Short Stories

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Part 2 of 3

Please note: This continues an account of our human tendency to rebel against God’s loving-kindness. I hope that it vividly paints for us the faithfulness of God which is best seen in the person of Jesus Christ. While one may find parallels between this and some real-life situations, the characters described in this are completely fictional.

Although things seemed fine for awhile, Mel became increasingly certain that they were not. Charla persisted in refusing to disclose much of what had happened to her over the months that she’d been gone, becoming irritable and suspicious when they asked her about the episode. Mel felt that while she seemed friendly she also seemed to be very much on the defensive. Try as he might, a real breakthrough eluded them. He was also painfully aware that no matter how good an upbringing a child might or might not have had, the “voices” that one listens to have tremendous power over his or her choices. It seemed to him that Charla was still listening to those other “voices”.

One Saturday morning in October, Charla came meekly to the breakfast table and sat at her usual spot. She fidgeted momentarily with some toast and juice while her mother and father chattered about the day before them all. She suddenly exploded with, “I’m pregnant and I don’t know who the father is.” She dropped her head as if unable to look at either of them. A butter knife fell from Lydia’s suddenly paralyzed fingers, clattering noisily onto the floor. She and Mel exchanged glances and were, for one awful moment, too stunned to move or say anything.

Charla moved as if she were going to get up and leave the room, but Mel leapt to his feet and put his arms around her. “It’s going to be okay, honey.” Charla cried for twenty minutes into her father’s shoulder.

Spring finally came and so did the baby… a little boy. Charla named him, “Isaac”. At first Charla very dutifully and lovingly cared for little Isaac, but she gradually seemed to start listening to those other “voices” again and was increasingly dissatisfied over her life and her responsibilities. Meanwhile, the apple tree in the back yard made a feeble attempt at its annual spring growth of new leaves, but it could only produce very tiny and unhealthy looking sprouts. When blossom time rolled around, there were no blossoms at all. A similar struggle to survive was going on in Charla’s own heart. Mel prayed for Charla as he had never prayed before.

A few weeks later, while standing by his window late one night, Mel observed a shadow moving along the length of his house, starkly contrasted under the silver glow of nearly full moon. A figure pulled away from the house and then darted off towards the street where a car was waiting, partly hidden by a grove of large bushes. The figure, who Mel could plainly see was his daughter, climbed into the car and then was gone in mere seconds.

Seconds later, the crying of little Isaac pierced the stillness of the night and Mel hurried to go and care for him, Lydia coming behind him. Mel explained what he had seen and, after they had cuddled Isaac back to sleep, they then both got down on their knees and prayed. In the early morning, Mel was awakened from where he had dozed off on the sofa beside Lydia who was yet holding a sleeping Isaac in her arms. The phone was ringing. Mel put the phone to his ear and said, “Yes?” It was a deputy sheriff. “Is this Mr. Deck? Mr. Mel Deck?” “Yes,” Mel replied. “Can you come to the hospital right away?” the deputy asked. “Your daughter has been in an accident.” “We’ll be right there,” Mel answered and he hung up the phone. In ten minutes, Mel and Lydia were at the hospital with little Isaac in tow, a bag of diapers and baby formula over Mel’s shoulder.

Their pastor was waiting for them along with the deputy sheriff who had called, and they quickly found themselves escorted to a room in the Intensive Care ward. In the bed before them lay their daughter with masses of cords and hoses connecting her to all sorts of machines. Anyone in that condition would have been a terrible sight to behold, but given that it was their daughter, there were simply no words to describe the horror that they both felt. A nurse who stood by, quietly took Isaac into her arms and stepped to a far corner of the room. Mel and Lydia staggered towards the bed, convulsing with grief and barely able to actually make it. They took hold of her hand that had no bandages on it and had fewer wires and hoses connected to it. They kissed it and massaged it gently. The lid of the unbandaged eye fluttered open and she gazed at them through a veil of pain. “I’ve hurt you,” her voice rasped, hardly to be heard. “I’m sorry. I don’t deserve your love.”

Lydia sobbed in anguish and clutched her daughter’s hand, unable to speak. Mel leaned forward and ever so gently kissed her forehead. “You are our daughter and we’ll always love you,” he whispered to her. Her eye followed his and he thought that she smiled. “Thank you, daddy. Thank you, mommy,” she breathed. Her eye slowly closed but then quickly opened again. “Watch over Isaac, will you? Tell him I’m sorry,” and then she drifted into unconsciousness.

They sat there all day beside their little girl who looked more like a Hollywood mummy than a real human being. She only responded one more time after that, when tiny Isaac woke up and fiercely announced that he was hungry. Charla’s head turned ever so slightly and she made a sound like a sigh. Less than a minute later, her heart rate flat-lined. The room was suddenly swirling with hospital staff, trying to revive her. But their efforts were fruitless: Charla was gone.

To be continued…

Copyright © Thom Mollohan.

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