Francine Rivers - Her Daughter’s Dream

What kind of evidence did he want? She was about to ask, but one look at his face kept her silent. She didn’t see even a hint of love or compassion in his eyes. He’d been the only pastor she’d ever known, but as she searched for Jesus in his face, she couldn’t find Him.

The wall clock tick, tick, tick ed.

“Well, Carolyn? Don’t you have anything to say? Or do you think it’s all water under the bridge?”

What could she say? She had sinned, she was paying, and she’d keep paying as long as she lived.

Rev. Elias let out an impatient sigh. “Go on then. Have it your way. I’ll pray for your mother and your father, but I won’t pray for you. I’m giving you over to Satan. Let the devil sift you.”

Carolyn sat in Charlie’s Impala, gripping the steering wheel. She wanted a drink. Not just one, a whole bottle, and it didn’t matter if it was wine or whiskey. She wanted a drink so badly, she shook and broke out in a cold sweat. She wanted a joint. She wanted acid. She wanted oblivion!

The only thing that stopped her from driving to Hagstrom’s grocery store and buying booze was the child tucked beneath her heart.

When Carolyn entered the house, Mom stood in the kitchen fixing dinner; Dad stood nearby talking with her. Mom glanced over her shoulder. “Did you have your talk with Rev. Elias?” She sounded hopeful.

“Yes.”

Dad’s mouth tightened. “I hope you took everything he said to heart.”

“I have.” She’d never set foot in a church again.

Carolyn went into her bedroom and closed the door. She thought she might have some respite, but Dad tapped on her door and said to come out in the living room. They had something to tell her. She went on leaden legs.

Dad sat, hands gripping the arms of his recliner. Mom spoke, hands clasped in her lap. “We’ve found a place for you to live until the baby comes.” She looked so relieved. “Jasia Boutacoff is an old friend of mine. We went to nurses’ training together. She lives in the San Fernando Valley. I called and told her the situation. She said she’d be happy to have you come and stay with her. She’ll take good care of you, Carolyn.” She actually smiled as though things couldn’t have worked out better. “What do you think?”

Dad’s face darkened. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. It’s what’s best.”

Mom covered her anger quickly. “You’ll be much better off with Boots.”

“Boots?”

“Jasia’s nickname.”

Dad’s fingers stopped digging into the arm of his chair. “Charlie’s car is yours now. I had it registered in your name.” Dad glanced at Mom. “Boots gave you directions, didn’t she?”

“Yes.” Mom took a map and short note off the side table and held them out. “She said it would be easy to find. Her telephone number is at the bottom.”

Carolyn took the map and directions in trembling fingers. They didn’t have to say any more. She understood. They couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

Dear Rosie,

I thought things might work out between Carolyn and her parents. Trip had softened, and I saw a desire on all sides to bridge the chasm. No matter the circumstances, this baby could have bound them together in love.

Trip and Hildemara sent Carolyn to Rev. Elias. The poor girl looked like something had broken inside her. She won’t tell me a word of what the man said, but I can guess. I will never set foot in that church again as long as that sanctimonious hypocrite stands in the pulpit!

If that wasn’t bad enough, this morning I learned Hildemara has sent Carolyn away. She and Trip decided Carolyn would be “better off” in Southern California among strangers than in Paxtown, “where she would be the brunt of cruel gossip.” I asked Hildemara Rose if she cared more about what others think than how their daughter feels. She told me she knew what it felt like to be cast out, but that wasn’t what she was doing to her daughter.

I am in Yosemite. I needed fresh air. I needed a walk in the mountains. My heart is broken, Rosie. I wanted to make my girl strong, not hard…

Winds gusted as Carolyn drove over Altamont Pass. Spotting the Speedway sign, she remembered how much Chel had wanted to go to the concert. They’d both been too stoned to make it. Just as well. They missed the Hells Angels, the brawls, the fights and chaos. A steady stream of commuters headed back the way she had come, going west to Hayward and Oakland, maybe even as far as San Francisco.

August heat made the inside of Charlie’s car feel soupy, even with the windows down. She turned south and kept on, pushing, wanting to speed, and then wondering why she was in such a hurry to get to a stranger’s house. Before long, the Tehachapi Mountains loomed ahead, the Grapevine winding upward like a gray snake half-hidden by the inversion layer of smog and haze.

By the time she reached the San Fernando Valley, five o’clock traffic clogged the gray macadam arteries. She’d driven in traffic before, but not like this-six lanes, bumper to bumper, cars weaving, nosing in, taillights flashing red, horns honking if you hesitated a few seconds before making your decision. Adrenaline rushed in her veins. She developed a splitting headache. Her fingers ached from clutching the steering wheel. But she made the right exit and got on the right freeway.

It took forty-five minutes to go eleven miles, but she found her way to Canoga Park. She pulled into a shopping mall and bought her first meal of the day, Kentucky Fried Chicken. She didn’t want to arrive on Jasia Boutacoff’s doorstep hungry and begging for food. She reread the directions while she ate, and she had them memorized before she got back in the car and headed for Topanga Canyon.

The tan, two-story house with a Spanish red-tile roof stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, desert mountains looming behind. Carolyn parked, opened the trunk, took out her duffel bag, and hefted it onto her shoulder. The landscaping looked professional, trimmed juniper trees between boulders with river-rock ground cover. Two large terra-cotta pots with topiary privets and two Talavera pottery frogs sat on either side of the large mission-style door.

Carolyn had barely rung the bell when the door opened. “Jasia Boutacoff?”

“Call me Boots, honey.” The tall, slender woman with gray-streaked black hair smiled warmly. She wore white slacks and a flowing purple tunic with a gold chain belt. “And you’re Carolyn.” She waved her in. “Come on in. It’s hotter than Hades out here.”

The air-conditioning hit Carolyn like a cold front, but she welcomed it after hours in hundred-degree heat. She smelled something wonderful cooking. The foyer had dark hardwood flooring, painted cabinets, Talavera sconces on the walls, and a large, frosted-glass Mexican star hanging from the ceiling. An archway opened into a dining room furnished with a painted country-style wood sunflower sideboard, a wrought-iron chandelier hanging over the painted table, and eight blue chairs.

“You must be exhausted after that long drive.” She took Carolyn’s bag. “I’ll show you the way to your room. You can freshen up a bit, if you like, and join me in the living room.” She led the way down a corridor without pausing for breath. “You were six months old the last time I saw you. Your dad was changing your diapers.” She laughed. “He gagged. Men are so helpless sometimes.”

Carolyn caught a glimpse of the huge Southwest-style living room with a curved white fireplace and sliding-glass doors to the backyard. Boots kept talking about Carolyn’s dad and mom as she walked down the hallway and opened a door into a large bedroom, crossing the plush, tan carpeted floor. She put Carolyn’s duffel bag on the end of a four-poster queen-size bed with a crazy quilt. Carolyn took in a Tuscan dresser on one side of the room, marble-topped side tables, a comfortable chair with a stool near the windows, a small table beside it with several books, one a Bible. A watercolor of a field of sunflowers hung on one wall, an Italian coastal town on the opposite.