“Mom?” I ask her tiredly. “What’s going on? Where’s Cal?”
A tear rolls down her cheek.
Dread fills me. “Where is he?”
A shuddering sigh. Then, “He’s dying, Benji.”
The storm hit faster than they thought it would, back in Roseland. One minute it was just cloudy and overcast and they were all enjoying the festival, and the next it was like Heaven itself had opened up and poured down. The rain, my mother says, was a frightening thing, cast almost sideways by the roaring wind. The gusting wind itself blew down Poplar Street, knocking over signs and breaking windows. The booths and displays for the festival were toppled almost immediately. Most of the town was at the festival, and the majority took refuge in the church, the rest in the Grange. It was strange, some whispered, how the wind had seemed to blow them directly into these places. Some tried to leave but turned back when it became impossible.
There were concerns that the river would rise too high and flood the streets. Sandbags were placed out along the church and the Grange as a precaution, just in case floodwaters began to chase after them.
My mother was in the church, with Mary and Nina.
The power flickered on and off before finally just staying off. Candles were lit as people huddled together, listening to the storm rising outside. My mother was panicking, not knowing where I was. She tried calling me many times, but eventually the signal cut out and her phone was useless. Mary and Nina tried to calm her, to let her know I was obviously with Cal and Abe and that we’d be okay. Christie, they said, would also be okay because she was at Big House.
There had been nothing to do but wait.
And pray.
My mother says she prayed that day. She prayed for the first time in a very long time. Pastor Landeros was leading a quiet service for those who wanted it, but my mother wasn’t listening. She was sitting toward the back, looking at the beautiful stained glass window set high on the other side of the church. It was a circle of so many whites and greens and reds and yellows, with St. Jude Novena in the center, a red beard, long flowing robes of green and brown. And blue. So much blue.
Her grandmother had taken her to this very church on many occasions when my mother was a child. She remembered a prayer she’d been taught when she asked who that man in the glass was. That’s St. Jude Novena, her grandmother had told her. And he has a special prayer, one made for your darkest hour. But prayers are not like wishes, my child. They won’t always come true. But if you pray hard enough, surely someone will listen, and that, my darling, is what prayer is all about.
So my mother prayed, and recited the prayer of St. Jude Novena.
Most holy apostle, St. Jude, faithful servant and friend of Jesus, the church honors and invokes you universally, as the patron of hopeless cases, of things almost despaired of. Pray for me, I am so helpless and alone. Make use, I implore you, of that particular privilege given to you, to bring visible and speedy help where help is almost despaired of. Come to my assistance in this great need that I may receive the consolation and help of heaven in all my necessities, tribulations, and sufferings, particularly that my son is safe from harm so that I may praise God with you and all the elect forever.
I promise, O blessed St. Jude, to be ever mindful of this great favor, to always honor you as my special and powerful patron, and to gratefully encourage devotion to you.
Amen.
Seven minutes later, the doors to the church blew open with a great crash. Wind and rain flew into the church. People shouted and screamed. And then all fell silent when the impossible happened.
An angel entered the church, deep blue wings spread wide, water dripping onto the floor. He had a panicked look on his face as he looked from side to side. “Help,” he croaked out. “I need help. Someone, please. Help me. He’s hurt and I can’t fix him. Please.” He looked down at the body he carried in his arms. “He won’t wake up. Please just wake up. Please, Benji. Just wake up.”
My mother gives me a fragile smile now, from her place next to my hospital bed. “You’d have thought,” she says, “people had seen angels all the time with the way things happened next. Doc Heward ran forward and made him lie you down. I was holding your hand and crying so hard I couldn’t see straight. Others came forward and offered to help. Rosie got blankets. Mary got the first-aid kits. Jimmy brought fresh water, and the Clarks went back to try and radio for help.
“But it was Nina who went to him first. Our little Nina. He stood, off to the side, watching the doc work on you. His eyes never left your face, not until she came over to him. She walked right up to him and reached up to touch his face. He closed his eyes and sobbed, just once, his whole body shaking.”
Everyone fell silent then, watching the tiny woman touch the gigantic angel. The doc continued to work on me, but even he glanced out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh, Blue,” Nina said finally, her voice quiet. “You are in so much pain.”
“My heart hurts, little one,” Cal choked out. “I cannot lose him. Not now. Not ever. I would be lost.”
“What does your Father say?” she asked.
“Nothing. He has forsaken me.” His voice was bitter.
Nina smiled up at the angel. “He would never forsake you. You just aren’t listening.”
The angel trembled… and then he collapsed.
“Where is he?” I demand now, horrified. “You didn’t bring him here, did you?” I can only think of him being locked in a room while having experiments performed on him by people who need explanations, who need everything broken down to exact science rather than being able to believe in the impossible. “Please tell me he’s not here!”
My mother shakes her head. “No, baby. We didn’t. He’s still in the church. The doc has been watching over him. Hell, the whole town has been watching over him. But there’s not much more the doc can do. He’s fading, Benji. Cal’s fading. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She has tears in her eyes when she finishes.
I’m still so very angry, though I don’t know if the anger is directed toward him anymore. I don’t know how it could be, but part of me still feels the need to place blame. Part of me feels none of this needed to happen, that Cal shouldn’t have been put in the impossible situation of deciding between the lives of two men. My father didn’t need to die. So many things didn’t need to happen but did because of God. Because of his games. Because of his design.