39

Peter Douglass caught Auntie Bell before she hit the floor and maneuvered her into a chair. Nony and the two boys crowded close to the bed. “Mark! Mark, can you hear me? It’s Nony! Marcus and Michael are here too.”

“Daddy! Daddy, wake up!” Michael pleaded.

We all held our breath. For a long moment there was no response, and I was afraid we’d imagined the whole thing. And then—Mark’s lips moved. “Nony,” he said in the barest of whispers. His unbandaged eyelid fluttered.

Nony burst into tears. “Oh, praise Jesus!” She practically lay across Mark’s body, cradling him in her arms. “Thank You, Jesus, thank You, thank You . . .”

Most of us were too stunned to say anything. Peter was fanning Auntie Bell. Marcus and Michael clung to Hoshi. Avis lifted one hand in the air, her eyes closed, and kept saying, “Hallelujah! Thank You, Jesus. Oh God! You are good, so good. Jesus!”

Pastor Cobbs stepped out of the room, and I heard him calling, “Nurse? Nurse! Come quickly.” Avis followed him out. I knew she wanted to shout, to praise God with her whole self, and she would look for the first place she could do that without upsetting hospital protocol.

A nurse came running into the room. Assessing the situation, she ordered everyone out except Nony. I gave Nony a quick hug and scooted out behind Denny and the others. Michael ran ahead of us and darted into the waiting room, shouting, “Daddy woke up! My daddy woke up!”

I DON’T KNOW WHEN WE FINALLY GOT TO SLEEP that night. Once we got home, I called everyone I could think of who wasn’t there to tell them the good news; even called Delores at work at the county hospital. We cried and laughed together for several minutes, then she peppered me with questions about exactly what happened. “Mm-hm. Bueno. But we must not expect everything to change overnight. Recovery from a head injury happens in stages; it will take time. Nony will need to be patient. I will talk to her.” Delores’s voice drifted off as if she was thinking aloud. “Sí, sí, I will go to the hospital as soon as I get off work.”

Stu and Becky both came downstairs to our apartment, and the six of us rehashed every detail at least ten times, drank iced tea, stuck a frozen pizza into the oven (Gino’s pizza it wasn’t), and inhaled two bags of chips, a jar of salsa, and the last of the Oreos in the cookie jar. When I finally glanced at the clock, it was almost midnight. “Ack! Tomorrow’s a school day!” I yelped. But even after Denny and I had crawled under the sheet and turned on the window fan, I didn’t go to sleep for ages.

Mark Smith woke up from his coma. Thank You, thank You, Jesus . . .

I was exhausted when I got home from school the next day, and I still had a few end-of-year reports to finish. But Becky was waiting for me on the back porch with her Bible, so I woke myself up with a can of Pepsi, and we read a little further in the Gospel of Matthew. In chapter 9, just after Jesus got criticized for eating with “sinners,” Becky read Jesus’ reply: “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”

“Man! How cool is that?” Becky shook her head. “An’ all this time I been thinkin’ that, ya know, goin’ ta church and all this religious stuff was just for the good folks.”

I told Denny what she’d said as we drove up to the hospital that evening after throwing together a couple of sandwiches for a paper bag supper. He digested her words. “Yeah. Guess we need people like Becky and Yo-Yo to help us read the Bible like it’s supposed to be read—as good news.”

We found Nony alone in Mark’s room in the ICU when we got there. She was stroking his hand and reading from the Bible on her lap. “ . . . ‘When the Lord restored his exiles to Jerusalem, it was like a dream! We were filled with laughter and we sang for joy’ . . .”

Mark’s unbandaged eye was closed; all the machines were still attached. For a moment, it looked as if nothing had changed—and then I saw it: the nasogastric feeding tube was gone. Had he been able to eat or drink today?

“. . . ‘the other nations said, “What amazing things the Lord has done for them.” Yes, the Lord has done amazing things for us! What joy’!” Nony looked up at us and smiled all over her face.

I looked over her shoulder to see if those last words were from the Bible or if she’d added them herself. But there they were in Psalm 126: “The Lord has done amazing things for us! What joy!”

“Read . . . more.” Denny and I jumped. It didn’t sound like Mark’s voice, but it definitely came from the bed.

Nony stood up and touched her lips to his. “Later. Someone’s come to see you.” She nodded at us and stepped away from the bed.

Denny clasped one of Mark’s hands. “Hey, man. It’s Denny. You look like Rip Van Winkle—without the beard.”

Again, for a long moment there was no response. Then Mark’s unbandaged eye blinked open. He seemed to be trying to focus. Denny leaned close to his line of vision. Mark grunted. “You don’t . . . look so hot . . . yourself. Got . . . four eyes.” He tried to smile and winced. Then his eye closed, and he seemed to fall asleep.

Nony walked with us out of the room. “They still don’t know how much damage he’s sustained to his eyes. The left one is still full of blood. But he can see out of his right eye, though probably double vision, as you heard.”

“And his head?” I asked.

Nony hesitated. Then she said, “The doctors seem hopeful. They won’t know for sure if there is any permanent brain damage until he continues to recover and regains his faculties. So keep praying—and please, keep coming to visit. He needs the stimulation.” She hugged us both. “See you tomorrow?”

I shook my head. “I’m so sorry, Nony. We can’t. Josh graduates from Lane Tech tomorrow night, and they expect the parents to show up.” I gave her a wry grin.

“Of course. Give him my love. Josh . . . He . . .” Her eyes got a distant look, as if she wanted to say something else. After a moment, she took one of Denny’s hands and one of mine and brought all our hands together. “God has plans for that young man. Not your plans. Don’t stand in His way. I believe . . .” Again Nony hesitated. “I believe God will use your Joshua like the Joshua of old, to fight a battle that the older generation did not fight.”

THE SCHOOL PARKING lot was already crammed when we pulled in the next evening. Graduates had to arrive no later than six for the seven o’clock graduation. Josh shot out of the car with his shiny green robe and mortarboard under his arm, still folded in the plastic package it came in. Before he disappeared between the rows of cars, he turned and yelled, “Sit on the west bleachers! Then I’ll know where to look for you!”

I smirked at Denny, who was cracking the minivan windows an inch and locking the doors. “That’s nice. I thought maybe he wouldn’t want to acknowledge that he had parents. You’ve got the tickets, don’t you?”

Denny’s eyes rounded. “Tickets? What tickets?”

My mouth fell open. “The tickets! They were on your dresser! We can’t get in without—”

Denny pulled something out of the inside pocket of his sport coat. “Oh. You mean these bookmark thingies?” His dimples gave him away.

“Denny!” I punched him on the shoulder. Hard. “Don’t do that to me! I’m already so nervous I’m sweating right through my antiperspirant.”

He laughed and gave me a teasing hug. “Why so nervous? You don’t have to do anything. After listening to half a dozen boring speeches, Josh will walk up there and get his diploma, we will completely embarrass him by yelling ‘Yea Josh!’ at ten decibels, and then we can duck out! After all, he’ll go up with the Bs.”

Amanda rolled her eyes and lagged a few steps behind us. “You guys are nuts, you know that? I’m hungry. Wish we’d eaten supper before sitting through Torture 101.”

“Suck it up, kid,” Denny said. “You’ll need lots of room for Ron’s of Japan later.”

Sitting on stadium bleachers was not my idea of a good time, but at least the graduation ceremonies started at seven o’clock sharp. The Lane Tech concert band launched into the processional as a parade of teachers, administrators, and dignitaries filed into the stadium, followed by the senior class—all one thousand of them, give or take fifty or so—to resounding cheers all around the stadium.

“There’s Josh! I see him!” Amanda pointed excitedly as the students, shiny green robes flying in the stiff June breeze, crossed the cinder track and filed into the rows of chairs on the grassy playing field.

As the ROTC color guard presented the flags, a lump of gratefulness caught in my throat. We’d been so fortunate that both Josh and Amanda had been accepted at Lane Tech College Prep when we’d moved into Chicago two years ago. The school drew students from all over the city and applications had to meet a wide range of “college prep” standards. Denny had been impressed by the diversity of the student population: Hispanics and Caucasian made up about 70 percent of the population in roughly equal proportions, and Asian and African-American students equally shared the remaining 30 percent. One of Josh’s teachers once told me that at least 90 percent of graduates went on to college.

Not that Josh is going to college, a nasty little voice whispered in my ear. And then I heard Nony’s voice in my other ear: “God has plans for that young man. Not your plans. Don’t stand in His way.”

I put my hand over my heart and heartily sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” with the Lane choir, all in matching blazers, trying to drown out both voices in my head.

We politely listened to the valedictory speech, the citizenship awards, and presentation of the class gift in spite of aching spines. Amanda sighed loudly. I bumped her affectionately with my shoulder. “Two more years, and it’ll be your turn,” I whispered. “And we’ll be just as proud.”

“Shh,” Amanda said. “What’s that guy saying? I thought he said Josh’s name!”

My head whipped up. One of the vice principals was at the microphone on the stage set up on the stadium playing field. “—a student opinion piece in the last issue of The Warrior, our student newspaper. This is a bit unusual, but we have asked the author, Joshua Baxter, to read what he wrote as a graduation challenge to all of our students—and not only our students, but to us as parents, teachers, and administrators.”

Denny and I stiffened in complete shock as the tall figure of our son rose like a leaping trout from the sea of square green “lily pads” and made his way to the platform. The vice principal shook his hand and sat down. Josh leaned toward the microphone and said, “Good evening.” That was all. He fished under his robe, pulled a folded piece of paper from a pocket in his dress slacks, and unfolded it. A quiet born of curiosity settled over the stadium.

Josh cleared his throat. “Three weeks ago, I learned something I didn’t really want to know. And that is: words have power. So does silence. Words can be used for good or evil. So can silence. And we are responsible for how we use both.” My eyes riveted on my son. The paper shook slightly in his hand—or was it a breeze? “In this great country of ours,” he read on, “we have been given many rights, including the right of free speech. To say what we think and believe. But we don’t often talk about the fact that exercising that right has consequences. And how we respond—or don’t respond—to those exercising that right also has consequences.”

I saw Denny lean forward, elbows on his knees, chin on his fists, listening to Josh describe the events of three weeks ago: a “free speech” rally organized by a local hate group, a university professor who knew the power of words to affect attitudes, an angry crowd—and then a cowardly act in the middle of the night that left that same university professor in a coma.

“I went to that rally full of idealism; I went home thinking nobody is going to listen. Nothing is ever going to change. What I think or say or do won’t make any difference. I wanted to chuck it all. Just look out for myself. That’s what everyone else is doing.” Josh looked up from his paper. “But I was wrong.”

I could hardly breathe. My heart pounded in my ears. I strained to listen.

“A courageous man lying in the hospital taught me that to remain silent is to allow evil words and evil attitudes to fill the empty spaces. An angry student at that rally, who assumed I was a racist skinhead—” Josh ran a hand over the fuzz on his head, looked up from his paper, and grinned. “Well, not so bald now,” he quipped. Laughter rippled over the stadium. “That student taught me that if I don’t correct wrong assumptions, they become bigger than life and actually become true. Because silence speaks.”

Josh looked down at his paper. “There’s an old saying from my parents’ generation”—I poked Denny and mouthed, “Old?”—“ ‘If you aren’t part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.’ I didn’t want to believe that. Because it demands that I stand up and be counted for what I believe, just like Dr. Mark Smith. Just like many other brave men and women who have shown us the path to brotherhood against the forces of prejudice and fear. And many paid for their courage with their lives. I don’t know if I’m that brave. But there is no middle ground. Silence is not an option, because the voices of hate and division and violence are growing stronger.”

The mortarboard on Josh’s head tipped up, and he looked toward the west bleachers, as if he were talking directly to us. “I want to be part of the solution. I want to follow in the steps of that courageous man, Dr. Mark Smith, who believed one person can make a difference. My attitudes. What I say or don’t say. What I do or don’t do. It has to begin with me.”

Josh folded his paper. He started for the steps of the stage. Before he reached the ground, a swell of clapping brought the students of his class to their feet. The dignitaries on the stage followed. Parents and families in the stands rose all around us. The senior class began to chant, “Bax-ter! Bax-ter! Bax-ter!”

Tears dripped off my chin. Somewhere deep in my spirit I heard Nony saying, “God will use your Joshua like the Joshua of old, to fight a battle that the older generation did not fight.”