Embracing Change

by Debbie Roome

  “Yep. It’s a good life out here, but hard work. I’m sure Joel’s told you about that side of it.”

  She nodded in agreement, just as Joel’s mother called them to come in for lunch.

  “We’ll eat in the kitchen because it’s warmer,” she said. “You don’t mind do you, Sarah?”

  “Not at all. It’s lovely and cosy in here.” In fact the combined heat of the fire in the next room and the oven in the kitchen was slightly too warm after the frigid air outside.

  Lunch was roast lamb with mint sauce and an array of delicious vegetables. “This is the best roast I’ve had since moving to New Zealand,” Sarah said between mouthfuls. “It’s so tender and the flavour’s just perfect.”

  Joel agreed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mom.”

  “Tell us about yourself, Sarah.” Izzy leaned back in her chair after emptying her plate. “Which part of South Africa are you from and how long have you been here?”

  Sarah flashed a smile at Joel. “I was born and raised in Johannesburg and moved to New Zealand in March this year.”

  “And do you like it here?”

  “It was a struggle to begin with. Everything seemed so different and it was hard to adapt and fit in. It’s an amazing country, though. Everything’s clean, the systems work, and the scenery is fantastic.”

  Joel’s mother looked pleased. “And you’re flatting with Mandy and the girls in Christchurch?”

  “Yes. We get on very well.”

  “Mandy’s a lovely girl. She’s been out here a couple of times with Joel.”

  Mandy’s been to the farm? Joel never mentioned that. Sarah pushed the thoughts away. It’s none of my business what Joel does or doesn’t do. “Can I help you clear the plates?” she offered, hoping to change the subject.

  “Thank you, dear. I’ll get the dessert out while you do that.”

  A few minutes later, she resumed her questioning over slices of hot apple crumble, drizzled with fresh cream and smooth custard. “Do you go to the same church as Joel?”

  “I’ve visited a couple of times but I don’t go every week.”

  She nodded. “They’ve got a good pastor there. His knowledge of the Bible is sound and he preaches a good sermon.” She cut another slice of apple crumble. “Did you attend church in Johannesburg?”

  Sarah looked at Joel, begging silently for help.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mom, but if you’ll excuse us, I think we’ll head up to the mountains now.” He looked across at his dad. “It’s still clear outside but the weather forecast predicted a southerly change this afternoon.”

  His dad pushed his chair back. “I’ll get the keys for you. You don’t want to get snowed in up there.”

  Ten minutes later they were on the road heading into the hills. The Isuzu was higher off the ground than Joel’s car and felt more robust as they travelled round corners and over rough sections of road.

  “I can’t wait to get into the mountains,” Sarah said, gazing out at the powdered foothills. Here and there she caught glimpses of the Alps, coated in thick snow. “It looks so different to the last time I drove up here.”

  “It’s amazing how snow transforms a landscape,” Joel agreed.

  As they continued to climb, the whiteness thickened and was soon right down to the edge of the road. “The ploughs have been through here today.” Joel pointed at mounds of snow, banked up along the edges of the road. “They’ve spread grit to give vehicles a better grip in the ice.” He drove slowly and carefully until they reached the turn off to Crystal Falls.

  Sarah felt memories washing over her as Joel parked the car; the pain of scattering the ashes and saying a final goodbye to Luke. Joel picked up on her silence. “Are you alright?”

  “I will be.”

  “I’m coming up with you because the path will be slippery and I don’t want you hurting yourself.” He paused. “But I won’t come up to the waterfall. I won’t disturb your privacy.”

  “Thank you, Joel.”

  The path was slick, just as Joel had predicted, although there wasn’t that much snow on the ground. Most of it was resting on the canopy of trees above. “Watch out!” he called, as a shower of snow dropped from the branches, splattering them both with icy crystals.

  “That was close,” they laughed together.

  Twenty minutes later, the tinkling of the waterfall increased to a roar and Joel stopped in a small clearing, unzipping his backpack. “Here’s the cross,” he said, handing it to Sarah. “I’ll wait here. Just shout if you need me.”

  She took the cross and held it to her cheek, tears already filling her eyes. “Thank you, Joel, not just for the cross but for everything you’ve done for me.”

  She clambered up the last stretch of the path and pushed past some dripping bushes to reach the waterfall.

  “Oh, Luke …” She hugged the cross to herself. “Is there anything left here, or is it just memories now?”

  The water thundered into the pool, a far greater volume than before, and spray hung like fine mist in the air. For a long moment, anger flared in Sarah’s heart; anger at the unfairness of life, anger at the constant pain that lurked within, anger that she was still struggling. Then she looked down at the cross in her hands. It wasn’t just a memorial to Luke. It was a reminder that someone else cared.

  She picked her way round the pool to the spot where she’d scattered the ashes. The mountain rose steeply in front of her, an edifice of grey rock carpeted with thick ferns. After searching for a few minutes, she found the perfect spot for the cross: a hidden nook in the rock, masked by verdant undergrowth and crisscrossed vines. Using a stone, she dug a hole in the sodden earth and pushed the cross down into it.

  “I love you, Luke. You’ll always hold a special place in my heart.”

  Then she turned and called down the mountain: “Joel!”

  He came quickly, his face concerned, water dripping from his hood. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “When I scattered Luke’s ashes, I thought I should say a prayer but didn’t know how to. I wondered if you could pray now.”

  “Of course.” He scrambled over the rocks to where she was standing.

  “I’ve found a safe place for the cross.” Sarah indicated the sheltered nook. “It’s hidden in there and the rocks will protect it from the weather.”

  After peering behind the foliage, Joel took hold of her hand and they stood together, the waterfall tossing icy water onto their faces. “Father God, we’re here today to remember Luke—a man who was thirsty for You and wanted to follow Your will for his life. We don’t understand why he died, but we have the assurance that he’s with you. I pray you bless Sarah with peace; that she will begin to feel some sense of closure. Heal her heart and mind from the trauma she’s been through, and let today be a turning point for her. A day she can look back on as a point of positive change.”

  They stood like that for a long time, hand in hand, spray running down their faces, mingling with tears—and a sense of hope and expectancy.

  Chapter Twenty

  Winter is fading and signs of spring are all around. Swollen buds cover trees, and daffodils and snowdrops are pushing through frozen earth. My heart still feels hard but I’m hoping my own spring is coming too; a time when I’ll see new growth and beauty in my life.

  From the journal of Sarah Johnson

  Saturday 9th August

  The e-mail arrived on a Saturday morning; an inconspicuous message among the others in her inbox. Seeing it came from her parents, Sarah pulled her laptop onto her knees and lay back on the bed, wiggling into a comfortable spot. Outside, the wintry morning was crisp, and pale sunbeams spilled across the windowsill, warming her feet and ankles. One of the girls was baking and the aroma of chocolate muffins hung rich in the air, bringing with it a feeling of homeliness and comfort.

  The message, then, was a brutal shock:

  Dear Sarah,

  I have attached a clipping from this morning’s paper. I know it’s not
good news but I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else. Please call us if you want to talk. We’re always here for you.

  With love, Dad

  With a sense of dread, Sarah clicked on the attachment, bringing up a brief newspaper article. She knew as soon as she scanned the headlines.

  Killer Escapes High Security Prison

  Sipho Dlamini escaped from Stanmore High Security Prison near Johannesburg yesterday. A police spokesman says it appears to have been a planned breakout. Two guards were shot and wounded during the incident. Dlamini fled in the back of a plumbing repair truck which was later found abandoned in the Germiston area. He was serving a life sentence for the murder of Luke Raycroft and attempted murder of Sarah Johnson during a hijacking in June last year.

  Sarah pushed the laptop away, blackness spiralling through her soul. Dlamini—free? Free to maim and kill again? Hatred twisted her gut, the feeling stronger than ever before. If I had the chance I’d kill him myself! He’s pure evil. Anyone can see that.

  She closed her eyes, allowing his image to fill her mind. Dead black eyes, taut muscles under ebony skin. The gun in his hand and the hatred in his expression as he fired the shots into Luke …

  I need to speak to Dad.

  She opened her eyes and glanced at her watch before grabbing her cell phone. It was night-time in South Africa but her parents would still be up. She punched in the familiar numbers and listened as the phone rang, a soft burring sound with a couple of clicks in the background. A cloud crept in front of the sun and her ankles were suddenly cold.

  When her mother answered, Sarah spoke in a rush. “Mom, it’s me.” She could feel the poison of bitterness seeping into her voice but was powerless to stop it. “I just got Dad’s e-mail.”

  “Sarah, honey, I was so worried when Dad said he was sending it.”

  “No, don’t be. I would have wanted to know. Is there any more news? Any trace of him at all? I feel sick when I think of him free on the streets.”

  Her mother sighed. “We all do. Your dad’s watching the late night news. Let me call him and see if there’s been any update.”

  The phone burped and hissed as her mother covered the mouth piece. A minute later, a masculine voice echoed across the seas, metallic tones causing a slight distortion. “Hi, Sarah.”

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “There’ve been a couple of sightings of Dlamini. One in Soweto and the other near Gold Reef City. I’m sure they’ll have him back behind bars soon.”

  “But how did it happen, Dad? How could he get out of a high security facility so easily? He must have had inside contacts.”

  “No doubt.” His tone was dry and cynical and for the briefest of moments, she saw a reflection of her hatred. Saw how deep and dark and soul destroying it was.

  “I won’t have a minute’s peace until he’s caught.”

  “No. I’m actually hoping someone will shoot him dead. The world would be better off without scum like him.”

  His bitterness intensified with each statement and Sarah felt it contaminating her soul like a toxic oil spill. “Well I’d better hang up, Dad. Please e-mail me with any news.”

  “I will, as soon as I hear anything.”

  She laid the cell phone on the bed before reaching for a pair of thick socks. A good walk in the brisk morning air felt like a solution to the anger burning within. She wanted the icy winds to reach inside her and freeze the pain. It was only days since she’d felt new hope growing in her heart, since the colours around her had blossomed with new life. Now they felt like tatters, fragments of cloth blown away by a violent gust.

  Jade was in the kitchen, a purple bandana tied around her mop of highlights, her face glowing from the heat of the oven. “Try one, Sarah.” She pushed the rack towards her, laden with plump muffins, overflowing with thick chocolate icing.

  “Maybe later.” Sarah lifted the Toyota’s keys from the key cupboard. “I’ve had some bad news. I’m going down to the beach for a walk.”

  Jade came round the kitchen counter, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Is it something serious? Would you like me to come with you?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I just need some space.” She reached out and touched Jade’s arm. “But thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

  “Take some muffins with you, Sarah, and a rain jacket. The radio weather says a storm is closing in on us. We might even get some snow.” She plucked a plastic container from the drying rack and placed two muffins inside, settling them on a folded napkin. “And take some water if you’re walking. You can dehydrate, even in this weather.” She pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. “There you go, and don’t forget your jacket.”

  Sarah parked her car near New Brighton Pier and sat for a while, gazing across the ocean which churned like dirty water in a washing machine. It did seem the weather was changing, and she wondered briefly if she should abandon her walk.

  She started the engine again and drove south, down the beachfront. On the right, rows of weathered homes stood tall, wooden trims warped and faded by relentless sea breezes. On the left, the sea pounded the sand, hurling spumes of foam higher and higher.

  It was the wildness that made her more resolute; the wildness that resonated with her anger and rage. She pulled the car into a sandy parking area, shrugged on her jacket, and clambered over the dunes to face the roaring ocean. To her surprise there were others on the beach: a couple with a Spaniel, and a group of teenagers. She turned away from them and started walking, her feet making heavy imprints as she forced herself forward. The rain began a few minutes later, cold and stinging, soaking her hair, running in icy rivulets down her back.

  “It’s not fair, God,” she shouted to the heavens. “I said I’d give you a chance and this is what happens. How can You heal my heart if you can’t stop a criminal from escaping his jail cell?”

  There was no answer, and she shouted again. “I hate him! Do You hear me, God? I hate Sipho Dlamini with every part of my being! I hate him for what he did to Luke. I hate him for what he did to me. I hate him because he still has power over me.” She stopped, breathless, winded by the exertion, the emotion that burst from her soul.

  “I just … hate him,” she whispered, and walked blindly onward.

  After some time she raised her head and looked around, shaking icy water from hair and hands. The beach curved in front of her and she realised she had walked to the end of the spit, to the reserve that looked across to the estuary. Flax plants and shrubs rose from the sand and she glimpsed flashes of bright colour; a slide, a swing, a playhouse where children would laugh in summer as they jumped and climbed.

  Memories of playgrounds a continent away surfaced as she pushed her way through the bushes to see this patch of innocence. What happened to that little girl? Life seemed so simple back then. Mom and Dad would take me to the park at weekends and push me on the swings. Then Daddy would catch me at the bottom of the slide and we’d go to the tearoom for sticky cakes and a drink …

  She walked from one piece of equipment to another, pushing the seesaw up and down and touching the slats on the wooden climbing frame. It was as she climbed off the swing that she realised the rain was thickening into sleet. Her shoes were quite sodden by then, and her fingers stiff with cold. I wonder if I should shelter in the playhouse until the weather calms down?

  She walked across to the wooden structure, its red and yellow paint faded and scarred. She could imagine little girls playing house here, peeping out of the windows, sweeping the steps with a branch, rocking dolls, and cooking on a plastic stove … She took hold of the smooth wooden handle and pulled the door open.

  It took her a moment to realise there was someone inside; a bald man with tattoos and facial hair, his eyes dull from drugs or alcohol. She slammed the door shut as he reached towards her, his hand grasping empty air.

  “No!” The scream was involuntary, surging from tired lungs as she urged her feet forward, forcing speed from them, tripping over hidden roots. Sh
e fell several times, falling face first into flax plants, their sharp tips piercing and ripping her skin.

  He was coming after her. She heard his breath, laboured and heavy as he coughed. Heard his heavy footsteps as he pounded through the bushes …

  And then there was nothing. Just the sound of sleet slapping against leaves, and surf crashing on the beach nearby.

  Sarah crawled into the shelter of some bushes, her heart beating erratically, stiff with fear. What if he was sitting quietly, waiting for her to come out of hiding?

  She flattened herself and tucked her jacket close, pulling the hood over her head.

  Oh, God. I’m sorry I got angry. Please keep me safe from this man. Don’t let him find me. Please, God, give me another chance.

  The words of a psalm that Joel had read to her popped into her mind: A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.

  She would wait. Wait for him to give up and move first. Wait for him to assume she had gone.

  As she huddled in the bushes the sleet lightened and she realised it was snowing, delicate flakes whirling around her, silent and calm by comparison with the force of the earlier rain.

  Chapter Twenty One

  You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day.

  —Psalm 91:5

  Joel’s phone rang at 3pm. “Hey, Joel, Jade here. Have you seen Sarah today?”

  “Nope. Haven’t heard or seen a thing.”

  “I’m worried she’s done something stupid. She left at midday after saying she’d had some bad news.”

  “Do you know what it was?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me. Just said she was going for a walk on the beach.”

  “In this weather?” His mind flipped through the possibilities. “Hold on, Jade. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”