Seraphim (2 page)

And now her opportunity had come to uproot and see the world from a different angle. It would be a warped perspective, no doubt, given the view from LA, but she’d come—albeit grudgingly—to accept that destination. Her sense of destiny
had
been invigorated, she had to admit. As far back as she could remember, she’d felt fated. Not for fame, necessarily (although she wouldn’t turn her nose up at the offer), but definitely something eventful.

Perhaps even pivotal.

But then, she figured everyone must have those kinds of delusions, at least to some extent. Without a sense of self-importance a person would languish in darkness and eventually succumb to the emptiness, to the meaninglessness of it all. She’d been there. Oh boy, had she ever. Fortunately for her, though, her knight in shining armor had finally arrived and would very soon be saving her from ever having to visit that murky kingdom again.

But…Los Angeles?

A year earlier, two bullets had nearly cost her husband his life. He’d been a homicide detective with the Boston Police Department. But now—thanks to those fortuitous bullets—they would both be leaving for LA tomorrow morning. His new job would be teaching Police Science to “a bunch of wanna-bes.” And she was more than thankful for his career move. Cops’ wives were destined to lay awake nights, waiting for the phone to ring, or that knock at the door in the small hours of the morning. But the vast majority of them could always expect a warm body to eventually come sauntering in, at least one free of serious injuries. Rachel, however, had been one of the few exceptions, having gotten that knock at the door, a uniformed officer behind it, fidgety beneath his grim errand.

But her husband had survived, and it did her heart well to know that he would never wear a badge again—knock on wood.

But…
Los Angeles
?

Growing up, she’d always dreamed of becoming an actress. But reality had chipped away at that boulder of a dream, as it eventually did the fancies of most girls, until, finally, there was nothing left but a hopeless pebble.

She smiled then, remembering that she never had to walk far before it’d shift around and dig into her heel, that pebble. She was quite often reminded of her unique attractiveness; was told that she had the good looks of a movie-star. Not beautiful, not gorgeous—but damned cute. And it wasn’t just men who told her that, but women, too.

She brightened.
Why not,
she thought.
Hollywood, here I come!

As she continued walking, the cobblestone sidewalk was eventually replaced by gray planking as she neared the boardwalk.

In front of the Swashbuckler, the most popular restaurant in town, a line had begun forming for their elaborate seafood brunch buffet. The sign hung above a medieval door and gangplank, with a smaller one below declaring, ‘Arrr! The Finest Grub and Spirits This Side of Martha’s Vineyard, Mates!’ She’d eaten there many times. The food
was
fine, but not so as to be the envy of every chef between here and Cape Cod, she was sure.

She continued on, smiling as she passed the waiting patrons.

This end of the boardwalk was closest to the water, and the cool breeze made her nipples hard beneath the gossamer material of her summer dress. She blushed, feeling a bit ashamed for not having worn at least a camisole beneath something so sheer. There were more than a few men glancing, some lingering a little longer than manners would have allowed. She liked the attention, she had to admit, in a coquettish sort of way. Not only was she “damned cute,” but was still shapely despite her years (a decrepit, cane-toting twenty-six), and the tragedies that are notorious for accelerating them.

Oh, yes, the tragedies...

Snap out of it, girl!
she mentally slapped herself.
You’re turning your stroll down memory lane into a roller coaster ride to hell! Stop feeling sorry for yourself and count your blessings, for Christ’s sake!

Yes, of course, she thought.
My blessings
.

“I’m going to have a
baby!
” she whispered excitedly, as if that news were still only minutes old.

God, she was feeling…
peculiar
.

More powerful than a whim, a sudden, inexplicable impulse made her back up, then take a left down another walkway—one she normally strayed from—that led to a haven of tourist shops.

She passed a smelly bait store, then a glass blower whose specialty was miniature masted ships, whales and hummingbirds, then another vendor selling beautiful sea shells, as well as other less attractive carcasses of marine and shore animals, then a clam shack, this one favored for its “Yards” of beer...

Next was one of those Old West photography studios where women got dressed up like saloon whores, and men as any one of your average sheep-herding, shit-kicking, tobacco-chewing, bandoleer-wearing cowboys. And every single person, she realized, had still managed to come out looking totally counterfeit; the lens wasn’t fooled by the twenty-first century twinkle in their eyes.

A particular photograph stopped her. She peered in. A little girl, whom Rachel guessed to be nine or ten, was dressed up in a calico pinafore and bonnet, the woman next to her in suede chaps, spurs, gun belt and cowboy hat.

Rachel shook her head at the scowling woman, an outlaw with an attitude, her six-shooter stuffed sloppily into the waistline of her jeans. Her exaggerated stance implied that she was getting a kick out of the whole affair. The little girl, on the other hand, looked as if she were trying to salvage herself from what had been a particularly nasty flu.

Or the loss of a father
? she wondered, surprised by the suddenness of the thought.

She bent forward, studying the woman’s left hand, which was resting on her hip. There was no sign of a wedding ring. Rachel then stared at the little girl, regarding the faint smile that had started at one side of her pretty face; a smile that could have been famous for its vibrancy, she determined, had the malaise not been so inflexible.

Yes, that was it. The picture was not whole, not complete. A man was absent. A man who this little girl loved dearly. Not her real father, but someone as tantamount.

A man who had left them both very recently.

Rachel straightened, aware that she was not just pondering that possibility—she actually knew it to be true.

She leaned in even closer, her nose nearly touching the glass. Did she know this woman? This little girl? She didn’t think so. No names threatened to bubble up from the well of her subconscious. No, in fact she was quite sure of it. But still, there was something hauntingly familiar about the little girl’s
eyes
. And the longer she stared, the more she thought the child bore more than a passing resemblance to…well, to her
husband
.

Giggling, she threw a hand to her mouth.
Hormones,
she warned herself.
Yessirree, those obnoxious little bastards are already marching en masse out of your uterus and into your bloodstream. Soon they’ll be digging trenches and rolling out the barbed wire like the freaking Gestapo. And when they’re dug in reeeal deep, honey, your moods will swing faster than David Bowie, your taste buds will become psychotic and, of course, you’ll start suspecting every child you see as an illegitimate product of your husband’s virile past
.

Christ, she’d almost forgotten the crazy things that happened during pregnancy. She was almost relieved—until she looked at the picture again. The little girl really
did
look like her husband. Or, more accordingly, like the pictures of him when he was around the same age.

She glanced around to the other photos displayed in the window, hoping that she wouldn’t (but feeling like she might) recognize them as long lost relatives. There was a chubby man and even chubbier woman decorated like Napoleon and Josephine. An older couple sitting at a poker table, cards in one hand, shot of whiskey in the other. A young, shapely woman appearing loose and risqué in a snug corset, garters, and fishnet stockings. And at least a half-dozen more.

Strangers, every one of them. The familiar veneers of tourists, was all. Sightseers turning tricks.

But the little girl...

She looked back at the half-smiling child and was immediately overcome with panic; a feeling of dread so palpable that her knees began to shake and burn with the sudden glut of adrenaline.

A dry knot caught in her throat. A mother’s fear gripped her.

The window display quickly boiled away, evaporating into another image not as crisp in its resolution; time was endeavoring to temper its contours, lull its implications. But time would fail this courtesy, she knew, as this particular travesty—no matter how many years might eventually separate then and now—would never consent to the shushing of its deafening edges. A white crib bathed in morning light now loomed before her. She peered timorously between the slats, upon the infant within. Jessica. Her baby girl. Motionless. Pale. Eyes half open, showing just the whites.

Rachel reached into the nightmare and shakily lifted her daughter from the crib. The child’s arms and legs did not bend as they should. Her head did not loll, but lazed in a strained, macabre way.

Oh, oh…my…God...

What is happening to me?

She tried to shake away the memory, but it remained, steadfast with its accusations.

*****

Heart racing, hands trembling, Eli held the stained glass inches from her face, sunlight filtering through smoky hues. He concentrated the colors upon her wings, then slowly rotated the glass. The effect reminded him of the color wheel his mother used to put in front of the Christmas tree, one of those electric carrousels that swathed the whole display blue, then red, yellow, and green.

He fondly recalled the tin foil angels he’d made for her in Sunday school so many years ago, and remembered how they’d outshone all the other ornaments on the tree. They had been the simple winged kind, thin and flat, as if lopped from a cookie-cutter, their halos made of gold hobby wire. And every Christmas since—up to the one where she no longer gave a damn; had become senile—he’d given his mother a new assortment of his homespun angels. She would always crow, “They’re even lovelier than last year’s.”

It was their wings that had made them special. He’d used real feathers with striking results, having meticulously arranged and layered them on the cardboard cutouts.

Eli stared into the girl’s impossibly wide eyes, then anointed her forehead with the colors of the glass; a bizarre baptism as unholy as it was impromptu. But then, he’d always been impulsive.

When he was through, he kissed the piece of glass as if it were a rosary, returned it to his knapsack, then once again took the camera and brought it to his face.

*****

Rachel stared into the cauldron, watching that nightmarish morning of four years ago gurgle upward like some vile witch’s brew…then spill over the edge and sweep her away.

She’d never told her husband about Jessica; was still too ashamed, she supposed.

An undertow, vile and impeaching, pulled her down. She couldn’t breathe; was drowning.

There is no vaccine, Rachel
, reminded the Freudian fuck.
I know you don’t believe it now, but there will come a time when those cancerous feelings will seem in remission, when the pain in your heart will scar over. But the disease is insidious. It attacks scar tissue, opens up old wounds, thus allowing the guilt to flow freely again. Only with forgiveness can you suture them. But they will never heal completely. Accept that. And
forgive
yourself.

“Oh, just shut up, you metaphor-infested quack!” she demanded aloud, startling herself back to the present.

A fat, freckled lady wearing black Spandex pants and a frond-woven sunhat slowed as she approached Rachel. The lady continued on, peering reprovingly down her nose.

Kiss my ass
! Rachel thought. Then she felt something warm—a bead of sweat?—trickle down her leg. Oblivious to propriety, she reached under her dress and dabbed at her cotton panties, then her thigh.

Oh God, please don’t let it be—

She brought her hand up and stared disbelievingly at the blood that now stained her fingertips.

Oh dear sweet God no,
she silently pleaded.
Please, please, don’t let me lose this one, too.

Then something very strange and very wonderful happened: a presence reached inside and reassuringly touched what might have been the shoulder of her mind.

“Don’t be afraid, Rachel,” whispered a remarkable voice. “Your baby girl is fine.”

*****

Her eyes were pleading with him,
imploring
him, but he just kept smiling behind the camera.

Defiantly then, she closed her eyes, squeezing out the relentless tears, determined to deprive the man the pleasure of ever seeing them open again. But a blast of pain flung them wide. Drawing in a sharp breath, she only provoked the agony.

The pain that had been earlier confined to her back was now pulsing through her entire body, sparing nothing. So thorough was this pain, the horror so transforming, that she literally believed she was melting.

Not the camera!
her mind screamed.
No more camera!

She turned her head away from the man and began to tenderly caress the soil with her cheek. Then, like some netted beast, she became suddenly rapacious. Grunting and growling, nostrils flaring, she scoured her face bloody as she gnawed ferociously at the dirt.

Then she saw the electronic flash wink across the ground.

For just the briefest moment she stopped thrashing, closed her eyes again. She heard another click, then a third. Only able to breathe through her nose, each respiration was carnally expelled. The loamy smell of earth tinctured her nostrils with its vitality, chilling her body and soul. She knew about the soil’s alliance with death.