The Eye Unseen

by Cynthia Tottleben

  When I stroked her fur, I realized that she hadn’t been outside for days. Where had she gone to the bathroom? I hadn’t run across any accidents anywhere.

  Still, I knew that when Mom finally got up, she would punish me for any violations of the house rules Tippy had committed.

  We drank more water.

  We had had a lot of water lately. Not that we complained; Tippy and I were not far from the days when water was the hottest commodity around. Right now it helped ease the hunger pains.

  My thoughts returned to Tippy’s bathroom habits. I found myself staring lustfully at the door. I crawled to it, put my hand against it, half expecting an alarm to sound at my audacious behavior. None did.

  The wood had ice on the inside. I scraped it with my fingernails, and then realized that maybe that was why everything looked so unfocused. The glass was coated with it as well. Thick and flakey, just like the windshield on the mornings Mom used to drive us to school and Brandy and I had to clean it off for her.

  No knives, no food.

  After I managed to stand back up and walk to the junk drawer, I scavenged for a useable tool. Of course we had no ice scrapers in the kitchen. But I did find my old library card, the one I hadn’t used in at least five months, and walked it back to the door.

  Removing the ice did little for my vision. The world outside was still as white and ice-infested as the inside of our door. Snow piled high, up to my eye level.

  Could this be a dream?

  Tippy and I moved into the living room, where we slithered next to the curtain so as not to draw attention from any cars driving down the road.

  Not that they could see us. The front porch was cocooned. Had Mom come out here while I was sleeping and made a rectangular igloo? If I stood in the middle of it, would I feel like a lone ice cube, shivering in the freezer?

  We went upstairs. Tippy hurried ahead of me, but I had to resort to my hands and knees after the third step. The wobbliness I had experienced after the purification episode in the basement was back again.

  If my family had been normal, this would be unbelievable. I could hear my sister behind me, shouting that school would be cancelled for at least six weeks while the snow melted. Brandy would have danced up and down the hall, Mom laughing at her excitement, Tippy joining in, her nails clicking on the hardwood floors as she bounced from leg to leg. How long had it been since we’d had a blizzard? A blizzard where the wind had forced walls of snow around the house, so high it covered the gutters, so thick I’d never be able to shovel us out, even when I’d been strong and a star on the swim team?

  How had I slept through it?

  The car was completely buried.

  No knives, no food, no car.

  But I could still see the shed.

  When I caught sight of the metal roof, the sunlight kissed the top of it.

  The fucking thing had winked at me.

  Mom must still be alive.

  Chapter 38

  Evelyn

  Joan, Joan, Joan. She was all he ever talked about.

  Did he want to go to the beach and play shark anymore? No. Brutalize the already scarred women of the Congo? No. Cause a few racial uprisings in the south, a bit more tension among the folks fighting in Europe? Well, on occasion. Political uprisings were one of his greatest addictions.

  He was content to keep me on my knees, remind me of my place in his life. I stayed glued to his side. Waiting to act on his every command. Sometimes I had difficulty remembering—was I paying rent in this room? Had I been traveling again? Or was I spinning in some loop where the two of us were invisible to the world and I was no longer burdened with social obligations?

  His conversation narrowed to simply Joan. His new find. His little treasure.

  She made his blood boil. He didn’t look at her as the potential mother of his heir; he saw her for what she was. The harbinger of doom. The portent of his own demise. The little bitch whose daughter would eventually send him on his way.

  Sometimes, the darkness settled on his face and I could see his weariness. How many years had he gone full throttle? My lover never rested. His work was unending. Yet he refused the idea of retirement.

  I wondered but did not ask: where would he go, when his story was finally told? Would he serve in Hell for all eternity? Would his soul be released? He was, after all, only performing the duties of his job. How would his time end?

  But as soon as these thoughts crept into my head, he heard them. Exploded with a rage I never knew possible. His tirade led us straight to a school play-yard outside London, where he introduced a young man who had just lost his job and his girlfriend. The man opened fire on the children high up on the swing sets, picking them off as they shouted with glee…and then with terror.

  I was pleased with the bloodshed and hoped more would follow.

  But none did.

  He took the rest of his anger out on me.

  Joan, Joan, Joan. We sat quietly while she played dolls in her bedroom. Joined her at a slumber party, with three other annoying children cackling over cookies and board games. Threw spit balls at her teacher and laughed while the boys in the back row got chastised.

  I tired of discussing her hair ribbons, her bobby socks, or how cute she’d look with a pair of scissors lodged in her heart.

  If he’d let me, I would have volunteered to take pictures after I’d punctured her chest, but that was out of the question.

  What would happen to me in the end? The years I had passed with my lover were memorable, but their end was near. Would I be strung up in the bowels of Hell alongside him or be left on my own? Would Joan’s daughter use me as an advisor or would I just flounder through eternity with nothing to do but wait for it all to implode in the end?

  My lover lost interest. Focused solely on the child, his rage increasing by the day. He sent me others to entertain, kept me chained to the bed for what seemed months on end. On the rare occasion he even left me a female, knowing my preference for Spaniards. How fantastic it felt to be in charge. To wield the whip rather than taste its heated kiss. To suck the life straight out of tortured skin.

  Those were the days I would miss the most. My fist in the bloodiest of places. My teeth finding flesh and ripping it clean of the bone. My unbridled power.

  At those moments, I knew the truth. I was destined. Taking over the crown was my role. No Joan or child of Joan’s would ever be as powerful or blood-thirsty as me.

  I came up with a plan. Vague, as my thoughts had to be, as someone was always listening.

  I would not let go that easily.

  Chapter 39

  Joan

  The blackness let go for just an instant. Took its claws out of my back and let me breathe again.

  Alex was gone, Mom long dead. Again.

  My thoughts instantly flashed to Brandy, whether she was hiding somewhere or if he had gotten to her, too. God help her if he had.

  Then reality trickled in. I remembered my room. Smelled the horror of my own bed. Knew he’d been watching me. Breaking me. Slowly killing me.

  I moved my legs. They responded, but not well. When I slid off the bed, I fell to the floor. I did not get up with any speed.

  We were close to the end. You and I.

  I wanted to just let go. Join my loved ones. Forget about you and your plight.

  But I had a job to do.

  I was propped against the bed. Half standing, half willing myself to go back into my comatose state. Maybe I could just disappear. Forever.

  The stench of my room overwhelmed me. How had I sunk so low?

  Then I remembered his face.

  Your face.

  I had a job to do.

  My legs held this time. On my feet, I clutched the dresser and found my watch.

  We had seven more days.

  Chapter 40

  Lucy

  When Tippy and I got out of bed, morning had not yet arrived.

  She stumbled when her feet hit the floor. Took a nose dive, then fl
ailed when all four paws slid away from her body. Tippy looked like a cartoon deer caught on a frozen pond.

  My lack of grace was even more amusing.

  I had to cling to the walls to keep my knees from giving way. My journey to the bedroom door took me past funhouse floors, where the hardwood tilted every direction and I could hear demonic laughter through the ceiling.

  We looked at each other, ashamed to be bumbling around again, worried that our bodies were failing us. Neither of us wanted for water. But how long had it been since we’d eaten?

  The beef jerky was gone, a much-needed meal after our last field trip to the kitchen had yielded stale saltines and nothing more. We had dozed off before gorging on the granola bars, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember how long ago that was.

  Our emergency stash sat idle in my dresser, but was so paltry it wouldn’t last us three days if Mother locked us away again. Tippy and I both knew it was there, growing staler by the second. But neither of us was ready to dig in. To eat that food meant we were completely out of options. That Mother had finally won.

  I dared not turn my head to look out the window. My balance was precarious at best, and I wasn’t about to destroy it by moving sideways so I could get a glance. How would my heart take it if the snow hadn’t melted yet?

  In the hallway we took a break. Tippy stood, her breathing labored. My thighs quivered like gelatin, the sensation sending me into hysterics.

  “Hey, look, Tip. It’s like walking in high heels! Can you imagine dancing like this at the prom?”

  “Let’s cut the antics and just get downstairs.” Tippy, as usual, was all business.

  I put my arms out straight, imitating a tight-rope walker, trying to maintain my balance.

  I tried to remember when we had fallen asleep. Had we just been so comfortable, with Mom locked away this time, that the two of us had cuddled ourselves into oblivion? Instead of hours, had Tippy and I lost days while we wiled away our lives in bed?

  The kitchen was miles away. Tippy let loose the second she hit the linoleum, and I couldn’t have cared less. Mom wasn’t around to scream at us. For all I knew, she was dead.

  At this point, I really didn’t care.

  Yet I went to the cupboard with every intention of feeding her. If my legs were Jell-O, hers were worse. Granted, she had more body fat and hadn’t toured Hell like I had this year, but she was looking pretty rough as of late.

  “There’s the door, Lucy.” Tippy pointed with her nose.

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, I think you like it here. Like this.”

  “You heard what God said!”

  “God specifically discussed windows. Not doors.”

  “Tippy, God implied all escape efforts. He wants me to stay here until…the end.”

  “She’s going to kill you. And you know what? When you’re gone? Who’s going to feed me then?”

  “Is this your hunger talking? Because in the whole scheme of things, Tippy, I look at you as a lot more than just a mouth I need to feed. How about saying to me, who will love me? Who will talk to me? Who will cuddle with me under the blankies when it’s cold outside?”

  My dog remained silent. She oozed over to her food bowl and bumped it with her snout.

  “I get the hint!” I had been clutching the edge of the counter for support and knew how much we both needed to eat. Through the wavy fog in my brain, I felt like we had lost at least two days during our sleep fest. Food, at this point, was the most important thing.

  Yet I knew we had nothing. No knives, no food. No car. With the sink to steady me, I was able to turn and look out the window. Through the darkness, I could spy the light on the edge of the shed. That meant the snow had either blown away from the steel building or had melted some while we slept.

  But beyond that, nothing.

  No moonlight. No stars gazing down at me. No lamp illuminating the side of the house and our driveway. No Christmas lights on the Hanley’s house.

  My heart sank. We had missed the big day.

  My dog knelt before her bowl. Her fur was falling out, her eye drained of joy. I had failed her. Again. Christmas had always been her favorite holiday, the morning she woke up to a sock filled with chew treats and new toys, the day she ate human food without Mom complaining.

  Tippy needed to eat. And I needed to give her a present.

  I resumed my search with renewed determination. If this kitchen held even a crumb of food, I was going to find it.

  But when I opened the cabinet door, I fell backward.

  Every shelf, full. Top to bottom. Neatly straightened and facing out, just like in the grocery store.

  Can after can of chicken noodle soup. A brand I didn’t even recognize, a generic, I supposed, proclaiming “Home Made!” I thought of Mother’s bedroom walls and shut the door.

  The cupboard above the sink, where Brandy and I used to find our morning cereals, brimming with the same cans, all shiny on the edges, all beckoning me to open them.

  Chicken in big letters.

  “Just give me something!” Tippy barked.

  She didn’t care. To her, the chickens were some fairy tale that I had created to help us pass our days. She laughed when I told her Sissy was on the bed with us, found it hysterical when I worried about the wall drawings.

  I took down one can and opened it. Slopped it into her bowl, without even heating it. Usually I took care to make Tippy’s food a bit more palatable. But today I didn’t have the heart to bring it to a boil.

  As soon as she started slurping up the broth, the upstairs came alive. All the hens were in the hallway; I could hear their feet scratching on the hardwood floor, like they were doing a line dance or having a mixer where everyone was chatting or scurrying about.

  When Tippy started to chew, the screams began. Dozens of them, all different pitches, a cacophony of horrors raging through the kitchen. I opened the remaining cabinets but was confronted with display after display of the creepy cans, the word CHICKEN big and bold in the middle of the label.

  Then I realized that the noise was coming from my left.

  The refrigerator.

  My fingers gripped the handle, but I didn’t want to open the door.

  Tippy continued licking her bowl, oblivious to my problem. Even with her excellent hearing, she didn’t notice sudden turmoil. Or the non-stop cries that came from our appliances.

  The freezer contained nothing but cans. Matted with ice.

  When I cracked the refrigerator door, the screaming crescendoed.

  And there they were, the heads. Why Mom had chosen to put them here, unless she just wanted to terrify me, I could not guess. They were boisterous, some tainted a pale green, others dripping fresh blood from their wounds. I recognized Ms. Antoinette’s sweet face immediately, barely visible under the other heads mounded on top of her own, pushed all the way in the back corner on the top shelf. Her beak opened and exploded with her anger. If she’d had wings, I’m certain she’d have been pointing one at me, accusingly.

  I’d promised not to eat her. And here I’d gone and fed her to my best friend.

  I closed the door. Didn’t know what to do. The damned chickens wouldn’t shut up, and I was starving. I wanted more than anything to find something to eat.

  My whole body bolted upright when Mom’s voice creaked from behind me.

  “Merry Christmas, Lucy.”

  “Huh?” I asked, when what I really wanted to do was die at the sight of her.

  Mom looked wretched. Like she had been in a car wreck and miraculously survived. Her face was mottled eggplant, her left eye drooping and bloodshot.

  “So it’s a few days late, but we can celebrate now, I guess.” When she smiled, Mom flashed me one less tooth than usual.

  “That’d be great.”

  “Let’s see what we can make for dinner.”

  She pushed me out of the way and opened the refrigerator. There, on the top shelf, sat a plump chicken, ready for the fr
ying pan.

  Her scabby arms reached for it. “Well, I guess that answers my question. I don’t even remember buying this one.”

  I was aghast. That the heads were gone. That Mom was up and talking to me. That Christmas had evaded me and I hadn’t made Tippy a thing.

  When I glanced at my dog, Mom was feeding her another can of soup. Mom’s socks were wet from walking through the enormous pool of pee Tippy had left on the kitchen floor, but she didn’t even seem to notice. Mom moved to put the can in the trash, and I caught glimpse of her neck, bruised and decorated with slashes, crisped with infection.

  Everything was surreal. The piss, the chickens, Mom and the flesh that seemed to be rotting right on her, my mental state.

  She pulled out the frying pan. Found some potatoes in, of all places, the flour canister. Had I looked there? Why would I even try?

  The world swooned about me. Snow started to fall. Right there, in the kitchen, the room crowded with flakes. They were huge and filled the room, Mom’s hair turning white as if she had donned a fancy Christmas wig, Tippy almost swimming through the pile. I couldn’t believe our luck, that God would cherish us enough to shower us with this bizarre holiday treat, but Mom and Tippy didn’t even notice.

  When I stuck out my tongue to catch one of the big flakes, I gagged.

  The sudden storm wasn’t snow at all.

  Feathers. Everywhere. Thousands and thousands of them, covering the kitchen, my family, even the bird Mom was preparing.

  Mom caught me off guard when she turned to me, anger flaring in her good eye. “What the hell happened to your hair?” Her body tightened as she realized I no longer looked like Brandy.

  “God—“

  Mom shut me up with the skillet.

  When it hit my head, I realized that she was still alive.

  Definitely still alive.

  But I, probably, was not.

  * * *

  Tippy. Pippy. Nippy. Zippy.