Hush in the Storm

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  Pastor Jake got up to refill his glass with ice from the machine in the back of the tidy kitchen. He said, his back to me, “Now you have two questions to answer.”

  “To you, or to myself?”

  He turned and lifted his glass upwards. “To Him. But you can tell me. That’s my job.”

  I sputtered a snicker. “Do we need to move to the pews, then?”

  He walked over, his shoes barely making a noise. His eyes narrowed as his smile faded. “If that would make you feel better.”

  I traced around the plastic fork with my finger. “Can I get back with you?”

  His grin returned. “Deal. Come back to see me on Tuesday morning. Ten. Don’t be late.”

  He reached in his pocket for a ring of at least twenty keys. I followed him down the hall as he jingled them to locate the right one. I suddenly realized he’d never removed his suit jacket and tie. Perhaps that had been purposeful so he’d appear more official. How thoughtful. I knew then I’d be back.

  He got to the door and unlocked it. “Go in peace.”

  Under my breath I replied with the common end of worship response. “Thanks be to God.”

  I heard his hearty laugh as the door clicked shut.

  * * *

  All the way home I pondered his second question. Did I believe Robert was actually dead? Up until a month ago, I’d never doubted it. What if he was still alive? Was my love for him still alive—that was what Pastor Jake had meant. Was Tom’s uncertain whereabouts the reason I’d not replaced my wedding ring? And, did I have any right to feel the way I did about him?

  I shook it all off. Maybe I wasn’t ready to answer question number two. I returned to Pastor Jake’s first question, the God-in-control one. In a strange way, it seemed a lot less threatening.

  I had no answer for it either, though. I figured I was supposed to have replied, “Why, yes. Of course I do.” The trouble was—I wasn’t sure I did. What evidence did I have that the Lord had any control over my life? A few eerie suggestions whispered into my brain? A feeling I wished was there more often? It’s not control. But then was it because I wouldn’t let Him take the reins?

  Once in my apartment, I Googled the first question Jake had asked me. Did I believe that God was in control?

  It seemed a core question many people would ask a man of the cloth. He’d probably learned that fact in seminary the first year. Start with that basic question when you were faced with a person who had lapsed into a semi-believer. See if they still knew the answer.

  The computer screen responded with the following choices—

  Is God in control?

  Is God in control of everything?

  Is God in control of our lives?

  Is God in control of my life?

  I sat back. Wow. The words illuminated in front of me had an eerie progression from everything in the universe down to me. Option number one referenced a passage from the first chapter of Ephesians.

  “God ‘worketh all things after the counsel of His own will: That we should be to the praise of his glory.’”

  What did it mean?

  I scrolled further down through a succession of blogs asking how He can allow bad things, or if He didn’t, would we be just puppets, yadda, yadda. Nah. Too deep. So I scrolled back up.

  I’m not sure how long I stared at the computer monitor and that verse. My thoughts whirled like autumn leaves in a wind gust. Both questions Pastor Jake had asked spun around me. What did one have to do with the other?

  I tapped my fingers on the desk. “God worketh all things.” Had God orchestrated all of this so-called adventure to zap me out of my zombie-like mourning blackness? Could it be Tom, or Travis, or whoever this shadowy figure was whom I’d brushed against for one week, had come into my life for just that reason? If so, I would be eternally grateful. But Tom had done more than help me find a new purpose in life. He’d given me back my life.

  Suddenly a desperate yearning to find him surfaced. I flicked off the computer screen and circled my bedroom. After an hour of brain-racking exercises of how I could get a message to him, I gave up. I tried to shove him out of my thoughts by watching a movie I’d taped ages ago but never got a chance to see. My mind kept blanking out. Over and over, I had to rewind to catch what I’d missed. At last I surrendered, downed an anti-anxiety pill with a glass of water, and undressed for bed.

  It didn’t work. I tossed and turned all night trying to remember how Robert’s touch felt, or how his lips pressed on mine. But what seemed etched into my skin was Tom’s touch. The yearning to be with him made my whole soul ache.

  About three in the morning, I threw the covers aside and once again paced. Tom Cat sat on his haunches. In the moonlight, his iridescent eyes peered into me. I turned to him, hands on my hips.

  “I can’t think about him, Tom Cat. I can’t. I have no right to.” I waved my hands frantically in the air. “I don’t even know who he is. Where he is. If he’s still—” I couldn’t say it. He had to be alive. He had found me once. He’d find a way to contact me again.

  Tom Cat stretched out a paw and tagged my nightgown. I knelt by the bed, stroking his back. “Oh, Tom. Oh, Tom.”

  Once again the tears flowed.

  Tom Cat purred as I drenched his fur with my sobs. And they said cats hated water.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Monday dawned with me in a self-enforced fog, doing everything I could to not think, emote, or remember. I started with my laundry, scrubbed the grout in my bathtub enclosure, wiped baseboards, and yes, washed my windows as best as I could, living in a second-story apartment. I played Scrabble on the computer, then Gin Rummy, then Find a Word until my brain went limp. About dusk, I hopped in my car, drove through a Mexican fast-food to get chicken enchiladas, and then through the Dairy Queen for a hot fudge sundae. I figured either I’d sleep like a baby or be up all night with physical ailments—a blessed relief from the emotional or spiritual anguish which had been doing the same thing.

  On Tuesday morning I fed Tom Cat, did my stint in the apartment weight room and mini-gym, ate breakfast, then caught up on emails and the Facebook news of all six of my contacts. I still questioned the attraction of this social media thing. Maybe if I tried harder, I’d make more friends. But honestly, I didn’t care to share recipes or see everyone’s pet pictures.

  Then I bathed, did the makeup routine, and dressed in business clothes. I chose a long skirt with a lace collared blouse and linen jacket. I honestly couldn’t recall what the other ladies had worn on Sunday.

  At twenty until ten I was out the door and headed to meet Pastor Jake. Three times, I talked myself out of turning around and heading home. I parked and sat, staring at the front door of the church for a good six minutes, until a rap on the driver’s side window jolted me.

  “Not backing out on me, are you?” Pastor Jake’s muffled voice and shining gaze seeped through the car glass.

  I pushed the window button. “No, I just—” I stopped. “Yes. I was thinking about it.”

  He wiggled the door handle. I unlocked it. He nodded and opened it for me, extending his other hand to help me out of the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks.” I slid out and watched as he closed the car door.

  As we walked to his office, he chatted easily. “Let’s see if you still say that in an hour. I have been known to beat confessions out of people. I didn’t show you the dungeons beneath the church.” He slinked along, dragging one foot with the opposite shoulder slightly humped like Igor in the novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  I laughed. It felt good.

  Pastor Jake straightened his back. “The office is over there off to the left side.”

  He was dressed casually, in not the normal suit, white shirt, and black tie.

  “Why the incognito?” I shuffled to catch up to his longer stride.

  “My white shirts are in the wash.”

  I chuckled. “You know something? In one minute you’ve gotten me to laugh twice.”

  H
e puffed out his chest and winked. “I sensed my astute wit wouldn’t fall on deaf ears.”

  His smile was contagiously warm. Did they learn how to do that in seminary or was this a gift? I knew he was trying to ease the tension for me. With each grin, another twisted tangle in my stomach loosened a bit.

  Pastor Jake led me through the door and down a short hall. He opened a glass door with “Church Office” painted on it. Inside, an elderly lady, with blue-white hair neatly gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck, pecked away at a keyboard. Her nose scrunched as she peered over half-moon glasses.

  “Mrs. Edwards. This is Jen. She’s my ten o’clock counseling session.”

  The woman twisted to gaze at me, nodded, and returned to her computer screen. Pastor Jake scooted around the desk to place his hand on her shoulder. “That new program still giving you fits?” He turned to me. “It’s the latest member database on the market. A gift from one of our more influential members.”

  Mrs. Edwards’ thin, slightly bent shoulders heaved in confusion.

  Pastor Jake leaned into her ear. “Call tech support and speak to Angelo. He’ll be happy to walk you through it again.” With a pat on her back, he motioned me to the next room.

  His office was what I expected. Old, but well-made furniture in mahogany and green leather were sparsely placed on an oriental rug. Floor to ceiling bookshelves filled the wall behind him. Several crosses and mementos were scattered amongst the various books, some paperback and some not. A photo of a young woman who shared Pastor Jake’s smile propped center stage on the middle shelf. I gravitated toward it.

  He followed, hands in both pockets. “My little sister. She’s getting her masters at UT in Physics. She got all the brainy genes.”

  He sat in his chair and motioned me to choose one of the green leather straight back ones in front of his desk. He shuffled a few folders and papers, then leaned in to face me. “Okay, so what are we discussing today? Question one, or would it be question two?”

  I wiggled my bottom in the chair while my eyes bore a hole into my interlocked thumbs. I sucked in half the air in the room, let it out, and spurted my desire. “I want to find those two girls I told you about. You know? Monica and Marisol.”

  A smirk emerged. “Avoidance so soon? We’ve barely gotten out of the starting gate.”

  I bit my lip. “I mean it. I can’t stop thinking about them, about what is happening to them. Over and over, and…” I blinked away tears.

  He reached across the desk and motioned with his hands for me to take them. I did. Then he bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Let us pray,” he whispered.

  We did. Rather, he did and I listened, sniffling every now and then. Bowing my head made my nose run. After he said “amen,” he reached over and yanked a tissue from the box on the edge of his desk and handed it to me.

  I blew my nose.

  “I found something you might want.” He flipped through the papers in a stack. “Ah. Here it is.” He handed me a tri-fold brochure. A Hispanic young girl’s face stared at me from beneath the words “Coalition Against Human Trafficking.”

  “I got this at a conference a while back. It’s a start.”

  I flipped it over and read a contact phone number on the back. “Area code 202?”

  Pastor Jake leaned back in his chair again. “Washington D.C., I think.”

  I scrunched my face together, like Mrs. Edwards.

  He raised his hands in surrender. “I know. This is Texas. But they may have contacts here. Believe it or not, the DFW area is supposed to be a major hub for this sort of thing. I can also check with the neighborhood ministers’ coalition and see if anyone knows of someone you can speak with.”

  Gratitude washed over me. “So, they may be filtered through here?”

  He raised a finger. “It’s not much to go on. Don’t get your hopes up too soon. You really need to get the police to help.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I tried that. In Canyon.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Needle in a haystack was their answer, right?”

  I stuffed the brochure into my purse. “Something like that, yes.”

  “Jen.” His face took on a parental sternness which aged him by ten years. “May I call you that?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Then just call me Jake. Most of the members here do.” He tented his fingers. “I know these young girls’ situation is horrid. I can’t blame you for wanting to find them and help them. I just want you to also help yourself.”

  I gave him a blank look. Tom had said the same thing.

  Jake extended his arm across the desk and waggled his forefinger at my nose. “Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. Don’t use this cause as an excuse to not process your own harrowing experience. You are going to have to be strong, mentally and emotionally, to pursue this. That means working through your own trauma first.”

  My eyes dashed to the corner of the room.

  He came around and perched on the edge of his desk. “Remember your flight to New York?”

  I wiggled a smidgen in the chair. “Yes. So?”

  “Those poor flight attendants. No one listens to their spiel before takeoff. I know how they feel...every Sunday morning in the pulpit.”

  I laughed again.

  His eyes sparkled back into mine. “Seriously, do you know what they tell parents?”

  I knitted my eyebrows and shook my head.

  He sat up straight. “To put the oxygen mask on themselves first, then their kids.”

  Comprehension jabbed me.

  A little smile told me he’d seen it. He went back around to his chair. “You have to save yourself before you can save others.”

  I cocked my head. “Isn’t that Christ’s job?”

  He reared back and laughed. “Touché.” He bent over his desk. “I’m free on Thursday at two. See you then.”

  He rose and motioned me to the door.

  Mrs. Edwards was still at it, all scrunched up. At least she was on the phone. “Yes. Did that. Okay. Then what do I do?”

  I envied her. If only there was an Angelo to guide me through my steps. Angelo means angel in Spanish. Who was mine?

  * * *

  My fingers froze over the keyboard. The cursor blinked, suspended at the email address. What was I going to say? “Dear Anti-Trafficking Organization, I was kidnapped, then hid for safety with two Hispanic teenagers trapped in a prostitution ring.” Would they think me a nut case?

  Maybe I could call, pretend to be a reporter writing an article for the church newsletter. No, too formal—and another lie.

  I clicked off the screen and stared at the brochure. The beckoning eyes of the girl on the front bore into my soul. Her gaze was straightforward, blank of emotion as if, even at that early age, hope had been squeezed out of her, drop by drop, forever. I’d seen that same look in Monica’s eyes the night they came and got her from the hut. I blinked to break the force of the stare.

  My hands grabbed my wireless phone. I punched the toll-free number and sucked in a deep breath of fortitude. Ring. One. Ring. Two. A man’s voice answered.

  “Oh. Yes, hello.” I don’t know why I expected to hear a woman’s voice. I swallowed. “I would like some more information on human trafficking.”

  “I see. Exactly how can I help?”

  “I had a brief encounter with two young girls being held against their will in a hut in New Mexico.” I stopped and breathed. “One was already pregnant. She was fourteen, maybe fifteen.”

  The man gave a small clearing cough. “Okay?”

  “I want to find them. Get them out of that situation. I don’t know where to begin.”

  A short pause, and then he responded. “How did you get my number?”

  “From my pastor.” Well, I guess he was now officially my pastor. “He had a brochure from the conference. It has a young girl in green on the front.”

  “That’s from 2009. Five years ago.”

  I flipped the pamphlet over. “Oh, yes,
I see that now.” My resolve deflated.

  Another pause. “You said you were in New Mexico?”

  “Yes. Er, no. I live in Texas. Fort Worth.” I took a deep breath. “I was kidnapped in New Mexico.”

  “Kidnapped?” For the first time his voice showed animation.

  “They let me go, but these two girls, they’d been, well, with them awhile.” I stopped. How much info did he need? I switched the subject to Monica and Marisol. “They said they were promised jobs as nannies. They had to pay for their transport into the U.S.”

  “So they had money?”

  “No.” I paused. “They had to pay, well, you know, with their bodies.”

  He cleared his throat again. “Right.”

  I waited, not sure how much else to tell him.

  I heard him inhale. “Look, Ms., Mrs.?”

  “Mrs. Westfall.”

  “I see. Mrs. Westfall.” He sighed through the receiver. “My name’s Ed. First things first. Did you tell the police?”

  I shifted in my chair and let patience rule. There was no need to get my Irish up. “Yes, Ed. They said it would be impossible to trace them.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “But surely there is a pattern. A route these traffickers take to get the girls to wherever they take them. If I could—”

  He cut me off. “Mrs. Westfall. Your efforts are noble. But you escaped these animals once. Don’t put yourself in danger again.”

  I planted my feet to the floor. “Your brochure says you provide a safe haven for trafficked adolescents. And,” I emphasized, “direct services to victims in the United States.”

  “Yes, we do. But we don’t have the resources to go looking for individual girls.”

  Ed’s words slapped my face. I gathered my thoughts for a moment. “I have to do something.”

  “I understand.” His voice became more soothing. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Yes.” I craned across the computer desk to grab one, and flipped over the brochure. “I’m ready.”

  “Call this number. It is a hotline for reporting human trafficking. It may be hard, since you don’t know where they are now, but...”

  My voice raised in excitement. “Thank you. What is it?”