Amy swallowed. This newly recognized seed of affection must not be nurtured for growth. She sent a fervent prayer heavenward. Dear Father, guard my heart. I can’t allow myself to be pulled away from my faith. That would not honor You. Let me pray for this man, show Your love to this man, but please guard my lonely heart.
21
Tim sat on the grass off by himself, listening to the band stumble through patriotic tunes and waiting for the fireworks display to begin. The carnival folk had shut down their rides so the lights and music wouldn’t compete with the band or the explosions in the night sky. Stark white light glared in the pavilion, highlighting the band. At the far edge of the park, in the headlight beams of a fire truck, a handful of firemen from Ottawa worked to organize the fireworks show. Normally the town councilmen and Weaverly’s volunteer fire department ran the show, but given this year’s dry conditions, they’d invited a fire truck just in case. Tim admired their foresight.
All around him, families sat together on blankets or on folding chairs they’d dragged from home. Retired rancher Ron Elliott had invited Tim to join his family, even offering him a woven beach chair, but Tim had declined. Earlier in the day, Ron had spotted him with the Knackstedt kids and smirked, waggling his brows. Tim didn’t care to listen to the man goad him about hanging out with the Mennonites. Today was special—he wouldn’t make a habit of squiring those kids around town—but he didn’t feel like explaining himself to Ron or anybody else. So he stayed separated from the others, a lone island in a sea of families.
The rousing rendition of “Yankee Doodle” ended with a cymbal crash. Applause broke out across the grounds and then faded away. In the ensuing silence, the director tapped his baton. The tick-tick-tick echoed from the pavilion’s rounded shell. The man raised his hands; the band members lifted their instruments. A hush fell, interrupted by a baby’s fretful cry, and the director gave the cue. “Battle Hymn of the Republic” burst across the park, raising the fine hairs on the back of Tim’s neck.
Immediately, without anyone’s instruction, the gathered townspeople began to sing with the band. A few voices carried over the rest, and a tingle of awareness crept across Tim’s scalp. He didn’t need to look. He knew who sang with such heartfelt conviction. He supposed it could be perceived as a prejudicial thought, but nobody sang like Mennonites. Generations of singing hymns in four-part harmony without the benefit of musical accompaniment had developed their abilities beyond the norm.
Tim had noted Weaverly’s newest residents settling in a snug group on the bleachers, but he’d tried not to look over there for fear Parker or Adri would quirk a finger at him in invitation. Resisting Ron was one thing, resisting those kids quite another. Now their voices, sure and strong and pure, enticed him to rise, to sit among them, to open his mouth and belt out the bass line, just as he had during his growing-up years.
Clutching handfuls of dry grass, he held himself in place, but his face angled in their direction. He caught a glimpse of Parker, his face alive with joy and his mouth open wide, singing with gusto. At once, a grin tugged at Tim’s cheek. What a grand morning they’d had. With his help, Parker had sunk three basketballs and won the ugliest stuffed alligator Tim had ever seen. He’d tried to convince the boy to trade it for another, since the one the booth worker handed him had crossed eyes and a crooked drawn-on smile. The poor critter looked as if it’d been on a three-day binge. But Parker insisted he liked it just the way it was. Tim figured it was Parker’s natural empathy that made him keep the homely thing, and it warmed him even more toward the boy. Still, he hated to see him settle for second-best.
Both of the girls had also won new toys—Bekah a purple-and-white panda bear that sat a good two feet tall, and Adri a floppy white dog with black polka dots. The little girl named her dog Spot, and Bekah did her best to convince Adri to change it to Freckles or Speckles or something less obvious. But Adri insisted the dog wanted its name to be Spot and that was that. A chuckle rumbled in Tim’s chest, remembering the child’s indignation. Cute kids, all of them.
But they aren’t yours.
The inner reminder jolted him. Of course they weren’t his. He’d shown them some fun, enjoyed their presence, then returned them to their mother promptly at noon, just as he’d promised. He’d continue to see them—pretty hard to avoid it, considering they lived right next door and he’d hired them to help him out during the summer—but he wouldn’t grow attached to them. That would be foolhardy.
The band ended their number and the band kids shuffled off the pavilion to the sound of wild applause, hoots, and whistles. Tim pounded his palms together like everyone else. As soon as the pavilion cleared, a single boom signaled the start of the fireworks display. He crossed his ankles, leaned back on his hands, and aimed his face upward to watch the show, but his heart wasn’t in it. Somehow he’d lost his desire to watch the annual splashes of color against the backdrop of stars.
Slowly, like an old man rising from a rocking chair, he pushed to his feet. He left the park, skirting past his longtime neighbors, noting not one face turned in his direction as he passed. They were watching the fireworks—he shouldn’t expect them to notice his leaving—but it bothered him that nobody waved good-bye. He reached the edge of the park and paused, looking back one last time. A tiny movement caught his attention. He squinted through the deepening shadows, and then his heart caught.
Adri stared after him, using one of the paws on her little stuffed dog to wave good-bye.
The park scene disappeared, and in its stead Tim saw the rear window of a retreating vehicle, a little boy’s smiling face, a teddy bear held high, and the child’s hand manipulating the bear into waving. As quickly as the image appeared, it slipped away, and once again Tim was looking at Adri’s pixie face.
He broke out in a cold sweat. With jerky motions, he flapped his hand at her once and then spun and strode away as fast as his feet could carry him without running. His chest ached so badly, drawing breath was torture. He missed his wife and son. Oh, how he missed them. Hard work usually kept the loneliness at bay, but now it fell on him as heavily as a wet wool blanket—stifling. Why hadn’t he gotten in the car that day, too? If he had, he could be with Julia and Charlie now instead of here, all alone, spending his affection on the children of a Mennonite widow.
He slammed himself into his pickup, twisted the key in the ignition, and squealed out of the parking lot. Escape. The word reverberated through his middle, spurring him to action. With more recklessness than he’d ever exhibited before, he tore down the highway for home. But as he pulled into his familiar drive and killed the engine, he realized his actions had accomplished little more than senseless wear and tear on his vehicle. He’d never escape his past, or the consequences of his choices.
“I’m doomed.” The words groaned from deep within. “Just like Dad told me when I ran off all those years ago, I’ve doomed myself to a lifetime of regret.”
The Sunday following the Fourth of July celebration, Tim woke early, took a long shower, then dressed in his least-faded Levi’s and one of his newer snap-up shirts. He polished his belt buckle, buffed his boots, and retrieved Julia’s Bible—dust free, but only because of Bekah’s attention—from the shelf in the living room.
He attended the Weaverly Community Church sporadically. When Julia was alive, he’d gone every Sunday. They’d dedicated Charlie when he was three months old, and Julia had taught fourth and fifth graders in Sunday school, which she loved. He never committed to anything more than ushering, and he’d never put his name on the church membership roll, even though Julia prodded him to do it. The minister there had performed a real nice service for Julia and Charlie, and the two of them were buried in the cemetery north of town. He hadn’t been out there to check their graves for years. A couple of granite stones couldn’t take the place of flesh-and-blood people, so why bother?
Stepping onto the porch, he automatically looked upward. The morning sky was clear blue, as had become the norm, but he—he
sitantly hopeful—searched from the eastern horizon to the west for a puff of white anyway. Nothing. He blew out an aggravated breath. While trotting around the park, Bekah had mentioned that their fellowship was praying for rain. Apparently God wasn’t listening. Just like He hadn’t listened when Tim begged for a more understanding father or for his wife and son to survive the crash.
“The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” The Scripture crept through Tim’s memory, and he snorted aloud. “Guess I’m not a righteous man, ’cause my prayers availeth nothin’.” Although he meant to sound derisive, the words exited on a tight note of hurt.
Setting his jaw, he creaked open the driver’s door on his truck and climbed in. He started to fling the Bible on the passenger seat, but his fingers refused to release. Carefully, reverently—treating God’s book with the respect his father had expected—he placed the Bible in the center of the vinyl seat, then started his truck.
He drove to town slowly, leaving the window down so the morning breeze, already stuffy, flowed against his face and ruffled his hair. He was early. Way early. Sunday school wouldn’t even start for another hour. But the church doors were always open, and maybe Reverend Geary would be in his study. And maybe he wouldn’t mind a pre-church visitor.
For the past three nights—ever since he’d left the Fourth of July doings early—he’d been haunted by a recurring dream. He’d wake up, sweating and near tears. He’d tell himself it was only a dream and drift back to sleep, only to dream the same thing again. The dark circles under his eyes proved he wasn’t getting enough rest, and he didn’t know anybody else who might be able to help him make sense of the dream. So he intended to lay the burden in Reverend Geary’s lap and hoped, by letting it all out, it would leave him for good.
He pulled into the gravel lot behind the church. No other cars were there, but he parked far from the door anyway, leaving the choicest spots for the elderly members of the church. He tucked Julia’s Bible under his arm and headed for the back door. Unlocked, as he’d expected. The back door led to a hallway with doors on the right and left. The first one on the right housed the minister’s little office. A sliver of light shone under the door, letting Tim know the man was there. Sucking in a breath of fortification, Tim tapped his knuckles on the door. The reverend’s deep voice, cheerful in its delivery, responded at once. “Come in.”
Tim turned the knob and poked his head in. “I don’t want to disturb you, but I wondered if we could talk.”
“You’re not disturbing me at all, Tim. Come right on in.” The gray-haired minister set aside the sheet of paper he’d been reading and gestured for Tim to sit in one of the plastic chairs on the opposite side of his large, scarred desk. He extended his hand across the wooden top as Tim sank into the closest chair, and Tim gave it a firm shake. Reverend Geary settled back in his squeaky upholstered chair and offered a warm smile. “What can I do for you this morning?”
Tim winced. He missed more services than he attended, and he felt more than a little guilty taking up the minister’s time. But desperation held him in the chair. “I hoped you might be able to help me to . . . well, to get rid of something.”
Reverend Geary chuckled, rocking slightly with his hands folded over the unbuttoned front of his suit coat. “That’s rather ambiguous.”
Despite himself, Tim laughed. “Yeah, I suppose so. I just . . .” He held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start at the beginning.”
“That’s just it. Not sure where the beginning is.”
The reverend gently rocked in his chair, examining Tim with thoughtful, narrowed eyes. “What is it you want to get rid of?”
“The dream.” Tim blasted the words. They bounced off the wood-paneled walls and echoed back. His shoulders hunched in a reflexive cringe. He knew better than to raise his voice in the Lord’s house.
But Reverend Geary didn’t bat an eye. “What dream is that, Tim?”
Relieved by the man’s calm response, Tim rested his elbows on his knees and looked directly into the minister’s kind gray eyes. “The dream where I’m watching Julia drive away, and Charlie’s waving at me from the backseat. Smiling. Happy. Unaware of what’s coming. I watch them go, and I want to run after them—to stop them, bring them back because I know—” His throat tightened as the desire to save his wife and son from disaster rolled over him with the force of a steamroller. “But my feet won’t move. It’s like I’m stuck in concrete. So I stand there and watch them go, knowing I’ll never see them again.” Tears pricked his eyes, and he sniffed. “It’s a stupid dream, but I’ve had it three nights running now, and I can’t seem to get rid of it. I’m . . .” He clamped his trembling hands over his knees. “I’m afraid to go to sleep.”
Reverend Geary nodded, sympathy etched into the lines of his aging face. “That’s a hard thing to relive.” He paused, tapping the edge of his desk with his fingertips. “Julia and Charlie have been gone how long now—three years? Four?”
Tim gulped. “Five and a half.” Five and a half long, lonely years.
“And you’re just now having this dream? Of seeing them leave, and knowing they won’t come back?”
Tim flopped back in the chair. “Yeah. That’s what’s weird. Why now?”
“Excellent question.” The minister pressed his palms together. “Has something happened recently—something to remind you of the day they left?”
Very slowly, stiff as a tin man in need of an oil can, he offered a nod. “Yeah.” He described Adri’s innocent action as he’d left the park on the Fourth. “I watched her wave, and all of a sudden I wasn’t seeing the little Mennonite girl, I was seeing Charlie instead. And now I can’t get rid of it.”
“Losing your family was a trauma. As the husband, the father, you were the protector. You weren’t able to protect Julia and Charlie from that out-of-control truck.”
Tim gritted his teeth. “If Old Man Thompson hadn’t had that flat tire right in front of the orchard, if I hadn’t stayed behind to help him change it, I’d’ve been the one taking Charlie to his therapy instead of Julia. I’d’ve been the one driving. I could’ve avoided that truck.”
“You don’t know that for sure.” Reverend Geary spoke softly, reasonably, but Tim didn’t buy it.
“I was a better driver than Julia. I would’ve known not to swerve so sharp. I wouldn’t have rolled the car.” Tim’s voice rose with each word, anger billowing in his chest. He clenched his fists. “And if I hadn’t been able to avoid it, then at least I would’ve gone with them. I wouldn’t be here, left behind, spending my time with a mentally handicapped Mennonite boy in place of my own son.”
Silence fell, a cloying silence in which Tim could hear the rapid beat of his own heart pounding in his ears. His breath came in little spurts, and he’d clenched his hands so tightly his knuckles ached. With effort he relaxed his fists, placing his damp palms against the smooth denim covering his tense thighs. His mouth felt dry, and he licked his lips. “I don’t want that dream anymore, Reverend. What do I do?”
Reverend Geary took up his rocking again, his eyebrows high. “I’m not a psychologist, and I sure can’t claim to be like Joseph—able to interpret dreams—but I think I might know part of why this has come up now.”
Tim leaned forward, eager to hear the minister’s thoughts.
“Twice, when talking about the children with whom you’ve spent some time lately, you’ve identified them as Mennonite children. Not just children, but specifically Mennonite.” He tipped his head. “You come from a Mennonite background, am I right?”
“I left it a long time ago.”
“An amicable parting?”
“If you walk down that road, remember it doesn’t go both ways!” The angry voice reverberated through Tim’s memory. His stomach tightened. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Mm-hmm.” The reverend rocked some more, the chair’s squeaking springs keeping beat with the passing seconds
. “And in the dream, you feel helpless, yes? As if you need to act but you can’t do it?”
Tim nodded rapidly, sweat beading on his upper lip despite the cool draft from the office’s window unit. “That’s right.”
“If you’d started having this dream just days after Julia and Charlie died, I’d say it was a response to their deaths. But too much time’s passed for that. Sure, you’re still grieving—a part of you always will—but I think this dream has more to do with something else you need to do and can’t. Or, maybe more accurately, something else you’ve needed to do and haven’t.” The minister bolted forward, the chair springs releasing a high twang with the sudden movement. He stacked his forearms on the desk and gave Tim a serious look. “Tim, why have you never joined our membership here?”
Tim jerked, crunching his brows together. “What?”
“Your wife joined our church. Your Charlie came forward when he was six years old and asked Jesus to be his personal Lord and Savior. We baptized him the following Sunday and accepted him into membership. But you never joined. Why?”
Tim hung his head, unwilling to answer.
“Is it because this isn’t a Mennonite church?”
Tim looked up quickly and gave Reverend Geary a fierce look. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
No.
Reverend Geary waited several seconds, but when Tim sat in stubborn silence, he released a sigh. “You might not like what I have to say, but I’m going to say it anyway. I think that dream is tangled up in who you were before you came to Weaverly. I think your feet stuck in concrete goes deeper than wanting to save your wife and son. I think it hails back to the day you decided to leave your home and your family and your heritage. I think . . .” His voice dropped so low Tim had to strain to hear him. “You need to make peace with the part of you that is still Mennonite before you can pull your feet from that block of cement and move forward.”
When Hope Blossoms Page 17
