Not a Unicorn

by Dana Middleton

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

  “We’re staying at the Garbo,” she says reverently.

  “Uh. Yeah.” I’m missing something. “What’s a Garbo?”

  “What’s a Garbo?” Her voice rises an octave. “Greta Garbo. The Garbo. One of the greatest movie stars of all time.” I’m feeling like a bum for not learning anything about Grandma’s old movies right about now. “From Sweden? Her most famous line was: ‘I vant to be alone.’” Grandma’s eyes wander up the street to the signs in front of other apartment buildings: the Fairbanks, the Chaplin, the Harlow, the Barrymore.

  “Holy . . .” escapes her lips. “We sure are in Hollywood.”

  “Most of these apartments are named after silent movie stars,” George tells us. “They shot lots of silent movies in this part of town back in the day. One of the earliest silent movie studios is just down the street.”

  “Why would they make movies without sound, anyway?”

  George chuckles. “It was a technical issue.”

  “Did you watch them when you were a kid?”

  “No!” Grandma cries. “That was a hundred years ago. George wasn’t alive then.” She shoots me a look. “And neither was I, so don’t ask.”

  “Noted.” I gaze at the signs along the street and marvel at the sparkle in Grandma’s eyes. This must be her ultimate faraway place. Coming here for her is like going to the Eiffel Tower for me. Her Greta Garbo is like my Esmeralda.

  Inside, the Garbo is old, maybe as old as silent movies. There are two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and a small backyard that’s shared with the other three units in the building. Grandma is disappointed that there isn’t a picture of the actual Greta Garbo anywhere.

  “Sure missed a bet on that one,” she says, and George agrees with her.

  As Grandma walks back outside with George, I choose a bedroom and lie down on the bed.

  I touch my horn.

  This is happening.

  I am finally here.

  Meeting Dr. Stein

  “Look who’s here,” Dr. Stein says when he finally comes into the exam room where we’ve been waiting. “Hello, ‘Angela.’”

  My face gets so hot so fast it could cook a burger. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. It’s just that I didn’t think anybody would listen to someone my age and—”

  “I’m kidding,” he says, breaking out in a grin. “A girl who goes to such lengths to communicate with me is pretty determined, I know that much.” He pauses and looks at my horn. “I’m Dr. Stein.”

  “I’m Jewel,” I say back.

  “And I’m her grandmother, Ruth,” Grandma says.

  “Nice to meet you, Ruth.” He turns back to me. “How do you like Los Angeles so far?”

  “I like the palm trees!” I say. It sounds silly and I immediately regret it.

  But Dr. Stein’s eyes are kind. “I like the palm trees, too. They take some getting used to, though, huh?”

  “Where are you from, doctor?” Grandma asks.

  “Boston. I’m a long way from home.”

  “So are we,” says Grandma.

  Dr. Stein’s eyes return to my horn. Not in a weird way, for once, but in a curious one. “Your mom, the real Angela, said you don’t remember being without your horn. It’s pretty impressive, I might add.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real horn all right.”

  “That it is.” He examines my horn from all angles. No stranger has gotten this close to it for a long time. “Today, I want to take some measurements and do some preliminary tests.” He leans in, looking closer. “May I touch it?”

  He waits until I squeak out an “Okay,” and then touches the tip of my horn, gently. “Tell me if this hurts.”

  He taps along the side of my horn, and I assure him that it doesn’t. My horn isn’t sensitive like that. He keeps looking, touching, and measuring, then finally sits down and goes through the plan with us—the tests and scans he’ll need to do to see if the surgery can actually be done.

  I get nervous. “Do you still think it’ll work?”

  “I’m hopeful, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says. “We’ll know for sure in a few days.”

  “Your grandma told me about the tests,” Mom says to me over the phone.

  “I’m going back in tomorrow,” I say, sitting under the lemon tree in the backyard of the Garbo.

  “But how are you doing? You haven’t had an earthquake, have you?”

  “No, Mom. No earthquakes yet.” I think she’s kidding, but I press my palm into the ground anyway. Feels solid enough.

  “And you’re doing your homework?”

  “Yes!” You’d think she could lay off the regular-mom stuff while I’m out here, but I guess not. “I’ll stay caught up, I promise. Try not to worry.”

  “I’m not,” she says.

  “Then stop pacing.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because you always pace when you’re worried.”

  We talk for a while longer before Grandma comes out and reaches for the phone. “Calm her,” I whisper, and Grandma winks.

  As Grandma walks inside with the phone, I lie back against the (completely still, supportive) ground and stare up at the squirrels playing tag on a power line. It’s hot, but not humid like back home, and a light breeze tickles my arm even though the sun is blazing above the lemon leaves.

  Lemon leaves! You could make lots of lemonade from the lemons on this one tree. That’s a Los Angeles lemon tree. Those are California squirrels. I can’t believe it’s really happening!

  Tomorrow, they’ll start doing more extensive tests on me. If this works, things will change. But how? I don’t remember not having a horn. What will it be like if strangers don’t stare at me anymore?

  My fingertip touches the end of my horn. It’s not sharp, but it’s a point, and it can do damage. It did do damage. Without a horn, I wonder if Noah might forgive me.

  Over the next few days, I toggle between Dr. Stein and his research assistants, who run all kinds of tests on me. Some I expect, like MRIs and X-rays. Others I don’t, like memory and vision exams.

  We talk to Mom every day with updates, but the update I’m waiting for hasn’t happened yet. Whenever I ask Dr. Stein if he can do the surgery yet, he says, “That’s why we’re doing these tests. To find out.” And when I press, he adds, “Patience, grasshopper.”

  Grasshopper? Last time I checked, grasshoppers had antennae, not horns.

  As the days pass, seeds of doubt start to grow. What if it doesn’t work? What if this has all been for nothing? What if I have to go back home like this? What if, what if, what if . . .

  And Carmen isn’t here to make it better. It’s been days, and she still hasn’t shown up. I mean, maybe it’s hard for Carmen to get all the way to California. But somehow I thought Carmen could go anywhere.

  I know she’s mad. I know she doesn’t understand. But I need her. I find myself looking for her around the corner of every hallway, behind the doors of every exam room.

  By the time the tests are done, I’m feeling Carmen’s absence acutely. It’s ironic, right? I’ve avoided her for the past two years, and now I want her back so badly. If she would just get here, I feel like I would calm down.

  I remember how in elementary school, Carmen would stand by my desk for an encouraging nuzzle whenever I took a test. No doubt her soothing presence actually made me get better grades. I wonder what Nicholas would think of that! I forced myself to power through exams without her in middle school, but I always knew she wasn’t far, standing in the hallway, waiting for me. She was there whenever I needed her, even if I acted like I didn’t want her around.

  I shouldn’t be surprised that her absence during all these medical tests has unsettled me. By the time we’re waiting for the final results in Dr. Stein’s office, I’m a nervous wreck.

  His seventh-floor window looks out onto a light blue sky streaked with white clouds. The clouds
are so thin and wispy they look like they’ve been stretched out by a cosmic rolling pin.

  “What if we’ve come here for nothing?” I say quietly.

  Grandma grabs my hand. “Stop worrying. You’re acting like your mother.” But she’s worried, too. I can see it in her eyes.

  When the door opens, Grandma releases my hand, and we both turn to see Dr. Stein walking in.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he says and passes us to sit down behind his desk. “I know you’ve been waiting for me.” He opens the folder he was carrying but doesn’t look at it. He looks at us.

  “Well . . . ,” he says, and pauses.

  I can’t take the silence. “Dr. Stein!”

  His dimples deepen in a way that makes my heart thump. “We can do it, Jewel,” he says. “We can take off your horn.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” Grandma lets out a breath like she’s been holding it since we landed in LA. “Doctor, you almost gave me a heart attack!”

  “I’m sorry, Ruth,” Dr. Stein says. “I just wanted to build some suspense. I guess Hollywood has rubbed off on me.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, forcing his eyes to mine.

  Dr. Stein nods. “As sure as I can be until we get in there. It’s a difficult procedure. There are no guarantees with any of this. But I told your mother we’d only do it if the chances of success are great. And they are.” He looks at Grandma. “Should we call her?”

  “Yes, let’s,” Grandma says, and reaches for her phone.

  “How will I look?” I ask, because that’s what I really want to know.

  “There’ll be some reconstructive surgery and skin grafts, but mostly, Jewel, you’ll look like . . . you don’t have a horn.”

  I take this in as I hear Mom’s voice come over the phone. She’s been expecting our call. There’s a mixture of happiness and fear in her voice when Dr. Stein tells her the news.

  While they talk about the plans for my surgery, I stare out at the wispy clouds. It’s going to happen. The thought burrows in, making me feel lighter, like I could skip across those clouds out there.

  I imagine hornless Jewel. Normal Jewel. Jewel, who can go into any classroom without kids staring. Jewel, who can stand on any stage and read a French essay. Jewel, who can go anywhere . . . anywhere . . . without all those eyes.

  I’ll get used to it. I’ll get used to being different. I mean, I’ll get used to being . . . the same. And Carmen will get used to it, too. She has to.

  The Night Visit

  It’s the night before the surgery and I’m alone in my hospital room, texting with Nicholas.

  Him: There’s still time. Run for it!

  Me: Too late.

  Him: What about your nose? Could look BIG.

  I check, feeling my nose, instead of texting back.

  Him: Who will you be without your magical horn?

  Me: ugh NOT MAGICAL!

  Him: What if it is?

  Me: Tell me one magical thing it’s done for me? IRL.

  Him: Brought us together.

  I send him this:

  Me: Sometimes I swear you only like me for my horn.

  Him: I do like your horn.

  Me: I know.

  Him: But I like you too.

  I start to text back, but then stop. What is he saying? Does Nicholas like me, like me? Is he saying—

  Him: Not that way.

  Me: I didn’t say anything.

  Him:

  Me: Oh, shut up.

  Him:

  Me: Why are you acting like this?

  Him: To get your mind off things.

  Okay, Nicholas, not a bad idea.

  Him: Look outside.

  Me: Huh?

  Him: Out the window.

  I walk to the window of my ninth-floor hospital room, half expecting to see him there. But instead my breath gets stolen by the beauty of the lights. It’s night, but it’s never dark in this city.

  Me: OK, what am I looking at?

  Him: Humanity. Think of all the people out there. No one with a horn. You’re an original. What if you regret it?

  Me: I won’t.

  He doesn’t text back for so long that it seems like bait.

  Me: You there?

  Him: Yeah.

  Me: Thanks.

  Him: You scared?

  Me: A little.

  Him: I can text all night.

  It’s almost midnight for him, and he’s got school tomorrow.

  Him: Gonna miss weird Jewel.

  I grin.

  Me: I know.

  Nicholas keeps me company for a little while longer. When we say good night, I lie back in bed feeling lonelier than I’ve ever felt. Wow, I’m really not used to being so alone. Carmen has always been with me.

  I get up and study my horn in the mirror, this horn that has always connected me to her, and realize this is one of the last times I’ll ever see it.

  I go to my suitcase and pull out a little pouch that holds the hornlet that Mystic made for me. In the mirror, I watch myself slip the wire chain with the Eiffel Tower ornament onto my horn.

  The Eiffel Tower dangles dreamily, just how Mystic must have designed it. My horn, adorned, for the very first and very last time. I watch a small smile inadvertently escape my lips. This thing has defined me for all my life. I take a selfie. My last picture with a horn. The last time I’ll ever look like this.

  I don’t think Nicholas is right about unicorns not being able to live without a horn. First, I’m not a unicorn. Second, without it, I’ll start living for the first time. But a lasso of melancholy wraps around me as I touch my horn now. It’s smooth and pointy, like it’s always been, and tomorrow it will be gone. As much as I want this to happen, I truly can’t imagine who I will be without it.

  I slip the hornlet back in the pouch and into my suitcase. Crawling into bed, I take an issue of Highwaymen from beneath my pillow and read it by the light of the un-night night. I’m not sleepy. I’m too nervous about tomorrow.

  I don’t know what time it is when I hear a familiar sound coming down the corridor. I reach for my phone, but the battery’s dead.

  The clomp, clomp, clomp beats out a steady rhythm on the hallway tile, and a tingle rushes through my heart. I jump out of my bed.

  She’s here!

  At the door, I look around the corner. I’m not the only one. Other kids, some with bald heads, some with arms in casts, all with big eyes, peek out from doorways.

  I don’t know how they see her, but they do. All of them are staring at Carmen.

  They gaze at her flowing white mane, her sapphire blue eyes, her long pointed horn. They’ve never seen a unicorn before. They’ve never seen something so beautiful.

  I wait at my doorway as the other children form a procession behind her. Carmen moves down the corridor majestically, like a queen, like the wild creature she is. When she stops before me, the children stop, too.

  “Is it a real unicorn?” a little boy whispers, and I smile at him.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “She’s real.”

  I gaze into Carmen’s bottomless blue eyes. “You came,” I say, feeling the deep relief inside.

  She whinnies and shakes her head.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Carmen dips her horn down to touch mine, and it’s fierce like an electrical current, but painless. It runs through me and back through her, as if we’re an infinity symbol. Never-ending and always connected. I stand there, taking it in. Being one with Carmen like this, one last time.

  The current breaks when I finally pull away. Reaching out, I grab her tangled mane and pet her velvet nose. “Don’t be mad,” I beg, and tuck my head against her strong, muscly neck. “Please understand.”

  I don’t know how long we stand there together. Maybe a long time. I’m startled when I hear footsteps coming toward us.

  Untangling myself from Carmen’s mane, I see Beaumont, the sheriff from Highwaymen, standing before us. His charcoal cowboy hat rests on his head and his sheriff’s badge sh
ines under the fluorescent lights. Beaumont holds up his right hand so it faces me like a stop sign.

  “Truth,” he says, then opens his other palm in the same way. “Or consequences.”

  I look at Carmen and it comes out of my mouth before I even decide. “Consequences,” I tell him.

  “Jewel.”

  I feel like I’m underwater. Like someone is trying to reach me through rippling waves.

  “Jewel, honey.”

  Slowly, I open my eyes to see Grandma standing over me. “You’re awake,” she says, with a relieved smile. “How do you feel?”

  I groan. My head feels like fire.

  “Let me get the nurse,” she says and disappears.

  Where am I?

  Squinting out the window at the strange blue sky, it comes back to me. I’m in a hospital. Far from home.

  I reach for my forehead to put out the fire—and my hand moves through my horn. I touch what feels like a bandage. And I remember why I’m here.

  Sitting up too quickly, I wobble unsteadily. My head is so light and so heavy at the same time. I prop myself up on my elbow as Grandma hurries back with the nurse.

  “Hi there, Jewel,” the nurse says with a smile. “It’s so good to see those pretty eyes of yours again.” She gently guides my head back toward the pillow. “Lie back down now.”

  “Wait!” I say to Grandma. “Can someone please bring me a mirror?”

  “One mirror coming up,” Grandma says, and scurries toward the bathroom.

  I go to touch my forehead again and the nurse stops me. “You don’t want to be touching it now. There’s a lot of healing to do.”

  Grandma comes back with the hand mirror, and I grab it and gasp. It’s shocking when what you’ve been wishing for actually comes true.

  My horn is gone.

  Moving the mirror around, I catch as many angles of my face as I can. There’s a big bandage there, but nothing else. Nothing protruding. If I want, I can press my nose up against the mirror with nothing between me and it. No horn. I wave my hand across my reflection in the space where it used to be.

  “What do you think, sweetie?” Grandma asks.

  I lift up my chin, and my head doesn’t feel like itself.