Chosen (3 page)

Mariah’s life seemed to settle down to something that resembled normal. There were no more mystical experiences, no more dreams of tramping naked through vegetable gardens. Just little happenings that added a measure of enjoyment to her life.

She was finally able to transfer out of Evelyn’s department into a job where she was needed and respected. Her new manager was too busy playing office politics to interfere as long as she made him look good. Furthermore, church became more a place of learning than refuge. It was three months since the
Visitation
. Her bruised psyche was healing, evidenced by the tentative return of her sense of humor.

After dinner one evening, she reached for the TV remote and knocked it off the chair-side table. As she bent to retrieve it, she smacked her head on the side of the table which caused it to shudder ... and here came the bowl of M&M’s, skipping across the table until it slid off and, of course, landed face-down on the rug.

Mariah snatched the bowl off the rug and heaved it in the direction of the kitchen where it bounced on the linoleum several times. Rubbing her head, she glared at the brightly colored candies at her feet. As her anger dissipated, she trudged into the kitchen to retrieve the bowl. She could hear her mother’s voice as it ground into her brain: “That quick temper of yours has consequences, young lady, no matter how big or small.”

She shook off the nagging voice in her head and turned on the television to listen to the six o’clock news while she picked up the M&M’s. Still on her knees, she paused, her eyes now glued to the TV screen when she heard a live broadcast from Hamilton, a city twenty-five miles south of San José.

A policeman stood on the front lawn of a typical middle-class house in front of microphones and cameras. “An Amber Alert has been issued for Amanda Forrester who was last seen leaving her school at three o’clock this afternoon. If anyone saw Amanda or has any information, please call the number below.” An eight-hundred number appeared at the bottom of the screen with the notation that it was an anonymous tip line.

The camera switched to Amanda’s mother. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she said, “Please help us. All we want is our little girl back. Any information you can give us will be greatly appreciated.”

A professionally-taken grade school picture of Amanda appeared. Mariah stared into the bright blue eyes of a grinning girl with curly blonde hair and a gap between her front teeth.

The camera switched back to the police officer. As he noted where Amanda was last seen, what she was wearing, etc., Mariah’s stomach began to churn. Within seconds her heart was galloping, her skin grew clammy, and she gasped for air, lungs laboring like she was sprinting up the steps of the Empire State Building. These sensations came swiftly; one minute she was fine, the next she felt like passing out.

As her heartbeats began to decelerate, she finally managed to take a deep breath. Was she having a heart attack? What she knew about them could fit into a thimble. Panic snaked up her throat as she fought to block its emergence.

Exhaustion lingered as her body returned to normal. What also remained was the image of Amanda—and an overwhelming need to talk to Michael Jenkins.

For the rest of the evening, Mariah tried to watch sitcoms and block Amanda’s face from her mind. But this compelling need to speak to Michael... At ten o’clock she gave up and went to bed, hoping sleep would erase Amanda’s face from her memory. Falling asleep was no problem; staying asleep was nearly impossible.

For three days she tried to concentrate on work, on choir practice, on anything that had nothing to do with Amanda Forrester. For three nights she woke every few hours—sweating, trembling—with the same nightmare: Amanda, being chased by a fiend whose claws shredded her dress more and more every time it got close. The details of the kidnapping (and the lack of clues) were headline news which further prevented Mariah from eradicating the little girl’s image from her thoughts.

Moreover, she was obsessed with this need to talk to Michael. She felt foolish calling to make an appointment with him—what was she going to say? But the more she tried to ignore this obsession, the more anxious she became. She had to resolve this, if for no other reason than to get some sleep.

On June tenth at one o’clock in the afternoon, Mariah called the church. She felt guilty lying to the switchboard operator about an emergency and a need to speak to Michael. The urgency in her voice must have been convincing, because she was told to come, he would fit her in. Mariah left her boss a note with some half-baked reason for her absence, and headed for the church.

She stopped at the switchboard to announce her arrival then sprinted upstairs. On her way to the church, the symptoms she experienced the night Amanda was kidnapped had returned; rapid heartbeat, shallow and labored breathes, cold sweats. Mariah still had no idea what she was going to say to Michael. She just hoped it would be there at the right moment.

By the time he reached his office, she was on the verge of collapsing. The sight of him nearly made her faint with relief.

Seeing her in such a highly agitated state, Michael grew alarmed, fumbling his keys as he unlocked the office door. Mariah almost knocked him over in her haste to get inside, adrenaline propelling her halfway across the room before she could stop. He closed the door and turned, just in time to see her coming toward him.

Michael was genuinely alarmed. He always enjoyed seeing Mariah Carpenter on Sunday mornings as the choir lined up in preparation to enter the sanctuary. Standing before them, he would pray to God to use the members of the music ministry to comfort and uplift those in the audience who needed the healing touch of their music. She was always smiling radiantly. He knew that in the three months since joining them, she had found a measure of confidence due to the friendship and support from her fellow choir members.

But this woman before him was an entirely different person. Her breathing was labored, her face glistened, her hair was matted against head, and her pupils were dilated. She radiated as much tension as a mainspring in an old watch.

His apprehension dissolved, however, when she whimpered, “Help me Michael. Something is happening and I can’t control it. It started three days ago when I...”

The sentence died on her lips. Her hands shot out and she seized him in an immobilizing grip. Her fingers dug into his biceps right through his sports jacket. He was shocked at her strength.

Michael had just enough time to register this when his body became rigid. His blood and bone marrow seemed to be flowing in the direction of her hands. Terrified—and feeling like he was being crushed in a trash compactor—he gasped and tried to jerk backward, but his legs were too rubbery. He truly would have collapsed if she hadn’t held him so firmly. What lasted only a few minutes felt like an eternity.

While he experienced the sensation of being threaded through the eye of a needle, Mariah was going through her own gyrations: muscles tense, knees and elbows locked, teeth bared. She convulsed from what seemed like invisible blows, jerking from unseen punches, grunting from air expelled violently from her lungs. Her head whipped from side to side with each convulsive movement and a low growl escaped her lips. Michael wondered if she was in pain. He was not; all he felt was tremendous pressure.

And then it was over. His organs no longer felt like they were being siphoned out of him. Heat suffused his body and he slumped, weak from the sudden release of tension. Sounds from a nearby office receded. The noise from the traffic in the street was no more than a muffled rumble cocooned in velvet. While floating in this tranquil semi-trance, Michael observed Mariah through half-slit eyes.

The minute he descended into this current state, she relaxed. Her grip on his arms, while no longer bruising, remained firm. Her eyes, narrowed in concentration, stared into his. No, she was not looking at him: her eyes were focused on something beyond him.

Then she began to mumble. He tried to fight his way out of the enveloping lassitude, straining to understand her words. They were unidentifiable. It sounded like she was talking to someone as she formed her own language.

And then it changed. Some of the words finally penetrated the haze ... and Michael was stunned. The more she spoke, the more astonished he became. When the mumbling stopped, Mariah began to speak distinctly.

“Amanda, don’t be afraid, I’m here to help you...I know you can’t see me, but...yes, okay honey, I
am
an angel. Can you tell me where you are?” In the silence, her head cocked to the left. She was so absorbed that she never reacted to the sweat running into her eyes.

“Is there a window in the bedroom? ...Good. Can you see out of it?” She nodded and her face softened with a sad smile. “I know he hurt you, sweetheart, but I need you to help me so I can get you away from him. Go to the window and tell me what you see.”

There was a pause as Mariah’s eyes closed. And then: “Buildings...what gas station?...That’s great, Amanda. What else?...park...kids swinging...where? Got it,
across
from the gas station. Are you on the same side of the street as the...okay. Any stores across from you?...Laundromat... pizza...What’s its...fantastic! Really, a phone number? ...555-4655, that’s
wonderful
, yes...Don’t worry, I won’t leave you.”

Mariah’s eyes opened wide. Her pupils were dilated, unfocused. She said, “Amanda, what’s that noise? ...uh-huh, they sure do sound like big planes...I know you want your mommy. I’m going to send someone to get you just as soon as...calm down. Go back and lie on the bed. Don’t tell him you were talking to me. Pretend you’re asleep...good girl. Hang in there. Someone will be coming for you real soon.”

Mariah blinked. Her eyes swam into focus as she broke the connection with Amanda. She released Michael and flexed her fingers to rid them of the numbness caused by maintaining such a fierce grip. She noted, with relief, that he seemed fine.

Michael stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
Focus on something normal, like notifying the police about where Amanda is
, she thought, trying to stem the rising hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her.

“I’m calling 911.” Her voice was strong and steady. “I need to tell them where Amanda Forrester’s being held. We’ve got to hurry before the bastard hurts her again.”

Calling 911 seemed reassuringly ordinary. She told the operator that she had information about the Amanda Forrester abduction, and the operator asked Mariah to wait. In less than a minute, a voice identifying itself as Officer Sanders, 21st Precinct, came on.

“May I help you, ma’am?” She knew how stupid this was going to sound, but Mariah identified herself, gave the address of the church, and then in a voice she hoped didn’t quaver, told him that she could provide information that might lead to the whereabouts of the kidnapped child.

Mariah stood next to Michael as his hand reached out to touch her shoulder. She smiled at the gentle contact then shifted impatiently from one foot to the other as her irritation mounted. She knew the mundane questions Officer Sanders asked were a stall as he traced the call, even though he’d been given the number.

“
Ohforchristsakes
!” she spat. “I can give you the exact description of the neighborhood where she’s being held. Stop screwing around and write this down!” Hearing the answer she wanted, she barked out the information. Sanders told her not to move, someone from the Federal Bureau of Investigations would be coming to talk to her. With a, “Yeah, I got it,” she dropped the phone into the cradle then glanced at Michael, afraid that her blasphemy had offended him. She was relieved to see concern on his face, and—what? Awe? Fear?

Mariah shut her eyes and took several deep breaths as she leaned heavily against his desk. With a last spurt of energy produced by the final effects of adrenaline, she lurched toward the couch and sank into it, her voice hoarse with exhaustion and anger.

“Amanda’s terrified, but I don’t think he’s raped her. Yet. She’s bruised and frightened from being pushed around. He’ll get more violent the longer he has her.”

She and Michael stared at each other until she broke the silence with a lopsided grin. “Wow. Mega wow. What just happened?”

He smiled weakly in response. They had shared something so profound that neither had adequate words to describe it. Michael took a deep breath and murmured softly so as not to break the spell. “Mariah, what happened when you first gripped my arms?”

She reached for her purse and, digging inside, came up with an unopened package of M&M’s. Tearing open a hole in the wrapper with her teeth, she wolfed down about half of them as she considered his words. “It felt like something was being torn out of you and rammed into me.” He nodded; it obviously was a phenomenon shared by both.

She leaned toward him. “I wanted to let go because I thought I was hurting you, but I couldn’t.” Her voice trembled with remembrance. “I saw fear on your face and it just about killed me. Something kept hammering me like I was on the losing end of a boxing match.

“And then it was over. Just like that. The battering was replaced by a feeling of ... like it was ... how do I explain? The word that pops into my mind is
Joining
.” She broke eye contact and poured the remaining chocolates into her mouth.

The enormity of what happened finally hit her. First, the two-part obsession: Amanda Forrester’s face and the need to see Michael Jenkins; second, the persistent anxiety and lack of sleep over the past several days. Then the physical, emotional (and spiritual?) experience involuntarily initiated which ended in something so implausible her brain cramped. A prescient chill made her shudder as her hands squashed the empty candy bag. Reality felt light years away.

Mariah stared at Michael. He leaned forward, straining to hear her words. Her voice was hushed as much with wonder as weakness. “It felt like our souls united. It gave me the strength to get into Amanda’s head and talk to her.” Tears stung her eyes and clogged her throat. “She thought I was an angel from God. She’s too young to understand about the insanity of voices in your head.” Mariah paused, waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t, she continued, her voice now raw with fear.

“But
I
understand mental illness. Right at this point, I should be crawling into a corner with my thumb stuck in my mouth, babbling to the wall. Why do I feel nothing but a sense of accomplishment?” Her failed smile was more a grimace as she attempted to invoke a lightheartedness she did not feel. “So this is what Ben meant when he said God had started something in me. What a finish!” She leaned back against the sofa, thankful to see Michael nod.

He said, “One minute it felt as though my internal organs were being sucked out of me. The next, I was in a trance, feeling serene, happy ... but with something added.
Joining
is an excellent word for it, my dear.

“One more thing, and then I’ll take you to my little hideout so you can get some sleep.” He stopped as if to gauge how much more she could take. “Do you remember what you said while we were in that
Joining
state?”

She frowned. “I spoke while it was happening? I remember the conversation with Amanda. I thought I remembered everything.” She shook her head. “What did I say?”

Michael assured her it was nothing, just some mumbling, and they would talk about it later. He was sorry to see her dismay, but it confirmed his suspicions: she had no idea she had spoken those incredible words.
Maybe after she rests, maybe when her head is clear, she’ll remember
. He doubted it even as the thought came to him.

Michael Jenkins was convinced that God was behind Mariah’s incredible new talent, and he felt sure that God was not nearly through with her. His thoughts drifted back to her words spoken prior to her communication with Amanda. At first the words were like no language he had ever heard. What followed was a language he
did
recognize and could only be, in his opinion, the Lord speaking through her, for only He could put those words in her mouth—words that singled her out for a destiny Michael could not even begin to fathom.

His heart fluttered. Not only did he know the language in which she had spoken, he recognized the phrase. It was not quite the way he had learned it at the theological seminary, but close enough.

Mariah Adele Carpenter, a woman who had not set foot inside a house of worship for at least two decades—except maybe for weddings and funerals—had spoken Ancient Hebrew, which was, in fact, Aramaic.

But not in her own voice. It was a rich, melodious baritone, the sound filled with passion and conviction—words that were originally spoken by a man who had stood atop a hill surrounded by people seeking peace in their lives. A teacher, a rabbi, bringing God to their souls, his words meant to educate and enlighten.

The magnitude was so overwhelming. Michael’s brain could hardly handle the implications. The Hebrew words took on a life of their own as they echoed in his head:

“I tell you, do not worry about your life, or what you will eat or drink or wear, or where you shall live. Worry will not add one single hour to your life. Do not worry about tomorrow, plan for it. When done, the planning alleviates the worry.”