The Long Journey to Jake Palmer (25 page)

J
ake pulled into Leonard's driveway at a little past eight the following Friday evening. He didn't think his old friend would be going to bed for at least another hour, so Jake was surprised there was no answer when he knocked on the door.

“He said he'd be home today,” Jake muttered to himself.

Not in the garage or in the garden. Jake strolled up the slight incline of Leonard's property, then down the other side toward the dock. That's where he spotted him, a fishing pole in his hand, a gray aluminum pail by his side. The bottom edge of the sun had just hit the horizon to the west and would bathe the end of the lake in evening gold for a few more minutes. Leonard's form was a silhouette against the light and could have been a picture on a greeting card. Jake eased down the gentle slope and strolled down the narrow path till he reached the walkway that led onto the dock.

“I thought you never fished off your dock, Leonard.”

He didn't move, and for a moment Jake wondered if he'd been heard. But a second later Leonard turned and glanced at Jake and said, “I wondered if you were ever coming back.”

“I had to do something first, before I saw you again.”

“What's that?”

“Get out of the bottle.”

Leonard showed his profile and grinned. Then he stood and wobbled toward Jake, and Jake walked out and offered his hand.

“Nah, get your hand out of my face, I'm not that old. And if I do fall in I still know how to swim, probably faster than you.”

Jake laughed and made his way back to the bank. They settled onto the bench and Jake said, “Would you like to hear what happened to me in the field?”

“Every detail.”

As Jake told of his final visit, Leonard's eyes grew wet, then dry, then wet again. When Jake finished, Leonard simply nodded once and said, “I knew you'd make it. I knew healing would come. Well done, Jake. Well done.”

“Who wrote the song, Leonard?”

“What song?”

“Nice try.”

“You found it, huh?”

“I'm going to say it was your daughter.”

“Lucky guess.”

“How long has it been in that piano bench?”

“Long time.” Leonard patted his leg. “I'm glad you found it. You're the first one.”

“It was my friend Andrew. I'm glad too. None of this would have happened without that song knocking over the first domino. None of it would have happened without you, Leonard. Thank you. You revolutionized my life.”

Leonard's only reaction was a gentle smile, but that was more than enough.

After a long pause of doing nothing more than watching the light play tag on the lake, Leonard said, “You think you'll come back to the house next summer?”

“As long as the owners let us.” Jake peered across the water at the cabin that had been part of changing his life. “Good memories. As you might imagine, that cabin has become much more than a house to me.”

“Yeah, okay, good. That's good, very good news.” Leonard rose from the bench and trudged toward his house. “Come on, move, I haven't got all day. Gotta get to bed.”

“What're we doing, Leonard?”

“Well I'm not gonna kill you with an ax if that's what you mean. Would've done it long ago if I was going to.”

“That's comforting.” Jake chuckled.

After they'd stepped through Leonard's sliding glass door into his living room, he waved Jake toward his kitchen table. “I was hoping you were going to say you loved the house.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I need a dollar from you.”

“What for?”

“Just give it to me.” Leonard waved his hand impatiently.

Jake opened his wallet and took out a beat-up dollar. “It's a little—”

Before he could finish, Leonard snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it in his back pocket. “Good. Start signing.” Leonard jabbed at a thick document on his kitchen counter. “I drafted it
myself, so trust me, there's nothing in there that doesn't play to your favor.”

“What am I signing?”

“A simple buy-and-sell agreement.” Jake's elderly friend held out a blue pen. “Gotta be in blue 'cause it proves the document wasn't photocopied, something like that.”

Jake glanced at Leonard, then picked up the papers. A quick glance told him the agreement was for the sale of a house. After a longer look he fixed his eyes on Leonard and pointed across the lake. “You own that house? You?”

“Yep. Thanks for renting it from me.”

“And you're selling it to me.” Jake pointed at his chest. “For a dollar?”

“Stupid question.”

Jake broke out laughing and even Leonard smiled a bit.

“So I'm buying a place where every time I'm there, it will remind me of the spot where the girl of my dreams rejected me.”

“That just means there's someone better out there for you. You'll find her someday. Trust me.”

“I believe you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I finally stepped out of the bottle far enough to read my own label.”

“Then maybe it's time you showed the rest of the world.”

Jake stared at his friend for over thirty seconds. At the light in his eyes. Or fire. Yes, it was fire. And that was okay. More than okay. Because Leonard was right. And Jake knew exactly how he was going to show the world.

E
ight weeks later, on a Thursday afternoon, Jake stood backstage at Luce Auditorium in downtown San Diego, his heart pounding inside his chest like a bass drum at a rock concert. Through a slit in the curtain he stared at the mass of bodies milling about the venue.

“Excuse me, Mr. Palmer. You need anything?”

Jake tore his gaze away. A soundman with hair to his shoulders and a Cheshire-cat grin bounced on his toes, waiting for an answer.

“What?”

“You go on in five. Just checking in. Making sure you got everything you need, that your mic is good, all that kind of stuff.”

“I'm good.”

“You're ready then?”

Jake nodded, against the protest of his churning stomach and the reality that he'd never be ready for this moment. It wasn't one he could practice by videotaping himself. This moment could only come as he stood in front of a live audience.

Seven minutes later, after a quick introduction from the
promoter of his talk, Jake walked into view and basked in a strong welcoming applause. He strolled over to the center of the stage on wobbly legs and gripped the sides of the podium with both hands. As he stared at the crowd, he shot up a quick prayer and began.

“Just before stepping out here, I was asked if I was ready.” Jake stared at his fingers gripping and regripping the light wood between his hands. “The honest answer is I'm not ready for this. In fact, I'm more nervous right now than I've ever been. I've given over twenty-five hundred talks during the past nine years, but none of those have prepared me for this moment.”

Jake stepped out from behind the podium and stood with feet at shoulder width, hands behind his back. He stared at the back of the room where the wall and ceiling met.

“I'm going to do something this evening I vowed I would never do. In fact, I've been finding excuses not to do it for two months, ever since I promised a friend, as well as myself, that I would. I've had six opportunities in that time, six talks similar to this one, but each time I stayed inside my bottle.” Jake smiled and gave a tiny shake of his head as his gaze dropped to the floor in front of his polished black shoes.

“But since I've just confessed to you that I made a promise, it will be difficult to back out now. So fate has chosen you to witness that promise being fulfilled.”

A murmur went through the crowd.

“Enough stalling, hmm?”

A smattering of light laughter.

“If you're here, you know that I like to talk about the fact that
it's impossible to read what's on the label when we're standing inside the bottle. And we're all standing inside our own bottles. Recently I had the chance to do the impossible and see what was on my label. And now I'd like to show you.

“What you're about to see might be disturbing. If you're squeamish, I'd like to give you permission to leave the room till I'm finished. It will only take a few minutes, and then we'll get back to our regularly scheduled programming.”

As Jake spoke, he loosened his tie, then removed the dress shirt covering his white T-shirt. Next, he pointed at his hips and smiled. “Don't worry, this isn't a striptease. I have workout shorts on, so I promise no one will get embarrassed.”

He glanced around the room.

“I'm going to take off my shirt first, then my pants.” He motioned toward the exits. “Again, if you're squeamish, this is the time to leave.”

All of them stayed in their seats. One woman toward the back moved her head slightly to get a better look. No one else moved even an inch. If Jake didn't know better, he'd swear they'd all stopped breathing.

“In order to read the label, we have to step out of the bottle.”

Under his breath he said, “For you. For them,” as he removed his T-shirt and let it drop to the floor.

“Looking good, Ja—” A woman at the back of the room broke off her shout as her eyes reached his stomach.

“A year and a half ago I was burned in a fire. And I've spent the past year and a half trying to deny the fact, hiding from what I'd become, trying to keep my pain hidden, trying to tell others
what's on their labels when I could no longer see my own. Actually I had never seen my own.

“I thought I was worthy of being liked for two reasons. My looks and body, and because I always fixed things, made things right for the people around me. But apparently there's more to me than that. My looks and my ability to help were my shield. I used it so no one could see the real Jake, because I thought the real Jake, the one who lived from his true heart, wasn't enough.”

As he spoke, Jake unbuckled his belt and took hold of the top of his zipper. “I was a mountain climber, a mountain biker, a triathlete, a white-water kayaker . . . I was in such good shape a fifty-mile bike ride was a warm-up for me. My best friend calls me Clark, because he thinks I look like Superman with the build to go with it. That was my label. Then it all came crashing down.

“Friends, who we are is not what you see on the outside. This is a costume, a shell, only clothes that are quickly turning to tatters.”

Jake held the sides of his pants in both hands, closed his eyes, and let go. The sound of his belt buckle smacking onto the floor of the stage echoed through the room, but that was the only sound. He waited for the gasps of revulsion to come. And they did come. But it didn't matter. He was not his burns or scars. Not the ones outside. And not the ones inside. He'd already stepped outside the bottle, and he knew what was on his label.

After an eternity, Jake opened his eyes. But he didn't find horror or disgust in the eyes of the front row, and he realized the gasps he'd heard weren't revulsion, but surprise. A man in the front row on the far right got up and ambled out of the room. Two
women toward the back on the right did the same. But their exits barely registered. He even had trouble focusing on the people who stayed, their faces a mix of shock, compassion, and wonder. And hope.

As waves of whispers buzzed through the crowd, Jake pulled his slacks back on as well as his T-shirt. By the time his dress shirt was buttoned again, the crowd had grown silent. After he finished dressing, he paused to collect the emotions churning through his heart. But then again, maybe he didn't need to collect them. Maybe it was okay to let them see. In that moment, he let tears of his own rise to the surface.

“Thank you for allowing me to tell my story.” Jake wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. “Once I figure out why it suddenly got so dusty up here, I'll begin my talk and we can—”

“Excuse me.” A heavyset woman in the front row stood and with a shaking voice asked, “I'm sorry to interrupt, but would it be possible for me to say something?”

Jake stared at her. He knew the look. Utter terror from standing in front of an audience combined with unquenchable conviction that she had to speak out whatever was inside her. He nodded and lifted his hand toward her. “Please.”

Jake lifted the cordless mic off the podium and walked it down to the woman. She took the microphone with trembling hands and gave Jake a frightened little smile.

“I've tried for years to lose weight. I just can't do it. And I've tried to hide it. But there's no way to hide being heavy.” She gave Jake another tiny smile. “Clothes can't cover it up. I fantasize about staying in my house all the time. That can't work either. So
I hide inside when people stare, when they don't think I can see them. When they snicker at me. Sticks and stones might break my bones, but words? They'll kill me. And they have ever since I can remember. But today I'm hoping things can change.”

She glanced at Jake again, her lip trembling. He winked and smiled.

“I'm burned, Jake, like you are. Maybe not on the outside, but I am on the inside.” She bobbed her head at the crowd. “Do you know what I'm trying to say? I bet you do. Even though you don't want to admit it, I bet you do. You understand, right? I'm not alone, I don't think. I can't know what your burn is, or where it comes from, but you're burned, aren't you?”

There was no scuffing of feet. No whispers in the crowd, no movement, and no sound except for the soft hum of the air system overhead. The woman had nailed it better than Jake ever could.

“What if we scrounged up the courage to talk about our burns with each other? I'm scared, really scared, but I have to try it, you know? To step out of the shadows and tell my friends who I really am. And I betcha it will be good, okay? What would happen if we talked to other people about our fears and scars and burns so that those lies lose their power, and so maybe we give other people the chance to tell us what's
not
written on our labels?”

She glanced at Jake again. He nodded and she kept going.

“Like I said, I don't know what your burns are. I have no idea how long they've stayed hidden. Maybe even from yourself. But I'm still thinking you might have them. So if you're like me, I'm thinking it's time we strip off whatever kind of clothes we've been wearing to cover them up.

“Because I don't care what we've done, don't you think Jake might be right, that we have more worth than we know? Don't you think there's that possibility? I do. I really do. At least I want to with everything inside me. If you're like me, for years we've listened to people tell us about things on our labels that aren't there and were never there, but we believed them. I think it's time to read the biggest true words that are on each of our bottles: We. Are. Worth. It.”

The woman looked like she wanted to say more, but she stopped and held out the mic to Jake. He stepped over to her, wrapped the woman up in a massive hug, and whispered to her. “You have not only pulled back the curtain, you've tossed it into a bottomless sea. You said it better than I ever could have. Well done, Beautiful.”

She handed the microphone back to Jake and shuffled toward her seat, but before Jake could speak, a man who looked to be in his late twenties stood. He stretched out a hand that fluttered so fast it looked like he was trying to fly. Maybe that was exactly what the man was about to do.

Jake motioned him over. “What's your name?”

“Terry.” Terry blinked and swallowed, but his eyes didn't leave Jake's.

Jake lowered the microphone and leaned close to Terry's ear. “You can do this.”

Terry nodded, took the microphone, and looked over the crowd. “My name is Terry. Being here today, sitting here today listening to Mr. Palmer and being around all of you isn't where I'm . . . it's not what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm supposed to be . . .” He stared at Jake, who gave a slow nod.

“It doesn't really matter where I'm supposed to be, because now I know that where I'm supposed to be, I mean, without any doubt the place I'm supposed to be right now is right here.” Terry jabbed his finger at the floor and Jake could tell he was fighting back tears.

“My parole officer bought me a ticket to this thing two weeks ago. I tossed it on my nightstand in my apartment when I got home that night, thinking it was some stupid cheesy motivational talk thing and I wasn't going to go or anything . . . I mean, I like my parole officer, I mean, he's a good guy, he's been good to me and all that, I mean . . . what I'm trying to say is he's trying to do more than just do the job. I think he really cares, actually, I know he really cares, but I just haven't been in a space . . .”

Terry drew in a quick breath and looked at Jake as if to say,
I'm rambling, aren't I? I'm so totally blowing it.

Jake took Terry's hand that held the microphone, lowered it, and started to speak, but before he could start, Terry puffed out, “I shouldn't be doing this. I'm sorry. I don't even know how to explain . . .”

Jake raised a finger to his lips and Terry went silent. He again leaned close to Terry's ear and said, “Let me tell you what's on your label right now. In this moment. You are one that opens hearts and souls. The gut-level honesty that I see on your face is about to burst out all over this auditorium, and people are going to be set free. Do you understand me?”

Terry nodded.

“Do you believe me?”

Again, a quick nod. Jake raised Terry's hand, stepped back,
and motioned to the young man. Terry hesitated only a moment and then dove back in.

“So, what happens is the ticket, when I threw it onto my nightstand? It fell off the back but I didn't even know it, because I wasn't looking for it or anything, because like I said there was no way I was going to come today, but the crazy thing is last night I knocked my glasses off my nightstand in the middle of the night, and this is the crazy part, when I went to find them this morning, they're laying on the ticket and the way the lenses are laying, I see the date all clear and big and everything and it's today and something inside me says I have to go.”

Another glance at Jake. Another nod at Terry.

“I'm burned too. Just like the lady said. Growing up I always got a double shot of affection.” A sad smile played on Terry's face. “Double shot because both my parents beat me.”

Terry paused and drew in a long breath. “And just like the lady said, I've been told all my life I'm not worth the dirt I stand on. But . . . but . . . see, this week it all came together, not in a good way though, you know? See, I got ahold of a gun and today I was going to . . .” Terry swallowed hard, bowed his head for a moment, then raised it and clenched his jaw. “Life is worth living, even with burns.”

Terry stretched out his arm to give Jake back the microphone. Another huge hug as Terry let his tears come and Jake let his come as well. As Terry made his way back to his seat, Jake moved to the center of the stage, crossed his hands in front of him, and bowed his head. Without question, the audience needed a moment. He needed a moment.