Cackle(83)

She smacks her hands down on the table.

“Is that how you think of me?” she asks. “After everything, is that how you see me?”

She stands, and as she does, she begins to transform.

She lifts her hands, bending bony, haggard fingers. Her nails, usually artfully manicured, clean and well maintained, are a horrible yellow. They split as they curl under, and around, and around.

Her skin greens. Her veins seethe under her skin like hungry snakes. Her nose grows, breaking in multiple places as it extends out each foul inch. Her chin elongates with a loud, unrelenting crunch. Warts appear on her face, her hands. Sores rip open; they bubble and fester. Her lips shrivel. Her eyes expand to the approximate size, shape and color of undercooked eggs. She opens her mouth, a dark abyss punctured by pointy teeth.

She erupts in a fit of cackles. “Is this how you see me?”

A broomstick materializes in her left hand. Her dress is now puritan.

“Like this?” she says, lunging toward me.

I run for the door. I tear it open, topple outside. She follows, cackling louder and louder. I take off up the hill, into the woods.

“An-nnieee,” she sings. “An-nnieee.”

The rustling of the trees lets me know she’s not behind me. She’s above me. She’s flying above me.

Flying on her broomstick.

I think I’d laugh if I weren’t so terrified.

I keep my eyes down, focused on the ground in front of me, as I dodge rocks and branches, navigate the uneven terrain. The hut comes into view, and I notice the door is open. I can see inside. There’s a fire burning in a small cauldron in the center of the room, thick smoke billowing.

And Sophie. She’s here. She emerges from the smoke. She stands in the doorway clutching her broom.

“If this is how you see me, go on. Go on, then. Go running back to your old life.”

The shock of the scene has glued me in place. I’m incapable of movement.

“Go,” Sophie says, her voice breaking. The green of her skin begins to fade. Her nose recedes. Her chin returns to its normal shape. She leans against the frame of the door, her always-perfect posture failing for the first time. Her shoulders hunch. Her neck hooks forward.

“Go,” she says. “And don’t come back.”

She steps back into the hut, and the door slams.

Now it’s just me. Alone in the woods.





HAPPILY EVER AFTER


When I get back to my apartment, I stand in front of the mirror analyzing how traumatized I look versus how traumatized I feel. I decide my physical appearance is an accurate reflection of my internal distress.

I don’t have time for another shower. Sam is almost here. I throw my hair up and attempt to redo my eyeliner, which comes out tragically uneven.

I walk into the kitchen and drink a glass of cold water.

“No, this is good,” I say to myself. “This is really good. Sophie is obviously an unstable person. I don’t need her in my life. Who needs a domineering friend who lives in a scary house with ghosts and hangs out with spiders and curses people? Plus, she’s over four hundred years old. I need friends my own age.”

When I first moved here, I tried not to get into the habit of talking to myself out loud, but it’s actually doing a great job of calming me down. I was dangling over the edge, and the sound of my own voice is the thrown rope.

“You’re okay,” I say. “You’re okay. Sam is going to be here any minute. You’re about to see Sam. Everything is going to work out.”

I go on babbling to myself until Sam calls to tell me that he’s outside.

I take another sip of water and shake out my arms and legs, which are sore from all of the running I did earlier, which I’m officially not going to think about anymore. In the past.

When I get to the bottom of the steps, I pause before I open the door.

I wonder if he’ll kiss me.

I open the door.

There he is.

“I’m selling encyclopedias,” he says.

“Yeah?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got J, W and, I think, U? I’ll have to check on that.”

“Please. I’m most interested in you.”

“See what I did there?” he asks, grinning. He has a dimple. I forgot about the dimple.

How could I forget about the dimple? I want to stick my finger in it. Have I ever done that before? How could I not?

Was it always there? Is it new?

He looks different. I don’t know if he’s changed or if he was altered in my memory.

“Did you spend the whole drive coming up with the setup for that line?” I ask.

“Just the last hour,” he says.

“Come in,” I tell him, moving aside so he can step into the stairway. He begins to climb, and I follow behind him, examining his butt on the way up.

It’s a good butt. The butt I remember.

“It’s nice up here,” he says. “Quaint.”

“You mean upstate?”

He opens the door to my apartment and steps inside. It’s strange to see him in this space. Two lives colliding. He looks around, nodding.

“Yeah,” he says, setting his backpack down on the coffee table. “Upstate. Your apartment. Very nice.”

“You want something to drink?” I ask him. “Water?”