A Whisper of Danger (24 page)

Jess studied her son. Splint had been trying so hard to please her and to obey the rules she had set for him. He hadn’t complained once about his five-day suspension from all beach activities, even though she knew he was aching to get back to the sand and water. He had missed Rick and Hunky so much. . . . He talked of little else but the wreck, yet he hadn’t laid eyes on the crew since the day of his escapade.

Although Jess had seen the men come and go each day, she had made it a point not to go down and talk with anyone. Rick’s obvious interest in her, the fun they had shared in the water, and the instinctive trust she had placed in him all scared her half to death. He was beckoning her back to him. Calling her. Setting out lure after lure. Reeling her in so slowly she hadn’t noticed she’d been hooked.

And Splinter? He’d already been landed. The boy could not have adored anyone more than he did Rick. The man was his idol.

“Don’t you think I’m right, Mom?” he asked. “Don’t you think we should always tell the truth? Even if it might hurt?”

Jess shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I think . . . I think Kima did the right thing to tell Impala why none of the other animals were planning to show up at her birthday party. James Perrott wants children to understand that in order to have friends, you have to be friendly.”

“But don’t you think there’s another message in the story, Mom? It’s not only what Impala’s learning that’s important. It’s what Kima showed by his actions in going straight to Impala with the reality of the situation. I think James Perrott is trying to teach kids that even though the facts might hurt a little at first, it’s usually better in the long run to tell the whole truth.”

“I guess you’re right. That’s probably a theme in this book.” She selected a charcoal pencil. “So where do you think we ought to put Impala? And do you think Kima should be in a tree or on the ground when he’s confronting Impala?”

“Mom, do you always tell me the truth?”

“What a thing to ask, honey. I’m your mother. Do you think I would ever lie to you?”

“Well . . .” He rolled her wad of moldable eraser between his fingers. “I’ve been wondering about my dad.”

An icy curl slid through her stomach. “Splint, I told you a long time ago about what happened between your father and me. Did you think I was lying to you?”

He shrugged one shoulder, his focus still fastened on the eraser. “I guess not.”

“No, Splint, I did not lie. Listen, if it will make you feel better, I’ll tell you the story again. Your father and I met when we were both very young. Too young, really. I was only eighteen, you know.”

“So are you saying it was all a big mistake?”

Jess thought for a moment. She had discovered she had to listen very carefully to her son. Often his questions had several layers of significance. If she wasn’t sensitive in her responses, he sometimes drew inaccurate conclusions.

“
You
weren’t a mistake, Splint,” she said finally. “You were a gift to me. My treasure. But your father and I were probably much too young when we got married. We couldn’t figure out how to work through our problems— and you know every relationship has some problems, no matter how right it is. When your father decided to leave our marriage, I was pregnant with you. We lived in Dar es Salaam, and Mama Hannah helped us by taking care of you while I studied art with Dr. bin Yusuf. Then you and I moved to London where we lived until now. Okay, sweetheart? That’s the story.”

It sounded so simple—too simple. For years, that story had been enough for the boy. Now? Now, her fingers were trembling as she sharpened her pencil. She couldn’t make herself look at her son. Was she lying to him? Was it wrong not to tell him about Rick?

“I was just wondering,” he began. “Wondering about something . . .”

Jess closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “What, Splint?”

“Well . . . what did my father look like?”

“Oh, he was sort of tall, I guess.” She gave a casual shrug, but her insides were experiencing an earthquake that could knock the top off the Richter scale. “He had brownish hair. There was nothing very unusual or specific about him. Not anything you’d really notice. But he was nice looking, of course.”

“Do I look like him?”

“Maybe a little. But you have my eyes.”

“What color were my father’s eyes?”

Her pencil made a wobbly squiggle across her sketch pad. “I guess they were sort of bluish.”

“Bluish?”

“Okay, they were blue.”

“Could you draw a picture of him?”

“Splint, honey, I’m . . . I’m much better with animals, you know. I doubt I could draw anything that looked like your father. Remember the time I tried to do an illustration for that runners’ magazine? You told me the man looked like he had frog’s legs. And then I worked on that picture of Old Mother Hubbard, and you said—”

“Mom, have you looked for my father since you came back to Africa?”

She was silent, trying to calm her heart. “No, honey. I haven’t looked for him.”

“Why not? Don’t you want to see him again? Don’t you want to find out what he’s doing these days? Don’t you think he might want to meet me?”

“Splint . . . the past is . . . well, it all happened a long time ago. I have a new life now. Things are very different.”

“Yeah, but what about my life? What if I wanted to meet my dad and get to know him? Didn’t you ever think about that?”

“Of course I’ve thought about that, but, Splinter—”

“And what if you found out you really liked him after all? What if he’s a great guy? What if he’s like . . . like Rick McTaggart or something?”

“Spencer, listen to me, honey.” She covered his hand with hers and forced herself to look into his violet eyes. “You know I love you very much. I always do what I believe is best for you. Right?”

“I guess.”

“Now, I need you to trust that the decisions I’ve made about things that happened a long time ago are the best ones.”

“Yeah, and I need something, too. I need you to tell me the truth.”

“Spencer Thornton,” she said, her voice stern, “I’ll do what I think is right for you, and that’s that.”

“Even if it means lying to me?” He jumped up from his chair, big tears suddenly gathering in his eyes. “You mean you wouldn’t tell me if you found my father? Why not? Just because you think knowing the truth might hurt me somehow? Well, that stinks! Kima the Monkey told the truth even though it made Impala cry. And I bet Impala gets adjusted to it. I bet Impala even changes herself so that everything works out great.”

He grabbed the manuscript Jess had been working from and tossed aside the first half. Papers scattered across the floor like a stack of spilled hay as Splint pulled the last pages to the front and read rapidly. Before Jess could protest, he was flapping the manuscript in her face. “I was right! Impala even thanks Kima for helping her by telling her the truth! You’re
supposed
to tell the truth! Kima did, and it helped Impala. She learned how to be nice. I could learn how to be a good son if I had a father. Every kid I know has a dad! It’s not fair to come all this way to Africa and not find him. I want him, even if you don’t!”

Jess stood, clutching her charcoal pencil. “Spencer,” she said in a choked voice, “I am your mother, and I will make the right decisions for your life. Now I expect you to get control of yourself, young man. Nettie Cameron is coming here for tea any minute, and I’d prefer she didn’t have to hear you having a tantrum.”

“You think I won’t find out the truth. You think you can hide it from me. But I’m smart! I’ll figure it out. Then I’ll have a dad, and he’ll be better than you because he won’t lie to me!”

“Spencer Thornton, I want you to go downstairs this minute and see if Nettie’s here. And help Miriamu set the table.”

“I’ll go live with my father, and then you won’t be able to boss me around anymore! He’ll let me do what I want. He won’t ground me from the beach for five days. He’ll understand me a lot better than you ever did. I’ll figure out who my dad is, and then you’ll be sorry you never told me the truth!”

“Downstairs, Spencer!” she shouted back at her son. “Now!”

Splint hurled her eraser to the floor. It bounced in drunken angles as the boy bolted out the door. Jess could hear his footsteps pounding down the circular staircase near her room.

“Oh, Lord!” She sank into her chair and draped across her desk, cheek pressing the cool white sheet of her sketch pad and arms covering her head. “Lord, what have I done? What should I do?”

She needed help! But where could she turn? She had no close friends. With an issue as important as this, she couldn’t trust even someone as kindly as Nettie Cameron. Rick would be the last person she should tell. And Hannah . . . Hannah would probably agree with Splint. A son should have a father.

“Oh, God!” she murmured again. “Help me. Help me.”

God was supposed to be a friend. Hannah had sung a favorite chorus over and over to the four little Thornton children. Jess recalled it now, the words lilting through her mind as clearly as they had so long ago at her
ayah
’s feet.

What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer!

Everything? Rick certainly gave a lot of weight to his newfound faith, Jess thought. The image of carrying everything to God—all her hopes for the future and her griefs from the past—was such a compelling picture it brought tears to her eyes. But hadn’t she prayed just this way once before? Not long after she had moved into Uchungu House, she had prayed in this very room. What had she asked for? It had been something about Rick.

Make him go away. Don’t let me ever have to see him again.

That certainly hadn’t happened. God hadn’t taken him away at all. In fact, she’d seen Rick McTaggart almost every day. Then Jess recalled the rest of her prayer.
God, if you’re out there anywhere, if you care about me at all, please fix this. Please help me get through this. Heal the brokenness inside me so I don’t have to feel so awful anymore. I’m choking from it. I’m dying inside. Please just fix it!

“Heal me,” she mouthed again. “Fix me.”

All her efforts to keep the controls of her life in her own hands were crumbling. Her son wanted his father. If Rick knew the truth, he would want his son. Worst of all . . . Jess couldn’t keep squelching the desire she felt to unite them . . . to bring father and son together . . . to have them both as a real and vital part of her own life.

“No!” she ground out, hammering the sketch pad with her fist.

Hadn’t things been better when she’d been filled with anger? filled with resentment? filled with bitterness? Then she had known who she was, known who Rick was, known who Splinter was. Everyone had had a place, and she had been in control.

But it had been a lie. Rick wasn’t the demon, the renegade, the ultimate betrayer. He was a man. A man who had made mistakes and regretted them. He had changed his life, and now he wanted her forgiveness. No, he hadn’t changed his life—God had! Rick McTaggart was a committed Christian man . . . kind, loving, generous, responsible . . . a man who deserved to be a father.

And Splint? He wasn’t a content, self-sufficient little boy who needed only a mother, good food, and a decent night’s sleep. Splint was a complicated, intelligent man-child who understood concepts far beyond his years. He had the potential to contribute wonderful things to his world. Or to become as bitter and resentful as his mother had been. He needed the kind of love and strength that a man could provide. He needed the molding hands of a father.

The person Jess had been the most wrong about was herself. She wasn’t the unconquerable fortress who needed no one. She was lonely. She was tired of grasping onto her anger and coddling her bitterness. Relief was possible. . . . She could let go. . . . She could give up the controls of her life. . . .

“Father,” she whispered, “forgive me. Please come into my life the way you’re in Rick’s. I’m so tired of being the boss. Teach me how to forgive Rick. Help me know what to say to Splint. Even though my prayers have been angry and doubtful, you’ve heard them. You’ve been working in my life. Father . . . Jesus . . . I love you. Please heal me.”

She lay across her desk for a long time, unable to move. Tears dampened the paper under her cheek and seeped into her hair. Her heart felt empty. Empty of hate and anger and frustration. And it felt full, too. For the first time in years, she felt full of something indescribable.

Maybe it was peace.