Web of Angels by Lilian Nattel Page A

out, her face pale, her hair shining. “Thank you all for coming tonight. If only my sister …” she began, then blinked hard, her shoulders hunching. Everyone was watching. Waiting. Her father took a step closer, ready to take over. “I can speak,” she said, her voice unexpectedly strong. She was looking at Josh, who’d moved into her seat to be as close to her as he could, his hand raised, thumb up. She continued, ignoring the written speech, ignoring the congregation, talking just to Josh, colour rising in her face as she spoke. “My sister was an amazing artist. She was supposed to go to an art college next year. She was smart, too. A lot of people didn’t realize that but she was smart enough to graduate a year early even though she missed a lot of school. She was working on a project when she died. I saw it in the art room at school. It was a sculpture in plaster. She told me that it was a bird woman because if you can fly, you’ll always be free. She did the wings, but she never got to the face. I think it was going to be hers. I guess she didn’t really believe that she could fly. But if you want to know …” She pausedas her father’s hand landed on her shoulder. He must have squeezed, and she turned her eyes to his.
    What he said, nobody else could hear because he put a hand over the microphone. Then he pointed to the paper. Tapped it. Her shoulders slumped.
    Looking down at the speech, she began to read tonelessly: “Thank you all for coming tonight. If only my sister could have appreciated how much people cared about her, she might still be with us. But my hope is that the Committee for Youth will prevent other youth from making the same mistakes as my sister. Here is the sign-up sheet.” She lifted it, her eyes still lowered, refusing to look at the congregation, no matter how hard her father squeezed her shoulder. “Please leave your e-mail address. If you don’t have one, my father will arrange for his assistant to call you. Again, thanks for being here. Please stay for coffee and cake after. Now I’d like to call on Albert Smythe who has kindly offered to lead the service.”
    Rick stepped down while all eyes were on Mr. Smythe, all except Callisto’s. She was watching her son climb over Cathy’s chair to return to his own, the way he leaned forward as Cathy sat down, huddled between her parents. Her father spoke to her again; her mother in dark glasses was opening her alligator bag, extracting a pill bottle, removing a pill and depositing it in her daughter’s hand. A group of teenagers was filing to the front. They wore black T-shirts with FREEDOM BOYS AND GIRLS CLUB CHOIR in gold letters on them. Mr. Smythe picked up a guitar, plugged into the amp behind the podium, and they began to sing “Candle in the Wind” with the special lyrics written for the occasion.
    Goodbye Heather Rose
    May you ever live in our hearts
    Though we never knew you as we should …
    When the song finished, Mr. Smythe asked everyone to read aloud the prayer on the program.
    The neighbourhood’s voice rose, the voice of the village that had existed for a hundred and fifty years, and the voice of the trees before that, of the ice moving back, scraping the earth to leave a ridge for hunters and traders who walked the trail for ten thousand years, of the railroad, of standard time as the city came and leaped over the ridge. It was the voice of light born and reborn in a gym where earlier in the day the last basketball banged against a backboard and was put away, and flowers set in vases to honour death: “May all beings have happiness and the causes of happiness. May all be free from sorrow and the causes of sorrow. May those who are frightened cease to be frightened, may the powerless find power and may people think of befriending one another …”

CHAPTER
NINE
    T hree weeks after the memorial service, Sharon woke up in the dark. For a minute she wasn’t sure where she was. She closed her eyes, opened