The Heaven Trilogy (91 page)

Jan wanted to slug him then. It was the first time he'd felt quite so offended by the man's audacity, and it swept over him with a vengeance.

Roald stood and set down his glass. “I'm just looking out for you, buddy.” He stretched out his hand and Jan took it. “I'll see you soon. Call me when you have things straightened out.” He started for the door and paused.

“By the way, Betty wanted me to tell you that she would call this afternoon. They are concerned, naturally. And she said she's praying. And that all bets are off—she said you'd know what that meant.” He lifted an eyebrow.

Jan nodded.

Roald left then and Jan steamed through his house, tending to his errands, which amounted to little more than getting himself another drink and finishing some cold breakfast. The visit had made a bad day impossible, he thought. Not only was he sick about Helen, he was now forced to feel sick about feeling sick. Roald was robbing him of his true purpose. He was a thief. One who pulled many strings in the evangelical church, and one who made some pretty compelling arguments, but a thief just the same.

And Helen?
Father, rescue me from this pit,
he prayed.
Lead me out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

IVENA STOOD in the greenhouse, blinking at the sight, breathing, but barely. There was a new feel in the air.

To her left Nadia's rosebush had died, but you would never know it without digging through the swarming green vines to the dried branches beneath. No fewer than fifty vines now ran from the bush along the wall, reaching at least twenty feet toward the rose beds along the adjacent wall. Bright green leaves dominated the heavy foliage, but they paled under the dozens of large flowers that flourished along each vine, each as crisp and white as the day they first bloomed.

And all of this in two weeks.

Joey hadn't finished his analysis, but Ivena hardly cared. She knew now that he'd find nothing. This was a new species.

She stepped forward and stopped. The strong, sweet scent flooded her lungs like a medicinal balm. The orchids to her right were looking soft due to her neglect. So be it; she'd lost her interest in any but these new flowers. And today there was something new in here; she just couldn't put her mind to it.

A strand of her hair tickled Ivena's cheek and she brushed it aside. She glanced at the window, expecting to see it open. But it wasn't. The door then. No. The kitchen door? No. But there was movement of air in here, wasn't there?

The flowers' aroma seemed to sweep into her nostrils. And her hair whispered ever so gently along her neck. She'd put a swamp cooler in two years ago precisely because of the room's complete lack of ventilation, but it sat quietly on the far wall.

She walked to the vines and touched some of the flowers.
What are you doing, Father? Am I going mad? Janjic knows, doesn't he? You showed him that vision
. But she wasn't sure he did.

She waited, numb in the silence. But very much alive; she always felt thoroughly awake with these flowers. A very faint sound drifted through her ears. The sound of a chime off in the distance. The neighbors, perhaps.

Ivena stood still for another twenty minutes, swimming in the impossible notion that something significant had changed in the room but unable to understand what, or even verify if anything was different. It would be her secret. Other than Joey, she had decided to share the greenhouse itself with no one until she herself fully understood what was happening here. And something was definitely happening.

HELEN CRAWLED out of bed late afternoon on Tuesday. She had been in the Palace since Thursday evening, when she'd come for the quick visit before her big date with Jan. Funny, it didn't feel like five days. And five days of her own choosing, for the most part. She would have left when Glenn had first told her about his plans with Jan. Oh yeah, she would've flown the coop then, but he'd drugged her and swore to break every finger on both hands if she didn't do precisely what he asked. And then they'd brought her out and there Jan was, crumpled on the floor, beaten to a pulp. She was still partly drugged at the time or she might have bolted then. Instead she'd done it. She had actually done it.

The moment her hand first struck his flesh, she knew she couldn't continue. She could not because she
did
love this man she'd just spit on. And although she had not attacked Jan as Glenn had insisted, she
had
technically fulfilled his demands: She'd spat on him and she'd hit him. Glenn stopped short of breaking her fingers, and she'd stayed there with him, hiding in the drugs, feeling sick of herself. She could have gone at any time, but to where? Definitely not back to Jan.

She could never go back to Jan.

Tears came to her eyes every time she thought about him. She'd never known the meaning of shame as she knew it now. The thought of Jan made her feel small and puny—he was too good for her. And not just too good, but beautiful and lovely, and she was sick and ugly in front of him, leaning forward and spitting in his face.

Helen showered slowly, washing three days of grime from her skin, letting the hot water soak deep into her bones. She pulled that dress on, the white one she'd worn for Jan when they went to dinner, the one that made her look beautiful. She cried as it came over her shoulders. She just could not stop these tears.

Helen tore the dress off, threw it in the corner and fell onto the bed, weeping. She was a fool. That much was an inescapable fact. A useless piece of flesh walking around pretending to be alive. Dead meat. Her tears wet the sheets. And that was how it was meant to be because she was a fish who belonged in water. This pool of tears was her home. Never mind that she could not manage more than a few days in the environment before disgust overtook her—it was no better on dry land. There she was only a fish
out
of water.

Thirty minutes later, she pushed herself from the bed, plodded over to the corner, and picked up the dress. She pulled it on without thinking now, afraid that if she did think, she would end up in a pool of tears again. And what if Glenn walked through those doors right now? He might break her fingers anyway, just for wearing this thing. She'd snuck it in, intending to change into it for her big date with Jan that night . . .

Stop it, Helen! Please. Just go
.

She didn't bother with the makeup. She combed her hair and left the Palace the back way, looking like an overdressed tramp, she thought. But she did not know what else to wear. Not for this.

The westbound bus lumbered up ten minutes later, and she climbed aboard, avoiding eye contact with the dozen other passengers who were undoubtedly gawking at her. Undoubtedly.

The bus motored through the city, stopping every block to exchange riders with the street, and Helen took the ride staring blankly out the window. She couldn't afford to break down right here in front of strangers. It was only when she stepped off at Blaylock Street and started the one-block trek to the house that she started fighting misgivings again.

She plowed on, most definitely feeling like a fish out of water now. She had no business doing this. None at all. For one thing, Glenn
would
break her fingers despite his guarantee that she could go as she liked. For another, she had hit him. She had spat in his face.

Then Helen was there, standing in front of the door. She read the sign above:
In living we die; In dying we live
.
I am dying,
she thought. She stood swaying on her feet for a full minute before walking forward. She tapped lightly and then stepped back.

The door opened. Jan stood there, a white bandage around his head. He looked at her, dumbfounded, eyes growing. He was not speaking. It was a terrible moment, Helen thought. Her gut was twisting and her chest felt like it might explode. She wanted to turn around and run. She had no business being here. None at all! Her fingers trembled at her side.

“Helen?”

She spoke, but no words came. She meant to say, “Y
es,
” but only a breathy rasp came out.

“Oh, dear God!” He suddenly leaped into motion and waved her forward. “Come in! Come in!”

Helen hesitated and then stepped across the door's threshold, compelled by his hand. Her skin was burning. She hung her head and looked at the floor while he closed the door and locked it. From her peripheral vision she saw him hurry over to the window, pull the curtain aside, and peer outside. Satisfied, he quickly crossed the room, looked out another window and pulled the drape tight. Then he hurried back and stopped in front of her. She could hear his breathing, hear him swallow. She almost expected his hand to swing for her face. She'd already decided to expect some measure of displeasure. Some harsh words at the very least.

“Helen.” His voice wavered. “Helen.” His hand reached for her face. He touched her chin. Helen closed her eyes and lifted her head slowly, thinking that she should flee now, before it was too late. She opened her eyes.

The skin around his misted eyes wrinkled with grief. “Helen.” He lifted his other hand and took her face in both hands. Oh, the pain in those eyes! Tears slid down his cheeks as he held hers tenderly.

Then suddenly, without warning, his arms were around her neck, and he stepped forward, pulling her to him. He rested his hand behind her head. “Oh, thank you, Father! Oh, my dear, you are safe!” he sobbed. Her nose pressed into his shoulder and she stood there, stunned.

He swayed back and forth, heaving with sobs and blubbering about her coming home. He was not angry? Her mind screamed foul. It couldn't be! She should be punished! It was a trick—at any moment he would throw her against the wall and glare at her.

But he didn't. He just held her tight, lost in his own tears, and he told her that he loved her. He was moaning that now. That she was beautiful and that he loved her.

Helen lifted her hands and placed them slowly around his waist.

The sorrow and relief came like a flood, rising right through her chest and rushing out of her eyes. “I'm so sorry!” she cried. “I'm sorry, Jan.” She kept repeating that and she cinched her arms around his waist.

They held each other for a long time there on the entry tile.

Then they stepped back and her eyes widened at the sight of his shirt. “Oh, my goodness!” she said, lifting a hand to her lips. “You're bleeding!”

He wiped his eyes and looked at his white T-shirt, now stained with red streaks. “So I am.” Then he chuckled and spread his hands as if they were wet, still looking down. “I was just changing my bandages when you came.”

She didn't see the humor but she chuckled with him. It seemed to fuel his own humor and he started laughing. Then they were laughing together. Looking at his bloodstained shirt and laughing together, out of pure, sweet relief.

Helen looked at his face—at his dark skin wrinkled around laughing hazel eyes; his teeth white in his delight, his hair swept back to his collar—and she knew she did not deserve him. Not this wildly handsome man giddy with joy at her return. She swallowed a lump that had gathered in her throat.

She helped him into the bathroom where together they finished changing his bandages. She winced at seeing the cuts and felt tears coming again. They slipped down her cheeks like a cleansing oil and he let her cry softly.

They didn't talk about Glenn that night. They did not talk about what had happened or about what they would do. They each had their own problems, that much needed no voicing. Instead they talked about the fact that the pool needed to be cleaned, and about Ivena's roses, and about why Cadillacs were really no better than Fords, a subject about which both were undeniably clueless.

And they laughed. They laughed until Jan insisted that he would split a stitch if they didn't control themselves.

THE NEXT morning drifted by like a dream for Helen. She'd slept in the suite downstairs and risen to the smell of bacon. Ivena was busy over the stove, smiling and humming her song. That song she'd said was the priest's favorite. Ivena had placed three settings about the table.

“Hello, Ivena,” she said, coming up behind.

Ivena whirled around, incidentally flinging grease across the kitchen. “Helen! Oh, come here, child!” She waved her forward. “It is so good to have you home.”

Helen stepped forward, unable to suppress a wide grin. “Good to be home,” she said. They hugged each other and Helen helped by mixing up some orange juice. They ate breakfast together and laughed about things Helen could not remember, but they were certainly funny at the time.

She wandered about most of the morning, slowly disconnecting herself from the past, spending time with Jan and Ivena, pinching herself from time to time to make sure this was not some long hallucinogenic trip she'd taken. But it was not. It was all real. The rose Ivena had brought smelled like a real rose, the ice clinked in the afternoon stillness, the tea tasted sweet to her tongue, the leather furniture felt cool to the touch, and the light sparkled in Jan's hazel eyes whenever he looked at her, which was at every possible opportunity. In all respects it proved to be a perfect morning.

They ate lunch together, the three of them, suspended by an air of unbelief at being together. And Jan could not seem to keep his eyes from her. When she finally excused herself for a nap, a shadow passed across his face, as if it were a great disappointment. She was falling in love with him, she thought. Not just loving, but falling. She couldn't remember feeling so strongly for one man. It was a good emotion.

HELEN'S RETURN came like a breath of life to Jan. He thought of it as her homecoming, even though this was obviously not her home. Actually, it felt like it should be her home. He had spent the night in peaceful sleep, wondering at the effect this one woman had on him. She had gone back to Lutz, yes. And she had spit on Jan, but none of that seemed to bear any weight in his mind. Instead he found himself dizzy over her choice to return here. She had chosen to come back!