The Night Orchid

by M. G. Hernandez

  “Yes, and she looked so serene. She just wanted her body found.”

  A gust of wind rattles the windowpanes, causing a broken ornament to fall. Jo, whose eyes have widened, turns to me. “Did you hear that loud clash upstairs?”

  “No, but my goosebumps are back. Is she here? Because I’m freezing in this humid weather.”

  Fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, she nurses a headache. Dread engulfs me as, judging from Jo’s distress, someone else is here, and it’s not Athena.

  When she turns, she grabs my wrist. “Time to run.”

  Yes, ma’am.

  I grab her hand, and we bolt. Jo announces she hears boots stomping behind us, but I’m not turning around to confirm that. We reach the door, and we sigh in relief. But something is wrong. “Shit! It won’t open!”

  My friend panics while I twist and pull on the knob. From the corner of my eye, I see her turn. For crazy sadistic reason, I copy her. Moonlight seeps through cracked windows, illuminating the archway. On cue, the hair on the back of my neck stands. “What are you seeing?”

  “Someone is lurking in the shadows. Tall and bulky. White shirt and jeans.”

  As if awakening from a trance, she gasps and cowers to the floor. Hands cover blue-tinged ears—a result of the persistent chill coming from a mysterious source. “Make it stop, Jules. The sound is everywhere, it hurts.”

  In seconds, I pull her up and cup her face in both my palms. “Joy, look at me.”

  Dark lashes flutter open, revealing troubled brown eyes.”You’ll be fine. I promise. Do you trust me?”

  She nods.

  “Here’s the plan. That door is old and termite ridden, it’ll cave with both our strength. Let’s just go for it.”

  “Ok.”

  We back up four steps. “On my count. One…”

  She turns, and a wave of panic hits her, making her shake.

  “Turn around, Joy. Two…” The temperature drops another degree lower, and I see my breath blowing out my mouth.

  “Julian… he’s getting nearer.”

  “Three!”

  We run for the door. As soon as we reach it, we ram our bodies into it. I was right. The years and termites reduced it to mere pieces of cardboard. We break through with ease, tumbling onto the front porch. Covered in dust and chipped wood, I jump off the ground. “Let’s get out of here!”

  I don’t have to tell her twice. We sprint straight to our bikes and leave.

  My head snaps up from the desk. It’s four o’clock am, but my ass is in jeans and a sweatshirt. I hear the cuckoo clock downstairs chime to mark the hour. My feet taps the wooden floor beneath the table as I tap my sketchbook. Damn, I’m wired.

  Whoa, what?

  I look at my notebook and pause. Dark lines mar the crisp, smooth surface of the white paper as rudimentary sketches of a figure I can’t name wait for my completion. As I lay the pencil on the pad, I scrunch my forehead. I’ve been sketching. When did I unearth my sketchbook from my cabinet? “I’m going nuts.”

  As I throw it in my desk drawer, I go back to that time in that abandoned house. That moment was one of Jo’s greatest hits. We were only fourteen, and it was the summer of our freshmen year. That was the year of Athena O’ Connor. The eighteen-year-old girl who vanished that June. Jo had never met the teenager when she was alive, but one midnight, she woke up and discovered her standing next to her bed. Athena never left her alone since then. I would’ve shit in my pants if I saw that.

  That night, I called the police’s anonymous tip line, and they found her body three days later. Don’t ask me why I’m thinking of this now, but lately, my brain has been digging up memories I prefer to keep in my subconscious. I lean back, twirling my pencil until a knock jolts me out of my thoughts.

  “It’s just me, honey.” The door squeaks open and shows my petite mom in baby pink scrubs. She’s a nurse at Wakefield General Hospital, and she’s awake early in the morning to prepare for her shift. I watch her walk in the room, carrying a laundry basket on her hip.

  When people see my dad and I, there’s no question about paternity as I’m a teenage version of him—blonde, blue-eyed motherfuckers. But with my mom’s auburn mane and 5’2 frame, I sometimes wonder how we’re related.

  “A penny for your thoughts?” she asks. The dimple on her right cheek emerges as she smiles. And it’s that indentation that connects us. Bianca tells me we have the same smile. Maybe so, but as she enters the room and ruffles my hair, that gentle touch always makes me feel safe—and like a son who belongs to no one else but her.

  “Mom, why are you sorting laundry at this hour?”

  “Why are you already dressed for school when you’re supposed to be asleep?” She places the hamper on my desk.

  I shrug. “Can’t sleep.”

  She searches my face, and I avert my eyes. “Hon, are you ok? You’ve been…off these days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not present. You seem to have this mental fog that consumes you.”

  I rake my hand through my hair. “It’s just…” I pause. “Lately, my mind has been drifting to…a certain person. I don’t know why.”

  She furrows her brows. “Who?”

  I shake my head. “Just a past I prefer to forget.”

  She motions outside, and I don’t have to guess that she’s referring to my neighbor. “Is it Josephine?”

  I scoff. “No, of course not.” I clear my throat. “It’s a lot of stuff. It’s my senior year and now, this whole Alexa situation.”

  She softens her eyes and nods. Then she snaps her fingers. “I almost forgot. You missed this one when you were doing your laundry. It was on the ground in front of the washing machine.”

  She hands me a black parka, and I raise my brow as I take it from her. “This isn’t mine.”

  “Well, I found it near your duffel bag.” She picks up the basket. “That jacket was so caked with mud, it stood on its own. I had to wash it.”

  As I unfold it, I see an REI logo on the thick hoodie, and I realize who owns it. “This is Brandon’s. I took him home that Saturday morning after Jordan’s party. I must have taken it by mistake.”

  Mom smooths out her scrubs as she wrinkles her forehead. “What were you guys doing over there? Rolling around in the mud?”

  A flashback of me on the couch with the sun beaming on my face while Brandon drools on the carpet enters my brain. Our pot-smoking knocked us out by midnight. I thumb the thick lining of the jacket. What the fuck was he doing?

  Meanwhile, mom knits her brows as she watches me. “Honey, what’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  She sighs and turns to the door. As she walks off, she glances behind her. “Something doesn’t feel right, babe. Please be careful out there.”

  Chapter 5

  Josephine

  The wind seeps through my blanket, chilling me, despite the window being closed. I sit up, knowing that the iciness came not from the winter cold creeping into my domain. A teenage girl with straight black hair illuminated by the moonlight stands next to my window, looking out of the frosted glass. Her brown skin glows and her face is exquisite. She’s exactly how I remember her.

  Except she’s not supposed to be here. We don’t belong in the same social circle. When we met last year at an event hosted by our parents, she never batted an eyelash in my direction. She was perfect in sophistication, style, and beauty—while I was perfectly flawed.

  So there is no reason for her to be here—except for one. She’s dead, and she has found her way to me like so many others seeking my help. Alexa Ocampo. The missing girl. Dead at eighteen.

  I search for signs within myself for shock, sadness, or any emotions at the unfairness of fate. That someone decided for her when her life needed to end. But nothing. I feel no biological responses telling me to empathize. But I’m mesmerized by her, making me hop out of my bed and walk towards her. I stop a foot from her, but she doesn’t turn.

/>   She stands in front of me like an image from a projector screen—flimsy and porous. Finally, she shifts and turns to me. She opens her palm to reveal a white flower of a unique shape.

  “What is that?” I ask, reaching for it.

  She opens her mouth, but the sudden blare of the alarm disturbs our interaction. She fades and disappears, making me curse under my breath because I’m not ready to let her go.

  A neighbor’s dog howls, bringing me back to the present. My room looks ordinary once more. White walls, a twin bed with cream bedding and an antique armoire in the corner. I glance at my wall and smile at an old faded poster of Ronda Rousey. It’s the only unique feature in this bedroom.

  It’s only four o’clock but sleep is no longer a choice, so I walk to my closet. When I flip the switch and grab my bathrobe, my mind returns to Alexa. Cry, idiot. Someone died, you heartless bitch. I bite my lip and pinch the soft flesh on my wrist. The pain makes me wince, but I breathe a sigh of relief when the voices in my head go away.

  ***

  After my shower, I find a silver lace collared blouse, a black A-line skirt and a white chapel veil on the bed. On the floor are my peep toe wedges. As expected, my mother entered my room to pick out my clothes while I was in the bathroom.

  It’s a race against time from this point. She expects me to be in her outfit by five o’clock. Dragging myself to the dresser for my pearl earrings, I prepare for my last task. As I inserted them through my pierced ears, my eyes dart to a pair of wacky bacon earrings sitting on top of my jewelry box.

  You would like this. Happy thirteenth birthday, loser.

  I smile at the memory and place an earring next to my ear. I imagine wearing them today, but I sigh knowing that my mother does not approve. Only pearl studs made the cut on her list of clean, understated, and classy jewelry.

  But a spark of rebellion enters my head. I turn to the door to listen for approaching footsteps. The knob stays still, and I hear no high heels in the hallway. With a deep exhale, I grab the forbidden pair and place them in my backpack before my mother’s return. Smoothing the folds of my skirt, I wait with my hands on my lap and count under my breath. “Five…. four…. three…. two…. one.”

  Mother walks in as soon as I finish the countdown. A creature of habit, she does the same daily routine. But as she saunters towards me, I eye her graceful stride. Her form-fitting blue Diane von Fürstenberg midi dress, showcases her slender frame. A white lace chapel veil blankets her smooth, sable tresses, coiled in an elegant low bun. Her height caps at 5’8, making her tall for the average Filipina. Her posture rivals the queen, gaining strong core muscles from years of training at a finishing school in Manila.

  Mother is a socialite—the progeny of a union between two prominent families in the Philippines. She stops conversations when she enters the room. But she’s as beautiful as a lioness tackling prey with the deadly combination of focus and precision. When I gaze at her reflection in the mirror—perfect arched brows and enviable Cupid’s bow lips—I remind myself to breathe. My stunning lioness mother still makes me nervous after seventeen years.

  Without a word, she positions herself behind me. Never engaging in light conversation, she and my father swear by the adage, “children are meant to be seen but not heard.”

  Meanwhile, her manicured fingers pump hair oil into a smooth palm. After rubbing it between her hands, she rakes it through my frizz. She tames my tresses into a low ponytail, braids it, coils it at the nape of my neck and secures it with bobby pins. She arranges the black lacey chapel veil at the crown of my head. After eyeing her work, she takes the clean wash cloth I prepared for her and wipes her palms. Then she walks away. As she opens the door, she says over her shoulder, “Be downstairs and ready in five minutes.”

  I look at my reflection. Neat and polished hair. The perfect daughter—reverent and prayerful. When I rub my arm, a sharp pain shoots up and I wince. I’ve forgotten I had a bruise there, too. Mother dragged me out of bed two nights ago when I couldn’t wake up for church. I grit my teeth. Injuries inflicted by my mother hurts more and lasts longer than those from my fights.

  Out of habit, I check my online bank account. Eleven thousand dollars—money I kept since I was fourteen through my matches and funds saved up from ten years of birthday cash from Aunt Helen.

  With this cash, I can pay for a studio outside of Wakefield until my freshman year of college. For now, I will grin and bear my family’s expectations.

  One more month until I’m eighteen. As soon as the clock strikes twelve, I’m gone.

  Chapter 6

  Josephine

  St. Paul’s Cathedral sits atop Mission Hills overlooking Wakefield. I appreciate the cathedral’s gothic style and architecture, even though I’m struggling to be awake so early. Tradition is the only thing that justifies this archaic veil.

  The bell tolls, signaling us to enter the dim interior and find our usual pew — tenth row on the left. Holy water chills my fingers as I dip them in the bowl near the entrance. The wetness touch my forehead, chest and both shoulders as I do the sign of the cross.

  Mother bows before stepping onto the red carpet that covers the center aisle, and I follow suit. I keep my eyes on the floor, and when we find our seat, I stare straight ahead, blocking everyone in my peripheral vision.

  As minutes tick by, more people trickle in, claiming space in the pews. They put faith on something intangible, and I wonder, as they kneel and whisper their intentions to the universe, what they are requesting from God. Are they like mine—fervent pleas for strength and the opportunity to escape?

  The next hour is predictable and uneventful. There is plenty of standing, sitting and recitation of prayers. I stifle a yawn. Mother has been taking me to the five o’clock mass since I was thirteen. In her mind, this diligence will absolve my sins and prevent me from committing them again. I huff. If she only knew. As if sensing impure thoughts, she narrows her eyes and burns a hole through my skin with her disapproval. But I return my attention to the songbook and sing with gusto. She leaves me alone then.

  When the mass ended, I headed for the exit. But mother intercepts my exodus and grips my elbow. “Not so fast. I want to talk to Connie.”

  I pause. She means Alexa’s mom. The news of her daughter’s disappearance came to our radar when she called us on Saturday morning. Mrs. Connie Ocampo is interesting. Though I don’t despise her, I’m not a big fan. Her tendency to be a snob is the reason for my indifference. The wife of the owner of an Asian grocery chain, Orient Seas Grocers, and living in a mansion with her perfect family, she did well for herself. Her household is the poster immigrant family for living the American dream.

  But she is a doting mother. Her love shows in the way she gazes at her daughter with pride. Sometimes, when The Association of Filipino Professionals hold their annual Mother-Daughter luncheon, I watch them with envy. Alexa is the apple of her eye, and they adore each other. Something my mother and I don’t share as I’m more of an obligation than her child.

  Mrs. Ocampo waits for us as we navigate the crowd. The fashionable middle-aged woman, standing outside her pew, is not as tall as my mom, nor as handsome, but she is elegant. She’s petite, small-boned, and has a short bob haircut. She wears a brown shift dress and an extravagant-looking coat she pairs with Valentino leather pumps.

  But her face and demeanor tell a different story. Dark circles surround her red-rimmed eyes. She has aged despite the expensive makeup camouflaging her slack and sallow skin. A slight slouch mars her posture, as if she can’t support her weight. She is a far cry from her usual domineering self. I slow my pace as my conscience wrestles with my knowledge that her beloved child had already died.

  “How are you, Con?” Mom nods as she saunters to her.

  “Surviving, sis.”

  They share air kisses as they greet each other. When she turns to me, I give the customary kiss on the cheek. She caresses my face, surprising me with her special attention. “You look lovely, my dear.”


  “Thank you, Tita Connie.” I blink several times, shocked at her compliment as she had never noticed me in earlier interactions. The sides of her mouth pull up into a smile until she turns to my mother.

  “So nothing, yet?” My mom switches to Tagalog. To accommodate the switch, I switch gears as the entire conversation transitions to the Filipino language.

  Mrs. Ocampo shakes her head. “The news broadcasted it last night, Ella. I hope the media attention will help.”

  Mom nods. “So what’s next?”

  “The detective is working hard. Nelson and I have been calling and visiting hospitals just in case she’s hospitalized.”

  “Did you call everyone in the family? Maybe she ran away.”

  “Yes, and I got nothing.” She sighs. “No one knows where she is.”