Forgetting the Lost: Chapter 1
1939
Six-year-old Madeline Galloway knows she's unlikeable. Unlovable. Uncanny. But when she encounters a strange man she believes to be a fallen angel, will her abilities save her life—or ruin it?
This novella serves as a prequel to Daughters of Men, but can also be read as a standalone.
Audiobook narrated by April Doty. Paid subscribers have access to the complete story.
1939
My dog died the day I met Lucy, but he swore to me on all that was holy that it was just a coincidence. And I believed him, because I was six and knew that angels couldn't lie. Even fallen ones.
The first time I saw him, he'd been watching Miriam skip rope, her skinned knees flashing up and down as the thin cord whipped the air. I'd been watching her a lot, too, ever since her big sister had gone missing. In the thirties, that didn't happen often. Not in Wilmington, anyway.
A wet wind tossed the treetops and pressed the teachers against the school. The brick wall was still bright red and dry, but before recess was over, they'd retreated to the steps, and then inside. After all, there was only one missing child. And they hadn't liked her much.
"Get out of the way, squirt!" Tommy had yelled at me. I'd been standing behind him as he shot marbles with my brother. He hadn't minded until my brother won his big green and white swirl.
Tommy was ten. Stringy and mean, and the first to pick a fight so he'd be the last to lose. And he was sick. Something bad would happen to him soon, and I'd been praying for him while I was watching Miriam.
"You deaf?" Tommy twisted in his crouch and smacked my ankle. "Get over there with the girls, or I'll bust your brother's nose again."
A couple of the other boys laughed, but they didn't mean any harm. They had to stay on Tommy's good side, because he only had two. Sides, that is.
Even at six, I already knew most people had more sides than what they showed. I couldn't help but know. But others, like my brother Timothy, only had one.
Timid Timmy they called him. But Timothy wasn't timid. He was eleven, and taller than the rest of the boys. Smarter, too. Going to heaven was serious business and if it meant his cheek got punched once in a while, he'd just turn and offer the other one.
I adored Timothy. And I decided I could stop praying for Tommy.
I left the boys and joined the girls waiting their turn with the skip rope. Miriam hadn't missed yet.
Across the street, Lucy had decided to watch me. We'd considered each other solemnly for a few minutes, and he'd stepped clear of the trees as if he wanted to get a better look at me—which had helped me get a better look at him.
I'd never seen a man that tall. And even though it was a cloudy day, his blond hair shone like a white cloud lit by the sun.
He glanced away, frowned at Tommy, and then looked at me again. That's when I knew.
No one paid me any mind when I left the schoolyard and crossed the street. Only Timothy cared about me, and he was busy trying to lose so Tommy could get his favorite marble back.
A wide puddle skirted the edge of the curb, and I remember how my short legs couldn't quite stretch across—and how Lucy reached forward and lifted me to the sidewalk like he was already looking out for me. But I don't remember if I thanked him.
Not that it matters, I suppose. But all these years later, that's the kind of thing that keeps me awake at night. Not the big moments. The ones where I made a choice and knew the cost. But all the tiny ones, where I paid a price in shiny future pennies I'd yet to earn.
He let me study him and held still as I circled behind him. His shoulders were broad under a suit jacket meant for a smaller man. No bulges beneath the taut tweed, and no feathers poking under the hem. But he felt solid. My hands were still at my sides, but he felt as solid as the ground when I slept in the backyard. And no one ever felt that way to me.
I rounded beside him, and together we watched the children play. I remember the day was gloomy. Cold for March, and blustery, but standing beside him, I felt warm.
"Recess is almost over," I told him.
One of the big girls yanked the skip rope from Miriam, and she tripped flat on the dirt. Timothy ran to help her stand, and Tommy stole one of his marbles.
"You're an angel," I said.
Lucy had smiled, but whether it was for me recognizing him or for Timothy's kindness, I wasn't sure.
"Did God send you?" I asked. "To help the lost ones?"
The smile disappeared, and one of the teachers came out and clanged the bell. All the other children obediently lined up to go inside—but I crossed my arms and waited.
"Yes," he answered. "He did."
Timothy spotted me and waved for me to hurry up, but the angel beside me had grown as hot as fire.
"You're lying," I frowned. "About God." That meant Hell.
"Your brother is calling you."
"It's Tommy." I had to make sure he picked the right one. "Miriam isn't sick."
The schoolyard was empty now, except for Timothy. My poor brother, torn between loyalty to me and fear of breaking the rules and crossing the street. I couldn't let him get into trouble on my account, so I ran.
I'd have died, right then and there, if Lucy hadn't swept me past the bread truck and all the way to my brother. One blast of a horn…one split second…and I owed more future pennies than I could ever hope to earn.
I remember how Timothy seemed frozen, one hand stretched out and his face slack with horror. I'd flung my arms around his waist and squeezed—so tight—and told him I was sorry for scaring him. That I was fine. That we could go inside now. But I don't remember Lucy walking away.
I got my knuckles rapped with the ruler twice that afternoon. The first time for being late in from recess. The second, because I kept looking out the window. I almost got 'em rapped a third time, but I think Miss Walker knew that might leave marks I couldn't hide, so she had me write lines instead. Miss Walker wasn't particularly nice, but she was fair. Once she'd punished you, she was finished with it. No need to get a child punished at home again, too.
It was hard to concentrate on my lines, and my fingers smarted as I dragged the chalk, scritch-scratch, across the blackboard. I was too short to reach the top, even on the wooden stool, and had to write tiny to fit a hundred lines in the space she'd given me beside the arithmetic lesson.
Like I said, Miss Walker was fair. If she'd made me stay after school to write lines, I'd have been in double-trouble. Besides, she knew I was way past adding up single digits, and might as well have my time put to better use. Like practicing writing real tiny and fancy.
I will keep my eyes on my work. I will pay attention. I will not look out the window.
She didn't care what I wrote as long as it was what she wanted to read. I snuck another look outside, and Lucy lifted one hand from the shadows of the rain-drenched pines across the street. Pointing. Telling me to write and not get in trouble again.
I'd grinned so big that my cheeks hurt worse than my fingers.
Timothy hadn't been as lucky as me. His teacher was a mean old woman who didn't believe in striking children, and had instead written a note that Father would have to sign. His shoulders slumped as we walked home from school.
"Maybe Mother can sign it?" I'd suggested, but he just sniffled.
Ahead of us, Miriam also slouched, her head bent over the books in her arms. Her sister's teacher kept pretending Janie was just playing hooky, and kept sending assignments home for her. Mr. Laney knew better, though. All of the adults did. But none of them wanted to know the truth, because the truth might be too ugly for a small red brick school in the good part of town.
I pulled Timothy by the hand until we caught up to Miriam; and immediately he took the books. He was sweet like that. Maybe even sweet on her. I knew more than I should've at six, but nothing about love.
Miriam was soft and ripple-y that afternoon. Like the last fluff on a dandelion, too tired to resist the breeze. I scooted around to walk on her other side, and I remember feeling like if I leaned against her, she might float off to someplace else. She might've liked that. She seemed to belong to somewhere else—but she wasn't sick and lost. Not like Tommy.
Our house was two doors past hers, so Timothy had to hand the books back. As miserable as he was, my brother still tried to cheer her up, reminding her that tonight was The Lone Ranger. "I bet Silver is gonna save him!" he called as she climbed the porch steps. He wasn't really talking about a radio program or a horse smart enough to chew through rope, and Miriam smiled before going inside.
She was only nine, but she might've been sweet on him, too. Once they were older. But that day, they were young, and Timothy had sighed as the big white door shut.
I took his hand again, so I could feel his bones beneath his skin. He was always squishier when he was sad, and that scared me. I wished I could make him smile like he made Miriam smile, but he was the good one of the two Galloway children. Everybody knew that. Even Father. Which is why it wasn't fair that Timothy would be strapped for something I did.
"Just tell him it was my fault," I said. "Mother doesn't let him hit me, and you can sneak me bread after they go to bed."
We both knew he wouldn't, but my brother nodded. I think that, even back then, he understood Father needed him to be bad sometimes, just so Father could take credit for straightening him out. My brother could always sense when people needed him to be something he wasn't. Just like I could sense when they were pretending to be someone they weren't.
But we hadn't counted on Father sending him to his room after ten straps instead of the usual three. And so I'd worked up some tears and snotty hiccups until Mother insisted that Timothy be allowed to listen to The Lone Ranger from the top of the stairs. "Family time" she'd called it, and Father had given in because I raised such a woeful ruckus he worried the neighbors might complain. Or maybe he'd worried I wouldn't shut up before the program started.
Assured that Timothy could hear, I'd plunked down in front of the radio—but Mother called me to the kitchen to wash my face. I'd scurried—the music had already started—and she handed me a glass of milk and a plate with one fresh-baked cookie. Then she'd pointed up the stairs.
My eyes had teared up for real then, and she'd turned me around and smacked me once on the backside to send me off. Like I said, everyone knew Timothy was the good child. I set the glass and plate beside him, then went to bed.
Later that night, I woke up yelling. No one checked on me, though—not even Timothy—because it was normal for me to have nightmares about my bed melting through the floor. As I got older, I learned that most children were scared of the dark—but I was afraid of getting stuck somewhere between the floorboards and the plaster ceiling in the dining room.
On really bad nights, the whole house got runny, like when Mother left her pretty Jell-O salad in a sunny spot by the kitchen window. All that was left for her ladies' bible study was slimy green glop and bits of pear. Even Buster, our dog, hadn't wanted to lick that plate. And he licked his own you-know-what sometimes.
The wind howled outside, but the full moon was bright in my window. I tried to lie still, but my thin mattress kept sagging…down, down, down…every time my eyes closed. The floor wasn't any better. I thought about going to Timothy's room, but last time, Mother had told me I was too old for that and had made me copy lines from the Bible and given me nothing but bone broth and bread for a whole week.
I stuck my arms in my flannel robe. The sleeves and hem had grown too short over the winter, and my nightgown didn't reach my ankles; but I'd learned it was better to be cold—or wet—than to cry out too many times in one night.
The backdoor was unlocked, but I had to poke the latch on the outer screened door with Mother's broom. The first time, I'd dragged a chair over so I could reach, but Father had come running down the stairs thinking I was a burglar. No one had slept the rest of that night.
I remember thinking that the backyard was brighter than my room, and feeling relief when my toes dug into the cold, damp grass and didn't sink. I shivered, though, and clutched my robe tight across my chest. It was always warmer under the bushes, out of the wind.
That's when I noticed how quiet the night was, and how the trunk of the pecan tree seemed to have two shadows. It hadn't been the wind howling, after all.
Lucy stood over Buster. The moon didn't know what to do with black fur, so Buster looked like a weird hole in the ground instead of a sleeping dog. I ran over and tugged on Lucy's arm. "Don't wake him!" I whispered. "He'll bark."
"I'm sorry, child," Lucy said.
I pulled again, but the angel wouldn't move. Then a cat appeared, milk white and slinky, and curled up beside Buster. That's when I knew.
"Did you kill him?" I asked.
"I did not," Lucy answered.
I closed my eyes and concentrated. Lucy still felt solid, like the earth under my feet, and he wasn't jittery, or ice cold, or slippery, or any of the other sick feelings. His body gave off heat like logs in the fireplace, but that was probably from all the time he spent in Hell.
"It was a coincidence," he said.
I opened my eyes to see him on one knee in front of me.
"Swear it," I'd challenged him. So full of myself at six years old. So sure I knew. "Put your hand on your heart and say 'may God strike me down'."
His expression was hard to read in the moonlight, and the air around us warmed because Hell probably wanted him back home, but he did what I asked.
"I swear to you and by all that you deem holy—"
"May God strike you…" I scooted a little further away, just in case, and his teeth flashed white in the darkness.
"May God smote me with His Fiery Greatness if I killed your beloved pet."
We both waited, and the cat meowed, but no lightning bolt struck and burned him to a pile of cinders.
"I didn't like Buster," I admitted. "He bit me and Mother kept putting methiolate, and it burned."
"Merthiolate," he sighed. "Mercury."
"He was a mean dog."
"He was unhappy with the limitations of his surroundings."
I thought about that—about how he was tied up to the pecan tree all the time, and about how sleeping under the back porch was probably lonely. "I never played with him after he bit me. He used to sleep beside me over there." I pointed to Mother's azalea bushes.
His head turned, and the moonlight caught his eyes, silver and wet. "He was your protector."
I crossed my arms. "Buster bit me. It hurt."
The silver eyes rose as he stood, and I'd known I'd disappointed him. More future pennies.
"Why are you here?" I'd asked. But Don't leave! is what I'd thought. "I told you Tommy's sick. Don't you know where he lives?"
"I do."
I followed him to the row of bushes. "Because you're an angel. God told you to watch over us."
The azaleas were thick and almost as tall as him, all moon-glossed leaves and darkness, separating our yard from the woods. He found my secret tunnel before I could show him, and shimmied under and between until only his legs poked out. He was barefoot like me.
"Child!" he sounded a little mad. "Why do you sleep on a…is this a coat?" The blackness rustled as he wriggled out, dragging Father's old slicker with him. "Your Givers are remiss! Do they know you sleep amidst dirt and insects?"
"Put it back!" Father thought Mother had put it in the church box by accident. "Bugs don't like the soap Mother buys. They think I smell bad."
"Young one…" He sounded tired, and I pushed past him to shove the slicker where it belonged.
Stupid angel was going to get me in trouble. "Why do you care? You aren't good, because you try to lie. You're a fallen angel, aren't you? That's why you don't have wings…God tore 'em off because you made Him mad!"
"If you think I am a liar, how do you know I told the truth about your pet?"
"On account of freewill." I'd felt rather smug, since I'd just been proven right by God, Himself. "You don't have it, 'cause God only gave it to us. So when you lie, you give yourself away, because lying is against His will. You can't do it right, like people can."
He made a noise in the back of his throat.
"Which one are you?" I asked. "What's your name?"
"I…I do not have a name."
I cheered up at that. "Can I call you Lucy?"
He snorted, and the cat hissed. "You believe that I am Lucifer?"
I shook my head, though he probably couldn't see. "Satan is evil and has horns. Timothy told me the rest of you were just jealous that we got freewill and you didn't. That the Holy Father loved us more."
"My kind created the evil in this world. I might be the Lucifer in your Bible."
"You're not."
The angel stood and looked down at me. "You are…unique," he said. Then he walked back to the pecan tree and knelt in the shadows beside Buster.
After a second, I ran to him. "I'm uncanny. That's what Mother says. Father says my real papa is the milkman, but the milkman said Father can't blame him for how I turned out."
Lucy laughed once, a blunt huff of air without any joy. "Nature or nurture," he muttered, and laid both his hands on my dog.
The cat rubbed its face on my bare ankle.
"Can I pet it?" I asked. I didn't want to be bitten again—or clawed.
"She says that you may…" Lucy paused, "…and that her name is Alice."
"Alice? Like a girl?" I leaned over and the cat shoved her head under my hand. Her nose was cool, but her silky fur was warm. A spiky smell like lightning tickled my nose, and I moved closer to Lucy. "What're you doing?"
"Nothing, apparently." His reply sounded bitter, like Mother's stinky soap tasted when she made me wash my mouth out.
"Only God and Jesus can do that." I yawned and dropped to the ground beside him. "So, what're you going to do about Tommy?" The wet grass soaked my nightclothes, and I shuddered.
Lucy's hands moved from Buster's head to his own lap. "Tell me what is wrong with him."
"He's s—"
"Do not say 'sick'. Or 'lost'. Explain."
I shivered again, and Alice climbed into my lap. "I don't want to." I liked talking to the angel. No one ever just talked to me, and I knew he wouldn't want to once he found out. "What is she doing?"
"Alice says you are chilled. That I need to help you sleep in your own bedroom."
"Uh-uh!" I shook my head. "I want to stay out here with you."
I remember feeling so tiny next to him. So tired and cold…and safe. Alice was in a ball, warm on my legs and purring against my stomach. And Lucy was warm again, too. Not hot like before, not like Hell…but like when the sun came up and woke me behind the bushes.
He took my hand and looked up at the moon. "I will not leave you, young one."