by Shenda Paul
By Shenda Paul
Counsel
Justice
Angel
Novella
Lost
Angel
Shenda Paul
Copyright © 2016 Shenda Paul
Vivid Publishing
P.O. Box 948, Fremantle Western Australia 6959
www.vividpublishing.com.au
eBook conversion and distribution by Fontaine Publishing Group, Australia
www.fontaine.com.au
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This eBook published in 2016
ISBN 978-0-9944722-5-0
Cover Art: TW/SPaul
Dedication
For my family and friends who left too soon.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Preview – Destiny
Acknowledgments
About The Author
1
I ’m seven today, but I don’t expect presents because I heard Mommy tell Rachel, ‘things are tough.’ I don’t mind. The best present, anyway, would be if my daddy gets better.
He used to be a fireman. He was so strong, he could pick me up and swing me high, high in the air, and I squealed because it felt good but also scary. Daddy used to laugh when I did that, his eyes all crinkly in the corners. He laughed a lot then, but not so much now, and when he does his eyes don’t shine bright like they used to.
My daddy’s very sick, I know, even though no one ever tells me. When I ask, Mommy says, “The doctors are doing everything they can,” but Daddy’s not getting better like I thought.
First, he came home looking very tired, and Mommy told him, “Stop working so many shifts, Rory.” “You worry too much,” Daddy said and kissed her cheek like always when he tells her not to fuss. But he got more tired, and he coughed a lot and couldn’t breathe right. My daddy’s sick because of his job, I heard Rachel say. “They should do more for firefighters; the benefits barely cover your costs,” she said.
“We knew that all along, but for Rory, it was never just about making a living. He wanted to do something to help people, and he did. Rory saved a lot of lives and property over the years,” Mommy told her.
Last night I heard her tell Daddy don’t give up. “I won’t,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure like before. I think Daddy is giving up, and I don’t know why because he always tells me not to. “Never give up, A Stór. Be positive and keep going, and you’ll get what you want,” he says. I love when Daddy calls me A Stór. It means my treasure in the old language. He and Mommy mostly call me Angel, though, because I’m his and mommy’s special gift, Daddy says. I like that too.
Sometimes, at night, when Mommy thinks I’m sleeping, I hear her cry. Then I also cry also because I’m scared Daddy will die like old Mrs. Jones. She was sick for a long time, just like him. One day, Mandi and I heard Mrs. Morgan tell Mrs. Drummond she died. “Inez is with God now,” she said. God lives in heaven, I know, and it’s beautiful there, so why did Mrs. Jones have to go to heaven in a black bag?
I know she did because when Mandi and I peeked through the window, we saw two men wheeling her away a black bag on a bed. I know it was Mrs. Jones because Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Drummond crossed themselves and said, “Rest in peace, Inez.” Now, every night, I pray for my Daddy not to die, and I cry because I don’t want those men to take him away in a bag.
Anyway, it’s my special day; Mommy always says that when it’s my birthday. She and Daddy woke me this morning. I loved it because, since he’s been sick, Daddy doesn’t wake me much anymore. They sang happy birthday, well, Mommy did; Daddy tried, but then he coughed, so he just clapped while Mommy sang. And I did get presents—new red shoes, and Mommy made me a dress from her white one with the big red flowers that I liked to play dress up in. I love it!
Mommy wore the dress on their first date, Daddy told me. “No, I didn’t; I wore blue,” Mommy said.
“You were wearing that dress when I plucked up the courage to ask you out,” Daddy said.
“That wasn’t a date!” Mommy laughed.
“It was to me,” Daddy said and kissed her cheek. I like it when they’re playful like that, specially when Daddy’s happy and smiling like before.
Mommy cooked her buttery scrambled eggs with sweet corn that Daddy and I love for breakfast. And we had cupcakes that Mommy baked. She put white frosting with colored flowers on top. I had one with a red flower because it matched my dress, and Mommy also put a sparkler in mine. She lit it and sang happy birthday again.
And, now, Mommy’s packing cakes for me to share with Mandi, Bronny, and Sammy; they’re my best friends. I counted eight, two for each of us—one for before class and one at lunch, Mommy said.
There’s one cake left over, and Mommy says I can save it for after dinner.
“Daddy can have it,” I say because he likes cake.
“It’s your, birthday, Angel, not mine,” Daddy laughs and shakes his head.
“We can all share,” I say. “Sister Lily says we should because we’ll be rewarded one day.”
“She’s right,” Daddy smiles like he does when he’s proud of me and kisses me on the head. “Cut the cake, Grace,” he tells Mommy.
Mommy does, and when Daddy picks up his piece, he holds it to me. I smile and lift mine because I know what he wants, and when Mommy picks up the last piece, we make a toast like people do with glasses. “Happy Birthday, A Stór,” Daddy says.
I loved my birthday breakfast. It was the best ever.
It’s after school, and I’m skipping rope at the park with my friends. Mr. Jamieson, from across the street, is watching us for Mommy like he sometimes does. He was a firefighter too, but he doesn’t work now. He’s not sick like my daddy; he’s retired.
“Girls,” I forgot my glasses. I’ll be five minutes,” he shouts. “Stay right here until I get back,” he says and leaves his newspaper on the bench.
“Okay,” Bronny yells back.
“I’m tired,” Sammy says, rolling up the rope and lies on the grass. She and Mandi guess cloud shapes. “That’s a dog,” Mandi says, but Sammy says no, it’s a bear. I don’t play because I don’t want to lie down and get my new dress dirty. Bronny and I play Have You Ever Ever.
“Jamie Drury kissed me,” she says and stops clapping. Jamie goes to school with us. Bronny thinks he’s nice, but I think he’s silly and annoying. He follows us around and, sometimes, he even pulls her ponytail—that’s annoying, not nice.
“What?” Mandi sits up; her eyes are so wide, Mommy would call them saucers.
“When?” she asks, but Bronny doesn’t answer; she’s looking at something behind me. I turn my head and see the man with black hair, the one I sometimes in his car in our street.
“Well, hello girls,” he says, looking at me. He says vell, not well.
I don’t know anyone who talks like that, not even Mr. and Mrs. Tucci, who came from Italy to live with their daughter, Mrs. Donati. People from other countries have different accents, Daddy told me when I asked why they don’t speak like us. “People come to this country from all over the world,” Daddy said, “just like the Bains did.”
Our family is from Ireland. “God’s own country,” Daddy says my great grampy called it. I love when Daddy tells stories about Ireland. He’s never been, but he promised we’d go one day. I really want to visit Ireland and see if it’s really green like an emerald like Daddy says.
“You are Angelique, yes?” the man asks.
“Ye…Yes,” I answer because Mommy says to always be polite—but she also said not to talk to strangers, so I don’t know if I’m going to be in trouble. He’s smiling, but his eyes don’t. They’re blue, not dark and shining like Mommy’s, or bright like Bronny’s. His eyes are cold like winter. I don’t like them, and I don’t like him.
“Happy birthday, beautiful girl.” He holds out a white box with a yellow ribbon, but I don’t take it.
“What’s that?” Mandi asks.
“It’s a present, Angelique,” he tells me, even though I didn’t ask. I want to know how he knows my name, but I don’t ask that either.
“I…I can’t take stuff from strangers,” I say because Mommy told me that too.
“We can be friends; we won’t be strangers then, will we?”
“Go away, Mister, you’re not our friend.” Mandi grabs my arm “Come on, Angel,” she says, and Bronny and Sammy stand too.
“Go away!” Mandi yells, loud this time.
“My name is Dieter, and we will be friends, Angelique!” he says.
“Run,” Mandi yells, and we do.
The next week, I hear Mommy tell Daddy to put his mask on. “We shouldn’t be wasting money on me,” he says. “I hate that you have to work so hard.”
My mommy does work hard. She used to work in a bookshop and then pick me up from school, but since Daddy’s been sick, she stopped working there because she wanted to stay home with him. Now, she sews and mends people’s clothes. Sometimes, she makes curtains or even cushions; whatever people need, she says. My mommy’s very clever, I think, but she says her grandma is the one who knew everything about sewing. “I’m just lucky she taught me,” Mommy says.
Some nights, she works ‘til very late. I know because I hear when she goes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Daddy doesn’t like when Mommy works late because and, sometimes, I hear him tell her to come to bed. And then, when she says she can’t, he says he’ll make the tea. She tells him he needs to rest, but Daddy says so does she, and it’s the least he can do.
“Oh, Rory, you worked hard for many years; it’s my turn now,” Mommy tells Daddy now. “Please use the oxygen; we love you, and we don’t want to lose you.” She wants to cry, I can tell, and I’m not sure why, but I want to cry too.
“Grace,” Daddy’s chest wheezes. I hate that sound. Daddy never made it before—before he was sick. “Even when my body leaves, I’ll be with you,” he says.
Mommy sniffles and tells him not to talk like that. I was going to ask when’s dinner, but I’m not hungry now, so I go to my room instead. At Mass, Mrs. Robertson told Mommy Daddy’s health is in God’s hands, so I pray extra hard for him to get better.
“Angel, dinner!” Mommy calls me. She’s smiling when I come into the kitchen, but her eyes are still teary. “Did you wash your hands?”
I shake my head and hurry and pull a chair to the kitchen sink because I want to make her happy again.
“What about Daddy?” I ask.
“We’ll take him a tray later,” Mommy tells me.
We’re having corned beef and colcannon. It’s one of Daddy’s favorites, so I know that’s why Mommy made it. She put three slices of meat on my plate, but she only has one.
“Aren’t you hungry, Mommy?” I ask. She says no, but she only had toast this morning. Daddy and I had a boiled egg too, and I know Mommy doesn’t always eat lunch because I heard Daddy tell her she needs to eat.
“Me too; Mandi’s mommy sent cake,” I say and pick up a slice of meat with my fork and hold it out to Mommy.
“Eat, Angel,” she tells me, but I don’t, even though I know I shouldn’t disobey.
“You’re a good girl.” Mommy says, her eyes all teary again, but she takes the meat. “What kind of cake?” she asks.
I say Mandi called it pound cake, and Mommy tells me it’s called that because it has a pound of flour, eggs, butter, and sugar—a pound of each, she says.
“It should be a four-pound cake,” I say, and Mommy laughs and asks what I did at school. So I tell, and she smiles while I talk. She doesn’t even say not to talk with my mouth full, like always.
I’m talking about Bronny’s kitten, Sooty, when someone knocks on our door. “It’s probably Rachel; finish your food,” Mommy says, but she and Rachel don’t come back, so I get up to look. My heart jumps when I see the man from the park.
“Mrs. Bain, I am Dieter Quandt,” he says. “I own a ballet school that offers scholarships to talented children. The program, you should know, includes an educational grant. I have been watching your daughter and believe she has enormous potential.”
Mommy frowns. “You’ve watched my daughter?” she asks, her voice is quiet, but I can tell she’s mad. “Where—why would you do that?”
Mommy peeks over her shoulder to her and Daddy’s room. “I’m sorry, I don’t wish to speak to you,” she tells him. “Please leave my daughter alone.” She tries to close the door, but the man puts his hand out.
“Mrs. Bain, I can be vouched for, and the Institute can provide Angelique an excellent education—don’t you want your child to have the best?”
“Please leave,” Mommy says, louder this time. The man smiles, and when he sees me, his smile gets bigger. Mommy shuts the door right in his face.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Bain…Angelique,” I hear him say even though the door is shut.
In the kitchen, Mommy takes my hand and bends down, her face real close to mine. “Angelique, have you seen that man before? Did you speak to him?” she asks, and I bite my lip because I know I’m in trouble when Mommy says my full name.
“What have Daddy and I told you about talking to strangers? You’re not to speak to them; and if they ask you to go anywhere, you’re to shout, “no”, and run away!” she tells me even though I already know.
“I didn’t want to. I don’t like him, and he talks funny!” I cry because I hate when Mommy’s mad at me.
“Where did you see him, Angel?” she pulls me onto her lap and tells me not to cry.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say.
“I’m not mad at you; I’m worried,” Mommy wipes my tears away. “You know the rules…your Dad—” she sighs and hugs me, so tight, my tummy hurts.
“Tell me everything. When did you see that man, and what did he say?”
“I only talked to him once, Mommy; at the park on my birthday. He wanted to give me a present, but I said no. Mandi told him to go away, and then we ran.”
“Did you see him before that?”
“Sometimes; in his car.”
“Where,” Mommy asks.
“In our street. How did he know it was my birthday?”
“I don’t know, Angel; I don’t know,” Mommy lets out another, big sigh, and I feel her lips press against my head. She takes my chin in her hand and gives me her serious look. “Angelique, you stay away from that man. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Mommy,” I say quickly because I don’t want her to get mad again, and anyway, I don’t want to see him again.
“If you see him or his car on the street, and you’re not close to home, you run to a neighbor’s house, whichever one is closest. You tell whoever’s there that he’s following you and ask them to walk you home.
“If you see him at school, you go straight to a teacher, and you’re not to leave with anyone other than
Rachel, Mandi’s mom, or me. Do you understand?”
I nod and say yes. “Good girl,” Mommy hugs me tight. “Now, let’s get Daddy’s dinner. And let’s not say anything about our visitor or what happened in the park. He’ll only worry,”
2
I want to go home, and I want it to be just Mommy, Daddy, and me. But we won’t be, ever again, because Daddy’s lying in that box called a coffin. They’re going to put him into that deep hole and Mommy and I will never see him again.
Daddy left us last week to go to heaven. He left in a long, black car. I don’t know if they put him in a bag because after I kissed Daddy goodbye, Mommy asked Rachel to take me to my room. She read to me, and, later, after Daddy was gone, Rachel made Mommy lie down on my bed. “Rest, you haven’t slept all night,” she said, and told me I could watch TV or read, but I didn’t want to. I wanted my daddy back; I wanted Mommy not to be sad, and I wanted her to stop crying. When Rachel went into Mommy and Daddy’s room with clean sheets, I crawled in behind Mommy. I hugged her, and she put her arms around me.
I want Mommy to hold me like that now; maybe it will make the pain in my chest go away. Mommy squeezes my hand when the men, the ones who put Daddy’s coffin in the car, move forward. They’re wearing black—everyone’s wearing black, even Mommy. Daddy wouldn’t like that. He liked her to wear bright colors. “Like your smile,” he always says. I’m glad my new coat is blue. It ’s not bright, but it’s not black, and I hope Daddy can see me from heaven.
Mommy cries again when Father Murphy says prayers—not loud like I did when they took Daddy away. Her tears just roll down her cheeks like they did then, like they do almost every time she thinks I’m not looking. This time, I squeeze her hand. Mommy smiles at me, but her eyes are sad. She gives me a rose and tells me to put in on Daddy’s coffin, so I do. Mommy, who’s still holding my hand, also puts a rose there. Then, she bends down to kiss me and asks Rachel to take me to the car. I sit in the back watching her, all alone at Daddy’s new place, I now know is called a grave. I also know that, when we leave, those men are going to put him in that horrible grave and leave him there.