by A. G. Howard
“Alyssssss,” she hisses, unable to talk.
I’m crying so hard, I can’t see my fingers as I wrestle against the braid. Lightning strikes in the distance … once … twice … then the plaited cords tighten around my fingers and tangle me up, a pressure so intense, I fear my knuckles will snap. My fingers pop into place against my will and squeeze her neck.
Something is trying to make me kill my mom!
Nausea, hot and vicious, rips through my stomach.
“No …” The more I struggle to free both of us, the more deeply interlocked we become. My yarn dreadlocks cling to my neck like a wet mop. Rain and tears bleed into my eye shadow, and black droplets smudge Alison’s dirty apron. “Let go!” I shout at her hair.
“Stop … Allie …” Her plea is hollow and hissing, like air escaping a tire.
The braid squeezes my fingers again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, sobbing. “I’m not trying to hurt you …”
Thunder rolls through my bones, the taunting laugh of some dark demon. No matter how hard I pull, the strands embed me deeper and tighten around her neck. Her hands go limp. She turns blue, eyes lolling up until the irises disappear.
“Somebody help!” The scream strains my lungs.
The gardeners come running. Two sets of meaty hands curl around me from behind, and just like that, the braid releases.
Alison sucks in a deep, raspy breath, filling her lungs and coughing. I go limp as one of the gardeners holds me up.
Nurse Jenkins hovers into view, syringe in hand. Dad’s right behind and I slump into his arms.
“I d-d-didn’t,” I stutter. “I wouldn’t, not ever …”
“I know.” Dad hugs me. “You were trying to keep her from hurting herself.” His embrace makes my sopping clothes stick to my skin.
“But it wasn’t Alison,” I murmur.
“Of course not,” Dad whispers against my head. “It wasn’t her. Your mom hasn’t been herself for years.”
I suppress the urge to throw up. He doesn’t get it. She wasn’t trying to strangle herself; the wind controlled her braid. But what sane person would ever believe that?
Just before Alison’s eyes flutter closed, she mumbles something with a drunken stammer: “The daisies … are hiding treasure. Buried treasure.”
Then she’s oblivious—a drooling zombie.
And I’m left alone to face the storm.
It takes so long to get Alison settled at the asylum, Dad has to drive me straight to work. We pull up to the curb at the only vintage clothing shop in Pleasance. It’s nestled in a popular strip mall along the commerce side of downtown, a bistro on one side of the shop, a jewelry store on the other. Tom’s Sporting Goods is across the way.
“Remember. I’ll be at work. Just one quick call, and I’ll take you home.” Dad’s frown forms wrinkles at the edges of his mouth.
I’m numb, still wondering if I imagined it all. I stare past the pink brick storefront and black wrought-iron fence. My gaze focuses and unfocuses on the curvy black letters over the door: BUTTERFLY THREADS.
I hold the moth air freshener at my nose. The scent reminds me of spring, outdoor hikes, and happy families. But winter is all I feel inside, and my family is more screwed up than we’ve ever been. I want to tell Dad that Alison’s delusions are real, but without proof, he’ll just think my sanity is splintering, too.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, taking my other hand. Even through my gloves his touch feels like ice.
“It’s only two hours,” I answer, hoarse from all my screaming in the courtyard. “Jen can’t get anyone to cover her shift on short notice, and Persephone’s out of town.”
Friday is our boss Persephone’s scavenger day, when she commutes to nearby towns to haunt estate and garage sales in search of merchandise. Contrary to what Dad thinks, I’m not being a martyr. From three o’clock to five is the dead zone at work; hardly any customers show up until after rush hour. I plan to use that time to search the store computer for the moth website.
“I should go.” I squeeze Dad’s hand.
He nods.
I open his glove box to put the air freshener inside, and an avalanche of papers hits my feet. A pamphlet on top catches my eye. The background is peaceful pink with a generic white font printed across the front: ECT—Why Electroconvulsive Therapy Is Right for You or Your Loved One.
I pick it up. “What is this?”
Dad bends across the seat to put away the other papers. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Dad, please.”
He stiffens and glances out his window. “They had to give her another dose of sedatives while you were in the lounge.”
The words punch me. I was too chicken to follow when they wheeled Alison to the padded cell. I cowered on a couch in the lounge, pulling out my ruined dreadlocks like a robot while I watched some stupid reality show on TV.
Reality … I don’t even know what that is anymore.
“Did you hear me, Allie? Two doses in less than an hour. All these years, they’ve been drugging her into oblivion.” He squeezes the steering wheel. “Yet she’s getting worse. She was screaming about rabbit holes and moths … and people losing their heads. The drugs aren’t working. So the doctors have offered this option.”
My tongue absorbs my saliva like a sponge.
“If you’ll look at the first paragraph”—he points at some numbers on the pamphlet—“the practice has been making a comeback since—”
“They used eels, you know,” I interrupt a little too loudly. “In the old days. Wrapped them around the patient’s head. An electric turban.”
The words are senseless—mirroring how I feel inside. All I can think of are my pets at home. I learned early on that I couldn’t have the traditional cat or dog. It’s not that animals talk to me; only insects and plants are on my frequency. But every time Jenara’s tabby caught a roach and gnawed it to death, I got nauseated listening to the bug’s screams. So I settled for eels. They’re elegant and mystical and use a shock organ to stun their prey. It’s a quiet and dignified death, similar to the bugs dying by asphyxiation in my traps. Still, I won’t touch their water without a pair of rubber gloves. I can’t imagine what they could do to someone’s brain.
“Allie, this isn’t the same as what they did seventy years ago. It’s done with electrodes while the patient is anesthetized. Muscle relaxants keep them oblivious to any pain.”
“Brain damage is still a side effect.”
“No.” He reads the upside-down text aloud. “Almost all ECT patients will experience confusion, inability to concentrate, and short-term memory loss, but the benefits outweigh the temporary discomforts.” He meets my gaze, his left eye twitching. “Short-term memory loss is a discomfort. Not brain damage.”
“It’s a form of brain damage.” I haven’t been the daughter of a mental patient for the past eleven years and not picked up on the definitions and levels of psychological anomalies.
“Well, maybe that would be a blessing, considering your mom’s most recent memories consist of nothing but the asylum and an endless procession of drugs and psych evaluations.” The deep lines around his mouth look like they might crack all the way through to his skull. What I wouldn’t give to see his Elvis smirk right about now.
My throat constricts. “Who are you to decide this for her?”
His lips tighten to that stern expression reserved for when I’ve overstepped my boundaries. “I’m a man who loves his wife and daughter. A man who’s tired down to his bones.” The mix of defensiveness and resignation in his brown eyes makes me want to curl up and cry. “She tried to kill herself right in front of you. Even if it is a physical impossibility for her to choke herself, it doesn’t matter. The meds aren’t working. We have to take the next step.”
“And if this doesn’t work … what then? A lobotomy with a can opener?” I throw the pamphlet across the seat. It hits his thigh.
“Allie!” His voice sharpens.
If he does this, she may never be that woman again.
I shove open the door and drop down onto the sidewalk. Even though the late-afternoon sun has found its way through the clouds, a chill coats my entire body.
“At least let me get your crutches for you.” Dad starts to dig them out from behind the passenger seat.
“I don’t need them anymore.”
“But Jeb said you sprained—”
“News flash, Dad … Jeb’s not always right.” I tug at the bandana covering my bandage. My ankle hasn’t hurt since Alison pressed her birthmark to mine. In fact, my scraped knee seems better, too. Chalk it up to more unexplained weirdness. I don’t have time to wonder about it. I’ve got bigger issues.
Dad glances off into the distance, his jaw tight. “Butterfly …”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
His face falls as two chatty shoppers walk by. The last thing I want to do is hurt him; he’s stayed by Alison’s side for years, not to mention raised me all alone.
“I’m sorry.” I lean in to see him better. “Let’s just do more research, okay?”
He sighs. “I signed the papers before we left.”
My mask of understanding slips, anger seeping out the edges. “Why would you do that?”
“The doctor offered this as an option months ago. I’ve been looking into it for a while. At first, I couldn’t bring myself to even entertain the idea. But now … they’re starting Monday. You can go with me to visit her afterward.”
An uncomfortable heat glides up my neck. The humidity from the storm and the white noise of surrounding bugs only make it worse.
“Please try to understand,” Dad says, “how much I need her home again.”
“I need her, too.”
“Then won’t you do whatever it takes to make that happen?”
Inside me, the flapping shadow comes to life again. It dares me to say exactly what I’m thinking. “Yeah. I’d even dive down a rabbit hole.” I slam the door.
Dad taps the horn, no doubt wanting an explanation for my remark. I rush into the shop without looking back.
The automatic doorbell chirps and a gust jingles the crystal teardrop chandelier centered in the ceiling. I stand there, dazed, while the air-conditioning ices my damp clothes. The rich coconut scent of the candles in the candelabras along the walls eases the crimp in my stomach.
“Is that you, Al?” Jenara’s muffled voice carries through the storeroom’s open door.
I clear my throat and grip the air freshener. In my rush to escape, I forgot to leave it in the truck. “Uh-huh.”
“Did you see my prom dress? It’s on the new-merchandise rack.”
I lift the only hanger on the rack. The clear plastic cover crinkles. Jen bought two dresses at Butterfly Threads months ago. She sliced and diced them to create a fitted lime halter bodice that flares into a mini zebra print/pink netting combo. Hand-sewn iridescent sequins catch the light as I hang it back on the rod.
“Nice,” I say. It’s actually amazing, and under normal circumstances, I’d be a lot more enthusiastic over one of her fashion creations. But I can’t find the strength today.
I toss the moth air freshener under the checkout counter next to Jenara’s makeup bag. It lands on top of Persephone’s mythology tomes.
A sense of someone watching slides through my bones and I look over my shoulder at the poster on the wall. It’s from a movie called The Crow. Persephone’s in love with the hero: black leather, white face, black eye makeup, and a perpetual brooding scowl. There was some mystery surrounding the actor. He died on set while filming.
I’ve always been drawn to the poster. Even on a flat piece of paper, the guy has the most soulful eyes—eyes that seem to know me, just like I know them. Although I’ve never seen the movie, he’s familiar, to the point that I can smell the leather swaddling his body … feel the slickness against my cheek.
“He’s here …” I jump as the words rush my ears—the same ones the fly said earlier. Only it’s not a whisper this time, not the white noise I’m used to. It’s a guy’s deep cockney accent.
Mirrors line the side walls of the store, and a blur of movement races across them. When I look closer, the reflections show nothing but my own image.
“He rides the wind.” The voice hums through my blood. A gust of cold air comes out of nowhere and snuffs out the candles, leaving only the afternoon light and the chandelier overhead.
I scramble backward until I hit the counter. The poster’s bottomless eyes follow my every move, as if he’s the one talking to my mind and turning the wind. Icy tingles run through my spine.
“Al!” Jen’s shout breaks the spell. “Can you help me carry some stuff? We need to put up the Dark Angel display before I leave.”
I force myself to break the poster’s hypnotic gaze and head for the storeroom. The air conditioner clicks off. The gust must have come from the vents.
I laugh nervously. I’m tired, hungry, and in shock. My delusions are real and my family’s cursed. That’s all. It should be easy to accept, right?
Wrong.
My soggy Skechers squish with each step along the black-and-white checked tiles. Jenara meets me in the doorway, arms stacked so high with clothes and props, she can’t see over them.
“So, my dress is nice?” Her question drifts from behind the stack. “Way to pull out all the stops for your BFF’s ego.”
“It’s awesome. Bret will love it.” Still feeling the poster’s eyes, I balance on tiptoe and take the blue wig and miniature fog machine from the top of her armful.
“As if it matters,” she says from behind the swaying stack. “Did I tell you Jeb threatened to turn Bret into a smashed pumpkin if I don’t get home by midnight? Taking a sweet fairy tale like ‘Cinderella’ and twisting it into a death threat. That’s seriously warped.”
“Yeah, he’s been on a real role lately.”
Everything starts to slide from her tower. I grab several props from the top of the pile, revealing her face.
Her heavily lined green eyes bulge when she sees me. “Ohmy-holyshiz. You look like you duked it out with a Sasquatch. Did you and Jeb settle things in a mud pit?”
“Ha.” Leading the way to the display window, I drop my stuff in the window next to Window Waif, Persephone’s mannequin.
Jenara sets some sooty feathered wings atop the props pile. They sparkle with black sequins.
“Seriously, what happened? I thought you were going to visit your mom. Hey.” Jen touches my arm. “Did something go wrong?”
Several tendrils of dark pink hair have fallen from her upswept do. The strands coil like pink flames over her black tube dress, bringing back what they did to Alison’s hair at the asylum.
“She lost it,” I blurt. “Attacked me.”
All other details clog my throat: how they shaved her hair so she wouldn’t try to choke herself again—though now I suspect it was preparation for her shock treatments. How they kept wiping slobber from the sides of her mouth and put her into adult diapers, because when you’re heavily sedated, you don’t have control of your faculties. And, worst of all, how they took her to the padded cell in a wheelchair, hunched and strapped in a straitjacket like a withered old woman. That’s why I couldn’t follow and say good-bye. I’d already seen enough.
“Oh, Al.” Jen’s voice is low and soft. She pulls me in for a hug. The citrusy, bubblegum scent of her shampoo comforts me. “I’ll do my own makeup and stuff here. Go home.”
“I can’t.” I tug her closer. “I don’t want to be around things that remind me of her. Not yet.”
“But you shouldn’t be alone.”
The doorbell chirps and three lad
ies wander inside. Jen and I step back.
“I won’t be alone,” I answer. “Not during business hours.”
Jen tilts her head, sizing me up. “Look, I can stay for another half hour. Go get yourself together. I’ll take care of the customers.”
“You sure?”
She flicks a tangle of my hair. “Sure and absolute. Can’t leave you in charge of the place looking like a circus clown reject. What if a hot guy comes in?”
I attempt a smile.
“Take my makeup bag,” she says. “I have some more hair extensions you can use.”
I pick through my layaway stuff in the storeroom, grabbing a pair of platform boots along with the clothes, then duck into the tiny bathroom. The vent above the sink blows frosted air over my skin. A fluorescent glow from the tiny light fixture distorts my reflection. I brush out my tangles and clip on Jenara’s purple dreadlocks.
Most of my makeup has been cried and rained off, leaving smudge tracks on my face. Now all I see is Alison. But if I look deeper, it’s me wearing a straitjacket and an eel turban, grimacing like the Cheshire Cat as I sip pot roast from a teacup.
How long do I have before the curse kicks in for real?
I lean against the sink, untie Jeb’s bandana, and breathe him in. Before this afternoon, all I wanted was to go to London to hang with him and earn college credits. Amazing, the difference a few hours can make.
If I don’t find a way to England to look for the rabbit hole, Alison’s brain gets fried and I end up where she is in a few years. There’s no way I can get enough money for airfare before Monday. Not to mention a passport.
Gritting my teeth, I peel away my torn leggings and bandage. The split in my knee is almost healed, and there’s not even a scab. I’m too exhausted and frazzled to guess why. I turn on the cold water and scrub at the physical reminders of what happened, drying my skin and underclothes with the hand dryer.