The Angel's Mark

Yesterday was fading from her memory. The joy—no—bliss, she had experienced was beyond description. Claire had tried to rationalize what she had seen. But since no one else had seen the angel fall to the ground, and she had been the only one to rush to his aid, she alone had felt the all-encompassing emotion that pasted a grin on her face and lightened her step. She had believed it would last forever, like the mark on her wrist where he had gripped her arm. That the sign she had been waiting for had arrived.

He had said nothing, only smiled wistfully, before lying down on the sofa. As night turned to morning, Claire had covered him in David's favourite blanket. It seemed right. But today, the angel was gone, departing silently as she slept in the chair. Her heart felt heavy and only the thumbprint remained, her skin reddened around the indented image, as though she had been burned. There was no pain. In fact, as her elation dimmed, she wondered if she felt anything.

Standing before her bathroom mirror, she casually rubbed at the mark, the skin irritated by contact. A glow in her reflection drew her gaze and Claire gasped. Behind her stood the angel, his wings tattered and soiled, his tunic no better.

Spinning around, she faced the empty room.

“What the hell?” she asked, looking behind the shower curtain. Nothing. She shook her head, confusion creasing her forehead. Back in front of the mirror, she stared into the glass, looking for clues. Only her own features looked back. Questioning her own sanity, Claire pushed her fingers through the tangles of her hair and recounted how many days it had been since she had showered.

“If I can't remember, it's been too long,” she convinced herself, checking the tub once more and finding it empty. There had been no one else living in her house for three years. Not since her husband died. At least, she assumed he was dead. Without a body, it was hard to be sure. It was also hard to hang onto his memory. Each passing day replaced the old images with new ones.

And people moved on, forgetting as their own day-to-day existence continued, leaving her sitting in the dark with only her questions to keep her company. And Murphy.

Murphy trotted in from the front room, his nails clicking softly on the hardwood floor of the hallway. He dropped to the tile with a chuff, his long coat pouffing out in a cloud around him. She would have been lost without Murphy, his presence a comfort as she grieved.

Stepping over the reclining Irish Setter, she leaned in to turn on the water. Murphy's tail thumped against the porcelain tub. Apparently, he approved of the decision to clean herself up.

The routine, once started, seemed easier to continue, and Claire stepped out of her clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor.

Murphy's nose wrinkled and he sneezed before wandering off.

“Okay, okay,” she conceded. “I get the hint.”

The warm water soothed more than just the angel's mark. It moved into her muscles, pushing the tension out of her shoulders and she could feel the shift. Maybe today she could do more than exist. Deep inside, Claire felt the stirring of interest. A tiny ember remained. How simple it seemed, as the shower poured over her body. How simple it used to be to step out into the world and do things – anything. The incapacitating grief and what felt like the crushed remnants of hope were mingled together in a tepid tea of angst.

Like a wind-up toy when the spring ran down, Claire had spent days wanting to leave, yet afraid to be gone if he returned. One half cried for proof while the other accepted he would not have been gone this long if he had the power to come back. The constant push-pull wore grooves in her face as ragged as the marks on the carpet from the nights spent pacing.

Dreams filled with old memories, lost expectations, and shattered hopes made sleep a battle-zone. She was so tired. Leaning against the wall of the shower, Claire let the warmth seep in deeper. The tears were gone. She had no more left.

Murphy whimpered outside the bathroom, his tone anxious enough to pull her out of her wallowing. Despair was easier to hang onto than hope. But it was time to pack it up. Time to acknowledge that life was not waiting for her. It moved on. And her dog seemed inclined to drag her into new day.

The valve closed with a clunk, the water dribbled to a stop and Claire grabbed the closest towel. Quickly wrapping it about her body, she clung to the lingering feeling of her emotional cocoon. Billowing steam from the open shower door condensed on the mirror revealing a simple shape.

Absentmindedly, she stroked Murphy's head as he bumped into her. The heart had not been there before today. Before the angel followed her home. A single tear formed as the glass cleared. Maybe it hadn't been the answer she wanted, but Claire knew with certainty that David had sent the message. A shiver broke her reverie, leaving her chilled but feeling alive for the first time in years.

Her wrist burned at the site of the mark, the oval print lifting until only a faint scar remained.

“Message received,” she said. “I will love you always, David.” Placing her fingers to her lips, she planted a kiss before sending it to Heaven with the angel. Murphy leaned against her, one paw tapping her knee, his big eyes full of concern.

She bent down to cuddle her furry companion. “It's all better, Murphy.” Her heart was lighter, knowing David was with the angels. “I'll be okay.”