Web of Angels

by Lilian Nattel

  INSIDE

  It was darker and colder as if the storm outside had made its way inside. The heart was beating fast, the breath coming quick, making it hard to see, hard to talk, hard to do anything but be swept away. Only deep inside, far away from Alec’s rage, was anyone sheltered enough to think.

  And here, in the basement, the Overseer was alone except for the children who cowered in the corners, terrified of him. Even the punishers were lost somewhere in the din above, and though he called, nobody came. There was little for him to do from here. He could stand and listen or pace and listen to Alec’s wild thoughts filtering down. Would nobody stop him—not even the Housekeeper?

  Of course not. It was up to the Overseer to keep order. He had to get forward, and it had to be now, before anyone did something foolish and irreversible. The Housekeeper had said all he had to do was come into the kitchen, as if it were a small thing. Easy. Very well, then.

  He climbed the stairs and at the landing, he stopped. What would happen to him in there? The light was already blinding. Eyes closed, he took a step forward. The light hurt more. Another step, feeling for the door. There were rumours about the kitchen. A light so clear, nothing could be hidden. Nothing forgotten. His hand was on the doorknob; he turned it and pushed the door open. Another step and he was through. He opened his eyes, streaming in the blaze of light.

  “Let me out,” he said. “It’s too much for Alec. I should be there instead.”

  “All right,” the Housekeeper said.

  To his surprise, she opened the back door and stood aside. But he had no time to wonder about it, moving quickly before she changed her mind. As soon as he stepped over the threshold, the light was extinguished, but darkness was no impediment to him.

  He was behind Alec, hearing him mutter, seeing his hands on the steering wheel. This darkness didn’t belong to Alec; it was his. It had always been his. He was the one as strong and cold as his father. Let the others live their life: it belonged to them; he would give it to them. The Overseer moved closer to Alec, and closer still, until he, too, felt the nip of the bird’s beak and smelled his father’s sweat. He drew in the foulness of it, swallowed the hatred, the fear, the eagerness to strike back, the sound of a young voice, Daddy! Thin and high. Then he turned around for more—the glass cutting Echo’s feet, the yank of Lyssa’s hair. They’d all shared that day and that night, each of them taking a piece. Now he would have all of it. He was more than the body; his hands reached for lightning, his head touched the clouds. He was large, he could contain everything. But, still, he screamed and the scream burned through him as something still larger than he took him up.

  This then was death. It must be because the pain was gone. He’d thought death would be heavy and cold but it was a strange sort of light that didn’t hurt his eyes with its mildness, and he was cradled in a thousand arms.

  A voice rose and fell more peaceful than a lullaby, telling him the story of his life from before he was born, and he watched it unfold as he listened. Back and back to the first animals, the first one-celled beings, the hot crust of the earth, the young sun, the stars hugging close, the single point of existence before it split into things. One point, one heart, a heart-beat, and the universe exploded, became multiple, shards of dazzling fragments that rubbed against each other, polishing and cutting, changing the shapes of existence, generation upon generation, bringing him here, held by the Housekeeper. Beloved. Time rolled and unrolled. The light was merry.

  “I don’t belong here,” he said. “I’m like my father.”

  The Housekeeper smiled. “Take a better look,” she said.

  He was sitting at the foot of a tree and the names of things were known to him.

  A child stood there. “Hi. I’m Ally,” she said. In her hand was a small object, which she placed in his. A teddy bear.

  “I died,” he said.

  “Dead things don’t talk. And they stink. You don’t stink.” She tilted her head back so that she could see his height. “You’re shiny.”

  And so he was. His wings were the silver of stars and the ebony of a velvet night, and light shimmered along his arms. “I’m the Overseer,” he said.

  “That’s not a name,” the child said to him. “I’ll call you Bert.”

  On the outside the body wept. After a while, a hand moved the gearshift from park to drive. The motor rumbled. They went home.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  The rest of the weekend passed in a fog. Switching was erratic, everyone too exhausted to stay out for long, though someone managed to leave a message on their therapist’s voice-mail. Dan called Eleanor and filled her in on Cathy, though, at Sharon’s insistence, he didn’t mention that Cathy was multiple. He asked Eleanor to come over and help, which she did, and without question. At least for the weekend. But first thing on Monday after taking the younger kids to school, Eleanor returned to her sister-in-law’s house to find out exactly what was going on.

  They sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. But why can’t you report it? Eleanor asked. If Cathy told you, why won’t she tell the police? No, this is ridiculous, she said. If you won’t talk to the police, I will. When she took out her cellphone, Sharon put a hand over hers, and said, Wait. Then she told Eleanor that there was more to the story. She explained what DID was and how it could prevent Cathy from being able to tell what had happened to her—to them.

  Eleanor asked Sharon how she knew.

  Sharon had a ready answer. She’d say that she’d realized Cathy was multiple because of a movie she’d seen and a TV show about DID. But when Sharon looked at Eleanor sitting there, her best friend for twenty years, her sister-in-law, the first person she’d told about being pregnant, she couldn’t lie.

  “The reason I know is that I’m multiple, too,” Sharon said.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Eleanor asked.

  “I don’t want you thinking I’m crazy. It’s not something you say to people.”

  “To someone else, maybe. But me? I don’t think you’re crazy, but …” She paused, considering while Sharon tensed and switched. “That makes sense of a lot of things. I’d like to know more about it. How many of you are there?”

  Her sister-in-law rolled her eyes. “I didn’t take a census. Besides, just for your information, that’s a rude question.”

  “Are you Sharon or who?” Eleanor asked.

  “That’s rude, too,” she said, but as Eleanor was also her best friend, she added, “I’ll forgive you this time.”

  A few minutes later, when Brigitte called, Lyssa was still forward and she answered the phone. She stayed out just long enough to book an extra session.

  With Brigitte’s help on Tuesday, they—Lyssa and the others—decided that instead of rotating rapidly to cope, each of them could take a longer turn forward while the others rested in a healing place inside. At the next appointment, they would discuss what could be done for Cathy. Brigitte suggested that Dan come, and maybe Eleanor as well, to get more input and support. At home that evening, Dan took up Brigitte’s suggestion with enthusiasm. He told Eleanor, and Eleanor told Mimi, and then he said to his wife, Everyone’s coming; now you’ll finally see that you’re not alone anymore.

  On Thursday morning they were all seated at the meeting table and chairs, which were at the back of Brigitte’s office. Dan wore a suit as he’d be heading to the office right after the session. Next to him, nerves taut, Callisto was alert though she’d been up late and up early, taking her turn outside. Eleanor and Mimi sat opposite, Jake on his own at the end of the table, Bram taking the uncomfortable chair at the corner. Brigitte presided at the head, her bun held in place with a jewelled pin, making notes on her clipboard. The basement smelled of lilac this time.

  “I’m glad you could all come here today,” she said.

  “So.” Mimi clutched a cavernous purse. It was new and red and matched her shoes.

  “What a mess,” Eleanor said. “Why didn’t you show up this morning? You we
re supposed to be at my house at seven a.m. and I was dressed and waiting to run.”

  “The cellphone rang at 4:11,” Callisto said. She’d been up most of the night with the laptop in the kitchen, listening to classical music. When the phone rang, she’d picked it up and heard the whisper of a girl’s voice.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Cathy had said and then hung up.

  So what could Callisto do at 4:12 a.m.? Only wait as she had done many times. Listening to music, she’d hummed as if humming made minutes move and push the sun into the sky. At 5:38 the sun had crossed the horizon, drawing off the smoky dark of night, slowly turning heaven scarlet then white as fog descended.

  The house woke up around her. Water rattling the pipes, kids’ sleepy voices, footsteps. She had a quick conversation with Dan, who agreed to get everyone ready for school while she walked over to the Edwards’. The streets were quiet, shrouded in fog, sound muffled by it, a truck beep-beeping its warning somewhere, a dog barking hello, his owner nodding as they came out of the mist.

  On the locked mailbox beside the door on Lumley was a nameplate: DR. D. DAWSON, PROF. R. EDWARDS AND FAMILY. There were potted flowers on the porch, immense pots with colourful and ornate arrangements that looked real but were made of silk. Rick had told Dan that arrangements were being made to water the yard and remove junk mail. Timers would turn lights on and off. The house had to look lived in, so that it wouldn’t be burglarized or vandalized or otherwise lose its value until the Dawson-Edwards disposed of it.

  Carrying a tote bag with a book in it on her shoulder, Callisto rang the bell and in a moment she heard the sound of footsteps.

  Debra opened the door. “Come in,” she said, though she looked surprised.

  “Excuse me for coming over so early,” Callisto said as she walked in. She’d thought herself incapable of lying, but it turned out to be among her new-found skills, like smiling. “Cathy called about her algebra book. I told her I would bring it before school.”

  “Thank you,” Debra said. The house smelled of air freshener. There was a vase on the marble table, beside it a book with an Oprah’s Book Club sticker on it and a bottle of calcium pills. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s constantly losing things these days. Cathy!”

  Boxes were stacked in the hallway, Rick’s landscapes leaning against the wall. There was an open camera bag on the coffee table, lenses in it, and the new camera. “Hello, how are you?” he said as he came from the kitchen with newspaper to wrap the photographs.

  “Good and you?” The air conditioning was turned up and he wore a long-sleeved shirt that was loose around his wrists. He yawned, the silver fillings in his teeth visible. Debra’s hair was a bit damp from her shower. Callisto examined the room coolly, calmly. “Those are unusual picture frames.”

  “They’re made of recycled bicycle chains. Students in the Learn About the World program made them for me. Ingenious. You see the logo welded into the corner?” The LAW was tiny, jumping into focus only when pointed out.

  “I wouldn’t have noticed that,” Callisto said and Rick looked pleased. “You are both busy. Let me take this up to Cathy.” She held out the tote bag weighted by a book about the size and shape of a math text.

  To her surprise Rick agreed. At the top of the stairs her surprise gave way to consternation. The computers were disconnected, power cords in bags, boxes with Styrofoam ready for packing on the tables. One of the tables was folded. Though the medicine cabinet in the bathroom was still locked, the shower curtain had been taken down. She called to Cathy, looking first in the room that was peachy and frilled, then in Heather’s room.

  It was just the same as it had been, blank walled, barren except for the painted crib. Cathy was leaning on the rail, looking down at the sleeping baby. Her hair was in a ponytail, she wore camo shorts, a black tank top. “What are you doing here?” she asked sharply. This was not Cathy then, but Ceecee.

  “You called and we came,” Callisto answered simply. “What’s going on? Why is everything being packed? I thought you had a month before you’re leaving.”

  “Before I am.” Her face carefully blank, she sat on her sister’s bed. The mattress had been bleached and flipped, not replaced. “My mother’s taking Linny up to the cottage this weekend. The movers are coming on Saturday and she’ll drive up behind them. She decided to start her leave early, and Dad’s staying here with me until the end of school.”

  “You’ll be alone with him.”

  “Not like it matters that much. He’ll just be wanting entertainment.”

  “It does matter.”

  Ceecee shook her head. “I don’t care about me. She’s going to be alone with Linny. How can I protect her from here?” The blankness cracked, desperation in her eyes; she’d searched for a way out and found only one. “Even when I get up to the cottage, the crib is going to be in their room. It’s too late. There’s nothing anyone can do. I was mad at her, but Heather was right. She just didn’t finish things.”

  “Are you thinking of killing yourself?” Callisto asked outright—this was too serious for tact.

  “I’m tired of fighting all the time. It’s no use anyway.”

  “No,” Callisto said. “You can’t let them win.”

  “If I can’t help Linny, there’s no reason to bother with anything.” Her voice was heavy as if speaking took more effort than it was worth.

  “Giving up this easily? I didn’t think you were such a coward,” Callisto snapped.

  “You think I haven’t tried! Who do you think you are?” That was better. Anger instead of helplessness.

  “Callisto—that’s the name I go by. I’d rather not say what I was called.” She smiled in that wry way she’d learned, and sat down beside Ceecee, looking through the bars of the crib at the baby lying on her back, snoring lightly with the onset of a cold. “Don’t give up yet. You’re still here and we’re on your side. We each have an army inside. Someone who is multiple isn’t easily overcome.”

  “I wish … I don’t know.” In the alley behind the house, a moving truck had pulled up. There was a scraping sound on the other side of the wall. Amy and Ingrid were moving out their last things before the new tenants arrived.

  “We called the abuse line. Anonymously,” Callisto added as the girl’s eyes flashed. “They can remove you from here if you say what you know.”

  “What? The police won’t help.” She shook her head. “They’ll take me away and then nobody can save Linny.”

  “She’d come with you.”

  “I know what’ll happen. My great-grandfather was a policeman. Even in his eighties he still could do me. He was the first one. Like they said.” She gritted her teeth. “It was an honour.”

  “They lied,” Callisto said. She could hear the murmur of her friends’ voices next door, but not make out their words, just as on the night Heather died, Ingrid had heard sounds open to interpretation. But what had actually happened? “They lied about your great-grandfather, too.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Last night when you called I was online. I found two mentions of Edwards men in this neighbourhood during the 1930s. One was Skinny Edwards, a member of the Pit Gang, who ended up in hospital with minor injuries during the riot. The other was an A. Edwards who owned the coal depot on Hammond Street.”

  “So he wasn’t a policeman,” Ceecee said wonderingly, then her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”

  “I am sure that he had nothing to do with quelling the riot.”

  “Why would they say that?” Her world was tilting and she could either cling to it or jump. She had thought of jumping, but not like this.

  “My father used to say that we were descended from Roman legions as if it made him noble. In fact he is a criminal who was never caught.” Callisto pressed on. “We can pick you up after school. I promise that you won’t be left alone with the police or anyone else. We’ll be with you at every step.”

  “What about my parents?”

 
“Leave them to us.”

  “Maybe …” Ceecee looked to the side, her hands clenched. Her face was tensing, jaw tight as she switched, and now cold eyes turned to Callisto. “No.”

  “I see.” Callisto shifted, and someone else came forward with equal coldness, steel meeting steel.

  The Overseer rose to his feet. “You will come with us as soon as we can arrange it—perhaps tomorrow?” he asked, though he was more used to giving orders than asking questions.

  “Rules are rules.” The young voice was hard.

  “I have discovered new rules.”

  “A rule that changes is not a rule,” the child said.

  Her face was severe, but the Overseer was aware of how much trust it took for her to speak at all. “You know now that they told you one lie. How many others are there? Discover the truth for yourself.”

  “How?” she asked, a child of battle, made to endure, made for severity.

  “Tell what you know, or let someone else inside do it.” He paused so that she might take his measure. Shoulders square, harsh-voiced, a tangle of red hair. In the body and yet himself. Free. Wanted.

  “Cathy! What’s keeping you?” Debra’s voice called upstairs. And as Cathy came forward, so did Callisto.

  Cathy’s face showed less confusion than Callisto expected. “I’ve got to get ready or I’ll be late. See you,” she said.

  “Very soon.” Callisto followed her down the stairs.

  “Hurry up,” Debra scolded. “You need to thank Mrs. Lewis for her kindness and pull yourself together. You have a closet full of clothes. I told you to get rid of those shorts. They’re disgusting. You can’t wear them to school.”

  “They’re mine,” Cathy said. “I bought them at Honest Ed’s with my own money.”