Providence: On Angels' Wings

by Lauren Wynn

  The hallway outside my office is dark and quiet. My office. Luke had a name plate installed on my dark-walnut office door a couple weeks ago. I gaze around my utterly impersonal, gray-walled office. In front of me a wall of wooden bookshelves stands full of burgundy, green, and blue texts with gold, engraved lettering on the bindings. To my right is a small, round conference table with three, padded, hunter-green chairs. In between the bookshelf and my large, walnut desk sit two burgundy-leather, high-backed chairs, and behind me is a tall arched window with an intricately designed wrought-iron gate attached outside it, making you believe the window opens to a balcony, which it doesn’t. If it were not for the small, neatly stacked manila folders on the corner of the desk, you would think the office was unoccupied. As I grab my khaki suit jacket off the back of my black-leather office chair and head down the cream-colored hallway to the quiet, dark lobby, I make a mental note to bring in a framed photo when I return to the office on Friday since, in the next three days, I will be taking my exam.

  Having no intention of cramming in any more studying before day one of the exams, I lie on the blacktop roof of the loft, staring at the partially cloudy night sky. Without thought, I watch dim stars twinkle as they peek out from behind the floating cloud layers. Two loud gun shots echo off a nearby building, bringing me out of my trance. A male voice speaks in my mind before I am even on my feet.

  Oh God, it burns, it burns. Oow! Please help me.

  Cries of pain continue to reverberate in my mind. I close my eyes opening them up to a scene a few blocks north of my loft. Black skid marks line the now-empty street, leaping onto the sidewalk in front of me. The stench of exhaust fills the hazy, unbreathable air. The buildings on this block look very similar to my loft: two- and three-story dark-red brick with plywood covering most of the windows. Across the street, in the only occupied, two-story home along this stretch, the face of an old woman peeks out behind thin lace curtains. The corner street lamp is burned out, but I can see a crumpled shadow balled up on the sidewalk several yards away. I move quickly over to the curled-up body. A pool of dark-red blood colors the cement under the black boy’s side. With a sense of urgency, I take to the dark alley, transform, and race back to his side. Ear-piercing sirens ring in the distance, clearing the partial daze I had when I arrived.

  The boy, Lincoln, clutches his hand against his side just below his armpit. The wailing I initially heard has transitioned to soft moans, followed by shallow wheezing breaths. His light-gray T-shirt is covered in blood. The watery whites of his eyes show the distress he is otherwise unable to communicate. I feel the hole in his side, the crack of his ribs, and the sheer agony he exhibits with each shallow breath he tries to take. Blood continues to seep out his bullet wound, further soaking his oversized shirt and dripping on the sidewalk.

  I sit on the ground by Lincoln’s bare head. His baseball cap lies behind us. I place my hand on his shoulder.

  “Stay with me, Linc,” I say. “Just keep listening to my voice. Help is on the way.”

  “Hurts,” Lincoln breathlessly whispers.

  “I know it does, Linc.”

  He tries to roll onto his back, but a stabbing pain paralyzes him. A surge of golden light flows down my arm to my hand and into him as I help him onto his back, exposing the wound to the warm air. Little relief occurs. He lies with his head in my lap and a tear rolls down his dusty cheek as he closes his eyes.

  “Stay with me. Can you open your eyes? Try to open your eyes for me, Linc.”

  He mumbles something about burning. I can’t hear what he says, but I know how he feels—as though someone had taken a red hot poker and pressed it into his side.

  I rip off my outer shirt, ball it up, and gently press it against Lincoln’s side to attempt to slow the bleeding. Every breath burns like a fire in his chest, rising to his throat. Panic sets in as he continues to gasp for air. Fog clouds his vision as the pain worsens. I lay my hand on his chest and radiate more light to calm him. I’m not able to repair the hole in his side or lungs or cracked ribs, but I can help dull the pain and remove the panic caused by his labored breathing.

  Before the police and ambulance arrive, I pry deep into his memory and watch the scene unfold.

  A beat-up, rusty, brown Ford rounds the corner. Lincoln runs under the shadows of the buildings. He peers back over his shoulder, looking directly into the car window when shots are fired. The first shot hits the building and chips of brick fall on the concrete. The second shot pierces Lincoln’s side and reaches his lungs. He screams in pain and throws his hand over the wound but remains on his feet as the driver, a white male with a goatee and wide-billed, navy baseball cap, ramps up onto the sidewalk, nearly grazing Lincoln’s leg. The passenger, the shooter, is a black kid who resembles Lincoln, with his similar haircut and facial structure. Lincoln watches the car speed away and turn right a block to the north before he collapses onto the cement sidewalk, crying from the heat of the bullet and the scorching burning in his lungs.

  I snap back to the fast-approaching, red, flashing lights. I close my eyes and, running it in slow motion I replay my memory of the rusty, brown Ford Escort driving away. I can clearly read the license plate number.

  Lincoln’s pulse slows and his body lies limp. “Don’t be afraid, Linc. You’re in good hands, good hands.” I take his hand in mine and give it a light squeeze.

  Two police cruisers pull up, angled in the street, lights shining directly at us. More red, flashing lights approach from the ambulance and another police cruiser. The headlights from the four vehicles illuminate the once-dark street, forming a semi-circle in front of us. Officers and paramedics rush over.

  I don’t know what happened in Lincoln’s life to bring him to this point or what provoked those boys, and while I can fish around for glimpses of answers, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what he’s done. What does matter is that he called me here to him, tonight, right now. Today’s duty is unlike all the others I have performed since I have been here. My hands are bloody, my body is overwhelmed by the boy’s lifelessness, and I know that no level of encouragement or light will change the outcome.

  A golden funnel of light illuminates the seventeen-year-old boy lying with his head in my lap. The angels sing, and I usher Lincoln home. My human body remains in place while my angelic body raises him up, handing him over to my heavenly family.

  Paramedics hover around us, attempting to breathe life back into the youth’s body, unaware of heaven’s light and the ascent of Lincoln’s soul. They collect his body from my lap and wheel him away, covered in a crisp white sheet. Diesel exhaust fumes hang heavy in the air as the ambulance idles. I remain seated on the concrete sidewalk and pull my knees to my chest. An officer crouches down in front of me, and I mindlessly answer his questions, providing the description of the car, the shooter, the driver, the license plate number, and what happened in the last minutes of the boy’s life, a life that was arguably taken too soon. Although, given the heaven I know, that isn’t something I would argue. Another officer hands me a towel to wipe the blood off my hands and its then that I look down at the sticky, red substance and blink for the first time since I saw the light of heaven, my breath still caught in my throat.

  The searing pain of the gunshot wound has vanished. The life stripped from Lincoln leaves me hollow and void of feeling. I stare as the flashing red lights of the ambulance and one of the three police cruisers drive away. And for a second, my vision blurs, and I may as well have been looking through them instead of at them. The other officers dismiss me but stay to mark off the site with yellow police tape.

  Stuck in a bittersweet moment, I saunter home. I recall the gut-wrenching pain Avery felt from the loss of her father, and I’m certain there is someone who will feel that same pain for Lincoln. But I linger on the beauty of the golden light streaming down from heaven and my golden hands brushing those of the angel receiving Lincoln, warming him, releasing him of his earthly pain, and welcoming him through the pearly gates
, where the scent of clean cotton and pine swirl around him.

  I stop a block from the loft and fall into the shadows against a brick wall, dizzy. I slide down the wall to the concrete sidewalk, ripping the back of my shirt. I cover my face with my blood-stained hands and gasp for air. Providence’s beautiful face flashes through my mind. The thought of leaving her when I go back shatters my heart into bits. Deep in the shadows I transform and move to her room, desperate for the comfort of holding her safe in my arms.

  I bend down and kiss her smooth cheek. Her eyelids flutter, and then open.

  “Zan, I was hoping you were coming…” She gasps and jumps up. “What happened? What is on your hands?”

  I look down at the crusty dry blood that still coats portions of my hands, but all I say is, “Oh.”

  “Let’s get you to the bathroom. You need to wash that off.”

  Still in a daze, she wraps her arm around my waist, steers me into the bathroom, turns the water on, and pumps soap into my palms. She rubs my back, occasionally catching her fingers on the tears in my shirt, and I scrub my hands, watching the red-tinted water swirl down the drain.

  “Take a breath, Zan,” she whispers. I shouldn’t have to. That is a very human thing to do, but I do it anyway. I turn and she dries every inch of my skin with a towel and curls her arms around me, laying her head against my chest. I pull her tightly to me, leaving no space between us, but no matter how tight I hold her, it doesn’t seem close enough. Inhaling the refreshing strawberry scent of her hair, I close my eyes and think of the golden light.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” she says, her words muffled against my shirt.

  “I lost one tonight. I was okay until fear fell over me at the thought of being away from you. I don’t want to go, Providence. I don’t want to leave you here. I don’t want to be without you, for even one day.”

  She tilts her head up and peers into my eyes, cupping my cheeks in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Zan.” She pauses for a second to kiss my cheek. “And I wish you didn’t, but I also can’t wait for us to begin our life together and if that means we have to be apart for two weeks so we can do that, I will be strong.” She’s confident.

  Her tone conveys her strength, a strength I haven’t heard or felt from her before and one that couldn’t have come at a better time, when I needed her to be the strong one for both of us.

  Back in her bedroom, she pulls my torn shirt up over my head and tugs off my blood-stained jeans. We curl up together on her daybed, tangling our bodies around each other. I lightly circle my fingertip around her belly button, fascinated.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, cuddling her in my arms. “I love you.”

  Her heart swells and warmth flows through her body. “Love you,” she whispers, drawing a heart on my bare chest.

  I spend the rest of the night listening to her every breath and heartbeat, the sounds of her precious life.

  Midway through day one of exams, I automatically check the lower right-hand corner of the computer screen. However, unlike the computer I use at the firm, this one does not reveal the time and I have yet to invest in a wristwatch. So I continue reading questions and clicking or typing the appropriate answers.

  After some period of time, I feel as though my eyes should glaze over, having stared at a computer screen for hours on end, but my angel eyes don’t. I finally reach a question that stumps me, but every time I search my mind for the answer, I think about seeing Summer. And so my mind drifts…

  Summer invited me to her eighth-grade play at school, Beauty and the Beast. She’s playing Mrs. Potts, one of the beast’s servants, turned teapot. She was so excited about performing, I couldn’t refuse. Plus, it’ll give me the opportunity to introduce her to Providence and talk with her about the reassignment.

  I snap back from my daydream and finish the remainder of the exam, not the least bit worried about missing one question. However, on my way home, I stop to wonder for a moment which exam will prove harder, the exam granting me the license to practice law, or the test of strength that came along with last night’s duty of guiding Lincoln home?

  Jury’s still out on this one.

  The Performance

  Providence stands outside the loft, leaning casually against her car. She gives me a wink as she hangs up her cell phone.

  “Ah, my beautiful bride-to-be, how was school?” I ask, walking toward her.

  “Hey there, moneybags.” She raises her eyebrows.

  “Moneybags?”

  “I deposited my paycheck in our bank account today. HS Zan. You didn’t freaking tell me we were loaded.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Zan…there is more in that bank account than I make in, like, two years. So unless I have a joint account with some other Alexander Addison, you get paid more in a month than it takes me a year to earn.” She giggles but is visibly shocked by her finding.

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, Prov.” I wrap my arms around her waist. “Don’t get too excited. The down payment for the house hasn’t been withdrawn yet. And hey, Luke gave me an advance, so don’t think it’s always going to look like that. ”

  “Wow! That was generous. Wait…the house? Do you mean?” Her eyes widen.

  “Oh right, I may have forgotten to mention that last night they accepted our offer. We sign the papers on Friday afternoon. Loan was approved this afternoon.”

  “May have forgotten? You totally did. Oh my gosh! Our house. Yay!” She jumps up and kisses my cheek.

  “You’re cute. Now, how about that show?” She loops her arm, resting it in the crook of my elbow as if we’re attending an opera and not a junior-high play.

  Backstage, with the curtain drawn, the crew tests the stage lights. Giddy children huddle together, zipping up each other’s costumes, tying shoes, and straightening headpieces. A low chatter fills the air. A certain plushy, white teapot catches my eye.

  “My dear Mrs. Potts, don’t you look splendid.”

  “Zan! You came,” Summer yells.

  She wobbles over and hugs her arms around my waist, the top of her head only reaching the middle of my chest, and that includes the purple-velvet headpiece that covers the top of her head, symbolizing the lid of a teapot. Her round, pearly-white, plushy teapot costume swims over her tiny pencil-shaped figure. One arm is covered with a gold fabric representing the handle of the pot, the other, pearly-white, representing the spout.

  “I look ridiculous,” she says as she spins in a circle, displaying the full ensemble.

  “You most certainly do not. Besides, you can’t play Mrs. Potts without wearing the costume. It’s cuter than the candlestick.”

  “You’re right about that.” She glances over at the lanky boy in the gold candlestick costume. “I’m so nervous. Please tell me no one is out there.”

  “Well, there are a…few. I saw your mom. I’m sure she’s excited to watch you up on stage. Summer, you are going to be a fantastic Mrs. Potts.”

  She gives me a sideways glance. “Angel law requires you to say that.” She waves her pearly hand in dismissal.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Angel law requires me to tell the truth.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do. Now, break a leg.” I pat her pillow-y back.

  Darkness falls over the crowded auditorium as the thick, red-velvet curtains part, revealing a polished wood stage complete with colorful props for scene one of Beauty and the Beast. Providence and I exchange a glance, both thoroughly impressed by the set eighth graders built for the play. She places her hand in mine as we watch Gaston attempt to woo Belle. A tear rolls down Providence’s cheek during the scene when Summer, Mrs. Potts, and the other cups and candlesticks sing and dance about the stage.

  I squeeze her hand.

  “Ah, Zan, I can’t help it. She’s just so cute!” She wipes her eyes with her other hand.

  “Great, isn’t she?”

  “It’s hard to believe she’s…she has…”

  “I know S
ummer’s a little fighter.”

  She leans close, speaking in my ear, “Is she doing so well because of you, health-wise, I mean?”

  I pull back and look at her face. “Because of me? No, not me.” I shake my head. “Her battle is outside my control.”

  A glow of relief brightens her face. “I just…” she sighs. “I just thought that if she was doing so well because of you, I couldn’t possibly take you, the angel you, away from her.” She frowns.

  “Providence…”

  “I know. I’m terrible. That’s awful of me to be relieved that—”

  “That you’re stuck with me? Providence, I love that you would consider doing that for her. You are a wonderful person and by no means ‘terrible.’ But I assure you, the improvement in her health is outside my abilities. That is all her, and Him.” I look to the ceiling.

  The red-velvet curtain parts for the last time, and the cast of characters walk out in a line, holding hands and bowing. A few long-stemmed roses are thrown at the foot of the stage. Proud parents stand up clapping and cheering as the red velvet slowly floats to a close across the stage.

  We stroll outside where the cast and crew have congregated. The sky is blue and the sun shines brightly this early evening. The school is situated in the middle of a neighborhood surrounded by homes. Bradford pear trees line the streets, dropping white flower petals on the sidewalks, and permeating the air with their less-than-spectacular aroma.

  Summer stands next to her mother, already having smudged her makeup and removed the purple-velvet headpiece, freeing her curly, blond hair. She jerks on her mother’s arm, points, and waves. The only time I met her mother I was just some random guy in the hospital, so I pull a Summer and cross my fingers, hoping this isn’t going to be awkward.

  “Mama, this is Zan. He’s a friend of mine from the hospital.” She tries to be smooth, but forces a wink. You’re a friend and I met you at the hospital. It’s not a total lie.