Before I Wake (33 page)

“It's too late,” he said. “It's over.”

“It's not over,” I said, pulling at his coat. “I can go back. I can do it.”

“It's too late,” he said again. “They've seen you. They know what we tried to do. Tim knows. They'll be ready. Someone will be waiting. It's over.”

I didn't understand. What did the fat man have to do with any of this? Was he a devil too? And how could Father Peter just say it was over? There was so much left to do. “What about the sinners? What about saving the people from that girl, from that demon? What about the devil?”

“It's over, Leo.”

“It's not over,” I shouted. “The righteous fight, and they fight until they drop. That's what you said. I can do it. I know I can do it.”

He looked at me for a long time. He shook his head. “It's time to go home, Leo.”

Then he turned and walked away down the alley.

“It's not over,” I yelled. “I'll do it. I'll show you.”

He didn't look back.

“You can't just walk away. You can't leave me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll do better next time. I will. Just don't…”

He turned at the end of the alley.

I could do it. I'd show him. I was the Lion. I could do anything.

SIMON

I kissed Karen on the forehead and watched as she climbed the stairs.

Double-checking that I had a key in my pocket and the flashlight, I locked the front door behind me.

It was cold outside, and I was grateful for the old ski jacket Karen had found for me. The porch light cast a pool of security across what had once been the front lawn. The feet of hundreds of pilgrims had left it a bare, dirty patch, gleaming with frost in the dim light. I could see my breath, and I pushed my hands deeply into my jacket pockets.

It was only one night, a few hours really. In the morning we would call a security company, hire someone to watch the house. We should have done it weeks ago.

I took a slow walk around the place. I paid careful attention to the basement windows, playing the light over the glass and along the frames to ensure they hadn't been opened. The smell of gas was still strong, but not overwhelming. We could all be dead now, the house in flames. I couldn't bear to think about it.

On the porch, I sat with my back to the door, keeping a keen eye on the yard and the sidewalk and street beyond. It was perfectly still, perfectly silent.

Silent night. Appropriate.

I sat there till dawn, protecting my family. I thought about Sherry, snugged tight in her own bed. I thought about my wife. I watched my breath rise into the cloudless sky. Every fifteen minutes or so I walked around the house, checking.

I'd never been so happy to see the sun rise. I lingered on the front porch in the warm glow, watching as the light crept across the yard.

And then I heard footsteps on the sidewalk, the determined click of hard heels.

The sun was bright over the horizon, and I was looking right into it, not seeing anything. I heard the rattle of the gate, and the footsteps coming closer.

All I could see was a shadow against the light, the dark of a long coat. I stepped forward, tightening my grip around the flashlight.

“Mr. Barrett?” The voice startled me. “It's Father Peter.”

 

Saint Stephen's Day

 

HENRY

I must have passed out in the bushes. The next thing I knew, it was morning, and the curtains were open inside the Barrett house.

When I sat up, every part of me screamed with pain. The ground seemed to swim around me. My arm was raw and oozing and I couldn't see out of one eye. That side of my face was numb. I didn't want to think of how bad the burns must be for me not to feel them at all.

I could feel where he had hit me, though. My nose was broken, and I'd lost a tooth. I could taste my own blood and I wanted to find somewhere warm, somewhere to rest.

I pulled myself to my feet. I needed to get back to the library. I needed Tim to look at my wounds.

I stumbled toward downtown, stopping every so often to rest. It hurt to lift my head, and I watched the sidewalk as I lurched from side to side.

I wasn't paying attention, and somehow I lost my way. I found myself surrounded by noise and crowds, people rushing along the sidewalks with shopping bags held tight to them. I couldn't bear the press and push, the noise, the smell.

I collapsed in a bus shelter on Douglas.

At first, he was just another face in the crowd, another child being dragged along by an adult. From the scowl I could tell he was being propelled against his will. He had a shock of blond hair, clothes a little too big, as if inherited from an older brother, a turned-up nose, green eyes.

Green eyes.

Something about those eyes drew me back to him. Something I should have been able to remember, but couldn't.

As he passed the bus shelter, it came to me.

He had his mother's eyes.

“Connor!” I called out, stepping into the sidewalk. The tide of the crowd pulled him away, pulled the three of them away. “Connor!”

Three of them. A mother, two children.

“Dylan!” I stumbled down the sidewalk after them.

I caught glimpses: Connor's hair, the side of Arlene's face, Dylan pulling on the door as they went into the Eaton Centre. But I couldn't catch up. By the time I got inside the mall, they had disappeared. I ran to the railing, but I couldn't see them either below me or above.

“Connor!” I called out. “Dylan!”

No one turned. No one heard.

A flood of memories tore me apart. A life so like a dream returned to me with the force of a blow.

Arlene.

Dylan.

Connor.

All here. Now.

I rode the escalators up and down. I hobbled from one end of the mall to the other, looking into stores. I checked the bathrooms upstairs and down. I ran onto Government Street, looking for Arlene's familiar ponytail in the sea of shoppers.

They were gone. But I knew where I could find them.

Home.

I remembered.

I remembered everything.

How could I have forgotten?

KAREN

“Are you sure?” I asked, still groggy from the sudden waking.

Simon nodded. There were dark half-moons under his eyes. “He introduced himself.”

“He just came up to the door?”

He was pacing at the end of the bed and he nodded again. “Scared the hell out of me.”

“You were outside? Still?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Just that he needed to talk to us.”

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“He's still on the front porch. I told him I was coming to get you.”

I threw the blankets off, a little stunned by the news, and went to the closet.

“What should we do?” Simon asked, not looking away as I dressed.

I pulled on a sweater. “I think we should hear what he has to say.”

“Are we going to invite him in, or…”

“We've let everyone else in,” I said as we went downstairs.

When I opened the front door, I relaxed immediately. This man was as far from the threatening specter who had tried to kill my daughter as you could imagine. His face was ruddy on top of his white collar, his hand firm in mine, and he smiled as he spoke. “Mrs. Barrett? I'm Father Peter. Father Peter Shaughnessy. I was contacted by the diocese.” He smelled a bit of aftershave, and his voice had a hint of an accent, and the warmth of someone who spent his life talking to people.

“Are you all right?” he asked as we shook hands, meeting my eyes.

I glanced at Simon. “I guess we were expecting someone else.”

He smiled reassuringly. “No, it's just me,” he said. “I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner.”

HENRY

When I got to the library, I found Tim sitting cross-legged on the counter of the ladies' room, his head bowed over the large book open on his lap.

“Tim,” I said quietly, not recognizing my own voice. The door closed behind me with a soft thud. I recognized the book as a Bible. His finger was tracing along the inner column as he read.

“Henry,” he said, looking up at me. “Good Christ, you look awful.”

I didn't even try to smile.

He straightened his legs and slid off the counter. “Let me look at you,” he said, leaning toward my face. “What happened?”

I stepped away from him. “That doesn't matter,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

“Clearly,” he said, stepping toward me again, staring at the burns on my face. “What happened to you?”

“Last night, at the Barretts'.”

“Father Peter did this? But how?” He seemed uncertain for the first time since we had met.

“No, not him. His bodyguard. He tried to burn down the house.”

“And you got burned?” He was acting as if he didn't believe what he was seeing.

“Yes, but that's not—I need to ask you about my family.”

“You don't have a family,” he said. “None of us do.”

“No, I do,” I protested. “I just saw them. My sons. Arlene. I just saw them.”

He backed up a little and looked even more confused. “You're remembering?”

“I remember it all. Arlene, the boys, the job. My parents. Everything.”

“But that's—did they see you?” he asked.

Hesitating just a moment, I shook my head. “No,” I said.

He seemed comforted by the word. “No. Of course they didn't.”

“But it was crowded and…”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Henry,” he said. “I know it's hard. It's probably the hardest thing to get used to. I wish I could tell you how to make it better.”

“Why did I remember them? Why now?”

He shook his head. “I don't know.” He looked intently at my burned face. “But you should try to forget them. Again. Deliberately. Forget that whole life.”

“But I don't want to forget them. I want to see them.”

He shook his head. “You can't. There's no going back.”

“Why not? What if this is what I was supposed to do? You're always talking about amends. Maybe I was supposed to help save Sherry and her family, and that's why I can remember my life. I saved them. Last night. Maybe I've been given my life back. As a reward…”

“Then why couldn't they see you?”

“I don't…”

“Even if they could see you, what would you say? Where do you say you've been? How do you explain what's happened to you? All of this.” He gestured at my face, my arm. “And even if you can make your wife hear you, what happens then? You're not really alive anymore. You don't eat. You don't sleep. You don't die.”

“I'm not feeling too immortal right now.”

He went on as if he hadn't heard me. “Are you ready to watch your wife grow old before your eyes? To watch your children crippled by time? What will you say when your grandchildren die, and you haven't aged?”

“But maybe they…I don't know. It doesn't matter. She'll understand.”

“Henry, it's not a good idea.”

“I'm sorry, Tim,” I said. “They're my family. They're my life.”

“They
were
your life,” he corrected me. “Not anymore.”

His eyes fixed on me a moment, then he slowly raised his hands, palms upward and open, gently shaking his head. “I don't understand everything, Henry. I don't know what's happening to you. But this isn't your path, and I think you know that. Still, I'm not going to stand in your way.”

“I'll make it work. I'll get my old life back. You'll see.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Henry,” he said, as I turned away.

KAREN

I'm sure I flinched when the real Father Peter first touched Sherry, tracing his fingers over her forehead, down the softness of her cheeks. It was a reflex, really, nothing to do with the man himself. The air of calm that surrounded him had quickly put my fears to rest.

“Is she always so warm?”

Simon, Ruth and I were watching him closely. He had wanted us to tell him our story before he saw Sherry, and Ruth had arrived while we were having coffee in the kitchen. She said she knew we hadn't planned on opening the house on Boxing Day, but had come just to check on things.

“She feels warm to the touch, but it's not fever,” Ruth said, reaching for her chart. “Her temperature is normal, consistently.”

Father Peter glanced at her. “Don't you find that unusual? Wouldn't you expect her metabolic rate to be slower? Anything I've read about comatose states—”

Ruth nodded. “We thought the same. And yet her pulse rate, blood pressure, temperature, blood glucose, they're all normal. We've never had any problem with bedsores or secondary infection.”

“What do you suppose that means?”

Ruth looked like she was about to answer, then stopped herself, shaking her head. “I don't know.”

Father Peter regarded her for a moment. “I don't either.” He turned back to Sherry. “She's a very pretty little girl.”

As he shifted around to the head of the bed, he stumbled over the sack of mail. He crouched to take a look.

“We've received lots of letters for Sherry. Asking, asking her to…you know,” I said.

“All of these are petitions?”

I nodded.

“There must be hundreds here.” He tucked his handful back into the top of the sack.

“A lot of people saw her on the news. Or read about her.”

“What are you doing with them?”

“Nothing. We haven't had the time to think about how to handle them.”

“It is a bit much to deal with, isn't it?” He smiled at me. “When you get time, you could try reading them to her.”

He glanced at Ruth. “You may as well try.”

She nodded back.

He leaned in close enough to kiss Sherry's forehead, but turned his head instead to smell her skin, a long sniff.

“What sort of soap do you use?”

“Just water. We didn't want to use anything too strong.”

I trailed off when I saw him nodding, his head still inclined over Sherry. “Of course not, of course not. You wouldn't want anything very strong at all. Tell me,” he asked, straightening up. “Have you noticed any strange smells around her?”

“Smells?” I repeated, “I don't think so. Why do you—?”

“Lilies,” Ruth said.

I turned to look at her.

“Yes, yes,” the priest said. “I had thought lavender, but I think you're right. Lilies. Have you noticed it often?”

“All the time. I just thought it was the way she smelled.”

“Of course,” the priest said. “And after a while you'd get used to it. Not notice it. Did you know, though, that in the folklore”—he used the word as if it were the best of several bad choices—“saints are often recognized by how they smell?” He was watching me intently. “Sandalwood. Jasmine. Various flowers. And this was when people didn't consider bathing, or did it only occasionally.”

It was as if a shadow had passed over the room, discouraging speech.

“Lilies are for purity,” Ruth said softly behind me. “For peace.”

LEO

I went right to the library as soon as Mother was up and had had her breakfast. I couldn't go in. The doors were locked, and a sign said that it was closed for the holiday. I was glad that I wore my winter coat. It was going to be cold waiting for the devil to arrive.

This was where Father Peter said the fat man Tim was staying. I didn't know if he was a devil, or if the devil was working with him, but I thought that the fat man would know where to find him. He would tell me, or I would destroy him. I would destroy all of them.

First the devils.

And then the Barretts.

I practiced flicking the lighter a few times, and I thought of the whole building full of paper. How it would burn. I would destroy him. I would send him straight back to hell.

I'd wait however long it took.

KAREN

Father Peter straightened up and turned toward us, brushing his palms along his jacket. “You're not used to hearing your daughter referred to as a saint, are you? Surely someone has suggested—”