The Makeover of James Orville Wickenbee Page 21

  I pick up my pace and I’m passing the Hertz rental booth when I hear my name.

  Across the wide corridor, Michelle and Sadie are slowing down to meet me. Sadie is lifting her hand with concern.

  “Where are you going?” Michelle calls out.

  I shake my head at my friends and motion for them to move forward and join the rest of the adoring fans waiting to see James. “Go ahead,” I call.

  Yes, go join Ruby and Topaz and Dolly and Shereen! Go join Lyla Fannen! “Go see Mr. Power,” I mutter to myself as I feel their eyes following me. I sense that Sadie is thinking about coming after me and I turn. Sure enough she is taking some steps in my direction. “Go on,” I motion her away. I turn and hurry away even faster so she’ll recognize that it’s futile to try to catch up.

  Life really is ironic, I’m thinking a moment or two later as I come to the end of the terminal. Strange. Because as things turned out, the James I thought I transformed into a superhero always was a superhero and always did possess a strength and power of a far different nature than I once thought was important. Power that . . .

  It isn’t James’s power. The phrase hits me with force and I pull to a stop, confused. The words aren’t audible, at least not to my ears, but I feel them clearly. In fact, I’m still feeling them. They’re penetrating my entire being to the extent that I find myself limping to the nearest chair.

  The feeling isn’t entirely foreign. It’s similar to feelings I used to brush off as emotional reactions. It’s similar to feelings I’ve felt at those instances when I did something right or good or kind, or when my heart was touched. In fact I felt something like it just yesterday when I talked to Jack about hiring Sadie. Only this time the feeling is stronger and deeper.

  It isn’t James’s power. Then whose power is it? I don’t need to ask.

  But this can’t be happening! I don’t want it to be happening. There are ramifications. I went over this a long time ago and determined then that my ineligibility for religion runs deep for reasons I just reviewed. No. I take a deep breath. I’ll be okay because this isn’t real. I’ve taken philosophy and biology and this goes counter to everything I’ve learned in these classes. It simply isn’t happening. It absolutely can’t be happening. And yet I know it happened. It is still happening whether I want to believe in this or not. But why?

  If this is honestly that Holy Spirit that the missionaries and James and Alex and others have told me about, then what would be the point? Where could it possibly lead? What good would it do? If there were a god, he’d know that trying to change me is useless. I’m ugly inside. I lift my face to the ceiling wondering if I might actually see something up there, but I see only a ceiling.

  I lower my eyes, blinking frantically.

  For the first time I notice where I am. I’m sitting straight across from a baggage check- in desk where people of all kinds are checking in their luggage for their upcoming flights. A heavyset brown man who looks like a darker version of Uncle Bartho is turning his suitcases over to the smiling attendant. Next in line is a young mother, struggling not only with her bags, but two toddlers. Are they twins? In the next check- in spot, an employee lifts the bags of a well- dressed and sophisticated looking woman with an obvious attitude. The nerds, the geeks, the suave, the sleek— all types are waiting to check in their bags.

  A sound, something partway between a laugh and a cry escapes from my lips and I try to choke it back as I realize that what I’m seeing before me is symbolic of what Alex and James have been trying to tell me about repentance and the atonement.

  James told me that it’s not just our sins Christ takes upon him but all our negative feelings, all our disappointments and pain, all the bad things that have ever happened to us, all our burdens, and yes, all our baggage. His words hadn’t registered before, but they do now as I realize that if it’s all true, then I wouldn’t need to do it alone— none of us would.

  I sit up a little straighter as everything I learned from the missionaries, everything I did not accept because I did not think I was acceptable, floods back to me: Jesus, our brother, gave his life for us, and God, our literal father, allowed him to do it for us. Could it really be true? It can’t be! There are too many unanswered questions! I still don’t understand how it all fits together and works! And yet the warmth has filled me to capacity. The comforting feeling is soothing me and encouraging me and bringing with it hope.

  When I look back at the line of people I notice that an older woman has stepped in to help the young mother tend her twins. A few yards back in line, a father is reaching down to help his little boy heft a suitcase too heavy for him to lift alone. The magnificence of what I’m seeing engulfs me.

  If we’re really all God’s children, it means we’re all siblings. Just as Alex and I once shared a womb, we all once lived together with Him. I realize that if this is true, life is not a game of chess or an election with winners and losers. There is no need to step on one another to get where we think we want to be because we’re not here to compete. No, if God is our literal father then we’re all in this life together and another’s successes are our own. It’s about love.

  James, I realize, had been smart enough to tap into the power that we all have access to. For the first time I understand his approach to life. God is good, I remember hearing at my Great- Aunt Beatrice’s Protestant meetings when I was little. God is love. And now something even more odd is happening. I’m feeling it myself— love.

  Just that simply, I’ve released any negative feelings I’ve ever felt toward anyone. I’m feeling love toward everyone here at the airport. In fact, I’m feeling warmth and love and goodwill toward everyone in the entire world, in the whole universe, in all universes. I’m even feeling goodwill toward Dolly Devonshire and Lyla Fannen. Yes, Lyla Fannen!

  I laugh aloud, this time sincerely and with joy. It no longer bothers me that she’s here or that any of them are here. Because, oh beautiful stars, I honestly think I want the best for them— for all of them, even Lyla. But then I pull in my breath.

  What about my father who abandoned Alex and me when we needed him most—who left us and Mom to struggle on our own until we ended up in those nasty circumstances? What about him? Can I honestly forgive him?

  It comes to me that if I have a Heavenly Father who is always there and will never leave me then I don’t need to keep harboring the anger I’ve felt all these years toward my very human dad. I can love even him. I huff out a sob as I recognize that a part of me always did.

  I’m so filled with good, positive, and warm feelings now that it’s as though I’ve gone through some kind of spiritual revolving door and am swooping through the skies above the airport, above the houses and the tall buildings, above everything that’s of this world. I am realizing that if we’re all children of God then I am a child of God too!

  Okay, okay, I try to get my bearings. Am I losing my mind? What’s happening here? Is this some kind of a convenient psychological phenomenon? Cynicism and doubt again seep in. Of course it is. That’s got to be it. These kinds of things don’t happen! They don’t! Not to me. There are still all those unanswered questions and none of this makes sense.

  But deep in my soul it feels real and I’m rising again back into the sky and I’m soaring again. In fact, I’m filling up with urgency as well. If there’s even a remote possibility that these feelings really are from God and that I am his child and that he really cares enough about me that he just sent me a message, then I’ve got things to do! I need to start reading and studying again. I need to start attending church. I need to start praying like crazy, only deeply and sincerely this time, and doing my utmost to connect. I take a deep breath. I need to write Alex and get his take on this. Should I share this with Mom? I think I will.

  And James! My dear friend James will explain to me what just happened. James! I jump up with amazing energy and twirl in the direction of the security gate. James is here! He’s right here at the airport!

  I take of
f running. One of my sandals slips off and I stop, hop back to get it, and with it still half flopping, I continue. As I get closer, I can see and hear the greetings, yelps of joy, and the commotion. I grab the loose sandal, leap on a chair, and rise to my toes, pressing my hand to my cheek. Yes, he’s here!

  I see Mary Jane hanging onto his arm, and his dad has him around the waist. They’re blurry, but I recognize Phillip and Ruthie. There’s James’s brother Felix talking to Sadie. There’s Terrance with that someone who looks a little like Garlia. There’s Butch. James is greeting all of them, including each anxious girl.

  Where are my glasses? Didn’t I throw them in my shoulder bag when I started to hightail it? I can’t find them. As I push my hand into the side pocket of my bag, I touch the frames and pull them out. I put them on for the umpteenth time in the last hour, only this time I’ll leave them on. I want to see James clearly, and I don’t care if I look bad in them. I don’t care if everyone here thinks I look ghastly. Amazingly, it doesn’t matter to me anymore.

  I push the glasses higher up on my nose. I laugh aloud because I can see James clearly now and he’s wearing glasses too. They’re not his new ones— those had been so flimsy they probably only lasted a few weeks in the mission field. No, these glasses are even funnier- looking than the glasses I convinced him to replace all those years ago. They’re monstrous, hideous glasses. They’re outrageous! James looks like a complete geekkenstein in those glasses— much worse than before. But it doesn’t matter because he’s still James.

  I laugh again because he’s peering over these glasses now, scowling and leaning forward far too much. I stop laughing and a little thrill runs through me as he keeps looking around.

  Is he looking for me? He is! My eyes well up and I jump down from the seat and find myself running toward James and toward the rest as well— toward all of them!

  “Wowsers!” I hear myself shouting. “Double . . . no triple . . . no quadruple Wowsers!”

  About the Author

  •••

  Born in the Netherlands, Anya Bateman came to Salt Lake City as a child and discovered early how much she enjoyed language, words, and writing. She attended both Brigham Young University and the University of Utah, graduating from the latter with an English degree and a creative writing emphasis.

  Anya’s stories and articles have appeared in the Church magazines as well as national magazines such as Reader’s Digest. She is the author of three books: Corker, Big Ben Is Back, and I Didn’t Place in the Talent Race, but . . .

  Anya served a mission to California and has served in several auxiliary leadership positions in the Church. She and her husband are the parents of four children and the grandparents of six.