Red Is for Remembrance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Don’t worry about that, my friend,” Mason says, scratching the silvery tuft of his beard. “Clay knows he has to do what’s best for the community; we’ve spoken about it in some detail. What’s important is that you understand I’m always looking out for my campers; I’m always trying to improve the quality of everyone’s life here. We have a very special community amongst us. But it doesn’t just happen on its own. We, as individual members, have to work together in our mission of love, peace, and harmony. We can’t just think about ourselves. We have to make sacrifices for each other—only then will we achieve ultimate peace.”

  Shell nods, wanting more than anything to leave this room, to leave this camp—and never look back. “Is that all?”

  Mason shakes his head. “We need to be loyal to one another here, is that clear?”

  Shell nods, wondering what he’s insinuating.

  “Loyalty is the key to a successful community, don’t you think?”

  “Of course.” Shell nods.

  “And so, when someone isn’t loyal, it can have a detrimental effect on the group as a whole. Disloyalty has its consequences.”

  “Consequences?” Shell swallows hard.

  “Tell me about your memory,” Mason says, narrowing his pale blue eyes on him.

  “What about it?”

  “Have you started to remember anything about your old life?”

  “No.”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  Shell shakes his head and looks away, completely aware that he’s a terrible liar—that for each lie there’s a karmic penalty to pay times three.

  A second later, the camp air horn sounds, indicating a problem.

  “What now?” Mason sighs.

  There’s a knock on the door, sparing Shell from further interrogation.

  “Come in,” Mason says.

  It’s Rain. “The police are here,” she whispers. “They want to talk to you.”

  Mason apologizes to Shell for having to cut their conversation short and then heads out to attend to business.

  Shell pretends to gather fire logs from the stack that he and Brick chopped recently. He arranges several logs in the crook of his arm as he looks over at the two officers who question Mason. He’s way out of earshot, but it appears as though the officers are being rather laid back about things. They casually glance about the place as they ask questions.

  Mason looks far from nervous, talking with his hands and laughing aloud a couple times. Shell makes eye contact with Mason and quickly looks away, pretending to be highly engrossed in gathering wood for the kitchen fire.

  “Need some help?” Brick calls out to him.

  Shell nods and Brick makes his way to the stockpile. “Why did Mason want to talk to you?” Brick whispers.

  “Did you know about Lily?” Shell asks him. “About how Mason told her to give me special attention?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Shell shrugs, continuing to sneak glimpses at the officers. “Lily loves Clay, doesn’t she?”

  “She used to,” Brick says, “until you came along. Why? What did Mason say to you?”

  Shell shakes his head, reluctant to get into it further at the moment, especially with Mason still looking on.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Brick says, regarding the officers. “Cops drop by here every so often. They just like to check things out . . . make sure our group isn’t doing anything weird.”

  “Nothing weird here,” Shell whispers under his breath.

  They carry the wood into the kitchen and sit down to eat. Lily takes the seat right next to him. “Good morning,” she beams.

  Shell nods, picking at his scrambled eggs with his fork, trying his best to ignore her.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Fine,” Shell says, peeking up at Clay, who’s sitting just across from them, watching the whole thing.

  “Not hungry?” she continues.

  Shell sighs, hoping she gets the message. He feels awkward getting her attention like this, especially right in front of Clay. And yet, he’s almost sure that Lily herself believes she feels something for him. He wonders how long she’s been living at the camp. How long does it take someone to become so brainwashed?

  “Is everything okay?” Clay asks, perhaps noticing Shell’s discomfort.

  Shell nods yet again, noticing that the questions have caused him even more attention. Some of the elders at the end of the table gaze up at him from their plates.

  “I’m looking forward to our trip into town,” Brick says, changing the subject. “What will we be shopping for?”

  “We need to have a little talk,” Clay tells him, ignoring the question.

  “Sure,” Brick says, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “When?”

  Clay glances a moment at Shell and then resumes eating his breakfast. “When I say so, that’s when,” he says, finally. “When I know you’re alone.”

  Shell’s heart quickens at the words, suddenly overwhelmed with an enormous sense of déjà vu. He remembers the nightmare he had about the old man from the cottage—how, in it, the old man had whispered into his ear “I know you’re alone.”

  Shell looks to Brick, knowing full well the topic of Clay’s little talk. He’ll want to question Brick about what he said earlier about the platinum necklace.

  Brick frowns and looks back down into his plate, perhaps finally realizing the gravity of his boldness.

  “I hope we get some free time to wander about,” Lily chirps. “I love watching the people.”

  “Me, too,” Daisy says. “I like to see what they’re buying, what kids our age are interested in these days.”

  A second later, Mason comes in. Rain stands from the table and goes to his side. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

  “Everything’s just fine,” Mason announces to the table. “I don’t know why they feel compelled to check up on us so often.”

  Shell nearly chokes on his toast. He wonders what the police really know about their group, if maybe they have suspicion about the looting. But they obviously can’t have too much proof; otherwise they would have gotten a search warrant.

  Shell studies Mason a moment, watching as Rain serves him his breakfast and sets the napkin on his lap just so. Surely Mason knows what he’s doing with his mind games. Surely he must take pleasure in forcing needy, desperate people into stealing and working for his own livelihood. He makes campers feel like there’s no way out, like they need him and this community in order to survive. But, like those who broke out of the camp—those whom no one is allowed to speak of—Shell is determined to leave.

  After the morning chores and a quick lunch, Clay announces that he’s leaving for town and orders Brick, Shell, Daisy, and Lily into the community car. Members of the camp normally head into town at least once a month to pick up the necessary supplies that can’t be acquired at the trading field.

  The town square is about thirty minutes from the camp. They stick close together as they walk down Main Street, stopping at a pharmacy for things like aspirin and cold formula, and at a gas station to fill gasoline containers for the generators.

  They drop off their purchases back at the car and then head into the grocery store at the end of the street, each with a short list of items they’re responsible for picking up. It’s a medium-sized market with about ten aisles, a small produce section, and meat, fish, and deli counters at the back. While Clay keeps watch at the exit door, the rest of the campers disperse in pursuit of their assigned items.

  Shell wants to get Brick alone, to talk to him about his boldness earlier with Clay. What was Brick thinking? And now Shell himself is guilty by association, having been right there during the whole stolen necklace conversation.

 
; But he can’t get away from Lily. She sticks close to him as he makes his way down an aisle in search of tuna fish and canned Spam. He suspects she purposely had Daisy whisk Brick away as soon as they stepped inside the store.

  “Are you mad at me about something?” Lily asks.

  Shell shrugs, focusing away from her, toward the grocery shelves.

  “What did I do?” she continues.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Forget it.”

  She pulls at his arm, trying to snag his attention. “I can’t forget it,” she whines. “Why are you being this way?”

  “Don’t you have some shopping to do?” he asks.

  A moment later, Clay appears at the end of the aisle, having obviously heard them from where he was standing. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  Instead of answering, Lily scurries off down the aisle, her eyes full of tears. Clay gives Shell a glaring look. “We’ll talk about this later,” he snaps, and then follows Lily down the aisle.

  Leaving Shell alone.

  Shell looks toward the exit doors, wondering if he’d be able to dash out without being caught. But what about Brick?

  He hurries across the length of the store in search of him. With Lily keeping Clay occupied, there’s a good chance they could both escape. He spots Daisy first. She’s filling a shopping basket with boxes of matches. “Where’s Brick?” Shell asks her.

  “He went looking for you,” she says.

  Shell turns on his heal, dashing in the opposite direction, hoping that he doesn’t bump into Clay. He moves toward the front of the store and spots Brick by the registers.

  “Finally,” Brick calls out, rushing in his direction. “I’ve been looking all over.” Shell glances over his shoulders. There’s still no sign of Clay. “Come on,” Brick says. “I have something to show you.”

  “Let’s go,” Shell whispers. “We can leave . . . now!” He gestures toward the exit doors.

  Brick looks at the doors, seemingly tempted, but then shakes his head. “This is more important.”

  “What is?”

  “Come on,” Brick urges, grabbing Shell by the arm. “My spell worked.”

  A knot forms inside Shell’s chest. He glances back at the exit doors, wondering if he’s making a big mistake. But he follows Brick anyway, still wondering where Clay and Lily have gone.

  Brick leads them down the dairy aisle, stopping to hide behind a large display. “There,” Brick says, pointing toward a mother shopping with her teenage daughter.

  “What?” Shell asks.

  “That’s her,” Brick says. “The girl from the trading

  field . . . the one with the wings.”

  Shell takes another look. Even though the girl looks similar, with her long blond hair and light silvery eyes, there’s something different about her. “I don’t know,” he says, finally.

  “Are you blind? That’s her; I’m telling you. Just go up and ask her.”

  The two women move farther away, down the aisle. “Do something,” Brick says.

  At the same moment, the girl gazes over her shoulder, pausing a moment at Shell and Brick. She makes eye contact with Shell and smiles slightly before turning away.

  Shell approaches her slowly from behind, eager for it to be the same girl, even though she looks so different in her plaid school uniform and hooded overcoat. “Excuse me,” he says, softly.

  The girl turns around to face him, and so does her mother. “Do you know this boy, Angela?” her mother asks, a biting tone to her voice.

  “I don’t think so,” the girl says, shaking her head.

  “Are you the girl from the trading field?”

  “Trading field?” Her face scrunches slightly.

  Shell swallows hard, continuing to study her. Seeing her up close like this, watching her expressions and hearing her voice, he’s almost positive now that this is the same girl. “Yesterday, at the trading field,” he repeats. “By the pond . . . you were telling me about my broken wings.”

  “Trading field?” her mother asks, taking a step closer. “You haven’t been hanging around with those drifters again, have you, Angela?”

  The girl shakes her head, taking a step back. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I was at school yesterday, and then I went to the library.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nods and glances sheepishly toward her mother, her cheeks pinkening over. “I mean, I think I’d know if I went to the library or not. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  Shell lingers a couple seconds, noticing that the mother is getting more agitated by the moment—her arms folded and her mouth tightened into a scowl. “Sorry,” Shell says, a thickness in his chest. “You’re right. It’s my mistake.”

  He turns and walks quickly away. A few seconds later, the girl calls out to him. “Hey, wait,” she says.

  Shell turns back around.

  “You dropped something.” She takes several steps toward him, away from her mother, and then scoots down as though to pick something up off the floor.

  Shell furrows his eyebrows, sure that he didn’t drop anything.

  “You wouldn’t want to lose this,” she whispers, placing the object into his palm.

  Shell looks down at it and feels his heart quicken. It’s a silver pin in the shape of a pair of angel wings.

  “She’s looking for you,” the girl whispers.

  “Who is?”

  She draws an X on her neck with her finger. A moment later, she’s called away by her mom. The girl meets his eye one last time, and then hurries away.

  After class the following day, I stop by the room to gather some spell supplies and then head straight over to Porsha’s house. This time she invites me into her room right away.

  “How are you doing?” I ask her.

  She shrugs, but she looks a whole lot better—less angry, more centered. I sit beside her on her bed, noticing how she’s wearing the onyx bracelet. “It looks good on you,” I say, pointing at it.

  Porsha shrugs again, repositioning the bracelet on her wrist so that the clasp is at the back.

  “You know the onyx stone helps promote strength.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  I take a deep breath and reach into my backpack, pulling a healing-receiving crystal from the inner pocket. It’s a broad, flat piece that I bought this past fall in hopes that its properties might help empower me a bit. But I was never able to unclench my crystal cluster rock long enough to give it a chance.

  “Have you ever used crystals?” I ask. She shakes her head and I place the crystal into her palm. “This one will help you draw in and receive energy. It’s also good for self-healing.”

  “Why would I need to receive energy?”

  “It might help you with your mom—so you won’t be afraid next time she sends you a message.”

  Porsha nods, pressing the crystal into her palm. “Thanks,” she whispers.

  “Sure.”

  “So, now what?” She sighs and pulls a strand of her long blond hair down in front of her eyes.

  “I thought we might talk about your dreams.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  I shake my head. “No. Do you think you are?”

  She shrugs, dragging another strand of hair in front of her face. “Everybody else seems to.”

  “But do you?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s easier to just become what everybody expects of you.”

  I reach out and pat her back, allowing her head to rest against my shoulder, knowing in my heart that she isn’t crazy and hoping she knows the same.

  After several seconds, she lifts her head up and lets out another sigh.

  “Are yo
u ready?” I ask.

  “For what?” Her eyes are just visible through the long strands of hair.

  I reach back into my bag for some spell supplies—a small pillowcase; tiny bags filled with cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla beans; a bottle of orange oil; some lavender incense; a travel bowl for mixing; and some pillow stuffing I bought at the craft store.

  “What’s all that?” she asks.

  “I thought we might do a spell together. Did you know I practice Wicca?”

  She nods. “My father told me.”

  “So, do you want to try it . . . the spell, I mean?”

  Porsha shrugs, but I can tell that she wants to. She reaches out to touch the velvety fabric of the pillow.

  “I bought that last spring, as soon as I got the acceptance letter to come here. It was sort of a pre-dorm-room present to myself. I thought the purple color would be cool for the room.”

  “Are you sure you want to use it for this?” she asks, eyeing the bottle of orange oil.

  “Definitely.” I light the incense stick, place it on a holder, and then run all the spell supplies through the smoke.

  “What does that do?” Porsha asks.

  “It charges the materials, making them sacred; they work better that way.” I sprinkle the cinnamon three times into the bowl and then ask Porsha to do the same with the nutmeg.

  “It smells like apple pie,” she says, a tiny smile forming on her lips.

  I smile too, removing a vanilla bean from the bag, feeling an extra tingle over my fingers as I do. “Vanilla beans are good for intuition,” I say. “The cinnamon will help increase your psychic awareness and the nutmeg will help you deal with your nightmares better—so you aren’t afraid of them.”

  “How did you learn all this?” she asks.

  “My grandmother, mostly. Some I’ve learned from my mother. A lot of my spells come from old relatives; and then some I make up on my own.”

  “That’s cool,” she says, wiping a strand of hair from her eye.

  I drop the vanilla bean into the mixture of cinnamon and nutmeg and then add in droplets of the orange oil, concentrating on the orange’s ability to enliven the spirit. I ask Porsha to close her eyes and stir it all up with her fingers, meditating on her dreams, imagining them awakening her senses.