by Eliza Grace
I stick my tongue out at her and wheel myself over to the bread box to start making myself some toast. I decide I want honey instead of Jen’s homemade blackberry jam. “So, why couldn’t you sleep? Just nervous about the opening?”
“No. I mean, yes, I am nervous, but that’s not why I couldn’t sleep. Hold on.” She gets up abruptly and disappears into her studio. Things are tumbling about in there by the sounds of it, canvases crashing and brushes being knocked over. When she comes back out, I am buttering my toast and wondering why the hell she put the honey on the highest shelf when she knows I use it all the time.
“This is why I couldn’t sleep.” She’s holding a moderately-sized canvas, maybe four by three, which is small for Jen. As she turns it around, I point up at the honey and give her a ‘what the heck’ look. She stops rotating the painting and walks over immediately. “Sorry! I was wiping down the counters and just needed it out of the way for a moment.”
“Thanks.” I say, opening the honey as soon as she hands it to me. “Okay,” toast on a plate sitting on my lap, I move over to the table and tuck under the empty space where Jen’s fourth chair used to be. “Let me see this painting that kept you up all night.”
“It’s so similar to the other. I think I’m going to have a whole new show in no time if inspiration keeps striking like this. Taylor is going to be ecstatic. I’m always too slow for his liking.” She’s smiling and she keeps talking at high-speed until I cut her off.
“Jen,” I munch into the toast and savor the sweetness of the honey against my tongue, “just show me it.”
“Fine, spoil the moment, why don’t you.” Air out of her tires, Jen turns the canvas around without further embellishment.
When I see it, the toast turns to sawdust in my mouth and the honey is rancid and begins to clog my throat. “What... how... how did you come up with that?”
It is indeed like the painting of the witchfinder and the journal. But this time, it is not M.H. at the center of Jen’s work, it is me. I am standing, holding the burgundy tome in one hand and the rock in the other. Between the two objects, an orb of golden energy is forming. The way she has manipulated the colors and the light, I feel that I could reach in and call the power to me. Behind the painted me, again hidden in the shadows, is my mother. And, like last time, she fades away into the blacks and grays far too quickly. The witchfinder is nowhere to be found.
“Hell if I know. I was reading and thinking about tonight and it just popped into my head. The stone is definitely the one from outside, so maybe it inspired me.”
“Well, something inspired you for sure. It’s awesome and you really captured me, Jen. I love that you painted me standing.”
“You aren’t going to be in that chair forever, Tilda. Before you know it, I’ll be shipping you off to college and your life will feel so normal that you’ll want to be different again.” Jen disappears for a moment to put the piece back in her studio. While she’s gone, I feel a fluttering at my awareness. Come to me and you’ll stand. You don’t have to wait. His voice inside my head is a whisper. The storm is not so loud outside while he is speaking, his focus split, and his magic unable to cope.
My mother’s blanket returns, it wraps around me and he is gone without a fight. “So, we’ll need to get ready in about four hours or so. Hoyt will be here around five and we’ll go straight into the city. Show doesn’t start until nearly eight, but you know how Taylor is.”
I spend the next four hours struggling to focus on the assignments that I’ve missed over the week, the ones that I should have finished yesterday—if not for the distraction of a dress and Hoyt. There are three of them—a test and two short papers. The teachers have written and given me a few more days. I don’t know if extra time will help though, not unless my brain magically decides to go right-side up again.
My eyes are often drawn to the clock; the time is ticking slowly by like molasses. Molasses in winter, as Hoyt would say. I smile, just a little, thinking about him.
The weather is still terrible and I worry that my dress will be soaked and ruined before we get to the gallery. Then I remember there is such a thing as an umbrella. Then I wonder if that will even help, the rain is coming down at an angle, torrential and thick. No matter what, with the dampness outside, my hair will not be perfect and I so wanted everything to be perfect tonight.
No matter how I fix it though, it will begin to curl and wave and become an unruly, untamable mess that lifts above my shoulders and looks even shorter. Hoyt said he thought it would look great. Maybe I should just curl it and let the weather do its thing.
“Tilda, do you need help getting dressed?” My aunt’s voice carries down the hall.
“No, I think I can do it.” I yell back, my voice echoing in my room for a moment. Jen’s already in her room apparently. Or at least that’s where her shouting seems to be coming from.
“Did I mention how ridiculous this dress is?” Jen’s voice is a whiney cry.
“It’s beautiful, Jen. Don’t be a big baby!” I don’t hear a response, but I hear footsteps stomping across the hardwoods. They get progressively louder.
“Look at it.” Coming into my room, her petite feet already clad in navy blue pumps with pointy toes, Jen is picture-perfect. Gorgeous and regal.
“Oh. Oh, Jen. It’s just... it’s just the best dress ever.” I roll over to her, reaching out to touch the cloth like I did the first time I saw Taylor’s pick for the evening.
“I feel like a doll that Taylor decided to makeover.”
“Just enjoy it. So you’ll look like everyone else for one evening. That’s not such a bad thing, you know. I’d kill to look like everyone else tonight.” I don’t exactly pout, but I don’t exactly smile either.
“Ugh! Don’t make me feel guilty.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just meant—”
“That you’re in a wheelchair when you’d love to be walking around in this dress. I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll put on a grin and freaking bear it.” She huffs and plods over to my bed to sit down.
“Aren’t you going to do your makeup and hair?” I wish I had her skin—Jen looks great without makeup—but we’re going to a special even tonight, not the farmer’s market, so a little mascara and lipstick would be appropriate.
“In a minute.” She glances around the room and her eyes see that my dress is still hung high where she’d put it after shopping. “I know you said you could get dressed alone, but... maybe I should at least get the dress down where you can reach it.”
I blush, realizing I hadn’t even thought about not being able to reach the dress on its hanger. “Yeah, that would be great. I guess yanking it down by the hem might damage it.”
“It might.” She stands back up and gets the dress for me. When she lays it across my rumpled sheets, it catches the light from the chandelier and the cap sleeves sparkle to life. “We did a good job, Tilda. That dress is even more amazing now. I can’t wait to go to this thing with you. Mostly because I’m glad I won’t have to endure a night in this stupid dress alone.”
I roll my eyes and groan. “Hush your face, Jen. You’re driving me crazy.” I pause, grin. “Besides, there’s one good thing about this dress that even you can’t deny.”
She looks at me, one eyebrow quirked. “Please, enlighten me.”
“That gown is definitely going to settle the ‘gay’ or ‘not gay’ debate about Taylor. If he doesn’t at least get a semi looking at you, then I’m definitely right about him.”
“Tilda!” Jen acts astonished that I’d say something so vulgar, but her eyes are twinkling with delight and what I’m sure is curiosity.
“Now get out of here so I can get dressed.”
“Please, like I haven’t seen you naked. I changed your stinky diapers once or twice as a baby, Miss Rashy-butt.”
I grimace. “At least it’s mostly urine you have to handle now.”
Jen gets a stern look and points a finger at me. “No. No pity-p
arty today. We are going to have an amazing night, even with this shit weather. Now get ready. Hoyt will be here soon. Let me go put on my face.” My aunt groans dramatically and leaves.
With the thought of Hoyt arriving, I go into overdrive. I manage to get the dress on and zipped, but I do have to call Jen back to help me stand and pull the dress down so that it’s not bunched up against my back. I slip on the shoes one by one, their silvery-pink fabric glistening. And then, I pull the upper half of my hair away from my face and secure it with the crystal clip. I’ve just sprayed it with conditioner and scrunched the strands so they are drying into loose, black waves that frame my pale face.
Because of the dress color, the silver rings in my eyes are nearly glowing. When I see them in the mirror, there is a hint of metallic gold, and, for a moment, I feel a rush of power not unlike calling the brilliant orb to my aid.
I BLINK ONCE, TWICE, and the color, which should not be there and has never been there before, intensifies and overwhelms the silver. I am tired of waiting, of giving you a choice. Abruptly, the winds and thunder go silent. It feels like the house is sitting in a vortex, absent of sound, not dependent on time.
With a force I have never felt from him before, M.H. invades my mind. I try to keep looking at my face in the mirror. I try to keep remembering how I am and what I want. No, I want Hoyt. I want Hoyt. I want to stay here with Jen. They love me, even if I can’t walk. They love me! It’s funny that when the choice is made for you, you can finally decide for yourself... unfortunately, when that happens, it’s nearly always too late.
Stand up. His voice commands and I obey. I expect to fall, crumple into a pool of blush-colored fabric, but I do not. And come to me.
My mind is fighting, but my body is fully his to order. I move throughout the house, feeling my feet as they land against the hardwoods, and I am too fearful to even revel in the sensation.
No, please don’t take me. Please!
I gave your mother a choice. I tried to be kind and giving. I won’t lose you! I won’t lose another Clarke witch!
I begin to scream Jen’s name. But the sound is only in my mind, ricocheting off of his presence. No matter how hard I focus, how much I urge my body to stop walking, it will not. I’ve wanted to walk, so very badly, these past months, and now that I am, it’s like a nightmare.
“Hey, Tilda, do you think I need blush and all that? My eyes look pretty good.” My aunt’s question is a loud and hollow thing in response to my agony. Why can’t she hear me walking? Why isn’t she coming out of her room? Why does she always have to yell across the house instead of finding me and speaking like a normal human being!
When I go to open the kitchen door, I pray that Jen will hear the very quiet squeak of its hinges. But, to my surprise and frustration, the door opens soundlessly—for the first time since I’ve lived here. Did she finally oil the stupid hinges? Why... why did she have to remember after all this time?
Or was it you? I question M.H. as my legs carry me down the stairs instead of the ramp. God, how I wanted to walk down these stairs and burn that ramp so many times... and now...
He does not respond in my head, but his urging is an ever-present ache that shoves me forward, towards the weakened stone barrier, towards the shadows and trees. Halfway across the meadow, with the daylight fading faster than it should be, I hear the rumblings of a vehicle. Trying with all my might to turn my head to see if it is Hoyt’s orange jeep, I begin to shout inside myself again—long, fruitless cries for help.
But the witchfinder will not even allow me to catch a glimpse, to see if it is the boy that I am falling in love with. I hate him in that moment and I know, no matter what happens or how he tempts me; I could never love him or stay with him.
The sound of the vehicle grows louder and louder. And then I hear its engine rev, its speed increase. A crunching tells me that the car has gone off the drive. Please, please let it be Hoyt. Please stop me.
I am almost to the broken fence line, almost to him. The green walk across the meadow has been akin to the last walk down a prison hall, toward an electric chair and finality—or it has been how I imagine that would be, the final strides of a man condemned. I do not know what will happen once I have entered the woods and I do not want to find out. Not now. I have waffled back and forth trying to decide—walk, don’t walk and love, don’t love—ever since I first heard his voice.
Has it only been a week?
Less.
Less than a week of madness and mystery and magic and M.H.
“TILDA! TILDA!” TEARS begin to stream down my face at the sound of my name in Hoyt’s voice. He is so near me. The vehicle is no longer moving, but I can hear him running. Please be fast enough, Hoyt. Please.
What is Left Behind
I IMAGINE THAT HOYT is right behind me. That, any second, his fingers will graze my dress, then grip my arm, and he will pull me back away from the woods.
BUT IT IS JUST MY IMAGINATION. He is too slow. Of course he is...
M.H. is so strong, my right foot is about to cross over the threshold of busted wood and disturbed protection stones. Behind me, Hoyt is still yelling my name. Hopelessness joins the witchfinder in my head. It’s over. I will be healed, but it won’t matter. Not even a little bit.
Without warning, my mother is back. I can feel her, her spirit and the way her protection cloaks me against his power. It seems weaker than it was, but he is also stronger than he was. Not knowing how long the reprieve from the siren call will last, I jerk my body around to race toward Hoyt.
But, without the power aiding me, the turn sends me tumbling toward the ground.
As I fall, I see him. The jeep is abandoned at the edge of the meadow, driver’s side door wide open. And he is running toward me, his face a mixture of both joy and worry. He has no idea what is happening to me, no idea the evil that is only yards away inside the shadows. My voice is back and I scream. The shrill sound shoots like an arrow through the mist that still remains from the storm. “Hoyt! Please help me!”
The medley of worry and joy melts from his face and is replaced by panic. His run quickens.
“Tilda, my Little Witch, why did you turn around?” The words are muffled, as if they are pushing their way through a pillow. My mother’s protection tightens around me until I fear it will cut off my oxygen.
Shifting my body, I peer into the forest, searching in the darkness between tree trunks. And there she is—standing tall, her hair cropped short in her signature cut. She is wearing the off-white nightgown with the lace at the neckline. Her right hand is lifted; she is carrying a lantern which suddenly sends rays of light shooting in every direction.
I had been right. My mother. Not just her spirit keeping me safe. But my mother, flesh and blood. She is there, right there, just beyond the barrier and in the woods.
A wrenching in my soul and heart threatens to unravel what little body I have left that works. I want to go to her, hug her, feel her warmth and smell her skin, see if it still smells of vanilla and musk. As my thoughts about her, my desire to be in my mother’s arms grows stronger; the blanket around me begins to fade.
Tingling in my legs tells me that I can walk again.
But I do not walk. I run.
I race towards my mother on fleet feet with a heart that is light and careless.
Hoyt’s voice—confused and loud—follows me as I move, but as soon as I cross the barrier, it is gone, silenced and forgotten. Because my mother is here. My mother. And I am her Little Witch, her Tilda. Her daughter.
“Mom. Oh, Mom!” I am only feet away from her. My arms lift, my hands outstretch. “Is Dad here? Is Toby? Mom, you were dead. I thought you were dead!” So close, my fingers ache to clasp each other behind her back in a never-ending embrace.
When my body should touch hers, I feel nothing. It is like my legs were—I can see her, but there is no feeling. “Mom?”
Did you really think she was here? I cannot say your intelligence inspires me.
�
��No... no.” My voice is defeated, an abused little bird that will never sing again. The image of my mother—her eyes, so similar to my own, and her smile, the one that once brightened my day no matter what—dissolved into the shadows.
The boy that does not exist, Matthew, flickers for a moment in her stead. And then, when Matthew fades, he is standing there in his colonial dress and, at his feet, is my mother’s journal.
It is like Jen’s painting.
My mind is reeling. This is it. He said I could never go back; that I would be healed, but that I would be his. You want me to love you. I think at him.
But, this time, M.H. opens his mouth and he has a voice.
It is deep and brusque and tinged with an accent that he can’t quite eliminate. “No, I don’t want your love, stupid girl.” He looks me up and down with an appraising eye. “Good of you to dress up for our final rendezvous.”
“But... but, you said?” Nervously, I smooth the silky material of the dress. My hair is coming undone, the faux-diamond clip only barely holding onto a few strands.
“That I’d heal you in exchange for love, for you staying here with me in my prison until the spell is broken. Yes, and you believed me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” The witchfinder moves away from me and leans against a nearby tree. “I do not have the power to break the spell on my own, but I have the spell. Your mother was kind enough to work that much out for me. But then, that ridiculous prat got scared, ran away before I could join with her.”
“Join... as in marriage?” I back away, even though he is yards apart already.
“Marriage,” M.H. laughs, and it is a chilling sound, “Why would I marry a twit of a girl like you when I can have anyone I want... as soon as I am strong again and these woods are no longer my cage. I can almost taste the freedom now.”
