by James Dobson
Julia walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of juice. She glanced at the logo on the front of the plastic carton. Two overlapping oranges smiled in her direction. Two, not one. Overlapping, not standing apart. What if this dream, like the last, was a twin? What if it suggested her life would once again overlap another’s? She had inherited Antonio Santos’s nightmare long before meeting his brother or reading his journals. Long before she would be hired to tell his story to the world, as if some unseen force had overlapped their dreams before connecting their lives.
She concentrated, trying to recall the face of the crazed man pulling at her ankle. Nothing came. What if his was the overlapping life, as Antonio’s had been? And what, if anything, should she do about it?
Julia placed the carton of juice back in the refrigerator, then walked down the hallway toward Amanda’s bedroom door. Placing her hand on the handle she turned and pushed gently inward to create a slim line of vision. She watched Amanda sleeping peacefully in her bed. Her chest moved up and down against the bedspread that had pink and green stripes, the one Amanda had selected while shopping with her foster guardian turned forever mom. A mom who knew she had much to learn about laying her life down for others. For Amanda.
“Dear God,” Julia whispered, “please protect that little girl from whatever evil lurks.”
She closed the door. Feeling the urge to voice a different prayer, Julia walked toward the sofa in the living room to the spot where she knelt beside Troy whenever he asked her to pray about matters beyond their daily bread, the kind of prayers she relied upon him to lead.
But Troy was asleep and knew nothing of her dream.
Julia sat on the edge of the sofa before folding her hands self-consciously against her chin. “Dear God,” she began before stopping. She felt an urge to bend her knees in a posture of humility that lifted her troubled spirit. “Father, I don’t know if you’re trying to tell me something.” She paused, turning her head upward toward the ceiling. “But I want you to know that I’m listening.”
Chapter Twelve
It was Kevin’s favorite time of the day. In the stillness of early morning he stood in the dining room watching the pendulum of a vintage wall clock fill the house with a soothing, ordering rhythm: tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. It was a soundtrack attached to warm boyhood memories: Mom fixing chocolate chip pancakes for Saturday breakfast while Dad read the news and sipped a mug of morning java.
The memory summoned Kevin toward the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. But the coffee maker, like the sun, was still catching its final winks. He glanced at the time. Two hours earlier than his body clock insisted. No one else would be stirring for at least another hour. Maybe two.
He slid open the glass door to walk onto the deck, where he took a deep breath of still cool air while scanning the horizon. The sun remained beneath its distant blanket, revealing a faint trace of the brilliance it would soon bestow upon the nearby silhouette of the Rocky Mountains.
“You’re up early.”
The voice startled Kevin. Jim Tolbert was sitting in one of the two chairs that held memories of father-son chats after a successful soccer match or a “less than your best effort” geometry test.
“No java?” Kevin asked, pointing at his father’s mug-free hands.
“The doctor said no more caffeine.”
“And you obeyed?”
“He said it in your mother’s presence.”
They shared a knowing laugh.
His father began to stand. “I can fix you some worthless decaf if you want,” he said.
“No thanks.” Kevin waved his dad back into the chair. “You just relax. I’m fine.”
He accepted his father’s invitation to sit in the same chair he had occupied on countless earlier occasions, moments when he’d received advice from the wisest man he knew when facing some of life’s toughest decisions.
About love: “Marry the girl.”
About launching a business: “No risk, no reward.”
About running for office: “We need good men in Washington. And you’re a good man, Son.”
Family friends described Kevin as the “spitting image” of his father. He liked hearing it. Mom had promised that “inheriting your father’s good looks” would serve him well when the time came to find a bride. She always made the comment in Dad’s presence, prompting a peck on her cheek and pat on her bottom. The ritual had embarrassed him as a boy. But the memory made him smile as a man, grateful for a model of playful intimacy he now shared with Angie. It was something he’d once taken for granted, considered normal. But he had since discovered how rare it was. None of his friends, including Troy Simmons, had grown up basking in the security that comes from parents who can’t keep their hands off each other.
They sat side by side watching the gradual light of the rising sun. It was as if God were slowly turning up a dimmer knob to let their eyes adjust to the spectacular Colorado beauty garnishing the moment. As if God understood the import of father-son reunions.
“Angie still sleeping?”
“She is,” Kevin replied.
“Still mad at you for the river plunge?”
Kevin chuckled. “Not really. But she’s still pretending to be.”
The elder Tolbert smiled knowingly. “I always loved it when your mom pretended to be mad.”
Kevin flashed a grin in his father’s direction. “I know you did.”
Both men sighed at the recollection of Mom’s feistier days, when she kept her man in line by threatening a pillow and blanket on the sofa rather than a cuddle in the bed. The threats were always empty, but worked nonetheless. Some things Dad refused to give up, most notably Mom’s tender embrace.
“How’s she been lately?” Kevin asked.
“Better.”
A brief silence.
“I really think she’s getting better,” Mr. Tolbert added as if trying to convince himself.
“Any word on further treatment?”
He looked toward the question without reaction.
Kevin regretted asking. But he couldn’t help himself. Ever the optimist, he thought the inquiry he had sent might have made a difference. Dad didn’t know about the note. He had refused Kevin’s offer to intervene, fearing it might come back to bite Kevin during the Youth Initiative debates.
“I can hear it now,” he had warned. “‘Congressman Tolbert, you claim to oppose the government’s prioritizing elder-care expenses. Why, then, did you bring pressure to bear on the Colorado Office of Medical Allocations on behalf of your mother, Gayle Tolbert? We have documentation proving you asked the COMA to approve your mother’s treatment allocation despite the fact her case falls well below established net-value ratios.’”
But Kevin couldn’t sit idly by and let them deny medications that might make a difference, no matter how slight. They had been helping relieve a lower back pain that microscopic surgery might cure. Mom had seemed more herself before turning seventy, the age at which a new Youth Initiative provision required an audit of her treatment allocation. The deeper the financial crisis, the lower the birthday for mandatory review: age eighty in 2040, dropping to seventy-five by ’42 and plummeting to seventy earlier this year. He had even heard talk of yet another drop among some of his colleagues.
So Kevin had sent the note over his dad’s objections. He received a form letter in reply. Not that he’d expected a specific acknowledgment. One congressional colleague had told Kevin not to lose hope, since he had received the same generic response before his loved one was approved. But the look on Kevin’s dad’s face now said no such provision had been made for his mom.
Kevin looked away to hide the anger in his eyes.
“Don’t worry, Son,” his father said, placing a hand on Kevin’s forearm. “She’ll be fine.”
The squeeze of his dad’s hand felt somehow different. Less engulfing. More frail. Come to think of it, so did his voice. Less commanding. More resigned.
“How about you
, Dad?” Kevin asked. “Are you feeling OK?”
“Of course. Never better.”
Kevin pieced disparate signs together in his mind: the slightly winded breathing; less vigor in his dad’s walk, and sitting alone on the deck an hour before his usual rise. His father, the rock of his life, seemed weary. And frail.
“You don’t look good,” Kevin said.
“Thanks, Son.” A glare of mock offense.
“You know what I mean. You seem, I don’t know, more tired than usual. Have you been exercising?”
No reply.
“Eating right?”
Silence.
“Come on, Dad!” Kevin said. “What about the routine?”
The question prompted a chuckle. Jim Tolbert had always taught his son that a man’s routine was sacred. Rise early. Work out. Read daily. Eat what your wife commands. And go to church every week to keep your head screwed on right. Apart from playing hooky from church during the years between getting his driver’s license and meeting his future bride, Kevin had pretty much followed his elder’s pattern of healthy, wholesome living.
“You’re right, Son. Monday. I promise.”
Both heads turned toward a sound inside the house.
“Mom?” Kevin asked his dad.
“Not likely. She usually sleeps for at least another hour.”
That’s when a pair of mischievous eyes peered around the partially open sliding door.
“Well now,” came a voice that sounded more like the robust grandpa Kevin’s kids had come to love, “who on earth could that be sneaking around the house so early in the morning?”
The question prompted a hushed giggle, then a second from behind. The prowler apparently had a stealthy accomplice.
“I couldn’t say,” Kevin played along.
Joy bounded onto the deck. “It’s me!”
“Joy!” her brother scolded from behind. “I told you to stay quiet!”
“We were spying on you!” the five-year-old replica of Angie said, pointing in her grandfather’s direction.
“Spying?” he said. “On me? Why would anyone want to spy on a harmless old man?”
“Because,” seven-year-old Tommy replied, “we know your true identity!”
“Yeah,” Joy echoed. “Your twue identity!”
The game was on. Ever since he was four years old Tommy had turned every trip to Grandpa’s house into a secret mission. His goal, now shared by his equally determined younger sister, was to foil whatever scheme for world domination Grandma implied her husband might be weaving from the safe haven of their Littleton home, otherwise known as Alpha Command Center.
Jim Tolbert smiled toward Kevin. “Two against one,” he said dreadfully. “I think I might be in real trouble this time.”
* * *
An hour later the secret agents sat on either side of their prisoner in self-satisfied delight while Angie placed a second chocolate chip pancake on Joy’s paper plate. Kevin knew his daughter would likely only take a few bites, already stuffed from her first. But Joy insisted on receiving the same bounty-hunter prize as her brother. After all, she had helped break whatever secret code or uncover whatever evil plot Grandpa had intended to launch.
Kevin’s mom was leaning against the kitchen counter beside the stovetop, the glow on her face as she turned back toward the skillet overpowering a grimace of pain. “Thanks, Grandma,” he said in an effort to tip the first domino.
“Yeah,” added Tommy. “Thank you, Grandma.”
“Yummy!” Joy contributed to the chorus.
“You really didn’t have to get up, Mom,” Angie said for the third time in the past half an hour.
“Don’t be silly,” Kevin’s mother replied. “It’s tradition, right, kids?”
“Yeah!” Tommy said to second the motion. “Grandma always makes us chocolate chip pancakes.”
“It’s twadition,” Joy added.
A whimpering grunt came from the high chair as little Ricky realized it had been nearly a minute since Daddy had landed the last spoonful of applesauce on his tongue’s runway.
“Sorry, buddy,” Kevin said while hastily filling the spoon.
Grandpa Villain had been sentenced to “hold Baby Leah” duty, a punishment he relished. Leah was no longer the baby of the family. But she still owned the title. Probably always would. Fragile X syndrome, a genetic disorder that impaired intellectual development, meant she might never fully care for herself. Kevin, Angie, and the kids would always consider her their baby. From all appearances, the three-year-old girl had smitten her grandfather almost as much as she had Daddy and big brother.
“Be careful, Grandpa!” Tommy noticed a chocolate smear on his youngest sister’s cheek. “You need to do it like this.” He reached to demonstrate the proper mouth-wiping procedure.
Kevin laughed at the look of bewilderment on his father’s face. Breakfast had never been like this when Kevin was young. Like many of his peers, James Tolbert had raised one child. He had never juggled the competing demands of diapers, playing catch, helping with homework, driving to practice, scheduling doctor appointments, and wiping chocolate smears. The endless list of daily activities that defined Angie and Kevin’s existence had been a gradually phased sequence for Kevin’s parents, rather than a rapid-fire assault.
“Here, let me simplify the process.” Kevin took Baby Leah from his father’s arms and handed him the spoon in exchange. “You try feeding little Ricky and I’ll clean up the mess you’ve made of my daughter’s face.”
“Respect the gray hair,” the elder said threateningly, but also with a hint of relief.
“Finish what you were saying,” Angie said in Kevin’s direction.
“Saying? Oh, right.” He positioned Leah on his lap and began the bouncing motion that experience told him made her feel secure. “I need to decide my next move. I think Franklin has the nomination in the bag. Maybe even the election. But he’s still nervous.”
“He wants Kevin to endorse his plan before the convention.”
Jim Tolbert turned toward his son. “I thought you said his plan wasn’t finalized yet.”
“It isn’t. He hasn’t figured out how to word my Bright Spots proposal.”
“But he plans to include it?”
“He says he does,” Kevin explained. “But he seems to be dragging his feet.”
“Of course he’s dragging his feet,” Angie seethed.
“He knows the press will bury him as soon as he includes it,” Kevin said.
A slight growl came from the high chair. The senior Tolbert realized he had stalled the feeding spoon a few inches short of the runway. “Oh, sorry, little guy,” he said while finishing the approach. “Here you go.”
“Anyway,” Kevin continued, “I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard place.”
“Describe the hard place,” his father said, assuming the role of clarity coach Kevin needed him to play.
“I can’t support a plan that expands the Robin Hood tax strategy.”
“He wants to hike my rates again?” Kevin’s father asked.
“He’s proposing a new wealth tax.”
“Again?” Mr. Tolbert said as if recalling a past blunder. “Didn’t they learn anything back in the twenties?”
“This time it’s different. He only wants to tax the wealth of citizens who turn eighty.”
Jim Tolbert placed the spoon in the half-empty bowl of applesauce before facing his son. “He wants to take assets away from seniors?”
A gloomy nod. “He does. But it’s not just Franklin. Most fiscal conservatives agree. There simply isn’t enough income available to tax to offset our deficits. They need to draw from national principal.”
“They call it national principal ?”
Another nod.
“So they are going to ask anyone who worked hard, paid their bills, and saved up for their old age to cough up their assets to cover the government’s tab?”
“They won’t just ask. They’ve tried that alre
ady. They haven’t found enough volunteers.”
“So they want to turn up the heat?” asked the elder. “They plan to smoke out the stubborn debits who’ve managed to resist the pressure to slit their own throats?”
“Exactly!” Angie interjected. “It makes me furious. There’s no way Kevin can support that plan.”
Kevin sensed his father inspecting the hard place. “So,” his dad finally said, “what’s the rock?”
Kevin’s eyes met Angie’s, then his mother’s, then his father’s.
“Well,” he said hesitantly, “Franklin’s right-hand man, Anderson, has hinted at a cabinet post.”
Stunned silence.
“Labor?” his father prodded.
“Commerce.”
More silence.
“Of course,” the elder whispered. “You’d be perfect.”
The comment surprised Kevin. Not that his father had said it, but that he also seemed to believe it.
“We’re talking about the White House, Dad. Not a congressional committee chair. The big table. The center of national power.”
“I understand,” his father replied. “And you’d be perfect for the job.”
Angie grinned. “I told you,” she said.
“Told him what?” Kevin’s mother asked from behind, still absorbing the shock of the news.
“I told him he’s just what the nation needs. What better way to advance the Bright Spots agenda than as the secretary of commerce?”
“Come on, babe,” Kevin said in self-deprecation. “You know as well as I do that will never happen.”
“Why not?” his father asked. “You have the business skills and track record. You’ve made your mark in Congress. And you’re nearly as smart as your old man!”
“And almost as handsome,” Gayle chimed in while sliding the final pancake from her spatula onto her husband’s plate. She winked after receiving his pat on her bottom.
“Anyway,” Kevin continued after rolling his eyes in their direction as he had when he was a kid, “I think they’re floating the cabinet post as a carrot, hoping I’ll rally the breeders around Franklin’s cause.”
