Wildcat Fireflies

by Amber Kizer

  Even undernourished, most six-year-olds aren’t babies by any standard.

  Mini yowled and purred. My eyes flew open, but already the empty silence descended and filled the space. Mrs. Mahoney had died while I’d … what? Daydreamed? How disrespectful. Yet no matter how hard I tried to stay present, awake, and with them in the moment, I forever missed the actual blink of their passing. I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t help it. I tried. Maybe trying is all I can do?

  Mini jumped off my lap and hid under the bed.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Mahoney. Pleasant sleep to you.” I stood, my legs buckling as a wave of dizziness flooded me. I shook back burning, twirling fatigue. I had to get to sleep earlier.

  “Here’s grape juice.” Nicole moved out of the shadows of the doorway. “Bodie mentioned Mini’s vigil. Have you eaten anything today yourself?”

  I shook my head and gulped down the sweet slick of generic purple.

  She clucked and frowned. “You need food too, you know? Not just cooking for the rest of us.” Nicole turned her face toward Mrs. Mahoney. “She gone?”

  I nodded, finishing the juice and then smoothing the blankets. My hands didn’t stay quiet. Not for long.

  “What’s for dinner tonight?” Nicole asked with a half smile as she pushed a chair under my quivering knees.

  It was a running joke, macabre though it might be, among the inmates. When a guest passed away, I cooked like a madwoman—something new, something old, just something—before I could rest. The other kids stopped questioning me and simply accepted the pattern. “Snickerdoodles. Beef Stroganoff.” Of course, I did it covertly, when we were left alone, so Mistress was none the wiser. She’d been gone more often than not recently, which made everything much easier. But when Mistress was around, her wrath seemed amplified and edgy these days. I shuddered.

  “At least we can help with those dishes. I live in fear you’re going to say something with a French name and exotic ingredients.” Nicole helped me acquire foodstuffs that Mistress didn’t ordinarily stock. I never asked how she got them.

  “Bodie doing okay?” I asked.

  “He’s cleaning those bathrooms. I have Sema posted as lookout and left a coloring book under the radiator.” We tried to sneak play in where we could. I didn’t feel the least bit bad about lying. I knew no other way to survive.

  “Don’t let Mistress see you, or she’ll just make it worse,” I cautioned.

  “I know. I know.” Nicole lifted her hands away from her body in surrender. “Why don’t you disappear for a little while? Catch your breath? I’ll call the funeral home.”

  She didn’t stay long enough to see me shake my head. The list was too long for me to sit. Besides, I tasted cream coating my throat and felt slick egg noodles sliding down to a pleasant fullness. I needed the kitchen.

  Dearest Sister,

  I watched the sculptor deliver & install your head & footstone this morning. I know I shall see you again, & know you, but until then, this granite window will give me a place to sit in your company.

  Jocelyn Wynn

  July 2, 1842

  CHAPTER 3

  The closer I moved toward the glass globes dangling above us, the more intense the light became. “What’s it mean?”

  “Don’t know. Book?” Tens asked, referring to the heirloom journal Auntie had entrusted to us. To me. “Another unknown?”

  “Hate ’em.”

  “I know you do. But maybe the journal has something?” He genuinely seemed like he wished he could get rid of all the unknowns for me.

  We’d learned shorthand speak, benefitting Tens’s delight in abbreviated replies and my need to receive complete answers. Strong and silent was seriously frustrating when I couldn’t read his mind. The fact that he sometimes empathically knew what I felt seemed to come and go, but his ability didn’t extend to reading my thoughts exactly. Nor did he have the ability to transfer his thoughts into my head. We weren’t telepathic. We needed real words most of the time, and those were increasingly hard for me to find.

  I bit my lip, searching my brain for pieces of Auntie’s Fenestra journal that mentioned glowing glass balls. “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen anything.”

  Of course, there were plenty of pages in Auntie’s journal that I hadn’t scoured yet. Onionskin parchment, fading spidery script, and pages completely covered with no rhyme or reason made reading entries a long, tedious chore. That and the fact I had motion sickness, so reading in the truck was out. Tens might understand the need to stay still for a little while if I explained we needed time to study the journal more. Maybe.

  Tens tossed his head at the elderly ladies behind him. “They call ’em Witch Balls.” He quoted what he’d overheard in a daring falsetto whisper. “ ‘Perfect new-home gifts. Made by a local glassblower. Good energy, blessings. A steal, too. Some New York place would charge five times this price.’ ”

  “How’s the soup?” Our greeter had been wandering over to each table in turn, like they were all old friends dropping in for a visit. Her silk daisy lapel pin glinted with pink and orange crystals. She’d added a big floppy pink crown to model for diners. “Got room for the pie?” she asked, as if she actually cared what our answer was.

  Tens smiled back, astonishing me because he so rarely shared his beautiful smile. “Always.”

  “I’m Joi. I own this place.” She held out a hand to me.

  “Meridian.” I shook her hand; she held mine a little too long as I nodded across the table. “He’s Tens.”

  “That scarf was a perfect green on you.” She turned to Tens. “Girlfriend or sister?” She hooked her thumb in my direction.

  He blushed, but answered. “Love of my life.”

  She didn’t laugh as most people might have. “Admirable.” She cocked her head in my direction. “You?”

  “Same.”

  “Good to know. Enjoy your lunch.” She moved on to other tables, chatting up the diners like they came here every day, asking about grandbabies, weddings, and funerals.

  I glanced at Tens. I couldn’t keep the love out of my eyes and I didn’t even try. I never expected to hear Tens refer to me so casually as his soul mate. Being in love still felt very fresh and clean to me, not lived in yet. Not on a level where I relaxed into it, safe and cushioned. A huge part of my problem was that I’d spent so many years virtually alone and shunned, even within my own family. From my birth, dying insects came to my cradle to die, and as I got older, the animals got bigger. Until by my sixteenth birthday, when human souls recognized me as their window to the beyond. My mom knew, since this Fenestra destiny was passed down, and kicks in if the baby was born on the stroke of midnight on the winter solstice. I was. But she didn’t tell my dad; she went into the world’s deepest denial, trying to ignore away my destiny. This made Dad think I was a sociopath, and made me think that the kids who called me horrible names were probably right. Talk about baggage. This is what Tens is tied to. It was hard for me to trust that Tens genuinely wanted to be with me, regardless of that fate thing. I didn’t want an arranged marriage; I wanted a love match. And I wasn’t sure I deserved that.

  “What?” he asked around a mouthful of seafood salad.

  Under the table, I brushed his knee with my hand. I hoped he felt me in that moment. I occasionally chafed at the invasion of my privacy that his gift allowed, but sometimes words weren’t enough. I pinched myself daily, wondering how I’d gone from being so utterly lonely to being in love with my soul mate, my Protector. Auntie called it waiting for the other shoe to drop, which made no sense, but had me seriously questioning what else the Creators had in mind for me.

  The moment fleeting, Tens stood, oblivious. “Do you think this place even has a boys’ bathroom?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “The woods out back.”

  “Ha-ha.” He wandered off and I eavesdropped on the conversations around me.

  I’d forgotten what inane small talk sounded like and the passion with which people exchanged it. Poor L
izzie. Her husband was cheating on her, and everyone knew but her. George’s bowels were acting up. John had lost his job to a younger, less qualified, and much cheaper man. The new glass artist was odd—his work was either genius or garbage, but the ladies weren’t sure which.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation of fullness. I wished I could indulge in a nap.

  Tens wandered back. “Unisex should not be pink and floral. The TP is covered in cabbage roses and cherubs.”

  “The horror!” I snorted. We spoiled ourselves with dessert. My piece of Derby Pie looked puny compared to his various flavored slices that in combination made up nearly a complete pie. The dining room emptied with the lateness of the afternoon, but even as the sun slid lower, the glass balls above our heads didn’t dim. I waited for someone to notice.

  Our server brought the check, three pages of illegible scrawl, with a Come back soon next to a reasonable total. Carmel was a hell of a lot cheaper than Portland.

  I tucked a generous tip under my iced tea glass and we meandered back to the cash register. Part of me hated to leave this cocoon of goodness.

  “Where are you off to now?” Joi asked as she rang up our bill.

  “Do you know of a motel or anything? I think we may hang around for a few days,” I said.

  Tens quirked one eyebrow at my question, but didn’t argue.

  She hummed. “You looking for work, too?”

  “Maybe,” Tens answered, handing her cash in fives and ones. We weren’t running out of money, thanks to Auntie’s generous planning, but it might have appeared that way.

  Joi tipped her head up to Tens. “I need a handyman, yard-work help, and someone to work in the kitchen. You interested?” She made eye contact with me, too.

  “Um …,” I hedged, knowing Tens would want to stay anonymous and moving forward.

  She pressed. “Comes with board in the guest cottage out back, and all the day-olds you can eat. Just give me twenty-four hours’ notice if you decide to move on, so we can settle up.”

  “Why are you offering this? You just met us.” Curiosity battled my cautiousness, but my instincts told me this was okay: neither fear nor insecurity bubbled up.

  She smiled, her face wrinkling into the lines of one used to joy and gentleness. “I have a feeling about you, both of you, that’s all.”

  “A feeling?” Tens asked.

  “Intuition. Don’t you ever follow your heart?”

  “Sometimes.” I nodded and glanced up at Tens, trying to gauge his reaction.

  “My husband says I also have a propensity for taking in strays.” She winked at Tens. “Besides, your wolf has been lying in the shade along the cottage the whole time you’ve been inside. I think she likes it.”

  Not good at covering my shock, I gasped. I’d make a terrible poker player. “You saw her?”

  “Kinda hard to miss. Follow me and I’ll show you the cottage. Then you can decide.” Joi motioned us around the counter and through a kitchen that was clean but cluttered, the sink was piled with dirty dishes from the lunch rush. She sighed. “Washing dishes is part of the kitchen job. And if one of you can fix the dishwasher itself, so much the better.”

  I didn’t feel comfortable walking out and leaving the tearoom deserted. “Can you leave?” The front door lay in a straight line to the cash register. That kind of trust felt completely foreign to me.

  “I’ll be right back.” Joi waved her hand, dismissing my worry, and didn’t even glance back.

  We followed. Tens’s fingers found the skin at the base of my spine, under my T-shirt, and rested there lightly. They heated my skin and made it itch as if my clothes were too heavy, too much, as if I could feel every individual thread and seam.

  Lips smiling, Custos wagged her tail at our approach, and I felt Tens relax through his fingertips. If Custos liked Joi, and this cottage, there had to be a reason.

  The cottage itself was a large single room, with a sofa area, kitchen, and bed. An entire garden of dried flowers covered the walls and hung from the ceiling. Photographs of laughing children and playful dogs, and watercolors and acrylics of Indiana scene-scapes, of red barns and covered bridges blanketed the rest of the wall space.

  “I use the walls in here for inventory,” Joi said. “But don’t worry, I don’t walk in unexpected. The bathroom is through there, with the washer and dryer.”

  A double bed covered with lacy pillows and teddy bears butted up against the far wall. The kitchen had sunny yellow cabinets and counters. The color alone would do a better job of waking a person than coffee.

  “Cute,” I said.

  “Good. Why don’t you spend the night and make your decision in the morning? I’ll send over coffee and pastries so you can fuel up. Carmel doesn’t get started early.” Joi closed the door behind her.

  “She handed you the keys, didn’t she?” I asked Tens without turning around.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Tens collapsed on the couch, his feet dangling off the opposite end. His boots were cracked at the ankles and deeply grooved in the soles; he’d retied the laces together.

  “You need new boots.” I studied him.

  “Uh-huh.” His eyes closed and a sigh settled him deeper into the cushions.

  “Are we staying here?” I asked, knowing the answer I wanted to hear. Yes.

  He didn’t even crack an eyelid. “For the moment. Nap now.”

  I lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I was exhausted, but energy thrummed under my skin like I was nearing an electrical storm. I forced my eyes closed and practiced deep breathing.

  “You’re not going to sleep, are you?” Tens rumbled from across the room.

  “I’m trying.” Frustrated, I crinkled my eyelids tighter until spots and rainbows danced.

  He shook the couch with his unapologetic laughter. “Right. Let’s go for a walk. Explore the town a little.”

  I rolled to my feet. “Really?” I didn’t wait for him to change his mind and launched myself onto his stomach. I started tickling him. On the list of things I’d learned about Tens since December 22 of last year … his ribs were mad ticklish.

  He grunted and flipped me over, his hands wrapping around my wrists easily, then pinned my arms over my head.

  “Not fair!” I screamed, laughing, trying to escape only halfheartedly as he returned the favor, my breath running ahead without me catching up to it.

  “All’s fair.” He bent and caught my mouth with his in a kiss that promised. Always promised.

  A rush of heat swept across my body. I enjoyed the nip and play of his tongue against mine. His fingers skipped down my arms and settled at the underside of my breasts, along my stomach.

  He pulled away before I was ready to let him go. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

  I let him distance himself, trying to hide my frustration. He loved me. I loved him. He felt good, great, even. I didn’t know why he insisted we live like roommates or siblings, rather than as lovers. What was he waiting for? I battled myself in silence, not wanting to fight.

  The cottage and Helios graced the edge of the town proper. The main street of Carmel was an adorable mix of shops, banks, restaurants, buildings that seemed to date from the early 1900s, and new construction, with plenty in between. Victorian-era gingerbreads and brick saltboxes stood beside Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired angles and utilitarian concrete blocks from the sixties. The people inside the shops chatted and laughed and seemed content. There were plenty of minivans and luxury sedans on the streets. Two steepled churches sat on street corners across from each other.

  I felt watched; a niggle on the back of my neck sent up a warning.

  “Do you see that? Her?” I pointed at a bench where a woman sat with her back to us. The dusk of early evening threw indigo shadows, but she wore a large floppy sun hat better suited to July beaches, along with a vintage Mary Poppins–esque overcoat. Something didn’t feel right. My gut rang the itty-bitty panic bell.

  “Yep.” Tens slowed, glancing at me, pu
zzled and concerned.

  “Is she moving?” I didn’t sense a soul.

  Tens stalked closer as I stood back. “Statue,” he said, knocking it on the head. Painted in vivid details, the statue appeared ready to come to life at any moment.

  “Them?” I pointed to a couple of top-hatted, suited men leaning against a building farther down the street.

  Tens marched five full lengths ahead of me. “Uh-huh. Same.”

  Every street we meandered down had a bench, a couple, a stroller with a mother. All statues, and all in various period costume. “Is this odd, or is it me?” Knowing they were art didn’t make them feel any less threatening.

  “Odd maybe, but not evil.” Tens linked his fingers with mine. “I don’t think.”

  “There’s the glassblower’s studio.” We approached a brick building with more of the colored balls hanging in the windows and from the eaves. As we got closer the balls began to light from within. I hoped the studio was bright enough that the artist wouldn’t notice.

  “Maybe I should go in without you?” Tens asked.

  “Maybe.” I shook my head. I had that peculiar, particular tingling feeling. I felt myself being drawn to the special death window. When a soul needed me, my soul became a portal to the afterlife. I’d be towed as though caught in a riptide, to a different plane where I stood side by side with the dying until they crossed over. I didn’t know what that place was called and I didn’t yet know how to go about my physical life while my spirit was otherwise occupied. It was possible, but it took more skill than I’d developed. Which meant Tens was given the duty to protect and care for my body in situations just like this. I felt the soul heading straight for me. “Tens?” I heard ambulance sirens nearing.

  I felt him catch and steady me. I’d gotten much better at this part, but if I wasn’t prepared for a soul to seek me, then it was a bit like riding waves and having a spectacularly large one pick me up and carry me.