Prepared
"Helen," she said, "I've come to prepare you."
The woman spoke in an urgent voice. Her hair was a mixture of silver and gold, advancing years in denial, given the lie by timeless blue eyes.
Helen had never seen her before, but she seemed familiar.
Helen woke with a start and squinted at the bedside clock. 2 am. No sounds, other than the natural creaking of an aging house -- old, but with good bones.
Then she remembered. Zee had called at 11 to say she would be staying overnight with her friend Claire. Helen guessed her daughter was likely spending the night with her boyfriend, Sam, but Zee was a young woman. She could do as she pleased.
Helen was grateful that, at the age of 20, her daughter still called when she wasn’t coming home. Zee never gave Helen cause to worry.
Helen had raised Zee to be an independent woman. Her daughter was strong, beautiful and thoughtful.
Helen reached for her crutches and strapped them on. She was careful to use both when she was home alone. How embarrassing would that be, to fall down in the bathroom with her drawers around her ankles?
She did her business and washed her hands, ruminating on the face from her dream. So familiar, and yet she couldn't place it. A depth of kindness in those eyes.
She shook her head, unable to match the face to memory. She glanced in the mirror at her own blue-grey eyes and golden hair. Well, chemical gold, but still vibrant, thanks to Zee. Zee would not allow Helen to let herself go.
Leaning on her left crutch, she reached for a brush and smoothed the tangles before heading back to bed.
The physical struggle of moving on crutches stirred her heart in an uncomfortable palpitation. The moment passed. Soon she was asleep.
"Helen, please listen to me." The woman touched her shoulder.
"What do you want?"
"Your Father sent me to prepare you."
A quiet rage took hold of Helen, tightening her fists. She stood tall, as she often did in her dreams, without crutches, without pain. A force to be reckoned with.
"Don't mention my father," she said. "He was a wife-beater, a child molester and a drunken bastard. I don't have time to remember him."
"Your heavenly Father is sorry for your suffering, Helen. He knows pain has been a part of your life."
"How can He call himself a loving God? My entire life has been about misery. From those early years of abuse, to this illness that makes me a burden. A burden to the husband who left me, and now to his child."
"You're not a burden, Helen. You are loved. And your life," the woman added, "has not been all about pain."
"That's true," Helen nodded, her anger subsiding. "I have Zee. I am thankful for that."
"Helen," the woman said, "I need to prepare you..."
"It's all right," Helen said. "I've been prepared for years. Since this illness claimed me. Tell Our Father He can take me when He's ready."
"But Zee...."
"Zee will be all right," Helen said, suddenly calm. "She knew this would happen. I've always been honest with her, taught her to be strong."
Helen smiled at the thought of her daughter. Zee was doing well at University. Helen had prepared her for this day. She never wanted to be a burden to Zee. It was time to let her girl have a life of her own.
Throughout the years of bitterness and sorrow, there had always been one gift. Zee. Helen's pride and joy, her offering to the world.
Knowing she would leave behind such a fine young woman made it easier for Helen to face mortality.
"I've become tired of this struggle," she said. "Tell Our Father, if He can forgive me for being a stubborn, angry fool, then I can forgive Him for giving me this pain. I'm ready to make my peace."
"Helen," the angel said, for she must be an angel, so lovely, with such kindness in her sad eyes. She looked like someone Helen knew. "Please hear me. You need to be prepared."
"It's ok," Helen said, letting the dream-angel drift away. "Whenever you're ready, take me to Him. I'm prepared."
With a feeling of contentment, Helen took her leave of the angel, allowing her mind to wander into other rooms, other dreams….
**
"I'd like to leave now," Zee said, glancing over her shoulder at a young man on the other side of the room.
"Are you ok?" Sam asked. "You seem preoccupied."
"I'm all right. Just tired. It's late. I've got classes tomorrow."
"Did you call your Mom?"
"I told her I was staying with Claire."
"Good. It's noisy in here. I'll go outside and call a cab."
Sam kissed Zee on the forehead. She was one in a million, beautiful, kind, studious and loving. He was a lucky guy.
She watched him leave the party, hoping he wouldn't be gone too long.
"Hi, Zee."
She nearly groaned out loud as the other man approached, but good manners kicked in and she managed to restrain herself.
"Hi, Richard," she said.
"Who's the guy?"
"That's my boyfriend, Sam."
"Some boyfriend. No offense, but he looks like a girl. Why'd he ditch you?"
"He's calling a cab. We're leaving. Now you'll have to excuse me."
Zee stood. She could feel her Scots-Irish blood rising. Her mother hadn't raised her to tolerate this kind of nonsense. Richard had been a nuisance for weeks, but now he was becoming insufferable. She didn't want to make a scene, but she would if she had to.
"Take it easy, Zee’” he said. “I just want to talk. You've been avoiding me."
"Stop following me, Richard. I saw you at the library today."
"I was studying," he said. "It's a free country."
"Excuse me," she said, trying to push past him.
Richard held her arm. "You never gave me a chance," he said.
"Let go of me."
The knife’s blade was sharp and mercifully swift. She hardly felt it slide past her rib-cage and into her heart. Her hearing became muted and at the same time strangely acute. She was aware of horrified shouts as her friends looked up in alarm.
Her blood crashed in her ears, drowning out their cries. Her closest friend Claire rushed to her side. She watched as someone ran to get Sam. He pushed through the crowd and knelt, in time to hear her whisper.
"My mother...."
The End
Donna Carrick is the author of The First Excellence, Winner of the 2011 Indie Book Event Award. "An exquisitely-crafted saga of one person's search for her roots set against a clash of cultures." ~ Jim Napier, The Sherbrooke Record.
Her other titles include: Gold And Fishes, The Noon God and Sept-Iles and other places.
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The Traz by Eileen Schuh
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