The Wicked Awakening of Anne Merchant

by Joanna Wiebe

  The sound of paper tearing interrupts my thoughts.

  “I like this,” Dia says, pushing against my knee to lift himself. He waves a sketch at me. It’s from my sketchbook. He was going through my bag. “I’m taking this. This is passion.”

  My heart stops when I see the sketch. It’s the girl I drew outside of Lou Knows’ room. The girl I saw in the mirror.

  “No,” I say, grabbing but just missing it.

  Like a child with an idea, he backs away slowly, grins, and lets his eyes roam the page as I protest.

  “You can’t have that. It’s not yours.”

  “This girl is not in a silly, prudish little uniform,” he says. “This is raw.”

  “Give that to me.”

  I snatch it, but he tugs it from my grip and catches my fists almost at the same time, then locks them between the fingers of one hand, showcasing his otherworldly strength. I try to free myself. His grip refuses to give, and his gaze feasts on the girl with the tail.

  “She’s beautiful,” he says. “She’s your muse?”

  Mortified, I shake my head. “I don’t know what she is.”

  “She’s an enchantress. A goddess. Just missing her wings.”

  Thoughtfully, distractedly, he releases my wrists and settles onto the chaise, still looking at the woman in my sketch. He dismisses me without another word, and it’s only when I’m in the hallway outside his office that, beneath a disturbingly beautiful Beksinski, I steady myself against the wall and pray that my proximity to demons is not, somehow, transforming me into an underworld goddess.

  “I’M SORRY WE don’t have a tree,” Ben says. “And I wish our dads could be here.”

  It’s Christmas Eve. Ben and I are walking hand in hand under a still, starless, and cold gray sky through what was once the village. On Ben’s mind is the sad absence of twinkling lights, green garland, silvery wrapping paper, and all the signs of this time of year, a time he loves with an enthusiasm he reserves for only his favorite things, of which he has few. On my mind is the Scrutiny—it’s a few days away, and it’s Ben’s big opportunity to up his game and elevate his status in the Big V competition. He’s asked me to stop thinking about it, stop talking about it, but that’s an impossibility. Every moment with Ben is a reminder of how few we might have left.

  “We can pretend our dads are here,” I suggest. “I used to pretend Christmas was different all the time. Didn’t you?”

  “Different how?”

  “Different like—well, Christmas was always busy for my dad. Suicides, post-party car crashes, Christmas tree fires. But his staff would take their holidays. So my mom would have to help him with one funeral after another.”

  “You spent Christmas alone?”

  I smile at him as he lifts our joined hands to kiss mine. We’re both wearing mittens, so he presses his lips to wool, not skin. “Don’t cry for me, Argentina,” I say lightly.

  “Now I really wish we could celebrate Christmas properly.”

  Enormous construction spotlights shine on the fully framed Cania College. The hammers are down and the chain saws are off for the first time in months.

  “It’s starting to look like a real school,” Ben says. “I think there’ll be more moss than ivy on its walls, though.”

  “Maybe there’s a way for you to go to Cania College after graduation,” I suggest. We head back onto the road north. “Or you could try to win the Scrutiny. Let’s pretend you wanted to try. Just entertain the idea. What would you do next? How could we make that happen?”

  “You know what I’d like to pretend?” Ben says.

  “That I’m okay with my boyfriend having a death sentence?”

  He stares into the puff of white his breath makes. “I’d like to pretend we’re in New York City for some Christmas shopping.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “And we just went to see a show on Broadway. Something Christmasy. A ballet.” He checks to make sure I’m watching him, which I am, which I always am. “Tomorrow, we’ll be flying home to spend the holidays with your dad. You’ve been talking about how quiet he can be throughout the year but how he seems to come alive as soon as you put that record on for him—that Christmas one by that weird European group.”

  “Boney M.”

  “Exactly. And I’ve been acting like I’m not afraid of offending him somehow and turning the two of you against me forever.”

  “This is a detailed daydream, Mr. Zin.”

  “And it’s nighttime, of course,” he says, refusing to let my reality check pop his expanding bubble, “because New York is almost beautiful enough to deserve you when it’s all lit up. And we’re walking through Times Square—the lights are so garish they’d be offensive if it wasn’t Christmastime. People are hurrying around us, running off to see their families, and there are no bad moods.”

  He looks at me. Expectantly.

  “And you and I are on our way back to our hotel room…,” he prompts.

  I’m silent. Silent girl on a silent night.

  “We just saw The Nutcracker,” he continues when I add nothing. Squeezing our hands together, we meander up the road, and the woods thicken on either side of us. “You, Miss Merchant, liked it a lot more than I did.”

  “I did?”

  “You did, yes. And after the show, we went to this place in the-Theater District that’s supposed to have the most amazing flourless chocolate cake. You’d heard about it from an art critic who’s been hounding you to let him host a show for you. With maybe a few of my pieces on display, too. Anyway, we took his recommendation and went for dessert.”

  At last, I decide to play along, to help Ben shape this vision that will never be.

  “And, lemme guess, I liked it more than you did?” I ask.

  “What can I say? You’re all the sweetness I need.”

  “Sooo,” I say, laughing off his cheesiness and trying to fit myself into his imaginary world, “we walked back to our hotel. Even though I wanted to catch a cab.”

  “Because you’re in heels.”

  “You said it was too nice to catch a cab. You insisted we walk.”

  “You look amazing in those heels, by the way.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “And what do I say when you reluctantly agree to walk with me?” he asks me.

  “You say…if all else fails, you’ll carry me.”

  He smiles. “Hop on.”

  I laugh. “Right.” But he’s serious—he wants me to get on his back. “Ben, I’m heavier than I look.” I’ve never pretended to be petite. But he keeps staring at me like he won’t move until I do.

  That’s when I catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. It’s clear—as clear as the green of his irises—that this fantasy is real for him. A normal life for the two of us is real for him. That’s what he wants. All his bravado these past months has been for show.

  So I nod, and he stoops, and I try not to be too awkward as I wriggle onto his back and pray for a Christmas miracle that makes me about twenty pounds lighter. He tucks his arms under my legs and heaves me up the rest of the way without so much as a grunt. I wrap my arms around his neck, kissing his cheek as I do.

  “Where are we staying?” I ask him.

  “The Plaza—where else?”

  He starts jogging, and I have to love the guy for his solid effort to make me look light as a feather. He’s breathless by the time we make it as far as Gigi’s house. I expect him to let me down, but he starts trudging through the snow toward the old cottage.

  “It looks like the valet has retired for the night,” he says.

  He lets me down just outside Gigi’s front door and, smiling a smile I’ve never seen before—one that makes me nervous, like he might say the L word—tells me to close my eyes. I do. Nervously.

  He takes me by the hand.

  “What’s going on?” I ask in the darkness.

  “Step up. And again.” The old creaky front door announces that it is swinging in. “Merry Christmas, baby
. Open your eyes.”

  Ben’s fantasy, which seemed impromptu when we were walking, is a reality inside Gigi’s transformed living room. Strings of golden lights enrobe the dingy wallpapered walls, and rich golden velvet has been draped over and tucked into the old sofa Skippy used to sleep on. The staircase and the entry to the kitchen are strung with lights and evergreen garland that make gap-filled walls, keeping us in this room. My eyes skip from the Christmas tree to the wrapped gifts on the coffee table to the record player spinning none other than Boney M to, at last, the brass bed Ben must’ve dragged down from Gigi’s bedroom and blanketed in beautiful linens from who knows where.

  “Molly helped me,” he shyly admits. “The two of us had to sneak into Dia’s place—all my old furnishings and things are there. Thankfully, it wasn’t her first time breaking in.” He leads me in. “Look past the flaws, okay? Believe the illusion. Just for tonight.”

  “What flaws?” I ask.

  It’s gorgeous. And dazzling. And filled with heart and love.

  …Yet I can’t keep my gaze from returning to the bed.

  The bed.

  Oh, God, the bed.

  “Are you okay?” He’s been watching my reaction. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” When he finally notices what I’m trying hard not to stare at, he smiles. I do my best to look as cool as Garnet probably looked when they were together. “Aww, honey, it’s not what you think.”

  “It’s just—I think you got the wrong idea before, Ben. I’m not…”

  “That bed is not what this is about…”

  “It’s just…I don’t think…”

  “Baby, I know…”

  It’s like we’re competing to make as little sense as possible.

  He gives up first and takes my hands in his, forcing me to look at him. How am I supposed to get out of this? It’s really beautiful and everything, and I have been about as desperate to make out with Ben as a person can get without imploding, but. But. But.

  “Anne,” he’s trying not to smile at my distress, “I want to wake up and find you next to me, that’s all. That’s my selfish Christmas wish. Of course, yes, I’d love to do more—”

  “You would?” I’m not sure if I knew that before.

  His eyebrows hit his hairline. “Are you kidding?”

  “But you always stop us.”

  “Because I want to protect what we have. Not because…” His voice drops, and a smile flickers across his lips. “When it happens—” He half laughs. “Well, let’s just say I’m looking forward to it. But I would never pressure you. Ever.”

  For some reason, I picture him and Garnet together. I squeeze my eyes as tight as they’ll go.

  He waits for me to open them.

  I know I’m being an idiot. Ben just wants to have a sleepover— why am I acting like I’ve never shared a bed with someone, especially with someone I love? But I know why. It’s not just about sex. It’s not just about wanting to move from the Hand-Holding Phase to whatever wonders lay in Phases II, III, IV, V—hell, every phase right up to the last one. That’s only part of the problem. My real anxiety lays in wondering whether Ben will wake me up with his screams as Harper did months ago.

  “If you’re not comfortable sleeping next to me,” he says, “we can turn around and leave.”

  To prove there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with him, I sit on the bed. It sags in the middle, but it’s otherwise comfortable. I smile at him, and relief lights his gorgeous face.

  To my surprise, he turns on the TV.

  “It’s a Wonderful Life,” he says, pushing a disc into the Blu-ray player. “A Christmas classic.”

  It’s a wonderful life.

  Sure, it is. As long as you’re playing pretend. As long as you buy into the illusion.

  “It’s like we’re at the movie theater,” I say.

  “No—the hotel room.”

  One fantasy at a time. I get it.

  All smiles, Ben joins me on the bed and positions fluffy pillows and blankets around us. I’ve developed a habit of holding my breath and leaning away from him when he gets near—anything to avoid inhaling his sweet-meets-musky scent, anything to avoid the risk that his arm will brush mine and he’ll just apologize. Now I know that he desires more than hand-holding and kissing, but what am I supposed to do with that? As Ben wraps his arm around my shoulders and I clamp my fingertips into my thighs to keep from clawing at him, I realize that the vision Ben sees is quite different from mine. There’s no way I’m going to have an actual sexual relationship with a man on Death Row. Why would I? So he gets everything he wants…and I’m left living in the aftermath of his selfish destructive forces?

  Remembering something, Ben pops up and swings open a mini-fridge next to Gigi’s old hutch. “Can I get you something from the minibar?”

  “They always overcharge for those things. Six bucks for a Pepsi.”

  With a heartbreaking grin, Ben pulls out two cans of soda and shimmies next to me again.

  “Money is no object,” he says.

  I want to smile with him. But this whole charade is actually starting to frustrate me. So while Ben watches George Bailey dance his way into a swimming pool, it occurs to me that, instead of making sacrifices, Ben’s PT should be to live selfishly. He’d be a sure thing. He’s selfishly choosing the briefest period of time with me and creating these charming illusions of a life we could lead together, a life he’s keeping us from.

  “I know you mean well,” he says out of the blue, “but let’s just watch a movie like two normal people.”

  “We are.”

  “Your whole body is tense. You’re thinking about that damn competition.”

  “You knew what I was thinking? And you were just letting me sit here and stress out?”

  “Letting you?” He laughs. “When did I get any say over what you do?”

  “This isn’t funny, Ben. This is your life.”

  “I know.”

  “Then do something!” I spring from the bed. “Fight for it!”

  “Anne, just give me tonight. Give that gift to me. For Christmas.” Calmly, he pauses the movie. “Just one night of normalcy.”

  “I’ve given you three and a half months.”

  “Do you regret that?”

  “None of this is real. How can this be enough for you? Tonight, like every night, is bringing me closer to you when all you’re going to do is leave me.”

  He takes a deep breath. “All roads lead to death. Mine is just shorter.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way!”

  “It already is that way!”

  I watch him try to calm down, but that’s the last thing I want him to do. I need to see him angry. I need to know he’s got fight left in him.

  “I can’t be the reason you die, Ben. To spend a short time with me. Don’t do that to me.”

  “I’m already dead. Why don’t you understand that?”

  Leaning back, he stretches out his long legs and looks up at me. The twinkle lights glimmer against his irises, transforming his eyes into bright pools I can see my reflection in.

  “For five years,” he says, his playful tone long gone as the old Ben, the anguished Ben I first met, makes a surprise appearance, “I’ve considered myself dead. Because, as hard as it is for you to hear, I am dead. I’ve been here to help my dad get through his grief. But I’ve never fooled myself into believing that I’m alive or could be again. I’m here because a devil is selling immortality to fools. A devil.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, then, you know this isn’t a miracle. It’s a dark art. And it’s been keeping me from reuniting with my mom and Jeannie.”

  Always the words to shut me up. There’s no arguing with Ben when it comes to his mom and sister. I could never ask him to choose a life with me instead of the afterlife with them.

  “You’ve thrown a wrench into things,” he says. “But just because I feel alive doesn’t mean it’s my right to expect to live again.”


  “You never intended to stay with me.”

  He closes his eyes and drops his head, exasperated. “A-Anne! I’d love to spend forever with you.”

  “Then prove it. Go with Garnet. Break up with me now. Fight for us by fighting for you.”

  “We all die!” Ben’s eyelids snap wide open, and he bounces to his feet. His cool façade slides off, exposing the mere mortal beneath. “Death is permanent. That’s the idea! These fleshy bodies of ours are always fighting it. Yet you want me to leave you now, hook up with Garnet, align with her so I might become valedictorian.”

  “It’s possible!”

  “And risk dying without even memories of you to help me through?” He looks at me like I’m the one who’s not making sense. “Or, in your vision, you think I’ll win the Big V and you’ll wake up. Only to what, Anne? Only to spend the rest of our lives worrying about being separated by car accidents, disease, plane crashes, cancer, global epidemics?—an endless list of forces driving us to the grave!”

  “Well, that’s life!”

  “No, that’s death. And that’s what we’re driving toward. So I’m done fighting it! Let’s die. Together.”

  His final words floor me.

  “Wait, you want me to die, too?”

  He looks guiltily at the floor. “The ethical dilemma of euthanasia.” His face, unaccustomed to fury, is still scarlet with the force of his outburst. “I think I should go softly into that good night this May. And you should die next May—”

  “The line is ‘do not go softly into that good night.’”

  “—and I’ll wait for you on the other side. And there, only there, we can always be together.”

  “So much for ‘it’s a wonderful life.’”

  “I know I sound like some suicidal weirdo, but I’m not. I’m being logical about this. It would be great to be alive with you in California. To take you on an actual date. To go for coffee and people-watch. To go back to our little apartment and be the big spoon to your little spoon.” He shifts like he’s physically trying to disconnect himself from the imaginary life he wanted us to have. “But my odds of winning the Big V are remarkably low, as are yours. You have an escape route, of course, in your coma. So I realize I’m asking for something huge from you, Anne. And I wouldn’t do it if I hadn’t spent these last months giving my every waking thought to it.”