Forgetting the Lost: Chapter 2
Pennies
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.
Pennies
But when I woke in the morning, he had.
I'd found myself tucked in bed, and an azalea sprig on my bedside table. My sleepy eyes focused on the single bright pink bloom, and I watched a tiny brown spider crawl to the curled tip of the fifth petal.
"You won't like it here," I told it. "Mother will squish you."
The spider scurried back down and disappeared under a leaf.
The backdoor banged, and then I heard the frantic scraping of Mother's whisk in her big glass bowl. It was a school day, and I was late getting out of bed. If she had to come up the stairs to get me, it would mean only milk for breakfast.
I swung my legs out of bed and inspected my dirty feet. Pulling back the covers revealed muddy, grassy streaks that would get me a strapping for sure. Mother would break her own rule if I'd stained her third best set of sheets.
My nightdress was worse—and my robe was folded into a perfect, filthy square on the floor—but she didn't care about filth she never saw. Whenever I slept outside, I'd wash my nightclothes in the tub. But the sheets…
I made my bed smartly with crisp, tucked corners, and flipped my pillow to hide a grimy smudge. Just in time, too, because I heard the bowl clatter in the sink.
"I'm up!" I yelled and grabbed yesterday's dress from the wardrobe. "I'm up!" I yelled again—just in case—as I ran to the bathroom.
Washing up as fast as I could wasn't good enough, though. While Father, Timothy, and Mother all ate scrambled eggs and toast, I sipped milk. Tiny sips, so my tummy had time to decide it was full.
Usually, Timothy could be counted on to save a piece of toast for me to eat on the way to school, but he frowned at me this morning. Father was frowning at me, too. And Mother's eyes were red.
"Buster died last night," Father said.
"I know," I made the mistake of answering.
Mother took the glass of milk from my hands and set it beside her plate. "You go on to school now."
"What about Timothy?"
My brother looked down at his eggs and back up at Father.
"He can finish his breakfast first," Mother said.
Her voice wasn't angry or cruel, so I stood and looked for my lunch bag.
"You won't need that today," she told me.
Timothy set his fork down, and Father turned his frown to my brother.
"We don't waste food in this house." His frown swept back to me. "Nor do we provide succor to the Devil."
Did Satan eat breakfast? I thought about that as I gathered my pencil case and primer from the hall table. Buster had liked leftovers. Except for Mother's melted Jell-O.
The morning was sunny, but still damp and cold. I shivered, which made my tummy rumble. Which made me think of those eggs that Timothy was too full to finish and the milk Mother had wanted for herself.
I snuck around to the backyard, out of sight of the windows, and checked the fig tree—but it was too early for fruit. Not even flowers.
A small mound of dirt was humped up in front of the azaleas, right in front of my secret tunnel. Now I'd have to crawl across Buster every time. I wasn't sure how I felt about that, but I remember noticing that none of the buds on the azaleas had opened yet—just the one beside my bed with the spider.
I smiled and forgot about my stomach.
The sidewalk was big without my brother beside me, and the cars on the street seemed louder. I looked around for Lucy, but only saw old Mr. Harper kiss his wife on the cheek as she handed him his briefcase. She raised her hand as if to wave at me, but fixed Mr. Harper's tie instead. Her lips moved, bright red over her pretty blue dress, and Mr. Harper turned to frown at me—just like Father.
I started walking, and before I'd reached Miriam's house, Mr. Harper's sleek Cadillac roared past.
The neighborhood seemed suddenly quiet then, as if all the sounds had been sucked out. Like how the Hoover pulled dirt from Mother's carpet. Then the air got sticky—not summer sticky, when breathing felt like drinking soapy water—but like my body and the sidewalk were being tugged by big, fat fingers. I stumbled two steps into Miriam's yard, then a third, and the invisible fingers pulled me to her porch.
The front door cracked open, and Miriam peeked out.
"I'm not going to school today," she said. "Go on now."
My memory is a little fuzzy there, as if the fingers poked into my head and muddled things up, so I'm not sure when Miriam's mama came to the door. And I don't remember what she said. But I do remember that one side of her mouth dragged beneath a black bruise and a crusty brown scab.
"Go on," Miriam whispered. "I'll see you...Monday."
"Today is Friday," I remember saying, though I don't remember how I got from the porch steps to the door. "Timothy can't walk me to school this morning, and Mother said to walk with you."
The door shut in my face, but the sticky fingers pulled me up against it.
"Father said it, too!" I called out. And the door opened, just enough for Miriam to slip out sideways. She pushed me to the steps and then pulled me by the hand to the sidewalk.
The sticky, ghost fingers plucked and tugged at my back as we walked towards school, but Miriam never let go of my hand. Not even when Timothy ran to catch up to us.
As we got closer to school, more children mingled in from cross streets, and a couple of delivery trucks honked at us to clear the road. Timothy joined a group of boys walking ahead, but Miriam and I took shorter, slower steps, until we finally reached the schoolyard.
Her hand was loose around mine now, and I was reminded again of dandelion fluff in the wind.
"We're early," I told her, looking around for Lucy.
"I have to go back now," she whispered. "Before he wakes up."
"Today is a school day," I told her. "You'll get in trouble if you play hooky." I wondered if Lucy was watching from the trees across the street. But between the cars and trucks, I only saw pine trees. And Tommy.
He was watching Miriam, like Lucy had the day before, and his head turned to follow her as she walked away.
"Come back!" I called after her. Or at least, I think I called out. Maybe I just wished I had.
The first bell clanged, and everyone ran to line up and go inside, but my feet wouldn't move. I remember my toes flexing and gripping in my too-tight shoes, but the sidewalk had become spongy and soft and I lost my balance. My hands and knees hit the cement, and the pain was real, but so was the sucking stickiness as I tried to crawl to the edge.
No one noticed me. Why would they? To adults in their cars, I was just a clumsy little kid whimpering over a skinned knee. My primer had landed behind me, its pages rumpled and out of reach, and Timothy's old pencil case taunted me from the empty schoolyard ahead. A howl worked from my stomach to my throat, but the sidewalk swallowed my voice as it tried to swallow my face.
"Get up!" Tommy yanked me to my feet and slapped my primer in my hands.
"You leave her alone!" My brother yelled from the steps.
"Or what?!" Tommy jeered. "Timid Timmy gonna make me?" My bullying savior scooped up the pencil case and shoved me toward the school, catching my arm when I almost fell again.
Miriam was out of sight, Lucy was nowhere to be seen, and my left knee was bleeding onto my sock.
"Don't cry," Tommy warned. "And don't make me late or I'll beat him up after school."
I didn't want to leave the grass and dirt, but Tommy dragged me up the steps and pushed me inside. The three of us scattered before the second bell rang, and Miss Walker merely snapped her fingers and pointed to my seat when I raced in, but I was still sucking on my knuckles before the first lesson ended.
Not that I blamed her. Like I said before, she was always fair. And she sent me to the nurse after, to clean the bloody grit out of my knee, which was where Lucy found me.
Mrs. Spivey had squealed when he reached for her, but she was smiling at us both now. Her pudgy cheeks made her eyes look wrinkly and sleepy, and when she wobbled on her stool, Lucy moved her to the sick cot.
"What did you do to her?" I asked. "I thought you were going to kiss her." I made a face, and he snorted—a great, loud noise that made me cross. "Well, that's what Father does when he wants to kiss Mother! He puts his hands around her neck like that and she lets him."
Lucy shook his head slowly, then lifted me by the elbows and plunked me on the stool.
"I don't want any methio—"
"Merthiolate," he corrected. "And I should think not." He dropped the bottle in the trash and then knelt to get a better look at my knee. "At least she cleaned it properly."
He placed one finger on my leg, and I shivered, like when Mother used to warm my bed with a hot water bottle. My foot kicked a bit, and my knee stopped stinging. Then he put my hands between his, and my knuckles felt better, too.
"Tommy's still sick." I told him. "And you broke your promise."
He rose and patted my head, then frowned and combed his fingers through my short hair like he was searching for lice.
"Can I go with you?" I asked. "You promised you wouldn't leave me, but you did."
Mrs. Spivey gurgled and flapped her hands, but Lucy just sighed and helped her lie down.
"All is well," he told her; and her eyes closed.
"I didn't know angels could do that." I poked a knotty blue vein in her ankle and she started snoring.
"Go back to class now, child."
"But I want to stay with you!" I grabbed his sleeve, but Lucy's eyes flashed silver and Hell's heat made me jump back.
"Back to class. Now." He pointed…and I went.
Stupid old angel. My stomach growled during spelling and everyone in class laughed. Well, not Miss Walker, but her eyes did get all squinty, and she smacked her ruler on her desk twice.
Then two of the boys started shooting spitballs at me…and my scrapes started hurting again. And then my chair started to feel soft and squishy; and Miss Walker told me to sit up straight and stop flopping over my desk like a rag doll; and then I got so mad that I broke my pencil.
I remember staring at the two stubby pieces, and feeling the sharp edges with my fingers, scratchy and pointy and real even though the chair under my backside was trying to slide under the floor...but that's all I remember until Mrs. Spivey woke me up and said I could go outside for lunch. I can't say how I got on the cot in her little office, and she seemed just as confused as I was, so I let her paint my knee orange until it burned and then wandered outside.
Timothy told me later that he'd heard a ruckus in the hallway, and I got funny looks from the teachers for a while, but Miss Walker didn't use the ruler on me anymore. Which, to be honest, was a shame, because I got tired of writing lines. And the boys started shooting pebbles instead of spitballs—but only after school, and only from behind, so as long as I ignored them, my eyeballs were safe.
And all of that came after, anyway. When it took a lot more to upset me than a sinking chair and an empty belly.
I remember that it was Tommy—mean, hateful, bullying Tommy—who found me sitting between the bushes at the corner of the school.
"Go away," I told him. The damp dirt was solid under the pine straw, and the bushes were holding still like they should—but he was flickering again. "Leave me alone."
He frowned down at me and kicked the straw.
"Stupid place to sit."
"You're stupid," I told him. "Go away."
His feet jiggled around his shadow and I dug my fingers down to hold on to the cold dirt.
"Careful what you say to me…" He dropped down and crossed his legs.
I closed my eyes and tried not to cry.
"Hey, squirt, c-come on...I didn't mean it." He didn't sound like himself. His voice crackled, thin and papery.
"You're sick," I told him. "You make me feel sick, too. Leave me alone!"
He was quiet beside me—and then he was gone. But he'd left a small bundle of waxed paper there in the pine straw. The sandwich was thin, just cheese and bread, but it felt solid even on the way down and my stomach stopped hurting.
At the end of that day, Miss Walker called me to her desk and made me wait while the other children left.
I held out my hands, but she didn't pick up her ruler. Instead, she put an envelope in my right hand, and a brand new pencil in my left.
"Let's have a better day on Monday," she said.
My brother was more upset about the letter than I was, refusing to even touch it when I showed him.
"She didn't tell me to bring it back," I reminded him. "That means Mother could read it."
"He'll still know," Timothy sighed. His feet dragged slower and slower, and he kept looking behind us.
"But Miss Walker is fair." I remember being stubborn about this. "She gave me a pencil so I wouldn't get strapped." In those days, children knew better than to damage something as precious as school supplies. "Father doesn't have to know."
"Where's Miriam?" Timothy stopped me. "She didn't come outside at lunch."
"She's missing."
"She isn't missing. She came to school with us."
"She's missing now. Like Janie." My words were too solemn for a child of six—or eleven—and my perfect brother's face reddened.
"You shouldn't say things like that! You make everything worse."
It was true, of course, so hearing him say it aloud didn't hurt. But I did feel bad for making him angry. No one ever made him angry. Except this time, I had. Probably because he was sweet on Miriam, and didn't want her to be missing forever.
He stomped ahead for two blocks, but waited for me to catch up at Miriam's house. The curtains were drawn, though I remember the sunshine was bright and warm that afternoon. We stood for too long, though, and the horrible, invisible fingers found me. Fat and strong, they plucked and pulled, until Timothy grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the sidewalk.
"Don't you see the windows? They don't want company." He frowned at the house, then at me. "Did she act sick this morning? You haven't had chickenpox, yet."
"She isn't sick." I put my hand in his and we started walking again. He wasn't nearly as solid as he should have been, but he wasn't mad at me anymore. He flickered once, though, when he opened the front door at our house—and that scared me.
We knew Mother was having a blue day from the smell. She cleaned everything with Parsons and Clorox on blue days, and then was too tired to get up from Father's chair by the fireplace until he came home and wanted to sit in it.
Timothy went to her, and she patted his cheek when he showed her a school paper, but her eyes closed before I could give her Miss Walker's letter. Timothy shook his head at me, and I knew what that meant.
Later, Timothy brought me food and a glass of milk.
"Tommy gave me a sandwich, too," I told him. "But yours tastes better." I don't remember anything special about Timothy's sandwich—just that any food he gave me tasted good. Even when it had been in his pocket and had fuzz on it.
"You're not to come down for dinner." He sat on the edge of my bed, watching me.
"I know," I told him. "It's a blue day." My mouth was full, and crumbs fell on my quilt. Timothy picked at one and rolled it between his fingers.
"Tommy was nice to you?" He asked the crumb, but I knew he meant me.
"He's mean. And sick." I gulped the milk next.
"You better leave some, so Mother can see me drink it." Timothy took the glass from me and pointed to my flower. "You went outside last night."
"I'm not supposed to wake you anymore." I was still thirsty, but I could drink from the tap in the bathroom. My tummy felt full again, and I hoped Timothy would stay longer. "Father will be proud that you got an 'A' on your history test."
I smiled at him, but I must've done it wrong because he stood up.
"What happened to Buster?"
"I don't know. Lucy didn't do it."
"Who's Lucy?" Timothy was holding the milk with both hands now.
"The angel. Well, he's a fallen angel, but you were right. He was just jealous on account of freewill, and I don't think he likes Hell very much because he—"
"Shh!" My brother splashed milk all over me as he tried to cover my mouth. "Father will hear!"
I remember finding that funny, but when I giggled, Timothy backed up all the way to the door. "Ss-stop!" he stuttered, which only made me giggle so hard my bed squeaked.
But when he shut the door, my giggles stopped. I was alone again, and the spilled milk didn't seem silly anymore. It was just a wet splotch that made my dress stick to my stomach. My nightdress was even dirtier, but it was dry and smelled like grass. And I liked the kitty-cat hairs that reminded me how soft and warm Alice had felt in my lap.
I went to the window, but the backyard was empty except for the lump of dirt in front of the bushes. Maybe Alice would come back with Lucy. Somehow, I knew that Lucy would come back once it was night, and I decided that I wouldn't be mad at him anymore. No one wanted me with them all the time, but at least he visited.
Except he didn't come after all. But the invisible, scary fingers did…and then I went missing, too.