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I don't believe in angels. I've read people's accounts of angels; I've been a member of a number of churches-and yet, I can't bring myself to believe. I rarely take the time to believe that God exists. I suppose I'm an agnostic; if you gave me evidence, I'd believe. And since last summer, I've been often tempted to do so. John believes more than he ever has. And Jenny-well, I'll say that she has the best reason among the three of us who know to believe in angels. As far as I'm concerned, though, my experience is little more than coincidence.
I lived in Grinnel, Iowa all my life. I never really saw the conflict and prejudice that existed outside of my community. I lived a sheltered life; even when I went to Haverford, there wasn't really any conflict. There was homework and teachers and new ideas, but nothing that made me believe that the world was an unhappy place. When I moved to New York, I found a different world than the one to which I was accustomed. I found the attitude of every man for himself, found the constant bustle and anger that suffused most of the rest of the world. I really despaired at fitting into city life until I met John. What he did-he knew I wasn't religious, and I think that's what made him like me. I was his proof that God exists in even those who don't believe; I just think that he liked seeing that people didn't need Christianity to be good people.
John was a Catholic priest. Well, he still is, but we've all changed since that summer. He wasn't overbearing or too religious; he loved life and people, and his calling was to just help people. It was his cross; he had to look at people with the faith that they could do good, and had to help them with their lives. I suppose that was another reason he took me under his wing-I was lost, and he needed to help me. He was my best friend during that time. There was something about his smile, the tilt of his head and his inquisitive brown eyes that made me trust him immediately. He was a lot like an older brother, without the antagonism.
It was July...
I was on the corner of 1st and 1st-an amusing spot in the city, because it always let me imagine that I was at a crossroads of the universe. I was trying to get a cab.
"Taxi! Taxi!" Hopeless, really. July 4 in New York City, and I was trying to catch a cab. As I said, I never really caught on to the city atmosphere. "Taxi!" One o'clock, and I was going to miss John. I was supposed to meet him in Little Italy at one-thirty for lunch. "Taxi!"
"You've got to get their attention," a soft voice murmured next to me. A sharp whistle cut through the air, and a taxi that had appeared to be going straight past me swerved to the curb. I got in, catching sight of silvery-blond hair-dyed, I thought.
"Where to?" The gruff voice startled me and I lost sight of the figure that had helped me.
"Conti's, in Little Italy." I spent the rest of the trip musing. Whoever that was didn't want thanks; I didn't even know if my benefactor was a man or woman. But whoever he-or she, I thought, I wanted to give my thanks.
A week passed, and I began to feel odd. Walking down the street, I would be sure that someone was watching me. At work, I would turn to try and pinpoint the eyes resting on me, but no one ever appeared. John told me I was either paranoid or sensing the presence of my guardian angel. I still don't know if he was joking.
I was again going to meet John somewhere: this time at his parish. It wasn't far from my apartment, so I was walking. And I was being held up by the traffic lights. Like hundreds of other people across the city, I was standing on the sidewalk, tapping my feet impatiently. A sudden jolt pulled me into awareness.
"I'm so sorry-" A woman, about 25 or so, was hurriedly picking up spilled groceries and shoving them into her bag. Her hair, a silver-blond color, gave me pause. Could she be-? I decided not to worry about it, and bent down to help her.
"No; it was my fault. I always space out like that." On an impulse, I held out my hand. "My name's Eleanor."
"Angela." She held out her hand and met my eyes; the startling green color of her eyes held me in place for a moment. I suddenly realized the light had turned green, and turned to the road. My first foot was in the street when the car shot by me and slammed into a cab in the intersection. I grew up in a sheltered world; such a shock was enough to knock me out.
When I came to, I was (with no surprise on my part) in a hospital. I had suffered no damage, so they let me go, but I wanted to know about Angela. How had I gotten there? An anonymous phone call. Was anyone there when they got to me? No. I'd never had experience with elusive people; I couldn't understand why Angela was going out of her way to disappear after out encounters. It came to me later that her running into me probably saved my life. I would have been a moment earlier and would have died if she hadn't showed up.
Another few weeks passed. I saw Angela once or twice during this time: the first, she passed me on the street and nodded hello. I chased her five blocks before losing her; returning home, I found that my neighbor's apartment had been broken into. I speculated that had I not chased Angela, I might have met him. Again, I saw her exiting the subway. I got off at that stop, only to see her gone. That train was trapped for hours in the darkness when a power outage hit the area. I kept these things to myself; they felt private. I may have loved John like a brother, but there was something that felt secret about Angela's comings and goings. You may wonder why I never asked others on the street for help in finding her. I think I felt, or knew, that they couldn't see her. That she only wanted me to see her, and so only I could. And again, I didn't want to tell others about her.
I was going home for a few weeks-my cousin was getting married. I didn't trust planes back then, so I was going by bus. John saw me to the station.
"Be careful," he warned. We were still waiting for the bus to arrive (it was 15 minutes late), and his voice cut through my meditative silence.
"What brings on this concern for my safety?" He smiled at me fondly.
"It's a long journey; you haven't been more than 20 miles from New York since last year. So watch yourself, okay?" I promised to do so, and at that point, the bus arrived. I got on, readying myself for a long journey.
"Hello." There were several passengers already on the bus, but the simple courtesy and calmness of the statement caught my attention. Sitting with an empty seat next to her, Angela was smiling at me. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Eleanor." I'm not easily shaken, I admit, but the sheer normalcy and companionship present in Angela's greeting was enough to do so. She acted as if we saw each other on a normal basis, and such a meeting was perfectly mundane. And she remembered my name-!
"I-hello, Angela." The other woman smiled at me, gave a slight nod, and moved over so I could sit next to her. I didn't move; my brain was still trying to work out what was happening.
"Come on, sit down," Angela's soft voice cut in. "It's a long trip, so we might as well get comfortable. Where are you heading?" As disarming as her attitude was, I had to obey Angela's request. I sat down, gingerly, and considered a response for a brief moment.
"Grinnel. Iowa. I'm going down there for a wedding. You?"
"I've got some business in Grinnel." She didn't elaborate, so I didn't push. Something about Angela's manner simply allowed her the secrecy she needed. She then asked me inconsequential things about my life, and I responded in kind. We spent perhaps an hour or two in this way. And it's only in retrospect that I realize that she never told me anything concrete about her life. Not where she lives, where she was born-I never even learned her last name. But in speaking with her, I learned much about the world. I asked her once what she did for fun.
"I look for magic. I search the world for instants of magic and wonder. A toddler learning that legs can be used to walk is a moment of magic, as is watching humans sacrifice for each other. I don't need movies or books or television or the World Wide Web. I have people, and that's enough." She responded enough of her questions in a similar way to this response that I began to see her artistic soul. I imagined her a painter, a poet, a philosopher. Whatever she did for a living, it was a trade (because I could never imagine her doing something so mundane as doing a job-her work had to be something learned or innate, something special) that made use every day of the beautiful spirit I saw within her.
Much of the rest of the journey we spent in silence...anything we spoke about was meaningless in the grand scheme of things. It gave me time to really look at Angela. I've mentioned her eyes and her hair, because they are the first things that one would notice on this woman. But otherwise-Angela might have had a remarkable spirit, and that spirit seemed to suffuse itself into her body. I would not use the word 'divine' to describe her appearance, but I would say that she resembled the sort of being ancients worshipped as gods. She carried with her a peaceful expression that pervaded her stance and manner. In any way, I felt regret when we finally arrived in Grinnel. We parted and I headed towards my mother's house. My life in New York made the small town seem smaller, more intimate. Returning there made me see things I hadn't noticed before-the way the light played across people's lawns, the harmony achieved through the clashing colors of neighboring houses-so many things that never mattered before. I finally arrived home, and soon found myself facing my mother. She took one look at me before saying,
"You've changed, Ellie."
Time and time again, I run those words through my mind. What was it she saw in my eyes, my posture or my smile? Did she see I'd gained experience in the world? I doubt it was as simple as that. Maybe she saw what I couldn't see; maybe she saw what I myself did not bother to imagine. I don't know. But I wasn't bothering with these thoughts. Those few weeks, I spoke to Mother about my life, John, my work, and even my brief encounters with Angela. And I explored the town. I found things much as I had remembered them-the houses, the stores, the college. I went to the wedding and saw my extended family, cousins and aunts and uncles, and the grand old matriarch who ruled them all with a firm hand. And time passed quickly, and I soon had to return.
It was the middle of August; my bags were packed and the bus would leave soon. Mother and I walked to the bus station and waited in the terminal. The time for the bus' arrival came and passed, and we waited. Mother finally left, and I was left alone there. Suddenly, I became acutely aware of the presence of a watcher.
"I just came to say good-bye," Angela whispered. I tried to turn and face her, but she restrained me with a gentle hand. "I am going...elsewhere." I don't think I ever expected her to be a fixture in my life, so the simple statement had no profound effect. I only had to ask her one question.
"Who are you?" I could almost hear her smile; she placed a hand on my shoulder and leaned in close.
"Someone who loves you very much." I turned quickly, dropping my bags onto the terminal floor. She was gone. From what John has told me after the fact, I suppose I should have expected to see a feather drifting to the ground, but things are never that simple. Angela was simply gone. There was a feeling of loss; the sense of being watched was gone, and whatever Angela had meant, it still was painful to lose someone you felt close to. I felt a bond with her on the bus; perhaps we would have been great friends. I don't know what could have happened. I stayed on that bench, half-turned to the chair behind me, until my bus had left. I found a pay phone and bought a plane ticket to LaGuardia. I bought a bus ticket to Des Moines. I went home.
It wouldn't be fair of me to stop telling my story now. When I got back to New York, I found a frantic John. My bus to New York had been involved in an accident. There were three survivors. When both of us had calmed down, I had time to think. I have no idea whether I would have died on that road, or if that car would have killed me, but there's no reason for me not to believe that she saved my life at least twice. I went to John's church to pray, and found I couldn't think of anything but Angela. So I thanked her, hoping that my message would find her. And I asked, if it were possible, if I could ever see her again.
John invited me to a party, and I had to accept. I never have and never will like them, but I went to please him. I was sipping a drink casually when the familiar feeling of being watched hit me. The gaze, I decided, came from a pair of blue eyes across the room.
Jenny, a blond woman with sea-blue eyes, really doesn't look like Angela, nor does she act like her, nor does she speak like her, but I have a hard time convincing myself that Jenny isn't the woman that Angela could have been. Angela had some higher calling, and had she not had such a calling, maybe we could have made something between us. I don't know. But Jenny is the kindest and most considerate person I know, and my best friend. I love her deeply, and she feels the same. It's hard to imagine that all of this is chance.
I won't tell you that Angela was an angel; I barely believe it myself. I won't tell you that my prayers were answered; I don't believe in God. I won't tell you that Angela gave up her calling to seek love; I don't think that it's possible. What I will tell you is that I met a remarkable woman who saved my life, and gave me the courage to find love. What I will tell you is that my life changed that summer. What I will tell you is that while humans are capable of the greatest cruelty imaginable, there also exists the potential for the greatest kindness.
I don't believe in angels, but I do believe that sometimes things happen that we can't explain.