by Tara Taylor
“John, it’s not what you think. I only had one sip.”
For a brief moment, he took his gaze off the road. “It’s never what I think,” he said.
“But, John,” I pleaded, “I have to explain.”
“No, Indie,” he screamed at me. “No explaining! Actions speak louder than words.”
For a few blocks, I just gazed straight ahead out the window with tears pressing against my lids. I was stupid. Stupid. I hadn’t stopped shaking yet, so I crossed my arms over my chest and slid further into the seat. My visions were wrecking my relationship. I would never, ever be normal. And now I couldn’t even tell him anything, because he’d shut me out.
When we were parked in front of my house, we just sat in the car for a few moments.
Finally John said, “I’m sorry I yelled. You just don’t understand. I’ve been taking care of my mother for years, and I don’t want to have to take care of you, too.”
“I don’t want you to take care of me.”
“My mother has never been there for me,” he said. His voice cracked, and he sounded as if he were close to tears.
I put my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry to hear that, John. I’m not like your mother.”
“Tonight you were.”
“Are you going to break up with me?” I whispered.
Time passed. Maybe even a minute. Then he reached out to touch my hair, stroking it for a few seconds. “No,” he said. His anger was gone, as were his tears.
He ran his finger up and down my cheek. “I’m glad you lost your witch hat. It didn’t suit you.”
Chapter
Thirteen
“I can’t. I’m going Christmas shopping tonight.”
“When can you rehearse then?” Sarah had cornered me in the hallway. “Indie, I have to tell you, the girls are getting mad that you keep bailing. Can’t you just leave John for one night? It’s like you’re obsessed with him. I never thought you’d be one of those girls who dumps her friends for a guy.”
“I’m not shopping with him tonight,” I said defensively.
“Well, just pick a day and time when you can make it, okay?” Sarah was definitely peeved. “We are still on for March with the animal shelter, and we only have two songs done.”
“Okay,” I said, “for sure, sometime in the week between Christmas and New Year’s.” John was going away for a few days during the holidays, so it would be the perfect time. He wouldn’t have to know I was rehearsing.
Sarah held up her fist. “I’m holding you to that.”
I fist-bumped her back, then we went in opposite directions. As I walked down the hall, I saw John leaning against the wall, watching me. I noticed his eyes and the redness surrounding them. Was he high? John liked to smoke dope now and again, and when I had told him I didn’t like it, he just laughed at me and told me I was immature and innocent, but that was what he liked about me. But it did make his personality change, and not for the better.
When I approached him he asked, “What did Sarah want?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
He fell into step beside me. “You want to go out tonight?”
I playfully slapped his arm. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” His eyes narrowed, and his tone was accusatory. “You’re not planning on rehearsing with Sarah and your lame band, are you?”
“Why don’t you like the band?” I blurted out. For months now, since we had revived the band, he had been criticizing it and telling me to quit. “I don’t get it. We just have fun.”
“Indie, those girls make you look dumb. And that’s not something you need.”
I could feel the tears behind my eyes. I wouldn’t cry. I sucked in a deep breath and tried to let his comment slide. He was probably right, though. I mean, John was so intelligent and read such profoundly deep books. So many people would seem dumb to him.
I didn’t want my afternoon wrecked, or my evening, so I bumped his shoulder and winked at him. “I can’t see you tonight because I’m going Christmas shopping.”
“Ugh. It’s so commercial,” he replied.
“Ah, don’t be a Scrooge.” I rubbed my shoulder against his, and he didn’t move away, which was good. Then he smiled down at me, playfully rubbed my head, and said, “Don’t ever lose your innocence.”
Later that night, I strolled through the mall, carrying bags, wondering if I could get one more thing for someone. Christmas carols chimed through the speakers, sparkly lights shone everywhere, and the smell of cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg lingered in the air. Last summer I had worked and saved enough money for Christmas just to see the expression on people’s faces when I gave gifts, and it honestly had nothing to do with getting anything back. I bought for my family and friends and Sasha and Sheena and Cedar. Dad always thought I was crazy to buy for the pets, but I didn’t care. When I got home, I would wrap the gifts—dog bones, little gem collars, rubber toys—and put them under the tree.
I stopped to look at a small fake silver Christmas tree that was displayed in a novelty storefront window. Beautiful ornaments of all colors and shapes dangled from its branches. Immediately, I was drawn to a pair of white feathery angel wings. I thought about the woman who had the heart attack, how she called me an angel. Thankfully, she’d never found me. I hoped she was alive and well and able to have a wonderful time at Christmas with her family after the scare of being rushed to the hospital. Warm feelings flooded me, like I was standing by a fire drinking hot chocolate after a day of tobogganing, and I knew she was okay. I smiled to myself, my reflection in the storefront window smiling back, happy that I had been able to help. When I realized what I was doing, I lowered my head.
My gaze returned to the wings. They were so pretty and free and pure, white like fresh snow, not the dirty, gross stuff that lined the roads after the snowplow had done its job. I glanced up and down the tree, at all the other colored ornaments, drawn to another one that was a smooth, clear, heart-shaped stone hanging from a leather strap. It looked masculine. So weird. As I stared at it, the stone seemed to pulsate, in and out, and I backed up a step. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
No, please.
I begged my mind to think about Christmas and presents.
Please. Don’t.
My begging didn’t work, and all the visions I’d had when I first met John came crashing to the front of my brain: the shovel and smell of dirt, the man in the locket, the insane stuff surrounding Burke. I furiously shook my head.
No! I don’t want them back.
The feathery wings gave me comfort so I turned my gaze back to them. They made me feel like John did, especially when I was wrapped in his arms. I rarely opened up to anyone, but with him I had let myself plunge down a tunnel. We spent every waking moment together.
He loved me.
At least I thought he did. He’d never said so, but we were together all the time. I hated the doubt. Would he love me if he knew that I had visions and saw things before they happened?
No one knew about the vision I’d had on Halloween. Not one single soul. It was a secret buried inside me. My visions were so weird. Some of them came true right away, and others took their time. I shuddered. Since Halloween, when I’d fallen and puked after seeing the weird stuff surrounding Burke, my visions had kind of stopped. And for that I was truly grateful. Had I been able to push them away? Maybe my mind was more powerful than I thought. Could I really keep that part of my life from John?
Chills like cold icicles ran up and down my spine. I crossed my arms. That vision about Burke had only happened because of Halloween. I was sure I had only seen it because I always had a crazy vulnerability around that time of year. That had to be it. As I stared at the light, fluffy wings, hanging so loosely and freely from the tree, I was glad it was Christmas and not Halloween. At Christmas I was happy.
What about the man in the locket, Indie? What about the shovel? What about the dirt? What about—
I put my hands to my ears and lowered my head. “Stop it,
” I whispered.
Because of the locket, I had not been back to John’s house again. My reactions to his mother and seeing the cigar man inside the locket were not something I wanted to happen again. I had stopped searching for him, and he hadn’t come to me again.
They’re not over, Indie, said the soft voice of the kind man. He hadn’t talked to me in a long time—I had thought he was gone from my life for good, too.
I straightened and looked through the glass and into the store, trying to see something, anything that would make my mind from thinking about any of this. Suddenly, Lacey popped into my view. I quickly turned, hoping to see her behind me, but all I saw were strangers hurrying with bags. I sighed. Now I was really seeing things that weren’t true. She had yet to talk to me, and she was crazy in love with Burke still, and from what everyone told me, he still fooled around with Amber now and again. I’d also heard that Amber had moved on to a few other guys. A pain shot through my heart, and I put my hand to my chest. I could feel it beating through my winter jacket.
Who else was she hitting on?
I sucked in a deep breath and tucked my hair behind my ear.
Get back to Christmas, Indie.
This was the first year in at least a dozen that I hadn’t bought Lacey a gift. Although … I squatted down and pressed my face closer to the window.
Should I? I remembered what Sarah and Zoe had said about angels being the in thing but also being stupid. But I didn’t feel as if I were buying something that was in; this ornament seemed so peaceful.
My feet moved, almost automatically, and I walked into the store and headed right over to the angel wings. I had to get her the wings. I just had to.
The feathered angel wings fluttered in front of me, and I touched them. So soft. So white. So pure. I pulled them off the tree and held them. What if she wouldn’t accept them? Then I smiled. She didn’t have to know they were from me.
Get them, Indie. She is going to need them. The man’s voice again. Who was he?
I took the wings to the counter, and as I was paying for them, I spotted the jewelry under the glass countertop. I had already purchased a beautiful purple amethyst bracelet for Sarah and rose quartz necklaces for Zoe and Carly. But I still needed to get one more thing for my mother’s stocking. Maybe she would like a necklace as well. The side of my mouth curled upward. I loved slipping little gifts into her stocking. She always looked over at me when she opened them, knowing they were from me.
As I looked below at the jewelry, I almost gasped out loud when I saw a red-velvet-covered board with a gold locket pinned on it, shining in front of me. I bent my head forward and looked at it carefully. That was the exact same locket as the one I’d seen in John’s bathroom.
Oh, no! Why had this just appeared in front of me? For the first time in ages, I had thought about the locket, and now here it was. Talk about coincidence.
There is no such thing as a coincidence, Indie.
Without thinking about what I was doing I said, “Can I see that, please?”
The salesgirl used a small key to slide the glass case open, then she pulled out the board with the locket. My hands trembled as I reached forward, and I touched it before I decided to open it. The gold felt like … nothing. It wasn’t hot, and it didn’t burn my skin. With my fingernail I pried it open.
No photo. I put my hand to my chest.
Nothing was in the locket. Was I really expecting to see the man? Perhaps I was hoping to see him; then I would know that every locket like this had a picture of him and that it was all something I had imagined.
I quickly paid for the angel wings and left the store.
As I waited at the front door of the mall for my mom to pick me up, I tapped my foot. Snow fell from the sky, nice, big, fluffy flakes, and I decided I wanted to be outside.
I pushed open the big department store door, and once I was out in the winter wonderland, I looked up at the falling flakes, allowing them to land on my face. It was the perfect December night, with a perfectly blackened sky, beautiful soft snowflakes falling, and no wind. The world was silent, magical, and my mind stilled.
“Indie,” I said to myself, “think of Christmas and John and nothing else.” I just wanted to feel fluffy like the snowflakes, and I didn’t want anything deep surrounding me.
I smiled. I could do this. I reached my hand into one of my shopping bags to feel the soft cotton of the simple navy V-neck sweater I had bought John. Would he like my gift? I had also bought him cologne and some shaving things and … I couldn’t wait to give him his gifts.
I grinned as I wondered what I was going to get from John. He had said he hated Christmas, but I just knew he had gotten me something. Whereas I loved to give, he thought it excessive and ranted on and on about how Christmas was materialistic and over the top, and didn’t I know there were starving people in Africa? Yes, I did know there were starving people around the world, but I still wanted to give to my family and friends. Warm, fuzzy feelings surrounded me as I thought of Brian and how he was going to love the vampire VHS series I had gotten for him. Brian loved anything to do with vampires.
I heard a car pull up, and when I saw it was my dad, I threw my packages in the backseat and hopped into the front.
“How was shopping?” he asked.
“Great!” I said. I glanced at my dad. “How come you’re picking me up? Where’s Mom?”
“She’s busy.” He winked at me.
For the rest of the drive, we talked trivial stuff, which I totally appreciated, as it took my mind off everything. Snow fell in soft flakes, landing on the windshield, and the wipers swished back and forth. Our drive was slow and easy, unlike the rush of Christmas. My dad made me feel normal. When a Beach Boys Christmas song came on, I started to sing along, and Dad laughed, turned up the radio, and joined in.
When we got home, Sheena and Sasha met me at the door, tails wagging, smacking against my parcels. As I patted them, I heard the voices from the kitchen, so I quickly slipped out of my wet shoes, hung up my coat and scarf, and went to the kitchen. Grandma was drinking tea at our kitchen table, and my mom was using a spatula to lift sugar cookies from an aluminum pan. A beautiful heat, and fresh-baked-cookie aroma, flowed through the kitchen.
Suddenly, I smelled roses. I glanced around the room. Had Grandma bought flowers? I couldn’t see the vase anywhere. This was not the first time I’d smelled roses in our house.
“Indigo!” Grandma stood and hugged me.
“Grandma! When did you get here?” I hugged her back.
“Just a few minutes ago.”
I sniffed the air. “Did you bring us roses?” I asked, looking around the room once again.
Mom turned from the stove and gazed at me over the rim of her reading glasses. “Why on earth would you ask that?”
I shrugged. “I smell roses.” Then I sniffed again, like Sasha did when beef was cooking. “I still smell them.”
“Indie, I just made shortbread and sugar cookies, but nothing that could possibly smell like roses. Butter perhaps, but not roses.” She shook her head and turned back to the stove.
No one said anything for a moment. Then my grandmother smiled at me and clasped my hand in her worn but warm one. “My mother always wore rose perfume,” she said softly.
My mom stopped moving, and I froze on the spot. The air took on an unruffled silence, and I instantly knew we were more than three in the room. I quietly said, “It’s not the first time I’ve smelled roses in our house.”
“You’ve never mentioned this to me,” said my mom as she continued to put cookies on the waxed paper, her back to me.
Grandma pointed for me to sit. As I did what I was told, she went to the cupboard and pulled out a Christmas mug. When we were both sitting, she poured me a cup of tea. “Tell us about the roses,” she said.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said, tapping the table with my fingers, trying to think back. “I guess I smelled them first after Great-grandma died.”
Grandma put some milk in my tea and two heaping teaspoons of sugar, exactly how I liked it. “Continue,” she urged.
I took a sip of tea, then I said, “Well, once when I walked into the front hallway after school, I smelled the roses and looked around, but I couldn’t find any. Then another time, I thought I smelled them in the kitchen.”
Grandma placed her hand on my forearm and whispered, “You are like her.” Then she winked. “I bet she’s with us right now.”
My great-grandma had passed away three years ago. I felt lucky that I had seen her just before she died. We had traveled to California for a visit because she had just had a stroke, and my mom wanted to see her. I guess the thought was in everyone’s mind that she didn’t have much time left on the earth. When I saw her on that trip, Great-grandma couldn’t talk, but she kept squeezing my hand and trying to speak, as if she wanted to tell me something. I couldn’t stop looking at her and noticing that, even after her stroke, she was still beautiful: translucent skin, sparkling blue eyes, long gray hair pinned in a perfect bun. From Paris originally, she had this aristocratic quality that had always intrigued me, made me wonder about her life when she was little. My mom had told me that she had been a hatmaker.
She died a couple months after we got home.
My mom put a plate of hot cookies on the table, and Grandma picked one up and took a tiny bite. Then she put it on her plate. “When I was little,” Grandma said, “people would come from all over town to pick up the hats my mother had spent hours and hours making. Velvet and pins and lace were a huge part of her hat-making room. I remember that I loved watching her work. As she adjusted the hats on the women’s heads, they would ask her questions, and she would tell them things.”
My body warmed just listening to Grandma tell her story. I loved the sound of her melodic voice. She continued talking, and from the faraway look in her eyes, I knew she felt as if she were a child again.
