Haunted Waters by Jerry B. Jenkins, Chris Fabry

at me, his mouth open. I couldn’t hide my excitement either. We had asked Mom and Dad for a little brother or sister—me for a girl, Bryce for a boy.
    Dad took the video back home and showed it to Mom. Big tears streamed down her cheeks as she watched.
    Every time I look at water now, I think of Dad and that day. What he didn’t tell us, and what he didn’t know, was that he wouldn’t be around to help us become a good big brother or sister.
    I flipped to June 23.
    We just heard on the news that a plane going to Europe went down in the ocean. They think it’s Dad’s plane and that it might have been a terrorist attack.
    The next few entries talked about the funeral and the days after.
    It rained at the funeral today. It was weird not actually seeing Dad’s body. We all sat in front of an empty coffin with his picture on top. I don’t remember much about what the pastor said or what verses he used. I just remember trying not to cry and being a miserable failure.
    They had a memorial service at Dad’s church, and people got up and talked about him. They all looked at us, cried, and told us what a good man our dad had been. Something about it made me angry. I don’t need these people to tell me what my dad was like. I knew him. He was the one who read to me, tucked me in at night, and took us to movies. I didn’t even want to be there, but Mom said it was important for “closure”—whatever that means. Wasn’t it enough “closure” that they closed the lid and buried the coffin?
    Then came the entries about the first pictures on TV of the plane wreckage floating on the waves. Mom had kept us from watching the video at first. Then she let us. Some families actually got in boats and went out to sea to toss wreaths. I asked her why we couldn’t do that, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she took some dirt from Dad’s grave, used it to plant flowers, and gave the pots to friends. She also put some throughout the house. A few days later all the flowers had died.
    A month later some news crews came to interview Mom. We listened from upstairs as she tried to describe her feelings and tell what it was like to move on with life. That’s the weird thing. At first it feels like everybody in the world cares about you, and then they all just go back about their business like nothing’s happened.
    I closed the journal and thought of watching Dad shave right before his last trip. I wish we would have gone to the airport that day and said good-bye. We all thought he was coming home. Nobody on that plane came home.
    Now I think of Dad in heaven, watching us. I don’t know if that’s how it works, if he can actually see us. Somewhere in the New Testament—I think it’s Hebrews—it says that we are surrounded by a huge crowd of witnesses. I like to think of my dad in that crowd, cheering us on. I don’t know if he’s there or if he’s off building something or maybe worshiping God.
    Part of me thinks he’s just standing by Jesus. Another part of me thinks he’s standing at the horizon, where the water meets the sky, waiting for us.

Chapter 32

    “Do you hear that?” Sam said.
    Ashley was off by herself, and I was helping Sam clean up the living room and kitchen.
    “I don’t hear anything,” I said.
    “Exactly,” Sam said. “What do you think Dylan’s up to?”
    “Dylan!” I whispered.
    We bolted downstairs. Sam had duct taped a piece of cardboard over the broken window, but still it was about 10 degrees colder down there than upstairs.
    I was about to yell for Dylan when Sam put a hand on my shoulder and pointed toward the pinball machine. Dylan had both hands atop it, his head (which is about two times too big for his body) resting against one flipper button. As he breathed, the flippers clicked, but there was no ball to hit. His little eyelids were shut, but his mouth was open just enough for his tongue to stick through. His shirtsleeve had a drool stain the size of a quarter.
    How he stood there