Long Way Home(10)

“I’m tired,” he said with a soul-weary sigh.

“Do you want to go back inside?” his father asked. Jimmy nodded, and we slowly led him back to the common room. We found a grouping of empty chairs and sat there with him. None of us could take our eyes off him, knowing our time together was quickly slipping away. Would Jimmy even know who we were the next time we came? I remembered his Bible and pulled it from my pocket.

“Here. This is yours. I thought you might want it.” I had to lift one of Jimmy’s hands and fold his fingers around the book.

“He can’t have that,” a voice from behind me said. I turned to see one of the orderlies glaring down at me. “He isn’t allowed to have any possessions until his treatments are finished.”

“It’s just a Bible,” I said.

“Dr. Morgan’s orders.”

Our time was up. The Barnetts bent to hug Jimmy again and we followed the soldier back to the building’s entrance. I could barely see where I was going through my tears. If only we could take Jimmy out of this terrible place. He needed to come home, to the people who loved him. Yet I knew his parents feared he would try to kill himself again if they did.

Mr. Barnett halted when we reached the car and held his wife in his arms for a long time. I heard her sobbing against his chest. “It’s all right, Martha. Everything will be all right,” he soothed. “We have to trust the doctors.” I turned away to gaze down at the shining river, praying that he was right.

None of us spoke until we were on the ferry again. Mrs. Barnett stayed in the car as we crossed the Hudson River, but I got out and stood at the rail with Mr. Barnett, the wind blowing my hair, the boat plowing across the dark, fish-scented river. I had forgotten to ask Jimmy who Gisela was, but maybe it was for the better.

“Do you really trust Dr. Morgan?” I asked, breaking the silence. “Do you think he knows what he’s doing?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he said softly. “But we don’t have a choice, do we? He’s the expert.”

I made lunch for Pop and myself when I arrived home, careful not to rattle too many dishes and wake up Donna. The Crow Bar stayed open until 2 a.m. every night except Sunday, and she had worked last night. I brought the sandwiches and a cup of coffee down to Pop’s garage along with a dog biscuit for Buster so we could all eat together. I told Pop about visiting Jimmy at the VA hospital and how he didn’t seem to be any better. “Poor fella,” Pop mumbled. He drained his coffee and returned to the muffler he was replacing.

I changed into my work clothes and walked back across the road to the clinic. Tears rolled down my face as I worked in the barn. I couldn’t forget how ill Jimmy had looked and how we’d had to leave him in that terrible place. “We need Your help, Lord,” I prayed. “Please show us how to help him.” God seemed very far away. My tears fell harder when I remembered that Jimmy had been the one who first taught me about prayer.

We had been feeding the horses in the little corral outside the barn one day when I looked up at him and said, “Can I ask you a question?” Jimmy was sixteen at the time and I was twelve.

“Sure, Peggety.”

“It’s about praying.”

He’d looked surprised. He’d probably been expecting a question about horses. “Praying? You mean like . . . to God?”

I nodded. He gave me a sheepish grin before shrugging and saying, “Well, okay.”

“The minister prays for sick people every Sunday and asks God to heal them, right? But some of them die anyway. My mama went to Mass every week and lit candles when she prayed, yet she and our baby both died. Why do people pray if God doesn’t answer them?”

Jimmy let out a long whistle. He took off his cap and scratched his head. “I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer that,” he’d replied, “but I’ll tell you what I do know.” He settled his cap on his head again. “Praying isn’t only about asking for a bunch of things on a list. It’s about talking to God the same way you talk to someone you love, telling Him what’s bothering you and thanking Him for the good things He gives us. God really likes hearing what we have to say. And we feel better after talking with Him.”

“But the pastor prays for a whole list of sick people.”

“Yeah, I guess he does. I don’t know, Peggety. But my dad once told me that God knows a lot more about every situation than we do. We have to trust Him and believe that if He doesn’t answer our prayers exactly the way we want, then He must have a good reason for it.”

I couldn’t imagine any good reasons for my mother to die.

When I’d returned home after talking with Jimmy that day, I’d remembered that Mama used to have a wooden crucifix hanging in her bedroom. Pop must have put it away after she died because it wasn’t there anymore. I searched through all of her drawers until I found it. That cross was still hanging on my bedroom wall to remind me to talk to God every day and tell Him the things that were bothering me. I’d learned more about prayer in the years that had followed, but Jimmy’s words came back to me during the war when Mrs. Barnett and I prayed so hard together for it to end and for Jimmy to come home safely. And now I was praying for God to show me how to help Jimmy be whole again. If He doesn’t answer our prayers exactly the way we want, He has a good reason.