After his welcome, Gabriel concentrated on his words and the order of events. His eyes did not stray to the front pew. Hugh would, no doubt, comment on it later. Or maybe he’d see it for what it was: survival.
They sang “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” and EmJ’s best friend from primary school read a poem. He stood, he sat, he played his role, and then it was time for Marianne. Orders of service shuffled, and someone sneezed. When the church fell silent, he allowed himself to glance at her. She was clasping Darius’s hand as if her life depended on it. Would he have to step in and give an address off the cuff? It wouldn’t be the first time, but the moment called for something big, something healing, something prepared. Marianne looked at him, her sad eyes asking for help. He smiled, and the room stripped away to the two of them.
You can do it, he said silently.
She gave a nod and stood; Darius tugged on his lapels.
Gabriel expected Marianne to come to the lectern and stand in front of him, but no, she went to the pulpit. As she climbed the winding steps, so graceful despite the dangerously high heels, his eyes skimmed up the body he could have once outlined in his sleep. He picked up his reading glasses and pretended to study the order of service.
“Hi,” Marianne said into the microphone, her voice hesitant. “I’m Marianne Stokes, the infamous wild child of Newton Rushford, which means every story you’ve ever heard about my teenage years that involves sex, drugs, vandalism . . . and stolen sherbet lemons is probably true. And under that fine mural on the bus shelter wall is my first and last attempt at graffiti. It was spectacularly bad.”
The tension in the church loosened. People laughed and settled into more comfortable positions. Gabriel removed his reading glasses, folded his hands into his lap, and fixed his stare on the organ pipes behind Marianne.
“I’m also a manic-depressive and an alcoholic. And it’s a first for me, saying those words to a gathering that isn’t a group therapy session on a mental ward. So I guess you could say this is my coming out as a crazy person. And it’s only by the incredible character of Reverend Gabriel Bonham”—she glanced in his direction—“that I reached adulthood. Growing up in this village, Gabriel was my best friend. I chose to wear a sleeveless dress today because I wanted to show you what he did for me when I was sixteen and terrified of the monsters in my head.” She held up her wrists; a few people gasped. “I’m a three-time suicide survivor. The doctors don’t know how I survived the last two attempts, but I know why I didn’t die as a teenager. Gabriel saved my life.” She lowered her arms, and someone coughed. “I hope you realize how blessed you are to have this man as your vicar. And I hope the rumors about him and me end here and now. Otherwise my adored husband”—she waved at Darius—“will have to threaten each of you with a pair of boxing gloves.”
Another round of laughter. Marianne glanced down at the floor of the pulpit; Gabriel glanced up at the pattern of acorns on the chancel ceiling and willed her to talk about anything other than him.
“I stayed away from the village for thirty years because I was too ashamed to show my face here. But I hit a downward spiral and, like a homing pigeon, came back to where I’d been happy as a child. Gabriel took me in, no questions asked. That’s the kind of guy he is. I think that also means he saved my life twice.” She swallowed. “Things got a bit rocky from that point. You expect that when you’re as messed up as I am, but I also make more silly mistakes than most toddlers. Part of that’s my illness and part of it’s me. I made a disastrous decision to come off my meds and ended up in the loony bin. Not a bad one as loony bins go. I’m happy to give references if anyone is in need of five-star residential care.”
A ripple of laughter.
“That’s how I met EmJ. Emmajohn Peel. A young woman who made my past seem like a stroll in Bedford Park. Some of you witnessed my first psychotic break outside in the churchyard when I was sixteen. That was the beginning for me. But EmJ told me she’d been hospitalized at thirteen. What were you doing at thirteen? I was climbing trees with your future vicar and ripping up daffodils in your garden, Bill Collins.”
Marianne paused and cleared her throat, and Gabriel wished he’d left a glass of water out for her. “You’re told to expect failure when you have a mood disorder. My life has been filled with failure: destroyed friendships—Gabriel was my first victim—two collapsed marriages, the suicide attempts, and years lost to alcoholism. How I ended up with a devoted husband who puts up with everything I throw at him—quite literally—I have no idea.”
“I’m a saint,” Darius said loudly, and people laughed again.
“Yes, my love, you are. But not everyone can be as blessed. And not everyone in my position has someone who can say, ‘Congratulations, you kept living.’ For five years, EmJ kept living, and that took heroic courage. As it did to get up on stage and sing her heart out in that beautiful voice.
“We’re here today to honor this amazing young woman. To remember her and her extraordinary musical talent. But I also want to thank her for the lessons she taught me. Finding acceptance comes in stages, and thanks to EmJ, I’ve reached a new level of acceptance. Yes, I love my family. But I have taken their support for granted and shut them out when they’ve tried to help. I realize now that I can no longer do this alone. At the risk of sounding like a trailer for a B-list horror movie, it takes a village to keep you safe when you have demons gnawing at your brain. So please, if you know people battling mental illness, don’t judge them when they fail, which they will do. Help them get back up, as Gabriel and my family have done for me.
“I wanted to help EmJ—teach her coping skills and guide her into a career in music. And in that too I failed. EmJ and I have both failed. But we are not failures. We are and always will be—even in death—soldiers.”
Someone blew his nose loudly. Another person sniffed.
“On the way here, I passed the war memorial. I’m sure many of you did. That column of stone is a testament to the courage of young men who died fighting for their way of life. People like EmJ—and me—fight equally hard every day for the right to exist. She lost her life to a fatal disease because the noise in her head had taken over, like an invading army. But she never made a decision to enter the war. Untrained and without weapons, she was thrown down on the front lines and told to fight. There is no reprieve when you have a broken mind; cease-fires are rare. Even on good days, you know everything could change on a dime. Fear is your constant shadow.
“Some people think suicide is the ultimate failure, but don’t judge her that way. EmJ was a young soldier in a silent war, fallen before her time. I will never forget her, and I hope you won’t, either.” Marianne paused and turned her head slowly, scanning the congregation, trying, he assumed, to make eye contact with as many people as possible.
“Emmajohn Peel was my sister-in-arms. She didn’t make it. But I will honor her memory every day for the rest of my life. When I get home to North Carolina, I’m going to establish an annual prize, in EmJ’s name, for one gifted student graduating from the music performance program at the University of North Carolina to record in my studio. Her name will live on, as should the names of all fallen warriors.” Marianne’s bottom lip trembled. “When we met, EmJ said, ‘I just want it to go away for a while.’ Wherever you are, sweetheart, may you be at peace. And I hope you’re laughing as hard as you are on this recording that we’re about to play.
“I made this when we were practicing—in our bedroom at the rectory—with a mic, an audio interface, and my laptop. In other words, it’s bargain-basement recording. Or it was until my husband got his hands on it. He’s a sound wizard who can mix anything. He did this as a gift for me, because he knew how desperately I wanted the last word to belong to EmJ.”
Wiping her eyes, Marianne walked down the pulpit steps, and EmJ’s voice drifted through the PA system. Her words and her singing filled the church, and as the music faded out, another sound faded in over the top: EmJ’s sweet laugh. There was a moment of silenc
e and then Matt stood and clapped. Followed by Tom, Charlotte, and Jack. One by one, his congregation followed suit.
Gabriel, however, sat. Lost in the promise of Marianne, he could hear her teenage voice: “Together we’re going to change the world, or die trying.”
He had always admired her strength, her determination, her fearlessness, and her courage. And there it all was, laid out on display. And it would never be his. It hadn’t been from the second Simon barged into their secret world. Yes, Gabriel had loved her with a passion he could never replicate, a passion that ruined every chance of happiness he glimpsed with another woman. Marianne talked about failed friendships; he collected failed relationships, and with each failure, he retreated further.
The day she magically appeared in this very building and he invited her into his home, he mistook it for a test from God, when he was merely testing himself. Seeing if he still had the capacity for a love of that depth. Not duty, not loyalty, not friendship, not the need to do the right thing, but the unquestionable devotion of a husband like Darius. And now he had his answer. He’d been telling anyone who would listen he wasn’t in love with Marianne. Finally he believed it. Marianne talked about an endgame on that first day. Had this been his all along, to find out the answer to that thirty-year-old question: Did he still love Marianne? And hadn’t his greatest fear been not that he did, but that he didn’t?
The church fell silent as the congregation, seated once more, waited for him to act. Marianne beamed at him, her arm linked through Darius’s. And Gabriel looked away from everything that had been his, everything that had ended in a deafening crunch of metal. With a cough he stood.
“I think it only fitting that we should now hear from EmJ’s band, Shadowbox.”
Gabriel sat down heavily. He needed to get through the service and retreat to the rectory. Plead exhaustion and make a hasty exit. He didn’t approve of vicars who swanned out of a service, leaving the laity to clear up. But being falsely polite to everyone gathered in his church seemed more than he was capable of today. It demanded the courage Marianne had mentioned and he had never possessed.
When the band finished playing, everyone cheered. People blew their noses and dabbed at their eyes with tissues. It was an oddly evangelical moment created by rock ’n’ roll. Gabriel almost expected his normally reserved parishioners to start waving their arms around and singing, “Praise be to God.” What he didn’t expect was to see Marianne slip out of her pew when the song had finished and stand on the chancel steps, her back to him, and sing the Lord’s Prayer unaccompanied, with the voice of an angel. Darius showed no surprise.
The world seemed to spin away from him. His world. The one he had built with fortified walls. In his church, surrounded by his faith, he was in control. And that too Marianne had stolen from him. More memories of the crash bled out as if from a fresh wound. He tipped back his head, giving the semblance of rapture as he drowned out Marianne’s voice with his own prayer.
Please Lord, give me the strength to get through this.
If he couldn’t find that strength, he should go back to the vestry, crack open the communion wine, and make the bishop’s day by resigning.
FORTY-SEVEN
MARIANNE
“Babe, we need to get you into the studio,” Darius said as soon as they stood up. “To record some religious music.”
Gathering her belongings, she willed her heartbeat to return to normal. She’d done it, but she still needed to make it through the obstacle course of people moving toward them instead of the door. “Not happening. That was a one-off, a gift for EmJ if she’s listening. Gabriel says religion brings people peace. I’m hoping he’s right.”
Darius leaned in close. “All this talk of God is giving me the heebie-jeebies. Let’s get out of here. Besides—” His hand slid down her back to her thigh. “For the last hour I’ve been fantasizing about tearing that dress off you.”
He reached past her to shake hands like a political candidate fresh off a stump speech. People introduced themselves; voices congratulated her. One woman told Marianne they’d been in playgroup together and made a joke about her ripping down the curtain during a nativity play. Marianne had no memory of the woman or the incident. She glanced around to find Gabriel, but he was standing by the font, shaking hands in a weird receiving line. As the crowd pressing in on her and Darius thickened, panic rose; her heart raced. She snatched at Darius’s sleeve.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he said loudly, “I think my wife needs some fresh air.”
People moved away, and she and Darius had a clear run down the aisle. Her heartbeat slowed. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I thought I was going under.”
“Think of me as your seizure-response dog, like epileptics have.”
Marianne laughed until she spotted the church ladies serving tea and chocolate digestive biscuits in front of the choir vestry. Standing by the end of the table, clutching a chipped white mug, not unlike the ones her mother used to schlep around when she organized the monthly coffee mornings, and staring directly at her, was Bill Collins.
It didn’t take a PhD to figure out who had placed that call to the archdeacon. Darius stopped to shake someone’s hand, and she set her sights on Bill. The bastard was going down. Hopefully with an audience.
Behind her Darius said, “Yes, I’m incredibly proud of my wife. She’s a total rock star.”
“You owe Gabriel an apology.” She pointed her index finger at Bill. Up close his teeth were gray and crooked, and as for those nose hairs . . . “Tattling to the archdeacon because of some petty grudge you’ve harbored against us since we were kids was mean and unchristian.” Did she say unchristian loud enough? She should repeat it in case not everyone heard.
He put down his mug, reached for his stick, and limped closer.
“No,” he said. “I owe you an apology.”
Despite his coffee breath, Marianne didn’t move.
“The wife had her ups and downs,” Bill said quietly. “All her family did. They had a name for it, called it the bad bile. Don’t know where that came from. Guess her family’d been using it for generations.”
“I—I’m sorry, I don’t remember your wife.”
“She wouldn’t talk to the GP or nothing. She didn’t leave the house much. That’s why she got upset about them pranks you two played.”
Oh God. Stupid, mean pranks when they thought the house was empty: splattering mud on the windows, throwing rotten apples onto the perfectly mown lawn, opening the paper and throwing pages up into the cherry tree. Except the house hadn’t been empty.
“You and Gabriel scared her half to death. Made her convinced the house were under attack. She started seeing aliens. I tried to look after her, best I could, but weren’t nothing I could do.” He grabbed Marianne’s hand with his moist, bony one. “The wife wouldn’t get no treatment, you see. And I blamed you two for everything.”
“You should have blamed me, and me alone. Gabriel worked hard to talk me out of some of that stuff.”
“But he always followed you, didn’t he?”
“Not exactly. He knew I was an unstoppable force when I got an idea for a prank. He came along as quality control.” She gave a tired smile. “To make sure I didn’t go completely bananas. Without his influence, trust me, it would have been a thousand times worse. I take full responsibility, and I’m so sorry.” She closed both her hands around his.
“Different time,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze. “I wanted to get her help, but we didn’t talk about such things. No one did. And there weren’t the Internet like there is now. I wish I’d known more.”
“Can I ask what happened to Mrs. Collins?”
“She died.” He looked back up. She’d never noticed before, but his eyes were deep blue. “By her own hand. That’s why I called the archdeacon. I thought you two was carrying on again. Not caring who you hurt.”
Marianne swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry for the hell I put you both through.”
; “I’m sorry too, about that girl. Awful business.”
Marianne nodded. Darius joined them, and Bill Collins released her.
“I can see you’re a good man,” Bill said. “You keep on doing your duty as a husband.”
“I intend to, sir.” Darius sounded oddly formal. “She’s a keeper.”
“If you’ll excuse me”—Bill picked up his mug—“I need to put this in the sink and then go talk to the reverend. Want to compliment him on the service.” And he shuffled off.
“Did I miss something?” Darius frowned.
“A miracle,” Marianne said.
FORTY-EIGHT
GABRIEL
Staring at a balled-up crisp packet rolling around in the corner of the bus shelter, Gabriel leaned back against the mural Marianne had referenced in her address. A light drizzle began to fall as he replayed the conversation with Bill Collins. After complimenting him on the service, Bill had declared his intention to call the bishop and set things right, even if that meant abusing his relationship with the archbishop of Canterbury. Apparently there was some tenuous family connection. Not that Gabriel was listening closely to that part of Bill’s monologue. And it was a monologue, because Gabriel found himself unable to register a single response.
For years he refused to give up hope for a good outcome with Bill, despite believing that the man was a lost cause. But without warning, Bill flashed his Christian heart and offered forgiveness and charity. And Gabriel had barely managed a smile, let alone the euphoric happy vicar dance. He really should resign, because if he cared so little about one repentant sinner returning to the fold, he was no longer fit to be a priest. He could volunteer for the British Red Cross. Or he could contact the woman he’d met today from the teens in crisis group and see if she knew of any job openings. Or he could ask Marianne and Darius to leave.
He pulled out his mobile to read the text from Jade.
I gather Marianne was a big hit. Don’t forget their makeup sex gets loud. Might want to put off going home.
Echoes of Family Page 28
