Sunblind

by Michael Griffo

  “Seriously, Es, you look absolutely mag-tastic!” I gush. “I’m surprised Lars Svenson hasn’t unleashed the paparazzi to get a photo of you for the cover of the Three W!”

  Essie has no idea that I’m not one-hundred percent serious.

  “Oh, Dominy,” she blushes. “No one wants to see my face on the cover of the Weekly.”

  Grabbing Essie’s hands, I tell her, “You then and you now are the most incredible before and after I’ve ever seen.”

  Blushing an even deeper shade of red, Essie squeezes my hands tighter. “You really think so?”

  Well, not really. I am the Queen of the Before and After, but Essie is a super-close second.

  “Absolutely!” I white-lie.

  “It’s all thanks to my new boyfriend,” Essie shares.

  For a second I think that she’s white-lying too. Until she blushes yet a deeper shade of red, so it looks like she has a third-degree sunburn. Essie’s way too old to have a boyfriend, isn’t she? Then again, maybe she isn’t as old as I thought and she only looked ancient because she let herself go and kept her face buried in magazines that only show glamorous people, so she looked even worse by comparison. I guess at some point watching life was no longer satisfying and Essie decided to live. I have to be honest, it’s a bit weird to think about Essie on a date with some guy, flirting and making small talk, all the while wondering if the guy is going to kiss her good night, but I’m happy for her. As long as she keeps all the details of her romancecapades to herself.

  Of course the moment that thought pops into my mind, I simply have to know who she’s been having romancecapades with.

  “’Fess up, Essie,” I demand. “Who’s your new fella?”

  All the red from her cheeks fades and is replaced by a pale gray. I know that color well; it’s the color of fear.

  “I-I’d rather not s-say,” she stutters.

  Why would something that should bring Essie joy make her afraid? Could I be misjudging her or could she just be acting coy so I make an even bigger fuss and drag the information out of her? Unsure, I don’t do anything. I don’t say a word; I don’t agree with her, I don’t try to coax her to offer a name; I remain silent. Which is exactly what Essie does. Obviously she meant what she said. But why?

  Could she be making the whole thing up? Could this boyfriend be an invention? No, if she did that she’d ramble on about him, give me an exact physical description, and tell me all sorts of personal details I would rather not hear. That’s what people do when they lie; they go overboard, fill in the blanks with a non-erasable marker to make it look like they’re telling the truth when all it does is make them look like a liar. Nope, Essie’s no liar; she’s got a boyfriend, but a secret one.

  Could she be dating a married man? Or someone very well-known in the community? Or both?! Then again maybe their relationship is in the early stages and she’s adopting the new mother approach—not announcing she’s pregnant until the first trimester is over just in case complications develop and she miscarries. Essie is smartsie. She probably wants to keep her boyfriend’s name secret until she’s a bit more certain he’s going to turn into something more long lasting than just a boyfriend. I can’t blame her. She’s waited a long time for some happiness after her first husband died; why not be cautiously optimistic?

  “I’ll let you off the hook, Essie,” I say, adopting a magnanimous tone to my voice. “But when you’re ready to announce his name to the world, I want to be the first one to know.”

  A wave of relief crests over Essie’s face, and her color rushes back. “Deal.”

  Grabbing the index card that has the number 19 written on it in sparkly gold marker, I feel sorry for giving Essie a hard time. Of all people, I should understand the importance and necessity of keeping secrets. Before the door to my mother’s room closes behind me, I realize that Essie and I aren’t the only ones who have something to hide.

  “I’m going to make everything right again, I promise.”

  I’ve never heard such heartfelt devotion in my brother’s voice.

  “Barnaby?”

  More furious than startled at being interrupted, my brother looks up at me, unsuccessfully trying to turn a grimace into a smirk. He’s also unsuccessful at letting go of my mother’s hand before I witness the connection, so, much to his credit, he holds on to the hand I haven’t seen him touch in over ten years.

  I should be happy to see my brother sitting next to my mother’s bed, holding her hand, talking to her, but instead I’m filled with the notion that I’ve stumbled upon something I wasn’t meant to see. Instead of being thankful that he’s finally come around and accepted the fact that our mother isn’t to blame for lapsing into this coma of unknown causes, I’m scared. I know that whatever he was whispering to my mother had something to do with me.

  What did he say? He’s going to make everything right again. What exactly does that mean? And why am I so afraid to ask him about it? I’m his older sister; I’m the one who he should be afraid of, not the other way around. Why am I complicating things? Be like the wolf, I remind myself; be simple and straightforward and strong.

  “What do you mean you’re ‘going to make everything right again’?” I ask.

  Yup, sometimes the wolf knows best.

  “None of your business,” Barnaby replies.

  And sometimes he’s totally off the mark. Time for the girl to take over.

  “Come on, fill me in,” I whine. “You’re supposed to tell your big sister everything.”

  I can tell by looking into his eyes that Barnaby wants to confide in me. No matter how angry he’s ever gotten with me, and through the years he’s gotten pretty mad, he’s never allowed his anger to consume him. There’s always been a light in his eyes, a flicker of hope, reassurance that through all the screaming and name-calling and fist-fights we’ll still be close. I see it now; I see the spark; it’s like a bright light that’s connecting his heart to mine. But just as quickly the spark is lost. I don’t know if it’s extinguished or if it’s been replaced by something else. All I know is that, for the time being anyway, Barnaby is lost to me, and no amount of begging or cajoling or pressuring is going to get him to tell me what his cryptic remark really means. Just like with Essie, I accept defeat.

  “Fine, don’t tell me,” I say. “See if I care.”

  “It’s just between me and Mom,” he says.

  Now I really do feel awkward, as if I interrupted nothing more than a private mother-son moment. Barnaby’s hand hasn’t let go of my mother’s since I walked into the room, and it’s clear by the way that he’s holding her that this isn’t the first time they’ve touched. His grasp isn’t tentative or suffocating, it’s relaxed and gentle, as if he’s done this hundreds of times before. Witch hunts by night, bedside vigils by day. What other secrets is my brother hiding?

  “Well, it’s nice to see you and Mom together like this,” I say. “I know it always makes me feel good when I sit with her.”

  Whatever connection we shared is destroyed.

  Abruptly Barnaby drops my mother’s hand, and it falls limply by her side. “Then I’ll give you two some privacy.”

  We both feel the electric shock when I touch Barnaby’s shoulder. All I wanted to do was tell him that he didn’t have to leave, and all I did was give him another reason to not want to stay.

  “You don’t have to go,” I urge.

  “Yes, I do,” my brother replies. “I’ve . . . I’ve said all I needed to say.”

  The sound of the door closing after my brother leaves the room is heartbreaking. When I turn around and see my mother staring at me I want to rejoice. She’s looking at me with the same intensity as The Weeping Lady, except her eyes are alive and open and loving.

  “Mom!”

  There’s no response, but that’s fine because her eyes stay open; they don’t close; they don’t retreat. Best thing is that they don’t make me think that I’m hallucinating, trying to conjure up more miracles and magic. This is
beyond a marvelous spectacle; this is validation that my mother is still fighting whatever force is keeping her locked away from this world, and I just know that she’s closer than ever to finding her way back to us.

  “Oh, Mom, can you see me?” I plead.

  Kneeling next to her bed, I clasp her hand and press it against my cheek. Her skin is so warm and her eyes are so bright, part of me thinks she’s going to yawn and stretch and jump out of bed eager to reclaim her life. But the smarter, more realistic part of me knows better. This is not a beginning, but it is a sign that I know my father had something to do with.

  Guaranteed my father has been speaking with God or an angel or Jess, telling them that since he was taken from his children, our mother needs to come back. It’s only fair. I feel like a little girl again, convinced my father is the strongest man in the world. Holding my mother’s hand, I know that my father is still protecting me, that he’s still in my life and he’s still determined to help me deal with this curse.

  Luba has other ideas.

  I didn’t notice the smell right away, but now it’s overpowering. Similar to my mother’s favorite perfume, Guerlinade, it’s a mixture of lilac and powder, but there’s another scent added to the mix, something I can’t distinguish. But the more I breathe in, the more I feel like I’m going to choke.

  As if I’m ripping off a day-old Band-Aid, I throw back the blanket and see what’s making that awful smell. In her right hand, my mother is holding a bouquet of moonflowers; she looks like a bride taking a nap before her wedding ceremony. My first instinct is that Luba put them there, that she snuck in before my brother arrived and placed them underneath the covers. But then I remember the first rule of deduction: The simple answer is most always the correct one. The solution to a mystery is usually so obvious, it’s often overlooked. Taking a deep breath of the toxic fragrance I inhale the truth: The flowers were my brother’s gift.

  A son bringing his mother flowers is a beautiful gesture, no cause for alarm. Then why do I feel frightened? Why do I feel as if this is even worse than my brother’s carrying a torch and leading a group of fanatic townspeople in search of a would-be serial killer? Once again the answer isn’t difficult or convoluted or elusive. It’s worse because this action, this simple gift, links my brother to the enemy.

  There’s no way it’s a coincidence that my brother chose to give my mother the same kind of flowers Luba gave her. He has no way of knowing that he’s under that evil witch’s influence, that she’s using him like she used me as a way to get revenge against my father for an accident. An accident!! One that happened when my father was just a boy!

  I gasp for breath, not because the smell of the moonflowers becomes even more poisonous, but because I think my father has just tried to speak to me. Not with words, but with a memory. When he was a teenager, roughly the same age Barnaby is right now, he made a mistake that set into motion this curse and this horror that we’re all living through.

  What if Barnaby is about to make a mistake of his own? What if his friendship with Luba is more than that, what if it’s more like an allegiance? Could Luba have armed Barnaby with enough information for him to think that I’m the enemy and not her, so he would consciously choose sides? It’s a horrifying possibility, but a possibility all the same.

  I may not be able to destroy Luba, but I can destroy her connection to my brother. Reaching out I grab the revolting flowers and crumble them in my hand so they resemble a mound of white petals that were ripped from a vine.

  Take that, you psycho!

  I toss the mangled mess into the garbage and look back at my mother. Her eyes are shut tight again; her beautiful blue-gray eyes are no longer looking at me. Perhaps she didn’t want to see what I’m seeing right now, that the moonflowers are defying nature and blooming back to life in the garbage can. It’s an all-too-obvious sign that Luba’s power and her connection to my brother cannot be so easily severed.

  As I stand underneath the shower, the hot spray of water envelops and cradles and revitalizes me because I know that I don’t have to fight Luba alone. I have allies. Really? Then why do I have to press my forehead and my palms against the cold tiles to stop my body from shaking? If I have so many allies on my side why do I feel so alone?

  My palms contract and my fingernails claw at the wet, slippery tiles. I feel like a fly desperately trying to climb its way out of a spiderweb, but for every step it takes closer to freedom, it takes two steps back toward defeat. We’re both lost causes. Just as my friends have rallied around me and refused to abandon me, my family has done just the opposite. My father is dead, my mother’s in a coma, and my brother has chosen to believe that I’m his enemy. Whether they’ve made their choices consciously or involuntarily, the result is the same; they’ve left me to fend for myself.

  Out of the shower, I dry myself as quickly as possible. The towel smells different, more fragrant, like lavender I think. I don’t like it. It’s nothing at all like the smell that used to cling to our towels when my father did the laundry. I wrap the towel around me and try to remember what my laundry used to smell like. After a moment the memory comes back to me, the smell of too much bleach—my father was never good at doing laundry—but it’s as if the memory is being held at a distance, slightly out of reach, so it’s hard for me to get a firm hold on it, and I wonder how long it’ll take me to forget most of the things I took for granted while my father was alive.

  Thankfully the mirrors are steamed up so I don’t have to look at my body, but as I gather my clothes the fog starts to lift, and I can see my partial reflection. I force myself to look at the pale skin, then the long red hair, and finally the blue-gray eyes that stare back at me. I can see the girl completely now, and contrary to my griping she isn’t alone. But it isn’t the wolf I see standing next to her; it’s her brother who’s joined her, standing behind her with a gun.

  “What the . . . !?”

  Whipping around I expect to see Barnaby pointing a gun at my face, but he’s not there. The bathroom is empty; there’s nothing in front of me but the wall and the towel rack. That can’t be. I saw him! Heart pounding, I wipe away the rest of the steam that’s still clutching at the mirror, and I’m the only person in the reflection. Maniacally, I slide back the shower curtain to reveal more emptiness.

  Get a hold of yourself, Dominy! This is insanity!

  Gripping the side of the sink, I breathe deeply several times. I avoid my gaze and focus on the pale blue porcelain until I can trust my body to move without shaking. When I enter my bedroom, I don’t scream. I wasn’t hallucinating; I was just having a premonition.

  Barnaby is sitting on my bed pointing a gun at me.

  Chapter 4

  I should be frightened, but I’m not.

  Maybe it’s because I know that there’s a very slim chance that Barnaby’s gun is loaded with silver bullets, the only type that can do any permanent damage to me if, of course, the folklore and the information I’ve gleaned from Wikipedia and at Lycanthropy.com, are true.

  According to legend (and the larger-than-I-expected online lycanthrophite community), it takes a very specific type of ammo to take me down. And if my brother shoots I may be wounded, but since there’s no full moon tonight, there’s no risk that my other self will emerge while I’m in the emergency room doing my best imitation of my mother.

  But wait! Am I only immune to regular bullets when I’m a wolf? Will they harm me when I’m not in wolf form? Another philosophical question emerges: Is a werewolf always a werewolf even when the werewolf isn’t a wolf? I have no idea, but I feel the formidable wolf-strength push underneath my skin, and I feel way more invincible than vulnerable. A good way to find out how I’d be affected by a regular-strength bullet would be to provoke Barnaby and get him so pissed off that he actually pulls the trigger. I have a feeling that won’t be a very difficult task.

  “What the hell are you doing with that thing?” I ask.

  “Aiming it at you,” he replies.

 
“Why?”

  “Because that’s what you do with a gun, isn’t it?” he asks rhetorically. “Point it at people.”

  “For starters,” I respond defiantly.

  Looking at my brother, I notice that his feet are planted squarely on the floor; he’s grown a few inches since last year. His gym shorts reveal that his legs are muscular, well-developed from track practice, and they’re covered with spotty patches of brown hair, a thick cluster around his shins and calves, much thinner around his thighs. His arms and upper body are still on the skinny side, and he needs two hands to hold the gun. That, however, could be more for effect than necessity. The overall impression is that he’s aged. I’m not sure if it happened overnight or if there’s been a steady growth that I’ve ignored, but my brother looks older than I last remember.

  And yet regardless of what he’s holding in his hands, he’s still my little brother.

  “So you gonna do something with that thing other than point it at me?”

  As usual when a bully is confronted, a bully wavers. The gun lowers just enough in the air to convince me that Barnaby has absolutely no intention of using it the way that its maker intended. Gone is the cocky attitude, and in its place is confused apprehension. It’s like I can hear his thoughts rolling in his mind, like a huge, heavy wheel that a weakling is trying to push. Clunk, clunk, clunk, until the momentum clicks and the wheel starts to roll, and I realize with more than a mild amount of surprise that my brother is no longer a weakling. That’s when Barnaby pulls the trigger.

  Despite my steely determination to be aloof, I flinch. Not a quick flinch that I can hide as a shiver, but a full-on, body shake so violent I have to clutch my towel so it doesn’t fall to the ground and give my brother a free show.