The Stars Will Guide Us Back

by Rue Sparks

  Joy grapples with the edge of the roof, then lays her palms flat on the tiles. This time, she bends her knees to stand with her feet flat against the roof tiles, determined not to crawl like she did yesterday.

  “This is stupid,” Joy repeats, a mantra now that does nothing to deter her from her goal. She walks towards the edge of the roof, where she’d fallen — flown — off the day before. Her legs shake, and she holds her arms out to steady her gait. There’s a war in her chest between the butterflies of excitement in her stomach and the chilling fumes of fear in her lungs.

  She stops a foot from the edge, looking down at the ground. She’s only a story high, but with the height of their ceilings, that doesn’t mean much.

  “What am I even supposed to do?” she mutters between chattering teeth. “How did I do it last time?”

  She closes her eyes and tries to remember. She’d been angry at first, then shocked, and then afraid. It had all happened in a split second. Maybe I need to concentrate on my fear, she thinks. Or jump. But if I jump, I'll surely fall anyway. Maybe I should have tried hovering on the ground first?

  With her eyes closed, she focuses on the fear, that moment when she knew she was going to fall. Should she risk another fall? There has to be a better way.

  Instead, she focuses on the fear in the current moment. The trembling of her fingers, the prickles in her fingertips. The weak feeling in her knees and the numbness in her feet. The ache from bending forward for so long to keep her balance. The vertigo she feels looking down. The pain in her chest, back, and head from yesterday’s fall. The anger she’d felt at the bird for scaring her, the betrayal when she realized she was going to fall, to be in pain, because she’d tried to do the right thing.

  She opens her eyes and looks down. She smiles.

  It’s a different dream this time.

  She’s falling. The wind isn’t soothing or comforting, but rather it gnashes at her cheeks and scrapes at her hands and arms. It pulls back her legs and twists her at her waist. It pulls her clothes tight until she feels like she’s being choked. She can’t breathe, the wind filling her mouth, the taste bitter on her tongue, and numbing her teeth. Her eyes shut tight against the burn.

  Moira is driving like a demon, whipping along the curves and straightaways with abandon, tight-lipped and a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

  “If you would just listen-”

  Moira holds up a hand, palm towards her, a sure signal for silence. “I did listen, Joy, and it’s crazy talk. You cannot fly, no one can fly, and I’m very concerned about you. Your therapist and I decided this is for the best.”

  Joy squeezes her fingers into fists in her lap, tight enough to feel crescent-shaped indentations in her palms. Her teeth ground tight and she scrunches up her face against the sting in her eyes. “You said you wouldn’t use that word. Crazy.”

  Moira sighs next to her, but she doesn’t look. Joy holds her breath against the spots of gray dancing behind her closed eyelids. She wouldn’t even look at the video.

  “I did promise that. I’m sorry. But Joy, this is enough. We’ve dealt with your moods before, but this is different. You’re hallucinating. They’ll help you.”

  When Joy opens her eyes, she blinks against the tears threatening to fall, against the dizziness as Moira slows down before an SUV cuts them off exiting the parking lot to the beach. It would be another twenty minutes to get to her therapist’s office on the opposite edge of the city from their suburban home. A plan begins to form, and Joy inches her left hand towards the buckle of her seatbelt.

  “I’m not hallucinating. You aren’t listening. I tried to show you the videos, but you wouldn’t even look! You want to talk about my therapist? She said you’re supposed to spend more time with me, listen to me, but you won’t even try. You're always on your phone or gone, or too busy, and now when it really counts, you won’t even give me a chance to explain myself.”

  There’s that sigh again, and it’s like the drop of a hammer. Joy times it perfectly. She waits for a stop sign, then swiftly unclips her seatbelt and opens the door. In a second, she’s bolted and is running towards the entryway of a beach-side park.

  “Joy!” She hears the scream but doesn’t stop.

  She’s falling and there’s no one to catch her. No one sees her. No one notices. There are no bystanders pointing up at the sky, no gasping or screaming for help. There’s no loved one calling for her, telling her it will be okay.

  She’s falling and it hurts, but not because she’s falling, and she knows it’s the end.

  She’s falling and it hurts because no one cares if she falls anyway.

  “Joy, come towards me, please.” Joy hears the quake in Moira’s voice, and it sends a note of fear down her spine.

  Good. Fear is exactly what she needed to fly.

  The waves crash into the rocky beach with incredible force. Unlike further north, this beach is known for its dangerous undertow, a challenge for swimmers and surfers alike on its calmest days — something today is not. Each wave reverberates up the shore, reaching near inches away from where Joy stands fully clothed, sneakers sinking into muddy rocks.

  And yet, the wind whips at her face, hair, and clothes like she’s already flying. A part of her wonders if it would carry her away before she could even get her bearings. But she’s determined.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Joy says as she turns to face her, wincing as Moira gasps. She can see the terror in her face at every inch Joy moves, and though Joy is angry at her, she doesn’t envy Moira the horror she must be feeling.

  “I’ve done this before. I tried to show you. You have to trust me. Watch!” Joy starts to turn, but a scream from Moira gives her pause. She turns her head back to see Moira has taken several steps towards her but has stopped short now that Joy has met her gaze.

  Very real fear grips at Joy’s chest, this time like a poison that sinks into her veins in sharp twinges. Moira’s mascara is running down her cheeks in splotched tears, her face flushed red but her lips are pale.

  “Stay there, Moira,” she says, and she tries a smile this time.

  It doesn’t work. “Joy, we can talk about this safely at home. Let’s go back to the car, get you to the therapist, to the people who can help you.” She is pleading now, a tone Joy had never heard her use with anyone.

  Joy grasps her arms in her hands, head lowering, curling in on herself, and shivering in sheer frustration. Why can’t she listen to me?

  Her voice is firm, even as her teeth chatter from the cold. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve made my decision. Why can’t you trust me?”

  Moira straightens, her face red as she wipes at her eyes, mascara streaking across her face. She lets out a bitter laugh that scratches at Joy’s ears. “Trust you? This is crazy, Joy! You’re insisting you can fly. What am I supposed to think?”

  Joy feels the stinging at the corner of her eyes but presses on. Her mouth feels dry, but she works against it as she speaks. “You’re supposed to listen to me! This could have been avoided if you’d listened to me in the first place! You’re never with me, and when you’re home it feels like you’d rather I not be there, like I’m the irritating noise in the room!”

  Moira shakes her head as Joy finishes as if she can shake the words away. “This isn’t about us, Joy, this is about your mental health and getting you help. And what did your therapist say about absolutes, Joy?”

  She isn’t going to listen. The thought should have sent her spiraling into despair but for the first time, Joy feels a sense of calm. If she isn’t going to listen, then I have nothing to gain, do I?

  Joy straightens, letting her arms fall to her sides, then lifts them slightly, palms facing forward. She raises her head towards the sky, letting the sun hit her face, and she lets out a laugh. Maybe it’s time to start with my own approval.

  “My therapist said there’s no such things as absolutes. So then nothing is impossible.” She looks at Moira, sees the sudden recognition, but it�
�s too late.

  “Joy, no.” Moira takes a step forward —

  Joy turns on her heel and runs towards the receding waves, her shoes smacking against the wet rocks and splashing water up behind her. Her feet just hit the edge of the water, her toes becoming soaked in the salty foam, when she jumps —

  Maybe the difference between flying and falling is all about perspective.

  The dream is always the same.

  She’s flying, and though the fear is like a leaden weight in her heart, it does not stop her.

  There is no one to watch her fly, or fall, but she feels free.

  6

  Firefly Soul

  They are hard to spot at first. Our souls burn bright like fireflies, and the soulless are only the spaces between. Their absence is harder to impress against the background of stars in my vision.

  I don’t always see them. Souls. Or lack of souls, either. It’s a gift that comes sporadically, usually after I experience some sort of low. It’s like when you close your eyes after you look at a bright light; you can still see the glow behind your eyelids, but it fades.

  When I was young, I resolved to never let the opportunity pass me by. I’ve renewed, as I call it, firefighters, paramedics, victims of abuse, people who witnessed out of order deaths, anything that causes seemingly irreversible trauma.

  I can’t heal them. But I can give them a path forward.

  Today seems like it should be no different. Yet I see no empty space where a soul should be, no darkness in the hearts of any passers-by.

  I’m tired. The weight is a mountain pressing down into my chest, a snare restricting my lungs. The reviving trigger, the thing that causes my sight to reappear, has been brutal. I am thankful for a chance to help someone, but my own soul feels heavy from my experience.

  I move away from the wall where I’ve been holding myself steady along the sidewalk. I wasn’t very aware of my surroundings when I leaned against the brick building, caught off guard by the sudden revival of my sight. Looking up at the sign, I see that it’s a bookstore. I take it as a hint and walk through the doors, keeping my gaze soft and try to spot the black hole where a soul should be.

  In this space it’s easier to spot individuals than it was on the sidewalk, and I count it in my favor. But it’s a large store, and my heartbeat slows at the seemingly endless rows of bookshelves. I feel drained, and the thought of going through row by row, even possibly missing someone on the other side of a bookshelf, of not finding the person I’m meant to help, all of it wears my resolve. I already see the edges of my sight dimming, and I know I’m running out of time.

  I try not to look suspicious as I walk alongside the rows of bookshelves, looking down each individual row to see if I can spot my target. Fortunately, my search can be passed off as looking for a particular genre section, so there’s no employee coming towards me in suspicion of shoplifting.

  Try as I might, I find no missing souls from any of the patrons of the store. Tired, cranky, and at my breaking point, I return to the store entryway.

  It’s when my hand is hovering over the bar to open the glass door that I notice something strange. On the other side of the glass, there’s a poster on dark paper. I hadn’t seen my reflection coming in, but in the glass, contrasting the back of the black sheet of paper like a black mirror, I see myself. I see the empty place where my soul should be.

  I bite back a sob and push the glass door open. I walk along the sidewalk and the several blocks until I get to my apartment, in a complete daze. Numb. The crowd around me passes in a blur of colors and light, my vision dimming but still strong enough for each light to burn the inside of my eyelids.

  When I get to my apartment, I fumble with the keys, hands shaking. I drop my bag and kick off my shoes, all in a hurry before barging into the bathroom so I can see myself in the mirror over the sink.

  The sight makes my breath catch in my throat. Where my soul should be is a black, sucking maw. Light bounces off and retracts, then the darkness encompasses it, leaving it blacker than the darkest black. It’s a space where things don’t die but live in stasis for an indeterminate amount of time.

  How am I supposed to save myself?

  I drop to the floor and lean my back against the side of the bathtub. I stretch out my legs below the sink, slouch against the tub, and rest my head on the porcelain lip.

  I have no soul.

  I wonder if I can pinpoint the moment when it happened. Oddly, I find that I can. It was the moment when she took her final breath, as if my soul left with hers.

  My face is half numb, so I’m surprised to feel tears on my cheeks. I’m not sad per se; my emotions in a field of nothing, neither moving forward or backward. A liminal space between the life there was and the life I have now.

  I know without checking the mirror that my sight has faded to nothing by the time I push myself up from the floor. I wonder how I’m supposed to know when my soul returns if there’s no sight to see it with.

  But somehow, I have a feeling I’ll know.

  It’s not because I think I’ll find joy, or happiness, or overcome the loss, make something of it, or any of the platitudes and well wishes I’ve heard at the funeral.

  I’ll know because to have a soul is to feel. To hurt.

  I both want it and dread it.

  As much as the numbness protects the heart that still beats in my chest, she doesn’t deserve for our memories together to remain gray and dull. She deserves color.

  I grab a tissue, wipe at my eyes, and inhale to the bottom of my lungs.

  A soul is meant to hurt.

  The trick is to survive it.

  7

  Transdifferentiate

  Dear Ezra Hayes,

  * * *

  At its meeting on March 12th, 2021, the Board of Trustees of The Pacific Marine Biology Foundation considered your request for $125,000 for the study of the Turritopsis Dohrnii in order to learn the viability of cell transdifferentiation in humans. However, the proposal was denied.

  PMBF receives more requests than our limited resources can fund. This leads to difficult decisions in creating priorities and means that a number of important research projects cannot be supported by the foundation.

  We are appreciative of the time and effort you put forth in preparing the application. Although the PMBF cannot be of assistance, we wish you success in acquiring the funds from other sources.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Elizabeth J. Castenada

  On a personal note, Ezra, please call me. This needs to stop.

  Ezra watches dorsal fins bob in the distance, gliding over then below the surface of the choppy waves. The orange and yellow polygons of the sun reflect on the crests, seeming to whisk the pod of dolphins towards the horizon. The roaring light of the sun falls behind the waves at an indistinguishable pace, but the promise of night is imminent.

  Jean would have waxed poetic about the beauty of the ocean. How it’s our duty to learn as much as we can about it, that only twenty percent has been seen with human eyes. The thought sours his mood. Jean hasn’t been on a trip with him in months. It’s the whole reason he’s here. No breathtaking sunset in the middle of the Pacific Ocean will distract him.

  He moves about the boat with the grace of someone who finds more comfort in the constantly moving footing of the sea than the sturdiness of soil. He resumes getting his equipment together, his mission at the forefront of his mind.

  Getting a sample of tissue from a Turritopsis Dohrnii is proving to be an arduous, despair-inducing task. The thrill of achieving scientific success is usually enough to keep him focused and patient with the necessary number of failed attempts to secure samples of even one of his toughest prey — jellyfish. Today, his fingers shake as his mind stutters on memories of antiseptic and beeping monitors.

  I can’t afford another wasted trip. Every time I go back to shore empty-handed may be the last.

  It takes longer than he likes to ready the metal an
d glass pods used to capture specimens along with the equipment he needs to process and preserve samples. The sun has already set by the time he’s ready. The boat’s floodlights make the ocean seem like a dark abyss past his reach, beyond recognition from the crisp blue waves and marshmallow clouds from the afternoon.

  Solo trips this far into the Pacific are a suicide mission, one he’s successfully completed several times on his own. So much could go wrong. It doesn’t help that Ezra purposely neglects to inform the U.S. Coast Guard or any of his colleagues of his whereabouts. No one even knows he left.

  Not that I have anyone who’d risk their lives or equipment to help me at this point. I’m lucky to even still have this boat.

  Eleven trips and no success. In the early days of his research, he’d barely made two trips before he had enough samples of jellyfish gastrodermis to not have to go out again for weeks. Now that he’s so close to the culmination of his research, the sparseness of sightings and empty pods are wearing him down.

  He pushes the thoughts away, attempting to focus on forcing his shaking hands to place the bait in one of the pods. He then lowers it over the edge of the boat. The chain cranks out at a measured pace to ensure proper depth. When fully lowered, he connects the buoy before he moves on to the next spot.

  Each buoy disappears behind the boat into complete blackness as if swallowed, and Ezra silently thanks Jean for installing a more updated GPS for charting coordinates before … well. Before.

  After six more pods are placed, Ezra moves the boat further away from the last buoy, not wanting to risk the proximity to the final pod affecting his results.

  He sets out the anchor and cuts the engine. He shuts off the floodlights, keeping a small clamp light near the main console. Work complete, he retreats towards the back of the boat where a chair and a woolen blanket are set up.