Kissed by an Angel

by Элизабет Чандлер

"No way," said Tristan.

  "In short, you have to adopt the radio's point of view, and then you slip right in."

  "You obviously don't know the way Beth's mind works," said Tristan. "You've never seen her stories. She writes these torrid romances."

  "Oh… you mean the kind where the lover stares longingly at his beloved, his eyes soulful, his heart aching so that he cannot see or hear anyone else?"

  "Exactly."

  She tilted back her head and smirked. "You're right. You and Beth are certainly different."

  Tristan didn't say anything.

  "If you really loved Ivy, you'd try. I'm sure the lovers in Beth's stories wouldn't let a little challenge like this stop them."

  "How about Philip?" said Tristan. "He's Ivy's brother. And he can see me shimmering."

  "Ah! You've found a believer," she said.

  "A radio, I'm sure," Tristan told her.

  "Not necessarily. There's no real connection between believing and being a radio."

  "Can't we try him first?"

  "Sure, we can waste time," she said, and slipped inside the house.

  Philip was in the kitchen making microwave brownies. On the counter next to his bowl were a few sticky baseball cards and a catalogue opened to a picture of kids' mountain bikes. Tristan was confident. This was a point of view he knew well.

  "Stay behind him," Lacey advised. "If he notices your glow, it will distract him. He'll start searching and trying to understand. He'll focus outward so hard that he won't be open to letting anything else in."

  Actually, staying behind Philip helped in other ways. Tristan read the box directions over Philip's shoulder. He thought about what step he should do next and how the brownies would smell as they baked, how they would taste, warm and crumbly, just out of the oven. He wanted to lick the spoon, with its raw, runny chocolate. Philip did lick it.

  Tristan knew who he was, and at the same time he was someone else too, the way he'd felt sometimes when reading a good story. This was easy. "Philip, it's me-" Wham! Tristan reeled backward, as if he had walked into a glass wall. He hadn't seen it, had been totally unaware of it, till it slammed him in the face. For a few moments, he was stunned.

  "It can get pretty rough sometimes," Lacey said, observing him. "I guess it's clear to you now.

  Philip doesn't want you in."

  "But I was his friend."

  "He doesn't know it's you."

  "If he'd let me talk to him, then he would know," Tristan argued.

  "It doesn't work that way," she said. "I warned you. I'm getting good at telling radios from non-radios. You can try him again, but he'll be ready for you this time, and it will be even tougher. You don't want a radio who fights you. Let's try Beth."

  Tristan paced around. "Why don't you try Beth?"

  "Sorry."

  "But"-he thought fast-"you're such a great actress, Lacey. That's why this kind of thing comes easily to you. An actress's job is to take on a role. The really great ones, like you, don't just imitate. No, they become the other person. That's why you do it so well."

  "Nice try," she said. "But Beth is your radio to the one you're messaging. You have to do it yourself. That's just the way it works."

  "It never seems to work the way I want it to," he complained.

  "You've noticed that too," she remarked. "I assume you know how to get up to your lady's bower."

  Tristan led the way to Ivy's bedroom. The door was open a crack. Ella, who was still following them, nudged it open and entered; they passed through the walls.

  Suzanne was sitting in front of Ivy's mirror, rifling through an open jewelry box, trying on Ivy's necklaces and earrings. Ivy was sprawled out on her bed, reading a sheaf of papers-one of Beth's stories, Tristan figured. Beth was pacing around the room.

  "At least get yourself a jewel-encrusted pencil," Suzanne said, "if you're going to continue to wear it in your hair like that."

  Beth reached up to the knot of hair wound high on her head and plucked out a pencil. "I forgot."

  "You're getting worse and worse, Beth."

  "It's just all so interesting. Courtney swears her little sister is telling the truth. And when some of the guys went back to the chapel, they found one of the girls' sweaters hung high up on a sconce."

  "The girls themselves could have thrown it up there," Suzanne pointed out.

  "Mmm. Maybe," Beth said, and pulled a notebook out of her purse.

  Lacey turned to Tristan. "There's your entrance. She's thinking about this morning. Couldn't have been laid out easier for you."

  Beth rolled her pencil back and forth between her fingers. Tristan moved close to her. Guessing that she was trying to picture the scene, he recalled the way the chapel had looked, moving from the bright light outside into its tall shadowiness. He saw the girls settling themselves in the altar area. Beth's stories always had a million details. He recalled the crumbling debris on the floor and imagined how the damp stone might feel beneath the girls' bare legs, how their skin might prickle if a draft came through the broken window, or how they'd twitch if they thought they felt a spider on their legs.

  He was in the scene, slipping out of himself and into- Whoa! She didn't slam down like Philip, but he was pushed back swiftly and firmly. Beth stood up, moved several feet away, and looked back at the spot where she had been writing.

  "Does she see me?" Tristan asked Lacey. "Does she see my glow?"

  "I don't think so-she's not paying any attention to mine. But she knows something's going on.

  You came on too strong."

  "I was trying to think the way she would think, giving her some details. She loves details."

  "You rushed her. She knows it doesn't feel right. Back off a little."

  But Beth started writing then, describing the girls in the circle. Some of his details were there-whether by his suggestion or her own creation, he wasn't sure-but he couldn't resist pushing further.

  Slam! This time it came down hard, so hard that Tristan actually fell backward.

  "I warned you," said Lacey.

  "Beth, you are as nervous as a cat," Suzanne said.

  Ivy looked up from her story. "As nervous as Ella? She's been acting really funny lately."

  Lacey shook her finger at Tristan. "Listen to me. You've got to go easy. Imagine Beth is a house and you're a thief breaking in. You have to take your time. You have to creep. Find what you need in the basement, in her unconscious, but don't disturb the person living upstairs. Got it?"

  He got it, but he was reluctant to try again. The strength of Beth's mind and the directness of her blow was much greater than Philip's.

  Tristan felt frustrated, unable to send the simplest message to Ivy. She was so close, so close, yet… He could pass his hand through hers, but never touch. Lie next to her, but never comfort.

  Say a line to make her smile, but never be heard. He had no place in her life now, and perhaps that was better for her, but it was life in death for him.

  "Wow!" said Beth. "Wow-if I do say so myself! How's this for the first line of a story: 'He had no place in her life now, and perhaps that was better for her, but it was life in death for him.'" Tristan saw the words on the page as if he were holding the notebook in his own hands. And when Beth turned to gaze at the picture of him on Ivy's bureau, he turned, too.

  If only you knew, he thought

  "'If only,'" she wrote. "If only, if only, if only…" She seemed to be stuck.

  "That is a good beginning," Ivy said, setting aside the typed story. "What comes after it?"

  "'If only.'" "If only what?" Suzanne asked.

  "I don't know," Beth said.

  Tristan saw the room through her eyes, how pretty it was, how Ella was staring at her, how Suzanne and Ivy exchanged glances, then shrugged.

  If only Ivy knew how I love her. He thought the words as clearly as possible.

  "'If only I freed-'" She stopped writing and frowned. He could feel the puzzlement like a crease in his own mind.

&n
bsp; "Ivy, Ivy, Ivy," he said. "If only Ivy."

  "Beth, you look so pale," Ivy observed. "Are you okay?"

  Beth blinked several times. "It's as if someone else is making up words for me."

  Suzanne made little whistling sounds.

  "I am not cuckoo!" said Beth.

  Ivy walked over to Beth and looked into her eyes; she gazed straight in at him. But he knew she didn't see.

  "'But she didn't see,'" Beth wrote. Then she scratched out and rewrote, reading aloud as she went:

  '"He had no place in her life, and perhaps that was best for her, but it was a miserable life in death for him. If only she'd free… him from his prison of love. But she didn't know, didn't see the key that was in her hands only-' Beth lifted her pencil for a moment. "I'm on a roll now!" she exclaimed.

  She started writing again. "'In her gentle, loving, caring, caressing, hands, in hands that held, that healed, that hoped-'" Oh, come on, thought Tristan.

  "Shut up," Beth answered him.

  "What?" said Ivy, her eyes opening wide.

  "You're glowing."

  Everyone turned to look at Philip, who was standing outside Ivy's door.

  "You're glowing, Beth," Philip said.

  Ivy turned away. "Philip, I told you I don't want to hear any more about that."

  "About me glowing?" Beth asked.

  "He's into this angel stuff," Ivy explained. "He claims he sees colors and things, and thinks they're angels. I can't stand it anymore! I don't want to hear it anymore! How many times do I have to tell you that?"

  Hearing her words, Tristan lost heart. His effort had taken him well past exhaustion; hope was all that had been sustaining him. Now that was gone.

  Beth jerked her head, and he was outside of her once more. Philip kept his eyes on Tristan, following him as he joined Lacey.

  "Gee," said Suzanne, winking at Beth, "I wonder where Philip learned about angels."

  "They've helped you in the past, Ivy," Beth said gently. "Why can't they help him now?"

  "They didn't help me!" Ivy exclaimed. "If angels were real, if angels were our guardians, Tristan would be alive! But he's gone. How can I still believe in angels?"

  Her hands were curled into two tight fists. The stormy look in her eyes had become an intense green, burning with certainty, the certainty that there were no angels.

  Tristan felt as if he were dying all over again.

  Suzanne looked at Beth and shrugged. Philip said nothing. Tristan saw that familiar set in his jaw.

  "He's a stubborn little bugger," Lacey remarked.

  Tristan nodded. Philip was still believing. Tristan let himself hope just a little.

  Then Ivy pulled a plastic bag out of her trash can. She started clearing off her shelves of angels.

  "Ivy, no!"

  But his words wouldn't stop her.

  Philip tugged on her arm. "Can I have them?"

  She ignored him.

  "Can I have them, Ivy?"

  Tristan heard the glass breaking inside the bag. Her hand moved steadily, relentlessly down the line, but she hadn't touched Tony or the water angel yet.

  "Please, Ivy."

  At last she stopped. "All right. You can have them," she said, "but you have to promise me, Philip, that you will never speak to me about angels again."

  Philip looked up thoughtfully at the last two angels. "Okay. But what if-" "No," she said firmly. "That's the deal.' He carefully took down Tony and the water angel. "I promise."

  Tristan's heart sank.

  When Philip had left, Ivy said, "It's getting late. The others will be here soon. I'd better change."

  "I'll help you pick out something," Suzanne said.

  "No. Go on down. I'll be with you in a few minutes."

  "But you know how I like to pick out clothes for you-" "We're going," Beth said, pushing Suzanne toward the door. "Take all the time you want, Ivy. If the guys get here, we'll stall." She pulled the door closed behind Suzanne.

  Ivy looked across her room at the photograph of Tristan. She stood as still as a statue, tears running down her cheeks.

  Lacey said softly, "Tristan, you need to rest now. There's nothing you can do until you rest."

  But he could not leave Ivy. He put his arms around her. She slipped through him and moved toward the bureau, taking the picture in her hands. He wrapped her in his arms again, but she only cried harder.

  Then Ella was set lightly on the bureau top. Lacey's hands had done it. The cat rubbed up against Ivy's head.

  "Oh, Ella. I don't know how to let go of him."

  "Don't let go," Tristan begged.

  "In the end, she must," Lacey warned.

  "I've lost him, Ella, I know it. Tristan is dead. He can't hold me ever again. He can't think of me.

  He can't want me now. Love ends with death."

  "It doesn't!" Tristan said. "I'll hold you again, I swear it, and you'll see that my love will never end."

  "You're exhausted, Tristan," Lacey told him.

  "I'll hold you, I'll love you forever!"

  "If you don't rest now," Lacey said, "you'll become even more confused. It'll be hard to tell real from unreal, or to rouse yourself out of the darkness. Tristan, listen to me… "

  But before she finished speaking, the darkness overtook him.

  Chapter 16

  "Well," said Suzanne as the group of them filed out of the movie theater, "in the last few weeks, I think we've seen at least as many films as Siskel and Ebert."

  "I'm not sure they went to see that one," Will observed.

  "It's the only flick I've liked so far," Eric said. "Can't wait till they do Bloodbath IV."

  Gregory glanced over at Ivy. She turned her head.

  Ivy was the one who suggested a movie whenever someone told her she needed to get out, which was often lately. If it had been up to her, she'd sit through a triple feature. Occasionally she lost herself in the story, but even if she didn't, it was a way of looking sociable without having to talk. Unfortunately, the easiest part of the evening was over now. Ivy winced when they came out of the cinema's cool, dark otherworld and into the hot, neon-lit night.

  "Pizza?" Gregory asked.

  "I could use a drink," said Suzanne.

  "Well, Gregory's buying, since he wouldn't let me stock the trunk," Eric told her.

  "Gregory's buying pizza," Gregory said.

  More and more, Ivy thought, Gregory was coming to resemble a camp counselor, shepherding around this odd flock of people, acting responsible. It was a wonder that Eric put up with it-but she knew that Gregory, Will, and Eric still had their own nights out, nights with wilder girls and guys.

  On these group dates Ivy played a game with herself, seeing how long she could go without thinking about Tristan, or at least without missing him terribly. She worked at paying attention to those around her. Life went on for them, even if it didn't for her.

  That night they headed for Celentano's, a popular pizza parlor. Their chairs wobbled and the tablecloths were squares of torn-off paper-Crayons and Pencils Provided, a sign said-but the owners, Pat and Dennis, were gourmet all the way. Beth, who loved anything with chocolate, adored their famous dessert pizzas.

  "What's it going to be tonight?" Gregory teased her. "Brownies and cheese?"

  Beth smiled, two pink streaks showing high in her cheeks. Part of Beth's prettiness was her openness, Ivy thought, her way of smiling at you without holding back.

  "I'm getting something different. Something healthy. I've got it! Brie with apricots and shavings of bitter chocolate!"

  Gregory laughed and laid his hand lightly on Beth's shoulder. Ivy thought back to the time when she had been mystified by some of Gregory's comments and convinced that he could only mock her and her friends.

  But now she found him pretty easy to figure out. Like his father, he had a temper and he needed to be appreciated. At the moment, both Beth and Suzanne were appreciating him, Suzanne watching him more shrewdly, glancing over the top of her menu.

>   "All I want is pepperoni," Eric complained. "Just pepperoni." He was running his finger up and down and across the list of pizzas, up and down and across, like a frustrated mouse that couldn't find its way out of a maze.

  Will had apparently made up his mind. His menu was closed and he had begun drawing on the paper tablecloth in front of him.

  "Well, Rembrandt returns," said Pat, passing by their table, nodding toward Will. "Here for lunch three times this week," she explained to the others. "I'd like to think it's our cooking, but I know it's the free art materials."

  Will gave her a smile, but it was more with his eyes, which were deep brown, than with his mouth. His lips turned up slightly at just one corner of his mouth.

  He was not easy to figure out, thought Ivy.

  "O'Leary," said Eric when the owner had passed by, "have you got the hots for Pat, or what?"

  "Likes those older women," Gregory teased. "One at UCLA, one doing Europe instead of college…"

  "You're kidding," said Suzanne, obviously impressed.

  Will glanced up. "We're friends," he said, and continued sketching. "And I work next door, at the photo lab."

  That was news to Ivy. None of Gregory's friends had real jobs.

  "Will did that portrait of Pat," Gregory told the girls.

  It was tacked up on the wall, a piece of cheap paper worked over with wax crayons. But it was Pat all right, with her straight, soft hair and hazel eyes and generous mouth-he had found her beauty.

  "You're really good," said Ivy.

  Will's eyes flicked up and held hers for a second, then he continued his drawing. For the life of her she didn't know if he was trying to be cool or if he was just shy.

  "You know, Will," said Beth, "Ivy keeps wondering if you're really cool or just shy."

  Will blinked.

  "Beth!" said Ivy. "Where did that come from?"

  "Well, haven't you wondered it? Oh, well, maybe it was Suzanne. Maybe it was me. I don't know, Ivy, my mind's a muddle. I've had a kind of headache since I left your house. I think I need caffeine."

  Gregory laughed. "That chocolate pizza should do the job."

  "For the record," Will said to Beth, "I'm not really cool."