Ruby

by Francesca Lia Block

  After dinner, we sat in soft armchairs by the fireplace and ate apple crisp. The thin sheets of brown sugar crumbled in my mouth. I felt warm and cozy, so relaxed that it scared me. I didn’t want to slip.

  I asked Phillip more about his work.

  “She’s the inspiration.” When he looked over at his wife, his eyes shone like little fireplaces and I wondered if I’d ever be that infatuated with someone after so many years.

  I thought about the title of Phillip’s book. Fear of the dark. I prided myself on my appreciation of the goddess, the moon, secrets of the night. But I was afraid of the darkness, too. Suddenly I wanted to tell this to Phillip, have him look at me the way a concerned father would. People who are afraid of the dark, if they understand the natural feminine forces, they must have seen something, something unnatural. I could almost hear him saying the words.

  Fear of the dark. Witches with boils on their faces under the bed. Goblins expelling sulfuric gas in the closet. A circle of men around me, the same pale, small-featured male mask on all their faces. My father’s face. At bedtime, I turned off the overhead light switch at the door and jumped all the way across to my mattress so my feet wouldn’t touch the floor.

  I took a sip of tea, scalded my tongue, and winced. The pain in my mouth felt almost good, though, a warning for me not to say too much.

  So I didn’t tell Phillip or Isabelle about my fear of the dark. Or why I had that fear at all.

  This is all that Phillip and Isabelle knew about me when I left that night:

  I was from the Midwest. We had always lived in the same home—a bright white structure with green shutters and a wraparound porch overlooking marshlands. We had a greenhouse where my mother grew the exotic flowers she sold at her florist shop. My father was a veterinarian and taught at the college. We always had lots of animals that were like part of the family. I spent my days roaming the woods and fields, looking for injured birds to save. I used a dropper to feed them worms ground up in a blender mixed with Gatorade. My parents were very relaxed and lenient, except that they protected my sister, Opal, and me from popular culture, so we were a bit naive. We knew all the classic novels but none of the current movies. I told Phillip and Isabelle the memories that came back when I got to their village—the smell of bonfires, crunching through the leaves on the way to the football games, root beer and hotdogs, grilled cheese and milkshakes, Halloween and Tommy Walden.

  Because I was so at home and because they were so attentive, it didn’t feel as if I were lying. I began to feel that all of it was real.

  spells of invisibility

  I ENDED UP WORKING at Isabelle’s shop. It was just another miracle in a series of miracles that were leading me to you, and I didn’t question it. When she asked, I just thanked her and told her I’d be there in the morning.

  The days passed and I almost stopped thinking about you. Not because I had given up hope. I was just so happy. I was the happiest I had ever been. In the morning, I walked around the lake, had tea and scones with Marge Bentley, and went to the shop. I spent the day sorting and pricing new merchandise or selling candles and crystals and potions to the men and women of the village. It was amazing to me how many of these folk used magic. It was just part of their lives, like afternoon tea or buying the paper. People of every age and race came in there. There were a few you’d expect, like the teenagers with punky hair and earth mothers in their paisley dresses, but businessmen and waitresses, plumbers and librarians came, too. I loved helping them; they all seemed so delighted with their purchases as if they were carrying home little bits of love and prosperity in their bags.

  Isabelle and I ate lunch together when there was a lull. Fellow rabbit-mice that we were, we usually had cheese sandwiches on dark bread and some raw vegetables and fruit. In the evenings, she invited me to dinner sometimes. Other nights I spent alone wandering around the village, eating at one of the local restaurants or sitting at the pub. People started to know my name and I felt very at home, but I didn’t get too close to anyone. It was safer that way and I liked having a little aura of mystery. On my days off I went riding in the countryside or walked through the woods. That was my favorite thing to do. Nothing strange happened after the first time I’d seen the crone but there was still that sensation of possibility, as if the trees might start talking to me or the fairy lights of my childhood appear in the shallow creek that ran through the forest.

  And I wanted magic. All of it. I wanted to be able to go into the darkest darkness without fear.

  That was when Isabelle gave me her book of shadows. She was smiling, and her voice had a light tone even though the book felt so dark and heavy in my hands, so full of secrets.

  “Just give it a go. See what interests you. Have fun.”

  Of course I chose what I chose. It felt like the most important thing. I could have chosen a love spell but I wasn’t ready yet. I didn’t have the strength and I wasn’t whole enough. I was still too afraid of the dark.

  THE MOON was waning.

  Every night I took a bath with sandalwood oil. Then I lit a black candle anointed with the same oil. I took off my robe, lay down on the bed on my side, curled up into a fetal position, and closed my eyes. As I tried to deepen and regulate my breathing, I imagined the dimensions of the bed. I saw the comforter, each petal of each cabbage rose, each vein of each leaf. The colors made me feel different ways. The reds and pinks made me warmer, the greens made me cooler, the white background made me feel as if I were floating away. The bed was firm, and my body absorbed the subtle vibrations of the mattress. It began to take on the energy of the bed, the texture and density and shape. I imagined the whole bed enveloping and shielding me.

  On the night when the moon was black, I performed the ritual wearing a long, silvery-blue silk-velvet robe that Isabelle had made for me, and then I walked out of the Bentleys’ and went to the pub. I sat there all night but no one took my order or spoke to me. I was going to go into the woods and dance in the darkness, fearless, but I realized that I didn’t want to be invisible anymore. I didn’t have to hide here. I wanted to be as visible as possible. I wanted you to recognize me.

  I wish I had known how to become invisible at times when I was a child, though. I could have used it then.

  SOMETIMES MY FATHER went away on business or on a hunting or fishing trip. My mother and Opal and I felt so free. We stayed up late, having marshmallows and popcorn for dinner, and watching TV. We made fun of the commercials and created our own lines to the jingles, laughing so hard our ribs ached and tears poured down our faces.

  On those nights I didn’t need to be invisible. I didn’t need a night-light. I wasn’t afraid of the dark.

  the wish

  WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL, I went to a magic show with my family. The magician was a tall man with the face of a 1920s matinee idol and hands like birds. I sat there, trying not to breathe, so I could catch every movement he made. I kept thinking, how could we all be sitting here so calmly while he is demonstrating such mystical powers?

  He produced a huge bunch of long-stemmed red roses.

  “They’re magic,” he said. “I will give one to a member of the audience who holds the power to manifest dreams as reality.”

  He walked away from the stage lights so he would be able to see all of our faces. I sat completely motionless, knowing he was going to give that rose to me. As he approached the row I was seated in, our eyes met and neither of us looked away. He walked straight to me and held out the rose. I still remember how cool the petals felt and the way it smelled. Like hope.

  “This is for you, sweetheart. Put it under your pillow tonight and your dreams will come true.”

  He backed slightly away, turned, and went to the stage.

  My father was sitting next to me, tapping his cigarette pack on his kneecap, but he didn’t say anything. It was another time that we both knew I had won.

  THERE HAD BEEN A LOT of blessings in my life. I did not have to doubt. That’s what I kept telli
ng myself.

  AND THEN ISABELLE INVITED me over for dinner again. She said she needed to speak with me about something.

  I sat nervously at the table, my leg bouncing noiselessly, hidden by the linen cloth. Isabelle had excused herself after we cleared away the dishes, and Phillip was busy in the kitchen, making us tea. He returned with a silver tray and Isabelle came after him. I noticed she seemed nervous, too, unlike her usually calm self.

  Phillip served the tea and then sat down beside Isabelle across the table from me.

  “Ruby, Phillip and I have a favor to ask you. It’s a bit of an imposition so we’ll understand if you decline.”

  A favor, I thought, thank God. They haven’t discovered why I’m here.

  “Of course. You know I’d do anything for you. You’ve both been so kind to me. Just name it.”

  “Oh, you’re such a love, but hear us out first before you agree.”

  “Yes, Ruby, you must hear the terms first, we insist.”

  “Okay, whatever you want.” The nervousness was creeping back up my neck.

  Isabelle said, “We need to go away for the Christmas holiday. I’ll be closing the shop so you won’t have your responsibilities there.” She paused. “We would like you to house-sit for us.”

  I sat forward to respond, but Phillip held up his hand and shook his head slightly. “That’s not all. It’s far more complicated.”

  They glanced at each other and Isabelle continued. “Yes, well, Ruby, you see we need you to take care of someone for us.”

  She couldn’t mean what I was thinking. Not you. No, she must mean a cat or a dog, not you. My mind was racing and my heart was pounding so loudly I was sure they could hear it.

  “It’s our son, Orion. You may have heard of him.”

  I could hear her speaking but far away. The blood in my veins was all rushing to my head. Get a grip, Ruby. Get a grip.

  “…Well the fall was horrible. It’s a wonder he survived at all. He keeps telling us something spooked the horse…”

  She wasn’t making sense. I looked at Phillip.

  “Anyway, he’s recovering here at home, in private. It is very important to him and to us that no one finds out. He feels it would be detrimental to his career and we want him to recover in peace and quiet.” He paused, searching my face. I tried not to show too much emotion. “There is some care involved but mostly we just need you to be here. He has a nurse that comes once a day and a physical therapist as well.”

  “He’s very depressed and fragile.” Tears welled up in Isabelle’s eyes, making them look even darker. “He will barely speak to anyone but we keep talking to him every day and sometimes I read to him.” She covered her face with her hands and Phillip put his arms around her.

  “We trust you completely. We know we are asking a lot but quite frankly we need some time away.” Phillip’s strong voice wavered slightly for the first time.

  My mouth was too dry; I didn’t know how I was going to answer. I saw them sitting there, Isabelle still covering her face and Phillip looking so tired. Why hadn’t I noticed how sad and tired they looked before? Were they covering it up or was I just too caught up in my fantasy to have seen?

  “Of course I’ll do it.”

  Isabelle’s head snapped up. She was really letting herself cry now. “Oh, my lovely Ruby. I knew we could count on you. You’ve never even asked if he was our son. Most people ask me straight away.”

  “You are like a miracle. The way you just showed up in our lives.” Phillip reached across the table and held my hand.

  I looked down so he couldn’t see the shame in my eyes. He stood up.

  “All right, ladies, enough sadness. This is a happy moment. If Isabelle has taught me anything she’s taught me that there are no coincidences.”

  “Let me take you home,” Isabelle said, “so you can think about all we’ve dumped in your lap. You can come over again tomorrow and we’ll show you everything and introduce you to Marie-Therese. And, of course, Orion.”

  My stomach lurched at the sound of your name. I stood up, but my legs were so weak that I had to steady myself on the table.

  When she dropped me off, Isabelle hugged me and whispered in my ear, “You are such a gem. Your mother couldn’t have chosen a better name.”

  I sat up, awake, most of the night. Too excited, too stunned to sleep. My mind kept playing the evening over and over.

  You’re here. You’ve been here all along.

  I WALKED INTO THE ROOM. The curtains were pulled close to keep out the light. All I saw was a bed and a figure lying there.

  “Ruby, come here, sweetness,” Isabelle said. “I want you to meet my son.”

  I walked closer. You were lying in traction, strapped to an elaborate hospital bed that could be moved in various ways. You had lost a lot of weight, so every sinew of your body was defined. The cut of your cheekbones looked severe, stark. Your eyes were more haunting than ever. They seemed to be moving deeper into their sockets even as I watched.

  I looked into your face. “Hello, Orion.”

  All my joy at being with you was not what I had expected. Because there was this other thing, this sorrow. You lay there broken, and if you had not been broken, my dream would not have come true. I would never have been there with you if you had not been hurt. What had I wished for? What had I created?

  miss flora and the demon

  IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN EASY for me to keep pretending and repressing. After all, I had spent my whole childhood doing these things. But when Isabelle and Phillip left, I started wondering if the whole idea was a big mistake.

  Partly, it was because of Christmas. I had only been away from my family once before at this time of year, with the Martins, and part of me wished I could be home, baking sugar-crusted chocolate bourbon balls and Christmas cookies in the shapes of stars, bells, and angels with my mom and Opal. I tried to imagine sitting at my mother’s table with you beside me, your back healed, your voice merry as you drank hot cider and chatted away with them. But even with my imagination, I couldn’t see it. My old life was fading and you were lying in your bed, silent and sullen, hardly eating, avoiding my eyes now when I came to check on you. Fading, too.

  That was the other reason I thought I’d made a mistake. You seemed so depressed and nothing I did was helping. What did I expect? Magic? Who did I think I was?

  Before Isabelle left, she decorated the house with evergreen boughs, holly wreaths, mistletoe, bowls of nuts and fruits, candles, gold and silver moons and stars. Every nook and cranny was draped in folds of rich dark green velvet. It did look magical, and I began to think maybe I should at least try to do some spells of my own. Maybe I could cheer you up a little at least. So I spent the whole day on the meal. There was a rich mushroom risotto, crusty bread, a tray of cheeses, mulled wine, sweet spiced nuts, a glazed poppy-seed loaf, and the cookies I had imagined making with my mother.

  I draped a green velvet cloth over my arm and balanced two large trays on either hand. Those years of waitressing as a teenager had paid off a little. You looked up.

  “May I come in?”

  You nodded. Your eyes widened a little at the food, but you didn’t say a word.

  I set the trays down and lit the candles I had placed all around your room. Outside, the garden was white under a black sky.

  “This is only the second time I’ve been away from my family during the holidays. I thought I’d share some of our traditions with you.”

  I fed you small bites of all the dishes, but I kept my eyes averted, the way I always did when I helped you eat. I sensed the shame you felt at having to be cared for this way. I wanted to tell you that it was okay, that there was no reason to be ashamed with me, but I didn’t want to make it worse.

  When we were done eating, I said, “My mom used to read us this one book every Christmas Eve and I wanted to read it to you.”

  You didn’t say anything, so I picked up Miss Flora McFlimsey’s Christmas Eve. I kept it in a plastic envelope
to protect the fragile cover—a pastel watercolor of a doll in a rocking chair—from completely disintegrating, like dried roses. The pale lavender and pink had rubbed off, so it looked as if white rose petals or drifts of snow were falling around Flora.

  I read to you about the old doll locked in the attic, her only friend a mouse named Timothy. One night, the mouse tells the lonely doll that “there are strange goings-on downstairs.” She realizes that it must be Christmas Eve and longs to have one look at the Christmas tree. Then, by sheer determination or perhaps magic, she can walk.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you flinch and I almost stopped reading. But somehow it seemed as if I should go on, even if it made you uncomfortable. It struck me as odd and somehow prophetic that this was the only book I had brought from home when I came here.

  The doll goes carefully down the stairs and finds a frantic Santa Claus who has just discovered he is one doll short. Seeing Flora peeking out from behind a chair, he decides to use her as a replacement.

  Sitting under the Christmas tree, she is filled with pride until she hears two brand-new dolls whispering unkind things about her. She tries to go back to the attic but finds once again her legs are frozen, and she begins to cry real tears.

  I heard your breathing deepen from where you lay in the shadows. The candles were low now, wax pooling in the saucers, a thick scent of honey filling the room as the light was about to go out altogether.

  “‘What happened next could never be explained.’”

  The angel from the top of the Christmas tree comes down and helps Flora into her long-lost blue velvet dress and hat and her ermine muff so that she looks just as she had on that first Christmas long ago.