Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(44)

I know this one. It's a psalm, written by King David. I join in, and Canaan does as well.

"He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler. You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday. A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not come near you. Only with your eyes shall you look, and see the reward of the wicked."

And then a silver light invades the orchard and we're surrounded.

I scream out, but Canaan's grip on my shoulder tightens, and I understand we're in the presence of friends. Of allies. Of the angelic. Their backs are to us. Their forms are so bright I have to squint to see, but I make out wings of blade on every single one of them. We stand within a circle of gigantic winged men, their swords drawn, the metal-like feathers of their wings vibrating one against the other, encasing us in song.

I resist the urge to count. I don't need to. Helene told me. There are twelve of them. Twelve Sabres, and not a single one of them is cloaked.

"Some things were never meant to be secret," Helene told me.

Virtue turns toward us, his silver form vibrant against the red limbs that surround us.

"It's time to remember," he says to me.

"Remember what?"

"Why the grave is empty."

He steps closer, his white eyes mesmerizing. I watch them closely for some sign of what I'm to do, of what I'm to say. And then I'm falling into them, into his eyes. Into the purity of love's greatest expression.

And I remember.                       
       
           



       40



Brielle





The room is small with Mom's hospital bed here, with the machines whirring and the medicine dripping down a tube and into her thin hands. The sight shakes me, but I still feel disconnected, like I'm nothing but a fly on the wall watching, observing.

It's my room, I realize, not Dad's. She lived out her last few days here.

A toddler bed is pressed against the wall, low to the ground, covered with the quilt my Grams made me when I was born. Pink with a large purple octopus stitched on. I still have that blanket, tucked away at the top of my closet. But here, in this memory, it's spread across my bed, covered with stuffed animals and sticker books. A pair of ballet slippers hangs from the wall, pictures of flowers and fairy kingdoms, but mostly the room is filled with Mom.

Mom's bed, Mom's machines, Mom's medicine, Mom's cancer.

I look at her now, in all her illness, and I see my mother as she was. She's thinner than any of the pictures I remember seeing. Obviously frail. Her head is full of flaxen hair, but it's brittle, dying.

Like everything else about her.

She's propped up on large white pillows, and there, lying in her arms, is me.

Three-year-old me.

I don't remember this. Don't remember it occurring, but seeing it brings a small sense of peace. It's good to know it really happened.

That my mommy held me, that she stroked my hair.

And then the strangest thing happens. I'm aware that I'm still in the orchard, can still hear the Sabres and their music, can still feel Jake's hand in mine, but for the first time ever I remember. It's like something explodes in my mind.

I don't remember her touch or her voice. I don't remember the room or the bed or even the brush in my hand. What I remember crawls inside me and twists itself around my heart, squeezing until I'm just sure it will burst.

For the first time ever, I remember what that moment smelled like, what my mother smelled like. I choke and sob at the memory. The first real memory I've ever had of my mother.

She smelled like worship. She smelled like curling, fragrant tendrils of adoration. My three-year-old self breathes her in, again and again.

Standing in the orchard, watching this memory in the eyes of Virtue, I do the same. Inhale, exhale, and again. Remembering, remembering.

I watch as my three-year-old eyelids grow heavy and the hairbrush in my hand falls to the mattress next to my mommy's shoulder. She lies there, her thin fingers tangled in my hair, her mouth whispering praises. In broken sentences and stuttering pauses, her cancer-wracked body thanks her Lord and Maker for every moment she has left with me. With Dad.

"I'm not ready to leave," she says. "To leave my husband. To leave my little girl." These are the first full sentences I've caught. The first words I've fully understood. "But You're taking me, I know that."

Her eyes are open, her pale face soft in the yellow light pressing against the blinds.

"If there's anything I can do for You, Father, before I die, anything I can do here, I am willing."

And then Virtue stands before her. Uncloaked, unhidden from her human eyes. She doesn't gasp. She doesn't flinch.

He's expected.

"Hello, Hannah," he says, his lips still, his wings rubbing one against the other, their music filling the room.

Her eyes fill with tears. They run down her face, wetting the hair at her temples, dampening her pillow. "Are you here to take me? Am I to see my Father now?"

Virtue smiles. "Not quite yet," he says. He gestures to my sleeping figure, the tiny three-year-old body curled around my mother's. "May I?"

She pulls me tighter to her chest. "Will I see her again?"

Virtue runs a silver hand along Mom's brow, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Will such an answer help you say good-bye?"

The tears fall fast now, her voice thin and weak. "No," she says. "I don't think so."

She squeezes me, her arms straining against the tubes in her hands, and she kisses my blond hair, her eyes pinched shut. Her chest shakes and her lips move against my head. I wish I could make out the words, but I can't. It seems they were for the Father alone. After a moment she nods at Virtue, who takes me in his arms and lays me at the foot of the bed. I watch my three-year-old self sprawl on the quilt, my arms spread wide, my tiny chest moving up and down. There, next to my heart, is Olivia's necklace.

"Please," Mom says to Virtue, "take care of her, protect her. And my husband. I want him to know the Father like I do. Give them eyes to see and ears to hear. Can you do that?"

"A beautiful request, Hannah. It is not within my power to grant such things, but your Heavenly Father hears and answers His children. You can be certain of that," he says, his hand still upon her brow. "Are you ready?"

"Where are we going?"

Another smile from the Sabre as he removes the tubes from Mom's arms and lifts her from the bed as easily as he'd lifted three-year-old me.

"You are needed elsewhere."                       
       
           



       41



Brielle





The orchard comes into focus one twisted limb at a time. Virtue is gone, as are the other Sabres. And Canaan. Jake and I stand alone, my hand trembling inside the warmth of his.

"Are you okay?" he says.

If I feel anything right now, I feel numb.

"Dad was right," I say. "He took her. Virtue did."

Jake turns me toward him, a look that would quell the darkest storm on his face. "Then I know without a doubt that she was well looked after."

"He's big," I say. It's a stupid thing to say, a stupid thought, but his size brings me comfort.

Jake seems to understand. "Really big."

And then we laugh. And cry. It's all so jumbled, but there's relief there. And pain. We sink to the ground, the red trees surrounding us, and I tell Jake about my mom's final moments in Stratus.

"I have a memory of her now," I say, my mouth quivering, my nose running. "Maybe it'll be enough to help us find her."

"I hope so, Elle. I do, and we'll look. I promise." Jake wipes at my face, soaking up tears with his index finger. His mouth curves into that little crescent moon I love so much.

"What?"

"I just smeared mud across your cheek."

We laugh again.

Understanding why Mom's grave was empty didn't solve a thing, but it gave me a way forward, and my heart is lighter for it.

"Where are the Sabres?" I ask.

"Fighting," he says.

"And Canaan?"

"Looking for Damien," Jake says. "He made a grab for us just as you started your trip down memory lane."

"He tried to attack while we were surrounded by Sabres?"

Jake nods, his face serious. "Tells you how desperate he is to have us, Elle. The Sabres hurt him, but he kept coming. With his sight restored, he's a dangerous specimen."

I think of the dagger that punctured my chest last December, of my life leaking down the ridges of an aluminum building.

"He was dangerous before," I say.

"And now he's worse. Much worse."

I want to tell him I'm sorry about last night. I want him to know that I understand he was trying to protect me, just as I was trying to protect Dad, but before I can voice either of those things, I'm pulled into the Celestial.

I gasp for air as my kneeling body is yanked straight and pressed against a hot, soft form and flown backward through the orchard. She's singing, loud and fierce. It's Helene! She's here! She's whole.