The Guardian (21 page)

Becoming more serious, he shrugs. “I’m allowed to bend the rules now and then.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I’m
very
attuned to you. I can sense when something’s wrong—when you’re not okay. And in times of peril or duress my survival skills are
enhanced
.”

I think back to that day at the record store—how we traveled from the sidewalk outside the shop to the Fosters’ porch as if by magic. “Enhanced how?”

Inspecting the tip of his boot, he modestly admits, “Speed, strength, stuff like that.” His eyes lift to pierce mine, causing heat to suffuse my body. “When it comes to your safety, if you’re in danger, my divine nature takes over—kind of like a supernatural adrenaline rush.”

Remembering the first day of school, my terrifying and beautiful rescuer, I reach up with my free hand to stroke his cheek. “Do you ever feel afraid?”

“Not of facing danger… not of protecting you.” His voice, while truthful, is rough and heavy with the strain of what he’s not saying. While he may be my fearless guardian, there’s something that frightens him. It hangs in the air between us, unspoken but there regardless. The shadow of his fear flickers across his eyes, growing as my fingers trail from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.

Gabriel swallows, and the sound is loud in the scant space separating us. His eyes close as I trace the shape of his full lower lip, slowly leaning forward until we’re sharing the same breath.

And I need to kiss him—with every fiber of my being. Shattering my resolution to keep my own boundaries, undeterred by the memory of him whispering
“terrible”
after the last time, and despite the knowledge he’s with me because it’s his duty—I need more.

Parting my lips, I feel his hand cup the curve of my jaw. My eyes flutter closed as I prepare to defy gravity, to experience heaven.

Suddenly the world shifts, and I come crashing back into reality. Gabriel has captured my roaming fingers, halting their exploration as he takes a nearly imperceptible step backwards. His eyes reveal nothing as he announces in a gentle but firm voice, “I’ll take you home now.”

Too shocked to recover, I grab my bags from his arm, ducking my head so my hair hides my wounded expression. I spend some seconds rearranging my parcels as I wrestle with the hurt and shock of his rejection. My eyes sting. My throat aches. Resounding in my head is the knowledge that
I
ignored the boundaries. I brought this upon
myself
.

When I’m certain I won’t cry, I begin to walk toward the exit sign without saying a word.

CHAPTER 11

Still debilitated from my encounter with the old woman, not to mention Gabriel’s latest rejection, I climb the Fosters’ porch with heavy legs. Gabriel holds most of my bags and supports my arm as I sag against him. If I wasn’t so drained I’d pull away and tell him to leave me the hell alone.

Rather than keeping her usual respectful distance, Nana steps out to greet us, a severe frown pinches her normally youthful features.  After a quick appraisal, she gestures from me to the living room with a wrinkled finger. “You inside.” Then, turning to Gabriel, she reaches for my bags. “Go home, young man. Alexia will call you later.” I barely have time to glance at him—left speechless and conflicted in the face of Nana’s authority—before she ushers me inside.

Setting my bags in the entryway, Nana continues to take stock of my condition, shrewdly watching while I amble toward the roaring fireplace. “Rest. While I make you a cup of tea.”

Sinking into the couch, I drag a blanket over my shivering body, waiting and trying not to think about the lies I might have to tell to explain my condition. I don’t like lying to her, but I can’t tell her the truth, either. Staring in indecision at the fire, I watch it crackle and pop.

When she returns, I’m in a semi-stupor-like state, induced by the heat and post-trauma fatigue. She hands me a large steaming mug that feels surprisingly good in my hands. Since the attack, I’ve been clenching my fists. My hands are achy and cramped from stress. Inhaling, I let the warm chamomile warm them as its mist fills my nose and throat.

“Relax.” Nana Kransky’s voice is soothing, nearly hypnotic as she gently sits beside me. “Drink.”

After watching me swallow a couple of tentative sips, she nods approvingly. “Better?”

“Yes.” Holding my breath, I expect  her to start asking about what happened at the mall. But instead, she selects one of Kate’s large picture books—the kind for coffee tables—and opens it to the center. The picture is actually a collage of many paintings, Catholic or orthodox Saints of some kind. The difference in style and representation lead me to believe that the focal point is intended to be the Saints themselves, not the various artists.

Leaning in next to me, Nana Kransky asks, “What do you see, Alex?”

“Saints.”

“What else?” She gives me an encouraging nod indicating I should elaborate.

I look again, this time noting similarities and differences—but interpreting art has never been a talent of mine. Paintings don’t elicit my emotions; music, lyrics make me feel. Still, I try my best to pass what feels like a test. “Different artists and periods, but the focus is that they are all Saints.”

“How do you know they are all Saints?”

“The halo around their head. The golden circle—I mean, that is the sign of  a Saint—right?”

“And how do you think the first artist to paint Saints as such, chose to depict his subjects that way?” Her mild question is at odds with the shrewdness in her eyes.

Trying to think like an artist, I imagine seeing a really good person, a Saint. How would I know they were good? If I wanted to capture them on canvas, what would I paint? For me, I would see the shimmering halo surrounding them. That is what I would strive to capture—

The knowledge has weight as it hits me. I gasp. “Someone saw them like that—shining light encircling their head. Someone saw their halos.”

Waiting for me to absorb this information, Nana Kransky pauses before stating, “I see people like that—certain people—with light encircling their heads. What do you see?”

My addled brain moves sluggishly, replaying her words once, then twice before I grasp their import.
Nana knows! She sees things, like me.
Although her admission changes things—there are others out there—I still can’t help but be cautious. Carefully neutral, I say, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Rather than dispute me, her sharp old eyes narrow thoughtfully as she elaborates, “You see, I have a gift. I perceive things differently than most people. Just by looking, I can tell if someone is good—if his or her
soul
is good. What do you see?”

Before I can find a reason to stop myself, I say, “I see
all
people like that— not just Saints—with their goodness or evil surrounding their entire bodies.” The truth feels surprisingly good to admit—freeing.

“I thought so.”

“You knew?”

“I knew there was something special about you, Alex. Something extraordinary.”

“How?”

“I do not have the ability to see evil but I can see those who are truly good—those who possess the Gifts of the Saints. Those with the gift have a glow around their head indicative of the strength of their gifts. And yours is the brightest I have ever encountered. Even brighter than Kate’s.”

“Kate?”

“The first time I saw Katie, I knew she had the gift. I also knew she was tortured and terrified. But we all have our gifts for a reason. I have mine so that I may identify others and help them to understand what they possess and use their talents. That’s what I did for Katie… and what I will do for you if you’ll let me.”

Her words barely register. She’s known! And Kate’s known—all this time—but she hasn’t said a word. Why? All the feelings—the terror, being completely alone, the helplessness—lodge in my throat. Taking a shaky sip of tea, I concentrate on keeping my emotions from bubbling over. Not wanting to lose this chance for answers, I ask, “What is The Gift of the Saints, exactly?”

Thoughtfully Nana Kransky picks up the book, explaining, “Saints are those gifted—blessed—with extraordinary power and goodness. They protect the world from evil with their abilities. But they’re not superheroes, they are mortal, and when they die their divine power is bestowed on another. Sometimes the recipient has no idea they are sainted until the gift manifests. Even then—some cannot make sense of it without help.”

Ignoring her pointed look, I continue to probe for information. “Does evil work the same way?”

Shaking her head back and forth, she explains, “Evil also goes from host to host. But unlike the power of the Saints which adapts to and enhances its recipient, evil exploits the weak. Once it manifests, it takes over, sucking the humanity from its host until there is nothing human left. You see, humans are created in God’s image, so evil seeks to destroy every trace of the Creator. Like a parasite, evil consumes its hosts until all that’s left are—”

“Monsters.”

She nods. “Also known as demons.”

Not even the blanket, tucked tightly around me can keep out the chill at her words. “I see demons?”

“And Saints. And from what you’ve told me, everything in between as well.”

“Is there a way—you know—to get rid of it?”

“Get rid of your gift?”

“I don’t want it.”

“But Alex, it is a great gift, an honor. I’ve never met anyone who possesses a gift as powerful as yours. I know it’s a lot to take in, child, but you don’t have to do this alone. Kate, Steven, and I are here for you.”

Steven too! And I was worried about deceiving them.

Anger—a delayed but justifiable reaction—burns though me. Most everyone in my life has had the answers I so desperately needed—everyone but me. “But I don’t want it! I didn’t ask for this. It was thrust on me. What kind of Creator would drop this on a helpless, unsuspecting, unprepared kid?”

“Alex—”

“No! I just want to live a normal life. I’m tired of running, of constantly looking for shadows and living in fear. It can’t do this—” I don’t wait for her answer. I run to my room—if I can even call it
mine
—and  hurl myself onto the bed. How am I supposed to trust in a world where everyone is keeping secrets? Kate, Steven, Nana Kransky—even Gabriel knows more about me than I do. Only Derry has been truthful with me.

Just thinking about Derry makes my heart ache with need. I pretend I’m back at the Children’s Home and Derry’s telling me about when his real family will come to get us. How much they’ll love me and how I’ll finally have a normal family.

I wish we could return to that time and place. But for me, there’s no such thing as normal. And now, there’s no going back. Not ever.

Later, there’s a quiet knock at my door followed by Kate’s soft request to come in. When I don’t answer, she cautiously enters. Her chocolate eyes regard me gravely as she sits on the edge of my bed. After a cursory glance in her direction, I turn away to stare at the wall, unwilling to broach the subject I wish with all my heart I could forget.

Finally Kate speaks. “I’m sorry, Alex.” In the face of my silence she continues. “Maybe I should have said something right away. But I didn’t want to scare you—or make things worse. I remember what it was like for me—living on the streets and trying desperately to pretend I wasn’t crazy—and I wanted to give you time to adjust.”

I feel Kate’s gentle touch, her hand smoothing my hair. “Maybe I was wrong,” she muses, “but I really was trying to make things easier for you.”

Kate’s caress is comforting. Soothing. Despite my vow of silence, questions begin to percolate in my brain. “How long have you known?”

“Since before I laid eyes on you.” She answers simply, holding nothing back. “I’d dreamt of The Children’s Center for about a week before I mentioned it to Steven. We made arrangements to visit the following day. We’d always planned to open our home and our hearts to a child.”

In my mind are visions of cooing babies and dimpled toddlers in need of a better life. Although she doesn’t say so, I am certain this is what Kate envisioned. Not a problematic teenager. The knowledge grates at me, causing me to spew, “I’m hardly a child!”

“True,” she agrees diplomatically and without a trace of remorse, “but you are the reason I was led to that place at that time. Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect—so I was doing my best to keep an open mind—and listen...”

The cryptic response causes me to roll over and really look at her for the first time in our conversation. “Listen for what?”

Her eyes are huge and fluid with the emotions of her own burden—anguish, wonder, humility and finally acceptance surge—as she holds my gaze. The small smile on her lips tightens with her admission. “The best way I can describe it is like a choir of angels. Heavenly, transcendent music that calls to me. The source of the music is usually another person with the gift.

“In this case, it was you, your spirit calling to mine, and the music was unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. I felt, before I even saw you, how exceptional and extraordinary you are. Then I saw you and recognized—because I remember mine so clearly—the torment, the terror of looking into the pits of hell and having no defense against it. The minute I laid eyes on you, I knew I wasn’t leaving that place without you.”