CHAPTER 5
2515 Words
CHAPTER 5
KENNEDY WAS USED TO being surrounded by people. The past decade in Yanji gave her quite a different definition of crowded than most other Americans. Still, her pulse sped up when she entered St. Margaret’s Church for Sunday services. For the past ten years, church had taken place in her parents’ den and consisted of her, her mom and dad, and the few North Korean refugees that lived with them.
A woman in a denim skirt welcomed her at the door, and Kennedy didn’t know if she was supposed to shake the outstretched hand or just accept the bulletin it offered. “Are you a visitor here?” the greeter asked, and Kennedy wondered in a church this size how someone could possibly keep track of who was new and who wasn’t. Was there some kind of glossy look in Kennedy’s eyes that gave it away? She explained that the Lindgrens were old family friends and entered the main sanctuary.
In Yanji, Kennedy’s Korean housemates would often arrive in the den thirty or forty minutes before services officially started. They kept the lights off and kneeled in darkness, offering a chorus of praise all at the same time. Tears, sobs, prayers, and petitions from each individual rose up to heaven simultaneously. At the time, Kennedy had found the noise chaotic and a tad frightening, but it was nothing like the din at St. Margaret’s. The noise created an almost physical barrier that Kennedy struggled to pass through on her way to the pews. Children ran around haphazardly, shouting, waving, bumping into the legs of unsuspecting congregants. A whole gaggle of teen girls giggled loudly in a huddle. A mother of three snapped at her oldest to hold onto his little sister’s hand. Behind her, two men bantered good-naturedly about the upcoming football game.
There was a band on the stage, with three guitars, a gleaming drum set, a keyboard, and a saxophone. Kennedy suspected there must be some sort of method in the musicians’ warm-up, but it sounded like each one was vying to create the loudest, most obnoxious sound. Back in Yanji, Kennedy and the others had sung plenty of hymns, but there wasn’t even a piano for accompaniment. She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to will away the noise, trying to recall the sounds of worship in her parents’ den. During the ten years she spent in China, Kennedy always felt like the outsider. Now, in the second-to-back pew in the crowded auditorium, she realized she’d give about anything for a day or two back home.
The band played its first harmonious bar, and the talking and bedlam reluctantly died down as people took their seats. The ensuing music, however, was even louder than the hundreds of tiny conversations that had stopped. Kennedy clenched shut her eyes, wishing for some sort of cocoon to shield her from the volume. Was this how Americans worshipped every single Sunday?
She didn’t recognize the song, and it wasn’t until the tall gentleman in front of her shifted slightly to make room for his wife that Kennedy realized the words were being projected onto the wall above the stage. She glanced around, more self-conscious and out-of-place than she ever had felt on foreign soil, even though she had no logical reason to worry about her image. Nobody was paying any attention to her. The man a few seats over was busy scrolling on his phone. The woman in front of him was texting. Behind Kennedy, a preschooler kicked the back of her seat in a near approximation to the music’s beat. A woman in the aisle over was having a full conversation with the mother behind her, and here and there some of the attendees raised their hands in worship.
Kennedy had never considered her house-church experience as novel or foreign or even very interesting, at least not until now. Back in Yanji, she could have isolated the voice of each individual singer. Hannah had a high, ringing soprano. Her friend Simon couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but what he lacked in musical talent he made up for in sheer loudness. Levi probably could have gone on to become a South Korean pop sensation or something if he hadn’t returned to North Korea as an undercover missionary. Where were they all now? And how meaningful would it be if Kennedy had a chance to worship together with them again?
The song itself was poignant, something that probably could have grabbed her attention if she heard it on the radio. The lyrics spoke of longing, yearning. My heart is homesick for your glory, Lord. At that line, her throat constricted and she stopped mouthing the words. Homesick. She didn’t know when she’d go back to Yanji. Maybe over Christmas break, maybe not until next summer. Even then, would it ever be the same?
Kennedy wrapped her arms across her chest. She wanted to hide. She wanted to run away, forget about pining for another place, forget about the homesickness that threatened to hack her heart to pieces. If she left now, would anyone around her notice? Would they care? Or were they too busy texting or worshipping to pay any attention?
The song ended, followed by another almost exactly like it. Had there really been a time when Kennedy thought the hymns they sang back in Yanji were boring and dry? Toward the front of the sanctuary, a young man with blond dreadlocks lifted both hands high over his head. His eyes were closed in rapture. Jealousy slithered its way up and around Kennedy’s shoulders. Could she ever worship God that openly, that freely? She had watched the North Koreans in her parents’ home sing praises with tears flowing down their cheeks, but she had never experienced anything remotely similar. Her father said that everyone relates to God in his or her own unique way, but Kennedy sometimes wondered if she really related to God at all. Or had God become such an everyday part of her life that there was no room left for awe?
After a few more songs, Pastor Carl climbed the steps to the stage. Just the sight of his face was a comfort in this rippling sea of strangers. His voice was soothing, something familiar. He gave some brief updates about small groups and then announced the opening of the new pregnancy center. When the cheers died down, he invited everyone to Thursday night’s kick-off dinner. “Right here at St. Margaret’s. Our special guest speaker will be State Senator Wayne Abernathy, who I’ve asked to come up and say the morning’s blessing.”
A tall, hair-sprayed man with the smile of a TV newscaster stood up to an even peppier round of applause and made his way to the platform. He shook Pastor Carl’s hand, beaming the whole time, and waved to the audience with his free arm.
“Wayne is Massachusetts’ most dedicated pro-life advocate,” Carl declared. “He’s been toiling tirelessly for the cause of the unborn child for the past eight years in the State House, and as most of you know, he’s now running for governor.” More applause. “Brother,” Carl continued, “we’d like to thank you for being one of the pro-life movement’s most devoted front-lines warriors, and we wish you God’s blessings in the election next week and in all your future endeavors. Would you be so kind as to pray and bless this morning’s service?”
Kennedy shut her eyes automatically when the prayer started but flung them open again at the sound of a muffled Brahms’ Lullaby. She snatched her book bag, scurried to her feet, and tried to weave past the legs of those sitting next to her. The ringtone was starting its second refrain when she scampered out the massive double doors of the sanctuary.
“Hello?” She was so breathless that she didn’t bother trying to get the name of the pregnancy center right this time.
“It’s me.”
Kennedy kept her breath trapped inside for fear she might blow away the quiet voice. “Rose? Are you ok?” Some teens and a few adults were loitering in the foyer, and Kennedy glanced around for someplace private.
“My uncle heard us talking.”
Kennedy froze. “So he knows?” The sensation reminded her of a free-fall ride at a carnival.
“Yeah.”
In one ear, Kennedy could still hear the politician’s prayer from the main stage. She hurried down the hall, hoping to find a library or small study where they could talk in peace. “How did he react?”
“Says I need to get rid of it.”
“The baby, you mean?” Kennedy tried a doorknob and found a tiny storage room. It definitely wasn’t the coziest spot in the church, but at least she was alone.
Rose didn’t respond.
“What do you want?” Kennedy prompted. “Do you want to get rid of the baby, too?”
“No.” Her voice was even smaller.
“Well, nobody can make you.” Kennedy hoped that was true. She didn’t really know what would happen if the mother was a minor. Could her parents force an abortion on her? Kennedy needed to talk to Carl, but that couldn’t happen until after his sermon.
“He already made the appointment,” the girl whispered.
“Do you know when that will be? Or what clinic he’s taking you to?” What was Kennedy planning? To show up and whisk Rose away before the abortion started?
“He just told me he’d take care of it.”
Kennedy thought about Amy Carmichael, the missionary who literally stole girls away from temple slavery. As a child listening to the tales, Kennedy hadn’t thought twice about going to such extreme lengths to save somebody. After all, her own parents sheltered North Korean refugees right under the nose of the Chinese government. But this was different. This was the United States, the alleged home of the free.
“Is there somewhere we could meet?” Kennedy asked. “I have some friends, the ones who run the pregnancy center. I know they’d find a way to help you.”
Something beeped in Kennedy’s ear. She looked at the phone. You’ve got to be kidding. The battery light was blinking. Carl hadn’t even given her a charger. Then she noticed the number actually showed up this time on the screen. She could call Rose back. They might be able to locate her.
It was all Kennedy could do to keep her voice down as she rummaged through her book bag for her personal cell. “Listen, this phone is about to die. But I want to keep on talking to you.” Where was it? Had she left it in her dorm room? She hurried out of the closet. There had to be a landline phone somewhere. “If we get disconnected, I want you to just wait. Wait there by the phone, and I’ll call you right back. Ok?”
“You can’t do that.” It was probably the most forceful thing Rose had said, but even so her voice never grew above a hush.
“It’s all right.” Relief warmed Kennedy’s face when she saw an open office door, and she hurried in. “I’m here to help you, remember. So if we get connected, I’m going to ...”
“Don’t,” the girl whispered, and then the line went dead.
Not yet. Kennedy wanted to throw the phone against the wall. Why couldn’t the batteries have lasted a few more seconds? Now she wouldn’t be able to bring the number up ...
Wait a minute. The battery light blinked faintly. There was still a little bit of power left. Rose must have hung up. But why? It didn’t matter. Kennedy wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. She checked the caller ID, settled down in the office chair, and punched the number into the desk phone with a resolute hand.
Busy.
She hung up and redialed.
Still busy.
Had Rose taken the phone off the hook, then? Was she scared of Kennedy calling?
“Can I help you?”
Kennedy jumped at the sound, and her faced reddened. It was the man with dreadlocks. He was wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of Jesus surfing in bare feet without any board. Kennedy guessed he had found himself on the wrong coast. New Englanders didn’t dress that way. Especially not for church.
“Is everything all right?” Two stray dreads swung in his face when he c****d his head to the side.
“I’m sorry,” Kennedy stammered. “Is this ... I needed to make an emergency phone call, and the door was open, so I ... Is this your desk?” She looked down and saw a picture of Mr. Dreads with his arm around a bronze, blond-haired Barbie girl. Even though her two-piece swimsuit only showed an inch or so of her belly, Kennedy immediately noted the hint of her six-pack. “I’m sorry,” Kennedy repeated.
The man held up his hand. “It’s no problem.” He glanced at the phone. “Did you get hold of whoever you were looking for?”
“No. I ... I actually really need to talk to Carl. But I guess he’s busy right now, isn’t he?”
He laughed. “Well, the good news is it’s a football Sunday. Which means he won’t preach a minute past twelve twenty-five.”
Kennedy couldn’t immediately grasp how that could be considered good news. “Do you mind if I try your phone just one more time?”
He shrugged. “Have at it.”
Busy again.
“Dang it.”
She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes until the sermon ended. She imagined Rose’s uncle dragging her to his car and forcing her into an abortion clinic before Carl made it to his closing prayer.
“Is it something I can help with? I’m Nick, by the way. I’m the youth and children’s pastor here.” He gave a little wave but didn’t offer his hand. “I actually just came down the hall because I left my Bible, but hey, if you’re in trouble or something ...”
“I really need to talk to Carl.”
Nick glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and Kennedy wondered if he was trying to gauge her sanity.
“I’m one of the volunteers at the new pregnancy center,” she decided to explain. “I’ve been getting these calls on the hotline phone ...”
A moment later, Nick was perched up on the corner of his desk, nodding empathetically. Kennedy was too emotionally drained to relive each individual detail, but she spewed out the basic premise of her two calls from Rose.
“So I tried to call her back,” she concluded, “but I kept getting a busy signal.”
“Well, at least you have a number now, right? I mean, now you can find out where she’s calling from, get the police involved if you’re really concerned.”
Kennedy wasn’t sure the police would be any more willing to help this time than they had been the other evening, but it was a step in the right direction. At least now, she could keep trying to re-establish communication. And if she needed to, she could probably use the phone number to get a last name or a location or something.
“Here.” Nick leaned down and swiveled the screen of his computer around. He reached over for the keyboard and placed it on his lap.
“Are you sure I’m not taking up all your time? I mean, you’re probably really busy on Sundays.”
“Nah.” Nick waved his hand in the air. “Don’t tell anyone, but Pastor Carl’s sermons usually put me to sleep.”
Kennedy wasn’t sure she believed him, but she didn’t argue. She was grateful to find someone who was taking the hotline call seriously.
“Here we go.” Nick had typed in a web address for a reverse phone number site. “Tell me the number, and we’ll see what we get.”
She read him the digits. He stopped typing halfway through.
“Read that again.” His eyes narrowed, and he gave Kennedy a suspicious sideways look.
She repeated it.
He reached out his hand. “Let me see that.”
She handed him the phone and watched his tanned face pale a little. Foreboding sank down in her stomach like a rock and settled there. “What’s wrong?”
Nick didn’t take his eyes off the cell. “This is the number for St. Margaret’s. Whoever she is, she was calling from inside the church.”
- Writer
