Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  “There aren’t sides here,” he says, reading my mind again. “Just”—he fingers a shard of a wood protruding from the casket—“man, just devastation. And there’s more than enough of it to go around.”

  Something skitters across my foot, small with lots of legs. I jerk, trying to be rid of it, but the thing is stubborn and clings to my ankle. I knock it away with my hand.

  And then Helene is here.

  “The sheriff’s heading this way,” she says. “He’s gathered a crew to assess the damage. If you’d like to stay we can, but we should at least take to the Celestial.”

  I can hear them, their voices, their feet on the cobbled path. The sheriff shouts instructions; several men interrupt, asking questions. Their voices are gruff, demanding.

  Angry.

  In my mind’s eye I imagine them carrying pitchforks, and I don’t want to be here when they arrive.

  I turn back to Helene. Her hands are on her hips, her legs straddling the casket. It’s casual, almost haphazard, and my stomach twists at the near disregard for . . .

  For what?

  It’s nothing but an empty box.

  And it’s never been anything more than that.

  “I’m ready,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We land in my living room to the sound of a ringing phone. The answering machine picks up as we transfer to the Terrestrial. The three of us stand in a triangle—Helene, Jake, and I—staring at the end table where the phone and the small machine sit side by side. Our outgoing message is old, recorded nearly a decade ago—Dad and I singing some stupid jingle and then bursting into laughter. It’s a relic of older, kinder days, and it makes me ill to hear it.

  Especially now.

  With a click, the machine starts recording.

  “Keith. Mike here.” I recognize the voice. It’s Sheriff Cahill. The one we saw cowering behind the crumbling tombstone just minutes ago. He and Dad are friends, played high school football together back in the day.

  “We’ve had some . . . vandalism out here at the cemetery.” It’s quiet for a second or two. “It’s going to be on the news, buddy, there’s no way around that, and I’d rather you get the details from me. I’m going to be stuck here for some time, but as soon as I can get away I’ll stop by your place. Just do me a favor, Keith. If you get this, give me a call on my cell before you even think about snapping on the television.”

  I drop onto the couch and curl into a ball. My legs and arms are grimy, my shorts brown with muck. I need a shower, but all I really want to do is curl up and watch reruns of I Love Lucy.

  I don’t want to deal with Dad. He’s either drunk or hungover. Maybe both.

  And it’s late.

  Or early.

  Whatever.

  “Go to bed, Brielle,” Helene says. “Let the police assume the responsibility of informing your dad, and let me talk to Virtue.”

  Her instructions are tempting, but I can’t help feeling like I’m shirking some sort of daughterly responsibility. Do I really want Dad to hear this from someone else? From the sheriff?

  “I don’t know.”

  “She’s right,” Jake says, kneeling before me. “Unless you want to explain to your dad what you saw and how you saw it, you’d better let Sheriff Cahill talk to him.”

  I count the stitches on the couch cushion, picking at them as I go. I’ve torn eight of them free when I lose it.

  “This is . . . ahhh! It’s just ridiculous,” I say. I’m tired and angry and confused. “What was he thinking, burying an empty box? Visiting it every week. Taking flowers and cards and . . . and me to a mound of dirt with . . . nothing underneath it.”

  Jake rubs my knees. “Benefit of the doubt, remember?”

  He’s gorgeous—that soft hair, those eyes both dark and light, a tall, muscled build—but sometimes I want to punch him.

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet, okay?” Helene sits next to me on the couch. “Virtue’s words—his presence here—shouldn’t be taken lightly. Whatever happened to your mother’s body holds some relevance. If it didn’t, I doubt he’d have unearthed the absence of it.”

  My throat dries at the mention of the Sabre. “Why are they here?”

  She smiles. “He’s no threat to you, Elle. He’s a Sabre. A very powerful, very gifted angel.”

  “But my mother’s grave? Why?”

  “I can’t begin to guess why he destroyed your mother’s grave,” Helene says. “But all twelve of them have left the Throne Room, Elle. Only the Father Himself could make such a request.”

  “I don’t understand, though. They could all see him—the crowd—and they could hear him.”

  “They get brighter as they fight,” Helene says, her face seeming brighter itself. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I think of him plummeting to earth, of the sheriff screaming a warning. “Surely he could have accomplished . . . all that . . . in secret.”

  Helene brushes away a tear I never intended to release. Her hands are warm, sisterly, almost motherly, and for the first time tonight grief replaces anger and fear at center stage, and I mourn the loss of the thing I never had. I mourn the one thing that would fill the emptiness.

  I mourn my absent mother.

  “Some things,” Helene says, “were never meant to be secret.”

  I let Jake walk me to my room. My thigh brushes the rumpled comforter on my bed, and for a moment I crave the deep escape of sleep. My pillow’s warm, the sheets inviting, but memories of my last nightmare chase the desire away. The last time I let warm and inviting take over, I dreamed about red unicorns with blue tails and little girls I didn’t know.

  And death.

  “It’s going to be okay, Brielle,” Jake tells me. “We’ll figure it out.”

  I stare at my wall, at the child Cosette. I stare at her broom and her bondage and I wonder if there are puzzles that can’t be solved. Jake would never think that way. He can’t. He’s a healer. He thinks everything can be fixed, but what if it’s more complicated than that? What if someone doesn’t want to be fixed? What if there isn’t a body to heal?

  I don’t have the wherewithal to argue with him. I’m hollow. There’s nothing left to expend, just dents and dings where I’ve been scraped empty.

  I run a hand over Cosette’s face. “Okay.”

  “No, I mean it,” he says. “We will.”

  He’s on a mission. I feel it. He’s going to make me feel better or die trying. But the idea of rehashing today is overwhelming.

  “Okay.”

  “Elle . . .” There’s an ache in his voice as he gathers me to his chest, holding me. Like a bandage, like one of those butterfly bandages that hold everything together. But as a wound I’m bled dry, and his arms make it hard to breathe. I pull away.

  “I believe you, Jake, I do. But can we figure it all out tomorrow? I’m just . . . I’m . . .”

  His arms are still open, still hanging there, waiting for me to crawl into them. “You’re tired,” he says. “Of course you are.”

  “I’m . . . yes, I’m tired.”

  He’s hurt. I know he is, but there’s that emptiness in me, that inability to carry his hurt alongside mine.

  “Okay,” he says, dropping his arms. “I’ll go.”

  The door closes behind him, and still I feel nothing. I’m not scared. I’m not angry. I’m just nothing. I fall into my desk chair and roll it to the window. The blinds are up, and I press my cheek to the glass, wanting to feel the cold on my face, wanting it to wake me. It’s not enough, and my eyes close. Forcing them open, I yank the window open, feeling the cold night air on my face. But the night can’t last forever, and when the sun crests over the horizon my face is warmed by its rays and my eyes close. I’ve no energy left to fight it.

  And the nightmare takes hold.

  20

  Brielle

  I wake screaming.

  My rolling chair has slid away from the window and tipped me onto the floor. I clamp a
hand over my mouth, mortified, hoping I haven’t roused Dad. If there’s anyone I want to avoid this morning, it’s him.

  But he’s gone. His bed unmade, his room empty.

  I wander his room, looking for the old Dad, I guess. It’s a man’s room. A stinky room. On his side table is the oldest Harley Davidson key ring in the world, seven keys hanging off it. Wherever he’s gone, he didn’t do the driving. Someone’s picked him up. I’m guessing the sheriff, but I don’t let myself think about where they went or what they’re doing.

  His dresser is cluttered with pictures, but at the front is a picture of Mom, her loose curls lying perfectly on her shoulders, the same shade as mine. The picture’s faded, so her blue eyes look gray here, but they sparkle. Like she’s madly in love with the guy taking the picture. I wonder what she was like back then.

  I’m up early courtesy of that dreadful nightmare, but Jake’s still here to pick me up before I’ve even brushed my teeth. He’s looking all handsome, dressed in black, a pair of slacks and a suit shirt. He’s even wearing a thin gray tie today, and it’s hard to remember just why I needed him to leave last night.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” I say.

  “You needed space. You’re entitled.”

  He busies himself in the kitchen, nuking me a Pop-Tart and whistling the Transformers theme song. The whistling is a habit he picked up from Canaan, and if there’s any habit of his that drives me crazy, it’s that.

  Especially when I haven’t slept.

  I shush him twice, warning him not to wake up Dad before I remember that Dad’s not even home.

  He’s out.

  With the sheriff.

  All ready, I find Jake in the living room watching the morning news. Sheriff Cahill was right. Mom’s desecrated grave has made headlines. In fact, it seems to be the headline. It’s terrifying and far too familiar seeing my last name on the television screen.

  I watch the big city reporter with her big city hair, but all I really see is my dad in the background standing over a mound of dirt, Sheriff Cahill’s arm around his shoulders. The sheriff’s not a tall man, so he has to actually reach up to accomplish the feat, but it’s a sentimental shot.

  A rip-out-your-heart kind of shot.

  And it kills me that my family’s given the media another one of those shots to splash about.

  I walk to the television and snap it off.

  I turn away, toward Jake. Toward the one person I know would never mess with my emotions. He’s staring at me, his eyes soft.

  “I’m so sorry, Elle.”

  “Let’s just get outta here, okay? Before we have reporters camped out on the doorstep.”

  “Good call,” Jake says. “You still up for a stop at Jelly’s? We don’t have to, if you’d rather not.”

  “No, let’s. I haven’t had a single cup of bad coffee today. I’m due.”

  Jake and I have this Sunday morning tradition. It’s silly, really, and it started as kind of a joke. When Kaylee realized that Jake was a churchgoer and that he’d “dragged me into the Jesus stuff”—please note the air quotes—she gave him a hard time. Nothing awful, just Kaylee being Kaylee in her awkward, clumsy, goofing-on-everybody kind of way.

  But Jake wasn’t fazed by her good-natured contempt. Instead, he went out of his way to invite her to church. Almost daily. Slipping it into conversations. Texting her. Sending her Evites. He even signed her yearbook, “See you at church!”

  Her excuse, as always, was that she works on Sundays.

  So we stop by Jelly’s.

  Every Sunday.

  And Jake comes up with new ways to torment her. And even though Delia’s tried to shove her out the door with us a few times, we still haven’t gotten Kaylee into a pew.

  But it’s a lot of fun trying.

  I shake my hair out. This morning I could use a little fun.

  “So what’s the plan today?” I ask, forcing my mind away from Dad, away from what he’s probably seeing right now—or not seeing, as the case may be.

  “Doughnuts.”

  “No, I mean for Kaylee.”

  “So do I.”

  Jake waggles his eyebrows but says nothing more.

  I squint at him, but this is a secret I can let him keep. For now.

  Jelly’s is packed. We park across the street in front of the theatre, and I start toward the diner.

  “The Donut Factory first,” Jake says, taking my hand and leading me across the street. “You look gorgeous today, by the way.”

  I’m wearing a pale green slip dress and three-inch heels that make me nearly as tall as he is. But the real stunner, I’m sure, is that I’ve actually done my hair—I mean, beyond a simple braid or a knot on top of my head. I got the blow-dryer out and everything. It’s silky and shiny because I feel a fraction better about the world when I’m all dressed up.

  “Thought a good scrubbing was in order,” I say. “I think I’ve rolled around in the mud enough for a while.”

  “You don’t look half bad caked in mud either,” he says.

  “Yes, well. I’d rather not repeat last night if it can be avoided.”

  The back of his hand grazes my cheek. “Point taken.”

  The ever-present trio of old men are holding court in front of The Donut Factory as we approach. Custard-filled long johns and the upcoming elections seem to be on the agenda for today. Based on what I pick up as we close in, Bob’s throwing his name into the ring for president.

  Woody—short, square, hobbitish—whistles as I step onto the curb. I give him a slight curtsy.

  “Donut, Jake?” Bob says.

  Jake slaps Bob on the shoulder, throwing his aviator cap forward.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got an order waiting for me inside. Rain check?”

  “Depends. Who you voting for?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I’ve got my Bob Cobb for President T-shirt on order, and take a look at my bumper.”

  We all turn. Sure enough, the Karmann Ghia’s dented bumper sports a red, white, and blue sticker with the words Bobb Cobb for President printed on it.

  How did I not notice that before?

  “Does Bobb really have two Bs?”

  Jake shushes me.

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but Bob’s oblivious—to both my question and the typo.

  “Good man,” he says. “You can share my table anytime.”

  Woody whistles once again, and I give him a little wink. We leave them to their politics and step into The Donut Factory where you don’t breathe oxygen—you breathe coffee and sugar. Two things that will forever remind me of Jake.

  “You have doughnuts on order?” I ask.

  Another eyebrow waggle.

  “Thanks, Lizzie,” Jake says, bypassing the line of customers and taking a pink box from the girl behind the counter.

  “Sure, Jake.”

  “Don’t you have to pay her?” I ask as we step back onto the sidewalk.

  “Nah. She’ll just put it on my tab.”

  “You have an open tab at The Donut Factory?”

  “Better than having one at Beers and Bikes, right?”

  I cringe, pretty sure that Dad has a tab there.

  “So, you gonna show me?” I ask.

  “Show you what?”

  “The doughnuts!”

  “I don’t think so,” he says, opening the door to Jelly’s. “Let’s just say I’ve been doing some research.”

  Kaylee’s sitting in a booth. Alone. Which is funny, because the place is crammed with people, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for a table. She sits, with only a glass of OJ and a book called The Idiot’s Guide to Peru.

  I drop into the seat next to her. “Hey.”

  “You’re here! I so did not expect to see you guys this morning.” She closes her book, looking strange and sympathetic.

  My stomach twists. I hate that look. The one that says she feels sorry for me. That she wishes there was something she could do to help, when clearly there’s not.
r />   I had enough of that after Ali.

  “Delia said she saw on the news—your mom’s grave? I’m so sorry, Elle.”

  I look away, tuck my hair behind my ear, straighten my dress—anything to avoid the pity on her face.

  “What’s up with—”

  “My dad burying an empty casket?” I shrug. “Really couldn’t tell ya.”

  Her mouth drops open. I hear it pop and look up.

  “The casket was empty?” She grabs my hand. “What does that . . . I don’t think that was on the news, Elle. Delia would have said something.”

  “Yeah, well. Let’s talk about you, okay? I’m kinda done talking about me for a while.”

  “Sure,” she says. “Sure.”

  We all go silent, allowing the clink and clank of the diner to invade our booth. I can’t think of a thing to say.

  “So what’s this?” Jake says, thumbing her book. “Elle says you’ve been studying Peru since freshmen year. What don’t you know?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “That’s the point. I don’t know what I don’t know, and if I’m going to be assigned there . . .”

  “You got your Peace Corps assignment?”

  “I wish. It’s taking forever. But if I’m going to live there for a year, I need to know everything. Anyway,” she says, yanking the book from Jake’s hands, “don’t try to be all interested in my book. I know why you’re here.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Jake says, opening the pink box.

  Kaylee’s face wrinkles like a squished pear. I really can’t blame her. The contents of the box are unexpected, to say the least. We’re looking at a dozen or so of these onion-ring-looking things.

  “What are they?” I ask.

  “Picarones,” Kay says, her face brightening.

  “That’s right!” Jake says. “I can’t believe you know what they are.”

  “I’ve had them before,” she says, hooking one with her finger. “At a cultural seminar I took in Portland.” She breaks off a piece and slides it into her mouth. “Oh my gosh. I forgot how good they are. How did you . . . Where did you . . .”

  “There was this lady who worked for Canaan at the orphanage in Chicago—one of the kitchen staff. She was from Peru, and she made these picarones for the kids from time to time. I hold her solely responsible for my doughnut preoccupation, by the way. Anyway, I got Lizzie at The Donut Factory to give the recipe a shot. This is her first batch, but she loved them so much she’s going to get her dad to add them to the menu.”