Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (5 page)

Ali was brilliant as Eponine. I must’ve watched her onstage a zillion times during the run, but I’d do just about anything to watch her play it one last time.

I flick away the tear that’s cooling on my lashes and move toward my desk. Something about the child Cosette pulls me closer. She hasn’t changed, the girl. She’s sweeping away just like always, but for a moment I see Olivia Holt. That same tragic expression Olivia had when our fingers brushed stares back at me from the battered child’s eyes. I turn away, refusing to feel sorry for the drop-dead gorgeous woman who gets kicks out of parading her wealth before the less fortunate. I can’t think of a single person who needs my pity less.

I unknot my sheets and make my bed, not because I’m dutiful, but because I need to ensure the halo’s tucked under my pillow while I shower. It takes longer than it should for me to sort out the mess, but once I’m sure the halo’s safe, I head to the bathroom, yawning and sticking my tongue out at Dad as I pass through the kitchen.

“You look beautiful, baby. That hair. Those eyes!”

A quick glance in the bathroom mirror and I see Dad and I are thinking the same thing.

That hair. Those eyes.

Ugh.

Twenty minutes later I’m sitting at the counter, wrapped in my fuzzy zebra-print robe, a Christmas gift from Kaylee. I cringed
when I unwrapped it, but it’s actually very cozy, and this morning it improves my mood by leaps and bounds. That and the sudden appearance of chocolate.

“Thought you said we were out of chocolate chips?”

“I had an old Hershey bar in my lunch box,” he says, tucking the spatula in his back pocket and pouring a glass of milk.

“Can’t even tell the difference,” I say, my mouth full.

“That’s because I’m good.” He sets the glass next to my plate and leans into the counter. He
is
good. I dip a square of pancake into a blob of butter on the plate and slide it into my mouth. A few bites later I realize Dad’s staring at me. Squinting, really, his bushy brows merging into one gigantic caterpillar.

“What’s up, Dad?” I say, my mouth full.

“I have a date.”

I chew slowly, thinking about that caterpillar—how I could flick it with my fork, the fork I still have in my hand, suspended over a plate of chocolate yumminess I suddenly have no appetite for. Dad’s had dates before, of course, but I’m pretty sure I know who he’s planning to take out. And I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like it.

“With Olivia. Olivia Holt.”

I hear,
Bond. James Bond.
And I have to mentally slap myself before I start cataloging the similarities between the two.

I set my fork down and take a swig of milk. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

I bob my head. What else am I going to say? He’s not asking my permission, and he shouldn’t have to. I hack at my pancake, cutting another pizza-shaped slice. It doesn’t taste as good as the others, but I swallow it down.

Dad whips the spatula from his pocket and scratches at the dried batter on the griddle.

“You don’t like her,” he says.

“I don’t know her.”

He jabs the spatula in my direction. “But you still don’t like her, do you?”

My stomach’s all twisty and turny with this conversation. With the idea of my dad out with someone the halo clearly has qualms with. But crafting an answer to the question takes longer than it should, and now the bushy caterpillar is offended and all puckered across Dad’s forehead.

“Why don’t you like her?” he asks, flicking dried batter across the room.

Because the halo . . .

See, Dad, there’s this Throne Room . . .

You remember God, right?

Yeah. This conversation’s going places.

“You don’t like her,” he says. “I get it. You don’t have to, Elle, but is it okay if I do?”

I set my fork down. There’s still half a pancake steaming on my plate, but I’m done, my appetite officially dead with Dad’s ridiculous request for permission. I should tell him he has my blessing or some other such nonsense. That’s what I’d have done in the past. Heck, that’s what I’d have done if the halo hadn’t nearly blistered my arm yesterday.

But as kind—and superfluous—as my blessing would be, I still can’t offer it. Not even as a sign of goodwill. It doesn’t feel right.

“Dad . . .”

I can think of nothing to say, at least nothing appropriate. So I’m grateful when there’s a knock at the door, Jake smiling at us through the windowpanes. Dad mutters something about
needing a curtain on that blasted window, but Jake’s standing there all handsome and clean-shaven. And that means . . .

“Oh geez. What time is it?”

Dad swings the spatula over his shoulder, wielding it like a weapon. “I’m guessing it’s time for church.”

Dang
. I slide from the barstool and fling open the door.

“Five minutes,” I say, pulling Jake inside. “Just five and I’ll be ready.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says, all warm and smelling like coffee. He looks rather dashing in a green dress shirt, his eyes brighter for the color. I resist the urge to brush my lips against his, because Dad’s already in a bad mood. “Good morning, Mr. Matthews.”

Dad grunts and pours another pancake on the griddle. He hates that our Sunday morning routine has changed. Hates it.

“You coming with us this morning, sir?” Jake asks.

Oh, boyfriend. Oh, brave, brave boyfriend.

“Dad has a date,” I say, trying my hardest to make it sound like
shut up.
I drag him to my barstool. “Sit. Eat a pancake. Three minutes, I swear.”

I run from the kitchen, holding my robe closed. Jake’s doing his best, trying to engage Dad, making small talk. I’d give most anything for the two of them to find some common ground, to find something neutral they can discuss. I whisper a prayer.

“So you have a date, huh?” Jake’s voice carries through my bedroom door. “That’s cool. You could bring her to church too, if you want.”

I pray harder.

The first time I remember stepping foot into a church was this past Christmas. It was the same church, in fact, that Dad had recently helped repair. After a massive storm knocked an evergreen onto the roof, an improvised patch was thrown together until a roofing company could get a team out there—a team willing to work through the rain.

So that’s how I spent my Christmas morning. Sitting between Jake and Canaan on a wooden pew that had suffered quite a bit of water damage itself. Dad wasn’t happy about my interrupting our Christmas morning, but he didn’t protest much. I asked him to come with us. I even begged a little, but he declined. Still, the look on his face wasn’t nearly so bitter as it is these days.

Looking back on it, I think he figured my desire to attend stemmed from my crush on the new boy. And while there’s an element of truth there, he had yet to understand how deep the transition truly was.

Even without Dad, that church service was an hour and a half I’ll never forget.

I was nervous. I’d been dreading it, really. Christmas without Ali. I just wasn’t sure I could do it, and I knew I couldn’t tackle the day without celestial eyes. So I selected my outfit with careful precision: a black sweater dress with metallic silver threads woven into it over black tights. On my head was a beanie—a crocheted beret, really. But it had fancy silver buttons on the side and it looked dressy.

Underneath my cap, nestled snug to my crown, was Canaan’s halo.

I didn’t tell Jake or Canaan that I’d decided to wear it, and they didn’t ask. But by the look of amusement on Canaan’s face as we exited the building that day, he’d figured it out.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the minute we pulled into the parking lot I knew that I didn’t know anything. Not about church or the people who filled the pews week after week. Nothing about this new family I’d suddenly become a part of. And while I’ve come to understand that no congregation is perfect, that one Christmas morning was enough to endear me to the people of God in a way that still breaks my heart.

I stepped out of the car, my hand warm inside Jake’s, the world all fire and light to my celestial eyes. From atop the church strange tendrils of color curled. Like the wafting of incense, the bending colors lifted higher and higher, disappearing into the celestial sky.

I turned my eyes back to the building and focused. As I did, the stained-glass windows, the planters full of Christmas roses, the tarp tacked up to prevent rainfall from damaging the church further—all of it disappeared, and I saw the source of the spiraling wisps of color.

It was the pianist.

Stephanie something. Older than I was, but not by much. I’d seen her around—her mom owned the fabric store in town—but I’d never seen her like this. Her eyes were closed, her lips silent, but as her fingers struck each key, the music rose like campfire smoke into the sky.

And then I smelled it.

For the first time ever, I smelled adoration.

I smelled worship.

Deep and earthy. And sweet. Like the lily of the valley that blanketed Gram’s front lawn, the fragrance spread through the sky with the intensity of her praise. I wondered if she had any idea how sweet her devotion was in the heavenlies. How fragrant, how honeyed, how pleasing.

The rest of the service brought many similar questions. So much to see and smell, to take in. To process. And through it all Jake was there on one side and Canaan on the other. They didn’t try to explain; they didn’t ask me if I was okay.

They let me see.

And that was enough. They kept busy worshiping alongside the other believers—believers who hadn’t seen what I’d seen and had still chosen to follow.

Would I have believed if I hadn’t seen?

It was a question I couldn’t answer.

We shook hands with these other believers, learned their names.

And then I shed brand-new tears when the minister, Pastor Noah, stepped to the pulpit and opened his Bible. I’ve since learned that he’s Dad’s age, but with a clean-shaven chin and callous-free hands, Pastor Noah looked a good decade younger than my father. Until that morning, I thought the Christmas story began with “’Twas” and ended with “and to all a good night.”

I’d seen nativity scenes, of course, and knew about baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary, but it was all so childish, so implausible.

But that morning I heard the story—I really heard it—the pastor shining like the great star above Bethlehem as he explained. I saw the truth of it in his eyes, in the eyes of the believers around me, and I understood why a Savior had to be born. I choked with joy as I played connect the dots with a series of Bible verses and finally understood just why that tiny baby had to grow up and die.

Every Sunday from then till now has been filled with the same wonder. I like the stories, especially the ones about angels, but I don’t understand everything I hear or read. Canaan’s been
good to put things in historical context for me, and Jake’s made it his mission in life to help me memorize Scripture. He says we’ve been given weapons and we have to know how to use them.

Try as I may, I can’t imagine my words doing much to a demon. Not one so massive and terrifying as Damien. But there were a lot of things I couldn’t imagine before. So I’m doing my best to learn.

Stephanie sits at the piano again this morning. The halo’s on my wrist, so I’m not seeing or smelling the worship like I did that first Sunday, but I’m enamored nonetheless. I’ve never heard the song she’s singing, but the words feel at home in my head and in my heart.

May the vision of you be the death of me. And even though you’ve given everything, Jesus come.

I don’t sing. That would ruin the song entirely. But I close my eyes and imagine what these words would look like on the dance floor, what the melody would demand of my arms and legs, of my torso and the tilt of my head.

“Shane & Shane,” Jake whispers quietly. “They wrote this.” Shane & Shane is Jake’s favorite band. He’ll have a copy, then. Good, because I simply must dance to this.

After the service, Pastor Noah cuts through the crowd. He shakes Jake’s hand and squeezes me lightly, leaving the scent of aftershave hanging about my shoulders.

“And Canaan?” he says. “Where is he this morning? I was hoping to have a word with him.”