Broken Identity (32 page)

“Often several hours passed before the victim finally died. Death was sometimes rushed by breaking the victim’s legs or delivering a solid blow under the armpit. But they didn’t break Jesus. He died at the power of His own words.”

Drake didn’t know what to say. He lifted his eyes to meet the doctor’s and said in a quivering voice, “Thank you. You’ve answered all my questions.”

The doctor stood up brusquely, teary-eyed himself, and left the room.

Drake sat there in horror, trying to imagine how Jesus must have felt. One leg surgery was pushing his pain threshold; he couldn’t comprehend seeing his flesh lying on the ground after a brutal lashing and feeling his blood draining from multiple wounds. The doctor had certainly left out no details, just as he had asked him not to.

But how could words describe that kind of death? Words were just words, and even words had limited meanings. Was there a word stronger than pain? Could a word really describe how it feels when a rusty nail is pounded through the tendons of a person’s hands and feet? Can a word ever convey how it feels when pieces of serrated metal slashes the skin from a person’s back, legs, face? He had never heard about that part. Even in the churches he had been in, Jesus’ death had always been portrayed as something less than what it really was. No one would have wanted to see the true picture of Jesus. The naked, humiliated, bruised, swollen, beaten, and bloody part of Jesus.

Drake put a hand to his head and felt sweat seeping through his pores. No one had ever before taken the time to explain to him what Jesus’ death really meant. It wasn’t just a few whip marks on His back. It wasn’t just a handful of nails in a cross. It was the most horrible way a person could die, and yet Jesus
chose
to die that way.

Maybe Christians could find comfort in knowing that Jesus died for them and that they would gain entrance to Heaven one day, but to Drake, it did nothing but cut him deeper.

Drake gazed out the glowing window beside his bed and repeated to himself that something that happened thousands of years ago didn’t have anything to do with him today. History was like that—its memory may last, but it’s dead just the same.

I don’t want to think about it.
He should be focusing on resting, not this. The nurses would have a fit if they knew this was going through his mind on top of the empty stomach they had already lectured. He needed to clear his mind and focus on himself.
That’s right. Pull everything back into focus and realize you’re recovering from a bullet wound.
There was no guilt in that. He owed it to himself to save this for another day. His recovery was number one…
and the person who died for you ranks where?
The more he thought about it, the sicker he felt.

Drake turned away from the window, away from the world, away from the sky that seemed to penetrate his being like searing eyes. He had to get out of here. This room was contaminated with something. He knew because he was certainly not himself. Maybe he could find a button to push somewhere that would give him enough medicine to knock him out for five or six hours.

Discolored, flashy images of whips and spikes toppled back into memory. An innocent face streaked by matted blood and spit contorted as another cluster of serrated bones and metal removed a chunk of flesh from His shoulder. Drake turned back to the window and breathed like he was going through trauma.
Suck it up and be strong. You’re better than this.

The image flickered, then left his mind.

Drake squeezed Andrew’s Bible in an attempt to calm his shaking hands. If only someone had told him this sooner, maybe he could have gotten his life straight and accepted what Jesus had done for him. But it was too late now. His life was a wreck. Why would God ever want to take him like this? He had gone his own way and ruined his life. Who was he to think that Jesus, after all He had already done for him, should ever take him back? It simply wasn’t right. To ask such a thing would almost make him feel as if he were only putting Jesus through more pain.

Slowly, Drake lifted his eyes to Ronnie’s picture on the wall, past the people and the rainbow and…

Jesus loves you.
Drake stared at the words—resolute to keep his eyes fixed there until the full depth of those words sank in.
Why did You have to do that, Jesus? Can’t You see that I’m not worth it?
he thought, almost angrily.
Make it say something else!
His body heaved forward, and tears fell freely from his eyes now. He thought about the doctor’s words and all the sickening images of Jesus’ crucifixion.

Drake grabbed the pink tray beside his bed and threw up on it.

When supper was brought to him, Drake refused it.

“Are you sure you’re feeling OK?” one of the nurses said after cleaning the vomit tray. “I could bring you a popsicle. Grape or cherry?”

Drake set down his empty cup of Mountain Dew and said almost pleadingly, “Please, when can I get outta here?”

“A nurse will be on the way with your crutches shortly.” A knock came at the door. The nurse turned and smiled. “There she is now.”

Drake relaxed. Finally.

The nurse moved toward the door and opened it. “Oh, hello. I thought you were the nurse. Well, come right on in. I’m sure Mr. Pearson’ll enjoy the company.”

Drake craned his neck and saw Andrew and Ronnie standing in the hallway. “Don’t worry,” he said, letting his weary head fall back down on his firm, cool pillow. “I’m not asleep or anything. You can come in.”

Andrew walked in slowly behind Ronnie, who was already eyeing the tray of untouched food.

Drake took a carton of vanilla pudding from the tray and held it out. “Want it?” he said.

Ronnie moved toward it, then quickly drew back. “No, I shouldn’t. Go ahead.”

“I hate pudding and I hate vanilla even more. You might as well eat it.” He handed the pudding to Ronnie, along with a plastic spoon.

“How have you been?” Andrew said tentatively.

“’Bout the same,” Drake answered, carefully avoiding his IVs as he scratched a patch of dry skin on his hand. “Don’t know what the doctors are makin’ a big fuss of. It’s not like I can’t walk.”

“From what I hear, you’ll be getting your crutches soon.”

Drake grimaced. “How long will I have to use those again?”

“Probably a week. Maybe a little longer. All depends on when the tissue in your leg heals.”

Drake looked at Ronnie and tried not to laugh at the creamy pudding mustache coated above his upper lip. “Thanks for the picture and bear, Ronnie. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Ronnie said, scraping his cup to get out the last spoonful of pudding. He glanced up and smiled at Drake. “We made a pretty good team out there, huh?”

“Oh, uh…yeah, guess we did, didn’t we?” He took a fleeting glimpse at Andrew before turning his eyes to the floor.

Andrew took a step closer and touched the tray near Drake’s bed. “Did you get any reading done?”

Drake looked at the Bible and shrugged. “A little. Television wouldn’t turn on, so I picked it up for a while. Slept most of the time, though.” He pursed his lips and said no more. Why was he doing this to himself? Was it because the Bible had bothered him more than he had expected it to? Was it because the more he tried not to believe it, the more it made him ache on the inside? Try as he might, he couldn’t explain the way he had acted. It had tormented his mind to the point he had to vomit to discharge the sickness he felt.

And now? Now to lie about it? To act as if it meant nothing? Drake knew he was only hurting himself, but it was better than facing the holy God he had read about with a fog of sins clouding his life. If he disgusted even himself, how much more did he disgust God?

Andrew sat on the chair next to the bed and cupped his hands around his knees as a faint frown covered his face. A little reading was better than none, he guessed. He had hoped for more, even a slight interest. But perceiving Drake’s tone of voice, there had been no such reaction. “Do me one last favor, Drake. Stay with us until you’re able to walk without your crutches. That way, I’ll know you’ll be OK when you leave.”

“Let’s not argue about this again.”

“No one’s arguing.”

“Then here’s a head’s up.”

“You’re not even listening,” Andrew mumbled.

“I’m trying to be reasonable.”

“Reasonable? All I’m asking for is a week!”

“Weeks are the same as years to me. I shoulda been gone yesterday.”

“So I got in your way?” Ronnie said, his turn to join in now. “You wanted to leave and I ruined your plans?”

“Whoa, hang on, buddy. You’re way off base. I never said—”

“Last night, we were a team,” Ronnie said, his face now striped with tears. “Least, I thought we were. You showed me I was braver than I thought I was. You taught me to find something good in even the really bad…what’s the word?”

“Situations,” Andrew quietly offered.

“Yeah, that. For the first time, I felt what it was like to have a friend. I don’t care if it was just one or two or…oh, I don’t know how many hours it was, but I was kinda glad we were tied up ’cause I had someone to talk to. And you did talk. You made me feel better inside, even about the scary things I was too afraid to think about by myself. I knew everything was going to be OK when you came.”

Drake fumbled for words. “I’m…I’m glad we both came through safe.” Pitiful. Was that all he could say? No genuine feeling, no sympathy? Ronnie spits out phrases like a psychoanalyst, and all he could come up with were a few hollow words barely glued together. Pitiful.

“That’s why I don’t want you to go,” Ronnie sniffled, wrapping one hand around the cold metal bar beside Drake’s bed. “Andrew doesn’t want you to go either. I think he really wants to tell you that, but sometimes he just doesn’t know how to say it.”

Andrew peeked at Drake.

Oh, he knows,
Drake thought.
Probably took lessons from you.

“Drake, look at me,” Ronnie said.

Drake looked at him. How he had changed so much from that timid little kid half falling out the window last night to the bold person standing before him now giving him the lecture of his life. He may have been seven years old, but he deserved to be heard.

“Drake, you have to stay. We’re a team. A team can’t split up.”

“Ronnie, don’t make this hard. You know I have to go.”

Ronnie stared at him incredulously. “No, I don’t know
why
you have to go! I thought we were a family. I thought we were friends.”

“I already went through this, pal,” Drake said, rubbing his weary head.

“You don’t care about us,” Ronnie sobbed, moving away. “Why did you even come if you were just gonna leave? Didn’t you know we’d like you? I thought you were gonna stay with us forever.”

Drake put an arm around Ronnie and pulled him close. “Don’t cry, kiddo. You know I care about you.”

“If you cared, you’d stay. I’m sorry if I made you mad or somethin’. Is that why you’re leaving? Mommy and Daddy always left when I made them mad. I’m sorry if I did anything wrong, Drake. I didn’t mean to.”

Drake wrapped both arms around Ronnie and hugged him tightly. “Ronnie, you have never done anything to make me mad at you. If I’ve gotten mad, it was because I was mad at myself, not you. I could never be mad at you. Don’t ever think that. I love you, Ronnie, more than you’ll ever know. And it means the world to me for you to say I’m your friend.” He pulled away and wiped the tears from Ronnie’s cheeks. “If you really want me to stay…”

“I do, Drake! I do!” Ronnie cried, hugging him again.

Andrew sat in the corner alone, afraid that if he tried to join in, this moment would fragment like delicate glass. He was still the outsider; the one Drake consistently pulled away from. But Ronnie had gotten through to him successfully—no small accomplishment. He wanted Drake to be true to his word for Ronnie’s sake, because that fighter had earned it. And as long as there was a glint of hope, he was still pushing, still praying, that Drake would find a friend in him too.

Drake closed his eyes and let Ronnie squeeze the life out of him. Andrew was right. He had been surrounded by love all this time.

All he had to do was open his eyes and see it.