The Missionaries' Daughter by Grace Jelsnik

Author:Grace Jelsnik
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: psychic, espionage, military, cia, comedy, christian, romance, pyrokinesis
Publisher: Plainswomen Press
Published: 2016-12-27T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21: Packing

If he stacked Grandma’s largest suitcase on its side, bracing it upright with Dad’s Army duffle, and wedged the last boxes of cartridges between the duffel and the side of the van, he should be able to pile all of Lindsay’s shopping bags, her version of a suitcase, on top of the two, leaving a level two-foot–deep shelf across the length and breadth of the van’s rear storage area, maybe enough room for the groceries Lindsay and Grandma were now packing. They were going to look like a bunch of Okies or the Beverly Hillbillies by the time he finished.

Caleb paused to enjoy the image this evoked of Grandma riding a roof-top rocking chair all the way to Mobridge, her hands clenched in a death grip on the armrests, her long hair an undulating white flag.

He should have taken a stance when she’d insisted on stopping for more groceries, but by that time she’d broken his will to live, leaving him in a state of robot-like compliance. He’d already stocked the farmhouse with a similar amount of food; now they had twice as many groceries to tote with them, and Lindsay refused to leave them behind, turning to him and, with a completely straight face, quoting, “When they all had enough to eat, he said to his disciples, ‘Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.’” He’d given her a suspicious glance, wondering whether she was serious or whether this was another name tag sewn to the outside of his shirt, but the look on her face was solemn. He may have rolled his eyes; he couldn’t remember. Shock does things to a man’s recollections.

He was developing a solid empathy with Jasper’s PTSD. One too many explosions, one too many fires, and one day, the squadron’s best dog flees at the prospect of explosions or fires. With Caleb, it was stores and shopping. Stocking the farmhouse for Dad, buying women’s clothes at Walmart, being brainwashed into stopping for more groceries, brawling over a packet of ribbons, toting the purchases into the house, now toting the purchases from the house, and all in the space of three days—it was too much, too soon. He’d be the next one to flee, not at the prospect of an explosion or a fire, but at the prospect of another shopping expedition. “Buy us this,” Dad would say, and Caleb would black out, coming to with the awful realization that he was hot-footing it down some unmarked gravel road, throwing terrified glances over his shoulder.

In fairness to Grandma, she’d been right about Lindsay preferring to prepare her own food rather than eat pre-packaged food. Ever since that first evening, when Lindsay had cooked a spectacular meal of stuffed chicken breasts, roasted parmesan potato wedges, biscuits, and an apple pie that made all other apple pies taste like wannabes, Lindsay had served them nothing but homemade fare. She could really cook, and she seemed to like doing it. This evening, Caleb

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