The Open Channel

by Jill Morrow

  “Okay.” She reached for his hand. “I’ll do that. Ready?”

  “Go.” He squeezed her fingers and closed his eyes.

  Kat never knew what exactly her aunt saw when she sank deep into prayer and meditation. Anyone could tell by the serene smile on Francesca’s face that she always reached a place far away from the maddening chaos of daily life. Kat had often longed to learn the secret of that peace. It seemed impossible. She herself had apparently been born with a Greek chorus instead of a mind. It chattered constantly and never lacked for comments or questions. Even now, as she closed her eyes in the stillness of the Lady Chapel, she could feel words pushing at the soundproof walls she tried so hard to erect around her thoughts.

  There was nothing beyond blackness behind her closed lids. Okay. So she and Stephen were willing to do whatever mission was set before them. The only catch was that first they had to figure out what that mission might be.

  A steady commentary of gibberish again strained to overrun her mental gates and interrupt her concentration. She gritted her teeth and blocked it out.

  Perhaps desperation was not the right mindset for prayer. Still, what else could be expected when spiritual warfare was involved? Warriors could hardly remain passive while the need for protection and guidance clawed at their very core.

  The reminder that this was war made her remember her armor. She hadn’t looked at it in ages, but its image sprang readily to mind.

  She could barely contain her derision. She looked like a too-old actress playing Joan of Arc.

  A horde of words piled in after that unfortunate thought. Kat quickly shuttered her mind.

  The armor still fit, although it looked far worse than the last time she’d seen it. The silver breastplate had a dent in it. The chain-mail skirt hung in tatters on the left side, as if somebody had repeatedly slashed it with a sword. The once shiny helmet appeared tarnished. At least the sword still gleamed. The amethysts embedded in its hilt glittered in a beam of light whose source she couldn’t trace.

  Aunt Frannie had sworn by that armor. She’d quoted Ephesians throughout Kat’s childhood: “Put God’s armor on so as to be able to resist the devil’s tactics. For it is not against human enemies that we have to struggle, but against the Sovereignties and the Powers who originate the darkness in this world, the spiritual army of evil in the heavens.”

  Had Aunt Frannie been wearing her armor when she’d dropped to the floor a week and a half ago?

  Kat balled her right hand into a fist and tried to concentrate.

  Please, God, help us!

  Nothing. Only silence.

  At least she felt warm and comfortable. Even her feet, so icy only minutes before, felt as if they’d just been propped before a toasty fireplace blaze.

  A tingle ran down her left arm and through the hand that rested in Stephen’s. His heartbeat pulsed against her skin wherever his hand touched hers. For some reason, those strong fingers entwined within hers seemed the most important part of the room.

  She opened her eyes halfway and stole a sideways glance. Stephen’s eyes remained closed. She’d forgotten how handsome he was. His nose was fine and straight, his chin still strong. They framed a firm, sensuous mouth that she idly thought she’d ignored for too many days.

  Ridiculous! They had work to do.

  She jammed her eyes shut.

  But not only did the compelling warmth remain, much of it seemed to emanate from her husband. Her thigh touched his as she shifted position on the hard wooden pew. She lingered there, enjoying the solid feel of his body against hers. A small sigh escaped as she allowed herself to melt into his side. Contentment spilled into her.

  Stephen’s arm enfolded her. She opened her eyes and turned to see him studying her, green eyes quizzical.

  Suddenly, more than anything in the world, she wanted to be a part of him, tucked into his heart and totally inseparable from him.

  His fingers traced the curve of her cheek. “Where are your walls?” he whispered.

  “Walls?”

  “You always keep one or two up, even with me. Where are they?”

  She shrugged helplessly as he bent to kiss her. The blue and gold of the chapel swirled about her in an appealing mosaic. She pulled him toward her as if she could never let go.

  “Hmm.” Stephen gently disengaged her arms from around his neck. “Come home with me, Kat.”

  Home? Weren’t they supposed to be praying? Conquering evil?

  But she couldn’t protest as he led her from the pew and down the cathedral aisles. She stayed silent during the drive home, barely noticing when Stephen parked the car on the street in front of their house instead of maneuvering it down the narrow backyard alley and into the garage. Before she could even justify it, she’d found herself in bed with her husband, spending the loveliest afternoon she could remember for quite some time.

  Now Kat switched on the kitchen light and sighed. Reprobates. That’s what they were. How many clues and opportunities had passed them by this afternoon? Such lapses of responsibility never happened when Aunt Frannie was in charge.

  Outside, the orange of sunset had given way to dusky blue. The day’s clouds had disappeared, and stars began to twinkle in the deepening sky. Kat leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, staring out the French windows, past the garden, and into the night beyond.

  She had prayed for answers. Answers hadn’t come. Now what?

  The automatic garage door whirred open. With a guilty jump, Kat dashed into the kitchen, flung open a cabinet door, and grabbed her largest pot. She’d filled it halfway with water by the time the mudroom door slammed. She pasted a smile on her face and stood in the middle of the kitchen with a jar of generic tomato sauce in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. Okay, so it wasn’t dinner. It was at least a promise that dinner might appear.

  “Mommy!” Claire flew into the room. “You and Daddy are both home at the same time!”

  Kat winced. Did her daughter have to make that sound like such a rare occurrence? She bent to drop a kiss on the top of Claire’s curly head. Small arms encircled her waist.

  Stephen entered the kitchen with what could only be called a smirk on his face. His satisfaction was so obvious that Kat was glad Julia, right behind him, could see only the back of his head.

  “What’s for dinner?” Julia headed for the kitchen table, depositing her books with a loud slam.

  “Julie, how long have you known your mother?” Stephen leaned over Claire’s head to plant a long, hard kiss on his wife’s mouth. Kat’s cheeks grew warm. “Spaghetti,” he said as they parted. “Your mother’s all-purpose meal.”

  “You knew I wasn’t a cook when you married me.” Kat’s hands flew to smooth her clothes. His look made her feel downright undressed.

  “I didn’t think your cooking skills would matter,” Stephen said in a low voice. “As usual, I was right. Oh, by the way, Julia’s team won their soccer game.”

  “Oh? Oh! Congratulations, sweetie!”

  Julia sank into a chair without even a nod of acknowledgment.

  Stephen set a shopping bag onto the counter. “Here.” He plucked the jar of tomato sauce from Kat’s hand and replaced it with a tub of fresh pesto. “Humor me.”

  This day had been too bizarre for words: hours of uninterrupted time with her husband, a decent homecooked meal that they would all eat together—a curious peace threatened to invade the kitchen. All was right with the world.

  “Get a corkscrew and pour the wine,” Stephen instructed as he pulled salad greens, a package of fresh linguine, and a baguette from his shopping bag.

  Kat surrendered and opened the silverware drawer. Claire had joined Julia at the kitchen table. Both girls pored over their assignment notebooks.

  “Homework?” Kat asked.

  Julia rolled her eyes. “Always.”

  Kat studied her older daughter as Julia reached for a pen. Mrs. Giles’s bright blue English Lit book sat on top of the middle-school book pile, a vivid r
eminder that all was not right with the world, no matter how promising the moment had seemed.

  There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. Kat pushed the end of the corkscrew into the cork with more force than necessary and squared her shoulders. “Julia, Mrs. Giles called today.”

  Stephen cocked an eyebrow, but continued to tear lettuce in a steady rhythm. Claire turned the page of her library book. Julia groaned, but her eyes remained glued to her assignment pad.

  “What happened?” Stephen asked their daughter, and Kat was grateful for the reinforcement.

  A nearly unreadable expression flashed across Julia’s face—a thought pondered and discarded. She raised a blank mask to her parents.

  “Nothing happened, Dad. Today’s class was mega-dull. I dozed off, that’s all. Maybe I need more sleep.”

  Kat stood on tiptoe to fetch the wineglasses. “Mrs. Giles said that your eyes were wide open.”

  Julia squirmed. “So school’s taught me to sleep with my eyes open. It’s a gift.”

  “Julie.” Stephen turned to face her. “Sweetheart, this isn’t an inquisition. We’re on your side. What’s going on?”

  Julia bit her lip as she stared from her father to her mother. The depth of her pause confirmed Kat’s fears that this was no adolescent malaise, no juvenile case of school-itis that could be brushed away with a sarcastic wave of the hand. Whatever was going on, it was a very real chunk of Julia’s existence. Stephen’s taut expression indicated that he had reached the same conclusion.

  Claire’s bright giggle broke the silence. “Why don’t you just tell them, Julie?” she asked.

  Julia shifted uneasily, then sent her sister a sideways glance. “Tell them what?”

  “You know. Where you go.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise. “I don’t go anywhere, Claire.”

  Claire giggled again. “Sure you do. You go to that place where Aunt Frannie is, that place with all the funny ladies in long dresses and the worried man with the hole in his hair. You know, Julie.”

  Julia stared at her parents, face red. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  Kat flattened both hands against the countertop. The room had begun to whirl. “Julia, do you…see other places?”

  “Not like that!” Julia jerked herself from her chair. “Nothing like that! I don’t know what Claire’s talking about!”

  “We need to talk.” Stephen took a step toward his daughter, but she was too fast. She was out of the kitchen by the time he rounded the counter, the only reminder of her past presence the sound of footsteps clattering up the stairs.

  Both Kat and Stephen stared in disbelief at their younger daughter.

  Claire shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t understand her either,” she said.

  15

  JULIA RESERVED DOOR SLAMS FOR THOSE OCCASIONS WHEN SHE felt it necessary to make a point. This was not one of those times. It was enough to clatter up the stairs, leaving her parents openmouthed and clueless in the kitchen below. She raced into her bedroom without even a backward glance. Then, breathing hard, she closed the door with a quiet, controlled click.

  How could she have thought for even a moment that Mrs. Giles wouldn’t tell her parents about that morning’s disaster? Talk about wishful thinking! Right. You’re a teacher, and one of your best students blinks out in class, sitting glued to her chair like a first-class jerk while everyone else streams out of the room at the happy sound of the dismissal bell. Sure, a teacher was really going to ignore that one, especially after it took eons to snap the kid back to earth.

  Julia leaned her forehead against the cool wood of her door and tried to steady her breathing. Her heart beat so hard against her chest that it actually hurt.

  Of course Mrs. Giles had called her parents. And, just the dumb luck, they’d rearranged their over-booked lives to talk it all out with their wayward kid.

  A tiny thought fluttered to the edge of her consciousness. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe it was time to turn to her mom and dad.

  No, no, no! She smacked her fist against the door. They’d think she was nuts, and she was definitely not nuts. She was riding a creative wave, listening to muses she’d never even known could inhabit her thoughts. Someday she’d turn all these odd ideas into a great story. Who knew? They could be her ticket to fame and fortune.

  The growl of her stomach reminded her that more than creativity was at stake here. With a sigh, Julia turned to survey her room. Damn. She hadn’t thought this out very well. She’d left everything—her homework, her notebooks, any hope of food—down at the kitchen table. This was not cool.

  Obviously, her parents did not plan to charge up here after her. Maybe they’d grill Claire first. Yes, that was it. Her mother the litigator was probably midway through her direct examination, leaving her father to take detailed notes and come up with a cross-exam.

  Actually, she kind of wished she could join them just to hear Claire’s story. What in the world had her sister been babbling about? Aunt Frannie, hidden away in some secret place that she herself was supposed to know about? Either Claire’s imagination was running rampant, or there was far too much sugar in that child’s diet.

  Her thoughts skipped away from her sister. She felt curiously restless, unsure of her next step.

  She’d take a shower. That would do it. Her parents wouldn’t dare barge through the bathroom door to interrogate her. A shower would give the situation in the kitchen time to settle before she had to run down and fetch her homework.

  Julia groaned, then flopped down against the soft pillows of her bed. Her head had begun to ache again, that same dull ache she’d experienced this morning in English class. It had felt like no other headache on earth. It had been more contained than most, centered on a spot in the middle of her forehead, as if someone had pointed their finger, aimed, and pushed against her skull with all their might.

  Great. Eyestrain. On top of everything else, she probably needed glasses.

  The pain had caught her by surprise in Mrs. Giles’s class. She’d almost welcomed the familiar tinkling of bells that followed it, as it had provided distraction from what promised to be an awful headache.

  Mrs. Giles had been wrapped up in her lecture, so a visit from the blond people had seemed no big deal. Julia hadn’t seen them for a while—not since that strange event in Aunt Frannie’s hospital room where it had felt for one brief moment as if she could be sucked right into their soap opera.

  Perhaps she hadn’t noticed the people for a while because she’d felt so unsettled, so totally out of sync with her day-to-day routine. Nothing ran smoothly. Nothing made sense. Why, she’d gone to open a can of soup the other day and spent minutes staring at the can opener in her hand, trying to remember what it was and how it was used. And that wasn’t half as unnerving as two days ago, when she’d totally forgotten Claire’s name.

  She was way too young for Alzheimer’s.

  So the arrival of the bells in the midst of a boring lecture about The Awakening had brought not only respite from dullness, but also a comfortable reminder that her brain could still imagine as usual. She’d come to think of the blond people as story characters. She’d wondered what had passed in their saga since the last time she’d seen them.

  A soft breeze had caressed her cheek, a breeze that could not have blown through a closed classroom window. She sat on something hard, although she knew it was not the chair attached to her schoolroom desk.

  But, most amazing of all, she’d been suddenly buried in a sea of emotion. Disbelief drenched her, followed quickly by an intractable anger that made her clench her fists.

  She couldn’t go back to him. She wouldn’t go back to him! She would ignore his entreaties and snub the gifts he would surely bring to entice her back to those little lessons that so obsessed him. Oh, he’d be back. But this time, she’d resist.

  As quickly as it had come, the anger was replaced by a sharp pang of despair.

  How could he treat her thus, as i
f she had no heart, no soul? Had no one counseled him in matters of love? Had his past ladies not taught him that passion need be tempered by pretty words and trinkets?

  Hope dawned brightly, pushing despair back into a corner.

  But of course! There had been no other ladies! At first thought, that seemed hard to believe. He was so handsome, so glorious to behold. He was neither noble nor courtly, however. Perhaps no woman of position had stooped to forge an alliance with him.

  The hope brightened like a candle in the darkness. Indeed, perhaps he himself had discouraged amorous liaisons. Perhaps he’d awaited his twin soul, the one woman in eternity who could complete his heart and take her place as his true consort. Now, having found her, he’d grown so full of longing and passion that he could hardly be expected to take time for niceties.

  She could advise him—if she consented to ever see him again.

  “Julia!”

  And Julia had found herself staring at her own reflection in Mrs. Giles’s glasses, half wondering who “he” was, but mostly embarrassed by the fact that she and her teacher faced each other in an empty classroom.

  Julia tugged her pillow over her head. And she’d actually thought that Mrs. Giles wouldn’t call her parents? She was almost as stupid as that girl who so desperately wanted the guy who treated her like dirt!

  That girl? What girl? Was she the girl?

  Too many thoughts. No wonder her head ached.

  She dragged herself to the window. She’d been born here, knew every house, tree, and bush on the street outside. Even blanketed with a thin layer of snow, the scene remained achingly the same. This comforted her. She wanted to immerse herself in the familiarity. For one crazy moment, she longed to be simply Julia Catherine Carmichael, a nice girl with a nice family living in a nice neighborhood. She wanted no more, no less.

  She wanted her parents.

  Maybe it was time to tell them everything.

  If only this headache would go away!

  She sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for a break in the pain.