Found in Translation (3 page)

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.

“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.

M
y 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. Especially 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.

More stressful and more impossible. Only God could make my luggage fall upward, and I wasn’t counting on that kind of miracle today.

If only I’d thought to remove the largest and heaviest items from my suitcases and put them in the trolley by themselves, leaving the luggage manageably light.

But I didn’t, so I spent ten frustrating minutes searching for a porter. One who looked strong, compassionate, and disinclined to be sarcastic. I didn’t even care what his teeth looked like.

“I can’t lift these, sir,” I said to the mostly-bald, upper-middle-aged man who’d appeared out of nowhere and was now walking toward me as if God had divinely appointed our meeting. He didn’t look like a porter, though. He wore faded jeans, a short-sleeved plaid shirt, and a baseball cap that said G
RANDDAD
. In one hand, he held a clipboard, a marker or ink pen in the other.

“No?” he said in a restrained tone. I didn’t know if there was such a thing as a California accent, but if so, he had one. He flipped through the papers on his clipboard before making what I assumed was a check mark on a sheet somewhere around the middle. “You must be Kimberly Hartlinger, our team’s late, latest, and last to arrive.”

Hallelujah! I’m not too late!

I threw my arms around his neck and broke out crying—tears of joy and relief mixed with tears of guilt and regret. I didn’t care that he didn’t hug me back, pat me on the shoulder, or do anything else a Christian grandfather might have done to reassure a youthful damsel that she was no longer in distress.

“My name is Rob White. I’m the senior project director on this mission trip to Mexico.”

He handed me a photo ID—his passport, actually—and insisted that I examine it closely to make sure he was who he claimed to be. He was all business, that man. And cold enough to make me feel like shivering.

“Mr. White, am I glad to see you, sir. I was sure you’d leave for Mexico without me.”

“We wanted to. We’ll discuss that later.”

He reminded me a little of my dad the way he said that, but Dad wouldn’t have waited till later to talk about it.

“You overpacked,” he said with a straight face that was already red from trying to lift the first of my suitcases. It was still on the floor, and he didn’t smile at the prospect of having to bend over and try again.

Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him smile yet.

We struggled and strained together then—I’d heard them call it a team lift at my favorite Target Store—to get my bags into the trolley. I hoped the strain wouldn’t give him a boardgame card reading, Go
DIRECTLY TO HEAVEN.
Do
NOT PASS
S
ILVER
C
ITY.
Do
NOT BRING
K
IM
H
ARTLINGER.

“What do you have in here—bricks?”

No! Not two Millie Q.s in one day. Please.

He left me with the carts—we had to rent another one—in the passenger pickup area and returned six or seven minutes later driving a well-worn but otherwise immaculate, boring white passenger van. My arms, legs, and upper body started screaming

“No!” at the thought of having to repeat our team lifts.

But I could have hugged God right then. He had blessed the van with a lift.

Mr. White didn’t say one word on the eight-minute drive to the hotel, and I sat on the passenger side looking straight ahead, sweating over what he might say once he unleashed his honest feelings.

W
hen we arrived at the hotel, orientation was about to start. I didn’t think about the fact they might have been waiting for me or I would have felt worse than I already did.