At any given moment, the demons could descend upon Mira
Gallier. Sometimes, she marshaled the strength to fight them
off, denying their dark,tormenting visions. Their taunts and
merciless accusations.
Other times, they overpowered her and left her scrambling
for a way to silence them. To obliterate the pain.
Last night they had come. And she had found a way to
escape. Mira lay on her side on the bed, gazing blankly at
the small rose window she had created in secret, a wedding
gift for her husband-to-be. In the tradition of
themagnificent gothic windows, she had chosen brilliant
jewel colors; her design hadbeen complex and intricate,
combining painted images within the blocks of color.
For her, the window had been a symbol of her and Jeff’s
perfect love and new, beautiful life together.
She had never imagined how quickly, how brutally, that
life would be ended.
It hurt to look at it now and Mira rolled onto her back.
Her head felt heavy;the inside of her mouth as if stuffed
with cotton.
Eleven months, three weeks and four days, shot to hell by
one small, blue, oval tablet.
What would Jeff think of her now? Even as she wondered,
she knew. He would be deeply disappointed.
But he couldn’t be more disappointed in her than she was
in herself. On the nightstand, her cell phone chirped. She
grabbed it, answered.
"Second level of hell. The tormented speaking."
"Mira? It’s Deni."
Her studio assistant and friend. Sounding puzzled.
"Who’d you expect?" she asked. "My husband?"
"That’s not funny."
It wasn’t, she acknowledged. It was angry. And sad. Jeff
was dead, and she had fallen off the wagon. Neither of which
had a damn thing to do with Deni.
"I’m sorry, I had a really bad night."
"You want to talk about it?"
The roar of water. A wall of it. As black and cold as
death , brutal and unforgiving. Jeff ’s cry resounded in her
head. Calling out for her to help him.
But she hadn’t been there. She didn’t know what that last
moment had been like. She didn’t even know if he’d had time
to cry out, to feel fear, or if he had known it was the end.
And she never would.
He was dead because of her.
"No. But thanks." The last came out automatically, what
she was supposed to say, even though gratitude was far from
what she was feeling.
"You used, didn’t you?"
No condemnation in Deni’s voice. Just pity. Still,
excuses flew to Mira’s lips, so familiar she could utter
them in her sleep. They made her sick. She was done with them.
"Yes."
For a long moment Deni was silent. When she finally
spoke, she said, "I take it I should reschedule your interview?"
"Interview?"
"With Libby Gardner. From Channel 12, the local PBS
affiliate. About the Magdalene window. She’s here."
Mira remembered then. The interview appointment. Her work
on the Magdalene restoration being included in a sixth
anniversary of Katrina series the station was planning.
"Shit. I forgot. Sorry."
"What should I tell her?"
"How about the truth? That your boss is a pill head and
basket case."
"Stop it, Mira. That’s not true."
"No?"
"You suffered a terrible loss. You turned to--"
"The whole city suffered that same freaking loss. Life
goes on, sweetheart."
She spoke the words harshly, their brutality
self-directed. "The strong thrive and the weak turn to Xanax."
"That’s such bullshit." Deni sounded hurt. "I’ll see if
she can reschedule--"
"No. Get started with her. Explain how the window ended
up in our care, describe the process, show her around. By
the time you’ve done that, I’ll be there."
"Mira--"
She cut her assistant off. "I’ll be in shortly. We can
talk then."
Mira ended the call and hurried to the kitchen. She fixed
herself a cup of strong coffee then headed toward the
bathroom. When she caught sight of her reflection in the
vanity mirror, she froze. She looked like crap. Worse even.
The circles under her hazel eyes were so dark, her pale skin
looked ghostly in comparison. She was too thin--her copper
red hair like the flame atop a matchstick.
She wore one of her husband’s old tees as a nightshirt:
Geaux Saints the front proclaimed. Mira trailed her fingers
over the faded print. Jeff hadn’t lived long enough to see
his beloved NFL team win the Super Bowl.
It’s your fault he’s dead, Mira, the voice in her head
whispered. You convinced him to stay. Remember what you
said? "It’ll be an adventure, Jeff. A story we can share
with our children and grandchildren."
The air conditioner kicked on. Cold air from the vent
above her head raised goosebumps on her arms and the back of
her neck. No, she told herself. That was bullshit. Isn’t
that what her shrink, Dr. Jasper, had told her? Jeff had
been a fifty percent partner in the decision. If he had felt
strongly they should leave, he would have said so.
His family blamed her. Her and Jeff’s friends had been
subtle in their accusations-- she read condemnation in their
eyes.
She stared helplessly at her reflection. The problem was,
she blamed herself.
No matter what her shrink said or what the facts were.
She moved her gaze over the destruction of her
bathroom--drawers emptied, make-up bags and carry-ons rifled
through.
As if thieves had broken in and turned her home upside
down in search of valuables.
But she had done this. She was the thief. And the eleven
months, three weeks and four days she had robbed herself of
couldn’t be replaced.
Her cell phone went off. She saw it was Deni--no doubt
calling to say the reporter had taken a hike. "Pissed off
another one, didn’t I?" she answered.
"Something really bad’s happened, Mira."
She pressed the device tighter to her ear. "What?"
"It’s Father Girod, he’s . . . dead. He was murdered."
An image of the kindly old priest filled her head. He had
approached her after Katrina about his church’s stained
glass windows, decimated by the storm. In the process of
restoring the twelve panels, she and the father had become
friends.
Grief choked her. "Oh, my God. Who could have . . . When
did--"
"There’s more, Mira." Deni’s voice shook. "Whoever did it
also vandalized the windows."