James had introduced her to the idea of visualization as a means to change one’s life and attain certain goals. Walking now and breathing steadily, she chose to visualize each drop of sweat as her former denial seeping from her body. It all still seemed pretty hokey, but Johnnie forced herself to release the past and open her mind to all possibilities. Could she use her typical cynical and cautious thinking as discriminators while learning, but not allow them to be the road blocks they’d always been? The process was foreign, but she thought she actually felt tension leave her body. Was she imagining this?
Turning off the machine, she felt more peaceful and decided it really didn’t matter if she had just imagined it all, if it served her to close the gap between what she didn’t know and needed to know.
And she needed to know who she was, and if she had to find a new Johnnie Carter in the process, so be it.
____________________________________________________________________
Margie poured Byron’s coffee that morning. It was the first day since Marg Senior had passed away that they had down time. When her health initially declined, the late great lady saw the writing on the wall and had taken care of all of her funeral, burial and estate affairs in advance, therefore, few decisions had to be made upon her actual death. Her goal had been to reduce her daughter’s burden to the smallest degree possible and her plan had been very successful. It was hard to believe that less than a week since her passing, Marg Senior was memorialized, buried and everything she owned had passed to Margie. While there were a number of minor issues to take care of, none were pressing.
Byron studied his wife’s face as she sat next to him at the heavy kitchen table. He looked for signs of grief, fatigue or any emotion to which he should attend. It would be some time before he allowed himself to sleep at the wheel again when it came to his wife’s well-being. She felt his gaze and looked at him quizzically. It was almost a contradiction to see her husband’s typically affable face take on such an intensely serious look. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to pick up on her thoughts and it reminded her of the RCA dog in front of a phonograph in ancient advertisements. She slid his coffee across the table with a smile.
“Honey, I am okay…really. I miss Mom, but I am so much more at peace about her. You didn’t see her at the end and I’m glad of that. Believe me, even though I wish I was with her when she left, I’m glad she’s in a better place.” She touched his hand and looked into his eyes to drive her point home, “Any place would be a better place for her. Now, I only have one appointment today and I would love to get out of here for a while. What do we do? Are you going to call Ms. Carter again?”
Byron relaxed with Margie’s words and leaned back. He scratched his chin, then put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling to recalibrate his thoughts. Johnnie’s recorded words still stung when he recalled her direct response to his voice mail. Even after Jason’s warning, he had hoped for a much better start to their communication; of course, he couldn’t blame her for her suspicions. In fact, all things considered, he felt great compassion for what the young woman must be going through. But he wasn’t flying solo anymore and he dropped his arms to confer with his new partner.
“No, I haven’t called her. I don’t know what to say to gain her trust…she must have looked me up and just assumes I’m running her down as the Angel Tracker.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head, thoroughly disgusted with himself. Although it was his affiliation with the tabloid that ultimately led him to Johnnie Carter, he regretted the connection now because of the shadow it had clearly cast on his credibility. The young woman’s concerns were justified. What was worse, he didn’t really have a plausible explanation for his inquiries into her life; at least as a reporter, he had justification for his behavior. He looked at Margie helplessly.
“You heard her message. What can I say? I know I don’t mean any harm, but how do I get her to believe that? And why should she care about what I want? I don’t even know what’s happening with her right now, but my gut tells me that the stuff is still going on with or without her approval.” He picked up his cup and looked at Margie, eyebrows up and ready for her input.
“Why don’t you try the truth?”
Margie was never one to mince words. He had the utmost faith in her opinion, but the simplicity of her response suggested to his overactive interest that she underestimated the complexity of the situation. Before he could respond, however, she read his expression, and continued with a gently raised hand.
“Hold on, Tonto, let me finish before you tell me it’s not that simple.” He looked guiltily over the top of his mug. Damn this woman; she had him again. He said nothing since it would have been pointless and proof of her assumption. She went on thoughtfully.
“Look, I know this is all new to me, not just the investigative stuff, but the whole concept of what it’s about. But I’ve heard everything you’ve said this week and really looked at the things you showed me. And even though you know what you want to believe, I also trust your objectivity. So don’t assume I’m making this too simple.” Touche’, he thought. During the time she was so preoccupied with her mother, he’d forgotten how dead-on and intuitive his wife could be. Yes, Margie Hoffstedder was “back.”
“Go on.” He said, more open to her perspective than ever.
She crossed her arms and leaned on the table.
“If it is the way it appears, this young woman went from a transient childhood to the very controlled environment of the military and it looks like she really thrived in it. Then, from the sounds of it, that accident turned her life upside down and even though we only have part of the story, it’s probably safe to assume it has challenged her belief system and left her scrambling. And your young Jason, as helpful as he was, surely didn’t know everything. I guess what I’m trying to say is, she’s dealing in possibilities that are not part of what most people would understand or believe. I don’t think you should assume that you know what she would or wouldn’t believe. In fact, right now, she might be more responsive to something less conservative…things that would be less plausible to most people.” She was way outside of her typical way of thinking and flinched a bit.
“Am I making sense?” She asked, stirring her coffee nervously.
Byron stared at her, suddenly feeling like he was the amateur. She was brilliant.
“You make perfect sense, my Love.” He leapt up and planted a wet kiss on her nose, nearly knocking her coffee over in the process. “I’ll get my phone…don’t move a muscle. I want you to direct me.”
He returned moments later with his cell phone and one of his more seasoned Steno-pads. The two conspired, Margie expounding on her thoughts for Byron’s consideration as he jotted down a few key words and phrases. She helped him steer away from more overpowering references, such as how he’d been aware of Johnnie since childhood, suspecting that would scare her more than the tabloid possibilities. A very short time later, they quieted, nodding to each other in wordless agreement that it was time.
Byron nervously dialed the phone and was not sure if he was disappointed or relieved when the line went straight to voice mail. He mouthed to Margie that it was voice mail and she squeezed his arm supportively and gave him an encouraging nod. He smiled back as he cautiously began to speak, not reading verbatim from the notes, but glancing to ensure he hit the main points; he spoke quickly, aware he only had so many seconds to get the point across.
“Ms. Carter, this is Byron Hoffstedder again and I’m sorry we keep missing each other. I received your message and I am sorry, beyond words, to have caused you concern. While I worked for the Constellation, I am resigning soon and you can verify that with the publication. I am not really a journalist. I, uh, cannot honestly say why I am involved in your life, I seem to have just, well, tripped across information about your situation when you were a child and more recently. I wish I could tell you why, but I don’t know. I just believe this is all happening for a reason. My wife, Margaret
, is by my side, and we would love the chance to meet you and help you in any way. Please believe, we have no ulterior motives; we are retired teachers – we hope you, of all people, understand being in the midst of something you don’t understand. I will answer any questions you have, and I hope you will answer a few of mine. We anxiously await your response. Um. Thank you.”
He looked at Margie, breathless and shocked, not only that he’d not been cut off by the tone, but that the message completion tone sounded immediately when he finished. Marg had been spinning her finger for the last few seconds, indicating that he needed to “wrap up” the message before it cut him off.
They stared at each other in silence. They also hoped the message had been on point since, good or bad, it was now locked into Johnnie Carter’s private calling service. He figured the upside of having to leave a message was that she wasn’t able to hang up on him; the downside, of course, was that he’d have to wait for a response.
“Good job, Hon,” Margie finally said, raising her hand for a high five. He broke into a broad smile and lightly smacked her hand. They hadn’t truly collaborated on anything for years, and, Johnnie Carter aside, it felt great to be a team again. It would have been helpful if either was aware of what game, exactly, they were playing, but at least they were in it together.
She stood and picked up their cups for a refill, asking him what would come next as she walked to the coffee pot.
Still sitting, his heart rate slowing down from the rush of the call, he thought for only a second.
“Wei Liang only lives ten minutes from here. I’ll bet he’d be open to a friendly visit from his son’s old teacher, what do you think?”
She would have probably agreed to a root canal just to get out of the house. But a visit to the President’s father? Well, she thought that was just fine.
__________________________________________________________________
Johnnie had turned her phone off the night before to charge it, but also because she had no reason to expect a call; James and Sandy had already arranged the transport and arrival of her two companions. After showering, she noticed the phone in her room and figured she should turn it on in case Sandy called today, or, God forbid, in case Mary should call. She flipped it on just before she turned on the hair dryer, so she didn’t hear the tone announcing a new voice mail after the phone booted up.
While she’d consider selling her soul to reclaim her career, she certainly appreciated not having to answer to anyone at this point in time and secretly found comfort in anonymity. She would have really enjoyed stepping out to see the city today, but James had pointed out the very real danger of her having a “messiah attack” in such a populated area. His concern was not so much for the initial portion (he still believed that was all for good), but he was very worried about the guaranteed blackout afterward and how vulnerable his sister was in that state. His thoughts made sense to her, and in truth, it had been a very long time since she could just relax and not play a game of point/counterpoint regarding her every move.
While raiding the kitchen again, she planned her day, primarily focusing on blazing a trail to better understand some of James’ suggested areas of study. She found a walk-in pantry with high hopes of locating food she might actually want to eat for lunch.
As she flipped on the food closet light, she decided she’d start her research by reading up on faith healing. Inspecting the pantry items, she also decided to plug some unrelated terms into the Google search bar such as “quinoa,” “Yerba Mate,” and “cocoa nibs.” She absently theorized that her brother may also be other-worldly, judging by his food stash...then she spotted a jar of peanut butter and a stack of tuna cans; these were things she trusted. Although she hadn’t added clairvoyance to her bag of tricks, she could clearly see a trip to the grocery store in her immediate future.
___________________________________________________________________
Marsha gently nestled the cylinders into a large suitcase. The containers were surrounded by towels and Styrofoam packing peanuts. She handled them with the care one would afford an infant, and when this analogy crossed her mind, she found it to be so appropriate that she began to softly sing a lullaby.
“Rock- a-bye, Baby, on the tree top….” The words were barely audible and short lived; she suddenly stopped singing as well as packing. The expression that belongs to an “idea found” crossed her beautiful face and she straightened.
“Yes. Of course.” Within minutes she was in the back room of her apartment picking out an assortment of perfectly folded infant clothes. Unused, they were stored by category; sleepers, onesies, dresses and little jeans in case it had been a boy. She chose to use a variety of baby items, since their use was highly symbolic and would represent the many babies of all sexes and sizes that would never be born.
With a self-satisfied expression, she backed out of the room as her eyes surveyed the most pristine nursery imaginable. It was pristine because Marsha had made it so, but also because no baby had ever occupied the cradle, crib or changing table. She balanced her small load with one hand and softly closed the door with the other, as to not disturb the sleeping spirits of all the infant souls she had been appointed to vindicate.
She had never thought any role could be more fulfilling than the one she’d been denied in this life, that of a mother…but this new role? Well, it was bittersweet, as it would be for any martyr. It was sad, because she would never be blessed as a mother on this earth…but it was rewarding, because she had been chosen. She was chosen to show this nation the error of its ways in its large scale genocide of unborn babies.
As she meticulously packed the perfect garments, intended for the sweetest form of life, around the hard devices intended to cause the bitterest death, she frowned in spite of herself.
She should have been a mother. And she should still be a wife. God had graced her with many gifts and talents; he had blessed her with high intellect, uncommon beauty and family wealth to provide the means to live whatever life she should choose; but God had also denied her the titles she most desired: wife and mother. And she would have surely taken one without the other, but because she was unable to be one, she had lost the other. And now she had nothing.
Her gentle tucking motions became jamming and shoving as her anger rose. Her so-called husband had wanted children more than he had wanted her, although he denied that was the reason he’d left. She guessed she wasn’t supposed to notice he’d lost “that feeling” as soon as they determined she was unable to conceive.
Marsha realized she was sliding back into prideful ways and chastised herself, clasping her hands and standing very still to refocus. She said a quick and intent prayer, then, satisfied with her work, she closed and zipped the suitcase.
As she carefully wheeled the large bag to the front door where it would be ready in the morning, she thought of the moment that had brought her to this point. The moment of her greatest revelation.
On her way to work one morning, she’d been in her car at a red light, half listening to a radio financial planning talk show, when she spotted a pro-choice demonstration on a distant corner. She felt a tightness in her chest as she remembered her sudden desire to steer the BMW directly into the small crowd, crushing their trite signs, “My body, my choice,” “Keep Your Laws off My Body.” One crazy bitch actually had a large pregnant stomach exposed with a cartoon bubble on it inferring that the baby was saying, “My mommy AND me are pro-choice.”
She may have done it, ruined these people, but when the light turned green, cars in the lane between her and the zealots blocked her path and she’d been forced to move forward. She’d continued to imagine taking away the demonstrators’ choice to live, since they thought it was suitable to kill unborn babies, when the voice on the radio quipped, “Well you know, you have to spend money, to make money.”
At the precise moment she heard the voice, she turned a corner into blinding afternoon sun and all she could see was a silhouette of a cross.
She had no idea it was simply a residual image of a telephone pole which had eclipsed her view just before the sun hit. But, in all reason, she couldn’t have known that because her entire mind and body were filled with the rapture of the sudden knowledge that in order to save lives, she had to spend lives. Spend money to make money, take lives to save lives. The memory of the moment that changed her life resonated with her now and, as it tended to do, it left her dry mouthed and her face damp with sweat; she was scared but excited. She was sure this was how Jesus must have felt in the Garden of Gethsemane. It was only human to be afraid…but it was divine to act in the face of fear to honor God’s will.
Pro-choice? It had not been her choice to be barren; but it was God’s choice to grant her favor, to give her the discernment to understand His desire. She was to send a clear message to this country--which was so tuned in to violent terrorist acts elsewhere--that its own acts of the worst kind, the murder of its own babies, needed to cease. Take lives to save lives. And, necessarily, one of those lives would be her own.
The delicately packed suitcase would detonate at JFK tomorrow, at a busy baggage claim in Terminal 8….she would never even have to go through the security gates to engage the target crowd. Her message, no, God’s message would be simultaneously released to every major news network at the exact time of the explosion. She had programmed the timing for electronic delivery because she would be already be gone from this unholy place. The message would be clear; it was an act of God, a fiery message to stop the carnage of the innocent.
The others killed in the explosion would surely go to hell, but she would go to join all the sweet souls in heaven who had never been allowed to make it to this earth; all the aborted babies whose mothers had forsaken them. She would be their heavenly mother! Her reward from God was to be the mother they all deserved. Her breast swelled at the thought and she knew it was a sign of her long awaited motherhood. She closed her eyes and thanked God for his favor.
The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy) Page 28
