Hell's Hollow

by Summer Stone

  Zach yelled, “You did it! You saved him!”

  We both laughed at the little guy tearing around the clearing. My thoughts felt clearer than ever. I felt like I could fly. I’d never felt so filled with light, so happy, so over the top ecstatic.

  The chipmunk ran and ran and ran. And then it froze, turned to me, its little eyes bulging. It keeled over and didn’t move.

  “What happened?” Zach asked. “What’s wrong with it?”

  I rushed to its side, put my hand against its chest. “It’s dead,” I whispered, pulling my hand away. There was no heartbeat. All its energy dissipated, leaving nothing behind but an empty, useless body. All the blood in my own body dropped to my feet. All the good feelings disappeared. The surge of The Hollow retreated.

  Zach looked at me. “Can’t you fix it?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t bring it back from the dead! I’m not a magician!”

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “You’re just out of practice. It wasn’t your fault.”

  I slumped to the ground. “I killed it.”

  “No, you didn’t. It was dying anyway, remember? You just… you just couldn’t save it. Maybe it was too far gone.”

  The church bell rang in the distance.

  “Oh God, I have to go. She’ll be up soon. She can’t find me gone. Sera, I’m sorry. Look, just … come back down tonight. We’ll talk about it. Okay?”

  I didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry I have to go.” And then he went.

  And I was sitting at the edge of The Hollow staring at the tiny body of an animal I had murdered. Images of diseases attacked my mind, wouldn’t leave me alone. A jay chased a wren through The Hollow. “Leave it alone!” I cried, throwing a twig at it.

  I used a rock to dig a little hole in the ground. I wanted to pick up the chipmunk and put him in it so birds wouldn’t swoop down and feed on its body. But I was afraid to touch it, afraid it would open its eyes and attack me, afraid its dead body would infect me with something horrible. I took off my sweatshirt and used it to pick up the body and place it in the hole. The sweatshirt was too big to fit in with him. So I covered the body with dirt. Then covered the mound with my sweatshirt.

  And then I cried.

  I woke up next to the sequoia. My stomach growled. Fog had crept into the forest.

  What had I done wrong? Why had the chipmunk died? When I was little, healing had been second nature. I hadn’t understood yet that I wasn’t supposed to do it, so I just did. But after Sierra — that was the last time I’d ever healed anyone. I’d been so good, so obedient, ignoring every call to heal. And now — what? I’d lost the ability?

  But something had happened. The chipmunk had revived first. It had seemed happy even, running around. So why had it died?

  I’d disobeyed. I’d risked my health and my sanity. And for what? A dead chipmunk? My skin crawled with shivers. My body ached. Fatigue weighed me down. As my stomach started to hurt, I realized it could be Hantavirus. Chipmunks were carriers. My head felt warm. Mom was going to freak.

  I dragged myself up to the house and stood in the hot shower, scrubbing my body from head to toe, checking for ticks as I went. My head pounded. No cure, Mom’s voice said in my head. Your lungs fill with fluid, fevers, vomiting…

  “Shut up!” I yelled, then sank down to the floor of the shower. “I killed it,” I whispered, remembering how tiny and cute the little thing was.

  After drying off, I went to bed. All these years Mom had been right. My sensitivity was useless and a danger to all involved.

  Chapter Eight

  When Mom got home, I was still in bed, achy and cold.

  “Seraphina? Honey, are you home?” she called.

  “In here,” I said.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” She put her hand to my forehead. I was expecting her to freak and insist on calling a doctor. But she said, “You don’t feel warm.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. What’s bothering you?”

  “My chest feels tight.” Probably fluid in my lungs. “I’m nauseous.” I’ll probably be puking soon. “I’m freezing.” I was sure it was fever.

  “Have you eaten anything today? Have you just been lying in bed with the window open and the fog drifting in? No wonder you’re cold and nauseous. Come on. I’ll make you some soup. Anything going on you want to talk about?” She pulled back the covers and gave me a hand.

  I wrapped my quilt around myself. I loved how all the little individual pieces of fabric from our family’s history came together to make the giant-sized heart. The quilt always made me feel safe and protected. Dragging it along with me, I moved to the high-backed couch.

  “I was thinking about visiting Gran and MK tonight,” she called from the kitchen, where she was chopping vegetables. “But if you’re not up to it, we could go tomorrow. I’m pretty tired myself.”

  I wondered if Hantavirus was contagious between humans. I went to the desk and opened the laptop, searched Hantavirus contagious. The first site that popped up read Hantavirus is carried by rodent fecal matter and is not contagious through human contact. It has an incubation period ranging from one to five weeks, which means symptoms take some time to appear after initial contact with rodent feces.

  Wait. Weeks for symptoms to appear? Contact with rodent feces? Mom never said anything about it coming from poo. She made it seem like it came from touching the animals themselves. And it hadn’t even been a day since I’d held the chipmunk. There was no way my symptoms were Hantavirus.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “We should go see them tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, poking her head out from the kitchen.

  I shielded the computer with my body so she wouldn’t see what I was looking at. “Yeah, I want to go.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, we’ll head over after dinner.”

  I searched every disease I could think of that she’d warned me about. They were spread through ticks and through saliva by bites and by pee and poo — none of them were from holding or touching the animal.

  “What is this?” I said, stepping toward the kitchen.

  “What?” Mom asked.

  “Why did you lie to me?” My face got hot.

  She came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a daisy-covered towel. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been lying to me all this time.”

  “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” She tried to touch my forehead.

  I jumped away from her. “Why would you do that?”

  She wrinkled her brow as if to say, What?

  “All those diseases you warned me about, the ones that run through my head all night long, all those horrifying pictures you showed me, they don’t come from touching animals. They come from feces and urine and saliva.”

  “Yes,” she said calmly, “which you could be exposed to if an animal were to bite you or pee on you or lose control of their bowels. Sick animals should not be messed with.”

  “But it’s not what you said. It’s not from touching them.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so upset by this. It is from touching them, because any of those things could happen while you’re holding them. And many of those illnesses do not have cures.” Her face changed then. She swallowed. Her voice sounded like she was talking to a wild animal. “Let’s sit down, stay calm. We need to get some food in you. Then we can head over to Meadowland.”

  “So what — you can lock me up with them? I’m not crazy and you can’t control me!” I felt wild, ready to lash out, sick from the way she’d misled me all this time.

  She looked so terrified it actually calmed me down. Like I couldn’t stand to see her so scared.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sinking onto the chair. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  She went back to the kitchen without saying a word. Every few minutes she sniffled and breathed weird, like she was crying.

  I went in and put my arms around her. “I’m sorry,�
�� I said. “I just had a weird day. I’m okay, I promise.”

  She hugged me to her chest and cried for a minute, then pulled herself together. “Let’s have some soup and go visit.”

  We ate in silence. She kept swallowing hard, like she couldn’t make the soup go down. On the car ride over to Meadowland, I put on my quiet playlist, closed my eyes, and worked on building up my shield.

  I never knew what to expect opening the door to their room. Today Auntie MK was sitting in the recliner chair, her hands frozen awkwardly in the air. She stared into space, her posture perfectly upright. Gran sat by the window in the straight-backed chair, holding a small radio above her head as though she were about to smash it.

  “Mother!” Mom called out to stop her. “What are you doing?”

  Gran pulled the radio in toward her chest, probably hoping Mom wouldn’t take it away. “Infernal radio waves trying to infiltrate my brain with messages. Did you hear what they were saying on the short wave about listening when you’re not spoken to? Do you understand what it means for us in here? I’m not talking about thirty seconds in the limelight of lemongrass pie, I’m not looking to die.”

  “Gran,” I said, trying to pull her out of her mixed up thoughts.

  “Seraphina!” she said. “What brings you to town?”

  Mom moved toward MK, tried to lower her arms so she didn’t look so strange. But MK wouldn’t be budged. Her hands held rigidly to their position no matter how hard Mom tried.

  “Don’t bother,” Gran said. “She’s been like that since yesterday.”

  “Are they doing anything about it?” Mom asked, looking kind of freaked.

  “Pill du jour.” Gran turned to me. “Close that door! Anybody could get in here.”

  I closed it. “Why is she like that?” I asked.

  “Who? Mary Kate?” Gran replied, then waved it off. “Child never could handle her visions.”

  My heartbeat thumped loudly. Nobody talked about this. I wasn’t about to miss the opportunity. “She… she had a vision?”

  Mom stopped trying to push down MK’s arms and sent a warning look at Gran. Gran opened her eyes wide and made a face at Mom. I giggled, then covered my mouth, tried to hold it in.

  “Had something to do with Sera and some sort of explosion. Had her up and screaming for hours. Bunch of hooey if you ask me.”

  While the world pretty much froze in that moment for me, Mom had a different reaction. “Stop it right now!” she yelled. “That’s enough. You know as well as I do that MK’s visions can be interpreted in many ways, that she’s been way off ever since…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Since the car accident?” I asked.

  “How do you know about that?” Mom asked, then looked to Gran. “What did you tell her?”

  “The truth,” I whispered.

  Mom gasped. “MK, please.” She pushed again on MK’s arms. But they wouldn’t go down. “Has the doctor seen this?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Gran insisted. “Just needs a little recovery time, out to lunch, if you will. Be a pill. For a thrill. When you’re still.”

  Mom walked out.

  I rushed to Gran’s side. “Don’t tell Mom. I tried to heal a chipmunk. I think I killed it.” I hadn’t planned on saying it, it just spilled out without me meaning for it to. My heart raced. My palms were sweaty. I wished I could take it back.

  She grabbed my arm with her ice-cold hand. “It’s right, what you do, never disconnecting from it, like I did in the city, so pretty by the bay.” Her hands went to her head. She pushed on it like she was trying to make it work right. “It’s the only way,” she said. “Sanity lies in the truth of wholeness. Do you catch my brainwave? There is no killing from there, not there in the under-where. It’s the chipmunk that’s dead! It’s the chipmunk that’s dead!”

  “What chipmunk? Mother, there’s no chipmunk,” Mom said, as she came in and tried to soothe Gran.

  Gran pointed at me. I shook my head, begging her to keep quiet. “I thought, I thought…”

  “Did you see a chipmunk?” Mom cooed. “It wasn’t real.” She picked up their silver brush and began to run it through Gran’s hair, which seemed to calm her.

  A cold emptiness settled over me. I felt totally alone.

  I needed Gran to not be so crazy so she could help me understand. At home, I got back into my antique four-poster bed and pulled the quilt over me. The fog crept in through the crack at the base of the window that never fully closed. What if, as my sensitivity to others’ pain was increasing, my ability to heal them was decreasing? What if by not using the ability, I was losing it? What if losing it meant I was losing it — as in bound for Meadowland with thoughts that made no sense or lost in some inner world? Or what if trying to heal and failing was what would bring on the crazy? How was I supposed to know?

  I wished I had someone to talk to about all this. I considered the possibilities: Gran and MK were obviously out, as was Mom. That left Luke, Astrid, and Zach. Luke was too close to it, had grown up being brainwashed by Mom’s beliefs. Astrid and Zach would both tell me to try healing, maybe they were jealous, maybe they wished they could to it. I sat up suddenly. I sounded crazy. Jealous? Who could be jealous of this ‘f’-ed up situation? What was wrong with me?

  Zach was in The Hollow. I could feel him there. But I couldn’t bring myself to go down — not with that fresh grave to remind me of how badly I’d failed. For a second I wished I had Gran’s sensitivity, wished I could hear Zach’s thoughts, know what he was thinking. But another sensitivity was the last thing I needed. And I knew for sure where Gran’s sensitivity would land me.

  Time ticked slowly on the clock. My mind drifted. I stepped into Mom’s night dream. She was baking perfect even rows of banana nut muffins, each one the exact same height in its little tin. Except for one sloppy one that kept puffing up, looking like it might explode. She kept peeking into the oven, worrying that it would rise up out of control and blast out of the pan and make a mess all over the bakery. It kept rising and rising as if she’d added yeast to it. So different from the others, so unmanageable. It bothered her, made her feel edgy and uncomfortable. So she took a knife, opened the oven door slowly — and slashed the center of the unruly muffin. It hissed as steam escaped, and then it collapsed down into itself — restrained, contained, sunken. Mom’s face turned ugly and green and she started laughing like the wicked witch of the west.

  I woke up sweating, my hand over my belly, as if I’d been punctured. Was that really her dream? Or was it mine? The feeling that I’d been inside her head instead of my own was strange and unfamiliar. But I couldn’t tell if that was part of the dream or not. I jumped out of bed to get myself further from where I’d been, closer to reality. The cold wood floor against my feet helped, so did the breeze coming in through the crack below the window.

  I didn’t sense Zach in The Hollow anymore. He must have given up and gone back to Myra’s. I wished I understood better why he didn’t just get up and walk out of there. Although I could see how it might be scary to think about trying to make his way in the world when he looked the way he did. People could be so … unforgiving. And the scars on his face and hands looked scary. I couldn’t imagine what kids like Cheyenne Trilotti and Mason McDowell would do to him. I looked out the window at the sky beginning to lighten.

  When I’d first seen Zach’s scars I’d fantasized about healing them someday, when I understood the power better, when I found a way to heal without going crazy. But now, now that I’d killed the stupid chipmunk, I knew there was no way I’d ever be able to help him or anyone else. Which probably meant he’d never find the courage to get out of Myra’s prison. And once I ended up at Meadowland, he’d be alone again.

  When I came out to the kitchen, there were warm apple cinnamon muffins cooling on a rack. Mom had already left for the bakery. I took the biggest muffin out of the tray. I held it in my hand, licked the crumbled brown sugar and cinnamon off the top, took one bite out of the tip of the puffy soft
ness. And then I smashed the thing to pieces.

  Chapter Nine

  After cleaning up the psychotic mess I’d made, I wrapped up three muffins, put them in a brown paper bag, and walked to George McGraw’s auto repair shop. I may not have been able to find anyone to give me answers about my own life, but at least I could try to find out more about Zach’s.

  When I arrived at the shop, I could see George’s feet sticking out from under Melody’s ancient-looking station wagon. The whole place reeked of gasoline. I cleared my throat, but he seemed not to hear me. I knocked on the side of the car and heard him hit his head. I giggled as he cursed and slid out from under the car.

  “Well, hey there, Seraphina,” he said, wiping his very clean hands on a dirty rag. “What can I do you for?”

  I handed him the muffins.

  He raised his eyebrows, opened the bag and inhaled. “My, my, to what do I owe this honor?” His first bite wiped out the better part of a large muffin.

  I shrugged, wondering how I might get him talking about what I wanted to know. I cleared my throat. “I was thinking,” I said, “maybe I might try working a few hours for one of the older folks in town who might need a little help.”

  “Hey now, are you calling me old?” he asked.

  “I was thinking of Myra Clay,” I replied. “But I wondered where her own son is, why he isn’t around to help. Thought maybe you’d know.”

  “Seems to me you ought to be asking her.” He gobbled more muffin.

  “I wasn’t sure if it’d upset her,” I tried.

  He looked right in my eyes. “Must be important if it’s got you talking to me.”

  I waited. I’ve noticed that people who talk all the time miss how easy it is to get others going if you just wait them out, like they can’t stand silence, so they fill the air with words. Usually it’s junk, but sometimes, stuck in the middle of it all you can find a gem. I hoped the muffins might loosen him up, then I could just push him in the right direction.