Hannahwhere

by John McIlveen

  She was wound up and felt she had discovered something vital, but the excitement dwindled with the awareness that the same two questions remained. Where was Anna’s physical-self and, what could be done about her entrapment in Annaplace? Nothing had been answered.

  Had anything like this ever happened before, people appearing and disappearing, and switching between realms? There were situations with similar manifestations, like ghost sightings, alien abductions, and angel visitations. There were stories about people going into Faerie, of spirit walkers, soul travelers, and astral projection. What Hannah, Anna—and now Debbie—did, could fit into explanations for all the above. Of course, anyone claiming to experience or witness any of it was looked at skeptically or just deemed crazy.

  Yet it went even further. The world Hannah and Anna had introduced Debbie to had creation, teleportation, and even hints of telekinesis. Hannah and Anna were adolescents who operated on what they knew and had learned, but if someone intellectually advanced learned of or attained these abilities, would there be limits?

  She hoped Essie and Davenport would choose human compassion over selfishness or the lure of notoriety or power someone could receive for a breakthrough like this. She drummed up images of news vans and reporters from every medical research facility to every tabloid clogging the hallways and parking lots. She envisioned Davenport intimidating Hannah, trying for a repeat performance—or even better—Hannah totally blinking out of existence. Government agencies would want this knowledge. What army could stand against a military force that could spy on the enemy anywhere, and appear and disappear at will? Nothing would be sacred and no place would be safe.

  What would they do with Hannah and Anna? This terrified Debbie the most. It would be more shattering for Hannah and Anna than their lives had already been… and for Debbie as well. Where would they stop, if they stopped at all?

  On the other hand, maybe nobody detrimental would believe it or hold a level of skepticism that would keep them at bay. It was highly implausible—which made it tabloid-worthy—and that was usually where it ended.

  It’s down to this, Debbie told herself. I have an indefinite amount of time to help a child who may not be alive, entrapped in a place that exists on some bizarre plane that I know next to nothing about. Fucking brilliant!

  Depressed, Debbie closed the lid to her laptop and maneuvered her head around, wincing as her neck released an uprising of snaps and cracks. She had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours and her perception was beginning to swim. She picked up the nearest pile of file folders, walked into her bedroom, and dropped them onto her bedside table. She stripped out of her clothes, quickly wrapped in her robe, and headed into the bathroom for a shower. She emerged twenty minutes later with her wet hair in a single braid and wearing pajama bottoms and a spaghetti strap shirt over her bra.

  She was exhausted, and knew she wouldn’t find answers or be any good to anyone without sleep. She set her clock for 6:30 a.m. as Tina Turner asked What’s Love Got to Do with It?

  She climbed into bed and wearily glanced at the top case file folder. She remembered the case. Jamison Mayo was an eleven-year-old Latino boy from Lawrence, Massachusetts, his father unknown and mother deceased from AIDS. Jamison had lived in three different cities and been removed from five foster homes in seven years. He’d been kicked out of two schools for fighting, and was arrested on four different counts, twice for shoplifting, once for assault with intent (switchblade), and once for sexual assault. Citizen of the Year was not in Jamison’s cards.

  Have you seen Anna in your travels, Jamie? Debbie wondered. She hoped not. Her thoughts detoured to Anna and she promptly forgot Jamison.

  Where do I look for Anna?

  Start with the three people present when Anna was taken: Hannah, Anna, and Travis Ulrich. According to Davenport, Ulrich, who was locked up in some Nebraska prison, swore he hadn’t harmed Anna, though in Hannah’s account he seized Anna and was none too friendly in the process. Hannah had no more of an idea where Anna was than Debbie did, and Anna was unreachable because…

  Because why?

  Death of the physical Anna was the only thing that made sense. This would make the spirit Anna who was stuck in Annaplace her ghost.

  This is why ghosts are called spirits, you dumb-shit, Debbie thought scornfully.

  Did this mean that the part of her and Hannah that roamed around Hannahwhere and Annaplace was their ghosts? Some describe death as the separation of body from spirit. Was it that simple? The concept was exhilarating yet disturbing.

  If Anna was dead, why couldn’t she locate her body? Spirits were known to drift around their bodies, or their place of death. If the spirit wasn’t with the body when death occurred, could they lose each other? Debbie thought about her consciousness switching between the hospital and Hannahwhere. Wouldn’t the spirit remember where the connection was broken? What if the body was moved after death?

  She needed to talk to Anna. She wondered if she could contact her. She had summoned a pen between realms, created a tennis ball, a blue dove, Mount Everest, and even some Godiva grapes for crying out loud—now that was a feat. Couldn’t she just will herself over to Annaplace, or to where Anna’s physical self was, for that matter?

  How should she go about it? Could she wiggle her nose twinkle-twinkle-twink and fly there?

  No.

  How about if she crossed her arms, nodded her head, and sproinggg?

  No go.

  That ruled out sitcom magic.

  Lying on her back, Debbie centered herself on her bed and closed her eyes. She pictured Hannahwhere in her mind, with its endless flowers, trees, and butterscotch and peanut butter cup grapes. She opened her eyes and stared at her ceiling.

  You have to know you can, Anna’s voice rang in her memory, but that wasn’t the problem. She knew she could because she had been there. She had held both Hannah and Anna there, and had rolled in the flowers, flew over the fields and created things.

  Created… was that it? Hannah had said she should name her place… familiarize it so it was only hers. Was that the trick? It sure worked for Hannah.

  So what do I call it? Debbieville? Debtropolis? Deblantis? They all sounded so bad she was actually embarrassed. Hannahwhere and Annaplace were simple, smooth, and pretty. Deborahtopia? Debtopia? Better, but not great.

  She closed her eyes, parked the name Debtropolis in the forefront of her mind and thought of falling, but went nowhere. She pictured Godiva chocolate grape vines with her Mount Everest in the background, and flocks of blue doves flying…

  Flying!

  Isn’t that what she, Hannah, and Anna did… and the child in her visions? She imagined soaring over the fields and she could almost feel it; she was so close—just on the edge. What else did Hannah and Anna do?

  They sang.

  Okay, sing what? Debbie wondered. It was too obvious. So Debbie sang…

  I want to fly like an eagle

  To the sea,

  Fly like an eagle

  Let my spirit carry me…

  The bed evaporated from beneath her, and she was hurtled into a deep well of darkness, her senses reeling and quickly shifting into a brutal bout of vertigo. It felt as if she were swinging by her legs in gigantic, sweeping arcs… around and around… and finally released. She rocketed at light speed out of the darkness into dynamic bursts of color and the roar of wind in her ears. Flashes of brilliant petals blurred by and glimpses of the fields. Her speed increased as she careered out of control toward some unknown limbo, some never-place, unable to stop or control her direction or even focus on returning home. She collapsed into a blind panic, lashing out as her sense of falling into nothingness intensified. She was lost and desperate and knew she would tumble around forever in a vacuum. Flailing frantically she reached out for anything to slow her down.

  Something cold touched her hand and everything stopped.

  Debbie lies in the floral field, her heart is slamming so fiercely within her chest that she
fears it may explode. Anna is kneeling beside her, her arctic hands clenching Debbie’s panicked fingers. Debbie’s unsure and frightened eyes dart wildly about and then center on Anna.

  “Are you okay, Miss Coppertop?” Anna asks, concerned.

  “Oh my God! I’m terrified!” Debbie says.

  She sits up, the flowers that were beneath her unfolding with a cellophane hiss until they are upright and undamaged. She looks around, doubting the authenticity of her surroundings. It is the same place—or close to the same place—as before, but there are some differences. The vibrant colored Disneyesque flowers and trees and the smooth landscapes of Hannahwhere are still present and forefront to Debbie’s monolithic mountain line; however, the peculiar trees of Hannah and Anna’s realms are now interspersed by even more towering spruces and pines than before. To their right lies the same huge body of water, over which hawks and other birds of countless species swoop and dart about. The mirror-like surface of the water is wistful and magnetic to Debbie. As she gazes across the lake’s surface, a majestic eagle breaks over the trees and issues a shriek as if in greeting. The beauty of the bird draws forth a feeling of contentment within Debbie so powerful that she pulls Anna into an embrace and holds her as if her life depends on it, and she nearly believes it does.

  “Am I ever glad to see you, beautiful girl! I’ve never been so frightened in my life!” Debbie says.

  Anna’s flesh is downright numbing and Debbie reprimands herself for not wearing something heavier than a spaghetti-strap shirt and bra, and then reprimands herself again for her selfishness.

  The poor child exists this way! Is she smaller than the last time I was here? Debbie wonders. Does the skin around her eyes seem darker, like bruises?

  Debbie holds Anna tighter, no longer for comfort, but now hoping to draw some of the damned iciness out of her. Anna accepts the hug, curling slightly into Debbie, and then steps away from her. As if in defiance of her condition, Anna is wearing a Hawaiian sundress with an orange, green, and yellow floral pattern on a blue background.

  “Why aren’t you wearing a coat?” Debbie asks. “You’re freezing!”

  “Nah, a coat just keeps the cold inside me,” Anna says dismissively. There is an odd logic to Anna’s comment. Her body is the source of the cold. “Why are you scared?”

  “I didn’t know where I was. I tried to come here by myself, but everything started moving too fast and got confusing. The more I tried to fight it, the worse it got.”

  “I wouldn’t fight it next time,” Anna says.

  Debbie stares at her for a few seconds and chuckles. “You are certainly Hannah’s sister.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Yes, and I think you saved my life. How did you know I needed help?”

  “I didn’t. I was sitting in the flowers playing with a rabbit, then you were here and then you started to go away. I didn’t want you to go away, so I tried to hold you here. When I did, you grabbed my hand.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did, I don’t know what would have happened,” Debbie says. ”I don’t know if I could have made it here or back.”

  “But you were here all by yourself, before you started to go again,” Anna reassures her. “And you’re a grown-up, too!”

  “Why would that matter?” asks Debbie.

  “Mom said that grown-ups probably can’t come here. Maybe because when they get old they don’t believe in magic anymore, or maybe they never did.”

  “Well, I’m a believer now,” says Debbie.

  “And here you are,” Anna said with a smile.

  Debbie wonders if Elizabeth Amiel’s observation is true. Considering the amount of devastation and grief someone could cause with this kind of power, an adult losing their belief in magic would be to humankind’s advantage. It’s not Debbie’s nature to harm people. She naturally thinks of the good this ability might create—curing the sick, feeding the poor, diverting tragedies. The sad truth is that it would not happen. It would birth mania. It would be perverted by fear or greed. Those who fear it would worship it or crucify it, and the greedy would either destroy it with research or employ it in a quest for power. Debbie isn’t entirely certain about her own integrity. She knows she would start with good intentions, but would it eventually corrupt her? Everybody loves admiration, but to have the power within one’s own grasp to turn admiration into love, and then love into worship? The temptation would be too much for most men and women. Who could resist?

  Maybe Mother Nature balances it by installing a mental block at puberty, or maybe it’s simply divine intervention. What else can explain how humanity, or the majority of it, grows to doubt the magic? If faith were easy, this would run rampant. Magic, both good and bad, would spread like wildfire, and humanity would likely self-destruct. Maybe it’s predestined. Anna had said she always knew Miss Coppertop would show up. How would she know that?

  “Come here,” she instructs Anna. Anna obliges and Debbie kneels behind her in the soft flowers. She gathers the girl’s mane in her hands and lifts it. “Good gracious, your hair is so heavy! Does it hurt your neck or head?”

  “No… maybe… I don’t know,” says Anna. “But it gets in the way a lot. I wish it was shorter like Hannah’s.”

  “Can’t you just wish it shorter?” Debbie asks.

  “That doesn’t work. Me and Hannah tried. It seems like the only things we can’t change here is us. And we can’t make sick better, either.”

  “That seems unfair,” says Debbie. “Well, maybe we can change long to short. Let’s try.”

  Debbie holds her hand out palm up and concentrates. After a few seconds, she is rewarded with the familiar weight of her tortoiseshell hairbrush, followed by her barber scissors.

  That is so cool, she thinks. Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.

  Anna stands with her eyes closed and an easy and contented smile on her lips, relishing the attention as Debbie brushes long strokes through her hair. Studying the soft perfection of Anna’s cheeks and her unusual blonde eyelashes, Debbie understands why some dedicate their lives to the innocent beauty of children, why Anne Geddes has made a career of photographing them, why Bessie Pease Gutmann spent a lifetime painting them, and why parents would sacrifice their life for them. Debbie leans forward and kisses Anna on her soft, icy cheek. Anna gives her a smile so sweet it brings a lump to Debbie’s throat.

  “You know,” Debbie says. “Less than a week ago I believed in very little. I had lost my belief in love, in God, in hope, and I was losing my belief in the kindness of others… and then you and Hannah popped up in my life!” Debbie pauses, releases a pent up breath and chuckles. “Well, if you were to tell me penguins were really aliens who pooped marshmallows, I’d believe you.”

  Anna giggles and looks at Debbie with those hazel eyes so wide and innocent. She says, “I bet you could make one.”

  “Maybe, but who’d want to be cleaning marshmallow poop all day long?” Debbie works at a final tangle in Anna’s hair, points to a spot in the middle of her back and pokes lightly. “Is here okay?”

  Anna nods and Debbie lifts the scissors over a small section of hair. Keeping the blades level as possible, she snips. The scissors pass through Anna’s hair as if it were made of light, yet the hair stays intact. Debbie tries again to the same effect, and then snips haphazardly at the hair, making Anna giggle.

  “Told you,” says Anna.

  “But I’m using scissors, not magic, or whatever it is.”

  “But we’re here,” Anna counters. “We don’t change when we’re here. Our hair doesn’t grow, we don’t grow, and we don’t get cut.”

  Debbie presses the point of the scissors into the palm of her hand. There’s a sense of pain and pressure, but there is no dimpling where the points touch her hand. She pushes harder. The pain increases as the tip of the scissors sinks into her palm, disappearing into the flesh but still not dimpling or wounding her. She pulls her hand away, shaking it and then rubbing the spot where the scissors breached the f
lesh without puncturing.

  “Why are you doing that?” asks Anna.

  “It’s weird. Sticking it into my hand gives me pain, but no scarring,” Debbie explains.

  “If you ask me, just sticking it into your hand is weird,” Anna says.

  “Point taken, no pun intended,” says Debbie. “But it seems strange it would hurt but not scar. You’d think the two would go together.”

  “I would?” Anna asks, looking unsure.

  “Well, I would,” says Debbie, flabbergasted. “The fact that we can’t be physically harmed when we’re here makes me think we’d be capable of eternal life here, don’t you think?”

  Anna ponders this for a while and then says, “I don’t know, but I think we could live forever… unless we get sick.”

  It’s not a concept Debbie wants to entertain, but it does lend a good explanation as to why Anna is not frozen solid, even though she is so painfully cold, maybe why Anna hasn’t appeared to age much since her mother’s murder, though she seems to be getting weaker. Hannah hasn’t aged much either, but maybe her time away from Hannahwhere allowed her to grow accordingly. Hannah is taller than Anna, so could it be that when they are here physical growth—or maybe time—is suspended? Also, Anna’s physical self is not here. The body can’t grow if you’re not alive, but then… it can deteriorate. That may be what’s happening to Anna.

  Christ, the whole situation gets more bizarre by the day, thinks Debbie. “Has Hannah been here lately?” she asks.

  “She was, but now she’s sleeping. She’s waiting for you,” says Anna

  “How do you know she’s sleeping?”

  Anna shrugs. “We just know.”

  Debbie notes that Anna has said we, not I, which makes sense. It’s proven that twins communicate on a more intimate level than other siblings do. Perhaps they keep the magic alive through their faith in each other, and maybe it’s stronger with identical twins.