I’m reluctant to go into the details. “Umm. Yah. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” she exclaims. “Are you even listening to yourself? You flew with an angel. Most people would be happy just catching a glimpse of an angel. You must be pretty special.” Discouragement crosses her face. “I don’t think I could ever be that good.”
“It’s not like that,” I say. “Believe me; you are way better than I am.”
“You really mean that.” She doesn’t seem convinced.
“Of course. You’re one of the sweetest people I’ve met. If ever there was anyone that deserved to see an angel it would be you.”
“You’re just being nice,” she says.
Ashur was right. No matter what I say to her, she won’t believe that she is worth so much more. I don’t know how to convince her otherwise. “Liv,” I say. My voice is serious with concern for her. “I want you to stop thinking that you don’t matter, because you do.”
Liv glances away rather than look me in the eyes. I know that the voices are telling her not to listen and it angers me. Why don’t they just shut up? What pleasure could they possibly get in tearing down such a precious girl? I wish I could just cast all those voices away and send them back to whatever hell they came from.
“Don’t listen to them,” I say.
She looks at me confused. “Listen to what?”
“The voices in your head,” I say. “The ones telling you that you are nothing and that it’s your fault your father hurts you. It’s not true. You’re father is the problem, not you.”
She starts to stand up. Uneasy with what I have said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t want to talk about this.” She begins to leave, but I grab her by the hand.
“Don’t go,” I urge. “I know it’s hard for you to hear this, but I can’t let you go without telling you. I know about the memory of your mother that you hold close to your heart. I know that in those times when everything seems dark, you cling to that memory. You remember how she loved you and how you loved her. That is real. The things those voices in your head say aren’t real. They’re lies.”
Tears begin to break in her eyes. She frees her wrist from my grasp. “You don’t know what you are talking about. You don’t know how my mother died. Why we don’t go into the woods.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m the reason she is dead,” Liv says. “That’s the reason my father hates me. If I had listened, she would be alive.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My mother went into the woods once, looking for me after I wandered off. Just like that night that we went into the woods. Only she didn’t come back.” Her lip begins to quiver and she struggles to continue. “They found me, but they never found her. I waited night after night for her to come back, never believing she was dead. But she never came back.” Liv beats herself on her chest as if to stab through her own heart. “I’m the reason she’s dead. I’m the reason my father is the way he is. If I had listened to her and stayed out of the woods…”
“It’s not your fault,” I exclaim. “You were just a child.” But it’s no use. The belief that she is the cause of her mother’s death and her father’s drinking is so engrained in her that she will not hear anything else. What can be said for a person who feels there is no redemption for them? The harshest justice is that which we inflict on ourselves. The wrath of a tortured soul.
She tries to wipe away the tears, but they will not relent. Looking at me through reddened eyes, she says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“The only forgiveness you need is your own,” Ashur says as he stands behind her, having heard everything. She glances back at him but says nothing. Instead, she runs away toward her house. Ashur looks as if he wants to go after her, but doesn’t.
“She’ll be okay,” I say, though I know that she isn’t. I guess we just say those things when we don’t know what else to do. It’s a way of absolving us of the weight of guilt and helplessness, another means of avoidance, like hating the world so we don’t have to feel the pain of loving.
“I hope so,” he says. His expression is somber. He offers me a drink. “I think the ice might be melted.”
“It took you long enough,” I say.
He gestures at the old woman. “It was that woman, Miss Hapshod. She wouldn’t let me go.”
“We really need to teach you the virtue of the word ‘NO’.”
“She seemed so lonely,” he says.
“They always do,” I say, laughing. “It’s their way of ensnaring you. Like sirens for the kind hearted. You’ve got to toughen that heart of yours a little. You’re kind of soft.”
He shakes his head. “You know I can never do that,” he says.
“I know.” That is what is different about him from all others. It’s the same thing that I see in Liv. No matter what people may do to them, they can never hate. It’s as if they aren’t capable of anything else but love. I wish I could be more like that. I wish I could love as easily as they do. But then I see the price that is paid and I can’t. Liv loves so openly and as a result pays the dearest price. Love takes a courage that I do not have. Brushing off my thoughts, I continue to tease Ashur about his misfortune with Miss Hapshod.
Ashur stares at me intently. “You’re beautiful when you laugh,” he says.
I stop, becoming more serious now. “Don’t,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” he says as if retreating. I start to leave. “Actually, no. I’m not sorry.” His voice has a hint of anger in it.
I reel around. “Don’t,” I say, this time more loudly. “I won’t go there.”
“Go where?” He walks steadily forward, and stops close to me. He is tall and his presence is overwhelming at this distance. “I have watched you your entire life. I have seen everyone tell you that you are worthless. Tell you that you mean nothing. And you agree with them. I won’t let you do that anymore.” He takes me by the arms and draws me even closer. “I have waited for years in silence, wanting to tell you how I feel about you. How I admire the way you care for others despite the way you have been treated. How your face radiates light despite seeing so much darkness.”
Holding me tightly, he stares into my eyes. I want to look away. I want to stop listening. The words hurt deep in my heart. I don’t know why. Then I realize that the pain has always been there, his words are only reminding me of it. I feel hatred, anger and something else. My heart tightens, resisting each beat that beats steadier and faster.
“You want me to stop,” Ashur continues. “You want me to say nothing, but I can’t just stand here and say nothing. I have seen into the greatest depths of the cosmos and have not been lost the way I am lost in your eyes. I’ve sat by the roots of the tree of life itself and I have not seen anything more majestic, more beautiful…more overpowering than when I see you smile at me. I won’t be silent. I won’t let you do this to yourself. Because I didn’t just fall from heaven to save your life…” He pulls me in closer until my chest touches his. “…I came here because after all those years, I couldn’t spend another moment of eternity knowing that you would not be there.”
He begins to sweep his head down toward mine. I know what’s coming and I can’t allow it. Turning away, I say, “I can’t.” My objection is not that I don’t love him, but that I can’t love him. He is an angel, I am a mortal. Two worlds that never have, and never will exist together. “You know as well as I do that this can never be. No matter how desperately we may want it. What will become of us?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t care.”
“Well, I do,” I say. “All this will end and you will have to go back. And I will be left here alone.”
“But…”
“No,” I say, sternly. “It’s better this way.”
Our eyes meet and I look away, but his eyes do not retreat as if they are holding me in place, preventing me from leaving. Finally, I break away despite every urge within in me. Pla
cing my hand on his chest, I say, “Just leave.” He hesitates, but seeing that I won’t relinquish, he eventually does what I ask. I watch him walk off and I can’t help but think I have made a mistake. I quickly drive that feeling down. “It’s better this way,” I say to myself.
As I leave the party to check on Liv, I too am ensnared by Miss Hapshod and spend the next hour in an enlightening stroll down memory lane, all 250 years of it. I swear she must really be that old, because it would not end. She hands me a photo album with various pictures of family members. Most of the photos are so old that they are still in black in white. Pointing to one in particular, she says, “That is my husband. Rest his soul.” She kisses her hand, puts it to her heart and then, raising her eyes to the sky, casts her hand in the air as if to throw the kiss with it. The motion is so quick and fluid; it seems that she has performed it a lot.
Flipping through the other pages, I notice one with the pastor. It too is in black and white. In the picture he is younger, standing beside another man. “Who is that with the pastor?” I ask without thinking. In afterthought, seeing how long her other stories have been, asking questions will only draw out this ordeal.
She takes the photo album from me. Pulling her glasses from the crown of her head, where they sit, like horns on a devil, she squints at the picture. “That is Barnaby,” she says. “He’s the founder of this town.”
This is curious because I had thought the town was much older, yet the pastor is standing with the founder. I try to think of how old that would have to make him. In the picture he must only be in his 30’s. “Are you sure,” I say. “I thought the town was older than that.”
“The town was founded in…” Miss Hapshod thinks a bit. “I believe it was 1880 or something. I remember it clearly like it was yesterday, but I must confess I am terrible with dates. Always have been.”
“You remember when the town was founded?” Even if she was born on the day of its founding she would be over a hundred years old. She’s old but she can’t be that old.
“Of course, I remember it. My late husband, rest his soul.” She pauses to go through the hand motions again. “He was one of the founding members of the town.”
I try to make the math work out, but it seems impossible. There is no way the she could be that old. “When were you born?” I ask, trying to get to the bottom of this enigma.
She laughs slightly. “Oh sweet heart, a woman doesn’t divulge her age,” she says. “Besides, I already told you that I am bad with dates. I’m getting to an age where I even forget my own.” She looks down at the picture admiring it. “Barnaby was such a nice man,” she continues. “He was always kind to us and a great spiritual leader.”
“He was the pastor before, Mr. Clemont?”
“He was more than a pastor,” Miss Hapshod declares as if offended. “He was an incarnation of the son of Hermes himself. What a wonderful man…”
“Miss Hapshod,” interrupts Justine who has just come over with a plate of food. “What fantastic stories are you telling Kyra now?” Her voice has a forced nicety to it and quivers as it often does when she is nervous.
Miss Hapshod scowls at her. She closes her photo album and walks off into a corner to skulk, awaiting her next victim to accost. Justine watches her leave as if to be sure she is gone and then turns to me. In a slight whisper she says, “She’s a little bit senile, if you know what I mean. Always telling those stories to whoever will listen.”
While I believe the old woman is senile, I am still not completely convinced that everything she says is made up. “But who was that person in the photo?” I ask.
Justine waves her hand as if to indicate that it’s nothing. “Who knows? She has photos of so many people that she doesn’t even remember who half of them are.” She stares at me for a moment as if to see if the explanation was satisfactory enough. Nervously, she offers me the plate of food.
Somehow I think this is just a way of changing the subject. “I’ve already eaten,” I say. “Jeff made sure I tried the barbeque eggplant burgers.”
“I was actually looking for Liv,” Justine says. “I don’t think she has eaten, but I couldn’t find her anywhere. Have you seen her?”
I don’t want to worry Justine by telling her that she ran off crying. “She wasn’t feeling well and went home to rest. But I can take the plate to her if you want.”
“Would you,” Justine says, handing the plate over. “I just know how much she loves Jeff’s burgers. I wouldn’t want her to miss it.”
“Not a problem. I was just about to go check on her anyway.” I carry over a plate of food, thinking that she probably isn’t in the mood to eat. I knock on her door, but there is no answer. Perhaps she went for a walk.
Taking a few steps from the doorstep, I see Ethan standing at the edge of the yard, his hands in his pocket and head bent low. He sways back and forth on his heels. It’s evident from his body language he has something to say that isn’t easy for him. I put the plate on the porch and walk out onto the lawn. “Do you have something to tell me?” I ask. “Or is this your idea of guarding me?”
Looking up at me, he scratches his head with his thumb. The bandage on his arm is gone and the wound is nearly heeled. It seems fast for such a bad wound. But of course it wasn’t your average dog bite. “I wanted to apologize,” he says. There is a pause as he tries to form the words. “I wanted…” He pauses again, nervous. Looking sidelong at the sidewalk, he asks, “You want to go for a walk?”
I nod my head in reply and we begin strolling along the sidewalk, cast orange from the light of the setting sun. Our shadows stretch off endlessly in front of us. Ethan keeps his hands in his pocket as we walk. “I know that I lied to you about why I am here. But I want you to know that I never intended to hurt you.”
“You could have said something,” I say. “You could have told me the truth.”
“The secrets were part of protecting you.” he says.
“Isn’t that for me to decide,” I say. “I mean everything concerns me, doesn’t it. I should have a hand in how my own life should be. I’m tired of everyone thinking that they need to protect me from myself.”
“I know, but in my defense, would you have believed me if I told you. I mean I’m not exactly an angel.”
I think about it a moment, wondering how I would have responded that night on the porch swing if he had told me everything. He’s right. I would not have believed him. I probably would have had Justine and Jeff call the police or something. I just about did that on Ashur in the book store. “I guess you’re right,” I say. “But I’m still upset about the whole thing.”
“Understandable,” Ethan says with a bow of his head.
I give him a look of scrutiny. “So, is there anything else that you are keeping from me?” I ask. “Did your family really die?”
“Yes,” he answers. “They died just as I said. It’s a memory that I prefer not to talk about. I think you can understand that.”
“I understand. I have my own things that I really would rather forget.” We stop at a lamp post. Its illumination is more significant now that the sun is nearly set. The lantern douses us in its light, bleaching out our shadows against the road. It is quiet and a slight wind trickles in its slow meanderings.
Ethan stares at me as if to search for something once lost. There is almost sadness in his eyes, like I remind him of that something. He nervously bites his lip and runs his fingers through his dark hair. It’s clear that there is something he wants to say, but can’t. I’m not even sure I want to hear whatever it is. I wait, but not long. He starts to utter something, but is interrupted by a movement in the trees. As if by reflex, Ethan pulls me in behind him as he stands at the ready.
From the woods, Liv emerges. She is disheveled and breathing heavily. Running toward us, she stumbles to the ground. Ethan and I run to her and help her to her feet. She looks behind her as if to search the woods for something. She turns to me frantic, speaking but not clearly. I try to calm her dow
n, to get her to breathe so that she can tell us what happened. She stammers as she says, “You have to get out of here.”
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