She’d forgotten to have her own private good-bye where Sarah Jo Stryker was concerned.
The funeral had been beautiful. Several people spoke, and at the end, Alice Stryker made her way to the podium and told everyone in attendance to live for the day.
“You can’t find your way back to yesterday,” she told them. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she talked, but her voice was clear. “And you can’t know what tomorrow will bring.” She paused and looked around the room at the faces of parents and children who had become important to Sarah Jo in such a short time. “But you have today. Make the most of every minute, because . . . because . . . well, it might be your last.”
Pastor Mark Atteberry had given the eulogy. He talked about Sarah Jo finding her place in the choir of heaven, singing for Jesus, bringing a smile to His face.
The memory of the funeral service faded, and Katy swallowed back her emotion. Pastor Mark was right. Sarah Jo was happy and free now, happier about singing than ever before. But that didn’t make her loss any easier to bear.
Katy stared at the stage, and her vision blurred. She was no longer sitting in a cold, dark theater by herself. Rather she was surrounded by fans, watching Sarah Jo take the stage on closing night. Her voice had a way of knocking people back in their seats, awestruck that so beautiful a sound could come from such a young girl. But that wasn’t all. In the time it took her to work through rehearsals and complete the run of the show with CKT, something had changed in Sarah Jo’s eyes.
On closing night for Tom Sawyer, Katy had seen it clearly. Sarah Jo had learned to love singing. No matter what her mother thought or how she’d been trained to think of every performance as a stepping-stone to something bigger and better, Sarah Jo sang that last night with reckless abandon, with all her heart, as if it were the final performance of her life.
Which it was.
Trails of hot tears pressed their way down Katy’s cheeks, and she didn’t stop them. Whenever she was alone in this place she would always see Sarah Jo the way she looked that night, her eyes shining, voice ringing out for all of heaven to hear. But everyone would have to live with the saddest truth of all. Forevermore, the rich sound of CKT would have one less voice in its mix.
And the song would never be the same again.
Jeremy Fisher was alone in his jail cell, hunched over on a narrow wooden bench. His fingers shook, rustling the old news-paper the warden had given to him. Now—as they’d been for the past hour—his eyes were stuck on a front-page headline that read “Drunk Driver’s Tragic Past Recounted.”
Three times he’d let his eyes drop farther down the page into the article that told his story. But most of the time he just stared at the headline and tried to remember how to swallow, how to breathe.
Drunk driver? Was that really him, the one who had slammed his truck into a van full of little kids? He shuddered, and nausea welled up inside him. The cell smelled of urine and sweat, a constant reminder that yes, he really was that drunk driver. And this was his new reality.
His dad knew part of the truth now, but it didn’t matter. The old man was serving as an army commander in Iraq. Jeremy guessed he could get a leave if he wanted to, but he’d only wired a simple message saying he’d be home in three months. They could deal with it then. In the meantime there was no money, no one to bail him out or get him a lawyer.
Not that he deserved one.
He pushed his fingers up his forehead into the mass of brown curls. Since the accident, a million times each day he tried to remember what had happened, why he’d drunk so much in the first place and how come he’d thought he could make it home. But it was like it had happened to someone else altogether.
It wasn’t just the memories from that night that were gone. He couldn’t piece together anything from the week leading up to the accident, and he understood why. He’d been stone drunk for all of it, drunk to the point of blacking out.
A public defender had been by to see him today, and he’d said something that stayed with Jeremy. “Maybe you were trying to kill yourself.” The attorney was matter-of-fact. “Ever think about that?”
Jeremy hadn’t thought about it until then, but now that he had time to mull over the idea, the guy probably had a point. Or maybe he wasn’t trying to kill himself; maybe he was just trying to erase the loneliness. Not that he’d ever tell anyone else that. Loneliness sounded like an excuse, and there was no excuse for what he’d done. None whatsoever.
So what if his father had been called up in the first batch of reservists? Never mind the fact that less than a year before that he’d been laid off from his job as a sheet-metal worker, or that his mother had run off to New Mexico with an old boyfriend a few months after his father left. Lots of high school kids lived with little or no contact with their parents. So why had he started partying so hard? And why had he dropped out of school without telling his father?
The old man had e-mailed him every few days, but Jeremy never told him the truth. Not that he’d struggled in school or that he’d dropped out or that he couldn’t find his way from morning to night without drinking so much that he was surprised when he woke up each day.
Even now, his dad didn’t know all the details. He knew Jeremy had been arrested for drunk driving but not that two kids had died.
The nausea doubled.
Two kids. A little boy, six years old, and a girl—barely twelve. He’d driven his truck over the yellow line and shattered two families forever. He stood and moved to the bars that held him inside the cell. His fingers wrapped around the cold metal, and he hung his head. The system could spare him a trial. He was guilty as sin, guilty with no hope of forgiveness.
Whether they set him free or locked him up forever, the jail bars would stay with him. Each morning and at every breakfast, every time he climbed into his old jeans or brushed his teeth, every bit of every day the truth would stay with him like a demon on his shoulder.
He was a murderer.
Two kids were dead because of him.
A trial wouldn’t prove anything, it wouldn’t make things right for him and his father, and it wouldn’t bring healing to the families who’d lost so much. It wouldn’t bring the kids back. He banged his head softly on the cell bars and gritted his teeth. A trial would never be enough and neither would a life sentence.
Only one thing would bring him release at this point—the one thing he’d hoped for since he sobered up that terrible Saturday morning. The only thing that would make everything right again.
His quick and certain death.
The day after Sarah Jo’s funeral, Clear Creek High happened to have a late start scheduled. Jenny Flanigan was grateful. In the haze of sorrow and grief from the past week, she’d spent almost no time alone with Bailey. They’d been together in groups, and dozens of CKT kids had hung out at their house every day since Monday. But she and Bailey had a closer relationship than most mothers and daughters. They needed their time together.
Now it was eight thirty, and the boys were off to elementary school. Bailey came downstairs, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, her hair curled. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi.” Jenny was sipping coffee, sitting at one of the barstools along the kitchen island. She studied her daughter and felt a small burst of happiness. The circles under her eyes told how hard she’d cried the day before, but this morning her eyes held something they hadn’t for a week.
Fresh hope.
Bailey poured a bowl of cereal and sat at the bar next to Jenny. “I wish every day was a late start.” She blew at a wisp of hair and smiled. “I could get used to sleeping in until seven.”
Jenny slid her fingers around the warm coffee mug. “You doing okay?”
Bailey finished her bite of Corn Chex and nodded. “Better.” She glanced out the back kitchen window to the view of their pool. “Sad as it still is, it felt good spending a week with my CKT friends.” She looked at Jenny and rolled her eyes. “Took me out of the real-life drama at school.”
; “What do you hear?” Jenny leaned onto the counter, watching her daughter’s eyes. Bailey told her everything. She knew who was seeing whom and which freshman was making the decision to drink or smoke marijuana. She and Bailey shared a code of honor, a trust that what they talked about stayed between them.
“Okay, get this.” Bailey shook her head and ate a quick bite of cereal. “Melissa’s mom had a few of the cheerleaders over the other night.” Bailey waved her hand in the air above her. “Every one of their mothers thought it was this innocent sleepover, right? Well—” she paused—“the girls snuck into Melissa’s mom’s vodka, and they all took turns doing shots.”
“On a school night?” Jenny felt her stomach turn. “Which girls?”
“The usual drinkers, you know, half the cheerleader squad. But this time Abbie joined them.” Bailey’s expression fell. “Mom, she’s so stupid. She’d never had alcohol before.”
The sick feeling doubled. “Why did she?”
“She says it’s ’cause I wasn’t there.” Bailey stirred her cereal. “If I was there she wouldn’t have. So I feel terrible, but what could I do? I had Sarah Jo’s funeral.”
“Honey . . .” Jenny put her hand on Bailey’s shoulder. “You don’t have to think like that. Abbie can’t have you by her side every minute. At some point these kids have to make the right decisions on their own.”
“I know.” She planted her elbow on the counter and sighed. “Why do they think drinking’s so great?”
Conversations like this one happened more often with Bailey, and lately Jenny had wondered if she was making the right decision by keeping quiet about what she knew. She and Jim had talked about it, agonizing over the fact that if Bailey was out drinking they’d want someone to tell them. Still, at this age, most kids—kids without a strong family faith and even some with a strong faith—were lying to their parents. And the parents seemed to prefer being in the dark to knowing the truth about what their teenagers were doing.
Bailey went on. “Look how stupid they’re being, Mom. And they don’t even care.” She exhaled hard. “Sometimes it seems that by next year, Tanner and I will be the only ones not throwing our lives away. I mean, what’s the big deal about drinking?”
“Especially after the accident.” Jenny sat straighter and finished what was left of her coffee. “Alcohol killed those kids, after all.”
Her eyes flashed at that. “No, Mom. Alcohol didn’t kill them. Jeremy Fisher did.”
“The drunk driver.”
“Yes.” Anger colored her tone, and she clenched her fists. “Some of the other kids at CKT and I want to do something, make an example of him.”
Bailey was right, of course. Jeremy Fisher needed to be punished. But the anger in Bailey’s voice worried Jenny. Bailey sounded as if the only solution for the young man was a cold, hard, determined revenge.
Jenny stood, walked to the kitchen sink, and rinsed her coffee mug. “Bailey . . .”
“What?” There was still an edge to her voice.
Jenny looked over her shoulder. “Leave room for God to deal with Jeremy Fisher.”
Bailey’s shoulders dropped a few inches. “Meaning we shouldn’t try to keep him in jail? Mom, if he drives a car again, he’ll kill someone else.”
Jenny turned and leaned against the sink. “I’m not saying we should look the other way.” Her voice was calm. Justice and grace were hard concepts for anyone, especially for a person young in her faith. “I just think it isn’t healthy to harbor a lot of hatred toward the drunk driver. God would want you to spend your time loving the people he hurt or being an example for kids like Abbie.” She hesitated. “Don’t you think?”
Bailey shrugged. She held the cereal bowl to her lips and drank what was left of the milk. When she was finished she cocked her head, her eyes filled with steely determination. “I think all that. But I think he should be punished too.” She stood, left her bowl on the bar, and grabbed an apple from the fruit basket near the refrigerator.
Jenny watched her daughter for a few moments. This wasn’t the time to push the issue. Instead she drew a slow breath. “You and Tim have talked a lot this week.”
“I know.” She took a bite of the apple, her expression pensive. After she’d chewed and swallowed it she nodded. “About that Tim Reed.” She grinned, the anger from a few seconds earlier gone. “Sometimes I think I like him so much. Other times—” she lowered the apple and looked at the ceiling—“other times all I can see is Tanner smiling at me across the commons area at school.”
Tanner Williams had been Bailey’s friend since fourth grade, and now that they were in high school, his interest in her was at an all-time high. He was a good kid, quarterback of the football team, one of the few who didn’t drink or smoke. He and Bailey had gone to homecoming together.
Jenny wasn’t sure which Bailey liked more about Tanner. The fact that he had stolen her heart when she was only ten years old or the idea that he was safe.
Bailey looked at her. “Tanner called last night. We talked for almost an hour.”
“Was that a good thing?” Jenny didn’t want to push. The relationship she shared with Bailey was something her daughter had always wanted. No prodding or digging for information was needed on Jenny’s part. Bailey shared the details of her life willingly, and when people asked her who her best friend was, she always said the same thing: “My mom.”
Now Bailey grinned. “Very good.”
The doorbell rang, and then they heard the door open. “Hi, it’s me!”
“Cody,” Jenny whispered to her daughter.
“I know.” She raised her eyebrows and straightened her shirt. He rounded the corner and waved at them. He wore Wrangler jeans and a white T-shirt. His dark hair was short, and his dimples seemed to cut all the way through his cheeks when he smiled.
Bailey met him halfway and gave him a quick hug. “You haven’t been by for a while.”
“I knew you were busy.” He looked at Jenny. “The accident and all.” His expression was respectfully somber. “The girl’s funeral was yesterday, right?”
“Yes.” Bailey returned to her spot at the bar. She anchored her feet on the highest rung. No matter what she said about Tanner or Tim, she still had a crush on Cody Coleman. He’d lived with them for three weeks at the end of his freshman year, back when his mother wasn’t able to care for him. He would always feel like part of the family. Bailey gripped her knees, her eyes still on him. “It was so sad.”
“I bet.” Cody opened the fridge and found the milk. He poured a glass and faced Jenny. “Makes me hate drinking; I can tell you that much.”
“I hate it too.” Bailey had the angry look again. “It makes all of us hate it. The guy should stay in jail forever after what he did.”
For a moment, Cody looked concerned, as if maybe some of Bailey’s intensity might be focused on him. Then his expression changed, and he crossed the room and took the stool next to Bailey’s. “Hey—” he looked around her to Jenny—“when can I have my old couch back?”
“Your old couch?” Jenny laughed. “Cody, you’re always welcome here. You know that. It’s your mother you need to check with.” She paused, her tone more serious. “She’s okay, right?”
“Yeah, she’s fine.” He grinned at the two of them. “My mom needs me. I just wanna make sure I’m still part of the family.”
Jenny watched him and breathed a prayer of thanks. God . . . he’s come so far. Thank You for changing his heart.
She felt a lump in her throat at the memory of all he’d been and all he was today. Cody had come to them as a freshman with nowhere to turn, someone who drank heavy amounts every day. Now he was a junior, the most talented receiver on Jim’s team at Clear Creek. He would always be an alcoholic, but it had been a year since he’d touched a drink. Jenny watched him stretch out his legs. God was beyond faithful, always, all the time.
“You’re still part of the family, Cody.” Jenny walked past Bailey and patted Cody on the back as she made her w
ay to the dishwasher. A few bowls were stacked around the sink, so she loaded them. Then she turned around and faced him. “Your mother’s staying away from drinking?”
The shadows in Cody’s eyes told the answer before he could speak. He shrugged. “Most of the time.” He pursed his lips, and the muscles in his jaw flexed a few times. “I’m always on her, telling her to get to her meetings.”
Jenny nodded. “That’s all you can do.”
“That and pray, right?” Cody’s eyes got big. “Speaking of which, I wanna go back to church with you guys again. That big place across town won’t cut it for me.” He grinned. “Lots of girls, but not enough God. Know what I mean?”
“I do.” Jenny loved that Cody felt this comfortable around them, at ease enough to share exactly what was on his heart and mind. After a lifetime of doubting God, he’d been trying churches for the last month. She wasn’t sure how much he understood or whether he was ready to make a commitment, but at least he was interested. “We go Saturdays at 5:30. Just show up at five and you can come whenever you want.”
“Good.” Cody looked at Bailey. His tone was sensitive, as if he suddenly remembered the funeral again. “You okay?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She smiled. “I know where Sarah Jo Stryker is. She asked Jesus into her heart after Tom Sawyer finished last summer.”
He tapped her knee. “Good girl, Bailey. You tell everyone about Jesus. I wish I would’ve known what you know about God when I was your age.”
She looked deep into his eyes for a moment. “I wish that, too, Cody.” Bailey was always quieter around him. As if she was reluctant to say something immature. The corners of her mouth lifted, even as shyness came over her. “The good news is, He’s always known you.”
“Right.” Cody stood and stretched his hands over his head. “And one of these days I might actually find Him too.” He motioned toward the family room. “Can I check out ESPN?”
“Go ahead.” Jenny snagged the newspaper from the farthest kitchen counter. “Bailey has to finish the dishes, and I have the paper to read.” She gave her daughter a pointed look. “Okay, miss, let’s take care of your bowl and the pans from last night.”