The Unborn
By Gerard Houarner
Losing her husband hurt Clarice terribly. Losing their baby at birth was devastating. But when someone or some thing steals her child’s ashes, getting them back reveals to her what Heaven and Hell have in store.
Originally published in the anthology Dreaming of Angels (2002). Reprinted with the author’s permission.
Clarice stared at the police report as if words could heal her ravaged spirit. The detective at the doorway put his notebook away as he glanced down the hallway, distracted by a man’s shout from a nearby apartment.
“So that’s the end of the investigation?” Clarice asked.
The detective shifted from one foot to another. “Look, all they took were ashes.”
“My lock was broken.”
“The Captain isn’t going to release a man to dust for prints over an urn full of ashes, Mrs. Carmichael. There are priorities.”
“Like my husband’s murder?”
The detective scowled, began to walk away. “Yeah, exactly.”
“And do you have any leads on that one, detective?”
“We’re working the case, Mrs. Carmichael.” He took a step down the stairs, put a hand on the banister. A baby’s cry cut through the stuffy air like the sunlight coming in through the stairwell window. The cry trailed away; dust motes danced in the ray. “Look, I know it’s been rough on you, losing your husband, your kid, now even his Goddamn ashes. People down at the precinct know what’s happened to you. They’re looking out. This last thing, it’s probably some prankster, a neighbor who had it in for you or your husband. Or some stupid kid acting on a dare. I’m sure they won’t come back into your apartment. You’re safe. It’s the least of your problems. You just take care of yourself, okay?”
When Clarice didn’t answer, the detective nodded to himself and left.
Clarice closed the door, crumpled the police report and threw it away. Another mystery, another hole in her life. Nick shot on the steps to the apartment building; their son, healthy according to all the pre-natal tests, dead on delivery; and now, the boy’s ashes, delivered after the autopsy, stolen. No one knew why, and nobody cared beyond a moment’s acknowledgement of, and sympathy with, her pain.
The tears were long gone from her eyes. The wells of grief and hurt had run dry. All she had left were insurance and death benefits; photo albums filled with romance and joy; the ghost of her baby’s heart beating inside her. She went to the kitchen table and sat down, wondering if she should check Nick’s gravesite to make sure someone had not stolen his body, as well. Nine months in the ground. If somebody wanted him, they would have had plenty of time to get him.
A chill passed through her. Suddenly, the idea of checking the grave did not seem so far-fetched. The room darkened and she fought back a rush of mad thoughts. No, she was stronger than that. No hanging, pills, or razor’s edge for her. She pushed a pile of baby clothes from the couch and sat down, the room spinning, her stomach turning. Like her mother said, there was always something to live for. Like her father said, you just had to go out and find it.
Maybe she would find it at her husband’s grave. At least it was something to do. She took deep breaths, focused on the trip, the next step she had to take, the moment she was in. Slowly, her panic subsided. She stopped shaking. For a moment, she even believed she was strong enough to survive, instead of too weak to surrender.
She stood and quickly prepared for the bus ride from Brooklyn to Queens, gathering keys, money, belongings, and stuffing them into a bag as if she were escaping from a prison cell overrun by infant clothes, the playpen, walker and crib, boxes of diapers, toys and bedding.
She stopped when she caught herself putting in sonograms and medical reports, Pampers, and a pacifier.
As she left, her bag lightened, she looked back at the chaos left behind by the last nine months and wondered how anyone had even been able to find her baby’s ashes.
Half an hour before closing at the New Calvary Cemetery, an attendant drove by in a pickup truck heading for the garage. The only other living person Clarice had seen all afternoon was a photographer dressed in black, silver jewelry glinting in the sunlight, taking photographs of gravestones with Celtic decorative designs. Neither spoke to her.
The children, on the other hand, had skirted close by her as they chased one another, laughing and squealing with delighted terror. A few times, one or another had glanced at her, mouthed something she could not hear, then continued his or her flight or pursuit. Seeing grass, marble markers, and tree trunks through their translucent bodies had startled her at first. They did not wear clothes as far as she could tell, but they were not naked, either. Light and shadow flowed through their forms as they ran, simultaneously exposing and obscuring their exact nature with the tides of motion. Her eyes hurt if she stared too long at any one of the children. A burning smell, as if frayed wiring was melting under a current running too strong, lingered in the air after they passed near her.
Over the course of the afternoon, after she was certain Nick’s grave had not been disturbed, she became accustomed to their presence. A part of her rebelled at the idea of ghosts, and a tiny seed of fear tried to take root and drive her away. But the sun was bright, the sound of traffic from the nearby Brooklyn-Queens Expressway reassured her that living humanity was close by, and the children reminded her of her son and what he might have been. Bittersweet fantasies passed the time. Nothing better waited for her at home.
Once, when the unreality of sitting in a cemetery watching dead children play struck her with renewed force, she considered the possibility of madness. However, she felt no discomfort or anxiety. The world seemed just as it always had been, except for the added depth of the apparent existence of ghosts. If she was insane, she decided the state was not so bad, after all. No worse, certainly, than hurting and grieving.
Several times, she sensed someone behind her and turned quickly. The air shimmered in front of her husband’s marker, and the earth under her felt cold for a moment, but a spirit did not materialize. “Nick?” she called out, but no one answered.
After the maintenance truck passed, a delegation of children gathered in the shadow of an old oak. They were older, almost teenagers, their bodies tall and lean. As with the younger ghosts, she could tell boys from girls without clearly seeing their features. When a dozen had gathered, they approached Clarice, passing through head stones, gliding over the blessed earth. They stopped at the foot of Nick’s grave, crowded around her. The sun dimmed, and a chill seized her as she remained seated in their invisible shadow. One of the youths came to stand in front of her, a small form cradled in her arms.
Clarice’s heart skipped, and she looked down, suddenly afraid.
“I’m glad you went through with our agreement,” Nick said, from behind her.
Clarice turned. Nick stood before his marker, a faint impression almost blotted out by the young ghosts. “What?” she croaked.
“When we talked about having kids. If anything happened, we would cremate the body. Remember? Such a tiny corpse was too painful to imagine.”
Clarice shuddered. “What . . . what is all this?”
“It made it easier, afterwards, as well. When we made that agreement, the angel hadn’t visited me yet. I didn’t know anything.”
“Angel?” She stood, brushed dirt and leaves from her pants, picked up her bag, and hung it on her shoulder, clutching it to her side protectively.
“He came to me in the middle of the night. After we made love. The last time.”
Clarice shook her head. “You never told me.”
“He chose me.”
Pain shot up from between her legs, turning sore hips, belly, and back into seething masses of agony. She collapsed to her knees, lay on her side, curled her body around her empty womb. When the pain quieted, she opened her eyes. Nick floated above her. His face was a statue’s, frozen, impassive, as if losing flesh had made the spirit forget expression. Emotion.
A small cry split the silence. The form in the arms of the ghost-youth standing by her feet moved. A tiny hand with fingers of mist reached out to her.
Clarice looked away. She wished she could disbelieve what was happening-get up, go home, and lose herself in familiar sorrows. But it was too late. She had let herself believe in ghosts. She could not escape whatever followed. “What did he tell you?” Clarice asked, her voice shaking.
“We made a son, and he was destined to die.”
Her laughter coughed up like phlegm. Tears burned her eyes, salted the wounds of her spirit, poisoned the fertile ground of her sex. “We all die, Nick.”
“Only the born die, Clarice. Our souls grow, shaped by flesh and the war between God and the Enemy. The struggle that even the best of us endure against temptation taints our spirits. We cannot be pure. We can never be angels.”
“Nick,” she said wearily, “I never knew you were religious.” She looked up at him, frowning. “We never even went to church.”
“The angel chose me.”
Clarice flinched at the self-centered pride she had never seen in the man when he was alive. “To do what, Nick?”
“To make an angel. My seed, Clarice. My son. God chose me to make one of His chosen. To make something pure and strong. An angel, Clarice, a weapon against the Enemy. All I had to do was sacrifice myself.”
Clarice felt a twist of pain in her gut. “You killed yourself? But I thought . . . you were
murdered. . . .”
“God took me in His way. I never felt a thing. I died in Rapture.”
“Why does God have to kill a father and his child to make an angel, Nick?”
“He didn’t kill our baby. He took the soul we made while He could, before living corrupted it.”
“Why doesn’t God just make another angel?”
“That was in the Beginning. The Time of God’s Creation is over. We are the Makers, now.”
“Why does God need more angels, anyway?”
“The Enemy, Clarice. The Enemy makes angels fall.”
Clarice sat up, rubbed her forehead. His words danced in circles through her mind. “You make sense, Nick. You always did. That’s why I loved you. You could take the stupidest movie, the craziest news story, and bring every detail into focus, put the whole thing into context, make it fit into the real world. And you’re doing it again.” She stood, again brushed dirt and grass from her clothes. “But you’re dead, and so are all these others. And things just don’t fit together like they used to. You’re gone, my baby’s gone, and no matter what you say, it doesn’t make any real fucking sense. Do you understand, Nick? You’re talking, you’re telling me a story, and the words all come together like they should, and maybe if you were still alive, if you’d told me about the angel when we were together, I would have gone along with it, but now, Nick, now I just can’t believe anything anymore. Not you, not the angel, not the Enemy or God, not even the rest of these Goddamned dead people in my fucking face. Do you understand that, Nick? Do you?”
She knew she had been screaming when the last of the words flew out of her mouth and left her throat feeling raw. Her voice echoed among the headstones and shade trees. She looked around to see if anyone was near enough to hear her, saw only the translucent bodies of ghosts warping abandoned rows of graves. Almost closing time, she realized. Time to leave. She took a Kleenex out of her purse and wiped tears from her eyes.
The air popped and sizzled faintly from the crowd of spirits. She waved her hand to clear away the smell of shorted wiring.
“They’re not dead, Clarice,” said Nick. “They’re Unborn, like our son. Growing up in the next world. Preparing to be angels.”
Clarice pointed at the bundle in the spirit youth’s arms. “Is that our baby?
“Yes.”
She went to the young ghost holding the infant and tried to take the bundle away. Her arms passed through them both.
“Time to let go, Clarice. The way’s been prepared and the child is ready, but old bonds still hold him back. Our son can’t be an angel if you won’t let him go.”
“Let him go?” She whipped an arm through Nick’s torso, then tossed the purse at his head. It sailed over several rows of graves. “Forget him, you mean? Throw away the fact that I had him inside me for nine months? He was growing in my belly when I buried you, Nick. He’s the only thing I had left, and now you’re telling me I can’t even have a simple memory of him? What’s wrong with you? That’s my child. Your God didn’t talk to me. Your angel didn’t come to me. I never agreed to anything, and I’m the one who carried him, Nick. He’s as much a part of me as he is of you. More. I’m still alive. I can still feel him. What the Hell do you feel, Nick?”
Someone walked down the road cutting between the trees on a nearby rise. Clarice wondered if the caretaker was making his rounds or if a visitor was going home. Did they see the ghosts, or only a woman shouting at air?
“He was never alive. And I’m here on the other side with him. I’m his guardian now, not you.”
Clarice straightened. The hurt and anger growing under the surface of her mourning Nick and nurturing joy for her baby all these months shot up her spine in a volcanic rush. Betrayal’s rage flared in her mind, stronger than when the doctors had told her the baby died without any cause they could determine. Vengeance was a cold, tasteless coating on her tongue-a blast of arctic air carving its way to her lungs, her heart.
“You can’t just take my baby and do what you want with him,” she said, peering into Nick’s face, searching for a way to hurt him.
The figure on the road stopped. Clarice glanced, saw a thin man in ragged clothes staring at her with wide, unblinking eyes. His feet, covered by a pair of worn-out black canvas sneakers, were planted firmly on the ground. A faint, sour smell reached her on the barest of breezes. Not a ghost. And not a visitor or caretaker.
“Have you been Judged?” the man said in a hoarse, raw voice.
“Let him go,” Nick said.
“Or you’ll kill me? I didn’t know God murdered people.”
“You will be Judged for interfering with His plan, giving aid to the Enemy.”
“So kill me. I’ll go over to your side, become a ghost, and protect my son that way.”
“Your spirit will never reach us, Clarice. He will not let you.”
The man left the path, came down between the head stones. He was not carrying any weapon Clarice could see, but the tension in his hands, the veins standing along his neck and temple, spoke of the power contained in his frame.
“Who is this, Nick? An angel? God? The Enemy?”
“At the moment, your enemy. A lost soul who rediscovered God, became His instrument on Earth. My murderer. The man who took the ashes so you could find peace in forgetfulness, and so my son could begin his journey to become an angel.”
“A lost soul? He looks like a junkie.”
“He’s been born again.”
“Now, I know you’re dead,” Clarice said, balling her fists as the stranger stopped a few feet away from her. “You’ve lost your sense of humor.”
“Do it, Clarice. Walk away. Let him go. Or you will be made to let him go.”
“God doesn’t kill children, and he doesn’t kill their mothers. They tricked you, you dead, stupid son of a bitch.”
“God does not deceive.”
“Either you’re a ghost that’s gone insane, or I’m hallucinating you. Or worse, God’s gone crazy and imagined all of this. Or maybe, Nick, maybe it’s been the devil all along. Satan, the Enemy, he deceives, doesn’t he? And wasn’t he an angel, too?”
Nick floated in silence. His gaze passed through her. She turned her attention to the stranger.
“Is God talking to you right now?” she demanded.
Startled, the man jerked his head back. “His Voice commands all the others. Have you been Judged?”
“Wouldn’t you be the first to hear? Listen; are you going to kill me? Like you did my husband?”
“God told me. . . .”
Clarice dismissed him with a sharp swing of her arm. “God told you nothing, you psychotic fuck. You killed my husband. I want to know if you want to kill me, too.”
“But the angels . . . the ghosts. . . .”
“Hallucinations. You’re off your medication. Strung out, too, looks like. Shouldn’t try to self-medicate. What’s your name?”
“Name? Gabriel. Simon. Job. Luke. Lot. Judas. John. Paul. Mat-”
“Simon. I’ll call you Simon. Now, just give me back the ashes, and I’ll leave.”
“But the Lord-”
“Which voice are you going to listen to? The one in your head?”
The man’s gaze flickered back and forth. He sank into a slight crouch, and his mouth worked over words and phrases that might have been coming from God, or the sewer of pain backing into his thoughts. Clarice took a deep breath, brought back to her own feelings by the mirror of Simon’s face.
In a softer, gentler tone, she said, “You can’t even see who’s talking to you. Look at me, Simon. Listen to my voice. I’m the one who’s right here with you, living and breathing, just like you. You don’t want to kill me, or I’d be dead by now. So you must have come to help me. So help me. Give me back my baby’s ashes.”
“Clarice,” Nick said, gliding between her and the man, “stop this. You’re interfering with a
plan-”
“Go talk to your angel, you son of a bitch,” Clarice answered sharply. She stepped through her dead husband, grabbed Simon’s shoulders, shook him. “Listen to me,” she said, peering into his rapidly blinking eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not even going to tell the police anything, so don’t worry about them, either. I’m glad you killed Nick.” Her words, hard and alien, made her stop. She sifted through thoughts and emotions, searching for the difference between truth and illusion. A quick look around revealed the haze of young ghosts, Unborn, angels-in-waiting, still surrounding her. Her baby’s soul, their small assassin waiting to grow into a warrior angel, kicked and shifted restlessly in a stranger’s arms. She shook her head. The world was as it was. No sense fighting against it, or trying to understand it, or separating lies from reality, insanity from pain.
“I’ll never turn you in,” she said firmly. “As a matter of fact, if you give me the ashes, I’ll take you with me when I leave. We can go away together. I’ll take care of some of those things I bet you can’t understand, and I won’t hurt you.” Simon’s gaze locked with hers, and she said softly, “Let my voice command all the others, okay?” She held his rough face in her hands, kissed him gently on his scabrous lips. “We can be partners. I’ll Judge for the both of us, if you trust me. Just be my protector. Maybe, in time, we can be more to each other. We can be real for each other, and true, instead of voices coming from invisible gods, or untouchable, lying angels, or ghosts.”
“Blessed Lord, Clarice. That man is His Instrument. You can’t-”
Clarice laughed, and this time it was liquid. She turned to Nick. “Simon is his own man, like I’m my own woman. I think we have a few things in common, here. Something to offer one another. In fact, with a little cleaning up, I think I’ll be ending up with the better man. I’m pretty sure he’ll be happier in the long run with me, instead of a voice that says it’s God. What do you say?”
“You can’t take God’s place in this man’s life, Clarice. You can’t even push God out of your own life.”
“Why not. I can be just as big a bitch as he can be a bastard.” She took Simon’s hand, squeezed it. “Show me where you put the ashes, Simon. Please.” His flesh warmed in hers, and after a moment she felt him close his fingers and hold on.
Simon looked at their hands clasped together. He smiled at Clarice, revealing gaps in the rows of teeth. He started walking, pulling her along, and they passed through the circle of Unborn and headed along the road towards the cemetery entrance.
“God isn’t harsh or gentle,” Nick shouted after them. “Decisions have to be made for the greater good. What may seem evil to the small minds of His children is only what must be done for the Good of All.”
“You listen to your angel,” Clarice yelled back over her shoulder. “I’ll listen to mine.” She took a last, long look at her son. “Don’t worry, baby, I won’t let you go,” she whispered, as if the boy were still alive and in her arms, as if she were cooing him to sleep. “I’ll find a way to set you free. I promise.”
They left under the puzzled gaze of the watchman who opened the gate for them. Simon led her along Queens Boulevard until they reached the Long Island Expressway, which they followed into an industrial district. They came to a block-long building with a faded dry-cleaning sign on its roof, entered through a loose panel next to a loading dock door. Scattering roosting pigeons, they made their way through broken machinery to a suite of offices atop a metal loft. A few men huddled in corners and along the upper rail grunted as they walked up the stairs. Simon opened a door. Dust flew out with a draft, bringing with it the reek of urine and feces, the stench of rotting meat. Clarice followed him in. He gave her the candle he lit, then rummaged through a pile of old clothing, wrappers and paper bags, pieces of chairs and tables. Finally, he stood and exchanged the canister he had pulled out for the candle.
Clarice held her son’s ashes to her breasts, as if the milk aching to be consumed might nurture the body back into existence. The metal canister was cold in her hands. She saw the soiled mattress and lay down. Mice scratched in the walls, rifled through piles of paper. Roaches darted across open spaces. Her body shivered with exhaustion. “I’m tired, Simon. I need to get some sleep.”
Simon nodded his head. “I’ll get us some food,” he said. At the doorway, he turned to her. “You know what’s between God and the Devil?”
“No,” Clarice answered.
Simon nodded again. Smiled. Blew out the candle and left.
Clarice closed her eyes, comfortable in the wreckage, safe in the ruins. Protected from grief in the armor of her rage, in the certainty of her vengeance against Nick and whatever power had seduced him, she held on tight to her baby’s ashes. Remembered what he felt like inside her. Dreamed of what he might have been. And when a nightmare of what he could yet become chased her out of sleep, she wondered how long she could hang on to him, how long would angels and Unborn wait for her strength to fail.
What else she had to do before her son was free. . . .
