“Oh no?” Sheila’s voice rose half an octave and several decibels. “Then why don’t you call her right now and ask her?”
“Shelly, you’re being—”
“Call her.”
Her mother replied with a sigh. When Linda picked up the phone, her voice sounded no stronger than before. “What do you want now?”
“I’m moving to Zimbabwe. Maybe for the rest of my life. Next week. Do you care?”
“I know,” Linda said harshly. “Mom told me. Tried to get me to call you. And yes, I do care.”
What? Sheila hadn’t been expecting that. Did that mean her sister might be having second thoughts about—
“I’ll be happy to never see you again in this lifetime.” Click.
Sheila went over to her rocking chair, letting the phone drop to the floor as she sat down. God, it is You calling me, right? I’m not trying to escape my problems again by hiding behind a cloak of spirituality, am I? She suddenly realized that the last thing she wanted was to leave the United States without having reconciled with Linda. At the same time, she felt more certainty than doubt that this missions trip was of God. But this was her family, and her broken relationship with Linda affected everybody.
Leave all and follow Me.
The words seeped into her spirit like warm honey, filling her with peace and renewed confidence that she had made the right decision. Okay, Lord, but only because I believe You can do the impossible.
When she finally went to bed, the storm outside had completely passed over, leaving a calm stillness, and her storm inside had been laid to rest.
* * *
Evelyn couldn’t take it anymore. Sick or not, Linda was about to get an earful from her.
“How dare you talk to your sister that—you stop and listen. I said listen!” Evelyn reached out and grabbed her daughter’s arm to keep her from stalking off.
“Ouch! Mother, you’re hurting me.”
Evelyn loosened her grip, but did not release her arm. “Sit down.” She spat out the command like a hissing cat, blood pulsating through her temples as she struggled to control her emotions.
Linda shot her an angry glance, but obeyed. She sat down on one of the dining chairs, glaring at the floor.
“Look at me.” When Linda did not move, Evelyn pounded the table with her fist and let a profane word burst off her tongue. “Look at me!”
Jumping at her mother’s rare expression of fury, Linda jerked her head upward.
“Don’t you see that this whole business with Shelly is doing nothing to make you well?”
Linda stared at Evelyn with cold eyes. “Nothing is making me well. Not the medication, not the chemo, not your prayers, nothing. You can’t possibly believe that my forgiving Sheila would do anything more for me.”
Evelyn sat down next to her daughter, who, despite the eighty-degree day, was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans which sagged on her dwindling frame. She took a deep breath. She wouldn’t get through to Linda if she continued her ranting and raving.
“Look, sweetheart, I’m sorry for yelling. But, yes, I do believe forgiving your sister would help.”
Linda’s facial muscles contorted into an expression mixed with anger, mockery, and pain. “Oh, yes. It would help. It wouldn’t give me my body back, it wouldn’t give me my health back, but, bless the Lord, it would give me my spiritual life back. It would restore peace, joy and harmony back to the family—”
“Linda—”
“—it would help me reconnect with my heavenly Father, who doesn’t care if I live or die—”
“Linda! Stop!”
Her daughter opened her mouth to say more, then clamped it shut. Her eyes, full of bitterness and hatred, shot daggers into Evelyn’s heart. Finally, she whispered, “I’m dying, Mom. I’m dying, and I wish you’d just to accept that. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing anybody can do. Because you know what? I deserve it.”
“No, honey,” Evelyn began to protest as Linda pushed herself out of the chair with a slow, deliberate movement. “You don’t—”
“Mother.” Linda’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Please. If you love me, you’ll just let me be.”
Evelyn had never felt more helpless as she watched her youngest daughter shuffle away from the table and head back upstairs.
CHAPTER 23
On the last day of school, Hank left the building as soon as he could. Sheila was not expecting him to be at her going away party. Even if she was, he would not have attended. He would have broken down in front of the entire faculty.
After his last student was picked up, he hurried upstairs to his room, glad to have a valid excuse to miss the party. As soon as he cleaned his classroom for the summer, he would be driving to Austin to help his parents move.
He hurriedly tore posters off the wall and stuffed various science, math and art materials into the cabinets. Mr. Medina had agreed to let him miss the teacher workday the next day as long as he left his room in order. His arms moved with automaticity, his mind spinning with thoughts.
He still hadn’t decided whether to attend the classroom management workshop that Medina was requiring of him. He really didn’t care if he ended up in a different school the next year. The one reason he would have wanted to stay was flying to Africa in a few days. More than that, Medina’s words had plagued him day and night since the meeting.
If you really believe you’re called to teach. . . .
Of course, he knew he wasn’t called to teach. And that to attend the workshop would be a kind of deception, both to himself and to Mr. Medina. And that to not attend the workshop, but accept a position at another school, would be the ultimate form of hypocrisy.
Still, after the get-it-together-or-get-out conference with Medina, Hank had gone home, fallen to his knees, and repented for his disobedience, begging for mercy, praying for wisdom. And he knew the Bible as well as any preacher. He knew that he had God’s forgiveness as soon as he asked. Yet he had obtained no peace.
Hank ripped the last poster, one of punctuation rules, off the wall. Too hard. He tore it almost in half. “Lord,” he cried aloud in frustration, “I believe You’ve forgiven me. I receive it by faith. Why do I still feel so tormented?”
Faith without works is dead.
“What works?” he had said as he began clearing off his desk. “Since when are works required to feel forgiven?”
“Mr. Johnson, who are you talking to?”
Hank jerked his head around, startled. Diana Manriquez stood just inside the doorway, staring at him with a puzzled expression. “Um, well, I—” Well, just tell her the truth, for goodness sake. She’s more of a Christian than you are. “I was talking to Jesus.”
“Oh.” Diana didn’t move. “Did He answer you?”
“Not yet.” Hank stuffed the ruined poster into the trash can and went toward her. “Is there something I can do for you?”
She shrugged. “Not for me.”
Hank squatted down in front of her to even their heights. “Not for you?”
She shook her head. “For God.” She looked up and to the left as she pursed her lips together, as if pondering a deep thought, then looked back at Hank. “And for yourself.”
Hank opened his mouth to respond, but found himself in a rare state of speechlessness. A six-year-old child was standing in front of him, telling him out of the blue that he needed to do something for God and himself.
Some kind of work?
A chill ran up his spine. Even if Diana had overheard his prayer, she surely wouldn’t have understood it well enough to verbalize a response to it. Sheila had told him the girl was smart, but this was uncanny.
He finally found his voice, and when he spoke, it was hoarse. “How do you know?”
Diana shrugged again. “I don’t.” She smiled for the first time since she entered his room. “The words just goed into my head when we was talking, and I knowed I was supposed to say them.
“I better
go. My tía is waiting for me at the end of the hall.” She turned to leave, then glanced back at Hank. “Good-bye. I guess I won’t be seeing you anymore.”
“Why? Are you moving?”
“No. I’m not.” And she walked away, leaving behind a bewildered and frustrated man.
For several minutes Hank remained in the same position, and only stood up after he began to feel a cramp in his right thigh. Slowly, he stretched himself up to his normal height, his head spinning. God had sent Diana, and spoken through her. There was no other explanation. Even as Hank had been demanding an answer from heaven, the Lord was bringing one up to his classroom.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” he muttered. Then, “What works, Father?” he whispered to the ceiling, knowing the answer, and fearing it.
His mind filled with examples from the Bible. Zechariah, who repaid the people he had overtaxed four times more than necessary. The adulteress Jesus saved from certain death who went and sinned no more. The apostle Paul’s obedience to the Lord’s call to preach the gospel.
Hank swallowed. Obedience. To the call.
But he couldn’t just. . .and by now, Sheila didn’t even. . .besides, him, in an airplane?
With a massive effort, he refocused on the task before him, forcing himself to think about the days ahead with his parents. Ten minutes later, he was walking out of the building alone, the only one on the Roosevelt faculty not celebrating Sheila’s special day.
* * *
As well as being the last day of school, today was payday, and just in time. Miguel’s refrigerator and cupboards were practically bare, and if he didn’t stop in the grocery store on the way home, Diana would go to bed hungry.
He was placing a box of Cheerios in the cart, on top of several packages of rice, beans, and corn tortillas, when he spotted Mr. Johnson. He wasn’t sure what came over him in that moment; he just knew that he suddenly felt that if he didn’t go talk to him about how God had healed him, he would explode.
“Disculpe,” he said, quickening his steps to catch up with the long-legged teacher, “Señor Johnson, that is your name, no?”
Mr. Johnson turned with a handful of protein bars. “Mr. Manriquez.” He looked at him with a weary smile. “How are you?”
“I’m sure Diana must have told you by now,” he said in Spanish, “about how God took cancer out of my body. I was dying, you know.”
Mr. Johnson raised his eyebrows. “No, I really didn’t know. I just knew you had some kind of illness.” He shook his head. “Wow.”
“And I asked Him to save me. And I believe that if you and Miss Carson had never gone in search of my daughter, I might be dead by now.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to become so fervent, so loud. Before, he thought men who talked about faith in God were weak and girlish. Now, he realized, he didn’t have one ounce of self-consciousness about it. In fact, he wished that everyone in the store could hear him talking about God’s goodness.
Mr. Johnson frowned. “If you were healed from cancer, I promise you I had nothing to do with it.”
“Yes, you did. Maybe not directly, but you did.” Miguel saw Mr. Johnson’s impatient shifting of his feet, and realized he had something else to say before the two men parted ways. “And I’m sorry if I ever got in between you and Miss Carson. I was only trying to find a mother for Diana. But I know that wasn’t God’s way now, and I ask your forgiveness and wish the best for the both of you. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner to say it.”
Mr. Johnson stared at him with a furrowed brow. Finally, he said, “Nothing to be sorry about. Look, I gotta go. I’m driving to Austin tonight—”
“Entiendo. Está bien. God go with you, amigo. And may you and Miss Carson have a wonderful life together.”
Eyes widened, Mr. Johnson stood stock still, opening and closing his mouth as if trying to figure out how to answer. After a long moment, he said, “But we’re not – you have -” He let out a heavy sigh and smiled. “Forget it. Thanks.” He turned and headed toward the nearest checkout counter.
Miguel watched him leave, wondering at his obvious discomfort. Had Diana been mistaken? Despite her young age, she usually didn’t have a problem misinterpreting words and situations, even though they might be beyond the comprehension of a typical Kindergartner. So when she had told him that Mr. Johnson and Miss Carson would eventually be married, Miguel had believed her. It made sense, anyway; they had seemed close enough the day they visited him in the jail cell.
Maybe Mr. Johnson was just nervous about the big change. Miguel would be, if he were to suddenly uproot from this area and start a new life in a totally different country on a continent an ocean away.
That must have been it. Mr. Johnson was having second thoughts about going to Africa.
Miguel shook his head and pushed his cart down the aisle. “Not my business, anyway,” he muttered, and started for the dairy section.
* * *
That was stranger than a three-headed horse. Hank threw the bag of bars onto the passenger seat and started his car. Where on God’s green earth had Diana’s father gotten the idea that there was anything between him and Sheila?
Okay, so there had been something between them, but that was old news. Not that the parents of the school’s students would know every detail about the romantic liaisons of the faculty, but Miguel had been going to Sheila’s church lately, Hank had heard through the grapevine, so he would think that his own lack of attendance with Sheila would clue Miguel in.
And what was all that about Miguel looking for a mother for Diana? He made it sound as if he’d tried to make a move on Sheila. If that were true, he would be surprised. The school grapevine usually didn’t miss the juiciest bits of gossip. On the other hand, Sheila had a way of hiding her private life from anybody and everybody she didn’t want to know about it.
Lately, he was definitely part of that “everybody” crowd.
He turned left in front of an oncoming car, whose driver readily expressed her anger with a loud honk as she slammed on her brakes. Hank waved a weak apology, grateful she’d missed him and that there were no cars behind her.
He decided he’d better stop thinking about the odd encounter with Miguel Manriquez before he caused an accident, and drove the rest of the way home trying to remember everything he wanted to pack in his overnight bag.
* * *
The muggy, warm air engulfing Hank as he stepped out of his car suggested that a storm similar to the one that had hit Fort Worth last night was imminent. But for now, most of the stars in the sky were visible as he walked up to his parents’ door at 9:30.
His mother, Brenda, was out and had her arms wrapped around him before he could even think about knocking.
“Oh, Hank. So good to have you home. So good of you to come to help. To sacrifice your first few days of summer freedom. Did you have a good last day? Did you eat? I’ve got something—”
“Woman, the man just finished a four-hour drive after a hard day’s work,” came his father Randall’s voice from behind Brenda. “Let him take a breath, for crying out loud.”
“Dad.” Finally released from his mother’s smothering embrace, Hank stepped toward his father and gave him an equally heartfelt, though quicker and more manly, embrace.
Although he’d eaten three protein bars on the way home, Hank realized he was ready for something more substantial, and eagerly accepted the plate of cold chicken and macaroni salad his mother set before him.
“I usually don’t start making this for another three weeks,” she said as he started in on it, “but this weather—my Lord! If it’s this hot now, we’ll be melting by the time July gets here.”
Hank exchanged an amused glance with Randall. Brenda made the same declaration every year at the end of May, as if unaccustomed to the rapid coming of summer so distinctive to the Southern states. Once in a while, the first week of June would bring relatively cool temperatures. On such occasions, she would reserve her declaration for the following week, whic
h would inevitably bring back the sun and heat.
His mother continued rambling about local news and how things were going in the church. His father sat in silence until she asked, “What are your plans after you help us old folks get moved into our new condominium?”
Randall gave her a sharp look. “Brenda. At least let him get a good night’s sleep.”
Hank swallowed what was in his mouth, wondering why his father’s words held an edge of rebuke to a perfectly reasonable question. “It’s okay, Dad.” He set his fork down and took a sip of iced tea. “It’s pretty easy, I guess. I don’t got any.”
“Don’t have any. I hope that’s not how you talk to your students.”
“No, ma’am.” How any person born and raised in East Texas could maintain such refined speech all her life never ceased to amaze Hank, but he’d learned as a young boy not to question it, and to humbly succumb to his mother’s corrections.
“Brenda,” his father said, his voice becoming more gentle, “I really don’t think you need to pick his brain about this right now.”
Hank watched, puzzled, as unspoken words passed between his parents. His father seemed to be saying, “Back off. You’re about to go too far,” and his mother seemed to be responding, “Just let me say what I need to say, will you?”
He could hardly contain his curiosity. “All right, you two, what is it you want to talk to me about?”
He didn’t miss the triumphant look on Brenda’s face as she glanced at Randall, who sat back in a gesture of defeat, frowning. When she turned back to Hank, her face was full of concern. “I’ve had a burden to pray for you every day the past week.”
That should have been good news, but for some reason, Hank felt his stomach sink to his toes. His mother was about to give him a word from God, and he knew he wasn’t going to like it. He wished he’d stayed in Fort Worth that weekend. But if he had, she would have called him. Might as well face the music now.
“God told you something, didn’t He?”
Brenda reached across the table and took his right hand in both of hers, peering into his eyes with fiery intensity. “Son, you’ve made a big mistake.”
Tell me something I don’t already know. He’d made several mistakes in the past few years, all of equal significance to Hank, so his only question was, which one was she referring to?