by P. K. Tyler
She does some deep breathing, feeling her ribs expand, belly going soft and tries to read her sister’s energy.
* * *
Chelsea
Chelsea shakes her head and reaches a manicured hand for her wine spritzer. She knows that despite everything, Jessa, her younger sister, seems to have enormous luck on her side. Jessa is taller and shapelier than Chelsea is. Giving birth to Emma Jean in her mid-twenties has not done noticeable damage to Jessa’s body. The only thing Jessa has ever produced that seemed truly perfect was Emma Jean. But now she knows the truth about her, too.
“It’s too late to play games, can’t you see that? You think you can keep cutting Emma Jean’s hair and hide what she is,” Chelsea says.
“Is? You’re making her sound like a Martian. She’s got a hair condition, that’s what her pediatrician says, and I trust him. Kids her age get all sorts of things. When are we going to sign the papers?” Jessa says, fingering the strap of her blue and white overstuffed cloth shoulder bag that sits in her lap, crammed with toys, children’s books, and herbal tinctures.
Chelsea watches as her younger sister’s round face cinches taut, a pinkish hint of discomfort growing across the milky complexion, reminding her of a radish. Jessa takes her index finger and taps the edge of her mouth. A flash of Jessa’s tongue peeks through and then disappears. Jessa tells a lie the same way all the time with a tight smile and bulging eyes, just like when we were girls.
Chelsea’s been waiting for this moment, gathering evidence, biding her time. She’s enjoying how disoriented Jessa appears to be. Jessa’s unsteady gaze flicks up at the sky and then across to her daughter, Emma Jean, anywhere but at Chelsea.
Chelsea drinks in the mess that is Jessa, the worn green flip flops, the tacky, pewter cubic zirconia oversized fairy earrings, the flouncy green skirt that hits mid-thigh, lemon V-neck tank, and the multiple necklaces with small nodes of quartz, amethyst and citrine hanging at the end of them. Jessa told her she wears the necklaces for protection. She needs them since she’s an energy healer now. From addict to energy healer, all in just a few years. Right.
* * *
Jessa
Her mind spins on how she will spend the money. The first thing she would do, of course, would be to move from her crappy apartment and as far away from Chelsea as possible. No more food stamps, that funny-colored money. No more squeezing out soap from public restrooms in little baggies. And she’d move her boat, The Explorer, sitting unused at the club for so long! She’d go sailing again and show Emma Jean so much.
Poor big sister, she thinks, looking at Chelsea. The early thirties weren’t being kind to her at all; already squint lines, and wrinkly eyelid skin covered by toad-skin-like bumps were noticeable. And, the first signs of gray peeking out at the temples. And why does she always get so dressed up for our meetings? The pearls again. The predictable white and green sweater set, beige khakis, and green ballet flats with a golden buckle. So matchey, matchey! Jessa fakes a smile and tries to muster some compassion. After all, Chelsea’s got a hole in her spirit. Yup, a shotgun leak in her heart chakra. Instead of energetically radiating what should look like pink streamers from the midpoint of her chest, Chelsea’s center squeezed out meager squiggly lines the color of chalk.
One of Jessa’s spirit guides helped her see this deficiency in her sister after getting clean. Nothing could be done about it. “Free will,” the spirit guide said.
She breathes again, feeling her sandals in contact with the earth. She shouldn’t be thinking about dad’s money, exactly five million dollars. She knows she needs more spiritual work in this area. Her teachers (physical and nonphysical) have told her that. The guru she met through Marcus, her boss, said that one should always feel neutral about money. For example, if a tree falls on your car and destroys it, you should have no disturbance in your energy field. But she knows her energy field is disturbed right now. Very disturbed! She has plans! She wanted to scream at that guru and throw her bag of veggie chips at him. Jumpy Mind wanted to hurt that man. Jumpy Mind was one of her two voices, kind of like friends who never left you alone. Jumpy Mind had said, “Maybe where he was from, a hut in Thailand, money was nothing. NO THING. Maybe he had never shopped in Berlin or at Le Bon Marche.” But, she remembers her life before the addiction. She feels her face flushing and looks down, tring to busy herself by adjusting Emma Jean’s jumper, picking at nonexistent lint.
Peace Mind, her other voice, now reminds her that the rush of money and the rush of drugs feel similar.
It would be easier if I never had the taste of wonderful things, but I have.
* * *
Chelsea
Opening move made, Chelsea savors the way her sister looks—vulnerable. The color of Jessa’s top reminds her of a baby chick. Chelsea wants to squeeze the baby sister-chick as Jessa’s chest slowly moves up and down. She runs through a partial list of the many stupid and embarrassing things her younger sister has done over the years: sleeping with Nestor, the sleazy El Salvadoran study abroad student; totaling every car her father gave her; her coke habit during high school and after; the inability to attend college long enough to graduate; having Emma Jean with no husband in sight. And ever since Jessa’s recovery, her keeping company with people who swoon over colonics, raw juice diets and “energy beings.” Jessa is always running into trash and letting it cling to her. I’ve been a pillar, holding her up, protecting her. No more.
Emma Jean, on the opposite end of the sectional, makes a noise and sucks on her index finger. The sisters both turn to look at her, taking in her thin frame and big eyes, the color of ash mixed with a drop of turquoise. As usual, her head is a patchwork of barrettes holding down a dense thicket of hair the color of discarded twine, and covering the many bald spots. Emma Jean is always getting anything and everything stuck in that mass—leaves, twigs, staples and gum. It looks more like a midden with each passing day. Pitiful.
In the distance, a flock of geese flies by, their honks punctuate the late summer day. As if attuned to the natural way of things, Emma Jeans opens a hand and points her fingers toward them. “Birdies!”
“Yes, little mama, look at the birdies. All done with your puzzle?” Jessa says.
“No,” Emma Jean says.
“I should have figured it out before. I should have seen this coming,” Chelsea says while moving forward, sitting beauty queen straight. “How selfish you are.”
* * *
Jessa
She fights to keep her composure. Jumpy Mind tells her to ignore the jab and reminds her how close she is to the money. Peace Mind says to ignore the comment because Chelsea is clearly looking for a fight.
Jessa looks at her daughter and for a moment her heart thumps in her chest and tightens. She shouldn’t have brought her. Chelsea has been looking at her like something foreign, strange, and expendable. She’d grown colder to her niece over the last year. Jessa hates that she doesn’t even make enough to get a decent sitter when she needs one.
She thinks about the secrets she’s kept, and a shudder runs through her. No amount of crystals or energy training prepared her. She knew she couldn’t say that she wasn’t warned. She was. I knew what I wanted; I just didn’t know the price. When the doctors told her she was having trouble getting pregnant, she didn’t want to take drugs or get fertility shots. She didn’t want triplets or octuplets. She just wanted one healthy baby, to feel something growing inside her. After the addiction, she had wanted to make something beautiful, whole, and hers.
The doctors could find nothing wrong with her. Nothing. No blocked tubes, no hormonal problems; everything should have worked fine.
She decided to try what women have always tried—the old way—to get help from the other side. She knew that all fairies, although interested in human cycles, especially birth, are fickle. Most spirits are. Her teachers, Marcus and especially Emily, stressed that to her over and over.
She began with the ones called Keshalyi, who are associated with gypsies
and are known for being awash in fertility. She saved her money and laid her table with tall glasses of milk, fruit brandies, and sweet sugar cookies. To a sincere petitioner, they are supposed to appear sparkly and shimmery, like Tinkerbell. She petitioned them again and again. She could have rotted at the table waiting for them. Nothing.
Emily said, “Let it rest, you’re only 23. Why rush into having kids anyway?”
But Jessa knew it wasn’t in her nature to stop, which is why she loved being on coke. You could fly long and hard on it. You never had to stop.
When she asked Emily about Faunus, Emily scrunched her heart-shaped pockmarked face and shook her head.
“No one knows his playbook. Ancient, unpredictable, and understudied.”
“But, known for fertility,” Jessa said.
“Forget about him. It’s said that he brings nightmares and whips women with tree branches. He’s like untamed forest growth.”
“That wasn’t in the book I read, but it sounds like he has a bit of kink to him.”
Emily gave her one of her teacherly looks, drawing in her lips and chin, and did not laugh.
Jessa tried a different tack. “He’s like Pan.”
“He’s not like Pan at all, though there are images of him that people have confused with Pan. Pan is playful.”
Looking up from the box of coconut juices she was unpacking, Emily asked, “What happens when you take a cup to a waterfall to gather water?”
“If I only had a cup, I’d get water from the base of the waterfall.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Emily said frowning. “The cup gets obliterated, that’s what. No one knows anything about Faunus because he’s a primordial spirit. He’s not mean; he just doesn’t know anything about romance.”
“He’s something,” Jessa said.
Jessa has always yearned to go from nothing into something. Nothing into something.
* * *
Chelsea
“Why didn’t you tell me about Emma Jean earlier? Did you even think about what she would do to our name, our reputation?” Chelsea says. “No, you probably didn’t. You never have thought about the family and what it needs.”
Emma Jean looks up from her dog-chasing-the-cat puzzle, “Auntie Chel-chel?”
Chelsea ignores the open and innocent way Emma Jean looks at her. She’s got Jessa on the run now and she feels her pulse quicken with the delicious rush of adrenaline.
* * *
Jessa
Jessa’s stomach growls again, louder this time. Peace Mind wants to get back into the act. Jumpy Mind is about to shout. When they both talk, she gets a migraine. She cocks her head to the side and listens to her breath again. She draws in the breath and holds it for a moment and breathes out slowly. She rummages in her bag for the homeopathic anxiety tincture. Jessa tries to refocus the conversation. I’m just a signature away from my freedom. No more questions about Emma Jean. And, with the money in hand, she could leave and figure things out away from Chelsea, family, the community.
She ignores the way Chelsea is looking at her while she lets the dropper almost touch her tongue and squeezes the amber liquid on it. She likes the slight taste of the alcohol.
“Dad wouldn’t have wanted us to fight,” Jessa says as soft as she can. “He was smart to have you watch over me in the way that you have. I know it’s been work for you, being responsible for me, the executor and all. I’ve been lighting a candle for you every day, even though you don’t believe in—”
Jessa notes that the mention of their father makes Chelsea suck in her breath and her face flush.
Chelsea interrupts and holds up a hand, “Don’t bring our father into it. He’s probably turning over in his grave at the mess you’ve made.”
Jessa, for a moment, can almost feel Chelsea’s anger swelling, overheating her from her feet to her head. The white squiggles coming from Chelsea’s heart zoom around and go up, down, wrapping around her sister’s frame now like webbing. Jessa’s never seen anything quite like it before.
“I never knew people really said that phrase: turning over in one’s grave,” Jessa says hoping to diffuse the tension with a humorous aside.
“You think you’re so clever… saying that Emma Jean has a hair condition. What was it two months ago: a staph infection? Before that, inflamed hair follicles?” Chelsea asks.
Jessa squirms and licks her lips.
“So many things don’t add up,” Chelsea says.
“Mama, I gotta go potty,” Emma Jean says, rocking from side to side.
“Sure sweetie, let’s go,” Jessa jumps up, delighted to have a distraction.
“It’s not like back in high school. Some things can’t be covered up.” Chelsea says as Jessa and Emma Jean walk down the hall.
In the bathroom, Jessa helps her daughter with her jumper and, after she’s settled, squats down and rests her head and arms on the cool sink. Emma Jean bats at the toilet paper.
“Don’t do that.”
“Mama?” Emma Jean says.
Jessa can hear the sound of a river rushing over rocks in her daughter’s voice. She feels a throbbing in her hands. A feeling of dread creeps over her. She had to go somewhere where she could think and could get help. Someone who would know what Emma Jean is. God, I have fucked everything up.
Get out there and get your money, Jumpy Mind shouts.
Jessa makes sure to wash Emma Jean’s hands. Before she opens the door, she studies the plush beige towels on the towel rack. She used to know towels like these. Funny, the things you miss. She carefully lifts one off the rack and rubs it against her face. She savors the softness of it. Jumpy Mind says she can have a soft life if she can get back out there soon.
She opens the door and sees Chelsea against the opposite wall with her arms crossed.
“If we can just get to the papers, Chelsea, we’ll be out of your hair. Where’s Cartusciello? Is he going to be late?”
Chelsea’s eyes harden and she leans in close, “Don’t you know what you’ve done? You’re just lucky Emma Jean didn’t come out any darker,” she says through clenched teeth.
“Dark, dark, darrrrrk, Chel-Chel,” Emma Jean squeals.
Jessa stops mid-step. She feels cartoon-like; her fairy earrings keep shaking as if about to take flight.
“Marcus, at the co-op,” Chelsea snaps. “One of your teachers?” Chelsea asks the question, but knowingly rocks back on her heels. “All you could talk about three years ago was Marcus. He did this and that. How he had studied energy healing with the Hawaiian kahunas. Or, was it the Aboriginals? It doesn’t make any difference anyway.”
Jessa tries to follow her sister’s words. Marcus was the co-op owner, yes. Did she talk about him from time to time? Sure she did.
“He has those dreadlocks. Long ones down his back. And, now Emma Jean’s hair mats, doesn’t it? It took me some time, but I put it together.”
Jessa lets out a yelp, “You think Emma Jean is black? That Marcus is her father? You’re fucking crazier than I thought!” Jessa covers her mouth with both hands, eyes growing big. She looks at Emma Jean and shakes her head. Jessa whispers, “Emma Jean, Mama said a bad word…you just forget that.”
Emma Jean looks up for a moment, shakes her head and then skips ahead of them back down the hall to the patio.
“Denial is always the first strategy for addicts, isn’t it? Oh, I’ll give it to you,” Chelsea says as she follows Jessa back to the patio. “You’ve made a valiant effort—best in all of your life. But, only in your make believe world do your lies make sense. Maybe you’re even sleeping with the pediatrician who writes those prescriptions, but it still doesn’t change anything.”
Jessa turns and stares at the woman she has known all of her life. Her stomach cramps. She wants to focus on just one thing—the money, but is so confused about what her sister is saying. She backs up against a wall and tries to steady herself. The room begins to spin and she holds on to her necklaces for comfort. Her sister’s energetic webbing
continues to grow more and more elaborate around her body; it is tightest around Chelsea’s middle and throat.
* * *
Chelsea
Rage shoots through her. For once, Jessa, tell the truth.
* * *
Jessa
Everything Emily had told her made her want to conjure Faunus up and receive a boon. She got on a Faunus kick, which felt like a new addiction. She never needed a reason for a new addiction. She told herself that this one was safe. She bought toy stuffed goats (online specialty, not too many people sell stuffed goats) and toy wolves—his totem animals. She read everything she could about him. She offered spring water and just a little touch of scotch. She prayed to him as she showered, as she worked, as she lay down to sleep. She took more energy courses, learned how to call light into her fingertips, and read about other fairy spirits. She persisted and showed her dedication, her readiness. Nothing.
Applying herself kept her from thinking about the coke. Her sister never understood anything about her recovery. She couldn’t stop, even when the coke burned through most of her nose hair or when globs of her sinus fell out. Even when her parents cut her off. It wasn’t until she found herself trying to score in the back of a Target parking lot and had just finished giving her third blowjob that she saw a spirit. He hovered around a nearby car. A man with flaming blue hair stood in front of her and said, “You know how seeds are the hottest part of a pepper?”
She nodded.
“Kid, you’re all seed.”
She backed against the wall of the store and shook her head from side to side.
“You real?”
He reached over and touched her wrist and drew on it, a raised blue circle, using one fingertip.
It stung and she winced. “Ouch.”
“As of yesterday, your guardian angels quit you. You’re now in my district. I think you still might want some help.”
