“That sounds lovely, child. Los angeles—the angels, right? Not the angels of destruction?”
For the first time that day, Norah laughed deeply and fully. “It means ‘May the angels lead you to paradise.’” Caught off guard, she grabbed Diane's hand and led her back to their car, giggling softly to herself, enjoying some private cosmic joke.
27
Dozens of hearts lay strewn across the dining room table. Sharp scissors. Tiny arrows. A pot of paste. The three of them judged and giggled when each new design was finished and presented. A light snow blew against the darkened windows. Beef stew simmered on the stove. Diane would be leaving in the morning, and they were already missing one another. The homemade valentines had been her idea, agreed to with alacrity, and they passed a pleasant few hours over doilies and red cardboard hearts.
“This one is for Sharon Hopper,” Norah said. “Who believes but does not see. And this one is for Sean Fallon, who sees but does not believe.”
“Believe in what, Norah?” Diane asked. “True love?”
Bent over her work, Norah continued sketching a cupid on the front of another card. “Most people say they want it and can't live without love. But they just don't know how to take or give it.” She drew a pair of wings on the cherub and sat back to consider her efforts. “I heard that in a song on the radio.” She stopped to glue the cupid to a cloud of cotton. “This one is for Dori, who sees and believes. Have you ever been in love?”
Margaret leaned over the paste pot, indicating to her sister that she need not answer.
“I don't mind,” said Diane. “No, not the way I wanted to be. Never the passion I always thought I would feel.”
“How about you, Grandma?”
Margaret stood and looked over their heads toward the stew. “Maybe we should be getting ready for dinner and stop all this talk of love for right now.” She pushed back the chair and hurried to the stove.
As she gathered in pieces of cardboard, Diane spoke in a low confidential tone. “I wanted to forgive him. Before he passed. But Joe never said … he never gave me the chance.”
“Forgiveness is the easy part,” said Norah, three pairs of scissors in her hands. “Loving beyond the hurt is what will be hard.”
Diane reached out and stopped the girl from moving. Tired of the chase, she challenged her in a rough whisper. “Who hurt you, child? Your mother?”
Laying down her tools, Norah flattened her palms upon the table, and when she spoke, her voice was colored by a strange monotone, as if reciting what had been learned by rote. “Never run with scissors, that's one of the rules. Always carry them points down. Look both ways for cars when crossing the street. Wait one hour after meals before swimming. I have been taught all of the rules for children. Danger. Peligrosa”
Alarmed by the girl, Diane followed her to the den and the chest of drawers where the art supplies were stored. “You're hiding something about your mother.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What has she done? Is she still a part of that cult? Did you run away from those people? The Angels?”
“Los Angeles?”
“Quiet, don't let your grandma hear.”
Brushing past her aunt, Norah moved to the center of the room. She held her arms perpendicular to her sides and began to slowly pirouette, each sentence spinning to four corners. “There is no cult. Erica Quinn is no Angel. She is sorry for her sins.”
Her aunt stepped toward her, caught hold of her wrists, and stilled her. “But why doesn't she come home?”
“We are all afraid of what's in our hearts. Wives afraid of their husbands. Mothers afraid of their children. Daughters afraid to come home. Maybe she is waiting for someone to find and forgive her.”
Diane spoke in a calm, clear voice. “You are a strange creature, Norah Quinn. Where did you come from?”
The girl began to twitch slightly, holding back the answer. From the kitchen, Margaret called them to dinner, but Diane would not let go, her fingers digging into the girl's skin. “But couldn't you tell her? Couldn't you let her know that nothing matters more to her mother than seeing her child again? That she should come back home?”
“I cannot go where I haven't been called. And I don't want to go, I like it here. And Grandma cannot go. She is not well.” As if her soul had flown away, Norah stared blankly ahead, her vision turned inward and awry.
“Why have you come?” Diane shook her once to claim her attention, instantly regretting her temper.
Margaret shouted for them again. “Dinner's on the table. Where are you? This is no time for hide-and-seek.”
“Coming,” Diane yelled. She lowered her voice to admonish Norah. “Next time you speak to her, tell your mother to come home.”