Grace's Story

MASTERPIECE II: Grace’s Story by Nancy S. Ward

MASTERPIECE II: Grace’s Story A Chippewa Publishing Publication, April 2006 Chippewa Publishing LLC 678 Dutchman Drive, Suite 3 Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin 54729 Available Formats: Adobe Acrobat Reader (PDF) ISBN: 1-833400-34-X Other available formats: Palm Doc (PDB), Rocket/REB1100 (RB), Pocket PC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB), hiebook (KML), iSilo (PDB), Mobipocket (PRC), OEBFF Format (IMP), Microsoft Reader (LIT) Masterpiece II: Grace’s Story Copyright © 2005 Nancy S. Ward Edited by Kimberly Burton Cover Art by Gin E. L. Fenton Proofed by Brandy Overton ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole, or in part, by any means, without the written consent of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are fictitiously used. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. WARNING: The contents of this book may contain adult language and violence. PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Grace’s Story

My soul is ready to speak to you—about Scott; about what it has been like for me since I moved on in death to a higher plane—and about the terror I feel for my future. Many moments have passed since you and I last spoke, and those same moments blend into months. I need to talk now, for I fear I will run out of time. But first, I must reintroduce myself in case you’ve forgotten my name. It is I, Grace, the “masterpiece.” Well, that is what Scott called me anyway. Too bad he never, oh dear, he never treated me like a masterpiece when I was alive, the way he ripped his painting “Every Woman” from my fingers and let me die in the flames in his, I mean our, Boston loft. M-murderer! Devil! Do you think I am right? Please say yes. Am I right to think that he’s a demon? Well, whether he was a demon-on-earth or an immoral egotist who never loved me or anything but the chance for stardom, I still died—that is the bottom line. I was actually glad to see “Every Woman” get the notoriety she deserved. I mean, I need to face it—I died for her. They trapped and hung her (by the weight of a somewhat ostentatious frame) at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Soon after my demise, Scott had very little time to soak in the attention from his masterpiece. Oh, the suffering, the agony—slowly but progressively burning alive from the inside the way he did—worsening with each blink of an eye, each tear that rolled down his deformed, charred cheek. A single drizzly morning or a night as black as pitch felt so much longer to him. It was hard for me to watch from above him. Remember, I had to haunt him. I needed to transfer my pain in order to cleanse my soul of a wrongful death so that I would be ready to reach a higher plane. I had to haunt him. I must. It was the only way. You did not see what I saw when Scott was nearly dead; whatever flesh around his eyeballs remained helped guide him and gave him a last chance to see a full

moon. For a brief moment, as the moonbeams soaked into his face as he sat near the open bathroom window, he felt no pain at all. We ignore so many moments that pass quickly in our lives, but those same few moments become something to cherish when we know they are our last. Although I can confess, as I am sure anybody could say that there are many moments in our lives, sometimes a long hug or laugh over an ice cream sundae with our best friend, when we do indeed grab the combination and unlock it for our memories. My spirit watched Scott from above; I spied that he possessed the sleepy eyes of an angel—not a murderer, womanizer, or all the other negative qualities that were wrapped up in his personalized package. The small holes for eyes, raw and covered in burned flesh, mirrored innocence and purity—finally he realized it was not his pretty (okay, she was beautiful) ex-lover Erin who was the work of art in his life. Not even “Every Woman” herself won that honor. Scott said with no reservations that the real masterpiece was, you know, he said it w-was me. He believed it was me. Finally, his eyes cracked and widened beyond the puffiness of his obese ego; he knew he was not the only true creator of “Every Woman.” And I finally learned as well, just as Scott did, that I volunteered tireless devotion, poured part of my soul into his gifted brain. I blessed him with so much of my own raw energy to store and then release at the precise second and then attack the canvas in a raw, pure, manic form with no inhibitions—and no turning back. You and I know “Every Woman” would’ve miscarried otherwise. Yes, I do believe that. At least now I do. At this very moment in time, I need all of you more than ever before. I am frightened. I feel like a kid does on her first visit to the dentist; sitting in the icy cold leather chair, hearing the shriek of a drill in the next room, and smelling the drippy, pungent odor of ground, burned teeth. I have yet to learn my eternal fate. I am at a higher plane, but it appears, I think, that my spirit is not fully cleansed yet—so I still feel negatively sensitized like a human does; hot and cold sensations, sadness, anxiety, remorse, and fear enter my soul—even sleep. The need for food or drink is nonexistent. I am still violet in color and nearly transparent, and I can float several feet off the ground, the way the first tale told. I am in a small, bland place—the color of institutionalized tan. I know it is small, because a short time ago when I awoke from a very long sleep, I could not float up to the height I am usually able to achieve. There are no windows or doors. Every twist or turn I try to explore, every time I creep down a hallway, a force stops me. Maybe it is an energy force—I do not know exactly, but I do know that something is stopping me—it is squashing my curiosity. I have no idea why I have not reached the highest plane yet. ****

I am totally alone, and I hate it. But today, right now, I think someone or something is watching me—studying me. I do not know where I am, how I got here, exactly how long I have been here—or where I am going! Is this like a temporary holding place or is this my fate? Is this what happens when you die? Is this maybe all I am going to get for being a good person all my life? For dying in vain? Will I be stuck here for five more days, weeks, months, or, oh God, eternity? Is Scott near me or far away, further than even my imagination can stretch? Will someone or something please speak to me? Help me? Help me! Please! I swear the paranoia is going to make me go mad. Maybe I am already. Maybe I am hallucinating, for I think I see a figure seated at the end of that strange hallway that I could not enter. I blink my eyes once and it is still there; a second time and it is still there. When I blink a third time, the figure is no longer blurred, but closer to me and easy to recognize. It is a woman in midlife, plain features and blonde-gray hair pulled into a neat bun. She does not believe in accessorizing. She is sitting in an oversized chair that has fat armrests. The chair is the same color as these depersonalized walls. She is modestly dressed in a loose-fitting button-down sweater and long dark skirt, with her hands folded neatly on her lap. She is not smiling. She would make a perfect Puritan. Although I should talk, since I always wore sensible shoes and a meticulously pressed business suit when I was alive. I blink a fourth time and the woman has vanished. If this is real and I am not going mad, it seems this human-like form wants to have fun with me and play tricks on my mind; it wants to accelerate the numerous fears I have about where I am and what fate will offer me. There is a chance that the woman was never there—maybe I just wanted her to be, so I could have someone to talk to, finally, in this dreary place. If she really exists, I hope she is a good conversationalist. Well, at least I can talk to you, right? You are all my friends. I never had a good friend in my whole life. Now it is time to talk about… Wait. I hear something. Footsteps? Yes! Footsteps! Oh, my God! What if it is the impersonal woman; what if she is angry with me and is capable of sending me to a lower plane? What if…? Oh, my Lord! The strange woman in the overstuffed chair is close by! “Help! Help! Someone, somebody h-help me! Please!” She is lifting both hands from her lap and motioning for me to come forward. I can tell she has certain powers, gifts, because as she is doing this, I am being compelled, forced, to move toward her. **** “Do not be afraid, Grace. I am not here to hurt you. I am here to help. Please sit down.” Well, at least she is smiling. Please do not leave me now, my friends. Please! I

am turning and see a stark wooden chair. It is the opposite of hers, and very small and low, suitable more for a child. I am sitting down and wondering what “help” I need. And how did she know my name? How did she know my name! Well, I guess anyone who can physically force me to move forward just by lifting her hands would also be able to know my first name—and choose any type of chair she pleases for me to sit on. “You must be confused, Grace. I can feel your anxiety. Certainly, that’s understandable. Would you prefer that I begin the conversation or do you wish to speak first so I can answer any questions you might have?” My throat muscles have swelled so much I cannot speak. My cloud-like form is shaking uncontrollably. All I can do is lean forward to indicate I would like her to begin. “Well, Grace, my sole purpose for being here right now is to cleanse you so your spirit can reach the last, final plane. Right now, you are on the second plane, and I admit it isn’t exactly the Waldorf.” I do not feel like laughing right now. She’s smiling, though. A smile before she is ready to condemn me to a lower level for haunting Scott? Or leave me stuck for decades, maybe centuries, in this bland place with no freedom and nobody to communicate with one-on-one? I wonder how many planes there are? “There are three planes, or levels, to achieve…” Oh my Lord! Now she can read my mind! Or was it just a coincidence since she was in the middle of explaining the planes? “You mustn’t feel sorry for yourself now, Grace. I am here only to help you, so I suggest you pay attention. I don’t want us to run out of time.” Run out of time. Run out of time… I am straightening my form to show her I am going to take this as seriously as she does. Good posture is important. I am still shaking. Oh dear, she’s not smiling now. “The very first plane, the lowest level, is a very undesirable place indeed. I was allowed to view it and I can tell you it’s where souls are partially in flames—in agony. You’re on the second plane—the holding place, if you will. The third plane is supposed to be truly magnificent! But I’m not allowed to tell you any more details. In fact, I have very little information. Do you understand?” I am nodding obediently and waiting to speak until she tells me to—this seems to please her as she is placing her arms on the armrests, looking more relaxed. Control freak. “You’re the soul I’ve chosen to help cleanse.” She leans in a little closer. “I saw your untimely death. I saw what Scott did, and it seemed only fitting that I choose to help you. Someone so giving and thoughtful in life as you…and if we are successful, you and I working closely together, you can get to the final plane—in the future, that is. As for me, my work will finally be finished and I will

be able to immediately achieve the final, eternal plane.” Her face looks a little more serious now. “But in order for this to happen, so that both our souls can benefit, I need your help. I need you to tell me about your horrible childhood, your struggling years as a young adult, and most importantly, we must explore how these past experiences have influenced you in your late twenties and early thirties, particularly your marriage to Scott—you must purge your spirit and tell me everything about the night of the fire. Every detail you can possibly remember.” Her face has turned colder than an icicle. My face has dropped to where my lap used to be. I am still a little shaky. “I-I d-don’t understand what you, what you mean about the fire and I’m well, I’m—I’m confused who, who you are and…” “I am an angel.” I am so scared right now, my friends. You are my friends, right? Stay with me, please. “I d-don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t look like the kind of a-angel I’ve always imagined.” “I really am an angel. However, since I have not yet reached the third and final level of spiritual fulfillment, my powers are strong but limited; a real angel’s powers are virtually limitless.” Confusion has set in. “You look confused. I’m sure you’ve pictured angels with long, wavy hair, flawless faces, long, airy gowns, and a glow that emits eternal tranquility.” Do not forget the wings. She paused. “And certainly we can’t forget the large, beautiful wings.” This is unbelievable. “I can take on different forms, Grace. I can be prettier, younger, whatever. But I can’t take on the form of the flawless angel—not quite yet, anyway. I chose this very modest, plain look, so to speak, because I thought it was appropriate with the work that you and I have to do.” “Is it because I was modest and plain-looking in human form?” “Yes.” Gee, don’t sugarcoat it for me so much. I’m a big girl. Give it to me straight. “I didn’t try to look like I’m barely into my mid-thirties, the age in which you died. I wanted to appear just a little older; have a certain ‘look’ so we can relate to each other better.” “I have a lot of questions, of…of course. But I need to know something. Can you, well can you p-please tell me where Scott is? I mean, is that possible?” “Still concerned with others before your own needs, even when your own fate is on the line. Will you ever learn to put yourself first just once in awhile?

She’s crossing her legs. “We will talk about Scott later. But for now, look closely—look very closely and I’ll show you what I used to look like.” She turns her head to the far left and then she looks at me straight on. She is very pretty, with an oval face, large gray eyes and long, glossy dark hair. Her dainty red lips form neatly into a bow. Maybe she is in her late twenties. It is hard to say exactly. Must have received a lot of envious stares from the ladies when she mingled amongst the living. Well, I’m glad she showed me… Oh! Oh, Jesus! What’s happening? Her hair is on fire, the face is turning into hot globs of goop, sliding off her. Ahhhh! I can’t take this, but I-I cannot stop watching! Oh, God! Somebody help me! She’s not letting me pass out! I know now that this evil thing has the power to do that! I am with a demon! Now the skull is still in flames but she is, she is s-sobbing! I thought demons could only cackle, like in the movies or books. The skull is weeping—weeping uncontrollably—the tears are softening the flames that are curling into the eye sockets. I cannot move. Tell me to move, my friends! Shout at me right now! My body is shaking! Please, please stay with me! She turns her head again. Thank God! Now she looks the way she did when I met her only moments ago. **** “You want someone to think about? Well, you got it, Grace! That was my fate—I burned to death, just like you did! We have three days for me to help you, which in turn, will help my own spirit! We don’t have time to discuss Scott’s fate in great detail right now! Scott—the husband who never loved you—an evil man who let you die! It’s not being selfish to put yourself first, especially with the issues that are clearly before you—issues that need to be addressed in three short days! Get that through your outrageously insecure soul!” “I-I’m sorry. I—” “Dry your tears, Grace. What I’m telling you is the truth about yourself! Plus, you should take solace in the fact that I’m not a demon.” “Then why did you do that to m-me? Why did, why did you show me something so horrible? Haven’t I been through enough horror?” “I had to. You needed to see it to put you in a different mind-set, so to speak. You needed to see our common bond, since I died in a fire, too. Something else we have in common is the need to work together to lift both of our souls.” She is looking dead serious now. “If you do not fully cooperate, then my soul will be stuck in this plane until I’m given another chance, and another soul to help—I’ll have to wait very patiently for that.”

“A-And me? What will happen…?” “You will be forced to stay here for a long time before another angel is sent to you, to give you another chance. Or…” “Or what?” “Or, my dear Grace, you will be hurled back into the living, a restless spirit endlessly roaming the earth for an indefinite amount of time, as a spirit who died a cruel and wrongful death! You will be lonely and wandering, watching the living live; watching lovers on a park bench; watching a mother and child playing hideand-seek at the park; watching a homeless man sift through trash for his evening meal. You’ll see it all, Grace.” “Stop! Please, please stop! I understand you perfectly now. I just, I just wish you could be a little gentler with me, that’s all.” “That’s not going to happen, Grace. If I am too easy on you, it could turn out to be disastrous for both of us. A real angel will take what has to be done and twist it—shape it to fit the appropriate need. What I need from you are some truths, and soon. So we don’t run out of time. Do you understand? Do you understand!” “Yes, y-yes I do. Completely.” “Now it’s time for you to rest, Grace. As for me, I do not need to sleep anymore.” A warm rush of anxiety hit me. Rest? I thought we needed all the time we could get. She knitted her brows—she knows what I am thinking. She pointed and shook her long, thin finger at me—like a mother scolding her child for throwing all of the toys around his bedroom. “I will wake you at 12:01 a.m., the start of our second day. You need a little time to calm your mind and digest all you have taken in.” My spirit is floating several inches from the ground. She was letting me do it, because before I was unable to leave the uncomfortable chair. It seems she has control over almost everything. I wonder if I can see Scott soon, if we do not run out of time. How long has she been helping souls—I’d like to find out. With all of these questions on my mind, how will I be able to sleep? I don’t feel sleepy. What a smug look she has on her face. “I’ll see to it that you’ll feel sleepy in a short while, and when you sleep, you will dream of your childhood—it will help with the breakthrough. Oh, and also, you can call me by my first name if you’d like—it’s Hope. As for Scott, we’ll see if there’s time. A lot of that depends on you. You can go now, Grace.” I am floating away to the little space near the long hall. I turn and see she has already disappeared. I wonder why she did not tell me how long she has been purging souls and why mine needs cleansing. My spirit feels so weighted-down now. Someone is whispering to me. It must be—

“Do not worry, Grace. I’ll see to it that your friends can ‘hear’ your dream.” How sweet of her to use her power to do that—to reassure me. A feeling has overcome me; I feel as if I am drugged, and sleep is the only thing on my mind now. I am floating and melting into the makeshift bed. If Hope is true to her word and her powers are intense enough, then you will know my dream—a dream, and a reality, which I am terrified to remember… **** “Grace! Grace, you little mongrel! Get over here, God damn you!” Grace, at eleven years old, runs toward her drunken mother who is in her midforties. Grace is very plain looking, and thin—she is noticeably small for her age. Her hair is wispy and mousy brown—barely thick enough to hold a ponytail wrapped in an elastic band. Her nose is large for her tiny, pale face and her clothes are old. Her mother is lying in bed mumbling and rolling in her own vomit. The carpet, near an old, lumpy bed, shows a scattering of old scars from lit cigarettes that had fallen and missed the ashtray. Taking a deep breath and blinking away tears, little Grace has been through this routine too many times before. She wraps an old, ripped bath towel around her upper body to protect her clothing, and raises her petite, bony mother off the bed and supports her as they walk toward the bathroom. Too much drinking and sun caused deep creases on every inch of her mother’s skin. A few moments pass as Grace helps her mother into the bathtub using great care. Shoulder-length bleached hair sprouting gray roots hung in the frowsy woman’s face. “I don’t need your help you li’l shit—you little, you little, you—ugly little shit! I can, I, I can get ‘long jus’ fine without-without ya. In fact, in, in fact, I’d, I’d do, I’d do better without you hangin’ all the hell over, all over me! You know, if you were never born, your old man wouldn’ta left years ago!” One day, a day that appeared to be as routine and bleak as any other day, her dad grabbed his little steel lunch box before leaving for work but never came back. Grace was only seven years old. Her mom and dad were big drinkers when he was around, but her mother made it her whole existence after he left. Grace tries to stop the tears and help her mother wash. Her mother splashes her and tries to move away. “Mom, mom, p-please, please stop splashing.” Grace walks to the sink to wash her face with clean water. She walks over to her mother to help her out of the tub and into her robe. Her mother scowls and then the knitted brows loosen. An evil smile invades

her face, baring her dingy teeth. She splashes hard, soaking Grace right down to the bones. “P-p-please stop, please! Please stop, mommy!” She chuckles as her mascara-soaked eyeballs look directly into Grace’s innocence and pain. “Aw, poor baby! Did mommy get you all wet?” She snickers, knowing she is going to land another verbal bullet through Grace’s heart. “Grace, Grace, with the ugly face! Grace, Grace, with the ugly face!” Grace cries and runs down the short hallway of the apartment and slams the door to her bedroom. But even with the door closed, and the sound of her own sobbing, she cannot escape hearing her mother’s cackling, or the reminder of the cruel words that stab into Grace’s brain until she feels she cannot take the pain anymore. She cannot escape the sight of the worn-out face permanently stamped with hatred and resentment for her own waste of a childhood. She cannot escape the smell of the vomit, or her mother’s body odor and stomach-churning breath. The sound of drunks and clanking bottles from the bar that they live above invade her senses The cackling soon stops and the bathtub is draining. Grace turns on the radio and begins to punch her pillow, wishing it were her mother’s face. She stops as the door opens and looks up, scared as hell. Her mother is standing there, hands on hips and scowling. She is dripping, wearing a smelly old bathrobe and furry slippers that have turned matted and have a few holes in the toes. Parting her thin, cracked lips, she yells again. “Turn off that radio, you stupid little asshole!” Grace obeys and reaches to shut it, but her mother is right there as if she flew. She squashes the speaker’s sound by putting her hand over it. Grace screams as her mother rips it from the wall and hurls it to the opposite wall. They both watch the radio crash and die a quick death—that simple little box was one of the few things that Grace owned and cared about. They listened to the silence. But the horror on Grace’s young face and the look of total satisfaction on her mother’s is soon interrupted as the pathetic drunk begins to yell again. Grace is shaking and curled into the fetal position. “You have to go to sleep, now! Now! Do you hear me, little troll? I want you asleep in five minutes! Five minutes!” As she leaves the room, pumped-up with adrenaline, she looks back at her only child. “They want you downstairs to help wash dishes an hour early tomorrow, Grace—and you’d better be on time, understand?” No response. “Do you understand!”

“Yes, mom,” Grace replies meekly. “Yes, mom what?” “Yes, mom, I do understand you.” She slams the door, leaving Grace in total darkness. Shaky but exhausted, Grace cried quietly. Her stomach was aching, so she stumbles into the kitchen for some dry cereal. As she pulls the chain for the overhead light in the pantry, she grabs the box of cereal and opens it—then she spies a little family of mice in the corner and screams, as the cereal spills all over the floor. The mice scatter; but her mother marches into the room, screaming when she spotted the cereal on the filthy floor collecting in spots where chunks of tile were missing. Grace got a beating that night with an old belt her father used to wear. Young Grace had a nightmare that same evening, a dream similar to one she has had several times before; she stabs and successfully murders her mother in the heart with a kitchen knife during a struggle. Taking a few steps back before she dies, the mother’s eyes turn as yellow as a coyote’s. She screams as her face begins to split, shooting out lime green liquid instead of blood. Grace just stands there, holding the knife and smiling. The mother puts both hands on her cheeks and keeps wailing from being split open—everywhere there’s skin. Fangs grow where human teeth used to be and purple liquid dribbles off them. The mother narrows her eyes and then opens them wide and sad as if to beg for forgiveness. But Grace just stands there smiling. When the mother is just about ready to die, a pack of wild boars break through the kitchen door and attack her, ripping her apart. Grace always awakens with a dripping forehead, checks to see where her mother is, and soon falls back asleep. The following morning, Grace is working at the bar below their apartment, washing dishes. She is standing on a stool, inhaling the stench of stale beer, cigars, and cigarettes, and listening to the “regulars,” the losers, who come in every day to sob the same stories and laugh at the same jokes. She cringes, wondering if her smelly old boss will greet her by patting her on the rear end like he has done in the past. For nine hours every Saturday, she helps open the bar and does other jobs as well, like cleaning the cooler grates and scrubbing the toilets. Her meager wages help a little with the rent. The mother works there a few nights a week “under the table,” and the rest of their living expenses come from state aid. And while Grace is working, her mother is seen guzzling cheap booze. “I hate you! I hate you!” **** “Do you really know me well enough to judge whether or not you hate me,

Grace?” “Oh no, no I’m so sorry, but, but I was having this dream about my…” “I was just teasing you,” the angel Hope said with a smile. “I know it’s perfectly understandable why you have feelings of hatred toward your mother.” I’m feeling violated, my friends. Must she know my thoughts even as I sleep? Or did she make me dream it? I wish she did not have so much control over me. I hope you know my dream, because unfortunately it is true. Hope is a few yards away, motioning for me to get up and float to the same chair as before. I do not feel like floating right now—I am still trying to wake up and shake off my mother’s madness. I don’t feel like talking to her either, but she makes the rules and I must follow. I must go to her. She is waiting, her hands folded on her lap. I want to ask her why I had to have that horrible nightmare and have to relive my childhood again just to satisfy her controlling, somewhat sadistic desires. “I didn’t give you the nightmare to intentionally hurt or upset you in any way, Grace. But it was necessary.” “Why was it a necessity? “Because it’s part of our work together. It will help you understand more about the night of the fire, you see.” “Excuse me, Ms. Angel, I, I m-mean Hope. I don’t understand what you mean, exactly.” “You will. Soon. That night isn’t as ‘cut and dry,’ so to speak, as you think. We must explore this in steps to help purge your soul and have you become an angel, like me.” “So if we’re successful, I need to help other souls also, before I get to…?” “We’ll get to that, Grace—in time.” She is sounding more serious now, my comrades. I had better back off and let her keep taking the lead. Unfolding her hands and placing them on her chair’s overweight armrests, I can tell she is ready to ask another question. “Do you think the hatred you felt toward your mother, the poverty-infested childhood, all the trauma, affected relationships you’ve had in your life?” “I don’t know if I’d actually say I hated her, even though I shouted it in my dream, and I had disturbing dreams about her that went against my gentle, shy nature.” “Who wouldn’t hate her? She was a pathetic excuse for a human being let alone having the responsibilities and joys of motherhood, joyous moments that both of you never shared! The way she treated you, and the way you lived? How you took care of her and gave up your childhood just to have her verbally and physically abuse you? And to have to work at a local dive washing dishes and

cleaning toilets when you were underage?” She leaned forward. “Tell me the truth, Grace. I’d like to move on. Tell me what you feel in your soul—the anger, the sorrow, the…” “Actually, yes, I need to admit that there were times I, well, I hated her. Truly hated her. Yes, and as you said, who wouldn’t feel hatred toward an evil person such as herself? And it really hurt when she said I was ugly.” Help me get through this part without crying, my friends. “Hope, what little girl wouldn’t be shy when everyone made fun of her for living above a bar with her drunken mother? The other kids didn’t want to try to get to know me because of where I was from and the clothes I wore. I was a good girl—it took a lot of my life to realize that. It took a big chunk of my life to finally realize that it wasn’t my fault. And…” “And what?” “It took away a lot of my strength.” “Of course it would. But keep in mind that it took an unbelievable amount of strength to get through a childhood and adolescence like yours.” She’s using both of her hands now to make her point. “You never took drugs. You never became promiscuous to try to seek the love you never received. Never ‘cut’ yourself. Never tried to commit suicide. Always stood on your own two feet, as they say.” She’s almost beaming. “And look how well you did in school! Almost always received an ‘A’ with only an occasional ‘B’. Amazing! That’s why you received grants and scholarships to get into a good business school. That’s why you joined a successful accounting firm when you were only twenty-two.” She’s leaning forward more than before. “You truly deserve the name ‘Grace’ because you came through it all so gracefully.” “Well, I know Scott would disagree. As he once said, I was so clumsy I’d trip over my own shadow. And shy? So shy I was petrified of my own shadow most of the time.” “You don’t need to be another Ginger Rogers to give yourself a pat on the back, my dear. You know that I’m talking about a totally different form of grace.” I cannot believe I am actually smiling. “I know what you mean, yes, I really do.” She’s leaning even closer now. Uh-oh. “No one appreciated you enough, Grace. No one ever really gave you a chance, did they?” My smile has faded quickly now. I know she’s right.

“Did they?” “No, they did not.” She’s settling back into her chair, looking satisfied with what she just accomplished. Her expression is changing so quickly to that of concern. **** “Jan never appreciated your friendship, did she?” Oh, my God! How did Jan come into the picture? I am sick and tired of her knowing everything about me! I feel angry, but I do not know how to react! I will just ease into it. What else can I do? “I’m…I’m just curious, um, well, why would you mention Jan? I mean—” “Because, we’re moving on from your childhood to young adulthood now. It is vital to explore your brief yet significant friendship with Jan and how it ended so abruptly.” Please do not lean forward again. Oh boy, there she goes. “The friendship, and when she broke your trust in her, has a lot to do with your many insecurities. Those insecurities have a strong correlation between the night of the fire, what you did, and what you might have done differently.” I am really pissed now, excuse my French, whatever that expression is really supposed to mean. “What I did was save the masterpiece, never knowing Scott would let me die in the process! That is all! I still don’t know what you’re talking about! I died at age thirty-three. And I’m here now, sitting in this tiny chair, listening to you talk in circles. End of chapter, please! I’m sorry to be disrespectful, but I’m extremely frustrated!” Uh oh. She’s standing up, exercising her superiority. “And you have every right to be. But I’ve already explained to you that this is part of our work together so you can…” “I know, I know! I-I’m sorry.” “It’s time for you to take a little nap now, Grace.” “Why, Hope? I’m too wound-up!” “Soon you will be able to fall fast asleep. I guarantee it. Return to where you slept yesterday and I will call on you later.” I am floating to my private little area now and already feeling sleepy, my friends. I am becoming more and more concerned with this angel’s power. Obviously, it is Jan I am going to dream of, and I hope that once again you will be able to ‘read-into’ my thoughts… ****

Grace is twenty-eight years old. She is sitting in a classroom—the first one to arrive. Her reading glasses are perched carefully on her large nose and she appears engrossed by an article in the latest TIME issue. She nervously twirls each thin strand of her hair, which she has cut neat and to the chin. Having a position in middle management at an accounting firm, Grace hoped that taking an advanced Spanish adult education class would strengthen her assets even more. Besides, maybe she would meet someone. Although she did not meet a handsome man whose personality made him a potential candidate for marriage, she did meet someone who became very special to her—someone much more outgoing than she was. Someone who immediately wanted to take on the challenge of helping a withdrawn, sweet woman feel more confident. The door opens and it is Jan, Grace’s new friend. The Thursday night course is half-over by now, and from nearly the beginning, the two of them clicked. She is the only friend Grace ever had. They smile at each other and Jan quickly sits on one of those uncomfortable night class chairs. Both talk softly, leaning toward each other, demanding privacy. Then they giggle like teenage girls for a moment until five people at one time invade the room. Once the class begins, Grace looks over at Jan, still finding it hard to believe that Jan actually likes her. Totally unattached, Jan is medium height with dirty blonde, wavy shoulder-length hair worn loose. She is a little above average looking and aged thirty. She is looking into a compact mirror, wiping makeup smudges away from her small, dark brown eyes with a tissue. She is wearing stylish jeans and shoes, a Foreigner concert T-shirt, and a lot of gold jewelry. Jan owns a small, busy, beauty shop, and Spanish has fascinated her since taking it in high school. Since many of her customers speak Spanish, she thought it would help business. A few men in class like to eyeball Jan from time to time, but never show the least bit of interest in Grace. Grace always notices when this happens and desperately hopes she will not lose her bond with Jan to a sleazebag guy—or any guy at all. “None of you can have her. I found her first,” Grace would pout to herself, listening, as her heart would begin to beat too fast. “If you take her away, she won’t have any time left for me.” After class, they usually go out for a drink—only one for Jan, and as for Grace, who is a teetotaler, she orders her usual diet soda. Some Saturday afternoons they would have lunch in the park and complain about men. A few months pass, and the Spanish course is over. It was a tough class, and Grace was very hard on herself when she learned of earning an A-, while Jan was more than satisfied with a C. The two different personalities blended from the start. Jan helps Grace have more fun and Grace helps to keep Jan’s manic type of energy

in line. One particular Thursday night in July, the two of them decided to go out for Mexican food. Jan made sure they sat near the bar—she wore a tight off-theshoulder dress, more determined than usual to display her lovely curves and flirt. That night Grace and Jan’s friendship began to change. Before they ordered dessert, Jan attracted the attention of a somewhat goodlooking man about seven years her senior—tall and slim, with pepper and salt hair, and an intoxicating laugh. His name was Alex. He and Jan hit it off instantly. That is when Jan began to ignore Grace. Suddenly, it became common for Grace to interact with Jan only through the answering machine. She was too busy for Grace now. The few times Grace called when Jan was at home, she could only talk about Alex: the places they went together, the great sex, the things they had in common, and of course, the “I think he’s the one,” phrase. Grace succumbed to depression and retired early to bed each night crying, wishing for Alex to leave Jan, and sleeping away weekends. A few months passed with no word from Jan. Grace had given up trying to reach her. One soaking Friday evening, close to midnight, Grace was dreaming about her mother’s death—the real story of how she fell down drunk and split her head halfway open on the apartment’s old-fashioned radiator. It happened while Grace was a sophomore in college. The thought of paying respects to a deranged, hateful woman—mother or not—was something Grace chose not to do. Not long had passed before Grace visited Potter’s Field, where they buried her mother, and placed a single white rose there. As she was walking away, she swore she heard her mother screech, “Grace, Grace with the ugly face!” and then cackle. She looked back in terror, which quickly turned to anger, imagined the coffin on fire, and her mother’s shriveled skin burning to a crisp—like a marshmallow that’s been toasted in the fireplace too long. Grace put her hands to her nose and her fingertips smelled like her mother’s vomit. She thought of all the times that same putrid smell was on her hands and all the times she had to clean up after her. Then she spit up near the gate and promised herself she would never return. She half-awakened to the sound of the rain splattering on the window, and then sat up in bed when she heard a loud, nervous knocking on the door. The annoying sound quickly turned into pounding by the time Grace was approaching the door, her heart rapping inside her chest. “Who-who is it?” Grace asked. Her hand shaking as she pressed it against the door. “Open up, Grace!” “J-Jan? Jan?” “Yes, it’s me! Now open the door!” As Grace clutched her nightgown, she asked, “Are you alone?”

“Oh, my God, I don’t believe this! Yes! Yes, I’m alone. Now will you please open the goddamn door!” Grace could barely control her trembling fingers as she unlatched both chain locks and turned the doorknob. Jan was standing there, shivering uncontrollably, and soaking wet. Mascara scurried down her cheeks to her jawbone. Grace gasped and rushed her inside. “What, oh my, Jan. Jan, p-please sit, and let me grab some towels.” While Grace rushed to get the towels, Jan chose one of the few chairs to sit in—a lived-in recliner that looked friendly and comfy. She remembered sitting in that chair not long ago, eating Chinese food with Grace, and watching Casablanca for the millionth time. She hugged herself to try to stay warmer. Grace was there with the towels and attempted to help dry Jan’s hair. “I can do it myself!” Jan snapped. Grace backed away as if Jan just bit her, and then quietly sat on the couch. She watched as Jan bruised the crisp, white towels black and blue from globs of eye shadow and mascara. “Well, he dumped me tonight before we even saw the dessert menu.” Jan began to cry into the towel as Grace’s eyes filled with tears. She could not bear seeing her this way. “Just like that, he ended it. Do you believe it? I wish this was a nightmare and I’d wake up right now. I can’t believe it…can’t believe it.” “How did this happen, Jan? What, what can I do to help?” “You can convince him to come back to me. That’s how you could help!” Jan wiped her nose with the other white towel, staining that one, too. Grace only used white towels and facecloths. That is the way she liked it. Seeing Jan ruin the other towel, Grace popped up to get some tissues for Jan. “Will you sit down and listen to me? God, where are you going anyway?” “I was just going to get you a box of tissues.” “Don’t bother. I think I’m done crying for now.” Grace took the signal to sit down. “He said it was getting too serious. He said he thinks we ought to cool if for a while, which of course really means he’s dumping me.” Jan crossed her legs and eased back into the chair a little. “I told him I loved him the other night, after we’d made love. Big mistake. Big, big mistake…” Grace leaned forward. “It’s okay that you told him you loved him, Jan. But maybe, well, maybe he’s just not ready for a big commitment right now. I’m so sorry, Jan, I’m…” Jan scowled and stood up, throwing the towels on the floor. “So, ‘miss know it all’ is going to tell me about relationships. Such an expert that you think you can sum up how Alex feels, what he and I shared, in a

sentence?” She started to walk toward the door. “Jan, please don’t leave! I’m sorry, so very, very sorry…” “Why shouldn’t I leave? I’m getting no help from you! Dear Grace—the expert on love. The homely, skinny, little nothing of a woman, who probably couldn’t even pay a guy to screw her!” “That’s not fair, Jan. And it’s mean.” She headed for the door again. “Please don’t leave, Jan! Please don’t leave!” Grace tried to hold her back and Jan shook her off like a cow shakes off a fly with its tail. “Thanks for all your help, Grace! I feel so much better now!” Jan left without shutting the door. Grace stood there and felt as if she were just whacked in the face with a bag of ice cubes. Grace could not stop crying—she was in mourning for so long—the death of the only friendship she ever had. She blamed herself all the time, wishing she could take back anything she said to hurt Jan, never realizing it was Jan’s fault all along—and Jan’s loss. Jan never returned. **** “It’s time to wake up now, Grace,” the angel said while bending over her. Grace was crying in her sleep. “Do I have to get up right now? I just need a few moments to collect myself,” Grace begged. “Yes, dear, we must continue now. We’re running out of time,” said the angel. Grace and the angel returned to their usual spot—Grace was in no mood to talk. “Jan wronged you, didn’t she?” The angel crossed her legs and leaned forward a little. Grace knew she had to answer. And her answer even surprised her. “I always thought that it was my fault. But after reliving the dream, I think that it might’ve been, no, I think it really was, her fault. She was so oversensitive; she refused my help, and threw away a friendship so lightly.” The angel smiled. Now they were getting somewhere and could move on. For the angel had her own soul to think of as well—the more progress they made, the better chance for her own eternal success. She watched as Grace blinked her moist eyes. “That’s right. You did nothing wrong, you see. You were a loyal, giving friend. Jan was too selfish and manic to see it—to fully appreciate you.” Grace hung her head and mumbled, “I wish I could’ve seen it for what it really

was years ago, and not have to relive it in such a vivid dream—or should I say, nightmare…” The angel knew she couldn’t hang on this subject for too long. “Before we end this phase in your life and move on to the next, I just want to tell you that I didn’t enjoy making you experience that memory again, or the one about your mother, either. You know by now that it’s part of the soul-cleansing process—it was necessary.” “Oh, yes, I certainly know that by now,” Grace mumbled. The angel knitted her brows, for she did not appreciate the sarcasm. She noticed the ‘cloud’ that Grace is made of in death was a lighter shade of violet than yesterday. That was a good sign, but the angel kept it to herself. She took a deep breath. **** “And now, Grace, it’s time to talk about the third and final phase of your life on earth—a life that was cut short at the age of thirty-three.” Grace knew what was coming and rose from her chair. She began to back away and could feel her entire soul pounding to the pace of her movements. “Come back here right now, Grace!” the angel yelled. Grace moved slower and then stopped. She could not move any further if she wanted to—the angel made sure of that. She quietly returned to her seat without a fuss, knowing the angel’s powers were too strong for her to battle. The angel won again. It seems the angel, Hope, always won. “There. That’s better. Now stop acting like a child, or you will be treated as one. I know this isn’t easy but you must cooperate.” The angel folded her hands and continued. “We must talk about Scott now. You knew we were coming to this.” “I know, but I’ve been through so much pain, and now you’re exposing me to more. I just wanted to see him and what he’s going through now—that’s all I can handle. I mean, first we delve into my pathetic childhood, then my uneventful young adulthood, and now, in my early thirties, we have to analyze the man who let me save his masterpiece but also let me die in the flames!” Grace was getting manic now. “We must stop here! We must! I swear to God I can’t take anymore of this!” The angel stood up. “We can’t stop!” She moved closer. “We can’t, and you should know that!” She paused, and then drew back. Hope yelled at Grace, “If you want to talk of pain, I will show you pain! Look!”

She waved her hand near Grace and then stood back. Grace could see only a blurry blob at first. A few more seconds passed, and she watched as the image took shape. Then she saw it all too clearly. She screamed. She saw Scott. He was naked, sitting on a wooden floor and hugging his legs tight to his body. His skin charred to a deep gray. Protruding far from the rest of his face was his eyes and mouth—both bright red and covered with oozing blisters. He was whimpering in pain. Every few moments, flames rose from below and licked his body—torturing him over and over again. Grace shut her eyes tight, and kept screaming and shrieking, “No, no! How could you show me this? How could you show me this? You didn’t even warn me that it would be like this! Oh, God!” She began to shake violently. It took a long time for the angel to quiet her down. She repeatedly whispered relaxing thoughts into Grace’s soul. When Grace was more relaxed and rational, the angel told her they had to finish. But before they do, she had a confession to make to Grace. That made Grace feel better, knowing she would be able to take a short break from the witness stand. By now, Grace was fully composed as she thought, “I hope my dear friends are with me. Are you there? I hope none of you have left me.” The angel told Grace to stop talking to her “friends” for a moment, for they are all up-to-date on what was happening. She demanded that Grace listen to what she had to say. “I have a story to tell you, Grace. It’s a story about me, and I strongly urge you to listen carefully. Do you understand? A simple nod would be sufficient.” Grace nodded. The angel took a deep breath and looked very serious now, and her eyes were sad. Grace thought how this is the first time she has seen the angel looking so somber. “I don’t mean to sound trite, but life surely isn’t like it is in the movies—particularly when it comes to love—sometimes a very unselfish person in life, a giver, can be very selfish and controlling when it comes to love. I was that way. The love of my life and I never shared the typical romantic comedy. You know how it goes: an unlikely pair fall in love, eventually have a huge fight because of some unrealistic misunderstanding, and decide to split up. They mourn for a little while, but date other people and try to get on with their lives. They end up seeing each other in a music store several weeks later, where she discovers her former lover is leaving tomorrow to move across the country for a better job. She fusses and frets, and as she’s ready to pay a pile of bills, she comes across a picture of the two of them from six months ago when they visited Niagara Falls. She decides to run to the airport to stop him from going. Along the way, she loses her umbrella because of the gusty winds, and a high-heel shoe while running a few

miles in the city in the pouring rain—for some reason she can’t get a taxi. She fights off airport security, trips over crowds of people and finally sees him, but he’s too far away to see or hear her. She yells his name repeatedly; crying and dabbing her eyes with a tissue, until finally, the crowd of people come together and pass along her message to him. He looks up and sees her. They yell a few words to each other, the last ones being, ‘I love you,’ and the wall-to-wall crowd lets her through. The two of them hug and kiss, and he doesn’t care that she’s dripping all over his $800 suit as the people cheer for them as if they have known the couple all of their lives. The two kiss again, wave to the crowd, and live happily ever after.” The angel looked even more somber than before. “You and I never knew that sappy kind of love story. In fact, we have more in common than you might think when it comes to love.” She sat straight in her chair. **** “Yes, Grace, we have a lot in common. Many years ago, I was married and very much in love with an artist—an unknown writer with an enormous amount of talent. We were getting older, and still, there was no child in my womb. By the time I was thirty-three, and we had been married for eight years, I was becoming very jealous of the amount of time he devoted to his writing, while I worked as a waitress in a coffee shop. I resented our cramped, dumpy apartment, and I resented being childless. I was starting to resent him most of all, and almost wanted to give up on the marriage, for his writing came first and he did not want to bring a child into this world until he could have his novel published. Then the day came when he didn’t receive another rejection letter in the mail—a major publisher wanted his book—contingent upon seeing the remainder of the story.” “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t understand…” Hope ignored Grace’s comment. “It’s usually standard to send the first several chapters and the last few. The ‘middle section,’ so to speak, is what the publishers often read last.” The angel’s head hung a little lower than before. “I’m sorry if this is rude of me to change the subject, but I have to ask you something, angel, I mean, Hope. It’s important. Will you please tell me why you let me see Scott that way? What I mean is, well, is this his final fate? Or…” “Grace, I will tell you in good time. I promise. Now I must continue with my story if you don’t mind.” I feel terrible that I asked her about Scott while she was trying to tell her tale. It was so selfish of me. “Anyway, as interest in his book grew, so did my anxieties. I convinced myself

that there’d be even less of a chance of my conceiving because he’d be immersed in writing a sequel to his book. He would push the child I wanted so badly aside in his mind; I know he would want to work on the sequel as skillfully as he did the first. One evening, after my husband Daniel had fallen into a deep sleep atop a stack of papers and notes, I felt like I was becoming sick—weakness and a high fever hit me very quickly. I lit a candle in the kitchen to say a prayer, the way I did every night, made myself a ‘hot toddy’ and went to bed—we lived in a one-floor flat, so the bedroom wasn’t far away. I felt so sick that I forgot to snuff-out the candle. I awoke to the sound of my own coughing. I felt so weak and scared as I ran to the kitchen to get Daniel; he was coughing violently and trying to make his way toward me. The flames were already getting out of control as Daniel stopped moving toward me, and instead, grabbed whatever papers he could, actually trying to blow them out as if they were birthday candles. He managed to get only some of them—I rescued more piles and notebooks, burning my arm severely in the process. Screaming in pain, I handed them to Daniel and stretched as far as I could to get the last notebook. As I ran with it toward the kitchen door, I fell and dislocated my knee. I screamed for Daniel to help me, but he just grabbed the last notebook from my hands, and with the fire enveloping almost half the room now, he looked at me as if to say, “I’m sorry my love, but I must go now, before I die as well.” Then, out the door, he went. “Within a few minutes, I died in the flames.” She looks as if she wants to cry but is holding back. “As time went on, Daniel remarried. She was a gorgeous creature about fifteen years younger than him, attracted to the kind of lifestyle he might be able to grasp soon. He received a moderate amount of fame from writing four novels, but he never made the bestseller’s list while he was alive. As he and his wife were driving to their favorite restaurant after leaving his agent’s office with the final draft for his fifth novel, they died instantly in a freak car accident. Not too long after his death, the fifth novel hit the bestseller’s list.” She is trembling a little. “Like you, I did everything I could to help my unemployed husband work on his dream. Like you, I wanted a child to love, but my husband showed little or no interest. You and I were both enablers, giving up too much of ourselves—our lives. And, like you, my husband didn’t love me enough—his work was more important—and after you and I did a heroic, unselfish act, our husbands took what we had saved and ran for safety, leaving us to burn to death. “I’m so, so very sorry that you died in that way,” said Grace. “As I am sorry for you.” I feel so depleted, but there is something I need to know.

“M-may I ask, angel, how old were you when you died?” “I was thirty-three.” The same age as me! The same age as me… I feel trapped! I want to get away from her; this, this spirit who has a petrifying amount of coincidences as me in her life—and death. “One thing we didn’t have in common, though, is that you were leaps and bounds ahead of me in the business world. I poured hot coffee, cleaned counters, and did the best I could not to get my rear pinched by some of the trashier male customers. But, you, well, you were one of the leaders in a top-notch accounting firm.” The angel paused. “I must tell you, though, that there was another thing we did have in common—vanity.” I don’t believe this! I’m the opposite of vain! What is she talking about? I have to prove her wrong. After all, angels can be wrong sometimes. Can’t they? “Vain? Vain! Maybe you were vain, angel—but me? Grace, Grace with the ugly face? I never wore a speck of makeup—I figured, why bother? My stomach churned when I had to walk across a room! The only time I believed in myself at all was when it came to my smarts. And I questioned that quite often; even though I did well at the firm, believe me!” “Don’t get so worked-up, Grace. Just remember that vanity and pride come in different forms.” The angel lifted her index finger, ready to make a point. “Don’t you think there’s a type of vanity that goes along with giving all of yourself, your being, for the sake of another? Their accomplishment also becomes your accomplishment, whatever that may be. In our case, it was having artistic, gifted husbands who we hoped would say they owe it all to their ‘better half’ when the time comes for their big recognition.” She is pausing again. I hate when she pauses. “Don’t you think it all becomes rather self-serving?” “Well, not necessarily, Hope. I think…” “And, although we let our insecurities make us afraid, even resentful, of our husband’s upcoming notoriety, didn’t we feel, right down to our soul, a certain thrill as well? To be married to a famous person who has made an accomplishment in the arts. To have a child, who would grow up knowing his father was important, and so was his mother because of the sacrifices she made to practically guarantee his success—the old-fashioned, ‘behind every great man there’s a great woman’ theory.” “Well, I always thought there was a certain level of pride when it comes to bearing a child. You know, a little mini ‘Grace’ running around—a piece of you—your pride and joy. And that child will probably make you a grandma someday and it leaves you with a feeling of being…”

“Immortal.” “Yes, y-yes, that’s right.” The angel began to fidget. “The seed planted from a gifted person increases the chances that you or I could’ve had a gifted child as well—isn’t that true?” “Yes, yes, angel, I’m really catching your drift now. May I please talk to my friends for a second or two?” “A second, yes.” “Thank you.” I need to ask Hope some questions about Scott now, my friends, but I am so anxious; first of all, will she even tell me right now? You know how she loves to keep me waiting to show her control. And secondly, am I strong enough to hear the answer? Because even though he wronged me, I still wonder if it is my fault, that he is where he is because… “Time’s up!” snapped the angel. “Oh, my God! Oh, m-my God!” The angel is standing over me, charred to a crisp! I feel I must run—I will go mad from all this terror! But I can’t. I cannot move from my seat. I cannot move! Oh, the powers she uses over me are maddening—maddening! “Pain and horror were my fate, Grace. My fate, as it was yours! But there is one thing that is very different about us—a fatal flaw of yours that I never shared.” “And w-what was that?” I cried. The angel waved her hand in front of her face, as bits and pieces of her charred flesh fell to the floor and immediately disintegrated. She returned to herself again, at least the woman Grace had come to recognize. “I didn’t sacrifice my life, my husband’s life, or his work for my own selfish purposes!” I think I am going to faint. No. Hold strong, Grace. Hold strong and demand that this angel, this thing, explain herself! She has grilled me about painful memories, made me dream them, shocked me with her horrifying powers, and now this! No, no. This has to get settled. I am sure you would agree with me. I do not know what I would do without you, my friends—I need you. “What are you talking about, you, you hateful spirit! I saved ‘Masterpiece’ but Scott only saved the painting, he forgot about me! I sacrificed everything for him! Is that within your power to understand?” “Sit down!” “I’d rather stand, thank you very much.” “I SAID SIT DOWN!” I think I will sit. “On the night we died, both of us were sick, Grace, isn’t that right?” “I had the flu.” “So you went to bed early. Scott’s masterpiece, ‘Every Woman,’ was going to

be on view permanently in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts the next day. He wanted to stay in his loft that night, anxious for the fame that would bring, yet already lonely to have to part with it. Still, he was willing.” The angel felt anxious as she let out a long sigh. “Scott overindulged in wine that evening and was fast asleep when the fire started. We need to explore what happened as you headed up the stairs of the loft to save him.” “I still don’t understand what you mean. I was so weak from the flu. I got up there as quickly as I could. I grabbed the painting, Scott awakened from the smoke, and from hearing me screaming his name. The fire got out of control quickly because of all the paint fumes… He grabbed ‘Every Woman’ from me and ran. Then I died. That’s the story, which you know by heart already.” “Do you think you could have climbed the stairs a little faster?” “No, angel, I don’t. I was weak and coughing from the smell of smoke. I was in a state of shock. And do you know there’s fifteen stairs to get to the top?” “Yes,” said the angel, switching the leg she had crossed. “But sometimes, I know it was this way for me, adrenaline takes over and makes you move more quickly, even if you’re sick.” “I’ve had enough. I’m done talking,” said Grace. I don’t think the angel appreciated what I just said. “Grace, I don’t appreciate that.” My friends, you know how overly apologetic I can be—but I am not in the mood for saying any ‘I’m sorrys’ right now. Part of me doesn’t even know if she might be right. I mean, isn’t it normal for me to be a little confused about my fatal night? “Can I see Scott now?” “No. You already saw him.” “I mean, can I talk to him and just…” “No again. I’ll tell you what you need to know later, if we don’t run out of time.” Her highness is sitting on the edge of her overstuffed chair. “What happened when you reached the midway point of the staircase, Grace?” “I keep telling you I was very weak, had a high fever, was shocked about what was going on around me—and in a hurry. Obviously, saving Scott, and ‘Every Woman’ were my top priorities.” “In a hurry?” said the angel with an expression of disbelief. “We’re not getting anywhere, Grace.” The angel leaned forward and snapped, “Do you want to cleanse your soul or not? We’re really running out of time, now! Do you understand? DO YOU?” She’s scaring me again, my friends. I understand her perfectly, but her rules are too stringent. She is expecting too much from me.

“Yes, angel, I understand you.” “Stop hanging your head and look at me! That’s better. You are about to take a short nap now, but not in your usual spot. You will nap right in the chair.” “I can’t take another dream sequence. It’ll kill me!” “Very funny,” said the angel, looking dissatisfied. “I’m sorry, what I mean is, well, I, well, um, w-what will I dream exactly and…” “Everything, everything about the night of the fatal fire.” “No, please, I’ll talk as much as you want, as much as you need, I’ll, I’ll I promise I’ll cooperate more…” “Please stop your whining, Grace. This has to be done. Don’t worry. I’m right here with you.” My friends, I think you can guess that is one of the things I am afraid of. And whether I like it or not, in a moment you will know my dream. Stay with me. Don’t desert me now. Please. This is crucial. **** “Do you remember the final confrontation with Scott? The last haunting? Do you remember the strength you had to gather yourself together to force him to admit the truth so that your own soul could be cleansed? You made sure you were not going to be a wandering and lonely soul on earth—floating aimlessly, scared and lost. You were the victim. You suffered a violent, painful death at Scott’s hands. Do you remember that Grace? Gather that strength you’re capable of and use it now. You need it now. Time is running short. Think about how you challenged Scott to admit exactly how much the masterpiece meant to him; how you cleverly used his former lover Erin as an example. I want you to think about it now.” “Yes, angel, I will. Right now. B-but can my, can my friends be here?” “Of course they can.” I need to shut my eyes now and go back in time. Return to the final moments of the last haunting. I am scared. My spirit looks down on Scott—he appears so little. Well, here goes… “And now, Scott, for the last time, would you have let Erin die in the fire? Yes or no!” yelled Grace. Scott did not answer. “Yes or no!” Scott hugged himself, rocking back and forth, crying. He was trying to find his next breath as he thought, If Grace had any pity for me in the past, it’s certainly dead now.

“ANSWER ME, SCOTT!” “Grace, please! I’m begging you, please!” “Answer me!” “Please, Grace.” “ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW!” The blood raced to Scott’s head. The mucus from his nose was dripping into puddles of disgusting goo. “SCOTT!” “Yes, yes! Oh, Christ! YES! Okay? YES! I would’ve let Erin, I would…I would’ve let her, let her go!” “Do you mean die in the fire, Scott? In order to save the masterpiece? Even your beautiful Erin? Even Erin? Say it if you mean it. Say it!” Scott could not take any more questions or any more of Grace’s screaming and persistence. “Yes! YES! Even, even Erin! Even Erin.” Grace knew he was ready to faint, but her powers wouldn’t let him—he was not going to emotionally escape after his confession. No way in hell. “Nothing, n-nobody meant more to me than my masterpiece! ‘Every Woman’ was everything—she was in my soul. Do you understand? Oh, my God! Oh, my, oh, m-my God!” **** “Open your eyes now, Grace.” I feel so tired and nervous. So sad. “You still love him, don’t you?” “Yes, I think I do.” “I thought so. But don’t be afraid of it, dear. Use its power and make it work for you. “Do you know the amount of strength real love has?” “Yes, angel, I understand clearly now. I really do.” “You loved and loathed him at the same time. You still do.” “Yes.” “Grab onto those feelings! Now think back about the final moments of the fire, just before you ran over to wake up Scott and save the masterpiece.” “Do I really have to do this? Haven’t I been through enough?” “Yes and yes.” The angel is waving her hand near my face. I feel…I feel so sleepy. Listen to these final moments, my friends.

**** Grace is coughing violently from the smoke. She is a little more than halfway up the fifteen-step staircase, using both hands to clutch the banister. Beads of sweat are collecting on her forehead and above her lip—her white cotton nightgown is clinging to her for dear life. She’s screaming Scott’s name; it is so much harder to do when a cough is out of control. She climbs two steps, and then stops calling out—and stops moving. She remembers their brief honeymoon and that they made love only once. No cuddling, either. She thinks about how much she wanted to do it more, but was too afraid to make the first advance. She was a virgin, and that first and only time with Scott, hurt a lot. She wanted to feel no pain, only the sensations she’s been hearing about all along—how beautifully unexplainable it really was. Slowly, Grace struggles up two more steps. She remembers how she helped him get “Every Woman” recognized by an art dealer in the first place. She thought of how she waited on Scott hand-and-foot so he could paint the masterpiece wildly and uninhibitedly. She would serve him espresso, a croissant, and fresh strawberries at two in the morning if he wanted—and he often did. She would set her alarm in order to wake Scott from his power nap so he could continue painting. And all the subservient duties would’ve been easier to swallow if he would have just thanked her once in awhile. But Grace kept doing it because she loved him. She believed in him. She wanted to bear his child in the near future. The cough has not let up. She coughs so hard she vomits on the side of the stair. She cannot take the incessant beeping of the smoke alarm much longer. She takes the last two steps slowly and sees the fire from the top stair. As Grace stares at the intensity of its glow, she reminds herself that once “Every Woman” and Scott became famous, he would not need her to dote on him or set the alarm for him to wake up in the middle of the night. Nor greet him with coffee and a fresh croissant—would not need the backrubs and pep talks whenever he commanded. He would find someone else as soon as possible—prettier of course, more interesting, but probably not marry her because he worshipped his freedom. Grace thought of how she felt from the start; that she could, hopefully, make him love her in time. Now she had to stand up to the truth; once he hung the painting in Boston, it would be the final goodbye. Scott would just be another person in Grace’s memory bank who never really loved her, never noticed that she gave all of herself. She received no love from her asshole father, she had a drunk for a mother, and no real feelings of friendship from her egotistical, manic friend Jan from Spanish class. No love from Scott, either. Soon, she would be alone again. Feeling used—and used up. Believing she might faint, she carefully walks to the top step. Grace is shaking at the top of the stairs, watching the flames grow higher. Unable

to bear the idea of losing Scott and being alone again, she turns her body and looks down at the long flight. She thinks of jumping—how easy it would be to end her life—snuff out the pain that people gave her since she was a little girl. After thirtythree years, the emotional load has become too heavy. Her lip trembles as she steps a little closer to the edge of the top stair. The fire was out of control by now. She quickly ditched the idea of suicide; it went against her character, anyway. Knowing she had to save Scott and the masterpiece, she ran toward the painting and tripped. She got up and noticed Scott was finally awake from his drunken slumber. When she was very near “Every Woman,” she reached until her arm muscles ached, grabbed it, and held it high. She began yelling, for the flames started to lick at her legs. Scott pulled the masterpiece from her hands and ran to safety. Within seconds, a wall of flames trapped her. It didn’t take long before the fire took Grace’s life away. **** I hear the angel calling my name. I must wake up now. I am afraid of what will come next. “Are you awake, Grace?” the angel asked, showing no real expression. “Yes, I am awake. And before you ask, I would have to say that, yes, the dream of my death was very vivid.” The angel leaned forward. “But it wasn’t just your death that you dreamed of; it was the moments preceding your death. Isn’t that right?” “Yes, Hope. Um, you said if we didn’t run out of time that there was a good chance I might get to talk to Scott again.” “Don’t try and change the subject! Just answer the question!” the angel said angrily. “W-well, the night of the…the night of the fire was what my dream was all about.” The angel sighed deeply, then waved her hand in front of her body and appeared as the horribly charred figure she had shown Grace before. Grace drew back and screamed. “Stop screaming. You’ve seen me like this once before!” the angel bellowed. Her voice was as low in pitch as a baritone’s now and echoed slightly. As she spoke, small pieces of charcoal separated from her spirit and floated to the floor. Grace’s breathing became erratic. She tried to pace her breath and calm herself down, knowing that if she did not, the angel would only get angrier. “You know what you dreamt, Grace. Now tell me all the truths that are within your soul and tell me right now! You know we have only moments left!” “Y-yes, yes, angel, I understand. But may I ask, I, well, may I ask that you

please change your voice back to the way it always was? Please?” After hearing Grace’s request, the angel flew over and pinned her down on the floor. She pointed her index finger near Grace’s right eye. “You must confess to me everything about the night of the fire!” The angel’s face tightened with anxiety and disgust, leaving more burned pieces on the floor. It was hard for Grace to breathe now. As she tried to regulate her breathing, she knew now, and knew all along, that it was time to admit certain details—details that would continue to collect to form the truth. “Alright, alright!” Grace screamed. “I took too long! I waited too damn long! II had thoughts of suicide, and I…I watched Scott sleeping and imagined the future—a future without him! If…if…I didn’t wait so long on the staircase, I…I might be alive right now!” Crying and turning her head from side to side as the tears flew in every direction, she wailed, “I’m sure what I imagined would be true—Scott wouldn’t want to be with me anymore. But, but at l-least I’d be alive!” Hope got off Grace and knelt down near her. “I can’t believe this is happening! I can’t believe it!” Grace kept weeping. “I didn’t do it on purpose! I know I didn’t! I was in mild shock! I had blocked out that I ever did any of those things in the first place! I don’t believe it! Oh, dear God!” The angel smiled and nodded her head in agreement. Grace watched as she stood up and turned lighter, so light she was nearly transparent. The burnt chunks were disappearing—losing their messy, hideous form. The angel was smiling brightly. Grace watched in amazement as the angel’s creamy violet hue became nearly blinding. Grace’s deeper violet cloud had to partially cover itself and create some shade to see her still. Grace squinted at Hope now, but listened carefully to her words. “Do not be afraid, Grace, for your soul has been cleansed, too. You will talk to Scott in the future. And you will help a confused soul as I helped you. It will be someone you never met before.” “How will I know how, I mean, which soul to choose, angel?” The angel was completely out of sight now. “You will know, dear Grace. You will know exactly what to do—because you are the masterpiece.”

The End

About the Author Nancy S. Ward Nancy S. Ward began her writing career as a journalist in college as the feature editor for the school newspaper. After graduation, she moved on to writing hard news front-page stories for local newspapers. She has also published work in magazines such as “Your Health,” a feature article for “The Star,” and others. Nancy was also a frequent contributor to the Hartford Courant Newspaper in Connecticut. She won first honorable mention in Nostalgia Magazine's non-fiction contest category. She has written several self-help booklets for the National Research Bureau. A Connecticut native, who has resided in the greater Boston area for twelve years with her husband and two children, Ms. Ward has shown great interest in moving on to writing fiction horror in the last few years. She enjoys reading (especially Anne Rice and of course “Ripley's Believe It Or Not” comics when she was a kid), movies, music, antiquing, horseback riding, and photography. Her all-time favorite movies are “Casablanca,” “A Night at the Opera,” “The Shining,” and “Annie Hall.” Be sure to look for the third and final book in the Masterpiece series, coming soon from Chippewa Publishing LLC.

Our authors love to hear from their readers! You can write to Nancy here: Nancy S. Ward c/o Chippewa Publishing, LLC. 678 Dutchman Drive, Suite 3 Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin 54729

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