Loreena's Gift

by Colleen M. Story

  Isn’t that Loreena? She was kidnapped, the paper said. Held for weeks! And I heard her brother was shot. It’s so sad, isn’t it?

  Loreena kept to the piano keys, touching them lightly as if practicing a song. She wasn’t ready to talk to any of them. It took her uncle’s cajoling to convince her to play. She shifted her hips on the bench, and then lifted it up underneath her and moved it back an inch or two. A cushion would be nice. Perhaps her uncle might get her one, if she asked. Things had finally calmed down enough that she could tend to smaller concerns. Until now, they had been busy with funeral arrangements and filling in details for Shawn’s final report, which left little time for anything else.

  Placing her hands on the keyboard once again, she inhaled and tried to focus. The voices behind her were getting louder. It was almost time for the service to start. The church needed music to radiate the usual Sunday morning welcome. Pressing down carefully, she played the middle D, and then the G. Her left hand joined in with the appropriate accompanying chords. What followed was a standard hymn she had played many times before, something that after a few notes she knew she could do without embarrassing herself. When it was over, she put on her gloves, retreated to the first pew, and sat down beside Dominic, taking his arm and pressing in close to his shoulder. He wore a suit, the jacket crisp and made of a heavy material. There was something about the thought of him all dressed up that made her wish more than usual that she could see him. Instead she had to be satisfied with the feel of the crisp cotton cuffs on his wrists, the slick tie, the triangular shape of the lapels, and most of all the lively, clean scent that lived around his neck.

  Her uncle performed the service. It was his first since they’d returned, so Harold had stayed to assist. The older man did the opening prayer and hymn and welcomed new members and visitors, of which there seemed to be more than usual that day, townspeople curious about the stories in the paper, Loreena guessed. She listened to the voices talking low in the pews and heard the ushers pulling out folding chairs to seat more people in the back.

  After the opening hymn, her playing fingers returned, and she slipped into her musical routine more easily than she’d expected. When it came time for the sermon, she rejoined Dominic in the front pew. Reverend Don walked to the podium and started with his usual opening prayer, his voice heavy in contrast to Harold’s uplifting tone. When he finished, he paused for a long moment, so long Loreena leaned closer to Dominic, her frown betraying her concern.

  “He’s just thinking, I think?” he whispered.

  She had expected her uncle would open with a quote from the Bible, as he always did, and then shuffle his papers and start with a story to draw the listeners in, but instead he cleared his throat, twice, and then addressed them all directly, his words careful and measured, as if he hadn’t planned what to say at all.

  “My friends, guests, members of the church. It’s that time of year again, that most important time of year.” He paused, his robe rustling. “You’re all thinking about it—the costumes, trick-or-treating, witches, jack-o’-lanterns, haunted houses. I know I am.”

  The members chuckled.

  “Yes, it’s that time of year, when we acknowledge those things in this world and maybe in others that we fear, and come to face our fears together in the spirit of fun and laughter. I hope this church has served and will continue to serve as a place where you can lay your fears to rest, where you can feel safe and know that you are loved.”

  A couple of the members called out an “Amen.”

  “But I’m also aware, more keenly today than ever before, that our fears are real, and that we have reason to fear. There are others in this world who would seek to harm us and those closest to us. There is evil, even if we don’t want to see it. This evil shows itself not only in violence, though there is violence, and in death, though there is death, but in other ways, more subtle ways—in that irritation you may feel toward a rebellious teenager, or that unkind word you may say to someone you love. It appears in the impatience we show our family members, in the way we sometimes turn our backs on them when they need us most.”

  He paused again. Loreena had leaned forward and now sat on the edge of the pew. It wasn’t your fault, she wanted to tell him. Saul didn’t blame you.

  “We know about these things. We can sit here today and say, yes, I’ve done that, and I’m sorry, and I’ll do better tomorrow. But rarely do we catch ourselves in the moment. Always we see the evil out there, in the other person, the other community, in the Devil himself, when it is often right here inside us, a reflection of our own fears.

  “So we have the magic of Halloween, that one night we try to deal with these things in the best way we know how. We wear masks and visit haunted houses and watch scary movies and try to face at least some of the fears we have inside, our fear of others, yes, and of loss, and of death, but fears we have of ourselves as well, of what we’re capable of, of how often we come up short.”

  He paused again, but there was no shuffling of papers, no turning of Bible pages. Loreena imagined him there at the podium, alone, with nothing to hold in his hands. She had never seen him give a sermon that way. Always he’d had his notes, his verses to rely on.

  “I know a young man who loved haunted houses,” Uncle Don continued. “He actually wanted to have one here in the church, if you can imagine. Asked me year after year if we couldn’t decorate these walls and hang dark drapes and make a narrow path through which the members would travel with trepidation.”

  The crowd murmured. Two women behind Loreena whispered together. A haunted house, in a church?

  “Of course, I told him this was a sanctuary, a place people come to feel safe, not frightened, a place where they’ll always be welcomed with warm music and soft lights and what I hope are comforting words, and most of all with God’s presence. But you know, today…” He cleared his throat again and took a drink of water. Loreena could imagine the glass there, on the podium, the one he always kept at his right hand, but rarely had she heard him use it. He set it back down. Paused. Loreena turned to Dominic. He laid his hand over hers.

  “I’m wishing I had said yes to that young man,” Uncle Don said. “What would he have come up with? What memories might live here now, had I agreed? Would I hear the echo of his laughter as I walk down the hall? Maybe relive the memory of a curdling scream or two, from one of you?”

  The members chuckled again.

  “Would I run across a stray balloon in the basement or a piece of black and orange crepe paper over the doorway? Capes and masks left behind in the back room? A stray poster advertising the event in the flowerbed near the front door? Would there be some other sign that he was here, that he brought this creative idea to our church? Some remnant of his spirit still around for us to see, to feel? It’s just a building, after all.” He raised his hands, his robe rustling. “A beautiful building, yes, but a building. Wood and nails and insulation and wires. Sometimes leaky faucets. Squeaky doors.”

  Dominic put his arm around Loreena’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “I forget that sometimes, you know. I get all wrapped up in thinking I know what God wants, that he wants this to be a holy place—the carpets vacuumed, the wood dusted, the dishes put away, the walls clean, without spider webs, even fake ones. What happens here, though. It’s up to us, isn’t it? It’s our church. It’s not my church.” He paused and let his hands come down. “I never asked you if you might like a haunted house, if not in the sanctuary, then in the basement, or through the halls. I never asked because I never stopped to consider my own fears about it, my own closed doors, my own shortcomings.”

  He cleared his throat again and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. “Today, I ask you to reconsider what you’re saying ‘no’ to. Maybe it’s time to say ‘yes.’ Maybe it’s time to look in the mirror and see where your fears are getting in the way. Where have you turned your back, that you might reach out a hand instead? Where have you resisted when you’d be better off surre
ndering? Maybe it’s time to get a little messy, rearrange things, make another good memory. We don’t get nearly enough of them, do we? Not nearly enough…before there are no more.”

  There had been times Loreena had stood in the church when it was empty, when all the members had left, the offering plates returned to their shelves, the basement cleared, the cover pulled over the piano keys. In those times she had stood in the center aisle and listened to the air that breathed between the tall windows and the high ceilings and the double doors and the red carpet, the air that rested on the backs of the pews and the surface of the organ pipes and the giant cross that hung over the sanctuary. In those times she had stood and listened to the silence, the bone-deep silence that was so complete she could hear her own breath between her ears, but nothing more. It was that silence that took over the church in that moment. No one moved, coughed, snuffled, or shifted. They all knew who Uncle Don was talking about, knew who he had lost, and how. They waited, barely breathing.

  He didn’t speak again for a long while. Loreena had almost gotten up to go to the organ when she heard the toe of his boot hit the podium. “It’s only a few days before Halloween,” he said finally. “If you’d like to do something to celebrate, whether it be a haunted house or something else, Mrs. Whitmore has agreed to help organize it. Please talk to her after the service is completed.”

  Loreena raised her eyebrows. She could almost hear Mrs. Enger protesting from where she sat on the far right of the first row.

  “Let us pray.”

  It was her cue. She took her seat at the bench, removed her gloves, and played something familiar, something she usually played during the offering. The ushers passed the plates behind her. Her uncle left the podium and sat in his chair to her right. By the time she finished, Harold had come forward. He said the offering prayer, and then eagerly swung into the church announcements, listing them off with his usual flair—who was feeling better and who was down with the flu, who was leaving town and who needed help moving. He alerted them all to the bake sale, graciously organized by Mrs. Enger, and then slowed down for his last announcement. There was to be a new scholarship, he said, a prize for one special young man to spend on a project of his choosing. It was to be called the Saul Picket Scholarship, the student and his project to be selected after review of applications by the church board. Leave your donations in the box at the door, he told them, and please, my friends, be generous. We must encourage our young people.

  Loreena was glad she was at the keys, her back to the congregation. That way they couldn’t see her face when the announcement was made. When at last it came time for the final hymn, she chose one with a more moderate pace than usual, something to fit the tone of the service but that still guided the members out with an uplifting melody. When she could no longer hear their voices in the sanctuary, she cut the chorus off short, played a satisfying ending cadence, and hurried back to Dominic’s side.

  Between the sanctuary and the basement she got herself together and accepted the members’ greetings and well wishes as best she could, nodding, smiling, and thanking them for their concern. Most were polite and said they were glad she was back and were sorry for her loss. Others spoke about how nice it was that the church had established a scholarship in her brother’s name. Some were more intrusive, asking too many questions, and that’s when Dominic would claim to see someone else in the distance they must talk to, and whisk her away.

  She expected her uncle to stay and mingle like he usually did, but as she and Dominic made their way to the door, she felt someone take her arm.

  “Get changed,” her uncle said. “We’re going to lunch.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—”

  “Harold’s taking care of it. I’ll meet you at the house.”

  He let go and disappeared back into the crowd.

  “Reverend?” Mrs. Enger called from across the room. “Before you go—”

  “Tomorrow!” her uncle said.

  “But I don’t think Mrs. Whitmore—”

  “Tomorrow!”

  The door to his back office made a satisfying thud as it closed.

  ________

  Loreena thumbed through the clothes in her closet. It was comforting to her, each time, the feel of the familiar fabrics, the fresh scent of the laundry detergent she used. Whenever she had to change she took longer than she needed to, lingering, sometimes just standing there breathing it in, reminding herself she was home.

  She had joined Dominic at the dining room table when Uncle Don poked his head in the door. He’d warm up the truck, he said.

  “Aren’t you going to change?” Loreena asked.

  “It’ll take too long. Let’s just go.” Stepping out again, he hollered back at them, “Dress warm. It’s snowing!”

  Snowing? Loreena turned toward Dominic.

  “Do you have a warm coat?” he asked.

  She smiled, hurrying upstairs to get the new one her uncle had bought.

  Outside, the snow fell in heavy flakes, landing like cold feathers on their skin. Gloves on, Loreena held Dominic’s hand tightly in hers. The air pinched her nose and the tips of her ears, and again she felt that familiar pain just behind her ribs, the one that reminded her how much she wished she could see the falling powder floating down upon the church and the sun winking through the clouds, how much she wished Saul were there to describe it all in his unique way.

  “It feels like we’re standing in some exotic European town,” Dominic said.

  Loreena smiled. “Tell me more.”

  “Okay. Let’s see. The bell tower over there, it’s glistening in the sun. The roof’s completely covered already, and the lawn is dusted, going from green to white.” He paused, turning a little to the right. “In the distance there, the town looks still, as if it were frozen in a Christmas photograph, a foggy yellow light like warm butterscotch syrup over all the houses and stores, the cars and trucks spouting steamy exhaust while they wait at the three stoplights on Main Street.”

  Was it coincidence he had mentioned her mother’s favorite candy? Tilting her head back, she let the snowflakes fall on her face.

  “And there, to the far right,” Dominic said, “those distant hills look like the ones you’d see in a children’s book, the evergreens sprinkled with snow and the ground a smooth white, just waiting for one of those nose-eating bunnies to go hopping across in pursuit of its prey.”

  Loreena laughed and lowered her head, her skin cold and wet. “I’d forgotten about them.”

  He ducked close to her ear. “They’re always out there, waiting, watching.”

  She laughed again, and then took a deep breath, holding the clear air in her lungs. “Thank you. I can see it now.”

  They lingered on the porch, listening. The snow muted everything, yet some sounds came through clearer and louder than usual, like a car door closing in the parking lot beyond, and the lingering voices exchanging the goodwill of Sundays. A little child laughed and squealed as if she were flying through the air. And then a new sound, one Loreena hadn’t heard in over three years. She let go of Dominic’s hand and jerked her head toward the church. At first, she couldn’t be certain, but then it struck again. A wide smile spread across her face.

  “The bell!” she said.

  The church bell rang out the noon hour, its resounding concert E a powerful vibration at the base of the spine.

  “He got it fixed!” She grabbed Dominic’s arm with both hands. “It was broken before. He got it fixed!”

  The bell sounded again, each strike a broad pulse into the cold, crisp air, a welcome signal calling all travelers home. Listening, Loreena felt as if every person in the town of Stillwater had stopped and turned toward the crest of Mary Hill Lane.

  “The clapper,” she said. “He must have had it replaced.” Her eyes burned and she blinked them rapidly, descending the stairs to get clear of the house and better position her ears to capture every one of the pure tones.
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  “He’s waving at us,” Dominic said.

  Loreena smiled and waved back, and then pointed toward the bell tower and smiled again. She listened to the final three rings, the vibrations fast and then slower as they rippled out toward the mountain peaks. Finally, the air settled. The town breathed and moved again. She waited until she could hear no lingering trace of the final strike, and then walked with Dominic over the rounded stones. The shadows seemed brighter than before, the day a little warmer, but when they had almost reached her uncle’s truck, Loreena slowed and unhitched herself from Dominic’s side.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Drifting across the lawn, her winter boots crunching the new snow, she left the cleared walkway behind. Hand out in front of her, she sought the statue of the angel. She wanted to touch it, to feel the solidness of the marble once again.

  Haley’s arms extended outward in welcome, her robes long over her elbows. Loreena took off her gloves, stuffed them in her pockets, and touched the statue barehanded. It felt cold and wet, the snow clinging to the stone as if attracted by static, melting at her touch. Standing on tiptoe, she lifted her fingers to the face. Her thumbs parallel, she felt again the heart-shaped lips, closed, but pursed just a little, the length of the delicate nose, and finally, the eyes. Tracing the oval shapes, she renewed her familiarity with them, the eyes she’d always felt were similar to hers, unseeing and ghostly.

  Dominic came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  Loreena settled back on her heels. “All this time, I’ve thought my eyes were like hers.”