by Rio Youers
“Edith? You awake?”
The bedclothes shuffled and Edith sat up, her eyes bright and owl-like in the glow of the nightlight. She clutched Paisley Rabbit to her breast. He squeaked companionably. She was too old for Paisley, but he made an appearance every now and then. A comfort thing.
“They’re talking about us again,” Shirley said, and perched on the edge of Edith’s bed. “About you, mostly.”
“What are they saying?”
“That thing in Buffalo. The bomb. They think you saw it in your mind before it happened in real life.”
“Oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“How much do you remember?”
“Nothing really.” Several shallow lines crossed Edith’s brow. “Just … flashes. Like trying to remember a dream.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds coming from the other side of the blinds: the traffic coursing along Melon Road, a radio playing some catchy nerd-rock song, older kids shooting hoops beneath the lights in Oval Park Court. Just another cool spring evening in Flint Wood, New York.
“They’re worried about us.” Shirley looked at the wall where Edith had scrawled her symbols. Nothing there now but the fresh-paint tracks Dad had made with the roller. “Mom’s bringing in help. A specialist.”
“The Star Wars guy?”
“Not this time. It’ll be someone different.” She recalled her mom’s description. “Someone sympathetic.”
Edith gathered Paisley a little closer. She appeared to take all this on board, and accept it, then her brow furrowed more deeply and her upper lip quivered, and all at once her face scrunched. Tears jumped from her eyes and she used Paisley’s floppy ears to smudge them away.
“It’s not my fault,” she sniveled, trying to keep her voice down. “I didn’t ask for this.”
Shirley shuffled closer, threw an arm around her little sister, and kissed her clumsily on the cheek. “Shhh … hey, I never said it was your fault.”
“You’re mad at me. I can tell.”
“No, it’s just … I told you, Ede, I can’t hold your hand anymore. Not up here.” Shirley pressed a finger to her forehead. “I thought I was helping you, but I’m not. I’m making things worse.”
“I was scared,” Edith moaned, mopping more tears away. “I know you said not to, and I tried, but it was too big.”
“Yeah, but we freaked Mom and Dad the hell out. They’re bringing in a specialist. There’ll be questions, examinations. I’m worried it’ll lead to more questions—smelly old men in suits digging through your brain.”
Edith’s jaw fell. “You think?’
“Maybe,” Shirley said. “This thing … it’s not natural, Ede. It scares people.”
“It scares me.”
“Right, which is why you need to control it. And I’m going to help you.” Shirley touched her forehead again. “Just not up here.”
A barking dog joined the evening chorus. It was loud and insistent. Shirley listened for a moment, lost in thought.
“I’m going to take you somewhere over the weekend,” she said.
Edith looked at her curiously. “Where?”
“My special place.” Shirley leaned closer, lowering her voice. “But don’t tell Mom and Dad. We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“Okay.”
Shirley smiled. Not a full smile, certainly not a happy one, but better than nothing. She kissed her sister on the cheek again, then stood up and started toward the door.
“Shirl?”
She stopped, turned around. Maybe it was the way Edith’s eyes shimmered in the nightlight’s bluish glow, or the stuffed toy secured faithfully in her arms, but she looked so young. Five years old, not ten.
“This place,” Edith said. “Is it bad?”
Shirley bristled. She tried to keep her voice even, but it quavered just a little. “You need to stay out of my mind, Ede.”
Edith shook her head. “I didn’t, Shirl. I promise. I…” The rabbit in her arms squeaked. “I didn’t.”
“Do you trust me?”
“You know I do.” Edith dabbed at her eyes again. “I love you.”
The kids on the court whooped and cheered—one of the them must have sunk a three-pointer. A truck boomed as it crossed the railroad tracks near Abraham Heights and one of their neighbors shouted to quit that goddamn dog barking.
4
Shirley told their mom they were going to Claudette’s house to watch the new Five Factor video on YouTube, which was true, but what she didn’t say was that she and Edith would be taking an alternate route there.
“It feels like lying,” Edith said.
“It’s not lying,” Shirley insisted, starting across Melon Road with Edith half a step behind. “It’s just not the whole truth.”
“But Mom said to go straight there and come straight back. And to call before we leave.”
“We’re taking a detour, that’s all, and we will call before we leave. Now stop bitching. This is important.”
They walked until they were out of their house’s sightline (had to assume Mom was watching from Edith’s bedroom window, which afforded a good view of Melon Road) before beginning their detour. With a quick glance over her shoulder, Shirley cut through Oval Park Court and across the Bargain Tire parking lot. Edith followed, biting her lip, her chest all bunched up. What if someone saw them? Their mom was a teacher at Flint Wood High. Everybody knew her. All it would take was one person. Hey, I saw your girls outside Bargain Tire on Saturday. They looked to be in an awful hurry. Edith groaned, imagining the punishment. Grounded, for sure. No screen time for a week. Worst of all, Mom and Dad would be ashamed of them—ashamed for lying. Maybe Shirley wasn’t fazed by that, but just the thought of it broke Edith’s heart.
She faltered, then stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Shirley asked.
“Are you sure about this?” Edith looked at her older sister, one hand raised to shield the afternoon sunlight. “What if Mom finds out? What if she calls Claudette’s house and we’re not there?”
“That’s a chance we have to take.”
“Why? What’s so special about this place?”
“It’s going to help you.”
“How?”
“Enough with the questions. Ugh.” Shirley rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. “Listen, even if Mom finds out, even if we’re grounded for a year, it’ll be worth it. You want the bad things to go away, right?”
Edith nodded.
“Then come on. And no more questions.”
Shirley swiveled on her heels, carried on walking. Edith puffed out her cheeks and followed.
* * *
They walked along Peter Avenue and through the new subdivision. There was still building going on and in places the ground was muddy. Evidence, Edith thought, frowning at the brownish gloop on her very white sneakers. “We have to cross a creek later on,” Shirley said, looking at the mud on her own shoes. “The worst of it will come off then.” Edith nodded, but wondered where they were going that they had to cross a creek. There were no creeks in Flint Wood, not that she knew of. Beacon River rolled through downtown, but that was too deep to cross—unless, of course, they wanted to get more than their sneakers wet. There were numerous creeks and ponds in the deep country beyond the town proper. In this part of upstate New York—eighteen miles south of Syracuse—they wouldn’t have to journey far to find fresh water. The direction they were heading—west, toward Barrow Farm and Judd’s Gas Stop—they’d hit the edge of town in a mile or so. Not crazy far, Edith thought, but perhaps a little too far for two girls who’d told their mom they were playing at a friend’s house five blocks away.
Makers Bridge spanned the Beacon, which glimmered serenely in the April sunshine. Swan Park was on the other side, where children chased and howled, spilling joy like water. Edith looked at the swings longingly, but Shirley said they didn’t have time. Edith compromised with a quick zip down the slide, then caught up with Shirley, who’d kept
walking. After crossing Church Street, they skirted the baseball diamonds, and from there passed into the cool shade of Spruce Forest, a part of the broader, often rugged woodland that gave the town its name.
“Your special place is in the woods?” Edith asked, snagging Shirley’s T-shirt more firmly than she’d intended.
“Relax. It’s on the other side.” Shirley took a breath and wiped her brow. “We’ll get there quicker by cutting through.”
The woods were dappled with flecks of olive and bronze, punctuated by spokes of sunlight that angled through the dense canopy. Birdsong rang throughout and the understory rippled with life—chipmunks, mostly, although they saw an alarmingly plump garter snake that slithered into the foliage like a pulled thread. Edith and Shirley trooped on. Only once did they let their sense of adventure overtake them: Shirley made horns out of pinecones and chased Edith through the trees. They circled and squealed, loud as mockingbirds. “I’m the devil,” Shirley announced gleefully. “I’m coming for your sooooooooul.” The girls broke from the forest line breathless and giggling, then descended a shallow bank splashed with dandelions. Here was the creek, narrow and almost blue. They kicked off their sneakers and washed the mud from them, then crossed the water, getting only the cuffs of their jeans wet. They ascended the adjacent bank still barefoot and looked across a rutted field to the outskirts of Barrow Farm.
“We’re a long way from home,” Edith said, slipping into her sneakers. “Mom’s going to find out, you wait and see. And she’s going to be so mad.”
They made their way across the field, then slipped between the rails of a decrepit fence and stood for a moment assessing the scene. Beyond them, an empty barn loomed pale and bonelike, its uneven shadow spewed across a bleak, unwelcoming yard.
Edith reached for Shirley’s hand—for real, not in her mind—and held tight.
“Is this it?” she asked.
“No,” Shirley said. “But we’re close.”
* * *
When Edith was five she had a feverish dream in which a man named Cobb beat his wife with a broken chair leg and then set fire to his house. He went outside, sat on the tailgate of his truck, and sipped a Bud while his wife and three children suffocated on black smoke and died before the flames reached their bodies. Except it wasn’t a dream. Edith had been awake, staring into a terrible window that had opened between her bed and the ceiling. She saw the mesmerizing orange flames lick across the sofa and catch the drapes; saw Cobb’s wife splutter and hack and die in a kneeling position; heard Cobb’s children make similar noises and bounce their small fists off the walls. There wasn’t even enough oxygen to scream. Edith screamed, though. She screamed loud enough for everybody, terrified that she would somehow tumble upward through the window and land in the middle of the blazing living room, or that the flames would roll like horrible waves into her world and blacken everything she loved. Mom and Dad reached her before either of these nightmarish fates came to pass. “Thomas,” Edith gasped. This was one of the children’s names. He was three years old and his small lungs had choked out first. “Fire … Broom … Spinner.” The images eventually faded and the window closed. Edith succumbed to sleep with her heart still dashing. Mom slept with her, curled close enough to pair their dreams.
If they’d lived in Alabama instead of upstate New York, Edith’s parents would almost certainly have seen it on the news: FOUR DEAD IN SPINNER HOUSE FIRE. They’d have heard how Molson Cobb, thirty-seven, faced four counts of manslaughter after setting fire to his house with his family still inside. They would have seen Spinner police chief Ernie Broom burst into tears during his press conference and promise—with a globule of snot hanging off his lip—a swift and godless reprisal. But, one thousand miles away, what they got was the tragic death of a former SU quarterback and the shooting of an Auburn police officer during a routine traffic stop and postseason baseball scores.
Over the next four months, Edith saw a helicopter crash in the icy peaks of Colorado, a propane explosion at a sheet metal factory in Montreal, and an EF4 tornado that turned the town of Reed Valley, Florida, upside down. Edith’s parents saw this latter event on the news—it was big news, impossible to miss—a week or so later, but didn’t associate it with Edith’s nightmare-like ramblings.
Their family doctor recommended an established, comfortable bedtime routine, but that was the best she could do in terms of a remedy. With the episodes persisting, Edith’s parents spent the next two years seeking second, third, and fourth opinions from specialists, and were continuously assured there was nothing wrong with Edith’s brain, that the night terrors were possibly stress-related, and that they’d have to endure some ugly nights until Edith outgrew them. After trying various treatments they found online—all to no avail—they decided to take an alternative approach.
The hypnotherapist’s name was Rafe Caine. (“I know, huh?” he’d remarked excitedly to Edith’s parents. “It’s like a Galactic Empire name.”) During the initial assessment, Rafe asked Edith about home and school, not in a doctorly—or even a teacherly—way, but more like a big brother. He then asked Edith to list the things that made her anxious, followed by the things that made her happy. The assessment concluded with Rafe using his Star Wars figures to depict a galactic battle between Edith’s happiness (the Alliance) and her anxiety (the Empire). Edith’s happiness won, of course, when Princess Leia shot Darth Vader off the bookshelf with her blaster pistol.
Edith came into her follow-up session completely relaxed, which was good because Rafe put her to sleep right away. It wasn’t real sleep, with snoring and dreaming. More like a daydream. Edith’s eyes were open, but she felt detached. Floaty was how she’d described it to her parents later that day. She lay on a comfortable couch and stared at a soft light focused on an otherwise dark ceiling. Rafe’s voice was the only sound in the room.
He told Edith—and her mom, who sat silently in the corner—that going to sleep was like a journey through space, made up of different stages. Pavor nocturnus, he said, or night terrors, occurred during the third stage of non-REM sleep, when the brain was throwing out delta waves and the body had started recuperating from the rigors of the day. “It was,” he added after a dramatic pause, “the perfect time to strike.”
In his softer, big-brotherly tone, and to Edith directly, he said, “You are in control of your journey. You are aware of your surroundings. Your breathing and heart rate have slowed all the way down, but at any point you can turn your ship around or hyperspace to another part of the galaxy. You can even radio for backup. That’s right, you’re not alone. When the threat is near—when you feel it within your airspace—you will visualize your alliance. It may be your mom, or Zelda from school, or—”
“Shirley,” Edith whispered.
“Or Shirley, yes. Your big sister. The perfect alliance. Visualize her, Edith. Sorry—Captain Lovegrove. See her hair and eyes, and the way she smiles. See the shape of her eyebrows and—”
“She’s thirteen,” Edith said. “That makes her a teenager.”
“Yes it does. Good girl. See how tall she is. Hear her voice. See what she’s wearing and—”
“Freckles like mine.”
“Good. Yes. She’s so close you can see her freckles. You can hold her hand. And when you do—when you reach for it—the threat will retreat. This is the power of your alliance. Visualize it. Reach for it. Use it.”
Edith had three similar hypnotherapy sessions over the course of six weeks, training her mind to become aware of her sleep patterns and either wake up before the night terror landed, or to visualize an emblem of support and reach for it. Of course, nobody suspected the issue might be paranormal in nature, or that Rafe’s method was successful only because of Edith’s ability to go beyond visualization.
She’d first “reached” Shirley a week after her final session. The window had yawned with a mad, rusty sound and Edith saw a silver passenger train with the words CONNECT VALLEY stenciled on every carriage in happy blue letters. The
train wasn’t happy, though. It clattered and howled. Reflections blurred across the windows: of trees and mossy embankments and a milky strip of river. The air smelled of oil and rain.
She sat up in bed, eyes wide open. Rafe’s big-brotherly voice drifted at the edge of her subconscious: When the threat is near—when you feel it within your airspace—you will visualize your alliance.
Edith looked beyond the window. She looked for Shirley.
See her hair and eyes, and the way she smiles.
Brakes blew with an explosive hiss and smoke frothed from beneath the locomotive. It thundered into a bend that paralleled a natural curve in the landscape, where coniferous trees towered out of sight and jags of rock announced themselves in variants of gray. The locomotive made it through and so did the second carriage. The third, fourth, and fifth carriages derailed in a blink. They skated on their sides and flipped, then met with the rocks and trees and obliterated.
Edith came close to screaming but pushed it back with everything she had. She closed her eyes but the window was still there, a shimmering, flexing screen powered by some exceptional energy in her brain. She could turn away and it would turn with her. She could run from the room and it would follow. Her skull throbbed. Her heart was a relentless gun. She saw pieces like so many broken plates and burning trees and survivors crawling through the wreckage. Some of them screamed and some died as she watched. She saw a severed leg and a shocked, trembling child and a man holding a dead woman like he meant to dance with her.
The thinnest vein of logic occurred to Edith: that she could draw the images from her head—that by transposing them to paper, or even to the wall, they would lose their vitality and the window would close. She would have tried it, too, if she hadn’t seen the shocked child again and noted the freckles splashed across her cheeks. They were so like her own freckles. So like Shirley’s.
Edith felt it then. Something deep inside her brain either connected or disconnected—it was difficult to tell—and in the next instant Shirley was there, as clear as the window but a safe distance from it. Shirley, her alliance, with her freckles and blue eyes, her lips of a particular shape and her sisterly hand reaching.
