Women. We're supposed to be the patient ones, right? We're supposed to take care of the kids and our husbands in the morning, send them off to work and school, then...wait. Wait for them to come home; making busy little bees of ourselves with our own careers, cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, perhaps make a little down time for ourselves and then, wait. If we wait long enough, the kids come home, wanting their snacks and juice, their games or t.v. We accommodate them, love on them, pressure them into doing their homework -before- they watch their favorite cartoon, all the while secretly taping it, so that they really don't miss it. Half of your family is home, and you start making dinner, and if you're lucky enough to be so in love with your husband that the anticipation of him walking through that door still sends shivers up your spine, you start planning for activities for after the little monsters are tucked away in bed. So you wait some more. You'd wait for hours, days, forever; wouldn't you?

What if he never came home?

You're just sitting there, after you've done all this waiting, angry because the idiot hasn't called, he hasn't even bothered to page you. Dinner is cold, and you've already sent your son up to his room to play, and then to bathe. Of course you remember, he won't bathe on his own, and eventually you drag yourself all the way upstairs to wrestle the little monster into the tub. (A little monster who is surprisingly strong for being all of five years old.) For a while, you forget your anger, giggling with the child as he splashes in the water.

Drenched; so much so that you're pretty certain you've had a bath as well, you hear the phone start ringing. Amazing since the nearest phone is downstairs and you're locked away in the upstairs bathroom. However; relief swells and surges through your veins, leaving you weak. Racing your child down the stairs, carefully, you win, with being a grown-up and having longer limbs. You pick up the phone before the answering machine can answer it, still laughing at the pout your son gives you. You're so sure it's him. He's running late; a tire blew, or more than likely, he's been held up at work, but you hear a very slight pause. Before this voice can speak, you already know. It's not him. He's not the one about to tell you that something has gone terribly wrong, and suddenly, you're the most frightened you've ever been. You can feel your heart, it actually slows, growing quite still, and you feel cold.

You can read into the tone of the voice that speaks, a microsecond later, the apologetic yet business like timber, someone you don't even know. Just as suddenly, your fear disappears, replaced by anger again. What could your husband be so afraid of that he would have some stranger call you to tell you whatever it was that he had managed to get tangled up in?! You let the poor soul get all of three or four words out before you cut him off entirely. Your husband is an under cover agent, a good one, and he's been training a new one for another team in his organization. You've met the rookie, had him over a couple of times for dinner. He's a nice kid, has that same fire your husband does when talking about the job. At least his friend could have called!

"Where is John?" you demand, in that tone everyone knows. That tone that means step lightly. Even your son goes quiet, and still. He suspects something too. You brush the still, dripping wet strands of his unruly hair (weren't you supposed to take him to the barber?), out of his eyes and motion for him to go back upstairs to get dressed in his pajamas. He wisely obeys. The voice of the man you're speaking to becomes strained.

"Mrs. Travis...I have some terrible news. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but your husband was shot and killed in the line of duty, an hour ago."

It's so quick, you barely have time to register what he's saying, as if he figured the quicker you heard it, the less it might hurt. Like a band-aid. For a minute, you simply don't believe him. It's absurd! You could probably handle your husband in the hospital, injured, shot in the leg, even in a coma, or some such thing; but for him to be...dead? The implications were beyond 'terrible', beyond horrible and painful. It meant the end, forever. You start arguing. He must have the wrong Johnathan Travis, he had to be mistaken..well then the doctors were mistaken, or they were playing some sort of cruel trick on you, and why doesn't he just -check- to make bloody well sure that he isn't wrong!?

Obscurely; you're wondering if this isn't April Fool's Day, but you remember that it's almost Thanksgiving, no where near April. Suddenly, you're swearing, something normally reserved for those moments when you're alone in the car, in the middle of the interstate, trying to keep yourself from being killed by all those maniacs out there. This strange man can't talk any sense into you, and he gives up. It's a woman, gone hysterical of course. You're yelling now, that he's lying, and that he better allow you to speak to your husband right this second or there was going to be hell to pay! A bit melodramatic, but the phone, indeed, changes hands. Ready to rant and rave at your foolish spouse for letting some stranger tell you a load of crap, you wait for him to speak first, ready for that apology that comes before anything else, signifying that he knows he really screwed up this time. There's a familiar voice, but it's not the one you wanted.

"Mary, my girl..."

It's your husband's father. You hear the pain in his voice, the pain only another parent could understand, and you know. Deep down, right to your core, it slams into place. He's really gone. His father would never go along with a prank like this, Hell, you know your husband better! HE wouldn't stand for it either!

You're father-in-law is relating the story, something about a case, something about bad men and some newly exposed drug ring, or weapons, you aren't really paying attention. Staring at nothing has much more precedence. With morbid fascination, you take the time to examine exactly what you're feeling.

Betrayal is a big one. Though you can't really say who or what betrayed you, husband or God? You feel like you're falling, hard and fast, and even though the ground can't be seen, you know it's coming, and you know that you're going to crash into it. You realize that you knew all along, and if you didn't, you should have! You should have known the moment he was in danger, the moment-!

You're cracking, and you catch yourself before you can head into a real, downward tailspin, because a faint; "What's wrong, mommy?" comes into your head. You aren't even aware of the silent tears streaming down your cheeks. You see the future in your little boy, this little soul, who you helped create a body for, with the man you planned on spending the rest of your life with. The future is already starting to look bleak...but now isn't the time. That nurturing instinct comes into play. You hang up the phone, whether your father-in-law is still talking or not. You pick up you son; you precious bundle of warmth and affection, who you were just scolding a few hours before, for not picking up his toys. You take him to the huge recliner that he and his daddy always sit in. The same one in which you and his daddy cuddle, when watching late night television, or a scary movie. You set him on your lap, and hug him closely.

"Baby, do you believe in angels?"

A stupid question. Inquiring about the religious beliefs of a six year old was about as smart as questioning those of a rebellious sixteen-year-old, since reasoning with them was beyond the patience of a saint.

"You mean like the ones that work for God?"

You can only nod, not trusting your voice, because right this second, you loathe the Almighty. How could God; benevolent as He supposedly is, stand by while you try to explain to a child why his father won't ever see him again? Finally, you speak again.

"Do you know how angels are made?"

Shaking, in body and voice. Your baby, shaking his head dutifully.

"Doesn't God make them? Like He made us?"

You have to smile, such a good boy he is. You've read him bits of the Bible, not ready to force religion upon him, but letting him wet his feet in it as he likes. The two of you adults had decided your child would be better off if he came into his Faith on his own, it would be purer and stronger that way.

"Not exactly, sweetie. There are a few, that God created for specific purposes, and He keeps them close to His side. There are others though, many, many others."

You're rocking now, settled back into the huge chair, and he's listening.

"There are many types of Angels, and one of them is called a Guardian Angel. You know anything about them?"

A nod is given, so you continue.

"Well, God needs lots of Guardian Angels, so every body on Earth can have one to protect them. When we die, we go up to Heaven if we're very good. Well, all the men and women who made it their jobs to protect people when they were alive, are asked if they'd like to keep doing that."

"What kinds of people?"

"People like fire-fighters, rescue workers, police officers, agents...honest lawyers..."

It was a weak joke, and you're the only one who gets it. You also realize that you're making all of this up off the top of your own, foolish, guilt-ridden head, but you can't stop. Despite the fact that you're pretty sure God can't possibly exist, your faith shaken to the very core, doesn't mean that you can't conjure a fairy-tale to comfort your son, to keep his faith strong, whatever it might be.

"People like Daddy."

A statement, so eerily wise, but here came the really hard part.

"Exactly, baby, people just like daddy. In fact, daddy was so good down here that he's just been made into a Guardian Angel by God. In fact, he's probably getting his Angel badge right now."

A frown furrows such a young brow.

"But...does that mean daddy's not coming back?"

You choke back a sob, and clutch him hard against you. You're both crying, but you are the one who has to give comfort. You know that he knows the answer, and you can feel his fear..it's your own fear, mirrored and intensified. Daddy was the protector. Oh yes, he was the formidable figure that frightened away the monsters under the bed and kept them back. A Knight-in-shining...tin foil, as you two had joked on so many occasions. Now; Mommy has to be the Knight, the warrior and the protector. Mommy doesn't know if she can do that, and her son knows it. So, simply, you sit there..and continue to wait.

A day or so passes and you go through the motions of life, finally unable to avoid the fact of the funeral. The day is warm and cloudless, odd for a November this far North, but you don't notice. It's all somber and grey to you. Your husband, your life partner, is laid to rest underneath the ground..and you don't know which is worse. That he'll be sleeping alone, or that -you- will be.

Your father-in-law comes up to you, with his wife. Both of them have understandably puffy eyes, tears still streaming down your mother-in-law's face. There's talk about how beautiful the priest's words were, the service, and the flowers. In your head; you're raging. Screw the flowers! The priest doesn't know one god-damned thing, and certainly not about the man you loved! Beautiful!? This is the most wretched day on Earth! The Angels in Heaven should be weeping, it -should- be raining with their tears! God Himself should be balling his eyes out for the pain He's caused because you simply can't shed another!

Orin offers to take Billy for a few days, to allow you to recuperate. Kind of them, but jealously you consider saying no. Billy's all you have left..the only thing keeping you from joining your husband, something you're afraid you'll resent him for. So yeah...it's probably a good idea that Billy visits his grandparents for a little while..they need him too. Then you'll have time..time in which you can blame the deceased, and yourself, for your current pains. Days of desolation and nights of agony. Billy is pulling away from you, anxious to see someone, something other than your crying face..and that hurts. However; you hold that nettle of pain close, because it proves you can still feel something. You crouch down and give Billy a kiss, moving to let go and head toward your car..which you probably shouldn't be driving, not in your condition. Suddenly, your son grabs you.

"Mommy...I'm gonna talk to God and see if'en I can't fire my Guardian Angel."

Bewildered; you ask the most obvious question, forgetting all about the story you had told him not a few days before.

"Why?"

Angry tears spring into his eyes, and he gets that pinched face her normally acquires when he's about to pull one of his huge fits. "And I'm gonna fire yours too!" Actually frightened at what all this has done to him, you grab his shoulders and give him a gentle shake, trying to bring him back to reality.

"Billy! What are you talking about? Why would you do such a thing?"

Another stupid question. He couldn't -really- do it, could he?

"So's I can hire Daddy! So's Daddy can take care of us like he's 'posed to!"

Billy's crying fiercely now, shaking in your hands. Pain lacerates your already tortured soul, but you hold him tightly again, tighter than ever before. "You do that baby...as soon as you can, I can't wait..."

That's what it all comes down to, isn't it? Waiting...again with the waiting. Wait for the kids to grow up, wait to get old so you can die to and join your loved ones in the great beyond. But; what if that's not -quite- what happens? What if God, or Fate, has something else in mind? What if you're given another chance? Another Angel, albeit a difficult one? Well..I suppose you're still in the same boat..you just have to wait and see...