Red Is for Remembrance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  I get up from the bed to look at myself in the mirror. My lipstick is smeared across my mouth and my mascara has run a bit; there are a few tiny flecks across my cheeks. I take a deep breath and pluck a tissue from the box, cleaning myself up as best I can, noticing Amber’s No Screw With You eyeliner pen in teddy bear brown. If only I’d used that instead. I take it and unscrew the cap, smudging my finger against the tiny paintbrush. Instead of applying it to my eyelid, I unzip my coat and draw an X across my neck.

  Just like that night.

  When Jacob and I first started getting close, we did a trust spell together with henna. We dipped into the brown paste and drew on each other’s skin. Mostly clues . . . stuff that was going on at the time . . . stuff to help us figure out why I was dreaming about my own death.

  But then Jacob drew the X across my neck. He knew even then that we were meant to be together always.

  A second later, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  No one answers.

  “Who is it?” I repeat.

  Still no response.

  I cap the eyeliner, toss it back with Amber’s stuff, and then hurry to the door, wondering if it might be Porsha.

  It’s Sage. She’s standing on the other side of the door crack, dressed in camouflage pants and a tight black top. Her hair is separated into two thick, black braids. “Can we talk?” she asks.

  “Now? I’m not really feeling well.”

  “It’ll just be a minute.”

  Against my better judgment, I open the door wide to let her in.

  “I think maybe you got the wrong idea about me before.” She stands in the middle of the room with her arms folded.

  “Really,” I say, feeling the surprise on my face.

  “I’m not a fake, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I close the door back up and turn around to face her.

  “I want to learn about Wicca,” she continues.

  “Why?” I ask, noticing how she’s staring at my neck—at the X. I try to nonchalantly cover it over by rubbing at my throat.

  “Because,” she shrugs, “it seems so cool. All the spells and stuff.”

  “It’s a lot more than spells. The spells are pointless if they’re not purposeful—if they’re not backed by good intention.”

  “I know that.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, I want to know.”

  I let out another sigh and then direct her to my bookshelf. I pull out some of the reference books I have—my copies of Teen Witch and Elements of Witchcraft. “Here,” I say. “Read these.”

  “Seriously . . . I can borrow them?”

  “They’re good for getting started, for seeing if Wicca is your thing or not.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” I take a deep breath and sit down at the edge of my bed, continuing to rub at my neck, seeing if I can wipe the X away, though it seems this screw-proof eyeliner lives up to its name.

  “Are you okay?”

  More nodding.

  “What’s wrong with your neck?” Sage takes a couple steps closer to look. “The rune for partnership, right?”

  I nod, somewhat surprised that she recognizes it.

  “I’m not a complete fake,” she says. “I do know some of this stuff. So who’s the boy?”

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Does he go here?”

  I shake my head, wishing she’d take her books and leave.

  “So I take it you guys have one of those distant-relationship things?”

  “He’s gone,” I snap.

  “Gone?” Sage sits down beside me, clearly sensing my angst —which only makes it worse. I feel my eyes well up. A couple tears slip down the creases of my face.

  Sage doesn’t ask me any more. She just wraps her arms around me and rubs my back. And all I can do is let her.

  As soon as Sage leaves, I mentally pick myself up off the floor and wipe away the proverbial dust.

  Before I call Porsha again, I dial Tim’s number, leaving what feels like a full-five-minute apology on his voicemail. I plead temporary insanity, tell him how sorry I am, and say that I had no right to try and use him like that. I babble on, telling him that all I wanted to do was right everything that’s gone wrong in my life, but that I was pushing too far, moving too fast, and going in the wrong direction. I tell him that maybe I’m just not ready for everything to be so right. And then I apologize for not making any sense.

  But at least it makes sense to me.

  After that, I hang up and dial Porsha.

  “She’s sleeping,” Dr. Wallace tells me.

  “Still?” I sigh.

  “How are your sessions going with her?” he asks, ignoring the question.

  “Good,” I say. “I think we’re making progress.”

  He asks me to give him concrete details about our meetings—who and what we talk about, as well as undeniable proof that she isn’t as unstable as everybody thinks. But all I can manage to get out at the moment is “I don’t think she’s crazy.”

  I make a promise to fill him in more at another time, and then make him promise to have Porsha call me ASAP. I hang up, reminding myself that it would be stupid to have him wake her up now, possibly interrupting one of her premonitions—even though time is really of the essence here.

  I sit back on my bed, noticing a long rectangular package sitting on the floor. I pick it up and read the labels. It’s addressed to me, from my mother. Amber must have picked it up along with her stuff. I open it up, peeling away at least three layers of tissue paper until I get to it—a thick red candle.

  “For remembrance,” I whisper, feeling badly for what I said to her before, how I accused her of wanting me to forget everything—to forget Jacob—when it’s obvious that she wants me to remember him.

  I get back on the phone and call her.

  “Did you get it?” she asks, before even saying hello.

  “I did. Thank you.”

  “I want you to remember, Stacey. You wouldn’t be who you are if you didn’t.”

  “I know. I’m sorry for blowing up before.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Just be happy—don’t dwell on memories; appreciate them for what they are and for the person they’ve helped you become.”

  “Thank you,” I repeat.

  “Don’t thank me,” she says. “Just light the red candle and remember him. Remember to have hope.”

  “Hope for what?”

  “For whatever makes you happy.”

  “What if there is no hope in getting what makes me happy?”

  “There’s always hope,” she says.

  I let out a small sigh, feeling anything but hopeful. Still, after we say our goodbyes, I grab the red candle and consecrate it with olive oil and lemongrass incense. Then, using a razor blade, I carve the rune for partnership (the X) into the side. The crumbling red wax sparkles beneath my fingertips. I set the candle down on a ceramic plate that’s been cleansed and bathed in a full moon’s cycle. Then I reach into my night table drawer and pull out the white candle stump. It’s the remainder of the candle that Jacob and I lit when we silently declared our love for one another. Jacob’s uncle, who taught him most of what he knew about magic, told him to save the candle for his one true love. And so we lit the candle one night, each holding a starter candle, sitting on the floor of my dorm room at Hillcrest.

  I press the stump against my nose. It still smells like rose oil from when we consecrated it. I light the red candle and use its flame to ignite the stump’s tiny wick, careful to keep my fingers away from the fire. “For remembrance,” I whisper. I drip the stump’s wax over the red candle, thinking how the individual droplets look like te
ars, and then I place the two candles side by side on the plate. The hot red wax drips down over the white stump, gluing the two candles together so they become one.

  After the stump’s wick finally burns out and there’s a giant pink globule of wax at the bottom of the red candle—the product of the two parent candles—I lay back on my bed, tempering the urge to take a tranquilizer by running my fingers over the X on my neck. It takes over an hour before the urge finally dies, and even longer than that for the red candle flame to go out. I roll over in bed, wondering when Porsha is going to finally wake up and call me, feeling myself drift off as well.

  The next thing I know, the phone rings, jolting me awake. I snap out of bed and glance at the clock. It’s after eleven. “Hello?” I say, picking up the receiver.

  “It’s me, Porsha.”

  “How are you?” I ask. “Did you have another nightmare? Did our spell work?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “I need to see you,” she says. “I’m in your dorm. I tried to sneak in through the back, since I don’t have an ID, but I ended up in the basement and now I can’t get out. The doors only open one way. Can you come get me?”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  I hurry down the hallway and take the back staircase all the way down to the basement. I edge the basement door open, noticing right away how completely dark it is. “Porsha?” I shout, my voice echoing. I stick my hand inside, feeling around the wall for a light switch. I find one and click it on, but I don’t see her anywhere. It’s absolutely vacant down here—just one long concrete hallway with brick walls.

  “Porsha?” I call again, looking behind me, toward the staircase, wondering if maybe she managed her way upstairs. But how could she if, like she said, the doors only open up one way? I look around for something to wedge into the door crack, and end up slipping off my sneaker and using it to hold the door open instead.

  I begin down the hallway, noticing how much colder it is down here. I fold my arms to stifle the chill, picturing the hallways of dorm rooms stacked above me. There are doors to the right and left. I call Porsha’s name a couple more times, wondering if she might have gone into one of them, maybe looking for an alternate route.

  I stop suddenly, hearing something coming from behind me—a rhythmic sound, like the ocean, like the tide pulling at the rocks. I turn to look, just as the basement door closes.

  Locking me in.

  “No!” I shout out. I run to the door and try pushing it back open, but it won’t budge. I pull at it, kick it, and smash my fists up against it. But it’s no use. “Porsha!” I shout again, noticing that even my sneaker is gone now.

  “Here,” a voice whispers from somewhere down the hallway.

  I begin in that direction again, listening hard for her voice. “Where?” I ask.

  “Here,” she repeats. Her voice is coming from the room on the right. I knock on the door, but there’s no response. I wrap my hand around the knob. At the same moment, all the lights go off.

  “Come on in,” the voice whispers.

  My heart pounds. My jaw shakes. I take a deep breath and turn the knob. “Porsha?” I say, stepping inside. There’s a wall directly in front of me, preventing me from moving any farther. I go to take a step back, but the door closes, boxing me in.

  I move my fingers over the walls, searching for a door handle. But there doesn’t seem to be one. I reach up and feel the ceiling; it’s just above my head. It’s like I’m trapped in a closet of some sort, only it’s smaller than a closet—more like a casket.

  “Hello?” I whisper, trying to be brave.

  “I’m here,” she whispers back.

  “Who?”

  A scratching sound comes from outside the box, like someone’s clawing to get in. I bang at the walls, trying to get out, but it’s so small inside here that I can’t get enough momentum in my arm.

  “Help me!” I shout.

  “How does it feel to be dead?” she asks. “Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.”

  “Porsha?”

  “No.” She giggles. “It’s Jessica, Porsha’s mother.”

  “Where are you?” I ask, noticing how my head feels dizzy, how I’m starting to sweat.

  “I’m right behind you,” she whispers.

  I try to turn around, but it’s too crammed inside this box.

  “Ever wonder what it feels like to be buried alive?” she asks.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You’re the one who’s doing it. This is your dream, remember?”

  I swallow hard, conjuring up all my strength, reminding myself that this is my dream and that I have the power to change it. I close my eyes and concentrate hard. A few seconds later, the door cracks open and a slice of light shines in.

  Jessica is there. She wraps her arms around me and kisses my cheek. “Much better on this side, isn’t it?” She’s wearing a silky white robe with huge bell sleeves that remind me of angel wings.

  “Is that what death is like?” I ask, gesturing to the box behind me, the one I was standing in.

  She shakes her head. “Not for most of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, thank you for helping me pass on to the other side.”

  “You’re passing over?”

  She nods. “I know my daughter will be okay now . . . now that you’re helping her. I feel like a whole truckload has been lifted from me. You can’t pass on with all that extra baggage.” She smiles, her pale gray eyes squinting slightly. “Thank you for all your help.”

  “But I haven’t done that much yet.”

  “You have . . . more than you know.”

  She leads me out to the hallway. The basement door is wide open now, my sneaker sitting and waiting for me on the floor.

  “Can you just answer one question for me?” I ask.

  She nods, somewhat reluctantly. “Just one.”

  “Why is Porsha dreaming about this boy on the Cape? What is her connection to him? What is her connection to me?”

  Jessica smiles. “I’m surprised you haven’t already figured out the answers to some of those questions.”

  “How would I?”

  “By using your intuition—what you’ve learned, what you sense in your heart to be true. Why do you think you’re connected to Jacob?”

  “Why do I think I am connected to him?” I ask, noting how she chose to use the present tense. “So he isn’t on the other side? He’s still alive?”

  “I said I’d answer only one question.”

  “But you haven’t answered anything, really.”

  “I have to go.” Jessica looks down at her watchless wrist. “I keep forgetting that time doesn’t exist on the other side. Oh, well.” She shrugs and turns in the opposite direction of the exit door, toward the blazing light at the end of the corridor. Her wheat-blond hair blows back from the intensity of the glow. She stops just inches from the light and turns to me—a little girl again, like when I first met her. She waves to me, a bright and contagious smile across her ten-year-old face.

  I wave back, watching as she turns around and continues into the light. I turn away, too, eager to find my way back upstairs.

  But I’m no longer in the basement. I’m at the beach. The tide is coming in, bringing with it a new sense of hope. I sink down into the sand, breathing in the warm, salty air, feeling the sun blaze down over me. The waves roll in and crash against the surf, just a few yards from my feet. After several seconds, I notice something in the water. It bobs up and down a couple seconds before surfacing completely. I stand and clasp my hands over my mouth, watching the figure swim toward the shore—toward me.

  Jacob.

  I’m trembling all over. “Is it really you?” I gu
sh.

  He nods and I run to him, half-crying and half-laughing—trying to catch my breath. “I love you,” I whisper in his ear.

  Jacob sweeps me up in his arms and I feel more complete than I ever thought possible.

  A couple moments later, I wake up with a gasp—in a sweat. Amber’s cell phone is vibrating in the pocket of my jeans. “Hello?” I say, scrambling for the volume.

  “Hi, Stacey? It’s me, Porsha. Are you okay?”

  Still trying to catch my breath, I tell her that I am okay, noticing the lingering sense of hope in my heart. “How are you?” I ask. “Did you have another nightmare?” I sit up in bed and glance at the clock. It’s 3:15 in the morning.

  “I need you to come right away,” she says. “The spell worked. I know where the boy is.”

  During the ride home from the shopping trip, during his late afternoon chores, and all through dinner, Shell can’t stop thinking about the girl he met in the grocery store—about what she said to him and how she drew that X on her neck with her finger, telling him that someone was looking for him.

  Shell knows it must be someone from his past—his soul mate—only he doesn’t know who she is. He sits back in bed, smothering his head in the pillow, frustrated with his own mind, with why it’s keeping things from him. Why is it that he’s able to remember his uncle, but he isn’t able to remember his one true love?

  He lets out a giant sigh and then releases the pillow to his lap with a plop. The subtle noises stir Brick, who turns over in bed and peeps an eye open. When he notices that Shell is awake, he sits up in bed. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” Brick whispers.

  “Sorry I woke you,” Shell says. “I have a lot on my mind.” Shell thinks how ironic the statement is—since his mind is the thing that’s failing him.

  “Hey, was anyone in here earlier?” Brick asks, rubbing at his sleepy eyes. “Lily or Daisy, maybe?”

  “No, why?”

  Brick shrugs and then laughs at himself. “Must have been dreaming. I could have sworn I heard a girl’s voice whispering in my ear.”

  “Whispering what?”

  Brick shrugs again. “She just kept asking me where I was.”