When Hope Blossoms

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  A light chuckle came through the line. “Well, honey, it would be a rare thing to have a tornado in July, but it doesn’t hurt to take precautions.” Mom’s sure, unruffled voice helped take the edge off Bekah’s fear. “So prop open the cellar doors and be ready, but don’t worry, all right?”

  “All right.” Bekah hugged the phone to her cheek. “When will you be home?”

  “We’ve finished at Farm Supply and the bookstore, but we still need to go to the grocery store. I would imagine we’ll be home within another two hours. Will you be all right that much longer?”

  Bekah looked at the clock above the stove. Mom and the kids would be back around one thirty. “Yeah, I should be okay.”

  “Remember, if you need anything, you can call the Mischlers or the Schells.”

  “I know.”

  “All right, then. We’ll see you soon, Bekah. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Good-bye.” Bekah placed the receiver in its cradle very carefully, then stood for a few moments, staring at the phone. She hadn’t felt lonely at all until she’d heard her mother’s voice. But now the house felt too empty and quiet. Except for the wind.

  With a start, she realized she’d been so busy listening to the hum of the sewing machine, she hadn’t even noticed the wind was blowing harder than usual. She scurried to the kitchen sink and leaned against the cabinet to peek outside. Dust rolled across the ground, carrying bits of dried grass. She crossed to the back door, watching the soybean plants, which had grown to the size of small bushes, sway and dance in the gusting breeze, nearly flattening to the ground with especially strong blasts.

  She gave a start. Where were the men? There was always somebody working out there, Monday through Saturday. Why weren’t they working now? Were they fearful of the weather, too? Even though it was hot, Bekah shivered.

  Mom had told her to get the cellar doors open, so she retrieved the key for the padlock that secured the planked wooden doors and stepped outside. The wind whipped the screen door from her hand and slammed it against the house. Her skirt plastered to her legs in the back and sent it billowing out front as she walked the short distance to the storm shelter’s doors. She crouched down, pinching her skirt between her knees to hold it out of her way, and unlatched the padlock.

  Slipping the heavy lock into her apron pocket with the key, she grabbed one door and flung it open. It landed against the sloped ground with a thud. She opened the second door, then stood for a moment with the wind strong on her back, the ribbons from her cap dancing wildly against her cheeks, and peered into the dank depth of the cellar. She hugged herself. She hated going into the cellar.

  Whisking a quick look at the boiling sky, she offered a quick prayer. “God, please don’t make me go in that hole under the ground.” Especially not all alone.

  Tim unloaded his truck, keeping an eye on the sky during trips back and forth from the house and his pickup. When he finished, he drove the truck into the barn. The opening was barely wide enough to accommodate the truck’s body, and he brushed the passenger’s side mirror on the warped frame. He’d have to be extra careful backing out again, but the truck would be safer inside in case those clouds let loose with hail.

  He cringed, considering the damage hail would do to his trees. The urge to pray, to ask God to hold the storm at bay, tugged at him as strongly as the wind tugged his clothes and hair as he walked to the house. But he gritted his teeth together and held the petition inside.

  In the house, he put away everything he’d purchased, taking note of the neatly organized shelves, the clean-swept floors, and scrubbed countertops. Thanks to Bekah’s efforts, the house was as clean as it had been when Julia lived there. Julia . . . His mind flooded with memories of his last moments with her. The kiss good-bye. The wave. The car disappearing over the rise in the road with Charlie in the backseat holding up his favorite tattered teddy in a gesture of farewell.

  He clenched his fists to his temples, willing the persistent images away. He needed to replace them, but with what? Photographs—he’d look at photos. Snapshots of happier moments, together moments. Maybe imprinting those on his brain would send the final, heartrending remembrance far away so it would stop haunting him.

  His feet clumsy in his eagerness, he stumbled to the hallway and threw open the closet. An empty space greeted him. For a moment he stared, stunned, certain his eyes deceived him. But then he recalled giving Bekah the task of clearing out the closet. At the height of his nightmares, he’d chosen to dispose of Julia’s and Charlie’s things, hoping the distressing dream would disappear with them. It hadn’t worked—the dream still awakened him at least once a night.

  He snapped the closet door closed and aimed his steps for the back door, resolve setting his jaw in a firm line. So getting rid of the stuff hadn’t achieved the purpose. He’d just bring everything back in. He hadn’t lit the burn pile in more than two weeks. The boxes should still be out there, battered and dusty no doubt, but available. He swung the back door open. The wind tried to snatch it from his hand, but he held tight and latched it behind him. He glanced at the sky, noting the sickly grayish-green. His stomach churned. He’d better hurry.

  Bending forward into the wind, Tim broke into a jog. He rounded the corner of the barn, heading to the cleared area where he burned his trash. But halfway across the grounds a sudden change in the atmosphere brought him to an abrupt halt. Chills broke out over his body, a prickling awareness of impending doom.

  He turned a slow circle, tasting the air, which had fallen heavy and eerily still. His eyes scanned the horizon, from the clear blue in the south to almost lavender in the west and ending at the brackish ugliness that shrouded the north. He lifted his gaze from the wall of gray to the swirling green and black clouds above, and a strange movement caught his attention. A writhing tail, wide at the top, narrowing as it reached toward the earth, emerged from the angry gathering of clouds.

  Fear exploded through Tim’s middle. A tornado. Miles away, but traveling in his direction. Panic spurred him to action. He took off at a run for his house to seek protection. But as he reached his back door he suddenly remembered that Mrs. Knackstedt, Parker, and Adri had been in the van, but he hadn’t seen Bekah. Which meant she must have stayed behind. She’d be terrified, there alone. Or maybe she didn’t even know the storm was coming. There’d be no television or radio to warn her.

  Tim’s pulse raced so quickly his entire body quivered. Would Mrs. Knackstedt be home by now? There was no way of knowing. But he couldn’t risk leaving the girl to face a tornado alone. With another quick glance at the approaching storm, he changed direction and raced for the barn. Moments later, unmindful of the sideview mirror he’d stripped from the passenger door when backing out of the barn or the dust-laden wind stealing his visibility, he tore down the road toward the Knackstedt place.

  Amy resisted tapping her toe in impatience as Margaret checked off the lengthy list of items in her hand. Both women and Parker pushed carts, all of which were well filled. Even if something else were listed, there wasn’t room for one more thing in any of the carts.

  Adrianna leaned against Amy’s leg. “Aren’t we done yet, Momma?” The little girl yawned widely. “I’m tired. And hungry.”

  “I know.” Amy gave Adrianna a one-armed hug, then lifted her into the basket. She was really too big for the child seat in the cart, but the hours of shopping had worn her out. “As soon as Mrs. Gerber finishes, we’ll go to a drive-through and get you something to eat, all right?”

  It seemed silly to purchase fast food when they had full carts, but if they waited until they got home, lunch would be delayed at least another hour. Amy’s stomach growled, too. A hamburger would taste good right now.

  “I guess that’s it,” Margaret said, triumph in her voice.

  “Then we can go?” Parker grabbed the handle of his cart, his slumped shoulders squaring.

  “We can go.” With a grunt, Margaret pushed her cart into motion.

  Amy fell in
behind Margaret with Parker huffing along behind her. They reached the checkout lines and passed the row of 20-Items-and-Under lanes. Amy had lost count, but she felt certain between the three carts, there were well over one hundred items. She found the shopping exhausting, but somehow Margaret seemed refreshed by the prospect of finding the best bargains so the fellowship’s food dollars stretched the farthest.

  Margaret settled on a lane, and Amy moved forward to help her unload the contents of her cart onto the conveyor belt. As the cashier scanned items, the store’s announcement system clicked on. A male voice boomed over the speakers. “Hello, Food Warehouse shoppers. I have just received notice of the possibility of a tornado near Weaverly, Kansas, and moving toward Topeka.”

  Amy grabbed for Margaret, who grabbed for Amy at the same time. The women clung, their gazes locked. Amy wondered if her own face was as white as Margaret’s.

  “We’ve been advised to remain in the store until the threat passes. If necessary, we will take all customers to the storage room beneath the store. A buzzer will sound, like this—” A blaring bzzzzzzt sounded, and then the man’s voice returned. “If you hear the buzzer, please make your way in an orderly fashion to the northwest corner of the store, where employees will guide you to the storage room. Again, all customers are advised to remain in the store until the storm has passed.” A click signaled the end of the announcement.

  A hum of voices—some concerned, others laughing—filled the air. Stuck in the cart’s seat, Adrianna wriggled, stretching her hands toward Amy. “Momma? Momma?”

  Parker stumbled toward his mother. “Mom, I’m scared.”

  Amy still held tight to Margaret’s hands. “I have to get home. They said the tornado was near Weaverly. Bekah . . .” Panic cut off her air, and she gasped for breath.

  Pulling away from Margaret’s grip, Amy grabbed Adrianna under the arms and tried to lift her from the cart. But her shaking limbs didn’t possess enough strength. She let go, and Adrianna flopped back into the seat. She began to cry.

  Parker grabbed hold of Amy’s arm, his cold fingers digging into her flesh. “Mom? Mom?”

  Amy shook loose of Parker’s grasp and glared at Margaret. “Help me! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Margaret worked her way between the carts and the display rack of candy, her expression grim. She took hold of Amy’s shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “Stop this right now.” She spoke in a low, even tone. “You’re frightening your children.”

  Amy flicked a glance into Adrianna’s and Parker’s faces. The terror reflected in their eyes raised a wave of protectiveness. Wrapping one arm around Adrianna and the other around Parker, she held them close and whispered assurances into their ears. Adrianna continued to cry softly, her face pressed to Amy’s neck. Parker sniffled against her shoulder. Amy wanted to cry, too, but she held her own worries at bay and comforted her children.

  Between their carts, Margaret knelt on the floor and folded her hands. Her lips moved in silent prayer. Guilt flooded Amy’s frame. How could she have been so short-sighted? Margaret had a husband and several friends in Weaverly who were also in the tornado’s path. Amy wasn’t the only one fearing for a loved one.

  Letting her eyes slip closed, she clung hard to her children and silently petitioned her heavenly Father. Protect them, Lord. Oh, please, please, keep Your hand of protection over Bekah and all of the residents of Weaverly.

  28

  Bekah! Bekah!” Tim pounded on the ancient wooden door, rattling the oval glass pane. Wind howled, angry as a chorus of wolves. Particles of dirt blasted the back of Tim’s bare neck, stinging his flesh. He hunched his shoulders and pounded again. “Bekah! Are you in there?”

  He squinted across the grounds. Where was that girl? Had she gone into town? Just as he’d decided to climb back in his truck and leave, the curtain behind the window whisked to the side and Bekah’s fear-filled face peered at him.

  Relief nearly collapsed Tim’s legs. “Open up!”

  The curtain dropped into place, and the latch clicked. Tim pushed the door open and crossed the threshold. His chest heaved with wild breathing as he searched her white face. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m scared. There’s a bad storm, and Mom isn’t here.”

  The usually reserved, mature young woman seemed to dissolve into a frightened little girl. Automatically, Tim captured her in a quick embrace. “I’m here, and I won’t let anything happen to you.” His statement of assurance, as well as the determination that filled him, surprised him. He cared about this girl. Cared deeply.

  Slipping his arm around her waist, he herded her toward the kitchen. He’d spent storms in the Sanford cellar in past years, so he knew where to go. “We’ll be safer underground. Get me the key for the cellar and—”

  “It’s open.” Bekah’s voice quavered. “I got it ready, but I didn’t want to go down. It’s dark and smelly in there.”

  Despite his worries, Tim flashed a grin. “That’s ’cause it’s a cellar. If it isn’t dark and smelly, it isn’t doing its job.”

  A wobbly smile formed on Bekah’s pale face, giving Tim a lift.

  “C’mon—let’s hurry.” He hustled her out the back door, keeping a firm grip on her waist as they battled the wind. Just a few yards to the cellar opening. One of the doors had flapped shut in the wind, so Tim held it upright while Bekah made her way down the earthen steps. He waited until she reached the bottom before he followed, pausing to pull the doors closed behind them.

  Complete darkness surrounded him, making his head spin. He focused on the sliver of muted light creeping through the crack between the rattling doors. Squinting, his hands gliding along the damp earth walls, he inched his way downward until he bumped into something warm—Bekah.

  “I wish I had a flashlight.” Bekah’s voice sounded unusually high. Panic, no doubt.

  Tim couldn’t see well enough to reach for her, so he injected as much confidence into his tone as possible. “Give it a few minutes—our eyes will adjust.”

  Bekah fell silent, but he could hear her rapid breathing. Tim’s nose wanted to pinch shut against the musty odor filling the underground space. The doors bounced in their frame, the off-beat thuds providing percussion to the gale’s mournful woodwinds. Then a loud spatter—like gunfire—erupted. Bekah let out a squeak of alarm, and Tim reached without thinking. His knuckles brushed her arm, and she grabbed his hand. Her icy fingers clung, and Tim was able to follow the line of her arm to her shoulders and draw her snug to his side.

  He felt her face pressed to his collarbone, felt her shoulders heaving in silent sobs. His heart ached in response to her terror. He murmured, offering comfort. “Rain, Bekah. It’s just rain. We need it, right?” But such hammering rain, drops falling as hard as ball bearings from the sky.

  It seemed hours crept by while they stood in the small space, hearts pounding, but in reality it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before Tim’s ears recognized a change. The piercing whistle became a distant flute. The fierce pounding softened to fingertips tapping on a table’s edge.

  “Stay here.” He set her aside and groped his way to the doors. Slowly, apprehension holding him in its uncomfortable grip, he pushed one heavy door upward. Rain, soft and cold, landed on his face. The sky was gray overhead, glorious blue in the north. The storm had passed. He reached his hand toward Bekah. “Come on up. We can go to the house now.”

  Hugging herself, she scurried up the stairs. They hunched forward against the steady rainfall and dashed across the slippery, leaf- and twig-strewn ground to the back porch. Tim sent her in first, then stepped in behind her, shaking his head to rid his hair of water. He glanced at her shivering frame.

  “Why don’t you go change into a dry dress? I want to look around the house, make sure everything’s all right.”

  She gave a quick nod, then darted for the stairs. Tim searched each of the downstairs rooms. Apparently Bekah had closed everything up against the wild wind earlier, because the w
indows were all snug in their frames. The house felt stuffy, so he inched each window upward just enough to allow in the breeze without inviting rain to enter. One of the living room windows had a crack running from the bottom edge nearly to the top. Bekah entered the room on bare feet, her cap askew, but with a clean, unrumpled dress in place.

  He pointed to the crack. “Looks like the storm broke one of your windows.”

  Bekah stood with her arms wrapped across her middle, as if she were holding herself together. “Parker did that goofing around in here the other day. Mom just hasn’t had time to replace it yet.” Bekah’s chin quivered. “Mr. Roper, do you think Mom got caught out in that—”

  Tim shook his head. The thought of Amy, Parker, and Adri in a van during a tornado sent a spike of fear through his chest. He didn’t want to think what might happen. “Don’t borrow trouble.” His father’s standard response to moments of fear or worry slipped from his mouth. “Just trust.”

  “I’m trying.” A funny, bashful smile toyed on the corners of her lips. She kept her head low rather than meeting his gaze. “Before you got here, I was praying like crazy that somebody would come because I didn’t want to go into the cellar by myself. And God answered.” She flicked a shy glance at him through her eyelashes. “He sent you.”

  Tim’s heart skipped a beat. He wouldn’t have considered himself the answer to anybody’s prayer.

  Bekah ducked her head again, sighing. “Just wish Mom’d hurry and get home. I don’t like being here by myself in the rain.”

  “Tell you what . . .” Tim strode forward slowly, his legs weak and trembly. “I’ll stay here with you until your mom gets back.”

  The girl’s shoulders rose and fell. “Thank you, Mr. Roper.”

  Tim gestured toward the kitchen. “Do you have bread, and maybe some bologna or cheese? I could use a sandwich.”