Kindred

T
HE FIRST TIME
I
MEET AN ANGEL
, it is Raphael and I am eighteen.

I am not a religious girl. I do not belong to a Bible study group, though I was invited. Twice. I do not belong to a synagogue at school. Or a church, for that matter. When pressed, I admit a reluctant belief in a higher power. Reluctant, because such admissions invariably open me up to long, intense discussions. The asker wants to know either how I could possibly hold such childish and naïve beliefs, given the state of the world, or, conversely, given my said beliefs, how I could not be attending services, deepening my understanding and devotion of said higher power.

I am as comfortable speaking about my faith as I am about my sex life. That is to say, not very.

The day I meet Raphael is not a good one, though not so horrible as to merit celestial intervention. It is spring break, and I am the only student staying in the dorms on my floor. There are only three of us in the entire building. We chat a bit when we bump into each other in the common room, but the two of them are working on a project for their astronomy class. They are filled with that low-key intensity that comes from having uninterrupted time to work on an extensive project. Whereas I am here, bored and lonely, by default because my spring break plans fell through. This is my brother’s fault. But more on that later.

I have never stayed in a nearly vacant building before. There are the creaks, pops and groans of an aging dormitory resting for a moment. Other than that, it is so quiet I can hear dust mites landing.

In my room, I am obeying the rules of cohabitation even though my roommate isn’t here. Instinctively I find myself staying in my half of the room. Slouched on my bed, listlessly flipping through my con law textbook, I’m keeping an eye on the clock. The cafeteria has reduced hours, and though I’ve never cared for their food, the new, shorter mealtimes are the only thing giving my aimless days some structure. Dinner is from five to seven. Miss that and I’m stuck snacking on stale crackers or spending too much money on greasy pizza or hamburgers from the no-name restaurants nearby.

I keep an eye on the clock.

At this moment in time, if asked what I think about life, I would say that it is sometimes hard, sometimes beautiful, that
we are alone in the universe, and that although there is probably a God, He is far away and not paying much attention.

I am skimming halfheartedly through the chapter on search and seizure when a tsunamic shrieking noise splits apart my dorm wall. I fall off the bed, smacking the sharp point of my elbow on the side of my desk, knocking over a chair. A cold, burning, glowing light singes my clothes, scorches my skin. The light fills the room, pouring in from the broken wall. I can’t see. My bed, the desk, the chair, have disappeared in the flare. The icy light is glacier blue, exosphere thin. A voice coming from the light speaks in Ancient Hebrew. No, it
is
the light. I feel the words, the voice, reverberating down the vertebrae of my spine, coursing with the blood cells in my veins, and a terrible face neither female nor male imprints itself on the retinas behind my tightly closed eyes.

I curl into a protective comma, arms covering my head. The light tears me, burns me. I claw at my hair, my eyes, weeping. I wet myself. I pass out.

When I come to, I am sprawled on the floor in a parody of drunken abandon. I slowly sit up, drawing my limbs inward from their starfish-like stretch. Rubbing the growing bruise on my elbow and wincing from my aching head, I hold myself, crossing my arms over my chest, rocking back and forth. I notice with slight detachment that I am shaking like a struck tuning fork, vibrating.

Hesitantly, I look at the wall. It is whole, smooth, seamless. Its painted Sheetrock, scarred and dinged from years of
freshman abuse, mocks the notion that anything has ever come through it. It has never split in two. Never has, never will.

There is no trace of the event. Nothing to show that I have just lost my mind except for the puddle at my feet, the deep scratches on my face.

P
ERHAPS IT IS DIVINE INTERVENTION
that made Raphael choose spring break to come visit. I spend the next three days stupefied. I can’t shake the memory of that voice; the terrifying feeling of my skin scorched with ice; the wall ripped open, then closed without a seam. I look up “delusions of grandeur” on the Internet; also “schizophrenia.” I read that the insane do not think they are mad. The voices in their head, they claim, come from God.

It takes three days before my subconscious gets around to translating the angel’s words. I studied Hebrew for my bat mitzvah, but it’s been a while.

“I am Raphael, the archangel. Evacuate Tabitha, daughter of John, before the Sabbath.”

A quick search of “Raphael” and I discover that he is considered the left hand of God. The founder of medicine. The
root of his name,
rapha
, is the same as the root for “medicine” in Hebrew,
rephuah
. Raphael, while giving the doctors the desire to heal, also supports the coldness needed to inflict necessary acts of pain. I decide, then and there, that I will not study medicine.

To prove to myself that it is absurd, an LSD flashback without the LSD, I ask the few remaining stragglers around campus if they know anyone named Tabitha. A last name would help, but maybe hallucinations aren’t supposed to be easy.

By lunchtime, I have found the girl. It feels good to know I might not be crazy. It feels terrible to know I might not be crazy.

Tabitha is plump, with rosy cheeks and round gray eyes that twinkle with good humor. She looks like a nanny. A friendly, pretty one.

“Tabitha?” I ask.

“Hi,” she says.

“I’m Miriam. Can I join you for lunch?”

She smiles and says “Sure” with such easiness, you’d think strangers joined her for lunch all the time. Maybe they do. It’s odd to me, this friendliness. I haven’t adjusted to college yet.

Instead, she says, “Is your last name Abbot-Levy?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Did Raphael speak with her too? Was she tasked with finding me and—

“Didn’t you write that article about Dean Snyder’s dog?” She takes a bite from her grilled cheese sandwich.

“Yeah.” I smile, delighted, relieved. I am still hoping I’ve
been hallucinating. “You’re the first person who actually read my byline.”

“I thought that might be you; Miriam’s kind of an unusual name.”

“My brother’s name is Moses. So as much as I hate my name sometimes, I always remind myself it could have been worse.”

She laughs.

“Miriam is a nice name,” she says. “And I loved your article.” I feel a warm glow at the praise. I’ve been writing for the school paper for three months. Interviewing people, scrambling to write down their quotes, putting it all together and then seeing my article in the paper has been the highlight of my college experience so far. More than anything else here, writing for the school paper feels like a glimpse into something I just might enjoy doing in the “real world.”

Mo didn’t think I’d enjoy writing for the paper. He said I was too quiet, that I wasn’t nosy enough. But I’ve discovered you don’t have to be nosy to be a good reporter. You have to be a good listener. And that I am.

“It was so sweet how Gracie would come get her when the baby cried,” Tabitha says. “And then, when she had to put Gracie down and the vet kept giving dose after dose because even though she was dying, her heart was so strong … it was so sad.” Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and I am amazed that my words have touched her so deeply.

“Dean Snyder comes across so tough and mean in class,” I say as Tabitha sniffs a bit. “It was amazing to see this other side of her.” I take a long pull from the straw in my iced tea.
The dean cried when she told me how she held Gracie long after her strong heart had finally stopped. But I didn’t put that in the article.

“You took her anthro class?” Tabitha asks.

“Yeah, did you?”

“She’s the toughest prof I’ve had. I’ve never worked so hard for a class.”

I nod in agreement. “It’s definitely one of those things you’re happy you did in retrospect. At the time, it was pretty miserable.”

Tabitha finishes her sandwich and I’m long done with my cup of soup, but she’s easy to talk to and I’m in no hurry to leave.

I find myself telling her about my parents, the divorce, the whole twin dilemma. She’s a good listener, so sincerely caring about my problems that I feel surely we were sisters in a past life. Though after a visit from an angel, maybe I shouldn’t be flippant about the afterlife. I force myself to ignore that distracting thought and focus back on Tabitha. She’s majoring in American archeology, which seems like it should be a summer course and not a major until she tells me about the dig she worked on in high school and how much there really is in America that is still undiscovered.

By the time lunch ends, I’ve confirmed that her dad’s name is John and found out she lives at Parker Hall, a freshman dorm down the street from mine. We exchange phone numbers, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to tell her to “evacuate,” whatever the heck that means. I can’t decide if I really believe. Angels do not come down from heaven and tell people what to do. As
much as I like to see myself as a special, important person, there are limits to my hubris. If God was going to pick someone to contact at this school, it would be the class president or maybe that twelve-year-old genius getting his doctorate in physics, or if it was going to be a physically stressful assignment, then He’d at least pick a member of the varsity crew team.