The Red Gloves Collection (44 page)

Then there was nothing but gritty sand and hot-blinding pain and darkness.

CHAPTER TEN

T
he clue that Mike Conner’s real last name was Meade turned out to be all they needed, and now Hannah had a feeling they were hours away from finding her dad.

Her mother had called Congressman McKenna when they returned home from coffee, but he was out for the day. Now it was Thursday afternoon and she had him on the line.

“You’ve probably read about Hannah’s search.” Carol managed a polite laugh. “We didn’t mean for it to be a media event, but, well … the fact is we need to find him.” She explained that they had more information now. Mike Meade, she told him. Could he please check the Army for a Mike Meade?

Hannah barely remembered to breathe as her mother put the call on speaker phone. The congressman was checking. After a minute he returned to the phone.

“That’s it,” he sounded excited. “Mike Meade, born May 7, 1970.”

Hannah’s mother hung her head, relief filling in the lines on her forehead. “That’s him.”

“He’s a chopper pilot, a captain.” The man hesitated. “Looks like he’s been in since 1994. He’s stationed over in Baghdad, piloting one of the crews designated to fight insurgents.”

Hannah wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded dangerous. She clutched at her stomach and crossed the room to the bank of windows that looked out over their stately neighborhood.
Daddy, we found you.
Tears stung her eyes.
We found you.

But what if he was in trouble? Insurgents? Those were the bad guys, right? She pressed her head against the window frame and willed herself to think clearly. It was dangerous, but it would be okay. He’d been doing this for years.

She turned and listened to the conversation. Congressman McKenna was talking.

“I’ll contact his commander, get a message to him right away so he can call Hannah. If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call.”

Her mother rattled off a list of cell phones and contact numbers, in case the congressman couldn’t get through on the house line. Then she thanked him and hung up.

Hannah had never felt close to her mother, not as far back as she could remember. But now—with her father found—she walked back to the place where her mother stood, and without saying a word she fell into her arms. The moment was awkward, but Hannah needed it, anyway.

They were still hugging a minute later when the phone rang. Hannah pulled back, confused. Had the congressman located her father’s commander that quickly? She wrapped her arms around her middle again and watched as her mother took the call.

After a few seconds her mother handed the phone over. “It’s for you,” she mouthed silently. “It’s the country music station.”

Hannah’s breath caught in her throat. So much information at once, she could hardly take it in. She held the phone to her ear. “Hello, this is Hannah.”

“Hi, this is Megan, I’m one of the producers working with the video messages for soldiers overseas.”

“Hello.” Hannah braced herself against the back of the sofa. “Have you heard from my dad?”

“I think so.” The woman sighed. “It looks like one of the editorial assistants took a message from a Mike Meade a few days ago. The message was misplaced until today. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Hannah wanted to rush the woman, get to the good part. “Really, you heard from him?”

“Yes. The man who called said to tell you he has similar pictures.” She paused. “Oh, and that he was a surfer at Pismo Beach eleven years ago.”

Hannah’s head was spinning. Her father had called. It had to be him. He’d seen the video and tried to reach her! She wanted to jump through the roof and fly around the neighborhood. How could it be happening? It was all she could do to stay standing, but the woman was rattling off numbers and she took down the information, thanked her, and hung up the phone.

Then, with only a glance at her mother, she dialed the number she’d been given. A woman answered, and Hannah did as the instructions told. “Could you patch me in to Colonel Jared Whalin, please.”

“Yes, just a minute.” She was silent for a moment. “It’s after midnight there. Maybe you could try tomorrow.

“Please!” Hannah heard the panic in her voice. “It’s urgent, ma’am. Could you please try? Someone might be awake, right?”

“Well,” the woman hesitated. “All right. If it’s urgent, I’ll give it a try.”

She put Hannah on hold and after a few seconds the phone rang and a man picked up. “Colonel Whalin.” His voice was terse.

“Yes … ” Hannah was shaking. She could be minutes from talking to her father. The entire scene felt unreal, like something from a dream. She steadied herself. “My name’s Hannah Roberts, and my father—” She let her eyes meet her mother’s. “My father is Mike Meade. He’s one of your chopper pilots, I believe.”

For a few beats the man said nothing. Then he exhaled slowly. “Hannah … ” His tone was kinder, but it was heavy. “Your father told me you might call.”

“Yes, well … ” Hannah could barely speak. Was this really happening? After so many years of dreaming about her daddy, had she finally found him? Her words were breathless, stuck in her throat. She forced herself to exhale. “Could I talk to him, sir?”

“Hannah, is your mother there? I have some things I need to tell her.”

The colonel’s words came at her like some sort of disconnect. What did her mother have to do with the conversation? She wanted to speak to her father. Why didn’t the colonel go find him and put him on the phone? “Sir? My mother, sir?”

“Yes.” The commander sighed again, but it sounded more like a groan. “Please, Hannah.”

“Fine, sir.” Hannah held the phone to her mother. She felt faint, her mind swirling with the information. What was wrong? Was there a problem, something the colonel couldn’t share with her? She gripped the edge of the sofa back and studied her mother.

“Hello?” Her mother knit her brow together, clearly confused. “This is Carol Roberts, Hannah’s mother.”

Whatever the colonel told her next, Hannah knew it wasn’t good. Her mother’s face grew pinched, her eyes watery. She gave the commander their phone number and address, but otherwise she said very little, and then the conversation ended. When she hung up the phone, it took a while before she lifted her eyes to Hannah’s.

“What’s wrong? Why couldn’t he come to the phone? How come the colonel didn’t tell me?” Hannah’s questions ran together. “What’s wrong? Tell me, please.”

Her mother reached for her hands and eased her around the edge of the sofa and onto the cushion. Then she crouched down and searched Hannah’s eyes. “He’s a prisoner, Hannah. His helicopter was shot down earlier today. They’re trying to find a way to rescue him.”

The words ripped into her, tearing at her dreams and breaking her heart. She slid off the sofa onto her knees and let her head fall against her mother’s knees. “No, Mother … No, it can’t be true. He was fine when he left me the message.”

“The colonel talked about that.” Her mother’s voice was thick. “Your dad called you on Sunday, a few days before the mission.”

Hannah grabbed her mother’s arms. She was desperate, frantic. She had to find a way to get to him, to tell him she’d gotten his message. “They have to rescue him now, right now! Before something happens.”

“Honey, they’re trying.” Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “The colonel said they’re putting together a plan.”

“But how can I reach him?” She was trembling, sick to her stomach, searching for an answer where none existed. The truth was more than she could take in.
My dad is a prisoner of war? What if someone’s hurting him?
She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “I have to talk to him.”

“Shhh.” Her mother ran her hand along the back of her head. “All we can do is wait. I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked, and this was something else new: her mother allowing a show of emotion. She sniffed and held Hannah closer. “All we can do is wait.”

T
here was no word from the colonel by the next morning, so Hannah went to school. It was the only way she could make the time pass, the only way to keep running—the way that was familiar to her. But she couldn’t concentrate on her classes or the lectures or anything but her father. There had to be something she could do, some way she could help him.

The idea came to her just after school let out. Her mother had a meeting with the congressman, looking for a way to speed up the rescue of her father and the men who had been with him on the mission. Hannah was skipping cheerleading, so she met Buddy Bingo out front near the flagpole at three o’clock. The temperatures hovered around freezing, and an icy wind hit her in the face as she flew out the school doors. More snow was in the forecast.

As soon as she climbed in the Town Car she leaned forward and craned her neck over the seat. “Buddy, I need help.”

“What is it, Miss Hannah?” His eyes were instantly concerned.

She tugged on her sweater sleeves and explained the situation—how she had a different dad, one that she’d known as a little girl. And yesterday she’d found him, only he was overseas in Baghdad and now he was a prisoner of war. “He’s in danger, Buddy.” She gulped, terrified, too afraid to picture where he might be even at that minute. “You’re praying for a Christmas miracle for me, right?”

“Right.” Buddy’s tone was gravely serious. “But Hannah, if he’s a prisoner of war … has anyone heard from him?”

“That’s just it.” Her words came out fast, clipped. “His commander says they’re putting together a rescue. So how about if we change the prayer and ask for a different miracle. That they’d find my dad and get him out of there before he gets hurt.”

Buddy looked down and rubbed the back of his neck, slow and deliberate. When he looked up, he searched deep into her eyes. “Miss Hannah, can I ask you something?”

“Anything?” Hannah was out of breath. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing since she saw the Town Car. If Buddy’s miracle thing worked, then this might be her dad’s only chance.

“Miracles aren’t a given, Hannah. Do you know that?” Buddy’s voice was serious.

“What do you mean?” She blinked; her heart skipped a beat. She needed a miracle now, more than ever.

“It takes belief, Hannah. Belief and prayer. Even so, sometimes God has another plan.” He lowered his chin. “But either way, I can’t be the only one believing and praying.”

The notion hit Hannah square in the face. Buddy couldn’t be the only one praying … of course not. She sat back and stared out the window. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Buddy was right. She could hardly ask him to pray for her Christmas miracle if she wasn’t also willing to pray. She leaned up again and looked at him. “I do believe, Buddy. I’ve believed for a while now, I think. So … ” She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “How do I pray?”

“There’s no formula.” Buddy gave her a familiar, tender smile, the one that made him look like Santa Claus. “You talk to God the same way you’d talk to your best friend.”

“Can I try it?” Hannah tapped her toes on the floorboard of the car, the way she did when she was nervous. She looked around. They were still parked up against the curb in front of the school, but most of the other cars had already gone. “Right here?”

“Go ahead.” Buddy bowed his head. “Give it a try.”

Hannah followed his lead. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, more because it felt natural than because she was sure it was the right way to pray. She cleared her throat.

“Hi, God, it’s me, Hannah.” Her voice was shaky, caught somewhere between scared-to-death for her father and uncertainty about what to say. She sucked in a quick breath. “God, my dad’s in trouble. I haven’t seen him in—” Her voice broke, and tears stung at her eyes.

“It’s okay, Hannah.” Buddy’s voice was soft, low. “Take your time.”

“Thanks.” She swallowed a few times so she could find the words. She opened her eyes for a moment, and a trail of tears slid down both her cheeks. She sniffed and closed her eyes once more. “Anyway, God, I haven’t seen my dad in a long time. And now he’s a prisoner in Baghdad, and he needs your help. Remember the Christmas miracle Buddy’s been praying for? That I would have Christmas with my mom and dad? Well—” The prayer was coming easier now. Buddy was right; it was just like talking. “—we’d like to add something. Please, God, just help Colonel Whalin and his men rescue my dad. That really would be the biggest, most amazing miracle of all. Thank You.”

When she opened her eyes, Buddy was smiling at her. He held her gaze for a moment, then turned and pulled something out of a box on the seat next to him. It was a beautiful pair of red gloves—homemade, maybe. He held them out to her. “These are for you.”

“Buddy … ” She took them and turned them over, amazed at how soft they were. “Where did they come from?”

He turned so that he could see her straight on, see the way the gloves fit her hands perfectly. “A long time ago, my mother gave me those.” He pointed at the cuff on the gloves. “Look inside.”

Hanna turned the cuff back and there, stitched on the inside in white, was the single word:
Believe.
She eased them onto her hands, one at a time, bringing them to her cheeks. “They’re perfect.”

“I’ve had them with me for a week or so.” His eyes were bright, a mix of sadness and hope. “They’re your Christmas present. But somehow”—he motioned to the gloves—”this seemed like the right time.”

Hannah made her hands into fists and held her gloved fingers together. “Because of the message.”

“Yes.” Buddy patted her hands. “Because you need to believe. More now than ever.”

“Thank you, Buddy.” She felt warm all the way to her insides. “You always know what to say, what to do.”

He took her home then, and she went inside to her room, to the quietest corner. There she took the gloves off and pressed them against her face. They smelled old, of cedar chests and cinnamon and long-ago Christmases. Already she treasured them. They would be a symbol, she decided. A reminder. She would wear them every time she left the house. That way she’d remember how important it was to pray.

And, when it came to miracles, how important it was to believe.