Little Do We Know(33)

She opened her eyes. They were wet with tears. “I’m so sorry, Emory.”

Something was off.

That prayer wasn’t a prayer for Luke. She asked God to give us comfort, not him.

I pictured his body again—rigid, contorted, and blue—and the questions began swirling around in my mind. I opened my mouth, but then I heard someone yelling my name.

Addison and her dad were heading right for us. Luke’s mom raced toward the information desk. Mr. Calletti and Mrs. J shook hands, and I overheard her say, “My daughter was the one who found him.” She gestured toward the waiting-room seats. “Sit down. I’ll tell you everything I know.”





After the sirens silenced and my neighbors padded back into their houses, I sat on the living-room floor, staring up at the cross that hung above our fireplace. Dad stayed outside for a long time. He said he needed the fresh air and a little alone time with God.

It was after 1:00 a.m. when I finally climbed in bed. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t get the image of Luke out of my head. I pictured his lifeless body folded over the center console, his eyes half-open, and his skin colorless and cold to the touch. His full lips were parted, drool sliding down the side of his cheek.

My laptop was still open on my bed, and I stared at the screen, thinking about everything I’d been researching only an hour earlier. There was a knock on my door. I slammed the laptop closed.

Dad poked his head inside. “Can I come in?”

I nodded as I reached for the box of tissues.

He sat next to me, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and squeezed me hard as I buried my face in his chest and let the tears fall. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

I felt my dad nod into my shoulder. “Yeah, sweetie. He was almost gone when you found him. He passed by the time the paramedics arrived.”

“How do you know?” The question came out in a squeak.

“I was the associate pastor for ten years. I spent a great deal of that time in hospitals, sitting next to bedsides, leading people through their final hours. I recognize death when I see it.” He gripped my hand harder. “The color of his skin, and the way his limbs began to change…” He stopped short and the room got quiet again.

“Why?” I whispered.

I wanted to know why Luke was hurt, and why he got behind the wheel of a car, and why Emory wasn’t with him—she was always with him when they pulled up to the house. I wanted to know why his phone was on the floor and why the passenger seat was soaked in vomit. I wanted to know why something so horrible had happened to him.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Dad nodded knowingly. “If he’d gone to Emory’s house, you wouldn’t have seen him. If he’d parked anywhere else, he’d still be there, all alone. But he came here. You found him, maybe not in time to save him, but at least he didn’t die alone out there. He pulled up here. Under our kitchen window. And you happened to be getting a glass of water when he did. There’s a miracle in that, sweetie.”

I didn’t know how to tell Dad he’d misunderstood me. That I already knew that answer. Luke pulled up in front of our house because he always pulled up in front of our house on Friday nights. It wasn’t divine intervention; it was a booty call.

Dad kept talking. “I know it seems so unfair, doesn’t it? Why would the Lord bring someone into our lives and not allow us to help him? But I’ve been outside for a long time, thinking and praying and listening, and I finally realized that Luke wasn’t beyond help when he arrived—not in every sense. I believe he could hear me in those final minutes, Hannah, and if he could—if he listened to what I said and did what I told him to do, if he asked for forgiveness for his sins, and asked Jesus to come into his heart—he’s with Him now. I want to believe that’s why he showed up here. We couldn’t save his life, but I’d like to think we saved his soul.” Dad shook his head and said, “The Lord sure does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t He?”

I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t want to hear Dad’s meant-to-bes or the everything-happens-for-a reason stories; I’d been hearing those my whole life. And I didn’t believe that God magically steered Luke’s car to my house, or made me thirsty at that exact moment, as if He had nothing better to do at the time.

I was tired of praying and crying and sitting there wondering what I could have done differently. I wanted answers—real, solid, tangible answers. I needed to move. I needed to act. And I needed Dad to leave, because if he spat out one more lame bumper-sticker saying, I was afraid I might scream.

“I’m exhausted,” I said. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”

He hugged me. “Of course. I’ll wake you up if your mom calls back.” He planted a kiss on my forehead. “You did a good thing tonight. But I’m so sorry you had to see that.” He patted my leg. “Let’s keep talking about this, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

He left my room. A few seconds later, I heard his bedroom door open and close. I waited for a long time, listening to be sure he wasn’t coming back out. And then I tiptoed out of the living room and into the kitchen.

I looked out the window.

Luke’s car was still there.