Lost in Dreams

by Roger Bruner

  “TMI,” I said, cackling at the enjoyment my normally prim and proper father had demonstrated in telling this tale. “Too much information. I get the idea. But it’s weird that the only other vegetation on top is tall grass.”

  “You’ve got me on that one.”

  We explored the top and looked out in every direction. The climb might have exhausted me—it had been steeper in some places than in others—and I was afraid those blisters on my feet weren’t imaginary, but I was so glad Dad talked me into coming. I never lost my sense of awe at the view, and I’d probably already filled up half of my four-gig SD card taking pictures.

  “I wonder if we’ll run into Jo today,” I said.

  “Hmm. Maybe, but what I wanted to say is for your ears only. For now, anyhow. Guess I’d better go ahead and tell you before Jo shows up.”

  Dad pointed to the ground as if offering me a cushioned seat. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d abused my back and legs so much, but I’d definitely earned the right to yelp at touchdown on the hard ground. I couldn’t imagine being able to move the next day. Or to stand up again today, for that matter.

  I unfastened my shoes and took off my socks. Sure enough, I had silver dollar–sized blisters on the soles of both feet. The kind that squish miserably when walked on.

  Dad sat down beside me and smiled. He looked at my blisters and shook his head sympathetically. “You’d better take it easy on those feet, baby girl.”

  Did I have a choice about using them to get back down? I might have been petite, but I was too big for a piggyback ride.

  “I’ll bet you’ve been wondering about my reaction to your mother’s death.” I couldn’t imagine the shocked look on my face. “I’m more observant than you think.”

  “Dad …?”

  Are you telling me that you’ve known how curious—no, how concerned—I’ve been? No wonder you didn’t want Jo around now while we have this talk.

  “I’ve struggled with guilt every day since your mother died. I should have been with her when she drove to the airport to pick you up.” He sighed. “I wanted to be there to meet you, too.”

  “But you were in a meeting with the president of the university …”

  “Yes, and that meeting was quite important.” I nodded my encouragement. “One of the most important meetings I’ve ever attended.” He yanked a blade of grass—it was so tall he didn’t have to stoop to do it—and started wrapping it around his index finger and then unwrapping it again. Over and over. Like he was winding and unwinding his thoughts.

  What are you so nervous about telling me? Come on, Dad. Just spit it out. I considered myself one of those rare young women who preferred to start at the bottom line of a story and then work backward. I liked to fill in relevant details that way rather than move step by torturously slow step from the beginning to the conclusion. I hated keeping my listeners in suspense. Or leaving them in boredom.

  A lone blast of cold air gusted out of nowhere in particular as if God was saying, “Listen to him. “

  “Kim, I told Dr. Cutshaw I planned to resign from the university …”

  “What?” My mouth dropped open. Dad had been in a tenured position longer than I’d been alive. An educational professional didn’t give tenure up on a whim.

  “How would you feel about having your middle-aged father attend seminary and prepare for the ministry or some other full-time Christian vocation?”

  chapter fifty-three

  Meanwhile, back at the hostel …

  Where is everyone? I asked myself as I looked around the room. Kim’s sleeping bag was empty. So was Aleesha’s. I went out in the hall. Graham’s bedroom door was closed. He wouldn’t still be asleep—not this many hours past sunrise—so maybe he was reading. Or perhaps he’d gone mountain climbing. The day looked perfect for an outdoor activity.

  I wandered into the kitchen, my stomach growling loudly enough to echo throughout the apartment. It seemed like it, anyhow.

  Nobody there, either. Maybe Kim and Scott had changed their minds and gone with Rob to Larry Jenkins’ church. And—thank goodness—still no sign of Aleesha. I’d been hoping for that. Counting on it.

  I checked Aleesha’s place at the dining room table. Sure enough, the directions I’d addressed to her were gone. Since she’d said something last night about getting off to an early start today, she was probably well on the way up Tabletop Mountain. Trying to follow my bogus directions and going farther astray with every step, that was. By the time she realized how hopelessly lost she was, she’d be so terrified that she couldn’t help shedding some of that know-it-all self-assurance that fooled everyone else into thinking she was the cleverest person on the face of the earth.

  I’d show everybody that I was the clever one by following some duplicate directions and rescuing her. Maybe I should

  leave her out there all night first. How angry would Mr. Scott be if Aleesha made the group miss their flight by going out by herself like that and getting stupidly lost?

  I’d be the hero. And Aleesha would show her true colors—no racial prejudice intended—as a foolish, sniveling victim. She would have to show me plenty of respect after that. That’s all I wanted. Aleesha’s respect—at the cost of her ego.

  The outside door opened and closed. “Yo, Graham,” I said. “You’re not out mountain climbing today?”

  “Too cold.”

  “Too cold to go outside and watch the sunrise?” His habit of doing that tickled the life out of me. I—on the other hand—hadn’t risen to watch the sunrise a single day that week. A little extra sleep was more important.

  “Not that cold. Never that cold.”

  Even though Graham had apparently felt comfortable asking me for help that one time, we hadn’t grown any closer. Maybe if Rob had let me help him. Oh, well. Too late now.

  I liked the old fellow okay, but I hated trying to talk with him. Those short, choppy sentences—rarely complete ones at that—made communication tedious at best. Interpreting them required too much guesswork. He didn’t seem very willing to open up, either, and I detested having unfulfilled curiosity.

  “Have quiche. Heat up.”

  I didn’t wait to hear that suggestion a second time. Using a red plastic pie server, I slid a good-sized hunk onto a paper plate and licked the utensil. Mmm. But before I could finish yanking a paper towel off the roll to put over my food in the microwave, Graham handed me a round plastic cover.

  “Use this. Lasts forever. Saves trees.”

  I decided not to argue that plastic was an oil-based product and needed protecting more than a replaceable tree. After all, he’d been right about the microwave cover being reusable and

  lasting forever. The pie server was the same, too.

  “So Kim and Mr. Scott went to church with Rob after all …” As certain as I was of that, I didn’t bother putting a question mark at the end of my sentence.

  “No.”

  “They didn’t?” I suppose I sounded surprised, but not incredulous.

  “Not church.”

  Graham, do I have to tickle this information out of you? I shook my head. “So where are they?” “Climb. Tabletop. “

  My growling stomach had been loud, but it was nothing compared to the volume of my response. “They what …?”

  Graham’s bedroom door flew open, and Aleesha came bounding out, a thick book in one hand. “What’s wrong, Jo?”

  I purposely gave Aleesha what would have been one of those over-the-glasses stares if I’d been wearing glasses. “I thought you went mountain climbing.”

  “Changed my mind. I needed to do some reading.” She waved a dictionary-sized book at me. “So what were you screaming about? A mouse run across your toes?”

  I ignored the sarcasm. “But you can’t be here.” If I was starting to whine, I didn’t care. “The directions on the table … the ones for climbing Tabletop Mountain … the ones addressed to you … they’re gone.”

  “Yeah, sure, of course they are. When I
changed my mind about going, I gave them to Kim. She and Mr. Scott were going to use them. They left, uh …” Aleesha glanced at her first edition Mickey Mouse watch. “They left here nearly two hours ago.”

  My first yell might have been loud, but it was nothing compared to my second one. If any furry little critters lived close by, my bellow surely sent them scurrying from the hostel and scampering up the mountain as fast as their little legs could carry them.

  “They used those directions?” In my uncontrollable frenzy, I almost broke out crying. “No! Everything’s messed up. You were supposed to … Never mind. Come on. We’ve got to find them.”

  I grabbed Aleesha’s hand and pulled her toward the door.

  chapter fifty-four

  The downward trek from the top of Tabletop Mountain wasn’t terrible, but it was just as steep as the trip up had been. Dad summed it up as only a quick-witted English professor can. “Although falling down a mountain is faster and easier than climbing one, the survival rate isn’t nearly as good.”

  We chatted more on our descent than we had on the way up. I wasn’t nearly as out of breath. Anxious—or eager—to hear more about Dad’s plans, I was happy to stay quiet and do most of the listening.

  His story came in bits and pieces.

  “I’d been wrestling with God about this call to the ministry for a number of months. It’s not that I opposed the idea, you understand, but it seemed like such an impractical undertaking at this stage of my life …

  “Even though I hadn’t heard about your activities in Mexico yet, your willingness to go helped me understand my own call more clearly. Especially when you didn’t run home crying after breaking your arm. That really made me stop and think …

  “Your mom was as supportive as any woman could have been and more so than most. I miss her more than you’ll ever know. No one—man or woman—could have given me the prayerful guidance she did.”

  So I’d totally misinterpreted his happiness in the days and weeks following the accident. I couldn’t see his private grief. Or his guilt, even though Aleesha had told me about it. All I saw—and failed to recognize—was the peace, contentment,

  and especially the joy that came from saying yes to God and trusting Him to take care of the details. In spite of Mom’s death.

  We stopped walking for a few minutes. Both of us needed to cry. He’d just told me how happy Mom had been when he finally made the decision she’d been praying for. Only then did she tell him how many years she’d been praying that he might receive a call like this. Convinced that he was in the wrong place doing the wrong thing, she’d patiently waited for God to plant that seed in his heart rather than chance going against His will by suggesting it herself.

  Dad’s university had a theological seminary. “Is there any other kind?” I asked.

  “Private schools are sometimes called seminaries.”

  Oh.

  He’d hoped to get a master’s degree and maybe even a doctorate—he already had one in Medieval Literature—on an accelerated part-time basis. But that would have required him to take courses during some of his classroom hours. And that’s why he’d made the appointment with the president of the university.

  “God’s attention to details blew my mind,” he said. “Like during my meeting with Dr. Cutshaw …”

  “Scott,” Dr. Cutshaw said on the afternoon of Mom’s death, “your call to the ministry means you will eventually leave us. As much as I hate to see that happen, that choice isn’t really yours. “

  Dad didn’t respond. Not in a mood for someone to try talking him out of his prayerfully made decision, he was thankful Dr. Cutshaw understood.

  “Do you realize tenured professors can take classes here at no cost?”

  “That’s one reason I want to attend seminary here,” Dad told him.

  “Let’s make things a little easier for you,” Dr. Cutshaw said, jotting a few notes on a nearby legal pad. You don’t mind if I give your lower classes to a few of the instructors who need the experience, do you?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Don’t worry about the money, Scott.” He paused. “You’re long overdue for a sabbatical. Why don’t you take one next school year and work on your Masters of Divinity full-time? You can probably finish in six semesters including summer sessions. “

  He proposed that, Dad …? And I thought God had worked some major miracles in Santa María.

  We started our descent again. My squishy blisters were bugging the daylights out of me; my sweaty socks weren’t helping. “So Mom knew you’d made your decision. But did you get to tell her the great news from your meeting with Dr. Cutshaw?”

  Dad stopped. His face clouded over. Had we missed a landmark while we were busy talking? “I phoned her while she was coming to pick you up, but she didn’t answer. I ended up leaving the news in voice mail …”

  I could barely speak at first. “Dad, she was—” “I know. She was listening to voice mail when she lost control of the car. I—”

  “Dad!”

  “I know, Kim. I was responsible for your mother’s death. I really believed that. At first I felt guilty for not driving Terri to pick you up, but that was silly. Then I realized she wouldn’t have used her cell phone while driving if I hadn’t left a voice mail.”

  “But she would have.” I could barely hold my own emotions in check. “I left voice mail for her, too.”

  I felt as if I’d just begun to emerge from a long, steaming hot bath. Maybe I wasn’t sparkling clean yet, but at least I could tell Dad the whole truth now. That I didn’t feel guilty for not being able to save Mom—he’d just assumed that was my problem—but for killing her. I told him my nightmares again, but this time I filled in the details I’d purposely omitted before.

  Dad appeared to be somewhere off in space for a few seconds, but then he started chuckling. Softly and slowly at first. Then they built up speed and volume.

  I furrowed my brow and nearly started crying at his horribly inappropriate reaction. But what I really didn’t get … he looked relieved. Like Neil after confessing his failure to help me with Spanish in Santa María.

  “We’ve both felt guilty about the same thing, if I can describe it that way … when neither one of us was guilty.”

  “Neither one?” I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Or how positive he’d sounded. “How can you be so sure of that?”

  He laughed again, and I started to burn.

  “I don’t find this at all amusing.” I was starting to regret making a confession. “Give him a chance to explain,” God’s still, small voice prompted.

  “When I got Terri’s phone back from the police—they returned it just a few days before we left to come here—I got curious.” I could feel my eyes narrowing. “So I checked her voice mail.”

  Unable to look him in the eye, I watched his lips as he continued. “She’d already listened to both of our messages. I know that because she saved them. She was apparently dealing with somebody else’s message when she hit the slick spot on the road. That message distracted her, not yours or mine.”

  So many thoughts hurled through my mind I almost

  missed hearing Dad add, “Terri probably wasn’t even driving when she listened to our voice mail. The credit card bill showed a gasoline purchase a moment or two before the accident. I made a trip to that service station. The accident scene is about half a mile away. I’m convinced she listened to our messages at the gas station and was just starting to listen to the other person’s message when she pulled on to the interstate. It still showed as unread because she hadn’t done anything with it yet.”

  “Who was that message from?” I wasn’t sure I wanted him to tell me.

  “I don’t know. I deleted it without listening. I didn’t want to know whose message had contributed to Terri’s death. Not because we would have any right to blame that caller, but sometimes ignorance is blissful beyond description.”

  I couldn’t possibly describe my sense of relie
f. I almost giggled, though. The devil might have used technology to make us feel guilty, but God one-upped him by using the same technology to free us from our guilt.

  We resumed our downhill trek. My blisters had broken without my realizing it. Yes, the soles of my feet would be painful for a while, but that was better than having to keep walking on the squishies. Just as grief over Mom’s death would continue to hurt.

  But at least now I could live free from guilt.

  “Dad, I love you.”

  “I love you, too, baby girl.”

  “I can’t tell you how proud I am of you.”

  “For what?”

  “Just for being who you are—a wonderful husband, a fantastic dad.”

  “God gets the credit. He set a great example as Jesus’ Father.” “You know what? Mr. Jefferson—”

  “Aleesha’s dad?”

  “Uh-huh. Yes, sir, I mean. He says Christians sometimes go through a series of severe problems. Taken as a whole, they seem insurmountable. He calls it a Season of Pebbles.”

  I described my experience at San Diego International.

  “And you’ve been experiencing one of those Seasons, haven’t you? I can’t tell you how sorry I am. If I’d understood your guilt—what was really behind it—I would’ve told you about the voice mail as soon as I found out about it. Truth is, I was afraid it might make you feel worse.”

  As much as I felt like crying, I couldn’t do anything but sigh. I wouldn’t accomplish anything by complaining about needless suffering. Besides, it was my fault, not his. If I’d trusted him enough to admit my guilt, maybe he could have helped me even before discovering the truth about the messages. We could have helped each other. Everything—everything but the fact Mom died—would have been so different.

  “That’s okay, Dad. I’ve been learning to rely more completely on God and not let bad circumstances nibble away at my faith. Aleesha says unshakable faith enables us to ‘prance on pebbles’ instead of falling.”