Capturing Angels

by V. C. Andrews

“Yes? So? What?” I felt as if I was pumping a well handle to get it out of her.

  “Laurie James’s son Samson has type one diabetes. Did you know that?”

  “I think so, yes. So? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “She knew about Bradley, and she knew what I believed, of course. She had Samson sit with Mary in church. I found out that Laurie told him to hold Mary’s hand.”

  “Hold her hand? I don’t understand, Molly. What exactly are you telling me?”

  “She was hoping for a miracle similar to Bradley’s. You know, that Samson would be cured of his diabetes because of his contact with your Mary. Like what they call the laying on of hands. It’s in the Bible, you know.”

  “My God,” I said. “Did John know what Laurie James was doing?”

  “I don’t think Laurie said it in so many words to him, but I can’t be absolutely positive. I know she arranged for Samson to sit next to Mary, and no one objected. I mean, Mary was sitting right beside Margaret. She wouldn’t let anything unpleasant happen to her. I thought they were just being nice to humor her. I didn’t really expect anything would come of it. Well, I shouldn’t say it like that. It makes me sound selfish, but as my husband, Morty, is fond of saying, lightning rarely strikes twice in the same place, and what happened to Bradley was like lightning to us, good lightning.”

  I almost didn’t want to ask, but I knew I had to. “What about Samson James. I mean, since that day?”

  “His doctor says it’s too early to tell, but he sees big improvement. No one said anything to you about it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, I hear it in your voice. Oh, dear, I don’t think I can do anything right when it comes to any of this. I’m just so clumsy with words sometimes.” She was fishing for some forgiveness, but if there was one thing I wasn’t going to do, it was feel sorry for Molly Middleton now. She had her child, healthy and happy, beside her. I had empty chairs, an empty bed, and clothes hanging in my daughter’s closet like flags of surrender.

  “I’m not upset,” I said in clipped tones. “Thanks for the call, Molly, and thanks for cooperating with the police.” I hung up before she could respond.

  For a few moments, I sat fuming despite what I had just told her. I wasn’t upset; I was enraged. Why had neither John nor Margaret ever mentioned this incident to me? How could they keep such an event from me? What if it had resulted in some emotional or psychological trauma for Mary? Were there other similar incidents being kept from me? Why hadn’t Mary said anything about it? She always talked about church and what went on there, especially if I hadn’t gone. It was as if she didn’t want me to be denied the pleasure. Had John told her not to say anything? Had he told her it would upset me? He was right. It would have.

  When I had awoken that morning, I had almost immediately begun sinking into a pool of guilt because of what I had done the night before. The memory of the kiss on Sam’s balcony was so vivid that it was as if we had just done it. I battled my way out of the guilt and then lay looking up at the ceiling, luxuriating in the memory of that kiss—defiantly, in fact. John hadn’t kissed me that way for some time, not even before Mary’s abduction and not even when we were making love because of his determination that we have another child as soon as possible. Whatever guilt I had felt dissipated and was replaced with anger.

  John had left for work nearly an hour earlier. He had made no attempt to wake me to join him at breakfast. Perhaps he’d had breakfast out. He did that from time to time when there was some client or associate to meet. I knew that my falling asleep in Mary’s room must have annoyed him. I was confident that he’d be at me again about my seeing the therapist. Apparently, he hadn’t followed up yet by calling her, but I was more determined than ever not to do it. It was painful and agonizing to face each day without Mary and to worry about where she was and how she was being treated, but I couldn’t let go of the feeling that if I did see a therapist and she put me on some medication, resulting in my becoming zombielike, I would be accepting defeat.

  What was pain, anyway, both physical and mental, if not a constant reminder that something was wrong? Ironically, if it weren’t for pain, we would die from the most minor injuries, traumas, cuts, and internal issues. Pain caused us to seek treatment and cure. I suddenly realized that was why I hated John’s religious philosophy. Accepting any tragedy by thinking of it as God’s will was essentially denying yourself the emotional and psychological pain. Following that theological logic, how could you seek a cure? It was blasphemy to challenge what God had decided in His wisdom, a wisdom that John was fond of saying was beyond human understanding. Didn’t he see the basic contradiction in that?

  I wanted to bring his high and mighty logic down to the ridiculous. Why brush your teeth? If God wanted you to have cavities, all the brushing in the world wouldn’t matter, not to mention vaccinations to prevent polio, smallpox, typhus, or the flu. No, I will not accept anything, I thought. At dinner, I wanted to recite Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night; rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

  For a while, I walked around the house having this imaginary debate with John and babbling to myself. I was sure that anyone observing me would think I had gone mad. When I opened a drawer, I slammed it closed almost instantly. I practically took the refrigerator door off its hinges going after something inside and nearly shattered a coffee mug when I slapped it down on the table. I welcomed the rage. It seemed to bring relief from my sorrow and make me feel stronger. When the phone rang, I ripped it off the cradle before the first ring had completed.

  “What?” I said as if someone had interrupted me.

  “Grace, dear, are you all right?” Margaret asked.

  “That’s a pretty stupid question, Margaret,” I replied. My tone took her completely by surprise. She was silent. I could see her standing in her kitchen, holding the phone to her ear with her mouth locked open. “How can I ever be all right?”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that. You were gone so long yesterday and didn’t come home until the evening, and then, when I saw John this morning, he said you were still asleep so I wondered . . .”

  “What do you do, Margaret, sit by the window watching me go to and fro?”

  “Oh, you know better than that, Grace.” She paused, but I didn’t rescue the conversation. “Well, I was heading to the senior center and just wanted to see if you needed anything before I left.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Okay, but don’t hesitate to call me if you do need anything. You can call me on my cell phone, and I’ll check on you later.”

  “I don’t need anyone to check on me,” I snapped back, like someone biting the hand that fed her. Again, she was dead quiet. It had a calming effect on me, and of course, I felt guilty. How could anyone have a better neighbor? “Look, I’m suffering, Margaret,” I said in a much softer tone of voice, “but I’m not an invalid, at least not yet.”

  “Of course you’re not. You know I pray for you every day, dear.”

  “And for Mary.”

  “Of course. Well . . .”

  “Wait, Margaret.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about Samson James?”

  “Who?”

  “Samson James, Laurie James’s son, the boy who has diabetes and who was placed beside Mary in church one Sunday when I wasn’t with you and John.”

  “Oh . . . oh yes. What a sweet little boy. Why didn’t I tell you what, dear?”

  “That his mother wanted Mary to touch him so he would have a miraculous cure just like Molly Middleton’s son, Bradley. You remember that, Margaret, don’t you?”

  “Oh, well, John didn’t think much about it, so I just assumed you knew. I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to keep anything
from you. It was a harmless little gesture.”

  “Right, a gesture.”

  “Is there any particular reason you’re asking about it now?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t feel like going through my conversation with Molly, and besides, I didn’t even know why I was so upset. “No, no reason,” I said. “Thanks for calling, Margaret. Enjoy the day.” I hung up.

  Not long after, John phoned from his office. “Are you all right?” he asked after I had said hello.

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t want to wake you this morning. You looked like you needed to sleep. Did you take a pill?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t home earlier last night. You know I hate leaving you alone, but . . .”

  “I was fine, John.”

  “What did you have to eat?”

  “Why this cross-examination, John?”

  “I’m not conducting a cross-examination. I’m just trying to see how you are doing, Grace. Why are you taking this belligerent tone with me?”

  “I just spoke with Molly Middleton this morning. She told me about Laurie James asking to have her son Samson sit next to Mary in church one Sunday so she could touch him and cure him. You never said anything about it.”

  “What’s there to say? If she wanted to believe that God might work a miracle for her son through Mary, fine. I never discourage anyone from approaching God, regardless of their beliefs. Besides, Mary wasn’t disturbed about it. In fact, she welcomed the attention, as I recall.”

  “She never said anything to me about it,” I said mournfully. “Why not? Did you tell her not to mention it?”

  “Of course not. That was our Mary. She had a natural humility, a grace about her.”

  “Has!” I screamed. “Has, not had!”

  “Of course. Whatever grace and beauty God placed in her is always there.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean she’s still alive, and we’re getting her back. Tell that to your God, and don’t make any appointments with any therapist for me!” I slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  My heart was thumping. I gasped and sat, stunned at my own outburst.

  Had I gone on the offensive because that was the best defense and I wanted to avoid telling him about where I had gone and where I had eaten the night before? I had a feeling that Margaret had called him right after speaking to me and told him she thought something was wrong. A part of me knew she was just being a good neighbor, acting like part of the family, but a part of me hated being spied on, analyzed, and watched, whether or not the intentions were good.

  I still couldn’t concentrate on anything all day. I didn’t even have the patience to eat lunch. Reading, watching television, cleaning—nothing helped. I even went out to trim some bushes and work on some flowers, but I was unable to do anything for very long. John didn’t call back, but that didn’t surprise me. His MO for whenever I was upset, even before Mary’s abduction, was to ignore me for as long as possible. He treated my emotional reactions almost like a fever. In time, it would go down. Most of the time, he was right. I usually did calm myself by myself, and by the time he returned home or called again, my tantrum was exhausted.

  Finally, by three o’clock, I couldn’t stand being at home or talking to myself any longer. I dug out Sam’s card and called his mobile. He answered quickly. I assumed he could read that the call was coming from my telephone at home.

  “Hey,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  “My friend Molly called first thing this morning to tell me you had visited her. I think it was a bit of a shock for her.”

  “She didn’t seem upset.”

  “Was she helpful in any way, Sam?”

  “I don’t know yet, Grace.”

  “Where are you? What are you doing?”

  He laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “You just sounded like my mother. Whenever she called me, those were her first two questions. She was always worried that I was in the middle of a shoot-out or something, and for someone who was always involved with law-enforcement officers, you can imagine the anxiety she had. I’m just leaving the FBI office. Called in a few more favors. Nothing concrete to tell you yet.”

  “I know. If you had something this fast, it would be one of those so-called miracles we’re both hearing about.”

  “You sound upset. I mean, in a different way.”

  “Molly told you about the other mother and her son and how they planted him next to my daughter at church, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was never told about it.”

  “Oh. I did wonder why you hadn’t mentioned it last night. Samson James. Mother is Laurie James,” he said, sounding as if he was reading off something.

  “Yes.”

  “I saw her early this afternoon. Maybe she’ll be calling you, too.”

  “No, I’m not that friendly with her. I don’t mean I’m not friendly. She’s just not part of what you might call my inner circle, although that circle is growing smaller by the minute. It might be just a dot by now.”

  He laughed again.

  “I’d like to see you,” I said. It was as if the words had been regurgitated from somewhere deep inside me. I was surprised to hear myself say them, too.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t meet again just yet,” he said, and then quickly corrected himself. “No. I didn’t mean that. I’d like to see you, too, Grace. I’m sure there is some ethical or formal regulation that I’m breaking, but . . .”

  “When?”

  “I’m sort of off until eight and—”

  “I’ll meet you at your condo in twenty minutes,” I said.

  “The code for the garage is one-four-zero-eight and the pound key,” he told me. “If you get there before I do.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  I imagined that I was out the door and into the garage before he closed his mobile phone and put it back in the case on his belt. I opened the garage door and got into my car.

  The voice I had heard coming out of me seemed like the voice of a stranger. It was as if I had been taken over by someone else, someone far more wicked. I actually laughed aloud imagining John recommending that a priest examine me for a possible exorcism. Who knows? I thought. Maybe that’s what I need.

  I was at Sam’s condo building first and used the pass code. I parked in the same guest spot and waited until I saw him pull in. He got out of his car and started toward me. Neither of us said a word. We got into the elevator. When the doors closed, he turned to me, and we kissed.

  Maybe he was taking advantage of me; maybe I was especially vulnerable. I did feel as though I had been lost somewhere in a desert of sadness, searching desperately for an oasis of love. I wanted to take a long drink of it and revive every part of my body that longed to be touched, but touched with affection and great care. I wanted to be wanted not for the baby potentially waiting to be conceived inside me, but for myself. If adultery could ever be rationalized or justified, it was surely this reason on which it would rely.

  Sam held my hand in his while he opened his condo door with the other. Then he turned to kiss me softly again and led me through the entryway and to his bedroom. Our kiss there was longer. He embraced me afterward, and I laid my head against his shoulder for a few moments.

  “It’s not too late to turn back,” he whispered.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. I kissed him again and folded back the blanket on his bed. He watched me for a moment before he began to loosen his tie.

  I undressed with my back to him. My head felt as if it had turned into a beehive, but I also felt as if my body had separated itself from my soul, from who I had been and maybe who I would be. It had a mind of its own. When I turned to him, we gazed at each other like two teenagers who had boldly entered their sexual lives.

  He stepped forward, and we kissed and held eac
h other, the rhythms in our bodies beginning to synchronize, heartbeat to heartbeat, blood to blood, lips to lips, until we were lying beside each other and then rushing with a mutual need to be as intimate as possible, soaking ourselves into each other totally but without awkwardness or selfish demand. His gentleness emerged with every caress and with each new kiss. This was making love with concern, tossing aside selfish pleasure to be sure we were first making each other happy and satisfied.

  I understood why this would really be called making love and not anything cruder. Love was sharing and caring and sacrificing everything in the moment, your ego and the satiation of your thirst and hunger. We could do this together, reach ecstasy together, cry and moan our pleasure together, and touch something bigger than ourselves together. It was something John and I had once had, and I hungered to enjoy it again.

  My body welcomed Sam’s touch, his lips moving everywhere, stirring places that had been in hibernation for so long that I had forgotten they existed. When he entered me, I felt we had entered each other. My eyes were in his eyes, my tongue in his mouth, my stomach and my breasts softly entering his. For a few moments, I thought we would never part again.

  Making love with passion was truly a form of resurrection. I had been dead inside so long that I had forgotten how to taste, how to touch, how to see, how to smell, and how to hear. I nearly laughed aloud thinking that I was being reborn, that John would appreciate it. I had the prodigal body. My body had been lost and then found. The body that maketh real love shall never die.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw Sam smiling down at me.

  “What?”

  “If you could only see the smile on your face,” he said.

  “I can. I see it through your eyes.”

  He brightened even more and kissed me again.

  For a long while, we lay side by side silently.

  “In the movies,” he finally said, “actors usually light a cigarette. It’s like a period to a sentence or something.”

  “I don’t want to put a period to this sentence,” I said.

  He laughed and then sobered. “Look,” he said, “we’re both going to have some regrets now and—”