Lost in Dreams (3 page)

“She wasn’t trying to answer one of my calls or listen to my voice mail, was she?” I asked myself repeatedly while dabbing my eyes with tissue after tissue. Surely not. Not as much as she preached against cell phone use while driving.

She knew better.

I used up the rest of the tissues before resorting to the sleeve of the red sweatshirt I’d bought just hours ago at San Diego International. I’d smiled to myself when I first spotted it. It was pizza sauce red, although I couldn’t tell what brand.

But I wasn’t smiling now, and “just hours ago” seemed like a lifetime. I’d talked to Mom before I left San Diego. She was so looking forward to seeing me … to hearing all about my trip. Now I didn’t even know if she was … still alive. The world wasn’t big enough to contain all the tissues I’d need if she wasn’t.

And nothing could keep my stomach from churning mercilessly each time I asked myself,
Is it possible I’m responsible for Mom’s accident?

I barely noticed people staring at me. Most of them rushed on by the way people do in an airport. One lady stopped and came closer, though. She looked concerned … like she really wanted to help.

But her Vietnamese features—especially her hair and face—were so similar to Mom’s that I had to turn and face the wall. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t deal with someone who reminded me that much of Mom.

It was like confronting a ghost. Had God sent this woman as a sign that Mom was dead? Or that she wasn’t?

Those dark eyes undoubtedly reflected the ton of kindness and understanding she felt for an older teen who was

bawling her eyes out against the tiled wall of a busy airport, but I could only see my mother’s face, criticizing me for my thoughtlessness.

Why had I kept calling Mom after discovering the weather was so bad? Why had I insisted on leaving voice mail? Why hadn’t I simply waited for her to arrive—no matter how late?

Deep inside, I wanted to verbalize a prayer, but when I closed my eyes, I knew the Holy Spirit would have to accept the uncontrollable moaning that meant,
Heavenly Daddy, make Mom be okay. Don’t let her …

I couldn’t say it. Not even in prayer. I couldn’t face the possibility that Mom was … gone.

The Vietnamese woman spent several minutes patting my shoulder lightly. Every once in a while, she spoke words I might have recognized if I’d let Mom teach me her heart language. If Mom … survived, I’d beg her for lessons. I hoped it wasn’t too late to learn more about the Asian half of my heritage.

Before my Good Samaritan moved on, she reached in her purse and took out a purple handkerchief. It looked clean and had a freshly ironed smell. I tried to smile when she gently pried open the fingers of my left hand, placed the handkerchief in my palm, and closed my fingers around it.

I couldn’t smile, though, and I hated my inability to explain why. I hoped she understood that I didn’t always act this ungrateful.

When I opened my hand and looked at the handkerchief, I found a tiny wooden cross inside. An angel had attempted to minister to me, and I’d rejected her. At least I felt like I had.

I stared at the wall through tear-bleary eyes. I felt like beating my fists against its hard, unforgiving surface, but that wouldn’t help me find the chapel.

“Kim? Kim Hartlinger?”

The voice sounded familiar. I turned around to face a stylish black woman in her early thirties. She wore a smart-looking Skyfly Airlines uniform and a photo ID. I stared hard through my tears.

Mirages only appear in the desert. They never happen in airports, do they?

M
rs. Adams?” I didn’t try to hide my amazement … my disbelief. “Penny?” A miracle like this would have been beyond my ability to hope or pray for. Who but my precious Heavenly Father would do such a thing on my behalf simply because He loved me and knew how badly I needed help?

“Kim,” Penny said as she opened her arms for a hug. I probably shocked her by burying my face in her shoulder and breaking out in fresh tears. She’d seen me frantic before, but not this far out of control.

I wouldn’t have made it to San Diego in time to join the team a couple of weeks before if she hadn’t exerted her authority as a Skyfly supervisor to get me on an early-enough flight out of Dallas/Fort Worth after I missed my scheduled flight.

Penny’s unexpected appearance today relieved my concerns so much I didn’t think to ask why she was in Atlanta. I just cared that she was with me. As a Christian, she’d undoubtedly go out of her way to help me again. Especially now that she realized I was major-league upset.

I lifted my head from her shoulder and tried to speak, but I couldn’t get any further than “I …” for crying.

Her face revealed the same kind of compassion I pictured Jesus showing the sick people who came to him for healing.

“What’s wrong, Kim?” Her concern was real. Her voice revealed a genuine desire to help.

I dried my eyes with the purple handkerchief and blew my nose before answering. “An auto accident. My mom. Just a

little while ago. She may not …”

Her smooth face wrinkled, and her eyes narrowed and clouded with mist. “I am
so
sorry.” She pulled me into her arms once more. The warmth of her hands on my back—the tender strength—reminded me of the hugs my mother … used to give me. “I’m here for you, baby.”

Although I was preoccupied with worry and the beginnings of guilt—were those two of the “pebbles” Aleesha had cautioned me about or perhaps the whole bagful?—I would never stop thanking God for Penny’s undivided attention. What a blessing to have the assurance that she had moved me to the top of her priority list.

“You need help.” A statement, not a question. I didn’t respond. “What can I do first, Kim?”

“The chapel,” I managed to say between sniffles. “Must get to the chapel. Somebody … policewoman … meeting me there. Will tell me … if—”

“Whoa, Kim,” she said as she caught me and guided me to a nearby seat.

“You’re too wobbly to walk. I’m getting you some transportation.”

I nodded. At least I assume I did.

Before I knew it, she was talking into her portable phone … and her words were coming out over the public address system. “I need a wheelchair at the Skyfly counter.” She gave me a quick once-over. “Make that a wheelchair, a bottle of cold water, a wet washcloth, and a box of tissues at Skyfly. Please hurry.”

She repeated her announcement before turning to me again.

“Where are your suitcases, Kim?”

I shrugged. For all I knew, they were still in or near the cart. But where that was, I couldn’t say. I wasn’t sure where I was. “Don’t worry. We’ll find them.”

“They’re almost empty this time. No bricks.” That’s what

Millie Q had accused me of carrying to San Diego. Under different circumstances, I probably would have laughed. But these circumstances were the wrong kind of different.

Before I knew what was happening, Penny was wheeling me through the airport and talking on the phone with airport security. “How many suitcases?”

I held up four fingers, and she relayed that information to the security people.

“Tan?”

I nodded.

“Two large, two extra-large?” I nodded again.

Although Penny was careful not to run into anyone, she didn’t waste any time rushing me to the chapel. If I’d been in better spirits, I might have teased her about whether she intended to have a second career as a female NASCAR driver.

After wiping my face and blowing my nose, I reclined my head slightly and draped the white cloth over my eyes. Although it felt pleasantly cool, I was more concerned about not having to watch people staring back at me as we made our way through the airport. Before long, I quit caring.

Stress can make a girl aware of the strangest things. One of the wheels on my wheelchair suffered from a significant nick. Or maybe a long-dried-on lump of gum. Either way, I seemed to be riding on a highway that needed repair. Bumpety-smooth-bumpety-bumpety. Bumpety-smooth-bumpety-smooth.

When Penny stopped, I uncovered my face and wiped my eyes. Even so, they couldn’t have burned much worse if some sadist had poured a ton of salt in them. So I wiped them again while she opened the chapel door. Holding it open with one foot, she wheeled me inside.

The only other person in the small chapel was a middle-aged

woman—mid- to late-thirties. Her police uniform didn’t flatter her figure. She—who did the policeman who called from Mom’s phone say would be meeting me? Officer Dawson?—stood up and turned around.

She took forever coming to greet us. I wouldn’t have been in a rush to tell me her news, either. Once I saw her close-up, the tension in her face scared the daylights out of me.

“Miss Hartlinger … Kim.” Looking into my eyes, she took my hand without shaking it. I looked at my feet. “I’m Officer Ellen Dawson.”

I didn’t make any effort to acknowledge her greeting, but looked up again with fresh tears already clouding my vision. She was still holding my hand—ever so gently—the way Mom … would have done.

Like when she knew something I didn’t know. Something she didn’t want to tell me. Something that would upset me to hear.

“No! Mom can’t be …”

Officer Dawson glanced over my shoulder at Penny, who had begun massaging my shoulders. Tears were forming in the policewoman’s eyes, and I heard Penny sniffling behind me.

She quit rubbing my shoulders and took a firm hold. As if she needed to hold me in place to keep me from falling apart.

“I’ve called your father,” Officer Dawson said. Duty must have required her to get back to business, no matter how unpleasant. “Mrs.”—she strained to read Penny’s ID—”Mrs. Adams, can you take care of Kim while Mr. Hartlinger goes to the hospital to identify …?”

I screamed as if my heart was full of demons, and the chapel echoed with sounds I’d never known I was capable of making.

I
hadn’t been inside a funeral home since my grandmother died, and I could barely remember that time. Even though her estate helped fund my mission trip to Santa María, she and I had never been close. Truth is, I didn’t know her well enough to love or miss her.

Dad never told me how he felt about his mother’s death, and I never saw him cry. Not even at the funeral. I might not have known much about grief, but that “stiff upper lip” attitude struck me as odd.

Perhaps even cold. But my dad could be that way at times. Everything was different this time, though. The deceased was Dad’s wife and my mother, and I’d never seen him look so dragged out and pathetic. His weak, haggard appearance was not just heartrending, but downright scary.

Not that I’d ever thought of Dad as strong—or weak. I’d never known him that well. Not emotionally. But I was determined to do something about that now.

If I ever got over my own grief—I couldn’t imagine that would ever happen—I’d do everything I could to close the gap between Dad and me. I would take good care of him and show him how much he needed me. How much we needed each other. Mom was gone, but neither of us had to feel helplessly alone.

Still, the thought of playing cook, laundress, and maid to my father made me feel far older than eighteen. The idea scared me almost senseless. Had I really matured enough to take my mom’s place in meeting Dad’s day-to-day needs? How

could I hope to run the household the way she had? Could God give me enough patience to put up with Dad’s peculiarities?

On the way home from my life-changing experiences in Mexico, I thought I could do anything within my power to build a better relationship with Dad.

But now? I felt as helpless—as powerless—as he looked and acted.

I stood as far back from the casket as I could. Wishing I could hide in my own little broken world, I stared at the cheapy watch I’d bought on the way to Santa María—now wasn’t the time to have my cell phone out—and wished everyone would go home and leave me alone. But wishing didn’t keep people from finding me, no matter how little I felt like talking with anyone.

With anyone but Aleesha or Betsy Jo, that was.

But Aleesha had gone home to Baltimore. She wept with me over the phone when I called to tell her about Mom’s death. She offered to come be with me, but I told her she didn’t need to.

I could have kicked myself for not saying, “How soon can you get here?”

And Betsy Jo? I didn’t know where she was. Even though I’d been home from Santa María more than forty-eight hours, I hadn’t heard from her. Not even a text message.

Because we’d been best friends almost since birth, her avoidance seemed out of character. If my grief hadn’t made me so self-centered, I might have worried that something was wrong with her.

Then again, Mr. Snelling didn’t mention her when he stopped by to see Dad and me the night of the accident. He came over after midnight because he saw our lights were still on. His concern had been genuine. And obvious.

Although Mrs. Snelling had already gone to bed, she sent

her condolences. At least we felt confident of their support. Their support. But not Betsy Jo’s.

I hated making comparisons, but after growing so close to Aleesha in Mexico, I couldn’t help wondering if she hadn’t become a better best friend than Betsy Jo. Aleesha wasn’t just
a
good Samaritan.

After drooling once more over the gorgeous flower arrangement she’d sent, I concluded she was the
only
one.

I wished some of the other teens had come to visitation. It’s not like they had to look at Mom’s body. They couldn’t have, in fact. In spite of the airbag’s futile attempt to protect her, the accident had disfigured her face and upper body so horribly that Dad wouldn’t even let me see her.

The mortician had done his best to reconstruct her basic features, Dad explained before insisting that I’d be better off remembering Mom the way she looked the last time I saw her. I begged him to change his mind, but he wouldn’t, and he went along with the funeral director’s recommendation to keep the casket closed during visitation.

Nobody should see Mom looking like that. Everyone should remember her the way she’d looked in life.