by Lauren Wynn
“Incredible artist.” Forest, his name is Forest.
“Leo, you know what I liked best about tonight?” His eyes turn up to mine, waiting for me to continue. “That I could be there, engaged, talking with Forest, learning about his life, without having to feel the pain that I saw in his eyes.”
He nods. “The pressure falls away when you aren’t tied to the emotional burdens of a caller.”
While I don’t necessarily consider my caller’s emotions “burdens,” but rather, part of the human condition, the positives and negatives of life, experiencing people outside my angelic lens does appeal to me. So, unless otherwise obligated, I have a date at the diner on Friday nights.
“I’m going to head over to the park for a while. I’ll see you in the morning.” Leo gives me a pat on the back before heading up to the “penthouse.”
A wooden bench beckons me from across the park. Dark clouds are marching through the sky, masking the moon’s light, threatening to rain or more likely snow. I meander through the center of the park into the large, white gazebo, toward the wooden bench, lit up by the street lamps at the edge of the park. I take a seat on the bench and lean over, placing my elbows on my knees and resting my chin in the palm of my hands. I stare at the ground, wipe hair out of my eyes, and close them in an attempt to fall into deep thought—except I’m not hearing my thoughts; I hear Providence pleading for her pain to go away. I quickly glance to my left and right. The only soul around is a man who appears to be asleep in the grass under a large tree. I “change” and go to Providence.
The house is dark except for one lamp that shines dimly in the living room, where I find Providence curled up in a ball on the hardwood floor, bawling and in pain. There is blood dripping from her lower lip. She has one hand grasping her stomach and the other holding her arm. I feel the sting on her lip, the throbbing in her arm, and the ache in her gut. Instinct compels me to grab my stomach. She struggles to catch her breath in between sobs. Her hazel eyes reveal despair, a far cry from when I last saw her.
Her agony consumes me. I concentrate on her thoughts, escaping her emotional and physical pain for a brief moment, determined to find out what happened.
Providence’s father enters the room screaming, stumbling toward her, waving his arms. She backs into the corner, covering her face with her arm, which he proceeds to grab so tightly the blood rises to the surface forming a bruise the shape of his hand.
She tries to pry his hand off of her arm. “Dad, you’re hurting me. Please…stop.”
“Don’t ever take that tone with me under my roof.” He slurs his speech and smacks her face, cutting her lip with his ring.
She throws her hand up to her cheek and screams in pain. He pushes her chest, causing her to stumble backward, hitting the wall. She slides down, plopping on the floor, unable to stand any longer, heaving and sobbing.
Her father yells and staggers toward the kitchen, returning minutes later, a beer in hand, before stumbling up the stairs to his room.
Having seen enough, I pull myself out of her thoughts. With Providence lying still on the ground, I carefully run my eyes over her, inspecting for damage. Tightly closing her eyes, she whispers again for her pain to go away.
I take on my human form and walk toward her. Hearing my footsteps on the hardwood floor, she quickly opens her eyes and skates her bottom backward along the floor until she’s flush against the wall.
“Ah, wha…who…where di…” she chokes out in a low whisper.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.” I raise my arms up, palms out.
“Are you…? Who called the police? He didn’t do it on purpose. Please don’t take him away,” she begs.
“I won’t take him away.” I shake my head. She thinks I’m an officer?
I slowly creep to the corner where she sits in pain, slowly lowering myself into a crouch until our eyes are level. I reach out and stroke her bruised arm, feeling the tingly warm sensation my touch brings. It overpowers her pain for a single moment. I examine that spot on her arm, a dark, purplish-red, hand-print bruise, a reminder of the mighty grip he placed on her. Her eyes follow mine and a waterfall of tears flow down her face as the throbbing returns.
“He’s a…a go…od man, j…j…u...st bro...ken.” She chokes between sobs.
With my hand still positioned on her arm, I radiate my light, providing some relief, opening her lungs and allowing a deep gasping breath. She wipes the tears that dangle on her chin, brushes four fingers across her cheek, exposing a blotchy redness on the surface of her skin. I tuck a loose wisp of moist, walnut hair, wet from her salty tears, behind her ear. I so desperately want to place my palm on her face, though hesitant of stepping beyond allowable social bounds. And I have zero interest in a replay of my first Avery scene.
I want to melt away her pain, seal the cracks that are leaving her heart in pieces, and fill up the holes caused by hopeless emptiness. The golden haze still envelopes her, giving her enough strength to steady herself and sit upright without the assistance of the wall.
I slowly straighten upward out of my crouch. “Let me help you up.” I extend my hands to meet hers and draw her up off the floor. She stumbles forward, lightheaded, falling into my arms. A comfort and warmth suddenly washes over her, and she holds securely, determined not to fall. I reposition my arm around her waist, placing my palm firmly on her hip bone, while holding her arm against my chest. We shuffle our feet en route to the couch where she plops down with a heavy sigh, and scoots back along the espresso leather until she is flush against the cushioned back.
“Thank you,” she whispers, unable to bring herself to look at me.
Shame washes over her face, the light from the lamp confessing her secret that was more easily kept in the darkness of the corner. Her thoughts shift from her pain.
I’m not sure who you are or how you came to be here, but I don’t want to be alone right now.
I grab a tissue and sit next to her, blotting the blood off her lower lip. She winces at the sting but doesn’t move. She swallows loudly and closes her eyes until moments after I pull my hand away to examine the extent of the damage.
“Just a tiny crack, a little swollen, but it’ll be easy to cover up,” I whisper sincerely.
She rubs her index finger slowly back and forth over the wound, confirming my assessment, thankful to find it true.
Oh, thank God, I can’t afford to call in sick for a busted-up face.
The golf-ball-sized knot in her throat remains and her mouth is dry. She peers up at me with the intent to speak, but nothing comes out. Water is the only thought that crosses her mind.
“Would you like something to drink? I’ll get it for you,” I say quietly.
She nods and mouths, “Yes, please,” pointing to the kitchen. I stand up, taking a step away from the couch. She quickly grabs my hand, pulling me back to her. I gaze down at her face, noticing the scarlet slipping away from her cheeks. She opens her mouth to speak, but again the words fall away. After a moment she releases my hand, and I walk to the kitchen in search of a glass.
Providence begins to pray, not aloud, I can only hear her soft voice in my mind.
God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I did to provoke him, but I’m sorry. I know he loves me, deep down he does. Please just help him to find that love again. He doesn’t deserve this pain. Please teach me how to love him. Please!
I’m amazed by Providence’s strength, her faith, and her unconditional love. It takes a strong soul to forgive such an act by the very man who is supposed to love and care for her the most. I return to the living room, carrying a glass of water, watching her closely with a new-found respect.
She’s staring down at her lap where her clasped hands lie, knuckles white from her grip. I rest my hand on her shoulder, emitting my light, and handing her the glass with the other.
She chugs it down in a few gulps, sucking in a breath of air, filling her depleted lungs. She wipes her mouth with her sleeve, soaking up
a bit of water that hides in the crease of her lips. She points to a photo in a silver frame on the mantle. I squint as though I need to get a clearer view.
“I look like her, my mom. She passed eight years ago today, when I was sixteen. Dad loved her more than anything.” Including me, she thinks.
She looks at the ground, fumbling her fingers, a tear rolling down her cheek. The memory of her loss reopens a wound deep in her chest, sending an icy chill down her spine. She swallows loudly.
Cancer claimed her mother. I knew it before she even thought it. All that studying I did on the subject prepared me for this very moment, and yet no amount of research can describe with an ounce of accuracy her grief, now, even years later.
“He didn’t mean to do this.” She grazes a hand over her face, then her arm, finally landing on her stomach. “I just caught him off guard.”
While the gut-wrenching pain remains, no tears fall.
“Honestly, he was a great dad when I was growing up. He’s been a different man since Mom passed. Lost, he’s just lost. I don’t fault him for that. His life was turned upside down, both of ours were.” She stares straight ahead. “He never used to drink. It’s just part of the fall.” She rests her head on the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling. “Officer, you don’t have to write a report, do you? He wasn’t driving drunk or anything. I swear he was here the whole time.” She stares directly into my eyes.
“No, no report.” I look down, reminded that she still thinks I’m an officer.
The clergyman outfit I could piece together from my closet, a police-officer uniform I definitely could not. Plus, that would be blatantly lying. Right now, I’m simply avoiding the truth.
I realize now more than ever that I’ve been assigned not to just comfort her and replace her darkness with light but to protect her. Her darkness isn’t rooted within her like that of so many others. Hers is external, caused by her father.
I have the overwhelming urge to hold her in my arms, to carry her away from here. But I can’t. I have nowhere to take her. It’s not as though the loft is suitable for her. I resolve to watch from afar, intervening only when necessary. Maybe I can encourage her to move out, get her out from under his roof. At a minimum she should find someplace safe until he’s stable and sober.
“Is there someplace else you can stay tonight?” I ask optimistically.
She shakes her head and hangs it in defeat. “He’ll freak if he wakes and I’m gone. He’s passed out now, anyway. I’ll be okay the rest of the night.” She looks up with a hopeful sparkle in her eye.
“Do you mind if I check to make certain?”
“Go ahead, on the right.” She points up the stairs.
I take a quick peek, knowing well before I reach the doorway that he’s sound asleep, his loud snoring giving him away. He lies on his stomach on the bed, head turned toward the door and nowhere close to the pillow, with his shoe-covered feet dangling over the side. I head back down the stairs where Providence is waiting for me at the bottom.
“All clear,” I say.
She looks me in the eye, “What’s your name, officer?”
“Zan, my name is Zan.” I reach out to shake her hand.
Her hand lightly grips mine. It is shaky and worn out. “Zan…?”
“Short for Alexander.”
“I’m Providence, but you probably already know that.” She yawns and pulls her long hair back into a pony tail.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
She nods reluctantly. “I think this is the worst that can happen tonight.”
“Do you need anything before I leave?”
She shakes her head no.
I want to hug her, but that would be inappropriate. I also know the minute I walk out this door I’m going to shed this flesh and return to her side. I can’t bring myself to leave her like this. She doesn’t really want to be alone anyway.
“Thank you.”
I place my hand on her shoulder. “Anytime. I mean it. You can call me anytime.”
She nods and thinks, Um, yeah, that won’t be happening. I have no intention of calling the police department anytime soon.
A half-smile approaches my cheek. Well, that’s fortunate, since you won’t find me there.
I force my legs to walk to the door. “Take care.” I instinctively place my hand on my heart, feeling insecurity creep up on her.
Providence quietly closes the front door behind me to prevent her father from waking up. I stroll around the block, turning my head up to the dark clouds, feeling the fall of a few cold snowflakes. I look back at her small, pale-yellow, cedar house, situated on a corner lot. A short driveway at the side of the house leads to a sublevel garage with a deck that hangs a few feet over its door. In between the street and the house is a small grassy hillside leading to either the covered front porch or the white wooden stairs of the back deck. It’s an older home, resting on a foundation of large, rounded, brown stones, the same stones that make up the chimney that climbs along the side of house. When I see her bedroom light shine through the side window, I move back inside.
A moment later, I move to her bedroom. A half-smile plays on my face as she tiredly walks in wearing light-blue pajama pants, on which fluffy white clouds are scattered, and a white T-shirt advertising a matching blue cloud. Her pajamas bear a sweet, childlike innocence. This scene is contrary to everything she’s experienced tonight, but demonstrates strength and resilience. She removes the red and white pillows scattered against the oak frame of the daybed, tossing them on the floor. She tugs the bedspread and sheet down and crawls in, curling under the covers, pulling the pillow into the crook of her neck. Her eyes slip shut and, as she takes one last deep breath, her heartbeat slows.
“Goodnight, Mom,” she whispers. A slight curl in her lip suggests a smile.
An air of numbness surrounds her as she falls into a deep sleep, removing all thoughts of this evening.
Another day begins. I lace up my Nikes in preparation for a jog to the park. It’s a cool morning, and the threat of rain has passed. I run through the downtown streets, peering up at the windows of the sleeping residents, passing the vacant baseball stadium, and stopping in the park at the swings. I take a seat, swinging back and forth, higher and higher. A childlike feeling surges through me the higher I climb. I chuckle, remembering Providence’s pajamas.
Lost in thought, Grant sneaks up behind me and gives me a push. I peek back, letting the swing reach its highest point, and I jump off landing firmly on the ground.
“You were going pretty strong there for a while, brother.”
“Only my second time. Guess I’m a natural.”
“So, what were you thinking about?”
And before I have a chance to process my question, I blurt out, “Do you ever feel like you’re in tune with some callers more than others, like you see and hear from a particular person more than anyone else?”
“I definitely have callers with active prayer lives, so I become more in tune with them because I know them better. The more they pray the more I learn about them, feel for them, and feel with them.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Providence prays a lot. She’s been through a great deal lately, so I’m sure that’s why I feel this way with her.” I shake my head convinced that his explanation is accurate. I know her better than any of the others. That must be why I feel so close to her and protective of her.
“Last night at the diner was great. You should come with us next time, man.” Leo pops up out of the shadows, talking to Grant.
The conversation continues, but the sound of the river current calls me. I wander over to the circular concrete landing that rises out of the river just beyond the tree-lined bank. Leaning over the thick tubular railing, I watch the water rush past and wonder where it will end up. I shove my hand in the front pockets of my jeans and pull a white feather out, letting a gust of wind carry it down stream. What it would feel like to fly again?
My daydream of
flying drifts away as Providence’s prayer speaks softly in my mind.
God, he didn’t even say good-bye this morning. He just left. I wasn’t expecting an apology, but I thought for sure he would at least say good-bye.
Hoping to catch her before she leaves for work, her once-a-month Saturday shift, I jog to her house. After hearing her prayer, I know her father is gone for the day, but just to be safe, I check for his truck in the driveway before knocking on the front door. After confirming it’s gone, I excitedly hop up the front stairs to the front door, knocking twice, with a huge grin on my face. I suddenly feel a little nervous. I never planned out what I would say once I got here. Yikes!
Moments later she answers, wearing jeans and a knit cherry-red shirt. I was secretly hoping she would still be wearing the cute cloud pajamas.
“Hi,” she answers, a wave of shock flashing across her face, a deeper rose floating to her cheek’s surface.
I smile, figuring that’s a good place to start and may seem less creepy. “Good morning. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m good, I’m good, well…better, definitely better, yeah better.” A simple “yes” was all he was looking for. Stop rambling, you sound like an idiot.
My smile widens, feeling her jitters and the skipped beat of her heart.
She rubs her index finger along her lips. “Neosporin works wonders.” She gives a smile, slightly embarrassed to have brought that up.
“Well…you look much better.” Oh smooth, maybe she didn’t notice the emphasis on “much”?
“Thanks. I’m getting ready to head to work, but you can come in for a minute. He’s already gone for the day.” She opens the door wider, walking toward the kitchen to eat her last bite of bagel.
“I noticed his truck wasn’t in the driveway,” I yell from the living room.
She comes back into sight, her coat on and purse thrown over her shoulder. We walk out the front door together and I stop on the porch as she locks the door behind us.
“I walk to work on nice days. It’s not far from here…the Starbucks just over the hill.” She points.
