Hallowed

That night I can’t sleep. I’m not even sure I want to. I stare up at the ceiling and watch the shadows flit across it, the outlines of leaves from the tree outside my window, moving back and forth.

Around midnight, the phone starts ringing. I wait for someone to answer it, but no one does. Where is Billy? I wonder. When will Dad come back?

The phone keeps ringing its lonely song. I pad sock-foot into the kitchen, take it out of its cradle, and look at the caller ID.

CLARA, it reads.

Huh?

I’m getting a call from my own phone.

I click TALK. I’m suddenly wide awake. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?” I say after a few seconds of nothing on the other line.

“Hello, little bird.”

It’s such a strange thing, hearing Samjeeza’s voice without the accompanying sorrow.

Almost like talking to a normal person, having an ordinary conversation where I don’t have to fear for my life or wonder if I’m about to be dragged to hell. Strange, like I said.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

Silence.

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, but I’ve got to go. . ” I start to lay the phone back down. “I have to bury my mother in the morning.”

“What?” he says, sounding truly shocked.

He doesn’t know.

“Please,” he says after a minute, real desperation in his voice. “What happened?”

“You knew about the one-hundred-and-twenty-years rule, didn’t you?” He hisses out a breath. “Is that how old she was? I knew she was nearing that, but. . it’s hard for me to keep track of human time. When?”

“Three days ago.” I feel a flash of anger, which actually feels good. Any emotion besides crushing sadness feels good at this point. “So now you won’t ever be able to hurt her again.” Again, there’s silence. I think he might have hung up. But then he says, “I didn’t feel her pass. I should have felt it.”

“Maybe you weren’t as connected as you thought you were.”

“Oh, Meg,” he says.

That’s when I blow a fuse. He has no right to grieve, I think. He’s the bad guy. He tried to kill her. He wanted to bring her down to hell with him, right? He doesn’t deserve my pity.

“When are you finally going to get it?” I ask him furiously. “My mom’s name is not Meg.

Whatever you had with her, whatever was between you, was over a long time ago. She doesn’t love you. She never did. She was always meant for someone else, from the very beginning. And there’s nothing you can do about it now because she’s dead.” The word rings in the air. I sense the presence of someone behind me. It’s Billy. She catches me by the shoulders, steadies me when I wasn’t even aware that I was swaying, about to fall. Then she slowly takes the phone out of my hand and sets it down in the cradle.

“Well, now we know why he’s mad at you tomorrow in the cemetery,” she says. She shakes her head at me. “I would feel a lot better if you didn’t go around antagonizing Black Wings.” Then, without me even having to ask her, she walks me back to my bedroom and lies down beside me in the dark, sings a low song that matches the cadence of the wind outside, like I’m a kid again. And she holds my hand until I fall asleep.

Chapter 20 Loving Memory

There are a lot of things the dream didn’t prepare me for. Like seeing Mom’s body so still and waxlike lying in the casket. They put too much makeup on her. Mom hardly ever wore more than mascara and lip gloss. In the coffin she looks like a painted doll. Beautiful. Peaceful. But not her, you know? It’s hard to look at her like that, but I also find it hard to look away.

Or for the line of people who file by to look at her, and then expect to talk to me. It’s like a reverse wedding reception. First, see the corpse. Say your good-byes. Then say hello to the family. They all think Mom died of cancer, so they keep talking about pain. “At least she’s no longer in any pain,” they tell me, patting my hand. “She’s beyond the pain now.” At least that’s true.

Or the actual funeral. The church part. Sitting in the front row with Jeffrey and Billy, a few feet from Mom’s coffin. Dad’s still a no-show, and part of me feels betrayed by that. He should be here, I think. But I know he’s in a better place, literally. With Mom.

“He is with Mom, right?” I’d asked Billy as she braided my hair this morning, a long clean plait that miraculously stays in place all day. “He has been all this time?”

“I think so. Funerals are not really for angels, kid. Your dad would unsettle everyone if he came. He knows that. So it’s best if he stays away. Plus, he wants to be with your mother now, help her through the transition.”

Tucker’s at the church. He comes up to me after the service, stands in front of me with his hands folded together, looking lost. I stare at his black eye, the cut on his cheek, the scrape on his knuckles.

“I’m here,” he says. “You were wrong. I’m here.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But don’t come to the graveside. Please, Tucker. Don’t come.