My smile is sad. “I’m so sorry I made you feel that way, buddy.”
“It’s okay, Daddy. It was just an accident.”
“It was. But I don’t want you to ever be afraid to talk about it when something like that happens, so if it does again, will you do me a favor?”
He nods.
“I’d like for you to tell me, and if you feel funny doing that, be sure to tell Mommy instead, so you don’t have to—” I stop, because my chest feels heavy just thinking about what his bleak future will hold. A future no child should ever have to endure.
Devon chews his bottom lip, a reflection of worry that makes this conversation so much harder.
“Anyway . . . the thing is, I’ve been trying to get better, but I may not be able to, kiddo. I may not win this one . . .” My voice weakens, and tears fill my eyes, because I know what I’m actually doing is telling my six-year-old son good-bye. That he will soon lose his father.
“Are you going to leave me, Daddy?” Devon asks, his tiny voice so soft that I can barely hear it.
And that’s all it takes to finally rip me apart. To break me. Because telling him this is excruciating enough, but hearing him understand it is infinitely worse. I can’t look at my son. If I do, I’ll never get through this. I turn away and the tears start.
I feel Devon’s soft little hand slide into my palm, his tiny fingers between mine. I hear his weak and troubled breaths.
“Daddy, I love you,” he says very quietly.
I find the courage to look back at him, his pink cheeks dampened by tears.
For a long time, neither of us speaks, and I know that this moment, painful as it is, will be one of the few that are left, that it’s so very precious.
Then, as if reading those very thoughts, he says, “We’ll stay like this forever, Daddy, okay? Just like this.”
What he said at the lake on that beautiful day, now with deeper and more tragic significance.
Devon throws his arms around my shoulders and hangs on tight like he never wants to let go, and I hold my son against me just as hard.
Several minutes later, after we pull apart, he says, “Is it okay if we don’t do liftoff tonight?”
“Are you sure?
“I’m sure.”
“How come?”
“Because I don’t want to save the world, Daddy. I just want to save you.”
65
To deceive is like striking a match. It can be dangerous and destructive, deadly even, and the people closest to you are most at risk. The flame burns slowly at first, and then before you know it, erupts into a ferocious explosion, consuming everything that matters. In the aftermath, you’re standing in a cloud of smoke, staring at the charred and smoldering ruins of what once was.
On this morning, I sit at the kitchen table and stare out the window, but I don’t see much, other than a world losing hold. A world rapidly shrinking and falling apart.
I think about Devon and what this illness will do to him, what it did to me as a boy. And about Jenna. How every step of the way, she’s been here for me, offered her support, and above all, her unfailing love.
How I’ve betrayed her trust.
Instead of keeping my family from falling apart, I’ve only accelerated the process. Not on purpose. Not by any stretch of the imagination with intent to cause harm, but just the opposite. Still, none of this negates that instead of being truthful with Jenna last night, I kept her in the dark. Now the guilt rests squarely on my shoulders, and that one act is snowballing. I’ll have to keep lying in order to delay getting diagnosed, to buy more time so I can save Devon from Donny Ray.
My gaze shifts blindly across the yard as I try to work through the clutter of racking emotions. If I could reverse time and take it back, I would, but life only moves in one direction, and what lies over your shoulder cannot be fixed. Straight ahead of me now is a trap: anything I do to try and repair this situation will only drive me deeper into trouble.
So I just keep staring out the window.
Sudden movement brings my vision into focus, and I barely glimpse Jake as he emerges from a clump of bushes and exits the yard. I narrow my view, notice the pile of dirt he just left, then something else catches my interest, green, and barely visible beneath the loose and disturbed soil. Keeping my eyes fixed there, I slowly rise from the chair, then move toward the door.
Outside, I edge closer toward the green object, each step like crossing unsettled ground.
I reach the spot and realize I’m staring down at a swath of cloth buried in dirt. I drop to my knees, start digging, hesitantly at first, but with each handful of earth I draw, my speed gradually and steadily increases. I uncover the green thing, yank it out, and hold it up.
A pair of Devon’s shorts.
I claw frantically at the soil, dirt and mud flying all around me, fingers turning bruised and raw from the stony granules digging beneath my nails.
I pluck out one of Devon’s T-shirts. His shoe. A baseball cap.
I keep digging.
When it’s all done, I stand upright, body stiff from soreness and uncertainty; clothes, hands, and face coated in grime. I stare at the ground covered with the items, all of them belonging to Devon. At least fifteen pairs of socks. His ten missing baseball hats. Five pairs of shorts. Six T-shirts. Two pairs of sneakers. It just goes on and on. All my son’s clothing that started to go missing the night I collided with that tree. Clothing that Jake has been diligently and meticulously stealing away, transporting to this special place.
Burying them like valued treasures.
Mystery finally solved.
Because I at last know why Jake has been speaking to me mind-to-mind, what he’s been trying to tell me all along—something that’s now coming to fruition.
My son is in danger.
The dog knows.
“But how did he know?”
I look over my shoulder and find Jake sitting by the corner of the house and watching me.
“You don’t have to worry anymore, boy,” I tell him. “I hear you now. He’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of that, if it’s the last thing I ever do.”