Noah's Rainy Day (14 page)

I tried not to let Streeter’s changed attitude toward me get under my skin. But it did. Tucked in the corner of the room, the tiny blue backpack with yellow puppies running and jumping and circling the fabric made me realize I had a lot of work to do and more important things to worry about than Streeter’s mood.

“At least little Max likes dogs,” I mumbled.

Approaching the inconsequential backpack made me suddenly aware of the enormous weight of what was at stake if I didn’t do my job correctly. There was no time for screwups. I’d get no second chances. Time was of the essence and I absolutely needed to believe in Beulah and pray to God she believed in me enough to perform our first official search together. Alone.

I bent to retrieve the bag, noting it was lighter than I’d imagined it to be. Maybe it was because I had a fifth grader’s backpack to compare it to from just hours earlier. “Anyone check the contents?”

Streeter simply stared. So I unzipped the bag, took inventory, and said,
“Two granola bars, a Transformer thingy, three shiny new Matchbox cars, and a jacket.”

I pulled out the jacket and pinched the shoulders with each hand, demonstrating the size of the boy. “Tiny.”

“Do you have enough to get started?”

I nodded. “If he’s worn this jacket recently, it will help. It looks new. So does the backpack, but it might be my best bet. Still, if Kevin Benson carried it for the boy, maybe it won’t help either.”

Streeter’s words were clipped. “Do your best.”

Noah

“NOW I LAY ME
down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep …”

Emma was kneeling against my bed with Mom. They were reciting the bedtime prayer together followed by the Lord’s Prayer, like always. But I’d stopped listening. For some reason, the words “I pray the Lord my soul to keep” hit me wrong.

I know I’m not supposed to think bad thoughts, especially about God, but what does He mean by keeping my soul? I want to keep my own soul. I’m not ready to give that up. So does it mean that I’m lying when I say the prayer in my head along with Mom and Emma every night? Or does it mean I’m a bad person if I’m not willing to just give away my soul to God? I’m just not ready yet.

I’d almost missed the fact that Mom and Emma had ended the prayers and were about to leave, when I looked at Emma. She understood.

“What?”

I lifted my eyes to the headboard.

“Me or Mom? Mom?” I did nothing. “Me?” I smiled.

“Mom, Noah wants to talk with me. Can we have a minute before I go to bed?”

“Don’t take long. Santa won’t come if you’re still awake. You know the rules.” I felt Mom’s lips press against my forehead and her fingers muss my hair. “Sleep tight.”

Emma added, “And don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

Mom and Emma chimed in together, “And if they do, I’ll take my shoe and beat them ‘til they’re black and blue.”

I giggled.

Mom shut off the light and said, “Em, shut Noah’s door when you’re done, please.”

And I could hear Mom walk down the stairs, grateful she had found the contact I had lost earlier and also that she let me sleep with my football pin despite her protests that I might get stuck by it in my sleep. I wanted to record Santa and prove he exists, once and for all.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Emma asked.

She held up fingers in the dark, and the light from the hallway was enough for me to make out which one. Emma had designed what my mom tells doctors is the five-finger method of communicating with me. They’ve actually videotaped us communicating and I kind of felt like one of Jane Goodall’s chimpanzees, but if it would help someone else, I decided to let them do all the videotaping they wanted. One doctor told us that other CPs—that’s short for cerebral palsy victims—like me have used the same method for communicating, but they called it something else.

Mom says the doctors don’t believe I’m actually talking, just that it’s Emma’s active imagination and I only smile because I’m amused by her. But they don’t know what they’re talking about. Mom says they’re skeptical because Emma doesn’t let me finish hardly any words and finishes them for me, but that’s because we know each other well.

They’re wrong. We talk all the time. Mom’s tried it but Emma isn’t very patient with her. And the truth is, neither am I. Mom wants to spell out every single word and needs every word in the sentence and still doesn’t remember what finger or knuckle goes with which letter.

It’s so easy. Emma’s told her a hundred times. The pointer finger is A through G. The middle finger is H through N. Ring finger is O through U. And the pinky finger is V through Z. Knuckles and valleys starting with the knuckle of the pointer finger are the rest of the letters. Emma and I figured
out our own system after watching a TV interview once when Team Hoyt, the Ironman father-and-son team, were in Denver running a marathon. The dad was saying that Rick, his son, who had severe cerebral palsy like me, learned how to communicate through a computer later in life by tapping a headpiece with his head. But when he was young, Rick used a method that was similar to Emma’s, using the five vowels to communicate with his brother, Russell. They call their communication the Russell Method. But vowels were too hard for Emma. She said it was like Old McDonald’s farm—E-I-E-I-O—and it confused her, so she used five fingers instead.

The doctors don’t believe us, but the Hoyts would. I don’t know if we’re doing it right, but Emma and I came up with a system that works for us, thanks to Rick and his brother.

Emma held up her pointer finger. I made sure not to smile or raise my eyes.

She held up her middle finger. I did nothing.

Ring finger. Nothing.

Pinky. I gave her a quick smile.

First knuckle.

Emma said, “Not a V. I hate Vs.” I didn’t respond.

Valley between first knuckle and second. I gave her a quick smile.

“W. Who? What? Where? When? Why?” she asked.

I flashed a smile.

“You have a question. What’s going on? Where’s Auntie Liv? When’s she coming home?” she guessed.

No, but those were good questions.

“Okay, but just in case you’re wondering, Mom says Auntie Liv’s still looking for the little boy who got lost at the airport. Probably will be all night, even if they find him. She may not make it home for Christmas morning at all, bud. Mom said we shouldn’t worry. I won’t because you want to know a secret?”

I smiled.

“They keep forgetting that Santa Claus is coming tonight. He’ll find the little boy. And he’ll take him back to his home. Right?”

I smiled and moaned, grateful for her positive attitude. It would make me sleep better tonight. I hoped she was right.

Then I frowned.

“Okay, okay. Back to your question. “Is it a ‘Who’ question?”

I remained still.

“A ‘What’ question?”

I smiled.

“What do I want for Christmas? I want a princess dress, a blond wig like Rapunzel, and clothes for my doll.”

I frowned.

“Well, I didn’t think that’s what you were asking. But I wanted to tell you anyway. What did I do with your gift for Mom and Dad? I put it under the tree.”

I did nothing for a long time. Then I smiled.

“You’re welcome. Okay, a ‘What’ question. Main word.” She flipped through her fingers. I smiled on finger three, third knuckle.

“S!” she shouted. “Santa, right? What’s Santa bringing you?”

I didn’t smile.

“You’re no fun. Second letter.” I smiled on finger three again, first knuckle.

“O.” I smiled. “Is it ‘So’?” I did nothing.

Her fingers flew up again and I smiled for a third time on finger three, smiled again on last knuckle.

“U?” I smiled. “S-O-U—ooh, I don’t know this word. Fourth letter.”

I smiled on her second finger, fourth knuckle.

“L? S-O-U-L” she repeated. “Is it ‘soul’?”

I smiled.

“What’s a soul?” she asked.

I did nothing.

“Well then maybe some time when we have more time, you can explain it to me. ’Cause I don’t know what a soul is. But that’s not your question. Okay, more words.”

She quickly worked through the rest of my question.

Third finger, valley between third and fourth knuckles. “T.”

Third finger, first knuckle. “O. To?”

I smiled.

Second finger, valley between second and third knuckle. “K.”

First finger, third knuckle. “E.”

First finger, third knuckle. “E again?”

I smiled.

“K-E-E. Keeb, Keef, Keen?”

Nothing.

“Keep?”

I smiled.

“What’s soul to keep? What does it mean, soul to keep?” I smiled. She flopped down on the bed beside me and said, “Oh, the bedtime prayer. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. What does that mean?”

I smiled and studied her face as she grew still.

“I don’t have a clue. Maybe it just means our souls are in good hands with God, since it’s Him we’re praying to.” She fluffed the pillow beside me, her soft red curls brushing against my cheek as she did. I laughed. “But now that you mention it, God keeping my soul does kinda sound creepy, like he’s coming for me in my sleep. Like the grim reaper or something.”

I smiled.

“That’s what you were thinking?”

I smiled again.

She glanced toward the hallway, I assume to make sure Mom or Dad weren’t coming. She whispered, “Remember Casey? At school?”

I screeched with excitement, my muscles bunching and my stiff arm accidentally punching her.

“I told you he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t even like the kid.”

I chuckled, which helped me relax. I got excited because I knew Emma did like Casey and she brought home crazy-wild stories from him and they always made me laugh. I was in the other fourth-grade class at school so I didn’t get to hear or see everything Casey did. The stories were great.

“He said the principals all across the world made the parents change the bedtime prayer. He said it was like illegal for them to let us say it the old way. He said that the grim reaper was using that prayer to hypnotize little kids and stealing their souls at night, even though God didn’t want them. He said the old version used to be ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I
pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.’”

I laughed until my gut ached.

“What? It’s not funny. It’s scary, Noah. Kids were praying about dying in their sleep. What kind of world was that?”

I laughed so hard all the sound disappeared.

“I’m going to bed. I hope Santa gives you a lump of coal for laughing at me.” She stomped off and slammed my door.

I laughed for a long time even after she was gone.

She was right, though. The old version was scary. And there was no way that Casey was telling the truth about that. But her story did explain why such a strange yet protective line remained in the popular prayer about God keeping my soul. Kind of like, we’re praying He remembers to tell the grim reaper, “Hey bud! That soul’s mine, so back off!”

It might also explain why parents always say, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Who knows?

All I know is I’m excited that Christmas is almost here, but I’m sad for the little boy on the TV, too. If Auntie Liv is still looking for him, that probably means they haven’t found him. I’ll know when she gets home because I’ll have Beulah back in my bed with me. Auntie Liv took Beulah with her, which means they’re not counting on Santa to find him. They’re counting on Beulah. I’m sad for the little boy, since he won’t be able to see what’s in his stocking in the morning, smell the coffee on his mom’s breath with her morning kiss, or hear his dad’s yummy noises as he eats fresh cinnamon rolls.

I worry about him.

He is younger than Emma. I think by what the TV lady said he’d be in kindergarten. Emma’s fourth-grade classroom is across from mine and right next to us between our rooms and the bathrooms are the kindergarten classes. Those kids were really excited about Christmas this year and some of them still cry when their moms drop them off at school. That’s what has me sad. I think about that. The little lost boy is out there somewhere tonight.

He’s probably crying.

And I wish I could help him.

I thought I wanted a swing for Christmas. But really all I want is for the little boy to be found and to get to go home so he can be with his mom and dad.

I hope Auntie Liv finds him.

I wish Beulah was in my bed so I could feel her warm fur.

I hope if they don’t have any luck that Santa brings him home.

I hope the boy is warm.

Wherever he is.

AT FIRST, I WAS
excited to get started. It was my first official trailing assignment on my own. Streeter told me to begin where the boy was last seen—not the bathroom Benson vaguely described, but the location where others confirmed the last sighting of the boy—arriving at gate B31 when his plane from New York had landed. We’d trail the boy’s scent through the airport from there.

When I first arrived at DIA, I was in such a hurry to report on my first official case as an agent that I hadn’t noticed everyone staring. But I never could have imagined the attention Beulah and I would garner walking through DIA as we headed toward the other end of the concourse from the makeshift headquarters. We avoided the moving walkways and hugged the walls as we walked west toward the other end of the concourse. We were headed toward the center of the concourse where mobs of travelers flocked to the shops and restaurants around the perimeter.

By the time we’d arrived at gate B31, an area thick with passengers waiting to depart, I noticed that Beulah was acting as if every single movement distracted her. I felt hundreds of eyes on me; I never felt more self-conscious in all my life. Some curious travelers actually followed us. Everyone who noticed us openly stared. Even the travelers sitting in the
rows of seats facing the windows had turned to watch what we were doing. People were watching us from both sides of the long moving walkways that hurried passengers down the 3,500-foot concourse.