Mariah rose early the following Sunday to attend Michael’s sunrise service, the least crowded of the three at which he officiated. When she told Ben of her intentions, he said, “I’m going to join you—at that ungodly hour, pardon the pun—so you won’t have to sit alone. Besides, I’m eager for you to meet my wife, Amy, who sings in the choir. I’ve often heard you softly singing along with the radio in your cube, and I know you have the kind of voice our music minister is always looking for.”
Mariah was treated to a modern service from beginning to end, impressed with the better-than-average musicians who accompanied the semi-professional choir. The music was progressive and uplifting, chosen to coordinate with Michael’s sermon filled with honesty, strength of conviction, and his dry British humor. Although uncomfortable in this house of worship, she was glad she had accepted Ben’s invitation.
After the service, Mariah met Ben’s wife, Amy and Peter Martin, the music minister. Spotting them, Michael excused himself from a conversation with a church elder and came toward her, his face lit with a welcoming smile. When he reached her, he opened his arms and, without a thought, she stepped into his embrace, feeling the warmth and acceptance he offered. They moved apart and he clasped her shoulders, never taking his eyes from hers.
“Peter, this is a remarkable lady. If she becomes a member of your choir, you’re going to be blessed with her presence.” Peter Martin’s curiosity was piqued by the elation he saw on Michael’s face.
She passed the audition. No surprise there. But what mystified her was her eagerness to join the choir, a longing to belong to a group, two both strange and alien emotions. At Michael’s insistence, she gave Peter a much abbreviated version of the Visitation, and was heartened by his acceptance and delight, the same as she had received from Michael.
The following Thursday, she followed his directions and found the choir meeting room. She sat in the parking lot and fought the urge to bolt, always unsure of herself around strangers.
The desire to sing and join the choir won. She entered the church with eyes averted and headed for the chairs against the wall. People drifted in, greeting each other with laughter and good-natured jibes. Some glanced curiously in her direction and some even smiled, but no one approached. Mariah’s panic escalated as she waited for the familiar face of Amy Van Horten or Peter Martin. On the verge of fleeing back to her apartment, she saw a lady enter and gaze around the room. Their eyes met, and the lady headed straight for her.
“Hi! Are you Mariah Carpenter?” the lady asked. When Mariah nodded, she said, “Good! I’m Natalie Groffsky. Pleased to meet you!” She extended her hand and Mariah shook it. With a wide grin, Natalie said, “Peter assigned me to be your choir buddy, so you’ll sit next to me in the alto section. I’m pretty loud so you can follow my lead through the music!” Mariah smiled shyly up at Natalie, the tension in her stomach easing a bit.
When Peter arrived, the choir members lined up. Mariah trailed Natalie into the sanctuary to the choir loft. Over the conversational din, Natalie stood up and yelled, “Hey, everyone!” The hubbub ceased and Natalie said, “I’d like to introduce you all to our newest member. Give it up for Mariah Carpenter!” Everyone laughed and cheered then stood up one-by-one and introduced themselves. Even though Mariah was overwhelmed, she felt a genuine sense of acceptance by these people.
Natalie was bright and funny and, in the upcoming weeks, would give Mariah the lowdown on Michael Jenkins, Peter Martin, and the other members of the choir in her amusing, informative way. One Thursday evening, Mariah said, “Natalie, I want to thank you for everything. For the first time in a long time, I feel relaxed around people.” Natalie hugged her and they grinned at each other.
Thursday night practices, both serious when they sang and playful in between the songs, caught her up in the religious sentiments fostered by the music and the easy camaraderie of the choir members. They seemed genuinely interested in her without being nosey, and included her in their conversations. Mariah desperately wanted to fit in some place that felt safe.
A week later she was invited to Sonya Alvarez’s house for a barbecue. Only hyperventilating slightly, she brought a homemade macaroni, sausage and cheese casserole and blushed when people praised it, some even requesting the recipe. In the weeks to follow there would be swim parties, soccer games, and the occasional music retreat. Mariah was made to feel part of a family who welcomed her without reservation. Swept up in a current of bonhomie, she began to believe in a God who commanded such devotion and love.
The breeze felt cool against her naked skin, tickling the hairs on her arms. It was perfect: just enough air movement to keep the sun’s warm rays from feeling hot. Her nose identified the rich, earthy aroma of newly tilled soil, and moist dirt beneath her bare feet oozed sensuously between her toes. Mariah was almost reluctant to open her eyes, not wanting these sensations spoiled by what she might see.
She braved a peek and found herself in a clearing surrounded by trees. Judging by their immense girth and towering height, they were ancient. The only trees she knew to be this massive were redwoods; however, these behemoths had white bark with leaves in varied shades of yellow. She was not much into horticulture, but she had never heard of white redwoods with yellow leaves.
The plant life that grew beneath the trees ran the color spectrum of green—emerald, chartreuse, forest, jade, viridian. The colors were so sharp they almost hurt her eyes. It was the same reaction she got when she looked up at the brilliant aquamarine sky.
The patch of ground on which she stood had been cultivated with straight rows of vegetation just beginning to sprout. Smiling ruefully, she remembered her first—and last—attempt at gardening when she had committed “plantacide” on some seventy dollars-worth of herbs.
Where am I? And, more to the point, why am I naked? The only time she was naked outdoors was when she was having one of those nightmares where everyone except her was dressed. If this was a dream, it was the most realistic she ever had, complete with earthy smells, breezes playing with the hair on her shoulders, and a medium warm sun that kept the temperature perfect.
Reality finally sunk in. Mariah wrapped her arms around her nakedness in an attempt to cover herself. The evidence was obvious; someone had tilled the soil and planted the garden. Her lack of a weapon and state of undress made her feel vulnerable, fearing the locals would see her as either a sexual object or lunch.
She woke and sighed with relief, glad the dream was over. As her brain began to shut down and return her to sleep, she knew there was something else about the dream that was odd, something she could not quite pinpoint. Too tired to rouse herself and figure it out, she fell back to sleep.