Beyond Reach by Melody Carlson Read Free Book Online

and yelled at my dad. “Why did you give me this stupid thing?” I shrieked again and again.
    I was so furious and out of control that I feel embarrassed just to remember it now; then I remind myself it was just a dream. Not real. Not even from God.
Get over it, Sam.
    Even so, I keep thinking about the dream as I go into the kitchen, like my mind's stuck on a track and can't get off. Mom has already made coffee and I'm guessing has already gone to work as well since it's after nine. I pour myself a cup of slightly stale-smelling coffee, add some milk to tone down the acidity, and continue to ruminate over what the significance of Dad giving me a plastic horse might be. Why was I so rude and ungrateful to my dad? Why did I keep getting madder and madder just because he hadn't given me what I wanted? Although, to be fair, I don't even know what it was I wanted. Still, I was throwing the worst temper tantrum.
    As I put the milk carton back in the fridge I flash back to my seventh birthday (ten years ago) and how all I wanted was a bike. A very specific bike. My neighbor Jennie, who has long since moved, had what I thought was the perfect bicycle. A pink and purple Barbie bike with all the cool accessories, including a white plastic wicker basket with pink and purple plastic daisies. But even after leaking my request clearly known to “Santa,” I had been severely disappointed not to get my dream bike for Christmas. Consequently I spent the next few weeks dropping not-so-subtle hints and praying unceasingly for a Barbie bike to arrive on my birthday. And the night before the big morning, I felt sure there was a buzz in the air andwas certain it had to do with me and a certain Barbie bike that I would find parked in the living room the next morning. Maybe with a big pink bow on it.
    I was so excited I almost couldn't sleep. And when I got up the next morning, there really was a bicycle parked in the living room. And it had a bow on it; I don't recall what color now. But this bike was
not
a Barbie bike! Instead of the coveted Barbie bike, this one was a light blue girls’ Schwinn.
    I didn't know what to do, and while having a bike of my own was nice, I was
not
a happy camper. In fact, I was pretty upset. Of course, I was only seven at the time, but I had never felt so conflicted about anything in my entire life. On one hand, it was a decent bike and my parents were trying and I should've been grateful. But on the other hand, I had made my desires crystal clear—
why wasn't it the Barbie bike?
    I can't remember what I did exactly, or maybe my memory is giving me a break, but somehow my extreme disappointment was communicated (I think I probably cried a lot). And later that day I overheard Mom and Dad discussing my little dilemma. Mom was telling him that he should've gotten me the Barbie bike like I wanted, and Dad was saying that he knew I'd outgrow it and be sorry to own such a “sissy cycle.” I'm pretty sure that's what he called it too.
    It took me a while to get over the whole thing, but in the long run, Dad's reasoning turned out to be right on. I still remember the day, just a couple years later, when Iwas riding bikes with Jennie. We stopped at the park, where some fourth grade boys began to tease Jennie mercilessly.
“Where'd you get the baby Barbie bike?”
they taunted, along with other things. And although I felt sorry for my friend, I also remember holding my head high as we pedaled away, she on tier sissy cycle and me on my suddenly sophisticated Schwinn.
    I take a sip of my coffee. So Dad really did know best. Of course, I couldn't see that when I was seven. Yet, on the same note, I feel sure that God, the Giver of gifts, knows best too.

T he next week passes quietly. Quietly, as in God's not saying anything to me. But I keep thinking about Peter Clark and wondering what really happened to him. Or is it simply as it appears? I've even gone online and read some old news stories about his death, which hasn't