by Nancee Cain
The wind from the impending storm blows my hair into my face and he reaches out and tucks it behind my ear. At his touch, goose bumps pop out on my skin, and a burning fire of intense need courses through my veins. I cross my arms in front of my chest and glare at him, angered by my body’s response. Although I’ve had a lot of sex in the last two years, I haven’t felt a longing need like this since Jack. And for a priest? I guess I am the immoral woman Father Asswipe has always suspected me of being. Maybe I should go confess my wicked thoughts regarding Father Blackson, to prove him right. No, he’d probably suffer a stroke and his dying thought would be I knew it. I’ll be damned if I prove him right. Plus, I don’t need another death on my conscience, unless it’s my own.
“What are you doing?” I’m not sure if I’m asking him or myself.
“Making sure you get inside okay. You need to lock your doors, Evangeline. Leaving them unlocked is insanely stupid.”
His uncanny knack for calling a spade a spade while still showing concern for my safety makes me snicker. “Yeah, it’d be a shame if some bad guy was inside waiting to kill me.”
He chuckles and his eyes crinkle with amusement. “Exactly. I’d hate for all my hard work earlier to have been for nothing.” Remi places a warm, firm hand on my lower back and guides me through the door. Once again, his touch sends a jolt of electricity straight down to where it shouldn’t go. An image of those hands exploring my body as his lips taste mine makes me turn away with shame. I have to stop; the man is a priest, for fuck’s sake. Even I’m not that depraved. Or am I?
He snaps on the light and I look around and sigh. It’s pretty damn depressing in its emptiness. Over the past two days, I’ve cleaned out a lot of what I own and either tossed it or dumped it at the local charity. Because I can’t stay focused and tend to do things half-assed, I didn’t quite finish getting rid of everything. Tonight’s suicide attempt is another poorly planned misstep. I’m still here. Note to self: Get fucking organized, and get rid of everything.
At least the place is spotless, since I didn’t want my mom to have to clean after I’m gone. Mama’s been through enough just having me as her daughter. I’m an embarrassment to her, and she hasn’t been able to handle the shame I’ve brought upon the family name. She moved as far across the country as she could just to get away from the gossip.
“Nice place, if a bit Spartan.” Remi closes the door behind us, placing the beer on the coffee table. Watching me, he sinks on to the couch.
What the hell? “Okay, I’m in my house.” I do a twirl with my arms wide open like I’m Julie Fucking Andrews in The Sound of Music. “No bogeyman here. You can leave now.”
“There’s no need to be rude, Evangeline. There’s a storm brewing outside. I’ll wait until it’s over. Sit down and relax. Want a beer?” He picks one up, twists the top, and holds it out to me.
“I’m not supposed to drink with my medication,” I answer primly, sitting next to him.
He raises a skeptical eyebrow and chuckles. “And I’m sure you take your medication just as prescribed.”
Was that sarcasm in Father Blackson’s voice? Why, yes, it was. I grab the beer from him and mumble, “I thought we already established the fact no one likes a smart ass.”
Laughing, he opens his own beer, and taps his bottle to mine. “Spoken like a true smart ass. It takes one to know one.” I hide my smile by chugging my beer as thunder rumbles through the air. My eyes narrow as he settles back on the couch, propping his long legs on the coffee table as if he plans to stay for a while. His nose wrinkles and he sniffs the air. “Do you need me to take out your garbage?” His eyes sparkle and his full lips curl into a winsome smile as his gaze slowly peruses me from head to toe, making me fidget. I realize I’m wrapping a tendril of my hair around my finger over and over, a sure sign of my nervousness.
“No, there is no garbage.” I frown trying to figure out his motive. Is this some sort of trick question? The half a beer I just chugged has made my stomach queasy and my head spin. I haven’t eaten since…hell, I can’t remember when I last ate. I try to think as I look around at the sad, bare room. I took the garbage out when I hauled some of my stuff to the dump this morning…I look down at my filthy T-shirt and jeans and heat creeps up from my chest, making my cheeks flame with humiliation. It’s me. I refuse to look at him, not wanting to see him laughing at me. People are always whispering about me and laughing. My heart races so fast I feel like I’m running a marathon and my chest hurts.
“You need to leave, Father.” Abruptly, I stand. That unsettling feeling of agitation looms over me, threatening to swing me back once again toward my paranoid psychosis.
He stands, but instead of leaving, he marches into the kitchen. I follow, watching him with suspicion as he opens and closes my bare cupboards and the empty refrigerator. He finds one almost empty jar of mustard, a half a stick of margarine and a package of cheap brownie mix that’s probably out of date. Most of my dishes are at the thrift store.
Fury marks his face when he spins around to face me. My eyes damn near pop out of my head, and I back up as dark wings expand behind him. I blink and they’re gone, making me question if this is real or not.
“When did you last eat? Where is your shit? You really were serious about killing yourself, weren’t you?” Another crack of thunder rattles the windowpane, but it’s nothing compared to how his outburst has unnerved me.
Did he just say “shit”? Is my mind playing tricks on me again? For a moment, all I can concentrate on his use of a mild profanity. The vision of those raven-like wings spreading is too damn scary to think about right now. I swallow, unsure of how to respond to this side of the priest. He looks like a dark, avenging angel. I squeeze my eyes shut and tremble, backing away, holding my hand out as if to hold him at bay.
“Go away!” I beat the side of my head to make the unwanted apparition leave. This isn’t my typical hallucination, and for the first time, I regret quitting my meds cold turkey. Sinking to the floor, I hide my face in my knees as I cower at his feet, shivering with fear. I’m tired of fighting this inner turmoil, yet some primal instinct for survival makes me struggle to keep from succumbing to the relief total insanity would provide.
Sucking in air like a drowning victim, I don’t resist when strong, supportive hands pull me to my feet. I curl into his chest, clutching the front of his shirt. My trembling ceases, and I trace my finger repeatedly over the cross on his chest. Calm, soothing energy flows through the hand stroking my hair.
“It’s okay, Evangeline. Calm, down. You’re just overexcited and exhausted. I’m here to help you.” His soft-spoken voice acts better than any anti-anxiety pill I’ve ever been prescribed.
His reassurance soothes like a gentle ocean wave floating me toward the shore. But, my neurosis acts like an undertow pulling me back toward the depth of my insanity, and the shore remains just out of my reach. Frustrated, I bury my face in his shirt and my knees buckle under the weight of my depression and the disappointment in my failed plan to end the inexhaustible pain. I’m so damn tired of this roller coaster of emotions. Maybe the doctors are right and it’s better to be numb and on an even keel with the powerful medications. Better to never feel again.
He sweeps me off my feet and I’m too exhausted to protest as he carries me to the bathroom, plopping me on the counter. It’s almost like having an out of body experience as I watch him start the bathwater, adding a generous amount of my favorite bubble bath. When the tub is full and steam covers the mirror, he places a washcloth and towel on the closed seat of the commode and cuts off the water.
Standing before me, he cups my cheek in his hand. I turn my face a fraction so that my lips brush his palm. “Evangeline.”
I straighten and stare at the cross on his chest, afraid for him to see into my eyes. Eyes are the windows to the soul, and I don’t want this priest, who has offered me kindness, to see I don’t have one. I can’t take the rejection.
“I think you can handle it from here. But I want
to hear you making noise. Splash, sing, swear, I don’t care. If I don’t hear noise, I’m coming back in to check on you. Do you understand?”
I nod and he pats me on the cheek like I’m a two-year-old and moves toward the door. He’s going to leave me. A sense of loss and desperation explodes in my chest like a bomb, but I don’t dare hope he’ll stay. I steal a glance at him from under my lashes, and my breath hitches at the concern in his piercing eyes.
“Noise, Evangeline. Lots of noise. I’ll be in the other room.”
He isn’t leaving. Relief floods through me. “Yes, Father.”
Without thinking, I peel my nasty T-shirt over my head. His eyes widen and the color drains from his face before he quickly closes the door behind him. I should be ashamed of myself, but it was kind of nice seeing the good Father flustered. He’s right; he is human, after all. I toss my stinking clothes on the floor and sink into the tub of bubbles with a grateful sigh. It feels like heaven. Leaning my head back, I soak for a moment, letting the tension in my body slip into the fragrant bubbles.
A sharp rap on the door, makes me smile and I begin to sing—off-key as usual—the old Bobby Darin song about taking a bath. The laughter from the other side of the door lets me know he approves. I don’t know all the words, so make some up as I go along and repeat the chorus over and over. I scrub my body, even shaving my legs. It takes three washes and rinses to get my hair to squeak. By the time I finish, I’m exhausted and unable to find the energy to climb out of the tub. I close my eyes for just a moment, gathering my strength.
I sink to the floor outside the bathroom and chuckle, listening to Evangeline butcher the lyrics to “Splish Splash.” I’m fairly certain the original song didn’t say anything about rubbin’ a nub. And the mental image that invokes makes me have to adjust my pants to ease the growing tension. Even filthy and stinking to high heaven, Evangeline Lourdes Salvatore is drop-dead gorgeous. I snicker at the unintended pun and thunder cracks overhead. Sometimes He doesn’t get my sense of humor. Or maybe He does, and that’s the problem. She’s going to look beautiful once she’s bathed, but I have to remember I’m here to do a job, and I better do it. Saving Evie sure beats checking in the righteous back home.
I rub my face with the heels of my palms, exhausted. Although she has some crazy ideas, has pulled some stupid stunts, and is possibly depressed, Evie isn’t insane. She has what people used to call the sight. She’s extremely sensitive to her surroundings, which means I’m going to have to work harder to not reveal who I am and my true nature. This will be difficult. I’m attracted to her like no other which makes it difficult not to reveal my true self. It’s like a male peacock preening in front of his girl. Not to mention impulsivity and carelessness go hand in hand with me.
Loving corny detective shows from the seventies and film noir, the Boss always insists a job be top secret when saving some poor soul. Personally, I think it would be a helluva lot easier to just say, “Yo, you’re not 5150,” or cray-cray, or whatever the current term for batshit crazy is. Why can’t we just tell folks they’re in touch with more than the tangible? A bold streak of lightning follows the thunder this time. Better not push my luck.
Pulling a cigarette from the pack, I light it so I can think and plan. One of the benefits to being back on earth is the ability to smoke, and pre-rolled cigs are incredible. On a rare weekend off during the Summer of Love I’d discovered them and pot from a lovely free-spirited blonde. Of course, that goody-two-shoes Raphael narced on me, like He didn’t already know. The Boss hadn’t been happy about the cigarettes, being a health nut, but tolerated it. Illicit drugs and sex aren’t allowed on weekends off so that was a different story. We’re expected to act with the dignity befitting an emissary of Him. Using the argument it’s a “natural herb” hadn’t flown, because I got high and danced around Woodstock with my beautiful wings exposed. Heck, no one even noticed with all the acid being dropped around me. I tried citing free will for the sex, but that went over like lead wings. He hates excuses, and looking back, I should have just owned up to my mistakes. That’s when I got sentenced to the “learning lesson” and forced into being Peter’s bitch. The old codger is stuffier than the Boss and much more demanding. I’ve had multiple offers to move south with my fallen brother, Luc, but I hate hot weather. Thunder rumbles hard enough to shake the windows and I mumble an apology.
Let’s see, the last time I was here for any length of time was during the Great Plague to save Sister Winifred, the grumpiest old nun I’ve ever met. It took a couple of months and was a smelly, disgusting task since bathing wasn’t high on her list of priorities. This job should be a piece of cake in comparison. Evangeline’s a lot prettier and, despite her suicidal ideation, not nearly as morose. I just have to get through her muddled head that life here on earth is a lot more fun than the alternative. After all, she could be stuck checking coats at the Pearly Gates for centuries.
I’m just not sure how to go about it. I think she took a step in the right direction when she pretended to fly in the car. I felt the weight lift momentarily from her slender shoulders. The girl carries more damn baggage than Paris Hilton on a trip to Monte Carlo.
Evie looked like an angel with her long, dark hair blowing behind her, head thrown back, and her arms spread wide as we flew down the road. I was tempted to Chitty-chitty-bang-bang the car, but that would have been crossing the line. I have to appear “normal,” whatever that’s supposed to be, and somehow identify her pain and figure out a way to extinguish it.
I can do it. At least she isn’t boring.
Nope. She’s anything but boring.
Chapter Three
“EVIE, YOU’D TEST THE PATIENCE of a saint. Stop playing around, this yard work has to be done.”
“Sorry,” I reply with a smug grin, looking at Daddy with wide, pleading eyes. I’m lying, and we both know it. I hate yard work, and I’ve been stalling, wanting him to play with me instead. Daddy’s gone a lot with his job as a truck driver, so when he’s home, I’ll do anything to get his attention.
Daddy smiles and shakes his head. “You’ll be the death of me yet, young lady.” He starts the chainsaw…
“Evangeline, wake up!”
“No,” I whimper, squeezing my eyes harder and swatting at the hand on my shoulder.
The warm hand shakes me, again. “Come on, Crazy Girl, you need to get out of the tub. This isn’t fair. I didn’t sign on for this kind of temptation. I’m only human remember,” Remi murmurs, his voice laced with frustration.
My eyes snap open, and I struggle to sit up, covering my nakedness as best as I can with my hands and knees. The bubbles are gone. The water is cold. And my skin burns with embarrassment. A rumble of thunder and crack of lightning splits the air and we’re plunged into darkness.
“Thank God,” he mutters followed by a grunt. I figure he must’ve run into the counter. Remi swears under his breath, and wind hits the side of the house, whistling with intensity. “Do you have a flashlight anywhere?”
“Get out,” I croak. I’m thankful the power failure has spared me further humiliation. “I have a candle in here, but you have to get out.”
“It’s pitch black. I can’t see anything,” he argues.
“You’ve already seen everything, now get out!” Awkwardness gives way to something else. Desire surges through my body making me acutely aware of him as a good-looking man. This is so wrong.
“I’m trying. Get your panties out of a wad. Oh wait, you’re not wearing any.”
I screech my indignation, making him laugh as he stumbles into the hallway. Once he’s gone, I lunge out of the tub and grab my comfy, terrycloth robe from the back of the bathroom door. As I knot the belt, I hear Remi trip in the other room.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!”
I guess it wasn’t technically swearing and it makes me giggle. Serves him right. Fumbling in the dark, I manage to find the candle and matches in the bathroom drawer. By the wavering candlelight, I comb the tangles out of m
y wet hair into some semblance of order. Only rest will erase the lavender circles of fatigue under my eyes, and I know that isn’t going to happen. I would rather do without sleep than exist in the zombie-like state provided by my meds.
Easing down the hall to my bedroom, I find some clean underwear, a pair of yoga pants, and a tank top. I hear Remi on the phone in the kitchen reporting the power outage, as if I’ll need electricity in the future.
My plans haven’t changed. They’ve just been altered by the priest’s interference. Annoyed, I trudge to the living area where I find him slumped on the couch, his hands covering his handsome face. He looks up, and my heart damn near stops beating. The candle shakes in my hand until he reaches up and takes it from me, placing it on the coffee table. I can’t tear my eyes from his. I see my own haunting pain and torment reflected there.
A primitive, gut-wrenching strand of shared misery connects us in some intangible, mystical manner. It wraps its tentacles around my heart and constricts its hold to the point of pain. I clutch my chest, attempting to draw in a breath, but can’t. How is he able to breathe? To me, it feels like we’re suffocating together, as if on some level, we’ve become one. My pain is now his. Never have I experienced such empathy or such a deep bond with another person, not even with Jack. Unmitigated grief crashes over me like a tsunami. The room spins, and it feels like a vacuum of sorrow and death has just sucked the life force out of me.
He springs to his feet and handling me like a fragile vase, he lowers me to the couch, easing my head between my knees. “Breathe, Evangeline. Nice deep breaths.”
It’s a struggle, but I manage to suck in an agonizing, shallow gulp of air.
“There you go. Again, and deeper this time,” he commands in an authoritative voice.
When my breathing quits sounding like a winded asthmatic, I curl into a fetal position on the couch with my head in his lap. I quit my meds in order to feel, but now I wish I was numb. After what I just experienced, I don’t think I have the strength.