Stepping outside after dismissal, the children squealed and screamed when the cold wind hit them. Few were prepared for the fallen temperature, and jackets billowed, sweaters made tails as stiff as those of mockingbirds. They wrapped their arms across their chests, bent their heads against the gales, and struggled homeward. Those with the wind at their backs felt they could be airborne at any moment. A bird beat its wings against the rage, made no progress, and then pinwheeled back to a secure haven. Over the wind-whipped roar, the children hollered their goodbyes. Norahs followers clumped at the edge of the sidewalk, freezing, mystified, and afraid. Tendrils of hair swirled around Norahs face, and the air fogged her glasses, but she alone seemed oblivious to the storm. A handful of children walked with her like a band of explorers braving the open tundra as the wind howled in their faces.
The trees at the edge of the bike path home formed a break, and it was calmer, but the shush of branches and the restless waters of the creek denied any normal level of discussion. As she reached the fork, Norah stopped to confront them all. “So do you believe now?” she shouted.
Dori's black eyes were wet with tears. The boys sniffed runny noses and stared at the ground. At her side, Sean tugged her arm and shouted back, “Make it stop.”
“Meet me tomorrow,” she said above the wind. “At three o'clock, and I will show you even greater wonders.”
The apostles raised their hands farewell, nodded their assent. Norah and Sean split off from the others, traversing the path through the forest to the Quinns’ house. By the time they reached the fence, Sean noticed the winds had subsided, and when he finally made it to his own home, he realized that they had all but died.
17
Mother. Mom. Mommy. Mum. Ma. Margaret. My mother. On the drive from Washington, D.C., to Pennsylvania, Erica chanted to herself in time with the wheels upon the highway, the air whistling through the opened window, the on-and-off radio, the bites of conversation with her aunt. My mother, my mother, my mother. Such memories that jostled for dominance were confined largely to that last year of enmity, the discovery of her father's wartime past and the emotional wall surrounding each of them. She tried to remember them in earlier and more pleasant times. A chase over the dune to be the first to catch the long-anticipated expanse of summer ocean. The unexpected wit, fringed with sarcasm, which stunned the dinner table. Her hope welling in the moment before her gifts were unwrapped. But mostly, her mother listening patiently to some worry or woe, offering up the solace of prayer or a cliché of received advice. “All part of the plan,” she was fond of saying by way of consolation. But Erica knew there was no plan, only accidents and deceit, and such bromides lost force. By adolescence, she could no longer talk to her without departing emptied of emotion, but perhaps homilies were all that Margaret could say when letting go. There is no proper goodbye between daughter and mother.
“She's older now, of course,” Diane said. “When you disappeared, she aged all at once and just seemed to skip the middle part altogether. One day the big sister I remember got up and walked away, leaving behind a hollow shell. Until Norah came along—”
My mother, mine.
WHEN ASKED WHERE he was hurrying to that Saturday afternoon, Sean shouted “Out” as he raced past the living room and “Bye, Mum” as the stormdoor slammed behind him. Perhaps if she had been less weary Eve would not have hesitated, but by the time she stepped out onto the porch he was nowhere to be seen. She looked both ways along the street, but he had flown away.
“WHAT DO YOU know of this child, really?” the watcher asked, hat in hand, his face and hands now translucent. “All the talk around town of her strange behavior and the innuendo of a holy delusion. Caution, your mother would say. Safety first.”
Margaret spoke in a soft tone. “My mother was all about propriety. The worst sin of all was that the neighbors would talk.”
“She disapproved of your wildness. Your choices in men. Jackson—” “Please don't talk to me about love. It is a disappointing thing.” “This child is not your daughter. You may not have this angel Norah.” He was slipping away, breaking apart like a broadcast charged with static.
“What would you have me do? Wake up every morning not knowing what happened to my child? Miss her every day till I die?” She addressed the space he had occupied, empty of all but the atomic shadow of memory. He was gone for good, and she began to worry what his disappearance meant in terms of the other who had entered her life.
Luminous in the afternoon sun, Norah appeared before her in the living room, stepping between Margaret and her shadow. “I've done all my chores,” she said, “and don't want to be late. Can I go now?”
18
She led them to the bridge, to the river.