CJ Zahner Part II

As an added attraction, we have an excerpt from Project Dream . . . 

     Izzy slid back onto the pew, wondering how she would approach the sad woman.

     Revealing the messages the white people relayed always perplexed her. How did she tell someone a ghost followed them around? And more importantly, how did she do that without alarming Mama? She wished her Belo Jimenez had given his gift—curse—of seeing angels to Enrique, not her.

     “The gift skipped a generation and fell to you, Izzy,” he once said.

     “But Belo, I don’t want your darn-blasted gift.”

     Her grandfather had set one long finger against her lips to quiet her. “Listen to the angels, but be careful who you tell. They’ll come for you.”

     “Who will come for me?”

     Belo had scared the daylights out of her.

     “Who?” she asked over and over, but Belo would never respond, which made her worry until hives forced their way out of her skin. Every time she asked, he set a finger against his lips, closed his eyes, and shook his head. So Izzy was darn careful who she told.

     She gazed toward the sad woman wearing the simple clothes. The lady had no jewelry and wore no makeup. She looked harmless. Was it safe to tell her?

     The woman made the sign of the cross, kissed her rosary beads, and slid back onto the pew to gather her things. The spirit above her clasped her hands and begged.

     Izzy sprung onto the kneeler again. “Mama, may I get a drink of water?”

     Her mother leaned toward her, whispering, “Yes, but quickly.”

    Izzy darted toward the door; the woman was coming. She stepped into the hall and rushed to the drinking fountain. She sipped water, listening for footsteps.

     When the woman neared, Izzy turned. “Hello.”

     “Hello.” The woman nodded and walked by.

     Izzy closed her eyes and scratched her forehead. If only she had been born with a flowing tongue like Belo said of Enrique.

     “Ma’am.” She couldn’t open her eyes when she heard the lady turn. “Did your mother die?”

     Oh, that sounded horrible. Why had she asked such a thing? She wasn’t even sure the white spirit was her mother.

     “Of lung cancer?” Izzy opened her eyes. “She smoked, right?”

     The lady stared but didn’t say a word.

     “She says you shouldn’t go to New York City.”

     The lady’s face wrinkled. “What?” She sounded cross.

     “I’m sorry. It’s—well.” Izzy scratched her nose. She might be breaking into hives. “I saw this lady by you and she kept slashing the letters NYC like you shouldn’t go there and she wouldn’t stop, so I thought I better tell you. She kept doing it over and over and, well, I know she doesn’t want you to go to New York City.”

    The woman took a step toward Izzy. The wrinkles melted from her face. “I do have a trip scheduled to New York. Next week. For a conference.”

     Goosebumps crawled over Izzy’s skin. Whenever people, real human beings, confirmed what the white people told her, chills spread through her.

     The lady stood still, waiting for Izzy to say more.

     Izzy scratched and the lady stared.

     “What was her name?”

     “What?”

     “My mother. What was my mother’s name?”

    The woman appeared hopeful. She held her breath, waiting. But Izzy didn’t know the woman’s name. She had difficulty hearing the white people. Usually, they simply gave signs.

     Yes, signs.

     “Oh.” Izzy held a finger up. She remembered the sign. “Rose? Is your mother’s name Rose?”

     The chapel door opened behind Izzy, and she heard her mother’s voice. “Izzy, what are you doing?”

     “Nothing, Mama.” Izzy sidled down the hall toward her mother.

     “I hope she wasn’t bothering you.”

     The woman said nothing. She stared at the two of them, a perplexed expression tainting her face. After a time, she left the building without saying more.

     “Izzy,” Mama barked. “What were you talking to that woman about?”

     “I only said hello to her, Mama.”

     Her mother gazed at her skeptically. “Remember what Belo said. Don’t talk to anyone.”

     “I didn’t, Mama. I promise.”

     “Go collect your things. Your brother called. It’s time to pick him up.”

     Izzy hurried back into the chapel and grabbed her coat, missal, and satchel. She smiled and waved goodbye to Jean as she exited.

     Eight days later, the World Trade Centers collapsed. Izzy prayed the woman from the chapel had not been inside. She watched for her in church on Sunday and at the chapel during the week when she and Mama went to pray for the people who had died, but Izzy didn’t see the woman.

     Three weeks after September 11^th, Izzy and her mother visited the chapel on a Sunday evening once again. The lady was sitting in the pew next to the woman named Jean. When Izzy walked in, she heard the lady say, “That’s her. That’s the girl.”

     “That’s Isabelle Jimenez,” Jean said.

     The woman stood and rushed toward Izzy. Jean followed.

     “Mrs. Jimenez?” The lady glanced at Izzy’s mother.

     “Yes?”

     “Mrs. Jimenez, your daughter saved my life.”

     Izzy’s mother made her spend the next two Saturday afternoons praying in church. But it was too late. Saving that woman’s life would prove Belo right.

     They would come for her.