Before I Wake (34 page)

Simon interrupted him. “We deliberately don't use that word,” he said. “I think the first time that word was used in this house was by someone with the same name as you, just before he tried to ruin all of our lives.”

“Somebody threatened you? Is that what you meant when you said you were expecting someone else?”

I took Simon's hand. Neither of us spoke.

“Was he a tall man?” Father Peter asked, in a voice both excited and startled. “Very thin? Almost cadaverlike? Pale and—”

“You know him?”

“I know
of
him. Our paths have crossed. We may have met once, I'm not sure.”

“He implied to us that he was close to the diocese. That he represented them in some not-quite-official capacity,” Simon said.

Father Peter shook his head. “No. No, that's not true at all. This man, if he's the one I believe him to be, is in no way affiliated with the Church.”

“Then who is he?” I asked. “Who is he working for?”

“The short answers are all ‘I don't know.'” The disappointment must have registered in my face, because he hurried to continue. “I
do
know that a man—you'll have to forgive me for this, because it sounds like those man-in-black stories one hears about UFO sightings. There have been reports, over the years, of a man matching this Father Peter's description often interfering with a…a possible saint.”

“Interfering how?” I asked.

“Usually he tries to discredit the subject in the community and in the church. He keeps his distance, using the press and the police and more fervent locals to apply pressure.”

I glanced at Simon, who shook his head grimly.

“I was involved in a case several years ago…This was in the U.S. A small town in Oregon. A young woman seemed to have the gift of healing, through the laying on of hands.” He
looked down at Sherry's still body, then shook his head as he turned back to me. “By the time I got there, she was dead.”

“Father Peter killed her?” Simon asked.

He shook his head. “No, it's not that simple. She killed herself. The local newspaper had begun running stories. Well, she was nineteen, she had had a number of lovers, both male and female, several of whom spoke to the press. Her parents hadn't been aware.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I was too late. I got into town just before the funeral. I didn't really have any need to contact the family at that point, but their priest introduced us after the funeral. It was the girl's sister who mentioned that I was the second Father Peter they had met.”

“So his name really is Father Peter,” Simon concluded.

He shook his head. “No, I don't think so. Usually, he's referred to simply as the Stranger. I think he just used ‘Father Peter' because he knew that I would be coming, and he wanted to create confusion and tension. Like he did here.”

“How would he know that?” I asked.

“Because I'm the one who gets sent, in North America at least. When we get reports of occurrences like this, I'm asked to look into it. My counterpart in Europe is named Joseph. I don't think it's any coincidence that when reports come back from Europe about the Stranger, he's usually calling himself Father Joseph.”

“But who is he?” Simon asked.

Father Peter frowned. “We don't know,” he confessed. “I wish we did. There are some who believe—” He stopped cold on the word as he rethought what he had been about to say. “It seems that there are reports of contacts with this man, or another who bears quite a striking resemblance to him, going back several hundred years.”

LEO

It was cold work waiting on the devil.

I never thought Father Peter would be the one to come.

He came out of the dark looking just like a shadow, wrapped up in his long black coat. He walked across the square so fast it looked like he wasn't even going to stop at the door.

I hid behind the big plant, holding tightly to the lighter, and watched him as he pushed on the doors.

What was he doing here? Was he going to fight the devil and his friends himself?

Why wouldn't he have wanted me here with him?

The locked doors opened without a sound. No alarms went off. No watchmen came running.

I wanted to run after him, to tell him that I was there to help him in his fight against the devils.

I followed him into the library. Quiet as a church mouse.

RUTH

I tucked the covers gently around Sherry's neck. “You've had a big day, haven't you? We'll let you get some rest.” I kissed her on the forehead. I was glad that Karen had asked me to stay while she and Simon talked with Father Peter. Changing Sherry and taking her vitals took me no time at all, and it gave me a chance to be with her.

I had missed this, our time alone together.

There was something comforting in just sitting with her, listening to the soft regularity of her breath.

I inhaled deeply—the lilies and the milky, sleepy smell of a baby—as I sat down in the chair at the head of her bed, marveling at how quickly I had become accustomed to living without pain. Bless you, child. I smiled at the thought—how strange it was to ask for a blessing for her when it was I who had been blessed by being near her.

A low murmur of voices came from the family room. Family. It was good to see the two of them together, to see Simon at home.

As I leaned back and closed my eyes, my fingers trailed over the sack of mail, knocking a few letters to the floor. Opening my eyes as I bent to retrieve them, I happened to glance up at Sherry. I don't think it was my imagination or a trick of the light: from that perspective it seemed like there was a nimbus, a golden glow, surrounding her, touching her with a divine light.

“Foolish old woman,” I scolded myself, out loud, but I couldn't look away from her. Closing my fingers around an envelope, I gently rose. As quickly as it had appeared, the glow disappeared, leaving only a small child asleep, a lamp burning beside her.

My hands were shaking when I opened the envelope. I couldn't get that glow and the serene expression on her face out of my mind. I wanted to share the experience of it with as many people as I could.

The envelope fell to the floor as I unfolded the letter. The paper looked like it had been torn from a school notebook, and the printing was rough and uneven.

“Dear Sherry,” I began to read, both my voice and my hands shaking. “My name is John. I am eleven years old. I am writing because the doctors told my mom and dad that I only have six months to live…”

HENRY

Limping home was like going back in time. I fell into the old patterns without even thinking about it: the shortcuts across side streets and schoolyards, walking up the narrow roads between Blanshard and Quadra to avoid the worst of the hills. I had to stop several times each block to let the dizziness pass.

Our apartment was in the second building from the corner, one of the first-floor, sub-ground specials that rented cheap. Fully furnished in vinyl and sprung mattresses, it was all we could afford and still have money to eat. Arlene couldn't work and look after the boys too, so we got by on what I made at the gas station. When you're a parent, you do what you have to do.

From the sidewalk, I could see that the white curtains were closed, backlit from within.

I couldn't help smiling, even as my open eye filled with tears.

It was fate. I had been put in that bus shelter this morning to see them, to be reminded, to be given my life back again. To have whatever spell had been cast over me broken.

It was the only explanation I could think of: I had been rewarded for helping the Barretts. I had made my amends, suffered my punishment, and the family in the brightly lit apartment—my family—was my reward.

I punched the intercom button for 108 with my left hand, keeping my injured hand buried in the front pocket of the hoodie that I had borrowed from the lost and found.

A moment later the speaker crackled to life. “Who's there?” came a young boy's voice.

I pushed the talk button. “It's me, Dylan. It's your daddy. Let me in.” My voice sounded strange, thick and lispy.

“Hello? Hello? Who's there, please?”

“Dylan, it's me, hon. It's your dad. Press the button.” I could feel a cold trickle of fear tracing its way down my spine.

“Who's there, baby?” Arlene's disembodied voice sounded tinny and distant.

“It rang, Mommy. It rang, but nobody said anything,” he explained, his voice growing fainter as she lifted the receiver away. “Nobody said—”

There was a harsh click as the receiver was set back into the base on the wall.

I stared blankly at the panel, the cold trickle threatening to become a flood.

I started punching the black buttons on the intercom panel at random, just punching them, ignoring the inquisitive voices from the speaker, waiting, waiting—

There! As the buzzer sounded, pushed by someone too lazy or trusting to bother checking, I grabbed the door handle and let myself in.

“What will you say?” Tim had asked. “How will you explain?”

I had thought about that the entire walk. I would tell Arlene the truth. I would tell her about the accident, about running away afterward. I would tell her about the state of shock I had been in, the confusion, the amnesia.

I would tell her about the library, and the men who lived there who had taken me in, who had kept me safe. I would tell her about Tim, about the books I had been reading, about finally seeing her and the boys downtown and how they had brought me home at last.

I could hear the sound of the television, the boys playing behind our door. I knocked.

Dylan called out, “Mom, there's someone at the door!”

“She knows, stupid,” Connor said, and I could picture him giving his little brother a shove.

“Don't call your brother that.” Arlene's footsteps came toward the door. “And stop pushing him.”

The chain rattled and the door cracked open. Arlene's green eye looked out into the corridor.

I forced a smile, feeling the tight pull of the burned skin, trying to ignore the racing of my heart. “Hi,” I said. “It's me.” I steeled myself for her response.

The door opened a little more. Arlene looked directly at me, but there was no shock, or surprise, or recognition. There was no trace of anything at all.

Despite the sick feeling in my belly, I tried again. “It's me. I'm home.”

She stepped out into the corridor, almost brushing against me. She was beautiful, her dark hair pulled back into a high
ponytail, her skin clear, eyes puzzled. She was wearing a blue T-shirt and gray jogging pants, what she always wore around the house, but cleaner, less ragged than usual. She had lost weight—she looked like a runner again, like she did in high school. She looked like someone you wanted to spend your whole life with.

I could smell her soap and the light perfume of her skin, and feel the warmth emanating from her body. “Arlene,” I called, even though she was right there. Her brows knit in confusion.

“It's me,” I said, my voice cracking. “Arlene!”

I waved my left arm in front of her face, lurched directly into her field of vision. She stepped back, as if she could sense my presence, then, shaking her head, turned back into the apartment.

“Who was it, Mommy?” I heard Dylan ask. I could see him inside the door, huddled against the wall. Connor was standing next to him, craning his neck to see but obeying the rule to stay inside the apartment until Mommy or Daddy said it was okay. Where Connor looked like his mother, Dylan looked like me: the brown eyes, the small nose, the brown hair you had to fight to get to lie flat. “Dylan,” I cried, stumbling forward.

“No one, hon,” Arlene answered him, closing her hand around the doorknob. “Some joker playing a prank.”

“A joker,” he giggled as the door started to swing shut.

“Dylan,” I called again. The door closed in my face.

I sagged against it, pressing my burnt face against the cool of the paint. “Dylan,” I whispered. “Arlene.” Tears streamed hot down my face, and I couldn't control my trembling. I was cold. So cold.

So maybe that was it. Maybe the last eight months had just been a dream, and I was actually dead, floating through limbo. Maybe everyone in the library, everyone I had met, had been a spirit. Maybe I had died on that cliff, or on the rocks below, and I had been wandering ever since, seeking…what? What do ghosts seek? Revenge? Redemption? Forgiveness?

I wanted to pound on the door. I wanted to be heard. I wanted to will myself to be seen. I wanted to explain to Arlene what had happened.

But when I raised my hand to knock, I couldn't. I couldn't bring myself to see her again, knowing that I would never be able to make her see me. I couldn't bear the idea of seeing her again without being able to touch her, of seeing the boys without being able to hold them.

What was I going to do? Was I just going to wander aimlessly, waiting for some mysterious salvation, for something to break my curse? Was that my destiny? To live in limbo for generations, haunted by that little girl, some modern-day Wandering Jew?

And then I knew what Tim didn't know. He had been trying to teach me, all these months, about my future. About
his
past and what he thought was
my
destiny.

For him, whose past had been spent waiting, the future would hold more of the same.

But not for me. The truth had been right in front of me the whole time, but I hadn't seen it. Until now.

I wasn't doomed to live forever, wandering the earth, waiting to make my amends. That was Tim's destiny.

I had made my amends.

I didn't have to wait an eternity to beg forgiveness. My forgiveness was right here.

KAREN

After midnight. The house was silent, save for the coughing and knocking of the heat pipes as they cooled, and the choking noises Simon and I made as we tried to stifle our laughter.