The First Great Adventure of the Summer
Jason lay on the bed, aches attacking him from every direction. Even breathing hurt. He made sure to keep lying absolutely still, or the aches would burst into flames of pain.
So much pain. He had never experienced so much before. The way he had gotten his injuries had been excruciating, but it had not ended with his rescue. The morphine dulled it to some extent, but day-in, day-out, it wore him down. There was no way to escape it. He wished he could close his eyes and make it all go away, but every time he closed his eyes, nightmares flashed across his mind.
He had just awoken from one, and he shivered, the sweat cooling on his skin. He had probably been thrashing around during the nightmare; that was probably the reason he hurt so much. That and the fact he hadn't taken any painkillers in about six hours. He took a deep breath, concentrating on psyching himself into getting up.
But then he thought, what's the point? There's nothing I can do anyway. All I can do is lay back down again, as still as possible, hoping to keep the pain to a minimum.
The trouble was, he needed his medicine. He'd have to move to get it.
Jason pushed himself up by his good arm; he gasped as a dagger stabbed his chest where he'd been shot, almost blinding him.
No. I can do this.
He swung out of bed; it felt as if his lungs had been pierced by shards of glass. Fire raged over his back, his chest, his face, as shocks jolted through his shoulder.
Dear God, help me to do this.
He stood, trembling all over. The pills were all the way in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.
But if he got there, he could climb back in bed and hope to find some corner of his mind where he could sleep without nightmares.
The next few steps were okay. The pain stayed reasonable.
But in the hallway, his foot caught on the rug and he fell.
White-hot agony burst through him. For a moment, pain eclipsed his existence.
Then, slowly, he became aware of reality. His face lay on the rug and his arm rested on the hardwood floor; blood seeped through the bandage on his left hand.
He couldn't move. He didn't dare move or something would hurt, even more than it did. Most importantly, he couldn't get up to get the pills which would stop the pain.
A sob seized him, wrenching his insides to new heights of agony. Tears of pain, fear, weariness, poured out onto the carpet.
Footsteps creaked up the stairs. Jason tried to get up, but his arm collapsed beneath him.
"Jason!" His father. "What happened!?" He knelt beside him.
Shame filled him. It was his father, after all, but he didn't want anyone to see him like this.
His father helped him up; he laid his head on his lap, already exhausted.
"I'm sorry," said Jason.
"What for?"
"You—don't need this."
"I'm happy to take care of you. You're my son."
Whit helped him to his knees. "I just wish you would have called me first."
"Didn't want to—be any more trouble."
Whit looked into his eyes. "Nothing is more important right now than helping you through this, Jason."
Jason finally stood again, and his father insisted on supporting him back to his room and getting the pills and glass of water himself. Then he made some breakfast, and helped prop Jason up in bed so he could eat it.
Even his mouth and throat were sore, so it was hard to eat, but the bacon, eggs and toast tasted so good it didn't matter. His father sat in the chair by the window to eat. "Jason, you're not well enough yet to do things on your own. There's no shame in asking for help."
"I know. It's just that—"
"It's the way you are." Whit chuckled softly. "Remember the time you broke your arm? You insisted on doing as much as you could by yourself—and you know where that got us."
Jason smiled. "How could I forget?"
His mind flew back to the time when he was about fourteen, a year after Jerry died, and his first summer in Odyssey. He'd gone with some other kids to explore an old barn near Gower's Field, and climbed onto the roof. The roof had collapsed, and his arm felt like a board had chopped straight through it.
So just when the summer was getting started, he found himself with a broken arm and unable to do many of the things he wanted. When he tried, his parents would rebuke him and drag him back home where nothing fun was happening.
One day, his father caught him climbing the railroad bridge, and drove him back home, fuming mad. He didn't even speak to him in the car until he stopped in front of the house and said, barely controlling the anger in his voice, "Do you realize, Jason, how much your mother has been worried about you?"
"She doesn't need to worry. I can take care of myself."
"You weren't taking care of yourself two weeks ago when you fell through the roof."
"That was a one-time thing."
His father shook his head. "I'm starting to think a broken arm wasn't punishment enough."
"Dad, it's not that big of a deal! I'm almost fifteen! When Jerry was my age—"
His father's eyes snapped. "Maybe if you'd show some of the responsibility Jerry showed at your age, I would trust you with more." His voice caught when he said Jerry's name. "But so you have time to think about what you've done, I'm going to cancel your trip to Chicago this weekend."
Shock stabbed Jason. "But Dad! I've been looking forward to this for a month!"
"That's my final decision. Now, you are going to march inside and tell your mother you're sorry, and then you're going straight to your room."
His father got out of the car and stepped into the house without looking back. Jason sat in the darkened car, stunned. Then he dragged himself inside, where he muttered an apology to his mother, and then trudged up to his room.
Lying on his bed, he considered climbing out of the window and running away, but the more reasonable part of him told him his parents loved him, and this all would pass. Deep down, he knew the reason for their overreaction—they were afraid of losing him, like they lost Jerry.
Pain struck Jason's heart whenever he thought of his brother; he didn't think about him if he could help it, though in a way it felt like he was betraying him by ignoring his memories. It just hurt too much. In a way, he welcomed the physical pain of his broken arm; it was real and present, and distracted him from the deeper pain of how terribly he missed his brother.
But no matter why his parents did it, it wasn't fair they were making him stay home. He wanted to see Jana, who had her own apartment in Chicago, and he wanted to see a Cubs game. There had to be a way to get there.
Maybe some of my friends would take me there, he thought, after I'm not grounded anymore. So the next day, he called his friends and asked them, but none of their parents were interested in a trip to Chicago anytime soon. Or anywhere else for that matter—at least with someone else tagging along.
I could drive myself to Chicago, thought Jason, but even if he could use his left arm, he didn't have a driver's license. Fear struck him when he thought of pulling a stunt like that. I'm not that desperate.
Two days later, his father packed for Chicago. Jason felt worse than ever; he was almost climbing the walls from the boredom of being stuck in his room all day.
He needed out. A crazy thought pricked his mind when he heard his mom and dad having a discussion about what car to take. Mom said she needed the car that weekend; Dad would have to take the van.
"That thing eats up gas like nothing," said his father.
"You could always fly."
"Jenny, you know how things are right now, with the stocks in upheaval. We can't afford anything extra, especially with plane tickets costing what they do."
"I don't really understand why you need to go at all. You can manage UPF from here—"
"I can't take care of everything here. There are things I've got to do, Jen. The company may depend on it."
So, Dad was taking the van.
Dad was taking the van.
In the van, there was enough room so that Jason could hide in the back seat, and his father might never find him. His mother was going to be gone over the weekend too, so she wouldn't know he was gone.
It was perfect.
It was crazy.
If his father found out, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. A thrill ran through him. He was going to have fun—and his father couldn't stop him. He wasn't going to let them baby him because he was the youngest. He was fourteen, and they were treating him like he was eight.
His dad came up to talk to him about staying home just before he left. "We trust you to do the right thing, Jason." Jason almost backed out after that, but he already had packed an overnight's worth of clothes in his backpack; he was committed.
His mother had already left to a women's conference. After his father packed the first suitcases in the car, Jason snatched up his backpack, dashed out while his father was still in his bed room, and huddled down behind the back seat, so his dad couldn't see him in the rear view mirror.
Then his father got in, started the car, and drove off. Jason's heart thudded in his chest. He had succeeded! He was on his way to Chicago!
It was fun at first, just the novelty of hiding in the car on a long trip. Then, he started to get hungry. He had smuggled in a couple snacks, but he was so afraid of moving in case his dad heard him that he didn't dare unzip his backpack to get them. And it got cramped, sitting in the same position, scrunched down beneath the back seat. His broken arm began hurting again; he realized he'd forgotten his pain pills. He began to panic; he considered crawling out and confessing to his dad. But then told himself, just tough it out. It'll be worth it once you get there.
He hunkered down for the long haul, getting more and more hungry and cramped, pain blossoming across his whole arm. He couldn't even look out the window to distract himself. Just play games in his mind, which he always did when he was trapped somewhere boring. They weren't particularly fun games, and he was just nodding off when the car stopped, and jolted him awake. He leaned his head down as far as it would go when his father put gas in the car, hoping he didn't see him through the back window.
They resumed driving. His father turned on the radio, so he could at least listen to that, although in the back, with the engine running, he only caught every other word or so. But by now his arm was numb, and he resigned himself to feeling hungry and having no feeling whatsoever in his legs.
Finally, they reached Chicago. Down the freeway, he could glimpse tall buildings in the distance, glinting in the sunlight. At last the car pulled up to a hotel beside a large park with an abstract sculpture. His father got out and dragged his bags out of the trunk. When he was sure his father wasn't coming back, he started to get out too, though at first he couldn't move his legs at all. Soon, an inferno of pins and needles attacked him as the blood resumed flowing through his limbs.
First he devoured a snack of crackers and pretzels, then he picked up his backpack and headed out into Chicago.
As he walked down the sidewalk away from his father's hotel, still a little shaky from being cramped in the car for so long and not eating, his vision wavered like vertigo. He'd gotten this far—but what if he didn't get back to the van in time before his father left? He shrugged all doubts off and plunged headfirst into the city.
He went into a '50's style café downtown and ordered a burger and fries with some of his fifty dollars' worth of allowance. Then he wandered around for a while, bought an ice cream cone, and wound up at a park where some kids were playing baseball. He watched the game for a few minutes, and then they asked him to play since one team was short a player. He jumped at the chance and played pitcher; playing with a broken arm, no one to tell him he couldn't, was almost as good as seeing a Cubs game. Almost. Then the sun sank below the skyline, and the kids scattered to their homes. It made him a little homesick; he'd lived here till last year, but now his home was far away.
Speaking of which, he should probably start getting back to the van. The city lights burning against the purple of dusk, he followed the route he'd taken to the park—or he thought he did. But in the darkness, he wasn't sure of the landmarks. He tried to fight the rising panic, and only half succeeded. He wandered into a questionable part of town, raucous voices echoing off the walls. He backtracked, and by accident ran into the park next to his father's hotel. Breathing a sigh of relief, he climbed back into the van. By now it was completely dark, close to 11:00. He lay down on the back seat, exhausted.
Jason tried to sleep, but he kept thinking someone was breaking into the car, and jumped awake every time he heard a noise. Dulled by the excitement of his trip around town, his arm started to hurt again. He tossed and turned, and finally drifted off to sleep.
A rumble beneath him. He jumped awake. The car was moving, city lights flickering by in the darkness. He froze, then realized his father was driving. But what was his father doing out at this time of night? Jason looked at his watch; it was 1:00.
When the car stopped and his father got out, Jason peeked out the window. It looked like the edge of town; a huge half-finished overpass loomed above them like the bone of a giant skeleton.
Some men were waiting near the base of the overpass. About five of them. His father strode over to them with a briefcase.
What in the world was his father doing here? Jason carefully popped the back window open so he could hear what they were saying.
He could hear most of the words because, out here, the roar of the traffic didn't overwhelm every other sound.
"Do you have it?" said the man who came to greet his father. He was tall, thin, and wore a dark suit, unlike the others, who wore nondescript black shirts and pants.
"I have part of it," said his dad. "If you want the whole formula, you'll have to show me your credentials."
"We're consultants like you. We don't carry cards or anything." The man laughed; the others joined in, an ominous sound.
"You know, I had the impression we were going to meet one-on-one. I wasn't counting on hired guns."
"They are insurance. In case you brought some backup of your own—or in case you tried to back out. You aren't trying to back out, are you?"
"I'm not going to hand sensitive information over to someone who I'm not certain has our country's best interests at heart."
The man shook his head. "I was hoping this would be easy. You seemed desperate enough for the job. But now I see you're one of those noble types." He snapped his fingers. Two of the large men stepped forward.
"You can save yourself some…unpleasantness if you just tell us where the rest of the formula is."
His father rubbed his jaw, as if with weariness. "I should never have agreed to this in the first place…No. I'm sorry. I can't give it to you."
The man jerked his hand forward. The men behind his father grabbed his arms, forced him to his knees. Then the man aimed his gun at him. "Tell me where it is."
"If you shoot me, you'll never know."
"Who says I'd shoot to kill?"
Fear blinded Jason. Fear for his father. It didn't matter that he might get killed; it didn't matter that he'd be grounded for life if they ever got out of this. He had to do something.
The only thing he could think of, which was opening the door, leaping out of the car, yelling.
Jason slammed into the man in the suit, knocking the gun out of his hand, which skittered just a few feet away. Jason dived for it, crashing into the gravel—but the man in the suit got there first, and swung around, aiming his gun at Jason.
The fear in the boss's eyes turned to amusement, and he laughed. "So this is your backup. A child." Resentment burned through Jason at being called a mere 'child'.
His father's face was frozen with shock. For a moment, he didn't speak. Then he said, "I didn't know he was there."
"A stowaway, eh? Why would a stowaway care about what happened to you? Unless—he's some relation. Your son, perhaps?"
His father didn't answer, but his eyes, now filled with sadness, were trained on Jason. Jason shrunk away from that gaze; he knew he'd failed his father, in more ways than one.
Before Jason could react, one of the men seized him by the arm. "You've given me quite the opportunity." He grabbed Jason by the hair, forcing his head back. The gun's cold muzzle pressed to his temple. Terror flashed across his mind.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry I…snuck into the van."
"It's okay, son. None of that matters now. Only that—I love you, so much." A tear slipped from his father's eye.
"Well?" said the man. "You want to let your son die before your eyes?"
His father bowed his head. "He's more important to me than any secret. "
"I thought so. Where is it?"
Instead of answering, his father sprang forward, grabbed his briefcase from the ground and slammed it into the man holding Jason.
"Run, Jason!"
Instead of running, something occurred to Jason in that split second. Taking advantage of his father's diversion, he grabbed the gun from the boss's hand, tore it away from him. Aimed it at his heart. The boss stood there, shock on his face.
"Get out of here!" he told the other men. They looked at each other, then scattered off into the darkness beneath the broad bridge.
He and his father now outnumbered the bad guy. His father took the gun from Jason, while Jason, shaking now, dashed to the van, snatched some rope from the trunk, and tied the man's wrists behind his back.
His father smiled at him, gave him a nod. "Good job, Jason."
"Thanks, Dad."
"You're still grounded."
He sighed. "I thought so."
While they waited for the police, his father told him a little about what he'd been involved in. "I work for the NSA," he said. "Off the books."
"How long?"
"Oh, since right after the war. I haven't done much for them lately, not after Jerry's—death. This man, Samuel Sward, is a liaison with the Agency, and he said he'd pay me enough money to get Universal Press back on track if I tracked a formula down for them. It looks like he was a double agent—though I wonder if we'll ever get out of him who he's working for.
"I can't tell you how awful I felt when I saw you—that was a very, very foolish thing to do."
"But it worked."
His father smiled. "Since it worked, I can't be too mad at you. You know, I think you may have the makings of an agent." He laughed.
Whit had been mostly kidding then. They'd both been riding the wave of euphoria of escaping something that could have ended in their deaths. But that incident had sparked in Jason the desire to become an agent. The desire for adventure, that tang of meeting danger head on, staring death in the face and making it back down. Most importantly, the desire to be like his father.
Though he'd been grounded for a month after he got home, especially after his mother had found out what he'd done, he had gotten closer to both of them, but especially his father.
"Those events made me realize," said Whit, sitting back in the chair, putting his empty plate on the table by the window, "that I couldn't control everything. I wanted to keep you safe after Jerry died—but I couldn't. I had to leave it in God's hands."
"And I realized that being selfish, having fun, wasn't worth making you wonder if I'd come home alive. I didn't want to do that to you, not after Jerry."
"You grew up that summer, I think. And we got closer since you knew my secret. I don't believe you ever told anyone."
Jason shook his head. "You'd entrusted me with it; I wouldn't dream of giving it away. I loved the idea of my father as a spy. Down the road, it led to me becoming an agent myself."
"You were good at it. You showed even then that you could take care of yourself in a pinch."
"But sometimes I wonder…if I should have become an NSA agent in the first place. After all that's happened, if it's worth it."
"God has that in his hands too. You've done good things, even with the bad things that have happened. That's how the world works, especially for us Christians. It's a tapestry of light mixed in with darkness….only in heaven will we see it clearly. See all the good we accomplished through Him, in spite of darkness in the world, in ourselves."
A twinge of pain hit Jason's chest; he tried not to show it. "I just wish I could see God's plan now. It seems like it has all been…such a waste."
Sorrow crossed his father's eyes. He was about to speak, when the doorbell rang.
"Don't get up," said his father. "I'll get it."
"I'll just stay here, then," said Jason. He felt better since the food and the pills, but now he had finished reminiscing with his father, he felt exhaustion creeping up on him again. The great weight of darkness pulling his soul ever downward where nothing existed but anger, pain, guilt. His father's absence had left a void in the room and it closed in on him, the silence filled with the ghosts of nightmares.
Footsteps trudged up the stairs. They weren't his father's. Could it be-?
A face popped into the room. A bright smile sent sunlight bursting across his soul.
"Hi Jason,"
"Hi, Connie."
"I just thought I'd drop by and see if you wanted to do anything. Like play a board game. Or just talk."
Jason smiled. "How about both."
As Connie sat down with Scrabble between them, and his father brought them up a cup of coffee, Jason thought, Maybe some good has come out of all of this after all.