On Unfaithful Wings by Bruce Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

alive, but didn’t think I could bear it if they didn’t recognize me, either. Each place I visited, each person who didn’t know me, stripped away another bit of hope I could recreate any semblance of a life.
    Maybe I didn’t deserve one.
    I stopped at the public washrooms in the park, scrubbed my face and stared at the mirror, water dripping from the tip of my nose. The face in the silvered glass was unequivocally the one I’d been looking at for thirty-seven years: my brown hair with its widow’s peak, my hazel eyes with one eyelid sagging slightly compared to the other--everything mine down to the scar above my lip: the one mark Father Dominic had left.
    Why didn’t they know me?
    I scrutinized my face until a man came in, interrupting my frustration. I dried off hastily, rough paper towel raking my cheeks, as the man entered the stall, looking at me sideways, probably expecting me to either beg for change or mug him. Before he emerged and caught me still staring at myself, I took my leave .
    As the sun dipped below the city’s skyline, I refocused my search on a place to sleep. Still two months until winter, but the nights held a reminder of its approach and I harbored no desire to stay up all night again. With thoughts of a pillow and warm blankets, I stepped onto the churchyard, the site of my death.
    I stopped inside the gate, exhaling a cloud of mist as my pulse raced. Ahead on my left, the oak tree loomed, its naked branches scratching the night sky. Unconsciously, my eyes searched the deeper shadows beneath, half-expecting to see two men in raincoats with their hoods up and a knife at the ready.
    Stop being a pussy.
    I breathed deeply and forced myself on, veering right at the fork in the path, away from the spot where my blood spilled, headed instead for the hall behind the church. As I strode down the path beside the church, I felt eyes staring through the stained glass windows, heard footsteps padding softly behind me. I shoulder-checked: nothing; and no one watched through the decorative glass--nothing but the ghosts of my past glaring at me, wondering why I’d come back. A shiver ran up my spine.
    I quickened my pace and the detached meeting hall came into view. A murmur rose from the line of shabby-looking men running down the cement steps onto the path, each awaiting their chance to plead their case and get a bed for the night. I joined the end of the queue, feeling like I fit in wearing the ratty suit and rundown shoes I’d worn the night I died. The smell of the people around me was intoxicating, but not in the ‘where did you get that wonderful cologne’ kind of way. If odor determined who got a bed, my meager two days on the street would have me curling up on a park bench with a newspaper for a blanket tonight.
    The line inched forward. I hugged my suit jacket tight and shivered, doing my best to look desperate for a place to stay as, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, my eyes darted from oak tree to windows to graveyard and back. The woman at the door chatted briefly with each man before allowing them inside. Despite all the awful experiences this church supplied through my life and including my death, I couldn’t possibly get through the door and away from the feel of eyes upon me fast enough.
    Finally, my turn came. The woman looked up into my eyes, her wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the light shining through the church door. Time’s irresistible passage had changed her features, added more lines etched into her face even since I saw her at the hospital, but there was no mistaking Sister Mary-Therese. Her eyes held mine a moment and I held my breath. Her lips drew into a taut line across her face; I thought I’d done something wrong and she was going to banish me.
    “Icarus Fell?”
    My mouth dropped open.
    “Is that you?”
    I nodded but couldn’t speak.
    “Are you all right, child?”
    “You...you know me?”
    “Of course I do, Icarus.” She put her liver-spotted hand