When Angels Cry

by Jennifer Edwards

  When we arrived at the pond, my mother set down one of her heavy blankets on the damp grass. At four in the afternoon, it was cold, and the sky threatened rain again. I tried to be happy and enjoy this time with my mother. I plonked myself down hard onto the blanket, making a groaning sound on the way down. Another reminder that I wasn’t getting any younger.

  “Are you okay? You mentioned wanting to have a picnic earlier didn’t you?” my mother asked, worried.

  “I’m fine, Mother. And yes, I did mention it . . . this is lovely.” I wasn’t as furious with her as I had been earlier. Here we were alone on the pond about to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The ducks were upon us in no time and proceeded to eat most of my sandwich. My mother and I giggled.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” my mother began. “That I have cancer, I mean.” She turned her face away.

  “Well,” I paused, “I can only say that I wished you had. Now that I do know we’ll figure it out!”

  “There isn’t anything to figure out, Sarah. I’m going to die . . . and I hope it will be before my mind completely gives out!”

  “Don’t, Mom . . . please.”

  “Sarah, it’s a fact. I probably don’t have long. I want to tell you that I am thankful you are here, and I wish we could have done this a long time ago.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was this really my mother? Were we actually having a moment? All I knew was that I liked whatever was happening.

  I guess the lesson was for me to appreciate whatever time I had with my mother and not to analyze it too much. We sat for a while, not talking. Taking in the sights, the smells, the experience. Clouds darkened the horizon, and ducks puffed themselves up in preparation for the pending rain. People on the bike path peddled faster as small drops of rain fell.

  “Guess we should head back, Mother,” I said as I not so gracefully got up from the blanket.

  Looking up at me, she nodded. I helped her get to her feet. As we stood facing one another, she smiled and said, “Thank you for a lovely picnic.” She picked up the basket and began slowly to walk away. I watched as she walked a little ahead and realized how very frail she was, her body smaller that I remembered. I folded the blanket and soon caught up to her. Walking home as the rain got heavier, we tried to cover ourselves with one of the blankets.

  Manuel had built a roaring fire in the living room. His face lit up when Mother walked in. I took the picnic basket from her as she reached for Manuel. They kissed lightly on the cheek.

  “Ola mija,” he cooed.

  “Ola mijo,” she responded.

  Leaving them, I took myself into the kitchen and set down the basket. I noticed my cell phone blinking on the counter, indicating I had a message. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten it. I was never without my cell phone. I had obviously been more pre-occupied with my mother’s health news than I realized. It was a text from Henry. “Sorry Sis. Didn’t mean to sound unconcerned. Let’s talk. Still planning 2 b there Thxgvg. xxoo.”

  “Thanksgiving!!! Shit!” I said aloud. I continued to forget the Holiday was around the corner. I suppose I was expected to plan it all. By myself. As usual. I had begun to resent it. Why me? Why couldn’t I be the one without the responsibilities for once? I would have to ponder this question at a later date, because I knew this holiday would fall on my shoulders. But damn if I was going to do Christmas!

  I had to talk to Mother to see if any thought regarding this holiday had entered her head. I had no idea what were my kids planning or if Henry would bring his whole clan. Was I expected to invite other people?

  I walked out of the kitchen to find Manuel holding onto my mother for dear life. She looked like an animal paralyzed in head lights. I asked Manuel what was going on.

  “She says the water is too deep in front of her. She thinks the floor is water and she cannot cross.”

  “We will sink! We can’t go this way,” my mother protested. In less than twenty minutes, my mother had gone from a fairly normal state to the delusional woman in front of me, now a woman slowly losing her mind. My heart sank. Manuel scooped her up into his arms, and they crossed the imaginary water together. I watched him carry her up the stairs, gently whispering to her that all was well.

  I stood for a moment reflecting when a loud crack of thunder made me jump. Simultaneously the doorbell rang. Shivers ran down my spine. When I opened the front door, and saw a shadow standing in the dimly lit front porch fumbling with something, I wondered if we were about to be robbed. There was a flash of lightning and another burst of thunder. I realized the figure was closing an umbrella. Like a scene from “The Exorcist,” the eerie figure turned to face me. I recognized the broad toothy smile almost immediately. It was Marie’s and Terry’s father, Robert.

  “Sarah, my dear. How long it has been?”

  I was speechless as I stared at a man I knew to be at least seventy-five years old, looking handsome and spry. “Mr. Beckett. What a surprise!” I invited him in.

  He dropped his umbrella at the door and shook himself off like a giant poodle.

  “I have news!” We walked into the toasty living room. “Terry told me you were here and that he had spoken to you regarding your mother and this house.” He sat in the wingback as I landed on the couch.

  “Yes, I hadn’t heard any of this until Terry told me.” I offered Robert a drink, which he declined.

  “My firm received an anonymous donation a few days ago to cover whatever was owed on this house in full.”

  I tried to process what I was hearing. “An anonymous donor?” I repeated what he had said “How can that be? Who else knew that she owed money? I mean, I only just found out myself?”

  “Well, I suppose your mother might have casually mentioned it to someone, or maybe someone saw papers that have been filed.” Robert answered. “Your mother has made many friends over the years.”

  I sat in disbelief. It occurred to me to buy off the loan myself when Terry told me all of this, but in just a few days someone has come forward. Who has 100,000 dollars to give to my mother? And why? Someone who wants to remain anonymous. The entire scenario was surreal. Not that I minded. I mean, it gave me one less thing to worry about. I was more convinced than ever that this family had more skeletons in the closet than most other families.

  “Now I have to ask another important question.” He opened his briefcase. “Is your mother still of sound mind?”

  “Other than the fact that she just thought our hallway was Lake Michigan . . . she’s just swell!”

  Robert glanced down.

  “I didn’t mean to make light of it,” I apologized. “I am just beginning to learn about all this myself. Sometimes she seems as normal as can be. Then in an instant she doesn’t know what a set of keys is used for!”

  “Well, we need to discuss power of attorney and who should be in charge when and if she is unable to make normal decisions.” He handed me some papers and suggested I look them over and have my mother read them as well. “If she understands what she is reading, have her sign the papers and get them back to me. As soon as you can approach the subject regarding power of attorney, give me a call, and I will have Terry draw up those papers as well.”

  I nodded that I understood.

  As Robert got up, he said he had wanted to give me the news personally because he would be going to visit Marie and her family for Thanksgiving. I thanked him for coming and we walked together to the door. Robert grabbed his umbrella. The rain had subsided. We shook one another’s hands before Robert stepped outside.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Beckett. I really appreciate your taking the time.”

  “Quite alright, Sarah. Our families have been through a lot over the years. It’s the least I could do.” He smiled, turned, and walked down the front steps. “By the way,” he said, turning back, “It’s Robert. Please call me Robert.”

  I nodded and smiled and remembered to ask him to send Marie my love when he saw her.

  “Of cou
rse I will.”

  I watched and waited until his car pulled out of our driveway. I turned off all the lights before taking myself upstairs. Walking past my mother’s closed door, I wondered what was going on behind it with Manuel. Actually, I don’t think I really wanted to know. Who was this Manuel, really? Did he know that my mother was in debt? It occurred to me that I should see if Mother had a will. Does he think he may get something from her when she dies? After all he lives in a trailer in her back yard!

  Once in my room, I retrieved the letter box from under my bed and read more of the letters. One by one, I pulled letters out and read them. Some were dated as far back as 1945, which would have made my mother about seventeen. The letters seem to have stopped around the late eighties. The letters in my mother’s handwriting were addressed to “Father Manuel Garcia” and sent to the same church in Mexico. All the love letters were sent to a post office box here in Marin.

  November, 16, 1946

  I am writing this to you with dictionary in hand. It is one year since you are gone. I do not believe my heart will heal forever. I am now having taken my vows. I pray to God that my love can only be for Him. When your face is in front of me in my dreams, I must ask God to make you go from my head. I love my people and the church, and I will do my best for them. Yours Manuel

  One letter, after another. Two tormented lovers. Is this the same Manuel in my Mom’s bedroom? If the man in these letters was a man of God, a priest, what had he and my mother hope to do? The Manuel I was reading about in the letters obviously had a deep faith. My mother had lost all her faith a long time ago.

  We were not brought up overly religious. My parents did go to church, and the three of us kids attended Sunday school. I tried hard to be a believer at an early age. The older I got, the more I envied people with deep-rooted beliefs. I was told early on that I had too many questions about the Bible, faith, and religion in general. In my mind, religion was the reason for most of the world’s war. As a child, I asked my teachers about that fact. They were continually frustrated and annoyed with me, so I stopped asking.

  I had two friends in high school, of different faiths. Debbie was a Christian Scientist and, Rachel, a Jew. I tried to wrap my head around certain things they had told me about their beliefs. Some of it intrigued me.

  Debbie, my Christian Science friend, came to visit me one day after realizing I had been out of school for several days. I had had a strep throat. Debbie asked me what it was I was trying to avoid? What did I not want to discuss? She told me she believed that I had created this illness to avoid something else. She went on to explain that if my body created sickness, my body could get rid of it, too. She claimed I didn’t need medicine. What she said made sense to me.

  One day, a few months later, a bunch of us were out riding our bikes. A car hit Debbie’s bike, sending her flying into the gravel. Her body was badly scraped, and her knee had completely split open. We stayed with her until her father came. Debbie tried so hard to be strong and not let the pain get to her. There was a lot of blood and bone was exposed. The man who had hit her kept insisting she should get to a hospital. When the police showed up, they wanted to call an ambulance. Debbie said that she had to wait for her father and that he would take care of it all. When her dad arrived, he thanked everyone and proceeded to pile Debbie into the back of their car. He took her home where she was put on the couch and fed ice cream sundaes because she was so “brave.” It took weeks for her leg to heal, and she walked with a limp from then on.

  I heard, years later that her first child had died. She had been stricken with a horrible cancer and died a painful death, because the family wouldn’t allow any form of medication for her. That faith lost points with me.

  Rachel, my Jewish friend, had a fabulous family. I went to Temple with them occasionally and even celebrated Chanukah with them a few times. Judaism always seemed like a civilized religion to me. I loved the idea of Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, and wondered why everyone couldn’t have a day like that to reflect, to thank God for his blessings and forgiveness without consequence in a single day.

  While Rachel and I were doing homework one night I asked her if she believed in miracles.

  “Of course I believe in miracles,” she replied.

  “Then why doesn’t your faith believe that Christ was conceived immaculately?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on, Sarah . . . do you really believe that?” She snorted.

  “I don’t know what I believe, that’s why I’m asking,” I responded. Then I put it to her. “If you believe in the Old Testament, do you really believe Moses parted the Red Sea? Or that Noah was three hundred years old when he built the Arc?”

  We sat in silence for a really long time. And the next day, our friendship ended.

  I wanted to have faith. I still do. The people I knew who had a deep connection to their faith always seemed happier. I tried. Really hard! After all, when you stare at the face of a newborn child, it’s easy to believe in God. But when a baby is brutally murdered in the Congo, where is the God I am supposed to believe in then?

  We had been a fairly normal, loving family before Rachel died. It’s hard to remember now. Our dad spent more time at home. We went out more as a family. My parents were social, and our house was the entertainment hub. My mother had dinner parties several times a month. I remember lying in my bedroom and hearing laughter and clinking glasses from downstairs. We always had a roaring fire to set the mood, even in the summertime. Our house was a home, a happy home. All that changed when Rachel died. When her light went out it was as if she took all luminosity with her. My own eight-year-old world became dark and cold. I retreated into myself and discovered that I like looking at things differently. I loved to hang upside down for long periods of time, imagining I could walk on the ceiling or swing from the chandelier or hang from tree branches and float on the clouds. Everything looked better upside down. I would wait until the blood rushed to my head, and I would hear the now familiar warning sound of my heart pounding, then I would right myself. I always stopped before I fainted. I pushed it to the limit. I actually liked whatever that feeling was.

  Back then I tried to speak to God, mostly because I didn’t feel I could talk to anyone else. It became clear that what I asked him for wasn’t going to happen. Rachel didn’t come back, my mother still disappeared into her world of grief, and my father continued to spend more and more time away from home. I became as silent as God was with me.

  I set down the box of letters and wondered if my mother had been searching too.

  Oh my God! It hit me then. This was indeed the same Manuel! He isn’t really a gardener. I knew that from the start. Maybe the two of them shared a spiritual connection in the early days too, both of them searching. Both of them vulnerable in their teens. If I was reading about the same person who was shacked up with my mother right now, I couldn’t have written a better story! But I was still not completely sure what was between them.

  The only thing I was certain about was that I needed a midnight snack. I figured Manuel and my mother were tucked away together behind her closed door. In the kitchen I noticed my cell phone was blinking. I had two text messages. The first was from Dwight. I didn’t remember giving him my cell number. It read: “Hey, sexy, thinkin’ bout you hard. Sending you a pic.” The next text which was a multimedia text also from Dwight. It was a photo of his very hard penis! Talk about a whole new world of endless possibilities.

  I wasn’t sure how to return the text. Should I snap a photo of my genitalia and tell him it was nice to hear from him? Or maybe I should just drive over to his place and make sure he’s alright. He might need some help! I picked up the phone and pressed reply. I typed in: NICE. Very original. I saved the photo for later. Maybe I could use this new technology in another book. I laughed at the thought.

  I looked out into the garden at Manuel’s spaceship. My curiosity spurred me into action. It would be a good time to investigate this Manuel.

  I knocked on t
he trailer door. No one answered. I knocked again a little louder this time. Still, there was no answer. I opened the door and peeked in. The place was immaculate. Not a dust bunny anywhere. The bed was even made with hospital corners. The spot where the built in sofa would normally be located in an airstream had been replaced by a full on altar. A ceramic Virgin Mary stood on a marble countertop, her hands open toward the heavens. A rosary lay at her feet and an open prayer book next to the rosary. When I scanned the small space, I was thrown by the sheer number of photographs that lined the walls. Almost all of the shots were of my mother at various stages of her life, from around eighteen to the present day. She looked beautiful in each shot, and she wore a brilliant, happy smile in all of them. I was unaccustomed to that smile. Okay, this tour now convinced me that this is the same Manuel as the Father Manuel of my mother’s correspondence. I stood a while longer trying to take it all in. I backed slowly from the doorway and into the damp night. I couldn’t get over the sight of my mother’s smiling face in all the photographs, so loving, content, so happy. An acute pang of envy rose inside me at the idea that someone other than her family had known that side of her.

  As I made my way back to the house, I saw the curtain of my mother’s room open. She looked down at me as we stared at one another. She must have seen me leaving Manuel’s trailer and I didn’t know how she would react. She raised her hand and waved at me before she disappeared behind the curtain.

  “Oh, my God, we so have to talk,” I muttered as I walked back into the kitchen. I picked up my phone, remembering my little photo treat from Dwight and wondered how I should respond.

  Her breath struggled to keep up with the pounding of her feet on the hard sand, for she stuck close to the shore line. It was low tide, and the light from the brilliant full moon cascaded onto the distant calm waters. She could taste the salt on her cheeks, from her tears, not the ocean. Her heart beat so hard she thought it might explode from her chest. All she could do was run, run away, run fast, run hard. It didn’t matter where. She just had to get away. Away from her past, away from all of them, away from him and most of all away from herself.