“Mom?”
Her mother started rocking in her chair, faster, faster.
Angie pulled up a stool and sat facing her mother. “How are you doing?” She smiled.
Her mom stopped rocking and peered at Angie as if she didn’t recognize her. Her eyes weren’t focused. She wasn’t fully there. “Who are you?” she said, her speech slightly slurred. “Do I know you?”
“It’s Angie.”
“Angie?” Her mother frowned and sat awhile, just staring at Angie. Then a slow, sad smile crumpled her face. “I had a little daughter once—called Angie. Such a beautiful little girl. Such a wonderful child. Then ... just like that she was gone.” She began to moan and rock again, her features twisting as if in pain, her hands gripping the armrests tightly. The moan grew louder, the rocking wild.
Angie leaned forward and covered one of her mother’s hands, slowing the motion.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m here.”
“The angels brought her back. They did. She didn’t belong there. They returned her.”
“Who? Who are you talking about, Mom?”
“Angie.”
A dank sense of dread trickled into Angie. “Where didn’t Angie belong?” she said.
“Heaven. In Italy. With God. They made a mistake. She wasn’t ready to go with God. So they brought her back.” A sad, wistful smile crossed her mother’s face, and she stopped rocking. “Christmas Eve. That’s when she was returned. I was singing at the cathedral ... such a beautiful cathedral. It was ordained.” Her mother closed her eyes and started to hum a hymn that was strangely familiar to Angie, yet she couldn’t quite place it. That cold chill of dread crawled deeper.
“Which cathedral are you talking about, Mom?”
“It was snowing out,” she said softly, “when they brought her back. Like a babe in a manger in a box, she was.”
“Mom. Look at me. Please.”
Her mother opened her eyes, and confusion chased through them as she struggled to focus on Angie. “Who are you? I ... Iknowyou ...”
Angie smiled gently, yet her pulse was hammering hard and her skin turning slick with sweat. Confusion chased through her own brain—some sixth sense warning her that there was more to her mother’s words than the ramblings of a cross-wired mind. “I know you too,” she said, squeezing her hands. “But remind me whoyouare again?” she said, testing.
Her mother sat awhile, thinking. “I’m Angie’s mother. I have a beautiful little girl.”
Emotion burned fierce into Angie’s eyes. “Yeah. You do.”
“Do you know her?”
“I do.”
This pleased her mother, and she seemed to drift, her features going serene as she shut her eyes and started to sing the words to the hymn in a soft mezzo-soprano.
“Ave Maria ... Gratia plena, Dominus tecum ...”
Angie swallowed, a strange chill of horror icing into her bones at the sound.
Her mother began rocking again, slowly, slowly.“Benedicta tu in mulieribus ...”
“Mom?”
“Et benedictus, fructus ventris tui, Jesus ...”
“Mom!”
“Sancta Maria, sancta Maria, Maria ...”
