by Eliza Grace
He nods and it looks like he’s fighting back tears. I don’t need his grief though, I have enough of my own.
Jon stands in silence. Hoyt leaves the room. He comes back with the wheelchair and I realize that I need to go to the bathroom; there’s a wetness blooming against my skin. Which is insane. I look down at myself. I don’t understand at first… what’s happening?
How did I not notice the tattered blush-hued dress, all gorgeous torn chiffon. It’s back, along with my broken legs.
And beneath the dress will be the bag that needs emptying. And it’s full, so very full. This all makes no sense. In the forest, I never needed to go to the bathroom. I don’t even recall feeling hungry. Of course, I could also walk. And the spirit of my mother kept me company. And I was nearly attacked by a werewolf.
“Be careful when you lift me,” I say to Hoyt when he returns pushing the rolling prison. I feel like crying again, and the tears have only just dried on my face. His eyes flick down and spots the growing damp patch on the dress.
“I’ll help you.” He sets me down in the chair gently.
“I think I’m mortified enough without you helping me undress.” I begin to roll away from Hoyt, desperate to be my hero, and Jon, still quiet as the dead. I’m almost to the bathroom when my mind shifts again. Jen. I’ve forgotten about Jen again. I have to help Jen.
The smell of urine wafting up to my face makes me cringe.
She wasn’t screaming. She must be okay. I roll quickly into the bathroom and I struggle to lift the filthy dress up over my legs and hips. I undo the collection bag with shaking hands. My whole body is vibrating, worry over Jen, worry over everything. As soon as I start cleaning out the bag, a boom not unlike an atomic bomb shakes the world. I drop the thick plastic into the sink and close my eyes against the splatter.
“Tilda, are you okay!” Hoyt’s voice yells from outside the bathroom door. I hear the squeak of the knob turning.
“I’m fine! What the hell was that?” I loud-speak back.
“I don’t know. I’ll check it out.”
“Hoyt, don’t!”
“He’s already gone,” Jon’s grumpy voice answers. I can see him, even without the actual visual aid, in my mind. He’s got his arms crossed, leaning against the wall, looking like a more tortured—if that’s possible—shorter version of that sparkly movie vampire everyone loves to hate.
I finish cleaning up, taking a warm soapy wash cloth to my abdomen, tubing, and bag. The catheter needs to be replaced, I’m sure. All the gross sanitary crap I have to face now that I’m back in reality. I exit the bathroom slowly, wishing—not for the first time—that it was more wheelchair-friendly. “Jon, can you move?” As predicted, Jon is arms-crossed, scowl-on, leaning against the wall. “I need to get to my bedroom and change.”
He stood and moved a little towards the kitchen. “Need any help.” He almost smiled. Almost smiled, and I wanted that ‘almost’ to turn into ‘he did’.
“As if,” I shot back. And he did smile, full and wide and… almost genuine.
Jen. I’ve forgotten about Jen. Again.
How could I keep forgetting?
What was making me forget her?
It’s hard to turn around in the hallway, so I begin to roll backwards.
“What are you doing?” Jon grabs the handles of the chair and begins pushing me forward.
“Stop, Jon. I need to find Jen. We have to find out what’s happened to Jen,” I speak, beginning to sound hysterical.
“Jen?” Jon sounds confused.
“My Aunt.”
“Oh. Right. Your mom talked about her a few times.” He begins to pull instead of push.
“And where is Hoyt?” My panic increases.
Jon shrugs.
“God, Jon. Please, please focus. I know you’re sad and angry. I’m sad and angry. But you’re a freaking vampire. Do something helpful!”
“I am doing something helpful,” Jon responds calmly. “I’m pulling you back towards the kitchen, aren’t I?”
I want to hit him. I don’t.
In the kitchen, we find Hoyt. He’s stood at the back window, staring out into the nightmares I can only imagine from where I’m seated. “Hoyt?” I try and get his attention, but he doesn’t move. Is it so bad that he is mesmerized? He cannot take his eyes away from the fearful truths we’ve unleashed? “Hoyt,” I say more gently. Just his name, into the silence that’s swallowing the room. “Jon, something’s wrong.”
He must have sensed it also with his vampire sense. Do vampires have a supernatural sense? Something like spider tingles before shooting up a bad guy with sticky webbing? “Yeah…” he says, moving away from me and towards Hoyt. When he’s next to Hoyt, Jon glances out the window, and then jerks his head back again. “Not good, big boy.” He pulls Hoyt away from the rippled glass panes. It’s a good thing that Jon is freakishly strong, or apparently is, because Hoyt is twice his size and is still frozen. When Hoyt is faced away from the outside world, Jon cocks his hand back and slaps Hoyt across the face. Hoyt blinks rapidly, his hand instinctively going to his cheek as he winces.
“What in the he—” Hoyt is pushing through water, coming to life again. “What the hell just happened?”
“You, my friend, got siren’d.” Jon pats him on the back, and returns to me. He grips the handles of my wheelchair and I become a barrier between him and the man he’s just struck back to consciousness.
“I got… siren’d? What the hell does that mean?” Hoyt is still rubbing his cheek. He drops his hand sheepishly.
“It’s crazy actually,” Jon sounds fascinated now. “Sirens are water-bound for the most part. I’ve no idea how they could manage land for long enough to get out of the forest swamp. But damn if they didn’t. And they got you good. If the barrier spell wasn’t up, you’d be fish food. Literally.”
“Christ,” Hoyt breathes out. “It felt like… everything I am was sucked out of me. Like I couldn’t control my faculties. No, more than that. Like I didn’t have limbs anymore. Didn’t have a brain. Didn’t have a will.”
“And to think people say sirens seduce men. There’s no pretense of love involved. It’s all about dinner. At least my species gives a little does of sensuality before we rip out your throats.” Jon gives a low chuckle behind me.
I want the conversation to stop. I don’t know why.
Only that I feel like I’m forgetting something important.
“What did you see out there, Hoyt? Before you got… siren’d, I mean.” It felt so strange to entertain the existence of things like sirens and vampires and the shadow things. But, then again, I was a witch. Normal was yesterday.
“I don’t know,” Hoyt admits, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. “Something in the air, like a black cloud. I felt so damn cold. And then that thing appeared at the window.”
A nagging feeling began to peck away at my brain. I didn’t want to ask Hoyt what he saw. I mean, I did, but that wasn’t what was bothering me.
She’s mine. The witchfinder’s voice is a breeze in my head, somehow both gentle and creepy as hell. I’ll keep her.
You can’t keep her! I scream back mentally. Because I know what I’ve forgotten, yet again. I know who he’s talking about.
“Jen,” I breathe out, horrified that I can’t seem to hold onto the importance of her. Her face and voice and everything she’s done for me are salt particles through a shaker. Each memory of her falls through and lands beyond my scope. And then I recall, again, her face and voice and everything she’s done and I go about collecting each granule and hope that I can, this time, find her and help her.
I need her.
“Jen,” I say again. I keep saying her name. Over and over. I take the wheels and I push backwards, causing Jon to jump out of my way and let go of the handles. I go as quickly as I can towards the studio. Where the studio should be. At first, I do not see the door. I only see the blank space of wall where I feel the door must be. There is nowhere else it can be. I
keep staring. I roll forward and place my palms against the door. I cannot see the ridges of the wood, but I feel it. I search and search and find the cold metal of the door knob. I turn it, continuing to whisper ‘Jen’ under my breath. I can feel it give, but the door does not push inward.
NO! I ignore his voice in my head. Leave me this last treasure! I am a spark; ‘tis is all that’s left. Leave me her!
I’m opening this door, I answer back. So much for ignoring him.
Hand off the knob, I pour my intent into my palms against the invisible surface. I pull every ounce of power from the tips of my toes to the top of my scalp. I’m opening this door.
The door materializes in front of me as I begin to push it open. I do not need to turn the knob. The studio comes into view. A ragged painting with a giant hole. The room is disheveled. Jen is on the sofa, stretched across the paint-dimpled cushions. Her eyes are closed and she looks so very pale. “Jen,” I say her name one last time as I roll the wheels forward as fast as I can, not caring about how the rims harshly chafe my hands.
I knock over the short table in my rush to touch her. Muddled water streams from an also-overturned cup and spills across the floor. A murky pool of gray that reflected nothing. If I gently pulled Jen’s eyelids up, would I also find pools without reflection?
Please let her be alive.
You’ve taken everything from me. The witchfinder sounds weak inside my head, a scream masked by hurricane winds.
“Don’t worry, Tilda. She’s fine.” Hoyt’s voice is confident behind me, but my hands shake as they hover inches from her skin. I need to touch her. But I’m scared to.
“You can’t promise her that,” Jon scoffs. “Her aunt could be just as dead as her mom. You shouldn’t say things are okay and everything’s golden when it’s probably not. You just screw up people’s heads talking like that.”
“Back the hell off.” Hoyt sounds angry now, such a shift from him trying to soothe my worries. “You don’t belong here. You’ve got no right to butt in.”
“I’ve got every right.”
I can’t even look at the two bickering children behind me. “Please shut up,” I try to say it loudly, but I can only manage a whisper.
Finally, I force myself to graze Jens wrist. It’s hanging limply.
I press more firmly, now pinching her wrist gently with my thumb and index finger.
I feel nothing.
Mermaids
“Oh, no. No, Jen,” I sob out the words. “This can’t be happening.”
“No,” Hoyt breathes out, closer to me than he was seconds ago. And then he is dropping to his knees, pushing the wheelchair slightly as his large body took up more space than was available in front of the sofa. He reaches over Jen’s body and takes her other wrist. I can tell by his face that he’s come to the same conclusion I have. “I’m so sorry, Tida.”
“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” Jon’s voice is ragged now, broken and limp.
“This isn’t right,” I say. “This isn’t how she’s supposed to die. She’s funny and kind and she deserves to die old and happy.”
“Life is cruel.” Jon again; his words are coffin nails and I’m the pine wood he’s hammering.
“I don’t accept this.” Tell me how to save her. Tell me how to save her right now! I scream at the entity in my head, him who has attached a particle of his spirit to my own spirit. You care about her. I know you do. So tell me how to save her!
Your mother gave every ounce of herself to save your human boy. Are you willing to do the same? He is chiding and cruel.
My mom wasn’t… she wasn’t whole though. I am. I’m still alive. I have my own power, not something borrowed.
He doesn’t respond to me and his silence is enough.
I have no words. No special chant.
I rub my hands together, gently at first, and then increasingly faster. I think about the orb of power, golden and bright and pregnant with potential. I feel a warmth grow between my palms. I know what I need to do. What might work that doesn’t require my death to pay for Jen’s life.
I continue to work my hands roughly until sparks ignite, flickering like lightning. And when it feels right to do so, I slam my palms against Jen’s body. One to the right above her sternum, below her clavicle. The other over the cardiac apex. I don’t know how I know these words. I’ve heard them somewhere… maybe from Hoyt. That doesn’t matter though. What matters is the way Jen’s body jolts, lifting inches off the sofa.
I don’t wait to see if it works, I begin the process again. I can see Hoyt still has his fingers pressed to Jen’s wrist. He’ll tell me if it works. I can only keep going, a magical defibrillator.
Twice.
Thrice.
A fourth time.
I can feel myself depleting, my magic sifting through the hourglass until time is gone and Jen’s fate is sealed.
I feel wetness on my face beneath my nose, but I can’t focus on that. Only Jen. Only pushing the power out one more time. Weakly, I slam my hands against Jen’s body for a fifth time. “Wake up, Jen!” I scream the words. I scream her name. “Jen!” I force everything I can out. The lightning dies; the trickle of wetness on my face is now a river; my eyelids flutter and I’m on the verge of losing consciousness.
“She’s got a pulse, Tilda. Tilda, you did it.” Hoyt’s hands shake my shoulders gently. “You did it, Tilda. Tilda?” That last is a question as I rock backwards and am lost to the world.
***
Has it all been a bad dream? My bed hugs me, the pillows are clouds beneath my head and when I open my eyes for a split second I can see my dark hair splayed across the silky material. Not a single touch of white. I remember what I’ve dreamt now. The villain who stole my youth. the mother who was once dead, no longer dead… yet also not alive. A forest of strange creatures, some harmless and beautiful, others dangerous and dark.
But it was all a dream. Nothing to fear.
I am a legless girl cozy in her bedroom.
There is nothing to fear.
And I want to sleep longer. I love to sleep.
As I’m drifting away again, so happy that the nightmares are where they belong in slumber land, I hear a soft and haunting song. It rises and falls like waves and I can hear the under-thread of an ocean’s movement, like I have my ear against an ancient shell that still holds the memory of a sea long-dried-up.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, eyes still closed. It sounds so close, drifting to me from some near place. If only I were to sit up, open my eyes, and look for it. The melody is a lullaby, yet has the opposite effect. It draws me towards wakefulness rather than sends me to slumber.
So I sit up and I search for the source of the melody.
The room is empty. Outside, the sun is setting in undulating streams of pink, orange, and yellow. The wheelchair is tucked beside my end table. I reach for it, keeping my balance with one hand on the bed’s headboard. The wheels are unlocked and it rolls easily to me. I secure it in place and I pull myself off the bed, sliding butt-first into the leather sling chair.
I can hear voices deeper in the house, towards the studio. I wonder who Jen has over so late in the day. Hoyt maybe? We were supposed to do some sessions at home. But if it’s Hoyt, then why was I still asleep whilst he visited. Puzzle pieces began to fall out of place.
That doesn’t matter though.
Not as the song plays through the air around me. I move towards the window. The music grows stronger. I remember this window. I remember staring out over the meadow and first hearing a voice that pledged me so many beautiful, impossible things. Was that also a dream?
The sunset is the most gorgeous, surreal painting in the sky I’ve ever seen.
But maybe that’s because of the strange music.
Blinking, I realize that the sky is actually moving. Like the ocean, there are waves of color. Actual waves, not just clouds slowly drifting giving the illusion of a shifting planet.
The seas are wide and wea
ry
Rest your bones beneath the waves
Leave the land, so dark and dreary
Only we know what she craves
Gaze upon us, bright thine eyes
Give to us, all last goodbyes
We’ll love you like no other can
More than beast or mortal man
“What?” I murmur, getting as close to the window as the wheelchair will allow. Outside is darkening, shadow by shadow. The waving sky begins to ripple fiercely and I realize the glass is wet on the other side. Water is rushing past each pane, yet it is not raining. Everything is hazy. Fingers, long and coated in iridescent scales appear at the right. Slowly, a wrist and then arm comes into view. The fingers spread, revealing transparent webbing.
The head will come into view soon.
The song continues.
The words etch into my psyche.
I need to see the face. I have to see the face. It feels like my future rests in the balance.
“Tilda! Get away from the window!” A voice I do not immediately recognize yells behind me, but the voice is muffled as if the speaker is beneath the water and I am at the surface. Though it is quite the opposite way around. I am drowning. And now there is a second webbed hand sliding against the wet glass.
I have to see the eyes.
Everything will be so wonderful if I can only see the eyes.
I am jerked back from the window and I scream in protest. “No, take me back! I have to go back!”
The wheelchair is abandoned. I am lifted up against a thin, but strong body. Arms with small, well-formed muscles hold me tightly. “Get the chair,” I hear the same unusual voice grunt out. Another shape, this time a larger person, passes by. I am fighting for release, clawing at my captor’s shoulder. I have to get back to the window.
I have to see the face. I have to see the eyes.
I continue to fight all the way into the kitchen. It’s only then that whatever power has taken hold of me begins to wane. I’m still being held. I push against the person’s chest and move my gaze to the face. It’s not Hoyt, I can tell by the way the body feels. It’s Jon.
