A Sparrow for Job

By Alyson Drake

Sparrow James, recent high school graduate, is destitute, homeless, and completely alone…until an eccentric elderly woman named Etta White offers her a job as a live-in helper. The two quickly form a bond of friendship that goes far beyond employer/employee. When Sparrow meets Etta’s son, a soldier home on leave, the pair begin corresponding via letter, neither realizing the missives are exactly what they both need to heal their broken lives. But Job’s letters stop, and Sparrow fears the worst. If that’s not bad enough, Sparrow finds out Etta is battling cancer, and the woman’s time may be short. Sparrow’s world begins to crumble around her and the only one that can stop the destruction is a soldier missing on the other side of the world. Job and Etta…soldier and mother. Sparrow’s only lifelines in a cold, cruel world. What will Sparrow do when those two abruptly snap?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quinn Loftis Books, LLC
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019

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Prologue

December 12, 2000. Bleeden, Texas

It’s time. With a grunt, Cheryl James rocked herself up to her feet from the worn, sagging couch. The words she'd been dreadfully waiting to say for nine months came out flat. There was no giddy excitement, no bubbly anticipation, just a terrible sense of finality.

Darrel grumbled at her.

Cheryl stood looking down at him, one hand on a hip, the other on her swollen belly. I said, your son is about to be born.

Darrel didn’t move. He didn’t even take his eyes from the television screen. But he did take another swig of beer before scratching himself. Can’t you wait until my show is over at least? he said at last.

It doesn’t work that way.

It does now.

C’mon. We have to go, Cheryl screeched.

Calm down, woman. Damn, you act like just because you’re having a kid the whole world should stop turning. Still, he didn’t move.

Cheryl huffed at him before turning, her long dirty blonde hair whipping out behind her, and pacing the small living area. She stepped on scattered car magazines and dirty paper plates that had never found their way into a trashcan. Her back was killing her, and the pressure between her legs was building. She gave Darrel a withering look as she made a pass in front of the couch.

Get your fat ass out of the way, he yelled. Cheryl flipped him the bird and kept walking.

Damn, I wish I had the money for my own place. Maybe I’ll be able to with the government checks I’ll get for being a single mom. This little hellion better be worth it. I doubt it. I’ll probably have to get a job. Then, who’ll watch this little monster? She took another look at Darrel and shook her head. Guess I’m stuck with him. Asshole.

Just give me your keys, Darrel, she barked. I’ll drive myself to the blasted hospital.

Like hell, he snapped.

Someone who didn’t know Darrel might have believed he didn’t want her driving herself because he actually cared about her well-being. Cheryl knew better.

I wouldn’t trust you in my car. You’d probably drive right across the country and leave me with nothing.

Cheryl rolled her eyes. Because clearly, I’m in the perfect condition to drive across the country, she said, pointing to her engorged stomach.

Just shut up and get in the damn car. He stood and stretched his arms over his head, causing his shirt to rise. Cheryl got a nice glimpse of his small, hairy, tattoo-covered potbelly before he let out a loud belch. I am so lucky.

Cheryl glared at him before finally turning and marching toward the door. She snatched up the diaper bag that was lying on the stained carpet and waddled out the door, headed for Darrel’s beat-up Ford Fiesta. The white paint chips resting on the ground around the car looked like flakes of dandruff on the shoulder of a black sweater. Cheryl had long ago stopped counting the holes that were rusted through on its hood and doors.

The passenger side door squealed in protest as Cheryl opened it. She plopped down on the seat, feeling the shocks sag in protest. She watched through the spiderweb of cracks in the front windshield as Darrel lumbered outside. He stopped and leaned against the railing in front of their apartment. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took several long drags in a row.

A contraction caused Cheryl to yelp and grab at her stomach. Hurry up! She pounded her hand on the dashboard and yelled out the window of the car. Or maybe you’d like my water to break on your seat?

Dammit. Darrel threw down his half-smoked cigarette and joined her in the car.

They drove to the hospital, Darrel alternating between cursing her and the other motorists the entire trip. The contractions grew more painful and closer together. Just my luck. I’ll probably have this freaking kid in a disgusting car with no one but Darrel to help me.

Could you try and not drag this out? Darrel asked when they’d almost reached the hospital. I gotta work tomorrow, and I can’t be late just because you went and decided to keep the brat. This could’ve been taken care of a long time ago.

I didn’t get this way on my own, you asshole. This is partly your fault. Another contraction wracked her body, and Cheryl squeezed her eyes closed and tried to focus on taking shallow breaths.

So, you say. For all I know, that’s the mailman’s kid.

Our mailman is a she, you idiot.

Darrel grumbled something in response, but she wasn’t paying attention to him any longer. Cheryl was too busy trying to keep the kid inside her body, at least until they made it into the emergency room.

She made it, but only just. A few minutes later, Cheryl was in a bed, her feet set up in stirrups, an IV in one arm, and a heart monitor across her belly. Darrel refused to go any farther than the waiting room.

Cheryl gave up trying to stop the labor. I need to push! She hollered, not caring if the whole hospital heard her.

A nurse came bustling in. Do you want the father to be in here with you?

Hell no, Cheryl snapped. I just want it out. Now.

The nurse’s eyes widened, and her mouth straightened into a disapproving line. She stepped out of the room and returned a minute later with a doctor in tow.

Okay, Ms. James, the doctor said as he washed his hands, Nurse Suzy says. The baby is almost here."

No offense, doc, but I’m not in the mood for small talk, Cheryl said.

Okay by me. He sat down on a rolling stool and positioned himself between her bent, spread legs. You’re fully dilated. Now, we just need you to push. When you feel a contraction coming, that’s when you will want to get ready to bear down.

Cheryl’s forehead broke out in a sweat, and she spent the next two hours pushing, cussing, and then pushing some more. She decided then and there she would never get pregnant again.

Suzy Brown had been a labor and delivery nurse for fifteen years, and she’d seen all sorts of people. Unfortunately, people like Cheryl and the gentleman she’d come in with were all too common. She often wondered why God gave them children when it was so obvious they didn’t want them and couldn’t care for them.

As she cleaned off the little girl who’d just been born, Suzy smiled down at the bright blue eyes that stared up at her. You’re going to be just fine, Suzy whispered. God sees you. In fact, there isn’t a sparrow that falls from the sky that he doesn’t see and care about. God will guide your steps. She wrapped the child and then walked her over to her mother.

Here’s your little girl, Ms. James, Suzy said, leaning down to hand the child over to its mother, though it was the last thing the nurse wanted to do.

Ms. James took the baby and stared down at it. Suzy saw no look of wonderment in the mother’s eyes, no sense of amazement, only detachment. Ms. James simply observed the little child. It made Suzy’s heart hurt. What’s her name? Suzy asked.

Ms. James looked up at her, and Suzy saw puzzlement as if she hadn’t before given the subject of the child’s name any thought whatsoever. I don’t know.

The nurse huffed. Well, I have to put something on the birth certificate.

What would you name her … if she was yours?

Suzy looked at the little girl and ran a finger down her cheek. I would call her Sparrow.

Ms. James shrugged. Sparrow James it is then.

You really hadn’t thought about a name before today? Suzy asked.

I didn’t know what I was having. I asked the father what he thought, but he said he didn’t give a crap what I named it, boy or girl, so … I guess Sparrow’s as good as any. She shrugged.

Suzy pushed the little clear bassinet next to the bed so that Ms. James would be able to reach it. I’ll just go let the father know that he can come in. Ms. James didn’t respond, and Suzy found herself praying for the little Sparrow. These two people didn’t seem to care that they’d been given a miracle. She prayed for God’s protection over the child and for the girl not to grow bitter as she grew older, even though she was, no doubt, in for troubling times ahead.

When Suzy went home that night, she continued to pray for the child she’d named Sparrow. For the next eighteen years, she never forgot the girl. Suzy prayed daily for her. The nurse had never been able to have kids of her own and, in some strange way, she felt God had brought Ms. James to her that night. Even after Suzy left labor and delivery to become a surgical nurse, she still prayed for Sparrow. After all, there were ten other nurses on the floor that evening, but it was Suzy who delivered little Sparrow James.

Chapter 1

Present day. December 13, 2018. Bleeden, Texas

I wish I could say I didn’t see this day coming. I wish I could say I’d never had nightmares about my father chasing me with a knife through our dilapidated house. I try to keep from lying if I can help it. I had no doubt this—or something very much like it—was bound to happen eventually. It wasn’t a matter of if, but of when.

I hate being right all the time, I mutter and then wince at the pain it causes.

I’ve been waiting to die since the first time my dad’s meaty fist connected with my face. And I have to admit that there have been many times over the past eighteen years I would have welcomed death with open arms.

Despite the pain, I run out into the cold night air. A shack retreats behind me, not quickly enough, the only home I’ve ever known. Though I’m bleeding from several cuts and stab wounds, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life. The stifling fear that presses down on me day in and day out is suddenly lifted. I take a deep breath, letting the cool, winter air burn my raw throat and fill my aching lungs. The sensation of the air is sharp and momentarily causes me to forget about my injuries, reminding me I’m alive. Despite the odds, I’m still breathing. I don’t think he is chasing me, but I do not slow my pace.

I pass house after house, knowing with each step I increase the distance between myself and the evil that has surrounded me since the day I was born. I never thought I would escape. I thought that house would become my tomb.

Several blocks later, I reach a gas station. My vision is becoming blurred. The world swims in front of my eyes. I try to wipe the blood from my face but more takes its place. Pain is everywhere. I don’t even know how many times I’ve been cut, stabbed. My father is usually lazy until he isn’t. Then he becomes quite motivated.

My mom has been gone for two days now. When she didn’t return the first night, my father’s twelve-pack-a-day habit became a case and then another. I’ve always wondered where he got the money for alcohol. Funds for silly things like food and clothing, you know, the frivolous things in life, are never available. But there’s always beer money. Anyway, the increased intake of booze caused my father’s usually lovely disposition to change into something rather violent. It has been most unpleasant since then.

That was sarcasm, if you weren’t sure. Although if I have to explain it, it’s not near as gratifying, so please try and keep up, which shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve been stabbed and losing blood for several blocks now; my brain isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.

Ma’am, ma’am. What the hell?

I hear a voice from somewhere far off. I try to turn toward it and trip over my feet. I fall, expecting more pain. But before I can face-plant, two strong hands grab my arms. This, too, causes pain, but I don’t think its severity is as intense as what the asphalt would have caused me. I sway and right myself.

Germs. Infection. I learned about them in science class. I laugh out loud. I don’t think I should be worried about infection right now, yet I am. Knowing Darrel’s penchant for cleanliness, at least I can trust the blade he cut me with was sterile. Sarcasm again. More likely he sliced me with the same knife he used on the raw chicken the day before. That can’t be good, right? Raw chicken means salmonella. Salmonella. Even the word sounds dirty. Sal, Sal, Sal, and Mona. Sounds like an Italian pimp and his dirty whore, Mona. She brings salmonella wherever she goes. I giggle. Giant raw chickens, some wearing zoot suits and giant feather hats and others in miniskirts, appear before my sight. They march in a line. No, they dance. It’s a conga line, a raw chicken conga line.

My head hurts. Should it hurt? I didn’t get stabbed in the head.

Can you get salmonella from a contaminated knife wound, or is it something you only get if you eat the raw chicken? I feel like that’s something they should put on the package of chicken. Warning: Women who are pregnant or breastfeeding shouldn’t get stabbed with a raw chicken knife. I’m not pregnant. Am I? No, I’m a virgin. At least I was last time I checked.

Ma’am, can you hear me?

A deep voice. I blink and try to focus. A man’s face. Eyes. Kind eyes. He’s oldish, older than my father, but not geriatric. I hope he doesn’t stab me. Oldish people can stab, too. At least he’s not a chicken pimp.

I need help. I hear someone say using my voice.

I’d have to agree, the man says. My name is Henry. My wife is a nurse at the hospital. Can I drive you there?

A voice in the back of my mind. Never accept rides from someone you don’t know. Is that my mother? No, couldn’t be. Too motherly. Must be the voice of a teacher. One of the many who took pity on me over the years. Never take candy from a stranger. She probably told me that, too. Also, sound advice. But I don’t think it applies when you’ve been stabbed with a salmonella chicken knife.

I nod and the effort makes my head swim. Yes, a ride, I say. The exertion of the words proves too much. I slump forward and there is darkness.

I hear the sound of my alarm beeping. That’s weird. My alarm doesn’t beep, it plays music. And why are their people in my bedroom? I try to open my eyes but they refuse. As I take a deep breath, I feel a sharp pain in my stomach, and the memories come flooding back in like a tidal wave. Darrel, the knife, running, salmonella, chicken pimps and hoes, the man on the street. I must be in a hospital. That would explain the beeping.

I redouble my efforts, and my eyes finally crack open. Some jackass has been rubbing my corneas with sandpaper while I was asleep. I blink several times. Eventually, I manage to produce enough tears to clear my vision. The bright, fluorescent lights above me cause my head to hurt, or maybe they’ve simply brought to the forefront the pain that was already there. Regardless, it sucks.

I try to sit up, but pain flies like arrows through my abdomen. Involuntarily, a gasp escapes. Note to self, do not move again, I say as I try to breathe through the pain, fully aware that I sound like a dog in Lamaze class.

Glad to see you awake, Sparrow James. A nurse walks up next to the bed. But attempting to get up would likely lead to you falling on your rear, which might cause a few staples to pull loose. Best stay where you are for the moment. I’m Suzy, your nurse this evening.

A man brought me here, I say, my voice hoarse and scratchy.

That would be my Henry. She nods and smiles. Her tone is foreign to me. I’m so used to my mother speaking of Darrel with disdain. Forgive me for calling him Darrel. Sometimes, the f word is just too hard for me to associate with the man. It’s a good thing he came across you. That cut on your stomach was deep, as was the one on your face. The doc got them sewed up, but he’s going to talk to you about seeing a plastic surgeon for the one on your face.

How do you know my name?

Your school ID was in your back pocket.

Would it be weird to say I still carry around my school ID, despite having already graduated, so the police will be able to easily identify my body? Yeah, you’re right, that’s weird, so I’ll just keep that tidbit to myself.

The words plastic surgery aren’t encouraging. I wonder what I look like, probably the bride of Frankenstein. And, unfortunately, there’s nothing to be done about it. Along with clothes and food, health insurance is another one of those luxuries my family can’t really afford. Who’s going to be paying for my current hospital stay? I have no idea.

I know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell me how you got those knife wounds? The police have already been here, but they will be back to question you. We’re obligated to call them when someone comes in who looks like the victim of a crime. I’m doubting that you just had a mishap with an Edward Scissorhands costume. Do you remember what happened?

The man who attacked me doesn’t look anything like Johnny Depp. It was my father. I feel like I should be more upset about the fact that the man who supplied some of my DNA tried to kill me, but I’m not. As I said before, it had only been a matter of time. Or maybe I’m just in shock. Perhaps, given some time to really think about what’s happened, I will collapse into a wailing heap. But, God, I really hope not. Crying is the worst.

Suzy’s hand raises to her mouth as her eyes widen. Why did he attack you? Where was your mother?

Drunken rage. She left two days ago, I answer. She hasn’t been back since. And I don’t expect her anytime soon.

She smiles, but I see the worry in her eyes. I’m going to have to let the police know you’re awake. You’ll have to tell them what happened.

I nod. I will tell them, but I’m eighteen, I rush to say. They can’t put me in the foster care system. This was the reason I hadn’t run away before. My parents were bad, but at least they weren’t strangers. I didn’t want to be put in the system. Better the devil you know. Isn’t that how the saying goes? But I turned eighteen yesterday. Now I am free. Finally.

Okay, then, she says, nodding before examining my I.V. I’ve got other patients I need to check on, but I’ll swing by later and see how you’re doing.

Thanks. My voice is a whisper.

Twenty minutes later, just as I was beginning to nod off again, two uniformed officers knock on the door frame.

Miss James, can we come in? one asks.

Sure, I reply. I don’t care if they come in. But even if I did, it’s not like I can say, ‘You know what, officers, I think I’ll just pass on the whole interrogation thing. On your way out, could you ask the nurse to get me a Jell-O please?’ Pretty sure that wouldn’t go over too well.

I’m Detective Cutter and this is Officer Hale. We need to ask you some questions about what happened this evening.

Alright.

Tell us how you got stabbed?

My dad. He was mad at me.

Your father stabbed you? Officer Cutter asks with raised eyebrows.

Yup.

What’s his name?

Darrel Douglas.

Where did this take place?

At our house.

You live there with your father?

Yup.

What’s that address?

6662 Tiller Lane.

The officer pauses and leans his head over as he presses the button on the microphone attached to his shoulder. I need two units to head to 6662 Tiller Lane. Subject is Darrel Douglas, involved in a stabbing. Be advised the resident should be considered armed and dangerous.

He looks back at me and begins taking notes again. Was anyone else present?

No. I felt like I should say, ‘It was Darrel, with the salmonella knife in the conservatory.’

Officer Cutter makes some notes in his pad before looking at me again. Was there some sort of argument or something that instigated the attack?

If being an asshole is considered something, then yes. He doesn’t have a pleasing disposition on a good day, but he’s been drinking since my mom left a couple of days ago, I say.

Had they been fighting a lot recently? Was he physically abusive to her? Is that why she left? He fires one question after another and my head begins to throb.

I laugh, though it hurts my head even more. Fighting a lot recently? My parents’ only form of communication is yelling at one another. Both of them are abusive. Who knows why she left. I guess she finally got fed up with him.

She didn’t tell you where she was going?

I chuckle again and shake my head. She never wanted me in the first place. My voice isn’t sad. I was only stating facts. I came to terms a long time ago with the fact that my parents were selfish to their very core. They felt no love for me or anyone else. The only reason they kept me was for the financial assistance my mom received as a single parent since she and Darrel weren’t married. And Darrel stuck around because Cheryl, my mom, couldn’t exactly throw him out as she was dependent on him.

Has your father ever attacked you before? Officer Hale speaks up.

Not with a knife, I say. He’s hit me before.

Did you tell anyone? Officer Hale asks.

No.

Why not?

I shrug.

Are you still in school? Officer Cutter asks.

No. I graduated last May. I work at Walmart stocking shelves at night. Tonight was one of my nights off.

Do you have a place to stay? Officer Hale asks.

Yeah, I lie. Not sure why. I have absolutely no place to stay. I have no friends, or at least none left in town. While I was in school, I had two close friends, but they’re off at college now. It was hard to get close with anyone at school and also try to keep my home life a secret. So, instead, I just kept to myself.

We will be in touch with you as soon as we have him in custody, Officer Cutter says as he hands me his card. I’m sorry this happened to you. I see no pity in his eyes, only empathy, for which I am glad.

I shrug. It’s over now.

The officers leave, and I’m left in the room by myself. I can hear the beeping of machines, the chattering of nurses and staff, and the occasional overhead call on the intercom. All and all, it’s not an entirely restful place. But then, it was certainly more restful, not to mention safer, than sleeping on a park bench or under a bridge.

Sometime later, Suzy returns. She comes breezing in, her light floral scent a welcome change to the chemical clean smell of everything else around me.

The doctor will be by in the morning to check the wounds and make sure there are no signs of infection. If everything is good, you will be released tomorrow.

So, I can stay here tonight? I ask. Did I sound a tad too eager? Probably. Was I suddenly hoping my salmonella infection would kick in so I could stay a few more days and have food and a place to sleep? Absolutely. And, yes, I realize my obsession with salmonella poisoning might be getting a bit unhealthy, but it’s better than having an obsession with licking ketchup packets or something disgusting like that. Silver lining folks, silver lining.

She nods. I’m on break. I was just about to run to the cafeteria to grab a snack. Would you like something?

My mouth waters. I’ve not eaten since before dear old dad had taken the kitchen knife to me. Yes, please.

What would you like?

Anything is fine. I’m not picky. I almost add, ‘except ketchup packets’ because now I’m thinking about licking them and wondering if one of the workers touched raw chicken and then touched the ketchup packets. Okay, now I’m beginning to worry about my mental stability. Maybe I could get admitted to the psych ward. That would give me a place to stay until I can figure something out. Once I do, then I can convince them I’m sane so they’ll release me. I mentally chuckle, as if anyone who got a glimpse into my mind would ever believe that I’m sane. And how would I find an apartment while I was locked up in the nuthouse? Nope, if I got sent to the psych ward, I’d be there until I was pushing up daisies. Best I keep my weird thoughts to myself.

Alright. Be back in a jiffy, Suzy says with a small wave.

Exhaustion begins to overtake me. The presence of the police had momentarily given me a shot of adrenaline, but now it was gone. I close my eyes and try to will away the memories, but I keep seeing my father’s enraged face and the knife coming at me. The pain of the knife wounds paled in comparison to the pain caused by the last words he spoke to me.

You weren’t wanted eighteen years ago, and you sure as hell aren’t wanted now.

Those wounds couldn’t be sewn back together. They shouldn’t matter, coming from the likes of him. He’s never been anything more than a sperm donor and a selfish waste of good air. But no matter how many times I repeat that it doesn’t matter, the words hurt. Not just the words, but his tone, the look in his eyes. The absolute truth I saw there.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I lean my head back against the pillow. I close my eyes and dig deep. What am I looking for? The will to keep going. I need not only the strength to live, but the desire to be happy and make the most out of my life, shambles though it is. I know I can either let the words of an evil human being like Darrel cut me and then fester until they cause an infection so deep and vile that I become just like him, or I can choose something else. I’m just not sure what that something else is just yet.

And my mother. Don’t get me started on her. Her body may have walked out a couple of days ago, but she abandoned me a long time ago. The same choice remains when I think about her. I can either allow my mother’s lack of love and abandonment to turn me into a bitter adult, or I can decide that my past is just that, the past. A chance in front of me. It’s fleeting, but I catch a glimpse of it. Today, now, in this hospital bed. This is my opportunity to walk away from my past and choose the future I want to have.

Then, by George, that’s what you’re going to do, Sparrow James, I whisper. You’re going to move forward, scars and all. I don’t know who George is and I don’t know why I