Читать книгу The Calling - Kim O'Neill - Страница 18

The next day, the advertising agency was a typical whirlwind of activity. I was so upset with David that I couldn’t even stand to be in his presence, and I decided not to mention Monica or what had happened the night before. I didn’t have the time or energy to invest in a quarrel, and I knew that nothing I could say would make any difference. We had to make the big presentation together that morning, and I wanted David to concentrate on the business at hand. We were pitching a big, conservative, male-dominated funeral company, and they had given us a two-hour audience in which we had to demonstrate how Advertising & Design, Inc. was the best agency in town to handle their advertising and public relations. David and I instinctively recognized that they were going to respond more favorably if he handled the major part of the presentation, with me playing a supportive, subservient role. That was fine by me, as long as we won the account.

As usual, David was running late, so we had to rush to be on time for the meeting. I drove so he could review the fifty-page, elaborate pitch that we had created the night before.

“Kim!” he shouted in alarm, after reviewing the first part of the proposal.

Startled, I jumped in my seat, almost swerving into another lane of traffic. “What?” I asked him.

“Goddamn, son-of-a-bitch—we’ve lost the fucking account!”

“How? We haven’t even gotten there yet! What’s the problem?”

“Who proofed this goddamned thing?” he yelled.

“We all did.”

“You sent Shirley home early last night, didn’t you?” he asked accusingly. Shirley was our best eagle-eyed proofreader. She always caught all the mistakes.

“Not until after midnight . . . she was exhausted! We were still working on it at 3:00 a.m.”

“We’re doomed!” he whined. “Why don’t we just close our doors right now? Do I have to do everything? Can’t anything be done right without me being there?”

I felt my blood pressure rising so high that I expected to have a stroke on the spot. I hated him so much at that moment I couldn’t see straight. He had never acknowledged that we remained at the office more than half the night after he had left to have fun, and now he was calling us all incompetent as well? He didn’t appreciate anything! We did all the hard work. All he had to do was review the proposal and waltz into the boardroom to do what he loved best—starring in the David Morgan Show—with me and all of the prospective clients serving as an admiring audience.

“I can’t stand it when you get like this!” I shrieked. “What’s the frigging problem?” I wanted to pull over and start beating him over the head with the proposal he was waving in front of my face as I drove.

“Your proposals are always so predictable,” he wailed, continuing to criticize. “Once again, you decided to promise a new client that Advertising & Design, Inc. is going to make them a recognized ‘force’ in their industry.”

“Doesn’t that make sense? Why else would they hire us?”

“Well, there’s a little problem with a typo.”

“Tell me!” I demanded, as I drove.

“Oh . . . it’s just that you promise that Advertising & Design, Inc. is going to make them a recognized ‘farce’ in their industry.”

“That’s impossible!” Now I was wailing, too. “But spell-check didn’t indicate—”

“That’s because ‘farce’ is spelled correctly,” he explained, as if to a simpleton. “Here . . . look!” he waved the proposal in front of my face. I rudely pushed it away from my field of vision, and it struck him squarely in the face.

“You just cut me!” he hollered, as if I had just plunged a butcher knife into his throat. I glanced at the left side of his cheek, and I saw a minute paper cut. A pinpoint of blood started to appear. He pulled down the visor and peered into the lighted mirror. “I can’t spill blood on my new shirt. It’ll never come out!”

“You idiot! Go in my purse and get a Kleenex,” I replied. He rifled through my purse and pulled out a tissue.

“But it has lipstick on it,” he whined.

“So? You’ve been exposed to my lipstick before. Just turn the tissue around and use a clean part.” He looked at me with a beleaguered, helpless expression. I saw him try to stifle a smile. Evidently, he had finished his tirade.

Although his anger was now completely spent, I was furious. Since the recent divorce, I found it impossible to tolerate or ignore the mood swings that caused explosive outbursts one moment and funny, soft coziness the next. I was no longer drawn in by the extraordinary charm, humor, and charisma that compelled so many people to indulge the bouts of temper that erupted now with such increasing frequency. Everyone always enabled David to do just what he wanted to do without having to endure appropriate consequences. I narrowed my eyes, tightened my mouth, and returned my focus to the highway.

“Don’t smile,” he teased in a melodic voice, trying to coax me out of my seething frustration. Rather than apologize, it was his way of making nice. When we first met, he had shared the story of how, when he was a boy and had done something mischievous, he would approach his exasperated mother and try to diffuse her annoyance by being charming and making her laugh. It had always worked, he had told me. After we were married, he started to use the same tactic whenever I’d get upset.

“Shut up,” I snapped, keeping my eyes on the road. “I’m sick of your temper. You’re like a six-year-old.”

“Don’t do it . . . ” he teased again.

I did everything I could to keep from breaking into a smile, but the edges of my mouth started to quiver. I just couldn’t help it. It made me even angrier.

“Don’t do it . . . ” he repeated, tickling my side as he coaxed.

Despite all my efforts to resist, I started to chuckle. “David, I hate when you do that!”

“I know,” he grinned. “That’s why I do it.” He picked up the proposal he had been waving and said, “We don’t have time to correct the typo, so let’s just hope they all have a good sense of humor.”

And luckily for us, they did. When David reached that part of the presentation, he dramatically pointed out the typo; and, with a beguiling, self-deprecating smile and the most earnest of expressions, he promised that we’d never make them a “farce” in their industry. Although it was logically nonsensical, he created the impression that we had deliberately used the word “farce.” David stole a glance at me, and we collectively held our breath. Then all the conservative male board members had a hearty laugh. It was then that they told us that we had won the account. Nobody had more magic than David when he wanted something.

It was mid afternoon before I finally had a moment to close my office door and begin to return some urgent phone calls. I suddenly felt shivers running up and down the length of my body as if I had been connected to a low voltage electrical current.

At that moment, I felt an invisible hand encircle my left wrist. By the size of the fingers, I knew it was a male hand. Although there was no one else in the office, I could tangibly feel the hand grasping my wrist in a very gentle, nonthreatening way. Then, in no more than a few seconds, the sensation stopped. I was spooked and utterly dumbfounded. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before!

I jumped up from my desk, scurried to the door, and looked down the hallway. Everything seemed completely normal. I was still spooked, so I walked down the hall to the reception area and found Shirley hard at work in front of her computer.

“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary this afternoon?” I asked her.

“In this office? You’re kidding me, right? When isn’t something weird going on?”

Her sarcastic, down-to-earth response made me smile, and it calmed me. Striding back to my office, I assumed that what I had experienced was stress-related. The agency was going through a severe financial downturn, and I was still in business with David, my temperamental ex-husband. Who wouldn’t be going crazy?

Blessedly, the rest of the afternoon was uneventful. I was able to leave the office around six-thirty. I picked up some Chinese carryout and got caught in a typical gridlock of Galleria rush hour traffic. Once home, I changed into a nightshirt and crew socks, fed Winston, poured a glass of Chardonnay, put an old Thin Man movie in the VCR, and in an exhausted stupor sat down in front of the television to eat.

The moment I picked up my fork, the goose bumps electrical-current sensation started again. This time, it was much stronger. Then some movement caught my attention. My eyes widened with shock as a ghostly apparition began to take shape in my living room. In mere seconds, it assumed the discernible form of a man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a dark suit that looked as if it could have been at the height of fashion in the late nineteenth century. He had piercing blue eyes, dark hair combed away from his face, a strong jaw punctuated with a cleft, and a rugged build. He just stood there and smiled at me.

My fork clanged to the plate. In a panic, I screamed and leapt to my feet. I had never been so frightened. A man had just broken into my apartment! But he wasn’t a man . . . he was a . . . ghost? Can a ghost . . . break in? Was I clearly seeing an apparition? Was I becoming delusional? Did I need a padded cell? I quickly surmised that this was definitely not the result of money problems or working with David.

Nearly hysterical and flooded with adrenaline, I quickly realized that I had no escape route. The apparition, or whatever it was, could easily grab me if I tried to dart past him. In the small apartment I had nowhere to run. The apparition just stood there smiling.

My scream awakened Winston. With obvious irritation, he yawned and then caught sight of our uninvited guest. I was still poised to flee, as I watched Winston casually stretch and then eagerly trot along the back of the couch toward the apparition. The spirit held out his hand and gently stroked Winston under the chin. My cat began to purr loudly. By all appearances, my Persian cat, who was disdainful toward all humans but me, was interacting with someone he apparently knew and liked. But then it occurred to me that this being wasn’t . . . human.

The apparition made no move to approach me. He simply stood and smiled. Then, to my further amazement, he spoke to me with a resonant voice that had a British inflection.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to frighten you. My name is John Reid.” His blue eyes were full of quiet amusement. He was not at all surprised by my reaction to him. I stood without speaking, mute with disbelief. Things like this simply did not happen to me. Nor did I want them to start happening now. When I didn’t respond, he continued to explain his presence in my living room.

“I’m an angel. You asked for help. They sent me.”

I could feel the same disquieting wave of energy running through me, just as I did that afternoon in my office. Shivering with goose bumps, I wondered silently if he had visited me earlier.

“Yes, I did,” he answered, reading my thoughts. “It was my way of making an introduction.” His voice took on a somber, earnest tone. “I want you to know you’re not alone anymore. Now you have me.”

My mind was racing but not comprehending. My first instinct had been to protect myself from a stranger who had broken into my apartment. As a woman who lived alone, I had become very protective about my safety. Now I was confronted by the scenario I feared most. What was he going to do to me, I wondered? Logic told me that if he wanted to hurt me, he could have easily already done so. But he didn’t appear threatening in any way. He just stood there smiling peacefully; his manner seemed very warm and reassuring. Did I really just see him materialize out of thin air?

“Why would an angel want to visit me?” I blurted suspiciously.

“You asked for help,” he replied.

“How do I know you’re an angel? Do something to prove it.”

“Like a party trick?”

“You can’t be an angel. Angels don’t talk to human beings.”

“You’re misinformed.”

“But it’s not natural!”

“It’s the most natural thing in the world. You’d be feeling it if you weren’t being so anal retentive.”

“Anal? I’m not anal!”

“You think not?” His eyes twinkled with merriment. “You’re the poster girl for what we guardian angels refer to as the Human AA Syndrome. I should have asked for hazardous duty compensation when I signed up to work with you again.”

“Human AA Syndrome? What’s that?” I asked fearfully.

“You’re anal and you’re angry.”

“I’m NOT angry!” I shrieked. “And I’m NOT anal!”

John Reid started to chuckle.

“Are you making fun of me? Angels don’t tease people!”

“You’re misinformed. With all due respect, having a good sense of humor is de rigueur for an angel to work with human beings.”

“It’s what?”

He smiled with affection and indulgence, as one would with a small child who had just asked a quaint question.

“Leave me alone . . . or . . . I’ll call the police!” It was an empty threat. The phone was in the kitchen, and there was no way I could scurry in there fast enough and make the 911 call before he grabbed me. “Get out of here!”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not? If you’re really an angel, then you can do anything you want!”

“You’re misinformed. We have commitments to attend to. It isn’t happenstance that I arrived on your doorstep. You asked for help. I agreed to work with you again. I’m perfectly willing to overlook your initial rudeness and your lack of hospitality.”

“What do you mean you ‘agreed to work with me again’? I’ve never been visited by any angels!”

“I wasn’t expecting this to be easy,” he sighed to himself. “Have you forgotten your childhood? You used to refer to me as your best friend. Let me take you back . . . ”

As if by magic—in my mind’s eye—I returned to my childhood, and I was flooded with snippets of traumatic memories that hadn’t surfaced in years. The horrific dreams about violent crimes, my father, drunk, ranting, beating my mother. The never-ending fights about money, gambling, other women . . .

I “saw” the night he tried to strangle her, and how she begged him to stop. Then I “saw” the apartment where Richard Speck had murdered the student nurses. And there was John Reid! He had been there. Revisiting the past helped me to recall the presence of an angel who stood by me through it all—offering comfort, support, encouragement, and protection. I never felt alone because he was there—the very same angel that stood before me now. How could I have forgotten? I had developed amnesia about my entire relationship with him.

Reading my thoughts, he responded, “Most human beings forget their childhood companions by the time they reach adolescence. They want to grow up and put away childish things; and, so often, the memory of we guardian angels is relegated to a dusty shelf like so many beloved toys, books, and games. And because you abandon us, you assume that we, in turn, abandon you.”

“But we’re misinformed?”

He smiled at me.

I was clearly hearing and seeing him, but my brain still couldn’t comprehend. Was this a sign of some terrible mental illness? “This is impossible! Insane!” I wailed. “I’m becoming delusional . . . people just don’t have conversations with guardian angels.”

“You’re disturbed but not in the way you think. Don’t I look real? Don’t I sound real? How else would I know about what happened to you? I was there.”

I stood silent, still afraid to move—rooted to the spot, brow furrowed, eyes squinting with suspicion.

The angel continued to reminisce. “Remember when you sprained your ankle ice skating on that pond? Remember, when you were eight years old, the first pair of glasses? If memory serves, they were speckled pink, and came out in little points at the temple—”

“I hated those glasses! I was completely blind!”

“In many ways, you still are. You asked for guidance in regard to your direction in life. Because of the success of our past relationship, it was decided that I should come to help you get on track. It’s time. You have important work to do. That’s why I’m here. You have not only forgotten about your relationship with me when you were a child, but you have blocked all the dynamics of your destiny, as well. I’ve asked myself time and time again why you are so impatient and why you deliberately choose to do everything the hard way. You make everything so much more difficult than it has to be.”

“I have a destiny?” I asked.

“Every living soul has a very unique destiny that will lead them to true happiness, if only they can discover what it is.”

“I’ve made such a mess of my life,” I lamented.

“That’s precisely why I’m here. Your life has stalled. If you’re willing to listen and do the necessary work, I can help you move forward.”

“So what is it that I’m supposed to do with my life? I’m desperate to make changes right now!”

“All in good time,” he answered. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. And believe me, I understand the necessary time frames. That awareness is part and parcel of an angel’s responsibility. By the way, the voice you heard inside of you that suggested you contact Dawn Dugan was none other than mine. Do you see how well we already work together?”

“How long are you going to stay and help me?” I asked.

“As long as it takes,” he replied.