Kindred

by Stein, Tammar

  Tabitha lands on top of me, knocking the wind out of me before rolling to the side. I can’t breathe, and for a few awful moments the world goes quiet. There is no sound. I can’t hear the wind, the cars on the highway near the campus, Tabitha’s shrieks or even my own heartbeat. And then, in a whoosh, all the sounds come back and I realize Tabitha isn’t shrieking anymore.

  The building we’ve just run out of has exploded. Bricks, shingles and other debris rain down around us. Curling into a tight ball, I cover my head with my arms and have a split second to think that this is the second time this week I’ve had to do that.

  Several more explosions rock the building, and I cower, shaking, crying and praying to live through this. The solid thunking sounds of chunks of the building landing next to us echo like artillery. I glance at Tabitha curled next to me and realize there is blood pouring down her face. I scramble over to her and find her unconscious.

  “No, no, no,” I pant with each breath. “Don’t die. Please, please. Don’t.” Another incredible boom and I sprawl over her as a second barrage of rubble lands all around us. The rain pours down so thickly it is nearly white. Despite that, I feel the heat coming off the building. Risking a quick glimpse up, I see it is engulfed in flames.

  Within minutes, I hear a wail of sirens over the fire’s roar. I ease off Tabitha and touch her face. The rain mixes with her blood to form a red froth, and I cry because there is so much of it.

  The flashing red and white lights of the emergency vehicles join the blue lights of police cars, the yellow of the fire and the dull gray of the rain.

  “Ma’am, ma’am …” A voice bursts through my grief. “Are you all right?”

  It is the dumbest question I have ever heard.

  “She’s hurt,” I say. “Help her.”

  Another person, barely recognizable as human under all the reflective fire-retardant gear, kneels by us, and the two of them begin stanching Tabitha’s wounds and assessing her for injuries. A third man wraps a thin silver blanket around my shoulders and forces me away from her.

  “There’s still a danger of more explosions!” he shouts in my ear over the sirens of still-arriving emergency vehicles and the surprisingly loud sounds of the building burning behind us. “You must step away. They’ll take care of your friend.”

  I let him lead me because I know there isn’t anything else I can do to help Tabitha. I had my chance.

  They take me to the ER, but other than treating me for shock with orange juice and oxygen, and for a strained shoulder with an ice pack, I’m fine. I am barely scratched. I slip away when the nurse isn’t looking.

  Tabitha isn’t as lucky. Aside from a concussion, she has a bone-deep gash that needs twenty stitches, and an orbital fracture that causes her right eye to droop lower than her left. This will affect her vision and is probably permanent, I hear the doctor say. She can’t remember much. She doesn’t know how she ended up outside her building. She doesn’t recall ever meeting me.

  The two other students in the dorm building that night died. The local paper publishes long, extravagant obituaries, but the next day, I make inquiries of my own. They’d been involved in a fraternity hazing that killed a freshman the semester before. One of them had killed a mother of three in a drunk-driving accident during high school. His parents paid handsomely, and a lawyer got him off. The other had had two different rape charges brought against him and later dismissed. My mind shies away from thinking that they deserved to die. That the left hand of God killed them.

  I go to the library and read about Sodom and Gomorrah. The angels say to Lot: “Take them out of this place, for we are about to destroy it, because the outcry is so great before the Lord that He has sent us to destroy it.” My face grows hot and cold, spots dance before my eyes. I keep reading. “In the morning, Abraham went to the place where he had stood before the Lord. And he looked out toward Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the region of the Plain, and saw the smoke from the land rising like the smoke of a furnace.” I run to the bathroom and throw up.

  I want to speak with Tabitha, but each time I draw near, I can’t bring myself to walk up to her, to introduce myself again. The accident has changed her. Instead of the open, friendly look she used to have, as if someone had just told her some pleasant news, she now keeps her head down, her shoulders hunched up defensively. She was supposed to have been spared. It is all my fault.

  III.

  IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY, a young peasant girl in rural France experienced a series of encounters with heavenly voices. They came first as a bright light, but over time coalesced into perfect, beautiful visions. The archangel Michael was there, along with several other saints the girl recognized. These visions were so lovely that she cried when they ended. The angel and the saints told her that she must help recover her homeland, devastated from decades of war and pillage.

  She was young when these visions began, only thirteen. They continued for years. Years of visions telling her she must overcome her fears, her reluctance, her previous understanding of her place in the world. Until finally, at age seventeen, she no longer doubted.

  She petitioned the local garrison commander to visit the royal French court. Once there, she convinced the prince to let her lead his army against the British, who were holding the city of Orléans under siege. This siege had been dragging on for months when she arrived, a young medieval woman completely unversed in military strategy or tactics.

  Within ten days, she ended it. This was the start of her military career. Over the course of the next eighteen months, she was severely injured several times, ignored by seasoned generals and adored by the army and the people of France.

  During one retreat, she was among the last to leave the field and was captured and held for ransom. Her peasant family could not pay, and the prince, fearing her growing popularity, would not step in to help. She was sold to the British.

  This story does not end well.

  The girl goes on trial for heresy. Her crime was not hearing voices, but rather the sin of wearing men’s clothing. No one seems to have doubted her claim that God’s emissaries spoke to her; they were only looking for a loophole to stop her. The bishop leading the trial did not follow the laws and conventions of the ecclesiastical court. Some of the clergy on the tribunal had been coerced to serve. The girl’s answers were eloquent and correct, yet she was found guilty and burned at the stake. Concerned that her remains would be a rallying point or, worse, become holy relics, the men who had burned her insisted that her charred body be burned twice more and her ashes scattered on the Seine. The executioner later said he feared he was damned for doing such a thing.

  The girl’s name was Joan of Arc. And even though she did everything she was supposed to do, everything God wanted her to do, by the time she was nineteen, she was dead.

  Never mind the fact that a mere twenty-four years later, the pope exonerated her and removed the stigma of heresy. Never mind that in 1920 she was named a saint. It’s pretty obvious that though her short life was full of glory, it was also full of agony, injustice, cruelty and, ultimately, betrayal.

  I have always known the basics of Joan’s story, but it is as if I am learning it for the first time. It sickens me, the gross injustice of it all. The unfairness not just of those wicked, evil men, but of the messengers from God who started it, who set her on her path.

  Where were they?

  It’s clear flipping through history books and reading about the people who claim angels appeared before them (outside of the patriarchs of the Bible, and not counting poor Joan) that they aren’t exactly a who’s who of sanity or importance. Besides having a disturbing tendency to be burned at the stake—don’t think for a moment Joan was the only one—most of them were also a bunch of raving, uneducated, borderline insane, sad, pathetic losers. And now I have joined their ranks. Except I have none of Joan’s courage, her great wit, or her convictions, and I have already failed at the one task set before me.

  Joan was left to su
ffer a brutal execution after fulfilling all her duties. God only knows what’s going to happen to me.

  After spring break ends and students fill the classrooms, dorms and cafeteria, nothing is the same. Tabitha’s photo is on the front page of the school paper, with the screaming headline FREAK ACCIDENT KILLS TWO, DISFIGURES HONORS STUDENT. I haven’t been there since before the accident, but I should have realized the paper would cover the story and tried to blunt its insensitivity toward Tabitha. I grab all the copies I can find and dump them in the recycling bin, but I know I can’t recycle every one on campus. For once, I’m not proud to be part of the paper. The article isn’t well written or kind; it’s simply juicy. National media have picked up the story, too, and for a couple of days, large vans with boil-like transmitters growing from their roofs dot the campus. Several students and administrators are blasted with bright lights as they try to sound intelligent in front of the cameras, answering a barrage of mostly trivial questions. The university president assures the public that there will be an investigation as to why the dormitory didn’t have a lightning rod as per state safety regulations and why the chemistry department was storing large containers of acetone, hydrogen peroxide and sulfuric acid in the attic. Everyone agrees that it would have been an unimaginable tragedy if the freak storm had occurred a mere week earlier or later. Hundreds of students would have been killed.

  I overhear someone say, “Thank God it happened when it did.”

  Students flip through the paper in the cafeteria, out on the quad and in halls between classes. Tabitha’s pain and suffering are put on public display. Every grimace, every sigh of pity, is like a stabbing finger pointing out my shame, her pain, everywhere I turn.

  Damn paparazzi, I think. Then I clap my hands over my mouth, because isn’t damning someone the same as taking the Lord’s name in vain?

  I drift through classes, hardly hearing my professors, hardly caring about the lectures, not bothering to take notes or read the assigned chapters. I expect another visit at any minute. I look for signs from God in every wind gust, every bird that flutters up from the ground, startled by my passing. I develop odd cramps and unexplained bouts of diarrhea that come and go and have me running to the bathroom at the most inconvenient moments.

  Two weeks after spring break, I start skipping classes altogether, spending my time deep in the bowels of the library, reading everything I can on angels, on celestial contact with humans, on miracles. There isn’t much. What there is, as with the example of Joan of Arc, isn’t very promising. Web sites are even worse. Frightening, delusional blogs; inaccurate retellings of historical incidents; cheesy graphics that mock my terror.

  I have failed Tabitha. I have let down God Himself in high heaven. I don’t know where to take my shame, whom to turn to for comfort.

  I’m not sure how long I would have continued to float in this purgatory, waiting for a word, looking for a sign. Fortunately, Mo comes in for his long-delayed visit.

  “Sis,” he says after our usual big bear hug, “you look awful. What the hell have you been doing?”

  Mo, my twin, is three inches taller than me. He is thin and wiry, with dark curly hair that tends to bush out if he waits too long between haircuts. We look startlingly alike, as near to identical as brother and sister can be. Looking at his face, I see what I would look like as a man.

  “I’ve had this nasty bug. I’ve lost a bit of weight,” I say.

  He immediately takes a few steps back and makes a cross with his fingers. “And you hugged me? Jesus, Miriam, I don’t want to catch the plague.”

  I laugh. He ducks, covering his nose and mouth so that his hands are like a gas mask.

  “I don’t think it’s contagious, no one else seems to have it. Besides, I’m pretty much over it.”

  “In that case, let’s get some food and put some meat on your bones. You look like death.” He walks out of my dorm room and I hurry after him. He is wearing jeans and a bright green and yellow Brazilian soccer jersey. I am wearing jeans and a green-and-yellow-striped polo shirt. We did not plan to wear the same colors, but it often happens. We no longer remark on it.

  “You’re sweet,” I coo. “You know just how to flatter a girl. Are you sure you have a girlfriend?”

  “Actually, we broke up.”

  I put a hand on his arm. “Mo, I’m sorry.” But he dances away and grins.

  “Don’t worry, there weren’t hard feelings. It’s not like I’m looking for a wife.”

  “I liked Amber,” I say. Even though I didn’t, really. She was nice enough, but a little dim. Still, she was the first person Mo actually deigned to call a girlfriend, so no matter what his devil-may-care attitude said, she was important to him.

  “Who broke it off, you or her?”

  “Miriam, knock it off, okay? It doesn’t matter.”

  It must have been Amber for him to be so touchy.

  He walks faster, and I break into a trot to keep up. Ever since the accident, my energy has been sapped by worry, guilt and indecision about my future. Those odd bouts of stomach cramps haven’t helped. I didn’t realize how out of shape I’ve grown during the time. My legs feel rubbery and weak.

  “Slow down,” I gasp. “I can’t keep up.”

  He stops and looks at me, half irritated, half concerned.

  “You’re running,” I complain. “You know I hate running.”

  “For God’s sake, Miriam, you are in sorry shape if you can’t walk half a mile to dinner.”

  I wince as he takes the Lord’s name in vain. I’ve started noticing how often people do that, carelessly. I want to tell him, to tell them all, to be careful.

  Mo opens his mouth to say something else, but stops himself. He takes a breath as if to speak, but then thinks better of it.

  For the first time since the angel’s visit, something other than biblical worries has caught my attention. There is something shimmering off my brother. I don’t know if it is the breakup or the mysterious reason he postponed his visit, but something momentous has happened to Mo and I finally notice that he is bursting to tell me.

  He looks both ways as if checking for eavesdroppers, which is ridiculous on a Tuesday evening in the middle of campus. Then he shakes his head.

  “I have to tell you something, but I can’t talk about it here. Let’s grab a couple of burgers and head to the trails, okay?”

  The “trails” are a set of paths in the park near school. During the day, they are a favorite jogging path of the more athletically inclined of the student body, the would-be marathoners and athletes. They are secluded enough that you can almost pretend you are out in the woods, away from the town and the campus and civilization. They are also the site of an occasional rape or assault, pretty much for the same reason. I never go there at night. But Mo is with me, so after a short hesitation, I shrug and say okay.

  After picking up some burgers and fries, we carry our bags, with their blooming stains of grease, and hike up a narrow path of trampled-down dirt. My breath is catching again, and the smell of fries growing cold isn’t appetizing. Nothing like congealing grease to ease stomach cramps.

  “This is far enough,” I say. My heart is beating too fast, almost painfully thudding. I press a hand to my chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  “You’re pathetic,” Mo says. But I notice with petty satisfaction that his lip is dotted with sweat even though the night is cool.

  “We’re pathetic,” I correct. “Maybe we should take some sort of exercise vow.”

  He ignores me, and we continue grunting and puffing upward. I point out a large, flat rock near the trail, and after a quick glance around, Mo agrees we’ve walked far enough.

  “So, what’s the story?” I ask as we settle down. I make a show of unwrapping my burger but then let it sit in my lap. I feel nauseous from the smell.

  “You’re going to have a really hard time believing me,” he says, for once looking uncertain. “But no matter how crazy this sounds, I’m telling the
truth and you have to promise not to tell anyone. Not anyone.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, Miriam.” He grabs my arm near the elbow, hard enough to make me jump. “I’m serious. You can’t tell anyone. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to tell you, but no one said I couldn’t, so …”

  “What, Mo? What happened?”

  But here’s the thing. I already know.

  “I met someone.”

  “A girl?” I know that isn’t it, but it’s what a normal person would assume. Right now, I’m fighting hard to be normal.

  “No, not even close. Miriam, I spoke to God. Well, not exactly God, but basically, yeah, I did.”

  “Really?” I don’t doubt him. Still, he doesn’t look shaken.

  “Well, mostly I listened. He told me all sorts of amazing things, incredible things. He showed me things I never would have believed. Miriam, everything we learned, it’s true and not true. I mean, there is a God, there is heaven and hell and everything. But the Bible—our parents, they got it all wrong! Miriam, it was the most amazing night of my life. Everything fell into place—all the things I ever wondered about or thought about, I know. I know.”

  “You know what?” My own visit had only left me with questions, with doubt, with fear, while his sounded like a blessing, a benediction.

  “I don’t know. Everything, I guess.”

  “What does that mean?” I feel my cheeks flush with anger. Until this moment, I had thought that although my burden was heavy, I had been blessed. Maybe I had let God down, but I was special, I was chosen. Instead, I suddenly see that I suffered through a horrible, painful ordeal, but my brother, my naughty, mischievous brother, received the key to everything. It has been many years since I felt like stomping my feet and yelling “NOT FAIR!” but I feel like it now.

  “So, what’s the big revelation?”

  He looks at me with slight pity. “I can’t tell you.”

  I want to smack him on the back of the head. “Excuse me?”

  “Miriam, I can’t. It’s not something I can put into words. It’s just this feeling, this wonderful feeling.” He laughs. It should be joyful laughter, but there is something nasty there too.