by Eliza Grace
I’m not sure I can handle that and I am so grateful that all of my school friends live in Manhattan. They would most assuredly choose local stores. New York is a mecca of fashion, after all. This means, at least, that I don’t run the risk of running into someone who will recognize me from before the accident. I don’t want to deal with sympathetic glances at my legs and hollow words of understanding and comfort.
“It’s a dress boutique. They might get a lot of teens in here for school dances, but this is where Taylor bought my dress. If he’ll come in here, then I know it’s not just for the young and hip crowd.”
“Jen, you do realize that Taylor is as gay as they come, right? He goes by a whole different set of rules where he’s allowed to look fabulous and buy fabulous things anytime he wants. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but designer clothes. I bet even his boxers belong on a fashion week runway.”
“Taylor is not gay.” Jen looks at me, totally confused. “No, I’ve got a great gay-dar, and he is, like, super straight. Like arrow towards a bullseye straight.”
“Has he ever asked you out?”
“No.”
“See.” I lift my hand and gesture up and down to indicate her svelte, kick-ass body—which she normally hides under baggy hippy clothes and painting aprons. “If a man is around you all the time and doesn’t ask you out, he’s gay.”
“He could just be shy. Or maybe I’m not his type.”
“You did see the dress he bought you, right? It’s gorgeous. No straight guy has that kind of taste.”
“Men buy their girlfriends and wives clothing all the time.”
“Yeah, wife-y type clothing, not designer gowns like that.”
“He’s straight.”
“Gay.”
“Straight. Stop arguing.”
I wait a second, act like I’m going to stop, and then I whisper ‘gay’ and Jen turns Macintosh apple red. She holds the heavy door open for me and I roll through as we continue to banter back and forth. We stop acting like bickering siblings when a prim woman in a black suit approaches. Her look is disapproving. “How can I help you?” She peers down at me, her glasses slipping down her nose a fraction. Taking a quick peek at the inside of the store, I am relieved to see that we are the only customers.
“My niece,” Jen moves and stands beside the wheelchair, “needs a dress for a gallery opening on Saturday.”
“Ah.” The woman looks from Jen to me. Her name tag reads ‘Doris’. “Well, it’ll have to be a material that won’t wrinkle. She’ll be sitting the entire showing I assume?” She doesn’t say the words snidely, but they still sting.
“No, I might get up and walk at some point. I mean, my legs can’t stay paralyzed forever, right? May as well cut the charade and show everyone I’m not a cripple.” I grunt when Jen kicks my shin and knocks my foot off of the support. It doesn’t hurt of course, but my foot being displaced jolts my upper body. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude.” I mutter, tossing Jen an evil look. She doesn’t flinch, not even a little bit. She could at least act like I’m a little intimidating.
“I could have been more tactful.” Doris says without inflection, looking me in the eyes, her gaze as steady as her tone. It’s an apology. Sort of. “Now, do you have a style and color in mind?” Her gaze appraises me more keenly now. I shake my head ‘no’ and she then looks at Jen, who shrugs dramatically.
“I know nothing about dresses. This is my normal uniform.” My aunt indicates the color-splattered clothing she’s wearing. Doris wrinkles her nose in obvious distaste and steps back a foot as if some of the paint may not be fully dry and magically transfer over to her pressed and proper suit.
“Well, I think a sweetheart would be perfect, something really loose from the waist down. And maybe a pastel? Something that will really make her skin tone and dark hair pop.” Doris is speaking methodically, leaving us and going over to the only visible rack of dresses to the right of the changing rooms.
Gripping the wheel rung, I push my chair forward and follow after her. “I don’t know if I want strapless.”
“A sweetheart doesn’t have to be strapless.” Doris holds up a lilac dress with beading all over the bodice. “This color would be lovely on you.”
The next two hours are a blur of chiffon, lace, and silk. A second associate has to come help Doris and Jen—we need two people to support me standing and one to help me put the dresses on. Most of them have zippers I cannot reach or lacing in the back. It’s embarrassing, to not be able to do something I used to take for granted. It makes all the activities that are hard confront me in stark black and white. Putting pants on, peeing, showering. Living.
So many people have gone through what I am going through and they’ve survived; they’ve found ways to keep moving forward. But I’m sure they also felt like me more than once before they started functioning at one hundred percent again.
“I’m tired, Jen.”
We haven’t found the ‘right’ dress and Jen is insisting on perfection. I’ve tried every color of dress in the spectrum on—from pitch black to neon green—and nothing has been right. The sales women have pulled out every style also. Half of them were too uncomfortable to sit in and the other half looked slouchy and instantly wrinkled when I sat down. Long formal gowns are supposed to be seen at their full lengths, not permanently scrunched and obscured against the leather seat of a wheelchair. I do not believe there is a dress in the world that can make me feel beautiful, that can drop Hoyt’s jaw.
And then, as Jen is undoing the laces of a cobalt corset-style gown with a hi-low hem that shows off my legs which I do not like, Doris brings out one more dress. It is just a simple thing made of blush-hued silk and the only embellishment is the clusters of multi-colored crystals along the cap sleeves. It has a ruched bodice and a high waist; the skirt is incredibly long and billows as Doris walks toward me, like a wayward breeze has found an entrance and decided to blow throughout the boutique. I am instantly in love.
For a moment, I lose sight of the dress as Jen pulls blue material off of my body and over my head. Then I see it again and I realize that this is it; this is the dress that will make me feel beautiful. Hoyt will see me in it and he will tell me that I’m more than just special, that he doesn’t just care for me, he loves me. It’s silly to place so much hope on such a material item. Stupid. You’re stupid and a dreamer, Tilda.
“Now that might be perfect.” Jen gasps out; dropping the cobalt dress she’s just removed onto a tufted ivory ottoman near the three-way mirror. “Are you up to trying on one more, Tilda. I know you said that you’re tired.”
“I’m not tired.” I contradict her; I suddenly feel wide awake and my body feels light and airy. “Where’s the zipper? Can I put it on myself?”
“On the side.” Doris says and her expression shows that she’s now confident that she’ll make a sale out of all the trouble she’s gone through showing me dresses. Draping the dress across my lap, I feel the material with my fingers. It is even silkier than Jen’s dress at home. This feels like… like liquid silver and it is cool to the touch. It makes my hand tingle and the sensation runs up to my elbow and then to my shoulder. I know that this dress is not actually magic, but it makes me feel like it is—and that is almost as magical as a journal with disappearing words and a man that can walk through glass.
The two sales women and Jen go to help me, but I wave them off. Unzipping the dress, I gather the material until it is shaped into a big, malleable ring of cloth. Then I slip it over my head, thread my arms beneath the cap sleeves and lean forward so the dress can fall behind me against the wheelchair. Sitting down, the zipper is slightly bunched, so it takes me a moment to get it closed. I have to angle my upper body to the side and go slowly so that I do not catch and damage the material.
“Will you help me stand now?” With the dress on, even sitting down—a position that never allows me to forget the past—I feel as beautiful as I have ever felt before.
“Want
to put on some shoes first?” The second sales woman asks.
Looking down at my purple converses, I nod. When I look into the mirror, I want everything to be as flawless as the dress. “Do you have anything for my hair?” I run fingers through my tangled, shoulder-length locks.
“Just want a hairband or clip?” My aunt is quick with the hair accessories. She’s already holding two out for me to pick from.
“I was thinking something prettier maybe?”
“Oh.” Jen stuffs the band and claw clip back into her pocket and then she looks at Doris who nods in understanding.
“I’m sure I can find something pretty.” Doris leaves, close behind the second associate who is heading to the stock room for shoes.
Jen is staring at me and I see that her eyes are glistening. “It’s perfect, Tilda. Really. Hands down, I don’t think we could find anything better.”
Blushing, I look away from her and mumble. “It’s just a dress, Jen.” But inside, I am flying, happy and giddy. I am the quintessential high school student whose entire existence revolves around having fun and getting a date for the dance. Not a cripple. Not a killer. Not magic.
Jen and Doris help me stand so that I can take in the dress in its full glory.
In the mirror, I see myself, but I am also disconnected from the image—like I am looking at someone else, someone who has a perfect life with a perfect body. The shoes are silvery-pink; they match the dress perfectly. My hair is caught up in a quick French twist and secured by a crystal clip. The bodice is perfectly shaped to hide the bandage over my breast. I cannot wait for the gallery showing; I cannot wait for Hoyt to see me in this dress.
Jen does not flinch at the bill—$582.13 for the dress, shoes, and silver clip. I want to vomit in my mouth. It is so much money. But my aunt simply smiles, hands Doris a gold credit card, and says that I am worth every penny. I want so badly to believe her.
Magic Sparks
My dress hangs from a knob attached to the highest cabinet in my room. I went to bed staring at it and it was the first thing I saw when I woke up.
I do not have a dresser or a standing wardrobe, but rather built-ins that stretch from floor to ceiling. One tall cabinet is so large that I can walk inside of it without hunching over and stretch my arms out to both sides without touching either the back wall or the door when it is closed. Not that I’ve gone into the cabinet since moving in with Jen—I wonder if I am too grown now for such things, even if I wasn’t wheelchair-bound—but when I was fifteen, Mom and Dad allowed me and Toby to visit for a weekend while they were in Boston for a dentistry convention. Mom hadn’t wanted to leave us and they’d called every hour on the hour, so often that Grammy and Grandpa became agitated and angry with them. I can understand now though. Mom was afraid for us, because we could have the gift… and we might hear his call, his words singing to us from the darkness of the woods.
That one weekend had been wonderful though, despite my mother’s constant checking-in. I’d hidden in the cabinet during hide and seek with Toby, baked snickerdoodles with Grammy, driven Grandpa’s tractor and, at night, my grandparents told us stories. They bickered back-and-forth about details and specifics and Toby and I would just grin and laugh at the funny parts. I miss Toby’s laugh so much, the way it was carefree and seemed to bubble out of his body like effervescent soapy suds.
Shaking my head, I force myself to stop thinking about my baby brother and how much I miss every part of him, not just his giggle.
The garment bag is see-through and I find that I keep staring at it rather than finishing the unit exam that is due by noon today for my anatomy and physiology course. There are always multiple papers and tests due by Friday each week and usually I finish everything in plenty of time. This week though, I have been distracted by a great many things.
Like my mother’s journal—which is sitting on the smooth surface of the desk—Matthew—who doesn’t even really exist—the witchfinder—who is all too real—and Hoyt’s words to me at rehab—words that are infinitely more dear to me than they should be. Don’t forget exploding candles. I remind myself, feeling the bandage beneath the material of my top.
In the head of a girl, on the cusp of graduation and womanhood, a boy telling her she was special would be enough to send the world into a spiral, but add supernatural crap like a man after her soul and the death of her family? Forget it. A girl doesn’t stand a chance in hell. I don’t stand a chance in hell. There are too many choices, too many sides to this coin I have been given. And, at times, fear is not as strong as my desire to be healed.
I am alone in the house again.
Jen has been called into the city unexpectedly by Taylor. She’d woken me at 6 a.m. telling me she had to leave and that the gallery ‘emergency’ could not wait. I snorted in my sleep. I’ve learned over the few months here that Taylor is not only a fashionista, but also a drama queen. More than likely, the emergency is something like too much merlot and not enough champagne. Or the weather is supposed to be cloudy, so the paintings need to be rearranged to allow for the best lighting without the sun shining through the giant windows.
So, it’s ten o’clock and I am secretly thrilled this time that I have been left to my own devices. It is not like earlier in the week, when the house felt like it was suffocating me. No. Today I am glad and the house feels homey and full of room.
Hoyt will be here at eleven-thirty—he called yesterday evening after the dress shop to say that we would be doing rehab at the house instead of the center and that we’d also be trying out a few new things he’s gotten approved by my doctors. Knowing Taylor and his pre-show panic attacks, Jen will not be home until late this afternoon at the earliest. She assured me should be back in time for Hoyt’s visit of course, but that was more an empty promise to satisfy herself as my caretaker.
Which means Hoyt and I will be alone and we can speak openly and maybe, just maybe, he’ll try to kiss me again.
When my stomach cramps, I’m not surprised. M.H. doesn’t like it when I think about Hoyt. The pain is intense, but short-lived. And then I feel him behind me. I reopen my eyes—having closed them to push away the jolt of discomfort—and I glimpse the first outline of his form. He is not walking through glass or wall this time; he is simply appearing, going from twisting, undulating, smoky apparition to a tangible, touchable, and stoic man. He is back in his colonial garb and that serves as a reminder of who he is and what he wants. If him forming out of thin air was not enough of a reminder in and of itself…
You’re not his. He has opened his mouth to speak yet again, but his voice is still silenced. Perhaps he has not the strength to speak aloud, perhaps that is part of the spell that has not broken. The barrier of protection stones kept his true body trapped in the forest, making the image of Matthew necessary, but he is still weak and bound by whatever nuances of spells first entrapped him. “Can you read my mind?”
Snapshots, fractions of your thoughts in pictures that burn inside me. When you are thinking of him… his face… you are not his! He screams, so loudly that I feel my brain will burst into a million pieces of gray matter. I need you. You’re mine. My freedom.
He is advancing towards me and I have nowhere to go. By the time I wheel the chair away from the desk and turn to face him, he will be close enough to give me his fury in physical form as well as mental. That feeling of a protective blanket begins to settle around me again—as it did in the kitchen. Then, it had been enough to banish him. This time, however, his face turns hard and he struggles three steps forward, determined to not let my mother keep me from him this time.
Something, probably my mother’s influence as she surrounds me with love, guides my hand to pick up the maroon journal. I hold it up, my hand tingles; the symbols and my mother’s initials come to life on the front cover. When M.H. sees them in the mirror reflecting, he stops advancing, his eyes go wide, and I can see that he will be beaten again. That I will beat him—with my dead mother’s help.
“Leave. Me.
Alone.” I shout, my voice carrying throughout the house like a sonic boom. Closing my eyes tightly, I imagine the blanket of defense as a visible, changeable thing. I visualize within my mind where M.H. is standing behind me and I lift the hand not holding the journal so that its palm is facing the ceiling. Concentrating with all my might, I see a glowing ball of golden energy spring to life and rest in my hand. My eyes are still closed, everything is happening behind the brush of lashes and the thin skin of lids, and I worry that what I am seeing is imagination and not truly happening.
And I remember my mother’s rules. Her warning, hidden in the belly of fairytales.
Never do magic.
Never even think about it.
Not even once.
If you feel it, a tingling in your fingertips, a shaking in your bones… you push it down, down into your toes.
Still though, I follow the urging inside of me and I release the energy so that it rockets against the mirrored surface and angles back behind me towards the witchfinder. Only then do I open my eyes and I feel a soft, invisible hand take the place of the electric golden orb. Something is touching me, unseen and warm.
The witchfinder is vibrating again, being forced to fade away. His mouth is gaped open in a soundless scream.
‘She cannot protect you forever. She cannot save you outside this house. You will be mine. You will release—‘
Instead of his voice continue to echo out of existence, he is cut off midsentence. The hand is no longer holding my own. The feeling of being protected is gone, which I understand means my mother has gone. I want to see her, know it is her instead of wishing and hoping it is her. Belief is not enough. Not in this case.
