Time-Share Angel (4 of 5)
Next Friday
Next Friday
Elliott was up early on Friday.
Jill appeared, standing in his living room at precisely eight o'clock. There wasn't any point in taking the mundane steps of walking, knocking, and entering. They both knew she would appear at the appointed hour and she did.
It was highly efficient. But distant.
She looked more like an angel today and less like Jill.
Elliott had a piece of paper in his hands when she arrived.
"Jill—" he began, clutching a paper.
She held up her hand, soft at first, her eyes flickering with something uguarded. “Don’t Elliott. Please.”
Her fingers brushed the edge of her sweater, then stilled.
“I need to read this to you.”
“I know what it says. I watched you write it last night—I saw your tears.”
She paused, and something in her voice caught—not quite grief, not quite guilt. Something older.
“And I’m sorry. I’ve broken a cardinal rule of heaven. I let you fall for me, and I didn’t turn away when I should have.”
He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. I refuse to believe that. You have done nothing wrong."
"But I have," she said.
Somehow, despite her prior assurances that she could not feel, he knew she did in some hidden secret way that she might not, by rule, be allowed. Yet it was still there. He wondered if angels also have free will. This might especially be true if she must make some kind of payment for whatever rule she broke.
"I let you—I let you fall for me." She smiled at him sadly. "There's no point denying it or pretending it's not so. We both know that you did. And my fault was… letting it happen even though I saw the warning signs."
"It's not your fault that I fell in love with you."
"The thing is," she said. "I've helped you see your own potential. You've been the ones who took the steps you needed to take. You were brave. You did what you needed. I was only your guide, and only briefly. What you're really feeling is a sense of worth that was always in you, but hidden, and you're mistaking it as love for me."
"No, Jill," he said, his voice trembling. "You do not get to do that!"
"What?" she asked softly.
"You do not get to tell me what I feel. You do not get to deny my truth. That's mine. I don't care what your rules say, or your guidelines, or your celestial psychology. I fell in love with you and that's a fact. It's not debatable. It's not up for discussion. It simply is. Do not deny me this thing—this—truth!"
She bowed her head, saying nothing, her wings dropping along with her countenance.
"I'm not going to argue with you," she said. "That's not why I am here."
"You're here to tell me goodbye, aren't you?"
"I am," she confessed. "You will not see me, your angel, again after this day. It is already written. The judgment has already been passed. This is what will happen, and we can't prolong it. But I wanted to come back and tell you that I am very proud of you."
"While I appreciate that, I would like to know the truth from you."
"The truth?"
"Why did you come to me in the first place? Were you really assigned to me?"
"I—," she stopped and looked at him. "No. I wasn't. I was assigned to Grace, to ease her pain."
"So why did you come here?"
"I told you," she said. "I like to walk. I was walking by when I heard your wish."
"What wish?"
"To be seen. For who you really are. And I wanted you to know that I saw you."
"You weren't assigned?"
"I chose to help you. I had Tuesdays and every other Friday off."
"Those were your only days off?"
"Yes, but it makes me happy to serve—I was made—"
He interrupted her. "Yes, I know. You were made to serve. Did it ever occur to you that humans were made to do that too? To serve each other? To make each other happy?"
She nodded slowly. "I know."
"I could make you happy."
"I don't feel things"
"Don't lie to me, Jill."
"I don't feel things the way you do."
"But you can feel?"
"It's complicated."
"I don't think it is," Elliott said. "Some things a really, really simple."
"I know you think that, but this is far more complex than you realize."
Her clipboard and pen appeared in her hands.
"My time is up," she said, flipping a page. "I must go."
"I want you to stay. Please stay with me."
"I can't," she said.
"But you didn't say that you don't want to."
She said nothing. Just looked at her clipboard. Her wings shimmered into view, becoming brighter, and she straightened, the clipboard in her hands appearing as a shield.
“My time is up,” she said, regal now, distant. “I must go.”
“Please stay,” he pleaded.
"Elliott, there is one final thing I can offer you. A single miracle, as my gift to you, before I can depart."
"A miracle? Then I wish for you to stay with me." There was not a moment's hesitation.
"The wish isn't for you to make," she said. "I can grant you one miracle, but you can't use it. You must use the wisdom you have learned and give it away. Perhaps something to help Tom and Grace. Perhaps your parents. Perhaps someone in need."
"I have to give the miracle away?"
"Yes."
"Then I give the miracle to you. It's yours. A miracle for whatever it is you want. A miracle for you to choose."
Her eyes went wide, and she said, "Then I wish—"
And she disappeared.
True to her word, Elliott never saw his angel again.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.