by Nicki Elson
Maggie further asserted her motherhood the next afternoon with ice cream and a walk along the river, followed by a night at the movies. When she and the kids returned home, the phone was ringing. Maggie ran to it, and after reading the caller ID, answered it in a rush.
“Sharon! I’m so, so, so sorry. I got your message but things were crazy and I didn’t call back and I’m so sorry. How are you?”
“Calm down. It’s no big deal. I figured you were just busy. But hey, Katie tells me Kirsten and Liam are going on vacation with their dad for a few days.”
“Two weeks. They leave tomorrow.”
“I thought you might want to get together while they’re gone.”
“That sounds great. I’m going to be working full time while they’re gone to get some projects done, but maybe we can go out to dinner one night. How about I give you a call next week and we can see what works?”
“Sure. Sounds good. Tell the kids to have a great trip, and we’ll talk next week.”
“Okay, bye.”
The next morning a huge TV pulled in front of Maggie’s townhouse to take her children away. After promises of texts and phone calls and postcards, they were off. Maggie kept busy at work that day, but as she lay in bed at night, her mind was free to wonder whether her kids were comfortable sleeping in the RV, if they were homesick, if Melissa had turned into an evil shrew of a “step mother” once the children were safely out of their mother’s grasp. She wished for Evan, for his soothing hands to touch her and let her know everything would be okay, but she put a halt to the yearning. She needed to sleep and didn’t quite feel up to resisting him should he want to demonstrate his self-control again.
After work the next day, she went to a park by the river and sat atop a vacant picnic table, watching bikers whiz by on the paved path and fishermen wade into the water. After a few minutes, her face brightened as she watched Evan approach her. She hadn’t dared hope her plan would actually work, but it had. He stopped a few feet in front of her, and for a moment they simply smiled at each other. It felt nice to exert a small amount of control over a situation that continued to baffle both of them. His pale gray irises, always beautiful, were now lustrous, shimmering in the full sunlight like cut crystals.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked, breaking the happy silence.
“Can we do that?” It seemed like a silly question, but so far the two of them had only managed to remain in each other’s sight when they’d stayed in one location.
He cocked an eyebrow and took several steps backward, toward the forest. “Looks like I can.”
Maggie hopped off the table and sprinted to him. “Smart aleck.”
He turned and they walked across the lawn to a path, eventually winding into the forest. Though their view of the river was blocked by tree trunks and full branches, they could still hear the rush of its currents. Maggie wasn’t in the mood to get into any mystical discussions that day. She didn’t want to hear Evan say he didn’t know, and she didn’t want to have to strain her brain cells to try to grasp concepts he’d tell her she’d never understand anyway. Instead the conversation turned to her very human issues.
She was handling the vacation just fine and understood the finality of the divorce, but that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt, and Evan was such a very good listener. He let her open up without asking too many questions, without giving false encouragement, and without judgment.
“I think it’s always going to be hard to see him with someone else,” Maggie concluded after her diatribe. “It’s not even so much that I want him for myself. It’s just…it was always ‘Carl and Maggie’ and now it’s going to be ‘Carl and Melissa.’ As if I, the essence of Maggie, don’t matter at all. I was just one warm body easily substituted with another.”
“I doubt the substitution was easy or complete—she can’t fully replace what you were to him or your children. She’s clearly taken up some space in all of their hearts and probably occupies parts of Carl’s heart that used to be yours, but she hasn’t pushed you out.”
They’d reached the parking lot, and it was starting to get dark, so Evan walked Maggie to her car. She opened the driver’s door, but before getting in, she turned toward him. “Thanks for putting up with me today. It was helpful to talk things out. How ironic that the very symptom of my insanity also serves as my therapist.”
She was surprised when he frowned at her joke. “Do you still not believe I’m real?”
“You better be real. I sorta like having you around.”
“Good. I sorta like being around.”
The next several days passed quickly. Maggie’s projects kept her busy at work, and Evan came around more frequently. He even showed up during Maggie’s solitary nightshift at the food pantry and helped her sort donations.
“Cinnamon again?” he said out loud to himself as he unpacked bags and stocked the dry goods shelves. Then he turned to Maggie where she lined up a row of cardboard boxes to be packed with a week’s worth of meals for the average family of four. “Cinnamon Life, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, apples and cinnamon oatmeal. Over there I unpacked cinnamon applesauce.”
Maggie shrugged. “People like cinnamon.”
“All people?”
“I’m sure not every single living person. But most, yeah.”
“Why?”
“It just makes things taste better.”
He pulled out another box. “Simply Cinnamon Corn Flakes,” he murmured as if contemplating the wonders of the universe. “Would you say the vast majority of people enjoy the works of Mozart?”
After the last few evenings together, Maggie was getting used to his random questions and observations of humankind. He was wise beyond anything Maggie could comprehend, but apparently things like spices and classical music weren’t on the list of things he “needed to know,” so when he asked, she always answered to the best of her ability. She found it wildly freeing to put her mind to something other than her personal woes.
“I think most would say they enjoy Mozart,” she answered, “but actually enjoy it? Probably a lot less.”
“How about Johnny Cash?”
She chuckled as she answered, “Definitely not most.”
“And yet they all like cinnamon.” Evan shook his bewildered head.
“Evan, dear, I could try to explain it…but you wouldn’t understand.” Maggie beamed a Cheshire grin. She’d never imagined that the two weeks she’d been dreading could turn out to be so enjoyable. During the second week of the kids’ absence, she found herself working as efficiently as possible at the office so she could take Friday off work.
“Oh, kids back early?” Brenda asked when Maggie told her she wouldn’t be in the next day.
“No, but I’ve been wanting to get down to the city to see the Art Institute’s refurbished Impressionist wing. The kids have never seemed enthused to go, so this seems like my best opportunity.”
“Well, I guess that’s fine with me now that our files are all organized. We’ll be barraged with registrations for religious ed. next week, so you might as well have your fun now.”
By late the following morning, Maggie stood in the Impressionist gallery at the Art Institute of Chicago, hoping to see Evan, but unsure whether he’d appear in such a populated area. If he didn’t show up by the time she was through with this room, she planned to try her luck in a more isolated area of the museum.
It was as she examined a Renoir that she sensed his presence. Nodding toward the painting at a rower dressed all in white, she said over her shoulder, “Nice outfit, huh?”
“He’s got panache,” Evan answered, making Maggie smile. His rare and subtle dashes of humor always did. She turned and flicked her gaze around at the other patrons in the gallery, looking for an indication that anyone else could see him. She thought a woman gave a sideways glance at his unusual apparel, but couldn’t be sure.
“Why don’t you go talk to someone?” she suggested. “Just step up behind them, like you did
to me, and make a comment about the painting they’re looking at. See if they respond.”
He pursed his lips into a small frown. “Is this why you brought me here?”
“No. But while we’re here, what’s to lose? If they don’t hear or see you, no harm, right?”
“What if they hear me but don’t see me?”
“Then I’m going to get a good chuckle out of it. Still a win.” When he tilted his head and raised a chiding eyebrow, she added, “They’ll just think whoever said it walked away.”
Evan scanned the room and nodded toward a pretty young woman standing alone in front of a Degas. “Shall I try her?”
Maggie shook her head and pointed in the opposite direction at an older, balding man. “Him.”
Evan sauntered over, stopping about a foot behind the man, slightly off to his side. Maggie couldn’t hear what Evan said, but saw his mouth move. The man looked over his shoulder and responded. Evan stood at the painting a bit longer, and then he and Maggie subtly worked their way through the wall of paintings to each other.
“Well, now we know that I won’t look crazy talking to you in public.” Maggie smiled.
“He can see me. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that everyone else can.”
Maggie huffed. “Nothing’s ever cut and dried with you, is it? Can we just assume, until it’s proven otherwise, that everyone can see you? Please?”
“That sounds reasonable.”
They wandered out of the Impressionist gallery and through other rooms, with nothing in particular catching their interest until they came upon a special exhibition of the institute’s collection of prints and drawings. At first Maggie only glanced at the grayscale sketches and nearly moved on, but then she noticed an etching of a group of cherubs carrying a kneeling woman up to a haloed woman in robes. Behind the women, a man sat on a cloud, holding a crown, and in the background was a dove. The description indicated that this was a depiction of a saint being greeted in Heaven.
There were only a few other people in the room, and they weren’t close, so Maggie asked in a quiet voice, “Is this what Heaven looks like?”
“It conveys the feel of the place in a—”
“Yes or no.”
“There’s more to it tha—”
“Evan…”
“No. If you’re looking at it strictly from a visual perspective, then no, that’s not what Heaven looks like.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said and meant it.
They moved along, and Evan pulled Maggie’s elbow to direct her to a pair of lithographs by Odilon Redon. They were obscure black and white drawings, with the only readily discernible figure being that of an angel holding a sickle. Maggie would have labeled the drawings “modern art,” but they were both dated 1899.
She read the inscriptions. “It’s from Revelation. These are part of a set.” The longer Maggie looked, the more figures made themselves known among the lines. “Those look like—are those aliens?” she asked.
Evan tilted his head to examine from a new angle. “Sinners, I think. Frightened and repentant ones.”
“Why are you showing me these?”
“These are a better representation of the true nature of the ethereal world.”
Maggie scrunched her face. “You’re telling me this is more accurate than cherubs and fluffy clouds? Come on—are you messing with me?”
“I’m not. These pieces don’t capture it literally, but essentially. All art comes from God, but this artist opened himself up more fully to the transcendent parts of the message.”
Maggie looked back at the pictures and frowned. “It’s so…bleak.”
“The end of the world will be. But don’t worry—this was Redon’s last set in noir. After this he painted only in color, and I think you’d quite like some of his heavenly images.”
“So his images of the afterlife are fairly accurate?”
“Essentially,” they both said at the same time.
“Jinx!” Maggie pinched his arm and spun to leave the room, but stopped near the door when she spied the word “angel” in the title of a geometric piece with a gray shaded rectangle in the center and two more rectangles lying down on either side. When Evan came up behind her, she joked, “Shouldn’t that say ‘angle’?”
Evan stayed silent and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, she saw that he was staring wide-eyed at the etching.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He waved his head from side to side. “Quite the contrary—everything’s right. This is exactly what heaven looks like. Literally.”
Maggie jerked her head back and turned to again examine the sparse drawing. She felt utter confusion until Evan lowered his lips to her ear and murmured in a teasing growl, “Now I’m messing with you.”
Maggie jabbed his chest with her shoulder and laughed. “Naughty angel. So have you had enough art for the day? Want to get out of here?”
“If you do.”
A few minutes later they emerged on the sunny steps leading down to Michigan Avenue, still smiling and teasing each other. As they reached the bottom step Maggie heard a familiar voice.
“Maggie Brock?”
Maggie whipped her head toward the voice. “Sharon? I can’t believe I’m seeing you—this is crazy! What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Sharon moved closer, and Maggie saw that she had her daughters with her so she and the girls exchanged hellos. “Thanks for the phone call,” Sharon said as soon as the pleasantries were over.
Maggie groaned. “I’m sorry. The time went so fast. I finally got caught up yesterday and decided last minute to take today off.”
It became obvious Sharon could see Evan when her eyes not-so-subtly scanned him up and down. “The girls and I came down for Millennium Park and some shopping. What’s your story?”
“Art Institute,” Maggie answered, gesturing behind her.
“Okay. What’s his story?”
Maggie flushed. She wasn’t prepared to introduce Evan to anyone, much less her friend with the overactive imagination. “This is Evan. Evan, this is my friend, Sharon, and her daughters, Kate and Shelby. Evan’s also a friend. He’s an expert on spiritual art and has been enlightening me.”
“I’ll bet he has.” Sharon smiled shamelessly.
“Well, I’ll let you girls get on with your day,” Maggie said, narrowing her eyes at her friend. “We’ll talk back in the ’burbs.”
“You can count on it. Nice meeting you, Evan,” Sharon called as Maggie and he walked away.
Maggie turned east on Monroe and walked as fast as she could for the next few blocks, not slowing until they’d crossed Lake Shore Drive. She led Evan south, away from the crowded yacht club docks to where the view of the lake opened up into a wide, sparkling expanse.
“I’m sorry about that back there,” she said. “I never expected to run into anyone I know down here. I hope it won’t cause any problems for you.”
“Seems more like it’s causing problems for you.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know Sharon. She’s not going to let this go. And what am I supposed to tell her? Even if I wanted to tell her the truth, how do I explain it when even I don’t know what’s going on?”
“You did tell her the truth—we’re friends, and I was telling you about art. Won’t that satisfy her?”
“Not when I told her I had a dream about an angel and now I show up with you looking all—” she waved her hands in front of his white linen “—angelic! She’s going to think you’re my new boy toy and I’m making you play dress up.”
“She’ll think what she wants to think; your only responsibility is the truth.”
“And the truth is that we’re friends.”
“Yes.”
Maggie sighed and stayed quiet, letting herself be mesmerized by the flickers of sunlight as they caught on the tiny peaks of the restless water. She supposed Sharon seeing Evan might not be that big of a deal. Maggie had successfully fended
off her friend’s continual innuendo for years, and could continue to do so.
Evan slid his hand around Maggie’s waist and guided her out of the bike lane as an approaching biker angrily tinkled her bell. “Thanks, guardian angel,” Maggie said and wrinkled her nose, letting Evan know she was over her snit. When she looked into his eyes, admiring the way they mimicked the glittering lake, he let his hand slide. As soon as it dropped away, she wanted it back on her. Their physical contact had been rare since the night his fingers had so intimately roved her face, and Maggie was now fully aware of how much she missed his always exhilarating touch.
“So,” she began as they continued their walk along the sunny lakefront, “while we’re somewhat on the topic, would that even be possible—a human and angel romantic entanglement?”
“Angels and humans aren’t meant for each other.”
“I know we weren’t created for each other, but is that all that keeps us—humans and angels—apart? There’s not a…physical reason?” When he peered at her sideways, she snapped her tentative gaze away.
“When we take on the form of man, we take on his entire form, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh.” They walked on in what felt to Maggie like an agitated silence. His answer had been too curt. “Should I not have asked?”
She turned back toward Evan as he lifted his arm to pull a hand through his hair, which seemed to be turning more golden as the summer progressed. When several strands sprang forward to hang nearly into his eyes, Maggie noticed something she hadn’t before.
“Is your hair getting longer?”
He directed his gaze upward and tugged at a section with his fingertips, examining it. “I suppose it’s a consequence of spending an extraordinary amount of time in this form.”
“Back to the form thing…”
“Maggie…” His voice lost some of the stiffness it had taken on a few moments earlier, and he pushed his mouth into a regretful frown that was echoed in his eyes. “As I said, it’s not meant to happen, so there’s no purpose in entertaining ideas of you and I being more than what we are.”