The Red Gloves Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  Then, with only a glance at her mother, she dialed the number she’d been given. A woman answered, and Hannah did as the instructions told. “Could you patch me in to Colonel Jared Whalin, please.”

  “Yes, just a minute.” She was silent for a moment. “It’s after midnight there. Maybe you could try tomorrow.

  “Please!” Hannah heard the panic in her voice. “It’s urgent, ma’am. Could you please try? Someone might be awake, right?”

  “Well,” the woman hesitated. “All right. If it’s urgent, I’ll give it a try.”

  She put Hannah on hold and after a few seconds the phone rang and a man picked up. “Colonel Whalin.” His voice was terse.

  “Yes … ” Hannah was shaking. She could be minutes from talking to her father. The entire scene felt unreal, like something from a dream. She steadied herself. “My name’s Hannah Roberts, and my father—” She let her eyes meet her mother’s. “My father is Mike Meade. He’s one of your chopper pilots, I believe.”

  For a few beats the man said nothing. Then he exhaled slowly. “Hannah … ” His tone was kinder, but it was heavy. “Your father told me you might call.”

  “Yes, well … ” Hannah could barely speak. Was this really happening? After so many years of dreaming about her daddy, had she finally found him? Her words were breathless, stuck in her throat. She forced herself to exhale. “Could I talk to him, sir?”

  “Hannah, is your mother there? I have some things I need to tell her.”

  The colonel’s words came at her like some sort of disconnect. What did her mother have to do with the conversation? She wanted to speak to her father. Why didn’t the colonel go find him and put him on the phone? “Sir? My mother, sir?”

  “Yes.” The commander sighed again, but it sounded more like a groan. “Please, Hannah.”

  “Fine, sir.” Hannah held the phone to her mother. She felt faint, her mind swirling with the information. What was wrong? Was there a problem, something the colonel couldn’t share with her? She gripped the edge of the sofa back and studied her mother.

  “Hello?” Her mother knit her brow together, clearly confused. “This is Carol Roberts, Hannah’s mother.”

  Whatever the colonel told her next, Hannah knew it wasn’t good. Her mother’s face grew pinched, her eyes watery. She gave the commander their phone number and address, but otherwise she said very little, and then the conversation ended. When she hung up the phone, it took a while before she lifted her eyes to Hannah’s.

  “What’s wrong? Why couldn’t he come to the phone? How come the colonel didn’t tell me?” Hannah’s questions ran together. “What’s wrong? Tell me, please.”

  Her mother reached for her hands and eased her around the edge of the sofa and onto the cushion. Then she crouched down and searched Hannah’s eyes. “He’s a prisoner, Hannah. His helicopter was shot down earlier today. They’re trying to find a way to rescue him.”

  The words ripped into her, tearing at her dreams and breaking her heart. She slid off the sofa onto her knees and let her head fall against her mother’s knees. “No, Mother … No, it can’t be true. He was fine when he left me the message.”

  “The colonel talked about that.” Her mother’s voice was thick. “Your dad called you on Sunday, a few days before the mission.”

  Hannah grabbed her mother’s arms. She was desperate, frantic. She had to find a way to get to him, to tell him she’d gotten his message. “They have to rescue him now, right now! Before something happens.”

  “Honey, they’re trying.” Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “The colonel said they’re putting together a plan.”

  “But how can I reach him?” She was trembling, sick to her stomach, searching for an answer where none existed. The truth was more than she could take in. My dad is a prisoner of war? What if someone’s hurting him? She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “I have to talk to him.”

  “Shhh.” Her mother ran her hand along the back of her head. “All we can do is wait. I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked, and this was something else new: her mother allowing a show of emotion. She sniffed and held Hannah closer. “All we can do is wait.”

  There was no word from the colonel by the next morning, so Hannah went to school. It was the only way she could make the time pass, the only way to keep running—the way that was familiar to her. But she couldn’t concentrate on her classes or the lectures or anything but her father. There had to be something she could do, some way she could help him.

  The idea came to her just after school let out. Her mother had a meeting with the congressman, looking for a way to speed up the rescue of her father and the men who had been with him on the mission. Hannah was skipping cheerleading, so she met Buddy Bingo out front near the flagpole at three o’clock. The temperatures hovered around freezing, and an icy wind hit her in the face as she flew out the school doors. More snow was in the forecast.

  As soon as she climbed in the Town Car she leaned forward and craned her neck over the seat. “Buddy, I need help.”

  “What is it, Miss Hannah?” His eyes were instantly concerned.

  She tugged on her sweater sleeves and explained the situation—how she had a different dad, one that she’d known as a little girl. And yesterday she’d found him, only he was overseas in Baghdad and now he was a prisoner of war. “He’s in danger, Buddy.” She gulped, terrified, too afraid to picture where he might be even at that minute. “You’re praying for a Christmas miracle for me, right?”

  “Right.” Buddy’s tone was gravely serious. “But Hannah, if he’s a prisoner of war … has anyone heard from him?”

  “That’s just it.” Her words came out fast, clipped. “His commander says they’re putting together a rescue. So how about if we change the prayer and ask for a different miracle. That they’d find my dad and get him out of there before he gets hurt.”

  Buddy looked down and rubbed the back of his neck, slow and deliberate. When he looked up, he searched deep into her eyes. “Miss Hannah, can I ask you something?”

  “Anything?” Hannah was out of breath. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing since she saw the Town Car. If Buddy’s miracle thing worked, then this might be her dad’s only chance.

  “Miracles aren’t a given, Hannah. Do you know that?” Buddy’s voice was serious.

  “What do you mean?” She blinked; her heart skipped a beat. She needed a miracle now, more than ever.

  “It takes belief, Hannah. Belief and prayer. Even so, sometimes God has another plan.” He lowered his chin. “But either way, I can’t be the only one believing and praying.”

  The notion hit Hannah square in the face. Buddy couldn’t be the only one praying … of course not. She sat back and stared out the window. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Buddy was right. She could hardly ask him to pray for her Christmas miracle if she wasn’t also willing to pray. She leaned up again and looked at him. “I do believe, Buddy. I’ve believed for a while now, I think. So … ” She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “How do I pray?”

  “There’s no formula.” Buddy gave her a familiar, tender smile, the one that made him look like Santa Claus. “You talk to God the same way you’d talk to your best friend.”

  “Can I try it?” Hannah tapped her toes on the floorboard of the car, the way she did when she was nervous. She looked around. They were still parked up against the curb in front of the school, but most of the other cars had already gone. “Right here?”

  “Go ahead.” Buddy bowed his head. “Give it a try.”

  Hannah followed his lead. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, more because it felt natural than because she was sure it was the right way to pray. She cleared her throat.

  “Hi, God, it’s me, Hannah.” Her voice was shaky, caught somewhere between scared-to-death for her father and uncertainty about what to say. She sucked in a quick breath. “God, my dad’s in trouble. I haven’t seen him in—” Her voice broke, and tears stung at her eyes.

  “It’
s okay, Hannah.” Buddy’s voice was soft, low. “Take your time.”

  “Thanks.” She swallowed a few times so she could find the words. She opened her eyes for a moment, and a trail of tears slid down both her cheeks. She sniffed and closed her eyes once more. “Anyway, God, I haven’t seen my dad in a long time. And now he’s a prisoner in Baghdad, and he needs your help. Remember the Christmas miracle Buddy’s been praying for? That I would have Christmas with my mom and dad? Well—” The prayer was coming easier now. Buddy was right; it was just like talking. “—we’d like to add something. Please, God, just help Colonel Whalin and his men rescue my dad. That really would be the biggest, most amazing miracle of all. Thank You.”

  When she opened her eyes, Buddy was smiling at her. He held her gaze for a moment, then turned and pulled something out of a box on the seat next to him. It was a beautiful pair of red gloves—homemade, maybe. He held them out to her. “These are for you.”

  “Buddy … ” She took them and turned them over, amazed at how soft they were. “Where did they come from?”

  He turned so that he could see her straight on, see the way the gloves fit her hands perfectly. “A long time ago, my mother gave me those.” He pointed at the cuff on the gloves. “Look inside.”

  Hanna turned the cuff back and there, stitched on the inside in white, was the single word: Believe. She eased them onto her hands, one at a time, bringing them to her cheeks. “They’re perfect.”

  “I’ve had them with me for a week or so.” His eyes were bright, a mix of sadness and hope. “They’re your Christmas present. But somehow”—he motioned to the gloves—”this seemed like the right time.”

  Hannah made her hands into fists and held her gloved fingers together. “Because of the message.”

  “Yes.” Buddy patted her hands. “Because you need to believe. More now than ever.”

  “Thank you, Buddy.” She felt warm all the way to her insides. “You always know what to say, what to do.”

  He took her home then, and she went inside to her room, to the quietest corner. There she took the gloves off and pressed them against her face. They smelled old, of cedar chests and cinnamon and long-ago Christmases. Already she treasured them. They would be a symbol, she decided. A reminder. She would wear them every time she left the house. That way she’d remember how important it was to pray.

  And, when it came to miracles, how important it was to believe.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The call Carol was dreading came Monday morning.

  From the moment she’d heard that Mike was a prisoner of war, she’d been sick to her stomach. She was well aware of the treatment prisoners received in Iraq. Some were tortured and kept in cages, others were beaten and placed in pitch-dark solitary confinement. But ultimately, most of them were killed.

  Hannah, meanwhile, walked around the house talking about prayer and belief and miracles, wearing a pair of red gloves the chauffeur had given her.

  Carol had nothing against faith. If her daughter wanted to believe in something, fine. But believing in a miracle for her father couldn’t possibly be wise. Not when he might already be dead.

  Now, Hannah was at school when the phone rang. The knot in Carol’s gut tightened as she took the call. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Roberts?” It was Colonel Whalin’s voice.

  “Yes.” Her heart rate doubled. “Do you have information about Hannah’s father?”

  The man was silent, and in that silence Carol knew. She knew that whatever news the commander was about to deliver would be bad—devastating, even. He cleared his voice. “We received an envelope from the insurgents.”

  Envelopes were never a good thing. Carol closed her eyes and waited.

  “Inside were Mike’s dog tags, the patches from his uniform—his name and rank—and a photo of a corpse.” His voice was heavy. “I’m sorry, Ms. Roberts, as far as we can tell, the photo is of Hannah’s father.”

  The bottom of Carol’s heart fell away and she felt herself floating. What will I tell Hannah? How would her daughter ever forgive her for waiting so long to tell her about her dad? She pinched the bridge of her nose and forced herself to concentrate. “Are there identifying features, something that makes you sure it’s him?”

  “The body’s dressed in a flight suit—one that appears to belong to Mike Meade.”

  Carol opened her eyes and stared out at the winter clouds. For a moment she saw him standing there, drenched in California sunshine, the surfboard beneath his arm. “Come on, Carol, race you to the water!” Her eyes stung. He was so strong, so vibrant and alive. She never should’ve kept Hannah from him, and now it was too late. She gave a shake of her head, searching for something to say. “Colonel Whalin … ” How could he be gone? She massaged her throat. “What about the rescue?”

  “It’ll happen any day. From what we can tell nine men went down in the chopper and eight survived the crash, including Mike.” He exhaled, his voice weary. “As many as seven of them may still be alive, trapped inside the insurgents’ compound.”

  “Very well.” She straightened herself, willing air to fill her lungs despite the panic suffocating her. “Please contact us afterward. Just in case.”

  “Yes.” He paused, but in that pause there wasn’t even a glimmer of hope. “Just in case.”

  Hannah flew through the door just after three, the red gloves on her hands.

  “Mother… ” She was about to ask whether the colonel had called or not when she saw her mother’s face. All her life, when she pictured her mother, Hannah had seen a dark-haired woman, beautiful and neatly put together. The image Carol Roberts gave to the world was not one that allowed shows of emotion or anything short of perfection.

  That’s how Hannah knew something was wrong.

  As she rounded the corner into the living room, her mother was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her. When she heard Hannah, she turned. Her face was streaked with mascara, her eyes swollen from crying. Her hair was flat and tucked behind her ears, as though she’d never even attempted to curl it.

  “Mom?” Hannah stopped a few feet from her. She crossed her arms, cupping her elbows with her gloved hands. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hannah … ” Her mother stood and shook her head. “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes fell to the floor. “I should have told you about him sooner.”

  The thoughts in Hannah’s head swirled and skipped around, and she struggled to make sense of her mother’s statement. “Did… ” She couldn’t finish, couldn’t bring herself to ask it. But she had no choice, because she had to know. Moving slow, carefully, she sat on the sofa arm, her eyes never left her mother’s face. “Did the colonel call?”

  Her mother lifted her head, her expression frozen, mouth drawn. “Yes.” Her voice was so quiet, Hannah could hardly understand her. “They think your father’s dead.”

  “No.” Hannah shook her head, refusing to allow the words entrance to her mind. “No, Mother, he’s a prisoner. He’s not dead.”

  “Hannah,” her mother stood and came to her. She looked tired and old and defeated. “His commander received an envelope with his things, his tags and patches, and a—” Her voice caught and she brought her hands to her face.

  “What, Mother?” Hannah stood and went to her, taking hold of her wrists and lowering her hands so she could see her mother’s face. But all the while she felt like a robot, as if her heart had been removed from her chest and she was merely operating on instinct. “What else?”

  Her mother twisted her face, pain marking every crease and angle. She searched Hannah’s eyes. “There was a photo of a dead man. They think … they think it’s your father.”

  Hannah dropped her mother’s hands. Her mouth hung open for a few moments, her mind racing. What had her mother said? They thought it was her father, right? Wasn’t that it? They could be wrong, couldn’t they? She swallowed, but her throat was too dry and the words wouldn’t come.

  Her knees shook and suddenly she couldn’t s
tay on her feet another second. She dropped slowly to the ground, and somewhere in the distant places of her brain she heard herself begin to moan. “No … no, he can’t be gone!”

  “Hannah … ” Her mother dropped to her knees next to her and put a hand on her back. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No!” She only shook her head, and this time the moan became louder, a desperate shout against everything that was happening around her, against the details that hung in the air like daggers over the two of them. She looked up and found her mother’s eyes. “He could be wrong, couldn’t he? The photo might not be my dad, right?”

  It was her last hope, the last possibility that maybe— maybe—he was still alive, that the information was all some sort of terrible mistake. Her breathing was faster now, and she couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. Her chest heaved and she stared, wide eyed at her mother. “Right, Mom? Tell me I’m right!”

  “Hannah … ” Her mother shook her head, but that was all. There were no promises, no possibilities, nothing that would make her think for a moment that her mother held out any hope.

  The red gloves felt like they were strangling her. Was this what she got for believing in miracles? A missed opportunity? A loss so great she couldn’t fathom it? A father who never even knew how much she’d missed him? Was this what praying had brought about in her life?

  She turned her hands palms up and was starting to tug on the fingers of the left glove when she spotted the word embroidered into the cuff: Believe. She stared at it and realized in a rush that already she’d stopped believing. In fact, she’d been about to throw the gloves across the room. Now, though, she froze, her eyes still on the word.

  Next to her, her mother was saying something else, something about a rescue for whatever men might still be alive and how Colonel Whalin would call if there was any news, and suddenly Hannah gasped. “What did you say?”