Chosen (2 page)

She might have convinced herself about the delusion angle if it wasn’t for Evelyn’s reaction every time necessity made them come into contact. Now
that
was spooky and not lightly dismissed. Besides, Ben looked so pathetically hopeful every time he glanced her way that she began to feel like a coward —and Mariah Adele Carpenter was certainly not afraid to talk to this Michael Jenkins person.

Three days later, she called the church and reached the receptionist. “Michael’s eleven o’clock appointment just cancelled. Can you make it? If not, his next available opening is in three weeks.”
How coincidental
Mariah mused. Not wanting to let this drag on any longer, she agreed to be there at eleven.

Chelsea Heights Community Church was named for its location on Chelsea Avenue in San José, California, a street that gradually meandered up one of the numerous hills that comprised the Santa Cruz mountain range. Mariah loved the lifestyle and temperate climate of northern California, not once regretting her decision to leave Massachusetts thirteen years ago.

The church was affluent without being showy. The older building, now home to classrooms and conference rooms, was across from the newer structure that housed the sanctuary. The receptionist gave her directions to Michael’s office on the second floor of the new building, informing her that he would be a few minutes late.

She found his office mid-way down the corridor. Glued to his door was a black nameplate with
Michael Jenkins
punched out in raised white letters. Mariah paced the length of the worn hall carpet like an expectant father awaiting the imminent arrival of his heir.

Ten minutes went by, but it felt like an hour. She shook her arms and took several deep breaths. It was important she appear composed and coherent, a person not given to an overactive imagination. Michael Jenkins must see that she was not like those who claimed to see the face of the Madonna in a broccoli soufflé.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she studied the man as he approached.

In his mid-fifties, Michael Jenkins was about five foot ten with a spare frame, light brown hair thinning on top, and gray sideburns clipped short. Behind the steel-rimmed glasses perched on the end of a sharp nose was an unremarkable face—until he smiled. His eyes crinkled in the corners and a dimple appeared on his left cheek as the creases deepened around his mouth. Genuine warmth and kindness radiated from him. Drawn to it, she responded with a tentative smile of her own. Intuitively she knew she could trust him even though she usually shied away from strangers.

He extended his hand. “Mariah Carpenter? I’m the late Michael Jenkins. Not that I’m deceased, mind you, just a bit tardy as usual. Thanks for waiting. Come in.”

He unlocked his office door and held it for her. By design, the self-deprecating humor caused her smile to deepen and put her more at ease. She was further charmed by his British accent, the tone friendly and good-natured.

“Please have a seat on the sofa under the picture of the Victoria Falls.” He indicated a well-worn brown leather couch. “While we talk, I can pretend we’re enjoying the mist instead of being cooped up in this stuffy office.”

Mariah complied as he pulled a side chair to face her. “What do I call you, sir?” pleased that her voice was steady. His eyes twinkled and he said, “Michael will do. I’m not much one for formalities. ‘Pastor Jenkins’ envisions to me someone with a tonsured head and coarse-spun robe.” He smiled gently. “Now, how can I help you?”

She had thought of nothing else on her way to the church. What could he do? Explain why she tried to commit suicide? Help her understand why she lacked self-confidence and feared close relationships? Make sense of the
Visitation
?

She cleared her voice. “I know that attempting suicide goes against your religious beliefs, but I need for you to understand why I tried it.” He nodded encouragingly, and she cleared her voice again.

“All my life I’ve felt abnormal, apart from everyone. Physically, I had degenerative nerves in my little fingers, and I was born without tonsils or appendix. I had bad headaches when I was thirteen, so I had a brain wave test. The doctor told my mother he saw a bizarre pattern and wanted to study me further, but mom refused.

“I was a trial to my mother. I don’t blame her for her constant criticism and her war on my independence. I guess I was a stubborn kid and a pest with my ceaseless questions.”

His steady gaze held no pity, only patience and kindness. What parents unwittingly did to their children in the name of conformity brought many to Michael’s office. Rejected by a society that penalized them for being different caused them frustration, anger, and despair.

Desperate for his approval, Mariah felt her resolve to remain unemotional erode in the face of his compassion. The more she tried for the logic and reason of a mature adult, the more she sounded like a whiny child. As her agitation increased, her voice rose, her hand gestures punctuating her thoughts.

“Okay, so why am I here?” Her eyes begged him not to fail her now, to continue to believe her ... and she was rewarded with a reassuring smile that buoyed her as effectively as if he had thrown her a life preserver to keep her from drowning.

“I had ... uh ... an experience a little while ago that I call the
Visitation.
” His mystified expression echoed her sentiments as she described the sensations of serenity and mental and physical healing.

When she reached the end—the strong arms that held her, the rich voice that comforted her—he leaned forward, his grip on the armrests causing his knuckles to whiten. The joyful smile on his face caused her to slump in relief: he didn’t believe her supernatural experience was just an overactive imagination.

When he spoke, his words were measured, his voice low. “Mariah, are you here because you don’t believe what happened, don’t understand what happened, or are afraid of what happened?”

Through a sudden blur of tears, she said, “I know what you’re thinking. I can see it in your face. You think it was God, but I’m not convinced. I’m more inclined to believe it was temporary insanity combined with some expired medication.” Apprehension made her voice tremble, fear made it harsh. “How can you expect me to just accept something I’ve denied my whole life? You’re convinced God exists: the jury is still out for me.” Afraid she might have offended him with her lack of respect, Mariah was relieved to see only concern in his eyes.

She gazed out his office window at the mountains beyond, golden in the early afternoon sun. More to herself than him, she murmured, “Why did this happen to me? If it
was
God, what did I do to deserve it? How can I be so important to him when I’ve denied his existence?” Her voice quavered as she focused back on Michael’s face. “And what does he want?”

Michael said, “I don’t have the answers, but I can tell you that God loves you whether you believe in Him or not. Just that simple. Only time will tell what He has in store for you.” They talked for some time about the
Visitation
, but there was nothing more she could add nor could he offer any other explanations.

“Mariah, I’d like to invite you to services this Sunday. You’re under no obligation to join in, but maybe you’ll hear something you like.”

She found herself nodding. She needed answers, and maybe this was the right place to start.

Maybe.

Mariah rose early the following Sunday to attend Michael’s sunrise service, the least crowded of the three at which he officiated. When she told Ben of her intentions, he said, “I’m going to join you—at that ungodly hour, pardon the pun—so you won’t have to sit alone. Besides, I’m eager for you to meet my wife, Amy, who sings in the choir. I’ve often heard you softly singing along with the radio in your cube, and I know you have the kind of voice our music minister is always looking for.”

Mariah was treated to a modern service from beginning to end, impressed with the better-than-average musicians who accompanied the semi-professional choir. The music was progressive and uplifting, chosen to coordinate with Michael’s sermon filled with honesty, strength of conviction, and his dry British humor. Although uncomfortable in this house of worship, she was glad she had accepted Ben’s invitation.

After the service, Mariah met Ben’s wife, Amy and Peter Martin, the music minister. Spotting them, Michael excused himself from a conversation with a church elder and came toward her, his face lit with a welcoming smile. When he reached her, he opened his arms and, without a thought, she stepped into his embrace, feeling the warmth and acceptance he offered. They moved apart and he clasped her shoulders, never taking his eyes from hers.

“Peter, this is a remarkable lady. If she becomes a member of your choir, you’re going to be blessed with her presence.” Peter Martin’s curiosity was piqued by the elation he saw on Michael’s face.

She passed the audition. No surprise there. But what mystified her was her eagerness to join the choir, a longing to belong to a group, two both strange and alien emotions. At Michael’s insistence, she gave Peter a much abbreviated version of the
Visitation
, and was heartened by his acceptance and delight, the same as she had received from Michael.

The following Thursday, she followed his directions and found the choir meeting room. She sat in the parking lot and fought the urge to bolt, always unsure of herself around strangers.

The desire to sing and join the choir won. She entered the church with eyes averted and headed for the chairs against the wall. People drifted in, greeting each other with laughter and good-natured jibes. Some glanced curiously in her direction and some even smiled, but no one approached. Mariah’s panic escalated as she waited for the familiar face of Amy Van Horten or Peter Martin. On the verge of fleeing back to her apartment, she saw a lady enter and gaze around the room. Their eyes met, and the lady headed straight for her.

“Hi! Are you Mariah Carpenter?” the lady asked. When Mariah nodded, she said, “Good! I’m Natalie Groffsky. Pleased to meet you!” She extended her hand and Mariah shook it. With a wide grin, Natalie said, “Peter assigned me to be your choir buddy, so you’ll sit next to me in the alto section. I’m pretty loud so you can follow my lead through the music!” Mariah smiled shyly up at Natalie, the tension in her stomach easing a bit.

When Peter arrived, the choir members lined up. Mariah trailed Natalie into the sanctuary to the choir loft. Over the conversational din, Natalie stood up and yelled, “Hey, everyone!” The hubbub ceased and Natalie said, “I’d like to introduce you all to our newest member. Give it up for Mariah Carpenter!” Everyone laughed and cheered then stood up one-by-one and introduced themselves. Even though Mariah was overwhelmed, she felt a genuine sense of acceptance by these people.

Natalie was bright and funny and, in the upcoming weeks, would give Mariah the lowdown on Michael Jenkins, Peter Martin, and the other members of the choir in her amusing, informative way. One Thursday evening, Mariah said, “Natalie, I want to thank you for everything. For the first time in a long time, I feel relaxed around people.” Natalie hugged her and they grinned at each other.

Thursday night practices, both serious when they sang and playful in between the songs, caught her up in the religious sentiments fostered by the music and the easy camaraderie of the choir members. They seemed genuinely interested in her without being nosey, and included her in their conversations. Mariah desperately wanted to fit in some place that felt safe.

A week later she was invited to Sonya Alvarez’s house for a barbecue. Only hyperventilating slightly, she brought a homemade macaroni, sausage and cheese casserole and blushed when people praised it, some even requesting the recipe. In the weeks to follow there would be swim parties, soccer games, and the occasional music retreat. Mariah was made to feel part of a family who welcomed her without reservation. Swept up in a current of bonhomie, she began to believe in a God who commanded such devotion and love.

The breeze felt cool against her naked skin, tickling the hairs on her arms. It was perfect: just enough air movement to keep the sun’s warm rays from feeling hot. Her nose identified the rich, earthy aroma of newly tilled soil, and moist dirt beneath her bare feet oozed sensuously between her toes. Mariah was almost reluctant to open her eyes, not wanting these sensations spoiled by what she might see.

She braved a peek and found herself in a clearing surrounded by trees. Judging by their immense girth and towering height, they were ancient. The only trees she knew to be this massive were redwoods; however, these behemoths had white bark with leaves in varied shades of yellow. She was not much into horticulture, but she had never heard of white redwoods with yellow leaves.

The plant life that grew beneath the trees ran the color spectrum of green—emerald, chartreuse, forest, jade, viridian. The colors were so sharp they almost hurt her eyes. It was the same reaction she got when she looked up at the brilliant aquamarine sky.

The patch of ground on which she stood had been cultivated with straight rows of vegetation just beginning to sprout. Smiling ruefully, she remembered her first—and last—attempt at gardening when she had committed “plantacide” on some seventy dollars-worth of herbs.

Where am I? And, more to the point, why am I naked
? The only time she was naked outdoors was when she was having one of those nightmares where everyone except her was dressed. If this was a dream, it was the most realistic she ever had, complete with earthy smells, breezes playing with the hair on her shoulders, and a medium warm sun that kept the temperature perfect.

Reality finally sunk in. Mariah wrapped her arms around her nakedness in an attempt to cover herself. The evidence was obvious; someone had tilled the soil and planted the garden. Her lack of a weapon and state of undress made her feel vulnerable, fearing the locals would see her as either a sexual object or lunch.

She woke and sighed with relief, glad the dream was over. As her brain began to shut down and return her to sleep, she knew there was something else about the dream that was odd, something she could not quite pinpoint. Too tired to rouse herself and figure it out, she fell back to sleep.