Into This River I Drown

stretched along the wall. This is the light, I realize, the light I’d seen upon approach. The power must still be out all over the town, and the brightness, the beacon, was the candles that had been lit. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

I cross the narthex and enter the nave. The pews have been removed. It looks like there were halfhearted attempts to set up booths for the festival inside the nave, but the project was abandoned, possibly when the storm became too great. Candles line these walls as well, giving off heat but not overwhelmingly so. They reflect the stained glass lining the nave, the colors flickering so much it appears the saints are alive. As if they’re walking with me, blinking their eyes, opening their mouths. No sound comes out. But still they walk with me, or so it seems.

I take another step.

Past the end of the nave is the aptly named crossing, the middle of the north and south transepts. Past the crossing is the chancel, elevated from the crossing. The chancel leads to the altar. High above the altar, St. Jude Novena stares down at me from his stained-glass window. He looks as if he’s holding me in judgment with his frank gaze. Shadows dance along his face from the candles below. I swear I see him move.

There are three people on the altar. Doc Heward stands facing me, his hands at his sides, his face pale and drawn. He looks older than I’ve ever seen him. His thinning hair sticks out every which way. His clothes are wrinkled. He has dark circles under his eyes. His hands tremble at his sides.

Pastor Thomas Landeros stands on the other side of the altar, head bowed, wearing a black Roman cassock. Thirty-three buttons fall down the center of the cassock. I asked him once, after the Christmas service when I was young, why there were thirty-three buttons. It seemed like such an odd number to me. He told me it symbolized the thirty-three earthly years of Christ. I asked him how anyone could know this. He said it was what was written. I asked him how he could trust something passed down. He said it was a matter of faith.

He moves his lips as if in prayer, his hands folded near his chin. I can’t hear what he’s saying aloud, if anything, but for some reason it chills me. I wonder how long he’s been at this, wonder what this has done to his belief, his faith. Does he think this is a reward for his service? Does he see this as proof of his faith? Or has this shattered every notion he’s ever had about the way the world works? To say you have faith is one thing; to see evidence of it with your own eyes is something else entirely.

But it’s the third figure that captures my attention. It’s him I see the most.

Lying on a white cot with a blanket pulled up to his chest is the guardian angel Calliel. Blue lights flicker around him weakly. His wings disappear then reappear, the long feathers draping across the floor. The smell of earth is heavy and sweet. His skin has a sickly pallor to it, almost yellow in the candlelight, in his own lights. His eyes are closed, and his breathing seems labored. One breath in, held, then released. It takes a second, two seconds, three seconds before he breathes in again.

I’m moving even before I know I am. I run across the nave. I reach the crossing, the name not lost on me. For a moment, I think it will turn into a raging river that I will be forced to cross. It doesn’t matter. I would. I will do anything to get to him.

But it doesn’t. The stone crossing remains as it always has. My footsteps echo through the church, my bare feet slapping against the cold ground. I reach the steps that lead to the chancel. The red carpet feels rough against my soles. I’m at the altar before the doc can speak, though I feel his eyes on me, a subtle intake of breath that heralds the beginning of speech. The breath releases without any words as I fall to my knees beside Cal. Closer now, I can hear Pastor Landeros mumbling under his breath. His words sound Latin.

But above his prayer, I hear the slight rattle in Calliel’s chest with every breath he takes. It’s a subtle clicking that seems to sound like a shotgun blast in my ears. I take his hand in mine and lift it, brushing my lips against the cool, dry skin. It might just be my imagination, but I swear the blue lights become brighter, just for a moment. I choose to believe they do. I choose to believe he knows it’s me, even with how far under he seems to be.

His eyes are moving rapidly under his eyelids, as if he’s searching for something there, in the dark. I place my hand against his brow, and he takes in a deep breath, his chest rising, pressing against the blanket, against the white bandage on his shoulder. He lets it out with a sigh and his eyes become still. I brush my thumb over the groove in the side of his head. Feathers flutter around me. My heart hurts.

“Can you fix him?” I ask, my voice echoing in the empty church. “Can you do anything for him?”

Doc Heward looks down at his hands. “Benji, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, his voice scratchy. “I don’t know anything about this. I’ve… removed the bullets. I’ve closed the wounds. He has… organs. Just like us. They were damaged, and I tried to fix them as best I could. But… they’re the same? As us? How is that possible? I don’t….” He rubs his hands over his face. “I’ve given him antibiotics. There’s no infection. There’s nothing there. Everything is fine.”

“Then why won’t he wake up?” I rub my hand over the stubble on his head, just as he likes. I ignore the tears on my face.

“I don’t know,” Doc Heward says, sounding like he’s losing control. “I don’t know. He should be getting better. His eyes should be open, and he should be talking and… Benji. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. He’s dying, and I don’t know why. This is out of my league.” He gives a bitter laugh. “I don’t know why,” he says again. He takes a step back.

I do. I know why. I know why his eyes aren’t open, why he’s not talking. I know why his wings can’t seem to stay and why his blue lights are getting weaker and weaker. It’s close.

“Leave us,” I say quietly, never taking my eyes from Cal. “Please.”

The doc makes a sound of protest. I shake my head just once, and I hear his footsteps as he walks away slowly.

Pastor Landeros stops his mumbling. He looks at me like he’s just now aware of my presence. “Benji?” he whispers. “When did you….” He glances down at Calliel then back at me. “Do you know what this is?”

“This is my friend,” I tell him.

“It’s a miracle,” he breathes. “I’ve never….”

“Not now, Pastor,” I say, shaking my head. “Not now. I know this is your church. I know this is your home. I know this is an affirmation of your faith. I know this is everything you’ve ever hoped for. Everything you’ve ever dreamed about. But this is my friend. I need you to leave us alone. Please.”

He takes a step toward me and gently touches the top of my head. “It’s more than that,” he says. “It’s so much more than that. It means we are never alone.”

And then he leaves. I wait until I hear the doors of the church shut behind them.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”

I don’t know what else to say. Actually, I do know what else to say, but I can’t seem to find the power to say it. I can’t seem to form the words to say what I really want, how I really feel. It seems like everything depends on what I’ll say next, that this final test is the most important one.

How do you say what’s in your heart if your heart is something you haven’t known for years? How do you give yourself completely when all you’ve done is bury yourself in grief? How do you come back from the dark when it’s all you can remember?

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice cracking. I hang my head and grip Cal’s hand tightly. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go from here. I thought I was the strong one. I thought I could be brave. I thought I could stand and be true, just like what was asked of me, but I don’t know if I can. I’m scared. I’m scared I won’t be good enough. I’m scared I can’t be courageous enough. I’m scared I can’t do what’s expected of me. I don’t know what’s expected of me. I just know I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to go away. I don’t want you to cross the river, because I’m not done with you yet. I haven’t had enough of you, not even close. I don’t think I ever will, even if we could go on forever. I need you to come back. I need you to come home. I need you.” The sound of my voice dies in the church.