Beyond The Storm Part 18

"What on earth?" She leaned back and laughed. "A tall . . . Tink?"

"I have to agree, now that I know you."

"What? No way! She was mean!"

"Nah. She was . . ." He looked her face over. "Feisty."

"Is that on the 'list'?" she blurted and then wished she could hit the rewind b.u.t.ton on her mouth. Oh . . . no. She didn't want him to know she cared at all about the list.

"Should it be?" The creases that bracketed his lips deepened.

The swing slowly came to a stop as they neglected to keep it moving. Their eyes flicked over each other's faces, gauging each other's expressions.

"I don't-" she spoke at the same time he did.

"It's not-"

They stopped talking and laughed.

Abigail decided to change the subject, although ever since the wedding, she'd puzzled over his list. Wondered about the one thing he felt was so important. "What else did he say about me?"

"He told me you were raised by a single mom after you turned eleven. And he told me a little bit about your . . . father."

"Oh. What'd he tell you?"

"That you had some forgiving to do before you found peace."

A flurry of anxiety set her heart to pounding. That was the last thing she wanted to hear. Probably because it was true. "He said that?"

Softly, Justin said, "Yeah."

Abigail's eyes burned. "I think maybe he was . . . right."

"He usually always was."

"I'm . . ." a hitch in her voice had her stumbling over the words, "I'm scared."

The swing jostled as Justin draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her head against his shoulder. "Facing the demons from your past is a scary thing. But you said yourself that family is priority one."

They talked long into the evening about the memorial, and Abigail felt as if they'd come up with a fledgling presentation plan that would please Jen and, at the same time, honor Danny. By the time she reached her room, a case of the jitters about confronting her father and decisions about the rest of her life had her feeling restless. Where was a crystal ball when she needed one? Endless questions buffeted her mind as she began to undress and found a long T-shirt to sleep in.

Living with Selma couldn't go on forever. And, though the laundry room was fine for now, eventually she'd need to find a real place to work. The idea of moving to LA was losing its appeal, but was still an option. As she folded her clothes, she wondered how she could ever find the nerve to face her father. To forgive him. And to ask forgiveness. The idea was just so daunting.

Lord, she prayed, why is life so hard?

Once her room was tidy and she'd turned off the overhead light, she threw back her covers, crawled into bed, and attempted snuggle down, but . . . there was something in there with her. Something cold and sharp. Snapping on the bedside lamp, she felt around and retrieved a book with an envelope taped to the cover. It was a note. From Heather.

Abigail, this book was in the rubble at my house and Bob Ray rescued it for me.

Once, a long time ago when I was really struggling, I found some answers here.

It helped me a lot. I hope it will do the same for you.

Love, Heather The words on the cover blurred and a smile trembled at her lips. It was some kind of leather-bound devotional. Curiously, Abigail turned it around in her hands and flipped through it, until she landed on that day's date and began to read: Very early in the morning he came to his disciples, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified and said, "It's a ghost!" They were so frightened, they screamed.

Just then Jesus spoke to them, "Be encouraged! It's me. Don't be afraid."

Peter replied, "Lord, if it's you, order me to come to you on the water."

And Jesus said, "Come."

Then Peter got out of the boat and was walking on the water toward Jesus. But when Peter saw the strong wind, he became frightened. As he began to sink, he shouted, "Lord, rescue me!"

Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him, saying, "You man of weak faith! Why did you begin to have doubts?"

When they got into the boat, the wind settled down. Then those in the boat worshipped Jesus and said, "You must be G.o.d's Son!" (Matthew 14:25-33) Abigail stared at the page, realization slowly dawning.

She'd been in a storm! Not the Rawston tornado, but a figurative storm, years ago. When she was eleven, her father left her mother for a new wife and a new daughter. That event had affected her life as surely as the tornado, for she'd lost her home when Karen moved them to the other side of town. She'd lost all of her old friends in the move to a different elementary school. And, though she hadn't realized how it had affected her at the time, she'd lost her father as surely as Jen's baby had lost Danny.

Very clearly now, Abigail could see how-because of these losses-she'd taken her eyes off the Lord and had begun to sink. And she'd been sinking ever since.

Bowing her head, she poured her heart out to Jesus.

Pushing the doorbell had to be as frightening as aiming a gun and pulling the trigger, Abigail thought, three days later as she stood on Dave Durham's porch. For if her father was home this afternoon, there was no turning back. He lived in an attractive tract home in a modern neighborhood that had fared quite well way over on this side of town. The house was a nondescript beige with black shutters and a cranberry front door. There were twin black rockers on either side of the door and some beautiful brickwork wainscoting the lower half of the house. A silver milk can held a handful of sunflowers, and on the door, a whimsical placard proclaimed that this was the Durham Family's Residence. Dave's new family. The replacement family. Abigail battled a wave of resentment that urged her to rush back to the Olds. But, just as she took the first, tentative step backward, the door swung open and she was trapped.

An attractive blond woman-Mindy must be in her late thirties by now if Abigail's memory served-answered the door with a smile. "What can I do for you?"

Abigail cleared her throat. "I'm Abigail Durham."

Mindy's face registered surprise, and her smile froze for a nanosecond before she recovered and said, "Well, h.e.l.lo. Of course. You're Dave's daughter. Won't you come in?" Her smile morphed into the real thing.

"Is my, uh . . . dad home?" The word was foreign and oddly large in her mouth.

"He's in his home office working on his computer," Mindy stepped back and glanced over her shoulder. "Would you like to speak to him?"

"I . . . yes. Please." She hesitated on the threshold. Awkward. Uncertain. If Mindy felt any such discomfiture, it didn't show.

"Great, come on in, and I'll just let him know you're here."

Fighting another compulsion to bolt, Abigail stepped into the cheerful foyer. Slowly, her gaze moved across her father's world. It smelled much the way she remembered him, and the warm, spicy fragrance pulled her backward in time as surely as a photograph might. A nicely appointed living room was on the right and the formal dining room, on the left. Straight ahead was the kitchen, where a young woman sat on a bar-stool at the counter. Abigail's heart clutched because it was like looking at a picture of herself from about ten years ago. This girl was her half-sister. Last night she figured the girl must be eighteen by now. Probably, she'd just graduated from the newer North Benton High between Rawston and Southshire. There was so much she didn't know about these people. So much she longed to discover now that she stood looking into the girl's clear, smiling eyes.

"Lindsey? Honey, this is Dad's daughter, Abigail. She's your half-sister," Mindy announced as if they'd discussed it and happily accepted it years ago.

Abigail didn't know what reaction she'd expected, but it wasn't the delighted, nearly giddy response she got.

"Are you serious? I have so always wanted to meet you!" The girl nearly toppled her stool as she leapt to her feet. She took a step, held out her hands, dropped them, lurched forward and launched herself into Abigail's arms. "I always wanted a big sister," her exuberant confession was muted some by Abigail's shoulder. Leaning back, she said, "I used to pretend that we knew each other. I'd have little conversations with you, and you'd give me advice and stuff . . . Dorky, I know, but I feel like I know you."

"I'm flattered," Abigail admitted and couldn't stall the smile that shanghaied her mouth and eyes. It was like talking to herself as a teen. Lindsey's enthusiasm was infectious and worked wonders on her tightly wound nerves. Instantly, Abigail liked her and regretted not being there so those conversations could have happened. "I always wanted a sister, too." It was true.

Lindsey stepped back and her eager gaze drank Abigail in, starting with the shoes and traveling to her hair. "Dad says we look alike. I think he's right. Oh! And guess what? I want to be a hairdresser, too! You are so good. Dad made a sc.r.a.pbook for me of all the articles about you and the contests you've won and . . . like everything."

Abigail was completely taken back. Dave knew so much about her career? Dave had included her in his new life? Dave . . . cared? She stared back at the girl with wide eyes and was just about to reply when her father walked into the room.

"Abby?" he said the single word, but it was loaded with so much more. Her head snapped around and their gazes met. The expression in his eyes was vulnerable and filled with everything from remorse to love. He spread his arms and Abigail rushed to him and returned his fierce, emotion-packed hug.

Later that evening, Abigail parked the Olds at the curb in front of Justin's house and cut the engine. Arms braced on the steering wheel, she sat for a moment, contemplating the glorious tangerine clouds that streaked the horizon, announcing the onset of twilight. Soft, golden light bathed their corner of the prairie, diminishing the damage done by the storm and giving the neighborhood an otherworldly feel. She could hear the sound of Justin's chainsaw biting through the bark of a tree that had fallen in his yard. When he saw her, he cut the power and his expression told her how happy he was to see her as she climbed out of the car. The smell of sap and freshly cut wood greeted her along with his words.

"What brings you here?" he asked, dabbing at his brow with the back of his wrist as he set the chainsaw on a stump. He was months from moving back in, but the house already looked a hundred times better than it had, the night of the storm.

She pushed the car's door shut behind her and crossed the yard. "I . . . know," she said simply.

"You . . . know." His grin was lopsided with confusion. Tugging off his stiff leather gloves, he gestured for her to join him on his stoop. "Good. I'm glad somebody does."

She took a seat beside him and reached up to brush away some of the sawdust that clung to his nose and cheeks. "I saw my father today."

His brows shot up in surprise. "You did?"

Pulling her lips between her teeth, she nodded and plucked a woodchip from his hair. Holding it between her fingers, she felt its rough texture and smelled its fresh scent.

"And?"

Rawhide trotted across the yard and joined them on the porch. Tail thumping, he crawled up beside Abigail and laid his head in her lap, sniffing at the woodchip she held, examining it for chewability. "And . . . it was amazing. They were all-" she tossed the chip on the lawn and gathered the dog's head in her hands as she groped for words in the human language that could describe her experience. But there were none. Not really. What had happened had been the kind of thing that only G.o.d could have orchestrated. With a storm.

"They," she started again, blinking in amazement, "they were nothing like I expected. They were incredible. Awesome. A gift from G.o.d." Rawhide nudged her hands, urging her to resume her ma.s.sage with a canine groan. She laughed at him and scratched his ears. "Both he and Mindy were so sorry for the way they broke up our family. They've lived with a lot of regret, and it hasn't been easy. My sister is a hoot, sort of like a mini-me. They say they pray for Mom and me every day. Isn't that amazing? And, I never, ever would have believed it, but I think my father finally helped me figure out just what the thing on your list is, and that, my dear, is what I know."

His smile was both quizzical and amused as Rawhide flipped on his back for some attention to his belly. "Do tell."

"He said," Abigail blinked rapidly and swallowed. She would get through this without crying. "He said Danny Strohacker taught him, over a decade ago, that the best marriage is a cord of three strands. And Dave wanted me to know it now. Because he wishes he would have known it when he married my mom. And, because," she turned and looked him in the eyes as she spoke, "it's the strongest. And so, knowing you the way I do now, I know that the number one thing on your list-and on mine now, too-is Jesus." She slipped her arm through his and leaned her face against his shoulder. He smelled of earth and motor oil and gasoline and Armani for Men and warm flannel and fresh air, and she wondered if it was possible that she'd fallen in love with him already.

"So, am I right? Is that it? Jesus is number one your list? Because, ya know, if He's not, then you need to let me know so that I can start looking elsewhere for someone to come a-courting."

Chuckling, he buried his nose in her hair and whispered, "Yes. You're right." And then, much to Abigail's relief and delight, he took her-ugly dog and all-in his arms and kissed her. First on her blushing cheeks and then full on her lips. Neither of them noticed the wild tattoo of Rawhide's tail against the porch's floor.

And, for the first time in a year, Justin finally felt at home.

21.

Daniel Strohacker's memorial service was standing room only. Jen's many brothers stood in the vestibule of the enormous North Rawston Community Church, surrounded by floral wreaths and pictures of Danny, welcoming people, directing them to the guest book and handing out programs with Danny's smiling face featured prominently on the cover. At the doors to the sanctuary, Jen Strohacker stood holding her baby and looking beautiful, smiling and accepting hugs and condolences from friends and family as they headed into the auditorium to find their seats.

"It's awkward, huh?" Jen murmured to Abigail and Heather as they hugged her and kissed the baby's head. "I keep telling everyone that they don't have to tell me they're sorry, because I know. We all are."

"We don't really know what else to say," Abigail admitted, her expression rueful.

"And, we are so sorry," Heather blurted into her tissue and she blew her nose. "I'm sorry." She laughed. "Sorry."

"I know, honey" Jen said, and laughed sympathetically. She kissed Heather's temple. "I don't know what to say either, to tell you the truth."

"Well," Selma reached up and touched the baby's tiny hand, "I'm betting Daniel wouldn't want us to sit around with long faces today. This is a celebration of his beautiful life, after all. And, just because he moved to heaven before us doesn't mean that is the end of Daniel Strohacker. We'll see him again soon enough. And, when you get to be my age, you realize that the more people up in heaven there are waiting to greet you, the more excited you are to get there."

Jen grinned. "I love the way you think, Selma Tully."

"Beautiful baby, by the way," Selma said. "You and Danny did good."

"Thank you! I feel shameless about agreeing." Her eyes crinkled with appreciation as they swept the group cl.u.s.tered around her and the baby. "I'm so glad you are all here and I'm looking forward to what you all have done for Danny today."

Once they'd all found the seats that Bob Ray and Justin had saved for them, the program started with some music that Danny had loved, performed by several gifted artists. When everyone had arrived, his pastor welcomed the throng, gave a short but inspiring message about G.o.d's plan of salvation and then introduced Jen's brother-and Danny's best friend growing up-Brett. Brett's sorrow lurked just beneath the surface of his wide grin as he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Danny liked to tell everyone he had the world's smallest family. We think he did that to get sympathy from old ladies and my sister." Laughter rippled. "But, if being an only child means not having brothers and sisters, then I'd like to refute his claim with a little slideshow from my childhood."

The lights dimmed and a picture of a family at Christmastime was projected on two huge screens on either side of the podium. "This," Brett turned toward one of the screens, "is Christmas at our house in 1970." Using a laser pointer, Brett pointed at a kid under the tree. "This is me. This one is Jen. The rest of the kids are our siblings. This here is Mom. And Dad. And wait a minute . . . could it beee . . . Danny? Yes! See there? We're seven. Wearing matching sweaters? Yeah. Gifts from my Aunt Marge."

The next photo was also of Christmas. "Here we are in 1971. See the sweaters? There's Danny, under the tree. Those are my Lincoln Logs. I think he sawed several of them in half, sort of foreshadowing his lumberyard thing. And here? In '72? Yeah, uh . . . there he is. We're nine. Matching sweaters, thanks, Aunt Marge. He's holding my Hot Wheels? Never saw those again. 1973 . . . let's see . . . oh, right, that's us. More matching sweaters? Marge? Please? This was the year of the G.I. Joe. Look at Dan's 'fro." The laughter was regular now as every single Christmas featured Danny in the middle of Jen's huge family wearing one of Aunt Marge's specials.

"Here we are at Yellowstone on a family vacation. Danny is the one in the swim trunks. He had great legs. Us at Disneyland. Danny and me on the Matterhorn. Thanksgiving. Danny is the turkey on the left. This is our family at Easter. That's Danny with the full basket of eggs. And that kid next to him there with the mouth open and the empty basket? That's Jen crying."

Dozens of pictures spanned the years and Abigail hadn't laughed so hard in months. After Brett had finished and the lights were still dimmed, a musician friend of Danny's stood and introduced the music video he had written and produced.

It seemed that Danny was renowned for his love of motocross. Apparently, he was equally renowned for his many and painfully splendid wipe-outs. The first familiar notes of the famous Irish song, "Danny Boy" accompanied some of Dan's more spectacular accidents. The lyrics had been changed to suit the topic. "Oh Danny boy, the bikes, the bikes are calling, From glen to glen, and down the mountainside. The summer's gone, and off the bike he's falling. 'Tis you, 'tis you must go-UH-OH- and I must ride." The song went along in that vein for a number of nutty verses and eventually ended in thunderous applause and laughter and the overhead lights coming back up.

One after another, people offered heartfelt tributes, some funny, some poignant, all acknowledging Danny's pa.s.sion for the Lord. When at last it was their turn, Abigail's knees were knocking as she headed to the podium with the rest of her and Selma's storm family. Justin and Bob Ray carried the quilt to the stage in a box, took it out, and unfolding it, stretched it up and over a frame they'd built and a.s.sembled for the occasion.

Abigail nervously cleared her voice. Lord, she prayed, please don't let me cry and ruin this. As she began speaking, a peace seemed to descend and her knees stilled. "Today, we have all heard how Danny was the only child of only children. So, not only did Daniel Strohacker have no siblings, he had no aunts and uncles, no cousins nor second cousins once removed.

"His parents were older when they had him so he also had no grandparents. In the '70s, when he was only thirteen, Danny's father pa.s.sed away from a heart attack. Four short years later, when he was seventeen, he lost his mother to ovarian cancer.

"From outward appearances, it would seem that Daniel Strohacker was doomed to be alone. But as we have already heard today, nothing could be further from the truth. Danny was a family man, and right now, this room is filled with his family." A smattering of applause quickly grew into a roar.

"Most of you probably can't say that you ever saw Danny without this."

Abigail picked up the laser pointer that Brett had been using earlier and pointed out the center square. "This is the fabric from Danny's brilliant red Bible cover and the heartbeat of this quilt. It is the bloodline through which we are all related, in one way or another, to Danny. And this beautiful quilt, unfortunately, only ill.u.s.trates a small fraction of Danny's ma.s.sive family. To do it justice, the quilt would fill the parking lot and beyond. And so we are limited today to this quilt, built from pieces of the lives of Danny's brothers and sisters, his aunts and uncles, his grandparents, his cousins, and his sons and daughters. And of the storm that finally took his life." Abigail moved the beam across the rows of fabric that she and Justin had gathered the night of the storm.

"Growing up, I always told people that I could identify with Danny because he was an only child. So was I, said I. We were loners in a lonely world. But this storm proved me wrong about so many things. Danny wasn't an only child. And neither was I. It took an EF5 tornado to point that out to me, and for that, I am truly thankful."

Amazingly, applause resounded throughout the building for a solid minute. Teary-eyed, Abigail continued. "Danny always lamented that he didn't have a family of his own. But his legacy cries otherwise. And so, for my square, I chose mostly tattered bits of fabric I'd gathered in the storm. Disjointed pieces, like a family, coming together to form something that, to me, anyway, is beautiful. I think Danny would agree that family can come from unlikely places in unlikely circ.u.mstances."

Abigail stepped back and one by one, each square-as different and beautiful as the members of Danny's family-was presented by its maker. Kaylee and Chaz presented their square together and spoke to the inspiring Strohacker marriage.

"When Chaz proposed to me," Kaylee said, "he said, 'Kaylee, I want what Jen and Dan have,' and so our square has pieces of our wedding clothes to symbolize how Danny's love for Jen inspired us."

When it was Guadalupe and Elsa's turn, Elsa operated the pointer and Guadalupe spoke. "Elsa's Daddy, Miguel, is in Mexico. He was deported because of some problems with his green card. But he will be back here next month, if the Good Lord is willing. The day before he left us, Miguel tells Danny, 'Please, take care of my little girl and do some things for her that I cannot do, while I am away.' So, Jen loans Danny to us sometimes for bike-riding lessons, and then swimming lessons, and then math homework and youth group and finally . . ." she glanced at Elsa and they giggled. "Some terrible dancing lessons." Guadalupe paused and looked at the floor, unseeing as she gathered her words in English. "He was a good father figure to my daughter when she needed a daddy, and I can never give these minutes back to Jen. But we give her the gift of knowledge." She craned around and looked at Jen sitting in the front row. "Knowledge that Danny Strohacker was a fine daddy. And in Elsa he has . . . una hija. A daughter."

Next, Heather pointed out the square she made with the laser pointer. "My piece here looks really weird. I know. But even though it looks like an old washrag and some other sc.r.a.ps, it's a symbol that probably only Danny would understand." She cleared her throat. "The day Danny died, he was . . . he was . . . he was helping me. My baby stuffed a washcloth down the toilet and some towels into the tub and he flooded the house. Danny came over to help me unplug my drains and dry the house out. The washcloth might seem inappropriate to some people. But to me it symbolizes Danny's willingness to help anytime . . . anywhere . . . anyone. That was Danny. Loving his neighbor. The washcloth also symbolizes forgiveness. This red velvet here is a bit of a baptismal curtain that protected me and my son the night of the storm. To me it says, my sins are washed away by faith in the Living Water, Jesus Christ. Danny taught me that."