No Greater Love

Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.

Robert Frost

It was 3 o’clock in the morning when the phone rang. Nora groaned and rolled over, grabbing the phone off the charger and trying to focus her eyes on caller ID. But she needn’t have bothered. There was only one reason for a call at this hour. A shiver of anxiety over which she had no control washed through her.

“Hello,” she said. “This is Nora.”

“Are you the mother of,” the voice paused a moment. “Let’s see, driver’s license says, Justin Evercourt? Twenty-four years old? About 6” 2”, blond hair, hazel eyes?”

“Yes.” She said. “Yes, that’s my son. ”

“This is the Third Precinct, Ma’am. I’m Lt. Harrison. One of our patrol officers found your son about an hour ago. He was unconscious and sprawled up against the stairwell door on the third level of the airport parking lot. Justin was not breathing and had no discernible heartbeat. Officer Lippman says he would never have noticed him, but the blinking exit light was reflecting off a strange, irregular surface so he went over to investigate. Lippman immediately called 911 and began administering CPR.” He stopped, uncertain if he should mention the needle the Lippman pulled from her son’s arm.

“Is he . . .?” Nora’s mouth refused to form the word she had feared for so long. She tried again. “Is he gone?” was all that she could force out.

“No, Ma’am,” the caller’s voice was gentle. “Your son must have had some kind of Guardian Angel watching over him. Our officer was able to revive him. He’s still unconscious but breathing on his own now. He’s being transported to LDS Hospital as we speak.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Nora managed to whisper as her stomach rolled itself in the all-too-familiar clench of anxiety. “I’m on my way.”

Without bothering to turn on the light, Nora pulled off the top shelf of her bedroom closet the small cosmetic bag that she kept filled with the essentials for an unexpected overnight visit. Then she grabbed whatever outfit she could reach in the dark which felt warm. Hospitals were always so cold. She took only a moment to whip a brush through her hair and another one across her teeth before she headed out the door.

The Christmas lights across the front of the house blinked in bright silver and blue over the light snow on the surface of the driveway. It didn’t appear to be icy yet, and she was relieved she didn’t have to stop to scrap the car windows.  A muted string of Christmas carols from the radio switched on with the engine. She didn’t notice. It was a long drive from the south end of town to the hospital. And she was grateful for the time to think. But thinking brought back the tears. She didn’t know how much longer she could handle these calls midnight calls.

Justin had been such a golden child, friendly and funny even before he could put sentences together. When he turned 12 or 13, everything changed. She’d been working then as a substitute teacher in the local school district. Whenever Justin found out she was assigned to his junior high school, he’d mysteriously disappear from class. By the end of his three years there, she’d met with his counselor so often that they joked they ought to schedule a regular meeting at a nearby restaurant—maybe they could encourage Justin to stay in school by inviting him to join them.

Then came high school. The problems increased exponentially. Now an expert at skipping class, every morning when Justin climbed out of Nora’s car at the front door of his school–as soon as she was out of sight–, he’d jog over to the Trax station across the street and ride the train downtown where he’d hang out with buddies who were happy to share a marijuana joint with him. The drugs escalated until one December night, in a rage of heroin-fueled fury, he sprinted out the front door in a bitterly cold snowstorm and disappeared for more than a week. The police had been unable to locate him, but one afternoon when she came home from work, there he was, sitting in the living room reading the fantasy novel she’d bought him the Christmas before.

Over the years she spent a fortune she didn’t have on therapy for him–several of those attempts required her participation. She learned a great deal about kids coping with all kinds of mental health issues by drug use. Justin was willing–in fact–sometimes actually quite cheerful about going, but nothing changed. Once in a moment of unusual candor, he had proudly revealed that he could earn a couple of hundred dollars-a-day panhandling outside a large downtown mall. That bought a lot of drugs. And it was twice what she made a day as a substitute teacher.

He was asleep when she opened the door of his hospital room. There was a low hum of machines measuring his heartbeat and oxygen levels. An IV on a pole attached to his bed was pumping a bag of Narcan into his arm, and his face was covered with scratches, some still oozing blood from his clawing at his own skin. Meth. No wonder he looked as though hadn’t eaten for a while. Oh, Justin, my sweet son, she thought, and her heart turned over. Quietly, she slid a chair alongside his bed, reaching for his hand.

He stirred in his sleep. “Mom,” he said. Then he drifted back into wherever his uneasy dreams had taken him.

It was just past dawn when a phlebotomist pushed open the door, smiled in Nora’s direction, and asked if “now was a good time for a blood draw?”

Justin made no response, so the woman pulled her rolling tray up close to his bed. Nora moved out of the way and watched as the phlebotomist expertly drew several vials of blood. Justin never stirred.

Late afternoon sun was pouring into the room when he finally opened his eyes and focused on his mother dozing in the chair opposite him.

“Hey,” he said. “how long have you been here?”

“A while.”

“You didn’t need to come,” he said, his speech low and slightly slurred. “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine. Eventually.” A grim smile crossed his face at the irony of his words. “Well, maybe not always.”

She said nothing.

His eyelids drooped, and once again he drifted off to sleep.

It was full dark outside when he whispered, “Mom. You awake?”

Nora nodded, though she didn’t bother to open her eyes. “I’m here,” she said. “I’m here.” When she looked up, she was startled to see tears washing down her son’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “So sorry. I’ve screwed everything up. Again.”

The harshness of his breathing escalated, and she realized he was struggling to stop the ragged sobs which were audible even above the machines measuring his heart and lungs. “Justin,” she quieted him exactly as she had when he was young and had crashed his bike or had a petty argument with a friend. “It will be OK.” Over the years the words had become a kind of mantra for her, a self-soothing phrase that eased the spike of tension which permeated virtually every conversation she’d had with her son these last years. She wanted to believe it. She wanted that desperately.

“What happened?”

“A cop found you. Said you must have some kind of Guardian Angel watching over you. You’re lucky to be alive.” She bit hard on her lower lip to keep from weeping. “What happened?” There was always some kind of trigger, so she waited.

After a long silence. When he finally answered, his voice was flat. “Genille called.”

Startled, Nora turned to stare at him. “When?”

“This morning. Or maybe yesterday. I don’t know,” he admitted, staring at the walls around him. “l don’t know. How long have I been here?”

“A while,” she answered as she pulled her chair close enough to him to look directly into his face. “Justin. It’s been so long. What did she say? Where is she? How’s the baby?”

When he finally managed to speak, his voice was low and broken. “She’s OK. At least that’s what she says. Been in Kansas with her stepdad.” He stopped, taking several deep breaths to force back the rising sorrow. “Noah’s walking now. Even talking in short sentences.” He clenched his teeth and forced himself to finish. “Says he’s tall for an almost two-year-old.” Tears glistened on his cheeks. “Gonna be like me, I guess.”

 Nora nodded and smiled despite the flash of pain his words generated. She hadn’t seen or heard a word about the baby since he’d awakened her with his unrelenting screams when a battle erupted down the hall between his parents in her guest room almost 18 months ago. “Adults take care of children!” she had exploded at them–fury in her voice, as she gathered up the terrified baby and bundled him as far away from the violent argument as her small home would allow.

Justin pulled her away from the memory when he reached out and groped for her hand. “Oh, Mom,” he wailed. “What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?”

His attempt to stifle his sobs coupled with his exhaustion tore at her with even more pain than before–if that were possible. One memory after another flooded through the walls she’d built up in her head to keep her own sorrow at bay. Justin’s call from a shady motel room the day Genille went into labor. The newborn little boy with an astonishing mop of thick, almost white hair exactly as Justin’s had been. The chubby little fingers and toes. The blue, blue eyes inherited from his mother which crinkled when he smiled. The nightmare when she’d come home from a long day trying to convince students that algebra was an essential life skill to find the crib empty, and all of Genille and the baby’s pitifully small collection of possessions gone. Then nothing. No word at all.

Justin’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “She claims she’s been clean for almost a year now. Has a job as assistant manager at a 7-11.” He stopped. His voice fell to a whisper. “She’d engaged. Some farmer she’s known since 4^th grade. Gonna get married in the spring. That’s why she called. Wants me to sign over my parental rights to her fiancé. She says he loves my boy. And my boy loves him.” His face reflected a panic she had never seen in him. “Says it would mean ‘stability’. A safe place for him to grow up.” Anguish overtook him. “I can’t lose him, Mom. I can’t.” The monitor on his heart began to beep insistently.

Rushing into the room, a nurse switched off the beeper with one hand and reached for Justin’s wrist with the other. After 10 or 15 seconds, she checked her notes, then fingered in a code to unlock a nearby cupboard, taking out a small bag. She ripped it open and hung it on a hook next to the Narcan, connecting it to the drip already seeping into his arms.

“No drugs,” he begged her. “I have to think. It’s important.”

Business-like precision was written on her face, but she took a moment to produce a genuine smile and pat his arm. “It will be OK,” she said unknowingly echoing the words of his mother. “It’s just a very light medication to make it easier for you to breathe.” She exchanged a glance across the room with Nora. “I promise,” she added.

Still, it was a long time before his ragged panting quieted, and his eyes closed.

The moon was high outside the window when Justin woke again. His mother must be engrossed in a novel on her phone, he thought. Her face reflected the light from the small screen in a room that was otherwise totally dark. A  romance, he guessed, because when she was reading, her facial expression often reflected her feelings about what the characters were doing. At that moment, she was relaxed, and she was smiling.

Then he remembered. Genille and his little boy. The anxiety roared back. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said as he pushed back the sheet and reached the call button. “I have to go.

“Justin. Stop.” Nora ordered, dropping the phone into her lap, and grasping his arm across the railing of his bed to keep him from rising. “You can hardly walk at the moment. It will only make things worse if you fall and break a couple of bones.”

“But . . .” his voice trailed off. “What am I gonna do?” First anger and then humiliation washed across his face as he realized he couldn’t stop the tears from coming again.

Nora waited in silence as he struggled for control.

“Mom?” He finally whispered. “Do you believe there really is such a thing as a Guardian Angel like the cop said?”

All those years she’d dragged him to church every Sunday, but faith had somehow eluded him. The only faith Justin had ever seemed to have developed was that another fix could ease his pain. “Why now?” she said. “Why does it suddenly matter now?”

“I can’t be a dad,” he admitted. “Not yet.” He lowered his gaze, his words so quiet, that she could barely hear him. “I’m not safe. My boy would not be safe with me.” He looked up at her in agony.  “What if I forgot to feed him? Or I hurt him?” His eyes closed, fear the undertone in his voice. “What if he ends up–like me?” The pain written across his face was so devastating, that it was almost tangible.

Oh Lord, she prayed as she struggled to answer, please help me say what matters. “I do believe in angels, Justin. You know that,” she said quietly. “You’ve always known that.”

“Would you…?” his voice trailed off. “Do you think you could ask Heaven to send a Guardian Angel to watch out for my boy? Until I’m better. Until he’ll be safe with me?” He swiped at the tears staining his cheeks.

Nora’s voice was quiet. “Are you thinking of signing the papers for Genille? Giving up your rights?”

At last Justin’s voice was steady. Certain. “A farm,” he said. “With cows. Maybe a horse to ride. And a dog. I always wanted a dog.”

Nora was unaware of her own tears of loss now covering her own cheeks and washing down onto the faded  BYU sweatshirt she wore. “Justin,” she said. “You must love that little boy so much.” Unconsciously, she used the back of her hand to wipe away the tears dripping off her cheeks. “ So much, ” she repeated. She reached out and clasped his hand, pulling it close, next to her heart. “Someday. . . . Someday, perhaps he’ll understand.”

May the Light of the World Be Your Guide

Merry Christmas