Now, exhausted from being sick and then moving (unexpectedly by myself with no help from my now ex-boyfriend), not to mention it’s midterm week, I swig down another gulp of cough syrup and finally collapse onto my thoughtfully relocated bed and sleep surprisingly soundly. When I awake, in the middle of the night, I am frightened by something, or maybe it’s just a bad dream or even my new surroundings. But that’s when she speaks to me again.
“You’ll be okay, Alice,” she says in that same honey-coated voice. I sleepily realize that it reminds me of my mom’s Aunt Miriam back in North Carolina. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you.”
Even so, my heart pounds as I fumble to find the light switch on the wall, but I quickly discover that the light bulb is missing. So I peer into the darkness until I think I can see her standing by the window, like a dimly lit shadow. She leans against the wall with her arms folded neatly across her chest.
“Who are you?” I ask, blinking in surprise. Now I’m certain that I closed and locked my door. But then I wonder if perhaps I am still asleep and just dreaming this whole thing. It seems very surreal.
“I’m Amelia. I’m here to help.”
“Help?” I shake my head sharply.
She nods. “I’ve been sent.”
“Sent?”
Now, even though I was raised in a fairly conservative—what some people call an overly religious—home, I really believe I left all that far behind me long ago. Or so I like to think. And yet—like a flash from my fundamentalist past—it occurs to me that this Amelia chick might actually be an angel sent down from God. I vaguely recall talk about guardian angels from my childhood. I’m sure it was my mom who told me of such beings, most likely trying to coax me back to sleep after some terrible nightmare. I had plenty as a child. Traumatized, I usually hotfooted it to my parents’ bedroom and tugged on my mom’s pillow, wishing that I’d be invited to sleep with them. But Mom would take my hand and walk me back to my bed. Then she would kneel down and pray with me, asking God to take my demons away, and I’m sure she must’ve mentioned something about a special angel who would watch over me while I slept.
But I had completely forgotten all about such things until this night when I meet Amelia. And for whatever reason I begin to think that Amelia might possibly be my guardian angel. I know it sounds strange. But sometimes life is like that. Now, does this change the way I perceive God? Not much, at least not yet. I still view God—if there truly is a God, and I’m not convinced—as a distant and often angry father who mostly does not want to be bothered. Not unlike my own father before he passed away shortly after I started college. Maybe he’s up there still reading his newspaper and sent Amelia in his place to help me out.
Anyway, my eyes adjust to the lack of light as I study this new apparition now seated on a box marked “shoes and stuff,” and I’m thinking she doesn’t look much like an angel. If anything, Amelia resembles a has-been country singer with her big brown hairdo and red gingham blouse tucked into too tight jeans and her outfit complete with pointed-toe cowboy boots—sort of like Loretta Lynn back in the seventies. I know this because of an album cover in my parents’ dusty old record collection. For some reason they kept all their vinyl LPS in an apple crate in a closet under the stairway even long after the FM stereo had been removed from our house. I think my dad believed that all music was sinful back then. But I discovered that the records were an odd mix of country and pop and gospel, although I felt fairly certain that the religious titles reigned supreme since they were always stacked proudly in front, as if to conceal the more shameful titles lurking in the back.
Sometimes my dad punished me for coloring on the table or some such childish act of indiscretion or rebellion, and I was sent to the stairway closet to “consider the gravity of my transgressions.” He thought the darkness would impress me with the significance of “walking in the light.” But as soon as my dad’s footsteps faded away, I would pull the cord on the overhead light bulb and then entertain myself by thumbing through the stack of funky old albums. I studied the faces of singers from the sixties and seventies, and in time they became familiar, like old friends to me. I suppose I must’ve spent a fair amount of time in that closet. But Loretta Lynn was always my favorite. Her smile seemed so genuine and warm. And I thought she probably gave good hugs.
I glance back over to where Amelia was sitting and discover she’s not there anymore. But this does not strike me as odd. In fact, I quickly accept that she’s just like that. She comes and goes at will. Not unlike my old roommate Chelsea. But I must give it to Amelia; she’s right there when I need her. She wanders in and out but always seems to show up when I need support or comfort. So, I tell myself, even if Amelia doesn’t exactly look like an angel, her voice is kind and comforting, just like you expect an angel’s to be. And for the most part she seems dependable enough. Not to mention thoughtful and helpful, and since I enjoy her companionship, I take to listening to her.
“Alice,” she warns me after a few days, “you need to be more careful. There are people out there who want to hurt you. Don’t let your guard down. You need to be on the lookout for them.”
“What people?” I ask. “Here in the building? Where?”
She narrows her eyes. “Just you watch out, honey.”
It sounds crazy, but I take Amelia at her word, and I begin watching out. And sure enough, she is absolutely right. I do begin to notice people out there who like to follow me around, people who talk meanly about me and even threaten me with bodily harm. It doesn’t take long before I realize they may want to kill me too. At first I think it’s only my ex-boyfriend, Shay. I see him everywhere, lurking in the shadows, ducking down an alley, and always, always watching me with those dark, sinister eyes. His little girlfriend, Kiki, sneaks along with him, whispering what a terrible person I am and how Shay should have broken up with me long ago. Soon I realize that he sneaks into my apartment at night sometimes and says mean, hateful things to me. But it’s not long before I realize there are others, too. The man down the hall. A woman in my psychology class. The teenager who works at the corner market.
Amelia shows me ways to protect myself. First I stack the boxes (the ones I haven’t unpacked) like a fortress wall, all around my bed. It makes me feel safer, more secure. And then I use all my pushpins from my bulletin board to hang my unzipped sleeping bag over my only window to keep people from looking through the flimsy miniblinds that anyone can see do absolutely no good to protect me from prying eyes. It doesn’t matter that my studio is on the second floor because I know someone, especially someone as athletic as Shay, can easily scale that brick wall if he really wants. I am certain he might be inclined to just hang there on the ledge, to peer in and watch me.
I continue going to classes at first. But I keep a constant, vigilant watch, always looking over my shoulder. And following Amelia’s sage advice, I begin to layer on articles of clothing, just in case I need to make a quick getaway. They keep me warm and secure and help me disguise myself from the growing number of people after me.
One morning on the way to class I run into Chelsea, my old roommate from the dorm. “How are you doing in your new place?” she asks in what I’m sure she hopes is an innocent sounding voice. Amelia has warned me to trust no one, especially those who used to be my closest friends.
“Why?” I study her with open suspicion. Has Shay sent her to spy on me? Has he asked her to check on my whereabouts? Is she his new girlfriend?
She acts like she doesn’t understand my question. “I just wondered how it was going is all.”
“Everything’s cool,” I snap, glancing past her to see if that’s Shay hiding behind the maple tree in front of the library.
“Are you okay, Alice?” I sense her penetrating gaze, as if she’s trying to strip away something, to see beneath the layers of my protective clothing to the hidden places inside me.
“I’m fine.” I turn and hurry away. But somehow I know she’s following me. I run a zigzag path
, just to throw her off, before I return to my apartment. I don’t go to classes for the rest of that day. Or the next.
“Chelsea is telling everyone that you’re crazy,” Amelia informs me later that week. “You can’t trust her anymore.”
“I know,” I reply. “Shay probably set her up.”
“He wants to hurt you, Alice. Shay thinks you know too much.”
I want to escape everyone and everything that has to do with school now. I want to fill my backpack with a few important things and just get out of this place altogether—and never look back. But fear is confusing. It tears you in two. Half of you wants to run far, far away, but the other half is paralyzed, frozen, immovable. And the hard part is that you never know which half is going to win.
chapter THREE
The Golden Key
As a child, I always wanted to be special. Not as in “special” like Mikey Randall, the boy who had to be “specially” tutored at SCCS (Salvation Christian Center School). But I wanted to be noticed, to be somebody that mattered. I used to fantasize about it, imagining myself as someone famous or smart or beautiful—or even better, all three. Of course, I knew this was “sinful thinking” since most of the congregation at Salvation Center thrived upon a sense of “pious humility” both in spirit and in appearances, and any form of self-promotion or personal importance was highly frowned upon.
I still remember the Sunday when Mrs. Price wore a bright red dress to church, with shoulder pads and everything. Scandalous! Oh, I don’t think anyone actually said anything—if they did it was whispered between the pews. But the scathing glances that poor woman got. Being about ten years old and a secret admirer of fashion, I thought she looked absolutely lovely and wished my mother had the nerve to dress like that.
That was probably about the same era that I secretly imagined myself starring in a film. Not that I’d ever been inside a theater. Movies were strictly prohibited by our church, as was television. Hollywood was considered the devil’s domain, and no self-respecting Christian would be caught dead watching anything so worldly and carnal.
When I was in seventh grade and still attending SCCS, I sneaked into a movie with Jenny Lund, my most rebellious and adventuresome friend. I can’t even recall the title now, and I was so nervous at being discovered that it was hard to concentrate fully, but I do remember it starred Meg Ryan, and I thought she was wonderful. And I saw nothing inherently evil or even sensational about the movie. Not like I’d expected anyway. I suppose it was a bit of a letdown. Although the damage was done, and I was hooked on Hollywood.
Unfortunately the opportunities for sneaking out were few and far between, and by ninth grade Jenny was kicked out of SCCS for smoking, and her parents left the church in shame. Naturally I was forbidden to associate with her. But how I envied her freedom. And by my junior year in this rigid school, I thought I was about to suffocate.
“I cannot do this anymore,” I finally told my mom. Mrs. Pike had reprimanded me that afternoon for wearing colorless lip gloss. “If I have to stay at SCCS for one more day, I will do something very regrettable.”
“What do you mean?” My mother looked horrified.
“Whatever it takes to get kicked out,” I said with false confidence. “And I’ll make it bad enough to ensure they never let me back in.”
Somehow she believed me, and afraid I’m sure of public humiliation, she managed to convince my father to allow me this liberty. Of course, it came with a severe warning—any trouble and I would be doing homeschool. Now there’s a threat with some teeth to it. Also, I was expected to keep my grades up. But looking back, I think my dad was secretly relieved to save the tuition money, and it wasn’t long before my little brother was released from his bondage too.
Anyway, I didn’t disappoint them. Being the odd duck, misfit, nerdy new girl in high school, I managed to maintain a perfect GPA right up until graduation. I could’ve been a candidate for valedictorian except that my previous ten years spent in an unaccredited private church school made me ineligible. I still remember my disappointment when the guidance counselor informed me. I thought my day had finally come to feel special, standing before Warren High School and delivering a speech worthy of my honor. My consolation prize was the offer of a state scholarship. And I suppose that made me feel special, but it didn’t feel nearly as spectacular as being valedictorian or, say, a star of stage or screen.
Not that I necessarily think I have any great theatrical skills. But during my last three years at college, I made up for lost time by seeing a couple of hundred movies. I think I’ve become something of a film expert in the process. Shay was a movie buff too and would get so stoked whenever I saw a really good flick for the first time. Being an impoverished student, I lived on a miserly budget, so most of these films have been watched on videos or late night TV. But I really prefer the theater experience with the sticky crushed-velvet seats and smell of stale popcorn.
Still, I must admit to having felt a bit guilty about this “carnal and forbidden” activity at first, but before long I realized it was simply a necessary facet of my education. I had lived in a cultural vacuum for so long that I was somewhat out of touch with reality. Not that Hollywood is reality. Maybe that’s why I like it so much. Maybe I want to escape from all this reality. And I can admit that I sometimes overly connect with the main characters. After seeing Gone With the Wind for the first time, I went around talking like Scarlett O’Hara for three days. I guess it just made me feel special. “With God as my witness, I will never go hungry again!” I was actually pretty good.
And perhaps this need to feel special makes it even easier to believe I’ve finally been chosen. Although I’m not exactly sure what it is I’ve been chosen for. Or even who I’ve been chosen by, but I’m beginning to suspect it might be God. As I recall, it was Amelia who implied this to start with, but as days go by, it seems quite plausible. More and more I begin to believe that God is for real and that he is actually speaking to me personally. I know he is preparing me for something quite big and important. For the first time I really do feel special.
It’s as if I’ve been given a golden key that will open any door set before me.
Not long after receiving this revelation, I begin to read my old Bible. I am actually quite surprised to discover that I still have it and that I can find it. But this morning I wake up before sunrise, and I head straight for a Nike shoebox that must be left over from my brother Aaron’s big feet since he’s the only one in our family who’s ever worn a size thirteen and has since the eighth grade. My mother insisted I bring this shoebox full of useless books to college with me, but for three years I managed to shelve the dog-eared shoebox and nearly forget it.
But today I get up and am energized. It’s as if the air is charged with power and light, and I believe I am having a true revelation. I am amazed at how I tumble out of bed and head straight for that box, almost like I have radar in my fingertips. I open the orange box to discover the Bible on top of some other religious books that my mother assumed I couldn’t live without. I rub my hand over the smooth-grained cowhide cover and breathe it in. It smells just like Sunday school. I open it to find the pages soft and feathery—almost edible. This Bible was presented to me in third grade, and I remember how proud I was to stand at the front of the church with the other third graders. Our whole class filed by, one by one, with solemn maturity, except for Timothy Bevins, who wet himself and had to be excused, as we soberly received “God’s Word” from Pastor John.
Naturally, I hadn’t read the Bible for years, not since I quit going to church with my parents shortly after my high school graduation. My second form of open rebellion. My father didn’t react as strongly as I’d expected, but then I think perhaps he, like me, was beginning to question some things as well. My mother was beside herself. I’m sure she checked the sky on a regular basis to see if a lightning bolt was aimed toward our house. I know that she and her church friends prayed for me daily, probably with sackcloth and ashes, w
hich is not an exaggeration.
It was such a relief to leave Warren and escape the heavy oppression of Salvation Center. I’ve become quite an expert at reasons for not going home. Other than my father’s funeral and my brother’s graduation from high school, I’ve managed to keep a safe distance from my old world. I always take a few summer classes and work summer jobs just to avoid it. Even now, I find myself somewhat amazed and slightly frightened that I am actually handling this old Bible again and without being forced to. But the pull is so strong.
So I open it up, on this golden morning of revelation, allowing the pages to fall as they will, like waves when Moses parted the Red Sea. I know I’m in the Old Testament, the book of Jeremiah. And I know from years of Sunday school and church that this man is a prophet. But I don’t remember much more than that. Sheltered by my walls of boxes, and with my window shrouded against the rising sun, I begin to read.
I quickly discover that this is unlike any reading I’ve ever done. Suddenly everything is crystal clear. Inspired. The meaning seems plain to me, incredibly obvious—as if God is speaking to me personally. As if he’s standing before me and holding out the golden key of complete and perfect knowledge. He is giving me the secret of understanding it all.
I begin to record all my profound thoughts in my computer word-processing program. I sit there for hours and hours, just writing line after line of the prophet’s true meaning and how it relates to the state of the world at present. There’s so much that has to do with the Middle East and our lifestyle in America and many symbols of water, fire, destruction, and rebirth. I write page after page, creating new documents as needed, and a whole new file system to contain them—all safely stored in my computer under a secret name with a secret code that only I can access.
During the days to come, this writing becomes my obsession. It is my calling. I no longer attend classes. I have no need to further my education. I now hold the key to all knowledge, to all that is important. God is giving me the answers, and I intend to write them all down. I am certain that my words will be published someday, probably within the month, and then everyone on the planet will know the real truth. And they will also know that I am special—chosen. I imagine myself being interviewed on the Today show.
Finding Alice Page 2
