The Atonement Child

by Francine Rivers

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  She shrugged, throat tight.

  The student across the table, appearing somewhat resigned and disgruntled, gathered up his books and papers, shoved them into his backpack, and departed to a cubby near the windows. Dynah blushed and wheeled her cart into the work area.

  Mrs. Talbot asked her to go out again and pick up texts that had been left on the study tables. Wheeling the cart out again, she carried out the chore, saving Joe’s table for last. Embarrassed, she spoke softly without meeting his gaze. “I’m going to talk to the pastor at Community,” she said in a hushed tone, putting two books on the cart.

  “Sounds like a good idea. When’re you going to see him?”

  “Sometime this week.” Whenever she could gather enough courage to do so. She wished she didn’t sound so ambivalent.

  “Want some company?”

  Surprised, she looked at him and almost said yes. Hesitating, she frowned slightly. She’d asked Ethan to go with her, but he refused. What problems would she create between Joe and Ethan if she said yes? “No, that’s all right. I think it’d be better if I went on my own.”

  “You’re sure?” Joe said, sensing her concerns. Sure, Ethan would be mad, maybe even jealous, but he didn’t care about that right now. Dynah was more important. Sooner or later, Ethan would come to his senses and see that.

  “I’m sure, but thanks.”

  She was far from sure several days later when she walked through the doors of Community Church and asked to see the pastor. The secretary was polite and asked no questions. She said Pastor Whitehall was with someone at the moment but would be finished shortly. Could she wait? Dynah said she could and took the seat offered, her stomach knotted.

  The door of the pastor’s office opened, and a distinguished-looking man in a dark-gray three-piece business suit came out holding a polished black briefcase. He nodded to the secretary and noticed Dynah. He smiled slightly and looked back briefly at the man standing in the office doorway. Dynah felt some current in that look, some silent message being passed.

  “Miss . . . Miss? I’m so sorry. I didn’t get your name,” the secretary said.

  “Jones,” Dynah said, blushing and lowering her eyes. “Mary Jones.”

  “Miss Jones, this is Pastor Tom Whitehall. Pastor, this is Mary Jones. She asked if she could speak with you.”

  “Didn’t I have another appointment? One at the hospital?”

  The secretary looked momentarily confused and flustered. She glanced at her calendar and back at him. “No, sir. Not unless I forgot to write it down.”

  Dynah looked up at him.

  The pastor met her eyes and frowned slightly, looking disturbed and faintly annoyed. “I guess I have some time then. Come on in.”

  Self-conscious, Dynah sat in a wing chair before a big oak desk and avoided looking into the man’s eyes. She looked at his desk instead. It was strewn with texts and papers. Behind it were shelves lining the entire office. One shelf held nothing but various versions of the Bible. Theology books and commentaries lined several shelves, and she noticed a plethora of counseling texts. Interspersed throughout the shelves were family photographs and memorabilia from mission trips to Southeast Asia, Africa, and Mexico.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Jones?” Pastor Whitehall asked, sitting down in the swivel chair behind his desk. Mary Jones! She might as well have said her name was Jane Doe.

  Dynah’s heart drummed, and she pressed her damp palms against her skirt. She sensed his reticence, but it had taken her five days to get the courage to come here, and she didn’t dare leave now. She knew if she did, she wouldn’t have the courage to come back. “I need some advice.”

  Tom Whitehall leaned back slowly and assessed her. She was a beautiful girl and clearly a troubled one. He could see the dark shadows beneath her blue eyes, the wariness in her expression. He could guess what was the matter. It was probably the same problem most young women like her brought into his office, and the last thing he needed to face today, right after the attorney had left.

  Jack Hughes’s look had been clear enough. Community Church was in deep trouble because of a lawsuit over a young girl who had received counsel and then gone out a week later and killed herself. The court seemed to be leaning toward the parents’ viewpoint. They claimed he’d given counsel when he was untrained to offer it, and his blundering attempts to help had caused the girl to go over the edge. He had no doctorate in psychology, and therefore he had no right to offer counsel to a troubled girl.

  It made Tom sick with grief every time he thought about Mara. Stricken with guilt, he went back over everything he had said to her, trying to find something that might have put her over the edge. She had been a deeply troubled girl, estranged from her physically abusive parents, promiscuous, newly clean from drugs. He thought she was doing better. He thought she was seeing some glimmer of hope. Then the news had come that she’d committed suicide. And now the lawsuit. His stomach churned, burning.

  He looked at Mary Jones and wondered if he was being set up by Mara’s parents or their slick attorney. Community was a big church. Jack said all concerned figured it had deep pockets. “What sort of advice were you looking for, Miss Jones?” he said cautiously.

  “Of a delicate nature,” she said, afraid she was going to cry. Weaving her fingers together, she let her breath out slowly, trying to relax and regain some control over her emotions. “In January I was raped in Henderson Park.”

  The information came like a punch in his stomach. One look into her eyes and he believed her, and that made everything worse. Father, I’m not equipped for this. My training doesn’t cover it. I’m not a psychologist. I’m a minister. “I’m sorry,” he said, filled with compassion and despair. “Has the man been arrested?”

  “No. I never saw his face.”

  All manner of things came to his mind, things he could say to her to offer comfort, but he held them back, analyzing each and casting it aside. It could be misconstrued as counseling, and he wasn’t licensed for that. Jack’s look had been a pointed reminder and warning.

  She saw the compassion in his expression and gathered enough courage to say the rest. “I found out recently that I’m pregnant.”

  Tom’s heart sank.

  “Please. I need to know if abortion is all right under these circumstances,” she said softly.

  He looked into her eyes and saw her fear and confusion, her anguish. He wanted to weep. He knew the answer to that question in his heart. He knew the answer by all he had studied over the years in the Word. But he couldn’t bring himself to give a one-word answer to such a loaded question. It was dangerous. A court would see what he had to tell her as judgmental, harsh, and intolerant. His convictions weren’t politically correct, and he didn’t know who this girl was, what her background was, where she was going from here. Maybe she’d be like Mara and check herself into a hotel room, swallow a bottle of pills, and leave a note saying how sorry she was to disappoint everyone.

  His throat closed up tight thinking about Mara, so desperately unhappy. How could she have done such a thing? She couldn’t possibly have known the mess she would leave behind. Could Community survive the lawsuit and scandal? Would he?

  Dynah looked up at him again and waited, praying she would receive divine guidance from this man of God. She needed it so desperately.

  “It’s legal,” he said simply.

  His words dropped into the silence, filling both of them with a feeling of hopelessness.

  “I know that,” Dynah said, searching his face. “I need to know if God will understand.”

  “God understands everything.” He grimaced inwardly. The patness of those words was like a placebo offered for a mortal wound, but what else could he say? He looked away from the pain in her eyes.

  “You know what I’m asking you, Reverend Whitehall. Please. Tell me the truth.”

  Tom looked at her again, ashamed. He had to be honest with her. He had to make her
understand and forgive him. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “Yes, I know what you’re asking, Miss Jones, but I can’t answer you. I’m not trained to counsel someone, and this church is under attack because I did just that.”

  “Every pastor is a counselor.”

  “Not according to laws of the land. I took several classes in college, but that was years ago.”

  “But . . .” She glanced up at his shelves.

  “Yes. I’ve read volumes since then, but that doesn’t count for anything without certification and documentation. I’m not licensed, Miss Jones. I’m being sued, and so is this church, because I gave advice to a young girl, and she went out and she took her own life. I can’t afford to risk further trouble for my church. I don’t know you or your circumstances, and I’m not going to hazard to guess and give advice. We’ve worked too hard and long to build this place to have it all come tumbling down.”

  For her. He didn’t say it, but she understood. She was a stranger to him. Why should he risk anything? But she had to try. “I’m your sister in Christ.”

  “Then I suggest you speak with the pastor of your own church. He’ll help you.”

  She lowered her eyes. “He’s in California,” she said dismally. And even if she were there, or he here, she couldn’t talk to him. Pastor Dan saw her as her parents did: unsullied, angelic. What would he think if he found out she was ruined and carried a child of shame?

  Neither said anything for a long moment. Dynah made one last try. “Would you advise me according to Scripture? Could you do that much?”

  Tom hesitated, thinking over what Jack had said to him. If she were a member of his church, things might be different. “I can tell you that the word abortion is never mentioned in the Bible,” he said flatly.

  Dynah saw he didn’t want to say anything more than that. He would if she pressed hard enough, but that would be unfair and unkind to him. “Well, thank you for your time,” she said, standing slowly and fumbling with her shoulder bag.

  Everything inside him rebelled. He wanted to tell her to stay, that he’d help, but he’d done that with Mara, and what had come of that? “I’m sorry,” he said bleakly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “I wish I could be of more help. Really. I—”

  “It’s all right, Pastor Whitehall. I understand.” And she did, but it didn’t help much.

  Standing outside, Dynah looked at the sky clouding up and knew exactly how that girl had felt when she’d decided to take her life.

  Joe called but got Janet instead of Dynah. “Do you know where she is?”

  “She didn’t say, Joe. She’s probably with Ethan.”

  “Ethan’s in a conference with Dean Abernathy.”

  “What’s the urgency?”

  “I don’t know, Jan. I just have this gut feeling, and I can’t shake it.”

  “What sort of feeling?”

  “That we need to find her. Fast.”

  “You aren’t thinking . . . She wouldn’t do anything to herself, Joe. You know she wouldn’t.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Dynah wouldn’t even think about it.”

  “Maybe not. Any ideas where she might go to be alone?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yes, I’m serious!”

  “Did you try the library? Well, then, what about the lake? She likes to walk by the lake. No? We hang out at the Copper Pot sometimes. Not there. How about the Tadish’s Coffee Shoppe or the downtown bookstore, the one on Sixteenth and Webster. I’m running out of ideas, Joe. You’ve looked everywhere I know of to look.”

  “Think!”

  There was a long silence, and then Janet said tentatively, “Well, there’s one other place she used to go before she started going out with Ethan, but it’s a long shot. She hasn’t been there since the first part of this year.”

  “Where?”

  “The prairie reserve. The one that’s a couple of miles from the freeway. Do you know the one I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know.” The last descendant of a pioneering family had willed it to the county ten years before. Every spring the land was splashed with vibrant yellows, oranges, and blues as the coreopsis, black-eyed Susans, cornflowers, and buttercups came into bloom. Right now it would seem a place of desolation. “Thanks.” Joe hung up. Digging his keys from his pocket, he left the downtown bookstore and headed for his car. He knew the reserve all right. He had gone there numerous times himself. It was a great place to be alone to think and pray. Or die.

  Yanking his car door open, he slid in. The tires squealed as he barreled out of the space onto the main street. He made a U-turn in the first side street he came to and headed west.

  All he could think about were the acres and acres of prairie.

  God, help me find her. God, don’t let her do anything stupid.

  Dynah wandered along the trail near a pond left from the melting snows of winter. The sky was crystalline blue, the air cool. She filled her lungs with it and held it for a moment before letting it out slowly. Two bluebirds flitted overhead, dipping and swirling in a joyful dance to the hint of spring.

  It was midweek, midafternoon, the ides of March. Caesar died on such a day. Five days short of the first day of spring. Pausing, Dynah looked around and saw no one. Relieved, she walked on, more briskly now, heading for the cottonwoods and honey locusts. She stepped from stone to stone across the creek and followed the trail past a thicket of hackberry and willow trees. Just beyond it, she left the trail and walked across the grassy expanse toward a grove of old sycamores.

  She sat down and looked out over the expanses. It was quiet here, so quiet, so colorless.

  Reaching into the pocket of her down parka, she pulled out a small bottle of pills and looked at it. The directions had said to take no more than six tablets a day. There were fifty in the small plastic bottle.

  Uncapping it, she spilled the red pills into her palm. Antihistamines were the strongest drug she could think of to buy over the counter. These looked like the red hots her father liked to buy when he took her to the movies. She remembered sitting through a movie with him one summer and discussing the subtle theological message over a late dinner at the wharf. She had always loved spending time with her father. One of the things she missed most when she moved to Illinois and started college was her once-a-month date with Daddy. Unlike Mom, he wasn’t comfortable on a telephone.

  Would Daddy understand?

  She veered away from that thought. “God understands everything,” the pastor had said.

  Will You understand this, Lord? Do You understand anything? She looked up at the clear blue heavens. I don’t even know if You exist anymore.

  A soft breeze caressed the tendrils of hair around her face. I don’t know what else to do, Jesus. What else can I do?

  Dynah’s car was the only one in the prairie reserve parking area. Joe found her keys in the ignition and her purse still sitting on the front seat. “Jesus,” he said softly. “Oh, Jesus.” Retrieving the keys and her purse, he tossed them into the trunk of his car for safekeeping. If she tried to take off, he didn’t want her able to get far.

  You know where she is, Lord. You’re the one who brought me here. Show me where she is.

  He strode along the trail, looking around for any sight of her. What was she wearing? He’d only caught a glimpse of her this morning. She had been wearing a straight denim skirt, lace-up black ankle boots, a white sweater, and a dark-blue parka.

  Jumping the creek, he ran along the trail beside it. The stream snaked toward the west. He followed it for half a mile before he stopped, feeling sure she hadn’t gone that way. Looking back the way he had come, he saw four sycamores standing like sentinels to the north. And there she was.

  Joe found her sitting among them, her arms wrapped around her raised knees, her head down so he couldn’t see her face.

  Catching his breath, he sat down beside her. She had something clenched in her f
ist. He took the bottle from her. It was empty. His heart drummed fast and hard. “Oh, Jesus. Dynah . . .” How long would it take him to get her to a hospital and have her stomach pumped? Time enough?

  “It’s all right, Joe.”

  “It’s not all right.” He came to his feet. Grasping her arm, he hauled her up with him. She uttered a soft cry, and her other hand opened, spilling red pills all over the ground around her feet. “Oh, no!” She yanked free, going down on her knees.

  “Leave them.”

  “No!” She brushed several together and started to pick them up.

  Joe caught her arm and pulled her back. “You think I’m going to stand by and let you take those things?”

  She jerked loose. “I can’t leave them! The birds’ll think they’re berries.” She fought loose and scrambled for them.

  Joe watched her on her hands and knees gathering pills. He read the label grimly and hunkered down to help her look. He felt calmer—at least he no longer wanted to shake her teeth out of her head. Uncapping the bottle, he held out his hand. “Give ’em to me.”

  She did as he asked. “Count them, Joe.”

  “Forty-two.”

  “Eight more,” she said, searching. “I have to find them. I have to find them.”

  They searched the grass for twenty minutes before they found the last pill and capped it securely inside the bottle. Dynah held out her hand to take it from him. “No way,” Joe said, tucking it deeply into the front pocket of his Levi’s.

  “I’ll throw them away. I promise.”

  “I’ll do it for you.”

  She let her breath out slowly and sat down again. “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

  “Should I feel confident? I find you up here with a bottle of pills in your hand!”