A Feather in the Rain (30 page)

They circled the grave of Damien Zachary Burrell and linked their hands. Ruby spoke but a few words about why they were there. She asked them to please be aware of the power of communal prayer. “It is a potent force that God recognizes. It cannot go unheard. So if each of you, in your own way, silently or aloud, would ask that Holly be returned to us, I am sure our request will not go unheard.” A field of energy grew so intense as to seem as if it would whirl into flame. Without knowledge of passing time, they stood in prayer. No one tired, not one shifted. The concentration on their purpose was absolute.

They parted solemnly, in whispers.

Jesse stood alone, staring at the gravestone. Then he looked to the sky and said, “Please, dear God, don't take her from me. Whatever thy will is, please grant me the strength to accept it.”

Larry, Bear, and Ruby drove back with him to the hospital in the truck. Jesse asked that Bear and Ruby visit her first on their own. Then Larry went in for a brief time alone.

When he came out, Jesse entered the room and shut the door. He knelt over her and peered down at her face. He could see that the life force within her had grown dim, distant.

S
he was leaving on a long, slow journey through a bright expanse of light where time and distance had no consequence.

Before her eyes faint forms began to shape, emerging from within the light as if self-created, as people, faces that she knew. How pleased she was to be in the light as light itself. The cast-iron weight of earthly pain, of grief, of guilt, the doubts and fears of human heritage had vanished as if they'd never been. Then there among the faceless shadows was her Grandmama wearing an apron, holding a trowel, a knuckle-track of earth smeared across her cheek, beside herself with joy at seeing her daughter's daughter. “But oh so young, my darling child…”

Moving along the path of light she was still able to turn her head and see Jesse on the bed, kneeling over her, begging her to stay. She could hear him saying, “I know you can hear me. I know you're still in there. I know. I've seen the difference. I knew when Zack was gone. You're still here, I know you are. Don't leave me, Holly. Turn around, come back. I need you to help me raise this Harley boy.”

But on she went into the white gold until there in the glow she saw what she wanted more than anything ever. Her brother Brad stood there before her, his chestnut hair askew, his lopsided grin around the brightest teeth, the Bassett smile. In life, they would have hugged with crushing force, but what existed here was far more intoxicating and complete than pressing flesh. Oh, my, my, my, how very sweet it was to feel her spirit intertwine with his, become a thing unto itself. What ecstasy to feel again the mischief in his soul, to see it dancing in his eyes. He stepped a little to his right.

A shadow shape behind him soon revealed itself to be the golden boy. Damien Zachary came forward and bowed in a way Holly appreciated, almost as if to kiss her hand. They now stood side by side, Damien and Brad. A soothing tide of peace and calm sought for all her life was now upon her. Her brother spoke first, then Damien. They told her she had to go back. That it wasn't yet her time. She had to raise a son, be a wife. She stood, a recalcitrant child prepared to disobey. Her brother said, “We'll be waiting for you.

You can go back now, knowing that we're all right and that we'll be together again. You need to love your son and your husband. They need you. We'll be here to take you in.”

Jesse put his thumb to her eye and raised the lid. The light was gone. The eye had begun to dull. A fierce, dark, and desperate rage possessed him as he felt his whole being collapsing in despair. His eyes rolled up as if to examine the underside of his brain. He felt her hips between his knees, then gripped her shoulders, lifting her from the bed and shook her gently. His tears fell upon her cheeks. “Oh,…God, Holly…come back…don't go.” He placed her head back on the pillow and took her hand and brought it to his face. He put his lips to the back of her hand.

And then from somewhere outside of what he thought was real, he felt her fingers tighten. His breath stopped in his throat as he squeezed her hand and felt her pressing back.

The sound of his voice rattled the windows as it echoed through the corridors bringing medical personnel, Bear, Ruby, and Larry on the run.

T
he following day, her eyelids fluttered and opened briefly, then remained open and slowly began to focus, as she became aware of her surroundings.

Two weeks later, they wheeled her to the curb, Harley in her arms. With Jesse on one side, Bear on the other, she handed the baby to her mother and stood up from the chair. Settled in the car, Ruby put Harley back in her arms. As they drove away, the Count stood, waving, wearing a huge smile.

The aroma of livestock, shavings, hay, grass, and grain came to her sweeter than a bed of roses. She carried her three-week-old son through the barn to meet their unique world. She handed him up to his daddy astride Soot and watched as he went for his first ride. Harley was three weeks old.

That afternoon, she was at her computer; photos scattered on the table at her side and covering the floor. She was putting together the newsletter for Miracles Unlimited. Harley lay content in his crib next to the desk.

Jesse hung up the last bridle and headed toward the house. Dozer lumbered at his side. It was the sweetest hour of the twenty-four. Warm for March. The sun had gone and left a somber purple shroud over a flame of light spreading along the hills. In the east, a deep blue began to darken and reveal a solitary star. The moon would not be far behind.

He neared the stone steps to the porch and looked up. She was sitting in the rocker in the fading glow of day, cowled in the poncho, its hood framing her face, its soft folds keeping Harley warm. She turned to smile at him as he stepped to the porch and leaned back against the post. He folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head back and looked at her. This image of living flesh and spirit, he thought, would not, in all the time stretched out before him, exist again, not as it is right now. He felt he had to fix it in his mind, treasure it, and hold it there for use as comfort at a time of need.

He walked up behind her and felt the lovely sloping bones of her shoulders under the wool and looked down at his son nuzzled at her breast. Then he moved his hand until he felt beneath his fingertips the soft fullness of her lips.

A shrill cry, keen to the senses, pierced the air above them. Jesse looked up at the male golden eagle circling low on motionless wings. He watched its spiral descent until he could see clearly the color in its eyes fixed on his. It shrieked again, turned, and flapped its wings as it headed for distant trees. A copper-colored feather floated toward the ground and settled at Jesse's feet. He picked it up and turned it slowly between his fingers, then bent to kiss the top of his wife's head as his hands followed her arms to their son and whispered the word, “Yes.”

The End

T
hough much of this book is made up, it all started with my efforts to recover from the loss of my twenty-six-year-old beloved son Damien Zachary. For more than a year after his departure, I was paralyzed. Unable to think, not knowing what to feel, wanting to quit feeling, to pull the covers over my head and shut out the world. My world, of course, still existed under the covers. There was no escape.

One day, I threw the covers off and sat down to write about Zack. That's what I called him. Zack. I stared at the blank page for a long time with no knowledge of where to start. Eventually, I began to write unconsciously, letting my fingers work without guidance from thought. I did the same thing for three days in a row. On the fourth day, what had started as a catharsis began to evolve into the novel you hold in your hands. I felt I now had a reason to go to work each day, spurred on I believe by the spirit of Zack.

When I wrote the final sentence, the manuscript was six
hundred and twenty-four pages long. A stream of consciousness. Then began the real work of rewriting and cutting mercilessly.

The first page, however, exists today exactly as it was the first day I sat down to write about Zack.

Then I met my wife, Susannah, and what had been a fantasy became reality.

My wish for you is this: know your children, guard them, question them, and know if they are not telling the truth. Demand that they do. You might just save their lives.