Angel Song

by Sheila Walsh

  Ethan leaned against the door frame and looked at her. More than any other time he’d been around her, he wished he could think of the right thing to say. Speaking about his faith came so naturally down at The Washout. His words just seemed to flow there, in the midst of testosterone-fueled—or some other substance-fueled-adrenaline junkies trying to catch a wave. Here, away from the surf and on the same porch he’d stood on a thousand times, he could say nothing. The right words always seemed to elude him around her, even now when it really mattered. God, help. She’s got a well of hurt that she’s afraid is going to drown her if she lets it out. Help me show her that she’s not facing it alone. “Well, I’m not sure that I can understand God, and I certainly won’t try to explain Him. But I do know that He loves your grandmother, and your sister, and Tammy, and even you, more than you could ever imagine.”

  “If believing that works for you, then fine, but it doesn’t work for me.” She crossed her arms across her chest.

  This was not going well. It was not going to go well. Ethan didn’t think he was the right person to have this conversation with Ann, and he needed to get out of here before he made things worse. “I guess I’ll just . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Stay with it Ethan—she’s worth it. “It’s just that . . .”

  Something flickered beneath the hard glint of her eyes, and in that moment, Ethan understood. She was a scared little girl hiding behind words that she thought would keep her safe.

  “I wish you’d open your heart, Ann. You need to deal with your past instead of trying to pretend the pain doesn’t exist.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “It’s as plain as the wall you build around yourself. You need to learn to believe in something again.”

  Ann looked hard at him, and just a hint of moisture gathered in her eyes. “I . . .” She blinked twice and looked away. “I don’t know how.” Then she opened the door, walked inside, and shut it behind her without looking back.

  He’d said the wrong thing again. All he wanted to do was help her, but all he kept doing was messing things up.

  Chapter 20

  When Ann finally settled down on the sofa with her blanket that night, she couldn’t begin to relax and fall asleep. The tiny space prevented her from tossing and turning as she might have in bed, so she finally got up and paced—as best she could around the furniture piled up everywhere.

  She saw the old letter they’d found in the wall on top of Sarah’s nightstand and thought about what Eleanor had said. Better to face these things right away. And a little at a time. Yeah, maybe she could just read the first paragraph or something. She carried the paper, still rolled, back to the couch and sat.

  For a few minutes, she simply held it in her hand, trying to decide what she was going to do. It was silly, her aversion to opening this. How bad could it be? It was just a letter from her mother written who knows how many years ago? Likely it didn’t have anything to do with anything. Still, there was something about this whole situation that set off all sorts of warning bells. Finally, she unrolled it.

  April 3, 1988

  Ann looked at the date and dropped the paper. This had been written the day before her mother left them for the last time. How was it that she’d found the time to write this letter, but she hadn’t been able to work in even one little word of goodbye to her family? Coward. Anger surged through Ann, making her feel suddenly stronger, less vulnerable. All right, Mama, let’s see how you tried to explain yourself away. Don’t expect me to buy in, I’ll tell you that right now. She unrolled the paper again.

  My Darling Girls,

  I don’t have the guts to begin to tell you everything, so I’m acting like the coward I am and writing it all down in a letter for you. Doesn’t much matter, I know I’ll be too chicken to even leave it where you can find it because I’m afraid of what you’ll think. I’ll hide it in the same place I always hid my marijuana from Mama. How is that for lame?

  I’m hoping that we’re reading this together. It will mean I’ve finally got my act together and I’ve come back to get you. That seems like such a distant dream for me now, but how I do hope it will someday come to be. If something should go wrong, if I never make it back, then no one will ever even know how much I tried. This letter will go down with my house someday and I suppose that would be a fitting end. It will mean I’ve crashed and burned; my letter should probably do the same. There’s no way you will find it otherwise—unless God Almighty Himself should intervene, and I haven’t exactly seen a lot of that in my life lately.

  Ann tossed the paper onto the floor. She’d had more than enough reading for one night.

  You were right about one thing, Mother. You were too far gone to turn yourself around. Unfortunately, you were wrong about this letter going down with the house, because here I sit. Ann looked at the roll on the floor.

  The words she’d read kept repeating in her mind. If something should go wrong, if I never make it back, then no one will ever even know how much I tried. This letter will go down with my house someday and I suppose that would be a fitting end. Even her crazy, mixed-up mother had known that this letter would never be found. After all, that wall had been the perfect hiding place for her pot all those years. And now—ironically—someone did find this letter, thanks to Ann waking up and thinking she heard music coming from this room, and to Keith’s insisting there was an angel and music in the wall, and to the electrical appliances that turned on and off in spite of the fact that Ethan said nothing was wrong with the wiring.

  The letter had been in that wall. It was almost as if someone—or something—wanted to make certain it was found. Unless God Almighty Himself should intervene, and I haven’t exactly seen a lot of that in my life lately.

  Ann walked back to Sarah’s nightstand and opened the top drawer. As she had somehow known there would be, a Bible lay inside. Ann pulled it out and flipped through it mindlessly for a few minutes. Then she turned to the back for an index. She’d wanted to see just what that Bible had to say about angels and their songs and blinking lights, and why they let all the good people die and let other people—who were all clearly less deserving—succeed.

  She found what was labeled a “concordance” in the back, which seemed to be basically an index. Under the word angel was a long list of references, which Ann scanned blindly—until she saw the word Hagar. That was the lady from the painting, wasn’t it? The one with the angel that didn’t seem all that helpful?

  That whole story didn’t make sense. Why would God have allowed the bad to happen in the first place? Where was He when all of that was going on?

  The story, the painting, it all haunted her. Before she even realized she was doing it, Ann went to the computer and pulled up the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s home page. After some searching, she found Beka’s painting again and printed it out. Then, for whatever reason, she googled “Hagar” and “painting.” It turned out, a lot of artists had done that story. She became intrigued with a couple more and printed out copies.

  One was Abraham Casting Out Hagar and Ishmael by Guercino. On the left was Sarah, with her back to the scene, and the side of her face in shadow. In the middle, Abraham’s face looked troubled as he pointed Hagar and Ishmael toward the highway. And then there was Hagar, looking toward Sarah while holding a crying Ishmael against her. The whole image was so cold.

  That poor woman. Sent out into the desert, along with her son, probably to die, by the man who had fathered her son and by the woman who had insisted on her having this child in the first place. There was no one who cared. She was all alone.

  Ann wondered if her own mother had had that same hard look, just like the biblical Sarah, when she packed up her car and left here that last time. She’d done it in the middle of the night, so who knew? In their version of the story, Nana had been the one who held on to the crying Sarah, like Hagar held Ishmael. But Ann hadn’t cried, not that time. For the few months she’d lived in her mother’s home, s
he’d lived in dread, knowing it wouldn’t last this time either. When her mother finally disappeared, it was almost a relief to get it done with. Better yet, this time she’d left Sarah too. Finally, Ann wasn’t the only one who didn’t measure up.

  She fell asleep, dreaming about the unloved and unwanted Hagar. She could hear her wailing in despair, crying out through the empty wilderness. Somewhere during the night, the song from the chapel infused the dream. Not long after, Hagar’s moans were quieted.

  Ann woke up in a sweat. The night of dreams filled with Hagar, angels, and haunting music was over, but there were more to come. She knew it. “Why? Why?” she screamed through the empty house. Why was she the one left alone, left to dream and hear strange music? The man who had caused all this lay perfectly at peace somewhere in a graveyard. Why couldn’t he be the one to deal with the grief . . . to wonder if his mind was slipping? It was so unfair.

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes, then stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water. Every muscle in her body ached. She sat down at the kitchen table, rested her forehead against her left hand, and wondered how much longer she could take all this before she simply snapped. Maybe she needed to find a counselor when she got back to New York; maybe there was some sort of medication she could take. For now, she’d just have to stay too busy to think.

  Today the plan was to put stain on the bedroom floors, then buff them, then start applying the polyurethane. She began to plan for the day, but her mind wandered to Ethan, and Tammy, and Keith. She thought about how at home she’d felt at Tammy’s last night, so much a part of the group. In the clarity of the morning, though, she knew it had all been some big illusion she’d built up—illusions about caring for people. About caring for people who cared for her. Well, and for angels. And a God who would care enough to send one. Yep, she needed to hurry up and get out of here before she completely lost all grasp on reason.

  She ate a banana for breakfast, then hurried to start her work. She dressed in old clothes and prepped the materials, then began with the far corner of her old bedroom. It was better to do this room first because she reasoned that first thing in the morning, she would be less vulnerable to the imaginations that seemed to haunt her later in the day.

  She spread the stain in a circular motion in four-foot-square areas, trying to focus on what she was doing. As always happens with work this repetitive, though, her mind would not listen, and soon she was thinking about yesterday, last night, everything.

  Her back and arms were aching by the time she finished the room. She washed her hands in the bathroom sink and went into the kitchen for a glass of water, then dropped onto the couch for a quick break.

  Try as she might to look the other way, the rolled-up letter seemed to stare up at her from where she’d dropped it on the floor. “You have no power over me!” Even as she said the words, Ann returned to the kitchen and refilled her glass. She was the one in charge of her life, she was the one who would determine when, and if, she would ever look at that thing again. She was certainly under no obligation to her mother, that much was certain.

  A duo of joggers ran down the street past her driveway. They looked to be teenagers and were running hard. Training for the track team maybe? They reminded Ann of Eleanor. What was it she’d said? “Better to face these things as soon as possible.”

  Maybe she was right. Maybe if Ann just finished the stupid thing, she could forget about it and get on with her life. She scooped up the paper.

  Annie, my sweet darling, even though I was just a teenager at the time, from the very second the EPT showed positive I was thrilled. It was like I’d finally found a reason for my life. I’d dropped out of school and been out of the house for a while by then. I thought it would be great, being on my own, no one to tell me what I could and couldn’t do. The worst times were when the kids I knew from school came in the Pizza Hut on dates, after ball games, whatever. They’d sit in their booths and laugh and joke, and talk about football games and proms, and I was working full-time, trying to pay the rent. Barely made enough for that. Rent and booze are about all I could afford. And men—well, that comfort at least came for free. I wish I could tell you who your father is, but I really have no idea. I probably shouldn’t tell you things so shocking, but like I said, if you’re reading this, I’ve changed.

  Her mother didn’t even know who her father was? Ann thought of all the times she’d dreamed about her father and pictured what he must be like. She would fantasize about him coming to Charleston, because, of course, he must have moved out of the city or he would have been with her. He’d take one look at her and say, “This darling child has to be my daughter. Why did Lorelei not tell me she was pregnant? I would never have left if I’d known.” Then he would sweep Ann up in his arms and they would drive out of town in his fancy car to live happily together for the rest of their lives.

  “Or not.” Ann carried the paper into the kitchen and dropped it into the trash can. “That’s enough of that.” The words sounded brave when spoken, but then something inside her disintegrated and she fell apart.

  Chapter 21

  Ethan turned into the parking lot of the church and pulled his truck into the usual area, but he couldn’t make himself turn off the engine. Everything inside him was screaming to get out of here and go to Ann’s. But that couldn’t be right. It had to be wrong.

  What would that say about his commitment if he missed church to go spend time with a woman—especially after what she’d said last night? The Bible was very clear that a believer should not marry a nonbeliever, and although they were a long way from matrimony, the “unequally yoked” principle was something he’d learned the hard way a long time ago. That was a line he wouldn’t cross. Yet . . . why this compulsion to go see her?

  He finally turned off the ignition and forced himself out of the truck, whispering a quick prayer. God, will You please clear my mind so I can focus on You? He walked across the pavement toward some friends. As he smiled and waved, every cell in his body screamed for him to turn around. Okay, God, if for some reason this compulsion to turn around is coming from You, if there is some reason I’m supposed to go to Ann’s right now, then I need to get that message loud and clear. Otherwise, please give me strength to overcome this temptation. He pressed himself forward as if pushing against hurricane-force winds.

  “Ethan, hi.” Stephanie Jones waved as he approached. “Ed was just looking for you.”

  “Hi, Mr. Ethan.” Four-year-old Samantha looked up at him with big brown eyes.

  “Hi there, Samantha. And how are you today?”

  “Fine. I’m teaching Sunday school to the little kids today.” She said the words little kids in several syllables for added emphasis.

  “Oh really? All by yourself?”

  “Well, Mommy’s helping me—you know how two-year-olds are; you gots to have lots of help with them. But I’m helping her tell the story. You wanna hear it?”

  “Sure. Lay it on me.”

  “It’s about good Sam Martin. He helped this guy who was hurt and needed his help.”

  Ethan looked over Samantha’s shoulder at her mother. Stephanie smiled. “I think you mean the Good Samaritan.”

  “Right. That’s what I said. All the religious people passed him by, they were too busy going to church and stuff to even talk to him. But not Sam Martin. He saw that the man was hurt and so he stopped and helped him a whole bunch. That’s how we’re supposed to be.”

  The kid could have whacked Ethan on the head with a baseball bat and the message would have been less subtle. “You know what, Samantha? You’re exactly right.” He looked at Stephanie. “Tell Ed I’ll give him a call later. I just remembered something I need to do.”

  “Sure thing.” Stephanie took Samantha by the hand. “Come on, sweetie. We teachers have to be on time.”

  Ethan turned and fled back to his truck. God, that had to be You, right? I’m supposed to go help Ann for some reason, right?

  He got into his truck and drove tow
ard her house, hoping that it truly was God’s intervention and not just his own thoughts twisting things to their advantage. What seemed like seconds later, he was letting himself through the gate, across the patio, and to the front door. Before he could allow his better thoughts to stop him, he rang the doorbell.

  Nothing.

  He walked around to the garage, peeked through the window, and saw the rental car. Maybe she was out for a walk? Or at Tammy’s? No, Tammy was at church. He was certain he’d seen her car there.

  He walked back up to the porch and rang again. Still nothing, but he thought he heard the muffled sound of crying coming from inside. His instinct was to leave her with her privacy, but this had to be the reason he was here. He knocked this time. Loud. “Ann, are you all right?” He knocked again. “Ann?”

  This time he heard the shuffling of approaching footsteps. She flung open the door, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks wet with tears. “Take a good look. This is just how messed up I am.”

  “Uh . . .” The shock stopped him for the space of a nanosecond, and then he realized he didn’t care what she thought of him, whether or not he irritated her, whether or not he was perfect enough to help in this situation. The fact was, he was going to dive in headfirst and give it everything he had. Sink or swim. A step of . . . faith. He walked inside without asking her permission, closed the door behind him, and asked, “What’s happened?”

  Ann shook her head. “Nothing’s happened. This is just me. My messed-up, broken life.”

  Out of pure instinct, he put his arm around her shoulder and led her to the sofa. “Sit down and tell me about it. Please.”