The Angel's Twin

The Angel’s Twin

He was looking at her through the window of the second floor bathroom. If she looked up, she would see him.
   She rang the doorbell again, shifting and sighing impatiently.
   He wanted to run down and open the door. Why was grandma not opening it?
   The lady that looked like the spitting image of his mom, he’d noticed that as she got out of the taxi, was standing on the doorstep with a matching set of suitcases.
   She pressed the slick gold button again and the chirping of the bell reverberated through the staircase of the old house.
   He listened. Even if grandma had been taking a nap, the sound would have woken her.
   One night he’d tried to go down to the kitchen for dinner. Even though he had heard her snoring and the beige poodle had been yapping away in its sleep, grandma had heard the creaking of the floorboard on the attic landing as he snuck out of bed.
   “Psst,” he hissed, trying to get the lady’s attention. “Psssst.”
   She looked around, her hand going to her hip instantly. He saw the butt of the dark grey metal grip as she lifted her red leather jacket slightly away from her body.
   “Up here,” he whispered, not wanting to draw his grandma’s attention to him.
   The lady looked up.
   Her face was like an angel’s. Soft curves framed in black curls, high cheekbones and his momma’s blue eyes staring up at him. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before it was wiped away by a frown.
   “What are you doing? Get back inside!” She didn’t bother lowering her voice, and he could hear that she was not the woman that had walked him to school or laughed at his stories.
   “Who are you?” he asked, still whispering.
   She was about to tell him, or repeat her earlier command, when he heard the click-clack of grandma’s heels on parquet followed by the scratches of the poodle’s pink nails.
   “She’s coming,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder at the bathroom door that was firmly closed and locked from the inside. “She doesn’t like ladies who wear their hair down,” he added, before climbing down from his perch on the windowsill and closing the window.

He inched his way to the bathroom door, pressing his ear against the smooth grain of the wood, hand on the lock.
   He could hear them talking, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. He tried holding his breath, but that just made his heartbeat louder.
   The poodle was yapping.
   Turning the lock, he made his way, carefully, to the top of the stairs, hiding behind the statuette of a Greek goddess.
   “I’m here for the boy,” the lady said, apparently not for the first time. She sounded like mom had when she was upset.
   Grandma talked softly, all S’s and M’s and dampened O’s.
   “I don’t care. I’ll take the attic,” the lady pronounced firmly. She dragged the smallest of her suitcases to the stairs, wheels scratching the parquet floor.
   Grandma was left watching. He could tell she was unhappy, but for some reason she’d let the Angel walk right in.

~