Angel Realms

by Malynn, Vivienne

  “It’s okay,” I reply.

  “Well, I love reading,” she says. “You are just going to love it in here. They have the best selection of...” She hesitates as if she doesn’t want to say. “Umm. Religious books,” she finally blurts out.

  When we enter the bookstore, Justine’s hesitation is apparent. The bookstore does have a religious section, which happens to be past the rather robust collection of harlequin romances. There are several housewives in their pious summer dresses, walking slowly down the aisle toward the religious books, glancing casually at the romance books as they go. Every now and again, when no one is looking, one of them snatches a book from the shelf and tucks it under her purse. I am beginning to understand why the women of this town fancy the bookstore so much.

  The bookstore itself is small and cramped in the front, but extends far toward the back. A spiraling staircase held by four rusted bolts leads to the second floor. I decide to chance it in order to get to the teen fiction section. Justine stays below and heads toward the ‘religious books’. Like the other housewives, she doesn’t seem that hurried as she passes through the romance section. I laugh to myself as I watch her nervously stroll down the aisle.

  Facing the staircase, a sense of dread comes over me. It looks as old as the church. If it were possible, I would swear the shop was built around the staircase. As I take my first step on the stairs, the bolts rattle and the mettle groans under the stress. I glance over at the clerk who has his head down as he is marking sale items. “Is this the only way up to the second floor,” I say. He nods without looking up. The winding steps taunt me with their sharp pointed surface, like cheese graters and screws protruding from vacant holes, and it is clear that this failure of architecture was not well thought through. I take a deep breath and continue upwards, trying not to shift my weight too dramatically as the staircase sways slightly from side to side. If ever there was a time to believe in God, this would be it.

  At the top, I give a short expression of gratitude to be alive and continue on my way. The second floor is much like the first floor, only there is no one else up here. I imagine no one is stupid enough to come up the stairs. I start on the first row, browsing the titles as I go. I am currently at the wrong end of the alphabet, but I decide to continue perusing in case something pops out to me. As I am looking, my eyes extend beyond the rows of books to a figure standing a few rows over. Apparently, I am not alone. I turn my attention more to the figure and realize he is not staring at the books in front of him, but at me.

  His eyes are a piercing blue. It’s him, I know it is. Though his face is partially hidden by the books, I can still recognize him as the stranger from the street, and the one from my dream. But if he is following me, how did he know I would be here. He would have had to come up the stairs before I did. That’s impossible unless he is some kind of clairvoyant stalker. I have to find out who this guy is and if he really is stalking me. Better here in a public place than on the street. Still, if he turns out to be a serial killer, by the time anyone gets up that staircase, I will be dead. But at least I will have the satisfaction of knowing he can’t escape. It’s this sense of justice that outweighs any other sensibility.

  Pretending not to notice, I continue down the row, acting as casual as a person who is forced to act casual can. After crossing from one row to the next, I stoop down, pretending to look at a book on the lower shelf, again casually. Then, with the grace of a gopher, I hunch over and scurry my way down the row. My hope is to wind my way around and catch him off guard. However, before I get to the end of the row, the presence of someone standing in front of me, followed by feet entering my view, cues me in to the fact that I have just been found out. I stop short of colliding with him and with the greatest of elegance, I stand, raising my head up as if crawling rapidly along the ground is a perfectly sane thing to do. My only hope for not appearing insane is that an insane person would not appear this completely insane. Perhaps I could pull off eccentric.

  “I know this seems crazy,” I say. “But I thought you were…” I stop, realizing there is no way that I can logically explain what just happened in any sane way that would be better than what he is thinking at this moment.

  He looks at me as if studying me. Then with some hesitation he speaks. “I shouldn’t be talking to you.” His voice is impossibly smooth and faultless, like a calm lake without ripples.

  “I know. Don’t talk to the crazy person. You’re probably safer that way.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he says. “It is against our way to talk to our stewards.”

  Okay. Now he seems the crazy one. Something that I wouldn’t think possible after what I just did. “Stewards,” I say.

  “The ones we watch over,” he says.

  My heart sinks. “You’re a stalker, aren’t you? ‘Against our way.’ What are you, part of some international stalker club or something?” He starts to speak, but I refuse to give him a chance. “You know what, I don’t want to know.” I place my hand out to push him away, but he steps back as if he is repelled.

  “Please, do not touch me,” he demands.

  That’s rich. He doesn’t want me to touch him as if somehow my disruption of his stalking has greatly offended him. “If you don’t stop stalking me, I am going to do a lot more than touch you.” I pause, thinking about what I just said. “That came out wrong. What I meant to say is that I am going to hurt you…I mean not in the…you know…never mind, just get out of my way.” I begin to walk past. He moves to the side so as not to make contact with me. Great, psychotic and a germaphobe.

  “Wait,” he calls out. He reaches for me, but hesitates. “Don’t go.”

  I stop and turn around, ready to give this guy a piece of my mind and anything else he has coming to him. “First, you don’t want me to touch you,” I exclaim, “then, you don’t want me to go. What do you want me to do, stand here so you can stare at me some more, you sick perve.”

  “I do not mean to upset you,” he says.

  “Then leave me alone.”

  “I can’t.”

  I have had enough at this point and decide to go to the clerk and demand he call the police. However, just as I reach for the railing to the staircase he says something that stops me cold.

  “It’s about your death.”

  My death? Standing there, not knowing what to think or say, a feeling comes over me that he is not lying. Without looking at him, I ask, “What do you mean, ‘my death’?”

  “You are going to die tonight.”

  My mind swarms with possibilities as it tries to make sense of the statement. I am going to die tonight. Why would anyone want to kill me? And how would he know? Either this is his idea of a death threat or this guy knows something that I don’t. In any case, I don’t want to wait around to find out. The staircase rattles, shaking me from thoughts of what he could possibly mean. Justine emerges before me, nervously looking behind. “This really isn’t safe,” she mutters. Looking up, she smiles. “Who were you talking to?”

  “I was talking to…” I say as I glance back and see there is no one there. He did it to me again. This is getting really annoying. Now I know I am going crazy. I try to think of something so as not to let the secret out just yet that I am slowly losing my mind. “I was just –reading.”

  Justine looks at me with a confused expression. “Where is the book?”

  “Book?”

  “You don’t have a book in your hands,” she says. “What were you reading?”

  Of course, I have no books anywhere near me. How could I be reading? And who reads out loud in a bookstore anyway. Now I genuinely look crazy. “Umm. I was…more like…reciting,” I stammer.

  “Reciting?”

  “Poetry. I was reciting poetry.” This doesn’t seem to be convincing her. “You know…” Then I realize I don’t know any poetry. “Roses are red…a kiss is not a…” I’ve got nothing. But this doesn’t seem to matter.

  “I didn’t know you liked poetry,” Ju
stine squeals with excitement.

  “I do now,” I say, mustering all the fake enthusiasm I can.

  “Well, they have a great poetry section downstairs,” she says.

  “No,” I exclaim. “I’m kind of tired. I think I would just like to leave now.”

  She looks me over. “You do look pale. Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I laugh nervously. “Ah ha. Ghost. That’s completely not possible. Right?”

  Justine thinks to herself, and then says decisively, “You know what we need.” The only thing that comes to my mind is a psychiatrist, but I am sure this is not what she means. “We need a drink…”

  Amen to that, I think.

  “They have the best lemonade at the deli down the way,” she said. “That will bring your blood sugar right up. And while we’re at it, we can get a marmite sandwich.”

  I am not sure I want a marmite sandwich, but at this point I will agree to anything that will get me out of this bookstore. As we descend the staircase, I look back at the empty space where the stranger was. Was he a ghost? Or something else? And why am I going to die tonight? For the first time, I wish I was crazy and that he was just a figment of my overactive imagination. Crazy is better than dead.

  I am unsettled in my stomach by the possibility of dying, making any sandwich repulsive. But the marmite sandwich only magnifies that revulsion. Justine and I sit at a small table outside the local deli, with our sandwiches and a tall glass of lemonade in front of us. A large over hang shades us from the afternoon sun. A cool breeze settles on us with the fresh smell of flowers from the overhangs above us. Justine does not hesitate in the least to tear into her sandwich. After several ferocious bites that end with an impassioned groan of pleasure, she relaxes back and begins to admire her latest book purchases. She sprawls them across the table with the exception of one she keeps tucked away in the bag. Picking each book up individually, she examines the cover, turning it over between bites of her sandwich.

  “I do love reading,” she says. “Are you sure you didn’t want to get anything?”

  After my run in with the stranger, I had no desire to stay any longer in the bookstore. My stomach ached and wrenched with the pains of worry. I look at the sandwich in front of me with disgust, having no appetite. I push it away before answering Justine. “I couldn’t find anything of interest.”

  “You’re welcome to read one of my books,” she says. “This looks like a good one.” She passes me the book in her hand. From the cover, I can tell it is one of those modern new wave Christian books.

  “Maybe later,” I say.

  “We have plenty at home too.” She puts the book aside and takes another. “Jeff has a whole collection of books on science and mathematics if you’re interested in that.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. Science and math has never been my thing. I quite enjoy the advancements in technology that have come from them, but I am quite fine with just benefitting from them and not understanding them. I figure it’s like the supermarket. I love to get a Twinkie every now and again, but I don’t want to know where they come from or how they are made. My ignorance and sanity go hand in hand.

  “That’s right,” she says. “You like poetry.” She furrows her brow as if she is thinking hard about something. “I think we may have some Emily Dickenson. I’ll have to check.” She goes to take another bite of sandwich before realizing she’s eaten all of it. Disappointed, she eyes mine. Without a word, she goes back to her books, but is soon interrupted by the voice of a passerby.

  “Ms. Gregor,” the voice calls out. It is from a young girl about my age, yet smaller, about a foot shorter than I am, and extremely petite in her frame as if she could be blown away by a substantial enough wind. She tucks a bundle of flowers under her arm and waves to Justine and runs up to her side with eagerness. However, that eagerness is quickly deflated when she see me. She retreats into a shy expression.

  “Who’s this,” she says weakly as she self-consciously brushes her yellow hair out of her eyes. Immediately she reminds me of a foster sister that I once had. She too was often self-conscious. The love that I once had for that foster sister brings aching affection when I see the mannerisms of this girl, and with it a brush of sadness.

  “Hello Liv,” Justine exclaims. “This is our new foster girl, Kyra.” I offer my hand to the girl to show her she need not be afraid. She shakes it reassuringly. “Liv here is our next door neighbor. She lives with her father,” Justine continues, a slight parsing of her lips as she mentions the father. “Why don’t you have a seat and join us.” She pulls a chair out, offering it to her.

  “I can’t today,” she says, showing us the flowers. Daffodils, probably plucked from her own yard. “I have to visit my mom.”

  “You’re always so thoughtful,” Justine says, patting her on the arm. Liv does not seem to know how to take the complement and instead blushes, looking down so that her hay colored hair sweeps across her face like a curtain covering her embarrassment. I can’t help but like her frailty, but at the same time I worry for her like I did for my foster sister.

  “We really need to have you over to visit with Kyra. She needs a friend.”

  Thank you, Justine for making me look like a desperate vagrant who needs nothing more than to be accepted in the world. Trying to repair what little dignity I have left, I say, “I’m sure she has better things to do, then…”

  “Oh no,” Liv interrupts. “I would love to visit. In fact, you could come with me now and we could get to know each other better that way.”

  “You’re visiting your mother. I couldn’t.”

  “Nonsense,” Justine says, butting in. “I think it would be lovely. Liv could use the company.” Justine turns to her as if to demand a reaction. Liv nods her head, trying to match the enthusiasm of Justine. “Besides, you would be bored hanging around me all day. It’s good to get out and meet people.”

  Seeing I have no choice in the matter, I concede to go with Liv. “I would love to,” I say.

  “Wonderful,” Justine says. “Just remember Liv, you must be home before dark. In fact, why don’t you come over for dinner when you get back?”

  “That would be nice,” Liv says. “My Dad will probably be out late tonight anyway.”

  Justine eyes my sandwich again. “Are you going to eat that?”

  I look down at the uneaten sandwich, but my stomach still feels unable to receive it. I push it over to her. “You can have it.”

  Before I am able to utter the last word, Justine snatches one of the halves from the plate and takes a bite. Her eyes roll back into her head as if she is in the throes of ecstasy. “I love these sandwiches. I’d come here every day if I could.”

  Liv smirks at me and I return the expression.

  Chapter 7

  As we walk down the road, the houses become more rundown and sparse, opening into wooded areas. Our walking is slow as Liv has spent much of the time talking. She tells me about the town and the local activities, school and anything else she can think of. It’s clear she is nervous and is trying to make me like her by bombarding me with niceness. I find it endearing and somewhat refreshing. Most of the people I have hung out with in the past, treated everyone with a certain disrespect and almost hatred, even friends. Being nice was seen as weakness. Seeing Liv and how kind she is to me, I can’t imagine any weakness in such a thing.

  We walk to what looks like the end of the main road and turn onto a small side road that heads upward into the forest. There are two workmen, digging a hole for what looks like a large post. They stare at us as we pass. Liv doesn’t seem to pay any attention to them, but goes on talking. As I look past them into the distance, I see other workmen putting up large poles along the outskirts of the town. I am curious as to why they would need poles around the town.

  As she’s talking, my attention drifts to the trees that surround the road, which is no longer paved, but is simply loose gravel. It crunches beneath our steps. I have never seen so many trees in one
place in my life. Having grown up in suburbs and cities, the sight of a forest is a wonder in itself. Looking into the woods on either side, the trees grow with ever greater density, until nothing but trees can be seen in the distance. A soft wind blows through the bows of the pine woods, prickling their needles as they sway. The movement is almost hypnotic, bringing with it a sense of peace I have never felt before. Even my stomach has settled and the thought of the stranger and the news of my death seems only a distant memory as if it should be forgotten altogether.