Dead Spell

by Belinda Frisch

  “Where are you?” Jaxon’s tone hinted irritation.

  “What do you want, Jaxon?”

  “An explanation for starters.”

  “Maybe you should ask Rachael or Pete. Maybe they can clear it up for you.”

  “Rachael? That whole thing is over. It’s been over. We need to talk. Is this about what happened last night?”

  “What happened was a mistake.”

  Adam slipped a hand around Brea’s waist and kissed her neck. Brea held the phone away so Jaxon wouldn’t hear what was going on.

  “Brea, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I have to go.” The only sounds were the background noises that let her know he hadn’t hung up. “Hello, did you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  The sales clerk walked over.

  “Jaxon, I really have to go.” She hung up and refused to answer when he called right back.

  Adam took a long look at the black, granite headstone that was his first choice. “So, this one? You agree?”

  “Adam, I have to go back.”

  The clerk tugged the bottom of her navy blue blazer, obviously uncomfortable. “Should I come back in a minute?”

  “No, it’s fine. Go back to what, to him? He doesn’t get you, Brea. What happened to Harmony, what you’re dealing with—what we’re dealing with—makes us different in a way that he can’t understand.”

  “I really should…” The clerk started to back away and Adam held his hand up.

  “Just a minute, I swear.”

  “I’m not going back to him. I fought with my mother and I bolted on her last night. I have to show up or she’ll put an A.P.B. out on me. Will you take me back, please?”

  He nodded. “Just let me do the order and I’ll take you wherever you want to go, okay?”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you in the truck.”

  She waited low in the passenger’s seat where no one would see her and watched Adam sign the credit card slip for the clerk. She fixed her hair in the visor mirror and ran her tongue across her lips. They tasted like nicotine, like him; like a kiss that never should have happened, but that she couldn’t help wanting more of.

  He opened the driver’s door and climbed in.

  “Everything set?”

  “ It’s going to take a week or two for the engraving.” He handed her a familiar piece of crumpled blue paper. She unfolded it and read the short poem. “It’s hers. She wrote it. I’m having them engrave it.”

  “I liked this one.” She reached across the center console, took a Newport out of the pack in his shirt pocket, and pushed in the dashboard lighter. “For Harmony,” she said saluting with it.

  “Since when do you smoke?”

  She lit it and took her first drag. “Since now.” A few long puffs and she flicked the cherry out the window.

  “I think I like this bad girl thing you’ve got going on.”

  She couldn’t help thinking about what he felt like compared to Jaxon. “I think I do, too.” She crushed the cigarette out in the overfull ashtray and used the hand sanitizer stuffed in the door.

  The clean scent filled the truck. “That was Harmony’s. She hated the smell of a cigarette on her hands.”

  “I figured.”

  She waited until they were a block away from her house and told him to pull over.

  “What?”

  “Pull over, please. Here.” She pointed at the curb. “I can walk the rest of the way. If my mother sees your truck she’ll shit.”

  “She knows who I am?”

  “No, but your truck is enough for her to hate you.” She climbed down on to the running board and lingered, collecting her things.

  Adam watched, longingly. “I miss Harmony. I need you to know that.”

  She smiled. “And that might be the biggest thing we have in common.”

  26.

  Brea’s stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all day. She sat on the brown leather couch with a cup of Ramen and a Coke and put her feet up on the dark oak coffee table. Ellen was on T.V., Jaxon was ringing her cell phone.

  “Hello?” She twisted a noodle up and down the tines of her fork.

  “Why haven’t you answered my calls?”

  “Because I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “I’m sorry, okay. I should have handled that whole Adam thing better. It’s just that I’m…”

  “A jerk.” Brea heard a horn sound. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way to your house.”

  “That’s not a good idea.” The garage door lifted and she sat up to see her mom’s car pulling in. She sniffed her shirt and it smelled like stale cigarette and Adam’s cologne.

  “Shit.”

  She ran to her bedroom, tossed the clothes into her laundry basket, and changed into a pair of flannel pajama pants and a blue cami.

  “Hello?” Joan called up the stairs. “Brea? Are you home? We need to talk.”

  Another car door slammed and she looked outside. It was Jaxon’s.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Joan would never yell in front of him.

  Brea went downstairs and Joan was bringing in the last haul of groceries. She had two bunches of plastic bags dangling from each hand and Jaxon took them all.

  Joan tucked a red curl behind her ear. “I got a call from school today, Brea. Want to tell me what that was about?”

  Jaxon set the groceries on the kitchen floor and took an energy drink from his jacket pocket. “I had to go to three stores to get this.” He handed the can to Brea and sat down.

  “Well?”

  Brea stuffed a now cold noodle in her mouth, stalling. “I…”

  Jaxon interrupted. “It’s my fault, Mrs. Miller. She almost fainted in the hallway.”

  “Joan, please.”

  “Okay, Joan. I didn’t think she’d make it in the office. I mean, do you know how long they keep you there? She just wanted to get home. After how she was feeling last night…”

  “How were you feeling last night, Brea? I heard a bunch of noise in your room.”

  “I, uh, just felt sick. I think I ate something bad or something.”

  Joan set the back of her hand to Brea’s forehead. “You do feel a little warm. You probably got sick from being out in the cold without a coat.”

  “That’s a wives tale, mom.”

  “Still. Well, thanks for bringing her home, Jaxon.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Listen, I’m making ravioli for dinner tonight, Brea’s favorite. Will you stay?”

  “I’m not feeling up to dinner.” Brea crossed her arms over her stomach.

  “You felt up to Ramen noodles and…” Joan whiffed the air. “What is that smell?”

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Me either,” Jaxon said, but when Joan turned around made a motion like he was smoking an invisible cigarette.

  “So, you’ll stay?” Joan started putting away the groceries.

  “Love to, thanks.”

  “But …” Brea stopped before she even started. The look on Joan’s face warned her not to argue.

  * * * * *

  The oven timer beeped and Joan yelled up, “Dinner”.

  Brea and Jaxon were up in her room and had barely said three words to each other.

  “Before we go down there, will you at least tell me what I did wrong? I mean, what we did…”

  “…Should have never happened. I was stupid to think someone like you was for real.”

  “What does that mean ‘someone like me’?”

  Brea waved him off dismissively.

  “Come on, guys. Before it gets cold.”

  “We’re coming.”

  The dining room table Brea and her mother never ate at was set with the silver-inlaid china plates normally reserved for the holidays. The crisp, linen placemats were ironed flat and set on top of her great grandmother’s doily tablecloth.

  “Jaxon, you can sit he
re.” Joan set down an over-loaded plate. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “How about truth serum,” Brea muttered and both of them looked at her.

  “I’m fine, Joan. Thank you.”

  Joan set her and Brea’s plates down and bent her head and laced her fingers together to say grace. Brea shoveled the ravioli in two and three at a time. The faster the meal was over, the better. Jaxon waited for Joan to take a bite before starting eating and Brea was almost already done.

  “Is everything all right with you two?” Joan asked.

  “I think it’s a bug,” Jaxon said.

  “The bug up my ass, maybe,” said Brea.

  “Brea,” her mother snapped.

  “Oh, right. Very unladylike of me. Sorry.” She pushed the last ravioli around on her plate until it fell on to the heirloom tablecloth.

  Joan jumped up to get a cloth with cold water. “Really, Brea? That was Grandma Miller’s prized tablecloth.”

  She smashed the cheese-filled noodle into the table with her fork. “Who the hell has a prized tablecloth anyway?”

  Jaxon stood at his chair. “I don’t want to seem rude, but I don’t think Brea’s feeling up to company.”

  Brea stood, too. “Not your company, anyway.” She went to walk away and a pain in her stomach doubled her over. She fell to the floor, wailing.

  “Brea!” Jaxon went to help her and his face turned sheet white, his body rigid. He looked terrified and a wide, wet pool appeared on the front of his pants. He grabbed at his throat and then fell to his knees, choking.

  Joan ran frantically between them, unable to triage. “Brea, Jaxon, what’s going on? What’s happening?” She dialed 9-1-1 and dropped the phone.

  Brea’s eyes rolled back and a familiar chill closed in around her. “Mom, help me.”

  Jaxon was holding his throat and turning bluish-purple. Joan stood behind him thrusting her interlaced hands in a sort of awkward Heimlich.

  “Mom, please.”

  Jaxon heaved and covered the floor with a colorful heap of undigested food. “I have to…” His cheeks swelled as his mouth filled again.

  Brea was on her side, gasping for air. Joan went to her and swept her mouth for food, but found nothing.

  Jaxon ran out of the house, vomiting in the bushes by the front door. He got in his car and drove away like something was chasing him.

  “Hold on, Brea.” Joan cradled her. “Hang on, baby.”

  “6 Maple,” Brea whispered and Joan nearly dropped her.

  27.

  “What did you say?” Joan asked.

  Brea had finally caught a breath. She huffed and panted and was in the fetal position, crying. She tried to answer, but couldn’t. She coughed, closing her hands around her aching throat. It felt like someone had tried to crush her windpipe.

  “Brea, what did you say?”

  Brea could see her mother’s panic and shook her head that she didn’t remember.

  The ambulance siren cut off when it pulled into their driveway. The front door was still open from Jaxon’s hasty exit and a blur of navy blue jumpsuits came through it and scurried around her.

  The first medic, a gray haired, overweight man with ruddy cheeks and an exaggerated nose bent down next to Brea. “What’s her name?” He asked Joan. His breath smelled like mouthwash and garlic.

  “Brea. Her name’s Brea.” Joan wiped her tears with the tissue he handed her.

  Brea blinked slowly, her vision alternating between hazy and clear.

  The medics rolled her on to her back and pulled her legs straight. “Brea, I need you to open your mouth.” She felt a gloved finger probing her tongue and the back of her throat. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I don’t know. I guess, I guess she must’ve choked. They both just started choking.”

  “They both? Is someone else here ma’am?”

  Brea was breathing normally, but was exhausted and dazed like an epileptic after a seizure.

  “Ma’am?”

  “No. No one else is here.”

  “I’m fine,” Brea slurred. She pushed up on her elbows and nearly fell over.

  “Whoa, not so fast.” The older medic caught her before she hit her head on the leg of the chair. “Check her vitals again.”

  The second medic ran another set of vitals. “Blood pressure, pulse, vitals, pupillary response all normal.”

  Brea turned her head away from him. “I’m okay,” she repeated. “I’m fine. Just a little nauseous.”

  Joan hugged her and rested her lips on top of her head. “She feels cool again.”

  “Was she running a fever?” The younger medic filled out a pre-hospital care report in triplicate on a large, metal clipboard.

  “I didn’t check her temperature, but she felt warm before dinner.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital, Mom, please.”

  Joan looked to the medics for their opinion.

  “Everything looks fine,” the older one said. “I’d say it’s safe to follow up with her primary care physician. Please sign here.” He handed her the clipboard and she signed the report.

  “Brea, are you sure? They’re already here. They can take you, just in case something happens again.”

  “I’m sure. I just want to go to bed.”

  Joan helped her to her feet.

  “I guess she’ll stay here, then.”

  The medics nodded and after Joan thanked them, they left.

  Joan helped Brea upstairs and tucked her in.

  The cool pillowcase on her cheek and the weight of the down blanket were comforting and she curled up, wrapping it tightly around her.

  Joan turned the blinds to darken the room and went into her bedroom. “Call me if you need anything.”

  Brea closed her eyes and left herself drift. Joan’s voice was low and distant, but Brea swore she was calling her father.

  * * * * *

  A little girl’s whisper echoed in the near-darkness. “Help me.”

  Brea found herself in a bedroom that wasn’t hers, disoriented by unfamiliar dream surroundings and struggling to get her bearings. She crawled out from underneath the Strawberry Shortcake sheets and tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress her fear.

  “It’s just a dream, Brea. You’re dreaming,” she told herself, but something felt very wrong.

  The moon cast long shadows across the pink carpet. The room was small, but neat, and full of toys. The sounds of loud music and adults laughing—a party, maybe—came through the closed door.

  Brea looked for the child.

  “Hello,” she whispered. “Little girl?”

  The heavy, rhythmic footfall of boots on hardwood echoed outside in the hall.

  “Hello?” Brea repeated.

  A floorboard creaked and the door knob turned.

  Brea scampered across the floor and climbed into the cabinet of a large built-in bookcase. The only light was the sliver shining in from the hallway through the cabinet door’s slight opening. A little girl in footie pajamas was curled up next to her, hiding her face behind a tangled mess of dark hair.

  “It’s okay.” Brea swept the hair behind the little girl’s shoulders and saw her face splattered with blood.

  “Oh my God, are you hurt?” She looked all over the little girl’s head and face, but there was no obvious source of the bleeding.

  “Help me.”

  There was a loud bang, a woman crying, and another bang. Brea’s ears ached, taken over by a kind of magnified tinnitus that spread through her face to her eyes, blurring her vision. Her heart thudded, threatening to break through her sternum and her hands shook uncontrollably.

  “Little girl? Where are you? Little girl, can you hear me?” She fought through the haze, feeling around for a child that was gone.

  28.

  After the nightmare, Brea didn’t sleep. She refused Jaxon’s offer to drive her to school and went in on the bus, unshowered, dazed, and in the clothes she’d slept in.

  The third p
eriod bell rang and she was momentarily lost, sitting in her seat in Algebra. It was the second noticeable memory gap in two days.

  “Brea,” Mr. Marks waved a hand in front of her face, “Brea?”

  She blinked and focused on his wedding band. “Sorry, what?”

  “I’ve been calling your name.” He scratched the side of his considerable neck. “Are you okay?”

  Mr. Marks was a heavy man, almost four hundred pounds, she guessed.

  Brea looked down and saw two rings of sweat pooled under either armpit. “I’m fine.” She put her head in hands. “I’m …so…tired.”

  Amanda, one of Rachael’s friends, laughed. “Nutcase is really losing it.”

  “Mr. Marks bent over to talk to her. “I can have someone help you down to the nurse if you need it.”

  “I’m fine. Can we please start class?”

  “Ok, then.” He shuffled up the aisle and erased the right hand side of the board. “Please open your books to page 116. We’re going to review solving mixed equations.”

  He wrote out the first problem and the chalk sound was torture. Brea held her hands over her ears, trying not to be noticed. The numbers were a blur. Mr. Marks was a blur.

  “Help me,” a voice whispered. “Help me.”

  “Did you hear that?” Brea turned around to Amanda, her eyes wide open.

  “Mr. Marks, I don’t think the school nurse is equipped to handle this kind of mental health crisis,” Amanda said.

  “Brea, I asked you if you were all right. I need you to settle down.” Any other teacher would have thrown her out, but not Mr. Marks. He was a three-strikes kind of guy.

  “Help me.” The voice came again and this time Brea stood and slapped both of her hands on Amanda’s desk

  “Tell me you didn’t hear that.”

  Amanda cowered. “Come on, Mr. Marks. She’s scaring me.”

  Mr. Marks huffed and picked up a new piece of chalk. “Brea, sit down or you’re going to the office.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m…” The room went out of focus and she all but fell into her chair. She tried staring at his bright red tie, hoping that would ground her. “It’s fine,” she muttered. “It’s going to be fine.”