Beyond Reach (8 page)

“You're
not
hopeless, Mom. But I think you're like one of those women I saw on
Oprah
the other day. You've been so busy taking care of everything and everyone else that you've forgotten to take care of yourself.

“That sounds about right.”

“But why can't that change?” I challenge her. “Why can't you take more time for yourself?”

“I don't know…”

“Why do you have to work so many hours anyway? It's not like they pay you extra for all the time you give them down there.”

That's true. But it's become a habit. When I took on the new position and started working full time, right after your dad died, well, I felt like I had to work extra hard just to prove myself.”

“But haven't you done that by now? I mean, everyone down there really loves you, Mom. They all respect you. I've seen it when I'm there. Why can't you ease up a little?”

She actually seems to consider this. “I suppose I could try. This is the slow time of year anyway.”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, wanting to keep this thing going. “And if you weren't so busy, you could take some time to focus on yourself for a change, figure out who you are and what you need—what it'll take to make you happy.” Of course, I want to add, “And you could start coming to church again,” but I don't want to shut her down either. I feel like I'm making some headway, even if I'm not sure where we're going with it.

She almost smiles. “I don't even know where I'd begin, Samantha. The idea of focusing on myself, figuring out who I am, all that… Well, it's a bit overwhelming.”

“Maybe you could start on your appearance,” I say, then wish I hadn't since I can tell I've offended her.

“What would you suggest?” she asks in a stiff voice.

“Well, maybe you could change your hairstyle.”

She runs her hand over her lifeless brown hair, which is streaked with gray and appears to be thinning. It's cut in
the same style she's worn for years, a limp and boring bob with flat bangs. It only adds to the whole tired and worn-out look. “How would I change it?”

“I don't know. But I'm sure we could think of something. And maybe we could go shopping too. We could help get your wardrobe out of last millennium.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“It's true, Mom. You look totally out-of-date. And you're really not that old.”

“According to whom?”

“Well, how about Bev Marsh?” I remind her of Olivia's mom. “She's older than you, but she dresses a lot more stylishly.”

“She also has the money to do it.”

“Hey, I manage to stay in style without spending as much as Olivia. You don't have to go broke to look good.”

“Well, that might be, but I don't want to end up looking like a teenybopper either.”

“You can look good without looking juvenile.”

She stands up now and looks at the mirror that hangs over the fireplace mantel. “I suppose a little makeover wouldn't hurt, would it?”

“Not at all,” I say with enthusiasm. “Want to start on it tomorrow?” Now, okay, it might be my birthday tomorrow, but this is important, and I could make a sacrifice. And who knows, it might be fun to help Mom get her act together.

“Not tomorrow,” she says with reservation. “I really do have to go to work.”

“When then?” I fold my arms across my chest. “You can't just put it off.”

“How about next weekend? How about if I make sure that I'm not working? We'll go into Portland and do it up right. Make a whole day of it.”

“It's a date.”

“Good.” She smiles. “Thanks, Sam.”

“And speaking of dates, I should get ready. Olivia will be here soon to take me to the game, and we're doing pizza with Conrad and Alex afterward.”

“Oh, to have a life…” she says wistfully.

“Well, I have a feeling all that's about to change for you, Mom. You might want to start getting yourself mentally prepared.”

She sort of laughs, and then I dash up to my room to do a quick change and fix up before Olivia gets here.

Later that night, after our team wins the game, and after I've been hanging with my friends, eating pizza, and just basically acting like a kid and having a good time, I suddenly remember Mom and how sad she seemed earlier this evening, I consider how boring her life must be. Good grief, all she does is work and come home. No wonder she's grumpy so much of the time.

“Something wrong?” Conrad and I are walking across the parking lot after the employees at the pizza place threatened to lock us inside since they were closing for the night. Alex and Olivia already went home in her car, which she seemed pleased about, and it's just the two of us. “You got so quiet just now.”

“Nothing's wrong,” I tell him. “I'm fine. I was just thinking about my mom.”

“How's she doing?”

So I explain a bit about how she's feeling lonely. “I think she wants to start dating.”

“Really?” He puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Can't blame her for that.”

“Yeah, but it's kind of weird too.”

“You mean the idea of your mom going out?”

“Yeah. I mean, I've only seen her with Dad. And I suppose I sort of thought that was it. Dad's gone and now Mom will be alone. End of story. I never really considered what it would be like to have another guy in the picture.”

“It'll probably take some getting used to.”

“I guess.”

“So, maybe you should be on the lookout for nice older dudes.” He opens the car door for me. “Like maybe someone from church. You could set her up.”

I laugh. “That'd be the day.” But as Conrad drives me home, I think maybe the boy is on to something. If I could get Mom interested in a Christian guy, it might get her to come back to church. By the time we get to my house, I already have something of a plan in place.

I tell him what I'm plotting and ask him to help. “We need to find a single guy who's fun and good-looking and living for God and—”

“That's a tall order, Sam.”

“Well, God can do it. Most of all, I guess we'll have to be praying.”

He firmly nods. ‘That I can do.” Then he kisses me good night, and for a blissful moment I forget all about Mom and everything else.

“See ya tomorrow.”

“Huh?” I say, wondering if he has something specific in mind since it's Saturday and he hasn't asked me out.

He grins. “You know, whatever. See ya!”

O
n Saturday morning I sleep in, as usual, and when I get up Mom has already gone to work, as usual, I look around the kitchen thinking maybe she's left a birthday card or something to show that she knows what day it is. But it seems she has forgotten. I'm not too surprised. Disappointed, yes, but I sort of figured she has a lot on her mind and is too busy to remember something as insignificant as her only daughter's seventeenth birthday. Okay, it sounds like I'm about to start having a pity party, and I'm not. I refuse to give in to it today.

Still, so much for celebrating my big day on the home front. It's sure not like it used to be when we were kids growing up. I remember how Dad usually made a special breakfast on birthdays, and there would be cards and gifts and balloons and hugs. This makes me wonder if Zach might actually remember my birthday, but then I doubt it. He's probably preoccupied now, and he's never been good at things like that in the first place. I almost always have to remind him of Mom's birthday and Mother's Day and things like that. I refuse to remind him of my birthday. After all, I'm seventeen. Time to grow up a little, right?

As I pour a cup of coffee, I wonder if Dad might possibly remember what day it is. Maybe he's calling out a “Happy Birthday” to me from beyond the blue right this minute. Or is everything so incredibly exciting and amazing up there that no one thinks about such mundane things as birthdays anymore? Besides, I think I recall hearing that there are no clocks in heaven. Maybe there are no calendars either.

It feels even colder today than yesterday, and the front lawn is crispy white with frost. I'm about to turn up the thermostat, but instead I decide to build a fire again. A birthday fire. And maybe it's because I was thinking of Dad, but I also decide to make myself a birthday breakfast just like he would've done if he were still here. Not just a bowl of cold cornflakes for this girl. I even get out the big electric griddle that hasn't seen daylight in ages and mix. up some instant pancakes and even fry up a couple of eggs to go with it—might as well load up on cholesterol while I'm still young.

I pour myself a glass of orange juice, then carry my birthday breakfast over to my now crackling fire to eat. Okay, it's a little lonely and some might think it's a little pathetic, but it's not like I'm obsessing over the fact that no one seems to care that it's my birthday. In fact, I'm actually sort of enjoying it.

Then after I finish my food, which is really pretty good, I just sit there watching the fire as it flickers and jumps. The dancing motion of the flames is almost hypnotic. And suddenly I feel something changing, sort of like the couch
beneath me is shifting, tipping slightly sideways, although it's not. And then like a flash of lightning, I see something—something that's not really there. And I realize it's a vision! I try to calm myself as I focus.

I continue staring toward the fire, but what I see is entirely different than the bright orange flames. I see a foggy scene, somber and gray, with a dark railroad bridge, the kind with ironwork that looks a little like lace, and it stretches across a raging brown river below. I think I recognize the spot, not far from Kentwick Park, a place where people like to go rafting and boating in the summer, when the air is warm and the river is calm. But it's not summer in this scene, and then I notice something else—there, standing in the center of the bridge, perched on the outer edge, is a person. His arms are behind him, holding on to the bridge, but he's leaning forward. Precariously so. And then this person is jumping—and free-falling down almost as if in slow motion.

I can tell it's a guy with dark brown hair, but I can't see his face well enough to know who it is, although I sense real desperation in his expression. His eyes are tightly closed, and his mouth is grim. But something about him is familiar. And yet…I don't get it. And then, just like that, it's over. Gone. No more vision.

I ponder this, trying to discern what it means. I know with certainty that it's from God because I can just tell—I feel it deep inside of me. And while it was a scary scene, I don't feel frightened. But I do feel an urgency, like I need to do something. But I don't know what. I do know that there
must be a specific purpose for the vision because that's how God works. But other than that, I am blank.

The more I run it through my head, the less it seems to make sense. Naturally, I think of Peter Clark since he and his family have been on my mind lately. And I remember his photos and that he did have dark brown hair. Could that have been him in the vision? And if so, why? It doesn't really compute. I mean, Peter's death was caused by a gunshot wound to the head, not by jumping from a bridge. And even though I got the strong impression that this guy was killing himself, it wasn't how Peter died. What is that supposed to mean?

I finally decide to call Ebony. I'll give her the details while they're still fresh in my mind. Or, if necessary, I'll just leave a message. Maybe she can make sense of it or perhaps even use it for another case. I call her on my cell phone and am relieved to hear her answer in person. I quickly relay the vision with all the details, even down to where I think the location could be.

“And you think it was Peter in the vision?” she asks for clarification.

“I don't know. That part was unclear. It could've been him. Or not. But if it was him, it doesn't really make much. sense, does it?”

There's a long pause, and I can imagine her pondering this with her eyes slightly narrowed, lips pressed together, deep in thought. “Maybe Peter considered taking his life by jumping from a bridge. And maybe that's God's way of showing us that he actually did intend to take his own life.”

Somehow her voice doesn't convince me. It's like she's saying what she thinks I want to hear. “Do you really think so?”

“I don't know, Samantha. To be honest, that whole suicide thing doesn't ring true to me anymore. I've been checking out that suicide website and trying to piece this whole thing together, and I just don't know what to think. Something isn't right.”

Then my suicide vision probably doesn't help much, at least in regard to Peter.”

“Hey, at least God is communicating with you again,” she says in a brighter tone. “You must be happy about that.”

“Actually, I am.” Then I tell her that it's my birthday and that I think maybe God wanted to use the vision as a present for me, to show me that He's still going to use me. It's exciting. “I'm sure that would sound crazy to some people. I mean, having a vision about someone jumping off a bridge isn't exactly cheerful.”

“I know, but it must be encouraging to know that God still trusts you with this sort of thing, Samantha.”

“It is.”

“And happy birthday!”

“Thanks.” I feel a little silly now, like I shouldn't have told her about my birthday. “I'll let you know if anything else comes up, now that I know the door is open again. Or at least I think it is…1 hope it is.”