“Your thoughts wouldn’t have taken you away like that if they were about nothing.”
“I … it doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Maybe if you shared them they might be easier for you.”
He couldn’t tell an angel that didn’t remember she was an angel. She would have no answer for him that wasn’t said before. It was a past that had been written with blood and nothing could change that. He was sick of the comments, mostly the ones that were meant to make him feel better and get on with life. The tap on the hand, the slap on the back, how-are-you-doing-today-my-friend, not wanting to hear the real answer. It didn’t matter because nothing was going to change what happened and nothing was going to make him feel better about it until the bastards responsible died in jail and rotted in hell.
Then, when he had nothing else to live for, he’d see himself off to a place where he could be with Michelle once again to live the life they should be living now.
He went to knock again when the door opened and a face appeared in the shadows. Daman flicked the collar of his jacket down so his face could be seen. The door opened further and the rather round face of the old priest appeared. “Daman Quade? I haven’t seen you since … ”
“Sorry, Father, I know it’s been a long time, but don’t get your hopes up. I’m not here so you can save my soul, I just need some assistance on another matter. May I come in?” He stepped aside. “Father Joseph, this is Angel. She needs your help.”
The priest opened the door enough for them to walk through and ushered them in. They stepped into the foyer of the church while the priest closed the door against the gush of frigid wind. Although the church was drafty, the solid oak did its job in shutting out the rain and the biting wind of the bitter winter night.
The priest stepped around them, “Come. This way.”
Daman went to walk after the priest, but Angel stepped in front of him into the long central aisle of the church. Either side of them, gleaming oak pews were set in neat rows, the backs well-worn through years of handling through the worship of mass. The central passageway was marked in a different pattern of brown and cream tiles, meticulously laid in straight lines. As they walked, Daman took time to look at the church. The last time he’d been here, it had not been the time for sight-seeing.
Flying buttresses were held up by huge granite columns, making the ceiling impossibly high. The central aisle led to the steps upon which the white marble altar was set. It was beautifully handcrafted by masters of their trade. Mosaics of Christ’s life were inlaid between pure white columns, upon which the top of the altar was set. Seven lit candles had been placed in a neat line on the top, throwing a flickering light over the intricate golden candelabras either side of the altar area.
Beyond the altar on the wall behind the stage was a huge sculpture of Christ on the cross. Intrigued, Daman followed Angel. She’d paused, caught on the statue of Christ, wounded and dying on the cross.
“What is it, Angel?” he asked quietly. His voice echoed into the far recesses of the empty building.
She indicted the sculpture. “The Crucifixion of Christ.” Daman nodded, waiting while she thought.
“Why do humans remember him at his time of death? It is such a small sum of who he is. He has done so much more for humankind than this. Why remember his death when he has given so much life?”
“My child, we remember Christ gave his life for us so that we may go on to live a life beyond this one in heaven,” Father Joseph walked to her side.
“Oh, but you do live on. I thought everyone knew that,” she said.
Daman barely spoke, the knowledge that could be so close at hand was hiding behind the veil of a lost memory. “Angel, what life do we go to?”
“You … ” her voice faltered. She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Daman. It is gone.” When she turned her face to him, the brightness of unshed tears was reflected by the candlelight.
He took her in his arms, and her body shuddered. She was so fragile, such a gentle soul. “It isn’t your fault. Let’s see what the good Father here knows about your … situation. I’m sure there’s something he would know that could help. He’s been a priest for a very long time.”
She nodded and stepped back, but he held her by her shoulders. “We’ll have to tell him about you.”
Her gaze went from him to the priest.
“You can trust him. I’ve known Father Joseph since I was a boy,” Daman said.
“An altar boy,” Father Joseph smiled.
“I wouldn’t be asking this of you if it weren’t absolutely necessary,” he said.
Angel smiled and the sun’s rays touched his heart. It thawed and lightened just that little bit as he dedicated it to memory. “If you say so,” she said.
The Father indicated a pathway between the rows. “And I have only been a priest for a long time. Not a very long time, as you put it,” he said to Daman as he glided past to take Angel’s elbow in his hand.
He took them through the church and into his private quarters at the back end of the church. They stepped into a warm sitting area, sparsely furnished with old furniture, burnished to a polish with oil, scattered around a central fireplace. A crackling fire was lit. Angel held her hands close to the flames.
There was a kitchen area where a small, round four-seat table was placed in the middle of the linoleum floor. Daman took off his water-soaked jacket and hung it over the back of a pine chair.
Father Joseph closed and locked the door behind him before heading into the kitchenette and turning on the kettle. “Let’s have a fresh pot of tea before you tell me what you’re here for.”
Daman sat in the chair facing the fire, watching as Angel moved about the room. She took photos from the mantle, ran her fingertips over the frames and stared at the people in them. She replaced the photos and went to a wall full of mismatched framed pictures. Each one had been placed sequentially throughout the years and hung in neat rows on the wall. Dates had been hand written on the lower right hand side of each photograph. Angel stopped at a large framed photograph and studied the people.
“Do you know who that is?” Father Joseph placed a tray of cups and a teapot on the coffee table and went to stand next to her.
“This person?” Angel indicated the man who stood next to Father Joseph in the photograph.
“Yes.”
Angel thought for a moment. “He seems very familiar, as though he has touched a lot of people’s hearts.”
“He has done just that. He’s Pope John. I met him a decade or so ago on a pilgrimage to Rome. It has been the highlight of my career.”
“He doesn’t live on earth,” Angel said.
“That’s right. He died a few years ago now. Pope Benedict is the new Pope of the Catholic Church now.”
Angel bent closer to the picture. “Who are those other people?”
“They are nuns and bishops. They came with me.”
“What about those people at the back?” Angel pointed to a blank space behind the people in the photograph. “They seem familiar to me, too.”
Father Joseph squinted at the photo, perching his glasses onto the end of his nose. “My dear, your eyesight has to be better than mine and there aren’t any people standing behind us. There’s just a wall.”
“There are three people. One behind you, the other behind the pope and one to the side. They’re smiling at the camera, just like you are.”
The Father glanced at Daman. His gray brows were knotted close together, concern written in his dull gray eyes. He rose from the chair and studied the photo. There was indeed a blank space behind the priest and the people next to him.
“I think they are people only you can see, Angel,” Daman said.
Father Joseph took Daman’s elbow, led him from Angel angled his head toward D
aman and whispered. “Is she troubled, my son?”
Daman shook his head. “Father, I’m here because I know you will believe what I have to tell you. She’s not troubled. It’s not what you think.”
“But, there are no people behind us in the photograph.”
“There are. It’s just that you and I cannot see them.”
Concern creased lines in Father Joseph’s forehead. “Are you telling me she thinks she sees invisible people?”
Daman paused, gathered a breath, voice strained. “Father. She’s not human. She’s … an angel. She shouldn’t be here … on earth. It’s my fault. She can’t find her way home. She has no memory. I need to ask you how we can get her back to where she came from.” Daman recalled the events of the previous evening, omitting the reason he was in the alley. The priest didn’t ask.
Father Joseph sank onto a kitchen chair and stared into space, eyes unfocused. “I think I need to sit and drink to take this in.” He shook his head, as though trying to shuffle reason and logic into his mind. The priest stared at Angel, whose attention was still locked on the photographs.
Father Joseph sunk his hands into his lap, but not before Daman noticed his hands shake before they were claimed between his knees. The seconds passed by. The priest wasn’t taking this well. He needed something to boost his faith in the afterlife.
Daman went into the kitchen. “Do you have anything stronger than tea, Father?”
The priest indicated a side cupboard. Daman opened the doors, took the bottle of full Scotch. He searched for some shot glasses and settled on empty jam jars cleaned and washed on the sink. He poured a generous amount into each glass and handed one to the priest. He took a sip and enjoyed the smooth heat of it traveling down his throat.
“That’s a good drop, Father.” He read the label. Distilled for twelve years a decade ago. No wonder it was so smooth.
Father Joseph took a careful sip and coughed at the small amount that touched his tongue. The glass shook as he tried putting it back onto the table.
“Better?” Daman asked.
The priest sent him a goggle-eyed response. He’d lost his voice for the moment. Daman poured him a cup of the brewed tea in the pot on the table, and another one for Angel. He pushed the mug toward the priest who took a grateful sip. Daman indicated for Angel to sit and drink the tea with them at the table.
The priest turned his attention to Angel, eyeing her carefully before speaking, “Tell me … what happened to you.”
Angel set her cup onto the table with a soft clink. “I’m not sure. I can’t remember anything before waking this morning.”
“She’s an angel with amnesia,” Daman said.
The priest sighed. “And what makes you think she’s an angel at all?”
Daman faced Angel. “Could you show the Father your wings?”
Angel nodded, and in an instant, her beautiful wings materialized behind her, faint at first, mixing with the shadows, then becoming solid. She spread them, opening them wide enough to nearly touch wall to wall.
“Holy Father of God,” the priest murmured. He sunk back into the chair, fingering the cross at his neck. There was a mixture of awe and surprise in his wide eyes. His jowls quivered as his mouth worked silently, trying to form words his stunned brain couldn’t turn into sounds. Daman worked out he mouthed the Lord’s Prayer.
Daman leaned close to the priest and took the teacup from his shaking hands, setting it back onto the table. “Father, are you okay?”
The priest looked from Daman, back to Angel. “I … never expected to see … ” He swallowed deeply.
“I told you, Father. She’s an angel. Came for me last night. Then something happened and she became flesh and blood. We don’t know how it happened or how to turn her back. Can you help us?”
Father Joseph held out a trembling hand and lightly touched a feather. “So soft,” he whispered.
Angel smiled at the priest, folded her wings behind her back and perched on the edge of her seat. Daman watched as the priest was transfixed, caught in the radiance of her smile.
“You can’t remember who … what … you are?” the priest asked her.
Angel shook her head. “It’s as though I were born anew this morning.”
Daman perched on the edge of his chair, folded his hands between his knees. “I should have been dead. Angel came for me … ”
“Angel?” the priest asked.
“I named her Angel.”
The priest nodded. “Go on.”
“Someone pulled a gun and shot me. But it missed and hit Angel instead. She sustained a head injury. I took her home. When she woke, she couldn’t remember anything before the accident.”
“Head injury?”
“Angel healed herself. There’s no wound to see now, but the bullet grazed her temple.”
“Amazing.” The priest stared, wide-eyed, at Angel. “A flesh and blood angel. A healer. Here on earth. That hasn’t happened since the times of Abraham. This is indeed a miracle.”
“It’s nothing like a miracle. Something went wrong. I shouldn’t be here in your sitting room drinking tea with you and an angel. I should be back down on a cold metal slab in the city morgue.”
The priest turned his eyes back to Daman. “If memory serves me correctly, you’ve wanted that for quite some time now.”
Daman clenched his teeth against the hot wad of emotion that stuck in his throat. “I looked forward to a long life before God took Michelle away from me.”
“I asked you to come back to talk to me so many times after the funeral,” Father Joseph said.
“What could you have said to me? Nothing takes her death away.”
“She’s passed?” Angel whispered.
“Three years ago. My life ended that day. Father, nothing you could have said or done can make it change. I’ll not rest until Vincent Lepski is six feet under, alongside his father.”
“Three wrongs do not make a right,” Father Joseph said.
“I’m willing to take that chance, and damn the consequences. They took her away from me and they’ll pay for it. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. It will happen.”
“You’ve forgotten what it was like to love your wife. You’ve twisted it. Let it become a guilty reason for hiding from life. Your love has become revenge and that is not the answer,” the priest said.
“But it will make me feel a whole lot better.”
“God did not take away your wife. You cannot blame him for that.”
“If God was with her that day, she wouldn’t be dead and I wouldn’t feel like this … ” His voice caught. He felt a hot sting behind his eyes as the familiar hot ball of rage made his vision blur. He staggered from the chair to the mantle, stood so close to the fire he felt his clothes heat and singe his skin. He concentrated on that. Anything was better than remembering, feeling like that again. He’d only recently been able to live with it, even forget it was there for a minute or two. Now it reached to him again, consuming him, clawing him back into the black, desolate depths he’d been writhing in for three years.
“She should be here. Living. Laughing.”
“I know you miss her,” the priest said.
“Missing doesn’t begin to describe how I feel.”
There was a soft pressure at his shoulder. He glanced at his shoulder to find Angel’s hand pressed there. He straightened, moving from her touch. Her hand dropped to her side.
Her soothing blue eyes rested on his, reaching for him, seeking contact, trying to take away his hurt, but nothing could do that. He’d tried for years. “Her love has not been taken away from you. It has not diminished in any way. Love cannot be changed.”
“Angel, I don’t mean to upset you, but … what would you know about love? Angels have no hardsh
ips, no pain, no cares or worries. You don’t live like us. Things … people are not taken away from you.” Daman spoke as gently as he could, but the harsh pain still made his voice gravelly.
“My son, they are of God’s eternal love. They are true understanding and compassion.”
“No one understands unless they’ve gone through the same,” Daman said.
The priest started to talk, but Angel put up her hand. “Daman’s right. There’s all kinds of love. Angels know about these things, but do not experience them as humans do. They … we … feel compassion. We are built to do so. But we are not human.”
Daman paused, stunned. The way she spoke. The way she knew. “Do you remember?”
“No, but I feel it to be true. That special love between humans is a link that cannot be broken by the veil of death. It is the best of humans, but also a downfall.” She went back to the chair, sank onto the edge. Her wings slowly disappeared. “It is true. I do not fully understand what you’ve gone through.” She looked at him, eyes shining. “The more I am of flesh and blood, the more I feel as a human. I can begin to imagine what it is like for you.” She looked sadly to the ground, but the confusion didn’t leave her eyes. Daman went to reach for her, but held back, letting the priest kneel by her side instead.
“I will help you, Angel of God,” Father Joseph said.
She smiled a sad, slow smile. “It isn’t me that needs your help.”
The priest glanced up at Daman. “People take help when they’re willing. And I’m a patient man.”
“But I’m not,” Daman said. “We need help, Father, and we need it now. More people than you or I know about Angel and they won’t hesitate to take what they want. The more time she’s here, the more danger she’s in. Can you tell me what I have to do to take her back to heaven or do I have to go to hell to make it right?”
Chapter Seven
“Who also knows?”
“The man who tried to shoot me shot Angel instead. He also saw what she is. He’s in Lepski’s gang. You can bet by now they know she’s with me and are trying to find us. Believe me, she’s something they’ll want.”
Daman's Angel (Crimson Romance) Page 5
