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  LOREENA’S

  GIFT

  LOREENA’S

  GIFT

  COLLEEN M. STORY

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  LOREENA’S GIFT. Copyright © 2016, text by Colleen M. Story. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.

  Designed by Steven Seighman

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Story, Colleen M., 1968-

  Loreena’s gift / by Colleen M. Story.

  pages cm

  ISBN 9781938103476

  1. Blind women—Fiction. 2. Future life—Fiction. 3. Terminally ill—Fiction. 4. Mystery fiction

  PS3619.T6933 L67 2016

  813/.6—dc23LC

  2015033332

  First U.S. Edition: April 2016

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Mom

  1967

  1

  The reverend’s house stood exactly twenty-two steps from the back door of the Stillwater Christian Church. Not straight back, but kitty-corner, easy if one kept to the rounded stones that marked the way. Returning from the Sunday morning service, Loreena Picket remembered what the house looked like in her mind—a two-story white-paneled cottage that would fit perfectly on a Christmas card. Evergreens guarded the home like sentinels, watching over an eight-foot marble statue of an angel secured to a cement pedestal in the front yard.

  Holding onto the railing, Loreena climbed the three steps to the porch, her white cane tapping rhythmically. The awning overhead sheltered her from a light shower, raindrops landing with little pops on the vinyl. She imagined the geraniums still blooming from the four hanging baskets and the fragrant roses creating a border of multicolored buds. The lawn flowed from the house to the back of the church, an uninterrupted swath of green curved like a dove’s wing and often used for barbeques and potlucks.

  Pausing a moment, she listened for voices and heard her uncle speaking to Mrs. Enger. As usual, the portly woman was the last to leave. Loreena pictured her uncle trying to get around his bookkeeper, who also saw herself as activity coordinator—but getting around Mrs. Enger was always a challenge, not only because of her sizeable girth, but because the woman had a way of nimbly maneuvering herself right where she could best interrupt one’s progress.

  “I just don’t know, Reverend,” she was saying. “I really think a bake sale would be better than a banquet. People love my homemade fudge brownies, you know.”

  “You’re right,” her uncle said. Loreena could imagine him nodding while his gaze drifted elsewhere. “I’m happy to leave it up to you ladies to decide. Maybe we can do both?”

  “Both?” Mrs. Enger sounded shocked at the mere suggestion. “That would be a lot of extra work. I’m not sure how I would manage both, what with keeping the books and the membership records and all, and the fall harvest Sunday brunch just around the corner.”

  Her uncle started walking, the familiar clop of his cowboy boots echoing on the sidewalk. “I’m fully aware of how much you do for us. Perhaps you could put Mrs. Whitmore in charge of the banquet? She’s excellent at coordinating such things. Does a splendid job for the mayor.”

  Loreena covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. The younger, more active Mrs. Whitmore was a constant thorn in Mrs. Enger’s side.

  “She’s never done any such thing for the church,” Mrs. Enger snapped.

  “Perhaps under your guidance, then?” Loreena’s uncle said.

  Mrs. Enger chased after him a bit longer, her heels scuffing the cement, but Reverend Don was headed for the shed, the old wooden storage building tucked into the back of the property and accessible only by dirt path. It was the one place Mrs. Enger wouldn’t follow for fear of soiling her dress shoes. After a few more valiant attempts to catch him, she slowed and finally stopped, exhaled an exasperated sigh, and retreated the way she had come.

  Loreena turned back toward the church to let the afternoon sun warm her face. The outside of the old building used to match the white paneling of the house—did it still?—but it stood a story taller, with seven-foot stained-glass windows, forest-green trim, and a short bell tower. Loreena felt a little sad whenever she thought of it, for the bell hadn’t sounded for three years, its clapper having broken off and fallen onto the roof shortly after Ben, their gardener, died. She thought many times it wasn’t a coincidence.

  All together, the property took up over an acre at the top of Mary Hill Lane, a picturesque crown on the head of Stillwater, Idaho, featured on many of the postcards stacked in the tourist shops. Loreena had one of those postcards in a box under her bed, from a trip her mother had taken to visit Uncle Don years ago, back when her family had lived in Colorado.

  “I thought you might like to have it,” her mother had said. “It’s so beautiful there.”

  Loreena still felt a sense of peace about the place. The angel, most of all, hovered nearby like a protective spirit. Loreena could picture her best: though she turned her head slightly, as if looking for something behind her, she had vacant eyes, only the outlines of the lids carved into the white marble. When Loreena thought of her own eyes, shadowed in the accident twelve years before, when she was just nine years old, she pictured the angel’s and imagined they must be similar. Unseeing. Opaque.

  Once inside the house, she closed the heavy door behind her. Her lace shawl stuck to her skin with perspiration. She was glad to pull it from her shoulders as she stepped into the kitchen for some orange juice. When she finished, she made her way upstairs to her room, the second-story hideaway that looked out on the backyard. Her shoulders tensed as her thoughts strayed to the ritual that would take place later that afternoon. It had been over a year. Could she still do it? Turning her palms up, she closed her eyes and tried to feel the power there. These fingers were blessed with a gift from God, her uncle had told her, but she always wondered if God might take the gift back—or if He thought of it as a gift at all.

  A door opened and closed in the lower part of the house. “Loreena, are you ready?” her uncle called.

  “Coming.”

  She changed clothes quickly, and then opened the top dresser drawer. Inside rested a stack of clean cotton gloves. White, her uncle had told her. Sliding a fresh pair over her hands, she flexed her fingers to secure the fit. It was the second pair she would wear that day, the first already discarded in the laundry basket. Like a sheath for a knife, they were her assurance her hands would never accidentally hurt anyone. Not again.

  “Loreena? We have to go. Now.”

  Her uncle’s Dodge truck was pale green, he’d told her, closer to the color of mint ice cream than grass. She pulled the squeaky door open and paused. The air had cooled slightly, the afternoon sun cloaked with thin clouds. With what little vision she had left she could sense its shadow, a bit lighter than the rest, hovering above and to the left of where the distant mountain peaks carved into the horizon. Lunchtime would be over when they reached the house. She didn’t know the man they were going to see. He wasn’t a member of the church. But it didn’t matter. He wanted her to help him die.

  Hearing her uncle open his door, she slid over the vinyl seat and settled in, taking hold of the armrest. He placed his Bible between them, where he always did, and turned the key in the ignition, the engine responding with its usual guttural growl.
He smelled like soap. Loreena knew he was wearing his chocolate-brown collared shirt and tweed jacket. He’d described it to her before, the other two times they’d gone to rituals like this. He always wore the tweed for such occasions, no matter the weather. She suspected it had to do with the weight of the garment; perhaps it felt protective, comforting, though he always assured her that what they were doing was God’s work.

  His foot off the gas, he let the truck coast downhill into town. “His name is Russell Pearson,” he said. “He lives with his wife, Deborah, on Benning Street.”

  “Does she know?” Loreena asked.

  “I don’t think so. Russell mentioned it to me only once, during a visit—his wishes for everything to end. I was the only other person in the room.”

  Loreena twisted her fingers. “What does she think is happening?”

  “She thinks he wants to see a man of God.”

  They bounced over the railroad tracks at E Street. Loreena counted the stops. After the third, her uncle clicked on the blinker, shifted down, and turned left, putting them on Highway 36, headed north out of town. The sounds of traffic faded behind them. Somewhere nearby a cow bellowed.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She curled her legs underneath her, hugging her ankles in close, and turned the air vent to blow on her face.

  “This man’s gone through hell for months. You’re doing God’s work.”

  Who was he trying to convince? “The doctors can’t do anything else for him?”

  “It’s lung cancer. He’s young, early fifties, but it’s advanced quickly.”

  Loreena pressed her hands into her stomach, trying to still their fidgeting. Why couldn’t God have given her a healing power instead?

  “What’s the matter, kid? You’re awfully quiet.”

  At times she could make out the shadow of his figure there, like a gray ghost hovering just beyond her reach. “What if I can’t do it?”

  “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

  “I don’t know. I never know if it’s still there.”

  “God gave you this gift for a reason. You’re here to help people, Loreena. It’s the only explanation. If one day it changes, it changes, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. Look at the evergreen tree. Its leaves don’t change color all of a sudden, do they?”

  She shook her head. It was her uncle’s way, to always compare things, as if giving a sermon every time he talked.

  “Have faith. God made you as He wanted you.”

  The whistling wind dropped in pitch as the truck slowed and turned left. A dog barked and chased them around the corner. Loreena wondered if her uncle really believed God had made her this way, or if he was just trying to convince himself. It had to be difficult, having a niece who was guilty of murdering a man, even if she hadn’t intended to. Doubly difficult for a reverend who had labored over the Ten Commandments until she and her brother Saul could recite them by heart.

  Thou shalt not kill.

  “What about his wife?” she asked. “Won’t she wonder what happened?”

  “It will look completely natural, as it always does. And she’ll be glad I was there to help her husband find his way home.” The truck picked up speed again.

  Home. Did this man have an idea of the home he was going to? Did he have a Heaven in mind?

  The last one, the old woman in the nursing home, had gone to an elegant Victorian house with a lovely backyard full of beach ball–sized peonies, multicolored orchids, and popping hibiscus, the woman walking a cobblestone path amongst them all, inhaling their sweet scents and closing her eyes as the hummingbirds darted from one bloom to the next.

  But the one before that. Loreena shuddered. The rich man who lived in the giant house that smelled like cigars. His version of the hereafter still haunted her nightmares: a long, dark hallway filled with cold, muddy water that reached their knees, the only light a tiny yellow dot in the distance. No matter how far they went, the light never grew any bigger, leaving the man forever slogging in the shadows. Uncle Don preached a single version of Heaven, someplace where Jesus and God were supposed to reside among puffy clouds, carpeted mansions, and winged angels with golden halos, but Loreena knew—it all depended on the person.

  The truck bounced over two potholes and then slowed again. They parked. “We’re here,” Uncle Don said. “Ready?”

  The house rested quietly out in the countryside, no chugging tractor engines, no dog barking. A gentle breeze blew from the north, carrying with it the scent of mowed alfalfa. Uncle Don opened the screen door and knocked.

  The floor of the house vibrated with approaching footsteps. Light ones. Russell’s wife, Loreena guessed. A slim woman.

  The door creaked open.

  “Reverend Clement. I’m so glad you’re here.” Her voice was pleasing, but tired, as if she hadn’t slept in a long while.

  “Hello, Deborah. This is my niece, Loreena.”

  “Come in, please.”

  Uncle Don guided Loreena up the last small step and onto a thin rug over a hardwood floor. Deborah wore cheap hairspray, the scent of lilac and alcohol pinching Loreena’s nostrils. Once inside she caught a whiff of cooked chicken. Soup, maybe? Deborah closed the door behind them.

  “Can I offer you some tea?”

  “Very kind of you,” Uncle Don said.

  Deborah’s footsteps retreated as she headed into the kitchen, short, quick steps like a nervous waitress. Left alone in the living room, Don put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet. Cups and saucers clacked together, a clock ticking to the left, across the room. Loreena let out a breath and forced her shoulders down.

  “Do you take sugar or honey?” Deborah asked.

  “Black,” Uncle Don said.

  “And you, sweetie?”

  “Um, honey.” Loreena laced her fingers in front of her. She didn’t like tea.

  Deborah must have preheated the water, as the pot whistled within the next minute and then stopped, the pitch dropping to a low hum. She was obviously a practiced hostess, efficient even at a time like this. After another moment, her quick footsteps returned. “Please, have a seat.”

  Loreena followed Uncle Don to sit on a brushed fabric couch with raised seams that pressed against the back of her knees, a puffy corner pillow perched under her elbow. Deborah sat down at their right, the cushion exhaling under her weight as she set the cups on a coffee table between them.

  Uncle Don reached for his tea. “So, how is he?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid.” Deborah shifted, the chair creaking under her hips. “I just don’t know how much longer he can do this. He doesn’t like how he feels on the painkillers, but without them…” Her voice trailed off.

  “The rest of the family?” Uncle Don asked.

  “Just the two of us left, you know. Russell didn’t have any siblings, and mine are gone. And Crystal…well.”

  “Your daughter still hasn’t come?”

  The woman took a sip of her tea, a small slurping sound. “She loves her father. Maybe she just can’t handle it.”

  “We all have different ways of dealing with grief.”

  Loreena shifted on the couch cushion. They needed to go now. All this talk. She was going to lose her nerve. A car passed outside the window, its muffler gone, the roar of the engine rumbling the floors. Once past the house, the driver let off the gas and the engine popped and groaned, the sound fading away to the south.

  “These kids,” Deborah said. “I don’t see why they have to make so much noise.”

  “We have to experiment as youngsters.” Uncle Don turned, his sleeve brushing Loreena’s arm. “I was like that too, at that age. I didn’t know where I was going, but now I can see that God had a hand in guiding me all along. I was never out of His reach. He was watching out for me, like He does for all of us.”

  Loreena flinched. Her uncle was preaching again. Deborah probably didn’t mind, but Loreena couldn’t help but
feel his words were directed at her. More assurance that what they were doing was okay and what had happened three years ago wasn’t her fault, for surely God was watching out for her even then.

  She wanted to believe him. How could she have known? All she’d done was take Ben’s hand when he’d offered it, the gardener eager to show her the new rosebud that had opened. It had been like falling, and then like stepping into another world bursting with colorful blooms, blooms she could see for the first time in nine years, the sound of running water singing in her ears, the air kissed with moisture. They’d walked into a greenhouse as big as a town, and she had stared in wonder, the bright colors stinging her eyes. But then Ben had gone on ahead of her and she’d heard her uncle calling her name. In a blink she’d found herself in the shadows again, holding Ben’s hand, but it had gone cold, the gardener collapsed among the roses, his trimmers abandoned in the wood chips.

  These mercy killings. They were her uncle’s way of making it right, she was sure—as if by ending the suffering of the terminally ill, he could wipe both their souls clean of her sin.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Reverend.” Deborah sighed and then stood. “Well, he was awake a moment ago, but he may not stay that way long.”

  “Very good.” Uncle Don set down his tea and followed her across the room. Loreena fell in behind him.

  “Reverend,” Deborah said, turning to face him, “he requested you, and I’m not sure…” She paused. “Well, he can feel embarrassed about his condition, especially in front of young people. I don’t know—”

  “Loreena often assists me with prayers,” Uncle Don said. “I’ve spoken with Russell about it. If it’s all right with you?”

  Loreena could feel the woman sizing her up.

  “It’s the last room at the end of the hallway,” Deborah said, stepping aside.

  Uncle Don took the back of Loreena’s arm and guided her on.

  The hallway smelled of bleach, strongest when they passed the bathroom. Loreena touched the doorframe and found it cold and dusty. She wiped the residue on her skirt. The thick rug cradled her shoes, and she thought of her old home, the one she had shared with her mother and brother, where the rugs were just like this. Her feet were bare then, and the fibers massaged her toes like soft fingers.