Curious Obsession

by Elora Ramirez

  “I’m going to speak candidly for a moment. These notes make me uncomfortable.” I avoid his gaze while speaking, knowing just by the shift in temperature a cloud has settled on his features.

  “There are boundaries that exist between a teacher and a student for a reason.”

  “I know,” he whispers. “But—

  “...and even if those boundaries didn’t exist for a very good reason, I have a boyfriend.” I interject.

  He looks at me and glances away, studying the window and the snow falling outside. I wrinkle my nose when I realize my commute home is going to be a disaster.

  “I understand.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have I ever told you about the train wreck down in Louisiana?”

  I blink a few times, trying to follow his line of thought.

  “The train wreck?”

  “There was this train wreck down in Louisiana. No one knows what happened. There were no passengers, just crates, and the conductor wasn’t injured. I think that’s why no one ever heard about it. But it’s important because there is no reason why the train had to derail like it did. They had engineers, scientists, mechanics — all of these people studying the impact and the how of the crash because it was a mystery. Nothing caught in the tracks. Nothing or no one jumped out in front of them, causing a shift in direction. The train was fine, and then it simply wasn’t. They were picking up pieces of the train from the field and marsh for months afterward.”

  He’s getting into his story now, pacing a little bit in front of me. I cover my mouth with my hand to hide the frown because I legitimately have no idea where he is going with this story.

  He pauses for a moment and looks at me. I hold out my hand in an expectant pause.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What did they find? Why did this train crash?”

  “They still don’t know. But it’s an interesting story.”

  I’m quiet for a moment.

  “I don’t think I understand, Silas.”

  He smiles and places the gift on my desk before turning to walk away. Right before he leaves the room, he turns and places his hand on the doorframe.

  “Don’t you know? It’s never smart to stop a moving train, Ms. Reese.”

  Chills run down the length of my spine and I keep my eyes forward, focused on him.

  “Have a great holiday, Silas.”

  “You too.” He smiles and turns then, and I wait until I don’t hear his steps anymore before I allow my head to fall into my hands.

  What. In the actual. Fuck.

  “Well. Let’s hope that language is reserved for when students are not in your presence, yes?”

  I startle and choke back a moan. I had no idea I was speaking out loud. I refuse to look up though. I massage my temples and wonder if she’ll leave if I just refuse to engage.

  “Silas was here late again.”

  Dammit.

  I look up and smile at Tracey.

  “He had a gift he wanted to drop off before he left.”

  She clucks her tongue. “That’s sweet. He couldn’t do it during his class earlier in the day?”

  I roll my eyes and reach for a nearby hair tie, throwing my messy curls into a bun.

  “That is an excellent question, Tracey. Why don’t you try and engage with him about appropriate ways to handle authority next time you see him.”

  Her eyes fall into slits and she sits down in a nearby desk and I let all of the four letter words I can possibly think of fill up my veins.

  “I’m concerned about you, Juniper. I’ve heard whispers, you know.”

  I sigh and throw my hands down in my lap, looking at her with incredulity.

  “Whispers?”

  “About you and your relationship with your students.”

  “Oh. Rumors. Rumors that are completely unfounded, might I add.”

  She hums under her breath.

  “What did Silas get you for Christmas? A gift card? A coffee cup? Maybe some cookie ingredients in a mason jar?” She scrunches her face in a fake smile and waits.

  I glance at his gift and shrug.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t opened it.”

  “Oh! Exciting. Let’s see.”

  I know I’m not getting out of this, but I definitely don’t want to open this gift in front of Tracey when I have no idea what is in it. I hesitate for half a second before reaching for the bag. Just a quick peek tells me it’s a frame of some kind, but I have no idea what picture he would have put in it.

  “It’s a….a picture frame?”

  She frowns.

  “Just a frame? Well that’s odd. But sweet, I guess.”

  I pull it out and twist it around to see the picture. At first, it looks as if it’s a standard stock photo of a woman on the beach, staring at the ocean. But then I look closer, and realize I know those boots. And…that blue sweater. My hands start to shake and I swallow, trying to stay calm while mentally calculating how in the world he could have captured this without my knowing.

  I look up, dreading the look on Tracey’s face when she sees my reaction, but she’s already gotten up out of the desk and is walking toward the door. I settle my nerves by taking a deep breath and smiling the biggest smile I can muster when she turns around.

  I’m a fucking pocketful of sunshine, I think to myself as she catches my smile and offers me a half-assed one in return.

  “Thank you for your concern, Tracey. I mean it,” I say as I begin to gather my belongings and step toward her, my intent clear. “I hope you know though there is nothing — and never will be anything — between me and any of my students. The fact that you even consider this…” I pause.

  “Oh no, dear. I know you would never —“

  “—but you came to me to make sure it is being whispered about, as you said.”

  “Of course. You can’t be too careful. And there are always eyes in the halls. You should know that by now — how quickly the word spreads to some wild version of the truth.”

  I take a deep breath and look at her once more before walking past her and into the hall. I am desperate to leave at this point.

  “Thank you, Tracey.”

  “Juniper—”

  I keep walking, face forward.

  “Have a good break, Tracey.”

  I keep walking until I hit the bitter wind and push through until I can get into my car and turn on the heat. Only then do I notice the scrap of paper tucked into my rearview mirror, the handwriting bone-crushingly familiar.

  YOU CAN’T STOP THIS TRAIN, JUNIPER.

  I rip it off my mirror and throw it outside, the sobs coming without warning. I watch as the note disappears in the snow, and I know by the time everything melts it will be gone. The feeling of it lingers, though, and I claw at my cheeks to stop the mess of tears falling with an urgency I can’t contain.

  I slam my hands against the steering wheel and feel my breath in short gasps trying to return to me. I can’t let this get to me — I have no idea why it’s affecting me so much. I try to remind myself of the truths I know:

  He’s only 19 years old.

  He can’t hurt you.

  You’re doing nothing wrong.

  He’s crossing boundaries you have clearly set.

  Despite all of this, there is a glaring truth that is staring me straight in the face and causing me more and more anxiety the more I ignore it. It’s the truth that I am entirely alone in this. There is no one who would believe me if I even begin to try to explain what’s going on — I have no notes anymore. I have no recordings. I have no proof outside of my own story, and given Silas’ intellect and his belief that we are on a moving train headed who knows where, I wouldn’t put it past him to change the narrative quick if I ever said anything.

  And when it comes to relationships between students and teachers, it’s always the student’s word over anyone else’s — for good reason, too.

  And yet here I am, in the middle of a literal
nightmare, without any recourse to advocate for myself in any way.

  I realize then Silas is right. I am stuck on a moving train. And I have no idea how I am going to get off.

  20

  By the time I get home, I’m emotionally drained. Not only did I have a hell of an ending to the semester, I still haven’t finished inputting grades from finals, and I just drove through a NorEaster. I stretch out my fingers and grimace from the ways my muscles protest the lengthening after over an hour of clenching them so tightly around my steering wheel they stuck themselves in that clawed position.

  First thing I do is kick off my heels and change into an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. Lavender called earlier, but I can call her back later tonight. She just wanted to virtually celebrate the end of my first semester and I know she’ll gather that something is wrong and I don’t feel like talking about it. I can’t even imagine trying to capture the conversation with Silas and the note that followed. Actually, I can — she would demand me to call someone, anyone, most definitely his parents, so that his creepy ass wouldn’t bother me anymore. But all I care about tonight is finding some type of documentary and downing a bottle of red wine…maybe with some pho. My phone vibrates and I look down to a text from Simon.

  I sigh, unable to find any of the necessary emotional strength to engage with him right now. I turn my phone off and drop it on my sofa. He can wait too.

  And so can this…problem with Silas. I make a commitment to myself to deal with it all tomorrow and roll my head, stretching the muscles in my neck. My mind naturally gravitates toward Mom and how she might handle this. I stand there, frozen, and close my eyes – letting the ache take over.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears threatening to spill. I refuse to let go completely though. If I let go completely it won’t ever stop. The grief, the hurt, the guilt — it will envelop me. I know that much. I shudder through a few breaths and open my eyes, glancing around my living room.

  That’s when I remember.

  I walk to my closet and push the clothes back to the chest hidden in the corner. I pause for a moment, my heart hammering.

  I haven’t opened this chest in years.

  I pull it out, my feet sliding on the carpet. I set it at the foot of my bed and light some candles, and then open my window so I can hear the waves crashing in the distance. It’s cold, and I don’t know how long I will manage to keep the window open, but I can’t resist the urge to get as close as possible to the ocean’s pulse. I stand there for a moment, watching the snow fall sideways, blanketing the cliffs in front of my house, and find myself grateful all over again for this respite I found by simply driving by the moment they put up the available sign on the porch.

  I sigh, the days’ stress falling away as the ocean’s rhythm fills my veins, and I turn back to the chest. I sit down in front of it, rubbing my hands on my leggings, gaining warmth and resolve. When I unhook the latch, the memories trip over each other. My mother wrapping this blanket around her on the coldest nights. I rub my hand over the fabric and let the tears fall before noticing the robe she wore every single day after her shower. I touch it, gingerly, afraid of what might happen if I grab hold of it. Beneath the clothes and keepsakes, I find what I’m looking for — her box of tarot cards.

  I asked her once why she did this, and she pulled me close and kissed me on the temple.

  “Magic,” she whispered.

  I frowned, twisting my head so I could look at her. “But how can you prove it?”

  “Sometimes the only things that can be proven are internal — what we feel.” She studies me some more. “You know that, Juni.”

  She waited for a moment, letting the silence fold in around us.

  “The important thing about tarot is that it’s not a fortune-telling technique. If anything, it illuminates the truth of our own power and, if we’re listening, helps us see the shadows of what we’re missing internally. It’s about energy. Intuition. I am the one who has the privilege of holding the mirror. If I’m doing it for myself, I have the privilege of holding space for the truths inside that need to come out.”

  I reach for the deck inside the chest, dusty and faded. Picking it up in my hands, a spark of energy flows through me and the tears are immediate. Despite my best efforts, I cannot get away from her. It feels as if she’s right here beside me.

  Here is a secret I’ve told no one: Lavender is right. Part of what made me curious about Providence was its name. Denoting magic and illumination and destiny, my research kept coming back to the small coastal town that bore the name signaling protection. It felt like what Mom used to call a God wink. All my life I’ve relied on logic and things able to be proven, and I needed something different.

  I needed my mom.

  I needed her magic.

  I shuffle the deck, the tears beginning to flow again. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m allowing myself to be moved by the rhythm. I smile for a moment, thinking what Lavender would do if she saw me now, knowing that after her initial freak out she would gather the crystals she keeps in her pockets and bra and purse — many of which she took from Mom after she died — and come sit across from me, joining me.

  I feel her too.

  As I shuffle, I feel the atmosphere change and my ear turns toward the window. In the distance, I hear thunder rolling across the water. Chills run up and down my arms and I clear my throat, rotating my shoulders and closing my eyes to breathe once, twice, three times.

  Each time expanding into the space more and more.

  Once I know I’m ready, the cards begin jumping out of the deck as I shuffle. I take them and place them in front of me, face down. I pull five. I stare at them for a moment and gather my hair into a bun to keep my hands from nervously flipping them over unnecessarily. Now that I’ve pulled them, I’m feeling the hesitancy of finding out what’s on the other side. I decide to do it slowly — with my breath.

  The first card: Strength.

  My focus and courage are an asset, I think.

  Second card: Nine of Swords.

  I swallow.

  The strength I possess is from the trauma I’ve endured.

  My fingers hover above the third card, unsure. A candle flickers next to me and I breathe in quickly, the cold air rushing against my neck. The wind flips the rest of the cards over and I stare at them, begging my breathing to remain calm. The three cards remaining: The Tower, 8 of Swords, and Wheel of Fortune, reversed.

  A sob escapes my mouth before I can stop it. I know the meaning of these cards because I feel it in the core of who I am — my mom was right. From my marrow I see everything illuminated: upheaval is coming. It’s why I feel trapped. Regardless of what I do or how I fight it, what comes next is an inevitable piece of my fate. I can feel my pulse beginning to drum a ratatatat rhythm behind my ears and I know I’m headed for a panic attack. I push away from the chest, anxious to get away from the cards and silently criticizing my desperate attempt to feel connected to my mother.

  You knew this would happen, I berate myself.

  Now, I have the silly messages of cards attempting to throw my entire mental state off-kilter. I wipe the tears on my sleeve and am about to reach for the cards to shove them back in the box and into the chest when the electricity shudders and crashes, leaving me in complete darkness outside of the candles flickering in the wind.

  I sit there for a moment, frozen. Am I waiting for footsteps? I try and swallow and can’t — the panic growing by the second. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. My hands clench at my sides and I start shaking my head involuntarily, as if I can change the outcome through simple denial.

  No.

  No.

  “Enough,” I mutter. “I’m done with this Sabrina the fucking teenage witch nonsense.” The wind rushes in then, flowing my curtain sideways and blowing every last candle out so I’m really in pitch black. I choke on my sobs and laugh to keep from going absolutely mad. I stumble around on my hands and knees, trying to find th
e edge of the chest, when the electricity flickers back on and the curtain settles in the slight breeze left behind the hurricane-level gale.

  I sit back on my feet, tucked underneath me, and blow my cheeks out in a breath.

  “What the fuck,” I whisper to myself.

  Only then do I see another card flipped over, close to my five. I frown and reach for it, and when I see what it is, I gasp and pick it up, holding it in front of my face to make sure I’m seeing it correctly.

  It’s the Star.

  The nickname mom used to call me, from the song she’d always sing me before bed.

  Baby you’re my shining star….

  I hold the card close to my chest, soaking in the hope and knowing that regardless of what’s coming, I know it’s going to be okay.

  .::.

  I wake up on the floor, warm under one of my weighted blankets. I kick off the covering and reach for my phone to check the time only to remember it’s on the couch — conveniently out of reach and powered off from those distracting me from my wild night of tarot and grief. I sit up, rubbing the sore muscles of my shoulders and arm and blink slowly, gathering my bearings.

  I don’t remember falling asleep.

  I also don’t remember grabbing my blanket and putting it on me. My eyes fall toward the clock on my wall and I note the time — a little after 8pm.

  I’ve been asleep for maybe two hours?

  I breathe a few times, and notice the Star card resting next to me. I remember that — I remember the wind and the feeling that my mother was here with me, guiding me, comforting me. I pick up the card and move to place it with the rest of the deck.

  If I can find the deck?

  I glance around, moving my body in a slow circle, thinking the cards had to have ended up somewhere near me. Only when I notice the slight glow of my master bathroom casting shadows across my floor do I see the entire deck safe in the box — placed gingerly right next to the chest. I blink again, this time really confused. I distinctly remember the cards being everywhere because of the gust of wind and my electricity flickering — I was in complete darkness when that happened.