Lost in Dreams (12 page)

“Mr. Scott has headphones on, so he probably didn’t hear you. I didn’t think you would want him to know.”

She was so right. As concerned as Dad was about my ability to make this trip—he’d kept asking how I felt up till boarding time—he might send me home again as soon as we landed if he found out I’d had another nightmare.

Lord, nightmares are bad enough, but please don’t let my guilt feelings result in severe fatigue again. Not until after this project, anyhow
.

That would be worse than the broken arm, although I didn’t doubt that God could still use me. Somehow.

“Same one you had months ago?” Aleesha said. Although she was still whispering, her eyes were tense with worry.

Quick glance. Dad appeared to be sound asleep.

“Not exactly,” I whispered back. “A continuation of it.”

Aleesha narrowed her eyes.

“They threw me in jail after convicting me of involuntary manslaughter. A group of rough-looking inmates asked what I was in for. When I told them, ‘Murdering my mother,’ they dropped back with terror on their faces and anger in their eyes.

“Questions flew at me from everywhere. ‘Was she mean?’ ‘Did she take away your beef jerky?’ ‘Did she make you wear clothes that were far out-of-style?’ ‘Did she ask you to do the dishes?’

“‘None of those things,’ I told them. ‘She was the most wonderful mom in the world, and I miss her terribly.’

“I explained the circumstances surrounding her death. The more I said, the harsher and meaner their looks grew. They were obviously planning to gang up on me and give me what I deserved. I didn’t know what that would be—not specifically—but it would be horrendous. Somehow, I knew it would involve my hair. And its color.

“Then I heard a still, small voice say, ‘Kim, this is how I punish foolish young adults who disobey my “Thou shalt not kill” and “Honor your father and your mother” commandments. Especially when they do both at the same time.’

“They grabbed my cell phone—I’d made the mistake of telling them about the voice mail recording of the accident from the original nightmare—and handed it to a guard. I don’t know what they said to him, but before I could blink back the tears, the sounds of the accident began playing over the public address system. At top volume.

“Over and over again. Throughout the night. If I dropped off to sleep, my big bruiser of a cell mate woke me up and said, ‘Hartlinger, here’s something you need to hear … ‘“

Just telling Aleesha about the nightmare wore me out. Was this a sign of my fatigue coming back?

Please, Lord, no!

Aleesha suddenly put her finger against my lips and nodded ever so slightly toward Dad. Although his eyes were still closed, the headphones dangled from his neck and his head inclined a bit more in my direction than before. He might as well have been wearing a sign that said,
“I’m awake and

trying to listen without being obvious. “

Have you heard anything yet? If so, how much?

The part about listening repeatedly to the recording of the accident would have been bad enough, but if he heard about me confessing my crime to the other inmates, he’d discover my real problem. I broke out in a cold sweat at the very thought of him blaming me and treating me the way I deserved.

What would he say if I asked,
“Daddy, how much did you hear?”

He might pretend he hadn’t heard anything. But if we turned around and headed home again as soon as we landed in Sacramento, I’d know he heard too much.

“Aleesha,” I said in what I hoped was my normal tone of voice, “I wonder if we’ll meet any inmates while working on this project.” I didn’t wait for a response. “I hope so. I want to share my testimony with some of them.”

“You and your desire to evangelize …” Although Aleesha shook her head playfully, she wore a major smile. She cared as much about people’s souls as I did. And about them living the best possible earthly life, too.

“It’s important,” I said. “I want my life to touch other people in a positive way.”

“To be Jesus to them—His hands and His feet? Like in that song the team sang in Santa María?”

“Exactly. If the opportunity arises, nothing’s going to stop me from witnessing.”

“Amen,” Dad said. “That sounds like a plan.”

He hadn’t said that in a
“You’re going home, baby girl”
tone of voice. So I quit worrying about what he might have overheard.

I stayed awake for the rest of the flight. Dwelling on my nightmare. Drowning in guilt. Dreading Dad’s finding out. Thoughts like those were enough to keep me wide-eyed awake.

Good thing. I wouldn’t have dared to dream again before we got to California.

Dad might have heard more the next time.

D
ad, Jo, and Aleesha waited near the carousel for our luggage to come around, and I went looking for Rob. Although we spotted each other almost immediately at opposite ends of the baggage claim area—he was wearing the same plaid shirt I’d first seen him in—working our way through the crowd took forever. From the way he hugged me, observers probably assumed we were a grandfather and granddaughter who hadn’t seen one another in years. The problems I’d been experiencing made our four-month separation seem an eternity.

“How many suitcases today, Kimmy?” he asked with a wicked-looking grin.

Lord, please don’t let the other team members start calling me Kimmy while I’m here
.

“I only brought one tractor trailer with me,” he said with a laugh. “But that one is towing a second trailer. Will that be big enough for all of your luggage?”

I pretended to count suitcases on the fingers of both hands. “Maybe.” I grinned. “Sure. I’ll have you know I only brought one suitcase this time, and it’s small and light. I have construction clothes and little else.” “What? No trunk full of makeup?”

“If you look more closely, you’ll notice I’m wearing only a small amount of makeup. And I’ll have you know it fits nicely in my purse, thank you very much.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. Four weeks earlier, I wouldn’t have felt up to this kind of give-and-take.

“Did you bring any pebbles to bed down on and to drop on the sidewalk when you want to go skating?”
Aleesha! You told him about that?

And to think teasing had once been the last thing on Rob’s mind. He would probably have preferred to shoot and skin me at orientation. Truth be known, our relationship couldn’t have gotten off to a much rockier start. But God didn’t let things stay that way.

“You bring a sleeping bag this time?”

“Your e-mail said to, didn’t it? I read that message as soon as it came and followed your instructions to the letter.” I started digging in my purse. “Want to see my checklist?”

He shook his head, and I blew a raspberry at him.

He held his chest, pretending to have a heart attack. My failure to see—much less to read—several crucial messages before leaving for Mexico had created a world of unnecessary problems. I couldn’t blame him for not letting me live it down—in a good-natured way, thank goodness.

“So where are we sleeping this time, Rob? And where’s the rest of the group? How many of us will be working on this project?”

“You’ll be staying …” He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Aleesha, and the two of them hugged like long-lost family.

“Mr. White …” Dad said as he shifted a suitcase from his right hand to his left.

“You must be Mr. Hartlinger,” Rob said, extending his hand to Dad.

“Scott, please. Mr. Hartlinger was my father.”

“Rob, if you don’t mind addressing an older fellow by his first name.” Rob was maybe fifteen or twenty years older than Dad.

The two men laughed politely, and we girls rolled our eyes in amusement.

I’ll never understand why two men meeting for the first time have to act so formal, but that seems to be typical. In my book, having to ask the other fellow to lighten up is just plain weird.

No sooner did Rob look at Jo than his eyes lit up.

“And you must be Betsy Jo. I’m Rob.” His face bore that confused look of someone who doesn’t know whether to shake hands or hug someone. “Oh, fiddle. You remind me of my daughter when she was your age.”

With that, he gathered her into his arms in a grandfatherly way. Although she looked a little flustered at first, she didn’t protest. By the time he released her, her uncertainty had morphed into a major smile.

“Rob, you can call me Jo.”

“Jo? Kimmy never referred to you as anything but Betsy Jo, but I’m not too old to break the habit—eventually, that is.”

Dad’s face wrinkled as he mouthed,
“Kimmy?” I
caught his attention and rolled my eyes. When he and I were alone, I’d explain that Rob had given me that nickname in Mexico and I hadn’t had the heart to object. Back then, I was a lot closer to Rob than to Dad.

“Are you folks ready to roll? Anybody need to visit the little construction workers’ room while we’re still in civilization?”

In civilization? Surely this work site wasn’t as remote as Santa María.

The four of us shook our heads. We’d already taken care of business.

“We have quite a drive ahead of us,” Rob said. “We start on I-80—I forget if it’s marked north or east, but we’re actually going northeast—and then we head north on 395 for a good little way.”

Dad shook his head. That information apparently meant

nothing to him. “I’m glad
you’re
driving,” he said.

“Oh, but I’m not.” He pulled out his cell phone—actually, the satellite phone he’d bought in San Diego—and punched in a speed dial number. “Graham O’Reilly is chauffeuring us today.”

“Graham O’Reilly?” I said. “Is he one of the kids on the project team?”

Rob chuckled a couple of times and then started laughing harder. Every time I thought he’d finished, he started all over again. “Graham is a few years older than me, and I don’t think he feels like a kid anymore. He doesn’t act anything like one, as you’ll soon discover.”

Okay.

“He isn’t on the team. Not exactly. In fact, the four of you and I are it.”

“Wha …?”

“Huh?” Aleesha and I said almost simultaneously.

“We had a good-sized crew for two weeks, and they got almost everything done. They went home a couple of days ago. We didn’t want you to come for nothing, though, so I had them leave you the painting. Inside and out.” He let that sink in. “And I’ve saved a special job for you, Kimmy.” He winked at me. “My crew failed me in one way and one way only.” And there he stopped.

Come on, Rob. Spit it out before I die of curiosity
.

Rob couldn’t have missed the impatience on my face. “They failed to clean up their mess, and there’s a mess of it. Anyone for litter cleanup? Kimmy?”

Everyone else laughed, but I felt my face glowing. I don’t know why. The litter cleanup campaign in Santa María had been a major success. Although I’d only been able to use one arm, Anjelita and her little friends, other team members, and even the older villagers all pitched in.

At least my cast was off now and I could use both hands and both arms, although my right arm was still a little tender and a lot weak. During my bout with fatigue, I hadn’t needed to use it much, and when I did, it balked like a rubber band that’s stretching almost to the breaking point.

“Don’t worry, Kimmy,” Rob said. “We’re all pitching in. We won’t paint until we’re done with cleanup. We have wheelbarrows and dumpsters, and you won’t have to worry about what lies underneath.”

Thank You, Lord
.

“You have—what’s her name again? Anjelita?—little Anjelita’s necklace on, I see. It’s beautiful.”

“I practically never take it off,” I told him. “It helps keep my memories of Anjelita alive.” I was always extra careful not to lose or damage it. Since the tornado hadn’t hurt it much, though, I doubted that I could.

By that time, we’d arrived at Passenger Pickup. Within two minutes, a large, blue passenger van with
Wash Me
written in the dust on the side panel stopped in front of us, and an old fellow got out and opened the back for our luggage. I didn’t see his face until Rob introduced us.

A few years older than you, Rob? This guy looks ancient. Or maybe even older than that
.

“Folks, this is Graham O’Reilly.”

Mr. O’Reilly nodded just enough to avoid appearing rude. He looked like he would’ve preferred to remain anonymous.

“Graham’s a real quiet fellow, so don’t be offended if he seems to ignore you. He probably will. He’s a good man, though, and he works hard at what he does.”

Uh, okay. But was Mr. O’Reilly … was Graham a Christian? I needed someone to share my witness with to make this project an evangelistic mission trip.

“Luggage in?” Rob said.

“Check.”

I could barely hear Graham’s voice. That was the first word I’d heard him speak, so I didn’t have much to go by, but he sounded like he was almost afraid of the sound of his own voice. Strange.

“Passengers aboard?”

“One-two-three-four back here,” Dad said. “You and Graham make six. Check.”

“Everyone buckled in?”

A chorus of “checks” echoed back.

“Let’s head on out, Graham.”

“Hey, Rob,” Jo yelled to the front seat.

“Yo?” Boy, did a California response like that sound strange coming from somebody Rob’s age.

“How did Graham get to Passenger Pickup so quickly?”

“He parked in the free cell phone lot.”

That answer hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. Why couldn’t Mom have made it to the cell phone lot at Hartsfield International instead of having that accident? And why ask myself that when I was the one who kept her from getting there?

I happened to glance at the driver’s inside rearview mirror and saw Graham staring back at me. I could tell from his expression that he’d noticed my guilty look.

Noticed and recognized it.

I
can’t say that the Welcoming Arms Christian Hostel reminded me of Santa María even in its degree of isolation. After all, we were still in the United States, not Mexico. The van had chugged its way up rugged mountain terrain rather than gliding across land that was pond-surface flat.