Beyond Reach (6 page)

She shakes her head. “I'm afraid you have more faith than me.”

“Faith is a gift,” I tell her, knowing this is true but fearing it sounds a little trite. “God is the One who gives us faith.”

She just looks at me with those sad, empty eyes. She is not buying it.

Then Ebony makes a move for the door. “Well, thanks for letting us look around, and you take care, Mrs. Clark. I'll be sure to let you know if I find out anything new.”

“Yes, please do,” calls Mrs. Clark. “Anything at all.”

“I appreciate you coming with me today,- Ebony says as she pulls into my driveway. “And I'm sorry if it was upsetting.”

“No, I'm okay. The hardest part was about how I'm not hearing from God lately. But just telling you…and what you said… Well, I do feel better now. Thanks.”

“And I know you'll let me know if God does give you some information regarding Peter or any of that.”

“Definitely.” Although I doubt that's going to happen. Still, I don't mention this to her as I wave good-bye and go into the house.

The phone is ringing when I get inside. I answer it just in time to catch Olivia on the other end.

“Hey, I was about to give up,” she says. “Where've you been all day?”

So without going into all the gory details, I tell her a little about my attempt to help Ebony with her cold case.

“Sounds kinda sad and interesting. Do you think God will show you something?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” I admit in a glum voice. “In some ways I feel more in the dark about my little ‘gift’ than ever.”

“It's kind of ironic, Sam.”

“What?”

“Well, I can recall a few times when you were so frustrated that you hoped you'd
never
have another dream or vision. You felt it was too much responsibility. Remember?”

I consider this. “Yeah, but then it got to be sort of exciting too.”

She laughs. “I know.”

“Okay, just call me fickle. And obviously, God's calling the shots anyway. I guess He probably wants me to do some waiting—maybe He's working on my patience.”

“Well, while you're patiently waiting, do you want to go to the basketball game tonight? Maybe it'll cheer you up to cheer for Conrad.”

“Sounds good.” So we arrange for her to pick me up in time to grab something to eat before the game.

The game is really exciting, but our team ends up losing in the last few seconds, which I know will bum Conrad,
and consequently we don't stick around to wait for the team to come out of the locker room.

Olivia asks if I want to get coffee
or
something afterward, but I'm feeling kind of bummed too. I know it's only partly due to the game. The rest probably relates to what I've learned about Peter Clark today and my strong desire for God to show me something.

“You're being pretty quiet,” Olivia says as we drive through the dark night.

“Sorry. I guess I'm still stuck on why God doesn't want to show me something in regard to Peter.”

“It hasn't even been twenty-four hours,” Olivia points out.

“I know. But I just get this feeling it's not coming. Like the door is closed and I can't open it.”

“God's door,” she says. “Guess He can close it if He wants, huh?”

“But I was thinking about other sorts of gifts, Olivia. I mean, if someone has the gift of teaching, they pretty much teach at will, don't they? Or the gift of encouragement? They just open their mouths and encourage others whenever others need it, right?”

“I suppose.”

“And yet those are gifts, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, why is my gift different?”

“Maybe because it's a special gift, Sam. Like it needs some restrictions. Maybe God doesn't want you going overboard with it. I mean think about it—if you thought you could just close your eyes and suddenly have important
knowledge about things that no one else has, well, don't you think that could get a little dangerous?”

I think about this and realize she's right. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Not to change the subject, but someone's having a birthday next week.”

I perk up a little. ‘Yeah, as a matter of fact, someone is.”

“Any big plans?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right. Mom's so busy, as usual, that I haven't even dropped her any hints this year. I wouldn't be surprised if she totally forgets.”

“Poor Samantha.”

I laugh. Thanks for the pity.”

“Well, I'll try to think of some way we can celebrate. Even if it's just you and me, okay?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“So keep that night open. It's on Saturday, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” Then she pulls up at my house, and I thank her for the ride and go inside. It looks like my mom finally got home from work, but since the house is pretty quiet, I'm guessing she's gone to bed already and it's not even ten yet.

I walk around the semi-dark house for a while, just quietly going in and out of the rooms like I'm looking for something, although I don't know what it could possibly be. If anyone were watching me, they'd probably wonder about my state of mind. Maybe I wonder too. But sometimes I do this.

At first it's sort of comforting to wander around the house and remember things we did here together as a family. I
remember how my dad and Zach would sit there on the couch and play Zach's latest video game—never anything as lethal as
Killer7—
at least while dad was alive. I also remember how sometimes all four of us would make popcorn and watch a video together, usually some G-rated Disney flick since Mom didn't approve of Zach and me being exposed to violence or questionable content of any kind when we were young. This still strikes me as strangely ironic considering how my dad was murdered in the line of duty. I guess parents can't protect you from everything.

I don't know exactly why, but I am suddenly feeling really, really lonely. And sad. And I wonder why our family has turned out the way it has. I mean, with Dad gone, never to come back again. And now Zach's gone too. Oh, I realize he'll probably be back someday and hopefully in a lot better shape than when he left, ßut it's like the McGregors have been torn apart. Like we've been broken and we can't quite get fixed again.

I think my sense of hopelessness is partly due to my mom turning her back on God. Oh, she doesn't use those words. She just says she's too busy or not interested. But I know that underneath she's mad at God. The same way I used to be. The way Mrs. Clark was today. And sometimes I try to talk to her about it, but she just shuts down and sometimes even gets mad. I don't remember my mom getting mad so much when we were kids, back when my dad was around to sort of buffer things and take up the slack. But in the past few years it seems like little things can easily set her off. And so, in a
way, I should be glad that she's gone to bed. But just the same, I'm still lonely.

Eventually the house feels too big for me, and I go up to my room, turn on the lights, put in a quiet CD, and close my door. I wish I'd said yes when Olivia mentioned the idea of me spending the night at her house tonight. But at the time I felt tired and thought I just wanted to go home. Now I wish I wasn't here.

Time to plug in to God,” I tell myself out loud. Then I open my Bible and begin to read. And then I pray. After that, I write some things in my journal. And by the time I'm done, I feel a lot better. Okay, I'm not exactly jubilant, but I'm fine. And as it turns out, I actually am pretty tired and relieved to sleep in my own bed.

When I wake up in the morning, it feels like I'm on the cusp of a dream. And although I can't be sure, it seems like a special dream. I force my sleepy mind to try to remember, and then it all comes back. I was dreaming about my dad. It was my birthday and he had given me a gift in a big box with silver paper and a pale blue bow. I couldn't wait to open it, and it took a long time. There were layers and layers of paper, and as I peeled off still another sheet of gift wrap, the anticipation kept increasing. Then finally I got it off and opened the big box, and the only thing in there was a little brown plastic horse, the kind that comes from a cheap package of assorted farm animals. I held up the horse and yelled at my dad. “Why did you give me this stupid thing?” I shrieked again and again.

I was so furious and out of control that I feel embarrassed just to remember it now; then I remind myself it was just a dream. Not real. Not even from God.
Get over it, Sam.

Even so, I keep thinking about the dream as I go into the kitchen, like my mind's stuck on a track and can't get off. Mom has already made coffee and I'm guessing has already gone to work as well since it's after nine. I pour myself a cup of slightly stale-smelling coffee, add some milk to tone down the acidity, and continue to ruminate over what the significance of Dad giving me a plastic horse might be. Why was I so rude and ungrateful to my dad? Why did I keep getting madder and madder just because he hadn't given me what I wanted? Although, to be fair, I don't even know what it was I wanted. Still, I was throwing the worst temper tantrum.

As I put the milk carton back in the fridge I flash back to my seventh birthday (ten years ago) and how all I wanted was a bike. A very specific bike. My neighbor Jennie, who has long since moved, had what I thought was the perfect bicycle. A pink and purple Barbie bike with all the cool accessories, including a white plastic wicker basket with pink and purple plastic daisies. But even after leaking my request clearly known to “Santa,” I had been severely disappointed not to get my dream bike for Christmas. Consequently I spent the next few weeks dropping not-so-subtle hints and praying unceasingly for a Barbie bike to arrive on my birthday. And the night before the big morning, I felt sure there was a buzz in the air and
was certain it had to do with me and a certain Barbie bike that I would find parked in the living room the next morning. Maybe with a big pink bow on it.

I was so excited I almost couldn't sleep. And when I got up the next morning, there really was a bicycle parked in the living room. And it had a bow on it; I don't recall what color now. But this bike was
not
a Barbie bike! Instead of the coveted Barbie bike, this one was a light blue girls’ Schwinn.

I didn't know what to do, and while having a bike of my own was nice, I was
not
a happy camper. In fact, I was pretty upset. Of course, I was only seven at the time, but I had never felt so conflicted about anything in my entire life. On one hand, it was a decent bike and my parents were trying and I should've been grateful. But on the other hand, I had made my desires crystal clear—
why wasn't it the Barbie bike?

I can't remember what I did exactly, or maybe my memory is giving me a break, but somehow my extreme disappointment was communicated (I think I probably cried a lot). And later that day I overheard Mom and Dad discussing my little dilemma. Mom was telling him that he should've gotten me the Barbie bike like I wanted, and Dad was saying that he knew I'd outgrow it and be sorry to own such a “sissy cycle.” I'm pretty sure that's what he called it too.

It took me a while to get over the whole thing, but in the long run, Dad's reasoning turned out to be right on. I still remember the day, just a couple years later, when I
was riding bikes with Jennie. We stopped at the park, where some fourth grade boys began to tease Jennie mercilessly.
“Where'd you get the baby Barbie bike?”
they taunted, along with other things. And although I felt sorry for my friend, I also remember holding my head high as we pedaled away, she on tier sissy cycle and me on my suddenly sophisticated Schwinn.

I take a sip of my coffee. So Dad really did know best. Of course, I couldn't see that when I was seven. Yet, on the same note, I feel sure that God, the Giver of gifts, knows best too.

T
he next week passes quietly. Quietly, as in God's not saying anything to me. But I keep thinking about Peter Clark and wondering what really happened to him. Or is it simply as it appears? I've even gone online and read some old news stories about his death, which hasn't been terribly informative or helpful. Peter used his dad's handgun, which his dad kept in the nightstand in the master bedroom. Nothing was locked up, and both boys knew it was there. Why do parents do that? Not all parents, of course. My dad, being a cop, never would've done something that lame. Anyway, according to what I read, all the forensics evidence and fingerprints indicated nothing more than a suicide, and then the e-mailed note seemed to seal the deal. End of story. Or not.