Not in the Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

big enough to pick up the Town Car and fling it to Georgia. The one near Ukraine.
    â€œWe don’t need a contract,” she said. “You give me your word right now that you’ll get this done before Terrelle . . .” She couldn’t finish.
    â€œI’ll do it,” I said. “It’s not going to change what will happen, but at least you’ll have his story down the way he wanted in his own voice. I can’t promise you it’ll be published. But I’ll write it with everything in me. I’ll make it readable and compelling.”
    She wiped away a tear and nodded. “I believe you. Thank you.”
    Sometimes the hardest questions come at the least opportune moments. Shouted questions at a president walking toward a helicopter or at a shackled convict heading for a squad car.
    â€œWhy is he doing this for my son?” I said to her.
    She looked at me through tired eyes, brimming with tears. A middle-aged black woman who had been through hell and a half. “He’s not doing this for your son. He’s doing something good from the heart, making sense out of the bad. Your son is just the recipient of the grace of God.”
    I nodded, then said good-bye to Murrow and hello to Tallahassee General.

C HAPTER 4
    Ellen Wiley sat by her son’s bed feeling helpless. Again. She had spent so much time in hospitals, doctors’ offices, and examination rooms, waiting for test results and praying God would simply stop the insanity. But he had not. He had left her in this garden of doctors and nurses and orderlies where medication flowed like water. And the end result was the drawn face of her son, listless and colorless.
    This was not how she had written their story. In the inverted pyramid of their lives, she and Truman would have four children, a nice house, lots of money, and they would live to a ripe old age. Their favorite pastime would be watching grandchildren on weekends. They would take long walks on the beach and die in each other’s arms.
    The only long walks she took now were alone around the nurses’ station or to the cafeteria for food she couldn’t stomach. And it had been so long since she held Truman in her arms. It had been so long since she wanted to hold him.
    The heart monitor had been muted by one of the nurses, but Ellen could still hear it. She heard it in her sleep. She heard it even when they weren’t in the hospital. Her days were dictated by a constant flurry of pills, medication, and monitors—and it was all totally and irrevocably out of her control.
    It was in a hospital ICU like this one that she’d encountered a mother of a child with similar cardiac maladies as Aiden’s. Though Ellen was filled with constant worry and fear, this woman seemed to have quiet peace. Over the next few weeks as the faces of doctors became more grim, Ellen sat with this woman, drank copious amounts of coffee, and watched the family walk through the death of their daughter with unwavering faith.
    Ellen wept bitterly for the loss, more than this mother, and she marveled at their response. When the woman returned after the funeral to check on Aiden, Ellen asked her to explain how she had achieved such peace in the midst of her loss.
    That day Ellen knew she wanted what that woman had. Before, she had only wanted to be on the other side of all the problems, to be “past it all,” looking back at some bad storm season, sailing into calmer waters. She had been raised by parents whose faith was best described as “God helps those who help themselves.” God takes care of your life as long as you manage your own details. Her father’s political career had been legendary in old Virginia and their spiritual life as a family had the veneer of religiosity, but as soon as Ellen had the chance to spread her wings and attend UVA, she left the church and all the imposed rules, regulations, and conventions. She didn’t rebel