Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(20)

Is my mother's grave sacred? I don't know. But it's special. It's where her body was laid to rest, and while I know deep down that it's her soul that's most important, her body surely has some value.

Surely it doesn't deserve to be unearthed like this, exposed in its decay.

I lash out. Or try to. My legs squirm in an attempt to kick against the sinewy wings holding me tight; my elbows and fists press against them too, but I'm useless against Helene's embrace. Exhausted, I give up, sinking deeper and deeper into confusion and hating the beautiful creature clawing away at my mother's resting place.

"There's a reason, Brielle," Helene tells me. "There has to be."

I can't see it. The possibility that this senseless, frenzied devastation can have reason.

And then Helene is singing. Something about the kindness of God. About His holiness and truth. They're words I've heard before, words I've mouthed at the little church in town, words I've learned much from. But now, in the midst of the flying mud and the shivering lightning, they anger me.

Holy? Kind? Just?

Canaan arrives, Jake tucked to his chest. I stare through his inner wings and into Jake's face, into eyes that burn with compassion, and then I pinch my eyes shut. I close him out and let fear take me. I let it shake me. I let it consume every part of me, because it's better than the disappointment that comes with watching God destroy the tiniest shred of something I never had. Of something I always wanted.

Of the thing I lost before I knew I needed it.

My mother.

And then it's quiet. Even Helene's voice is gone. I open my eyes. Before me is nothing but a silver sheen. I squint at it, beginning to make out the silhouette of a man-like head and shoulders.

Virtue.

He's close, so close to my face.

I burrow back into Helene.

"Finding truth is hard. But yesterday's knowledge is a lie. The grave is empty, child of God. See. Understand."

The grave is empty? Isn't that what the angel said at Christ's tomb? What is he talking about?

The sheen before me increases, brighter and brighter until I have to close my eyes to be rid of it. When at last the shimmer beyond my lids fades, I open them to find that Helene has set me down and released me from her inner wings. I stand in the mud before my mother's grave, the silver angel and his wings of destruction gone. And then Jake is next to me, his hand in mine.

Sirens wail. Radios beep and sputter words that are garbled and meaningless. In the distance, the sheriff's voice crackles through a megaphone.

I pull away from Jake and step toward the rift cut into the ground, to the place where my mom's casket was buried.

"Brielle," Jake says, all concern and kindness. "Why don't you let me look first?"

I don't even spare him a glance. Protecting me can only go so far. And what that angel unearthed was unearthed for me. I drag shaky fingers through my hair. I don't know why I have to see, but I do. I know that black hole holds nothing but bones and dirt, but I need to see. I need to know why it was dug up.

Still my breath comes quick and shallow, and I don't refuse Jake when he takes my hand. The debris is everywhere and makes it hard to walk in a straight line. Jake kicks aside a large hunk of root and grass. I sidestep several shards of cement from the fallen angel and wood slivers from . . . the casket.

The thought makes me light-headed, and I grip Jake's hand more fiercely.

When I reach the lip of the grave, Helene is already there. Without a word she drops into the hole, a flash of her auburn hair the last thing I see.

I kneel, intending to follow her. My bare knees press into the upturned soil, and I find relief in the earthy feel of it. The dirt is cool and damp and my hands sift it, knead it, looking for answers I don't expect to find.

Jake's next to me, the muscles in his arms tense, his face staid. At last I summon the courage to peer over the edge of the grave, and I see . . .

Nothing.

The darkness presses close, and I can't see past it.

"What do you see?" I ask Jake.

"Nothing," he says quietly. "Not even Helene."

I shift my feet and drop to my backside, using my heels to pull me closer to the edge.

"Here," Jake says, wrapping my forearm with his hand. "I'll lower you down."

Now I do spare a glance for him, for a look into his eyes. It's too dark for their color to show through, but there's understanding there. He knows I need to do this.

I need to know.

I think he needs to know too.

I wrap my fingers around his forearm and let him lower me. Helene finds my waist in the dark and guides me down. It's not far-I guess they really do bury you six feet under.

The great silver angel has carved out an area much larger than my mother's casket. Helene and I stand on a flattened plane of dirt just next to it, but my sight is still limited. I can see that the lid of the casket has been shattered, and I kneel to pull the wood away. My hands tremble at the task.

"What will I find?" I ask Helene.

It's a minute before she responds. "Stand and I'll show you."

I do, allowing her to step behind me. With a tic of her inner wings, Helene pulls me once again into the Celestial. She kicks her feet sideways, so that we hover over the casket.

Light floods my eyes and heat assaults me. My heart hammers, blood rushes loud in my ears, and I finally release the scream that's been building inside my chest.

My mother's casket is empty.                       
       
           



       19



Brielle





No bones. No clothing fragments. The inside of Mom's casket is pristine, the satin lining marked only with today's mud splatter. The ruched pillow at the head of the box has flattened over time, but it's never been lain upon.

I don't know that, I suppose. But I do. Deep in my gut, the emptiness of my mom's grave confirms so much of what I've never felt. Of what I've needed.

How many times have I sat here, on a stone bench that's now nothing more than rubble? The willow tree, the angel, the quiet surroundings offered simple condolences, but instead of completing something in me, instead of being a place to mourn and remember, Mom's grave has never felt anything but vacuous. This place sucked my emotions away, leaving me as empty as the coffin below.

At my request, Helene releases me. We're still belowground, the wooden box shattered, the moist dirt falling in small avalanches around us. Without Helene's wings wrapped around me, without the halo, it's all so dark, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. The moon is wonky tonight-a balloon that's lost some of its air-but it's bright, and after a few moments I have to acknowledge that I've seen all there is to see.

There's nothing here. No sign my mother was ever laid to rest. I sink to the ground, press into the mud wall behind me, and stare at the hollow coffin.

"I'll give you a minute," Helene says, "but that's all we can afford. The sheriff is gathering his resources now. They won't be long."

If by "resources" she means Deputy Wimby, we might have more time than she knows.

Out of the corner of my eye I see her throw Jake a glance, and then she's gone. His face, however, hovers above, but it's only there for a moment more. His feet swing over-bare-and he drops next to me-shirtless. He was dragged from bed as well, it seems. From his dream to my nightmare.

He doesn't say anything. He just sits and takes my hand.

I'm grateful.

"The first time you kissed me was here," I say.

"And the second."

I turn and press my face into the hollow at his neck, wanting to be anywhere but here, wanting to relive that moment. I've done it so many times. Eyes closed, quietly remembering. But I'll save it for later, when the sirens are silenced, when I'm lost in my own sheets and blankets. When my surroundings are more dream and less nightmare.

But even my dreams aren't safe anymore.

I force my thoughts back to now, as dreadful as now seems to be.

"When we visited Ali's grave last month, and the month before, and the month before that," I say, "I felt a peace. It was like my own feelings, but what I was experiencing were hers. Her body was at rest. At peace." I shift, something sticky pulling at my knee. "But here? The only time I've ever felt anything here has been with you."

Jake doesn't say anything, but we've had similar discussions before. He's always kind, but I know he's not as dependent on feelings as I am. And I do feel now. Confused. Lost. And from somewhere deep within a sense of betrayal starts to form.

"Dad must've known-when he buried her. He must've known the casket was empty."

"Why do you say that?"

I have to think about the question. Have to reason my way to an answer, because Jake's implication-that it happened unbeknownst to Dad-is entirely plausible. It could have been an error by the funeral home or something else equally unlikely. But something about Virtue's words, about his showing up while Dad is all misery and alcohol-something makes me certain.

Dad knew.

"Give him the benefit of the doubt, okay?" Jake says. "This is going to be hard enough on the guy."

After all my dad has put Jake through, it's strange for him to be all Bill O'Reilly about it. Fair and balanced or whatever they claim. But he's right, and I know it.

Still, I'd rather he just take my side.

"There aren't sides here," he says, reading my mind again. "Just"-he fingers a shard of a wood protruding from the casket-"man, just devastation. And there's more than enough of it to go around."