And Her Smile Will Untether the Universe

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And Her Smile Will Untether the Universe Page 7

by Gwendolyn Kiste


  So I’m sorry I can’t give it back to you. But then again, you had plenty of time to salvage it, so you probably didn’t want it anymore.

  Apologetically,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  Mom found my letters to you. She claims she was searching for laundry, but I think she was spying on me. That white trinket really bothered her. And judging from her screeching and screaming the moment I exited the school bus yesterday, she would have been happier if she’d discovered a spoon and syringe or a positive pregnancy test in my room. She made my dad pull everything out of the ambry to prove no one’s there.

  (Sorry about the mess.)

  Part of me thinks they were hoping for a secret passageway where some neighborhood creeper was living. At least then their little girl wouldn’t be crazy. But there was nothing other than a normal old ambry.

  I cried most of last night, which is why I didn’t leave you a letter sooner. I tried to write a couple versions of this note, but my tears streaked up the pages and my handwriting was such a mess I don’t think you could have read it anyhow.

  The only way they’d let me keep my bedroom is if I promised not to write you anymore. So I’ll leave this note overnight and burn it in the morning.

  And don’t worry about the fire. Mom will think I’m smoking a joint. Imagine how proud she’ll be that her daughter has a normal adolescent vice.

  Your Surreptitious Friend,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  I graduate next week. I can’t wait to get out of this house, so no one will read my letters except me and you.

  College is less than three months away. Will you come visit? I’m going to study psychology. That sounds fun, right? Pedestrian but fun. I’d rather study ghosts and demons and worlds other than my own, but if I wanted that enough, I could move into the ambry with you. Is there available real estate?

  No, psychology won’t be so bad. My parents said I might finally figure out what’s wrong with me. They thought it was funny. I didn’t laugh.

  Collegiate Bound,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  I saw you again today. Just a glimpse of course, but a good glimpse. Mom was calling upstairs, and all her hollering was distracting me, which is how you must have thought you’d slip by. But when I looked at my mirror, your reflection was there in the fissure of the door. You’re beautiful. Or handsome. I should say handsome, even though I mean beautiful.

  Did you always look like that, or have you changed to please me?

  Swooning (not really),

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  Two weeks until college!

  I don’t think my parents will notice, but you and Snappy will miss me. I’ll leave the ambry door open, so you two can commiserate while I’m away.

  Homesick Already,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  It’s my first Thanksgiving break, and I’m already not sure about school. I live with this girl named Heather. She’s got a different idea of fun than me, but then most people don’t spend their free time writing to guys who live in the walls of spare rooms.

  I hoped you would visit me at college, but the nooks and crannies in the dorm must not be so comfortable.

  If you could leave here, would you take the bus? Or would you walk? Or is there some arcane transportation where you’re from? Like maybe you ride in the mouth of a dragon or use the fires of the underworld to power a steamship?

  Or maybe you walk. You probably walk.

  Your Forever Dreamer,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  While I was away at school, my parents converted my bedroom into a guest room. They packed all my things and told me to take the boxes with me to school or else my stuff goes into storage. Welcome home, Molly Jane.

  Sorry about them traipsing all over the ambry. But you have a lot more breathing room in there now. Do you breathe?If so, it can’t be very comfortable in those stuffy walls.

  My parents left my bed (for the benefit of all the elusive guests they must be expecting), so at least I can sleep next to the ambry. But if there wasn’t a bed, I’d just sleep inside the ambry. Heck, you’d make a better roommate than Heather.

  By the way, Snappy seems livelier than ever. Mom says she disappeared last week for a few days, but they could still hear her meowing. “Like she was in the walls,” my mom said.

  I knew the two of you would be the best of friends.

  Your Faraway Comrade,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  It’s Christmas again. The holidays are all eggnog and misery.

  Sometimes, my parents still hear strange scratching in the walls. And Snappy’s gone. She’s been missing for over a month now. But last night, I heard her purring, so it must not be so bad wherever she is. Wherever you are.

  Do the stars taste like bliss there? Do you have stars at all?

  Your Celestial Body,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  Heather has this trick she taught me. If there’s a guy she likes and he’s hanging out in the dorm hallway (that’s how it is at college, all communal and whatnot), she leaves the door to our room open a little while she changes for bed.

  I must confess I tried her ploy last night when I got home for the semester. Sloughed off my academic garb and prepared for the summer all while giving the ambry a front row seat.

  You never looked. Maybe you’re too much of a gentleman. Or maybe you don’t care.

  And now I just feel embarrassed about the whole thing.

  Your Discomfited Coquette,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  It’s been three semesters since I wrote to you. I guess I don’t have much to say. Have you changed? I know I have.

  I’m seeing this boy. Derek Adler. He’s all right. He says he loves me. Do you think he does? My mom insists he’d make a good husband. We’ve only been seeing each other for two months, and she’s already planning the wedding. A spring ceremony, she says, with pink and ivory as the colors. I don’t like pink, and I hate every wretched permutation of white, but May or June is as good a month as any to surrender your freedom, don’t you think?

  Their Indentured Servant,

  Molly Jane

  P.S. I found another of those white pillars in the ambry. Mom says she’s gathered up a couple dozen in the last year. She already discarded the others, but I’ll keep this one in case you need it back.

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  On Sunday, I graduated summa cum laude in psychology. It would have been a good day if Derek hadn’t proposed to me over dinner. And both his parents and mine were there, so what was I supposed to do?

  Here Comes the Bride,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  I got married today. People said it was a nice ceremony. They said I wore a beautiful dress.

  Derek’s waiting in the car while I pick up some things for the honeymoon. Will you be the something borrowed and come with me? I don’t want to go alone.

  A Brand New Mrs.,

  Molly Jane Richards Adler

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Have you ever seen Niagara Falls? Even though it looks like the same Niagara Falls from last week or last year or some centuries-old tintype photograph of a daredevil on a tightrope, it’s different. The water’s always changing.

  People are like that too. I’ve heard every seven years, we shed each individual cell.

  If our entire body’s changed, are we even the same person? Is Niagara Falls still Niagara Falls?

  I don’t have many reasons to visit my old bedroom anymore, especially now that I have
a new bedroom everyone keeps reminding me about. You probably don’t know this, but when you get married, people make it their business to ask about your love life. Like you’re an incomparable letdown if there are no swaddling clothes in nine months or less.

  Maternally,

  Molly Jane

  P.S. How’s Snappy? Mom and Dad haven’t heard her in a while.

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Good news at last! A counseling center hired me. I’ll be talking to young kids with so-called behavioral issues (AKA parents like mine). I’m already counseling a girl named Carla. I don’t know why her parents think she needs so much help. She seems swell to me.

  Do they have jobs where you are? Maybe you work to earn those little white knives, so you can spend them on bigger white knives.

  Putting my Degree to Use,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Remember the girl I told you about? Carla? Yesterday in our weekly session, she confided in me about someone she knew. Someone no one else could see. He lives in the family’s garage. He’s like you, only his hair’s a different color and he’s a little shorter. At least that’s what it sounds like from her description.

  I’ll tell you more when I meet with her again next week. Maybe her friend’s a cousin of yours!

  Until then,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  I’m not counseling Carla anymore. My boss pulled me aside and claimed I was feeding her delusions. Her mother must have complained. Now Carla’s with another counselor.

  As if anyone else can understand her like I can.

  Cosmically Disappointed,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Do they downsize where you are?

  Sometimes I’ve wondered if maybe I wasn’t meant for this world. Maybe my job was to taste stars, but everyone got me off-track. I shouldn’t complain though. Life’s certainly a lot worse for most people. Like Carla’s parents. Carla vanished last week, and they can’t find her anywhere. I could tell them where she is, but nobody asks my opinion, of course, because they know they wouldn’t like what I’d say.

  Last night, my mom thought she heard Snappy. But that cat would be over 30 now and couldn’t possibly be alive. Especially without any food and water in the walls.

  Your Incurable Human,

  Mrs. Adler

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Mom called me tonight and demanded I talk to my dad. When I got here, he was taking a sledgehammer to the wall in their bedroom. Something was behind there, and he said he was going to scare it off.

  With all that pounding, I sure hope he didn’t disturb your rest too much. But don’t worry if he did. He’s calmer now.

  “Mice,” I told him. “It’s only mice.”

  Are there any pests in the walls? I hope not. How unpleasant that would be for you!

  The Not-So-Mousy,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  After Sunday dinner, I found the gift you left me. It made me laugh. Laugh like a hopeless hysteric until my parents and Derek ran all the way upstairs to check on me. They didn’t laugh. I guess a pile of dead mice doesn’t have traditional comic appeal. I explained it was an inside joke, but they still didn’t laugh. Not even a slight smile. And Derek was so mad he went home without me. Something about needing space. He says he’ll pick me up in the morning, but I don’t care if he does. What a curmudgeon.

  Would you like any rat poison or mouse traps? I could leave some with the next letter.

  Yours Truly,

  Molly Jane

  P.S. I’m still laughing and will be even after I put this letter in the ambry.

  P.P.S. Did you like the gift I gave you in return?

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Derek has a plan. A plan he thinks will “even out my disposition”.

  “And you’re not working right now,” he said. “It’s the perfect time.”

  I bet he thinks a mother could never giggle at a glut of dead rodents.

  My parents are already nudging each other and smiling more than usual over meals. Like the three of them are colluding against me. Like they know something I don’t.

  Doubtfully,

  Derek’s Wife

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  I found out what my parents were hiding. They bought a new place closer to me and Derek. Closer for when they have grandkids. As if the offspring are inevitable.

  Their last day in this house is in less than two weeks.

  I offered to stay and help them pack. But I don’t care about packing. I care about writing to you as many times as I can before I never can again.

  Your Friend,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Twelve days until we abandon the house.

  I’m not feeling well this evening, so I’ll leave it at that.

  Hopelessly,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Ten days.

  I’m still sick, but it comes and goes, so I doubt it’s terminal.

  My dad keeps saying he’s happy we’re leaving, especially since the scratching in the walls has started again. Mom wants to leave sooner to appease him, but I begged her to wait. I want every moment I can spend in the ambry.

  Please visit me soon. I miss your face. I miss it so much.

  Eagerly,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Man in the Ambry:

  Thank you for coming overnight. It was nice to know someone was there, even if I could only hear you breathing.

  Four days left. I’m nauseous. And tired. And out of things to tell you except I’m sorry. But I can’t stop them. It’s their house to sell.

  Tenuously,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Dear Andrew:

  I know now why I’ve been sick. Turns out it is terminal.

  I’m pregnant.

  I tried to be careful. I tried to avoid it. Whichever time damned me, I’ll never know, but I’m damned nonetheless.

  Desperately,

  Molly Jane

  ***

  Andrew:

  This is the last night here. My parents and Derek are out to dinner. Celebrating the move. I stayed home, said I was sick. And I am sick. I need you to come to me one last time. Before it’s too late.

  They’ll be back soon. I’ll put this letter in the ambry, and I’ll wait.

  Maybe there aren’t stars where you are. Maybe Snappy’s not there either. Maybe the fires of the underworld will turn me to ash.

  But I want the chance to discover that for myself.

  For the Last Time,

  Molly Jane

  P.S. They don’t know about me. And I never want them to find out.

  ***

  To the Man Living in our Former Ambry:

  I know you’re there. I know because you took my daughter.

  At first, we thought Molly Jane just wanted to scare us. We didn’t even report it for the first few days because we

  figured she’d come back.

  That was a year ago. The police conducted a search, a pretty exhaustive one I might add, but her father and I couldn’t see the point. It was more for her husband’s benefit. Did she tell you she was married?

  We hired some men to look for you. They pulled out all the walls to see if she was in there. It was like we thought. There’s no way in or out of the ambry except the door to her bedroom.

  But then the men inspected the walling they’d removed. They all said it was the darndest thing. They said it looked like someone wrote on the back of that paneling. Not words any of us could read. Maybe not words at all. More like something trying to write. Something with claws. Claws like pillars of sal
t.

  Please let her come home. Her husband and parents miss her. She belongs with us.

  Sincerely,

  A Distraught Mother

  P.S. Please stop cooing at night. And stop giggling too. It’s scaring the new tenants.

  FIND ME, MOMMY

  Emma Jo is good at hide-and-seek.

  “Come and find me, Mommy!” she squeals and races down the hall, her pink footie pajamas making hollow thumps on the hardwood floor.

  She never plays this game with her father. She only plays with me. I wish I could stop her, but she’s out of my reach before I can say a word.

  So I follow the sound of giggling.

  Her playroom is dim. Even the nightlight in the corner is flicked off.

  “Where are you, baby?” I ask the darkness, but the darkness doesn’t reply.

  I peek under the bed, inside the closet, behind her toy box. She’s not here—not at first. Emma Jo doesn’t move like other children. She slips into the quiet places I can’t see—gaps in the walls and cracks along the ceiling. And where she goes, she’s not alone. Something’s waiting in those empty spaces for her, a darkness that calls to my daughter in a voice only she can hear.

  I check the playroom once, twice, and then I stand in the hall. That’s the rule. As long as I play the game right, she’ll return to me.

  But each time, I wait outside the playroom a little longer. The darkness likes Emma Jo. It doesn’t want to give her back.

  At last, I hear that giggle of hers, like a crisp wind chime in autumn, and I stumble through the doorway. Emma Jo’s behind the toy box, grinning with her crooked milk teeth.

  “You found me!” She leaps into my arms, her icy breath as sweet as pink lemonade.

  “Next time,” I say, “don’t go so far, baby. You might not find your way back.”

  I hug her a little tighter. It’s the only way I know she’s really here.

  ***

  Soon she’s not here, the chill of her breath spreading through her body like poison.

  Emma Jo no longer runs. She can barely walk, and the doctors can’t tell us why.

  “Maybe it’s a bug,” they say.

  They run tests, lots of tests, and extract vial after vial of her blood. She cries at the sight of needles and tries to hide. I hold her down to keep her from escaping into the caverns of their stethoscopes. She cries harder. I cry too.

 

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