Jiri nodded. “Yes, but not—lion!” He swerved sharply to the right. Sheila held onto her seat with a death grip as her body jerked from one side to the next as the Jeep bounced off the road. Curiosity overcame her fright, and she managed to peer out the driver’s side window to see if indeed a lion was chasing them.
Later, she would remember seeing a flash of yellow fur within inches of the Jeep. She would remember hearing a shotgun blast. She would remember the terrible jolt and falling toward the Jeep’s soft ceiling just after the explosion.
But she remembered nothing else. The world around her suddenly went black.
* * *
“I need to see you in my office.”
Hank froze in midstride, guitar case in hand. That Pastor Bill was making yet another rare appearance an hour before church began was reason enough to suppose that his request was a matter of some importance. Besides, the urgency in his tone left no room for debate.
This isn’t about Sheila, he thought, following his normally cheerful pastor down the hallway. After Hank had shown up at Sheila’s church, practically begging them to get Peter’s letter to her before she left the country, he went to seek counsel from his own pastor. He had thought his feelings for Sheila were beginning to fade, but the eerie appearance of the envelope seemed to shout at him evidence of an inexplicable connection between them.
Pastor Bill had listened intently as Hank poured out his heart, confessing his feelings that Sheila was to have been his wife and his unwillingness to work on the mission field. When Pastor asked him why it was so hard for him to accept the call of God on Sheila’s life, Hank remained silent.
The man sitting across from him had studied him with a gaze that saw into his soul. “Your past is holding you back,” he had said. “You’ve asked God to release you from it, but the fact is, you’re the one who doesn’t want to let go. Talk to me when you decide to move forward with God.”
The abrupt dismissal had thrown Hank for a loop, but after some thought he realized the wisdom of his pastor’s words. He was not a man to waste time, and Hank knew Pastor Bill could do nothing for someone who refused to embrace God’s will.
Then this surprise meeting couldn’t be about Sheila. Pastor Bill would not press an issue he was not personally responsible for. But what other subject would Pastor consider so pressing that he had to take Hank away from band practice on the spur of the moment? Hank racked his brain, trying to come up with a possibility. Any possibility.
None came.
So Hank had the sinking feeling that his conversation with Pastor Bill about Sheila was about to resume. And that he was about to hear something he didn’t want to.
“Have a seat,” the pastor told him as he followed him through the door.
Hank leaned his guitar against the wall, sat down on the edge of a leather chair, and sucked in a mouthful of air.
Pastor Bill eyed him sharply before he began. “Apparently, Sheila has had some difficulty letting you go, too.” He picked up a piece of paper lying on his desk and handed it to Hank. “She left your name, in care of this church, as an emergency contact. This e-mail was waiting in my inbox when I logged in to it this morning.”
Emergency? What had happened? Without meaning to, Hank snatched the paper out of Pastor Bill’s hand. Jesus, please let Sheila be all right. Lord, I couldn’t take it if anything were to happen to her.
The e-mail was short and to the point, and Hank’s eyes immediately fixed on the one statement relevant to him.
Sheila Carson remains in a coma at the hospital in Harare.
He felt his blood turn cold. He glanced up at Pastor Bill as a stab of guilt thrust itself into his gut. Oh, God, if I had been there, would this have happened?
He had a feeling the answer was no.
The pastor’s look pierced through him. “What are you going to do about it?” He was not a man to mince words, or to let his congregation lie down on beds of complacency.
If Pastor Bill had posed the question earlier, Hank would have found all sorts of excuses and explanations to relinquish himself from having to take any action. He’d missed God, she’d missed God, Sheila and he were never meant to be more than friends, etcetera. Now, Pastor Bill’s challenge demanded an answer.
With sudden clarity, Hank saw that his response would determine his future.
Several lifetimes seemed to pass as he endured the greatest test of mental and spiritual anguish of his life, greater even than when he decided to give up his missionary dream. Going to Sheila would require getting on a plane. Getting on a plane would require giving up control. Giving up control would require a trust in God he’d lost several years ago.
Plus it would be admitting that he’d been out of God’s will all this time, and had willfully hurt the woman he realized now he was deeply in love with.
He’d been an idiot.
“You’ll forgive me, Pastor,” he said, “if I miss the next few services. It seems I need to get to Africa.”
He barely noticed the slight smile of approval that appeared on Pastor Bill’s face when he leaped out of the chair. He would have left his guitar if it hadn’t been right next to the door. Grabbing the case handle, he wavered. Would Rusty, the music director, be able to find a stand-in for him on such short notice?
Pastor Bill must have noticed his pause, because he commanded from behind Hank, “Go. Rusty will understand.”
Hank turned to flash him a grateful grin, and nearly ran down the pastor’s wife, who was just outside the door.
“Y’all pray,” he said, moving aside for her to enter. “I’ll be back—whenever.”
* * *
Hank was grateful he had Pastor Bill’s cell phone number, since in his frenzied departure from church he forgot that he would need the name of the mission and the hospital when he flew into the Harare airport in Zimbabwe.
When he flew in. He never thought those words would apply to him again. Several times while he frantically packed a carry-on with just a change of clothes and the barest of essentials, he had to fight down a tide of rising panic when he realized what he was about to do. The only thing that kept him moving was the echo in his mind, What are you going to do about it?
Pastor Bill volunteered to drive Hank to the airport when he called for the information of Sheila’s whereabouts. On the way, he misinterpreted Hank’s jitteriness, saying, “I don’t believe it’s Sheila’s time yet. We prayed after you left, and we got the victory.”
For a time Hank did not answer, deliberating whether to tell Pastor his real problem. Then, two thoughts flashed through his mind, both tidbits of truth he had heard more than once: no man is an island, and pride is the main obstacle that keeps people chained up with their weaknesses.
Finally, he blurted out, “I’m afraid of flying.” He gave no details, just cast a sideways glance to see Pastor’s reaction.
Without hesitation Pastor Bill smiled and said, “Well, that’s easily taken care of. I command the spirit behind that fear to leave in the name of Jesus, and I pour the healing balm of Gilead over whatever memory allowed that spirit in.”
When they got to the airport, his mind became so focused on finding a flight that he gave the prayer not one more thought. To his great astonishment, there was a flight leaving for Harare that very night, and there were still seats available. Only when the attendant at the gate called for his group to board did Hank realize he had not one shred of anxiety about getting on the plane. He fell into easy conversation with a man about his age ahead of him as they moved at a snail’s pace through the jet bridge, and once on board, cheerfully helped an elderly lady seated a row ahead of him hoist a piece of luggage into the compartment above the seat.
He stowed his own carry-on, then sat down, waiting for reality to strike and panic to sweep over him.
It did not.
He was one of few who watched a red-headed flight attendant go through the safety procedures as the plane began to back away from the gate. He should have go
tten nervous when she demonstrated the use of the oxygen mask, should have felt a little claustrophobic at the mention of using seat cushions as flotation devices. But he stayed cool.
The pilot announced the impending takeoff. Hank checked his pulse, rubbed his hands together. No sweat, no accelerated heartbeat. As the plane taxied down the runway, neither the expected wave of nausea nor cold grip of fear was present. Instead, a thrill of joy surged through him. He did not have a window seat, but he watched over the laps of his seatmates in child-like anticipation. When the nose of the plane tipped upward as the craft left the ground, Hank could not contain himself.
“Wheee!” he cried.
The passengers around him had mixed reactions. Some cast furtive glances in his direction, others gawked at him in open surprise, even more began to chuckle.
The distinguished-looking African sitting next to Hank stared at him for a long moment before breaking out into raucous laughter.
Hank grinned. “Ain’t God good?”
“Yeah,” the man replied, catching his breath, “He do be that.”
CHAPTER 26
Miguel had spoken little to Mrs. Kennebrew, and only in passing since he’d started attending the same church as she and her husband – and Miss Carson, of course. But when he saw Mr. Kennebrew holding his wife just outside the restrooms that Sunday, Diana said, “Something’s wrong.”
Miguel wasn’t one to meddle in other people’s business, but Mrs. Kennebrew’s face was streaked with tears. And he was growing to respect his daughter’s acute sense of intuition. So he loosed his grip on her hand and hesitantly stepped toward the couple.
“Everything, he’s all right?” he asked in his broken English. Mr. Kennebrew did not speak Spanish, and he didn’t want to seem rude.
Mrs. Kennebrew withdrew from her husband’s embrace and wiped her face with the back of her hands. “It will be, I’m sure. God is in control.”
Before he could even open his mouth, Diana said, “It’s Miss Carson, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Kennebrew squatted down to her level, and gently grasped both of her hands. “She’s been in an accident. She’s in the hospital. But I don’t want you to be afraid. She’s going to be all right.”
While she continued talking to Diana, Mr. Kennebrew motioned for Miguel to step away several feet.
“She’s in a coma,” he whispered. “Pastor Scott got the message last night. We just found out a few minutes ago.”
Miguel clenched his jaw. “She will be all right, no?”
“They think so.” Mr. Kennebrew glanced at his wife and Diana, who appeared to be taking the news bravely. “She sustained a head injury when the Jeep she was riding in flipped over.”
“Gracias a Dios. That she will be all right, I mean.”
“Of course.” The two men stood awkwardly for a moment, not knowing what else to say.
Soft words arose from a few feet away, and they turned their attention toward Diana and Mrs. Kennebrew. They seemed to be praying, Mrs. Kennebrew speaking in a comforting tone while Diana stood holding her hands, eyes closed. When Mrs. Kennebrew finished, Diana added her own prayer. Mrs. Kennebrew’s eyes flew open in surprise when the child spoke, as if she had said something completely unexpected.
Knowing Diana, she probably had.
He walked toward them as they both said, “Amen,” his curiosity getting the better of him. “My daughter, what she say?” he asked the teacher, who was now smiling with some secret amusement.
“Diana, would you like to tell him?”
She shrugged. “I just asked God to not let Mr. Johnson be a tonto, that he would go find Miss Carson and marry her.”
Mr. Kennebrew moved beside his wife, draping his arm over her shoulders. “And what, my dear, is a tonto?”
Even Miguel, with his limited English vocabulary, knew that one. “Fool,” he answered, joining the Kennebrews in a hearty laugh.
* * *
Shadows splashed lazily across the floor, the light of the full moon elongating everything contained within the small hospital room. One muted ray of light illuminated half of Sheila’s face, giving her countenance an angelic quality. Hank’s heart stirred, and he leaned over to stroke her cheek with gentle fingers.
“Lord,” he whispered, “wake her up, please.”
It was a prayer he must have uttered a thousand times since he entered this room two days ago, which he had only left to answer nature’s call. Eating was out of the question; he had determined before landing at the Harare airport that he would fast and pray until Sheila came out of the coma. The pastor of the local church, the lifeline of the rural mission where Sheila had been working, had personally brought him a case of bottled water to aid him.
Standing up to stretch, a wave of dizziness swept over Hank, and he nearly fell back in the chair. He had dozed off and on during the long flight, and since arriving at the hospital had only slept four hours in the last forty-eight. Much of the time he had kept his hand on Sheila’s arm, praying and speaking Scriptures, but now he felt as though he was fighting a losing battle against fatigue. If he got up and paced the floor for a while, he might be able to persevere a little longer before giving into sleep, so he regained his balance and took a few hesitant steps forward.
As he did, his eyes were drawn once again to the envelope addressed to him that one of the missionaries had brought to him yesterday afternoon. It lay on a side table, alone, daring him to open it. Up until now he had managed to ignore it, telling himself that whatever she might have written was immaterial, that the crisis of the moment might very well make whatever Sheila had expressed in the letter null and void.
But as he stared at the dim shape this time, he found that he could not turn away from it. He regarded it for several moments, and realized he was too exhausted to lie to himself any more about the real reason the envelope had laid there unopened for hours: he was terrified of what Sheila might have written, or not written.
He glanced back at Sheila’s face, which was the picture of perfect peace despite the bandaged head and tubes inserted in her nostrils, then again at the envelope.
Then the thought struck him: what if Sheila had written it to somehow help him, to help them?
Hank took a deep breath. Well, cowboy, it’s now or never. He reached over and picked up the envelope with shaky hands, walked back to the chair, which sat directly in the path of the moonlight, and dropped into it.
When he finally managed to open the flap, he pulled out the folded sheets of paper and said a prayer.
Then he began reading.
My dearest Hank,
Words fail me to express how much I have missed you this past month—longer, by the time you read this. When I got on the plane without saying good-bye to you, I tried my old Stoic routine, telling myself it didn’t matter, I was in the will of God.
Then I received this mysterious envelope just as I was boarding the plane. I have no idea how it got into your possession, or why you felt so compelled to get it in my hands before I left. The only thing I’ve been able to figure out is that God’s hand is in all of this. I can’t help but wonder if our being connected by the letter is somehow symbolic of a deeper connection God has for us.
Hank swallowed, and looked at the still figure on the bed. “Wonder no further,” he whispered, and continued reading.
I suppose you’re wondering about the contents of the letter. Before I tell you, I feel I need to prepare you.
For years I have hidden part of my past from my friends, afraid of what they would think of me if they found out, not wanting them to see me as anything but strong and confident.
“That makes two of us,” Hank muttered.
I came clean before Margaret a couple months ago, and now I know I need to confess it to you.
Just before I graduated from college, I killed a little girl.
In the dark stillness, Hank’s gasp seemed to reverberate through the room. He kept his eyes glued to the letter, however, and a strange sensa
tion swept over him as he continued reading. In his mind’s eye he could see everything just as Sheila wrote it, as if he were there when it actually happened.
* * *
The day after Thanksgiving, 1993, Sheila and her family were still in the midst of the holiday celebration, knowing that Christmas they would not all be able to come together again. Sheila’s mother’s house brimmed over with guests, including Sheila’s cousin Peter, his wife Janice, and their four-year-old daughter, Lorena. Sheila and her younger sister, Linda, had volunteered to relieve their mother from further kitchen duties by cooking dinner that evening.
A simple beef stir-fry with rice is what they planned. They had every ingredient except fresh ginger.
“But Mom’s got dried ginger,” Sheila argued, waving the small container in front of Linda’s face. “That’ll work well enough.”
Linda had gotten into gourmet cooking a couple of years earlier, and wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s nothing like the real thing. We need some real ginger root.”
“Then you can run to the store and get some.”
Linda heaved an exaggerated sigh. “But your car is blocking Mom’s. You’d have to move your car for me to go anyway. Unless,” she added, giving Sheila a sidelong glance, “you want me to take your car.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Sheila said, pivoting on her heel.
As she stepped into the car, the sun had fallen just low enough to reflect in her rearview mirror, blinding her. Impatiently, Sheila pushed the mirror up to get rid of the glare, then started the engine.
She’d only had the car for a couple of months, and was still unused to the manual transmission. She wished she’d never bought it, but it had seemed like a bargain at the time, and she could only afford so much, being a senior in college. So she’d allowed the used car salesman to talk her into believing that within days, she would be pushing and releasing the clutch like an old pro.
She’d learned a hard lesson in gullibility that day. She still made the car jerk when shifting from park to first and from first to second, and from park to reverse, sometimes missing the timing altogether and causing the engine to stall.