Элизабет Чандлер: Kissed by an Angel

Tristan looked at her blankly.

"Boy, you didn't have much of a life, did you, when you had a life," she remarked.

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't go out much."

"All the time," Tristan replied.

"Didn't go to the movies."

"I went all the time," Tristan argued.

"But you never saw any of Lacey Lovitt's films."

"Sure I did. Everybody did, before she- You're Lacey Lovitt?"

She rolled her eyes upward. "I hope you're faster at figuring out your mission."

"I guess it's just that your hair color is different."

"We've already talked about my hair," she said, scrambling up from the grave. It was odd to see her standing against the background of trees. The willows waved ropes of leaves in the breeze, but her hair lay as still as a girl's in a photograph.

"I remember now," Tristan said. "Your plane went down over the ocean. They never found you."

"Imagine how pleased I was to find myself climbing out of New York Harbor."

"The accident was two years ago, wasn't it?" At that, she ducked her head. "Yeah, well…" "I remember reading about your funeral," Tristan said. "Lots of famous people went."

"And lots of almost-famous. People are always looking for publicity." There was a bitter edge to her voice. "I wish you could have seen my mother, weeping and wailing." Lacey struck a pose like the marble figure of a woman weeping in the next row over. "You would have thought she had lost someone she loved." "Well, she did if you're her daughter." "You are naive, aren't you."

It was a statement rather than a question. "You could have learned something about people if you had gone to your own funeral. Maybe you still can learn. There's a burial on the east side this morning. Let's go," she said.

"Go to a burial? Isn't that kind of morbid?" She laughed at him over her shoulder. "Nothing can be morbid, Tristan, once you're dead. Besides, I find them highly entertaining. And when they're not, I make them so, and you look like you could use some cheering up. Come on."

"I think I'll pass."

She turned and studied him for a minute, perplexed. "All right. How about this: I saw a group of girls come in earlier, headed for the ritzy side of town. Maybe you'd enjoy that more. Good audiences, you know, are hard to come by, especially when you're dead and most of them can't see you."

She began pacing around in a circle.

"Yeah, that'll be much better." She seemed to be talking to herself as much as him. "It will score me some points." She glanced over at Tristan. "You see, fooling around with funeral parties doesn't really meet with approval. But with this, I'll be performing a service. Next time those girls will think twice about respect for the dead."

Tristan had hoped that another person like him would clear things up a bit, but-"Oh, cheer up, Dumps!" She started down the road.

Tristan followed slowly and tried to remember if he had ever read that Lacey Lovitt was crazy.

She led him to an older section of the cemetery where there were family plots owned by longtime, wealthier residents of Stonehill. On one side of the road, mausoleums with facades like miniature temples sank their backs into the hill. On the other side were gardenlike squares with tall, polished monuments and a variety of marble statues. Tristan had been there before. At Maggie's request, Caroline had been buried in the Baines family plot.

"Swanky, huh?"

"I'm surprised you sublet from me," Tristan remarked.

"Oh, I made millions in my time," said Lacey. "Millions. But at heart I'm a simple girl from New York's Lower East Side. I started with the soaps, remember, and then-but no need to go into all that. I'm sure, now that you recognize me, you know all about me."

Tristan didn't bother to correct her.

"So, what do you think those girls had in mind?" she asked, stopping to look around. There was no one in sight, just smooth stones, bright flowers, and a sea of lush grass.

"I was wondering the same thing about you," he replied.

"Oh, I'll just improvise. I doubt you'll be much help. You couldn't have any real skills yet.

Probably all you can do is stand there and shimmer, like some kind of freakin' Christmas ornament-meaning only a believer or two will see you."

"Only a believer?"

"You mean you still haven't figured out that?" She shook her head in disbelief.

But he had figured it out; he just didn't want to admit it, just didn't want it to be true. The old lady had been a believer. So was Philip. Both of them had seen him shimmering. But Ivy had not. Ivy had stopped believing.

"You can do something more than shimmer?" Tristan asked hopefully.

She looked at him as if he were utterly stupid. "What on earth do you think I've been doing for the last two years?"

"I have no idea," Tristan said.

"Don't tell me, puh-lease don't tell me I'm going to have to explain to you about missions."

He ignored the melodramatics. "You mentioned that before. What missions?"

"Your mission, my mission," she replied quickly. "We each have a mission. And we have to fulfill it if we want to get on to where everyone else has gone." She started walking again, rather quickly, and he had to hurry to catch up.

"But what is my mission?"

"How should I know?"

"Well, somebody has to tell me. How can I fulfill it if I have no idea what it is?" he said, frustrated.

"Don't complain to me about it!" she snapped. "It's your job to find out." In a quieter voice she added, "It's usually some kind of unfinished business. Sometimes it's someone you know who needs your help."

"So I have at least two years to-" "Well, no, that's not exactly how it works," she said, making that funny ducking motion with her head that he had seen before. She moved ahead of him, then passed through a black iron fence whose curled and rusted spikes made odd designs against the walls of an old stone chapel. "Let's find the kids."

"Wait a minute," he said, reaching for her arm. She was the one thing that he could grab hold of.

"You've got to tell me. How exactly does this mission thing work?"

"Well… well, you're supposed to find out and complete your mission as soon as possible. Some angels take a few days, some angels take a few months."

"And you've been at it for two years," he said. "How close are you to completing yours?"

She ran her tongue over her teeth. "Don't know."

"Great," he said. "Great! I don't know what I'm doing, and I've finally found myself a guide, only she's taking eight times as long as everybody else."

"Twice as long!" she said. "Once I met an angel who took a year. You see, Tristan, I get a little distracted. I'm going about my business, and I see these opportunities that are just too good to pass by. Some of them don't really meet with approval."

"Some of them? Like what?" Tristan asked suspiciously.

She shrugged. "Once I dropped a stage chandelier on my jerky ex-director's head-just missing, of course. He always was a big fan of Phantom of the Opera- that's what I mean by an opportunity just too good to pass by. And that's how it usually goes for me. I'm two points closer, then something comes up, and I'm three points back and never quite getting to figuring out my mission.

"But don't worry-you probably have more discipline than me. For you, it'll be a snap."

I'm going to wake up, Tristan thought, and this nightmare will be over. Ivy will be lying in my arms-"How much do you want to bet that those girls are in the chapel?"

Tristan eyed the gray stone building. Its doors had been bound with heavy chains since he was a little boy.

"Is there a way in?"

"For us, there is always a way in. For them, a broken window in the back. Any special requests?"

"What?"

"Anything you'd like to see me do?"