Free Angel Falling Softly by Eugene Woodbury Page A

Rachel shook her head, listening for the clunk and rattle of loose parts.
    Laura said, “What are we having for dinner?”
    “What? Oh, dinner. Spaghetti.”
    “That’s okay, I guess.” Having signed off on the menu, Laura headed upstairs. “I’ve got homework to do,” she announced.
    Her mother stood there, wondering why she had heard what she thought she had heard. She’s not quite human. She was sure that’s what her daughter had said.
    The next morning, the phone rang. It was her brother Carl.
    “Hello, Carl,” said Rachel. She checked the time and began making a series of mental calculations, scheduling the rest of the morning—what had to be done, what could be put off. Because once Carl got on the phone, it was hard getting him off, especially when he called during the day. That meant he was bored at work and had run out of more constructive ways to waste time.
    Not that she minded talking to Carl. The world was chock full of people who could fill the spaces between any two points of time with words. Churn them out nonstop. LaDawn, for example. Every other church high councilman. She didn’t quite know how they did it. That’s why she didn’t carry a cell phone. Why invite the bother?
    But Carl always had something to say that was worth listening to. Offensive, but interesting.
    “What’s up, Rache?”
    “Same old, same old, Carl.” She paused. Carl wasn’t in his office. Instead of a low electronic hum in the background, the telephone transmitted the echoing hustle and bustle of crowds moving through large, open spaces. “Where are you?”
    “I’m at the Salt Palace.”
    “You’re in Salt Lake? What are you doing in Salt Lake? Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Hey, so I’m telling you. I flew in this morning.” Carl said it like it was something he’d done at the last minute and just for the heck of it, which he probably had. For Rachel, even flying to San Jose was a chore not to be undertaken without thorough planning and preparation.
    Carl said, “How about lunch? I’ll buy. Mullboon’s on Sixth South, is it still there? How about twelve-thirty? Just a second.” He turned away from the phone. “Just start without me,” she heard him say. “Five minutes.” Then to her, “Gotta go.”
    “Bye, Carl.”
    Rachel hung up the phone and smiled to herself. A one-and-a-half-minute phone call from Carl and the promise of compelling company for lunch. There were worse ways to begin the day.
    She left early and checked in at the hospital. Her daughter was no better, no worse. The glass was half empty or half full. But leave a half-full glass sitting around in Utah and it would evaporate soon enough. The expanse of the Bonneville Salt Flats stretching out beyond the lake proved that fact well enough.
    Rachel didn’t intend to stay long, but she hated leaving so soon. So she rearranged the dragons. The nurses didn’t always put them back in the right places after rounds. The blue dragon guarded the heart monitor, the red dragon stood watch on the head rails of the bed, a pair of golden wyverns hung by their tails from the IV stand—things that went into her veins, Jennifer well knew, needed particular looking after.
    On the wall opposite the bed—the first thing Jennifer would see when she woke up—was a full-color poster of the magical world of James Christensen’s Voyage of the Basset. A land of dragons and elves and mermaids and endless possibilities.
    She touched Jennifer’s quiet, composed face, kissed her cheek, and prayed a silent prayer for her to wake up and be well.
    At the restaurant, the maitre d’ escorted her to the table. Carl was tapping away at his laptop. He stood to greet her, grinning broadly as he always did. He was wearing a tweed blazer over a faded T-shirt with a metallic-blue Digital Moviola logo emblazoned across the chest. He’d been wearing that T-shirt for years, filling out more of it every time she saw him. A Popsicle stick all through high school, Carl