Angel Baby (Heaven Can Wait) Read online

When nothing came to mind, save for a voice of doom proclaiming that there had to be something about her accident her husband hadn’t told her, Angel had had enough.

  If memories wouldn’t come, they wouldn’t come.

  No use wasting a perfectly good day moping.

  One thing she knew, soul-deep, was that she’d never been much of a moper. She intrinsically knew she’d been a proactive girl and, as such, she pushed herself up from the table and marched into the living room, determined to string together clues from around the house into a cohesive sense of the past.

  A drooping peace lily and two dead ferns told her she’d never been much for gardening.

  Nose wrinkled, she hauled the two deceased ferns outside for a proper trash can burial, cleaned up the trailing mess, then watered the sole green survivor.

  Great. That took ten minutes.

  Now what?

  The books lining built-in shelves surrounding the fireplace were mainly classics—all of which had been blanketed in dust before she’d dusted them just that morning. Surely that was a sign that neither she nor Jonah were big readers.

  She found no evidence of needlepoint or cross-stitch. No rug hook kits or watercolors. No jigsaw puzzles or paper crafts. A few ugly crocheted blankets graced the sofa-back and easy chairs, but she didn’t think crocheting had been her cup of tea.

  She’d never thought to ask Jonah if, like him, she’d spent most of her time at the diner. But seeing how there wasn’t a whole lot to show for what she’d been doing here at home, she was beginning to wonder if maybe that had been the case. If so, could something she’d done at the diner be to blame for their marital rift?

  One last scan of the room offered no additional clues. Mismatched but cozy furniture, more china and brass knickknacks. The TV and DVD player. A few movies—mainly westerns and action adventure.

  Hands on her hips, she wrinkled her nose. Great. Not only had she not had any hobbies, but evidently she hadn’t even watched much TV.

  From in front of the bay window she turned a slow circle, trying to absorb every detail.

  Think, Angel, think.

  You live here. You’ve spent hours in this room.

  There has to be something you remember.

  Deciding to make a game of it, she closed her eyes and took a few dizzying turns. Upon opening them, she reached to the rocker to steady herself, but saw nothing of much interest aside from the piano.

  She swallowed hard.

  Talk about a busted mission. Fat lot of good staring at the piano was going to do—unless...

  How could she have missed something so potentially important? The piano. Of course! She must’ve played the piano. Why else would such a glorious instrument hold such prominence in their home?

  Anticipation made her pulse race as if she’d spent the afternoon running a marathon.

  Angel crept toward the massive instrument.

  If this hunch didn’t pan out, then what? Could she bear the pain of another dead end?

  You could always have a drink to soothe your nerves.

  A drink? Like a small glass of wine?

  Oh, you can do better than that. Try taking a nip straight from a freshly opened bottle of Crown or Grey Goose.

  The gentle urging in her head was so comforting, so familiar, so absolute, that just a few small sips of booze—any booze—would make the pounding ache go away, that she changed course.

  Since the voice was inside her, it had to be right. Meaning, she had to find a drink.

  She started looking in the dining room but came up with nothing but rose-patterned china and table linens. The few cabinets in the living room netted nothing but worn board games and countless photo albums.

  Photo albums!

  Booze search canceled.

  She dropped cross-legged before the amazing array, ignoring the hardwood’s chill seeping into the backs of her thighs. Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier? Eagerly flipping through the first album, she felt like such a fool. Finding pictures should’ve been her top priority.

  But she felt like an even bigger fool when one album, and then two, and then ten, and finally fourteen, netted plenty of pictures of Jonah and Lizzy—and even some of a pretty woman with garish dark hair—but not a single image of her.

  Surrounded by a sea of other people’s memories, she held the heels of her hands to her temples. What did this mean? How could there be photos of everything from Jonah’s first steps to his first birthday, first fish and high school graduation, but nothing of his wedding? If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought that not only had her mental memories been taken but her physical ones as well. It was as if she’d never been here or, if she had, all traces of her had long since been removed.

  Could Jonah hate her to that degree? Had whatever she’d done hurt him that bad?

  Who knows? Who cares? Why put yourself through all that unnecessary turmoil when you could instead kick back? Live the good life. Concerned with nothing but where you’re getting your next drink.

  On autopilot, Angel pushed herself up from the floor and headed for the kitchen. That’s where the liquor would be. That’s where it had to be.

  But it wasn’t.

  Not in any cabinets.

  Not in the small walk-in pantry neatly lined with dusty canned goods and jars of homemade sauces and pickles.

  Again she pressed her hands to her temples. Think, Angel. Where were you the last time you had a drink?

  Pain.

  Crushing, blinding pain. Not physical, but pain of the heart—the soul. It was everywhere, surrounding her, swallowing her—thick, black and smoky.

  Hands shaking, she took a swig from a bottle of Crown Royal. Just a little. Just enough to make the pain bearable.

  She took a good, long drink, and another and another, ignoring the booze dribbling from the corners of her mouth. Giggling when it dotted her white blouse.

  Air.

  I have to have air.

  As if clawing through hundreds of feet of inky water, searching, reaching, Angel dragged in greedy gulps of oxygen. She looked wildly around the tight space, touching sagging pine shelves, a jar of pickles labeled ‘bread and butter’ in handwriting that didn’t look familiar and a cool bag of flour.

  This is reality, she coached.

  That false memory—whatever it had been—was only an illusion.

  You’re here. At home. Your home. Jonah and Lizzy’s home. Everything’s fine. You’re fine.

  At least you will be, once you have a drink.

  Clutching the walls for support, she launched her search anew. More cabinets. The hot-water heater closet. Baskets and drawers. The windowed side porch housing the washer and dryer.

  Her quest finally ended at the fridge with five cans of Coors. She snatched one out, popped the top.

  Her hands shook so bad, she could hardly lift the can to her lips and, when she did, the voice in her head screaming at her to take a drink stopped.

  Then there was a new voice, soft and kind.

  Not demanding, urging.

  Not pushing, holding her hand.

  The baby. If you won’t stop this madness for yourself, please, do it for the baby.

  Her hands shook all the more and she sniffed the open can, inhaling that yeasty smell as if it were her salvation. As if she’d worked for hours under a merciless sun and only this liquid would slake her thirst.

  Her tongue actually burned for the beer. Her hands shook so bad that some of the liquid spilled from the metal lip and onto the web between her thumb and forefinger.

  She closed her eyes, pressed her tongue to that spill.

  Heaven.

  Don’t you mean, hell? Look at all you’ve accomplished. Do you really want to throw all of it away for a drink?

  She nodded. Rolled the sweating can across her forehead and chest.

  She felt sick, really sick, like she might have to throw up. But it turned out she didn’t really have to throw up, just burp, and that made her laugh and la
ugh and laugh. But then she started to cry and that wasn’t nearly as fun, so she took one tiny swig of beer, trying to make herself burp again. But instead of a standard burp, a little bit of breakfast came up as well, tasting like throw-up in the back of her throat.

  She’d just raised the can for one more tiny swig, when she caught sight of her reflection in a glass fronted cabinet. Her hair and eyes were wild, the front of her dress hung askew.

  “Oh, my God,” she said in a tremulous whisper. “Look at me. I’m a drunk.”

  Maybe you are. Maybe that’s why Jonah can’t stand the sight of you?

  “No…” She refused to believe she was anything other than the loving wife and mother she’d already proven herself to be.

  The can she held in her shaking hand told a different story, but she told it to shut up, sending the rest of the beer fizzing down the drain before gathering the other cans, popping the tops and dumping them as well.

  She gathered them to toss into the green plastic trash bin beneath the sink but then changed course.

  Public trash isn’t a good idea. You have to hide your evidence. Can’t let them see what a closet lush you really are.

  In front of the outside trash bin, beneath the accusing glare of hot midday sun, she dropped the cans clattering to hard-packed earth, lifted the bin’s hinged lid and tossed it back before kneeling to scoop up the evidence. She released the cans, but they fell with only a soft clank of aluminum against aluminum instead of falling to the bottom.

  Frantic to hide the true extent of her trouble, she reached deep inside the bin, scooping up the dead ferns, crumbling the dirt and brown fronds over the cans. Only when she’d looked in the bin from every conceivable angle and knew the evidence to be well and truly hidden, did she close the lid, sweep her hands, and head back into the house.

  Her eyes took their time adjusting to the kitchen’s dim light, but once they did she marched to the sink and washed her hands with plenty of soap. It took three forever’s worth of scrubbing to get the dirt out from beneath her nails, but eventually she did. And then she felt better.

  And even better still when she squirreled through the fridge in the hunt for something to clean that one lonely sip poisoning her palate and found a jar brimming with dill pickles. Unscrewing the cap, she took one—no, better make that two—and chewed. Chewed and chewed until her pulse slowed and her breathing returned to normal.

  There.

  She washed her hands again.

  Now I feel better.

  At least she did until she smoothed her hair back from her face and meandered into the living room. It was there she again caught sight of that mocking piano.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said, her words sounding big and brave in the empty room.

  The instrument remained silent, foreboding.

  But she was strong.

  Much stronger than some stupid old piano.

  To prove it, she walked right up to it and stuck out her tongue. That made her feel about three years old, but oddly better, so she grew even more bold, running her fingers along the cool black surface until reaching the cover sheltering the keys. Still standing beside the instrument rather than in front of it, she lifted the cover, pleased to see the keys in pristine condition. Dust free, all white and none yellowed or missing.

  Heart thundering, she inched her way around to the front, pulled out the bench, and lowered herself onto it.

  Did it feel right? Familiar?

  She didn’t know. Too soon to tell.

  Tips of her fingers on the cool keys, she waited. For lightning to strike? For the hidden Liberace in her to burst into song?

  On the verge of abandoning the whole mission, she plunked a key. F. Then another. A. And then another and another until they strung themselves together into...into…her fingers flying faster and faster across the keys, she knew the tune she played sounded familiar but couldn’t quite place the name.

  From that one, her fingers slowed, transitioning into one she did remember. “Georgia.” And this time she even knew the words!

  On and on she played and sang. Gospels, rock, country, children’s songs, commercial jingles, it was as if Angel McBride were a walking encyclopedia of music.

  The more she played, the more natural her movements felt. As if she’d been playing all her life—and not just piano. She had the craziest urge to check all the closets for a guitar.

  But no, that would’ve taken too long, so she segued from Chopin into the Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction.

  “Excuse me!” called out a prune-lipped, white-haired, incredibly shrunken woman standing beneath the arch separating the living room from the parlor. “Does Jonah know you’re in his house making all this racket?” Once Angel recovered from the shock of a stranger waltzing into her home, she closed the lid on the keys, pushed back the bench and stood. A pretty sad admission, but somehow she felt better knowing she was almost double the height of the glowering intruder, who wore denim overalls, a white T-shirt and smudged sneakers. Raising her chin, Angel said, “I should hope Jonah knows I’m in his home playing beautiful music—especially since I happen to be his wife.”

  “Oh, yeah? Since when?” The shrunken woman raised her chin. “I’ve lived across the road from that boy since the day he was born and, far as I know, he’s only had one wife—and she’s dead.” Gazing heavenward, she added, “Thank you, Jesus. But that’s neither here nor there. The real issue at hand is you. And the question of what am I going to do with you?”

  Hands on her hips, Angel said, “I could ask the same of you. The least you could do after barging into my home and accusing me of being dead is introduce yourself.”

  The woman harrumphed. “Esther May Carmichael-Stevens-Plunkett. Lived in Blue Moon all my life. Buried three husbands, two fine sons, and am still burdened with a daughter who wants to shelve me in some stinkin’ nursing home. I still got pretty near all my own teeth. I woke up this morning with constipation and heartburn. The cable’s out. And, quite frankly, being as I am on the wintry side of ninety, I don’t have an awful lot of time for unnecessary chitchat. So now that all that’s out of the way, why don’t I just call the law and let them decide what to do with you?”

  “Is this a joke?” Angel asked. “Did my husband put you up to this?

  After giving Angel a good, hard stare, Esther ambled into the kitchen and picked up the receiver of the yellow wall phone. Angel figured she must’ve made a habit out of calling the police on a regular basis as she punched in the non-emergency number from memory.

  “Promise,” just as the department’s recording prompted callers to hold for the next available officer, Angel hustled across the room to disconnect the phone. “I know once you listen to reason, you’ll really be embarrassed about all this.”

  “Me? Embarrassed about stopping a prowler from having her way with my neighbor’s piano?” She snorted.

  “But I already told you, I’m Jonah’s wife. His baby’s mom. If you live across the street, then surely you remember a cutie like Lizzy?”

  Placing the phone slowly back on its hook, Angel’s guest took a step back. “Lady, has anyone ever told you you’re one apple short of a bushel? If—like you say—you are Jonah’s wife, then how come you’d be callin’ his baby, Lizzy? Everyone in town knows that child’s name is Katie. Just like everyone in town knows her no good momma is dead.”

  What was wrong with the woman? Alzheimer’s?

  Angel asked, “Should I call your daughter? Do you need help?”

  Esther laughed. “I’d say you’re the one needin’ help. Come here.” She snagged Angel by the sleeve of her dress, pulling her into the living room, where she stopped her in front of a gallery of black-and-white framed prints hanging on the south wall. “See those?”

  “Yes. They’re wonderful.” Angel put her hand to her head. “Since the accident, I’m having trouble with my memory, but I’m sure once it returns, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Be able to recite all these go
od folks by name? Well, guess what, sister? I can do it right now.” Esther went on to do just that, stopping with her gnarled index finger poised over a shot of twenty or so laughing women dressed in full-blown flapper attire. “My eyes are closed in this one. And can you believe it? Me and that one right there—Olive Goodwilly—are the only ones still alive. Always did despise that woman. Few years back, she accused me of tryin’ to steal her husband.” She snorted. “Like I’d let a man named Wilber Goodwilly come within ten feet of this bod.” Moving her finger to the next frame, this one of two smiling women dressed in holiday finery standing arm-in-arm beside a sad-looking pony wearing a wreath around his neck, she said, “That one on the left is Gloria Jean. Your husband’s great-grandmother. On the right is Francie, his grandmother.”

  To Angel, the two women looked typical of many of the others who’d had photos taken during that era. Nothing about them stood out as special. And that hurt.

  What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I recognize my own family? She willed her racing pulse to slow.

  Too bad you were so stupid about dumping those beers. Just one would’ve made everything so much better. And all five? Well, those would’ve saved your day.

  “You don’t look so hot,” Esther noted. “Maybe I should call Doc instead of the law.” Through pale blue, beady eyes, the woman stared Angel up and down. “Say, you’re not one of those druggies you hear about on TV, are you?”

  “No,” Angel said. At least I don’t think I am.

  “Well, that’s good. Okay, down the line here the pictures get more current. There’s Jonah when he was a baby. And then on Santa’s knee when he was in first grade. Got so excited he peed himself—Jonah, not Santa. And see here? That’s Jonah’s high school graduation. And his wedding pict—”

  “I thought that woman was one of his prom dates.”

  “Nope. I was at the wedding. I oughtta know. Near broke my heart he didn’t marry in a church like his momma always wanted, but whatever. The bride—the now-dead bride—wanted to get hitched down at Riverside Park, but it rained that day so they did it at the house.” Gesturing behind her, she added, “Geneva marched right down those stairs.”

  Was it possible to feel hot and cold at the same time? The sip of beer, the pickles, pancakes and bacon churned in Angel’s stomach. This Esther May person had to be getting all these photos wrong. What other explanation could there be?