by Linda Creel
After Willow walked out the door, and Rita headed to the bathroom, Jessica collapsed again on the bed. Leaning on her elbow, she stared out the window, allowing her thoughts to drift back to Joshua.
Despite being Meredith’s son, and Richard’s brother, his loyalty to Heaven was unquestionable. It made everything better since his best friend Will, was also fond of Rita. Maybe they were just being polite.
She smiled. No, they wouldn’t have asked us to stay, if they weren’t interested. I hope they’ll come to the Halloween party. I would really like to get to know them better.
She bounced up when she heard Rita open the bathroom door. Walking past her friend, she reached in and turned on the shower. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“I’m going to check on Willow after I get dressed. She seems a little down in the dumps. Hopefully, our trip to New York will cheer her up.”
“Why don’t you see if one of the orphans wants to go with us?” Jessica asked.
Pulling up a pair of jeans and throwing a sweater over her head, Rita grabbed a brush from the dresser and quickly ran it through her hair.
She corrected Jessica. “They aren’t orphans anymore. Our parents are going to adopt them; we just don’t know who’s going where yet. They might wait until the other girls are rescued. Mom won’t do anything to separate the sisters once they’re reunited.”
Jessica nodded and then stepped into the shower, waiting for the cool water to erase her fatigue.
Gregory insisted Andromeda and Matthew accompany him to an island resort when they left Utopia. When they returned home, the house/school was quiet; the only lights still burning were the sconces which lit the corridor and stairwell.
Still angry with her husband about leaving the reception before she could speak to Caspian, Andromeda and Matthew stayed in one of the guestrooms at the end of the hall.
When Andromeda woke the next morning, she found her husband and son already in the dining room. Since there was a separate cafeteria for the students, she wouldn’t have to explain the scowl on her face.
Gregory sat at the head of the table, mulling over a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon when she entered the room. He looked up briefly, but then went about eating his breakfast as if nothing had happened the day before.
Andromeda thought back to the day she first met Gregory. A handsome man, his hair was salt and peppered before his twenty-first birthday, giving him the appearance of a distinguished gentleman. It was one of the features that attracted her to him.
He entertained her for hours speaking about his adventures. She had never been further than Utopia, except to attend the academy. Gregory was well-traveled, and she was in awe of him.
Before they were married, Gregory promised her a lifetime of adventure. Unfortunately, the one-week trip to Paris for their honeymoon was the only journey she would ever take. Her husband insisted she remain in New York to help his parents with the school, while he continued to travel seeking out business opportunities.
It didn’t take long for Andromeda to realize, Gregory was not the man he pretended to be. Since she was already pregnant, leaving him was out of the question.
With her parents already dead, there was no one to go back to in Utopia, and the Godwins treated her like a daughter. When Matt was born, he provided her all the love she needed.
Andromeda had already decided to return to Utopia, and apologize for her husband’s garish behavior. Appearing completely relaxed, she put the teacup to her mouth and took a small sip.
“I thought I would take Matthew to Utopia this morning. I didn’t have the opportunity to congratulate Caspian and Desiree on their marriage, and our gift needs to be delivered.”
Gregory dropped his fork on the plate. “I’m sure your friend is on his honeymoon now; I doubt he cares about another silver platter. We can discuss this after breakfast. I see no reason to bring our son into these petty arguments.”
Refusing to back down, she squared her shoulders and gave her husband a frigid stare. “It’s not a silver platter; it’s a tea set. I had it made at Tiffany’s months ago. As to whether or not Caspian and Desiree are there; it doesn’t matter. I feel compelled to apologize to Henry for leaving the reception without as much as a thank you.”
Gregory exhaled slowly. “I need to take care of some business with Richard. I’ll deliver the gift and your apology, but I must insist you remain here with the students. They are falling behind in their studies.”
Andromeda forced a laugh. “Since when do you care about the students?”
“Following in my parent’s footsteps, I have always maintained a higher standard of education for our pupils.” He threw his napkin on the plate and pushed it away.
At the mention of his parents, Andromeda thought she saw her husband wince. It lasted only a second, and then his vacant expression returned.
She gazed at the portrait of the happy couple hanging over the fireplace. It was hard to imagine Gregory loved anyone, but she supposed he did care about his mother and father.
As much as he tried to please them, they were often disappointed by his callous treatment of Andromeda. When they died, she thought there was a chance his attitude would get better; she was mistaken. He became even more condescending, knowing there was no one to protect her.
Since moving to New York, she rarely saw Caspian anymore. It did no good to complain; this was her plight in life. Aside from her son and a handful of pupils, Andromeda was quite alone.
Her shoulder slumped forward; once again she would become submissive and give up control in order to keep peace. “Very well, I’ll call Henry and advise him you’ll be there this afternoon.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Gregory said as he stood and pushed the chair under the table. “It’s almost noon there; I’ll leave now so I can be back for dinner.”
Matt shirked away when his father tried to pat his head. Gregory laughed off his feeble attempt at playing mad.
After giving Andromeda a quick peck on the cheek, a rare display of affection he knew would further agitate his son, Gregory hurried out of the room.
Andromeda released the breath she was holding when she heard the front door open and close.
“Why does he pretend to care about us?” Matthew asked. “I wish he would never come back. All he ever does is make you cry.”
For just a second, Andromeda allowed her mind to wander. Staring at Gregory’s vacated chair, she almost wished it would remain empty.
The sound of heels clicking across the wooden floor, snapped her out of her daze. The cook had retreated from the safety of her kitchen to collect the dirty dishes. “Are you, and Master Matthew finished, Madame?”
Matt handed the elderly woman his plate, and she returned his smile.
Mrs. Margaret Leary, Maggie to Andromeda and the children, was an angel-blood well past her one-hundredth year of life. She never married, and had no children, but regarded the Godwin’s and their young students as family.
When Gregory’s parents died, Maggie recognized a change in their son too. Rather than become a victim of his violent outbursts, she made the kitchen her sanctuary. Though Maggie loved all of the children who attended the Academy, Matthew held a special place in her heart.
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Father, but Willow is coming for a visit today. She’ll be here soon. You don’t mind, do you?”
Andromeda cupped his chin in her hands and smiled. “Perhaps after our visit, we should plan to have lunch at one of the restaurants in Manhattan, and then we can do some shopping.”
The nine-year-old slid off his chair, and wrapped his arms around her neck. “Willow will like that. Rita and Jessica are coming too. Should we call for reservations?”
“No – we’ll see if they have any preferences. Run along, now. You still have an art class this morning. I’ll call you when your friends arrive.”
Matt kissed his mother’s cheek and skipped out of the room. Andromeda couldn’t help notici
ng there was an extra pep in his step.
Hopefully, we’ll be gone before Gregory returns.
She leaned back in her chair and took another small sip of her tea. It’s so peaceful when he’s gone.
Chapter 30
As soon as the sun crept into the bedroom, Mehri opened her eyes. Rolling out of bed, she shuffled to the window and pulled back the lace curtains.
Her eyes were drawn to a family of white-tailed deer roaming near the edge of the trees. She thought of growing up on her parent’s farm. It had been years since she last saw her family.
Born on October 12th, 1929, Mehri was one of two children. Her younger brother, Jon, two years her junior, was still at the farm when she left.
She felt a hollowness in her chest. Left – they threw me out, and told me never to come back. Lucifer said my parents are still alive, but he said nothing about my brother. I wonder…
Walking to the closet, she grabbed a pair of jeans and a white, button--up blouse. After running a comb through her hair, she sauntered into the kitchen.
Stella was bent over the stove, pulling a pan of biscuits from the oven. Putting the hot tray on the counter, she smiled at Mehri, and then reached into the cupboard to find a serving plate.
“I brewed a pot of coffee – help yourself. I’ll bring these over in a minute.”
Mehri stared at her new friend. It was hard to believe she was Samhael’s daughter. He was sophisticated and classy, yet Stella was dressed in a plain cotton dress; she was dowdy, but so down to earth.
Perhaps it’s because she grew up in the mortal world. I’ll never understand the difference between the angel’s children. Some have powers, and never age, while others…
“Since we don’t have to be at the meeting until noon, I thought we could go exploring. I’m sure the scenery has changed since you were here,” Stella said, as she placed the platter of biscuits on the table.
Mehri poured two cups of coffee and started to nibble on one of the biscuits. “Would you mind if we took a ride to the country? I’d like to see my parent’s farm.”
Stella plopped into one of the chairs and paused. “Well, nothing was said about visiting your old home. I don’t think my father would mind, as long as it doesn’t interfere with his plans.”
Mehri had an intense desire to hug her, but then thought better of it. “When can we leave?”
“Finish your breakfast, and I’ll get my bag.”
Watching Stella walk out of the room, Mehri shoved the last bite of biscuit into her mouth and emptied her coffee cup. Running her hand through her cropped hair, she felt a sudden rush of adrenaline at the prospect of seeing the expression on her parent’s faces when she walked into the house. The shock alone will probably kill them, but if not…
She didn’t know how they were still alive. Both of her parents were born in 1910, which would make them one hundred and four years old. Maybe Lucifer had something to do with extending their lives after I went to Hell with him.
She followed Stella out to the car – a late-model, four-door black sedan. “It was a gift from my father,” she said after Mehri was seat-belted in. “Do you remember the address?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure how to get there from here.”
“Don’t worry – I have GPS.” She programmed the address into the machine. When the voice came on, advising her of the first turn, Mehri almost jumped out of her seat.
Stella burst out laughing. “I’m going to have to bring you up-to-speed on our technology.” She turned on the radio; Mehri leaned back, and sang along to -- “It’s My Party,” by Leslie Gore. Samhael’s daughter found herself humming along to the tune.
Thirty minutes later, they were pulling into the gravel driveway. “Is it as you remembered?” Stella asked.
The old two-story Victorian, still painted white, had the same gingerbread trim on the wrap-around porch. The name “Chastain” hung from a cedar nameplate over the door. The barn, corrals for the animals, and farm equipment were long gone, giving way to a well-manicured lawn lined with gladioli and fancy shrubbery.
“No – there isn’t any livestock. My parents are ancient now; I guess the farm became too much to take care of.”
Mehri opened the car door, but Stella grabbed her arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes – I need to know if they have any regrets about forcing me to leave.”
“My father didn’t know the circumstances surrounding your departure, but I’m guessing it wasn’t amicable?”
“I was sixteen -- young and in love,” she sighed. “When my parents found out I was pregnant, they threw me out of the house. My boyfriend had already enlisted in the army; he never wanted to be a father. A young couple with a two-year-old son allowed me to stay with them until my son was born. Byron was a beautiful child, but he was sickly.”
“Is that when you met Lucifer?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know who he was at the time. He promised to heal Byron and give him to a good family, if I would agree to come with him. I wanted to save my boy, so I agreed. I know Lucifer is supposed to be a monster, but he always treated me well.”
“I think many of the angels were misunderstood, my father included. One day, they will right the terrible wrongs done to them, and we will help.”
They slid out of the car and walked up the wooden steps. With Stella standing beside her, Mehri opened the screened door and knocked.
A few moments later, a white-haired man answered the door. Mehri’s nostrils flared and she felt the heat course through her body as all of the anger she had been suppressing came to the surface. The tightness in her face stretched into a snarl.
“Hello, Papa; where’s Mother?” she sneered, pushing past him.
Stella slid in behind her; eyes fixed on the old man. His mouth agape; he stared incredulously at the young woman who resembled his daughter.
“No – this isn’t possible – you’re dead,” he stuttered.
Mehri turned around to face him; pushing back the low guttural growl forming in her throat. “You’re mistaken; I’m very much alive. Where is my brother, Jon? I don’t want him to miss this family reunion.”
“Jon was killed in a car accident two years after you left.”
“I didn’t leave – you threw me out!”
Mehri’s eyes moved around the living space. The colonial-styled furniture was exactly the same. Two chairs and a sofa made from a dull, plaid material. The oak end tables and coffee table still had the same scratches she made with one of her father’s pens.
The coffered ceiling appeared to have just been painted a bright white and the walls were covered with a matching bead-board paneling.
She moved to a curio in the corner and picked up a gold-framed picture. In it, her mother, father and brother were dressed in festive clothes as they stood in front of a Christmas tree. Mehri remembered snapping the picture. It was her last Christmas at home.
Replacing the picture, she noticed the walls were still lined with several other portraits of her family throughout the years; she didn’t appear in any of them. I guess they didn’t want to be reminded of the shame I brought them.
As she continued to gaze around the room, her eyes were drawn to the kitchen. Standing by the refrigerator, was her mother, Charlotte.
Though once beautiful, time had not been kind to the woman. She was stick thin, and her face appeared haggard and wrinkled. Her once long, lustrous blonde hair was pulled into a dull, lifeless grey knot.
As Charlotte started walking towards them, the china plate she was carrying slipped from her hand, shattering across the tile floor. Her hand flew to her chest, and she staggered against the wall.
Mehri laughed, but it was a derisive laugh. Plopping on the sofa, she patted the seat. “Come sit with me, Mother. We have a lot to talk about.”
“You’re not real; get out of my house!”
“What makes you think I don’t exist? My friend Stella will disagree. I’ve had years to think about wh
at I would say to you if our paths ever crossed again. You remember the last conversation we had? You called me a tramp, and told me I was no longer your daughter. Do you remember, Mother?”
“You may look like Mehri, but she died after giving birth to her bastard son. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but if you, and your friend, don’t leave now, Pierre will call the police.”
At the mention of her son, Mehri could feel the muscles tightening against her skin; the veins in her neck were throbbing. Without thinking, she grabbed her mother by the throat and squeezed.
Gasping for air, the old woman glared at her daughter. Mehri expected Charlotte to beg for her life or plea for mercy, but her mother refused to show any weakness. Instead, she forced out a contemptuous laugh.
Mehri stared incredulously at the woman who gave birth to her. How could I have ever loved you? Without realizing how much her grip had tightened, Mehri watched the smile on her mother’s face vanish as she slid to the floor.
Pierre started towards his wife, when Stella grabbed his shirt, and threw him against the wall -- splintering the gilded mirror above his head. With blood streaming down his face, the old man tried to pull himself up, but Stella knocked him on his back and planted her boot on his throat.
Mehri walked over to her father. She wasn’t angry anymore, but still wanted an explanation.
“Tell me Papa, did you have any regrets about forcing your only daughter out of your life? Did you ever think about me, or your grandson after Jon died?”
“I hope you burn in Hell!” he screamed.
The boot came down with such force; it crushed Pierre’s windpipe, splattering blood across the bottom of Mehri’s jeans. “Maybe, we’ll see you there,” Stella hissed.
Grabbing Mehri’s arm, she shoved her out the door and into the car. As they sped down the highway, she gazed at Mehri’s trembling hands.
“You need to calm down before we meet with Father Ryan. We’ll stop by the cottage, so I can clean up, and you can get rid of those bloody jeans,” Stella warned.”
