by Amber Kizer
My eyes couldn’t take in all the details, and the foyer became a blur of color and textures. Dried hydrangea-and-rose arrangements sat next to tiny teasets, and candles of all sizes teetered on antique hatboxes draped with cotton hobo bags and pearl necklaces. Flour-sack towels hung over the arms of concrete garden statuary. Stuffed rabbits, the size of small children and anthropomorphized in bonnets and frills, sat at their own little tea tables of plastic delicacies and toys. All of that was artfully crammed between the main door and what I think might once have been a living room but which now served as the cashier’s station.
Tens clutched my hand like he was afraid men weren’t only unwelcome here but were served up on the chintzware with parsley garnish.
“Welcome, welcome to Helios. Is this your first time?” A bubbly sixtysomething not much taller than me smiled warmly. She had deep grooves beside her eyes that acted as exclamation points to her welcome. Her face was darkly tanned, as if she spent more time outside than in, and her chestnut hair, naturally highlighted, curled under at the chin. She didn’t falter at seeing Tens tower over us. Maybe men of all ages are conscripted into coming frequently?
“Are you here for lunch, or tea, or both?” She led us into and through a second heavily merchandised room, to a covered porch full of light, with floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Lunch. Lots of lunch,” I answered with a grin of my own as I sat down, my back to the entry. Tens insisted on having his back to a wall and his face to the door. Not like he was armed. I think.
The hallway and converted porch were decorated with artwork: prints and canvases, gilt-framed photographs, raffia bows, and candle sconces. Piles of skillfully arranged candlesticks with tapers, lacy guest-bathroom fingertip towels, metallic gift bags, and fussy wrap were organized by color or occasion. Strangely overgrown, and overfull, the place looked like a dessert buffet of rich delights. For the first time in days, I felt myself easing into a charmed relaxation. Nothing evil lurks in a place so full of joy.
Hanging from the porch’s ceiling were round glass ornaments in every color and combination. Deep ambers, butterscotch-pie yellows, fresh grass greens and cherry-blossom pinks, ocean blues and teals. All of the balls were about the size of a softball or a cantaloupe. Each cradled a pattern—a bare tree in winter—that seemed captured in the middle of the globe.
We both sat for a moment trying to piece together the details of this enchanted world around us. I knew Tens well enough to know he’d want to get a shovel and start clearing space—he couldn’t think in a place he considered cluttered. He’d told me that one of the hardest parts of living with Auntie was being among all the generations’ leavings, lovingly collected and kept. But this felt like a vacation spot to me. Foreign and exquisitely exotic, in a homey, lacy way.
Tens rolled his eyes at me discreetly.
“It reminds me of Auntie’s,” I said, goading him.
“Why do you think I spent so much time in those caves?” he asked me in a whisper, and winked. He’d prefer a diner, or the Steak & Shake we’d eaten at last night. In that moment, I decided we’d spend hours exploring this place because I didn’t believe him. He was fully and utterly devoted to Auntie; he’d kept her house exactly like she wanted it. Even at the end. Of course, time spent here also meant we weren’t back on the road feeding his incessant need to drive for hours without stopping.
“Wow, look at that. They’re glowing.” Our college-age server pointed above our heads, drawing our gazes back to the glass globes. Sure enough, it seemed as if the ornaments were giving off an internal light. “Must be the sun hitting them just right.” She shrugged dismissively and placed our menus on the table. “What can I get you?”
Tens and I purposely didn’t glance at each other. I tried not to stare up, instead flattening my gaze to the menu. The sky was gray and overcast, with snow clouds; there was no way sun was causing that light. But what was? Me? Him? Someone—or something—else entirely?
Tens cleared his throat, tapped the menu with one finger, and asked, “Do you have any recommendations?”
I smiled, letting myself get distracted. I knew what was happening. I’d witnessed it often enough over the past month.
She contemplated his question with the utmost care, answering as if she came to work every day wishing someone would actually ask for her recommendation. “Sure. The salad combo is a hit among the heartier appetites; the Italian wedding soup is great. Hmm … so is the bisque on special today, but definitely save room for Derby Pie, or one of the special desserts like the cream éclairs. And the shortbread is delish. I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.” She moved a step away.
“Actually”—Tens stopped her—“I’ll take one of each.”
“Everything?” She looked like he’d asked politely to rob the place, but she covered quickly, turning to me. “And you?”
I grinned. “The wedding soup and Derby Pie, please?” I’d never heard of either, but could I go wrong with anything wedding or pie? I didn’t think so.
“Spiced iced tea to drink?” When we nodded, she moved toward the swinging kitchen door, scribbling madly. “Coming right up.”
I choked back a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
Tens shrugged. “Hungry.” As if that answered everything.
“You’re always hungry.” I giggled. In the short time since I’d known him, he’d grown another inch or two, and his ropy, lanky form had a bit more punch to the muscles. He was still crazy skinny, but the angles had smoothed and the dips shallowed, his edges more rounded.
“What’s with the—?” He pointed up.
I shrugged, baffled. “Should we try to figure it out?”
“You browse. Let’s see if they dim?”
“Shop?” God, something so mundane and normal sounded alien. And utterly delightful. “With pleasure.”
My glee must have snapped Tens back to reality, because he warned, “We don’t have much room in the truck.”
“Pooper.” I stuck my tongue out at him.
He leaned back against the wall and turned his attention out the window with calculated nonchalance, but I knew he studied every person in the room checking for clues, answers, unspoken things that might be useful to us.
I saw Custos lying at the edge of the trees. Even at close to two hundred pounds, she was oh-so-good at disappearing in the middle of spaces. People didn’t see her unless they wanted to see, and no one knew to look. Her butterscotch coat was tinged with amber and gold. Her face was masked black, and a stripe of black ran down her spine, from her head to the tip of her tail. She was frosted with black guard hairs and her eyes were like gold glitter.
My current theory was that Custos wasn’t simply a wolf or a dog, but a creature sent by the Creators to help us. Just like my mom promised in the letter she had given me. My heart cramped at the thought of my parents and my younger brother, Sammy. This had all started on my sixteenth birthday, when I came into my Fenestra destiny. I blinked onto the radar of the Nocti and my mom had to finally tell my dad the truth. I was shipped from Portland, Oregon, to Revelation, Colorado, to save my life and learn what I most needed to know about helping souls transition to the afterlife. My parents were forced to go on the run with my little brother because the Nocti might, and did, try to use them against me. I didn’t know when I’d be able to see Sammy again. But I was angry at my mother for lying. It wasn’t as if the omissions were harmless. Because the dead and dying were naturally drawn to me, my father spent years thinking I was a serial killer; I thought freak was too nice a word. That part of my life had been such a mess, I pushed it to the back of my mind. All I could do lately when I thought about my family was hope that someday Sammy would understand why I had abandoned him.
I wandered, sniffing fruity candles containing the whole rainbow of a produce stand. I shook cellophane bags of potpourri, bundled-up pine needles, and cinnamon sticks. I tried on sunglasses covered in sparkling crusts of bling, pictured them on Custos’s snout. They were more
her than me.
I wrapped an embossed velvet scarf around my neck and reveled in the luxurious texture. I ran my hands over soft flannel pillowcases printed with bright spring flowers, butterflies, and yellowish-bottomed insects I didn’t recognize. I closed my eyes, wishing for a bed—a real bed, not a motel bed—with real sheets, and a couple of days without riding in the truck. My ass was flattened like a pita.
“Your soup is ready,” called a soft voice behind me.
I thanked the server and unwound the scarf, then wandered back to our table. A couple of granny types dressed up in embroidered sweatshirts and velour pants and a few ladies who lunch decked out in Ralph Lauren country chic, complete with Louis Vuitton bags, had joined the crowded dining room while I browsed.
Tens had already polished off one bowl of soup. “I told her to let you do whatever so I could get a head start.”
“I only saw two rooms, didn’t even get upstairs. Carrot?” I pointed at the empty bowl as it was whisked away with a smile and a tea refill.
“Yeah, bisque or something.” Tens paused. He pointed up at the glowing glass globes. “That’s all you. Most definitely you.”
My stomach clenched. Another mystery. Another blindside by Fenestra questions.
I’d been afraid of that.
A young girl, pregnant and seeking sanctuary in a town unknown and far from home, makes my story vaguely reminiscent of another one.
—R.
CHAPTER 2
Juliet
“Psst. Juliet? Come quick.” Bodie’s face peeked around the corner of the antique buffet, into my peripheral vision. Intent on staying out of sight of the kitchen itself, he was hiding from Dunklebarger Rehabilitation Center’s headmistress, who was dictating my daily list of duties. A list that would take most people three days to complete. Bodie didn’t want the Mistress’s notice any more than I did; it never ended well for any of us.
When she finished her endless critique, I wiped my hands clean on my apron and turned down the heat on the soup pot. Industrial packaged tomato soup and grilled cheese was our lunch menu every other day.
Her nasal Northeastern twang spat at me. “Where are you going?”
“I heard a patient’s bell.” Who was in the Jungle Room right now? I’d learned ten years ago a calm voice and a steady answer solicited the safest, least painful reaction from her. She was predictably unpredictable. I gave any answer she wanted so I could break away and find out what Bodie needed.
“I didn’t. If I didn’t hear it, how could you?” She continued to question. Always with questions. If only she’d listen to the answers.
I didn’t respond, simply moved out of the kitchen, down the drafty hallway, far enough away so that Bodie was in no danger from Mistress. Moving targets were much less likely to be hit. Literally and figuratively.
Bodie’s stubby legs ran through the warren of damp hallways at the back of the house and up the murky side stairs even servants must have avoided generations ago. “Come on,” he hissed in an urgent whisper, one we’d all perfected. “Hurry.” We minced around these walls like ghosts, ghosts who didn’t want attention. “She’s sitting with Mrs. Mahoney.”
She in this case, the cat, Mini. Fellow inmate and newer arrival Nicole had researched cats on the Internet and pronounced Mini an oversized Maine coon. With fluffy long hair that looked teased like the hair of an eighties rock star and an expansive, demanding personality, Mini gave the impression that good-sized dogs were no match for her.
When did Mini arrive at Dunklebarger? At my side? When did I first notice her sitting beside the dying, before we even knew they were actively dying? Those barely alive bodies that gave the impression their souls had more than one foot in the next world. I don’t know. There’s a definite glitch in the time line that divides my life between before Mini and after her, but when was that? Blurred in my memory. It must have been somewhere around fourteen months or so ago she’d appeared at the bedsides of the dying.
My world is brighter with her here.
I bounced up the stairs two at a time, overtaking Bodie’s running steps. His six-year-old legs were chubby and short, in that transition period from baby to child.
“When did you notice?” I asked.
“Just now. I came to get you like you said.” He stopped at the doorway of Mrs. Mahoney’s bedroom. His chin quivered. “I did good, right, Juliet?”
I paused with my back to him, shutting my eyes against the tears his tone evoked, so he wouldn’t see how his pain and uncertainty wounded me. I turned to him and knelt, bending farther at my waist, my eyes level with his. “You did exactly right. Exactly. You’re perfect, Bodie, and I thank you. I think there might be cookies later.” I tasted snickerdoodles in the back of my throat, knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I made them. I hoped Mistress went out tonight.
His furrowed brow smoothed and his smile beamed; it seemed as though the forty-watt bulbs lining the hallway intensified their light.
I tucked his hair off his face, mentally noting he needed a trim. “Now go play, and let me check on her, okay?”
“I have to clean the bathrooms.” His face dropped and he stuck out his tongue. “As punishment. I swore.”
I sighed. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d sworn or not. Mistress was in the process of toughening Bodie’s skin, so although the bathrooms were stained with years of use, that didn’t stop her from making him think they could be cleaned with enough painful effort. He’d been here for only six months and he fought the dampening with everything in him.
I remembered trying to resist her discipline when I was his age. “I’ll try to come help you, okay? Or see if Nicole can.” I worried that the bruises on his knees from kneeling on the cold cereal he’d spilled yesterday morning would bother him.
I did my best to protect them all, the young and the old, but I couldn’t be everyplace, every minute. No matter how hard I tried to do exactly that, it was never enough.
He shook his head, trying to convince me not to worry. “Mini needs you.” He gave me a matter-of-fact look and ran.
I pushed open the door and Mini’s eyes shot gold at me while her tail coiled and struck at the sheets. I almost saw the air around her head dance and pull at the curtains, but that was sleep deprivation catching up to my imagination. She was clearly upset it had taken me so long. Ten minutes maybe. If she could talk, I knew I’d receive a lecture about keeping elders waiting. I’d learned to pick up on her body language; mainly so she didn’t resort to claws and teeth like in the beginning. She was fickle and demanding, but possibly the best friend I’d ever had. Quite pathetic to think of friend and claws together.
“Sorry.” I briefly touched her head, scratched behind her ears. Her hair felt like the delicate fluff of a dandelion, but her body was sturdy and muscular under all that pillowy down.
“Hello, Mrs. Mahoney, it’s Juliet here. And Mini.” I gently took Mrs. Mahoney’s hand in mine. Her breathing was labored, her palm and lower arm chilly, her lips blueing, and her jaw slack. Any time.
I settled myself next to her on the mattress, knowing from experience that at this point there was nothing I could do to disturb her. I hoped my presence provided comfort. Maybe.
Her gasps were jagged, and silence lengthened between them. I smoothed her thin white curls off her forehead with my other hand.
Mini leaned against my chest and stomach, sitting herself firmly in my lap, her front paws perched across Mrs. Mahoney’s heart. The first few times Mini had done this, I’d put her down on the floor gently, then with more force. But each time, she came back and took up the same position. I gave up. No one ever complained. How could vigil be anything but good?
“It’s all right, Mrs. Mahoney, you can let go. I’m sure your family is waiting for you.” As a small child, before coming here, my vision of death was like a light switch, or someone hitting the stop button on a song in midphrase. So wrong. I’d learned quickly, like Bodie was learning now, that it’s hard work, labor. Be
tween the dying there are always similarities—that was the second lesson. One I passed on to the other inmates, the newbies, the unwanted kids like me sentenced here until, or before, their sixteenth birthday. It was a lesson about knowing, seeing, making it less formidable a thing to be a kid around so much death. There are signs. Signs telling those who were willing to see, that the body’s curtain was falling.
I always felt so inadequate in this moment. I never knew the right thing to say or do, how to help. So I sat and spoke quietly of nothing and everything. I wet their lips and washed their faces. I rubbed lotion that Nicole smuggled into the house for me into their dry skin. If I were dying, I think I’d miss casual touch the most. I dreamed about casual, affectionate touch. Touch in DG always felt like it had an agenda attached. Except for once, a brief time three years ago, when I felt valued.
I snapped myself back to the present. Dwelling wouldn’t help.
The long days and short nights inevitably caught up with me if I sat still too long. My eyes drifted shut. I jerked awake. Mini never moved and her heat against me relaxed my core. Every time. I shook myself, trying to think of other things to say. When I sat like this, my mind wandered to my early years, to a featureless woman I thought of at the oddest moments. My mother? Why couldn’t I remember her clearly?
I held no respect nor love for my mother. She named me for the most romantic heroine ever—Juliet. The idiocy is that Juliet killed herself; I fail to see how that is romantic. Live for me, don’t die. Live. But then, that’s what I’ve been told by Mistress: I’m named after the dead idiot in Romeo and Juliet.
Abandoned at a hospital, a note left in my pocket. One of those safe havens set up so young girls will stop flushing their babies down the toilet or throwing them away in Dumpsters behind a McDonald’s. The law didn’t say how old, or how young, a child had to be to receive haven. At least, it didn’t back then. Or so I was informed.
