Read Online Waking Lazarus by T. L. Hines - Free Book Online Page A

looked down at his plate, found the salad in front of him, and started dishing it into his bowl. Obviously he’d made a mistake. It must have been the amen thing. Maybe they resented him saying it; he knew Rachel was a bit of a Holy Roller, even though she’d never tried the ‘‘God loves you’’ lecture on him. She and Nathan went to church regularly, and he was okay with that. Let Rachel believe what she wanted. Like his mother had.
    And wouldn’t he, Jude Allman, the Incredible Dying Man, know more about that than most people? He had died three times, come face-to-face with . . . Best not to think about that.
    Jude decided he should just shut up for the rest of the dinner. He’d once seen a bumper sticker that said A closed mouth gathers no foot . Now, there was something he could say ‘‘amen’’ to. Just not aloud.
    Jude played with the mound of spaghetti on his plate, avoiding eye contact with either of them. Who was he kidding, anyway? Rachel couldn’t wait to get him out of the house. And Nathan would soon be old enough to figure out his father was more idle than idol. Maybe he could move again, start over. Leave behind the sham life he’d set up for another sham, add another blanket of secrecy. That would also solve the newly discovered Kristina problem.
    Nathan broke the long silence. ‘‘Are you ready for your surprise, Daddy?’’
    Jude looked nervously at Rachel. She smiled (a forced smile, he thought), then he looked back to Nathan. ‘‘Yeah. Sure.’’
    ‘‘Can I get it?’’ Nathan asked.
    Rachel touched Nathan’s hand, caressed it a bit, and nodded. Nathan jumped out of his chair and ran from the room.
    Jude admired how she could touch their son so casually, without a thought. Each time he touched Nathan—the one person he actually would touch—he had to make himself do it. Not because of Nathan. Nathan was perfect.
    But touching other people was so foreign to him now; doing it overloaded his senses and sent shock waves into his mind. He had hugged Nathan and brought him to the table that evening, and the feeling was wonderful. But before the hug, before picking up Nathan, he had to tell himself: touch your son . Rachel didn’t have to do that, and Jude was jealous.
    Nathan came back, slid into his chair. ‘‘Close your eyes, Daddy.’’
    Jude did as instructed. Closing his eyes was easy, comforting. As long as he was sitting up.
    ‘‘Surprise!’’ Nathan squealed. Jude opened his eyes and saw a picture: an outline of Nathan’s hand turned into art. Scribbles of color raced across the page, displaying a creative disregard for the boundaries of the handprint.
    ‘‘My hand, Daddy. I did it in kindygarden today.’’
    Jude smiled, forced himself to pick up the paper. ‘‘It’s great, Nathan. It’s really great.’’ Nathan beamed at him.
    ‘‘I can almost remember doing something like that,’’ Rachel said, ‘‘when I was in kindergarten or first grade or something. It was . . . wait, it wasn’t quite that. It was a handprint in that plaster of Paris stuff. And I remember my teacher—Mrs. Zieske, that’s right, it was second grade—painted it gold.’’ She looked at Jude. ‘‘You ever do anything like that, Ron?’’
    He returned Rachel’s gaze for a second. It was too much for one night, trying to talk as well as touch. One sense at a time, no more. And to top it off, there was the ‘‘amen’’ mistake. Jude’s head was starting to itch, and despite his vows to avoid a headache, he knew one was in the neighborhood. Soon it would be pounding on the front door of his brain, demanding to come in. ‘‘I’m not sure. I don’t remember too much about school. Maybe.’’
    Rachel turned her attention back to the spaghetti.
    Maybe next time they could talk. But not tonight. The batteries were too low.
    During the rest of the dinner, Jude listened to the old-fashioned clock on the wall pound out the seconds, then minutes. Jude counted the ticks to