by Amber Kizer
I used to daydream of a time beyond this place. Kirian and I talked about backpacking across Europe or going to Mexico to live on the beach and eat seafood and coconuts. I used to imagine a wedding and a baby, a home of our own. Those rainbows evaporated and turned to ash when Kirian turned sixteen and left me here.
I have kids to think about. And the old to comfort.
“Bodie sleep with you last night? He left the attic while I cleaned up Sema’s vomit,” Nicole said, grabbing a set of sheets from the dryer and wrestling them into folds.
“She okay today?”
“Fine.”
“Yeah, he came to me.” I nodded.
“How are you feeling?”
I blinked and licked my lips. I didn’t want to worry her, but something was wrong with me.
“Where do you hurt?”
“Where don’t I?”
“Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
I held out a hand, which she grasped. “Close your eyes.”
“Nicole—”
“Just do it.”
I closed my eyes and she rubbed my hand. The heat of the friction felt divine. I swayed.
When she stopped she asked, “Better?”
I swallowed and did a quick inventory. “Yeah, actually. What’d you do?”
She shrugged. “You get any sleep?”
Sleep? Not in this lifetime. Bodie was a kicker. And he liked to sleep sideways across the tiny mattress. “Some. He asked about my mother.”
“Not again.” Nicole moaned in sympathy. “What did you tell him?”
“The usual.” I pretended.
“Do you know anything about it, your history? What’s the truth?”
I shook my head. “Not really. I asked in the beginning.” But stopped asking when I heard a different story each time. “Do you know yours?”
Sadness filled her eyes. “Drugs. My parents couldn’t keep me. But my uncle and aunt wanted me. Then we were separated too.”
“I’m glad you know they wanted you, loved you. That has to help.” Better than knowing no one cared. I flicked the yellowing cotton sheets to straighten the folds.
Nicole paused, fingering her necklace in an absent gesture. “Maybe yours loved you—”
I didn’t want platitudes or empty reassurance, so I cut her off. “What’s on your necklace?”
The heart-shaped silver pendant never left Nicole’s neck. She kept it tucked under her clothes. I worried if Mistress saw it, she’d take it from Nicole for safekeeping, which meant it would end up on eBay. But fortunately, she never seemed to notice it.
“It’s a verse from the book of Exodus.” Nicole walked closer so I could read it.
All I saw was Ex. 23:20 in tiny cursive script. “What’s it mean?”
“The verse says, ‘I am sending an angel ahead of you, to guard you along the way.’ My family gave it to me, before we were separated.”
“That’s sweet.” Sweeter still that with everything Nicole had been through she continued to believe in guardian angels. I don’t. I can’t. There was no evidence. I needed to see to believe.
She frowned at me. “You don’t believe in angels, do you?”
I shook my head, seeing no reason to lie. “No, I don’t.”
“I understand.” She sagged.
I felt the need to assure her that I was glad she believed. Someone should carry hope. “It’s not that I don’t think it’s possible. I’ve just never seen evidence of one.” Nothing miraculous or divine or otherworldly, just stinking, obscene piles of reality. I shrugged. “Not here.”
She beamed at me. “I think you’d be surprised, Juliet.”
My voice raised, anger flaring. “If there were angels they’d get us the hell out of here. Not keep us here,” I argued, knowing I was right.
“Maybe they can’t do that type of thing? Maybe they’re just trying to help you survive?” She tucked her pendant back under her blouse and picked up a stack of finished laundry.
“What good is that?” Surviving? That I do on my own. “No, we’re on our own.” I slammed the dryer door so hard it bounced open again.
“Maybe someday you’ll believe me.” She paused.
“Maybe.” I shrugged, filling the washer again.
“The records are all kept in that gray filing cabinet, you know? In case you want to read your file.”
“It’s locked.” I’d snuck into Mistress’s office countless times early on, hoping to gain access to my file. Maybe it gave my parents’ address and contained a bus ticket home.
Nicole cocked her head, staring through me. “There’s a spare key taped behind the framed picture of the Mistress’s son. Just saying.”
I nodded, more to acknowledge Nicole than because I planned on doing anything with the information. “Is that her son? The blond guy who looks like a movie star?”
“I assume.” Nicole shrugged. A buzzer on the intercom sounded. “That’s the new guy in the Green Room. I’ll go.” Nicole squeezed my shoulder as she went by.
When she was gone, I whispered under my breath, “Where’s my angel? Why don’t I deserve one, too?”
Sema ran down the hallway toward me, her pigtail braids flapping like licorice wings. Her pudgy cheeks matched a stout frame. I needed to find her bigger clothes before Mistress took exception to Sema’s belly showing between her shirts and pants. She frantically said, “Come quick. Green Room is having trouble breathing.”
I raced up the stairs toward the room, fury fueling my footsteps. Rage at this place and this life ate at my calm. This isn’t normal. Kids shouldn’t panic because a stranger died every couple of days. It wasn’t right. It would be one thing if this was their grandparent, or another loved one, but putting a child in charge of care was abuse. I couldn’t spin it any other way. Trapped, there was nowhere to go but forward.
Mistress was bent over Mr. Taylor, performing torturous CPR. “Where have you been? He just got here two hours ago. It’s too soon. The paperwork hasn’t been filed. Do something!” she screamed at me while thumping on his chest. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t just lie on his paperwork, too. But instead she seemed to be escalating her mistreatment of us all.
A wave of dizziness knocked me sideways into the doorframe. A sharp pain in my chest felt like a steak knife and needles radiated down my left arm. Nicole was there instantly. She grabbed me and I caught my breath; the nausea settled immediately.
“Where are you going, old man? Come back here, you hear me?” Mistress continued to shout questions while pumping the man’s chest and forcing air into his mouth. “You’re supposed to stay alive until she gets here—”
Nicole and I glanced at each other—who was this “she”? What did that have to do with him living or dying?
The hair on the back of my neck tingled; I shivered. The need for fresh mozzarella, red sauce, ricotta, basil, and garlic tickled my throat.
I found my voice as I approached the bed. “I’ll do it.”
She was fracturing ribs more than bringing back the dead. Compassion flooded me. No one deserved this treatment. This wasn’t CPR, it was torture. I saw Mini’s tail twitch under the bed frame. I moved closer and put my hand on the man’s wrist to check for a pulse. Faint, if any.
Mistress pushed back from the bed, wild-eyed and flustered. “You take over. I can’t do any more. I have an appointment in town with Ms.—” She broke off and took a deep breath. “Do not let anything else happen.” Mistress dripped sweat and her reddened face showed that five minutes of exertion pushed her limited physical stamina.
“Fine.” I leaned closer and listened for Mr. Taylor’s breath while Mistress waddled from the room. She was the before photo for weight-loss surgery ads. I made a show of breathing into his mouth, but my heart knew he was done. Mini leaned all of her weight against my shins and warmed my toes. The dizziness and fatigue surged up again briefly, then paled to background static behind my eyes.
“S
he’s gone.” Nicole shut the bedroom door, more to shield the too-curious kids than to protect me from further confrontation with Mistress, I was sure.
“So is he.” I sighed, collapsing onto the floor. Mini rubbed against me, but even her comfort wasn’t helpful.
“He arrived in bad shape. I don’t even know why they transferred him. Left alone he probably would have died in the hospital today.” Nicole sat down next to me, not touching me, but close enough for me to feel her presence.
“Mistress is getting worse,” I said.
Nicole nodded. “I know. It’s like she’s coming unhinged.”
“There was one time when I saw her—” I couldn’t say the words out loud. The horrific helplessness I’d experienced when Mistress put that needle in the vein of my honorary grandfather was unthinkable. Too much. I pushed that memory deeper. If Kirian hadn’t been here I might have run away, taken my chances on the streets. And then he’d gone too and there was nothing left to fight for.
Nicole nodded as if she already knew the story.
Tears pricked my lids. I sniffed them back as Mini leapt up onto the bed and perched. She meowed plaintively.
My heart broke for Mr. Taylor’s passing this way. I try so hard to make it okay for them. For us all.
As if I had spoken my thoughts out loud, Nicole said, “Juliet, you do more than you know.” She smoothed the hair that had escaped my braid.
The tears came in a flash flood. “It’s not enough.”
She leaned closer, wrapping her arms around me. “Oh, my friend, it is.”
Mini jumped down to me. She marked my hands and face with her head. She acted as if she could rub the bad away.
“They have no one. We have no one.” I lay curled on my side, my head in Nicole’s lap. Exhaustion and self-pity rolled over me. “No one.” The sobs came one, then the next, with barely a pause to breathe as my frame was racked with the release of so many built-up emotions.
Nicole let me cry it out, whispering words of reassurance.
I tried to pull myself together. I hated this place. This life. The people who came here to die in front of me, day after day. The kids I cared for, like a mother, without the resources or the knowledge to do it right. “No one. We have no one.”
“We have each other. And they have their families waiting. They are not alone when they die.”
“I don’t believe that.” Furious, I sat up. How could she say such a thing? “If they had family who cared about them, they wouldn’t be here. None of us would be here. If we had one person, just one, none of us would be here. Dying alone. Living alone. We’re biding time, all of us, until what? Death? What’s good about that? Why wait?” I beat my fists against the linoleum tiles until I knew bruises would show tomorrow. I couldn’t feel the pain.
Nicole spoke softly. “There’s a world you can’t quite see yet. But they can see it. Feel it.” Nicole rubbed my cheeks with tissues, with an expertise that belied her young years.
I snorted.
“I’m serious. There’s more to all of this than you or I know. You have to trust. You have to believe. To hope.”
I shook my head.
Her voice sharpened. “What good is all the hearts and flowers and rainbows you tell the kids about, if you don’t let yourself believe just a little? You owe yourself a little of that faith.”
“Maybe.” Inside, in my deepest and darkest places, I hoped so. I hoped there was more to this than misery and suffering and god-awful loneliness. But it was a tiny hope, a hope that barely flickered, with pale light, the longer I was here. It was fading. My spirit wilted under the strain. “I don’t know how much longer I can—”
“You will until you won’t have to. Until.” Nicole’s tone was firm, inarguable. “So what are we eating while Mistress is out?”
I snorted snotty bubbles, which made us laugh. “Stuffed ravioli. Maybe a Caprese salad, if you can rustle up fresh mozzarella?”
“I wouldn’t have pegged him for liking Italian. He seemed more like a meat-loaf-and-mashed-potatoes guy.”
“Fond memories of his time in the service.” I knew this without being able to say how. I pictured the lives of those who died here—at least, I had a solid imagination of what I thought they might have been like. I couldn’t explain how I knew the deceased’s favorite foods and recipes, but maybe I was just lucky with food.
Nicole took these pronouncements with easy acceptance. All the kids did. “That makes sense. I’ve never tasted food as good as yours.”
I shrugged off the compliment. “I’m nothing special.”
“Oh, Juliet, you are so special. You have to start believing that.”
Impossible.
Mini stood with her front paws on my shoulders, carefully licking my face until not a trace of tears or snot remained. No need for exfoliation, either.
When we opened the door, we hugged the kids and sent them off to play hide-and-seek. Nicole waited for the funeral home to come collect the body, while I headed to the kitchen.
I put the pasta water on to simmer and made fresh noodles before Bodie came to find me. All I really wanted was sleep and the oblivion it brought, but there were hours of chores left to do before that was possible.
“There’s a man here to see you,” he said.
“Me?” I put the paring knife down.
“A dolt.” He shrugged.
“An adult?” I loved the way Bodie’s pronunciation came and went. “I guess that’s me.” I hoped this would be an easy interaction. Someone who wanted a pamphlet for DG or needed directions toward town.
The tallest man I’d ever seen stood in the foyer, holding a stack of colored papers. His back was to me as he studied the portraits of the house’s past residents and owners with a particularly serious, straight posture. I’d looked at the portraits so much, I’d memorized their subjects’ features and given them all elaborate lives for my bedtime stories.
“May I help you?” I asked. Mistress hated us talking to outsiders, but she wasn’t here and I didn’t want to be rude.
“Ah, lovely.” His blue eyes widened and his toothy smile bloomed when he turned his attention to me. He seemed so pleased I felt slightly unnerved.
“Have we met?” I asked. His snow-white beard was tamed into an intricate braid, not unlike the French braid in my own hair.
He lost his smile. “No, I’m sorry. You reminded me of a friend. I’m Rumi. I have a glass studio down the road, in Carmel. I hoped to invite the staff here to an open house I’m having?” His sincerity put me at ease immediately, though he squinted, as if he needed glasses, when he looked at me.
“Our headmistress isn’t here right now.”
“That’s okay. May I leave a few of these invitations?” He held the sheaf of papers toward me.
I reached to take them, even though I knew I could never give them to Mistress. I’d be punished. “Maybe a couple.”
“As many as you like. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He continued to hold the papers toward me but kept his distance.
“I’m … Juliet.” I was too tired to make up a name; he didn’t feel threatening.
“Ah, lovely name.”
“I guess.” I shrugged off the compliment.
“Best song by my favorite band. Come by the shop and I’ll play it for you.” He hummed a few lines.
“Sure.” I agreed with no intention, no ability, to actually take him up on the offer.
“Well, then. Are there lots of kids here?” he asked, as he moved to the door. “Your brothers and sisters?”
“Oh, no. We’re foster kids.” I always felt shame when I confessed that to people. As if we’d done something wrong, something to deserve this fate.
“Ah.” He seemed at a loss. “Well, then. I hope we’ll meet again.” He paused, hesitated, and then left.
“Goodbye.” I shut the door behind him, heard him whistling his way down the walk.
“Who was that?” Sema peeked her face around the column of curta
ins hanging in the living room. She often hid in the curtains, for hours at a time. I’d learned to look for her toes along the bottom when I entered a room.
“No one.” I quickly burned the flyers in the fireplace until the invitations were charred curls of carbon. “No one,” I repeated until I started to believe it.
Oh, the music I heard in the deaths tonight makes angels weep.
Cassie Ailey
March 1878
CHAPTER 12
I’d spread Auntie’s journal and a couple of notebooks out on the cottage’s kitchen table. There were only a few blank pages left and I’d added an entry or two. I felt like what I wrote had to be vital to be worthy of getting added. As if a panel of my ancestors scrutinized every stroke of my pen. Soon, the book itself would need to be changed and maybe I’d write more in it, when all I saw was my own writing. The thick leather binding was covered in embossed roses, windows, candles, and silhouettes of animals and insects. The paper was thin, fragile parchment. Occasionally, I found greasy, dirty fingerprints on the pages, and the fading ink wasn’t waterproof. I was searching for an entry, a mention, even a lowly sentence that might illuminate how best to figure out if Nocti or Fenestra lived in that broken place.
A Fenestra can be accustomed to the feeling of human death from a very young age. If left unaware of her talents, she can be forced to change. If a Nocti sacrifices another Fenestra in her presence she may have little choice but to combine energies with the Nocti to survive. It is a rape of her free will, of her innocence. This is where the tradition of hiding Fenestra children, out of sight of Nocti, came from.
“Almost, almost.” I was close to seeing a pattern here. Maybe.
“What?” Tens glanced up from the laptop. He took the more modern approach to research. Since he’d discovered technology he was in love with gadgets. He even wanted me to transcribe the journal into a Word document so we could cross-reference the information better.
