What her eyes could see. chapter 4*

I had just slurped up the last noodle from my plate of mom’s homemade spaghetti when a knock sounded at the front door. My father peered over the top of the day’s newspaper and glanced at my mother with a raised eyebrow in question. “Now who do you suppose...?” Figuring that the individual at the door was a suit-and-tied stranger coming to talk to my father about some misfortune, I lost myself in the task of emptying the half-empty glass of milk before me as mom went to see who it was. Why else would someone be at our door at eight o’clock in the evening except to get some advice from my dad about business? Occasionally people did come to see him at odd times during the day. Moments later, however, mom came back through the doorway, the look on her face one that I could not discern right away. “Natalie,” she said, her voice tinged with something akin to glee, “it’s for you.” I forgot about my unfinished milk; the chair squawked loudly as I pushed it back to get up and make my way to the front of our house.

I saw the jar of lightning bugs before I saw the holder of them, but when I saw her familiar brown eyes glinting at me over the jar’s lid, my curiosity only escalated. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but for some reason, I was. “Let’s go!” she squealed, bounding from the porch as though she had springs for legs.

“Shhhh!” I told her retreating back, but in vain. She would wake the whole neighborhood if she continued in her giddy exclamations. And I wasn’t fit to be seen in public. With my hair in rag-curls for church tomorrow, my feet in my bunny slippers, and my long ivy-green nightgown hanging to my ankles, I would’ve been mortified had any of our neighbors -- especially any of the boys in our class -- stepped outside to discover the origin of whatever racket the two of us surely would cause...

But I had no reason to worry, for as soon as I joined her on the sidewalk, we were off, sneakily passing from shadow to shadow, from tree to fire hydrant to tree, until we reached the end of the block. Our town always met at the end of the block; they had done so even earlier that Saturday. For you see, at the end of the block was the field of dreams for all the dads and sons within a mile radius of its brilliant green epicenter. Four baseball diamonds lay in an organized square, with an aisle in-between each about a pick-up truck wide, and in the very center stood a two-story concession stand. I never did learn what was on the second floor, but from the first-floor window could be purchased the sweetest candy fifty cents could buy: Reeses cups, Skittles, Sweettarts, and Everlasting Gobstoppers.

With the jar of bottom-lighters held at an arms’ length ahead of her, she led the way, her hands--pressed against the glass--glowing every few seconds. I followed in silence, hiking up the hem of my bedrobe, conscious of my mother’s sharp awareness and determined to avoid any reason for correction. We bypassed the gray fenced foul boundary and stepped over the chalky white line itself; the beaded grass was cool and I couldn’t help but shiver as my ankles gradually became wet. In the twilight I saw my companion’s head tilt backwards, and, after I got over my astonishment that her hair too was in rag curls, I followed where her gaze had become riveted.

The stars were out that night. And I don’t know whether or not it was the company or something else entirely, but those stars had never been as lovely, as glittering, heavy with beauty as they were when we stood beneath them. The night was so quiet and peaceful; even the crickets had ceased their violin song for the awe that swept up and caught us in its arms. I hardly remember breathing, but the air was sweet, cool, refreshing and untainted. An abundant fountain of delight flowed up from within, an enchantment like the first breeze of spring that blows through your hair after a long, depressing winter, or the wind that carries on its fingertips the poignant scent of apple blossoms and roses....how I felt sitting by the my bedroom window, slightly open, so I could listen to the pittering of rain, the wonder I felt each time I watched the sun go down at the end of the day in a standing ovation of pinks, oranges, and purples...Standing there, these were what I became. And yet, I still wasn’t complete.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her spinning, twirling with her arms raised to the sky, her lips parted and moving in a silent song. She seemed to dance in slow motion, her night gown, an evening blue, flew around her in a rippling circle, and the moonlight seemed to tenderly cup her in its luminescent palms. Gradually I sank into the grass on my back, our multi-bulbed, homemade lamp resting near my head. It was faintly gleaming, pulsing lovely twinklings, and I fancied that the bugs were synchronizing to the song to which the pixie danced.

Before long, she had joined me, her lashes not meeting together for some time as she stared at the blanket of night above us. I’d heard someone describe a star-studded sky like a huge piece of dark blue material with holes punched in it, and at the time, I figured it was a rather good analogy, though the least elegant explanation of star-making. My thoughts continued in their airy discourse, and before I knew it I was peering down at the two of us, lying in a baseball field of mowed clover. We looked contented, though the girl beside me seemed to glow much brighter than the closest star. But in the next moment, I was pulled back to earth, back to my limited perspective. Slowly, hesitantly, I ventured to ask, “What...what do you think about all the time that makes you so happy?” The pixie girl sat up; her fingers began to play with the folds of her nightgown as she considered my query.

“Lots of things...” she admitted quietly; her gaze found mine, and those eyes were disconcertingly serious. There was silence for a good five minutes, and somehow I willed myself to say nothing until she answered. Finally she went on to explain. “I think about how beautiful flowers are made to unfold, how birds know just the perfect song to sing in the morning, or...”--she poked the jar of lightning bugs--“how these little guys light up.” Smiling, she picked up the jar and settled it firmly in her lap. With one hand she held the side and with the other she began unscrewing the lid. “But it’s even more than that, Natalie.” I waited, watching as the lightning bugs began to crawl out of their confinement, some onto her fingertips. “Whenever I think about the little things I see, the more I think about the One who made all the little things...”

“And he’s the one that makes you happy.”

“Yes.”

My nose crinkled. “So...Alastair does all that?”

She laughed aloud, falling backward into the grass, shaking her head vehemently. I had no doubts that she would‘ve been kicking her legs boisterously in the air had not she been wearing a dress. “Oh no...not him!” She took my hand reassuring me, still smiling, and her eyes told me that she wasn‘t laughing at me so much as about me. “Not Alastair, Natalie. God.”

“Oh.” If it hadn’t been pitch black, anyone could’ve seen the redness that doused my cheeks; I felt the same heat in my face as when I misspelled ’permanent’ during our weekly verbal spelling quiz. “So...”

“Who’s Alastair?”

My silence spoke for me, and she nodded.

“He’s......what some people would call an angel.”

I started. “You can see angels?!!” Incredulous, my voice became a strained, captivated whisper. Her only answer was another one of her smiles. She got up, offering me a hand.

“Will I ever be able to see them?” I stood next to her, wiping the stray grass from my bottom with my hands.

She tilted her head and looked at my face, studying it before replying. “You’ve already started to,” she said simply.