Mom and I used to have that. Used to. Now I have no desire to share this stuff with her, not about Angel Club, not about the weird recurring dream I’ve been having, not about how I feel about what happened the day of the fire or what my true purpose might have been. I don’t want to get into it right now.
So I don’t.
“I was at the Pink Garter,” I say. “With Angela.”
Not technically a lie.
I brace myself for her to tell me that Angela, while full of good intentions, is going to get us all in deep trouble someday. She knows that any time spent with Angela is time spent talking about angel-bloods and Angela’s many theories.
Instead she says, “Oh, that’s nice,” and uses a spatula to slide the cookies onto a wire rack on the counter. I steal one.
“That’s nice?” I repeat incredulously.
“Get a plate, please,” she tells me, and I do. Then, as I’m sitting there with a mouthful of chocolatey goodness, she says, “It was never my intention to shelter you from other angel-bloods forever. I only wanted you to live normal lives for as long as possible, to know what it’s like to be human. But now you’re old enough, you’ve been through your visions, you’ve had a glimpse of the evil in this world, and I don’t think it’s a bad thing to start learning what it truly means to be an angel-blood. Which means hanging out with others like you.” I wonder if she still means Angela, or if now she’s talking about Christian. If she assumes being with him is my purpose. Not very women’s lib of her, I think, if she believes my entire purpose on this earth is to hook up with some guy.
“Milk?” she asks, then goes to the fridge and pours me a glass.
And this is the point where I finally get the guts to ask her. “Mom, am I going to be punished?”
“Why?” She reaches for a cookie. “Did you do something today I should know about?” I shake my head. “No. My purpose. Am I going to be punished because I didn’t, you know, fulfill it? Am I going to hell or something?”
She halfway chokes on the cookie, then takes a quick sip of my milk.
“That’s not really how it works,” she says.
“How does it work, then? Will I get a second chance? Is there anything else that I’m going to be expected to do?”
She’s quiet for a minute. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head, deciding how much she’s going to tell me. This aggravates the crap out of me, of course, but there’s not a lot I can do about it. So I wait.
“Every angel-blood is given a purpose,” she says after what feels like an eternity. “For some that purpose manifests itself in a single event, a singular moment in time where we are led to be at a specific place at a specific time, to do a specific thing. For others . . .” She glances down at her hands, choosing her words carefully. “Their purpose can involve more.”
“More?” I ask.
“More than a single event.”
I stare at her. This has got to be the strangest conversation any mother and daughter has ever had over milk and cookies. “How much more?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. We’re all different. Our purposes are all different.”
“Which was it for you?”
“For me . . .” She clears her throat delicately. “It was more than one event,” she admits.
Not good enough.
“Mom, come on,” I demand. “Don’t leave me in the dark.”
Inexplicably, she smiles this tiny smile, like she finds me funny. “It’s going to be okay, Clara,” she says. “You’ll figure it out when you’re supposed to figure it out. I know that’s frustrating to hear. Believe me, I know.”
I swallow the rising craziness that’s churning in my stomach. “How? How do you know?” She sighs. “Because my purpose lasted more than one hundred years.” My mouth drops open.
One hundred years.
“So . . . so you’re saying that it might not be over?”
“I’m saying that your purpose is more complicated than simply completing a task.” I jump to my feet. I can’t keep sitting down for this. “You couldn’t have told me this, oh, I don’t know— before the fire?”
“I can’t give you the answers, Clara, even if I know them,” she says. “If I did it might change the outcome. You just have to trust me when I say that you’ll get the answers when you need them.”
And there’s the look again, the sadness. Like I’m disappointing her right this minute. But I also see something else in her luminous blue eyes: faith. She still has faith. That there’s some kind of plan for our lives, some kind of meaning, or direction, behind all of this. I sigh. I’ve never had her kind of faith, and I’m afraid I never will. But I find that even though I obviously have some issues with her, I do trust her. With my life. Not only because she’s my mother, but because when it really counted, she saved it.
“Okay,” I say. “Fine. But I don’t have to like it.”
She nods, smiles again, but the sadness doesn’t quite leave her face. “I don’t expect you to like it. You wouldn’t be my daughter if you did.”
I should tell her, I think, about the dream. See if she thinks it’s important, if it’s more than a dream. If it’s a vision. Of my possibly continuing purpose.
But right then Jeffrey comes through the door, and of course he hollers, “What’s for dinner?” since food is always the first thing on his mind. Mom calls back to him, starts bustling around preparing a meal for us, and I’m amazed at her ability to switch off like that, to make it feel like we’re any other kids coming home from our first day of school, no heavenly purposes set for us, no fallen angels hunting us, no bad dreams, and Mom is just like any other mother.
After dinner I fly over to the Lazy Dog to see Tucker.
He’s surprised when I tap on his window.
“Hi there, handsome,” I tell him. “Can I come in?”
“Absolutely,” he says, and kisses me, then quickly rolls across the bed to close the door. I crawl through the window and stand, looking around. I love his room. It’s warm and cozy, neat but not too neat, a plaid bedspread pulled haphazardly up over his sheets, piles of schoolbooks, comics, and rodeo magazines strewn about his desk, a pair of gym socks and a balled-up hoodie in the corner of the slightly dusty oak floor, his collection of cowboy hats set in a line across the top of his dresser along with some old green army men and a couple fishing lures. There’s a rusty horseshoe nailed over his closet door. It’s so boy.