The Gateway Through Which They Came

by Heather Marie

  “Maybe I should call his mother to pick him up,” the nurse says.

  “Or I can take him. Really. It seems silly to bother Beverly, when I can take him home myself.” I can picture Trevor giving her that charming, persuasive smile. That smile has gotten us through several mishaps.

  She hmphs at his suggestion. “I’m not sure that’s the proper protocol. Besides, I don’t want you missing school.”

  “True,” he says. “But I turned eighteen last week. I’ll just sign myself out anyways.”

  I hold back a smile that threatens to break, knowing damn well Trevor doesn’t turn eighteen until June. I’m sure this lady has no interest in verifying this statement. She’s only a nurse, after all. What does she care?

  “Well, when he wakes up, you be sure to take him straight home,” she orders. Shortly after, the door clicks shut and I open my eyes.

  “My hero,” I jest, my throat hoarse.

  “Well, look who it is! Sleeping Beauty.” Trevor leaves his chair and stands at the end of the bed. “You went through the ringer, my friend.”

  “I feel like it.” I lift myself to a sitting position and swing my legs over the edge. “What the hell happened?”

  “Let’s see.” He leans against the bed and crosses his arms over his chest. “Someone told me they saw you go backstage, and when I found you, you were out of commission, which can only mean one thing.” He gives me the side eye before continuing. A crease pinches between his eyebrows when he says, “Except, something weird happened.”

  My face hardens as I watch him, trying to decipher what he’s failing to say. “What? What happened, Trevor?” I try to remember, but only come up blank.

  He considers his words. “I don’t know. Your skin felt like it was on fire and you were kind of convulsing.” Trevor rubs his hands against the sleeve of his shirt, as if he’s fighting back a chill.

  “Is that it?” It can’t be. He looks shaken, like he’s remembering something he doesn’t want to.

  “No… that wasn’t it.”

  “What the hell, man? Spill it already!”

  After a long moment, he says, “I heard something… like a laugh. It was in the room with us, but it didn’t sound like it was really there. If that makes any sense.”

  I press my fingers to my temple, pushing against the aching pressure that begins to throb. There’s something missing. Something I’m forgetting.

  “No. That doesn’t make sense at all.”

  “I don’t know, Aiden. I mean, it was a faint kind of laugh, like it was mocking us. It sounded evil, I’m telling you. I’ll never forget it.”

  Seeing Trevor this scared tells me all I need to know.

  I have more to worry about than Koren and Redhead. So much to prepare myself for. And somehow, I know whatever it is won’t wait for me to be ready.

  I convince Trevor to let me drive myself home. It’s one thing to go home early, but it’ll be another if my mom notices my car missing from the driveway. I can’t possibly explain to her what happened today, especially since I’m not sure myself. With last weekend’s supposed “food poisoning” there’s only so much she can take until she starts demanding answers.

  Mom arrives an hour after me. Of course this has to be the day she works an early shift at the Grotto. She’s been working the Grotto Spirituality Program at the National Sanctuary of Our Sorrowful Mother for the last three years. When she retired from the post office, she found solace in the peaceful botanical garden that people come from all over to admire.

  The memory of that place is so comforting, I consider asking her to take me again. It’s been so long since we’ve spent real time together.

  “Aiden?” Mom calls out upon entering. “What’s wrong? Why are you home so early?” Any spiritual calmness she had leftover from the Grotto is gone now. Thanks to me. Again.

  I’ve been trying to process everything Trevor told me, even though none of it makes sense. It’s a miracle I made it home in one piece; the drive was a blur. With Mom’s concerned voice ringing in my ear, I snap out of my fog and slump against the couch, keeping my eyes on the TV. I know if I face her, she’ll see it, my anxiety. She always does.

  “They sent me home,” I explain. “Wasn’t feeling well.”

  “And?” She blocks the TV and stands in front of me, her brows set in that worried pinch.

  “And that’s all. I’m feeling a little better now, I think.”

  “Maybe you need some rest, yeah?” She approaches the couch and sits beside me, her hand reaching for my forehead.

  Moms must have some inner thermometer that allows her to gauge my level of sickness by a simple touch. She’s almost always right.

  “You don’t feel warm,” she says, pressing the back of her hand against my cheek. “But to be sure, I want you to try and sleep it off. Drink plenty of fluids.” For all she knows, it’s still my food poisoning taking its toll.

  I meet her gaze. “Yeah, I think I will. It’s been a long day.”

  She pulls back and rests her arm along the couch behind me. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  I want to tell her. God, do I want to tell her. There have been so many times I’ve wanted to confide in my mother. To show myself for who I am. For what I am. But that would be asking so much of her. It’s not about whether she would believe me or not. That part doesn’t frighten me nearly as much. She’s my mother. The only one I’ve got. And something tells me she’d be there for me no matter what.

  But exposing my mom to this—asking her to believe in something this big—would question so much. Her undying faith. Her life. The world around her. And more importantly, I fear how much she’d blame herself. As if something inside of her could have turned me into this. Whether she’d find it a gift or a curse, I can’t be sure. But I would never want my mother to blame herself.

  Besides, what mother would want her child doing what I do? I face the darkest of things. Things that only nightmares are made of.

  No. I can’t do this to her. I won’t.

  Images of the redhead replay in my mind, her charcoaled face and piercing screams. With them comes the shadow of the cloaked man, a man whose identity I may never know. And through the chaos, Koren appears beside him, her eyes vacant and unknowing. Lost.

  Is this what I want to bring my mother into? This mess I’ve created for myself?

  This thing I once called a gift has become more than that. It’s become a curse. A curse I want more than anything to rid myself of.

  Mom doesn’t push for a response, at least not yet. But I know someday soon the questions will come. I just hope she’s ready to hear the answers.

  When Mom gets up to order pizza, I take it upon myself to do as she requested: force myself to rest. But instead of attempting to sleep, I lock myself in my room and regret ever acknowledging the Gateway’s existence. For never looking for a way out of this before I got in too deep.

  What kind of God, knowing the risks, would leave a kid with this kind of ability? It takes every bit of normalcy out of my life and replaces it with death. How is anyone supposed to live with that?

  I wonder if He knew what kind of wreckage He was sending us into when He brought us here. God, I mean. I guess that was the point, wasn’t it? Father Martin said God created us when humanity turned on itself. Plagues. Wars. With so much death happening over the centuries, the number of Gateways grew rapidly. They were everywhere, anyone, no matter their race or religion. Soon we became nearly half the population. We’ve been known as gods and angels and whatever else humanity needed us to be at the time. That is, until we were forced into hiding as the world changed. If it weren’t for Gateways departing from this plane as time went on, fleeing back to wherever we came from, we’d probably run this place.

  I can’t begin to process all the things Father Martin knows. All the secrets that come with what I am. In time all those secrets will be mine, when I’m ready. But like all good things, there’s bad. I just never realized I’d have to face that
part in my lifetime.

  Trevor’s recount of what happened in theater puzzles me. I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, imagining the menacing laughter he described. What if the man Bennie mentioned was watching us? Watching me? It’s hard to grasp why someone would send Bleeders in my direction. Unless they’re only trying to help. But why the secrecy? The mystery leaves a heavy feeling in my gut, because if someone meant well, they wouldn’t be hiding behind a shadow. I have to ask myself: what does he get out of it?

  Nothing but good has ever come from what I do. That is, until today. My gut twists at the thought of Bennie making it through before the heat ravaged my body. I fear that something happened to him. That he didn’t make it through. I pray that wherever he went, it was the right place. Not the wrong.

  The memory of Bennie floods back as I stare off into space, vision blurring. The ceiling seems to float away and nothing but blackness and sky surround me. I can remember the burning within my flesh, and the scorching sensation of something piercing through my body, as if the very monster I’ve tried to contain had broken through my chest. My body trembles with the notion.

  What did any of it mean?

  It’s beginning to dawn on me that this is entirely out of my hands. And if I’m going to survive, it’s about time I seek guidance.

  he Church of Saint Christopher is less than ten minutes from school. Father Martin practically lives there, so I stop by in hopes of catching him before first period. I park along Mill Street and steady my thoughts as I approach the steps of the century-old brick building. The red brick darkens under the clouded sky settling over the city, making the church less luminous and welcoming than usual. Its high arches are daunting as they look down upon me, almost as if the building knows I don’t belong. Like it can sense the wickedness inside of me beginning to unfold.

  My hand wraps around the knob of the door, and a rush of heaviness makes me pause, like a force of hands pushing me out. Maybe it’s my own conscience fighting against me. Even I don’t feel as if I belong. I close my eyes and enter, expecting a bolt of lightning to crash down on me. Every muscle stiffens with fear, readying itself for the impact—but as seconds pass, I know I’m safe. For now.

  “Can I help you, son?” The voice shakes me from my current state, snapping my eyes open.

  In a black suit and a white collar, much like Father Martin’s daily ensemble, a friendly-looking man greets me from the altar. He’s tall and muscular, from the way his broad shoulders form under his coat. His cropped, light brown hair is fluffy but lies obediently against his head. A kind smile lifts the corner of his mouth as he gestures me to come forward.

  “Are you here for confession?” he asks.

  I didn’t expect to see anyone but Father Martin today. This new man’s presence knocks me off-guard. I slowly make my way past the pews. My fingers run along the wood with each careful step, its finish still radiant from the deep cleaning I gave them over the summer.

  As I get closer, his smile gets wider, like a proud father pleased to see his child gracing the house of God. He’s older, but not nearly as old as Father Martin. The skin of his face is taut, only creasing at the corners of his bluish-gray eyes. They’re uncommon like mine, but almost familiar.

  “I’m, uh, I’m looking for Father Martin,” I inform him.

  “Ah,” he says. “Father Martin couldn’t be here this morning, but has asked me to open the doors today. Please, sit. You are more than welcome to stay and pray. I can’t promise he’ll arrive any time soon, but I’m here if there’s anything you wish to speak of.” He gestures toward the pew beside me, and I consider staying, but the time ticks away in my mind. I can’t be late.

  “Thank you, but I really need to talk to him. Will he be in tomorrow morning?” I try not to sound desperate, but that’s exactly what I am. I need Father Martin to hear me out, to tell me something that will make sense of all of this.

  The still nameless man approaches the altar and lights a row of candles. “You sound anxious to speak out about something…”

  I fill in the pause. “Aiden.”

  “Aiden,” he says. “I’m Father Raimi. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Father Raimi blows out the flame of the lighting stick, and the aroma of melted wax and smoke seeps into my nostrils.

  Fidgeting, I pick at the pew in front of me with my fingertips. “Are you new here? I feel like I haven’t seen you before.”

  He slumps casually onto the pew, and I can see he’s trying his best to stay on my level. Sometimes the older priests can come off like they’re looking down at you, which is why I’ve stuck with Father Martin all these years. He’s never once treated me like anything other than an equal. I can see Father Raimi is the same in that respect, but he still isn’t the comfort I’m looking for.

  “I joined Saint Christopher only a few weeks ago. My family has been a part of this church for many years. It took me some time to find my way, but I’m home now.” He takes in the room and smiles to himself.

  “Were you living somewhere else?” His nonchalance rubs off on me, and my nerves begin to calm. I mimic him and seat myself in the nearest pew.

  “I’ve always been around really. The church has always been a part of my life. I just… lost my faith for a moment, I suppose.”

  I’m taken aback by his candidness. It’s not often that someone admits losing their faith, especially not a priest. This kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed, not to me.

  “You lost your faith?”

  His eyes settle on me. “We all do at least once. We’re human,” he says, the simplest of answers. “A higher power does not judge us for losing faith. It only hopes that we accept who we are and treat others with kindness and respect. It’s through our actions that we find what we truly believe in. When we believe in ourselves, that’s when we fully believe in what is right.”

  I gather his words, and in their own way, they seem to make sense of everything I’ve fought within myself. For once I feel like I’m not alone. That someone might have the ability to understand. And to know that someone like a priest could lose their faith, it makes my guilt disappear, if only for a moment. I want to tell him right now, about my gift, about everything. But after hiding it for so long, it’s better kept unsaid.

  “Thank you,” I say. “For listening.” With a nod, I lift myself to my feet.

  He follows suit, standing tall and unthreatening. “But Aiden, I have yet to hear what you wanted to say.”

  I step toward the aisle and turn back to him. “Trust me. You’ve helped more than you know.”

  I make it to school in time for prayer, which is being held in the chapel this morning in honor of Holy Day this coming Friday. For the rest of the week, it’s mandatory that we meet in the chapel before first period to take part in Mass. This works in my favor considering I glide into the wet parking lot just as the bell rings for the gathering, which allows me to blend in with the crowd.

  Once inside the chapel, I search for Trevor over the sea of heads, but it’s hopeless. Father Williams and Vice Principal Lombard take their positions at the podium. The teachers’ voices carry louder and louder as they attempt to conduct order. Seats fill up quickly, and since I’m nearly last, I’m stuck sitting near the back. Not that I’m complaining.

  As I take my seat, I notice movement near the entrance, a figure peeking in and darting away. If it’s a Bleeder, now is not the time. Leave it to them to choose the worst possible moment. I take a seat and look back, hoping it’s only my imagination. Then I see it again. A girl peeks into the chapel, only the tip of her head visible before she ducks behind the door. The glimpse of dirty blonde hair moves in again, her blue eyes catching mine. She attempts to hide but fails, because now I know who it is. An incoming teacher appears beside her and shoos her in, shutting the doors behind them.

  While everyone else distracts themselves with gossip, I watch as Koren clings to the back wall, seeming incapable of moving any farther. The teacher shows little interest, and she finds h
er way to her seat. Meanwhile, Koren makes no attempts to dislodge herself from the wall keeping her afloat. Before anyone notices, I go to her.

  “Koren? Are you… okay?” I tilt my head to her level.

  Her hair is disheveled, and she looks nothing like the girl who was always so put together. By the look of her, she could pass out at any moment. The flush of her cheeks and the way her eyes dart wildly around the room tell me she’s petrified. I need to console her, but I’m afraid she’ll make a scene. She looks on the verge of cracking.

  I reach out a hand to calm her. “It’s gonna be okay. You can sit next to me.” I can’t fathom what could have her near such hysterics. I’m baffled by her behavior and the sudden change in her appearance.

  “No,” she whispers. Her voice reminds me of a sad child. “Please, don’t make me.”

  I hush her gently. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  My hand brushes against hers, releasing it from the wall, and she grabs hold as if it’s a life preserver. Slowly, I step away, my hand in hers, and wait for her to follow. I guide her, walking backward steadily, keeping my eyes trained on hers. Few take notice of what’s happening near the back of the room, but for those who do, they shrug it off. Her other hand cups mine, keeping it palmed tight in both of hers. My fingers cling tighter, assuring her that I’m not going anywhere.

  Father Williams begins the processional as we take our seat in the back row, and through the duration of Mass, Koren’s hand remains clasped to mine. She shakes so badly, the motion causes my whole body to shake along with her. I can’t take my eyes off her as I wonder what could frighten her so badly. Did something happen before school? Did Justin hurt her? A million explanations come one by one, and I’m left unable to ask her myself. All I know is I’m going to kill Justin when this is over.

  Her eyes are closed as she focuses on her heavy breaths. The rapid rise and fall of her chest gives no indication that she has calmed. I hold back from reaching out, from pulling her into me and holding her. Would she let me? Afraid of crossing the line of whatever it is going on between us, I do the only thing I can do. With her hand in mine, I silently promise, I’ll never let you go.