Found in Translation Page 2

  She glanced to her right and to her left as if expecting a drum roll from somewhere. I rolled my eyes impatiently, but I doubt that she saw me.

  “The 10:19 red-eye has one seat left. It’s at the very back, but at least it’s inside the plane.” She paused as if expecting me to laugh. “Shall I book you on that one?”

  “But the mission team buses will leave for Mexico without me. They’ll reach Ciudad de Plata before I leave Dallas/Fort Worth.”

  “Oh, you’re going to Mexico? Your baggage is only checked through to San Diego, you know. Before you change planes there, you’ll have to pick up your luggage at the baggage claim area and recheck it. I hope you have plenty of time before the flight to your final destination. Of course, since flights leaving San Diego after 11:30 p.m. have to pay a hefty fine, practically no airlines fly out that late. So you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning after 6:30 for a flight to Mexico, anyhow.”

  I seldom cried—I could manipulate boys without having to—but the reality of my dilemma finally hit and hit hard. I was terrified, not just angry and frustrated. I couldn’t waste time and energy calming down, and Millie’s inattentiveness was making things worse—if that was possible.

  She didn’t honestly believe she was helping me, did she? Like my dad sometimes, Millie Q. hadn’t listened closely enough to grasp the real problem, and she couldn’t have misunderstood the facts more perfectly if I’d been speaking a foreign language.

  But worst of all, she was a grown woman. She should have been more like Mom than like Dad.

  “That’s all well and good, Millie, but—as I just explained to you—we’re going to Mexico by bus, not plane, and the group I’m going with is not going to wait for me.”

  I heard my voice rising again, and my favorite expletives began pawing the earth to see which one would break out of the starting gate first. I was cheering for the one that would tell the toad where to take an extended hot vacation.

  No, Kim. Don’t even joke about something like that. Hell is for eternity, and your goal is to stop people from going there, not encourage them to.

  Millie Q. hadn’t maxed out on thoughtlessness and insensitivity yet, though.

  “So, Kim,” she said, just as oblivious to my dilemma as before, “do you want to take the 10:19 flight or not? There’s a hundred-dollar fee for changing your unchangeable reservation. We wouldn’t charge you if Skyfly had been responsible for your missed flight, but …”

  She shook her head and shrugged. She didn’t need to say, “But we’re not responsible.”

  “Do you have a hundred dollars, Kim?”

  As if I could have gotten a refund on the manicure I had an hour ago while killing the time I didn’t know I didn’t have. Or on all the airport food I’d eaten in the past two hours.

  “But I’m not changing reservations. I’m just”—think hard, Kim!—“I’m just using my reservation later than I’d intended to.”

  I didn’t realize how featherbrained I must have sounded until I’d said it and heard Millie Q. start guffawing. Passersby were looking at us now—in amused amazement at Millie and in sympathy at me.

  She’d be the hit of the break room today with my story. At least I had the satisfaction of knowing nobody would believe one bit of it.

  I let an obscenity slip. In fact, I pushed it out. But it was the least offensive one I could think of.

  I didn’t seem to have any choice about the 10:19 flight, although it meant using the Visa card Mom and Dad had given me for emergencies only—the same one I’d used for the manicure, which I hoped Mom and Dad would view as an emergency. I’d forgotten to have my nails done the day before.

  I’d fly to San Diego tonight as if everything was okay and return home tomorrow. I’d explain to my parents that there’d been a problem with my flight—I’d try to avoid admitting that I was the problem—and, by the time I reached San Diego, the team had already left.

  That plan sounded better than returning home today and saying, “Guess what, Mom and Dad? I discovered the funniest thing after killing hours at DFW. Did you know cheapie-watch factories don’t set their products to the time zone they’ll be sold in?”

  Like I could’ve expected Mom and Dad to make the three-to four-hour roundtrip to Atlanta twice today, anyhow.

  Then something caught my eye.

  Huh? You’re kidding me. You can’t possibly be a …

  chapter two

  Sure enough, Millie Q. was wearing a WWJD bracelet. I used to think the initials meant Walking with Jesus Daily, but my best friend, Betsy Jo Snelling, laughed and told me they stood for What Would Jesus Do? I liked my interpretation better.

  I hadn’t seen one of those things in ages and never on anyone as old as her. I was glad she had it on, though. I would never have suspected she was a Christian, otherwise.

  Whew! I don’t have to witness to you after all.

  Okay then, what would Jesus do in a situation like mine? Since His only recorded flying experiences—that’s how I pictured His ascension and maybe His trips through locked doors after the resurrection—were supernatural, He hadn’t left any specific instructions in the Bible that I could recall.

  WWJD. What would Jesus do? I kept repeating that question to myself as if inserting bullets in a gun until the chamber was full. But when I pulled the figurative trigger, I drew a complete blank.

  Okay, if not Jesus, what would my parents do?

  I snapped my fingers in a lightbulb moment. I knew what they’d do. I’d seen them do it dozens of times when they encountered bad service, and it almost always helped.

  “Millie … ” I suppose I should have thanked her for her uselessness so far, but I wasn’t that mature a Christian. “Millie, I need to speak to your supervisor ….” I hesitated a moment before adding, “Please.”

  I thought I owed her that much, anyhow.

  Without responding, she picked up a nearby telephone, punched in several numbers as if driving tiny finish nails into a fragile picture frame with a humongous sledgehammer, and mumbled a few indistinguishable words to whoever answered. They talked for several minutes.

  I fiddled with my purse, searching for the cell phone I’d packed in my suitcase because Mom and Dad told me I couldn’t use it on the plane. True, but duh, I didn’t think about being able to use it the whole time I was at the airport. Although I was experiencing severe Twitter withdrawal, at least my fruitless search kept me from eavesdropping on Millie.

  Millie, don’t people go over your head frequently? Or am I the first person you’ve ever failed to help? I sighed. I hope your supervisor is more helpful than you. Otherwise, I’m sunk.

  An African American woman in her early thirties emerged from an AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY door I hadn’t noticed before. She may have been Millie’s supervisor, but she looked so chic and gorgeous in her shoulder-length cornrows and stunningly tailored Skyfly pantsuit uniform that I could have mistaken her for the superstar of some new airplane movie.

  “Millie, you haven’t had your break yet, have you?” My word! You know how to express authority through a gentle, considerate suggestion. “Feel free to take an extra ten minutes. I’ll handle things here.” Millie, that means go and go now.

  I could barely hear her when she added, “You might want to freshen your makeup while you’re at it.” Not everyone would have made such an effort to avoid embarrassing an underling.

  From the look on Millie Q.’s face, though, she would have preferred sticking around and defending herself, probably by telling all the truth she knew about me. Fortunately for me, she didn’t get a chance to do that.

  Her body language spoke now of frustration. Even the back of her head looked defeated as she disappeared through the door her supervisor had used. Maybe people went over her head all the time.

  I almost felt sorry for her. She wasn’t necessarily an evil person—just one who’d made a career of the most inappropriate job imaginable for somebody with her temperament. Or her intemperament, anyhow.
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  “I’m Penny Adams,” Millie’s supervisor said, extending her hand. Her smile was so pleasant her face glowed, giving her a positive, optimistic, I-can-help-you countenance. I already felt better.

  Her words matched her countenance. “How can I help you today? I’ll do everything within my power to help.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Adams.” I couldn’t stop staring at the diamond ring set on her left hand. “I’m Kim Hartlinger, and I need all the help I can get.”

  I decided against complaining and getting Millie Q. in trouble. The day had plenty of hours left for some non-Christian to do that. Then, much to my amazement, I caught myself praying no one would.

  I took a deep breath.

  “I’ve never flown before today, and I lost my watch on the plane from Atlanta when I dropped my makeup on the floor and I had to replace it—the watch, that is, not the makeup—and I didn’t know it—the watch, not the makeup—wasn’t set to DFW time until I arrived at the gate for my flight to San Diego and Millie Q. told me I’d missed it, and I’ve got to get to San Diego as soon as possible or the buses will leave on the evangelistic mission trip to Mexico without me and I’ll have to go home to Georgia and tell my parents and my best friend, Betsy Jo, that I messed up big-time and have all of them mad at me, and maybe Betsy Jo will be so disgusted she’ll quit being my friend anymore, but at least my parents will still be my parents.”

  That sentence was undoubtedly the longest, most childishly convoluted one I’d ever spoken, and I’d done it in a single breath. I barely had enough air left to gasp for more.

  “Miss Hartlinger—do you mind if I call you Kim …?”

  I nodded, meaning that’s fine. But then I remembered she’d asked “do you mind?” and I began shaking my head no, hoping I hadn’t lost my meaning in the translation.

  But after a couple of headshakes to say no, I don’t mind, I got mixed up and started moving my head in a circle instead. We both giggled at my confusion, and that was fine. At least Mrs. Adams knew how to laugh with me and not make me feel foolish.

  “Kim, let me make sure I understand correctly.” I could already imagine Jesus saying, “Peace! Be still!” to the storm at sea. “You’re traveling alone today?”

  I nodded. I wanted to explain that Betsy Jo was supposed to come with me today, but that wouldn’t have been relevant even if I’d regained enough breath to say anything.

  “And you’re having trouble getting to San Diego after missing your flight?” I nodded. “You’re going to be late for a Christian mission trip?”

  I smiled. She’d been listening. I wondered if she’d be willing to give Dad lessons, but concluded she had her work cut out for her if she hoped to help Millie Q.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I took a big gulp of air. “Not just late, but too late. Millie Q. said there are no seats available until ten-something tonight, and the buses will leave for Mexico hours before that.”

  I spoke earnestly, but not frantically. Mrs. Adams’s concern had calmed me down so much I didn’t even feel like swearing over my dilemma.

  “Technically, Millie may be correct.” Seeing my look of horror, she continued without missing a beat. “Technically.”

  She smiled. “However, she doesn’t have the pull I do—the extra leverage—if you follow me.” Huh?

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Kim—you understand I’m just trying to help—how tall are you?”

  Double-huh? The more accurate question would be how short.

  “Just under five feet. I look so young and petite, most people don’t realize I’m already—”

  “The age you are?” she said, winking mysteriously.

  “Right. If I ever started smoking or drinking—not that I ever would—they’d probably card me my whole life. Even when I’m old and gray.”

  “Ah.”

  Not until she directed her full attention to the computer screen did I realize her “ah” had nothing to do with what I’d just said.

  I was dying to know what kind of solution she might have found. Had Millie kept secret from me that the space shuttle actually flew for Skyfly? Or did Skyfly keep a small, supersonic, private jet around for emergencies like this?

  Lord, thank You for putting Mrs. Adams on my side. I’m sorry I questioned You.

  “When I have a youthful flyer with a problem—”

  “I’m not—” I was about to add “that youthful,” but she shushed me quietly.

  Was she doing what she seemed to be doing? I played along just in case.

  “I am a first-time flyer, though, and today has evolved from a problem into a nightmare.”

  “Youthful, inexperienced flyers merit a little extra consideration, don’t you think?” Her eyes had a playful twinkle.

  “I think all inexperienced flyers deserve that.” I grinned.

  She frowned for a moment. “Kim, I can’t get you on the next flight. It’s severely overbooked, and your luggage probably wouldn’t have made it, anyhow ….” She looked at the screen again. Although my hopes started crashing to the floor, she caught and raised them again with the magic of her words. “However, I can get you on a flight that leaves at 4:12 p.m. I can’t promise that your mission team friends won’t leave without you, but at least you’ll only be three hours late and not ten.”

  My spirits soared. I had a fighting chance. I had the name and address of the hotel that was hosting orientation, and it was near the airport. I could take a taxi and find my group—if the meeting just lasted long enough.

  If. Just. How can two such short words be so important?

  “By the way, Kim …”

  “Yes, Mrs. Adams?”

  “Under the circumstances, I won’t charge you for changing your reservation.”

  “Thank you!” I ran around the counter and hugged her.

  “I hope you don’t mind flying first class at no extra cost, though. That was the only way I could get you on this flight.”

  I hugged her again, and she whispered in my ear, “Just think of this flight as a cup of cold water in Jesus’ name. Now go to Mexico and use whatever cups God tells you to use.”

  I will, Mrs. Adams, I will—if I make it to Mexico at all.

  chapter three

  My flight to San Diego landed on schedule—only three hours and five minutes later than my original flight.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have taken advantage of every luxury first-class travel offered. But nothing was normal, and I sank so deep into the mire of practical concerns that I didn’t enjoy the flight at all. I couldn’t eat any of the filet mignon that looked as if Mom had fixed it especially for me, although I did take a couple of bites from the bacon it was wrapped in before realizing I’d lost my appetite.

  What if they lose all my belongings? What if only some of my luggage arrives? Will they bring the rest to Ciudad de Plata when they find it, and how long will that take? Even if my luggage arrives, how long will it take to get it? Will I have any trouble finding a taxi? Will the driver speak English—or even French? If he doesn’t, will he take me to the right hotel? If he does, will he? Do taxi drivers accept charge cards? Will the cab be thick with sickening cigarette smoke? Will the team still be at the hotel? How will they react to my tardiness? How angry will Mom and Dad be if I have to spend the night at the orientation hotel? What will they say if they have to come back to Atlanta to pick me up tomorrow?

  After going half-nuts over issues like those, I switched to theological and theoretical matters.

  Is God punishing me for committing to this mission trip without praying about it first? Or for swearing and talking so abruptly to Millie Q.? How different would things be now if Betsy Jo’s parents hadn’t changed their minds about letting her come?

  Mom and Dad and Pastor Ron had done their best to convince the Snellings that the Mexican border drug wars they’d been reading about on the Internet were many hundreds of miles from where we’d be. We couldn’t be safer.

  But the Snellings hadn’t listened. Especia
lly Betsy Jo’s mother. Maybe she was related to Millie Q.

  I tried praying myself to sleep in my spacious lie-flat seat, but the words wouldn’t come. Neither would sleep. Not even rest. As the first passenger off the plane—Mrs. Adams had arranged that with the flight attendants, who for some strange reason treated me like I was younger than eighteen—I started sprinting toward the baggage claim area.

  But my stomach was so jittery with unanswered questions that I had to make a sudden, prolonged, emergency pit stop. I couldn’t recall when I’d last been that nauseated, but by the time I emerged from the restroom, I was too weak to rush.

  But weakness was preferable to what I’d just experienced. I would gladly live without pizza for two weeks now.

  Although the lengthy delay had raised my anxiety level higher than ever, it had its plus side. By the time I found the baggage claim—I turned the wrong direction coming out of the restroom and went miles in the wrong direction before discovering my mistake—my suitcases were the only ones left on the carousel, and no one was in sight to laugh at my feeble efforts to get them off.

  Feeble? I couldn’t lift those suitcases by myself this morning when I was still feeling okay, and now I could barely fight the pull of the conveyor belt to drag the first bag to the edge and let it fall to the floor, where it just missed my toes.

  The carousel had already begun giving my second, third, and fourth bags their own guided tour of the baggage claim area, making me wait several long and restless minutes for its return.

  I started thinking about the baggage handler who’d supposedly broken two toes moving my suitcases at DFW. I hoped Millie Q. was exaggerating about the poor guy. Then again, how else would she have known about my bags being so heavy?

  I finally got all four pieces off the belt but realized I needed help getting my stuff outside to a taxi stand. Inserting three dollar bills—which way do those stupid heads go?—into the cartrental machine, I pulled the rearmost trolley free. Only then did it strike me that lifting my bags onto the cart would be more stressful than dragging and dropping them from the carousel.