Soul Tracker, page 3
David sighed, pulled down his glasses, and turned the page to the next entry.
I feel nothing. I just want to lie here in my warm, safe bed. Living has so entirely drained my blood of substance to the point that my parched veins are screaming for any form of liquid to fill them. My blood has been sucked out venomously by that stupid leach that I so often refer to as Kaylee. What a hypocritical jerk if I ever saw one. Honestly, I consider Kaylee my best friend in the entire world. Why would she not consider me the same…is Amanda such a great friend considering she ditched you, Kaylee? I seriously stuck through everything with you! Just because I didn’t know you as long as Amanda doesn’t mean we can’t be better friends than you and her. It’s stupid, I know. All I do is wallow in this mental slush, swimming in the sewage hour after hour, holding my breath, unable to come up for air.
Talk about emotional whiplash—one page exhilaration, the next, devastation. But apparently roller-coaster emotions came with the territory of female adolescence.
He remembered one of their very first counseling sessions, the ones they started not long after his wife left. Emily was burrowed into the corner of the sofa, feet drawn up, playing with her hair. “It’s just that he’s like always shouting all the time.”
He recalled his jaw going slack. “What? Honey, I never shout.”
“Yeah, right.” She smirked. “Like yesterday when I didn’t empty the cat box?”
David turned to the woman counselor, lifting his palms. “It had been nearly two weeks. I merely made it clear that—”
“By shouting,” Emily interrupted.
“I don’t shout.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re doing it now.”
“Disagreeing with someone is not the same as—”
“Told you.”
“Told me what?”
“You’re shouting.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Emily!”
She turned to the counselor and shrugged. “See?”
David smiled at the memory. At the tender age of fourteen his daughter was already playing him like a fiddle. He recalled another session where he’d asked the counselor, “Does everything in the house have to be ruled by emotion? Surely, truth and logic must count for something.”
Once again the therapist broke out laughing. Apparently, he had lots to learn.
But the laughter didn’t last long. The frenetic, topsy-turvy world of emotions eventually led to bouts of depression, which only seemed to grow darker and deeper until finally—
“Repent! ‘I am the way, the truth and the life. No man comes to the Father but by me!’ Turn to Him! Turn to the Lord before it’s too late! Turn or burn!”
David squinted at the journal, trying to stay focused. But the lunchtime crowd was filtering in, opening the door more and more frequently, allowing the preacher’s rantings to intrude more and more loudly.
“Time is short. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring! Turn to Him and flee the torments of hell, where the worm does not die nor the fire is quenched!”
David shifted on his stool, trying to concentrate on the words before him. Emily loved to write. Sometimes the rambling stream-of-consciousness that he saw before him now, sometimes short stories, sometimes poetry. She cherished words. No surprise there. As the child of an author, she was always surrounded by stacks of books and magazines. Her favorite reading haunt? The tub…which occasionally made for some careful maneuverings in the bathroom.
“I just want to find the toilet in the middle of the night without breaking a toe,” he complained once over breakfast.
She nodded with the obvious solution. “Maybe you should drink less liquids before bedtime.”
Again David smiled. It was true, when it came to books and writing he gave her plenty of leeway. Particularly with her mother gone. For Emily, reading was a way of affirming her emotions, of discovering what other women thought and felt. And her writing, no matter how emotional or over-the-top, was her way of exploring her own thoughts and feelings. So often she’d enter his garage office unannounced and plop down on the worn sofa behind his desk to write. And write and write and write.
He treasured those times together—back when she was open and sunny, back before the shadows of the disease had begun hiding her from him. For years she read to him from that sofa, those incredible eyes looking up, so eager for praise. And he gave it, abundantly. He never criticized, sensing that any negative comment would crush her already oversensitive heart. Instead, he would find authors she loved and encourage her to copy their work in longhand. That was how writers in the old days learned. It forced them to slow down and study each phrase, sip each word, and, most important, begin to understand the workings of the craft.
She practiced this advice religiously. Snips and fragments of great literature filled her journals. She was particularly fond of the poets. Emily Dickinson, her namesake, was her favorite. He flipped through the pages of the journal until he spotted one of the famous writer’s poems:
Some, too fragile for winter winds, The thoughtful grave encloses,—Tenderly tucking them in from frost Before their feet are cold.
Never the treasures in her nest The cautious grave exposes, Building where schoolboy dare not look And sportsman is not bold.
This covert have all the children Early aged, and often cold,—Sparrows unnoticed by the Father; Lambs for whom time had not a fold.
He tried swallowing away the tightness in his throat. Tears were coming again. How could someone so young, so full of life, become so lonely and full of death? He was near the beginning of the diary, before her hospitalization. During those black, nightmare times when she would not get out of bed, when her grades plummeted, when the two of them continually fought, shouting oaths and threats that he’d give anything to take back now. Those awful times when he had to physically force her to take the medication. Those beggings, those pleadings, those—
“Excuse me, brother?”
David looked up with a start. Through the moisture in his eyes he saw the preacher.
“This seat taken?”
David glanced at the stool beside him, then around the shop for an alternate choice. There was none. The place was packed. Exhausted, emotional, and with an overdose of caffeine, he replied, “Go ahead.” He cleared his throat. “Just spare me the hellfire.”
Unfazed, the man gave a crooked-tooth grin. “Some folks would say it’s a pretty important topic.”
David fought to hold back his anger. What right did this person have to talk to him about hell? He had no idea what he’d been living through these past nine weeks. The sorrow, the hopelessness, the absolute…finality. But instead of making a scene, he exercised all of his self-control and quietly seethed. “And what makes you an expert?”
The preacher pulled out the stool and eased himself onto the seat with a quiet groan. “I guess ’cause I’ve been there.”
“We all have. Some of us more than others.”
“Maybe.” The man brought a latte up to his thick lips and slurped the foam. “But I’m talkin’ the real deal.”
David glanced away, angry that he allowed himself to be pulled into the conversation. But the old-timer wasn’t finished. Not quite.
“You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. The real hell.” His eyes peered over the cup at David. “That place you’re so afraid your daughter is.”
Two
Who are you!”
Those sitting at their tables looked over at the commotion. Others standing in line turned with mild interest. Surprised that he was on his feet, David glared down at the old man, trembling.
The preacher simply stared at his coffee. “I ain’t nobody special. You see me here all the time.”
David remained standing, breathing hard, unsure how to respond.
“Please.” The big man motioned to David’s stool. “Please.”
Hesitating, feeling the eyes on him, he eased himself back down.
Preacher Man said nothing.
“How did…” David struggled to keep his voice even. “How did you know?”
“Terrible thing when a young person takes their life.”
David quit breathing.
The preacher looked out the window, sadly shaking his head. “World’s an ugly place for ’em. Gettin’ uglier by the minute.”
Measuring each word, David repeated, “How did you know?”
The man nodded to the counter. “The boys told me. You’re that famous author, right?”
Closing his eyes a moment, getting his bearings, David muttered, “Used to be. That was a long time ago.”
“Four or five years if I remember.” Taking another sip of foam, he added, “You was all the rage. Some family adventure thing, wasn’t it?”
David drew in another breath. More calmly, he repeated, “You said something about hell. That I was afraid my daughter was in hell.”
“Aren’t you?”
He set his jaw, revealing no information.
“That’s most people’s fears, when a loved one takes their life. Will the good Lord show mercy, will He understand the pain they were trying to stop?”
Against his better judgment David half asked, half scorned, “And what’s your take?”
Once again the big man glanced out the window. The answer came more softly. “His love paid a lot for us up on that cross, brother. I imagine He’ll do everything in His power to insure a return on His investment.”
David looked down to the journal.
Softer still, the old-timer continued. “You’d give anything to talk to her, wouldn’t you?”
The words came before David could stop them. “If I just knew…if there was some way I could reach her.” His voice grew husky. “If she could just let me know she’s all right.”
The preacher took another sip. “Dangerous stuff—tryin’ to connect with the other side.”
“She’s a child…all alone. What if she’s out there…lost?” He searched the table, unable to swallow the ache in his throat. “If there was some way I could help her. Some way I could…” He took another breath, then looked up at the preacher. “You said, you mentioned that you were, that you’d been—”
“To hell?”
David nodded.
“Comin’ up on three years now.”
“What, like a dream or vision or something?”
“No, brother, it was no dream.”
David continued, more quietly, “Tell me.”
Preacher Man shot him a look. But David held his gaze, making it clear he was sincere. The man frowned hard at his coffee. “No…it was no dream.”
Another pause.
David ventured, “You had a near-death experience?”
“Wasn’t nothin’ near about it. I was dead. Deader than a stump.” The fanatic edge to the old man was disappearing.
David persisted. “If there’s something you can tell me…”
Preacher Man took a long, slow breath, then blew it out. It was clear this was not something he’d intended.
“Please. Anything…anything at all.”
Finally, almost imperceptively, he started to nod. And then he began…
“People make a big deal ‘bout dying. Like it’s all painful or something. Shoot, ain’t no more painful than a hiccup, or skipping a heartbeat. Anybody can do it. Fact is, we’ll all get our chance…” Quietly, he added, “…a few of us more than once.”
Equally as soft, David said, “Tell me.”
He shrugged. “You know the routine—floatin’ over your body in some hospital room, sucked through a tunnel toward the Light…” Again he dropped off.
David gently pursued. “What else?”
Another moment of hesitation before the old-timer fully gave in to his memories. “Folks are right when they talk ’bout the Light. It really is incredible. More love than you ever felt in a lifetime, a hundred lifetimes.”
David watched and listened.
“I never made out no face or nothin’—just them eyes, them incredible, blazing eyes.”
“Blazing? With what?”
“Fire…and love. For me. All of it burning for me. I was in the presence of the Lord God Almighty and He was burning with love for me.”
“Because you were one of his workers, a preacher.”
“A what?” He threw a glance to David, then shook his head. “I was no preacher. Though I s’pose we both made our living off the eternal. No, brother, I was a mortician—well, a mortician’s assistant, ’fore I got the call.”
“But you were religious.”
The man chuckled. “Wrong again. That was my Dorothy’s department. Only time I ever used the Lord’s name was when I reached the end of a bottle or I was cussin’ someone out on the freeway. But I recognized them eyes…immediately. And I knew they loved me. I knew He loved me. And that’s what made the leaving all the harder.”
“You mean coming back, returning to Earth?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“The closer I got to that Light, the more I felt His love till I was bathed in it, covered from head to toe. That’s when I realized…” He swallowed. “That’s when I realized I didn’t want it.”
“Want what?”
“Him. I mean I did, then. But it was too late.”
David waited as the preacher struggled to find the words.
“It’s like…like I’d spent my whole life tellin’ Him no, I didn’t want Him around, I didn’t want His company. And now, now He was simply respectin’ my wishes. It broke His heart, I could see it in His eyes…and it broke mine.” The man’s voice thickened. “All that power. All that love. But He had to respect my choice. I had to respect my choice.”
“But,” David gently persisted, “you could have made a different choice. You could have changed your mind.”
“I can’t explain it. It’s like…” He cleared his throat. “It’s like…clay. When I was here, living, I was soft and pliable, I could say yes or no anytime I wanted. I could be anything I wanted. But once I made my decision, once I truly decided and made my choice, then the clay was set. My death was the furnace, the kiln that fired and hardened it…that made me become what I’d chosen to become.”
“And there was no changing?”
He slowly shook his head. “I’d become what I’d chosen to become. I had decided what I would worship—or not worship—for eternity.”
“What happened next?”
Preacher Man scowled. “Suddenly I was falling. Ripped from the Light. From Him. I was back in the tunnel and I was falling. Fast. And the faster I fell, the darker it grew.” He took another breath, exhaling with the faintest shudder. “But it wasn’t darkness like you and me are used to. No sir, this was a darker darkness. I mean, even at midnight, even in a pitchblack room with the covers over your head, there’s still some light, still some of His presence.” Another, more ragged breath. “But not there. Not where I was.”
“Just darkness?”
The man barely heard. He was lost, drifting someplace far away. When he resumed, he whispered, “And the screaming…I heard it all around me. Terrible. People crying, shrieking in rage.”
“At the Light? For sending them there?”
Preacher Man’s scowl deepened. “No…that’s just it. We did it.” The veins in his temple swelled. “We wanted it. We chose it. He only did what we had decided.”
David watched as the old-timer closed his eyes and lowered his head. The story had taken much out of him. David glanced away, then to his own coffee, giving the man his space while trying to absorb all that he’d heard. But there was more. And he had to ask. “So how did…you know, how did you get back?”
There was no answer. David glanced back to the face. The man’s eyes remained closed. He looked down at the black, leathery hands gripping the cup. A moment passed and he tried again. “If there were no second chances, how did you get back?”
The preacher took a long, slow breath and let it out. Finally, he answered, “That was the strangest thing of all. ’Cause in the midst of all that cryin’ and carryin’ on, I heard another voice. My Dorothy’s voice.” He cocked his head as if straining to hear while at the same time quoting: “‘Dear Lord. Don’t let him die. Not without knowing You. Not yet, Lord, not yet…’”
“Your wife was praying?”
Preacher Man opened his eyes. They shined with moisture. “To beat the band. The old girl just wouldn’t let up.” He glanced at David with a smile. “And believe you me, I know what it’s like to be on the other end when she makes up her mind. And the more she prayed, the brighter it got. Not like when I was with Him, but enough to see I was moving again. And before I knew it, I was in the hospital, racing toward my body, slipping into it as easily as if they were an old pair of trousers.”
“And she was right there, praying over you.”
“Yes, exactly.” He took another breath. A cleansing breath. “She was praying to the only One who could save me.” His strength was returning and with it, his fervor. “That’s when I gave my life to Him.” He wiped his eyes. “That’s when I received Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Glory be to God!” Turning to David, he continued, “And, brother, you can do it too. Anyone can. All they got to do is ask. That’s why I stand out there all day long. You gotta repent, you gotta turn from your ways and accept Him while you still have the chance.”
David felt his jaw tightening.
“Repent! Now, while the clay is still soft. Say yes to Him now, ’fore your heart gets too hard and you—”
“And I what?” David interrupted, “Go to hell? Is that where I’m going if I don’t accept your Jesus? Is that where my daughter is because she didn’t say yes to Him? Is that where this great loving Light would send her? Some innocent girl who didn’t even—”
“No, no, that’s the whole point. We choose to go to hell, we—”
“So how do I know?” David’s voice grew louder than he intended. He struggled to bring it down but it quivered under the restraint. “How do I know what she chose? How can I help her?”
