The Gift of Angels

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Good. Becki’s mother told her today that they’re having another baby. Can you believe it?”

  “Well, Becki is the oldest, and her parents don’t have that many kids.”

  “Yeah, but if it’s a girl, Becki’s going to have to share her room with one of her sisters.”

  “I shared a room my whole life growing up.”

  Marie rolled her eyes. “I know. And you used to walk to school, and you had no computer or cell phones or iPods. I’m glad I wasn’t born back then.” Tossing her head, she stood and returned to her math.

  I arose and walked slowly to the phone to call Dean.

  He picked up immediately. “Are you all right?” he asked, his tone anxious.

  “Yes, but could you bring home something for dinner?”

  “No problem. Is someone there with you?”

  “Marie.” My daughter looked up as I said her name, but her eyes were clouded with concentration. I doubted she even heard me ask Dean to bring food. If she had, she might become suspicious.

  “Good. Get some rest, then. See you in a bit.”

  I hung up the phone, a strange heaviness spreading over my body. “Marie,” I said. “I’m going upstairs to my room. Tell your dad, okay?”

  The staircase had never looked so long, but gripping the railing, I somehow made it up to my room. Marie didn’t notice my tedious progress.

  The next thing I knew, Dean was waking me, a plate of Chinese takeout in his hand. “Hi, sleepyhead. How do you feel?”

  “Fine, great. Well, a little tired.” I smiled. “I’m glad we went to the planetarium yesterday and not today.” I sat up as he put a pillow behind my back. I tried to eat for him, and after a few bites, the food did make my stomach feel better.

  “Want some ice cream?” he asked. “I bought your favorite.”

  “Caramel swirl?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right. Where are the kids?”

  “Downstairs. I got a video.”

  Tenderness swelled in my heart at his thoughtful attention to detail, until he spoiled it by adding, “We need to tell them.”

  “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I could do it.”

  “No.” I shoved my still-heaping plate at him. “I can’t eat any more.”

  His smile this time was fake, but his voice was gentle. “I’ll get your ice cream.”

  If I still had the plate, I would have thrown it at his retreating back. Didn’t he understand that I didn’t want him to be nice? I didn’t want him to have any kind of faith. I wanted him to be as angry and upset and betrayed as I felt.

  Then as suddenly as my anger flared, it vanished, leaving me weak and weepy.

  My eyes were suddenly so heavy, as though weights had been placed on the lids. I let them shut, willing sleep to take me. At least sleeping, I didn’t have to confront the moment. I didn’t have to wonder about the future.

  Sometime later I awoke. The room was dark and still. Dean wasn’t in bed next to me, but I could see the lump of his head as he knelt beside the bed praying. He was there a long time, and I began to breathe lightly and shallowly for fear of disturbing him. At the same time I felt bitter. What good would praying do? Once I wouldn’t have dared question the power of prayer, but now my life hung in the balance. Everything was different.

  Dean believed. Or was he simply going through the motions as I had begun doing?

  I wished I could pray with faith. Maybe then I could understand what the Lord was doing to me.

  Chapter Six

  “Honey, it’s time.” Dean’s voice came to me from far away.

  I opened my eyes and nodded, seeing that morning had already arrived.

  “How are you?”

  I wish he’d stop asking me that. “Fine.”

  “You can stay here. I’ll read scriptures with the kids.”

  “No, I want to say goodbye.” The day wouldn’t be the same if I couldn’t hug them as I always did before they left for school.

  I could barely get out of bed, and each step required my full focus. They’d warned me this might happen after a chemo treatment, but I had felt so good yesterday, aside from being tired last night, that this overwhelming weakness and exhaustion came as a shock.

  I let Dean help me down the stairs to the family room where Brody was waiting with his scriptures. Marie was in the bathroom but emerged as we passed and followed us to the couch. Neither child noticed I was leaning on Dean. Why were my legs so heavy?

  Dean opened the window blinds so we had more light to read by. I was surprised to see rain outside, the moisture dripping silently down the window and the railings of our redwood deck. Like tears that dripped soundlessly down a human face.

  I dozed on and off through scripture study, awaking only when Dean nudged me and pointed to the scripture I was supposed to read. After prayer, Brody left for the high school while Marie made her last dash to the bathroom to fix her hair for what was probably the tenth time that morning, and to make sure all her blemishes were adequately covered with makeup.

  “Hurry up, Marie!” Frustration crept into Dean’s voice. He always dropped her off at the junior high on his way to work but hated waiting while she primped. “We need to go.”

  Marie emerged from the bathroom. “Mom,” she said, scooping up several books and a folder, “could you take me to use one of those coupons I got for student of the month when you pick me up?”

  Dean answered for me. “She’s not picking you up today. You can walk. Your mother’s not feeling well.”

  “But it’s all rainy and cold.” Marie pointed to the gray world beyond the window. “I don’t want to walk home in that. I don’t have a coat.”

  “What about that jacket I bought you?” I asked, rallying my strength.

  “I can’t find it.”

  “Again?” That explained why she was wearing only a snug, thin shirt with tiny capped sleeves. All the girls wore these, but on cold days most put sweaters or jackets on top.

  Marie shrugged, avoiding my gaze, and I knew she must have looked for the jacket without success.

  “You can wear mine.” I had a new one that would look great on her.

  She pursed her lips. “Uh—no. I’d rather freeze.”

  Kindness incarnate was not my daughter.

  Marie saw my face and added quickly. “I mean thanks, but I’ll be fine, really. Your jacket’s nice, but it’s not my style.” That meant no one wore jackets like mine in the ninth grade. I wasn’t offended. Who wanted to look like a ninth-grader?

  “I’m sure I’ll be able to pick her up,” I told Dean. “I was just a little tired when I woke up. I’m fine now.”

  Dean studied me doubtfully, but he didn’t challenge my words, as I knew he wouldn’t. “Let’s go,” he said at last to Marie. He leaned down and planted a fleeting kiss on my mouth, and I caught the familiar scent of his aftershave. Even as little as five weeks ago, I would have put my arms around his neck and insisted on a real kiss, but I felt too self-conscious now, as though the cancer inside had irreparably changed who I had been before, turning me from a whole and valid person into something . . . well, something less.

  Marie started for the door, then gasped. “I forgot my gym clothes!” Throwing her armload to the couch, she raced upstairs to her room.

  Dean sighed. “That girl is going to be the death of me.” Then, as if realizing what he’d said, his face crumpled. I sat on the couch looking up at him, and he stood staring down at me. There was so much to say, but not enough words in any language we knew. I looked away first.

  Marie ran into the family room and scooped up her books and folder. Dean bent down to kiss me again. “Call me if you need me,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ll try to be home early.”

  “Bye, Mom!” Marie tossed over her shoulder as she hurried out the door.

  All at once I was alone. This was the time of the day that I usually lingered over breakfast an
d the newspaper. Often I’d written down ideas for my restaurant. I’d wanted an open-fire grill where whole chickens basted right behind the counter in plain view of the customer. I’d tasted such savory chicken in Boston once and had asked for the recipe from the Portuguese cook, who’d been flattered enough to give it to me. In my restaurant I’d also planned to offer homemade potato chips, salad, and European pastries that would please the eyes as much as the palate. There would be a section of the restaurant to eat in if you were in the mood to socialize, but takeout would be the norm. Though we lived in Lindon, I had my eye on a place in downtown Pleasant Grove that I thought would be the perfect location. I wouldn’t worry about having a variety but would focus on simple, solid, tasty food that would keep people coming back at least once a week. In the summer, maybe people would eat in the park down the street, or I could set a table or two out on the sidewalk.

  Today I didn’t want to think about the restaurant. I fixed myself dry toast and lay down on the couch. The scriptures Marie had left on the cushion were digging into the back of my shoulders, but I was too tired to care. Maybe if I took a nap, I’d get my strength back.

  Sleep wouldn’t come. I felt helpless, lying there with heavy limbs and no chance of escape. So this was chemotherapy. Even now, the drugs—poisons, really—were in my veins, coursing through my entire body. I hoped it found the cancer before it destroyed something more vital.

  Shivering, I made a great effort to turn over. How could something that was always so easy suddenly become so difficult?

  My gaze landed on Marie’s scriptures. Without volition, my eyes took in the words of Mosiah 27:11.

  Another angel. If I’d had enough energy, I would have thrown the book across the room, hopefully breaking something in the process. Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut.

  I walked through the fields, enjoying the lush landscape around me despite the heat beating down overhead and the humidity that made my skin shine. The harvest would be good this year, and after all the work and prayers we’d put into the fields, we deserved the bounty. The Lord had blessed us greatly.

  Again I carried a water jar, presumably for those in the fields. But it was empty, and my tunic and thin mantel were drenched as though I had spilled some of the water—perhaps not so accidentally, given the heat.

  I was leaving the fields when I saw them. Four youth in bright clothing—reds and even purple were prominent, and I knew from my Book of Mormon studies that I was in the presence of royalty.

  They didn’t speak like royalty. They were cursing and laughing coarsely about some wrong they had done.

  I shuddered, realizing I might not be safe if I met these boys on this hard-packed dirt road alone. I searched for a place to hide.

  The bright cloud appeared suddenly, but for me not unexpectedly.

  An angel spoke from the cloud, his voice thunderous. The ground shook with the sound, and I fell to the ground. The boys also fell, their faces frozen in shock. I couldn’t decipher the angel’s words, but I knew they were glorious.

  “Look at me,” I whispered. “Heal me.”

  The angel spoke again, and one of the youths stood clumsily, after several failed attempts. I knew he was Alma the Younger being chastised for persecuting the Church.

  I listened harder. Maybe there was a message for me. My heart yearned to understand.

  The angel continued, and this time I understood. “Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers of his people, and also the prayers of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth; therefore, for this purpose have I come to convince thee of the power and authority of God, that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith.”

  Faith. I’d had faith all my life, or so I thought, but now it was gone. All gone.

  Yet because of prayer, Alma and the sons of Mosiah had become powerful men of God. They would save thousands of souls.

  I opened my eyes. At least Alma the Elder had a problem child, too, I thought.

  This witness of the power of prayer reminded me of Dean on his knees last night. There had been a time when we would have prayed together, but I couldn’t pray with him anymore. I’d gone to bed early or later—anything to avoid that intimacy. I didn’t want to hear him praying for me. It was one thing if my prayers went unanswered, but I couldn’t bear to hear Dean pleading in vain.

  Tears wet my face. There were no sobs or heaving of shoulders that usually mark a bout of crying. Rather, the tears silently angled sideways down my face as I lay there, like the rain I’d witnessed earlier. Like blood seeping from a wound.

  I’d fallen to my lowest low ever, and what frightened me more was that I knew this was only the beginning—either the beginning of my escape from death or the beginning of that death. Unfortunately, the statistics didn’t hold out much hope for escape.

  There was no sound but the drizzling rain as I bled tears and thought about my lost life. About Alma the Elder praying for his son.

  I didn’t want my children to lose their mother. Could I pray at least for them?

  I must have slept, but I awoke sometime later with my stomach growling. I gathered enough strength to roll over and managed to get to my feet. Slowly, I walked to the kitchen to get myself some bread and maybe a glass of milk. The phone rang on my return trip to the couch.

  I made a detour to pick it up. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Dean said.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “How are you?”

  I sank to a kitchen chair, bracing myself on the table. “I’m about to have lunch.”

  “You need help?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m tired, but there’s not a lot of pain or anything.” Yet, I added to myself.

  “Good. I’m showing a few houses to a couple right now, but I could send someone over with lunch. Or I could come after I finish.”

  “No, stay. I have food here. After I eat, I’ll go back to sleep.”

  “Okay, I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  We hung up, and I methodically ate two pieces of bread and drank my glass of milk. No sooner had I swallowed the last bit, did the nausea return in force. I heaved, clapping my hand over my mouth, barely making it to the bathroom to throw up. Again and again I heaved, and still heaved long after there was nothing left to come. I sat braced against the wall until I was able to make my way unsteadily back to the couch. I took the bread sack with me and, after lying down, ate a half a piece, much more slowly than before. My limbs were heavier now, and my eyes drooped. The nausea was worse than the growling of my empty stomach, so I decided to rest and try eating later.

  The answering machine woke me. “Angela? It’s me, Shirley. Are you all right? Please give me a call. I’m at home if you need anything.”

  I couldn’t get up. A short time later the doorbell rang, but I didn’t even try to leave the couch. I reread the scriptures in Mosiah instead. I felt a little like Alma the Younger after he’d fallen. My limbs refused to obey me, and my whole body was beginning to ache. Maybe if I slept a little more.

  “Mom,” Marie’s voice came from far away. “Where are you? I thought you were going to pick me up. It’s pouring rain out there. I’m freezing and my books will get all wet. Mom? Did you forget about me? Mom?” The answering machine clicked off.

  I blinked. How had the time flown so quickly? I had to get Marie! I turned, managing to roll off the couch again, but instead of rising I fell to the floor, and that was where I stayed. Hurt exploded through my senses, more an all-encompassing unwellness than any specific pain. The journey to the door seemed like miles, and I didn’t even know where I’d left my car keys. I began crawling to the phone to call Dean, but a strong bout of nausea stopped my halting progress. I sobbed at my helplessness.

  Marie would have to walk—alone, in the rain, and in the premature dark that was already falling outside.

  Please watch over
my daughter, I prayed.

  How easy it was to pray for someone else, especially when it was such a simple thing. Marie didn’t need an angel or anything. She would be drenched, feel angry, and maybe catch a cold, but she would survive.

  A short time later, I heard the garage door opening. I was still on the floor but pulled myself onto the couch seconds before the door opened.

  “Mom!” Marie burst into the house. She wasn’t wet or shivering. “You’re here? How come you didn’t pick up the phone?”

  I turned to her weakly. “I got sick. I threw up.”

  Marie frowned. “I guess it’s a good thing Sister Jefferson showed up.”

  It was then I saw Shirley behind my daughter. She was still outside in the garage, which was why I hadn’t noticed her before, but she came inside now, smiling tentatively. “I just happened by the school,” she explained, “and I knew you weren’t feeling that great yesterday, so I thought I’d give Marie a ride.”

  Shirley had no reason to be near the junior high. The school was out of the way, and her last child was already in high school.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I’m sorry you’re sick, Mom, but at least that explains why you went to sleep so early last night.” Marie started across the room. “I’d better get my math done before Mutual. We’re having it early tonight. First I want to change.”

  Early? I didn’t even have dinner ready—and wouldn’t by the looks of things.

  As Marie left to go upstairs to her room, Shirley came over to the couch. “I tried to call earlier,” she said.

  “I couldn’t get to the phone. I’ve been sick.”

  “I thought as much. My father would stay in bed for two days after his”—she glanced behind her at the open railing to the second floor, but Marie was nowhere to be seen—“chemo treatments. Look, I’m bringing dinner, and nothing you can say will stop me. I made enough casserole for half the block.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Dean’ll be home soon.”

  “He should be home now.” Her voice was clipped. “And if he won’t be, I will. Angela, you can’t do this alone.”

  “I don’t want to do it at all!” My chest started heaving, and I knew I was going to either throw up or cry. I hated Shirley at that moment. I hated everyone. I wanted to die and get it over with. What was the use of even trying? I was going to die anyway.