by Damian Bloom
There’s a flood of yeses.
I straighten my back. When no buttons pop off my shirt in the process, I let out a breath of relief. “Cool. Just so you know, I won’t be checking the chat while I read, but I’ll keep the live stream going for discussion afterward, okay?”
I mute the computer before I begin my reading so that the incoming comments’ dinging doesn't distract me.
Then, I flip the glossy cover of the novel and begin to read. I read words I have already read countless times, that have gone through more drafts than I care to remember. Words that I could recite even if one were to snatch the book from my hands. Sentences I’ve pored over sleepless night after sleepless night, changing this and that, switching word order, replacing a word with a more accurate synonym, rephrasing an idea until it was crystal clear, working until it all turned out just right.
My chest swells up with pride and satisfaction, and the knowledge that I’m living the life I’ve been dreaming of since I learned the alphabet.
You want to talk love? I think. Here it is, in its purest form. There can’t be a higher love than the one I feel for my work.
When I reach the last sentence, the garden is all shadow and darkness, and my throat and lips are dry. “Emma pushed the door open with shaky hands.”
At least forty minutes must have passed since I began reading, but I’m not sure. Time sneaked past me like a ghost. After I put the book down with a dramatic thud, I chug down the tea which hasn’t been warm for a while.
My eyes adjust to the screen again. The viewers have been discussing and reacting to the reading. The stats inform me I’ve missed thousands of comments. There’s no point trying to read through them, but I encourage everyone to tell me now what they thought of the first chapter.
To my utter relief, the consensus is that the book will be an absolute page-turner and that it will sell like hotcakes.
“Hey, as long as you guys like it, my job here is done,” I say.
The sweetest comments come from people who claim they’ve been die-hard fans since my first book—A House at Midnight—came out five years ago, and it’s been a pleasure to watch me grow, both in popularity and as an artist. They’ve been buying every book in the series the instant it hit the stores and can’t wait to get their hands on this one, too.
By the time I say goodbye to everyone and turn off the live stream, I’m drunk on happiness and gratitude. I hold the book gently, like I might hurt it.
The cover fits the story and the genre just right—a lonely country road, trapped in the creepy blue-black darkness of a late summer night. It captures the novel’s eerie atmosphere so perfectly that one glance at it is enough to make me feel uneasy.
I thread over to the kitchen and flip the switch on the water boiler for another cup of tea. While it buzzes to life, and I decide on today’s truth, I smile as I remember the birth of what would end up being a life-long habit.
There are few things as troubling for a parent as a child with an overactive imagination. When I was five, having grown tired of my imaginary friends and all the trouble they got me in, my mother decided it was important for me to learn to tell the difference between real life and make-believe. “What I want you to do, Adam dear,” she said one night, pulling the covers up to my chin, “is tell me one truth every night. That’s it. But it has to be true, okay? No stories of talking bunnies who steal cookies for you before dinner or invisible giants who tell you it’s okay to say bad words. You think you can do that?”
At the time, I couldn’t imagine anything more boring than reality, but with a brave little nod, I agreed. So, every night, when Mom would tuck me into bed, I’d identify one thing I absolutely knew was true—my name was Adam, I was five years old, I had brown hair, I loved my parents and my dog Ralph.
I can’t remember if and how much this practice helped me at that age or tempered my rambling creativity. But little did my mother know that twenty years later, when life would crumble around me, and I’d doubt everything I thought I knew, something as simple as naming one thing I’m certain of every day would keep me from losing my mind.
With another deliciously-smelling cup of tea in hand, I take in the Wondershelf—the one shelf in my bookcase that I have filled with my own books. Hardcovers, paperbacks, even a few foreign translations—I’ve created all of them, and as I slide Dangerous Steps into its place on the shelf, I settle on this truth for today: This, what I feel right this moment, must be utter happiness. I doubt my heart could contain anything fuller than this.
3
Luis
“Knock, knock,” I say as I push the unlocked front door open. We find Grandma in the kitchen, arranging a handful of crocuses in a vase. She’s braided her long gray hair, and it snakes down her slender back. The purple of her sweater matches the flowers, and she stands out against the faded yellow she’s decorated most of her house with. When she spots us, her cheeks brighten up with a soft blush, as subtle but remarkable as the red on her lips.
Although youth has to slip away, she won’t let go of her beauty. This has always been her motto.
And she is beautiful. To me, the most beautiful woman in the world.
Grandma’s eyes twinkle with intelligence so sharp it could cut through steel, made even more threatening by her fondness of properly placed silences. Every conversation with her leaves you feeling that for every word she’s said, there were dozens she held back. Over the years, this mysterious air of hers, paired up with second-hand accounts of her inexplicable gift, has sometimes led to rumors of witchcraft and a general wariness from people.
I set the chocolate cake down on the table and wrap her in a tight hug. She smells of vanilla, like always. “Happy birthday, Grandma! You look wonderful.”
She rubs my back in a motherly gesture and presses her warm cheek to mine. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart. Happy birthday to you, too!”
After kissing and hugging Peter and me, she has us sit down at the table and pulls out a cake of her own. Magnet-fixed photographs of Peter, me, and my father cover up the yellow fridge door.
I look from one cake to the other. On the outside, they’re deceivingly similar, but I know that just as inevitable as it was that I would bake a chocolate cake, Grandma’s must be a yellow butter cake. It’s tradition. “Is this going to turn into a cake competition again, Grandma?”
Grandma casts her eyes down to her hands—a picture of angelic innocence. “Of course not, sweetie…” Her face quickly melts into a sly smile. “My cakes have no competition.”
Picking at the edge of the yellow polyester tablecloth, I thread my brows together. “Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that. Peter will be the judge.”
My brother starts and raises his hands in self-defense. “I don’t want to have any implication in this cake war.”
Grandma and I ignore his objection. From my backpack, I pull out a pack of small multicolored cake candles. “How about, this year, you blow out the candles on the cake I baked, and I’ll blow out the ones we stick in yours?”
She happily agrees, and so we both decorate our cakes with a random number of candles—Grandma has stopped giving her age a long time ago, and although we all know it, we act like we don’t. Grandma hands Peter a box of matches, and he lights up all our candles.
“Okay, on the count of three,” she says. The massive old clock that hangs between the two kitchen windows loudly marks every second.
“One,” says Peter, counting along.
I don’t need to think about my wish.
I wish…
“Two.”
It’s the same wish I make every year.
…for…
“Three.”
…true love.
Perfectly synchronized, Grandma and I lean in and blow our candles out. Frail ghosts of smoke billow under our noses. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it in hers.
“What did you wish for, Grandma?”
“You know I can’t tell you,” she protests, letting go of me s
o she can scour a line of drawers for the perfect knife. “If I do, it won’t come true.”
She lets me do the honors. After cutting the cakes, I load a slice of each onto three plates from Grandma’s special-occasion cyan-colored porcelain set.
Grandma Hattie bats her eyelashes furiously when she hands Peter his plate. “There you go, my sweet, wonderful, favorite grandson. You tell us which one’s better.”
“Hey, no buttering up the judge,” I threaten, pointing a finger at her.
“Is this how little you trust your grandmother?” She gives a sad shake of the head. “I can’t even be nice to my own grandson anymore…”
More gracious than our grandmother or me, Peter declares a tie, making sure to coo and moan equally over both slices. Once that’s settled, we proceed to stuff ourselves full of cake while discussing Nicholas Sparks’s upcoming release, the quick pace with which nature changes colors these days, and Peter’s love life. The latter, Grandma and I decide, is as uneventful as mine, romantically, but much more intriguing, sexually.
“But when are you going to settle down, Peter?” Grandma whines. Resting her chin in her hand, she lets out a dejected sigh. “You boys are robbing me of my chance to go to a wedding before I die.” A slight pout on her lips, she checks the fresh purple paint on her nails and adds: “The only ceremonies I’m invited to nowadays are funerals.”
“Oh, come on, Grandma,” I say. “There’s no point even talking about death. You’ve got plenty of years ahead of you. Besides, you’re the one who says true love will find us when we’re ready for it. It’s not like we can wait any faster.”
Lips pursed, she tilts her head in a way that’s neither a nod nor a negative shake of the head. “But you can make yourself ready.”
Before I can ask her how, my brother decides to drop the most random piece of information. “Keith and I made a pact, that if we’re both still single five years from now, we’re getting married.” I raise an eyebrow. Grandma’s ears perk up. Although she likes all our friends, Keith is by far her favorite. “So maybe your wish is closer to reality than you think, Grandma.”
“A pact? Peter, that’s silly. I don’t understand why you and Keith like to waste your time like this and don’t just date already.”
Peter’s shoulders slump. “I’ve told you so many times, Grandma. Keith and I are just really good friends. There’s nothing even remotely romantic between us.”
The way Grandma purses her lips and winks at me is a clear sign that she doesn’t believe it for a second, but she tactfully drops the subject. I also find it funny that Keith was the first thing Peter thought of when the topic of weddings came up. Some days, I wonder if Grandma’s not closer to the truth than Peter himself might suspect.
When the time comes for us to leave, I’m so full of cake and milk that my jeans button threatens to pop.
I first notice something’s off when Grandma’s feet slow down and begin to drag on the way to the door. She slouches, her knees bend, and suddenly, she loses her balance, tipping forward, as slack as a doll. Luckily, Peter catches her before she can hit the ground or slam into a wall and carries her to the couch. Eyes shut, mouth hanging open, she turns white as a sheet.
Peter shakes her shoulder in vain. “Grandma, are you okay?” He turns to me, horror in his eyes.
I’m a lot calmer because I recognize this for what it is. “It’s a vision. Stop shaking her.”
“A vision?” Peter eyes Grandma’s limp body. Her chest still raises with her breathing, but only faintly. “Shouldn’t we call the ambulance?”
“She’s okay,” I say, less convinced than before. If nothing happens in the next few minutes, we’re calling 911, I tell myself.
Peter and I both kneel at her head, listening to her raspy breath. Her eyelids flutter like her eyes are vibrating underneath. What if this isn’t a vision, though? What if she really is in danger? “You’re right,” I say, turning to Peter. “This is scary. Call the ambulance.”
Fishing his phone from his pocket, Peter curses under his breath. “I told you it’s not a stupid vision,” he mutters.
However, before he can dial the three digits, Grandma whines.
“Grandma, are you okay?” I ask, clutching her frail hand. “Can you hear me?”
Instantly, her eyes fly open, wide and unflinching. And terrifying.
Something eerily similar to TV static is the only sound that comes out through her gaping mouth at first. “You wished for something,” she grumbles eventually, in an almost unrecognizable voice. A shiver shoots through Peter and me.
“A vision,” Peter says, dumbfounded. His eyes are almost as wide as hers.
I lean in closer to her face, but it’s like she’s looking through me. “Grandma, what do you see?”
I can hear the kitchen clock ticking furiously, and it’s distracting. It makes no sense—with a hallway in between, I shouldn’t be able to hear it from here, but it’s mind-numbingly noisy. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock, it goes on, like a time-bomb.
Grandma sucks in a throaty breath. “What you have wished for will come your way.”
What you have wished for. I squeeze her hand again. “Who do you mean, Grandma?”
No response. Her forehead turns damp with sweat.
What you have wished for. My birthday wish? That must be it. What else would she mean?
My stomach squeezes into a tight knot. True love will come my way. But when? “Soon, Grandma?”
Tick. Tock, goes that damned clock, as loud as a giant hammer against a church bell. It’s like it’s ticking inside my head. With every swing of the pendulum, I wince. My ears start ringing.
“Your wish will come true,” she says again, “but not before…”
Tick.
Tock.
Expectation prickles my skin. “Before what?”
Tick.
Tock.
Slowing down, Grandma’s breathing grows more rhythmic. Holding her hand, I think I can almost sense the vision leaving her.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
I shake her hand. “Grandma, before what?” Desperation’s clawing its way up my throat.
“Don’t yell,” Peter says.
“I need to know, Peter. Is it gonna be soon or in 50 years?”
“It doesn’t matter,” my brother says. “This is all superstition, anyway.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
“It’s not,” I bark at him.
Tick.
Tock.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I curse through gritted teeth. “Man, I’m gonna break that clock.”
“What clock?”
I point an angry finger to the door. “The big one, in the kitchen! Can’t you hear it? It’s giving me a migraine.”
Peter peeks over his shoulder, then squints at me like I’ve lost my marbles.
Ticktockticktock
Gently running a hand over Grandma’s forehead, I wipe away the sweat. Please, just a few more words. Don’t let the vision slip away yet.
Finally, she groans again and pushes a few more words out. “Not before your heart is broken.”
“Broken?”
“Completely shattered.”
My stomach squeezes again, this time with terror. I turn to Peter, whose worried expression mirrors my own.
Grandma—or whoever might be speaking through her—hesitates. “The worst pain you’ve ever felt,” she suddenly shouts so loudly that I jump back and violently land on my butt.
Peter’s eyes dart from Grandma to me.
As if life pours back into her body, Grandma hoists herself up into a sitting position. But her face is still ghoul-white, and her teeth begin to chatter like she’s freezing. Her wide eyes stare over my head. “You’ll wish you never knew love,” she continues, now so much chattier than I wanted. “You’ll curse it. You’ll swear it off.”
Peter scrambles to his feet. “Let’s just go. She’s talking in her sleep.” There’s too much fear in his eyes for him to
believe what he’s saying.
Then, it’s like someone turns off a switch. Grandma’s body goes limp again in a second. After she collapses back onto the couch, her breathing turns steady and peaceful; her mouth falls shut. She’s asleep. I can’t help but notice that the tick-tocking is gone as well, and as much of a relief as that is, it also freaks me out.
“Let’s go,” Peter whispers.
“Wait, let’s make sure she’s okay first.”
I shake Grandma’s shoulder, and she wakes up. Blinking a few times, she gapes at Peter and me like she’s seeing us for the first time. “What—What happened?”
“You’re okay, shh, you’re okay,” I say, willing my voice into a soothing tone.
“Did I fall asleep?”
I sit down on the couch with her while Peter sits down on the floor at our feet, and we tell Grandma everything. With every detail, she gets more and more uncomfortable. She’s always seemed at least a little embarrassed by these temporary losses of control.
With both worry and compassion in her eyes, she tries to read my expression. “Well, that’s a good thing, right?” she says, attempting to cheer me up. “You’ll find true love? That’s exciting!”
But neither of us is excited. We look from one to the other with different shades of dread. Yes, I will find true love, but is the price worth it?
She pushes herself off the couch and onto her feet. I can’t tell if she looks tired or shaken or both. “I think I’ll go lie down.”
Peter drove to Grandma’s, so he offers to take me to work, too, but it’s close enough, and I could use the walk. Plus, I hope it will help me organize my thoughts.
The weather has begun to change, currently trapped in that awkward stage where all seasons seem to chase each other within twenty-four hours. Chilly, rainy days slowly replace the stuffiness of summer. More often than before, the sky covers up with dark-colored clouds, and a mischievous, chilling wind has begun tickling any exposed skin. Today, the weather’s especially gloomy, which is something I can relate to.