Whichwood(48)

For years Maman’s rampages had given Laylee daily ammunition to be irritated, Baba’s carelessness had given her ample reason to feel furious and entitled, and her work—her life’s work—had afforded her every opportunity to stew in bitterness and resentment.

But now?

There were no ghosts, no corpses, no parents or strange friends, no illnesses to worry about. Laylee looked ahead and saw a black, gaping nothingness stretch out before her, and the immensity of it—the overwhelming grasp of it—threatened to devour her.

It was then that Laylee fell to her knees and felt her chest split open.

Sobs ripped through her body with a raw, ferocious pain unlike any she’d ever allowed herself to experience. She sobbed until she couldn’t breathe, until her eyes had swollen shut, until her throat had gone raw from gasping, until her body had run out of tears. She had finally allowed herself to feel the pain she’d hidden from herself all these years, and she grieved, she grieved for the life she’d had, for the life she’d lost, for the years she’d wasted being inward and angry, for the friends she could’ve had, for the job she should’ve cherished— Oh, she missed it all desperately.

In the end, it was the weight of a single truth that finally broke her: Reader, she had been ungrateful.





COME, LET’S LEAVE THIS PLACE FOR A BIT





Oliver Newbanks could not be consoled.

Alice had tried and failed, repeatedly, to console him, and her failure to do so should come as a surprise to no one, given the fact that Alice had been crying hysterically as she attempted to reassure the boy, through hiccuping sobs, not to worry. Father, too, could not be moved to console Oliver Newbanks, as he was still busy being terribly disappointed in the both of them.

So it is here that we come to pivot again in our story:

Here, on an underwater elevator moving at such a clip as to be concerning; here, as Oliver Newbanks sits quietly with his head bowed and his hands clasped between his legs. This underwater elevator is new, an intentionally kept secret recently uncovered; instead of the usual five-day sojourn, their trip home will take only two. Alice and Oliver find even this truncated length of time abhorrent, and the modern comforts of the shiny transport go unappreciated by those who occupy its interior. They’ve been traveling for just under twenty-four hours now and Alice’s attentions are still focused on her incessant weeping; Oliver, on the other hand, has squeezed his eyes shut, his vision clouded by anger and heartbreak; Father, whose age has armored him against the dangers of needless overexcitement, can only bring himself to occasionally interrupt his daughter’s histrionics long enough to sigh and pat her knee.

Here, we pivot, because we will leave the mordeshoor and her world for a short time.

I will not engage you in the many private details of her pain, as I feel she’s earned the right to a respite from our prying. But I find it important to note that we pick up with our Ferenwood friends at the same hour we leave Laylee behind. In fact, at precisely the moment Laylee falls to her knees and feels her chest split open, Oliver Newbanks is assaulted by a pain so sudden he jolts forward in his seat. And it is here, as he sits unsteadily, chest heaving, not comprehending why it is he feels his heart tearing at the seams, that we are reunited with him in his mind.




Oliver Newbanks could not understand what was happening to him.

He’d come along on this journey for a bit of good fun and little more—but nothing had gone according to plan. Indeed, it had been—from start to finish—an unequivocally miserable experience compounded by Oliver’s newly minted fear: that he’d managed to damage his heart in some irreparable way. The damage in question came at regular, painful, intervals, with no signs of abating. The very first pangs had arrived the moment he’d set eyes on Laylee—though back then he’d thought it a fluke. Soon he began to feel ill around her all the time, nervous and off balance; from there, the symptoms had grown only more severe. Now, even with a vast body of water between them, he felt worse than ever. Short of breath. Sick to his stomach.

Just weeks ago he hadn’t even known she existed.

The first time Alice told him about the girl she was meant to help, Alice had mispronounced Laylee’s name. Catching herself, Alice had repeated the moniker several times to get it right. Oliver found himself unconsciously mimicking the action, rolling Laylee’s name around in his mouth, enjoying the sound, the shape of it.

He had not expected her to strike pain into his heart.

And now, halfway home and ostensibly losing his mind, all Oliver could think about was getting back to Whichwood. He was anxious to arrive home if only to find a way to return to Laylee on his own this time—alone—without the weeping Alice, who, I feel I should note, had begun weeping shortly after Father had explained, not unkindly, how thoroughly she’d failed her task.

Oliver did not think he could stomach another twenty-four hours of her tears.

It was not that he was heartless; Oliver knew how devastating it was to fail a task. He could imagine the humiliation Alice would face upon arriving home. Alice had been dragged back by the Town Elders for having caused such a riotous disaster as to require a chaperoned return into town by her own father. It was beyond mortifying—it was unheard of. He felt deeply sorry for her. And Oliver would never say this aloud, of course, but he quietly wondered whether such a level of ridicule was even survivable.