I Want to Show You More (9780802193742) (12 page)

The Presbyterians wouldn't tell us for sure if Sam went to Heaven when he died. I overheard the pastor telling my parents that it depended on whether or not Sam was one of God's chosen people.

“But I can tell you that the Scriptures are full of promises to children born into covenant families,” he said. “And you are a covenant family, so in all likelihood Sam is with the Lord.”

“Are we talking percentages here?” my father said.

“All I know,” the pastor said, “is that if I get to Heaven and see every baby that ever died, I will say, God, you are so good. And if I get to Heaven and see only some of the dead babies there, I will say, God, you are so good. And if I get to Heaven and see not one dead baby there, I will say, God, you are so good.”

We found another church. It's called Ethos. As in: the church needs a new ethos because the old one is screwed.

At breakfast, the camp director rings a brass bell hung up above the dining hall porch. Most of us line up long before he pulls the rope. We can see the food through the screens, already laid out on the tables: pancakes, sliced cantaloupe, scrambled eggs, grits. Above the tables are chandeliers made out of wagon wheels. Just inside the doors is a big speaker with a microphone. After the director rings the bell, he asks one of the high schoolers to step inside and say grace into the microphone so that everyone waiting on the porch can hear. The prayer is like this bribe: be quiet and listen and you'll get food.

This morning—our second morning at camp—the director asks Wren to say grace. The kids waiting in line move away as she walks toward the doors. Dragging her leg with her. When she gets close to me I see that she's wearing cutoff shorts and has her swollen foot stuffed into a flip-flop. Her toenails are painted pink.

She takes the mike and says one of her simple, direct prayers: Thank you for the hands that prepared the meal, use the food to strengthen our bodies, be present in our conversations around the table, amen
.
Maybe I should let her wing it when I ask her to pray for my sinkhole.

Inside, I sit at Wren's table, beside her. She's with Madeline and a couple of the guys on the McCallie cross-country team. They're talking about James, a freshman wrestler who's supposed to win state in the 103-pound class next year.

“Doesn't he normally weigh, like, 130?” Madeline is saying.

“He was going to be six feet,” Ransom McGuire says. “Now he might not make it to five-eight. He's stunting his growth.”

“Have you seen him eat?” Quentin Jenkins says.

“I hear he
doesn't
eat,” Madeline says.

“I mean after a match,” Quentin says. “He'll finish off two pizzas, then go home and put on this plastic suit and ride a bike in his living room. Dude's crazy.”

Ransom looks at me.

“We're running the ridge at four,” he says. “You coming?”

“I think I'll do my own thing,” I say. Quentin and Ransom exchange a look and I can tell they've been talking.

I turn to Wren.

“You doing the ropes course this morning?” I ask.

“Not the cat pole,” she says. “Maybe the V-swing or zipline. Are you?”

“No,” I say. “I need to get a long run in.” I take a deep breath. “But I was thinking, maybe we could take a walk later? Like, after lunch?”

“Sure,” Wren says. “As long as we don't, you know. Hike.” She tucks her feet under the bench and I feel her thigh press up against mine. She doesn't move it away. She probably doesn't even realize it's there, because of the stocking. My sinkhole tingles a little.

“Just a walk,” I say. “Meet me at the waterfront at one.”

“How far are you running today?” Madeline asks.

“Whatever I can do in two hours,” I say.

“For Ben that's like twenty miles,” Quentin says.

“A-ma-zing,” Madeline says, blinking, her lashes black and clumpy. “The discipline you have.”

“More like addiction,” I say. What I don't say is that for approximately half the time I'm gone, I'll be lying on the ground, panting, making air circles above my chest.

* * *

After breakfast and the morning assembly, when the high
schoolers head out to the ropes course, I go back to my cabin to change. It's only ten but already the heat is radiating up from the grass on the soccer field, the sun reflecting off the aluminum cabin rooftops. Inside the cabin are nine beds: eight twin cots plus a double for our counselor, Daryl, a philosophy major at Westminster who has an earring and a goatee and smokes pot inside his sleeping bag when he thinks we're all asleep.

I put on my running shorts and a singlet and lace up my shoes. Then I set my watch and start out at an easy 7:00 pace. By mile two I'll pick it up to 6:30; mile four, 6:00. These early minutes are the gray space, the bland miles I have to run through before the prickling starts and the God rhythms pulse in my heart and I have to trick myself into not listening.

My therapist says when this happens, it's the first hit of endorphins. It's not God, it's biology, he says.

My therapist is not a runner.

I head down the dirt access road, past the entrance sign with letters molded out of horseshoes. I reach the paved highway and run a mile and a half down a long incline, then turn left into the Little River Canyon National Preserve. We used to train out here in middle school. Two miles and I'll hit the footbridge that crosses to the trailhead.

I run beside the river. The water's shallow and mostly shaded, a few coins of sunlight on the surface. When I reach the bridge, I sidestep down the embankment and kneel beside the water for a drink. Then I dip my whole head in. Best way to keep from overheating is to keep your head cool.

I cross the bridge and start up the trail. I'm feeling strong. Invincible, even. I'm thinking, Best of the Preps newspaper article, scholarship to Stanford, Olympic trials. I picture other people watching me get these things: fans waving flags, my parents opening the
Times Free Press
to a full-sized picture of me on the front page of the sports section. My father saying, We knew it, we've always known it.

The trail hairpins back and forth. I'm going fast. My shoes kick up dust, leaves, small rocks. Any second now, I think.

I focus my thoughts on the spot of skin between my pecs.

Nothing happens.

I push myself harder. The incline makes my calves burn. Along the side of my knee, all the way up to my low back, I can feel my IT band tightening.

Now, I think.

Now.

No prickling, no tingling.

I picture hugging Wren, her chest pressing against mine.

I imagine wearing a tie made out of lead.

Now.

I reach the top of the ridge and still nothing's happened. I stretch, then walk up to the cliff overlooking Trenton. I pull off my shirt and feel the sun fire up my back. My stopwatch reads 58:13. It should be happening.

I pull up a tall grass weed, feathery at the tip. Knowing what I'm about to do creates a little buzz in my skin. I rub the tip of the weed on my lips first, to test the pressure. Then I turn it over and, with the firm end of the stalk, poke the dime-sized spot.

And then I'm on the ground. The sinkhole is spiraling open. It's whirling fast, faster than usual, and it's like something is reaching up from beneath me, through my low back and spine and ribs, tugging down.

I get my hand in the ready position. I am my own Great Physician, I think. I am the boss. The sinkhole widens through my skin, numbing everything it touches. I start to move my hand in tiny circles. Not too much. I want to hear God first.

Here I am, I say. Tell me.

The sinkhole twists around in my pectoral muscles. I feel my throat start to close and I have to gasp a little for air.

Please, I say.

My heart sort of pauses, like it's thinking. Then I feel this giant flub:
You
.

You what, I say. My voice is dry and wheezy as an old man's.

You. You. You
. The word repeats with each heartbeat. The sinkhole moves into my sternum and I hear a crackling noise, like breaking ice.

I move my hand faster.

You what.

The sinkhole is turning into a sphere, the size of an orange. I feel it fingering around, looking for my heart.
You you you
.

The corners of my vision are turning fuzzy gray. My chest burns. I've never let it get this far before.

You what—in my mind I fling the words up to God.

I feel the sinkhole grab my heart.

YOU you
. Squeeze, release, like a handshake.

You what.

You you you

You
—

My brother is lying in a clear plastic bassinet in a hospital room. I'm allowed to see him one last time and in my mind I know he's dead but while I look at him I feel this electricity jumping around inside my hands, like any second blue lightning is going to shoot out of my fingertips, which feel burnt. And I think, If I touch him and say, Sit up, he will. I reach out my hand. Then I remember how God strikes people down for trying to mess with his decisions: Adam and Eve kicked out of Eden, Pharaoh and his army drowned in the Red Sea, Herod eaten up by worms. And when the nurse comes in to get me, I pull my hand away and walk out. I don't even say goodbye.

You could have.

When I wake up I'm on my back. My T-shirt is crumpled beneath my head. I don't know how long I've been asleep. I can tell that the sinkhole is still open, stuck inside my sternum, sitting there like an open wound. No pain or tingling, just this eerie numbness.

I stand up, dizzy. The sinkhole spirals around in my chest, slowly, like an old record.

I turn and sprint the downhill back to camp.

Wren, I think.

Wren Wren Wren.

When I get to the cabin, Ransom and Quentin are just leaving.

“Dude,” Ransom says. “Daryl went to the staff lodge. I think he's calling your parents.”

“You guys knew I went for a run,” I say. The sinkhole is so wide I'm sure if I take off my shirt they'll see it gaping there, black and empty.

“Like, five hours ago,” Ransom says. “We were heading out to look for you.”

“I got turned around on the trails,” I say.

“Your face is fried,” Quentin says.

I grab my towel from the nail beside my bed, then kneel down and root around in my duffel as if I'm looking for my shower stuff. But I'm gathering my faith healing supplies: oil in its tiny Advil bottle, small New Testament bound in red leather, three votive candles, matchbook, flashlight. I wrap everything up in the towel, then go to the lodge to look for Daryl. I find him watching something on the staff television. He doesn't seem worried or mad when he sees me.

I tell him I got lost on the trails. I tell him I'm sorry and that I won't run alone again. I tell him I'll call my parents if he wants me to.

Daryl tilts his head back so he's looking at me down the
bridge of his nose. “That girl came to find me,” he says.
“Wren.
Said you guys were going to take a walk and you never
showed.”

“Like I say, I got lost,” I tell him.

“She seemed genuinely worried,” Daryl says.

“I'll talk to her tonight,” I say. “I'm going to shower up and rest.”

His eyes narrow. “Right on,” he says. “Listen. I don't know what you've got going, but don't mess with that girl. She's good, you know?”

“I know,” I say. He watches me walk out, so I turn toward the bathrooms. Then I circle around behind the lodge, take the rolled towel down to the waterfront, and stuff it deep in the bushes beside the canoe dock.

At the evening session in the gym, I find Wren sitting in the back row. She smiles and moves over a little when I walk up.

“What happened?” she says. “I waited till two.”

“I'm sorry,” I say, sitting beside her. “I got lost on this trail.”

“Are you okay? You're all splotchy.” She touches my cheekbone, just barely brushes it with the tip of her index finger. The sinkhole spins around a few times. I suck a little air in between my teeth.

“There's something I need to ask you,” I say.

Her eyes go wide. She looks down into her lap.

“I was thinking we could go down to the waterfront—” Before I can finish, Frank Collins comes out from behind the screen. He's wearing black pants and a white shirt with a bow tie. A kitchen towel is draped over his forearm; in his hands are a pencil and leather notepad.

“My sincere apologies for being late,” he says, using a British accent. “I hadn't expected to come to work this evening.”

Wren nudges me with her swollen leg. “A thousand bucks he's the Genie God,” she says. Again she leaves her leg against mine, and the sinkhole deepens,
you, you
humming faintly.

When she looks away, I move my hand up to the ready position.

“Beg your pardon?” God says to no one in particular. “Ah, the menu. How silly of me to forget.” He hands an imaginary menu to a little boy. “Now sir, the last time you were here, you ordered a win for your baseball team. Would you like another?”

The boy stares up at him.

“My apologies, sir, that item is not on the menu. But I'll see what I can do.” He pauses, listening. “I know you can take your business elsewhere, and believe me when I tell you how much I appreciate your loyalty. It's just that I'm not entirely certain I can do what you're asking. No, please, sir, don't walk away. I rely on customers like you to stay in busi
ness. I might have to close up shop if I can't keep producing . . . I understand. No hard feelings. Know that I'm here, at your service, anytime you'd like to return.”