Chapter 29: Easier Said Than Done

Of course, real life intruded on my firm resolve. Janna had asked me to put together a list of my ‘predictions, ‘ both those that had already come true and those that were scheduled in the coming years. It was something that I worked on regularly and that she read, pointing out where I’d already changed the course of events. So many of the things I remembered were what happened with Willa and, while there were some similarities, Emily was a different child.

That’s weird. I’m a mother. In both timelines. There was nothing in my former life more important to me than my daughter, so that was what I remembered most. I’d kept a journal of Willa’s development, just like I kept one of Emily’s. Half my predictions were things like when Emily would learn to ride a bike, what she would think of Harry Potter, when she would decide she wanted to play hockey and how long it would take for her to decide she didn’t want to play hockey anymore. I knew when her first date was and who took her to the prom.

But, of course, Emily wasn’t Willa. She didn’t go to school with the same people she’d known in Fargo. On the other hand, Scholastic wouldn’t even release the first HP book until next year, so that was something that Janna underlined in my list along with the Prius. It seemed there was a big difference between ‘world’ events and ‘personal’ events. Even if my new life and new decisions affected world events, the likelihood was that it wouldn’t happen for a long time. Even with the butterfly effect, the cause is so remote from the effect that it was nearly impossible to trace. Maybe one of Jesse’s children would become President of the United States because I didn’t saddle him with an unloving wife and only child. But that wouldn’t be known until after the time of my previous span on earth.

Then there were the intermediate effects. I had changed the course of development in Minneapolis by moving the condo conversions up by nearly twenty years. And now I was actively working to change the environment of the Washburn Neighborhood. Those things could have faster moving effects because they affected more people than my running away to become a single parent.

Or having a second child.

I was six months pregnant. I had already made it explicitly clear to Lily and Bruce that I would not name my next daughter Selina Kyle. And after I looked them up, I put the kibosh on Holly and Eiko, as well. I wanted a nice normal name like Emily’s. Maybe Charlotte. I’d see how long it took them to figure that one out.

It was Friday, the night before Valentine’s Day, and I’d stopped by Les’s office on my way home from work. I’d finally broken down and bought an SUV big enough to cart three adults and three children. It was used, but I was assured it was in good condition. The ground was still frozen, but we’d started the excavations to set posts for the new needle drop-offs. We wanted them ready when the rest of the snow finally melted and the druggies returned to the park. I also wanted to check the progress on the building next door to Les’s office. It was an old, 1880s era brick mansion, complete with a porte cochere. Inside, I was using one of Jim’s many planners to manage the renovation of the old house. It was about to become a shelter. In order to shield myself from liability, I was the owner but the Community Services Foundation leased it from me. With money I donated to them. This project had put quite a dent in my liquid capital, but I didn’t want the property mortgaged as we approached the turn of the millennium.

I had to wonder if I had done anything that would affect the two dramatic market turns I expected. The first would be at the turn of the century. The second would come in about 2008 as the banks started to collapse from over-valuing the real estate market. When I started selling real estate in 2003 we were celebrating because home mortgage rates were in the 4.5-5.5 % range. Then they climbed until the collapse in 2009. I needed to be ready to buy when property values dropped and banks started owning vast amounts of real estate they couldn’t get rid of.

I was thinking about all this and calculating the value I could get out of the renovated property as I walked to my car. I got into the Ford Bronco and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. I could see the problem. I’d left my lights on. I beat on the steering wheel and swore to make a sailor proud. At least Lily was home already to pick up Emily from her after school program. I was going to have to wait for hours before Triple-A would get there. The temperature had fallen to ten degrees while I was inside and people would be calling from all over the city to get their cars started.

There was a honk next to me and I looked out to see a white Lincoln. I rolled down my window.

“I left a message at the clinic that your lights were on, but apparently it didn’t get to you,” Ernie said. I’d seen his car many times, but we’d never actually met. “I don’t have cables, but I can give you a lift home and your husband can come back with you to jump it. Or your wife.”

Shit! This scumbag knew way too much about my life if he knew I had a husband and a wife. Well, he did live in my neighborhood, though two blocks north, right on the lake. I was going to freeze out here waiting for a tow truck. But did I dare accept a lift from a known pimp?

“I don’t think I’m safe going with you, Ernie,” I said frankly. “I’ll just call AAA from the clinic. As soon as I walk in, they’ll probably tell me my lights are on. Thank you.”

“I’m not a threat to you, miss. You are doing good things for our neighborhood. I give you my word.”

What should I do? I’d wanted to meet the mysterious pimp for a long time. I had planned to give him a piece of my mind. What better opportunity would I ever have? I made sure all the lights were off and stepped out of the Bronco. I locked the door and went around to the passenger side of the Lincoln. A pretty young woman held the door for me.

“Please sit in front, ma’am,” she said. “I’m used to the back seat.”

“Becci, you know I’ll make it up to you tonight, honey,” Ernie said.

“I know. It’s no problem, Ernie,” the coed said as she slipped into the backseat.

I turned to introduce myself.

“I know who you are,” Ernie said. “Just like you know who I am. Still, it’s nice to meet you. Out here in our world, we just call you Angel.”

“That would be pretentious of me.”

“I’m an angel, too,” he laughed. “But you are the Angel of Mercy. I’m somewhat darker.”

“I would hardly call your work angelic,” I scoffed.

“I’m also called the Angel of Death,” he said calmly. A chill ran down my spine. “You know, there is something interesting about that. Popular iconography paints every angel with just one characteristic. Mercy. Death. Light. Michael with his sword. Gabriel with his trumpet. We’re like old Greek gods and goddesses. But mythology only ever paints one side of things. What does Gabriel do while he’s waiting to blow that horn? You see, an Angel of Mercy is also an Angel of Judgment. She’s not compelled to be merciful. You reach out to the homeless, the addicted, the abused. You give them the mercy of shelter, treatment, protection. But you judge me. You would not forgive me and give me shelter.”