Must be a big soccer game on today, she thought.
The scene that greeted her when she walked through the front door was equally disconcerting. Her mother, father and little brother, David, sat huddled on the tan leather couch transfixed.
“Hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, of people are dead. Many others are missing. It will be weeks before we know the full extent of the death and destruction that have just happened.”
A look of distress in Momma’s eyes startled Becky. “What’s wrong?” she asked apprehensively.
“A big tsunami on the East Coast,” her father said calmly without taking his eyes away from the television screen. “It hit a few hours ago. Looks like New York City and Miami were both hit pretty bad. They say the waves were over five hundred feet high.”
Anchorwoman Suze Graham’s familiar pretty green eyes were glazed with panic as she stared into the camera and robotically delivered the grim details.
“We have just now been able to establish contact with our reporter, Jose Ruiz, who is on the ground in
Miami.” She held her hand to her ear. “JOSE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
“YES, SUZE, I CAN HEAR YOU!” An image of Jose holding a black cordless microphone close to his mouth appeared on the television screen. “As you can see, I am standing in about three feet of water in downtown Miami. The scene is indescribable.” His shaky voice crackled over the airwaves. “Bodies are floating everywhere, and the stench is unbearable. Sewage is obviously in this water. It is very dangerous to move around here. Debris is all over the place—broken glass, power lines. Oh, my. . . .” His words trailed off. “I don’t believe it—there’s a dead horse over there!” Jose shook his head as he pointed toward a large black mass in the brown polluted water. The camera flashed images of a black horse, his body bloated and his limbs paralyzed in a straight position.
“Everywhere you look is unbelievable destruction. Above me”—Jose pointed upward—“on the second story of this building is the tailgate of a pickup truck sticking out of the windows of JJ’s Ice Cream Parlor!
“I can’t explain it. It’s surreal. I’m looking at a. . . .”
Suze Graham squinted her eyes “Jose? Can you still hear me? Jose?”
Silence.
“We seem to have lost connection with Jose Ruiz in Miami. We will work on getting him back as soon as we can. . . .”
Becky felt sorry for Suze Graham as she obviously struggled to maintain her composure. Becky had grown up watching Suze every evening. Her sparkling green eyes almost imperceptibly darted back and forth as she cheerfully read reports of rising crime rates, wars, government upheavals, famine, diseases, economic collapses and the occasional surfing bull dog.
Now she stared out blankly from the television screen. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice quivered.
A studio man with large black headphones quietly slipped Suze a piece of paper. An odd expression crossed her face as she read the note. Her face turned pale as if she’d seen a ghost. She hesitated then spoke into the camera.
“We have just received an unconfirmed
report. . .that New York City has been completely destroyed. Again this is unconfirmed. We are currently trying to establish communication with our sister station in
New York City, and we will let you know the status of that situation just as soon as the information becomes available to us.” Suze appeared to try hard to remain calm as she continued to deliver the news.
“A spokesman for the North American Union has said that emergency aid centers are being set up all along the Eastern seaboard. Survivors are being cared for, and search-and-rescue operations are currently underway in many locations.”
As Suze read from the overhead monitor, shaky video of frightened victims flickered across the television screen. Some were crying hysterically as they searched for their lost loved ones through rows of the dead covered with white sheets waiting to be identified and claimed.
A wall covered with photographs and desperately scrawled notes came into view. The camera zoomed in on a picture of a smiling man sitting at a table with a birthday cake and candles caught on film in mid-snap. The photo was stuck to the wall with masking tape. Becky could barely read the uneven handwriting underneath: “Have you seen our dad? Brad Williams. AGE: 42. EYES: Brown. HAIR: Brown. 5’11”, 185 lbs. Please call Nicole: (305)
555-7645.”
The camera pulled back and panned along the wall revealing several homemade fliers, frantically plastered on top of one another.
“Relief organizations are bracing for unprecedented demands. The Red Cross just released a statement saying that the lack of drinking water, food and shelter will be their number one concern in the aftermath of this disaster. The World Union has pledged more than three hundred million Ameros in aid so far.” Suze’s feminine voice sounded dismal.
She continued. “Scientists have just confirmed there was an eruption of the Cumbre Vieja Volcano in the Canary Islands off the coast of Western Africa. Reports indicate the western flank of the mountain collapsed in the ocean, triggering the devastating five-hundred-foot waves which wreaked havoc throughout the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Unbelievable!” Momma shook her head. It was the first word anyone had said in nearly an hour.
“More breaking news now: In response to concerns of looting, the president has announced martial law throughout the North American Union beginning immediately. Also, the World Union Food Program will review food supplies and adjust rations to compensate for the losses caused by the disaster. We can expect ‘per-household’ rations to be lowered in the coming days. The president reminds citizens that hoarding food is punishable by up to ten years in prison.”
“All those poor people,” Momma said as she hit the mute button on the remote control. Suze Graham’s voice went silent, and closed captioning began to scroll beneath her bewildered stare. “I’m going to call the hospital. I’m sure we’ll be involved in the rescue efforts in some way.” Momma stood and walked to the kitchen, David in tow.
Becky wasn’t listening; she was deep in her own thoughts. She heard her mother mumble something about the poor tsunami victims and how she wished she could help.
The news footage of the people searching through the rows of dead bodies sent a searing pain through her heart. She couldn’t erase from her mind the lady screaming hysterically as she recognized her child’s motionless body lying under the sheet.
Her father’s words interrupted her thoughts. “This is all we needed.” He sighed. “As if the economy wasn’t bad enough already, there is no way the World Union can deal with something like this. Do you realize what it will cost to rebuild?” His voice climbed to a low roar. Becky could feel one of her father’s tirades coming on. He often vented his frustrations with forces greater than himself through long, impassioned monologues in which he outlined all that the government had done wrong in the past twenty years.
Video continued to glow silently from the television. Suze Graham’s voice crept along the bottom of the screen in the form of misspelled captions. A timestamp in the corner indicated the pictures had been shot earlier in the day. Becky’s chest tightened as she watched a young, blond-haired woman clutch a lifeless toddler to her breast and rock back and forth in agony.
Sadness, fear and then anger swept over her. If there is a God—how could he allow this to happen? Why did he let so many innocent people die?
The images were unbearable. Becky realized the living room was now dark. Night had sneaked into the house while their attention was fixed on the pictures beamed to them from the east side of the union. She was depressed and wanted to be alone. She stood and left her father sitting on the couch staring blankly at the glowing screen. She brushed away a tear that had escaped her watery eyes as she climbed up the dark hardwood stairs to her bedroom. Becky closed the door quietly behind her. She sneered at the fresh coats of rosy pink paint she had picked out only a year ago. She and Momma had an awful fight over her choice o
f colors. The terrible words she had said to her momma echoed through her memory as she pulled her stuffed brown rabbit with its big blue bow from the top of her white bookcase. Blake Collins’s muscles rippled beneath his football uniform as he smiled charmingly at her from the poster hung over her twin bed.
Hugging the soft animal, she lay on her bed and stared up as red-and-blue lights of a passing police car strobed across her ceiling. A flash of fear vibrated through her body as she instantly recalled the night of the big earthquake when her father was injured and so many people had died.
When she closed her eyes she could easily return to that terrifying morning: climbing over toppled furniture and broken glass, her home─everything that was ever familiar and comforting to her─suddenly unrecognizable.
First it was the earthquake and now this terrible tsunami. Why do so many people have to die?
She shook her head involuntarily as the image of the young, blond woman rocking her dead toddler flashed
before her again. She fought back tears as those same desperate feelings resurged in her throat.
Why is this happening?
The stuffed rabbit rolled to its side as she released it and stood up. She crossed over to her desk and sat down at the white wooden chair in front of her computer monitor and flicked on the metal switch.
“Good evening, Rebekah!” a young sexy male voice said from the speakers. “Please enter your password.”
She quickly typed “busterkitty” on the keyboard and waited. Soon a smiling Blake Collins clutching a football posing for the cover of Aquarius Sports magazine appeared on the screen.
Becky clicked on the icon that took her to her favorite search engine and then typed a series of words: tsunami, disaster, end of the world, apocalypse, prophecy, and who is God? She randomly clicked on a few of the thousands of websites and blogs and even watched a couple of videos. Each had its own theory as to what had caused the recent disasters. And each was absolutely sure they were right and everyone else was wrong. Some blamed global warming while others warned it was the “end of the world.”
Loud rapping on her bedroom door startled her.
“BECKY!” yelled her brother. He was the spitting image of their father, with his brown hair and brown eyes. His young voice grated on her nerves. “T.J. IS ON THE PHONE!”
“I’m busy. Tell her I’ll see her at school tomorrow.”
“BECKY!” he persisted. “T.J.’S ON THE PHONE. SHE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT CHEER-LEADING PRACTICE.”
Becky couldn’t tell if her little brother was honestly communicating her friend’s urgent message or simply delighting in annoying her. “Go away and leave me alone!” she said calmly but loudly without taking her eyes off her computer monitor.
“BECKY.” He continued pounding. “BECKY. . . BECKY! YOU’D BETTER ANSWER ME! MOMMA SAID THERE IS NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!”
“Then just tell T.J. I will call her back later.”
Becky’s brain tried to tune him out. Hmm. I wonder why there’s no school tomorrow? Maybe it has something to do with that martial law thing.
She sighed when the pounding stopped and she heard the sound of padded footsteps running down the hardwood stairs.
She continued to focus on the information that glowed from her monitor. She found many Bible verses quoted in the blog entries she’d read. The words sounded tantalizingly foreign. As she read the lines with mounting curiosity they began to fit together like clues in an ancient riddle. She urgently clicked on one link after another, following the verses deeper into the blogs and the endless theories of signs missed, prophecies forgotten and warnings of what was to come. They appeared on her screen in fragments: frustrating bits and pieces of a grand story like previews of the summer blockbusters at the movie theater.
Finally Becky clicked onto a link that took her to an online bookstore. She typed in her shipping address and used Momma’s credit card number to purchase a book.
Knowing she would face an inquisition when the credit card statement arrived, Becky volunteered that she had bought a book online. “Just a book I needed for school.”
* * * * *
A week later Becky found the brown paper package in the mailbox with her name on it. She eagerly waited until after dinner to lock herself in her room away from her family’s prying eyes and the incessant news of the disaster on the East Coast blaring nonstop on the living room television.
She hurried over to the nightstand next to her bed. Her fingers clicked on the pink lamp illuminating various shades of mauve all around her room.
She pulled open the top drawer and found the package she had stashed away earlier that afternoon out of Momma’s sight. She used her fingernails to break the brown packing tape at the edges and easily pried open the flimsy cardboard box to reveal a book bound in black leather. The gold lettering glistened under her pink lamp: Holy Bible.
She plopped onto her tummy on her neatly made bed and stuffed a pillow under her chest. She fingered through the thin, delicate pages edged with gold. With every turn the crisp paper crackled like a shotgun blast in the soft, pink quiet of her room. The smell of the new leather reminded her of her grandfather.
Slowly she thumbed the pages, felt her lips form the sounds of the ancient words printed in bold black ink:
Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy. She knew these names. They were the same as the names in her father’s book, the Jewish Tanakh.
She flipped to the back of the Bible: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John. She paused and began to read the small, dense text in the book of John.
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God; the same was in the beginning with God” (John 1:1-2).
“And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).
Her eyes scanned the pages while her mind grasped the information.
“For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16).
“And we believe and are sure that thou art that
Christ, the Son of the living God” (John 6:69).
She turned the crisp white pages back to
Matthew 24.
“For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places. All these are the beginning of sorrows” (Matthew 24:7-8).
The beginning of sorrows? Again the image of the mother rocking her dead child flashed before her eyes. Maybe we are in the beginning of sorrows?
Becky didn’t read in any particular order. She read a chapter for a while, and then she skipped to another book. She tried to store all the scriptures and footnotes in her head. She strained her eyes as she read into the wee hours of the morning. Her heavy eyes finally succumbed, and she fell into a deep sleep. A series of images, thoughts and emotions traveled through her mind. . . .
* * * * *
Wearing red shorts and a white T-shirt, Becky flung the bulging white garbage bag over the fence. She listened as it landed with a clink and a thud in the overflowing dumpster concealed on the other side. Becky knitted her brow in disgust and grumbled quietly to herself. “Why does David never get told to take out the trash?”
The mid-morning sun parted the hazy, blue sky as she walked along the wide service road that separated a community park from her cluttered, walled-in backyard. The moist chill of night still hung in the air, but the warm sun on her bare legs told her she could expect a typical, comfortable Southern California spring day.
She thought of small projects that could help her pass the long, quiet hours that stretched out before her. School had been cancelled again─more shortages caused by the disaster on the East Coast.
Her muscles rebelled at the idea of practicing her cheerleading routine again. She had filled the previous day with hours of jumping and
tumbling in her backyard.
She noticed people gathered around a large, white tent that had been erected near the baseball diamond.
Wednesday mornings were not the usual time for weddings or graduation celebrations to overtake the park and clog the few precious parking spaces in the neighborhood.
Her head burned with curiosity. She bounded down the small embankment, her flip-flops stained black with use, through overgrown weeds and onto the baseball field.
White rope and aluminum poles held up the heavy canvas that flapped in lazy protest against a soft breeze.
A short, plump lady stood outside the tent. She dabbed her eyes with tissue absorbing the tears streaming down her round, rosy cheeks.
Cautiously Becky approached the entrance. The bright morning sun was diluted to a dirty, yellow light as it poured through the canvas.
People were crowded near the center, gravitating toward a man robed in white. A long, unkempt black beard concealed the lower half of his face while a neatly wrapped turban covered a large cranial bump on the top of his head. He stood like a giant with his eyes closed, seemingly oblivious that the crowd focused intensely on him.
Becky looked around her. No one had noticed her. She slowly stepped inside and stood with her back against one of the aluminum poles.
A young boy kneeled before the bearded man. Becky felt nervous anticipation fill the tent as the crowd stood in reverent silence. Like all the others gathered, she focused her attention on the bearded man. He reached out and grabbed both sides of the boy’s head. A grimace washed over the bearded man’s face as he clinched his eyes tight. Becky struggled to understand what she was watching. She thought of leaving, afraid she had intruded on something private. She quickly scanned the people in the crowd, hoping no one had noticed her.
Scars Page 2
