The Journey Back (16 page)

L
anding on the opposite side of the river from Luke, I paused a moment, hands on my hips, 'cause honest, I did not know what to do. Buddy, panting hard, gazed up at me and I kneeled to pet him while the questions hammered me.

Would I head home now, to protect my mom and the kids? How? How would I deal with my father? And how would I live 'cause I'd always have to hide?

Should I wait until the coast was clear and go to Nevada with Nora and her mom after all? It would give me more time to think about things. But then, wasn't that just running, too? Running in a different direction?

Like a pile driver, the questions beat on me until I felt reduced to a million little pieces. I was totally blanked on what to do and the running had plumb wore me out. I was so desperate for direction, some sort of sign for what to do that I stood up again and gazed back at the river. And that's when a living nightmare unfolded right before my eyes.

Luke hadn't stayed where I left him! He was following me again, only this time someone was after him! A police officer was trying to catch him, but had stopped jumping the rocks, probably because he was too fat and loaded down with gear. Instead, the cop stood talking to somebody on his police radio while Luke got farther out into the river.

I knew yelling would give me away. I knew when I opened my mouth it was all over. But I could not let Luke put himself in that kind of danger.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Luke, stop!” Even if Luke wasn't his real name, I wasn't gonna change it then. “Go back!”

Unbelievable, but the dumb kid kept coming.

Buddy barked at me, like
go get him
! But I wasn't sure whether to cross the river again and get caught, or hope Luke would freak out and stop so the cop could catch up. Voices battled in my head:
such a loser . . . sometimes all you can do is try . . . you'll look stupid.
And in that split second of indecision I saw Luke miss the edge of a rock and fall in the water. Instantly, he was sucked under and went flying with the rushing water between two boulders. His little head popped up several feet away already, but I knew he couldn't last long out there.

The nightmare that haunted my life was happening
again—
with another little boy! No way. No way would I let it happen a second time!

I yanked off my boots and sprinted back across the rocks. When I saw a place that looked like deep water, I took a chance and dove in—a shallow dive so I wouldn't hit rocks underneath. The water was ice-cold and moving fast. As soon as I surfaced, I caught a glimpse of Luke's head downriver and swam like crazy. The sweatshirt was weighing me down some, but the current was with me so I closed in pretty quick. I grabbed for Luke but he disappeared inches from my hands! When his head didn't pop up again, I went under after him.

The river was dark, full and fast because of the recent rain. The currents were unmerciful, some pulling this way, some that. Forget
seeing
anything. All I could do was reach out my arms and flail around in the churning water, feeling for him. If I hadn't collided with him the way I did, it would've been over for sure. When I felt his arm, I grabbed it and latched on.

I resurfaced, gasping for breath, and pulled him up with me. Then I got my arm over his chest and turned over on my back so I could float and keep him up.

Luke coughed—a good sound—while together, we went flying down a chute of wild rapids in the cold, rushing river.

Rocks battered my back like it was a punching bag. Then my head slammed into another boulder, nearly knocking me out. Silver stars were all I saw. I felt my grip letting go. But, no! I couldn't lose him! I squeezed Luke tighter and focused on keeping that one arm around him.

The rapids continued, fast and cruel. I held on to Luke with everything I had until the water finally slowed down. “Luke, you okay?” I tried to shout.

No answer. I couldn't see his face. But he had latched on to my arm with both hands and was holding on tight.

I knew I'd cut my head, but the only pain I felt was from the icy water.

Finally, we hit a calm stretch. No more rocks or rapids, just smooth, cold, fast-moving river. Buddy ran along the bank on the Virginia side, following us and barking his head off.

I looked toward the Maryland side and saw the campground's boat launch come and go. Red and white police car lights flashed while two officers walked along the water's edge, probably looking for Luke. I saw a guy point and holler, but I couldn't hear anything. I think my ears were still ringing from my head getting smashed.

When the river took a turn and the water slowed even more, I started kicking and backpedaling with one arm as hard as I could toward the Maryland shoreline. It was a pretty sorry one-handed backstroke, but it got us over to the edge where there was a shallow, sandy bank. Exhausted and shaking from the cold, I got both feet on the sandy bottom and hauled Luke up on shore where I turned him on his side. He coughed and sputtered and water dribbled out of his mouth so I knew he was okay.

I reached up to wipe the blood off my face, then felt the ragged edges of flesh on my scalp where I'd sliced it open. I pressed one hand against the wound to try and stop the bleeding, then knelt on the sand and sucked in huge amounts of air. When Luke threw up, I put a hand on his back. “Get it all out, Luke. You're doin' good.”

Had we been in the water a minute? Five minutes? Who knew? It seemed like forever.

One other thought crossed my mind: was this what it was like for Brady? When he pulled Ben out of the river?

Suddenly, Buddy was there, licking my hands and Luke's face. He was wet from swimming across the river and when he shook, he sprayed us both with water, but we didn't care.

Still catching my breath, I leaned in close to Luke. “Hey, dude. You okay?”

“Yeah. I think so . . . thanks . . . for saving me.”

When he said that I moved my head back and forth. “No,” I said to him, and this I meant: “Thanks for saving
me
.”

—

It didn't take long for the police to find us. They put Luke on a stretcher but he called for me so I went over to him. I took his hand in both of mine.

His face was all screwed up. “I lost my glasses,” he said.

I almost laughed. “Don't worry about it,” I said. “You'll get some new ones.”

Then I turned to one of the cops. “His name is Andrew Hardesty. His father's real name is Glen David Hardesty. They're from San Antonio, Texas.”

Another officer held up a small notebook. “We got that much from the father. We'll take care of getting the boy home to his mother, where he belongs.”

Good. I was glad Woody had confessed to the truth.

I looked down at Luke. “You hear that?”

He nodded.

“You'll be all right now, Luke.” I let go of his hand. “Take care of yourself. And keep practicin' those layups, you hear?”

He grinned.

—

Turning away, I took off my sweatshirt and even though it was sopping wet, I used it to try and stop the bleeding from my head. I sat down again on the beach and Buddy came over to stand beside me. Soon, a police officer was there, too. He moved my hand away so he could see the wound. “Looks like you might need some stitches,” he said.

I didn't respond. It almost didn't matter if I bled to death, right then and there. The important thing was that Luke was all right.

“What's your name, son?”

I didn't hesitate. “Michael Griswald,” I told him.

Someone put a blanket around my shoulders and I held it close together with one hand. I was wet from head to toe, and
freezing.
I bet I didn't smell like smoke anymore.

While the cop talked into his police radio, I saw Nora. Her hair was loose and she held a hand over her heart like she was breathing hard from running. I got up and went to her. She hugged me even though I was wet so I dropped the sweatshirt
and
the blanket and wrapped both my arms around her, too.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered in her ear. “You and me, it wasn't gonna work for us to be running away, or me going to Las Vegas.”

She pressed her head into my shoulder.

“I gotta go back and do my time, Nora. And you gotta go with your mom and stay in school. You can't be a doctor if you drop out, right?”

She moved her head in agreement.

“We can stay in touch if you want. Who knows? Maybe we'll meet up again someday,” I said. “But both of us, we got stuff to do first.”

“I know,” Nora said. “I know . . .”

Suddenly, a cop was there handing me a towel for my head and saying, “You did a brave thing, Michael. I'm sorry I have to take you in now.”

Reluctantly, I pulled away from Nora.

“The report here says you've been on the run for two months,” the cop said. “But it's over now.”

I put the towel against my head and nodded. “I'm glad.”

restitution
(res´ ta too´ shan)
n.
1. a giving back to the rightful owner of something that has been lost or taken away; restoration; 2. a making good for loss or damage; reimbursement.

 

 

I
n the waiting room at the prison's medical clinic, there was a bunch of stuff on the coffee table: a Bible, a copy of
Sports Illustrated
with the cover ripped off, a
People
magazine,
and a dictionary. While I waited to get the twenty stitches out of my scalp, I hobbled over and picked up the dictionary—no small task when you're in handcuffs and your feet are shackled. But I wanted to look up the word my public defender had used so many times:
restitution
. The word that was going to keep me from ever realizing my dreams.

I guess I always thought I'd go straight back to Cliffside when I got caught, but that's not what happened. I went in a police car to the hospital where the gash on my head got stitched up, then I went straight to a small prison in this place called Hagerstown. It wasn't anything like Cliffside, which is in the mountains with no real fence around it. When we drove into this Hagerstown prison, I caught a glimpse of a high brown concrete wall with razor wire all around the top of it.

After getting buzzed in, I shuffled a few steps with my handcuffs and shackles. Then I had to wait for a guard to punch in a code to open another door. There was a solid, mechanical clunk when the lock released and the door opened. I shuffled some more, another clunk, then I shuffled again down the hallway to where they put me in a tiny, one-room cell about the size of a closet. The cell didn't have anything but a stainless steel sink and toilet, a metal cot with a thin mattress and some bedding rolled up tight at one end. No window to look out of, just a tiny rectangle of glass in the door.

“Thirty days in the hole,” one guard told me. So I guessed that cell was going to be my home for a while, until the court decided where I got sent, and how much more time they would tack on.

Didn't matter to me anymore what they did. After everything that happened, I almost didn't care. I was thinking I'd just do my time and try to move forward with my life. For sure, I was relieved to be done running.

A couple days later, this public defender guy came to see me. He said he was Timothy Joseph, which struck me weird, like having two first names for a name. He seemed too young to be a lawyer, but he was nice and acted like he cared. He brought me a can of Coke and didn't seem rushed.

“I'm going to represent you in court, Michael,” he said. “So, it's important that you tell me everything about your life. From the beginning, okay?”

I figured I would cooperate. What the heck, I didn't have anything to lose at that point and I was still in limbo land, wondering what they would do to me.

First off, I told him, “Don't call me Michael. Everybody calls me Digger.”

“Okay, Digger. Tell me your story.”

So I took a big breath and I told him my story. I told him about growing up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, my friends J.T. and Brady, my mom, LeeAnn, and Hank. I even told Mr. Joseph some of the stuff my father did to me and my mom over the years so he had the whole picture and understood why I run away from Cliffside in the first place. Being a public defender he already had papers that told him about the red kayak, and how Ben DiAngelo died, so I didn't need to go into that again. But I did tell him how I still carried the weight from it, and how I knew I always would.

“That's one thing I learned for sure living out there these past two months,” I said. “No matter how far I run, or how long I'm gone, I'll never get away from that weight 'cause it's part of who I am.

“I thought a lot about this,” I said, “and I decided that the only thing I can do is live a decent life to try and make up for all the wrong I did. Maybe the weight will get a little lighter, but that's about all I can hope for.”

Mr. Joseph tilted his head and nodded slowly. “I think that's a real good way to look at it.”

“Yeah. I just hope that I can have like a halfway normal life, too,” I added.

“You have a long life in front of you, Digger. And it can be a good one—even with the weight you carry. It's up to you how you shape that life. Have you ever thought of what you might want to do? Do you have any goals? Any dreams?”

My head had been kind of hanging down the whole time I talked, but I looked up then. “I don't know that it's possible what with all I've done,” I said. “But I'd like to join the Marines one day.”

His eyebrows went up, like he was impressed with that idea, but he didn't say anything for a few seconds. I knew what the hesitation meant. He didn't even have to tell me, but he did.

“The Marines, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately I don't think so, Digger. You've already had one felony conviction—the second-degree murder charge that put you at Cliffside. Now you're facing felony theft for stealing the truck. That'll be two felonies on your record. The Marines are not going to look the other way on that.”

Even though I was expecting that kind of answer, it still hit me hard.

“No chance then?” I had to ask. “For me to
ever
be a Marine?”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry.” Then he added: “When you screw up, it has consequences.”

That seemed kind of harsh, but it was true, I guess. My eyes fell away from his. I stared down at the dirty, scuffed-up tile near my feet as my dream seeped out and disappeared, leaving a hollow feeling inside. All those years I had that dream. Now it was gone.

“Look,” Mr. Joseph said. He leaned forward and put his hands on the table between us. “A lot of people have to change their dreams, Digger. Things happen. You adjust. You have to roll a little with life.”

He opened his hands. “So you're not a Marine! There are lots of other things you can do. You're strong. You're smart. And you know what? Inside that tough shell you carry around, you've got a good heart. I'm telling you, that can take you far in this world.”

It was almost exactly what Nora had said to me. I don't think he noticed, but I winced a little 'cause Mr. Joseph had poked the tender spot I nursed deep inside for Nora. Would I ever even see her again? Would she write to me?

My public defender leaned back in his chair and opened my file on one of his crossed legs. “I'm hoping the court will take a lot of factors into consideration and not give you too much more time.”

I sat there, unfeeling, as he thumbed through my papers.

“At least you didn't commit any violent acts while you were on the run.”

“Well, except for I hit this guy, Miguel.” If a lawyer was examining my life he might as well know everything. “I punched him out good. I think I may have broke his nose.”

He frowned at me. “I didn't see anything about a fight . . .”

“No, probably not. Miguel's an illegal, you know? He probably didn't want to bring attention to himself by reporting it.”

Mr. Joseph didn't comment. Quietly, he closed my file. Guess he didn't want to get involved with that. Not that I cared much then, but it bothered me later on that we both kind of brushed it aside.

“Look, Digger,” he said, “the point here is that we tell your story in court. We say you're sorry, that you've changed and that you're—why are you smiling?”

“'Cause you said that I changed.”

“Why is that funny?”

I shrugged. “'Cause I guess I didn't think I
could
change.”

He didn't even blink. “Of course you changed! I mean, you could have kept on running, but you didn't. You didn't have to jump in that cold river. You didn't have to risk your life saving those horses in the barn fire. You didn't have to take such good care of Andrew, or Luke, or whatever his name is. All these things—they were totally selfless acts. You're a different person now! You matured!”

I thought about that and I don't know about
matured,
but I
was
changed some. I stopped running at least, and it's true, I did look at things different.

He continued, “So we talk about how you've changed and how you're ready to serve your time and pay restitution for the damage you did. Authorities recovered the stolen bicycle and the canoe, but the big thing is damage to that tractor-trailer truck.”

At first, I thought what he meant was that I'd have to serve more time for stealing the truck and burning it up. But then I looked up the word in the dictionary when I was at the clinic, and the next time I saw Mr. Joseph he made it clear what restitution meant. It meant I would be held responsible for actually paying for the damage I done—
paying,
as in
money
.

“I did some research,” Mr. Joseph said, picking up a legal pad with notes. “A tire on a tractor-trailer can cost from three hundred and fifty to six hundred dollars. That's for standard width. The new Michelin X One tire, which is twice as wide, is a bit more, so we'll have to find out what kind of tires were on that truck. From what I see you pretty much burned up all eighteen tires as well as the cab.”

Wow. Math was never my strong point but if I ruined all the tires, then three hundred and fifty dollars times eighteen wheels was a big number—thousands of dollars—and that was just the minimum. It would take me years to come up with that kind of cash.

I shook my head sadly. How could I ever start over and have a life if I owed all that money? What was the point in even trying to find another dream?