by Lang Leav
“Oh, come on, Lucy,” Candela smiled. “I’ve joined in on a few séances before. It’s fun.”
“Does it actually work?” I asked.
“Well,” said Candela, “one time when we asked if the spirits had a message for anyone in the room, the pointer skittled across on its own and stopped at the letter P. This girl Patricia just stared at it, white as a sheet.” Candela paused for dramatic effect. “Then she fainted.”
Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door, and we all screamed in unison. “Lucy, open up! I forgot my key again!” Freddy called out.
“Jeez.” Lucy let out a deep breath. “I forgot he was coming over tonight.”
Freddy inspected the Ouija board with great interest, running his hands over the lines and grooves. “We’ve got to give this a go.”
I glanced over at Lucy, who was very much dead set against it. “Not sure if that’s a good idea, guys. Audrey?” She looked at me for support. I had to admit—I was a little curious.
“Why not? What’s the worst that can happen?”
It took a few more minutes of cajoling to convince Lucy. Then we all scrambled around the house, searching for candles. “Where should we do it?” asked Freddy.
“Coffee table.” I cleared away some magazines and a tea-stained mug. Candela put the board on the table, and we set the candles on ceramic plates, placing them on the floor around the room.
When the candles were lit, we raced around the house switching off the lights, then we assembled back in the lounge room. The atmosphere was a little unnerving as the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight fell across the Ouija board like a scene straight out of a horror movie. “Is anyone else having second thoughts?” queried Lucy.
“Oh, come on, Lucy,” Candela said cheerfully. “We’ve gone to this much effort already.”
We arranged ourselves around the coffee table and each put a finger on the pointer.
“Is there anyone there?” Candela’s tone was somber. We held our breath for a few seconds, and then it began to move. I looked up sharply. “Is anyone moving it?”
“No,” they all echoed in unison. I watched mesmerized as the pointer spelled out the word “yes” in response to Candela’s question.
“Who is it?” Candela’s voice was a little shaky.
“Hey, I think we should stop, guys,” said Lucy nervously.
“Shhhh.” Freddy looked transfixed.
The pointer moved again and landed on the letter A. My body stiffened, and a new fear gripped me as it made its way with slow deliberation to the letter N. Then it completed its journey on A. Ana. The word exploded in my mind like a hand grenade and sent me reeling into a state of panic. I withdrew my finger immediately as if I had just been scalded. Then Freddy collapsed into fits of laughter.
“You asshole!” cried Lucy, getting up and flicking the lights on. I stood up quickly, knocking my knee hard against the underside of the table, and ran straight upstairs to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I fell onto my knees, gasping for air. I’m dying, I thought. My lungs were screaming for oxygen, and in my panicked stupor, I couldn’t find a way to oblige them. Candela came bursting in and hurried over.
“Audrey! Oh my God.” She put one hand on my arm and tossed her head back and screamed, “Lucy, grab the bag of mushrooms in the fridge.”
“What?”
“Just grab the bag of mushrooms.” Almost in a heartbeat, Lucy was there with the paper bag. Candela dumped the mushrooms on the floor and put the bag over my mouth. “Audrey! Breathe . . . breathe . . . breathe.”
“Is she okay? I’ve never seen her this bad. Do we need to call anyone?”
“She’ll be okay.” Candela ran her hand soothingly up and down my back. Soon, my pulse steadied, and my breathing grew less ragged. When it was over, I sat there dazed and looked up to catch Freddy standing by the door, looking down at me with his mouth agape.
Twenty-four
It was Lucy’s birthday, and we were celebrating at Spag Bowl. Rad and I joined Lucy and Freddy sitting at their favorite table.
“Hey, birthday girl!” I leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Did you manage to get in touch with Candela?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ve been calling her all day. She didn’t come in last night, and she hasn’t been answering my texts. I hope she hasn’t forgotten.”
I pulled my phone out of my purse and tapped Candela’s number. After a few seconds, it went to voicemail. “Candela, where are you? We’re all at Spag Bowl for Lucy’s birthday dinner. Call me back.”
“What should we do?” said Lucy checking her watch. “It’s quarter to eight.”
“We should probably start without her.”
When Lucy and I got home, Candela was sitting on the steps outside the house holding the string of a red helium balloon. She grinned sheepishly when she saw us. “I’m such a shitty friend.” She stood up and gave Lucy a hug. “Happy birthday, sweetie. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Where were you?” I asked.
“I was with a friend, and we lost track of time.”
“Who?” I could see Candela tense up in response to Lucy’s innocent question.
“What are you, my mother now?” I think the words came out harsher than she intended.
Lucy flinched. “Candela, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Sorry,” Candela sighed. “Look, I’m just tired. I haven’t slept all night.”
She handed Lucy the red balloon, and in the fumbled exchange, it slipped out of their grasp. The three of us stood watching its slow ascent into the dark, starless sky.
Twenty-five
Over the next few weeks, Candela’s disappearing acts grew more and more frequent. Our kitchen once again stood neglected; cutlery and dirty dishes piled up in the sink. Lucy was complaining about the mess in Candela’s room and the fact that she hadn’t paid her share of the bills for over a month. One morning, a strange number popped up on the screen of my phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Audrey?” It was a female voice I didn’t recognize.
“Yes, speaking. Who is this?”
“Sorry to bother you. I’m Candela’s boss. She hasn’t been to work for the past few days, and I’m trying to contact her. Do you know where she is?”
“No. Sorry.”
I heard Lucy coming up the stairs as I ended the call. “Audrey, have you seen my mother’s pearls?” she asked.
“No. When did you have them last?”
She cocked her head to one side in the way she always did when sorting through her memory archives—which I pictured to be in neat, orderly compartments, with color-coded labels. “The last time I wore them was the night of my birthday dinner, at Spag Bowl. Anyway, Mum wants them back, and I can’t find them anywhere.” She chewed on her bottom lip.
“That’s weird.” It was hard to believe she could misplace something as important as her mother’s pearls.
“You don’t suppose . . .” she trailed off and looked immediately guilty.
“Candela? No way.”
“She’s been so behind on her share of the bills,” said Lucy, winding a lock of hair around her finger. “And she hasn’t come home in days.”
“I just got a call from her boss. It was weird. She said Candela hasn’t been in, and she was trying to get ahold of her.”
“God, I wonder what the hell is up with her.”
“Maybe she met someone?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucy with a shrug. “You know what Candela’s like. She hates having to answer to anyone, so I don’t want to push her.”
“Me neither.”
As if on cue, we heard a key turn in the door and the thudding sound of Candela’s boots in the hallway. Lucy and I went out to meet her, and she stopped when she saw us, a little startled.
“Hi, guys. What’s happening?”
“Where have you been?” I asked. “You haven’t been home in days.”
She rolled her eyes. “So you’re going to give me the third degree now?” She walked past us into the kitchen and grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge.
“Candela,” I said cautiously. “We’re not trying to cramp your style. We’re just worried; that’s all.”
“Worried? Audrey, you’re the one having panic attacks.” She must have seen how much her words had stung because she gave me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry; that was mean.”
She looked from me to Lucy. “Guys, I’m fine. I’ve been busy at work.”
“Really? Your boss just called looking for you. She wants to know why you haven’t been showing up.”
Candela looked at me, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Then she looked away, an expression of annoyance crossing her face.
“Well, I was planning on quitting anyway.” There was an awkward moment as we stood there, not knowing what to say. Then Candela threw up her hands. “Okay, you’ve got me. I’ve met someone, and we’re just having fun hanging out, okay? I don’t make a thing of it when you’re off with your boyfriends, so give a girl a break.” She took a long swig of her Diet Coke and in her typical fashion walked off into her room, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.
Lucy and I hoped Candela was just going through a phase and it would blow over. After all, when Rad and I began seeing each other, I disappeared for days on end. But to our dismay, Candela’s behavior got more and more erratic as we edged into spring. Aside from the pearl necklace, we noticed other missing items. A five-dollar bill here, a twenty there. Then there was Lucy’s Burberry purse and my iPod. Things that you don’t realize are missing until you look for them. One day, it all came to a head when Candela turned up after being absent for over a week.
“I’m just here to pick up a few things,” she said dismissively, walking past Lucy and me sitting on the love seat playing Mario Kart.
I got up, following her. “Candela, wait.”
Lucy came up, and in a few minutes we were all standing in her bedroom.
“I’m kind of in a hurry,” she said, shoving some of her clothes into a small duffle bag.
“We need to talk to you,” Lucy insisted.
“What is it?” Candela looked from Lucy to me. She sighed and put her bag on the bed, spreading out her arms in a gesture of surrender. “I’m all ears.”
“We’ve noticed things have gone missing around the house,” I said.
“And?”
I gave an exasperated sigh. “Look, Candela. If you’re short on cash, we’re happy to help—”
“You think I’m stealing from you?” She cut me off, put her hands on her hips, and glared at me.
“Are you?” asked Lucy.
“Come on, guys. It’s me.”
“Are you using again?”
“No!” said Candela, raising her voice. “What the hell, Audrey?”
I reached out and grabbed her arm.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she yelled, pulling away. I grabbed her arm again, pushing her sleeves up.
“Let me see your arms,” I demanded.
She shoved me backward, tugging her sleeve back down. “Audrey,” her eyes flashed dangerously, “I’m warning you!” She threw a few more things into her bag and stormed out, with Lucy and I trailing closely behind.
When we got outside, we saw a heavyset man on a motorcycle, with obscenities tattooed around his bulging neck. My heart sank.
“Jesus Christ,” I swore under my breath, “she’s back with Dirk again.”
“Candy Cane!” he called gruffly. “Move your ass, baby.”
Lucy reached out and grabbed Candela’s arm. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”
Candela looked at her, eyes wide with disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“Lucy’s right,” I said, grabbing her other arm. “Come back inside, Candela.”
“What’s going on, Candy Cane?” Dirk called out again. To our dismay, he got off his bike and sauntered over. “Hey, let her go,” he said, towering over us.
“Fuck off,” I said.
“What did you just say?” he said, taking a menacing step toward me.
I glared at him. “I told you to fuck off. Get lost.”
“You’re lucky you’re a girl.” He crossed his arms and glared down at me. “I don’t hit girls.”
“Well, Candela,” my tone dripped with sarcasm, “looks like you’ve got yourself a real gentleman here.”
“Don’t talk to her like that!” Dirk barked at me.
I turned to him. “Oh yeah? Where the fuck were you when she was in hospital, fighting for her life? Where were you then?” I screamed.
He shifted from one foot to the other. “Candela knows why I wasn’t there,” he retorted. “I don’t have to answer to you.”
“You’re going to screw up her life again.” Tears of anger welled up in my eyes.
“Oh shut up, Audrey,” said Candela. “Seriously, I am so sick of your shit. Why can’t you both just leave me alone?” She hurled the duffle bag on the ground at our feet. “I don’t need a single damn thing from either one of you, okay? Come on, Dirk. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
Twenty-six
Days after Candela’s departure, I found myself sitting at Rad’s kitchen table staring at a black metal box—the one I’d come across on my first visit to his apartment. He was out, and I wanted to tidy up before I left for an interview with author Elsa Reed.
I came across the box tucked away in the back corner of his bedroom closet when I was putting away some laundry. It beckoned to me, like Pandora’s box. So now I was sitting here, staring at it with a mix of curiosity and dread. The sunlight streaming in between the slats of the window highlighted a paper clip, already complicit in my pending crime. Its silvery glint drew my gaze the same way a raven is mesmerized by a discarded bottle cap.
For some reason, my mind dragged up a memory of Candela from a long time ago. It was one of those warm summer days that shone like a beacon flickering somewhere in the dark chambers of my mind like a photograph taken with a pinhole camera. We must have been no more than thirteen. We were sitting on plastic seats suspended in the air by metal chains, kicking the tips of our matching white-and-blue Converse sneakers against the asphalt, in a local park where we used to play.
I still recall that day like a scene from a movie or a tattered picture book with edges blunted and pages marred by crayon scribbles. Candela’s long dark hair swung back and forth like a silken sheet; her beautiful green eyes were framed in thick, curly lashes. She was more like a boy than a girl, with perpetually scraped knees and a steely determination.
Her head was turned sideways, and her gaze was fixed on the seesaw in front of us where on one bright yellow seat someone had left behind a scrunchie made from a pearly white fabric with red polka dots. “Let’s play confession,” she said.
“What’s confession?”
She went into a detailed description of the process, right down to the lattice screen that hid the priest and the smell of stale varnish in the confessional. She asked me if I had anything to confess. I thought long and hard, but I couldn’t think of anything impressive. When it was Candela’s turn, she rattled off a long list of things. Money snuck from her mother’s purse, cigarettes in the girl’s shower block at summer camp, and going to third base with the boy who lived next door. “What does it feel like?” I asked about the boy, my voice dropping to a whisper. She shrugged, her eyes still pinned tightly to the red-and-white scrunchie.
“It doesn’t feel like anything.” Then she began to cry as I watched, feeling strangely removed.
“Candela, don’t cry.”
She turned to look at me, her tiny hands wiping furiously at her tears as if
she was trying to punish them for betraying her. “Audrey,” she said, her glassy eyes staring straight into mine, “I’m going to hell.”
Shaking off the memory, I picked up the paper clip; with a little encouragement, the silver lock clicked open. I sat there for a few more minutes, drumming my fingers on the glass tabletop, my heart fluttering like a panic-stricken bird inside my chest. I was hoping to find a stack of Garbage Pail cards, like Rad had said, but the feeling of dread in my stomach told me otherwise. After drawing a deep breath, I flipped the lid open and carefully withdrew the contents, placing them on the table before me. I knew right away the box was a time capsule of his relationship with Ana. There were concert tickets, pressed flowers, and other keepsakes, each with their own mysterious significance. Photographs of Ana and letters to Rad written in her impossibly tiny handwriting. Pictures of the two of them, smiling, his palm flat against her back, their heads turned to greet the camera.
I wondered whether he still looked through this box. Did he sift through its contents on those whiskey-fueled nights he spent here alone? I wondered whether she came to life again for him in these photographs.
I picked up a piece of wrinkled paper—a receipt from a stationery store—and turned it over. On the back was a poem in Rad’s messy scrawl.
Her name was Aphrodite
she, my sage, my aversion
to the razor blade
She was life itself hung
on a hook and from me
took, the shock of day
where breath expelled
from earthly gaze
and heavenward
in hands she held
I will see her when
the harps command,
a tune, a dance,
a book, her arms.
I read it several times, finding meaning that wasn’t there or no longer was. Cutting this same wound open, over and over again.
I put it back down on the table and shook my head. What the hell was I doing? Tears blurring my vision, I began putting away the contents of the box. As I held the edge of a creamy envelope between the tip of my thumb and forefinger, a Polaroid photo dropped out and landed, flat on the table. It was Ana, topless and sitting cross-legged on a bare mattress, her eyes looking fixedly into the camera. I turned the Polaroid over, and once again, I was confronted by the rude shock of Rad’s scratchy writing.