Shadow Forest- The Complete Series

by Eliza Grace

  The house has regained some of its oppressiveness; yet, a feeling of being free and alive is welling up inside of me. My mind, now occupied by only my own internal voice, is reeling with curiosity.

  Because I have performed magic.

  Hoping to catch a glance of M.H. along the spell border of trees across the field, I roll away from the desk and towards the window. When I am looking through the rippled glass, I realize that I am freezing. Cold and shaking. Maybe it’s a warning, but I do not really care. Warning or not, I want to see the man that, up until this moment, frightened me. It is an ill-advised desire.

  Anger Follows This Affection

  I am so deep in thought that when there is a knock at the back door, I am confused, thinking that no one should be stopping by today. For a split second, I imagine it is the Matthew illusion at the back door.

  Then my eye catches the swiftest hand ticking away seconds on the clock and how the hour and minute hands are indicating eleven-thirty a.m. Hoyt. I’d forgotten all about Hoyt. I hadn’t even heard his car pull up.

  How could I be so enthralled and mooning over him one moment, and then be so distracted and so thoughtless that it is like he does not even exist. It’s the sensation, the residual magic floating about in my body like a hallucination-inducing drug that I cannot—and do not want to—quit that is making my mind wander away from reality, from Hoyt and everything that surrounds him.

  The knock comes again. Three times, a fist bangs against the kitchen door. And then I hear him. “Jen? Tilda? It’s Hoyt. Are you home?” He’s not exactly yelling, just speaking loudly, and his voice is so deep and rich that it carries easily to my room.

  “Hold on! I’m coming.” Rolling away from the bay window—where I’ve been sitting in my wheelchair staring out into the forest since M.H. was forcibly removed—I hear Hoyt yell ‘okay.’ Exiting my room, I realize that I should empty my urine container. Lifting my shirt, I see that the overnight bag is full and now that I’m focusing on it, I can smell it too… and the scent wafting towards my face is anything but pleasant. Jen normally helps me in the morning to change out of the sizable collection waist bag and into the more discrete leg bag, but she left so early and I have trouble doing it myself.

  At least if it’s empty, I can press it flat against my side and the floral blouse I am wearing is loose. Hopefully, Hoyt won’t notice. He’s not a stranger to the challenges of paraplegia, but I don’t want to remind him that I’m more a patient than a girl, not any more than being stuck in a wheelchair does. That’s enough of a reminder.

  “You still coming?” Hoyt’s voice doesn’t sound impatient, but calm and relaxed.

  “Sorry, I need to change my top real quick. Just a minute!” This time, he doesn’t reply.

  The bathroom is a tight squeeze, but I don’t want to dump the collection in the kitchen—even though Jen has told me that I could because it’s easier for me. I just can’t. I’d rather push my way into the bathroom and shove into the narrow space between the shower and sink so I can dump it into the toilet. I can at least do that. I can at least pee where able-bodied people pee.

  As I listen to the liquid sloshing into the toilet, I feel angry.

  I hate reality, I hate that I am wearing a catheter and collection bag, because I am a broken person who cannot use the restroom normally. I hate it. I want to walk. I want to be whole again. I’ll give anything.

  Don’t say that, Little Witch. Don’t say that.

  I am startled by her voice, so much so that I drop the bag and because it is connected to tubing that trails between my legs, it yanks on the catheter. Retrieving the bag, I realize that Jen will now have to check the placement of the catheter, make sure it is still in correctly. I hope it is. I don’t want to have an accident in front of Hoyt.

  And now, I feel more beaten-down than angry.

  Let nature take its course, my love, my heart. You will walk again. Give it time.

  “I don’t want to give it time. I don’t want to wait.” I whisper, tucking the bag beneath my shirt again and smoothing the material so that it is only a barely-visible line. I hope I don’t pee again and cause it to bulge, but if I do... God, I hope the catheter is still in right.

  Before making my way out of the narrow space, I pause at the sink, wash my hands, and try to smooth my hair. Jen has placed a standing mirror behind the faucet so that I can see myself. I need more time. I want to wash my face, maybe put on a little mascara and lip gloss. I wish I hadn’t forgotten about Hoyt coming over. I wish I’d done what most teenage girls would do and spent hours to pretty myself up. Maybe the makeup would have made up for the fact that I am only half a person.

  It takes me a moment to turn the knob and slowly roll backwards to open the door. I cringe when it makes the nails-on-chalkboard screech.

  “Woah, you should really get that thing oiled.” Hoyt is standing there and he is not in scrubs. I’ve never seen him in anything except the pale green uniform of the rehab center. Today though, he is in a pair of white canvas boat shoes, gray jeans and a plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up to bunch around his elbows. I can see the black lanyard beneath the plaid, a little poke that he is here as my therapist despite being dressed as a guy just coming to see a girl. “And hi, by the way.” He smiles widely and for a blissful second I forget that I am crippled. I also almost forget about magic. His stupid, toothy grin and his stupid, swoon-worthy dimples make me feel nearly normal.

  “Hey.” I breathe out and I know I sound ridiculous. “Um, my aunt keeps forgetting and I can’t get the spray myself.”

  “What?” He looks at me confused.

  “You said we should oil the door.”

  His confusion fades and he slaps his forehead playfully. “Duh! I just… well, I guess I forgot.”

  “After two seconds?”

  “Memory of a free range chicken when it’s feeding time usually. Guess you just distract me.”

  “Oh…”

  We look at each other a moment and Hoyt shuffles his feet. I envy him that nervous movement. I feel a twinge of pain in my stomach, but it is small, so I can ignore it easily. Why is everything so confusing now? If I choose to walk, I lose Hoyt… and Jen. If I stay in the wheelchair, there’s no guarantee that my nerves will heal, but… maybe this, this thing growing between Hoyt and me, will turn into something lasting. But that, like my nerves healing, is uncertain.

  Both of my choices come with risk and I don’t know what the reward will be for either.

  “So,” I clear my throat and manage a smile, “we’re trying something new today?”

  Hoyt holds up a bag that I had not realized he was carrying.

  “We can’t really exercise in water here. Unless you’ve got an invisible pool somewhere, but the doctor approved transcutaneous stimulation and this is a portable unit. It’ll take about thirty minutes and you’ll really just be sitting while the sensors do their thing, but there’s been some success using it on your particular type of spine injury.”

  “The horse thing.” I say, because I know he’ll smile and laugh.

  “Yes, the horse thing.” Hoyt doesn’t laugh, but he does smile and that’s enough for me.

  I don’t feel anything for the first ten minutes after Hoyt places the dozen or so sensors on each leg. He sits on the floor cross-legged, controlling the intensity and frequency of the pulsing. “Hoyt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you mind getting me a drink? My throat is really dry all the sudden.”

  “Sure.” We’re still in the kitchen; I’m not sure why we didn’t move into the living room. “Where are the glasses?”

  “Right of the sink, upper cabinet.”

  Hoyt has left the control box on the floor next to my wheelchair. A small light is continuing to flash rhythmically. “Water okay?”

  “Yep. Tap’s fine, the house is on a well.”

  “That’s pretty common around here.”

  “In Manhattan, you wouldn’t dare drink water straight from the
faucet.”

  “I can imagine. Where I’m from, we tend to be on mostly well water like here. It’s got a different taste than bottled or filtered, but I’m pretty used to it.”

  “I think it tastes good. Like minerals and earth and it always leaves a sweet taste on my tongue.” I reach out for the water and, as I take the glass, our fingers brush. At that exact moment, my right leg jerks out, settles again, and then twitches noticeably.

  Dropping to his knees, his eyes wide and his face bright with wonder, Hoyt touches my leg. “Can you feel that?” His eyes search my face.

  But I can’t. I cannot feel his hand touching my skin. “No.”

  “But your muscles reacted. That’s really great, Tilda.”

  “I saw it, but… honestly? I didn’t feel anything.” I feel wetness building in my eyes. I don’t want to cry, but sometimes, you don’t have a choice in the matter.

  “No, no, Tilda. It’s okay. This is a good sign.” His fingers, the ones I’ve so recently touched with my own, reach for my face. He wipes the tears, which have just begun to fall, away quickly and then he cups my face gently. “Think about it, Tilda. This is our first time trying this. I didn’t expect any reaction at all.”

  Hoyt sounds so hopeful, so confident, that I am able to take a deep breath and fully stop the tears. He takes his hand away from my face and it leaves behind a wonderful warmth. I want to kiss him. I want him to want to kiss me. As I think the thought, my left leg jumps and falls, knocking my foot off of the wheelchair support.

  “Oh my god!” I shout, delighted and surprised and elated. “It’s working! Hoyt, it’s working!”

  His face is as joyful as I’m sure my own is. He says nothing in response to my outcry, but his smile could light up the planet. I am crying again, but this time they are happy tears. Something is happening, my legs are responding. Modern medicine might be my answer after all. I will heal.

  But then I see him through the glass as I glance over Hoyt’s shoulder towards the window beside the kitchen table.

  M.H. The witchfinder. The joy-killer. You didn’t really think that silly little contraption was making your legs move, did you? Your mother, disappointment though she was, at least she was realistic. At least she didn’t hold to delusions. Nothing in this world can help you, Matilda Elisabeth, descendent of the witch. Only I can help you. Me. His hand flutters into view and performs a small, but distinct gesture that births a small spray of crimson sparks—it’s a lazy wave, like when he altered his clothing—and my right leg twitches and jerks. And then he is disappearing, fading into nothing, but this time, he does it of his own accord. I feel no comforting presence from my mother’s spirit.

  “This is so great. Wait until I tell your doctors!”

  I look from M.H. to Hoyt and, although my tears have not stopped flowing, they have changed from those of joy to those of sadness. They have changed to the tears of a girl who knows she only has one option if she ever wants to walk again.

  “Think about it! A year from now, maybe less, you could be standing, walking. God, Tilda, you could be dancing!”

  Covering my face with my hands, I do not try to halt the tears. Hoyt probably thinks they are because I am overwhelmed with happiness. I am overwhelmed, but with the heavy weight of a reality that I cannot ignore. He continues to talk; the string of words endless and adding to the burden on my body.

  “And when you’re not a patient, Tilda, I want to ask you now, because I know that when you’re no longer stuck in this wheelchair that you may not say yes, that you’ll be totally out of my league—I’d like to take you out… on a date.”

  My body shakes harder and I sob and this sob of emotion is clearly not one of elation. “God, you make this so hard, Hoyt.”

  His tone changes and his hands go to my own; he curls his fingers between my fingers and the hot, wet skin of my face. “I’m sorry, Tilda. I shouldn’t have asked that. We should be focusing on nothing but you and this moment. This is just the start of your healing. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself; I shouldn’t overwhelm you. You don’t have to answer, not now or not ever if you don’t want to.”

  Lowering my hands, but keeping ahold of Hoyt’s fingers, I look at him and I know that my face must be a mess—flushed and damp and unattractive. “Hoyt, I want to say yes. You don’t know how badly. But… what if I never heal? What if I’m like this,” I pause and look pointedly at my legs. “forever? You don’t want that, you don’t want to be a therapist around broken people all day and then go out with a busted-up girl who needs constant help, do you?” He doesn’t respond immediately, and in that hesitation, I have his response. “Are we done with this?” I mumble, trying to fight the tears that want to spring anew. “I’m tired.”

  “We can be. That was long enough for the first try.” Hoyt’s face is contemplative as he removes each sensor slowly. I’ve the first brush of hair on my legs and need to shave. Even something as little as that—even shaving is a challenge. I’m so tired. It’s only been a few months for me, how do people learn to live like this every day for the rest of their lives?

  When everything is packed back into the dark blue medical bag. Hoyt stands up and brushes his pants leg. Little particles of food and dust fleck to the floor. I cannot remember the last time Jen swept or mopped the floors. “Want to go outside for a while? Not for rehab, just to sit and soak up some sun.”

  The truth is that I do not want to go anywhere with Hoyt now. He has confirmed that he couldn’t really be with me if I am stuck in this wheelchair. M.H. has confirmed that only he can heal me. But if I go to the woods to be healed, I lose Hoyt anyways. So… what’s the point? What do I want to do? Without consideration for a girl’s sentiments about ‘love’.

  “I’m tired, Hoyt.” I repeat. And it’s still true. I feel drained, exhausted. I want to lie down and be left alone.

  “Only for a little while, Tilda. Please.” His ‘please’ gets me, the way he says it and draws it out in his deep and soothing voice.

  “Fine.” I begin to unlock the wheels so that I can move towards the door.

  “No.” Hoyt says the single word and then his hands snake quickly between my body and the leather of the wheelchair. Lifting me in one fluid movement, he holds me in his arms. I am suspended above the floor, my legs crossed, my arm reflexively around his neck.

  We say nothing as he carries me out of the house and to the meadow. He bypasses the Adirondack chairs and walks through the over-grown grass and flowers until we come to a small clearing that is halfway between farmhouse and forest. As we walk, I catch sight of an orange jeep parked in Jen’s normal stop. It fits him—the rugged body of the vehicle and the color.

  When Hoyt sets me down, I do not feel less tired or less conflicted. I don’t think anything he says or does now will change that, or erase his hesitation when I asked if he could want me if I stayed a broken-winged thing that could not fly. Always caged in a body that will never heal.

  Sitting beside me, his hands playing with the stem of a pale purple flower, Hoyt says nothing for a long time. We sit in a silence that is both comfortable and infinitely claustrophobic at the same time.

  Then he speaks. And I do not want to listen, so I stare into the woods, watch the shadows dance between the trees, and wait for glimpses of M.H. Because I know he is there, watching me as I watch him. He is hoping that I have decided. And I think I have.

  “You know why I became a physical therapist?” Hoyt is bending the stem of the flower now, nearly to the point of breaking it, but not quite.

  “How could I know that?” I cannot be pleasant. I don’t want to be pleasant.

  His mouth stays closed and I see in his eyes that he is searching for the right words. The right words will be the truth, or they are not right. “I told you Grams lost Pawpaw when she was pregnant with my dad. I was always close to her; she gave me more life lessons than you could shake a switching stick at.”

  I don’t even bother to ask Hoyt what a switching stick was, just another
one of his silly, endearing sayings. “What does that have to do with becoming a therapist?”

  “Grams was a nurse. When Pops couldn’t take care of me, because he was drunker than a skunk on Sunday church, she would take me to the hospital. Everyone was always nice about it, because they knew why I was there. Being around… people who truly cared for others changed my perspective. It helped me break a negative cycle that could have swallowed me up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter, knowing I should feel sorry that Hoyt has his own sob-story from childhood, but I’m not actually feeling very sorry. His sorrow is in the past, mine is right here—painful and present.

  “One night, there was a big wreck in the middle of town—some city folk speeding through ran the only light on main street. They hit a family crossing the street. The Davis family—two kids, little kids… six and four.” Hoyt swallows; he’s staring at the sky, still twisting the stem of the flower. “Only the mom survived and the youngest kid. The dad and little girl flatlined and they couldn’t bring them back. I remember Gram’s face that night. I’d seen it like that before, but that was the first time I’d seen everything—the injuries, the gurneys being rushed down the hall. They said the little boy would never walk again, that he’d spend his entire life in a wheelchair. And the mom’s upper body had so many fractures that they’d need a gallon of super glue to piece her back together—it was like dropping china on a gator’s backside. Shattered.”

  “That sounds awful, Hoyt.” My eyes are no longer searching for M.H.; they are staring at the man who is not a man right now, but a boy remembering. And now, I am sorry.

  “It was. Grams took me back the next day to visit the little boy. I was so worried about him… I mean, I was only two years older. It could have been me. And he was smiling and laughing and joking with nurses, even though he’d been through the worst thing I could imagine. Grams was taking his vitals, mussing up his hair, smiling with him.”