CHAPTER TWELVE

I wake up in a strange motel room, my thoughts immediately racing back to the unnerving events of the previous day.

Ralph is an angel? An‘Archangel’, no less? This can’t possibly be true, can it? But, if it is, then what in the world is an Archangel doing, hanging around with the likes of me? From what little I recall of childhood catechism classes, Archangels have a higher ranking than the usual kind. I’m pretty sure there are supposed to be seven of them, too, but I can only remember three of their names; Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel, if I’m not mistaken. Sadly, that is the extent of my knowledge on the subject, though I’m sure Ralph will be more than happy to fill me in on any and all of the missing pieces.

Come on. How can he really be an angel? The man doesn’t even look like one, and he certainly doesn’t act like one, especially since he rides a Harley and all. Then again, what do modern day angels look and act like, anyway? Are they allowed to hang out in biker bars like the one in Connecticut where I first met Ralph? Do they know how to ‘pop a wheelie’? Are they capable of getting on your nerves the way Ralph tends to get on mine? And do they have permission to go ahead and chop off your hair if it just so happens to get in the way? I don’t think so. I’ve always pictured angels the way they’re depicted on those little holy cards the nuns were always handing out - you know the ones that show these nearly-invisible, larger-than-life, ethereal beings walking quietly beside their human charge, subtly hoisting roadblocks out of the way. So, if Ralph really is an angel, wouldn’t he have gracefully steered my motorcycle to safety that day in Connecticut, instead of lopping off my ponytail because it blew into my eyes for a few seconds? Wouldn’t a real angel have had better impulse control than that?

No, I tell myself with absolute certainty, Ralph cannot possibly be an angel.

But if that is the case, then the only other logical explanation is that he has to be some kind of a crazy person who just thinks he’s an angel. Somehow, this does not make me feel any better. I decide not to make any rash decisions about anything for the time being. Neither option is particularly appealing to me at the moment.

Yawning, and still vibrating from countless motorcycle miles that have streamed by beneath me, I glance around my tacky motel room for my one and only piece of ‘luggage’. I spot the jam-packed knapsack that I tossed onto a chair last night, and I begin rooting through it for my toiletries. It strikes me as something of a miracle that I am already capable of traveling so light these days. There was a time (not very long ago, either), when I would never have even considered packing for a trip without including a million different products and accessories (for my formerly long and unruly hair), a hot-water-bottle for the onset of any type of discomfort, and a parachute.

Okay, maybe not a parachute, but you get the idea.

Once I am showered and dressed, Ralph and I walk across the road to a truck-stop overlooking the interstate. He claims that these are always the best places to eat because nobody appreciates a hearty, plentiful breakfast the way long-haul-truckers do. Besides, he insists, there is almost always a sense of community and camaraderie among the patrons there that is a joy to behold.

Ralph is right. Burly looking men in an array of baseball caps and cowboy hats, nod their silent greetings as we pass them by in search of an empty table. One or two of the truckers even half-heartedly tip a hat in my direction, catching me completely off-guard with this unexpected display of old fashioned manners.

“These are mostly really good people,” Ralph informs me as I slide into a vacant booth. “If you’re ever in trouble on the road, these are the kind of guys who will look out for you. They know what it’s like to be stuck somewhere with a broken-down rig, and a tight schedule to keep.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mumble, but deep inside, I’m still a little bit leery of these brawny, nomadic men. After all, I’m getting this advice from either a non-human-entity, or a crazy person, neither of which exactly fills me with confidence.

An older, world-weary waitress pours us each a mug of coffee the moment we sit down and before I have a chance to ask for a Diet Coke instead.

“How’s it going, Doris?” Ralph shoots her a playful wink. “Long time, no see.”

“Whose fault is that?” The waitress replies in a mock-cranky manner.

“Mine. Definitely my fault,” Ralph concedes.

“What’ll it be? Your usual?” She sounds gruff, but she cannot subdue the stiff smile that creases her already lined face. “A full stack of flapjacks, extra butter, extra Maple syrup, and a dollop of whipped cream on the top, right?” she robotically recites.

My jaw drops in absolute horror at the amount of fat and cholesterol Ralph is so casually about to consume.

“You’re the best,” Ralph says to Doris, flashing her his most dazzling and adorable smile.

Doris ignores him, and politely turns to me, taking my order of scrambled egg whites, an English muffin with no butter, and a large Diet Coke. Then she limps toward the kitchen on rubber soled shoes which I notice have matching slits cut into the toe-box to accommodate her bulging bunions.

“Aren’t you going to ask how I know her?” Ralph tries to provoke me, “or, are we over that now?”

“Oh, God, Ralph,” I sigh heavily. “Don’t start. I’m not ready to have this conversation with you. Those things you told me yesterday …”

“What? That I’m a bona fide angel, you mean?” he asks innocently.

“Yes. That. I don’t know. It scares me, I guess.”

“Tommy didn’t seem bothered by it, now, did he? Neither did old Henry, or Jason, or now, even Doris. Seems to me, you’re the only one who’s disturbed by the fact that I’m not who or what it is you automatically assumed me to be.”

“Wait a minute. You mean, they all know about you?”

“Of course.” He grins. “But you have to remember that they’re all in various stages of accepting it,” he stipulates.

“Yeah, but I still don’t really know who you are, or what exactly it is you want from me.”

“What I want from you? When did I ever say I wanted something from you?” The man looks genuinely hurt by this.

“You don’t have to,” I tell him. “Everybody wants something from everyone else. That’s just the way the world works. You must know that by now.”

“Is that really what you think?” He looks so wounded when he says it, that I briefly consider retracting the statement.

“Yes, Ralph,” I answer firmly, instead. “That is what experience has taught me so far. It’s no big deal.”

“Oh. Well, I’m very glad you shared that with me,” he says flatly.

Ralph removes his elbows from the table so that a tray-laden-Doris can set down our steaming breakfast platters before us.

“You know what, Molly? You’re right,” he relents, once Doris is gone. “I do want something from you.”

“Why am I not surprised,” I mutter, and it is not a question.

“Look, this isn’t going to be easy to explain,” he continues hesitantly, “but suffice it to say that our recent, er, friendship, if that’s what you want to call it, is far more than just chance, or … or some mere coincidence.”

“Be careful, Ralph,” I am quick to warn. “I’m still not completely convinced that you’re not an escaped psychiatric patient …”

“Hear me out, Molly,” he pleads. “Let me tell you a little bit about my, er, history. Would that be all right?”

“Your history as … as an archangel, you mean?”

“Yes. Indulge me, please?”

Ralph’s emerald eyes are shining now, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that the maple syrup he’s pouring over his pancakes is suddenly giving off some kind of green, sparkling mist.

“Green is the color of life, of relaxation, and of healing,” Ralph informs me with an easy smile. “That’s why it’s the color associated with me, and that’s why it always seems to show up wherever I am. You’re not seeing things, Molly. The maple syrup really did give off green sparkles when I poured it. But, don’t worry. You’ll get used to that kind of thing after a while.”

“You’re freaking me out.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you, Molly, but there are some things you absolutely need to know,” he urges. “And you need to know them right now. There’s simply not a lot of time left to waste.”

“Okay. Okay. What kinds of things do I need to know?” I whisper across my egg whites.

Ralph quickly scans our surroundings. “You need to know that I am the patron saint of nurses and doctors and healers everywhere,” he states unflinchingly. “In addition to that, I’m also known as the protector of travelers, which should explain to you why I roam the earth as a Travel Nurse these days. I mean, what better way to guide and look after all those who are involved in the healing arts?”

“No! Stop it!” I cut him off. “I never believed in that angelic, patron-saint-kind-of-nonsense, even when it was being forced down my throat in Catholic school! And, I’m certainly not going to buy into it now as a mature, educated adult. For what it’s worth, I’m not even all that convinced of the existence of God, let alone some kind of ‘guardian angels’,” I hear myself admit.

“Okay. Calm down. I understand,” Ralph says. “I really do. That is exactly what happens whenever somebody tries to force any kind of organized religion onto someone else, or … or tries to ‘convert’ them to some specific way of thinking. Trust me, Molly, the whole religious thing was never meant to work out that way.”

“It wasn’t?” I ask warily. “Are you serious? Speaking as a ‘self-proclaimed angel’, I mean?”

For a flash, Ralph looks offended, and I actually feel a stab of sympathy for him.

“Look, Molly,” he says, picking up where he left off, “I won’t bore you with the biblical history of my past. You can ‘google’ that sort of information anytime you want to learn more about it. Right now, though, you need to understand - no, you need to trust - that I am who I say I am.”

I roll my eyes and do a surreptitious sweep of the nearby tables to make certain that no one else is listening in to this other-worldly conversation we are having.

“Whoever heard of ‘googling’ an angel?” I snap back at him. “I’d have to be out of my mind to do something like that. I’m waiting for you outside.”

I pull on my jacket and gloves, and then stomp toward the door. “I’m not hungry anymore,” I mumble over my shoulder.

Once seated on my Nightster in the motel parking lot, I reluctantly boot up my i-pad, fully prepared to slip it into the folds of my jacket, should Ralph suddenly show up on a moment’s notice. In the meantime, I am truly astonished by the plethora of information available after a simple little ‘google search’ of archangels. I’m not kidding.

The first thing I learn is that this ‘Rafael character’ is everything that ‘my Ralph’ claims to be; an archangel who is the patron saint of healers and travelers, not to mention that of ‘match-makers’ as well. I can only wonder why Ralph chose to leave out that particular tidbit of information.

My search also reveals that ‘Rafael’ is known as the most humorous, playful, and friendliest of the seven archangels, and if ‘my Ralph’ is telling the truth, I certainly wouldn’t argue that point. I also discover that flashes of green tend to surround this particular archangel everywhere he goes, and that the license plates of automobiles are some of his favorite places on which to post personal messages.

I’ll never know why, but I automatically look up from the i-pad’s screen just in time to witness a U-Haul truck pulling out of the parking lot. Immediately, my eyes are drawn to the personalized rear tag which, to my astonishment, reads, ‘ITS TRUE’.

“Now, do you believe me?” Ralph asks from behind my shoulder, nearly stopping my heart.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” I shoot back, defiantly.

“No?” he calmly responds. “Then, what about this?”

He reaches his hand above my head just in time to intercept a fluffy white feather that’s fluttering down from the sky. He holds it up by the stem, and shortly thereafter, an iridescent green aura begins to emanate from it.

“H-how … how did you do that?” I whisper.

Ralph just raises his blonde eyebrows.

“You certainly don’t expect me to believe …”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” he cuts me off. “All that matters is what is true.”

I gulp audibly. “What are you saying, Ralph?”

A wave of profound sadness washes over his emerald-green eyes at that. “It’s time for me to move on, Molly,” he announces.

Right away, my defenses go up. “Well, I’m certainly not the one who’s standing in your way, if that’s what you’re implying …”

“I’m dying, Molly,” he bluntly states.

Not for the first time, the wind is knocked out of me, leaving me shocked and speechless in the wake of his ominous words.

“You see this feather I’m holding up?” he gently prods. “Human beings tend to lose their hair when they’re, er, transitioning; but we angels, well, we start shedding our feathers in much the same way. Clumps of them. That’s why you may have noticed some of them floating around in my presence lately.”

I think back to that feather that seemed to come out of nowhere in Jason’s hospital room, and then landed on his pillow; the one I’d felt compelled to press into his emaciated hand before getting back on the road with Ralph.

“Don’t you see, Molly?” he begs. “I can’t leave in good faith until I know I’ve found someone to replace me in this role. And that’s you, Molly. I’m certain of it. I knew it the moment you faced off with those characters in that biker bar with nothing but a Diet Coke to give you courage. And, then, when you wrote that article about ‘locked doors’ in such a compelling manner that even those who were being criticized were impressed enough to ask you to come on staff with them … well, not just anyone could have done something like that. You’re the one, Molly. I’m sure of it!”

“But I’m not an angel!” I blurt out.

“Really?” He appears genuinely surprised by this. “How do you know that?”

“What kind of ridiculous question is that?!”

Ralph lowers his voice and speaks even more softly now. “There are all kinds of angels in this world, Molly,” he states. “And a surprising number of them are nurses. How do you think they got the reputation for being ‘Angels of Mercy’?”

“No! No! No! This can’t be happening!” I babble. “I’ve just been under way too much stress lately …”

“This is happening, Molly,” Ralph assures me, and there is not even the slightest sign of doubt on his lovely chiseled face.

“Well, what if I don’t want to be the healer of healthcare workers, or the protector of travelers?” I argue. “Shouldn’t I have a choice in any of this? And, oh, yeah, what about the part you somehow forgot to mention? Something about watching over the match-makers? HAH! Is that your idea of a joke? I’ve never had a successful romantic relationship in my life!”

“Calm down,” Ralph softly begs. “There’s still enough time left for me to sufficiently train you. And as for the match-makers, well, you know as well as I do that everything you read on the internet isn’t necessarily true.”

None of this sinks in because, suddenly, a terrible thought occurs to me. “Am I going to have to die to take over this so-called role of yours?” I gasp. “Because, if that’s the case, I don’t want any part of it. No, sir. My life may not exactly be a bowl of cherries at the moment, but I don’t think it warrants anything as rash as dying in order to fix it …”

Ralph is laughing at me now. “Relax. You’re not dying. At least, not anytime soon.”

“Promise?” I pout. I hate when I pout.

“Promise,” he says.

“Then I suppose it’s safe to get back on my Harley and still try to make it to Charleston by sometime this afternoon, right? Because I really don’t want to talk about this any more.”

“You got that right.” Then he just grins and pulls on his helmet.

They call this part of South Carolina ‘The Low Country’, and I can see why. There are lots of swamps; they’re pretty though, especially at sunset. The weather is quite nice, too, but my favorite thing is the way it smells in these parts; beachy, salty, and fishy. It conjures up happy childhood memories of lazy summer afternoons spent on the Jersey shore. For just an instant, I feel like I’m home again … except for the fact that I’m not really sure just where ‘home’ is anymore.

They have something down here called ‘frontage roads’. These are smaller routes that run parallel to the main roads. It’s a term I’ve never heard before so, when Ralph calls out that we were looking for one, I naively begin scanning street signs expecting to find one that reads, ‘Frontage Road’. And, speaking of street signs, such luxuries tend to be few and far between depending on when the last hurricane ravaged the area, leaving behind nothing but tree stumps and abandoned buildings as landmarks.

The city of Charleston, itself, is nothing like I imagined it would be. Genteel, sloping rooftops along a neighborhood known as the ‘South Battery’, make it seem more like a small town than a big, bustling city. I like this place, I decide. It’s serene and beautiful, traditional and charming.

The Travel-Nurse-housing is located across the Cooper River, a few miles from the hospital in the town of ‘Mount Pleasant’, and I find the name to be quite appropriate.

It is early evening by the time Ralph and I fill out the stack of required paperwork in the rental office, and then return to the parking lot to unload our bikes. I’m actually a little relieved to discover that Ralph’s apartment is on the ground floor of the main building, while my unit is located on the second floor of the building adjacent to it. This gives me some much needed distance, I think (but not too much), to try and sort out all of the wild and angelic claims Ralph has been making lately.

“You hungry?” Ralph wants to know.

I am balancing a heavy load of personal belongings which, if I’m careful, will allow me to make only one trip up the stairs to my new apartment. “No. I’m more tired than anything,” I grumble. “I think I’ll just take a shower and go straight to bed.”

“Oh, okay.” Ralph shrugs. “Hey, Molly!” he tries again. “You do know how to get the wrinkles out of your hospital scrubs without an iron, don’t you?”

Oh, please. Freshly pressed scrubs are not very high on my priority list at the moment, but I decide to humor him anyway. I know how much this man enjoys being a so-called mentor.

“What, in God’s name, are you talking about?” I ask irritably.

“Your crunched-up scrubs,” he sweetly explains. “Spread them out all nice and neat underneath your mattress tonight, and by morning, they’ll look like you just had them dry-cleaned.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I mumble, teetering up the stairs beneath the ridiculously cumbersome load I’m carrying. “I’ll try that.”

“Molly?”

Okay. Now, I’m getting really annoyed. How does this man expect me to haul all of this stuff up the stairs if he’s going to keep interrupting me every two seconds like this? “What is it now, Ralph?” I snap back.

“Good night,” is all he says.

Then, I notice a green-tinged feather that swirls through the humid, southern evening, landing at his feet.