The Gift of Angels

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “I still don’t want to do this.” My son’s voice was a whisper, and tears threatened to spill from his reddened eyes.

  “I know.” Truthfully, I didn’t know how I could do it, though somehow I would. But how could I help my son? He meant more to me than any bit of life I had left.

  “How can I help you?” Brody asked, beating me to the question.

  I smiled, wishing I had an answer for both of us. “Just keep being yourself. Keep working at your goals. Keep being an example to Marie.”

  He looked disappointed, and I knew it wasn’t enough. I shifted my position, trying to buy time. My hand fell on the scriptures.

  “There is something you could do,” I said in a burst of inspiration. “You can help me find a way to pitch my tent toward the Lord. Pitching our tent toward the Lord will make it easier not to look back. I’m not sure exactly how to go about doing it, but I’m sure the answers are in here”—I lifted my scriptures—“if we knew where to look.”

  His brow creased as he considered my request. Then he nodded, and I knew it was what he’d needed: a puzzle, something to research and resolve.

  I let a few heartbeats pass between us before I asked softly, “Where’s Marie? Do you know?”

  He shook his head. “She left right after we read the stuff on the Internet. She was upset. I told her to come up here with me, but she ran outside. Brent was there. I could go find her.”

  “Maybe we should give her a little time. It’s been a shock. She’ll come around.”

  “What if she does something stupid?”

  I understood completely. Too often when Marie was upset, she acted before she thought, and now I had a vision of her running across a road and being hit by a car. Of her going to Becki’s and driving somewhere with one of Becki’s questionable boyfriends. Perhaps making a terrible mistake that would affect her entire future.

  No. I thought. We are not looking back. I refuse to dwell on the bad.

  I remembered Alma and the power of prayer. We would pray for her now. Taking my son’s hand, I looked into his eyes. “Don’t worry. An angel will be there for her. An angel who will keep her safe and bring her home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Marie wasn’t the only one who ran away. The day after my mother’s funeral, I had also left home. Strangely, running away was what saved me.

  After my mother died, I had gone a little crazy. I had driven too fast, had run with the wrong crowd. I’d even tried alcohol. My father drank a little himself in the past, so I justified my actions, though I knew my mother would have been horrified.

  My father, seeped in his grief over the light that had gone out in our lives, was too blind to notice anything I did. Where before he was always the one calling me down from my room so we could get to church on time, after the accident, neither of us got out of bed. I knew then it had really been my mother who had made us both go. Without her, we didn’t care.

  My older sister once told me that my father had changed his ways to marry my mother. She’d been engaged to a returned missionary, but she’d fallen in love with my dad instead, and he’d come back to church so she would marry him. Their life together had been happy, but not easy, with his tendency to drink and her struggle with depression. Or maybe one caused the other. But which one? I only knew my father hadn’t touched a drop in years before my mother died, but she had still suffered from depression.

  I got the alcohol from my mother’s things. She had been a wedding planner, and sometimes people gifted her with wine. She always threw it away, without bringing it home where it might tempt my father, but this bottle was buried in a box in the basement, long forgotten. I’d gone there to be close to her, but all I found were sample books filled with invitations, color swatches, menus, and a million other bits of wedding paraphernalia. There was nothing of my mother there, though she had spent much time with couples, poring over those same samples.

  Sometimes after she’d helped people, she would come home and stare absently at the books by herself. “What’s wrong?” I’d ask, worried that this would signal an onset of an emotional crash.

  She’d shake her head. “They’re all wrong for each other. It’s not going to last.”

  I never knew her to be wrong, but I hated every time she was right because hearing about one of the marriages failing always caused her to sink into depression. Once I’d asked her why, but she’d only replied, “They said I’d regret marrying your father, that we wouldn’t make it, but we’re still together. I love your father very much.”

  If marriage was a struggle for them, life was a struggle for my mother, but they were making it, and they were mostly happy. If it hadn’t been for the imbalance in her system and the dreadful mistake that day, I had no doubt they would still be together.

  On the day I ran away, my sister, long married and gone from our house, had come to check up on me since my father wasn’t doing much of that, and she found me in the basement drinking right from the bottle. She took the wine and dumped it down the drain. Though I begged her not to, she went to call my dad, and when I threatened to leave, she confiscated my car keys.

  Furious, I slammed out of the house, vowing to never return.

  Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—I left my purse and had no money or clothes except those I was wearing. It was late March and still freezing at night, though the days were mild. After staying in the nearby park an hour, I went to one of my friend’s houses. She wasn’t home, and my other friends lived too far away to get there on foot. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to go home. I was furious with my family, especially with my mother, who had left me. They said it was an accident, but I told myself she’d really done it on purpose.

  I saw the church building. A man emerged from the doors, carrying a large box, and I managed to slip inside before he returned to lock the doors. I decided to hide until later, when I’d sneak home after my dad was sure to be asleep.

  As if he would sleep with me missing.

  I dozed in a corner of a classroom, and before I knew it, everything was dark and my stomach was growling. I curled up in a ball and cried. I felt stupid then. Everything I’d done was stupid.

  I jumped to my feet and ran outside, still not knowing what to do. The door shut behind me, and I was locked out, shivering in the cold.

  “Angela?” A flashlight fell over my face, and before I could identify the voice, I was being hugged by a woman. She was my next-door neighbor, Sister Coltrin, the lady who had constantly complained to my parents about how fast I drove, always afraid I’d hit one of her many snotty kids.

  I cried on her shoulder, shaking and feeling so much relief. She was a mom. She’d know what to do.

  “Look at you! You’re shivering.” She put her coat on me, but nothing felt as good as her hug. “Come on, let’s get to my car. It’s warmer there. We need to get you home. The whole neighborhood and the police department are out looking for you. We’ve all been worried. Especially your dad.”

  “He’s going to kill me.”

  “Why? Because you drank? Well, probably. But he still loves you. And you’ll never do it again, will you?” Her dark eyes pierced me, and I had no choice but to shake my head.

  We were quiet for a long time, and then she said, “I’m sorry, Angela. I’m really sorry about everything. I should have been a better neighbor. I’m going to be one now. You mark my words.”

  For the next year a Sunday never went by without Sister Coltrin coming to get me for church. She’d come a half hour early and wait for me, and no matter how I raged, my dad made me go with her. She’d also send her children to get me for Young Women’s, and I had to carpool with them to school since dad sold the car I’d been using, presumably to get a better one that never appeared until eighteen months later. By the time I started my senior year, Dad had returned to church, I was president of the Laurel class, and I was driving to school again, even picking up Sister Coltrin’s younger children at the junior high afterward. Along with
my grandmother and sister, Sister Coltrin was with me in the temple when I took out my endowments and was married.

  How wrong I’d been to think the Lord had left me alone. I’d had so much, really. My father, my sister, my friends, scriptures that taught sacred truths, and my beautiful neighbor, who was still out there somewhere, likely being an angel to some other wayward soul. Sister Coltrin hadn’t been perfect, had even been a little late, but in the end she’d been faithful and determined.

  She’d been an angel. My angel.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marie’s angel was Brent. He’d followed her when she ran from our house and taken her to his house, where his mother had plied her with chocolate chip cookies and sympathy—and perhaps a little chastisement, for when Marie came home she was subdued. We were all in the family room watching TV, Dean and I curled up together on the couch and Brody in my chair.

  “I’m sorry if I worried you,” she said, her eyes rimmed in red and her cheeks spotted with rashes left from her tears.

  Brody rolled his eyes. “Duh, Brent called. We weren’t worried for long.”

  Marie smiled. “How sweet of him.”

  Dean and I looked at each other, struggling not to smile. Though Brent was nice-looking under the glasses, especially now that his face was clearing up, Marie had made no secret of the fact that she thought he was a nerd.

  Brody opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head. Brent was a good crush for Marie. I trusted him more than any of the boys Marie had calling all the time. He’d be going on his mission in a year, so he was safe, more a big brother than anything else. And if she wrote to him and it became something more down the road, well, I wouldn’t object.

  * * *

  For the next two days I remained flat in bed, pain wracking my body to the point where I wondered if the chemo would kill me before the cancer did. The pain made me question all the resolutions I’d made and brought me back to the brink of despair.

  Yet I wasn’t alone during my suffering. Dean took both mornings off and worked late instead. He brought me banana and peanut butter sandwiches, cut in triangles, and warm milk in a mug. Brody came home while I was eating and sat with me. He’d all but finished the college classes he was taking through distance learning at the high school, so his schedule was now wide open in the afternoon. Marie’s watch began after school was over. She did her math at the kitchen table and then read to me from The Hiding Place. I’d read the book in high school and had bought it to read to Marie, but she hadn’t wanted to—until now.

  I listened to her expressive voice, enjoying every precious moment. Strange how when death spoke everyone listened, and everyone tried to do their best.

  Please let me live, I prayed. Please let me be here for her. I took a breath before forcing myself to add the rest. If it be Thy will. I had decided this was part of the key to pitching my tent toward the Lord—accepting His will to be what was best for all of us, for our growth and progression. That didn’t mean I couldn’t pray for a miracle, a miracle like Sarah and Abraham had experienced, but it meant I needed to continue in faith even if the miracle I wanted didn’t materialize. Despite my recent vivid experiences with the scriptures, that was difficult on a day like today.

  On the other hand, if it was the Lord’s will, I might still be healed like Betty Jones, who was probably living it up in Houston by now, rocking her grandchildren, dancing with widowers, and planning a long summer at the pool.

  That sounded a lot better than chemo and radiation.

  * * *

  Our older children responded in various ways to my announcement. My two boys and daughter who lived out of state made plans to visit in the summer. My other two daughters called every day. Sharon, who had always been the closest, both in proximity and emotion, came to my chemo appointments and asked to drive me to receive the radiation as well so Dean wouldn’t have to spend so much time away from work.

  Marie, however, became my biggest help, though she was often red-eyed and weepy. She learned to do laundry—which she’d never been able to do before despite her A average and honors classes—she did her chores better, and she made dinner a few times each week.

  The best thing was that since she now spent more time with her new friend Alison instead of Becki, I was less worried about her, though we sometimes still clashed over what she was allowed to do. Mostly, she would give in, looking at me with wide, frightened eyes, afraid that too much rebellion on her part could kill me on the spot. I might have found it amusing if it hadn’t been so close to the truth.

  It was the uncertainty, I think, that hurt us most.

  Brody took the job I’d given him of finding scriptures very seriously. He came to me every day with one scripture or another, and each time I felt strengthened, even when the scripture didn’t really seem to apply.

  “Look, Mom,” he said to me after my fourth chemo treatment, the last before beginning radiation. It had been a difficult week for me, and I’d been struggling to keep positive, to stave off bitterness and depression. Sometimes a nearly insurmountable task.

  He placed his scriptures on my lap and settled on the floor next to where I was curled up in my favorite chair. The book was open to Mosiah 24, where the priests of Noah had enslaved and were persecuting the people of Alma, even to the point of threatening death to those who prayed to God. So instead, the people prayed in their hearts, their faith unwavering.

  I sat before a loom, weaving a cloth that was far brighter and more intricate than the simple flax tunic I was wearing. I knew instinctively that this cloth was meant for one of the priests of Noah and not for my own family. My arms were tired, and my leg ached where the guard had whipped me earlier when I had taken too long at the noon meal.

  Beyond the covered pavilion where I worked with several women, I could see others in the field, also dressed simply, their backs bending as they worked. I was glad the weather was temperate and that at least they wouldn’t die of heat exhaustion. Every now and then, I saw an overseer use his whip and speak with an angry voice. The work went on unceasingly.

  Before the loom next to mine sat a tired young woman, her belly large with child. Her face was familiar, but I couldn’t place her in my memory. She looked up toward the leaves that covered our open pavilion, and I knew she was praying. I glanced at the guard to make sure he wouldn’t see, and when I looked back, the woman was smiling, the exhaustion tucked away out of sight.

  I followed her example, praying for strength, and suddenly I did feel stronger, my arms able to carry on their work.

  “And now it came to pass that the burdens which were laid upon Alma and his brethren were made light; yea, the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.”

  Hadn’t I felt that exact thing in my own life when I laid my will at the feet of the Lord? But how did this help pitch my tent toward the Lord?

  Brody came into the pavilion, carrying a water jug that should have been far too heavy for him, yet he lifted it with ease. He gave drink first to the guard and then to the working women. He handed me the ceramic dish, and I looked into his face.

  “See?” Brody said, rising to his knees. “The Lord didn’t take away their burdens immediately. He tested them, and then He made their burdens light, or rather, as my seminary teacher says, He made them strong enough to carry their burdens.”

  Marie was at the table in the kitchen, her pencil poised over her math. I could tell by her stillness that she was listening to what Brody was saying.

  “It’s true,” I said. “I never thought I would be strong enough to go through this. I never thought I could stop looking back. I never thought I’d be able to tell you kids. But I did all that. I was made strong enough for that.”

  “I never thought Marie would make dinner without burning it.” Brody raised his voice to be sure Marie heard. A crumpled paper came flying at his head.

  “Let’s see if He made you
r head any stronger,” she retorted, popping to her feet. The paper was followed by the lid to her calculator, which solidly hit Brody’s head.

  He grinned and threw it back. Next went his wallet, and Marie removed the money before lobbing it toward Brody’s chest. I laughed.

  After a few more moments of horseplay, Marie came to stand next to my chair. “Mom,” she said, all traces of teasing gone from her face, “what if I don’t want to be strong? Sometimes I think I’d rather be weak. It’s easier.”

  I motioned for her to sit on the edge of the chair and pulled her closer after she did. “Me too,” I said, thinking again of the story of Lot and his wife, “but we can’t look back. We have to accept our burdens. The Lord is teaching us something. Would you rather tell Him we don’t want what He’s offering?”

  Her face crumpled. “Sort of.”

  I knew exactly how she felt. But Brody and his scripture had saved me from wanting to give up—at least for today.

  Brody put his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Marie. I can carry your burdens until you’re strong enough.”

  She looked at him, her forehead gathered with her frown. “I don’t think you can.”

  “Sure I can. Beginning with that huge math book. You really don’t need that, do you? It weighs a ton. Let me help you with that burden by tossing it into the garbage.”

  They were off again, giggling and teasing, and I knew Brody was right. We could help each other with our burdens, maybe even rotating whose turn it was to be strong. Today Brody had helped me endure, to climb back on the path the Lord had shown me. Marie might have needed my reassurance today, but tomorrow she would read to me and be my strength.

  That is the power of a family buoyed by a loving God.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I began daily radiation treatments in mid-May, by which time I’d lost another fifteen pounds. The radiation burned my skin and caused me pain and itching, despite the expensive ointment they gave me to smear over the area.