“Was this taken in Afghanistan?”
“Yes. His first tour.” She managed a small smile. “Adam was more than his Staff Sergeant. He . . . he really took care of him. He does that.” Her frail fingers motioned at the room as if to indicate Adam’s handiwork.
“I’m sure he only takes care of the people who mean the most to him.”
She blushed. “I’d like to think that.”
I sought a lighter topic. “So . . . you’re vegetarian, too?”
“Yes,” she seemed to give herself a mental shake. “Ever since I was old enough to spit out the Happy Meals my mom tried to feed me.”
“That young?”
“Yeah, I always put up a fuss about eating meat—told her it tasted yucky. And then in preschool one day we learned to sing ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm.’ I guess the name of the song, and the idea of farm animals, and the McNugget my mom was trying to get me to eat, all sort of clicked. I threw a tantrum in the restaurant, with Trent mooing and clucking at the top of his lungs,” she laughed. “I was about three, and I guess he was ten. Our poor mother!”
Poor woman! I agreed, but laughed along with her. Thank goodness Eileen wasn’t one for temper tantrums. Just awkward questions. Like that time we were in line at the grocery store, and she’d asked why the man ahead of us was staring at the female cashier’s chest—at full volume, of course.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you vegetarian? Adam didn’t tell me. He just said to make sure I asked.”
Here we go.
“The short version is I believe animals have a consciousness. A soul, I guess you could say. I’m not too hung up on the terminology. It just feels wrong—like killing a person is wrong.”
Cara’s big brown eyes were focused, her face expectant. Whatever Adam had said, she knew there was more to it than the short version.
“Did he tell you what we talked about yesterday?” I shifted my position as if making myself more comfortable.
“No, he said it would be better coming from you. I don’t think he wanted to push you.”
Could’ve fooled me. I resettled myself near her feet and smoothed the canopy netting so it hung straight at the bedpost.
“Lila, really. I’m pretty sure I’m the weirdest person on the planet right now. Anything you say is only going to make you a distant second.”
My lips parted in surprise. How could I argue against my own logic? “Yeah, well, we’ll see who’s the weirdest.”
“You’re on!” Her cheeks had a little color now.
“Do you want to go downstairs first?”
She deliberated for a second, but shook her head. “You’re stalling.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are. My mom used to act this way.”
“What way?”
“Stop stalling!”
“Okay, okay. Pushy much?”
Cara’s merry laugh reminded me of Maureen’s doorbell—clear and musical.
“Cara?” Adam appeared in the doorway, his question hanging somewhere in between hope and worry.
“Come in! Lila’s being funny.”
“I’m a riot.”
“You are! You make such a big deal out of whatever it is, and I’m sitting over here knocked up with . . . with . . . ” She was giggling too hard to come up with a punchline.
“Jesus the Sequel?” I offered. “Oh, no, wait. Didn’t Monty Python cover that?”
“No, that was The Life of Brian.” Adam volunteered.
“Uh-oh, Cara. Brian’s mom . . . tsk-tsk.”
Adam and I were in sync now, shaking our heads as if she was in trouble; which only made her laugh harder, holding her huge belly while tears rolled down her face.
“S-st-stop!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever even seen a Monty Python movie?”
Adam patted her arm in mock condescension. “I’ll download it for you.”
“On-only if it’s as f-funny as y’all!” She gulped for air as I shook my head again.
“Trust me, Python’s way better,” I assured her. “You only think we’re funny ‘cause of your hormones. Are you ready to go downstairs now?”
“You’re stalling again!”
“I’m not, I swear! But Eileen’s bound to be getting hungry . . . ” I glanced at Adam. “Is she still playing with the dogs?”
“I gave her some lemonade and set out chips and guac. She’s good. How ’bout you?” he teased. “Low blood sugar? Can you remember what you were going to say?”
“Please just tell us! Whatever it is, it’s not a big deal . . . comparatively.” A stray giggle escaped, and Cara pleaded again, “Please?”
I groaned for dramatic effect, but she was right. I’d made too much of this. Her situation was far, far more bizarre.
My Story—Her Story
A few minutes later, I had no more secrets. Well, none on this subject anyway.
“So . . . for whatever reason, I have tiny sparkly friends that try to communicate.” My face warmed. “Even when I’d rather they didn’t.”
“I love how you call them angels. Is that what you think they are?” Cara’s rapt expression left no doubt that she believed me.
“I called them that because of my mother. She—”
“So you don’t think they’re angels?” Adam had been watching intently from the other side of the bed.
“I really don’t know. I’ve done a lot of research, but haven’t found anything that describes what I sense.”
“Sense? Not just see?”
“Depends. Feel . . . hear . . . ”
“They talk?”
“No!” Jesus, I’m not that crazy. “They don’t. But it’s not always angel—” I stopped short. “Look. My brain is a hyperactive blob, so let’s just skip the details. Yes, I call ‘em angels; but it doesn’t really fit.”
“You’re not religious.”
I shook my head. “It’s not that. All the angel accounts have a commonality of force.”
“Wha—”
“Intention,” I clarified. “Angel stories are always of beings attempting to manipulate one outcome over another. My angels aren’t like that. They’re communicating, but it’s more like . . . like a news channel in a foreign language. I can tune-in and get the gist of the story from the pictures, but I can also let the channel play in the background while I do something else.” His raised eyebrows called me a
