Mirage(20)

Papery hands caress both sides of my face. I cringe against the sting from her searching fingers over my wounded cheek, the bridge of my nose, my mouth. “So,” she finally responds, “as far back as my feeble old mind can remember, you’ve never played the piano.” She scoots off the bench, the piano clanging loudly as she uses it for balance to stand upright.

I’m stunned. I can’t explain what happened. “I know I seem different, Gran?—”

“You are different, child. I don’t need eyes to see that. I can feel it. You’re wearing yourself like an ill-fitting coat.”

Tears cloud my vision. Her wide back is still turned toward me, and it feels like a wall.

“It’s true. Since the . . . episode, I’ve been struggling to feel normal. Do you know what it’s like to play tug of war with yourself every day? I see things that I’ll never be able to explain. I’ve become afraid of everything. Afraid of life, even, because I know how easily it can be taken away. I don’t want to live in fear. I hate it.”

This burst of truth surprises me, and I wish I could reel the words back in before they’re scrutinized.

The admission makes her turn to face me, and she sighs. “Everybody’s got to clutch to their breast the things they’re afraid to lose. You’re smothering yourself. You used to be the wildfire?—?destructive, sure, sometimes, but alive. Now your fire has gone cold.”

I hang my head. “That’s sad.”

“Certainly it is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to read on the toilet.”

I stare after Gran’s retreating form. She is both wise and wiseass. She’s also right on the money. I want to carry my fire proudly, like the girl I was before, because right now I’m a tiny bulb plugged into a socket with too much voltage.

Per the note my mother left me, I go to the backyard to water the plants tucked into the bright orange ceramic containers that hang from the white stucco walls. Birds flit to the ground to splash in the puddles I’ve created. I like the peace back here, but I’m itching to hang out at the drop zone?—?to absorb the vibrant energy there. My dad probably isn’t ready to be around me, though.

Dom has left two messages on our home machine, which I ignored like a well-trained soldier. I want to see Joe, but when I called, his mother said he wasn’t home. She was very kind to me, though I’m sure she’s wondering what kind of person I’ve become that I would take hallucinogenic drugs and end up in the hospital.

As I sit in a lounge chair, the quiet hum of insects, the birds, even the puddles’ refracted surfaces?—?which make me uneasy, as all reflections now do?—?settle me into a zone where time becomes the coarse wind of the desert, eroding my hard edges.

I don’t know how long I’ve sat out here. I might have dozed, though without fully sinking into sleep. Sleep has become a swamp I’m afraid to dive into. None of my dreams make sense. They are populated with strangers who want me dead, and the dream me is devastated.

I stretch and go into the house.



A black fly lands on the white marble of the kitchen counter where I’m writing in my journal. I’ve never kept a journal before, but everything is so jumbled, I need a place to smooth the gritty dunes of my thoughts. When another fly dive-bombs my ear, I swat at it and look up to see that the front door is wide open.

Gran has been very quiet since her . . . braille time. Too quiet. With a dry throat, I go to check on her.

First, her room. It must be said that no sane person would believe that anything but a voodoo priestess lives in this room. My grandmother follows the Obeah religion of the Caribbean. Knowing that doesn’t prepare me for the broken glass and what looks like bird beaks in a bowl sitting on her bedside table. The smell is funky, like cigars and burning feathers. Gran looks like a big hat-wearin’ Southern Baptist on the outside. But on the inside, she’s . . . witchy. In a good way.

Fingering the charm bracelet she made for me this week to, as she put it, ward against the loitering of foreign spirits, I retreat backwards out of the room. You and I were both born with the caul, she said, referring to the rare veil of membrane over our faces when we were born. For those of us with the veil, the spirit world is much easier to see. You’re a strong young woman, but right now your strength is a sputtering candle, and I’m afraid for you.

Eerie feelings quiver through me as I recall her words. I run out to search the rest of the house, with my chest constricting more by the minute. I call her name throughout the house and the backyard with no answer and no sign of her.

I’m running now, with no idea where she’s gone except the wide-open front door. I fly through it and run smack into Dom. We collide like meteors, sparks and melting rock. His arms stay tight around me.

“Baby. Oh, girl. I’ve been out of my mind.”

There are tears in his voice as my face presses against his chest. I hear Dom’s heartbeat. Do people know what a lullaby their heartbeats are? Life has many sounds and chords, but none are possible without the drumming of the heart. I lean into it like a baby in its warm, watery womb. It feels so good to be held.

He pulls my head from his chest, and for some reason all I can think of is us in the mirror. The vision of his hands on my lips and wandering over my body. It’s surreal. I watch the trajectory of his eyes and notice them land on the large bandage on my left cheek. There is no narrowing of his eyes or fear that I’m forever changed. I’m grateful for that. But I’ve changed in ways he can’t see.