Other Words for Smoke

by Sarah Maria Griffin

  “Christ, you’re miserable,” remarked the older girl. “Don’t sweat it. Upside is that your pain threshold goes through the roof while this is happening to you. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Mae took a sip from her tea. Her mouth was so dry and her ears were ringing. Bevan was very close to her. Her earrings glinted, so large you could put a hand through them, big brassy things at odds with the softness of her outfit.

  “In fact,” Bevan continued, “if you did want your ears pierced, I could just do it for you today, and you’d barely feel a thing. You’re basically superhuman when you’re on your period. It’d barely be a pinch.”

  Mae wished Bevan would stop saying “period.” Actually, she wished Bevan would just go away and stop offering her things like conversation and piercings so she could just lie in the sun listening to music and imagining a different Bevan, a Bevan who belonged to her, a Bevan who didn’t scare her. Mae didn’t say anything at all, just sipped her tea.

  “Do you want me to do it?” Bevan was extremely persistent. Gleeful at the idea, almost.

  Mae wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure.”

  “Of course you’re sure. It’ll be like a bonding experience. A rite of passage.”

  This flare of interest from Bevan was disconcerting, but the mention of bonding had Mae far more sold than she wanted to be. Mae felt something bad, something like foreboding, but she batted it away: pierced ears and heartache were what summer at fourteen were all about, surely. She’d seen it on TV shows, read it in books—she was doing what she was supposed to be doing.

  “All right then. Sure.” Mae nodded, trying to sound casual, hoping it worked—like no big deal, just spear a piece of my flesh with some metal and stick some jewelry in it, grand, it’s cool.

  Bevan grinned, enormous. Mae wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her smile before, let alone like this.

  “I knew you were up for mischief, Mae. You’re going to look great. I’ll even give you a pair of my earrings.”

  You’re going to look great, you’re going to look great, you’re going to look great, you’re going to look great, you’re going to look great, you’re going to look great, you’re going to look great, you’re going to look great—

  The next thing Mae knew, she was sitting on the edge of the tub in the bathroom upstairs and Bevan was assembling a sinister-looking set of tiny domestic items with which to perform the piercing. Mae blinked at her, the light in the bathroom whiter than the warm of the living room. Bevan’s hair caught in the light, impossibly gold as she stood over the sink with a short glass of something that smelled terribly strong and clean—rubbing alcohol? Or just alcohol alcohol? Vodka? Mae didn’t know, she’d no experience with either. In the bottom of the glass were two long safety pins, silver and open, the pointed tip dangerous even at this distance.

  Bevan was beautiful and bold, but that did not qualify her to go around sticking holes in people’s bodies. She was washing her hands with a bar of rose-smelling soap the shape of a seashell. An apple and a knife lay on the windowsill. Four round-edged cubes of ice melting in a glass. A cluster of cotton swabs. Had Bevan been preparing for this? How had she known Mae would say yes?

  Of course Mae was going to say yes. Mae would do whatever Bevan told her, and it was exactly that obvious. Obvious enough for Bevan to turn the bathroom into a soapy operating theater in advance, all her tools laid out. An amateur, strangely enthusiastic surgeon.

  “Right.” Bevan rinsed her hands, steam flourishing from the piping water in the sink. “I’m going to ice your ears first. Then I’m going to take a slice of this apple and place it behind your earlobe, and very quickly stick this safety pin through your ear. Then I’m going to pull it out, and before you know it, you’ll have one of these lovely shiny things in there. Last, we’re going to put a load of this alcohol on a cotton swab and hold it there while I do the other one. Sound all right to you? Just, like, don’t move. You won’t feel a thing. You’re going to look so cool.” The tall girl sliced the blushing pink apple as she spoke.

  You won’t feel a thing, you’re going to look so cool, you won’t feel a thing, you’re going to look so cool, you won’t feel a thing, you’re going to look so cool, you won’t feel a thing, you’re going to look—

  The pain was white hot. It was absolutely not a pinch. Mae bit her lip and didn’t scream, but her eyes swelled with tears and her breath hitched and she did everything she could not to pull away.

  “You’re doing so well. You’re so brave!” Bevan moved to Mae’s other side, ignoring the tears on Mae’s face.

  Mae didn’t feel brave. But she’d do anything to make Bevan like her. Anything. Mae scrunched her eyes shut and didn’t see the blood on the pale slice of apple as she took a heavy wet piece of cotton that stank of harsh, clean alcohol.

  “Just hold this to your ear,” Bevan continued. “The earring is gorgeous on you, the other side’ll match in just a second.”

  The rubbing alcohol burned her right ear—a temporary distraction from push and burst and throbbing on the other side. Mae couldn’t believe she was crying in front of Bevan, but Bevan was soothing her with praise. “Pain is beauty, petal.”

  The clumsy, bloody ceremony was quick and sore. Then Bevan wiped away Mae’s tears, because Mae was holding cotton to both earlobes and couldn’t do it herself. The two girls’ faces were very close—one face made up, big-eyed, the other blotchy, profoundly fourteen. Two long slices of apple, stained with clouds of dark red, sat in the glass where the ice was. What were they even for? Mae had cold water from the shrinking ice all over her wrists and arms, all down the back of her shirt. She was a mess—sniffling, a little faint, just about keeping it together. This was stupid, this was so stupid.

  “All right then, take away the cotton for a sec. Take a look at yourself.”

  Bevan produced a mirror with a long handle and flashed it at Mae.

  Two silver studs with bright purple gems at their center sparkled in pink, sore earlobes. Mae was surprised. Her body was different now. She’d done this. It made her feel a little sick, but a little older. A little stronger. She gave her reflection a forced, watery grin.

  “That’s the spirit!” Bevan chuckled, turning the mirror on herself, fixing her hair, pouting at herself. “You’re a new woman now.”

  Mae had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but was helplessly ready to sign up for becoming a new woman—especially if Bevan had anything to do with it. The taller girl gathered the glasses and leftover cotton.

  “You go snooze that off. When you wake up you’ll feel miles better.”

  And with that, Bevan was gone. The ceremony done, the ritual complete. Mae held her earlobes alone in the bathroom, unsure of what to do with herself. This didn’t feel like the beginning of a friendship, but she’d take it over nothing. She was sore. She was elated. She was a new woman.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  When everyone is asleep, you light some candles, a cone of incense. The tooth and the apple slices lie on a tea tray from your ma’s kitchenette. You don’t need the tray, you know, but a little pomp and circumstance never felt wasted on Sweet James. The room is electric already. You can feel him on his way to you.

  How did you get away with this? You tremble with delight as you kneel before the floral wall. He’s going to be so proud of you. Rossa’s tooth is white and small and strange, and the apple is now almost black, but holding enough stolen blood for it not to matter. You press your palms on the wall, whispering his name. You can feel something rolling under the surface, like an insect under skin. You can’t stop smiling. Finally, he’s back.

  The noise of him is the crunch of broken glass underfoot and the howl of remorseless wind and how these things spell relief for you you’ll never know, how something that sounds so bad can feel so good. The tooth and the apple slices rise from the tray to your eye level and the wall opens like pincers and eats them from your palm. The owl assembles himself before you and your hair lifts on y
our arms, your vest billows around you, the hoops of your earrings pull up instead of down, your hair moves as though under water. Light pours from Sweet James’s eyes, gleaming beacons, and you bask there. It is better than any sun.

  thank you, he says, and you could scream victory at him but you hold it, you hold the size of that thank you and let it feed you as you have fed him.

  “You’re welcome,” you whisper.

  the blood was enough. you brought me blood.

  “It was easy,” you say, your smile creeping wider.

  you are getting stronger.

  You nod, knowing this to be true.

  i want you to go to the corridor after the third room. i want you to take water from there and bring it back here. i want you to take the water and pour it in the stove in rita’s kitchen. can you do that for me, bevan?

  “What will happen then?” you ask him.

  you will be able to walk the paths of the other place for longer. you will be able to do whatever you please.

  “Will you change into something new?” You can’t believe you are asking him this, this stupid greedy question you’ve been saving for a time when you were especially in his favor. You are drunk on the relief of seeing him again, him speaking full sentences to you, him seeing you.

  He laughs! He laughs deep and earthy and unearthly. something new?

  You run your eyes up his paper and mirror and bone. “Would you ever turn into a man?”

  His laughter is huge, then, and the energy in the room shifts again. The light around you warps—it glints and your knees lift off the ground. You are suspended. But you are not afraid. He’s never been like this before and you laugh with him.

  put out that fire, bevan, and i will love you as you need to be loved.

  The four letters shoot like good, hot bullets through your body. You do scream, this time. Yes, you say, yes.

  Sweet James lets you onto the floor again and unfolds the door, wide open.

  you can take all night. nobody will know. you must come back with water. do not disappoint me.

  You have no intention of doing anything like it. Your knees are wobbly and you can’t quite stop the tremors of laughter coming from that good place behind your ribs. You grab an empty mug from your bedside locker and dash through the door.

  It closes behind you.

  At the other end of the house, Mae wakes, ears throbbing. She rolls over in the bed and thinks about the cottage she’ll share with Bevan when they are grown up, the life they’ll have together, her eyelids heavy, battling nausea, hoping against hope she doesn’t bleed all over the sheets. Mae closes her eyes and imagines herself tall and thin, chest flat. Her hair short, wearing an artfully big shirt. Barefoot on the shore of the lake. Bevan at her side, a floral dress, a straw hat. They have a dog . . . the light is pink around them—then she’s gone, asleep.

  Across the hall, Rossa is awake with a thudding in the back of his mouth that he can’t quite place. Bevan had done something to him in the garden. He’s been awake with it for days and days. A heavy emptiness. He wants to go across the house, wake his sister and tell her that he thinks something happened, but he can’t. What if the corridor went strange again? He wanted to tell his sister, but he knows how she looks at Bevan, he’s not stupid. He doesn’t want to cause any trouble. Rossa stays awake.

  You hardly pause at the first room. Same watery stench, same strange neon. First door, swung open like any in your house. Through the gray-and-white corridor—through the papery moths. You pluck one like a berry with wings and put it in your mouth, swallow it like a treat. Sweet James says nothing, though you know he’s watching.

  You place your hand on the next door like something holy. And then you twist the knob and push and it gives, and the next room is all yours.

  Twelve white baths stand in two straight lines of six, steam rising from four or five of them. Each tub stands on four little brass claws. White tiles, slick with condensation, make up the floor under your bare feet, the walls, the strangely low ceiling. The air is clean and bleached and different from the other rooms. Your heart beats like a drum. This room is your favorite, though you imagine every new one will feel like your favorite. Up beyond the rows of baths, there are new doors on the left side and the right side. Two doors. Two ways to go.

  You can’t touch either yet, you know, clasping your cup in both hands, but how you want to.

  only bring cold water, he says, do not scald yourself. you are useless to me without your hands.

  His voice sounds unusually quiet and far away. Not as immense as it does when you are in your own room. So one of these baths must be cold, you think, walking the aisle between them, casting your eyes over the surfaces of the still water in their bellies. You want to lie down in one, soak yourself, be heavy with the water from this strange place—but you’ll have plenty of time for that, soon. You walk all the way to the end of the room. The last bath on the left-hand side is giving off no steam. You lean close to the clear water: yes, it’s cold. It smells like fresh rain and something strange and you scoop a handful and drink. It’s icy and you are refreshed and nourished—this is the bath, you think. This is the one, and you swoop your cup into it.

  A door behind you opens and closes and you spin around to look. A girl.

  A girl?

  A girl is standing in the room with you. A pale girl with cropped black hair and a red mouth wearing a slim black suit and a bright white shirt, barefoot, holding a white towel. She screams. You scream. The noise of your fear bounces off the tiles, broadened by their surface, by the water—the way singing in the shower sounds, if the singing were fear, not music.

  For a moment, you are both screaming. Neither of you moves until your breaths run out and it is silent for a heartbeat, and then you both scream again. Shrill and electric screams. You are terrified, she is terrified. You run out of air just as she does, but before you have a chance to think about how language even works, she barks, “Who are you?” and strides towards you.

  You size her up a second—she’s slight, shorter than you by far, you could take her if you needed. You clench your fist around the handle of the mug, synapses firing all fight and no chance of flight.

  “I’m Bevan fucking Mulholland, who are you?” you roar.

  She stops dead in her tracks.

  “I’m Audrey O’Driscoll, and this is one of my rooms, so get out and go back to wherever the hell you came from!” Her voice pitches high and she squares right up to you, her chin pointy, her eyes steely blue, her teeth small and straight.

  “These rooms don’t belong to anyone, I’m here on an errand from Sweet James!” You shove her and the cold water from the mug splashes over both of you, shocking and freezing—she yelps and staggers. But immediately she pulls herself back up, her pupils contracting into dots, her mouth contorting.

  “Sweet James?” she hisses. “Sweet James in the house at the end of the crescent? Rita Frost’s place?”

  You don’t answer, you don’t think you need to.

  “That mug . . . that—let me see that!” She snatches it from you, too quick to stop, more water spilling on the tiles around you. You let her have it a moment. If she breaks it, you’ll break something of hers. Your eyes flick to her wrist—a slim, soft target. She holds the mug up to her face. “This is from Rita’s ma’s kitchen. This is, this is . . .” and she sinks to the tiles.

  She cradles the mug and begins to weep. You wish she’d stop. A fight would have been easier than this. Her cries bounce over the tiles, and the room of baths is now a chamber full of her unrestrained sorrow. You pick up her towel and hand it to her. She sniffles and takes it from you, wiping her eyes, heaving deep breaths. She looks up at you, bleary-eyed and pink nosed. “Are you her daughter?”

  “Whose daughter?” you ask.

  “Rita’s. Rita Frost’s.” Her voice warbles. “Dark brown eyes. Freckles, left-handed. Rita Maeve Frost.”

  You shake your head. “No. I’m Imelda Mulholland’s daughter. I
live in Rita’s house.”

  “Is she still there? God, how long has it been—is she . . . she’s alive, isn’t she?”

  You aren’t sure what to tell her. Her name sounds familiar, sure, maybe Rita’s mentioned her once or twice—but you’re cautious. What is and isn’t real back here? What if she’s not a person, but a trap? You tread lightly. “Yes, she is. She took my ma in when she was pregnant, and we live with her and Bobby now. Well, I do. Ma’s gone.”

  Audrey laughs against her tears. “Bobby! Bobby, our cat!”

  “Yours? Like, the both of you?”

  Your heart is thundering and your stomach is lurching and you sit on the tiles beside her because you’re not sure your legs can take all this. She puts a bony hand on your knee—she’s freezing cold.

  “Yes, the both of us. She’s my—my best friend. How is she? Did—did she get married?”

  “No, Rita never married. But she’s fine. Smokes too much, I guess, given her age, but otherwise fine. I cook for her and help her around the house—she, em . . . teaches me with cards, and how to see things. She’s like my other mother.” This admission sears you a second, given the nature of your quest into the wall—the betrayal of it.

  Audrey’s eyes are still sparkling wet. “She’s still smoking, that’s hilarious! God, you don’t have any cigarettes, do you?”

  You shake your head. “Sorry. She won’t let me smoke.”

  Audrey sniffles, and smiles. “I gave her her first one, you know. I’m glad she’s still reading the cards. She . . . she was supposed to come with me here, but she never did. Has she ever mentioned me to you?” There is too much hope in that question.

  You pause a second. “I’m sorry, but no.”

  She closes her eyes and sighs softly. “I don’t suppose she did. Safer that way. Always safer to say nothing.”