Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

19

Brielle

No bones. No clothing fragments. The inside of Mom’s casket is pristine, the satin lining marked only with today’s mud splatter. The ruched pillow at the head of the box has flattened over time, but it’s never been lain upon.

I don’t know that, I suppose. But I do. Deep in my gut, the emptiness of my mom’s grave confirms so much of what I’ve never felt. Of what I’ve needed.

How many times have I sat here, on a stone bench that’s now nothing more than rubble? The willow tree, the angel, the quiet surroundings offered simple condolences, but instead of completing something in me, instead of being a place to mourn and remember, Mom’s grave has never felt anything but vacuous. This place sucked my emotions away, leaving me as empty as the coffin below.

At my request, Helene releases me. We’re still belowground, the wooden box shattered, the moist dirt falling in small avalanches around us. Without Helene’s wings wrapped around me, without the halo, it’s all so dark, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. The moon is wonky tonight—a balloon that’s lost some of its air—but it’s bright, and after a few moments I have to acknowledge that I’ve seen all there is to see.

There’s nothing here. No sign my mother was ever laid to rest. I sink to the ground, press into the mud wall behind me, and stare at the hollow coffin.

“I’ll give you a minute,” Helene says, “but that’s all we can afford. The sheriff is gathering his resources now. They won’t be long.”

If by “resources” she means Deputy Wimby, we might have more time than she knows.

Out of the corner of my eye I see her throw Jake a glance, and then she’s gone. His face, however, hovers above, but it’s only there for a moment more. His feet swing over—bare—and he drops next to me—shirtless. He was dragged from bed as well, it seems. From his dream to my nightmare.

He doesn’t say anything. He just sits and takes my hand.

I’m grateful.

“The first time you kissed me was here,” I say.

“And the second.”

I turn and press my face into the hollow at his neck, wanting to be anywhere but here, wanting to relive that moment. I’ve done it so many times. Eyes closed, quietly remembering. But I’ll save it for later, when the sirens are silenced, when I’m lost in my own sheets and blankets. When my surroundings are more dream and less nightmare.

But even my dreams aren’t safe anymore.

I force my thoughts back to now, as dreadful as now seems to be.

“When we visited Ali’s grave last month, and the month before, and the month before that,” I say, “I felt a peace. It was like my own feelings, but what I was experiencing were hers. Her body was at rest. At peace.” I shift, something sticky pulling at my knee. “But here? The only time I’ve ever felt anything here has been with you.”

Jake doesn’t say anything, but we’ve had similar discussions before. He’s always kind, but I know he’s not as dependent on feelings as I am. And I do feel now. Confused. Lost. And from somewhere deep within a sense of betrayal starts to form.

“Dad must’ve known—when he buried her. He must’ve known the casket was empty.”

“Why do you say that?”

I have to think about the question. Have to reason my way to an answer, because Jake’s implication—that it happened unbeknownst to Dad—is entirely plausible. It could have been an error by the funeral home or something else equally unlikely. But something about Virtue’s words, about his showing up while Dad is all misery and alcohol—something makes me certain.

Dad knew.

“Give him the benefit of the doubt, okay?” Jake says. “This is going to be hard enough on the guy.”

After all my dad has put Jake through, it’s strange for him to be all Bill O’Reilly about it. Fair and balanced or whatever they claim. But he’s right, and I know it.

Still, I’d rather he just take my side.

“There aren’t sides here,” he says, reading my mind again. “Just”—he fingers a shard of a wood protruding from the casket—“man, just devastation. And there’s more than enough of it to go around.”

Something skitters across my foot, small with lots of legs. I jerk, trying to be rid of it, but the thing is stubborn and clings to my ankle. I knock it away with my hand.

And then Helene is here.

“The sheriff’s heading this way,” she says. “He’s gathered a crew to assess the damage. If you’d like to stay we can, but we should at least take to the Celestial.”

I can hear them, their voices, their feet on the cobbled path. The sheriff shouts instructions; several men interrupt, asking questions. Their voices are gruff, demanding.

Angry.

In my mind’s eye I imagine them carrying pitchforks, and I don’t want to be here when they arrive.

I turn back to Helene. Her hands are on her hips, her legs straddling the casket. It’s casual, almost haphazard, and my stomach twists at the near disregard for . . .

For what?

It’s nothing but an empty box.

And it’s never been anything more than that.

“I’m ready,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

We land in my living room to the sound of a ringing phone. The answering machine picks up as we transfer to the Terrestrial. The three of us stand in a triangle—Helene, Jake, and I—staring at the end table where the phone and the small machine sit side by side. Our outgoing message is old, recorded nearly a decade ago—Dad and I singing some stupid jingle and then bursting into laughter. It’s a relic of older, kinder days, and it makes me ill to hear it.

Especially now.

With a click, the machine starts recording.

“Keith. Mike here.” I recognize the voice. It’s Sheriff Cahill. The one we saw cowering behind the crumbling tombstone just minutes ago. He and Dad are friends, played high school football together back in the day.

“We’ve had some . . . vandalism out here at the cemetery.” It’s quiet for a second or two. “It’s going to be on the news, buddy, there’s no way around that, and I’d rather you get the details from me. I’m going to be stuck here for some time, but as soon as I can get away I’ll stop by your place. Just do me a favor, Keith. If you get this, give me a call on my cell before you even think about snapping on the television.”

I drop onto the couch and curl into a ball. My legs and arms are grimy, my shorts brown with muck. I need a shower, but all I really want to do is curl up and watch reruns of I Love Lucy.

I don’t want to deal with Dad. He’s either drunk or hungover. Maybe both.

And it’s late.

Or early.

Whatever.

“Go to bed, Brielle,” Helene says. “Let the police assume the responsibility of informing your dad, and let me talk to Virtue.”

Her instructions are tempting, but I can’t help feeling like I’m shirking some sort of daughterly responsibility. Do I really want Dad to hear this from someone else? From the sheriff?

“I don’t know.”

“She’s right,” Jake says, kneeling before me. “Unless you want to explain to your dad what you saw and how you saw it, you’d better let Sheriff Cahill talk to him.”

I count the stitches on the couch cushion, picking at them as I go. I’ve torn eight of them free when I lose it.

“This is . . . ahhh! It’s just ridiculous,” I say. I’m tired and angry and confused. “What was he thinking, burying an empty box? Visiting it every week. Taking flowers and cards and . . . and me to a mound of dirt with . . . nothing underneath it.”

Jake rubs my knees. “Benefit of the doubt, remember?”

He’s gorgeous—that soft hair, those eyes both dark and light, a tall, muscled build—but sometimes I want to punch him.

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet, okay?” Helene sits next to me on the couch. “Virtue’s words—his presence here—shouldn’t be taken lightly. Whatever happened to your mother’s body holds some relevance. If it didn’t, I doubt he’d have unearthed the absence of it.”

My throat dries at the mention of the Sabre. “Why are they here?”

She smiles. “He’s no threat to you, Elle. He’s a Sabre. A very powerful, very gifted angel.”

“But my mother’s grave? Why?”

“I can’t begin to guess why he destroyed your mother’s grave,” Helene says. “But all twelve of them have left the Throne Room, Elle. Only the Father Himself could make such a request.”

“I don’t understand, though. They could all see him—the crowd—and they could hear him.”

“They get brighter as they fight,” Helene says, her face seeming brighter itself. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I think of him plummeting to earth, of the sheriff screaming a warning. “Surely he could have accomplished . . . all that . . . in secret.”

Helene brushes away a tear I never intended to release. Her hands are warm, sisterly, almost motherly, and for the first time tonight grief replaces anger and fear at center stage, and I mourn the loss of the thing I never had. I mourn the one thing that would fill the emptiness.

I mourn my absent mother.

“Some things,” Helene says, “were never meant to be secret.”

I let Jake walk me to my room. My thigh brushes the rumpled comforter on my bed, and for a moment I crave the deep escape of sleep. My pillow’s warm, the sheets inviting, but memories of my last nightmare chase the desire away. The last time I let warm and inviting take over, I dreamed about red unicorns with blue tails and little girls I didn’t know.

And death.

“It’s going to be okay, Brielle,” Jake tells me. “We’ll figure it out.”

I stare at my wall, at the child Cosette. I stare at her broom and her bondage and I wonder if there are puzzles that can’t be solved. Jake would never think that way. He can’t. He’s a healer. He thinks everything can be fixed, but what if it’s more complicated than that? What if someone doesn’t want to be fixed? What if there isn’t a body to heal?

I don’t have the wherewithal to argue with him. I’m hollow. There’s nothing left to expend, just dents and dings where I’ve been scraped empty.

I run a hand over Cosette’s face. “Okay.”

“No, I mean it,” he says. “We will.”

He’s on a mission. I feel it. He’s going to make me feel better or die trying. But the idea of rehashing today is overwhelming.

“Okay.”

“Elle . . .” There’s an ache in his voice as he gathers me to his chest, holding me. Like a bandage, like one of those butterfly bandages that hold everything together. But as a wound I’m bled dry, and his arms make it hard to breathe. I pull away.

“I believe you, Jake, I do. But can we figure it all out tomorrow? I’m just . . . I’m . . .”

His arms are still open, still hanging there, waiting for me to crawl into them. “You’re tired,” he says. “Of course you are.”

“I’m . . . yes, I’m tired.”

He’s hurt. I know he is, but there’s that emptiness in me, that inability to carry his hurt alongside mine.

“Okay,” he says, dropping his arms. “I’ll go.”

The door closes behind him, and still I feel nothing. I’m not scared. I’m not angry. I’m just nothing. I fall into my desk chair and roll it to the window. The blinds are up, and I press my cheek to the glass, wanting to feel the cold on my face, wanting it to wake me. It’s not enough, and my eyes close. Forcing them open, I yank the window open, feeling the cold night air on my face. But the night can’t last forever, and when the sun crests over the horizon my face is warmed by its rays and my eyes close. I’ve no energy left to fight it.

And the nightmare takes hold.