Ascension of Larks

by Rachel Linden

  Maggie nodded, thinking of Lena’s parents. They had been terribly shaken by Marco’s death, of course—devastated, they’d said. In his last call, Dick had confided that Ingrid was confined to bed with prescription tranquilizers for the shock. Maggie and Ellen had been fielding their frequent calls so as not to burden Lena, giving Dick updates on how Lena and the children were handling everything.

  “They know about Lena’s accident?” Maggie asked.

  Ellen nodded. “I called them last night and told them everything I knew. I need to call them again. I told them I’d let them know when I heard anything more. I’ll give them the hospital’s number so Dick can call and ask all the questions he’ll ask us. They’re worried sick about her.” She took a sip of wine and grimaced, whether from the taste or the thought of Lena’s parents, Maggie couldn’t tell. “Sometimes I can’t believe what life throws at you.” Ellen shook her head. “Poor Lena. And those dear little ones.” She looked tired, the bags under her eyes pronounced in the overhead lighting.

  “I can stay for a while,” Maggie said. She winced, remembering the promise she’d made to Jonah. She couldn’t keep it indefinitely, but she could keep it for now. She still needed to enter the Regent competition. If she didn’t, how would Lena manage to keep afloat financially? Lena and the children needed to be secure, to not lose their home. They needed a safe and familiar place now more than ever.

  And you don’t want to lose the best opportunity of your career, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. Maggie pushed it away, refusing to acknowledge it, although she knew it spoke the truth. Now was the time for altruism, not personal gain. “I’ll stay at least until things are more settled and we see how Lena is recovering. At least a week or so, maybe more.”

  She would call the agency in the morning and let them know her change in plans. Alistair was not going to be happy. Not at all. She put the thought of his reaction from her mind. She’d deal with it tomorrow.

  Ellen nodded, her face slackening in relief. “Well, that’s a blessing, make no mistake.” She folded her hands in front of her and straightened her shoulders again, as though preparing to face what had to be done. “We’ll just take it one day at a time,” Ellen said, then added with an assurance neither of them believed, “It will be okay.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  MAGGIE CAUGHT THE TEN O’CLOCK MORNING flight to Bellingham and arrived at the hospital with a dull, pounding headache. She hadn’t slept well, again dozing fitfully, this time waking with every creak and whistle of the wind, sure she heard the phone, one of the children calling out, Lena’s voice, Marco’s laughter. She’d had two Tylenol and a double espresso for breakfast, thrown her hair into a messy ponytail, and gone to catch her flight.

  When the taxi from the airport dropped her off at the hospital, all Maggie wanted was a few moments alone, some space to try to come to grips with what was happening. If she could just have a couple of minutes of peace and quiet, perhaps she could clear her head.

  Lena had a visitor. Father Griffin Carter was sitting in the chair by her bed, leaning forward with his arms on his knees and his head turned toward Lena. He didn’t see Maggie.

  “Oh great,” Maggie muttered, taken aback by the sight of him, clerical collar and cleft chin. What was he doing here? She watched him from the doorway for a minute, hoping he would leave. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. An orderly rushed by, throwing her a brief, uninterested look as he passed. From the nurses’ station at the corner, she heard someone paging Dr. Morrison to the OR.

  Giving up, she stepped into the room. Griffin glanced up and caught sight of her, his face breaking into a pleased grin. “Maggie.” He rose, instantly sobering as she came into the room and stood beside him at Lena’s bedside.

  “I heard this morning,” he said. “I caught the first ferry I could. I was going to stop by the house when I got back to the island to see if you needed anything.” He searched her face, his expression concerned.

  “We’re fine.” Maggie stepped back, wishing he would leave so she could be alone. She leaned over the bed, assessing Lena. She looked the same. Skin as pale as milk in the glare of the overheard lights, a blonde fan of lashes over closed eyes, she seemed like a modern-day Sleeping Beauty. Griffin joined her at the bedside.

  “What do the doctors say?” he asked, gazing at Lena. He smelled like pine soap, a clean, manly scent, and just a hint of exhaust fumes. He must have ridden his motorcycle onto the ferry and up to Bellingham.

  “They said we won’t know anything until she wakes up. If she wakes up. They can’t tell now if there’s been any damage.” Maggie reached out, touching Lena’s arm, the skin warm and smooth. She traced the smattering of freckles on Lena’s wrist. Lena hated her freckles, complaining that truly beautiful women had flawless skin. Maggie, who didn’t have a freckle on her body, had always found the visual texture of them intriguing.

  Griffin shook his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He looked visibly shaken. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news. First Marco and now this . . . It’s unbelievable. How are the kids?”

  “Scared.” Maggie gripped the metal rail of the bed, wishing he would leave, wishing he weren’t just standing there looking at her, his eyes full of pity. There was nothing he could do, nothing any of them could do. She felt so helpless in the face of this newest tragedy. It burned her from the inside, the senselessness of it all.

  She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself, drawing in a lungful of air that smelled like hospital disinfectant. The scent was so horribly familiar, reminding her of her mother’s illness, of the long nights waiting for the inevitable while Ana counted out the seconds on her well-worn rosary, the click of the glass beads measuring the slow slide into an irreversible loss.

  Standing there next to yet another hospital bed, Maggie was again overwhelmed by a sense of futility and by the injustice of it all. First her mother, then Marco, and now Lena lying there on the pillow, another line in a litany of wrongs.

  She bit her lip and shut her eyes, turning slightly away from Griffin, trying to get herself under control. She didn’t want to unravel in front of him. She focused on the steady beep, beep, beep of Lena’s heart monitor, trying to center herself. When she looked up, Griffin was watching her, his face creased in sympathy.

  “Maggie,” he said gently. “I know it seems dark right now, but we can’t lose hope.”

  “Why not? Do you have some kind of guarantee that Lena’s going to be okay?” Maggie asked sharply.

  “No,” Griffin answered truthfully, resting his arms on the bed railing. “No guarantee. This is one of the hardest parts of life, the waiting and the uncertainty in the face of a possible great loss.” He looked down at Lena’s still face, his expression open and honest. “But I believe things will turn out well in the end.”

  “How can you possibly know?” Maggie asked bluntly.

  “Have you ever heard of Julian of Norwich?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “She’s one of my heroes. An English mystic from the fourteenth century. When she was about thirty, Julian got sick and everyone thought she was going to die. On her sickbed, she had a divine vision, and when she recovered she summed up all she’d seen in one sentence. She said that, in the end, ‘All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.’” Griffin glanced down at Lena’s face as he spoke, his tone steady with assurance. “I think Julian was right. I don’t know how, but I believe in the end everything is going to be okay.”

  For a moment Maggie felt herself sway toward the pull of his words, spoken with such quiet surety, toward the comfort they offered. But then she glanced at Lena and reality came crashing down again.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said finally.

  Griffin looked up, surprised, but said nothing, just watched her. She straightened and turned to him, meeting those golden eyes fiercely.

  “Lena and the children are the only family I have left now. I’
ve lost everyone else I’ve loved,” she said, biting the words off individually. “So you can say anything you want about hope and everything turning out well, but I don’t believe it.” She stared him down, her chin raised in challenge. “Not in my life, not in the world I’ve seen.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment, face unreadable. At last he said, “I’m sorry, Maggie.” He didn’t say anything else.

  After a minute Maggie nodded wearily. “So am I,” she said simply. She took a last look at Lena’s still face, as pale as pure-white marble. Then she picked up her bag and left.

  Maggie waited in the lobby until Griffin left, then stayed the night at the hospital again, returning to the island the next day on the midmorning flight.

  “No change, but she’s stable,” Maggie reported to Ellen when she arrived home. She didn’t mention her encounter with Father Griffin the day before. As she stood in the kitchen, sniffing the tantalizing odor of fresh biscuits baking in the oven, it took her a moment to realize what was missing. The incessant noise. It was too quiet.

  “Where are the kids?” she asked.

  “They’re in the backyard building something.” Ellen opened the oven and pulled out a baking sheet filled with perfectly round buttermilk biscuits. “They said it was a secret and a surprise. They’ve been at it all morning and won’t let me see what they’re up to. I’ve been keeping an eye on them as best I can, but they won’t let me near them.” She raised her eyebrows skeptically.

  Curious, Maggie headed out the French doors onto the deck. The lawn was empty. She crossed the yard and leaned over the white picket fence that separated the lawn from the sheer drop-off to the stony beach below. Nothing. They weren’t playing on the stairs that hugged the side of the bluff and meandered down to the beach. There was no sign of them. A little alarmed, she circled the property, keeping an ear tuned for them. Partway around, she caught a flash of red in one of the small stands of firs that bordered the yard. Luca’s hoodie. She changed course and approached quietly. All three children were crouched in a bare spot ringed by the dark, fragrant arms of fir trees, a protected place of soft dirt and patches of moss. They didn’t hear her coming.

  “We need one here,” Jonah directed Luca, who obediently picked up a stone about the size of a baseball from a small pile.

  “Hey, guys, what’s up?” Maggie asked. Startled, Luca dropped the rock. Gabby let out a small cry and promptly stuck her thumb in her mouth. Maggie stepped forward, and Jonah moved to block her, then seemed to change his mind at the last second and stepped aside.

  They’d built something. Maggie stared at the lopsided edifice. Constructed of beach stones worn smooth by the tide and leaning precariously to one side, it stood about two feet high. They had driven small fir branches into the dirt to make a frame for it. On top of the stones they had placed a wedding photo of Marco and Lena in a silver frame, a single black woven loafer of Marco’s, a few of his drafting pencils, and some small bits of sea glass. Maggie crouched down and touched the frame of the wedding picture with one finger.

  “What’s this for?” she asked softly. Luca and Jonah shifted uncomfortably. Gabby sucked her thumb. Finally Jonah answered, “We thought Dad might need help getting back. You know, like those people in the museum.”

  Puzzled, Maggie surveyed the assorted items. It took a moment before she put the pieces together. They had built an altar, a shrine. “You mean the exhibit we saw at the museum? About the settlers who helped people get back home after they died so they could go to heaven? The beckoners?”

  Jonah nodded, and Luca piped up, “We got Dad’s favorite stuff so he’d be able to find us easier.”

  “I gived up all my sea glass that Daddy helped me find,” Gabby volunteered, taking her thumb out of her mouth to speak and then replacing it again.

  “And you did all this to help your dad find his way home?” Maggie asked, amazed by their dedication. They had spent all morning building the altar in the hopes that it would help Marco.

  Jonah nodded. “And we thought maybe . . .” He stopped and stubbed his toe in the dirt, not looking at her. “Maybe we could put some of Mom’s stuff out here too.”

  “In case she needs help getting back,” Maggie guessed. They nodded.

  “Well.” Maggie rose, brushing off the pine needles from her pants, biting her lip hard to keep back the prickle of tears behind her eyelids. Their hopeful faces broke her heart. She cleared her throat. “I think that’s a great idea,” she said. “What else should we put on here?”

  Gabby shyly took her hand. Her thumb was wet, but Maggie didn’t care.

  “Do you have anything to put on it?” Gabby asked. Maggie studied the items on the altar, then nodded, thinking of her precious photographs in the wallet upstairs. She would give them one, the photo that showed the three of them—Maggie, Lena, and Marco. Her small sacrifice to add to theirs. Who knew, maybe it would help somehow. She recalled Verna’s words during the tour, about how the island was special, that strange and wonderful things could happen here. Of course Maggie didn’t really believe that, but still, what could it hurt to go along with the children?

  “I think I do,” she said slowly. “I’ll get it.” She returned a few minutes later with the photo and her camera in her hand. She wanted to document the children’s efforts. When she woke up, Lena would be touched to see their desire to help her. Maggie set her precious photo on the altar and snapped a few shots of the scene. One with the three children clustered around the altar, another a close-up of the objects they’d collected. She felt that by taking photos, she could honor the moment, preserve Jonah, Luca, and Gabby’s creativity and sacrifice.

  Later, after the kids were tucked into bed for the night, Maggie took Ellen out and showed her the altar. She explained about the beckoning ceremony and how the children had gotten the idea to build an altar in the first place.

  “Well, that sounds just plain pagan.” Ellen frowned, looking down at the ramshackle structure. She was a staunch Lutheran, Maggie had discovered in their time together, and was suspicious of anything that smacked of aberration.

  “But it makes them feel like they can do something to help their parents,” Maggie explained. “It helps them not feel so powerless. Besides, they got the idea from Lutherans right here on the island.”

  “Hmm.” Ellen didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue further. “You say Lutherans thought this up?” she asked finally. At Maggie’s nod she sighed and threw her hands in the air. “Well, if you’re going to have a proper altar, you’re going to need candles. We just can’t let the children light them by themselves. Come on, I know where Lena keeps the ones for power outages.”

  Something was wrong. Daniel could sense it. He could see a new tension in the set of Maggie’s shoulders. He had heard the little girl crying last night through an open window. The house was enveloped in a lingering air of sadness, but now it was undercut with a sharp frisson of fear. What had happened? He’d seen the children working all morning, the boys hauling stones up the stairs from the beach and into the trees. He’d stayed far past his usual time, curious to see what they were doing. And where was the blonde wife, the beautiful one who had lost her husband? Where had she gone?

  He left before lunch, returning a little after twilight. It was late, after ten o’clock, but the light was still fading. The summer days were long so far north. He crept as near to the edge of the trees as he dared, staring at the house, trying to see anyone inside, but the windows remained empty. The TV was on in the family room. He could hear the faint canned laughter, but nothing stirred. He took a deep breath, smelling sadness and the sea. On the western horizon, far out on the water, a black bank of clouds rolled ponderously across the sky. It would be a full moon tonight, but not for long. Rain was coming.

  He waited until it was almost full dark before crossing the lawn. He did so silently. His grandmother told him her ancestors could walk through these forests without making a sound. Her own grandfather had been able to do s
o, she claimed. It had seemed like just another tall tale, one of the many his grandmother kept in her pocket like the cherry cough drops she liked to suck. As a child he had never been able to perfect the skill of walking silently, though he had spent hours trying. And he hadn’t had the means or the desire to practice in New York, a world of cement and rushing pedestrians. But here, his steps covered by the sound of the ocean, his dark clothes blending into the long shadows of the night, he could almost imagine his great-grandfather, an elder of the Lummi Nation, keeping pace with him, step by soundless step.

  He found the children’s building project easily enough and bent low to examine it. An altar, he noted in surprise. Clumsily made, it would topple over at the first careless push. A lit votive candle in a glass holder sat before a silver picture frame, flickering and guttering in its own wax. It was almost burnt out. He crouched before the photo, studying it. The couple smiled out at him, the man’s eyes dark, a little brooding, the woman glowing as though she were lit up from inside. For some reason it made a lump rise in the back of his throat.

  There was another photo as well. He picked this one up, tilting it to see better in the candlelight. It was Maggie, the blonde woman, and her dead husband, all leaning over a pot of sauce. They were all three beautiful—young, carefree, exuberant, with the possibilities of life just beginning to spread before them. He saw how the women both leaned in, pulled by the polarity of the man’s body. Marco Firelli. Who had he been, to have drawn both women to him so completely?

  Reluctantly he set down the photo. He glanced back at the house, but all was still. Carefully, he placed the wedding picture, the shoe, the drafting pencils, the flickering votive, and the bits of sea glass on the soft dirt, looking over his shoulder every few moments as he did so. Nothing stirred. He paused for a long minute, considering his next move. Then stone by stone, he began to rebuild.