Tears of Terror Page 2

  “I didn’t think we did that bad of a job raising you,” she’d say, as if all Chelsea and Clark talked about were the lowest points in Chelsea’s childhood.

  Brie was a better listener, but even though she never said so, Chelsea got the sense that her best friend would approve more if Chelsea went to a pastor or Christian counselor.

  Chelsea wasn’t against church or Christianity. She still attended services with her parents if she was home for the weekend, and she couldn’t remember missing an Easter sunrise or Christmas Eve service in her entire life. Sometimes it bothered her the way Christians she loved acted as though she was selfish or somehow less of a believer because she wasn’t working for the church like Brie or attending Bible studies or prayer meetings three or four days a week like her mom. Chelsea loved the Lord but had other interests and hobbies outside of church. What was so wrong with that?

  The worksheet she’d been journaling on had questions about her past achievements. When Chelsea saw all the accomplishments she’d made in the past two years written out on paper, she felt even more guilty for being so dissatisfied. If Chelsea could have seen this list during her first year of college, if she could have known where all that hard work would one day take her, she probably would have started squealing with giddy excitement.

  So where was the joy, the spark?

  Clark’s worksheet — his ta-da list as opposed to a to-do list — was meant to help Chelsea realize all that she did have to be thankful for, but instead it just reinforced her fear that there was something intrinsically wrong with her.

  Imagine you’re receiving an award for all the hard work you’ve done. Your friends, loved ones, and colleagues are all there cheering for you. How do you feel?

  Chelsea stared at the question, wondering if she’d answer it truthfully or the way Clark expected.

  She poised her pen above the lines. Honestly, she wrote, I’d feel like a total fraud. Like any minute whoever gave me the award would turn on the lights and stop the applause halfway through and tell everyone that it was all some giant mistake.

  She let out her breath. Her answer wasn’t going to make her life coach happy.

  Is that what you’d tell a little five-year-old girl if she was about to accept an award she’d earned by her hard work? Clark’s voice in her mind was gentle but firm.

  Of course she wouldn’t tell that to a proud little kid on the happiest day of her life. So why did she say it to herself? What was wrong with her?

  Maybe Clark gave her these assignments to prove how messed up she was. Maybe it was all some giant ploy so she’d keep on paying him for coaching.

  Chelsea’s negative thoughts were interrupted when a passenger tapped her on the shoulder. It was the same white-haired woman Chelsea had been studying during the boarding process.

  “Excuse me,” the old woman said, her wrinkles breaking out into tiny streams when she smiled.

  Chelsea shut her notebook so the old woman couldn’t read what she’d written.

  “The bathroom in the back of the plane is full,” the traveler explained, “so I came up here to use this one. As soon as I saw you here, I knew I had to stop and say something. I don’t usually do this type of thing, but I just had to introduce myself.”

  She reached out a hand, which Chelsea took automatically.

  “My name is Lucy Jean,” the passenger said, “but I insist on being called Grandma Lucy. And I believe the Lord has a message for you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Chelsea blinked up at the stranger. A message from God? It sounded like something her mom would arrange. Hire some weirdo on Craigslist to stalk Chelsea on her flight and make small talk about Jesus, remind Chelsea that there were about a million ways she could become a better Christian if she just set her mind to it.

  Chelsea stared and didn’t know what to say.

  Despite her obvious age, Grandma Lucy showed no signs of pain or stiffness when she squatted down in the aisle to bring herself to Chelsea’s eye level.

  “I wasn’t supposed to be on this flight,” she began. “But the airlines changed my itinerary, and wouldn’t you know it, I told the Lord that if he wanted to disrupt my plans, he’s more than welcome to. I figure that if he put me on a different flight, it’s because there’s someone on this plane who needs to hear about his love.”

  Chelsea realized that she’d rather fill out a hundred of Clark’s journaling pages, no matter how bad they made her feel about herself, than sit here and get preached at. Both her mom and best friend wanted Chelsea to take her faith more seriously, but they certainly wouldn’t start lecturing her in the aisle on an airplane full of strangers.

  “I think the bathroom looks unoccupied,” Chelsea said in a quiet voice. Too quiet.

  Grandma Lucy didn’t even appear to have heard.

  “There’s something I sensed in my spirit the moment I saw you,” she went on. “God has called you to something amazing and profound. Tell me, do you have children?”

  Of course this fanatic woman would assume that the only way Chelsea could make God happy was to pop out a bunch of kids. “No,” she answered.

  Grandma Lucy didn’t look surprised. “Well then, tell me what you do for a living. Are you a teacher, maybe?”

  “No, a journalist.”

  The old woman’s eyes lit up. “Journalist? My grandson is a journalist. Have you read anything by Ian McCallister?”

  “The name sounds familiar,” Chelsea answered.

  “Well, let me tell you, the world needs more Christian journalists, that’s for sure. With all the terrible things going on today, every reporter with a slanted agenda …” Her voice trailed off, and Chelsea dared hope it meant she’d run out of things to say, but apparently that wasn’t the case.

  “I just want to tell you that I think it’s amazing, the work that you’re doing.”

  Chelsea stared at the stranger in surprise. What did this little old lady know about her work? She hadn’t even given Grandma Lucy her name.

  Before Chelsea could do or say anything in protest, Grandma Lucy grabbed Chelsea’s hand, seized it in hers, and started to pray.

  “Dear Lord, great and merciful Savior, you are so good to us, and you are so gracious to look past our shortcomings and use us for your kingdom as you see fit. I pray for my dear sister today, Lord. I believe that you’ve anointed this young woman. I believe you have unbelievable plans for her, plans to prosper her and not to harm her. I believe that you will walk with her through whatever trials she might have to face, and that you will use these storms in her life to draw her closer to you. Teach her to rely on you, Lord. Teach her that without you, she can do absolutely nothing. Teach her that you are the way and the truth and the life, and that it is such a wonderous and glorious honor to be able to worship you as our Lord and Savior.

  “May you guide her in every step she takes. Keep her as the apple of your eye. I believe you’ve poured out on her an incredible gift, a gift that she wants to use for you and for your glory.”

  Grandma Lucy’s eyes were open and staring overtly at her notebook. Chelsea was glad she’d thought to close it before this strange encounter.

  She was trying to form the words to explain that the old woman’s actions were making her uncomfortable when Grandma Lucy stood up, straightened her blouse, and let go of Chelsea’s hand. “Well then,” she said, as if they’d been chatting about something as innocuous as the weather, “it looks like the bathroom’s open now. We’ll talk more later.”

  And she walked down the aisle, leaving Chelsea’s brain reeling.

  CHAPTER 5

  An hour after her encounter with the outspoken stranger, Chelsea still hadn’t been able to shake off the old woman’s words. What did it all mean? Pieces and fragments of Grandma Lucy’s prayer floated chaotically through her brain.

  I believe that you will walk with her through whatever trials she might have to face, and that you will use these storms in her life to dr
aw her closer to you. In a way, Chelsea knew that these words were meant to somehow encourage and inspire her, but they sounded more ominous than anything else. Was this eccentric old lady seriously wishing bad things to happen in Chelsea’s life just so she could get right with the Lord again?

  What kind of sense did that make?

  Teach her that without you, she can do absolutely nothing. Chelsea thought about her list of accomplishments, what Clark called her ta-da list. Well, that was something, wasn’t it? In addition to feeling guilty for not appreciating her life more than she did, was Chelsea supposed to do penance because she hadn’t acknowledged God enough for all that she’d achieved?

  Teach her that you are the way and the truth and the life, and that it is such a wonderous and glorious honor to be able to worship you as our Lord and Savior. Never had a prayer sounded so preachy to Chelsea’s ears. Never had she felt so condemned, so unworthy.

  Clark would tell her she was giving this stranger too much authority. Nobody could make Chelsea feel sad or glad or guilty but herself. This stranger had no bearing on Chelsea’s life. Her words shouldn’t matter.

  And yet somehow they did.

  Such a wonderous and glorious honor to be able to worship you as our Lord and Savior … That last part of Grandma Lucy’s prayer stuck out the most. When had Chelsea ever thought of worshiping God as a privilege or honor? Church was something she attended to keep her mom placated. God and the Bible were things Chelsea talked about with her best friend because faith was important to Brie, just like journalism and politics were important to Chelsea.

  Such a wonderous and glorious honor … Was it possible that this was the thing that had been missing from Chelsea’s life? Was that why she’d felt so dissatisfied for so long?

  She tried to imagine what Clark would tell her if he were sitting next to her, if they could talk about this bizarre encounter with a stranger on the plane.

  “She didn’t even ask if I wanted her to pray for me,” Chelsea would whine.

  “And how did that make you feel?” he would prompt.

  How did it make her feel? She knew how it should make her feel.

  That part was easy.

  It should make her feel completely annoyed. Grandma Lucy didn’t even know if Chelsea was a Christian. What if she was a Muslim or a Jew and found Grandma Lucy’s prayer to Jesus totally offensive?

  What if Chelsea was just an introverted and somewhat shy young woman who didn’t appreciate having that much attention drawn to herself? Who wanted a stranger prying into her personal life like that?

  Chelsea should be annoyed. Put off. It’d be well within her rights to complain to the flight attendant, force them to tell Grandma Lucy not to bother her anymore. Maybe she’d even write a blog post about her experience. Something that could serve as a warning to other religious fanatics to be careful not to shove their beliefs down people’s throats on an airplane, where it was literally impossible to get up and leave to end an awkward conversation.

  But Chelsea didn’t feel annoyed. She didn’t feel put off.

  Something had happened to her during the old woman’s prayer, something that made her wish for a quiet place to sit and think. Think and maybe cry.

  There was no mistaking that Grandma Lucy had been out of place. You can’t just walk up to a stranger and ignore all semblance of personal space and privacy. That’s not how life works. Not how a civilized society works.

  And yet …

  Lord, I believe that you’ve anointed this young woman. Anointed. It was a word Chelsea had heard. A word she could define. But what was this strange old woman trying to say to her? Chelsea was anointed … What did that even mean?

  I believe you have unbelievable plans for her, plans to prosper her and not to harm her. One of Chelsea’s biggest frustrations with herself was that she had no spark of joy when she thought about the future. Sure, she planned on advancing in her career. She planned on covering bigger, more impressive stories. More bylines. Better job offers. Bigger benefit packages.

  But what for?

  Plans to prosper her and not to harm her … Chelsea tried to imagine the future that this old woman was envisioning. Was it possible that Chelsea’s destiny included more than growing a name for herself, working her fingers raw at her laptop, and giving herself eyestrain and migraine headaches from staring at her screen for ten hours a day?

  Of course there was something more to life. Isn’t that why Chelsea had hired Clark in the first place? It wasn’t like she wasn’t trying to better herself, improve her outlook. Carve out that glorious future Grandma Lucy seemed to believe was in store for her.

  And yet here she was, still filling out the same workbook pages, still asking herself the same questions. Had she and Clark made any real progress at all since they’d met?

  Teach her to rely on you, Lord … Guide her in every step she takes. The way Grandma Lucy talked about it, you would think that Chelsea could jump online and schedule an appointment with the Almighty himself just like she did when she needed to talk to her life coach. Wouldn’t that make things simpler? Not to mention the fact that she wouldn’t have to pay God for his time.

  But life didn’t work like that. God gave people the Bible. He gave people consciences. He gave people good teachers. And the rest was up to them to figure out, right?

  Or maybe there was something more to it. Chelsea didn’t know exactly what the Lord was trying to tell her right now, but she desperately wanted to find out.

  CHAPTER 6

  The plane hit a patch of turbulence, and Chelsea realized she’d been staring at Clark’s worksheet page but hadn’t written anything since her unexpected conversation with Grandma Lucy. Even now the old woman’s words from her prayer still rang in Chelsea’s ears. A siren song. Calling her somewhere.

  But where?

  It was impossible to give a name to the ennui, the unrest. All Chelsea knew was that she wanted to figure out what her soul was trying to tell her. She needed something more out of life. She’d known that for years. That was why she hired a life coach in the first place.

  But there was something else. Something still missing after all these months of intense journaling and dozens of hours of reflection. Her mom would say that what Chelsea was missing was an intimate connection with the Lord. Even Brie, who wasn’t nearly as tactless as her mother could be, felt the same way.

  But Chelsea was scared. She’d met too many obnoxious Christians. Heard too many horrible stories from her colleagues about the bigotry and chauvinism and hatred that infected the church.

  Chelsea didn’t want to be like that. Didn’t want to breathe Bible verses down people’s necks like her mom. Didn’t want to devote her life to church ministry like Brie. More than anything, Chelsea didn’t want to turn into the kind of Christian who’d make a scene of herself on a crowded airplane to kneel down in the aisle and pray for a complete stranger.

  She wanted to be herself. Chelsea. The journalist. The writer. The career woman.

  She just wanted to be a happier version of herself.

  Was that so much to ask?

  For a couple years now, Chelsea had wondered if what she was really dealing with was some sort of clinical depression. It had gotten to the point last winter that if she hadn’t been worried about insurance coverage, she probably would have made an appointment to talk to her family doctor. She hadn’t brought it up to her parents. Thankfully, she was still managing just fine, but maybe all the mental unrest she was experiencing was nothing more than a chemical unbalance. How could she really know unless she talked about it with an expert, right?

  Chelsea squeezed her eyes shut. She was tired of being so mopey, so down all the time. She had a great life. Hadn’t that ta-da list she wrote for Clark proved that? Chelsea deserved to be happy. Deserved a brain that could truly experience a deep sense of appreciation for all that she’d accomplished.

  Maybe once she got back from Detroit she’d call the
doctor …

  “Help!” The desperate scream from several rows behind her made Chelsea jump in her seat. She bumped her thigh on the tray, hurtling her notebook to the ground, as a young woman struggled in the aisle with a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt.

  “Help me!” the girl screamed again.

  A flight attendant raced ahead. Chelsea didn’t know if she was supposed to stare or join the screaming or simply mind her own business.

  She overheard someone shout the word kidnapped, and her heart froze for an instant. What was going on?

  “Let her go.” There were several passengers in the aisle now, and everyone was trying to pry a teenaged girl away from the man in the Hawaiian shirt. Chelsea didn’t feel right staring, but what choice did she have? One of her colleagues had recently written an article about human trafficking in the US and how airlines were now training all their personnel to spot potential victims. Is that what was going on?

  A muscular man planted himself squarely in the aisle. “Air marshal,” he announced authoritatively, pulling out his sidearm. “Freeze.”

  For a moment, Chelsea allowed herself to experience relief. If there was an air marshal on board, everything would be under control. This girl would be saved. Her assailant would get the full punishment allowed under federal law. Life would go on as normal. Chelsea was already thinking about a pitch for a new story about air marshals, airline safety, and human trafficking.

  The captain’s voice sounded over the PA, but before he could get out a complete sentence, his announcement was cut short by the screams of another terrified passenger. Chelsea instinctively jerked her body around to see what was happening behind her. Two men were now attacking the air marshal. One of them grabbed the officer’s gun. This time it was Chelsea who screamed as the man brought the butt of the gun down on the air marshal’s skull. He crumpled to the ground and lay in a grotesque heap in the aisle.