Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  The breeze, which had the civility to die down, notches up again. My dress flutters. I’ve been so preoccupied with keeping Grant from full-on freak-out that it doesn’t sink in. It takes me all of four rungs to realize why I feel so airy.

  No. I freeze.

  Why? Why today? Because it’s laundry day, that’s why. And I was out of clean bikinis. So I had to opt for the scrap of beige lace balled in the back of my drawer. Emergency use only.

  A thong.

  An effing thong.

  My forehead thunks to my arm. When I consulted my daily horoscope, it said to consider new prospects for current obstacles. Nowhere, repeat, nowhere did it tell me to consider my prospect in undies!

  “Wil? What’s wrong? Why’d you—”

  “Don’t look up!” I shriek.

  “Why, what’s…” Silence. Blaring silence.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “If you’re finished with your study of my backside, can we keep moving?”

  “I, uh…” Grant clears his throat, snapping his head down. “I don’t know how to answer that without being offensive. But thank you,” he says over the resuming creak of the ladder.

  “Don’t mention it. Seriously. Ever.”

  “No, I just mean”—he chuckles nervously—“for a second there I almost forgot my fear of—”

  CLUNK!

  “Grant!” Twisting my neck, I see he’s missed a rung completely and has slid down to the next. There’s a groan of rusted metal giving way. Part of the ladder is breaking. I scramble to close the space between us, to try to catch his flailing arm. “Grab my hand!” Knees slightly bent, I lean back. All my muscles quiver as I strain to reach him from above. “Grab it!”

  Shouts erupt. Sirens woot. The firemen jostle to position.

  Grant’s brown eyes are wide and terrified as his grip loosens. In sheer panic, he reaches out. His hand clamps around my ankle.

  I am not prepared for that.

  The bottom of my ballet flat slides, slipping effortlessly beneath me. Corrosion scrapes my palm. My knee gongs against the metal. I scream.

  And Grant is falling.

  Correction…we are falling.

  We sink like graceless stones through darkening sky. My yellow dress flaps—useless, broken wings at my sides. For a nanosecond, I wonder if I’m flashing the world my full moons. Butts aren’t meant to be seen moving at this velocity.

  Then it hits me. I could die!

  And here I am, traveling at the speed of ass, and I can’t form a single profound thought. Pray. Yeah, I should pray….

  Dear God, please don’t let me die. I promise to be a better person and be more efficient with my laundry and…and to never wear these devil’s panties again.

  “Aaameeennnnn!”

  Grant yells, too, but I doubt he’s bargaining with God over his choice in Skivvies.

  He touches down first with a muffled thud.

  My impact closely follows. “Uuuhhh!” The trampoline stings my skin; all the air is slapped from my lungs. I bounce and my head strikes something hard.

  I see stars. I blink to clear my vision.

  Faces hover in a frantic circle above, red lights streaking across them. Mouths are moving, but I don’t hear what they’re saying over the ocean in my ears. A fireman with a push-broom mustache is directly over me. He spittles when he talks. He needs a bigger mustache.

  If this is heaven, I want my money back.

  There’s a dip in the fabric as someone moves. His face appears inches from mine. Full lips, prominent straight nose, and those striking brown eyes all volley for my attention. Lush. If Webster gave me only one word to describe Grant’s features, that’s the one I’d pick. Did I notice that before? Yes. No. Maybe. My head is fuzzy. It’s made fuzzier by his concerned gaze. His lips compress in a tight line. I want to tell him not to worry. I’m alive. Honestly, I’ve never felt more so. And my heart is slamming so hard, I’m sure it registers on a Richter scale somewhere.

  “Wil?” My name tumbles from his lips; it is the only sound I hear. Like sound didn’t exist until this very moment. “Wil? Are you hurt?” He brushes back the hair at my cheek, inspecting my temple.

  The grin on my face feels crooked, like a picture frame you tap this way and that, impossible to level. “Grant…”

  He leans closer, eyes searching. I can smell the fabric softener and summer on him. His fingers continue to linger on my face. “Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

  “I hear you, Grant…Parker.”

  His shoulders drop as he lets out a shaky laugh. “It’s Walker, actually.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble.

  The earth spins faster and faster, blurring the people and commotion around me. Dark clouds mushroom my vision, leaching color from the world.

  I must be falling.

  But how can you fall when you’ve already hit the ground?

  “What do you mean, ‘There was an incident at the water tower’?” Gram’s got a shriek that rivals the sonar system used by bats; I instantly cringe. “Where’s my granddaughter? I demand to know her condition!”

  Letting out a soft sigh, I sink back into the flat-as-a-pancake hospital pillow. I know, without moving my blue privacy curtain a centimeter, that the lines on Gram’s face have just carved themselves deeper. And I’m certain the silver hairs on her head are now outnumbering the black ones. She’s probably even clutching the crucifix that rarely sees the light of day because it’s buried in her cavernous bosom.

  How many times have I been the reason for Gram’s hold on the cross? Sadly, too many to count.

  My fingers gingerly probe the lump on my head. It isn’t so bad. At least, my hair provides a nice camouflage. Except for the dull headache—which I attribute less to the lump, and more to the suffocating lemon-scented hospital disinfectant—I really can’t complain.

  “Now, Mrs. Carlisle…” The doctor’s calm, authoritative voice drifts from the hallway as he attempts to smooth Gram’s ruffled feathers. Yeah, good luck with that. Gram is all Taurus, all the time. And while she can be slow to rile, once she does—well, it’s best to batten down the hatches and ride out the storm. Because you don’t have a prayer of stopping it.

  When the doctor’s finally able to get a word in edgewise, he explains the procedural CAT scan and physical exams confirmed everything is normal, other than the small knot on my head and sizeable contusion on my left knee. But seriously, I would take countless bruises and knocks to the head, just to avoid facing Gram right now.

  In true Genevieve Carlisle fashion, she bursts into another litany of questions. “How did this happen? Doctor, young girls don’t spontaneously drop from water towers! Just who in the name of Hades was responsible for this?”

  Who in the name of Hades? Despite the gravity of my situation, my mouth forms an involuntary grin. That is a phrase Mama used with regularity. Maybe she inherited it from Gram, or Gram from her, but I always thought of them as Mama’s words.

  And Mama’s words are something that will stay with me forever. Like the smell of her burning sage—pungent, herbal, and sweet—and the beat-up card table she made mystical with a scrap of brilliant purple satin.

  My mother always had a fondness for vibrant colors. Colors just like the ones in the van Gogh print hanging on the hospital wall. In fact, I bet I could pluck the exact shade of yellow from those swirling sunflowers that was the color of her favorite dress.

  I close my eyes, letting my mind drift to the last time I saw her in that dress. It was an event I’ll never forget. Because it was the first time I ever saw my astrological chart.

  There it was. My entire destiny neatly confined to 8½ by 11 inches of paper. Every cell in my six-year-old body fizzled like a shaken-up can of soda ready to explode. And my wide eyes devoured the paper with its scatter of funny shapes sprinkled about the wheel-like image. I didn’t know what any of it meant.

  But Mama did.

  “Tell me what you see, Mena?” Mama asked. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires in t
he candlelight.

  “A chart! Like the ones you read for people. And it shows where all the planets were in the constellations the very minute I was born,” I proudly announced.

  Mama held her finger to her red lips with a look of warning. “We must keep this our little secret. Your gram wouldn’t understand.”

  The small, forgotten space on the third floor with its stacks of sealed boxes and dusty sheets was made for keeping secrets. I was not. But I would try.

  “One day you’ll be fluent in the language of the stars,” she said. “But for today, I will read them for you. Okay, sweetheart?”

  “Yes!” I squealed. Then quickly clapped my hands over my mouth.

  Mama went on to explain how the pair of zigzaggy lines meant I was Aquarius—a truth-teller and seeker of life knowledge. How I must be careful not to let my free spirit and tireless need for independence cause me to push others away. I wasn’t judgmental, nor did I put on airs, but horns of Taurus, I could be as persistent as the itch of poison ivy.

  “These wedges”—she tapped at the pie-like sections of my chart—“are called houses—there are twelve total. And each house represents a certain aspect of our lives. For instance, the First House is the House of Self, who you are. The Second, right here”—she pointed beside the First House—“is the House of Money and Possessions. Then we have—”

  “Ooh! What about these symbols?” I asked, skipping a few houses around the wheel.

  Mama quieted for a moment; her dark brows pinched together. “That’s the Fifth House. The House of Creativity and…” The word seemed to get stuck in her mouth. Clutching the chunk of amethyst on her necklace, she began rolling it between her fingers as she stared at my chart. And whatever stared back made the frown stretch lower on her face.

  “And what, Mama?” My ballet tutu felt itchy. Or maybe I was just itchy to understand why the squiggles on my chart made her so full of sadness.

  “Come here, Mena,” she said, quickly brushing her fingers under her eyes.

  “N’kay.” I slid from my seat. The creaky attic floorboards moaned as my feet touched them.

  Mama then lifted me, setting me on her lap. She always smelled like rain mixed with flowers. “The Fifth House is also the House of Love—of Heart,” she explained. “And I now see that this will be your greatest challenge to overcome. Just as it has been mine.”

  I fiddled with the stone hanging from her necklace, trying to understand what could possibly be hard about love. Because it was pretty clear to me boys were gross and should be avoided like black jelly beans.

  “You see, sweetheart, there was a time I thought I knew better than the stars. When I fell in love with your daddy, I thought it could be enough. But”—her head shook—“fate doesn’t always follow our heart. It follows this.” She tapped the paper. “Our astrological chart holds the key to all the answers. But you must listen to this wisdom, Mena—especially in matters of love.”

  I gazed up at her. “I’ll listen, Mama. I promise.”

  “And”—she frowned once more—“beware of Pisces. That is a poor match that would only bring you heartache.”

  My head bobbed.

  “Good girl.” Mama kissed my forehead and took off her necklace, placing it around my neck. “I want you to have this.”

  I blinked. “But…it’s your favorite.” And of all her pretty, sparkly jewelry, it was my favorite, too. “How come?”

  “Because I love you.”

  Throwing my arms around her, I pressed myself like a second skin to her sunny yellow dress. “Love you, too, Mama.”

  “For longer than the stars will shine above,” she whispered.

  The snap of the curtain as Gram flicks it aside with the force of a matador tugs me out of the past. And while the subtle ache of missing my mother still lingers, I force myself to focus on my present quandary.

  “Mena!” She throws her arms around me briefly before pulling away. “What in heaven’s name—let me have a look at you, child.” Sure enough, the lines on her face grow more determined as she inspects the bruise on my knee and the small bump on my head. Now, last I checked, there wasn’t an MD after her name, but I have the good sense to keep quiet and let her finish. “Hmm.” She holds my chin, gently directing my head left then right.

  “Gram, I’m fine, I swear. Gram”—I end her exam by retreating back into the pancake pillow—“I’m okay. See?” I smile widely, proving once and for all I’m alive and well.

  “Well, I’m delighted to hear it.” She places her hands on her hips. “Because you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, young lady. What in blue blazes gave you the notion to scale that tower?”

  I consult the hospital wristband on my arm, which offers no helpful answer. “Uh…” I gulp and squirm under Gram’s steady gaze. “The Milky Way?”

  Her mouth puckers like she’s swallowed vinegar. “Tell me this does not have to do with astrology. Because I believe I’ve made myself quite clear about spending too much time with your head stuck in the cl—”

  “It’s astronomy,” I correct under my breath. I mean, technically, I was up there to see the Milky Way. Gram doesn’t need to know the superfluous details.

  “Oh? Is that meant to be amusing, Wilamena Grace?”

  To avoid digging myself deeper, I answer with the only response she’s keen on hearing. “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. Now start talking.”

  Gram’s not mad. Not anymore anyway. Following last night’s hospital discharge and my glowing health pronouncement, I was forbidden by Gram and the city of Carlisle from ever climbing the water tower again. Which is tantamount to telling a bird not to fly. I memorize their exact words and vow to find a loophole once the ladder’s repaired.

  But I won’t be curtailed by yesterday’s debacle. No way. I reason when you survive a forty-something-foot drop, things have nowhere to go but up.

  And it’s Sunday—an auspicious day for an Aquarian. The card in my hand confirms today’s stroke of luck. His signature is scribbled on the front, along with the words “admit two.” I flip over the Carlisle Community Hospital business card, rereading the compact slanted writing on the back.

  Wil (aka Gravity Goddess),

  Deepest apologies. Please accept this olive branch.

  I hope you can come.

  Grant (aka Gravity Amateur)

  PS This is your ticket.

  PPS Absinthe—Sunday 8 PM

  Absinthe is a hot music club on the city’s west side, featuring up-and-coming indie bands. It’s damn near impossible to gain entry without having an in, which I’ve never had…until now.

  I tap the card on my thumbnail, ignoring the unexpected swell of nervousness. But I have no reason to be nervous. The day could not be better aligned. I pocket the card the nurse had discreetly given me, and smooth on a layer of my signature red Parisian Pout lipstick—the only makeup I wear most days.

  “Gram?” I shove my keys and phone in my purse and heft the overnight bag onto my shoulder. “Gram? I’m leaving!”

  “Hold on!” she hollers from the kitchen, moving to the entryway as fast as her arthritic knee allows. She pushes a basket into my hand. “You be sure and give these to Irina. Lord knows that girl could stand to have some meat on her bones.” Gram’s convinced all the problems of the world can be solved with baked goods. As the aroma of banana-nut muffins funnels to my nose, I’m not inclined to argue. Really, who doesn’t find peace in simple carbs?

  “Thanks. I’ll be back in the morning. Oh, and bleed ’em dry at bridge club.” I turn to leave.

  “Mena”—she catches my elbow—“you certain you’re well enough to be out and about?”

  Okay. Subtlety isn’t Gram’s modus operandi, but it’s recently dawned on her I’m graduating in a year. I’m not a kid anymore, which…she knows. Still, it’s a massive change in her thinking. Change. Nothing is more excruciating to a Taurus.

  “We’ve gone over this already, Gram. The doctor said my vitals are perfectly fine
. I’ve rested all day and can report zero headaches, blurred vision, or dizziness. Now, I’m gonna be late. And so are you if you don’t finish up that order.”

  Carlisle Confections has been Gram’s business for over three decades. She makes delicious designer cupcakes and treats for the overprivileged who can afford them. She’s a sort of Monet of the baking world. And, not to brag, but I know my way around a baking tin. Gram’s had me assisting since my motor skills were reliable enough for precise measurements. Too bad I don’t possess one iota of Gram’s decorating panache. Nope, I leave that in her capable hands.

  I kiss her soft cheek, perfumed by cinnamon and toasted nuts. “You worry too much.”

  “You give me plenty to worry for, child,” she barks as I skip down the warping front steps of our old Victorian. “You keep away from that water tower!”

  “I will!”

  Which for today is the honest-to-God truth.

  Adjusting the bag at my shoulder, I wait as traffic clears the crosswalk. My eyes fix on the freestanding single-story brick building. Its neon sign flashes: INKPORIUM TATTOO & PIERCING. Wexler Street isn’t the slums, per se, but it also isn’t the side of town where you want to look lost. Yes, Gram knows I come here. But Gram also remembers Wexler as it was, not as it is. Now it’s a mix of pawnshops, bars, and check-cashing facilities that get seedier the farther west you go.

  The bell chimes as I push through the glass door. Heavy guitars assault the speakers, and the vocals sound like someone with a wicked case of stomach flu.

  “How’s the sheep, Bo Peep?” Crater calls without looking up from his artistry. His string-bean frame is hunched, vertebrae poking from beneath his T-shirt.

  The burly customer in Crater’s chair quickly wipes the pain from his expression. While he might be wearing a brave face, his complexion is paler than milk and he’s squeezing the life out of the armrest.

  “Crate, I wore that dress once and it was adorable,” I holler over the metal music. “Just because it was white and had crinoline, it does not make me a sheepherder!” But arguing’s a lost cause. Once Crater names you, it’s as permanent as his tattoos. Could be worse. I could have Irina’s nickname. “How’d you know it was me?”