The Belief in Angels

by J. Dylan Yates

  I’m overwhelmed with his story. “The back door?” I ask.

  “Yeah, she took the back door out. It’s always there for us to take, but it’s a shitty exit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The first day I saw you it felt like I was watching myself. You were up at the elementary school. You were sitting on the swings. You weren’t even swinging. You were sitting and staring at the ground. You didn’t see me at all, but I sat on the baseball field watching you.

  “I knew you were David’s sister. I even knew your story—I mean, about Moses and everything.

  “I watched you push up off the swing, leave your books, and walk away. I knew you were kind of sleepwalking, like I’d been for years, and I wondered if you thought it might be your fault your brother drowned, like I thought it was my fault my mother offed herself. But then I realized how crazy that thinking is. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault. People do stupid things. Selfish things. They do things because they can’t see any other way to handle things. Or they make bad choices. And there’s not much we can do to stop them most of the time. Ultimately, bad choices are the responsibility of the person who makes those bad choices.

  “So I put down the angry bag of shit I’d been carrying since I was seven, and I left it in the field at the elementary school. I picked up your books, ran here, and put them on your steps so you wouldn’t see me. I wanted you to believe someone might be out there watching over you. I think I wanted you to believe in something magical … something transcendent. You know? Like the belief in angels? People don’t know, don’t really know, if things like angels exist, but they believe and hope and the hope keeps them going.”

  He takes a breath. “I care about you, and it would have sucked if you’d managed to kill yourself last night. I would be wicked, wicked pissed at you for doing that—but I wouldn’t feel guilty about it, or like I should have done something to stop you. It would have been your bad choice.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Listen, I’m not saying I’m not glad I called and came over … I think you would have barfed up all the pills eventually on your own, though. What the hell did you take, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I think I may have taken a mix of sleeping pills and acid.”

  Timothy’s eyes are huge, and I worry he might think I’m an idiot.

  “Promise me you won’t ever do it again.”

  I’m hesitant to answer. Promises are important to me. “I promise I won’t ever try that again.”

  It’s the truth. It’s my right to end my life if I want to, but I know I’ll never try to do it that way again. If I need to check out I’m not ever going to do it like that. I’ll do it much more mysteriously. No one will ever know that’s what I had in mind. No one will ever have to hold my shit bag.

  He stares at me like he can tell what I’m thinking. He seems like he knows I’ve only told part of the truth. Like he realizes he can’t ask a person to make that promise.

  “My brother saw you drop the books,” I say.

  “Oh.”

  I laugh. “I used to believe in angels. I’m not sure anymore. But something told you to call and bother me in the middle of the night, right? Maybe you’re an angel, and you saved me from my death.” I smile at him.

  I remember the ship masthead from the Little Corporal. The wooden woman. This crystal memory pops in my head about the time I thought she spoke to me.

  Think of me as an angel. Everything will be all right.

  You are loved and I’ll always be with you.

  Icy prickles shudder through me. Then sudden, calming warmth.

  “When you stopped returning my calls I thought you were busy with school and new friends. I missed you so much but I felt stupid bugging you,” he says. “I thought maybe you had a boyfriend. I almost called Leigh to ask her what was up, but Leigh and I haven’t talked since the day you guys brought me up to start school.”

  I smile at him sadly. “No, no boyfriends. No new friends. Leigh and I don’t even talk. I’m not sure why anymore. I didn’t take your calls because you sounded so lighthearted, and I didn’t want you to know how depressed I’ve been. I didn’t want you to worry about me when you should be focusing on your own stuff.”

  “You are part of my stuff,” he says quietly. “You’re my best friend, and I love you.” He’s practically whispering this.

  I’m frozen.

  Before I can answer, he says, “So, do you want syrup and butter on your pancakes?”

  I go over to him and give him a huge hug. I press my head against his chest and speak my words into his green, ivory soap-scented sweater: “I love you, too.”

  I feel like crying, but my tears are frozen, so I keep hugging him until he pulls away.

  “I’ll be right back,” he says. He smiles and turns to walk downstairs. Then he calls over his shoulder, “Your towel is falling off.”

  My towel has fallen down to my waist.

  Much later—long after the pancakes and Wendy’s angry call from the Palm Beach airport and my excuse about oversleeping and deciding to stay in Withensea over the holidays with Timothy and his family—when I think about it, the moment in the bathroom with Timothy, I think how, in a movie, we might have kissed and made out and maybe had sex. But we didn’t. I didn’t even think about the possibility. I mean, it never crossed my mind. I had absolutely no physical urge to kiss him. It felt nice hugging him, but that’s all I wanted or needed from him.

  I figure he probably felt the same, but part of me wonders if maybe he took off for the maple syrup right then because he got a stiffy when I hugged him half-naked. Maybe he didn’t feel like he should have sex with me after my suicide attempt because that might be behavior modification in a bad way. Or something.

  But I know the experience held more importance than sex, even though I haven’t had it so I can’t really compare.

  I feel like after this, Timothy has become a person who’ll be a part of my story whether he stays involved in my life later or not. He lives in my skin now.

  Something else happened to me because of this too.

  A hole in my chest opened, and all the tiny silver daggers spilled out.

  Part 3 | The Raveling

  Thirty-one

  Jules, 17 years | March, 1979

  TRUTHS AND LIES

  IT’S SPRING BREAK. Graduation comes in a few months.

  I’ve been accepted by two of the three colleges where I applied, and I’ve made up my mind to attend the Boston School of the Arts if they accept me. Ms. Wheaton helped me with my submissions portfolio. I’ve already been there to do my entrance interview, and I’ve practically grown an ulcer waiting to hear about my acceptance status.

  Sarah Lawrence accepted me two weeks after my interview. I told them I wanted to study English Lit, but as soon as I got my acceptance I knew I could never go there. The Caucasian population accounts for about 95 percent of the students, and after living in diversity-void Withensea my whole life, I’ve had enough of homogenous living. I applied because I thought I would receive an original education there, but it just didn’t feel right.

  My safety school is Boston University. I’ve been accepted as a liberal arts major. I figure I can study art and earn a decent BA degree there as well.

  My grandfather has been putting David through college. He’s offered to do the same for me. The sole caveat is that I have to spend spring break week, my last free week before graduation, with him and my Grandmother Ruth. He says he wants to go over the details of my college plans.

  I’m delighted to oblige. Wendy hasn’t displayed an interest in my college plans and progress. She never offered to help with any of the applications and seems barely interested.

  “I knew you’d be accepted wherever you applied,” she says.

  Sometimes you need a person not to know everything so they can be excited with you.

  I haven’t had a chance to really talk with Ruth during our brief visits to Boston. Wendy doesn’t li
ke her or her daughter Bethyl much. I’ve been going on my own to see them, but only occasionally.

  Wendy says they don’t like her because they consider her a sinner. The Jews have at least four Hebrew words for the different kinds of sins you can commit. I’m sure Wendy has earned every word. But I also know the Jews believe sin is an act and not a state of being. Maybe she’ll be forgiven.

  My car needs new brakes and a service so Wendy offers to drive me into Boston to their apartment. I’m shocked at first, but then I figure she needs to pick up a check from him and that’s why she’s volunteering.

  After dropping my car at the home of our mechanic, a guy Wendy dated last summer, I climb into Wendy’s new car, a green 1973 Gremlin. She and Jack call it the “Green Goblin” because it gobbles so much money with repairs to the ignition system.

  The glove box won’t shut and I’m trying to fix the locking mechanism. It’s stuck.

  “So, I wanted to congratulate you again on your acceptance to your colleges.

  I’m proud of you,” Wendy says, gesturing wildly with both hands as she drives.

  “I’m still waiting to hear from the Boston School of the Arts.”

  She keeps talking like she hasn’t heard me.

  “I also wanted to tell you I’m proud you’re going to pursue your artistic passions. You’re talented and I’m sure you’re going to succeed. You can do anything you put your mind to. You’re smart, you know?”

  The car seat upholstery looks like Levi’s jeans, but it’s cheap nylon—frayed at the seams. I pick at it and pretend I’m distracted by the cars we pass on the highway.

  “I want you to understand that your grandfather loves you a lot, but he comes from a different era. He believes it’s wasteful to study artistic endeavors. He thinks you should study education. Actually, I think he wants you to go to college so you can find and marry a doctor.”

  “I told Grandpa my plans and he said he’d support me through college.”

  “I know what he told you. I’m telling you now, he plans to change your mind about your major and he won’t take no for an answer. He’s a stubborn man, believe me. He’s not going to change his mind about this. The best thing for you to do is go and study whatever you want, but tell him you’re going to study education, or law, or medicine … or tell him you’re studying to be a teacher. He’ll accept that.”

  I can’t understand why my grandfather wouldn’t tell me this himself and why Wendy is telling me now. But I can’t think of any reason she might have to lie to me.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

  “Because. I know you think your grandfather is a nice man, but you don’t know how he acts when you cross him. He’s a bull. All my life he’s been trying to control what I do, how I behave, how I live. I used to pray to God I would be the daughter he wanted, that he would see me and love me for the girl I truly was and not the girl he wanted me to be.”

  I’m surprised to hear Wendy talking about her childhood. I realize I know little about her years living with my grandparents. She never talks about it.

  “What kind of a girl were you, and what kind of girl did he want you to be?”

  “Good question. What kind …?” She falls silent. I can tell she’s trying to answer thoughtfully, and I wonder what nerve I’ve touched.

  “I was a quiet kid.”

  I laugh. “Quiet?”

  She laughs.

  “Yeah, I was quiet. I started to gain more confidence as a teenager, but I was exceptionally withdrawn. I never felt like I could talk. I certainly wasn’t encouraged to share my opinions. Your grandfather kept a tight rein on every aspect of my life. I wasn’t allowed to have friends from school over or to play outside. I had one friend, a young boy who lived in the next apartment. His mother was the daughter of some family friends, and the boy and I played in the hallway between our apartments. We rode our bikes around the hallway like it was a racetrack, and we played together in one or the other of our apartments after school.”

  Wendy is weaving in and out of lanes as she talks. I’m nervous about responding, about distracting her further, but curiosity wins.

  “What happened to him?”

  “When I turned twelve, he moved away. It wasn’t until high school I was allowed to go places after school with my friends.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “Well, everything changed. As soon as I had freedom things went haywire with your grandfather. He lost control. I lost my will to please him. We started fighting about everything, and we’ve never stopped. After I met your father it got even worse. He hated the idea of me dating a goyem. He told me I’d sinned and I’d shamed the entire family

  “When they told me the truth about my adoption, I was devastated. I was seventeen. I’d gone to live with your grandfather when I turned ten. Until then, I’d been living with his parents, who I thought were my real parents. But they’d been lying to me all those years. I felt like I couldn’t trust anything or anyone. If I hadn’t needed my birth certificate for my driver’s license, they wouldn’t have ever told me. They would have continued to lie about everything.”

  This is stunning. I had no idea they waited that long to tell her.

  The driver behind us honks loudly as she cuts him off, crossing two lanes to get to our exit ramp. “Fuck you, asshole!” Wendy screams at the man as he passes her on the left.

  “So, who do you think he wanted you to be?” I ask.

  “He wanted me to be someone impossible. He wanted me to be a great scholar—something no one in his family had been able to achieve. He never wanted me to marry or be a wife. He wanted me to achieve greatness as a woman in a man’s world. He wanted me to deny that I was female, or even human.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I left for college I started dating a man in one of my classes. I got pregnant.”

  Another driver honks at us when Wendy pulls a U-y in a no-turn lane without using her signal. She grows quiet again and concentrates on her driving.

  “What happened?”

  “I went home. The guy I’d been dating didn’t want to have a kid, but I wasn’t going to have an abortion. I wanted the baby. Your grandfather said he wouldn’t help me. He told me I’d ruined my life and he didn’t want anything to do with me. He called me the same names your father called you.”

  “Oh my God. How awful. You must have felt so scared.”

  “Yes it was awful. I was frightened and all alone. I had no idea what to do. I had no job; he wouldn’t pay for school now that I’d gotten pregnant. I had no way of returning to finish the semester or continue my schooling after the baby came. I couldn’t abort that baby. I wanted my own flesh and blood. I wanted my own family.”

  I got confused.

  “So, what happened to the baby?”

  She grows quiet for a long time, and I can see she’s having difficulty telling me the rest of the story.

  “I married your father. I convinced him the baby was his. His family made him marry me because they didn’t want the dishonor of having a bastard, or a baby they believed might be his bastard, running around. I’d never told your grandfather who had fathered the baby. He assumed it was Howard’s.”

  “Oh my God. This means David isn’t—isn’t Dad’s kid.”

  She seems surprised I haven’t figured this out instantly. Like I’m an idiot.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” She does a double take and looks almost angry for a moment. “If you ever repeat this, I’ll deny it. Your father would kill me, do you understand? He would kill me.”

  “Fine. But don’t you think David would like to know who his real father is? I mean, think how you felt learning about the lie your parents told you.”

  “No. I don’t think it would do David any good, and it’s not like the lie my parents told me. The people who raised him were his parents. I am his mother. David’s not going to hear about it, right? Don’t make me sorry I told you. I don’t want him to have to feel badl
y, like I did.”

  She slams her hands into the wheel of the car. “I shouldn’t have told you. I thought you were old enough to be trusted.”

  I’m worried we’re going to have an accident. When she gets agitated Wendy drives more erratically than usual, a pattern that has caused me great anxiety over the years.

  “I won’t. I won’t tell him. But I’m not going to stop wanting you to tell him. I still think he should know.”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, as we pass it, she points to the Rainbow Swash on the Boston Gas storage tank. “Did I tell you Jack met the artist who designed that? Do you see Ho Chi Minh?”

  “Like a million times! So, is Howard my father? Is he Moses’s father?”

  I figure if she could lie about one kid, she could definitely be lying about others.

  “Yeah, yeah, he’s your father. As much as you may not want him to be your dad, he’s still your biological father. Sorry.”

  I laugh. I’m not sure exactly why I’m laughing, but I find it funny. It’s incredible to be hearing this story, and I can’t believe she’s told me.

  “Why are you telling me all this now?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because you’re at an important point in your life. I can see how much you want to achieve your dreams of pursuing your art. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I made. I want you to follow your dreams and do what you want.”

  “Don’t you think you did what you wanted? You had the baby. You had David. It’s what you said you wanted.”

  She grows quiet, and then says, “I wanted your brother, and I wanted a career. I enrolled at Columbia as a sociology major. I wasn’t sure what I would do with a sociology degree—your grandfather wanted me to teach, but I didn’t feel sure about that idea—but regardless, I wanted more than what I settled for.”