by Roger Bruner
Dad rang the Snellings’ doorbell. I stood there shivering and thinking.
“Scott, Kim, what a surprise.” Mr. Snelling ushered us into the living room, and Dad and I sat down without waiting to be invited. That was how it’s supposed to be at a friend’s house, wasn’t it?
“Where’s Michelle?” Dad said.
“Oh, she’s”—he shook his head—”uh, I don’t know.” He acted like he didn’t care, either, and that shocked me. I’d ask Dad about it later if I remembered to.
“I understand you’re feeling much better now, Kim,” Mr. Snelling said, his words ending in a huge smile. I’d never felt
comfortable calling him Josh, even though Jo had always called my parents by their first names. Behind their backs, anyhow. “I’m glad.”
The degree of warmth in his voice told me “I’m glad” meant “I couldn’t be happier.” As much as Michelle Snelling liked to talk and as much as she had to say, he—maybe I’d do an Aleesha and refer to him as Mr. Josh—had probably had lots of practice keeping his comments short.
He called Jo in from the kitchen, and the four of us enjoyed a few minutes of small talk.
“I’ve been helping Papa out at his insurance agency,” Jo said.
“Oh, yeah?” So that’s what you do in your spare time. And you didn’t think I’d be interested in knowing that?
“Two or three days a week. Sometimes more.”
Aleesha’s opinion of Jo would probably shoot up a couple of notches when she learned that. She thought Jo was lazy, and defending her was a struggle because I often felt the same way. I usually blamed her inactivity on her mama’s “smother love,” though. Mrs. Snelling was afraid something would happen to Jo if she went anywhere to do anything worthwhile. She never seemed to consider the possibility of that something being good—either for Jo or for someone else.
“It isn’t a real job, though. Papa would be glad to enlarge his agency to Snelling & Snelling when the time comes—”
“But I want Betsy Jo to do what God wants—and what will give her the greatest satisfaction.”
I wondered if Mrs. Snelling would be happier keeping Jo safely behind a desk—or maybe inside a safety deposit box—than letting her take chances by following God’s leading.
“Anyhow,” Jo continued, “I asked to help Papa so I can get my feet wet. You know? Even unpaid work experience looks good on a résumé when a girl has never held a job.”
That kept us talking for a while about how a young adult
can’t get a job without experience or experience without a job. When the conversation lulled, Dad reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the familiar two-sheet printout.
“Josh, I want you to hear something. This e-mail came from Rob White, Kim’s supervisor in Mexico. Settle back. It’s not short.”
The two men laughed, but Jo and I just looked at each other. What was so funny about that? Must have been a man thing.
“It’s worth hearing, though,” he added.
We’d told Jo last night not to say anything to her parents about this mission trip. She was to pray about it and let Dad deal with her parents.
I watched Mr. Josh’s face while Dad read the message aloud. I didn’t need to be a genius or a body language expert to see how much the idea excited him. He was grinning and nodding so enthusiastically by the time Dad reached the end that I half expected him to ask to go, too.
He didn’t say anything, but I could picture those clichéd wheels spinning off their axle. Dad allowed him another minute of silence.
“Josh, I want to take Jo—uh, Betsy Jo—with us during the holidays. We’ll be gone a couple of weeks, but she’ll be strictly supervised, and we’ll keep her safe.”
I hoped he would add, “No Mexican drug wars that far north of Sacramento” for Mrs. Snelling’s sake, but he didn’t.
“She should have gone to Mexico,” Mr. Josh said. “I told Michelle repeatedly that Betsy Jo would be safe, but she wouldn’t listen. She doesn’t … listen.”
If he was trying to hide his resentment toward his wife, he was doing a lousy job of it, to use a word I intensely dislike. Were he and Mrs. Snelling having marital problems? I’d never thought about whether they seemed happy together, yet I suddenly realized how blessed we were to have this
conversation in Michelle Snelling’s absence.
Dad remained silent. I think we both knew Mr. Josh had left some important things unsaid. Things he probably needed to talk about with someone.
I looked at Jo, and she wore a more miserable hangdog look than I’d ever seen before. Which was she more worried about—her papa’s feelings about the trip or her parents’ marriage?
“Betsy Jo …” He looked at his daughter. “Jo? I like that.” She smiled. “Do you want to go on this project?” From his tone of voice, I could tell he just wanted to hear her say it.
She threw her arms around him and kissed him. I was almost in tears.
“We’ll pay her way,” Dad said.
“Thanks, Scott, but no. We’ll pay. That won’t make up for keeping her from going to Mexico, but it’ll make me feel better.”
“You’re sure?” Dad knew the Snellings weren’t poor, but they weren’t as relatively well-off as we were. Especially now that we had an unspecified amount of life insurance money in the bank, somewhere in the mid–six figures if my guess was anywhere close to right.
Mr. Josh laughed. “That Rob White … when he refunded Jo’s money, he sent her a little note. ‘Hope you can use this on a safe mission trip, Betsy Jo. I’m looking forward to meeting you then.’”
I started to say something, but Jo and I looked at each other and broke out crying. If Aleesha had been with us, she would have been bawling the hardest. That note was so Rob. It’s no wonder he’d become my second father at a time I wasn’t at all close to Dad.
Dad kept opening and closing his mouth. He narrowed his left eye as if puzzling over something. What are you so hesitant to say?
“Josh …” Go on, Dad. “What about Michelle?”
Jo and I stopped blubbering. I don’t know about her, but I think I stopped breathing.
“She doesn’t get a say in this. She’s already said too much—for too long.”
Dad’s eyes opened wide. I wouldn’t have known how to respond, either.
“Jo,” Mr. Snelling said with a smile on his lips but sadness in his eyes, “here’s the way I see it. You’re eighteen. You’re free to go wherever you want whenever you want. You don’t legally need your mother’s approval or mine.”
Why did that statement sound so bittersweet?
chapter twenty-one
Act 2
Being away from home felt wonderful. Intoxicating. The way I assumed intoxication made a person feel, anyhow. I’d never touched alcohol and didn’t plan to start anytime in the next eighty years. Life was crazy enough without it.
Although my plane seat didn’t compete with the comfort of our living room sofa, I had an advantage over my co-travelers. Far shorter than even the shortest of them, I invited Dad and Aleesha to stretch out and use some of my unneeded foot space. Unfortunately for Jo, she sat across the aisle from Dad, where my free space wouldn’t help her.
Even though I’d closed my eyes, I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about A Tale of Two Cities again. It had made a profound impact on me in the tenth grade. What teenaged girl in her right mind wouldn’t be moved to tears by that “It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done” ending when Sydney Carton chooses to die in Charles Darnay’s place?
The idea may have sounded Christlike, but it wasn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. Jesus lived a sinless life, but Sydney Carton hadn’t even lived a good one.
I’d been planning to reread that book when I got around to it. But now that I was sufficiently alert to start an intensive study of Spanish, I’d have to put Dickens on hold awhile longer. Maybe I could get a copy in Spanish when I became fluent enough.
Some parts of the st
ory came back clearly. One in particular. Even though the authorities released Dr. Manette from the Bastille—physically—the severe emotional problem that resulted
from his traumatic imprisonment held him an even more horrendous kind of prisoner for a long time after that.
Would this trip to California free me from my guilt problem—or just make me forget about it for a while?
“Kim, wake up,” Aleesha said. Her whisper was far gentler than the way she was manhandling my newly recovered arm and so quiet I could barely hear her over the roar of the plane.
“Huh? What?” I mumbled, only to find Aleesha’s hand over my mouth. Quadruple that Huh? What?
“Hush, girl. You don’t want your father to hear.”
No! I’d drifted off and had a nightmare … while sitting between Dad and Aleesha on the flight to Sacramento.
“Mr. Scott has headphones on, so he probably didn’t hear you. I didn’t think you would want him to know.”
She was so right. As concerned as Dad was about my ability to make this trip—he’d kept asking how I felt up till boarding time—he might send me home again as soon as we landed if he found out I’d had another nightmare.
Lord, nightmares are bad enough, but please don’t let my guilt feelings result in severe fatigue again. Not until after this project, anyhow.
That would be worse than the broken arm, although I didn’t doubt that God could still use me. Somehow.
“Same one you had months ago?” Aleesha said. Although she was still whispering, her eyes were tense with worry.
Quick glance. Dad appeared to be sound asleep.
“Not exactly,” I whispered back. “A continuation of it.”
Aleesha narrowed her eyes.
“They threw me in jail after convicting me of involuntary manslaughter. A group of rough-looking inmates asked what I was in for. When I told them, ‘Murdering my mother,’ they dropped back with terror on their faces and anger in their eyes.
“Questions flew at me from everywhere. ‘Was she mean?’ ‘Did she take away your beef jerky?’ ‘Did she make you wear clothes that were far out-of-style?’ ‘Did she ask you to do the dishes?’
“‘None of those things,’ I told them. ‘She was the most wonderful mom in the world, and I miss her terribly.’
“I explained the circumstances surrounding her death. The more I said, the harsher and meaner their looks grew. They were obviously planning to gang up on me and give me what I deserved. I didn’t know what that would be—not specifically—but it would be horrendous. Somehow, I knew it would involve my hair. And its color.
“Then I heard a still, small voice say, ‘Kim, this is how I punish foolish young adults who disobey my “Thou shalt not kill” and “Honor your father and your mother” commandments. Especially when they do both at the same time.’
“They grabbed my cell phone—I’d made the mistake of telling them about the voice mail recording of the accident from the original nightmare—and handed it to a guard. I don’t know what they said to him, but before I could blink back the tears, the sounds of the accident began playing over the public address system. At top volume.
“Over and over again. Throughout the night. If I dropped off to sleep, my big bruiser of a cell mate woke me up and said, ‘Hartlinger, here’s something you need to hear … ‘“
Just telling Aleesha about the nightmare wore me out. Was this a sign of my fatigue coming back?
Please, Lord, no!
Aleesha suddenly put her finger against my lips and nodded ever so slightly toward Dad. Although his eyes were still closed, the headphones dangled from his neck and his head inclined a bit more in my direction than before. He might as well have been wearing a sign that said, “I’m awake and
trying to listen without being obvious. “
Have you heard anything yet? If so, how much?
The part about listening repeatedly to the recording of the accident would have been bad enough, but if he heard about me confessing my crime to the other inmates, he’d discover my real problem. I broke out in a cold sweat at the very thought of him blaming me and treating me the way I deserved.
What would he say if I asked, “Daddy, how much did you hear?”
He might pretend he hadn’t heard anything. But if we turned around and headed home again as soon as we landed in Sacramento, I’d know he heard too much.
“Aleesha,” I said in what I hoped was my normal tone of voice, “I wonder if we’ll meet any inmates while working on this project.” I didn’t wait for a response. “I hope so. I want to share my testimony with some of them.”
“You and your desire to evangelize …” Although Aleesha shook her head playfully, she wore a major smile. She cared as much about people’s souls as I did. And about them living the best possible earthly life, too.
“It’s important,” I said. “I want my life to touch other people in a positive way.”
“To be Jesus to them—His hands and His feet? Like in that song the team sang in Santa María?”
“Exactly. If the opportunity arises, nothing’s going to stop me from witnessing.”
“Amen,” Dad said. “That sounds like a plan.”
He hadn’t said that in a “You’re going home, baby girl” tone of voice. So I quit worrying about what he might have overheard.
I stayed awake for the rest of the flight. Dwelling on my nightmare. Drowning in guilt. Dreading Dad’s finding out. Thoughts like those were enough to keep me wide-eyed awake.
Good thing. I wouldn’t have dared to dream again before we got to California.
Dad might have heard more the next time.
chapter twenty-two
Dad, Jo, and Aleesha waited near the carousel for our luggage to come around, and I went looking for Rob. Although we spotted each other almost immediately at opposite ends of the baggage claim area—he was wearing the same plaid shirt I’d first seen him in—working our way through the crowd took forever. From the way he hugged me, observers probably assumed we were a grandfather and granddaughter who hadn’t seen one another in years. The problems I’d been experiencing made our four-month separation seem an eternity.
“How many suitcases today, Kimmy?” he asked with a wicked-looking grin.
Lord, please don’t let the other team members start calling me Kimmy while I’m here.
“I only brought one tractor trailer with me,” he said with a laugh. “But that one is towing a second trailer. Will that be big enough for all of your luggage?”
I pretended to count suitcases on the fingers of both hands. “Maybe.” I grinned. “Sure. I’ll have you know I only brought one suitcase this time, and it’s small and light. I have construction clothes and little else.” “What? No trunk full of makeup?”
“If you look more closely, you’ll notice I’m wearing only a small amount of makeup. And I’ll have you know it fits nicely in my purse, thank you very much.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. Four weeks earlier, I wouldn’t have felt up to this kind of give-and-take.
“Did you bring any pebbles to bed down on and to drop on the sidewalk when you want to go skating?” Aleesha! You told him about that?
And to think teasing had once been the last thing on Rob’s mind. He would probably have preferred to shoot and skin me at orientation. Truth be known, our relationship couldn’t have gotten off to a much rockier start. But God didn’t let things stay that way.
“You bring a sleeping bag this time?”
“Your e-mail said to, didn’t it? I read that message as soon as it came and followed your instructions to the letter.” I started digging in my purse. “Want to see my checklist?”
He shook his head, and I blew a raspberry at him.
He held his chest, pretending to have a heart attack. My failure to see—much less to read—several crucial messages before leaving for Mexico had created a world of unnecessary problems. I couldn’t blame him for not letting me live it down—in a good-natured way, thank goodness
.
“So where are we sleeping this time, Rob? And where’s the rest of the group? How many of us will be working on this project?”
“You’ll be staying …” He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Aleesha, and the two of them hugged like long-lost family.
“Mr. White …” Dad said as he shifted a suitcase from his right hand to his left.
“You must be Mr. Hartlinger,” Rob said, extending his hand to Dad.
“Scott, please. Mr. Hartlinger was my father.”
“Rob, if you don’t mind addressing an older fellow by his first name.” Rob was maybe fifteen or twenty years older than Dad.
The two men laughed politely, and we girls rolled our eyes in amusement.
I’ll never understand why two men meeting for the first time have to act so formal, but that seems to be typical. In my book, having to ask the other fellow to lighten up is just plain weird.
No sooner did Rob look at Jo than his eyes lit up.
“And you must be Betsy Jo. I’m Rob.” His face bore that confused look of someone who doesn’t know whether to shake hands or hug someone. “Oh, fiddle. You remind me of my daughter when she was your age.”
With that, he gathered her into his arms in a grandfatherly way. Although she looked a little flustered at first, she didn’t protest. By the time he released her, her uncertainty had morphed into a major smile.
“Rob, you can call me Jo.”
“Jo? Kimmy never referred to you as anything but Betsy Jo, but I’m not too old to break the habit—eventually, that is.”
Dad’s face wrinkled as he mouthed, “Kimmy?” I caught his attention and rolled my eyes. When he and I were alone, I’d explain that Rob had given me that nickname in Mexico and I hadn’t had the heart to object. Back then, I was a lot closer to Rob than to Dad.
“Are you folks ready to roll? Anybody need to visit the little construction workers’ room while we’re still in civilization?”
In civilization? Surely this work site wasn’t as remote as Santa María.
The four of us shook our heads. We’d already taken care of business.
