Lost in Dreams (2 page)

certain to slip and fall on an unstable one.”

I shrugged. She had me pegged accurately, even though I couldn’t imagine where she was going with this monologue.

“But if someone can prance or dance on a loose surface”—she stopped to look back at the pebbles that had led to my, uh, downfall—”a layer of those little roly-poly critters, for example, she must be …” She paused and finished her sentence in the exaggerated, dignified tone of a famous actor-to-be. “She must be exceedingly talented.” A grin lit up her face. “Like me.”

I looked at her with all the doubt I could muster. After two weeks of listening to her make the impossible sound not only plausible, but effortless, that was tough. I waited for her to laugh, but she didn’t.

“So,” I said, “you’re saying African-Americans like you can prance on pebbles better than skinny white girls like me?”

We both giggled. No two people could have had more fun coming up with outrageous, nonexistent racial differences.

“Not at all, my dear Miss Kim. I’m saying we folks of color only prance on pebbles when no one else is around. We wouldn’t want word to get out that a few of us are just as uncoordinated as you.”

I smirked.

“Girl …” Her face softened the way it did when she was about to say something especially meaningful. Her dark brown eyes peered into mine as if she was looking for something, and she smiled as if she’d found it. “I was just messing with your head about ‘prancing on pebbles.’”

I smiled.

“Physically, that is,” she said. “But my dad talks a lot about something he calls a ‘Season of Pebbles.’ He says all Christians have them sooner or later, and I believe him.”

“Huh?”

I’d never heard of a “Season of Pebbles,” and Aleesha’s

reference to her father as an active, ongoing presence in her life caught me off guard. She’d barely mentioned him before. So much for thinking I’d outgrown all of my racial stereotypes.

“The worst troubles, problems, and challenges in life … they’re all pebbles that can make you fall. They’re peskier than real ones, though. Peskier, more dangerous, and almost too numerous to count at times. During a time of prolonged difficulties—”

“A ‘Season of Pebbles’?”

She nodded. “Those pebbles are there, ready to trip a Christian morally, emotionally, and spiritually. So ‘prancing on pebbles’ means ‘depending on God to stay upright.’” She paused, apparently giving her explanation additional thought.

“More than upright, though.
Prancing
suggests forward motion. No matter how unbalanced you feel. So to take it to a deeper level, ‘prancing on pebbles’ means demonstrating the real meaning of ‘Victory in Jesus.’” She began humming the familiar hymn.

“Like overcoming my problems in Santa María, you mean?”

“Kim, as irritating as those things were, they were nothing compared to what I’m talking about. You never came close to falling there.”

She smirked, and I chuckled.

“Well,” she said, “except for the time you actually fell down.”

“I’m not expecting anything major to happen for a while. No pebbles for me. I think God’s going to let me rest up from Santa María and live a normal life for a while.”

“I hope you’re right, girlfriend,” she said as we hugged good-bye.

C
ome on, Mom. Answer your cell phone
.

I was exhausted. My mother couldn’t pick me up soon enough. She thought Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport might have a cell phone waiting lot where people could park and stay in the car until a newly arrived friend or family member called to say she was waiting. That was supposed to lessen the congestion at Hourly Parking, not to mention saving the picker-upper a bit of cash. Great idea.

Mom, I’m dying to tell you all about my trip. You won’t believe how much I’ve changed. I’ve really grown up
.

After spending the last of my change on a handcart, I piled it high with my four suitcases—and that well-worn denim tote bag a teammate had given me in Santa María. I’d have to use the bag for my object lesson instead of the lost pebbles. Unable to see around my pile of luggage, I kept my eyes on the overhead sign pointing to Passenger Pickup as I worked my way through the crowd.

Okay, Mom, I’m ready and waiting. I’d tell you that if you’d just answer. So where are you? Don’t tell me you were wrong about the cell phone lot and you had to find a place in Hourly Parking. Dad will really razz you about that
.

Maybe I’d help him. That could be part of my “learn to get along better with Dad” campaign. Wouldn’t that surprise him?

Or—more likely—shock him. Mom and I usually sided with one another in disagreements with Dad.

I hoped I could stay awake until she got here, though. Sure, I

could put the passenger seat back and sleep the whole way home if I wanted to. Mom would understand. She’d probably expect it.

But I had too much to tell her. I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not for a while.

Mom, I’ve matured so much since you last saw me. My two weeks in tiny Santa María have changed me totally, and responsibility is my new middle name. Isn’t that great? And won’t Dad be thrilled to see the positive changes?

I snapped my fingers. I knew what I could do. Offer to drive. Mom hated Atlanta traffic, especially at and near the airport. Consideration like that would blow her mind. Of course, she’d realize I wasn’t in any shape to be behind the wheel of a car, but she’d appreciate the thought nonetheless. Yes, I’d offer to drive home.

If Dad hadn’t surprised me by changing my flight to a nonstop, I’d probably be killing time at Dallas/Fort Worth now. He’d sounded genuinely disappointed about not being able to drive Mom to the airport, but he didn’t think he should postpone today’s meeting with the president of the university.

Getting an appointment with Dr. Cutshaw sometimes took days, even for a tenured English professor like my father, and Dad’s need must have been too important to risk a delay. I hoped they were discussing something good. Something that would please Dad. He needed more joy in his life.

Learning how much he looked forward to seeing me was sweet, though. I’d never seen much of his affectionate side until I called home about my broken arm. After that, he left several voice messages saying how much he loved me. Not only had I saved them, but they’d also already made me cry eight or ten times.

Today.

Dad and I were going to get along great now. I could feel it. How could God fail to bless such a righteous undertaking as

drawing my family closer together?

Mom, come on. My calls keep falling through to voice mail after the fourth ring. You can’t be on the line with somebody else, or I’d get your voice mail greeting on the first ring. Isn’t your phone working? Or has my phone flaked out?

After my phone sat around unused for two weeks in an area so remote it couldn’t find the time or a roaming signal, I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the hot sun had baked its fragile little insides. Hmm. But I wouldn’t have reached Mom’s voice mail greeting if that had happened.

If I tried calling Dad, I could ask if he’d heard from Mom, but I didn’t know what time his meeting was, and I didn’t want to chance interrupting it. He was always too preoccupied to think of turning his phone off or setting it on vibrate. No need for me to make Dr. Cutshaw aware of that shortcoming.

I grinned at myself. I was learning to be more thoughtful. That was part of the new me. I’d have to tell Dad I’d purposely avoided calling him, even though I hoped he’d notice other aspects of my maturing without my having to wave a flag in front of his face.

From the windows facing Passenger Pickup, I didn’t see any sign of Mom’s Honda Civic. The rain was so heavy I could barely see the street. Although I’d overheard a couple of people talking about a thunderstorm, I hadn’t heard any rumbles. A heavy-duty building like the terminal must do a great job of keeping the outside noises outside.

I guess the storm slowed you down, huh, Mom? I’m glad you’re being extra cautious in this horrible weather
.

She always allowed extra time for the unexpected, though. Still, the drive from home took an hour-and-a-half to two hours at best. Anything could have delayed her. Accidents—weather like this was apt to result in a number of fender-benders—sometimes blocked the interstate for hours.

I didn’t leave a message the first three times I called. Hadn’t Mom told me a million times that retrieving voice mail while driving was almost as dangerous as texting? But when my fourth call went to voice mail, I started talking at the sound of the beep.

“Mom, it’s Kim. I thought I’d say that in case you’ve forgotten what my voice sounds like, even though I just talked to you this morning. I’m waiting just inside the baggage claim area. Let me know when to come outside. Be careful in this rain. I love you, Mom.”

By then, I was so tired of standing—or maybe just tired period—that I set several of my nearly empty suitcases on the floor and angled my cart so I could climb on top and face the window. Maybe that wasn’t the most dignified thing I’d ever done, but who cared?

People sometimes called me Miss Priss or Miss Prep, but they never accused me of being dignified.

The rain had let up some, but every car in sight still had headlights on. I leaned forward and pressed my nose and forehead against the glass. It felt pleasantly cool, even though the outside air would be hot and muggy. After all, this was Atlanta in early August.

I closed my eyes for a minute.

I hadn’t suffered jetlag flying to San Diego, but flying west to east … Aleesha had told me that would be bad. As usual, she’d been right.

I don’t know how long I’d been dozing in that awkward position, but I was barely awake when my phone started playing “Amazing Grace.” Mom. That was her favorite hymn, so I’d made it her ringtone.

“Mom?” I said as I tried situating the phone against my ear. “I’m so glad to hear from you. I was starting to wonder. Where are you?”

“Kim?” a male voice said. “Kim Hartlinger?”

T
he sound of a man’s voice coming from my mom’s cell phone number wouldn’t normally make me fall off a luggage cart. No matter how responsible and conscientious Mom was in every other way, she was a complete failure when it came to keeping up with her cell phone. She’d been lucky so far. Uh, blessed.

She hated the word
lucky
as much as I did. We agreed that Christians shouldn’t believe in luck. And God had blessed each of her phone losses with an honest finder who called to let her know it was in safe hands. I knew that from firsthand experience.

Because I always had my phone on me and didn’t ignore her calls the way Dad did—he spent hours at a time in another world, one where he wasn’t apt to notice his phone ringing—Mom finally broke down and entered my number in her phone book as her primary emergency number. Her ICE—In Case of Emergency. Besides, she knew I wouldn’t tease her about losing her phone … again and again and again.

But I fell off the luggage cart this time. Sort of.

While answering my phone, I started climbing down. But I didn’t realize my weird position had cut off the circulation to my feet and legs, leaving them too numb to support me. In fact, I didn’t discover it until I crumpled to the floor and saw my phone go flying. My thinly padded bottom would probably be more than just sore after landing on it so hard twice in one day.

“I’m sorry,” I said while scooping the phone up and putting it to my ear again. I was surprised it was still working.

“I dropped my phone.” No point in admitting I’d fallen and sent the phone sprawling. “What did you say?”

“Are you Kim Hartlinger?” His voice sounded intense.

Although sirens howled in the distant background, I didn’t pay much attention to them. After all, this was Atlanta. The big city. Something was always going on here.

“Where did she leave it this time?” I sat on the floor pounding the feeling back into my feet.

At least this call explained why she hadn’t answered my calls. She didn’t have her phone. But why was she so late? Had she wasted time she didn’t have trying to find it?

“I beg your pardon?” The caller sounded confused. “This is Kim Hartlinger?”

“Yes, sir, this is Kim. So you’ve found my mother’s cell phone? I asked you where she left it.”

The man didn’t answer for a moment. The sirens sounded closer now. I wondered if he was on the way to an emergency.

“In her car. She was apparently holding it when …”

H
ow the …? I swallowed the curse word. I felt guilty for even thinking it. But how was I supposed to find the interfaith chapel when the tears ran off my face like the Mississippi River overflowing its banks at flood time? A policewoman was supposed to meet me at the chapel. She would give me details …

Details about the accident. About Mom’s condition. She would tell me if … I couldn’t let myself think it.

Some guy emptying garbage cans had given me easy-to-follow directions to the chapel. At least they’d sounded easy, but I couldn’t see well enough to walk. Tears clouded my vision and limited my visibility to probably less than 5 percent.

God must have been guiding my feet, though. I managed to ease my way from the middle of the busy walkway to an out-of-the-way spot without running into anyone. As soon as I felt the wall’s coolish tiles, I pulled a packet of Kleenex tissues out of my purse. Neil had given them to me that morning while translating Rosa’s letter. Had God told him I would need them again this soon?

The officer on the phone had sounded kind. Gentle. Concerned. But he hadn’t wasted time getting to the bottom line. Mom had been in an accident. It was serious. Life-threatening. She was on her way to the hospital. He refused to speculate about her condition, but he was obviously afraid she might not—
no! I won’t let myself consider that
.

I tried not to think about the other thing he’d told me. “She was apparently using her cell phone at the time of the accident.”

Why had she been using her phone while driving? And in such horrible weather at that. The very thought of it freaked me out.