Angel Song

by Sheila Walsh

  “Good.” He looked at the ground between their feet.

  Some of what he’d said caught up with her brain. “You know Sarah?”

  “And you.” He paused. “Well, I think. You’re Annie, right?”

  She nodded. “Ann.”

  “I thought so. I’m Ethan.” He looked at her as if this explained everything, which it didn’t. After a few seconds of silence, he continued. “McKinney. I live in the neighborhood with Sarah . . . and used to live near you. My family moved in my senior year of high school, back when you were still living there with your grandmother.”

  “Oh, right.” Ann had a vague memory of a new guy in the area. Still, she’d avoided her childhood memories for so long, she wasn’t certain.

  “Is Sarah . . . gonna be all right?”

  Was she? Ann wanted to give an optimistic response, or even a flip one, but the words wouldn’t come. “I don’t know.” The words took great effort.

  Ethan dipped his head so slightly Ann thought she might have imagined it. The silence grew awkward. Finally, he nodded toward the chapel. “I’ll go say a prayer for her.”

  “Thanks.” Ann started to walk away but stopped, unexpectedly not ready to end the conversation. “The music in there is very unusual.”

  He looked surprised. “Music? There’s no music in the chapel.”

  “Yes, there is.” The flare of irritation felt good; it provided temporary distraction from the fear. She wanted to hold on to this relief for as long as she could. “Open the door and see.”

  “All right.” Ethan pulled open the chapel door and leaned inside.

  She waited for his concession but heard nothing. At all. Including any music. She strained her ears and moved closer to the room. Nothing but silence.

  Ethan studied the ceiling. “Are you sure you heard music in here? I did some volunteer work on the remodel last year, and I know we didn’t put in speakers. In fact, we put extra soundproofing around this room to make sure it was quiet. Just like it is now.”

  What’s going on here?

  Ann stood still, listening with every fiber in her being. She focused her attention on the gurgling water at the end of the room, waiting to hear the song. No music came, not a single piano note. “That’s really strange. I don’t know what I heard.” But that was a lie. She did know.

  She’d heard music, the same tune her sister had hummed in the ambulance. The kind of music that becomes one with your being so that you can never, ever forget it. And she’d heard it in a room with no piano, no speakers, and soundproof walls.

  Chapter 3

  Ann stood in the bathroom stall changing shirts, trying not to think about why she needed to. She rolled her white button-up into a tight ball and looked at her small purse. It would never fit. For the first time ever, she felt appreciation for Sarah’s gaudy pink tote with its brass buckles and warren of pockets. The same handbag she’d made fun of earlier. Had it really been a couple of hours ago that she’d told Sarah she could swipe a whole place setting from the restaurant, load it into that bag, and still have room to spare? She tucked the shirt inside, looking forward to the day they could joke about the irony in that.

  The refrain of the water-music tune remained firmly stuck in her head, and it unnerved her. She’d heard of auditory hallucinations. Was the accident making her hear her sister’s song in places where the song wasn’t? She was finally losing her mind, which perhaps wasn’t that big of a surprise. Maybe she should walk back to the chapel to listen one more time, but just the thought made the air around her seem heavy. Time to get back downstairs.

  Ann unlocked the door to the stall but hesitated when she remembered the mother of the football player. She looked at her watch: 8:15. Twenty minutes had passed; surely the woman had calmed down sufficiently that it should be safe to return now.

  When Ann pushed open the stall door and looked into the mirror, she almost burst out laughing. Not only was she going crazy, but now she looked the part. The oversized green T-shirt had a sketch on the front of an antebellum home in bright yellow, and it said The Charleston Historical Home Preservation Society. This would get an interesting reaction from her coworkers back in Manhattan. Ann’s designs featured clean lines of glass and chrome and small proportions. She made it a rule to avoid antiques, draperies, and T-shirts with writing. Especially writing that reeked of the past.

  Before she could do anything about her new look, her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Without another thought to decorating, or clothes, or melodies, she flipped it open. “I’m on my way.” She slapped the phone shut, ran out the door, and started down the stairs before she realized that she’d never even looked to see who was calling. If no one was there when she got to the waiting room, then she would look at her cell’s recent missed calls. Until then, it just didn’t matter.

  Ann skidded to a stop in the waiting room, now empty except for a fair-skinned, dark-haired man in a white coat. He didn’t look much older than the EMT from the ambulance, but the name on his coat said Fred Zurlinden, MD.

  “I’m Ann Fletcher. Are you looking for me?” Ann thrust a hand toward him, which he didn’t seem to see.

  His gaze never reached her face as he gestured toward the chairs in the corner. “Let’s take a seat, shall we?”

  Ann didn’t want to sit, she wanted to stand, but she complied without hesitation. Whatever it took to get some answers quickly, that’s what she was going to do.

  “Ms. Fletcher, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but at approximately 8:10, Sarah went into cardiac arrest. We were not able to bring her back.” He recited these details like he was reading from a cue card. He still hadn’t looked at her.

  “What?” Ann heard his voice, but she couldn’t comprehend the words. Didn’t want to comprehend. “What are you saying? That Sarah’s . . . gone?”

  He nodded and pasted on a sympathetic frown. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “But . . . she made it here, she was conscious, she was talking. They took her into surgery to save her.” Ann’s voice grew louder with each word, but she didn’t care. Something was wrong, and everyone needed to know it.

  Fred Zurlinden, MD, glanced toward his watch, as if he had work to do and this was keeping him from it. “We did all that we could, but her injuries were just too severe.” He looked toward the double doors, seeming to wish he were behind them. “Would you like for me to call the chaplain, or someone else for you to talk to?”

  “No, I don’t want you to call somebody. I want you to get back there and save my sister. This is a mistake. I—”

  “Annie?” Ann turned to see a woman leaning toward her, arms outstretched. Somewhere in the fog of her brain, Ann understood that this woman wanted to hug her. She looked at the woman’s curly blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, tied with a red bow that matched her sleeveless shirt. She was not the football player’s mother. She had called her Annie. Only Sarah did that.

  “Hi, Annie.” A round-faced boy who looked to be about twelve years old peered from behind the woman, clutching her shirt hem. When Ann saw the almond-shaped eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses, she made the connection. Sarah’s neighbors. A vague memory surfaced that they’d been introduced earlier in the day, although she couldn’t summon any of the details from her mind. Sarah had been talking about the boy with Down syndrome and his mother ever since they moved in a few years ago. What were their names?

  The woman finally dropped the arms she’d been holding out and reached back to stroke her son’s fine hair. “I’m Tammy. This is Keith. We met this afternoon. Remember? We live next door to Sarah.”

  Ann nodded. These details didn’t matter. They couldn’t make the doctor change what he was saying about Sarah, couldn’t change anything that had happened. Ann turned back to him, but Dr. Zurlinden had already stood. “I can see that your friends are here to help you. The ladies at the desk can help you with the necessary procedures.” He walked crisply away, leaving Ann alone with a stranger of a woman, that woman’s s
on, and the knowledge that she was now the only living member of her family.

  Thirty years old and completely alone. What was she supposed to do with that?

  She quickly shifted her mind away from the thought and brought herself back to the present, to the pressing needs of the moment.

  She turned toward Tammy. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Ethan called me and told me there had been an accident. I hurried over as fast as I could, but we walked in just as the doctor was giving you the news. Oh, Annie, I am so sorry.” Tammy threw her arms around Ann and cried into her shoulder. “I loved her so much.”

  Ann tried to pat Tammy on the shoulder in some semblance of comfort, but mostly she concentrated on taking deep breaths and pretending she was somewhere else. She’d never been comfortable with demonstrative strangers, even when she’d lived in the South. Now, after almost a decade in New York, the gesture completely unnerved her. She tried to focus on details in an effort to keep her sanity intact and to steer the conversation in a direction that did not encourage physical contact.

  “Ethan? Why would he call you?”

  “Well, I guess he was here because a kid he knows was in a motorcycle wreck, and while he was waiting, he recognized you. He’s my cousin and he knows how much Sarah means to me. He knows I’d want to be here for her. And for you.”

  “Hmm. Okay.” Ann stared at the ceiling tiles, thankful for the numbness that had settled on her.

  Tammy sniffed, straightened her posture, and wiped her eyes. Ann had the distinct impression that her lack of emotional display made Tammy as uneasy as Tammy’s hugs made Ann. “Come on, let’s get through the paperwork, and then I’ll drive you home.”

  Home. Ann’s home—well, her current apartment—was almost a thousand miles away. But she nodded without comment. “Bring out the forms and let’s get this done.” Ann didn’t want to stay here another minute.

  By the time they walked out of the emergency room an hour later, Ann felt . . . disconnected. She’d only partly noticed the goings-on of Keith, who had hugged everyone who sat near him. He’d also done an impersonation of Elvis—or was it Johnny Cash?—for the entire waiting area, stopping only when Tammy sat him down with a firm talking-to. Then he’d finally turned his attention to an American Idol rerun playing on the wall-mounted television, occasionally blurting out, “That Simon man is mean.” Keith’s over-the-top behavior only added to the surrealness of the whole evening.

  She followed Tammy and Keith to a black Saturn that had to be a dozen years old. She climbed into the passenger’s seat and hoped for a silent ride.

  “You sad, Annie?” Keith’s speech was slow and somewhat difficult to understand. He leaned forward from the backseat and began to rub her arm. Ann flinched away from the unexpected touch.

  Tammy very gently took his hand and reached back to put it in his lap. “Let’s give Ann some space, okay, Keith?”

  “Okay.”

  They rode for several minutes in silence before Tammy tried again. “You know, Annie, if you’d rather not be alone, you’re welcome to stay at our house tonight.”

  Ann did appreciate the gesture, but it did not tempt her. Alone was something she was used to. Something she was going to have to get even more used to. “No, I’ll be all right.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, you just come on over. Doesn’t matter how late, you just ring the bell.”

  “Sure.”

  Tammy didn’t seem to get the hint from her short responses. “And we’ll be over in the morning to help you start making the arrangements, okay?”

  Ann nodded. “Thanks.” She hadn’t even considered that it would be up to her to plan a funeral.

  When Tammy turned onto the oak-lined street, she slowed the car and looked toward Ann. “Do you have a key to the house?”

  “I’ve got a key.” Ann had had a key for the last twenty years, but there was no reason to say that now.

  The song from the chapel kept playing through her mind. Ann suddenly wondered what it was and if it had lyrics and if maybe it had special significance for Sarah. One way or the other, it was the most powerful music she’d ever heard. Maybe they should play it at the . . . No! This was all just a bad dream, and there was no reason to be thinking about songs to play at Sarah’s funeral.

  All she needed to do was to have a few stiff drinks, fall into a deep sleep, and wake up in New York to realize none of this had really happened. Yep, that was the plan.

  Keith, who had been silent the last few minutes, leaned forward and began to rub Ann’s arm again. “I like that song.”

  His words jolted her around. “What song?” Had she been humming aloud? The radio was not on.

  “They sing that to me sometimes. When they help me. They help you too?” His eyes were bright with innocent hope.

  “Who sings to you?”

  “My angels.”

  Ann had no idea what she’d been expecting Keith to say, what logical response he could give in the midst of the illogical things that had happened. She looked at Tammy. “Angels?”

  Tammy shrugged. “Keith seems to be able to see and hear angels from time to time.” She said it with a hint of weariness in her voice, but not even a trace of doubt. She pulled into the driveway and turned off the car

  “Okay.” There was nothing else to say. Ann climbed from the car, wondering how long it would take to find something to drink around here.

  Chapter 4

  Sarah writhed in pain. Ann held the antidote in her hand, but no matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t get any closer. “Hang on, Sarah. I’m coming.”

  Sarah stared up at a blank wall. “Help. Annie. Please.” With each word, the music in the background grew louder and louder until it was difficult to hear Sarah’s voice at all.

  “Sarah, I’m here, I’m here.” But Sarah didn’t seem to hear her. She kept her gaze focused on the blank wall over her shoulder. “Help. Annie. Please.” She drew a final gasping breath and then fell back on the pillow, her face suddenly blank.

  Ann jerked awake, her whole body covered in sweat. The music faded away more slowly than the dream, but note by note it, too, disappeared. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her head, but her brain felt hammered in. The sun shone directly into her eyes, the glare pounding against her skull. Her whole body ached from sleeping on the love seat, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to go to the bedroom. It made things feel so final. The thought of returning to that room—a room where she had once shared a bunk bed with Sarah—well, it wasn’t something Ann was prepared to do. Not now. Not ever. She would finish out her time here parked on the small sofa.

  She rolled over to get away from the glare, but the movement made her stomach lurch. Before she had time to think about it, she ran to the bathroom, where she retched the remains of too much vodka and last night’s celebration feast into the toilet. The irony was not lost on her, even in the throes of the worst hangover she’d ever had. Nothing good about this visit could be allowed to remain, even the remnants of last night’s dinner.

  The faucet was easily fifty years old, and it squeaked with enough volume that it hurt her head. She splashed cold water on her face, fumbled for the toothbrush she’d laid on this shelf just yesterday. In a different life. In a life where there was rejoicing for the future in spite of a painful past, a life with hope, and the radiant smile of her sister.

  She stood in the only bathroom of the little bungalow that had been in her family for longer than she cared to remember. Now this little house and Ann were all that remained. She walked out of the bathroom where the two bedrooms flanked her on each side. If she turned left, she would be inside the room she’d shared with Sarah during most of their growing-up years. If she turned right, she would be in Nana’s room. She knew it was the room Sarah had used for the last six years, since Nana died, but it would always be Nana’s room to Ann. She couldn’t stand the thought of either room at the moment, so she pulled both doors firmly shut, making cert
ain the latches caught. If only she could shut out the memory of her dream so easily. And the music.

  She walked across the room and dropped onto the same red-and-tan-striped love seat she’d just slept on, propped her feet on the beige armchair, and looked around. It was Nana’s old furniture, she knew, but Sarah had recovered it in the last few years. It still sagged, but at least it looked better than the floral chintz pattern that used to be here. Beside her was Nana’s oval coffee table. It hadn’t changed. The imitation maple had a glass top, with dozens of old photos underneath. Nana had always put Sarah’s and Ann’s school pictures in there alongside candid snapshots of them. After Nana died Sarah had never touched them—said she didn’t have the heart.

  Ann scanned the tabletop and stopped at a picture of her mother, standing in front of Nana’s Christmas tree, holding a three-year-old Sarah and smiling. Ann was in the background, a skinny eight-year-old with brown pigtails peeking around the branches and looking toward her mother from what seemed a long distance away. Ann removed the glass oval and placed it on the carpet beside her. Then she picked up the photo and turned it upside down. She looked at the next picture, this one of Sarah and Ann, bare feet sticking off the end of the porch swing, Nana behind them, smiling. Ann touched the photo with her finger, certain she could almost hear the squeals of delight and Nana’s quiet laughter, smell the magnolias, and . . . remember the question that had invaded every part of her childhood—why didn’t her mother want her?

  Ann put her palm in the center of the table and moved it in a circular motion until all the photos were askew and overlapping. She put the glass back onto the table. It didn’t lay quite flat now, but she didn’t care. At least the pictures weren’t staring up at her anymore. Her head was pounding with the effort.

  She shuffled into the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the refrigerator, hoping it was where Sarah kept her medicine. Bingo. Sarah was not one to overmedicate, that much was certain, because there were only three items: Neosporin ointment, Visine eye drops, and Advil. Ann was truly thankful for this last item as she popped four tablets into her mouth and swallowed them without water. She doubted it would help much, but she at least needed to try. The vodka bottle still sat on the counter, offering another way to dull this morning’s pain. Ann was just about to reach for it when she heard the screech of the screen door as it opened, followed by a brief knock on the kitchen door.