Angel

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 11

 

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m really busy right now. ” Wrenching myself away from his endless eyes, I started to shut the door, but before I knew what was happening, he’d stepped forward, wedging it open with his foot. His hand shot out and grabbed my own.

  The slap of energy was like crashing into a brick wall. My eyes bulged; I couldn’t catch my breath. Images were hurtling past almost faster than I could take them in. White light, spiraling in a flower. People staring in awe, face after face flashing past. A strange world with gleaming towers and robed beings. Wings opening and closing. Someone screaming. Hunger.

  The hunger raged through me, sapping every other emotion. It needed to feed. Needed to. It needed —

  The man dropped my hand, and I sagged limply against the doorjamb, all strength gone from me. I couldn’t speak; I was panting as if I’d just run a mile. “What are you?” I whispered finally.

  He stared at me without speaking, all pretense of friendliness gone. I could feel menace coming off him, but there was fear there, too, curling around it like a snake. Not taking his eyes off me, he wiped his hand off on his shirt. Abruptly, he turned and left, jogging down the front steps. A sleek silver car sat parked beside the curb; he got into it, slammed the door shut, and drove away into the night.

  As the sound of his car faded, I could hear the creaking of crickets, the faint drone of traffic from the highway. My thoughts were in chaos. At first I didn’t move, then belated fear rocked through me and I banged the door shut. My hands trembled as I locked it.

  I rushed back into the living room. Mom was still sitting in the armchair, still looking absently into space. I stood watching her, hugging myself as I tried not to shake. Wishing so much that she’d look up and say, Willow, is everything all right? Tell me all about it, sweetie. How can I help?

  “Who was that?” asked Aunt Jo, glancing up from the TV.

  “No one,” I said faintly. Knowing that it wouldn’t do any good, I dropped to my knees in front of my mother, clutching her hands in mine. “Mom? Are you there?” I said in a low voice.

  Aunt Jo was gaping at me like I’d lost my mind. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Just . . . talking to Mom. ”

  She sniffed. “Well, good luck. I don’t think she’s feeling very talkative tonight. ”

  I didn’t reply as she went into the kitchen. I just kept kneeling in front of my beautiful, broken mother, rubbing her hands between my own. “Mom? Mom, can you hear me? Please?”

  Briefly, her eyes flickered. “Willow?” she murmured.

  “It’s me, Mom. I’m here. ”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. A lock of hair fell across her face, and I smoothed it away, stroking her brow. Soon the soft smile returned to Mom’s lips, and I knew with a sinking heart that she had left again. She was back in her own world, looking at beautiful, mesmerizing things.

  Frustrated, I sank back on my heels, longing for her to really communicate with me. But it would never happen; I would always be the one trying to reach her and never quite succeeding. You’d think I’d be used to it, after so many years. And I was, pretty much — only there were still times like now, when I felt a rush of sorrow and disappointment so strong that it almost knocked me off my feet. Even trying to read her didn’t help, because her mind was so . . . fragmented. Full of rainbows and clouds and snippets of memory. I found it such a depressing experience that I’d only tried it a handful of times.

  God, I hated my father, whoever he’d been. I knew from Aunt Jo that before he appeared on the scene, Mom had been normal. I don’t know what that man did to her, but she was never the same after, she’d told me once. The doctors can say catatonic schizophrenia all they want, but I know the truth. He broke Miranda’s spirit. . . . He broke her mind. One time when I’d tried to read Mom, I’d caught a glimpse of my father in her thoughts, and he’d looked so creepy that the thought of being related to him made me feel sick. At least he’d decided to take off and never be involved with either of us. It was the only good thing he’d ever done, as far as I was concerned.

  Aunt Jo came back in, carrying a plate of cookies. “Willow, you must have eaten half the pack last night,” she said crossly. “You know these are my favorites; you shouldn’t be so selfish. ”

  I let out a breath, still gazing at Mom. “Sorry,” I murmured, getting to my feet. As Aunt Jo turned the volume up, I kissed Mom’s cheek. Then I went upstairs to my bedroom, holding my elbows tightly as I picked my way around the piles of clutter that seemed to breed on the stairs and landing.

  Closing the door behind me, I stared unseeingly at my room — my bed with the swaths of lavender chiffon draped across the bedposts, the purple and silver walls that I’d painted myself. Beth’s angel was real, all right. She must have gone straight to it after she left; she must have told it everything — and then it had come here, looking for me. My thoughts spun like tires on ice. God, who could I tell this to? Who could I go to for help? Nina would just laugh at me. Aunt Jo? Ha.

  OK, calm down. Think this through. I took a deep breath and sat on the bed, forcing myself to go over the mixed-up images that I’d seen in Beth’s second future, trying to remember every last detail. In one of the snippets that had flashed past, this thing had been at the Church of Angels, and then later there’d been others like it.

  Were they really angels?

  My scalp prickled. I rose quickly and went over to my desk to switch on my computer. It’s an old one that I bought with some of my reading money, and it takes forever to warm up. When it had finally finished humming and whirring to itself, I logged on to the Internet. “Church of Angels” brought up millions of hits. I clicked the first link, ChurchofAngels. com, and a state-of-the-art website loaded onto my screen. There was the familiar pearl-white church from the commercials, awash in sunshine. Church of Angels. Hope for the millions . . . including you, said the text underneath it. I grimaced. I know that plenty of people get a lot from religion and that’s great for them, but anything promising “hope for the millions” gives me a pretty bad feeling — and now, after Beth’s reading, it gave me an even worse one.

  I clicked a button at the top that said, FIND OUT MORE. A video panel appeared, loading a Church of Angels commercial. I pushed PLAY, and a gray, rain-beaten field came into view, grass moving slowly with the wind. Do you feel despairing? intoned a voice-over. The camera went into a long shot. A white church appeared in the field, and the camera panned back to reveal hundreds of people weaving up a hill toward it — and now the church looked huge, larger than the mightiest cathedral. The sun came out, dancing brightly on the white stone. The people stopped and gazed upward, smiling, basking in the rays.

  Do you feel that God has forsaken you? Well, have faith . . . for even if there is no God, there ARE angels.

  “The angels saved my life,” a middle-aged woman told the camera, her brown eyes shining with rapture. “They are pure love, and what they’ve done for me, they can do for you, too. ” I felt a twinge of unease. She looked and sounded exactly like Beth.

  Steepling my hands in front of my face, I stared at the monitor. The commercial played so often on TV that I should have been able to recite every word of it. Usually I just tuned it out, but now I listened carefully. When it finished, I hit PLAY and ran it again. It all seemed so slick. So polished.