Lost in Dreams

by Roger Bruner

  After my phone sat around unused for two weeks in an area so remote it couldn’t find the time or a roaming signal, I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the hot sun had baked its fragile little insides. Hmm. But I wouldn’t have reached Mom’s voice mail greeting if that had happened.

  If I tried calling Dad, I could ask if he’d heard from Mom, but I didn’t know what time his meeting was, and I didn’t want to chance interrupting it. He was always too preoccupied to think of turning his phone off or setting it on vibrate. No need for me to make Dr. Cutshaw aware of that shortcoming.

  I grinned at myself. I was learning to be more thoughtful. That was part of the new me. I’d have to tell Dad I’d purposely avoided calling him, even though I hoped he’d notice other aspects of my maturing without my having to wave a flag in front of his face.

  From the windows facing Passenger Pickup, I didn’t see any sign of Mom’s Honda Civic. The rain was so heavy I could barely see the street. Although I’d overheard a couple of people talking about a thunderstorm, I hadn’t heard any rumbles. A heavy-duty building like the terminal must do a great job of keeping the outside noises outside.

  I guess the storm slowed you down, huh, Mom? I’m glad you’re being extra cautious in this horrible weather.

  She always allowed extra time for the unexpected, though. Still, the drive from home took an hour-and-a-half to two hours at best. Anything could have delayed her. Accidents—weather like this was apt to result in a number of fender-benders—sometimes blocked the interstate for hours.

  I didn’t leave a message the first three times I called. Hadn’t Mom told me a million times that retrieving voice mail while driving was almost as dangerous as texting? But when my fourth call went to voice mail, I started talking at the sound of the beep.

  “Mom, it’s Kim. I thought I’d say that in case you’ve forgotten what my voice sounds like, even though I just talked to you this morning. I’m waiting just inside the baggage claim area. Let me know when to come outside. Be careful in this rain. I love you, Mom.”

  By then, I was so tired of standing—or maybe just tired period—that I set several of my nearly empty suitcases on the floor and angled my cart so I could climb on top and face the window. Maybe that wasn’t the most dignified thing I’d ever done, but who cared?

  People sometimes called me Miss Priss or Miss Prep, but they never accused me of being dignified.

  The rain had let up some, but every car in sight still had headlights on. I leaned forward and pressed my nose and forehead against the glass. It felt pleasantly cool, even though the outside air would be hot and muggy. After all, this was Atlanta in early August.

  I closed my eyes for a minute.

  I hadn’t suffered jetlag flying to San Diego, but flying west to east … Aleesha had told me that would be bad. As usual, she’d been right.

  I don’t know how long I’d been dozing in that awkward position, but I was barely awake when my phone started playing “Amazing Grace.” Mom. That was her favorite hymn, so I’d made it her ringtone.

  “Mom?” I said as I tried situating the phone against my ear. “I’m so glad to hear from you. I was starting to wonder. Where are you?”

  “Kim?” a male voice said. “Kim Hartlinger?”

  chapter three

  The sound of a man’s voice coming from my mom’s cell phone number wouldn’t normally make me fall off a luggage cart. No matter how responsible and conscientious Mom was in every other way, she was a complete failure when it came to keeping up with her cell phone. She’d been lucky so far. Uh, blessed.

  She hated the word lucky as much as I did. We agreed that Christians shouldn’t believe in luck. And God had blessed each of her phone losses with an honest finder who called to let her know it was in safe hands. I knew that from firsthand experience.

  Because I always had my phone on me and didn’t ignore her calls the way Dad did—he spent hours at a time in another world, one where he wasn’t apt to notice his phone ringing—Mom finally broke down and entered my number in her phone book as her primary emergency number. Her ICE—In Case of Emergency. Besides, she knew I wouldn’t tease her about losing her phone … again and again and again.

  But I fell off the luggage cart this time. Sort of.

  While answering my phone, I started climbing down. But I didn’t realize my weird position had cut off the circulation to my feet and legs, leaving them too numb to support me. In fact, I didn’t discover it until I crumpled to the floor and saw my phone go flying. My thinly padded bottom would probably be more than just sore after landing on it so hard twice in one day.

  “I’m sorry,” I said while scooping the phone up and putting it to my ear again. I was surprised it was still working.

  “I dropped my phone.” No point in admitting I’d fallen and sent the phone sprawling. “What did you say?”

  “Are you Kim Hartlinger?” His voice sounded intense.

  Although sirens howled in the distant background, I didn’t pay much attention to them. After all, this was Atlanta. The big city. Something was always going on here.

  “Where did she leave it this time?” I sat on the floor pounding the feeling back into my feet.

  At least this call explained why she hadn’t answered my calls. She didn’t have her phone. But why was she so late? Had she wasted time she didn’t have trying to find it?

  “I beg your pardon?” The caller sounded confused. “This is Kim Hartlinger?”

  “Yes, sir, this is Kim. So you’ve found my mother’s cell phone? I asked you where she left it.”

  The man didn’t answer for a moment. The sirens sounded closer now. I wondered if he was on the way to an emergency.

  “In her car. She was apparently holding it when …”

  chapter four

  How the …? I swallowed the curse word. I felt guilty for even thinking it. But how was I supposed to find the interfaith chapel when the tears ran off my face like the Mississippi River overflowing its banks at flood time? A policewoman was supposed to meet me at the chapel. She would give me details …

  Details about the accident. About Mom’s condition. She would tell me if … I couldn’t let myself think it.

  Some guy emptying garbage cans had given me easy-to-follow directions to the chapel. At least they’d sounded easy, but I couldn’t see well enough to walk. Tears clouded my vision and limited my visibility to probably less than 5 percent.

  God must have been guiding my feet, though. I managed to ease my way from the middle of the busy walkway to an out-of-the-way spot without running into anyone. As soon as I felt the wall’s coolish tiles, I pulled a packet of Kleenex tissues out of my purse. Neil had given them to me that morning while translating Rosa’s letter. Had God told him I would need them again this soon?

  The officer on the phone had sounded kind. Gentle. Concerned. But he hadn’t wasted time getting to the bottom line. Mom had been in an accident. It was serious. Life-threatening. She was on her way to the hospital. He refused to speculate about her condition, but he was obviously afraid she might not—no! I won’t let myself consider that.

  I tried not to think about the other thing he’d told me. “She was apparently using her cell phone at the time of the accident.”

  Why had she been using her phone while driving? And in such horrible weather at that. The very thought of it freaked me out.

  “She wasn’t trying to answer one of my calls or listen to my voice mail, was she?” I asked myself repeatedly while dabbing my eyes with tissue after tissue. Surely not. Not as much as she preached against cell phone use while driving.

  She knew better.

  I used up the rest of the tissues before resorting to the sleeve of the red sweatshirt I’d bought just hours ago at San Diego International. I’d smiled to myself when I first spotted it. It was pizza sauce red, although I couldn’t tell what brand.

  But I wasn’t smiling now, and “just hours ago” seemed like a lifetime. I’d talked to Mom before
I left San Diego. She was so looking forward to seeing me … to hearing all about my trip. Now I didn’t even know if she was … still alive. The world wasn’t big enough to contain all the tissues I’d need if she wasn’t.

  And nothing could keep my stomach from churning mercilessly each time I asked myself, Is it possible I’m responsible for Mom’s accident?

  I barely noticed people staring at me. Most of them rushed on by the way people do in an airport. One lady stopped and came closer, though. She looked concerned … like she really wanted to help.

  But her Vietnamese features—especially her hair and face—were so similar to Mom’s that I had to turn and face the wall. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t deal with someone who reminded me that much of Mom.

  It was like confronting a ghost. Had God sent this woman as a sign that Mom was dead? Or that she wasn’t?

  Those dark eyes undoubtedly reflected the ton of kindness and understanding she felt for an older teen who was

  bawling her eyes out against the tiled wall of a busy airport, but I could only see my mother’s face, criticizing me for my thoughtlessness.

  Why had I kept calling Mom after discovering the weather was so bad? Why had I insisted on leaving voice mail? Why hadn’t I simply waited for her to arrive—no matter how late?

  Deep inside, I wanted to verbalize a prayer, but when I closed my eyes, I knew the Holy Spirit would have to accept the uncontrollable moaning that meant, Heavenly Daddy, make Mom be okay. Don’t let her …

  I couldn’t say it. Not even in prayer. I couldn’t face the possibility that Mom was … gone.

  The Vietnamese woman spent several minutes patting my shoulder lightly. Every once in a while, she spoke words I might have recognized if I’d let Mom teach me her heart language. If Mom … survived, I’d beg her for lessons. I hoped it wasn’t too late to learn more about the Asian half of my heritage.

  Before my Good Samaritan moved on, she reached in her purse and took out a purple handkerchief. It looked clean and had a freshly ironed smell. I tried to smile when she gently pried open the fingers of my left hand, placed the handkerchief in my palm, and closed my fingers around it.

  I couldn’t smile, though, and I hated my inability to explain why. I hoped she understood that I didn’t always act this ungrateful.

  When I opened my hand and looked at the handkerchief, I found a tiny wooden cross inside. An angel had attempted to minister to me, and I’d rejected her. At least I felt like I had.

  I stared at the wall through tear-bleary eyes. I felt like beating my fists against its hard, unforgiving surface, but that wouldn’t help me find the chapel.

  “Kim? Kim Hartlinger?”

  The voice sounded familiar. I turned around to face a stylish black woman in her early thirties. She wore a smart-looking Skyfly Airlines uniform and a photo ID. I stared hard through my tears.

  Mirages only appear in the desert. They never happen in airports, do they?

  chapter five

  Mrs. Adams?” I didn’t try to hide my amazement … my disbelief. “Penny?” A miracle like this would have been beyond my ability to hope or pray for. Who but my precious Heavenly Father would do such a thing on my behalf simply because He loved me and knew how badly I needed help?

  “Kim,” Penny said as she opened her arms for a hug. I probably shocked her by burying my face in her shoulder and breaking out in fresh tears. She’d seen me frantic before, but not this far out of control.

  I wouldn’t have made it to San Diego in time to join the team a couple of weeks before if she hadn’t exerted her authority as a Skyfly supervisor to get me on an early-enough flight out of Dallas/Fort Worth after I missed my scheduled flight.

  Penny’s unexpected appearance today relieved my concerns so much I didn’t think to ask why she was in Atlanta. I just cared that she was with me. As a Christian, she’d undoubtedly go out of her way to help me again. Especially now that she realized I was major-league upset.

  I lifted my head from her shoulder and tried to speak, but I couldn’t get any further than “I …” for crying.

  Her face revealed the same kind of compassion I pictured Jesus showing the sick people who came to him for healing.

  “What’s wrong, Kim?” Her concern was real. Her voice revealed a genuine desire to help.

  I dried my eyes with the purple handkerchief and blew my nose before answering. “An auto accident. My mom. Just a

  little while ago. She may not …”

  Her smooth face wrinkled, and her eyes narrowed and clouded with mist. “I am so sorry.” She pulled me into her arms once more. The warmth of her hands on my back—the tender strength—reminded me of the hugs my mother … used to give me. “I’m here for you, baby.”

  Although I was preoccupied with worry and the beginnings of guilt—were those two of the “pebbles” Aleesha had cautioned me about or perhaps the whole bagful?—I would never stop thanking God for Penny’s undivided attention. What a blessing to have the assurance that she had moved me to the top of her priority list.

  “You need help.” A statement, not a question. I didn’t respond. “What can I do first, Kim?”

  “The chapel,” I managed to say between sniffles. “Must get to the chapel. Somebody … policewoman … meeting me there. Will tell me … if—”

  “Whoa, Kim,” she said as she caught me and guided me to a nearby seat.

  “You’re too wobbly to walk. I’m getting you some transportation.”

  I nodded. At least I assume I did.

  Before I knew it, she was talking into her portable phone … and her words were coming out over the public address system. “I need a wheelchair at the Skyfly counter.” She gave me a quick once-over. “Make that a wheelchair, a bottle of cold water, a wet washcloth, and a box of tissues at Skyfly. Please hurry.”

  She repeated her announcement before turning to me again.

  “Where are your suitcases, Kim?”

  I shrugged. For all I knew, they were still in or near the cart. But where that was, I couldn’t say. I wasn’t sure where I was. “Don’t worry. We’ll find them.”

  “They’re almost empty this time. No bricks.” That’s what

  Millie Q had accused me of carrying to San Diego. Under different circumstances, I probably would have laughed. But these circumstances were the wrong kind of different.

  Before I knew what was happening, Penny was wheeling me through the airport and talking on the phone with airport security. “How many suitcases?”

  I held up four fingers, and she relayed that information to the security people.

  “Tan?”

  I nodded.

  “Two large, two extra-large?” I nodded again.

  Although Penny was careful not to run into anyone, she didn’t waste any time rushing me to the chapel. If I’d been in better spirits, I might have teased her about whether she intended to have a second career as a female NASCAR driver.

  After wiping my face and blowing my nose, I reclined my head slightly and draped the white cloth over my eyes. Although it felt pleasantly cool, I was more concerned about not having to watch people staring back at me as we made our way through the airport. Before long, I quit caring.

  Stress can make a girl aware of the strangest things. One of the wheels on my wheelchair suffered from a significant nick. Or maybe a long-dried-on lump of gum. Either way, I seemed to be riding on a highway that needed repair. Bumpety-smooth-bumpety-bumpety. Bumpety-smooth-bumpety-smooth.

  When Penny stopped, I uncovered my face and wiped my eyes. Even so, they couldn’t have burned much worse if some sadist had poured a ton of salt in them. So I wiped them again while she opened the chapel door. Holding it open with one foot, she wheeled me inside.

  The only other person in the small chapel was a middle-aged

  woman—mid- to late-thirties. Her police uniform didn’t flatter her figure. She—who did the policeman who called from Mom’s phone say would be meeting me? Officer Dawson?—stood up and tu
rned around.

  She took forever coming to greet us. I wouldn’t have been in a rush to tell me her news, either. Once I saw her close-up, the tension in her face scared the daylights out of me.

  “Miss Hartlinger … Kim.” Looking into my eyes, she took my hand without shaking it. I looked at my feet. “I’m Officer Ellen Dawson.”

  I didn’t make any effort to acknowledge her greeting, but looked up again with fresh tears already clouding my vision. She was still holding my hand—ever so gently—the way Mom … would have done.

  Like when she knew something I didn’t know. Something she didn’t want to tell me. Something that would upset me to hear.

  “No! Mom can’t be …”

  Officer Dawson glanced over my shoulder at Penny, who had begun massaging my shoulders. Tears were forming in the policewoman’s eyes, and I heard Penny sniffling behind me.

  She quit rubbing my shoulders and took a firm hold. As if she needed to hold me in place to keep me from falling apart.

  “I’ve called your father,” Officer Dawson said. Duty must have required her to get back to business, no matter how unpleasant. “Mrs.”—she strained to read Penny’s ID—”Mrs. Adams, can you take care of Kim while Mr. Hartlinger goes to the hospital to identify …?”

  I screamed as if my heart was full of demons, and the chapel echoed with sounds I’d never known I was capable of making.

  chapter six

  I hadn’t been inside a funeral home since my grandmother died, and I could barely remember that time. Even though her estate helped fund my mission trip to Santa María, she and I had never been close. Truth is, I didn’t know her well enough to love or miss her.

  Dad never told me how he felt about his mother’s death, and I never saw him cry. Not even at the funeral. I might not have known much about grief, but that “stiff upper lip” attitude struck me as odd.

  Perhaps even cold. But my dad could be that way at times. Everything was different this time, though. The deceased was Dad’s wife and my mother, and I’d never seen him look so dragged out and pathetic. His weak, haggard appearance was not just heartrending, but downright scary.