Praefatio: A Novel Page 2

  A red light on the video camera I hadn’t noticed until now above the mirror came on.

  “Mom?” I stood, ready to leave with her.

  “Sit down, Grace,” Mom’s voice ordered. “Just give your statement, and this will all be over with.”

  “Mom … you’re not coming in?” My voice was small, almost mousey. The sound of the metal chair scraping the concrete floor echoed in my ears as I sank back down.

  “No, honey, just please give them your statement so we can be done with this whole mess.” Mom had not come to get me at all.

  Sergeant Mullane’s voice boomed through the overhead speakers. “Miss Miller, please. Look into the camera, state your name for the record, and start with your earliest recollections leading up to when we found you last night, how you met Mr. Vault, came to be on his property, anything he may have said about your brother, Remiel, or Jennifer Larson from as far back as you can remember. Just take your time, Grace. If you need a break, let me know.”

  I squirmed, took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and spoke into the microphone. “Archangel Grace Ann Miller.” My voice was barely above a whisper. I could still take it back.

  “I’m sorry, Grace. Can you repeat? Not sure we caught that,” Sergeant Mullane requested.

  I know what I am. I know what I saw.

  “Archangel Grace Ann Miller,” I repeated, only slightly louder.

  “Did she say what I think she said?” It was Officer Bladen’s unmistakably snarky voice.

  “Grace, I’m sorry. Can you please repeat your name and speak directly into the microphone in front of you?” Sergeant Mullane instructed.

  “Archangel Grace Ann Miller,” I stated as loud as I could without yelling.

  I didn’t hear anything after that.

  To Tell the Truth

  Memories flew past like rewind on a DVR, only they seemed more like movie trailers, vivid as if they were happening at that very moment. If I closed my eyes, I could almost forget I was sitting in a police station, sit back, press play, and watch my life go by in HD. But I had no popcorn, and these people seemed serious as all get out. So I ignored the stench of the borrowed sweater and began my statement. I was going to tell them everything and not stop until they understood—until Gavin and I were free.

  ***

  From as early as I can recall, my parents kept secrets. Not secrets like where my surprise birthday party was going to be, or where Christmas gifts had been hidden, but life-altering secrets, like we weren’t who I thought we were.

  When Remi was eight and I was ten, I convinced Remi to join me in an eavesdropping session and took a strategic position at the top of the stairs behind the replica Impressionist painting that Mom had always insisted was real.

  “I think we should wait until he is old enough to understand. No sense in telling him things that will only cause confusion. Besides, he’s maturing at a nice pace. Why upset things?” Mom said. She and Dad were holed up in Dad’s office, door open just enough for us to hear them.

  I’m not sure why Dad even bothered trying to argue with her. She was never around long enough to be part of the family, and yet, he allowed her to make critical decisions on our behalf.

  “But the folks in town,” Dad countered. “People can be cruel. He’s already big for his age. We should tell him. And Gracie? Don’t you think she has a right to know that she is not insane? Hearing voices, seeing things. It won’t be long—” Dad broke off, defeat in his voice. The way he said the word “people” was strange. What he said about me, even stranger.

  I’d never told anyone about the voice I’d started hearing a year ago, but somehow they knew.

  “Grace,” Mom corrected him. She hated that he called me Gracie. “—will be just fine. She’s only ten, for Pete’s sake. And as for the people in town? Honestly, Gabe. That’s what you’re worried about? I think we have more important things to contend with. You just do what you’re supposed to. Be there for them. And if you’re really that concerned about Grace, get her some charges,” she concluded as if that settled the argument.

  Wow. What the heck is that supposed to mean?

  Dad challenged her, something I’d never seen him do before. “Maybe we should talk to Michael. He put this whole thing in motion, after all.” There was urgency in his tone; they no longer seemed to be talking about telling Remi that Dad was not his biological father. Besides, everyone, including Remi, already knew.

  “I’ve already spoken to Michael,” she said. Then it was really settled. The house was quiet for hours after.

  I hated seeing Dad so powerless, but what could I do? I was just a ten-year-old girl who heard voices and saw visions. And, Mom? Seemed she was happy to go on letting me think I was insane. Motherly.

  ***

  My mom could charm a priest out of his collar. She had no shame. She’d always been attractive, but she was more than just beautiful. Mom had an otherworldly power over men—over most people, actually. She’d gone from winning the Miss Missouri title to marrying, having two kids and playing Greta Garbo on Broadway without missing a beat.

  We never had a strong mother-daughter connection. I don’t think either of us really put in the effort. Besides, that charm crap never worked on me, ever. When she was around, I pretty much ignored her except to eavesdrop on her conversations with Dad. I guess I felt the need to protect him, to make sure he never fell too deeply into her snare.

  Over the next three years, I focused on putting the pieces of that one conversation between Mom and Dad together. Remi would help sometimes, but he was too focused on his band, hockey, and a budding interest in girls—well, really one girl in particular: Jennifer Larson, to be of much help.

  When I asked why he wasn’t as interested in the truth as I was, he said, “Maybe they know something we don’t. Aren’t moms and dads supposed to do that—protect us from things we don’t need to know? That’s what Mom says, anyway.”

  “When did you talk to Mom?” I tried not to sound jealous. She’d been gone this time for exactly nine weeks without a single word, email or text.

  “I didn’t.” The moment he said it, I knew he had lied. Remi looked past me. “I’m just saying. I think you read too much into things sometimes. Maybe you should like, you know, chill.”

  I envied my younger brother’s maturity at times. At eleven, he seemed to know more about life than I did at thirteen. Then again, he was huge for his age, so maybe that had something to do with it—big brain and all.

  “So you didn’t talk to Mom?” I gave him another chance to come clean.

  Remi turned his attention back to me and made a face, as if he’d just remembered talking to her. “I did. But not ’cause she called me or anything, Grace. I talked to her like, in my head. She came to me. Like in a vision. It scared the heck out of me!”

  Remi’s admission shocked me into silence, reverence almost. Something was happening to both of us, something we could never tell anyone about. Ever.

  ***

  By the time I was sixteen, I’d become used to the secrets, lies, questions, and half-truths surrounding my existence. I’d accepted that I might never get answers with Mom and Dad gone, and took to writing … Him, the voice I had been hearing since age nine, daily. I didn’t know his name—only that He spoke as if He knew me.

  I dreamed of you again. It was so real, as if you were really there. When will you return? I can’t concentrate in school, at home. You’re all I think about, even though I don’t know your name. Please tell me your name.

  Will you come and see me?

  You must think I’m crazy, writing you like this.

  I love you.

  Love,

  Grace

  “Hey, sis,” Remi said. He blew into the room just as I finished writing. Remi flopped onto the bed, grabbed the letter from my shaky hands, read it, smirked, and said, “I’ve got something that will take your mind off of him!”

  “Oh yeah? And what’s that?” I took the letter and shoved it under
my pillow, as if Remi’s discovery of my strange obsession was not what it was: revelation of my most embarrassing secret.

  “I can move stuff with my mind.” Remi raised both eyebrows and smiled.

  “Whatever, dork,” I teased, attempting to sound as if I wasn’t the least concerned that Remi knew I wrote letters to a boy I have never met and am in love with. A boy who lives only in my head.

  “Seriously. Been practicing.” Remi straightened, then made a face like he was constipated. “Watch this.” When he raised his left hand, my calculus book (the one I should have been studying) floated from my desk, across the length of the room, and into my open hand. Remi smiled before waving the book away. It hovered in mid-air, then floated back across the room, where it placed itself neatly beside Romeo and Juliet and Vampires. I squealed with delight, then punched Remi in the arm.

  “Remi! When did you learn to do that?” I sat straight up on my bed, staring in total shock at this wondrous soul.

  Remi shrugged, cool as always, and sat back on his elbows. “Listen, you really shouldn’t be summoning him like that.” He got serious all of a sudden, and a cold darkness crossed his face.

  I shivered, abruptly aware that I was still clutching my pen. “What are you talking about? I’m not summoning anyone.” My voice cracked. Remi was creeping me out. He couldn’t possibly take a letter written by a girl who sees things and hears voices seriously.

  Remi smiled and placed a warm hand over mine. His face returned to normal, instantly putting me at ease. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding, then forced a weak smile.

  He continued as if the elephant in the room had left. “Last weekend at band practice, I accidentally levitated my drumsticks into my hands. Everyone thought it was a trick, so I kept doing it.”

  “You have to teach me!” While waiting for Remi to instruct me, I closed my eyes tight and crisscrossed my legs, determined to keep thoughts of Him at bay.

  Remi leaned forward, then blew air into my face. I opened my eyes. WTF?

  “There. Now you know everything I know.” He smiled, then left the room so quickly I didn’t have a chance to respond. From the hallway he called, “Later, sis. Going to the movies with Jenny!”

  I threw Mr. Fluffy Rabbit in his direction. Poor Mr. Fluffy Rabbit. He was all kinds of torn, re-sewn and tattered since coming to be my best stuffed friend at age two (mine, not his). He only had one good eye, and the lemonade sale I had in third grade to get him rotator cuff surgery fell short about four dollars. I sat staring at Mr. Fluffy Rabbit, lying in the hall face-down, awaiting the rescue he was sure would come. I could never leave him.

  The jingle of Mrs. Larson’s car keys and Jenny’s easy laughter, followed by the harsh slam of the front door meant I could face another plan-free weekend without the sympathetic smiles of those with an active social life. Door-slamming usually made Mr. Larson cringe and was among the many ways Remi annoyed him. I wondered if Mr. Larson knew we could hear him curse Remi under his breath.

  Like an idiot, I raised a hand, clutched the cross around my neck, closed my eyes as tight as I could, and tried to will Mr. Fluffy Rabbit back into the room. Opening one eye and then the other, I nearly jumped to the ceiling when I noticed Mr. Fluffy Rabbit missing! Gone.

  “Looking for this?” Mr. Larson stepped into the doorway holding a sad-looking, poorly-stuffed, formerly-white rabbit. He tried to smile, but tension tightened his jaw alternatively into a grimace.

  “Oh. Sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. My ego had deflated in two seconds flat. I knew Remi and I only reminded him of his wife’s love for my dad. I averted his gaze, collected the sorry rabbit, and thanked him with the sweetest smile I could muster. Neither of us said anything in the remaining few seconds that he stood in the doorway. What would we say?

  Him: Sorry your dad died.

  Me: Thanks. Sorry your wife loved him more than she could ever love you.

  Him: Thanks. You’re a good kid, unlike your brother, whose life’s goal seems to revolve around getting into my daughter’s pants.

  Me: Yeah. Sorry. About. That.

  ***

  Remi never took any of the stuff that happened to us seriously. Nothing affected him the way it did me. He wouldn’t be caught dead spending hours at the library poring over books on consciousness, spirituality, or accessing untapped power.

  I, on the other hand, felt compelled to find out why Remi and I had these … abilities and what he knew about my “voice.” He seemed pretty sure that I should leave Him alone and not summon Him. But what if I could summon Him? What if the voice I’d been hearing since age nine could appear to me right then, seven years from the first time I’d heard it? That would be way cooler than levitating Mr. Fluffy Rabbit.

  I knew Remi was full of crap with the “now you know everything I know” garbage, but if Remi could levitate, I wanted to learn too. Ugh. In a pissed-off huff, I gathered books, clothes, stuffed animals, and whatever was available into a heap in the middle of my room, then tried desperately to will them into the air. Nothing. They wouldn’t budge. Mr. Fluffy Rabbit just stared at me with his one good eye. Even he could see I was a fool.

  I thought about the voice, His voice. What it would mean to meet him and how stupid I was for falling in love with a voice. I did my best to convince myself that anyone who’d heard the same voice, dreamed of the same voice, and written to the same voice for six years would’ve fallen in love with Him too—even if she had no idea who he was, or what he looked like.

  Around three in the morning, I dozed off. As it turns out, attempting levitation is a major time and energy suck. Would have been more productive had I grabbed that calculus book mid-air and set to studying.

  I dreamed of the voice. He sang to me, a different song this time, rich and melodic. Like always, I never saw his face as he walked with me and we rode horses. We rode through a beautiful garden and talked for what seemed like hours. He asked a billion questions about me and what I liked. He seemed particularly drawn to my love of music and songwriting. And he didn’t make fun of my obsession with Romeo and Juliet. In all the time I spent with him, I never once asked his name. I never got the chance to ask about him.

  The cold on the floor the next morning was like needles pricking my feet. The contrast of the freezing floor with my warm covers jolted me out of my awake-but-not-yet-cognizant stupor just enough for me to notice the missing heap from the night before. Mrs. Larson must have come to get the laundry. But she’d taken my … dresser, chair, books, stuffed animals … too?

  I spun in a slow circle and tried to process why all my furniture was missing. Just gone. Even my snotty tissues had disappeared.

  I crept over the icy wooden planks like a mouse creeping past a sleeping alley cat. The only thing left was my bed. I’d planned to go screaming like a banshee to Remi’s room, but terror caught my voice in a vice. I ran back to the bed, hopped in, and pulled the covers over my head.

  My breath came in shallow bursts. I couldn’t stay there forever. What if whatever had taken all my things came back for me? What if it was still in the room? My heart pounded so loudly in my ears that I couldn’t hear myself think. I peeled the covers back, slow as molasses, opening one eye at a time, afraid of coming face-to-face with whatever had claimed the contents of my room. A chill seeped under the covers with me, causing me to tremble and my teeth to chatter.

  With both eyes open, the ceiling was in sight. I gasped, taking in what little air I could, then nearly peed my Paul Frank boxers. The contents in question were on the ceiling—arranged the way they had been on the floor, only upside down. Turns out, I’d levitated my bedroom stuff after all.

  I pulled the covers back over my head and screamed with terrified delight, “Holy crap!”

  Hindsight is Always 20-20

  They say hindsight is 20/20. I guess I should have listened to Remi’s warning. But I ignored it, along with my own instincts.

  I had to know Him.

  The moment I thought it,
I knew I could never take back the desire, the need. Somehow, by the very thought, I’d managed to seal my fate that day. And even though I had no idea at the time, I’m certain now that He had everything to do with how it all ended.

  ***

  Things got bad after that. Like immediately. Visions came faster than I could process, sometimes several per day. Some seemed like precious memories, others like premonitions, still others like horrific nightmares. My mind was on video hijack. I saw what it wanted me to see, when it wanted me to see it, and there was nothing I could do about it. Then there were the times when it seemed to be looking for something in particular. I would focus on something, then visions would whiz past on fast forward before stopping briefly on something else. The only thing worse than that was when they went in reverse.

  My body constricted as the video began. Fast forward. The day I was baptized. Remi’s first day of kindergarten. The day Dad gave me his Jeep. The day Mom left us for the first time to take a role on Broadway. “New York City is no place for children.” She said it with such concern, who could argue? One day, I decided then, I was going to live in New York City too.

  My stomach lurched forward when my mind’s video thrust me into a memory of something I will never forget.

  Behind the giant tree. Something isn’t right. Where am I? Those eyes look so familiar. Wait. Oh no. Run! He’s too fast. He’s taunting her, enjoying the fear in her core. It’s like he can taste it, and it satisfies a deep and ancient hunger. I can feel it. The hunger. It wants to overtake me from the inside. No! Stay with her. He’s way too fast. Remi! Run faster! He’s too … fast. Impossibly fast. Tears drip from my eyes, and I don’t try to stop them. I’m frozen solid with fear feeling cowardice drape me in its sad grip. He’s gonna … Remi? Oh no. Remi, please. You can’t win this. Please don’t. He’s … a … Holy … I’m dizzy. I can’t take deep breaths. It feels like I might hyperventilate. Remi, don’t be stupid, just go. GO NOW! They’re coming. Don’t you see them? Remi? Oh my God. What did you do?