Her father’s voice came back on the line, softened. “You know, Claire bear, if you wanted to come back to Bosnia with us, you’re always welcome.”
“No, Dad.”
“Your mother could use help in the clinic. Maybe just for a year.”
She waited until she heard her voice on the other end; then his own words finished. “I know you love your work, but . . .”
“Honey, are you still bothered by the nightmares?”
Oh, she’d regretted letting Grandma tell them about those. The year she’d woken up screaming, trying to erase that last summer on the mission field. “No. I’m fine.” A little lie, but for their own good. “It’s just . . . maybe I’m not supposed to be a missionary.” There, she said it. After twenty-five years, they should know the truth.
“Claire. Everyone is called to spread the gospel. The Lord said, ‘Go and make disciples.’”
She didn’t want to have this argument on the phone. Especially since a large part of her agreed with him. When a person became a Christian, the overwhelming grace should prompt her to want to reach out to others.
Not stay at home.
Not hide in Deep Haven.
“We’ll talk about it when we get there. Until then, think about where you might want to go to college. Maybe you and your mother could take a trip, make a visit.”
Still trying to treat her like she was seventeen, a senior in high school, her whole life ahead of her.
Instead of the superior-size disappointment she turned out to be.
“When are you arriving?”
“We’ll e-mail you with our flight information. But we’ll rent a car. We don’t want to be any trouble.”
Trouble was exactly what they were being. “I’ll keep you posted about Grandpop.”
“That’s okay, sweetheart. I talked with Dr. Samson earlier.”
Then why—?
“Love you, Claire bear. Go with God.”
“You too, Mom.” She hung up. Killed another mosquito. Let the night wind rake over her, raising gooseflesh.
Go with God.
To where?
He was probably as disappointed in her as her parents were. She got up and walked around the back of the house to the door, then went inside, climbing the stairs to her apartment. Two rooms, with two tiny bathrooms, the kitchen on the main floor. She had rented it when the landlord, Liza, moved out. The empty bedroom she’d turned into a music room of sorts, her keyboard set up, her guitar on a stand.
She went in, sat down at the keyboard, played the chords of sheet music Emma had recently given her. The Blue Monkeys were supposed to play tomorrow night for the crowds gathered for the fireworks.
Honey, are you still bothered by the nightmares?
Her father’s words hung in her mind. She let the sound die out, until only her heartbeat remained.
Sometimes, yes, she still saw them, the three men who broke into her father’s office at the clinic. Her hand went to her forehead, to the bump there, still slightly pronounced, where they’d smashed a metal pipe against her skull.
She’d lain there in a puddle of her own blood, watching as they looted the clinic, unable to cry out, only one word on her lips.
Jesus.
She had said it over and over and over until she finally blacked out. Until her father—fresh out of surgery—arrived.
He’d had to wire her jaw shut, but she’d woken the next day without brain damage. She could be thankful for that.
Yes, she still had nightmares. And daymares sometimes, whenever someone walked up too quickly beside her. She fought headaches—probably imagined—and for a long while, maybe a year after the attack, her jaw ached every morning. As if she’d been grinding her teeth at night.
Grandma had purchased her a mouth guard, slept in her room in the other single bed, and held her in her arms when she woke screaming.
Her parents probably never knew that part.
Not when they had so many other concerns, like children without parents, children without eyes or limbs. Children who had seen far worse.
At least Claire had her grandparents.
She got up and sat in the window seat. Looked out at the stars. Wished she could reach for one, hold it to her chest.
But God had apparently stopped hearing her wishes, not to mention her prayers.
She closed her eyes, hearing her words to Ivy. God may be silent, but He’s never absent.
If only she believed it.
IF HE WERE A SMART MAN, Darek would call Ivy, tell her that he’d made a terrible mistake.
The log split where his ax cracked it, and the pieces fell off the block into the sawdust and pile below.
He’d been charmed by Tiger’s lopsided, sticky smile and lost his head a little.
He set another log on the block, stepped back, and swung.