Double Eclipse

by Melissa de la Cruz

  My question was answered as soon as I stepped across the threshold. I don’t know how, but I knew, somehow, that I was no longer in Midgard. Or no longer just in Midgard. The air felt different. Not smelled different. Felt different. Felt like it was made out of thick bolts of velvet that had been soaked in gasoline. Breathing it wasn’t hard, exactly, but I could feel it in my lungs. It sat heavy in my chest, like a lungful of dead bees.

  As strange as that was, however, what was even weirder was the weight of the room. The gravity, I guess. It was lighter. Like I felt myself weighing less. It seemed like I had to push my foot down to make it touch the ground, or else it was just going to float away. But I stamped my bare foot onto the ground and pushed my way into the room. It took a good, hard push, as if I was walking through water, but as soon as I was all the way in the room, I saw the light. The pulsing green light I’d seen from the lawn. It was at the far end of the tunnel that the ballroom had been turned into, but there was just enough of a curve to the tunnel that I still couldn’t see the source. Even so, it was much brighter than it had been outside.

  I took a step toward it. The gravity was so light that I half felt like I was going to float off the ground. I threw my hands out to either side of the tunnel, steadying myself on the slippery ice. Suddenly, an old song popped into my head. It was one of Freya’s favorites, and she played it all the time at the North Inn, especially when she was closing up.

  “Giant steps are what you take, walking on the moon. I hope my legs don’t break, walking on the moon . . .”

  It wasn’t enough to make me feel safe, but it was enough to make me smile. I pushed forward.

  But immediately stopped. Something had passed in front of the light up ahead, blocking most of it. It took me a moment to spot the shadow on the wall. The woman’s shadow.

  Waving at me.

  And . . . speaking to me.

  “Mooi,” it called in a voice I knew I’d heard before, though I couldn’t quite place it. “Mooi, is that you?”

  It could have been Mum. And yet I wasn’t sure—and I felt that if it were Mum, I’d recognize her voice.

  “Mooi,” it called again. “Mooi? Are you there?”

  • • •

  With a start, I opened my eyes, to the sound of a faint knock on the door.

  “Mooi,” a voice called. This time, it was really Mum’s voice. No one else’s. “Are you in there?”

  “C-come in,” I called, sitting up groggily. The feel of 800-thread-count sheets, lightly scented with lavender, was quickly bringing me back to reality.

  The door opened, and there was Mum. She was dressed in a pair of loose gray pants, flats, and a light pink sweater. A Balenciaga purse was slung over one shoulder, a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Are you going somewhere?” I asked.

  Mum gave me a regretful smile as she walked across the room and sat on the side of the bed. “This is for you,” she said, handing me the coffee. “Hazelnut latte with soy milk.”

  “How did you know?” I said, taking the cup thankfully.

  “Seriously?” Mum laughed. “You’ve only tweeted about it a thousand times.”

  “Guilty,” I said, taking a sip. “Gods, that’s amazing. Did you run into town for this?”

  Mum shook her head. “Ivan’s a genius in the kitchen.”

  “Is there anything he can’t do?” I asked, laughing. By now I was fully awake. The sun was shining through pale yellow curtains, revealing the polished wood floors and mint-condition French country antiques. My dream felt no more real to me than a bad sci-fi movie I’d scanned past on cable. “So,” I said, “loose pants, light sweater, sensible shoes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting on an airplane.”

  Mum nodded. “England.”

  “England!” I repeated. And then it came to me. “Oh, my gods, Wimbledon! I completely forgot it comes right after the French Open.” I was filled with a strange mixture of excitement and regret. This was the third leg of the Grand Slam, after all, and probably Mum’s toughest challenge. “I can’t believe you have to take off so fast, though,” I said, sounding more like a little girl than I’d intended.

  I guess I had stayed at Fair Haven because I was curious about our mother; Daddy and Ingrid didn’t much like the idea, but they couldn’t stop me either. After all, Janet Steele was our mother. More than curiosity, though, something had drawn me to the house. My dream, I guess.

  Mum patted my head. “Believe me, I hate it too. But all of this”—Mum waved a hand at the house—“doesn’t pay for itself.”

  “And there’s that Grand Slam to think about too.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. One match at a time. I hate to leave you here all by yourself, but, hey, you’ll have the whole mansion as your crib, and of course the staff will get you anything you want. Except for those lattes, I’m afraid. I have to take Ivan with me.”

  An idea popped into my head.

  “Maybe I could go?” Once again my voice sounded as eager as a five-year-old’s, and I tried to play it down. “I mean, these lattes are pretty addictive.”

  Mum smiled gently. “I thought about it. But it’s the kind of thing I really should clear with your dad, and given his accident, and the fact that I’ve only just reappeared, I think we should take it slow.”

  I resolved to bring it up with Dad when we visited him at Ingrid’s as we usually did every few days.

  I knew she was right, though I didn’t want to say it out loud. I wished Mardi had been here to witness Mum being so reasonable. These weren’t the ravings of a snubbed human bent on deicide, but the sound reasoning of a mature co-parent.

  “How long will you be gone?” I asked, though I knew the tournament lasted two weeks.

  “You never know,” Mum said. “I could lose in the first round and be back tomorrow night.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud. “We both know it’ll be you and Serena in the final. And that you’re going to beat her.”

  “Promise you’ll watch me on TV?”

  “You know it.”

  “Come here!”

  I threw my arms around her, even though I was still clutching my cup of coffee. Mum’s long strong arms wrapped around me, and one of her hands stroked my hair.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I said. “I mean, I know we’ve only just met but . . .”

  “But I’m your mum,” Mum whispered in my ear, “and you’re my daughter, and I’m going to miss you too.”

  She stood up and walked toward the door. Before she went out, though, she stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her purse, pulled out something shiny, and tossed it to me. I snatched it out of the air.

  “Nice reflexes,” Mum said.

  I looked down at my hand. It was a key fob to a car. The logo was a sharply pointed trident. It took me a moment to place it.

  “Is this for a Maserati?”

  Mum smiled mischievously. “Don’t think I’m trying to buy your affection or anything. The car’s mine. But there’s no need for it to languish in the garage while I’m gone. It’s a convertible,” she added just before she left. “Wear sunscreen.”

  And then she was gone.

  • • •

  An hour later—one shower, one bagel, and one practice drive on the road that ran around Gardiners Island—I was flying down North Road, which, as the name suggested, ran along the northern edge of the East End, right on the Long Island Sound. I know I’ve said I prefer a chauffeur, but I do know how to drive, and the Maserati handled like a dream. You could steer it with a single finger. And it was the best accessory ever. It set off my outfit perfectly.

  Speaking of which: my initial plan had been to go to Ingrid and Matt’s to pick up my clothes, but when I got out of the shower and glanced at the dresser, I saw a little note atop it.

 
I thought it would be easier if Ivan fetched your things.—Mum

  I pulled open one drawer after another and discovered that they were full of all my summer clothes, plus a few items I didn’t recognize, but which went perfectly with everything I’d brought. How Ivan had gotten them in there was a whole other question. I was a pretty sound sleeper, but I had a hard time imagining he’d been able to unload four suitcases without waking me. Well, he was an elf. I supposed he was rather light on his feet.

  I pulled on a pair of white denim shorts and a sleeveless printed blouse I didn’t recognize. I glanced at the label. Tom Ford. My mother had the best taste in the world. Then I made my way downstairs, where an already sliced bagel sat in the toaster, waiting for me, then to the garage. As I walked down the hallway, it occurred to me that this was the part of the mansion where I’d seen the light in my dream, but everything was so new and clean and bright that it was hard to hold on to the image. Even the garage had the pristine feel of a laboratory, with polished concrete floors and just the faintest tinge of gasoline. There were six bays, but only one of them was filled. A bright yellow Maserati, the top already down, sat in the center of the vast space like an exhibit in a museum. It was as shiny as Katy Perry and curvy as Beyoncé, but even so, it exuded a tough, commanding energy. Just looking at it made me feel powerful.

  And okay, I know I shouldn’t have liked Mum’s Maserati as much as I did, but Oh. My. God. What a car. Like seriously, why does Mardi drive that vintage hoopty when she could cruise around in a whip like this? I mean, it’s not just that the engine made about a tenth as much noise as Mardi’s did, even as it was about twice as fast: it also had a better stereo, a navigation screen that included a DVD player and seats that spooned you so close you felt like an underwear model was standing behind you and kissing the back of your neck. And they’d somehow designed the windshield so that even when the top was down the wind whipped over your head rather than messing up your hair—all without the need of an anti-weather spell.

  The car seemed to know where I was going better than I did. North Road to Cross Fork Lane, Cross Fork to Pfenning Road. Pfenning to 409. Sal’s house.

  Sal and Rocky’s.

  • • •

  He came out before I even made it to the porch. He was wearing a pair of low-slung drawstring shorts and a faded T-shirt with a cartoon cat on it.

  “Is that Garfield?” I asked as I got out of the car and started toward the front door.

  Rocky paused on the narrow porch, looking down at his shirt. “Seriously? This is Azrael. From the Smurfs,” he added when my face must’ve given away that I had no idea who he was talking about. He nodded at the car. “Is that a Lamborghini?”

  “A man’s got to be secure in his masculinity to admit to watching the Smurfs. The car’s a Maserati.”

  “You say potato, I say ensalada de papas.” He said the last part in a thick Spanish accent.

  “Potato salad?” By now I was at the foot of the steps. I climbed the first and then the second, till I was standing a step below him. There wasn’t really room for two people on the top, unless they squeezed together.

  Rocky shrugged sheepishly. “Papa didn’t have quite the ring to it I wanted.”

  I decided to go for it. I mounted the last step. Rocky had to step back to accommodate me, but we were still only a couple of inches apart. I tapped the cat on his chest.

  “And what’d you call him? Azrael?”

  Rocky looked down toward my finger, though I’m not sure his eyes made it past my boobs. When he looked up, there was a small, happy grin on his face. His cheeks were dusted with stubble.

  “I grew up without a dad. Papa Smurf was my role model.”

  “Just don’t grow the beard, okay? I know it’s all the rage right now, but—”

  I was going to say that it sucks to kiss a beard, but it seemed a bit premature. I’m pretty sure my blush gave me away, though, because Rocky started blushing too.

  “So, do you want to invite me in or something? This porch is architecturally fascinating, but I think I’ve seen the highlights.”

  Rocky looked out toward Mum’s car. “You drive up in a Maserati and you want to hang out in my dad’s trailer? Really?”

  “Good point,” I said, although from what I could see through the screen door, the interior of the trailer had been completely redone, so that it looked more like something you’d see photographed in Hamptons magazine rather than, I don’t know, White Trash Living, or whatever.

  “Oh, and why don’t you drive?” I said, tossing the keys up in the air. “I know you want to.”

  14

  TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT

  Mardi-Overbrook-Journal.docx

  Molly’s move to Fair Haven was helpful on one front: Ingrid was able to move Trent off the couch and out to the gardener’s shed. She’d denied my request that he sleep in my room when he first moved in, saying that, goddess or no goddess, I was still a teenager. I could sneak around like one. But under her roof, we played by her rules.

  “Good lord, Ingrid, she’s seventeen,” Freya teased her. “Back in our day, she would have been married and had a couple of kids by now.”

  “Yes, and back in our day, Tyr would have signaled his intentions by clubbing her on the head and dragging her into his hut. Times have changed.”

  “They certainly have,” Freya said drily. “It’s not 1950 anymore. Or 1750, for that matter.”

  “I don’t get it,” I protested. “You were fine with me staying with him at Fair Haven. And Dad doesn’t care where I sleep.” I didn’t mention that we hadn’t actually shared a bedroom at Trent’s house, let alone a bed. I guess it would be a little weird since Dad was staying at Ingrid’s too, but he was a progressive kind of guy.

  “That was your father’s decision, not mine. But this is my house and my rules.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Jo chimed. “You’re such a prude.” And she took her iPad and stalked up to her room.

  “That girl is growing up way too fast,” Ingrid said, shaking her head.

  But she refused to give in, and so after one of her delicious home-cooked meals and a couple of games of family-friendly Scrabble (no four-letter words allowed, even after I pointed out that they were in the official Scrabble dictionary, so no surprise when the librarian won) Trent headed out to the shed. When he kissed me good night, though, it was on my forehead. I tilted my head up, but all I got was a second kiss on the tip of my nose.

  I wasn’t surprised that Ingrid didn’t let us sleep together, but what surprised me was that Trent didn’t put up any kind of resistance at all. In fact, he seemed almost relieved to be able to move out of the house, and so, the next morning, after Ingrid had gone to the library and Matt had driven off in his sheriff’s car and Dad was dozing after downing three of Ingrid’s buttermilk waffles slathered in homemade raspberry compote, and Graciella, the housekeeper, had arrived to supervise Jo and Henry, I found Trent and announced:

  “We’re going for a drive.”

  Trent looked at me with a wary expression. But he followed me out to the car. I, too, was silent, not saying a word until we were through town and out on the highway. I punched it then and felt the satisfying jolt of the engine in the place where my legs met my abdomen.

  I knew what I wanted to say to him, but I didn’t know how. The thing is, ever since I’d been back, things hadn’t been the same between us. It’s like we were starting over again. I thought he was my boyfriend, but he hadn’t really acted like one. It was so strange because when we were apart, we did nothing but text and talk on the phone and look forward to being together.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “You know what I mean.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Trent said, running his fingers through his hair and looking everywhere but at me. “Everything’s great. I love that we’re together again.”

  “Really? Because you do
n’t act that way. You act like you’re nervous to be around me.”

  Trent unclasped his hands. “Maybe it’s because you’re totally ambushing me!”

  “Uh-uh. Don’t make this about me. You’ve been like this all summer, and it’s just gotten worse.” I turned to him, despite the fact that I was driving sixty-five in two-way traffic. “Do you not like me anymore?”

  “Uh, Mardi,” Trent said, nodding at the road, “you want to, uh . . . ?” He nodded at the road again.

  In fact, I’d beefed up the protection spells on the car in anticipation of this converstation, and it was practically steering itself, but Trent didn’t need to know that. I stepped on the gas, and though I couldn’t see the speedometer, I could feel the car’s thrust in my gut.

  “Answer the question,” I demanded, my stomach falling.

  Trent looked back and forth between the road and me for several seconds. His eyes were squinted, nervous, though it seemed to me they were more nervous about talking to me than about the possibility of an accident.

  “Fine,” he said finally. “Just pull over, okay? It’s way too soon for me to be starting over again in another body.”

  The next turnout was for the beach, and I screeched into it. It was a weekday, and early too, so the small parking lot was nearly empty, as was the beach beyond. There was a stiff breeze, and when I killed the engine, the three-foot waves could be heard crashing heavily against the shore.

  “Walk with me,” Trent said, kicking off his flip-flops and getting out of the car.

  This felt like a stalling tactic, but I decided to go along with him. I toed off my sandals and followed him out of the car, where he stood with his hand extended. I curled mine into his gratefully, and he squeezed back, and we made our way out onto the nearly deserted beach. The sand was cool beneath my bare feet, still damp from the tide. The wind almost brought up goose pimples on my legs, but with a moment of concentration, I was able to make them fade away.