The Woman with the Wings
The first time she came was after RoRo’s funeral.
His mom had yelled and screamed at him all morning, getting mad over little things, telling him this was all his fault. She’d been quiet during the funeral itself and the graveside ceremony, and his dad had held him to his side and smoothed his hair throughout both. As soon as they got home, his mom had slapped him around the face, then screamed at him to go to his room and that she never wanted to see him again. He had, and after a few minutes, his dad had come up and sat with him and held him close and told him that she didn’t mean it, she loved him, and it wasn’t his fault. He’d brought Marc his favorite stuffed animals, and sat with him and held him close until he fell asleep.
He woke up to find his dad gone, and a beautiful woman in a blue dress with big, colorful wings in his room. For some reason, he wasn’t afraid. Maybe he’d just been half-asleep. Maybe he’d been all the way asleep, and dreaming. But somehow, he knew she was safe, that *he* was safe with her.
She knelt down and brushed back his hair and kissed his forehead. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “Your brother is safe. And you, and he, will always be loved.” She pulled his blankets further over him. “Go back to sleep.”
He did.
. . .
The second time she came, he was sick.
He’d been sent home from school because he was running a fever. His mother had come to pick him up, but hadn’t said anything the whole ride home. When they got there, she told him to just go to bed. She gave him some water when he asked for it, but he was afraid to ask for anything else, so he just took it, went upstairs to his room, and closed the door.
He tossed and turned restlessly for a while, before slowly drifting into kind of a half-asleep state. He wasn’t sure what time it was when he opened his eyes. When he turned around, though, she was there, sitting on his bed and stroking his hair, and once again, he instantly felt *safe*. He wasn’t sure why, but he did. She turned, and smiled at him, the way his mom used to smile. She was humming something, something he didn’t recognize but that sounded like a lullaby. The words weren’t anything he recognized either – they weren’t English, he thought, but he didn’t know what language they were. His mom and dad sang to him and RoRo in English, or Spanish, or Yiddish, or Hebrew, or Ladino. Or, his mom used to. Sometimes his dad still did. Just to him, now, though, not to RoRo.
He didn’t know the language, but the song was beautiful, and soon sent him back to sleep. When he woke up, he was surprised to find a full glass of water by his bed, even though he knew he’d drank all of it before. There was also a cool washcloth on his forehead, all his favorite stuffed animals were around him, and a couple of light blankets thrown over him. He glanced by the clock at his bed, but it was too early for his dad to be home yet. Unless he’d come home early? He got up and looked out his window into the driveway, but his dad’s car wasn’t there. He was confused. His mom might have gotten the washcloth and the water, but he didn’t think she’d have put any blankets on him, and he was sure she’d never put his stuffed animals there. Mom didn’t even know how important Cade the cat, Felipe the falcon, Thomas the hippo, Dory the panda, Trish the ostrich, and Rand the ram had become to him, but they were there, too, alongside his old favorites Ian the lion and Buddy the dog. So were RoRo’s favorites, his rabbit Isaac and his dog Teddy, and he was sure his mom would never have put them on his bed, even if she hadn’t tried to take them away since that first time.
Then he saw her again, standing by his bed and smiling that same beautiful smile. “Come back to bed, sweetheart,” she said, and even though it wasn’t his mom’s voice, it reminded him of her, back when RoRo was still alive and she still loved him, when she would walk upstairs with him when he was sick, would ask if he wanted water without him having to ask, would sit and wash his face with a cool cloth instead of just tossing it on his forehead and leaving without a word like she did now. Sometimes, now, she’d ask if he needed anything else, but always in a flat tone, never in the gentle way she used to. She never sat with him like she used too, either, even if he asked her to.
He did come back to bed, now, and she sat down next to him and gently placed the cloth back on his forehead.
She sang another lullaby then, this time one that he knew.
Baby’s boat the silver moon
Sailing in the sky
Sailing o’er the sea of sleep,
While the clouds float by.
Sail, Baby, sail,
Out upon that sea.
Only don’t forget to sail,
Back again to me.
Baby’s fishing for a dream,
Fishing near and far,
His line a silver moonbeam is,
His bait a silver star.
Sail, Baby, sail,
Out upon that sea,
Only don’t forget to sail,
Back again to me.
Soon, Marc had fallen asleep again.
. . .
The third time she came, was after a particularly bad beating.
It had been a year since RoRo drowned. Certain days, he would learn, would always be bad. RoRo’s birthday. The day he died. He The anniversary of week of his shiva, and of the day of his funeral, and of the day she had found out she was pregnant with him, and of the day they first brought him home from the hospital, after he was born.
He had come down for lunch. The moment he had gone into the kitchen, she had sprung up and grabbed him, asking why he thought he deserved to eat, after what he had done to his brother.
He had tried to apologize but she wasn’t having it. She had taken one of his father’s belts this time, yanked his shirt off, slammed the buckle into his back, again and again and again, until he could hardly breathe. She had switched to the strap then, whipping him until blood was running down his back and torso and arms and legs, left him covered in welts from his shoulders to his ankles. She seemed to know just how much whipping he could take without passing out. All the while she screamed at him that he was disgusting, that she hated him, that he should have died instead. She finished by punching both eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth, his chin. Then she dragged him outside, still shirtless, yanked off his shoes and socks, and told him to sit on the porch until she said he could come back in. He wouldn’t be eating again today, she said, she had been far too nice letting him have breakfast. From now on, there would be no food for him on the anniversary of her RoRo’s death. He would stay out here, barefoot and shirtless on the porch. If he wouldn’t remember his brother, she would force him to. Then she slammed the door, and he heard both locks click.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, shivering. It was a cloudy day, so cloudy you couldn’t see the sun, and it was raining. He just sat there, trying not to cry. Wondering if his mom would ever stop hating him.
He had no idea how long he had been out there when she appeared. He thought he might have passed out. All he knew was, suddenly she was sitting beside him, arm around him, and had put a blanket around him, and somehow, he wasn’t startled. “Who are you?” he asked, softly.
“My name is Mut,” she answered.
“Why are you here?”
“I come to help people who need it, sometimes.”
He had a lot more questions for her – why was she here now, how did she know about his brother, how could she help him – but he didn’t ask her. She gave him something to eat, and he took it, not knowing what it was. It wasn’t much, but it kept him full. She sat with him and held him close, he didn’t know for how long, before his mom opened the door, and coldly told him to come inside. She made him wipe his feet and dry them, and the rest of himself, with a scratchy towel first, then sent him upstairs to get a bath. The water was ice-cold, no matter how high he turned it, and when he was done, she made him clean up the water he’d tracked in, then sent him to bed. He’d better be asleep by the time his father came home, she told him. It was barely seven, but he did what she said. As he climbed into bed, though, he saw the woman with the wings again, standing over his bed. She knelt down and tucked the covers around him more securely and suddenly, he was warm again, the cold he’d been filled with moments before vanishing. Then she leaned over and kissed his forehead. Soon, he really was sound asleep.
. . .
The next time, he’d gotten lost. He’d wandered off after school, as he often did, reluctant to go home. This time, though, he’d wandered too far, and realized too late that he didn’t know where he was, and that it was getting cold and dark outside. He tried to head back the way he came, but just found himself getting more lost, and confused, and scared.
Then, suddenly, she was there, and had taken his hand. “Follow me,” she said, and he did. Almost before he knew what had happened, he was back at his house, and then he was in his bedroom, and once again, he wasn’t cold anymore. “Don’t go wandering places you don’t know,” she warned him. “Promise me you won’t do that anymore.”
“I promise,” he said, without thinking, and then she hugged him, and kissed his forehead, and was gone.
He kept his promise after that, and didn’t wander anywhere unfamiliar to him.
. . .
The next time was after a nightmare about his brother. RoRo was calling and calling and calling for him, but he couldn’t reach him, couldn’t get to him, no matter how hard he tried. His little brother’s voice kept getting farther and farther away, and more and more desperate, but Marc couldn’t get to him. Then his brother was standing in front of him, his eyes sad. “Why didn’t you save me? Why didn’t you keep me safe? Why did you make me go in there?” he demanded. Marc tried to answer, but somehow, he couldn’t get his mouth to work right.
Then he felt a hand stroking his face, and he opened his eyes to find her there yet again. Marc’s eyes filled with tears. “I tried to save him,” he whispered. “I tried so hard.”
The woman’s face was sad. “I know, little one,” she whispered. “I know.”
“It’s all my fault,” he croaked. “He reminded me, Mom said not to go in that cave when it was raining, but I told him it would be fine, and then I called him a baby.”
“No, sweetheart,” she whispered. “No, it’s not your fault. You didn’t realize what would happen. And, like you said, you tried so hard to save him.” She brushed his hair from his face, then bent over and kissed his forehead. “It’s not your fault.”
“Why does my mom hate me so much, then?” he whispered, tears filling his eyes.
The woman sighed. “Grief does strange things to people, sometimes. And losing a child – that’s the worst kind of grief there is. Sometimes, people feel like they need someone to blame.”
“Will she ever stop hating me?”
“I can’t answer that, little one.”
He reached out to take her hand. “Can you love me, like she used to?”
She smiled a half-sad smile. “No two people can love someone exactly the same way. But you don’t need to ask me to love you. I already have, for a long time.”
“Will you ever stop?”
“Never,” she whispered.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
. . .
She came many times while he was growing up, when he needed help and no one else was there. She was there to offer comfort, and help, and guidance, whenever he needed it most. And, most of all, she gave him love when no one else could.
For him, she became his real mother.