* * *
At three forty-five, Sheila shivered as a gust of November wind assaulted her back when she walked out of the building. After first moving to Fort Worth, she was amazed at how everyone complained when the temperature was forty or fifty degrees during the fall or winter. “It’s a beautiful Minnesota spring day,” she would tease her colleagues, referring to the bitter cold of her native state, part of the reason she left it. Now, she found herself feeling icy at any temperature below sixty degrees, having grown spoiled by the warm Texas climate.
People often asked her why she had moved to the South, away from her family and all that she knew. Her story remained constant: she had left Minnesota to escape the cold of the north and to find a teaching job, a scarcity in the Midwest when she graduated from college four years ago. The story was the truth, she rationalized, just not the whole truth.
The rest of the truth was embodied on the message waiting on her answering machine when she arrived home that afternoon.
“Sheila, honey, please call me when you get home from school.”
Sheila hit the “erase” button with a trembling finger. She knew what her mother wanted, and almost didn’t return the phone call. The outcome of their conversation would be the same as every other one over the last two years. Sheila didn’t know whether to be annoyed or encouraged by her mother’s persistence. At least someone in the family still spoke to her.
Might as well get it over with, she thought, and dialed her mother’s phone number.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, Mom.” Sheila felt her mouth go dry.
“I’m so glad you called me back.” The voice on the other end of the line hesitated. “You know why I’m calling, don’t you?”
Sheila could already feel a wall of tension go up between them. “Yes, Mother, and the answer is the same as it was last time.” Why don’t you just leave me alone? Don’t you know I’m in enough pain as it is?
“But it’s been three years.”
“Everybody still hates me. That was clear enough the last time I was home.” The day lived in Sheila’s memory with painfully vivid clarity. The chill around the Thanksgiving table had been colder than the frigid temperature outdoors.
Sheila had not wanted to be there. She didn’t go back to Minnesota her first year after moving to Texas, but her second year, her mother had begged her to come home for the holidays. Sheila knew it would be a tense, miserable situation, but her mother was convinced that if she could get all of her children gathered, the bitterness of the past, the angry feelings, would somehow resolve themselves.
Although her older brother, Gary, welcomed her with open arms, ready for by-gones to be by-gones, her younger sister, April, was barely civil to her, and her youngest sister, Linda, wouldn’t even speak to her. She hadn’t spoken or written to Sheila before or since that dinner, and excused herself from the table with her plate still half-full. Sheila wanted to run after her, to scream at her how sorry she was, to shake her into seeing how horribly her grudge was affecting not just Sheila, but their whole family.
And to throw Linda’s cruel accusations back in her face.
But she knew it would be no use. Even as a child, Linda had been stubborn and hard-headed, always full of self-righteousness. So Sheila remained at the table, picking at her food, her insides silently torn apart by conflicting emotions of love, rage, and guilt. She knew then that after she returned to Texas, she wouldn’t be going home again for a long, long time.
Home? The word was hardly appropriate. Home was where people accepted you for who you were, where love and forgiveness abounded. As far as she was concerned, Minnesota had ceased to be her home several years ago.
“Oh, Shelly, nobody hates you.”
“Whatever. I’m not going back for Thanksgiving, I’m not going back for Christmas, you won’t see me on my spring break, and I won’t be there next summer. I love you, but good-bye.” Sheila slammed the receiver down, her eyes swimming. Her mother didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. She was just trying to reach out to her daughter.
But can’t she see that she’s the only one who’s forgiven me? I can’t go back as long as...
The ringing of the phone cut off her thought, and she almost picked up the receiver. Then she yanked the telephone line out of the jack.
Lord, help me.
* * *
Evelyn Carson set the receiver down with a sigh. She wouldn’t give up. Eventually, she knew she would reach her eldest daughter. She had to. What kind of a mother let her children stay estranged from each other, let her family remain in a state of brokenness, when she was alive and well enough to do something about it?
Thank God for Gary. Since her husband John had died six years ago, their only son had been an anchor for the family. Although he lived in Chicago, he visited his mother in Rochester every chance he got, making sure she was financially stable and generally getting along. And now, he was her only child who seemed to have overcome the family tragedy of five years ago, and was doing his best to stay in touch with Sheila while trying to convince his other two sisters to get over the past.
His efforts seemed as futile as hers. Sheila never wrote him back or returned his phone calls, and he’d made no headway with April and Linda. Gary wouldn’t say so, but Evelyn’s motherly intuition told her that he and his youngest sisters had had loud and tearful arguments over the subject, and that he’d had to back off and leave them alone as far as their relationship with Sheila was concerned.
Evelyn placed a hand on the small of her fifty-five-year-old back, trying to knead out a kink. When the pain subsided some, she walked over to the freezer and pulled out a boxed dinner.
Maybe if I told Sheila about Linda, she thought for the hundredth time, she would come.
But Evelyn knew both of her daughters too well. Sheila would see it as a kind of manipulation, and Linda would say that seeing Sheila would make things worse.
She ripped the plastic away from the tray and threw it inside the microwave as though it had insulted her. Why she had let her youngest swear her to secrecy, she’d never understand. But she felt bound to respect her word to Linda. And if she didn’t want her siblings to know, they wouldn’t find out. Not from their mother, anyway.
Evelyn started the microwave and gave another heavy sigh. All she could do was pray that Linda would come to her senses and make things right with Sheila before it was too late.
CHAPTER 3
Hank watched as Sheila drove out of the parking lot. He hadn’t meant to stare, but he’d never seen anyone pull out of a parking space so slowly, nor with such an intense expression.
Not to mention the fact that she took his breath away.
“She always drives like that.” Medina came up beside him. “You should see her when she gets here the morning. Takes her five minutes to back into a space. Just her style, I guess.” He clapped his hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Everything going all right, Mr. Johnson?”
“Huh?” he said, still focused on the blue Civic now rolling down the street at the school speed limit. “Oh, yes, everything’s great. We’re having fun. The kids are learning a lot.”
Medina studied him for a few seconds, making Hank cringe. In the two short months he’d been there, he’d already gained a reputation for pushing the boundaries of the traditional classroom, for being a little too loose with his students, and he was afraid Medina was going to make a comment along those lines.
But the principal’s face relaxed into a smile as he said, “Just let me know if you need anything. Have a restful evening,” and walked to his car.
Hank shrugged on his coat as he followed Medina to the parking lot, still thinking about Sheila. She was an attractive woman, with wavy brunette hair trimmed just above her shoulders, and the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had the opportunity to see them up close since the first day he met her, at the teacher inservice just before school started. Their meeting was brief; he extended his
hand as he introduced himself, she took it and released it as if afraid of catching cooties, and told him her name with a civil coolness before abruptly turning away.
The experience had somewhat jarred him, since she was one of the first teachers he had approached at his new school, and he wondered if the rest of the faculty was that cold toward newcomers. But as the day went by, he found most of the teaching staff to be warm and friendly and more than willing to help. By now, of course, some were not so sure that they wanted a teacher with such liberal views on how to run a classroom working there, and were complaining about him behind his back. A couple had said to his face that his students wouldn’t learn anything as long as he was letting them talk freely, sit on top of desks, and do projects outside of the standard textbooks.
He was used to it, having received the same kind of criticism at his previous school where he’d taught the year before in Austin. What bothered him more was that he not only felt physically attracted to Sheila, but felt some kind of connection with her that went deeper, and had no idea why. He’d asked the Lord, but so far, had received nothing but a “wait.”
A most frustrating answer.
He arrived at the apartment complex fifteen minutes later, retrieved his mail, and plodded up the stairs to his second-floor efficiency. He made enough to afford a regular one-bedroom, but he’d promised God to give the monthly savings to charity. Besides, he hated housecleaning, so he decided he’d rather live in cramped quarters than have more room to maintain.
He plopped down onto the futon, now pulled upright in its sofa position, and began shuffling through his mail. A bill. An offer for life insurance. A “preferred customer” coupon to a store he’d never even heard of. Another bill.
Then a hand-addressed envelope. Hank glanced up at the return address.
Barbara?
He was transported back to the weeks after the plane crash four years ago. For some months afterward he wished he could have traded places with his non-surviving friends. Instead of going through a time of emotional turmoil, struggling daily with depression and waking up in a pool of sweat and tears from nightmares, Martin, Kelly and Peter were rejoicing in perfect peace with the other saints in heaven. He could only guess that Barbara shared his misery. She refused to talk to him while they were recovering from their minor injuries, and after her physical recuperation, she left the church.
Hank would have done the same, if possible. Reminders of his friends lurked around every corner of the church building: the chair in the back of the auditorium that Kelly had claimed for his own, the Sunday School room where he and Martin had taught a class on missions together, the table in the foyer where Barbara would sit and pass out the monthly church mission newsletter. Not to mention Hank’s still-living friends, whose very presence brought on stabs of regret—regret that he hadn’t prayed harder that day, regret that his faith had failed when he needed it most.
Yes, he definitely would have sought another church home, if his father had not been the pastor of Life Christian Fellowship for the past twenty years. Hank knew it would break his parents’ hearts and cause a scandal if he left, so he never even brought up the subject.
As the months passed, the depression lifted, the nightmares stopped, and the sharp stabs of sorrow and grief became dull aches. Hank eventually forgave himself, forgave God, forgave the guerilla soldiers. But his belief system shifted. Where he had once been certain that he was doing the will of God, and that God protected those who were in His will, Hank’s faith wavered. He decided that perhaps God didn’t care what he did with his life, as long as he was serving the Lord. He still felt a deep desire to reach out and make a difference, so that September, as he turned twenty-three, he made a decision.
“I’m going back to school to be a teacher,” Hank announced at the dinner table one evening. He’d already completed two years at a local Bible college; he could easily obtain a bachelor’s in two more years, since he would have nothing else to occupy his time.
He waited for his parents to argue with him, to rebuke him for going against the call of God on his life.
To his surprise, his father responded, “You have our support.” He spoke without hesitation, and with compassion. Hank guessed—correctly, he found out later—that his parents had been praying for him since the accident, and that they had prepared for this moment.
He graduated with a B.S. in elementary education in the fall of 1997, and began his teaching career with enthusiasm in an Austin, Texas public school. As far as he was concerned, he had found his life’s work, and would never look back.
Now, he held the past between his fingers. He had a choice to make: risk loosing the monster that might be sandwiched inside the envelope, or just throw it away.
He tossed the envelope, unopened, into the junk mail pile, then stared at it. When Barbara had left the church, he had stuffed his growing feelings for her into a dark place he hadn’t revisited since, and as far as he knew, they had withered and died. He’d had no reason to believe otherwise, since he rarely thought of her anymore, and then with only a brotherly affection.
He wondered now if he’d deceived himself. More, he wondered if Barbara had begun to feel the same about him—more than a friend—and the letter was an attempt to communicate her regret for having left, her desire to reconnect with him.
He took a deep breath as he picked up the envelope, nearly tore it in half while opening it, and pulled out the single sheet of paper.
Dear Hank,
For several years, I’ve been wanting to do this, but I could never get up the nerve. I knew that you, like me, would just as soon forget about what happened five years ago, and I feared opening old wounds. Please know that is the last thing I want to do.
But I was a lousy friend to you after the accident. After all we’d been through together, to just up and walk out of your life without so much as a goodbye—well, you have such a kind heart, that I can probably guess what you’re thinking, that I was going through as much hell as you, and you understand that I was dealing with it the best I could.
Or was I? Were you? If we had made the effort to hear God in the midst of our turmoil, wouldn’t we have heard Him encourage us to be there for each other, to, if nothing else, cry on each other’s shoulder?
Feel free to disagree, but for my part, I need to ask for your forgiveness, at least for leaving the church and town without even telling you.
And forgive your parents, too, for giving me your address if this letter has caused you any kind of grief. I consulted with them before writing, and they were very supportive of my desire to reach out to you.
I’m not expecting anything from you, but I would so much appreciate a note telling me that I have your forgiveness.
In Christ,
Barbara
Hank stared at the paper for a long while. Of course he had forgiven her—he’d never realized there was anything to forgive. But she was right. They would have been closer to God’s will in not letting the plane crash come between their friendship. And although she had not declared any special feelings for Hank, she was reaching out. And that was a start.
Hank got up and walked to the dresser, whose top drawer held a jumble of office supplies rather than the traditional socks and underwear. He pulled out a blank piece of paper and a pen, and sat down at the dining table to write.
He could have written a book, but five crumpled pieces of paper and ten minutes later, he decided to keep it simple.
Dear Barbara,
As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to forgive. You did what you had to do. But if it makes a difference to see the words, then of course, I forgive you.
And I hold nothing against my parents for having shared my address with you. Truth be told, I’m thrilled you got back in touch with me, and am hoping I hear from you again soon.
Always your friend,
Hank
When he finished, he realized he was hungry, and had forgotten to stop at the grocery store o
n the way home from school to restock his empty refrigerator. Where had his mind—
Oh, yeah, Sheila. He shook his head and laughed to himself, marveling that a woman he hardly knew could have caused such a major distraction that made him forget such a basic and routine errand. He grabbed his coat and keys, shoving the envelope containing the letter to Barbara in the coat’s pocket. He would drop it in the mailbox around the corner from the apartment complex on his way to the Luby’s cafeteria a few blocks away.
He froze in midstep, a wave of déjà vu passing over him. What was it? He glanced around, trying to figure out why this moment seemed so familiar to him. It didn’t hit him until he arrived at the mailbox in his car and reached in his pocket for the envelope. In a flash, he was in the airplane again, picking up a stray envelope off the floor, shoving it into his pocket.
Hank quickly pushed the memory away, afraid of letting it go further. But though he hadn’t thought about the envelope in years, he suddenly felt curious about it.
“I wonder what ever happened to it?” he muttered, dropping the letter to Barbara in the box. Surely someone must’ve thrown it away before or during his hospitalization. For some reason, that thought unsettled him. What if it had had some significance for the addressee? It had not been Barbara’s, which meant it must have been one of his friends’ who had died. Whatever the envelope Hank had found on the airplane contained, it would have been the last piece of correspondence the addressee would have received from whoever wrote it. That, in itself, was enough to make it an important piece of mail.
Would Hank’s parents know anything about it? No, they didn’t see him until several days after the accident. It had probably already been long gone.
Why was he even thinking about it?
Hank pulled into the Luby’s parking lot, deciding that worrying about it wasn’t worth his mental energy. Within minutes, all his concentration focused on the half-pound piece of chicken in front of him, and all thoughts of letters and envelopes were banished to the deepest recesses of his mind.
CHAPTER 4
“You need to tell him you’re sorry.” Sheila glared as the fourth grader rolled his eyes and gave her the classic man-do-I-really-have-to look.