When Angels Cry

by Jennifer Edwards

  I sat between my parents. My father kept putting his hand on my legs in a feeble attempt to stop me from swinging them. My mother sat staring out the car window. She wore large Jackie Kennedy glasses all the time. It didn’t matter if we were home or at the market, she did not take them off for days. Henry sat across from us, in his own seat playing with his toy soldiers.

  The limo slowed down, and we pulled into a driveway. I could see the sign that read ‘funeral home’. A sea of umbrellas filled the parking lot. I couldn’t see who had shown up, but I remember thinking it was the entire city. Grandpa Reginald, a fire captain, was my only living grandparent. He and some of his crew had arrived in their uniforms and fire trucks. Everything looked so official.

  Our driver took us to the back of the building where a kind looking older woman waited for us in the doorway. The driver got out first and opened a gigantic umbrella.

  “You guys go in first,” my dad said to Henry and me.

  “But dad, I . . .”

  “Please Henry just do as I say!” There was that low stern voice again.

  Henry and I climbed out of the car under the awaiting umbrella. Just as we were walking toward the older woman, I stepped directly into a puddle. A big, muddy, puddle. “My shoes!” I cried out. Henry started to laugh. “It’s not funny, Henry,” I yelled at him. The driver picked me up with his free arm while managing to keep all three of us dry, and he carried me to the open door. “There you go princess,” he said as he lowered me down.

  I looked at my new shoes. “They’re ruined!” My white socks were splattered with mud and my shoes would never be the same.

  “Come over here sweetheart,” the older woman said. She put me in a chair and removed my shoes and socks. “Let me see what I can do,” she said before disappearing into another room.

  I didn’t know why it was taking so long for my parents to come in. When Henry called my name from another room, I didn’t consider waiting where I was. Bare-footed, I stepped onto fading carpet.

  “Sarah, look at this,” Henry called out. I followed his voice into the chapel. No one had been brought into this part of the building yet. The pews looked freshly polished. Candles burned next to an array of beautiful flowers. Henry was standing next to Rachel’s open casket. It sent chills up my spine.

  “Henry, get away from there!” I snapped at him.

  “No, look, Sarah, she’s sleeping!”

  I couldn’t help myself. It was like the pull of gravity. I couldn’t resist looking, even though I really, really didn’t want to. Since Henry was so young, his fascination with what he was seeing made sense. The casket was so tiny. It looked like a toy. The cherry wood was so highly polished you could see your reflection in the casket. As I approached, my heart raced, and for the first time in my eight years on earth, I began to sweat. I felt little beads forming just above my lip. I could hear the whooshing sound of my heart pumping in my ears. When I got to the coffin, I closed my eyes. I was so afraid to open them. Of course, I finally did.

  I looked at Rachel, so beautiful, lying there. She did look as if she was sleeping. Her blonde ringlets were a golden halo around her tiny head. I touched her lips, which looked much redder than they were in real life. I thought “It might be make-up.” I stood there waiting for her to open her eyes. I was convinced that she would.

  The noise in my head got louder and louder, and the perspiration heavier. I started to feel nauseated. I became aware of the music in the chapel. “Amazing Grace” was being piped through the speakers. I heard Henry ask, “What’s wrong?” Everything in the room began to spin around. Then it all went black. And so began a series of fainting episodes that continue to this day.

  “Sarah? . . . Sarah . . . Dear God!” I heard my father’s voice, swirling around in my head. When I finally opened my eyes, I was in an office, lying on a couch, my father bending over me with tears in his eyes. The kind lady who had helped with my shoes, put a damp cloth on my forehead. A huge clap of thunder outside caused me to bolt upright. I hated thunder. “You fainted, sweetheart,” my father said.

  “Where are my shoes?” was all I could reply.

  The services had already begun without my father and me. When we walked into the chapel, the entire room went quiet.

  I detected whispers . . . “She fainted” “Those poor children” “That’s Sarah . . . the eldest.”

  The woman had cleaned up my shoes as best as she could but the socks were a lost cause. I had to wear my shoes without the socks which made them just a bit too big. As I walked, they slid off the back of my heels.

  My mother did not look at me. I felt like an eight-year-old loser. I sat down next to Henry, aware that he felt it was his fault that I had fainted. At that moment, I understood he and I would feel responsible for so much in our lives.

  The minister seemed to talk for days. I heard a lot of blowing noses and an occasional outburst of sobbing. I looked around and realized just how many people had come. Mrs. Robeck, the principal of our school, Tony and Jessie, the owners of the pizza parlor we frequented, Doctor Martin, the pediatrician. Even the paperboy sat in a pew next to his mother. I couldn’t help wondering if they would have come for my funeral. At the end of the service, everyone got up and began to head out toward the parking lot. The cemetery was just above it on the hillside.

  We stayed in the chapel so that we could say goodbye before they closed the lid of the coffin. My father went first. He looked inside Rachel’s final resting place and just stared. He looked like a marble statue I had seen in a museum once. He didn’t move. Then it was my mother’s turn. She walked up, bent over, and kissed Rachel’s forehead. I felt we should salute or something. She then told Henry and me to come over and kiss our sister good-bye. Henry went because he was told to. He was always a good little boy. I began to feel nauseated again. Bile came up in my throat.

  Before I realized what I was doing, I took off running. I ran through the chapel, out the door, into the pouring rain, and began scaling the hillside behind the chapel. Tears flooded my face. Rain flooded my now too-big shoes, my ears, my mouth. I felt like I was suffocating. As I climbed higher and higher, I found myself imagining that I was getting closer to Rachel. I was doing what the minister said . . . I was “moving toward heaven.”

  I kept thinking “I’m coming, Rachel. I’ll find you soon.”

  When I reached the top of the incline, all I saw were gravestones. I was now covered in mud. My heart ached so much I thought it would burst from my chest. I remember falling to my knees and saying over and over, “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry.”

  Half the town had followed me up to this place. Concerned parents, teachers, neighbors, townspeople, saw me running and came after me. Though they were obviously concerned for my well-being, they terrified me. All the people who had run after me looked demonic. They, too, were covered in mud. Rain fell off their noses and foreheads. They were out of breath, as I was, from running up the steep, muddy hill. They panted and as they exhaled, the breath they expelled resembled ghosts. They called my name, but the howling wind made them sound like ghouls.

  I don’t remember exactly who reached me first. I think it was Tim, my father’s assistant at the college. Whoever it was picked me up from the muddy ground where I had collapsed. He carried me up a winding path to what would be my sister’s ultimate resting place.

  The hearse and my parents weren’t far behind. The tiny coffin that held my sister was carried by some of my parent’s friends. There were so many umbrellas.

  The minister said some final words and what used to be Rachel was lowered into the ground. My father made a noise that I hope never to experience again in my life. Like a coyote bringing home his kill, he lifted his head and began to howl. He wailed into the storm as the dirt and mud were pushed on top of my sister’s beautiful casket.

  I realize now that it is normal to have a gathering after someone dies. At the time, I thought it strange that everyone was eating and drinking and some people were laughing
about things that had nothing to do with what had just taken place. My mother was AWOL from the beautifully catered event at our house. She was upstairs and we were told she was not to be disturbed.

  My brother and I sat in the TV room and watched cartoons. My father made the rounds, thanking everyone for coming. Once everyone had left, my mother materialized and headed straight for the vodka. My father told us we should go to bed, but my mother nixed the idea. She wanted us to sit and listen to her talk about how beautiful and radiant Rachel had been. We sat watching mother get more and more drunk as our father tried, unsuccessfully, to defuse the potentially explosive situation.

  Mother asked us to wait and disappeared into the other room. She returned, carrying the outfits we’d just worn for the funeral. In an impromptu ritual, she babbled words from the Bible and tossed our clothes into the fireplace. All of us sat staring at the burning clothing. My father used a poker to prevent embers from escaping. We sat until the last piece of anything recognizable had been incinerated. “Okay, you two, off to bed,” my mother said as if nothing had just happened. And for the next few months, she behaved as if nothing had happened.

  • • •

  I discovered that the ability to forget was still with her. Though no longer sobbing, I remained in a heap on the floor. My mother came back into the hallway as she had done so many times before and behaved as if nothing had happened between us a few minutes prior.

  “Sarah? What are you doing on the floor? You’ll get dirty,” she scolded.

  “Oh, nothing, Mother,” I responded from the floor. “I just realized what you’ve thought of me the last thirty or so years and thought I’d have a good cry!” Of course, I didn’t actually say that. I just told her that I had lost a contact lens, assuming she probably wouldn’t remember that I don’t wear contact lenses.

  “Well then, why not go get yourself ready for a nice lunch,” she suggested in a cheerful tone. She disappeared into the kitchen and out the back door to visit Manuel. I heard giggling in the garden a short time later. The last thing I wanted to do was investigate as I wouldn’t be able to handle the shock of anymore geriatric romping.

  Since I had barely slept the night before, I decided to try and get some rest. I would figure out what to do with my mother and myself for the rest of the day later.

  I could smell his cologne before I actually saw him.

  I must have been sleeping so soundly. I had no idea how he got into my room. But there he was, standing over me with a colossal hard on inside his pants. I couldn’t speak . . . nor did I want to at that moment. Instead of asking all the obvious questions like “How the hell did you get in here?” I did what any cock loving woman would do. I pulled down his pants and began licking and sucking his dick. He moaned as I pulled down the bed sheet, exposing the tiny tank top and thong I was wearing. My nipples were so hard he couldn’t resist pinching them. His hand slipped into my panties where he found my wet pussy. He backed away from my mouth and ripped my panties off. His face was between my legs before I could catch my breath. His tongue was soft and hot. He knew every crevice that needed to be discovered. I used to beg my husband to try to think in Hebrew. To write backwards with his tongue . . . spell something! Anything! He was clueless. But Roberto—Latin lover that he was—knew how to make a woman shudder with ecstasy.

  I closed my laptop. I was sure that if I e-mailed what I had been working on to my agent, she’d stop pressuring me for a little while. I never did get the nap in. It was beginning to get dark, and we hadn’t even had lunch yet. I decided to go downstairs to see if Mother had returned from the alien ship. My stomach growled as I went to the fridge for a snack. I couldn’t believe the eclectic array inside my mother’s Sub Zero. Everything from jalapeños to Swiss chocolate to bologna. My mother hates bologna. Clearly I was going to have to do some shopping soon. I pulled out the jar of martini olives, which I opened as I sat at the kitchen table, and popped one into my mouth. I loved the salty tang of martini olives. My father always allowed me to take one from his martini glass when I was little. They had the slightest taste of vodka that made me feel grown up eating them. He taught us kids how to mix drinks by the time we were around five years old. We were little party tricks for guests. Sometimes I would take the olives and put them on my fingers, then pretend I was doing magic, as I slipped them into my mouth, making them disappear. I would get a rounding applause from our inebriated guests, and I felt special.

  “Sarah Jean? Mr. Hollis would like a scotch and soda with a twist of lime, please.” My father would chuckle as he watched me carefully pour a jigger of scotch and top it off with the soda. We weren’t allowed to use a knife to cut the lemons or limes. Our mother would make sure they were prepared beforehand. We were like a Lilliputian lounge act. When our parents socialized and became more intoxicated, I would play with the olives and my brother would steal the booze. During one dinner party, I found Henry passed out in the middle of the stairway. He had found the cherry brandy and consumed most of it. He was six at the time.

  I heard my mother’s voice from outside. Pulling back the café curtain, I saw my mother and Manuel in the garden. Olivia’s garden. She was tending to it as Manuel looked on. She was bent down just inside the white arbor that was heavy with climbing roses. We used to call this “The Secret Garden,” because mother would often disappear into it for hours. She had an extensive array of herbs that she used in her cooking. Her hydrangeas were in full bloom, the flowers a stunning sky blue. The snapdragons stood proudly erect. I found myself smiling, realizing that this was one part of mother’s life that remained the same.

  There was a knock at the door. My mother either didn’t hear it or chose to ignore it as she kept busy with the roses. I went to the front door barefooted. When I was a little girl, I always loved to answer the front door and would race my siblings to see who could get there first. I imagined finding someone on the other side with a fabulous present. Something that was just for me! A puppy? A fancy dress? A pony! My little body would pull and yank at the heavy door, hoping to find something special on the other side. As middle-aged me opened the door, I was surprised to see Terry Beckett, Marie’s little brother, standing under the eave on the front porch.

  “Sarah, it’s good to see you again so soon,” he said with a big smile. He was carrying a briefcase and was wearing a tailored suit and tie.

  “God, please don’t tell me you’ve become a Jehova’s witness!” I blurted out.

  “God, no,” he laughed. He looked adorable, especially with a five o’ clock shadow. I must have been staring because he asked if he could come in as if I maybe wasn’t going to allow him inside.

  “Of course. Please. I’m sorry,” I stammered. He brushed passed me, his body lightly rubbing against mine. Tiny hairs stood at the back of my neck. I was surprised at how handsome he had become. I guess I hadn’t really noticed the night before, but I could see that his eyes were the deepest brown, his jaw line wide, and distinguished looking. He asked if my mother was home, and I told him that she was gardening.

  “Is there anything I could help you with?” I asked. I guided him into the living room where I motioned him to sit on the checked couch. He opened his briefcase and brought out a large file.

  “I’m not sure if your mother has told you anything or how much I can reveal to you.”

  “Well, I suppose I won’t be able to answer that until I know what you are talking about.”

  “Are you aware that your mother owes quite a bit of money on this house?”

  This was totally puzzling. I explained that my parents had been in this house for forty-five years. I assumed that they had owned it outright for years.

  “Look, maybe I should talk to Olivia.”

  “When is the last time you spoke to my mother?”

  “About a month ago,” he replied.

  “So you are aware that she is suffering from dementia? That’s why I’m here at the moment, to try to help her with things . . .”

  Terry
dropped his eyes.

  “How much money we talkin’ about?” I braced myself.

  “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “What?” I screamed. “How the holy hell is that possible?”

  Sitting back in his seat Terry assumed the position a therapist would take. I had experienced being on the couch during analysis in my younger days. The way he stretched himself out before me he looked like the patient. Terry’s mouth was indeed moving but I was unable to hear anything he was saying. Beads of sweat formed themselves above my top lip and forehead. I only caught the essence of some of his sentences. Music began in my head and I began recalling a particular chapter in “The Therapy Couch”I had written a few years back.

  Entry: September 20 1892. Patient Elizabeth Von R.

  Day 12 of Elizabeth’s treatment.

  It had occurred to me after her sister’s initial visit regarding Elizabeth, that her condition may be psychosomatic. That she had consciously put herself into the wheelchair. She described her last dream:

  “I was in a ballroom. It was illuminated only by candlelight. I was very out of breath. But I stood alone on the giant dance floor. Helmut entered and we stood looking at one another for a long time. He had been riding and carried a large riding crop. His free arm wrapped around my waist and we begin to move. Swaying to unheard music. Our dance becomes more intimate and we begin to move faster. More in unison. He begins to flick me lightly with his riding crop. And I feel excited. I begin to moan and he hits me harder the next few times. I can feel him becoming hard inside his trousers. We twirl and twirl. I am becoming dizzy. Dizzy from the movement and dizzy from what I feel deep inside. Then I hear a woman’s voice call “Helmut.” I look, and it is my sister Marta. Helmut, her husband, breaks his grip from me but I cannot stop twirling. I spin and spin until I fall to the ground. I cannot move, and I am alone now. My wheelchair is on the other side of the room.”