The Chair (28 page)

Finally he patted Corin’s arms and rubbed his eyes with the back of his palm. “It is my greatest regret. I didn’t try with my brother. There was always tomorrow. Always one more day I could put it off.” Tesser stood up straight and took Corin by the shoulders. “But you have today. And probably tomorrow. But how many more days, only God can tell. And I don’t think He’s telling.” Tesser let go of Corin’s shoulders and leaned against his Lexus looking five years older. “No regrets, Corin. You know what must be done. Maybe there is healing in the chair.”

Corin nodded and blinked back his own tears.

The thought of calling Shasta and telling him about the chair just took another shift from the realm of insanity into the arena of definite possibility.

SHASTA ROSCOE SAT 5in his wheelchair staring at a photo of Corin and him at the top of Breckenridge Ski Resort. Big smiles splashed on their faces. Arms raised in victory.

The sound of feet behind him on the hardwood floor of his den interrupted his thoughts.

“Why do you keep that photo up?” Robin asked.

“To remind me of what he did.”

She came around to his side and knelt beside his chair. “You can’t hate him forever.”

“I don’t hate him.” He swiveled his head toward her. “I don’t feel anything toward him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Shasta turned back to the photo, then closed his eyes.

It seemed like centuries ago he’d opened his eyes after the accident, then shut them immediately to block out the harsh glare of the sun. But it hadn’t been the sun.

He reached up to see if his sunglasses were on his face, but his hand didn’t move.

“Mr. Roscoe, I think he’s awake.”

Shasta turned his head to the source of the voice, or tried to. Why wouldn’t his head turn?

The sound of shuffling feet scurried toward him. “Hey, bro. I’m here.”

Corin’s face appeared over him.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s going to be okay.”

“What’s going to be okay? Where am I?” He wasn’t sure why he’d asked the question. He knew exactly where he was. He’d worked two years as a volunteer in high school at a hospital near his house. The smells of a hospital were as familiar to him as his own home.

“You’re in Memorial Hospital.”

“Why?”

“You had an accident.” Corin glanced toward the end of his bed. “When we jumped, you didn’t land right.”

The jump off the ramp flashed into his mind, then the sickening crack he’d felt when he landed. Then blackness. The truth swept over him.

“I’m paralyzed.”

Corin wiped his mouth with the base of his palm and looked away.

“I am, aren’t I?”

“They haven’t finished running all the tests they need to, that they want to. They wanted you to be awake before—”

“Tell me the truth.”

For a long moment Corin looked like he did when they were kids and their Scottish terrier, Max, passed away.

His brother sucked in a breath and held it so long Shasta almost expected him to faint. After finally releasing it Corin said, “They think so.”

“How bad is it? My neck, is it broken?”

Corin paced next to the steel bed rails that held Shasta like he was in a cage. “It’s not good.”

“I’m paralyzed.” Shasta said it again out loud, even though he was speaking to himself. “From the neck down.”

Tears formed in Corin’s eyes as he told Shasta how sorry he was. Over and over and over, but his voice faded as the words he’d spoken echoed through Shasta’s mind.
“After this, life will never be the same.”

“You made me jump.” He stared at Corin’s pale face. “Why did you do it?”

“I know, Shasta. I know. I wish—”

“Wish what? You could take it back?”

“Yes. With everything in me. I only did it for—”

“For who, Corin? For me? Or for you to prove what a cool brother you are? So you could have another picture of us doing something crazy to show everyone? Or because you have to have someone with you when you dance with insanity?”

Corin wiped the sweat off his forehead and started to speak. “I—”

“You need to go, Corin.”

“I won’t leave you, I—”

“Leave me? You won’t leave me?” Shasta spit over the railing of his hospital bed, the spittle seeming to hang in the air before it splattered on the floor next to Corin’s shoe. “That’s exactly what you need to do.”

“Shasta . . .”

He closed his eyes and didn’t open them till Corin’s footsteps faded far down the hospital hallway.

At 2 a.m. Shasta woke with an itch just above his left eyebrow, the kind of itch that demanded immediate attention, the type that felt like a soft needle was winding its way into your skin.

He willed his arms, his hands, his fingers to move but they ignored him and lay like discarded driftwood washed up next to his body.

He forced himself to think of anything else but the itch, but it was impossible.

“Hey!” he called. No response. Louder. “Help!” Nothing. And no answer the second time, third time, fourth time. He ranted into the dark hallways of the hospital and eventually the itch faded.

But the rage inside him didn’t. Rage toward himself. Rage toward the gods who would allow this to happen. Rage toward Corin who had altered his life for the rest of his days.

But whose fault was it? Shasta’s for agreeing? Corin’s for pushing him to go off the jump? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

It didn’t matter.

He vowed to block Corin out of his life forever.

“Shasta, are you with me?”

He opened his eyes to find Robin standing in front of him, eyes questioning.

“I’m here.” He blinked as if that would throw off the emotions the memory had stirred.

“Corin loves you deeply.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.” She kissed him gently on the forehead. “And you’ll never convince me otherwise.”

Robin’s footsteps faded just as Corin’s had all those years ago, and Shasta let his head fall back against the headrest of his chair.

No, he would never let Corin back into his life.

He couldn’t.

A
fter Corin wrapped up another day of almost nonexistent business at his store, he drove to Tori’s dojo and picked her up, ready to talk about a subject he knew she wanted to bury. They were headed to see Tori’s nephew perform in a junior high rendition of Guys and Dolls. The play a little mature for a crew of sixth, seventh, and eighth graders, but apparently the drama teacher was a frustrated Broadway wannabe.

As they pulled out of Tori’s parking lot Corin said, “I’m giving serious consideration to calling Shasta, to see if he’ll come sit in the chair.”

Two night earlier he’d told Tori about Shasta’s accident, about the experimental operation, and about Jefferies’ offer.

“You’re going to what?” Tori squinted at him as if she had chugged two shots of straight lemon juice.

“You heard me.”

“Great idea. Brilliant.” She flipped on the radio and Coldplay blared out of his speakers.

“I’m hearing a sliver of sarcasm in your voice.” He turned the radio down.

“Really?”

As they pulled up to a red light, Corin turned to Tori. “I have to try.”

“Just sell the chair to the pastor and run.”

“I have to try this first.”

“You’re still thinking this comic-book-healing-people story of yours really has come to life, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Corin turned and stared at the stoplight until it turned green. Green equals go. And the impression he’d gotten from sitting in the chair was a brilliant emerald shade. So was talking to Tesser. So was talking to Nicole. How many more lights did he need? But what if it didn’t work?

“What if Shasta doesn’t get healed? What will that do to your relationship?”

What? Did she read minds now? “It has to.”

“Do you really want to ruin any chance of having a relationship with him if it doesn’t work?”

Corin ground his fingers into the back of his neck in a vain attempt to loosen the gathering knots under his skin. “I don’t have a relationship with Shasta now. What difference would it make?”

“It would make a difference, believe me.” Tori slumped back in her seat and huffed. “At least now there’s hope. Didn’t you tell me he’s slowly thawing? That his wife said there were signs of hope?”

“Yeah, the glaciers in Alaska are thawing too.”

“Don’t cause another Ice Age.”

“I haven’t told you what happened.” Corin switched off the radio. “The chair healed someone else.”

“Who?”

He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Me.”

After telling her his story, Corin waited for Tori to respond. She didn’t.

“Did you hear me?
I
was healed, Tori. Me. This isn’t a legend or a fairy tale any longer. If A. C. and Brittan and I can be healed, so can Shasta.”

“How do you know it wasn’t your mind finally letting go of your fear?”

“It wasn’t. I would know.”

Tori shrugged. “I’m not buying. Brittan outgrows his asthma around the time he sits in the chair, A. C. gets a cortisone shot or breaks up some painful scar tissue after he sits in the chair, and you finally get control of an emotional—not physical, mind you—issue and you’re convinced this chair contains the healing power of God.”

“Why are you so against the idea of this chair being able to bring people healing? Does it have to start curing cancer for you to believe?”

“No reason.” Tori cranked her arms tight across her chest.

“Your body language doth scream in protest that this be a statement devoid of truth.”

“Nice work, Agatha.”

“Ms. Christie wrote about the detectives; she wasn’t one herself.” Corin stepped on the gas to get through an intersection before the light shifted from yellow to red. “Are you going to tell me?”

Tori turned toward the window of Corin’s Toyota Highlander.

“Wow. I wasn’t trying to get in the ring with you on this. If you don’t want to talk about it, let’s not talk about it. No big deal.” Corin glanced at her. All he saw was the back of her head.

They drove in silence for five minutes. Probably his move to chip at the wall of ice that had formed between them. “Any of your students impressing you these days?”

“My uncle.”

“Your uncle is taking karate from you?”

“My uncle is the reason I think you should keep your brother away from the chair.”

“What does your uncle have to do with Shasta?”

She didn’t answer for so long Corin thought she wouldn’t say any more. But she shifted toward him in her seat—arms still folded—and stared out the windshield.

“Growing up he was my favorite uncle. When I was fifteen he was diagnosed with an aggressive form of MS. In four months he went from running marathons to spending all his waking hours sitting in an old wheelchair.

“Except for Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights.” She wriggled her hands in the air. “Twice a week we piled in the car and drove—sometimes for hours—in order to endure a three-or five-or eight-hour healing service that never healed my uncle. Those quacks claimed to be men of God, to be able to channel His miiiiiiighty healing power, but for some funny reason, they couldn’t see my uncle where he sat ten feet in front of them.

“For some reason God told them to bring other people up on stage who ‘the spirit of God had fallen on’ and lo and behold, they were healed!

“My uncle started to resist going, but my dad kept pushing. He was always convinced the
next
healing service would be the one that would restore my uncle to full health. Finally my uncle said no more and refused to go. But my dad got out the crowbar and my uncle went a few more times.” Tori went silent again, the only sound her accelerated breathing.

“Finally my uncle shouted enough and stopped talking to my dad, my mom, even me.” Tori blinked but the tears still came. “When my uncle died I said enough as well. I was done with God.”

Corin gripped the wheel tighter and tried to find the right words, but none came.

As they rode in silence, Tori dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

“They chased a dream made of broken wings that never flew.” She blew her nose and brushed back her hair. “All I’m saying is, you need to get out some seriously sensitive scales and decide if this is worth your relationship with Shasta. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the three of you were healed supernaturally. But if you weren’t, and Shasta sits in that chair and nothing happens, my prediction is any hope of having a relationship with him will be lost forever.”

They pulled into the parking lot of the junior high, found a spot, and Corin shut off the engine. But they didn’t get out.

“One more thing, Corin.”

“Yeah?”

“If you go down that path, I’m not going with you.”

“What path?”

“I see the look in your eyes. You’re thinking if the chair is real, then God must be real. You’re thinking God really could be intervening in the lives of men and if that’s true you need to look into Him more.”

“So?”

“I’m not going there.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you’re going to get into God, it’s okay by me—I still love my parents and I have lots of friends who are Christians—I just want to be clear I don’t want to be part of it.”