Boundless

by Cynthia Hand

  He still loves her.

  His hand closes around the bracelet, and he returns it to his pocket.

  “What year was that?” I ask him. “When you danced?”

  “1918,” he says.

  “You could go back there, right? Can’t angels travel through time?”

  His eyes meet mine, resentful. “Some angels,” he says.

  He means the good ones. The ones who can access glory. Who are still on God’s good side.

  “Will you tell me a story now?” he asks me softly. “About your mother?”

  I hesitate. Why do I feel sorry for him?

  Maybe, supplies my pesky inner voice, because he loves someone he can’t have. And you can relate.

  I tell my inner voice to shut it. “I don’t have any stories for you.” I get up, brush grass off my jeans, and gather my stuff. He stands up, too, and I’m horrified to realize that the grass underneath where he was sitting is brown and crisp. Dead.

  He really is a monster.

  “I have to go.”

  “Next time, then,” he says as I turn to walk away.

  I stop. “I don’t want there to be a next time, Sam. I don’t know why you’re doing this, what you want from me, but I don’t want to hear any more.”

  “I want you to know,” he says.

  “Why? So you can rub it in my face that you had a supposedly passionate love affair with my mother?”

  He shakes his head, the two layers of him, body and soul, form and formless, blurring with the motion. And then I realize: He wants me to know because there’s no one else to share it with. No one else cares.

  “Good-bye, Sam.”

  “Until next time,” he calls after me.

  I walk away without looking back, the image of my mom wearing a red dress, a silver charm bracelet tinkling against her wrist, singing and smelling of roses, bright in my head.

  “So tomorrow’s it,” Angela informs me. We’re doing her laundry in the Roble laundry room, me helping since it’s getting harder and harder these days for Angela to bend down, the noise of the churning washer and dryers the perfect mask for a secret conversation about destiny. Which is apparently happening tomorrow.

  “How do you know?” I ask her.

  “Because that’s when I told him to meet me,” she says, “in the email.”

  “How do you know he got the email?”

  “He replied and said he’d come. And because that’s what happens. He comes because I see him there.”

  This is circular logic, but I go with it. “So you’re going to just march up to him and say, ‘The seventh is ours.’” This idea worries me. A lot. I’ve been going over and over the scenario in my head, and I can never imagine it turning out well. It’s not just Phen’s wings that are gray, but his soul—his very being. And Angela always gets kind of crazy when it comes to him. He’s bad news, in my opinion.

  Angela catches her bottom lip in her teeth for a few seconds, the first sign of real nervousness that I’ve seen since she put the whole seventh thing together. “Something like that,” she says.

  I do believe her when she says it’s her vision. So it must be destined to happen, right?

  I don’t know. I never did figure out why Jeffrey had a vision of starting a forest fire and then saving someone from the same fire. Or why I was supposed to meet Christian in the forest that day. Or what I was doing at my mom’s funeral.

  Ours is not to reason why, I suppose. Ours is but to do or—well, crap.

  “And then what?” I ask. “You tell him, and then—”

  “He and I will deal with this thing”—she rests her hand lightly on her belly—“together.”

  I mull this over. Does she think that she’ll tell him and then they all—nineteen-year-old college student, thousands-of-years-old gray-souled ambivalent angel, and bouncing bundle of Triplare joy—will be a happy family? I guess stranger things have happened, but still …

  She reads the doubt on my face.

  “Look, C, I’m not expecting a fairy-tale ending here. But this is my purpose, don’t you see? This is what I was put on this earth to do. I have to tell him. He’s …” She takes a quick breath, like this next thing she’s about to say takes all her courage. “He’s the father of my child. He deserves to know.”

  I’m familiar with that gleam of certainty in her eyes. Her faith in the vision, and how she feels in the vision, her faith in the way things work. I felt that way myself once, not long ago.

  “If this is a test of some kind, my moment of spiritual decision,” she says, “then I choose to tell him the truth.”

  “So tomorrow. Big day,” I say, like, I get it. I understand.

  She smiles. “Big freaking day. Will you come with me, C?”

  “To see Phen? I don’t know, Ange. Maybe this is between you and him.” Last time I had one-on-one interaction with Phen, I sort of told him to leave Angela alone, that she deserved better than he could offer her. And he called me a hypocrite and a child. We’re not exactly best buds, Phen and me.

  Angela leans against the dryer. “You’re going to come with me,” she says matter-of-factly. “You’re always there, in my vision.”

  I had forgotten all about that. Or maybe I thought she made that bit up so that she could coerce me into coming to Stanford with her. “Right. And where am I, exactly, in this vision?”

  “Like two steps behind me, most of the way. For moral support, I think.” She bats her eyes and pouts at me.

  All of a sudden this feels like a test for me, too. As an angel-blood who’s supposed to believe in the visions. As her friend.

  “All right, all right. I’ll be there, two steps behind,” I promise.

  “I had a feeling you were going to say yes,” she says gleefully.

  “Yeah, don’t push your luck.”

  She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a sheet of wrinkled paper, unfolds it for me. It’s an ultrasound.

  “You went to a doctor?” I ask. “I would have gone with you, if I’d known.”

  She shrugs. “I’ve been a bunch of times. I wanted to make sure it was okay.” She corrects herself: “He. It’s a boy.”

  I stare at the picture, part of me stunned that this is really a tiny person growing inside my friend. It’s grainy, but I can clearly make out a profile, a tiny nose and chin, the bones that make up the baby’s arm. “Are they sure? That it’s a boy?”

  “Pretty sure,” she says with a smirk. “I think I’m going to name him Webster.”

  “Webster, like after the dictionary? Hmm, I like it.” I hand the picture back to her.

  She looks at it for a long moment. “He was sucking his thumb.” She refolds the paper and puts it back in her pocket. The dryer beeps that it’s done, and she starts pulling clothes out and into the basket.

  “I’ll take that,” I offer, and she slides the basket over to me.

  When we’re back in her room, folding, she suddenly says, “I don’t know how to be a mother. I’m not very … maternal.”

  I fold a shirt and lay it across her bed. “My guess is that nobody knows how to be a mother until they become one.”

  “He’s going to be so special,” she says softly.

  “I know.”

  “Phen will know what to do,” she says, like a mantra she’s repeating to herself. “He’ll know how to protect him.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I say to reassure her, but I have my doubts about Phen. I’ve seen inside him, and paternal is not a word that springs to mind.

  I knock on Christian’s door. He’s sweating when he opens it, wearing a white tank top and sweat pants, a towel slung around his neck. He’s surprised to see me. He wishes I’d called first.

  “But you’re not returning my calls,” I say.

  His jaw tightens.

  “You’re still mad at me, and I think that’s reasonable, considering. But we need to talk.”

  He pushes the door open for me, and I move past him into his room. I look immediately
in the direction of the TV for Charlie, but he’s not here.

  “We need to discuss Angela,” I say.

  He doesn’t answer. Involuntarily, it seems, his eyes move to a framed photograph on his dresser, a black-and-white snapshot of a woman swinging a small dark-haired boy up in the air. The picture’s a little blurry, since they’re both in motion, but the boy is unmistakably Christian, Christian at four or five years old, I’m guessing. Christian and his mom. Together. Happy. They’re both laughing. I can almost hear it, looking at them. I can almost feel it. Joy. And it makes me sad to think that he lost her when he was so young. And now Walter, too.

  I turn to look at him. He’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest, closed off in every way. “You know, if we’re going to have a conversation, you’re going to have to speak to me. With words, and stuff,” I say.

  “What do you want me to say? You ditched me, Clara.”

  “I ditched you?” I repeat incredulously. “That’s what you’re mad about? You were the one who wanted to leave.”

  “I don’t want to be mad at you about the other thing,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “You can’t control that.”

  Sometimes he’s so understanding it bugs me.

  “But then you disappeared on me,” he says, and I hear the hurt in his voice. “You left.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

  “Where did you go?” he asks. “I came by your dorm later, to apologize for what I said, or maybe for how I said it, anyway, and Angela said you weren’t back yet.”

  I stare up at him, caught.

  He closes his eyes and frowns like I am causing him physical pain. “That’s what I thought.”

  I wonder if it’ll make him feel any better to know that my conversation with Tucker that night didn’t go much better than my conversation with him.

  He opens his eyes. “It might.”

  Good grief. Men.

  Moving on. “Okay, as much fun as this is, I didn’t come here to talk to you about us,” I tell him. “I came to tell you about Angela.”

  “Has she had the baby?” he asks, concerned. “What is she going to do?”

  “She hasn’t had the baby,” I say. “Yet. But tomorrow she’s going to talk to Phen about it.”

  Christian goes rigid. “She’s going to tell him about the baby?”

  “Well, she’s going to tell him that he’s the father. That’s her plan, anyway.”

  “Bad idea,” he says, shaking his head like this is the worst idea ever. “She shouldn’t be telling anybody about the seventh. Especially not Phen.”

  “He’s not good news,” I admit. “He’s not … happy. But I guess we’ll see. Angela is dead-set on this. I’ll call you tomorrow after I get back.”

  His brows draw together. “Wait. You’re going with her?”

  “She asked me to go. Well, she told me I was going, and so I am.”

  His mouth twists into a disapproving line. “You should stay out of it.”

  “It’s her purpose. Besides, Phen’s already met me, so it’s not like I’d be giving anything away, here. I’m going to be there for moral support.”

  “No way.” His green eyes are frosty. “It’s too risky. He’s an angel. He could figure out what you are.”

  “He’s not evil, technically speaking….”

  Christian scoffs. “You heard what your dad said about ambivalent angels. He’s worse than the Black Wings, he said. They don’t have any allegiance to anybody.” He grabs me by the shoulders like he wants to shake some sense into me, but all he says is “We can’t go parading ourselves around in front of ambiguous angels.”

  “Ambivalent,” I correct him. “And I was thinking a marching-band uniform and a baton.”

  “Don’t joke about this,” he says. “I’m serious.”

  I try to step back, but he’s holding me tightly.

  “Don’t go,” he says. “Be cautious, for once in your life.”

  “Don’t boss me around,” I say, shaking him off.

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Don’t call me names.” I head for the door.

  “Clara, please,” he pleads, his anger dissolving.

  I stop.

  “All my life … well, all my life since my mom died, my uncle warned me about this exact sort of thing. Don’t reveal yourself, to anyone. Don’t trust anyone.”

  “Yeah, yeah, don’t talk to strange angels.” This would not be the best time to tell him about my little chat with Samjeeza this afternoon. And so I don’t. “I’m there in her vision, Christian.”

  “You, of all people, should know that things don’t always happen the way they do in the visions,” he says.

  That’s a low blow.

  “Clara,” he starts in, “I’ve seen you in my vision, too. What if this is what’s going to—?”

  I hold up my hand. “I think we’ve talked enough.”

  I’m going to be there with Angela tomorrow. Where I’m supposed to be. Two steps behind. No matter how it turns out.

  And so it comes to pass that at fifteen minutes to noon, February 13, a day that Angela herself picked to be her destiny, she and I set off from Roble to meet an ambivalent angel. She’s dressed up for the occasion, wearing a purple maternity camisole with lace at the hem, fitted jeans with a band around the belly instead of a zipper, a cream knit sweater that brings out the glow in her skin and the blue tint to her black hair. She’d even put on makeup, not her usual heavy eyeliner and dark lips, but a simple coat of mascara and rose-tinted lip balm. It’s warm weather for February, and Angela’s pink-cheeked and sweating under her layers of clothing, but she moves with a spring in her step that’s surprising for a girl in her condition. She looks healthy and vibrant and beautiful.

  “I never paid attention to this part,” she huffs as we walk. “In the visions, I never thought about how I was feeling—physically, I mean. I can’t believe I never noticed this.” She gestures to her ballooning belly. “Or how my center of gravity has shifted way down. Or how I have to pee.”

  “Do you want to stop?” I ask. “Find a bathroom?”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t be late.”

  The closer we get to the steps from her vision the lighter she feels, almost bursting into glory she’s so excited, her skin definitely glowing, her eyes alight with purpose.

  “There he is,” she whispers suddenly, clutching at my hand.

  There he is. Standing in the courtyard with his back to us, wearing a gray suit just as she described. What guy wears a suit to a meeting with his former girlfriend, I wonder? He’s looking at the burghers, whose downcast, mournful faces seem even more in contrast to the bright, sunny day, the flowers blooming all around the courtyard, the sun shining, the birds singing.

  Birds. I glance around nervously. I hadn’t thought about birds.

  Angela hands me her purse. “Here I go,” she says.

  “I’m right behind you,” I promise, and trail her to the bottom of the steps.

  She takes her time approaching Phen. The cut of her sweater parts in the middle, exposing her swollen belly, which pushes at the edge of her camisole like she’s swallowed a basketball, even though she’s not that big. I see her take a quick breath at the last step, and I can’t tell if it’s her sudden nervousness or my own that I’m feeling now.

  She touches his shoulder, and he turns.

  It’s definitely Phen. She was right on that count.

  “Hello,” she says breathlessly.

  “Hello, Angela,” he says, all charming smiles. “It’s good to see you.” He leans over and gives her a kiss on the mouth. I try not to think about the gray-souled creature that’s hiding in that attractive body of his.

  “How are you?” she asks, like this is all about him.

  “I’m better, for seeing you,” he says.

  Um, gag me.

  “You’re a vision,” he says. “I could paint you, right now.”

  Here it comes. Her hands close into
fists briefly, then release. “I’m better for seeing you, too,” she says, and pulls away from him, gazes down, and pushes the folds of her sweater back, rubbing her hand over her belly. His smile fades as his eyes travel down the length of her body. I swear that even from here I can see the color leave his face. I strain to hear their voices.

  “Angela,” he gasps. “What happened to you?”

  “You happened to me,” she says with a smirk in her voice, but then gets serious. “It’s yours, Phen.”

  “Mine,” he breathes. “Impossible.”

  “Ours,” she says, and I can’t see her face from here, but I think she’s smiling that serene, hopeful smile that’s so not the normal Angela—so open, so vulnerable. She puts her hand on his shoulder again, rests it there this time, looks up into his shocked dark eyes, and says, clearly, “The seventh is ours.”

  A chill passes through me. Out of the corner of my eye I think I see the flutter of black wings, but when I look I don’t see anything. I turn my attention back to Phen. He reaches out and places his hand on her belly, his eyes still incredulous, and for a few seconds I think it’s all going to be okay, like Angela said. He’s going to take care of her. He’s going to protect them both.

  But then the control over his human form slips, and I catch a flash of that gray soul of his. He looks wildly around, like it’s not safe to be seen in public with her. His gaze glances off me with only a flicker of recognition. I wouldn’t have to be an empath to pick up on the naked fear in his eyes, pure and undiluted. He’s terrified.

  “Phen, say something,” Angela says urgently.

  He looks up into her face. “You shouldn’t have told me,” he murmurs without emotion. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Phen,” she says, alarmed, her fingers gripping his suit jacket. “I know it’s a shock. It was a shock for me too, trust me. But it was supposed to happen, don’t you see? This is my vision, my purpose. I’ve been seeing this moment since I was eight years old. It’s you, Phen. We’re allowed to be together. We’re supposed to be together.”

  “No,” he says. “We’re not.”

  “But I love you.” Her voice breaks on the word love. “My heart’s been yours ever since I first saw you in the church. You love me, too. I know you do.”