One Summer by David Baldacci Read Free Book Online

carried him safely through Iraq and Afghanistan came back to him.
    He grabbed the edge of the bed, tightened his grip, and pulled. His emaciated body slipped, slithered, and jerked until he was fully back on the bed. He lay there in quiet triumph, hard-earned sweat staining his hospice gown.
    That night he half walked and half crawled to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in months. It was not a pretty sight. He looked eighty-four instead of thirty-four. A sense of hopelessness settled over him. He was fooling himself. But as he continued to gaze in the mirror, a familiar voice sounded in his head.
    You can do this, Jack.
    He looked around frantically, but he was all alone.
    You can do this, honey.
    It was Lizzie. It couldn’t be, of course, but it was.
    He closed his eyes. “Can I?” he asked.
    Yes,
she said.
You have to, Jack. For the children.
    Jack crawled back to his bed and lay there. Had Lizzie really spoken to him? He didn’t know. Part of him knew it was impossible. But what was happening to him seemed impossible too. He closed his eyes, conjured her image in his mind, and smiled.
    The next night he heard the squeak of the gurney. The patient next door to him would suffer no longer. The person was in a better place. Jack had seen the minister walk down the hallway, Bible in hand. A better place. But Jack was no longer thinking about dying. For the first time since his death sentence had been pronounced, Jack was focused on living.
    The next night as the clock hit midnight, Jack lifted himself off the bed and slowly walked around the room, supporting himself by putting one hand against the wall. He felt stronger, his lungs operating somewhat normally. It was as though hisbody was healing itself minute by minute. He heard a rumbling in his belly and realized that he was hungry. And he didn’t want liquid pouring into a line. He wanted real food. Food that required teeth to consume.
    Every so often he would smack his arm to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. At last he convinced himself it was real. No, it wasn’t just real.
    This is a miracle.

11
    Two weeks passed, and Jack celebrated the week of his thirty-fifth birthday by gaining four pounds and doing away with the oxygen altogether. Miracle or not, he still had a long way to go because his body had withered over the months. He had to rebuild his strength and put on weight. He sat up in his chair for several hours at a time. Using a walker, he regularly made his way to the bathroom all on his own. Another week passed, and four more pounds had appeared on his frame.
    Things that Jack, along with most people, had always taken for granted represented small but significant victories in his improbable recovery. Holding a fork and using it to put solid food into his mouth. Washing his face and using a toilet instead of a bed pan. Touching his toes; breathing on his own.
    The hospice staff had been remarkably supportive of Jack after it was clear that he was getting better. Perhaps it was because they were weary of people leaving this place solely on the gurney with a sheet thrown over their bodies.
    Jack talked to his kids every chance he got, using his old cellphone. Jackie was bubbly and mostly incoherent. But Jack could sense that the older kids were wondering what was going on.
    Cory said, “Dad, can’t you come live with us?”
    “We’ll see, buddy. Let’s just take it slow.”
    With the help of the folks at the hospice, Jack was able to use Skype to see his kids on a laptop computer one of the medical techs brought in. Cory and Jackie were thrilled to see their dad looking better.
    Mikki was more subdued and cautious than her brothers, but Jack could tell she was curious. And hopeful.
    “You look stronger, Dad.”
    “I’m feeling better.”
    “Does this mean?” She stopped. “I mean, will you…?”
    Jack’s real fear, even though he did believe he was experiencing a true miracle, was that his recovery might be