Beyond Shattered Dreams: (Sequel to Just Below the Surface), page 15
Billie just kept Posey for the whole day, instead of me picking her up on the way home from the store and then dropping her back off. I’ll pick her up this evening after going with Prescott. So right now the apartment is quiet, and I’m glad for the few moments to myself while I get ready.
Even though this meeting has nothing to do with me, I’m nervous for Prescott. What could be so important that Sergeant Emery wants to meet in person? The truth is, I tried to keep Prescott calm all week, but my imagination did some conjuring on its own. I just didn’t share anything out loud with Prescott, of course. One of us had to keep the appearance of having it all together. But trust me when I say my mind can come up with some pretty interesting scenarios.
I pull up in front of the apartment where Prescott’s staying and shoot him a text letting him know I’m here. He texts back that he’s coming down, and in less than thirty seconds, I see the front door open. He gets into my car and turns to me.
His face is serious when he says, “Pray for me?”
“Of course.” I place my hand on his arm and pray before driving off. I pray for peace in Prescott’s heart and mind. I pray that whatever the outcome of this meeting, we remember that nothing catches God by surprise, and that He helps us remember that He has a greater plan, and that we can trust Him.
When I’m finished, Prescott thanks me.
“Of course,” I say, waving him off.
“No, Anne. Thank you for everything.” His brow dips down in the middle and he says, “I meant it when I said I don’t deserve you, you know. I don’t think I would’ve stuck with me as long as you did.”
I laugh. “Well, I have selfish reasons for sticking around, you know.”
One eyebrow raises. “Oh?”
“Yep. I need constant attention and validation. It’s just how I’m wired.” I shrug. “Now I won’t feel guilty asking you to tell me how great I am all the time.” I give him a teasing, flirty smile.
He turns serious. “I could never get tired of telling you how wonderful you are, Anne.”
Then he leans over and presses a kiss to my cheek, right by the corner of my mouth, and my heart nearly bursts from my chest. He pulls away and leans back in his own seat. I can still feel the place where his lips touched, and I resist the urge to reach up and touch the spot.
“Oh,” I say, and it comes out breathier than I intended. “Thank you. Um, do you have the address?”
He smiles at my sudden nervousness and I know that he knows that the brief, innocent kiss got to me.
“You don’t need GPS.” He laughs. “I’ll tell you how to get there.”
“Okay,” I say lamely. Staring straight ahead, I pull out of the apartment complex and onto the road.
* * *
“Are you sure you want me in there with you?” I ask again. What if the Sergeant has to tell him something personal that he doesn’t want me to hear?
“I’m sure. Now come on.”
Prescott grabs my left hand with his right one and pulls me along into the private conference room. There’s a large, oval table with eight comfortable-looking chairs. In one corner, there’s a small counter with a coffee pot, cups, cream, and sugar. I could smell the fresh brew as soon as we walked in. There’s a huge TV mounted on the wall opposite the little coffee bar, and underneath it is skinny table with notepaper and pens. In the middle of the large table, there is a fancy platter piled with donuts and a little stack of napkins.
This isn’t so bad, I tell myself. Surely, if Prescott were in some sort of trouble, they wouldn’t bring him here to make him feel so comfortable. Right? I don’t know. I’m second-guessing everything right now. I know nothing.
“You’re shaking,” Prescott whispers to me as he pulls out one of the chairs for me to sit down. “Are you alright?”
“Just being dramatic,” I whisper back, trying to sound more lighthearted than I feel. “You know me.”
Prescott’s eyes twinkle with humor, but he doesn’t laugh out loud. “Oh, I do.” Then he takes the seat next to me.
A tall man walks in at that moment, and when Prescott begins to stand again, he gestures for him to stay put.
“Please, stay seated,” he says.
He’s not as intimidating as I’d imagined him to be. He’s a bit older than Prescott, maybe early fifties, with dark gray hair cropped short in the expected Marine style. But his face isn’t hard or cold; it’s very warm and friendly.
He reaches over the table to shake my hand. “Sergeant Emery,” he says, “and you must be Anne.”
I take his hand in a very firm handshake and smile back. “Yes, I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He then gives a nod to the man next to me. “Prescott. It’s great to see you, again. Thank you for coming.”
“You as well, and sure thing.”
Prescott in military mode isn’t much different than everyday Prescott. He’s just a little stiffer, a little more formal.
Sergeant Emery takes a seat across from us and folds his hands neatly in front of him. “I won’t waste your time with small talk, Prescott. There’s a very specific reason I wanted you to come in instead of having a phone conversation.”
Even though I’m not touching Prescott, I can feel his nerves from here. I hear him swallow hard as he waits for him to continue.
“This has been a tough road for you,” he continues. “Many of us were affected by your accident, especially the way it happened.”
Prescott is very still, listening.
“It’s no secret around here how you felt afterward. Many of us who visited you got the same story from you. You felt like a failure, a coward. As if losing a limb is made better if you lose it saving someone.”
Prescott sucks in a breath and doesn’t immediately exhale, holding it tensely. I inconspicuously reach under the table and give his knee a reassuring squeeze, reminding him that I’m still right here beside him, no matter what. When I do, I hear him slowly exhale.
Sergeant Emery continues. “Prescott, I can’t pretend to know how it feels to go through what you did. All I know is that sometimes things are not as black and white as we think, or as cut and dry as they seem. Do you remember the Caleb family?”
Prescott starts to shake his head, then pauses. “Wait. Farah, the widow with the two young boys?”
Sergeant Emery nods. “Yes. The well was dug in her village.”
“Oh, yeah,” Prescott says, recognition dawning. “It almost didn’t happen. How are they?”
I refrain from asking questions. I’m confused, but I know I’ll figure out the story eventually.
“That’s actually why you’re here. Remember Seth Dixon?”
“Yeah.” A smile spreads over Prescott’s face. “We shared a bunk a few times while I was in Afghanistan. Kind of a prankster.”
Sergeant Emery smiles, too. “Well, about a month ago, he was sent on an errand that took him into that village again. Farah recognized the uniform and came running to him. She was speaking so intently he had to find someone to translate. After hearing her story, we sent someone back to video it, then had a woman overdub the translation.”
Prescott quirks his head to the side. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?”
“Everything,” the sergeant answers. “When she ran up to Seth, it turns out that she had been frantically asking about you.”
“Me? Why?”
“I’ll let Farah explain. Watch this.”
He grabs a remote from the center of the table, and after a moment, a video starts to play.
A beautiful woman—Farah, I assume—who looks to be about my age appears, sitting on a bench near a well. There are little homes in the background, children playing, mothers talking with one another. She’s wearing a simple brown dress and head covering, making her large, dark brown eyes and ruby lips stand out.
As she begins to speak, her voice lowers in volume as another woman’s voice interprets her words into English. I watch and listen, my attention fully captured.
“My son, Rami, was very sick. He could no longer travel the seven miles to get the fresh water for drinking and cooking. My son Asad was still too little to go by himself. I was told that if Rami didn’t have good drinking water daily, he would not get well—he would die. We needed fresh water for not only our family, but those around us. After many prayers and asking for help, we finally got word that we were going to get a well in our village! There was a team of volunteers that chose us. We cried in happiness that day. My son Rami would live!”
I swallow hard a blink away a tear. Farah continues.
“The day before they were to dig the well, we were told that the team had been called home immediately, due to an emergency, and had taken most of their equipment. They could come again, they said, but in a few months. My heart was breaking. Rami would not make it a few more months without clean water. What was I to do? The well was going to be our saving grace.”
I stare at the TV, unable to move, devouring every word Farah is saying.
“Then, some American soldiers heard of our plight. One in particular said, ‘We can do this. We can build their well.’ At first, they were told no. There wasn’t time. They had duties. This man said, ‘Our duties are to people first.’ After much arguing, the American soldiers were allowed to come, and three days later, our village had a well of fresh water. I asked, ‘Who was this one man that fought for us to have clean water within our reach?’ His name was Prescott Wakefield. I was told he wouldn’t take no for an answer. And I was told that if it weren’t for this man, it would have been months until we got our clean water. My son would’ve died from illness. If you see this man, Prescott Wakefield, give him my thanks.” Farah has tears now, and her voice is breaking. “Tell him thank you for his persistence for a village of people he did not know, but mattered to him. Tell him I can never repay him for giving me back the life of my son.”
The video pauses, and Sergeant Emery turns toward Prescott, waiting for his reaction.
But first, I reach over, and cupping his chin, I gently turn Prescott’s face toward me. With tears in my eyes and my own voice breaking now, I tell him, “See? You are a hero.”
Chapter 24
Prescott drops his head from my hands, looking down. His brow furrows as if he’s confused, and I gently touch his arm.
He looks up. “Thank you for showing me this. I didn’t know.” His frown is back. “But I’m no hero.”
“Prescott, to this woman and her sons, you were a godsend. Imagine being in her place. Having no one to stand up and speak for her. Fight for what she and her family need.”
I agree with the sergeant.
“But I didn’t know it was such a big deal. I just saw a need, and knew we could help. It just seemed the right thing.” He shakes his head. “I had no idea her son was so sick, or she was so desperate. Really, I’m not a hero.”
“That’s the point, son. Great men and women never set out to achieve hero status. They just live to do the right thing, and when they can, see that the right thing is being done. They become heroes to the people in whose lives they made a difference.”
Sergeant Emery leans forward in his chair, getting closer to Prescott, even though they’re across the table from one another.
“I want you to know something. That day you were on liberty, when the accident happened?”
Prescott cocks his head ever so slightly, as if to say What about it?
“I happen to know,” the sergeant continues, “that that particular free day was given to you boys because of what you volunteered to do for that village. Sort of an extra privilege.”
Prescott stiffens a bit.
“Let me ask you something, son. If you found out beforehand that the reason they needed the fresh well so badly was because without it a little boy would die, and then were told that the circumstances that follow building that well would cause you to lose your left arm, would you still have done it? For the boy?”
I hear Prescott’s hard swallow beside me, then he says, “Yes. If it meant saving the boy’s life, then yes.”
The two men stare at each other for what seems like the longest moment, while I nearly hold my breath waiting for one of them to speak first.
Finally, Sergeant Emery smiles ever so slightly. “I knew you would have.”
* * *
The ride home is quiet for the most part. Prescott spends a great deal of the time staring out the window, and I let him. This is a lot to process.
Before we left, Sergeant Emery gave Prescott an address in case he wanted to send a letter letting her know he saw the video. It wasn’t Farah’s address; it was the translator’s. After she translated Prescott’s letter, she’d make sure both copies got to Farah.
It may take some time, but I think he’ll write her.
We’re a few miles from home when I ask him if he’s alright.
He turns and blows out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just letting it soak in, you know?”
“I know,” I agree, reaching over and giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “I know you don’t want praise or credit for what happened,” I begin. “But I’m so proud of you for standing up for that family. Not many people would’ve thought it was worth it. And even less would have gone through the trouble to make sure it got done. You’re amazing.”
“I’m selfish,” he whispers.
This surprises me and I whip my head to glance at him before focusing back on the road. “What?” I say incredulously.
“I’m so selfish, Anne.” He turns back toward the window. “After my accident, all I could focus on was how my life was ruined. How things would never be the same. How I didn’t deserve you. I was so angry.” He pauses. “I don’t have the right to be proud of anything I’ve done.” He quickly adds, “But I am happy for Farah and Rami.”
“Prescott,” I say, but he holds a hand up before I can refute his statement.
“Give me some time, Anne. Please.”
I nod, willing to give him the time and space he needs. I know that nothing I say will move this process along any quicker. I silently pray for him, trusting that God knows exactly what Prescott needs to get through this.
Then, we finish the ride home in silence.
Chapter 25
The following week, I text Prescott the occasional “good morning” or “you doing okay?” messages, but for the most part, I give him space. It’s fine though, because I stay busy with wrapping up plans for the retirement party on Saturday.
Today is Friday, and the only thing I have left to do is decorate tomorrow before the party starts. Billie is coming with me to help with the lighter, easier tasks, since she’s getting further along in her pregnancy. It will be nice to have her there, anyway, in case Posey gets bored. She loves Billie and will happily sit with her while I decorate.
I’m getting ready to close up the store when Ben comes around the corner, laughing.
“That must’ve been some phone call,” I tease.
“That lady does not give up, does she?”
I laugh. “Never.”
Mrs. Downing had come into the store earlier today. She had her fourth son, Jared, with her this time. She claimed he was just helping her look for a new dresser for one of her guest rooms, but I know why he was really there.
The whole time, Ben kept giving me “looks” when Mrs. Downing wasn’t paying attention. At one point, from across the room, he made a heart with his two hands and tipped his head in an adoring way, and I had to excuse myself for a moment before I busted out laughing and Mrs. Downing and Jared thought I lost my mind.
Just a few minutes ago, Mrs. Downing called the store asking for Ben. Ever since she found out Ben was taking over the store for his aunt and uncle, she redoubled her efforts in finding him a match. Since she had no daughters of her own, she had started trying to interest him in her friends’ unmarried daughters. Now, she’d call the store sometimes to try to get Ben to call one of them for some reason or another.
It’s become sort of a competition now between Ben and me. Each of us tries to steer Mrs. Downing’s attentions in the other’s direction whenever she’s in the store.
Me: “Did you know that Ben loves to ski? If only he knew someone that liked skiing as much as he does. Weekend ski trips are never fun by yourself.”
Ben: “Didn’t you say Joe likes to paint as a hobby? You should’ve seen Anne’s painting of the forest. Amazing.”
Me: “Mrs. Downing, what was your friend’s name, again? The one from Mexico with the two gorgeous daughters? Oh, did you know that Ben’s mother is also from Mexico? What a coincidence!”
This one nearly sent Mrs. Downing into a fit trying to search through her phone for her friend’s number.
Ben places the store phone back on its charger and shakes his head. “Apparently, her friend Teresa and her daughters Gabriela and Sofia are looking for a new dining table, and I happen to be the only person in the world that can help them.”
I laugh. “All three of them are looking for tables?”
“I guess the girls both still live at home while they finish college.” He shakes his head. “I told her that we don’t get many large tables in, and when we do, they go quickly. I told her she’s better off shopping around if she needs one soon rather than waiting in the hopes that the right one will end up here.” He runs a hand through his hair. “That woman is exhausting.”
We’re both still laughing about it when we close up the store. We walk to our cars, and I tell him I’ll see him tomorrow at the party. I get in my car and peek at my phone in the hopes of seeing a text from Prescott. Nothing yet. I sigh, start the car, then head to Billie’s to pick up Posey.
* * *
The party is a success. Earlier this afternoon, I had the pleasure of meeting Ben’s parents. His mamá had pulled me in for the tightest hug, as if I were a long-lost relative. His dad was just as friendly, making me like them both tremendously.
