Awaken: A Novel

By Tom Garland

Before the coma that imprisoned David Rush for fifteen years, a golden pathway to the future awaited him. Then, he was seventeen. Now at thirty-two, his dreams of youth dead, David struggles each day to cope in a world that has passed him by.

Not only is Davids own reflection that of a stranger, but everyone he knew pre-coma is now grown, with spouses, kids, wrinkles and adult issues. Worst, is the fact that Shelly Tate, Davids high school sweetheart, is married to Jeff Clark, Davids best friend all through high school. Neither resembles the people David once loved.

Wildly successful in the world of organized crime, Jeff lords over Shelly. A mere shadow of her former self, Shelly reaches out to David with the illusion of rekindling the fire of lost love. But the only thing rekindled is Jeffs bitter jealousy of David. Jeffs jealousy turns to rage when David starts making inquiries into a fifteen year unsolved murder. David is certain his old girlfriend is married to a cold blooded killer.

As the paradox of Davids absence from the living unfolds, and the past and present collide with deadly force. David finds himself having to make decisions that will forever change the course of his life, and possibly destroy the course of those once dear to him.

In the mist of chaos David finds a trusted friend in an unorthodox catholic priest whose insight and wisdom give David hope to face an uncertain future, and the courage to love as though life has no end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514404164

Tom Garland

Tom lives in Arlington, Texas. His next book: AWAKEN will soon be available in paperback and e-book.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Tom Garland.

ISBN:   Softcover         978-1-5144-0417-1

              eBook              978-1-5144-0416-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/09/2015

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

635321

For my dear mother,

Wanda Garland

Incredible mom, wonderful person and loyal friend.

I miss you!

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87: Megan

Chapter 88: Father Mike

Acknowledgements

First of all I would like to thank all who have read An Unlikely Terrorist. And to all who have reviewed the book on Amazon. I can’t say enough! When someone takes the time to read my work, spend their money to buy it, it is a great honor. My appreciation and gratitude reaches to the heavens for you.

Once again: thanks dad for everything. You’re the best!

Kara Christine, thank you for reading as I wrote; you were the first to lay eyes on this story as it developed. I appreciate your time, comments and suggestions. Your encouragement kept me moving forward whenever doubt set in.

My gratitude to Tara August: Your honesty and input always helps me keep my stories real, and honest. Thank you for taking the time.

Special thanks to my big sister Terrie for combing through the book for mistakes. Not once but twice. It is tedious work, and I appreciate it more than you know, all the painstaking hours it took to get it right.

Todd my incredible brother, thank you for the phone call you made to me after reading Awaken. You have no idea how much that meant to me.

Thanks to Jonathan Chambers for giving so much of his time to help me: building me a professional website, and for opening this author’s eyes to the many ways in which to promote and sell my books. You have been a God sent! I’m looking forward to reading your book: The Value Driven Culture, the progress of which will be followed on my website.

Thanks to the great metropolis of Dallas/Fort Worth for the wonderful setting for this book.

Shout of appreciation to Xlibris Publishing for their assistance in getting my books published.

Chapter 1

I stopped living fifteen years ago. I was seventeen years old, naive, and in a less than sagacious stage of life. It was a place where anything and everything seemed possible. And yet, below the surface, the sweat of juvenile inadequacies prevailed and proliferated like the weeds in my parent’s backyard. I am now thirty-two, lost and confused, and still pulling weeds from infertile soil. I am frequently reminded by my father to act my age. I’d like nothing more. If only I knew how. I slept as my body matured. Yet my mind remains as it was fifteen years ago.

The doctors call it a medical mystery. My mother calls it a miracle. I dare not question my mother, but in my young mind I think if this is indeed a miracle, then why did God wait so damn long to perform it? I mean really, it seems more of a joke than a heavenly intervention. Imagine if you will, falling asleep and then waking up fifteen years later. Not to mention the fact that my father’s hair is now gray edging on white, and my once brunette mother dyes her hair the color of sand. And the wrinkles; I suspect had I been awake the last fifteen years to witness their quiet evolution, they would not be so noticeable. But in my mind I fell asleep one night and woke up the next morning. It’s like a bad dream.

David!

My mother’s calling me down for dinner. Sitting around the table for meals had always been a family tradition. Although, since awakening from my lifeless existence, this once pleasant tradition has become a considerable discomfort for all. That is, for my mom and dad. Ben and Laura, my siblings, have moved on. Both have grown up and now have families of their own. My father treats me like an unwanted stranger. He ignores me as much as possible. He’s not handling my rebirth very well. Neither am I, for that matter.

David! My mother’s voice is so delicate drifting up the stairs. She constantly worries that somehow I’ll suddenly drift back into a coma for another fifteen years. Even though the doctors have assured her time and time again that’s not likely to not happen.

I’ll be right there, mom. My locution is that of a seventeen year old boy, my baritone resonates the sound of a grown man.

I move the cursor to the left hand corner of the fifteen inch flat screen monitor and hit save. When I was really seventeen I hated to write; now it seems that writing is all I do.

Mom and dad are sitting at the table when I enter the dining room. Everything is different than it was before my nap. The family had always eaten in the kitchen. But the kitchen has been remodeled and now where the family dinner table once sat there is a huge island. A smooth glass electric range occupies the center; copper pots dangle above, which appear to have never been used. The counter around the stove is a blue ceramic tile with a Spanish pattern. A bread box and a few knickknacks are strategically placed on the counter top. A decorative straw basket brims with unused wooden utensils. Two bar stools are scooted close to the kitchen bar, which separates the kitchen and the living room. A twenty-one inch Sony sits against the wall at the end of bar. I imagine my parents taking their meals here while watching Wheel of Fortune. Other than my bedroom, the entire house has been redone, refinished and refurbished. Nothing about my room has been changed. Even the two Van Halen concert tickets I’d purchased for me and my girlfriend fifteen years earlier still sit on top the dresser beneath a silver dollar coin my granddad had given to me, probably twenty years ago.

Mom smiles her whimsical smile and looks like she could break into tears at any moment. Thankfully, she does not. Instead she asks, Are you hungry? She is very predictable these days. It’s always the same question when I come to the dinner table.

I smile back and say, I’m starving. I’m really not, but I say I am because I know that’s what mother wants to hear. Dad ignores me. He’s sitting at the table but he’s looking at the enormous flat screen bolted to the living room wall. At this moment the local news is all that matters. Mom says, David’s here, like I’m a guest and not their son. He ignores her, too.

Six months have passed since I woke up. Minus the two weeks I spent in the hospital, I have been here, in the house where I grew up. I left here a seventeen year old boy and returned a thirty-two year old man. I still feel seventeen, though. My life feels like The Twilight Zone. When I woke up I believed Shelly Tate was my girlfriend and I was the star quarterback of the Plano Tigers football team. My juvenile dreams remain fresh in my head and I have to remind myself daily that nothing is as it was before I slept. Shelly Tate is married with three children, four, six and eight, which means I’d been asleep for around six or seven years before she got pregnant. I hurt as though she had just broken up with me. I called Shelly’s mother a few months back with the intention of asking about Shelly. Her mother cried for five minutes. I finally hung up. Oddly enough, I understand how people feel. Every time I look in the mirror I see a person I do not know. For example, the peach-fuzz once teasing my upper lip now wages war with my entire face.

I’m told that coming out of a coma after fifteen years is quite unusual, picking up where you left off is simply unheard of. Well, that’s no longer the case. Picking up where I left off is my curse. While everything has moved forward, I remain trapped in a time that no longer exist. My family, my friends, my high school sweetheart are all strangers to me and I to them. The place where I once dreamed and hoped, I now struggle only to survive. And honestly, I don’t know if it’s worth it.

I get up from the table, my empty plate in hand. I give my mother a light kiss on the cheek and thank her for dinner. She’s got to be the sweetest person on the planet.

I place my dishes in the sink and head back upstairs to my room, my sanctuary. It’s the only place in this dim shadowy world where I feel comfortable, and seventeen.

Chapter 2

I wonder nearly every moment of every day, what the point is. Why did I sleep for so long? Why did I wake up? Why do I not have brain damage? Why do I remember things from fifteen years ago like it was yesterday? Why did I have to lose fifteen years of my life? Why does everyone treat me like something is wrong with me? Is something wrong with me? I constantly sit at my PC trying to figure all this out. I feel that buried deep inside my perdurable brain the answers lay hidden. My therapy is writing with the hope that somehow, by some miraculous phenomenon, the tips of my fingers will be persuaded to magically produce answers on my flat screen with unabashed clarity. Answers that will help me catch up with the world that has left me behind.

Cognitively I may be sharper than I was before my nap. My speech is a little slow but the doctors say with practice and time it will get better. They, the doctors, also tell me that as I slept my brain actually rewired itself, if you can believe that. They said new axons grew to establish novel working circuits, whatever that means. It’s not normal. The old axons tore due to my injury and new structures, that – and this is the really cool part – do not exist in normal brains rerouted themselves to the back of my brain; which, of course, raises the inescapable question, if my brain is so damn smart then why do I feel so inept?

I’ve learned to speak through the solitude of silence. I find that writing is much easier for me than verbal conversation. At the goading of my dear mother and just about every doctor who’s ever poked and prodded my insufferable brain, I’ve shared my inner most thoughts and feelings with a professional stranger, better known as a therapist. Oh, I’ve been to several now. They all mean well, but their advice is lame and paradoxical. It’s more propaganda than anything. Honestly, they’re as confused and mystified by me as I am. In most cases I’m treated like a child. And even at seventeen that would have been unacceptable.

There’s got to be more to life than this. My sister Laura, God bless her nurturing heart, keeps telling me that I’ve been given a second chance. A second chance for what?

The last time I saw my brother Ben he told me it was time to get on with my life. He had once looked up to me. Having your big brother as the star quarterback of the high school football team had its advantages. Having your thirty-two year old brother wake from a coma, his mind stuck on seventeen, holds no benefit whatsoever. At the time I had asked Ben for his omniscient prudential advice to lead me in the right direction. Of course, I was drooling with sardonic sarcasm. I missed fifteen years of growing, of maturing, of experiencing, what exactly do you suggest I do? He told me to figure it out. Thanks little brother, who oddly enough now seems like a big brother.

I haven’t figured it out yet and seriously doubt I ever will. And to be perfectly honest, I really don’t care. It’s kind of like high school algebra, if you get too far behind catching up is pretty much a hopeless cause. The difference with algebra is: you can always retake the class. Life, you get only one chance, regardless of what my sister might say.

I’m already behind fifteen years.

I hate being interrupted when I’m writing, but mom’s tapping on my bedroom door.

It’s open, I say, forcing cheer into my voice. My mother went through hell the last fifteen years. I’m told not a day went by that she did not come and sit with me in the nursing home. During which time she had read me a library of books. She loves the classics. Funny thing is I now love them, too. Before my nap the only book I read, other than the school junk, was the football playbook. I had it memorized, front ways and back.

Mom used to teach American literature at the same high school I went to, where football was God and I sat at his right hand. She tells me I’m legendary. There had once been talk of changing the name of the football team from Tigers to Rushing Tigers in honor of my last name, Rush. Now that I’m awake it’s not likely that will happen. While I slept the memory of me was personified in a mystical enigma. Now that I’m awake the esoteric no longer applies.

It took months for me to accept that I’m no longer the illustrious quarterback of the Plano Tigers, and the most popular guy in high school.

I twist in my chair to see mom standing at the door. She’s holding up a box that says X-Files. The X is red; the rest of the box is black and white.

Look what I have, she proudly holds up the box. She knows how much I’ve always loved the X-files. She’s constantly doing something to try and cheer me up. God bless her. This is the first three seasons. No commercials! Her excitement is infectious.

I hit save on my computer, and rise to my feet. You load the DVD, I’ll make the popcorn. I give her a peck on the cheek as I pass by. She’s all smiles.

Even though I’d rather keep writing, there is nothing more important at this moment than pleasing my mother.

Chapter 3

I stayed up all night and watched the entire first season of Fox and Dana chase after the paranormal. It wasn’t quite what I remembered. And then it dawned on me. It was Shelly’s favorite show, not mine. I watched it because she did.

My dad leaves every morning for work at precisely six o’clock. Sometimes I watch him through my bedroom window, as I am now, and wonder why he doesn’t seem pleased that I woke up. Sometimes I cry silently because I yearn to be the son he was once proud of. The son he bragged about endlessly, to the point of my embarrassment. He hardly speaks to me. I don’t think he knows what to say. To hear him say I love you would be enough. He’s the antonym of mother. I sometimes see him lean forward, over the steering wheel of his old Chevy, gazing through its cracked windshield up at my window. I always pull away from the window even though I know he can’t see me. I wonder what might go through his mind during these brief prudent gazes before he lights his cigarette and backs out of the driveway. The first time I saw dad light-up shocked the crap out of me. Growing up, he preached ardently against the perils of smoking.

I hear my mother climbing the stairs. She does this every morning like clockwork after dad leaves. She stops at my door and lingers for several minutes. I imagine her ear pressed against my door, a worrisome face and quite possibly a tear spilling from her sad eyes down her aging cheeks. I’d go mad without her. I listen quietly for her to descend the stairs before I crawl out of bed.

I brush my teeth and head down stairs. I don’t drink coffee and I don’t eat breakfast. It’s a little thing, but before my nap I could not leave the house without first eating a bowl of cereal and drinking a stout cup of java. Why that changed is a mystery. There are a few other small adjustments, tweaks if you will, that are contrary to my post napping stage. I used to love country music, cowboy hats and tight fitting Wranglers. I even wore snake skin boots. I’m strictly a tee-shirt blue jean, casual, comfortable, guy now. I used to love fried chicken. I can hardly bear the thought of it now. I guess when my brain rewired itself it made a few modifications. Just another small glitch the doctors can’t figure out.

Good morning, David, Mom greets me at the base of the stairs, like she does most mornings. You sleep well? She tries so hard, and I love her so very much for it. She’s cradling a large photo album in her arms.

Like a baby, I say, as I give her a morning hug. Truth is if I could I wouldn’t sleep at all. I usually sleep three to four hours, and that’s only because my body forces it upon me. For fifteen years, sleep was all I did. The thought of it scares me.

You be careful, David, there’s a lot of crazy people out there. She says this like I’m seventeen and not thirty-two. She glances at the green photo album. When you return, perhaps we can take a trip down memory lane.

Perhaps, I say. Shelly Tate will be in a great deal of those pictures. I’m not ready to face that yet.

For the last three months I have started my day by riding my bicycle. My physical therapist – an incredibly beautiful woman of my own age – not seventeen but thirty-two, also married with children – told me that riding a bicycle would stimulate both bone and muscle growth. Having been bed ridden for so long my legs, even though exercised daily, could not hold me up. I had to learn how to walk again. I did so in record time. My bike riding was supposed to be on a stationary bike. That lasted for a couple weeks. My therapist told me to take it easy, never go over a mile unless I tell you different. Don’t over exert yourself. I’m up to twenty miles a day. My therapist still thinks I ride a mile.

Once I get around the corner, out of sight, I take off the ridiculous blue striped plastic helmet and toss it in some bushes. I’ll pick it up on the way home. My route changes daily, although my first stop is always the same. I ride the windy hilly roads of Madison Park. My legs burn as I race up the steep hill to my destination. From the highest pinnacle in the Park my view of Shelly’s backyard is clear. Of course, Shelly doesn’t live there anymore. It’s my understanding that Shelly’s mother lives alone in the two story brick home. I have learned that Shelly’s father had died in a car accident six years ago. I haven’t offered my condolences for the simple reason I don’t want to open old wounds. I had always liked Shelly’s dad. For me his demise is as new as my rebirth.

The backyard appears overgrown and the pool looks dingy. Definitely not the meticulously kept yard and the sparkling pool I remember. Accepting that Shelly Tate is no longer my girlfriend has been the most difficult thing I’ve had to deal with.

I ride by a new housing development outside town. My brother is the developer. He’s giving orders to a tall man with a beard, pointing to a section of the wooden skeleton that will soon be a four hundred thousand dollar home. Ben’s wearing blue jeans and a button down white shirt. The shiny white hardhat atop his head looks brand new. He glances my way and I wave. He nods and then turns away. That’s all I get. I often wonder if I spoke badly of my father and brother in my sleep and that’s why they don’t like me. I’m a good ten miles from home and Ben doesn’t seem the least bit curious. I get off my bike and take a bottle of water and Snickers bar from my backpack and watch my brother as I eat and drink. I think once he’s done giving instructions he’ll come over to say hello. Instead he heads off by himself, in the opposite direction.

I consider riding by my dad’s office, not going in, just pass by, but after the cold shoulder I got from my brother, I decide to go back to the park and stare at Shelly Tate’s old house for a while.

Chapter 4

Laura took the day off so we could do stuff, as she likes to put it. It’s not the first time and hopefully it’s not the last, but in this world of uncertainty, you never know. If I have learned anything from my stolid nap it is to appreciate the fleeting triviality of time. I think Laura understands this, too. She’s a doctor, Pediatrician to be more precise, at Children’s Hospital in Dallas. Even as a kid her dream was to be a doctor. She’s always wanted to make people well. And that’s what she does. In a world where narcissism rains out of control; Laura is a fresh breath of selflessness. Laura’s heart’s as big as Texas. Her kindness is saintly. And my favorite: She never lies. I doubt that she stretches the truth. She tells it like it is; nothing amorphous comes from her lips.

At nine o’clock she pulls to the curb in front of the house and honks. It bothers me that she doesn’t come in to say hello to mom. Our family used to be so close. I know because of my sleep the family unit has been strained. Mom walks out onto the front porch with me and waves to Laura. She reciprocates amicably with a warm smile. I peck mom on the cheek and dash to the car like an excited kid headed for Six Flags. Speaking of which, I’ve been banded from by my doctors. They say the sudden G-forces and the violent whipping curves of the roller coasters might not be good for me. There’s no scientific proof of this, but to be on the safe side, they have asked, for the time being, that I refrain. It’s not easy considering they’ve added at least half dozen new coasters since my last visit fifteen years ago. Shelly and I had practically lived at Six Flags during our last summer together.

"I have to stop by the hospital and make my rounds before we go play." It kills me when she says go play, but I let it slide. Doctor Briggs called in sick. I shoot her a dubious gaze, with a glaring raised eyebrow. What? she says. Doctors are human, too. They can lie and play hooky just like anyone else.

When’s the last time you played hooky, sis?

She stares at me a long moment with a forced devilish grin before giving the answer I expected. I never have, not yet anyway. She made a left turn and asked. Do you mind?

Of course, I mind. I smiled. Laura knows I love to make rounds with her. I’ve done it several time now. She tells me I have an unpretentious way of bonding with the kids. Another tweak in the armor, before my nap my tolerance for small children was none existent, although, to be honest I didn’t have a lot of patience period.

After a studious study of medical charts, feeling for warm skin and some positive chitchat, we head down lower Greenville Avenue for lunch. Today it’s Snuffers, a hamburger joint that’s second to none. Laura orders a salad; I order fried mushrooms a hamburger and cheese fries. She assists with the mushrooms. We talk about her rounds and the suffering kids, many with no chance at a normal life, a few with only weeks, possibly days to live. We talk about their grief stricken parents and then we fall into a respectful silence as we finished our lunch.

There are a few advantages of having missed the last fifteen years. One awaits us as Laura takes the Collins exit off I-30 in Arlington. Did I mention that my sister is an angel? She whips her Volvo into the parking lot of the overly pretentious stadium where the Dallas Cowboy’s play. It’s the largest and most technically advanced stadium in the world, I’ve been told. They claim that the Statue of Liberty could stand erect on the fifty yard line with the roof closed. I get the grand tour. I’m sure our private tour guide as been instructed not to say anything about my football days at Plano High. Since I’ve woken no one has so much as mentioned football. Today’s a first.

Laura was at the game, the game no one wants to talk about. I’d thrown four touchdown passes and rushed for another. With the game well in hand, Coach Simmons wanted to take me out and put in my back up, I pleaded with him to keep me in the game. I needed one more TD pass to break the Tigers touchdown record for a season. I had already broken all the other records. The next snap was a play the coach called the pick and roll, a basketball term. I rolled to my left, my tight end, running back and wide receiver all ran to the right corner of the end zone. This was my play, my trademark pass. As the ball zipped through the air to its destination I was sandwiched by two colliding freight trains. My helmet had flown off as the freight train collided with my skull. Fifteen years later I woke up and asked the nurse, who just happened to be in my room, if Jeff Clark, my best friend and wide receiver, caught the ball. She screamed and ran out of the room. Did I mention that the game that put me to sleep was for the Championship, and was played at the old Texas Stadium?

After the grand tour, and without a word mentioned of my young epigrammatic football career, we head east past the ballpark where the Texas Rangers play and where we’ll be two nights from now when the Yankees are in town. I lived sports when I was in high school. It doesn’t interest me so much anymore. Which, I find strange considering I woke up six months ago thinking I was still in high school, and the reigning king of the Plano Tigers. Don’t get me wrong I like sports just not the same way. In high school I played them all, including tennis and golf. I excelled at them all, a natural, my dad used to say. But football was my love. I was good and I knew it. When I was a sophomore, there were college scouts at all my games. In my senior year NFL scouts followed my every move. At that time I had already picked U.C.L.A as my college of choice. And not to brag, but the choice was mine to make. To play in the NFL was the only goal I had ever set for my life. There was simply nothing else, other than one day marrying Shelly Tate. My nap took them both from me. The numinous rewiring of my brain voided my passion for the game of football. I wish it had done the same to my feelings for Shelly.

There’s someone I want you to meet, David. Laura says, glancing my way pithily.

By the way she ends the statement with my name I know I’m not going to like it.

Chapter 5

My first impression of Father Mike was a far cry from what I had expected when Laura said she wanted me to meet her priest. I thought: oh great, someone else to try and save me, encourage me, direct me, and of all things give advice. It wears me out listening to people – all with good intentions, all of whom had lived normally the last fifteen years of their lives. What I mean by normal is that they didn’t sleep through it. None of these benevolent human beings have the slightest inkling of what it’s like to be Rip Van Winkle. I would have adamantly rejected this idea to see Father Mike had it come from someone other than my sister.

He sprints our way soon as he spots us piling out of Laura’s car. Father Mike looks unlike any priest I’d ever seen. The black shiny suit coat with the hard white insert collar I’d expected is missing. Instead, he’s wearing running shorts, sneakers and a white tee-shirt that reads: I love The Beatles. I immediately feel uneasy. He greets Laura and then says:

You must be David. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. He shakes my hand vigorously, as though I’m a celebrity - which in a sense I have unfortunately become. When you’re one in a million, more like a trillion, everybody wants to talk to you. The talk shows, morning and night, all the major magazines, Hollywood producers and paparazzi, even book publishers. They all want to make money off me. My mom asked the local Media to back off, and they graciously have. Father Mike wipes his forehead with a blue elastic wrist band. He in no way resembles a pious priest. Come in and I’ll fix us some lemonade. Sorry for my appearance, I just finished my daily run. Had I’d known you’d be here this early I’d made a point to be more presentable.

Early, I thought, it was already three in the afternoon. What time was he expecting us? The fact he was expecting us at all makes me feel like I’m headed for another intervention.

Lucky me!

Father Mike’s home is like any other well lived in home. I guess maybe I expected to find pictures of Jesus and crucifixes lining the walls and harp music playing in the background. He saw the surprised look on my face and said:

Not what you expect from a priest?

Not exactly, I mutter.

Laura left the room to retrieve the lemonade at Father Mike’s request.

He saunters to the far wall in the living room where a prehistoric stereo system sits on an ornate, but cluttered, bookshelf. I’ve never entirely caught up with the times as you can see. I know the feeling. Even though I took a vow of poverty when I joined the priesthood, the parish members are gracious and are constantly giving me things. And they know how much I love music, particularly The Beatles. You like The Beatles? He asked holding up a bright yellow CD case.

I glance around wondering what exactly a vow of poverty means, what I see certainly doesn’t seem to qualify. I thought of the question he just asked and figured since he was a priest I’d better tell the truth. I am slowly learning to speak in past-tense; it’s not easy, though.

I was always into sports. I guess I never really paid that much attention to music other than country. I like that, though, I say, as beautiful harmonies fold the room in a warm embrace.

When Laura returns with two glasses of Lemonade I know something’s up.

I left my pager at the hospital, and I’m on call. I need to run and get it.

I glanced at her with a look of, don’t do this to me. I remembered her sitting the pager down, and thought nothing of it. Laura may not lie, but I’m discovering, she can be quite sneaky.

You don’t mind staying with Father Mike while I run over to the hospital do you?

What can I say? Before I ever get the chance to think of a good excuse not to stay, Father Mike says to me. You like to play pool?

I love pool. Of course, I haven’t played in fifteen years, but before my nap I was pretty good. Yeah, I like to play. The challenge of competition stirs in me.

Take your time, Father Mike tells my sinister sister, who’s already at the door.

That was planned, I say once she’s gone.

You think? Father Mike smiles.

He racks the balls and tells me to break. I do and make the nine ball.

Looks like your strips, he says. You want to call the pocket or just let ’em fall?

I have to think about the question for a moment, which frustrates me.

"Let’s not call