Angel Burn (6 page)

Her eyes flashed, and she jerked free. I fell silent, my spirits sinking. I’d gone too far, and now I’d pushed her away from me. Damn it!
Damn
it.

“Thanks for the reading,” she said again, her voice cool. “It was really interesting. Don’t bother seeing me out.” And then she was gone, pushing open the French doors and disappearing down the hallway. A moment later I heard the front door shut, harder than necessary.

I leaned against the table as defeat washed over me in a gray sea. Could I have done it any differently? If I had used another combination of words, a better one, then could I have stopped her? Because I could tell that she had made her decision now; it had been written all over her. She was heading straight for her angel.

What
was
that thing, anyway? I thought back over the reading, trying to get a handle on it. But as far as I could tell, it was exactly what it had felt like: some sort of powerful being, which had somehow set Beth on a path to disaster.

But that couldn’t be true  . . .  could it? What had I actually seen?

Sinking back into the chair, I looked dully at the velvet painting of a sad clown that hung over the sideboard. He was holding a drooping daffodil and had a big glistening tear on one cheek. Aunt Jo had bought it at a garage sale a few years ago. “Can you believe this bargain?” she’d said as she hung it proudly on the wall. “It was only twenty dollars!”

Twenty dollars. My eyes went to the bill under the sugar bowl. I pulled it out and gazed at it, and then I gently slipped it back under the bowl and put my head in my hands.

“Look, Miranda, isn’t that pretty?” demanded Aunt Jo, pointing to the TV.

It was later that same night, after dinner — which I had cooked, because I don’t like plastic food, and as far as Aunt Jo’s concerned, if it doesn’t say Hamburger Helper or Chef Boyardee on the label, then it’s not one of the basic food groups. So I had made a big pot of spaghetti for the three of us, because it’s something I can do without really thinking about it. Besides, there’s something very soothing about chopping vegetables and stirring a bubbling sauce, and I really needed to be soothed just then. I couldn’t stop thinking about Beth.

Aunt Jo had gone on and on during dinner, talking about this woman at her office who she doesn’t like. Big surprise; she doesn’t like anyone very much. I kept my head down while we ate, letting the torrent of words wash over me and saying, “Mm-hmm,” at intervals. Mom had just ignored her, of course. She sat stirring the food around dreamily on her plate and occasionally took an absentminded bite. Sometimes I envied her. She didn’t even have to
pretend
to listen to Aunt Jo.

Now we were all in the living room, and Aunt Jo was trying determinedly to get Mom to “engage with her,” as the therapist puts it. That means actually getting her to pay attention to you, as if she’s still part of the real world instead of off on her own personal planet. To be honest, I’m not really sure why any of us bother. I think Mom’s probably happier where she is.

“Miranda!” said Aunt Jo again, leaning across and tapping Mom sharply on the arm. “Are you listening to me? Look at the TV. Isn’t that tropical beach pretty?”

She spoke a little more loudly and slowly than usual, as if she were talking to a three-year-old. Mom didn’t respond. She was sitting in her favorite easy chair, staring off into the distance. The two of us look a lot alike, I guess. She has the same wavy blond hair that I do, except that hers is cut into a bob so that it’s easy to take care of. And she’s short like me, though she’s not slim anymore. Too many years of sitting lost in her own thoughts have left her pale and doughy, soft around the edges.

She’s still beautiful, though. She always is. I glanced over at Mom’s wide green eyes, so like my own.
Peas in a pod,
she used to say.

Because she wasn’t always like this; she used to talk — to me, at least. When I was little, we’d play games together and she’d laugh. Yet even back then, she was so strange and shy around other people that by the time I was five or six I felt protective of her, knowing that she couldn’t cope with the world the way I could. And then there was the cloud that would drift over her at times, carrying her far away from me. She’d just sit there, the way she was sitting now, and no amount of crying or yelling would bring her back until she was ready. I had to learn to cook my own meals, brush my own hair — and somehow I knew that I could never, ever tell anyone, or else they might take her away from me altogether.

But then as the years passed, what I’d feared so much had happened anyway. My mother had just sort of  . . .  slipped away, retreating further and further into her dreams until finally she hardly ever came back from her other world at all.

“Miranda!” pressed Aunt Jo, joggling her arm. “Wouldn’t you like to be on that beach?”

Mom sighed, still looking at something none of us could see. “It’s so pretty,” she murmured. “So many colors  . . .  rainbows  . . . ”

“No, there aren’t any rainbows,” said Aunt Jo firmly. “Look, Miranda. Look! It’s the
beach
.”

Mom didn’t answer. Her lips curved upward in a slight smile.

“Miranda —”

“I don’t think she wants to engage with you right now, Aunt Jo,” I said tiredly. I try a lot with Mom when Aunt Jo isn’t around, but I do it my own way, just
talking
to her — not treating her like she’s mentally deficient.

“Well, we shouldn’t just let her sit there,” grumbled Aunt Jo. Giving up, she sank back against the sofa and we fell into silence. On the TV screen, the perky female detective was ordering a mai tai in a tropical bar. I hugged a cushion to my chest, barely taking it in. All I could see was the angel, holding Beth’s head in its hands. Though I wanted so much to believe that Beth had only imagined it, I knew she hadn’t. Whatever that thing was, it was real, and it might have already ruined her entire life. I had to
do
something, but I didn’t even know where to begin.

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” I said, standing up. “It’s probably Nina, seeing if I want to go out or something.” Nina was always forgetting her phone or running out of minutes. I sort of hoped it wasn’t her, though. I didn’t really feel up to dealing with Nina’s own special brand of cynicism right then.

Glancing at Mom to see if she’d notice, Aunt Jo switched over to the Home Shopping Network — her spiritual home, needless to say. Settling back against the cushions, she nodded without taking her eyes from the screen. “If you go out, get some milk,” she said.

But it wasn’t Nina; I could tell that immediately from the height of the silhouette that stood on the other side of the front door’s glass panes. Whoever he was, he was tall — over six feet, with broad shoulders.

I opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

The man on our front porch had sandy-brown hair and a strong, attractive face. He was in his mid-twenties or maybe a few years older — it was sort of hard to tell. “Hi,” he said, leaning to one side to peer in at me. “You must be Willow Fields, right? I’ve heard that you give psychic readings.”

My pulse skittered and went cold: it was the same man I’d seen in my reading for Beth. Oh, my God, it was her angel; he was
here
. I wanted to slam the door, but I felt frozen by his eyes — they were so intense. Looking into them was like falling into a well you would never find your way out of again.

“I  . . .  only sometimes,” I stammered.

“I see. Well, would you be able to give
me
a reading?”

I wondered if I was going crazy and if he was actually a customer — one of the word-of-mouth clients who often turned up on our doorstep. At the thought of touching his hand, I felt a wave of nausea. My voice came out high, panicked.

“No, I don’t think so. I’m really busy right now.” Wrenching myself away from his endless eyes, I started to shut the door, but before I knew what was happening, he’d stepped forward, wedging it open with his foot. His hand shot out and grabbed my own.

The slap of energy was like crashing into a brick wall. My eyes bulged; I couldn’t catch my breath. Images were hurtling past almost faster than I could take them in. White light, spiraling in a flower. People staring in awe, face after face flashing past. A strange world with gleaming towers and robed beings. Wings opening and closing. Someone screaming.
Hunger.

The hunger raged through me, sapping every other emotion. It needed to feed.
Needed
to. It needed —

The man dropped my hand, and I sagged limply against the doorjamb, all strength gone from me. I couldn’t speak; I was panting as if I’d just run a mile. “What are you?” I whispered finally.

He stared at me without speaking, all pretense of friendliness gone. I could feel menace coming off him, but there was fear there, too, curling around it like a snake. Not taking his eyes off me, he wiped his hand off on his shirt. Abruptly, he turned and left, jogging down the front steps. A sleek silver car sat parked beside the curb; he got into it, slammed the door shut, and drove away into the night.

As the sound of his car faded, I could hear the creaking of crickets, the faint drone of traffic from the highway. My thoughts were in chaos. At first I didn’t move, then belated fear rocked through me and I banged the door shut. My hands trembled as I locked it.

I rushed back into the living room. Mom was still sitting in the armchair, still looking absently into space. I stood watching her, hugging myself as I tried not to shake. Wishing so much that she’d look up and say,
Willow, is everything all right? Tell me all about it, sweetie. How can I help?

“Who was that?” asked Aunt Jo, glancing up from the TV.

“No one,” I said faintly. Knowing that it wouldn’t do any good, I dropped to my knees in front of my mother, clutching her hands in mine. “Mom? Are you there?” I said in a low voice.

Aunt Jo was gaping at me like I’d lost my mind. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just  . . .  talking to Mom.”

She sniffed. “Well, good luck. I don’t think she’s feeling very talkative tonight.”

I didn’t reply as she went into the kitchen. I just kept kneeling in front of my beautiful, broken mother, rubbing her hands between my own. “Mom? Mom, can you hear me?
Please?
”

Briefly, her eyes flickered. “Willow?” she murmured.

“It’s me, Mom. I’m here.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. A lock of hair fell across her face, and I smoothed it away, stroking her brow. Soon the soft smile returned to Mom’s lips, and I knew with a sinking heart that she had left again. She was back in her own world, looking at beautiful, mesmerizing things.

Frustrated, I sank back on my heels, longing for her to really communicate with me. But it would never happen; I would always be the one trying to reach her and never quite succeeding. You’d think I’d be used to it, after so many years. And I was, pretty much — only there were still times like now, when I felt a rush of sorrow and disappointment so strong that it almost knocked me off my feet. Even trying to read her didn’t help, because her mind was so  . . .  fragmented. Full of rainbows and clouds and snippets of memory. I found it such a depressing experience that I’d only tried it a handful of times.

God, I hated my father, whoever he’d been. I knew from Aunt Jo that before he appeared on the scene, Mom had been normal.
I don’t know what that man did to her, but she was never the same after,
she’d told me once.
The doctors can say catatonic schizophrenia all they want, but I know the truth. He broke Miranda’s spirit. . . . He broke her mind.
One time when I’d tried to read Mom, I’d caught a glimpse of my father in her thoughts, and he’d looked so creepy that the thought of being related to him made me feel sick. At least he’d decided to take off and never be involved with either of us. It was the only good thing he’d ever done, as far as I was concerned.

Aunt Jo came back in, carrying a plate of cookies. “Willow, you must have eaten half the pack last night,” she said crossly. “You know these are my favorites; you shouldn’t be so selfish.”

I let out a breath, still gazing at Mom. “Sorry,” I murmured, getting to my feet. As Aunt Jo turned the volume up, I kissed Mom’s cheek. Then I went upstairs to my bedroom, holding my elbows tightly as I picked my way around the piles of clutter that seemed to breed on the stairs and landing.

Closing the door behind me, I stared unseeingly at my room — my bed with the swaths of lavender chiffon draped across the bedposts, the purple and silver walls that I’d painted myself. Beth’s angel was real, all right. She must have gone straight to it after she left; she must have told it everything — and then it had come here, looking for me. My thoughts spun like tires on ice. God, who could I tell this to? Who could I go to for help? Nina would just laugh at me. Aunt Jo? Ha.

OK, calm down. Think this through.
I took a deep breath and sat on the bed, forcing myself to go over the mixed-up images that I’d seen in Beth’s second future, trying to remember every last detail. In one of the snippets that had flashed past, this
thing
had been at the Church of Angels, and then later there’d been others like it.

Were they really angels?

My scalp prickled. I rose quickly and went over to my desk to switch on my computer. It’s an old one that I bought with some of my reading money, and it takes forever to warm up. When it had finally finished humming and whirring to itself, I logged on to the Internet. “Church of Angels” brought up millions of hits. I clicked the first link, ChurchofAngels.com, and a state-of-the-art website loaded onto my screen. There was the familiar pearl-white church from the commercials, awash in sunshine.
Church of Angels. Hope for the millions  . . .  including you,
said the text underneath it. I grimaced. I know that plenty of people get a lot from religion and that’s great for them, but anything promising “hope for the millions” gives me a pretty bad feeling — and now, after Beth’s reading, it gave me an even worse one.

I clicked a button at the top that said,
FIND OUT MORE.
A video panel appeared, loading a Church of Angels commercial. I pushed
PLAY,
and a gray, rain-beaten field came into view, grass moving slowly with the wind.
Do you feel despairing?
intoned a voice-over. The camera went into a long shot. A white church appeared in the field, and the camera panned back to reveal hundreds of people weaving up a hill toward it — and now the church looked huge, larger than the mightiest cathedral. The sun came out, dancing brightly on the white stone. The people stopped and gazed upward, smiling, basking in the rays.