| |
NOW THAT I'VE BEEN abandoned by my mates, I decide to check on one of my charges, a young lady named Mikayla Frost. Called “Mikey” by her friends, she's a terminally ill cancer patient who is celebrating her seventeenth birthday today.
People are always shocked to find out that Archangels, even the ancient ones, take on charges like any other spirit guide. I've been with Mikayla for the last seven years. I've seen her grow into a lovely young woman, always joyful and cracking jokes, even when everyone around her is in tears. When she was in the hospital, she would surprise other children with gifts, going the extra mile to cheer them up. She's the sort of person who can brighten a day with her smile, but deep down, I know there's profound sadness lurking behind that forced mirth. Mikayla wants to keep living. I know she does.
“Grandpa,” she says, turning to the man who raised her. “You didn't invite too many people to the party, did you?”
Her grandfather replies, “Define too many.”
I've always liked her grandfather, James. He's the sort of man who wears the same three shirts over and over again, and he spends his days watching reruns of old westerns. He still reads to Mikayla before bed each night, even though they both know she's way too old for it.
Mikey asks, “Did you invite so many people, they can't fit into the shed? That would be too many.”
“I don't... think so?” Her grandfather's uncertainty makes me chuckle.
James is pushing Mikey's wheelchair to the shed in their backyard, which has been decorated to look vaguely like a hobbit house. She's having a Lord of the Rings-themed birthday party, and I helped to make it happen. She's supposed to be dressed like a character named Galadriel, but I'm not too familiar with the story, so I have no idea if she's nailed the look—I only know that one of her elven ears is falling off. I send a slight gust of wind in her direction, blowing her long blonde hair on top of her flapping ear. That should conceal it well enough.
Mikey looks so strange as a blonde. Her natural hair is shoulder-length and brown, but she lost most of it during chemo treatments. She wasn't always in a wheelchair either. A few months ago, she had an operation that greatly affected her mobility. Sadly, her body didn't respond to any of the treatments, and it's only a matter of time before I'll see her on the other side.
As it happens, her grandfather did invite too many people to the shed. There are about two dozen guests crammed inside, all of them dressed in fantasy coats and cloaks. Mikey looks most excited to see her three friends with furry feet, who she identifies as Frodo, Sam and Merryweather.
The young lady Frodo says, “Sorry, but... we couldn't find anyone to be Pippin.”
“That's alright. You three look amazing.” Turning to her grandfather, Mikey adds, “So do you, Grandpa. You make an awesome Gandalf the Gray.”
Glancing around the shed, I feel horribly out of place in my ordinary t-shirt and trousers. I almost manifest a costume for myself, but there's no one around to see me, so I suppose it would be pointless.
Mikey's grandfather leaves, giving her time to chat with her friends. As soon as he's gone, one of Mikey's friends remarks on the lack of “hot guys” at the party. If they could see me, I wonder if I would fit the bill.
Probably not.
A few minutes later, they start talking about the many male celebrities they like, including one who apparently, “looks like a snack.” No matter how many centuries go by, teenage girls are no less difficult to understand. Every generation has a new set of slang words that leave me scratching my head. Nowadays, they're throwing shade and getting shook. I may look young enough to blend in with them, but I'm actually too old to keep up.
Mikey's fingers shuck the gift wrap from at least twenty presents: everything from video games to clothes to Lord of the Rings-themed weaponry. I have no idea what she's going to do with any of it, as her days are regrettably numbered.
When every gift has been opened, and everyone's had a slice of cake, one of her friends blurts, “Mikey, you should sing!”
“Nooo,” Mikey quickly shuts down the idea. “No and no way.”
“Please?” the young woman begs. “You used to sing for me all the time!”
“That was for you, not a big group of people.”
Mikey does, in fact, have a lovely voice. I was present when she won the talent competition in her freshman year of high school. If she succumbed to her friend's demand, it would hardly be the first time she's sung in front of an audience. She was going to pursue music as a career, but cancer has a way of shutting down one's dreams.
Others join Mikey's friend and badger her into a short performance. Mikey chooses a song with sad lyrics and a haunting melody, and when the first words are out of her mouth, we're all spellbound. Her voice is as beautiful as ever, and so is she. She has such a pretty face, not even cancer could erase the conventional beauty of it. In truth, I might have a slight crush on her. It feels strange to think that, since I've watched over her since childhood, but I am older than almost anyone who's ever walked the earth. Naturally, anyone who captured my heart would have to be significantly younger than me.
After the party, when everyone exits the shed, we're ambushed by a spider-shaped shadowling prowling around her grandfather's house. I kick it away from Mikey, its apparent target, and skewer it with my sword. If the shadowling is after her, it must have been drawn to a strong emotion like sadness. Even though she's wearing a smile for her friends, she must be sadder than she looks.
While Mikey and her grandpa say farewell to their friends and family, I search the premises for more unwelcome guests, but that seems to be the first and last shadowling of the day. I'm still a bit bitter that Azrael didn't invite me to the latest battle. He must think I'm useless. I may not be as good as the others, but that doesn't mean I can't hold my own in a fight.
I follow Mikey and her grandfather into the house, where she pops a few pain pills and starts watching a movie. I put my hand on her shoulder, quietly taking away any pain she's in. If Archangel Michael knew how often I did that, I doubt he would approve. He—and many of the Archangels—believe that a human's character is deepened by their pain, so they rarely take it away. Obviously, I don't agree.
After a late night supper—which Mikey barely touches—her grandfather pushes her wheelchair down the hall and into her bedroom. I imagine he's going to read to her. They've been reading Little Women, Mikey's favorite since childhood, but I always knew this book was a bad idea. When they get to Beth's death, James has to remove his glasses and dry his eyes.
“Aww... Grandpa, don't cry!” Mikey exclaims. “Here, let's make up a different ending. Let's just say... Beth doesn't die. She shakes off her illness and plays piano and sings songs and grows old and—”
Mikey's words bring more tears to her poor grandpa's eyes. His granddaughter is also a singer and pianist on the brink of death. I believe this story is hitting a bit too close to home.
“What about you, Mikayla?” James steals a tissue from the box on Mikey's nightstand and uses it to dab his eyes. “Can you shake off your cancer and grow old too? I don't want to lose you.”
Mikey reaches for her grandfather's hand, and for a moment, they're both so still and silent that they start to look like statues.
Mikey finally says, “I don't want to lose you either, but... you don't have to worry about me. I'm sure I'll be kicking ass in the afterlife.”
Indeed you will, Mikey. I have no doubt about that.
I replay her grandfather's words in my head, again and again. For some reason, they stick with me.
Can you shake off your cancer and grow old too?
Well... what if she could?