Lost in Dreams (22 page)

“She doesn’t just think it; she’s convinced of it. She has this built-in prejudice detector and she claims you registered strong the day the two of you met.”

Quick breathing gave way to a raised voice. “That’s crazy. I …” She stopped for a minute. She calmed down before speaking again. “Can I count on you not to tell her something?”

I nodded, although I don’t think she saw me.

“I admit I wasn’t too happy when I heard what good friends the two of you had become. But it didn’t have anything to do with race. Although Papa told me he’d met her, he didn’t say one word about her color. I didn’t discover that part until I met her, and I’d started disliking her long before that.”

I narrowed my eyebrows.

“Her showing up for Terri—Miss Terri’s—funeral made me look bad. Not that I didn’t deserve it. But then when she became a permanent fixture at your house, my jealousy went a little overboard.”

“A little …?” I tried to say it gently.

“Okay, a lot. I’ve been praying about it, though. Constantly. And I’ve been trying really hard to accept Aleesha.”

As a friend or just as a person?
“But last night …?”

“Forget about last night. Please. I’d never seen anyone have a nightmare like that, and I was so terrified I honestly didn’t know what I was saying. But God reminded me of it first thing this morning. I could hardly wait to apologize to both of you.”

What a relief! I’d rather think of Aleesha’s smell detector as being wrong once than believe one of my best friends was prejudiced toward the other one. Jealousy was bad enough, but at least Jo was working on that problem.

“While we’re talking about sensitive issues,” she said, “what about those nightmares? Last night’s wasn’t the first one. Aleesha let that slip. But you haven’t said a word to me about them. Aren’t we good friends anymore?”

Oh, man. I’d be happy to tell you anything about any of my worst real-life experiences. But that? Don’t you have enough on your mind with your parents’ problems?

“Jo, of course we’re still good friends.” I hugged her. “You’re one of my two very best ones, and you always will be.”

She began sniffling.

“And would you consider telling her about your guilt problem? She might be more willing to confide in you if you confide in her first. “

Aleesha, hush!

“Because of that, I’ll be honest with you. I’m not comfortable talking about my nightmares. I’d just as soon Aleesha didn’t know about them, but that was unavoidable. I suppose continuing to keep you in the dark isn’t fair, though. But if I tell you, you can’t keep any secrets from me, either. Okay?”

She narrowed her eyes. I waited maybe thirty seconds. Thirty tense, wordless seconds.

“It’s very important—extremely important—that you don’t tell Dad, either. He and I have gotten so much closer since

Mom’s death, and I’m afraid this might hurt our relationship.”

I waited another fifteen or twenty seconds. She still hadn’t responded. So I took a chance that her silence signified her commitment to mutual secret-sharing.

“I’ve had three nightmares. The first one came just before my fatigue problem started. I dreamed—”

A horn interrupted my confession. Rob, Dad, and Aleesha.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved about postponing my explanation or frustrated at not getting it over with.

R
eaching the large conference room where we held services was a breeze that night. We still had to undergo the normal security procedures, but at least we knew what to expect. And not only was Chaplain Thomas waiting for us, but he also acted maybe one-tenth pleasant.

“Who says God doesn’t perform miracles anymore?” Aleesha said while “Chappy”—I’d started referring to him that way when he was out of earshot—passed out hymnbooks for us. Our laughter got so out-of-hand he stopped what he was doing and looked at us. I felt horrible when he saw us staring at him.

But Aleesha won the prize for pulling that fat out of the fire. As rotund as Chappy was, that metaphor fit, uh, quite snugly.

She waved at him as if we’d been trying to get his attention. I’m still not sure how she pulled it off—I was preoccupied with watching him watching us—but somehow she got him laughing, too. Who but Aleesha could wordlessly “tell” a nonexistent joke across a good-sized room?

“Greetings, you all,” Rock said in a mock Southern accent that sounded as fakey as the ones I would never get used to hearing at the movies. Yet I couldn’t keep from smiling at him for doing it.

“Not Rocky,” he’d told us the first night. “I call myself Rock after Simon Peter, and I’ll beat up the first person—insider, guard, or outsider—who calls me anything different.”

As gentle-spirited as he seemed to be, I was 50 percent confident that he was teasing and an additional 25 percent

hopeful that he was at least exaggerating.

Like the previous night, he carried a Bible under one arm. What a contrast between tree trunk–sized muscles and the frail-looking holy book that bore signs of years of constant but reverent use.

“Guess we’ll have to work harder to scare you off, huh?” Rock said. If anybody ever typified ear-to-ear grinning, it was him.

Although Chappy frowned at Rock, the rest of us gave him a hug. Even the guys. Women and children aren’t the only ones who thrive on that kind of affection. Chappy frowned at
us
after that—presumably for
lowering
ourselves to show a Christian brother some love.

Maybe someone in his position couldn’t afford to get too close to the prisoners. Physically or emotionally. Maybe remaining neutral was important. I couldn’t say. But I couldn’t see how a Christian chaplain could distance himself from them spiritually.

He didn’t ignore them totally, though. Every few minutes, he singled out an insider and took him to the far corner of the room for a few minutes. But I was too busy trying to out-sing those rich-toned, high-spirited, highly Spirited men to pay much attention.

Repeating my hymn selection process from the night before, I took requests. “Amazing Grace.” “Victory in Jesus.” “The Old Rugged Cross.” “In the Garden.” These fellows could out-sing the congregational singing in any church I’d ever been in. Had anyone ever recorded a best-selling album in a prison?

I was about to announce prayer time when somebody yelled out, “Hey! It’s almost Christmas, ain’t it?” So we went through the first stanzas of six or seven familiar carols without using the hymnals. I sang “Away in a Manger” as a

solo, but the insiders sang along. That was fine. They couldn’t help it. Christmas carols weren’t meant just for listening to.

About the time my voice started giving out, Aleesha did an a capella version of “O Holy Night”—all of our music was a capella—and I was so thankful I’d already done my solo, because hers was so … I couldn’t think of a word
big
enough to describe the impact it made. Tears of joy and appreciation filled almost every eye, including mine.

Chappy still wore that stone-faced look, though. Maybe he was unhappy that we’d prolonged the service by singing so much, but I didn’t care. We hadn’t come to Red Cedar for his benefit. He was supposedly already a mature Christian.

Rob had led the prayer time the night before, but he didn’t realize he should have offered the insiders a chance to pray aloud, too. Since Rock hadn’t been shy about giving him the scoop afterward, Rob asked him to open the prayer time tonight and to let all of the insiders have a chance to pray.

When people did that at my church, the first person usually prayed so long nobody else wanted to chance running the service overtime by praying, too. But that wasn’t the case at Red Cedar. No one was rushing to end these services.

Rock took his time, and he prayed with such power that the room echoed with choruses of “Amen!” “Praise God!” and “That’s right!”

My stereotypical thinking flared up that night. I’d expected the African-Americans to demonstrate that kind of approval, and they did. But so did the Caucasians, the Asians, and the Latinos.

The Latinos? Uh, the Latino. Singular.

Yes, that one fellow brought his friend, Alfredo, and Jo was translating for him. I hated to open my eyes while somebody was praying, but I had to see how that was going. He and Jo were standing head to head. Under different circumstances,

they would have made a cute couple. He looked maybe a year or two older than her.

The insiders focused their prayers on one another’s families, salvation for specific people, what they perceived as the declining state of our nation, international evangelism, and everything else under the sun. They confessed their sins, and they didn’t hesitate to admit being guilty of the crimes that had put them in prison and to ask God’s richest blessings on their victims.

And how they prayed for God’s forgiveness.

Alfredo’s prayer came last. He sounded scared to death. “God, keep us safe. Help us to get out and find work. Amen.”

Maybe he didn’t realize he didn’t
have
to pray. Or maybe he was just nervous about praying publicly in a group he hadn’t been part of before. Either way, I couldn’t convince myself that his “us” didn’t just mean “me.”

I was glad Jo translated his prayer into English for the rest of us, though. I grinned at the thought of what Paul had once said about speaking in tongues in worship and the importance of having an interpreter present.

I joined Rock at the back of the room for Dad’s talk. We had a good view of people in front of us—especially Jo and Alfredo.

I could tell from the way Jo would look at Dad and then turn and whisper to Alfredo that she was doing okay with her translating. But then I got so engrossed in Dad’s message—who would have thought a quiet English professor could be such a captivating speaker?—I quit paying attention to Jo and Alfredo.

Until I heard a giggle that couldn’t have had to do with the message. I looked at Jo and Alfredo again. They were whispering. Although I kept my mind mostly on Dad’s talk, my eyes remained on Jo and Alfredo. I tried reigning in any

judgmental thoughts, but I couldn’t. Jo and I had outgrown—or should I say we’d been forced to outgrow—that kind of behavior during childhood.

I had, anyhow, and I thought she had, too. But when I heard a giggle I recognized as Jo’s, I felt the red creeping into my face. She was the one who should have been embarrassed.

Here we were, strangers in a “foreign” land, among people who needed to see how real we were, and Jo was acting like she was on a first date with a new guy. I might have been mistaken, but she appeared to be flirting with him. I hoped I was wrong.

The service no longer held my attention. Especially after I saw Alfredo put his arm over the back of Jo’s chair during the prayer that preceded the altar call. She didn’t protest when he let his hand dangle far enough to rest on her shoulder. He took it off fast enough when he heard the amen, though.

Jo, you’d better be careful
.

O
nce again, I was outside with Graham waiting for the sunrise. Although the temperature didn’t feel as cold as yesterday’s, he wore a thick-looking robe this time. Maybe he’d realized that the presence of three teenage ladies required a little extra modesty.

But the tranquility of the setting captivated me so completely I quickly forgot about Graham. “Kim, we need to talk.”
Man, you made me jump!

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Dad kissed me on the cheek. “Good morning, Graham. Would you excuse us, please?”

The old man didn’t respond, but the prospect of losing my company appeared to affect him. Sadness? Not exactly. But there was something about the look in his eyes …

“What’s up, Dad?” I asked as he led me across the road to Red Cedar Lane. I half-expected him to say something about Jo’s irresponsible behavior last night.

As talkative as everyone had been coming back the first night, last night had been the complete opposite. Nobody seemed interested in reviewing the service. I couldn’t speak for the others, but I was too upset about Jo and Alfredo’s conduct. I would discuss it with her as soon as I could, but not in front of everyone else.

But maybe Dad wanted my opinion about it.

“I don’t know how to bring this up,” he said, fiddling with his hands as if searching for lecture notes and finding he’d forgotten them.

“Oh, that’s okay.” I proceeded with my assumption. “Jo and Alfredo made quite a spectacle of themselves last night, didn’t they?”

“Uh.” He paused. “If you say so.”

You didn’t even notice them?

“That’s not my concern this morning, though.”

So much for my assumption.

“Kim, I know about the nightmare you had on the plane.” “You …?”

“I put two and two together.” How he’d figured it out didn’t matter. My heart rate rocketed into triple digits at the realization that he knew more than I wanted him to know.

“I hoped you would tell me about it. Especially now that we’ve developed such a close relationship—one that should lead to greater trust.”

The heat I felt radiating from my face could have turned a marshmallow to goo. I didn’t need Dad to make me feel worse. I was already tripping on guilt rather than prancing on pebbles.

“Have you had more than the two I know about?”

His voice was compassionate, not angry. He was concerned, not curious. I needed to reassure him, even if it meant telling him the whole truth. Well, almost all of it, anyhow. If I hadn’t been so scared that admitting my guilt in Mom’s death would turn him against me, I would have told him months ago.

But I couldn’t take that chance now. I needed my daddy’s love more than ever. Not his hatred, resentment, or condemnation.

“I’ve had one more nightmare since we got here.” I licked my lips and looked around for the sunrise. But I couldn’t see it where we were walking. I hoped that wasn’t a sign.

“Kim …?” He looked like he was weeping inwardly over my pain.

I had to tell him.

“The fatigue may have gone away, but …” I proceeded to tell him about each nightmare. I omitted details that would make him aware of my guilt. Without them, though, the dreams probably didn’t make a whole lot of sense, and I was afraid he might ask for clarification.