by A L Crouch
“You’re helping me out, remember? Come on over and I’ll introduce you,” Will said and walked to the door.
I waved to Sulley on my way out. “Guess I’ll come by later?”
“Sure. Don’t have too much fun with that thing now. I know you love your muscle cars.” Sulley topped of his coffee. “Where you headed?”
“I’m going up to the church. Visiting Mom and Gary,” I said and searched Sulley’s face for whatever emotion my answer would elicit.
He nodded in approval. “I’d say that’s very fitting. Take your time, I’ve got a lot to do around here today.”
“Okay,” I said grabbing my coat. “It was nice to meet you Evelyn. I’ll see you both in a bit.”
“Don’t let that boy give you too much grief over that car now. As much as he messes with it, it’s still older than dirt.” Evelyn laughed.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I smiled and followed after will.
The sky was a pale shade of grey and the air smelled of rain. I hoped a storm wasn’t on the way. I walked around to the back of the building and found Will behind the wheel of the bright yellow 1979 Mustang Cobra. The sight of him in that car brought up feelings of excitement and danger. Though I didn’t know what was exciting me more, the boy or the car.
Sulley was right, my uncle had instilled in me a great respect for muscle cars, and Will’s Mustang was a beauty. But then again, Will was quite a specimen himself, oozing just enough darkness and mystery to make you want to see what was under his hood. As I reached him I cleared my throat and chided myself for acting like a swooning school girl at a boy band concert.
“Come on over so I can show you some of her quirks,” Will said.
When I got to the driver’s side, I casually leaned against the door and gave him my undivided attention.
“Okay, now when you start her, you’ve got to pump the gas twice like this . . .” Will turned the ignition and tapped the gas pedal until the reluctant engine turned over and purred to life, sending puffs of smoke from its elongated tailpipe.
“Any more than twice and . . .” he started.
“ . . . you’ll get too much gas in the intake manifold and flood the engine,” I finished with a flourish, loving the sound of the turbo engine.
Will nodded in approval. “So you know what you’re getting yourself into. That’s good. I assume then that you know how to drive a stick shift?”
“That’s all I’ve ever driven. My uncle Dan taught me an appreciation for old cars. We spent summers fixing them up. It’s always been a hobby of his.”
“Well, then she’s in good hands. Just make sure you give her a good couple of revs once the engine turns over and you’re good to go.”
Will left the engine running and stepped out of the car. He motioned for me to have a seat behind the wheel. I tried to contain my excitement.
“She’s got a lot of power now, and it’s looking like rain. Don’t let her get away from you on these mountain roads. I’d hate it if anything happened to her.” He winked. “Or you.”
“Trust me, I plan to take it nice and easy until I get to know the old gal. Just going up to the church and back. Thanks again for letting me drive her, this would NEVER have happened back in the day.”
Will shut the door and gave the hood a pat. “Yes, that’s true. I’d like to think that I’ve matured some since then. And like I said, she deserves to be driven. Just promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Don’t call her old gal again. It hurts her feelings.” Will smiled.
“You got it.” I laughed, shifting into reverse.
“Now get out of here already. I’ve got work to do,” Will said and jogged back to the front of the building.
I took a second to appreciate the butter-like leather interior and custom chrome dash before adjusting the mirrors and easing off the clutch. The car grumbled as it backed out into the main road. When I put it into first and hit the throttle, I caught a glimpse of Sulley watching me through the station door. Worry wart. Waiting until I had cleared the building, I leaned on the gas pedal and was thrown back into the seat as the engine roared and lurched forward.
“Woohoo!” I couldn’t help but yell.
I smiled at the feel of the power at my control and fought the urge to gun it again on the straight-aways, finding contentment in realizing just how awesome it was to be driving Billy Galia’s “Stang”.
He wasn’t the jerk I had always thought he was. Well, not as much of a jerk as he wanted people to think he was at any rate. He just needed to smile more often, then maybe he wouldn’t be so damned intimidating. I found it strange that I suddenly felt a strong desire to make that happen.
Downshifting, the car moaned in defiance as I made my way towards the church. The wind was picking up, shaking the brightly ripened leaves from the countless trees and sending them swirling down in a mass of fluttering color. The sky was morphing into an ominous shade of slate, my mood growing just as dark the closer I got to my destination. I hadn’t been to visit the plot where my mother was buried since the day she was put to ground and I couldn’t help but think of that day.
It was frigid out, the tears that poured from my eyes had stung my frostbitten cheeks. Gram held me tightly against her as they lowered my mom into her final resting place beside Gary. She whispered to me that my mother would want for me to move on and live a happy life. I hadn’t been able to grasp the finality of it all. Happiness seemed like a distant memory.
It took a long time for me to stop expecting her to tuck me in at night, or pick me up from school, to accept that she was gone. Seeing her grave would be a harsh reminder of how gone she was. Still, I wanted to pay my respects and maybe even get a feel for what Mom would have me do with the house now.
I pulled into the parking lot and was relieved that there were no other cars in sight. I parked in front of the A-framed church and sat for a moment, collecting myself. The church was small compared to the chapels in Chicago, but it was large enough to fit the congregation who attended from the three closest surrounding towns. Painted a sterling grey, the church matched the intricate stonework that formed the entryway and sidewalk. The doors, a deep maroon, complimented the red and purple leaves of the large oak trees that surrounded the building.
I followed the stone walkway behind the main sanctuary. The cemetery, which stretched across an acre of flat meadow, was nestled between the rising mountain peaks behind the church. Mom and Gary were buried near the fence on the eastern side.
Approaching, I saw that my mother’s grave was covered with a dozen fresh, white lilies. Someone else had visited recently. I wondered who as I moved the bundle in order to see her name on the glossy marble gravestone.
“Tina Marie Nolan. Loving mother and wife. May the angels dance to your music for all of eternity,” I read out loud.
I glanced at the headstone next to hers and plucked a flower from the bouquet and laid it on the grave.
“Robert Gary Wiley. Loving son, brother and husband. May you forever find comfort in the arms of your angel.”
Gram had written both epitaphs at a time when words, for me, had lost all meaning. I admired them now, and more so Gram for having come up with such beautiful words in the midst of that kind of pain and loss.
I sat between the stones and stared at them a moment. There was so much I wanted to say, but the words would not form on my lips. It was too hard to think of them lying there in the cold earth, lifeless. Even after fifteen years it felt unreal. So I chose to think of them as they had been: full of life, joy and excitement about their future together. They weren’t gone, just off together forever in a place that I could not yet go. Thinking of them that way helped me find the words. I turned to Gary first.
“Hey Gare, it’s me . . . Alex. I know it’s been a long time.” I lowered my head. “I’m sorry about that. I guess I was running away, you know? From what happened . . . from the memories. I guess I always thought that it would b
e better if I just forgot this place.”
It sounded ridiculous once I said it out loud. I almost laughed.
“Pretty stupid, huh? The truth is, the more I tried to forget, the more lost I became. You were the only real father I ever had. How could I want to forget that?”
I stopped, realizing that I had been running, trying to forget the pain, getting far enough away so that it no longer seemed real. But I was starting to realize since coming back to these mountains, to these memories, that by trying to forget, I was denying Mom and Gary who they were. I was losing the moments in life, good or bad, that made up who they had been.
The joyful times that I let slip away, the times that filled my heart with love, shone even brighter when set against the memories of sadness and loss. They were intertwined, inseparably woven into the fabric of my being. To deny those memories was to deny myself, and to deny both Mom and Gary of their beautiful existence. To forget was to kill them all over again.
I turned to my mother’s grave.
“I’m so sorry Mom, for so many things. I’m sorry about what happened to you. I am sorry that I couldn’t save you. I should have seen that car coming sooner. I should have warned you in time.” I sighed. “I am so sorry that they never caught the bastard who did this to you. I’m so sorry that I tried to forget. But mostly, I’m sorry that I’m not with you.”
My reflection in the polished marble headstone showed my tears and I wiped them from my cheeks. I closed my eyes in an attempt to hold the rest back.
“I should have died with you guys that night. I should be with you. I wish I were with you,” I admitted. “Instead you left me here all alone and I don’t know what to do. After all these years I still feel lost.”
It was then that I heard it again, the strumming, which stood apart from the rustling of the wind through the surrounding trees. It grew louder and I opened my eyes, releasing a stream of crystalline tears that slipped down my cheeks. I looked back to my reflection, the moisture in my eyes making it hard to focus. I saw more than my own reflection staring back at me.
I blinked back the tears and wiped at my eyes in a panic. When I looked again I saw his black hair and blue eyes reflected next to me, beckoning to me from the marble. I spun around, expecting to see the man behind me. There was no one there. When I turned back to the headstone, the image was gone and my reflection was the only one visible.
Then I heard a whisper, as if someone was speaking low and hushed into my ear.
“You are not alone.”
I gasped and jumped up. There was no one beside me. The strumming drifted away with the breeze. I questioned myself and looked around. Did I just see him again?
When I looked back toward the church I saw an elderly man at the back door. He obliviously swept the walkway and looked up when he sensed he was being watched. He stopped his chore and, setting down his broom, walked towards me.
I turned away and blotted at the moisture in my eyes with the back of my sleeve just before the man approached then looked up and tried my best to smile. The man was in his late seventies and his face held a kind smile, his eyes the wisdom of ages. The closer he got, the more I recognized that smile.
“Why Miss Nolan, is that you? I heard you were back in town.”
I made one final swipe at my eyes. “Pastor James? Oh my gosh, I had no idea you were still here. How are you?”
Pastor James laughed. “Well, I suppose I should have retired ten years ago, but I just don’t know what else I would do with myself. My gracious child, you’ve grown up into a beautiful young woman haven’t you?”
I smiled and took the hand that he offered. “It feels like it’s been so long, and yet nothing around here seems to have changed that much. You included.”
He patted my hand with his free one. “Well, you were forced to go through a lot of changes in a short amount of time. I suspect that it’s been quite strange for you to come back here after all these years, given how you left.”
The more he spoke, the more I realized how desperately I needed to talk to someone about all of the things I was wrestling with: being back in Saluda, Gram, the house, the fact that I was hearing and seeing things. Pastor James had a welcoming way about him that made it easy for me to confide in him.
“It’s been very strange. I’ve been remembering all sorts of things that I had forgotten. Things that I tried to forget.”
Pastor James turned to my mother’s grave, still holding my hand.
“Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways and we can’t always understand it. We still have to look for what He has planned for us even in the most difficult circumstances. Coming back home was a good step. Give it some time.”
“I guess I just can’t accept that God would have planned this,” I said motioning to the graves. “What good could possibly come from it?”
He patted my hand again and his eyes met mine. “It’s not for you to understand, just for you to trust.”
I was puzzled. “Trust what exactly?”
“That He will bring you through it, and maybe in the process, bring you closer to Him.”
I sighed and let his hand go, looking again to my mother’s grave.
“I can’t see how that’s ever going to be possible. It’s been fifteen years and I still can’t find my way past it.”
Pastor James met my eyes again. “That is because you are still lost, child. You’ve let that evil man who took your parents away from you rob you of your faith as well. You’ve got to let it go, the anger. You’ve got to open your mind again, so that you can see.”
I stared at him in amazement. “That is the third time I’ve heard that said to me in one way or another since I’ve been back.”
Pastor James chuckled. “Well it seems someone is trying to tell you something.”
“But what does it mean, to open your mind to see?”
“It means that sometimes you have to look past yourself, look past what is right in front of you, in order to see the bigger picture. All you see right now is finality in your parent’s death, but nothing is final if you believe. Open your mind to the impossible, and you just might see Him . . . that He’s been with you this whole time.” He pointed to the heavens. “All things are possible in Him.”
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the certificate and unfolded it, handing Pastor James the drawing and he studied it with curiosity.
“Does this mean anything to you; this man I drew after my baptism? I found it in a box full of old things. I can barely remember drawing it.”
He smiled at it as his mind conjured the memory. “Why I remember when you drew this picture. You were all lit up from inside after your baptism. You went on and on about the angel you saw in the water. You were only under for a second, but you came out of that pool with the biggest smile on your face. You drew this picture to show your mother what he looked like. Such a creative mind . . .”
I pointed to the words I had scribbled that morning. “And what about this? Does this mean anything?”
“Illumina, custody, rege et gube’rna,” he read aloud. “Well it’s Latin for sure. Let me see . . . to light and guard, to rule and guide. Why it’s an old, Catholic prayer, a part of the Guardian Angel prayer, I believe.”
“The Guardian Angel prayer?”
“Yes, I remember it well now. I took a few classes on Catholicism in seminary. The prayers were my favorite, this one especially. Let me see if I can remember the whole thing . . .”
He thought for a minute before going on. “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God’s love commits me here. Ever this day be at my side, to light and guard . . .”
“To rule and guide,” I finished.
“Amen.”
My heart began to race. “Would you think I was crazy if I told you I’ve been seeing this man? The same man I saw as a kid? Well, not really seeing him, but more like glimpses of him? The strangest part is, I feel like I know him. Like he’s . . .”
“Watching over you?
”
“Yes. It’s like that exactly,” I cried. “Am I going crazy?”
“Well, there are many, especially in the Catholic church, who believe that we are each appointed a guardian angel upon baptism. I wouldn’t say you are crazy, child. I would say you’ve been blessed with a gift. You should embrace it.”
“A gift?” I asked, my hands trembling.
“The gift of sight.” He smiled.
I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”
In the distance a car honked its horn twice and Pastor James waved to where it parked in the lot.
“Open your mind,” he whispered. “With Him, anything is possible.”
I looked up at him dazed. He gave an apologetic smile.
“Now I’m afraid I have to be getting along. That would be my grandson to take me to lunch. Feel free to stay as long as you like, though it looks like a storm’s brewing. It was such a blessing to see you again Miss Nolan. Please don’t be a stranger.”
I smiled at him despite the turmoil churning inside of my mind.
“I won’t. It was great to see you again. Thank you so much for talking with me. It meant more than I can say.”
“Well now, that’s what I’m here for.” He bowed and turned and walked back across the churchyard.
Turning, I stared blankly into my mother’s headstone, searching for . . . what? Had there really been a man there? Maybe I was cracking under the pressure of being back home. His face had been so clear in my dream, in the water. Maybe it wasn’t just a dream. Maybe it was a memory. But could it really be possible?
“To light and guard, rule and guide,” I repeated.
But what of my other dreams; the reoccurring ones about the night Mom and Gary were killed? Had he been there the night of the accident too? It was coming back to me: I had seen him, beside me in the dark. I heard him. He told me to sink into the seat that I was trapped under, rather than try to get out. Doing that had saved my life. He had saved my life.
Impossible, I thought.
It was nothing more than a self defense mechanism, a hallucination brought on by the traumatic event. That had to be it. The problem with that theory though, was that I was starting to remember that he had been with me long before that night.
