Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

4

Brielle

When I wake Sunday morning it’s early. The sky’s still black and my sheets are drenched with sweat. I take a raspy breath, but my chest feels tight, like my ribs are closing ranks. My heart presses against them, crowded.

It’s the first nightmare I’ve had in months. The twilit morn paints smears of color on my wall. I stare at them, trying to remember the details, but everything’s fuzzy.

A girl, her clothes torn, her skin burnt.

And fear. So much fear.

Shadows walk like men across my ceiling, and a shiver runs the length of my spine. The girl wasn’t alone, but with my waking eyes I can’t recall anything more. After another minute, I roll onto my stomach and press my hands beneath my pillow.

The halo’s gone.

I reach for my side table, feeling with my fingers. I drop to the floor, my quilt tangled about my legs. My knee falls on something hard. Something hot. I feel it through the blanket. I must have knocked the halo to the floor. Before the nightmare or during? I don’t know.

I shift and pull it from beneath my knee. There’s not much light to be found, not much light for the halo to grab and reflect, but it seems to have found every bit of it. I slide it beneath my pillow and climb back onto the bed. The minute my head hits the pillow, colors swirl on the insides of my eyelids. Red and orange, blue and green, purple. Again and again, lulling, mesmerizing me until at last I’m asleep.

This time I don’t dream.

But I don’t sleep long either. A couple hours at most. When I wake, it’s to the sound of the Beach Boys and the smell of bacon.

Dad’s singing, which should really never happen. He drums dual spatulas on my quilt-covered bum for ninety-eight seconds solid before his rendition of “Surfer Girl” gets so bad I lose count. I curl into a ball, hoping to burrow through my mattress to a place where there are no singing, drumming lumberjacks.

But he’s incorrigible.

“Stop drumming. Stop, stop, stop. I’ll get up. I will. Hey! I will.”

He ignores me, moving the spatulas down to the exposed soles of my feet, where they make a slapping sound. “Do you love me, do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl. Surfer girrrrlllll . . .”

“Please, please stop singing.”

I throw the pillow over my head, but he continues on and I’m forced to plot his demise. My plan requires a well-aimed ninja-kick to distract him and catlike reflexes to grab the makeshift drumsticks. But he’s fast for such a big guy, and the moment I throw my halfhearted kick, he’s across the room, smiling at me from between the slots of a spatula.

“Mornin’, baby,” he says. “I made pancakes.”

I shove the hair out of my face, trying to huff and puff, but I’m a sucker for pancakes.

“You know you want some.”

I shove at the sheet and blanket, trying to find my legs. “Can I shower first?”

“Sure,” he says, his red freckles brightened by his performance. “Made bacon too, but that’s been disposed of.” He taps the spatula against his brawny gut.

“That’s all right,” I say, finally freeing my right leg. “I’ve had more than enough ham this morning.”

“Hardy har.”

“Hardy har yourself. Now, out. Let me shower.” Left leg’s finally free. “And just so you know, I’ll be mad at you until after I’ve had my first pancake. You put chocolate chips in them?”

“Nah, we ran out.”

“Then I’ll be mad until I’ve had at least two pancakes.”

“Fair enough,” he says, closing the door behind him.

I’m a mess, I feel it. My neck is sticky with dried sweat and my head aches. My sheets are knotted and my quilt’s flipped sideways.

I hate waking up like a zombie. Especially the mean kind. I zone out for a sec, the poster above my desk catching my eye. The child Cosette stares back at me, the words Les Misérables a banner over her sorrow. It’s my absolute favorite musical. There isn’t a lick of dancing in the whole production, but something about it swirls in my gut, rallying me to the cause of freedom. I can’t watch it without weeping, without feeling the need to sweep up a flag and wave it madly.

Ali tried to convince me to try out for it once, but there’s so much singing. The whole glorious thing is singing. And, well, I sing like my dad, only with far less bravado and never, ever with spatulas.

Ali was brilliant as Eponine. I must’ve watched her onstage a zillion times during the run, but I’d do just about anything to watch her play it one last time.

I flick away the tear that’s cooling on my lashes and move toward my desk. Something about the child Cosette pulls me closer. She hasn’t changed, the girl. She’s sweeping away just like always, but for a moment I see Olivia Holt. That same tragic expression Olivia had when our fingers brushed stares back at me from the battered child’s eyes. I turn away, refusing to feel sorry for the drop-dead gorgeous woman who gets kicks out of parading her wealth before the less fortunate. I can’t think of a single person who needs my pity less.

I unknot my sheets and make my bed, not because I’m dutiful, but because I need to ensure the halo’s tucked under my pillow while I shower. It takes longer than it should for me to sort out the mess, but once I’m sure the halo’s safe, I head to the bathroom, yawning and sticking my tongue out at Dad as I pass through the kitchen.

“You look beautiful, baby. That hair. Those eyes!”

A quick glance in the bathroom mirror and I see Dad and I are thinking the same thing.

That hair. Those eyes.

Ugh.

Twenty minutes later I’m sitting at the counter, wrapped in my fuzzy zebra-print robe, a Christmas gift from Kaylee. I cringed when I unwrapped it, but it’s actually very cozy, and this morning it improves my mood by leaps and bounds. That and the sudden appearance of chocolate.

“Thought you said we were out of chocolate chips?”

“I had an old Hershey bar in my lunch box,” he says, tucking the spatula in his back pocket and pouring a glass of milk.

“Can’t even tell the difference,” I say, my mouth full.

“That’s because I’m good.” He sets the glass next to my plate and leans into the counter. He is good. I dip a square of pancake into a blob of butter on the plate and slide it into my mouth. A few bites later I realize Dad’s staring at me. Squinting, really, his bushy brows merging into one gigantic caterpillar.

“What’s up, Dad?” I say, my mouth full.

“I have a date.”

I chew slowly, thinking about that caterpillar—how I could flick it with my fork, the fork I still have in my hand, suspended over a plate of chocolate yumminess I suddenly have no appetite for. Dad’s had dates before, of course, but I’m pretty sure I know who he’s planning to take out. And I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like it.

“With Olivia. Olivia Holt.”

I hear, Bond. James Bond. And I have to mentally slap myself before I start cataloging the similarities between the two.

I set my fork down and take a swig of milk. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

I bob my head. What else am I going to say? He’s not asking my permission, and he shouldn’t have to. I hack at my pancake, cutting another pizza-shaped slice. It doesn’t taste as good as the others, but I swallow it down.

Dad whips the spatula from his pocket and scratches at the dried batter on the griddle.

“You don’t like her,” he says.

“I don’t know her.”

He jabs the spatula in my direction. “But you still don’t like her, do you?”

My stomach’s all twisty and turny with this conversation. With the idea of my dad out with someone the halo clearly has qualms with. But crafting an answer to the question takes longer than it should, and now the bushy caterpillar is offended and all puckered across Dad’s forehead.

“Why don’t you like her?” he asks, flicking dried batter across the room.

Because the halo . . .

See, Dad, there’s this Throne Room . . .

You remember God, right?

Yeah. This conversation’s going places.

“You don’t like her,” he says. “I get it. You don’t have to, Elle, but is it okay if I do?”

I set my fork down. There’s still half a pancake steaming on my plate, but I’m done, my appetite officially dead with Dad’s ridiculous request for permission. I should tell him he has my blessing or some other such nonsense. That’s what I’d have done in the past. Heck, that’s what I’d have done if the halo hadn’t nearly blistered my arm yesterday.

But as kind—and superfluous—as my blessing would be, I still can’t offer it. Not even as a sign of goodwill. It doesn’t feel right.

“Dad . . .”

I can think of nothing to say, at least nothing appropriate. So I’m grateful when there’s a knock at the door, Jake smiling at us through the windowpanes. Dad mutters something about needing a curtain on that blasted window, but Jake’s standing there all handsome and clean-shaven. And that means . . .

“Oh geez. What time is it?”

Dad swings the spatula over his shoulder, wielding it like a weapon. “I’m guessing it’s time for church.”

Dang. I slide from the barstool and fling open the door.

“Five minutes,” I say, pulling Jake inside. “Just five and I’ll be ready.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says, all warm and smelling like coffee. He looks rather dashing in a green dress shirt, his eyes brighter for the color. I resist the urge to brush my lips against his, because Dad’s already in a bad mood. “Good morning, Mr. Matthews.”

Dad grunts and pours another pancake on the griddle. He hates that our Sunday morning routine has changed. Hates it.

“You coming with us this morning, sir?” Jake asks.

Oh, boyfriend. Oh, brave, brave boyfriend.

“Dad has a date,” I say, trying my hardest to make it sound like shut up. I drag him to my barstool. “Sit. Eat a pancake. Three minutes, I swear.”

I run from the kitchen, holding my robe closed. Jake’s doing his best, trying to engage Dad, making small talk. I’d give most anything for the two of them to find some common ground, to find something neutral they can discuss. I whisper a prayer.

“So you have a date, huh?” Jake’s voice carries through my bedroom door. “That’s cool. You could bring her to church too, if you want.”

I pray harder.

The first time I remember stepping foot into a church was this past Christmas. It was the same church, in fact, that Dad had recently helped repair. After a massive storm knocked an evergreen onto the roof, an improvised patch was thrown together until a roofing company could get a team out there—a team willing to work through the rain.

So that’s how I spent my Christmas morning. Sitting between Jake and Canaan on a wooden pew that had suffered quite a bit of water damage itself. Dad wasn’t happy about my interrupting our Christmas morning, but he didn’t protest much. I asked him to come with us. I even begged a little, but he declined. Still, the look on his face wasn’t nearly so bitter as it is these days.

Looking back on it, I think he figured my desire to attend stemmed from my crush on the new boy. And while there’s an element of truth there, he had yet to understand how deep the transition truly was.

Even without Dad, that church service was an hour and a half I’ll never forget.

I was nervous. I’d been dreading it, really. Christmas without Ali. I just wasn’t sure I could do it, and I knew I couldn’t tackle the day without celestial eyes. So I selected my outfit with careful precision: a black sweater dress with metallic silver threads woven into it over black tights. On my head was a beanie—a crocheted beret, really. But it had fancy silver buttons on the side and it looked dressy.

Underneath my cap, nestled snug to my crown, was Canaan’s halo.

I didn’t tell Jake or Canaan that I’d decided to wear it, and they didn’t ask. But by the look of amusement on Canaan’s face as we exited the building that day, he’d figured it out.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the minute we pulled into the parking lot I knew that I didn’t know anything. Not about church or the people who filled the pews week after week. Nothing about this new family I’d suddenly become a part of. And while I’ve come to understand that no congregation is perfect, that one Christmas morning was enough to endear me to the people of God in a way that still breaks my heart.

I stepped out of the car, my hand warm inside Jake’s, the world all fire and light to my celestial eyes. From atop the church strange tendrils of color curled. Like the wafting of incense, the bending colors lifted higher and higher, disappearing into the celestial sky.

I turned my eyes back to the building and focused. As I did, the stained-glass windows, the planters full of Christmas roses, the tarp tacked up to prevent rainfall from damaging the church further—all of it disappeared, and I saw the source of the spiraling wisps of color.

It was the pianist.

Stephanie something. Older than I was, but not by much. I’d seen her around—her mom owned the fabric store in town—but I’d never seen her like this. Her eyes were closed, her lips silent, but as her fingers struck each key, the music rose like campfire smoke into the sky.

And then I smelled it.

For the first time ever, I smelled adoration.

I smelled worship.

Deep and earthy. And sweet. Like the lily of the valley that blanketed Gram’s front lawn, the fragrance spread through the sky with the intensity of her praise. I wondered if she had any idea how sweet her devotion was in the heavenlies. How fragrant, how honeyed, how pleasing.

The rest of the service brought many similar questions. So much to see and smell, to take in. To process. And through it all Jake was there on one side and Canaan on the other. They didn’t try to explain; they didn’t ask me if I was okay.

They let me see.

And that was enough. They kept busy worshiping alongside the other believers—believers who hadn’t seen what I’d seen and had still chosen to follow.

Would I have believed if I hadn’t seen?

It was a question I couldn’t answer.

We shook hands with these other believers, learned their names.

And then I shed brand-new tears when the minister, Pastor Noah, stepped to the pulpit and opened his Bible. I’ve since learned that he’s Dad’s age, but with a clean-shaven chin and callous-free hands, Pastor Noah looked a good decade younger than my father. Until that morning, I thought the Christmas story began with “’Twas” and ended with “and to all a good night.”

I’d seen nativity scenes, of course, and knew about baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary, but it was all so childish, so implausible.

But that morning I heard the story—I really heard it—the pastor shining like the great star above Bethlehem as he explained. I saw the truth of it in his eyes, in the eyes of the believers around me, and I understood why a Savior had to be born. I choked with joy as I played connect the dots with a series of Bible verses and finally understood just why that tiny baby had to grow up and die.

Every Sunday from then till now has been filled with the same wonder. I like the stories, especially the ones about angels, but I don’t understand everything I hear or read. Canaan’s been good to put things in historical context for me, and Jake’s made it his mission in life to help me memorize Scripture. He says we’ve been given weapons and we have to know how to use them.

Try as I may, I can’t imagine my words doing much to a demon. Not one so massive and terrifying as Damien. But there were a lot of things I couldn’t imagine before. So I’m doing my best to learn.

Stephanie sits at the piano again this morning. The halo’s on my wrist, so I’m not seeing or smelling the worship like I did that first Sunday, but I’m enamored nonetheless. I’ve never heard the song she’s singing, but the words feel at home in my head and in my heart.

May the vision of you be the death of me. And even though you’ve given everything, Jesus come.

I don’t sing. That would ruin the song entirely. But I close my eyes and imagine what these words would look like on the dance floor, what the melody would demand of my arms and legs, of my torso and the tilt of my head.

“Shane & Shane,” Jake whispers quietly. “They wrote this.” Shane & Shane is Jake’s favorite band. He’ll have a copy, then. Good, because I simply must dance to this.

After the service, Pastor Noah cuts through the crowd. He shakes Jake’s hand and squeezes me lightly, leaving the scent of aftershave hanging about my shoulders.

“And Canaan?” he says. “Where is he this morning? I was hoping to have a word with him.”

“He’s working,” Jake says. “Out of town for a couple days.”

“Could you have him call me when he returns? I’d like his thoughts on something.”

“Sure.”

I make small talk with Becky, the pastor’s wife, while Jake types Pastor Noah’s number into his phone.

“We’d love to have you over again, Brielle,” she says. “Your father, too, if he’s up for it.”

“Oh, thank you. I’d like that and, um, I’ll let Dad know. You believe in miracles, right?”

“I do,” she says with a laugh. “I absolutely do.”

The ride home is quiet. I lean against Jake’s shoulder, tired, the nightmare taking its toll. Sunlight presses through the dirty windows of his beat-up Karmann Ghia, settling around me like a blanket.

“You’re making tired noises,” Jake says.

“That’s ’cause I’m tired. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“That’s weird for you, isn’t it?” he asks.

“I had a nightmare. First one since the halo, I think.”

“And you had it with you?”

“I put it under my pillow like I always do, but this morning it was on the ground. Probably knocked it off the bed.”

Jake’s quiet, and that means he’s thinking. Dissecting. Trying to solve the Rubik’s cube of life.

“Don’t overanalyze, okay? I had a busy day. I was restless.”

But Jake doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve never been restless before with the halo.”

“Canaan said I’d eventually grow more accustomed to it, right? That it won’t always affect me so intensely.”

He scans my face. “Yeah, I guess. If it happens again, though . . .”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you.” He kisses my forehead and then settles back in the seat. “You going to nap the day away then?”

“I wish. I told Kay I’d meet her at Jelly’s for lunch. You want to come?”

“I can’t,” he says. “Phil called. They need me at work.”

“Again?” Between my classes and his extra shifts we haven’t had much time together, and I’m all needy and crave-y right now. We could use a date. I nestle closer, trying to hold on to the last minutes I’ll have with him today. “So does that mean no surprise?”

“Would you mind waiting? I could give it to you now, but—”

“No, you’re right. I’d rather have time to thank you adequately. You have time for a quick bite at least?”

He kisses my forehead again, apologetic. “I have to be there at one.”

I groan, but only a little. It’s not his fault they’re shorthanded, and if the Throne Room is to be trusted, we’ll have the rest of our lives to be together.

“Good thing you had pancakes for breakfast.”

“Yeah,” he says, his shoulder suddenly rigid, “good thing.”

I roll my face toward his, loving the feel of his shirt against my cheek, but hating whatever emotion suddenly has his face in a choke hold.

“What, you don’t like my dad’s pancakes?”

A muscle in his cheek twitches, but he says nothing. He pulls his beater onto our gravel driveway and parks it behind Dad’s truck. I sit up, preparing myself for whatever’s bubbling behind the silence.

“What’s going on, Jake?”

It’s another minute before he says anything, his fingers deathly still on my leg.

“Your dad hates me.”

The words are flat. There’s no anger in them, but I don’t need the halo on my head to see the storm brewing in Jake’s eyes. Dad’s really gotten to him.

“I’m sorry about this morning. He can be a jerk sometimes. He doesn’t like change, and having his Sundays interrupted is like the—”

“It’s not just this morning. It’s . . . Canaan’s seen fear on your dad. He’s seen it multiply when he looks at me.”

Dad afraid of Jake? The thought is ludicrous. “Jake, this—”

“Have you seen it? The fear—have you seen it on your dad?” There’s something of an accusation in his tone, and it irritates me.

“I see fear on everyone, Jake, all the time. I’ve seen fear on Kaylee when she’s scrubbing a table at Jelly’s, for crying out loud. I see fear on the pizza delivery guy and the mailman. I’ve seen it on Miss Macy. Jake, I’ve seen fear on you.”

He blanches, but I press a hand to his chest, doing my best to still his thundering heart.

“Everyone’s afraid of something. But I swear to you, I’ve never seen anything excessive on Dad. Nothing that he hasn’t just shrugged off. If Canaan’s seen it—”

“He has.”

“It’s not you,” I say, squeezing his hand. “It’s not you at all. It’s . . . when he looks at you he sees . . .”

“God,” Jake says, his voice quiet. “And your dad hates God. He hates that your mom put her trust in God and then she died.”

I shift, moving away from him, from words that wedge into my ribs. I’ve come to grips with the reality that I may never understand my mom’s death, but it still hurts when it’s put out there like that. That for whatever reason God chose not to heal my mom.

“He thinks you trust your mom’s God because I do. He can’t see me without thinking of your mom. Without thinking of her death.”

The car feels smaller. All this talk of death and hate, suffocating.

“I think you’re overstating things a bit,” I say, finding a shaky version of my voice. “I’m his daughter—the only one he has. He’s jealous of my time and overprotective.”

“No, it’s more than that.” Jake shakes his head. Fear is invisible to me without the halo in place, but I hear it in his words, see it in the heaviness of his shoulders. “Canaan’s overprotective. Your dad’s got a vendetta or . . .”

He looks at me, really looks at me. I’m not sure what it is he’s seeing, but the hard shell of frustration that so quickly encased him begins to melt away. The rigidity leaves his arms and neck, and he hangs his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s not you.”

“Of course it’s me. Dad’s a part of me, of who I am.” I run a finger from his ear down his jawline, wishing I could make this better for him. He closes his eyes at my touch, tiny bead-like tears pressing through his lashes. My heart breaks, and I press my lips to his. “I’m sorry this is so hard. I’m sure he’ll . . .”

“Come around?” Jake finishes. “But what if he doesn’t?”

Jake and I both know I could never walk away from Dad. I’m all he has. And I can’t even contemplate the other alternative.

“He will,” I say. I try to be adamant, but my words quaver.

Jake strokes my hand, his head bowed, wet lashes curling gently against his cheek. So warm, so close. But there’s something between us now. The beginnings of a wall, and I don’t know how to tear it down.

“I don’t want you to have to choose between me and your dad, Elle. We have enough battles to fight.” There’s something strange in his tone. Something that sounds like surrender.

But that can’t be right. Jake’s a fighter.

“There’s room in my life for both of you, and if the Throne Room’s right, I won’t have to choose.”

Jake goes pale, his hands clammy against mine. He pulls them away and wipes them on his pants. There are mere inches between us, but fear put them there. And I hate fear. It’s my hatred that fights back.

“You have my engagement ring next door, hand-delivered to you by the Throne Room of God Himself.” My voice is all high and squeaky. But I need him to hear me. I need him to fight the fear. “Why are we even talking about this?”

Jake licks his lips. “Because your dad—”

“That’s not it. It can’t be. You knew my dad had issues with God. You’ve known for half a year, Jake.” My throat is tight, sucking on the emotion of the moment. “You never said it was a deal breaker.”

Something shifts then. I feel it in my chest, in the fear dissolving around us. Jake leans across the seat, conviction in the russet flames that burn deep in his eyes. Their fire tugs at my skin, at my heart, pulling me closer, reducing the distance between us. He’s fighting it.

“There is no deal breaker, Elle. One day I will ask you to marry me whether your dad likes it or not.”

I lean my forehead against his, relieved. “Then why all the angst?”

I breathe him in. He smells like he always does, like coffee laced with sugar. Like adventure. Like safety.

Like the rest of my life.

I inhale it all.

And then an elephant lands on the roof of the car.