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2005, MINNEAPOLIS
Zander kicked the soccer ball toward Michael, but it spun to the left and the big kid from the other team, Number Fourteen, intercepted the pass. The boy sent it flying to his teammate who drove it into the goal with lightening speed. Zander saw them smirk with satisfaction when they looked across the field at him.
“It’s okay, Zander. We’ll get’em next time.” Michael trotted over to his side and bent with his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. “Besides, that kid’s a jerk. I heard him call you a wimp.”
“Why would he do that? He doesn’t even know me.” He didn’t understand other kids sometimes. Luckily, he had Michael. His best friend. He was up front with him. He let him know when other kids said mean things behind his back.
Michael straightened and shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you take care of him.”
“What do you mean?” But Michael was already running off down the field and the coach was yelling at Zander from the sidelines.
He was taken out of the game after he lost the ball to the other team again. He sat on the bench and watched Michael zip through the other team’s guards like they were standing still. He was always amazed at his friend’s speed and agility. Michael kicked the ball to Adam. Adam kicked it back to Michael. And SCORE! They were ahead once again.
He high-fived his friend at the end of the game. “That was awesome, Michael! You kicked their butts.”
Michael grinned and poured his water bottle over his head, then shook like a dog. “Totally! Did you see Number Fourteen go down?” he asked, looking back toward the other team’s sideline. “He didn’t know what hit him.”
Zander shook his head. He’d been talking to Billy when Number Fourteen got hurt and missed the action, but there was a time-out while they helped him off the field. Someone said they heard he’d been taken to the hospital with a broken leg. “I didn’t see it, but I hope he’s okay.”
“You’re way too soft,” Michael mumbled, wiping his face on the sleeve of his jersey. “He got what he deserved. He would have done it to you if he could’ve.” He grabbed his duffel bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Someone’s got to look out for ya.”
“You didn’t do that to him on purpose, did you?” Zander asked, fearing his friend’s answer. Michael always surprised him. He couldn’t sense his emotions as easily as he did the other kids in their class, which was a relief in some ways, but confusing in others.
Michael snorted a laugh and strode toward the bikes. “Course not. That would be poor sportsmanship, wouldn’t it?”
He picked up his own bag and followed. Suddenly he felt raging anger swell within him and had to stop. The brutal emotion made his heart hammer with fear. He looked around to pinpoint where it came from. Two of the kids from the other team stood staring across the field toward him. Their coach yelled for everyone to get on the bus and they ran off.
“What are you feeling sorry for them for?” Michael waited for him, straddling his bike.
Zander shook his head. “I’m not.”
He got on his bike and peddled off fast, riding to get away from the emotional confusion. He hated his so-called gift. Dr. Kapoor told him he needed to separate his feelings from others, to put up an imaginary wall between the two. He could then deal with them in a clinical fashion. Clinical fashion. What a bunch of–.
“Hey! Wait up.” Michael yelled. “I thought we were riding together to Peach Street.”
Zander slowed and let his friend come alongside. “Sorry. I wanted to get home quick. I’m hungry.” He grinned. “You want to come over for pizza rolls?”
“Can’t. My dad wants me home. He said we’re doing something later.”
“Who’d ya get for your email pen pal? Mrs. Colby said we have to write’em at least once a week.” Their English teacher had gotten together with other teachers around the state and decided since nobody wrote real letters anymore it would be a good idea to have email pen pals. It was supposed to be an experiment of some kind. They’d get extra credit if they brought in copies of their correspondence. He wasn’t so good at sentence structuring or figuring out prepositions, adverbs and participles. Extra credit would ensure him a passing grade and his dad wouldn’t throw a fit. But writing letters to a stranger? That seemed really weird.
“Some kid called Sillybuddy.” Michael laughed. “What a dork! Who’d you get?”
Real names were not to be used. Their pen pals would remain completely anonymous. Each of them made up a nickname and set up an email using that name, then names and addresses were dispersed among the teachers involved and handed out to the students in their classes.
“Lime green,” he said, slanting a glance at his friend.
Michael snorted. “Sounds like a girl. You can write love letters to her.”
“Yeah, well who says Sillybuddy isn’t a girl? Sillybuddy,” he teased in a high singsong voice.
“Whatever! I’m not gonna write the stupid kid anyway.”
Zander slowed at the corner. “See you tomorrow.” He waved and turned down Peach Street while Michael continued up South Trinton
The anger building in him earlier had completely dissipated now, but left a cold, dark place inside his chest. He wished there was a kill button on these surges of emotion, some way to stop them from getting inside and taking over. It was like a lightening strike. He never knew when, where, or how powerful they would be.
He wanted to know why. Why him?
*****
“ZANDER, DON’T LEAVE your dirty clothes in that gym bag.”
They were the most words his Mom had said to him in days. She smiled, and he almost burst out crying. She was back! She’d been shut up in her room for the last two weeks while he and Dad pretended nothing was wrong.
She started through the swinging door to the kitchen and then stopped, her hand on the half open door. “I baked cookies. Want some?”
He dropped the bag, a loopy grin stretching his face. “Yeah, I’m starved.”
She pointed. “Laundry first, kiddo. Something could be growing in there.”
“Okay, but I’m wearing the really stinky ones,” he said. “In case you’re interested—we won,” he called out as the door swung shut after her. He picked up the bag and trudged to the laundry room at the end of the hall. He pulled out his dirty clothes, stuffed them in the washer, added soap, set the dials, and closed the lid. The water began to fill the washer and he turned around to see his mom standing in the doorway watching.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” she asked, a soft expression in her eyes. “I thought you’d throw them in the basket.”
He shrugged, not wanting to make her sad with the reality that he’d been taking care of things like that since he was six. She lived in her own world most of the time, and it didn’t usually include laundry or cooking dinner. That fell to him or Dad.
“You’re going to be a great catch for a sweet girl someday.” She put her arms around him and hugged him tight, then kissed his cheek. “But until then, you’re all mine.
He didn’t mind the mushy stuff. He hugged her back, wanting the moment to last. She hadn’t really noticed him in a very long time. He was afraid this mom that he loved so much would turn around and disappear upstairs without a trace.
They returned to the kitchen. The sweet aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies filled the air. “You made my favorite.” He hopped up on one of the barstools at the counter while she scooped cookies from a baking sheet.
“Of course. My son, the soccer champ, deserves the best.” She poured him a tall glass of milk and set it and a plate of cookies before him.
“I’m not the champ. Michael is. He scored four goals.” Zander liked the adoration in his mother’s eyes, but he didn’t deserve it. And the word champ made a bitter taste in his mouth. He barely made the team. He’d never be a star.
She laughed. “I don’t know Michael, but I know you, and you’re my champ.” She put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “How are they?” she asked after he took a bite.
“Awesome!” He stuffed the rest of the cookie in his mouth and chewed happily.
“That’s good, because I used extra chips just the way you like them.”
He licked melted chocolate from his lips and took a gulp of milk, watching his mom wash dishes at the sink. She was tall and slim with dark skin and eyes, but she took after Grandma more than Grandpa. Grandpa was loud and bossy, sort of like Uncle Frank. Mom was–polite. Especially when people were around. She smiled and glided through the rooms, greeted guests, refilled glasses, but never really joined in the fun. If adult parties could be called fun.
She glanced back at him. “You feel like pizza tonight?”
He nodded, his mouth too full to speak.
“I’ll call your dad and tell him to bring one home later.” She dried her hands on a dishtowel. “What do you want on your Tombstone?” she asked in an ominous voice as she reached for the phone.
“Pepperoni and black olives.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and noticed the burn line under the edge of his sleeve. “Hey Mom, how come I don’t have dark skin like you? I played soccer for the last two weeks and all I ever do is burn. Everybody else gets tan. Except for Matt. He has to wear long sleeves ’cause he’s allergic to the sun.”
The phone fell from his mother’s fingers and hit the floor. The plastic cover on the back shot off and skittered under the table. She didn’t seem to notice. She stared at him like a fish out of water; her mouth opened and then shut and then opened...
He jumped off his chair and picked up the phone, but not before dread swept over him. Fear mingled with uncertainty, and he looked up puzzled. She turned back to the sink and busied herself drying dishes in the rack.
What in the world was she afraid of? Was he allergic to the sun too? Did she think he’d get burned real bad and have to go to the doctor? “Mom, it’s okay. I didn’t get that burned.”
She shook her head but didn’t turn around. “I know. I was thinking about something else.” She sniffled a couple of times and he realized she was crying.
He touched her arm. “What are you sad about, Mom? If you tell me, maybe I can help.”
She finally put down the damp towel and faced him. “It’s something your dad and I should talk to you about together. Let’s wait until he gets home, okay?” Her eyes were bright and shiny when she tried to smile.
He stared at her for long seconds, denying the thought that came unbidden to his mind. His lower lip trembled, and he caught it between his teeth like he used to when he was little. “I’m not your real son?” he finally choked out, a lump blocking his throat.
She was momentarily stunned. She didn’t comfort or deny. She just stared at him as though he were a stranger.
Zander turned and ran from the kitchen, down the hallway and upstairs to his room. He heard her call after him, but he didn’t care. This time her feelings were not the most important thing to consider, as Dad was fond of saying. It was his turn to lock the door against the rest of the world and hide away in the dark under his blankets and tears.
He heard a soft step in the hallway as she approached his door. He thought she would knock and ask to come in, but after a short pause she continued on to her room
In the silence that ensued Zander wished he’d never been born. And then questions came, tumbling one after another through his mind. Who were his parents? Were they like him? Did they feel a swirl of emotions around them all the time? Did voices tell them things? Or did they give him away because he was a freak?
*****
HANOVER
Lori listened to her daughter play. The notes washed over her with a rippling effect, calming her very soul. She’d been nervous all week, ever since the doctor appointment. She’d gone in for a routine exam and come out with life-altering news. The second baby she and Sam wanted would never be. They’d found ovarian cancer. She needed a hysterectomy and soon. Emma would forever be an only child. She felt a tear slip out the corner of her eye and brushed it quickly away.
They’d shown up an hour early to church, so Emma could practice before the service. She really didn’t need practice, she played for hours at home every day, but begged for extra time spent with her fingers on the keys of the beautiful grand piano. They could never afford such an instrument, even if their home was large enough to contain one. And she couldn’t say no to the only child she would ever have–could she?
The church’s new ebony Steinway filled the space at the front of the auditorium with a mystique all its own. The members of Grace First Church had been waiting for half a dozen years for such a fine instrument. Over fifty thousand dollars had been donated toward the purchase. It was second-hand, but you’d never know it from the shine of the wood and deep resonant tone as Emma’s hands moved over the keys, gathering speed in a climactic finale to something she’d obviously composed as she went along. She slowly dropped her hands into her lap and turned to smile at Lori.
“That’s what a piano should sound like.” The whispered words carried clearly to the front pew and beyond.
Applause sounded from the back of the auditorium, startling them both. “Bravo!”
Lori swiveled in her seat. “Oh–Pastor Mackey. Sorry to interrupt you. Emma wanted to try out the new piano before the service.”
“That’s quite all right,” he said, striding up the aisle. “I’ve never been blessed with such beautiful music to study by.”
Emma blushed and quickly got up from the bench to exit the stage. She disliked being the center of attention, but when she played the world around her tended to disappear as she felt her way through the music.
“You don’t have to stop.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s still a good twenty minutes before folks begin to arrive. I only wanted to come and thank you for your willingness to play,” he smiled at Emma and then nodded in Lori’s direction, “and for you allowing her the opportunity to be a blessing to the congregation. As I know she will be.”
Lori knew Mrs. Winter had been bending the pastor’s ear about Emma for years now. He’d never pressured her, knowing that she considered her daughter too young. She was still young, but Mrs. Winter was no longer able to play in both services and had requested a replacement in the early one. No doubt, she suggested Emma for the job.
Emma hesitated, unsure whether to sit back at the piano as he suggested or join Lori on the pew.
“Go ahead, honey. If Pastor Mackey doesn’t mind, you might as well play. That’s why we came early.” Lori waved her daughter back up the steps.
Emma sat down and placed her hands lightly on the keys. She closed her eyes and notes began to flow from her fingers like an abundant summer rain, warm and soothing. After many minutes the tempo built to a crescendo of sound reminding Lori of thunder crashing in the midst of a storm.
Pastor Mackey sat next to Lori and listened, his eyes closed as though in meditation, one arm looped over the back of the pew. When the music eventually came to a tinkling end, he opened his eyes. “Your daughter has a very special gift from God, Lori.”
She nodded and smiled up at her daughter who turned to watch them.
He expelled a puff of air as he stood to his feet. “Listening to Emma play is obviously good for what ails me. My stomach was acting up earlier, but now I feel fine. Better go look over my notes a final time before the service.”
When he’d departed the auditorium, Emma slid onto the pew beside Lori and leaned her head on her shoulder. “Pastor Mackey looks better now,” she said, lacing her fingers with Lori’s. “He was sort of yellow when he came in, but now he’s bright orange.”
Lori frowned down at her. “I thought he looked a little peeked too, but I didn’t notice any changing colors. You need glasses, kiddo?”
“I don’t think so.” She looked up into her mother’s face. “You’re not yellow anymore either.”
Lori chuckled. “Glad to hear it. But won’t my new skin color clash with my dress?”
“Not your skin, silly. Your rainbow.”
*****
THE DOCTOR’S CONFUSED expression belied the arrogant attitude he’d displayed earlier. “Mrs. Tatum, I don’t know why you’re here. Dr. Hasperson referred you to me for surgery, but frankly, I don’t understand why. What made him think you needed a hysterectomy? Your ovaries are in perfect condition for a woman your age. There are no signs of cancer. We’ll certainly retest, but I’m fairly positive of the outcome.”
Lori sat on the cold, paper-covered, examining table, wearing nothing but a disposable gown and a stunned expression. She couldn’t find the words. Hasperson was wrong? She was quite capable of conceiving another child? Cancer was not eating away at her body or her dreams?
A ripple of laughter escaped her lips, relief bursting forth with sound. Modesty was the furthest thing from her mind as she stood up and began pulling her clothes from the chair across from them.
“Whoa! Hold on, Mrs. Tatum. I’ll give you a bit of privacy for that. If you don’t have any questions...” He backed toward the door, her file in hand.
She pulled her clothes on so fast that she forgot to put on her socks and tucked them into her purse instead. Sam wouldn’t believe it. He’d held her the night before while tears soaked his t-shirt, patting her back and saying those things husbands say when fear and despair run high. She knew he was more afraid of losing her than her ability to conceive. He hadn’t longed for another baby as she had the last ten years. It was different with men. They didn’t have this internal ache, this deep-seated longing to hold a little one and feel the age-old connection of mother and child, or hear the proverbial clock ticking down until there was no chance left.
She drove across town past the bank and the post office, down Main Street with the drugstore, Momma’s café, and the corner florist, and turned onto Harper Street to pick up Emma from school, a steady smile curving her lips. She parked the car alongside dozens of others and waited for the last bell to ring, her joy barely contained like a bottle of soda pop shook up and capped.
Emma was one of the first out the door, always eager to get home and play with Bear or practice the piano. She spotted her mom and waved, said goodbye to friends, and ran toward the car. She climbed in, wrestling her book bag to the floor.
“Hi, mom!” she said and slammed the door.
“Hey, honey.” Lori started the car and pulled away. “How was school today?” she asked absently, the doctor’s report still making her lips twitch upward.
“Good. I got an A on my math test. And Rick told me he loves me,” she announced calmly, as though boys often gave her such news.
Lori frowned. “Rick who? The pharmacist’s son? The one with red hair and big teeth?” she asked.
“Yep. He sent me a note and asked me to be his girlfriend.” She pushed a strand of blonde hair behind one ear. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I think he’s kind of yucky. I saw him picking his nose in class.”
“That’s definitely a relationship killer.” Lori laughed, and Emma laughed along with her.
“You’re really happy today. Did something good happen?”
“As a matter of fact–something great happened. I went to the doctor and he gave me a clean bill of health.” She turned and winked. “What do you think about that?”
Emma shrugged. “I told you Sunday morning the yellow was gone. Didn’t you believe me?”
Lori pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. She took Emma’s chin in the palm of her hand and drew her face close to her own. “Honey, what are you saying? You can see when I’m sick or healthy by a rainbow of color? Who have you been talking to? Are they teaching that new age garbage at your school?”
“No. I never told nobody at school.” She drew back, her eyes wide with concern. “Why are you mad, Mommy? Is it bad to make people better? I just played the sick colors away.”
Lori swallowed hard, memories of Bear’s accident coming to mind. Emma had only been three but already she knew the notes of the piano and could play a few tunes. If she remembered correctly, Emma had played for Bear that time too. She shook her head. It couldn’t be. Impossible. Emma was imagining things. For heaven’s sake, she was imagining things. Sam would laugh at her foolishness when she told him later. “No, it’s not bad. Doctors do it all the time,” she answered glibly, hoping Emma didn’t notice her hesitancy. She reached for the door handle. “Come on, kiddo. You can play something beautiful on the piano while I make dinner.”
Emma bit at her bottom lip, her eyes downcast. “You don’t believe me.”
She paused, unsure how to respond. “Of course, I believe you. I believe you believe it. But no matter how gifted you are at playing the piano, honey, you can’t heal people with music. Only God performs miracles.”
“I don’t feel like playing tonight.” Emma jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and ran into the house.
Lori sat there another minute wondering what just happened. She’d tried to sound calm and reasonable, but apparently, she’d come across as ungrateful and disbelieving. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to understand. Emma had never lied to her. She must believe deeply in this ability to heal. How could she get through to her without destroying their relationship? Would a third party be able to reason with her?
She climbed out of the car. Pastor Mackey’s face came to mind. Emma liked and respected the Pastor. Would she be more apt to listen to him? She expelled an exasperated breath, remembering the conversation she’d had with the man Sunday morning. He might not be the impartial voice of wisdom she needed. After all, he’d credited Emma’s playing with healing effects. His innocent statement was now a disturbing coincidence.