The Guardian (16 page)

She doesn’t look like any grandmother I’ve ever seen, maybe because I’m in shock and a little awed over this woman now that I know her story. I expect a woman of steel, but before me is someone soft, vibrating with empathy.

Although in her late seventies, she has an air of glamour about her like a gracefully aging film star. I’d been anticipating an ancient woman, shriveled and hunched with gray hair pulled severely from her face in a tight bun—a woman whose best day were long past—not the person who now stands in front of me. I take in her silver-blonde hair cut in a modern style, her youthful violet-blue eyes sparkling with joy, and her tasteful suit of muted pink. But her most impressive feature is her champagne halo bubbling merrily around her, a mirror image of her non-biological daughter.

She stops just inside the room, shrewdly taking in everything about me from my pained smile to my tight posture and death grip on the furniture. If she’s put off by my lack of enthusiasm, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she smiles broadly at me and gives me my space. “Ah, you must be Alex.”

Managing a nod that feels as though my neck’s breaking in two, I reply, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“You can call me Nana.” Then, as if sensing what she’s asking is too much from me, she adds, “Or Nana Kransky, or Judith, or whatever you are comfortable with, child.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Nana Kransky fits somehow, but I can’t bring myself to say it.

With a satisfied nod, she turns to Kate, declaring, “I would like to freshen up, please. And I am starved. Is that your gumbo I smell?”

The women leave the room debating the merits of okra in gumbo. After they go, Steven takes a step toward me. “See,” he says genially, “that wasn’t too bad.”

I nod, grateful she has given me breathing room. “She seems nice.”

Oven dinner Nana Kransky mostly catches up with Kate and Steven, glancing every so often in my direction and winking. By the end of the meal, she doesn’t seem quite as foreign or as intimidating as I’d feared.

After dessert and coffee, she shoos Kate and Steven from the room, declaring, “Alex and I will clean up.” When Kate begins to protest she interjects, “You cooked Katie. The cook is exempt from cleanup—no exceptions. Now go.”

Once Kate and Steven make their reluctant exit and we’ve cleared the table, Nana Kransky turns to me, her eyes glinting mischievously. “How about I wash and you dry?”

When I point out Kate and Steven’s dishwasher, she answers, “Bah, some things are better accomplished the old fashioned way.” I get the distinct impression she’s referring to more than the dishes, but it would be impolite to argue. So I take the offered towel and resign myself to drying.

After a moment, she hands me a bowl, asking, “So Alex, what are you making for Thanksgiving Dinner tomorrow?”

Grateful I’ve got a job to focus on, I answer, “I think Kate’s got it all taken care of. She’s already shopped and everything.”

The older woman nods, silent in thought for a few moments while she washes silverware. Giving a sly glance my way, she clears her throat before proclaiming, “To me, Thanksgiving is about being with loved ones and celebrating all we are blessed with. My family has a tradition. Everyone contributes at least one dish, their favorite.” I open my mouth to protest, but she continues before I can interrupt. “Kate will make the turkey. Steven does the mashed potatoes. And I will make my famous sweet yam casserole.” She pauses, turning to assess me with her clear, eagle eyes. “What would you like to make, child?”

With no experience, I don’t have confidence in my ability to cook anything. When I tell Nana Kransky this she scowls. “What is your favorite Thanksgiving dish?”

I think about this for a moment before deciding on an answer that’s both true and careful. “Probably the cranberry sauce—but it comes in a can.”

Nana Kransky’s laughter is loud as it fills the kitchen. “Oh child, what do you think people did before canned cranberries? Tomorrow,
you
will make the cranberry sauce.”

I do my best not to panic over a stupid little thing like making cranberry sauce, but my deep breathing gives me away. Nana Kransky stops washing to place a soothing hand on my shoulder. “Relax, child. Thanksgiving is about family, our blessings—the food is merely a way to celebrate. And you don’t have to make the sauce in a vacuum. If you need help, all you need to do is ask.”

Her shrewd eyes narrow expectantly, and suddenly I realize I’ve been outmatched. What she’s talking about has little to do with cooking and everything to do with life—my life. She’s asking me to trust her, offering her help in return. She’s telling me I don’t need to be alone. That I’ve got a choice.

As she smiles at me, her astute eyes dancing with acceptance, I consider what she wants and admit to myself it’s no burden to submit. Inexplicably it endears the older woman to me. “Ok, Ma’am.” I sigh, looking her squarely in the face. “I’ll make the cranberry sauce, if you’ll help me, please.”

Satisfied, she beams at me, her halo bubbling up around her. “See Alex, asking for help is not as hard as you think.”

Despite the fact she’s nearly a stranger, and the fact I’m—
gulp
—cooking, I have to agree with her. As we face each other, understanding passing between us, a weight lifts from me taking a chunk of the old Alex with it. Surprisingly I feel light, almost giddy by the thought that although I’m becoming someone else—a new version of myself—I’m not alone.

*

It turns out cooking’s not too difficult when you have help. Despite my inexperience, I actually enjoy toiling in the kitchen alongside Kate and her mother. There’s also satisfaction in eating a delicious meal I’ve helped prepare with my own hands. And of course being with people who care about me, that I’m learning to care about in return, is a blessing all its own.

Yet even as I gain new insights into the art of Thanksgiving, my heart aches for Gabriel and Derry, the two people closest to my soul. I spend the rest of the holiday break thinking about them, devising plans to bring about reconciliation in both the emotional and literal senses.

Monday morning I wake before the sun, restless and expectant. Watching the sunrise with unseeing eyes, I think about the person I’m becoming, a person who asks for help and chooses to trusts in those around her. I’ve no clue what I’ll say to Gabriel when I see him. I only know there must be forgiveness, for each other and ourselves, so we can move forward. And I want to move on. My inexperienced heart’s strangling with this thing between us, the
terrible
kiss, and I want the weight of it lifted. 

After Kate and Steven leave, I slip out of the house early, intending to intercept Gabriel at the corner. But he’s already waiting on the porch. As I quietly open the door, careful not to wake Nana Kransky, he jumps to his feet.

“What’re you doing here?” Surprise causes my voice to squeak.

“Waiting for you.”

There’s no smile in his eyes, just uncertainty as I lead him away from the porch, hastily explaining about Kate’s sleeping mother. When we’re out of earshot around the corner, I stop walking. Turning to Gabriel, I gaze at him like we’ve been apart for a hundred years instead of merely four days.

His sandy-blonde hair hangs at an angle across his forehead, in danger of falling across his face, and I clench my fist against the urge to brush it back. An unconscious sigh escapes from my lips as I stare into the turbulence of his eyes. In his transparent gaze, I read apology, desire, anguish, patience, and longing. He melts me as I whisper around the lump forming in my throat, “I don’t want to be angry at you anymore.”

So softly he answers, “Then don’t be.”

All my preparations to affect detachment, to remain aloof despite his rejection, collapse. Closing my eyes against the wave of emotion threatening to spill down my cheeks, I hear him apologize, “I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. I never want to hurt you—it’s just
that kiss
—it had nothing to do with you—my reaction, I mean. I have a purpose for being here—with you. Neither one of us can afford to lose sight of my mission. Not even for a second.”

I feel his hand, large and warm against my chin, as he lifts my face. Blinking my eyes open, I’m confronted with Gabriel’s intense frown. “There’ve got to be boundaries between us, physical ones. Can you accept that?”

“Yes.” Because despite my confusion and my intentions to protect my heart, I’m in love with him. Afraid to say more without pouring out my feelings, I nod and tell myself it’s enough. Because boundaries are better than absence.

His thumb brushes lightly against my jaw before he reluctantly lets me go. Turning back toward the street, his eyes focus straight ahead as he cautiously asks, “Do you still want me to be your boyfriend?”

I fight against the sob trying to wrench itself from my throat. Exhaling forcefully, I focus on relaxing my muscles enough to whisper. “Yes.”

“Good.” Gabriel threads his fingers through mine and we resume walking. As we move, I glance down at our intertwined hands. I tell myself it’s better than nothing. It has to be enough.

The morning passes uneventfully, but when it’s time to part for Government, I’m reluctant to let him go. Now that I know he’s my Guardian, it bothers me he has History with Naomi instead of Government with me. Stopping in an alcove just short of the classroom door, I grip his entangled hand, pulling him close. Gabriel quirks a brow, first at our joined hands then at what he sees on my face.

“Why don’t you have this class?”

“I can’t be with you all the time.”

Unable to help myself, I roll my eyes at his answer. “Sure you can. That’s your job.”

“It’s not like I don’t have other things to— ” I give my head a small shake causing him to admit sheepishly, “You’re right.
You
are the only thing that matters. But you must learn to stand on your own.” Reaching out, he captures a strand of my hair and twirls it absently around his fingers. “I’m not going to be with you forever… and part of my job is to make sure you’ll be strong enough to continue on your own when I’m no longer needed.”

His honest words are spoken lightly, as if his tone will keep them from tearing my heart. “But, of course, you can’t offer any other details, can you? Like why you’re here or what it all means—anything that could actually help me become stronger.”

“Please Alex, don’t do this now.”

I’m literally in the dark. Perpetually weak and scared—not only of the dark ones but also of losing Gabriel. “Can you, at least, tell me how long we have?”

“Truthfully, Alex, I don’t know.”

And something terrible is going to happen to me—to us.
I nod unable to find my voice. Unfortunately, Mrs. Davis interrupts us, calling me inside as the bell rings. Before letting me go Gabriel’s hand gives mine a quick squeeze. “See you after class.”

In a stupor, I follow Mrs. Davis into Government and take my seat in the center of the second row. As she calls roll I think about why Gabriel has come into my life and the job he must do. Not only is he my protector, he’s been sent to save me from something so massive it requires the intervention of an angel—a Greater Seraph.

Despite my layers of clothing, a chill works its way up my spine, not just because I’m dwelling on some dark, unforeseen future event but because after whatever that is occurs, Gabriel will leave. And I’ll be alone. Again.

Find Derry.
Avoid the darkness until I am no longer a minor. Keep control of my life.
And if I’m stupid enough to fall in love—never admit to it.

Behind me, I hear the classroom door open and close, but I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself to pay much attention. There’s a small commotion in the back of the room. Some snickering and whispering as whoever’s entered shuffles their way toward the front of the class.

I don’t care to eavesdrop, but suddenly, I can’t help it. Needing a distraction from my own bleak train of thought, I listen, figuring out the newcomer’s a stranger to the school.
Whoa, where’d
he
come from? Is he wearing Salvation Army clothes? Did Midlands start a charitable exchange program I haven’t heard about? Maybe he’s some kind of idiot savant? Should we escort him to the Special Ed classroom?

And I feel sorry for the guy, in a vague sort of way. I know what it’s like to be new and alone, the helpless focus of adolescent derision. Kids are cruel. With disgust, I realize I’m anticipating the newcomer passing so I can make my own assessment. Purposefully I turn my head away from the aisle, refusing to stoop to their level.

Still waiting for the boy in question to pass, I close my eyes and feign disinterest. The quiet shuffling stops and I hear a collective gasp. He doesn’t pass me but rather stops in the proximity of my desk. Slowly I turn, willing the unfortunate new student to continue forward. But he’s standing in the aisle, as if waiting for some type of response from me.

The other students are right, of course. His sneakers are shabby, clothes faded and ill-fitting, obviously second-hand. He’s gangly and tall, with close-cropped, military style hair…and one of the brightest, purest saffron halos I’ve ever seen. My jaw drops open in total surprise as the boy beams at me, quite oblivious to the comments swirling around him. Clipped to his too small jacket is a pink MP3 player.

CHAPTER 9