The Belief in Angels (31 page)

I check out the book with my other choices and spend the rest of the weekend reading it. I learn how most people react when someone they know dies. The part about depression makes sense to me and I figure this must be what happened to me. It’s a relief to find a logical reason for my memory loss because, to be honest, the alien abduction and the hypnosis thing were too crazy to believe. I like logic. I resolve to figure out a logical way to make my brain stop losing time. I decide the next time I go to the library I will find more books like this one.

I’m in the dinghy with Moses and we’re fishing. It’s an overcast day. The flounder bite like mad and we’re laughing and reeling in lots off our hooks and dropping them into the metal bucket on the boat. The bucket overflows and the fish flop out of it and onto the bottom of the boat, but we’re having so much fun we ignore it.

Moses gets a huge tug on his line. It’s definitely not a flounder because it bends his line more than I’ve ever seen a fish around here do. All at once the fish lunges out of the water about ten feet from us. It’s a swordfish! It’s magnificent. Full of silver scales like armor, with golden glints. It’s huge! As big as our dinghy, easily six or seven feet. It dives under again with the line attached.

I try to scoot over to where Moses sits on the boat to help him reel it in, but I slip on the flounder in the bottom of the boat and crash into him. The pole goes flying out of his hand and he goes flying over the edge of the dinghy. He’s got his life jacket on. I’m not worried. I lean over the edge of the boat to give him my hand, but the swordfish swims up to the side of the boat. It’s all black now beneath
the water. It stops moving inches away from the boat. It’s lying there. It seems like it’s sleeping. It lies on its side, just under the water, gills barely moving, a black monster. It’s still got the hook line coming out of its mouth, streaming back behind it, the pole floating out about twenty feet from the boat. Moses treads water about two feet away from it, behind the swordfish. We are entranced by it.

Moses swims up to the hull of the boat. He lifts one leg up and I reach over a hand to help him. I grab the ties on his life jacket and pull to lift him. As I do, the swordfish seems to wake up and leaps out of the water between us, sword waving. It catches the inside of Moses’s jacket ties. I watch as the fish spears the jacket and then pulls Moses off the boat.

Moses goes into the water with the force of the fish’s motion pushing him, and I watch as first the line, then the fishing pole goes snaking after them. He’s being pulled farther out by the fish and being bobbled by the waves. Then the fish takes him and the jacket under. It happens fast, in the space of a blink, and my mind tries to register the image but I have to push it away. I’m telling my body to react, but it’s a dream and everything goes in slow motion.

This is the part of the dream where I know I’m dreaming.

My mouth opens, vocal cords tighten, air moves in and then out with screams, but I can’t hear my screams. The muscles in my mouth stretch. They try to form a word.
Moses!

My heart pounds painfully and races in my chest and my body is weightless at first, arms and legs numb and useless.

You’ve got to move, got to reach him.

I see Moses surface. He’s about thirty yards away and gasping.

You’ve got to get to him.

I try to force my arms to work—to make my thoughts enervate the muscles.

Shoulders rotate, elbow out, wrist turn, fingers clasp.

Finally, I manage to rip off my vest so I can dive in to swim and grab him. Puppet master thoughts propel my legs, making them kick.

Thigh up, knee up, down, stretch, calf down, push, ankle snap, foot flap, and repeat. Arms cartwheel over me, shoulder rotate, elbow up, bicep up, forearm lift, wrists snap, hand carve, stretch, pull, repeat.

All of these motions, thought manifested. I cannot feel myself in the water, but Moses moves farther out as I head toward him. I have to swim faster.

I’m within a few feet and I can see the black monster’s sword tangled in the life jacket ties. I will my hand to reach out for the tie to release it, but he’s moving away, pulling Moses under the waves again. The swordfish’s massive body plows through the water, away from me.

I can see Moses a few feet under the waves, still captive in the jacket and struggling. The fish moves more slowly with the buoyancy of the jacket pulling against him. Moses is swallowing water. I know I’ve got to move fast. I dive under and swim toward him. My lungs threaten to burst. I’m about ten feet away when I have to grab air. I come up and dive back down again, but he’s not there anymore. I can’t see him anywhere. Turning in every direction, I strain to find him. He’s completely disappeared. He’s completely disappeared. The water is murky and dark now and I can barely see my hand in front of me. The water is murky and dark now and I can barely see my hand in front of me.

Got to find him. Got to save him.

Lungs on fire. Dizzy and weak. Fish clicking. Sonar calls and whistles—electrical and secret. A bit of orange below me.

Neon orange.

Moses’s life jacket.

I need air, but I don’t want to lose him. I swim down instead. When I’m down there, I see it’s a part of a buoy, painted orange.

I’m far from the surface and I know I’m going to swallow water before I make it back up. I swim for it with all my might, but I only make it halfway up and now I’m choking on seawater. It’s in my nose, my mouth, my lungs.

Water floods through my head and my body, filling me.

I can’t breathe through the water in my throat and lungs and I’m struggling as hard as I can. My thoughts can’t make my body move anymore. It’s as though my brain—electrical—has been shorted by the water flooding in.

Don’t want to die.

The fish clicks. The electrical currents I’ve been listening to dim until I can’t hear anything. The ocean around me—a vast, soundless, dark entity.

I see Moses floating at the top of the water. His legs kicking. He’s alive. He’s alive.

In the next second, I see
myself
from a few feet away.

Watching myself under the water now.

My eyes closed, mouth slack, arms and legs dangling. I’m spiraling down like a line sinker.

I’m dying. The last conscious thought I have is an aching, strong sadness.

I wake up panicked, sweating, and gasping for air. You can drown in a dream.

Jules, 12 years | May 13th, 1974

UNLOCKING THE DOOR

I DREAMED THE dream again last night. As I dress for school I decide it’s probably normal for me to dream about drowning and I’m not going to worry about it. Instead, I worry about how I’m going to pull off going to school and being awake after being a zombie for who knows how long. Did anyone notice or care what’s been happening to me? I’m prepared for surprise and humiliation.

Last night I spent time tearing through all the papers in the books and piles on the floor. I need to find my homework papers because I can’t remember what’s been going on in my classes. It’s creepy. Somehow I’ve managed to prepare for and go to school every day. Apparently, I’ve been functioning in a seemingly normal fashion, because no one threw me in the loony bin. I must have remembered things from day to day—but, now, awakened out of zombie-land, I’m afraid I won’t do as well.

Fortunately, I find some recent homework in one of the piles. So, I sort of know where I am in my studies. I tried to figure out what chapter we were studying using the notes in my books last night, but I’ve been bad about note-taking and the only clues to what we’re studying are the doodles I made in the book margins. I found a few quizzes and tests for the semester that help me orient. As soon as I arrive at school I see a few kids I know standing in the hallway. I nod and say hello, but they just stare and whisper. It’s been like this since Moses drowned.

Homeroom comes first. First period messes me up though. My first period is study hall, so I go to the cafeteria where study hall is held. But when I sit down the
room fills and someone asks me why I’m not in my “regular” class, I notice there’s no one my age in study hall. I’m embarrassed, but my other option, to go to the school office and ask for a copy of my schedule, sounds like a worse plan than what I’m doing.

My other choices for first period, which rotate daily, are gym, art, and music. I decide to troll the hallway and see if I can figure it out.

First, I go to the gym, around the corner from the cafeteria. I peek through the small window in the door and see that the kids aren’t in my grade. Next, I head to the music room, which sits one floor up and by the auditorium. Classes have started now, and I have no hall pass. I move quickly, hoping no one will stop me. The tiny window to the music room sits too high for me to see through. I suck in a deep breath and walk in. About twenty people stare up at me when I open the door, but they aren’t kids in my grade either. My face burns.

It’s got to be art class. At least art is my favorite class, and I love my teacher, Ms. Wheaton. In class, I tell Ms. Wheaton that I’ve been out talking to a teacher in the hallway. She tells me to grab my seat and start working on my project.

My project? I have no idea what it might be. I slide into an empty seat next to a kid I like and try to gather what I can about what we’re working on. When I get up to start looking through my cubby I remember we share spaces with two or three other people. What if I can’t recognize my own work?

Luckily, I do. I have begun drawing in charcoal, pen, and ink. According to Ms. Wheaton, I have “developing talent.” About a year ago I did a drawing that won a school-wide art contest. I’m not sure if they were trying to be nice to a kid with a dead brother, but this encouraged me to keep drawing.

As I bend over the paper the scent of the charcoal is familiar. I can taste it as I inhale the particles. I am lulled into a state of peacefulness. The paper has a tooth like velvet. I’ve no idea what sort of work I’ve been doing, but I sit through class completely immersed in the drawing I’m working on. It’s a portrait of a girl I don’t recognize.

Math comes next. I stand by a desk, inhaling the scent of chalk dust and sweat in the room. I’m pretending to search for a paper in my book while the class fills up because another kid is sitting in my seat. Apparently, our seats have been changed. Nobody is sitting where I remember they were. When everyone takes their seats, I sit down in one of two empty ones. I must have guessed correctly because no one kicks me out of the seat or acts like I shouldn’t be there.

Math has never been my best subject. I try to pay attention to the teacher and catch up. I’m lost. He tells us we’re going to have a pop quiz. I panic. My face feels hot and sweaty. I shoot a look over at the girl sitting next to me and give her my “scared eyeball” face. She smiles and turns her paper to the side. I can see her
answers easily as she writes her responses to the problems he puts on the board. Fortunately, he never turns around to see what we’re doing behind him.

When class ends I smile and thank her for helping me out. She tells me I can “cheat off her anytime. I take off for my next class after double-checking the room number.

After English I go to my locker to put books away. I’m hoping for clues to what’s been happening to me, but there’s nothing much inside the locker but empty notebooks, a broken pencil and old homework assignment. The buzzer rings harshly for the next class. It’s the last class before my lunch period. History.

As I’m hanging around outside the classroom waiting for the seats to fill just in case there’s been another seat rearrangement, I see Leigh walk by and head in. I smile at her, but she ignores me and keeps walking. I think about following her in and starting up a conversation, but I lose my nerve and continue standing outside the class. The next thing I know she comes out and walks up to me.

“What’s going on, Jules?”

I try to figure out how to behave since David told me we’ve been fighting.

I decide to apologize.

“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know?” I answer honestly. “But I want us to be friends again.”

Leigh looks down at her sneakers. “You know, I never understood why you stopped talking to me. I figured it might be because you were sad about Moses, but still …”

I can’t figure out how to respond. Too many things crowd my mind—regret, confusion, embarrassment, and even anger that Leigh, my best friend, hasn’t noticed that I’ve been checked out for almost a month. I mean, how can you miss the fact something is wrong—like, she can’t remember what she had for breakfast or what day it is—with your best friend?

“Can we meet after school?” I begin. “I’d like to hang out and talk.”

Can I trust her with my memory loss secret?

“Yeah, we can meet after school … or …”

She checks around us for teachers, then grabs my arm and drags me to the stairs. “We could cut class.”

I’m torn. I’ve made it halfway through my day trying to figure out my schedule and my life at school. I did a good job covering, I think. The temptation of simply leaving, not having to pretend to remember anymore, proves too great to resist.