached to a pair of worn-out posts that looked like they were about to fall over. This crossing is in serious need of a gate. It’s a miracle nobody’s ever gotten creamed by a train. Not that this particular train was going to get anybody. It was dead stopped. She let out a long breath of frustration. We’re so gonna be late.

  “Can you believe it?” Carla repeated, tapping Brooke on her leg. “I didn’t hit my limit.”

  “I’m proud of you,” Brooke muttered, looking at what had to be Detroit gang signs scratched repeatedly on the side of one of the boxcar doors, then reading the painted tags. “Guess what, Carla?”

  “What?”

  Brooke pointed at the train and read words spray-painted in purple and underlined in black. “HUBBA IS ALL DAT.”

  “Oh yeah?” Carla laughed. She pointed to their right and read huge gold letters. “BOBBY IS A . . . uh . . .” She paused, glancing at the sleeping child behind her. “Something really, really bad.”

  “I knew that,” Brooke said casually, “but more importantly, KRIS R. ROCKS.”

  “DUKE LOVES EMMA.”

>   “Carla Miller is hot.”

  “Are you serious?” Carla gasped, grabbing Brooke’s arm. “Where?”

  Brooke grinned as she watched Carla nervously scan the boxcars. “Just kidding.”

  “I hate you.” Carla laughed.

  Brooke plopped her hand on Carla’s wrist and smiled. “You love me and you know it.”

  “I do,” Carla said dreamily. She wasn’t smiling back and Brooke wondered why.

  “What is it, Carla?”

  “The way you grabbed my wrist,” she answered. “He did that last night at the exact same time I think I was having what the AA people call a ‘moment of clarity.’”

  “The guy last night?”

  “Yeah, and when he did it, everything seemed all right. It was like I had been given another chance. It was like I was being given a choice to do something, and if I did it, all my mistakes would go away.”

  “Forgive?” Brooke asked.

  “No,” Carla said as the train finally started to move. “That’s what he said, but what I felt was something different. I felt like there was something I needed to do, and if I just did that one thing, my mistakes would be forgotten.”

  “Do what thing?”

  “I’m really not sure. Weird, huh?”

  “It’ll come to you,” Brooke said, lifting her hand back toward the train. “Maybe you need to GET HIGH IN JULY.”

  “You are a dork,” Carla said, pointing at a dinged-up freight car as the train began to pick up more speed. “Check that out. One of our little graffiti guys must have taken an art lesson.”

  Against a gorgeous, colorful backdrop, painted in perfect block letters were the words: ONLY BELIEVE.

  “Wow,” Brooke said. “I wonder how long it took to do that.”

  “Don’t know. Had to be awhile.”

  “You can say that again,” Brooke said, flipping through Carla’s CD holder. “Ever think about listening to some music from this century? Everything in here is from the ’60s, ’70s, or ’80s. We weren’t even born when half this stuff came out. Get with the times, girl.”

  “Quit hatin’ on the classics,” Carla said. “That’s when music was real.”