A Handful of Fire

by Alexis Alvarez

  Arielle taps her phone. “Natalie, excuse me, please? I need to get to the fridge.” She’s hovering right behind Natalie, and I wonder why she can’t just go around the other way.

  Natalie reaches and grabs for a fallen onion skin beside her foot. “By all means.” She stands up, grabbing the edge of the table for support. “Be my guest.” She shakes out one foot, and I wonder if she has arthritis.

  Arielle’s voice is honey. “Thanks so much. I’m parched.” She takes a green glass bottle from the fridge and twists it open, the carbonation making a sharp hiss, then stands in the spot where Natalie was standing and directs her laser gaze on me. “Is that car out front yours?” Her eyebrows are perfect arches.

  I nod. “It is.”

  “Hmm.” She tilts her head. “I hear you’re going to be working with Michael.” Natalie moves around her and pulls a clear plastic bag of tomatoes from the fridge.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s, like, a super little boy.” Arielle’s voice is cool. She takes another sip of Perrier. “I’ve known him for a year now, while I’ve been with Gabriel. A year for all of us. A big year.”

  Natalie goes around her again to the other side of the table, retrieves a wooden cutting board and a chef knife.

  “Uh huh.” I hear Arielle, loud and clear. She’s a dog pissing on her property. I get it.

  “We spend a lot of time together. You’ll see me a lot here. Or, maybe I should say, we’ll see you coming and going.” She laughs.

  “Hmmm.” I nod. I do not plan to engage. She can throw as many warnings as she wants, no problem. I can handle myself. I mean, I’m not here for Gabriel. I’m here for Michael. Why does she even care?

  “Cute necklace. Did you get that at Claire’s at the mall?” She smiles, and it looks so sweet. “Very teenage retro. Does it open? ” She reaches out.

  My hand shoots to my locket and I’m ready to snarl at her; instead, I take a deep breath. “It’s a family treasure. I don’t actually ever open it.”

  She shrugs, takes one more sip of water, then caps the bottle and sets it on the counter. “Okay! See you later. I’m going to say goodbye to Gabe and then I’m headed over to meet my agent.” She floats out, leaving only a trail of expensive perfume and silence as I contemplate her presence and how the room changes with her absence. I wonder if Natalie feels the same relief I do.

  I turn to Natalie. “Okay. So. Gabriel asked me to discuss the scheduling with you for Michael’s therapy. I’d like to meet at ten a.m. three days a week. Will that work, do you think?”

  She cocks her head, looking up from the table. “That’s too early. His private tutor comes in the mornings. But if you can do afternoons, say four to five? That would work.” Her fingers are fast; she’s turning the tomatoes into perfect dice.

  I mentally rearrange my schedule. It will take some shuffling. But I need to work with this boy, and I’ll do what it takes. “I can do that. Sure! So I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Four p.m.”

  “Great.” Her voice is tight.

  “Natalie? What are you making? You have the perfect knife touch. Seriously, you could go on that Iron Chef show with those skills.” I gesture at the table.

  She doesn’t smile. “Beef stew with lots of veggies. Michael’s doctor has him on a low-carb, no-sugar, organic protein diet. You’ll need to know that, because there are times you may need to give him a snack if I’m not here and his father is… busy with work.” I’m not sure, but I think I hear disapproval in her voice. Of me? Or of Gabriel’s schedule? I can’t tell, yet.

  “That sounds healthy and delicious. I’d like to learn more about his diet. Maybe we can spend some time after my therapy session with him tomorrow to discuss it?”

  She shrugs, nods, wipes her hands on her apron. “Sure. That will be fine. I’ll see you out.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t need to stop. It’s okay.”

  “I don’t mind.” She puts the knife on the edge of the table, then turns back, picks it up and puts it much farther in. Careful. I like that.

  She walks me to the door, and as we pass the artwork and glass sculptures, she asks, “So I read about you, online. Sounds like you’ve won some award. I hope you can help Michael.” We stop walking in front of something that looks like a melted sun, all spangles and shiny glass. Her voice is noncommittal but her gaze is piercing.

  I nod. “The real reward is seeing kids get better, though. That’s the only thing that matters to me. I love working with children.”

  She clears her throat. “Michael said he likes you. He doesn’t say that about anyone, lately.” She tilts her head. “You must have made quite an impression.” She’s still looking at me, as if trying to see inside, what I think.

  “I like him, too. He’s the coolest kid I’ve met in a long time. I want to help him.” I think my genuine emotion must show in my voice, because her gaze softens.

  “Well, we’re all rooting for him. If there’s anything I can do…” She sighs. “He used to be so happy.”

  “He’ll be that way again,” I promise, because life will deliver that, regardless of whether I bring it, or it comes another way. But that’s one thing I do know, which has been true for all of the families I work with: Life goes on, and if you let it, beauty comes back, all by itself.

  “I hope so.” Her voice is vehement.

  “So I’m curious, I guess, why you seem to know more about Michael’s schedule than Gabriel does.” Although I keep my voice neutral, she frowns and crosses her arms over her plump chest.

  “Gabriel is very busy, Shai. His work schedule is… overwhelming. He had to do an emergency trip to Asia last week, and Michael’s tutor needed to switch up his hours right after Gabe left, so naturally I stepped in to help manage it. I stay here and act as a nanny when I need to, but Gabriel is a wonderful father. Normally he’d know the schedule, too.” She narrows her eyes.

  “I can see how committed he is to helping Michael,” I say, because, although I don’t know much yet about Gabriel Baystock, that part comes through, along with his pain. “And I’ll do everything I can, I promise.”

  Natalie softens back into an almost-smile. “Well, I’m glad he’s getting some help,” she allows.

  I turn the knob and the arctic chill cracks my skin. “See you and Michael tomorrow. You guys and… um… Arielle?” I can’t resist. Maybe because I’m already halfway out the door, my mind decided it was okay to pry.

  “She’s hardly ever at the house, so I doubt it.” She hesitates, then gives me a look. “For all their big year together, she doesn’t have a key.” Her voice is completely neutral, no emphasis on the word big or anything, but then she smiles, a small sly smile, and I smile back. I don’t know why that made me so suddenly exuberant.

  She gives me another smile before I close the door. “See you soon.”

  We’re at the grassy tree-splashed park that extends, long and curved, along Montrose Beach. It’s cold, and the wind tosses icicles into our eyes, sharp end first, but we squint and run. Michael whoops and jumps and his scarf flies madly behind him in the wind, a red whip and blur. He darts in and out of the trees, their arms mostly bare, just a few tenacious brown leaves clinging, forgotten by winter.

  “Shai!” he yells, and the word is cut in half by the gust. I wonder where the rest of the sound went, imagine little music notes slamming into the white and blue beach building and shattering into a cloud of vapor.

  I catch up and help rearrange his scarf. “This is crazy wind! We can only stay out here for like ten minutes!”

  I have to yell, and it makes me exuberant. He runs again, and I follow, looping around a tree and laughing in delight. The air is frigid, but my muscles are warm from running, and I am invigorated, like I’m truly alive. I think Michael feels the same way. It’s our third trip to the beach this month, and every time we go, it seems like liquid joy suffuses his entire body for days after.

  “We’re the only ones here!” Michael yells, tossing his arms out and twirling. “
It’s like our own world. It’s all ours!” He breaks off as two figures trudge into view from a parked car across the vast expanse of grass, both bundled into jackets that swaddle them and defy any attempts to guess sex or shape, one tall, one short. “Oh. Another kid is coming.” He deflates, the wind dies down abruptly, and his words ring out across the meadow, making the figures look up.

  As they approach, I can see that one of them is a girl, a few years younger than Michael, maybe. Her mittened hand is in her mother’s.

  Michael’s voice is flat. “I want to go home now. Can we go home?” He tugs my arm.

  “Of course.” I’m confused, but it’s cold and we needed to leave soon anyway. We start to walk back to the Lexus, and as we pass them, Michael averts his face. But something about him catches the girl’s eye, and she says, “Michael Melon?”

  Michael scuffs his foot into the clumpy frozen grass. “Hurry up, Shai.”

  “Wait, though. She’s talking to you. Just say hi, okay?” I get that he’s uncomfortable, but we need to work on manners. He gives me his signature angry look then sighs, a long-suffering sigh.

  “Anna Banana,” he says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Michael Melon!” She grabs at her mom and jumps up and down. “He’s from group, Mom. Last year. Remember?”

  The mom’s gaze, as she looks at her girl, is so full of angst and longing that I know immediately from where they know Michael.

  “Of course,” she says, a smile growing. “I remember fruit week. That was fun. Everyone got a fruit and a nickname and there was that scavenger hunt. All the floor nurses got involved. Even Dr. Avery came, remember? The kids loved it. Oh, remember Angelica Apple? And Pauly Persimmon?” She pushes back a strand of auburn hair that’s escaped her cap. She has freckles on her nose.

  “Pauly cried when they gave him that one,” reminds her daughter. “So he got to be an apple too, like Angie. And Michael didn’t want to play at all.”

  “I was too old for that game.” Michael kicks harder at a lump of dirt, and it skitters away. “It was dumb.”

  Anna’s face falls. “I liked it.” She sounds hopeful.

  “It was for babies.” Michael’s voice is scornful.

  “Michael.” I bend down to whisper. “Remember how we talked about empathy? Other people’s emotions?”

  “No.” He sounds angry.

  “I think you do. Right now you have a lot of power in your voice. You can make this girl cry, or you can make her smile. Which do you choose?” I look into his eyes. “Think it over.”

  He walks away and kicks a nearby tree.

  The mother puts her hand on Anna’s arm and gives me the saddest look. “We’re just going to walk to the sand. She wanted to see the waves for a few minutes.”

  She’s not even angry. It’s like she knows, she gets how these kids have so much rage and despair that they can’t even control it. So much worrying on behalf of a child, it can make you so fragile that you crack. But right now she’s still strong enough to withstand all of this. It takes a special mother to do it. Not every kid has that.

  “I’m so sorry.” I want to convey all of my thoughts and feelings into the words, and I probably don’t.

  She smiles anyway. “It’s okay. Look. At least we’re both out here with our kids, right?” She gestures at the vast open expanse of grass, and the lake in front of us, endless gray water. “We’re here, on this amazing day, with our jewels. It’s all good.”

  I nod. “It is.” I feel like I should disclose that Michael’s not my kid; it feels dishonest—even to a stranger—to let her think he’s mine. Of course, we’ll never see these people again, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. And the explanation would reveal a lot of personal information about me and Michael both that she has no right to hear. Still, it feels awkward inside, like I’ve swallowed something bitter, or like I’m wearing a sweater that doesn’t fit right.

  Anna comes closer to me, intrigued. She’s still young enough to be friendly and open to other parents. “I think the fairies left me something on the beach. I’m sure of it, in fact. I’m going to treasure hunt. I think maybe they left me a treasure, maybe a piece of gold, or maybe a necklace.” She smiles and claps her mittens together, and I smile at how they are too big and sort of flop like paws.

  “The fairies are real,” she informs me in a voice that defies argument, but the narrowing of her eyes and the slight stiffness to her shoulders is a silent plea, and I heed it.

  “Of course they are,” I say, as if it were common knowledge. “But I think they only make themselves known to girls, and maybe boys, who are special. The kids they can trust.”

  She nods. “Yes! My friend Nidhi said they’re not real, but she’s Indian so she doesn’t believe in things like Santa because that’s only for other religions than hers, like mine. So he’s real but he doesn’t come to her house. But it’s okay because she gets presents for other things, like Diwali. So the fairies are like that too for some kids.”

  Her mom shoots me a smile and mouths, “Thank you,” and rolls her eyes at Anna, but it’s a sweet gesture, and I can see how much she loves her daughter. The deception makes me smile and feel uneasy at the same time. For a second I think about the devastating feeling that comes when you lose your magic, whether it be Santa or the Easter Bunny—but I suppose we all go through it, and turn out okay. Maybe this is good practice for later, when she needs to make her own magic. And I’m not going to judge any parent for helping her kid survive.

  Anna goes up to Michael by the tree. She asks, “Is your cancer gone? Mine went away but I have to get MRIs sometimes to check. My hair is growing in and soon it will be long enough for a barrette. My mom said I can pick out even the most expensive ones at Walgreens, like that green one with the pink watermelon slice. Have you seen that one?”

  I hold my breath. Please, please.

  Michael shrugs. “No. I don’t like barrettes.” He pauses, meets my eyes, then says carefully, “That sounds nice for you, though.” Anna smiles and does a little hop.

  I feel like jumping myself with pride and triumph. Yes!

  Michael adds, “Mine came back but it’s gone again. I have to take stupid medicine now. And I have a stupid teacher who doesn’t understand anything.”

  Anna seems to understand. “My teacher asked my mom if the other kids can catch my cancer. She said maybe I should wear a mask so I don’t give them germs.”

  “What a dummy.” Michael’s voice is sympathetic. “They should fire her.” I notice immediately how, without talking down to her, he sounds more like a kid than when he talks to me. He’s adapting to his audience, another sign of his vast intellectual ability.

  “Yeah. What a dummy!” Anna giggles. “Want to go look for cool sticks? There’s some over there that come off the crabapple trees, and they’re bendy.”

  That thought of that teacher makes me tense up. I turn to the mom. “Her teacher actually said that?”

  The mom nods. “Yup. The ignorance out there will just astound you sometimes. I had to go to the principal and he wasn’t even that helpful. It was only when I threatened to go to the diocese that they finally caved and said she could be in class without a mask. It was fucking ridiculous.” She frowns. “Our technology is so advanced, so smart. But they you run into a little pocket of ignorance, and it’s a pocket that comprises something critical, like school. Work. Insurance. So you can’t just take off and find a better pocket. You have to stay, and stay, and fight. And it’s so exhausting.”

  “I’m sorry.” I touch her arm with my mitten.

  “I’m sorry.” She smiles. “I’m Kelsie. Anna’s mom. I guess we never met at the hospital. It was so crazy. All the chemo kids together.”

  I shake my head. “I’m Shai. I’m not Michael’s mom. I’m his therapist. He doesn’t have a mom.”

  “Oh! Oh. That’s sad. You do—therapy at the beach?” But she looks stiffer, as if she wanted to open up to me because I understood, and now that I’m just the thera
pist, not the mom, I can’t possibly, and she wants to close back up, a rose against the night storm.

  “Yes. Sometimes,” I say. “We’ve been working together for a month now. He’s making a lot of progress.”

  She nods. “I’m sure he is. And it’s great that he has such a personal hands-on therapist.” But she’s reserved, a mask unrolling like a shade to cover her expression. “It’s just that if you’re not—family, you’ll just never understand what they go through. What we all go through.”

  Then she looks horrified. “I’m sorry I said that. It’s probably not true. And anyway, I-I should be happy that you don’t know. That people don’t know. It’s just… when you go through it personally, you see it from the inside out.” Her voice is bleak. “And it feels so isolating. Like even the people who care, and want to help you? It’s like they’re just looking at you through a thick piece of glass, and they can see you gesturing, but they can’t make out your words.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I should stop talking now.” She starts to turn away, her shoulders up, a drawbridge raising.

  I like her already, and I don’t want to lose this fragile bond we just formed. “It’s okay. I get it. I know why it matters.” And I do.

  I somehow need to convince her, and as I talk, it feels good to let the words out. “I get how you can walk around wondering how the rest of the world is functioning. How you want to kill them and watch their blood run out because they’re considering whether they should get lace-scalloped or plain-edged towels for the guest bathroom in Target, and you are stuck behind them and you don’t care about edges.

  “But you have to wait until they are done with their ten-minute giggling discussion so you can get in there, too. Because you have someone coughing up blood and choking on it in the night and all the old towels are stained, and your mom gave you fifty dollars and told you to get the darkest cheapest ones you could find while she waits in the car and smokes with fingers that tremble.”