My Soul to Keep (41 page)

She composed herself and set the photo carefully on the desk. “There might be more to people than meets the eye, Dr. Foster. You might want to keep that in mind before you make your judgments.”

Once again I prayed to the Lord Jesus to open up a hole in the ground for me to hide in. And once again He declined, preferring instead to leave me there to face yet another of my Top Ten Terrible Traits.

I trotted behind her again as she escorted me out. She stopped at the door and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

I shook her hand. “I’m sorry I was so harsh earlier. It’s just that. we’re all so anxious to find him. Any little scrap of information—”

She put up a hand to stop me. “I understand completely. Please give Dr. Chavez my best. I hope she finds her son very soon.”

After I’d recovered from my near-crippling shame attack at my abominable behavior toward G. Perry Eschenbrenner, attorney at law and apparently quite a decent human being, I sat on the bench seat of
my truck, engine running and dome light on, and ripped open the envelope. Inside was one sheet of paper.

It was an arrest record. From 1973. A shoplifting offense adjudicated in juvenile court in Montgomery County. The offender was sixteen years old, and his name was Gordon Weldon Pryne.

I squinted at the blurred copy. It was the old kind with purple letters, common before Xerox machines were cheap and plentiful. The words were smudged, the county seal wrinkled from a coffee-cup stain.

Gordon Pryne had been arrested for stealing a transistor radio from TG&Y. His height and weight were listed, and his prints ran along the bottom of the page. There was no photo—that probably would have been on a separate page. I wondered if it was his first arrest.

The report noted that his mother had brought him down to the station and made him turn himself in. She couldn’t possibly have known at the time that her son would doom himself to a lifetime of drugs and crime. It made me feel better somehow, that she’d tried to do the right thing. That someone sometime had once tried to help Gordon Pryne.

I couldn’t imagine why he’d wanted me to have the arrest report. I pored over it again and again but came up dead empty every time. There was nothing on it that had anything to do with Nicholas.

I slipped it into my bag and started back to my house. I got halfway there before I pulled over and yanked the paper out of my bag.

There it was, on the bottom of the page in smudged lavender ink. An address. And a name.

I
N
1973, M
ARY
A. P
RYNE
had lived on Cooper Lane in a little town called—you could measure the irony in tons—Cut and Shoot, Texas. A quick call to my cell phone’s handy information service indicated there was no such town. The first dead end. I drove home in a rush, running perhaps a light or two but feeling sure the Good Lord would excuse me for such a worthy cause. I pulled into my driveway in record time.

I parked the truck under the sycamore tree and shot to the front door, flipping on lights (which stayed on, thank you very much) as I made my way through my house and plopped down at my computer once again.

A little research revealed that at some point, Cut and Shoot had been absorbed into Conroe, Texas. There was no current listing for a Mary A. Pryne on a Cooper Lane in Conroe. Four more phone calls to the surrounding municipalities yielded a big fat nothing. I did a people search online and quickly discovered there were exactly zero Mary A. Prynes out there. Not a development I’d anticipated.

I fumbled about for a while until, in a stroke of genius—or perhaps in a generous gift of inspiration from the Lord Jesus Himself—I began calling hospitals and nursing homes in the Dallas area. Twelve phone calls, and I got a hit. A Mary A. Pryne was registered at a place called Golden Acres in Mesquite—a shabby suburb on the far eastern edge of the city.

“But she’s not in residence right now,” the receptionist said when I called.

“What does that mean? Did she leave on a pass or something?”

“I’m afraid Ms. Pryne has been transferred to hospice.”

I felt a shot of electricity run up my spine. The blog had said Gordon’s mother was dying of cancer.

“Do you know which hospice? I’m a friend of the family, and I want to be sure and get by there and say good-bye. You know, while there’s still time.”

“Hold a second, sugar.”

I tapped the table nervously while I waited for her return, praying mightily that just this once God would overlook those ridiculous HIPAA regulations and tell me what I needed to know.

The nurse clicked back on. “Got a pen, honey?”

She gave me the address, which I wrote down in a near-illegible scrawl. I ripped the paper off the pad, checked the map on my computer, and stuffed the address in my bag, grabbing my keys and slamming the door behind me.

The hospice was also in Mesquite, all the way on the other side of LBJ Freeway. This would normally seem like a laborious and unpleasant drive to a city girl like me who had the good fortune to live about thirty seconds from her place of employment. But tonight the miles flew as I drove, my mind racing around wildly like a helicopter missing a rotor. What was I doing? Should I have called the cops? Was I screwing things up by going alone? Why did Gordon Pryne lead me to his mother, and why had he insisted I keep her location to myself? Was he setting me up? Was Gordon’s mom a gangster or something? Maybe she packed a .45 underneath her bathrobe.

By the time I squinted at the address on my crumpled paper and matched it to the house in front of me, I was haggard and weary from the mental activity alone.

I parked my truck and stared out my window. I’d expected some sort of hospitalish building with double doors and fluorescent lights. Instead, I found myself parked in front of a rundown house in a rundown neighborhood. Apparently Mrs. Pryne was getting home hospice care instead. I hadn’t counted on this arrangement at all.

The house was dark, of course. It was late. But as I crept around the
perimeter, I saw a light on in the rear of the house. I made my way back to the front door and knocked quietly.

To my surprise, the porch light snapped on, and the door swung open. The woman standing there wore green scrubs with bunnies on her shirt. I took this as an encouraging sign.

“I’m here to see Mary Pryne,” I said.

“She’s sleeping right now,” the nurse said. “You want to come back tomorrow morning? She does a lot better in the morning.”

“Do you mind if I just come in and sit with her for a minute?” I asked. “I know it’s late, but I came a long way.”

To my delight, she simply opened the screen door and stepped back.

The living room I stepped into was plain but neat. A gold chenille throw covered a worn sofa flanked by a couple of recliners. The entire arrangement pointed at a massive TV. There was nothing on the coffee table. A round mirror was the only decoration on the wall above the couch. A picture of Jesus hung on the wall by the door.

We walked on worn shag carpet through the living room and into a lit kitchen, where another nurse sat waiting to finish a card game. My escort showed me to a room behind the kitchen. I knocked gingerly, then stepped into a dimly lit bedroom dominated by a single hospital bed. Beside it sat a single wooden chair.

The nurse closed the door, leaving me alone with the shriveled figure in the bed—a small raisin of a woman in a nylon gown, socks on her tiny feet, her hair pulled back by a soft headband with flowers on it.

I sat on the chair and stared at her. Even in her decrepit state, I could see the resemblance. The shape of her face. The thin brows, the sharp chin. And the wild, curly hair. Hers was gray, of course, and was limp and matted, but I’d have recognized that head of hair anywhere. As I looked at her and watched her breathe, it dawned on me that I was sitting with Nicholas’s grandmother. I felt tears spring to my eyes and my throat tighten. This tiny woman would keep Nicholas safe if she had
a breath left in her body. I was as sure of that as I was of anything I’d ever known in my life.

The nurse came in and offered me Kool-Aid, which I declined. I sat with Mrs. Pryne for almost an hour before she stirred. I scooted my chair to her bedside as she opened her eyes.

“Who’s there?” she asked, her voice weak and mewly like a kitten’s. Her eyes were open, but it was clear she couldn’t see me. Gordon’s mother was blind.

“I’m a friend of Gordon’s, Mrs. Pryne.”

“Gordie? My Gordie? Will you tell me where he is? I can’t get anybody to tell me where he went off to. He was in the army …”

She held out her hand for me. I took it. Her fingers were thin and cold in my hand.

“I’m not sure, exactly, Mrs. Pryne. What did they tell you?”

“They tell me this and that. They think I don’t know anything, like I’ve gone and lost my senses or something.”

She squeezed my hand, the life coming back into her.

“You haven’t, though, have you?” I said.

“I most certainly have not. What’s your name, honey?”

“Dylan Foster.”

“How do you know my Gordie?”

I hesitated. “It’s a long story, Mrs. Pryne.”

“He’s in trouble again, isn’t he? My Gordie was always in trouble. I haven’t seen him in so long.” She sighed wearily. “I’ve prayed and prayed for him.”

“You have, haven’t you?” I said, tears stinging my eyes again.

“Didn’t make a lick of difference. My poor Gordie. God love him.”

I thought I saw a twinkle in her sightless eyes as she motioned for me to lean in. “I think the Good Lord just might’ve given me a lemon.”

I held back a smile, forgetting momentarily that she was blind.

“Do you know his little boy too?” she asked.

I froze. “I think I might have met him once. What’s his name?”

“He’s the spittin’ image. He’s got my Gordie’s pretty eyes. And his curly hair.” She reached up and patted her head. “Gordie got that from
me.” She sighed again, more deeply this time. She was tiring. “Gordie’s eyes are so green in the light. He got that from his father, God rest his soul. They tell me the boy’s eyes are blue, though. Can’t see ’em myself, of course. I’d give my left foot to see those eyes. But Piper told me. He’s not a bad son.”

“Piper. That’s Gordon’s brother. Is that his given name?”

“After my father. And I could feel the curls in his hair when he came to see me. Such a sweet little boy. Piper doesn’t have the curls. Gordie got ’em all.”

“Nicholas, right?”

“Nothing like his daddy, thank the Lord.” She said it like
loward
. “Such a sweet child.”

“When did you see him last?” I asked.

“Gordie? I think it was in nineteen—”

“No, Nicholas.”

“What time is it now?”

I tried to keep my voice calm, natural. “You mean you saw him tonight?”

“Well, sure, honey.”

“He came by to say hi?”

“He came in here and kissed me good night. Such a sweet little—”

“Where is he now?” I interrupted. “Do you know?”

“He’s in Gordie’s room with Jeremy. ’Course, this is Piper’s house now, and it don’t look the same …”

I scooted my chair back and stood. “Mrs. Pryne, I need to run to the restroom a minute. Can I get you anything?”

“I’d love some water, honey. Or maybe some ice chips. Those nurses love to give me ice chips. Like it’s the Lord’s cure for every little thing.”

I stuck my head into the kitchen and beckoned the nurse. “Mrs. Pryne would love some ice chips. Could you just point me to the restroom?”

“Second door on the right, honey.”

I walked into the darkened hallway, my heart pounding all the way
through my clothes. Behind one of these closed doors, Nicholas Chavez was sleeping, safe and sound in his grandmother’s care. And behind another one was at least one person who knew he had no business being there.

I waited, heart pounding, for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Then I realized, of course, which door was Nicholas’s. The one with the light coming from underneath. I walked over and opened it, and there he was, curled up on the bottom bunk of a set of twin bunk beds. Another little boy slept soundly in the top bunk.

I crouched down beside Nicholas, out of sight of the top bunk, and tried to figure out what to do. Like a fool, I had left my bag—and my cell phone—in Mrs. Pryne’s bedroom, so I had no way to call the cops. And I was standing in a lit room—dimly lit, but lit nonetheless—with two sleeping children in a house full of people who didn’t want me there.

I thought briefly about going back for my phone. But I wasn’t about to let Nicholas out of my sight, so I crept over and touched him gently on the shoulder.

“Nicholas,” I whispered, “it’s Miss Dylan. Wake up, doodlebug.”

Nicholas stirred but didn’t open his eyes. I had a second to look at him and see what sort of shape he was in. He looked good, actually. His face was clean, and he was wearing a pair of Superman jammies that fit him—a good sign of at least decent care. He seemed thin to me, though. Christine was right. He hadn’t been eating.

I touched him again on the shoulder. This time he opened his eyes. I held a finger to my lips, cautioning him to be quiet.