Chapter 27
November 12, 2011
Novikova was finishing her last solo. Don Quixote was almost over. I checked my phone. Four fifteen. Please, God. My hands were shaking, the palms clammy. I exhaled.
And then I heard it. The doorbell. I pulled in a sharp breath.
No one ever came to our place unannounced. No, God. No. Maybe he’s hurt. Spare him.
I opened the door and saw two police officers. The cold drizzle touched my face, and I heard the distant bark of our dog. But he was next to me. Had he barked? I saw one officer’s mouth move, but I couldn’t make out the words.
Memories of our wedding day and of our lives together flashed through my mind.
“I cannot lose him again,” I whispered.
I woke up on the living room couch.
“Hi, ma’am,” the older officer said. “I was trying to ask if we could come in and then you fainted. Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.” I saw the other officer now. “What happened?”
“Is Mr. Peter Engberg your husband?”
My head bobbed, my heart hurt. No…
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. He had an accident. He didn’t—”
“Uh-uh.” I stopped the officer before he could finish his sentence. If he didn’t say the words, Peter could still walk through the doors.
But maybe he was just hurt and needed me. I had to get to him. “What happened?”
“The Silverado truck he was driving hit a large oak on State Route 18.”
“Where is he?”
He shook his head. “He didn’t make it, ma’am.”
“Oh God.” Can this be true? It was so hard to breathe. “Oh God. Oh God. What happened? Did he go to the hospital?” Oh God.
“He didn’t suffer, ma’am. He died instantly.”
Oh God. Help me…
“I’m so sorry.”
Help me.
“Is there someone we can call?”
I nodded and was about to get up, but he stopped me.
“Let me help you. Do you need your phone?”
I nodded again, pointing to the counter. “And my purse,” I said, my voice barely audible.
Looking through my New Testament, I found Second Corinthians 6:2. Next to it was Jacqueline’s phone number, and I pointed to it.
The officer nodded and made the call while I turned to the end of the book.
Looking over the closing prayer, I realized I knew it—by heart.
“This is the time,” I said when Jacqueline had arrived and was near enough to hear the strongest voice I could muster.
“What happened?” She reached for my hands.
“Can we pray first? I’ve been on a collision course with this moment for a while. I need to do it now. Please?”
“Of course.” She nodded and closed her eyes. “Dear Lord—”
“No,” I interrupted. Our eyes met. “Sorry. I mean, I’ll pray. I want to get saved. I know what to do.”
She smiled, squeezed both my hands, and bowed her head in silence.
I closed my eyes and started. “Dear Father, I know I am a sinner, lost and condemned for hell. But Christ Jesus the Lord died for my sins and rose again. And right now by faith, I receive Jesus Christ into my heart as my Savior, trusting in Him alone for the forgiveness of my sins and eternal life. Thank you for saving me; thank you for making me your child; thank you for giving me a home in heaven. Now help me live for you from this day forward. Amen.”
“This is good.” She put her arms around me. “Good decision.”
“He said Jesus was his Savior. He said it. My husband. He…” I pressed my lips together. I wanted to count the books on the mantel, but I didn’t. “My husband died today.”
“I know, Ana… I am so sorry.”
“I will see him again, right?”
“You will see him again. He is with the Lord now.”
I nodded and took the tissue she was offering me. He’s with God… I’ll see him again. My grace is sufficient, but how? Oh, God, help me.
In the days following the crash, two questions bothered me above all others, and a nagging voice brought them up every time I felt something that resembled peace.
Did he do it on purpose? Dad was talking to Pine Mountain Police daily, hoping to get an answer, but it didn’t look promising. I would, most likely, always have to live with that aching uncertainty—forever asking the second question that bothered me above all others: could I have done something different that rainy Thursday morning?
On Sunday, I went to Calvary Baptist Church. I’d declined offers for meals and childcare. But I wanted to get baptized and so, with a parent on each side, I heard Jacqueline’s husband preach on the power of prayer before taking the plunge.
“Why are you trying to live life on your own strength, Christian?” He had asked the congregation. “Don’t lose your place in Luke, but go with me to Philippians 2:4. Paul wrote in verse six, ‘Be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be known unto God.’”
Didn’t He already know?
“He doesn’t need to be told, but he will then know it from us. And when we do that and go to Him to ease our mind of a burden or to seek direction or help—with a thankful heart—look what happens in verse seven. ‘And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.’”
Late that night, I knelt by Gabriel’s bed.
Dear God, I’m a bit of a late bloomer. Always have been, I know. Thank you for not giving up on me. Help me find peace and direction. I can’t do it by my own power. I don’t know how I’m going to move ahead, but I now know that You know. And to me, that’s good enough. Amen.
Monday morning, before the viewing, Jäger was prancing around the small box with the personal items the police found in and around the truck after the accident. I’d peeked inside the day before, but the sight of broken sunglasses and a broken Clint Black Greatest Hits II CD had been enough to keep me from going any further.
“You’re a sniffer dog now?” I got the box from the living room floor and put it on the kitchen table. I still didn’t want to go through it, but something compelled me to, and I heeded.
The smell of oil and gas and burned things was overwhelming, and after handling a few items, I noticed a dark residue on my fingertips. I dumped everything on the table and scrubbed my hands while eyeing a once-white shopping bag, the only thing that was unusual.
The contents—two books and a pair of delicate gardening gloves decorated with tree branches—were undamaged. I brought the gray and burgundy gloves to my nose and put the receipt aside. There was a hint of oil odor, but the smell of new leather was much stronger, its softness intact. I looked at the receipt. He’d bought it at the park on the day of the crash.
I knew what the books were and smiled. The first had a pink cover, soft and velvety, the name ANA ENGBERG engraved in gold on the lower right corner. The first page had a dedication. He’d used a pencil to fill in the blanks, and many erased attempts were still visible.
THE HOLY BIBLE. PRESENTED TO MY WIFE, ANA. FROM YOUR HUSBAND, PETER. ON CHRISTMAS OF TWO THOUSAND AND ELEVEN, AS WE BEGIN A NEW WALK.
Printed at the bottom of the page was 1 Peter 2:2.
AS NEWBORN BABES, DESIRE THE SINCERE MILK OF THE WORD, THAT YE MAY GROW THEREBY.
The other book was another Bible, with a simple black cover and the name “Peter Engberg” on the lower right corner, also in gold. The dedication page was blank.
I reached for a pen and wrote a note to our son.
PRESENTED TO GABRIEL ENGBERG. FROM YOUR PARENTS, PETER AND ANA ENGBERG. ON CHRISTMAS OF TWO THOUSAND AND ELEVEN, AS WE BEGIN A NEW WALK.
“It was an accident,” I whispered, clutching my Bible. “It was an accident.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. Thank you, God.
Sitting by the large living room window, I rested my eyes on the calm lake, and when my heart was ready, I opened my new Bible to Paul’s letter to the Philippians and read to prepare for the viewing.
The next day, Peter was laid to rest in a garden cemetery on the outskirts of town. There, elegant landscaping complemented the gentle Georgia hills and winter flower beds held the promise of spring. The clear waters of a rocky creek moved idly past an arched stone bridge, visited dozens of gravesites, and then arrived at a pond where wood ducks were wintering and forming pairs. Could they have come from Stow Lake? Peter had said it wasn’t likely, but I still thought it was possible.
Back-road birds. Because not all birds stick to a pattern—doesn’t make them lesser birds.
One month later I was at the azalea bowl, walking to the sequoia.
My parents had Gabriel, and we were going to meet at night to visit the Christmas display. National Geographic had just named the top ten places in the world to see holiday lights. Alongside famous destinations in Denmark, Austria, Belgium, and other countries was Callaway Gardens’ Fantasy in Lights in Pine Mountain, Georgia. The park was busier than ever, and we’d purchased our tickets online, a week in advance, to guarantee a spot on the Jolly Trolley.
I saw our sequoia’s green crown as soon as I got to the main trail around the lake. It had grown eight feet that year, a faster growth rate than the first two years, and I’d been wondering if that had something to do with the roots spreading out.
Peter would know…
My hand left the warmth of my quilted down coat, and I reached through the cold, gray air for where his hand should have been.
I took the now-manicured path to the base of the tree and saw the wrought iron bench the park had installed along with a plaque. In loving memory of Peter Engberg—a planter, a lover, a daddy.
I touched the cold metal plate and traced his name.
Remember me strong…
The cold wind was blowing harder than usual at the azalea bowl. A red-tailed hawk screamed a hoarse “kee-eeeee-arr.” Scanning the late-afternoon silver clouds, I found it soaring high above Falls Creek Lake.
I missed him so much. And I would always miss him. So much…
Dance more and plant less, he’d said. I only got involved in this year’s Nutcracker because of him. I’ll dance it for him. And for the girls. But then what? I want to plant this spring. I want to plant up a storm. Plant less?
I shook my head and walked back to the main trail. Too soon to think. One day at a time. That’s how we’ll do this.
Tomorrow, I think. Today, I remember.
I remembered the first day I’d met Peter. The chapel, the organist playing Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons,” and the little girl with the white sandals that showed her cute little toes, her dress flowing as she ran. I remembered the warmth and the sweet scents of that beautiful spring day. Turning the corner, my eyes looked for the bridge where we’d first seen each other.
There it was, but in my mind, it wasn’t winter anymore.
It was spring and the peak of azalea season—Callaway Gardens in its spring splendor. The smells of the earth and of the woods invaded my nose without effort, and I didn’t have to remember the warmth of brighter seasons. I was warm, and thousands of azaleas commanded my attention with their bright whites and deep reds, hot pinks and brilliant purples. And Peter was there, on the bridge.
He turned to me with his usual boyish grin. Baby…
He wore my favorite black button-up shirt, and he had his old Gibson guitar by his side.
I reached out for the metal rail to steady myself once more. He was handsome and strong, and he was waiting for me. I wanted to walk to him, but he shook his head and donned his guitar.
The sound was clean, the instrument perfectly tuned. He performed “Honey Bee” with boot heels marking the strong beats, strumming and singing with abandon—singing about two people who were absolutely different, but who completed each other in the most simple and wonderful ways.
“Beautiful,” I said when he finished. “You’re beautiful.”
He grinned and looked down, his cheeks flushed.
“I will see you on the other side.” I kissed my fingertips and lifted them in his direction in one last “see you soon.”