Angel

We call them Angels.

Who coined the term first, nobody knows, but it caught on, unexpectedly, in a time when its original meaning from the biblical lore has long been forgotten.

The word couldn’t be further from the original intent. Or too close, depending on who you talk to.

The first ones to return were children. Everyone under the age of eighteen who died tragically and unexpectedly in car crashes and freak accidents. They returned exactly thirty days later, well and alive in their homes, causing confusion and shock in those they left behind. But when they returned, they were different: wiser, older than their years, no longer the children that their loved ones knew. Many believed they were gifts from God, miracles, heralds of heaven on earth. Others believed they were abominations.

What happened to them, exactly, remains vague and slightly ominous to this day.

It was all peripheral to me for a while. Truth be told, even though the world was descending into an existential crisis of sorts, our day to day lives remained unchanged. Angels or not, my typical day consisted of me going to work, watching the clock strike four, looking forward to a glass of cheap wine to help sleep overtake me while I swiped mindlessly on my phone.

In my completely selfish little bubble, I really didn’t care one way or the other. Until, of course, my sister died.

Being three years older, I was supposed to take care of her, but really, she took care of me. I was a mess, and I'm ashamed to say I wasn't always the older sister I should have been. Depression will do that to you. I should have stepped up when our parents abandoned us like a box of unwanted kittens, but I didn't. I was wrapped up in my own little bubble of self pity. Kristen looked up to me anyway, though God knows I didn't deserve it. She was sixteen going on thirty, mature for her age, and whip smart. Smarter than me.

I remember how my heart splintered into pieces when I got the call from the hospital: There was an accident… She just got out of surgery. Ma’am, I’m sorry, I really can’t tell you more. But you should get here. As soon as you can.

I knew she wouldn’t come back. Not the same, anyway. Angels never do.

I wait for her return today.

I was sitting at my kitchen table with a glass of wine in my hand, watching the clock, when I heard her familiar voice. It sent a chill down my spine.

“Hey, big Sis.”

She seemed to have materialized in my kitchen. One moment I was alone, then she was there. It was uncanny.

“Kristen.” As many times as I have said her name in my life, today it felt foreign in my mouth. I was planning on a sisterly hug or maybe some tears but instead I felt an uneasy feeling in my stomach. “You’re back.”

My sister, or the girl in my kitchen who looked like her, smiled at me with her eyes crinkling at the corners. A friendly, open, beautiful smile. The only problem was that it wasn’t Kristen’s smile. Kristen usually smirked with her chin slightly jutting out. Confidently, unapologetically.

“How have you been? I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself.” The girl said pleasantly.

If wallowing in depression was considered taking care of myself, then I have certainly been doing that. I eyed her warily. “Where did you go?”

A chuckle bubbled out of her mouth, catching me off guard. “You never were good at small talk, Sis.”

That, at least, was true. You didn’t have to be supernatural to presume that about me though.

She plopped down on the cheap faux wood barstool next to our tiny kitchen island. “I’m famished.” A good natured grin formed on her face. A pale blond strand stuck to her right cheek. She looked positively radiant. “I’m literally dying of hunger, Sis. What are we having for dinner?”

“You never call me Sis.” I said.

“Sure I do.” Kristen sounded amused. It was true. I was testing her.

“Call me Jessica.” I said. It felt wrong, being called 'sis' at this moment, as if we were play-acting. Pretending.

“Okay.” She held my eye. “I know this must be hard for you... Jess. Whatever makes it easier. At least for now.”

“Jessica is fine.” I swallowed. “I have mac and cheese in the fridge you can warm up.”

“I hate mac and cheese.”

Again, this was true. Kristen hated it when I made mac and cheese, but she always ate it anyway. It was cheap, and we were poor. It was one of the few staples we could afford to stock our pantry with.

“It's all we have.”

She regarded me for a moment. There must have been something in my voice. She suddenly looked sad. “Is it not enough that I’m back?”

Is it? My heart ached. I wasn’t ready for this. It should have been enough, but it wasn’t. I felt nauseous as I looked at the face of the sister I loved. “I need to know. If it’s really you.”

There was a pause. A beat too long. “Of course it’s me.”

I stayed silent, swallowing what tasted like bile rising up in my throat.

I should have expected this. I did my research. The Angels were all painfully tight lipped. They all gave vague soothing answers and submitted willingly to medical tests, which came back normal. Their answers to questioning were all eerily similar and consistent, almost as if they were collectively coached. Still, nobody could deny they were all friendly, polite, perfect children.

But not the same children.

Looking at the girl in my kitchen, with the same upturned nose and curious eyes of my sister, I felt certain of this. Kristen was gone. This girl, whoever she was, was not my sister. My stomach churned and it was all I could do to keep myself together until I reached the bathroom to vomit my dinner.

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