The Note

by Hunt, Angela

  His hand caught her chin, lifted it, and then he bent and kissed her. For a breathless moment Peyton closed her eyes and felt the jumbled pieces of her world settling into place, then she opened her eyes and saw him smiling.

  “Um . . . that’s two Cokes, right?” She moved toward the kitchen on legs that felt as insubstantial as air.

  “Sure.”

  He sat at the kitchen table while she pulled glasses from the cabinet, then filled them with ice. She glanced over at him a couple of times, noticing how at home he seemed, and when she brought the foaming glasses to the table she saw that he’d pulled two of her father’s letters from the crowded napkin holder.

  “Thought you might like to read these,” he said, deliberately dropping them to the table. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”

  She stared at the letters as realization bloomed in her chest. She and King had just made peace, and he had seen her at her worst. If they could call a truce, and if he could care for her knowing all he knew about her past . . .

  She took a deep breath, then turned away. “I’ve got a better idea.” She moved toward the phone. “You doing anything this weekend?”

  “Um—no. What’d you have in mind?”

  “You’ll see.” Picking up the phone, she slowly punched in the number she hadn’t dialed in years, then turned when a male voice answered. “Dad? This is Peyton. Listen—a friend and I were thinking about coming up this coming weekend. So if you could clear out a couple of bedrooms—”

  She smiled. “No, Dad, nothing’s wrong. I just thought . . . well, I have a story to share. One you’re not gonna believe.”

  Glancing across the room, she saw King give her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. She returned his grin, then looked away, unable to hide her pain as her heart twisted.

  Her father was weeping.

  SIXTEEN

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 4

  The Heart Healer

  By Peyton MacGruder

  © Howard Features Syndicate

  Dear Readers:

  Tonight many of you will watch the World News Network’s prime-time special on Flight 848 and its surviving note. I don’t want to spoil your enjoyment of a televised spectacle, so in this column I’m simply going to say that I visited and interviewed my third prospect, he claimed the note, and at the time I had no reason to doubt him.

  But yesterday I broke my promise to that young man. Instead of sending him the original note, I hand-delivered it to a weeping young woman who persuaded me it had been written for her. She offered some pretty convincing proofs, but I didn’t need evidence to realize the note had come full circle. It began in me, you see, many years ago. And soon the circle of forgiveness will be complete.

  The young woman’s identity shall forever be my secret. I’ve seen the stress heavy media attention can bring, so I pray you’ll forgive me this one secret and allow me to keep it.

  This search has done something to my own heart—ripping open old wounds and opening doors I hoped never to walk through again. But through the sometimes painful process, I learned something: a columnist should not merely report a list of facts, nor should she confine herself to writing for her peers in the newsroom. If I want to live up to my name, to be a heart healer, I’m going to have to open my own heart along the way.

  Tomorrow, a friend and I are driving up to Jacksonville to visit my father, his wife, and six half-siblings I scarcely know. Why? Because in searching for the author of the note, I came to realize that the heart in need of healing was mine.

  I’d like to take this opportunity to say farewell, at least for a while. I’ve been writing this column for nearly a year, and I’ve begun to realize that I need some time to step back and ask myself what I want to accomplish through this forum. I don’t think print journalism needs another platform for a writer to bewitch and bedazzle with information or pretty prose. I think I’d like to make “The Heart Healer” a place of service and connection. To be honest, I think it’s time we returned to the vision Emma Duncan presented in this space years ago.

  And so the Heart Healer is taking some time to mend. I’ve done it once before, after a major heartbreak. After that first crisis, I took time to heal body and mind. This time, I’ll be taking time to heal my spirit and emotions.

  Through this journey, my friends, I’ve learned something else: the note, in and of itself, is not important. The message is the significant thing, for it contains the power of life and love.

  Now I understand why the note was given to me. Not because of what I could do for it, but because of what it could do for me. I’ve recorded my observations as a message of love and forgiveness has gone out to the world. I’ve seen that message disbelieved, disowned, doubted, and disparaged. Yet to this broken heart, it has not lost its power to restore.

  At the memorial service for the victims of Flight 848, the minister said, “Shared anguish can be a bridge to reconciliation.” Throughout my search, I’ve shared the anguish of hurting people, and I’ve finally learned to share my own. Truly, the sharing has built bridges . . . and I’m confident they will stand for years to come.

  Thank you for accompanying me on the journey.

  Flush with an inexplicable feeling of happiness, Peyton stepped through the Dunkin’ Donuts doorway, then blinked when the customers broke into applause. Amid a sea of congratulations, she walked to her usual spot at the counter (reserved, she noticed, by an ink-stained napkin on the stool that read SAVE THIS SEAT OR ELSE!). Grinning at Erma, she sat and ordered her coffee and cruller.

  She glanced around. Folded copies of the Times’ lifestyles section appeared in every hand, with her column folded front and center.

  “Well, girl, you did it,” Erma said, speaking a little more loudly than usual as she poured the coffee. “And we’re all dying to know—if the note shouldn’t have gone to that Tanner Ford fellow, who was it for?”

  “You can tell us, kiddo.” This from the man on the stool next to her, his grin backlit by the garish colors of his Aloha shirt. “We’re your friends.”

  Peyton picked up a sugar packet, ripped off the top, and paused. Looking up, she swept her audience with a smile. “I’m entirely convinced, folks—the note was meant for all of us.”

  The hum of conversation and the gentle sounds of restaurant service ceased for a moment, then Erma nodded. “You said it, hon. Down in my heart, I know you’re right.”

  Peyton turned as the bells above the door jangled. King walked in, his smile glowing above the dark blue collar of his knitted shirt. “You ready to go, Peyton? The car’s gassed up and waiting outside.”

  “In a minute.” She looked around, caught Erma’s lifted brow, and grinned. “King, let me introduce you to the morning crowd at Dunkin’—some very important people.” She gestured to the waitress. “Erma plays a starring role here.”

  Erma wiped her hand on her apron, then extended it over the counter. “Mighty nice to meet you. I’ve seen you in here a few times.”

  “Your coffee’s a lot better than the murk they make in my office.” King shook her hand. “And I can see why Peyton enjoys the company.”

  As he moved away, shaking hands with the regulars, Erma leaned over the counter. “Golly, Peyton, you sure know how to pick ’em. You taking that hunk away for a long weekend?”

  “Something like that.” Peyton met the waitress’s wide-eyed gaze. “I’m taking him to Jacksonville. We’re going to spend some time becoming acquainted with my father.”

  Erma laughed. “I’d think a writer would be more particular with words. Sounds like you’re planning to get to know your father yourself.”

  Peyton lifted her coffee cup and picked up her cruller, then gave the waitress a heartfelt smile. “That’s the idea.”

  Then, after gently pulling King away from a group of admiring women in a booth, Peyton led the way out into a cloudless Florida morning.

  RESOURCES

  Writing this book would have been much harder, if not impossible, without help fro
m the following:

  Susan Richardson, Claudia Coker, Gaynel Wilt, and my special secret pal who “test-read” the manuscript and gave me valuable feedback.

  Karen Ball, friend and editor extraordinaire, who knows how to spell words like extra-ordinaire and helps me stay focused.

  John King, columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle. John not only answered my frantic, questioning e-mails, but he did so with grace and style.

  Bob Elmer, novelist and friend who recommended John King.

  Judy Hill, columnist for the Tampa Tribune. Judy corrected several of my misconceptions and generously gave me part of an afternoon to ask questions.

  Elaine Anderson, Ed.D., who provided useful information on panic attacks from her Wings of Faith program. Many other friends also shared their stories. Thank you!

  Arya, Bob. Thirty Seconds to Air: A Field Reporter’s Guide to Live Television Reporting. Ames, Iowa: Iowa State University Press, 1999.

  Brelis, Matthew. “A Beautiful Night for Flying Evolved Into Doom.” St. Louis Post-Dispatch, July 28, 1996, 6A.

  READING

  GROUP GUIDE

  1. The Note is an allegory, a story in which certain elements represent essentials of another, deeper story. Like the story of the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son, it is a spiritual tale that does not directly discuss God. What are some of the obvious (and subtle) relationships between the note and the Gospel?

  2. God has written a note to mankind. What is it, and how is it similar to the message contained in the note from Flight 848? How does the message differ?

  3. Compare how the three “prospects” reacted to Peyton’s offer of the note with how people respond to God’s message of forgiveness and reconciliation.

  4. Consider Timothy Manning, who seems secure in his religion and his role. Was Reverend Manning secure in his father’s love? Could he have ever reached a place of true security? How did his personal thoughts differ from the persona he presented to the newspaper reporter?

  5. Consider Taylor Crowe, the songwriter. Taylor admitted that her father might have written the note, but she claimed the breach between them was too wide to ever be crossed. Does her situation mirror the way some people feel about God? Do they accept this chasm, or do they try to bridge the gap on their own terms? What are some ways people try to “get to God”? Are these man-made attempts ever successful? Have you ever felt that a chasm exists between you and God? Is it too wide or deep to bridge?

  6. Consider Tanner Ford, who apparently wanted to accept the note for ambitious reasons. What did he actually accept, a copy of the note or its message? How does this character relate to some people who accept the “trappings” of belief without ever actually embracing the belief itself?

  7. The book abounds with poor father/child relationships: Peyton and her father, King and his wounded son, and all three of the candidates to receive the note. In this story, each father was patient, but in real life, estrangement between fathers and children is often the father’s fault as well as the child’s. Can we ever blame our heavenly Father for walking out on His children?

  8. We are given a brief glimpse of Julie St. Claire’s relationship with her adoptive father. Julie’s mother walked out on this man, and Julie scarcely remembers him. How might her life have been different if her mother had not walked away? What does this say to us about the importance of our roles as parents?

  9. What attributes of God were revealed in Peyton’s father? Timothy Manning’s? Taylor Crowe’s? Tanner Ford’s?

  10. Finally, many people are fond of espousing the “fatherhood of God, brotherhood of man” philosophy. Is God the Father of all, or the Creator of all? If He isn’t the Father of all, how do we become His children?

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The idea for The Note came to me one morning in my husband’s Sunday school class. As a friend and I were busy checking in our usual horde of active middle-school students, we were reflecting over our week as the mothers of teenagers. The conversation shifted to the recent tragedy of an Alaska Airlines crash, along with the rumor we’d heard about a woman attempting to share Christ with her fellow passengers as the plane went down. Alas, we decided, the rumor probably wasn’t true because the flight attendants would be busy giving emergency instructions.

  “I know what I’d do if I were on a crashing plane,” I said, reflecting on the past week with my teens. “I’d write, ‘Dear Kids—I love you. All is forgiven. Mom.’”

  We laughed—and what began as a wry bit of humor suddenly struck me as profound truth. What would I write if I had one moment to share my most profound thoughts with my loved ones?

  And then it occurred to me—God has written mankind just such a note. Just like the fathers in this story, He loves, He cares, He mourns when His children leave Him out of their lives. He wants us to know He loves us and has forgiven our neglect of this all-important relationship.

  There were many times in the writing of this book that I felt as though I’d bitten off more than I could handle. At other times (like today, when I am sitting in an airport and separated from my family by Hurricane Gordon), writing about an air disaster struck a little too close for comfort. But I know God is faithful, and will equip us to perform the tasks He entrusts to us.

  One final note: in the discussion questions, we ask how one becomes a child of God. I don’t want to leave you without an answer.

  The Bible (God’s note to mankind) says that though God created and loves everyone, His children are those who come to Him by faith.

  How we praise God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms because we belong to Christ. Long ago, even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes. His unchanging plan has always been to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. And this gave him great pleasure.

  So we praise God for the wonderful kindness he has poured out on us because we belong to his dearly loved Son. He is so rich in kindness that he purchased our freedom through the blood of his Son, and our sins are forgiven. He has showered his kindness on us, along with all wisdom and understanding. (Ephesians 1:3-8)

  I hope you will take the message of The Note to heart . . . and spread it as a heart healer in a broken, wounded world.

  Angela E. Hunt

  Charlottesville Airport

  Hurricane Gordon

  September 2000

  AN EXERPT FROM UNCHARTED

  Prologue

  PRESENT DAY

  The Hamptons, New York

  The secret of sex appeal, sixteen-year-old Sarah believes, is an even tan, and the key to an even tan is remembering to turn over at eight-minute intervals between 1:00 and 2:00 p.m. Most of her friends opt for spray-on fake bakes, but Sarah has always preferred the real thing.

  As the second hand of her watch sweeps over the twelve, she flips from her stomach to her back, then inhales the delicious fragrance of sea salt.

  “You’re going to regret lying there,” a voice calls from beneath a nearby umbrella. “You’ll be burned tonight and freckled next week. When you’re thirty you’ll have wrinkles, and when you’re forty you’ll have skin cancer.”

  Sarah rolls her eyes. “Transmission received! You sound like Miss Pratt.”

  The woman beneath the umbrella lowers her book and peers over the top of her reading glasses. “Who’s Miss Pratt?”

  “My health teacher.”

  “Oh.” The book rises again, eclipsing the pale face beneath a wide straw hat. “Well, Miss Pratt is correct.”

  Sarah sighs loudly, then flips back onto her stomach. Truth is, she’s bored with the pursuit of the perfect tan. She has nothing to listen to because she left her iPod in the city, and umbrella woman won’t let her bring the CD player down to the beach . . .

  She pushes herself up and jogs toward the water, splashing away a pelican that climbs from the shallows and flaps his way toward a
distant dock.

  “Be careful!” the straw hat calls.

  Sarah ignores the warning. The woman is hyperparanoid; a certified overworrier. Enough to drive a girl crazy.

  Especially one who’s had more than her fair share of things to worry about.

  Sarah wades forward until the water touches her bare belly, then she turns to brace herself against the breakers. After gasping at the first cold splash on her sun-warmed back, she swims beyond the waves, then backstrokes in an area where the swells rise and fall in a gentle rhythm.

  She loves the ocean. She’d never admit this to a living soul, but if mermaids could exist, she’d exchange every shoe in her closet for a tail and flippers.

  Floating lazily, she positions ankle to ankle and knee to knee, then kicks, sputtering as the awkward movement plunges her beneath the water.

  She surfaces, laughing and spitting. It’s not easy to kick both legs simultaneously, but she could probably get the hang of it if she had time to practice.