“Okay, I don’t feel anything.” I open my eyes again and she has a strange expression on her face: relief.
“Well done,” she says, and pulls her hand from mine. “Now you’ll just have to practice it until you can shut out who you want to, when you want to.”
That would certainly be handy.
So all that next week, whenever I feel Samjeeza at school, I work on erecting a spiritual barrier between us. At first, absolutely nothing happens. Samjeeza’s sorrow continues to flow into me, making it hard to think about anything at all. But slowly but surely I begin to feel the ways in which I am connected with the life around me, with that energy inside me where the glory is, and when I recognize it in myself I can then work on shutting it down. It’s like the opposite of using glory, in some ways. To bring glory, you have to still the inner voices. To shut it off, you have to keep yourself completely occupied by your thoughts. It’s hard work.
What makes it even worse is that on Friday, Mom lies down and never really gets back up. She stays in bed in her pajamas, laid back on the pillows like a porcelain doll. Sometimes she reads but mostly she sleeps, for hours, day and night. It becomes a rare thing to catch her awake.
In the middle of the next week a nurse shows up, Carolyn. I’d seen her before at the congregational meetings. Her specialty seems to be end-of-life care for angel-bloods.
“I don’t want you to worry about any of the details,” Mom says one day when Jeffrey and I are both keeping her company. “Billy is going to take care of everything, okay? Just be there for each other. That’s what I want. Hold fast to each other. Help each other through. Can you do that?”
“Okay,” I say. I turn and look at Jeffrey.
“Fine,” he mutters, and then leaves the room.
He’s been pacing around our house all week like a caged animal. Sometimes I feel his rage like a blast of heat, at how unfair this all is, our mom dying because of a stupid rule, our lives dictated by some force that doesn’t seem to care that it’s ruining everything. He hates his own powerlessness. And he especially hates all this isolation, having to stay inside, hiding out. I think he’d rather just go out there and face Samjeeza and have it over with.
Mom sighs. “I wish he wasn’t so angry. It’s only going to make things harder for him.”
But truth be told, the isolation is starting to get to me too. All I have now is school, where the presence of Samjeeza keeps me on constant alert, and then home, where the thought that Mom’s about to die is always with me. I talk to Angela on the phone, but we decided it was best for her to lie low since Samjeeza showed up, since he doesn’t know about her. Plus she’s been quiet in an offended way since I told her about Aspen Hill Cemetery.
“I have a theory,” she says to me one night over the phone. “About your dream.”
“Okay.”
“You keep thinking that the reason Tucker’s not there is because he’s hurt or something.”
“Or something,” I say. “What’s your point?”
“What if he’s not there because the two of you break up?”
It’s funny that somehow that thought scares me even more than the idea that he’ll be hurt. “Why would we break up?” I ask.
“Because you’re supposed to be with Christian,” she says. “Maybe that’s what the dream is telling you.”
It hurts me, that thought. I know I could make it better by going to see Tucker in person, by kissing him and assuring him that I love him and letting him hold me, but I don’t dare. It doesn’t matter what Angela thinks. I can’t risk putting him in danger. Again.
I’m upstairs doing the laundry, sorting the whites from the darks, and all I can think about is what Angela said. Maybe we break up. And not because I’m “supposed to be with Christian,” I think then, but because I want him to be safe. I want him to be happy. I want him to have a normal life, and I’d have to be tripping to think that kind of thing is possible with me. I toss the whites in the washer and put in some bleach and I feel such a heaviness and a sense of dread that I want to scream, fill this silent house with my noise. This is not another person’s sorrow, not a Black Wing’s, but my own. I’m bringing it on myself.
I go to my room to take a crack at my homework, and I’m sad.
I talk on the phone with Wendy, and I’m sad. She’s all excited about college, going on about what the dorms are like at WSU and how awesome it’s going to be, and I’m sad. I try to play along, act like I’m excited too, but all I feel is sad.
Sad, sad, sad.
Later, the washing machine beeps. I go to transfer the clothes to the dryer. I’m elbow deep in damp clothes when suddenly the sadness lifts. Instead I feel this incredible, permeating joy, warmth flooding me, a sense of well-being, a whirl of true happiness so overwhelming it makes me want to laugh out loud. I put my hand over my mouth and close my eyes as the feelings wash over me. I don’t understand why. Something strange is happening.
Maybe I’m finally cracking under the pressure.
The doorbell rings.
I drop a pair of Jeffrey’s underwear on the laundry room floor and run downstairs for the door. I get up on tiptoes to peer out the small window at the top of the door. My breath catches.
There’s an angel standing on my doorstep. I can feel him. An angel. A White Wing, to be exact. A tall golden-haired man with such love pouring off him that it brings a whole different kind of tears to my eyes.
I fling open the door.
“Dad?”
He turns to me and smiles, a goofy lopsided grin that I had totally forgotten about until right this minute. I stare at him wordlessly, take in the way the sun glints off his hair with this definite unearthly kind of light. I examine his face, which hasn’t aged a day, not since I saw him four years ago, not ever, in all my memory of him. He hasn’t changed. Why did I never notice that before?
He’s an angel.
“Don’t I get a hug?” he asks.
I move zombielike into his arms.
Here’s what I would expect to feel in this moment: Um, surprised. Amazed. Astounded. Knocked over flat by the sheer impossibility of the idea. But all I feel right now is his joy. Like pink curtains, Dad’s hands on my waist, holding me up high. That kind of joy. He hugs me tight, lifts me off my feet, laughs, then sets me down.
“I’ve missed you,” he says.
He’s stunningly handsome. Just like Samjeeza, like he was molded from the perfect male form, sculpted as a statue, but where Samjeeza has this dark beauty to him, Dad’s all golden. Golden hair. Golden skin. Silver eyes that seem cool and warm at the same time, something ancient about them, so much knowledge in their depths. And like Samjeeza, he’s ageless, like he could pass for twenty, thirty, or forty, depending on how closely you look at him.
How is this guy the awkward, absent father of all those tortured phone calls over the years?
“Dad . . . ,” I say. “How?”
“There will be time for explanations. But right now, can you please take me to see your mother?”
“Sure.” I step back into the entryway, watch as this glowy, broad-shouldered man comes into our house, his movements fluid and graceful, so clearly not human. There’s something else about him, too, something that makes me see him in two layers, like that human suit Samjeeza wears, a blurring around him when he moves. With Dad both layers seem more solid, shifting over him. I can’t tell which is the real him and which is the suit.
He smiles again. “I know this must come as quite the surprise now that you’re able to perceive these kinds of things.”
Understatement of the year. My mouth feels dry, like it’s been hanging open for a while.
“Your mother?” he prompts.
Right. Here I was just staring at him. I start down the hall.
“Can I get you anything? Like a glass of water or juice or coffee or whatever?” I babble as we pass the kitchen. I realize that I don’t know him at all. I don’t know my father well enough to know what kind of beverage he
prefers.
“No, thank you,” he says politely. “Just your mother.”
We reach Mom’s door. I knock. Carolyn answers it. Her eyes go straight to my dad, and her face instantly goes slack with astonishment, eyes so wide it almost looks cartoonish.
“He—uh—he wanted to see Mom.”
She recovers quickly, nods, then steps out of the way so we can pass into the room.
Mom is sleeping, propped up on pillows, her long auburn hair spread out around her face, her face pale but peaceful. Dad sits in the chair next to her bed and touches a strand of hair, that one at the front that’s gone silver. He reaches down and gently takes her hand in both of his.
She stirs, sighs.
“All days are nights to see till I see thee, / And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me,” Dad whispers.
Her eyes open. “Michael.”
“Hello, beautiful.” He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it, places it against his cheek.
I don’t know what I expected if my parents ever happened to bump into each other again. Not this. It’s like there was never any leaving us standing in the driveway while he drove away. Never any divorce. Never any separation at all.
“How long can you stay?” she asks.
“A while,” he answers. “Long enough.”
She closes her eyes. Smiles this beautiful smile. When she opens her eyes again there are tears in them. Happy tears. My dad is making my mom cry happy tears.
Carolyn, who’s been standing at the back of the room, coughs delicately. “I’m going to be on my way. I don’t think you’ll need me.”
Mom nods. “Thank you, Carolyn. And if you could do me an enormous favor, please don’t mention this to anyone. Not even the congregation. Please.”
“Of course,” Carolyn says, and then she closes the door.
Mom finally seems to notice I’m here. “Hi, sweetie.”
“Hi,” I answer dazedly, unable to look away from my parents’ hands, still joined.
“How’s your day going?” she asks, the hint of mischief in her voice I haven’t heard for weeks now.
“Oh, fine. I just found out that my dad’s an angel,” I say offhandedly. “It’s kind of blowing my mind.”
“I thought it would.”
“This is the thing, right? The thing you’re not telling me?”
Her eyes sparkle. I’m floored by how happy she looks. It’s impossible to be mad at her when she looks like that.
“I’ve been waiting to tell you for so long. You have no idea.” She laughs, a weak but delighted sounded. “But first I’m going to need two things. A cup of tea. And your brother.”
Dad volunteers to make the tea. “I think I can still remember how,” he says, and strides off to the kitchen.
That means I’m in charge of fetching Jeffrey.
He’s in his room, as usual. Music blaring. As usual. He must not have even heard the doorbell, or maybe he didn’t care. He’s lying in his bed reading a Sports Illustrated, still in his pj’s and it’s getting close to noon. Slacker. Where was he when I was neck deep in laundry? He glares at me when I come in. As usual.
“Don’t you knock?”
“I did. You might want to have your hearing checked.”
He reaches and turns down his stereo. “What do you want?”
I can’t decide how much to tell him here, or how to break it to him. So I go for the direct approach. “Dad’s here.”
He goes still, then turns to me like he really does need to have his hearing checked. “Did you say Dad was here?”
“He showed up about ten minutes ago.”
How long has it been for him, I wonder, since he last saw Dad? How old was he then? Eleven? Jeffrey wasn’t even two years old yet when Dad left, not old enough to remember anything but those few times we visited him, the birthday cards with cash in them, the gifts, which were typically extravagant (like Jeffrey’s truck, which was his birthday gift from Dad this year), the handful of phone calls, which were generally brief.
“Just come downstairs,” I tell him.
We arrive in time to see Dad burn himself on the tea-kettle. He doesn’t curse or jump back or anything. He examines his finger like he’s curious about what just occurred. There’s no damage to his skin, not even a red mark, but he must have felt it. He goes back to pouring Mom’s tea, setting her teacup on a delicate china saucer with some vanilla cookies he must have found in the pantry. Two lumps of sugar. A dollop of cream. Just how she likes.
“Oh, there you are,” he says when he sees us. “Hello, son.”
“What are you doing here?” Jeffrey’s voice is sharp, almost cracking. “Who are you?”
Dad’s expression sobers. “I’m your father.” It’s impossible to deny that, seeing the two of them standing so close together. Jeffrey is like a shorter, bulkier carbon copy of Dad. They have the same hair, the exact same eyes.
“Let’s go see your mother,” Dad says. “She can explain.”
It takes her all day to tell the story, because she doesn’t have the strength to tell it all at once. That and we keep getting interrupted, first by Billy, who bursts in and gives Dad a giant bear hug, calls him Mikey, actually gets all teary-eyed for a minute, she’s so happy for Mom. She knew, of course. All this time, she knew. But I guess I stopped being surprised by that kind of thing a while ago.
Then there’s the fact that Jeffrey keeps freaking and walking out of the room. It’s like he can only stand to hear so much before he thinks his head will explode. Mom’ll say something about the way she always knew, deep down, that she and Michael (my dad’s name, which we have almost never heard her utter, these last fourteen or so years) were meant to be together, and Jeffrey will get up, tug at his hair, nod or mumble something incoherent, then leave. We have to wait for him to come back before she can finish the story.
But what a story it is.
It starts with the day of the great San Francisco earthquake. That’s when she and Dad officially met. By the time she gets to this part of the lurid tale, I’d already figured out that Dad is the angel who saved her that day, the one who broke the news to her, told her she was special, an angel-blood. She was sixteen then.
And when she was ninety-nine years old, she married him.
“How?” I ask her.
She laughs. “What do you mean, how? We showed up at the church, said the words, exchanged rings, you may now kiss the bride, all of it.”
“He was allowed to do that? An angel can marry anybody he wants?”
“It’s complicated,” she answers. “And rare. But, yes, an angel can choose to marry.”
“But then why did you divorce? Why did he leave?” Jeffrey asks with an edge of sullenness.
Mom sighs. “An angel can’t stop being an angel. They have duties, tasks that require their constant attention. Your father was given a vacation, so to speak, a seven-year period where he could stay with me in linear time and live a human life. Marry me. See the two of you born, spend some time with you. Then he had to go back.”
For some reason this makes me want to cry. “So you’re not divorced?”
She smiles. “No. We’re not divorced.”
“But you couldn’t see him, all this time?”
“He visited on occasion. Once a year, sometimes twice, if we were lucky. We had to make do with that.”
“He couldn’t visit us?” Again, Jeffrey with the anger. He’s not taking this whole your-dad’s-an-angel-and-he’s-back surprise very well. I guess he doesn’t feel the incredible-joy thing. “His kids?”
“I wish I could have,” Dad says from the doorway to Mom’s room. He does that. Appears, out of thin air. It’s weird.
He comes in and sits next to Mom on the bed, takes her hand. They’re always touching each other, I’ve noticed. Always in contact.
“We decided that it would be best if I stopped seeing you. For your own good,” Dad says.
“Why?”
“Because, when you were litt
le, it was easy for me to hide what I am. You didn’t notice anything unusual about me, or if you did, you didn’t know enough to understand it was unusual. But when you got older, it became more difficult. The last time I saw you, you could definitely feel my presence.”
I remember. It was at the airport. I saw him and I felt his joy. And here I thought it was because I was hopelessly screwed up.
“But I have watched you from a distance,” he says. “I’ve been with you your entire lives, in one way or another.”
Okay, so this is the fantasy of every child of divorced parents, come true. Turns out, my parents love each other. They want to be together. My dad, all this time, wanted to be with me.
But it’s also like watching someone take an eraser to my life story, and then rewrite it as something completely different. Everything I thought I knew about myself has changed in the past few hours.
Jeffrey’s not buying it.
“Who cares if we knew what you are?” he says. “You said it was for our sake, but that’s bull. So our dad’s an angel? So what?”
“Jeffrey . . . ,” Mom warns.
Dad holds up his hand. “No, it’s all right. It’s a good question.” He looks at Jeffrey solemnly. There’s something regal about him, something that commands respect even if you don’t want to give it to him. Jeffrey swallows and lowers his eyes.
“This isn’t about me. This is about you,” Dad says.
“Michael,” Mom whispers. “Are you sure?”
“It’s time, Maggie. You knew this would come,” he says, caressing her hand. He turns back to us. “I am an Intangere. Your mother is a Dimidius, a half blood. That makes you and your sister a very rare, very powerful breed of angel-blood. We call them the Triplare.”
“Triplare?” Jeffrey repeats. “Like three-quarters?”
“This is a dangerous world for a Triplare,” Dad continues. “They’re rare enough that their powers are largely unknown, but there has been speculation that the Triplare, who are, after all, more angel than human, have nearly the same abilities as full-blooded angels, but with one crucial difference.”
“What difference?” prompts Jeffrey.
“Free will,” Dad says. “You’ll feel the repercussions too, your subtle sorrows or joys, whatever your actions lead you to, but in the end you are utterly free to choose your own path.”