Lost in Dreams (11 page)

My prime rib and fries with cheese and bacon might have weighed me down—as did three mugs of Shirley Temples and a huge ice cream–covered chocolate chip cookie—but I still felt plenty peppy. Maybe the extra food had helped. I hadn’t been very hungry or enjoyed eating during the time fatigue had controlled my life. I’d lost a pound or two—maybe more—and I needed every one I had and then some.

But the topic of heading west to help Rob build his hostel didn’t come up during dinner. I didn’t think of it again until we got home and settled down in the living room again. For once, I was sitting up on the sofa and not lying down.

“Okay, gals and respected older guy,” I said, “when do

we leave for California?”

“Rob said to come during Christmas vacation,” Aleesha said. “Mine starts the first week in December.”

Jo shrugged. I wondered if she was worried about the cost. Since she wasn’t in school or working—I had no idea what she did with her time—money should have been the only possible thing to keep her from going.

Drat! The only thing but that doggoned overprotective mother of hers.

Dad looked at me with those washed-out blue eyes of his. How often I’d been thankful I didn’t inherit them. He looked like he was trying to stay afloat on an emotionally turbulent ocean.

“Kim, I thank God that you feel so much better now. I—”

“I do, Dad. I’ve already prayed about this trip”—
just don’t ask me how many seconds it
took—”and I believe God made me better just so I could go. I could almost hear Him saying, ‘Go for it, Kim.’”

His lips and eyes twisted the way they did when he opposed something—or at least questioned its wisdom. “I wish God would say something to me about it, then. It’s not that I don’t want you to go …”

I wanted to finish the sentence for him:
I want all of us to go
.

“Dad, it’s not just me. Rob invited all of us because God wants all of us. We’re a team.”

Jo shot me a questioning look.

“Yes, Jo. You, too.”

She smiled, although she still appeared uncertain.

“Kim,” Dad said, “I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes if you were well.” He must have seen the look on my face. “I know. You think you’re well now, and I can’t discount today’s miracle—there’s no other word for it—and the effect it’s had on you.”

“What, Dad? You don’t think God’s miracles are good enough to last?”

Oh, my word! I had
never
spoken to my father like that, and the look on his face was a mixture of shock and … and of what? Had I totally turned him off, or had I gotten through to him in spite of thoughtless, unintentional disrespect?

“Daddy, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re forgiven if I am.”

I crooked my eyebrows.

“I was wrong, too. Faithless, anyhow. You really believe you can handle a trip like this?”

“If my fatigue comes back, I’ll just sit around and supervise everyone else. I’ll be the highway worker who stands there watching everyone else work hard.”

Aleesha howled. When she laughed that hard, nobody could resist joining in.

“Baby girl, I still have reservations.”

Jo jumped in. “What kind of father would you be if you didn’t?” Aleesha gave her a thumbs-up. I wondered if Jo was thinking about her mother’s overcautiousness, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

“We can live on my income alone, Kim,” he said.
Huh? What’s that got to do with this?
“We’ll miss your mother’s when it comes to some of the extras, though.” I twisted my eyebrows in curiosity. “She paid for your car. I couldn’t have bought you such a nice one on my income alone.”

No! Are you saying we’ll have to cut back on extras without Mom’s income? Is this trip an extra we can’t afford? What about the money you inherited from your mother? Did my trip to Mexico use up all that was left of it?

Lord …?

“At the same time,” Dad said, “your mom had better-than-average life insurance coverage through her job, and it pays double for accidental death. I had a similar policy on her. Bottom line: We have enough money to do this trip.”

I looked at Aleesha and Jo. Could they afford it?

Dad must have seen my concerned look. “All four of us, I mean. I think Terri would want that.”

Only the deafest of our neighbors five blocks away could have failed to hear the whooping and cheering.

We had plenty of planning to do, though, and I made mental lists off and on all night—how wonderful to be so awake for a change. And I felt wonderful the next morning, too. Wonderful and energetic.

Thank You, Lord
.

But one thing kept bugging me.

I
wondered if things would be warmer in California. The relationship between Jo and Aleesha, that was. In spite of what I’d taken as good signs last night, Aleesha let me know privately that she wasn’t enthusiastic about having Jo come with us. I hoped that wouldn’t affect the success of the trip.

“You ready, girl?” I asked as Dad and I got ready to head over to the Snellings’ house.

“I’m not coming with you,” Aleesha said. “Huh? How come?”

“What if Jo’s parents have the smell, too? I don’t want to be the reason they say no.”

Dad must’ve heard her. “I’ve known the Snellings forever. They aren’t like that.”

But Aleesha refused to change her mind, so we went without her.

Dad rang the Snellings’ doorbell. I stood there shivering and thinking.

“Scott, Kim, what a surprise.” Mr. Snelling ushered us into the living room, and Dad and I sat down without waiting to be invited. That was how it’s supposed to be at a friend’s house, wasn’t it?

“Where’s Michelle?” Dad said.

“Oh, she’s”—he shook his head—”uh, I don’t know.” He acted like he didn’t care, either, and that shocked me. I’d ask Dad about it later if I remembered to.

“I understand you’re feeling much better now, Kim,” Mr. Snelling said, his words ending in a huge smile. I’d never felt

comfortable calling him Josh, even though Jo had always called my parents by their first names. Behind their backs, anyhow. “I’m glad.”

The degree of warmth in his voice told me
“I’m glad”
meant
“I couldn’t be happier.” As
much as Michelle Snelling liked to talk and as much as she had to say, he—maybe I’d do an Aleesha and refer to him as
Mr. Josh—had
probably had lots of practice keeping his comments short.

He called Jo in from the kitchen, and the four of us enjoyed a few minutes of small talk.

“I’ve been helping Papa out at his insurance agency,” Jo said.

“Oh, yeah?”
So that’s what you do in your spare time. And you didn’t think I’d be interested in knowing that?

“Two or three days a week. Sometimes more.”

Aleesha’s opinion of Jo would probably shoot up a couple of notches when she learned that. She thought Jo was lazy, and defending her was a struggle because I often felt the same way. I usually blamed her inactivity on her mama’s “smother love,” though. Mrs. Snelling was afraid something would happen to Jo if she went anywhere to do anything worthwhile. She never seemed to consider the possibility of that something being good—either for Jo or for someone else.

“It isn’t a real job, though. Papa would be glad to enlarge his agency to
Snelling & Snelling
when the time comes—”

“But I want Betsy Jo to do what God wants—and what will give her the greatest satisfaction.”

I wondered if Mrs. Snelling would be happier keeping Jo safely behind a desk—or maybe inside a safety deposit box—than letting her take chances by following God’s leading.

“Anyhow,” Jo continued, “I asked to help Papa so I can get my feet wet. You know? Even unpaid work experience looks good on a résumé when a girl has never held a job.”

That kept us talking for a while about how a young adult

can’t get a job without experience or experience without a job. When the conversation lulled, Dad reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the familiar two-sheet printout.

“Josh, I want you to hear something. This e-mail came from Rob White, Kim’s supervisor in Mexico. Settle back. It’s not short.”

The two men laughed, but Jo and I just looked at each other. What was so funny about that? Must have been a man thing.

“It’s worth hearing, though,” he added.

We’d told Jo last night not to say anything to her parents about this mission trip. She was to pray about it and let Dad deal with her parents.

I watched Mr. Josh’s face while Dad read the message aloud. I didn’t need to be a genius or a body language expert to see how much the idea excited him. He was grinning and nodding so enthusiastically by the time Dad reached the end that I half expected him to ask to go, too.

He didn’t say anything, but I could picture those clichéd wheels spinning off their axle. Dad allowed him another minute of silence.

“Josh, I want to take Jo—uh, Betsy Jo—with us during the holidays. We’ll be gone a couple of weeks, but she’ll be strictly supervised, and we’ll keep her safe.”

I hoped he would add,
“No Mexican drug wars that far north of Sacramento”
for Mrs. Snelling’s sake, but he didn’t.

“She should have gone to Mexico,” Mr. Josh said. “I told Michelle repeatedly that Betsy Jo would be safe, but she wouldn’t listen. She doesn’t … listen.”

If he was trying to hide his resentment toward his wife, he was doing a lousy job of it, to use a word I intensely dislike. Were he and Mrs. Snelling having marital problems? I’d never thought about whether they seemed happy together, yet I suddenly realized how blessed we were to have this

conversation in Michelle Snelling’s absence.

Dad remained silent. I think we both knew Mr. Josh had left some important things unsaid. Things he probably needed to talk about with someone.

I looked at Jo, and she wore a more miserable hangdog look than I’d ever seen before. Which was she more worried about—her papa’s feelings about the trip or her parents’ marriage?

“Betsy Jo …” He looked at his daughter. “Jo? I like that.” She smiled. “Do you want to go on this project?” From his tone of voice, I could tell he just wanted to hear her say it.

She threw her arms around him and kissed him. I was almost in tears.

“We’ll pay her way,” Dad said.

“Thanks, Scott, but no. We’ll pay. That won’t make up for keeping her from going to Mexico, but it’ll make me feel better.”

“You’re sure?” Dad knew the Snellings weren’t poor, but they weren’t as relatively well-off as we were. Especially now that we had an unspecified amount of life insurance money in the bank, somewhere in the mid–six figures if my guess was anywhere close to right.

Mr. Josh laughed. “That Rob White … when he refunded Jo’s money, he sent her a little note. ‘Hope you can use this on a
safe
mission trip, Betsy Jo. I’m looking forward to meeting you then.’”

I started to say something, but Jo and I looked at each other and broke out crying. If Aleesha had been with us, she would have been bawling the hardest. That note was
so
Rob. It’s no wonder he’d become my second father at a time I wasn’t at all close to Dad.

Dad kept opening and closing his mouth. He narrowed his left eye as if puzzling over something.
What are you so hesitant to say?

“Josh …”
Go on, Dad
. “What about Michelle?”

Jo and I stopped blubbering. I don’t know about her, but I think I stopped breathing.

“She doesn’t get a say in this. She’s already said too much—for too long.”

Dad’s eyes opened wide. I wouldn’t have known how to respond, either.

“Jo,” Mr. Snelling said with a smile on his lips but sadness in his eyes, “here’s the way I see it. You’re eighteen. You’re free to go wherever you want whenever you want. You don’t legally need your mother’s approval or mine.”

Why did that statement sound so bittersweet?

Act 2

B
eing away from home felt wonderful. Intoxicating. The way I assumed intoxication made a person feel, anyhow. I’d never touched alcohol and didn’t plan to start anytime in the next eighty years. Life was crazy enough without it.

Although my plane seat didn’t compete with the comfort of our living room sofa, I had an advantage over my co-travelers. Far shorter than even the shortest of them, I invited Dad and Aleesha to stretch out and use some of my unneeded foot space. Unfortunately for Jo, she sat across the aisle from Dad, where my free space wouldn’t help her.

Even though I’d closed my eyes, I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about
A Tale of Two Cities
again. It had made a profound impact on me in the tenth grade. What teenaged girl in her right mind wouldn’t be moved to tears by that
“It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done”
ending when Sydney Carton chooses to die in Charles Darnay’s place?

The idea may have sounded Christlike, but it wasn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. Jesus lived a sinless life, but Sydney Carton hadn’t even lived a good one.

I’d been planning to reread that book when I got around to it. But now that I was sufficiently alert to start an intensive study of Spanish, I’d have to put Dickens on hold awhile longer. Maybe I could get a copy in Spanish when I became fluent enough.

Some parts of the story came back clearly. One in particular. Even though the authorities released Dr. Manette from the Bastille—physically—the severe emotional problem that resulted

from his traumatic imprisonment held him an even more horrendous kind of prisoner for a long time after that.

Would this trip to California free me from my guilt problem—or just make me forget about it for a while?

“Kim, wake up,” Aleesha said. Her whisper was far gentler than the way she was manhandling my newly recovered arm and so quiet I could barely hear her over the roar of the plane.

“Huh? What?” I mumbled, only to find Aleesha’s hand over my mouth. Quadruple that
Huh? What?

“Hush, girl. You don’t want your father to hear.”

No! I’d drifted off and had a nightmare … while sitting between Dad and Aleesha on the flight to Sacramento.