The Distance Between Stars

by Nicole Conway

  Blah. Blah. Blah. I'd heard this speech before. As she began to ramble about my moral responsibility and how delicate I was and how my body couldn't withstand another incident, I let my mind wander elsewhere.

  These days, it always seemed to find its way back to Joseph.

  I wanted to see him. To stand in front of him. To touch him. I couldn't remember the last time I'd touched another human being, let alone a man. And he was …

  Well, he was many, many things.

  The more that tiny idea seeded in my mind, the more obsessed with it I became. I was going to find a way to see him. But I had to be careful. I had to plan out every detail. And I needed more information.

  "What have I told you about leaving the curtains open!" Mrs. Pearce thundered loudly as she snatched my drapes closed. A deeper, heavier darkness engulfed the room.

  "It's overcast, I'm hardly in any danger. It's the dreariest day in months.” I put up a weak defense. When I first moved in, my father had special glass panes placed in most of the second story windows. Supposedly they would block UV rays, making it safe for me to look out. Only the windows on my tower hadn’t been changed out, and I could only assume that was because they faced the street. Someone might see me. My father wouldn’t stand for that.

  Mrs. Pearce didn’t like leaving any of them uncovered, though. She flashed me furious glares as she went around to all the windows in my room, tying the drapes closed.

  "I want to see the storms,” I murmured.

  "So you can open the window and let the rain in again?" she snapped.

  "I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel something." I couldn't keep the tremor of desperation from my voice.

  Her gaze softened. "I know this isn't easy for you, Beverly … "

  "You understand nothing," I hissed back at her. "Just get out. Leave me alone."

  Her expression tightened like she might snap back. But she must've thought better of it. She was my caretaker. My warden. But she wasn't my mother. Father had hired her to keep me alive, which inevitably made her my enemy.

  To be clear though, I didn't hate her. She was a victim of poor luck and circumstance, the same as I was. I'm sure she would have preferred a job terrorizing someone else that might actually listen to her. We were both trapped here now, prisoners in the dark.

  I waited until I heard her lock the door and retreat down the steps of my tower before I pulled Joseph's notebook out of my pillowcase and ran my fingers over the pages. I was going to see him. Somehow, I would. But until then, I owed him an answer.

  I owed him explanation.

  11

  SUPERNOVA

  —Joseph—

  I waited until I got to the cafe, seated in my usual place with my usual dinner of a burger and beer, before I read Beverly's response. I'd only glimpsed it on my way out the door. It was lengthy, so I decided not to chance reading it where Pearce or Rhonda might catch me.

  Better safe than sorry.

  I opened the notebook and gnawed on the end of my pen. My heart was racing and my palms were sweaty. My foot tapped, and I shifted around in my chair.

  Nervous? Hell yeah.

  I couldn't understand why except that this was the first real conversation I'd had with a girl since … well, since before I'd joined the Army. I didn't want to screw it up.

  Joseph,

  I was dancing before I was walking. That's what my mother used to tell me. She had me when she was a teenager. I was the result of an affair, or so I came to realize later. My father was a wealthy entrepreneur, and she was a temporary assistant assigned to him by a hotel while he was on a business trip. They only worked together a few weeks.

  My father knew I existed. My mother informed him immediately after I was born. But she kept our location secret and insisted she wanted nothing from him. It wasn't in her nature to beg for anything and my father had a wife and family of his own. I suppose she didn't want to hurt any of them. Sometimes I wish that she had.

  I began taking dancing lessons when I was three. My mother couldn't afford the leotards so she made them herself or altered those she could find at thrift stores. It took her months to save up to buy me new dance shoes, so the ones I had were often kept alive with duct tape and prayers.

  But I danced.

  I won't bore you with all the frivolous details. I realize the intricacies of the brutal world of the performing arts is lost on most people. But to dance as I did is to suffer. To practice for countless days and nights, to sweat and bleed and starve, all for that moment when the curtain rolls back, the lights glisten off the misty, dreaming eyes of the crowd, and the music begins. I danced with the New York City Ballet as one of their finest, prized performers at the age of 15. I was untouchable, a symbol of perfection that others aspired to.

  That was when my father first acknowledged that I existed. And also when he challenged my mother for custody. He won, of course. He could afford an entire legion of lawyers. My mother was forced to let me go.

  I wish I had fought harder to stay with her. I haven't seen her since that day in court. My father doesn’t allow me to see her.

  I could fill this notebook with how leaving her made me feel. But I can sum it up with one line.

  I hate my father.

  He presented me to his circle of friends and colleagues as his diamond in the rough, his lost princess that he'd spent all these years searching for. He lied through his wicked teeth. Never once had he looked for me.

  I danced until I turned 18. It was right after my birthday. I was going to perform in a Christmas Showcase of George Balanchine's The Nutcracker. I had been awarded the leading role and had been practicing for months. I was in my prime, dancing far better than I ever had in my life with nothing else to distract me.

  But that night, at the opening performance, something happened. I'd been feeling nauseous and faint all day—I had assumed it was because of nerves.

  But it wasn't.

  I was diagnosed with solar urticaria. It's a complicated, unpredictable condition most easily described as an allergy to ultraviolet light. Mine was an extreme case. The most extreme the doctors had ever seen, actually. Sunlight, light bulbs, anything that emits ultraviolet light causes me to break out in horrific hives, my body to swell, and I inevitably go into anaphylactic shock. If left without treatment I will die from exposure.

  At first, I was determined to endure. I tried all manner of medications and therapies. But ultimately nothing helped. The best the doctors could guess is that stress on my body had somehow triggered it. The condition might improve. But then again, it might not. I might be a vampire forever, hiding from the bright places in the world. Places I'd once brutalized myself through hours of agonizing training to stand in.

  I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. I suppose I just want you to understand. I want someone to know I still exist.

  P.S. Thank you for leaving the vines. Do you think you could plant a cherry tree under my window? The ones with pink blossoms in the spring?

  P.S.S. Why haven't you learned sign language?

  12

  120 MINUTES

  —Joseph—

  Once again, I found myself sitting in the cafe as it was closing.

  Beverly's last page of notes were spread out before me, the pen ready in my hand, but every time I went to write an answer my hand refused to budge.

  I gave up after the waitress came around to collect my tab and dishes. On the drive back to Jacob's place, the scene Beverly described in her note kept playing over and over again in my head. I'd never heard of anyone being allergic to the sunlight before. And I couldn't imagine having to live that way, in darkness and shadows.

  There was more I wanted to ask her. Why didn't she come downstairs? Couldn't she go out at night? How long had she been living this way?

  So many questions.

  I didn't feel right about asking any of them. Beverly had bared her soul to me. Now I was supposed to reciprocate. The more I asked, the deeper I delved into who s
he was, the more I would owe her in return.

  I didn’t like owing people anything.

  The house was quiet and dark when I arrived. I made my way back to my room, took a shower, and settled in my bed with my notebook propped against my knee to try again.

  If I learn ASL, I'm admitting that this is it for me. That I'm going to be this way forever. That I'll never get better. I'm not ready to accept that yet.

  There it was. The truth. Something else I had never told anyone before.

  It surprised me how liberating it felt, to put that down for someone else to read, like a weight that had been resting on my shoulders so long I'd forgotten it was there suddenly lifted.

  I took a deep breath.

  I don't know what Pearce has told you about me. I think she's afraid of me a little. It’s fine, though. I get it. Once people find out what happened to me, they act weird. Even my parents are that way now.

  I was a solider. I served in the United States Army for almost five years. I joined right out of high school. Marched my dumb butt right into the recruiter's office the day after graduation on a dare. I did two tours, one in Iraq and the other in Afghanistan. Broke my mother's heart both times.

  Two months out from when I was supposed to return home, I was in a truck convoy moving men and supplies. We got hit by an IED. No matter how much time goes by, the memories never get any hazier. I still remember clearly the smell of fuel and burning rubber, the sounds of metal being torn apart like paper and the roar of flames.

  I was thrown from the truck on impact, broke twelve bones including both legs, my pelvis, my back, and one arm. I broke bones I didn't even know I had. I'd burst an eardrum, collapsed a lung, and had a concussion.

  I stayed conscious after I hit the ground, but I couldn’t move. I was lying on my side, less than a hundred yards away, looking right at the upturned trucks. I watched one of my friends, a guy I had known since boot camp, burn alive. He was pinned under the debris. Sometimes at night, I can still hear him screaming.

  Now I know things I wish I didn't. I know it takes a long time for someone to burn to death. I know what sounds they make when they realize they're going to die. I know it takes help hours to arrive, and those hours are like an eternity.

  I know I'll never be right again.

  When I woke up in the infirmary, I couldn't talk. They said it was most likely a side effect of PTSD. This was my brain's way of dealing with the trauma. They said I might recover, if I worked hard in therapy. They said it was up to me how much I was able to improve.

  Up to me, like I had done this to myself.

  I was medically discharged and sent home. I guess if I had done anything heroic, I would have gotten a medal. But there's nothing heroic about laying there watching your buddies die.

  My family doesn't know what to do with me now. I don't blame them. I don't know what to do with myself either. I get so tired of hearing the word "normal," like it's a standard I can achieve if I try hard enough.

  Mostly, I'm tired, Bev. So, so tired.

  13

  VOYAGER 1

  —Joseph—

  "Sign here and initial here and here." The little saleslady beamed like she was proud of me. "I'll go ahead and get everything set up for you!”

  I managed to smile back. She'd done a good job, all things considered. I'm sure I wasn't her usual clientele. But she'd brought out a white erase board and after an hour or so, we had worked out what kind of phone and plan I could afford.

  I didn't need much. I couldn't exactly talk to anyone on it, right? But texting might be useful and my hope was this would make my family feel better about my living on my own.

  I knew they would view this as progress, even if I never used the thing.

  I left the store with a plain flip phone I could pay monthly to put minutes and data on. I didn't need anything complicated. Technology wasn't my thing. But at least now I had a number I could put on my apartment tenancy applications. Score one for team Joe.

  I was on lunch break. I'd asked Pearce for some extra time so I could run a few personal errands before going to the hardware store to pick up her tile order. I guess she was warming up to me a little because she agreed without even looking up from her morning paper.

  Honestly, though, I was giving myself some extra time to read Beverly's response. I hadn't even looked to see how long it was yet ’cause, frankly, I was scared shitless.

  I was getting real personal with this girl—a girl I'd never seen in person. She already knew more about me than my own parents. And we'd been swapping notes for, what, a few days?

  After pulling through a fast food joint for a chicken sandwich, I backed up to the loading area at the hardware store and let the workers pack box after box of tile into the bed of my truck. I unwrapped my sandwich and watched in the rear view mirror. Every box made the cab lurch. The house had about eight bathrooms. It was going to take a hell of a lot of tile.

  With a cheek full of food, I took out my notebook. I told myself my hands were shaking because it was an unusually chilly morning and I had the windows rolled down.

  Yeah. That's it. I was just cold.

  I flipped to the last page, searching for lines written in her elegant script. My insides were squirming around because, uh, well, I must have been eating too much greasy food or something.

  I wish I could see you up close.

  That was it.

  But that was plenty.

  I sat in the cab of my truck, chewing on the same bite of sandwich for about five minutes while I read that line over and over. Each time, a fire grew in my gut. A desire. A mission.

  I wanted to see her, too.

  No, I needed to see her. As soon as possible.

  I closed the notebook and let my forehead rest against the steering wheel. This was going to involve breaking some of Pearce's rules. That meant putting my job at risk, which meant putting my whole livelihood at risk, too. No job, no money. No money, no apartment. No apartment, and I'd be sleeping on the curb.

  Well, shit.

  I heard the tailgate slam and one of the workers patted the side of my truck. Loading was finished. Time to go back.

  I sat up and looked down at the notebook again. There might as well have been a whole galaxy in between us.

  This was it. Decision time.

  I grabbed the notebook and uncapped my pen. I jotted down a reply before I could talk any sense into myself. Do first, think later. That had basically always been my life's philosophy.

  I want to see you, too. Tell me how to make it happen.

  14

  VOYAGER 2

  —Joseph—

  He wanted to see me.

  I squeezed the notebook between my palms and pressed my lips to it.

  I didn't know how I could make that happen, but I would figure it out. I was the only one who could. I knew every nook and cranny in this house. I knew Mrs. Pearce's schedule inside and out. She seldom deviated from her painfully predictable routine.

  It wasn't going to be easy though.

  Holding the notebook against my chest, I paced the floor in front of my large, four-post canopy bed. My mind was a steel trap, going over every second of our daily routine and looking for any margin of error where I could see him, even for a minute.

  Mrs. Pearce lived to prevent this sort of thing. It was her whole purpose in being here—to keep me contained, the way my father wanted. He controlled everything in my life with her as his proxy.

  Apart from the battered little notebook in my hands, I had no way of contacting the outside world. No cell phone. No computer. No outings. No visits with anyone unless pre-approved by my father. Limited television for only a set amount of time daily, and only programs he deemed acceptable.

  I could still practice dancing, and I did on most days. I was miles from any kind of spotlight, my wings shattered beyond repair, but I still loved the feeling. It was like living out a memory, and it helped to pass the time. I could also do puzzles, paint, draw, or read
to my heart's content, but those things no longer filled the void in my soul.

  That was a void only the warmth of human contact could fill.

  I flopped down onto the fluffy lambskin rug at the foot of my bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was a brighter day outside, so the drapes were drawn. Even so, the faint glow of light that managed to squeeze past the thick curtains cast heavy shadows on the wooden beams overhead.

  I heard Joseph working outside.

  I knew his sounds now without having to see him. He was still grooming the vines outside the tower. The plants had grown so tall and wild you could only see the tall wooden trellis peeking through in the winter when the vines shed their leaves. There was an ancient stone birdbath at the base as well, but it has been swallowed by the overgrowth.

  I looked around at the walls in my room. Only on days like today could you see the paintings. I'd drawn on all my walls scenes from my memories, my favorite moments in time. Having them surround me made it seem like I could step into my own past. I imagined myself like a fish in a tropical aquarium, trapped in a box and forced to look at mere pictures of the wide, beautiful ocean taped against the glass.

  My world had been beautiful, too.

  Paris on the night of my first international performance, the Eiffel Tower lit like a pinnacle of stars.

  The Jefferson Memorial in spring, bathed in a snow of pink cherry blossoms, where my mother and I used to go for picnics.

  The fields of soft, buttery yellow daffodils outside the capital. I could see them from the window of my old ballet studio, like a distant carpet of gold.

  I only had one wall left blank. I'd left it dark, simply because I'd run out of good memories to paint.

  But now …

  I sat up and went to my box of paints and brushes. The light was perfect today. I could sketch out the lines and begin. I had a new memory. A new image to immortalize on my bedroom wall.