Read Online A Step of Faith by Richard Paul Evans - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Paul Evans
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you too. Let’s talk again soon.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Alan.”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I replied. I hung up the phone and went back to packing.
To avoid a repeat of the previous night’s dinner, I made myself a tuna fish sandwich, then sequestered myself in my room. Later that evening my father knocked at my door.
“Come in,” I said.
He stepped inside. “I made tacos,” he said.
“Thanks. I already ate.”
“I know. I wrapped up two tacos in foil in case you get hungry later. They’re in the refrigerator.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He just stood there, nervously swaying. “What time does your flight leave tomorrow?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“Then we should leave by eight-fifteen. We’re going to hit rush-hour traffic.”
“You don’t have to take me,” I said. “I can take a cab.”
“You’re not taking a cab. We’ll have breakfast at seven-thirty. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He walked out of my room.
The next morning we shared a long, quiet breakfast together. It was one of my father’s specialties, Swedish pancakes with lingonberries and pork sausage. I suppose he had made a statement by making one of my favorites. After breakfast I finished packing, then my father drove me to the Los Angeles airport. We said two words on the way. Literally.
“United?”
“Delta.”
He pulled up to the Delta curb and put the car in park. I got out and pulled my pack from the back seat. My father got out of the car. His eyes were red.
“You got everything?”
“Yeah.” I walked over to him, leaning my pack against the Buick. “Thank you for everything.”
He just nodded.
I exhaled heavily. “I love you, Dad.”
His eyes welled up, which I knew made him uncomfortable. He leaned forward for a quick hug, then stepped back and, without a word, gently squeezed my shoulder.
I picked up my pack and walked back to the curb. I was near the airport door when my father shouted, “Hey, Al.”
I turned back.
“Be safe.”
I smiled, then waved and went in to catch my flight.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
I am back in St. Louis. I was so intent on resisting my father’s attempts to abort my walk that I ignored my own body’s warnings.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
After a ninety-minute layover in Detroit, I arrived in St. Louis too late in the day to start walking. I took the hotel shuttle from the airport to the Hyatt Regency at the Arch and planned for a restful evening. I still didn’t feel well and I was worried by how much the flight had wearied me. My recovery wasn’t nearly as complete as I had led myself to believe. This shouldn’t have surprised me. Dr. Schlozman had warned me that it could take as long as six months before I felt like myself again. I just hadn’t wanted to hear it.
My room was on the east side of the hotel and had a view of the Arch. The sun, now in the west, gleamed off the monument’s stainless-steel surface, making it almost too bright to look at.
The Gateway Arch is one of America’s most spectacular national monuments, and a symbol of the western expansion of the United States. A national contest was held in 1947–48, and Finnish-American Eero Saarinen’s design was chosen from more than 170 entries. Construction began on the memorial in 1963 and was finished two and a half years later. The Arch is a remarkable feat of engineering and, at 630 feet tall, the tallest man-made monument in the United States—nearly 100 feet taller than theWashington Monument and almost 70 feet taller than the Crazy Horse Memorial in South Dakota.
For several minutes I lay back in my bed, my gaze fixed on the monument. Even though the Gateway Arch was designed as a symbolic gateway to the West, gates go both ways and it was fitting that I had returned to the Arch after my medical intermission. I had passed the halfway mark of my journey east without fanfare. The Arch made it official—I was on the downhill slope of my walk. But it didn’t feel
“I’d like that,” I said.
“Alan.”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” I replied. I hung up the phone and went back to packing.
To avoid a repeat of the previous night’s dinner, I made myself a tuna fish sandwich, then sequestered myself in my room. Later that evening my father knocked at my door.
“Come in,” I said.
He stepped inside. “I made tacos,” he said.
“Thanks. I already ate.”
“I know. I wrapped up two tacos in foil in case you get hungry later. They’re in the refrigerator.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He just stood there, nervously swaying. “What time does your flight leave tomorrow?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“Then we should leave by eight-fifteen. We’re going to hit rush-hour traffic.”
“You don’t have to take me,” I said. “I can take a cab.”
“You’re not taking a cab. We’ll have breakfast at seven-thirty. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He walked out of my room.
The next morning we shared a long, quiet breakfast together. It was one of my father’s specialties, Swedish pancakes with lingonberries and pork sausage. I suppose he had made a statement by making one of my favorites. After breakfast I finished packing, then my father drove me to the Los Angeles airport. We said two words on the way. Literally.
“United?”
“Delta.”
He pulled up to the Delta curb and put the car in park. I got out and pulled my pack from the back seat. My father got out of the car. His eyes were red.
“You got everything?”
“Yeah.” I walked over to him, leaning my pack against the Buick. “Thank you for everything.”
He just nodded.
I exhaled heavily. “I love you, Dad.”
His eyes welled up, which I knew made him uncomfortable. He leaned forward for a quick hug, then stepped back and, without a word, gently squeezed my shoulder.
I picked up my pack and walked back to the curb. I was near the airport door when my father shouted, “Hey, Al.”
I turned back.
“Be safe.”
I smiled, then waved and went in to catch my flight.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
I am back in St. Louis. I was so intent on resisting my father’s attempts to abort my walk that I ignored my own body’s warnings.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
After a ninety-minute layover in Detroit, I arrived in St. Louis too late in the day to start walking. I took the hotel shuttle from the airport to the Hyatt Regency at the Arch and planned for a restful evening. I still didn’t feel well and I was worried by how much the flight had wearied me. My recovery wasn’t nearly as complete as I had led myself to believe. This shouldn’t have surprised me. Dr. Schlozman had warned me that it could take as long as six months before I felt like myself again. I just hadn’t wanted to hear it.
My room was on the east side of the hotel and had a view of the Arch. The sun, now in the west, gleamed off the monument’s stainless-steel surface, making it almost too bright to look at.
The Gateway Arch is one of America’s most spectacular national monuments, and a symbol of the western expansion of the United States. A national contest was held in 1947–48, and Finnish-American Eero Saarinen’s design was chosen from more than 170 entries. Construction began on the memorial in 1963 and was finished two and a half years later. The Arch is a remarkable feat of engineering and, at 630 feet tall, the tallest man-made monument in the United States—nearly 100 feet taller than theWashington Monument and almost 70 feet taller than the Crazy Horse Memorial in South Dakota.
For several minutes I lay back in my bed, my gaze fixed on the monument. Even though the Gateway Arch was designed as a symbolic gateway to the West, gates go both ways and it was fitting that I had returned to the Arch after my medical intermission. I had passed the halfway mark of my journey east without fanfare. The Arch made it official—I was on the downhill slope of my walk. But it didn’t feel
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