by Luanne Rice
And maybe to Catherine. The thought flashed through Christy’s mind, a meteor shooting so fast, he nearly missed it. She’d looked over his son this past year. The thought came, then burned away.
At one point the roadway was so jammed with emergency personnel, Rip couldn’t get by. He flipped on his siren—a quick whoop—and tried to wave people out of the way. Christy didn’t wait.
He opened the back door and jumped out. Rip yelled after him, “Christy, hang on, don’t go in there!”
Christy didn’t even hear. He was running as fast as he could, tearing through the crowd. The action seemed most intense off to the right, so he veered that way, off the path. Bare tree branches scraped his face. He clomped through deep snow, snagged his coat on a gorse thicket. Red and blue light strobed through the trees, painting the snow. With so many people around, there was a strange hush. No one was talking. They wouldn’t—they were attending the death of a boy.
Christy’s heart hammered. He wanted to get to Danny, hold him one more time. He smelled pine sap and wet bark. It felt like home here. The snow was so deep, it came over the tops of his boots. Who would ever guess this was the middle of New York City? Leave it to his son to find nature.
Leave it to his son to find the best things anywhere. Danny had found this park: wide open spaces, a city forest, owls calling from the treetops. Danny had found the things he’d needed to survive this year without his family. Catherine. She’d kept him going till now.
Christy’s chest tightened. He smashed his way through the snow, saw the castle looming up ahead, circled around to where he saw the emergency workers congregated. The castle was built high on a massive cliff, right by a pond, so divers stood on the bank, awaiting orders to take over for the ones already under water. The police had formed a perimeter—he saw yellow tape and a line of officers. Christy didn’t stop, didn’t even pause, just shouldered his way through.
A cop laid hands on him. Christy shook him off like a mosquito in the woods. He saw the pile of snow up ahead. Workers were digging with shovels and picks. Christy clambered down the rock, then up the snow-hill, brushing people aside. A pair of police ran up after him, grabbed him from behind, and Christy just wrenched himself free.
Rip shouted out—Christy registered the familiar voice, but he was beyond hearing. He made it to the top of the snow heap, looked down. There had been a hole, but the sides had caved in on itself, smothering whoever was inside. Traces of blood smeared the snow.
Danny’s blood.
Other people were shouting to get Christy away, but the louder they yelled, the quieter he felt.
When Christy Byrne started digging for his son’s body, he was as silent as the forest itself. As silent as the hillside where he grew trees and raised his children, overlooking the cold northern bays, dazzled by the aurora borealis. As silent as all that.
Christy dug.
The church was cold.
St. Lucy’s was not a rich parish, and the pastor tried to save money by not turning the heat up except during mass. The air was thick with incense and made Catherine cough. She knelt in front of the candles. Her face and clasped hands felt warm from the flames. Even so, she was shivering.
This felt so strange. To be drawn back to a place that had once meant so much to her. The very air had once felt charged with hope, with the belief that miracles happened every day. Catherine had led a blessed life. She had had parents who loved her, a best friend who was just like a sister, and one true love. Brian.
During their marriage he had gotten her to work at St. Lucy’s, giving up big segments of her time for the hungry and poor. She would kneel in this church with Brian, and she would know that their love was so huge it could change lives, help people. The rose window would crackle with colored light; the smell of incense would make her swoon. Catherine would feel wildly alive with faith and love.
Now the church was just a building.
A cold building at that. Catherine glanced around: four walls, brightly colored stained glass windows, a white dove high above the marble altar. These candles, and this statue of Saint Lucy. The smell of incense mixed with the candle smoke. She peered through the haze. Why had Catherine wasted the time coming here? Someone else she loved had died. Danny.
“Why?” she whispered.
Nothing but silence. What had she expected?
“I tried to help him. I tried to do what you wanted. You always said we had so much… . That we had to give back.”
The organist had stopped playing, slipped out behind Catherine. She felt the chill as the heavy church door opened and closed. The incense was so strong. Catherine had never smelled it like this before. Gifts of the Magi, she thought. As children, she and Lizzie had loved the words of Matthew 2:11: “And entering the house, they found the child with Mary his mother, and falling down they adored him: and opening their treasures, they offered him gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”
Frankincense for the baby, for the family.
The candle flames flickered. She blinked, staring at the sparkling red votives. She thought of gifts … something to give, for Danny, for Christmas, for help. A gift for the family … Digging in her pocketbook, she pulled out her wallet. There it was, her picture of Brian. Propping the photo up against the statue of Saint Lucy, she stared at it. She blinked away smoke, and her eyes teared up.
“He was so alone,” she whispered. “Only seventeen, alone in New York City. He never asked for help; we had to nearly force him to take it. He turned seventeen here, not even two months ago. His family loved him, missed him so much. They never got to say good-bye. At least I got to say good-bye to you.”
The breeze came again, stronger this time. Catherine’s hair blew into her face, brushed across her tears. “You promised you’d never leave. I’ve looked for you every Christmas. I’ve waited for you in our house, up in the attic … Brian …”
You were waiting in the wrong place.
Catherine wheeled around. She heard the words, as clearly as if Brian himself had spoken them. Surely, it was his voice. She sprang up, followed it toward the altar. Here the air was so thick, she could hardly see through the fragrant smoke of the Magi’s gift, the incense. The psalm came back to her, “I have cried to Thee, O Lord, hear me: hearken to my voice, when I cry to Thee. Let my prayer be directed as incense in Thy sight; the lifting up of my hands, as evening sacrifice.”
“Please, please,” she prayed.
The incense burned in a bronze thurible, suspended by chains beside the main altar, above the crèche. She held her breath, blinking away the smoke. Her husband was standing there, shimmering behind the haze, reaching out his hand. Shocked, she couldn’t move. He smiled at her with endless, eternal love—such depth of love in his warm green eyes that she felt ashamed for ever doubting.
“Brian,” she whispered. “Oh, my God, it’s you!” she said, reaching toward him, wanting to touch his cheek. But she stopped just short. Was he there? Was this a dream? She blinked, trying to see through the veil of smoke.
“Help me tonight,” she begged. “Danny’s in such danger. Please, for Christmas, you always said you’d be here. Come tonight, Brian. We need you!”
She saw a dazzling brightness standing beside the crèche. His eyes, his smile … the smoky haze made her doubt her own vision. For although Brian was right there, he seemed almost to shimmer, as if he were made of fog.
“It’s you, it has to be,” she whispered. “Because I need your help. Tonight, of all nights, Brian. You taught me to see what others need. There’s a boy and his family, suffering so … Brian, what can I do?”
I can’t tell you, she heard. I can only show you.
His image wavered, disappeared, as it had so many times during these last years, when she had seen him in the mist, in the snow, in her dreams.
“Oh, please,” she cried. “Don’t go!”
Someone touched her hand then, and she felt a shock pass through her body—it rattled her bones, and although it was extrem
e, it didn’t hurt. When it stopped, she looked down at herself. She was like a shadow, like Brian. She was vapor. And then, just as suddenly, she was solid again. The incense was playing a trick on her eyes. But suddenly she knew for sure, without any doubt, that Brian was with her.
She felt shaken, but she wasn’t scared. Waves of love passed through her. A cold blast of air blew through the church, clearing the incense. When the smoke dissipated, she followed the wind out the back door, into the night. The wind blew across Tenth Avenue, and she ran after it.
“There’s not time,” she called. “Danny needs us now.”
But the wind ignored her, blowing harder, faster, making the snow swirl on the sidewalk just ahead of her footsteps.
On Twentieth Street, Catherine felt a swoop of vertigo, and she clutched for something to hold on to—a ginkgo tree growing out of the sidewalk, the iron rail of her neighbor’s yard. Her heart pounded, and she knew she was following Brian. His ghost was here tonight, leading her where she had to go.
As always at Christmas, her street seemed shrouded in mist. Catherine peered through it, seeing spirits in the air. An arm slid around her waist, leading her to her own front steps. She gasped, and when she dared breathe and glance over, she saw a flash of wings. Spectacular white feathered wings, just like an archangel’s.
Hands shaking, she unlocked her door. The wind swirled through her front door, scattering mail and the morning paper. It blew upstairs, and she followed it, all four stories, into the attic. Her mind raced with everything he had missed since they’d parted, all the things she wanted to tell him.
“Three years I waited for you here,” she said, flying into the room. It was so cold. She had turned the heat down, and her breath came out in clouds. He wasn’t here. She’d been imagining … but as she wheeled around, she caught sight of him in the cheval glass in the corner. His shape glowed. Catherine gasped, walking closer.
She saw her husband’s reflection, shimmering in the glass.
“Brian,” she said. “Please … talk to me. You couldn’t come to me here … you said this was the wrong place?”
I brought you back here tonight because this is where we loved each other, she heard.
“We did,” she breathed, trying to touch his face in the glass. “You knew how much I wanted to live here; you bought this house for me. We filled it with our love for each other.” She gestured at all the framed pictures—of their wedding, their honeymoon in Paris, Lucy’s christening, museum galas, wearing aprons at the soup kitchen, decorating their last Christmas tree together.
And for the last three years, until this season, you’ve filled it with your sadness.
Catherine’s heart beat faster, and she tried to touch his face in the glass. The reflection shimmered under her fingers. She welled up, trying to get his face to come into clearer focus. “I’ve missed you so much,” she said.
Catherine felt the tears running down her cheeks. The mist began to thicken again as she gazed into the glass. She felt amazing peace and steadiness, and began to feel calm. She had wanted help for Danny, but suddenly she knew that first she and Brian had to say good-bye.
She reached toward the mottled glass—and stars sparked when her fingers touched. She closed her eyes, pressing her cheek against the cold surface.
“We’ve had three years to get ready for this,” she whispered. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Tonight is our time to say good-bye. Really good-bye, so that I can move on in life. And you can … move on in death. I love you, Brian.”
I’ll always love you, Catherine. Love never dies. The voice was real. Catherine felt the warmth of his skin, the strength of his arms. Her body swayed. Had time stood still, or had it evaporated? Had any of the last hour really happened? She cried, holding on tight. If she didn’t let him go—if this time she held on forever … She felt their hearts beating together, and something inside her chest released. She felt as if doves had flown out of her body, filling the room with their wing beats.
“Brian,” she cried out. “Help me find a way to help Danny …”
You know what to do, she heard.
She closed her eyes. In her mind, she saw it all. He held out his hand, and she took it. He spread his wings, and she wasn’t afraid. She had a vision: they flew out the small attic window, over the darkened seminary heath, the former farmland where Clement Clarke Moore had penned his Christmas poem. They circled over Christy’s abandoned tree stand, through Chelsea, over the avenues and buildings of midtown, through the red-and-green glow of the Empire State Building, all the way to Central Park.
When she opened her eyes, she was still in the attic room.
“Brian?” she asked.
But he was gone. Catherine ran down the four flights, grabbed her coat, and dashed out the door. She ran through the snow, slipping once, falling to her knees. Her eyes darted back and forth—it was a night for angels and ghosts.
Hailing a cab, she had him drive her uptown to the park. Her heart lurched, drawing close to the castle tower. She saw all the emergency vehicles, the truck from the morgue. Tavern on the Green glowed with holiday lights, and horse-drawn carriages jingled with sleigh bells.
“Brian,” she said out loud, in the backseat of the cab.
“Never let Christmas be a sad time again,” the driver said, looking at her in the rearview mirror.
“Who are you?” she gasped, seeing Brian’s eyes reflected there.
The driver laughed quietly as they drove unimpeded through the police and emergency vehicles, straight into the woods bordering Turtle Pond. “Don’t you know a miracle when you see one?”
“You mean?” she asked, touching the driver’s shoulder.
“Go find them,” Brian said. He touched her hand, and she felt her skin and bones rattle, her blood rush into her head. “Don’t forget …”
“Don’t forget what?”
“To look up,” he said. And with one burst of flight, of dazzling white feathers, he was gone.
Catherine stared up at the sky. All she could see were clouds moving in fast, covering the stars. The night was dark and freezing cold. Icicles hung from the tree branches, and snow flurries began to fall. She turned toward the castle.
The pile of snow that Catherine had seen on television had dwindled to almost nothing, dug all the way down to the ground from the very top of Vista Rock. What had once been twenty feet deep was now a quarter that. She ran toward it. Workers leaned on their shovels, sweaty with exertion. They stared at the snow pile, watching one single man continue to dig.
“Christy!” she yelled.
“Leave him,” one cop said to her. “It’s the boy’s father—he’s out of his mind.”
Catherine wrenched free. She tore to the snow pile, began scrambling up. Christy was in there, digging with his hands. His blue eyes were both wild and weary. At the sight of Catherine, they filled, and tears streaked down his grimy face.
“Stop, Christy,” she said.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “Not till I find Danny.”
“You won’t find him there,” she said, reaching out her arm. Her hand was right there—all he had to do was take it. He stared at her hand, her fingers. His expression was defeated, as if he’d forgotten the meaning of hope. His gaze was blunted, beaten down. But when he looked into Catherine’s, he must have seen something that gave him a start.
Her own eyes were sparkling—she could feel it.
She left her hand there for the longest time, until Christy was ready to take it. He did, finally. She used all her strength to pull him out of the hole. It was rimmed with bits of gravel, traces of blood—and thousands of small white feathers. As Christy stood there, shaking and shivering, she took him in her arms.
“We have to go,” she said.
“But where? How can I leave without Danny?” he asked.
“You could never leave without Danny,” she said. “Come on. Let’s go find your son.”
13
Bridge
t sat on the sofa, holding Murphy on her lap, doing her best to block out the sound of the TV in the other room. Mrs. Quinn had the volume on very low, probably because she didn’t want to upset her. Well, she was upset. Bridget just concentrated on holding Murphy and listening to the snow that had started to fall and trying not to go crazy over what had happened to her brother.
Lizzie and Lucy had been here for a while, and Bridget had liked that, because they didn’t talk about Danny or what was happening. Lizzie had brought yarn over, to show Bridget and Lucy how to knit. They just kept her company, quietly knitting, until it was time to get Lucy home for bed. Bridget liked the soothing, repetitive motion of knit-one, purl-one, knit-one, purl-one, but after they left, her thoughts were too wild for her to concentrate on knitting.
At about nine-thirty the door swung open, and Mrs. Quinn stepped in, carrying a tray from the kitchen. It was laden with hot milk in a small blue-flowered pot, a matching cup, some oatmeal cookies, and a cut-up apple.
“I see you have Murphy keeping you company,” Mrs. Quinn said. “And your knitting is really coming along.”
Bridget glanced down at her needles and three inches of a skinny green scarf. She felt too upset to say a word, and as if Murphy knew, she craned up and licked her chin. The gesture made Bridget tremble. Her brother used to laugh when the terrier did that to him.
“I thought maybe you could use a snack.”
“I’m not hungry,” Bridget managed.
Mrs. Quinn was tall and thin. She had expressive blue eyes, white hair pulled back into a bun, and a quick smile that often turned into a laugh. Right now even Mrs. Quinn couldn’t smile. She stood there in her black dress, with the olive green cardigan that used to be her husband’s pulled over her shoulders, staring down at Bridget with a deep grandmotherly gaze.
“You need to keep your strength up,” Mrs. Quinn said. “Have just a bite of apple.”