Fifty-four hundred dollars. Rosa had stopped by and given him the money in an envelope. He sat on the couch and held it, unable to open it. The Iowa Farm Bureau clock in the living room ticked rhythmically, the second hand making its journey around the faded photo of a pristine cornfield. Pepper and Silver-Foot mewed around his ankles. Next to him, Joule snored peacefully in the foldable bassinet.
How could you?
It’s not for me. It’s for Joule.
But it is because of you. He needs it because of what you did.
Casper placed his fingers on Joule’s chest.
I know.
He whispered the words again, the talisman he still carried.
“Lord, I’m a sinner.”
He knows. The voiceless chill seeped deeper into the crevices of his mind. He knows better than anyone.
“Help him, please. I know you don’t have to. I know I don’t deserve it. But—,”
I know what you deserve. You know what they will do to him. Right beneath your fingers. They will open him up. It is dangerous.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please help Dr. Shakir to—,”
Why ask? Why should He do anything for you?
“Don’t do it for my sake, but —,” his voice broke off. He trembled. He knew he shouldn’t say it. “Why?” he cried. “Why must he suffer? Why not me? Why couldn’t You have done it to me?” He buried his face in his hands. “You could have made me pay for it, but instead you—,” he stopped again. He was too afraid to continue.
You will see the scar everyday. It will be ugly. And when you see it, you will remember. You will know what He knows. And you will never escape what you did.
He screwed his eyes shut. His gaze fell upon the trap. It was still lying discarded beside him, its empty iron jaws pried open, its rusted teeth grinning at the sky. He hadn’t yet left the warm ground, and his legs were still folded beneath him.
He looked down at the new skin on his chest, seamless and clean. He placed his hand over it. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The wind stirred his hair. At first it was cool and beautiful, refreshing his face.
Then it changed. It became stiff, sternly whipping against his cheeks and forcing him to turn his head. He closed his eyes and resisted, tucking his chin into his chest.
But the wind persisted, blowing stronger and stronger till the air around him became so hard and unyielding that he could no longer draw a breath. He surrendered at last and turned his body away.
He opened his eyes and saw it. A long narrow path stretched ahead him, pitted with thousands of footprints. They were small and great, some limping and others striding, some dragging and others leaping. He spotted threads of steps where some had wandered off from the others before being gathered back into the throng. He squinted into the distance.
He remembered the calm, mighty hand laid on his head. Follow Me.
His heart surged within him, instantly exuberant and fearless. His limbs rose beneath him in obedience and he stood. He staggered unsteadily and he looked down at his feet, seeing the white scars where the teeth had torn his skin. Follow Me. He tried to run but he was still clumsy as the blood circulated again, crackling through his veins till he remembered the feeling of dirt and grass beneath his feet.
His footprints were lost in the multitude as he rushed forward, exhilarated with desperate hope. Under his breath as he ran, he repeated the words over and over.
—
He found it where’d he’d left it, in the bottom of the box. There had been many times he wanted to open it, but he had been afraid of what he would find. He remembered those places that had frightened him when he was young, the dark passages he had rushed past in fear, hoping that if he refused to see them he could forget they were there.
He stared dumbly at it lying open on his lap. Pepper was curled up next to him on the bed, and Joule was lying on a blanket on the floor, angrily enduring tummy time.
“Five minutes, Bud. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to be in fighting shape for tomorrow.” Joule sputtered in reply. Silver-Foot padded silently in front of him, inspecting him with her large blue eyes, then rolled on to the carpet next to him and began to clean her paws. Joule stopped mewling for a moment and stared at her, a smile playing on his open mouth as he watched the big gray fluffy thing. Then he began to cry again.
“Five minutes,” Casper repeated, checking his watch. He had gathered everything he figured they’d need. Dr. Shakir had expected five to seven days in the hospital after the surgery, but it could be longer, depending on how well Joule recovered.
Casper shook his head to focus his attention again. He stared at the book on his knees and opened it.
He said to him, “Bring me a heifer three years old, a female goat three years old, a ram three years old, a turtledove, and a young pigeon.”
Casper flipped the pages.
The allotment for the tribe of the people of Judah according to their clans reached southward to the boundary of Edom, to the wilderness of Zin at the farthest south.
He pinched a thicker stack of pages and flipped again.
And he will become a sanctuary and a stone of offense and a rock of stumbling to both houses of Israel, a trap and a snare to the inhabitants of Jerusalem.
He knew he wasn’t supposed to read like that, randomly thumbing through and hoping to stumble upon something personal and meaningful. Anyway, he knew what he was looking for, and he knew he wouldn’t find it.
He flipped the pages again and his eyes fell upon one of the passages he had always liked. It was one of the descriptions of the New Jerusalem, grand and mystical and epic. Light and goodness as far as the eye could see, lions and leopards eating grass like lambs.
And a little child shall lead them. He glanced down at Joule, furiously kicking his legs and driving his face into the blanket as Silver-Foot regarded him intently. Casper smiled.
“Okay, okay. Just this once.” He lifted Joule and kissed his face before placing him against his shoulder, gently jostling him as Joule made bubbles on his neck.
And there will be a highway from Assyria for the remnant that remains of his people.
Casper turned the page and kept reading.
I will give thanks to You, O Lord, for though You were angry with me, Your anger turned away, that You might comfort me.
He stared at the words. He read them again.
For though You were angry with me
That is not for you. Icy breath seared his mind.
Casper read the words again.
Your anger turned away, that You might comfort me.
That is not for you.
Casper kept reading.
Behold,
That is not for you.
Behold, God is my salvation.
It is not for you.
I will trust, and will not be afraid.
But you are afraid. You know it cannot be true. Even if He saves your son, what then? It does not sponge away the stain.
Behold
You think you can follow Him. You think He will allow that. You think you belong with them, those saints?
Casper trembled. The words on the page blurred before his eyes. He clung to Joule, his hands gripping the small form as tightly as he dared. He closed his eyes. His lips quivered, and the words were weak and feeble as he whispered them in his heart.
Will You have me?
Outside, the buzz of cicadas and the trill of birds. Silver-Foot curled around his ankles. Joule smacked his lips.
He jumped as his phone buzzed in his pocket.
>> Hey man — this is Brent Grosse. Hope you’re doing well. Nick told me you were looking for a job. Idk if you’re interested, but one of our engineers is retiring in August. I can put in a good word for you. Lmk
Brent Grosse. Casper still remembered the smell of Kraken Body Spray when Brent’s forearm purposefully smashed into his windpipe in seventh grade. Brent Grosse, who had gleefully estimated in front of everyone in fifth period statistics that Casper weighed less than all of the girls, putting his name smack on the left end of the bell curve. Never mind that he had been accurate. Brent Grosse, who had nearly snagged valedictorian from him, who had gone to Pierce County Community College and ended up as a data analyst with minimal student loan debt and killer benefits at Kleen-Sol. Brent Grosse, who had recently requested to connect with him on LinkedIn. Brent Grosse was offering to put in a good word for him.
>> Hi, Brent. Thanks for reaching out. I am currently interviewing for a position at Carver, but I appreciate the offer.
He stared at the text, the cursor blinking at him. It was the first time he’d seen it in his own writing. He had spoken to Helen in HR a couple days ago, and she was going to send his resume upstairs and mark it high priority, considering his former experience.
It wasn’t exactly the same position, but a rung or two lower. The pay was not great, but no matter. He could work his way up like he had before. He had been searching for apartments ever since the fundraiser. Carver offered a childcare subsidy, so he would be able to afford someone good to care for Joule. Not that it would be necessary for very long.
Mom and Dad would be disappointed, maybe even hurt. So would Nick and Rosa. But he couldn’t take it anymore. He had buried the envelope from Mercy in the box under Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and was planning on giving it back just before he left. He hoped they would understand. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt them. Somehow, they must realize how impossible it would be for him to accept it. He had to earn his own way. He had to clean up his own mess. Their kindness, as much as they meant it to help him, had hurt more than rejection. It had become increasingly impossible to bear, but it wasn’t until he opened the envelope and saw the assorted stack of wrinkled bills and checks handwritten in cursive, that he knew he had to escape. It was fortuitous when he woke up to find the Rezoom notification from Carver the following day.
He was glad Mom and Dad could only take off work for the day of the surgery, then would have to drive home that night. It would give him an opportunity to go in for the interview while Joule was recuperating. No one had to know until it was official.
It wasn’t their fault. They had all been wonderful. Amazing. Better than he could have ever hoped. But it would be better this way, for everyone. He couldn’t take it anymore.
And once she saw that Joule was all right, she would forgive him for everything.
—
As they approached Madison along the familiar path of Route 18, he leaned against the backseat of Dad’s truck, looking out the window and wondering what it would be like to be back. If it would be the same. Of course it wouldn’t be the same. He wasn’t the same, though if someone had asked him what had changed, he would be unable to explain. Apart from having a newborn, it was difficult to understand himself, why he felt so different than he had even six months ago. He did know that when he moved back to Madison, he’d need to find a church. Something just like Mercy. With mauve carpet, and good, long sermons, and Bob Strom and Randy Gephardt to greet him at the door.
He wondered if she would come with him, or if she would understand what had happened. He had tried to imagine what he would tell her, how he would explain it to her, but everything that came to his mind sounded opaque and cliché. Sometimes he was afraid that nothing had really changed. Maybe it was nothing more than wishful thinking, and he was just as arrogant, selfish, and false, as he had always been.
Follow Me.
He wanted to. He tried. But never for long. He tired easily. And it always came back, the voiceless chill which echoed his own thoughts.
Follow Me.
I’m not finished. He clamped his eyes shut. He saw the fresh skin and new muscles, and the clean, restored flesh on his leg. He clutched at it, and tore, digging his fingernails into his flesh. Soon, I will be satisfied. Then I will come. But not yet. I’m not finished.
He could see the throng of footsteps stretching ahead of him, and in the far distance he could see the multitude, a smudge on the horizon.
He raked his nails over his own back till his skin rang with ice and sting, his fingers becoming smudged with his own blood.
That is not enough, sneered the voiceless chill.
I know. I’m not finished.
He looked down at his seamless chest which concealed his nascent heart. He hesitated. Then he sliced at it furiously, his heart hammering with the effort until the blood ran warm and dark down his chest to his belly.
That is not enough.
I know. I’m not finished.
Follow Me.
I’m not finished.
Fear not, only believe.
Unless I see the wounds, he thought, staring at the receding multitude, I will never believe.
—
His eyes flew open. He held his watch close to his eyes and squinted. 4:30 A.M. The sofa bed creaked beneath him. It was still mostly dark in the hotel room, and Mom and Dad were just beginning to stir in the queen bed, while Joule slept fitfully in the portable crib. He hadn’t slept well, waking up every forty minutes or so. Casper had been sternly warned not to feed him for eight hours before the surgery, and it had been agony. Joule woke, wailing in hunger, and all Casper could do was offer the pacifier and tell him he was sorry again.
They had been told to arrive at the hospital by six, and if all went well, surgery was to begin at 7:30 and be finished by noon.
In the hotel breakfast area, Mom had insisted he eat something, but he refused, jostling Joule in the carseat and nervously pacing while his parents quickly fixed themselves coffee. Dad handed him a steaming styrofoam cup.
“It’s black,” he said. Casper thanked him and tasted it obediently. He winced. “It’s not good,” Dad said, lowering his voice and politely smiling over at the reception desk. “You might want some half and half.” Joule sputtered in the carseat.
“It’s okay, buddy,” he said, swaying the carseat back and forth. “I really just want to get going, Dad. Are you ready, Mom?” Mom was fussing by the continental breakfast buffet, stuffing plastic-wrapped muffins and bananas into her cavernous purse. “Mom, are you serious?”
“We paid for it, didn’t we? You’ll thank me later,” she said as she defiantly wrapped a bagel in a paper towel and jammed it into her purse, along with a packet of cream cheese and a plastic knife. Casper rubbed his eyes wearily. He checked his watch. 5:22. They were out in the suburbs, and it would take at least thirty minutes to reach the hospital.
“We’ll be waiting in the car, Sheila,” said Dad over his shoulder, nodding toward the revolving door. “Don’t be too long. Oh, but grab me one of those sausage and egg things. You want one, Cass?” Casper swallowed a curse and forced himself to only shake his head. “Get one for him anyway, hon. And some of those hot sauce packets. Let’s go, Cass.”
—
He was glad his parents were there. Really, he was. Dad was content to sit quietly, peering at his phone, not expecting or needing to converse. Mom had brought her crochet bag and a novel. It was good not to be alone. If only they would stop offering him food.
The staff had told him they would give him hourly updates. His worn copy of The Silmarillion was open on his lap, but he could only stare at it. He jostled his knee, got up and paced, checked his watch, his phone, the clock in the waiting area, and the screen displaying the statuses of the ongoing pediatric procedures. CASE # 17450 – JORGENSON – SURGERY IN PROGRESS.
All around him, couples were huddled over their phones, occasionally speaking in low tones, pacing, getting cups of water, staring at the screen, asking the receptionist when to expect the next status update. Some of them were talking to other parents, asking about the respective procedures their children were receiving, and comparing notes.
He sat back down and stared at the ceiling, repeating the words he’d recited over and over in his mind all night.
Please, God. Please. I’m sorry. Please.
He opened his messages and looked at the one he’d sent last night. Unanswered, just like all the others. His stomach sank every time he saw it. She wasn’t coming. He knew that.
Mom glanced over, and Casper thumbed away from the thread.
“I see Abby texted you,” she said. Casper nodded. “Such a sweetheart, isn’t she?” Casper nodded again. “Everyone else is praying right now too, honey. I hope you know that.”
“I know,” he said stiffly. He glanced toward the door.
“Are you all right? Want a fig bar?”
“I hate this, Mom.” He checked his watch. Fifty minutes down. “How am I going to stand it?” Mom squeezed his shoulder and rubbed his back.
“Honey,” she said softly. “You’re going to make it. And Dr. Shakir seems absolutely wonderful.”
“But I just—I don’t know if I —,” he stammered and fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt. I haven’t done enough.
“You’ve done all you can, and now it’s in the Lord’s hands.” He nodded obediently. “Let’s pray.”
She did, and he listened. Then his mind wandered. The voiceless chill flamed, white and cruel.
You have not done enough. You know this.
Stop. Please, stop.
It was you. All of this is because of you. And you are a coward. If He saves your son, what then? You will never believe. You will run after Him, but you will desert Him again. Look at you, even now. Running from them.
“Hello,” he heard Dad say. “Can I help you?”
“I’ve come to see Casper.” The voice was familiar. It sounded strange to hear his name on those lips, as if it were in a foreign language. In all the months, in all of the possible outcomes he had imagined, he had never conceived of this. His mouth fell open, and all he could do was stare. He knew the face, half-covered as it was by a medical mask. But it was strange to see it here, removed from the only environment he’d ever seen it, like a figure cut out from a painting. Casper swallowed and found that his palms had become clammy. He stood and smacked them on his jeans, and offered his hand.
“It’s good to see you, Mark.”
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Katie Bertola 
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