“Not fair.” Cole was standing over her. “Mom, you’re so good.”
Ashley stood up and dusted off her hands. “Not at basketball.”
Cole laughed. “True.”
“God gives us different gifts.” Kari joined them. She smiled at Ashley’s drawing. “He just happened to saturate your mother with the gift of creating art. Even from chalk.”
Jessie walked up and added her voice to the others’. Kari pointed at Amy’s drawing. “I think we have another artist in the family.” She kissed the top of Amy’s head.
“Really?” Amy’s eyes shone.
“You have a gift. I’ve been telling you.” Ashley put her arm around Amy. “How about we get some basic supplies next week when we’re home.”
“Okay.” Amy grinned. “Thanks.”
When they were finished, they washed their hands and headed for the car. As Ashley drove to the hotel, Kari shot her another look. She hadn’t forgotten about the letter.
Ashley definitely didn’t want to talk about it now. She kept her phone in her pocket on the short drive. As soon as she had a minute alone, she would read the letter. And of course she’d share it with Kari and later with Landon. They could all brainstorm how to help the guy. Which actually might not be possible. Ashley had gotten only one detail in the brief time she’d had the note open. Something she couldn’t stop thinking about. It was the guy’s name. The guy who clearly had a broken heart.
Brady Bradshaw.
6
B rady gripped the handlebars and leaned his motorcycle into the curve ahead of him. He took the ramp onto the freeway faster than he should’ve, the wind rushing at him like it was alive, washing over him. He lowered his head to cut the draft and picked up speed.
Jenna hadn’t come.
Eleven years in a row and still she hadn’t been back. At least not that he’d ever seen. And she’d never found his letters. Otherwise she would’ve at least contacted him. Because you don’t just have the best day of your life with someone and not reach out if you get the chance.
That’s what Brady figured.
Back in the beginning, on the second and third years after the two of them met, Brady assured himself that his feelings for her would grow less over time. If he never saw her again, eventually he would forget they’d ever met. He might even stop going to the memorial.
But it was more than a decade later and Brady hadn’t forgotten her. Not at all. Her image in his mind had grown stronger, clearer. His determination to find her had never been more consuming. He exited the freeway and slowed for a stoplight. What was it about her?
Brady knew the answer. He had convinced himself that she was the only girl on the planet who could understand him. Or was it something deeper? Maybe having feelings for a figment of his imagination was easier than falling for someone right in front of him. One of the girls he’d met over the years.
The light turned green. Brady clenched his jaw as he sped through the intersection. Whatever it was, the girl had hold of his heart. That much had never changed. He lowered his head again, the wind pushing at him. If only it were tomorrow already. Then he would’ve survived another anniversary.
He wove in and out of traffic until he saw Jefferson Street. A quick right and he picked up speed again. Images from earlier filled his mind. The people along the fence, the way none of them were Jenna. And who was the pretty brunette who kept staring at him? For a few minutes back at the memorial he’d even wondered if she maybe knew Jenna. Maybe the girl Brady dreamed about had sent this woman to see if he’d be there.
The idea was crazy. Whoever the brunette was, Brady didn’t know her. It had to be she recognized him from Survivor, or maybe from some news show about the bombing. He leaned hard into a left turn. Speed like this wasn’t his usual style. Only once a year, when he wanted to outrun the brokenness inside him. Most days he drove his pickup truck. He’d been at the scene of too many motorcycle accidents. He knew better than to drive like this.
But the anniversary had its own rules.
A right turn at the next light and another right. Two lefts and there it was. The house where he had first learned he might actually survive all this. The home of Cheryl and Rodney Fisher. The couple he’d met at the memorial when he was still in high school.
Brady cut the engine, parked his bike and locked up his helmet. He removed his sunglasses and set them in the small compartment next to his helmet. He wouldn’t be here long. Just enough to let the couple know he remembered them.
He still appreciated them.
Cheryl opened the door before he reached the front walkway. She stepped onto the porch and smiled. Not the typical smile of a person expecting company. Not the smile Cheryl would’ve had before April 19, 1995. But the smile of someone wounded. The closer Brady got the more he could see she’d been crying.
And of course.
This day was a nightmare for them, same as it was for him. The day all of them wanted to rewrite. That they might be anywhere but the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building that fateful Wednesday. The Fishers had lost their two-year-old son, Jimmy, in the bombing. He wasn’t actually in the daycare center. His nineteen-year- old aunt—Cheryl’s sister—had just entered the building, intent on signing Jimmy in at the facility.
They were ten yards away from the front desk when the bomb hit.
Cheryl’s sister had died, too.
Brady reached the top of the stairs and immediately Cheryl’s arms were around him. He was never sure, but Brady had a feeling that in some ways he took the place of Jimmy. Never mind that Jimmy was black and Brady was white. Brady felt like Jimmy was his sibling. The boy would’ve been a few years younger than Brady. Like a little brother. Or maybe a best friend. Jimmy had been the Fishers’ only child. They never had another baby after the bombing. Their doctor said sometimes high levels of stress could make a woman infertile.
Collateral damage after the bombing.
“Brady.” Cheryl pulled back from the hug and found his eyes. “Thanks for stopping by.” She kept her arm around his waist as they headed into the house. “Rodney’s waiting for you.” Brady followed her inside and there was Rodney, sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out before him. One of the last of a generation who still read one.
Brady took a step forward. “Mr. Fisher.”
“Brady.” He closed the paper and stood, stretching out his arms. “Come here.”
This was their way. The Fishers saw Brady as family. One of their own. They had moved past handshakes and formalities years ago. Rodney hugged Brady the way parents hug their kids when they return from war. The older man drew back and studied him. “You look good. Still doing that workout?”
“CrossFit? Yes, sir.” He chuckled. “Gotta be ready for the next big fire.”
Cheryl patted his hand. “You’ll be ready.” Her tone told him she was proud of him. “No one’s more ready than you, Brady.” She motioned to the living room. “Let’s sit down. I put out coffee and snacks.”
Of course she did. Sweet Cheryl Fisher was one of the kindest people Brady had ever met. On the table between the two sofas Cheryl had set a pot of coffee and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Brady didn’t typically do either. But he would fake it today. He could at least do that for Cheryl and Rodney.
Brady sat next to Rodney while Cheryl poured the coffee. “Still no cream?”
“No cream. Thank you, though. You’re too nice.” He looked from Cheryl to her husband and back again. “You don’t need to do this.”
“Brady, don’t you know?” Cheryl handed him the coffee. Fresh tears filled her eyes. “We look forward all year to this visit with you.”
Guilt thudded Brady in his chest. He lived seven miles away, but he made this trip just once every twelve months. On the anniversary. He glanced at the nearest bookcase. Had to be six Bibles on the various shelves, and on the wall was a framed print. It read: With God all things are possible.
Brady narrowed his gaze. Try telling that to his
mother. Or to Jenna.
There you go again. Thinking mean and cynical. Trapped in hate and unforgiveness. Brady forced the slightest smile and turned back to the couple. He knew about God, of course. He just didn’t believe in Him. That’s why he didn’t come more often. Brady set the coffee down. “You gonna tell me about Jimmy?”
They did this every year. A smile lit up Cheryl’s eyes as she took her seat at the table. The first real smile since he’d gotten here. She looked at her husband. “Rodney, should we tell him?”
“Let’s do.” Rodney put his arm around her. He nodded at his wife. “You start.”
“Jimmy, Jimmy.” Cheryl shook her head and sighed. “Sweet little baby boy. Biggest brown eyes you ever saw.” She looked long toward the front window. Like she was seeing all the way back to 1995. “Oh, how that boy loved life. Right straight out of the womb.”
“True.” Rodney poked his finger into the air as if to highlight the fact. “Other babies cry when they’re born. Not Jimmy.”
“No, not Jimmy.” Cheryl glanced at her husband, and then at Brady. “Doctors thought something was wrong with him. How come he wasn’t wailing like a baby’s supposed to do?”
She stood and found a photo album on the nearby coffee table in the next room. When she was back at the table, she opened it. The same photo album they looked through every anniversary. “Here he is.” She pointed to the photo of a newborn Jimmy. His eyes shining with possibility. “Look at that. Grinning right straight from heaven into our arms.”
“That boy was always happy.” Rodney leaned close, studying the picture.
Cheryl turned the page and raised the book every so often to show Brady. “On his first birthday he put his whole fist in the cake.” She looked at Rodney. “Remember that? He learned how to say ‘Uh-oh’ that day!”
“Couldn’t forget it.” Rodney shook his head and turned to Brady. “Except he didn’t eat it like other babies. He held it out to me and his mama. ‘Dada?’ That little voice of his. ‘Dada?’ ”
Cheryl closed her eyes for a moment and opened them again. “I can still hear him, still see the way he looked at me that day. Just like it was happening all over again.” Cheryl turned the next page.
Brady knew the stories. He knew the pictures. He’d been sixteen when he met the Fishers on the anniversary of the bombing. The couple had bought him lunch that day and listened to his story. Before they parted ways, Cheryl had given Brady a phone number and an address. “Join us for dinner next Sunday. Four sharp.” And Brady did. That was the first time he’d heard the story of Jimmy.
In the early years after that dinner, Cheryl and Rodney had been there for Brady when he wasn’t sure he had the will to live. When he felt alone and when he couldn’t find Jenna. But then the Christian thing kept coming up. Cheryl would invite him to church or Rodney would want to open the Bible. Eventually Brady visited less often and in the last few years just on the anniversary. The least he could do was sit here and listen to them talk about Jimmy. Who else would care about their loss this many years removed from the bombing? Who else would care about his?
Cheryl continued through the photo album. She talked about the exact day Jimmy started walking and the day he threw a ball for the first time.
“He was gonna be the next Michael Jordan.” Rodney chuckled at his wife. “Isn’t that so?”
“Sure could shoot a basketball.” Cheryl touched a photo of Jimmy in a red Michael Jordan T-shirt, number 23, holding a small orange ball and smiling like it was the best day of his life. Cheryl grew quiet. “Played with that mini hoop all day, every day.”
Brady knew each detail of the story that followed. Jimmy was running by the time he turned two. Racing through the house, laughing and talking. He loved Bible stories and playing with blocks and Winnie-the-Pooh. He thought he was Christopher Robin. So much so that on his second birthday, Cheryl and Rodney threw him a party with a theme Jimmy had loved: the Hundred Acre Wood.
Two weeks later Jimmy was dead. Christopher Robin never got a chance to grow up.
The story slowed down as it neared the end. Tears spilled from Cheryl’s eyes. Rodney’s, too. Quiet tears. Stoic. Tears of regret and loss and what might’ve been. Especially that. Cheryl took a napkin from the table and dabbed her eyes. “We watched Winnie-the-Pooh one more time. Before . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Rodney covered her hand with his.
Cheryl closed the photo album. “That was him. Little Jimmy.”
“He’s with Jesus now. We know that.” Rodney looked straight at Brady. “We’ll see him again. Our Jimmy. Closer every day.”
Tears clouded Brady’s vision. He blinked them back. Struggled for composure. This was always the awkward part. How could he just get up, climb on his bike and ride away? Listen to them tell Jimmy’s story and then leave? Rather than be a friend to this kind couple all year long? Brady had no answers for himself.
He clasped his hands and stared at the floor. Until he could hear Cheryl’s crying slow some. “Jimmy and I . . .” Brady lifted his eyes to Cheryl’s, then to Rodney’s. “We would’ve been friends. Somehow . . . we would’ve found each other.”
The couple nodded. This was what they held on to. The possibility that Jimmy might’ve been Brady’s friend. And in that case, somehow seeing Brady was almost like seeing Jimmy. Grown up and happy and whole. That was the gift Brady gave them whenever he came around.
Even if only once every April.
He stood. “I have to go.”
“Brady.” Rodney stayed seated. “Let us pray for you. At least that.”
This hadn’t happened last year or the year before. He’d told the Fishers long ago that he wasn’t a praying man. Didn’t want to talk about God or open the Scriptures. They respected his wishes, but today . . . well, today, there was an urgency in Rodney’s voice.
Brady stifled a sigh. “Yes, sir.” He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands again.
“You and God still on the outs?” Rodney narrowed his eyes, like he was trying to see through Brady’s soul.
“Yes, sir. I guess you could say that.” Brady looked at the man. “But thank you for praying. I know it matters to you and Mrs. Fisher.”
They were both quiet. Cheryl spoke first. “It does matter, Brady. It matters to God.”
Brady couldn’t take much more of this. Not on the anniversary. He bowed his head. The signal was clear, the discussion finished. Across from him Rodney led the prayer. Something about healing a little more every year and asking God to watch over Jimmy and Cheryl’s sister and, of course, Brady’s mama.
Then at the end the man prayed something he hadn’t before.
“Whatever it takes, God. Please. Get Brady’s attention. So that when You do, he’ll know it was You. Because only God could have done it. Whatever that might be.” When Rodney finished, they shared their usual goodbyes and Brady made his annual promises to come around more often. Before he left, Cheryl stood in front of him and took hold of his hands. Hers were gentle, but firm.
The way his mother might’ve held him.
“Brady.” She searched his face. “Nothing good ever came from being on the outs with God.” Her eyes were damp again, imploring him to see her. Hear her. “Let this be the year. Please.”
He stared at the ground and gritted his teeth. A slight nod and he looked at her again. “Yes, ma’am.” He kissed her cheek. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“We love you.” Rodney hugged him next.
Brady couldn’t say a word. His throat was too tight, his heart too broken. He turned and walked to the front door. A look back at each of them, a quick wave and Brady was gone.
On the ride back to the freeway, he couldn’t stop reliving Rodney’s prayer. He wanted to forget the words but he couldn’t shake them. Rodney had asked for a sign from God, and that He would look out for Jimmy and Cheryl’s sister and Brady’s mama. In heaven. Which left Brady with just one question.
Why hadn’t God done that before? While th
ey were still on earth.
• • •
ASHLEY HADN’T LOOKED at the letter. The kids wanted lunch, so the five of them ate at the hotel restaurant. Landon had texted her: They were still a few hours from leaving Frontier City.
Not until they were headed back to the room after eating did Cole come up with a plan. “A cousin plan,” he called it. The three cousins would meet in Cole’s room and watch a movie. They were worn out from the day.
“Something happy.” Amy made the suggestion.
“I love it.” Ashley nodded. “You’re right, Amy. A little laughter would be perfect right about now.”
Fifteen minutes later the kids were settled, and Ashley met up with Kari in her room. As soon as Ashley shut the door, her sister was on her feet. “Okay, what happened? Tell me everything.”
“It’s no big deal. I took a picture.” Ashley pulled out her phone and called up the photo. “I haven’t read it.” She dropped on the bed opposite Kari. “It’s a little blurry.”
Kari sat cross-legged, facing her. “I still can’t believe you took the guy’s letter off the fence.” She hesitated. “Or that you took a photo of it.”
“Maybe I can help him.” Ashley felt completely justified. The stranger could’ve picked any section of the fence to leave his letter. But he chose that spot. Right next to Ashley. She squinted at the photo and made it larger with her finger and thumb. “There it is. I can read it now.”
“You don’t feel guilty?” Kari’s mouth hung slightly open. Like she was incredulous.
“Not at all.” Ashley looked at her sister for a second or two. Kari was the cautious one. Following orders. Coloring inside the lines. Ashley was the risk taker. It was what had gotten her in trouble when she went to Paris after school. But this wasn’t like that. Ashley drew a quick breath. “I didn’t take the letter.”
“Okay . . . read it.” Kari still sounded concerned. She hesitated. “I’m dying over here.”