There was a long silence.
Ad shifted around in his chair, making the thing creak. "Okaaaaay, it would be really great right now if you wouldn't look at me like that. I still have all my arms and legs attached, you know. I'm fully functional, or sufficiently functional, in all other respects."
"Of course." Eddie cleared his throat. "Absolutely."
Ah, hell, he could so have done without the awkwardness, but the guy was going to find out sooner or later. Might as well be now--
Jim and Sissy appeared in the doorway, the pair of them looking like they were on the way to a funeral. Clearly, the decision had been made.
"We're ready to do this," Jim said, putting his arm around the woman and moving her close--like maybe he wished his body were the one that was going to get metaphysically sliced open. "I guess we need a trip out for supplies."
Eddie nodded. "Yeah, we do."
And that was that, Ad thought as he got to his feet. They'd gotten the band back together . . . and now it was time to rock 'n' roll, so to speak.
He just wished it wasn't performing an exorcism. On Sissy.
Chapter
Thirty-six
Of course it was the same damn Hannaford, Sissy thought, as they pulled into a parking lot that was full of average-cost cars and trucks. And yup, everything was the same as she remembered it: the lines for parked vehicles angled toward the store, the cart corrals intersecting them, the constant in and out from the store's automatic entrances creating a bustle of activity.
Eddie put the Explorer in park and cut the engine. All at once three doors opened and the angels got out; she just put her hand on her handle and stayed in her seat.
Jim glanced over his shoulder, like he'd expected her to be right with them. Then he seemed to pale.
Ad and Eddie glanced at him, and their mouths moved like they were asking him something. As he shook his head, he said a couple of words--and abruptly the other angels looked like they'd been kneed in the balls.
Ah, clearly none of them had done the math about where they'd ended up: the very place where she'd been abducted by the demon.
But whatever, she needed to get over herself. It wasn't as if going into the store again was going to change anything. The evil had already happened.
Forcing her door open, she got out and tugged her sweatshirt into place. "I have the list. Let's go."
She pushed her way through all their heavy bodies and strode to the entrance. As she went along, she passed a mother with two kids and three hundred dollars' worth of groceries stuffed into a cart . . . an older man with a single bag and a jug of orange juice . . . two middle-aged women who were talking a mile a minute over each other.
For a second, she mourned the fact that back before all the crap had fallen on her head, she had never noticed the people around her: How beautiful it was to see a young family out buying Popsicles and Hamburger Helper. Or how noble a lonely eighty-year-old could be as he braved a trip out to the supermarket by himself. Or what a special thing it was to see an enduring friendship in its natural habitat.
Humanity was beautiful. In all its different shapes and sizes, from its survival modes to its triumphal strutting, in both its poverty and its wealth.
And most of all in its everyday, moment-to-moment activity.
Funny, the discourse of daily life, before she had had hers forfeited, had been like the breath and the heartbeat in the human body--something that happened automatically, and as such was not seen for the miracle it was. It was only after her death that she recognized the fragile power in mortality . . . and held it in appropriate reverence.
As she walked through the automatic doors and into the lobby-ish part of the store, she faltered. The same Muzak was playing, old Michael Bolton piped in through tinny speakers in the ceiling like they wanted to offend the least number of people possible. The lineup of carts was also just the same, and so were the impulse buys lined up on tables--cookies, bags of chips, garden tools.
She closed her eyes.
The garden tools were new, but the Lay's potato-chip stand and the three different kinds of sugar cookies in their plastic containers were exactly what had been there before.
Amazing, she thought as she went further on and emerged into the florist's section. Standing around the buckets of plastic-wrapped roses and the squat cacti in their little clay pots and the free-standing pastel hyacinths, she felt as invisible as she was: People were passing by her without looking over, and that somehow made the divide she felt seem all the more devastating.
Except then she realized . . . maybe that had always been true.
As she stared back at them, she could remember striding by countless numbers of strangers--and she had rendered them all anonymous because she didn't know their names, faces, families. They had been sort of irrelevant, other than the fact that she hadn't wished any of them ill or wanted to be responsible for hurting them.
But that was reductionist. She didn't know what tragedies had come home or would come home to roost for them. Whether they had had their houses broken into the day before, or were facing an illness, or had lost a child, or had been cheated on.
Joy was worn like a new suit of clothes on people. You could see it on every inch of them, from their step to their stare. But sadness and loss were hidden, kept quiet under composure and the shelter of daily activity.
She had no idea what any of these people were facing in their lives. Any more than they knew she was standing among them, neither dead nor alive.
Invisibility was a two-way street, as it turned out.
Which was sad.
And it gave her a new idea of what she wished Heaven was like. Before, when the destination had been just a hypothetical and she'd been so very, very much younger on so many levels, the eternal resting place in the stars had been nothing but jelly beans and Jujubes, and endless Sunday sleep-ins, and every movie that John Hughes had made on a loop.
Now . . . she thought it was just love. A forever love that wrapped you up and kept you safe and made sure you were always with your family and your friends.
No separation, even between strangers. No sadness. Nobody leaving or getting left behind.
"Sissy?"
She jumped as Jim's hand landed on her shoulder. "Sorry. Distracted." She held up the list. "I'll go get the salt if you want to handle the lemons?"
"I'm glad you called for another extra apponitment."
Glancing around her therapist's office, Devina smoothed her short skirt down her thighs and forced a smile, thinking maybe she should have just waited for her regular.
"I fixed the damage I did to my things," she blurted. "Well, okay, her minions had done most of that. But she had been the one responsible for telling them to do it. "And I'm . . ."
She frowned as she ran out of words. Thoughts. Impulses.
"Devina?"
Feeling as though she had to keep the session going, she scrambled for something, anything, she could say. Eventually, she murmured, "You know, it was funny how I found you."
"You told me that a friend of yours had recommended me."
"I lied." She glanced over to see if she'd upset the woman, but nope. Her therapist was just sitting like a Buddha on her beige-colored sofa in her beige-colored office, a beige-equivalent expression on her pleasant face. "It was much more . . . it was kind of freaky, actually."
"Tell me more."
"Well, I knew that I was going to . . . see, I'd had the same job forever, and I was really happy in the position. I had a lot of autonomy, I was allowed to do whatever I liked. I mean, it wasn't perfect--but I didn't realize what a situation I had until my boss decided to change everything up. Suddenly, where I'd been was the good old days, you know? And then, from out of the blue, I was working with this new guy, in a race for this promotion thing--and one day . . . one day, I guess I just cracked from the stress. I was getting ready for work, sitting in front of the mirror . . ." She lifted her hands to her face, brushing at her cheeks. "I wa
s putting my makeup on--you know, like I do every day. And I . . ."
"Go on, Devina."
She patted at her jawline, her chin. "I was . . . the problem was the foundation I was using. I couldn't get it right. It wouldn't go over my skin . . . right. It wouldn't cover up the . . ." She blinked fast, memories of the panic coming on strong. "I had to get it right. It needed to be right so I looked right so no one could see . . ."
"Could see what, Devina?"
"What I really am. Who I really am." She stared down at her hands and smoothed her skirt again. And again. And again. "I couldn't get it right. The foundation . . . just . . ." She cleared her throat, pulling herself out of that moment in the past. "I reapplied it. And then put more on, and did it again. And again. It became paralyzing. I went through an entire bottle and opened another one. Even though I knew I was making it worse, I couldn't . . . it was like I was locked in. I was stuck in some kind of loop."
The therapist nodded gravely. "I know exactly what you mean. The ritual took over to such a degree that you were figuratively imprisoned by it."
"Exactly." She exhaled. "That's exactly what happened. I finally stopped when I just wore myself out. I was covered with the stuff--it had gotten all over my blouse, my hands, my vanity."
"Here," the therapist said, leaning forward with a Kleenex box.
"Oh, I'm not . . ." Except her eyes were watering. "Oh. Thanks."
As she mopped up, the therapist sat back. "That can be truly terrifying."
"It was. I wasn't in control of it--and you know, I'd always been, like, a little OCD-ish. I mean, I like everything perfect, and I like my things where they should be. I like my things, period. I feel . . . safer . . . like, when I have the perfect number of lipsticks with me."
"I remember. It was hard to throw one of them out in our previous sessions."
"Yes." Devina drew her hand through her hair, reassuring herself that it was all still in place, that talking about this hadn't magically revealed her true ugliness. "But that morning was the first time I had the sense that it could cripple me--and that terrified me. It's so fucked-up. It's like your best friend turning on you, you know? Like, the thing that makes you feel better all of a sudden . . . owning you."
"That's very common, Devina. Very, very common."
"So I took a shower. I had to, I was a mess. And I was staying in this loft at the time. I'm not a big TV person, but it had one of those wide-screen things? I came out of the bathroom and the screen was on. I guess I'd turned it on at some point. I was standing over the remnants of those empty foundation bottles, feeling like I was going crazy, when there you were. On the TV. Veronica Sibling-Crout. Funny, I haven't seen the ad running since. But it was the perfect time for me."
"Sometimes things happen for a reason."
Devina stared at the woman. "You really have helped me. I mean, I still struggle day to day, but you've made me realize I'm not the only person with this . . . problem."
"You know, a lot of my work is just making sure people know they're not alone. That and teaching them structured ways to deal with behaviors they don't want and think they can't change."
"You really have . . . saved me. From myself."
The therapist frowned. "Devina, why does this sound like a good-bye?"
Because it might be. "Things are going to change. Well, for me they're going to change. You might not notice a difference, though."
Although if Devina won, the woman would absolutely know it. And no doubt, if the therapist was aware of what was at stake in the war, she'd pray that Jim won this last round.
"In what way are things going to change for you?"
"The promotion. It's time for the position to be decided. Either I or the other guy will get the vice presidency." Again, the parallel she'd constructed wasn't an exact match, but it was the closest she could get without blowing the woman's mind. "And if I don't get it, I won't be able to come here anymore."
"Why? Are you going to be transferred?"
Almost certainly, and not in a good way. "Yes."
The therapist frowned. "You seem . . . resigned to some kind of fate."
"I guess I am. This can't go on forever."
"Devina, let me ask you something. Do you believe in God?"
Hell, she'd met the guy. "Yes. I do."
"Do you believe He loves all His children?"
"Aren't we getting a little religious?" Not that she minded it, necessarily, it was just a shift in--
"Do you, Devina?"
She thought over her long relationship with the Creator . . . and all the things she'd put Him through. "Yes, I know He does. Even the broken parts of His world . . . He loves even them."
"So be not afraid of any fate that awaits you."
She laughed harshly. "I wish."
"If you believe in the traditional notion of God, then He is all-powerful--so no part of Creation did He not contemplate, and no turn in any destiny is not one He engineers."
"On that theory, He's probably after me. Or should be. I've done a lot of very . . ." Evil. ". . . bad shit."
"But He created you, too."
Devina shifted in her puffy chair, feeling like things were getting a little too real all of a sudden. It was as if . . . "Should we go back to talking about lipsticks?"
"If that makes you feel better, sure."
Devina narrowed her eyes on the woman. Same as she'd always looked, same voice, same Mother Earth body and sixties-holdover clothes.
It seemed impossible that someone like her had made such an impact.
Devina crossed and recrossed her legs. "I don't know. I guess I just want to thank you for everything you've done with me. It's . . . been really helpful."
"That truly touches me."
There was yet another long, long silence. "I don't have much more to say."
"That's okay. We can sit here and just see if anything bubbles up for you."
And that's what they did. Until Devina glanced at the discreetly set clock on the side table. "I guess our time is up."
"So it is."
Getting to her feet, she grabbed her Prada bag and slung it onto her shoulder. She didn't bother to get out her checkbook. If she won the war, she was going to own the woman's soul, so if she needed help, it was going to be free and then some. And if she lost? What was the therapist going to do? Sue her?
Ha.
The therapist used her hands to push herself forward to the edge of the couch and then she heaved her body up off the cushions. With quick efficiency, she pulled her loose clothing into place as if her size made her feel self-conscious and the wardrobe was her way of covering things up.
Devina knew how that felt.
"So, bye, then." Devina lifted her hand. "Yeah. Bye."
Without waiting for a response, she went for the door, but something stopped her from leaving.
Pivoting around, she couldn't fight the absurd conviction that she needed--
As if the therapist knew exactly what she wanted, the woman held her arms out. Devina walked over and bent down . . . and allowed herself to be wrapped in an embrace that seemed to burrow in deep, penetrating her outer lie to her inner case of hump-ugly--and accepting her nonetheless.
Closing her eyes, she just stood there and accepted the shelter she was offered.
Something told her it might be the only respite she got for a very, very long time.
Chapter
Thirty-seven
Well, wasn't this the day for trips down memory lane, Sissy thought as she stared out of the Explorer's back window. Too bad it wasn't in a happy-Christmases-of-the-past kind of way.
As Jim pulled up to one of the many warehouses in the old wharf area of Caldwell, she had to brace herself for going into yet another place she had no interest in ever seeing again.
"Are you sure we have to do it here?" she asked, looking up at the five-story-high, block-wide building.
As a light rain began to fall, it seemed like the cloud cover up above had arrive
d only because even the sun didn't want any part of what was about to go down.
Eddie leaned around in his seat. "The closer we get to where the infection entry happened, the more successful we're gonna be."
Her eyes flipped to the rearview mirror. Jim was staring at her from behind the wheel, his blue eyes remote--but it was funny. She could read him now. He was viciously angry and trying not to show it . . . and that made her love him even more.
He nodded. Once.
"Okay," she said, pushing open her door.
Her hand went to her stomach. Already, the skin was beginning to burn--and she didn't need to lift her sweatshirt to check to see what it was. She already knew. Those cuts in her skin, the symbols that the demon had carved into her flesh as part of whatever ritual had been performed on her, were back, activated by the proximity to where she'd been killed.
The horrible scars had done this before when Jim had taken her here, in hopes of helping her understand what had happened to her.
Guess this was proof she had something in her still, huh.
The trip up to the demon's former loft was a blur. Or maybe she was deliberately blocking out all the cultivated-rustic, faux-distressed-style decor as well as the fact that those angels were magically getting through any door that was locked.
Good thing, because there were seven dead bolts on the loft entrance they were after.
After those were sprung one by one, she walked into the vast, open space--and that was when she realized they'd all gone invisi: There were no echoes of footsteps, no rustling of those plastic Hannaford bags, not even the sound of Adrian breathing hard from having dragged himself up the stairs.
She stopped dead as she looked over to the far corner and saw the open door to the gray marble bathroom.
Something was pressed into her hand. A blue carton of Morton Salt.
"Come on," Jim said. "Help me."
It was exactly the kind of diversion she needed, and she followed his instructions to the letter, going over to the nearest wall and starting to pour out a thin line of sodium that was supposed to go all the way around the space.
"I'll do the bathroom," he told her after he watched her for a bit.
The hiss of the falling granules sounded like a snake, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get the white rush to fall in a perfectly straight line.