Eli (13 page)

Trevor?”

Two heads emerged from under the hood.

“Would you mind rounding up the folks, tell them we’ve got a meeting out here? I have an important announcement to make.”

The men nodded and closed the Toyota’s hood. It gave a creaking groan of resistance.

“Suzanne, Connie—would you bang on the Carlsons’ and Barnicks’ RVs, see if anyone’s home? I’ll check on Maggie, the Browns, and Scott and Brent.”

“Sure,” Suzanne agreed.

Twenty minutes later two dozen people were gathered in the broiling parking lot of the Motel 6. Most of them Conrad recognized from the softball game or from his visits with Suzanne. A few he did not.

“All right, everybody,” Eli called from the partial shade cast by Jake’s RV, “listen up.” The group quieted. “We’ve got some new marching orders. Looks like my Father wants me to go to Salem County, Georgia.”

Some in the group murmured in surprise.

“He wants me to be there in time for the grand opening of Dr. Kerston’s new facility.”

“What?” Big Jake cried from the back of the group. “You’re not serious?”

Others voiced similar objections.

Eli grinned and raised his hands. “I know, I know. It’s crazy, but it’s not the first crazy thing I’ve been asked to do, is it?” There was little reaction. “Well, is it?”

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Reluctantly, a few agreed.

“Okay. Now since we’ve got plenty of time and since there are so many people across our land who are clueless about the Kingdom of Heaven, I’ve decided not to take a plane.

Instead, I want to turn it into a road trip . . . which in a sense we’ve already begun. So, first thing tomorrow I’m heading out, and I’d love for all of you who are interested to join me.”

There was more murmuring—some of it positive, some of it concerned.

“Eli,” an older gentleman in shorts called out, “what about our families?” Others nodded as the man continued.

“I’ve been away from them for nearly three weeks now.”

Eli answered, “I understand, Jeff. And if your family’s more important to you than me, you’re right, you need to get back to them.”

The man gave a nod followed by a frown . . . as if he wasn’t entirely sure he’d received the answer he’d wanted.

“What about school?” a young brunette in shortly cropped hair asked. “Summer classes start in a week.”

“Another good point,” Eli said. “If school’s more important to you, then by all means, head back to it.”

“And work?” asked Brian Tuffts, the man whose arm Eli had healed at the softball park.

“What about it, Brian?”

“Most of us have jobs we’ve got to get back to.” Eli remained silent. The man continued. “I mean, we’ve got to eat, right? We’ve got bills to pay, kids to put through college, mortgages.”

Eli slowly nodded. He looked across the parking lot as he chewed on the statement. Something near the motel’s office caught his eye, and he turned back to Tuffts. “Tell me, Brian.”

He motioned toward the brick planter next to the motel’s glass doors. “Check out those birch trees over there, and the geraniums.” The group turned to look. “You don’t see them fret-ting and worrying, do you? They’re not concerned about paying bills, or meeting mortgages. But look how my Father hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 91

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takes care of them. And look at those birds.” He nodded toward a handful of pigeons sitting on the electrical wires running to the office. “Have you ever seen them starve?”

“But Eli,” he protested, “they’re pigeons.”

“Exactly. And aren’t you more important to my Father than pigeons? If He takes care of their needs, as insignificant as they are, don’t you think He’ll take care of yours?”

Brian held his gaze a moment, then glanced away, unable to find an answer.

Eli turned to the rest of the group. “If you can’t come with me, I’ll understand. But there is not one of you who, if you give up your family, or work, or career, will not receive a hundred times that much back—not only in this lifetime, but later, with me in Heaven.” The group shifted slightly and he continued. “Listen very carefully now. If you pursue God’s Kingdom before anything else, all of these other things that you’re worrying about, they will be given to you. Automati-cally. No strings attached. I give you my word. That’s how my Father works. That’s how His Kingdom works.”

The group grew quiet, obviously pondering the truthful-ness of the statement, working through its relevance in each of their lives.

Eli waited a moment, then continued. “Now, there are only twelve of you that my Father has clearly pointed out to me. The rest of you are more than welcome to come, and as I said, you will certainly be happier if you do. But I know for a fact that God has called these twelve men to be by my side.”

“
Men?”
a heavyset woman asked.

“It’s nothing against you, Maggie. Your dedication and hard work has outshone these goofballs more times than I can count.” He nodded to the men with a teasing grin. A few of the guys responded in mock protest. He continued. “It’s just going to be easier if they’re the ones breaking down the traditions and religious barriers.”

“Because?” Maggie demanded.

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“Because those traditions and barriers are controlled by some very rigid men.”

Maggie began to nod. She didn’t like the answer, but she understood.

Eli turned to the group. “So everyone is invited, both men and women, but I specifically want these twelve to follow me.” He glanced over at Jake, his eyes once again sparkling.

“So what do you say, big guy? You interested?”

Jake nodded. “You can count on me, Eli, you know that.”

Eli grinned. “And your brother, Robert? Where is he?”

“He’s over with Rachel and her mom checking out them movie star footprints. I’ll tell him when he gets back.”

“Good.” Next Eli turned to the bald-headed biker with the racist tattoos. “Will?”

The man looked up, more than a little surprised.

“You with me?”

He shuffled slightly then gave a stiff, self-conscious nod.

Conrad looked around the group and smiled at the number of people exchanging raised eyebrows.

“Terry, are you here?” Eli asked. “Carl?”

“They’re down at Disneyland,” Maggie volunteered.

“Hector?”

“The same.”

“You’ll tell them?” he asked.

“Of course,” she sighed.

Eli nodded and turned to the skinny kid who had been working with Jake on the Toyota. “Trevor?”

The kid blinked in surprise, then nodded slightly before looking at the ground in painful shyness.

“Scott? Brent?”

Two good-looking brothers about Eli’s age exchanged glances with one another, then turned to their mother who stood not far away. She gave a solemn, almost imperceptible nod, which the boys duplicated and returned to Eli.

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Eli smiled and turned to Keith Anderson, the production assistant from Charlene Marshal’s show. The kid wore the same shorts he had worn on the broadcast, only this time they revealed two strong, healthy legs. “What do you say, Keith?”

“You bet.” The kid beamed, obviously eager for the adven-ture. But the moment was short-lived.

“Eli! Yo, Eli?” The group turned to see Leon Brewster strutting forward, having just arrived. “You wanted to see me, man?”

Eli broke into his trademark grin. “I was just going down the list.”

“And I’m on it, right? Just like we said?”

“You’re on it, Leon . . . just like we said.”

This time the crowd made no effort to hide their surprise.

And concern. Conrad threw an amused look over at Will, who appeared anything but excited. And for good reason. The two men’s lives couldn’t be any more different, or their hatred toward each other any stronger. Eli would definitely have his hands full with those two.

“And finally,” Eli said, as his eyes turned to Conrad,

“Davis.”

If Conrad had been surprised at the mention of Leon’s name, he was dumbstruck at the sound of his own. He felt Suzanne give his arm a squeeze, but could barely hear what she said. In fact, he barely remembered responding. But he must have said something, because Eli had eventually turned back to the group, spoken some final words, and brought the meeting to a close. It was only then, after Eli had started for his motel room, that Conrad finally found his voice . . . and his legs.

He quickly crossed the parking lot toward him. “Eli? Eli. . .”

Eli turned to him with his usual delight.

“What . . . what are you saying?” Conrad stammered. “You can’t be serious?”

“About what?”

“About me!”

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“Why not?”

“Why not?
Why not?”

Eli waited for an answer.

“Because . . . why not? Because I’m not the . . . I mean . . .”

He regrouped, trying to put his thoughts into a coherent string of words. “Why me? I’m not ready for anything like this.”

There was that sparkle again, and then the answer. “Of course you’re ready, Connie. You’ve been waiting for this your entire life.”

v

“The Life Flight crew was on the ground beside him at 16:25, approximately twenty minutes after the accident. He was found to be unconscious, with traumatic head wounds to his forehead and the right side of his skull. His clavicle was shattered, both legs broken, and there appeared to be severe internal injuries. He was intubated, immobilized with cervi-cal collar and backboard, and . . .”

Julia sat impatiently in the ICU lobby, practically knee to knee with Dr. Martin, head of neurosurgery. In his mid-sixties with short gray hair, the gentleman exhibited a quiet wisdom that could come only from years of similar scenarios.

Carefully, he ran down the minute-by-minute details of the care given to her father. The itemized account was of little interest to her, but she understood how important it was to the doctor. As an experienced physician, he obviously knew all the realities and possibilities of malpractice suits.

“We ran a Glasgow Coma Scale on him at the site to measure the seriousness of the trauma.”

This was getting closer to what she needed to hear. “What all does that entail?” she asked.

“We do various tests to measure the response of his eyes, his motor skills, and his verbal ability. Possible scores range from three to fifteen points. A score of thirteen to fifteen indicates relatively minor damage. A score of eight and below indicates serious brain damage.”

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“And what was his reading?” Ernesto asked from the sofa beside them. Julia glanced up, almost forgetting the family was there.

“We ran the test twice. Once at the scene of the accident and once en route.”

“And the readings?” Julia asked.

The doctor glanced down and checked the chart on his lap. “At the accident we had a reading of four.”

“And en route?” Ernesto asked.

“Three.”

The silence was interminable.

The doctor looked down and continued to read. “Once in the air we started intravenous mannitol to reduce swelling.

He arrived here at 16:58. We immediately ran a CT scan—”

“Which is?” Ernesto interrupted.

“A three-dimensional picture of the brain. It allows us to pinpoint any operable lesions, hematomas, and bone fragments.”

“Do you have that on file?” Julia heard herself ask. It was the lawyer Julia again. The last thing the daughter Julia wanted was to see a 3-D image of her father’s destroyed brain, but the question still had to be asked.

The doctor glanced up from the chart and looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, it’s on file, and if you insist we will show it to you. But it would be better for you if we did not.”

The words put a cold knot in Julia’s stomach, but she pushed herself ahead. “Why’s that?”

Dr. Martin removed his glasses. “The human brain is a very delicate organ. It has the strength and consistency of Jell-O. It takes very little to disrupt it even when the injuries are closed, but if they are penetrating as is the case with your father—”

“I’m sorry . . . ‘
penetrating
’?”

For the first time he seemed to hesitate. “The front half of your father’s skull was shattered. Between the bone fragments, the multiple lesions, and massive blood clots, I’m afraid there’s little of his brain left unaffected.”

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Whatever strength Julia had managed to muster rapidly drained.

The doctor continued, gently yet professionally. “If I had been on the site, I would not have intubated him. If I had been the surgeon on call, most likely I would not have operated.”

“Meaning?”

“We have a young and ambitious staff, Ms. Preston. From time to time, their zeal and commitment to save lives blinds them to the realities.”

“You would have declared him dead,” Ernesto stated.

“In many ways your father is already dead.”

“But he spoke!” The words came before Julia could stop them. “I heard him speak.”

The doctor turned to her, carefully choosing his words. “I don’t think that is likely.”

“But he said something, he was making some sort of sound.”

“Possibly. With traumatic brain injury there’s always room for the unexplained, but . . .” He let the sentence trail off.

“Doctor.” It was Ernesto again. “We have a signed advanced directive from the patient.”

The doctor nodded. “What does he ask?”

“He asks that no life-sustaining treatment be administered or continued if he’s in an irreversible coma or persistent vegetative state.”

The doctor remained silent.

“So . . .” Ernesto raised his hand, waiting for a response.

“I mean, if you had to make a call here, what would be your recommendation?”

“Recommendation?” he asked.

Julia looked on, watching the doctor work. She knew these could be treacherous legal waters for him, and it was obvious he was not anxious to negotiate them.

Ernesto pressed in. “If he were your father, what would you do?”