He wished there was someone to ask. Most mornings when home, he would think to ask his mother, but she had changed so much in the year since his father left. Always working, and when not at the job, she took care of a thousand household chores. Some nights when he was restless and could not sleep, he found her conked out on the couch, curled under a throw, the glow of the television flickering across the shadows of her face, and seeing her so, he longed to reach out and tuck her in, smooth her hair, wipe away the lines etched in her skin. Even in her dreams, she looked so unhappy that he dared not ask her about angels or say much about his new friend from school. He knew she would not solve his puzzles, only offer comfort or worry over his questions, try to fit together what would not be joined.
Still, it would have been nice to talk with someone about Norah.
Sean could ask his father, if he ever came back, although he was sure that some things, most things, would never again be as they once were. He felt that he would at least talk to him man to man; that much a father owes a son.
His teacher was out of the question. For five months, Mrs. Patterson had managed to ignore him because he was not the type of kid who would ever volunteer, and his answers, when he was called upon, emerged from his thoughts in such a soft voice that she had to ask every time for him to repeat, but loud and clear. Eventually, she tired of the routine. It was more expedient to call on someone else, and since he earned Satisfactory in every subject, there was no cause, good or ill, for her notice.
His friends—the kids at the outsiders’ lunch table—were friends with Norah as well, and he couldn't ask about angels without arousing their suspicion or her retribution. On consideration, he realized that they weren't actually friends, simply the ones left over and out of place. Misfits. Until Norah came along, even they had rarely included him in conversations. On the playing fields at recess, the captains often chose him last or nearly so, an afterthought. Given the option, he ended up alone, tossing a ball against a wall, riding a swing into the bright and beautiful sky, or reading a book, his back against the yellow brick of the school building. He had only one true friend. The only person he could talk with about Norah was Norah herself. And he could not talk with Norah.
After brushing his teeth and wrestling into his pajamas, he went downstairs to say goodnight. His mother sat at the kitchen table, sorting through bills, the checkbook open in supplication. With her free hand propping her head, she bore a look he associated with taking a test—a mixture of concentration and frustration—but as soon as she caught his eyes, she managed a smile and put down her pen.
“Sweet dreams, sweetheart. Come and give us a kiss.”
He shuffled over to her, his slippers whiffing on the carpet. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled his body close, kissing him gently on the cheek. His bitten shoulder ached under her touch, but he did not cry out or flinch.
“I saw a bobcat today,” he said.
“Is that right? I've never heard of bobcats in these parts.”
“Me and Norah tracked it down, followed its footprints through the snow and even got close enough—but not too close—to see its yellow eyes.”
“You may be the luckiest kids in the county.” She stroked his hair and pushed loose strands behind his ears. “You and Norah are good pals, aren't you?” He hung on to her, desperate for another moment.
“Mum, do you know anything about angels?”
“Angels, for heaven's sake.” She traced a circle on his back. “When I was a child in first grade, there was a girl named Dorothy—”
“Like in The Wizard of Oz?”
“That's right, but everyone called her Dot, and she claimed she had a guardian angel that went everywhere with her. Said she could see this angel—although nobody else could—about the size of a grown-up with wings as bright as the sun, and this angel kept her out of trouble and so on. She went away for a while, and when she came back Dot told us that she had leukemia. She said the angel helped her through the treatments. Watched over her while she was a long time in the hospital, and we kids would go down there to visit and bring her books and juice, like that, and never once was Dot scared on account of the angel.”
“And what happened to her? Dot, I mean?”
Mrs. Fallon twisted a curl around her index finger and stared straight ahead. “She died, I'm afraid. But the school had a painting done, a good likeness of her anyway, with Dot and her angel walking through a field, and they hung a sign beneath it with her name and the dates of her life, and it said something from the Bible. ‘Blessed are they who believe,’ or something like that.”
“Do you?” His voice cracked and tears welled in his eyes.