Beyond Reach Page 6

  She sort of laughs, and then I dash up to my room to do a quick change and fix up before Olivia gets here.

  Later that night, after our team wins the game, and after I've been hanging with my friends, eating pizza, and just basically acting like a kid and having a good time, I suddenly remember Mom and how sad she seemed earlier this evening, I consider how boring her life must be. Good grief, all she does is work and come home. No wonder she's grumpy so much of the time.

  “Something wrong?” Conrad and I are walking across the parking lot after the employees at the pizza place threatened to lock us inside since they were closing for the night. Alex and Olivia already went home in her car, which she seemed pleased about, and it's just the two of us. “You got so quiet just now.”

  “Nothing's wrong,” I tell him. “I'm fine. I was just thinking about my mom.”

  “How's she doing?”

  So I explain a bit about how she's feeling lonely. “I think she wants to start dating.”

  “Really?” He puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Can't blame her for that.”

  “Yeah, but it's kind of weird too.”

  “You mean the idea of your mom going out?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I've only seen her with Dad. And I suppose I sort of thought that was it. Dad's gone and now Mom will be alone. End of story. I never really considered what it would be like to have another guy in the picture.”

  “It'll probably take some getting used to.”

  “I guess.”

  “So, maybe you should be on the lookout for nice older dudes.” He opens the car door for me. “Like maybe someone from church. You could set her up.”

  I laugh. “That'd be the day.” But as Conrad drives me home, I think maybe the boy is on to something. If I could get Mom interested in a Christian guy, it might get her to come back to church. By the time we get to my house, I already have something of a plan in place.

  I tell him what I'm plotting and ask him to help. “We need to find a single guy who's fun and good-looking and living for God and—”

  “That's a tall order, Sam.”

  “Well, God can do it. Most of all, I guess we'll have to be praying.”

  He firmly nods. ‘That I can do.” Then he kisses me good night, and for a blissful moment I forget all about Mom and everything else.

  “See ya tomorrow.”

  “Huh?” I say, wondering if he has something specific in mind since it's Saturday and he hasn't asked me out.

  He grins. “You know, whatever. See ya!”

  On Saturday morning I sleep in, as usual, and when I get up Mom has already gone to work, as usual, I look around the kitchen thinking maybe she's left a birthday card or something to show that she knows what day it is. But it seems she has forgotten. I'm not too surprised. Disappointed, yes, but I sort of figured she has a lot on her mind and is too busy to remember something as insignificant as her only daughter's seventeenth birthday. Okay, it sounds like I'm about to start having a pity party, and I'm not. I refuse to give in to it today.

  Still, so much for celebrating my big day on the home front. It's sure not like it used to be when we were kids growing up. I remember how Dad usually made a special breakfast on birthdays, and there would be cards and gifts and balloons and hugs. This makes me wonder if Zach might actually remember my birthday, but then I doubt it. He's probably preoccupied now, and he's never been good at things like that in the first place. I almost always have to remind him of Mom's birthday and Mother's Day and things like that. I refuse to remind him of my birthday. After all, I'm seventeen. Time to grow up a little, right?

  As I pour a cup of coffee, I wonder if Dad might possibly remember what day it is. Maybe he's calling out a “Happy Birthday” to me from beyond the blue right this minute. Or is everything so incredibly exciting and amazing up there that no one thinks about such mundane things as birthdays anymore? Besides, I think I recall hearing that there are no clocks in heaven. Maybe there are no calendars either.

  It feels even colder today than yesterday, and the front lawn is crispy white with frost. I'm about to turn up the thermostat, but instead I decide to build a fire again. A birthday fire. And maybe it's because I was thinking of Dad, but I also decide to make myself a birthday breakfast just like he would've done if he were still here. Not just a bowl of cold cornflakes for this girl. I even get out the big electric griddle that hasn't seen daylight in ages and mix. up some instant pancakes and even fry up a couple of eggs to go with it—might as well load up on cholesterol while I'm still young.

  I pour myself a glass of orange juice, then carry my birthday breakfast over to my now crackling fire to eat. Okay, it's a little lonely and some might think it's a little pathetic, but it's not like I'm obsessing over the fact that no one seems to care that it's my birthday. In fact, I'm actually sort of enjoying it.

  Then after I finish my food, which is really pretty good, I just sit there watching the fire as it flickers and jumps. The dancing motion of the flames is almost hypnotic. And suddenly I feel something changing, sort of like the couch beneath me is shifting, tipping slightly sideways, although it's not. And then like a flash of lightning, I see something—something that's not really there. And I realize it's a vision! I try to calm myself as I focus.

  I continue staring toward the fire, but what I see is entirely different than the bright orange flames. I see a foggy scene, somber and gray, with a dark railroad bridge, the kind with ironwork that looks a little like lace, and it stretches across a raging brown river below. I think I recognize the spot, not far from Kentwick Park, a place where people like to go rafting and boating in the summer, when the air is warm and the river is calm. But it's not summer in this scene, and then I notice something else—there, standing in the center of the bridge, perched on the outer edge, is a person. His arms are behind him, holding on to the bridge, but he's leaning forward. Precariously so. And then this person is jumping—and free-falling down almost as if in slow motion.

  I can tell it's a guy with dark brown hair, but I can't see his face well enough to know who it is, although I sense real desperation in his expression. His eyes are tightly closed, and his mouth is grim. But something about him is familiar. And yet…I don't get it. And then, just like that, it's over. Gone. No more vision.

  I ponder this, trying to discern what it means. I know with certainty that it's from God because I can just tell—I feel it deep inside of me. And while it was a scary scene, I don't feel frightened. But I do feel an urgency, like I need to do something. But I don't know what. I do know that there must be a specific purpose for the vision because that's how God works. But other than that, I am blank.

  The more I run it through my head, the less it seems to make sense. Naturally, I think of Peter Clark since he and his family have been on my mind lately. And I remember his photos and that he did have dark brown hair. Could that have been him in the vision? And if so, why? It doesn't really compute. I mean, Peter's death was caused by a gunshot wound to the head, not by jumping from a bridge. And even though I got the strong impression that this guy was killing himself, it wasn't how Peter died. What is that supposed to mean?

  I finally decide to call Ebony. I'll give her the details while they're still fresh in my mind. Or, if necessary, I'll just leave a message. Maybe she can make sense of it or perhaps even use it for another case. I call her on my cell phone and am relieved to hear her answer in person. I quickly relay the vision with all the details, even down to where I think the location could be.

  “And you think it was Peter in the vision?” she asks for clarification.

  “I don't know. That part was unclear. It could've been him. Or not. But if it was him, it doesn't really make much. sense, does it?”

  There's a long pause, and I can imagine her pondering this with her eyes slightly narrowed, lips pressed together, deep in thought. “Maybe Peter considered taking his life by jumping from a bridge. And maybe that's God's way of showing us that he actually
did intend to take his own life.”

  Somehow her voice doesn't convince me. It's like she's saying what she thinks I want to hear. “Do you really think so?”

  “I don't know, Samantha. To be honest, that whole suicide thing doesn't ring true to me anymore. I've been checking out that suicide website and trying to piece this whole thing together, and I just don't know what to think. Something isn't right.”

  Then my suicide vision probably doesn't help much, at least in regard to Peter.”

  “Hey, at least God is communicating with you again,” she says in a brighter tone. “You must be happy about that.”

  “Actually, I am.” Then I tell her that it's my birthday and that I think maybe God wanted to use the vision as a present for me, to show me that He's still going to use me. It's exciting. “I'm sure that would sound crazy to some people. I mean, having a vision about someone jumping off a bridge isn't exactly cheerful.”

  “I know, but it must be encouraging to know that God still trusts you with this sort of thing, Samantha.”

  “It is.”

  “And happy birthday!”

  “Thanks.” I feel a little silly now, like I shouldn't have told her about my birthday. “I'll let you know if anything else comes up, now that I know the door is open again. Or at least I think it is…1 hope it is.”

  “Maybe ‘break time’ is over.”

  I sort of laugh. “Cool.”

  Then we say good-bye, and I pick up my dirty breakfast dishes and clean up the kitchen. I'm still replaying the vision and trying to understand what it all means as I wipe down the countertops. Then I go to my room, thinking I'll do a little online research about suicide.

  Okay, it's a grim subject. No doubt about that. But I am curious as to why anyone would want to end it all. I mean, I can get bummed sometimes, but I would never want to take my own life. That seems like a slap in the face to our Creator. And frankly, I just don't get it. But I'm curious about that suicide website and what kind of information is really available there.

  Once I've spent some time reading, I feel shocked and slightly depressed. So many heartbreaking feelings and situations—things I never would've believed if I hadn't read them with my own eyes. Very sad.

  “Hey, you!” Olivia bursts into my room holding an enormous bunch of helium balloons. “Happy Birthday!”

  I nearly fall off my chair from the shock. “Who let you in?”

  She releases the balloons in my room then hugs me. “I knocked and no one answered. Since I know where the key is, I just let myself in.”

  “Well, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” I say, turning off my computer screen. Then I stand, and realizing that at least one person remembered what day it is, I hug her and thank her for the balloons.

  “Please tell me you're not doing homework on your birthday.”

  “Homework would be a piece of cake compared to what I was just doing,” I admit.

  Of course, this only makes her extremely curious, so I explain about my vision of the bridge and the jumper. This is followed by my general confusion about suicide, and then, still horrified over what I've just read, I unload on her about the gruesome website I've been visiting.

  They have a website like that?” she says. “How is that even legal?”

  “It's the Internet. Who knows? Ebony's the one who told me about it, so it's not like the police aren't aware. And remember I told you about Peter leaving his suicide note through a site like this?”

  “You'd think his parents could sue someone.” Of course, her dad's an attorney so she would naturally go this direction. But maybe she has a point.

  “Well, anyway,” I continue, “I was just in this chat room where people ask for advice on how to Mil themselves and actually get answers, including medical advice describing which poisons or gases or whatever means are most effective, or least painful, or cheap, or less messy, or more daring, or whatever. It's totally appalling. And everyone is so positive about death and dying. It's like they all encourage each other to just be brave and do it—like they'll be some Mnd of hero afterward.”

  “And really, they'll just be dead,” Olivia says sadly. “Standing before God and trying to explain why they did what they did. Swell.”

  I nod. “Isn't that weird to think about? I mean, what would it be like if you just checked out and suddenly discovered there was a whole lot more going on than you realized? It's not like you can change your mind.”

  “Yeah, I'll bet a lot of them will be, like, Oops, I had no idea that You were real, God. Maybe I should've thought this through a little better.’“

  “And what do you think God will do?”

  She shrugs. “I don't know…what do you think?”

  I consider this. “Well, I honestly believe that God is a whole lot more gracious than we give Him credit for. And I think some of these people, like Peter Clark for instance, were probably really confused and hurting and depressed. And for all we know he could've been a Christian, too. I mean, who can see into a person's heart besides God?”

  I let out a big sigh. “I guess I hope that God will take all these things into consideration, and I'm sure that heaven will hold some great surprises.”

  Olivia nods. “Yeah, I'd like to believe that too. Still, I don't get why some people think it's okay to run a website like that. I mean, really, what's their point? Are they just wicked? Or really mean? Or just piain ignorant?”

  “There was even a long paragraph about how suicide is a way to support zero population growth.”

  “Give me a break!”

  “No, it's true. And there were links to some zero population websites as well. And one of the girls writing actually sounded pretty sincere. She seemed convinced that the world is too populated and like she'd be doing everyone a favor by checking out.”

  “No way! She really believes she can help control the world's population by killing, herself?” asks Olivia incredulously. “I so don't get that.”

  “I know. It makes you wonder if murder won't be next on the list. I mean, if these guys are really worried about the globe getting crowded but they happen to be having a good day or a good life, would they consider taking out their neighbor just to keep the numbers down?”

  “Especially if that neighbor's on the obnoxious side, plays his rap music a little too loud, or has a dog that poops on your freshly mowed lawn.”

  “But really,” I say, “it's not something we should joke about. I mean, these people sound dead serious—and I'm not saying that to be funny. It was really depressing. Like there was this one foster kid who was so depressed that he wanted to kill himself, but he was concerned about another foster kid, a four-year-old girl, who lived in the same home. He thought she might freak if she discovered him dead, that she might be messed up for life. But someone told him not to worry about it, just get the deed done and let that poor little girl fend for herself. One girl named Slinky actually told him he was providing a good role model and that when that little girl grew up and decided to kill herself, she'd have him to thank. Can you believe it?”

  “That is seriously sick.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And that is what you're doing on your birthday, Sam?”

  “Pretty pathetic, huh?”

  Now Olivia gets a thoughtful look. “So can anyone respond to those messages? Or do you have to be a registered member of the death club and pay your dues or sign something in blood or maybe join the Hemlock Society first?”

  So I flick my monitor back on, returning to the disgusting suicide website, and we find out that they're open to new members. In fact, they encourage it. So Olivia and I both register, under different names, of course. Olivia is Hope, and I am Grace. Okay, maybe that sounds a bit trite, but this is serious business—these people need some hope and grace.

  Then we sit together at my desk and start creating what we think might be encouraging messages. Of course, there's no way to know how they will be received since some of these morbid death wishers h
ave a real attitude going on. But we figure it's worth our best shot, and some of our words feel downright inspired, at least to us. By the time we're done, we both feel much better about ourselves and the people we've attempted to communicate some sense to. Then we actually pray, by name, for the people we just wrote to.

  “Thanks,” I tell her. That was pretty cool.”

  “We'll have to check back later and see if anyone was tuning in.”

  “Do you think some people are just trying to unload?” I say. “Maybe just a cry for attention and they're not really serious about suicide?”

  “I suppose anything's possible, but if I wanted attention, I think I'd find a different kind of website. One that might care about me personally and offer answers that could really help. That one seems to celebrate suicide like it's heroic, like it's going to be the end-all of everyone's problems.” She grabs me by the hand. “Now we need to get out of this funk. This is your birthday, Sam. We need to go have some fun.”

  “Suggestions?”

  “Well, I wanted to get you something, but I was torn. And then I thought, What would I want someone to do for me?”

  “And?” “And I thought, Let's go shopping. I want you to pick out your birthday present. Okay?”

  I grin. “Sounds good. I think I'd like a red Ferrari.”

  “Yeah, right. Okay, put on some real clothes and let's get out of this gloomy room.”

  “Hey, it's not a gloomy room.” I point to the cheerful balloons splayed across my ceiling like a three-dimensional mosaic.

  “Okay, it's not your room, but you have to admit that website was gloomy. In fact, I think we might need to do a cleansing prayer for your room, Sam. You know, to get rid of any yucky spirits that might try to hang around and creep you out in the middle of the night.”

  I consider this and think she might have a point, but before I can even respond, Olivia has qlosed her eyes and, with hands held up, is praying over my room. I suppress a snicker as she gets fairly dramatic, telling the foul spirits to split in the name of Jesus.