When Angels Cry Read online

  WHEN ANGELS CRY

  A Novel

  JENNIFER EDWARDS

  Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Edwards

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Yucca Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Yucca Publishing

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63158-006-2

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63158-038-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  If This Is Hell . . . It Must Be My Mother’s House

  It’s funny it hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment, when I pulled into my mother’s driveway, that the idea of losing her would devastate me more than I could have ever imagined. There were times I had wished the pills that she’d swallowed had taken effect or other times when she drove me so far round the twist that I imagined my hands squeezing the life from her. Now, as the prospect of her mortality looms, I already feel a tremendous sense of loss. As I stare at the house that I used to dread coming home to, I am feeling things I never thought possible.

  To begin with, the house itself seemed smaller to me. It had always seemed to stand quite proudly. A lovely Cape Cod. But now the white paint seemed dull, and the hunter green shutters looked more the color of pea soup. Stepping out of my trusty Prius, the familiar crunch of pebbles under my shoes welcomed me. When I was seven, I rode my Schwinn with the butterfly handlebars up this driveway at full speed, then hit the brakes, skidding for the last few feet and sending up dust and tiny rocks into the air. The sound it made was exhilarating, and it never failed to annoy my mother.

  “Sarah! Stop doing that out there!” she would yell. “You’re behaving like a hoodlum!”

  Whatever hoodlum meant, I knew, at that moment, I wanted to be one.

  I walked around to the trunk and opened it, revealing the lovely, and oh so sturdy, black Tumi suitcase set my husband had bought me the year before. I should have known there was nothing subtle about the gift. He might not even have been aware of it at the time. The bottom line was that he wanted me to “pack up” and leave, but he was too much of a coward to tell me. He made my life unbearable, until I finally did pack up the unused luggage, and moved out. He has since been playing house with a twenty-seven-year-old assistant from his office, typical right? And now I am about to move back in with my seventy-year-old angry, resentful, delusional mother . . . oh joy!

  “Sarah . . . that you?” My mother called from behind the front door screen. She had always had a lovely speaking voice. Similar to Lauren Bacall. Lately she sounded like an ex-two-pack-a-day smoker.

  “Yes Ma . . . it’s me,” I said as I picked up the last piece of my expensive luggage, trying to balance them all. My agent said I always carried the weight of the world around. Maybe I needed a personal skycap! I could use one just to deal with all the “emotional” baggage I seem to be carrying these days.

  The screen door flung open. “Oh . . . my darling Sarah. You’re home!” With that, my mother actually seemed to be running towards me. Out onto the porch, down numerous stairs. I didn’t trust what I was actually seeing. She was moving at quite a clip despite the fact she had her hip replaced. How could she be running so fast? And should she be running so fast? She was at my side in record time. And to make matters worse, she was wearing a bubble gum pink jogging suit.

  “Hello, Mother,” I said, trying not to look too dazed and confused.

  “Put your bags upstairs and let’s go for a run!” She began prancing in place like my pretty pony.

  All the bags I was holding were causing me to lose feeling in the lower half of my body. I wanted to S.O.S. my therapist, in hopes that he would somehow be able to navigate my next move. But I am a grown forty-five-year-old woman. It’s time to make decisions on my own.

  “Mother . . . I don’t run,” I said defiantly. “You know that. But I will put my bags down and maybe have a cup of tea . . . or vodka. I’ve been driving for eight hours. You know how long it takes from Los Angeles to Marin?”

  “Oh, honey, of course you have . . . How thoughtless of me! Go to your room, settle down, and when I get back, I’ll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!” Launching herself forward like Jackie Joyner at the Olympics, my mother took off running down the long driveway, veering right and disappearing behind the six-foot hedge in front of the house.

  I watched dumbfounded for a while to see if she might reappear. Nope. So I lugged my Tumi’s up the porch steps and into the front hallway of the house I grew up in.

  At first sight, everything seemed about the same as it always had. The dark, hardwood floors had lost their luster a long time ago. Looking into the living room on my left, I could tell that the framed photos on top of the baby grand were arranged as they had been for decades.

  My mother always made sure that the photographs of family members, dead or alive, were positioned correctly, and the frames, dust free and brightly polished. The couch and love seat were fairly new. My mother was going through a gingham stage and had bought two red and white checkered pieces. They reminded me of tablecloths used in pizzerias. All that was missing was a bottle of Chianti . . . The new furniture was not my cup of Chian-Tea!

  I began my ascent up the staircase struck by the number of photographs lining the wall from the bottom of the stairs to the second floor. I think maybe four generations of O’Malley’s were there and all the Mancuso’s. Half of these people meant nothing to me. All through my childhood whenever I asked about a family member, my mother and father would become inexplicably mute. I never understood what they could be hiding or avoiding. I remember sitting in the middle of the staircase, at a very early age, and staring at certain photos on the wall wondering if the stories I had heard were true. One of the smaller photos was of a pretty young girl. She was four years old in this picture. So delicate, petite. Her hair was an explosion of blonde ringlets. She seemed to be perfect in almost every way.

  Rachel, my younger sister, was the apple of my parents’ eye, and a favorite of everyone else she was around. Rachel seemed to glow from within. Even though we were only two years apart, she was miles ahead of me. Talking before she could walk, making friends with anyone and everyone . . . she was my parents’ pride and joy. She was mine, too.

  I don’t know how long I stood in the stairwell looking at the family photos, but as I climbed the stairs, I caught the photo I had tried to avoid my whole life. A photo of the exquisite Rachel. The child who would “go somewhere.” A child who was everything that Olivia and Jack O’Malley wanted . . . the child who was supposed to carry on the family traditions and make them proud. It was an extraordinary photo of a six-year-old, ringlet haired, girl in a cherry wood coffin. Why they had her photographed like this I never understood. Even more puzzling was why this haunting image of her corpse adorned our walls.

  Once upstairs, I walked into the bedroom I had shared with Rachel.

  It had been converted into an office. Every book that my father had owned lined
the bookshelves on three sides of the room. In the event of an earthquake anyone lying on the sofa bed would be squashed by literature. The room still smelled of my father. Though he had been dead a few years, his scent somehow lingered. In the leather chair, in the curtains, in the books. I set my cases down and sat on the sofa bed, convinced I should have stayed in a motel. I suddenly felt so weary. I always enjoyed the drive up the coast, but my body didn’t like being stationary for too long anymore. The Pacific Coast Highway had been the only way I liked to head North. Driving so close to the ocean quieted my mind.

  Over the years, when I was depressed or just needed to think, I would drive to the beach, listen to the waves, and feel connected again. Sometimes when I stay in a hotel for any length of time, I bring my sound machine that mimics the ocean. And I sleep like a baby.

  I have always had a thing for pelicans. They remind me of what dinosaurs must have looked like. And the brilliance of their feeding technique was awesome. Watching them fold their entire bodies up into feathered spears and piercing the water with such force still blows my mind.

  Today the pelicans seemed to put on a special show just for me! I saw hundreds, in their V-formations gliding above my car. It was as if they were leading me toward my destination. At least I liked to think that they were.

  I curled up on the sofa and shut my eyes. It hadn’t been more than thirty minutes when I heard a sound that reminded me of something I had heard on Animal Planet. I believe it was the cry of a wildebeest in heat. I heard it again. A piercing howl. This time I recognized the alarming noise came from my mother. My feet barely touched the ground as I flew down the stairs and out the back door to find the source of the terrifying sound. I stopped in my tracks. Standing in our back yard was a large airstream trailer with the sun reflecting off its shiny surface. It resembled a space ship. A man stood buck-naked in the doorway of the alien craft. I do believe the gentleman was Manuel Hernandez. Mother had told us he was her gardener. Maybe this will make sense in the next couple of minutes . . . . Maybe not.

  The image of what happened next will go with me to my grave. My mother, Olivia Rose Mancuso O’Malley appeared in the buff behind Manuel Hernandez and put her arms around his waist. As Manuel turned to face her, she kissed him on the mouth, and he slapped her on her seventy-year-old buttocks. She made that weird noise again. I realized that it was in fun and that she obviously wasn’t being dismembered as I had imagined upon waking. I closed the back door without her noticing and headed for the freezer. There was always a bottle of vodka in my parent’s freezer. We sometimes went without milk for days, but a bottle of vodka, of varying degrees of quality, and quantity, was always found right next to the ice cream.

  Within moments of my finding the martini olives, my mother burst into the kitchen in her glow-in-the-dark jogging suit. “Hello Sarah,” she said, out of breath.

  “Did you have a good run Mother?” I emphasized the word run.

  “Oh, yes,” she said as she reached for the vodka. “And a terrific fuck, too!” She plonked an olive in her glass as I stood mouth agape.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie? You look like you swallowed a lemon!”

  Words formed in my brain, but I was unable to speak.

  “Well, if you’re going to act like a mute, I’m going to take a quick shower!” My mother downed her vodka in one shot and left me standing in the kitchen.

  I don’t think I ever heard my mother use the “F” word, let alone do the “F” thing! My brother Henry had told me that she had gone bonkers and was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s. Now I see why Henry stayed on Cape Cod in his beautiful house with his beautiful wife and three beautiful children and their equally beautiful Labradoodle.

  Manuel entered the kitchen, fortunately with his clothes on. “’Ello, Miss Sarah,” he said, bowing his head. He clearly didn’t know that I had seen him.

  “So, Manuel? You are living on the property now?” I said, trying to hide the fact that I wanted to bite his nose off.

  “Si. Mrs. O’Malley felt it be good idea para it is lonely for her.” He walked over to the fridge and helped himself to a coke.

  “So do you still do gardening work?” I asked.

  “I do a little pruning.”

  “Yes . . . apparently to my mother!” I had raised my voice a little too loudly.

  I was beginning to feel the effects of the vodka.

  Manuel looked at me as if I had just shot him between the eyes. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand!”

  “Is everything okay down there?” my mother called from upstairs.

  “It’s fine mother,” I answered, feeling embarrassed.

  “I will go now, Señora.” Sensing I was not happy, Manuel took himself out of the kitchen.

  My mother appeared with her hair in a towel and what looked like an old bridesmaid’s dress . . . no . . . wait . . . it was my high school prom dress!

  “You look lovely, Ma . . .” I said, trying to mean it.

  “Thank you, darling. I thought I would make you a sandwich now.”

  I suggested that I make dinner for the two of us if she felt like it, but she said she wasn’t hungry and was going to go to bed early. I looked forward to going out for a quiet dinner alone with the book I was trying to finish.

  It took almost forty-five minutes to get out of the house. My mother was determined to have me eat peanut butter. She kept saying, “But it’s your favorite!”

  That was certainly true forty-three years ago. My father used to tell the story of how when I was two years old he woke me up early to let my pregnant mother sleep. He led me into the kitchen and lifted me up onto the counter where I loved to sit and watch the goings-on. “Sarah, honey, what do you want for breakfast?” he asked.

  “Peanut butter.”

  “No, honey, you can’t have peanut butter. So what do you want for breakfast?”

  I repeated, “Peanut butter.”

  “Sarah, you can’t have peanut butter for breakfast. You can have peanut butter for lunch! Now what do you want for breakfast?”

  “Lunch!” I replied.

  As the story goes, I should’ve been a lawyer. Of course I got the peanut butter! My father always thought I was brilliant, until my sister Rachel came along. The funny thing was, I was never jealous of her. Even when our brother Henry was born everyone loved Rachel the most. Maybe it was some strange karmic thing. She would only be on this earth a short while, so however the planets aligned in the cosmos, it made sure that she was treated extra-specially for that time.

  Henry and I had other assets and were certainly smart children. I just chose not to grow up to be what I probably should have been . . . a lawyer, doctor, thief.

  Instead, I became a writer. My parents were not thrilled about that choice of career. What made things worse was that I wrote saucy, romantic novels. The ones with the Fabio look-alike on the cover. It was a surprise to me, too. I’d had very little passion in my life to draw on at that time. That’s not to say there wasn’t a lot of sex . . . There was certainly that! Just not a lot of wining and dining! That’s probably why I wrote about it. As for Henry . . . he did become a doctor. A thoracic surgeon! Still, I always wondered what Rachel would have done with her life if we’d never set foot in that jewelry store.

  “What do you think about this necklace, kids?” my father asked his three unruly children. Our father was trying to buy something nice for our mother for their anniversary. All we could do was chase one another around the store.

  “Rachel, Sarah, and Henry, stop running around!!!” Our father demanded. He was a familiar face in town and being a college professor, he didn’t want to be perceived badly. When he was angry, his voice became low and throaty.

  Normally we would have stopped in our tracks if he spoke to us like that. For some reason the warning didn’t work that day. Rachel was piggy in the middle. Henry and I had trapped her in the center of the store. As we both closed in on her from opposite sides, Rachel took off, laughing and
screaming, trying to get away. I rewind the moment forever in my mind. I still don’t really know how it happened. Just as Henry and I closed in, Rachel began to fall. It was all in slow motion. She flung her arms wildly trying to catch herself. I reached out for her, but I was too far away. Henry didn’t move. The sound of breaking glass was the worst of it. It took years before that sound no longer haunted my sleep. She fell forward into the display case in front of her. The glass seemed to implode. There wasn’t a lot of it on the ground. When our father picked her up, I didn’t see any blood. Not at first. And then within seconds a trail of blood escaped from under her little arm.

  “I’m okay, Daddy!” she said, looking up into his eyes.

  And then the blood gushed like those spinning wheel paint kits; set a drop of paint on a wheel and it spins into a beautiful design. My dad cupped Rachel’s armpit with his hand and started to run out of the store and down the street. Henry and I followed trying to keep up with him. The hospital was only a few blocks away so we just ran and ran.

  Henry and I got to the hospital several minutes after our father. We followed the blood trail and tracked him through the emergency room doors. When we got inside, Rachel and Dad were nowhere to be seen. We asked the nurse behind the station if she knew where the man carrying the little girl went. The nurse’s face registered alarm. She told us where we should wait and said she would get us some juice if we wanted. I had often wondered what it must’ve been like seeing a four-year-old and me, only eight, racing into the hospital alone. We sat and waited and waited for what seemed an eternity.

  I couldn’t believe how much blood covered my father when he finally came into the waiting room. He took one look at the two of us sitting there and a sound came out of him unlike anything I had ever heard before. He grabbed both of his remaining children and sobbed. Rachel was gone.

  We didn’t learn exactly what happened until days later. Glass had cut through a major artery under her armpit, and she bled to death. We didn’t need the details in the hospital. In that moment our father’s sobs were enough. There were no cell phones back then. No one could reach our mother. She had gone to the beauty parlor that day in anticipation of her anniversary dinner. My father was taking her to the Stone Manor Hotel and Restaurant, a fine Tuscan-style hotel in Marin County, a family favorite. Even as small children we had sophisticated pallets and very good manners.