Like Dandelion Dust by Karen Kingsbury
Still, Beth was worried. She hadn’t seen one letter from a politician’s office, or any reason why she should believe an attorney was really involved. Molly hadn’t gone to any meetings, at least none that she’d mentioned. And even Jack never talked about the person he’d found, the guy’s name or his law firm or how come he was able to help them when no one else could.
Now, with the plane leaving in twelve hours, Beth was still terrified that her sister was planning to disappear. She couldn’t prove it, but she felt it deep in her bones. The way she had always known what Molly was going to do or how she was feeling or whether she was in trouble.
Because of that, earlier in the day she had called information and found the phone number for Wendy Porter in Cleveland, Ohio. Back when the social worker first contacted Molly and Jack, the details of the case were always a part of Molly’s conversation. Though she hadn’t mentioned the Ohio couple’s name in recent weeks, Beth remembered.
Now, with Bill busy packing, she went upstairs and took a small piece of paper from the pocket of her jeans. The kids were asleep, packed and ready for the morning. She was pretty sure Bill wouldn’t want her interfering this way. The conversation with the Realtor was enough to convince him that Molly and Jack weren’t planning to run. But what if they were? What choice did she have? If she didn’t make the call now, she wouldn’t have another chance.
Her heart skipped a beat as she picked up the receiver and punched in the numbers. After a long pause, she heard a ring, and then another. Then the sound of someone answering and a woman’s voice saying, “Hello?”
Beth held her breath, willing her heart to settle down so she could focus on what she needed to say. “Yes . . . hello.” She shut her eyes. How could she be doing this, and what would it accomplish? She had no answers for herself, but she was out of options. She rushed on. “My name is Beth Petty. I’m the sister of Molly Campbell.”
There was a hesitation on the other end. “You mean, Joey’s adoptive mother?” The woman sounded baffled. Her words were breathy and laced with shock. “Why are you calling?”
Here goes. . . . Beth exhaled and plunged ahead. After this there would be no turning back. “Well, Mrs. Porter, here’s the situation. . . .”
Wendy Porter was by herself when the call came in.
She pressed the receiver to her ear and tried to understand why the sister of Joey’s adoptive mother would call. The woman was going on, talking about how much the Campbells loved Joey, and what sort of life he lived there in Florida.
“I don’t understand.” Wendy sat at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. “I already know the Campbells have been wonderful for my son. But my husband and I are doing very well now, Mrs. Petty. We think it’s right for us to have this chance at being Joey’s parents—especially since my husband never knew about Joey until a few months ago.”
“Right, well, that’s why I’m calling.” The woman on the other end sounded nervous. “See, something’s come up and I think you should know about it.”
At that moment, the door flung open and Rip walked in. He had a bag in his arms with a few liquor bottles peeking out the top. Wendy motioned at him to be quiet. She pointed at the phone and covered the speaker. “It’s about Joey,” she whispered.
He rolled his eyes, set the bag down on the kitchen counter, and pulled out a single bottle. A minute later he was pouring his second glass. He dropped a handful of ice into it and came to stand beside her. “Who is it?”
Wendy was trying to hear. Something about a trip to Haiti and this woman’s thoughts that maybe the Campbells wouldn’t ever come back to the United States.
“I said, who is it?” Rip’s voice boomed at her. Wherever he’d been, he was already drunk. He could barely keep his eyes open.
She waved him off once more. With the phone pressed tight to one ear, she covered the other and tried to hear. “So they’re leaving the country? How come I don’t know about that?”
Rip made a face. He staggered a little and set his drink down on the table. “Who’s leavin’ the country?”
“Look.” Wendy was sure the woman could hear Rip. The last thing she needed was Molly Campbell’s sister knowing that things were out of control at the Porter house. “Can I call you back? I need to take care of something here first.”
“Don’t wait, please. I’m very concerned about this.”
“Okay.” Wendy got the woman’s number. “Five minutes.”
The second she hung up, Rip was on her. He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her to her feet. “What was that about?”
“Rip . . . please, give me some space.” She tried to push him back, but he only dug his fingers into her arm and held on tighter.
She ignored the pain and lowered her voice, anything to help him be calm. “Look, everything’s going to work out.” Lying was the answer in this case. “No one’s leaving the country. Let me take care of the phone call.”
He gave her a shove and another glare. “You make me do it, you know that?”
This was the worst part of his drinking. He got sloppy and angry, and he started blaming her. “Don’t, Rip.”
He brushed her off, waving his hand in the air, almost losing his balance in the process. As he turned back to the kitchen, he grabbed his drink and downed it in seconds. A loud belch came from him as he finished. He chuckled and headed into the kitchen.
She watched him, the way she had to watch him when he was in this mood. In case he came at her swinging.
Rip held the liquor bottle up to the light and grinned. “Only the good stuff for me, baby.” He poured a third glass and slammed the bottle down. That fast the rage was back and he glared at her. “It’s all your fault.” He was too unsteady to do much more than lean against the kitchen counter. “You deserve everything you get from me.”
Wendy waited for the tirade to die down. There was nothing she could say to him, not now while he was drunk. Tomorrow they would have a talk and she’d encourage him to get back to counseling, back to the alcohol meetings. They were going to lose Joey if Rip didn’t do something about his drinking—either that, or he was going to do something to wind up back in prison.
After a minute or so, Rip took his drink and staggered into the living room. He plopped into his recliner, flipped on the television and immediately got lost in some sports show.
This was her chance. Wendy picked up the phone and dialed the woman’s number. Whatever she’d been trying to say, something about Haiti and leaving the country, the details sounded serious. Serious enough that the woman would call. Not just to say how much the Campbells loved Joey.
But maybe to warn Wendy of something the Campbells were about to do.
Allyson Bower had enjoyed every minute of her vacation. She and the kids loved taking a week each summer and heading south to Walton Beach in the Florida panhandle for sun and surf and relaxation. There was nowhere Allyson would rather be than sitting on a beach, staring at the water.
Never was the timing of the trip more perfect. The Campbell case had eaten at her all summer, but not for the past week. For most of the past seven days she’d been able to forget about work—at least long enough to enjoy her kids. Now, though, she was back, and her heart was heavy. It was Friday, the first day of Labor Day weekend. In just seven days the Campbells would lose their son forever.
The courts were wrong this time. No matter what the law said, Joey belonged with Molly and Jack Campbell. Allyson had no doubts. She couldn’t prove that Rip was back to his violent ways—the little bruises where he’d grabbed Joey were explainable, and not enough to stop the transfer of custody.
But Wendy Porter could cover for her husband for only so long. The man was trouble, and Allyson worried about Joey, about his future once social workers and the system stopped looking in on him.
She surveyed her office. It was perfectly put together, as always. Every paper had its place, every file organized alphabetically. She had a dozen phone calls to make, but first she needed to
Halfway through the messages, a woman’s voice rang out from the machine, one Allyson didn’t recognize.
“Mrs. Bower, you don’t know me. This is Beth Petty, Molly Campbell’s sister.”
What? Why would Molly Campbell’s sister call? Allyson leaned in and turned up the volume.
“This is a very hard phone call to make, but I think you should know I’m concerned that my sister and her husband might be thinking of running, disappearing with Joey. As you know, we’re leaving the country a week from today for a work trip to Haiti. I have a suspicion that the Campbells will take false passports with them on that trip. They also have access to an awful lot of money.”
Allyson felt the floor beneath her give way. The Campbells’ story had checked out; she had convinced the judge. Sure she’d had mild doubts, but never for a minute had she felt convinced that the couple would run. She looked at the calendar on her wall.
By now they would be halfway to Haiti.
The message continued to play. There was a coughing sound, as if maybe Molly’s sister was choked up or crying. “Please, Mrs. Bower, if this concerns you, call me as soon as you get this message.” The woman left her number, and the message came to an end.
Allyson pushed the stop button on the answering machine, gripped the armrests of her chair, and hung her head. Had she missed something? And how come this Beth Petty hadn’t called someone else at the department if she was so worried her sister would leave the country and never come back? If the woman was right—if the Campbells had a plan to run—it would be all Allyson’s fault.
The judge would demand to know why she had recommended in favor of the trip, and the Porters would have grounds to sue the department. Especially since they weren’t notified. If Molly Campbell’s sister was right, Allyson’s career, her livelihood, and her future, were about to be destroyed.
Never mind that. She didn’t blame the Campbells. It was her job to see that the law was followed, to make sure that whatever the system deemed best for a child was carried through. She pressed her knuckles to her brow. Who should she call first? The judge, probably. Yes, definitely. He could get things moving the fastest, contact authorities in Haiti and see that the Campbells were apprehended and brought back. Before they had time to commit a crime.
She went to pick up the phone, but just then it rang. She jumped, startled, then grabbed the receiver. Whoever it was, she needed to hurry. She didn’t have time for other business until she contacted the judge. A quick tap on the right blinking light and she pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Allyson Bower?” The woman on the other end was crying.
“Yes, this is she.” Allyson looked at the clock on the wall. Every minute counted. She took a quick breath. “How can I help you?”
“This is Wendy Porter.” The woman was definitely crying.
Allyson felt the blood rush from her face. “What’s wrong, Wendy?”
For a long while, there was only the sound of the woman’s sobs. Then, with a shaky voice she said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The main road out of the airport and through Port-au-Prince was littered with potholes and broken-down cars. Molly and Jack sat in the third row of a rusty old van, Joey tucked safely between them. Molly’s mind kept shouting the obvious at her. They were really here. They’d gotten out of the States, and in just a few days they’d be in Europe, pretending they were tourists—and a few weeks after that, they’d be in the Cayman Islands. It was working. The plan was working.
Her heart filled with equal amounts of joy and sorrow at the prospect.
Jesper, their driver, pointed to a building on their right. It was made of white, crumbling bricks, and it looked seriously damaged. “This is hospital.” He smiled. “Hospital stay open even after hurricane.”
Seated in front were Beth, Bill, and Jonah. The backseat was filled with the other Petty kids, most of whom were sleeping. In the van behind them were three college kids who would round out their group, and a leader from the college group at church. He would supervise their work at the orphanage.
Molly did everything she could to listen to Jesper. It took her mind off the details that still had to come together before they could leave Haiti.
Jesper was a gracious man with dark skin and bright eyes. He had a deep faith, that much was clear from the moment he met them.
“God give you a good trip, yes?” His smile lit up his face.
“Yes.” Bill answered for them. “God gave us a great trip. Thank you.”
Jesper went on about God’s favor and God’s mercy and God’s providence, all while he was gathering their bags and leading the way back out to the van. He hadn’t stopped talking since he picked them up.
At the moment he was talking about the faith of the Haitian people. “God is everything to people in my country. The people not committed to darkness.” He gestured to the masses teeming on either side of the highway. “You see? You see how people live? God is everything.”
Molly could hardly believe how the people lived.
Because of the broken-down cars and the occasional cyclist pulling a cart or the random person herding animals along in one of the lanes, travel was slow. It gave all of them a chance to take in the surroundings. Joey was sleeping between the two of them, but Jack was mesmerized by the sights, same as her.
They passed rows of dwellings that were little more than shanties, small shacks with dirt floors, some of them without even a roof. Very obviously most of them did not have electricity or running water. The people moving on the broken sidewalks carried large containers on their heads, and wove their way around what looked like one continuous flea market.
Jesper came to a grinding halt and slammed his hand on the horn. All the vehicles around him did the same thing. Up ahead, a pick-up truck had stopped in the middle of the road so six or seven guys could jump out the back and dodge through traffic to the side of the road.
The guys waved, friendly-like, but before traffic could pick up again, there was a thud and the van jolted.
“What was—” Bill and Beth spun around.
Molly and Jack did the same thing, and there, clinging to the back of the van, were two young men.
Jesper laughed. “Americans think strange that people take rides from each other.” He rolled down his window and gave a thumbs-up sign to the men now hanging from the back of the van. “Bondye reme ou!”
Molly knew that one. God loves you. She smiled despite the absurdity of it all. Jesper picked up speed, and somehow the men clinging to the back held on. The next time traffic ground to a stop, they hopped off, waved, and went their way.
The stop gave Molly the chance to notice a village woman sitting in front of a dirty stone table. She looked haggard and weary, dressed in a rag skirt and blouse, her hair tied back. Before traffic eased enough for Jesper to move the van, the woman grabbed a chicken from a cage of squawking birds on the ground next to her.
She pressed the chicken’s neck against the big dirty rock and grabbed a butcher knife. In seconds, the deed was done, and deftly the woman skinned and gutted the bird, tossing the meat into a bin behind her. A swarm of flies lifted as the meat fell into the container.
Molly felt a wave of nausea and looked at Jack. His face was pale and he nodded. He’d seen the same thing. Bill turned around and whispered, “Good thing we brought canned tuna.”
“Definitely.” Molly managed a smile. She tapped Beth on the shoulder. “Did you see that?” Her voice was barely audible, since Jesper was still talking up front.
“What?” Beth looked distracted. She’d been that way ever since they boarded the plane in West Palm Beach.
“The chicken, did you see the woman with the chicken?”
“No.” Beth held her gaze for a moment. “I guess I have a lot on my mind.”
Molly wanted to ask what, but she was
An ache filled Molly’s heart as Beth turned and faced the front of the van again. My sweet sister . . . if only I could tell you, if only I could say good-bye the way I want to say it. Please . . . don’t be mad at me forever. She sighed and Jack looked at her. He put his arm along the back of the seat and stroked her shoulder. His look said not to worry. Everything would be okay.
She gave him a worried smile. It would have to be okay. They had no choice now.
Jesper was going on about the worship times. “Hours of singing, because the people know that God is everything. All we have, all we need.”
Molly had a feeling that someday very soon, if she and Jack and Joey were going to survive their new life, they just might be saying the same thing.
Beth wanted to focus on the trip, on the experience at hand, especially as they approached the orphanage. But every few minutes she found herself looking at her sister, trying to read her actions, her eyes, her tone. Was she wrong? Was everything really the way Molly had explained it? Could it be that she was only the victim of an overly active imagination—the way Bill suspected?
Jesper directed their attention to the buildings on their left. “The first is the orphanage, and next to it, the mission house.”
Both sat behind thick brick walls, easily eight feet high. Along the top row of stone were loops of sharp razor wire. The windows in the van were open now, and they could hear the clamoring of children on the other side of the wall.
“Orphanage and mission house need security,” Jesper said.
Beth assumed that most of Port-au-Prince must need security, since all the buildings on that street had similar walls and razor wire.
A guard with a rifle rolled open a heavy iron gate for them. He grinned at Jesper and tipped his worn baseball cap. The van pulled in and parked in the narrow driveway. “This is the mission house. We will walk to orphanage.”