Descendant

by LJ Amodeo

  Deeply focused, I traced the image that was carved into the cover of my journal. Touching it always soothed me. The Trinity. Without reservation, I unbound the red band from my journal and turned to a blank page. I wasn’t sure where or how to begin my entry, but strangely, the wordsTabula Rasa, whispered in my ear and intrigued me. The words simply meaning, “Clean Slate.” I liked it. And as silly as it seemed, I quietly thanked the voice that prompted this particular entry. This was my year to start over; to begin with a clean slate. I put my pen to the cream colored paper:

  Tabula Rasa

  We are all born with a purpose and of original sin. A hereditary stain on our conscience. A chance to start over, a clean slate.

  So, what’s my purpose? Why do I exist? Is it to be hurt by the one man that should have loved me forever? Do I exist only to hear the cries of the dead? To be tormented to lead a life of misery? Why do any of us exist for that matter? And why is Freddie part of my life? Why him and not another? I wish I had the answers, but I don’t!

  ~

  I stopped writing, wondering why Freddie and I had crossed paths in life. Did God have a plan for us? If he did, I was glad. I was grateful to have Freddie in my life. I couldn’t imagine my life without him now.

  Freddie had an old soul. His knowledge spanned well beyond his years. He was smart, witty, but mostly comical. The cropped, sun-kissed quills on top of his head protruded stiffly from his scalp, while most boys in town sported a long, shaggy look. Freddie would tell the incoming freshmen girls that he was Brad Pitt’s better-looking younger brother. Jock meets nerd would be more like it. What I did admire most about him, though, was his easygoing and infectious personality—my complete opposite. He totally irritated me most days, and I guessed that’s why I loved him. Freddie was just . . .my Freddie.

  As I tapped my pen on my journal entry, I glanced back at the pervert, who continued to stare at me when another sharp pain jabbed at my head, this time with intensity. Holding my skull, I cowered at the agony this pain inflicted. I could feel myself on the brink of tears as the pain intensified. At first, the pain was unbearable that I pressed my palms tightly against my head thinking it would burst at any given moment. I squeezed my eyes shut hoping that whatever caused this pain would go away. In time, the pain began to subside, almost teasingly.Maybe this was a migraine? I thought to myself. I wasn’t quite sure. I had hoped the aspirin would have eased the pain by now. I laid my head against the cool surface of the table as I gently rubbed out the ache for a while. I knew I had a long day ahead of me, one of mundane research and a heck of a headache to go with it.

  By the time I refocused on my research paper, the perv was gone. I imagined his life to be meaningless and pitiful, strangely similar to my own . . . cringing at the idea that when I was thirty-something, I’d still be sitting here, in this county, this very library, in the vicinity of the pervert who eerily watched me from behind the pages of his book. Thoughts of where my life was heading repeatedly nagged me: A small town with nothing to offer. A girl of no importance, who'd never get an opportunity to know why her father left, and the unsettling truth that perhaps something more than a typical headache was festering inside my skull. I picked up my pen tapping the blank writing pad, yet again—stroking my temple, as the wordinsanity,this time floated through my mind like a ticker tape. Over and over again. Could they be right––the townspeople––about my father? I agonized over the idea of their rumors being true. I worried about the voices and the recent headaches that accompanied them—contemplating whether I should worry my mother with them, as well.

  Just as my nerves quelled, the door behind me creaked, suggesting that someone had walked in.Probably another victim of Mr. Winters, I thought to myself, smirking slightly.

  A sweet scent gently replaced the musty smell in the air. A scent that was so enticing, I had to turn toward it. My breath was caught in my throat as my eyes locked on his, and my lips parted, leaving me speechless in his presence. We gasped at the same time, not in a startled way, but in an astounded one. They way one would look at a romantic view outside a beautiful terrace somewhere in the Mediterranean. I took a deep breath. His riveting eyes held mine questioningly, as if he recognized me, gripping me at the edge of my seat, frozen. Again, the same image of a faceless warrior glinted in my mind as the voices returned. “Prophētēs,” they declared, startling me as my breath was sucked out of my chest. I blinked away the vision and sounds, directing my attention back to the beautiful boy who brushed passed me.

  He combed his long fingers through his messy hair, as I scoped his tall frame, which exceeded mine by at least half a foot. He couldn’t have been older than me, but judging by the looks of his expensive clothes, he definitely lived a more privileged life than mine. There was nothing I could do but to stare, first at his beautiful face, then at his impeccable clothes, which were incomparable to my faded yoga pants and simple green tee. I tried to recall this face somewhere; at school, the movies, or the park, perhaps. I drew a blank. I would have remembered his gorgeous face, knowing for sure that I had never seen him before. His was a face I’d never forget.

  I continued to watch him, mesmerized by the lilt of his broad shoulders, as he glided across the polished granite floor with long, even strides.Who is he? Why is he here? I thought. He turned to look over his shoulder in my direction as if he heard my unspoken words. A noticeable dimple marked his defined cheekbone as his lips pulled back ever so slightly. Strangely, my core trembled.

  Quickly, I looked down at my blank writing pad, hoping he didn’t notice me gawking. He stopped in the section labeled “Music History”—pulled a book from the ornate shelf, and headed toward me again. I felt an overwhelming exhilaration in my belly. Something I’d never felt before, but liked the feeling.

  He seemed pleased with the book he’d chosen from the shelf—again he smiled at his own thoughts, curving his beautiful lips as he scanned through the pages. I couldn’t help but watch him, stare at him as he walked by, feeling more like the perv, this time. I didn’t care. I couldn’t help myself. If I had an ability to press a pause button, I would have spent an eternity gazing at this timeless masterpiece. As he made his way back, he didn’t bother to look at me this time, not even a sideward glance. He left only his alluring scent lingering behind him. I never felt so weak and helpless at the sight of a complete stranger, a beautiful stranger who took my breath away.

  Discreetly, I turned my head in his direction, hoping that no one noticed. I needed to get another glance at this glorious being from the corner of my eye, praying he’d turn back to look at me, as well. I turned my head to sneak another glance at him, but he was gone. He vanished, just like that.

  I sat back heartbroken, upset that he didn’t stay. With little hope, I imagined he’d want to talk to me, maybe even ask for my number, but as always, I felt more invisible than ever.

  He can’t be living here? Not someone so perfect? A visitor, I presumed. Angelica was a small town. I knew many families that lived here; kids I had gone to elementary and middle school with, but none that I could match this new face to.

  Hours passed, and I hadn’t accomplished much on my school paper—three pages at best. My mind kept reliving the brief moment when the stunning stranger walked in and out of my life in an instant, like the snap of a finger.The Stranger, how ironic I thought to myself, as I wrote about this newcomer in my journal.

  Stretching my arms out in front of me, I looked down at my watch, realizing it was later than I thought. I slammed my book closed, catching the attention of the librarian.

  “Shit! I’m late!” I said out loud to no one in particular.

  Quickly gathering my books, I headed for the front desk handing the irritated librarian my card. I sped out of town, heading north onto Route 19 to Young Musicians, a school for special needs children who were gifted with musical abilities. I started volunteering at the school since the summer of my freshman year at Houghton. Mom said it would look great on my college resumes, a
nd it was the least I could do as a good deed. However, I didn’t volunteer every summer to impress colleges or universities, I did it because I truly loved working with these young and talented musicians, and because music was my life.

  The sky seemed to be afire. Magnificent hues of tangerine and rich amber painted the heavens like never before. I drove for several miles on the empty road, listening to Rob Thomas on the car stereo. I hummed to the melody, thinking about the flawless stranger in the library and imagined his voice being as beautiful as the one that serenaded me at that very moment.

  Later that evening, after work, I pulled into the driveway, still thinking about my encounter on the road this morning with the angel, and the beautiful boy from the library who may as well be an angel. I heard Prince barking excitedly at the sound of my jeep outside. The door slammed shut behind me.

  “Elizabeth! Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!” Mom yelled at me. I could tell she’d been crying.

  “I texted you that I was at the library and then heading to work at the music center.” I huffed. Mom looked down at her hands, holding a ball of wrinkled paper between them. I immediately felt terrible for yelling at her. She had been hurt just as badly by my father as I had, if not more.

  “Mom, are you okay? I . . . I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. But the news–that letter–” I said fighting back tears and pointing to the note pressed between her palms. “I just didn’t expect it to say that Dad is—that he died.” Mom began bawling. Tears drenched her ashen skin, as I put my arms around her thin body to comfort her. I hadn’t realized how much she still loved and missed him.

  “Mom, please, don’t cry,” I whispered blinking away my own tears.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry in front of you, Beth. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” She replied as she headed back into the kitchen and I followed her thinking about my earlier visions. I stretched my eyes up toward the ceiling, as if I were looking for some strength to grace me from up above, hoping to God that she wouldn’t have another breakdown like she did when my father walked out. It was one of the hardest times in our lives. Mom cried in her bedroom for weeks, maybe longer. Tormented with rumors of my father’s insanity, Mom declined any consolation from her friends in town, whom she thought were only snooping for information. In Caneadea, news traveled quickly among the neighbors and church-goers. Mom overheard the buzzing in town, insinuating that my father had been institutionalized. That he had gone mad. And for that reason, my mother never openly discussed his abrupt departure with members of our church or the council board committee, of which he was deputy supervisor.Was he locked away? Institutionalized, like they rumored? I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

  It took a long time for Mom to recover from this. She struggled to make mortgage payments and pay the school loans that she had borrowed to get her teaching master’sdegree. Sadly, growing up, it was difficult toget bywithout my father’s presence and paycheck. We’d make occasional visits to the Salvation Army, searching through piles of used clothing for me to wear for the new school year. I’d wear the hand-me-downs of others, unaffected by their faded colors, missing buttons or torn knees, until one afternoon when a cluster of kids outside my elementary school laughed and pointed their fingers at me.“Loser, those are my old sneakers,”one boy shouted, as the others burst out in laughter. I pushed passed them, tripping over a foot that snuck out beneath my feet. I ran toward my mother who waited for me in the car by the curb. Fighting back tears, I looked down at my gray converse sneakers. The name Jordan was written in red marker on the side of the rubber sole. I had assumed it stood for Michael Jordan, never imagining it was for the jerk in my fourth-grade class. I knew I’d never live that moment down. Over time, the reality of my father’s abrupt departure finally settled heavily in Mom’s heart, as she tried to explain why he left. My father had been receiving letters—never exposing who they were from or what they were about. After reading them, he’d sit quietly for many hours in deep thought. These letters eventually sparked his interest in writing, which were followed by countless hours locked in his study drawing symbols, formulating equations, jotting down dates and words that were not of this century. Other nights, he’d be in deep conversations with no one at all, speaking a foreign language he called Aramaic, a language that I feared haunted me as well.

  Mom sat down mutely at the table dabbing her tears with a tattered tissue. The letter, opened but crumpled in front of her. Her eyes continuously moved from left to right, as she read the same insensible line on the creased parchment, This note is to inform you of the untimely passing of Philip Matthew Morgan.

  I grabbed the note so she could no longer torture herself with it. “Mom, go to bed! We’ll talk about this in the morning.” I demanded, feeling more like her parent than her child. I patted my dog's head to quiet his whimper.

  “I’m really tired. I’m gonna head up to bed and you should do the same. I’ve had a bit of a headache all day.” I pressed on my temples.

  “Have you eaten? You’re getting too thin, Beth,” she whispered between sniffles.

  “Mom, stop worrying about me. If I get hungry, I’ll eat something.” Before I headed for the stairs, I turned to my mother contemplating if now was a good time to ask about this morning’s encounter. I couldn’t keep my curiosity contained for much longer, “Hey, Mom? Is it possible to see––angels?” I stuttered.

  My mother looked at me a bit stunned. “W-h-y are you asking me this?” she replied slowly, almost reluctant to answer my bizarre question.

  I wasn’t sure if I should tell her what happened on my way to the library. I had no intention of making her worry about me driving on the roads alone, since worrying was all she seemed to do. And now, after the news of my father’s death––I didn’t want to add more grief or worry to her already delicate emotional state.

  “Just curious, that’s all. No biggie. Good night, Mom.” I decided not to pursue my curiosity or spark hers. I kissed her dampened cheek before heading to my room.

  I sat on my bed with Prince sprawled out on the floor next to me. I turned on my laptop searching for articles relating to my music assignment. But, it was difficult not to think about my father, especially when my mother’s sobs echoed through the walls.

  Several days before the start of the school year, I spent countless hours in my father’s study admiring photos of us, playing the piano or lying in bed, thinking about my recent visions, the beautiful boy, my strange dreams, and the voices. Their presence was still unsettling. My grandmother was right. Some are born with special gifts, some with abilities to see or speak with the dead. I had no choice but to accept these voices and images as my gift. My ability. Their energy engrossed my music. I played passionately for them. To set them free. They were part of my life now. I didn’t choose them, they chose me.

  For days, the journal sat opened on my desk. The letter I had received about my father’s death stuck out past the edges of the book, serving as a constant reminder of my grief. I stared at it with hopes that I’d find some clue as to who sent it or where it came from. I reread the letter several times,“This note is to inform you of the untimely passing of Philip Matthew Morgan.” Thoughts of my father consumed my music even more. Its beautiful lament poured out with each stroke of the ivories. I played as beautifully as I did because of his passion and dedication. He taught me to play the piano at five years old. He practiced with me for hours in his study, perfecting my middle-C chord, and by the age of six, my passion for music began. I’d played the piano ever since.

  Roused by curiosity, I browsed the web searching for any history about Grandma Anne or her ancestors, hoping for some answers or closure. Wondering where my father had been all these years. The closest piece of information I found relevant to the lettersOHTwas—On Harvard Time, Over Head Transport,andOrganization of Historical Trinitarians—none of which meant anything to me.

  My room was my sanctuary; small yet cozy with a touch of feminine floral
coverings draped over my window and window-seat. The patterns of color complemented my crush cumin walls. I loved my bedroom. In a peculiar way, it represented me; simple, ordinary and pure, but I was less feminine. I was a jeans and sneakers kind of girl.

  Outside my window, soaring basswoods, oaks, and maple trees filled the skyline while spruce firs lined up like soldiers across our property. Although, I took this view for granted, it was tranquil. My favorite time of year was autumn, when rich ambers, crimsons, and royal purples skittered across the backdrop outside my window. The sky deepened to a rich amethyst and the night wind whispered its lullaby outside my window.Moonlight Sonata played softly on my iPod, my eyes grew heavy as I slowly faded into an unruffled sleep.

  Chapter 3: New Faces

  Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, and shares the nature of infinity . . .

  William Wordsworth

  “Beth . . . Beth run! Get out of here!” I heard Freddie’s voice yelling out to me.

  Demonic figures soared wildly above my head while scores of White Knights careened through them forcefully incapacitating them in combat. “Don’t look back! Keep running, Beth!”

  ~

  “Beth, Beth, wake up, Sweetie. It’s almost seven.” My mom tugged me lightly. I stirred from under the sheets.

  “Beth.”

  Startled by her touch, I jumped, sitting upright in bed. “Ah!” I gasped, as my heart raced and sweat trickled down my temples. I squinted at the light streaming through the window, blocking it with my hand like a vampire would.

  “Beth, are you having nightmares, again?” Mom asked surprised by my reaction, wiping my forehead with her hand. I nodded my head no, hoping to chase away the concerns that crept up in the corners of her eyes and in the middle of her forehead.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, sounding dubious.

  “Yes, you scared me, that’s all.” I replied lying to her and pushing her hand away from my face.