* * *
“Hi, Shanti,” Elena said. Elena was Shanti’s nanny.
Shanti didn’t think she needed a nanny. She was in the ninth grade, after all. She wished, at the very least, she could call Elena something other than “the nanny.” Maybe “Substitute Caretaker” or “Person in Place of Parent” instead. “Nanny” made Shanti sound like a child. She didn’t feel like a child.
“Hello, Elena,” Shanti conceded, climbing into the back of the van. She never sat in the passenger seat. The one time she did, Elena had asked her all about her day—what she learned, who she spent time with, what her favorite class was. Shanti’s mind had wanted so badly to push itself out the window and let the wind blow through it, but this was difficult to do when bombarded with question after question.
So she sat in the back. Not just behind Elena, but two rows back. She would pull out a book and stare into it, discouraging any further inquiries.
As Shanti’s eyes blurred into the letters and words in her book, her mind stumbled upon a pair of lips slipping into a smile. Shanti closed her eyes so all she could see was the smile. The slightly chapped lips parting to reveal a tiny glimpse of teeth. A crinkle at one end of the lips pointing to a faint dimple.
She tried to keep her mind focused, and even succeeded for a few moments, but then a horn honked and her mind jumped and tumbled around the van for at least six blocks.
At the house, Shanti dropped her backpack beside her bed and changed out of her uniform. She opened the door to her bedroom closet and crept into the back corner where she had cleared a space. She reached up to pull the door closed and then folded into the dark.
The silent blackness helped her gather herself at the end of the school day. Her mind settled, her body stilled. Today, though, as she allowed the rest of her body to calm, she could feel her heart tiptoeing around in the darkness, searching for something.
She decided to let it.
* * *
At dinner, Shanti carefully divided her mashed potatoes into bite-sized sections and shifted her chicken over so it wasn’t touching anything else on her plate. She arranged her broccoli into a small pile between the potato mounds and the chicken.
Her heart was still tap-tapping inside her chest and Shanti felt if she ate anything now, her heart might become too distracted to continue its unfamiliar beat. She didn’t want the beat to stop.
“That’s enough,” Shanti’s father said in his serious voice as he sat down at the kitchen table. He had just walked in, business attire and business face still on. “Eat your dinner, Shanti.”
Shanti closed her eyes for a moment, trying to memorize the beat before taking her first bite.
* * *
As Shanti crawled under her covers that night, her bedroom door opened a crack and her mother poked her head in. It was the first time Shanti had seen her mother in four days. Sometimes Shanti thought she got her need to float from her mom, who seemed to bob in and out of their lives like driftwood—so many trips, so many responsibilities. And yet, they couldn’t connect, even over this shared tendency. Maybe because of it.
“Hi, kiddo.” Her mother’s face hesitated between greeting and concern. She was often uncertain around Shanti. Shanti rarely made herself easy to understand. “I know it’s almost lights out. I just wanted to say good-night.”
Wrapped up in her own thoughts, Shanti failed to reply to her mother. Seeing this, her mother smiled awkwardly and began to close the door.
But Shanti’s mind shook itself and prompted Shanti to call out, “Mom?”
The door paused and her mom’s head nudged back into the room. “Yes, sweetheart?” Surprise and eagerness rose across her brow.
But now Shanti wasn’t sure what her mind was trying to say. Or if it was her heart that was trying to say something. So instead, she just echoed, “Good night,” and turned off her lamp.
* * *
Passing through the front doors of the school the next morning, Shanti’s mind was already several feet to the left, skipping across the keys of the grand piano that stood extravagantly in the foyer.
She followed it and slipped her fingers over the keys. She didn’t often feel the need to touch the spaces through which she moved—allowing her mind to roam in and out of them seemed enough—but the piano demanded something different. Its cool surfaces appealed to Shanti’s fingertips.
While her mind darted across the strings inside, she would let her fingers travel over the smooth, dark surfaces and ivory keys. Until she was done. Then she would move on to the next space. But the piano was often her first stop after entering the school each morning.
Today, when her thoughts assembled once again, she found herself gravitating toward the spiraling window. She ignored the niggling sense of hope and unease in her chest.
As she passed reception and then the bulletin boards on the way to the window, she heard, “Good morning!” She paused, and her mind had to reorient itself. It had been gliding closely beside Shanti, but the sudden stop sent it toppling forward, skidding to a stop in front of the girl.
The girl from the day before. Essie. She was sitting across from the window. So close. Again.
Shanti tried to reel her mind back. But it wouldn’t come. It stayed, hovering, just in front of Essie.
A tiny sigh escaped Shanti’s lips.
“Did I scare you?” Essie asked, her brow crinkling.
Shanti took a step forward—a half step. “No. Yes. A little.” So many things scared her. Crowds. Teachers. Herself. But somehow, not this.
Essie smiled. “Sorry. I don’t usually get here this early. But my sister has track practice, so I had to come with her.”
Shanti didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.
Essie nodded toward the window with Shanti’s curls and loops in it. “Coming to give your brain a rest?”
Shanti stared at Essie. This was tricky. Her mind seemed to have dipped behind Essie’s shoulder and was peeking back at her. Shanti could see its cheeky grin. “I thought so. But I’m not sure my brain wants it.”
Essie’s eyebrows popped up. Her eyes hinted amusement. “Oh? What does it want instead?”
Half step. “I’m...not sure.”
“Maybe a new curve?” Essie offered, getting up and walking to the window. Only then did Shanti notice the scissors and tape and paper, bunched in a pile on the bench where Essie had been sitting. “Come see.” She held a hand out to her.
In no universe could Shanti imagine herself taking that hand. But she did want to “come see.” Her mind slipped over to Essie’s other shoulder and perched there, admiring the window. Shanti floated over to join it, carefully avoiding the outstretched hand but offering to Essie a bashful smile instead.
Essie accepted the smile, then used her extended hand to point to two new swirls—one bouncing atop the mass at the bottom of the window, one reaching toward the top. “See?”
Shanti looked. Her mind climbed back into her body and they both looked.
“I see.” Shanti found herself wanting to explore these new twists and turns, but that would be difficult, given this person standing so close to her. Her mind couldn’t focus on both. “Did you do this?” she asked, not looking at Essie.
“Depends. Do you like them?”
Shanti could feel—actually feel—Essie smiling beside her. How was that possible? Shanti said, “I like them.”
“Then...I made them.”
Shanti glanced sideways to see if Essie was, in fact, smiling. She was. This confirmation made Shanti smile a little too. “Thank you,” Shanti said, without really knowing why.
“My pleasure,” Essie said, as though she knew exactly why.
* * *
Shanti thought back to that moment as she tried to form numbers with her pencil. It had only been that morning, but it felt like a dreamy blur—a practical joke pla
yed on her by an increasingly impertinent mind.
Shanti’s heart also felt a little blurry. Her close physical proximity to Essie had created something like comfort and confusion—both a rest and an invitation to move. To float.
When she’d realized this pull in two directions, her feet had shuffled backwards, away from Essie and the window with its two new whirlpools. Her confusion had been compounded when Essie’s face filled with a look not of surprise or disappointment, but knowing instead—as though she’d expected Shanti to move away. As Shanti withdrew from Essie and the twists and turns, Essie had called out, “See you tomorrow, Shanti.”
And Shanti knew that was true.
“Shanti—focus, please!” her teacher called out over the tops of her classmates’ heads, and Shanti’s pencil tip broke under the sound.
* * *
The next day, instead of passing along the piano and finding her way to the window, Shanti ignored her mind and allowed her feet to carry her toward the library. It wouldn’t be open yet, but a space in front of the entrance had been furnished with a bookcase and two chairs, a kettle and a box of tea. An extension of the library, an attempt to gather people in with comfort and books. It worked.
Shanti’s feet circled the area—it wasn’t very big. In a matter of seconds she’d traveled around it at least six times. She was getting dizzy, but couldn’t stop herself. Her mind was tugging her elsewhere, but she placed her hands over her ears and just kept circling.
Until.
Essie was suddenly in her path.
Shanti almost ran into her. But didn’t. Managed to avoid contact. Barely.
“Sorry,” Essie said, almost bashfully.
“For?” Shanti knew for what. But wanted to know if Essie knew.
“For stopping you.”
She knew.
Essie continued. “I—can leave. I just wondered where you were roaming today.”
Shanti wanted her to stay. And leave. How to say that?
She took Essie’s hand and continued in her circle.
They spiraled in silence for a while. Shanti set the pace, but noticed her feet moving more slowly with Essie at her side. Maybe it was because her mind was curled inside Essie’s hand—lingering between her own palm and Essie’s. Maybe because it was harder to move privately and freely with another person beside you.
It was Essie who spoke first.
“I think I’m getting a little dizzy,” she said, followed by a chuckle.
“Me too,” Shanti replied. But kept walking. Because what else could she do?
“Could we walk elsewhere? I’ll go wherever you lead me.”
Shanti searched Essie’s face with what she hoped were sneaky side glances. But she got caught. Essie was looking right at her, face full and open.
Shanti averted her gaze and avoided certain disaster by breaking the circle and walking forward, out of the library space and into the hallway leading off of it.
Her mind turned around in their hands, like a cat circling its resting spot.
As her feet led them to the first floor, Shanti thought of all the places she could go, but knew exactly where her feet were leading them. She had little control over them at this point, given her mind had contentedly situated itself between her and Essie’s hands.
As they approached the window, Essie’s hand squeezed Shanti’s and then Essie’s feet slowed. Their arms stretched between them as Shanti continued forward.
“Wait,” Essie said.
Shanti looked at the window, a few feet ahead of them, then back to her hand in Essie’s. Then to Essie, whose eyes flashed with concern.
“I just—you don’t have to take me here. If it’s not really where you want to go.”
“It’s where I want to go.” Shanti realized it as she said it.
“Are you sure?”
Shanti replied with a tug of her hand.
They stood opposite the window. One of the spirals had started to unravel. Essie moved to fix it, pulling her hand away. Shanti’s mind unfurled from its cozy spot, but found another, easily. Shanti caught Essie’s hand, holding her firm. “No. Leave it like that.”
When Essie turned to her, a question in her eyes, Shanti smiled, shy, but sure.
* * *
THE SOFT PLACE
by
Hillary Monahan
The soft place is Kimber’s world, only better.
She sprawls across the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling, pupils devouring the blue irises surrounding them. They are galaxies without stars. They are black holes absorbing everything and offering nothing in return.
They are empty and swallowing and will be for hours yet. Longer if she takes another tab.
I miss you, Shyanna.
Kimber’s hand flexes around her phone. On the screen is a picture of them from the spring. They’re smiling, arms slung across each other’s shoulders. Shyanna’s box braids are a deep wine that complement the flush in her brown cheeks. Her eyes are big and fringed with thick lashes. Wild freckles speckle her face, her brow, down her neck and over her chest. She’s beautiful, and Kimber’s face reflects that. Instead of looking at the camera lens, she’s looking at Shyanna.
She always wants to be looking at Shyanna.
But parents. Hers. My mom. I just...
“The summer’s coming,” Shyanna said. “We’ll have time then. They work. I can take the bus.”
It was soonish, but not soon enough. Two months is a long time to pine. Two months is a long time to know your girl is out there, missing you, too, but you both have to wait and you both have to hide because not doing those things means you’ve got no place to live.
Kimber breathes deep so she won’t cry.
You paid good money for this ticket to ride. Go with it. Go with the flow.
The chemical is pungent on her tongue—as pungent as the bone-deep longing she lives with every day. But that’s what the soft place is for. To dull the pain. To leave it and the worry about the future behind. Kimber gleefully abandons reality. She follows Alice into the rabbit hole and plummets her way into Wonderland.
Maybe the March Hare has made her a place setting.
Her muscles clench and unfurl. Her mouth is dry.
She’s floating.
Aaaaaaand...
Arrival.
The soft place welcomes her back. The cold seeping through the floorboards doesn’t bite so hard here. It doesn’t send shudders down her spine or set the hairs on her arms prickling. It’s comfortable, not too hot, not too cold. She is swaddled in a cozy cocoon that pays no heed to the scratchy, threadbare rug below her body.
She doesn’t care the heat was turned off last week. Or that drafts gust in through the window frames because winter in New England is brutal no matter where you live, but especially in a tiny basement apartment in a run-down building.
In her soft place, there’s no sound beyond the heavy thud of her heartbeat in her ears. The slow pounding of blood rising and falling is a metronome, a steady ticktock she lets echo through her head. There is no shouting in the upstairs apartment—no hurtful words followed by bodies striking walls or floors or tables. Mama isn’t always yelling, either, or calling Kimber names Kimber would punch anyone else for using.
“Can’t punch your mother, baby,” Shyanna said. “It’s a rule.”
Shyanna is the better person of the two of them. It’s one of the reasons Kimber loves her so much.
Kimber stretches, her fingers and toes tickling the edges of the soft place. She no longer smells Mama’s cigarettes, nor the stink of the apartment’s antiquated septic system. Instead there are flowers. Fake flowers, yes, because it’s her deodorant, but that’s alright. It’s pleasant. Lavender, the bottle reads.
Lavender.
She played in a field of it once, when her grandmother took her away for a
summer so Mama could “get better.” Mama would never recover, not then, not any of the times she went into programs, but Kimber was too young to understand.
Eight years old. Carefree. She’d rushed through acres of knee-high lavender, laughing as velvety leaves tickled her bare calves. Her grandmother called for her to come back, she’d burn in the hot sun, but Kimber just kept running until she collapsed in a pile of giggles, a girl bathed in purple flowers and sunshine, not caring about the redness creeping over her pale skin.
Somewhere, past her horizon of violet, her grandmother muttered about Aloe.
Kimber flinches. She doesn’t want to think about her grandmother. Not so early in her flight. If Kimber sails just a little closer to the sun, damn her wax wings, she can pretend her grandmother lives in the soft place, arms ever open to deliver one of her killer hugs. But the recesses of Kimber’s mind are still freshly dipped, still present, and they’re screaming the reality Kimber can’t yet handle.
She’s a ghost. She’s a ghost. She’s a ghost, ghost, ghost!
And ghosts.
Aren’t.
Real.
Kimber grits her teeth. She feels so old right now. Seventy, maybe. Or seven hundred. Gram’s been gone a year. A long, miserable, terrible year. She’d been Kimber’s rock. She’d been Kimber’s safety. Without her, so much is bad, and so Kimber finds escape in sheets of cartoon elephants she buys from Ricky Sheldon in the high school parking lot after school.
It’s something, though, right?
Don’t turn a good trip bad.
Five minutes pass, or maybe it’s fifty. Time works differently here. All Kimber knows is the soft place is nearing its softest. Her fingers and toes tingle. She’s unraveling from the bottom up, like a sweater, her tight stitches becoming loose and sloppy. She closes her forever-seeing eyes. The brush of her lashes against her cheeks feels exaggerated, like someone raking ostrich feathers over her face.
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