Angel Eyes (13 page)
“It’s okay. Dad’s been known to overreact. Only child and all. He’s very protective.”
“Canaan’s the same way. I should go.” He tugs the braid that’s settled onto my shoulder and backs down the stairs. His eyes are the last thing I see as he disappears beyond the illumination of our porch light.
I don’t sigh. I don’t. That would be too cliché. But Jake’s taken all the heat with him and I’m soaked, so I retreat to the safety of the kitchen and give Dad a brief overview of the day—omitting the broken ankle, of course. He raises his eyebrows when I tell him I ran into the new kid from school, but he doesn’t ask questions. He’s just relieved to have me home and grateful I had company and a place to stay dry when the storm kicked up. Or so he says. He’s suspiciously unsuspicious, but I follow his lead and choose to be grateful.
“You look better, Elle,” Dad says over his shoulder, turning in for the night. “I’ll have to thank that boy. Where does he live again?”
“I have no idea, Dad. We didn’t get around to that.”
Without Jake to distract me, the wet clothes chafe and itch. I throw them in the wash and pull on a pair of sweats. I wander around the house again wrapped in the quilt and afghan. I touch pictures of my mom and wish I could tell her about Jake. Ask her if I’m crazy for being preoccupied with a boy I know so little about. Would she have been that kind of mom? The kind I could talk to?
There’s no way to know, I guess.
After the wash is moved to the dryer, I switch off the lights and pad through the kitchen to my room. I burrow into bed, aware sleep is still a ways off. Tonight I don’t mind. There are countless things to think about now—some of them wonderful, pleasant things. The pain of losing Ali, and my role in it, is still sickening, and there isn’t enough distance yet, but maybe time really does heal.
I sit up and examine my ankle. Moonlight slips through the Venetian blinds and falls across my leg in silvery stripes. There’s no sign of a break. I can’t help but compare the complete absence of injury to the lingering pain of Ali’s death. They are different in so many ways, but brokenness is something they share.
My fingers press at the bone, at the soft muscles in my foot. I find no hint of injury. Without proof, without a scar of some kind, I’d have trouble convincing anyone it had once been broken. Certainly no one would believe Jake’s hands did what they did. I run my thumb over my foot and up my calf, trying to recall the heat of Jake’s touch. I’m sure I didn’t imagine the whole thing, but it would be nice to have some sort of proof, something to remind me of our evening in the shed.
I tuck my feet back under the covers and try to recapture the earlier warmth. My hands shake slightly, so I rub them against my thighs. They remind me that, unlike my ankle, I’ll forever carry evidence of Ali’s death. She changed me. Changed the way I think, the way I dance. Ali taught me about bravery. She gave me resolve. Her death may have bloodied that resolve, but it can’t kill it. It will scab and scar like other wounds. But my life will forever bear witness that the pain existed. That she existed.
My hands may stop shaking and the chill may leave me, but I’ll never forget. And I don’t want to. Losing Ali was hard enough. Forgetting her would be like walking through life without a scar, without proof of her existence. And that would kill me.
I have Jake to thank for that revelation.
Maybe he’s one of those Catholic saints? Like the one on the medal Ali wore around her neck. She was never without that thing. You have to perform a miracle to become a saint, right? And that thing he did in the shed—whatever it was—was definitely miraculous. Imagining Jake’s face carved onto a little golden medal makes me grin at the darkness.
The
clump-clump
of Dad’s bare feet shuffling outside the door sobers me.
Once, years ago, I got a small but rather bitter taste of Dad’s opinion on religion. It was late and I was supposed to be asleep, but I’d had one too many Dr. Peppers. I took care of business and then stuck my head into the living room to stay good night. The sight of Dad huddled on the floor in tears, bowed before the big screen, shook me.
The volume on the television was low, so low I could barely hear the jumpy organ music. At the front of the carpeted stage were a purple-suited man and a woman in a wheelchair. The man had a big leather book in his hands, and he waved it around like a magic wand. I knew it was a Bible. My mom’s old Bible held a place of honor on my nightstand.
I watched from behind the sofa as the purple-suited man threw his arms in the air and the woman rose from the wheelchair. The crowd erupted in celebration as she danced around the stage, flapping like a chicken. I was young—ten or eleven, maybe—and I didn’t understand what I was watching. But Dad stood, took a mad swipe at his eyes, and snapped off the television. He grabbed the beer sitting next to the lamp and took a swig.
Then he turned and caught me staring.
“Sorry, Dad. I just . . .”
“Get to bed, Brielle.” His voice was gruff. Angry. “And don’t you believe a thing you just saw. Why would God heal that lady and not your mom? God’s cruel, kid. He doesn’t exist.”
He had a point, I guess. Why would God heal some people and not others? Not my mom?
I tucked Mom’s Bible into my sock drawer that night. To say God doesn’t exist feels like betraying the beliefs of my dead mother. But I’ve yet to be convinced either way. I guess the idea of Jake as a religious healer would require me to come to some sort of conclusion.
The next morning I wake late. My body must be rebelling against my lack of sleep, because I don’t even hear Dad leave. For the first time in weeks I enjoy the process of getting ready. I take a long shower, feeling the heat warm me through, and then sit in front of the mirror for ages doing my makeup and hair before sliding into my favorite jeans.
I let myself be picky, taking forever to select a top. It’s one of Ali’s old shirts that grabs my attention. With some reservation I pull it from the closet and drape it over my desk chair, then I back up to my bed and sit. I stare at it, picking through my muddled feelings.
It’s just a T-shirt. Black with pink swirly letters that say
Prima Donna
. The O in Donna is the mask from
The Phantom of the Opera
, Ali’s favorite show. Her mother, Serena, insisted I take it, along with some of her other things. At the time I only took it so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings, but now I think I’d like to wear it.
Just staring at it gives me some of Ali’s courage, and today I want to be this new person—a girl who is healing instead of one who is constantly dying.
I stand and cross the room, picking up Ali’s shirt. One hand makes it through the arm hole before I have second thoughts. It smells like her, like her fruity perfume. My chest heaves. I drop to the floor and press the shirt to my face.
And I cry.
I
t’s noon before Canaan makes his way home. A church bell in town rings loud and clear, calling to the believing and unbelieving alike. He sends his own call up. To the Throne Room. To the Father. He prays for direction, for insight.
He receives peace. Nothing more.
But it’s enough. Satisfied Damien’s left town, Canaan returns home, dropping through the ceiling and into his bedroom.
At the foot of the bed is an incredibly old piece of furniture. It’s one of only two possessions in his home that carries with it the supernatural: a black chest, cut from onyx. He kneels before it and lifts the lid, setting it next to him on the faded carpet.
Two items reside within. The first is new. It’s a copy of
Hamlet
, an early edition by the looks of it. The middle of the book bulges; there’s a stack of paper shoved between the pages.
He opens up the book and pulls out the papers. They’re real estate forms of some sort. Warehouse listings. He’ll have to look more closely.
“Thank you,” he whispers, resting his head against the tome.
Answered prayer. There’s nothing quite so sweet.
It’s not the first time he’s wished for omniscience, but knowing it isn’t necessary to complete his task, he replaces the lid, shutting away the singular item residing inside.
And then a figure is before him.
Her hair flames auburn as she hovers above. Instinct pulls Canaan’s hand to the sword at his hip, but by the time his fingers reach the hilt, he knows she is an ally. Her hands are spread wide in a gesture of peace, and the selfless white light pouring from her eyes is distinguishing. Her wings slow, and she alights on the bed. He pushes to a stand and finds himself at eye level with another angel.
“You are Canaan,” her mind says.
It’s been some time since he’s conversed with his own kind, and the opportunity is most welcome. He considers her elfin form. Smaller, faster angels spend much of their time in the role of a messenger, a courier of sorts.
“I am. And you? You’re a Herald, it seems?”
“I was. For many centuries. Four years ago I was reassigned to the Shield.”
“What does the Creator call you, little one?”
“Helene.”
“
Light
He calls you. And light you are. What brings you to Stratus?”
“A charge.”
“Yes?”
“Your neighbor. The girl with fear bleeding from her chest.”
“I was under the impression she was my charge.”
“Haven’t you another charge? A young man?”
Canaan nods. “Jake. The Throne Room has indicated their futures will entwine.”
“That may be. I’ve no instructions regarding the boy, but the Throne Room has suggested you may need to leave for a time.”
Canaan considers the book in his hand. If what she says is accurate, the papers within will lead him from Stratus.
“I’m to remain here,” Helene continues. “I can keep watch over your charge as well, if leaving him behind seems best to you.”
“No,” Canaan says. “He’s caught the eye of the Fallen. I’ll keep him with me for now. Though I don’t imagine he’ll want to leave Brielle for long.”
“Also, I’ve had a run-in with one of the Fallen—an encounter that will certainly interest you.”
“Tell me.”
O
h good. You’re ready.”
After my sob fest I’ve finally got my makeup reapplied and my breathing under control. My eyes are a little puffy, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
“Afternoon, Kay. What are you doing here?”
“You’re kidding me, right? Didn’t you get my text?”
I open the door a smidge wider, and she shimmies past me.
“I need new seat covers,” she says.
I yawn. “You don’t have a car.”
“Text, Elle, text. I sent you all this in a text,” she says. “Shoes, girl. Move it, and I’ll explain.”
She shoves me through the kitchen and back into my room. I’ve rehung Ali’s shirt, choosing instead a long-sleeved sweater. It’s blue. Cozy. Smells like Tide. Before grabbing my shoes from the closet, I run a hand over the raised details of Ali’s tee and promise myself something: one day soon, I’ll wear it.
I’ll be brave. Like she was.
“So Auntie sold me her old Honda, but the seats are disgusting. Brielle, are you listening?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, and this guy who works at the Auto Body said if I came by during his shift, he’d give me a discount. But Delia has to work, so she dropped me here.”
“Jelly’s is on Main. She couldn’t have just dropped you on her way?”
My Uggs are in place now, and my scarf is around my neck. Where’s my jacket?
“Okay, okay. I’m not using you for your wheels. I need your opinion too.”
“You need my opinion on seat covers?”
I take a second and actually look at her. She’s got her hair all Princess Leia’d out—cinnamon buns on the side of her head. Adorable, actually. Except she’s scowling at me.
“You
so
weren’t listening. Seat covers I can choose. It’s the boy selling me the seat covers I’m not so sure about.”