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Touches of Time

By LoRee A. Peery

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The walk to the park took more effort than ever.
Sarah left the trail for her favored picnic table, fanning and flapping her shirt away from her body to dispel the heat. She sank onto the bench with a sigh.
Her mother’s last days, followed by what she called her celebration of life, had kept Sarah too busy for strolling outside her apartment complex. She’d missed summer, teeming with new growth. Did nature grieve?
She closed her eyes to clear the fog, and sought warmth from the sun.
A thud on the table snapped open Sarah’s eyes. She covered her rounded stomach with one hand and batted away an intrusive soccer ball with the other.
“Sorry about that.” A buff guy with a killer grin toed the ball from midair, and then dribbled it away, running backwards.
Their gazes remained locked until one of his buddies called, “Hey, Melcher, the game’s this way.”
I need to close my gaping mouth and quit gawking. If I had a man like that around, I’d be inclined to rejoin the living.
Since he caught her eye, did that mean she rode the swell of coming out of her funk?
Events marched on whether she took an active role or not. Her brow tightened. She must be waking up to notice the hunky guy, sweat and all. He had to belong to some lucky woman.
His renewed attention drew her back to his wet black hair and brilliant blue eyes, increasing her pulse rate. Her breath hitched as though he sent invisible vibes through the summer air.
Forget taking another look. He had a life. She had a life. Sarah inhaled as deeply as she could and forced herself to break connection with his magnetic pull. Sliding across the table bench, she turned her back and wished for her waistline to return. She sauntered the way she’d come, grinned and grunted at the idea of taking the path closer to term. The mental picture of her waddling would be worth the trouble, since she’d soon have a baby to love and nurture. The prospect lightened her heart.
Love and nurture. Mom’s words. Family had mattered so much to Mom.
Sarah sniffed. Time to somehow scrounge up the energy to check on the status of a job assignment she’d put on hold.
Digging into Mom’s writings had crowded in on Sarah’s call to return to work. Would Mom’s words bring back the flood of tears, or give her comfort?
“I need to snap out of it. Baby and I will soon be a whole new family unit.”
Somehow, I’ll tackle that promise I made you, Mom.
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Ford dribbled the soccer ball in circles. He could have taken a kick in the head the way a mere glimpse of a distressed soul sparked electricity. He ran sideways with the ball between his feet, wanting nothing more than to kick that thing out of the park and run after her.
He wanted to call out to the lovely lady whom he still trailed with his gaze.
He wanted to rest beside her for the duration of the day, peer into the allure of her golden-brown eyes and get to know the reasons behind her aura.
He wanted to search out the sense of familiarity, the air of mystery that shot awareness to his nerve endings.
The beauty eventually rounded a curve where bushes hid her from sight.
Why was he drawn to her? What had caused her to be so lost in thought? One glimpse of her eyes, and he’d detected deep sadness, unguarded susceptibility, yet strength. At the same time, she nudged him to adventure.
Did he know the woman from somewhere? She carried a hint of lingering intrigue.
He shook off the knockout’s woeful expression to get his head back in the soccer challenge.
Chan stole the ball with his sturdy shoulders and skilled feet. He shouted over his goal in the imaginary net. “Snooze, you lose, Melcher.”
Ford grunted at the jolt. He ran to kick aside a hand-off pass.
“That’s what I get for daydreaming about a mysterious lady.”
Her face tickled by wisps of hair the color of her pretty amber eyes had reminded him of someone. The time enhanced picture of a young girl in a file on his desk. A girl who disappeared from Hardin years earlier, the subject of the latest Nebraska cold case he’d immersed himself in.
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In her apartment, Sarah tried to shake the handsome athletic guy’s image.
Her stomach gave an excited turn. Then her abdomen rolled as the baby somersaulted. A gulp of cucumber water refreshed her.
Sarah took the crushed ice to her studio where she plunked into her desk chair. She booted up her computer and stared at the screen, lost in absent thought. Two e-mail messages replied to, she ignored anything that required taxing her mind, and logged onto her social networking sites. Energy gave way to sudden fatigue.
“Oh, my little one, I hope and pray you will never have to experience such a double loss in mere months. Except for you, I’d feel lonely.” She closed her eyes and tried to picture the life nestled beneath her ribs. “If you can sense my sorrow right now, I’m sorry.”
Sarah rubbed her belly. “Speaking of waiting, it’s hard at times. I promise to tell you about your dad. And I promise you’ll always have me.”
Promise me.
How long would she hear Mom’s voice in her head?
Or live with the guilt of finally saying yes when Travis offered marriage? Who would have thought he’d get himself killed? Sarah lost her life-long friend as well as the father of her baby.
Mom claimed God planned each and every child and had assured Sarah, “The Lord will work out the details. You’ll learn to love Travis as your husband.”
Children were supposed to have two parents.
Sarah’s brother had always liked Travis, called him a friend the way she had. And her sister was thankful Sarah would soon have the baby to fill a void.
Her mother cried with her when Travis died. No one cried with her now over the loss of her mother.
Grief lived. Grief hurt. Grief remained an unseen presence.
In order to go on, Sarah pushed the loss of Travis behind. Her true feelings for him may as well have been written on the wind.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she muttered. The command thundered through her head.
Facts were facts. The baby would enter the world without a daddy, and without grandparents. She and her baby would survive.
Come to Me, and I will give you peace.
Where had that come from? She swiveled her chair. Could Mom speak to her? Or did the voice belong to God?
Mom never stopped praying and claimed to know she was headed for heaven.
But how could Sarah know the reality of heaven? She’d never explored getting close to the God Mom knew as Lord. Maybe someday.
Her mind remained too distracted. Her heart too full of hurt to accomplish any kind of design work on this given day. She scrubbed at familiar drying tears and pushed forward to follow her belly out of the chair, grabbing the glass of lukewarm water.
She bypassed the mound of Mom’s memories on the table and opened the mail.
Sarah fanned new sympathy cards, mostly from her mother’s friends, and added them to the stack. She opened the top envelope and pulled out the card: You are invited to be our guest at a pot faith (we don’t believe in luck) dinner. Please join us for a friendly evening of fun and fellowship. The stamped return address read Plains Bible Fellowship, Grief Support Group.
Her mother knew grief. Thirty-five years earlier, she’d received the traumatic news her father was murdered. Sarah set aside the invitation and immersed herself in her mother’s world.
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Murder on a Country Road by Lena Stanley Bishop…
Scenes from In Cold Blood wove through my restless dreams. Did the jangle of the phone belong to my dream world, or was it real?
My husband Leighton and I had stayed up late to watch that jarring television movie based on a true crime in Kansas. I’d gone to bed with a stomach more sour than usual, due to scenes of cold-blooded murder.
Off and on throughout the night, my broken sleep felt as heavy as my bloated belly. All I’ve wanted since I hit thirty-eight weeks is to have our second child. Everything I do takes more effort and energy.
Leighton’s half-awake greeting turned jovial. “How’s my favorite brother-in-law?”
I groaned at his early morning breeziness, so like the tone he used when he spoke to the baby in my stomach. I tried to roll to my other side.
Leighton stayed me with a hand on my hip. “Don’t get up, I’ll talk to him.”
Our mattress rolled and resettled as Leighton rose to take the call on the phone in the kitchen.
I scooted to his side of the bed, too fatigued to say hello to my brother, though I hadn’t heard Connor’s voice in months. At the clicking sound of Leighton picking up the kitchen extension, I replaced the phone in its cradle.
Then I dozed off to his indistinct conversation. Soon, silence helped me drift back to sleep, without questioning why I’d heard the kitchen door open and close.
Fifteen minutes later, according to the alarm clock, Leighton quietly shut the back door. He came into our room and touched my shoulder. I clumsily tried to raise my swollen body from the bed. My left leg tangled in the orange chenille spread. I fought the sheet and cover, then gave up.
Leighton rubbed my calf through the light blankets. “You believe in God, don’t you?”
What a weird thing for him to say. Groggy, I wondered why he’d left the house for that contemplation. But I managed to nod. “Where’d you go?”
“I went next door and rang Connor back so I wouldn’t disturb you.” He swallowed. “Honey, Connor called with bad news.”
“Sorry I’m so sleepy this morning,” I said. “Does he want me to call him back? How is he?”
“Not good. There’s no easy way to say this.” He swiped his eye. “I’m so sorry, he called to say your dad is dead.”
Not sure I’d heard right, I became fully awake.
Leighton brushed my bangs to the side, smoothing the wrinkles in my forehead. His shoulders slumped. “Your father is dead.”
“Wh-a-at?” It couldn’t be. “How?”
Dearest Leighton choked on his words. “He…he was found in a ditch.”
With those words, the real nightmare began. Shock rocked through me. I went with the first thing that popped into my mind. “Heart attack?”
Nothing made sense. I interrupted my own thoughts before he could answer. “Car accident?”
Leighton shook his head.
“A stroke?”
Another negative response.
“Somebody hit him over the head.” He cleared his throat. With tears in his eyes, he finished, “Dad was murdered.”
How does anyone grasp such a thing? I fought the blankets again. Leighton helped unwrap them from around my legs. “I don’t…what do you mean?” I searched Leighton’s eyes.
“He was hit in the head and killed."

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